#loaf bed design

[roomselfcontain2]

1 bedroom 1 bath house for rent visit website cheap affordable house brand new in an estate with stable power supply fenced with gate grab this affordable house now located at Nta road before obiriikwerre interchange axis in port Harcourt city rivers state Nigeria

[1roentgen]

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[achromaticly]

Bedroom Loft-Style Gloucestershire Example of a small urban loft-style light wood floor bedroom design

[swordsandholly]

Across the Way

Chapter 4: New and Old Problems Alike

Retired!Ghoap x Fem!Fat!Reader

Ao3 | Previous - Next | Masterlist

MDNI | cw: fainting, some medical inaccuracies

Word Count: 5.8k

Summary: You go to Scotland with high hopes for your future. After all, you have the bakery you always dreamed of and a whole new life to live. Plus, the men who own the butcher’s shop across the street seem nice.

You haven’t texted them, even three days later. That little sticky note haunts the surface of your kitchen counter. It taunts you - tells you that you should text them and at least give them your number. That you’re being a terrible neighbor. They might need you too, after all. Even though you can’t figure out why they might for the life of you. On the other hand, you can’t help but feel wary about it. Men don’t take an interest in you - people in general rarely take interest. It’s hard not to feel suspicious, as pure as you’re sure their intentions probably are.

More so than any of that, you don’t know what to say. If it had been day one you could have just put your name, but now you feel like you need to explain. Or at least be funny or something. Tossing and turning on your designated rest day about what the hell you should do.

You’re overthinking it. You know that. You can’t stop, either.

They just seem so cool - so put together. So unlike you. You want to impress them. You don’t want to ruin the first possibility of friends in this new life you’re building for yourself.

Eventually you work up the courage to send off an initial text to each of them. Just to give them your name to save if they so choose - plus an extra thank you to Simon for giving you their numbers in the first place. Something simple and borderline cold. Too cold, maybe? Maybe you sound irritated. You hope not. You just want them to like you. Friends in new places are hard and to have someone around you who gets how it feels to need accommodations would just feel so… lovely. Your phone may or may not go flying onto your bed while you bury your face in your hands out of sheer nervousness.

You don’t expect it to chime about a minute later. Right as you’re staring to calm down, of course. It sends your heart violently pounding all over again.

J >> Bonnie lass!

J >> So glad u texted!!

>> Sorry it took so long lol

Oh, you could just slap yourself. You don’t have anything better than that? At all? Christ.

J >> Nah Nah

J >> No worries

J >> Actually I was wondering if u would mind if I came by tomorrow

J >> Just to chat

J >> need an excuse to get out of the house

“How the hell does he type that fast?” You scoff to yourself.

>> Yeah, come by anytime.

>> totally

>> yea sounds cool

>> rad, man

A message from Simon pops up mid your internal battle with how to respond, replying with a simple thumbs up. Very in character, you think. He knows how to be nonchalant. What would Simon say? Something casual, maybe a little formal.

>> If you like. You’re always welcome.

Okay maybe that was too much like Simon. You sigh heavily m before adding,

>> I’m trying out a new blueberry loaf

>> If you want to test for me :)

Better. That’s a little better. With another heavy sigh you decide to drop your phone into your nightstand for the rest of the day. Your heart really cannot handle this much emotional pressure.

~~~

You sort of end up just forgetting about the texts. With your phone out of sight and out of mind upstairs in your apartment it almost catches you off guard when Johnny comes striding through the door just before close. He’s dressed more casually than the last couple of times you saw him - having broken out the summer shorts and a graphic tee for some band you don’t recognize. It suits him, though.

“Hey, bon.” He grins.

“Hey.” You smile back, finishing with putting up your stocking baskets before dusting off your hands and turning around. “Simon closing up?”

“Aye.”

You hum. “Come on back, I’ll get you a slice of that loaf I mentioned.”

Johnny follows you quietly. Uncharacteristically quietly. That’s okay - you don’t have a problem with hanging out in silence. It doesn’t feel tense, surprisingly enough. He leaves Riley out front again. Should you get her a dog bed? Maybe if he comes by consistently. That would be nice. Maybe that’s wishful thinking.

“It’s sort of a pound cake but fluffier. I might make an icing for it but I don’t know if that would be too sweet…” You trail off, focusing on plating up the piece. You’re not sure what compels you to try and make it pretty for him. Probably something you could blame on your grandmother. She did have an obsession with presentation.

Johnny hums loudly after taking a bite, talking around the mouthful. “Y’should totally make an icing.” He swallows roughly. “Si would go crazy fer this.”

“Oh?” You smile. “I’ll send some home with you.”

There’s a lapse of silence while Johnny chews on his slice of bread and you pack up some in a paper bag for him to take home. The only sounds in the room comprised of your cutting and folding and the hum of the cooling oven.

“You’re being weirdly quiet.” You blurt, immediately covering your mouth with your hand. “I, uh, I mean that isn’t a bad thing! I don’t mind… I just, uh, was… sorry, never mind…”

“Well I did come wit’ a bit of an ulterior motive…” Johnny admits, glancing off to the side shyly. It’s a show, you think. Johnny doesn’t seem the type of man to have felt shy a day in his life.

You tilt your head. “Oh?”

He dusts off his hands and grins. “Let us take ye out! In celebration of yer first full month.”

Has it been a month already? “Oh - no, no you don’t have to-“

“C’mon! It’s a big accomplishment.” His smile is so bright that you almost believe his idea that you’ve done something great.

“…alright.” You give a tentative smile. It’s hard to believe they like you enough to want to hang out casually in the evening. Hard to imagine anyone liking you that much but you’re not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“There’s a pub down the street - the one on the corner. Want tae meet us there around six?” Johnny gives you that lovely smile. How could you ever say no to a smile like that?

“Okay.”

You spend far too long changing in and out of clothes and fussing with your hair. Up-do’s and buns and braids. A tank top then a sweater then a t-shirt. There’s no reason to feel this stressed over it. It’s not a date or anything. Besides, it doesn’t seem to make a difference. Either way you look like a frumpy dumpling. Eventually you land on jeans and one of your designated ‘going out tops.’ At least it’s a good excuse to wear something other than work clothes or loungewear.

Excitement and anxiety thrum under your skin like electricity as you make your way down the street. You feel painfully nauseous - stopping once or twice just to make sure you aren’t about to throw up for real.

The pub is surprisingly quiet when you enter. Obviously somewhere only real locals hang out - there’s no theme or really any decor in general. Just a bar, some booths and a couple pool tables. You scan the floor a few times, not seeing either Johnny or Simon (not that they would be hard to miss). Eventually you just grab a soda from the bar and slide into one of the booths closer to the back. A quiet spot facing the door where you can easily watch for them.

As time ticks on you begin to grow increasingly nervous. Did you get the time wrong? No, no you triple checked. You even wrote it down in your planner. Your leg begins to bounce furiously, heart nearly beating out of your chest. Did they decide to ditch? You wouldn’t really blame them. They’re way out of your league when it comes to friends. Maybe Johnny had an emergency? Should you call Simon? If he had an emergency it would make sense that they would forget to notice you. What if something really bad happened? What if-

The front door opens and Simon’s wide frame strides through, holding the door for Johnny and Riley to come in behind him. You let out a quiet sigh of relief, willing your leg to stop bouncing with a pinch to your thigh. Why are you always so damn dramatic?

Johnny lights up with an ear to ear grin when he spots you, bee-lining for the booth while Simon casually walks up to the bar. It’s almost comedic, the way he dwarfs the counter. Johnny leans on the side of the booth, waiting for Simon, you think.

“Glad ye could come out.” He looks you over, eyes flicking from your plain top to the very practical, not at all stylish up do that you landed on for the evening.

You do your best not to squirm under his gaze. “Me too…”

Simon comes back with two beers in hand and slides them onto the table. He scoots into the inner booth to give Johnny the outer edge. Riley happily sits beside his leg and practically grins at you in a near mirror image of Johnny’s. You’d never do it while she’s on the job, of course, but part of you wants to give her a pat on the head and coo at her for being so polite.

Johnny gives you an apologetic smile. “Sorry we were a bit late-”

“Johnny redid his hair about five times.” Simon butts in, not reacting at all to Johnny’s sputtering protest. He glances at your half-drunk soda. “Want me t’ grab you a beer?”

“Oh, no, I’ll just stick to coke.”

They blink at you. Simon cocks his head slightly. “You sure?”

You chew your lip. “Uh, alcohol tends to aggravate my symptoms is all...”

“Then why’d ye agree to drinks? We coulda gone somewhere else.” Johnny frowns.

You shrug. “I don’t mind. I… maybe this is over sharing but I’d rather go out and be kind of normal than just… not ever. Y’know?”

His expression softens. For having such icy blue eyes they are so, so warm. “I get it.”

“How’d you two meet anyway?” You blurt, taking a left turn to get the conversation off of you. It’s the first question that comes to mind. Maybe it’s rude - maybe you’re prying too much already.

“Military.” Simon grunts. “SAS.”

“Si retired wit’ me after I was discharged.” Johnny points to his scar the same way he did when you first met. “Russians scrambled my egg a bit.”

“Couldn’t do the time apart…” Simon murmurs, eyes locked on Johnny’s face. It’s vulnerable. More than he’s used to - you can see it in the way he tenses after saying it.

Something passes between them that a deep, wounded part of you desperately wishes to understand.

You can’t help but start giggling to yourself. They both give you an incredulous look. “Sorry, sorry - it’s just, that’s like… totally a romance book premise. It’s sweet. Really.”

“Och, aye. Wouldn’t know it t’ look at him but Si’s a real romantic.” Johnny bats his eyes at the other man, who just rolls his in response. The corner of his scarred mouth quirks up subtly.

“SAS…” You repeat, staring at your drink. “That’s like Navy Seal shit, right?”

“We worked with them a few times, yes.” Simon nods. There’s an air of ‘do not ask anything more specific’ in his voice.

“Huh.” You take that for what it is and sit back, squinting at them. “You don’t look it, honestly.”

Johnny laughs. “Tha’s just cause ye havennae seen Simon with his gear on. The Ghost.” He wiggles his fingers along as he makes a stupid, spooky sound effect. “I domesticated him.”

Simon scoffs but doesn’t deny it, just takes a quiet sip of his beer.

“Riley’s a vet, too.” Johnny pats her head. “Got too skittish around loud noises but she transitioned into a service dog nicely.”

“Now she’s just spoiled.” Simon rolls his eyes in faux annoyance. You get the strong feeling that he’s the one doing the spoiling.

You find yourself relaxing as the night goes on. Slouching in your seat rather than sitting ramrod straight and nervously twiddling your thumbs. They never press you to drink, never insist that you’ll be fine with just one. They take your statement as fact and it isn’t brought up again. That shouldn’t be as significant as it is, now that you think about it.

Johnny’s words begin to slur a little bit on his fourth, no maybe fifth, beer. You aren’t sure. It’s very cute, the little blush that forms across his cheeks. Simon loosens up, too. He slings an arm around the back of the booth and Johnny readily tucks himself into the open spot. You find yourself wondering about their military career again. You can’t picture either of them committing violence - especially Simon. Sure, he’s big and gruff but he looks at Johnny so, so softly.

Simon is the one to call it a night - though you have a feeling its because you nodded off a couple times. Not out of boredom, you try really, really hard to pay attention to Johnny rambling about the chemistry of different explosives. He makes it interesting, somehow. Really it’s just that you’ve been awake for… holy shit almost twenty hours!

“D’you need a ride?” Simon asks as you exit the pub, hands firmly shoved into his pockets.

“No, I’ll be fine.” You don’t know how to interpret the look he’s giving you. It’s intense, but not annoyed or displeased. He has such a weird knack for unreadable but distinct expressions. You wonder if you’ll ever get close enough to get good at deciphering them.

You jump when Johnny takes both your hands in, kissing the backs of them with a sloppy, drunk smile. “Thank ye fer comin’ out. “

Somehow your face feels hotter than a damn oven. You tuck your hands to your chest, kicking shyly at the sidewalk. “Th-thanks for the invite. We, uh, we could do it again sometime?”

You glance up hopefully, praying that you didn’t misread the situation. You’ve done that before - thought people liked you more than they did. Johnny just grins wider somehow and nods excitedly.

You watch them walk off in the other direction, hand in hand. Johnny giggles about something loudly and you can see Simon’s shoulders shake with a far more silent laugh. All the way until they disappear down the street.

The sheer amount that the image hurts your heart makes you feel evil.

~~~

The pub changed something. What, you don’t know. Either way, you fall into an easy pattern with Johnny and Simon over the next couple weeks. Exchanges of food, leftovers or morsels about to turn, little visits back and forth between your shops. Johnny continues to stop by after close, just hanging around with you while Simon closes up shop.

You can’t deny how much you look forward to hearing that door chime followed by a too-loud greeting from Johnny. How your heart flips in your chest when those bright blue eyes peek around the corner into the back room or light up while trying a new recipes you’ve been testing. You’re still a bit awkward - unsure how to react when he throws an arm around your shoulders or listens oh so intently while you talk about nothing important.

Things can’t ever be all sunshine and rainbows, though. Not for you. A new problem has arisen as summer truly sets in - the comfortable spring breezes giving way to nothing but bright, unfiltered sun. One you didn’t expect to impact you this much living this far north.

Heat.

It’s hard to breathe in the back room while you’re baking. Hard to keep your water and salt intake high enough to compensate for how fast you lose them. You might as well get a permanent saline drip attached to you at this point. You definitely didn’t google if that was physically possible. Your budget for liquid IVs and other supplements nearly doubles. Standing over the massive oven in the back room has your head swimming a few times. You end up resting longer on your weekends, unable to keep up like you could in cooler weather.

It’s okay, you tell yourself, the summer here isn’t like back home. It will pass quicker. Plus, you at least have methods of dealing with it now other than crossing your fingers and praying.

“Bonnie!” Johnny suddenly appears in your doorway - that charming smile splitting his face from ear to ear. “Ye made it up Main Street yet?”

“No?” You tilt your head and try to ignore the way your vision spots momentarily at the motion. “Why?”

“Ye dinnae hear about the summer festival?” He leans on your counter. You shake your head. “It’s a yearly thing. Not that big a deal but they have some fun games an’ it’s nice tae see everyone out an’ about. Si an’ I are about tae head down. Come wit’?”

You hesitate. The exhaustion in your body tugs at your spine. Your limbs feel heavy. This morning really got to you - out of towners who must have come for the festival flooded your shop the moment it opened on top of your Saturday regulars. Not that you’re complaining, really. It’s easily your best day so far. You want to go with them, though, despite the ache in your back and the sting in your joints. It sounds so fun and it’s never a bad idea to take part in your new community’s festivities.

“Yeah. That sounds nice.” You smile. You can tough it out for an hour, then come back home. Yeah, just an hour. You’ll be fine.

You hadn’t noticed Simon leaned up at the entrance to your shop. Your eyes lock on his arms. This is the first time you’ve actually seen him in short sleeves. You can’t help but stare at his half-sleeve tattoo - all skulls and bombs and other military motifs. Faded and sun worn. Yeah, if you’d seen that sooner you definitely would have picked up on the whole military thing. You bite your lip to keep from snickering about it.

You can hear the music drifting from the speakers down the street. A few kids run by with balloons and cheap carnival prizes. It almost reminds you of the Spring Fling back home, just missing the extreme American flag theming across every booth and vendor front. Now that you’re looking around, you can actually see several booths that have been sponsored by various businesses in the area. Even the post office has a snow cone stand. The deeper you get into the event, the more flamboyant the decor becomes. Multicolored streamers and pennet flags connect stands, creating an almost canopy effect.

Simon stops rather abruptly at a booth, waiting behind a few teenagers tossing rings onto bottles. You stop with Johnny about two feet away. What’s he thinking? Simon doesn’t seem like the type who would be too entertained by basic carnival games. Even so, he steps forward and passes over a couple bills to the vendor as soon as the teenagers leave.

“Si’s really good at these. Watch.” Johnny grins beside you.

“Aren’t they rigged?” You raise an eyebrow.

Johnny doesn’t answer, eyes locked on his husband as he lines up one of the rings. You have to lean slightly to see around the breadth of the man - the multicolor rings almost cartoonishly small in his hands. Cute. Your eyes get impossibly wide with each toss, every single one landing comfortably on the bottle necks as if it’s the easiest thing in the world. As if this isn’t one of the most commonly rigged carnival games.

“Holy shit…” You mutter, still staring.

“Aye, tha’s a SAS sniper for ye.” Johnny laughs. “Glad tae see it still comes in handy.”

Simon huffs out a quiet laugh at that. Almost more of a sigh if it weren’t for the shaking of his shoulders. You love it - their little dynamic. The bond between them that’s so strong it’s almost visible.

“‘ere.” Simon turns to you suddenly, holding out a cheap little carnival prize. You can’t even begin to decipher what it’s supposed to be - some sort of furry puff ball with big, embroidered anime eyes and two felt antennae sticking up out of it’s purple head… body… thing…

Your face heats. “F-, uh, me?”

He shrugs. “Suits you. Riley will just chew it up if we take it home.”

“Aye. She’s so good with everythin’ but cheap plushies.” Johnny snickers.

You glance down at the dog in question - her dark eyes glued to the toy in Simon’s hand. Her tail thumps against the ground where she sists dutifully, but you can see the desire to snatch the thing away in her twitchy ears and pleading eyes. You snort, taking the stupid thing and tucking it under your arm with the prayer that they don’t notice the heat now spreading from your cheeks to your ears.

“Thanks…” you murmur, already mentally deciding where to add it to the mess of stuffies covering your bed already.

Somehow you end up walking between them down the street - Simon on your left and Johnny on your right with Riley in tow. You stop at a few other games here and there. All pretty basic. Johnny absolutely kills at the dunk booth.

Simon tires his hardest to help you with your terrible aim, “Just visualize it. Y’have t’ account for the arc.”

You get to the point of sticking your tongue out in concentration. Even so you only manage to knock down a couple of the wooden ducks at the ‘Dunk-A-Duck’ stand. You do, however, win one of those rock candy sticks at the guessing booth. You just hand it off to Johnny. It’s probably not best to load up on sugar in your current state.

Johnny excitedly points to different buildings giving you a rundown of the history of his hometown as you walk. Simon seems to barely be listening. He’s probably heard this a thousand times. Prattling on about the old town square, the church bell that a bunch of teenagers spray painted one time (Johnny was not involved, how could you accuse him of that?)

You find yourself focusing on your feet - keeping each step even and fast enough to remain on pace with them. One, two, one, two, one, two. The air begins to thicken. Muggy and heavy on your skin. Your breaths become shallow and fast. You can’t catch it, the air seeming to get stuck in your throat rather than reaching your lungs. Spots begin to dance across your vision. You stumble over nothing.

Not now! Come on! You’ve been doing so well!

Riley presses against your leg acting as a counter weight. Your body moves on instinct to grab whatever you can - hands wrapping around something strong and covered with cloth. An arm solid as rebar. Hopefully it’s someone you know. All you can see are colorless shapes.

“Gonna pass out - don’t freak!” You gasp before your legs give out.

It’s not that you go entirely out - it’s rare that you fully black out. It’s more like being stuck. Limp and fuzzy and confused. Almost like sleep paralysis. There’s voices and people moving around you. Someone has picked you up, you think, based on the swaying motion and the passing shapes around you. Maybe that’s just vertigo. A door bell chimes.

You finally begin to really come to when something icy is pressed to your forehead. It couldn’t have been more than a handful of seconds that you were gone, but it takes much longer for the world around you to come back into focus.

“I’m sorry…” You murmur, eyes stinging. Even after all these years it’s so damn embarrassing. You blink, the distinct mural that decorates the ceiling of the post office slowly coming into view. Johnny said a big time traveling artist painted it back in the nineties.

“Ye alright?” Johnny murmurs, crouched down beside you. Riley sniffs at your hand, seeming satisfied when you finally move it on your own.

You nod slowly. “Overheated…”

“Give her this.” Someone says. An event medic, you think. The boys must have flagged them down. Fingers press to your pulse point, a light shines in your eyes and you follow it. A quick check of vitals. Johnny shoves a water bottle in your hand as soon as the medic decides you’re fine to move - the contents distinctly murky from some sort of electrolyte pack that’s been shaken into it.

“Up y’get. Slowly does it.” Simon helps you sit up with a hand on your back. It’s so gentle. You don’t miss how he cages in your body the way only someone intimately familiar with caretaking might. Fully ready to catch you if you go limp again.

You sip slow, eyes glued to the ground. You feel so fucking stupid. Can’t even walk down a street without creating some sort of scene. They’re never going to want to hang out with you again, are they? You can’t go out drinking, can’t walk around a festival for longer than a couple hours. You distracted Riley. What if something happened to Johnny while you were having your spell? She might not have alerted correctly because of you. She might have gotten confused and then he could have gotten hurt. He might have-

“Ye really should drink tha’ instead of glarin’ at it.” Johnny pulls you from your thoughts. He’s now sat with his legs crossed beside you. Riley’s head rests in his lap. She seems calm. Content now that the emergency is over and happily lying on a cool floor.

You hum, chugging the last bit of it quickly. “I’m sorry…”

“Don’t be.” Simon says curtly. “Does this ‘appen often?”

You shrug. “Not as much anymore… usually my medication keeps me stable.”

“Do ye need a doctor?” Johnny tilts his head slightly. There’s no judgment in his tone - in either of their tones. Just calm concern. It probably shouldn’t make you want to cry as much as it does.

You shake your head. “I’ve got liquid IV at home. Just need to sleep it off.”

Hopefully. In reality, a pain flare up is inevitable now. You just won’t know how bad until you’re fully in it.

“Let’s get ye home.” Johnny says, knees popping as he stands.

“I-I’m fine!” You insist, mentally preparing to get yourself up off the floor. “I can get home on my own - I don’t want to ruin your time.”

Johnny levels his gaze onto you, so serious it almost looks angry. It doesn’t match his face. “We’re not leavin’ ye tae get home alone like this.”

You’re caught off guard when an arm slides under your back and another under knees - lifting you like you weigh half of what you do in reality. Like you’re a paperweight instead of a boulder. You blink up at Simon, far too surprised to be embarrassed. At least at first. You splutter out a poor attempt at convincing him to put you down. Excuse and reason after reason and excuse. They roll off him like water off a ducks back. Your face burns as he steps out of the post office with you neatly tucked against his chest - Johnny and Riley in tow.

If you allow yourself to be honest, to give into that weaker part of you (or, at least, the part you consider to be weak) you could possibly admit that this feels nice. Being cared for feels nice. Having your body up against someone else feels nice. It’s been a long time since anyone touched you outside of a polite handshake or accidental bump. You sink into it despite yourself - relaxing against Simon’s chest. They were right, you wouldn’t have made it back. Your head is too fuzzy and there’s that telltale pain in your shoulders radiating up to your neck that signifies an oncoming Bed Day.

It doesn’t take long with Simon’s lengthy strides to get back to your building. You probably wouldn’t have been able to keep up to that running. Well, you can’t really run much at all so you definitely wouldn’t. A stupid, muddled train of thought that melts into the hazy bog of your current mental state. Even Johnny trails a few feet behind. Neither of them speak, marching in determined silence. You attempt to subtly check their faces for any anger. You’d understand if they were angry. Most people would get angry. You interrupted their day out with your useless drama. All you get is a wide, bright grin from Johnny when your eyes eventually meet his.

Simon puts you down with all the care in the world. As if you’re made of fine china. His hand stays on your upper back - planted firmly between your shoulder blades and ready to catch you if need be. Your vision swims a bit, your joints feel like jelly but you manage to dig your keys out of your pocket and unlock the door.

“Here.” Johnny plops the puff ball back into your hands just as you turn to say goodbye. To say thank you - to apologize profusely.

Your brows raise. You completely forgot about it while swimming around in a sea of embarrassment - he must have picked it up for you. You hug it to your chest with a quiet, “Thanks.”

You shift your weight side to side, psyching yourself up for the crawl up the stairs. Probably literally. You don’t think you could stay upright if you tried to walk them like a regular day, or even with an aid. Like a regular or semi-regular person. Fuck.

Johnny follows your eyes up at the staircase. He must sense some hesitation in you. “Do ye need help up?”

You bite your lip, staring at the ground. Standing in one place seems alright, but the thought of climbing is so daunting, even with the cane you have stationed at the bottom of the steps for that exact purpose. It’s embarrassing. You’re young, you should be able to walk up some damn stairs. It isn’t even that many. It’s barely a full flight. Just one story of stairs for fuck’s sake.

“Hey.” Simon touches your cheek, the action snapping your eyes to his in surprise. “It’s okay. C’mere.”

He picks you up again in the same fashion with barely a grunt, taking his time up the steps so as not to jostle you. How many times has he done this with Johnny? you wonder. That’s the only explanation for how good he is at keeping your equilibrium so even. You wonder if he practiced - if he took caretaking classes. He probably did. Does he keep up at the gym just so he can take care of his husband? Simon might be quiet and a little formal, but he exudes dedication.

“Sorry it’s messy…” You murmur when they reach the top of the steps. Glancing behind you, you see Riley sitting patiently at the bottom. Johnny must have told her to stay. “Haven’t gotten to fully unpack…”

You’ve been spending too much time in bed on the weekends. Fucking lazy.

Johnny just laughs. “Ye shoulda seen the first place Simon an’ I had.”

“Wasn’t that bad.” Simon argues, carefully setting you down on the couch. His hands hold your waist to steady you. They’re so warm… It feels wrong to be disappointed when he lets go.

“We hadnae figured out a system yet.” Johnny huffs, hands on his hips. “We ended up hirin’ a specialized maid service the dishes got so backed up.”

You scoff, laying back against the couch with that stupid carnival prize still in your arms. Like it’s the only thing grounding you to reality. The tears that have been stinging your eyes this entire time continue to threaten to spill - a myriad of blinks and careful breaths the only thing keeping them back.

Johnny sits beside you slowly. You can’t meet his eyes. “Do… do ye want tae tell us what it is? Ye donnae have tae - it’s up tae ye. Just if somethin’ happens again…”

“We’d like to be prepared.” Simon jumps in where Johnny trails off.

You chew your lip, still staring up at the ceiling. It splits and that coppery taste coats your tongue for a moment. “I, uh, it’s called POTS. There’s different types but basically my body can’t regulate blood flow and pressure right…” You shrug. “Like I said my medication usually keeps me mostly okay.”

It’s the pain that really gets to you usually, but you don’t need to start dumping on them about that. There’s no reason to spill your guts about things they can’t fix.

“Thanks fer tellin’ us.” Johnny smiles. You stiffen slightly when he reaches out to tuck some hair behind your ear. You tilt your head, still resting on the back of the couch, to meet his eye. “Get some rest, yeah? We’ll lock the knob behind us. Call if ye need anythin’.”

“Okay.” You nod, keeping your eyes down and picking at your nails. “Sorry… about all this… I didn’t - I don’t… I’m sorry.”

“Donnae apologize.” He says softly as he stands. “Never apologize. We’re your friends, aye? Friends help friends. Tha’s all there is to it.”

Simon gives you a discerning nod behind him, expression both soft and deeply serious.

Friends? They consider you real life proper friends? Really? You can’t help but beam up at him. “Yeah.”

A/N: I’ve re-read this chapter so many times that it’s total mush in my brain which tells me it’s time to be done with it.

Bonus: I made a Pinterest board for this fic

[strnilolover]

what were the first more intimate interactions between maid!reader and prince!matt like?

(this is before they start secretly dating)

001

Darling had always referred to him as “Your Highness”, careful to maintain respect. But the day she had met him in the side of the castle no one ever used — he right away told her she could call him Matt. Though it slipped from her mind more often than not. As she brought him his morning tea, he caught her hand gently when she set the tray down.

“Call me Matt,” he said, his voice low and soft. Her heart fluttered as she looked at him, startled. “Your Highness, I couldn’t—”

“You could,” he interrupted, his thumb brushing her knuckles before he let go. “When it’s just us…i did already tell you that before.” he whispered.

And…she hesitated but nodded, whispering, “Alright… Matt.” The way his eyes lit up at the sound of his name from her lips was something she couldn’t forget.

002

Darling was in a hurry while carrying linens, when suddenly she had slipped on the freshly polished floor, dropping the pile and scraping her arm against the ground in the process. And since Matt was walking with her — before she could even process what had happened, Matt was at her side, kneeling beside her

“Are you alright?” he asked, his voice thick with concern.

“I’m fine Matt,” she insisted, trying to rise, but he gently took her hand, examining the scrape that now decorated her arm.

“Stay still,” he commanded softly. Fetching a clean cloth, he dabbed at the wound, his touch tender. She hissed at the stinging sensation that radiated through her arm and down to her hand — but she let him continue on without a fuss. Growing nervous at the close contact.

003

One night, a thunderstorm had rolled in, shaking the palace windows. Darling was delivering some tea to Matt’s bedroom when a loud crack of thunder made her flinch, the tray of tea almost slipping from her hands.

Matt’s eyes darted toward her. “You’re scared,” he observed as he crossed the room toward her. She shook your head, trying to maintain composure. “I’m fine Matt.” she whispered, though her shaking body was telling him otherwise.

But Matt stepped closer, his hand brushing her arm. “You’re not — you’re shaking like a leaf darling.” he said, gently taking the tray from her hands and setting it down. When he turned back to her, he opened his arms — and she stared at him, puzzled.

“C’mere, it’s okay darling.” he said reassuringly — and she tentatively stepped forward, letting his arms wrap around her. His embrace calming some of her nerves.

He let her stay in there with him that night, making sure to keep her company and distracted from the loud thundering just outside.

004

Making Matt’s bed and tidying his room was one of darlings many tasks she had to do and one evening, as she prepared Matt’s bedroom for the night, he lingered by the doorway, watching her in silence.

He couldn’t help but watch how graceful she was at doing her tasks. “Do you ever think about what you want?” he asked suddenly, his voice carrying through his room.

She jolted, pausing as she was startled by the question. “What — what I want doesn’t matter, Matt.” she muttered, trying to brush the question off as if he had never asked it.

“It does,” he insisted, stepping into the room room. “It matters to me darling.” he said — though he could tell she didn’t really believe it too much.

The intensity of his gaze made her feel exposed, as though he could see past every wall she’d ever built. And before she could respond, he turned away, his departure leaving behind an ache she couldn’t explain.

005

The kitchen was silent save for the soft crackle of the fire in the hearth. Darling stood in the dim light, her hands fumbling with the small loaf of bread she’d carefully pinched from the pantry. She knew she shouldn’t be there — maids weren’t allowed to take food outside their designated meals — but the ache in her stomach had driven her to risk it.

She tore off a small piece, savoring the softness, her eyes darting toward the doorway every few seconds. Her heart pounded, not from guilt, but from fear of being caught.

“Enjoying yourself darling?”

The deep voice startled her so much that the bread slipped from her fingers. Whipping around, she found Matt leaning casually against the doorframe, his arms crossed and a curious look on his face. His royal tunic was undone at the collar, his hair slightly tousled, as though he had just woken up.

“M-matt,” she stammered, her pulse racing. “I — this isn’t what it looks like—” Matt pushed off the doorframe, his steps slow and deliberate as he crossed the room. “It looks like you’re stealing bread.”

Darling opened her mouth to explain, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, she looked down at her feet, shame bubbling up inside her. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, the apology tasting bitter on her tongue. “I—”

“Shh,” he said softly, cutting her off as he came to stand before her. She dared to glance up, and his expression wasn’t one of anger or disappointment, but something else entirely — softness, curiosity… admiration.

“Why didn’t you ask?” he murmured, his voice so gentle it made her chest ache. “I didn’t want to be a burden,” she admitted quietly. “It’s not my place to take more than what’s given.”

Matt frowned slightly, his hands coming up to cup her face, his palms warm against her skin. The touch froze her in place, her breath hitching as his thumbs brushed her cheeks.

“You work harder than anyone here,” he said, his voice steady. “How could you ever think you’d be a burden?” Her eyes searched his face, unsure how to respond. The way he was looking at her — his gaze soft, yet piercing, as though he was memorizing every detail of her face — made her knees feel weak.

“You’re too kind to me,” she finally managed, her voice trembling. He shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “You deserve kindness. And so much more.”

The warmth of his words, combined with the gentle pressure of his hands, made her head pound — face heating rapidly. His thumbs continued their slow, absentminded caress, and she swore she could feel his breath ghosting over her skin.

“Matt,” she whispered, his name slipping out before she could stop herself. The sound seemed to stir something in him, and for a moment, his eyes flickered to her lips. But instead of closing the space between them, he stepped back, his hands falling reluctantly to his sides.

“You should eat,” he said softly, gesturing toward the bread on the counter. “Take whatever you need. No one will stop you.” She nodded, still too overwhelmed to speak.

As he turned to leave, he paused in the doorway, glancing back over his shoulder. “Next time, just tell me. I’ll make sure you never have to sneak around again.”

And with that, he disappeared into the shadows of the hallway, leaving her breathless and with a warmth in her chest that she couldn’t quite explain.

© strnilolover

[underratedmurder]

There's a nice feeling to it (Fred Weasley x Reader fluff)

Hello again!

I'm back and also, I hope you like this, whoever you are, reading this right now, I'm typing this right now, and RIGHT NOW you're reading it. Crazy.

TW: Nothing at all! (#sfw)

Enjoy

_______________

Wind is sliding between the cracks in the window and pooling into your room, tickling your skin and making your feet cold. It smells sweet and ripe, crisp, like a freshly picked apple, or recently washed hair. The smells fill the room like an intoxicating candle, and you watch as leaves drift by outside, gliding down and glittering in the setting sun. The tangy smell of lemon is just penetrating your nose, making your mouth water a bit.

There's a light knock on the door, and you whisk your wand to unlock it, a tiny spark illuminating the keyhole.

The nob turns, and Fred Weasley, pokes his head through, red hair radiating as the sun hits.

"Locking the door again, are we? What are you so afraid of?" he prods, smiling and walking towards your bed by the window.

"You and George's jacklepoppers aren't bursting in here again," you smile back, scooching over as he climbs onto the covers next to you.

He had never done that before; you felt all tingly as the mattress dipped slightly to his weight.

"But I thought you loved them?" he whines, looking up at you as he tilts his head down, eyes all glittery.

You twist your mouth and shake your head disapprovingly. He huffs and laughs a bit, and you can feel the air on your face.

You look at him, quirking a brow. He came up here for a reason, and you would never admit that it was just to see you.

"Mum made lemon loaf,"

"I know,"

"It's good, though she never adds enough sugar, I think she's too afraid since George and I got dust mites in it last month,"

He's wearing a sweater with red, blue, and orange stripes, each detailed with intricate flowers and pretty designs. You aren't sure what the style is called, but you know it's pretty.

"Nice jumper," it felt good to compliment him, even if it was inadvertent and directed at his clothes.

He smirks, looking up and reaching you pinch your arm

"Ye?,"

"Mhm, your mum made it right?"

"Course she did, she reckons I should take up knitting myself soon. Not always gonna have her around to do it for me."

You shake your head, "There's a charm for that isn't there?"

"There's a charm for everything,"

"And I guess you already know it?"

"Of course I do, I'm a genius," he says smugly, holding onto his own arms.

The chill in the air was blowing harsher now, and you shivered.

"Are you cold?" he relaxes a bit and shifts forward.

"I'm fine, it feels nice,"

He pokes your arm, his fingertip warm like a match stick.

"You've got goosepimples everywhere," he mumbles, studying your skin.

He inches closer, and you open your mouth to say something, then stop as you feel his palm flatten on the side of your arm.

You become still, watching his fingers graze you to grasp your arm. His palm is like the sun.

He looks at you, waiting for you to let him, let him, let him what?

You didn't know, but you looked back at him. You said yes, relaxing your arm into his hand.

He sits there, feeling your skin, rubbing his thumb slowly up and down.

He silently reaches behind him, and grabs a soft blanket from your headboard.

"Come closer," he says softly, and you're not sure you hear him correctly.

You just stare at him, until you see he's spreading his legs a bit to make room for you. You can't believe it, and yet you prop yourself up to move towards him.

You come to face him, his face tilted away so your noses aren't literally right up against each other. His cheeks almost look a little red, but that's just because of the sun, you convince yourself.

You turn around, and sit in front of him, hesitant to lay back. He's never been this close to you, other than from a hug. And he's sat back on your bed, and you're in between his legs, and his hands feel soft, and everything happening all at once is making your whole face hot.

He brings his arms in front of you to place the blanket, you instantly feel cozy, the fuzz of the blanket on your arms tickles.

The sun is shining just above your head, and you imagine what his hair looks like, bright, and his eyes, kind and brown. You want to turn around and look at him, but you're frozen again.

Suddenly, his hands are on your shoulders, lightly pulling you down onto his chest.

Your heart skips a beat until, there, you feel it. It's his heartbeat, racing so quickly, you could swear he was a rabbit under attack. Now you're warm all over. The back of your neck itching a bit from the wool of his sweater. But there's a nice feeling to it.

Your heartbeat is picking up to the speed of his, and you feel an immense rush of adrenaline. He's tensing up, hands still, and he's nearly silent except for his shuddered exhales.

You've never seen him so careful, save for when he's pulling off some trick, silent as a mouse and careful on his feet despite being so large. He's deliberate, calculative, and still, excited, like he's trying to reach the ultimate finish line. And you wonder if he feels the same way now. You wonder if you can get him to breath like normal again, even though there is this guilty giddiness you have, feeling just how different he is in this position.

You lay back more, tilting your head back to rest on his shoulder, even daring to move and adjust yourself to get comfortable. And just like that, it stops. His heart is slow, and his arms come to rest around you.

"This is..." you start.

"Bloody perfect? Yeah, I agree," he scoffs, he sounds perfectly content and also in utter disbelief.

Your face turns hot again, and you smile like an idiot.

[irafuwas]

I went to bed last night fearful of poor Silver learning firsthand that his father wasn’t always the kindhearted and fun loving man that he so admires and adores, that he used to look at humans with apprehension and distrust, that he’d treat people like they were worth less than the scum stuck to the bottom of his boots. But now, I do want him to see all of these things. Because I want it to dawn upon him, finally, for the first time in his short 17 years of life, that he is the reason his father is the person he is today. That every facet and every feature, every perfect aspect of his father’s design that he worships, that he wishes he could trace his fingers over whisper-soft and record into the lines of his own skin, they were all sculpted and carved and molded by him.

Silver it was your love – your love as a baby, as a child, as the young man you’re rapidly growing into - that nearly drowned your father, and every time he broke through the surface and opened his mouth to gasp for air you dragged him back down again. The waves of your love, at times more tender than a mourning dove‘s call, at times fiercer than a thousand storms, sloughed off his skin and tore apart everything that was and would never again be “Lilia Vanrouge”. And at last, when the pale body of your father emerged from those waters and he collapsed onto the achingly warm shores that had all his life been just out of his reach, he had been reborn into something and someone entirely new. He was transformed.

On golden mornings, when you still lay asleep in the small cot next to his, your father would slip into town and pick up fresh bread from the baker for you. He’d choose the kind that would crinkle like the autumn leaves under your careful steps when he split the loaf in half. The sound always made you smile.

When your father had left for town on one of those mornings, he’d still believed in the notion that all the light in the world and that everything good and warm and safe came from the yellow sphere that hung in the sky far above. But when he came back, as you ran out to greet him and you came crashing through the wheat fields near your home and you laughed your iridescent laugh with bits and pieces of flaxen leaves clinging to your lunar hair, your father finally glimpsed the great truth that Nature had been obscuring from him all his life.

[sagescented]

We brought her home from the Humane Society when she was 3 months old (she was a Birthday gift for my Husband the year we married). She went with me everywhere for years before my accident to make sure she got socialized as much as we could- and then she nannied me for years after my accident; an unofficial Service Dog who'd literally shove me into chairs if she decided I didn't need to be moving around for my own health.

A Dog who didn't know how to bark when we initially adopted her, and had to be taught how using videos of Huskies howling on Youtube. Raised by 2 Cats (I wish I had a video of the first time she tried to Loaf like a Cat before deciding her body was Not Designed To Do That™), and then went on to raise 2 Cats of her own somehow, 6 / 7 years apart from one another.

I always got in trouble for spoiling her more than I should've; she wasn't supposed to be on the bed or on the couch, but I always let her up with me anyways when it was just us alone together. Absolutely worth it.

She was such a good Doggo.

[sprinklenoodles]

Guess who read all of the Pokemon fic~? And, I got some art! A LOT of art For one... IT'S THE QUEEN LOAF!! Stare into her eyes. So majestic u_u

Then, I decided to draw Byakuya and all his Pokemon so far. Took me a bit to figure out a good outfit for the heir as it mentions he's in a suit, but I didn't wanna just put him in his standard suit. Also spruced up his hair. His Karen cut has evolved. Also, they're small but the B's are on the Pokeballs!! Ensured I kept the hights good btw since Larvesta is (pardon my American ways) 3ft, Eeevee is like a ft, and Byakuya is 6'1.

Then, I decided do draw them some more. Also, in regards to Byakuya and his girls, I tried making Eevee a bit more distinct than the standard Eevee. Might play around a bit more and might tweak her once she evolves so the shape language alludes to her future. Also, I wanted Byakuya to look like he's so not secretly gushing about his girls so I hope I did that well.

Finally, before I comment on the fic, I drew this silly drawing as well. Tried some shading too and gosh do I love how Larvesta turned out. She is indeed the fat loaf.

As for comments on the fic, very cute so far. Loving the petty energy with Byakuya and his rival. Also love all the gang slowly getting 2nd Pokémon together. Byakuya's got two fluffy girls on his hands now which I just love the pattern that he's so far got only female Pokémon. I dunno why but it makes my brain so happy. Just Byakuya and his smart though sometimes dumb girls. I mean, Eevee was literally bonking her head on the glass when they were at the aquarium like a freaking goober. Also, as for some other words which are mostly Byakuya based cus my gosh and I gushing about him and his team, like, Eevee is a cute addition. I like him carrying her and also liked when he told Eeeve the drama about him and his rival. Which, I just love that he just has full blown conversations with his Pokemon and he gossips with them. Shows he treats them both well and that he really is considerate of their feelings. Like when he noticed Eevee wanted to see the aquarium and let her do her own thing and explore. Another thing I wanna mention is Kijo's Alteria. She is gorgeous and I like that, like father like song, both have elegant clingy queens for Pokémon with fluffy white fur. It was so adorable when Alteria just pounced on the heir. Very precious detail too that Byakuya was comfy and could have just conked out on the spot. Maybe he needs an Alteria of his own. Maybe he'd sleep better. Which, another note, I love Larvesta being a canonical bed hog. I can just tell he gave up long ago on getting her off the damn bed. I know these are very disjointed thoughts but gooooosh! I could blabber on for several more asks. Genuinely. My brain is enthralled with almost ever fic I read from you. I swear! And I actually am so freaking attached to Larvesta. As I said prior, a part of me wants her to stay a loaf forever like how some Pokemon in the anime never evolved like Ash's Toadadile or, more obviously, his Pikachu. She's too precious as hell and I don't want her to change T-T I totally get if you let her evolve though!! Don't let my goober ways change your plans heheh!! But yeah! I made this jam packed with stuff this time around heehhe!! Am shocked tbh cus I legit did not expect my art block to just be cured cus of a buggy fire loaf. I am so drawing more of these guys too! Gonna draw Byakuya's human gang as well!! If you have any comments on the designs btw, do tell!! I love reading!!!!

THIS IS SOOOO AWESOME!!! Thank you!!!!! Wish I could say more but going somewhere rn and in a car lol

[whatsnewalycat]

Designated Person | Chapter 2

Pairing: Francisco "Catfish" Morales x F!Reader

Chapter 2: Shopping List

Series Summary: When posting bail for Frankie Morales, your former employer and former lover, you unwittingly designate yourself as his third party custodian during his pre-trial release. Your often tumultuous relationship with him is given a new set of rules and put to the test. Can the two of you co-exist peacefully, or will you crash and burn?

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 9.2k+

Content / Warnings: Frankie POV, alcoholism / alcohol dependence, parole/pre-trial release, infant / toddler, past romantic & sexual relationship implied, smut, AA meeting, flashbacks, our boy is a liar liar pants on fire, awkward conversations

Notes: So, about how long this is... WOOFTA. I couldn't cut anything, though, so whatever. Let me know what ya think! Thank you for reading!!

[ Tag List ] [ AO3 ] [ Spotify Playlist ] [ Series Masterlist ]

It was an unseasonably hot and miserable day. The morning air was already acting like adhesive on Frankie’s legs, sticking them to the varnished dining room chair. He raised a spoon to his mouth, admiring the perfect ratio of sugar-sweetened milk and Froot Loops he was able to collect. When he engulfed the spoon and squee-geed its contents into his mouth, he swung his short, skinny legs back and forth with glee. The menagerie of artificial fruit-like flavors melded with the creamy whole milk in a softened crunch. 

It was his favorite breakfast. 

His dad sat at the dining room table next to him, trying to lift the spoon to his lips. The utensil vibrated in his grip. Each time he tried to raise a bite out of the white ceramic bowl, the spoon started vibrating and thwarted his efforts. Frankie watched his father with curiosity. 

“What’s wrong with your spoon?” Frankie asked through a mouthful of cereal. 

“Don’t talk with food in your mouth,” was the response that came. His dad then dropped the spoon onto the tabletop with a clatter, splashing droplets of red-tinted milk. He pushed his chair out hard and stood up. The loud scratching noise it made on their tiled kitchen floor buzzed inside Frankie’s head and made him wince. 

He watched his dad’s broad shoulders as he loafed over to the refrigerator and retrieved a silver can from the door. It hissed and opened with a metallic crack.

Frankie returned his gaze to the offending spoon, squinting to see if there was some kind of kryptonian green glow to the object. There wasn’t. Like he often did, Frankie mentally reviewed the evidence he collected that supported his working theory. 

The dark, loosely curled hair. Squared jaw. Broad shoulders atop his tall, muscular frame. Disappearing for hours at a time, only to return either jubilant or so exhausted he stumbled around the house until he fell asleep. Frankie always secretly knew it was because he was out trying to save the world. 

Sure, his dad wasn’t white, or a journalist, but certainly the people at DC Comics had to conceal some parts of his father’s identity. They couldn’t name him Jose Rolando Morales outright. That would be dangerous. 

The spoon had to be contaminated by kryptonite. And those shiny silver cans held the antidote. Frankie noted that his dad brought at least one anywhere he went. Between them in their beat-up car’s cup holder armrest, lining the refrigerator door like an aluminum forcefield, in a cooler by his feet at Frankie’s softball games.

Frankie determined that the world was lousy with kryptonite radiation, so his dad had to be vigilant. 

Now, as Frankie swings his legs out of the queen-sized bed that’s temporarily his, he stares down at his own shaking hands. A burning in his chest urges him to take the antidote. To return the equilibrium within his body, consequences be damned. 

The digital clock on the desk by the foot of his bed reads 6:30 AM. The house is completely silent, just like it was when he finally fell asleep only 3 hours ago. He balls his hands into tight fists and squeezes. The tremors ripple through the clenched muscles of his forearms. 

Frustration twists through his veins as he stares down at them. He gets to his feet and takes two strides across the cramped room to the dresser, where he fishes out a clean pair of boxers. The floor tracks his footsteps with groans and squeaks as he makes his way to the bathroom. 

He flips the shower on HOT and steps into the water. The pin-sized streams pelt him and roll down his body in sheets. His palms press against the wall and he leans over into the scalding onslaught. He savors the way it stings his skin, leaving him red and buzzing. 

The water swirling down the drain entrances him. Drowns out the roar of his mind and body begging him for a drink. Temporarily stuns the overwhelming need that burns through him hotter than the steaming water. 

A knock at the door snaps him out of the hypnosis. He shakes his head and picks up the bar of soap, “One sec.”

When he emerges, wearing only the clean pair of boxers he brought with him, a cloud of heat and condensation follows him into the hallway. You’re leaning against the wall, crossing your legs, wiggling in place to keep from pissing your pants. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles, glancing up at your face just in time to catch your eyes wandering down the length of his body. Your cheeks start to flush when your gaze catches his. You push past him and slam the door behind you. 

It reminds him of the way you looked at him when you met. Then, too, your gaze lingered long enough for him to catch you. You introduced yourself, all tongue-tied and flustered, desire written across your face in bold type. 

He had to remind himself to behave. To ignore the tingle of temptation settling at the base of his spine. That’s never really changed when it comes to you, though, has it? 

A smirk tips up the corner of his mouth as he pads through the kitchen, down the hallway, and into his bedroom. He gets dressed and returns to the kitchen, where he finds you pouring coffee into two ceramic mugs. You take one and breeze past him into the living room. The one you leave behind is obviously for him. It’s black and you leave ample space for his jittery hands to slosh coffee around without spilling over the sides. 

Although, he can’t prove that this is why you started leaving a large gap of space when you pour his coffee. You’ve never talked to each other about the shakes, you’ve never asked if it’s easier for him that way, or anything. One day he was struggling to perform this usually mindless task without spilling hot coffee all over himself, and the next you started leaving space in his mug. 

It could just be a coincidence. But he doubts it. 

Like you do every morning, you set the steaming mug down on your cheap, black coffee table and sink into your hand-me-down couch, all scrunched up in a ball with your ankles crossed and thighs close to your chest. You pull out a notebook and pen and start making lists. Your plans for the day. He settles at the opposite end of the couch and scrolls through the news on his phone. 

Neither of you say anything until you finish your second cup of coffee. This is usually when it’s safe to start speaking. 

“What’s in the books for today?” he asks. 

“Well,” you start, tapping your pen against the notebook, “It’s the, um, family dinner tonight. So I was thinking of getting stuff to make lasagna.” 

A smile stretches across his face. He raises his eyebrows, “Lasagna? You know it’s just the two of us, right?” 

You tilt your head and glare at him, “So?” 

“That’s an insane thing to make for two people,” Frankie snorts. 

“Ok, well,” you roll your eyes, but he sees the beginnings of a grin on your lips, “I happen to know that you love lasagna,” your eyes flick to his for an electric jolt of a moment, and your face deepens a shade. You drop your gaze to the notebook with a shrug, “And we’ll have hella leftovers.” 

A warmth radiates across his chest. It spreads to his face in a smile as he nods, “Need help with anything?”  

“No, that’s ok,” you assure him, shaking your head. 

“You sure? I have nothing else to do today,” he offers. 

Your eyebrow quirks and you tilt your head to the side, “No other options, might as well hang out with me?” 

Frankie frowns, “Whadda you mean?” 

You just chuckle and shake your head, glancing away, “Nothing, it was a joke.” 

His eyes follow you as you stand up and tiptoe through the kitchen to refill your coffee mug. When you return, you fold your legs up in front of your chest and balance your steaming coffee cup on your knee. Something about your “joke” feels like a rock in his shoe. 

“Is that a yes or a no?” he asks directly, tapping his fingers to the tops of his thighs. 

“Do you want to?” 

“Yes,” he states. This leaves no room for speculation or insinuations on your part. 

“Alright,” you shrug. A satisfied smirk plays on your lips, “Lemme finish this cup of coffee then we can go to the store.” 

Frankie trails behind you, leaning onto the shiny plastic handles of the shopping cart in aisle 5. Its wheels squeak across the low rise carpet defiantly. Holding your grocery list scrawled on a frayed notebook paper in one hand, studying a can of tomatoes in the other, you don’t notice his eyes drifting up and down your body with admiration. 

It’s been difficult to resist this temptation. Old habits die hard and all that. He finds his gaze lingering on you frequently, unable to stop his mind from getting swept up in a tidal wave of memories. It doesn’t help that the two of you have walked these same grocery store aisles dozens of times. 

The first time feels like a lifetime ago. You were poking around the kitchen, going from the fridge to the cupboards, then from the cupboards to the fridge, sighing quietly to yourself. He watched you out of the corner of his eye as he fed Sarah a bottle, amused at how you hovered around the doorway between your respective rooms, seemingly trying to decide whether or not to approach him. 

When Sarah slurped down the last of her formula, he stood up to burp her over his shoulder, giving her soft, encouraging pats on the back. You were still standing in the middle of the kitchen, scrunching your face up at the recipe on your phone like it was a puzzle. 

“Need help finding anything?” Frankie stepped onto the fake oak wood linoleum of the kitchen. 

Your eyes flicked to his, face flushed hot like he pantsed you instead of asked you a question. He couldn’t help but notice the way your gaze dropped to his mouth, or how your tongue darted out to wet your lips before you responded, “Um, yeah, sorry. The recipe calls for milk, I used the last of it earlier today. I was looking for a substitute, but, um, I don’t think there’s anything else I can use.”

“Ok,” he nodded, “Did you want to make something else?”

Your teeth caught your bottom lip and worried away at it. You pressed your eyebrows together, inquiring, “Would Mrs. Morales be upset if I made something different?” 

Frankie frowned as he thought about this, considering how fickle his wife can be. Case in point, she insisted that you stay and make dinner while Frankie watched Sarah instead of delegating both tasks to him. This resulted in them paying you to be there for two hours longer than he thought was necessary every day. 

“Or we could go to the store? ” he proposed. 

“Oh, you don’t have to pack Sarah up, I can just go-”

“Let’s all go,” he suggested, switching Sarah to his other shoulder, “I have to get some formula and a few other things anyway.” 

“I could, um, stay here with her, too,” you covered your mouth as a nervous chuckle escaped it, “You don’t have to-”

Sarah released a loud belch and spit up onto Frankie’s shoulder. He groaned, then grimaced at the sour scent that wafted into his nose. 

You burst out laughing. The sound was melodic and bright, and he’s pretty sure you snorted a little. A genuine smile broke out on his face as he handed his daughter off to you and went to change his shirt. 

By the time he returned, you were crouched in front of the car seat, buckling the five-point harness over Sarah’s small body, cooing and babbling back and forth with her. From his vantage point, he could see the white lace of your underwear peeking out over the top of your jeans. 

He let his eyes linger on them, imagining how you would look wearing that pair of panties alone. He wondered what they smelled like. What they tasted like. 

All the blood in his body rushed to his dick. You leaned over further to tighten the straps, exposing more of the white lace. His tongue ran along the seam of his lips. 

How damp could he make them before peeling them off your body? Judging by how starry-eyed you got around him, it wouldn’t take much for you to saturate the delicate fabric. 

“Ready?” you stood up and swung Sarah’s diaper bag over your shoulder. 

He shook the filthy thoughts from his head and rubbed his hands together, “Rock ‘n’ roll.” 

You picked at your fingernail polish the entire drive. Avoided looking anywhere but out the passenger’s side window. He snuck glances at you, despite the sirens going off in his head, warning him to keep his distance. 

When he parked the car and went to get Sarah’s car seat out of its base, you came around to the door and pulled a tangle of thick navy blue fabric out of the diaper bag. 

“I can wear her so we don’t have to lug around her car seat,” you mumbled. 

He furrowed his brow, “Wear her…? What is that?”  

“It’s a babybjörn! You haven’t used this yet?”  

“I have no idea what that means,” he chuckled, shaking his head from side to side. 

“It’s, um… it’s like a kangaroo pouch,” you held the strappy contraption up for him to see, “You wear it and then put her in it and you can carry her around hands free. She loves it.”

He nodded, “Oh. That’s pretty neat.”  

“Do you wanna try?”

You held it out to him, and he accepted it, only to inspect it at arm’s length like the foreign object it was. 

“Here,” you laughed and took it back, rearranging it until there were two definable holes to slide his arms through, which he did. 

“Um, ok, turn around.”

He spun and faced the opposite direction, letting you fasten the device from behind. 

“How the fuck do you do this alone?” Frankie muttered, holding his arms out to the side as he turned around and inspected the completed product. 

You didn’t answer him, just retrieved Sarah from her car seat and helped get her situated in the baby carrier. Once she was nestled into it, and he was tummy-to-tummy with her, she looked up at Frankie with her big, dark eyes and smiled wide, showing off a single pearly white tooth. 

“See? Look at how happy this sweet lil baby is,” you cooed, booping Sarah’s nose with your index finger. Inadvertently, you laid your head against his arm when you did this. Frankie felt his lungs expand and his skin tingle. Those sirens started going off again. 

Sarah blew a raspberry in response and squealed in delight. 

He pushed around a shopping cart behind you, tossing things in as he went along. Sarah cooed happily and watched the world around her with amazement. 

Every once and a while, his eyes caught yours and held your gaze just long enough to make his heart skip a beat. Each time, you got flustered and looked away. He always thought you were attractive and found it cute how obvious your crush on him was. It was flattering. 

But that trip to the store was the first time he knew he fucking wanted you. 

Is that why you insisted on coming to this store today? Going out of your way just to plague him with the reminders of how things were? To show him how your relationship has weaved into so many fucked up directions, neither of you know where you are on the map? 

“Daddy!” 

The sound of Sarah’s voice yanks him from his thoughts. His gaze flicks to you just in time to see your eyes widen in panic at what’s behind him. You step towards the cart and toss in the can of tomatoes. 

Frankie turns around and sees Angelica, shoulders squared and expression steel as she approaches. His face breaks out into a wide smile as his eyes land on Sarah, who has no idea what “dynamics” or “tension” mean or how they could possibly make a difference between her and her daddy. Her dimpled smile when he makes eye contact with her is quite possibly the only thing that has given him hope in the past week. 

“Mi princesa!” he exclaims, abandoning the shopping cart, gravitating towards his family. Sarah claps her hands together and extends her arms to Frankie. He plucks her from the cart and holds her on his hip. 

“What’re you doing here?” Angie spits. His eyes flick to hers and he shivers at how cold the glare is. It always amazes him how she can make her golden brown eyes somehow seem icy. 

“Just getting some groceries,” he shrugs, then looks at Sarah, “How are you, sweetheart? I miss you.” 

“Frankie, put her back,” Angie demands. 

Her voice is low and serious, but when he meets his daughter’s ecstatic gaze, he shakes his head. He tears his eyes away to level them at his wife, “I’ve been trying to set something up so I can see you two. Have you seen my texts?” 

“Yep,” Angie responds. 

Frankie stares at her expectantly. 

She stares back, unflinching as she states, “I don’t want Sarah to be around her .” 

“She doesn’t-“ he takes a deep breath and rolls his eyes, “I can go wherever you want. She doesn’t have to go there.” 

Angie purses her lips, but doesn’t say anything. 

Frankie clenches his jaw, then sighs, “We’re not seeing each other, Ang. I swear. She’s my roommate. That’s all. Things have been over with us for a year. I’m still in this with you.” 

She scoffs and folds her arms across her chest, “Who says that I’m in this with you? ”

“N-nobody,” he stammers, “I just- I don’t know, is that what you really want? To just throw this all away?” 

She’s silent as she contemplates this. Her stance and features soften. 

“I love you, Ang. I love our life together. And,” he presses his eyebrows together and takes a step towards her, “Listen, I- I know I fucked up. But this living situation is a means to an end. Honest. I still wanna be with you.” 

She studies her husband and their child, then sighs, arms going slack at her sides, “Are you doing anything tonight?” 

He turns this question over in his mind a few times. Yes, he does. The first of Ralph’s prescribed “family dinner” with you. The phrase feels like a betrayal to his wife and daughter. Isn’t it just as important, if not more important, that he try to put his life back together with his family? 

“I have a Sunday night meeting,” is what he tells her, glancing behind his shoulder instinctively to see if you’re within earshot. The aisle is vacant, so he turns back to Angie and shrugs, “But I can see if I’m able to skip it.” 

“Ok,” Angie allows one corner of her lips to flick up into a smile, “Come over for dinner.” 

“Yeah?” he grins, looking over to Sarah, “Want me to come and have dinner with you, Princess?” 

She just giggles in response, her deep brown eyes meeting his with glee. 

“What time?” he asks Angie. 

“5:00,” she smirks, “Does that work?” 

“It’s a date,” Frankie beams in response. 

“So, just to be clear,” you itch your eyebrow and sigh, “You’re blatantly disobeying Ralph’s request for us to have family dinner-“ 

“But for dinner with my actual family,” Frankie interrupts as he leans the passenger’s seat back a bit, crossing his ankle over his knee. He presses his fingers to his lips and looks out the window. 

“So I just got all this shit for nothing?” 

“I don’t want to fuck this up with her,” he tells you, casting a hopeful glance your way. 

It meets your eyes, but you look back to the road and shake your head slightly. 

“What?” he asks defensively. 

You scoff and shake your head harder now, then roll your eyes, “I just…” 

He waits for you to continue, but your teeth catch your bottom lip and your face softens into a sadness that feels like a punch in his gut. 

“Nevermind,” you mumble under your breath. 

The rest of the drive home is quiet and awkward. After you pull into the garage, you kill the engine and practically sprint into the house. He grabs all the flimsy plastic bags from the trunk of your car and brings them inside the house, dropping them in front of the fridge before knocking on your closed bedroom door. 

“What?”

Your voice wavers, regardless of how abrasive you try to make it sound. 

“Can I come in?” he requests. His hand rests on the doorknob, waiting for your permission. 

From behind the door, he hears you sniffling, but you don’t answer him. Stomach acid starts to bubble up inside his throat. When he knocks on the door again, and you spit, “Oh my god, what? ” 

“Do you want me to see if Ang will do dinner a different day?”

“I don’t give a shit what you do, Francisco.”

His eyebrows raise and he blinks at the door, knowing damn well that phrase means exactly the opposite of what you’re asserting. With a small sigh, he pulls out his phone and sends a text to Angie, explaining that his PSO told him the meeting was mandatory, then asks to reschedule. 

“Ok, well,” he hollers towards your door from the kitchen, as he unpacks the groceries you just bought, “I’m gonna start making this, then.” 

You don’t respond, so he eggs you on further, “Do I defrost some hamburger for the sauce?”

Silence. He grabs a 1-pound chub of ground beef from the freezer and sets it down on the stovetop with a clunk . 

“Oh, and for the sauce, do I just add Italian seasoning to the tomatoes and cook it?”

He casts a glance to your closed door. Nothing. 

“You put the noodles in uncooked, right? I don’t need to boil them?”

A moment later, the door swings open and you come into the kitchen shaking your head, “I swear to god, Frankie-“

His face breaks out into a satisfied grin and you meet his eyes. Yours are swollen and wet. You fold your arms across your chest. 

“I rescheduled with Ang,” he explains, “We’re gonna get together on a different day.” 

You nod solemnly, then avert your gaze to the stove and sigh, “You can’t just set frozen meat on there to defrost, it’s gonna bleed all over the place.” 

He frowns and shrugs. 

“And I got Italian sausage, it’s way better than hamburger in lasagna,” you smirk and raise an eyebrow at him, unfolding your arms to put the frozen chunk of meat back inside the freezer, “Get the saucepan, I’ll show you how to make it.” 

“Saucepan?” his forehead wrinkles in confusion. 

You snort and shake your head, “Absolutely hopeless.” 

“Holy shit,” Frankie groans. The dining room chair squeaks as he stretches out, “That was so good. Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome,” you flash him a close-lipped smile and push the remaining lasagna around your plate. 

Both of you have avoided the open and honest communication Ralph had assigned for as long as possible. Now it’s the only thing left on the agenda. Frankie’s chest tightens as he tries to think of what to say to you. The scrape of your fork against the dinner plate is sandpaper on his spine. It makes his ears itch. 

You clear your throat and set your fork down, then turn to him. Your eyes are dull and overcast, lips all puffy and full of color as a result of your anxious biting. He resists the urge to brush his thumb against your cheek and feel your warmth. 

A deep breath expands your lungs, then you croak, “I hate that I’m always your backup plan.” 

The words hang in the air as they seep into the folds of his brain. 

Frankie shifts in his chair. Its squeak breaks the uncomfortable silence in a way that somehow only makes it more unbearable. He was expecting your anger. Bracing for it, really. But this? This vulnerability you volleyed into his court? 

It makes his heart pound heavy in his chest. Wriggles between every vertebrae down his spine. Settles in his stomach like lead.

He shakes his head in protest, unable to stop the lie from crossing his lips, “You are not always my backup plan.” 

The statement coats his mouth with a slimy residue. 

Your shoulders slump as you deflate, eyes glazing over with disappointment. You drop your gaze to study the plate in front of you, chewing on your bottom lip. Then you take another deep breath and push your chair out behind you. You stomp off to your bedroom and slam the door. 

He sits for a while in silence, waiting for you to return. When it’s obvious you’re committing to your bedroom isolation, he clears the table and washes the dishes. 

While drying his hands on the dish rag over his shoulder, he walks back to your bedroom and holds his ear to the closed door. Sniffling and sobbing cuts through the quiet periodically. His jaw gnashes back and forth as he stands with one knuckle cocked against the door, contemplating whether or not to knock on the door and apologize. 

“My name is Frankie and I’m an alcoholic,” Frankie drones. The metal folding chair squeaks as he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. 

The chant echos around the church basement from the circle of his fellow miserable fucks: Hi, Frankie. 

“I’m, uh, I’m not sure what to-” he presses his mouth into a flat line and looks to the ringleader, David, for assistance. 

Frankie surmises that David could be a middle school principal if he isn’t already. He looks like he once had a full head of short brown hair, but his hairline is now receding and peppered with grays. He’s clean shaven, wearing a white long-sleeved dress shirt, yellow tie, and khaki slacks. His cadence is diplomatic and metered with a southern coastal drawl. 

David frowns and crosses his long legs while responding, “You can talk about how long it’s been since you drank, what brings you today, where you’re at in recovery. Whatever you want to get off your chest.” 

Frankie raises an eyebrow and rubs a hand over his face, then brings his palms to his thighs where his fingertips thrum nervously, “Ok. Um, well, I haven’t drank in a week and a half. But I want to. It’s all I wanna do, if I’m being honest. Everything is such a shit show right now. I don’t even know where to start. My wife threw me out last week after I was arrested,” he pauses and thinks about that assessment, then tilts his head to the side, “Well, I guess, it’s not really the arrest. The person that I’m staying with, we have a history, and, my wife-” he clamps his mouth shut in frustration. Why can’t he explain this? 

“It’s… complicated. Anyway, Two weeks ago, everything was fine, now it’s like my whole world is flipped upside down. I’m out on bail, can’t drink, facing a felony, living with my ex, and my wife is probably filing for divorce. I fucking-” he stops and looks at David, “Sorry, can- can I swear?”

David shrugs, “Go ahead, bud.” 

“I fucking hate it. And I have to go to these meetings three times a week, call my PSO every day, always talking about what’s going on in my life and what I’m feeling. Everyone always asking what I’m fucking feeling . And I have no goddamn idea how to answer. I’ve never had to fucking do this before. I fucking hate it, it’s bullshit,” he finishes, leaning back in his chair, rubbing his mouth before one more, “Sorry.” 

“No need to apologize. Thank you for sharing,” David nods with a calming smile that surprises Frankie, then looks around the circle, “Who else would like to share?” 

While waiting at a bus stop, Frankie stares at the bar across the street. He tries to calculate the odds of him getting drug tested within the next few days.Fuck, it would be good to get lost in a whiskey haze. A small vacation from his mind. 

Maybe just one. 

The bus roars down the street, right on time, pulling him from the temptation of those neon lights. He stands up off the bench to meet it. 

After scanning his bus pass, he searches for a place to plant his ass, settling on a window seat he doesn’t have to share with another person. A lanky, pale twenty-something man sitting in front of him starts digging through a crinkly McDonald’s bag. The deep fat fried scent of french fries wafts back into his face and his stomach growls in protest. 

While the city of Kissimmee passes by his window, Frankie wonders what you made for dinner. Whatever it is is probably better than McDonald’s french fries. Even if it’s just leftovers from last night. The past week has reminded him of what a good cook you are.  

And, god, he misses his daughter. His house. His truck. His bed. His wife. But to be spending time with you again, shooting the shit while you occupied your hands preparing dinner… It was good. Reminded him of those first few months, after you came out of your shell around him, before he kissed you for the first time. 

You hadn’t yet found out that he’s a fuckup. He would talk you into having a beer with him while you cooked. The timid exterior would melt away into the smartass he came to know and love. 

Maybe he should have just left you alone. Let you do your job. You would’ve never set up a prepaid calling account so you could accept collect calls from county. He would have never broken your heart. 

His stop comes up, so Frankie pulls the cord and gets to his feet. Before he hops off and starts towards your place, he thanks the bus driver. The evening air is soupy hot and he regrets not asking you to just pick him up from the meeting. Although, he never gathered the courage to console you last night, so you probably don’t want to do him any favors. 

He walks a few blocks, until the little tangerine orange house comes into view. The weight in his chest settles down further with each step. He wants a drink. He wants to go home. Not this one, though, the real one. 

This is fucking bullshit. 

Frankie opens the front door to find you curled against the couch, swiping through tinder on your phone as Friends plays idly on the TV. A nonsensical pang of jealousy stabs through his guts when you swipe right on Rory, 32, who’s posing shirtless next to a surfboard. What the fuck kind of a name is Rory, anyway? 

“Hey,” he calls to you as he kicks his heavy work boots off onto the shoe tray. 

“Hey,” you glance at him through your tortoiseshell glasses, then up at the TV, clicking the phone screen off as you tuck it away under your leg. You’re wearing a pair of floral cotton pajama shorts that have to have just a 1-inch inseam. The swell of your ass peaks out the bottom. Your hard nipples are outlined against your tight gray tank top. 

He remembers how soft and warm your skin was against his. The quiet little moans you made when he kissed your neck. The things you would whimper against his mouth you were alone behind locked doors. 

“I heated up some lasagna for dinner,” you inform him without looking up. 

Frankie glances from the kitchen, to you. He thinks about the way the two of you left off last night, then plops down on the couch, “Listen, um, I wanted to tell you...”

You slide your eyes from the TV to his face, then tilt your head in question. 

“I really appreciate everything you’re doing for me,” he looks down at his hands as they wring together, “And everything that you’ve done for me in the past. You’ve always been just… fuck, so great,” he taps his fingers to his lips and shrugs, “I don’t deserve you.” 

The corners of your mouth upturn into a peace treaty, “I appreciate you pulling glass out of my foot.” 

“Anytime,” he thrums his fingers against the top of his legs, then turns to you, “I’m getting you LED bulbs, though. Can’t believe you’re still using incandescent. That was your first mistake.”

“Wow, that is the most dad thing you could possibly bitch at me about,” you deadpan, then snort as you turn your attention back to the TV. 

“How is it healing up?” he asks, ignoring your comment as he tilts his head at your feet. 

“Fine,” you assure him, lifting your foot to show proof.

“Let me see” he hums, wrapping his hand around your foot and pulling it closer for inspection. The gasp of air you intake when he touches you is almost undetectable, but he notes it. Arousal pricks his skin when he realizes he should stop. Those old, familiar sirens start going off in his head again, warning him to proceed with caution. 

But you’re sitting there looking absolutely fucking irresistible. It’s killing him. The subtle rumblings of lust in his belly, and in your quiet little gasp, stick to his insides and prod him on further. 

“Oh yeah,” he mumbles, running his thumb over the elevated patch of skin that’s now sealed, “Looks way better.”

You start to giggle and pull your foot back. His eyebrows raise and he seizes it, a wide smile transforming his eyes to crescents, “Oh, are you ticklish?” 

The pads of his fingers trail up the sole of your foot and you start laughing this fucking champagne laugh, all sparkling and effervescent. You writhe and scoot closer. Your hands fly to his wrist as you whine through your rosy-cheeked laughter, “You know that I am, Frankie!” 

And your body is wiggling closer still, and you’re smiling and laughing, squealing breathlessly, “Stop- please stop-”

It’s almost the same cadence as the breathy moans you’ve huffed against his lips countless times, “don’t- don’t stop- ”

You go on the offensive, releasing his wrist so your fingertips can graze against his rib cage. God damn you, the tickle creeps across his ribcage, making him giggle, quickly escalating to a howling laughter when you continue. He lets go of your foot and grabs your hands, pulling them away from his sides, but the onslaught continues when you swing your leg over his lap. Your knees settle on either side of his hips when you wriggle one hand away and go back for more. 

Fingertips in his armpit, sending shockwaves of laughter through his body until he throws his head back and his hat falls off. He opens his eyes and you’re straddling him and smiling and laughing, and your gaze catches on his. 

Chests heaving, tears of laughter streaming down your cheeks, hips pressed together so close that there’s no way you don’t feel how fucking hard he is right now. The urge lingers for just one second before he acts, pressing his lips to yours. 

Your sweet, soft lips respond, kissing back with urgency. He abandons his attempts to pull your hands away from his body. Instead, his grasp drops to your waist, pulling you closer. You bring your fingertips to his scalp and rake them through his hair. A shudder rolls down his spine. His hips jerk against yours. 

His lips part and your tongue rolls against his, hands cradling his head, pulling his hair into your fists. The power in your kiss tugs at the edges of him. He bites back a moan and tightens his grip on your waist. His hands slide up the shirt clinging to your chest, cupping your breasts, thumbs rolling soft across the hard buds. You gasp in response, but don’t stop kissing him, even when your breath becomes labored and sweet little whimpers bubble from your lips onto his. 

You start to grind against him, a sliding scale of pressure along the length of his cock, sending his heart racing and body tingling. You part the kiss to throw your head back and face the ceiling, panting and whining as you rub yourself against the zipper of his jeans. The loss of your lips sends him reeling. He wants to taste you, and brings his mouth to your nipple to fulfill the need. 

You moan when his tongue draws wet circles on the hardened bud, and look down to meet his eyes with a smoldering gaze, lips puckered, dragging your fingernails through his hair, nodding down at him enthusiastically, never ceasing the steady rhythm of dry humping. He switches sides to tease the neglected breast, and he can feel your body shudder at the stimulation. Your hand tugs on his, guiding it to your mouth. Soft, humming lips wrap around two thick digits. You rut them in and out of your mouth, dragging moisture out with each thrust, soaking his fingers with your saliva. 

He throws his head back against the couch, groaning through gritted teeth as the desire stoked in his abdomen becomes unbearably tedious, “I wanna fuck you, baby, please.”

You take fingers from your mouth, then bring those puffy, swollen lips to his ear and purr, “Then fuck me, Francisco.” 

His breath hitches as the command slithers around inside him, sticking to the most primal of instincts and dragging them out to play. He buries his hand in your hair and grabs a fistful, pulling your head back to expose the column of your neck. He drags his tongue up your neck, relishing the salty bite of your sweat, then husks, “Take off your clothes, sweetheart.”

You stand on shaky legs. Both of you pull your clothes off, piling them on the living room floor. Then you climb back onto his lap, knees settling on either side of his hips. 

He drinks in your form, eyes drifting up your skin until he meets your gaze. Your lips press against his for a languid kiss as you lower yourself down, tip of his cock dipping into your hot, tight cunt. His head rolls back against the couch, sensitive nerve endings along his length firing on all cylinders you work yourself open, engulfing him inch by inch, breathy moans falling from your lips. 

His hands find the soft skin of your hips and he spurs you on, guiding you to roll your hips on his, setting a steady, luscious pace, filling his center with ecstasy with each gentle thrust. He groans, “You’re so fucking tight , holy fuck- Look so fucking good riding me, baby.”

Your eyebrows draw together and you moan at the praise, bpm of your hips increasing just enough to stoke the fire inside and break him out in a sweat. You lean forward to take his lips in a kiss, running your tongue against his, passing whimpers back and forth between your mouths, reveling in the blissful ache of your bodies sliding together. 

He runs a hand down between your pumping thighs and starts drawing easy, slick circles around your swollen clit. You respond with a guttural moan, arching your back towards him, hands pressing against his thighs for support as you rut up and down his slippery cock. 

“That’s right, sweetheart- Jesus Christ - you feel so fucking good,” Frankie babbles. 

Your eyebrows crease together and you look down at him, nodding with your lips pouting into an O as you whimper breathlessly, “So fucking big, you stretch me- can’t take it all- ”

He nods with a moan and undulates his fingers faster now, “You can take it baby, I know you can. You can do it.”  

You bite your lip and bury him to the hilt, pulling a choked sob from both of your throats. Ecstasy fills his vision with stars as you find a rhythm sliding your cunt down his shaft until he disappears inside you. He grits his teeth, “Fuck yes- take that cock, baby, just like that-“ 

Your body starts to quiver and your moans grow more frantic. You fold over and press your lips to his, sloppy and dazed, whimpering, “Fuck me, Frankie, please- give it to me-“ 

“You want me to give it to you, hmm?” he pants and brings his hands to your hips, digging into the soft skin so hard his knuckles tinge white. 

You nod, grabbing onto his shoulders with the same ferocity, then growl, “Fucking give it to me.” 

Holding your hips down, thrusting into you deep and hungry, ripping a moan from the back of your throat, he grunts, “Is that what you need, baby?” 

An airy whine escapes you and your face contorts with pleasure, “Yes- yes, fuck yes-”

“Sweet girl wants to get fucked hard, is that what you need?” His words surface from the most depraved part of his brain as he sets a brutal pace.

Your beautiful face gets hot and flushed, breath coming in frantic gasps against his mouth, “Fuck yes- fucked hard- you fuck me so good-”

“Are you gonna cum for me, sweetheart? Hmm?” he pants, then groans into a kiss on your lips, wet and heavy, vibrating against him as your body bounces in time with his thrusts. 

You nod frantically and your fingers dig into his shoulders deeper. His muscles start to tense as your sounds and movements seem to disappear, just a shattered inhale with your face all twisted up with pleasure. Then your body seizes, quivering and shaking as you release a strangled moan, convulsing around him. 

“That’s it, baby, cum for me,” he rasps, not letting up in his tempo as he works you through the orgasm. The tingling spreads at his core, overtaking his body, pushing him over the edge. His hips snap up into you, painting your walls with his cum. 

You climb off of him and lay back on the couch, ragged breath and limp noodle body. His head rolls back and his body sinks into the couch as the feel-good chemicals make their way through his system. His heaving chest settles, madness draining from his psyche, replaced by a calmness. When he looks over at you, you meet his dazed smile with pained eyes. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks, his smile falling into a frown. 

You sit up and grab your shorts, shoving your trembling legs in, one after the other, muttering to yourself, “Exactly what I told myself I wouldn’t fucking do.” 

“Hey- it’s ok-” he sits up and places a hand on your forearm, which you rip away immediately. 

“Don’t- ok? It’s not ok,” you snap, pulling your shirt on. You sniffle and hide your face behind your hair as you frantically search for your phone.

“I won’t tell Ralph-”

“It’s not about that and you fucking know it,” you grind out, then growl, “Where is my fucking phone?!”

He shakes his head as he slides his boxers back on, standing to pull them over his hips, “It’s really not a big deal, sweetheart.” 

You throw your hands up in frustration, then stand on your toes, pointing an accusing finger at his face as you yell, “It’s not a big deal to you! That’s exactly what the fucking problem is! You-” your face crumbles and tears well in your eyes. Your shoulders slump and your bottom lip quivers, but you meet his eyes and sob, “You know how I fucking feel, Frankie. And you’ve made it clear that you don’t feel the same way. And I just keep- fuck ,” you lower your face to your hands, drawing shattered breathes. 

His chest aches like it’s raw. When he swallows, the muscles in his throat feel swollen and thick. He wants to wrap his arms around you and kiss your tears away. He wants to take back all the times he told you no. 

No, I can’t be with you. Not like that.  No, I won’t leave her.  No, I don’t love you. Not like that. 

But he’s not going to do that. It wouldn’t be fair. What he told you was the truth. He can’t do anything about that now. 

“Just, forget it. It won’t happen again,” you exhale a shaky sigh and run your hands through your hair, then finally spot your phone under his pants crumpled on the floor. 

He says nothing as you snatch it up and walk back to your bedroom, slamming the door behind you. 

“How did your first meeting go?” Ralph asks. 

Through the phone line, Frankie can hear him clicking his black pen, and imagines he’s sitting in his tiny white-washed office within the Osceola County Corrections Department, hovering over a notebook with the corded phone cradled between his shoulder and ear.

“I don’t know,” Frankie answers truthfully, “I don’t think I’m like those guys. I really don’t think I have a problem.” 

Ralph’s sigh crackles in his ear. The pen clicks again. Frankie thinks then that it’s not a notebook that Ralph is hovering over. It’s a worksheet. A pre-printed worksheet he keeps for every call with his parolees, with little blank spaces typed at the top for Ralph to fill in the name and date. He’ll file this one away in the folder titled Francisco Morales, saving it as proof for how much progress he has or has not made when his court date comes. 

“Mr. Morales, do you know what I’m looking at right now?” 

Frankie leans back in his office chair and crosses his ankle over his knee, then thrums his fingers against the armrest, “A worksheet?” 

Ralph laughs heartily at this, “I do have a worksheet. What else?” 

Oh, for fucks sake, what is this? 

Frankie’s turn to sigh now, “I don’t know, what?” 

“Let me give you a hint: 2015, public intoxication. 2018, felony drug possession and trafficking. 2019, DUI. 2020, public intoxication and assault. 2021, public intoxication and assault-” 

Frankie gnashes his jaws together and sits up, then cuts Ralph off, “My record, I get it.” 

“How many times a week would you say you use alcohol to alleviate your PTSD symptoms?” 

“None, now,” Frank grumbles, tapping his index finger on the desktop. 

“Before your arrest, smartass,” Ralph retorts. 

“I don’t know, I had a few beers when I got home from work-“

The pen clicks. 

“How many beers? Be honest with me.”

“Six or seven, maybe more.”

“And on the weekend?” 

“I’d go to the bar and have a few drinks.”

“How-“

“I don’t know, Ralph, enough to have a good time. Eight, maybe? It depends.” 

“Would you drive home?” 

“Not every time. A friend or my wife would bring me home sometimes. Sometimes I’d walk.”

“Uh huh. And your friend, would that happen to be the woman you’re currently living with?” 

“Not… always,” Frankie lied. He remembers all the times he texted you when Angie wouldn’t pick up, when he knew the streets were ripe with police and he couldn’t risk driving home. 

“How are things going with her? Did you talk to her about how things left off on Sunday?” 

Frankie is silent as he tries to compile the right answer to this question. 

“Honestly,” Ralph tacks on to his question. 

“I think if I’m honest with you, you’re going to put a stop to all this and send me back to jail,” Frankie admits. 

“Are you drinking or using drugs?”

“No.”

“Any other crimes?” 

“No.”

“Then try me.”

Frankie gulps and stands up, moving to the corner of the small, empty office he shares with two other aircraft maintenance technicians. He speaks in a hushed tone, “We had sex last night. She said it was… a mistake. And it won't happen again.” 

“Uh huh,” Ralph clicks his pen, “And what do you think about it?” 

Frankie exhales all the air from his lungs, deflating his shoulders as he shrugs weakly, “I think it was impulsive. I had such a fucking bad day. I wanted to feel good.” 

“And did you achieve that by having sex with her?”

“No,” Frankie chuckles to himself, “No, I feel much worse now. I’m a piece of shit.” 

“Do you wanna know what I think?” 

Click. 

Frankie groans, “I don’t know, do I?” 

“Well, I’m gonna tell you anyway,” Ralph declares, clears this throat, then continues, “I think you’re in a hole. But you don’t wanna do anything about it. You don’t acknowledge it, try to get out, or nothing. You want everything to fix itself. Well, guess what, buckeroo? You gotta get out of the damn hole somehow!”

Frankie closes his eyes and his head falls back in exhaustion, “It’s such a fucking mess, though, Ralph.” 

“You’re goddamn right it is. But, the good news is, you have help. You have the AA meetings three times a week. And I know you don’t think you have a problem, but just humor me and go along with it. Do the steps. Participate,” his pen clicks once, twice, “You have a friend that has been willing to post bail for you, house you, quit drinking with you, and support you in this journey-” 

“And I fucked it up-” 

“And you need to start treating her like a person , not a doormat you can stick your dick into. Make it right. You hear me?” Ralph orders. 

“Yes, sir.”

Click. 

“And, then of course, you get to talk to me every day. And we love our talks, don’t we, Mr. Morales?” Ralph laughs. Frankie grins, but doesn’t respond. Ralph continues, “Next item on the agenda: Wife and daughter- any luck with them?” 

“Angie said I could come visit them on Saturday,” Frankie says with a tone of optimism. 

“That’s good news! When you see her, see if you can work out a consistent schedule.”  

He sighs in response, “I’ll try.”

“Hang in there, kid. It’ll get better. Trust the process.”

When Frankie gets home from work, you’re in the small galley kitchen, hovering above a scratched-up white plastic cutting board as you dice an onion. You hum along to the music playing over your headphones, bobbing your head from side-to-side in time with the rhythm. Blue flames lick the bottom of a stainless steel pan on the gas stovetop. 

Swallowing hard, he approaches you and shoves his hands into his front pockets. You don’t see him. His teeth catch the smooth inside of his cheek and bite down. He casts a contemplative glance to the front door, then back to you, before his shoulders slump and he sighs. 

Frankie clears his throat as he leans back against the counter and crosses his arms, “Hey.”

“Jesus Christ -” your body jolts upright, hand darting from the onion to clutch at your heart. You pull the headphones down around your neck and gasp, “You scared the shit out of me!” 

Your eyes only meet his for a moment before you blink and drop your gaze to the onion. 

“Sorry,” he mutters, then straightens his spine. His eyes wander to the front door again, Adam’s apple bobbing thick in his throat. 

You say nothing, just cut the white bulb down the middle, then start to dice the two halves. The sharp chopping sound pulls his attention back to you. 

“What’re you making?” he asks, peering down at the saucepan that’s heating a shiny, slick pool of greenish-yellow olive oil. 

“Spaghetti.”

He nods in acknowledgement and scratches the stubble on his neck. His mouth flattens into a straight line and he looks down to his feet, “Do… you need help?” 

“Is there something you want from me, Frankie?” you snip, shooting a glare at him before you turn your attention back to the onion. 

The words he wants to say sit at the end of his tongue but they won’t leave his mouth. His jaw clenches, as if he’s subconsciously holding them prisoner. 

You lift the cutting board and hold it above the shiny hollow of the pan. The paring knife scrapes against the rough plastic and pushes the diced onion into the oil. Steam hisses from the pan up into your face. You turn around, take two steps towards the kitchen sink, then toss the cutting board and knife into the basin. 

Its clatter ricochets off the walls and makes him wince. 

You spin around to face him with your arms crossed, eyebrows arched in annoyance, “Fine. Get the hamburger out of the fridge.” 

The onions sizzle and pop from inside the pan. Without hesitation, he nods and pushes himself off the counter, then retrieves the meat from the refrigerator, unrolling it from the butcher’s paper. He plops it in the middle of the saucepan, earning a loud hiss from the oil. 

You return with a pot of salted water and start the burner beneath it. Your arm brushes up against his and you both recoil at the contact like as if touched by a livewire. You take a sideways step, increasing the proximity between your bodies. 

Tension hangs in the air like a noxious gas. Frankie’s skin feels exposed and raw in its presence. He peaks over at you and mutters, “I’m sorry for last night.” 

You don't respond. You don't move. For a brief moment, he thinks maybe you’re not even breathing. 

Frankie shifts his weight to one leg and pushes the ground beef around the pan, then clears his throat and sighs, “We shouldn’t have, um… I mean, I shouldn’t have, y’know…” 

You blink and cross your arms in front of your chest, “Are you done?” 

A red, hot wave of frustration creeps up his spine and starts to boil in his chest. His jaw cocks to one side and his eyes flick to yours, “Why are you being like this?” 

“Like what?” You raise an eyebrow. 

“Like you don’t care.” 

“Maybe I don’t,” you shrug and avert your gaze to the linoleum tile.

“Yeah, ok,” he scoffs, rolling his eyes. 

You huff and throw your hands in the air, “So I’m supposed to have feelings but you don’t have to?” 

“I don’t not have feelings for you,” he states. His stomach flips as the admission comes out in the open. 

Your brow furrows and you tilt your head, then look up at him, searching his face. 

“But… I don’t know, I don’t think we can be… more than this. Roommates. At least not right now,” he admits. Your gaze drops to the floor again.

You’re silent for a moment, then nod, “I think you’re right.” 

Bubbles start to rise to the surface of the salted water. Frankie stirs the ground beef around the pan, flipping it to reveal gray-brown crumbles. 

The two of you sit there for a beat, both contemplating whether or not to explain your reasoning. Both of you wonder the reasoning behind the other’s conclusion.

“You want me to season this?” Frankie asks eventually. 

You nod, “Yes, please.”

[ Next Chapter ]

[satoshi-mochida]

‘Open-ended minimalist RPG’ Everholm for PC launches November 11 - Gematsu

“Open-ended minimalist RPG” Everholm will launch for PC via Steam on November 11, publisher indie.io and developer Chonky Loaf announced.

“That feeling when there’s an angry raging storm outside, thunder strikes, rain pours, and you’re safe in your bed with hot chocolate in your hands—that’s Everholm,” said Chonky Loaf lead designer Mihajlo Djokic in a press release.

Here is an overview of the game, via its Steam page:

About

Lilly is searching for her lost sister, Melanie. During her search, she happens upon a magical portal that lures her into Everholm: a cute, cozy little island where everyone seems to recognize her. Gathering her wits, she sets out to uncover the mysteries of this little slice of heaven, with the help of a local witch… Everholm is an open-ended role playing game, focusing less on punching your way through the island’s wildlife, and more on interpersonal relationships. Meet the residents of Everholm, gain their trust, and figure out why they’re stuck with her on this enigmatic island.

Life in Everholm

Everholm isn’t just about talking to the locals—it’s about living together, learning new skills, and making the most of this cute little island. Lilly will have to learn how to farm crops, forage for supplies, do some fishing, raise livestock, and more. Turn a little run-down homestead into a cozy and well-kept place to truly call home.

Cozy, But Not Too Much

However, Everholm isn’t all sunshine and flowers—the island has many secrets which need to be pried open by force or finesse accordingly. Delve into procedurally generated dungeons to fight monsters that lurk underground, requiring powerful weapons and spells to survive. Delve deep enough into the dangerous caverns, and Lilly might just be rewarded with rare materials to bring topside…

Living with Everfolk

There is always more to Everholm than meets the eye. As Lilly bonds with others, discover each of their hidden secrets. But before that, they need to trust Lilly, which may be more difficult for some over others. Help others or choose to ignore them and enjoy the cozy atmosphere and non-linear story as you prefer! Unlock new pieces to the puzzle of where Lilly’s sister is and how to bring her home.

Life in Everholm

Everholm isn’t just about talking to the locals—it’s about living together, learning new skills, and making the most of this cute little island. Lilly will have to learn how to farm crops, forage for supplies, do some fishing, raise livestock, and more. Turn a little run-down homestead into a cozy and well-kept place to truly call home.

Cozy, But Not Too Much

However, Everholm isn’t all sunshine and flowers—the island has many secrets which need to be pried open by force or finesse accordingly. Delve into procedurally generated dungeons to fight monsters that lurk underground, requiring powerful weapons and spells to survive. Delve deep enough into the dangerous caverns, and Lilly might just be rewarded with rare materials to bring topside…

Living with Everfolk

There is always more to Everholm than meets the eye. As Lilly bonds with others, discover each of their hidden secrets. But before that, they need to trust Lilly, which may be more difficult for some over others. Help others or choose to ignore them and enjoy the cozy atmosphere and non-linear story as you prefer! Unlock new pieces to the puzzle of where Lilly’s sister is and how to bring her home.

Watch a new trailer below.

Release Date Trailer

[lumine-no-hikari]

Dear Sephiroth: (a letter to a fictional character, because why not) #242

I got to bed relatively on time last night. I still woke up groggy as heck, because that is the nature of sleep deprivation injuries; it'll be at least a week or two before my brain fully recovers; such is the nature of the brain cleaning cycle. Oh well.

Nonetheless, I had a lot of fun at work today! There was, along with Mi, Ma, and I, another lady named Tr, and the whole day was filled with laughter and delightful banter as we did our various tasks; it was wonderful!

I'm always amazed at how quickly the time passes while I'm there. I'm always busy, always moving from one task to the next, always moving around, so the four hours pass by in a flash, and I'm always just a little sad when it's time to go home.

They asked me to make muffins again today, and with the practice I got from my first time doing it, I was a lot better at it this time! I even found a more efficient way of filling and leveling off the muffin scoop, and so I was able to fill the muffin tin a lot more quickly than last time, and with far more consistency! The muffin batter was then baked. Here they are in the giant walk-in oven; it's not a great picture, I know, but I couldn't really do anything about the glare...

...And here are the results of my handiwork:

...Aren't they beautiful? Someone's gonna go home with a box of these, and that makes me really happy!

I also put muffins that were previously baked into boxes. Each of these shelves have 6 boxes that contain 4 muffins each. And I filled even more shelves than these today:

...We have them in so many different flavors! We've got pistachio, chocolate, pumpkin, banana-nut, apple cinnamon, corn, and so many more. The ones I baked were cranberry muffins. They're not my favorite, but they're someone's favorite, and that makes me feel really glad.

I like this job. I like the repetitive certainty of the routine tasks. I like the diligence and precision of a job well done. I like knowing that my manager is delighted to watch me learn, and is proud of the efficiency and conscientiousness with which I work. I like knowing that I will only continue to improve. I like knowing that I am working with others towards a shared purpose. I like knowing that I am capable of improving the processes that are used in service to that purpose. And I like knowing that someone is gonna go home with a box of delicious things that were wrought from my own hands.

J requested that I get sandwich supplies on the way home, so I did. I got deli sliced chicken, roast beef, genoa salami, and cheese, along with a loaf of seeded rye bread. With these, I made a sandwich!!! And I put truffle mayo on it, because why not!

Either it was a sandwich of epic awesomeness, or I was just hungry. Either way, it was awesome and I loved it!! I wish I could make one for you!

Hey, Sephiroth? What kind of sandwiches do you like, anyway? What kind of toppings and dressings do you like to put on them? I wonder...

In any case, we went to a birthday party shortly after that. Our friend Mer's birthday was today, and so she decided to gather up a bunch of her friends to eat tasty snacks and play board games! It's nice to know that J and I are on the list of people she considers friends! We played a card game called Boss Monster; basically you're the monster ruler of your very own dungeon that you build out of cards that represent rooms! I ended up getting an entity called, uh... Seducia... I guess. Hahahaha!

But I didn't really have much interest in killing adventurers or winning the game. I just built a party dungeon. I had a ballroom, and a menagerie of rescued critters, and a room that makes people silly, a room with an all-seeing eye, and a room with a lich dragon who is basically an interior designer! I had a cleric come by to try to kill me, because presumably, he thought my entity was too sexy to live (typical...), but he didn't succeed.

I like to think that instead of dying in my "dungeon", he simply changed his mind and decided that trying to kill me is silly, so instead he went to the ballroom and got a sandwich! Sandwiches are sensible. Violence is not. And then I like to think that he decided my dungeon is so awesome that he didn't wanna go home. Because the outside world is a cold and terrible place devoid of sandwiches!!! Or at least, devoid of sandwiches that are as good as the ones I can make!!! Ahahahaha~!!

The whole game was very silly, but fun. I was super sleepy at the end of it, though, so I sat in a recliner for the rest of the evening. I ended up falling asleep in it, even though I didn't mean to. I'm still pretty groggy, even after a number of hours of being home. Suppose I should at least try to go to bed relatively on time...

...In the spirit of that, I guess I'll end today's letter here.

Hey, Sephiroth? Are you staying safe where you are? If you're not, please try a little harder, okay? I don't want to have to endure your absence. I'm not sure I'd be capable of withstanding such a thing.

I love you. And I'll write again tomorrow.

Your friend, Lumine

[shebeafancyflapjack]

A Slip Through Worlds (Part 9)

Annie tries to help Mary, while Silver plays a dangerous game. Based on @idiotwithanipad 's Gore Au.

-

"No, no, no, nos!"

Annie heard the ruckus coming from the top of the stone tower adjacent to her and Mary's little cottage all the way down and through to the kitchen.

She abandoned the sourdough loaf she was halfway through preparing from hand at the sound of feet stomping and glass smashing. After running her hands under the tap, she opened the wooden door to the spiral stone steps, leading up into the tower.

"Mary? Everything well, love?" She called up.

Stupid question, she knew.

Her wife, as official as could in this world that lacked any overseers of legal matters, hadn't been right for the past few days. Not since their window to the Lands Below had been covered with mist, stopping Annie from looking in on her old friends, and Mary from checking on her daughter. She had been twitchy and nervous, anxiety rising in the other woman like she hadn't seen since they were Livings, but Annie had managed to help calm her, assuring her that they would soon learn the reason. And it wasn't as if any harm could come to those already dead.

Her and her big sodding mouth. No wonder it was what got her killed.

The tower had not been part of Annie's original design when she had built the cottage, initially for her and Mary alone. But when she'd watched the quirky teen come into Mary's existence, and quickly her heart, she'd suspected that the cottage would need an extra room at some point.

It had only been when Mary, finally, arrived that she came up with the idea for a tower, something of the same era as the cottage but different style, giving it a fairytale aesthetic that suited the forests and waterfalls where Annie had first laid the foundations. Her daughter was young but close enough to adulthood that she would want her own space, her own entryway to come and go at will, while also connected to her mother's house.

After several years since Mary had ascended, it was almost complete. Annie climbed the stairs two steps at a time, passing up the first floor that was set up for her witchcraft practices, potion and herb mixing and the like, then the second which held a mini library full of all her favorite fantasy books and many that might appeal to her along with a cosy fireplace for her to read them by, and lastly up to the third floor, Silver's bedroom, which Mary was just adding the final touches to.

Annie poked her head through the ajar oak door, taking a look into the room where, hopefully, Mary's daughter would be happy to stay and rest. Stone walls decorated with hanging arms of ivy surrounded her, plush rugs covering the floor, another fireplace, except this time with a wall mounted television placed above the mouth. It faced a queen sized four poster bed with ebony and violet bedsheets, blankets and pillows, looking comfy enough to make Annie want to dive in on it.

Young Amy had visited recently, at Mary's request, wanting some suggestions on what extra furniture to decorate the room. Thankfully, Silver had recently invited Amy into a memory of her childhood bedroom, so she had plenty of ideas for posters and game consoles and stuffed toys to help make her feel at home once she arrived.

When...

"Oh sod it!"

Smash.

Annie winced as Mary broke one of the single plane archway windows with her own fist, shattering it to tiny pieces amidst the floor.

"What are you doing?!" She rushed to her wife and grabbed her hand, checking it over.

No blood. Not that bleeding was something to worry about here but...they could still feel pain.

Mary exhaled, a vein popping in her forehead.

"I is so stupid! I did finish putting up all these windows and then remembered - Little'en won't wants for windows! She doth love sleeping outdoors!"

She smashed another one, this time with a thrust of her elbow at least. Annie winced at the sharp noise.

"They has to all be open. Wes can put enchantments so the rain and snow never comes in...unless she wants it to, o'course." Mary fretted; "She mights not even want for a roof. She'll want to always be ables to see the moon and stars lookings down on her. Does I takes off the whole thing or just makes her a little skylight? What d'you think?"

"I think, my love," started Annie, gently touching Mary's arms; "That's you should sit down. Take a breather."

The taller woman shook her head, fiddling with the amulet she wore frequently these days around her neck. Two small crystals held together in a silver container; obsidian and spinel.

Her ex husband, John, who lived just a short walk away, happened to be fixated on gems, and when Mary showed him Silver in the waterfall, he'd given her the amulet as a present, having crafted it in his own forge.

"Hopefully will make it feel like your little'en be close to yours heart, Mary, love." The bright eyed peasant had said.

There weren't too many men that Annie was fond of, but Mary's ex was one of the few good'uns in her, albeit short, book.

"I can'ts stops, Annie, I can't." She says, breathless, "Gots all this glass to sweep up now, don't steps near it."

She watched as Mary tried to summon a dust pan and brush. Annie interrupted by grabbing her wrists.

"Mary, forget about the glass and the room for just five minutes, yeah? Even if your girl be sucked off this instance, she wouldn't puff into existence here right away. You has plen'y o' time."

Her wife tugged at the sleeves of the thin jumper she was wearing, neither of them favoring to wear the clothes of their own era. They had donned them recently, in order to appear to young Amy when she first got sucked off, just to help her to know who they were. Mary would sometimes were a clean, bright version of the simple dresses she wore as a girl, but Annie opted for anything post 1920's female fashion, the more vibrant and alternate the better.

"T'is not just in case of that's. I...I has to keep busy, Annie, you knows this."

"Yes, my love, I do." It was why she said nothing when, first thing as soon as they arrived home, Mary headed up to Silver's bedroom. Annie had left her to it and gone to the kitchen.

But then came the crashing and cursing. She could hardly risk leaving her wife to have a full blown meltdown alone.

"You be no help to your babe hurtin' yourself." Annie tried to tell her.

"I be no helps to hers at all! This truly be the best I can do? Preparing for her a room she may not use for centuries!"

"It might not be that long."

Heavens forbid the child be cursed even more so than she already be. If she were trapped in that world as their Rogh seemed to be.

"What if she chooses not to stay here? She may prefer to live with her da." Mary huffed, the two of them having briefly met the dark haired man when he came to peek at the waterfall once; "She was fond of him too."

"Even he admitted you spent more time as her parent than he. You is her mum, Mary, she'll be chuffed to bits to know you made a home ready for her here's with us."

Mary ran her fingers over one of the posters that Amy had brought round and helped set up. Annie had no idea what an Evanescence was, but the blinding white face of the woman seemed to be watching them intently.

Carefully, Annie guided her wife to sit on the edge of the bed that had been neatly made. Amidst the pillows was a cuddly toy shaped like a lion cub that Amy had also brought.

Mary reached to grab it and held it on her lap.

"I needs her here now, Annie. I needs her in my armses." She spoke as she stared at the washed out plastic eyes.

All Annie felt that she could do was rub the other woman's back in that spot where she knew the tension gathered.

"I know, love. She will be. Sooner than yous expect."

Mary sighed; "How foolish could I bes to thinks my apology and blessing to have Alison change her name to mine own be enough to protect her fragile mind. T'is not enough. She needs her mum there. Not some piece of papers."

"She has our Robin." Annie reminded; "Amy did say he was taking care of her. I know he'd been a bit of a plonker of late, but he'll be good with her now. Remember how well he looked after little Kitty when she first joined us? And sweet Jemima?"

Her wife nodded, sniffling; "And mes. He was kindly with me, though I barely spoke a word till you cames 'long."

"Exactly. I know she ain't my daughter, but if she were there be no other man I trust to keep her safe than that sweet savage."

Annie could feel Mary's muscles start to relax, though tears still leaked down her face.

"I's just needs that water to work again. If I can only see her, I then know she be okay. But nows..." She gritted her teeth.

A burning smell tickled Annie's nose. At first she wondered if she'd left some bread in the oven downstairs. And then she looked to see the ivy hanging along the wall start to blackened and shrivel.

Smoke began to waft from the taller woman's hair.

"Mary, what is it?" The same thing had happened before, outdoors, when Amy had explained to them what her da had told her.

"I...I cannots feel her. Even without the mirror, I coulds still feel a part of her. My heart would still ache when she did cry, and feel light and bouncy when she danced with joy." Mary shook her head; "But now...there be nothing. Just a void, like there was when my first child dids not wake in her crib."

Damn. Annie couldn't bare to imagine such a pain.

When Mary had first arrived and searched for the babe she lost all those years ago, she found her fully grown after having been brought up by John alone. She got to know the girl with her face and his laugh, even stayed in contact, but time had already passed. She was no longer Mary's child in truth. A blessing then that she had found another, in kind.

"She not be there, Annie. T'is like...my darling girl no longer exists."

-

Robin finally found her in the entertainment room, what had formerly been the ball room back before the renovations.

A balding man in a blue suit was on the stage, crooning some tune about a woman named Mandy.

There were many Living couples, mostly in their sixties and over, dancing slowly together to the tune. Twirling between all of them was Silver, weaving her way around each of them, waving her arms, like some punk gothic Cupid.

"See? Told you she was fine." Julian said, catching up to him.

"Fine? What if she walk through them?!" He berated.

"She seems to have it under control, mate. It's better than keeping her in that room, don't you think?" Interjected Pat, who was already sat in one of the chairs at the side.

He watched her. The same immovable smile still stretched across her lips, but there was a soft sadness in her eyes. Not as distressed as she had been earlier.

"Music seems to be helping the child, Robin." Said Fanny.

They were all too blasé about it. Which made sense, she wasn't their responsibility.

He walked forward and caught her arm before two old men holding each other close could move through her.

"Moonah Girl." He said, softly.

"Oh! Hehehe. You found me." She giggled, taking his other hand; "D'you wanna dance with me, Robin? I already danced with the poet and the nice Scout man. You should get a dance too!"

This wasn't exactly his style of dancing. Too slow and boring, not enough energy. He smiled a little, letting her sway against him for a moment.

"Moonah Girl, you know what time it is?" He asked, gently.

"Uhhh....Lunchtime? Hehehe."

"No. Gone mid night." Robin informed her.

She gasped; "Oh noes! My glass slippers will disappear, hehehe. No wait, that's the only thing that doesn't happen..."

He shook his head. It was a little bit like she had drunk too much puddle water.

"Nearly time for big sleep. You feel very tired soon, 'member? Should get to bed." He told her, feeling like he was back in one of his tribe's many caves, trying to coax his cubs into their sleep-rolls.

The nineteen year old released a huge sigh.

"But I was in that room for aaaages! Want some fun before I go 'sleep." She threw her arms around his neck; "Just one dance, Mr. Robin, please!"

He threw a look over to Pat and the others watching at the side. See what they did? She was already settled in her room, should have just stayed there.

But he can't not indulge her when she's been through so much.

"One dance. Then sleep. Deal?"

Silver giggled; "Deal. Hello, Kya, I can feel you wriggling away in there. You dancing with your daddy too? Hehehe."

He put his paws around her back and rested his cheek against her hair, moving slowly side to side, copying the boring couples around them. Give him another seven year old's birthday disco any day.

Oh well. At least she wasn't asking for her Mummy at the moment.

"Were you cross that I left the room without telling you, Mr. Robin? You were having such a boring talk with the man with no trousers." She explained.

He shook his head; "No, sorry, my fault. You can go anywhere. Just...would prefer you always have someone with you. It very dangerous for Moonah Girl. Could get lost or hurt."

"I'm not a baby. My echolation isn't as good here but I can see a little bit." She told him.

Guilt stung his chest a little. It wasn't his intention to become some helicopter parent. Substitute parent, he should say.

He stroked her hair; "Just...want Moonah Girl to be safe."

"Hehehe. You sound like Mummy. She worried a lot too. Never liked to let me go play on my own." She said, "Took so long for her to let me go play with Amy. And only because she trusted Mr. Humphrey...eventuality."

Robin frowned. Mary never met Amy. And she never had any problem with Silver making friends. In fact, she encouraged her to do so as much as possible. Sometimes it was as if the "Mummy" that Moonah Girl grieved for was a completely different person to the Mary he knew.

With any luck, a month's long rest would help heal her poor head. Rearrange all those memories of Mary and Amy and put them back in the proper order.

"Sweet Robin?"

"Yes?"

She nuzzled her head beneath his beard; "I promise I won't go back to the wall. I won't risk anything bad happening again. I'll stay close. I'll be a good girl."

More nonsense, for the most part. But he nodded all the same, holding her tight.

"Me think that wise, Moonah Girl."

-

"Come now, sweetheart. Almost time." The maternal voice beckoned.

"Oh, please Mum, just five more minutes!" Silver begged, stroking the giant snout of the scaly beast beside her as she sat on its claw.

The witch clicked her tongue; "Little'en, the dragons will all be here when you wake. And I is sure you will see plenty more in your dreams." She stretched out her hand, "Now c'mon."

The teen groaned and picked herself up as if every bone in her body weighed a ton. Skipping off the dragon's claw, she smoothed down the skirts of her dress before turning to run her hand along its muzzle.

"Thanks for the ride, gorgeous. See you in a month." She giggled as the giant lizard blew a waft of warm air into her face.

She left it with a kiss and then skipped off towards the witch, who was smiling at her, wearing her "unburned" face along with a gown matching Silver's style.

The teen linked their fingers together as they walked across the emerald fields and back towards the enchanted forest.

"I knew them beasts would lift your spirits." She smiled.

"It's impossible to not have fun riding on a dragon! That's the ultimate fantasy dream." She grinned.

"Wait till your sister is here. She'll show you all sorts that she gets up to. Stuff mine own mind could not conjure up."

Silver felt the bounce in her feet begin to grow heavy as the night wore on.

"Are you tired already, my love? Would you like a carry?" The witch offered.

"No, Mum, I'm fine." She said, like any child determined to prove her maturity; "It's not that far." Though she did have to rub at her eyes.

"I has made your bed of blue flowers double, so there be space for both of you girls, once you wake. You don't mind sharing, do you?" Asked Mary.

She shook her head.

"I always wanted a sister. A proper one. The one I had...as a Living....well you know how she was."

"Hmm. Buboes and poxes to that wench." The witch tutted.

"Exactly. I'm so excited to have a sister who will be nice to me. And she's basically my clone so I know what to deal with, hehe." Silver chuckled.

"She be very much like you. But also not. I has seen you each has your own personalities. Both beautiful as the moon, just at different phases." The witch complimented, putting her arm around the girl's shoulders.

Silver leaned into her as they walked, feeling the warmth of the taller woman and trying not to think of the charred husk of the wraith beneath the glamour.

When they reached the spot of her bed, Not Robin was crouched nearby. No doubt ordered to keep a vigil as she slept.

He didn't look at her, keeping that grim frown facing out towards the shadows of the woods.

"Rest down there, sweet girl." Said the witch, and Silver obliged, laying down on the blue petals and resting her head at the softest patch.

Other Mary sat beside her, stroking her hair with those fingers cloaked in velvet smoke.

"It warms my blackened heart to see you settle in so quickly. I knew you woulds come to understand, this be where you belong." The witch said.

Silver hummed in agreement; "Hope Amy can handle two Silvers. I know your 'ally' isn't too excited."

Not Robin merely grunted from his spot.

"Oh, pay him no mind. He be grumpy but soft as a hamster within." The witch smiled, winking over at her friend who just turned away.

Silver let out a yawn, feeling her eyelids start to droop as the moon waned against the rising dawn.

"Mum?"

"Yes, sweet girl?"

"It won't...hurt, will it. When you bring other...My sister here?"

The witch tilted her head; "Hurt how, my love? Hurt thee?"

"Me, you...the universe, both of them..." She bit her lip; "S'just. I was always told not to mess with that sort of stuff when astral projecting. Can go really wrong. I mean, look at what already happened. I just...don't want anything bad to happen to the other Silver. Or you."

The witch's hand stilled on her hair. She tilted Silver's face to turn and look at her.

"You lovely little thing. There's no need to fret. My darling girl did not know what she was doing when she broke through that wall. But I do. I mights need some practice but I will find my way to her."

"Are you...Are you sure I can't help? I want to. Honest." She tried, treading very carefully.

Mary shook her head.

"I wouldn't risk losing both of ye. Mummy has it all in hand. You trust that, don't you?"

She nodded.

"Yes, Mum. I'll....go find some more dragons instead." Silver promised with a smile.

"Good girl." The witch leaned down to kiss her brow. "Sweet dreams now. Mum will take care of everything."

Silver nestled her head down, letting the witch continue to caress and hum her lullabies.

Briefly, she caught a glimpse of Not Robin, staring at her from his spot. His ancient eyes showed a suspicion based on his famous sixth sense. An intuition that showed evidence of that sharp mind beneath the savage.

Silver subtly put her finger to her lips before she closed her eyes.

Don't betray her. Please. Don't give the game away.

She might only have one shot at this.

Tonight, or at least before this fucking month was through, she would find her way back home.

[saintmeghanmarkle]

How's the "joyful chapter" going or is TOW sulking in bed with red wine and a loaf of bread ignoring the internet. Thank you Beckham/Emmy Sarah Burton/Givenchy Catherine/Family Video for a JOYFUL 24 hours of news. by u/Which-Homework2453

How's the "joyful chapter" going or is TOW sulking in bed with red wine and a loaf of bread ignoring the internet. Thank you Beckham/Emmy, Sarah Burton/Givenchy, Catherine/Family Video for a JOYFUL 24 hours of news. In case you missed Beckhams received an Emmy for their documentary. Sarah Burton (designer of Catherines Wedding Dress) appointed creative director at Givenchy. Back in 2018 Givenchy designed TOW's dress and the designer at the time Claire Waight Keller has since left. Went on to do a uniqlo collab, of which you could probably say she was markled after working for Gucci, with Tom Ford, Chloe as well as Givenchy.Catherine, well we all know this one. post link: https://ift.tt/GV7zta0 author: Which-Homework2453 submitted: September 10, 2024 at 08:37AM via SaintMeghanMarkle on Reddit disclaimer: all views + opinions expressed by the author of this post, as well as any comments and reblogs, are solely the author's own; they do not necessarily reflect the views of the administrator of this Tumblr blog. For entertainment only.

[andromeda4004]

Tag game to know me better!

I've been tagged by @afrenchwriter and @aracloptia, so it really is time to join in! Thank you both for tagging me ❤

Last song: Some Vivaldi, the Four Seasons – it’s not my usual thing, but I’ve been enjoying some classical music as background while writing and I got into a classical Halloween themed playlist that’s been fun.  The last thing I listened to with lyrics was “Hallowed be thy Name” by Iron Maiden (I’m eclectic).

Last movie: Sing, because I have a five-year-old who has control of the TV more than I’d like.

Currently watching: Because of the aforementioned five-year-old, I don’t get much time to watch television that I picked myself, but last week I wasn’t well and needed something to watch that wouldn’t require concentration, and I watched Fry and Laurie’s Jeeves and Wooster from the 90s, which was as utterly charming as I remembered.

Currently reading: Dracula Daily, like half of Tumblr, and a fantastic resource book, The Anatomy of Genres by John Truby, which is really worth reading.  On AO3, the latest longer fic I’ve finished has been @ponyregrets 's a loaf of bread, a jug of wine and thou, in which our favourite angel and demon are bafflingly competing on Bake Off, and I really enjoyed it.

Currently working on: Next week’s chapter of Antoinette, my 1920s Ineffable Wives fic inspired by du Maurier’s Rebecca.  I ought to be writing that now, actually; next week it’s the Halloween Costume Ball!

Currently craving: Bed?  Yeah, that’s about right.  I have spent the whole day craving a coconut and mango ice-cream, which I knew was in the freezer and I ate as soon as I got home, so at least I’m not craving that any more.

Last thing I searched for writing purposes: detailed map of Central London in order to answer is Knightsbridge far from the West End?  (Answer – no, not really).  Lots of searches about 1920s fashion and who designed it.  And, for a different WIP entirely that really should be getting more of my time, the Caledonians.

I love getting tagged in stuff but I hate having to tag people, so please consider yourself tagged if you'd like to talk about yourself as a distraction for a few minutes 😎

[rosegoldandsequins]

❛  if you need someone to talk to, i'll listen.  ❜ (any verse!)

from here // @stingslikeabee

Guinevere crept into the kitchen, lifting her dress as she stepped over the threshold. She had donned something simple by design, though its totally white color made the outfit nonetheless stand out. The prostitute glanced around the space quickly. It was just early enough in the morning that no one would be awake to see her. Any of the girls who kept clients last night were still in their beds, drawing out what remained of their customers' funds, and the small staff that the Inn employed were not thinking of food preparation yet.

Eventually, Guinevere found it : a plump loaf of bread. Something simple for the stomach but still filling. The self - proclaimed princess wrapped it in a cloth napkin. Next came a knife, which she folded into the bundle, and a squat jar of marmalade. Guinevere loved citrus, so this was by far her favorite treat. Perhaps it was silly that she wanted to share it with him, but . . .

Any further musing about the mix of crushed oranges and sugar was stopped when Guinevere turned. She jumped back a half - step at the realization that someone was watching her from the door. Frantic fingers clutched the goods she claimed moments before.

Melissa narrowed her eyes. Her good friend had been acting strange these last few days. Guinevere was a famously social creature ( some even said she was too fond of public attention ), yet she suddenly lived like a hermit. The madam of the Inn hadn't worried at first — perhaps Guinevere was feeling unwell or simply needed a break — but then came yesterday. Melissa knew the blonde standing in front of her better than any other. She recognized that Guinevere possessed an affection for the Gulch's banker, a pleasant man named Akiyama ; even when she insisted on playing some kind of game with him, Guinevere never refused him.

That was what made the blonde turning him away the evening prior almost frightful. It was the first time that Guinevere ever told Akiyama not to come up. Melissa smoothed it over personally once word reached her ; she told the banker that Guinevere was quite sick and to call on his beloved princess at the end of the week. A pathetic lie, no matter if it was told masterfully. Akiyama and Melissa both knew something was wrong with Guinevere ; thankfully, Akiyama accepted Melissa's intervention on the matter and left.

"Are you alright, Gwen?" the madam asked, leaning against the doorframe. Her chestnut locks were loose, and there was a dark shawl draped over her arms.

Guinevere opened her mouth, closed it, and looked down at the food in her arms. She seemed to be contemplating what she wanted to say.

"You mentioned your stomach last night," Melissa continued, voice soft. "If you're with child, we can cull it. You're young ; your body will recover. Just like it did last time. If it's a different sickness, I promise I'll have the doc over imm — "

"No," Guinevere interrupted. Her emerald stare flicked up to meet Melissa's beautiful amber gaze. "It isn't physical."

The madam pushed away from the door and approached her friend. She moved slowly, as if she was nearing a scared housecat. Guinevere watched her closely. Melissa stopped in front of her and extended her hands. They landed on Guinevere's folded limbs in an effort to offer the blonde a measure of gentle reassurance.

"If you need someone to talk to," the madam murmured, squeezing Guinevere's forearm, "I'll listen."

For one minute, Melissa thought that the blonde may turn her away. However, Guinevere nodded. She shifted her arms in order to grab Melissa's fingers. Notably, she didn't release the food that she held. Another fretful few seconds passed. Finally, Guinevere swallowed, inhaled deeply, and pulled the madam out of the kitchen area.

Melissa didn't fight as they ascended the stairs. Guinevere's trust was not something easily won, and she knew that better than anyone. The madam would hate to betray the blonde's confidence in her, especially when it seemed like the Inn's princess was ready to let her in.

Guinevere stopped outside of her room. She dropped Melissa's hand and fished out the slender key that she kept around her neck. They entered with the prostitute in the lead.

The blonde stopped to set down her items just inside the entryway. After, she smoothed the front of her skirt and stepped toward her bed. Within its spacious expanse rested a little boy. His dark hair was freshly combed and long. What bit of clothing ( loose trousers, by the look of it ) he wore appeared new. There was a tight wrap made of bandages around his chest. As Guinevere neared the furniture, he opened his eyes.

Any question that Melissa may have had about whether or not Guinevere knew this youth was wiped away by the instant smile he gave the prostitute. The boy shot up, out of the blankets, and scrambled to meet her. He almost fell onto the floor in his eagerness to greet Guinevere. A bit of babble, mixed words between two languages, left his mouth as he buried himself in her dress. Guinevere's expression softened considerably. She immediately held him, fingers combing through his thin locks.

Melissa was too stunned to speak at first, but that gave her time to observe. The twig - like thing that was being practically engulfed by the prostitute's clothing was frightfully thin — he was all bones and skin. Mottled, purple bruising snuck out from beneath the bandages and hinted that his injury was not light. Melissa also took note of the way his small hands clutched at the prostitute. He was afraid to let her go, by the look of it ; given the depth of feeling on Guinevere's face, it seemed his sentiment was returned.

"Does he have a name?" Melissa asked quietly.

The boy in questioned issued a muffled note of alarm and pressed deeper into the pink fabric that surrounded him. He glanced up at Guinevere, eyes widened by the sound of someone new.

"This is Niran," the prostitute answered, patting the child affectionately. "He will be five shortly. I . . . " Guinevere looked over at Melissa. "I am claiming him."

The madam frowned thoughtfully, moving to a chair farther away. It was her hope that this would help calm the child down. Surely, that would put Guinevere's mind at ease, as well. "Claiming?" Melissa echoed, hands placed in her lap.

"I'll fix it up somehow, with the right papers, but Niran — " Guinevere's green stare flicked back to the boy. She cupped his cheeks fondly and grinned in an effort to reassure him. The little boy melted into the gesture, shoulders slumped. Once the prostitute released him, he nuzzled back into her dress gratefully. "He's mine, Melissa. I don't know what this is going to take or where we go from here — what I do know is that he stays with me."

Melissa resisted the urge to smile at Guinevere's defiant tone. She clearly thought that the madam's initial reaction would be to tear the boy away from her. Certainly, that made the most sense for the business, but Melissa could already see how badly that would hurt both Guinevere and Niran. The Inn didn't matter nearly as much as her closest companion, who was clutching onto the child nestled against her as if she birthed him herself.

"I'm going to need to hear everything, Gwen," Melissa replied. "Please feed your son before you start, though ; I can see his spine from here."

The relief that flooded Guinevere's beautiful visage was immeasurable. A short sentence in a tongue that Melissa didn't understand coaxed the boy back onto the blankets. He watched the madam intently as Guinevere cut a thick slice of bread, poured clear water from a pitcher into a bowl, and returned to sit beside Niran. She murmured soothingly, encouraging the child not to eat too fast. Shaking, skeletal digits tore off pieces of the bread, dipped them in the liquid held by Guinevere on her thigh, and deposited the much - needed nourishment into the boy's mouth.

"He has never had good food available," Guinevere said. "Big bites or an enormous meal makes him sick. For now, at least. It doesn't help that he was kicked by a horse very recently. Doctor Jacob said his body might be sensitive for a while until he heals and stops with the medicine he has."

Melissa watched Niran closely. "Start from the beginning, Guinevere," she said, settling into her seat. "We'll figure this out together."