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Here are Our Life things I have written :)
Anyway I used to do a bunch of poly OL stuff and can you imagine sitting around with Cove, Derek and Baxter, just reminiscing about the good old days and all the memories, and you and/or Derek bring up the 10-year deal you made that first summer and the cute little conversation you had about it.
And it's fun and sweet and everybody's laughing and cuddling and so on and Derek is like, "You remember what you said when I asked if you liked anybody and you said Cove's dad?"
Derek laughs like it's just the silliest little thing, but Baxter laughs a little more wicked, because he knows exactly what you meant when you said that. Cove, of course, wishes to perish immediately.
"What?" Derek asks, looking between the three of you. "What is this?"
"What's what?" Baxter asks, coy as ever.
"This little thing. What don't I know?"
"Seems you were the first to know, now doesn't it?"
Cove groans from his spot slumped down on the couch, saying, "Can we please not? Ever?"
Derek pauses, looking around at the little group once more before his eyes widen.
"No way ... Cove's dad? Really?"
It's shock more than anything -- Derek isn't the type to ever judge anyone for anything, least of all you. Cove though, he's judging plenty, so you spend the rest of the evening telling and showing him that while your first crush may have been on his dad, he's the Holden who ultimately captured your heart.
But later, after the sunshine boys have gone to bed and it's just you and Baxter tidying up the house and enjoying the nighttime, he shoots you a knowing little wink.
"You know, I must say, it is a bit of a boost to the ego to know that throughout your formative years, you had such a delightful array of men in your purview, and yet when fate was kind enough to put me in your sights as well, you deigned to give me the time of day."
You laugh and drop the chores for a moment to wrap your arms around his waist.
"I love you. I love all my guys. But if Cove's dad gave me the slightest inkling that --"
You're not sure what exactly interrupted your teasing remark -- if it was Cove storming into the living room with that cute harmless glower, or Derek unceremoniously tossing you over his shoulder to carry you to the bedroom, or maybe it was Baxter's twinkling laughter washing over you ...
Either way, there's obviously nowhere else you'd rather be.
One of my most closely held beliefs about Baxter that no one ever agrees with me on is that at some point in college, he had a buzzcut.
I get it, it doesn't feel right, but just walk with me for a moment.
So like probably around junior year, he's just done with it, right? The black and white thing, all of it, because have you ever gotten so depressed and thought so little of yourself that any attempt at trying to make yourself feel or look better felt like a joke? I think he did that. So like a big moment (internally) of him tossing the eyeball shirts and the strictly themed clothing, then the clippers, then the hair goes.
It only grows out a little before he can't stand it and starts dyeing it straight black, and that make him feel even worse somehow - he couldn't stomach the effort or the style that used to make him feel good, but he couldn't stomach himself natural either. It's that itchy, unsettling feeling of never being able to get comfortable in your own skin but amplified, because even the mask doesn't help anymore.
And that's why he had the little moment in Step 4, with the not-quite-black food coloring - because for a second he was taken back to that moment, to that feeling. A reminder that even though he's got a shiny new mask now, the old wounds never really healed.
But then, a few years later, I think he'd cut it short again. But it's easy this time, in the startling way that so many things have become - he's decided he's tired of the effort of all the dye jobs. He doesn't need it in the way he always did.
So he simply stops dyeing it, the roots grow out, but that looks sloppy, and even if he is feeling more settled now, sloppy is simply not in his nature. He forgoes the clippers this time and gets a shorter cut, and sure, it's a little uncomfortable seeing himself with that natural grey he's always hated, but when you run your fingers through it, smiling and soft, the metal of your wedding band lightly grazing his scalp ... I'm just yapping honestly, but it's just something I like to think about.
No because how come during the soiree he has his charming, polite smile on the entire time and he only breaks eye contact twice - once IF you turn him down, he has one quick moment where his smile falls before he puts it back in place, and the other is right after delivering this line. I haven't played the OLNF demo in a long time tbh but obviously something was on his little baby brain here. Maybe a rare moment of sincerity from all the practiced charm and politeness? Maybe his sentimental soulmate senses were tingling and he didn't know what to do with it? Maybe an awkward moment where he actually acted like a 14-year-old and this little unprompted comment slipped out before he had a chance to dress it up and make it something more unique, more snappy, more something, you know? And it made him falter. But also just truly thinking of how this could so easily be, regardless of what Baxter became to you, one of those fast, weird moments that stick with you for the rest of your life, that you think about sometimes when your mind wanders. And then, if he did become something to you, you bringing it up one day out of the blue. "Why'd you tell me I have nice legs?" you'd ask, and he'd pause, rolling over to face you in bed or turning to you in the shower or the kitchen or wherever else you are.
"At the soiree, when we were kids," you'd clarify. "That's the last thing you said to me before running off. 'You have nice legs.' Why?"
"You remember that?" he'd ask, no small amount of awe in his voice. Because he remembers that, he remembers everything, but he didn't expect you would.
"Of course I do."
And he'd laugh, warm and open and free, and wrap his arms around you, tucking you into him.
"You did have nice legs. You do," he'd answer. "I couldn't help but tell you. I never have been able to help myself when it comes to you, darling, I thought you'd have known that by now."
heya! i just wanna say that its wonderful to see you writing for our life again, ive missed seeing you on my feed so so much, and i implore that the fandom simply has to be ignored sometimes 💔 it really sucks that the fandom is so concrete on their interpretations that it creates outright hostility, beating down creators and just preventing works like your wonderful stories!! being created. I've always loved how you write and the scenarios are always so scrumptious 🫶 even if im biased to a certain surfer dilf.... anyway WELCOME BACK TO OLBA YAYY -cliff holden anon 🦈
HI HI HI, fellow dilf enjoyer!!! Mostly I'm not really bothered by the way the fandom is, I think it's always been that way, it was more personal stuff sort of affecting my love of these particular pixels. But life is short etc and they're just so good!!! Thank you so much, I really appeciate the kindness <3 ANYWAY I am working on a Cliff fic do you want to see?!
Cliff has spent most of his life atoning for the things he's done.
Which isn't to say that he does things purely out of guilt, or that he's resentful of where he is in life. In fact, he's happier than he ever thought possible.
It's just that, for a period of time, it felt like he consistently did the wrong thing. His marriage, his parenting in Cove's early years, even before that, when he was restless and wild and empty ... he couldn't seem to get things right. And now that he knows that, now that his head is clear and he has a life he wants to protect and nurture, it's more important than ever that he keep on the straight and narrow. That he works hard, puts everything he has into his son, and anything else ...
Well, it's just not very important.
It only makes sense that, after pushing so relentlessly for perfection, when he fell, it was spectacularly.
Also what about a Baxter x MC thing but they're not really very soulmate-coded?
Like you date in Step 3 and all and you connect, but when he leaves at the end, it's sad, but it's not the end of the world. You always knew it wasn't serious, and you wish he would have wanted to keep in touch, but that's what he wanted and so that's what you got.
Five years go by, you date other people, life goes on. And then, when you see him again that first time in the office, some little primal thing in the back of his brain screams that it's fate. He stifles it and shuts it down, but it's there, and he doesn't care for it.
And when it turns out that you've already got some boyfriend, one it seems you're at least reasonably happy with, it's just salt in the wound. Fate was kind enough to put him in your path twice already, and third time is obviously not the charm.
Ok then everything else happens, the wedding, the confrontation etc, and it's not some magical thing. He doesn't win your heart over then and there, and when he watches you smile softly when you text your boyfriend in his kitchen the night before the wedding, he tells himself it doesn't sting.
He's never been anyone's first choice, why would that be different now?
Because it's a sloooooow burn this way. It's you bringing him coffee some mornings because his office is on your way to work. It's him having someone to text when he sees something he just can't keep to himself, and the soft, airy feeling he has when he realizes he doesn't have to anymore. It's you digging into his weird little brain because one summer five years ago wasn't nearly long enough to explore all its intricacies. It's him being ok with the holidays because he knows, before you even ask, that he has somewhere to go.
And then it's spring in Prism Vista, and you telling him over drinks that you and your boyfriend split. Nothing dramatic happened, you tell him, you just didn't really see it going much further.
"Is that what you're interested in then?" he asks. "Going further?"
You shrug and hum and sip your drink, and after months of you showing up, he lets that old hope show up too.
Time goes by, and you bring him coffee a little more often, and after some more time, he stops feeling like he's monopolizing your weekends when he asks to take you dancing. It feels like that summer, but also not at all. Because you connect all over again, and he still feels that pull to you, but there's no deadline now. He doesn't feel that restlessness he did before that always made him feel so impermanent. You anchor him, and he lets you, and it pulls him even harder.
And then it's one Friday night, and you're at his place, out on the balcony, and you tell him someone from work asked you out.
"Is that so?" he asks. His voice is carefully measured, and the funny thing is that that's the tell now -- over all these months, he's let himself get a little less careful with you.
"Tomorrow night," you tell him, looking out at the skyline. "I haven't answered him yet, he just said to text him."
Baxter opens his mouth to say something, then shuts it, because he's nothing if not polite.
"What was that?"
He gives a curt little shake of his head, looking out at the view himself but feeling your eyes on him anyway.
You could always read him though -- that's why he got into so much trouble with you in the first place. You can pick him apart so easily, strip him down and see through it all, which is exactly what you do now.
"Baxter," you tell him, your voice softer than before. "You know ... you're allowed to want something."
Logically, he knows that, but in practice, wanting has never got him much of anywhere. But you sound so earnest, and you're in his space, and he does -- he wants to want something.
"It was only that I'd planned to invite you out for the evening myself," he said.
It's like he feels the warmth of your smile before he sees it, then you tell him that that's just fine by you.
It's not fate in the loud, miraculous way, his reunion with you. It's a choice both of you make, over and over again.
And he did. And he will.
Just thinking about Baxter learning piece by piece, over weeks and months and years, that during that one summer when he was 19, he was important to you.
Not a pretty little flicker, fun for the moment and forgotten about after it was over. That he'd managed to weave himself into your universe, even when he was sure he didn't have the ability.
Like a few weeks after Jude and Scott's wedding, you invite him out for drinks with the gang and you order a peach bellini and shoot him a little knowing wink. Sometime that fall you're picking the music while he drives and you put on one of those old screamo songs he liked back then and you tease him about it.
You can tell him over and over that you cared for him then, that you care for him now, that you would have been in his life in all the time between had he just able to believe that you wanted to be. He'll hear it all, he'll listen, he'll treasure every word, but he's been underwater for so long, it's hard for it to truly sink in. It feels good, but it also feels tentative, at least at first. Too fragile.
It's in those little things, the pieces of proof that that summer left an imprint on you as much as it did on him, that settle him over time. It's in jokes about khaki shirts, the reflection of the fireworks in your eyes on New Years Eve and the way that, when you look at him, he knows you're thinking about that first night you watched them together, because he knows you well enough now to know what you’re thinking.
And he knows that, since that very first summer, you’ve known him.
Why is the fandom bad? I don't participate so I'm out of the loop
To me, it just feels a lot of times like everything has to fit into a very specific box for it to be palatable to the fandom as a whole. Like it feels like a very rigid fandom, so unless you find a niche of likeminded people you can have fun and pal around with, you can get some pushback/criticism if you don’t follow one very specific, very narrow way of thinking about the story/characters, if that makes sense.
So for example, if someone, say, me, wanted to write an ✨age gap forbidden romance✨ Our Life fic, it should be fun and not a big deal but a lot of fans do enjoy a Discourse, and that’s not so fun.
I miss Our Life so much. I haven’t really let myself think about it for a while because it got associated with some Bad Things for me personally, which is why I haven’t really written for it in a long time.
But boy howdy I have a big thing in my head that will not let go. How is the fandom in 2026? Are we in a place where we can acknowledge that some things that would be toxic in real life can be a little bit fun for a little bit of pretend?
Simon doesn't speak, not unless he has to. Not unless there's someone there to drag it out of him.
On the job, sure. It's necessary, and even when it's not, Johnny yaps enough to coax some responses from him. But when he's on his own, back at home, he'll go days, weeks without hearing the sound of his own voice. And that's fine by him -- he's never thought he had all that much to say anyway.
You, though, seem to disagree.
His captain's pretty wife, you make a point to greet him on days you stop by the base. Then, when you insist John invite his men over to dinner, you hone in on him, gazing up at him with wide, curious eyes like he's something worthy of your attention.
He hates it, because it makes him want. And wanting has never got him anywhere.
It's worse the days that Simon comes around on his own. John's always taken a special interest in him, he knows that, so on some days -- Christmas, Easter and the like -- John will give him a not-so-thinly veiled order that he needs to drop by, the missus is expecting him. Johnny, Gaz, Kate, anyone else who might flit in and out are occupied with their own families, and Simon feels like the orphan boy with the pity invitation. But he comes anyway, because over the years, he's become wired that way.
Price says jump, he does. He says to come ... of course he always will.
"Simon!"
Your voice is so bright and happy when you answer the door, it almost burns. Still, he leans into it, breathes it in for a moment before he hears John's footsteps and his spine snaps straight.
The older man shoots him a small smile that he sees more in the crinkle of his eyes than the curve of his lips, and if he's upset at the way Simon was was just looking at his wife, he gives no indication.
If you are the sun to Simon, all warmth and light, then John is the root, solid and strong. And, tree of a man that he is, it seems more and more like he needs both to thrive.
Today is just a regular Saturday -- no holiday, no special occasion that he's aware of, but something about it feels important all the same. It could be the nicer plates that he sees John pull from the cabinet in the dining room, or the way it feels like you've taken extra care to make some of his favorite dishes, ones he knows he couldn't help but heap praise on during other dinners.
It could be the sweet dress you're wearing, or the way you keep smoothing it over your belly.
Whatever it is, there's something unspoken swirling around as the three of you sit around the table, and it's not until John calls him into the kitchen to help him clean up that he starts to get a clearer look at it.
"Ever thought about a baby, son?"
The question comes out as the two men stand in front of the sink, washing and drying dishes, and at first, Simon truly goesn't get it.
"The fuck I'd be thinking about a baby for?"
But John just chuckles, looking back at the sink as he runs the sponge over another plate.
"Having a baby. Being a father. Ever considered it?"
It's a laughable question to Simon, and John knows exactly why, but while there's a smile to his voice as he asks, he's not laughing.
He swallows, feeling a bit sick all of a sudden as it all clicks into place. The way you kept touching your stomach, all that kindness he saw in your eyes since he's been here, this line of questioning now ...
You're pregnant. You're pregnant, you're starting a family, John will have a real son to put his energy into instead of the lost cause that he is. You're having a baby, and Simon will be forgotten. Again. Always.
A moment goes by, he doesn't answer, but John's never been put off by his silence, so he continues.
"She wants a baby.”
His voice comes out quiet, like a confession, and Simon gets this is the part where he should speak, but the thing is that he has no idea what to say. Because if you’re not having a baby, if that’s not the unspoken fog that’s been hovering over the whole evening, then what is it?
John tells him in clipped, muttered statements that he can tell cost him something that you can’t get pregnant. That you’ve tried, you’ve been trying for so long, but it hasn’t happened. He hears about negative tests, doctor’s visits, how sad you’ve been that nothing’s worked, and Simon takes it all in quietly, drying the dishes and stacking them up and just listening, still unsure why he’s hearing any of this.
He hears the distant sounds of you flitting around the rest of the house, the clinking of the silverware in the sink, his jaw clenched as he tries to focus on that and not the hot, heavy feeling that bubbles in the pit of his stomach when John turns the conversation onto the topic of his semen.
“It’s me, Simon,” he says, his voice so quiet now that he has to turn his head a little to hear. “Fucking blow to the ego like you couldn’t believe.”
This whole time that John has been spilling out the most intimate details of his marriage, his health, all these little secrets and dreams, Simon hasn’t said a word. But hearing the subtle tinge of shame in his voice is enough to push him to finally engage.
“Other ways to make a family, yeah?”
He’s not even sure what he means - there’s adoption, sure, or a sperm donor, more tests, there’s got to be some way to have a baby beyond what you’ve already tried.
It’s then that John turns to face him fully, turning off the sink, one of those little smiles gracing his face again.
Simon doesn’t know it, not yet, but John already has a plan B.
Hey buds, been gone a while then got the urge to make Simon a stalker, idk love you <3 Simon carries around a hurt that's older than he is. It's heavy and burdensome, he knows that, but it's his. Sometimes, on the darkest days, it feels like that's all he has.
For a little while, he had you, too. But a man can only hold so much.
Now that he's alone again, all those little words he told you rattle around in his head. Murmurs in the dark of your bedroom, little pleas breathed into the crook of your neck -- "you deserve better" at the heart of them all.
He meant them, every one, but part of him, a little piece of hope that somehow hadn't been snuffed out yet, had wanted to believe that you wouldn't listen.
But you did. And you're gone. You moved on, which is what he wanted. He just didn't know he'd have such a hard time letting go.
So he doesn't. Simon's made his living in the shadows, and that's where he stays. A cover of trees at the edge of your backyard, an alley cattycorner to the building where you work. He slinks and spies, hovering on the periphery of your new life with you none the wiser. The glimpses through your kitchen window -- your new boyfriend, arms around your waist, a wide smile on your face he can just make out through the gap in the curtains -- hurt, and so does your laughter as it carries through the screen and across the lawn. But these little pieces of you are better than nothing.
It's unsustainable, he's not so far gone that he doesn't get that. He understands he shouldn't be doing this. He hates himself every time he gets that itch to check in on you, that pathetic little urge to get his eyes on you. Because it's not that he's worried, at least not for your safety.
It's that when you were with him, you worked your way into his bones. You're a part of him, same as his pain, same as his body.
You're part of his burden now. And he'll never stop carrying you.
You shouldn't be here.
Motels are fun -- clandestine, sure, but they give you a place to rest your head next to his when you've had your fill of each other, a place to lie next to him so that your hands can run over him, leisurely instead of frantically. They're an easy favorite.
Backseats, too. They're more uncomfortable, but when you've got that itch that only he can scratch, they'll certainly do in a pinch.
But here, in the cozy little cottage on the quiet little street, decorated by the woman whose husband you're sleeping with ... it doesn't feel so good. When you step in the entryway and see everything placed just so, the framed photo on the living room wall of Mr. and Mrs. Price on their wedding day, you feel like the worst kind of person.
"Don't worry yourself about that, love," John says, big hands finding your waist and pulling you back towards him. "Just you and me here, yeah?"
It's something about the deep, quiet rumble of his voice, the scratch of his beard on your neck when he leans down to kiss you there. There's a gentle care in the way he puts his fingers on your chin and turns your head toward him, so that you're looking at his warm eyes instead of the picture of him and his wife.
Like this, you still feel that itch, but it grows and festers. It's an ugly, painful ache that only he can soothe, and you hate yourself for knowing that truth.
John doesn't take you to the bed he usually shares with Mrs. Price, but he doesn't elaborate on that fact either. The few times you've come to his house, when she was out of town visiting family or friends or whatever else, he's taken you to his study, and that's where he leads you now.
When all is said and done, he pulls you down to rest with him on the worn leather couch opposite his desk. Your skin sticks to his, and when you rest your hand on his chest, he puts his own over it. He squeezes it, and you can feel the metal of your wedding band pinching between your fingers.
"Was supposed to get you out of that pretty little head of yours," John murmurs, stroking your hair as he holds you close. "Don't think I did a very good job tonight, did I, sweetheart?"
"Are you OK with this?"
It's not the first time you've asked him this question, but he always looks at you with the same understanding. It's a conversation that bears repeating, and he's patient with you every time you broach the subject.
"It's not about being OK with it," he answers quietly. "It's about needing."
"You need me?"
Your voice sounds pathetic to your own ears, but as you look up at John, all you see is love. His hand finds your chin again, guiding you up to him for a kiss.
"I'd let you go if I could bear it," he murmurs against your lips, and just like that, you crash into him again.
Because he's right. This is wrong -- of course it is. He has a wife, you have a husband, but a sorry storm of lust and poor judgment and just plain wanting began all those months ago, the first time you met, and it built and grew into this need, so strong that it feels like you couldn't leave his arms if you tried.
It's not pretty, and you're not proud, but it's the truth.
"Stay," he tells you between kisses, his hands pulling you on top of him, skin sliding against skin. It's not a question, or if it is, you both already know the answer.
