Peristalsis - Ii.
peristalsis - ii.
selkie!soap x reader. depression. suicidal ideation. strangers to "lovers." 4.9k. . Running away from life to the Scottish Hebrides, you meet a man who won't leave you alone. . Masterlist. Ao3.
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You sleep long enough that, when you wake up, you have enough energy to cry.
It’s a big one. The kind of cry that threatens to turn your throat out, with how hard you sob. Alone in the cottage, far away from anything resembling civilization, you wail like wounded animal, choking on your own tears and mucus, losing track of your body buried underneath the covers—
But it happens at a remove. You watch yourself implode from someplace deep inside, not entirely sure why it’s happening at all—but long past trying to figure it out.
This is how it’s been for a while. There’s nothing special about it anymore. Nothing urgent. Most of the time, you are a blank space of a person, a vacuum where joy or rage or fear should be, but occasionally some maelstrom or another kicks up to fill it in, and your only course of action is to ride it out until it ends.
You’ve stopped trying to fix it. And you’ve stopped hoping anyone else can, either.
So you cry, until at last, you’re empty again. Or you’re too tired to continue. The difference is negligible, but functionally irrelevant. Once it’s done, you get out of bed.
The pressure in the shower is as weak as Johnny reported, but the water is indeed warm when you turn it on; you stand naked under the flow, arms hanging at your sides.
The day stretches itself out before you with nothing to occupying it, just as you’d planned. Nothing to work towards; no effort to put forward. Nothing, thanks to your choice of locale, to feel guilty about not seeking out.
A day of peace and utter quiet.
Suddenly—violent banging, somewhere in the cottage. It startles you; you jump so sharply at the noise that you smack your wrist on the soap caddy attached to the shower wall. The banging comes again—annoyed, you realize with no little bemusement that someone is at the front door.
You wrap yourself in a towel and hobble out of the bathroom to answer it, a piece of your mind on your tongue, dart-shaped and ready to fly—
Of course it’s Johnny.
Johnny, big and burly in a sweater, kilt, and pelt once again, two paper cups balanced in one large hand and a grocery bag hanging from the other. Whose dark brows shoot up his forehead as his eyes travel with surprise, and blatant appreciation, down the dripping length your body.
“Well, good mornin’, bonnie,” he purrs.
“What,” you grunt. A cold breath of wind chooses that moment to force its way through the door, gasping across the shower water still running in rivulets from your hair to the rolled edge of your towel. Goosebumps erupt from your bare skin in millions of simultaneous pinpricks—you flinch bodily at the chill.
“Ah, hell’s bells, don’t just stand there,” Johnny says, following the wind. “It’s freezin,’ go on, let me get in, hurry.”
You let him step inside, for some reason, and he shuts the door behind him with the heel of his boot. He wastes no time after that, heading to the kitchen to set down his things.
“Brought breakfast!” he says cheerfully. “There’s this bakery on Barra I thought you’d like, fresh doughnuts and coffee. Dunno how you take yours, but there’s sugar in the pantry and cream in the fridge.”
“I don’t want breakfast,” you say.
“What? ‘Course you do. I’m no’ takin’ you seal-watchin’ on an empty stomach.”
He starts unpacking the grocery bag and setting things on the counter while your jaw hangs open. Several things occur to you to say—I never agreed to that and what the hell is wrong with you, for starters—but your stomach growls at him before you can. The aroma of fresh-baked pastry wafts through the kitchen when he opens one box, and he turns to grin at you, cheeks dimpling.
“Do you get dressed, bonnie,” he says. “It’ll still be here when y’get back.”
It is less polite than he perhaps intends it to be, given that his gaze travels appreciatively across your bare shoulders. You cross your arms fruitlessly over your chest and, nothing else for it, retreat to the bedroom, feeling his eyes on you the whole way.
You return to the kitchen after having pulled on wool leggings and the same fleecy sweater from the day before. Johnny, one hip set against the counter, has a cup of steaming coffee in one hand and a half-eaten cruller in the other, crumbs at the corner of his mouth.
“Got anythin’ heavier?” he asks around a chewed-up mouthful. “Gets cold out there.”
You look down at his bare calves, broad and taut and covered in a down of dark hair. “You seem alright.”
“I’m used to it,” he says, shrugging—the muscles flexing under your gaze.
You purse your lips. “I don’t have anything.” You hadn’t intended to leave the cottage overmuch.
You approach the counter. Johnny does not move a centimeter, forcing you to stand close as you pick through the two boxes of doughnuts and feel the body heat radiating off of him, displacing the scent of fried dough with his musk.
“That’s all right,” he says. You’re close enough to hear the way his voice hums deep in his chest. “I can keep you warm.”
You snatch a plain glazed from the box and take two very large steps away from him. The hair on the back of your neck lifts as you press against the sink behind you. If he notices your reaction, it doesn’t seem to bother him in the slightest—he lifts the cup to his lips and drinks, eyes sliding closed with simple, obvious pleasure, dark lashes curling against his cheek.
You take the brief respite from his gaze to stare at him. In the morning light, on a full night of sleep, you can almost believe that whatever you’d seen in him yesterday had been nothing more than a misfire of exhausted synapses. An overlay of a dream; a circadian prompt to rectify nearly seventeen hours of sleeplessness. You’d been cold, and tired, and hungry. That was all.
You bite down on your doughnut, not really tasting it. The nerves along your spine twitch and contract around the memory of his flashing gaze.
His eyes open again, and he smiles at you. “Good?” He flicks a look at the single bite you’ve taken, looks at your mouth, and then waits for your reply.
“It’s fine,” you grumble. Then, “How did you get here? I didn’t hear the truck drive up. Do you live close by?”
“Sometimes,” he says. He looks pleased that you’ve asked, that you’re interested at all, and you immediately regret inquiring. “Live on a boat, me. Moored in the cove right now.”
“A…boat,” you say.
“Aye.” A wisp of dark hair, something he must have missed when he gelled his mohawk this morning, flutters as he nods. “Nice and cozy. Not as grand as all this, mind.” He gestures around with coffee and doughnut at the less than five hundred square feet of the cottage. “But it’s still a sight nicer than some other places I’ve slept.”
He’s likely hinting at his military service. “Okay,” is all you say, unwilling to entertain it.
He smirk—undeterred. “We’ll take her out once you’re ready.”
“I never said I was going.”
Dark brows lift. “Got somethin’ else planned for today?” he asks, incredulous, as if he never imagined you wouldn’t want to hang out with him.
“No, I—”
You wrack your brain. You have no intention of explaining to this complete stranger that the last thing you’d wanted to do, when you booked this trip, was really anything at all—and in fact, you hadn’t even considered that that might be something anyone else would care much about.
Much less proactively address.
“No,” you repeat, sulking.
Johnny considers you, chewing. His eyes do not stray, this time, to places they don’t belong; but there’s an insight to them. A sharp awareness. A perception in his gaze that is just as undressing, as if whatever is going on with you is visible to the naked eye.
“I figure,” he says, slowly, as if to coax, “you put your wee shoes on, an’ I’ll pack this back up, and we take it along.”
“You don’t have to do this,” you grouse. “I don’t need you to, like—be my tour guide.”
“Aye, but that doesnae mean I don’t wanna,” he retorts, smiling.
He shoves the last bite of cruller in his mouth and gazes patiently at you as he works it with his jaw, the muscles flexing along his temples as he chews.
Exhaustion, your constant companion, stares you down alongside him. It would take so much more energy to fight him than to go along with whatever he has planned. Energy you just don’t have anymore. And going along doesn’t mean you have to pretend to enjoy yourself—it’s not like you care enough about Johnny’s self-esteem to conjure up a happy face to show him.
You can go, and be a bitch about it, and once you do maybe he’ll realize you’re not at all worth the effort he’s making, and then finally leave you alone.
“Fine,” you say, which is how you end up on a fishing trawler headed south toward, ostensibly, a colony of breeding seals.
It’s an old vessel—that much is obvious. Its edges and corners are dull with the passage of time and constant maintenance, scuffed by innumerable passes-over with cleaner and cloth. Mildew competes with the aroma of fresh varnish as Johnny leads you onto the bridge, which is mercifully closed in from the ocean wind.
The interior is mostly wood of a warm, orangish variety—you can’t tell if that’s a decision made with aesthetics or function in mind. The space comprises a kitchen, surprisingly well-appointed with a stove, sink, countertop, and fridge, and a small sitting area with both couch and booth seating. Surrounding windows allow in the grey light of the morning.
“Bought it off an old bloke on Lewis,” Johnny says, taking his place at the wheel, which is in a little alcove off the kitchen.
If you’d thought steering a boat would have curtailed his chatting, you’d have been wrong—he seems to have no trouble with that and talking, incessantly, at the same time, as he pulls the vessel away from the cove and into the open water.
“All his family moved to the mainland, he told me, an’ this is after generations fishin’ these islands, even makin’ it through the Clearances! No money in it anymore, he said, not like you could make in some office somewhere countin’ someone else’s money.” He checks something on the dashboard in front of him, but it doesn’t distract him for long. “Held on for a while, but people just kept leavin,’ an’ he was gettin’ too old to go out on his own. Got such a good price on it, I think he was just happy someone else was gonna take up the tradition.”
“Did he sell you the cottage too?” you ask, and then dig your nails into your wrist for encouraging him.
“Yup,” he says. “No one else wanted it, but me? I saw somethin’ special about it.”
He turns to smile at you—no doubt pleased you made the connection. You avert your gaze.
“Imagine someday I’ll have my own family here,” he continues. “Good place for it. Nice and slow, not like city living. Can hear yourself think out here. Perfect place to have a few wee ones.”
“If people stop leaving,” you mutter.
He turns to you again. “I’m no’ worried about that,” he replies. He’s still smiling. “You came here, after all.”
You have nothing to say to that.
The trip is a short one—Johnny brings the trawler alongside an island he informs you is called Mingulay, a square mile smaller than Vatersay’s tiny dot in the North Atlantic. Unlike the latter, he says, this island has not been inhabited since 1912, and has been completely reclaimed by the ocean and its wildlife.
After he drops anchor offshore, Johnny disappears down a steep flight of stairs below deck, which he had not offered a tour of, and emerges a short time later with a large, bulky coat.
“Didn’t I tell you?” he says proudly, holding it out by the shoulders. “Here, turn ‘round.”
You pause in the middle of reaching for it. You don’t know exactly why you comply—it occurs to you that if you grabbed for the jacket, he could simply not let go of it, and you would end up exactly where he wants you anyway. So you lower your arm and, resigned, give him your back.
He steps up behind you. Warmth pours off of him, more than you think any human body should be able to generate.
You hear him inhale, deeply, as he brings the jacket to your back. As you slide your arms into the sleeves, you feel his exhale on the nape of your neck, teasing through individual follicles of hair.
“There w’go,” he murmurs, much closer than you expected.
You can hear the low hum of his voice in his chest; his hands linger on your shoulders far longer than they need to, heavy, big enough that his index fingers brush along your collarbones.
When his hands make to slide down your back you step away from him and fumble to zip the jacket up; he chuckles lightly behind you. When you turn to face him, his lips are curled—smug.
“Alright then,” he says. “Let’s get out there.”
He rows the two of you to shore in a small kayak, two pairs of binoculars in your lap as you huddle away from the wind. You’ll be walking to the haul-out, he says—getting too close to the breeding grounds, which he calls a rookery, would spook them, possibly causing a stampede.
“It’s grey seals we’re gonna see,” he explains as the two of you pick your way across the rocky landscape. “Not the biggest haul-out you could see, some colonies get into the thousands, but we’ll have it all to ourselves.”
He insists on taking your elbow every time the two of you cross particularly uneven terrain, even though you don’t need it. You think he takes your attempts to shake him off as proof of your lack of balance, because he grasps you all the tighter every time.
“I’m not a child, Johnny, I can walk on my own,” you finally snap at him.
“Just bein’ a gentleman, bonnie,” he replies nonchalantly. He does not let you go.
As you get closer, you hear the seals before you see them, and when their voices reach you across the open island, you stop dead.
Groaning, grunting, hissing in a cacophonous chorus. Some part of your hindbrain double-takes, reshuffles itself—some ancestral instinct always on the lookout for predation. If you’d been given a chance to guess what a colony of mating seals might have sounded like, you’re not sure you could have guessed what they sounded like.
Certainly not like what you hear now—
Like people.
Johnny grins at you when he notices. “Aye, it’s a right ruckus, innit?”
He leads you up a small rise, where he has the two of you settle belly-down over the machair to overlook the wedge of rocky coast that the colony has claimed for its own.
And when you finally see it—it’s underwhelming.
Perhaps two hundred long, fat bodies, in varying shades of brown and grey, lay indolently along the rocks, in groups of three or four, some heavily galumphing from one place to another while others roll occasionally from side to side. The shifting winds catch their scent and blow it uncaringly into your face; you nearly gag at the admixture of dead fish and ammonia.
It doesn’t escape you that this is a rare thing to witness; you are not wholly immune to the fact that you are only a hundred meters away from something most people only encounter on a screen. It’s just that without a swell of awed music in the backdrop, or a narrator’s breathless wonder at the miracle of pinniped life, what’s left for you to observe is a population of wet, stinking animals, shitting where they lay, vocalizing without cease while they laze about doing basically nothing.
Johnny does not seem to notice your disillusionment; he hands you one pair of binoculars, and directs your attention to activity along the shoreline. You follow to where he’s pointing; one larger seal is hassling a smaller one, which snarls at the aggressor as it thrashes around with its substantial bulk.
“Little one there—” Johnny says, “that’s a female, probably obvious. Big one knows she’s ready to mate, can smell it on her.”
The female bares her teeth and lunges at the bigger male, which flinches back but holds his ground.
“Doesn’t look like she agrees,” you mutter.
“She’s just givin’ him a hard time. She’s all in heat, see? Just makes her cranky,” Johnny says. You feel his eyes on you, and lower your binoculars to look at him. “She’s got to fuss to feel all in control.”
You flush. “Right.”
“You don’t think so?”
“No,” you say. “He’s—he’s just bothering her.”
He gazes at you for a moment, contemplative. Corners of his mouth quirking upward. He does not reply for a long moment, long enough that you have to avert your gaze from his.
“Nah,” he finally says, and you don’t think you’re imagining the low, sultry note in his voice. “She wants it bad as he does.”
You scowl, uncomfortably perceived, and return your binoculars—the pair is still facing off, gurgling and growling at each other. The female is slim, almost sleek, unlike most of the other seals populating the rookery.
“Is she sick?” you ask.
“Hm? Oh, no, she’s alright. The mums lose a lot of weight when they nurse. Takes three weeks, and they don’t eat in the meantime.”
“Jesus.”
“Be nice if the dads ever brought ‘em a bite, aye?” Johnny agrees. “Deadbeats, the lot of them.”
The two of you survey the colony in silence for a moment. As the morning wears on, the cloud covering thins overhead, allowing cool sunlight to filter through. The temperature doesn’t rise in response; begrudgingly, you tug Johnny’s jacket a little tighter around you.
Then, suddenly, his hand lands on your back, between your shoulder blades.
“Got some pups over there,” he says. “Look, by the kelp.”
You find them; smaller bodies, white dinged with wet sand and dirt, lounge near their mothers or wriggle with aimless difficulty. They’re fluffy and round as plush toys, with shining black eyes and noses, and once Johnny’s pointed them out you can differentiate the higher, sweeter pitch of their cries from the overall cacophony.
“Sometimes,” Johnny murmurs, “search and rescue’ll get called out because someone thought they heard a baby crying. Some kid stranded or lost, right? Turns out to be a baby seal.”
“That’s kind of scary,” you say.
“Aye,” says Johnny. “Always makes me think that’s where the old legends come from, about seal people or mermaids.”
A small ways away, some of the mothers lay with their pups far into the surf, letting the waves break over them. You watch as one mother thunks her large head overtop of her pup’s as the water rushes toward them; the pup wriggles, and then, as the wave engulfs them, it begins to thrash, whipping up a panicked froth.
“Time for swimming lessons already?” Johnny muses. “Seems early.”
You’re horrified. “She’s going to drown it!”
The hand still on your back pats you consolingly. “Just watch,” says Johnny.
The wave reaches as far up the shore as gravity allows, and then begins to recede. The pup’s thrashing calms as the air meets its face once again; the cow allows the pup to lift its head, and after a few sputters, the pup seems no worse for wear.
“They’re hardier than they look, bonnie,” Johnny says.
His hand, heavy and warm even over his borrowed jacket, slides down from your shoulders to your lower back, and then he rubs, slowly, side to side, as if to comfort you—but the knobs of your spine contract at his touch.
“Last of the births this season, looks like,” he says. “Mum’s getting ready to leave—probably not the only one.”
Something hard drops into your stomach.
“They leave their babies?” you ask.
“Aye. Once they’re done nursing, they mate, and then they go.”
You look back at the other cows with their pups. One baby has its muzzle to its mother’s belly, quivering and suckling, while she lays with her head on a patch of grass. She looks uninterested—more, she looks disinterested. As if how voraciously her pup is nursing has nothing much to do with her, and she’s bored of even having to think about it.
Bored—and already looking forward to the next part of her life without a baby in it.
“That’s horrible,” you say.
“They’re solitary animals, bonnie,” Johnny says, not ungently. “The only time they’re really all together is for this.”
A line tightens between your stomach and throat, and you feel it start to build between your ribs. A tremor—foreshocks. The wind picks up, bringing a sharp chill off the ocean and up the rise that cuts into your stinging eyes, abrades the naked skin of your hands and the exposed part of your neck.
When you look through your binoculars again, you wonder how many of the pups you see have already been abandoned.
“Aw, bonnie,” Johnny says. There’s a kind of pity in his voice that has your hackles raising.
“I want to leave,” you say, yanking away from his touch and shuffling down the incline. “Take me back to the cottage.”
“Bonnie, it’s okay!” Johnny protests, rolling to his back to look at you as you stand. “The pups make it, they figure out how to fend for themselves.”
You glare at him, vision blurring. “All of them?”
Some part of you knows you’re being irrational—knows that nature is a cruel home, and that many children face worse fates than the seal pups. Abandoning the young, the needy, is no aberration; it is, in fact, far more the standard than the human practice, which lingers for decades—
Most of the time.
Johnny has no response. He holds your angry gaze, brows drawn low, mouth pressed into a thin line. It’s the first time that cocky aura, which seems to rest in every fine line on his face and every angle at which he holds his body, is completely absent.
He isn’t reflecting your anger back at you, though—he’s internalizing it. Letting it hit him, you think, and trying to use it to figure you out.
You do not want to be figured out.
You scoff again. “Take me back,” you repeat, and then you start walking in the direction you came, without waiting for him to follow.
Johnny drops you off in the cove, and thankfully does not linger this time before he departs—he bids you farewell after rowing you to shore, contemplation on his face, and then leaves you to yourself.
You retreat, seeking the cottage’s empty quiet.
As you perch on the couch you listen to the radiator hum—the wind blow over the reeds in the thatch roof—your own heart beating a drum in the arteries of your neck.
Percussive. Quick and hard. Like heavy knockers on a door. Pounding as if to burst through.
You realize you’re still wearing Johnny’s jacket, and you throw it off, disgusted with yourself. You get up and pace, and try to ignore it lying in a heap on the floor.
You do something you swore you wouldn’t do the moment you set foot on the island—you turn your phone back on.
True to Johnny’s word, there’s no signal. You picked this island, this part of the world, for a reason; for the past several years, a slow exodus from the British isles has vacated the need for dedicated cell towers or satellite or internet access, especially given that the only ones who remain are too old now to want it or need it or know how to use it.
It’s isolated. Cut off. Left behind by anyone with better options, and only clung to by those trying to preserve the only way of life they know.
Some kinder part of you belongs with that demographic; the part that was telling your mother the truth, before getting on the plane.
The rest of you holds your phone up and starts walking around.
In the furthest corner in the bedroom, you find a single bar of signal. A tiny chip of connectivity—a thin, frayed thread. Something you lied to yourself about cutting.
It’s a weak connection. Unstable. It could take a while—you stand there, waiting.
The screen dims. You tap it again.
Blank.
You unlock it, look through your apps. Wonder if maybe your notifications are bugged by your new SIM card.
Nothing—
No one.
You whip around and, with a cry, pitch the thing at the far wall—it hits the stone with a crunch, falling to the floor in pieces.
You’re out of the cottage then in a mad dash, door slamming behind you, driving yourself back into the wind. Far away—you want to be far away, far from everything, so far that nothing could possibly reach you. You trudge down the path toward the beach, banding your arms across your chest, shivering in the cold, and yet you hardly feel it.
Not worth it. No point. Waste of your time. Energy. All of it. Stop trying. Stop wanting. Nothing. Nothing. You want nothing.
You’re halfway down to the shore, not really knowing what you’re going to do when you get there, when you catch sight of a body on the sand.
You gasp, a sharp breath down your larynx, and freeze in a dead halt.
The body is completely still.
A swimmer? A diver? It’s dark, like it just pulled itself out of the ocean—or washed up—
Then, it moves. A twitch, a ripple across its bulk, and your chest rapidly decompresses.
A seal. It’s a large seal, lounging alone on the beach.
You stand motionless. You’re very close—much closer than you and Johnny had been at the rookery. You hadn’t contended with the sheer size of the animals, tucked safely up and away from them, but there is no illusion of distance now.
It’s the biggest one you’ve seen today, you’re sure of it. Bigger, you think, than most adult men. Its pelt is a riot of every shade of grey, splashy, like liquid paint thrown across a canvas. Black speckles scatter overtop of marbled white and cool slate, and down the center of its back is a broad, dark line, soft at the edges, which reaches all the way up to the top of the seal’s head.
The bull—it must be male—turns over. It lifts its head, and opens its eyes—
Fear suddenly zips up your spine as it looks right at you.
You stumble backward and trip on your own feet, landing hard on your ass. Johnny’s care with keeping enough distance from the colony rushes back to you, along with the warring couple’s bared teeth.
They can’t move that fast on land, right? They aren’t interested in people, right?
You scramble backward. It’s so much bigger than you ever would have imagined. If it got to you—threw itself over you—it could crush you with its weight alone—
The bull watches you placidly. Unperturbed.
You pause.
Its small eyes are dark and glossy—watchful and focused. The whiskers on its muzzle twitch a little as it takes you in. It breathes, deeply and evenly, huge body expanding and contracting at a slow, calm tempo. Its—his—nostrils flex, widening and narrowing, as he blinks docilely.
Unafraid.
If anything—curious.
Then he snorts, and wriggles in place. It startles a laugh out of you, more reaction than humor. Still watching you, the bull lowers his head back down, resting it again on the sand.
Your heartbeat abates. He doesn’t move again—nor does his attention leave you. Slowly, you sit up.
Wary. No sudden movements.
He doesn’t react; only continues to watch you.
You draw your knees up. Wrap your arms around your shins, and dust a bit of sand from your leggings. Rest your chin in the crevice between your knees.
There’s an intelligence in the bull’s eyes that is fathoms deep. There is a massive gulf between his experience of the world and yours, millennia of evolution separating your species from his—and yet…as you hold his gaze, you recognize the look in it.
Him, seeing you. And seeing you see him. The pendulum swinging between awareness of each other, and recognition of that shared awareness.
An empty space in the cloud cover passes overhead; sunlight touches the earth, warms it briefly before disappearing again. You wonder a little why this bull isn’t with the other seals.
Johnny would probably know.
“I didn’t come for you, you know,” you grumble at him.
The seal blinks. Awareness notwithstanding, you don’t share any language.
You sigh. “I guess you didn’t come to see me either,” you say.
But you don’t move away.
And you stay like that for a long while, you and he—regarding each other as the wind breathes out across the shore.
next chapter early access
a/n: follow for more seal facts™
Also huge thanks to Lev for trawler listings/info. Didn't explore it much this chapter but Soap's boat will show up more soon :)
More Posts from D-gteeths and Others
So I'm never going to recover.
Salt to the Wound
pairing: simon riley x fem!reader
word count: 8.7k
contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, fem!reader, sex being used as a coping mechanism, heavy angst, no use of y/n, unprotected sex, established relationship, complicated grief, mentions of death, displaced aggression, marital issues, panic attacks, religious speak, mention of calories, unhealthy coping mechanisms, mention of dead relative, simon being pretty aggravating, purposeful omission of tags to avoid spoilers, & did i mention this is all angst?
author’s note: oh my god, this has been such a bitch to complete! i’ve been working on this for months in between my nasty smut fics bc this truthfully made me so sad to write, so i had to take breaks in between. there is only angst; i cannot hold your hand…you must walk alone…i’m sorry. read at your own discretion.
divider by @plum98 & for my taglist click—>here!
Simon can't move on from Johnny's death.
"Johnny's dead."
You remember the line clear as day.
In fact, you remember almost every single detail about that day.
The weather had been docile, a change from the feverish heat the day before.
The air was slightly damp.
The weatherman chimed that a promising stormcloud was brewing in the distance, which could bring a couple of inches of rain, typical of January.
Your neighbor's son came to your front door, meekly asking to retrieve his ball from your backyard.
The postman had hand-delivered your new dress, complimenting the new planters Simon built in the front yard.
Your favorite body wash that smelt of fruit ran out.
You had made pie, apple instead of your usual cherry.
You had accidentally poured too much cinnamon in the apple mixture, shooing Simon away when you finally pulled it out of the oven because it was a "bad pie."
Simon had never heard such ridiculous words.
No pie is a bad pie.
He shoveled a spoonful into his mouth as you went to answer the house phone, quietly laughing as he hissed at the hotness.
Then it happened.
"Johnny's dead," the voice on the other end of the line announced, shattering the tranquility of the moment.
They were the only words that flowed through the phone line.
The very words you had selfishly cursed for the past year.
The words that had single-handedly eroded everything you and Simon had built together.
Because that day, on every level except physical, the Simon you knew had died with Johnny.
His mind merged with the very soil Johnny lay in, leaving his physical body on the surface while his soul wandered beyond your grasp.
So out of touch, so disconnected from reality.
Simon had become a shell of a human.
He wasn't living, merely surviving—going through the motions.
It was devasting to watch the man for whom you gave your heart slowly disengage right before your eyes.
Bit by bit, piece by piece.
Until there was no more man left to see.
Just mere flesh and bones.
It was such unfamiliar territory since Simon relied on you as he relied on oxygen to breathe.
You were his sustenance, his reservoir.
An eternal flame that burned with an unyielding passion.
Now it seems he couldn't get far enough away from you.
However, it wasn't always that way.
The evolution of his disconnect hadn't been linear; it was ever-changing.
Some days, he would act just like your sweet Simon before; other days, you felt like he resented you.
Resented you for what?
You're not entirely sure.
You didn't kill Johnny.
But with how Simon reacted to your mere presence, it felt as though you might as well have.
You can still recall Simon's noticeable change, apart from his defining silence, which occurred exactly two weeks after Johnny's death.
The bitter taste of anise, accompanied by the sharp taste of mint, coated your tongue; experimenting with new cocktail recipes had become something of a hobby for you.
Kept you occupied while Simon worked in his office.
You had insisted he take some time off, some real time off.
Price wouldn't let him return to work, so he supplemented by hiding in his office all day and doing paperwork and other such tasks.
It wasn't entirely what you had in mind, but it was the best he could give you.
He would have gone truly mad without his work to drown out his thoughts.
So, you bit your tongue every morning as he trudged out of the sanctity of the warm bed you shared, leaving you alone in the silence, and headed straight to the room across from yours that had him so consumed.
It was funny, really.
You always thought that perhaps a pretty woman would eventually come around and attempt to steal your Simon from your hands, not a spare room with cream walls.
Digression aside, you selfishly enjoyed the time alone.
Simon would only speak a couple words to you daily, the silence between you growing thicker with each passing day.
You fault him none, though it was exhausting trying to help someone who despises being helped to any degree, even if they so clearly needed it.
That was why you enjoyed the alone time.
Though it could be occasionally dull.
So, finding a hobby to fill your time was not just a choice but a necessity for your sense of fulfillment.
Even if it consisted of the occasion day drinking.
You'll repent later.
Now, you just needed the burning taste of rum down your throat.
Your face sourced at the combination before you scribbled, 'absolute shit,' on a small notebook you kept to keep track of all of your combinations and rated them in excruciating detail.
Hearing his office door creak open, you shoved the notebook into your pocket.
Not because you cared if he saw, but because his office door opening earlier than ten-forty-five startled you, abruptly shifting your emotions.
You heard his heavy boots thunk against the vinyl flooring, inching ever so close to the kitchen where you stood.
Your heart quickened from anticipation, and you tried to steady your breathing, not wanting to give away your guilt.
"You eaten?" His voice is deep and strained as he stands still across the island.
You stay completely still, refusing to budge even a little. Instead, you choose to shake your head from side to side slowly.
"Can pick up pizza?" He suggests.
His presence now stirred a strange mix of emotions within you.
He would never lay a finger on you.
It was the news that had thrown everything off balance, leaving you both in a state of discomfort and awkwardness.
Johnny was dead.
And you could feel his haunt everywhere.
"Pizza's good," you say softly, pretending to adjust a tilted bottle of tequila.
An uneasy silence lingers between you for a moment, and then you finally turn to meet his gaze.
He looks…like shit.
You let out a soft sigh as you take him in fully.
He has dark circles under his eyes, tinged with shades of purple and blue.
His once bright blue eyes have lost their luster, and his lids now hang heavy and fatigued.
His hair is unkempt, and his beard is starting to grow, giving it a scraggly appearance.
"You don't look so good," you find yourself saying without much thought.
"Just tired," he mutters, swiping his car keys off the counter.
You move to stand. "You've been working like crazy," you say, gently pressing your hand into his shoulder.
He tightens at your touch.
Whole body going taut.
You try not to take it personally.
You fail.
"Yeah…I, I'll get the pizza," he murmurs, moving towards the front door.
Then he leaves without a goodbye.
You thought it was just bullshit.
What the articles said about coping with a loss.
Dealing with grief.
They all seemed like distant concepts.
But, he was so evidently disconnecting from you.
You felt your head swarm at the admission.
Simon was isolated, lost in a vast ocean of grief and despair.
And you didn't know if you were enough to reel him back in.
Three weeks later, you're cozied on your sofa, a blanket draped over your legs, the soft cushions embracing you in their cozy warmth.
The clouds, heavy with water, have transformed from soft white to an ominous smoky gray, a stark contrast to your cozy sofa and warm blanket.
You have your favorite tea in your favorite mug, a book wide open though long forgotten on the cushion next to you.
Your eyes are now captivated by a trashy British reality television show, a guilty pleasure that adds to the coziness of your setting.
Usually, Simon and you snuggle up and watch the show.
Always on the edge of your seats, eagerly anticipating the outcome.
Will the man stay on the island, sacrificing his share of the prize fund, to be with the woman he's grown close to?
Or will he choose the money over her?
It's always more enthralling with Simon.
Though, you're not sure where he is.
He didn't say where he was going when he left about half an hour ago.
And you didn't bother asking.
Maybe that makes you a lousy wife.
Or perhaps, you're just exhausted.
It feels like you're tearing your own flesh, trying to get him to answer anything.
You guessed the latter.
The television crackles to life, the sound of synthesizers and strings filling the room, creating a sense of suspense.
"Henry's decision will be…" The host's voice begins.
You find yourself sitting up, the hot cup of tea between your hands, and your eyes glued to the television.
"…revealed right after the break," the host chimes as the camera cuts to a condom commercial.
You sink into the couch with a deep sigh as you hear the front door open.
The thud of heavy boots moves into the kitchen, near earshot.
You turn to see Simon grabbing a glass and slipping it under the tap for some water.
Your teeth dig at the flesh of your cheek, your foot steadily tapping on the vinyl flooring.
He takes a deep sip of the water, sucking it between his teeth and swishing it around his mouth before he spits it back in the sink, running the water to clean out the saliva now lining the metal sink.
You'd rather be shot than deal with the taciturn.
It was egregious.
You felt awkward in your own home.
With your own husband.
"Simon," you say with nerves on your tongue.
He turns towards you, taking a proper sip of the water.
"Sit. Our favorite show is on," you chime, a warm small growing on your lips.
He shakes his head. "Not feelin' it tonight, sweetheart."
"Come on," you urge, pointing towards the television with your pointer finger. "We're about to find out if Henry is staying or leaving."
"I'm—I'm not in the mood," he mutters, only with slight annoyance.
You decide to push your luck. "Come on. Would be nice to see you."
"Stop asking," he cuts sharply, setting the full glass in the sink.
You narrow your eyes slightly. "Why are you being so mean?"
"Christ, I already said I wasn't in the God-damned mood."
Ice and venom coat his words as his hand slams into the countertop.
He didn't yell, but you wish he did.
So, you could get some type of God-damn emotion from him.
Instead, his voice was low, commanding.
A voice a lieutenant would use on his inferiors.
Not on his wife.
His eyes widen as your lips purse.
"Well then," you murmur, eyes still on his. "Guess that settles it."
He releases a shallow breath, opening his mouth before shutting it promptly.
Your eyes squint as you take a deep gulp.
But instead of being a man and apologizing, he leaves for his office like a fucking coward.
You're left there, eyes still on the spot where he stood, cheek now bleeding onto your tongue as the television announces, "...leaving the villa."
And you can't even find it in yourself to care.
It feels awkward when you finally gather enough courage to slither into the bedroom.
You had been paralyzed to the couch even a couple hours after the whole ordeal.
Not a word was breached between either of you.
He had shut himself in his office while you had become one with the couch.
What a match made in fucking heaven.
You slip into some soft pajamas, then into the bed, the heavy comforter offering you comfort.
You rest your weary head on the pillow, eyes already heavy with emotional exhaustion.
Before you fall into sleep, you hear the same thud of his boots streaking along to the bedroom, where you catch a glimpse of him slipping something into his sock drawer.
The warm brown of the book cover in his hand catches your eye.
There was no mistaking what it read on the front: large, gold Cardo font with a cross hovering above the text.
"Holy Bible."
He shoves some loose papers overtop of the Bible and shuts the drawer, moving the flick of the light switch off.
His boots came off in a thud as he slipped off his shirt and jeans, slipping into the bed far from you.
Not a word was shared.
You should sleep, but instead, your mind is tormented by what you saw.
Had Simon prayed?
Prayed to a God he didn't even believe in.
If he hit his knees, splayed open the Holy doctrine, and prayed within the hopes that, by some miracle, he should get to see his brother again.
"Simon," you murmur lightly, regretting breaking the silence as his name leaves your tongue.
"Yeah?" He asks, back to you.
"Were you...praying?" Your question comes out fatigued.
"Ye—Yeah," he mutters skittishly.
You say nothing more.
Your weary eyes drift closed as you pull your blanket taut against your face, peacefully drifting off.
That night, you're plagued by a disturbing dream. Your teeth fall out one by one, leaving only protruding gums. A looming figure stands behind you, tightening your throat with fear.
You spring awake at 3:37 am.
You are drenched in your own perspiration, eyes lingering over to where Simon should be.
He's gone.
You should feel slightly relieved, but you only feel overwhelming dread.
Your skin crawls with a sense of unease, as if something is lurking just out of sight, watching you.
You blink, and it's March.
Two months since Johnny's passing.
You thought the time would pass achingly slow, but time has unfortunately moved forward at an exceptional pace.
It always felt like time should stop.
People should stop.
Because why do they get to carry on and lead an everyday life as if you aren't getting swallowed, eaten alive by the confines of your own home?
It's not fucking fair.
You are not only having to mourn the loss of a good friend but the loss of your own husband, who's still breathing.
It felt like some cruel joke was being played on you that you found no humor in.
But, regardless of the loss, you had to keep moving.
For yourself.
Or you'd probably drive yourself into madness, and nothing good ever came from a mad woman, or so they say anyway.
It was a Friday night, and you had decided to try a new recipe from your grandmother's cookbook.
You couldn't remember the last time you had a homecooked meal that wasn't full of M.S.G and far too many calories.
But tonight, you were about to change that.
With a simple button swipe, your groceries appeared at your front door, and you got straight into it.
The large russet potatoes were peeled and cut into chunks. They were then plopped in heavily salted boiling water and smashed along with many tablespoons of butter and cream.
Chicken thighs were seasoned and marinated for half an hour, not a minute less, before being seared on cast iron.
The asparagus and parsnips were lightly oiled before being pan-seared, and then they were sprinkled with salt, pepper, and parmesan cheese.
And before you knew it, you had transformed a handful of ingredients into a feast that was elegantly presented on some fine china you snagged from the cabinet for you and Simon.
You took a seat, admiring your hard work and savoring the delightful aroma of the chicken as it filled the room.
Hearing the same thud of the boots you had come to ignore coming from down the hall, your head shot up to see Simon with his keys in hand.
"Where are you going?" You ask, curiosity and a bit of disappointment evident in your tone.
"Out," his voice was snipped as he marched towards the front door, not sparing the dinner a glance.
You sit up with a frown. "I made dinner, Simon."
"Not hungry," he says mechanically, like he was planning on shooing away any plans you offered. "Don't wait up for me," he murmurs, shoving on his coat, moving out of the front door, and pulling it closed.
And suddenly, the optimism you had clung to like a lifeline died, wholly and truly, leaving you in a void of despair.
You sit at that comedically large dining table for what feels like ages, pushing your vegetables around with your fork until they're practically mush on your plate.
There's nowhere else to go.
You feel utterly stuck as if the weight of the disappointment has rooted you to the spot.
Your head flings to the front door, as keys get shoved into the keyhole, before the door is pushed open to reveal a flushed Simon.
"Where have you been?" Your voice is warm yet firm.
He doesn't respond, only throwing his keys the bowl and moving to the fridge to grab a cold bottle of water.
"Simon," his name comes off your tongue almost in warning.
"What?" He turns to you, face red from the cold.
"Where the fuck have you been?" You snap, the sound of your chair scraping against the floor as you stand up, adding to the tension in the room.
His eyes widen at your tone.
Your mind was ablaze with conflicting emotions.
Tongue hot with accusations.
"Were you with another woman?" You tack on, crossing your arms over your chest.
"Christ, no," he says immediately with a scoff. "Why would you even ask me that?"
You knew it was ridiculous.
He may be a fool, but he wasn't a cheater.
"I never have a God-damned clue where you go!" You step from around the table, voice rising. "You're my husband!"
"You're my wife!" He tosses the bottle of water into the sink. The plastic crinkles against the metal, as his voice rises with yours.
"Then act like it!" You yell, throwing your hands in the air.
You're both practically heaving with anger.
Seathing with so much untouched and unsaid verbiage.
The silence hangs between your two before you hurdling yourself into his arms, slamming your lips onto his with so much devotion and heat.
His hands grip your cheeks tight as his tongue slides over your teeth and any piece of flesh he can.
You pant into his mouth as his hands move to grip the backs of your thighs, quickly pulling you up to lock your legs around his waist.
He moves to place you on the dinner table, standing between your legs, and you reach out behind you, sweeping your plate full of mushy food and wine glass onto the floor to make space.
The glass shattered, and the china burst into a thousand tiny pieces with a loud crash.
Neither of you cares in the slightest.
His fingers fidget with the hem of your loose top as your lips practically turn blue from losing circulation.
It had been months since you and Simon had been intimate.
Well, since...
You didn't think you needed it during this time in mourning.
Hardly ever thought about it.
Because you two rarely exchanged words, the silence between you became a barrier.
How could you be expected to share such an intimate moment when your words seemed to fail you?
Somehow, you found yourself yearning for it, a deep-seated longing that you couldn't explain or ignore.
It felt like an insatiable desire you couldn't shake.
And when his teeth sunk into your lips, you felt the soft, erotic sting of your skin break; all bets were off.
"Simon," you mewl into his mouth. "Please."
He doesn't answer in words.
Just moves to remove his belt, tossing it to the side where the leather slaps over the broken china and mushed vegetables.
Strips himself of his jeans, boxers following suit.
His fingers move back to grip the hem of your shirt, pulling it over your head, throwing it on the table, lips moving to skim between the dip of your breast as he moves to grip on the fat of your waist.
Your hands move to thread through the back of his air, earning a deep groan from him that rumbles against your skin.
"Shouldn't be touchin' you like this," he mutters into your skin, rough hand skimming down your stomach to slide under your pajama shorts.
"Why?" Your breathing is labored as his fingers push down into your cunt, underwear sticking to the skin due to your dripping arousal.
His finger presses into you further making you release a shallow moan.
He opens his mouth to speak before promptly shutting it, hesitating for a moment before finally speaking.
"Just fuckin' yelled at ya, bug," he grits out the first part, like he's angry at himself for ever raising his voice, no matter if you did the same thing, then says your nickname warmly.
"I yelled first," your voice is sweet like honeydew as your hand moves under his chin, gently forcing his chin up so he can look you in the eyes, and he wants to kill himself even more.
You're an angel.
A fucking divine entity, a wellspring of goodwill.
He doesn't deserve you now.
He's not sure he ever has.
"Needed to hear it," he mumbles, slipping your shorts and panties off in one pull, eyes taking in your arousal-soaked cunt. "Don't deserve ya," he murmurs, with a hint of despair.
"You do," you assure, sitting up more to kiss the corners of his mouth.
He turns his head to the side, almost in guilt; you don't have time to question why before he's lining himself up with your entrance, hand coming to rest on the back of your neck for support as he slips inside you gently.
There's no rush, no urgency to get off.
His movements are slow, unrushed.
This wasn't just a quick fuck.
It felt like he was trying to get a tangible connection to you.
Just bodies melting into each other with ease and familiarity.
Your moans echo off the walls.
Fingernails digging into Simon's back through his shirt.
The barrier does nothing to meddle with your touch.
Nothing could ever diminish your touch.
He lets out a curse, baring his teeth as his fingers dig into the tender flesh on your hips.
His name comes off your sweet tongue in a plea.
You're about to fucking erupt.
Stomach on fire, skin slick.
He shoves his finger in your mouth, collecting some saliva before using that as a lubricant to stimulate your clit.
You let out a string of incoherent words as the stimulation hits you everywhere, all at once.
His head dips back as he comes inside you, eyes shutting closed.
Your breathing is ragged as you both come down from your highs.
However, when you breathe, you feel tightness in your chest.
A squeezing pain that only elongates.
"You okay?" Simon presses his hand into your shoulder.
You nod weakly. "Must have overexerted myself," you jest.
You suck in a deep breath, desperate for more air or something to suppress the pressure you feel.
Simon quips a brow, opting to move away from you to grab you some cool water. "Drink," he commands, nudging the glass to you.
The water feels like a relief flowing down your throat and is so refreshing you can feel it move through every vein in your body.
"Better?" He asks warmly.
"Better," you agree, nodding as water drips down your lip and onto your chin.
But you can't shake the feeling something is off.
It almost feels like an impending doom looming over you.
"Feel like a shower?" He taps your thigh in question.
You nod with a smile, forgetting what you were even concerned with.
You shake off the feeling of doom as you wander behind Simon to the shower.
But doom is inevitable, a fate that cannot be escaped.
The following month, April, brought fickle weather with chilly rain and bright blue skies.
Along with the fruition of tulips and daffodils came your plan.
To finally speak to Simon about Johnny.
Even just thinking his name made you feel like you were indulging in some dark code.
It felt wrong.
Even though it was far from.
You had planned to talk to him a week ago, but you chickened out at the last minute, your fear of confrontation winning over your resolve, instead opting for an awkward conversation about cats.
Safe to say he had no idea you had other objectives at play.
Just thought you were a little kooky.
He had been more receptive to conversations since your sex-capade.
Felt connected to you again.
What a perfect time to ruin it all.
He's sitting at the dining table eating a sandwich.
With no pickles because he despises them.
You smile softly.
You know him so well.
Approaching him slowly, you pull out a chair adjacent to his.
"Nice weather," he says, looking out the window at the blue skies.
"It is," you hum in agreement, shifting in your seat.
"Might go for a run later." He takes a bite of a sandwich, and you chew on your cheek. "You want to come?"
"We should talk," you blurt, deciding you need to cut the cord as soon as possible before you chicken out again.
He quips a brow, sets down the sandwich, and wipes the crumbs off a rag. "About?"
You chew on your lip nervously. "Johnny."
His eyes lock to yours in an instant, and his chewing halts.
And you can feel anxiety claw up your clothes.
"You just—you seem," you try, stumbling over your words.
You knew you should have practiced more.
"We aren't having this conversation." His tone is low and carries a finality.
"It might help if you talked to me." There's desperation in your words.
"Stop," he holds up his hand like he's giving you a fucking command.
"I'm not a fucking dog," you grit. "You can't just give me a command to shut up."
"I know you're not a damn dog," he mutters, his voice a strained whisper.
"Good. Glad you could clear that up," you sit back in your chair, crossing your arms over your chest. "Since you can't clear up anything else."
You knew you shouldn't have said that the second it slipped off your tongue.
It's defensive.
You were supposed to sympathize, not defend.
He stands up abruptly. "Not taking this shit."
"What shit, Simon?" You throw your hands up in a shrug. "Your wife asking you to speak to her?" You let out a dry laugh. "That shit?"
He moves around to swipe his keys from the bowl, not uttering a word.
"Where the hell are you going?" You stand, moving over to him.
His eyes bore into your jaw clenched. "Anywhere but here."
And he was gone again.
Just leaves when times get too trying, apparently.
You stand there, your eyes brimming with tears.
What was to become of you two?
You let out an anguished yell before going to your room, hands planted firmly into the soft mattress, before letting your emotions overcome you.
You sink onto the floor, head in your hands, as you prop yourself on your elbows.
Knees becoming bare from the shitty carpet while your shirt moistens from your tears.
This—this can't be it.
What was life to be without your husband?
You'd be subject to destitution.
A life of isolation, a terrifying prospect, filled with unbearable loneliness.
Bile crawls up your throat, threatening to escape as the thoughts flood your mind.
Your heart pounded violently, threatening to crack your ribs.
You can't breathe.
Throat too tight to get any air through.
A stabbing pain erupted in your chest like it had before, but this was worse.
You clench your chest, tears spilling faster due to the physical pain.
You don't even process Simon hovering over you, hand clenching your shoulder.
Your head turns, and you see his mouth moving, eyes wide in concern, but you can't process what he's saying.
You can only focus on the crushing sensation in your chest.
His eyes are scrambling, watching you push your mouth into the mattress to release a deep, tormented groan.
You were in unbearable pain.
He wastes no time grabbing and holding you in his arms, bridal style.
You don't have it in you to scream at him.
You just sob into his chest.
This was surely going to kill you.
He grabs a stray blanket and tosses it on you quickly before swiping his keys off the counter. He then moves outside and places you in the car.
He drives in a rush, reckless.
His eyes darting over to you, curled up in a ball in the passenger seat, sobbing, hand resting over your chest.
He doesn't know what to do.
He can't crawl in your body and demand your body to be kind to you.
So, instead he brushes his hand over your wrist, attmepting to give you some comfort and he pushes the pedal further to get you to the hospital.
Desperate to heal you.
He pulls into the ER parking lot, not bothering to straighten his wheels, sprints around to your side and gently places you in his arms, all but sprinting to the ER door.
The receptionist greets you before she hears your cries and pleas.
"She, she needs help," Simon frantically says. "Please."
Nurses flood out from the large door that seperates you and Simon from the rooms.
"Sir, you'll need to wait out here," one of them says, helping you into a wheelchair and wheeling you back through the door.
"She's my fucking wife!" He shouts, though to no avail.
The door shuts in his face, shoulders dropping in defeat.
He doesn't sit, he can't.
The thought of him being comfortable while you're in agony disturbs him.
He instead stalks around the room, hands wiping across his face.
Surely, this wasn't...
Could it have worked so soon?
He grabs a trashcan, promptly puking in it at the thought.
It, it has to be a grim coincidence.
Yeah, yeah.
Has to be.
He waits in the waiting room for what feels like ages before a doctor comes in asking for a Simon Riley.
"Is she okay?" Simon searches the doctor's face.
"She's stable," the doctor says, his voice steady and reassuring. "For now."
"For now?" Simon echos the question.
"We ran some blood tests and did an ECG on her heart," the doctor reads over his papers.
"And?" Simon says impatiently.
"Does she have any familial history of heart disease in her family?" the doctor asks, scribbling on the paper.
"No, no," Simon stutters. "Why?"
"The ECG results showed that your wife has coronary heart disease," the doctor says.
Simon's eyes widen, his fear palpable. "Heart disease? What—what does this mean?"
"The arteries in her heart have become too narrow, which reduces blood flow to the heart. There are treatments available to manage the condition and improve her quality of life," the doctor reassures Simon as he sees him start to get frantic.
"Are you talking about fucking surgery?" Simon's hands move through his hair anxiously, his body tense with worry.
"Not necessarily. We can start with medication," the doctor says confidently. "A standard dose of Atorvastatin daily can help manage her cholesterol and fat levels." The doctor messily scribbles the prescription on a paper and tears it off.
"Along with some lifestyle changes to help manage her condition. If needed, we can discuss other options, like angioplasty or surgery. But first, let's see how she does with the medication." He hands over the prescription to Simon.
Simon grabs the paper, nodding his head. "Alright. Can I, can I see her?" His voice is desperate.
"Of course," the doctor nods his head reassuringly. "Follow me."
The doctor leads Simon through the hallway until he reaches your room, carefully opening the door to let Simon step through.
His stomach drops, a wave of concern washing over him, when he sees you.
Eyes swollen and red from your cries.
They hang low from your apparent exhaustion.
"Simon," you greet him with a weak smile, the familiarity in your voice comforting him.
Your voice is weak and raspy.
You look sick.
And he can't handle it.
"Hey, I'm okay," you assure, as you see him examine you, worry written on his face.
"I know you are, bug," tears brimming his eyes; he moves over to you, gripping your hand tightly. "I know you are."
To you, it felt like a source of comfort amidst the chaos.
And that's why Simon said it.
But deep down, he knew.
Nothing could undo what he had done.
No amount of praying, begging, or bargaining could change that.
He had selfishly sealed your fate.
And now, all he could do was wait.
It had been two months since your diagnosis, July.
Things had been decent in that regard.
No better, no worse.
The medication proved helpful.
It reduced the pain you get in your chest, so that was nice.
Over the two months, you persistently urged Simon to join you in counseling.
For your sake.
For the sake of your marriage.
At the beginning of July, he finally agreed, a hopeful sign after a turbulent period that had you ready to leave him.
"What are you doing?" Simon roughly asks as he follows you to your bedroom, hands anxiously running through his graying hair.
"I'm fucking leaving, Simon," your voice quakes, tears spilling down your face as you struggle to pack a duffle bag.
"Don't, don't do that," he stumbled over his words, moving over to you. "Just, just calm down," he placed his hand on your shoulder in comfort.
You shook his hand off before eyeing him. "Calm down?" You repeat his words. "You want me to calm down?"
"Yes. Please," he pleads, hand hovering on the drawer handle.
"You want me to calm down?" You repeat again, your voice dripping with anger. "Fuck you."
His eyes widen; clearly, he's taken aback.
You finish packing, wiping your tears with the back of your hand as you lean against the nightstand. "Simon, you need help," you say, grabbing your wallet. "You need to see someone. Anyone."
He exhales a sharp breath. "Fine."
Your head shoots up, eyes narrowing in disbelief. "What?"
He wipes his face with his hand frantically. "If that's what it takes," he shrugs, nodding. "I'll get the help. Just, just don't leave me, bug."
"Nice to see you again." You snap out of your daze as the therapist greets you.
"Likewise," you murmur, glancing over at Simon sitting beside you.
His leg is tapping a mile a minute.
He's nervous.
You're surprised he actually managed to get in the car and come here.
"Hello, Simon," she sticks her hand out for Simon to take. "I'm Doctor Shaw," she greets with a warm and inviting smile.
Simon takes her hand, giving her a firm shake, and nods in acknowledgment.
"Please," Dr. Shaw brings her hands up. "Follow me."
You and Simon both stand, a sense of anticipation in the air, as you follow Dr. Shaw to her office.
The office looks the same as it has since the last two times you came by yourself.
Warm and inviting.
Only some outside light spilled into the room, opting instead for a warm orange hue from a small lamp illuminating the space.
It exudes a sense of calm, wrapping you in its soothing embrace.
"Please," Dr. Shaw gestured to the couch as she sat in her chair. "Sit."
You and Simon both take a seat and you grab a pillow to hold. Simon leans timidly, his shoulders hunched and his hands fidgeting.
"So," Dr. Shaw begins, eyes moving to Simon. "Simon." His eyes flick to hers. "Talk to me about some of your hobbies."
Simon sits back on the couch, shifting uncomfortably. "Like to run, I guess," he mutters.
She nods with a smile. "Good, good. Exercise is good. It can help clear the mind," she scribbles some notes on a notepad. "Now, I would like to know more about you two and your marriage," she hums.
Simon takes a deep gulp, and now you're shifting into the cushions.
"How are we doing in that regard?" Doctor Shaw purses her lips as she fixes her pen to start taking notes.
You shift in your seat, glancing at Simon next to you. "It's been...hard," you breathe out nervously.
"Interesting," she scribbles in her notebook. "Can you tell me when you think it became difficult?"
You gulp. "Um...a couple, a couple months ago."
"Can you think of any factors that may have caused difficulties?" She tips her head back, offering you a comforting smile.
You tap your foot against the soft blue carpet, finger tapping anxiously against your thigh.
"Simon's friend, um, passed away in January." You choke on your words halfway through before completely finishing the sentence.
Her eyes flick to Simon. "I'm so sorry. That must have been very difficult for you, Simon."
Her voice grinds Simon's gears.
Simon is pessimistic, a cynic.
Has an excruciating time finding sincerity in anything anyone says.
This is no exception.
"Simon," she begins. "If you're willing, I would like to know more about your friend."
"Thought we were here to talk about my wife and I?" Simon's tone is dry without hesitation.
She nods lightly. "We are. It could be helpful for your wife to hear you talk about some of your feelings," she sits up in her chair.
"Did my wife tell you that?" He sits back in the chair, shoulders taut.
She quips a brow. "Tell me what, Simon?"
"That I don't share? Is that why I'm here?" He glances at you, already sinking further into the cushioning of the couch.
You don't say anything, opting to stay silent.
This was a setup.
A ploy to psychoanalyze Simon's psyche.
"You brought me so she could pick my brain," he voices plainly, pointing his finger lazily towards Dr. Shaw.
"No. I wanted you to come so we could fix our marriage," your voice is full of irritation.
"Because it's all my fault it's bad. Right?" His voice raises louder than he intended.
His eyes soften as you widen in surprise, your waterline brimming with tears.
"Shit," he exhales. "I'm, I'm sorry," he says to you with care, closing his eyes slightly as he wipes his face.
"I understand this is difficult for you," Dr. Shaw begins, voice solace. "And I want to acknowledge your discomfort. It takes courage to confront painful emotions," she shifts in her chair, leaning forward.
Simon's eyes narrow. "Spare me the shrink bullshit, doc," his voice is critical.
"It's important to express your feelings, Simon," The doctor urges, to Simon's dismay.
"Why?" He retorts coldly. "Because you won't get paid if I don't?"
Dr. Shaw sits up straighter as Simon lets out an irritated sigh.
"Look," he turns to you. "I know you think this is helpful, but it's not," he says with as much delicacy as he can muster.
"You aren't even trying," you murmur.
"Sweetheart, this is just...not for me. Never has been," he holds your hand softly. "If this helps you, keep coming. I'll pay whatever she charges, okay?" He moves to stand, pressing a soft kiss on the top of your head. "I just...I can't."
Your head flicks up to meet his as his voice cracks slightly, eyes glossed over, revealing his vulnerability.
"See you at home," he bid you goodbye, not sparing the doctor another look before stepping out of the room.
"There is no right way to grieve, and I can understand your frustration," Dr. Shaw says to you, offering a small smile. "Just be there for him when he needs you. He'll come back around," she affirms, turning to grab your receipt for the session.
"Thanks," you say meekly, hand reaching for the receipt.
"This isn't your fault," she confidently says before you step out the door.
You give only a small smile in response.
It was strange.
You and Simon had fiery love.
Two timid souls burning with such passion, desire.
A flame to a flame.
It was a love that felt like sparks igniting each other, creating a blistering and rapid heat that was impossible to ignore.
But in the end, the flames of love can burn each other out, consuming everything in their path, including the ones who ignited them.
Despite your prayers, you couldn't shake the feeling that this was your inevitable reality.
The rest of the summer and the beginning of fall blur through to September.
You were seething with anger.
The kind of anger that has you near in tears.
Simon had missed your sister's funeral, the one event that you had hoped would bring you both closer in your shared grief.
You had told him multiple times throughout the last week where and when to meet you.
He assured you he would be there for you.
He was a fucking liar.
You practically spring out of your car, parked next to his idle truck, taking heavy steps up to the house door.
The door pulls open, slamming against the house's side, making Simon awake on the couch.
The sight makes your eye twitch.
He lay dormant, several beer bottles strung across the coffee table.
And to think things were going pretty well between you two, but this was beyond belief, unforgivable.
While you were crying over your sister's casket, he was here.
Sleeping his drunkenness away.
"Don't tell me you're drunk," you ballistically say, tossing your purse onto the kitchen table with force.
"I'm not tellin' you a thing," he monotonously says like this is some joke.
"I needed you, and you were proper drunk?" Your voice rises. "I—I needed you, Simon," your voice shakes. "You gave up on me."
He says nothing, just lies there.
Your jaw ticks.
You rush over to him, forcing him to stand. "It's been—get up! It's been months, Simon!" You shout out, your voice filled with desperation. "Johnny is dead—gone," you snap out, eyes locking onto his. "He's been gone, and so have you. Except Johnny has an excuse. You don't," your chest is heaving.
Simon's eyes widen, noticeably aggravated. "I—"
"People die every day—and don't get me wrong, I am so fucking sorry, so fucking sorry, that it was Johnny—" You begin, sincerity in your voice as tears prickle down your cheeks.
"Don't—" He starts in a warning tone.
"Truly, I am. And I get it; you didn't need things from each other. But I need you. And I need to know you won't just abandon me when times get tough for you," your hands move through your hair, attempting to soothe yourself before more words flow out. "You need to grow the fuck up and talk to me like a grown-ass man and not a fucking pubescent boy!"
"Fuck, fine! Simon snaps. "It fuckin' killed me when Johnny died. I—he was my best friend, my brother. My only family. Gone." Tears spill down his cheeks as his arms flail around.
You stand silently before your tongue comes out, wiping away the salty tears coating your lips.
"Simon, I know you don't believe this, but we are family—me and you," you breathe out, trying to control your breathing.
"It broke me," he whispers solemnly. "Split me in half."
"I get that," you begin nodding your head, emotion clogging your throat. "But I need you to be whole."
"I, I can't," he stares at the floor, his hand closing into a tight fist.
"Simon. You, you can't let it fester. It's consuming your life. Our marriage." Your desperate eyes drift to him, filled with fear. "Let me help you," you beg. "I can help put you back together again."
"No. You don't understand," he lifts his head back to look at you, his eyes pleading for comprehension. "I think I'm broken beyond repair."
That was before.
It was December now.
You find yourself in the chilling hospital room, tears streaming down your face as you ponder the disintegration of your marriage with Simon.
You suffered a massive heart attack some days ago.
A complication from the heart disease.
It had weakened your heart muscle and lead to some brain damage.
The doctor said treatment options were no longer available.
So, instead of that, he switched his focus to comfort care.
Essentially, he's making it easier for you to die.
It's strange.
You know you're dying.
And you thought that death brings people together.
But you and Simon might as well be light-years apart.
You glance at Simon sitting in the chair across from you, anxiously tapping his foot.
He's nervous.
But not about you dying.
About something else entirely.
You can tell.
You can always tell.
Your eyes flick to the hospital room door, opening wide before your doctor beckons Simon to come outside with him.
Their conversation is muffled, but you catch the tail-end of it.
"It would be best to take her home. Keep her comfortable."
Now you have the confirmation.
You're going to die.
Just not sure when it will come.
You just have to sit and wait while slowly withering into oblivion.
"Hospice care can be provided to support and comfort her during this time," the doctor adds, his voice a distant echo.
A hot tear slips down your cheek, pooling onto your hospital gown.
You see Simon nodding his head along, finger resting on his chin in thought.
You want to scream.
And cry.
And punch someone.
And pray.
And move back home.
But you can't.
You feel utterly and hopelessly helpless in your own body.
Life works in a mysterious, fucked up kind of way.
It's not fair.
It's not linear.
And it's certainly not always kind.
All that's left to do is do what Simon did when Johnny died, go through the motions, the daily routine that feels like a never-ending cycle, and eventually, your physical body will leave you.
Your mind will wander far beyond anyone's grasp, yearning for a connection bond that cannot be.
MONTH ONE: January
You took up journaling.
Your hospice nurse suggested you take up the hobby.
So you did.
It wasn't as therapeutic as you thought.
It was just recounting what you ate that morning and what you planned to do the next day, the mundane details of life that seemed to stretch endlessly.
Boring, menial thoughts.
You didn't have much to say.
The only thing you thought of these days was what would happen in death.
Simon was kinder now.
Said he wanted to leave with you.
You feel guilty for having to leave him alone.
Even though you have no choice in the matter.
You hope you don't see him in the afterlife.
His life belongs here.
On the surface.
You've had some trouble walking.
Even fell in the hallway while trying to reach for a side rail Simon had installed.
You cried and pleaded for him not to help you up.
He managed to gather your heaving body in his arms and held you tight as you sobbed into his shirt about how you didn't want to die.
He didn't sleep that night.
Mind was too riddled with guilt; instead, he prayed.
With a cross to his heart, he hit his knees and closed his eyes, murmuring into the darkness to any entity who would listen.
You thought it was nice when you turned to your side to hear his hushed whispers.
He was praying for you to get better, you thought.
You didn't even realize he was praying for forgiveness for his own sins.
MONTH TWO: February
Your journal hobby has quickly dissipated as quickly as it began.
It's become harder to move.
You have to rely on Simon to do measly tasks.
It's humiliating, to say the least.
"You okay, bug?" Simon asks as the warm, sudsy sponge moves across your back, shining you clean.
"Yeah," your voice is hushed as your lips flatline. "I can do it," you assure, reaching for the sponge.
"You sure?" His eyebrow lifts. "I'm happy to—"
"Just give me the fucking sponge," you grit, ripping the sponge away from him to scrub your arm.
You find you're weaker than you thought.
You can barely hold up the light sponge to clean yourself.
Your hand sinks down into the warm bath water before you attempt to pull it up higher, over and over, until you toss the sponge over the lip of the tub.
It hits the tile, releasing water and bubbles on the floor.
Your head drops into your hands, tears mixing with the bath water.
"It's, it's really happening," you heave into your hands. "I can't even lift a fucking sponge, Simon," you say, disgust coating your words.
Simon leans forward, hand grazing your back. "I'm so sorry, bug," his voice trembles.
You turn to look at him, with red, puffy eyes and slick tears slipping down and into his beard.
"Don't apologize," you affirm with a sniffle. "You didn't do this to me."
He almost throws up but chokes down the bile to speak.
"Can I, can I finish?" He almost pleads.
You give him a soft nod and a gentle smile.
He grabs a fresh sponge and repeats the same process, this time being more gentle.
Like he's purposely trying to remember the feeling of your body under his hands.
It makes you feel loved again.
MONTH THREE: March
You were slowly withering away right before your own eyes.
You didn't even recognize yourself in the mirror.
Your skin has gone pale and blotchy and started mottling.
It's cold to the touch, void of any warmth.
"I'll be right back, okay?" Simon cooly says, pressing a kiss on your head.
"Where are you going?" You ask curiously.
"I told you I had to pick up Price's kid from school," he says warmly. "You don't remember?"
"Yeah. I, I remember," you nod your head, plastering a reassuring smile.
You really didn't remember.
Memory is a slippery thing these days, evading your grasp like a wisp of smoke.
The moment something touches your brain, it usually escapes within an hour.
It's a constant source of frustration, a relentless storm that rages within you.
Makes you want to throw a chair across the room.
He leaves, not even realizing the question has you spiraling.
Proding and pinching at your skull's skin to regain control of your brain.
You must look insane.
But to you, this is the only thing that makes you feel sane and in control of your body.
The feeling of inability is one of the most haunting prospects.
The hunger for control gnaws at you, a ruthless creature that refuses to be sated.
But it's slipping through your very fingers like sand.
Fast and all at once.
MONTH FOUR: April
By mid-April, your body feels hollow.
You can't do much of anything.
Though you did find some peace with your morality.
Finally, you came to terms with your reality.
And then, a spark of courage ignited, urging you to step out of the house for the first time in a while.
There was an unusual, almost compelling, need to visit Johnny's grave.
You had only done so once, but it would be nice to leave some flowers.
Your hospice nurse drives you and waits in the car as you find his grave slightly disheveled like someone had messed with it.
Maybe even crawled out of it.
You're too tired to investigate.
You sit in the soft dirt, legs crossed as the sun beats on your head.
The lull of sleep licks your brain and makes your eyes close and unclose lightly.
You yawn, stretching your arms out before the feeling of sleep becomes too strong.
You find yourself lying next to Johnny, separated only by a few feet of dirt.
You feel calm, peaceful even.
Though when your eyes shut for the last time, you don't see the bright, ethereal light you imagined.
You see nothing but darkness.
And smell brimstone.
It couldn't be.
This wasn't the heaven you were promised, a place of eternal peace and joy.
It was a cruel joke, a betrayal of the highest order.
You were supposed to be in a place of eternal love.
An incomparable beauty.
This looked more like—
"Bastard sold you out, m'afraid," a voice croaked in the darkness.
The figure was indistinct, a mere shadow in the darkness, but its presence was suffocating, a palpable sense of doom that felt all too familiar, like a nightmare you couldn't wake up from.
"Who—who are you?" You speak into the darkness, not paying much heed to what he said.
"I shall not speak my name, my dear," the voice remarks. "You shall find out soon enough," he assures, pure humor coating his tongue.
Your voice trembled with fear, barely audible in the oppressive darkness. "How—how am I here?" You managed to stammer, your terror evident.
A heinous laugh comes from the dark and shoots into your eardrum. "Your husband called upon me some time ago," he says. "He wanted his friend back, so he offered me your soul in return for him back." His voice is simple and casual as if it were ordinary.
Your heart thumps in your chest, and your lungs deflate quicker than they inflate.
"N—no. Simon...he loves me," you try to contradict. "He—he wouldn't do that," you speak into the darkness, voice tight.
"Loves his friend more," he casually says.
Your eyes widen as tears begin to pour down in a consistent stream down your face; you try to move your arms but find your arms are magically constricted to your side.
"Don't worry. We'll have fun—you and I," his tone is insidious.
Simon had bartered your life for his own selfish volition and damned you to an eternity in hell.
That—that serpent.
What kind of diabolical monster would do something so heinous.
He promised you a lifetime of love.
A baby that you would share.
A tangible tell of your love.
He was a false prophet.
When did he find time to do this deal?
Oh. Oh.
He did act skittish that night.
That—that night that you asked about him praying.
You just assumed he was praying to God to help him cope by perhaps showing some signs of Johnny.
Help him deal with the trauma in any way he could.
He was instead striking up a deal.
And it wasn't with God.
mini author’s note: do share your tearful thoughts in the comments!
being prices assistant n bein a clumsy bitch you spill coffee ALL over his jeans or sumn. n youre so nervous youll lose your job you frantically grab tissues n wipe over the stains not realising youre rubbing over his bulge until hes letting out lil grunts yk? 📏📏
please this has bimbo assistant written all over it
spewing apologies as you try your best to dry the stain, looking up at him with tears brimming your eyes “i’m so sorry sir! i didn’t mean to! please don’t be mad Captain Price!”
and his eyes are just about rolling to the back of his head at the feel of your hand rubbing directly over his cock, grinding his teeth together as he thrusts against your touch
“Ah, don’t worry about it pretty just- fuck- just keep doin that yeah? fuck yeah”
Arcane's odd quirks :]
Sfw fluff with gn reader :)
Warnings: Trauma, medicine, needles, bombs mentioned briefly
❀ —————————————— ❀
Viktor- Doesn't like brushing his hair. There's no real reason behind it, actually... he just forgets to do it and then it becomes super tangled. When he was younger, he used to use those detangler sprays that smell like pear or green apple. Brushing his hair for him will probably become a daily routine since he's always working, and he's very appreciative of it too. Viktor makes sure to give you a big embrace and lots of kisses before you leave the lab.
Jayce- Doesn't like to wear shoes? Sometimes you'll walk into the lab and home boy just has his floor grippers out... Viktor will just be standing there in disgust and look at you- mouthing "this is your man". Sometimes he tries to lock toes with you if you don't have shoes on, and his feet are always super sweaty; not the ideal situation for you. Jayce is really romantic about it though; at least he says he is... You'll receive random pictures during the day of his feet
Vi- Really hates loud noises. It's connected to her childhood; she always feels like she immediately goes back to the factory where she lost everything. Vi will probably move out of Zaun because of this, and would love to move in with you if you live somewhere peaceful. Her dream as a girl was to move some forest or mountain where she could live more naturally, and there wouldn't be loud noises of the city
Jinx- Actually really good at administering medicine and shots if you need them. Since she grew up around Silco, she learned how to prep needles and measure medicine to the right doses. Jinx often jokes that she could've been an amazing nurse if she wasn't a crazy bomb addict; it becomes harder to deny after a while of seeing her work. She even gets super focused, which is rare for Jinx, if it happens at all
Caitlyn- Animals love her much, it's a little creepy. Once you two were on a romantic walk through a local park when a bird just landed on her shoulder. She didn't even look phased and just gave it a piece of bread from the picnic basket you were carrying. If you ask about it, Cait just says it's always happened, even when she was a baby. This makes it really hard to go on dates around the city; dogs and cats will walk up and demand all her attention
Ekko- This boy is a BEAST at crochet. Makes you sweaters in record time, and even makes some for your pets if you have any. It started off as just a hobby for when he was bored, but it quickly evolved into a mini business when he got older. Ekko once knit all of his workers gloves when it was super cold in Zaun; most of those workers still wear them when the winter months roll around. His favorite thing to knit though is little ducks, and he gives most to you as gifts
Silco- He draws a lot of architecture that he likes around Zaun. The first time you see him do it is during one of his days off; he was sitting on the roof of his apartment and just sketching everything his eyes could see. Silco normally likes to sketch alone, but he'll invite you do lay on his lap while he overlooks Zaun. It's a really peaceful moment for both of you and he asks you to join him again sometime soon
Sevika- Loves writing letters to you, even if you live with her. Everyday you'll find a letter on the counter where she expresses how much she loves you in a different way each day. Sevika finds it difficult to express how she feels in words, so she will usually write letters or notes in place of the words she can't say. Sometimes her letters detail how she just wants to leave Zaun behind and live with you somewhere across the sea. She knows it's a pipe dream, especially with her work, but she can always dream
Vander- Gosh this man is an amazing cook. He adds just the right amount of spice and seasoning, which always balance out the entire meal. Vander doesn't only make underground food; somehow he found a cookbook that details recipes from all over Runeterra. The first time he used a recipe from Shurima was an eventful time... since he wasn't familiar with the food, he added too much spice and Powder almost ended up in the hospital
![Arcane's Odd Quirks :]](https://64.media.tumblr.com/b0768190a66c197213d266063d35b54b/84d94a0137c18677-f0/s500x750/73f725792b7e8372c7a67e0788a2d3e0118eab05.gif)
so I got into grad school today with my shitty 2.8 gpa and the moral of the story is reblog those good luck posts for the love of god
Decided to make the full design of the dress that my oc Roxy wears in an artwork I made some time ago! <3
Also for my dear friend @chaoticlicense to use as reference for the Viktor x reader story she is going to write! <3
![Call Of Duty Modern Warfare Gifs [10/∞] - “Lieutenant” John Price.](https://64.media.tumblr.com/1f175c9862aeda2fabb7b687636ec8bf/2289871a68f7241d-18/s500x750/2d764d6701ddeed9f4cc0aab42395e9e56fe823a.gif)
![Call Of Duty Modern Warfare Gifs [10/∞] - “Lieutenant” John Price.](https://64.media.tumblr.com/5d64cafd99cee6126cf21ca47c22b429/2289871a68f7241d-17/s500x750/80148e6278e11f22e031c1fc73e91661980bf87b.gif)
![Call Of Duty Modern Warfare Gifs [10/∞] - “Lieutenant” John Price.](https://64.media.tumblr.com/edc0a2f0d0478df0a7c883af8a27c700/2289871a68f7241d-cf/s500x750/804eb14ed702be0ffe1925674d85996edf59e439.gif)
Call of Duty Modern Warfare Gifs [10/∞] - “Lieutenant” John Price.
i just imagine simon to be so casual while balls deep… like toooo casual yaaa feeel??
like your legs sittin all hiked up n pretty on his shoulders, the insides of your calves being rubbed absolutely raw with the drag of his scruffy cheeks n chin against em.
“how was your day, mama?” he shrugs slightly, your thighs jigglin’ with all the movement as he presses himself to the absolute hilt within you, balls pressed against the crease of your ass.
“w-wha-… simon,” you’d gasp, fingers desperately reaching out for his. in which he complies real quick, tangling his fingers between yours and pressing em down to the mattress forcing your thighs to burn in a deep stretch with the way your knees brush against your perked nipples.
“how was your day, baby? cmon.” he smiles down at you, the bush of his thighs slapping against the back of yours. “ya’ went out with the ladies, huh? how much ya’ spend today?”
I can't stop thinking about Nimona going from calling Bal "boss" to calling him things like "dad" or "pops"
Like:
Bal: Nimona I've made breakfast. Come and eat, you've been playing that game all morning.
.
Nimona: Yeah okay, gimme a sec pops, I gotta get to a save point
.
Bal: .... Okay kid. (Heart melting smile)
.
Nimona: What?
.
Bal: Nothing :)...
I LOVE NIMONA SO MUCH YOU HAVE NO IDEA OMG 😭😭😭
Not my meme but figured I'd share for those about to ride out the storm
healing my inner child by binge watching LPS popular and letting me draw furries
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MDNI 21 // she // black // arcane // cod // this is where I keep my junk,
172 posts