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thetriumphantpanda · 6 months

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I'll Crawl Home To Her | Marcus Pike

Fic Summary | Marcus Pike had been the man of your dreams until a promotion tore your away from him. Four years later, a wedding brings you back together, but it the bubble you've built over this one weekend going to crash and burn just like it did before?

Pairing | Marcus Pike x Bridesmaid F!Reader

Fic Warnings | Explicit. Exes to Lovers, themes of second chance love, references to food and alcohol, descriptions of a wedding, Marcus Pike being a dirty talking menace, talk of contraception, unprotected PiV sex, creampie, semi-public sex, oral sex (F), overstimulation if you squint, allusions to oral sex (M) and mentions of a facial cumshot, mutual pining, flirting, two idiots in love, a touch of angst, basically two idiots who never got over each other have a lot of sex over a weekend.

Word Count | 7.9K (I can only apologise lmfao)

Authors Note | So, two weekends ago I was a bridesmaid and spent the entire time messaging @undercoverpena about how I wished Marcus Pike would whisk me away to the bathroom, tell me how pretty I was and give me a good time.... and this is what's come of this. Entirely self-indulgent but we love that for me sometimes. If you enjoy this, please consider commenting or reblogging - I'd love to know what you think of it! And if you'd like to support me further, you can donate to my Ko-Fi.

Moodboard is for aesthetic purposes only - reader is a blank slate. Although if you're interested in the dress I chose for her - it's this.

Divider by the amazing @saradika

Please follow @thetriumphantpandanotifs for writing updates.

Main Masterlist | Ko-Fi.

“I’m sorry, Mike,” Marcus is still out of breath as he clutches the champagne flute in his hand, chest heaving as his sucks in air to his lungs, “I didn’t mean to be so late.”

“Marcus, buddy, it’s fine,” His friend puts a reassuring hand on his shoulder, he knows Marcus gets anxious when things outside of his control happen, like the delay to his flight from D.C. to London, and then the delay in getting from London to the wedding venue, “You’re here now, that’s all that matters.”

Marcus nods, chugging down half the champagne in one go, hoping it’ll calm his anxiety a little. He had cursed Mike and Cassie for choosing to have their wedding in England, but Mike’s family, most of them ageing now and unable to make the long trip to D.C. had insisted on it. As he looks around the large reception room, he muses internally to himself that it was beautiful. A huge room, semi-decorated for tomorrow’s reception and dinner. It’s a smaller affair tonight, immediate family and friends for the rehearsal dinner, but he can imagine that tomorrow, once all is said and done, it’ll be the perfect backdrop for their wedding.

“Where’s Cassie?” Marcus asks, looking around the room, finding a distinct lack of the bride and the bridal party Mike hadn’t shut up about over the last few months.

“She’s just sorting the last of the decorations for the ceremony room,” Mike explains, waving a hand to the waitress currently doing the round with a refilled tray of champagne, “She’ll be here soon.” He finished with a wink, which, although is odd, Marcus doesn’t question, just picks up another glass of champagne and stands talking to his friend and whoever is milling around offering their congratulations.

There’s a flurry of conversation that has Marcus turning around a few minutes later, he can see Cassie and her mother, who are pulled to the side by someone from the venue holding up two different types of ribbon, asking which one they want to drape around the columns and which one to tie around the chair backs. It’s not Cassie that Marcus is interested in though, it’s the bridesmaid that follows behind her.

He can feel his throat constrict, a small pit opening in his stomach that’s somewhere between the feeling of dread and excitement. He can feel the palms of his hands starting to get clammy, so he drains his glass and sets it down on the nearest table to avoid an accident. Then, he thinks he might actually pass out when you finally look at him, eyes searching his face and then the glimmer of recognition that you know exactly who he is, remember exactly the last time you’d seen him, and exactly what had happened when you had.

Your leg is bouncing underneath the dining table, food somewhat eaten regardless of the fact that it’s your favourite. You’ve dug half-moon shapes into the palms of your hands and bitten the inside of your mouth enough to taste blood.

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” It’s Marcus, sitting across from you, plate cleared, completely oblivious as to what’s about to come.

“I got offered a promotion.” You tell him simply, running one hand up and down your opposite arm in an attempt to soothe yourself.

“Darling!” He exclaims, “That’s amazing!” He doesn’t move to get up, but reaches his hand out, palm up for you to take, which you do, letting his hand softly clasp yours in his own, “Why are you so upset then?”

Taking a deep breath in, biting your bottom lip, you decide it’s best to rip the band-aid off sooner rather than later, “It’s not here, Marcus,” You sigh, “The job is in D.C.”

The smile, the light of his eyes, everything on his face that had just seconds ago been showing joy, had faltered. Much like you imagine your face would have when you’d been offered the job. A significant pay rise, governmental opportunities, bigger clients, a shot at being a proper lawyer for once, but with the caveat that you had to uproot your comfortable Austin life for D.C. and with it, Marcus Pike.

“I don’t have to go,” You follow up with, “I haven’t accepted yet, I’ve got some time to think.”

You feel him squeeze your hand, his other palm coming out to rest on your wrist, slowly tracing the blue veins he can see there, “Look at me,” He asks softly, which you do, the tears that had been forming in your own eyes starting to spill down your cheeks when you find Marcus’ eyes glassed over too, “Baby, this is such an amazing opportunity, you can’t say no because of me.”

Because that’s what you would be doing. Marcus, brilliant, funny, intelligent Marcus, wouldn’t be able to follow you to D.C. There had been some talk about his work in the Art Crimes team with the higher ups, people who were impressed at his success rate, people who wanted to keep him here, send him off to California even. He was at too much of a crossroads to be able to follow you to D.C.

“I don’t want to lose you though,” You sniff, free hand coming to wipe away some of the tears that are falling from your eyes, “I love you.”

Marcus hums, finally pushes himself off his chair, letting the legs scrape across his kitchen floor, until he’s sat right in front of you, knees touching, his palms on the tops of your thighs, warm and soothing, “I love you too,” He says, bringing one hand up to cup your cheek, making sure you’re looking at him, “But this is what you’ve wanted, you’ve been working so hard baby and I’m not going to let you stay here just because of me.”

It’s killing you inside, because you want so badly to ask him to follow you. To drop everything and come to D.C. You’ve been together two years, you’re comfortable together, he makes you so happy, you’ve talked about moving in together, starting a life together, but you know deep down you’re asking him to do something unfair.

“So, I guess your stance on long-distance relationships hasn’t changed?” You ask, tone soft and sad, tears falling down your cheeks.

You watch him as his own tears fall, his hands clutching your own so tightly as he gives you a soft smile, “Baby, I wish I could say yes, I wish I could drop it all and follow you, or promise you we’d talk on the phone every day and see each other every weekend, but you know we can’t do it.”

Biting at your lip, you nod, because you know he’s right. You’re a lawyer, you barely have free time as it is - weekends more often than not spent sat on the couch with him, tapping away at your laptop whilst he looks over case files. It would never work.

Marcus leans forward, presses a kiss to your forehead, then pulls you into a hug. You clutch your hands to his back, inhaling the smell of him on his shirt , watching the light blue turn darker as it catches your tears.

“When do you go?” He asks quietly into the crook of your neck, soft kiss placed to the skin right after.

“A few weeks, probably.”

“Well, let’s enjoy them while we still can, hey?” You nod silently, “And maybe one day, we’ll find each other again.”

“And maybe one day, we’ll find each other again.”

Those words still echo in your ears four year later, like they have at various different points since you last saw Marcus Pike. Leaving had been hard. He’d helped you pack everything up, driven you to the airport, kissed you before security and promised he wouldn’t forget you. You’d text a for a few weeks before life dragged you in one direction and him in another. No-one had quite been able to live up to him either. Sure, you’d tried dating, seen people for a few months before deciding they weren’t quite the man who had almost been able to give you everything you ever wanted.

And now here he is, standing in front of you, pale as a ghost as if he’s about to keel over and have a heart attack. You want to run to him, to fling yourself into his arms and make sure he’s real. You want to press your lips to his, let him kiss you like he always used to, to clutch you to his body and whisper sweet things into your ear, but you have no idea what he’s been doing these past four years - for all you know, you could get closer and find a wedding band across his left finger.

It’s a blessing when Cassie’s hand wraps around your wrist and pulls you over to the side.

“Do you prefer the dusky rose or the blush pink?” She asks, holding up two ribbons that look identical to your eye.

You want to tell her does it really matter, they both look exactly the same. You want to tear your wrist away from her and go to Marcus, but instead you settle for a warm smile and “It’s your wedding Cass, you choose what you want.”

And when you turn around, looking back over to Mike, Marcus Pike is nowhere to be found. Like he was a mirage. A figment of your hopeful imagination. Something conjured up after your mother had set you down at the airport and said, “Bridesmaid’s always get lucky at weddings, you might find your own husband.”

When everyone is called to sit down for the rehearsal dinner, you jump at the opportunity to let Cassie sit down and eat, whilst you get pulled away by the staff to advise on which candles to use for the ceremony room and where exactly to place the flower arch for the best photos tomorrow. When you make it back, everyone is standing, milling around, getting drinks from the bar, which you decide you desperately need.

“A negroni, please.” You ask for after taking a few seconds to peruse the cocktail menu set out. The stronger the better.

“I see your tastes haven’t changed in the last few years.”

You’re pretty sure that if there was a mirror in front of you, the look of shock on your face would be comical, as Marcus Pike sidles up to the bar next to you. Up close, he’s just as handsome as he always had been, except now, he’s got a beard and more fine lines in the corners of his eyes, which means he’s been happy, smiling, whilst you’ve been gone. It makes your heart swell that he’s been happy.

“I wonder if yours have.” You counter, tilting your head towards the bartender who is waiting for him to order.

“Just a beer for now.” He smiles, but at you, not the bartender.

“That’ll be a no then.”

There’s a moment of silence between the both of you as you sip the cocktail given to you, and Marcus takes a swig of his beer. His left hand is wrapped around the bottle, no sign of the wedding ring you were convinced you’d find. You want to say something, anything, but when you go to open your mouth, he beats you to it.

“You look well.”

You can’t help but chuckle. Of all the things he could have chosen to say to you, you hadn't thought it would be that.

“So do you.” You compliment back.

There’s another silence, the two of you just looking at each other. You’re soaking him up, committing him to memory to replace the old Marcus you knew so well.

“Are you here alone?” You ask, playing with the glass in your hand.

You watch as he runs his tongue over his bottom lip, “Are you?”

“I asked you first, Agent Pike.”

He tilts his head towards his shoulder in a movement that says he’ll give you that one, “I’m here alone.”

You can’t help but smile a little, biting at your bottom lip to try and hide how pleased you are, “So am I.”

Looking up at him through your lashes, you notice the exact moment those brown eyes that you’re so used to getting lost in darken, watching you as you sip your drink, tip of your tongue jutting out to catch a drop from your bottom lip.

“Is your room completely over the top?” You ask, watching as he swallows deeply, “Because mine is, I’d love to know what the honeymoon suite must be like.”

“Depends what you mean by completely over the top?” He quirks an eyebrow.

“Do you want me to show you?”

He doesn’t even respond. He sets his half-finished beer down on the bar, takes your almost-empty negroni from your hand and does the same. Then he’s taking hold of your hand, lacing your fingers together like he always did, dragging you out of the room. You turn to find Cassie and Mike, looking at you both as you have to jog to keep up with Marcus’ pace. Both of them are winking, smiling, and Mike even throws a thumbs up your way. You can feel heat rising on your cheeks as you turn your head away from them.

“Which floor?” Marcus asks then you reach the grand staircase in the lobby.

“Second.”

He doesn’t let go of your hand, but takes the stairs two at a time, meaning by the time you reach the second floor, you’re out of breath from running behind him, trying to keep up.

“Which room?”

It’s your turn to lead him now, stepping in front of him to walk down the hallway to room 212. You fish the keycard from the back pocket of your jeans, wasting no time in pushing the door open when the tiny light turns green.

It’s dark inside, but you don’t care. Marcus Pike pins you against the wall, his thigh between your legs, both hands on your waist, and then his lips are on yours. The way he kisses hasn’t changed a bit. His mouth slants over yours, softly at first, but when you open your lips against his, hands clutching at the collar of his shirt, it’s just like you remember from all those years ago. He tastes the same, mint from the gum he always chews, the tang of the beer on his tongue, and that distinct taste that’s just him.

He swallows a groan from you as your pitch your hips down, denim rubbing on denim as he devours your mouth. His hands on your waist trail down just a little, finding the top of your jeans, floating under your shirt just a little to touch the bare skin underneath. His hands are warm and strong as they start guiding you to move against his thigh as his tongue works against yours.

Marcus pulls away from your mouth just as a particularly breathy moan leaves your mouth. It makes you both stop. Stand still. Eyes adjusting to the darkness of the room as you both realise exactly what’s happening. You know you should stop, talk about what’s clearly about to happen, but when did talking ever help anything.

“Don’t think about it,” Marcus sighs, leaning down to trail kisses along your jaw, “We talk after.”

“We talk after.” You say, mainly to the room more than anything else.

Your hands are still clutching at his shirt when his fingers find the button on your jeans. Still as adept at it as he’d always been, he pops the button open and pulls down the zipper, letting his hand trail down, settling across the lace of your underwear, cupping your pussy, letting his fingers trace along skin through lace.

A hiss leaves your mouth as you work your body in time with the slow, teasing movements of Marcus’ hand, “You’ve changed,” You manage to breathe out, your hand coming to the back of his neck to pull his mouth nearer to yours, “When you were desperate for me you’d never tease.”

You can feel his lips smile against the skin of your neck where he’s tracing wet kisses along the skin, hand still feather-light between your legs, “I’ve learnt to be more patient, honey.”

“And if I asked you not to?”

“In all the years I knew you, never once did you beg for it.” He pulls back, your eyes now accustomed to the dark, able to see him better, his voice is low, “Unless you’ve changed, you’ll have to put up with it.”

You grasp his cheeks in your palms, his hand still teasing you, pull his attention to you fully, “Marcus Pike, I swear to all that is holy that if you do not spread me out on my bed and fuck me in the next five minutes, I will die.”

He makes a ‘tsk’ sound, his head shaking in your hands, “That’s not begging for it honey,” He coos, “You gotta ask nicely for it.”

You let out a grumble of frustration, but you have to admit, this new version of the man you knew so well before is enticing. You can feel the way wetness is settling between your thighs, you’re sure if he dipped his fingers down he’d have some smart comment about how soaked you were for him already.

So you swallow your pride, you know it’ll be worth it in the end, “Please.”

“Good girl.”

It all happens in a flurry. One moment you’re against the wall, the next your back is against the mattress, Marcus’ hips pressed to yours as his hands work to push your shirt up and off your body. Your back hits the mattress again and his mouth is on you almost instantly, his lips trailing down your sternum, between the valley of your breasts. Pushing himself back on his knees, he brings his hands to the cups of your bra, pulling them down. Your nipples pebbling against the cold of the air.

His lips are back on you almost immediately, nipple enveloped into the warmth of his mouth, tip of his tongue flicking at it, making your back arch off the bed, pressing further into his mouth. Your hand comes to tangle in the curls at the back of his head, anchoring him to your body. As his mouth works across your chest, you can’t quite believe what’s happening to you. The man of your dreams, the person you always thought you were destined for, back, right here between your thighs, the bulge in the front of his jeans all too familiar to you.

Head tipped back in pleasure, you breathe out into the air, “I can’t believe you’re here.”

He tears off your breast with a wet pop, looking up at you through his lashes, mouth kissing down your body, across the soft of your tummy, he taps at your sides, lifting your hips up to drag your jeans and underwear down your legs, flung behind him and forgotten when you plant the flat of your feet onto the bed and let your knees fall open.

Marcus isn’t a religious man, he never has been, but knelt between your thighs, hands flying to rid himself of his clothes, watching as you gingerly trail your hand between your thighs, eyes on him as you play with your clit, he thinks he might have to start believing. As he stands to take the last of his clothes off, standing at the foot of the bed, naked with his cock in his hand, watching your face, he thanks the Lord for whatever mischief they had to concoct to get you back here with him.

He crawls back up your body, kissing from ankle to thigh, settling himself between your thighs, cock sliding through your slick folds as he lays his body down against yours, one of his hands slipping under your neck, cradling the back of your head, the other cupping your cheek, moving your face to look right into his eyes. He’s so fucking close to you, lips barely a hairs breadth from your own.

“I have to be inside you,” He pants against your mouth, “I promise I'll spend hours between your thighs later baby, but I have to be inside you.”

He doesn’t give you any time to respond, just shifts his hips a little, sinking himself into your aching cunt. You arch up into him, moaning against his mouth as he stills. The hand clutching at your cheek trails down your neck, thumb flicking against your nipple as it travels to rest on your hip.

“Stop squirming,” He pleads, “Please.. Just stay still a minute.”

He feels so right, nestled inside your pussy. The weight of his body pressed against yours takes you right back to all the nights before, locked away in his Austin apartment in the dead of night, making each other feel good, making promises at the height of your combined pleasure to each other that never materialised. You can feel tears settle in your eyes as he starts moving, pulling himself out of you slowly, pushing back in even slower.

Marcus leans down, kissing the salty tears from your cheeks, shushing you, “Don’t cry baby,” He whispers into your ear, “I’ve got you now.”

Your hands are clutching at his shoulders, nails digging small, half-moon shapes into his skin there. He feels just as incredible moving inside you as he always did, but there’s something settling in your tummy, the feeling that you knew so well with him, that you’ve only really known with yourself since.

“I can feel you baby,” Marcus groans into your ear as the thrusts of his cock get a little faster, a little harder, “Clenching all perfectly around me,” He takes hold of one of your wrists, dragging it between the both of you, resting it right where you need it, “I won’t last baby,” He admits, “Touch yourself and we’ll do it together?”

So you do, you rub tight, precise circles over your clit as Marcus pushes himself up, takes your thighs in his palms, pushing your legs back as far as he can. The change in angle makes you cry out as he really starts fucking you now. The only sounds in the room are the slapping of his skin against yours, your whimpers and his groans. You can feel the tightening coil across your abdomen, breath hitching in your throat, you’re so fucking close to coming undone on him.

“Marcus,” You whine, “I’m gonna-” You trail off as he shifts a little more, pressing your legs further back, cock hitting that unholy sweet spot inside you, “Gonna come.”

“Go on baby,” He encourages, “I’ll be right behind you.”

And that’s how it ends. Eyes shut so tightly you can feel tears pooling at the corners, cunt clenching around his cock as you cry out his name. It’s so familiar, the way it feels, the way he sounds, like no time has passed at all and you’re exactly the same as you’d both been four years ago. He’s pounding into you as your body convulses underneath, thighs shaking and toes curling as his hips start to stutter.

“Where?” He manages to choke out, his tone reminiscent of all those times before when he was holding on, teetering on the edge, wanting to know what you wanted.

“I’m s-safe,” You manage to choke out, head reeling from your own orgasm, “The pill.”

He doesn’t need to hear anymore, finally giving in, knowing you’ve fallen apart for him, he’s groaning your name into the dark, you can feel him spilling into you, claiming you, marking you as his own in a way only the two of you could ever understand. He lets go of your thighs, letting your legs drop back into comfort as he slowly drags himself from you, collapsing onto the bed next to you.

There’s a few moments of silence. Your arm is draped across your face, chest rising and falling as you try to suck in enough air to calm your breathing, Marcus doing the same across the bed. You roll over, putting yourself on your side so you can look at him. He’s led on his back, head turned to look at you in the dull light of the room - the moonlight through the window the only thing illuminating the two of you. He reaches out, traces your face with his hand.

“I can't believe you’re real.” He speaks softly, rolling over to face you, pulling your warm body to his.

“I know we said we’d talk after,” You whisper, hand trailing over his waist to rest across his back, “But can we just stay like this for a while?” It’s a soft plead, you don’t want to be reminded that this was probably a bad idea, you want to hold this man in front of you and forget that in a few short days it’ll all be over, he’ll go back to wherever he is now, and you’ll go back to D.C. lonelier than ever.

“I’ll stay here as long as you’ll let me, honey.”

Marcus, against his better judgement, stays with you all night. You don’t talk. You curl up into his side, settle against his body as he wraps his arms around you. It’s inevitable that he casts his mind back to how things used to be. To the history you share with each other. He still, to this day, hasn’t stopped thinking about you, about what would have been if you’d stayed. Would you be married? Probably, he thinks. He’d thought of it often towards the end, before your promotion. Stopped outside jewellery shops, tried to imagine which kind of ring you’d want – he’d even slipped one of your rings onto his own finger, figuring out where it stopped so he could pick the right size when the time came. Would you have children? He isn’t sure, neither of you had ever spoken about it, you’d never expressed a want to have them, but he’s certain if you’d have asked, he’d have given them to you.

He falls asleep, waking up hours later, darkness still pervading. He turns on his side, spooning his front to your back. You’re half-awake when you press yourself back into him, bring your hand up to clutch at his head as he slips inside you once more, his hand holding your thigh up. He breathes into your ear, whispers filth to you as he rocks his hips against you. When you feel his teeth trail over your shoulder, he chuckles when you tell him off.

“I can’t walk down the aisle with bruises on my shoulders, Marcus.”

It’s soft, and he tips you over the edge, feeling you clench around him as his fingers trace circles over your clit, following just behind you, filling you up once more. He doesn’t pull away from you, just settles your thigh back down, resting himself inside of you as you both fall back to sleep.

Then, he’s awake before your alarm. He wakes you with a kiss to your forehead, tells you to go back to sleep when you protest and try and coax him back to the warmth of your sheets. He has to shower he says, has to help Mike get ready, but he’ll be waiting for you, watching you all day. Marcus smiles, really smiles, when you curl over back onto your side, soft breaths and mumbles as you fall back to sleep, and as he walks to his own room and stands waiting for the shower to warm, there’s a feeling of content that spreads through him – should he have fucked you last night? Probably not. Should he have encouraged you to talk more? Probably yes. He knows he’s got his cards hidden, he’s not letting on that this might not have to just exist here, but he’ll keep that to himself for just a little longer.

“So,” Cassie smirks from her place in the make-up chair, artist flitting around her, pressing all number of products into her face, “You and the groomsman?”

“Shut up,” You mutter to her, trying not to scratch at your face, make-up already settling uncomfortably across your skin, “A momentary lapse of judgement.”

She hums, and then moves her focus back to the make-up artist who is tilting her face to put on some blush, “You don’t have to lie to me, you know,” She says to you as you pass her a mimosa, “I know that was Marcus. The Marcus.”

There’s a moment where you feel like a deer in headlights, like you’ve been caught being up to no good, even though you know that’s not the case. Then you turn slowly to her, eyebrow raised, and see her smirking, much to the chagrin of the make-up artist who urgently wants to get her lipstick on her so she can move onto the final bridesmaid.

“He’s Mike’s friend, they went to school together, see each other quite often these days – apparently he always talks about a girl from Austin, no-one could ever compare, he’s tried moving on, done this, done that, but always came back to thinking about the one who got away,” She stops talking to take a drink, “Which sounded oddly familiar to someone else I know.”

She’s not wrong really – Cassie had been a lifeline when you’d moved to D.C. a work colleague turned best friend, who has been the shoulder to cry on whenever dates had gone badly, or even when they’d been good, but you just couldn’t get Marcus Pike off your brain. She told you, like most good friends would, that it would take time, you’d find someone right for you, someone who would take your mind right off Marcus, but it never happened.

“You did this on purpose!” You accuse, but its friendly, because really, her and her soon-to-be husband have only done what you had always wanted to do yourself, pick up the phone, no matter how long it has been and tell the man you still loved him.

“Of course we did,” She chuckles, “Don’t think about it too much,” She adds, “Just enjoy this today and most of all, behave yourself.”

When Cassie walks down the aisle, it’s not her that Marcus is looking at – it’s you. He hadn’t thought it possible for him to find you more beautiful than he had before, but in your dark green dress, slit cut into the fabric to show off one of your legs as you walk, dress cut perfectly to sit on all the curves of your body that he always did love, he can’t deny you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. He spends the entire ceremony making eyes at you, smirking when you meet his gaze. He wants to tell you how lovely you look, lean down and plant a kiss to your lips in front of everyone, but he doesn’t get a chance until cocktail hour, once you’ve had your pictures taken and Cassie has insisted on you finally having a drink and enjoying your day instead of flapping about whether she needs anything from you.

“Has anyone told you how beautiful you look today?” He asks, hand settling on your waist as you lean against the bar waiting for your drink.

“Funnily enough, it’s not me most people have been looking at.” You quip back, taking the margarita from the bartender when it’s handed to you.

“I’ve been looking at you.”

“I know,” You smirk, “Pretty sure I ruined my panties stood at the top of the aisle.”

“Because the ceremony moved you so much?”

“Because I couldn’t stop thinking about your face between my thighs, actually.”

He looks exactly like he always used to when you flirt with him like this. Eyes low and dark, mouth slightly ajar like he can’t quite believe you’ve just been so forward. He’s not thinking straight anymore, and much like he had done last night, he grips around your wrist and starts dragging you from the reception room, this time there are considerably more people so you manage to slip out unnoticed.

Instead of heading up the stairs, taking you to your room or his, he turns left down a hallway, tearing open the door to one of the bathrooms. It’s a single stall, lock clicking behind him. You press your back against the wall, setting your drink down on the sink.

Marcus takes three steps towards you, hand slipping around your waist, pulling you flush against his body, lips so close that you can feel his breath on your skin.

“Do you know how sinful you’ve looked all day?” He asks, “Walking around looking all innocent, but I know you’ve been begging to get fucked all day, haven’t you?” You whine at him in response, trying to chase his mouth as he pulls back, “Don’t think I didn’t see you rubbing your thighs together during the ceremony.”

“It’s only because you wouldn’t stop looking at me.”

His hand finds the skin of your thigh, the slit of your dress making it easy for him to trail up to the hem of your panties.

“If I put my fingers on you,” He breathes, “Will you be wet?”

“Why don’t you find out?” You cock your head to the side, biting your lip as you look at him, his hand pulling your panties to the side, thick fingers slipping between your folds.

“Baby,” He moans, finally taking your bottom lip between his, nipping your skin with his teeth a little before he pulls away, fingers slipping inside you, pulling a groan from your throat, “Soaked for me?”

“Always, Marcus.”

He drags his fingers from you, spins you around, and reaches down to bring your palms up to rest against the wall in front you. He puts his hands on your hips, dragging your ass backwards until you can feel him through his trousers. His hands shuck your dress up to your waist and instead of tearing your panties off, he pushes them to the side. You look over your shoulder at him, as much as you can, and watch as he undoes his belt, pulls the zipper of his trousers down and reaches in, pulling his cock out. His trousers are pushed down just enough to let him free himself, and you don’t think you’ve seen such a beautiful sight in your life, than Marcus Pike with his fist around his cock, running his hand up and down himself as he moves to nudge the head of his cock at your soaked core.

Unlike last night, he isn’t gentle when he pushes into you. He’s buried inside your cunt in seconds, setting a pace that punches the air from your lungs. You know that even though you’re locked in here, away from the party, there’s still every chance someone is going to walk past, try the door handle, and hear exactly what’s going on in here, so you’re trying your best to keep the noise to a minimum.

“Needed you so badly, baby,” Marcus chokes out behind you, hands gripping your hips hard enough that you’re sure you’ll have his fingerprints embedded onto your skin, “Always so pretty for me, aren’t you?”

He’s hitting that sweet spot inside you, over and over again, and you have to bite your lip to keep yourself from crying out. You feel one of his hands trail up your spine through the material of your dress, coming to rest with a grip around the nape of your neck, his fingers itching to slide up into your hair and grip it.

“You can’t,” You plead, “Don’t mess my hair up.”

“I won’t baby.” He pants out from behind you, trailing his hand down just a little so he’s not tempted to take a fistful of it to pull you back, arch you into him even more.

It’s fast and it’s hard, everything Marcus never really used to be. He liked to take his time, spread you out and have you crying for him before he slipped inside you, slowly, watching every contort of pleasure on your face. You think you like this new version of him, the one so desperate to have you he couldn’t make it up the stairs, couldn’t even pull your panties down your legs.

“Marcus,” You moan out, “Please.”

“What’s that, baby?” He asked, mouth right by your ear, “You begging for something?”

“Mmmhmm.”

“What do you want?”

“Make me come?”

You think maybe he might try and tease you some more, but mercifully he takes the hand he’s got resting on your hip and snakes it down your body, letting his fingers find your clit - he had always been good at that. He drags the gathered slick where he can, cock still moving into you, pulling whimpers and moans whenever you feel his skin slap against yours, circles your clit quickly with the pad of his finger. You can feel your walls tightening around him, your thighs starting to shake as he continues doing exactly what he’s doing.

It’s no secret to either of you that making you come always took time. He’d never shamed you for it, always been more than happy to do whatever it took, for as long as it took, to get you there. But the mix of desperation for him, elation that he’s waltzed right back into your life, and the fact he’s fucking you in a public bathroom, have that coil tightening inside you quicker than ever.

“Can feel you getting tight around me baby,” He groans into your ear, “You gonna let go for me?”

You don’t have time to tell him yes. The tight coil snaps inside you, your eyes closed so tightly you’re sure the make-up around your eyes is dragging down your cheeks on tears. You can keep your voice down now as you flutter around his cock, you cry out his name, feeling his hands holding onto your hips to keep you steady as your legs threaten to fall out from underneath you.

You’re only half aware of him speaking into your ear, telling you he’s close. You can feel him start to pull himself out of you, so you reach behind you quickly, fingernails digging into the part of his thigh you can reach to keep him inside you.

“I swear to god if you get cum on my dress Pike, I’ll kill you.”

He lets out a deep, throaty chuckle behind you, slams himself back into you, “You just want an excuse for me to come inside you, don’t you?” He hisses into your ear, teeth nipping at the skin behind your ear, “You just have to ask nicely for it.”

“Please, Marcus, please.”

Never one to deny you, he does, having held out as long as he could, he thrusts once, twice and then he’s moaning your name into your ear. You can feel him spilling inside of you, filling you up, then you can feel him dripping down your thigh when Marcus starts pulling away from you, not quite quick enough to put your panties back on. He tells you to keep still, fumbling behind him for some paper he can use to clean your thighs up.

He speaks to you as he lets the material of your dress fall back down over your legs, “Walking around full of me for the rest of the night.” He coos as you turn around, reaching out to pull his mouth to yours in a chaste kiss.

You stay like that for a moment, both attempting to fix the others clothes. Marcus brings his thumb to his mouth, letting his tongue jut out to wet it, before he drags it under your eye, getting rid of the worst of the black marks he’s caused.

You reach behind him, unlock the door, but take hold of his hand as you push the door open. Thankfully there’s no-one waiting outside to use the bathroom as you drag him back down towards the party.

It’s late. Or early depending on how you look at it. Marcus had dragged you from the dance floor at midnight, walked you slowly up to his room instead of yours. He’d helped you out of your dress, let you shower and wash yourself clean, then, before you could put your robe on and insist on going to sleep, he’d taken your hand, led you to the chair near the balcony doors and he’d made good on his promise of last night to spend hours with his face between your legs.

“I can’t,” You whine, Marcus hand’s pinning your legs open, his tongue flicking against your clit, “It’s too much.”

He pulls off you just enough to speak, “Believe in yourself baby,” He says, sinking two fingers into you, curling them upwards, “I know you can, just one more for me.”

Your whole body feels like its on fire. You’ve lost count of the amount of times he’s made you come tonight. There had been a small reprieve when you’d begged to suck his cock, Marcus obliging, painting your face and your tongue, before he settled right back to his knees. It’s almost as if he thinks if he stops you’ll disappear.

Your fingers are tangled in his hair, battling between tugging his face closer and pulling it away as he sucks your clit into his mouth, the added pressure along with the flicking of his tongue setting your skin on fire even more than before. Your hair is sticking to your forehead and the back of your neck, rivulets of sweat gathering at various points across your body as Marcus tips you over the edge once more.

Your mouth drops open in a silent scream, body feeling boneless as your whole body convulses at his touch. Almost like he knows, he pulls himself away from you gently, knowing that any more would be too much, saving you the need to beg him to stop. He presses soft kisses to the skin of your tummy, kissing up your body until he’s sitting up on his knees, kissing into your mouth, letting you taste yourself on him.

Marcus clambers to his feet, takes hold of your hand and pulls you to your feet, guiding you over to the bed to settle you under the sheets, the air peppering your sweaty skin with goosebumps. It’s a sad realisation that you have to go home tomorrow, that the bubble you’ve caught yourself up in over the past few days is about to burst. You think this might break your heart even more than the first time around.

“What are we going to do?” You ask against the skin of his chest as he pulls you into him.

“What do you mean?” He asks back, kiss pressed lightly to your forehead.

“With us, after this?” Your fingers are tracing over his skin, trying to map the feeling of him before he leaves.

“Well, I thought maybe we could go for dinner sometime?”

You look up at him, face contorted in confusion, “You’re going to come all the way from Austin to take me for dinner?”

“No baby,” He chuckles a little, “I don’t live in Austin anymore, I live in D.C.”

You push yourself up in bed, one hand on the mattress to keep yourself upright, looking down at Marcus, who reaches up to cup your cheek in his hand, thumb rubbing soft lines across your skin, “Since when?”

“Two years?” He offers, “I would have-” He trails off a little, “I would have told you but I wasn’t in a great place when I first moved, had no idea what your life would have even looked like either, I didn’t just want to turn up out of the blue if you’d moved on, found someone else.”

Your hand comes up to clutch at the wrist of the arm cradling your face, “I’ve waited so long for you,” You sigh, “I tried, tried to find someone else, but none of them were ever you Marcus.”

“I tried too,” He admits, because Lord knows he did, and for what? “I promise I’ll tell you everything one day, but right now, I want to fall asleep with you right here.”

You settle back down in bed, curling up against his side, arm draped over his waist, “Where in the city do you live?” You ask, sleep starting to make your eyes heavy.

“I’m on 4th street, in Petworth.”

You can’t help but laugh, because of course he fucking does. Marcus Pike has been living four streets over from you for the past two fucking years.

“You’ve been living four streets over from me for two years, Marcus.”

He runs his hands up and down your spine, gently, soothing you, “Well, that’s convenient, isn’t it?” He asks softly, “I can be at your front door in five minutes.”

“You want to be my booty call, Marcus Pike?”

“If that’s what you want,” He speaks, “I’ll be whatever you want me to be.”

“What are you doing Wednesday night?”

“Nothing, as far as I’m aware.”

“How about you take me on a first date?” You offer, “Let’s learn each other all over again and take things from there?”

Marcus colts your chin up to his face with a finger, leaning down and giving you the softest kiss you think you’ve ever received, “I would love nothing more.”

#Marcus Pike #Marcus Pike Smut #Marcus Pike x reader #Marcus Pike x you #marcus pike fanfiction #Marcus Pike x female reader #Marcus Pike x F!reader #Marcus Pike fic #Marcus Pike fanfic #the mentalist #the mental illness is winning #the mentalist fanfic #the mentalist fanfiction #Pedro pascal #marcus pike fluff #Marcus Pike angst #Marcus Pike Pedro Pascal #Marcus Pike The mentalist

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pinkies-senses · 3 months

Text

Bittersweet apples 🍏

Sweet apple acres was quiet, an odd scene for that piece of land as it was filled to the brim with juicy red fruits. Perfect for the taking, and yet… left untouched.

Each tree stood strong, bearing apples in different sizes and slightly different shapes. At this point, Apple Jack and Big Mac would’ve been hard at work, bucking those ripe fruits out of their leafy beds and into hoof crafted baskets.

But that quiet noon, in that vibrant green orchard, held a great unease.

The clouds were shifting in panic despite their schedule, likely the Pegasus’ doing, but Apple Jack barely paid mind to the unusual weather.

Not with the poorly hidden sobs from her younger sister filling her sensitive ears.

…And that viscous sensation that was drying and crusting on the fur of her back legs…

Apple Jack trailed behind a covered wagon that was being pulled by her older brother, Big Mac, with little Apple Bloom inside.

Despite the big wagon, it was light with very little inside.

Apple Bloom, some packages of food and tanks of water were jostled around slightly due to the uneven, gravelly road the three ponies were taking. Other than that (minus the sobbing), it was quiet.

None of them wished to speak, not after the tragedy that was forcefully bestowed on the recently. The metaphorical wounds were still fresh, as fresh as the crimson that tainted Apple Jack.

Her deep emerald eyes were locked onto the back of the Wagon, empty and void. Her throat tightened so bitterly, she knew the moment she spoke, her words would come out strained and painful.

So she let her mind get lost in the numbness inside of her, leaving her with nothing to think of.

A blank slate.

The sniffles halted momentarily, but still present before a weak voice called out from the wagon.

“…Big Mac… where are we goin’?”

Big Mac didn’t seem to hear the small voice behind him over his own thoughts and hoof beats against the dirt, so Apple Jack sucked up her pain and desire to not speak.

“Evacuatin’.” Was all Apple Jack said.

She heard a little hoof scrap against the wagon’s floor, likely her sister moving to get up, before she saw the reddened misty eyes peek through the wagon covering.

“But… why? A-and where? … Because you killed Granny?” Her voice, although mournful and tired, held animosity and anger.

“APPLE BLOOM!” Apple Jack yelled in disbelief and fury.

“How DARE-“ but before she could finish her sentence, Big Mac’s booming voice quickly dashed out fire was starting between the two sisters.

“ENOUGH OUT OF BOTH OF YOU.”

A quiet hush fell over all of them, only the gravel beneath their wheels and hooves acting as background noise.

The silence from him afterward was as deafening as his sudden outburst. Apple Jack and Apple Bloom knew that their usual mute brother only spoke a complete sentence when he felt he needed to or if he was incredibly upset.

It wasn’t too long before the red pony grunted out another response to the two.

“Apple Jack did what she did to save you. Granny was sick-“

“She wasn’t hurtin’ nopony, Big Mac-“ Apple Bloom protested but was interrupted by her older brother.

“She. Was. Ill. Apple Bloom. Of course she wasn’t trying to hurt nopony, but her sickness would have killed you too.” He said gruffly.

“But…” Apple Bloom started before giving up silently.

“Apple Jack.”

The said pony stared into the wagon, trying to stare into the back of her brother’s head.

“She’s still a filly. She don’t understand what is happenin’. She just watched our granny die.”

“Big Mac…”

“Apple Bloom needs to know what’s goin’ on, you can’t just kill somepony and not elaborate.”

Big Mac paused a moment before finishing his lecture.

“Later when we find a place to settle, you and I will have a talk. Alone.”

For the first time in hours, a gentle gust of wind rustled the apple trees. The three of them were silent once more.

Apple Jack opened and closed her mouth… before repeating the process three more times.

What more would there be to discuss? What could Apple Jack say to any of this?

The tragedy of having to forcefully take her own mother figure’s life was a hard blow to her already, but the way her little sister spoke to her as though she was some rabid animal for doing so…

What was there to say to that?

To be continued….

#mlp #pinkies senses #apple jack #big mac #apple bloom #mlp infection au #mlp fanfic #mlp infected au #mlp creepypasta

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freelancearsonist · 23 days

Text

oblivion

➔ Dave York x gn!Reader - 2.2k

➔ Dave left years ago to keep you safe from him. Now, he comes back to finally claim what’s his.

➔ Rated MA for kinda dark fic?????, gn!reader (no pronouns or anatomy described), reader is able-bodied but otherwise is physically a blank slate, infidelity (Dave cheats on his wife w/ reader), smut, choking, biting, blood, this is the midnight mass au that no one asked for [pls let me know if i missed any warnings you think should be included :)]

➔ Thank you to my love @ozarkthedog for this prompt, if you're reading this ily <3

Everyone is leaving this island–your home–in droves. The seas are drenched in oil, and there’s nothing left to fish or net. People are moving on to bigger, better things. But not you; you’ve never enjoyed the mainland, never craved the just-another-face-in-the-crowd feeling of those big cities. You love your little small town, even if most of it is gone now.

You go for your nightly walk, and the loneliness gets to you for the first time since the spill. There’s no lights on in house windows, no kids playing out in front yards. It’s just you as the sun goes down, casting everything in fiery red and orange brilliance.

Some nights seem darker than others, regardless of the star visibility or the moon’s phase. It’s almost like the air swells and surrounds you until it feels like a thick, dark blanket. It can be almost stifling; and those nights never quite leave your mind.

That’s what it feels like tonight, and for no discernable reason. There’s a wicked sense of foreboding–even more so than you’ve come to be accustomed to. It ramps up even more so when you see the only other house in the neighborhood with lights on: Dave’s house.

Dave left with his wife and daughters two years ago, long before the spill destroyed the island’s economy. No one’s stepped foot in it since–you figured it just never sold. But certainly it hasn’t sold now; who would want to move to the island at a time like this?

Curiosity gets the better of you, maybe because a traitorous little part of your brain wonders if it’s Dave. If he’s finally come back for some reason, if he’s here to fix things. That nagging little hope keeps you up at night more often than you care to admit; that he might return and you’d get a second chance. Either way, you don’t think twice about walking up the short driveway to knock on his door.

It’s completely silent for a long few minutes; long enough that you almost knock again. But maybe this is just some fluke thing, an electrical malfunction or something that turned his lights on. He swore he’d never be back, after all. It’s just wishful thinking.

It started on your night walks. He jogged the same route every single night after the girls went to bed, and eventually his jog slowed to a walk when he would come alongside you. You’d walk side by side and talk about anything and everything, vent about work or life and tell each other little stories. Before too long, you knew him better than anyone, and it was all completely by accident. Just the neighborly kindness of him slowing his pace to chit chat with you.

And then this man who you shared nothing with besides a nightly exercise route, after weeks of small talk every single evening, kissed you. In the middle of a street, in the middle of a very small island community where every single person knew every single thing about every other person; a community where every single person knew that Dave was married, and that he wasn’t married to you.

You dragged him home to scold him somewhere that no prying ears would catch it, and somehow you ended up in bed underneath him. All desperately breathless kisses and deeply earth-shattering thrusts and muffled moans of pleasure.

He whispered that no one had ever made him feel so alive before, that he’d never wanted someone more. And you wanted to believe him, so you did.

Miraculously, no one ever found out; not about that first time, and not about the million times after. No one ever found out about all the times that you swore up and down it could never happen again, only to fall right back onto your knees for him. No one ever found out about the time that he finally agreed with you, and the way you cried yourself to sleep when he stuck to it and didn’t catch up to you on your walk the next night. No one ever found out about how the next night after that, he caught up to you and begged for you–for your forgiveness, for the feelings that only you had ever been able to make him feel.

And for a while, it was enough. Being his at night under secrecy of darkness was plenty; until all of a sudden it wasn’t. Until you would bump into his wife at the market and nearly have a panicked breakdown by the time you got home, wondering just how much she knew. Until he would say things that were heavier and heavier–things that translated to something akin to ‘I love you’ without actually being the words. Until he had to leave for a work assignment.

He’d be gone for a week. That was all. A simple job, he’d explained. Somewhere overseas, but that was really all he said. He never liked to talk to you about his work much. He said he’d be back before you could even miss him.

But it was a month before he returned, and he came back different.

Withdrawn, dark eyes darker than usual, sunkissed golden skin looking a little insipid. You tried to convince yourself that he was just coming down with a cold, that the way he’d put his hand around your neck just to feel your pulse thrum under his fingertips and squeeze a little tighter than comfortable wasn’t related; that the way he nearly broke skin from biting into your shoulder so hard wasn’t anything to be concerned about; that the way he seemed to have doubled strength while he was away wasn’t cause for alarm.

You lied to yourself because it was easier than the truth; whatever had happened on his assignment, he wasn’t the same man anymore. The man you had started to fall in love with, circumstances be damned, was long gone.

But it came to a point where the truth couldn’t be avoided any longer, because the inevitable can’t be postponed indefinitely. Ignorance is only bliss until the truth comes unapologetically crashing in.

He fucked you so relentlessly it scared you. The hands that had once held you so gently were pushing you into positions far past your comfortable range, his hips were thrusting hard and deep enough to bruise. He saw the tears that leaked from the corners of your eyes and called you pathetic; and just like that, you knew your Dave York was gone. Where to, you weren’t sure. But something in his roughness, in the way he wanted to hurt you, made you sure he was never coming back.

You pushed him off of you and told him to get the fuck out. For a moment–one flickering, horribly tension-fraught moment–you didn’t think he would. The most terrified you’d ever been in your life was when you looked into his dark eyes and saw nothing but violence.

For a moment, you didn’t know what he was going to do. And then he hastily pulled on his clothes and slammed the door shut behind him without a word.

You didn’t see him on your walk the next night, and the following night after that there was a U-Haul parked in front of his house. Part of you was relieved at the sight of boxes and furniture being lugged out of the front door into the box truck; another, more complicated part of you wanted to fall to your knees right there in the street and start screaming.

You felt his presence before you saw him–just behind you to the left, out of your field of view. You didn’t turn to look at him; you couldn’t stand to see his face when you asked, “Why?”

“There are worse ways to hurt you than leaving,” he murmured, low and deep. “If leaving is what I have to do to keep you safe, then I’m never fucking coming back.”

You turned at that, because what the fuck was that supposed to mean? What would he have to keep you safe from?

You saw so much sadness in his brown eyes that you nearly broke down sobbing. You knew right then that it was over. There was no begging him to stay, no changing his mind. You didn’t even really know if you actually wanted him to stay, at that point.

He walked away to help the movers lug a couch before you got a chance to say anything; no ‘I love you’, no ‘I’ll miss you’, not even a simple ‘goodbye’.

By morning his family was gone, him included. His house stood empty for two years with not a sign from him. Until tonight.

The living room lights cast a warm yellow glow over the front yard in the dark even through the obscurity of dusty window blinds. You’re tempted to peek through and see if you can tell what’s going on inside after standing on the stoop unacknowledged for a few minutes; just as you make the decision to snoop, the front door opens.

It’s him. It’s really fucking him. He hasn’t changed even the slightest bit. His brown hair is still cut short and neatly styled, his handsome face is impeccably shaved. His dark brown eyes are just like you remember them, from before; the hatred and violence they held those last few days isn’t there anymore.

He whispers your name, and then his eyes flash. “You’re still here.”

“Of course I am,” you reply, on guard. “This is my home.”

His fingers twitch on the doorknob, like he’s contemplating shutting you out. “I didn’t know anyone was still here. I wouldn’t have come back.”

“Why did you come back?” You ask, curiosity getting the better of you.

His eyes shift for a moment, jaw set firmly. “It’s the only place I have left.”

He doesn’t have to put it any clearer than that for you to know that his wife isn’t in the picture anymore. You wonder what happened between them, but a selfish little part of you is triumphant at the fact that he came to you.

Except he didn’t, not really. He said himself that he didn’t think anyone was left. That he wouldn’t have come otherwise. Why wouldn’t he have come?

“You need to go,” he says firmly, moving to shut the door in your face. But your hand shoots out before you can really even contemplate it.

Now, you say what you wish you would’ve had the courage to say all those years ago. “I missed you, Dave.”

You can see his patience is waning–his hand flexes anxiously against the door but he doesn’t say anything quite yet, and you know his is your only chance for closure.

“You said, before you left, that you were protecting me by leaving. What do you have to protect me from?”

“Myself,” he growls. His eyes flash dangerously, the same way they did two years ago.

“What…”

“Each man kills the thing he loves, honey,” he murmurs, stepping closer. It feels like he’s towering over you now, looming ominously. You don’t remember him being this imposing before he left. “And I… I loved you.”

“I loved you, too,” you whisper. Hindsight is funny like that–your brain reveals in hindsight what your heart can’t reveal in the moment. “We can… we can make this work, Dave.”

You should be more hesitant. You should remember how scared of him you were at the end, how strange it is for him to show up here in the middle of the night all alone. You should wonder why he’s back here now, when everyone else is gone.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he growls, all the while moving closer to you as if you have a magnetism he can’t avoid. “I’ve changed.”

“I’m asking for a second chance,” you plead as you set your hands on his strong, solid chest. He’s so achingly close now, and yet he still won’t touch you. “I’ve changed too, I’m… I’m willing to make this work if you are.”

He licks his lips, dark eyes focused… on your neck? Why is he looking there of all places?

He notices that he’s been caught when his eyes flicker up to meet your gaze. He just stares at you for a moment, then two, so close that each breath you exhale mingles with his.

And then suddenly he’s leaning in. You let your eyes flutter shut, awaiting the sweet sensation of his lips on yours after so long; but it never comes. You wait, and you wait, and then you feel something puncture the side of your neck.

It’s sharp, and it hurts. Your eyes snap open and all you can see is Dave; his body curls around yours as he gulps eagerly from your punctured artery. A weak hand comes up to nudge his head halfheartedly–somewhere in the back of your mind, you delight in the softness of his hair between your fingers again after so long–but his arms wrap tightly around your waist to keep you in place and your weak resistance is futile.

He was right, you think as your vision blurs around the edges. You really didn’t have a clue what you were asking for.

➔ moodboard by @ozarkthedog

➔ beta: @futuraa-free and @mothandpidgeon (thank u so much my loves <3)

➔ Want to see more from me in the future? Follow @freelancearsonist-updates and turn on post notifications to be notified when I post new fics!

➔ Want to support me? Please reblog this fic! It helps boost it in the algorithm and gives it more circulation no matter what your follower count is :) any feedback or comment is always greatly appreciated!!

#dave york #dave york x reader #dave york fanfiction #dave york smut #dave york one shot #the equalizer 2 #the equalizer 2 fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #cece writes

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r0-boat · 7 months

Note

Hello! I hope ur well. I’m abit new to Tumblr and stumbled across ur blog because the Submas content :3.

If you still do requests rn, and something ur comfy with, could I ask for Self Aware AU Ingo discovering his newfound consciousness interacting with reader who play Pokémon Masters? Maybe the reader struggles with self-esteem/depression and Ingo comforts them completely by surprise after a rough day? (Sorry it’s a mouthful to read lol, I appreciate ya!)

-🪴 anon

😭 ingo just wanting to comfort you.

Self aware Ingo x depressed!reader

Hi, just a little reminder before we get started here: if you're ever feeling thoughts of self-esteem or issues with depression, please know that you are loved, and you are beautiful on the inside and out! Make sure you eat a snack and drink some water while reading this.

If this ever made your day even a little bit better, then I did my job, and thank you for reading!

He didn't know when or how he gained consciousness. All he remembered was the first thing he saw when he "woke up" familiar faces in a usual place, the calm music that the Pokemon Center plays every night. Pokemon was standing right next to him, but as his eyes looked forward into what he perceived was a giant portal created by Palkia and Dialga themselves. And a smiling face looking down upon the world he inhabited.

He had thought you were one of Arceus's angels, and this was about a dream, but soon, he had realized that only half was the case.

It all seemed to click who you were. You are not some dead fish-eyed child with a robotic Pikachu like what this world had portrayed you as no far from; instead of that kid with the permanent smile, you always seem to have a tired look on your face with either a small half-smile or a Blank Stare. But to Ingo, he always preferred to you behind the screen. Even when you were no longer watching the world, he could still hear your faint voice going about your day. You seemed more lively and more human than the blank slated avatar they gave you. How could he not be drawn to you even though you seem so sad? Your eyes and your being just seem so full of life that he felt an urge to protect and care for you.

Even though the fake Island had tons of people and, he felt more alone than he ever did, especially when he realized he was the only one different from the rest. He can't help but respond to every little question or reaction in his head, afraid of what you might do if he ever breaks away from the game's script.

But on a particular day that was a rough one for you mentally and physically, when Ingo saw you opening up the app instead of that same expression, your eyes were red from crying. No, you were still crying. His heart sank. If he could, if he could touch you, he would hold you close and Whisper nothing but good things in your ear until you calm down, but he can't do that. He couldn't do anything!! He felt sick with worry as he watched you cry, your lip quivering as you vent to yourself, saying the most horrible things about yourself !! And for a moment, he threw away his worries of the consequences.

" Are you okay?"

A simple three-letter sentence that made you freeze; your heart's practically stopped as you didn't know that you were being watched. It took you a while for your brain to process who the voice was coming from, looking down at your phone to see your favorite character stare back. Huh... Odd you didn't know he had that line before.... and not only that, you didn't remember clicking on him. Usually, characters say their lines after you click on them, yet you don't even touch them. As you were Gathering your thoughts, Ingo spoke again.

" I truly wish I could wipe away those tears, I regretfully can't do much but if it helps tell me about your day and I'll listen."

Ingo speaks again... no text box appears; nothing; he just talked to you, mentioning your crying. In that first moment, you didn't know how you felt. Your favorite character coming to life and talking to you was almost a dream come true, but the thought just seemed so impossible and unrealistic that you doubted the fact that you were awake. And your feelings are already all over the place, having no one to turn to, no one to comfort you, craving that comfort, your heart exploded. You can't stop the tears rolling down your face, even if is just a dream; what a beautiful dream it is.

"I-i don't know." You stuttered you were far too gone to even articulate what you are feeling all your emotions swelling for the past month or two bubbling up into a mess of emotion. You want us to tell him tell him that your day was crap tell him how crappy you looked right now tell him that he can't believe he saw you like this that your first meeting with your favorite character your favorite person in the world was like this red in the face tears falling from your red and puffy eyes.

But Ingo did not seem fazed; he was not disgusted, he was not angry at you. He understood if he was there if he wasn't trapped behind the screen, he would have wished you in his arms and laid his lips on your forehead. He knew how you felt; he listened to your angry ramblings about yourself; he listened to the times people had treated you like you were less than human or misused your kindness, manipulated and used you for their own gain. He wanted to hold you close, make you something you like, and tell you that the word you know about yourself is not true; he wanted to tell you how much you mean to him and how nice and loving you are, how kind and thoughtful and how gorgeous you were. Those people who mistreated you are not good people, and you deserve to be respected, you deserve happiness, and you deserve to be loved.

You deserve to be told that you're beautiful every day, to be made breakfast in bed and kissed at every waking moment. Because that's what he would do for you; that's what his heart ached for him to do.

But he did what he could do which was listen to your broken sobs as you pour your heart out.

" It sounds like you had quite a day... I wish I could do more than just listen and speak to you, but what I can do is tell you what the things you say about yourself is not true... and I wish you could see yourself the way I see you. Could you stay with me for a while? I wish to talk to you, and we start from the beginning, shall we? Now, my dear, please tell me what's bothering you and wipe away those tears. Pretend that it's my fingers swiping across your eyes."

His voice, usually loud and booming, was surprisingly soft, warm, and welcoming. From his calming voice to your Outburst earlier, you felt your heart slow down and your tears dry as you wipe them from your face; those steel gray eyes light up for a moment when he sees just a piece of a smile flicker on your lips.

" there's that smile~"

#pokemon ingo #ingo x reader #pokemon subway bosses #submas x reader #subway boss ingo #Fluff submas #comfort #subway master ingo #pokemon imagines #submas ingo #pokemon submas

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celestial-depths · 3 months

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Poor Things and Born Sexy Yesterday

(spoilers for Poor Things)

I stumbled on a discussion on whether Bella Baxter from the movie Poor Things (2023) is a representation of the Born Sexy Yesterday trope coined by video essayist Pop Culture Detective, who defines it as a mostly fantasy and sci-fi adjacent trope of a regular human man falling in love with a beautiful, otherworldly woman who, through some plot quirk or another, has no knowledge of social norms and no sexual or romantic past. Even though he is brutally average, he is able to win her love simply because he is the first (human) man she connects with and thus everything that's basic about him is impressive to her. Some examples of the trope given by Pop Culture Detective in his video essay are Leeloo from Fifth Element (the physically grown yet mentally child-like alien creature who falls in love with a taxi driver in a wifebeater) and Madison from Splash (a clothes-aversive mermaid who thinks that Tom Hanks is the most enchanting man in the world). I love Pop Culture Detective's work, and the Born Sexy Yesterday video essay was a cultural reset in my personal history. I saw the video when it premiered six years ago, but it has never fully left my mind, so of course I immediately thought of it when I saw Poor Things a couple of weeks ago. The movie certainly touches on the same themes that the Born Sexy Yesterday is made of. However, I think that the movie is an intentional subversion and a satire of the trope rather than a sincere execution of it.

The main character of the movie Bella Baxter starts out as a grotesquely literal version of the trope, as she is literally a newborn in the shape of a conventionally attractive woman who is being actively shielded from the influence of the outside world. She has the brain of a baby salvaged from the fresh corpse of a deceased pregnant woman, planted inside the skull of the reanimated body of the aforementioned woman as an experiment done by the unorthodox doctor Godwin Baxter. He keeps her locked inside his house and controls every aspect of her life, so when he invites the young doctor Max McCandles to join his research, McCandles is served what is essentially the perfect Born Sexy Yesterday experience: an exclusive access to a beautiful and naive young woman who is in a prime position of being groomed into whatever her keepers wish her to become.

Or so they would think.

A sincere Born Sexy Yesterday would be fully fascinated by this power dynamic and probably leave her here to be romanced by McCandles for the rest of the film. The audience would be expected to assume McCandles's perspective and indulge in the fantasy of falling in love with the untainted woman who has neither the life experience nor the critical thinking skills needed to question him.

But, fortunately, the movie doesn't remain here. After the first act, the movie switches its point of view from McCandles to Bella and starts putting her experiences to the forefront. She starts developing interests that absolutely do not align with the wants and needs of the men around her, and she begins to learn things that clash with the essence of the Born Sexy Yesterday trope. Soon, she has grown into a headstrong, independent, sexually experienced, intellectually curious woman who had zero interest in entertaining the whims of men and who intends to live fully for herself and herself alone: an absolute antithesis of the clueless and subservient blank slate the trope would require her to be. My reading of the film is that it's an intentional satire and an autopsy of the BSY trope and the gender politics that gave birth to it. It criticizes the men who entertain fantasies like it by making them look like absolute losers, urging us to ponder on what the hell is wrong with these creeps who see nothing wrong with drooling over a woman who is mentally a toddler instead of their intellectual equal.

The movie also reads as a critique of how women are socialized into a patriarchy. Godwin treats Bella just like a possession of his. Her body and her life are completely under his control from the moment she is "born" (another act in which neither Bella nor the woman she was born from had any say in), which isn't dissimilar to how a lot of fathers view their daughters. He wishes to keep her under constant supervision until the end of her life, until she protests and gets him to change his mind. When he asks McCandles to marry her, the two men treat the proposed marriage as a contract between the two of them rather than as a contract between McCandles and Bella herself. Again, this isn't too different to what marriage between men and women has meant throughout history.

McCandles is romantically interested in Bella even though he is fully aware of the fact that she is mentally a child. He seems to be looking forward to starting a sexual relationship with her after they are wed, as if the seal of marriage would make the intellectual disparity between them any less iffy. This bears resemblance to the way men in the real world prey on young girls with little to no sexual experience and whose brains are not fully developed because they're easier to control than grown women. I don't think that McCandles's hypocrisy is lost on the film. He agrees to marry Bella almost in the same breath as expressing his desire to keep her safe from other men, as if his desire to bed a person who is intellectually at the level of a five-year-old was any better than theirs.

When Bella chooses to leave Godwin's house to explore the world, the two men immediately replace her with a new experiment, showing that they were never truly interested in her as a person. They wanted the eternal baby, the thing that they can cage and control, and not the person who can think and learn and disagree with them. This exemplifies how disposable women are when they no longer serve their limited purpose in a patriarchy, and how replaceable people are when they are primarily viewed as bodies to be used. (Sidenote: I do think that Godwin and McCandles eventually learn to appreciate Bella for the person she is and that they both grow to be better people by the end of the film, but I still attest that these two are total creeps at least by this point of the movie.)

And then there's the supreme loser of the movie: the sleazy lawyer Wedderburn, who slithers into Bella's life and convinces her to run away with him. He is the darkest example of the kind of person who is drawn to inexperienced women like the ones represented in BSY movies - a predator who finds pleasure in the prospect of getting to corrupt and consume an innocent. He intends to take advantage of Bella and abandon her once he's gotten his fill only to find himself choking on his prey, who turns out not to be the malleable, naive creature he thought her to be.

This is the point where I think the movie goes from simply critiquing the BSY trope and everything it represents to successfully subverting it. The characters who embody the BSY trope don't really evolve. The movies they appear in are not really interested in their inner worlds and individual experiences beyond whatever serves the interests of the male protagonists. These characters are projections of male fantasies, so there really isn't a way for them to exist without centering men. This is not the case with Bella, who quickly grows into her own woman who is only tangentially interested in the men around her.

The bright side of Bella's condition is that she isn't just unaware of the ways of the world, but that she's also unaffected by the years of patriarchal conditioning that most normal women are burdened with. She literally has no shame, no internalized misogyny, no history of crushing blows to her sense of self-worth, and no looming knowledge of societal norms society. She has skipped the part in life where she is constantly bombarded with demands to make herself smaller and more palatable, to hate herself, to think of her body and the way it finds pleasure as something disgusting and abnormal, to treat other women as competition, and to think of herself as so much less important than men that she must pursue their validation beyond all else. Because of this blessed defect, she is free in a very rare way.

Wedderburn absolutely cannot handle that. When Bella first gets to know him, he paints a flattering picture of himself as a proud social deviant who gleefully eschews the rules of polite society. However, when faced with the actually deviant Bella, who flatly refuses to obey and center him, Wedderburn is revealed to be a phony. He is not a genuine libertine. He does not want to live in a truly free world with a free spirit like Bella, because he is a pathetic, insecure little man who only likes women in scenarios where the power balance is stacked against them. In my opinion, this is a direct shot fired at the BSY trope and its average enjoyers: if your ideal woman is someone who is many steps behind you in terms of mental capacity and experience, you are quite pitiful and would not stand a chance in an equal playing field.

It's hilarious how Wedderburn loses his mind when Bella starts exhibiting the kind of behavior he himself has proudly displayed earlier in the film: having multiple sexual partners, keeping sex and feelings separate, not falling in love with him or treating him like he's special, dropping him once she's had enough of him, and generally living life in an unconventional way. Again, the movie is pointing out the hypocrisy in men who fetishize inexperienced women while bragging about their own sexual conquests.

The part in the movie where Bella becomes a sex worker delivers the final blow to whatever is left of the BSY trope in her story, because the trope relies on sexual exclusivity and the fetishization of virginity. By having many partners and gaining lots of sexual experience out of her own free will, Bella stops fitting the ideal of the untouched woman who can be deflowered and exclusively possessed by the male protagonist. Also, through the conversations between Bella and the other sex workers, the movie finds another way to address the politics behind certain men's sexual fantasies of women - such as pointing out that some men enjoy sex with women more the less the women themselves enjoy it. It's a stray observation that the movie doesn't get deep into, but it has its place in the tapestry of the general theme of what desire reveals about people.

Finally, there's Alfie, who gives Bella (and us) an idea of the kind of life Bella's "mother" lived - as well as the kind of life Bella herself might be living had she grown up the normal way. It seems hellish. She'd be living under the tyranny of her awful husband, under a constant threat of violence, under absolute bodily control. Alfie wants to impregnate her against her will and to mutilate her genitals to deprive her of pleasure, and there's nothing that she could do about it because he is her husband and thus legally allowed to lord over her. She sees a terrifying glimpse of the role even privileged women like her have in this world: objects who exist solely for the pleasure of the men who own them. I would venture to say that the same description lies in the underbelly of the BSY trope.

I am happy that the movie doesn't take its sweet time to revel in the horror of this part of the story like so many other movies that address the oppression of women do. Instead, Bella stays with Alfie just enough time to say a hard and a well-informed no to his bullshit before getting on her merry way.

I think Poor Things is such a great example of taking a trope and exploring its implications in a way that goes beyond just pointing it out or parodying it by simply repeating it.

#poor things #yorgos lanthimos #bella baxter #emma stone #born sexy yesterday #pop culture #tropes #feminism #gender politics #movies #cinema #film #film studies

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captainmera · 8 months

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What are some other hairstyles you imaging the group in? Any fun ones that Hunter tried (or was forced into by Willow, Amity, etc) as his hair got longer?

THIS IS A LONG ONE (with art) SO I'M PUTTING IT UNDER A READ MORE! :)

first of all I think GUS would be the one with the most hairstyles, hats and drip in general - he loves the human world's culture and their way of using fashion to express themselves uniquely - including hair. I mean, he also has curly hair. So he would have durag styles, various protection styles, twists and braids. And, because his hair curls, he could vary between long and shorter styles.

I also think Gus would have styles that are more typically "feminine" too, as he is very gender-non-conforming in the crew's art of him.

Though, I will say, it works for Gus in-canon that he only keeps one style at first (narratively speaking, not realistic haircare - I think?) because then that would emphasise his time in the human realm later on to be an important developing arc for him (assuming they would actually give him various styles, as indicative of the bits we got of him in episode 1.)

I think, had season 3 happened, we would have gotten a more vibrant Gus. He wants to be an ambassador, he loves the human realm, whom else than GUS to be the one to have an arc where he explores and embodies the full-on SELFEXPRESSION!

Fashion and hair is a way to express the uniqueness of yourself. If Luz' wish as the main character is to be understood, then the (positive) characters around her will (one way or another) embody different lessons for that theme. Gus: Self-expression. (Fashion, style, hair, charisma) Hunter: Identity. (Confidence, self-love, self-respect) Willow: Inner self. (Vulnerability, self-care, self-acceptance) Amity: Outer self. (Presentation of your truth, pride of oneself.) Vee: Voice. (Standing up for yourself, perseverance) Camila: Support. (Union of group, accepting and giving love)

And I think their fashions/hair aka - character designs would reflect these various things!

On a more fun note I think the only reason Hunter could pull off his own unique style is because Gus helps him combine them properly.

Hunter really said dollhouse fairycore and Gus ran with it.

AMITY: Basic styles, probably thinking of her siblings to feel closer to them. Especially Emira's hairstyles. :) I think, because her mom was so controlling of how her hair presented, I think Amity moves away from doing too much with it and rather let it be adventurous and free.

WILLOW: Lots of braids and pigtails. I think she likes to have practical hairstyles as well as more "gentle" ones. The practical ones to reflect her jock-side, and the lose ones to reflect her more gentile and sensitive side! :)

HUNTER: I think just keeps his in a ponytail or (as in the canon) just loose and shaggy without much care. Showing his early stages of being a blank slate. Just let things have it's course to see what "grows" from it, y'know? And then he gets his iconic haircut scene and literally "starts over" with a new arc. :)

I think LUZ just keeps her iconic style that she's had through the show, with the additional tiny low-pinned ponytail that makes her look like a rouge adventurer! Kinda like Amity. I also think Luz hair grows a bit more wavy the longer it gets! :)

VEE is also someone who goes through the most changes, but in her body and face rather than fashion. I think her style would be of the alternative side, perhaps a bit of a concert-kid vibe and basic comfy stuff. She's visually been shown to have the opposite expressions of Luz, quite literally being from opposite realms and having opposite personalities. Where Luz felt hopeful Vee was quick to give up. Our basilisk girl also seem to fit in more with the human realm, enjoying being a normie - after all, her life wasn't normal up till that point. So it makes sense for her to seek it and even find her safety in her own baseline.

BUT YEAH!

I THINK THAT'S IT????

ENJOY MY THOUGHTS.

#toh #the owl house #art reply #toh gus #toh hunter #toh amity #toh willow #ask #asks #toh ask

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starbylers · 10 months

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Mike’s lack of personal journey in a Mlvn reading of the show: why so many people complain about Mike’s character

Something just occurred to me…I actually would challenge any Mlvn to tell me about a character motivation/internal conflict of Mike’s that does not revolve around El. What struggles does Mike as a person deal with throughout the series? When trying to build an effective, realistic, well-rounded character you can’t have their biggest fear be ‘loosing this particular person’ as Mlvns love to claim is Mike’s. As a writer you have to understand your character’s deepest desires and what drives them at their core, they cannot be purely motivated by an external force. A character such as that will feel hollow, boring and difficult to connect with. This is basic character development stuff.

Examples (simplified to get the point across):

For the whole show, El struggles with finding her place in a world where she feels fundamentally different

For most of the show, Will struggles with his sexuality and feeling like a ‘mistake’

Dustin in s2 deals with his self-esteem and understanding that he is good enough even if he doesn’t have a girl’s approval

Lucas in s4 wrestles with a desire to be popular and to ‘fit in’ which we see him overcome

Max in s4 deals with depression and the process of wishing to no longer be here to realising she actually wants to live

But…what about Mike? A brief Mlvn interpretation of everything he does through the show and why he does it:

S1: he saves and looks after El because he fell in love with her. He also looks for his friend Will.

S2: he is heartbroken because El is not with him anymore, and then madly in love again once she’s back.

S3: he has ups and downs with El because teen relationships are just like that, and then they get back together because they’re truly in love. He’s also too in love with his girlfriend to care about his old interests.

S4: he fights with El because all couples fight, and then rescues her from Nina while taking friendly advice from Will. Finally he confesses his love, which he didn’t do before because he’s terrified to lose her oh and he’s not good at feelings (but they won’t digger any deeper into that last one 🤐).

Like…yeah they acknowledge Mike also helps with the supernatural stuff, he’s smart and observant. He generally takes charge of the group and looks out for his friends, and (at least in earlier seasons) he’s the leader. But those are character traits. Everyone has them. (Max is sarcastic and kinda scary when she needs to be, Dustin can be cocky but is highly intelligent, Lucas is very headstrong and follows his own judgement, Will is sensitive and empathetic). I’m talking about character conflicts/journeys. Can they tell us what journey Mike has gone on as his own person???

And this, this is why lots and lots of people complain that Mike’s character revolves around El (especially since they started dating). This is why people say Mike is the Duffer’s self-insert and is just meant to be a blank slate relatable character. This is why Mlvns characterise him as El’s obsessed loser boyfriend. Because if you view the show through a Mlvn lens then yeah, Mike looks utterly two-dimensional with no drive other than screeching El El El when she’s in danger (sorry it had to be said).

The problem is when you try to dig into what Mike’s deeper motivations could possibly be, it gets very bad for Mlvn very fast:

‘Mike is scared to lose El because he’s worried she won’t need him’

Let’s detach El from that and figure out the root of this problem, what is really going on with Mike here (we already know but just for the sake of my point), because he is a character in his own right and this was a large focus of his story last season.

What do we know? Mike expressed feelings of worthlessness (‘I’m just some random nerd...’) and feelings of inferiority (…‘who got lucky superman landed on his doorstep’) in his relationship. He acknowledges that his and El’s relationship was fundamentally built on her just needing someone. Also, throughout the series we see Mike has a strong desire to help and serve and save those close to him, it’s who he is.

Mike is so clearly driven by a need to feel needed and fears being an unimportant nobody. He doesn’t think he’s special or useful next to El and it hurts him, his self-esteem is very, very low. But Mlvns never acknowledge that, because that would require admitting that a) Will’s words in the van showed he recognises & loves the Mike as the brave and inspiring leader he wants to be, and in doing so soothed Mike’s personal insecurities (because those do exist, and the talk wasn’t just ‘relationship advice’) and b) Mlvn’s relationship makes Mike feel shitty.

Another example:

Common Mlvn interpretation: ‘Mike was spending all his time with El in s3 because he’s in love with her and he is growing out of childish games’

What do we know? (1) Mike didn’t truly loose interest in DnD, he just neglected his interests when he got into a relationship, super healthy (2) He tries to act cool around El (‘Sorry that made me sound like a 7 year old’ / feigning disinterest in Dustin’s inventions) (3) When arguing with Will, Mike frames him getting a girlfriend as being the inevitable progression of life, the opposing choice from ‘sitting in his basement playing games’…but then he joins Hellfire in s4…as soon as El leaves. He didn’t truly believe anything he was saying to Will, he just can’t juggle being himself and having a gf simultaneously 😬.

Mike’s internal conflict here is clearly feeling like he has to grow up, and has to suppress his true identity in the name of achieving that. (And this continues somewhat into s4 with the fake, not-at-all-his-style Cali outfit in El’s fav colours). But again, understanding that requires understanding that Mlvn as a couple is not a safe space for Mike to be himself, and what Mlvns characterise as a normal teenage ups and downs is actually indicative of an unhealthy relationship.

Basically what I’m saying is it makes so, so much sense why Mike is one of the most disliked characters among the GA (aside from like the actual villains) and why he always ends up on those stupid lists. People are sick of him existing just to be El’s love interest. And that is not true in the slightest, but when you aren’t looking deeper than Mlvn…yeah it does look pretty bad, and I understand where they’re coming from. And as much as we say El is the one who Mlvns are obsessed with making everything about her boyfriend, the real victim of this treatment from them is Mike. Even his heart-to-hearts with Will are actually Mike thinking about El, apparently.

This is another reason why I’m so sure about Byler because Mike is essentially the original main character (aside from El I guess). I’m sorry but there’s no way he is the only one the writers managed to mess up this badly when they are capable of adding deeper personal development to characters who are much less central to the story. Even Finn himself said we’ve not been as personal with Mike recently but s5 will remedy that and people will be happy with his journey. The day Mlvns and GA are forced to look deeper at Mike’s personal internal conflict outside of how it relates to El is the day I will know peace 🙏🏽

#byler #anti mileven #wow this got incredibly long congrats if you make it to the end

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thetriumphantpanda · 6 months

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masterpiece | marcus pike

Summary | Even surrounded by works of art, you're his favourite masterpiece.

Pairing | Marcus Pike x F!Reader

Warnings | A fair amount of art metaphors, Marcus being a smooth motherfucker but a smitten one, explicit smut, fingering, unprotected PiV, creampie, public sex (don't ask me why I write this man fucking in public so much), alcohol consumption, two Taylor Swift song lyric references if you look hard enough, no use of y/n. Reader is a blank slate physically but is described wearing a dress and is wearing red lipstick.

Word Count | 1.5k

Authors Note | Don't look at me. I saw this post. Immediately thought of Marcus and wrote this in less than 24 hours. As always, a huge thank you to @undercoverpena who continually inspires me to be creative and to write what I love. If you liked this, please consider reblogging or commenting, it is my life blood. This might be my favourite thing I have ever written, so enjoy.

Beautiful divider by @saradika

Main Masterlist | Ko-Fi

The Mona Lisa. The Girl With The Pearl Earring. The Birth Of Venus. All of them masterpieces, but none of them could hold a candle to you this evening in his eyes.

Stood in the dimly lit room, draped in a dress of burgundy silk, the low-cut back showing off your spine, teasing what sat lower, the curve of your ass that he gets to cradle in his hands each evening, the glass of champagne held in your delicate fingers, fingers he knows so intimately these days, how they feel wrapped around that specific part of him. The light glints on the stones of your earrings, dropping delicately from your ears, swinging lightly, touching the skin of your neck that is traced by his mouth each night. And when you turn to him, meet his eyes across the room, and smile at him, he wishes he could paint you, immortalise you on canvas, hang you on a wall, display you, so that the rest of the world, for the rest of history, could understand just how priceless you were to him.

He doesn’t even really know why he’s here, much like he thinks when he does anything that doesn’t involved shutting the two of you away in his home or yours and forgetting anything else exists outside of those four walls. Letting you wrap yourself around him, tangled in sheets, with whispered sighs, his hands on your hips and thighs, caught up in nothing but each other and the way he doesn’t think he’s ever felt this way for anyone before, not his ex-wife, not his failed engagement, none of them. None of them made his heart skip like you do, none of them could set his skin on fire with the trace of their fingernails across his skin like you could, none of them would make him feel as good as you would. In the dead of night, your head pillowed on his shoulder, breath fanning across his skin, he realises he’s never loved until you.

When you turn, abandoning the conversation you’re having with God knows who, start walking towards him, parting the crowd like the Red Sea, your eyes focused on him and him alone, he finds that his breath catches in his throat, still not quite believing he is the apple of your eye, the man you search for in a crowd.

“You’re staring.”

“Your fault for looking like that.”

His hand snakes across silk and then the bare skin of your back, dipping to kiss the corner of your mouth so as to not smudge the clean line of red that your mouth is painted.

“See anything you want to buy?”

He smirks, “There’s only one piece of art here that I want, and it’s not for sale.”

You press up onto your tiptoes, mouth by his ear, “Would you hang me on your wall, Pike?”

Looking down at you, those doe eyes, long eyelashes fluttering at him, knowing exactly what you do to him, he bites his lip, “Maybe not hang baby,” He all but growls at you, “But pin you against it? Always.”

And then it all happens in a flurry. Hand around wrist, heels clicking against the floor as he pulls you from the crowd, out of one room, down a hallway and into the first room which door will open. It’s dark inside, save for the floor lights that illuminate the paintings. Normally, when you let him walk you around this particular gallery, all you’re focused on is the way his face lights when he talks, when he’s allowed, for once, to be unapologetically nerdy about something, but tonight, he’s not looking at the art, he’s looking at you.

Like predator after prey, he takes one step forward, as you take one back, slowly but surely backing you up under his gaze until your bare back hits a wall, cornered between two paintings, his palms on either side of your head, mouth dipping to yours, finding a finger pressed against his lips, one of your eyebrows raised, with a point to your own lips and that fucking lipstick that he knows he’ll smudge later if he’s got anything to say about it.

So instead, lips attach to neck, pressing, nipping, sucking sometimes as those fingers of his work the silk up from your ankles, up as high as he can be bothered to pull it before his hand is sinking underneath it, finding you bare.

“Filthy little minx.”

“Have you seen this dress?” You counter, “You would have seen the lines.”

He cuts you off, parting you with his fingers, sinking them lower, finding you slick to the touch, fingers sinking inside, pulling a gasp from you as your delicate hands circle his wrist, not as a warning, but as an encouragement, keeping him there, keeping his fingers inside you as they curl, search out that spot within you that makes you sing. And he finds it, because of course he does, watches as your knees buckle a little, held up only by his other hand on your waist, anchoring you right where he wants you as those fingers drag up, circling that bud of nerves so perfectly, your head tipped back against the wall.

“Go on, baby,” He encourages, fingers fast and precise against you, knowing exactly how to tear you apart, “Let go for me.”

So you do, legs shaking, his name like a chant on your lips, you come, hips chasing his hand as his movements slow, working you through it but not to the point of overstimulation. He looks you dead in the eye as he brings his fingers to his mouth, sucks the taste of you from his skin, leaning back into your mouth, an expectant look in your eyes that you’ve already told him about this.

“Tongue.”

It’s demanding, and it makes your cunt clench around nothing, so you stick it out, do as you’re told, hoping to earn the golden star from him, those two words that make you weaker than anything.

He leans in, traces his tongue against yours, letting you taste yourself on his mouth before giving you that reward.

“Good girl.”

Then his hands are snaking down, gripping your ass through the silk, lifting you gently to wrap your legs around his hips. His hands fumble with his trousers, moving them only enough to free his cock, your hands shifting your dress again, pulling it up to pool at your waist as the length of his slips trough your slick folds, before he’s buried inside you to the hilt in one movement.

There’s a moment of pause, where you look at each other, where you get used to the feel of him inside you, stretching you so perfectly like he always does, him getting used to the warmth of you, the way those walls of yours flutter around him. Then he’s moving, knowing this isn’t the place for him to take his time, hips rocking into yours, slamming your back into the wall as your arms lace around his shoulders, helping him to keep you held up, hands against your ass squeezing where he can.

“Careful of the paintings, agent.” You tease.

“You’re the only masterpiece I care about,” He breathes back, “Pinned to the wall like you should be.”

It’s quick and it’s sloppy, but its no less incredible as it is when he lays you down, pulls you apart with his mouth, then his fingers, then both, and then finally sinks into you, with your legs pressed back to your chest. Here, it’s different, the way his cock punches so deep inside you it takes your breath away, the way you claw at his shoulders, rock into him on his thrusts so you take him deeper. The way you’re surrounded by magnificence but only look at him, warmth in your eyes, nothing but love as he stutters with his movements a little.

“Gonna fill me up?” You ask, voice sickly sweet, “Leave yourself dripping down my thighs when we go back?”

Fuck, you’re filth personified when you talk like that, when you let him mark you, fuck you full of him and walk around with him dripping down your skin, no-one else any the wiser.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” He growls into the shell of your ear, teeth nipping at your lobe, marginally missing the silver of your earrings.

“Please.”

It’s the first break in your facade, the way you beg like that and he knows its all over, always is when you beg for him, beg for him to fill you up. He doesn’t last much longer, hips pushing into yours a handful of times before you can feel the warmth spreading inside of you, a breathe of your name against the skin of your neck as he fills you, fucks you to the point that you’re already dripping him before he pulls himself from you, letting your dress drape back down your legs, feet planted on the floor, as he tucks himself back into his trousers.

Your palms smooth down your dress and as he twines his fingers with yours, leads you back into the main gallery, thighs coated in him, no-one would be any the wiser that he has indeed painted you as his own masterpiece right under their noses.

#Marcus pike #Marcus pike smut #Marcus pike x reader #Marcus pike x female reader #Marcus Pike x you #Marcus pike x f!reader #marcus pike fluff #Marcus pike Fic #Marcus pike fanfic #Marcus pike fanfiction #the mentalist #the mentalist fic #the mentalist fanfic #the mentalist fanfiction #Pedro Pascal #Marcus Pike Pedro Pascal #Marcus Pike the mentalist

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nogoodsheepstealing-greatgrandma · 11 months

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Team Green: Sorry your faves are boring 😊🤷‍♂️ Sure you're supposed to root for the Blacks but the Greens are just more fun. Jace is boring I'm here for my angsty disaster mess 💚

You realise that's bad writing, right? This is a family civil war drama. One side of that family civil war shouldn't be populated with blank slates. If no effort is made into making Rhaenyra and Daemon's children as fleshed out as Alicent's children then that is bad writing.

Some people find the Lannisters more fun than the Starks, but the Starks are still fleshed out characters (and considering in the books Jace is 14/15, Luke is 13, Joffrey, Baela & Rhaena are 12, Aegon the younger is 9 and Viserys is 7 - these kids ages almost map straight onto the Starklings so they were so meant to be our Targlings). It didn't have to be a zero sum "you can only have ONE side that's interesting". The show is poorer for it. Game of Thrones was a disaster in many ways, but at least the different sides of the conflict had equal screen time and attention.

How hard would it have been to flesh out Jace, or at least give him a half-decent haircut? He could have been a mirror to Jon Snow (they technically have the same initials). One is a bastard who does not know he's a targaryen prince, the other is a targaryen prince who discovers he is a bastard. In a world that hates bastards, that insists they are 'wanton and treacherous by nature', there was plenty of potential to explore some complicated emotions, to give weight to how he feels about being a bastard. The whispers that would have followed him, the scrutiny he would have felt, the internalised guilt and shame, his protectiveness over his little brothers and wish to spare them the truth. Maybe after Alicent confronted Aegon over the pig there could have been a shift where Aegon turns his bullying away from Aemond and towards Jace (more in keeping with book canon). Maybe Jace could feel anxious about lessons with Criston Cole due to his open hatred of him. Maybe he could be equal parts devoted to and resentful of his mother over his parentage, maybe he could be driven to perfectionism to prove himself worthy.

The show made Jace more violent in the fight with Aemond than in the book, by changing who started the fight (from Aemond to Rhaena and co.), by narrowing the age gap to make Jace more of a match for Aemond, and by having him draw a knife instead of a wooden toy sword. But they didn't earn that moment. How much more satisfying would it have been if both Aemond and Jace were given equal emotional weight in the build-up to the fight? If the hurt and anxiety at discovering he was a bastard had been building and building until it burst out. The entire reason the show changed the age dynamic between Rhaenyra and Alicent to make them peers and best friends was supposedly to make their conflict more dramatic - why would you then drop that approach with their kids? How does it make the civil war story better if one half of the next generation of characters aren't really characters?

They didn't even have to put much effort into Baela, as GRRM already had her brimming with personality on the page, but they just... ignored that and made her a non-entity. Oh she gets one punch in, and there's a blink and you'll miss it background shot of her trying to hit Aegon (at this point I don't think the actors were even directed to do that I think they just took it upon themselves). Meanwhile Baela in the books is wild and fearless and deliberately provocative and quick to anger and fiercely defensive of her loved ones and wrestles squires in the training yard and has a pet monkey and sneaks out in search of adventure and brings home 'unsuitable' friends. Including a legless beggar, a blacksmith's apprentice whose muscles she admired, a street conjurer, twin prostitutes and an entire troupe of mummers. And she alarms everyone due to being 'overly fond of boys' and gets epic lines like this when it is suggested she marry Lord Rowan:

“I’ve bedded two of his sons. The eldest and thirdborn, I think it was. Not both at once, that would have been improper.”

She could have been an absolutely chaotic presence onscreen. Rhaena meanwhile is a little more like Sansa to Baela's Arya, but would have needed more work to flesh her out onscreen. Her insecurities and wish for a dragon seemed promising at first, but they were dropped as soon as Aemond lost his eye. Because that was ultimately the narrative purpose she served - to provide a new reason for the fight to start that wasn't Aemond hitting and pushing a toddler into a pile of dragon poo. She helps Aemond's image by being the one to start the fight instead of him, and from then on she becomes a voiceless non-entity. We watch Aemond fly away victoriously on Vhagar, we don't see Rhaena tearfully watching the last link to her mother vanish over the horizon.

Considering the prominent role of bastards during the dance (especially the dragonseeds), the uninterest in exploring bastardy in Jace makes little sense. Considering the centrality of gender to the story (and considering a certain event involving key players during the dance), the lack of effort into Baela and Rhaena makes zero sense (the show doesn't even bring up their right to Driftmark in an episode dedicated to discussing the rightful heir to Driftmark).

Considering especially that in fantasy black women are so often consigned to minor Missandei roles, the fact that we were robbed of Baela and Rhaena as main characters particularly stings. Baela in particular was an easy fan favourite in the book, and its a role that black women and girls so rarely get to play. If you had told me before the show that Helaena would be a fan favourite over Baela, I wouldn't have believed it. And don't get me wrong, I like that they fleshed out Helaena in the show, like Rhaena she didn't have much of a presence in the book. But it is so typical that the relative non-entity that they kept white gets to be fleshed out, while the more fleshed out character that they made black becomes a non-entity. And Helaena is skinny now, of course (all love to Phia Saban, but I am mourning plump Helaena).

And don't get me started on Kylo Raemond.

#hotd critical #house of the dragon #team black #team green #pro team black #jacaerys velaryon #baela targaryen #rhaena targaryen #aemond targaryen #helaena targaryen #kylo ren #jace #jon snow #valyrianscrolls #f&b

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animentality · 3 months

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Maybe a hot take, but I think Durge is the real protagonist of BG3. Like... I'm sorry, everyone love their Tavs, but from a narrative point of view, it doesn't have fucking sense. It's just another guy (gender neutral) in a The Choosen One situation. I've read this story before, hundreds of times. But Durge's recepción (or disgrace)... now that has juice! That makes sense on a narrative level. You started it, you end it, one way or another.

Anyway, I'm never (with my +500 hours) going to play a Tav run. Ever. Origins only, mostly Durge. Durge and Durgetash are waaaaay better, sorry not sorry.

You are spitting nothing but facts, anon.

You wanna know what the HONEST to GOD fundamental problem is with the writing of Baldur's Gate 3?

It's that it spreads itself so thin, desperately attempting to write an open sandbox sort of world in which ANY kind of character can fit in...that it ends up being this hollow nothing.

IMAGINE if the Dark Urge WAS the default protagonist. It WOULD'VE BEEN an amazing story, if it had been given the focus it deserved, instead of just blankly repeating the SAME dialogue you'd get as a Tav and as an origin.

The idea of a former villain turned amnesiac, and going on an adventure, learning about themselves from the perspective of an outsider and seeing firsthand the horror they've wrought? It's like a fucking Zuko arc, except finding out you were the Big Bad all along could've been written even better than that...

We could've had that blank, nothing slate that Tavs start out as...and then find out, that it has thematic significance, because WE CHOOSE who we become, after a childhood/adulthood of being unable to make our own choices, and being forced into the role of the villain before the game even starts.

It's a MUCH BETTER WAY to give people a blank slate to work with, for the fun of roleplaying, but ALSO asserting a particular theme. Which is, the gravity of your choices, big and small. To do good or to embrace evil.

YOU KNOW. How Baldur's Gate 1 and 2 did being a Bhaalspawn.

IT'S ALSO A REALLY GREAT WAY to DO an RPG because yes, you slightly infringe upon the freedom of the customizable characters a person can make, but in exchange, you actually tell a fucking story where choices are the main theme.

INSTEAD. Because they were so dedicated to Tavs and the variety of ways you could play as a Tav...they completely undersell and underutilize what could've been a really amazing character.

You can literally choose to DIE for your friends in the end...and then what?

Withers brings you back in five seconds, no one has any real reaction to you doing that, except saying good job buddy :)

And then you're basically a Tav.

And ALSO. I want to say this, because it's been bothering me.

The Dark Urge has Tav syndrome too.

They have TWO notes in the entire game that we have to read into to try and glean a greater depth to their character other than murder hobo.

And that's it. They're a blank slate too.

If the Dark Urge was the protagonist, we might've been able to look into who they were before, outside of just laughably evil flesh eating monster.

They might've had real fucking depth, instead of just tidbits.

I and my fellow Dark Urge/ Durgetash enjoyers have to do the fucking work for them and write in stuff that isn't actually there. The Dark Urge as a protagonist could've been really meaningful. We could've seen inklings that they had misgivings about being Bhaal's Chosen. We could've seen scars of resistance, where they tried to defy Bhaal, but were punished with death, disintegration by the loving hands of your own father and flesh. We could've had betrayal, redemption, loyalty to one's blood family vs one's found family.

But we don't get that, because it's taking too much time away from Tavs.

Sometimes I really wish the Dark Urge wasn't even an option. They gave me this thing, and I thought wow this is the only way to play the game...and then I look and see, ah. But the potential for greatness could drive me absolutely insane.

And it has.

Durgetash is the product of my frustration with the game's characterization of the Dark Urge.

And I know I'm pissing off the salty BG3 fans who love their Tavs and all, and think the Dark Urge is lame, and god FORBID a protagonist have a character, can't have that in an RPG, but I can't find it in myself to care.

I'm built different than the rest of y'all. I don't just feed on content, I analyze its nutrients. I calculate how good for me it actually is.

And BG3 has wonderful mechanics.

But the story has so many problems, from beginning to rotten end.

And it is what it is. I still enjoyed myself playing it.

But the story isn't good for anything except allowing you to create a far more compelling story on your own, in fanfic or in original work inspired by it.

And I guess if that's all they wanted, then fine.

But goddamnit, I'm gonna complain anyway! Divinity 2 did it fucking better.

#baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #dark urge

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vigilskeep · 4 months

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how do u like get into da2 bc ive only finished it twice (compared to my 7 complete origins playthrus) and its just so like unsatisfying to me like roleplay wise. it just feels so hard to build a character and a unique story which sucks bc i like some parts of the game!! its just hard to get thru the everything else about it

at some point i’m not going to be the best person to answer this because i have the opposite problem but !! i did have an initial playthrough of da2 that is like. nothing to me bc it was so generic so i guess i did develop from that point

i think using the “colour system” of personality to its fullest really helps. especially having a “secondary colour” to use for flavour or in certain situations? if you’re struggling with your character feeling unique from other people’s characters, i would recommend avoiding primarily purple to begin with... as fun as it is, it’s kind of considered default for hawke. not to push my own agenda but for example, trying out a primarily red hawke can really refresh the game without losing entertainment value. and a blueish red and purplish red are really different, and where you use that blue or purple really alters things. and i would recommend rivalling at least one companion... let your hawke have some opinions instead of just being blank slate to win everyone over

idk da2 is the kind of developing a character i love so it’s hard for me to explain the appeal. it gives you a set of really specific circumstances and you get to decide what kind of a person those circumstances create. here are some of the major questions that distinguish one of my hawkes from another:

how do they feel about the magic in their family? do they value it or resent its dangers?

how do they feel about being the eldest sibling, pushed into protecting and leading the family? did they accept that? does the pressure weigh? how does that affect their memory of their father and their relationship with leandra?

does their father have elven heritage, or heritage from another part of thedas? how does that affect their experiences in and out of their home? do they want to engage with or ignore that part of themselves?

what did they do before the game starts? where did they get and practice their skillset?

what makes them choose the spells and abilities they use? what specialisation do they take and why? who taught it to them?

do they care about their appearance? do they care about conforming to gender norms? how do they want to look and why? do they achieve it?

do they wish they could return to ferelden, or is kirkwall their home?

are they just doing all this to protect their family and stay out of the templars’ reach, or are they ambitious? do they want money? power? the luxuries of hightown? the ability to really change things? the status their mother told stories about? do those priorities change?

what are afraid of? how do the dangers they face every day affect them? which quests linger in their memory? how do those traumas affect their decision making?

have they ever been in love before? what are they looking for in a romantic partner? is the person they fall for what they would’ve gone for, or a surprise? what is it about their romance that made them fall for them? do they hold their parents’ romance as a perfect fairytale ideal or a fate to avoid?

maybe you can’t do anything you like with a hawke, but get a few unique ideas and a cohesive and interesting enough combination of the yes/no questions, or pick an answer to one of these questions that really grabs you and take that as far as you can to its natural extreme as the centre point of their character, and you can really do a lot

(and don’t be afraid to let them have answers to the above questions that you disagree them/that are morally imperfect!!!)

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wuahae · 1 year

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✶ seventeen, after it all ends.

post-breakup hcs, ft. hip hop unit

-> performance | vocal

the phone rings at 2AM, and seungcheol immediately knows it's you. it's becoming all too familiar, he laments distantly—the neon numbers blinking on his bedside, the three rings he lets pass before inevitably answering on the fourth, the voice that greets him on the other end of the line. ("hi, cheol," you utter quietly, and it's like he's back at the starting line, still gathering up the courage to tear himself away.) he wants to blame his lack of resilience on the hour, the repeatedly promised 'one last time,' but seungcheol knows he ends up here every single time because he would rather you cry with him than alone. he's not anything to you anymore, seungcheol tells himself, but he can taste the lie before it even forms on his tongue, the way it tangles itself between late night calls and quiet words and—("i'm sorry, cheol," the nickname feels like a mottled bruise, a confession tumbling soon after. like defeat in the admittance. "i didn't know who else to call." you always sound so hurt when seungcheol hears you speak; he wonders if it's his fault.) seungcheol knows better than anyone that he can't keep doing this with you, that it's unhealthy and you both need to move on, that he can't keep letting things linger as a pitiful attempt to ease his guilt, but old habits die hard; seungcheol wonders if this is just becoming another.

wonwoo finds an old note you'd written a week after, tucked away into a borrowed book you'd forgotten to take back. it wasn't anything special or profound, just a little bookmark put for a future-him to find, "this made me think of you," scrawled on the sides and in the margins and page numbers for passages you thought he would like. the annotations speak in a language all by themselves, care crafted into each word, each stroke, and somehow, he sees you in it all. (how had you put it again? like it was memories permanently inked into paper, a version of yourself you could always come back to.) they say that to love is to lose, and that grief is just love with no place left to go, but wonwoo can't seem to care about the accuracy of poetry and prose when he is still mourning of someone lost to him forever. ("don't be a stranger," you had reminded him softly, the day you left, but you both knew it was all wishful thinking than an actual promise. in the end it would all be the same— a forced blank slate, a version of himself grappling with a soul still shaped like you.) wonwoo supposes it's a little too late to feign ignorance and give the book back to you, lovenote tucked back in; it would be cruel for him to insist on making you revisit a past scratched and scribbled and thrown away. he runs a hand over the paper, ink under skin, heart in throat, and closes the book. even if he came back it would never, ever be the same.

mingyu can't hear anything over the roaring of his ears. he can't remember much from the night either, something about his lost phone he probably left on the uber here, fumbling favors from a nearby stranger, something else distant and fuzzy that lead him to sitting on the curb outside waiting for—"mingyu." (oh. it's you.) your voice strikes clean through the fog, but mingyu only manages to utter your name; the muffled bass playing from inside the bar still thrums in his bones. you sigh quietly, taking a seat next to him, arms touching. (it burns, the forgotten familiarity. "let's get you home, okay?" you nudge gently, and mingyu has to remember that home doesn't mean the same thing to you anymore.) it isn't until you're parked outside of his apartment that you ask the burning question ("why did you call me?") and he answers truthfully ("your number was the only one i remembered."). your eyes flicker with the confession and he almost wants to take it back, his secrets displayed raw, but hidden truths already start to spill out of mingyu's mouth, things he's been wanting to say for months. (i'm sorry," he ends up saying, eventually. "i really loved you, you know?" he thinks he still does.) some would call it drunken courage but mingyu thinks it's just his sober cowardice instead. maybe if he had said it when it mattered, 'home' would still be you.

it's been two months, and vernon still hasn't figured out how to break the news. he practices it in his head more times than he can count, drafting and erasing and rewriting the right words to tell his family that you and him are over, but it all falls flat the minute he tries to get them past his lips. some days he gets close, the first few words spoken before his mom interrupts asking how you are; other days, the words die before they even have the chance to form, all amounting to a wooden tongue, a puff of empty air. his sister knows, vernon thinks, the way she shoots him a look half-pity half-judgement every time he tries to bring it up. maybe you were the one to tell her, or maybe she had just figured it out all by herself, but it comforts him, in a strange way—like he's not alone in his unintentionally kept secret. ("dad wants to know if you're able to come over for christmas," vernon tells you over the phone, and the line goes silent. vernon winces, already anticipating what comes after. "have you..." you start carefully, "...not told them?") a part of him wants to say that it's all a matter of luck and timing, that he just hasn't found the right time and he'll do it soon, he promises, but the rest of him knows that it's all just excuses. (vernon is scared, he thinks, still trying to stall the sinking feeling that there truly is no coming back after he tells his family. it feels more like admitting it to himself, carving it into stone, cementing it into the ground where his love lies buried.) vernon says that his biggest problem is figuring out how to break the news, but really, it's figuring out how to let you go.

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wildemaven · 9 months

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fall apart, again : chapter two | joel miller

Pairing: Joel Miller x OFC!Genevieve

WC: 2763

Warnings: 18+ Blog; little bit of angst and a little bit of fluff— that’s all I’m saying, reader has a name but is a blank slate with zero description,

A/N: I was eager to get this part written and out as soon as possible. Chapter 3 might take me a minute to get out, just a heads up. Thanks so much to @gnpwdrnwhiskey for being the best and listening to me stress over this 💞

Series Masterlist / Playlist / Inspo Board

Previous / Next

September 22, 2003 - 4 Days until Outbreak

The summer still lingers in Texas, the air dense and muggy.

Heat shimmering over the hood of your car as you drive, the blasting of cool air is the only saving grace you have for the time being.

“Hey, it’s me. I wanted to talk to you about something when you get here. Umm— Shit! I hate this so much. *sigh* I miss you Eve…A-and I love you so, so fucking much. I guess— I guess I’ll see you in a bit. Drive safe. Bye.”

*BEEP*

“End of messages. You have no new messages.”

A heavy sigh huffs out of your chest, you press the red ‘end call’ button and toss the small phone into your passenger seat.

His voice still has such an effect on you after all this time, the little flutter it elicited the second it reverberated into the speaker has you almost fighting back tears.

You blink them away quickly as you reach for the stereo volume, turning it up to a somewhat higher but bearable level, the local station plays through some hit song you haven’t heard before.

The steering wheel is rigid as you readjust your grip, a slight glint of light pulls your gaze briefly from the road ahead, the small gold band that cradles a tiny diamond shines brightly on your left hand.

Refocusing on the road, your mind wanders to when you had both found the ring, your small income not offering a lot towards something with more extravagance, but you were the opposite of flashy so it was perfect.

You remember the sight of him immediately dropping to one knee the minute you both stepped out of the small jewelry store, its parking lot the backdrop for the proposal you both had planned together.

Yes! flew from your mouth instantly as you dropped down into his arms, the celebratory kiss only lasting briefly as the asphalt began to nearly burn through your jeans.

Meeting the love of your life at 18 and planning your life together at 22 felt right, even despite the apprehension from both of your parents, convinced you were throwing your lives away.

You wish you could say the last 14 years were nothing short of pure wedded bliss, the last few years were trying as you both worked yourselves to make ends meet, even in your 30’s trying to stay afloat was no easy feat.

The separation wasn't an easy decision. It broke your heart to even suggest such a thing, but you needed a break from the fighting and the tears, some space to clear your head and let things settle down before reevaluating what was best for both of you.

The love you had for him was still so strong and you held on to it fiercely, allowing time to heal the small fractures in your heart. You had hoped that your decision for this arrangement you had been living for the last 2 months, wasn't one you would regret in the long run.

Your friends assured you it was just a rough patch, something all couples dealt with at some point in their lives, trying to alleviate any hesitancy you were having that this was the end for your relationship. You knew you didn’t want an end, you had looked into options to work on things, hoping he would be on board and this would be a start to a new beginning.

“You know, he cries too. And he thinks I can’t tell, but I do.” A voice drifts from the back seat.

You hadn’t even realized you were crying, hoping the music muffled your sniffling as you promptly wiped your face, knowing she can tell with you too.

You catch her reflection in the rear view mirror, her gaze focused out the window, there's a soft but somber look on her face— you hate that you’re the cause of any sadness she is hiding from you.

Shifting your eyes back to the road as you turn into a quiet neighborhood. The small street is lined with modest homes and memories of block party cookouts on holiday weekends, kids running the sidewalks as their popsicles melt down their small hands and families bringing home newest editions to continue adding new memories.

The two story red brick with white trim house is nestled further down the cul de sac, it was the perfect starter home for two young adults who threw their savings and a hefty bank loan into it.

Guilt builds in your chest the closer you get, knowing it’s a quick visit before you leave, it hasn't gotten easier and each time only adding to the pain you feel of not pulling in that driveway permanently.

“He’s going to be bummed you won’t be here this weekend, I can already see his grumpy face.”

Parking the car along the curb in front of the house and killing the engine, you turn to look to the back seat.

“Please don’t say anything, just let me tell him okay?” You can already see his furrowed brow line and puppy dog eyes, for as handsome as he is, he wears his grumpiness well.

“Are you going to tell him you’re moving back home too?”

“What? How did you—“

“I heard you talking to grandma this morning, you both aren’t the quietest people, even when you think you’re being quiet. Just tell him, please. I don’t think he can take it much longer.”

“Yes, I’ll tell him.”

“Promise?”

“I promise— Gosh, since when did the roles reverse here? I swear, you were just 5 begging for your training wheels to come off. What the heck happened?”

“I turned 14 and wondered when my parents were going to come to their senses.”

“Alright, get your stuff baby girl. Don’t forget your school books too.”

“Got it!” Grabbing her overnight bag and backpack, books tucked under her arm as she exits the car.

You grab the small package out of the glove box and take a minute to calm your nerves, the air sticking to your skin the moment you step out of the car.

“Give me a hug.” Opening your arms to your daughter, grateful that even at 14 she still loves giving her parents hugs. “I’m gonna miss you, but I’ll call you when I get there ok?” Your cheek squished against the side of her head as you squeeze her a little tighter.

“Did you get the gift?” She looks up at you.

You hold up the silver box, giving a little shake, its contents knocking about slightly. You both smile at the remembrance of picking it out, the shopping trip to the mall last night week, searching every store for the perfect gift. It took 10 stores, a pretzel and a pit stop to Claire’s before you both settled on it— the perfect style and color to match his rugged look.

“Do you want to give it to him?” You ask her.

“No, you can. I’m going to grab something to eat before we leave for school.”

Another round of hugs, several small kisses to the top of her head and a string of ‘I love yous’ before she leaves you on the sidewalk to head inside.

The front door opens before she’s even made it up the driveway.

“Hey Dad!” Throwing herself into his arms.

Watching their embrace sends a wave of emotion through you, their bond is something you’ve always loved, only getting stronger as she’s gotten older.

You can’t hear what they're talking about from where you’re standing, hushed giggles and smiles exchanged before she makes her way inside.

The roar of a pickup truck grabs your attention as it parks in front of the garage, the door slamming shut before you see him round the front of the truck.

“Eve! You finally comin’ to take my asshole brother back? He keeps mopin’ around like a lost puppy. Makes him a pain in the ass to deal with truthfully— if not for him, do it for me sweetheart!” His hands up in a praying manner, you can’t help but shake your head and laugh at how dramatic he is first thing in the morning.

“Tommy, shut the fuck up and leave her alone will ya. Go on an’ head inside, I’ll be there in a minute. Sarah’s probably cooking up some eggs or somethin’— make sure she doesn’t burn the house down.” His voice sounds better when he’s standing 2 feet away from you, shouting at his idiot brother who is retreating to the house in search of food that was mentioned.

“Hey.” The tension leaves his shoulders, dropping the minute he gets a good look at you, his smile on full display.

It had been a week since you had last seen him, dropping Sarah off at your parents where you’ve been staying for the last 2 months.

“Hi, Joel.”

He hesitates for a moment, not sure whether to give you a hug or not, you make the decision for him and lean into his solid body wrapping your arms around him instantly, his brain taking a second to register the gesture before reciprocating earnestly. You breathe in his freshly showered scent— woodsy and warm, like a mountain forest after a raining day.

The hug lingers on for a while, neither of you speaking a word, savoring the embrace fully before releasing each other.

“How’s things been? Your parents good?” Hands fidgeting at his side, nerves starting to tick off as he searches for things to ask you.

“Yeah, things are good— things are going well.” Your voice fluttering, your own nerves making you feel like a middle schooler talking to her crush for the first time between classes. “My parents are good, too— they said to tell you hello.”

Another beat of silence, not really sure what to say next.

“Oh— this is for you.” You hand him the box you’ve been gripping tightly since you left the car. “It’s from Sarah and I, she insisted it was something you would like— Happy Birthday, Joel.”

Joel opens the lid to reveal a watch— a simple black watch face with matte silver casing and a green fabric band. Pulling it from the box he takes a better look at it, holding the weight of it in his large callused hand.

“Thanks— I love it.” And you know he means it, his genuine smile lights up his face making his beautiful brown eyes shine and crinkle up on the sides.

“Here, let me help you put it on.” Grabbing the watch from his hand.

Sliding the watch band around his wrist, his skin is soft against your fingertips as you maneuver the buckle in place— his forearm taut, muscles and tendons flexed and firm from years of working with his hands. His broad frame, all skilled and capable of handling any kind of physical demands, taking on any task with ease— from the way he held the tools that aided in remodeling every issue the house had when you moved in, to the way he gently held your newborn in the early hours of the morning and how he would hold you every night as you slept beside him— his body built for protecting the ones he loves the most.

You find it hard to let him go, your hands loitering over his hand, wanting nothing more than for him to pull you back against him, and you think he is going to when he grabs your left hand. His focus was first on your wedding ring, he’d spent the last 2 months worried you would remove it— his thumb smoothes over the gold band, then wrapping his hand around tenderly yours.

His eyes move from where your hands are joined to your face, watching how you’re still looking at the way he’s holding your hand, how you meet his eyes after a brief moment and the world around you is still.

“I was thinking we could try counseling—“

“I talked to a lawyer—“

You both speak at the same time, Joel’s face instantly morphing from hope to heartbreak at the way you mention talking to a lawyer.

“Hey, don’t get all worried on me, it was just my mom’s friend from Bunco.” You start to explain, your hand cupping his face. “She’s a retired lawyer I should say— she proposed I start writing down my thoughts in the form of letters, writing the things I've been wanting to say to you or how I’ve been feeling— anyway, she also suggested we try counseling too. Said it can help get things back on track, that it would be good for us.”

Joel releases the breath he was holding, relief settling into his handsome features.

“Yeah— I think it would be good for us too. I got the number of someone who specializes in marriage counseling, they were highly recommended.”

Your heart swells at the effort he’s putting into fighting for you, to fight for your marriage.

“Okay. Set us up a meeting with them and send me all the details.”

His hands settle into your hips, yours on his arms, the distance between you slowly closing.

“Okay. I wanted to ask you, no pressure or anything— Sarah wanted to get a cake on Friday for my birthday, she insists on it actually. Would you want to join us?”

“You know I would love to—” You pause, gathering all your thoughts before letting him know you wouldn’t be able to.

“Definitely feels like there’s a but coming.” His brows knit together as he waits for the rest of your letdown.

“I’m heading out of town, today actually. I picked up a few shifts down in Laredo at their hospital— it’s been planned for several weeks now, so I can’t get out of it.”

You had been working as a traveling nurse for the last 6 months, picking up shifts all over the state and working as much as possible to continue to help with the endless amount of bills.

“But— I put in for a permanent position at St. David’s. They were looking for a new head of triage, so I applied— and it would keep me closer to home.”

“Home? Like here home?” His head nudged in the direction of the house behind him, hands gripping tighter on your hips at the prospect of you moving back in.

“Yeah. I was thinking— I should be back early next week after my shifts are through and if it’s okay with you, I can start moving back in on Monday evening?”

“Eve, you don’t even have to ask. I would love nothin’ more than to have my wife home with me. Should we tell Sarah now or wait ‘til you get back?”

“She already knows— teenagers and the way their hearing only picks up on the things not meant for them. Although, I think she was secretly plotting something.”

Laughter fills the air between you, his forehead now resting against yours.

“I love you, Eve. I promise things are going to be different.”

“I love you so much. we’ll get through this together.”

Joel’s hand moves to tilt your chin up slightly, his gaze flitting between your eyes and lips, searching for any sign of rejection from you.

Your lashes flutter against the top of your cheeks at the sensation of Joel’s lips molding against yours, pulling you flush to him, your hands carding through the curls at the nape of his neck.

It doesn’t take much for the kiss to deepen, weeks of pent up emotion pouring into every little detail of it.

“Would you two get a room already?” Sarah shouts from the front door.

“Yeah, get a fuckin’ room you animals.” Tommy always needing to add his own commentary.

The kiss over sooner than you would have liked.

“I should get going, I’ve got a 4 hour drive ahead of me.”

“Will you— will you call me when you get there? Let me know you made it safe?”

“Sure. I’ll call once I get settled into my hotel room.”

He kisses you one last time before letting you go, watching as you head back to your car.

Pulling the driver door open you pause, looking to Joel the house then to Sarah, blowing them a kiss and a final wave.

“I’ll see you all next week!” You say before getting into your car and driving back down the street towards the main road, watching their reflection in the mirror get smaller and smaller as they wave you one final goodbye.

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