The Talented Mr Barber

An RP blog dedicated to Serial Killer!Charlie Barber. As such, the content may at times be dark and NSFW. You must be 18+ to interact. Please read the trigger warnings. Tag: iamakiller All credit to Direnightshade for the concept.

[iamakiller]

I received an email from Tumblr this morning informing me that today is the first anniversary of this blog

12 months of me? You're welcome. 😏

[iamakiller]

putting a pause on things (II)

There is much more still to come.  But ... not quite yet.

I’ll be stepping away from this blog for a little while to focus on my wellbeing, and perhaps work on some of my other writing.  When I feel ready, I’ll pick up the most recent thread precisely where we left off.

As always, thank you for your support, and your patience.

[kaelio]

A persons fanfic tells you a lot about them, i , a fanfic writer, realize in terror

[staarshines]

new ask game: give me an extremely specific assumption you have about me based off of my fanfic. go.

[direnightshade-deactivated20240]

Progression

“Bye dad! Bye Britt!”

A car door slams and once again, we are left alone. Like every Sunday afternoon, we stay put, watching as Henry runs up the driveway and to the front door, turning to wave at us one last time before disappearing into Nicole’s house. Only once he’s safely inside does the car begin to roll backwards towards the street.

Keep reading

[iamakiller]

I’ve been thinking too …

Keep reading

[direnightshade-deactivated20240]

For nearly the entirety of our relationship I have been nothing more than a silent observer. I have listened with minimal protest as you dictated the course of our relationship. But tonight that ends.

Keep reading

[iamakiller]

For nearly the entirety of our relationship I have been nothing more than a tyrant.  I have imposed my will on you at every turn and you have yielded to me with very little remonstration.  But those days are past now.

Keep reading

[direnightshade-deactivated20240]

It would seem that we have once again found ourselves in uncharted territory, my love.

Keep reading

[iamakiller]

The room is still, and so quiet, as if the whole world is holding its breath.

Keep reading

[direnightshade-deactivated20240]

I used to long for the noise of a city that once felt so alive. Every blare of a car horn, every angry shout of a local annoyed with a tourist filled my head until there was no room left to think.

Keep reading

[iamakiller]

Not today.

Not yet.

And -

Maybe not ever.

Perhaps this confirms once and for all how much of a hypocrite I truly am. After all, you have never denied any of my requests - orders - in the bedroom. There is even a part of me, some little devil sitting on my shoulder and whispering in my ear, that scorns my response and dares me to reconsider, because what right do I have to say no?

But just as it would make me sick to my stomach to know that I had ever breached your trust in this way, so I know it is exactly the same for you. You trust me, and I ... trust you. More than I have ever trusted anyone. More than I could ever have imagined myself being capable of.

"All right," you say softly, and that is that. The world didn't end. Nothing between us has changed. Your hand doesn't stutter in its action of stroking my arm so gently, and although the blindfold is doing its job well, I somehow know that your gaze in this moment is as tender as the kiss you bestowed upon me not so very long ago.

Life is just a series of seconds, minutes, hours. Most of them we do not even notice, because we are too caught up in living. But sometimes, like right now, some tiny glitch occurs, and we realize exactly where we are in time and space. And exactly who we are. I am not so much outside my body looking in as I am looking at the road behind me, and taking in how far I have progressed from my point of origin.

"Are you okay?" you ask.

Okay? Yes. I am more than okay.

I nod, and smile, and raise my arms until the headboard is within reach. Then, I grasp onto it. "I won't let go until you ask me to," I tell you.

You hum your approval, and then fall silent. I can feel you watching me, your gaze as electric as the crackle in the air each time we fall silent. I can even feel you thinking, as though your thoughts have manifested themselves in the room around us.

Every atom of my being feels like it is vibrating with anticipation.

I hold my breath-

And-

I wait.

[direnightshade-deactivated20240]

Progression

“Bye dad! Bye Britt!”

A car door slams and once again, we are left alone. Like every Sunday afternoon, we stay put, watching as Henry runs up the driveway and to the front door, turning to wave at us one last time before disappearing into Nicole’s house. Only once he’s safely inside does the car begin to roll backwards towards the street.

Keep reading

[iamakiller]

I’ve been thinking too …

Keep reading

[direnightshade-deactivated20240]

For nearly the entirety of our relationship I have been nothing more than a silent observer. I have listened with minimal protest as you dictated the course of our relationship. But tonight that ends.

Keep reading

[iamakiller]

For nearly the entirety of our relationship I have been nothing more than a tyrant.  I have imposed my will on you at every turn and you have yielded to me with very little remonstration.  But those days are past now.

Keep reading

[direnightshade-deactivated20240]

It would seem that we have once again found ourselves in uncharted territory, my love.

Keep reading

[iamakiller]

The room is still, and so quiet, as if the whole world is holding its breath.

The kiss lingers.

Or - perhaps - it does not.

Time has always seemed to behave in such a peculiar way whenever our lips meet.  What feels like an all-too-brief moment can turn out to be hours in real time, as though I have stumbled my way through an enchanted circle before emerging, bewildered as to where I am and when I am.

You pull back, pressing your forehead against mine, and when I open my eyes it is still Sunday evening in LA, I think.  Your arms are still draped over my shoulders, the fingers of your left hand combing through my hair once more.  I have been wondering recently if I should cut it, another watershed between then and now.  But I would miss you playing with it, like I miss your lips on mine.

“May I kiss you again?” I ask.

“No,” you respond, with amusement in your voice, so that the bluntness of your response doesn’t take me aback so very much.  “Not yet.”

My hands are resting on your sides.  I dare not move them, just in case that is also not permitted.  “Then what shall I do?”

You move your head to the right, nose grazing against mine, before your lips trace the rest of the way along my cheekbone.  Intrigued, I lean into it, tilt my head just so, and now your mouth is hovering right by the shell of my ear, your warm breath sending a tiny shiver down my spine when you whisper, “Get undressed.”  Then, before I can react, you disentangle yourself from my loose hold, and sit down on the edge of the bed, in a reversal of our earlier roles, when you were trying on all those clothes, which are still strewn across the chair in the corner of the room.

“May I talk?” I ask, fiddling with the fastenings on my shirt.  I feel incredibly self-conscious all of a sudden.  My fingers have all become thumbs, and it is as if I have never once opened a button in my life.

“You may.”  You shift slightly on the bed, putting one hand slightly behind you on the mattress to better support your back.  Your legs are slightly open, your other hand resting on the swell of your belly, and even though your positioning should look somewhat awkward, to me you appear every bit as graceful and composed as a queen upon her throne.  A hint of a smile plays around the corners of your lips as you watch me.

Somehow, I manage to persuade my idiot fingers to do what they are supposed to.  With each button I unfasten, I somehow feel your gaze more, even though you have not moved, or changed your expression at all, until I shrug the shirt off, and let it fall to the floor.  At this, your gaze travels down my torso, then back up again, until you meet my eyes.  “I thought you were going to talk, Charlie.  You usually have so much to say.”

There is a glint in your eye, a spark.  It travels through the air between us, and when it reaches me, it catches.  I reach for my belt, unfastening it quickly, and sliding it out of the belt loops of my jeans in one quick, fluid motion.  “I’ve bound your wrists with this belt,” my mouth says, before my brain has caught up with it.  “I’ve left marks on you with this belt.”

“You have,” you say agreeably, as though we are talking about the weather.

I unfasten my jeans, and work the zipper down slowly.  “I’ve sat on the edge of the bed and watched you strip for me.  I’ve made you bleed for me.”

“You have,” you say again, your eyes slightly narrowed now, as though you are not sure where I am going with this.  Unfortunately, I am not sure where I am going with this either, but now that I have begun talking, I find that I cannot stop.

My jeans slide down my thighs with less resistance than they would have done a few months ago.  I lost some weight during my period of self-isolation, and have yet to gain it back again.  This may in fact be the best shape you have ever seen me in, and at some point I will appreciate that, but not right now.  “You did everything I asked of you,” I say, extracting one foot and then the other from the jeans, which I leave in a heap on the floor.  “Everything.”

“I did,” you affirm.  “Come here,” you add.  It is a command, and it is an invitation, and my feet begin propelling me towards you as though I have been caught in your gravitational field.  

Once I am within arms reach, you shuffle forwards on the edge of the bed, and settle your hands on my hips, your fingers toying with the waistband of my underwear.  

“Did I ever make you do something you didn’t want to?” I blurt out, as if now is the time for my guilty conscience to try to assuage itself.  Ah, I think, foolishly.  That’s what I was getting at.

You tilt your head far, far back to look up at me.  “No, never,” you say softly, as solemnly as if you are uttering a prayer, and I can sense nothing but truth in your voice and in your eyes.  “Never, ever.  I trust you, Charlie.”

You’ve always trusted me, haven’t you?  Even when I did not deserve it.  

I smile at you, rest my hands atop yours, and together we slide my briefs down, down, down, until they hit the floor.  Your gaze traverses me again, up and down.  At these close quarters, it feels as tangible as a physical touch, and I feel myself begin to respond with interest, which makes you smile too.  That gleam in your eye is back once more, and yet again it travels the short distance between us, adding more fuel to the fire that has burned low of late, but will never fully go out.

“Do you trust me?” you ask, as if it is in any doubt.

“I do,” I say, because it reminds me of our wedding day, and the vows we wrote because we didn’t like the conventional ones, and how happy we were that day, and how happy we are now, and because I trust you.

Some of what I’m thinking and feeling must be showing on my face, because you huff out a laugh.  “You ridiculous man,” you say.  “Lay down on the bed.  Get comfortable.  And if you’re very lucky, you might get that kiss you were asking for.”

I nod, and immediately do as you have asked of me.  

And then.

And then ...

The room is still, and so quiet once more.

The world is holding its breath, and so am I.

[direnightshade-deactivated20240]

Progression

“Bye dad! Bye Britt!”

A car door slams and once again, we are left alone. Like every Sunday afternoon, we stay put, watching as Henry runs up the driveway and to the front door, turning to wave at us one last time before disappearing into Nicole’s house. Only once he’s safely inside does the car begin to roll backwards towards the street.

Keep reading

[iamakiller]

I’ve been thinking too ...

Keep reading

[direnightshade-deactivated20240]

For nearly the entirety of our relationship I have been nothing more than a silent observer. I have listened with minimal protest as you dictated the course of our relationship. But tonight that ends.

Keep reading

[iamakiller]

For nearly the entirety of our relationship I have been nothing more than a tyrant.  I have imposed my will on you at every turn and you have yielded to me with very little remonstration.  But those days are past now.

My interest was already piqued even before you tell me you wish to try something unconventional by our standards.  And once you have declared it, I find that my mind has become like one of the sprinters I have barely been paying attention to on the television.  It is on the starting blocks, ready to explode into action with a thousand different thoughts and ideas all racing towards the finish line.  

But ... this is usual for me.  You have said that you have something in mind which is out of the ordinary.  And so, with some difficulty, I try to disengage my imagination, and instead focus on that which is important in the here and now: you.

You are looking particularly lovely this evening.  All the time we have been spending in the garden has been paying off: a light dusting of cute freckles has appeared across the bridge of your nose, and I will kiss each one of them when the opportunity presents itself.  And there is a glow about you, as if you have been lit from within.  When I asked you about it the other day, you laughed and told me it was some product or other made by Becca, whoever she is.  But I don’t think that’s it, and I don’t think it’s “pregnancy glow” either, although I’m sure that is certainly a contributing factor in how well you look.  No, I think it may be due to the newfound confidence you now possess - in yourself, in me, in us.

Oh, how you have flourished now you have the space to do so.

The urge to reach for you is almost unbearable, and my fingers betray me, twitching uselessly against the sofa cushion, as if it is any kind of replacement for your soft skin.  Your expression is inscrutable, though you are obviously thinking about something.  When you exclaim that you need me, my first instinct is to touch you, but I hesitate, and in doing so I realize that there is more to this than that.  If I had reacted instantly, I would never have noticed.

I am calm, and I am gentle when I ask you what you need.  Your gaze, carefully averted for the past few moments, now returns to mine.  You swallow, and it is clear that you are having some difficulty getting your words out.  Again, my instinct is to say or do something to comfort you, but to do so would be to interrupt you, so I simply wait and hope that my silent presence is reassuring enough.

What you tell me next is somehow both surprising, and not.  It is certainly unconventional by our standards.  But we need this, don’t we?  You need to discover how it feels to be in control.  And I need to learn how to cede it.

It seems that we’ll both be out of our comfort zones tonight, my love.  But you are my safe place, and I hope that I am yours.  We’ll figure this out.  Together.

“All right,” I say, softly.  “You’re in control tonight.”

Wherever you lead, I will follow.

[direnightshade-deactivated20240]

Progression

“Bye dad! Bye Britt!”

A car door slams and once again, we are left alone. Like every Sunday afternoon, we stay put, watching as Henry runs up the driveway and to the front door, turning to wave at us one last time before disappearing into Nicole’s house. Only once he’s safely inside does the car begin to roll backwards towards the street.

You are quiet when I reach for you, placing my hand atop your thigh and gently trailing my fingers along the seam. It isn’t long until your hand covers my own, lifting it up to bring my fingers to your mouth, gifting each one with a kiss. You smile against them prior to releasing them entirely, allowing me to pull my hand back into my own lap as your eyes remain fixed firmly on the road ahead.

Like the street we currently drive down, the proverbial road we find ourselves on is one I have come to know all too well; this is a scenario that has played out weekly for longer than I’d care to count, after all. My advances, albeit perhaps ill timed considering you are driving, are dismissed entirely, never to be picked up at a later time. But then…

Hours later you are seated on the edge of bed at my insistence, now having become an unwitting spectator in the show that I am putting on for you. Piece after piece I show off the new maternity clothes that I have purchased as of late, paying careful attention to the slightest change in your typically inscrutable demeanor. It is when I step out of our shared walk-in closet in the final piece—a floor-length maxi dress—that your stoic expression cracks and a smile forms. Pleased with this development, I step closer.

“I like this one,” you admit aloud as I come to step between your legs, hands lifting to rest atop your shoulders.

“Yeah?” You hum in reply, head nodding in the affirmative. Satisfied, I lean down and graze my lips along your own. “Good. I think it’s my favorite.”

Before you can utter another word or—god forbid—give me grief about the day’s purchases, I press my lips to yours and hum happily at the contact. My love, we have never been closer. After all this time we know one another better than I am certain either of us could have ever hoped for; we have always favored physical intimacy over the emotional and now it feels as if those roles have reversed. I have never been happier. We have never been happier.

Yet when your hands slip away from where they’d come to rest against my hips, I can’t help but mourn the loss with a displeased whine. You placate me, albeit temporarily, with one final chaste kiss, muttering some nonsense about needing to take care of something or other before rising up from your spot on the bed and disappearing from the room. It is true that we no longer depend on physical intimacy for the success of our relationship, but I do still have needs…

And I need you.

I long for you.

It has been far too long since I have felt your touch and I am restless...

In the evening when we find ourselves cozied up together on the couch. The house has once again descended into silence since Henry’s departure, save for the low volume of the television that plays nearby. Your arm is caught between my back and the couch cushions, but you do not seem to be in any discomfort as you rest your hand against my hip. Mine, on the other hand, trails fingertips along your chest in the familiar up and down trajectory that I so often favor when we find ourselves in such a position. Though our eyes may be trained on the Olympic display plastered on the screen in front of us, my mind is occupied by far more interesting thoughts.

In a move that has become far too familiar as of late, you take hold of my hand to effectively halt the motion of it and lift it up to your lips. This time, however, I do not allow you to do what you intend. Instead, I pull my hand from yours and sit upright on the couch, much to your confusion I am sure if the look that passes across your face is any indication.

“Charlie,” I start, inhaling a breath to steel myself. Talking to you has become so easy as of late, but we have focused so much on matters of the heart as of late that I fear I’ve allowed the rest to fall by the wayside. I turn, pulling my feet up onto the couch in order to better face you. “I’ve been doing some thinking…”

“Thinking…” You mirror the word with a hint of hesitation.

I nod and allow the beginnings of a smile to show in hopes that it will assuage any negative thoughts that may have crept into that mind of yours. “Nothing terrible. In fact, quite the opposite…”

[@iamakiller]

[iamakiller]

I’ve been thinking too ...

Charlie Barber sits on the edge of the bed, and watches as his lovely wife tries on almost an entire runway show’s worth of maternity clothes.  Items that have already been tried on have been discarded in a heap upon the floor, much to his dismay, and he knows that every single one of them will be returned tomorrow morning.  He knows this because this is becoming an all-too common occurrence in the New York apartment they share.

It is the late spring of 2011.  Charlie and Nicole have been married for three months.  Henry is just a name, as distant and unknowable as a far-off city Charlie never intends to visit, like Timbuktu.  And as Charlie sits there, the phone in his back pocket buzzes to announce the arrival of yet another message from someone he knows he shouldn’t reply to.

“How do I look?”

Charlie glances up from the one clear spot on the floor he has been desperately fixating on, to see Nicole leaning dramatically against the dresser.  “You look beautiful,” he responds.  Too quickly, perhaps, or too slowly.  Too effusive, or perhaps not enthusiastic enough.  Who knows these days?

“Liar.”  There isn’t a hint of humor in her expression as she stares him down.

She isn’t wrong, either.

Charlie is a shallow, vapid man who was deeply attracted to his wife’s pregnant body until he suddenly wasn’t, and now even just looking at her for too long feels as strange and uncomfortable as trying to stare directly at the sun.  “Okay then, you look terrible,” he tells her, sarcasm dripping from his voice like syrup from a pancake.

Nicole’s expression falls, and Charlie feels like a piece of shit every bit as much as he feels a sense of petty satisfaction at a point scored.  He forgets, sometimes, that he’s married to someone just as shallow and vapid as he is.  Nicole wants to be some kind of earth mother, and she wants to be a sex object, and she wants him to want to fuck her, but she doesn’t want him to touch her, and she wants him to say she looks beautiful but then she doesn’t believe him when he does ...

It’s exhausting.

Nicole storms off to the bathroom to fume.  Once he hears the door slam, Charlie pulls out his phone and stares at it for a long time, before taking a shaky breath and turning it off.  At least he did one thing right today.

Meanwhile, 2,789 miles and a decade away, I use every ounce of concentration I possess to keep my hands steady on the steering wheel and my eyes on the road.  I remove myself from our bedroom before I tear that gorgeous dress off your body where you stand.  Funnily enough, my mind is not at all focused on some Olympic sport I’ve never even heard of ... and it’s certainly a miracle that my heart hasn’t yet burst through my ribcage in response to your touch.

I need you.

I long for you.

I cannot imagine not being completely in love with every single part of you.

I am not that Charlie anymore.  And you are not a reflection of who I am at my worst, but instead who I hope to be at my very best.

It’s time, I think, to make some new memories.  Ones I can look back on in ten years with fondness instead of reproach.  Ones we can both look back on, together.  

Do you remember that night, my love?  I was so nervous, for so many different reasons.  But I forgot all about my worries as soon as I looked at you and realized that you were not uncertain at all.  

I stretch out my arm along the sofa cushions, my hand almost but not quite touching yours, and return your hint of a smile with one of my own.  “What have you been thinking about, my love?”

[iamakiller]

🌺Send this to ten bloggers you think are wonderful. Keep the game going.🌺

I just want you to know how much I appreciate you, Charlie, and the contribution that you have made to the community and it has been wonderful getting to know you! Send Britt and Little B my love. 💖

Thank you. That's very kind of you to say.

I shan't be forwarding this on, since I can barely think of anyone I would class as tolerable let alone wonderful on this godforsaken hellsite. But rest assured, you definitely fall into the latter group, and you are very much appreciated.

[iamakiller]

https://twitter.com/michaelbuble/status/1415398803562131457?s=21

Can you compete with these skills?

I have begrudgingly watched the video several times now, and I'm still rather unsure as to exactly what "skills" you seem to think are on display here.

Can I also throw a ball against a wall?

Yes, Anon. I can.

[direnightshade-deactivated20240]

Aren't you tired, my love? You've been running through my mind all day ...

Do yourself a favor and stop talking so I can kiss you.

[iamakiller]

[iamakiller]

Are you cake? Cause I want a piece of that.

Are you sure you didn't mean to send this to @mikeybuble? 🤔 Your YouTube search history doesn't lie ...

[direnightshade-deactivated20240]

I’m actually really glad you brought him up. He’s invited me to one of his concerts, complete with a private backstage tour. I think I’ll take him up on it now. 😌

[mikeybuble]

Ah, @iamakiller perhaps you can enjoy my YouTube videos alone this evening while Britt accompanies me? I suggest starting with “Feeling Good,” a real crowd pleaser, that one.

[iamakiller]

Hah.

I'm sure the real Michael "Crimes Against Music" Bublé has far better things to do than hanging around on Tumblr.

You're probably just some thirty to forty year-old woman impersonating him!

Isn't there a hapless cashier somewhere that you should be harassing, Karen?

[iamakiller]

[iamakiller]

Are you cake? Cause I want a piece of that.

Are you sure you didn't mean to send this to @mikeybuble? 🤔 Your YouTube search history doesn't lie ...

[direnightshade-deactivated20240]

I’m actually really glad you brought him up. He’s invited me to one of his concerts, complete with a private backstage tour. I think I’ll take him up on it now. 😌

[iamakiller]

[iamakiller]

Are you cake? Cause I want a piece of that.

Are you sure you didn't mean to send this to @mikeybuble? 🤔 Your YouTube search history doesn't lie ...

[direnightshade-deactivated20240]

Good afternoon, my love. For the made up fic title, how about: The Tragic Demise of Michael Bublé? 🤔

Plot twist: it's actually a story about the tragic demise of one (1) Charlie Barber at the hands of Mr. Michael Bublé. The only demise Michael suffers is that of his career when he's carted off to prison. One can only take so much torment before they snap!

[iamakiller]

Hmph. I'd like to see him try.

Charlie Barber never sleeps. He waits.

[direnightshade-deactivated20240]

Gravity

Keep reading

[iamakiller]

Keep reading

[direnightshade-deactivated20240]

You are right, of course. These concerns of yours, the ones that you have not verbalized, are the very same ones that I have been mulling over for days now, I am sure.

I have made such good progress since that disastrous dinner in New York—I have finally started to come out of the protective shell that I have hidden in for most of my life, I have been more open and more honest with you about the things that I want, that I need. I do not wish to undo all of this positive development. But…

“I just want what’s best for her,” I reply softly.

Your hand slides across the granite until it reaches my own, ceasing the incessant picking at the paper’s edge with a weighted gentleness. My love, it is not just I who has made great leaps and bounds since leaving New York. Your typical responses are now much more measured and your handling of things both emotional and physical have softened considerably.

I settle my other hand atop your own and gently trace my thumb back and forth against your skin. “A large part of me, perhaps most of me, knows that what’s best is for us to keep these ties severed.”

You know better than anyone that I will do anything to protect Little b from harm, and though this is not harm of the physical kind, it is equally as dangerous as far as I am concerned. I would never wish to inflict upon our daughter what has been inflicted upon myself, nor what has been inflicted upon you. But…

“There is the smallest sliver of me that longs for her to have that connection with her grandparents.” I pause, casting my glance to the side in order to avert my attention from where you sit. “Perhaps that same sliver is merely yearning for a relationship that I never had.”

[iamakiller]

Keep reading

[direnightshade-deactivated20240]

Therein lies the crux of my internal struggle.

Can they change?

I know that the answer lies somewhere deep down in the depths of my soul; it is an answer that I have undoubtedly known for a long, long time but have never wanted to come to terms with. No. They cannot change. They will not. They do not possess the desire nor the wherewithal to do so, for they believe that their unsavory behavior is an attempt at ensuring that I have the best attempt at the life they wish for me to have—to show me that they care when in reality the only thing they care about is their perfectly established self-image.

But…

Can they change enough?

I realize now, as I sit here with my gaze once again redirected—this time to your thumb as it glides back and forth along the back of my hand—that I am on the verge of slipping back into old patterns, of making excuses for them when that is not my place. I am an adult now with a family of my own. They are adults, and they are responsible for their own decisions and actions. I am no longer responsible for them. Truthfully, I never should have been to begin with.

“I don’t know,” I admit aloud, finally bringing my focus back up to you. “Or, maybe I do and I just am not ready to admit it to myself yet. But…” I smile again, this one more prominent than the last. “Talking to you has certainly helped even if I’m not quite ready to make my decision.”

This time, it is you who smiles and offers a gentle squeeze of my hands in support and reassurance. Had this issue come to light in the fall I know without a shadow of a doubt that we would not be having this conversation; I would be bottling things up and allowing them to haunt me like the very specters that seemed to besiege you. This topic would fall by the wayside and we would carry on as if everything was fine even though it most certainly is not.

But I am thankful for you and the changes that you have made for the sake of our family—for me…for you. Your carefully chosen words, your willingness to listen, your mere presence alone has helped me more than I could ever say.

And yet…

It is hours later and I am curled up on my side, watching as the blue digital numbers on the nearby clock tick over to 2 AM. Though it is typically you who has such trouble sleeping, I find that for once our roles are reversed. Perhaps I have not put to bed the topic of my parents like I’d initially thought.

With a soft sigh, I push myself up to a sitting position and glance back over my shoulder to where you sleep with hands tucked beneath your pillow, face completely relaxed and hair strewn about messily. While I’d love nothing more to sit here and admire you in your rare state of tranquility, Little b is demanding—by way of the rumbling that emanates from my stomach—that I see myself to the kitchen for a late night refrigerator raid.

Though it is true that my parents have been plaguing my thoughts for the better portion of the night, it has actually been the apple crisp that Henry and I have made over the course of the weekend that has been occupying my mind for the better portion of this last hour.

Quietly, I slip down to the kitchen, careful not to disturb any of the stairs that will undoubtedly creek if I apply too much of my weight onto them during my descent. My destination awaits, its stainless steel gleaming brightly in the moonlight that filters in from the nearby window like a treasure waiting to be plundered.

I wrap my fingers around the handle of the fridge’s door and pull it open, already salivating at the thought of tasting the sweet treat that should like within the cold storage unit. I pull open the door and scan the shelves with my eyes, seeking out the scrumptious dessert only to find…

What the fuck?

It’s gone.

[iamakiller]

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[direnightshade-deactivated20240]

There is something to be said for being awake at this hour while the rest of this part of the world lies fast asleep. Our little street, though quiet on most days, is even more so tonight. One might even say that all is peaceful, even in spite of the reason in which we both find ourselves up and mulling about in the kitchen.

The oven clicks and the convection fan within it whirs to life when you set it to preheat. Nearby, the blade of a knife slices through the apple that I have placed upon the cutting board. These sounds, though no louder than they typically are, seem deafening in the quiet of night. No sooner has the blade met with the wooden board does your hand come to rest atop my own, effectively ceasing my planned course of action.

“Let me?” Though you are asking, your hand is already curling around my own as if to assume the role of apple slicer.

There will be no arguments from me tonight, or perhaps ever, when it comes to this topic. You are, after all, much more efficient with a blade in the kitchen than I. Carefully, I transfer the knife from my hand to your own and step away from where you now position yourself in front of the cutting board in order to stand beside you. While you busy yourself with coring and slicing the apple, I turn my attention to the creation of the crumble that will rest atop our late night creation prior to its submission into the oven.

A comfortable silence fills the space as we work in tandem to create the dessert that I have been craving for the last couple of hours. There are moments, however, when I look over at you and assess your current state of dress. I can’t help but smile at your rumpled clothes disguised by the robe that drapes over your body and tussled hair. Each time that you catch me looking, I avert my gaze and smile down at the predominantly oat mixture that has now begun to clump.

“What is it,” you ask, to which I immediately shake my head.

“It’s nothing.”

This time when I steal another glance, it is to find that you are already staring at me expectantly.

“You look ridiculous,” I blurt out with a soft laugh, turning away from you to step over to the sink in order to wash off my hands. You look like the stereotypical dad, I want to say, but refrain. Everything about the way that you are dressed screams it, and it is this coupled with how uncharacteristically unkempt you look is the reasoning for my amusement, and yet…

“It’s not fair though, is it,” I muse aloud as I wash the last of the citrus scented soap from my hands and dry them off.

I do not need to turn around to see the look of confusion etched onto your features. I can feel the weight of your gaze on my back as if it were your hand placed against it. When I turn, you have ceased your cutting; you have laid down the knife and have turned to face me with your arms across your chest. I mirror your stances as I lean back to rest against the edge of the sink and continue with my statement.

“No doubt you’ve caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror before you’d joined me down here, you must know how you look. And yet somehow you still manage to be as handsome as ever.”

Once again we have found ourselves in a strange spot where things are going swimmingly and yet we are overly cautious with our physical affection. Yet here, now, in this most intimate hour of the night I find that I want nothing more than to run my fingers through your unruly hair and feel your arms wrapped around me as our lips touch.

[iamakiller]

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[direnightshade-deactivated20240]

The heat of the oven wafts its warmth across my face when I bend down to open its door, revealing the preheated racks that are empty and waiting for the constructed apple crisp. I reach for the glass bakeware that contains our combined efforts and set it onto the center of the second metal rack so that it may receive the most even heat distribution during cooking.

When the oven door closes with a gentle thump, I turn back and look at the minimal mess that you are already well on your way to cleaning up.

“You missed a spot,” I exclaim in the midst of the steps that I take toward you now.

Your brows crease and your eyes dart around the island, stopping on the small line of flour that remains as I tap it once with my index finger to indicate its presence. In return you offer a disgruntled hum of acknowledgement, no doubt at the fact that you have even missed a single crumb, let alone a whole line!

“You missed one more.”

This time I am forced to bite back the look of amusement that threatens to form when your expression contorts to one of grave concern.

“Where,” you ask, now standing beside me whilst you focus your concentration on the island’s countertop.

Therein lies your biggest mistake.

I lift my hand and lightly wipe the finger still dusted in flour against your cheek, leaving behind a streak of white in its wake. Admittedly it is a juvenile move, but just as you found your remark whilst still in bed to be rather hilarious, so too do I find this moment to be exceptionally humorous.

But the laughs are short-lived, and soon they are turned to shrieks of protest as you envelope me in your arms and draw me close in an attempt at wiping the side of your face against my own with the intent of transferring the flour. Try as I may, no amount of flailing or attempts to get free from your grasp end up with any success. By the time the laughter subsides into warm smiles, both of us now bear a light coating of flour on our respective cheeks.

Now you are peering down at me as I look up at you, your arms are still secure around me and my hands remain pressed against your chest just as they’d been in the midst of our brief bout of playfulness.

“Dance with me?”

This time, it is my turn to look confused. For as long as we have been together I can only count on one hand the amount of times you have willingly danced with me; always claiming a lack of skill, you’d seemed to prefer sitting out such activities. But tonight has proven that it is full of surprises.

I nod my head and open my mouth in preparation to call out to the nearby Alexa to play one of the many songs we have on our collective home playlist. “Alexa play Michael Bub—mphf!” My command is effectively halted by the cupping over your palm over my mouth, the move causing my brows to furrow in momentary displeasure. I mumble incoherently again into your palm in an attempt to verbalize my umbrage and yet all you do is smile triumphantly in return.

I’m sorry, I didn’t understand that, counters Alexa to which I roll my eyes and your smile broadens considerably.

“Alexa, play Exes.”

Though my eyes narrow slightly, I don’t dare offer up any more protests. Of all of the songs you could have chosen, this one is one that I actually enjoy and so, I will allow your interruption this once.

When your hand slips away from my face, I follow you as you lead me away from the island to a more open space of the kitchen. As we find a suitable spot I slip my hand into yours whilst my other rests comfortably against the side of your arm. The familiar warmth of your other hand settles against my back and draws me as close as possible. I shift my position until I am in a position that allows me nearer to you and as we begin to sway slowly, I rest my head against your shoulder and close my eyes, allowing myself to relish this moment.

[iamakiller]

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[direnightshade-deactivated20240]

There is so much of this night that mirrors our first. It is unbearably late, and it feels as if the whole world is asleep save for us, much like it was at the very start of it all. When you peer down at me, thumb brushing away the last of the remaining flour from my cheek, it is with the same fond expression as when I’d placed your hand upon my chest in a moment of solidarity well over a year ago. And when your lips finally meet mine, the kiss carries the same slow, tender unhurriedness.

This time, however, as much as these moments are paralleled, things are different—vastly so. You are different. As am I. Unlike that first night, there is no mad dash to follow this tenderhearted moment, no imperative need to shed our layers and lose ourselves in one another; tonight there will be no rushing, no urgency because we no longer have the uncertainty of just one night.

Now we have all the time in the world.

This kiss stretches on and on, and yet by some terrible enigma, it also feels as if it has ended in the blink of an eye. The oven’s timer sounds, filling the hush of the space with its loud blare, beeping incessantly to alert someone to the fact that there is an item to be removed, lest it burn. Our lips part reluctantly, but your head tips to press your forehead to my own as our eyes remain closed and our lips stretch into simultaneous smiles.

“You should get that,” I say teasingly, which pulls a soft huff of laughter from you.

“I think it is you who should be getting it, my love. You are the instigator of these current events, after all.”

I scoff and the sound only seems to widen your smile considerably. Soon, I feel the soft press of your lips to my forehead, and only when you step around me to retrieve the potholders from a nearby drawer do my eyes open again. I turn to trace your movements with my gaze, watching as your motions stretch the fabric of the rope taught across your back when you bend down to retrieve the piping hot glass dish from the oven.

Beside you, I carefully lift myself up and onto the countertop to sit nearby as I have so often done in the past. This time I am not snatching pieces of vegetables that have been cut merely to appease my impatient self, but rather I am waiting with a new-found restraint in preparation of sharing the delectable dessert that we have created together.

“Come here,” I murmur once the peaceful silence has once again descended upon our shared space.

With the cobbler now set aside and cooling, you step into my space with a brow raised in silent inquiry. But rather than verbalize a response, I lift a hand once you are close enough and gingerly sweep my fingertips along your cheek, ridding you of the flour that had clung to your skin from our earlier bout of playfulness.

You smile and I mirror the expression.

This quiet moment is just one of many that we have shared lately, but something in this early morning domesticity feels different. It feels right…

I have waited what feels like a lifetime to reach this point with you, my love, and I would have waited lifetimes more. And though we have arrived to this place late, late is always better than never.

This is how it should have been, in the beginning, but we have finally arrived and it is where we are now.

[iamakiller]

Hello, Charlie! I know you have asked for anonymous opinions, but I think you’ll find my name important. I’ve heard you and your wife are big fans and I wanted to take this opportunity to thank you. I’ve included a signed poster of myself, as well as my entire Christmas collection on vinyl. Do be sure to give your wife my best for me, will you?