TAPE ONE: - BATS IN THE ATTIC
JOHNNY 'SOAP' MACTAVISH X FEM!READER
TAGS - Explicit Sexual Content, Stalking, Sexual Harrassment, Dubious Consent, Implied Somnophilia, Violence, Unplanned Pregnancy, 1970s Period Setting, Size Kink
-
“Dinnae go all shy on m’,” he coos, in a tone that implies the opposite. “C’mon, anythin’ you wantae talk about, we can.”
“I don’t want to talk about anything with you,” you hiss down the phone.
You half-expect him to laugh at you, or continue groaning down the line but it goes quiet. The faint buzz of two phones connected and nothing else. There’s a deep buried and polite instinct that almost has you asking if he’s still there but you swallow it down and choke on it. Insane to wonder if you’ve hurt his feelings.
“That’s not very nice,” he says, voice scratchy. You swallow a whimper, unused to the gritty tone that he has now. “Are ye sorry?”
//
Or: the one where some pervert won't stop calling you on the landline. BLACK CHRISTMAS!AU
anthology masterlist here or read on ao3 here
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Winter has only just curled its cold hands around your window when the phone calls start.
You are the first one to answer, padding out from the kitchen with one eye still on the stove for your popcorn that you’ve just started cooking.
“Hello?” you say into the landline, tucking the receiver into your shoulder so you can tug your sleeves up.
The tinny whistle of two invisible lines connected, phone to phone. An electric landscape that you barely understand, dipping in and out.
“Hello?” you repeat, standing up straighter, phone back in hand. It’s a responsibility in the sorority, answering the phone. You don’t want to get nipped at later because one of the girl’s fathers phoned and you didn’t pass along a message correctly.
Then - a snuffle and there is life in that electric landscape. Breath, exhaled through wiring and into your ear. You press your ear into the phone, bakelite digging into your flesh, as if trying to get closer.
“Is someone there? Are you alright?” you ask, frowning to yourself.
The breathing has a heavy quality to it, a pant, on the verge of a grunt. Concern leaks away from you and discomfort crawls over you in its place. A sigh, veering sharply into something intimate that has your teeth on edge.
You’re about to hang up the phone and pretend that you never picked up in the first place, when the voice speaks. “Are you still there, angel?” it groans and you flash hot all over at how lewd the voice sounds. “Say something, anything. If I talk sweet enough, would you let me see your pretty pussy?”
You gape, floundering in your shock. “What -” you start before you can stop yourself.
He groans, long and overdrawn at that, and you slam down the phone before you can hear anymore. Back away, as if it were a curling viper. It rings again, a taunting note and you pick it to slam it down again. You pick the phone up from its handle and leave it on its side, the hum of the dial tone. Line busy, please call again later.
The calls continue, but you don’t pick them up. Your sisters in the house do. Bernie cusses him out and tells him to stick his dick in a woodchipper. Amy picks it up but drops it out of shock and it lies, dangling but alive until Charlotte had found it and terminated it.
He gets a nickname after a while. The Moaner. Bernie refers to him at the dinner table, although everyone else shushes her. He’s a dirty secret, a presence that sits, alive, in the dial-up phone but never to be discussed.
“Who gives a fuck,” Bernie poses, lighting a cigarette, her dinner untouched in front of her. “He gets to torture us but we have to prudish about it? Fuck him!”
It;s a sentiment that you echo, even though you don’t think you would have the same courage to curse him out on the phone. You haven’t answered since that first time, but you have heard him. Amy had answered and you had pressed your ear closer, just to hear the burr of his voice as he cursed at her.
It’s strange, he seems to have gotten angrier. On the phone with you, his tone had been coaxing, if rough. A lamb with sharp teeth and wide eyes, trying to pull you into the woods with it. His tone with the rest of the girls now is furious. Disguise off and prowling in its pen, blood in its gums and rabid.
You wonder who he is, find yourself skirting around the windows. You imagine that a man who is willing to stalk women over the phone wouldn’t be opposed to stalking them physically.
“That’s what he wants,” Bernie tells you, over a cup of coffee. All the other girls think that Bernie is too abrasive, and one bender away from a drinking problem. You like her well enough, have a fearful type of respect for the way that she barks and drinks and smokes too much. You’re both the same age, but she feels like a cool aunt that you never had.
“I know, it just makes me feel…dirty,” you admit, sighing before cupping your hands around your cup. Warmth bleeds into your palms, chasing away the chill of December.
“That’s what he wants as well,” Bernie says, stubbing out a cigarette, and lighting up another. “He gets to be the pervert but you get all the shame about it, He’s a cunt, if I catch him, he’s getting smacked.” She flashes you a grin that you echo, emboldened by her.
“Do you think we should go to the police about it, again?” you ask, shifting in the squeaky cafe chair.
Bernie shrugs. “Didn’t do anything last time,” she says. “Anyway, enough talk about The Moaner, what’s going on with you and Mick?”
You flush and try to pretend that you aren’t. “Nothing, he’s just being nice,” you say, unconvincingly if the way that Bernie smiles as if she’s scented blood is any indication.
“Yeah, nice in what way?” she asks, raising an eyebrow. You kick her under the table and she cackles. “Yeah, I’m sure he’s so nice to you. Is he?”
“Not like that,” you hiss, sure you’re about to overheat. “He’s just - he offers to walk me back after class, that’s it. We talk.”
“I’m surprised football players know how to do that,” Bernie muses, finally drinking some of her coffee, wrinkling her nose at the taste.
You roll your eyes, good-natured. “He’s sweet, I don’t know. I’m trying not to think about it.”
“Good call, you always overthink,” Bernie lets you know. “Have you slept with him?”
“I’m not answering that.”
“Which means yes,” she responds. You roll your eyes and take a pointed sip of your coffee until she changes the subject.
You stretch your head back and gaze out the window. The sun licks the edges of trees and sets them alight. Everything is beautiful, frost lingering on everything and making it all shiny.
The window is wide, allowing you to take in the entire scene. If anyone is looking back at you, you shrug it off, but turn away from the window. Just in case.
-
You sleep and dream of hands curling around your throat, pull you up until you’re hanging, feet glancing off the ground.
You shriek like a woman in an old horror film, beautiful even as you’re dying. The dreams stretch out, you’re brought back to life just to die again and again, your throat ripped and raw with the perfect scream each time.
A version of you stumbles into your room and tears through your belongings. Your mirror ends up smashed, your drawers pulled out and half of your clothes missing. You wake up and nothing is out of place, everything exactly where you left it.
Amy asks to borrow a skirt one night and you let her root through your drawers.
You swear that you can see eyes around your doorway in the mirror but when you turn around, no one is there.
“Are you alright?” Amy asks, holding your skirt in her hands, poised to leave.
“Yeah, sorry. Just - stressed, I have assignments due…” you trail off, fiddling with the end of the throw on your bed.
Amy nods with understanding. “That pervert on the phone isn’t helping,” she offers, folding your skirt over her arm. You jump, as if she was speaking about someone in the room with the two of you. But you know it’s just the two of you, you know this. “I know Bernie and the rest of the girls think that it’s funny to make fun of him, but I don’t know. You see all those stories of girls talking back to men and it always ends up horrible.”
A headache starts to build up behind your eye. “You think he’s going to get angry or something?”
“I think he already is,” Amy tells you, frowning. “You should have heard what he called Charlotte the other day, it was horrible.”
You have half a mind to ask exactly what was said, but you aren’t totally sure if you want to know. “I just don’t know what he wants,” you sigh, remembering how he had huffed at you down the line. Like all he wanted was to reach down the phone and stick his tongue in your ear. A queer feeling to be wanted in such a grotesque manner. Flattering and horrifying all at once.
“Not us, certainly, I don’t think he likes us,” Amy replies, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Considering he’s the one phoning us, he keeps telling us to - eff off.” You laugh at her attempt to swear which makes her give you a shy smile. “Charlotte says he’s a loser, and I agree, I’m trying to ignore him, I think you should as well,” she adds.
“You’re right, it’s just all so stupid,” you sigh. “Anyway, what do you need the skirt for?”
“I’m going to the football game, I thought you’d be going as well,” Amy says, holding the skirt up to her waist in your mirror.
“Why, because of Mick?”
“Well, you’re going steady, aren’t you?” Amy asks, folding the skirt back over her arm.
“I guess, he’s a nice guy,” you say. “I’ll see if I can swing by, but I’ve got assignments due.”
Amy nods and thanks you, taking a swift exit. Downstairs the phone trills to life and you hear someone answer it, feel a fine tension work up your back. It’s Charlotte but she doesn’t start yelling down the line, her laughter and faint words float up the stairs to reach you.
A strange disappointment lines your stomach, the anticipation of the guillotine drop thwarted. The headache pulses like something angry, knocking behind your eye until you give it some attention.
You force yourself up and get dressed. Mick will be happy to see you, and you can reach for that old giddy feeling that you’d had at the start of term when he smiled at you.
The phone rings as you leave and you slam the door shut behind you, cutting the sound in half.
-
A cold wind chases after you into the house, desperate to warm up as well. You lean against the door to get it shut, sighing as the howl is cut off.
It’s approaching the holidays, but you have a pile of assignments due in January that you’re steadfastly ignoring. You drop your bag next to the stairs, reaching over and picking up a stack of letters next to the phone and start flicking through them.
The phone rings, and without thinking, you pull it up and to your ear.
“Hello?” you ask, frowning as you scan for your name.
Nothing, then the stuttered breathing that feels as if it’s against the back of your neck. You stiffen, a presence on the phone, touching your ear, reaching in and breathing against your mind.
The creak of plastic as your hand flexes.
Then -
“Hey, angel,” the voice coos down the phone. You shudder and as if he knows, the edge of a pant comes out. “‘av missed you, where have ye been, ‘av been calling fer y’.”
“What do you want?” you ask, frustrated tears in the corner of your eyes. All the confused and oddly pleased feelings that you’d had alone in your room are gone when you actually have to deal with him.
“I can’t talk to my favourite girl?” he asks, and there is a genuine confusion laced around his words. So genuine, you imagine it must be mocking.
You look over your shoulder, able to see the edge of the kitchen window. It’s empty, nothing but the inky black of the early evening. All of the girls are upstairs, you can hear the tinny sound of Bernie’s record player.
When he calls in the afternoon, it’s easier to imagine him as a sad, pathetic loser, huffing and moaning down the phone at unsuspecting girls. There’s a sense of bravado that comes from gathering around the phone, giggling and muttering insults until someone says something clever. A crowd claps, the mic is tapped and the dig is read out.
Dark out, standing in your winter coat, snow in your hair, you feel like you may as well be alone in your home. Standing in the middle of an empty field, watching a shadow loom closer and closer.
There isn’t anything funny about the way you can imagine him straining himself to hear you over the line. His sigh when you don’t respond.
“Dinnae go all shy on m’,” he coos, in a tone that implies the opposite. “C’mon, anythin’ you wantae talk about, we can.”
“I don’t want to talk about anything with you,” you hiss down the phone.
You half-expect him to laugh at you, or continue groaning down the line but it goes quiet. The faint buzz of two phones connected and nothing else. There’s a deep buried and polite instinct that almost has you asking if he’s still there but you swallow it down and choke on it. Insane to wonder if you’ve hurt his feelings.
“That’s not very nice,” he says, voice scratchy. You swallow a whimper, unused to the gritty tone that he has now. “Are you sorry?”
You shake, eyes darting around the hallway, waiting for anyone to come down. This is how he speaks to the others, you recognise this tone. You don’t understand how the girls can shrug it off, you feel as if someone has pushed the barrel of a gun to your temple.
You wait for him to chew you out for your lack of response, but he suddenly has all of the patience in the world. The phone is a python curled around your arm, willing to wait forever for the best time to strike out at you.
You’re not fearless alone down here.
“Yes,” you say, trying not to sound pathetic and likely failing.
“Yeah?” he pants immediately, the image of a man leaning over and taking up your space comes to mind. There’s still an edge to it, like a wolf pawned off with a leg of meat. It’s still snarling at you even as it takes what you have to give.
“I -” you start before cutting yourself off. There is a moment where you realise what you’re doing. He isn’t real, he’s a voice on the phone. And you’re apologising and letting him frighten you.
“How are ye gonnae make it up tae me, angel?” he groans, and you don’t know if you’re imagining it, but you can almost hear a slick noise behind his voice.
He’s just a voice on the phone. You put the receiver down and hear the click of the call as it disconnects. You wait for it to ring again, for the wire to spiral up and snap at you.
It lies there, silent.
The house settles around you, beams of wood creaking as they groan and stretch, holding up all those rooms. It’d be easy to sneak around this building, the floorboards creak even when someone isn’t standing on them.
You go up to bed and you don’t tell anyone about the call. No one notes that The Moaner hasn’t called in a week.
You sit in silence, the quiet that is broken up by the trill of the landline. It doesn’t come again for a while, but you sit in it still. Waiting for the quiet to shatter, hand reached out and curved, perfect to receive.
-
Your dreams spiral out of control. Mostly figure-less, only sensation. A hand around your throat and the other hiking up your thighs until your chest is weighed down by your own legs.
A mouth on your cunt, then hands then something else, splitting you open until you hiccup as you try to buck away from it and also into it.
You wake up sometimes, sweat on your forehead and a pulse between your thighs. You lean back and lower a guilty hand, shivering with your clit is already swollen when you touch it. As if it’s already been coaxed out with a rough hand.
Time goes on, winter cracking open your window and chilling everything until you go to bed shivering. The nights keep you warm though, the dreams getting more and more vivid.
Before it was just sensations, a mouth detached from a body kissing you, but now the rest is here, pressing you down into the mattress and swallowing you whole.
Sex with Mick is nice. You’ve been seeing each other for months at this point, and he knows where to put his hands, how to tilt his head. He must treat it like he treats a football game - plan in mind, comes at you with steady hands and intent.
It’s nice, you either get off or you don’t.
The dreams are never in the shape of him, which you try not to feel bad about. A guilty desire, shaped in an impossible man. Someone bigger than you, firm where you’re soft. Digs his hand deeper than he should, just the edge of mean. Hands on your throat, sparking off a plug that you didn’t know was connected in the back of your mind.
You dream of being on all fours, your back in a painful arch while a man that you don’t know drives into you until you shriek. His hand comes over your mouth, two fingers pinch your nose, his hips colliding with your backside. He’s going to kill me, your dream self tells you and you come, twitching, with no air.
You wake up, on your front and your cunt feels swollen and sticky. You flop down, kick your duvet off until the cold air cools the sweat that has pooled at the small of your back.
You don’t think it’s cheating, but you don’t tell anyone about it either. All the girls would disapprove, or worse, Bernie would tell you that this means you need Mick to tie you up or something.
You don’t ask Mick to do anything of the sort, but the next time you kiss him, you scratch your nails through his scalp.
He laughs into your mouth, boyish. “What are you, an alley cat?” he muses, pressing a kiss to the corner of your lips.
“Sorry, I guess I got excited,” you murmur. There’s an illness in you, drip poison that starts at your tongue. You seem to be the only one getting sicker.
“Don’t be sorry for that,” he laughs again, kissing your cheek and giving you another kiss.
You fall asleep that night and dream that you’re getting fucked with your head under bathwater. You take a cold shower in the morning and ignore the lip of the bath next to your knees. If it matches the curve of your belly if you were to bend over it, that’s decidedly not your business.
-
Amy goes missing the week before Christmas. At first it’s shrugged off, assumed that she may have gone home early, or was staying somewhere else.
Another breakfast passes with an empty chair before the house mother decides to phone the police.
You watch the phone as the police sit you all down in the front room, asking you when you all saw her last, what she was wearing, where she was going.
It doesn’t ring, doesn’t chirp up, or join in on the conversation.
“Ma’am?” the police officer says, jumping you out of your reverie. “Is everything alright?”
You turn away from the phone where it’s mocking you on the sideboard in the hallway. “Sorry,” you mumble, ashamed and you don’t fully know why.
Everyone stares at you, waiting for you to elaborate, but the words are caught in the gaps of your teeth.
“There’s been a pervert on the phone, stalking us,” Bernie says, for you. She’s the only girl that doesn’t look ashen and frightened. Disturbed, maybe, but there’s a glass of vodka with it and the ice doesn’t clink against the sides as she holds it. “We’ve reported him before.”
“Do you think that he could have something to do with this?” the policeman asks.
“He’s been quiet recently. Maybe he feels rejected,” Bernie muses, taking a sip. She gets a dirty look for the nonchalant drinking, but you burrow yourself deeper into the couch. You don’t know why you couldn’t say it, why Bernie had to say it for you.
You don’t want to admit to the last phone call, the one only a few days ago, just before Amy disappeared. Guilt churns in your stomach, as if you know the direct series of events, and how they confirm that your rejection of the man on the phone has led to this.
Charlotte nudges your knee and you look up, blinking at the harsh beam of the policeman’s gaze.
“I’m sorry, I know this must be very distressing,” he says, trying to give you an encouraging smile. “Do you remember anything from the last time you saw Amy? Anything at all?”
You don’t. You don’t even remember when she disappeared, just that she isn’t here now. “I’m sorry,” you murmur, staring down at your hands.
The policeman, unconvinced, nods and moves on.
You feel a stare on the back of your neck, and you refuse to turn around. The prickling of nerves, the sore thud of your heart as you let a wave of nausea spread.
The police officers go to speak to the house mother in the kitchen, and the rest of the girls murmur between each other, a symphony of concern and fear. It pulses like a police siren through the room, turning your vision red then blue.
There’s a knock at the front door and you jump, frightened like a rabbit in a field. “I’ll get it,” you mutter, and stand up before anyone can stop you, your hands shaking and hidden in your pockets.
You can see the colour of Mick’s jacket through the glass window. You step outside, ignoring Bernie’s raised eyebrow and everyone else squinting at you in what feels like suspicion but could also just be general offence.
“Is everything alright, I saw the police car outside,” Mick says, cupping your elbows in his hands after you close the door behind you.
“What are you doing here?” you ask, tone more accusing than you mean it to be.
His grip falters a little, leaning back to peer down at your face. “We had a study date, remember?”
You drop your head in your hands, the heel of your hands digging into your eyes. “Yes, sorry, yes we did. Um, Amy is missing, so the police were asking some questions,” you say, voice trembling even as you make an effort to power through.
“Woah, alright, alright, c’mere,” he hushes you, tucking you into his chest, his arms around you. You sink in, shuddering as you accept comfort that you don’t deserve.
Mick is nice, with a sweet smile and muscles built up from high school football that he uses for college football. He’s a storybook, you look at his face and you can see everything that has happened to him and everything that ever will. It’s comforting to be with someone that’s so open. You know almost everything he’s going to say before he says it.
“That’s crazy, do they think she’s been taken or something?” Mick asks, his voice deeper where you’re hiding in his chest.
“I don’t know, they were asking us because they don’t know where she’s gone,” you say, sighing as his hand scrubs up and down your back. You pull back and wipe at your eyes, cast a self-conscious look at the glass window in the front door in case anyone can see you, but your attention is dragged back to Mick. “Sorry, can we reschedule, it’s just - I can’t right now.”
Mick is already nodding seriously. Solid and dependable, not even offended. Bernie is writing the script for this conversation inside, likely. “Please don’t worry about it, alright? I’m here if you need me alright, just give me a call? You should get back inside, it’s cold out.”
You nod, giving him a weak smile. He leaves you with a kiss on your forehead and a rotten feeling in your stomach. You pull the door open to get back in, stepping inside just in time to hear a slam upstairs. You peer up, but shrug it off when no one appears at the top of the stairs.
Bernie leans against the banister, freshly lit cigarette in her hand. “Golden boy ok?” she asks, taking a drag.
“Yes, we were meant to be seeing each other today, but I’m not up for it,” you reply, tugging the sleeves of your jumper.
“I’m sure if you put out later, he’ll forget all about it,” she says, which makes you scowl.
“Our friend is missing, maybe you should act like it, instead of getting drunk before the bars even open,” you hiss and storm upstairs.
“The police still want to talk!” she calls up the stairs after you.
“I don’t have anything else to say!” you yell back, storming into your room and slamming the door behind you.
You come to a stuttered stop, staring at your vanity table. The mirror is smashed, glass cracked down the middle, which you know wasn’t there the last time that you were here.
It would be easy to go downstairs and tell someone this. Report that someone has been in your room since you’ve been upstairs, only an hour ago.
Before you can stop yourself, you reach over and pull your mirror off the vanity and stash it behind your table. Then realise that it’s insane to do that and try to pull the mirror back out and cut your finger on the glass and hiss, cradling your hand to your chest.
Someone knocks on your bedroom door and calls your name softly. Charlotte, you think.
“Can I be left alone, please!” you call back, your voice on the edge of hysterical.
“Alright, I’ll check in later, alright?” she says and steps away, footsteps leading back down the stairs.
There’s glass all over your vanity table, made worse when you’ve started shifting things around. You sit on the edge of your bed and stifle a sob. You don’t know why you’ve hidden it, as if when you showed the police, they would know about the last phone call with The Moaner, that they would know about your weird, perverted dreams.
Now you’ve hidden it, and you can see it rolling out in front of you, a bad C-Tier Film. Here is the moment that you can open up, show the blood on your hand and cry and let someone sort it out for you.
You curl up in your bed and cry alone instead.
The house mother asks about the mirror the next day when you come back in from binning it. You gesture with your plastered hand, cut a few more times as you’d tied it up.
Everyone accepts it. Bernie sips a gin at breakfast and you don’t think you’re much better off as the porridge you pile into your mouth tastes like dirt.
-
You roll back and forth in the little hours of the morning, unable to sleep. Months ago and you wouldn’t have thought twice about getting up in the middle of the night.
It feels as if there’s a wolf prowling along the bottom floor of your house, and it’ll strike as soon as the floorboards creak beneath your weight.
You decide to force yourself up anyway. You won’t be scared away from your own kitchen. Besides, the mirror is gone, if someone wants to trash something else in your room, at least it’ll be easier to throw away.
You potter about the kitchen, filling a pan with some milk to heat it up for some hot chocolate.
The milk bubbles and froths, swirling as you stir it.
The phone rings like the drop of an axe.
You stare at it, broken down and wearied. You think about letting it ring out until the phone line bursts and shrivels but you don’t want to wake anyone else up.
You pick up the receiver and lift it up to your ear. “Hello?” you murmur, although you already know who it is.
“Hi, angel, ‘av missed ye, have ye missed me?” he croons down the phone at you.
“No, what do you want?” you mutter. You pick up the body of the landline and carry it over to the back of the sofa, leaning against it as the phone digs into the soft of your cheek.
“C’mon, sure ye have, ah can hear it in yer voice,” he coaxes. The phantom feeling of a finger running down your jaw, you shiver with it.
“Did you -?” you start, choking on your words. You want to ask but you’re not sure if you want the answer.
“Did ah…?”
“Amy, do you know where she is?” you whisper, the only way you can get the words out.
“Now, ye know that you’re the only woman in m’life, baby,” he croons, which you scoff at. “Who is she?”
“She’s in my dorm, she’s missing,” you say, voice trembling before you clear your throat.
“Aw, angel, dinnae cry, c’mon now,” he coos and you tilt your head back and stare up at the ceiling to stop any tears from falling.
“You don’t know anything about it?” you ask.
“Cross my heart, baby, ah swear on m’life. Now, stop crying, yer breaking ma heart over here,” he says, and you sniffle.
“Ok,” you mutter, and he hums in response. It has the edge of a grunt but you ignore it, desperately needing this to be a normal conversation. You hear the milk that you’ve left in the sauce pan start to spit. “I have to go,” you murmur.
He whines, and it’s mundane enough that it almost has you dropping the phone as you remember who it is. “Naw, c’mon, am starting tae tear up maself here, are ye no gonna cheer me up in return?”
“I-” you cut yourself before you offer a genuine response. “I have to go, I’m sorry.”
You hang up before you can say anymore, muttering a curse to yourself for apologising to The Moaner of all people.
You pour the hot milk down the silk and leave the pan to soak and drag yourself back upstairs.
You don’t dream for once, but you still wake up with an ache between your legs. Brushing your teeth in the mirror, you wonder if you should’ve asked if it was him that smashed your mirror, but you don’t think you want to know.
Lean your head down and spit, and you don’t look back up at the mirror before you leave.
-
You think that you may be pregnant, throw up in the morning and throw up again later when you take a test and it shows positive.
Bernie finds you staring at the wall in the bathroom, back against the cabinet under the sink. With your head resting back, you can feel each drip from the leaking tap as it slaps into the sink. You imagine it going right into your skull.
“Not that I haven’t been here myself, but are you alright?” Bernie asks, leaning against the doorway.
You wordlessly pass the test up to her and she whistles when she sees that horrible little positive sign on the stick.
“Wait, did you piss on this?” she asks, dropping it into the sink.
“Well, that’s how they work,” you point out, leaning forward just to rattle your skull against the ceramic again.
“Let’s not do that,” Bernie decides, reaching over and tugging you out from under the sink and over to the wall. “Right, well, what are we thinking?”
“Killing myself,” you say, which Bernie snorts at.
“Behave,” she mutters, sliding down to the floor next to you. She offers you her cigarette and you take a drag of it before coughing hard. “You are terrible at this, I feel like I’ve failed you somewhere along the way.”
“I’m not keeping it,” you announce. When you look over, she’s staring at the wall looking thoughtful. You feel the start of an apology, covered in mud, buried deep and starting to surface at the back of your throat.
Bernie looks over and sees the complicated look on your face. “I accept your apology, but I don’t accept you wasting my cig, give it here,” she says, pinching it back off of you.
You lean your head against her shoulder, sighing. “I’m gonna have to tell Mick,” you mumble, staring at where the paint has dripped off of the wall and dried into the running along the floor.
“I’m sure if you put out, he’ll forgive you,” she tells you, snorting when you whack her thigh. “Just use protection, maybe, you knob.”
You sigh again, and bat your hand out until she offers you the cigarette again.
-
Christmas is looming over you when most of the girls leave to go home to spend it with their families.
You’re very grateful that you aren’t the only one staying over the pinnacle week of December, able to dodge any digging questions about where your family are.
Yes, my parents are still alive. No, they don’t want to come and pick me up. They’re abroad, haha, lucky for some!
Bernie chain-smokes on the couch while most of the girls say their goodbyes and promise to be back for New Years Eve.
“Should we bring some boys over?” she asks, lolling her head back when the final head disappears out of the front door.
“I don’t think I’m interested in the type of boy that would be looking for a party with two random girls alone over the Christmas holidays,” you reply, throwing yourself into an armchair with a huff.
“I don’t think most guys would be into two girls, alone on Christmas, but we cannot afford to be picky,” Bernie lectures you.
You laugh then sober up, feeling awful for laughing when Amy is still missing. You went out with the girls, putting up posters on lampposts for anyone to report if they see anything. No one has and you’re starting to suspect that no one will.
Bernie, as if she can read your thoughts, muses around a cigarette, “I’m starting to think Amy had the right idea to swan off with some guy and head to a hot country.”
“Is that what she’s done then?” you ask, staring up at the ceiling.
“It’s what I intend to do next year, no offence, but you’re poor company. It’s like looking at some sad teenage pregnancy documentary that no one watched,” she says, raising an eyebrow over her glass of orange juice that’s likely spiked with something.
“My documentary would be super popular, I’ll have you know,” you respond, primly, which makes her laugh.
She sticks her tongue out at you, standing up. “We should still go and do something, that tree is fucking depressing.”
You look at the Christmas tree that the house mother had dragged out. It is very bald.
The house creaks above you, but you ignore it, smiling up at Bernie. “Yeah, ok, let’s go out,” you agree, and when the house settles again, it sounds disapproving but you ignore it.
-
The next day, the phone rings again when you’re home alone but you ignore it. It chimes, trilling again and again, needling at you. You force yourself to look unbothered, still somewhat convinced that The Moaner could be outside, peering through your windows, watching every tick of your brow.
Losing your composure is how he wins, and you are as stubborn as a mule, digging your heels in and raising your nose in the air.
You regret the conversation in the night the other day. You’ve encouraged him now, and now he’s constantly on the phone, winding Bernie up.
You listened to him on the other side of the landline while he cussed Bernie out. Amy had been right, he’s a lot rougher with everyone else compared to the slick tones that he used with you.
“I’m getting bored of this,” Bernie informed him, when he asked for you, then promptly hung up the phone. “Any reason that he’s asking for you, specifically?”
You’d shrugged and darted down the hall away from her scrutinising gaze.
Now, you wash your dishes, wipe down the counters, consider chipping away at some assignments that you have to finish. The phone rings and rings and rings. A gap of silence before it rings again, a hammer against the sensitive skin of your eardrum.
Still composed, you stride over to the phone and yank the cord of the wall and it stutters into silence. Not even dialtone, you leave it there, dead.
You sit at the kitchen table and sigh, thumbs digging into your temple, trying to push back a headache that is drumming behind your eyes.
The house settles around you, home alone it unsettles you. You sit up, look down the hallway that you can see through the kitchen door.
A creak of floorboards above you and you stare up at the ceiling as if you could see through it. “Hello?” you call, and it goes quiet again. The wind batters against the windows, whistling to get you to let it in. “Amy?”
There’s no answer. When you peer up the stairs, there’s no one on the landing.
You glare at the disconnected phone and kick the table it sits on as you go past.
-
“Did you disconnect the phone earlier?” Bernie asks, her hands on her hips. There’s snow on her shoulders, melting now that she’s stepped inside. Uncharitably, you don’t say anything, although you’ll have to listen to her complain about her coat being soggy later.
“Yeah, I thought it was the perv,” you say, primly, staring back at the TV and not seeing what’s on.
“Well, I was waiting for a call, you might’ve answered it for me,” Bernie sniffs, rolling her eyes when you don’t respond. “What the fuck is your problem?”
“I don’t have a problem,” you snap, hunching further down the sofa. Turning around would make it a true argument, and ruin the image of nonchalance that you’re trying to cultivate.
“Yeah, you fucking do, get a grip of yourself,” Bernie snaps back, making your shoulders hunch up to your ears. “I know there’s some shit going on, but maybe you should sort it and stop acting like an asshole, huh?”
“Rich coming from you,” you mutter, picking at your nails. Bernie scoffs and storms out of the living room. Leaving you in the shame of your own making.
You listen to Bernie stomping around upstairs, and sigh, rubbing your face down with your hands. As much as you hate to admit it, you do need to sort your shit out. It probably was The Moaner on the landline, but it could’ve been Mick, who is also spending Christmas on campus over break and who you have also been avoiding.
You pull yourself and reconnect the landline. You stare down at it, shiny and green. Completely inconspicuous. It sits, as silent as a babe as if it wasn’t your biggest torment.
You pick it up and spin the dial for Mick’s landline. An action that used to make you feel a bit giddy, finger skidding around the phone and getting the number wrong.
The line connects and your stomach drops. “Hello?” you ask, shuffling uncertainly. “Mick?”
Silence. Then - “Hey, you, I was calling you but your phone was down or something it wasn’t even ringing,” Mick says, half a laugh framing his sentence.
“Yeah, sorry, we’ve had some issues with it. Listen, are you free just now, I gotta tell you something,” you murmur, rubbing your temple.
“Oh dear,” he says, chuckling. “Am I in trouble or something?”
“Nah, nothing like that, listen it’s better to say in person.”
“Alright, yeah, no worries. Listen, I can swing by just now, if you want?” Mick says, his tone sobering when you don’t laugh back.
“Yeah, that’s perfect, thanks,” you reply, and murmur a goodbye. When the phone sets back down, it starts ringing again, loud and obnoxious.
You stare down at it, considering not answering but you’ve already pissed Bernie off, you don’t want to make it worse.
You lift the receiver up, but as soon as you hear the start of a Scottish accent, you disconnect the call. “Not now,” you mutter to it, as if it can hear you. It starts ringing again, but the door goes so you’re allowed an excuse to not answer it.
Mick stands at the door, lightly panting and giving you a sweet smile. “Sorry, ran over here, I thought something might be wrong,” he says, shuffling in as you open the door wider. He glances over at the ringing phone. “Do you need to get that?”
“Nah, it’s that pervert who keeps calling,” you explain, rubbing your eyes.
You set out to the living room, accepting your lot in life to always hear that same ringtone, but Mick reaches over and lifts the receiver before you can stop him. “Hello?” he says. There’s silence on the other side, you can’t even hear the burr of a response. Then - “Listen, mate, I think you need to leave these girls alone, alright? Or you’re not gonna like what’s gonna happen. Yeah?”
Mick doesn’t wait to hear what else is said because he hangs up pointedly. There’s a beat as you both stare at the phone and wait for it to ring again. A second, then another and it stays blessedly silent.
You can’t help but worry about any retribution from that, but you give Mick a weak smile when he spreads his arms out as if to say - see?
“Well, hopefully he’ll leave you alone, let me know if he doesn’t. If I get my hands on him, I’ll show him how to speak to a lady,” he announces.
“Right,” you murmur, nerves chewing you up and spitting you out whole. “Listen,” you start, turning into the living room. “I have something I need to tell you.”
He sits on the couch next to you, and looks at you very seriously. He’s so nice, he’s breaking your heart. “It’s alright, say it,” he says, like he knows already.
“I’m pregnant,” you manage, looking at a point over his shoulder to give yourself the strength before you look back at him.
He didn’t know already, his face goes slack and he blinks a few times, stupefied. “Right,” he murmurs, turning away and looking down at his palms as if trying to find some kind of answer there. “Right, ok.” He gives you another glance, then looks back down at his hands.
You sit, hovering an uncertain hand over his shoulder. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to spring that on you. I just thought it’d be best to come out with it.”
“Right,” he repeats, and you try to poke down the spike of irritation before it comes out.
“Listen, you don’t have to worry about it, ok, I’m not keeping it.”
His head yanks up to look at you. “What?” he asks, incredulously.
“Well, it’s not the best time for a baby is it? I mean, we’re both students, neither of us work -”
“I work at my dad’s office sometimes,” Mick interrupts.
You blink back at him, barely believing what you’re hearing. “Well, that’s nice and all, but we’re not ready for a baby.”
“Well, we don’t know that yet, do we? Listen, this is all very sudden, but are you telling me that there isn’t even a little part of you that is thinking of keeping it?” Mick asks, looking at you imploringly.
There is, but it’s in a small, selfish place within you. The same place that is living with all the money in the world and doesn’t have to think about dealing with any real life problems. “I don’t think that would be best,” you say, frowning.
Mick scowls over at you. Gone is the sweet man who walked you home and smoothed your hair out of your face when it was windy. “So, you just get to decide that then? No input from me, it’s not a group decision?”
“What are you talking about, group decision?” you repeat, flummoxed. “I’m not getting married, I want to actually live my life first!”
“So, marrying me would be ending your life?”
“Oh my god,” you groan, dragging your hands down your face. “That’s not what I meant, I just -” you sigh, standing up and trying to inhale a deep breath to get your words right. “If we got married, then there would be kids and a wedding and a house and - I don’t want to do that yet! I want to do something first, and then think about that.”
Mick stares back at you, incredulous. “I never said that we had to do all of that -”
“Oh, come on, Mick, what else are you saying! I’ll keep it and what - keep studying? I’d have to drop out, and you’d have to support me, and people would talk if we weren’t married - and then that’s exactly where we would end up.” You sigh, turning away from him. You tug your hair out of your face, feel the pull on your scalp. Little pinpricks of pain, needling and firing up your annoyance.
“I just think that we should talk about this some more,” Mick says, approaching you. You can hear the groan of the floorboards, the heat of his hand before it reaches your shoulder, but you duck away from it before it can connect.
“I don’t want to talk anymore, I’ve just let you know what’s going to happen. I think you should go, Mick,” you say, crossing your arms over your chest.
“I don’t think that’s going to help,” he argues, making you roll your eyes..
“Mick, listen, I don’t want to talk about this anymore, please,” you say, stepping back again when he reaches for your hands.
Mick says your name, the way that he has a hundred times and you shut your eyes to it.
His hands still on your arms. There’s a horrible crunch and when you open your eyes, you see Mick staring down at you, his face frozen in confusion. “What-?” you start and then he falls forward and you see the mess of the back of his skull.
There’s blood trickling down the back of his coat, mixing with the snow that was lingering there. You try to catch him but he’s too heavy and you both slump down with the combined weight. Yourself versus gravity, a losing battle.
“Put ‘im down, lovely,” a voice says, something that you’ve heard too many times, only without the tinny whistle of the phone line over it.
You stare over at the man from the phone, barely understanding what he’s saying. He’s standing there, tall in your living room. Taller than any man you’ve seen, in a grey henley that is stretched over the muscles in his chest. He looks angry in a badly concealed way, his jaw sharp beneath a 5 o’clock shadow.
Your eyes drag down a muscled arm and see a brick in his hand, blood on the corner. “Oh my god,” you whimper, knees buckling as Mick’s feet go out from under him.
“Here,” the man says, reaching over and plucking Mick out of your arms. He makes it look easy, as though Mick isn’t nearly as tall as he is. You step forward as if to stop him, but he only lifts Mick a step away and lets him drop to the floor, along with the brick. “There we are, what a bore he is, huh?” he grins, teeth keen in his mouth.
You stare at him, tears in your eyes. He groans at the sight, the way he had on the phone. You’d taken it for sympathy, but now you can see his expression, you can see the way his eyes light up as the tears gather in your waterline.
“Hey, c’mere, sweet thing, stop that,” he coos, reaching out for you.
“Why did you do that?” you whimper, glancing down at Mick, slumped out on the rug, blood staining the back of his head. The man cups your face, and you can feel the sticky drag of blood on his fingers. “Please don’t.”
“Shh,” he coos, leaning forward and nudging his nose against your own. “‘am here, ‘ave got you.”
His words are the opposite of comforting, pure terror as cruel hands cradle you. “I don’t-”
“Sweetheart, it’s alright, all this stress isn’t good for the baby, yeah?” he murmurs, stroking his thumbs along your cheeks. He looks so happy now, blood lightly splatters in the shadow of his beard, gazing down at you like he might even love you.
“The baby…?” you repeat, voice weak.
He shushes you, leaning down to kiss you, quick enough that you barely have time to jerk back. “It’s alright, ‘am no’ going tae leave you, ye hear me?” His hands cupping the back of your neck, supporting your head. His thumbs dig into the soft skin under your chin, raising gooseflesh across your skin.
Mick groans on the floor, and the man looks a moment away from snarling. Over his shoulder, on the stairs is Bernie. Point of contact, you want to reach out and grab her, cower behind her and let her take over. She’d never find herself in this position, you’re certain of it.
You glance down at Mick, the blood seeping into the rug. Amy’s bedroom gathering dust. “We should go,” you say, loud enough that Bernie freezes on the stairs.
The man’s attention is dragged back up to you, eyes scrutinising you.You’re a terrible liar, you always have been. “Yeah?” he asks, staring at you, unblinking.
You nod, swallowing harshly. “Yeah, I want to go. With you. We should go,” you stammer, hesitating in the air before you lay a hand on his cheek. He’s stone, staring down at you. He’d been hunched before, but he’s at full height, blocking your view of the stairs. You barely come up to his chest and that has another tremor rocking through you.
It’s not working, you go to lower your hand but he catches it, looks at it, cradled in his. He leans down and nudges his nose against your own. He kisses you again but this time it’s open mouthed and wet. You can barely keep up, tongue tentatively touching back before he sucks it into his mouth with a groan that you feel vibrate into your chest.
When he pulls back, there’s a string of spit between your mouths which you break with your hand and an embarrassed look that he seems to like. “Let’s just go,” you say, looking up at him, pleading. “Please,” you add, voice trembling.
“Aw, now how can ah say no after you’ve asked so nicely,” he murmurs, pressing a harsh kiss into the crown of your head.
He pulls back and you can see that the staircase is empty, making you inhale shakily with something like relief and devastation. Mick’s hand twitches on the floor but the man barely spares him a glance and his gaze turns hot on the side of your face when you linger for a second too long.
“You ready?” He asks.
You don’t nod but you let him tug you out into the cold. The last image of the house is the phone sitting, quiet and docile, on the sideboard in your hallway.
-
You stare at the rest of your life standing in a motel bedroom in front of you. He’s taller than you thought he’d be. Even in your guiltiest moments, you’d been convinced that he would be small, maybe a bit snivelly. Someone that would resort to doing all of this because he was convinced that no one would want him.
You’re a bit baffled because this man is built. He pushes the hold-all into the corner of the room, and you watch the flex of the muscles in his back through his shirt. He looks strapped into his henley, ridiculous pecs about to burst out of it, the hair on his chest peeking over the neckline.
You hover, unsure what to do with your hands as you watch him. He looks up at you, crouched over and unpacking his belongings. “Are y’alright there?” he asks, raising an eyebrow at your shuffling.
“Yeah,” you say, voice higher than you intend it to be. This captures his full attention as he turns to fully face you, still on his knees, but he still feels like he’s taking up most of the room. “I don’t have any pyjamas,” you add, for want to say anything.
His grin, raunchy, has you forgetting the situation that you’re in so you can look away, mortified. “Well, that’s no’ a problem, angel, I reckon you could fit in my shirt easily enough.” He stands up and crosses the space between you in a few steps before you can say anything. He circles your waist in his hands, as if measuring but his gaze is heated on your face.
“What’s your name?” you ask, blinking up at him.
He startles as if he thought you’d already know it. “It’s Johnny,” he murmurs, eyes heavy lidded as he takes in your face. They’re blue, you think. Something that startles you more than it should. Someone looked at those eyes and named him once, and years later, he’s standing here with you.
You introduce yourself, but this seems to amuse him more than anything.
He reaches up to cup your face, his fingers long, swallowing up your face. “Why are you doing this?” you ask, voice fragile.
“What a silly question,” he scoffs, thumbing over your cheekbones. “Yer the one for me, I knew it the second ah heard yer voice.” One hand smooths your baby hairs out of your face, the callouses in his palms dragging against your skin.
You don’t know what to say, staring up at him, frozen. He has to be insane, that’s the only way to explain it. His affection seems volatile, blaring hot and sparking off your skin.
His pupils are blown, until the blue is almost gone. He leans down and kisses you. You’re still frozen, ice rapidly melting until you feel like you may disappear.
It’s chaste until it isn’t, his lips parting your own and there isn’t anything teasing about it. His tongue is in your mouth, licking along your own and he groans, deep in his chest.
Stubble catches against your chin. You’re barely able to do much else than let him tilt your head back, thumbs on the hinge of your jaw so he can kiss you deeper.
He pulls you towards him, sitting on the bed and yanking you onto his lap. You cling to his shoulders. An exhale, rough, as you feel his hands cup your backside. He groans, his hands squeezing. You blink at him - embarrassed and horrified all at once. To be wanted so openly feels rotten and flattering all at once. A confusing cocktail of emotions that flutter up through your chest..
He kisses you again, pulling you on top of him as he leans back. Everything is almost frantic about it, his hands trying to touch every part of you at once. On top doesn’t seem to be enough for him because you’re rolled beneath him soon enough, his mouth pulling back from your own so he can lean down to suck a mark onto your neck.
Catching your breath, you realise that there is spit down your chin, slick and cooling which makes you repress a shudder.
“Wait, I don’t think we -” you start, cut off when he yanks your shirt down to kiss the start of your breast. Your bra irritates him, yanked down as well so he can suck your nipple into his mouth. Your nails dig into his shoulders, thick muscle that you barely make a dent in. He pulls back, dragging his teeth over the sensitive skin which makes your breath hitch.
“Fuck,” he mutters, hands fevered as they reach for the waistband of your jeans. Your nails dig in, small crests in the cotton fabric but he barely notices. “I need to taste you, angel, it’s been killing me, please.”
“I don’t think - ” you stammer, but he lifts you bodily and whips your trousers down your legs, getting caught on your ankles where your slippers are still on. You squeak but try to stop yourself from shaking too much. The image of that brick in his hand, the same hands that he slides your thighs now.
He barely seems to care, ducking down and spreading your thighs over his shoulders. Your heels kick at his back, but he’s pulling your panties to the side and cooing at the sight of your bush. “There she is, there’s my girl,” he murmurs, reaching his hands up to yank your panties down to your knees.
Any moment not spent with his face close to your cunt seems to be a moment wasted as he drops back down so hurriedly. He uses his thumb to part you, the breath getting knocked out of him at the sight of your bare cunt.
“Fuck, baby, she is so pretty,” he sighs, pressing a rough kiss to your clit that makes you jump before he opens his mouth whole and laves his tongue all over you.
It’s so messy - his grunts as he eats you out, his tongue dipping into your hole which makes you burn white hot. You think he’d reach all the way in, lick all the way until he ended up in your chest to eat the muscle of your heart.
He sucks your clit in his mouth and you yelp, kicking his back which makes him laugh. Your hands dig into his scalp, scratch red lines that you can’t see.
His thumbs dig into the back of your thighs, holding you still even as he works his tongue flat over your clit. You whine, almost sobbing, hips jerking as you try to resist grinding against his face.
One arm hooks around your hip, his hand lowering so he can pull the hood back on your clit. You hear him coo before he licks over it, fat and wet.
A shard of light, stretched long and it bursts, cracks right along your spine. You groan, deep in your chest as you come, legs kicking out as your body is shocked back into itself. “Oh fuck,” you mutter, grunting as he pushes his hands down on your hips to hold you still. You don’t want to look down, see the mess between your legs and likely his grinning face. You cringe as you hear his mouth pull back from your sex, the sound wet and slick.
“Fuck, I always knew that you would taste good,” he groans, spitting on your cunt which makes you jump. He kisses a rough path up your torso, his stubble rubbing against your sensitive skin and setting it alight as he goes. You groan as he pushes your legs apart, an ache building in the muscle of your upper thigh.
“Huh,” you manage, eloquently, before he dips his tongue in your mouth and you’re thoroughly distracted.
You’re fluid, tugged in whatever manner Johnny wants you. He pulls you up, his hands on your backside to brace you over his thighs.
Your slippers have kicked off but your jeans are still tangled at your ankles, another barrier to prevent you from moving away. Not that you have any strength left to think about it. He unbuckles his belt and the sound is erotic, you still have enough shame to look away from his hands.
You feel the nudge of his cock against your cunt, but you’re so wet that it starts to slide in. Your mouth falls open, eyes fluttering shut as he starts to work into you. Johnny’s head drops to the pillow beside you, whining into your ear as he gets halfway in. “Holy fuck,” you manage, gasping out.
He pulls back just to push back in, dropping his hand back down to your clit which has you twitching. You clench down which makes Johnny’s eyes roll back in his head. He mutters some kind of prayer under his breath as he thrust back into you.
A moment later and he bottoms out, his forehead digging into your clavicle. He’s deep enough in you that you can feel him in your chest. You pant, unable to catch your breath even though he hasn’t moved yet. “Johnny -” you start, but just saying his name makes him moan so loudly that it cuts you off.
“Have some mercy, angel, ‘am no’ trying tae embarrass myself here,” he tells you, gripping his hands on your waist. You clench down on him as he says that, making him thrust against you even as he’s buried all the way in.
“Hang on, wait -” you start, voice high and breathy in your chest. Your hand is clammy and skids across his shirt. He bites down on your collarbone and sets to work.
Everything is sticky. You can hear the wet slap of your bodies as Johnny pulls back just to buck back into you. He’s barely pulling out, as if he can’t bear it, cock kicking inside you as you whimper.
There’s a dull ache, as he must be knocking against something deep and unseen. It’s a strange pain, that you think you must like, legs jumping to try and cling onto him.
“Holy fuck, you’re so good, even better than ah thought,” he huffs against your collarbone, his voice liquid and slurred.
“Uh huh,” you respond, eloquently. He pulls back just to yank his shirt off with one arm. A flash of cold air that almost knocks you before it’s swept away as he drops back down. A wall of heat bearing down on you.
Your mind is leaking out of your ears with each thrust into you. Your whines are punched out of you, and you’d worry about being loud if Johnny wasn’t drowning you out. He’s babbling into your throat, his hands digging into your ass to buck into you harder, your lower back lifted right off of the cheap mattress which shrieks in protest to all this movement.
“There’s a girl, c’mon you can do it, fuck, this is the best little pussy, huh?” he moans, hot air against the soft underside of your chin. His hand drops down to your clit and you jump, electric wire touched and skeleton on display.
“Oh Christ, no,” you moan, and he scrapes his teeth along your jaw, his thumb relentless even as you squirm away.
It’s a gathering of heat that you don’t feel equipped to deal with. You try to tell him, but the weight of him against your chest is suffocating, the hair on his chest is matted in with your combined sweat.
Your back arches off of the bed again, coming harder this time. You feel the wet that comes out of you this time, feel each pulse as it rocks through you.
“I can’t,” he whines, huffing into your neck, his hands bruising on your hips. “Tightest cunt - ‘Av never - oh fuck, fuck.”
He groans like you’ve stabbed him. The kick of his cock and then heat pooling in you as he grinds against you, buried to the hilt.
He finally stops and the room is filled with wet panting. Your thighs tremble, spread over his own. There’s a pain on your ankle where your jeans have rubbed against them and are likely irritated now.
His thumb brushes over your clit and you hiss, almost bucking him off of the bed. “Easy,” he laughs, breathlessly, pulling his hand back and leaning back. All his breath is knocked out of him as he looks down and sees his cock buried in you. He runs a thumb through your bush, everything wet and shiny, his gaze reverent.
When he starts to pull out, you can see a white ring of both your cum on his cock. Shame curls in your stomach, disgust as the levity of the situation you’re in starts to weigh on you.
You look up at the ceiling, white paint applied haphazardly and without care. Johnny smooths his hands up the curve of your waist and up around the back of your torso. His hands dig in, oddly fascinated by the feeling of your shoulder blades beneath his hands.
He slams down into the bed next to you, tugging you over onto him. One hand holding yours, his other rubbing up and down your back. You fuss, dragging your jeans off of the one leg that it’s still clinging to. Jeans thrown off, you flop back down, and Johnny receives you, palms hot against your skin. He still has his jeans on, the fabric rough against the skin of your legs but you can barely do more than twitch in protest.
You stare at the faint freckles that you can see through his chest hair, dotted all along his chest. He’s like a dog, nuzzling his head into yours for affection.
He runs his thumb along the back of your hand, lingering on the tendon that leads up to your ring finger. “Me, you, and the wain,” he says, voice satisfied. A bear in the back of a cave, sated, surrounded by bones. “Tha’s all we need.”
The rest of your life, laid out for you. You feel dull, wrung out and dropped into a puddle. “Yeah,” you murmur, thinking about Bernie on the stairs, Amy’s missing person posters, Mick and his blood on the house mother’s rug. You made the decision there, in the space between you and Bernie. Time to live in it.
Johnny pulls you up to kiss you easier, and you let your mouth drop open and swallow his spit like arsenic.
-
You stand in the car park while Johnny haggles for a car. You feel more pregnant now, a small bump that you and Johnny notice, but everyone else could ignore.
It’s still winter, but Christmas has passed along with New Year, well into the chill of Marsh that is overstaying its welcome.
Johnny jogs back to you, keys in hand that he shakes above his head. “Guy tried to rip me off, but I got a decent price for it,” he tells you. When he reaches you, he loops his arms around your waist and reels you in. “Hey, pretty lady,” he grins.
“How much did you get for it?” you ask, raising an eyebrow as he kisses your cheek, then your hairline, your temple. It feels bizarrely domestic, if you ignore your missing poster on the pole over his shoulder.
“Nothing out of budget, don’t worry,” he mutters, pressing a rough kiss to your jaw and tugging your scarf down to mouth at your neck.
You hum, letting him do as he pleases for a second before you whack him with your gloved hand. “My ankles are sore, can we go?” you ask, peering up at him with wide eyes when he pulls back.
He snorts. “Let’s get you out of the cold,” he murmurs, onto your temple, as if it was his idea.
A script from another life. You let him pull you into the car and buckle you in, suffocatingly affectionate.
You tug your gloves off and he kisses you. One hand on your belly, the other on the ring on your finger.
You sleep while he drives and dream about chopping down power lines until your hands are covered in sores from the handle of the axe. You wake up and they’re still standing. As they always have.
[EJECT]
