you bake when youāre upset or stressed - ghoap/f!reader
"Nothing," the quiver in your voice doesn't do much to dispel Simon's suspicion, and you toss the bowl full of brownie batter onto the counter. "I'm fine."
"You're baking at three in the morning, sweetheart. Did something happen?"
"I had a bad day, is all. It's nothing." The lie hisses through your teeth, jaw set tight as an attempt to keep everything bottled up where it belongs.
"What's going on?" Johnny's leaning against the counter in plaid pajama pants, gold ring on the chain around his neck glinting in the dimmed light of the kitchen. They both wear them, the rings, the ones complementing yours, a delicate twist of three threads, woven together to make one tight knit strand, looped together in a knot at the top of your finger where a diamond would normally go.
"Baked goods in the middle of the night." Simon sticks his finger in the batter, and gives you a knowing look. "You know I'll keep you here until you let it out." You shake your head.
"Let's go back tae bed then." Johnny's trying to coax you, gently, as always. It's his way. Soft, slow, sweet. Even keeled and sensitive.
It's not them. It's something else, something unsettled in your stomach you can't explain. It's you. Always you. Distraught. Disorganized. Disappointing.
"I need to finish these." Simon's focus is one of a predator's, and you're always prey. Analyzing, anticipating, nose to the ground on a scent. Heās already got you pegged, turned inside out. He knows.
When Johnny carefully wraps his fingers around your wrist and Simon hops onto the counter with his knees spread wide, you know you're done for.
You let them arrange you. Let Johnny push you between Si's thighs and cup your face, stroke your cheek. You go willingly, lacking a fight that was so prevalent only an hour before.
It takes two minutes of physical touch before you're crumbling.
"I had a terrible day," you sob, "I got a parking ticket and spilled my tea and missed an important email and then I bailed out of my work out halfway because I was miserable and then I didn't do anything at home, I wasn't productive, I didn't get any of the laundry done like I wanted and I left so many dirty dishes in the sink last night, I-"
"Okay, hey." Johnny rubs your arm, "hey, ye're alright dove. Ye're okay." He knocks his forehead against yours. "Jus' breathe f'me. Just breathe." You suck a long gasp in through your lungs, Simon tightening his hold enough to ground you.
"Who cares about the laundry? It's not even your week, and the dishes are our fault. You worked all day, we laid around. Should have done them."
"I know!" You cry, "I mean... you should have. But I left them and I feel like I'm always so disorganized, I'm always making a fucking mess."
"I'd clean up your mess everyday. I love you, your dishes and whatever elseā¦ none of it matters." Simon kisses your temple, "we both would. And there's nothing wrong with calling it during a workout if you're not feeling well. That's the right thing to do." You nod miserably, lingering in their hold, their arms, your heart rate slowly sinking back into a normal rhythm, your air coming easily.
"Now, do ye really want these brownies? Or do ye want to put the batter in the fridge?"
"Batter in the fridge." You press your face into Simon's shoulder, blocking out the light. You're suddenly so tired, energy drained from the emotional purge, and Johnny rubs your back.
"I'll put it away, ye two go get in bed. Put on a movie, an' I'll be in."
The bed is the coziest place in the house. The safest. The warmest. It's so easy to succumb to sleep and sweet dreams here, so it's no wonder by the time Johnny makes it back, you're barely awake. He tugs you away from Simon's snores and into his arms. "Ah love ye, dove. Messes an' all." You smile.
