#i’ll just get ready for bed. and then she asks ‘have you even exercised at all today?’

[rosesradio]

.

[magics-neptunes-things]

Secret Love II

So, here we are with the second part! I don't really where I'm going with it right now to be honest, so I'm just gonna I’ll just let my imagination run wild.

Thanks for your reviews, don't hesitate leave me some, it always makes me very happy to know what you think of my writings :)

Enjoy!

P.S Part one is HERE

____________________________________________________________

A few hours after leaving your hotel room, you return there hoping to be as discreet as you were before. On tiptoe, you reach your bed and slip under the covers, your mind always with Alexia. She also went to her room, you both agreed that it was important to enjoy the last hours of sleep before dawn. While you are looking for sleep, you don't realize that Ona’s breathing is no longer as deep as when you left, indicating that she is awake.

"... going to be late!"

Ona’s voice comes to you like through a fog and you need a few blinks of eyes to finally fix your gaze on her face.

"Breakfast is in seven minutes, you know how is Vilda with late people"

Oh man. You jump of your bed, frantically searching for your clothes by making more mess than anything else. You sprint in the bathroom to wash your face and comb your hair in a messy bun, trying to get the sleep of your face.

"Ona go, don't be let yourself" you say to your roomate.

"You sure?" she asked, popping her head by the door.

"Yeah"

"Ok. Your shirt is upside down."

You swear before you put it right, jump in your sneakers and go out slamming the door of the room. Obviously the elevator doors close a few meters from you, so you decide to take the stairs. It’s a miracle you’re on time and you're not even the last one.

You spot Alexia, sitting next to Jenni and Irene, with the same fresh, rested look as if she had slept 12 hours straight. This woman, you thought, before serving you a breakfast tray and looking for a free place.

************************

"Y/N what's that?"

You turn around but Aitana had time to have a close look to the hickey Alexia made two days ago. Her loud question made everyone turn around, even if you all were supposed to be focused on your strength exercises.

"What are you talking about?" you ask, your mind racing while looking for a good excuse.

"You got a bruise on your neck"

At this point those who were furthest away turned their attention to their exercises, but you feel that the look of several of your teammates burning your back. You crossed Alexia's eyes for a second and open the mouth to talk, but another voice answers before you.

"It must have been when you fell while getting ready, the morning you were late. I thought she was gonna break her neck."

The second sentence is more for Aitana than for you, but she seems to accept this answer with even a small laugh before grabbing his dumbbell again. It's Ona's look that you cross this time and since you don’t know what to tell her, you’re starting to do your exercises again.

************************

"So, you and Alexia uh?"

You were back in your room, reading a book while listening some music. It was free time but it was so cold outside that you didn't want to go out for now. Ona had said nothing until now, even during the meal time when you found yourself sitting in front of her. Even if you knew the subject was coming at some point, you appreciate the fact that she chooses to be sure she isn’t being heard by anyone to bring the subject.

"Well... Maybe"

You can't fight back the smile on your face and your vague answer seems to be enough for your roommate.

"Who knows?" she asked.

"No one, apart from Alexia’s mother."

"Even Jenni?"

You bite your lip and shakes your head. You know Alexia want to talk about it with Jenni, she's her bestfriend after all. But you had a rule and she just get with it.

"We got together six months after I arrived in Barcelona, I had a hard time understanding what was happening the first time she tried to flirt with me."

You smile in spite of yourself, the flirting was not necessarily the strong of Alexia but you always found it touching.

"And then we broke up when we lost against Wolfsburg, she thought our relationship was what kept her from focusing on the game and the win."

You swallow with difficulty, these memories being particularly dark for both of you. But now that you’ve started talking about your story, you can’t stop. Especially since the Catalan seems to be an excellent listener.

"After that we lost the final... It was awful. I spent every second trying not to look at her, not to show anything to anyone. No one knew and they thought I was disappointed that we lost the final when I was in reality heartbroken."

Lost in your thoughts, your gaze on your hands, you notice only when you feel her presence that Ona left her bed to sit next to you. She places her hand on your arm and you look up at her smiling, which must probably seem strange to her given with what you're saying after.

"Weeks and months passed and we found ourselves training for the Euro. And you certainly don’t need me to remind you what happened with her ACL."

Ona’s grimace speaking of herself, you continue, leaning against the wall behind you.

"I wrote her several times to tell her that I was thinking about her, but she didn't answer. I didn't expect her though, I knew that she had cut contact with almost everyone. But when we were eliminated and I returned to Barcelona, I found her one time on my doormat. She was... I never saw her like that Ona. She was destroyed."

The memory of this moment gives you shivers and you shake yourself mentally to return to the present.

"I let her in and she talked about her insecurities. She told me she was supposed to be in rehab in 15 minutes, but she didn’t want to go. She felt that it was useless and that she would never play again. So I threatened to call her mother and took her there. That’s when we started seeing each other again and got back together soon after."

There was a small silence, during which Ona seemed to digest the information you had just given her. With frowns, she looks at you thoughtfully when answering.

"I'm sorry, I didn't know it was this deep. And I’m sorry you both had to go through this without being able to tell anyone."

"It's in the past now. I can't talk for her but she makes me really happy. You really saved us this morning, but please keep it to yourself for now"

"I will"

She smiles and you kiss her cheek before she gets up to go to the bathroom. Thinking it's better to inform Alexia, you take your phone.

You - Can you talk?

Mi Reina ♥ - Yes, what's up?

You - Ona knows about us, I kind of just told her everything.

Mi Reina ♥ - Well she kind of cover you up this morning so it was obvious Guapa

You - Sorry if my girlfriend can't keep her lips to herself :)

Mi Reina ♥ - Touché.

Mi Reina ♥ - Can I talk to Jenni about us, since Ona knows?

You - If you want to, it's ok for me.

The next day, it didn’t take you long to realize that Alexia had spoken to Jenni. You have surprised the gaze of the striker several times, examining you with a thoughtfulness look. Every time you catch her looking at you, you were foolishly blushing and it was only when Alexia slapped her head that she stopped looking at you.

************************

Time pass and here you are, at the final of the World Cup. The more you advanced in the tournament, the harder it was to manage time for you and Alexia. But you had a few moments, thanks to Jenni and Ona who covered you a few times. You didn’t escape Jenni’s threatening conversation, based on "Hurt my best friend and you won’t see the light of the day again" but other than that she seems to have given you her blessing.

You were in the locker room once again, but this time it was the Final. You were playing against England, your last game of the tournament. You're not really listening what Vilda is saying, focused on your boots. You start the match, next to Alexia, Ona, Jenni and your others teammates. You’re stressed, you can’t wait for the game to start now.

You haven't forget the promise Alexia made this night in your hotel, but you haven't bring to topic again. Even if it doesn't happend, you couldn't be more happy.

What it seems an eternity later, you were on the fields and the referee was blowing in her whistle. You made it, you were World Champions. Tears of joy and relief invaded your eyes and you find yourself caught in a collective embrace, without really knowing who is tight against you. Cries of joy, tears and the cheering of the crowd around you seem to come from far away.

When you are able to stand up, you find yourself facing Ona who also huggs you before mumbling "I have to find Lucy". Of course she have to, not matter what is her relationship with her, they are really close.

You search for a particular person too, your eyes scanning around for pink hair. When you spot Alexia, she's on the ground and Jenni is helping her to stand up.

A bit like in a dream, you start running towards her before throwing yourself in her arms. The mix of emotion makes you feel like you’re floating when you wrap your legs around her waist and she hugs you back.

"We did it" you say, while she keeps you in her arms.

"Yes we did" she answers, with the most beautiful smile in her face.

If you weren't already madly in love with her, you'll probably fall again right now.

"So… What now?" you asked soflty after some seconds of silence you passed admiring her.

"I'm going to kiss you."

And she did, barely letting you the time to understand what she said. Keeping you in her arms, she approaches her face to yours and places her lips on yours, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Of course you hear exclamations of surprise around you, but you can’t focus on anything other than Alexia. She ends up putting you down, letting go your lips for a few seconds to catch her breath. You then kiss her a few seconds later, drawing her as close as possible.

You may have won the World Cup, but ultimately your greatest victory is her.

[shoku-and-awe]

Complicated anxiety post!

I scheduled a fancy haircut thinking I’d be excited by the time it rolled around, and now the free cancellation window has closed but I’m still :|

I know I *need* a haircut. It’s gotten so long that I hate washing it (it clings all the way down my back and literally makes me whimper with grossness). So I wash it less often than I like, and not wanting to wash it makes me put off swimming and exercise and other things that make me feel good. It also gets super tangled and dry, and I have to braid it every night before bed, and if I wear it up/braided too often, it makes my scalp hurt. (Also, the braid falls on my dog when I pick him up and bothers him.)

I know a haircut is inevitable. Both sides are shaved and the ponytail keeps getting thinner and thinner. Also I have several inches of crunchy dead ends.

I want to keep the length because it looks cool to have shaved sides and just a big messy pile on top. (Also: sunk cost fallacy.) I also feel like it’s a compromise with Japanese beauty standards: I don’t really perform femininity, and societal pressure is so strong, and also having long hair like a pretty lady makes me less threatening as a scary foreigner; I don’t also need to look unfeminine or uncategorizable.

(The pressure here is really next level. People say “I’ve noticed you don’t wear makeup” in the tone I’d use for “I’ve noticed you don’t wear pants.” I once asked my Japanese ex why she did a full face of makeup just to run to 7-11, and she said, “It’s just basic manners.” It’s really hard to not conform! And I already don’t conform. (Should that make it easier? Sure! Does it? Fuck off with your logic—hair does not operate on logic!))

Making it harder is that my face is fatter than the last time I had short hair. (And older.) It probably won’t look good anymore! And even if it does, I don’t think I’ll be able to see it, and I will walk away shaken.

I could make a less dramatic change, but I’m not sure how viable that will actually be. Transitioning an undercut is complicated, and I’ve had hairstylists here respond to suggestions with “Yeah, that’s just not possible” (and Japan = rules do not bend). Also, pricewise, this is not a place I’d go for a trim; I went and called in the experts, and I’m not ready for them.

Also, time pressure. If I’m going back to bangs, I have to do it well before warm weather hits and we’re doing concrete jungle with 80% humidity. I’ve made that mistake before. You need a transition period. Emotionally, and to train your hair!

The one uncomplicated upside is that I have a cool silver stripe in my hair if it’s parted a certain way, so I can finally get my haircut that makes me Rogue! I’ve wanted that for years.

I plan to consult with the stylist, but I’m honestly no longer sure enough to know what to say. And I told him that it was a big haircut but I knew what I wanted!

要するに, it would be so much easier if this war was just society vs. my preferred expression/presentation. There’s other parties begging me to cut: exercise!!! hygiene!!!! scalp pain (grim!)!!! my little dog!!!

[btsficsandsuch]

Hi! Can you write about Jungkook having to take care of his pregnant wife, as she has some difficulties in her pregnancy. Jk is just really concerned and gentle with her, wanting to grant her every wish, he also babies her, because he considers her really fragile. It would make me really happy 💜💜

Hope you like this!

Perfect Little Family

“Hey it’s going to be okay. We will get through this.”, your husband Jungkook spoke as he reached over taking your hand in his. You didn’t have the words to respond. You felt bad because you knew Jungkook was terrified but he was doing his best to put on a brave face for you. Being 8 months pregnant was terrifying in itself but now with the news that there may be complications, you feel completely petrified and unsure of what to do. Thankfully the doctor walked in to finally give some answers.

“Okay Y/N. After running some tests we’re going to diagnose you with preeclampsia. I know that sounds scary but you’re in good hands. We just want to be able to keep your little girl inside of you as long as we can but the health and safety of both of you is our first priority. I’m going to give you a prescription to help manage your blood pressure. Getting rest is also recommended. I also want to see you twice a week until you’re ready to deliver. Our goal is to get you to 37 weeks at minimum but we’ll take it day by day.” All you could do is nod. There was so much information being thrown at you and not what you wanted to hear. Thankfully Jungkook was there to ask all the questions. You could hear him asking about your diet, exercising, stress management. It was like he came prepared with a list of questions and he was closely listening to the doctors answers making lots of mental notes. You’d never been happier to have him with you than within that moment.

The ride home from the doctors appointment was silent on your end. Jungkook did his best to try and take your mind off of things. You knew he was desperate when he gave you an exaggerated opera performance of the newest Taylor Swift song that was playing on the radio but when he didn’t even get a smile from you he knew what you needed instead. He reached over grabbing your left hand that you had tucked into the pocket of your (his) hoodie giving it a squeeze, “Y/N, I know this is scary and we didn’t plan it to be this way but I know it’s going to work out. You have one of the best doctors in Seoul who happens to specialize in this condition. I’m going to be here every step of the way. We’ll get through this.” “I know Kookie. Thank you for being here with me.”, you manage to whisper. You felt terrible for essentially ignoring him the last couple hours when he’s done nothing but try and comfort you.

Once home you immediately make your way to the kitchen realizing just how hungry you are but before you can even reach for a pan Jungkook wraps his arms around you gently pulling you away from the stove. “Go lay down Y/N. I’ll make you something to eat. You need to rest, remember?”, he says before giving your neck a kiss. “Kookie I can manage making myself a grilled cheese.”, you smiled. He shook his head, “Nope, let’s go lay down. I’m not asking again.” “I like this new demanding Jungkook.”, you said as you watched his cheeks turn red. Not wanting to argue with him you went to your bedroom and put on your favorite movie before getting under the covers.

Not long afterwards Jungkook came walking in with a grilled cheese sandwich, a small side salad, and apple slices. “Thank you so much Kookie. This looks amazing.”, you said taking the tray from him. The rest of the day was spent cuddling in bed and relaxing trying to let the stress from earlier go.

The next few weeks were hectic to say the least. Two doctors appointments a week took a toll on you. Jungkook barely left your sided. He cooked all your meals and brought them to you in bed except the one time he made soup and was worried you’d spill it on yourself in the bed so you got to come sit at the kitchen table but only after he carried you there. He was adamant that he had to be at all the appointments, even missing out on a few important meetings though you begged him to go to work and that you’d be okay with your mom taking you but he refused. You were currently getting ready to take a shower that he insisted on being in the bathroom for. As you were removing your clothes you looked over at your husband sitting on the edge of the bathtub staring at you with a smile. “Are you sure you didn’t want to be in here just so you could see me naked?”, you chuckled. “I want to be in here to make sure you don’t slip or get too tired from standing so long or what if you drop your shampoo bottle and can’t pick it up? You being naked is just a bonus.”, he smirked.

The shower was much needed and you felt relaxed and ready for sleep. Even though you spend much of your day in bed you didn’t get much actual sleep. The two of you were laying in bed together when you looked over and noticed Jungkook was still awake. “Hey you okay?”, you asked. He nodded, “Yeah just thinking. You’re at 37 weeks tomorrow and you have an appointment. What if the doctor says it’s time?” You were a little taken back because the last few weeks he had been your rock. “Then we’ll take it hour by hour just like we’ve been doing day by day. As long as I have you with me then we’ll get through this.”, you said squeezing his hand reassuringly.

At some point you must’ve drifted off because you were woken up when you heard Jungkook softly speaking. You thought maybe he was having a dream but then you realized he had his head resting just below your chest while he was rubbing gentle circles on your bump. You slowed your breathing so you could try and hear what he was saying. “Hey baby girl, it’s your dad. We have to be quiet because mommy is sleeping. I know we haven’t talked in a while but things have been so crazy lately. You’re really giving us quite a scare right now. It’s not your fault though. The doctor said it can happen to anyone. I tried to do everything I could to make it easier for her but I still feel like I’m not doing enough. I’m trying my hardest to be brave for mommy but the truth is I’m scared too. What if something happens to either of you? I don’t know what I’d do. Your mom has an appointment tomorrow and they might decide that we get to meet you early. I’m really excited for that and I know your mom is ready to get you out but we’re both nervous so be easy on us tomorrow, especially your mom. I love you more than I will ever be able to tell you. Sleep well baby girl.”, he finished with a soft kiss to your bump.

You felt him start to stir and not wanting him to know you were listening you quickly closed your eyes pretending to be asleep but you could feel your heart filling with love at the man sleeping next to you. The next day the two of you went to your appointment, hospital bag included just incase.

After a small wait the doctor finally came in and shook both of your hands. “Well Mr. and Mrs. Jeon, I have good news and bad news. The good news is that you safely made it to 37 weeks which is what we were hoping for. The bad news is that the tests we ran today show that your preeclampsia is worsening so I am going to recommend that we admit you to labor and delivery immediately. We will bring you a wheelchair and one of the nurses will take you up to your room.” The doctor gave a quick smile before heading out the door and before the door was even fully closed you released the tears you were holding in. Jungkook immediately noticed and began wiping at them with his thumbs, “It’s going to be okay Y/N. The hospital staff is going to take good care of both of you and I’m going to be here every step of the way. Just think, this time tomorrow we could be holding our daughter in our arms.” You smiled and leaned up for a kiss. Again he was putting on a brave face for you when you were falling apart.

The next several hours went by in a blur. Your beautiful daughter was born at 4:55am and was happy and healthy. “She’s beautiful. She looks just like her dad.”, you said looking up at Jungkook who had tears in his eyes as he looked down at the baby resting on your chest. “She’s just as gorgeous as her mom.”, he said wiping away the tears while looking at his perfect and healthy little family.

[604to647]

Safest with You (Ch. 12 - The Workout)

7.2K / Modern AU Retired Mob Enforcer!Din Djarin x fem!reader

Summary: You and Din “work out” at Mando’s gym and you end up getting sick.

Warnings: 18+ content (MDNI please), reader ogles Din like a piece🥩, smut, unprotected PiV sex, semi-public sex (car), new-ish established relationship, dirty talk, light degradation, light daddy kink, pet names as usual (pretty bird, baby, sweetheart, bunny, etc.), description of flu symptoms (it's gross y'all), reader is described as shorter than Din and he strokes her hair while she's sick.

A/N: Oo! This is a long one; it's just because The Workout and The Cold used to be two chapters and I ended up shmushing them together. There was an ask about Din taking care of reader while she's vulnerable; I hope this chapter fulfills that ask! 🥰 Thank you as always for reading!

Series Masterlist

“You know, you can come work out at Mando’s, if you want.”

“Really?  That won’t be weird?  Like, I’m moving in on your space?”

“I like you in my space.”

Din says it like a simple statement of fact, not even looking up from the cutting board where he’s slicing the steak he grilled for dinner.  You’re not big on working out, but once in a while you just like to go for a run or a row and zone out to some TV; it’s not a regular thing so you don’t have a membership anywhere, and your building has a gym on the third floor that you can use whenever the urge strikes you (not often).  But this morning when you went downstairs, ready to put in the hour you needed to catch-up on your favourite trashy reality show, you had found a temporary closure notice on the gym entrance.

It's not a bad idea.  The weather is getting a bit chillier so your walks with Al haven’t been as long as both of you would like; it might be nice to have another option to get a little bit of exercise, “It’s okay if I just use the cardio machines?  I won’t use any of the weight lifting equipment or anything.”

“You can use whatever you like.  I’ll even have Jimmy fetch you water and towels.”

“Noooooo,” you make a face and shake your head.

“Yessssss,” he mimics you, “You’re the boss’ girl, you should be treated special.”

“You treat me special enough, for you and Jimmy both, thanks,” you say, still scrunching up your nose, but you tell Din you’ll take him up on his kind offer.

---

The next weekend, you leave Al snoozing on the Din’s bed and head down to the gym with the intention of saying hi to Din while he works, but also to run off some of the stress from the work week.  Like the gym in your building, there are enough empty machines so you have your pick, but unlike your gym, the patrons all seem to know one another and are treating their workouts like a social event.  Din’s helping out with the training today; you give him a little wave when you walk by the ring so not to distract him, and pick a treadmill off to the side so you can still see him and also simultaneously do some innocent people watching while you run.  Headphones on, your phone jacked in to the console so you can stream your show, you pick the program you want the machine to run and start your work out.

Your plan is almost immediately derailed.  As the familiar title sequence of your show starts to play, your eyes drift up past the screen and lock onto Din’s figure in the ring.  He’s sparring with Chris today; having already gone a few rounds while you were upstairs, both men are sweaty and breathing heavily, chests and shoulders heaving as they circle each other.  Din has sweated through his t-shirt so that it’s now sticking against his body, making him look even more immense than usual, and you openly gawk at the strong lines of his back and arms visible through the darkened fabric.  As if he’s somehow reading your mind, Din puts a pause on the bout in order to remove his wet shirt; it’s not an easy task given his gloves, but he manages it with some grace and the use of his teeth to pull and hold the collar.  When he finally whips the shirt over his damp curls, you’re treated to the sight of his thick, hard chest, glistening and flexing as he stretches out his arms; you feel a heat pooling below your abdomen and a flush spread across your chest that has nothing to do with your lackluster exercise efforts.

Far from doing any people watching like you had planned, you’re now struggling to make sure that you yourself don’t become a spectacle by openly drooling while you watch a shirtless Din fight in the ring.  Every one of his punches is quick and agile, arms extending perfectly to show off his control and precision; his muscles prominent and flexed, the veins on his forearms protruding as his gloved fists clench, ready for impact.  He’s a mammoth force, a powerhouse, somehow both immovable and unstoppable, and he looks good enough to eat.

You haven’t watched single a minute of your show and it’s actually getting to the point where the voices coming through your headphones are an unwelcomed distraction from the actual show you’re engrossed in, so you take off your headphones and place them next to your water bottle.  Big mistake.  Now, you can very clearly hear Din’s groans and pants as he ducks and punches.  It’s like the thirst trap video you’ve been watching all of a sudden turned up its pornographic soundtrack.  Din’s low, throaty grunts as he exerts himself, coupled with the words of praise you hear him shout out in his deep, encouraging baritone, have your mind running wild.

When Chris lands a hard punch to Din’s shoulder and you hear him grunt out, “Fuck!”, you nearly trip over your own feet. 

You’re pounding back your water, throat parched and sweating profusely, and you’re barely 20 minutes into the preselected program; you’re not even going to lie to yourself, the flush of your skin and your shortness of breath have absolutely nothing to do with this treadmill.  You’re about to admit defeat and cut the run short, thinking you could definitely benefit from a cold shower, when you see Chris and Din touch gloves, seemingly done training for the moment.  Din ducks under the ropes and starts taking off his gloves; as he walks past you, he throws a towel around his neck and you a quick wink.  Where is he going? You watch as he heads to the front of the gym, disappearing around the partition wall that rests between the front door and the main gym.

Without even thinking, you stop your machine, grab your things, and try to quickly and discretely follow.  You find Din outside, having put on a dry shirt, standing behind his truck with the trunk door opened above him as he rifles through the box full of equipment he keeps in the trunk.  Wordlessly, you put your things down on the trunk bed next to the box, surprising Din at your sudden appearance, “Hey pretty bird, what are you doing here?  It’s cold, you sh-“.  Taking his hand, you lead him to step back before pressing the auto-close button on the trunk door; as it folds down; you open the door to the back seat of the truck, and gently push Din to get in, with you following directly. 

Din chuckles as you situate yourself on his lap, straddling his thighs, looking at him with a hunger in your eyes, “Baby, what’s all th-?”.  He’s cut short when you silence him by throwing your arms around his neck and attach your lips to his, hard and hurried.  You’re embarrassingly pent up from the last 20 minutes of watching the hottest man you’ve ever known show off his power and skill on what was basically a stage you had a front row seat to, and now you need to feel the strength of those muscles on you, under you, fucking up into you.

“Want you,” you mumble against his lips, “…so turned on. Watching you.”  You’re barely able to string together your thoughts, you’re so consumed with exploring the cavern of Din’s mouth with your tongue, but Din gets the idea.  Feeling incredibly needy, you start lightly grinding down on Din’s lap, and he encourages you by placing his hands on your waist and helping guide your movements; even this light friction feels overwhelmingly good against your aching clit, and you throw you head back and cry out, unabashed and loud enough for anyone walking by Din’s car to hear. 

“Fuck, daddy, need you.  Please, please…” your mouth back to messy kissing Din’s as your hands thread through his damp hair, tugging at the curls at the base of his neck and earning you a deep growl from the back of his throat.

“Look at my desperate, pretty girl,” groans Din, eyes greedy as you take off your t-shirt, then your sports bra, letting your tits bounce in his face, “…can’t even go a whole work out without riding her daddy’s dick.”

Unable to wait another minute, you peel your wet shorts and panties off in one go, now completely naked, sweaty and panting on top of a still fully clothed Din. “Not my fault, daddy,” you pout as you press yourself down on Din’s clothed cock, making a wet mess of his gym shorts.  “You looked so fucking good in that ring, then you were making all those grunting noises. Couldn’t think of anything else but you filling me with your cock.  Ahh-,“ you gasp out loud as Din takes one of your nipples in his mouth, nibbling and rolling the sensitive bud between his teeth before sucking down and flicking it with his tongue.  You whine and increase the intensity and tempo of your movements while he moves to do the same to your other nipple, hand palming and tweaking the now abandoned breast.  Din’s free hand snakes its way down to your core only to find you slick with want, a sticky mess already coating your inner thighs and soaking through his shorts, “Messy, messy slut.  You get this wet just from watching me spar?  Good thing you followed me out here, can’t have you leaking all over the gym floor like this.”  He brings up his fingers so you can both see how your wetness coats his fingers, even though he has yet to insert them into you.  When he pulls them apart, you watch the fluid web that connects his fingers stretch, proof that your pussy is positively leaking; you whimper at the filthy sight and bring Din’s hand to your mouth, popping his fingers into your mouth so you can suck off your own arousal.  Moaning at the taste of your own indecency, you grind down hard against Din’s groin, his hard-on straining painfully against his shorts. 

“Fuck me,” you mumble, Din’s fingers still in your mouth.

“Let me make you come first, pretty bird,” Din pleads, always putting your pleasure first and wanting to lesson the sting of the first stretch of his cock within your tight walls.

“Can’t wait, daddy… please, I can take it, please.”

“Are you sure, sweetheart?” grits Din, as he pushes his shorts and boxers down; his leaking cock springing out and slapping against your stomach, coarse hair at the base tickling your clit and making you gasp in pleasure, “YES!  Please, daddy, need to bounce for you.”

You’ve never taken him without having come first, and if you weren’t so far gone, answering only to your lust, you would probably be worried; but as you line yourself up with Din, the shudder you get just from swiping his swollen head through you folds and tapping it on your clit makes it impossible to care about anything other than having him inside you right now.

Slowly, slowly you sink down on Din’s length, taking him a little at a time.  Din grips your waist tightly, eyes closed, forcing himself to breathe; you’re so incredibly tight this, warm cunt practically strangling him, he fights the urge to move and bury himself in you fully.  The stretch of Din’s fat cock is almost too much, your soft walls molding so tightly to him you can feel every ridge and vein as you slowly spear yourself downwards.  The pain doesn’t register so much as the overwhelming feeling of fullness, your body needing more time and space to accommodate Din’s thickness.  When he finally bottoms out, you just sit and sigh, sated from just warming his throbbing cock in your tight heat. 

Your lust driven frenzy quelled, you now rest serene in Din’s arms, drinking in his gentle kisses, soothing touches, and words of praise of how good you’re doing for him; Din worshipping you as you take his cock so perfectly, and you getting used to his size and relearning how to breathe.  Finally, finally, you look up at Din’s face to see his eyes filled with adoration, and your breathing evens, allowing you to kiss him with renewed passion.  Grinning against your lips, Din murmurs, “Thought you wanted to bounce, bunny?”

Pulling away slightly and grinning back, you nod and lift yourself up a little, then slowly push yourself down back down fully onto Din’s length again, eliciting a heady groan from you both.  You repeat the action, again and again, each time increasing the amount of Din’s length you work in and out of your pussy, until you’re panting and bouncing up and down on the full length of Din’s dick, “Feel so good, daddy.  So full.”

“So fucking pretty, bouncing on me like a whore, bunny,” groans Din, as he mouths at your tits.  You love his new pet name for you, the endearment spurring you to bounce harder and chase the high that’s been building since you saw him land a thundering cross punch to Chris’ jaw in the ring. 

“Love being your slutty bunny, daddy,” you cry, head thrown back in ecstasy, “wanna ride this cock until it’s all creamy.  Until it fills me up, ngh..ahhh-“

Din thinks he’s going to explode from your filthy words, then he knows he’s going to explode when he looks down at where the two of you are connected and sees a ring of white around the base of his cock, “Holy shit, baby.  Look at you already creaming around me.  My perfect bunny.  Doing so good riding this dick, taking me so well.  So fucking perfect.”

He presses one of his hands against your stomach, balls tightening when he swears he can feel some movement against his palm from the inside, and uses his thumb to draw his name on your swollen clit. 

It’s too much, too much.  The stretch and burning sting of having taken Din’s cock without much prep, his filthy words of praise, the lewdness of fucking in his car in broad daylight parked out in the open in front of his place of business, the tenderness of your new pet name, the delicious pressure on your clit – you come.  You come with a soundless scream, the stuttering of Din’s name punctuated by sharp gasps of air, you body shudders and shivers as you clench down hard on Din’s cock.  Hand threading, then fisting the hair at the base of your neck, Din fucks up into you as he praises you through your high.

“So fucking gorgeous when you come for me, pretty bird.”

“My little bunny did such a good job on daddy’s dick.”

“You feel so good, baby.  Made for me.”

You’re still so full, but now also so pliant and eager to please; with what remaining energy you have, you bounce down hard, meeting every one of Din’s upward thrusts so he bottoms out in you each time, the force of each drive has your ass jiggling as it slaps down on his thighs.  Din grunts and pants as he chases his own finish; you hug yourself around his neck, and babble, “Thank you for making your bunny come, daddy.  Felt so good to gush all over your dick.  Want to do the same for you, Din.  Please, please, fill me up.  Need your cum, please.”  Never one to deny you anything, Din comes with a roar, filling your pussy with rope after rope of his milky cum so you grow even fuller and continue to hum, “Thank you, thank you, daddy.”

Your post “workout” cooldown comprises of gentle strokes to the back, soft cradling of heads, and quiet words of devotion; tired and satisfied in Din’s embrace, you start to shiver, and this time not from pleasure.  Coming out into the cold air while sweating from a run, then getting naked in a colder car was probably not the smartest idea, but you hadn’t been really thinking about the well-being of your health at the time.  Din rubs his big hands over your arms to warm you up, “Pretty bird, let’s get you dressed.”  You find your gym clothes but the idea of putting on damp clothes is wholly unappealing, so Din reaches his long arms into the trunk and roots around for some spare clothes.  Stepping out of the truck in an oversized yellow Lakers t-shirt and Din’s sweatpants that you’ve rolled up multiple times, you realize it couldn’t be any more obvious what the two of you have been up to.

Getting your things from the trunk, you decide to go through the side entrance straight up to Din’s apartment to avoid any walk of shame embarrassment in the gym.  Giving him a parting kiss at the front door, you whisper, “Hope it’s okay we did that, Din.  Don’t want anyone to file a complaint against Mando’s.”  You look so cute, worried about the reputation of his business, Din can’t help but yank you against him via the waistband of his pants and give you a deep reassuring kiss, “Perk of being a Mando, pretty bird – no one can say shit to you,” before sending you upstairs with a spank.

---

You start to feel a tickle in your throat when you go to sleep on Sunday, and by the time you wake up for work on Monday, it’s a full-blown sore throat.  You trudge through a morning of meetings, trying to avoid the pounding of your head and attempt to soothe your throat with lozenges when your team gathers at the door to your office and point a makeshift cross made out of pens and rubber bands at you, telling you to go home.

You gather your computer and some files and tell them you’ll work from home until you’re better, but they insist you rest; you compromise and say you’ll be available by email before heading home.

Din is doing double duty again his week; although you haven’t voiced your concerns, you've noticed that Din’s been a little restless as of late, him and Paz meeting more frequently over an increasing number of border skirmishes and disputes that need to be handled.  You’re not sure if it’s anything serious, but you do know that the need to step up security has been weighing on Din – he himself stepping in and putting in more face time than he has since his retirement.  You call Din to let him know that you seem to have caught a cold, and you think it’s better if he doesn’t come over, in case he catches it too.  With him working long hours, you don’t want anything to risk him getting even less rest than he already is.  As expected, he protests, but you insist even though you will miss him.

The next morning you wake up feeling like hot garbage.  You slog through about two hours of work before making the executive decision to put your out-of-office on and reschedule you remaining meetings.  Your team tells you they don’t want to hear from you until next week but know you’re likely too stubborn to agree to that.  You take a bunch of drugs and wonder how you got sick.  You’re usually pretty healthy and while the weather is getting chillier, you’re not out much without being bundled up? 

Oh. 

Your drowsy brain flashes a vignette of sweaty bodies in the backseat of a car, windows fogging as the heat from illicit activities condense against windows cooled by the lower outside temperatures.   Of Din’s face buried into your neck, holding you close as you both calm down, your naked body cooling and shivering after your explosive highs.  So, this man really will be the death of me, you think, as you pass out.

You wake up groggy and with your throat on fire later in the afternoon.  Popping some more drugs, you reply to some work emails and the messages from your friends and Din checking in.  You know he’s doing another late night with the Mandos, so you downplay your symptoms a bit so he will acquiesce to your suggestion that he go straight home to rest again.  It’s easier to do over text; a phone call would have given away your loss of voice and sent him racing over.  With your friends, you can be more candid, I’m dying you tell them – they all immediately volunteer to come over but you tell them to stay away for their own sakes.  Going to bed early after taking Al out, you debate dinner but ultimately go without because you can’t handle swallowing any food.

Wednesday is… a blur.  You don’t even turn on your computer today or look at your phone.  You drag yourself out of bed, take Al out, feed Al, then curl up on the couch shivering.  Shit.  This is the flu.  Your muscles ache, your head is splitting open, and you can add a stuffed-up nose to your growing list of symptoms.  Using the energy you have left to grab more blankets, take some drugs and pull down the blinds, you’re guessing the fever is next. That or death.

It's dark when you finally wake up to your phone buzzing on the coffee table; you groggily look at the time, shoot, it’s 7 pm already? You don’t feel well rested at all.  You need to take Al out.  Ignoring the call and what you think are a bunch of missed notifications on your phone, you thrown on a jacket over your sweats and apologize profusely to Al while waiting for the elevator.  Once outside, you have to admit that the crisp cool air feels amazing against your hot skin, and you’re debating if you should risk taking Al for a short walk when your phone rings again.  You pick up when you see it’s Din, “Hubo?” you croak out, barely audible.

“Pretty bird… you sound terrible,” Din’s been worried about you all day.  He hasn’t liked the idea of you being alone and sick, but you were pretty insistent that it wasn’t anything to worry about while encouraging him to stay at his place.  He’s been feeling a bit off kilter being apart from you; even though he’s exhausted from pulling double duty with the Mandos, he misses at least seeing you and Al for your nightly walk.  Now he’s even more thrown when he realizes you’ve been downplaying the severity of your illness for whatever reason.

“Thanks,” you joke, but it doesn’t come out sounding jovial; in fact, it’s barely the sound of a scratch.

“Baby, I’m going to come over and-” Din starts to say when you interrupt, “No, no, you’ll get s-” before you’re stopped mid-sentence by a coughing fit.

Din’s already gathered his things and is getting in his truck by the time you’ve finished coughing, “I’m fin-” you’re saying when you’re cut out by the sound of a siren going by.

Din says your name.  He hardly ever says your name; it’s always pretty bird, or baby, or sweetheart, or some other endearment.  And he never says it in this low, warning tone, like he’s afraid of what he might say if he doesn’t say your name instead.  He repeats it, then, “Who is walking Al while you’re sick?”

Why do you feel like you’re in trouble whether you answer or not?  Your body clearly doesn’t want to get in trouble either because it figures the best thing to do is launch another coughing fit.

Din softens a little, “Pretty bird, get inside and get in bed, I’ll be over soon,” and he hangs up before you can attempt to argue.

When you and Al come in a few minutes later, you feed him and give him some fresh water, all while giving him as many fussings as you can muster as a continued apology for having ignored him all day.  You trudge over to the kitchen thinking you should eat something, clearly the lack of food has not been aiding your recovery, but as you peer in your fridge, the idea of having to prepare anything overwhelms you.  You pour yourself some orange juice and use it to wash down some more flu medication and then look through you phone at the messages you’ve missed while sleeping.  You’re mid-scroll when there’s a knock on your door; after opening the door, you quickly step back to let Din in and cover your mouth with your hand so you don’t breathe your germs all over him.

“None of that now, pretty bird,” Din says firmly, reaching for you and pulling you in close with one arm before planting a kiss on the top of your hot head. 

“You’ll get sick,” you murmur into his chest. 

“Then I’ll get sick,” he puts the bags he brought on the foyer table before gently shuffling you towards your bedroom.

When he sees that your made bed (when did you do that!?) does not look slept in, he tsks, “They say that doctors make the worst patients,” he lays you down after pulling the covers back, tucking you in after, “but I think it’s actually stubborn little girls that work in finance.”

His words are lighthearted but you know he’s worried about you, so you play along and whisper as loud as your painful throat will let you, “Sorry, daddy.”

Din kisses you on your forehead, “You’re burning up.  I wish you had let me come over sooner, baby.  Take care of you and Al.”

“Didn’t want to bother you, Din,” you murmur, snuggling down into your bed; just being in his very presence has relaxed you. That and the drugs kicking in, has you feeling pliant and snoozy.

“You never bother me, sweetheart.  Except maybe when you don’t tell me how sick you really are and you go out in the cold while you have a fever,” he says pointedly. 

You yawn and close your eyes, confessing, “You seem so stressed out with all the stuff that’s going on with the Mandos lately, Din.  Didn’t want to add to your load, make you feel like you have to come and see me and Al when you’ve already had a difficult day.”

“You ever think that maybe seeing you and Al is exactly what I need after a long hard day of seeing some bad shit go down?” says Din, quietly.

Your eyes open wide; you can’t believe you haven’t thought of it like that.  You know that anytime you’re having a bad day, it’s been made better the instant you see Din’s face, and even while you’ve been sick this week, you’ve longed for his soothing embrace.  Why didn’t you think it would be the same for him?  You sit up so fast you get dizzy, but throw your arms around Din’s shoulders and bury your face in his neck, “Oh baby, I’m so sorry.  You’re right, I shouldn’t have kept it from you.”

“It’s okay, pretty bird.  You were just trying to take care of me.  You need to let me take of you too, okay?  I like taking care of you.”

You nod into him and let Din gently lay you down again.  As you snuggle back into your covers, you pat the other side of the bed, “Come and sit with me and tell me about your day and all the shit that’s been going on until I fall asleep.”

Din climbs onto the bed and starts to pet your hair, “Sounds good.  But whenever you wake up next, I’m going to feed you some soup, okay?”  You nod, and feel the bed jostle some more as Al hops up on the bed to join in on the family time.  He lays down between you and Din, resting his head on Din’s lap so Din can pat his head as well.

When you’re all settled in, Din looking like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders, starts to share.  First you learn some background: in addition to the Fett family, there other powerful syndicates in play - The Pykes, the Hutts, the Guavians, to name a few.  You make a face when you remember Gorga Hutt and his slimey cronies from Jimmy’s fight night and Din chuckles as if reading your mind.  Apparently, years ago, before Boba rose to power, the rival gangs ran unchecked, and violence in the streets was a common occurrence.  Gangs constantly fighting for territory or profits made for a lot of instability and it was an unsafe time for Din’s neighbourhood as well as many others in the city.  Once Boba had built up sufficient territory and muscle to be taken seriously, he had called the families together and brokered a peace treaty; physical borders and commercial limits were drawn that minimized conflict and overlap of business interests, ensuring prosperity and minimizing bloodshed for all.  Din recalls for you how many of his earlier years as Boba’s enforcer were spent strengthening and defending these borders and boundaries.  Happily, for the most part things have been stable for many years; nothing is ever truly peaceful but everyone has been co-existing without issue. 

However, in the past month or so, something had shifted; little problems and violations have been occurring with increasing frequency. 

“What kind of problems?” you ask, you’re fighting sleep to make sure you don’t miss any of what Din is telling you.  Din sighs, “Things that if they were to happen as a one-off, wouldn’t necessarily be concerning. Like vandalism of a business under one family’s protection, or minor altercations among lower ranking members from rival families in public places, or even the theft of known family members’ property.”  Din rubs his face in frustration. There’s nothing to prove it but Din doesn’t feel that these incidents are isolated; there must be something bigger at play.  For now, the Mandos are being dispatched to put out these figurative (and in one case, literal) fires, and to beef up security where future infractions are likely to take place, but Din thinks they need to investigate these events as a whole to see if there is something more sinister behind it all.  It’s really been stressing him out.

Holding Din’s hand and stroking it so that you’re the one now comforting him, “I think you should trust your experience with this type of unrest. Plus, you don’t have any reason not to listen to your gut.  What does Paz think?”

“He agrees with me, but he’s the leader now and his orders are to quell and prevent further disturbances.  Any investigation has got to be secondary.”

“I see.  What do you think is going on?” you nuzzle Din’s hand with your cheek, letting him know he can think out loud with you.

Din rubs his chin, “I don’t think it’s a new player, they seem almost too careful.  None of the incidents ever hit any big enough targets or players that would lead to full scale retaliation.  So it has to be an existing family in order to be in the know.  The problem is, I can’t see any of the families risking all out war… for what?  A couple of corners?  The cost of a few repairs?”

Your analytical brain is turning, “Are the other families run like the Fetts?  I mean, when you say it can’t be one of the families, what you really mean is you don’t think it’s a family sanctioned plan or attack, like it isn’t approved by leadership? But, are any of the families big enough or loosely run enough that people could go rogue?  Or get away with stuff without their leaders knowing?”

“Hmmmmm… good point, pretty bird.  None of the other families are like the Fetts, actually.  Boba’s power never came from numbers, but from solidarity… stronger together, is the family motto.  Everyone knows what everyone is doing and we stick together, no secrets.  As I understand it, that’s not how the other families are run – they’re bigger for one thing.  And there’s a lot of segregation so no one knows everything. Everything is need to know and people sort of stick to their own lanes – it’s so no one amasses enough power within the organization to overthrow anyone.”  Din shrugs, “I mean, seems like a weird way to run things to me. What you're suggesting would still be risky, and I don’t know why someone would take that risk, but it's definitely possible we should be looking for people who are doing things without proper family sanction.”  Din grins down at you, “Smart girl.”

You smile back, “Really?”

“Really.  I can think of a few people I want to look into right off the bat.  You’ve given me lots to think about, pretty bird.  Now go to sleep.”

Yawning a big yawn, you close your eyes and smile, murmuring, “I helped.”

---

When you wake up, it’s nearly midnight; you’re groggy and still feverish, but your stomach is growling and there’s a delicious smell coming in from the kitchen.

You pad out to living room to find Din working on his laptop, a pair of reading glasses perched on his adorable nose.  When he sees you, he sets everything down on the coffee table, “How are you feeling, sweetheart?”

Having decided that honesty is the best policy, you croak out, throat still scratchy, “Hungry.”

“Good!” Din guides you to the kitchen and gently helps you up onto a high top at the kitchen island. 

As Din takes out a bowl, you ask, “What’s that?”  Curious about the pot that’s simmering on the stove; you think it’s the source of the delicious aroma you woke to earlier. 

“Peli’s famous chicken noodle soup,” Din ladles some into a bowl. 

“You made this?”

“Yeah right.  No, Peli won’t share the recipe.  Says if we’re lucky she’ll will it to one of us when she dies.  Nah, she made this batch for you when she found out you were sick.”

“That’s so nice.  She didn’t need to do that.  I’ll have to bake her some cookies to thank her when I’m better.”

“She’ll like that, but she wanted to.  Pretty girl, don’t you get it?  You’re one of us now and we take care of each other.  You have more people than you know that have your back.”  He puts the steaming bowl of soup in front of you and tells you to wait.  Grabbing a blanket from the couch, he wraps it around you, tucking in your arms.  You manage a small laugh, “How am I supposed to eat my soup?”

“I’ll feed you,” he holds a hand up when he sees your expression, “you said you’d let me take care of you.”

You nod. It’s not in your nature to let people wait on you hand and foot, but you still feel bad for not telling Din how sick you were earlier so, you sit, bundled up on your chair, and let Din spoon the soup that he blows on to cool into you waiting mouth.  It’s incredible.  Even your stuffed up head can taste the explosion of flavours, the ginger clearing up your sinuses a bit, and the carrots, chicken and noodles all tender enough to be swallowed painlessly.  Din patiently feeds you the entire bowl, and you patiently let him; the look of relief and devotion that Din is giving you is enough to make you glad that you let him.  After you’ve brushed your teeth, Din sends you straight to bed, hardly needing any convincing to stay with you until you fall asleep.

The next day, Din calls out from work, both jobs.  He knows if he goes in, he’ll just be distracted by how you’re doing – plus, he’s making some headway in the investigative notes that he's making for Paz. He does all the walks with Al, and feeds you more soup.  He runs you a hot bath filled with eucalyptus bath salts and stays with you while you soak your achy muscles.  When he dries you, you try to give him a seductive look, but end up doubling over coughing and he tells you that while he still finds you very sexy even sick (Is that sarcasm?), you need to conserve your energy.  You make a face at him when he tucks you into bed.  You sleep.  By the late afternoon, you feel like you can sustain consciousness for more than an hour and you opt to lay on the couch and hangout with Din.  He puts on the comfort movie of your choice and massages your feet while you eat a yogurt.  You fall back asleep before the end of the movie, barely registering when Din turns it off and takes you back to bed.

It's past midnight when you wake up again and the first irrational thing you think is that you’ve somehow gone back in time and gotten sick again, but this time worse.  You feel disgusting.  Your nose is no longer stuffy, but that’s because the snot is now just free flowing out of your face.  You’re so snotty, in no time at all you’re surrounded by a ring of used tissues from having to blow your nose so much, and there’s no end in sight.  Your sore throat and dry cough, which had been clearing up, have been replaced with rattling phlegm which you can’t seem to clear no matter how hard you hack, but you try until your eyes water.  Ewwwwwwwwwwww. 

Din, appears in your doorway when he hears you, “Baby, you okay?”

You look up at him, squinting through your tears at his sleep tousled hair and the wrinkles on the pajamas he must have changed into.  You woke him.  And this is the thing that just breaks you and you start to cry for real.  He rushes over, scared, “Pretty bird, does something hurt?  Let me make it better.”  His obvious concern and caring tone of voice just make you cry harder, and now you’re snotting even more.  Great.  You hate that he’s seeing you like this.  You’re not the smart, pretty, funny girl he dates, you’re this weak thing, sick and tired and gross.  Totally unsexy.  Completely unhelpful.  Needy.  Putting so much on him.  He can’t even get a decent night’s sleep around you. 

You don’t realize you’ve said this all out loud until Din tuffs out a little laugh.  He climbs onto the bed and sits right across from you taking your hands in his, kissing them. 

“Sweetheart, it’s okay, it’s okay.  I’m here.”

“No, it’s not,” you choke out between sobs, “You shouldn’t have to be here.”

Din sighs, but it’s not a sigh of exasperation, but of understanding; he tips your head up to meet his eyes, “I’m not here because I have to be, I’m here because I want to be.”

“Why?  I’m so gross.”

Smiling, Din patiently explains, “Why?  Because I love you, pretty bird, that’s why.”

Your eyes widen; your drowsy brain isn’t sure you heard him right, “You love me?”

He nods at you kindly, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.  But to you, in your current state, you can’t comprehend it, “Like this?”

Din lets out a deep laugh, one that fills the room, and he strokes your hair and looks lovingly at you, “Yes.  I love you like this.  Like the sweetest woman I’ve ever met, one who never ceases to think of the welfare and comfort of others even when she’s in an obvious state of discomfort herself.  Like someone I truly love taking care of because it’s such an honour to take care of her.  She’s strong and capable, and she doesn’t really need me and never asks anything of me, but trusts me enough to let me be around her when she’s not feeling strong and capable even though she is definitely still all those things.  It’s an honour to be good enough to take care of you, pretty bird, because the only person that can do the job properly is you, and it’s an honour to come second to you for anything.”

“Yes, I love you like this.  And I love you when you’re playing with Al, when you’re sneaking the treats you bake to Jimmy when you think Greef isn’t looking, and when you’re happy just to keep me company while I work.  I love you when just the sight of you brings a peace into my life that I didn’t know was possible, and when you laugh, or call me ‘old man’ or when you listen to me talk about the Mandos and never judge.  I love you when I see your name pop up on my phone and when you hold my hand when we walk Al together.”

“I love you all the time, pretty bird.”

Now you’re crying for a different reason, though no longer hysterical; just silent tears running down your face as you come to the obvious but inescapable conclusion about your connection to this magnificent force of a man in front of you, “I love you, too, Din.”

And you do.  You do love him.  You love all that he is, all that he’s capable of, and all of who he chooses to be on a daily basis.  You love his kindness, his protectiveness, his compassion, his gentleness.  You love that he lives by a code that values loyalty, respectfulness, and helping others, and he practices this creed in every little thing he does.  You love his playfulness, and his sharp wit, and how being able to make him laugh feels like an incredible accomplishment and when you do it, you just immediately want to do it over and over again.  You love that he always makes you feel wanted and cherished, but never treats you like you’re breakable.  You love how he’s constantly pushing up his reading glasses, and thinks they make him look old but will blush when you tell him how attractive you find them.  You love him when he’s bringing you and your work team dinner and remembers that someone’s gluten free.  You love him when he places his hand on your thigh when he’s driving, and you love him when he pushes up your sleeves when they start to slip when you’re washing dishes even without you asking him to.  Yes, you love him all the time too.

You can’t tell him all that right now, though; you’re too sick and sleepy, but you think you’ll be able to tell tomorrow.  And the day after.  And the day after that.  For now, you love him by letting him love you, snot and all.  Clearing away all the tissues on your bed, you lay back down and scoot backwards towards of the middle of the bed, making a space for Din and hold your arms out, I need you.  Din’s smile spreads wide across his face, relieved and content, he climbs in and wraps you up in his arms.  Stroking your hair, your back, as your breathing evens.

Drifting off, you roll over so your back is pressed to Din’s chest, taking comfort in feeling him there, a physical and proverbial wall for you to lean on, “Good night, Din.  I love you.”

“I love you more, pretty bird.  Good night.”

[thewayofthemandalorian]

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.

[farity]

There is only one bed, part 2

Pairing: Modern AU Aemond Targaryen x reader

Summary:  Spies running from a common enemy find refuge in a tiny inn.

Warnings:  Smut

Points if you recognize the side characters’ names.  Also: no, your name is not Jan.  It’s a meme.

part 1

“The drive.  Give me the drive.”

When he didn’t move, the guy aiming the gun at your head cocked it and you kept your breathing steady through the terror that ran through you.  Training, you went through your training, remembering breathing exercises, how to keep your muscles from tensing.  You glanced at the guy who had very recently fucked your brains out.

His face revealed nothing, his stance was relaxed.  “The one with the porn?”

You heard, in the distance, a car.  Another one.  That couldn’t possibly be good.  It stopped down the road, not like the previous car you’d heard earlier.

“Give me the fucking drive or I kill your little girlfriend.”

He smiled, “I picked her up earlier, don’t even know her name.”

The next thing you felt was a hard thump on the back of your head, and you fell to the floor, your vision blurry.  He lunged towards the asshole who’d hit you and the other guy fired.

You saw him fall back at the same moment that the door slammed open and three men rushed in.  They were shouting in High Valyrian, your weakest language, and you caught something like “man down”.  

He was saying something to them and before you lost consciousness you thought you heard him say something like “friend.”

* * * * * 

You awoke in a government hospital and the first face you saw was Lou’s.  Your boss was dressed in a sharp suit as always, her blonde bob swinging as she spoke on her cell phone.  “She’s awake, gotta go.”  She smiled down at you.  “Good to see you, kid.”

“Where is he?”

“Who?”

You sat up. “The guy, the Westerosi agent who was with me.”

Lou raised an eyebrow.  “You were brought to us by two agents from Dragonstone, who said you’d been caught up in one of their missions.”

You nodded, “yeah, there was a wounded agent I patched up, he was shot right before I passed out.”

“They didn’t mention that.”

The doctor walked in, gave you an update.  You’d been out a couple of days with a concussion but the swelling in your brain had gone down and your vitals were good.  You could go home the next day if things stayed the same overnight.

You barely listened, your mind elsewhere.  You caught Lou’s eye, and you could tell she was reading every thought in your head.

“I have to go,” Lou said, “rest and I’ll talk to you tomorrow once you’re home.  Let me know if you need anything.”

You nodded as she left, her brisk steps fading as she walked down the hallway.

* * * * * 

Five weeks later you were ready to kick someone’s face in.  Nobody had any answers for you.  You had even called the Dragonstone agency and explained that you wanted to ask some questions of their agent.  Very important questions for your boss at your agency.  If he was alive, if he was still working for them, no one would tell you anything.  

You had even thought of asking Lou if she could ask her contacts, but asking your boss to locate a guy because he’d made you come twice was hardly the most professional thing in the world.  You liked your job and didn’t want to be sidelined because you got hung up on some guy whose name you didn’t even know.

Maybe you could get one of your hacker friends to locate him.  Hey, can you find this guy, tall, gorgeous, amazing ass and stellar dick?  You rubbed your eyes, wondering if a shower would help.  

You walked towards your bedroom, leaving a string of clothes as you reached your bathroom.  Would you ever find him?  You’d known him for less than a day but there had been a connection and it wasn’t just sex.  Mind-blowing, amazing sex.  Sex that had ruined you forever.

He had to be alive.  Even if you could just find out if he was ok, maybe that would be enough.  Sure, Jan, you told yourself.  You showered quickly, putting on your favorite robe after.  

Lou had left a message on your phone, something about all the time off you had accumulated and to fucking take it before it disappeared.  You’d been doing admin stuff since you got out of the hospital, but when you reached your laptop, all the files you had been working on were gone. Fucking Lou.

Maybe you’d travel.  Take a few weeks, bum around the continent, avoid heading towards Dragonstone. 

Who were you kidding, the only place you wanted to go to was Dragonstone so you could snoop around.  Like you were going to turn a corner and bump into him coming out of a Starbucks.  Did they even have Starbucks in Dragonstone?  

And then there was the thought you tried to ignore.  What if he was fine?  Alive and kicking, and simply didn’t care?  What if he had moved on to his next mission - and the next girl - while you were flopping around your place like a moron, completely hung up on him?  

Your phone buzzed and when you picked it up there was a text from your ever-omniscient boss.

Answer the door.

Um, no one has rung the door, Lou, you thought as the doorbell rang.

You opened the door and there he was, alive and fucking gorgeous, standing before you.

Every thought in your head evaporated as you looked at him.  His hair was a little longer, and he was dressed in black, like he had been back then.  You knew your mouth had dropped open but no sounds were coming out.

* * * * * 

She was well.  Alive and whole and healthy.  A little pale, but she looked good.  More than good, Aemond thought.

He shifted his weight from one foot to another, suddenly nervous.  He hadn’t given a thought to what would happen now, to what she would say or do.  

“Hello,” he said, because she wasn’t saying anything.  She was just staring at him, one hand clutching the lapels of her robe.

“You’re alive.”

“Yes.”

“You were shot.”

“Yes.”

She grabbed his arm and pulled him into her home, closing the door.  She stood a couple of feet away from him, still staring.  “Was it bad?”

This time he nodded.  He wouldn’t tell her how bad just now.  

She let out a strangled sob and covered her mouth.  “I tried,” she said breathlessly.  “I looked for you.”

Fuck it, he thought, and reached out to envelop her in his arms.  She started crying and he heard so much fear and anger as well as relief in her tears.  “I believe you,” he whispered into her hair.  She had freed her arms and wrapped them around his neck and he could no longer wait.  He began kissing her neck, the sweet scent of her skin one he had dreamed of every night since that day in the inn.  

She turned to meet his mouth with hers, fisted one hand in his hair while he lifted her up.  Her robe, which had barely been tied together, began slipping off as she wrapped her legs around him.  “Bedroom,” she ordered, “last room on the left.”

He made his way to her room, barely remembered to kick off his shoes before he lowered her to the bed.  “I’ve dreamed of you,” he said against her lips, and felt her smile.  “Every night.  Every fucking night, you torment me.”

“Likewise, dragon boy,” she replied, and he smiled at her.

“Aemond,” he told her.  “My name is Aemond.  Targaryen.”  

She told him her name and then pushed him onto his back.  “Wait,” she tucked her hair behind her ear.  “Where were you shot?”

He raised the t-shirt he was wearing, and first she saw the cut she’d treated.  It was a neat thin line and she smiled.  “That healed up nicely.”  He sat up then, removed his sweater, then began to pull off the t-shirt.  

“It looks worse than it is,” he warned.

He tossed the shirt to the side and let her look.

“Fuck.”

The scar was jagged and ugly, and it was right over his heart.

“They got it out.”

“How far?”

He looked at her, shook his head in confusion.

“How far from your heart?”

He smiled gently.  “Less than a millimeter.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, looked away from him, unable to speak.

“I’m here.  I got a second chance,” he murmured.  “And I don’t plan on wasting it.”

With that, he reached for her.

* * * * * 

Less than a millimeter, you thought.  You would make that millimeter count, you decided, as he grabbed you and pulled you down to the bed.  You ran your hands down his chest, gently skimming over the scars until you’d reached the waistband of his jeans and felt him shiver against you.  

He reached down, undoing the button and zipper and then started pulling off your robe, the thin cotton giving easily as he bared you.  “I never got to take my time with you,” he said, and your heart started pounding with anticipation.  He slowly gazed at you from head to toe and when he looked back up, his eyes were almost feral.

He cradled your face in one hand as he loomed over you, kissed your temple before his hand slipped down to your throat and you arched against him, pressing one of your own hands over his.  He kissed you then, hungrily, nipping at your jaw as he made his way to your neck.  There he feasted, edges of teeth and soft swipes of tongue, until you began whimpering, wanting him inside you.

He pulled back to finish removing his clothes, but before you could reach for him, he turned you over, spreading your legs with his knee before settling half on you, half on the bed.  You felt him push your hair out of the way so he could nip at the nape of your neck while he reached around and his fingers began moving between your legs.  

You’d dreamed of those dexterous, long fingers of his, frustrated yourself with your own many times, and a long moan escaped you as he reached deep inside you. 

“Am I hurting you?”

You shook your head,  “No,” you managed as he sucked some of the skin at your nape between his teeth.  

His fingers moved slowly within you, and you gasped when he spread them open, widening you.  “I remember how tight you felt,” he murmured.  “I remember everything about that day.  The way you looked, the way you felt, I couldn’t get away from you.  Not during the day, and certainly not at night.”

His voice had darkened, each word said against your skin like a prayer.  His fingers were pumping inside you now, your hips matching his pace, and soon you arched against him, your body taut, a gasp escaping you as you came.  

He was kissing your shoulder, slowly removing his fingers from inside you as he turned you onto your back.  “I cannot wait any longer,” he whispered as he reached down and began aligning himself with you.  When he started pushing inside you, you gasped, remembering how he had felt all those months ago.  

“God, yes,” you breathed out as he began filling you.  Nothing had felt as good as he did right now.  He pushed your knees back, struggling to move slowly as he sank into you.  When he was finally seated fully inside you, he closed his eyes for a moment.

“You feel so fucking good, sweet.”

* * * * * 

“LIkewise, dragon boy,” she replied, wrapping her legs around his hips.  

Aemond pressed his forehead against hers.  “I don’t want to hurt you,” he started, and felt her fingertips pressed against his mouth.

“You really need to stop that, Aemond,” she said, and the sound of his name in her lips made him deliriously happy.  “I can take it, and I would really, really like you to fuck me now.”

He needed no further invitation.  Rearing back, he thrust hard, the sound she made somewhere between a moan and a purr, and he did it again, hips snapping as his restraint began to slip.  He took her hands in his, pressing them into the mattress above her head.  “Yes,” she whispered, “fuck yes.”  She tightened around him and he let out a familiar string of curses in High Valyrian.

“What did you just call me?” she smirked up at him.

He took her mouth in a bruising kiss as his hips continued to pound against her.  “Vile,” he murmured, “enchantress.”  He sucked her bottom lip between his teeth, then released it when she whimpered.  

He could feel her thighs shaking, her breathing becoming more and more ragged, and he began to drive faster, her cries encouraging him as he lost himself in her.  “Please,” she begged.

“I’ve got you,” he said, and she threw her head back, a hoarse scream ripped from her throat as she came.  He managed to ride out her contractions until finally, he surrendered, letting her take him with her.

* * * * * 

The blurriness in your head began to dissipate, slowly, as Aemond kissed your temple.  “Hmm,” he murmured, “that was worth the wait.”

You couldn’t manage to put two words together in your mind, and simply enjoyed the warmth of him as he held you.  Your fingertips found their way back to the ugly scar over his heart, brushing over it as if you could erase it completely.  A thought had began to form in your head, a question you needed answered.

“How did you find me?”

He looked down at you, surprised by the sudden question.  “Your boss knows my old CO, Deb.”

“Lou?”

“Yep.  She sent Deb a text ‘for your wounded dragon’ and it had your name on it."

You shook your head, confused.  “Wait, if she knew to give you my name, why couldn’t Lou just ask for your name?”

“I guess she wanted to know if I would run with it.”  He caressed your cheek.  “I had to wait until I could leave the hospital, which was three more weeks.”

“So why didn’t you just call, or email?”

He leaned in and kissed you gently.  “I was terrified.  If I called and someone else answered the phone.  If I emailed you and you never replied.  I decided I would show up, look you in the eye, and if you wanted nothing to do with me, then I could turn around and walk away, but I needed to see it in your face.  Whether you wanted me or not.”

“I tried,” you said.  “I tried so hard.  There was nothing, absolutely nothing on any of the usual threads.  Not about your team, not about a wounded agent, nothing.”

“I don’t exist,” he said simply.  “My name isn’t listed anywhere.  If we’d all gotten killed the agency would have never acknowledged us.”

“Your family?” you asked, wondering about parents, siblings.

He smiled.  “They think I’m in the arctic.  Eventually they would have received a letter stating that I was working for the government and was KIA.  No return address, no phone number.  The moment the envelope is opened, the ink begins to fade so within a couple of hours the page is blank.  And it doesn’t show up on photographs or video.”

“Fuck.”

“I knew that going in.”  He pulled you closer.  “I also knew I had a deadline.”

You reached up, brushed a lock of his hair out of his face.  “What is it?”

“Turning thirty.”  

“When is that?”

He smiled.  “Today.”

* * * * * 

She baked him a cake.  She only had ingredients for a plain vanilla sponge, but the buttercream was so good, he ended up eating half of it before she smacked his hand and made him sit at the table. 

“And she bakes, too,” he’d said, admiringly, when she started pulling out ingredients.  

“I am multitalented.”  She lit one of the candles sitting on the little shelf by the TV.  “But I have no little candles, so this will have to do.”  She brought over the massive three-wick-candle, made him blow it out before she’d let him cut into the cake.  It was a little wonky and there was only enough buttercream for the filling and middle since he’d eaten half of it.  

He watched her over his slice of cake.  “What about you?  Any plans for the future?”

“Well,” she smiled, “not many of us live to see middle age, so I always thought I’d do research or translating when I was done with field work.  Plus I want to travel.  Like, actually see the places I’ve been sent to, like a regular tourist.”

“I know what you mean,” he said, “I’ve been to so many places and not enjoyed any of them.”

“Does that mean anything?” she asked, indicating the ring he wore on his pinky.  

Aemond looked at his hand, smiled.  “My sister gave it to me before I left.  Something about threads of green, threads of black, weaving something or other.  She gets strange thoughts sometime, but she’s cool.”  He speared his fork into another piece of cake.  “I keep it hidden unless I’m on my own time.  This is really fucking good,” he added before taking a huge bite.

“All that sugar is going to leave you with a massive headache.  Here,” she refilled his glass, “drink more water.”

He did, and got up to do the dishes while she sat at the counter.  He had spent most of the past decade forgetting or ignoring his birthday and now she’d baked a cake for him.  

“Look, I just need to say something-”

“Oh shit,” she replied, but was smiling at him.  “You’re married with seven adorable, but unruly, children.”

He gave her a look.  “No.  I wouldn’t have tracked you down here just for sex. This is going to sound incredibly naïve, considering what we do for a living, but it’s like I can envision-”

“A future.”

“With you.”

He said nothing for a few seconds, only watched her as she looked up at him.  “Come with me.  Let’s go see the world.  Not from safe houses or sniper points.”

She smiled.  “I don’t know, I’m an excellent shot.”

He smiled back, but extended his hand out.  And waited.

And then she stood, walked around the counter, and placed her hand in his.

* * * * * 

Tagging:

@arryn-nyx   @greenowlfactif  @hydrationqueensworld    @megzdoodle@melsunshine  @queenofshinigamis     @throughgoeshamilton   @travelingmypassion

Aemond fics only

@kaemond-zafiro    

[yunhoee]

Synopsis: Living post grad can be tough, especially when most of your friends are just entering their senior year. Your best friend invites you to play a practice game, but there couldn't possibly be ulterior motives could there?

Pairing: Choi Jongho x Reader

Genre: non idol!au, soccer player!jongho, soccer player!reader, mainly fluff, suggestive

Wordcount: 2.6k

Note: This was originally a one-shot, but I may write more! Please let me know what you think :)

It’s a wild Friday night. Pajamas are on, you have your favorite comfort show on, and a bucket of ice cream all to yourself. You are casually scrolling through social media. A lot of your friends have moved back in for their final year of college. You graduated the year before them, which at the time you were thrilled to be done. Now seeing them all go back without you hurts. You were the captain of your soccer team, and seeing your teammates prepare for the indoor season without you is a little bit of a bummer. 

You were able to land a corporate job, which you are of course grateful for. Most days are spent alone considering you work from home. You can’t deny the depression that is starting to creep back in. Your phone dings and you smile at the photo that your best friend, Lauren, sends you. The photo shows a smiling Lauren with the rest of your team, and you can see part of the men’s team trying to get into their photo. You chuckle and heart the photo in imessage. You can’t deny the pain you feel knowing you won’t be there this season. 

Turning up your show to try to drown out the sadness seems like the best idea. Until your phone goes off again. 

“You better not be moping all alone right now. We miss you.”

Lauren always has a sense for whenever you’re feeling sad. Something you love and hate about her. Mostly love. 

Nah. I’m at a huge corporate rager. Drunk off my ass, might go home with someone.

Lauren replies almost immediately.

“Okay now I’m actually worried. Why don’t you play in our practice scrimmage tomorrow? The boys have an unfair advantage, so we need all the help we can get.”

You roll your eyes.

Don’t you think that would be a little pathetic? And what unfair advantage could they possibly have? You stomp them at every scrimmage.

As you wait for a response you think about joining your old team. I mean it is just a practice game, and it’s not like you have anything better to do. The exercise would be nice.

“Are you kidding? The team would be thrilled. We miss you all the time :(. The unfair advantage would be Marcus’ friend that is in town. They went to elementary school together when Marcus lived in Korea, and well he’s fucking incredible at soccer.”

You sigh and try not to think too much about your answer. Maybe just going with the flow will work out for me this one time.

Damn all you had to say was Marcus and I’m in. I can’t wait to see his face when we win. Just text me the details and I’ll be there.

Lauren sent you a voice memo of her and the rest of the girls screaming in excitement. You laugh and then start to get ready for bed. The scrimmage is at 9am so you need to make sure you get plenty of sleep. 

Tomorrow comes and before you know it, you’re at the fieldhouse. You’re not sure why you were so nervous because the girls give you an enormous warm welcome. Lauren forces you to start stretching and warming up early since it’s been a few months since you’ve played. As you and Lauren are warming up together, you notice she has the biggest smirk on her face.

“Why are you smiling like that?”, You ask.

Lauren giggles, “Don’t hate me. We obviously needed you to beat the boy’s team, but I also had a bit of a side quest.”

You narrow your eyes, “What are you up to?”

Lauren says, “Well Marcus’ friend is super hot and good at soccer. I thought maybe you guys could get to know each other.”

“This was a set up?!” You gasp.

Lauren hushes you, “No one else knows. Even if you don’t want him to be your boyfriend, it could be a fun hookup. Just trust me on this.”

You roll your eyes, “Whatever. He better not be ugly.”

Lauren laughs as the two of you continue to warm up. You can’t deny the butterflies you feel at the idea of this mystery man. Lauren has never been wrong before, so you’re just hoping you can muster up enough courage to be yourself. 

“Well well well. Look what the cat dragged in”

You immediately know who the voice belongs to. You turn and can’t help but smile.

“I’m not admitting that I missed you”, You say with your hands on your hips.

Marcus laughs and opens his arms. You both embrace until Marcus tries to squeeze the life out of you.

“Okay! Are you trying to squeeze me to death?!” You shout as you wiggle out of his embrace. 

Marcus smiles, “I missed you.”

Lauren interrupts, “Okay okay enough with the flirting, Marcus.”

Marcus recognizes someone behind you, “Over here, Jongho!”

You all turn to see the man that Marcus was calling over. Fuck Lauren was right, he’s gorgeous. He gives your group the cutest smile you’ve ever seen and jogs over to your group. 

Lauren whispers to you, “You’re drooling.”

You lightly smack Lauren’s arm and try not to keep staring at Jongho.

“Alright everyone! This is Jongho. We met when I lived in Korea and he’s here to stomp your asses.” Marcus says as he wraps his arm around Jongho’s shoulder.

Lauren rolls her eyes and puts her arm around you, “Well, Jongho, this is y/n and she’s here to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

You are giggling at Lauren when you finally make eye contact with Jongho. He is smiling brightly at you. You’re unable to hide the slight blush that appears on your cheeks. A burst of confidence comes through you. 

“Yeah sorry you came all this way just to have your ass handed to you” You say with a smirk. 

The teams are laughing and you can’t bring yourself to look away from Jongho. The sexual tension is undeniable. He steps closer to you and you refuse to back down from eye contact, even when you have to look up to meet his eyeline.

Jongho looks down at you flirtatiously, “You’re a mouthy one aren’t you. I like that.”

He walks towards his side of the field, the rest of the boys follow after him. While you’re momentarily frozen in your spot. You can’t believe someone as beautiful as him said that to you. 

Lauren drags you back to your side of the field while you continually thank her for making you come. She continues to nod her head with that ‘I told you so’ look. You can’t even argue with her because she was oh so right.  

Your team is huddled and hyping each other up. You are all in agreement that you must win this scrimmage no matter what. Even though it’s only a practice game. You will be in your favorite position, center defender. Lauren let you know that Jongho is a forward, so you will definitely be seeing him. Your team all put your hands together.

Before you can break you tell them, “Not one of his balls will get past me.”

Your team cheers and breaks. As you walk to your position, you’re shaking yourself out. You can’t decide if it’s because it’s been awhile since you played or because you’re nervous as fuck. Either way, Jongho is not getting past you. 

For the first 10 minutes you wonder when you will get to play. Both teams are so hyped up that it was really just a battle of the forwards and midfielders for a while. This was good because you were able to watch Jongho in action and see how he plays. Unfortunately for you he is incredible, so this will definitely be a tough match. 

Jongho is the first one to slip through the midfielders and he is barreling right towards you with the ball. You take a deep breath and immediately go into action. He attempts to side step you, but you step directly in front of him and kick the ball between his legs. Jongho wasn’t prepared for you to be able to disable him so quickly that he didn’t have time to slow his body down. The force causes Jongho to fall, bringing you down with him. You immediately jump back up, only to sag in relief when you see Lauren is on the other side of the field with the ball.

“Are you okay?!” You see a frantic Jongho searching all over you to make sure he didn’t cause you harm.

You laugh, “I’m fine. Better luck next time.”

You can see that Jongho is taken aback by you. He wasn’t expecting you to be so incredibly good at defense, and also not afraid to put yourself directly in his path. He can’t help but admire you, but he will also not be misjudging you again. 

Before leaving, he can’t help but brush the few hairs that are in your face out of the way. He tucks them behind your ear, and then runs off to the other side of the field. Leaving you there speechless, and furiously blushing. 

As the game continues, the girls are not backing down. The score is 1-0, with Lauren being able to score because you got the ball from Jongho. You had a few more run-ins with different people on the other team, but none of them were able to get past you. With only a minute left, you can feel a flip of the switch for everyone on the field. The girls, desperate to defend and keep their advantage. The boys, desperate for one goal.

You can feel all the attention is on you. You are the reason they can’t score. You continue your breathing techniques as Jongho makes a beeline for the goal. Needing to get past you, he has three different guys running with him. As they go down the field they’re passing it to one another, in an attempt to confuse you. The three of them are now running side by side and passing it between each other. 

They reach you and the fight begins. You get the ball from one of the guys and attempt to kick it, but Jongho blocks you. You are trying to get the ball back when he passes it to another teammate that you didn’t see. He was further away so you start sprinting right at him, but right before you get to him he kicks it far. You hold your breath while watching the ball soar right to Jongho. Who happened to be right by the goal box. 

You immediately take off towards him, your other defender doing her best. He’s able to fake her out and make it past her, as she falls to the ground. Jongho is lining up his shot, and you know the only way to stop him is to slide to the ball. He doesn’t see you coming up behind him, and right as he’s about to kick the ball his feet are taken out under him. Since he was so close to the ball, you had to risk a slide tackle. The ball went right to your goalie as you planned and the buzzer went off. 

You are laying on your side breathing heavily as you hear the rest of your teammates screaming in victory. You turn over and see Jongho laying right behind you with his hands on his head in defeat. 

You sit up, “Are you okay?” 

Jongho looks at you and smiles, “You really weren’t kidding. I thoroughly just got my ass handed to me.”

Jongho sits up as you two begin to laugh. Even after the intense game and you’re not sure if you’ll be able to move later, the chemistry is undeniable. 

Jongho picks up one of your hands, “Would you let me take you on a date? You are the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.”

You blush and begin to laugh, “Even after I slide tackled you?”

Jongho smiles, “Yeah. I’ve met my match, and now I don’t think I’ll ever be able to stop thinking about you.”

It’s your turn to fix his hair. 

“Let’s get you checked out by the trainer first, and then we can see about that date.” 

[bratzforchris]

hi! neurodivergent!luke is my new favorite thing ever <33 could you please write something about him infodumping (like maybe they go to a small dog park with petunia and he sees a bunch of dogs there and he just has to tell reader all about it) and reader is just in awe of him and lets him talk??

Dogs are Cool

❃

Summary: Above

Pairing: Luke x feminine reader

Warnings: None

Word Count: 855

A/N: Thank you for the request! Please send more neurodivergent requests because I adore writing them :)

❃

“Can we take Tunia to the dog park?” Luke asked you, looking up from his phone. 

It was a Sunday afternoon, and by some miracle you and Luke both had the day off. You’d normally spend it cuddling in bed and running errands for the upcoming week, but why not try something different? Luke had been struggling with a bit of autistic burnout lately, so going to see some dogs (his number one special interest) would be good for him, you figured. Not to mention, the park would be good for Petunia too. She’d had entirely too many treats and not enough exercise lately. 

“Of course, lovely,” You smiled, kissing his cheek, which immediately turned a tulip-pink color. “Tell you what, let’s get ready and we’ll stop for coffee on the way, yeah?”

Luke nodded quite quickly, immediately running upstairs to get changed. With all the work lately for CALM, he hadn’t had time to engage in his special interests and it was definitely taking a toll on him. All that would change today, though. Just the thought of being at the dog park brought a grin to his face. 

Twenty minutes later, you two and Petunia were headed down the block to your favorite coffee shop. The morning rush had cleared out and you easily ordered two coffees; an Americano for you and a latte for Luke. The blond smiled happily when you handed him his drink. 

“Thank you,” he whispered softly, setting the drink down on the bar so he could wiggle out his wrists excitedly. “Dog park now?” 

“Yes, honey,” You chuckled. “Dog park now.” 

Luke smiled and took Petunia’s leash from you, petting her head quickly before dashing out the door. You laughed and quickly picked up Luke’s forgotten coffee, following closely behind. You hadn’t even been to the park yet and you could already see the sparkle coming back to Luke’s personality. You loved the way your boy got excited about things he was passionate for. It really gave you a new outlook on life. 

By the time you caught up with your long-legged boyfriend, you were at the dog park. Luke kissed Petunia’s head gently before opening the gate and letting her off the leash. The bulldog was actually quite social and quickly made a friend with a Golden Retriever. 

“Look!” Luke smiled happily, flapping his hands enough to stim but not so much that he would inadvertently hurt himself. “Tuney’s got a friend.”

“She really loves goldens for some reason.” You laughed. 

Ever since you and Luke had adopted Petunia, every time she would get around other dogs, she was automatically drawn to Golden Retrievers. You were unsure why, but luckily Luke was armed with an arsenal of dog knowledge to help you learn. 

“Did you know Golden Retrievers are commonly referred to as therapy dogs?” Luke asked you. “They have really high empathy and unconditional love. Also, they mature really slowly so they still have puppylike behavior as adults, which makes them really fun!” 

By this point, the blond was absolutely beaming and you couldn’t help but to smile. Where other people found Luke’s infodumping “annoying” and “inappropriate”, you found it fascinating. The fact that one person could love something so much that they desired to know everything about it made your heart swell. The joy was evident in Luke’s face too; he had gotten more animated, stimming happily with a look of utter passion on his face. You got so wrapped up in admiring him, that you didn’t even notice when he stopped talking. 

“I…I’m sorry, babe. I’m annoying you, aren’t you? I’ll stop now.” he whispered softly, looking down at his feet and hunching his broad shoulders. 

You snapped out of your trance, quickly giving Luke a smile. “No, honey, no. Never. Please keep talking.” You nearly begged him. 

“Really?” Luke asked, the smile slowly coming back to his face. 

“Really.”

“Okay so,” he started. “My favorite breeds are Pitbulls and Bulldogs. Obviously,” he giggled. “Did you know that during World War II, Pitbulls were seen as the dogs of America?”

“I didn’t know that,” You said honestly. “What do you like about those breeds, Lu?”

“They’re just so cute!” he giggled. “And I like their pretty colors and how sweet they are,” he said shyly, brushing a blond curl out of his face. “What’s your favorite dog, Y/N?”

You looked over at Petunia and chuckled. “Does a Piggy count as her own breed?”

Luke gave a little squee. “She is really cute. Did you know that Bulldogs were inducted into the American Kennel Club in 1886? I think Petunia’s mixed, though.” he scrunched his nose cutely. 

“You’re so cute when you talk about your special interests.” You smiled, hugging Luke’s torso tightly.

“Really?” he asked quietly, looking at Petunia through the fence to avoid meeting your eyes. “I know some people think it’s a little annoying…”

“Well, I think it’s interesting.” You told him, snuggling into his tall frame that nearly engulfed you. 

And that? That was the truth. You would never take Luke, or the the things he taught you, for granted. 

⌗

➜ taglist: @lukesbolts @thatmarvelgirly

[maxattax]

Look Away - Chapter 4

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Epilogue

--

Click. Danny in class, dozing off on his desk. Click. Danny leaving the classroom. Click. Phantom fighting the Box Ghost. Oh.

Danny dropped Wes’s viewfinder on his desk. This was bad. This was really, really bad. Wes had damning evidence of Danny’s secret.

Danny’s heart pounded and his breath caught. This couldn't have happened. That stupid camera filled his vision as the rest of the world fell away. He gasped in a breath. Why hadn't he taken it the first time he'd noticed it? He was sweating, but couldn't move. The camera sat innocently in front of him. How could such a small thing threaten to ruin everything?

Had Wes made copies? Could somebody already know? Who had he shown these pictures to?

He forced himself to breathe, even if it was a bit shaky, and tried to think it through. Even if someone had seen the pictures, there weren’t any pictures of him mid-transformation. Would someone make the connection just with these images? 

He picked it up and flicked through the pictures again. His hands shook and he bit his lip.  There might just be enough here to convince someone, even without hard proof. What if someone gave it to the Guys in White? How would they react?

What if it got back to his parents? Oh no. He should have kicked Wes around, really get it through his thick skull how much danger he could be putting Danny in. Hell, with his arm in a cast, he wouldn’t be able to take any more pictures.

Danny shook himself. What was he thinking? He couldn’t just go around hurting people who piss him off! That would make him no better than the ghosts he fights.

But Wes deserved it. Invading his privacy, stalking him, trying to reveal his secret… A broken bone or two never killed anyone, right? Wes would be fine in a few weeks.

Oh God. What was wrong with him? Danny had never felt this red hot rage before. He wanted to hurt Wes, make him regret taking those pictures.

But it’s wrong.

But it would feel so good.

Danny slammed his hand on his desk. The wood splintered, forming a fist-shaped dent. He looked at the ceiling, ready to transform and launch himself through the roof.

The door opened. “Danny, are you okay? I heard–” Jazz’s jaw dropped at the sight of him, steam rising from his clenched fists, a scowl on his face, eyes glowing a bright, otherworldly green.

“No,” he said, his voice like gravel. “I’m not. Look at this.” He threw himself onto his bed, the frame groaning from the force, and pointed at his desk.

Jazz sat down at Danny’s desk, delicately picked up the viewfinder, and scrolled through the photos. “Who took these?” she asked, confusion clear on her face.

“Wes. Guy at school. He knows, Jazz.” Danny’s fists shook, glowing green with rage. “And he’s trying to tell everyone.” His mouth curled into a snarl. “I oughta kick his ass for this.” 

“Danny!” Jazz admonished. “This looks bad, I’ll admit, but you can’t just fight him. That won’t fix anything. It won’t make him forget.”

“Maybe not, but it would make him think twice about telling anyone. And it’d be satisfying.” Danny grinned. He could picture exactly what it would feel like to punch Wes in his stupid face.

“What has gotten into you? This is unlike you. Let’s try some calming breathing exercises–”

“Jazz,” Danny interrupted, “No. I can’t…” Danny choked on the words, still shaking with anger. “I can’t just let this happen. I can’t sit by and do nothing while he threatens my secret, while he puts me in danger…”

“You don’t have to,” Jazz said, her voice soft. She sat on the bed, carefully lowering herself onto the mattress beside Danny. “But attacking him isn’t the way to do it. Let me call Sam and Tucker. Between the four of us, we’ll think of something.”

Danny said nothing, but didn’t stop her from pulling her phone out and making a call.

—

When Sam arrived, the first words out of her mouth were, “I should kick Wes’s ass for this.”

“That’s what I said!” Danny exclaimed, punching the air.

Jazz groaned. “Nobody is kicking anybody’s butt! Sam, I can’t stop you, but can you at least impress on my brother that attacking a defenseless human is dangerous, considering that he has superpowers?”

“Wait, you attacked Wes?” Sam asked, stunned.

Jazz and Danny started to speak at the same time. Jazz said, “Not yet, but–”

Danny said, “‘Attack’ is a strong word for it, but yeah, I roughed him up a little.” Jazz’s eyes widened, but before she could say anything, Danny continued. “He’s been following me around! Sam, look at these pictures and tell me I shouldn’t break his arms.” Sam grabbed the viewfinder and sat down on the carpet.

Sam clicked through a few slides. “Okay, I can’t blame you for wanting to hurt him. But you know full humans don’t heal like you do, right? Breaking his arms is a bit overkill.”

Danny grimaced. “Okay, fine. I’ll just break one of his arms.”

Sam was about to speak when the door opened again. “Dude, what happened?” Tucker asked as he entered the room. “Wes knows your secret? Like, he doesn’t just suspect, he knows?”

“Yep,” Danny said, popping the P. He balled his fists. “Sam has his proof.”

Tucker sat on the floor next to Sam and she handed him the viewfinder. He looked through the pictures. “Well, shit.”

“Jazz is saying I shouldn’t beat him up for this. Even Sam thinks I’m overdoing it.” Danny’s eyes narrowed. “But–”

“Bro,” Tucker said, looking up at him. “We’ll figure this out. But hurting him won’t fix this.”

“Thank you, Tucker,” said Jazz. “Danny, take a look at yourself. You’re out of control. Your eyes are blindingly green. Your hands are literally smoking.”

Danny faltered. “I… He just makes me so angry.”

“I get it. Your anger is justified. But you’re stewing in it, and it’s not healthy.”

Danny’s eyes flickered to blue, then went right back to green.

“You’ve been so volatile lately. I’m worried about you,” said Jazz. 

At the word “volatile”, Danny recoiled. “I… Sam and Tucker said the same thing. They think my ghost half is overemotional.” Danny’s eyes returned to their normal baby blue. “Am I really acting like… like a ghost?”

Tucker and Sam looked at each other. “Yeah, kinda,” said Tucker.

“But now that you recognize it, we can work on it. Even ghosts can change. We’ll figure out what to do about Wes, and we’ll work on your volatility.” Jazz smiled. “We’re here for you, little bro. Don’t think you have to do this alone.”

Danny took a deep breath. “I’m still pissed off. But okay. I’m listening.”

[rissynicole]

“ let me look at you… ““ are you okay with me touching you? ““ does that hurt? “ Professor Membrane saying one or all of these to Dib, whose been having a really bad stomachache. He actually has appendicitis. I hope a sickfic is okay!

Hey, a sickfic is always okay! 

Context: this was part of a whump/injury sentence-starter ask game. I got really carried away with some asks people sent in, and it took me an absurdly long time to finish the stories.

This was fun. I don’t write enough of Membrane. Or Gaz. This was a really good writing exercise for me! Also, shoutout to my cousin who coincidentally got appendicitis while I was writing this. Thanks for the additional insight on appendicitis, I guess? Hope you feel better, Cuz.

Prompts:

“Let me look at you…”

“Are you okay with me touching you?”

“Does that hurt?”

Characters: Dib, Gaz, Professor Membrane

Relationships: Just good ole’ family dynamics. Brother and sister have each other’s backs, dad is overprotective. 

Words: 1,544

“Let me look at you.”

Dib pulled the mess of blankets over his head and turned his face towards the wall. “No,” he groaned. “Just… go with Gaz.”

Membrane stood by his bedside for a moment, obviously rethinking his tactics. For all his quick wit in the more linear side of life, it somehow hadn’t managed to translate to interpersonal matters—something that was more a little problematic when handling things like this. His son hadn’t bothered to leave his bed since the night before and was presently curled into a ball and clutching his stomach. Meanwhile, Gaz was still in her room, getting ready for her high school graduation rehearsal.

“I would really feel better if you let me examine you downstairs in the home lab,” he tried again.

Dib didn’t budge. “I just have food poisoning or something. I’ll be fine.”

“But—”

“—Dad?” Gaz appeared in the doorway, donned in a creased cap and gown. “We’re going to be late.” She reached up to adjust one of many bobby pins keeping her cap in place.

“In a moment. Your brother is ill and refusing treatment.”

Dib uncovered his face slightly cast an exhausted, low-lidded stare at her. She met it briefly and pursed her lips. She turned back to their father. “So? He’s nineteen. He can handle himself. Let’s just go.”

Membrane looked ready to start arguing again. Under the pressure of his children’s expectant gazes, though, he warily trudged back to the doorway. He gave one final glance at Dib from behind his thick lab goggles before softly shutting the door.

Dib buried his face into his pillow and groaned as another sharp pang tore through his stomach. He could still hear the two of them outside his bedroom. Words here and there, especially Gaz’s higher tone, managed to permeate through the thin walls and make their way to his ears.

“—We haven’t exactly had great experiences with your medical ‘treatment,’” Gaz said deadpan.

Instantly, memories of her media-circus extravaganza as “pig girl,” when she was ten circulated through Dib’s head.

She wasn’t wrong. If anything, she was saying exactly what Dib wanted to say, but couldn’t. The last thing he needed was to be roused from bed and forced downstairs to the lab to be poked and prodded. Normal children enjoyed sick days at home with game shows and chicken soup. He and Gaz had grown up riding out malaise in a freezing basement atop exam tables, shivering away while their father took notes and attempted to create permanent cures for the uncommon cold or invent a mayonnaise that never spoiled. His intentions were good—he even went so far as to give them second-hand anxiety in his frantic concern for them. In practice, though, it was far better to just avoid even letting him know they were sick.

Dib couldn’t avoid it this time, though. The pain had come on almost immediately that morning, and he’d spent a substantial portion of the day vomiting and drifting in and out of strange, shallow slumber while cramps wracked through his abdomen. He found himself falling asleep again as his father and Gaz continued arguing in the hallway. Their voices felt farther and farther away until disappearing completely.

-x-

The crash of the slamming front door echoed throughout the house.

Almost instantaneously, Dib jerked awake in a nauseous sweat. He didn’t sit up, but simply stared wide eyed into his now-dark room as his father and sister noisily tromped through the kitchen. They must have just gotten back from the graduation rehearsal.

How long have I been asleep?

He craned his neck to glance at his clock but couldn’t see anything beyond a dim red glow across his nightstand. He was still curled in the fetal position on his side, still holding his stomach. “Uuuughhhhh.”

His dreams had been bizarre, filled with dizzying repetition and strange, anxiety-inducing plotlines that could only make sense to an unconscious mind. Just remembering them made him feel woozy again…

His queasiness coincided perfectly with another rush of sharp, stabbing pain. He uncurled just enough to lean over his bed and vomit noisily into a bucket sitting nearby for this very purpose.

Just as he finished, his father knocked at the door. “Dib?”

“Yeah?” he weakly asked the dark room.

“I’m letting you rest,” he started, somewhat begrudgingly. “But… are you okay?”

Dib paused a moment too long before answering. “Mmmhmm,” he said after a minute.

“Okay then…”

Even in his state, he could tell his father was holding back everything he could to not haul him down to the basement to run tests on him. He didn’t stop to consider this for very long, though, before drifting into a shallow sleep.

-x-

“Have you checked on your brother?” Membrane was sitting at the table the next morning, nursing a cup of tea.

Gaz ambled past him and began rifling through the refrigerator. “No. But I think he’s just trying to sleep it off. Stomach bugs suck.”

A patch of sunshine seeped through the kitchen window and landed in a patch on the ground. Membrane watched it speculatively.

“Have any of your classmates been sick with something similar?”

Gaz poked her head out of the fridge. “I don’t think so.” She shrugged and continued searching for the strawberry jam.

“Anyone at Dib’s college? Did he mention anything?”

Gaz simply shrugged again. “No? I dunno.” She plunked the jam onto the kitchen table and began messing with the coffee maker.

Membrane stood up, slowly at first, as if he was afraid Gaz would catch him and force him to sit back down. “I’m just going to go check in on him…”

He scaled the staircase, perturbed at how quiet the upper level was. He stopped outside Dib’s room and knocked.

Nothing.

He knocked again, this time a little louder.

“Uuugh…” A small, hoarse groan answered him. He took this as invitation enough and opened the door.

“Son?”

All that was visible was a very limp, very mussed lock of scythe-like hair strewn across his pillow. The rest of Dib was clearly balled up beneath the comforter.

“Are you okay?”

The mass of blankets was silent. Then, very softly, “…No.”

Membrane quickly crossed the room and uncovered the blankets.

Dib’s skin had taken on a sallow, waxy tone and he was covered in a thin sheen of sweat. Both hands were in the same place they’d been the day before, pressed against his stomach until he was gasping for air.

“How long have you been like this?!” Membrane demanded. Already, his head was swirling with a million different possibilities.

A shaky pull of breath prefaced Dib’s words. “It got worse a few hours ago. I’ve never had stomach pain like this before.”

His father reached down, then paused. “Are you okay with me touching you?”

Dib nodded, then cringed into his mattress and pressed his hands tighter into his stomach.

Membrane waited for the pain to pass then, with considerable trepidation, he tried to move Dib’s hands away from his abdomen. With the same amount of unease, the latter obliged.

The tips of two prosthetic fingers pressed into the upper left of his son’s torso. “Does that hurt?”

Dib shook his head frantically, grabbing his father’s hand and guiding it to his lower abdomen, right next to his belly button.

Membrane’s eyebrows raised over his goggles. “There? That’s where it hurts?”

He nodded, tensing up again. His stomach was bloated outwards, looking odd against what was normally a very lean build.

It would have been very easy for Membrane to burst out with his diagnosis in triumph before carting off his child to surgery. It certainly would have been a needed release for the rush of panic that had washed over him. Instead, he looked down at his now-adult son and composed himself the best he could. “Dib?”

One eye cracked open to glance up at him.

Membrane paused before speaking. “You are showing classic signs of appendicitis. It is vital you come with me.”

Dib’s eyes flew open, and he lifted his head off the pillow. He somehow managed to go even paler. “W-what?”

Membrane simply nodded. “Can you stand up?”

Filled with sudden adrenaline, Dib stumbled out of bed, still hunched over in pain. “Okay. Okay… I’ll go downstairs… I just—”

“—No,” Membrane interrupted. “Not the home lab. The hospital wing at Membrane Labs. If I am correct in my diagnosis, you’re going to need emergency surgery.”

Dib froze up, looking queasy. “And you’re sure?” he squeaked out.

“I won’t know for sure without running tests… an ultrasound… but…” he paused, knowing that each word he said was just making Dib more apprehensive about going with him. “… I am fairly confident.”

Dib shuddered and held his stomach, then stumbled forward. Membrane caught his arm and held him steady. Dib was just as tall as he was, something that was disarming to see up close. He leaned his weight against Membrane’s shoulder. For a moment, he stood there, head down and facing the carpet. Then, in a quiet voice, “Okay. I trust you. Let’s go.”

[damien-wolfram-art]

A Shinobi Simply has to Play with the Hand he’s Dealt

“The arm is still highly experimental. It’s made from Hashirama’s cells and operates on a connection to your chakra. We’ll have to monitor you for a while before you have the greenlight to go home. There’s no telling if there will be any side effects or what they will be. So just sit tight, okay, Naruto?”

“Aww c’mon Granny! You did a great job! I mean just look at this!” Naruto repeatedly flexed the hand on the end of his newly attached forearm. “It feels just like my old arm!” Naruto praised, forming a fist and swinging it through the air.

“Yes, well, that may be true, however you still need to be monitored. If that thing malfunctions it could suck every last drop of chakra right out of you.”

Naruto stiffened, feeling a cold sweat coming on. He slowed himself down now that he was painfully aware of his role as a test subject. “Hold on. That could happen and you strapped this thing onto me anyway?!?” He asked.

“You aren’t chickening out are you?” Tsunade teased, raising a blonde brow at her patient. “And after all that whining you did to convince me to go this far…”

Naruto gulped hard. His fragile manhood crumpled under the teasing. “No, no, of course not!”

“Good. After all, we’ll be monitoring your chakra for any changes. You’ll be fine,” said his well endowed doctor. “Now,” She tossed him a couple of papers. “Work on these hand exercises and don’t push it. I’ll see you in the morning-”

“Granny.”

“Yes?”

Naruto was staring at the full moon outside of the window to his room, clutching the papers when he asked, “any news from Sasuke?”

Tsunade hesitated and Naruto smiled longingly. “That’s alright,” he said. “He’ll reach out when he’s ready.”

Tsunade left him wordlessly and Naruto looked over the papers.“You’d probably make fun of me for all this wouldn’t ya Sasuke?” He asked, knowing he’d get no answer.

Nevertheless, Naruto was diligent. He began to work on the exercises. He tapped his fingers to each other, flexed his hand gently, and made hand signs without channeling chakra.

Sasuke never considered himself much of a voyeurist, but watching Naruto in his hospital gown fumble with his hands through his window was strangely entrancing. He’d only been away from the village for a short while, but like Naruto, he too, was thinking about his rival and Naruto was right. Sasuke did think he was a loser for giving in and replacing the arm he’d lost in their fight. He could never be so lame.

 Sasuke brushed the growing hair from his eyes and watched Naruto closely. This came naturally to the man who possessed both a mangekyo sharingan and rinnegan. What he saw caught his interest.

Naruto’s demeanor had changed. Thinking about Sasuke always had an effect on him. He tried his best to keep it hidden in public, but in the privacy of the hospital bed, Naruto caved. “Man…I really miss you, y’know?” Naruto whispered and his new hand slipped beneath the thin white sheets draped loosely over his lap.

Sasuke’s eyes widened and then focused on the movement there to ensure what he was seeing was true. Was he really using that fake hand to touch himself? “Tch. Naruto you loser,” he grumbled in confirmation, settling into a seated position against the trunk of the tree he found himself concealed in. He watched as Naruto grew hot and restless from his incessant stroking; it was a wonder he ever mastered sage jutsu.

Naruto wasn’t the only one getting restless though. The bulge in Sasuke’s pants reminded him that again just like Naruto, he also hadn’t been able to utilize his dominant hand for self-stimulation. The only difference was that Sasuke never replaced his arm. He had to play with the hand he was dealt– his right.

Joining Naruto was easy enough, he always felt welcoming even when he didn’t know anyone was watching and although Sasuke struggled with dexterity at first, keeping his eyes on Naruto did him wonders. Naruto threw his head back and two muted syllables left his lips. Sasuke didn’t have to hear them.

 “Narutoooo,” he replied simply. The two came in unison that night. Naruto believed it.

@narutokinktober

@bitchbot3000

[maningning]

I cannot stop thinking about Cas waking up one day with an urgency that startles Dean. He gets up and spends the next hour and a half on his laptop, researching something furiously, before telling Dean that he’s going to some university’s zoological unit 4 hours away from their house (Do you wanna come with me, Dean?)

The drive is quite short for what Dean was used to during his hunting days, but the urgency at which Cas is driving makes it feel like of utmost importance to speed all the way to their destination. They arrive half an hour earlier than their ETA, and Cas has his whole schtick ready: today, he’s a researcher working on a paper about some animal with a scientific name Dean can’t pronounce, and he needs to see some fossils from their paleontology unit right now.

So they go into the unit, and as soon as one drawer containing a skull which looks like it’s a size in between a cat and rat is opened, Cas falls quiet. Solemn, even. Dean tries to listen to some of the commentary being provided by the old professor they’re talking to, in case this whole thing is actually of import, but he’s mostly taken aback by Cas’ silence.

The silence continues back into the car, with Dean now taking the driver’s seat. Ever since he got Cas back from the empty and they did the whole shebang of getting together, moving into a new place and living a mostly domestic life, Cas gets like this sometimes. His newfound humanity brought something along with it: the mental barriers that Naomi put up in Cas’ head to prevent him from remembering or processing certain events are slowly deteriorating as time passes, and sometimes those memories knock Cas out. Dean knows now to wait it out, that Cas will always come back to himself, just as long as Dean exercises patience.

“She was my friend” is what breaks the silence. It takes Dean a couple moments to realize that Cas is talking about the skull they saw in the University. Dean really doesn’t have any idea what to say to that, so he just says I’m sorry about that, man, to which Cas specifies that this is one of those instances that the memory is good, and the only thing that hurts him is the fact that he forgot about it.

Dean asks a couple questions to lighten the mood of course, many of which resulted in varying amusement and exasperation from Cas.

(“She have a name?” “Their species did not think of themselves and each other as necessitating a name. I also did not think of myself as having a name, when I was one of them.”)

(“Wait, so you were walking around like you’re one of these little furries back in the day?” “Yes, Dean. I do not understand why you are laughing. It is not as different from my escapades walking alongside human beings.”)

(“So was she just a friend or…?” “Dean, I already told you that you are the only man I have ever loved” “One, she’s a chick. Two, I don’t think a rat counts as a man.” “They are not rodents, Dean. They are actually closer to primates.” “You’re evading the question!”)

Eventually they get home. As they prepare for bed, Cas is sitting up, tense. When Dean asks him what’s up, he confesses that he’s afraid to go to sleep, because his memories come back to him in his dreams and I don’t know what I’ll remember tomorrow.

Not for the first time that day, Dean doesn’t know what to say. Today’s memories were good, but what if the next one was a massacre ordered by heaven? A biblical plague Cas was instructed to deliver? Dean opts to stay up and talk through the night. When they both finally go to sleep, the sun is already up, and Cas only dreams of Dean’s laughter.

[pedritomosquito]

Assume the Worst (Ch 1)

Words: ~2.5k

Tags: implied SA, SA aftermath, blood, injury, lots of comfort, Connor being the MVP

Summary: Connor discovers Reese bleeding and confused in the hospital parking garage. The team unravels who did this to her and why as they try to save her.

A/N: it’s my first fic! Heed the content warning—the assault is not shown, but the story picks up minutes after. If the assault is ever recounted, I will add a proper warning to the chapter. Have a safe read 💞

~Reese~

Sarah lays on the ground. She is there in that parking garage, but in a very real sense—she’s gone.

She is simply a loose sketch of herself, scratched and smudged onto a notebook page.

The world around her swings wildly between blurred and devastatingly surreal. Her body has shut down and she is both locked out and trapped inside.

A dark looming figure darts toward her and she does her best to get away. She may have screamed but she isn’t sure.

Don’t touch me.

The figure pauses, shrinking before her. She is sure that it is the monster, returning for more. All she can do is beg to be left alone.

Please, please, please.

“—Reese,” an emphatic, familiar voice cuts through the veil.

The darkness of the figure melts down to black scrubs.

The voice filters through the air around her. “Parking… Chicago Med… Me, it’s Connor.”

She finally weaves the voice and image in front of her together.

Connor? Dr. Rhodes?

Oh god, he isn’t going to believe what happened to her. No one is going to believe her. She tries to hide herself, covering where her scrubs are torn. Maybe she hadn’t fought hard enough. Maybe it had been her fault.

“I didn’t want it. I couldn’t s-stop him, I couldn’t.”

“Okay, okay.” His voice finally sounds clear in her ears. His face appears confused. “Breathe, Reese.”

She is breathing, isn’t she?

He is looking at her questiongly, suspicious. His eyes fall to the tear in her scrubs and she watches his expression drop with realization.

He knows he knows he knows.

She is sure she can tell what he is thinking. She is just a slutty intern. Just let it happen, probably even wanted it.

He murmurs something, surely some sort of admonishment.

“I I-couldn’t stop him, I tried, I—“ how can she possibly explain herself?

“No, no, Reese. This wasn’t your fault.”

The world tilts on its axis. He believes her?

She is interrupted by a sharp pain shooting through her head. Her fingertips come away from her forehead dabbed with blood.

“Hey, would it be okay if I took a look at that?” Connor asks.

She tears her gaze away from the deep red. Can he “look at“ it? Can he look at…

The blood is coming from her head. Connor wants to see the laceration on her head. Right. That is okay, she decides.

She nods.

He moves closer and her fear flares, but then his touch is so gentle, so different from the monster’s.

His aura is a quiet rain.

“How about we go inside and get this sutured up?”

The idea is jarring. She can’t let anyone know this happened. Connor already knows and word travels in the ED. Soon it won’t be one person—it will be two, then four, then eight. Panic begins to reignite.

“I don’t w-want,” she tries, “people will…”

“I’ll call Maggie and make sure she has a bed ready, okay?”

Somewhere within her, she knows that won’t be enough, but she doesn’t want to spend a second more in this parking garage. She nods.

“One second.”

The soothing rain is suddenly gone as he leaves to make the phone call.

She feels scraped raw and bare, inside and out. She wills the fabric of her scrubs to stretch farther, to cover her completely. It doesn’t.

The pain in her head has become more insistent and throbbed in time with her side. Breathing is now an exercise in cruelty.

Connor reappears in front of her.

“Maggie’s got a room and Natalie is going to take a look at you, okay?”

Natalie. What is Natalie going to think of her now?

“Is it alright if we tie my jacket around you?”

She nods as her prayer for coverage was answered in the form of a warm fleece jacket in her lap.

A pain in her side abruptly screams at her and she tries to hold it in.

Connor becomes stock still.

“That hurt?”

She just nods, too afraid to open her mouth as she controls a strangled exhale.

Control. She just needs control.

“Do you think you can walk?” He asks.

“Yeah,” she replies without a second thought. Walking is control. Moving her own body is control.

His hand is extending toward her so she takes hold of it. Her hand feels so numb, she’s not totally sure she is holding on.

The soles of her feet hesitantly greet the pavement and her visions twinkles. The throbbing pain becomes more intense and a freezing wave of heat rolls down her body. Connor’s hands are a steady force as they wrap around her arms.

The steps she takes echo, rattling her body and exploding in her head. The kaleidoscope of the world in front of her is smeared with a thick charcoal ash, its plume expanding out to the corners.

She is losing control.

Connor disappears behind the black. Her mouth won’t form the words so she weakly grabs at the air in front of her, hoping to find him.

“Reese—“

His contact doubles just as her brains goes numb. Gravity pulls at her and her side pulls taut. Pain screeches in her chest.

Connor’s voice is distant and underwater, saying something she doesn’t understand. She feels her balance shift along with her ribs, forcing a small sound out of her.

She felt a solid presence against her, warm and greatly unlike the concrete.

She felt like she could rest.

~Connor~

He was locking his car when he heard it. He froze for a moment, listening intently. It was unmistakably a quiet whimpering voice with harsh, short breaths.

He quickly made his way down the row of cars, following the sound. He wasn’t expecting what he came upon.

Between two cars, he found Sarah Reese sitting on the concrete, blood covering half of her face.

“Reese!”

He rushed over to her only to be halted by her frightened shriek as she frantically backed away from him.

“Don’t! Don’t touch me!”

“Whoa—” Connor soothed as he stopped short, hands up in surrender, “okay, alright.” He slowly knelt down a few feet away. “Breathe, Sarah.” He scanned over her, cataloging her injuries.

Head trauma. Tachypnic. Agitated. Laceration with venous bleed. Her head injury must have been severe if her disorientation was this strong.

He assumed there must have been a hit and run.

“Please, please, please,” she quietly pleaded, wrapping her arms around herself.

“Reese, look at me, Reese,” he directed. Her wild eyes darted up to his. “You’re in the parking lot at Chicago Med. It’s just me, it’s Connor.”

Recognition dawned on her face. Connor.

“I didn’t want it,” She spoke quickly, begging Connor to believe her, “I couldn’t s-stop him, I couldn’t.”

“Okay, okay,” Connor said gently, trying to understand what she was talking about, “Breathe, Reese.” He searched her for some sort of explanation. His eyes fell to her left hand as it tugged at the fabric of her scrubs, trying to cover herself.

Her pants were torn open.

The realization was a punch to the chest.

“Oh god,” Connor whispered. A knot tied in his stomach.

“I I-couldn’t stop him, I tried, I,” she sputtered in response.

“No, no, Reese,” he rushed to assure her, shaking his head, “this wasn’t your fault.”

She suddenly blinked hard, her shaking hand coming up to her forehead.

“Hey, would it be okay if I took a look at that?”

She thought for a moment before nodding.

Connor cautiously approached her. She didn’t startle this time. He slowly and gently placed his fingertips on her temple, examining the laceration. It was fairly deep and surrounded by an angry bruise. He stole a glance at her eyes to see if her pupils were even.

“How about we go inside and get this sutured up?” He said carefully.

“I don’t w-want,” she stuttered, “people will…”

“I’ll call Maggie and make sure she has a bed ready, okay?”

She nodded apprehensively at that.

“One second,” Connor said as he stepped away to call. He wandered until he hoped he would be out of earshot.

“ED,” Maggie’s voice chimed.

“Maggie.” His tone immediately gave him away.

“Dr. Rhodes?” Maggie asked, concern bleeding into her words,

“It’s Reese. Someone attacked her in the parking lot.”

“What?” Maggie questioned in shock. “Get her in here, I’ll call Goodwin. Do you need rapid?”

“No, she’s stable right now.” He hesitated to continue, glancing back at Reese. He kept his voice barely audible. “Maggie, she was sexually assaulted.”

“Oh my god,” Maggie whispered, pausing for a moment. “Bring her straight to treatment four.”

“Page Natalie?” Connor added.

“You got it.”

He pocketed his phone and made his way back over to Sarah.

“Maggie’s got a room and Natalie is going to take a look at you, okay?” He told her. He noticed that she was still trying to cover herself. “Is it okay if we tie my jacket around you?”

Sarah nodded gratefully.

Connor unzipped his fleece and shrugged it off. He draped it over her lap and reached behind her to tie the sleeves, brushing her side.

She tried to suppress the sound of pain in her throat as her body stiffened.

Connor froze.

“That hurt?” He eyed her carefully.

“Mhm,” she answered, her eyes slammed shut as she tried to control an exhale.

He worried the fast pace of her breathing might not be from panic alone.

“Do you think you can walk?” He asked, now even more keen on getting her inside.

“Yeah,” she nodded confidently, shifting to get up.

She held onto his extended hand and he carefully guided her to feet, giving her a moment to steady.

Connor walked backwards as he guided her out from in between the cars. He kept a firm hold underneath her elbows, watching her closely. She made it two steps before blindly reaching for Connor.

“Reese—“ Connor immediately moved to grab hold of her.

She started to slide to the ground and Connor caught her weight against him.

“Alright,” He strained, “I got you.”

The way her ribs stretched cut a sob from Sarah’s throat.

“Reese I’m going to pick you up, alright?” He called to her as he watched her fight to keep her eyes open. He prayed that his touch wouldn’t upset her.

He moved quickly to lift her, taking the weight off of her buckled knees. The movement made her tense up and another pained sound escaped her.

“Easy, easy,” he did his best to comfort her and started to walk back inside.

“I got you.”

A/N: There you have it! Tell me your favorite moment/thing/line in the chapter and I'll tell you mine? Thank you for reading, it’s everything to me 💞

[maybeimamuppet]

requested by @lucyuniverseyt

6, macaronnie- slow kisses

tw for depressive episode

If you ask anyone, Heather McNamara is sunshine incarnate. She even dresses the part. Always has at least one bit of yellow, even if it’s as small as a scrunchie.

But Veronica knows that even the most sunshine-y people still have clouds. Storms that hide them away. Block out their light.

Heather’s in the throes of one today. It doesn’t happen often, but sometimes the medicines her doctor prescribed aren’t enough. The exercise and the fresh air and drinking water aren’t enough. And Heather just… stops.

Veronica can always tell when it starts getting bad, because Heather’s still in bed next to her. The sheets are still rumpled, the duvet still wound around her after she stole it in the night, her blonde hair frizzy and mussed after sleeping a full night on it.

Today is one of those days. Heather groans as Veronica pushes her long hair every which way on a desperate hunt for her face. Eventually, she finds a single chocolate brown eye open and glaring at her.

“Morning, sunshine,” Veronica murmurs teasingly. “Episode?” Heather nods. “Want coffee?” Another nod. “Mmkay. I’ll be right back.”

On a typical morning, Heather wakes with the sun. She does yoga to help keep herself grounded and flexible enough to maintain her spot on the university cheer squad she’d worked so hard for. Then, she makes coffee. On weekends, they sit in bed together and watch the sun shift around the room through the window. Sometimes they talk, sometimes they don’t. On weekdays, Veronica sips at her coffee as they both rush about to get ready for classes or work.

Today, coffee is Veronica’s undertaking. Luckily, she’s been a caffeine junkie for long enough to know how to work just about any coffee machine with minimal catastrophe. Minimal.

Heather lifts her face off the pillow when she smells the delicious wafting scent of fresh coffee enter the room and stretches languidly across the bed to take her mug. Veronica climbs back in next to her, leaning back against the headboard with her mug in one hand and today’s newspaper in the other. She’d never admit it, but she might have inherited her dad’s love of crossword puzzles.

Heather chugs at her mug like it’s some sort of elixir of life before she clunks it onto her nightstand. She didn’t quite balance it well enough, so she gives it a nudge with the tips of her fingers so it doesn’t fall and break. Veronica finishes hers and scratches through Heather’s wild hair with her free hand as her girlfriend rests her head in the cradle formed by her body, right on the swell of her stomach.

“You wanna talk about it?” she murmurs softly.

Heather opens her mouth to speak, creating a soft smack as her lips part. It’s almost like watching a turtle, like she’s moving in slow motion. It breaks Veronica’s heart to see her normally-energetic girlfriend in such a state.

“I feel… fake,” Heather says, slurring her words the slightest bit with her exhaustion. “Not real.”

“Disassociating?” Veronica asks quietly. Heather nods and holds her fingers up in an, a little, sign. “I’m sorry, Noodle. Can I do anything?”

Heather shrugs.

“I could… kiss you,” Veronica suggests. Not selfishly, she tells herself. Kissing is a very grounding experience.

Heather rolls her eyes affectionately, but she crawls a little bit higher on Veronica and carefully leans in for a kiss.

Veronica cups her face to hold her head steady, so Heather doesn’t have to work as hard for this. Heather sighs quietly, contented and exhausted. Veronica curls her fingers against Heather’s scalp as she feels it puff against her cheek.

She’s surprised when Heather just barely presses her tongue into it. Flicks it gently against Veronica’s, teases, then pulls away. Veronica follows her lead. Push and pull. It’s soft, wet, electric in only the way the two of them together can be.

They pull back for the briefest of seconds to breathe before they lean in again, and again, and again. It’s slow, languid, but delicious. It’s them, and it’s perfect.

“You’ll be okay,” Veronica whispers, pressing her lips to the corner of Heather’s. “I’m here.”

[another-whump-sideblog]

Jane’s Pets Pt. 33: Hanging by a Threat

TWs in the tags

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Breaking point | Stress positions | Reluctant caretaker

Kit has been spending a lot of time with you. They read to you for hours, filling the silence. They also walk you through exercises you can do to get some movement while bedridden. You’ve been able to communicate yes and no through blinking twice and once, respectively.

Kit gently sets down the book they’ve been reading. “Are you… good?”

It takes you a moment to realize you’re crying. You blink once.

“I know it’s a dumb question, but I can’t really ask what’s wrong. Are you in pain? Well, I know you’re in pain. Are you in more pain than normal? Do you want me to get some ice packs?”

You blink once again. You don’t want them to leave.

“So it’s emotional? Are you sad?”

You don’t know. You blink twice.

“It’ll be okay. I know it sucks right now, but it will get better when you can walk again. We’ll spend lots of time outside and eat lots of… saltines. It’ll be good. There are things to live for.”

You close your eyes.

“Just hang on.” They pick the book back up. “And until things get better, we can pretend we’re in another world. Where were we?”

~-~-

Kitty does not like Puppy. They hate her. They hate the way she waits for permission to eat and sleep and speak, the way she obeys immediately without thought. They hate the way that she doesn’t even seem disgusted with torture, just acts like it’s a fact of life. They hate her.

It’s hard not to feel a little bad for her, though. Especially while they can hear her crying in the other room.

She was made to hold stress positions all day today. She hadn’t even done anything wrong, Jane was just in the mood to see her suffer.

It’s impossible to sleep while she cries in the other room. Kitty gets up.

They make some homemade ice packs and grab a coloring book. All the pictures have been colored in, but the backs of some of the pictures are still blank, ready to be drawn on.

Kitty marches into Puppy’s room and sets the stuff on her bed. “There. You can stop crying now. Let those of us who are allowed to sleep get some rest.”

Kitty leaves the room before they can see Puppy’s face.

They didn’t give her anything to draw with, though. No point in a coloring book if you don’t have anything to color with. Kitty hesitates outside their room. Puppy has stopped crying. They could just go to bed.

Kitty finds a packet of colored pencils and brings them to Puppy’s room.

“I don’t know why I care. I shouldn’t. I don’t like you.”

Puppy nods. She slowly applies the ice packs to her sore muscles. For some reason, her lack of distress pisses them off even more.

“Of course you don’t care what I think. I’m not your master. Why would you care if I like you?”

Puppy shakes her head. There are a lot of things that could mean, but one sticks out more in their mind.

“You… do care?”

Puppy nods.

“Oh.” Kitty sits down next to Puppy. “You don’t act like it.”

Puppy shrugs. She’s really not so bad, up close. Actually talking to her, Kitty realizes she’s not as much a mindless robot as they thought she was.

“…I don’t know why I hate you so much.” They admit. “You’re just- you don’t fight back. You just do what she says, no matter what. Like you really are a puppet. I’m afraid that I’ll become like you.”

The words spill out of their mouth before they can think about it. It’s true though, isn’t it? They’re terrified of ending up like her. Of hitting some breaking point and being unable to fight back. They hate that she represents a possibility of what could happen to Kitty. That she was weak enough. But Puppy herself?

“You’re not so bad.” They whisper, so quietly that they don’t think Puppy can hear them. Puppy wraps an arm around their shoulder, and despite their aversion to touch, they don’t pull away.

~~

Puppy is only alive because of the threats Jane has made, to hurt innocent people if she kills herself. That’s the only reason she’s hanging on. She would’ve killed herself a long, long time ago if not for Jane’s threats.

With Kitty by her side, though, she finds that she’s not that upset about being alive anymore.

A/N: Let me know if I should tag anything else! I hope it was clear that the last two scenes were flashbacks 😅

Tag list: @eatyourdamnpears @ghostsinthecloset