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after-witch · 22 days

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Surrounded by Hunger [Yandere Mahito x Reader]

Title: Surrounded by Hunger [Yandere Mahito x Reader]

Synopsis: You're an artist, with no muse. Until Mahito shows up on your back porch.

Word count: 3500ish

notes: yandere, mild body horror, reader is a trans male

“I want you to paint me,” Mahito says, with an uncharacteristically serious expression on his face. No smile, no leer today. Just a somber frown as he appears from nowhere--as he often does--and sits himself in front of you.

The cool summer evening air would smell as clean as the breeze, but for the cigarette lazily perched in the ashtray on the edge of the porch.

Smoking. Your one vice. Or is it your eighth? You don’t keep much track of your vices, these days. If you did, you might actually try to quit them. But smoking is one of two current addictions that you can’t fathom letting go of right now.

The other one is sitting next to you.

"Like one of my French girls?” you murmur, lips quirking up.

Mahito tilts his head towards you, still frowning. You wonder, idly, if he has an actual brain inside his skull. Do curses have brains? You’re not sure about the technicalities of how they function, but it’s not something you’d really like to ask Mahito, either.

But it’s like you can see his brain working from the minute movements of his body language. The body is one thing you’re usually good at reading, and you ought to be, considering your career. No one wanted paintings from someone who didn’t understand the basics of body movement.

“Ah,” he says, finally, with a small smile. “Titanic. Directed by James Cameron. 1997.” His smile gets a little perkier. On anyone else, that smile might look deranged. But it suits Mahito, you think.

“I liked the sinking part the best. The way they…” He flicks his fingers in the air, and makes an eerily accurate sound reminiscent of bodies banging against metal parts. “And the frozen baby!” He closes his eyes almost all the way, leaving just enough room for you to see his gaze slide over to you. “Humans do love representing their own misery, don’t they?”

Something squeezes in your chest. It might have been a barb about you and your work; and it might not have been. One of the trickiest things about Mahito was that you could never be sure when he was trying to hurt you, and when he wasn’t.

The worst part was, you knew that it didn’t matter either way. It wasn’t like you’d ever ask him to leave. He knew that, too. Maybe that was the actual worst part.

He doesn’t elaborate on his statement. Instead, he leans his head back, looking at the darkening sky; the deep blue of the evening oozing away to make room for the blacker part of the night. His profile like this is fascinating--the way his hair seems to almost shimmer in the fading light, falling back against the side of his neck.

“Well?” He asks.

You couldn’t say no. You were already imagining ways to capture him, like this. In profile, staring up at the sky with eyes that were anything but human. With a brain that was perhaps not a real brain. With a body he could change at will.

Despite all that, here he is, sitting on your porch, breathing in your cigarette smoke and staring up at the ordinary evening sky.

What does he see that you don’t? That no human does? Why does he even come around you, when he could be off trying to--your brain fumbles for snatches of what he’s told you--battling sorcerers?

Maybe you can capture something of the answer in your painting.

“Okay,” you say, lightly, even though the answer is anything but. “But we have to go inside for the sketch. There’s not enough light out here this late.”

Mahito smiles. In profile, you see only the half of it, the edge of his lips curling, a glimpse of his teeth.

You’ll be up all night sketching, trying to capture this expression.

Your first finished painting of Mahito isn’t all that great. The evening skyline was done from memory because the next few days had been cloudy and they stole the sky’s normal colors away. And no amount of mixing could quite give you the right shade for his hair; you put something new on order, a type of shimmer pigment. That might help for future pieces.

The expression, though. There was something in that. Something not quite human that you managed to capture, although if you had to do it over, you’d reconsider taking your drawing from sketch to painting. The sketch had something raw to it, like Mahito might just turn his head and wink at you.

As an artist, you knew that such a subject was rare. It was not always easy to find inspiration that kept you working almost relentlessly, eager and passionate rather than staring at an empty canvas and willing the world to send something to you.

Mahito was a gift, wasn’t he? To an artist. To someone like you, who needed something to make your work stand out. And it does, here. Mahito looks unusual--striking, beautiful, but with something unpleasant itching to get out from underneath his skin.

But still. It’s flawed.

And that’s not the standard artist humble-brag designed to avoid a reputation of pompous pride. Your paintings, as a whole, just aren’t good enough.

It’s why the galleries rejected you. Why what few connections you had with other painters tended to fade away, becoming more and more untethered as they were invited to galas, as they held openings, as their works went to auction, and you…

You sat on your porch smoking and waiting, heart pacing, for a curse to show up on your door.

Mahito stands in front of the revealed piece, quietly observing it. His fingers reach out and skim the canvas, bumping along a few rough areas of paint. His mouth parts a few times, then closes.

You expect him to be blunt with some kind of critique. He’s never been shy with honesty, no matter how hurtful. It was something you hated and loved all with one confusing, awful sameness.

Instead, his gaze flits over every square of the canvas enough times that sweat begins to bead down the back of your neck. Does he hate it? Is he about to tell you that you’d be better off doing something else, something more ordinary, something more mundane?

No.

What he does is turn his head towards you, slowly, something that is not quite a smile on his face. An expression that makes you think of the back porch, sunsets and cigarette smoke.

“Now do it again.”

You should hate this, really. Someone who sticks around and more or less demands that they be your muse. Most artists purge these types of people from their lives, unwanted flypaper hangers-on who pout and demand to be painted.

But Mahito is your muse, and you don’t hate it, and you don’t think he’s clingy or desperate like others who have found themselves on your back porch before.

He’s your muse simply because he exists. You could not fathom knowing Mahito and not committing him to the canvas. The only shock is that it was his idea, not yours; and maybe, deep down, you were too afraid to ever ask him. In case he said no.

So you draw him, and paint him. He drapes himself over your couch wearing nothing, spreads himself on your bed with winter clothes in the summer heat; perches on the end of the kitchen stool and watches gnats circle a bowl of bananas.

The ideas are his, mostly.

And the pieces are interesting. “Intriguing,” your regular art gallery said, when you submitted the one of Mahito sprawled out in a fuzzy scarf and hat and puffy winter coat while sweat clung to his forehead from the summer afternoon sun.

Interesting, intriguing, a striking model… and yet. They’re still not enough--not enough to get paid. Not enough to get noticed.

Not enough to get you out of bed some days, when all you want to do is smoke lying down and hope the smoke alarm in your bedroom still has low batteries.

This is how Mahito finds you this morning. Half-resting on sore elbows while smoke wafts up to your ceiling, imperceptibly adding to the layers of brown and yellow build up.

“Hey.”

He pokes your nose. You blink, slowly turn your gaze towards him. Then close your eyes and let out another puff of smoke.

“You’re being mopey,” he says, flatly. Not teasing or whining, certainly not with sympathy. Just a matter-of-fact.

The options weigh heavy on your shoulders. It’s not like you two don’t talk about serious things. But God, with Mahito, the roles are reversed between artist and muse. You’re the clingy one, the one desperate to keep him around; afraid that the wrong word or gesture might make him blip out of your life as quickly as he came into it.

Who were you, if you didn’t have Mahito? Just another failing artist who could barely afford their cigarette addiction.

But you trust him. Because he’s here. Because he hasn’t left yet. Because when you’re drawing him and you ask him to lift his arm up, he somehow knows the exact angle you mean, every time. So you lick your lips and look up at him with tired, reddened eyes.

“They’re not enough.” A pause. “The paintings, I mean. No one will buy them.” You drop the rest of your cigarette in the ashtray on your night stand. “I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”

You do know, though. Your paintings aren’t interesting enough anymore. What little buzz you’d generated in your first break onto the scene from your fantastical horror work had long since faded, as had your inspiration for such pieces.

It wasn’t enough to play with color and light, to perfectly capture the sun through an opaque curtain playing on Mahito’s hair while black flies buzzed onto overripe fruit. Of course not. People wanted more. You just weren’t more, now. If you were ever that.

Mahito crawls onto your bed, languid; it’s not the first time he’s been so close, so intimate, but it gives you goosebumps nonetheless. He curls himself behind your back and runs a finger down your arm.

“They like your older work,” he muses. You’ve ranted about this, and he apparently listened, which makes you feel at least a little least sour. “So why don’t you paint like that again?”

So much for feeling a little less sour. You curl inwards, eyes fixated on the dimming red glow of your cigarette in its tray.

Mahito pokes your shoulder. Impatience. You can feel it building in him, in the way his arm muscles tense, just a little. When he gets bored, he sometimes leaves.

You don’t want him to leave, so you force the words out, although you’d rather keep them private. Your mouth feels sticky when you talk, but you press on.

“My old stuff was before…” You know he knows, but you’ve never pinned down a single way to explain it to him. “Before I figured myself out. Before a lot of things, I guess.” Mahito’s hand wraps itself around your stomach, and you reach out to intertwine your fingers. To keep him with you, if such a thing were possible.

“I haven’t had the same type of inspiration in a long time,” you admit. “So I don’t know how to just…” Flashes of your old canvases come to mind. Demons and ghosts and landscapes of terrible beauty. “Get back into that head space.”

There is a stretch of silence that begins to worry you. Maybe you are too boring, maybe you’re whining, maybe whatever this is has run its course and he’ll leave and you’ll have nothing to your name but this empty apartment and your empty life.

But then Mahito grips your shoulder and pushes you firmly, swiftly, onto your back. There’s a dull ache where he touches you and you stare up into his eyes, wide and bright even in the darkness. He’s grinning. He’s grinning, and it’s beautiful and ugly--

And on his side, arms sprout out; some with mouths sporting their own grins. Behind him, arms upon arms, hands upon hands. A grotesque vision come to life in your dim apartment bedroom. You can see it now, on canvas. A creature with greedy hands outstretched to the world, taking what it wants, when it wants.

You can see Mahito, posting, while you furiously work at the easel. You know you’ll work until your hands cramp, desperate enough to capture every microexpression in pencil before it fades.

Mahito, the muse, painted again and again. Until your hands cramp, until your eyes are red and burning.

“Does this inspire you?” he says, a bright giddiness in his tone fading into something lower and warmer as he leans down to capture your lips.

You’re not certain which of you tastes the most of ashes.

The paintings are perfectly grotesque. Inspirational. Disturbing.

“And yet,” the director continues, tapping his pen against his chin, “so life-like. You can hardly tell where the real model ends and your imagination begins.”

Because, of course, humans cannot sprout extra limbs from their sides. Humans cannot stretch their tongues to wrap around their body like a rope. Humans cannot pull open the flesh of their stomachs to reveal what’s inside.

Not without dying, anyway.

You’d almost asked Mahito if that was what curses looked like on the inside--if they had organs, like stomachs and lungs--but thought better of it. Knowing would be worse than pretending.

When you pretend, you can ignore the growing sickness in your stomach as the paintings become worse--and better. As Mahito pushes you farther and farther, and you’re not sure if you want to turn back.

When you pretend, life with Mahito doesn’t seem very fucked up at all.

“Keep it up,” the director tells you, thumbing through the wad of ghastly cash he hands over for your latest piece. It’s enough to pay off your rent and bills and cover cigarettes and booze and some new books for Mahito, though you’re sure he just steals them when he’s not with you.

And you do--keep it up.

Because Mahito wants to, and because despite all the disturbing dreams you begin to have after sessions of drawing and painting, your new works really are better. More visceral and alive; galleries want them.

They want you.

You feel seen, finally, for who you are and what your hands can do--

How could you turn that away?

“I don’t know,” you say, slowly, watching the thing Mahito brought with him writhe on the table.

It was soft and gelatinous, like a blob of moving goo. At first, that’s what you thought it was: something he scooped out of a container at a toy store that sold novelty slimes.

But this wasn’t some gob of bright orange or neon blue with a telltale sticky sheen that told parents that yes, mom and dad, this was going to wind up sticking to the carpet by the end of the day.

This was light beige, with two big black spots that looked a bit like eyes. It was larger than you think a toy slime would have been and it--well it moved. Really moved. Not just from a slight breeze drifting in through the window or due to its own gelatinous nature.

It was--whatever it was--alive.

It had eyes, and perhaps that bit of discolored beige was hair, and that was it. Two eyes, slick, shiny skin, and no mouth at all.

“It’s a statement piece,” Mahito says simply, even happily, as he adjusts the blob to his liking on the table. He tries out a series of poses that you direct with hesitation--looking down at it with his chin resting in his elbow, holding it in his arms like some sort of stuffed bear, endless, restless poses, all punctuated by the strange writhing of the thing.

The two of you finally settle for Mahito looking one way, and the blob--were those its eyes?--facing another. A contrast between colors and shapes and Mahito’s lithe form and the writhing blob. But while there is a dim satisfaction in putting Mahito onto the canvas, a sense of self-worth and pride that grows with every stroke, you put off working on the blob until the last possible minute. Your body seems to know why, even if your mind doesn’t.

At the end of the night, you start to ask a question that’s been on your mind the entire evening--

“Mahito?”

But when he turns, a small smile on his face, blob in hand, the words die in your throat.

You say nothing as he leaves. You work a little more on the painting, avoiding half the canvas, not wanting to think about what it was that Mahito brought and why he brought it.

That night, you dream about a garden of squirming, writhing blobs.

Today, Mahito has no mouth.

And today, you’ve decided, that this will be your last Mahito piece. No more. Not a single one. The singular lack of a mouth is not even as horrific as some of the other ways Mahito has posed for you, but somehow, it’s the one that terrifies you the most.

Mahito has no mouth, and you can’t even ask him why.

Mahito has no mouth--

Mahito has no mouth, and he wants you to paint him.

He tells you this, in gestures. Maybe if he was over the top about it--if he was wildly waving his hands, if he made a game of it--then it wouldn’t make you feel so wrong. But he’s slow, methodical. Serious.

It makes your stomach clench on nothing but whisky and overcooked eggs.

But you let him bring out one of your mirrors and set it up in front of a stool so you can paint him, looking at himself in the glass. There’s nothing else you can do but this, you realize; that’s what your life has come to. You are mingling with a curse and he could kill you in a moment if he wanted to--but right now, he wants you to draw him and paint him and put something monumentally distressing on the canvas. And you want to do these things--because he wants you to? Because you know the gallery owner is going to take one look at this last piece and ask you to open your own show? Love or ego or something awful and in-between?

You sketch quickly. It’s the final layers of painting that will take days, you think, if you want this to turn out right. Right now you’re worried about two things: capturing the tones while the light is just right, and how Mahito will react when you tell him you’re done after this.

It’s not like you can tell him now. He can’t even talk.

What is it like, without a mouth? You bring cigarettes to your lips and wonder if he feels jealous of it. Would he get mad, if you told him you needed a drink? A snack? Eating and drinking--curses can do these things, and you’ve seen Mahito do them, but you don’t know how much of it is a want or a need. It’s hard enough to tell the difference with a human.

If you had no mouth, what would you be? Your thoughts flit, briefly and then away again, to the blob. To its eyes. To the way it couldn’t stop moving and Mahito held it like a toy.

You don’t want to think about that.

It would feel wrong to talk while you work on this piece, you decide. Better to save it for when it’s finished. A few days, at most, with Mahito holed up in your bedroom--and no mouth at all.

In these few days, you want to kiss him more than ever. Want to capture the memory of his lips, because surely, he’ll want to leave if you’re done painting him. Done being entertaining.

The thought of kissing the awful, empty space where his mouth should be keeps you from even thinking about it.

It’s your masterpiece. You know this from the moment the last stroke is complete. You’ll never top this work, and some prideful part of you demands that you try, anyway.

Mahito still has no mouth. Even as you pull the drape off the canvas, as he gets close to inspect it.

“Mahito,” you say, suddenly. He doesn’t look at you. That’s better, you think. Makes it easier to stomach what will come next; the inevitable moment where Mahito drops you like an old toy. Usually it’s the other way around, an artist getting bored of its muse and flinging them aside.

But you’re not bored of Mahito. You’re afraid of him. You want him here--but you don’t. It’s a big jumbled mess and maybe it would have been easier if he never showed up on your back porch, if you never saw him at all, if he hadn’t opened up some wound inside you that only he can stitch up.

“Mahito,” you repeat. “I don’t think I can paint you anymore.” Stupid, weasel words. You cringe. “I mean. I don’t want to paint you anymore--after this one.”

Mahito tilts his head, and finally turns his eyes towards you--but still, there’s no mouth, no mouth, no mouth.

After a moment, you continue, mouth dry and sticking. “Did you hear me, I said I--”

Mahito’s hand slaps against your own, hushing you.

“Have you been wondering what it feels like?” It takes a few blearly, confusing moments for you to realize that Mahito is talking not with lips on his face, but on the hand that’s pressed over yours. “To be unable to speak?”

The awful thought hits you. Is your mouth even still there, under Mahito’s hand?

Mahito leans in, and pulls his hand away. Slowly, like he’s revealing a prize .

“I want to paint you now,” he murmurs. He might even be cooing, eyes alight at what he sees as he lifts his hand.

You want to answer him--you want to scream.

But you can’t say a word.

#yandere mahito #mahito x reader #yandere jjk #yandere #afterwitch writes #was the titanic reference necessary? yes. yes it was.

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tinkerleaf · 2 months

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Once Again

Hi guys! :) This wasn't exactly how I meant for it to turn out, but I don't hate it. In my head it makes sense. Synopsis: chuuya sees reader for the first time since they left the mafia. gn reader Genre: a lil bit of angst Words: 720 Pairing: chuuya/reader Warnings: emotions, some violence/toxicity? not well-proofread

✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧

In the Port Mafia, documents do not lie. If they have something on file, it must be absolute. This is what concerns Chuuya the most when he sees your name come up in recent files. You’re titled under the Armed Detective Agency, and he can’t help but groan.

It had been about a year since you disappeared without a trace, and Chuuya knew that Dazai had to have something to do with it. Instead of dwelling on the thought, he simply pushed it into the back of his mind, only for it to return in the dead of night. He doesn’t always think about you, but he definitely does. And when he does, he has to do something to distract himself from the fact that you are gone from existence.

When he picks up your file, he almost throws it out. He doesn’t want to go through another episode where he frantically searches for you again, as it’s bad for his image. However, he wants the closure of knowing that you’re at least alive. Opening the folder, he winces at your photo. He's thankful he's alone in his office where no one can see him be so vulnerable.

Dazai was still nowhere to be seen, and he was fine with that. He wanted nothing more than to rip him to shreds for everything he’d done. Everything had changed due to his absence.

Your status was labeled as “alive”. He stares at the lines for a few minutes before letting go of the breath he didn’t realize he had been holding.

Knowing you were safe slightly relieves him, but the fact that you joined the enemy pisses him off. What business could you possibly have with them? He knew it wasn’t because they were somehow better or stronger. But just like the other pesky thoughts that haunt him, he pushes them away.

Three years later, your file comes up again. This time, however, with Dazai’s. The reason is that Kyouka captured both of you, even though Dazai was the main target. However, having both traitors couldn’t hurt.

He hated using that term for you, but that’s what you were.

When he passes Akutagawa in the corridor, they have a brief conversation about the situation. “Did they say anything useful?” Chuuya asks the man.

“Of course not. They’re just as infuriating as they were before.” He walks away, his steps echoing through the hall.

He knew what he was walking into, but that doesn’t change how he feels when you make eye contact with him. Dazai gives his usual sly grin that annoys him to no end.

“So this is where you’ve been all this time?” Chuuya scoffed.

You really don't know how to approach this scenario. You can cut the tension with a butter knife. You don't want to answer him. Dazai decides it's a good time to provide some input, which the redhead simply ignores.

A glass shatters against the wall beside you. It doesn't hit you, but it's enough to get his point across. “Don’t ignore me like you had nothing to do with me!”

You swallowed hard. He crept towards you like a snake. Dazai glanced over at you to see if you had been hit. “Come on, Chuuya, go easy on-.”

“I’ll get to you when I’m done,” he growled at him. He grabbed you by the face and forced you to look him in the eyes. “I hate you.” He lies. It's the biggest lie he’s ever told. But in a way, there is some truth behind it. He hates the way you possess his mind. He hates how you had enraptured him all those years ago just to drag him down to hell when you left. He hates you for letting his guard down, something he vowed to never do again.

The look in your eye and the single tear that slipped through it seemed to tell him everything you needed him to know. He let go of you and sighed.

In the end, you can’t change the past. You can’t change your mission or motives. Whatever caused you to leave him wasn’t his business, and he knew that. He couldn’t forgive you, not yet. But now that he has you within his grasp, he won’t let you go again. Not that easily.

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mlbigbang · 6 months

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2023 Ladynoir Fic Rec List

It’s the end of the year which means it’s finally time for the ML Big Bang’s yearly fic rec lists! We’re really excited to bring you our contributors’ favourite fics started this year to supply you with plenty of reading material while you’re waiting for the Big Bang fics’ publication in January.

all of your flaws and all of my flaws (are laid out one by one) by @coffeebanana

Ladybug and Marinette have both been acting strangely since Monarch's defeat, and Chat Noir would give anything to know why—to be able to help them. He just…didn't expect his answers to come when Ladybug drags him to his father's statue in the middle of the night along with a bag full of spray paint.

This fic explores the aftermath of the season 5 finale and provides some badly needed hurt/comfort, lovesquare communication, and vandalism ; )

with this ring by @thelibraryloser

She thought “you and me against the world” had sounded like lopsided odds before, when she hadn’t even dreamed “you against me” was a possibility. Or maybe she had dreamed it, but at least in those dreams he’d had cold blue eyes and a stark white mask. The villain she’d fought today had looked at her through her partner’s own bright green eyes. It wasn’t meant to be this way.

It tore at my heartstrings! It deals with a unique Ladynoir 'enemies' premise in a beautiful way

Let Me Count the Ways (aka Chat Noir's List of Ladybug's New Habits) by @sariahsue

Chat Noir thought it might be a good idea to start keeping a list of all the strange things Ladybug had been doing lately. It might help him to figure out what it all meant. There was the stumbling, the stuttering, the blushing. It had appeared out of nowhere. No, that wasn't quite right. It had all started when they were dancing at the gala, when she'd been so nervous that she tripped over the perfectly flat marble floor and smashed her face into his chest.

Like Smoke from a Furnace by @wackus-bonkus-maximus

Marinette and Adrien give up their Miraculous. Ladybug and Chat Noir never meet again.

It's hard to categorize this. Is this a ship or is it gen? It's strictly Adrienette because they're married. But pre-reveal. It forks after Kwami's Choice and asks the question: How would LB cope with LB and CN never getting their miraculous back after Kwami's Choice? But the story's title seems to indicate that this is kind of a "forbidden Ladynoir" fic because it's an allusion to the potentially devastating effects of "looking back" when you shouldn't. I've read this fic like a dozen times and am completely obsessed.

telepathy by @thelibraryloser

There’s a certain amount of telepathy created after several years fighting beside someone. It’s a mix of chemistry, history, and probably a bit of actual magic, and it comes down to this: Chat Noir usually knows exactly what his Lady is thinking. So, when a bike messenger hands him a three digit number written on a piece of hospital stationary, he knows exactly what Ladybug is asking him to do. He just can’t believe it.

soft and sweet and much ladynoir! <3

A 'Super' Guide to 'Super' Dating by @mysticraven20

When Ladybug just scrapes into the top 10 of Paris’ favourite heroes list, she asks her partner and her best friend for help. After they decide she’s not personable enough, which in result, makes her unapproachable, Marinette goes out to try and become one with the public by writing her very own dating blog. As the blog turns into an overwhelming hit, Marinette finds herself in an awkward position, once again falling for the guy she’s always longed for; a guy who has started his own search for love following her ‘Super’ guide to ‘Super’ Dating.

I just love the idea of Ladybug writing a dating column as she tries to find love in the city.

#ml #miraculous ladybug #fic recs #fic rec list #ml big bang #ml big bang 2023 #ladynoir #marinette dupain cheng #adrien agreste #love square

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elsweetheart · 1 year

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feelin’ hot to the touch.

🎀 bonus points if you worked out the title is a lana lyric ! just some thigh ridin …. reader having hornyitus… abby gets desperate at the end.. enjoy

you came out of nowhere, literally nowhere.

you were on patrol for gods sake, abby was honestly too focused on looking around to notice the kind of mood you were in. you were in an abandoned building, a library was it? the shelves still stood upright and the books were all torn up and strewn around. you were a sensitive soul, abby thought that maybe you were quiet because this upset you. she could imagine you complaining, ‘why would you destroy such good books?’ it was the little things at the end of the world that got you down.

but you weren’t upset, you weren’t even looking at the books. your eyes were trained on her toned back. your pupils were the star of the show, lusty voids as you stalked her— waiting for your moment. it was just the two of you, and abby looked almost too good today. she spoke to you too gently, her arms were too strong when she hugged you this morning, her braid was too perfect, her demeanour too protective. you were maxed out into a submissive mindset before you’d even gotten five minutes out the door. you needed her, right here. right now.

she turned around to face you and your body was pressed to hers instantly, arms thrown around her neck like you were begging her to pick you up. “abby.” you whispered weakly and she were almost scared, wondering why you were so warm and why you had just thrown yourself at her. “i need it.” she had caught you by the waist, your feet barely touching the ground anymore from her strong hands and she was trying to stabilise you, get a good look at you.

“need what? baby what do you need?” her hands were on your cheeks now, trying to hold you still. she usually could see it coming, knew when you were going to haze out like this. you looked like you were going to cry as you grabbed at her, a thick layer of tears sitting on top of your eyes threatening to fall with your bottom lip sucked beneath your teeth. she knew before you’d answered.

“need you.” your arm was draped around her neck still, your clammy hand weakly grasping onto the end of her braid like you needed to keep ahold of her at all times or else she’d disappear.

“i’m here. breathe for me, i’ll find a place we can sit.” her brow was creased and she lift you up, letting you cling onto her like a koala, sat on her hip as she pushed the double doors open into the next room — an old designated ‘reading corner’ with a wide loveseat with worn leather catching her eye. she checked the room, obstruct the doors, and came to sit down with you on her lap. you’d been mouthing at her neck below the curve of her jaw, desperately and loudly sucking a bruise which made it really fucking hard for her to concentrate on making the place safe to tend to you. she had you on her lap now and she placed a strong hand to your chest, detaching you and forcing you to reluctantly sit back. you whined, the warmth of her chest against yours leaving you.

your heart jackhammered under her palm and she stroked her thumb over the spot for a moment, watching the way you panted, whispering her name like a mantra trying to get her to let you all over her. she did, pulling you forward and bringing your lips together. you moaned against her mouth, shared drool pooling beneath the dips of your chin. where had this come from?

“i need to know what’s got you so worked up. can you talk for me, sweet girl?” she murmured into your neck now as you desperately pushed your fitted t-shirt up to sit above your tits, your bra coming up with it letting your tits fall out the cups. she wet her lips, watching, waiting for an answer and cupped your cunt, feeling the warm wetness through all the material. you both made a noise of pleasure at this, yours just a little more whiney and needy.

“i don’t know. just… can’t think abs. need— want you to—” you struggled, hips squirming against her and she interrupt you.

“okay. you don’t have to know. let me do all the thinking, yeah? let’s give you what you need.” she lift your hips suddenly so that you were sat right on her thigh. the thick of the muscle was direct against your clit through your leggings and underwear. you were pretty sure you wouldn’t even need to take them off.

and she didn’t, she got straight to work. her hand pushed the back of your head towards her, kissing you once more as her other hand brought your hips forward, the other hand joining once your lips were on hers. you could barely kiss her back, the friction all too much as it burned against your frenzied heat. you pulled back, falling slightly against her as you whimpered directly into her ear, letting her fuck you on her thigh.

“good girl. see you’ve got it, no need for all the fuss.” she looked around the room, always keeping a look out for your safety. her cold hand splayed against the skin of your hot back now, your nipples scraping against the material of her muscle tee. “bet you’re gonna cum so quick. that pussy was so wet could feel it through your pants. got yourself into such a state, hm?” she spoke against your cheek as she pressed kisses to it.

she wasn’t wrong, you could already feel the tight coil in your stomach threatening to release itself, and maybe if you’d been in a more reasonable state of mind you would have considered the fact that you were going to have to walk around for hours with a mess in your panties — but right then you didn’t care, you needed to keep humping abby until you got what you’d wanted.

abby watched you now, she knew you always needed words to get you there— and she wasn’t ever too shy to talk you through it. “so good for telling me what you need. i taught you well huh? using your words like i always tell you.” she lift her leg up and down just a little, varying the speed and pressure to get you closer. “thats my girl right there. my good little listener. how ‘bout you cum for me baby, remind me how pretty it sounds.” she practically beg, and you did. you could never deny her.

your brain cleared slightly, towards the end of your orgasm. maybe she was pushing you towards cumming because she wanted to get back to your patrol. maybe you were taking too much of her precious time. but you hadn’t even caught your breath, and abby was stuffing her hand down the waistband of your leggings proving you wrong — her huge arm creating a bulge down the front of it when her fingers found your messy cunt, swiping her fingers through the masterpiece she’s just created. “oh god, you get so fucking wet it’s unreal.” she was speaking through grit teeth, her own lust clouding her head now. you fell against her when she pushed two fingers in, your walls spasming around her. no time to recover, you adapted — your brain at its capacity— no thoughts, just abby.

“you’re lucky i don’t have my strap, we’d be here all afternoon.” her hand was gripping the back of your neck now as you cried into her, still so sensitive from your orgasm. there was a roughness about her she didn’t have before, one signifying how much your little scene had turned her on. “dont cry. you got me all worked up.”

#abby anderson smut #abby anderson x reader #abby anderson blurb #abby anderson drabble #abby tlou2 smut

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angsthology · 7 months

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“we all wanted to be someone once” — or an alt title: the journey of roo vs. the world (ft. emotional support friend: daisy-mae)

a little walk-through of our driver’s life as she makes decisions and decisions make her (huh) ft. emotional her support friends (mostly daisy-mae)

a/n hihi, i loved this i love writing this evolution and im going to love writing more of daisy-mae too! shes an oc, her name is inspired by my own friend and that one ts lyric 🤭 — loosely based on me when i was a kid oops

also this kinda rushed and... bad so

THE KANGAROO(KIE) VS. THE WORLD

2005 — the first dream

“hey, daisy-mae.”

the brunette girl turned around at her name with a bright smile, “oh, hi. is something wrong?” the three-year-old frowned at her friend’s saddened expression.

she didn’t answer immediately, kicking the ground in front of her slightly.

sighing dramatically, she finally looks up: eyes glazing with sadness, “apparently you can’t really be a cowboy.”

at that, daisy-mae gasps dramatically. being two years younger didn’t stop them from being on the same level of… anything, really.

“oh, no.”

she clicks her tongue sadly, “i know.”

“what are you going to do?” the younger girl asks curiously.

the future-driver sighs dramatically, again, “i—” mid-thinking, her eyes lit up as if she had a new idea. this didn’t fall unnoticed by her small friend.

“what is it?”

she then look at the little(er) girl with a big smile, “i’m going to be a horse racer instead!”

her happiness radiated to the smaller girl in front of her, “ooo! that’s cool too!”

“i know! i’m going to tell mom and dad!” she exclaimed happily then running off back to her own home to tell her parents, leaving daisy-mae by herself once more.

“okay.” daisy-mae smiled innocently before going back to whatever she was doing before being interrupted.

the little girl happily skipped out the house trailing behind her uncle when he turned around with a smirk on his face.

“hey, kid.”

she turned to him, “yeah?”

“you wanna try the wheels?”

her face lit up.

minutes later they found themselves sitting on the same seat, with the little girl on her uncle’s lap, holding onto the steering wheel, her legs far too short to reach the gas and break.

seeing an upcoming traffic light, he saw that the numbers were counting down closer and closer to going back to red—but they were so close.

“okay, kid, hold on.” he says, holding both his hands above his niece’s smaller hands on the steering wheel, putting more pressure into the gas, making it go faster and chase down the countdown clock on the currently still green light.

the girl didn’t have any more time to react, all she knew that the next second the car was going faster and so was her heartbeat.

in such a good way.

later that week, the five-year-old walked into her parents’ bedroom to find her father lounging on the couch with something playing on the tv.

she jumped on the couch next to her father, the man putting an arm on her shoulder and said nothing, continuing to watch tv as his daughter joins him.

what she saw intrigued her.

a bunch of cars going fast—(she’s five years old, that’s it.)

not only that caught her eye but moments later she saw the drivers coming out of their cars and wow. she was mesmerized.

the helmets. the race suit. the fireproofs.

she remembered thinking. they looked so cool. so… glamorous.

“daisy-mae! daisy-mae!”

as usual, the small girl was minding her own business when the older girl approach her out of nowhere. she smiled, greeting her friend happily as she joins her in the swing next to hers.

“i’m going to be a race car driver when i grow up!”

daisy-mae giggled, “what happened to the horses.”

she furrowed her brows, “hm. i don’t know.” she shrugged, letting it go.

if her reaction wasn’t nonchalant enough, best believe the younger girl’s surely was. “cool. okay.”

2011 — first podium, ever

tears stung her eyes as she stood on the tiny podium, looking over a crowd but her eyes were only on her family — and daisy-mae, of course. never went anywhere without the other.

she was brought out of her trance when they handed her the trophy — her trophy. her first every driving trophy. they congratulated her on the win as she reciprocated with a ‘thank you’. then her eyes drifted off back to her own family and daisy-mae’s, she was nine now and a big sister. she paused and furrowed her brows before calling back the person who had given her the trophy, whispering something in their ears, they replied with a smile and nod, making her light up.

looking back into the crowd, she waved her smaller friend over happily. the nine-year-old was confused at first then looked over to one of her friend’s siblings and asked them to take her little sister off her hands so she could go up to the podium and celebrate with her friend.

when she arrived, the taller girl gave her a big hug. “look, mae! i did it!”

“i can see that.”

“the first step into being the best!”

“of course.”

“can you at least be a bit happier for me?”

“i am. this is just my face.” daisy-mae paused, “i am very proud of you.”

she smiled, “i know.”

2019 — first f2 race (and podium)

“so… your first race in formula two... how are you feeling about it?” the interviewer asked enthusiastically.

the now nineteen-year-old clears her throat, smiling, “i mean, if i’m being honest i still haven’t felt or — still not feeling that nerves creeping in yet. it’s a me thing, though. i never really feel like something’s happening until it’s actually happening, you know?”

“i get it.”

she then continues, “i have a tendency to think about what happens after rather than think about the event itself.”

“ah, yes, i fully understand.” the interviewer then continue onto their next question, “anyone cheering for you today?”

“yes! my friends are in the crowd today, unfortunately my family are unable to make it but they are watching from home.”

“oh, well, then, best of luck to you!”

she smiles politely, “thank you. you too!” it took her about a few seconds to notice her own words. making a face, she looked at the interviewer once more, “you know what i mean.”

“THAT’S P3, KID!”

“…what.”

“p frickin’ three! on your first race!”

It was clear to her engineer that she was probably in shock. but still, he needed to check.

“kid?”

seconds passed before her voice bellowed on the radio, “I AM A GOD.”

the man couldn’t help but chuckle at her reaction — her first reaction. “that you are.”

“HOLY SHIT.”

“okay, don’t swear.”

“oh, fuck, yeah, i’m sorry.”

“oh that’s not—you know what. it’s fine. congratulations, kid.”

2021 — first step into f1

“nooo… you’re kidding.” she looked at her manager in disbelief.

he chuckles amusedly, “i am not.”

“yeah— yes you are. you’re screwin’ with me, aren’t you?”

he sighs, “why would i?”

“to get a reaction out of me.”

“why do i want that?”

“it’s what everyone wants… they love messing with me…”

“maybe i’m not ‘they’.”

“liar! you did just last week.”

he rolls his eyes playfully, “that was funny. this is no laughing matter.”

more seconds pass as her manager waits for an answer. and he did — get one, just… not what he expected.

she made a noise that can only be described as a record scratching.

“uhh… you alright?” he asked cautiously.

“NO!” she yelled in a high-pitched voice overdramatically, making her manager jump and fumble around his stuff.

see. he saw that coming. but that didn’t make it spook him any less.

he sighed, “so, what’d’ya say?”

“yes. girl, obviously. are you insane?”

“one: still not a girl, and two: that’s you.”

bonus: F1 Drivers Explains Why They Race With Their Number

“uhm — well… snoopy was first introduced in october fourth, nineteen-fifty. four was taken so — fifty… the year snoopy was born...”

taglist; @treehouse-mouse @disneyprincemuke @yansbolobao @leilanixx tell me if u want to be added!

#f1 x reader #formula one x reader #formula one #formula 1 #f1 imagine #f1 fanfic #tine’s roo vs the world

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muffinsin · 3 months

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Hear me out👁️👁️, the daughters with a s/o that has aichmophobia (fear of sharp things),,so now the daughters have to maneuver their hobbies and keep reader out of it❌,,idk maybe for Cassandra specifically she tries to show reader her weapons collection, forgetting the aichmophobia, so reader is now desperately trying to be a good partner and be enthusiastic about Cassandra's interest while not panicking/breakdown?🗿🤨

(if the titles not already taken cuz I want a cool anon title 🙏👉👈-)

— goblin anon

I’m so thankful whenever y’all put definitions to phobias up there too🙇‍♀️ And absolutely! I think this makes for some interesting scenarios, given the nature of their surroundings, hobbies, etc!🙌

And of course, the anon title’s yours! :)

Info for everyone regarding the anon list!: the list’s tags have reached the limit of 30, so a second anon list will be made and linked to the first, as well as the masterlists overview, where you find the link of the first list!🙌

Masterlists

Bela

The first time the topic is brought up is a little bit into your relationship

You’ve finished your work for the day, and are eager to see your girlfriend

As usual, you know she is in her office. Likely working away until you put a stop to it and remind her to take a break

As you do this and beckon her to sit at the sofa on the far side of the office, conversation comes easy

She sits with your hand held in her lap, and your heart beats excitedly at the opportunity to be this close to her

She asks you many things, as though eager to learn more and more about you, and tells you of her day just as eagerly

Suddenly, a clank is heard from the distance

Nothing major, really. You assume someone has dropped something. You barely react to it, barely even acknowledge it

Bela, however, has a little less radical reaction to the sudden, loud noise from just down the hall

She jumps up from her seat, and your heart pounds when you spot the sharp sickle summoned to her side

Your hand is let go of as she looks around the room, as if scanning it for a threat. Of course, there is none

Upon noticing this, Bela becomes increasingly aware of your reaction

She’s a little confused by just how fast your heart is beating, how…scared…you are

Don’t you know, she would never use the sickle on you?

Ah, but you do know

You’re not worried of what she will do. The sight of the sharp blade simply makes you feel uneasy and scared

Your heart rate only picks up when she holds the weapon out to you, trying to make you understand: she won’t hurt you. You can even take it from her

(Not that she is any less lethal without a weapon, really)

You jump from your spot on the sofa, as if automatically, and move backwards

Your heart aches at the hurt expression on her face when you back up and away from her

Too used to being the source of someone’s fear, she doesn’t understand you’re only trying to make distance from the weapon, not her

She doesn’t dare move, neither to you nor away from you

Eventually, when you see the heartbroken look on her face, you ask her to have the sickle disappear again, seemingly to nowhere just as she had pulled it from nowhere

Albeit confused, she agrees, and a surprised squeak is pulled from her when you immediately move back to her and cup her warm cheeks

She hears your heartbeat quieten again, and finds herself blinking in surprise when you sit and pull her on your lap, your arms around her in a tight hug

You’re thankful, though she doesn’t quite understand what for

When you tell her of your phobia, she is understanding. She can’t relate at all, but she doesn’t need to

She accepts it without question

Bela is incredibly tidy. It’s rare for her to leave her weapons out in her room, and as such, it’s incredibly rare you see one

Her room is certainly not rid of sharp objects, but they’re all stored away neatly to ensure you don’t stumble upon one

Even when she is about to hunt, she makes sure not to summon her sickle while you’re near

She’d never want to scare you again

Cassandra

The first time this comes up, it’s very panic inducing

Cassandra simply has a habit of pulling her weapon out and pressing it against throats

Often, with bad intentions. Sometimes, just for fun

With you, you know she doesn’t intend to hurt you. She just wants to see what it can cause within a person

The same way she likes to pull it to her sisters’s throats for fun, just to see what reactions she can pull from people

She is incredibly surprised when she pulls hers out to press it to your throat and notices your panic

Never has she experienced anybody having such a reaction

You’re trembling and crying, your heart is beating fast as though your life was endangered

Then, she notices the cause of it is her sickle, sharp and slightly bloodied, the blade dangerously close to you, yet held tightly enough to ensure it never brushes into your skin

She pulls it from you quickly, her eyes wide with concern

Your eyes are pressed shut and you’re holding onto her tightly. Not seeing the weapon helps a little, still, you know it’s still there. She always carries multiple weapons on her person

She feels your fingers digging into her hips, but doesn’t remove them

Cassandra is incredibly confused. What?

She lets go of the weapon and, as gently as she can manage, cups your cheeks

When you open your eyes and no longer spot the weapon, you feel by far better, and both of you decide to brush it off for the moment

However, her room poses another challenge

Cassandra is a skilled huntress and fighter, and her room reflects this

Trophies of her prey are on the walls, weapons and sharp, pointy teeth are scattered around the room

Daggers, swords, sickles, arrows can be found in her room. Some put on the wall neatly, others simply laid on her desk

When she introduces you to her room, you try your best to stay calm despite the many sharp objects

She, of course, takes notice of your panicked breaths and quick heartbeat

And she doesn’t stand for it. What’s going on?

You explain your phobia, even as she has visible trouble understanding what you mean

You don’t notice her hands on you, guiding you backwards as you panic more and more the more you explain

You don’t notice, how you’re walking backwards until you stand in the hallway, rather than her room

Only when she cups your cheeks and presses a kiss to your lips, do you notice it:

There are no more sharp objects around. You’re out of her room, and even her sickle and daggers are unattached to her now

From then on, Cassandra moves you to a large room. Instead of hers, you spend your time there now

A shared bedroom

She doesn’t bring any weapons in, except for a dagger hidden in her nightstand. For emergencies

You’re very thankful for her efforts

Daniela

She isn’t overly aware of your phobia, until you mention it

Of course, she notices the odd, seemingly random panic you experience

She notices your heart, beating by far too fast, and nearly practically smells the fear all around you

Often, this is during dinner, or when walking past the armoury

Daniela picks up on another thing; this panic is often brought forth in her room

There’s simply too many variables for her to pinpoint what triggers your heart to beat fast whenever you enter her room

She doesn’t notice the weapons scattered about, and can’t understand it’s them that might be the cause of your panic

At first, she assumes it’s her

She is a Dimitrescu. She is said to be one of the “monsters” of the castle

But surely you aren’t scared of her?

No. Your arms around her and the loving kisses pressed to her head tell her this much

So what could it be?

Perhaps the height? Her room is rather far up in the castle

Daniela makes sure the curtains hide the view from her window, hoping it will help you

It doesn’t, though, and she can’t grasp why

One day, she outright asks you. How come you’re always so tense in her room? How come you don’t relax in her room?

She wants it to feel like your room, too, in a way. She wants you to spend nights and happily share the bed with her

Upon explaining your dilemma, Daniela is completely understanding. She has phobias too, and won’t judge you for yours

She immediately works on removing the weapons and tidying her room a little

You smile a little, your heartbeat slowing down to a regular pace when she puts the sharp objects away, hidden in drawers instead

For a moment, it all seems solved

However, Daniela is; messy, at best

She often forgets to take the weapons back to their proper, hidden spots once she’s done using them

Often, they’re left out, left wherever she dropped them

She feels horrible when she hears your wildly beating heart, and after a few seconds, realizes her mistake and quickly hides away the weapons again

In time, it becomes clear that Daniela is too hectic to put her things away. Her room is a mess at nearly all times

As such, after a talk with Bela and the head maiden, she is assigned two person maids tasked with keeping it completely tidy. Daniela knows not to show any violent outbursts directed at them

And the weapons and sharp objects? You rest easier knowing they’re always put away, tidied up even when your girlfriend leaves them out

Daniela is over the moons when you begin to view her room as yours too

She makes sure she doesn’t carry sharp objects with her to ease your phobia, and is quick to hide them away from her sisters when you’re near

She tries her best, and is happy whenever it makes you feel comfortable and at ease

#cassandra dimitrescu #daniela dimitrescu #bela dimitrescu #goblin anon

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 1 year

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Now I’m Covered In You [Chapter 4: Midnight]

Series summary: Aemond is a prince of England. You are married to his brother. The Wars of the Roses are about to begin, and you have failed to fulfill your one crucial responsibility: to give the Greens a line of legitimate heirs. Will you survive the demands of your family back in Navarre, the schemes of the Duke of Hightower, the scandals of your dissolute husband, the growing animosity of Daemon Targaryen…and your own realization of a forbidden love?

Series title is a lyric from: Ivy by Taylor Swift.

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+), dubious consent, miscarriage, pregnancy, childbirth, violence, warfare, murder, alcoholism, sexism, infidelity, illness, death, only vaguely historically accurate, lots of horses!

Word count: 6.1k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @borikenlove @myspotofcraziness @ipostwhatifeel @teenagecriminalmastermind @quartzs-posts @tclegane @poohxlove @narwhal-swimmingintheocean @chainsawsangel @itsabby15 @serrhaewin @padfooteyes @arcielee @travelingmypassion @what-is-originality @burningcoffeetimetravel @blackdreamspeaks @anditsmywholeheart @aemcndtargaryen @jvpit3rs @sarcastic-halfling-princess @flowerpotmage @ladylannisterxo @thelittleswanao3 @elsolario @tinykryptonitewerewolf @girlwith-thepearlearring @minttea07 @trifoliumviridi @deltamoon666 @mariahossain @darkenchantress @doingfondue

Let me know if you’d like to be added! 💜

It paints you like a canvas: sunlight, candlelight, sunlight again.

Two days after the miscarriage—the stillbirth, actually, the delivery, the beginning and the end all at once—you are searching the halls of Westminster Palace, the train of your gown dragging on the floor. It’s just a little too long for you now; it had been tailored to accommodate the additional weight and inches of pregnancy. And the court is just like they were before. They gawk, they jabber amongst themselves, but they can’t seem to think of a single word to say to you. Well…there is one exception.

“Sweet Jesus, what are you doing here?!” Nico exclaims when she rounds a corner and spots you. She rushes over and takes both of your hands in her own. “You look awful, you must be ready to drop over and sleep wherever you fall. Come on, I’ll walk you back to your rooms—”

“I can’t stay in bed for another second. I’m losing my mind. I’m just lying there, useless, staring up at the ceiling thinking about...everything.” The baby. The throne. Aegon. Aemond.

“Oh,” she says, sympathetic and yet proud. She sweeps back loose strands of hair from your face. “You have too much fire in you for that, I suppose. I shouldn’t be surprised. It’s a shame you were born a woman, you could have ridden into battle and butchered people and put all that ruthlessness to good use.”

“Being a woman didn’t stop Boudicca.” And she wasn’t just a woman. She was a wife, a mother.

“And where did that get her?” Nico retorts with raised eyebrows. “Nowhere enviable.”

You can’t think of a clever response. “Would you happen to know where Aemond is?”

“Not presently. He’s been looking in on you, you know.”

You do know: you’ve glimpsed him in the doorway, caught his whispers with the physicians and the midwives and your secretless English ladies. “I need to speak with him about something. To…” You pause. You can’t tell Nico about the poem that’s now hidden in the trunk at the foot of your bed; but you can tell her something else that’s true. “To thank him.”

“He’s been distraught,” Nico says, her voice low. “Quiet, secluded. Even more than before.”

As usual, she sees too much. “Yes.”

“He cares for you. Quite a lot, I think.”

“I’ll check the courtyard,” you say, hoping to change the subject. “Maybe he’s training there.”

“Do you want me to go with you?”

“No, I think I can manage.”

“What if you pass out and end up out in a field somewhere covered with snow? What if you find a boat and row yourself back to Navarre? What if you’re eaten by wolves?”

“Send out a search party if I’m not back in an hour. But don’t invite Daemon. He’d drag me headfirst into the lair.”

“Alright,” Nico relents, touching your hair fondly again. “One hour. And I’ll chew my nails to bits the whole time.”

“As long as they’ve grown back by the wedding.”

She beams, white teeth and starry eyes. When she at last marries Daeron in August she will be another princess from the Continent, another thread in the Greens’ tapestry. She will be a lot like you…except that she will be in love with her husband. And she will be able to give him children.

But Aemond’s will come before them in the line of succession, you think, with a mournfulness that shocks you. The sons he has with whoever he ends up marrying, Helene of Austria or Beatrice of Naples or Anne of Bohemia. Some other woman, some other future, parts of him I’ll never know.

“I want you to help me choose every detail,” Nico says. “From the food to the fashion.” This is how she plans to distract you from your own misery. And the Duke of Hightower will indulge her: with every pregnancy you lose Nico becomes more relevant, and in any case Milan is a greater ally than Navarre. If the Holy Roman Emperor’s daughter ends up crossing the English Channel, she will eclipse you both.

“I’ll endeavor to not be eaten by wolves until August,” you tell Nico, and then head outside into the courtyard.

Aemond isn’t sparring there with Sir Criston Cole; with the exception of a few amorous couples strolling through the powdery white snow, the courtyard is empty. You pass next through the palace gardens, frozen and naked, their treasures—angelica, feverfew, St. John’s wort, betony, chamomile, rosemary, pennyroyal—long-since plucked and dried and stored away for winter. Aemond isn’t there either, and he isn’t in the royal stables when you enter them, horses chomping noisily on oats and hay.

You go to Vhagar’s stall and she pops her great shaggy head out to greet you. “Hello, you big monster,” you murmur, smiling. You run your palm down the white stripe of her blaze. She’s killed people, and everyone knows those stories; she stomped one man to death and kicked another in the jaw, trotting away and leaving him to drown in his own blood. That was before Aemond tamed her when he was still a boy. He mellowed her, or she mellowed for him, and however it happened they’re both better off for it. She’s a weapon, the same as his sword or his strategies. She has a role to play in the Greens’ battle for the throne as well.

There’s rustling from Sunfyre’s stall, too loud to be a rat or a bird. You cross the aisle and peer inside. There on the floor, half-covered in straw, is sprawled your husband. Sunfyre looks passively down at him, stems of hay sticking out like porcupine quills from his muzzle.

“Aegon?!”

“Shh!” he pleads, waving one hand drunkenly. His white-blond hair falls over his face like a veil. “I’m hiding.”

“From who?” But the answer to this is obvious; you know before he says it.

“Grandsire. He’s furious, he’s a demon. He’ll have me drawn and quartered.”

“What’s he so upset about?”

“Oh, the same old thing, I’d imagine,” Aegon says vaguely. His shortcomings, his embarrassments. Then his murky ocean-blue eyes focus a bit and his voice goes tender. “Are you in pain?”

“I’ve had a lot of wine. It helps some.” Takes the edge off, smooths down the fangs, dulls the knowledge that parts of you are still collapsing down to fill the space where your child once lived. Blood drains away, blood fills up again, blood readies itself for the inevitable next attempt.

“Good,” he says, though uncertainly. His sentiment is clear, but he doesn’t know how to express it.

“Have you seen Aemond?”

“Not today.”

You sigh. “Never mind, then. I’ll keep looking.”

“Should you be running around the palace like this?”

“I haven’t done any running in a very long time. And I’m confident I can find my way back to bed when I need to.”

Now Aegon is gazing up at the stable ceiling, studying eaves and bird nests like constellations. “It should have been him,” he exhales like a confession.

“What?”

“Aemond. It should have been him. The one to shoulder the responsibility, to reign. I don’t belong someplace where people watch me. I have nothing to show them that they want to see. I belong someplace warm and wild, someplace I can disappear. Is it such a crime to not want to be held to a higher standard than an inconsequential man? Is it such a crime to not wish to be remembered? I never asked to be the heir. Not even the king wants me to be the heir. How am I the one in the wrong here?”

“I think many of us wish for things we cannot have,” you reply morosely.

“We could have them,” Aegon counters. “If we ran far enough.”

“That’s a coward’s way out.”

“I’d rather be a free coward than a jailed prince. Or a dead one.”

As if to emphasize his point, you spy something odd about his saddle, hanging from a massive iron hook on the stable wall. You move closer to scrutinize it. Then you return to Sunfyre’s stall. “Someone cut your stirrup,” you say, frightened. “Before the Christmas boar hunt. It’s sliced clean most of the way through and then the rest of it must have ripped as you were riding.”

Aegon squints up at you. He’s mystified. “Why would someone do that?”

Your exasperation—your contempt, not for him but for his failings—must show on your face.

“Please don’t look at me that way,” Aegon says. “Not you. Mother always loved Aemond more, Father always loved Rhaenyra, Grandsire loved the throne. You are the only thing I’ve ever had that’s supposed to be mine.”

And now you’re the one who is imagining a traitor’s death: hanged momentarily, cut down and thrown onto a table, drawn open like a gutted animal as the crowd’s screams mingle with your own, dissected into quarters once your belly is sufficiently emptied. Because surely you’re the worst sort of traitor there is. “You must be more careful,” you implore Aegon. And he smiles; he takes this as a token of affection.

You finally find Aemond somewhere you should have suspected. It’s where people go to find peace, solitude, wisdom. He’s sitting in a cascade of kaleidoscopic light pouring in from the stained glass windows, scenes of King Arthur and Saint George, lovers and swords and dragons. You slide into the pew, cool austere wood. The small private chapel is abandoned except for the two of you. On the altar is a cross: blood, pain, sacrifice, redemption. Aemond has his hands folded and propped on the back of the next pew. He stares straight ahead, grim and silent. He must know you’re there, but he doesn’t make any sign that he does.

“I don’t mean to interrupt,” you say.

“You’re not interrupting. I was just speaking to God, but I’m finished now.”

“Do you believe he can hear us?”

“I used to.” Still, he keeps his eye on the altar. Flecks of luminance pepper his skin: gold, ruby, emerald, sapphire. “You’re wearing green,” he marvels. He can see you well enough for that, a blur on his periphery.

“Yes. Like ivy.”

And only now does he look at you, afraid and yet with fragile hope.

“Aemond,” you say softly. “I didn’t know.” I longed for it, but I didn’t know.

Long seconds tick by, ten, twenty, a hundred. “I have envied Aegon my entire life,” he says at last. “I have felt that I was more suited to be the firstborn, to be the heir. I have watched him squander opportunities and defile morality and bring nothing but heartbreak to my mother. I have worked myself to the bone to prove myself worthy of what he was freely given. I carry scars in the shape of his absence. I have always envied Aegon. But never more than the day I watched him marry you.”

You move without thinking, reaching for his hands and interlacing them with your own. “Please don’t hide from me anymore. I can’t endure it. Not added to the weight of everything else.”

He feels your cheeks and forehead, his brow crinkled with hushed concern. “You’re in pain.”

“I was alright when I left my bedchamber. Now…” Now the cramping is very bad again, and the strip of thick linen folded between your legs is nearly soaked through with blood, and your mood is sinking; you feel shaky and insurmountably sad, like you could rupture into tears at any moment.

He is distressed. “Why did you exert yourself like this?”

“I had to find you.”

He stands and offers you his arm. “Then now that you have, allow me to escort you back to bed.”

“And you’ll stay for a while?”

He smiles, warm, a flicker of candlelight in a dark room. “I’ll stay for as long as you’ll let me.”

You walk very slowly together, you clutching his forearm, Aemond distracting you with English legends: myths, monsters, men. But he does not speak of children. Westminster Palace is frenzied when you step inside, courtiers rushing around and hissing gossip back and forth to each other. Greens and Blacks appear to be equally scandalized; you wonder what has happened. As you and Aemond make your way down a hallway—your steps halting and dizzy—Prince Daemon sails by wearing a cruel smirk, sharp, delighted, Scottish deerhounds loping alongside him. And then you peek into the Great Hall and you see them: the Montfords, Lady Joanna’s parents and uncles and her handsome, ambitious brothers. They’re all beaming and radiant, though they really have no reason to be, now that Aegon is long past bedding Joanna and the Montfords can no longer call upon the Duke of Hightower for any exceptional favors. Come to think of it, you haven’t seen Joanna since around the time Nico arrived in London, since August, since you discovered you were pregnant again. That was five months ago. The Montfords are passing around an infant swaddled in green cloth, showing him off to the other powerful families of Southern England, accepting compliments and proposals of betrothal to wealthy newborn daughters. From what you can tell, the child is fat and mewing and…and…

You gasp, and Aemond swiftly directs you farther down the hallway before anyone notices you watching. He says nothing, but you can read the shock and fury on his face. Because Lady Joanna Montford’s infant is a healthy living boy with silvery white hair just like Aegon’s. Because her child is a Targaryen.

There are yelps and whimpers coming from Aegon’s bedchamber. Somebody must have found him hiding in the stables after all. The door is open. Inside the Duke of Hightower has backed Aegon into a corner and is slapping him: his head, his face, his hands when he tries to shield himself. Aegon’s pale skin is freckled with angry pink welts, his hair in disarray. There are still bits of straw knotted in it.

The Duke of Hightower seethes: “To do this, to have a bastard before you’ve secured the succession! It’s a disgrace! You have muddied the waters yet again, you have undermined certainty when we so desperately need it, when all of our lives depend on it! You should be putting every last ounce of the miniscule effort that you possess into producing a legitimate son with your wife—!”

“Grandsire, she’s not capable of it!”

Then they see you, and Aegon has the decency to cover his face in shame; but the Duke just glares at you, as if he wouldn’t mind hitting you too, as if you are dangerously close to becoming an enemy.

~~~~~~~~~~

Two weeks after the miscarriage, the royal family has gathered for a private dinner. The occasion is Daeron’s sixteenth birthday, although the king mentioned it once and then seems to have promptly forgotten again. He is admiring a collection of tiny woodcarvings of horses that Joffrey has made, praising them as if they are great treasures, handmade tapestries or poems or blades. Alicent, much to the contrary, fawns over her youngest son. She frets with his curly white-blond hair—trying to make it lie neatly, a pointless aspiration—and asks Nico about wedding plans. Nico is effervescent, bubbling over with enthusiasm for fabrics, colors, cakes, flowers.

Aegon sits to your right, Aemond to your left. Your husband is drowning himself in wine and peering blearily down at the trappings of the table: duck, mushroom pasties, spinach tarts, salmon pie, bread, and makerouns of course, Daeron’s favorite. Aemond doesn’t say much, but he ensures that your cup stays full of apple cider and your plate piled high with winter delicacies.

“I can’t,” you complain when he serves you another spinach tart. You’re still bleeding, although it has lessened considerably. You still have very little appetite. Weight has fallen off you like leaves from autumn trees since you lost the baby, a fact that no one seems to have noticed except Aemond.

“Try,” he replies, and slices you a portion of duck too, the browned skin crackling and shiny with grease. Across the table, Daemon and Rhaenyra exchange fleeting caresses and gazes warm with desire. Jace chats politely with Baela, Luke giggles with Rhaena. They all wear lustrous black like a uniform. Even the king wears it, accented with maroon the shade of dried blood.

“We must get you a real horse,” King Viserys is telling Joffrey, who smiles adoringly up at him. The king coughs into his sleeve and then continues. “Would you like a Marwari, like your mother has? They’re nimble, gorgeous creatures, and with such peculiar ears! They’re very rare as well, only bred in North India. Seafaring traders can bring some here for you to choose from. They come at a great cost, but you are worth it, don’t you agree, Joffrey? You know, India was once partially conquered by Alexander the Great. He…”

Aemond glances longingly at the king; it’s a split second, and then it’s gone. You are well aware that Aemond knows very nearly everything about Alexander the Great. The king never speaks to him about it. He rarely speaks to Aemond at all.

You lay a hand on top of Aemond’s. “Will you tell me about it later?” you ask him. “Alexander and India?”

He smiles, his cheeks blushing pink. “Of course.”

The Duke of Hightower clears his throat loudly. “I have some happy news to share.”

King Viserys looks up, as if suddenly remembering that the Greens are here too. “Oh? Do enlighten us, Otto.”

“After much negotiation, the Holy Roman Emperor has formally agreed to a match between his daughter and Prince Aemond.”

“Very impressive, Otto!” The king claps politely. He’s already resuming his conversation with Joffrey, a six-year-old.

“Wonderful!” Nico heralds cheerfully. “Lose a Helaena, gain a Helene!” She holds her cup aloft in a toast, then lowers it as she observes the awkward atmosphere of the table. You and Aemond are so determined not to appear heartsick that you can only avert your eyes, Alicent frowns anxiously, Daeron is bewildered, Aegon drinks. Rhaenyra forces a stiff smile; Daemon watches you, deep-set eyes gleaming with dark mirth.

“Well…” the Duke says. “Perhaps I should have started with the unhappy news. Princess Helene is dead of fever, God rest her soul.”

“Oh, the poor girl!” Alicent laments, crossing herself. “And poor Frederick and Eleanor.”

“Fortunately, Frederick still has one daughter left—only one—and he is willing to send her to us.” The Duke doesn’t have to say what this means aloud: that the Greens have risen ever-higher in the Continent’s estimation, that their allies grow mightier and more numerous by the day.

“How fortunate,” Daemon quips. “Always a wise idea to have children to spare.” He winks at you, swigs his wine, licks red drops from his lips. His Scottish deerhounds, which follow him everywhere, sniff around the table for scraps. “And who is the lucky bride-to-be?”

The Duke of Hightower is glowing. “Kunigunde.”

“Kunigunde?!” Aegon blurts out, then drops his head back down when the Duke glowers fearsomely at him. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, staring into his wine cup. “What the hell kind of a name is Kunigunde?”

“She sounds…” Daemon raises his white eyebrows, choking back laughter. The Black children are following his example and snickering derisively, even little Joffrey, who doesn’t have the slightest idea what this marriage represents. Even the king smiles. “Germanic.”

“You’ll like her,” the Duke informs Aemond, ignoring his detractors. “You should be crawling on your knees to thank me for this match. You think I’ve taken no notice of your hard work, of your sacrifices, but I have. Kunigunde has received an extraordinary education for a woman. She studies astronomy and mathematics and history, not just languages. She practices archery. She is a renowned horsewoman and hunts often. She is intelligent, and she is bold, and she is precisely the sort of woman you would choose for yourself, is she not?”

“She is,” Aemond admits gravely.

“Kunigunde,” Aegon mumbles again, incredulous.

The Duke continues: “And so when she arrives you will wed her and bed her and I will hear not a single word of complaint about it. You will like her, or you will grow to like her, or you will endure it with grace if by some miracle you don’t like her. Is that understood?”

“How romantic,” Daemon chuckles. “A toast? To love?” He lifts his wine. Only the other Blacks join him, their cups clanging merrily against each other.

“I’ll be delighted to make a new friend, at least,” Nico says. “And one from so distant and vast a kingdom!”

Alicent nods distractedly. “Yes, we’ll have to ask her all about what it’s like there.”

“Hmm.” Daemon bites into a halved pomegranate, spilling juice like rubies, like blood. “Now my curiosity is aroused. Tell me, Navarre, what is your homeland like this time of year?”

“That depends on which region you have in mind,” you say frostily. Aemond is glaring at his uncle, measuring him, waiting, coiled. “The mountains are cold and snowy, the valleys are more temperate, the deserts are stark but still golden. Navarre is beautiful, even in January. It might be the most beautiful place there is.”

“You don’t find it to be…rather…” Daemon grins, pieces of pomegranate seeds caught between his teeth like bits of organs. “Barren?”

The table goes silent. Time slows until it stops. You should have a barb of an insult to hurl back at Daemon; you open your mouth to loose it like an arrow. But nothing comes out. Instead, hot sudden tears brim in your eyes and begin to spill down your face, your skull filled with flashes like white lightning: What would we have named him? What would he have been like?

Aemond bolts from his seat and goes for Daemon, fists swinging. Everyone is yelling; chairs are tipping over as people leap to their feet. Nico is shrieking and swearing at Daemon as her betrothed holds her back, his hands linked around her waist. Aemond’s knuckles crack across Daemon’s face as guards flood into the room and struggle in vain to separate them; Daemon strikes out, scratches, bites, yowls like an animal. Rhaenyra is pulling Rhaena and Joffrey away to safety. Unprovoked, Aegon pitches a handful of salmon pie at Baela, then screams and flees when she scrambles over the tabletop in pursuit. Alicent intercepts her, pinning Baela’s hands to her chest where they pose no threat. Jace and Luke try to join Daemon, but the Duke shoves them aside, bellowing ferociously, words you are too panicked to register. In the melee, Daemon snatches up a fork, turns to Aemond, and aims for his remaining eye. You dart beneath the table and knock Daemon off his feet, catching him unprepared. He whirls to you with his back against the floor, eyes glittering savagely, and, roaring, stabs at you with the fork. You duck, but the metal skates across your cheekbone, drawing a thin stripe of blood. The Scottish deerhounds are snarling and snapping at you. Aemond yanks you away and drags you to the other side of the room as Daemon follows, reaching for the hilt of his sword.

“Enough!” King Viserys thunders, and the turmoil dies. Alicent flies to him—attempting to pacify—but he ignores her.

“He must pay!” Aemond shouts, pointing at Daemon, whose nose is bloodied from his blows. “He must pay for what he’s said, for what he’s done!”

“It looks to me that he already has,” the king replies impatiently. He grimaces at everyone present, with no lines drawn between the blameworthy and the not. “This rivalry, this petulance, this bitterness, it must end!” He turns to the Duke of Hightower. “You must restrain your branch of the family, Otto, just as Rhaenyra must gain better control of hers—”

“Viserys, Daemon has ceaselessly antagonized the princess—!”

“I am not Viserys!” the king booms, then pauses to cough. “I am the king, I am your king, and since there seems to be enduring confusion, allow me to clarify some things, some exceedingly fundamental things. I have already chosen an heir, and it is Rhaenyra.” He looks to Daemon. “You have nothing to fear from Alicent’s children. You have no cause to provoke them. It is a waste of your many talents.” Now the king addresses Otto. “You can glorify your house however you see fit, but remember where this all ends. Rhaenyra and her heirs will inherit the throne upon my death. It stays with her, that is my most ardent wish. It is treason to undermine it. By all means, increase the wealth and status of your dukedom. But never forget who gave it to you.”

The king sweeps out of the room, Rhaenyra and her children following closely behind him. Alicent stands there helplessly, abandoned, forgotten. Nico and Daeron comfort her instead. Aegon meanders back to the table, sighs deeply, and pours himself a fresh cup of wine. Aemond examines the shallow gash across your cheek. Daemon watches, a dozen guards stationed between you and him. Growling Scottish deerhounds flank him like the train of a gown.

“I’ll kill you one day,” Aemond says calmly, matter-of-factly.

Daemon shrugs. “You’re welcome to try.”

And then he’s gone.

~~~~~~~~~~

Two months after the miscarriage, the physicians say it’s time to try again. They are the ones who decide: not you, not Aegon, not either of the people whose bodies are requisite to the task. Just old men in the service of another old man: the Duke of Hightower. Men who have never had to feign pleasure as they were groped and invaded. Men who have never felt a child tearing from their own flesh, nor the cramping and blood that follows, reminders that are impolite to speak of.

Aemond keeps you company; you don’t even have to ask him to. Your ladies are no longer surprised when they walk into your rooms to find him there. He, Nico, and Daeron are frequent visitors, far more frequent than your own husband. You read together, or Aemond reads and you embroider, or you play card games, or you simply talk until the stars have rolled by overhead like a wheel and the first golden bars of daybreak spill in from the windows. Tonight, as you wait for Aegon to arrive—full of anxiety and impatience and hope, full of dread—you are embroidering a pillow with Vhagar’s silhouette. Aemond is sitting beside you on the bearskin rug and reading a book about the kingdoms of the Iberian Peninsula, including Navarre. The fireplace pops periodically, heat and red-golden light, sparks and shadows. Aemond is dressed in his usual dark green attire, but you’re only wearing a white nightgown. Once someone has seen you sobbing on the floor and coated with the blood of failure, it seems useless to try to reclaim your modesty.

“Does this look like a horse?” you ask Aemond doubtfully, showing him the pillow.

He blinks at it. “It certainly looks like…a large land-dwelling creature. Of some sort.”

You sigh defeatedly. “I’m so damned nervous. My fingers won’t cooperate, I can barely feel them.”

“I’d still enjoy the pillow. Even if Vhagar looks suspiciously like one of Hannibal’s elephants.”

You laugh. “Yes, that nose…a travesty, surely.” You set aside your embroidery. It’s a lost cause this evening. You stare into the fire, feeling warmth like the sun on your face, so hot it nearly burns.

“Why are you still nervous?” Aemond asks gently. “After all this time?”

“Will you be nervous when you’re expected to fuck Kunigunde?”

“Yes,” he says, a bit startled.

“Only the first night? If she never stops feeling like a stranger to you?”

“No,” he admits. “Perhaps not.”

“That’s why I’m still nervous.”

Aemond closes his book and studies you pensively, firelight dancing on his face. Several miles away in the Tower of London, the bells toll twelve times: midnight.

“He won’t be here,” you say, relieved and yet broken, no end of your prison in sight. “Not tonight. And why would he be? Who would want this, the way it is between us? He’s fumbling and drunk, I’m a resigned liar, both of us trying our best but just waiting for it to be over. Rhaenyra gets to enjoy lying with her husband, Nico will enjoy it when it’s her turn, but I don’t. I never will. I’ll never know what that’s like.”

Time slinks forward. It seems like an eternity passes before he speaks, dust to pyramids, castles, cathedrals, civilization and then back to dust. “I could show you,” Aemond says, so quietly you might have imagined it.

You don’t understand. “Show me what?”

“How good it can feel.”

You gape at him, stunned. “I can’t lie with you.” And then you think immediately, like a traitor: Can I?

Aemond shakes his head, staring down at his open palms. “Only my hands.”

You should say no, here in your bedchamber waiting obediently for his brother to arrive, here on the skin and fur of a beast Aemond killed for you, here with sweltering flames inking you both with amber-rust light like sunset, like dawn. But something stops you. It’s the fact that Aemond knows you somehow, all of you, or very nearly all; and when he stumbles into one of your rare secrets like an unfamiliar room he wants to get down on his hands and knees and memorize every floorboard, every fleck of paint. You nod, moving towards him, your nightgown whispering against your bare skin. “Just this once?” you ask.

“Just this once,” Aemond agrees.

You can already feel yourself aching for him, muscles and nerves waking up, violent red craving. You press your left palm cautiously to Aemond’s chest. “How…?”

“It’s alright. You can lean against me.”

Your right hand travels up to rest on the back of Aemond’s neck; you can feel his long silvery hair ghost across your knuckles. You inhale him: leather, smoke, musk, darkness and possibility all tangled up together like the two of you are now. One arm circles around your waist, drawing you in even closer, until your thighs are touching. You wonder what his bare, defenseless skin would feel like on yours; you wish the clothes between you were in a pile on the floor. But that is far, far too risky. You could not remedy that instantly if there was an unexpected knock at the bedchamber door.

Aemond’s pale blue gaze—rapt, intense, starving—stays on yours as his other hand settles on your ankle. His fingertips move slowly upwards, tracing your skin lightly, slipping beneath your nightgown: calf, knee, thigh. He hesitates there: one last chance for you to stop him.

“Yes,” you murmur instead, resting your head against his chest, listening to the pounding of his heart. And already, you know this will be different; everything about it feels different. Because Aemond is the one here with you.

He reaches between your legs and finds warm, slick folds that are already wet for him. His breathing hitches, then quickens, his ribcage rapidly expanding and caving in again, a cycle like the moon or the seasons. He drags his fingers through your wetness and then places them on a spot that Aegon always paid great attention to, although to little effect. But when Aemond touches you there—experimenting with different pressures and motions—you are swept up in a euphoric riptide that can only carry you higher, higher, higher still. You’ve glimpsed this feeling before, but you’ve never been able to get lost in it. You are gasping, restless; your hand on the back of his neck wanders and inadvertently knots in his hair. “I’m sorry—”

“No,” he says, low and husky, meaning: no, don’t apologize, no, don’t stop.

“Aemond, something’s happening…”

“I’m here. I’ve got you.”

His fingers circle more quickly, more powerfully. You moan and bring your lips to his throat, delicious heat and salt flowering there. You fight the instinct to bite down, to leave bruises, to mark him as your own. He’s not yours and he never will be, and no one can know all the irrevocable ways he has written himself into you like the ink of a poem, words scaling the scarlet walls of arteries and veins, rhymes in your bone marrow. The pleasure keeps mounting; every time you think it can go no higher, you climb to a new height like the steps of a staircase. “I can’t stand it—”

“Almost there,” he pants, and pushes a finger into you, the heel of his hand still grinding against the place where the sensation is greatest. Your hips move in time with his thrusts.

“More,” you beg helplessly, and Aemond glides a second finger inside. You twist your grip into his tunic, into his hair. You meld yourself into him, never feeling close enough. Now he’s nipping at the line of your jaw, his free hand against your face, his whispered voice telling you to relax, to breathe through it, that it’s alright to give in. And then your eyes flick down and see the outline of him through his trousers—how large he is, much larger than his brother, thick and long, perhaps even too much for you to take—and it is this, the thought of having Aemond completely, of him spilling himself into you in body as he already has in soul, that sends an indescribable wave jolting through you: heat, ecstasy, contracting muscles, bursts of color.

“Stop, stop, stop,” you say in a rush when it ends and you’re too sensitive to be stroked. Aemond’s hand stills, but he keeps his fingers inside you, feeling your walls throb around him for what he undoubtedly fears is the first and last time, resting his forehead against yours, trembling all over.

Your thumbprint skates across his parted lips, and then you cup his face with both hands and kiss him deeply, soft and slow. It might as well be your first kiss, your only kiss. It blows the past out of you like stormwinds ripping up homes and centuries-old roots.

You tell him when it finally breaks: “I wish it could be you.”

Aemond searches your face, then kisses you again, fiercely this time, with an unspeakable desperation. Then he rises to his feet and leaves, no goodbye, no plans, no promises.

And when Aegon does stagger into your bed the next night, you’re able to nudge his hands into the perfect position and close your eyes and think of his brother, and for the first time you reach a shuddering, breathless peak with him. You try to stifle the sheer intensity of your pleasure, the arching of your spine and the way your fingernails bite into his skin, leaving dark pink blooms like roses. But he knows this time is different.

“Well, wife,” Aegon says, grinning roguishly. “I think we’re getting better at this.”

~~~~~~~~~~

In the morning, Aemond fetches you without a word of explanation. He leads you to the royal stables, where the last of the winter’s snow and ice is melting away, dripping from the eaves like rain.

“Are we going to take Vhagar out walking…?”

But Aemond breezes right past Vhagar, who watches you both with large, intelligent eyes as she crunches on a mouthful of oats. He stops at a stall that has always been unoccupied, ever since you first arrived at Westminster Palace over a year and a half ago.

“What—?” And then you see her: pure glossy black like onyx, long mane and tail, intrigued ears pricked forward towards you. She’s heavy with muscle, bigger than Sunfyre or Caraxes, almost as large as Tessarion. “Oh, Aemond…”

“She’s an Andalucian,” he says, anxious, hoping you’ll approve of her. “I wrote to your brother Alonzo and arranged for her to be shipped over from Navarre a month ago, but she’s just arrived today.” He smiles faintly, wistfully. “So don’t think she is a gift for services recently rendered.”

You smile back. “I don’t recall having the opportunity to serve you.”

He flushes, but tries to ignore it. Still, his eye traces the curves and valleys your emerald green gown, all those places he never got to see, to taste.

You pet the Andalucian’s inky muzzle and she consents, nickering contently. “I never thought I’d have my own horse here,” you say. “Not unless I gave Aegon a son. Maybe not even then.”

“What will you name her?”

You look at Aemond as you answer, your eyes dark with craving for him, a curse you can’t break, a spell you’d cast over and over again. “Midnight.”

#aemond x y/n #aemond x you #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen x you #niciy

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thewayofthemandalorian · 2 years

Text

feels like home - oneshot

Pairing: Marcus Pike x F!Reader

Rating: M

Summary: When your work visa expires sooner than expected, your only option to stay in Washington is to get married. Marcus offers to be your husband until you get your green card. Neither of you expect that your marriage will end up being more real than intended.

Word count: 11,527

Notes: I was thinking about marriage of convenience in stories and the first character that came to mind for “marrying their friend to help them but then falls for them” was Marcus Miguel Pike. These two are kind of idiots, but they’re idiots in love. Much love and thanks to the wonderful @ezrasbirdie for beta-reading and holding my hand when this fic was giving me the hardest time. Title from long story short by Taylor Swift.

This fic is cross-posted to AO3 under the same name and my taglist can be found linked in my bio as well as my masterlist which is linked below.

Comments/reblogs appreciated.

Warnings: Marriage of convenience, miscommunication, yearning, committing fraud, swearing, therapy, food mention, sharing a bed, friends to lovers, kissing, non-explicit sexual content (including female receiving oral), divorce mention.

masterlist (main) || masterlist (marcus pike)

Looking up from your menu, you look at the man sitting across from you. You really don’t have a connection to this man. Dan? Dean? You can’t even remember his name. Probably not a good sign about asking him to marry you.

“Are you guys ready to order?” asks the waitress who’s materialized from nowhere.

Daniel speaks before you can order the burger and fries. “I’ll have the steak, well done—” he misses the way your nose wrinkles. It’s a cheap diner, the consistency of the steak is already going to be that of a shoe — “and she’ll have the garden salad with house dressing.”

You have to force yourself not to gawk at him. Before you can correct the waitress, who looks bored out of her mind, she’s gone.

You’re starting to re-think this whole thing. Maybe being sent back to Canada on an expired work visa won’t be that bad.

“How much money did you say you make again?” Dieter asks. “Because I’m between jobs at the moment and I don’t think I can pay.”

You didn’t say how much you make. “No worries. I can cover it,” you offer your date what you hope is a polite smile. “I just need to use the restroom, I’ll be right back.”

Don doesn’t seem to care.

Pulling your phone out of your purse, you text your best friend. I need you to call me in three minutes with a fake emergency.

Lily is usually attached to her phone, so you expect the three dots to come up almost immediately. They don’t. A minute goes by. Nothing.

Your phone dings after a minute. Sorry babe, I’m in an important zoom call for work! Try Marcus maybe?

With a groan, you throw your head back. The one person you didn’t want to bother in all of this. He doesn’t know anything about your current predicament. Nor does he know about your hare-brained idea to get around getting deported because you didn’t realize that your work visa is expiring in three months instead of thirteen months.

In your defense, it had been Lily’s idea. You just hadn’t had any better ideas. No worries, you reply. Going back to the messages page on your phone, you tap out a quick text, basically a replica of what you texted Lily.

The bubble of three dots pops up immediately. What’s up?

I’m on the worst date!!! I need an excuse to leave.

Marcus’s reply comes in quickly. On it. Play along.

It’s not the best exercise to employ, but you get the impression that Dylan won’t let you go, no matter how much you insist.

“Sorry about that,” you smile as you sit back in the booth with the fake flower and the plastic checkered tablecloth. “I got a call from my mom and she worries if I don’t answer.” Making a mental apology to your mom for kind of throwing her under the bus, you offer a grimace that you hope is convincing and make a note to call her later tonight.

“Ugh, tell me about it. My mom drives me up the wall. ‘When are you going to get a girlfriend? When are you going to get a job? When are you going to move out of my basement?’”

Right on cue, your phone rings. “So sorry, I have to take this,” you say, not even looking at the screen. You know it’s Marcus. “Hello?”

Marcus is so good at saving you from pickles like this. “Hey, I’m so sorry to call you like this but… my plane landed about forty-five minutes ago and I’m wondering when you’re coming to pick me up from the airport? Should I just keep waiting for you at baggage claim?”

Not quite what you were expecting but you play along. “Oh, shoot! I knew I was forgetting something. I am so sorry! I will be right there.” To your date you say “You don’t mind if I go pick up someone from the airport do you?” You don’t even wait to hear a response. “I’ll just grab the check and be on my way,” you tell Marcus. Once you hang up, you turn back to Dom. “I completely forgot that my brother was coming today. I thought it was tomorrow, but I promised him I would pick him up from the airport.”

The waitress comes over with a charred lump of meat that’s supposed to be a steak and a wilted, sad looking salad.

“I’m so sorry to do this but can I get mine boxed up and get the check?” you ask. She nods and gets you a box and the bill. You leave a few bills on the table and say goodbye to your date. “It was lovely to meet you,” you lie.

“Can we do this again?” he asks.

Absolutely not. “Gotta go!”

You make a mad dash for the exit, making sure to toss the salad into the garbage on your way to your car. Unmatching with David as you go.

- - - -

You make your way to Marcus’s condo, picking up a pizza on your way over. You’re hungry and you want to thank Marcus for getting you out of that.

At some point you will have to tell Marcus what’s going on, but you don’t want him to pull any strings or do anything like that to keep you here. You want to stay, you just don’t know how outside of marrying someone who is already an American citizen.

It’s not that you disliked living in Canada. It’s where you’re from, where you grew up. Your life is here, though. Your job, your friends. Marcus.

Balancing the bag of soft drinks on the pizza box, you press the buzzer for Marcus’s condo. A second later he buzzes you up.

“Thank you so much for saving me,” you say by way of greeting.

Marcus takes the box of pizza from you. “Not a problem. What was wrong with him?” he asks.

You follow him into the cozy condo that he’s made his own in the past two years that he’s been in Washington. Art prints cover the walls, a floor to ceiling bookshelf with stacks of books in no particular semblance of order covering a wide range of topics and genres in the corner. It’s cozy. Homey. From the first time you visited his place, you felt at home, at ease.

Flopping down on the plush couch that he’s had since his undergrad, you groan. “What wasn’t wrong with him?” you grouse. “It was every cliche in the book. He even ordered me a salad.”

Marcus Pike knows he’s made some blunders in his own love life in the past. Hell, they were such big blunders that he’s been in therapy since he arrived here to get to the root of it and ensure that he never makes the same mistakes in his love life again. But he would never, ever order a date’s meal for them. Especially not a salad. The only time he would make an order for someone, anyone, is if they’re in the bathroom when the server comes to take the order and he already knows what his date wants.

Dating’s been a wash for Marcus since coming to Washington. At first it was from the sting of Teresa’s actions and rejection, but since then, no one’s been able to spark his interest beyond a couple of dates and maybe a round in bed. But it’s been two years. And no one’s been able to catch his attention.

Well. No. That’s not fully true. His attention has been caught. But you haven’t picked up on it and he’s pretty sure that you just want to be his friend. Plus the fact that you were just on a date with another man kind of solidifies that too.

Marcus isn’t bitter about it. He knows how it is. The old him would have attempted to get with you, try whatever it took to get your attention. But he likes being your friend. Likes the easy rapport he has with you. And he doesn’t want to date someone he works with, even indirectly. Since you work in art restoration and conservation, you liaise with the art crimes unit quite often. That’s how you met. Marcus was new to the D.C. branch of the FBI and was in a new position. You met on his first job with the D.C. squad and just clicked right away. That had been two years ago. Since then, you’ve been thick as thieves.

“I thought you were going to give Tinder a rest for a while?” Marcus asks, grabbing some plates.

You shrug. “It was Lily’s idea.” You know you have to tell him. The fucking letter is still in your purse. It would be so easy to just tell him why you were on that date, why you’re more stressed out than he’s ever seen you be (and he has, especially on particularly tricky cases).

“Are you all right?” asks Marcus, almost as if on cue. He hands you a plate and you load it with two slices of pizza. “You seem a bit…” He shrugs. “...I don’t know. Under pressure? And not just from the date.” He sits down beside you, crossing his pajama pants-clad legs.

You don’t even know why you haven’t told him yet. It started out as you trying to figure out if you could extend it or apply for citizenship but those had both been denied pretty quickly. You know that Marcus would offer something and you don’t want him to feel obligated in any way. He’s sweet like that, always doing stuff for other people without complaint. You know he’s big on marriage and romance. You know he wants the real thing. Not some sham that would fool the government and only end in divorce once you get your green card.

“You know you can tell me anything,” Marcus reminds you.

You smile at him. “I’m fine. Just…” The tell-tale sound of your mother’s ringtone interrupts you. “Can you get that for me, please?” you ask him. “It’s in my p—” You remember what else is in your purse just as Marcus is digging into it for you. His eyes land on the letter, the IMPORTANT stamp in bold red letters peeking out from where it’s folded.

“Not to snoop, but what’s this?” he asks.

It looks like your mom is going to voicemail.

- - - -

“So you know how I’m here on a work visa? A transfer from the National Gallery in Ottawa?” you ask.

Marcus nods. “Yes. You’ve been here for six years. What does that have to do with anything?”

Your phone dings with a text message from your mom. You quickly tap out a reply that you’re with Marcus and will call her back later. She sends a heart and a winky face emoji. “So I was under the impression that I still had a year on my work visa. I don’t.”

“How long do you have?” asks Marcus.

“Ninety days. Well, technically, eighty-three now. And I don’t know, maybe going back to Canada and applying for citizenship wouldn’t be the worst thing ever to happen. But my whole life is here. My job, my friends. Everything I’ve worked for.”

“Can you extend your visa? Or apply for citizenship?” Marcus offers.

You offer him a rueful expression. “I’ve already extended it as many times as I can. And I think I can only apply for citizenship if I’m married to an American citizen since my work is contract based. I tried putting a feeler out to Larissa to see if any permanent positions were coming up, but she was non-committal.”

Marcus doesn’t know enough about immigration or custom laws to refute that. It sounds accurate based on the one class he took way back in the day when he first signed up to be in the FBI. “What are you going to do?” he asks.

“I don’t know. Outside of marrying someone until I have my citizenship, I can’t think of anything. That’s why I’m back on Tinder. That’s why I was on that awful date tonight. To see if I can at least attempt to hack it.”

Marcus doesn’t know what to think. “Why didn’t you tell me? I could have probably helped you in some way.”

“I was going to. It’s… weird, you know? I don’t want you to feel obligated to help me.”

“Oh, honey,” he says gently. “It’s not obligation with you. Never. I’m just sorry you’re going through this. We’ll figure it out.”

The mood of the evening dampened, you head home shortly after that, calling your mom on the car’s bluetooth. “I thought you were with Marcus,” she says after answering.

“No, I had to get going. I just crashed at his place after a bad date.”

Your mother sighs. “When are you going to realize that that man has it bad for you? Or admit to yourself and him that you have it bad for him?” She never misses a beat.

It’s your turn to sigh. “It would never work with Marcus. Not now. Not with…” You trail off, not wanting to worry your mom with your work visa woes.

“Not with what, honey?” she asks.

You chew your lip for a second. “Nothing. It’s complicated.” Eager to change the subject, you ask, “What’s new with you?”

Your mom tells you about what she’s been up to in the past couple of days since you last talked. Gossiping about family and the new couple that moved into the condo down the hall from her and their antics.

It’s always nice to talk to your mom. You wish that she would consider moving down to Washington because you miss her greatly. But she is stubborn and likes living in Ottawa. “Mom, I gotta go, I’m about to pull into the underground parking and you know how reception is down there for bluetooth.”

“Okay, honey. I’ll talk to you in a little bit.”

“I love you, Mom.”

You hang up shortly after and park your car. You sit there for a while, thinking about the whole ordeal of this evening. While things hadn’t become awkward with Marcus after your bombshell, you wouldn’t be surprised if things become awkward. You like Marcus, really and truly. But you also know that he is a romantic. He’s had some bad experiences in romance, a failed marriage and a broken engagement under his belt already. You don’t want him to help you in this, admittedly, hare-brained scheme you and Lily have cooked up, fueled mostly by wine and desperation. You know that if you had told him from the start, he would offer to marry you and you don’t want him to experience anything but the real deal. If there’s anyone that deserves real, true, genuine love and not a sham, it’s Marcus Miguel Pike.

Your phone dings with a text notification. It’s Marcus. Your heartbeat picks up. Your eyes glaze over the notification on your lock screen, not really allowing the words to sink in at first. He’s going to offer to marry you. Or pull some strings. Or tell you that he finds things awkward now.

Hey, sorry to cancel on you but I can’t make it to our weekly diner night tomorrow. I’ve just remembered that I’m visiting my dad in Texas for the weekend. Would love to reschedule for when I get back.

It’s not what you were expecting. Marcus is close with his dad and step-mom and he visits them as often as he can. He says it’s the one drawback of the transfer to Washington, not being able to see his dad and his step-mom as much as he would like to, especially now that his dad is in his mid-sixties.

Sure, that sounds fine. I’m free most nights next week except for Thursday when I have to work late and Wednesday when I’m doing girls night with Lily and Nikki. You press the blue arrow button to send the text and then almost immediately tap out another message. Are we okay, Marcus? I didn’t make things awkward did I?

Marcus replies. Of course we’re okay, honey. Everything’s good. How does Tuesday sound?

Sounds great. Have a good weekend in Texas.

- - - -

The weekend passes with little fanfare; you go on a semi-decent Tinder date on Saturday, but your heart’s not in it. Brad is a nice enough guy, but he spends the entire date talking about himself and his venture into cryptocurrency. As the night progresses his intentions of going home with you become more and more clear.

You split the bill and go home, alone. Tinder gets deleted for the time being.

Tuesday rolls around and it’s so busy you hardly have time to get home and change. Marcus texts you to say that he’ll pick you up which is a huge relief.

You still don’t have time to change, but you’re able to drop off your lunch bag and your work stuff, trading it in for your purse and a heavier jacket. Autumn has well and truly settled in.

Marcus is right on time, waiting for you when you come down at quarter to six. He’s still in his FBI get-up, tie and everything.

“Busy day for you, too?” you ask.

“Huh?” Marcus looks down at what he’s wearing, as if he’s forgotten. “Oh, yeah. New case, looks like it’ll be a doozy from the details we have so far.”

He merges into traffic and you talk about your weekends. Marcus is less chatty than he normally is. “Is everything okay, Marcus?” you ask. “You seem quiet tonight. Did you not have a good day?”

Marcus shakes his head. “I’m fine. Just thinking.” He takes the next exit, not the usual way to the diner that you usually go to with him. At your look of confusion, he says, “We’re going somewhere different tonight.”

Somewhere different ends up being a higher-scale restaurant than you’re used to going to with him. “This is fancy,” you comment as you step into the restaurant. It’s dimly lit with candlelit tables and twinkly lights on the ceiling.

“Can I help you, sir?” asks the hostess.

“I have a reservation under Pike,” Marcus tells the young woman. She taps a few buttons on the tablet at her station before ushering you and Marcus to your table.

After taking your coat off and putting it on the back of your chair, you look at the menu as the waiter tells you the daily specials and soup of the day and pours you two glasses of water.

“This is really fancy, Marcus. Did you get a promotion?”

Marcus looks nervous but determined. “No. No promotion.”

“Then why—?”

He’s fiddling with something under the table. “I thought a lot about what we talked about on Thursday night when you were at my place. About your predicament and how the only feasible way you could stay.”

The waiter returns with a basket of bread. “Can I interest you two in a wine menu?”

Marcus nods. “Yes, please.”

A wine menu is pulled out from the waiter’s apron. “Do you need a minute to peruse the wine menu?”

“No, thank you. We’ll have a bottle of this one.” Marcus points to a vintage red halfway down the list. One of your favourites.

Taking the wine menu back, the waiter nods. “Very good.”

The two of you are left alone again for a few minutes. “You were thinking about what happened on Thursday?” you prompt.

Marcus nods. “Yeah. I thought about it a lot. As soon as you left, I knew what the answer to your problem was. That’s why I went to Texas. I needed to get something from Dad.”

Your heart leaps into your throat. “What’s the answer?” you ask.

“Marry me.”

You don’t have time to react because at that moment the wine is delivered to your table and you take that moment to order your meals as well. Marcus tells you that you can order anything you like. He’s paying and won’t hear any arguments.

The appetizers are brought out and you finally have a moment without interruptions. “I don’t think I heard you correctly, Marcus.”

“You heard me just fine, honey.”

Your face goes warm and you are absolutely blaming it on the wine that you’ve only had one sip of. “Marcus, you don’t want to marry me,” you argue.

“Yes, I do,” he counters.

“I know you, Marcus. You want the real deal. Something that’s real and true and—and, you know, not a scam?” You lower your voice so no one can overhear you.

Marcus isn’t swayed. “You know that I’ve been married once and engaged another time. You know that I’m a romantic who wants to sweep a woman off her feet. I also know that I’m impulsive — something that I’m working on with my therapist — and I think with my heart instead of my head sometimes when it comes to things like that.”

“Exactly, Marcus. You deserve something that is true. I don’t think you’re going to get that by marrying me–”

He’s still not finished. “All of that is true. But I can’t think of anything better to do than to help my friend, someone I care for very much. I thought a lot about it and I want to do this for you. With you. You should be fake-married to someone who cares about you, someone that you know and care about.”

You refuse to cry at this gesture. “What about your job?” you ask. “If it gets out somehow that you helped commit fraud with me so that I can get my citizenship, you could not only lose your job, but go to jail. You’re a federal agent.”

Marcus shrugs. “I understand the risks. I want to help you. Plus, I like being engaged,” he jokes, trying to lighten the mood. “So, will you,” he pulls a small black velvet box out from under the table, the one that he was fiddling with, says your name, “marry me?”

You have to admit that it’s the best option you have at the moment. You love Marcus and you are genuinely moved by what he’s doing to help you. Marcus is, in your opinion, husband material through and through. You don’t really have any other answer. “Yes. I will marry you, Marcus.”

- - - -

You know it’s not going to be a real marriage, that you’re only doing this so that you can stay in the States. Still, you can’t help but be over the moon at the prospect of marrying Marcus. He’s assured you multiple times that he’s okay with doing this and that he wants to do this with you.

There are absolutely going to be ground rules. Like who to tell and what to tell them. Only Lily and Nikki know that you need to do this so you give them firm instructions the next night to use their discretion and ask that if they are interviewed by immigration officers that they play it that you and Marcus are in love.

Something that isn’t a stretch for you.

Marcus thinks that you should move in with him into his condo before your courthouse wedding that’s scheduled three weeks from now. It was the earliest the two of you could get. You agree, especially since your lease is coming up for renewal soon. You tell your landlord early that you’re not renewing the lease and that you’re moving out. She doesn’t care, only glad that she is able to increase the rent for the next tenant.

It doesn’t take long to move your things into Marcus’s place. For the time being, you’re going to sleep in the guest room.

The plan is to stay married until you’ve had your citizenship for nine months and then you’re going to file for divorce. Marcus doesn’t seem worried about it affecting your friendship. This is a favour he’s doing you. A very, very big favour.

You end up telling your mother a slightly modified version of events. You’re having trouble with your work visa so Marcus is helping you out. “How is he helping you?” she asks.

“He’s offered to… sponsor my visa,” you settle on.

“That’s so nice of him to do.” She pauses. “Hang on. I thought only spouses or partners could do that?”

Your silence is worth a million words.

Your mom says your full name. “Marrying Marcus? So you can stay there?”

“It was his idea,” you say. “And it’s very generous of him.”

Your mother sighs. “It is, honey. But I’ve seen that show, 90 Day Fiance. It never works out.”

“I know, but that’s a show. This is real life. I know Marcus. I… care about him. And he cares about me. We’re going to make it work.” You won’t tell her that you’re getting a divorce as soon as you’re able to and it no longer looks suspect.

“I just wish I could be there for the wedding, sweetheart.”

You sigh. “I know, Mom. But as soon as we are able to, we’ll hold a reception.”

Settling in at Marcus’s place is easier than you thought it would be. He’s easy to be around. Your schedules are similar enough that you have breakfast and dinner together most nights. Not much has changed since he proposed to you.

Marcus has always been affectionate with the people he cares about. He only increases it a little bit. Holding your hand, kissing your cheek or your forehead. It’s easy. Simple. You like it.

There’s a lot of things that you like—love, even—about this arrangement.

You’ve had your visa extended by another ninety days since informing the correct people about your impending nuptials. Your application process has been expedited as well: Marcus denies having involvement, but you’re sure you remember him mentioning having a buddy in immigration and you’re convinced that Marcus called in a few favours. Usually it takes at least a year, but your caseworker informed you it should take no longer than six months. Marcus still blushes when you kiss him on the cheek when you find out the process will be accelerated.

“Doesn’t it bother you that you won’t be able to date or flirt with anyone?” you ask one night about a week before your wedding.

Marcus frowns. “No? In case you couldn’t tell, I wasn’t drowning in dating opportunities before we decided to do this.” He pauses. “I kind of… I don’t know, scare people off.”

You squeeze his hand. “It’s their loss, Marcus.”

He smiles ruefully. “I know I can come on too strong sometimes. It’s something that I’m working on.” The two of you sit in silence for a minute. He looks at you after a minute, a playful look in his eye. “Why? Are you bothered that you’ll be missing out on dating?”

You chortle. “Please. Like I was doing so well for myself before this.”

Marcus taps your knee with his free hand. “What a pair we make.”

Another minute goes by. “Marcus? You don’t scare me.”

- - - -

The day of your wedding dawns. You never anticipated having a November wedding, but then again, you never anticipated having this type of wedding either.

You and Marcus have breakfast together in his nook. It’s oddly domestic and you can’t quite pinpoint why. He woke up early and made pancakes and bacon and eggs. “We can’t get married on an empty stomach,” he explains as he sets your coffee mug in front of you.

You twist the engagement ring around and around in the car ride over. You’re wearing the nicest dress you have; Marcus is wearing one of his nicer suits. “This is what I was going to wear to the engagement party I was going to have with Teresa. Now, I mostly wear it for the few times I’m needed to testify in a hearing,” he told you when you discussed what the wardrobe for today would be.

You have no one to give you away, so Marcus’s dad, here to be one of the witnesses along with his wife, offers to give you away. It’s a sweet gesture. You’ve always liked Jeremy Pike, so you’re lucky to be his fake daughter-in-law.

Marcus’s step-mom, Rachel, takes pictures. As you’re walking up the aisle, you’re trembling. “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” Jeremy murmurs so that only you can hear. “You’re in good hands with my son.” You don’t know how much Jeremy Pike knows, but he’s right. You couldn’t have chosen a better husband, even if it is a fraudulent one. You catch Marcus’s soft brown eyes and the look on his face calms your jittery nerves. Taking a deep breath, you make it to where Marcus is waiting with the justice of the peace.

“You look beautiful,” Marcus whispers to you, his lips right at your ear. Your breath catches at the contact and also at the compliment. It’s not a real marriage, you remind yourself. You and Marcus, while about to become husband and wife, are not going to have a traditional husband-and-wife relationship outside of what is necessary to get you your citizenship. Nothing is changing except your relationship status. It doesn’t have to change. He doesn’t want it to. Otherwise, he would have said so.

But, says a little voice in your head, that doesn’t mean that things won’t change.

Having no idea where that thought came from, you take Marcus’s hand in yours and face the justice of the peace. His hand is strong in yours, but gentle. Always a steady hand to hold at any time, including and especially now. This is not brand new information, but it’s something that grounds you in this moment. The ceremony is not long. The justice of the peace says some words, has you and Marcus make your vows, exchange the rings (courtesy of Marcus’s grandparents), and sign the documents. It’s quick. No-fuss and to the point.

“By the power vested in me by the District of Columbia, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may now kiss each other.”

You don’t catch Marcus’s expression before his lips touch yours but Rachel is quick with her camera, taking a few pictures before, during, and after your kiss. You’ve never kissed Marcus on the lips. On the cheek, yes. You’ve also received forehead kisses from Marcus over the years, but this is a first for you. His lips are soft on yours. It’s a gentle kiss, just a peck more than anything else. You want more. It makes you feel warm, good.

Marcus rests his forehead against yours for a few seconds. He’s smiling, you’re smiling. You’re married. To the man that you love. Only problem is, it’s not a real marriage and will be over before it starts.

Jeremy and Rachel take you and Marcus out for lunch. You and Marcus have the day off and the next few days. You are not going to do anything out of the usual, but you’re going to spend more time together. Get into the pattern of being husband and wife.

When you and Marcus return home that evening, you make dinner together. Sit together at the dining room table and talk about whatever comes to mind. After doing the dishes together (Marcus washes, you dry), you sit on the couch and watch a Nicolas Cage movie on Netflix. It’s easy, comfortable. You snuggle in under the blankie that he’s had for years, the really warm one, and he puts his arm around you, holding you close to him.

Once the movie is over, you say goodnight and go to your separate rooms for bed.

- - - -

Two weeks later, you receive a notification from the immigration department, saying to expect the first of four visits from an officer soon.

“I guess this ends our sleeping in different beds,” says Marcus. The plan is to start sleeping in the same bed, Marcus’s bed, closer to when the officer comes so that it looks less conspicuous and so that you are totally comfortable with each other. That afternoon when you get home from work (Marcus is working late on a case), you return the guest bedroom to its original state and move all of your stuff into Marcus’s bedroom. All of your clothes fit in well with his in the dresser and the closet; it looks like Marcus already made room for your stuff.

You decide to become more affectionate with Marcus. Not that you weren’t already affectionate, but in a way so that it doesn’t seem so scripted when your case worker arrives in a few weeks.

Setting a framed picture of yourself and Marcus on the dresser, you go to make dinner and let your mind wander. Marcus arrives home just as you’re setting dinner in the oven. Pressing pause on Broken Bells, you greet him at the door. “Hey,” you say, drawing him in for a hug and a peck on the lips.

Marcus is surprised. The hug he’s used to, since you always greet him with that, but the kiss takes him off-guard. “Hey to you, too. What was that for?”

“Oh, um, I thought, since the case reviewer is coming soon, we should be more comfortable with each other and physical affection,” you explain.

Marcus tries to hide his disappointment. A part of him hoped that he was doing this because you are starting to reciprocate his feelings. But of course, it’s for the sake of authenticity. “Right. Yeah. That makes sense,” he replies, swallowing down his disappointment. “But I think we need more practice than just that,” he teases.

Your eyes twinkle. “I think that’s reasonable.”

Marcus kisses you again and you nearly float away, forgetting for a second that this is only for the purpose of appearances; he makes it feel so real. “How was your day?” you ask.

“Long. Do I have time to shower before dinner?” he asks.

You point at the timer on the oven. “Lots. Take your time.”

Half an hour later, Marcus freshly showered and in a grey sweatshirt and some pajama pants, you sit down for dinner. He looks cozy. “I should have helped you with dinner. I’m sorry,” he apologizes as you set his plate in front of him.

You kiss his cheek. “It’s fine. I like doing this sort of thing. And you had a long day at work.”

Marcus digs into his meal. “How was your day?” he asks.

After dinner, Marcus helps you with tidy-up despite your protestations that he should sit down. You can tell that he’s exhausted. “I want to help,” he argues, brooking no denial. So the two of you wash the dishes in companionable silence. It’s nice. You wash and he dries.

“Can I?” Marcus asks, gesturing to your face.

“Huh?” Marcus reaches out and wipes soap suds from your cheek, wiping them from his hand with the dish towel. Your face flushes warm. “Oh. Thanks,” you say.

“You’re welcome.” And then he kisses you again. This one doesn’t feel staged or scripted, like it’s for the purpose of appearances and fooling the right people. This one feels like he wants to kiss you. That he’s doing it simply for the sake of kissing you. It could be for practice, but you don’t think so. His lips are soft against yours. Gentle but with a hint of neediness. Perhaps the neediness is yours? You can’t tell. His stubble tickles at your skin in the best possible way. The dish towel falls from his hand as he brings both his hands to rest at your waist. Yours grasp at the fabric of his FBI shirt.

After about half a minute of kissing like this, Marcus pulls away. His cheeks are flushed pink, his eyes are still closed. You have a hard time reading his expression, even when his eyes open. The question of “why did you kiss me?” is on your tongue, ready to be asked. But you find that you don’t want to hear the answer if it is what you fear. And you don’t want to shake this feeling that his kiss has given you.

You feel warm and cherished and you want to do that again. Not for the sake of the charade. Just because. You’re just friends with him. You just happen to be married to him as well. But friends don’t kiss their friends the way you were kissing him just now, even if it is just for show.

Uh-oh. You’re in trouble.

When it comes time for bed, you get into your jammies as Marcus is brushing his teeth in the ensuite bathroom. You know what side of the bed is his, so you take the other side, reading a book as he finishes getting ready for bed.

You’re both adults. Who happen to be married to each other. You can share a bed with your husband. You are not going to overthink this at all. Just like how you’re not currently overthinking the kiss from earlier.

Marcus comes out from the bathroom as you’re finishing your chapter. You mark your page, put the book on the night table and look up at him. He looks…nervous? Good to know you’re not the only one who’s overthinking all of this.

After a second’s hesitation, Marcus gets into bed. “If this isn’t okay I can go to the guest room or the couch or—”

“Shut up, Marcus. We’re both adults. We’re married for chrissakes. It’s just sharing a bed. Just sleeping.” You sound more sure of yourself than you feel, but it must work since Marcus, after another minute of deliberation, gets into the bed.

It’s late, you’re both tired. Marcus sets his alarm for tomorrow morning, plugs in his phone and switches his bedside lamp off. You follow suit and you’re plunged into darkness. “Is this okay?” he asks after a minute.

“Yep,” you reply. “Goodnight.”

“Sleep well, honey.”

It takes a few minutes of getting used to, but the bed is so warm and comfy. It feels slept in unlike the bed in the guest bedroom. In the darkness, the only light coming from the clock radio’s time display, you can see Marcus’s sleeping silhouette. He’s a side sleeper, currently facing you.

You can do this. You can pull off being fake married to him. You can sleep in the same bed as your husband.

With that, you fall asleep.

- - - -

When you wake up the next morning, the light is dim. You can hear rain on the windows. You’re warm and feel like you’re cocooned. You’re on your side, facing the wall in the opposite direction of Marcus’s side of the bed. The thick duvet is warm and plush, but that’s not the primary source of your warmth. As you wake up, you realize that your back is pressed up to something firm. Something that feels suspiciously like Marcus’s chest. Marcus is still sound asleep. His arms are locked around your waist.

Oh. You ignore the thought of how easily and quickly you could get used to this. All of it, really. The way his legs are tangled with yours right now. The way he cares. How easy it was to fall into a routine with him. If this wasn’t fake, you could see a life with Marcus Pike like this. How easy it would be—how easy it is— to love and be married to Marcus Pike for real.

With that sobering thought, you wrangle free from his hold, gentle enough that he doesn’t wake. He snuffles in his sleep and rolls over. You grab a towel from the walk-in closet and go to the bathroom for a shower. There’s not a lot of time until Marcus’s alarm goes off. You’re quick, knowing that Marcus will need to use the bathroom soon. You’re just finishing up when his alarm goes off.

He’s bleary-eyed when you come out from the ensuite bathroom dressed and ready for the day. “Morning,” you say.

Marcus’s voice is sleepy. “Morning, sweetheart.” He’s rumpled and he has a major bedhead. You resist the urge to run your fingers through his soft-looking brown locks. “Did you sleep well?” he asks.

It was the best sleep you’ve gotten in ages. You nod. “Mmm-hmmm.”

Marcus yawns and stretches. The bedclothes are around his waist. As he stretches, his shirt rises up, showing off a sliver of tummy. You avert your gaze before you stare for too long. Get it together, you tell yourself.

“Um… I’m done in the bathroom if you need to use it,” you say awkwardly.

Marcus nods and he gets up from bed. If you’re not careful, you could get used to this a bit too much.

After he’s showered, he comes into the kitchen where you’re making toast for yourself. “Let me drive you to work today,” he offers as you hand him a mug of coffee, made just the way he likes it. “Thank you,” he adds, kissing your cheek before taking a sip. You somehow make his coffee better than he does.

“Aren’t you going to be busy with the case? From the sounds of it you’ve got your hands full with it and I don’t want to take you away from your work if I don’t have to.” The idea is tempting, but you’d feel guilty if his work was slowed down because of you.

Marcus is unconcerned. “Nah. Most of what needs doing today is filing evidence and paperwork. And you don’t take me away from anything,” he assures you.

He’s just saying that to be nice, but it makes you feel better about it all the same. “All right, if you’re sure.”

It’s raining, which brings a dampness to the already cold November air, so you’re glad for the lift. Your car is a bit of a lemon, especially when it comes to heating. Meanwhile, Marcus’s FBI-issued SUV is relatively new and has almost, if not all, the bells and whistles; it makes for a warm ride over to the museum. He drops you off as close to the front door of the Smithsonian as possible. You clutch an umbrella in one hand, your purse in the other, hood already up. “Have a good day, sweetheart. I’ll see you later,” says Marcus.

“You too, Marcus.” Your hand is on the door handle, ready to get out, but something makes you turn back to face him. He has that tender look on his face and he leans in. You meet him in the middle.

It’s a quick, almost chaste kiss. If your hands weren’t full, you’d cup his cheek. He’s really committing to the bit.

“I’ll see you later,” you whisper when you force yourself to pull away. “Thanks for the lift.”

On your lunch, you get a phone call from the case worker for your immigration. There’s an opening in his schedule to bump up your preliminary meeting and subsequent meetings if that’s convenient for you and Marcus. “Um, sure. I think that we can get things organized for that as far as work goes. When are you thinking?” you ask.

“November 24. I know it’s only a few days from now and I apologize for the short notice. I can send a letter to your bosses if need be.”

Today is November 21. That only gives you two days, not counting today, to get ready. You clear your throat. “I–I think that can be manageable.”

The case worker—John, you think his name is—confirms it with you, gives you a window of time when to expect him and what to expect. “It’s just a preliminary meeting. Some basic questions and whatnot. Nothing to be worried about.”

Right. You thank him and call Marcus immediately after hanging up.

“Do you think you can get out of work on Thursday? I just got a call from the immigration agent. Says he has an opening for our preliminary meeting.”

Marcus pauses for a minute. “I think so. Yes. Let me just move some things around, re-assign some things and I should be good.”

“Okay. Thanks. How’s work today?” you ask.

He chuckles. “It’s fine. How about you?”

And that’s what starts your daily lunchtime phone calls with your husband. When he picks you up a few hours later, you’re chilled to the bone, both from the damp, cold day and the icy cold wind, as well as from working in the temperature controlled basement. Stepping into his car and into his world, warms you right up. Setting down your purse and wet umbrella, you greet him, cupping his cheek this time when he kisses you hello.

A savoury scent from the backseat greets you as well once Marcus sets the SUV into drive. “I picked up dinner on the way over. I don’t know about you, but I don’t feel like cooking and I just want to get under the blankets on the couch.”

It’s like he read your mind.

- - - -

“I think I’m in love with my wife.” Marcus sits back on the plush couch at his therapist’s office the next day after dropping you off at work again.

His therapist, Dr. Kate Solana, frowns. “You think you are?” she asks, pushing a lock of brown hair behind her ear. She’s a younger therapist than Marcus would have originally envisioned having for himself; he’s certain she’s younger than him. The first session, he thought that she looked more like a fitness instructor than a therapist. But she’s good at what she does. She’s helped Marcus change some of his ways of interacting with people for the better.

Marcus sighs. “You know why I married her.”

Dr. Solana nods. “Yes. To help her. But you were friends with her before marrying her.”

“Best friends,” Marcus clarifies.

Dr. Solana looks at her notes. “You said that you had an agreement that you would stay married until it no longer looked suspicious. Are you having second thoughts?” she asks.

He hesitates for a minute, thinking about his answer. “Not really? I’m still committed to the act. I just don’t think I can call it an act anymore. At least on my part.”

The therapist nods, contemplative. “What exactly is the problem?” she asks, taking a sip of her coffee.

Marcus opens his mouth to speak and then closes it again after a minute. Still thinking of how to answer. “I know that I’m… too much sometimes. I come on too intensely.” He says it as a fact. He knows it’s true, knows it’s why his past relationships have failed. Why he’s had a failed marriage and a broken engagement. He can feel himself coming on too strongly with you, even if you think it’s for the purposes of acting natural when the immigration officer arrives on Thursday. It isn’t an act for him; he doesn’t think it ever has been. Dr. Solana doesn’t say anything, allowing him to think out loud and verbalize his feelings and his thoughts. “I don’t want that to happen with my wife. I don’t want to scare her off. I made an agreement with her and I intend to keep that promise. I’m just not sure how I’ll take it when it comes time to file for divorce. I thought, stupidly perhaps, that I could do it. That I could just pretend, but I can’t pretend. It’s never been pretend with her.”

There’s a long pause. “Are you saying that you want to tell her how you feel or…?”

Marcus sighs. “I don’t know how I could. She thinks it’s pretend. It’s an act for her. Surely it is. My wife is a person who takes what she wants. She would have told me how she felt already, wouldn’t she?” He shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

Dr. Solana waits a couple of seconds before she speaks. “The foundation for every relationship, romantic or otherwise, is communication and honesty. You can’t have trust without open, honest communication. My advice to you? Tell her how you really feel. It doesn’t have to be with some grand gesture or anything like that. It can be as simple as sitting her down and telling her that you have genuine feelings for her. Do you worry that she will reject you?”

“If she turns me down, the thing I would worry about the most is that we wouldn’t be friends anymore. Above all, what I want is for her to be in my life, in any capacity,” Marcus admits. And it’s in that moment that he knows that he truly loves you.

“Tell her that. Tell her the truth. It will only make things that much harder if you don’t. She might surprise you and feel the same way. It could be that she’s not telling you how she feels because she’s worried you’re just pretending.”

Marcus opens and shuts his mouth again. He hadn’t thought about it like that before.

The rest of the day goes by without any significance. He picks you up at five. Dr. Solana’s words of advice echo in his ears all day. He’s not going to tell you right now. Not with the immigration officer coming the day after tomorrow. Marcus knows you have a lot on your plate with that. He doesn’t want to add to the worry that you have.

He’ll tell you when the meetings with immigration are about to begin in just over twenty-four hours. He knows it’s prolonging everything, but he could see a life with you. Beyond just a green-card marriage. Marcus would do it again for you if asked. He’d do pretty much anything you ask him. Above all, he just wants you to be happy.

You lean your head on his shoulder. “What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?” you ask, cutting through his ruminations.

“Huh?” Marcus blinks. “Just thinking, that’s all.”

Removing your head from his shoulder, you look at him. “Everything okay?”

Marcus smiles at you. Kisses your forehead. “Everything’s fine. Just a bit of a long day.”

It’s not a lie. He is fine. He did have a long day. He just hasn’t told you that he’s in love with you.

“You missed.”

He blinks. “What?” he asks.

“You missed,” you repeat, as if that clarifies things.

Marcus is about to ask what you mean when you press your lips to his. This one somehow feels different to the other kisses you’ve exchanged. Like you’re not pretending. Like you are kissing him for the sake of kissing him. It takes a few seconds for Marcus’s brain to catch up, for his lips to respond to yours.

Your husband can kiss. This isn’t one of those tender kisses, not one of those chaste ones. No, this one has heat and passion. His teeth graze your lips at one point, nibbling at them as he continues to kiss you. By the time you’ve broken apart for air, you’re practically sitting in his lap.

Letting out a bit of a shaky, breathy laugh, you joke, “We’re getting pretty good at this.”

Marcus’s grin is this side of devilish. “I think we need more practice.” And he kisses you again.

- - - -

Thursday morning dawns blearily. It’s cloudy and overcast, the sun refusing to come out from its grey shroud.

The condo is in tip-top shape. It looks lived in by both you and Marcus, like this is your home that you’ve shared for longer than three weeks. The case worker is arriving just before ten. Your nerves are on high alert.

Something’s changed with Marcus in the last few days. He’s still the same Marcus, but he seems more into committing to this act. You never knew he was such a good actor before this. Which doesn’t make sense. You’ve seen him act surprised at birthdays and such and he never gave off this Oscar worthy performance. This is a man who is an open book. Maybe he’s committed to this act because he knows that you have a lot to lose if the act isn’t bought.

It’s a bit heartbreaking you have to admit, knowing that this is all an act on his part. You’ve hoped that he would take the bait and realize that it isn’t an act for you. And maybe it never has been. You nearly broke down at girl’s night last night, lamenting to Nikki and Lily that your fake marriage is more real than you ever thought it would be, that you’re in love with your husband and he’s only pretending to be in love with you for the sake of your green card.

It’s a kindness he’s done for you, helping you obtain your green card like this. But you want it to be real so badly. You don’t want to get a divorce, but you know that Marcus will want one so he can be with someone he wants to be with.

“Just have sex with him!” suggested Nikki the night before. “That’ll definitely give him the hint that you want this to be a real marriage!”

You’d shaken your head. “No. That’s playing dirty, I feel like. Marcus, while he does deserve a good lay, needs to be told in an honest, upfront way. I just thought that he would not be so slow on the uptake, you know?” You sighed. “Maybe he doesn’t feel the way I thought he did. Maybe he’s just doing this so committed to better sell the story.”

Lily and Nikki both protested. They both argued that you just need to tell Marcus how you feel. “You always go after what you want. It’s a trait that I really admire in you. But I’m really confused as to why you’re not going after Marcus. Why you’re not telling him how you really feel and hiding behind this charade,” Lily said, not in an unkind way.

You’d taken a big, fortifying sip of your long island iced tea. “I’m just… scared,” you admitted. “I’m scared that I’m wrong about how he feels and that it’ll end the entire relationship, including our friendship.”

Nikki had placed her hand on yours, Lily following suit. “Or, he could feel the same way. And maybe he’s not telling you or taking the bait because he has the same worries that you’re having.”

When you’d arrived home later that night, Marcus was already in bed, reading a book. You’d quickly gotten ready for bed and curled up next to him, still slightly buzzed from your drink. Marcus kissed you on the forehead gently and tucked in next to you.

The buzzer distracts you from your reverie. “Ready?” asks Marcus.

You nod wordlessly.

Places, everyone.

The agent knocks on the door a few minutes later. You take Marcus’s hand in yours. Not so much for the act, but for reassurance. He twines your fingers together and offers a nod of encouragement before he opens the door.

“Agent Pike, Mrs. Pike, hello.” It’s the first time someone has referred to you as Mrs. Pike. You like it. “I’m John Turner, and I’m your assigned immigration officer.”

You and Marcus welcome him into the condo. You take agent Turner’s coat as Marcus offers him something to drink.

When you rejoin them, Turner is taking in the condo, a watchful, studious eye observing, trying to see if anything is amiss. There’s a folder tucked under his arm, presumably with your case information.

Marcus carries a tray into the living room with two cups of coffee for you and him and a glass of water for Agent Turner.

“So first things first,” says Turner as he sits on the chair opposite the love seat that you and Marcus sit down on, your entwined hands resting on your knee. “This isn’t an interrogation. Neither of you are in any sort of trouble. This is all standard stuff. Just to make sure everything’s accurate and as it should be so that you can get your citizenship. This is just the preliminary meeting. There will be an additional two meetings after this one, plus some discussion with the references you’ve provided,” he explains.

You nod. “Thanks so much for speeding up this process for us. It saves us both so much needless anxiety.”

“Of course. Shall we get to it?”

The questions start out basic. Full names, countries of origin, birthdates. Easy.

“When did the two of you start seeing each other?“ asks Agent Turner.

Marcus answers this question. “Five months ago.”

The immigration agent raises an eyebrow. “You got married after dating for four and a half months?”

You take this one. “Yes. We were going to wait to get married, but then I got the news about my visa expiring sooner than I thought and neither of us wanted to wait,” you explain. “And when you know, you know.” You look at Marcus affectionately. “I think I knew pretty early on.”

Marcus returns the smile. “I’ve been married and engaged before. It never felt the way it feels with her. There’s a clarity with her that didn’t exist with my ex-wife and ex-fiancée. I just want her to be happy, I would have gladly gone to Canada with her and joined the Canadian equivalent of the FBI if it meant I could be with her.”

You nod. “I know how it looks, Agent Turner. But I’m married to Marcus because I love him and didn’t want to be separated from him. It was his idea to get married so he could sponsor my citizenship application. My job is contract based and not permanent, so my boss couldn’t sponsor it. Being married to the man I love was the top priority. Him sponsoring my visa and citizenship is just an added benefit.”

Agent Turner scribbles down all that you are saying, his phone also recording everything that is being said. “I see. And what are your plans should you be accepted? Likewise if your application is rejected?”

You think for a second. “If I’m accepted and receive citizenship, I’ll continue what I’m doing now. Stay married to Marcus, do my work as an art restorer. If I’m rejected, I’ll go back to Canada.”

“With me,” adds Marcus. He doesn’t need to add more; you’d discussed it this morning, that his answer to this question would be simple and to the point. He feels the need to continue, however. “Truthfully, agent, I’d go anywhere if it meant being with her. She’s one of the best parts of my life. I can’t imagine a life without her. She makes me so happy and I love her more than I have loved anyone else. It feels like I have known her for years. To know her is to love her. And if she’s deported, there’s nothing that would stop me from following her to Canada. Yes, part of why I married her is so that she can stay here, her life is here now. But I married her because I wanted to. I love her. I want to spend my life with her.”

Your heart is about to burst with emotion and love for Marcus. He didn’t have to say all that. You just wish it was true.

All the same, you add, “Being married to Marcus is something that is just so wonderful. I’ve loved him for a long time. We’ve been friends for years, but being his wife is just so much sweeter because of it. I’m married to my best friend. He’s the love of my life and I’m just so lucky that I have him as my husband. He talked about how he would follow me anywhere to be with me and it’s the same for me. I’d go with him anywhere if it meant being together. Home is wherever he is.” You look at Marcus, the emotional look on your face hopefully saying everything that you can’t put into words.

Just because Marcus probably didn’t fully mean what he said, doesn’t mean you can’t mean what you say.

- - - -

The rest of the meeting goes smoothly. He’s there for about an hour total. When he leaves, your shoulders immediately relax; while Marcus was a calming influence during the meeting, you couldn’t help but be nervous and tense.

Marcus makes lunch in silence. You watch his back as he makes some sandwiches, the movement of his back muscles beneath his dress shirt. You can’t take it anymore. “Why did you say those things?” you ask.

Marcus turns, butter knife paused in midair between the bread and the jar of mayonnaise. “What things?” he asks.

“The things about following me anywhere and all that.”

Marcus pauses, his heart in his throat. “I said those things…” He takes a breath, sees you watching him intently. “I said those things because they are true.”

You gasp softly. “You did?”

He nods. “I did. I’m in love with you, I think I have been for a while. It just took a while for me to catch up.”

Your eyes narrow. “Is that why you offered to marry me?”

“Not entirely. I didn’t want you to get married to someone you didn’t know or like. My intentions were always platonic. But then… I don’t know. My heart and my brain caught up with each other. But I was just so worried that you didn’t feel the same. That this was still just an act for you.”

It takes a full sixty seconds to process what he’s said. Something finally clicks in your mind. And then you burst into laughter. At Marcus’s confused look, you explain, “I’m sorry, I’m not laughing at you. I thought the same thing. Because here’s the thing. I’m in love with you. And I was worried that you were just committed to the bit.”

Marcus’s look turns from confusion to realization. “You love me?” He’s still in a bit of disbelief. “All this time I thought you were committed to the act, but you’ve been trying to show me that you want more.”

You nod, realizing the same thing about Marcus’s actions. “So, we’ve both been thinking that the other is under the impression that this was still an act when we’ve both wanted more?” you surmise.

Marcus chuckles. “That’s about the long and short of it, yeah.”

“God, we’re a bunch of obtuse idiots,” you quip before closing the ever shorter gap between you and Marcus. The contact between your mouths is instant and electric. The butter knife that Marcus was still grasping clatters to the floor as he greedily kisses you, his arms wrapping around you, wanting you—needing you—closer to him. He takes you into his arms, his lips never far, and hoists you up onto the counter, your legs wrapping around his waist as you make out with him, sensual and sloppy and greedy. Your lipstick has transferred some to his lips. He doesn’t care. “Christ, honey, I’ve wanted you so bad for so long.”

You nod. “Me, too,” you gasp out. Marcus is pressed up enough against you that you can feel just how much he wants you, the effect you have on him. “I think we’ve waited long enough. I think it’s time we consummate this marriage. Make it real.”

Marcus doesn’t need to be told twice. Helping you down from the countertop, he leads you to the bedroom. (“As much as I want to fuck you on every surface in this house, our first time should be in our bed, honey,” he explains.)

He has you spread out on the bed. His shirt has been shucked off, his pants strewn across the room. You’ve seen him in just his swimsuit before, but in this context? Totally different. You’re practically salivating over the sight of your husband—your husband—like this, looking at you the way he is. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, brushing kisses into every inch of skin he exposes as he helps you out of your sweater dress and leggings. “So fucking beautiful.” He kisses you on the lips with a toe-curling kiss. You haven’t even done that much yet and he already has you desperate. You grapple at his shoulders, sighing into the kiss.

“I love you,” you say in between kisses. “I love you.”

He kisses down your chest, taking extra time at the spot where your neck meets your chest, your breasts. His fingers toy with the hemline of your panties. You whine as he presses a kiss right above them. “I love you.”

The last layer of your clothing gone, Marcus goes straight to work, making you even more desperate. He’s generous and he’s methodical. He’s a giver.

It’s not very long before your husband has you reaching your first peak. Your fingers, which are twisted in his soft brown hair, tighten and he groans in pleasure. Satisfied with himself, he presses his lips to yours. “I love you.”

He doesn’t give you much time to recover, just enough time to grab a condom from the night table drawer. You are clean and on the pill but you’re still beyond words to tell him that. Next time.

Before you have fully processed what is happening, Marcus has buried himself inside you, inch by inch. He gives you a second to adjust (your latent suspicions about his size confirmed) and then he moves. “Marcus, oh my God,” you gasp, your voice reedy with need.

“T-take what you need,” he stutters, your hips snapping against his as you move together.

“You—you too,” you manage to stammer out.

Neither of you last long, all of the pent up feelings quickly coming to the surface. Your need for him supersedes everything else. Marcus stills and groans, kissing you through your collective high.

He’s still inside you as you both settle down. You kiss his shoulder, his neck then pull back, still breathless. “Why the hell did we wait so long to do that?” you ask once you’ve caught your breath a little.

Marcus shakes his head. “I have no idea. But we’re going to make up for missing out on it for so long. I promise, Mrs. Pike.” His eyes twinkle and you can see how happy he is to be able to call you that.

“I’ll hold you to that, Mr. Pike.” You kiss the tip of his nose.

Lunch goes forgotten until you stumble out of the bedroom a few rounds later to get something to eat and drink.

- - - -

Two years later…

“Honey, are we getting a divorce this year?” Marcus asks as he nips at your neck from behind you.

You reach back to touch his face. “Mmmm… I don’t think so. I’m too used to being married to you now. Maybe next year.”

Marcus spins you so that you’re facing him. He’s still warm and sweaty from what you were just doing a few minutes ago. “Mmmm…” he growls before capturing your lips in a hungry kiss. “Me too.”

It isn’t long before you’re on top of him again; he’s still inside you so not much effort is needed. It’s been two years of absolute bliss. The rest of your application process went smoothly and it didn’t take long until you had received full citizenship (you and Marcus had been otherwise occupied when the phone call came). You took the last citizenship test needed and passed with flying colours.

Since then, you’ve left the Smithsonian and relocated to the Jeffersonian, acting as the official liaison to the FBI’s art department in a permanent position. Not long after receiving your green card, you and Marcus hosted a wedding reception where your mom finally got to meet your husband. It was there that Rachel finally gave you the wedding photos. The one she took of you and Marcus right before the kiss that made you husband and wife hangs in your bedroom, showing the mutual love and awe that you and Marcus share for each other long before either of you fully realized it.

Your honeymoon, taken a month after you received full citizenship, was nothing short of magical. Marcus took you to Mallorca and you spent two weeks soaking up the sun (that is, once you broke in the bed a few times together once you arrived at the villa you were renting).

You and Marcus are a team. A true husband and wife. Sure, you have problems every now and again, but it’s nothing that you can’t solve together. You’re a team, and nothing is hidden from each other, always on the same page as each other.

Divorce has become a running joke between you; it’s the last thing either of you wants. You’re happy together, you’re going to spend the rest of your lives together. He feels like home, he’s a steady, sturdy force in your life that you were missing up until marrying him. And you’re the same for him. You never thought it would end up this way, but you’re so glad and so lucky that it did. You are married to your best friend. Life can’t be sweeter than that.

The End

--- taglist in reblog.

#pedro pascal #marcus pike x reader #marcus pike x f!reader #the mentalist #the mentalist fanfiction #marcus pike #marcus pike fanfiction #my fic #my writing #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal character fanfiction

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softguarnere · 2 months

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Like A Girl (Like A Man)

Shifty Powers x OFC

Chapter 39 - Epilogue: Donadagohvi

Summary: She studies her husband’s face. It’s lined with age, but still as beautiful and as bright as the day she met him. A/N: Alright, y'all - we've made it! But before we get started, I've got some things I have to say. This fic was started during a very strange era. I hated what was going on in my life but didn't know how to fix any of it. Long story short, but I decided to run away one day, and ended up in Toccoa. While standing in the military museum there, I started thinking about Deborah Sampson (a childhood hero of mine), and wondered what would happen if a story like hers happened during WW2 - specifically, if she was a paratrooper. Thus, Zenie appeared in my brain, and this epilogue wrote itself in my mind as I went through the museum. I was never sure if I would share this fic until the second that I hit "post." Zenie was just a way for me to blow off steam, to escape - to fulfill my desire to be someone else for a bit. (Coincidentally, all themes throughout the fic.) I didn't know how people would respond to this story, or to this character, and I only ever had the courage to start uploading chapters because of friends like @latibvles and @liebgotts-lovergirl who showed enthusiasm for it. So I couldn't upload this chapter without a massive sgi (thank you) to them, as well as to everyone else who has read this fic and been so kind to it, and to me. Thank you for welcoming me into this fandom. Thank you for allowing me to share the Cherokee language with you. Thank you for all the support you've given me for both my writing, and as friends. Whether you knew it or not, all that kindness came at a time when I really needed it, and I appreciate you all. Without further ado, here's the last laglam update, in which the fic's title finally makes sense. Much love 💖 Warnings: language, alcohol Taglist: @latibvles @liebgotts-lovergirl @lady-cheeky @dcyllom @mads-weasley @ithinkabouttzu @mrs-murder-daddy @lieutenant-speirs

Eugene looks just the same as he did when Zenie first met him. So do all the other men on this side of the reunion. For her part, she also looks the way she did when she first met all of them – albeit like a girl rather than like a man. For now, her hair is long, and her chest unbound.

No one seems to have figured out why they all look young again, and it has only been mentioned in passing during the reunions. There are better things to do, like visit with those they can, and pass between the ones they left behind, feeling their hearts swell with love as they watch them laugh, watch them remember – watch them live.

Another thing that no one has figured out is why they seem able to come back to this world at certain times. David Webster says he once read that the veil between their worlds thins during certain times of the year, and that maybe this is true of the Easy Company reunions. Zenie, however, likes to believe that it’s the love of the people still living who allow them to come back. All that love with nowhere to go. Love so strong that remembering the people you felt it for brings them back.

No time to wonder now, though. Gene is already smiling at her in greeting.

“Hello again,” he greets as she joins him.

“Gene,” she teases him with an affectionate poke to his ribs. “You haven’t aged a day since I met you in forty-two!”

“Eh, I don’t know about that, Tommy Boy,” Luz’s confident drawl digresses as the radioman swaggers up beside her. “You look a little taller. What, did you finally hit puberty or something?”

Zenie rolls her eyes, but there’s no malice to it. She did, after all, keep him in the dark about her secret until her very last day in Europe. Instead of leading him on, she asks, “How does everyone look?”

“Us? The same as ever. Them? – “ Luz gestures towards the reunion that can’t see them. “ – Well, I guess they’re aging with grace.”

“Have you seen – “

“Bill and Babe are at the bar, as per usual. And your darling husband is somewhere around the middle.”

Zenie takes a step forward before turning quickly to face her friends. “Do y’all mind if I . . . ?”

Gene smiles. “Go ahead. That’s why we’re here.”

Grateful, Zenie takes off through the crowd. Visiting her friends like this is something she always looks forward to, but visiting those she left behind is a rarer treat, and she would like to check up on them. Especially Shifty.

Bill and Babe – to no one’s surprise – are the easiest to find. They’ve got the bartender in stitches with their jokes, and their own accented guffaws are like a lighthouse cutting through the crowd that makes them easy to navigate towards.

“Siyo, boys!” Though they can’t see or hear her, Zenie takes a seat beside them at the bar. “What’s new with y’all?”

“They’re drinking everyone under the table, as usual,” a familiar voice beside her announces as none other than Joe Toye takes a seat beside her. His expression is just as relaxed and confident as when they were young, but as he watches their living friends, something like longing flickers behind his eyes. “Too bad that we can’t show them who the real champs are anymore.”

“At least we can visit them.”

Joe nods, smiling sadly. “You made your rounds yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, we got time,” her friend assures her. They have nothing but time, actually. And they use it to sit with their friends, laughing along with their jokes and making their own, even though Bill and Babe can’t hear them.

As their jokes turn to remembrances, Zenie finds herself swept up in Babe’s retelling of the time she chucked an apple at Cobb’s head back in Holland. She barely remembers the scene, able to recall only a flash of anger and a split-second decision. Babe’s version is far better – he paints her out to be some sort of knight in shining armor coming to defend the honor of her friends.

Bill shakes his head and chuckles into his drink. “Goddamn. Zee sure could make a scene.”

“You weren’t even there when her secret got out,” Babe notes. “Now that was a scene!”

“No one ever brings it up,” Bill marvels, his eyes roaming over the crowd, searching for something. “You would think everyone would talk about it all the time. I mean – shit! A woman disguised herself as a man and made it from Toccoa to the bitter end before she got found out, and no one at the reunions brings it up.”

Zenie can’t help but smile at that. It’s true – her secret got out, she had to leave in a state of semi-disgrace, but at the Easy reunions, she was usually only acknowledged as Shifty’s wife. Sure, every now and then someone would tell a funny story about Sergeant Driver before throwing a knowing wink in her direction, but after all this time, it’s like they’re still keeping her secret for her. For her own part, she never brings up her service, except to mention in passing that she met her husband during the war. Even her own children seem to be under the impression that she must have been a nurse or a WAC, using that explanation to fill in the story’s blanks. Zenie never confirmed or denied their suspicions.

“Wish she were here,” Babe sighs. He orders another round of drinks, three this time, before placing one in front of the seemingly empty bar stool beside him – unknowingly, right in front of Zenie. He raises his own glass as he offers the last one to Bill. “To Zenie.”

Bill clinks his glass against Babe’s in a toast. “To Zenie.”

“To the best friends I ever had,” Zenie adds. During her last reunion – and even during the last year or so of her life – she could sometimes swear that she could feel a presence that she couldn’t explain. An unshakable feeling that those she loved who were already gone were somehow watching her would wash over her, though she could never explain why she felt that way. Now, she wonders if her friends feel that way about her. Just in case they do, she channels all her love into those words, hoping and praying that they can feel it.

As if on cue, the bittersweet moment ends when a woman with sleek, dark hair approaches the bar, smiling. “Uncle Babe! Are you ready?”

“Luna.” Zenie watches as her daughter throws an arm around each of the men at the bar, her smile just as bright as her father’s, outshining the sun itself.

“The real question is, are you?” Bill teases his goddaughter, cocking an eyebrow. “Don’t forget, kid, that your uncle is a champion jitterbug dancer.”

Luna sizes up the man in question. “Well, I’ve been practicing.”

“Don’t worry about her.” Babe takes one last sip of his drink and waves off Bill’s concerns. “Her mom could have been a champ, too. It’s in her genes; she’ll be fine.”

“The DJ said it’ll be the next song . . .” Luna begins explaining as she hooks her arm through her uncle’s and leads him towards the small dance floor.

Bill watches them go, chuckling to himself. “Real firecracker.” He glances at the drink set out in honor of Zenie. “God, I wish you were here, little brother. It’s not the same without you.”

“I am,” Zenie assures him. She’s only been gone for two years, but things have changed. That might have scared her once. Not anymore. “I have to go find Shifty. You don’t mind, do you?”

Bill doesn’t answer, of course, but it’s polite to ask all the same. Granny didn’t teach her to mind her manners for nothing.

Zenie weaves her way through the crowd of both the living and the dead. She greets several people, stops to exchange a handshake and a kind word, and sends a nod to those who she catches lurking at the edges of the room – people like Liebgott and Captain Speirs, who only show up in the margins of the reunions, watching, but never joining in. She needs to thank those two specifically at some point. But it’s like Joe said – they’ve got time.

As Luz promised, Shifty is seated at a table in the middle of the room. Their sons, Wayne and Willie, sit on either side of him, laughing along with some story that he, McClung, and Popeye are in the middle of telling. Zenie finds a space to stand behind her husband, being as present as she can. She places one hand on Wayne’s shoulder, and the other on Shifty’s.

At the moment of contact, Shifty’s posture stiffens, and his head turns slightly. Zenie freezes, like she’s just disrupted something. Has she? Can he feel her here?

Shifty only listens to the story being told halfheartedly now. He smiles and laughs in all the right places, but it’s obvious that he’s distracted. These reunions are supposed to be fun. Sure, they can get a little emotional at times, but she doesn’t want her husband missing out on her account. He’s still got a life to live. He needs to be in the present moment and enjoy it.

Zenie bends slightly so that she’s close to Shifty’s ear. She doubts anyone else at the table knows that she’s here, but she wants this to be a private moment for the two of them.

“Shifty,” she whispers. “I’m here. I just wanted to make sure that you’re okay.” She has to pause for a moment to think about what she wants to say. It’s one thing to plan what you’re going to tell somebody, and another thing entirely to deliver the message. Sometimes things get lost in translation. She learned that during their break back in the war.

She studies her husband’s face. It’s lined with age, but still as beautiful and as bright as the day she met him. God, she misses him. She misses all of them.

“The boys look well,” she continues, looking between their sons. “I hope they’re taking care of you for me. They’ve always adored you.” She pats Shifty’s shoulder. She shouldn’t take up his attention too much longer. “Take your time. Enjoy it. I’ll be waiting for you, okay? I’ll see you soon, Shifty.”

Not sure if it will work, she plants a kiss on his cheek. When she pulls away, she watches as Shifty’s hand comes up to touch the place where they made contact. Maybe he really can feel her here.

“Gvgeyui,” Zenie says. I love you.

Gene is waiting at the edge of the crowd when she finds him again.

“How’d it go?” He asks.

Zenie nods. “Good. You?”

“Good.” Gene’s dark eyes flick over the crowd. “It’s nice we get to do this.”

It is nice. Bittersweet, mostly, but it’s good to see their loved ones again, even for a short time before they have to go back. But returning isn’t bad, either. The weather is always warm. And there are people she loves waiting for her there.

In fact, she should get going for exactly that reason. Granny wants to dig ramps soon, and Mama informed her that there would be a pie waiting upon her return. No matter which side of the gauzy veil she’s on, there is always someone waiting for her, and always a place that she belongs.

For strength, Zenie takes Gene’s hand and gives it a squeeze. He returns the gesture, and they begin to walk away from the crowd. But before they go, Zenie can’t help but glance back at Easy Company one last time. Her eyes, as always, land on Shifty. She’ll see him again. She’ll see them all again, in one way or another.

“Until we meet again,” Zenie informs them all, whether they can hear her or not. “Donadagohvi.”

#crying over my keyboard someone plz give me a hug #band of brothers fanfic #band of brothers oc #band of brothers #shifty powers #shifty powers x ofc #hbo war #hbo war fanfic #oc zenie mcglamery #my writing #like a girl (like a man)

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padfootagain · 11 months

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All Too Well

This idea comes from this ask sent by @reg-arcturus-black where she asked what kind of fic I would write with the title ‘All Too Well’, and well… here is the result, because I have no self-control and the concept is thus turning into a full fic!

Hope you like it! Tell me what you think!

****

Pairing: Sirius Black x reader

Warnings: hurt/comfort

Summary: Sirius is going through a rough day, as what he has lived with his parents come back to haunt him. Luckily, you’re here for him. You always are, despite knowing everything about him.

Word count: 2560

Sirius Black’s Masterlist – Main Masterlist

Sometimes it strikes him, the way he’s broken.

It’s a strange thing, really. Because Sirius usually manages, especially when he’s in Hogwarts, surrounded by his friends, miles away from his parents and their twisted minds. He usually manages his darkest thoughts, the tug at his heart that makes him ache out of the blue, the hateful thoughts against himself that were planted long ago in his mind.

Today, he doesn’t, though.

He’s not sure why. Maybe it’s because he’s been on his own almost all morning, the boys busy, you studying with Lily. Perhaps it’s because the weather is terrible, and he wishes he could turn into a dog and run across the Forbidden Forest to lose some energy. Maybe it’s because he bumped into his younger brother earlier this morning, and it simply struck him how much they have been drifting apart since he left Grimmauld Place; how Regulus looks like him, like their father…

He isn’t so sure, it’s probably a little bit of all these circumstances. No matter why, though, he can feel that he’s slipping down that familiar slope again. The one that fills his mind with pain and dark thoughts, his heart with something poisonous and hurtful, his blood with anger and longing. He recognises all the symptoms, he’s felt them a million times over.

And he knows what it means. He knows it all too well. The banging in his head. The voice that keeps on screaming there. The clammy hands. The rushing heart. The tight throat. The struggle for a breath. The knot in his stomach. And these thoughts... these thoughts that plague his mind, and he tries to shake them away but he can't he can't he can't; he knows it all too well, that the voices are true and that he's nothing, nothing, nothing at all...

He tries to close his eyes, to press his forehead against the cold windowpane, but it doesn’t stop the voices, doesn’t slow his heartbeat, doesn’t stop him from wanting to destroy everything and everyone around him just to make it stop for a mere second.

He’s taken refuge in his favourite hiding spot, a corridor on the fifth floor that leads to nowhere. There’s a window hidden behind the crooked statue of an old witch there. He likes that spot. No one ever comes down that corridor, and even if someone walked by, Sirius would be hidden by the statue. It’s perfect to be alone. That’s exactly what he needs for now.

He’s sitting by the window, temple pressed against the cool glass, and he drowns in the feeling of the cold against his warm skin. It almost hurts. He likes it. It anchors him.

There’s no sound in this empty corridor, except for the messy pattern of the falling rain. He can’t see anything by the window, there’s condensation all over the glass. All he can see are splashes of colour: the infinite grey of the sky that covers almost the entire frame, the deep green of the trees of the Forbidden Forest, the lighter green of the grass covering the grounds…

Maybe he should turn into Padfoot. It helps, sometimes. His thoughts are a little bit more messy, a little bit more cloudy when he’s a dog. His senses are heightened, but his mind gets blurry. And it helps when he hurts too much as a boy, because his thoughts are the reason behind his pain. If he can stop them, he can feel better again. At least, for a little while…

He closes his eyes, as images flash in his mind, scenes he wishes he could forget, but can’t. Reminiscence. A past still too close to be forgotten. He doubts he’ll ever manage to forget, anyway. There’s this feeling again, this feeling that he’s nothing, that he’s worthless, that he’ll always be but a ridiculous little boy afraid of the dark, that he’ll always break everything he touches.

And he knows where it comes from. He knows it all too well. From the shouts of his mother tearing up his nights. From the fists of his father against his cheeks. From the fear of his brother as he looks up at him in search for safety. From the curses, and the insults, and the hate the hate the hate that follows him everywhere that aims at his friends and that curses his very existence and that reminds him that he's unlovable, unlovable, unlovable...

And it hurts. It hurts because he fights this kind of thoughts with all his might, because he keeps on repeating to himself that these are just poisonous seeds planted by his parents, that none of it is real, that he’s different, that he can be different. That he can be loved, the way they could never love him. But there’s this voice that comes back every time. The one he knows all too well, that keeps on asking the same question over and over again…

What if they were right about you?

He jumps as he notices a movement next to the statue, but he relaxes quickly when he recognizes you. No threat. No ghost coming from his past. Only you.

You…

He’s not surprised that you’ve found him, but he would have preferred if you hadn’t come. He tries to show it by looking away without a smile, without a word. He wears his mask again, the cold one, the one that makes his handsome features look as cold and distant and unreal as a marble statue, as an unreachable sculpture, an inhuman one…

He stares at the colours outside, and he waits for you to say something. He’s expectant and afraid of it at the same time. You haven’t moved, you’re standing there, behind him, staring in silence. He’s not sure what he wants. Or rather… he knows. He knows all too well what he wants, but he’s not sure he should get it. Because he wants you to hold him, to kiss him, to tell him it will all be fine. But at the same time, he wants to shout at you just for being here, he wants to make you cry, he wants to push you away because that’s the kindest thing he could do for you, really… he’s broken. He’s broken, and you’re not, and you’ll end up like him one day, if you stay. That’s what darkness does: it spreads, like a virus, like something contagious, and once it holds onto someone, it never lets go again. And he won’t be the one to bring you such a cruel fate, because he… he loves you. He loves you too much for that.

One day, he’ll end up hurting you too much, and you’ll run, and he’ll shatter your heart. That’s all he’s been good at doing, anyway. A family trait. A Black legacy. Break everything you touch…

He wonders why you’re still here altogether, really. Because you’re so much better than him. You… You’re everything that could save him. Sometimes it feels too much to take in. Most days, it feels like surrendering. But it can’t last. It won’t, he knows it, somehow. You’re too good for him.

And he knows he doesn't deserve you. He knows it all too well. Because you're so bright against his darkness. Because you're too kind. Because he's a mess. Because you're patient. Because he's reckless. Because you love him, for some unknown reason. Because you look at him with so much love, he hopes you can see that he loves you just the same. And you come back again and again and again, and he doesn't have a clue why you're still clinging onto him when he's got nothing to offer you but his shattered heart, his crooked smile, his fucked-up mind, his fucked-up mind, his fucked-up mind...

He wants to cry at the thought, but he hides it well, he’s used to it. Where he comes from, you can’t be weak. He’s used to it… but not near you, that’s the tough part. You have a talent to break him into pieces, tear him apart, open him up raw and bloody and cradle his soul in your hands until he feels like he really had one in the first place. You have a talent to get under his skin, and to see right through this pretty, unreachable mask he’s wearing now. He has others of the same kind: there’s the flirtatious one, the stupid one, the cruel one, the uncaring one, the scary one. All masks. Inside, he’s the same broken boy every time. Sometimes, when he hears you laughing, when he listens to James’s plans, when he looks at Remus studying, when he shares his candies with Peter, he becomes more like the person he could have been had he not been so shattered during his childhood: reckless, impulsive, laughing loudly and as brightly as the sun he wears the name of, just a boy of seventeen, joyous and at peace. He can’t be that today, it hurts just thinking about it. Today, all he can be is broken. It’s okay, he’s used to it.

You haven’t moved despite the minutes ticking by. Sirius either. It’s like… you’re caught in a game of statues. Who knows how long it’ll last. He knows you’ll break first, though. And he doubts you, for a moment. He sees you leaving. He sees you turning away without a word, walking by this twisted statue again, hurry down the corridor, head back to your dorm, run away from him. You should. You should, he isn’t worth it. It kills him to admit it, but he knows it all the same, all too well. And for a moment, he can see you giving up on him, he can picture it in his mind… even you can stop loving him. He’s unlovable enough for that.

And he’s right. You give up first, and move again before he does. He’s still a statue when you take a step closer, tilt your head to the side. You’re studying him, he can feel it in the intensity of your gaze without even looking up at you. He keeps on avoiding your eyes, actually. He still hopes you’ll leave; he still wants you to stay.

You’re still silent, perhaps because you know that there are no words you can speak that will make him feel better. That is not what he needs now. Words can wait. Right now, he’s just afraid to be alone, that’s why he feels so lonely, that’s why he isolates himself so much. It’s safer that way. People won’t leave you, if you leave them first…

You know what he needs, you love him enough for that. Without a sound, you sit down on the dusty ground by his side. You match his posture, like a mirror. You rest your temple against the window, only, you’re not looking outside, you’re looking at him instead.

And he hates it. He hates it because even if you show him over and over again that you’ll stay, he’s still afraid you’ll leave. And the voice in his head screams to push you away but he doesn’t want to. He’s not a Black. He doesn’t want to be one. He wants to be Sirius. He wants to be Padfoot. He wants to belong here, with the Marauders, with you… He wants to be the man you call baby, the one you hold onto at night to fall asleep, the one who carries your books and ties your shoes for you in the corridors making you roll your eyes even if you love it. He wants to be the one who kisses you in the morning, the one who touches every inch of your skin, the one who gets to taste your kisses on his tongue. He wants to be the one to protect you, to comfort you, to make you feel safe, the one… the one who is going to love you, no matter what. That’s who he wants to be. That’s who he’ll be, if you let him. After the crisis passes, he can be that boy again. He craves for it, even if, perhaps, he shouldn’t aim that high. A fool’s hope; but such a bright, happy one…

At long last, he turns to you. He keeps a stern face at first, merely stares at you. And he doesn’t even notice the way he stares, but how could he not? Because you’re looking at him with the most tender smile, and with such fondness in your eyes. You look at him with so much love, he chokes on it. He can’t take so much of it, not when he’s like this, at his worst, in his darkest form. Still, you smile, an almost dreamy one, and you stare at him as if he were made of light instead of shadows, as if he truly shone as brightly as the star he wears the name of. And it hurts, in the best way, to see so much hope and faith in him, so much love in someone else’s gaze while looking at him…

He doesn’t even realize it when a tear rolls down his cheek. He doesn’t care. It’s just you. He can feel, and show it, and be weak. Because you’ve come, the way you always come. Because you haven’t left, the way you never leave. And he wonders why he still doubts you’ll stay, because you’ve proven over and over again that you will. Always, it would seem…

And this time, he knows you'll stay. He knows it all too well. Because you haven't moved at all, and he's used it, and you never do. Whenever the crisis come, you merely stay here, with him, and you wait until the storms weather, and he comes back to you. You're his constant through it all. And you're here you're here you're here, everywhere he looks, he always finds you near, and for the first time he's not so afraid that you might leave. Maybe you're right. Maybe he does deserve to be loved, loved, loved.

Maybe you could show him how. Perhaps he’ll doubt you again, the next time the crisis comes. Perhaps you’ll show him once more. He reckons that you’re patient enough for that.

The mask crumbles, slowly, a steady bearing of a soul that starts with a tear and ends with the ghost of a smile. When he reaches for your hand, he looks like Sirius again. Your Sirius. The one he always is, the one always in him, even when he can’t see it too.

He doesn’t need to say the words, the tender squeeze of your hand speaks every word of it. You know it already, anyway.

Thank you. I love you. Stay… stay forever.

You will. You’ll stay, as long as he lets you near. You love him enough for that. For staring at his cracks and scars and see the light in them through the chasms. One day, you hope he can see it too. And it’s funny because… you’re thankful too. You’re thankful that he lets you in, that he lets you reach him, even if he struggles, even if it takes a little bit of time. Still, you love him. One day, he’ll learn to love himself too. You’ll make sure of that.

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Taglist : @reg-arcturus-black @hells-escapees @omgrachwrites

@wolfmoonmusic

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believesthings · 17 days

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Not Just A Girl - Chapter 7 // Jason Sudeikis x Reader

You keep referring back to your calendar and then, when catching yourself in the act, huffing out of frustration. Tomorrow you will be back for second fittings for the James & Mia project, which they still had yet to give a working title – and if all goes well tomorrow, you’ll be back in on Friday for photos in costume.

Jason has already left for London with the rest of the cast and crew that you have grown to know through frequent set visits. Tom has been enlisting most of the actors he is working with to help him to send you short clips of funny moments on set, though such horseplay has died down in the past few days. Your favorites usually had Jason interacting with Theo whose humor had quickly endeared him to you. They always seemed to be having such fun, but you were glad to not be in their dizzying path. Your set visits had given you your fill of their combined antics, you’d settle for just Jason's endless energy from now on, thank you very much.

You are concentrating on sending Jason a message on your phone while you are leaving in the morning for the studio and stumble over a newspaper that had been left in front of your door. Odd, as you get typically your news via your phone. Rather than taking the time to walk it into your room you stuff the paper into your bag. Maybe someone else in the crew would like to read the publication.

Before you are even fully admitted to the wardrobe room you can hear that Brett is in today as well. He is standing with his back to you, his arms slightly splayed out to his sides as pins are used to adjust a suit to fit him more snugly. His shoulders are shaking with laughter, which is causing the two people trying to make adjustments to half-heartedly glare at him.

They picked a wonderful cut for him so why they are bothering with alterations you can’t imagine. Everett, the production’s wardrobe designer is nowhere to be seen but you know he is present. Alterations to one of his creations without his critical eye observing? Unthinkable! You nod greetings to the two tailors and sit down to wait to be told what to do.

Brett does his best to keep his body still but turn his head far enough to see behind him. “Morning.”

You motion for him to turn back around so the suit jacket hangs correctly, receiving grateful expressions from both tailors. “Morning Brett. Been here long?”

“Still on London time.”

Right. He had flown in for the awards, then went straight back to the job afterwards. London, of course, makes you think of Jason. You’ll call him after you are given your marching orders for the day. “Must be fun, arguing with your internal clock.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t tried to keep similar hours. Jason always worries about a good time to call.”

Having a conversation with the back of someone’s head is a little odd. “You talked to Jason?”

Brett nods. “This morning. He says Hi. And asked me to pass along the message to call as soon as you're free. And something about being in slow motion which I can only assume to be an inside joke?”

You are saved from having to explain what it means by Everett coming into the room with a bunch of papers in his hand. He stops when he sees you and scoffs playfully, “She sits and studies the stitching. Up, up. Let’s work on Mia’s wardrobe!”

The suit hangs on the rack, the man it was fitted to now gone from the room when you return with your own pieces that needed slight adjustments. Since there were so few changes needed you are released early. You don’t have anything else to do so you end up back at the hotel, trying to figure out how to occupy your time. Everett has assured you that everything will be ready for photos tomorrow. You can’t wait to see how everything looks once put together. Full makeup, costume, maybe a few props…

You miss Jason when you call to update him on the news. After leaving a brief message find yourself once again at the mercy of the clock. Considering you’ve lived pretty much out of your suitcase since arriving in town there isn’t all that much to do to pack for your move. Sifting items from drawers to your bags doesn’t take all that much time so you opt to clear the desktop of the little mementos and paperwork.

Most of the items are from places you visited while filming All Your Monsters but a few are things sent to you from fans. When you look at the clock again you sigh, only two hours have passed. You’ve already organized and then reorganized the constantly building stack of screenplays and appearance requests that Todd keeps handing you. Ever since the awards show, every time you thought that you had made headway he appeared with more. You finally had to lock them away in the room’s safe to keep yourself from trying to find a new way to order them.

The next morning you sit cross-legged in the hallway, your phone resting atop your now forgotten pages. You had been left to your own devices for the time being. Your coffee – only the second cup this morning thank you very much – has nearly cooled enough to drink without scalding the roof of your mouth. You had decided to use the time to continue to study the script, but had abandoned that venture when you see Jason's call come through. You can’t help but smile as you greet him. “Good morning sir. I miss you.”

“I miss you as well. I didn’t call too early?”

You’ve been at the studio at least an hour now. “Already been in with wardrobe once this morning.”

“Have you seen much of Brett today?”

You look around while replying, as though Jason will summon your costar. “Not today – I saw him briefly yesterday but only long enough to say hello. He always seems to know more about your day than I do…”

“My day? I got up this morning, watched a beautiful sunrise, and thought of you. You did film part of All Your Monsters here in London if I remember correctly. Did you get to sightsee at all?”

“No, not really. Will did try but we ran out of time and had to move on to the next location.” You sigh into the phone. Great, now you were both missing Jason and wondering what Will was doing with himself.

Jason sounds like he is pacing, moving around an enclosed space at least. “We’ll have to rectify that.” What time was it for him – ten? He had waited most of the morning to call.

“Yes. I would love that. How is the job?”

“Exciting. Frustrating. Keeping me busy. Do they have a villain for the All Your Monsters sequel yet? Or maybe a new love interest?”

You laugh into the phone, “You don’t have to be my costar to see me, you know. There’s this thing called video chat…”

“There’s being able to see you and,” his voice lowers, “being able to see you.”

“Jason!” His laughter over the line both delights and saddens you. You know exactly what he means. You look around to see if anybody is close enough to overhear the conversation.

Your phone is alerting you to an incoming video chat request and you tap the screen to find Jason still laughing. “Had to check if you were blushing.” He grins merrily. Just seeing him while he speaks to you helps to boost your mood again. That settles it, you’re going to find a way to fly there and surprise him soon.

“Of course I’m blushing. I’m in public and you’re making me think about being tangled in your arms.” You’ve hunched down slightly while furtively speaking to the phone in your lap.

“New hair, I see. Is that for the character of Mia?” Ah – you’d meant to take a picture to show him after they had finished it this morning but you’d gotten distracted.

You finger gently through your locks, "Yeah, We're testing out some styles, trying to find what works, they said they might make some changes."

“I vote to keep it like that. It looks great!”

“I’ll tell them you approve.” Someone’s calling for you. Of course they’re now ready for you to come back in for photos. You glance away from the screen, and thereby Jason, and sigh. “I’ve got to go. But London. That’s a yes.”

Jason’s slight frown presses into view the two creases that run straight up between his eyebrows. How you wish you could smooth them out of view again. He doesn’t want to say goodbye either it seems. “Just a matter of finding time.”

“Yes…” You pick up your phone and untangle your crossed legs so you can stand. “I’ll call later?” You wait to see him nod before ending the call and pushing everything that had been in your lap into your bag. Oh, you’d also forgotten about the newspaper from yesterday morning. Oh well, it will continue to travel with you.

While playing dress up – yes you know that isn’t what you’re doing at the studio so bright and early this morning but that’s how you are determined to think of it – you’ve come to realize that while everyone is polite, no one really seems all that talkative with you.

By break at lunchtime you’ve had enough, “What? Does my hair look awful?” Your outburst sends most everyone scurrying.

Everett is the one to respond. “It’s not the hair –.” “It’s nerves and trying to figure you out.”

Confusion now mixes with frustration. “What are you talking about?”

“You’re intimidating,”

“I’m really not.” You reach up to fuss with your hair, unsure what else to do and desperately needing to fidget.

“You are. We all know your background. You could talk shop with most of us but you don’t. It took me all morning the first day to get you to open up past general introductions.”

“Everett that’s unfair, you were taking measurements and told me to hold still.”

He laughs. “Yeah, hold still, not become mute.”

“Besides, you guys don’t want to hear some nobody actor try to relate your work back to her theater days.” You try to wave him off.

Evidently the walls have ears because you hear someone giggle, “The nobody actor that everybody wants to work with.”

You make a face at Everett for starting this which makes him grin and call out to the others who are making their way back to their work, “Ok – so different conversation since she’s too guarded to talk shop. Suggestions?”

Yes let’s open up the forum shall we: the life and times of the woman about to strangle her costume designer. One of the assistants is quick to pipe up, “Ooooh Jason! Tell us about Jason” A flurry of questions and pleas of encouragement follow. “Yes tell us about Jason, please.” “What’s it like dating him?” “Does he do a good British accent?”

Up until now nobody had really referenced the fact that you were dating Jason. Evidently it had been on everyone’s mind… “Er, so about Mia’s color scheme…” You are rewarded with a few laughs but everyone still seems to be waiting to see if you’ll share details about your relationship. After confirming that you were dating and fielding a few general questions both of you agreed to keep the details of your relationship as private as you could. The cast and crew here would eventually feel like family but until you trusted them more you’d stick to the basics. “I’m really fortunate to have him in my life."

You give Everett a look and he gives you a short nod of understanding before steering the conversation on to the next topic. “Talking about accents – when we went to pick up materials the girl cutting behind the counter had the most adorable Russian lilt…”

You are thrilled with the combined results of hair, makeup, and costumes. Mia is finally manifesting someplace other than on paper and in your head. You’ve signed the paperwork for renting a small place about an hour away from the studio so you are officially – at least temporarily – a resident of Los Angeles! The read through for James & Mia won’t happen for at least a week which gives you plenty of time to settle in to the new place and work out the best routes to and from the studio. Scrolling through your messages you see that Jason has sent you a series of pictures showing you the progression of his day. He looks tired in the last few and you sigh softly, “Don’t push yourself too hard, Jase…”

But wait, you have a week, at least a week… Screw getting your new place set up – there will be plenty of time to get it to feel like home. A quick search and you begin to scroll through possible flights to London. You can take advantage of the fact that the promotional period for All Your Monsters only just ended and you’ve grown accustomed to the wait to get through Customs.

You still have to run it by Todd- redirecting the taxi to the airport isn’t practical, you would at least need to grab your bag from your room – once again the benefits of living out of your suitcase make you smile. Maybe you can talk Brett into being your inside man and finding out where Jason will be when you figure out when you’ll be flying in – to surprise Jason – oh! You’re liking the idea more and more.

You quickly tap out messages to both Todd and Brett alerting them to your newly formed plans. Brett seems game but you can feel Todd’s glare as you read the words of his response:

We just went through all that paperwork for your keys to the new apartment and you’re talking about going out of the country. You’d better be positive on the time frame for James & Mia before you book your ticket. Spur of the moment trip – he hasn’t been gone that long – just, send me the details when you know them.

You make a face and talk back to the phone, which makes the taxi driver give you an odd look, “Judge me all you like Todd, I’m going to see him.”

You tap out a few more messages to the corresponding members of the production team and everything seems to work out nicely. Yes, there’s still a number of things that need to happen before a table read is a go. Looks like you’re in the clear for taking four or five days to go to London. You wait, your finger hovering over the link to confirm your plane ticket to fly out later tonight which would put you in London around 3pm their time – Jason has been incredibly busy with filming, is this really a good idea? There is the risk that you will fly there and he won’t have any free time to spend with you. If that is the case then you can tour yourself around London for a few days and try to see him when he is available…. Shit, now you’ve just about doubted your way out of your trip. No. No, you’ve already set in motion the required parts – follow through.

Now to make sure Jason doesn’t suspect anything…

Signed the lease! Keys will be mine on Monday. So excited to have my own place again! Can’t wait to start decorating.

You really are very excited about getting to once again have rooms that more accurately reflect your personality. You are going to eventually work on decorating the new place, just after your surprise trip. Hopefully this is a clever misdirect.

You’ve already talked with the hotel regarding your move so you need to stop back by the reception desk to discuss the possibility of them holding your things until you get back from London. Hell, you really don’t have much that won’t just squish back into your luggage. Though you really don’t need to take fan mail, scripts, and odd assorted collectibles you’ve been given all the way to London. If they need the room back, maybe the hotel will hold the various items in storage for you?

The clerk at the counter seems hesitant at first but after being given the go-ahead from management, extends the date for your departure from the room until after you are back stateside. Everything is working out! Jason responds while you are in the elevator:

Still say you should have just taken over the place I had been renting. Can’t wait to see pictures once you get settled. Wish I could be there to help.

He had tried many-times-over to convince you to talk with the realtors to see if you could lease the place he had been renting. You were stubborn on that point though, you wanted a place that was distinctly yours, not a place that would make you immediately think about how much you missed his presence.

There really isn’t much that you need to do to get ready for your flight. Your travel documents are always in your bag and since you were already preparing to move out of the hotel… After ensuring that you have a few days’ worth of clothes packed – no way are you lugging your entire wardrobe across the Atlantic – you check to make sure Brett is upholding his end of the bargain.

Looks like I’ll be arriving around 3 in the afternoon tomorrow (7ish for you here). I’ll keep you updated during the trip as to progress. Thank you again!!

His response is almost immediate.

Happy to help. Weather willing he will be working but I can recommend things to do until he is done with his day.

The ticket you purchase isn’t for the first flight out, but instead gives you a few hours to get your things together before needing to head to the airport. If you had chosen one of the extremely early flights you probably would have had a better bet of flying out without getting caught by cameras, but that would mess up your arrival time. You don’t want to have to consider an entire day wasted on travel. Maybe your new hair will help prevent you from being recognized?

Eleven hour flights provide time to catch up on your sleep though so you’re not terribly worried about being exhausted upon arrival. You can’t find your bracelet or your favorite tube of chapstick, but in your excitement you’ve probably just forgotten where you packed them away. You pause to access your appearance in the bathroom mirror before catching a taxi to the airport: you’ve elected to wear clothes a little more comfortable for travel rather than trying to dress to wow Jason. You gather that you’ll have time to change after arriving… Should you wear a hat? Sunglasses? You throw those into your carry on, just in case you decide to try to use them to hide.

In the airport there are a few people who give you prolonged glances but merely smile back when you make eye contact. Apparently you look just enough like yourself to be merely a good decent look alike. As you are boarding you send both Todd and Brett messages, as requested, to keep them updated. Once the plane takes off you are able to relax a bit though not enough to let you sleep. No matter, you’ll nap a bit eventually. You brought copies of the floor plan to your new place so you can start playing with ideas about the setup of the apartment.

You receive a text from Jason more than halfway through the flight. He had fallen into the routine of leaving you messages to wake up to.

Good morning beautiful. Can’t remember if you’re working this morning or not. Hope the sunrise you are greeted with is as stunning as mine was.

Your response is true enough though you avoid the query regarding your work schedule.

I’m awake. Entertaining myself with various ideas on color schemes for the new place. You? Busy day?

Your response sounds natural enough. You aren’t giving anything away…. Hopefully Brett’s curiosity as to Jason’s schedule for the day doesn’t tip him off.

The usual fun. I’m here if you need a second opinion. I’ll call later? Maybe another video chat session?

Video chat wouldn’t be needed soon enough. You shift in your seat to stretch a bit.

Later sounds good. Can’t wait

And be able to reach out and touch you… in – ugh, you shouldn’t have looked at the time… You close your eyes and try to relax. Sleep will make the hours seem to go by faster.

Jason's next text wakes you and makes your heart leap:

I have some down time, would now be a good time to call?

It feels like you just fell asleep but glancing at the time informs you that you’re nearly there.

Yes. Shit. No. You’re on a plane. How the hell do you disguise the fact that you’re on a plane while on the phone? What if they make an announcement during the call? The surprise would be blown. You’d love to talk to him but …

Er, not the best time. Too much background noise at the moment. Maybe in an hour?

Yes, in an hour when your plane would be landing and you can duck into a quiet room to talk to him.

I don’t mind background noise. You’ll have to listen to Theo, um, "singing", in the background to hear me as well.

Hmmm. How can you word this so that Jason doesn’t think you’re trying to avoid him?

Your hesitation as to how to describe it makes me cautious… I think I’ll pass for now. What is Theo ‘singing’ anyway?

There - keep him talking about his costar.

But Jason isn’t easily swayed from his goals.

Frank Sinatra’s Fly Me to the Moon. But if you have a request I’ll pass it along. What if I promise to sing the entire conversation?

And now you have Frank Sinatra singing stuck in your head. Damn. Why don’t the insides of planes look more generic? What if you went into the bathroom? No, then it would just look like you were in the damned bathroom of a plane.

Tempting. But I want to be able to enjoy such an encounter. Let me get someplace quiet, then you can serenade me to your heart’s content.

You’re teasing him now, but you can’t help but add another few lines of text:

No complaining if I make a thing out of texting you Sinatra lyrics. Already scrolling through my playlists looking for his music.

He responds back:

No complaints. Scout’s honor. Where is Brett? I asked him to help get you someplace quiet. Are you not at work right now?

You grin. He is curious now. You haven’t seen a text arrive from Brett so Lord knows what he was saying to Jason regarding your current whereabouts.

Haven’t run into Brett. Apparently we aren’t in the same location right now.

Jason's response is slightly delayed which gives you time to plan out what you’ll say if he keeps pushing with questions about where you are. Your planning is pointless though, when you read his message.

I’ll say! Sorry, but your secret is out. Just checked my feed to pester Brett there. Someone on your plane is fangirling that she is on the same flight. I know you’ll be landing soon. I’ll see you at the airport.

You will not run through Customs. You will not run through Customs. You will not run through Customs.

tag list: @my-soupy-brain @tegan8314 @tortilla-maria1 @nerdgirljen

#jason sudeikis #Jason Sudeikis x reader #Jason Sudeikis rpf #Jason Sudeikis fluff #x reader #Jason Sudeikis fanfiction #Jason Sudeikis fanfic #Jason Sudeikis fic #Jason Sudeikis blurb #rpf #not just a girl #fanfiction #fanfic

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cloudlessly-light · 10 months

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Hi. I don’t know if it’s your thing but can you consider writing about Emily being Aarons freeuse girl. Like it’s his birthday and her gift for him is unlimited sex for whole day. But we all know that Hotch is too sweet so he uses this access to give her a lot of pleasure. Thanks 😊

Title: No need to take it slow Summary: Aaron hates getting gifts, so each year when his birthday comes around Emily gives him the gift of herself Word Count: 3,6k Rating: Explicit Warnings: Smut, freeuse, power dynamics, oral, anal, multiple orgasms, overstimulation mentions of sex toys, mentions of abuse

Aaron had never really liked celebrating his birthday, disliked receiving gifts even more. It had started when he was still a child. Birthdays and holidays usually overlooked because of his father’s drunken antics or loud fights as his mother placed herself between himself and his father’s fist. When he got older he was the one who took the beatings, protected his mother and Shawn from the anger of his dad.

So Aaron didn’t like celebrating his birthday.

Emily however, loved birthdays, loved to celebrate the people she loved and to shower them in gifts. It was an adjustment when they first got together, Emily taking him out to a fancy restaurant and handing him a wrapped gift with a smile. She could see his unease almost instantly, even though he loved the watch she had bought, wore it every day, there was a tension in his jaw that was rarely there when they were together.

The same thing happens the year after that, but this time Emily can’t keep her mouth shut.

“What’s wrong?” She asked as he stroked over the expensive silk of the tie he had just unwrapped. “You don’t like it?”

“No I do.” He assured her, his hand quickly taking hers and giving it a squeeze. “I’m just… Not used to gifts.” He lies and he can see that she doesn’t believe him, one of her eyebrows arching high on her forehead.

“Honey,” She sits a little closer to him on the couch. “don’t lie to me please.”

He sighs, eyes fitting over her face. It shouldn’t be a big deal, but for some reason he felt like he was letting her down.

“I love the tie, I really do.” He kisses her softly. “But I don’t like getting gifts, I never have.” The way her shoulders slump slightly makes him want to take it back.

“Oh.” She says, her cheeks tinting pink in embarrassment because she didn’t know and she should have known. She thinks back on what he’s told her about his childhood, flashes of him ignoring questions about his birthday at work, how he never really allowed anybody to buy him anything, didn’t really accept any kind of gift except something handmade from Jack. “I’m sorry.”

“Please don’t apologize.” He brushes his thumb over her cheek.

“I feel like an idiot.” She chuckles dryly, the sound catching in her throat.

“Stop, no.” This time his voice is a little firmer, his hand squeezing hers again. “I should have told you last year.”

Emily shakes her head and then offers him a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“You told me now.” She stood up from the couch and dragged him with her. “But don’t think you’re getting out of birthday sex.” This time the smile on her face is genuine, any awkwardness gone as quickly as it came.

“Now that, I’ll never say no to.” He grins and pulls her into a kiss. “We’re okay right?”

“Honey, it’ll take more than you not liking gifts for you to get rid of me.” She teases against his lips, her arms looping around his neck to keep him close.

The year after she doesn’t buy him anything, but instead spends the day screwing him until he literally couldn’t anymore.

“Now that is how I’d like to spend every birthday.” He joked through harsh breaths and she smiled brightly. They were sweaty and exhausted and Emily could see that the tension that had been there previous years, was now nowhere to be found.

And she got an idea.

“Have you ever heard of freeuse?” She asked and she saw his eyebrow arch and a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Like… the sexual term?” He asked and she nodded. “Doesn’t that mean that you pretty much get free reign to do whatever you want to your partner even if their partner isn’t up to it?”

“Yeah, within set limits.” She grinned even wider and moved so she straddled him. “What do you say, that every year for your birthday, I’d be your freeuse girl, 24 hours of my sole purpose being there for every sexual need you have?”

Aaron looked up at his fiancé, naked on top of him, and he thought that he should be awarded for even managing to listen to what she was saying. But he couldn’t deny that the idea was intriguing, more than intriguing if he was being completely honest.

“What do you say honey?” She rolled her hips and felt him react against her.

“There will be set rules, boundaries, we need to talk more about it.” His hands fell to her hips and she nodded in agreement. Then she leaned down, let her hair curtain around them as she kissed him.

“Talk later.” She mumbles against his lips. “Right now I want to ride you.”

Really, how was Aaron supposed to argue with that?

So they talked, set firm limits of what they refused to do, tried a couple of test days to see if Aaron could be comfortable using Emily in that way and to see that Emily felt comfortable being used. It turned out they both loved it and it became something they both looked forward to every year as his birthday approached.

Emily woke up to something nudging at her lips and she stirred.

“Open up.” Aaron’s voice cut through the silence and she opened her eyes to find him kneeling beside her on the bed, cock in hand. Her eyes flittered to the clock behind him on the nightstand, it read 12:00 am, it was officially his birthday.

She rearranged her body on the bed, turned slightly and leaned on one elbow so he could fuck her face easer. Her mouth opened and she stuck her tongue out and he immediately pushed forward. His low groan made her own body feel heated as his shaft moved over her tongue, quickly poking at the back of her throat.

Her hand wrapped around his base, her wrist twisting as she continued to suck him eagerly. His fingers wrapped in her hair, moved her head in time with his thrusting hips as he continued to groan above her. His dark eyes didn’t leave her face, even as they were glazed over with arousal as he watched his wife dutifully do what she was made to do.

“That’s it.” He encouraged her as she swallowed around him, tears starting to fall from her eyes as she gagged repeatedly on him. “That’s it, sweetheart.” When he pulled back she gasped for air, took a couple of breaths before he was back in her mouth, precum leaking from his tip.

Emily moved her hand from his base to gently cup his balls, let one nail softly drag over them and he shivered, hips stuttering.

“Fuck, Em.” His hand tightened in her hair, hips rutting against her face as she choked on him. He pulled back only for her to swirl her tongue around his tip and then took him all the way down her throat again with a low moan. She pulled lightly on his sack, moaned again just because she knew he loved the vibrations against him.

She was proven right when he all but growled her name, hips jerking as his balls tightened. Her wide eyes were trained on him, on how he swallowed hard, his jaw clenching and unclenching, abs tensing, the hand not in her hair gripping the headboard so hard she was amazed that it didn’t break. When he came it was with a sound that made her clit throb, the low groans turning louder as he spurted salty cum on her waiting tongue. She pulled back enough to make sure that she swallowed all he had, her lips wrapped around his tip as she jerked his shaft, her saliva aiding her movements until he let go of her and fell back against the bed with a breathless chuckle.

“Happy birthday, honey.” She whispered against his ear as she pressed against his side.

“Happy birthday to me.” He kissed her, tasted himself on her lips with a sound of contentment. “Good night.”

“Good night.”

She wakes up before him, which was rare. Quietly she dresses in the red lingerie he had decided on, the lace and silk soft against her body and then she sneaks downstairs and puts on the coffee and fixes them both some breakfast. She puts on some music, hums along to the songs as she pours coffee into his favorite mug. When she turns Aaron is standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed as he watches her.

“Morning.” His voice was raspy, like always in the morning.

“Good morning, breakfast is almost done.” She turned back to the counter, ready to flip the French toast in the pan when she feels him behind her, hands on her waist.

“Good, I’m hungry.” His lips are soft against her skin, tongue licking over her neck as his hands roam over her body. “Don’t burn it.” He mutters as Emily leans into his touch, momentarily forgetting the task at hand.

Her hand was shaking when she flipped one of the French toasts, Aaron’s hand moving from her waist and into her panties. His fingers were rough as he circled her clit with lips tugged into a grin at feeling how wet she was. He kept an eye on her, made sure she didn’t burn herself when she flipped the second toast and then pushed two fingers inside of her, making her moan softly.

His fingers moved through her, flexing and pressing against the spots he knew made her knees weak as she tried to focus on not burning their food. She just barely managed to get the toast onto plates before she completely gave up on everything that wasn’t him. His stubble scratched against her skin, the hand that wasn’t between her legs were on her chest, pulling down her bra enough to tug on her nipples.

When she came she was gripping the counter so hard her knuckles were white, her head falling back against his shoulder as her legs gave out. She knew that if it weren’t for Aaron she would have fallen to the floor, the pleasure making her entire body shake in his hold.

She had barely regained control over her limbs when he pulled his hands away from her and his fingers pressed between her parted lips.

“Clean me up.”

She sucked herself from his fingers, mind hazy when she looked back at him. Once he was satisfied he nodded and stepped back from her. He grabbed the plates and carried them to the table, gave Emily a moment to gather herself before she grabbed the mugs of coffee and placed them on the table too.

They made it through breakfast before Aaron was on her again, simply bending her over the table as she was getting ready to clean it off. His cock was always a stretch, and she gasped in surprise when he pushed inside of her. He rubbed her clit with one hand while the other pressed against the small of her back, keeping her in place as he fucked her hard and deep.

“Such a good plaything for me to use, always so ready.” He groaned behind her and Emily whimpered in response. There was no doubt that she always enjoyed this, probably more than he did to an extent.

“Oh fuck…” She grunted as he picked up his pace, the table jolting with his forceful thrusts. She knew she’d be bruised from the how the edge of the table dug into her, knew that she’d press against them with nothing but a fond smile in the next couple of days. “Don’t stop, please don’t stop.”

“Not gonna stop until you’re all filled up sweetheart.” He rutted against her, forced her to feel all of him and she hissed. “You take me so well.”

It wasn’t long before she was coming with a loud cry of pleasure, her body spasming as he fucked her through it, fingers turning gentle against her clit. She slumped on the table, loud moans turning into softer whimpers as he continued to move behind her.

She knew that as much as they used this day for Aaron’s pleasure, he would take the day to make her fall apart as many times as possible, her pleasure an ego boost to him. It didn’t surprise her that he made her come one more time, fingers insistent on her swollen clit and hips strong as he thrust against the spot only he had been able to find before he gave in to his own pleasure.

He groaned loudly as he came inside of her, spilling his release as deep inside of her as he could, hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise pale skin.

“Fuck, I love filling you up, sweetheart.” He mumbled, lips soft against her spine as he pressed a couple of kisses against her sweaty skin.

“Me too.” She sighed happily, then moaned as he slipped out of her and made sure her panties covered her again.

“I’m going to shower, why don’t you join me?” He took her hand and she nodded into a kiss.

“Let me just put the dishes in the washer, I’ll be quick.”

He made her two more times in the shower, his tongue buried inside of her as water cascaded down around them. Once she could stand again he continued to run his hands all over her body, teasing nipples and pressing against bruises, new and old as she washed them both off.

After the shower she put on the new lingerie set that he had laid out, a pink set that he knew she’d never wear unless he told her too. The cups were tiny, her breasts spilling over the fabric and the matching panties were crotchless. It helped with the fantasy for both of them and Emily smiled at her own reflection. He would love it.

Aaron had gone to the store, buying groceries for dinner and she took advantage of having a little while alone. She knew that he’d want her every way he could, so she prepared herself with an anal plug, lubed it up and put it inside of her to be ready for when he inevitably wanted her ass.

She was proven right when he came home and immediately sought her out after putting the food away, finding her in their bedroom reading. He quickly rid himself of his clothes and climbed on top of her, throwing her book onto the floor.

“Spread your legs.” He muttered between kisses and she easily spread her thighs wide apart, the metal end of the plug revealed to him. He grinned and pulled it out and then reached for the lube on the nightstand. When he pushed inside her ass it wasn’t slow or careful and Emily hissed in pain but a look between them let him know that it was okay.

He started to fuck her with long strokes, his eyes fastened on the way she stretched open for him. Emily’s sounds of slight discomfort quickly changed to moans of pleasure, her slick shining on her skin between her legs. Aaron sat back slightly on his heels and pushed two fingers inside of her, making her cry out loudly.

“You love being filled up like this, don’t you?” He whispered as he moved his hips and fingers in tandem.

“Yes!” She arched, eyelids drifting closed as Aaron wrenched pleasure from her body. “Baby, please…”

Aaron chuckled, the sound breathless and low as he watched her fall over the edge in record time. He groaned as she squeezed around his fingers and cock, her body trembling, clearly already exhausted and it wasn’t even noon yet. When she relaxed he pulled out and flipped her around, fucking her harder as she continued to moan and gasp into the bed.

He came with a punched-out groan, his own release hard and heavy as he doubled over her body. When he felt like he could move he fell beside her on the bed and quickly pulled Emily into his arms.

“Guess we’re going to have to shower again.” She mumbled into his neck and he nodded.

“In a minute baby.” He kissed her forehead and then stamped a kiss to her lips.

By the time they were having dinner, Emily had lost track of how many orgasms she’d had, her entire body aching in the most delicious way. Her body was littered with bruises, hickeys and bitemarks, so was his, she realized as she looked at him across from her.

“What?” He asked with a teasing grin in between bites of his steak.

“Nothing, just thinking that you’re going to have to be careful tomorrow when Jack is home and on Monday at the office, especially with the scratch marks on your arms.” She smirked right back, eyes lingering on a mark on his arm.

There was something in the darkness of her eyes, something in the flush on her cheeks and Aaron felt the familiar feeling of want stir low in his abdomen.

“On your knees under the table.” He said and Emily immediately put her utensils down and crawled under the table. She helped him out of his slacks and then wrapped her lips around his half hard cock as Aaron continued to eat his dinner. He closed his eyes and let himself enjoy her warm mouth around him.

“Ride me.” He told her later that night, the movie they had decided to watch had barely started before his hand was between her thighs.

Emily could feel every muscle in her body protesting but she quickly straddled his lap anyway, eager to please him. She sunk down on him with a whimper, her center swollen and aching as she started to move above him.

“Good girl.” He muttered, he could see the discomfort on her face, but they had been through this before and as long as Emily didn’t use her safeword he knew she was good to continue, but that didn’t mean that he didn’t want to make sure.

“I’m okay.” She said before he even had the chance to ask her and he relaxed. He leaned into the backrest of the couch, his head falling back as he watched her through hooded eyes as she rode him.

He let her set the pace, only pushing up to meet her hips once she found a rhythm. He planted his feet on the floor, fucked up into her as she rocked her hips against his with breathy moans falling from her lips. After a few minutes his hand moved to grip her hips and he started to thrust harder into her, a satisfied grunt sounding in his chest as Emily’s entire body jerked with the motion.

“Take it, that’s right take it.” He mumbled as he chased his release.

Emily let him use her body to get off, felt his movements get more and more uncoordinated as he groaned filth in her face. When he came she whimpered, the heat of him intense in her swollen skin. She stayed still until his hands turned softer on her body and his eyes opened to look at her. Once he nodded she moved back to her original place on the couch beside him, a soft sigh leaving her when his heavy hand found its way to her thigh again.

Emily was brushing her teeth when he came up behind her and she was honestly amazed that he could still get hard. He didn’t say anything as he pushed his already lubed cock against her ass, a deep growl sounding in his throat when he popped into her ass for the second time that day. She took him easier this time, her toothbrush falling into the sink as he started to fuck her with lazy pumps of his hips.

His eyes were on hers in the mirror, one hand moving to hold her jaw to keep her eyes on him and the other moved between her legs to rub her clit. She whined at the stimulation, her thighs squeezing shut and he gave her a warning look in the mirror. It was another second before she relaxed, let him drag gentle circled over her sensitive clit.

“Jesus Christ…” She mumbled, toothpaste still at the corner of her mouth as he kept her pinned against the counter.

“Just stand there and take it baby.” He whispered against her ear. He continued to move with slow strokes, the day finally taking its toll on him. It didn’t surprise him that he felt his orgasm build quickly, his body oversensitive too. He smirked when he somehow dragged another orgasm from her, the sound in her throat sounding more pained than pleasured as her eyes closed tightly, the flush on her skin that never really seemed to disappear only enhancing as she trembled.

The additional squeezing of her around him caused him to orgasm too and he grunted quietly against her neck, his teeth digging into soft skin. He didn’t move from her until he was slack, wordlessly turning the shower on again and then helped Emily inside as she stood on unsteady legs.

They showered quickly, sated and tired as they finished getting ready for bed. By the time they were climbing under the covers it was almost midnight, Aaron’s birthday officially coming to an end.

“Happy birthday, honey.” She mumbled, the words the same as they had been 24 hours earlier and he smiled into her neck. He had always hated his birthday, but Emily had most certainly changed that.

“Thank you, sweetheart.”

#hotchniss #hotchniss fanfiction #hotchniss smut #aaron hotchner x emily prentiss smut #aaron hotchner x emily prentiss #hotch x emily #hotchniss fanfic #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds smut #aaron x emily #aaron hotchner fanfiction #emily prentiss fanfiction

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littleperilstories · 1 year

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The Prince of Thieves: Connected Far Beyond a Miracle

Mood Boards | Chapter Titles | Also on A03! | Playlist | Story Intro

Warnings: mention of jail, aftermath of traumatic events, fear of suicidal ideation/self harm (mentioned), very vague reference to a previous death wish (not explicit at all)

Previous | Masterlist | Next

✨ Feel free to navigate forward to Finale Part 1, but if you're interested, there are two bonus chapters that come between 49 and 50:

💚 Box in Your Heart (Colette and Will)

🍂 Are You Nobody, Too? (Bree and Henry)

Word count: 3562 || Approx reading time: 15 mins

Connected Far Beyond a Miracle

Teaser: “What are you doing out here?” I demand when I make my way outside. It’s freezing, the wind whistling through the bare branches and nearly skinning me alive. “Do you want someone to see you? Recognize you?”

Jamie

I nearly lose it when I look around one day and Will is nowhere to be seen, and when I ask Colette if she’s seen him, she hasn’t, and then when I ask Geoff where the fuck he is, he can’t tell me, and when I check with Colette’s giggly stepsister who always somehow seems to know what Will is up to, she doesn’t know.

“Someone please tell me he didn’t fuck off without telling anyone.” The pain in my side is actually starting to fade—some days it doesn’t even hurt at all anymore—but now that it’s more or less gone, I’ve got that familiar why-is-my-brother-like-this headache back in its usual, throbbing spot in my temple.

“He went outside.”

I blink. I didn’t even bother asking Allan. Will still avoids him like the plague.

“What do you mean, went outside?” Colette pales. “What if someone—”

“He’s by the window. In the back.”

For fuck’s sake. Doesn’t Will realize that if the wrong person spots him, he’ll have the constables crawling all over Colette’s family’s house? “Why didn’t you stop him?”

Allan is nice, and he’s good at what he does, but he doesn’t have much of a fucking backbone.

“Because I didn’t feel like getting punched in the face.”

I rest my case.

Walking is mostly easy at this point, but standing up and sitting down still send a twinge bolting through me if I do it too fast. Still. I’d rather take ten seconds of pain than see Will in chains again.

“What are you doing out here?” I demand when I make my way outside. It’s freezing, the wind whistling through the bare branches and nearly skinning me alive. “Do you want someone to see you? Recognize you?”

“It’s the back of the house, Jamie. No one’s going to see me.”

“Are you willing to take that bet?”

“Yes.”

If I didn’t think it would make him flinch away from me like I was trying to throttle him—which, to be fair, I do want to do that, some days—I’d grab his arm and drag him back into the house. “Why are you out here?”

“I’ve been inside. For…” He stops. Clenches his jaw. Glares into the stormy-grey sky. “I’m losing my mind. I needed air.”

Geoff, who followed me back here, nudges my side. His meaning is clear: Sounds like someone I know.

“Shut up,” I say to him.

Will glances at me, scowling and ready to fight.

“Not you.” I jerk my head at Geoff. “Him.”

Leaning back against the wall, crossing his arms and planting his feet like a five-year-old, Will says, “Just go back inside. I’ll be in soon.”

“You’re not even wearing a coat.”

“It’s not that cold.”

“Will, get your ass back in the house.”

“No.”

What the fuck am I supposed to do, short of dragging him back by the hair? Can’t even do that, since Colette cut it all off. “Will, please.”

“No.”

Turning to Geoff, I give him a look to say, Please help. It’s not likely he can do anything, either, but Will sometimes listens to him when he won’t listen to me. And at least Geoff can wrestle him back inside if needed.

With a shrug, though, Geoff raises his hands in the air. “No one else is around.”

Great. He’s taking Will’s side. When I look back at my brother, he still looks pissed off, but there’s a smugness to it now.

You’re acting like a child, I want to say. I hold my tongue.

“Go back inside,” he repeats. “I’m not going to do anything stupid. Or are you all still afraid to leave me alone for too long?”

Fuck. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.”

There was a part of me that thought that once we had Will back, everything would settle. Perhaps not exactly go back to the way it was, but at least feel closer to normal.

I could not have been more wrong.

Nothing about this has been straightforward. Me, I have pain one day and none the next. Maybe that shouldn’t be too surprising. But Will… He’s laughing and goofy one moment and ready to stab a fork through Allan’s hand an hour later. He’s fine, and then he’s lost in a forest of thoughts so murky I wonder if he will be able to find his way out of it.

Breathe, Jamie. Just breathe. In and out.

“Tell me what’s on your mind,” I say to Will when I’m calm enough to actually say something nice.

The warmth of Geoff next to me pulls away. I start counting the seconds until he reappears with a coat and scarf in hand.

“Nothing,” Will says, his eyes fixed on something in the distance. When I follow his gaze, I don’t see anything worth staring at for hours. Just the promise of snow in the clouds. A brilliant red bird flitting from branch to branch.

“You’re the worst liar I’ve ever met,” I say. “What’s wrong?”

His jaw tightens. “I wish you’d all stop reminding me of that. I know. I fucking know.”

I was not expecting that to set him off. “All right. I’m sorry. I…”

“I tried,” he says. “I tried. To lie. To protect you. To protect…her.”

My headache intensifies. I have tried so fucking hard not to say anything that would bring him back to prison. Back to those weeks of torment.

All for nothing, apparently, because I’ve gone and done exactly that. “Will, I—”

“He knew, anyway,” he says, and I’m taken aback by the anger in his voice. “Somehow he fucking knew what to look for in their old arrest records, and I’ve been trying to figure it out, but no one… No one says anything. Even you. You got arrested and you never fucking told me and he had that old record and that’s how he knew your name, and I can’t believe you never said anything, Jamie, and that happened when Ma was still alive—”

“Will—”

“—And Bree told him we were brothers, but how did he know what name to look for? He already had it by the time I gave in, when I thought he was going to kill Bree, and—and—”

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I confessed to Geoff, and only Geoff—told him about the letter I sent, the promise I made to turn myself in if Will walked free. The promise I reneged upon once we had Hatchett to bargain with instead.

“I’m sorry,” I say. I was nineteen, young and foolish, the day I met Geoff, the day I was arrested, the day the constables got my name—the day that would all these years later fuck up everything for all of us. “For not telling you. I shouldn’t have kept it a secret.”

“You didn’t trust me?”

“You were fourteen,” I say. “You were a kid. I didn’t want you getting ideas.”

“Fine. Whatever.”

I know I can’t keep the rest of it from him, that if I do, I’ll be tearing apart the already shaky foundation we’ve been trying to rebuild since we got here. “Hatchett knew what to look for because he had my initials. I sent him a message.”

Will jerks away from the wall to stand up straight. “What?”

“I said I’d turn myself in if they let you out.”

I stumble backwards into the brick, pain scraping into my back, when Will reaches out and shoves me. “What the fuck did you do that for?”

Fuck. He’s got tears in his eyes, and so do I.

“Because I didn’t want to watch you get hanged, you idiot!”

“But it’s fine for me to watch you get hanged?”

“It’s not the same. IA was my idea. It was never your responsibility.” Never Will’s sin to atone for.

His hands curl into fists, and I wonder if he’s going to hit me. Maybe he should. Maybe I deserve it.

Then Will relaxes his muscles and looks away.

“I’m so tired,” he says. “I’m so tired of being mad all the time. Of the memories. Of being sad. I don’t want to remember any of it. But then I don’t want to fucking forget it, either. And that pisses me off. It pisses me off so much. I should. I should want to forget it. Why…”

I open my mouth, but he keeps going.

“I have to just be here and stay stuck inside and keep thinking and thinking and remembering. Do you think anything happened to—to him? Do you think he can’t sleep at night? Fuck that. He just went back to work and, yeah, maybe he’s still pissed off and looking for us but he doesn’t have to deal with this shit, but I do, and it never fucking ends, does it, and I just want to not be mad for even just a few minutes, but if I forgot it all then I’d forget—”

He turns away completely, and I can only tell from the movement of his arm that he’s wiping tears from his face.

“It’s not fair,” he says, but I can’t tell if the words are really meant for me.

Geoff finally reappears, clutching my coat, and Will’s too. I pull mine on and wait for my brother to face me once more. Dimly, I’m aware of Geoff squeezing my hand before he steps away again.

“It’s all right that you’re mad,” I say. “You have every right to be.”

It’s a long time before Will responds. Eventually he turns back outwards, not exactly facing me, to lean against the wall again and stare out at the nothing that’s so captivated him. I manage to get him to shrug into his coat, but he doesn’t seem to fully recognize me or even really know what he’s doing.

“Did you know that you knew her, kind of?”

The question is sudden, and with no context, I have no idea what it even means. “What?”

“Bree. Her dad was that prick you worked for. Who kicked you all out.”

The memory sends a shiver down my spine. “Silas Cooper. I noticed they had the same name.”

“She’s the girl who ran out of the house. That was her.” Will draws a deep breath. “She remembered your name. For a little bit, I was so sure she knew who you were. She didn’t though. But when he knew your name, I thought—I thought maybe she—” He stops. Shakes his head. “She swore she didn’t.”

He seems calmer now; his breath isn’t quite so quick and ragged, and his eyes look less wild.

“It’s funny,” he says. “Well, not funny. Weird. Fucked up, maybe.”

“I can’t read your mind, Will. What are you talking about?”

He picks at his nails. Avoids my gaze. “Bree. All the ways our paths crossed. More than once. She was the girl who tried to help you when she was a kid. And I was there the day Colette found her and dropped the coin. And she was…the girl from that night.” Will speaks quickly, something like guilt flashing across his face. “The snowstorm. You remember.”

“Oh. Yeah. She told me.”

“She did?”

“Yeah.”

Another long pause, and I brace myself for another abrupt subject change that he’s going to expect me to follow. Instead, he continues, “And then she got arrested right after me. And Hatchett picked on her when he had me wh…”

Even though he doesn’t finish the sentence, I understand what he’s referring to when he says, “He made her count.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“And what about all of that?”

He swallows hard, and his face goes red—nothing, I suspect, to do with the biting wind. “Why did we keep meeting like that? And then how could she just leave without saying goodbye?”

God, the look on his face. We’ve both been heartbroken before, more than once. And I know this look.

“I almost get it,” he says. “If she’d stayed… You know, when she looked at me, she’d be reminded of him, right? Of Hatchett. Of jail. And I… I wouldn’t want that. Right? They hurt her, too. Not just me. So I get it. I guess.”

God, if we were still kids, if he were still little, I’d pull him into a hug whether he liked it or not. Now I can only stand there and watch him stumble over his words, trying so desperately to say what he means.

“Life kept bringing us together. Like we were supposed to meet. To know each other. You know? Like it meant something. But then she fucked off. She fucked off, and she didn’t even say goodbye.” He turns his head away. “I guess it didn’t mean anything. And I’m just a fucking idiot. Like I always have been.”

“You’re not an idiot, Will.”

“Yes, I am.”

Fuck it. He’s my brother. He’s hurting.

“You’re not,” I repeat. “You went through hell. Hell. And you’re here. Still here. You survived. That makes you strong as fuck. Not an idiot.”

He’s my brother and he’s hurting and for the first time, he doesn’t flinch away when I get close. Pull him into a hug. He stiffens, though, and for a moment I wonder if he’s going to bolt. But he relaxes after a few seconds. And he doesn’t run.

Still, though, he doesn’t say anything, and I fear he’s lost again. “Do you want the rest of the story?”

“Hmm?” It’s like he’s hearing my words from far away. Slowly, he tugs out of my grip, and I let him go. “Which story?”

“What happened after Geoff and I met. In…” I cringe. “In jail.”

“I know how that story ends.�� He sounds so tired. “You’re in love and you’re going to live happily ever after.”

“Don’t be a smartass about it. You don’t know the whole story.” I watch his face for surprise, but there’s still distance there. “I only knew his name after that day, but nothing else. Didn’t know where to find him.”

I wandered around town for two weeks, looking for work, yes, but that wasn’t all I was searching for.

“It was by chance, I guess, kind of, that we met again. But I was trying my damnedest to find him.” I hovered around that hideous tavern almost every day, and in the end, I bumped into him down the street from our home.

“What the fuck?” I remember yelping. “What are you doing here?” For some reason, I felt hot. For some reason, I looked up and down the street, wondering if Ma or Will could see us. For some reason, even though my family was falling apart for the second time, I felt happy.

I tell my brother how we saw each other every day that summer. How, more than once, Geoff and I had to dodge Will and his friends spinning through the streets so he wouldn’t spot us and ask questions I knew I was not ready to answer.

I skip the details of the first time our hands brushed, or the first time his hand clasped mine. I do not mention the first time we kissed, or the first time I ran my fingers down the smooth dark skin of his bare chest—

“Jamie? Was there more, or what?”

Whoops. Maybe Will’s not the only one who’s a little lost.

“And then Ma got worse,” I say softly. These memories—in the deepest, darkest, murkiest ravine of that forest of the past—these are ones on which I don’t wish to linger. “And it just…stopped. We didn’t…” God, even remembering this is painful. “We didn’t see each other again. For years.”

Will is quiet, and his eyes are back on the sky, but I can tell he’s listening.

“And then one day my brother poached on someone else’s territory, picking pockets where he shouldn’t have been,” I say, and the corners of his mouth tip upward, “and this terrifying girl with curly hair and the biggest fucking guy I’ve ever seen were about to cut him to shreds—”

“Don’t be an ass,” he says. “She wasn’t going to cut me to—”

“Oh, yes I was.”

We both jump at the sound of Colette’s voice. She’s out here now, and Geoff, too. Snow, soft and white and gentle, is starting to fall. I watch the snowflakes sparkle against Geoff’s dark hair for precious moments before they melt, and he meets my eyes, smiling. How’d you end up on this story? he seems to ask.

“And wasn’t that big guy with her,” I say, “the same goddamn asshole who broke me out of jail years before?”

Geoff grins and looks away.

“If people are meant to find each other,” I tell Will, “then they just do.”

I can see him shivering, but my stubborn ass of a brother isn’t going to be the one to suggest going inside. “I’m glad you found each other,” he says.

“Me too.”

Geoff and Colette move in unison: he to stand next to me, and she to grab Will’s hands, which are starting to turn red from the cold. “So. Are you ready to come inside and get warm yet? Geoff made tea.”

“I suppose.”

“He supposes,” she says with a roll of her eyes. “Well, I suppose that Verie also baked a sponge cake and wants everyone to have a taste and shower her with praise.”

I swear I see Will’s eyes light up. Slightly—but it counts.

“Come on,” she says to him, and a sense of peace washes over me when Will finally agrees to go back inside, where it’s warm. Where it’s safe.

Geoff holds me back, gripping my arm with that firm yet gentle grasp when I try to follow.

“Just one,” he says. The snowflakes are still fat and lazy, drifting slowly like sugary fragments of stars. They cling to him now, no longer melting right away.

His kiss—god, his kiss. The sweetest and most perfect gift that, for a time, I thought I’d never enjoy again.

“I love you.” Words I don’t say enough. To him. To Will. To anyone.

“I love you, too.”

In the kitchen, Verity is fussing over her sponge cake, glancing over at Will through her lashes. Colette looks annoyed, and when Will’s not looking, I see her step on her sister’s foot.

“Stop making a fool of yourself,” she hisses. Verity just rolls her eyes.

Of course, Will doesn’t notice. He’s sunk his hand into his pocket, and his gaze is distant again. When I draw his attention, though, he comes back right away.

“You all right?”

He nods.

At that moment, Allan walks in, and I wince, certain that the peace I’ve just managed to chase down is going to be gone the second Will opens his mouth.

“So.” Will fixes Allan with his best tough stare, which wouldn’t cow any of us but makes the doctor shrink a little. I shoot a glance at Geoff, silently telling him to be ready to hold my brother back if needed. “Are you the reason they were hiding all the sharp stuff from me?”

Allan frowns. “What?”

“Did you…”

“Did I what?”

Will glances at me. “Did you tell them,” he says finally. “What I asked you to do.” So flat it’s barely a question. So quiet and ominous it makes me shiver.

Allan seems to catch Will’s meaning. “I didn’t breach your privacy in any way, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Impatiently, redness creeping into his face, Will says, “I don’t know what the fuck breach means.”

“I didn’t repeat any conversations we had while you were my patient. Because that would be unethical.”

For a moment, silence.

And then—

“Thanks.”

Allan blinks, nods, and mumbles an acknowledgement, and Will doesn’t say anything else.

“Why does everyone look so sad?” Verity asks. “Get yourselves to the table and enjoy my delicious, perfect cake.”

When the cake is gone from our plates and we’re all sipping tea, with Verity and Colette in quiet conversation, Geoff drawing soft circles on the back of my hand, and Allan reading a newspaper, I notice that Will is reading, too.

It isn’t a book or a newspaper in his hand, though, but a piece of paper, creased to all hell. Haphazard fold lines all over it. I don’t have to ask what it is.

As if he can feel my stare, he looks up. He must be able to read me as well as Geoff can, because he hesitates, then heaves a sigh and hands me the letter.

Will, it says, Thank you for saving my life, and for your forgiveness, even if I don’t know if I deserve either. Get well. Stay safe. And please, please, please be happy. I promise I will never forget you. Bree.

“She’ll be all right,” I tell him, clearing my throat and handing the letter back. “I’ve got a feeling.”

Though it seems like he wants to laugh, he doesn’t. “You’re probably right. She’s too fucking stubborn to die.”

“Language,” Verity admonishes from across the table, and Will grins at her.

With his breath tickling my ear, Geoff whispers, “He’ll be all right, too.”

Suddenly, my heart feels more full than it did before. “Promise?” I whisper back.

“Promise.”

Previous | Masterlist | Next

✨ Feel free to navigate forward to Finale Part 1, but if you're interested, there are two bonus chapters that come between 49 and 50:

💚 Box in Your Heart (Colette and Will)

🍂 Are You Nobody, Too? (Bree and Henry)

Stay close, can you feel the love between the two of us? / Let go, we can disappear inside the universe

If you look inside / Read between the lines / Everything is gradual / When you see the signs / The comets all collide / Everything is magical

We're interstellar hearts / Whenever we're together / Can't resist your gravity / It took a million miles to find you / Stars to fly through / Spark of perfect chemistry / This is our future / We're meant to find it / We will go further / 'Cause we're just interstellar hearts / In cosmic time / We shine

I don't understand the elements, the chemicals / But we both know we're connected far beyond a miracle / When you look inside / When you see the signs / Everything collides

I never knew that I could fall so hard, oh

Insterstellar Hearts - Awake or Sleeping

Next time on The Prince of Thieves:

Tagging: @starlit-hopes-and-dreams, @gala1981, @kixngiggles, @whither-wander-whump 💕

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