#i'm like. contractually obligated or something | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

romanoffsbish · 1 year

Text

Stripped Bare

Actress!Natasha Romanoff x Stripper!F!R

Warnings: Faulty Contraceptive, Unplanned Pregnancy, Abandonment, Sex Work, Troubled Birth/C-Section, Insecure R, Slightly Toxic Nat (Redeemable 🥵)

18+ | Minors DNI

"There you go pretty girl." Natasha's voice was as smooth as velvet as she egged you on, her fingers trailed up your spine, trying to distract you from the burn as you sunk onto her cock.

You mewled at the feeling of her bareness against your walls for the first time, and felt as she twitched uncontrollably at the sound. Her face burrowed into your neck momentarily as she too got used to the feeling of your molten heat wrapping around her in a delectable way.

It was as if you were perfectly made for her.

——

"You always take daddy's cock so well," she hummed her lewd words against your throat, her teeth grazed over your skin, leaving behind marks she was never meant to. Being that you were contractually obligated not to let the customers touch, marks were a hard fast no, but she was always an exception to the rule.

A well known actress, philanthropist, and even a business owner, well on her way to becoming a billionaire within another decade's times; Natasha rarely heard the word no anymore.

Your boss never much minded your sessions running over, or your disheveled state once she had a wad of 100's in her hand to compensate.

You were her best dancer, and therefore you were the only one Natasha ever accepted.

She refused to admit it went deeper than your talent status at first, it was only carnal even if she was drawn to you from the minute she stepped into the club. It was purely physical.

Until one day it wasn't.

What used to be quick fucks turned into full blown nights of passion that ended with soft moments of aftercare. Her touches said she loved you, even if her pragmatic words didn't.

It was after her last visit that she realized she'd fallen for you, or moreover when she finally admitted it, but frustratingly she had too much going on personally to say that to you just yet.

So instead of being upfront, she just bought out every slot you had this week, and filled you to the brim every night with her cock. This night not an exception, but more so an overzealous attempt to fuck you into being hers fully.

Had she just spoken to you she would've known you already were. No one else even interested you anymore after you two had started fooling around nearly two years ago.

Natasha felt the same, she'd usually have a new girl every week as she traveled the world, but now she hadn't gone more than a month without seeing you since. Tonight though, she had to tell you that changed. She pushed off the films she'd already signed on for long enough.

"Oh detka," she moaned as you picked up a steady rhythm riding her, you looked so pretty with your head thrown back like this, and with every intentional clench of your walls she was losing control, her hips jerked and she began to pound upwards which derailed your bouncing.

"I'm going to cum," Natasha shrieked, your eyes flew open, but your stammering was quickly disregarded by the lust drunk woman. “Don't worry detka, I'll buy you a plan B."

You nearly laughed in her face, of course the woman knows about plan B. Plan A should simply be her not saying she'd pull out then unilaterally deciding against it in the heat of the moment. Birth control be damned, she was just too cocky with her decision making for your liking, as if she owned you or something.

You wish she did honestly, but that's a pipe dream. This was always something you wanted, you craved it honestly, usually you'd beg her to breed you, but that came with the knowledge that she never would. She had a not so private career, and she was at her peak so she'd told you once in an exhaustion led conversation that settling down wasn't an option at the time.

Then she continued to show up and fuck you senseless, she'd behave like a jealous lover when you held a session with her after another, but she never verbalized it. She simply let her resentment show through her harsh thrusts, and you reminded her with your screams of praise that only she got to have you like this.

"Gonna fill you up detka, you want that?" You nodded, far too gone in the pleasure to speak, and the woman found herself delighted by her ability to fuck you so dumb. "Oh you're going to look so pretty carrying my baby one day."

Her load shot out of her along with a groan. Her fingers dug into your hips, teeth scraping over your pulse point harshly, you shuddered.

Natasha's orgasm directly caused yours, your head flew back, back arching your chest into hers, and the redhead quickly tightened her arms around your waist to keep you upright.

"Fuck," she panted hoarsely, "You're milking me for all I'm worth, gonna be full of my seed."

"Wanna have your baby so bad Natty," you admitted your far off fantasy, causing her to groan, her cock twitching against your walls, releasing even more of her cum inside of you.

"You'd be so pretty," Natasha whispered, her lips moving up the side of your neck as she continued to thrust shallowly. "A total vision."

She pulled back, leaning into her chair so she could admire your blissed out face. Trying to commit your features to her memory since it would be a long while before she saw you. The more she thought it over, it honestly pained her that you didn't have any photos together.

"Detka," she whispered softly, your glossy eyes fluttered open and she melted at the sight. "Can I take a photo, please?" You were really supposed to say no, to deny her the privilege as was a rule of the Red Room, but you didn't.

Natasha smirked as you nodded. She reached for her phone in a frenzy, picking you up and dropping you back down on her cock to truly get you picture ready. You instantly screamed out in pleasure, your mind far too hazy to hear the consecutive click of the actresses camera.

She never spoke in plurality, but her gallery was filling fast. She just couldn't stop herself as you made so many different expressions, all of them hot as hell as she filled you to the brim.

Natasha sloppily linked her lips with yours, you heard the click this time and smiled goofily. The redheads heart swelled, hope filling her as you wore a genuine expression. She was gutted seconds later as her phone alarm went off. Her Hollywood soft hands stilled your continuous bouncing, because if she didn't stop you now she'd miss her three am flight to London.

It was already passed midnight, her bags were packed and in her trunk. All there was left to do was break the news to you, and hope you accepted her proposal. She's sure you will.

"I have to go," she whispered, her tone somber.

You frowned, looking at your watch to see it was only 12:15. Fear flooded your heart at the idea that maybe she was growing tired of you, she never leaves before the club closes. You realized that maybe this was it, she was done.

Natasha felt the way you tensed, her hands moved to cup your cheeks, bringing your avoidant gaze back down to meet hers.

"Hey," she coo'd, "I have a flight to catch is all."

You nodded, trying to reel your emotions back in. You felt so pathetic, this was only business after all. She's not responsible for your feelings.

With a rushed response you clambered off her, holding back a whimper as you hollowed. The sensation a perfect mirroring of your heart.

Natasha hated how you looked to be in pain. All because she's behaving like a coward. It's not like she couldn't just be with you, it would have to be long distance, but it could work.

But she wants this to start when she's free, and able to devote all of her attention to you. So for now this will have to be enough for you both.

"I need you to do me a big favor," she finally cut through the tense silence, as both of you stood fully redressed. Her body molded against yours naturally, pushing you against the wall.

"What is it Nat?"

"Stop dancing," she commanded breathlessly, "I have to go, and it will be a year until I can return to you." You could almost hear a subtle nervousness that she'd never exuded before.

You wanted to give in to her right away, but you couldn't, it wasn't fair of her to ask this.

"Nat, I need this income for my bills, and I don't even understand why I would stop. You're only one of my many clients."

The one you'd fallen in love with... But she didn't need to know that, it was embarrassing.

"Because this pussy is mine Y/N," she growled. "I will properly compensate you—say yes."

Natasha didn't mean to be so gruff with you, but hearing you speak of this as if it was only ever a business arrangement pissed her off.

You guys spent many nights wrapped up in each other. She knew your hopes and dreams. You knew hers. This wasn't just sex anymore.

"I'm serious detka," Natasha's tone was free of lust now, it was authoritative, but soft and that only served to give you a false sense of hope.

You went to rebut her request, painfully so, but she simply shook her head, effectively shushing you. "You'll be okay, no need to worry about anything but your studies now moya lyubov'"

Natasha never told you what her words meant, you'd always just assumed them to be baseless words of endearment, but in this one moment you allowed yourself to believe it was more.

Natasha wished you knew it was, it would be so much easier if you only knew she loved you.

You nodded, heart skipping as her expression blossomed into something truly comforting.

Then your phone dinged, Natasha slipped it into your hands and watched with a smug grin as you gasped. Immediately you shook your head, half a million dollars being deposited into your account giving you a rush of panic.

"Natasha, i-it's too much." The redhead simply shook her head, negating your weak protests. "It's enough to get you by and then some until I'm back from my year away. You deserve it."

"I can't accept this Nat," you tried to deny her, but you both knew you could, and with the stern look she gave you knew you would.

"You can," she bluntly replied, her attempt of leaving no room for argument, but then she softened, kissing your lips as she mumbled, "and you should, take the break moya lyubov'."

You sighed against her lips, your subtle way of conceding to her request. Natasha deepened the kiss then, your arms lazily wrapped around her neck, and she happily made out with you. Then the redheads phone went off, she groaned but looked down to see her driver was calling her, again, so she pulled away with a sad smile.

"Take care of yourself Y/N/N," she pecked your lips again, then her warmth left yours. Both of you had tears brimming in your eyes as she walked away, neither of you would let them fall though until you were safely concealed away from prying eyes. And away from one another.

"Have fun Natty, don't forget about me." Her hand hesitated on the knob now because you sounded serious. As if you believed she could.

Natasha could never forget you; her angel.

You'd never known it, but you saved her soul.

With that precious heart, and gorgeous smile.

Those eyes of yours that said you cared.

Natasha knew she was doomed to fall for you on that first night, it's why she kept returning.

Natasha cleared her throat, doing her best to remain chill. She soon turned to you with a wry smile. "I just had my fun detka," she winked "and I never would dream of forgetting you.

——~~~~~——~~~~~~~~——~~~~~——

A year flew by in no time, and now here you stood. With a baby on your hip, and a mind lost in a fantasy. You wished life wasn't so cruel.

The sound of the kettle whistling brought you out of your steamy daydream of a night past.

That was the last time you saw the woman, besides for on your TV. She'd unfairly asked you to wait for her to return, but never once did she give you a concrete reason to believe this was anything more than just business.

The PR surrounding her and her female costar didn't help to quell your fears of inadequacy.

They only made you realize this was a fantasy.

Natasha actually loving you was a sweet delusion you let yourself cling to for too long, now you had to move on for your sons sake.

Natasha's son... He looks so much like her. You sometimes wonder if things would be different if she knew. Would she actually step up?

You're not sure if you'll ever know. Your loyalty to her comes to an end tonight, you're certain she won't take that well, but that's tough shit.

The bucket loads of money she gave you ran out just last month, and so you hadn't much of a choice anymore. You had to return to work if you were going to support your family unit. She didn't own you, and so she would have to face the consequences of her every previous action.

She knocked you up, then skipped town by the next day without even leaving you her number. She couldn't exactly hold this against you.

After delivering the mug of tea to your ailing mother you passed your son to your brother, leaving a kiss on his chubby cheek before looking to your sibling with a stern glare.

"He's safe," he grumbled, "Now go be a hoe."

You rolled your eyes, flipping your brother off as you slipped out of the door with your bag.

A tear slid down your cheek, but you moved passed the anxiety, and drove off to the club.

—

News travels fast, you were always the clubs best girl so they announced your return days in advance, and of course as Nat landed back in LA she saw the news in an email from the club.

Her phone screen audibly cracked as she slammed it into the counter, and after a hot shower the redhead was on her private jet en route to New York, where you currently were in the back of the club trying on your best set.

You frowned when the lacy one piece struggled to get over your newly protruding hips. Every day you are reminded of your new body, and the miracle it pulled off creating your son, but it feels more burdensome in times like this.

Then you look down at the time, see your son's perfect face, and remember that though your circumstances aren't ideal, you wouldn't trade him for the world. So, with a brave face, and makeup over your newfound beauty marks you anxiously made your way out to the floor.

As soon as you stepped out the spotlight fell to you and the crowd roared with excitement. You were beyond overwhelmed as your eyes trailed over the crowd, many of your regulars from the years past were here to welcome you back. It was nice, but when you didn't find the pair of green you were hoping to your mood dropped.

The show must go on though, and when your boss called for you to greet Mrs. Lawrence, you waltzed right on over with a bright smile.

"Y/N, dear, it's been too long," the much older woman lifted your hand to her lips for a kiss that made you internally cringe. Another one of your rule breakers, with loads of her husbands money to cover up her perceived deviancies.

Her lips were dry, cracked with lines that held stories you didn't ever intend to learn. The only lines that mattered to you, that were engrained in the deepest crevices of your soul, were the ones that belonged to Natasha Romanoff.

A thin layer of wetness coated your lower lashes at the thought, but you held back the tears, and even more so on the need to retch.

You had bills to pay.

"Mrs. Lawrence," you greeted in a sultry tone, eyes batting up at her as she towered over you. "It's been quite some time since we've last been acquainted. Please tell me you rented a room."

You felt sick to your stomach...

"Oh, why of course I did sweetie..."

Natasha entered the club, determined in her stride as she let the anger in her soul win out. Her eyes only took seconds to zero in on you, and once they saw the elder woman escorting you to a room they narrowed in raw anger.

Fortunately your boss caught wind of the redheads arrival, she interrupted your current rendezvous and promised Mrs. Lawrence that she'd have her chance with you. Before you could ask your boss why you had your answer.

A strong hand wrapped around your bicep, dragging you down the dark hallways to the back of the line of rooms, and tossed you beyond the door, your body hitting the floor.

"I-um, shit, are you okay?" Natasha scrambled forward and pulled you up, her fast hands assessing you for injury. She didn't mean for you to get hurt, the angry adrenaline had just taken over. You nodded, "I'm okay Natty..."

She scoffed, how could you use such a sweet name when you clearly didn't love her the way that she loved you. God, did she love you.

"What part of stop dancing didn't you get?"

"Nat," your lip trembled as you stared back at her scared. She was furious, and that upset you terribly. "I'm broke... I had no other choice."

"I paid you more than enough, stop lying."

"I-I had to spend the bulk of the money Nat."

"I gave you half a million dollars Y/N!" She exasperated, "Fuck, you're such a whore!"

"My mom's sick!" You spat back now, "Her medical bills alone took a fourth of it," you reluctantly admitted, "Then another chunk went to paying off my schooling and for basic necessities. Not to mention I had to get us a house to stay in, one with a comfortable space for my mom, and with enough rooms for all of us," you continued, but Natasha just couldn't move passed the way you said all of us...

Did you have a partner she wasn't aware of?

Was she really that fucking clueless, and you that much of a conniving, filthy whore?

"Who the hell is 'us'?" She suddenly shouts, causing you to flinch fearfully and step even further away from her. "Y/N, I'm not going to ask again," she growls, then if things weren't bad enough your phone began to ring, and before you could send your mom to voicemail Natasha snatched the phone from your hands, and you tried to stop her but it was too late.

The natural redhead turned away to see the culprit, but she nearly dropped the phone when the call ended and she saw your lock screen.

There before her very eyes was a sweet little baby boy, he couldn't have been more than a month old in the photo. He'd been yawning, but one of his eyes was still slightly open and the murky shade of green was unmistakable.

"I wanted to tell you, but you never left me with any way to contact you, and it would've been too risky for you if I tried to find you. Plus, you didn't even want him, the pill that failed told me that much," you spoke up from behind her, the subtle disdain was clear in your tone, but Natasha couldn't be bothered to care about it.

She'd come back here tonight to remind you that you were hers, to put an end to the unspoken of tension, and give you the label you'd both been painstakingly yearning for.

But now, she's leaving this nightclub a mother.

That was never on the agenda, but the longer she stares at the photo of your baby, the more her heart seems to settle into the role, her mind runs wild with all the possibilities of a life she'd always wanted but never slowed down to have.

"Get dressed," she instructs with a level tone, smirking teasingly when you scoff. "Natasha, I have a job to do, and your tips are unwanted!"

Natasha frowns as you continue. "They come with unfair requirements, and I can no longer live on your timeline, I have four mouths to feed, and a mountain of medical bills stacking up." Her heart cracks as your pained words fly at her, but she's quick to straighten herself out.

"Y/N, you have to know that I am not going anywhere, right?" It was your turn to frown now as you took in the nervous way her hands fidgeted. "It hurts to see you think so little of me, but I guess that's really my own fault."

"Natasha, I." Before you could piggyback to make her feel better she shushed you, her hand waving in the air. "You don't need to do that. I'm here to fix this baby, I am here to stay, it's the whole reason why I came here tonight."

Natasha sat down in the chair she's been in many times before, but tonight was different from the rest, it came with soft confessions, "Come, sit on my lap darling, let me explain."

You cautiously took her extended hand to allow her to pull you into her lap, and you bit your lip instinctually upon feeling her large bulge.

"I flew in this morning, after all my many projects were finally completed, and before I could seek you out I was notified of your reappearing debut at the club tonight," she tiredly explains, "I was furious—as you could see, but that's all because of," she pauses, her heart stuttering in her chest, and beating so loud she could hear it, only you had this affect on her, it was like you were a drug cruising through her veins and lighting her nerves.

"I—Fuck, this is harder than I expected it to be," she chuckled humorlessly, you felt the way her body tensed up, so you took a bit of a risk; you intertwined your hand with hers, and used your other to cup her cheek with a tenderness.

It seemed to be a good call since Natasha's body immediately melted into the chair at the sign of affection, while her lips softly pressed to your palm, "I'm in love with you Y/N." You gasped softly, never expecting to hear those words from her, but they were the ones that had always lived in your dreams. "It wasn't my intention to fall, but after our first encounter I knew I was stepping off the ledge if I returned."

The woman could see the gears turning in your mind, it was clear you were trying to get how she could have been so pragmatic at the end of each session, but had also been falling in love.

"Which is why I kept coming back, and booking your slots full when I couldn't be here. It was a tactic to keep you untouched by others; you're mine. It was also to take care of you as best I could," she took your smirk as a good sign, and so she went on, shooting her shot in totality.

"That's all I want to do Y/N, to take care of you, I'm here to offer me completely, my heart is irrevocably yours, as is my body and soul."

You pouted inquisitively, the distrust obvious, and that spurred her on to fight harder for you.

"Please, let me love you like I always should've, to make up for the time lost, and to make this unexpected, but wanted family whole," the words left her with such conviction you weren't able to perceive them as anything less than true, so you answered her with a needy kiss.

Then you cupped her bulge through her pants, the woman groaned hotly against your lips, it took everything in her not to take you then.

"Detka, we don't have to." Natasha gripped your shoulders, using what little restraint she had she pushed you back. Worry ebbed its way into her heart, she feared you thought she expected sex from you in the moment, and as much as she wanted it, she didn't want to rush.

"I know," you whispered, "I want you, please."

"You have me detka. Daddy's got you."

Natasha stood up, your legs wrapped around her waist instantaneously, and she continued to kiss you rather sloppily while her free hand meticulously removed her belt causing her slacks to hit the floor. Her cock sprung free from its confines, slapping into your wet slit, and effectively pulling a soft moan from you.

"You always make such pretty noises," she purred against the skin of your neck as she teasingly rubbed her shaft against you, intent as an abundance of your slick transferred and eventually it trickled down both of your thighs.

Clearly foreplay was unnecessary, but that didn't matter to her. Natasha swiftly set you down, removing your lingerie in a flash. Her hands groped you over the cups on your breasts before she expertly removed them. Her hands continued to knead the sore flesh before you could warn her, though it didn't matter much because you breathily moaned in relief and she salivated at the white pebbling.

Natasha was desperate, "I need to taste you!" Her plump lips brushed over your collarbones, she stuck her tongue out, licking the salty skin as she inched closer to where you needed relief. She was panting just the same as you, this need to taste your breastmilk something new to her.

Her body was warmed by the palpable desire.

You whimpered embarrassingly as her tongue swirled around your nipple before settling beneath as her lips enclosed around the bud. Pre-cum spurted from the tip of Natasha's cock at your noises, and the overwhelming sweet taste that flooded her mouth after a soft suck.

"Fuck," she groaned against your sensitive areola, precious drops of white dripped from her lips and she cursed herself for losing any of it. "It's so sweet, detka, you're just so perfect!"

The smell of your arousal soon flooded the steamy room, pulling your lover from your breasts. She'd cleared your supply out anyway, so it was not shocking that she was kissing down your body now. There was insecurity in the way you moved earlier, when she removed your lingerie, and that made her heart hurt.

Change is inevitable when you carry life, bodies change in permanent ways as skin stretches. It is a miracle, one you've lived through as you carried her son. These dark stripes that now adorned your breasts, stomach and hips were only a beautiful reminder of that miracle. Natasha thought you were beautiful regardless of what you believed, the truth was obvious.

"God Y/N," she groaned, her lips softly pressed into the skin of your hips. It melted you to feel her smile against the new divots in your skin. "My gorgeous girl, look at you carrying around these beautiful marks in memory of our love."

An unexpected sob bubbled up from your chest as your heart melted at her subtle mention of your son, and the genuine lilt to her tone as she praised you for him had you swooning harder.

Natasha went slow as she loosely gripped at your lusher hips, her chapped lips from the constant atmospheric changes scraped over your pregnancy pouch. Kisses being left behind with a whispered praise to follow each one.

"You're the most beautiful girl here Y/N," she sighed as her soft fingertips trailed over the stretch marks while her lips pressed a kiss to the pudgy skin, she smiled against you making you feel her sincerity as she spoke on, "In that room full of people trying to get my attention I only ever saw you—my beautiful, sweet girl"

Her confession made you cry happy tears, she gripped your hand instantly, stroking it in a comforting way as she continued to kiss all over your body. Her lips paused over the scar on your lower belly, you felt her copycat tears, and placed a comforting hand on the back of her head. She chuckled emotionally, pulling back to gaze right into your eyes. Hers were apologetic, remorseful, and sickeningly loving.

“It’s okay Natty,” you reassured, hand slipping to cup her cheek instead. “We’re all okay now.”

Now… Insinuating back to a time when you weren’t, and when she wasn’t there for you.

Natasha pulled her emotions back in for the sake of you. She took her time moving down your body, even slower now, she ignored the ache in her thighs as she stayed crouched. It was important for her to cherish you, she was building your confidence back up as she loved your every mark and curve without hesitation.

When she finally finished dropping to her knees you were dripping for her. She licked her lips seductively, inhaling a long breath as she admired your cunt, the intoxicating smell of your intimacy was enough to drive her feral.

Natasha smiled up at you deviously, "I can't wait to taste you detka." She pressed a kiss to your inner thigh as she breathed, "It's been too damn long." She was letting you know she was preparing to bury her tongue inside of you.

You sent her down a nervous smile, arousing her even further when you looked scared like this. Like you were just a helpless fly caught in her trap, ready to be devoured whole by her venomous lips that spun a sweet web of lust.

Natasha gently lifted your left leg up, settling the crook of your knee onto her outer shoulder, leaving your thighs spread wide open for her. She kissed your skin and whispered, "I love you so much Y/N." You smiled at her words, then her lips latched onto your clit within seconds and you felt it. There was nothing but truth to them, she loved you beyond reason, which is exactly why she's on a prolonged acting hiatus.

You winced as she slipped her tongue inside of your tight hole, the subtle stretch stung. It'd been so long since you felt like this, you'd obviously been untouched since she left; you'd fallen pregnant, and were irrevocably hers.

There was just never going to be a person who knew your body as well. After a few gentle swirls around your clit you settled into the feel of the intrusion, and soon enough you were screaming out in pleasure. Natasha already had you teetering and it'd been under two minutes.

"Need to cum daddy," you panted, "Can I?"

Natasha hummed as she contemplated letting you, her choice made your body freeze, the sensation of the vibration was dizzying. Your clit then reacted as it pulsed beneath her lips.

"Please daddy," you begged, knowing that she loved it whenever you were desperate for her, but you didn't exactly wait for a response as you ground your clit down. Nat harshly gripped your quivering thighs when you tried to resolve your lack of friction problem by riding her perfectly sculpted nose instead of allowing her to remain in charge of your building pleasure.

You whined pitifully as Natasha pulled away with a fixed glare. She shook her head, and softly tutted, "Have some patience detka." Her tongue teasingly swirled around your sensitive bud in the following breath, and you moaned hoarsely. "Let us have our overdue reunion."

Natasha returned to her ministrations with a mumble of permission. You refocused on the pleasure, and felt it increase as you locked eyes. Those green eyes of hers that once presented as a mystery to you now gazed up at you with so much love that you couldn't help but to break.

"Oh daddy, fuck, you're making me cum!!"

Natasha was in awe seeing you coming undone, her cock throbbed as she saw your eyes become hazier. Your tang traversed over her tastebuds. She soon became drunk on your familiar essence as she worked tirelessly to clean you up. There was no turning back, she couldn't stop lapping at you, her shockingly strong arms wrapped around your quivering thighs from below as she hoisted you up, and gently shifted your body to the couch all the while never retreating from her spot between your thighs.

Her strength was borderline ungodly.

The woman had lost her mind as she continued to eat you out, she gleefully ignored her lungs need for air. It was almost like she was stealing yours so perfectly that she became immune to the need to obtain her own oxygen. It was only when her cock throbbed against her leg as you pushed her away with force that she stopped.

"No more," you whimpered, "It's too much."

It wasn't a lie, you were grossly overstimulated, but you were also somewhat bluffing. If you were truly done you'd have whispered your safe word, Red, but you didn't which really only meant you needed a minute. So, for the now, Natasha took to catching her breath while her hands softly caressed your hips. Then slowly but surely she kissed her way back up your body until her smirking face hovered yours.

"Are you ready for daddy's cock yet detka?" She kissed you, her tongue down your throat before you could even respond, you moaned around the muscle as the many tastes caught up to you. There was a bitterness reminiscent of coffee, it was easily drowned out by a sweetness that you knew had come from your breast milk, but that was also rather faint in comparison to your heady arousal that sheened over her face.

"Come on detka," she husked breathlessly, you felt the way her shaft pulsed against your skin as she laid atop of you. "Let me fill you up, I know you must've missed daddy's cock."

"I did," you genuinely cried, sparkling eyes boring into hers as your nails dug into her shoulders in emphasis. Natasha smirked, and gave your honest words a reward as she lined up her fat tip with your entrance and pushed.

"Oh fuck daddy, missed you so much" you squealed as she slowly but surely filled you.

Natasha chuckled softly, "It so good to be home detka." Her lips instantly latched onto the soft skin of your neck as she continued to thrust her cock forward. "Fuck," she panted harshly as her hips stuttered. Sharp teeth suddenly bit into the skin around your pulse point, and you clenched hard, "You're hugging me just right detka, feels like this pussy was made for me."

You lowly moaned your shared sentiments, words long since lost in the fog of your mind as you continued to flutter around her. Raspy, overwhelmed moans followed, up against the skin of your bruising throat as she felt your slicked walls slowly spreading apart for her.

The stretch had your eyes crossed, your hole was so damn tight, and Natasha felt that with every inch she sunk inside, it was heavenly. The way your walls clung to her shaft had her dizzy from the momentary lack of circulation. Then after a moment of complete stillness, where she'd buried her head in the crook of your neck so you both could adjust to the sensation, she slowly began to rock her hips.

The pace remained slow for awhile, the woman remembered just how much your pussy loved tender strokes. Steadily she built you up, the pit of arousal in your lower belly was reaching unbearable. Natasha waited until your first whine of identifiable pain to still herself, her lips kissed up your neck until she was by your ear, "Tell daddy what you need detka. Go on."

"I-I," you swallowed thickly as her eyes were incredibly intense as they peered into yours. "I'm so close daddy, just need you to play." You waved your hands a bit but she played dumb.

"How ever do you mean detka?" Natasha flashed you a teasing grin and you groaned, hands flying up to block your face but she stopped them. "Tell daddy, or you get nothing."

"No. No, please," you cried. "I'm sorry daddy. I just need you to play with my clit please."

"Whatever you need detka." Natasha increased her pace as well, her lips met yours for a sloppy kiss full of tongue and your heavy panting as you struggled to keep up with her pace with her thumb pressing calculated circles into your clit.

A loud snort came from your lips as you fell head first into your orgasm. It was intense, your body shook on top of the bed and your pussy held onto your lovers dick for dear life. Natasha felt like she was going to pass out if she didn't get a second to breathe freely.

After you came around her dick Natasha knew she was close. Bringing you over the edge of no return had always kept her on the edge of her own bliss without much need for friction. It's happened many times actually, where she blew a load without warning onto the furniture just because of how you tasted on her tongue, or for whenever you'd desperately moaned for more.

Natasha was a full time simp for you, nothing turned her on more than your pleasure, so as she continued to bury her throbbing cock into your soaked cunt she knew it wouldn't be long.

The lust of the situation almost made her keep going, but she was feeling nostalgic, so she decided to slow her thrusts. Wordlessly she moved your connected bodies again until she was sat in the chair that started it all. Your lip trembled as you fully sunk onto her, and the deja vu of the moment had tears welling up.

"Shh, don't cry detka," she coo'd, her thumb gently wiped the tears from your cheek, you leaned into the touch which made her smile. Seeing you find comfort in her was out of this world, it felt like her heart was mending. She'd been broken for so long, but you fixed her.

Natasha looked into your glossy eyes with a smile that was riddled with mischief. Nostalgia aside, she had a plan, and you knew her well enough to know it. Without any instructions you began to bounce, she groaned as you had started with a rushed pace. A sign of just how desperate you also were for her to release.

But she needed to be sure first.

Natasha stilled your movements with hands on your cheeks, your eyes spun beneath your lids as your g-spot met her tip with dizzying force. "Want daddy to fill you up detka? Please say you want it too!" Your eyes lazily blinked open, you blearily saw that her lip was caught between her teeth and her eyes were pleading.

"Daddy please breed me!" Natasha grunted, "Are you sure?" You nodded, then squeaked out an adorable yes when she slapped your ass. She chuckled lowly, "Of course you are."

Natasha teasingly thrusted, but gave you nothing else. So you whined, shaking your shoulders in an attempt to get your mobility back but Natasha only gripped you tighter and slammed her lips into yours with brute force.

“Please,” your whisper was pathetically quiet, but Natasha heard you without a problem. The way she slowly picked up a pace while her soft hands roamed your perfect body a clear sign that your desperation affected her. Her words confirmed it: “I'll get you pregnant again detka, after I make you my wife, you'll be my perfect little breeding bitch." Natasha stilled. “Fuck!”

The entirety of your body warmed in tingles, her cum spurting into your walls was euphoric. Natasha’s chest heaved as you greedily kept bouncing, every single lift you’d clench, and she’d continue to feel her releasing into you. Milking her dry as she fought so hard for her even a semblance of cognition. “Detka please.”

You slowed your hips, Natasha’s heart began to follow suit. When you fully stopped, sat on her lap as your mixed releases pooled between your bodies, she leaned her head into your chest. Her nose nuzzled affectionately against the valley of your breasts. Her face decidedly settled there, shaky breaths flowing over your skin eventually faded into soft, steady ones.

While coming down from your own high your fingers mindlessly played with the extensions in her hair, tired eyes admiring the bleached shade, but also feeling ecstatic at the sight of the red roots reemerging. You yawned, the gesture muffling your words as you'd already began speaking, "I love the blonde Natty." She smiled against you tenderly, pulling back she leaned up to peck your lips, then she wrapped her arms around your neck, leaned back once more and nodded with a smile to urge you on.

"You look hot, really, but I prefer the red."

Natasha chuckled, her amusement obvious.

"Thank you detka." Natasha leaned down to kiss your cheek softly. "You ready to go now?"

You nodded and she grinned before reaching into her tote bag to grab a thin robe. Your brows lifted in amusement, her face lifted into a knowing smirk. "I must shield what's mine."

You giggled, "My clothes are down the hall."

The woman shrugged, "But this gives me easy access to you." You gulped and she smirked, her nail scraped over the exposed swell of your breasts as her tone remained teasing, "It's a long drive detka. What else will I do at stop lights if I can't reach over and fuck you dumb?"

"Focus on the road?" You suggested to which she sighed an exaggerated, "Booooring."

Natasha abruptly tied the robe shut, then lifted the both of you off the chair effortlessly. "Say goodbye to the red room detka." The both of you looked back briefly in a moment of appreciation for what it gave to you. "We'll never be back in here again, this chapter in our story is effectively closed moya lyubov'."

"What's that mean Natty?" Natasha blushed as she realized you'll finally get to see just how long you've been hers. "My love." The way your eyes filled with tears brought her close to a breakdown as well but she shushed you softly, "I told you detka, you've always been mine."

Natasha paid no mind to the stares of the patrons as she carried you out of the back room, your bag now slung over her shoulder. Your boss scowled, she didn't need the clientele getting the wrong idea about her business, but once again she was soothed by the cash your lover gave to her in thanks. "Y/N quits."

You giggled into her shirt as you heard your boss's breath catch, she furiously shouted after you both, vague threats to ruin the starlets life but she didn't care much. The world could hear about your story from the owner, or her, they can cast their judgement all they want, but at the end of the day she was happy with her life.

Natasha was happy with having you.

Natasha handed your car keys to her assistant, then she settled you into the back of her SUV before sliding in right beside you with a cheeky grin as you questioned the change in plans.

"I wanted to cuddle," she defended, you raised an untrusting brow, but then you gave her what she wanted by closely snuggling into her side.

Her arm draped over you as you made a call, and she decidedly texted her team about you. Shutting her phone off right as soon as a call began to ring in. They could figure it all out, that's what she pays them the big bucks for.

After you finished checking on your mom and son you turned to see the blonde staring longingly at your lock screen, so you handed her the phone with it open on his photo album.

Her heart fluttered painfully at the first image. It was a side to side comparison of when you were at the end of your pregnancy, bare belly protruding out far, and low. Pasted next to your post pregnancy body, with your newborn in front of your deflated belly, peacefully sleeping. His little face smushed into your arm.

Natasha cleared her throat, doing her best to lessen the emotion in her tone as she spoke. "What's his name?" you smiled fondly at the woman from your seat in the limo, "Apollo."

You were falling even harder, watching as she mindlessly scrolled through your phone with a wide smile as she looked at your shared son.

The natural redhead quirked her brow at you, her silent question rather obvious. "His birth certificate isn't signed yet, I couldn't finish it until I knew where you stood." She beamed at the exciting news, "Well, I say it's about time we get you both on the Romanoff train then."

"It'll take a bit more than some promise of forever and mind blowing sex to win my hand in marriage Nat." She smirked, humming thoughtfully as she leaned over to hover her lips over yours, "Prey tell, how do I do it?"

You pecked her lips. "Stay the night tonight."

"Oh sweetheart, I am not leaving your side," she kissed you deeply to quell your expected rebuttal to her words that almost seemed too good to be true, "This was my last movie for a very long time detka. Consider it like a sort of retirement for at least the next five years."

"Really?" You literally couldn't stop from dancing excitedly in your seat at her words. "Yes," she chuckled at your childlike glee.

"What's the plan exactly?" You pursed your lips up into a subtle pout, "Don't you live in LA?"

"I do," she sighed, "But we don't need to worry about that, I have multiple properties here, but none are close to home without you in them.

"Are you expecting to stay with us then?"

"We'll move on your timeline here, we don't have to move in together if you're not ready. Please just know that I am whenever you are, I'm aware I've had the upper hand in knowing what I wanted here, so I'll be there everyday for whatever you and Apollo need, but don't worry, not in a way that could be seen as overbearing."

"You know, I kinda like the idea of you in my bed every morning," you admitted, "So if it's all the same to you you can move in with us, or we can all follow you out to the golden state."

"I'm good with staying here," she decided, "Apollo's life is here, as is yours, we can decide where to go later, but for now home to me is wherever you are, and here is perfectly fine."

Instead of answering you leaned into her side, she kissed your forehead, and turned your phone so that you could look through them with her. You told her stories, of a wonderful three months spent with him up until you fell asleep, and she listened with a heavy heart.

Natasha carried you into your home, she set you on the couch then began to traipse around the place. She stumbled upon your mother, she was fast asleep with the bassinet beside her bed. Natasha peered into the bed to find a tiny set of green eyes curiously looking up at her.

"Hello there," she greeted in a whisper, he smiled widely, gums on full display as he happily kicked his feet, his natural trust in her clear. "I'm Natasha; you can call me mama."

Natasha didn't want to disturb your mother, it appeared she had just finished up a round of medicine based on the IV drip attached to her. So she lifted your son into her embrace, and reemerged in the living room moments later.

Apollo allowed her the chance to hold him in her lap without any fuss. She settled his butt on her knees, and laid him back on her forearms so she could really look him over. He wore a beige onesie she recognized, she nearly cried at your show of acknowledgment, it was a direct connection to her, a character she had voiced.

"You are so pretty," she admired his perfect blending of features. He was similar in skin tone to you, slightly lighter but not by much, and he currently had a head full of dark red locks that sold him as hers within an instant. His eyes were your shape, but unmistakably her gorgeous shade of green won out. He had a button nose, and his lips resembled yours.

Apollo observed his mother much the same, he couldn't exactly grasp much about her tie to him at only three months old, but his body knew she was a safe person. He'd been hesitant with most people, he took over a month to warm up to your nanny—your brother, who was currently making pasta for dinner and was none the wiser to your son's new whereabouts.

His tiny legs suddenly kicked her stomach as if he discovered something exciting and had to tell her, and surprisingly she understood the baby's little gesture. "What is it buddy?"

You smirked from behind her, "Mommy's boy."

You rounded the couch, and went to sit beside your girlfriend but she yanked you into her lap instead. She cradled the baby to her chest, and after you settled down with your back against the armrest, and with your legs on the couch she returned Apollo to lay on her arms that were now resting on your lap. "Moya sem'ya."

(My family)

Natasha kissed both of your cheeks, and you watched as tears befell hers. "Are you okay?"

She wiped her tears on the back of her hand as she nodded. "Honestly?" A wide grin suddenly took over her face. "I've never been better."

"Oh my gosh," you giggled wildly, "Is it true, that Hollywood's very own brooding lesbian with a train of fan girls is a total romantic?"

Natasha's jaw briefly clenched, you could cut through the thick tension with the sharp bones.

"They don't matter," she whispered, lower lip now wobbling. "Only you, and our son matter. Your family too. Fuck the fans and Fuck the media." She needed you to know, that without a doubt, she's exactly where she wants to be.

"Natasha, hey it's okay, I know," you spoke softly, thumb caressing her cheek as you slowly ran it down to the taut skin of her jaw, she miraculously responded and unclenched.

Then you tilted her face up with your fingers beneath her chin. "I was only playing your silly title up, I know what I have with you is sacred."

"Because it is," she chokes out, her voice raspy as she's overcome with emotion, "I love you. More than I've ever loved anyone before. I adore the way you tell me about your studies while I mindlessly play with the short hairs on the nape your neck. The way you always took care of me after a session, I'd clean your body, but you'd mend my heart with just a smile."

"Fuck Natasha, I thought I was done crying over you," your tone was humorous as you slapped her shoulder lightly. Natasha chuckled, not at your loaded words, but at the way your son went from lazily smiling to glaring up at her in wonder. You laughed too once you caught on. "Don't worry bubby, Mama's just making Mommy happy, it's a-okay malysh."

Natasha smiled at you, leaning in swiftly she stole an appreciative kiss. "You're learning Russian for our son?" You smiled softly and she couldn't fight the blush running up her neck. "God Y/N, you're the ideal partner."

Apollo huffed when you leaned in to kiss Natasha again, for a few beats longer than the last time. You smirked when Natasha pulled away from you all concerned. Her eyes surveyed the infant with precision, and once she concluded he wasn't hurt she locked her gaze on his face. His chubby, adorable face glistening in his drool. She sighed in relief as Apollo returned to his calmed demeanor. He grinned up at her over his fingers and blew.

"Oh look," you jested, pointing a thumb at him, he looks up at you in pre offense. "He's gotten his jealousy from you, it must be hereditary."

"It's definitely a biological response," she jests back with that notorious wink smirk combo of hers that initially drew you to her, and sends a shiver running up and down your spine.

"You're insatiable dorogoy," you call her out, meanwhile your slyly shifting your legs around in an attempt to get relief. Natasha notices.

"I adore your Russian accent baby," she giggles, a rare melodic sound that humanizes your actress of a lover. "It's uniquely you."

Natasha throws her head back as she cackles. The glare you'd sent her was priceless. You slapped her arm once again and your son laughed. The both of you stilled. Shocked to hear that precious sound from your tiny guy.

Your brother came running into the living room, a bandana on his head pushing his hair back, wearing a pink "Kiss the Chef" apron with white frills on the bottom with a sizzling pan in hand. He shrieks as soon as he sees the starlet beneath you. He lifts the spatula up to shield his face, but it hides nothing, the shame is evident. He leaves just as fast as he came.

The room is silent for a moment, your son looks as if he's deep in thought. His tiny brows manage to furrow, clearly he is processing. You witness Natasha smirking out of the corner of your eye, then you looked down to see your baby boys goofy, gummy grin. His squeaky laughter follows, and you cry as you feel his joy.

It's euphoric, as if you too were experiencing a laugh for the first time again. A pure feeling.

Meanwhile Natasha is doing all she can to keep his amusement going long enough for her to capture this precious moment on her phone. Shifting him to one arm, using her lap more, and pulling faces at him as she unlocks it. The woman presses record, capturing the beautiful sound, but unfortunately the camera is on her face instead of the infants. However, in a turn of events you kept your cool a bit better, and caught your sons boisterous laughter as well as his precious, deep dimpled smile. And at the angle you were, you caught your baby mama's face full of adoration along with your sons.

Then your brother returned, he slicked his hair back with a hand that he then extended to your girlfriend, and stammered, "Hi, um, I'm Cole."

"Hello Cole, I'm Natasha," she greeted him, but her gaze never met his. It was probably rude, but she dealt with enough young men to know it's best to let them down with disinterest. Also, she just couldn't look away from Apollo's face.

You'd never told your brother who the other parent was, mostly because he wouldn't ever believe you. But now, as he looked over to find you smirking he began to understand. The way she looked up at you, flashing you a grin while her green eyes sparkled was his final clue in.

Not the fact that you were in her lap…

"Oh my gosh," he shrieked. "Y/N, how the hell did you manage to pull Natasha Romanoff?"

"For one, I didn't stutter over my words," you teased, and your girlfriend laughed shortly, she hadn't meant to let it escape, but it did, and in all honesty he deserved it. "Y/N is the one who pulled me actually," she cuts you off, her free hands slipping into yours. "She's perfect."

"Where have you been then?" You sent your brother a glare as you saw the way Natasha froze up once more, but he paid it no mind.

She handed your son over, and stood to be eye level with your younger brother. It was tense for a second before she dropped her defensive stance. "I was a bit reckless, and I did a lot of things wrong, but I can assure you that I'm here now, and that's all you need to know."

Cole pursed his lips, and gave her an assessing stare before nodding slowly. "Be good to her."

He left promptly after, calling out that dinner was going to be ready in ten. After the lot of you shared a much calmer meal you stopped by to nervously introduced her to your mom. They shared in a sweet conversation, Nat promised your mom she'd be here from this point on. It wasn't hard for them to take to each other, and your heart melted into a puddle when she had helped your mom through a harsh coughing fit.

Natasha followed you obediently as you guided her to your room, you settled onto the bed, and fed your son as she looked around the space.

"You guys share a room?" You hummed a yes while moving Apollo to your shoulder so that you could burp him, and she looked at you. "Would you wanna move to my Manhattan loft? Your brother can stay here with your mom, and I can get her a live in nurse."

It was a no brainer honestly. Living with your mother while sharing a bed with your lover, and a space with your son wasn't ideal at all.

“I don’t want to rush things,” you start, feeling horrible as her face fell. “I want this, but it’s new, and I don’t want us to rush and break it.”

Natasha nodded, humming thoughtfully. “I’m not going anywhere Y/N. I’ve already sent my team a statement to release. I’m done acting, not forever, but for a very long time. My life is always go-go-go, but I’m done. I finally found something worth sticking around for.”

You smiled, Apollo looked up at Natasha and mirrored your expression. She sobbed happily.

“Okay.” You gave in easily. “We’ll follow you.”

Natasha settled down beside you in the bed, she kissed your lips softly, then she did the same to your son’s forehead, then she took him and began to burp him like a natural. The rest of the night went just a seamlessly, where you bathed him, then got him down and into bed.

Then if she couldn’t be anymore perfect she guided you into a warm bath, taking care of your every need with tender care. I love you felt with every swipe of her hands over your body. Natasha got you dressed in a nursing bra and panties, then she slipped into a pair of your sleep shorts and a cotton sports bra.

“I’ll be right behind you detka,” Natasha kissed your cheek, then ushered your protesting form out of the bathroom so she could clean up.

You slipped into bed gratefully, leaving your arms open wide to seem inviting. Natasha fell into your embrace with a pleasured sigh a few minutes later. Neither of you spoke, and it was like that for a long while, the only reason you knew the other was awake is because you're lazily carding your fingers through Natasha's hair, and she was mindlessly tickling your side.

"I'm learning Russian for you moya lyubov'," you hummed against her temple, repeating the words back to her that she'd taught you earlier while leaving a wet kiss against her hairline.

Natasha lifts her body up so that she can hover over you while leaning on her elbows. She sighs dreamily, "Vykhodi za menya?" Natasha took a leap of faith, hoping you'd gotten this far in a lesson. Interpersonal relationships are usually within the first few lessons of any language.

(Marry Me)

"What's the rush?" You teased, but then her face fell and you softened. "I will answer you when you ask me again. I don't need anything fancy, but I can assure you I do need a ring."

Natasha leaned down to kiss your lips softly. Then she buried her face against your chest so that she could release her excitement without waking the sleeping baby in the bassinet. You giggled quietly, and ran a hand down her back, that slowly inched back up as she shimmied until her lower body was slotted between your legs, with her chin pressed into your tummy.

"I'll make it special anyways," she mumbled into the soft skin of your stomach, her lips left a lazy kiss before her cheek nuzzled into your warmth. The redhead found laying atop of you like this comforting, she knew it was a fleeting moment since you preferred to sleep covered. Natasha wouldn't mind the blanket, but you wouldn't let her sleep under it completely.

“I believe you,” you breathed tiredly. Natasha shimmied back up, and brought you into albeit too brief, a heartwarmingly tender make out.

“Goodnight Natty.” You snuggled into her arms this time, and pecked her shoulder. Natasha sighed contently, “Goodnight moya lyubovs’.”

——

10,312 Words

I’m like actually really happy with this one. 🥹

Part 2

❤️ Kaitlyn 🥰

#natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff imagine #natasha romanoff oneshot #natasha romanoff fic #natasha romanoff au #natasha romanoff x reader smut #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff x fem reader #natasha romanoff x female reader #natasha romanoff x y/n #natasha romanoff x you #natasha romanoff smut #gxg #natasha x reader #natasha x y/n #natasha x you #natasha x fem!reader

1K notes · View notes

devilfic · 7 months

Note

Do you still make Batman x reader? If yes, could I request a "reader figures out Bruce Wayne is Batman"?

Thank you!

❝honeymoon❞

parts: next plot: 'til death do you part. pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x gn!reader. cw: arranged marriage, friends to enemies to (fake) lovers, implied history between reader and bruce. words: 760.

a/n: a little something quick that I thought of!

Recognizing that you had agreed to this, you had been prepared to accept anything. An affair, a drug addiction, secret ties to the mafia overlords like high society always suspected. That was your job as Bruce's spouse: contractually obligated to be okay with it and never let anyone find out about it. Whatever it was.

Even now, as your brain short circuits and the floor feels like you're about to sink right into it, you're looking for ways to be okay with this, and he's looking at you like he wants to kill you.

It's a fleeting look. One second there, the next vanished. Neither of you say anything but there is a world of things being felt, you're certain. One of you has to budge. "This... isn’t what I was expecting."

But Bruce doesn't laugh (and you'd never expect him to, not in your presence). He stands there, heaving slow breaths to calm himself down, the cowl still conspicuously trembling between both of his hands. He could've tossed it or let it go but it's almost like you've frozen him solid.

"Where did you get that?" Is all he demands, eyes trained on the key glimmering in your hand now. "The doormen have orders to-"

"To not let me in? I know. I had the key made myself. Your doormen are easy to persuade with the right amount of money."

Bruce's lip twitches and he scoffs. "I won't tell anyone," you assure him, about 75% convinced of it yourself, "It does me no good to have extra eyes on me, and I'm sure you've got contingency plans in place were I or anyone else to expose you. You were always very good about that. Plans."

"Of course you won't. Your mother wouldn't approve of the disruption in cash flow."

Your eyes narrow. "I am not interested in what my mother wants."

"Why not? She's a part of this marriage, too. Isn't she?"

"Can we talk about the suit?" Bruce stiffens when you bring back attention to the compromised position you'd found him in. "I have questions, and I suppose if you want me to be good at lying about your... hobby, you'll have to prep me."

"I think the less you know, the better. Personally."

"The 'my husband's just busy with work' spiel is getting old, and people are already starting to talk about us living apart. Now, when I agreed to marry you," you watch him flinch as you take a step forward, "I promised that I would be with you in sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer, 'til death do us part. Your business is my business. Your secret," within arm's length of his cowl, you wrench it from his grasp and he relents rather easily, "is my secret. I will take it with me to the grave so long as you keep up your end of the bargain."

Up close, you take in the black paint smeared over his eyes, a fitting backdrop for his stunning eyes so cool. The fire in the hearth flickers off of them, reflecting back at you as you stand but inches apart.

Just as you stole his cowl, Bruce steals your key. He holds it up in the palm of his glove, "You want to move in."

You hum, "It would help with appearances. And my mother would be pleased."

"I thought you weren't interested in what your mother wants."

"I'm not, but she's interested in you, and given tonight's revelation... I think you'd like someone keeping her nose out of your business."

You punctuate your point with a touch to his chest, palm laid flat over his heart and the several layers of iron-clad padding in front of it. His hair falls into his eyes as he looks down at it, then back at you. There's discomfort there but... something else. Resignation, you'd wager. Defeat. You almost sigh in relief when it dawns on you that you've—rather miraculously—won this battle going in completely blind.

Later, it will dawn on you (or plummet on you) just what you've witnessed tonight. Just what you've agreed to. Just who you've married.

Bruce peels your hand away, placing the key in your palm before releasing it like a burning stone. "There are guest rooms on the second floor." He pauses when you're not fast enough to school your expression, his mouth turning down into a scowl, "This changes nothing else." And he stalks away.

Nothing else. This changes nothing else, but if anyone were to ask, the honeymoon was going great.

#bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne scenarios #bruce wayne drabble #bruce wayne fic #bruce wayne #batman x reader #batman scenarios #batman drabble #batman fic #the batman #battinson x reader #battinson #dc #mjwrites #bw; honeymoon

625 notes · View notes

danandfuckingjonlmao · 3 months

Text

me, waking up drenched in sweat, violently sitting up in bed and letting out a gasp: IT'S A METAPHOR FOR BEING A YOUTUBER

idk if someone already thought of this and this is also probably the most obvious reading of it but here i go anyway: i was just walking a dog and listening to potato prints and when phil said "you've come a long way daniel" i was like "huh phil is in the teaching position in all of these just like he was for youtube" like phil just gives editing pro tips the whole time and it all parallels their story as a youtube duo.

and obviously the entertainment industry is rife (not proper usage of that word but it Feels Right so fuck you) with satanic symbolism/imagery/iconography/motifs. being an entertainer is "selling your soul to the devil" etc etc and we know dan hates being a youtuber and does feel that way. you gotta upload twice a day every day in order to be the number one art channel on youtube dot com after all. you gotta make those crafts for satan. bo burnham has a ton of lyrics/songs that i'm thinking about rn like "you used to do comedy when you felt like being funny but now you're contractually obligated so dance you fucking monkeeeey DANCE MONKEY DAAAANCE" and in "repeat stuff" which is a commentary of how mainstream pop love songs and pop stars have to be really superficial and unoriginal because they need to appeal to everyone and at one point he sucks satan off lmao and is like AHFRUEHQFWIIO I AM A VESSEL IDUSHISKA 666 KAJSDFI ILLUMINATI UIGDFSAHIO FREEMASONS. highly recommend looking at the lyrics to that song if you're into that kind of thing.

also the (very rightful) dig at phannies for the "don't cry craft" spamming like "we love all of our crafty audience that spread the message of this channel on all the other videos on the internet! everywhere! everybody enjoyed that!" is how creators who want to keep status have to address their audiences no matter how annoying or harmful they're being. thinking of the ajr line "stay out of politics, stay on the fence / stay out of all of it to keep half your fans" because like,, yeah if a creator ever expresses an opinion that declares their feelings on one side of an issue then they will lose support (smosh is a perfect example of a bunch of people never ever ever expressing an opinion if it could be considered controversial among their audience, like refusing to address the genocide happening right now and just taking their zionist member who the fans are mad at out of some videos to be like "shhhhh nothing to see here we don't know what you're talking about"), ESPECIALLY if that issue is the behaviour of their audience.

obviously the first dapc video was not made with any intended meaning, they just woke up and were like "let's be weird and freak people out" and they did that, and then adding in symbolism and making it all mean something developed with time. but i'm gonna pretend that it has always had consistent meaning because i'm neurodivergent and love overanalysing silly little media.

i am so jhfbvdahfkiufadkhlj right now so if anyone has more theories or things to add lmk and thank you for coming to my ted talk

#me saying shit #dnp #dan and phil #phan #dan howell #daniel howell #amazingphil #phil lester #danisnotonfire #yeet my deet #yeet my deenp #danandphilcrafts #squareflakes #glitterfaces #potato prints #slime

230 notes · View notes

justleaveatnine · 1 month

Text

pink in the night - matty healy. part two.

you join the 1975 on tour as an actress starring in the narrative portion of at their very best alongside the lead singer, matty healy. he’s got big ideas and wants to redefine what a concert is, blurring the lines between fiction and reality. on stage together each night, it starts to feel less and less like acting. but is it the same for him?

masterlist.

cw: very brief mention of violence (a matty quote)

wc: 3.7k

—

Matty pulls out a chair beside Jamie and sits down. It almost looks like you are about to be interrogated, the way the three of them are sitting facing you.

The meeting is short. They ask if you have any other contractual employment commitments over the next 6 months, (no), if you have a valid passport, (yes), and if you have any health issues that would you prevent you from living on a tour bus (no). Jamie's assistant is hastily typing on the computer, what that is exactly you are not quite sure compared to the level of conversation.

Matty looks around the room, and meets your eyes briefly. He has an air of comfortability to him, but something else underneath. Almost nervousness. His fingers tap an unknown rhythm on the table, his musician's hands unable to keep still. Your eyes trace his features, the crinkles around his eyes and the tattoos peaking out beneath his clothing.

The assistant mumbles something into Jamie's ear. He checks his watch and looks back up at you.

"Unfortunately I've got to run, but Matty will take you through more of the show, the touring process and all that. If you're on board, we'd love to have with you with us. We can send you the contract to review and e-sign once you've made a decision."

His assistant begins to pack up both of their things, smiling politely at you. Jamie pushes the laptop in front of him towards Matty, who begins to fiddle around with it.

He shakes your hand once more and exits out, his assistant following behind him. It's just you at Matty in the room now.

He checks his phone quickly, shuts the laptop, and places in the bag he brought with him.

"There's a cute cafe 'round the block? Rather chat there than this stuffy room Jamie's put us in," he says with a smile.

"I'd love to," you tell him.

—

The cafe is cute. It is inexplicably bird-themed, but it's charming. It's filled with people doing their work-from-home there instead, and scattered seniors lacking daytime obligations. Matty leads the two of you to a table nestled in the back after you get your drinks and his pastry.

"First, let me even ask, and please be honest, have you listened to my stuff before?" he asks, smirking, as the two of you take a seat.

"I won't lie and say that I am your most devoted fan, but yes I have." He seems to like this answer. You're glad you chose not to lie.

"I went to one of your shows with a friend around 2018, actually," you continue. "Great show you put on, a lot of…" you trail off, stopping yourself before you put your foot in your mouth.

"A lot of what?" he asks inquisitively, sipping on his drink.

Might as well be yourself with this man you'll (hopefully) be working closely with for months. "Thrashing," you say with a giggle, covering your smile with your hand. "I can't quite say I've seen a lead singer move on the stage in that particular way before."

He lets out a dramatic gasp, putting on a theatrical veil of offense and admonishment. "Well, I will have you know that my "thrashing" does wonders for me with the fans," he replies with an air of comical haughtiness. "They love it," he grins.

"Oh, I'm sure they do," you laugh. He laughs along with you. This feels good. The vision from before of you on stage once more becomes less blurred, and when you look to your side on stage you see Matty smiling as he is now across from you. It feels closer and closer, becoming more tangible than just a passing daydream.

He takes another sip of his cappuccino. "Would I have seen you in anything before?" he asks you.

You laugh, somewhat embarrassed. "Unless you are an avid fan of car insurance commercials then I doubt it."

"I knew it!" he exclaims. "The one with all the umbrellas, right? I swore I recognized you but I couldn't quite place it." He asks, jokingly, "Why didn't you include it in your demo reel?"

"Well I assumed you would be wanting stage performances, not me in an enormous blue wig in the rain acting far too excited about car insurance plans," you wince slightly.

"One of the finest written pieces of copy I have seen, I do say," he jokes. You wished the commercial series that paid your bills was less ridiculous, but talking about it with Matty now softens that awkward feeling in your chest whenever you have to discuss it.

"Now tell me about this revolutionary concert show of yours that you would like me to be a part of," you tell him.

He takes a deep breath and begins to pull the laptop out of his bag. "Right, so you know that quote, art should disturb the comfortable-"

"And comfort the disturbed," you finish for him. He place the laptop on the desk, still closed.

"Exactly. Since you said you aren't really a fan," he mimes stabbing a knife into his heart, exaggerated.

You roll your eyes but you can't contain the laugh arising from inside you.

He continues, smiling. "I doubt you've read or seen any of my interviews or gone too in depth with my songs." He's not wrong.

"I have always aimed to have a cultural dimension in my work. Like, I'm always singing about the state of the world, or writing stuff based on the headlines I see. For this show I want to continue that idea, but bringing it into narrative form. I want it to be more than a regular concert, you know?

You hum in acknowledgement, sipping your drink.

"The show is commentary on men right now, the pursuit of intimacy, and how quote unquote toxic masculinity operates in our society." He gestures heavily as he speaks, you notice, as he continues.

"The show is about looking at masculinity, being famous, and how if you are a single guy and you spend time alone on the internet, you go mental. And how the left is inadequately equipped to help young men who are struggling with these kind of feelings, and then they obviously run head-first into the conspiracies of the right. Cause we on the left are not really giving them anything to work with, you know?"

He takes a bite of his pastry. His hands are calloused from years of guitar playing, and you watch as they wrap themselves back around his drink. Your eyes flick back to his as he continues explaining.

"But the right has these figures like Andrew Tate who lay it out for them. The right wing is like: here's twelve rules on how to be a fucking dude, but we don't know what an ideal liberal masculinity is on the left, and it drives me fucking insane cause I don't know what I am supposed to say anymore."

You are surprised. This poignant cultural criticism flowing easily, passionately, from him was not what you expected as the basis for his show. You see the fire in his eyes while he talks, following his every word, every syllable. You're enthralled by him. Something about the way he speaks to you makes it just as hard to look away as it did when he was up on that stage years ago. You realize its not the performance that is magnetic, it's just him. You snap out of your reverie when he begins to speak again.

"So throughout the narrative portion of the show, the version of me I'm playing will be drinking and getting progressively more wasted. Less of that so-called thrashing you described earlier and more slinking this time," he explains with an amused smile on his face. He begins to mime this slinking with his shoulders, but cuts himself off, laughing at himself while murmuring, "Stupid." It's endearing. You feel like you've got a stupid grin on your face.

"I'll also be watching these videos set up on a stack of televisions," he continues.

"Will those be the main screen that the show is projected on, or how is that going to work?" you ask him.

"Right, I should probably explain the set along with this. It's going to be a house, filled with antique furniture and all that kind of fixings. I want it to be somewhat of an invitation into my world, with lots of influence of that kind of Spielbergesque suburbia. There will be a couch right around center stage," he gestures with his hands, drawing an invisible set in the air between you. "Behind it will be this stack of antique televisions. During the songs, you'll be looking at my mug up on them," he says while pointing to his face, and it makes laugh, hard. Maybe a little too hard compared to the joke. Something stirs in your stomach but you elect to ignore it.

"But during the theatrical parts, we'll be showing clips of the news, guys like Tate, Ben Shapiro, all that lot. Also, some more abstract clips, I want to have an expressionist feel rather than just on the nose."

"Visualizing the rabbit hole," you add.

"Exactly," he agrees, with a sip of his cappuccino.

"So where do I fit into this?" you ask him. His ideas are amazing, sure. But you aren't quite sure what role you would be playing in this concert.

"Well, I figured if I'm going to go all bonkers performance art for the concert, might as well go all the fucking way, you know?" he says with a laugh.

"You, darling, are essentially the manifestation of the right-wing masculinity. God, I sound like a right twat describing this," he sighs at himself, running a hand through his slicked-back hair before continuing. "What you represent is the lifestyle suggested by the right-wing. As I was saying, these figures on the right tell young men "this is how you should be a man, this is what to do, and this is the kind of woman you will have."" He gestures with his hand, itemizing each point he states.

"In that sense you plays the role of the ideal woman under that frame of mind, but you are also is a representation of that relationship and dynamic. It’s these ideas of masculinity then how those ideas are subjected to the women around them. Does that make any sense? God, feel like I’m not making much sense,” he says, chastising himself. “I'm just going to outline the show so I can properly explain how you come into it, yeah?"

You nod. It's a elaborate premise, and you are slightly worried it might be a little much for audiences. But he speaks so assuredly, so confidently, you want to hear how he plans to execute it. Surely if any artist could pull off a theatrical performance based on complex cultural criticism, it would be him.

He flips the laptop so you can both see it, and it's pulled up onto a blueprint of the stage.

He speaks as he moves his mouse around the screen, alternating views of the stage. "So the shows got two parts: Being Funny in a Foreign Language and At Their Very Best. The first half is all of this theatrical stuff, and then the second half is essentially greatest hits."

"We perform the first three songs, I'll be "slinking around"", he says with a light smirk, "but none of the heavy narrative stuff yet. The third song will be me signing directly towards the TVs stacked here." He gestures with his mouse.

"There will be clips of you mixed in with the videos I'm watching on the television screens, along with all the stuff we were talking about earlier. You ever see that Max Headroom TV hack from the 80s?" he asks, and you nod as he continues.

"That kind of eerie, uncanny valley look is what I'm thinking for the videos of you."

Telling you all this and then going with someone else in the end would be completely in vain, wouldn't it? He referred to the images of you so casually and definitively. You feel almost a sense of relief as you take his words to be a final admittance to your selection for the role. You look back at him and he's flicking between tabs to view what appears to be a setlist.

"This is going to sound a little mental, especially for a fucking concert." He laughs, almost bashfully.

"Matty, this sounds amazing so far," you tell him. "Art should make you uncomfortable, isn't that what you said earlier?"

He almost looks surprised by your callback. He nods, assuredly and seemingly slightly relived.

"Good, I just don't want you to think I'm a creep or anything, cause it does get a little weird," he says through a laugh.

"Hit me," you tell him, amused.

He speaks with a sense of apprehension. "Right so, between some songs there will be another moment where I'm watching the clips of you on the televisions. And then there will be the first song where you'll be on stage."

"You'll be sat on a chair here." He gestures to a spot downstage right with his cursor. "Um, the song I'll be singing is this kind of weird one of ours, it's quite morbid, actually. It's about the idea of sometimes wanting to know what your partner is thinking, so much that you want to smash their head open to look." You know the feeling he's talking about, though the choice of metaphor is certainly violent. It interests you though, and you want to hear where he's going with this.

"Anyways, so in the song you'll be on this chair, basically frozen. You won't look at me the entire time, it's supposed to be that you can't see me and I'm just imagining you. I'll be walking around you, and then progressively through the song I'll get weirder, and start to, um, touch you," he says with barely-there wince.

You had a feeling this was going somewhere in that direction. It explains his hesitation as he explained some of aspects, which you are honestly just relieved wasn't about you. You aren't deterred, however.

He takes a deep breath before continuing to speak.

"One of the main points of this chat with you was I wanted it to be clear the kind of stuff that was in the show, and to ensure you'd be comfortable with all of it. We'll have plenty of rehearsals with an intimacy coordinator to ensure everything feels safe and comfortable for the both of us, and I understand-"

You cut him off.

"I love it. I promise. It's weird, yeah, but it's exciting. I want to hear more.”

He smiles. "Okay, good. Cause I'll be honest you were by far my favourite of those who sent in, and I really didn't want to start this over with someone I liked less."

That stirring feeling in your stomach returns.

"What were the other points of this chat, then, other than telling me the show?", you jokingly ask, slightly nudging his leg with yours. You immediately worry that you crossed a line, but as he begins to speak, undeterred, you're relieved.

"I wanted to make sure we got on well, not had chemistry per se, but-"

Now it's your turn to fake gasp, grin on your face. "Have you been testing me this whole time, Matty?"

"I'm sorry!" He says through a laugh, caught. "I had to see if we could get along, gonna be getting pretty cozy up on that stage for a few months and I didn't want to do it with someone I didn't enjoy talking to."

He clears his throat. "That is, if you sign on for the project."

"I'd love to be a part of this. I'll have to review the contracts, yeah. But its a yes right now," you tell him confidently.

"I still haven't even told you the full show yet!" he points out, laughing.

"I'm on board. I promise."

He explains the rest of the show to you and you can't help but feel in awe. His ideas are amazing, and the idea of getting to be on stage with him each night to truly reinvent the idea of a concert in the audience's mind exhilarates you.

He's not wrong; the show is weird. You've had romantic co-leads in plays before, sure. But never in front of audiences this large, and never such an intimate performance. Staring at Matty across from you, your mind drifts as you imagine how it might feel on stage each night with his hands on you, raking through your hair, touching your face. Kissing him, in front of all those people. You can feel your cheeks start to heat up. He's absentmindedly flicking through stage renderings while you think about his calloused fingers running down your arm, stroking your cheek as he sings to you. His arms pulling you close, holding-

You clear your throat, trying to stop yourself. Matty looks up from the laptop at the noise and begins to speak.

"So that's about everything I had to go through with you. How are you feeling about it all?"

"Good! It's, uh, really good! I'm still on board with everything, I'd love to do to the show." You mean it.

He lets out a massive sigh of relief. "Oh thank god. I was so nervous this whole time I'd scare you away," he laughs out, running a hand through his hear once more, breaking the last of any remaining gel holding it steady.

"Never," you reply with a smile. He didn't scare you, not at all.

As he packs up his laptop you can't think of anything else but his hands all over you up on that stage in your mind. Your throat is dry, and the stirring in your stomach returns. You meet his eyes once more, and as his eyes bore into yours, you’re afraid that it’s written all over your face. But all Matty does is smile kindly at you.

—

Back in your flat later that night, you scroll through the contract Jamie's assistant sent you one final time. The current contract is for 3 months across arenas in North America and Europe, and a later month in Asia and Australia. The tour has the possibility to have a second leg, and your contract will be renegotiated if that occurs. You read that the version of the show you are in for this leg is only for the arena dates, and the festival shows will be a shortened performance without any of the acting.

You sent it to one of your uni friends who studied law asking for a more educated opinion than what you could provide. It's just been sent it back to you with support and a message of congratulations.

You bite your lip as the e-sign platform installs on your computer. You know what accepting this means. Your life is about to change in ways you can't quite comprehend yet. Will this mean you get recognized in public? You know the band's fans are quite passionate, but you aren't quite sure about how that translates to common awareness of the band by the general population.

Signing this document means leaving your flat, your life, for several months. And maybe to never return to it in the same way. But it also means getting to be up on the stage again, performing for screaming audiences in a way you have never done. That vision from before of you up on the stage feels as close to real as it can be. No more blurs, incomplete parts of the dream. You're up on that stage with Matty, and its real. It's all there, waiting for you to sign it.

You make up your mind. What's there to even consider?

(The warmth that you feel in your cheeks, the not-uncomfortable knots in your stomach whenever you think about exactly what is that you'll be doing up on that stage are a problem for later, you decide)

You sign the contract and send it back to Jamie's assistant. It's done. In a few months you'll be on tour with The 1975. The crowd’s cheers in the back of your mind roar louder. You can almost feel the warmth of the stage lights on your skin again. You smile. You lie there for a few minutes, just breathing. It doesn't feel real yet.

Before you can begin to get up and have a personal celebration, your phone vibrates. You take it out of your pocket and see a message from an unknown sender.

YESSS!!

You stare it in confusion for a moment before more texts pop in.

Whoops this is Matty should have mentioned that, got your number from Jamie

Wanted to send you the album. Comes out in a few months but I thought you should hear it before we start rehearsals.

There's a file attached. When you click it, eleven tracks begin downloading, waiting to be played.

Another message pops up.

You're gonna be electric up there. The audience won't know what hit them xx

You smile. That feeling that you are steadfastly electing to ignore in your stomach returns. You message him back.

*We’re. Says the rockstar himself.

You keep typing.

Can't wait to work with you and the rest of the band :)

He likes your messages immediately.

You view the tracks on your phone and connect it to your speaker system. You open your bottle of champagne saved for when you booked your next role, and pour yourself a glass. Lying on your couch with the glass in your hand, you stroke Luna's head as you stare at the ceiling, grinning.

Your whole life is about to change. Your smile widens. The stage lights in your mind shine brighter, brighter.

The room fills with the sound of tinkling piano notes, and Matty's voice singing along.

This will get bigger, if you know what I mean…

—

a/n: you didn't think i'd tell you guys the whole show that quickly did you :) parts of matty's dialogue are taken and sort of frankenstined from interviews and concert clips.

#matty healy #matty healy x reader #matty healy fanfic #matty #the 1975 #pitn

163 notes · View notes

ohmyeyesmyeyes · 10 months

Text

what if i have big boobs and a small heart?

luke hughes x f!reader social media au

warnings: swearing, use of 'manwhore', allusions to sex

fc: steph bohrer

liked by markestapa, trevorzegras and 791 others

ynofficial: j-dog strikes again

view all comments

colecaufield: HEART, NOT BOOBS 📢

ynofficial: let's all bow down to preacher jack🧎

colecaufield: he's my summer entertainment

dylanduke25: you'll have to excuse my brother in law's behaviour, he does this sometimes. you just have to reset him by giving his fake tooth a wiggle

ynofficial: 💀

lhughes_06: duker what happened to the definitions?

dylanduke25: 'forgetting' - a failure to recall information

liked by lhughes_06

trevorzegras: i think i just pulled something trying not to laugh

lhughes_06: jackhughes you know it's bad when z points it out

_quinnhughes: i can confirm that was my live reaction

markestapa: my my he's done it again

ynofficial: my friend my pal my buddy

markestapa: YOU TALKIN TO ME? YOU TALKIN TO ME?

ynofficial: well who the hell else am i talking to

markestapa: we're really funny

ynofficial: the pranks? the laughs?

markestapa: between me and you?

ynofficial: ah!!!

edwards.73: YOU'RE ON VACATION WITHOUT ME?????

lhughes_06: you're in nj????? at dev camp?????

edwards.73: SEMANTICS

ynofficial: if it helps it's only duker, gavo, me, luke and mark now

edwards.73: it doesn't

ynofficial: you'll get over it😘

jackhughes: fuck

ynofficial: brace yourself. i'm never letting it go

_quinnhughes: he could do with being taken down a few pegs

lhughes_06: and what better way than a future s.i.l with no contractual obligations?

ynofficial: you make it seem like i'm unemployed

lhughes_06: you know you could be...😘

ynofficial: I DON'T NEED YOUR MONEY OKAY

ynofficial: I DON'T NEED TO RELY ON A MAN FOR FINANCIAL AID

lhughes_06: aid???? YOU'RE MY GIRLFRIEND I LIKE TAKING CARE OF YOU

markestapa: rare otp crumbs 😲

dylanduke25: OTP OTP OTP

liked by edwards.73, jjmccarthy and 873 others

ynofficial: but what happens if i have big boobs and a small heart jackhughes?

view all comments

nolan_moyle: immediately that is incorrect

ynofficial: TREAD CAREFULLY MOYLE I HAVE BOOBS OKAY

nolan_moyle: i was in fact ☝️not talking about your boobs

markestapa: i'm honoured to be featured but you're the biggest liar in the world

dylanduke25: THAT GIRL IS A SOFTIE

edwards.73: well spoken

ynofficial: i will have you know that i am NOT a softie 🤨

_quinnhughes: i beg to fucking differ

ynofficial: QUINN YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO HAVE MY BACK

_quinnhughes: then i'm switching sides

ynofficial: 😨

jackhughes: I WAS HAMMERED THEN OKAY.

jackhughes: also you probably have the biggest heart out of everyone i've ever met

ynofficial: shut the hell up i do not

markestapa: to answer your question though, i think you'd just be a baddie

ynofficial: are you saying i'm not a baddie then

markestapa: you're a different kind of baddie honey 💛💛

liked by ynofficial, tyler_duke and 43,183 others

lhughes_06: an appreciation post for the biggest baddie with the biggest heart

view all comments

markestapa: you missed the boob part

lhughes_06: dude

ynofficial: mark has a point, do i not have boobs?

ynofficial: ample?

lhughes_06: i don't know how to answer that on social media

dylanduke25: ample: large and accommodating/plentiful

lhughes_06: LET'S ALL STOP TALKING ABOUT MY GIRLFRIEND'S BOOBS

jackhughes: are you jelly?

lhughes_06: you're the last person who gets to ask me that after what you just said

jackhughes: have a little brother they said 😐 you can bully him they said 😐 it'll be fun they said 😐

_quinnhughes: i'm literally living proof of that not being true wtf are you on

adamfantilli: question 🤔

lhughes_06: oh dear

adamfantilli: are cheesy speeches genetic? or was it a fluke?

lhughes_06: i think i'm offended

_quinnhughes: ouch

trevorzegras: LOL 😛

ynofficial: i had that thought and with experience luke usually says 'fuck shit up' and quinn says 'expose their weaknesses, flash luke, i'll point at the ocean to distract mark and then spike the ball. also, if we win, i'll buy you alcohol for the next month'...so jack is probably the fluke

bradytkachuk: i can confirm this is true yes

colecaufield: that does sound pretty accurate

trevorzegras: _quinnhughes YOU BRIBE UNDERAGE CHILDREN WITH ALCOHOL?????

_quinnhughes: i also know a lot of your secrets and i happen to be incredibly persuasive 😬

trevorzegras: was that a threat?

ynofficial: YES LMAO

edwards.73: so in conclusion, y/n is a soft baddie and the boob thing is inconclusive????

ynofficial: i totally forgot about the point of this post

lhughes_06: love to know my efforts go unrecognised ❤️

ynofficial: i don't have to show it on social media 😘

lhughes_06: tis true 😊

rutgermcgroarty: OTP 📣 OTP 📣

markestapa: private but not secret will always have my heart

luca.fantilli: he says swiping at the photos of them making out and shoving them in both luke's and y/n's faces telling them how cute they are and that they should post more couple content

markestapa: how tf do you know what i'm doing

luca.fantilli: there's a groupchat

markestapa: WITHOUT ME IN IT????????????????!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

liked by ynofficial, jacob_truscott20 and 63,197 others

lhughes_06: this is how we do ☀️😎

view all comments

jackhughes: 😎🫣🔥🤝

_alexturcotte: court marshaled

g.brindley4: Behaviour.

ynofficial: hot hot hot

lhughes_06: all you you you

markestapa: flirty flirty flirty

trevorzegras: baby hughes is smooth smooth smooth 😮‍💨

jackhughes: 🙄🙄

dylanduke25: is pitcure #1 proof that boobs do indeed win?

g.brindley4: YNOFFICIAL WAS TAKING THE PIC SO YES!!!!!

edwards.73: luke hughes boob guy confirmed 🤫🤫

ynofficial: your curls will be the death of me

lhughes_06: 😊😊😊😊

matthewknies: they'll be the death of me too 😔

liked by rutgermcgroarty, nblanks98 and 528 others

ynofficial: just told these 4 goobers that they've all been 'so bf' recently and luke walked away from me, mark literally FROZE and eddy and duker just...got it

view all comments

ynofficial: side note: luke heard me tell this to mark and i've never seen the man look so ready to punch his friend before

markestapa: i was about to use my pims to defend myself

ynofficial: channel your inner rocky

markestapa: NEVER BACK DOWN NEVER WHAT

edwards.73: i think sometimes you should back down and go home

ynofficial: 😧😧

lhughes_06: in my defence, i was in the middle of playing golf

ynofficial: which is ridiculous because it was literally dark

_quinnhughes: yeah i don't remember still being there in the dark

ynofficial: that's because...

lhughes_06: no

lhughes_06: stop don't

jackhughes: now that i think about it i don't remember still being there either????

ynofficial: erm

dylanduke25: ew so you and luke were on a dark golf course with a buggy by yourself????? you disgust me

ynofficial: WE WEREN'T DOING THAT

lhughes_06: we were chatting shit but now that you mention it, thanks for the idea

jackhughes: 🤮🤮

_quinnhughes: don't pretend like you haven't done worse mr hot tub time machine 🤮🤮🤮🤮🤮🤮

ynofficial: i can never watch that film again

edwards.73: me and duker are just 💪 that 💪 good 💪

dylanduke25: PERIOD 😤😤

ynofficial: it's true, you are

nolan_moyle: nblanks98 you look so bf all the time

ynofficial: yk what i think you're 10000% correct with that nolan

nolan_moyle: thank you 😊😊

nblanks98: aw 🥰

umichhockey: admin would like to agree with you

liked by ynofficial

jackhughes: have i been 'bf' lately?

ynofficial: you've been more 'manwhore' lately

_quinnhughes: ynofficial you're my favourite non-hughes

lhughes_06: when i marry her will she be the favourite hughes?

_quinnhughes: out of my siblings? absolutely

ynofficial: i'm SO honoured

ynofficial: _quinnhughes also you've been very bf lately, i don't tell you often

_quinnhughes: it's the hoodies isn't it?

ynofficial: and the fact that your cuddles are just *chef's kiss*

jackhughes: i give good cuddles too i'll have you know

lhughes_06: jackhughes you're not coming near her with a ten foot pole

ynofficial: you do jackhughes

ynofficial: what

lhughes_06: what

ynofficial: jack's given me hugs before

jackhughes: yeah

lhughes_06: why

ynofficial: he broke up with his girlfriend????

lhughes_06: JACK HAD A GIRLFRIEND?????

_quinnhughes: WHEN WAS THIS???????

jackhughes: ynofficial thank you for that

ynofficial: i'm so sorry oops

markestapa: you've been so gf lately

ynofficial: thank you bestie

edwards.73: what does that mean?

ynofficial: (i don't know)

lhughes_06: should i be threatened right now? i don't feel it but i feel like i should be iykwim

#luke hughes x reader #luke hughes social media au #nhl fic #nhl imagine #hockey fic #hockey imagine

669 notes · View notes

matthewtkachuk · 5 months

Text

bad at love

Breaking your brother's only unspoken rule—don't date his teammates—has never been an issue in your adult life. Until now.

pairing: jt compher x reader

warnings: angstttt, smut, a minor car accident with mentions of injury (broken bone/concussion), and the usual (alcohol, swearing, etc. etc.)

word count: 4.9k

a/n: hiiiiii @comphy-and-cozy i'm your super secret fic exchange writer! sorry this is a day late and a dollar short. one of these days @wyattjohnston is going to perma-ban me from participating in exchanges. until that date she remains my ever loyal editor. mad thanks to @thomasschabot for reading it first and telling me they loved it even though they're contractually obligated to do so and for physically being there when the fic idea popped into my head <3

It’s not the first time you’ve shown up at your big brother’s house with a face full of tears and a couple bags full of all your worldly possessions. Despite your best efforts and well intentions—if you had to guess—it likely won’t be the last.

It is the first time you’ve done so with him being a married man, and so it’s your sister-in-law whose comfort you really seek and are expecting to pop up behind the slowly opening door in front of you.

Unfortunately for you, and for the poor soul you really don’t know that well, it’s not Kenzy who opens the door but the over-the-summer pick-up from Colorado.

If it had been any of the other, more tenured of your brother's teammates, you might have been waved inside with nothing more than a sympathetic glance and an unspoken ‘again?’.

Instead, JT’s look of utter confusion has quickly evolved into something more akin to a quiet rage, and you’re reminded that he is a big brother himself. The look is familiar to you, having inspired a similar one on Dylan’s face more times than you can count.

It’s been a really fucking long day, and you don’t have the emotional bandwidth to have any sort of reckoning with some guy you barely know in your brothers drive way.

JT’s in the middle of some sort of sentence that begins and also ends with “What—” as you none too gently push past him in order to finally gain entry to the house.��

The mix of sympathy and feigned disinterest that greets you on the faces of your brothers teammates who occupy the large sitting room has your stomach rolling uncomfortably. It seemed like the entirety of the Detroit Red Wings were always around to witness your spectacular failures. What must they think, watching you disappear with the next great love of your life, only to reappear once again with bags packed in a manner of months?

You could hazard a guess at what your brother thinks, the variants of ‘I told you so’ that live and die on his tongue without ever leaving his lips. He wraps you up in an infamous Larkin hug that serves to fix a tiny crack of your broken heart, and so you revel in it like you used to revel in the comfort when the pain you felt was because of falling off the monkey bars when you were a kid.

But, he has a house full of hockey players to entertain and Kenzy has a glass of wine with your name on it. Dylan returns to the living room and you slide out to the back porch with your sister-in-law, briefly catching the eye of the one who let you in. You don’t see the telltale signs of judgment reflecting back at you, but maybe something else entirely.

Outside you pour your soul alongside the Malbec. Curled up on the wicker chair under a blanket you tell Kenzy about Owen and the promises he failed to keep. She oohs and ahs at the appropriate times, commiserating without belittling you.

By the end of the night your heart—and the bottle of wine—feels a little lighter. There’s a little less shame as you make yourself at home in the spare bedroom that might as well permanently be yours.

Owen visits you in your sleep, breaking your heart again and again until his face morphs into one with a ginger beard and kind eyes.

Those kind eyes become a fixture in your post breakup life. If he’s not hanging around your brother's house, he’s bumping into you at the local coffee shop you frequent when you’re in Detroit. If he’s at neither, he’s obviously at the games you attend in support of Dylan alongside Kenzy.

At Dylan’s, you barely speak to his teammates and friends beyond simple pleasantries. At your coffee shop, it starts at small talk but grows to be considerable conversations that dip just below surface level.

It’s at Little Caesars Arena where he really endears himself to you though. Warm ups are arguably your favorite part of the games you attend. You like to look out at the signs, from the heartwarming to the obscene—picking out your favorites and giggling about the latter with your sister in law.

Dylan’s always been really good about tossing kids pucks, and his big bleeding heart only grew larger when he got the red C strapped to his chest. Some of the other guys, even some of the so-called vets are less good about it.

JT’s just like Dylan, maybe even a little kinder hearted. He takes the time to read the signs that are meant for him, never turns down a trade for a puck and even gives a stick to a kid whose sign says he came all the way from Denver to watch him, his favorite player, play in Detroit.

It warms your heart.

So much so you don’t even notice you’re staring until Dylan’s slamming himself into the boards in front of you to startle his wife. She rolls her eyes and calls him a name not worth repeating while you try to pretend like you weren’t just fixated on his teammate.

The thing is Dylan has never outright said his teammates are off limits. Not since you were a teenager making eyes at his USNTDP teammates anyway.

The memory keeps you from looking JT’s way the rest of the warmups, but once the puck drops your eyes can’t help but wander.

Wandering appears to be your specialty, considering you’ve gotten yourself lost in the underbelly of the arena.

Your first mistake was leaving Ken’s side—she was your ferryman, guiding you down the River Styx, and without her, you were lost in Hell.

Were you overdramatic? Maybe. Were you lost with no hope of getting out? Still overdramatic, but definitely a possibility.

The walls begin to look the same, and you’re half worried you’ve accidentally fallen into a back room or something stupid when you stumble upon the one who caught your eye earlier.

‘Stumble upon’ is a gracious way of saying you absolutely smack into him and fall on your ass.

He hauls you up effortlessly with one hand and your skin burns beneath his grasp.

“What are you doing?” you both say in near unison before he laughs.

“I was getting my shoulder checked out, what are you doing all the way over here? Are you lost?”

Regardless of what he was doing, JT obviously has more of a reason to be found wandering the halls of the arena. And he’s right, you’re most definitely lost but you play it off like he’s crazy.

“Me? Lost? No, I know exactly where we are,” you bluff.

JT’s eyebrows raise and he nods slowly. “Which is…?”

Well, he’s called your bluff but he also gave you a key context clue. “Near the athletic trainer, obviously.”

He laughs again and it has your cheeks feeling hot.

“Okay fine, maybe I’m a little bit lost and maybe I was contemplating how I’d be trapped down here forever before you knocked me over.”

“I’m sorry, but you ran into me.” You roll your eyes and begin to argue, but he doesn’t let that happen. “Doesn’t matter, I can help you find your way out.”

You swoon dramatically, only half joking as you reply “My hero.”

Now that you’re no longer focused on navigating your way out of Pan’s Labyrinth, you’re free to focus on your close proximity to JT. Based on the way his eyes dart between meeting your own and staring at your lips, you assume he’s just as aware.

Is this not what you’ve been wanting since you knocked on Dylan’s door? But that’s part of the problem, and you’re sure JT is thinking the same. Not only is your brother his teammate—and you’ve always been off limits to your brother's teammates to your chagrin growing up—but he’s JT’s captain, too. There’s a million ways this thing could go wrong and blow up in both of your faces.

You could get caught, and be forced to sit with Dyl’s disappointment. You could hurt the one person in your life who consistently showed up for you and loved you and cared for you.

Not to mention you could risk it all for nothing—could crash and burn spectacularly as you were wont to do. Could fuck it all up with not only your brother, but JT too and be left with nothing. It wouldn’t be the first time you’d gone behind your brother’s back, but you had a sneaking suspicion things would be worse than they were when you were 15 to his 16.

Ultimately you decide fuck it, because what’s life without a little risk?

Tentatively, you slide your hand over the rough beard covering his jaw. When he doesn’t flinch or move away from you, you lean in closer.

He’s not pulling away, but he’s also not moving closer, letting you make the first move.

It’s probably a terrible fucking idea, but you’ve never been accused of being someone who makes good decisions when it comes to romantic partners.

The first press of your lips to his is cautious, barely a brushing of your mouths, just to get a taste. Quickly you become a woman obsessed. Unable to get enough, the kisses turn frenetic, bordering on sloppy.

He reciprocates in kind, his mouth hot and heavy on yours while his hands grasp and pull and hold. His very essence consumes you, taking over all of your five senses and pulling noises from you that you didn’t know existed.

If your arm burned from his grasp earlier, your entire body has caught fire.

You’re unaware or probably more accurately uncaring of your public nature, despite your earlier hesitance. Now you just want more and more and more of JT, as much as he is willing to give and maybe even a little more.

He seems to be on the same page, entire body wrapping around you and pulling you deeper and deeper.

Unconsciously your hands begin to pull at the waistband of his pants and it’s then that the two of you finally separate.

You’re worried you’re going to find regret in his eyes and excuses on his tongue, but he’s just looking at you intently.

“Not like this,” he says. “Not here.”

“I don’t want to wait,” you protest, but he shushes you with his mouth.

“It’ll be worth the wait.”

And worth the wait it is.

It's sexy at first. Clandestine meetings in dark hallways, sneaking in and out of JT’s apartment that’s on the same floor as Jake Walman’s, covert texts and quiet phone calls where you get off on the sound of each other's voices.

It doesn’t take long for you to want more, though. To fantasize about not just what his calloused hands can do to your body, but what it would be like to hold one in your own while walking down the street. To show up at a home game and have everyone know you were there to support not only your brother, but JT too.

It’s a fantasy that is only stoked by the comfort you feel walking around JT’s apartment in just his t-shirt with his number on the shoulder. By nights spent together at his dinner table, on his couch, in his bed. By sweet texts and stupid memes and random photos of things that made him think of you.

You don’t dare speak your desires out loud though. For fear of JT not wanting the same thing or for fear that he would, you’re not quite sure.

It’s a tough situation to be in. One where you’re worried you're heading to a fork in the road that has JT on one side and your brother on the other.

You have no delusions about the two paths eventually forging back together again, know that you’ve come dangerously close to that intersection marked with a big fat caution sign.

Probably you should speak to JT, get on the same page about where you’ve been and where you’re going. Following that, assuming he secretly yearns for the same thing you do, you should probably then come clean to Dylan.

Probably you should do a lot of things, but unfortunately what is done in the dark always comes to the light and sometimes it happens quicker than you can make your mind up.

A road win presumably has JT in a good mood. He’s texted you letting you know he’ll be home before midnight, requesting your presence in his bed.

It’s an easy yes, considering you’re already in the aforementioned bed. It’s nice to get out of Dylan’s house, of the suffocating feeling that you’re intruding in someone else’s home, on someone else’s life.

There’s really nothing particularly sexy about the way he finds you, but his eyes darken upon finding you curled up in his bed just the same. You’re not attempting to recreate a sexy pose from a boudoir photo shoot, and one of JT’s shirts and a pair of boy shorts aren’t exactly fancy lingerie.

That doesn’t stop him from dropping his bag dramatically and stripping from his dress shirt and pants.

“Awfully presumptuous,” you say as if the very fact that you’re in his bed in not much more clothing than he is.

He shrugs, “Not presuming anything. I’m fine if you just want to sleep, but I’m sure as shit not going to sleep in those dress pants. Bad enough I had to sit through a plane ride like that.”

His tone is teasing, but the implication that he would be just as fine falling asleep beside you as anything else pretty well takes all the fight out of you.

“C’mere,” you say instead of a catchy comeback, lifting the covers and inviting him into his own bed.

He wastes no time sliding in beside you and curling up around your body. “Hi.”

You snort and hide your face in his neck. “Corny.”

“I’ll show you corny,” he says, but you shush him by pulling his face closer to yours until your lips brush.

“Thought I was presumptuous,” he says upon breaking the kiss.

You roll your eyes—“Shut up.”—and kiss him again.

He doesn’t manage to keep his mouth shut, but at least this time it’s to slip his tongue into your mouth.

The temperature of the room rapidly increases—between the weight of his body covering your own and your body’s reaction to his fervid kiss, you feel the need to lose at least one item of clothing.

“I need—“

Luckily he quickly understands what you’re trying to accomplish by pulling at the hem of your shirt, lifting off of you long enough to assist in removing it from your body.

He makes a noise of appreciation at the bare skin revealed to him before diving back into your lips, this time with one hand cupping your right breast.

Appreciative noises of your own build in your throat when that hand slides down your body to dip into your underwear. It’s teasing touches at first, until you reciprocate by cupping him through his boxer-briefs.

Finally you both shed that last remaining layer, uncaring of where they end up in the bedroom. There’s a brief pause while he rolls on a condom and then he’s entering your body like it was made for him and him alone.

There’s no rush about his pace, just gentle thrusts and soft moans and sweet praises.

Sex with JT is so good, better than with anyone else you’ve ever been with. He’s the very opposite of a lazy, selfish lover. It’s like your needs and your pleasure come first, and you certainly do too.

The positioning of your bodies is so intimate, bodies close, mouths slotted over each other with intermingling breaths.

You worry you’re getting too caught up in that intimacy, possibly running in a direction not quite warranted and so you seek to depersonalize it a touch.

“Let me,” you say softly while gently pressing a hand against his shoulder, indicating you want him to lay on his back. He moves willingly, even helping you climb atop him.

It feels just as good with you on top, and the bit of distance between your upper halves means you can breathe a bit better.

It’s easy to get lost in the feeling, to tilt your head back and focus on your movements and the feel of his bruising grip on your hips.

Feeling the pressure build in your stomach, you slide a hand down your abdomen to where your bodies meet while the other grasps your breast just for something to hold on to. The added friction to your clit is pulling you closer and closer as you move on top of him.

He’s staring up at you with lust filled eyes, mouth open in a mix of awe and pleasure. A look of almost disbelief on his face. His hands are still on your hips, now helping the movement of your body on his when your body lights up like the fourth of July with your orgasm.

It’s hard to keep moving while in the throes of pleasure, but it’s like JT can read your mind, gripping your hips and thrusting up into you until he finishes too.

Your whole body tingles as you collapse on top of him, relishing in the feel of his arms wrapping around your body. Leisurely you kiss for a minute, until your heart rate returns to normal and you feel like you’re not likely to fall over when going to the bathroom to clean up.

When you return, you’ve slipped on one of his shirts once again. There's a soft look on his face as you crawl into bed beside him. It only cracks when you quietly whisper, “should we order pizza?”

“I think you’re the girl of my dreams,” he laughs.

The room is quiet, filled with only the sounds of your breathing and occasional kissing as you wait for the delivery.

Finally the doorbell rings. “I got it,” you tell JT and pull on a pair of discarded sweatpants before pulling the drawstring so they don’t fall.

You don’t bother to check the peephole, certain it’s your food which turns out to be a giant mistake.

Not only is it not your pizza, it’s also the last person you want to catch you with sex hair in oversized clothing that obviously belongs to the guy you’ve just had sex with.

Dylan’s mouth has dropped so far down it would be comical if it wasn’t also horrifying.

“Dylan I–” you start to explain yourself but pause midway through. How could you even begin to explain?

“I can’t believe this.” He shakes his head, hands curling at his side. “Actually no, I can’t believe this from JT, I can definitely believe this from you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you snap.

Your brother laughs sardonically, “Well you’re not exactly known for making the right decisions when it comes to relationships.”

JT exits his room, no doubt lured by the loud voices and the lack of food. “Hey man, come on, let's talk about this like adults.”

“Like adults?” Dylan is incensed in a way you’ve never seen before. “Now you want to talk about things like adults? The time to talk was before you started sleeping with my sister behind my back.”

“I’m sorry you found out like this–” JT continues to try to defend himself, defend you while you stand there speechless.

Dylan interrupts, “Sorry I found out or sorry you got caught?”

JT goes to respond but Dylan cuts him off again. “I trusted you dude. I told you she was off limits, and not only did you ignore me, you went behind my back.” He then turns to you. “And you? My teammate? Seriously? You couldn’t have chosen literally any other douchebag to treat you wrong?”

That snaps you out of your stupor. “JT doesn’t treat me bad!”

A different kind of look crosses your older brother's face then. “Well when he does, don’t come running back to my house and crying to me.”

Dylan slams the door and you sit in the quiet of the room for a minute with your ears ringing.

The reality of the situation hits you.

“I can’t stay there, God not only am I a fuck up but I’m homeless too.”

“You can always stay here,” JT offers and it really bothers you that you can’t tell if he wants you to, or if he’s just offering because of his hand in the most recent blow up of your life.

“I’m pretty sure his baby sister shacking up with his teammate he doesn’t want her with isn’t exactly going to win me any favors with Dyl,” you reply.

“Well I’m pretty sure he’d rather you be here than living on the street.”

Ordinarily you think that would probably be true but the look on his face when you opened JT’s door is seared into your mind. “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

In the end you do move your things into JT’s apartment. Kenzy is the accomplice to your crime, helping you pack your things while the team has practice, wrapping you in her arms and telling you that he just needs some time.

“He loves you,” she says.

You’re not so sure.

That’s probably overdramatic. You’re sure he loves you, and you sure hope he forgives you. You’re just worried that this time you’ve both done and said things you can’t take back and you’re not sure how things will move forward from here.

It’s not all bad though.

Living with JT is surprisingly easy, even right one might say. You fit directly into each other's lives like perfect puzzle pieces. His strict routines of practices and morning skates and games—both home and away—allow you the space to complete your own work on your own time. Cooking pregame meals together and curling up beside him when he takes his pregame naps quickly become some of your favorite activities.

You dance around the feelings talk, never quite broaching the subject. But it can’t feel this right if it’s all one sided, all in your head, right?

He’s even kind enough to let you drive his SUV even though the price tag makes you nervous every time you’re behind the wheel. You’re not a bad driver, as evidenced by the fact JT lets you drive the Audi, but you are possibly on this side of over cautious as a result of a bad car accident in high school.

Three home games after your fight with Dylan and approximately zero words or text messages exchanged between the two of you, you find yourself in the passenger seat.

“I could have taken the bus,” you protest weakly, almost knowing exactly what JT’s response will be.

“Over my dead body,” he laughs, eyes flickering over to you before focusing on the traffic in front of him. “Just pick me up after practice or text me if you’re still out and I’ll find a ride.”

“I’m not gonna leave you stranded at the arena, of course I’ll be there after you’re done.”

It’s oddly domestic, kissing JT across the console and then sliding into the driver’s seat that he vacates. You wait as he grabs his gear and walks away, you do really love watching him walk away.

The moment is cut short by catching a glimpse of your brother's vehicle. He’s not in it, obviously already inside the arena, but the sight of it makes your stomach clench all the same.

Thoughts of Dylan and his disappointment and worry that he’ll never forgive you flood your mind the entire drive. So much so that when the next light turns green, you let off the gas without realizing that there is a larger SUV running the red.

It all happens so fast. The screeching of tires, the crunching of metal, the pop of airbags going off and then a blinding pain in your wrist.

In the end, you’re pushed into the wrong lane of traffic, the other vehicle damn near in the passenger seat you occupied only fifteen minutes ago. There’s a distinct ringing in your ears and you offhandedly wonder if this is what it feels like to get boarded.

“Are you okay? I’m calling 911.” The words sound like they’re underwater, and it takes you several seconds to realize they’re being spoken to you. Turning your head to the side, you try to get the words out to say you’re fine, but you’re blocked by the airbag that has gone off near your head.

Emergency services come quickly, a perk of living in Detroit you suppose. Embarrassingly, it takes the jaws of life to peel off the driver's side door to get you out. A cop takes your statement and then you end up in the back of an ambulance. Despite your assurances that you’re fine, one raised eyebrow from the female paramedic and the idea that you’ve probably broken your wrist has you agreeing to the ER visit.

It’s then that someone asks you if there’s anyone you want to call. Heartbreakingly, your first thought is Dylan and your second thought is you’re not sure he’ll pick up.

Your third thought is JT and his SUV that you’ve probably totaled.

One of the paramedics helps you dial the equipment manager’s number, the one you were instructed to only ever use in case of emergencies. If ever there was a reason…

When he picks up the phone, you have to explain that you’ve gotten into a tiny fender bender and if you could please speak with JT and yes I mean JT not Dylan.

“Are you okay?” JT all but demands when he picks up the phone.

“I’m totally fine,” you fib, and then concede based on that same female paramedic once again raising an eyebrow. “Okay so I might have broken my wrist but–”

“Which hospital are you going to?” he interrupts.

You tell him, but try to say, “It’s okay you don’t have to–”

He interrupts again, “I’ll be right there.”

He hangs up quicker than you can ask how he’s going to get there without the car that you’ve wrecked.

True to his word, he’s sitting on a chair in your hospital room when you return from getting an x-ray. He stands abruptly upon your entrance and takes the three strides to stand in front of you before hesitating, like you’re made of glass.

You take matters into your own hands and slide your good arm around his back, careful to not jostle your injured wrist. There's a slight tremor to his body that you feel run through yours.

“I’m okay,” you say comfortingly, rubbing your good hand along his back before pausing. “Your car though….”

The tears are already starting to pool in your waterline as he pulls back.

His hands slide to cup your jaw as he speaks seriously, “I don’t give a damn about the car. It can be replaced, you can’t.” A tear slips out before you can stop it and he brushes it away with his thumb before kissing you softly. “I care about you. So much. And that phone call scared the shit out of me.”

Despite the less than stellar background and circumstances, his words have your heart leaping in your chest. “I really care about you too,” you whisper and kiss him again.

“Where is she?” you hear coming down the hall and it occurs to you that your brother is still your emergency contact.

“Did you tell him?” you ask JT who promptly shakes his head.

You don’t even have time to step back from JT’s embrace before Dylan comes crashing into the room. JT wisely pulls away and gives Dylan the space to place his hands on your shoulders and scan for any signs of injury.

“I’m okay,” you reassure him but the words feel hollow considering they’re the first you’ve said to him in more than a week. “Broken wrist they’re gonna cast and probably a concussion. Can’t say the same for the car.”

Eerily similar to JT, Dylan replies, “Cars can be replaced–”

“But I can’t,” you say in unison with him. “I know, JT said the same thing.”

It’s like Dylan remembers his teammate then, eyes sliding over to where JT stands and then back down to your slowly purpling wrist.

The room is silent except for the sounds of medical equipment and the faint sounds occurring outside the door.

“I’m sorry,” you say in unison with your brother again.

“No, I'm sorry,” he says first. “I’m your big brother and I’ve seen you get your heart broken too many times. I’m always going to worry about you but I was out of line.”

“I’m sorry we went behind your backs and I’m sorry you found out that way. We should have just talked to you, I should have just talked to you.”

“Truce?” he asks, like you’re 10 and 11 again, fighting over something silly and trivial.

“Truce,” you confirm, hissing when you knock your broken wrist as you pull him in for a hug.

Later, when you’ve gotten over the guilt of totaling JT’s barely used Audi and the cast on your wrist is long gone, it’ll be a fun story to tell at parties. About how it took an idiot running a red light for you to define your relationship with JT and to reconcile with your brother.

#nhl fic #nhl imagine #nhl imagines #nhl fanfiction #nhl fanfic #nhl x reader #jt compher fic #shelb writes

252 notes · View notes

just-some-random-blogger · 1 year

Text

Come Get 'Im!

Pedro Pascal x Actress!Reader

Summary: "It's day 130, and this man with a mustache still can't get a fucking hint and keeps inviting himself to have lunch with me."

Word Count: 2k+

Warnings: Fem!reader, crude language, crack fic, low key social media au format, annoying rat!pedro, mentions/depictions of online hate, use of y/n T_T, fluff, typos, etc.

A/N: HOY @sloanexx ito na. I hope this makes you spiral HAHAHAHAH Also tagging: @pinksirensong @aralezinspace

Shaky cam and out of breath has entered the chat.

It's a tiktok video of you recording yourself while in the middle of a jog.

"I swear," you pant, as the audio captures wind, "to fucking Obama, Trump, and Biden, America-- AMERICA!" you bark, "if one of you thirsty ass idiots come crying to me again for even breathing, BREATHING--" you scream and huff as you catch your breath. You jog a few paces forward. You look over your shoulder, back to your camera, "--around that idiot you like so bad, I'm going to explode."

The camera pans to your nostrils and double chin, "if you want your pathetic, middle aged man so bad, come and fucking get him!"

You harshly pull your phone back and show the man on a hoverboard trailing behind you. His brown hair is blowing with the wind. He raises a hand and waves. He grins at the camera, beaming as he says, "HI TIKTOK!"

"COLLECT," you point the camera back to you, "THIS RAGGEDY BAG OF BONES RIGHT NOW!"

"But I love you!"

"LEAVE ME ALONE!"

Welcome to: A day in the life of someone who is contractually obligated to be close to Pedro Pascal. Featuring you! The actress, who Pedro has been smitten with the entire time since filming and promoting your movie, and has thus since elicited the wrath of (some of) the Pascal girlies! Yay!

So, tell us, what is it like to be with the one and only Pedro Pascal! It is everything, all the fangirls dream of? Well, let's take a look at some footage!

It's a behind the scenes video. There is no audio available.

You and Pedro are standing far off from the perspective of the camera on an elevated set, in front of a blue screen. Pedro jokingly leans in, pushing his hands to you but not making contact. He's been teasing that he'd push you. He repeats this multiple times before eventually, you get tired and tell him off. He laughs with an open mouth and his tongue out. You turn over you shoulder, motioning something vaguely to someone off cam.

When you turn back to Pedro, he pretends to push you again, but this time, it backfires. He yelps and slips, crashing into a foam of cushions beneath you. Instantly, you turn and point to him, laughing out loud exaggeratedly, pointing at him from above. You then jump down to his side and then tackle him, pretending as though you were on WWE. You end with coiling his arm behind him, sticking your tongue out to the camera.

Wow! How educational!

Here's you and him doing an interview!

"I really enjoy that the film is not scared to dive into that-" you start, gesturing your hands as you passionately pour your thoughts on the theme of the film.

Pedro, who had been listening to you intently, turns to you and randomly pokes your cheek.

You ignore this, used to his behavior, as you continue, "I think it's really important that we, as a society, openly talk about this dilemma and critically reassess it."

Pedro pokes your cheek again, only this time, you turn to him, and he faces front and acts as if he did not just do that.

You turn back to the interviewer. He makes another attempt at poking you face, only this time, you turn and bite at his finger. You very nearly manage to get him.

He pulls his finger back and gasps, clutching both his hands to his chest, "ay, dios mio."

You snarl at him before going back as you were. You break into a chuckle when you hear him slipping into laughter. He says "that was actually scary."

"You deserve it."

Here's you and Pedro talking to a child that is a fan of both your separate work! (His being The Mandalorian, yours being A Mermaid Tale)

You coo as the little girl runs up to you and hugs your legs. You lower yourself, so to embrace the child in your arms. You coo as the small child wraps her arms around you. Pedro, from behind you, grins as he takes a photo of your interaction.

When she pulls away from you, you gasp at her pigtails, complementing them.

She smiles, "it's like- like your hair in the movie!"

You grin, "such a smart girl! It totally is, but honestly, yours is so much better!"

The girl smiles at you and you smile back at her. She then looks up to the man that was standing behind you, pointing at him before turning back to you, "he's - ss friends with baby yoda!" she breaks her words the way small children do.

Pedro, adoring the attention and the recognition from the child, jumps from behind you to dramatically exclaim and clutch his chest, "I'M FRIENDS WITH YODA!"

The girl looks up at the man, stepping back, then turning to her mom for guidance. Her mom, by the way, was recording the whole interaction. She breaks into a laugh at her daughter's nervousness, "it's ok baby."

You and Pedro follow suit in laughter, though you turn and swat at him, "you scared the poor child."

"I'm so sorry, my love," Pedro says, placing a hand on his chest, "I was just so excited about baby yoda!" he explains, ending with a goofy face.

The girl turns back to him, finally breaking into a smile.

"YES! I'm cool again!" Pedro says just as you stand and he bends down to raise his knuckles to the child for a fist bump.

She apprehensively bumps knuckles with him. Pedro gasps and coos, "right on!" He then raises his hands, "what about a hug?"

The girl bends her knees, gaining momentum, then she jumps into Pedro's arms, sealing him into a tight hug.

Everyone AWWS.

Everyone, that is, except... the haters.

Pull up the receipts.(For various reasons, some text has been censored or removed.)

@w0nderw0madn: omF******g if i have to see that b**** ass [redacted] [y/n] f****** grope my pedro again im going to kill her and [redacted multiple texts...]

@ilovechesed: i have no idea who [y/n] thinks she is but it's so f****** pathetic of her to throw herself onto pedro pascal when he's clearly not even interested in him

[redacted]'s video: Hot take. You guys are only thirsting after [Y/N] because she's hot by association of Pedro Pascal

[Y/N] Receives Faces Wave Of Internet Trolls After Her New Film's Recent Debut

But internet trolls are promptly handled by people with actual brain cells.

@w0nderw0madn: omF******g if i have to see that b**** ass [redacted] [y/n] f****** grope my pedro again im going to kill her and [redacted multiple texts...]

@pedropascstiddies replied to w0nderw0man: LMAO I REPORTED YOU WITH MY 10 ACCOUNTS HOPE YOU ENJOY GETTING YOUR ACCOUNT DELETED

@ilovechesed: i have no idea who [y/n] thinks she is but it's so f****** pathetic of her to throw herself onto pedro pascal when he's clearly not even interested in him

@loverofdilfsd replied to ilovechesed: ? you mean this pedro pascal [image attached] [image description: A picture of Pedro Pascal looking at [Y/N] with a soft smile as while she answers a question during a red carpet premiere]

@ynbabymyluv replied to ilovechesed: you mean this pedro pascal? [image attached] [image description: A picture of Pedro Pascal grinning widely as he embraces [Y/N] mid pout]

@100ass replied to ynbabymyluv: nah here's the video of that and im salty too [video attached] [video description: Pedro Pascal asks for a bit of [Y/N]'s food but she releases it before he grabs on to the plate.]

[redacted]'s video: Hot take. You guys are only thirsting after [Y/N] because she's hot by association of Pedro Pascal

user842048525972 commented: ass take

i-think-imprettycool commented: 💀YALL MF DO ANYTHING FOR CLOUT

swiftandshore commented: Or you dont have taste

[Y/N] Receives Faces Wave Of Internet Trolls After Her New Film's Recent Debut

And fans are coming to her aid. 💅 As they should.

Of course we can't end this without showing some of the love people have extended for their new internet fixation.

In coming receipts.

[y/n] and pedro being NSFW for 10 minutes straight

>>Most played [6:43]: [video description: [Y/N] and Pedro Pascal's make out scene]

"If you go out without me - " he growls, grabbing her by the wrist, ripping her back into his chest. He then grabs her by her hair, forcing her face him. "You'll what? Huh?!" she hisses, craning her neck up as she grabs his shirt, pulling him down to her. She grunts, "what? You'll leave me in the fucking desert like what you did last time!" "WHAT'S IT GOING TO TAKE FOR YOU TO BELIEVE THAT WASN'T MY CHOICE!" "SHOW ME YOUR STATUS REPORT FILE!" He scoffs, "you and your fucking reports." "Show me your status report file," she words sternly. "You want a status report?!" he fumes. "YES! SHOW ME-" Her words are cut off when her mouth is covered with his. He releases her hair to clutch her cheeks and pushes her against the wall. She releases his shirt to dig her fingers into his sides. He moans. She laughs, "wimp."

89igotaletter commented: I LOVE IT WHEN [Y/N] AND PEDRO.

Andre Potato commented: MOMMY SORRY DADDY SORRY MOMMY SORRY DADDY SORRY

broalhasd commented: everyday i wake up and thank God that for this holy collab.

@830marbel: if it ever gets tiring being so hot @yn_real_ig, pls allow me to cool you with my tears

@yn_real_ig replied to 830marbel: i appreciate it but i still have 2 trays of pedro's tears. i put them in my juice 🧊🧊

@evrything284: i dont know if i want to be @yn_realig or pedro pascal in this [image attached] [image description: A picture of [Y/N] and Pedro Pascal together on the red carpet premiere for their film]

@yn_real_ig replied to evrything284: be true to you. be yourself. be our 3rd

@pedfroizaac: btw @yn_real_ig our boyfriend [image attached] [image description: Bugs Bunny communist meme]

@yn_real_ig replied to pedfroizaac: this is america [image attached] [image description: A bald eagle in front of the American flag]

Final thoughts from both players.

Here is fan favorite interview of you both.

You pull a piece of paper from a jar and read its contents, "what's your favorite thing about the other-- murder," you say, throwing the paper off to the side.

Pedro, who was sitting by your right makes a nervous sound, jaw dropping. He then promptly smirks and nods, "exactly."

You turn to the camera and nod, "murder."

"I'm into that."

"Murder."

"I am murder," Pedro agrees, raising his hands as he shrugs.

"Murder," you repeat one last time before turning to Pedro, "and his mustache."

"Oh," Pedro smiles, rubbing his 'stache as he leans back, "thank you. I grew it myself."

"I don't appreciate beard burn though," you wave your hands to your face.

"That's not what she said last night," Pedro takes his turn to look at the camera as he gives a stupid look.

You snap at him, "what did I say last night?"

Pedro ignores you and crosses his arms, "my favorite thing about you would be-"

"No wait, what did I say last night?"

Pedro looks at you.

"Tell them what I said last night."

Pedro purses his lips into a tight smile, "what?"

You challenge, "tell them what I told you last night."

His ears begin to burn. He shifts on his chair as his jaw slacks, "ha?"

"You want me to say what I told you last night?"

He begins to break a sweat, "I-I-" he laughs, "I have no idea what you're talking about."

You raise your brows at him.

Pedro clears his throat and rubs his lap, "I love how compassionate and kind she is."

You snort, leaning back in your chair, "okay."

To this day, people who stumble on that interview still comment: WHAT THE FUCK DID SHE TELL HIM LAST NIGHT?????

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfic #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal crackfic #pedro pascal social media au #pedro pascal fluff #pedro pascal x actress!reader #pedro pascal fanfiction #help me im so tired #pedro pascal x you

2K notes · View notes

54625 · 6 months

Text

With the upcoming Fit lore later today, I figured it may be useful to transcribe his earlier lore drops for those of you who may not have been there, or want a refresher. These were attempts to contact the contractor to relay information, and happened before the dreams.

-First attempt-

(Text appears on screen.

CONNECTING...

BYPASSING FEDERATION FIREWALL

ATTEMPT FAILED

ERROR)

Fit- Hello, it's me.

Fit- Sorry I've been taking my sweet time.

Fit- I've been busy...

Fit- We need to pivot from our original plan.

Fit- I've adopted a son, and I've been caring for him.

Fit- I've grown attached to him, so he's been my priority.

Fit- Being a single dad is a challenge at times.

Fit- But it's much easier than the nomadic lifestyle.

Fit- Life here is very different from the wasteland.

Fit- But I haven't forgotten our agreement.

Fit- I will fullfil my contractual obligations.

Fit- They're still falling for the whole "vacation" thing.

Fit- I ask that you be patient though, as we have a problem.

Fit- Something called "The Federation" controls this entire island.

Fit- They've been keeping us here.

Fit- As long as they are in the way, I can't access what you are looking for.

Fit- And the anti-cheat on the island is strong.

Fit- I haven't been able to use my abilities.

Fit- The Federation must be eliminated for this to succeed.

Fit- I've gained everyone's trust and made friends...

Fit- I've been helping their fight against the Federation in order to advance our plan.

Fit- Still... It hurts me to see everyone suffering...

Fit- Some have lost things they cared about...

Fit- But this struggle is an unfortunate necessity...

Fit- The conflict is increasing the value of what you seek...

Fit- I know you're paying me...

Fit- But have you considered......

...the true cost?

Fit- regardless of my personal feelings, I'll slowly move the plan forward.

Fit- I hope you find what you're looking for.*

Fit- It's getting late...*

MESSAGE FAILED TO SEND

Disconnecting....

*(it is worth noting that these are messages Fit had previously sent in the Minecraft global chat in that odd font.)

-Second attempt-

(Text appears on screen.

CONNECTING...

BYPASSING FEDERATION FIREWALL)

Fit- Checking in.

Fit- I am messaging you again to keep you updated on my progress.

Fit- The Federation still has full control of the island.

Fit- They've been putting on some strange election....

Fit- I'm assuming to keep everyone occupied.

Fit- However, it seems they've let a vulnerability slip.

Fit- Player data and statistics are being tracked.

Fit- The Federation must have this data stored somewhere on the island.

Fit- If I had to guess, it's likely the computer system of the Federation offices.

Fit- If I tried to break in and access the data, they would likely capture me...

Fit- It would not end well.

Fit- However, whoever wins this election will likely have open access.

Fit- Perhaps they could be persuaded... Or tricked into giving us access.

Fit- I will fullfil the contract.

Fit- And yet... I'm starting to wonder....

Fit- What are you actually trying to achieve?

Fit- Even if I can access the data, what good would it do?

Fit- I'm skeptical, but I hope to hear from you soon........

(This island...... Is worse than I thought....)

(Text appears on screen.

Windows XP

Task failed successfully.

[OK] )

(A cinematic showing various scenes from QSMP and 2B2T play. All the images from the former are in full colour, while all the images from the latter are in black and white. A video of a capybara eating grass plays. It is in black and white.)

If I left anything particularly important out, let me know!

#qsmp #qsmp fitmc #fitmc #qsmp ramon #qsmp fit #qsmp lore

200 notes · View notes

wardenparker · 4 months

Text

Hummingbird Has Landed, ch 2

Marcus Pike x female reader Co-written with @absurdthirst

After the debacle of his failed engagement and relocating to Washington to take charge of his task force, newly minted Special Agent Marcus Pike is ready to get back out into the dating pool once more. A slew of bad dates has him feeling a little down, and he takes an old friend up on an invitation to get away and get his head on straight. Imagine his surprise when he finds not only fresh air, but his soulmate as well - hiding in plain sight but in the unlikeliest of places.

Rating: Mature, but this blog is always 18+ Word Count: 12.6k Warnings: *Blanket warnings for this series: occasional mention of American politics, pregnant character, food/alcohol consumption, mentions of clothing/regulated dressing for occasions, mentions of therapy because we believe in self care here, reader is in a previous relationship, love triangle* Mentions of sick loved ones, mutual pining, personal guilt, relationship turmoil. Summary: After only knowing Marcus for a brief time, you can already feel emotions beginning to build. Will that spell trouble for the relationship you've worked so hard to build with Sam, or will something else altogether begun to sow seeds of doubt? Notes: Once again I'm afraid I have to ask forgiveness in the edit of this chapter. I went away for a few days this week and ever since my chronic illness has been utterly kicking my ass. Hopefully I didn't miss too many errors here.

Game night will probably go down in the year's history as one of the best and most fun times that Marcus has had in a long time. He had laughed until his stomach hurt, his abs aching the next week for at least three days. He's gotten an open invitation back, but he doesn't know if that was a good thing, if he's honest with himself. His attraction to you is something that he's got to get ahold of if he's going to socialize with you more. It seems like everything about you just makes the heavens sing and the sun shine. It's crazy and he hates that, considering you are very happy in a relationship.

Eastern Market is his usual haunt on the weekend, preferring it to a generic grocery store, and he’s lost in thought enough that he doesn’t notice a familiar face at the florist’s stand across the way as he’s walking through the stalls. "Some peaches will be good." Marcus decides, looking through some of the fruits that have been trucked in from warmer states. "Peach smoothies." He decides, walking towards the gorgeous plump peaches on display.

If you were any other person in the world, it would be you who bumped into him and not the Secret Service agent contractually obligated to come along on your errands. As it is, when Agent Bailey defends you from being bumped into by the familiar figure of Marcus Pike, you’re the one who apologizes. “Oh! I’m so sorry, excuse u—Marcus?”

“Oh, hi!” Marcus shakes his head, reaching out and taking your arm. “I am so sorry. I guess I wasn’t paying attention.” He apologizes. “Was focused on getting some peaches and didn’t notice anything or anyone, obviously.” He flushes slightly, feeling that pull towards you and hating that he looks like a jerk, or maybe just thoughtless, in front of you. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

"Not at all." The flowers in your hands and the canvas shopping bags on your arm aren't harmed either, and you find yourself smiling much more brightly than you were even a second ago. "No harm done to me or to Agent Bailey, not to worry. Is it errand day for you, too?"

“Trying to eat healthier.” Marcus admits, slightly upset by the prospect but he figures that just comes with getting older. “Figured the produce here would be better than in a grocery store. Are these for the inn?” He asks, looking at the flowers in your hands and immediately reaches for them. “Let me help.”

"I thought my apartment could use some brightening up." He's seen the organized chaos that you live in and you're not embarrassed by it by any means, but there is a small sting to buying your own flowers just a few days before Valentine's Day. Sam isn't a flowers guy and that's perfectly fine, but you're definitely a flowers girl. When Marcus scoops them up without a second thought and stays by your side, you can feel your cheeks heat up. "I, um—thank you.

“Of course.” He huffs, as if newly made acquaintances should always scoop up flowers from you. “You chose brilliantly. They are gorgeous. Have you already paid for them?”

"Yes, so don't even try." It's just a playful warning that comes with a waggle of your finger, but you really have a feeling that he would try to pay for them if you hadn't.

He grumbles at that slightly. “Well, okay.” It’s almost pathetic that he takes note of what kind of flowers you like and he smirks. “So which flower is your favorite in this?” He asks.

"These," you point out a geometrically fascinating flower with petals that seem to spiral endlessly. "They're called camellias. We called them Winter Roses when I was growing up, but I've always loved them." The intimacy of the question goes straight over your head, just excited to have something pretty to split amongst the small vases in your little space.

“Camellias.” Marcus repeats the flower, filing away the information even though he shouldn’t use it. “They are beautiful.”

"Not everyone has them, so I tend to get my flowers here just to make sure they're in the mix." Barely aware that you're standing in the middle of a bustling market with people trying to move all around you, you have to shake away the warmth settling in you that is definitely not due to any kind of attraction. Nope. Not even a little. Not at all. "You, um..." you gesture to the next stall, where he was originally headed when the collision happened. "Peaches?"

“Peaches? Oh right, peaches.” Marcus laughs at himself and shakes his head. “Yeah, sorry, I’m – I forgot.” He snorts. “I was thinking about fresh peach smoothies.”

"Ooooo, that sounds incredible." All of a sudden it's the best idea you've heard all day, and you grin mischievously. "It's not exactly standard, but the next time you're craving a sweet after having Indian take out? Make a peach smoothie. It's got that same vibe as a mango lassi but it's slightly sweeter, and it's the most refreshing thing ever."

“I was actually thinking about having Indian tonight.” Marcus admits with a grin. “To reward myself for eating healthier.”

"Best reward in the world." You agree easily. "I told myself I was going to cook tonight and make sure there were leftovers for another day this week, but I am teetering dangerously close to just calling for take-out as well."

"Well..." Marcus almost doesn't offer, because of the fact that you have a boyfriend, but he is truly meaning this as a friendly offer. "If we went to have Indian together, it wouldn't be as bad as ordering it as take out, would it?" He ventures, raising his brows in offer.

You should say no, You should absolutely say no. Not because the invitation is improper in any way — after all, he's a friend. But because of the way your heart bumps and skips at the offer like you hope he means it as more. He doesn't, and that is a good thing. In fact, Marcus and Sam got along fairly well at game night. But you can't help the way your cheeks burn pleasantly. "DuPont Circle?" You ask, confirming that he means he was intending to order from the same place you were. When he nods, you do too. "That sounds really nice."

"This way..." He's immensely happy you are agreeing to come to eat with him. "We can order the samosas and pakoras and not feel any guilt what so ever." He tells you, grinning at you.

"No guilt, but definitely extra time at the gym." His smile is dangerous, but apparently your self-preservation instincts aren't nearly as good as you think they are, because the only alarm bell going off in your head is the one that says Don't Let It Become a Date! which you just brush off. Surely that won't even be a possibility. It can't, because you and Sam have a good thing going. "Although, you're not masochistic enough to have my little brother as your biweekly gym buddy, so your trips are probably far less traumatic than mine," you offer with a laugh.

"Nope." Marcus chuckles. "I just torture myself by running around the Mall during my lunchbreaks instead of spending it in museums or at the food trucks." He snorts. "I just get to smell them just off the Mall."

"Have you lived in DC for three years without doing any of the food trucks out on the Mall?" That might be the most appalling thing you've ever heard in your life, and you nearly drop the peach that you had just picked up to add to your basket.

"Oh no." He laughs at that. "First six months I was here, I fucking lived off food trucks." He admits. "I was undercover and my contact checked in with me through the food trucks."

"Oh, thank God." The both of you laugh as you wipe imaginary sweat of your forehead as though it had made you nervous. "If you had never had Julia's Empanadas, I might have had to drag you down to the Mall right now."

"Then I wouldn't have room for Indian." Marcus groans, rolling his eyes at the thought of how many empanadas he would try to fit in his stomach if you went to Julia's Empanadas. "And I'm really craving Indian."

"I am too." Although, now you're going to be thinking about empanadas for ages. Maybe you'll have to try making some. "How has your week been?" Making small talk is easy with him, as you poke through the fruit bins to find peaches, apples, and pears to snack on this week.

"It's been alright." He shrugs slightly. "Depositions for a few upcoming cases. So I've had to revisit case files and work with the district attorney's office to make sure that there aren't any surprises."

"Paperwork and meetings," you nod in understanding. "I get that. Being my own boss is a hell of a lot more paperwork and meetings than I ever thought it would be."

"Ordering supplies, creating events to drum up interest. Balancing budgets." He nods. "I can imagine that it feels like it's hard to get a free moment for yourself."

The way you nod is tired but proud. Every ounce of hard work that you put into that inn is worthwhile, and you do it with straight shoulders and as much determination as you can possibly summon. "Today is my first day off in...two or three weeks? It's...a lot. But it's so worthwhile. And it means that Syd has her place, too. I wouldn't trade it for anything."

"So how did you come to have the inn?" Marcus has been curious about that. "Was it always your dream? Or something you fell into?'

"I really, really liked throwing parties when I was younger." That's the easy way to start, as you both move to the line to pay for your bundles of fruit at this particular stall. "That grew up into loving to have guests over all the time. And then dreaming about running a hotel. So I took my sociology and history double major and got a job a hotel in Philly after college, putting myself through a hospitality degree while I started learning the ropes. It was a lot of years of working my way up, but eventually I got hired as the manager for the Inn at Jones Point under the old owners. They were struggling to keep up with new technology and losing clients because of it, and then..." Your eyes flick up to Marcus, almost apologizing for telling him the whole story. "We found out the reason Anita was having so much trouble learning the new technology was early-onset dementia alongside a sizeable brain tumor. I bought the inn from them when they made the decision that a comfortable end to her life was the most important thing they could do. Michael – Anita's husband – he comes around once a week for dinner and to check up on the place now that she's gone. He likes to keep an eye on it for her."

“That’s….” Marcus softens so much at the background story. “Beautiful. You are maintaining their legacy while adapting it to the new realities of time. Weathering time.”

"That farmhouse has been standing since the 1700s. We're just part of its legacy, not the other way around." The pair of you step up to be next in line, with Agent Bailey standing mere feet away managing to look imposing and nonchalant all at once. "The best part is that it could give Sydney her restaurant, and Juan a way to find himself in all the event planning. We didn't know what a team we'd be until we got going and now it's...it's just amazing."

“That’s incredible, and the fact that the place runs so smoothly is a testament to your hard work.” Marcus praises. He’s read some of the reviews and they are all positive, even the ones that had events beyond your control.

“That’s very kind of you.” Kind is an operative word for Marcus. As are sweet, funny, intelli— Nope, stop it, you’re getting dreamy again. Even the momentary distraction of having to pay for fruit is a welcome one if it gets your mind off that track.

Ouch. Kind is such a word that lands him in the friend zone. Which is where he has to be with you, but it still hurts. No longer edgy or cool like he was when he was in his old band. “What else do you need to get?” He asks, swinging his head around at the options available.

“I’m almost done actually.” It didn’t escape you that he flinched slightly when you were trying to be grateful and at least a little complimentary, and suddenly your stomach flips in fear that he might not like spending time with you are much as it seems. Or that you’d done something wrong. “I just wanted to get some fresh bread. But…I don’t know how much more you have to do.”

“Nothing.” He promises, shooting you a grin. “The least I can do is carrying things. Since you are saving me from a night of trying to cook.”

“Never learned to cook or just never got good at it?” There is a difference, after all, and it isn’t about want. Some people find cooking to be an incredible challenge. He gives you a look when you take your parcel of fruit from the vendor and accepts it on your behalf with thanks. Like a damn gentleman, you think with a pant in your chest.

“Never really had the time or the inclination.” He admits. “It’s hard to be enthusiastic about cooking for one, you know what I mean?”

“But that’s when you get to experiment!” Maybe it’s years of being friends with Sydney, whose world revolves around her tastebuds, but cooking has always been an outlet for you. It’s one of the only things you dislike about your apartment —the teeny tiny kitchen. “You can test out new things and weird combinations, and if it’s not great then the only person who knows is you. But if it’s awesome?” You grin up at him like you’re unveiling some kind of ultimate secret. “You become a rockstar at the next office potluck.”

Marcus chuckles. “I’m a rockstar anyway.” He jokes. “I’m the one who brings in the pizza and Chinese for the late nights in the office.”

“Okay, actually, that does count for a lot.” Walking in the direction of the bakery where you get all of your sweet treats and fresh bread, you readjust your shopping bag on your arm and try to glance around the place to survey your surroundings the way Agent Bailey has been teaching you. A comprehensive knowledge of your surroundings, she calls it. “I can’t really cook for my staff much when they have Sydney’s kitchen nearby, but I leave baked goods in the break room from time to time as a thank you. They work so hard.”

“There’s nothing better than snagging a muffin or a cookie when you’re rushing around.” Marcus agrees wisely.

“Or a slice of pizza.” It sounds like he works hard to keep his team in good spirits the same way you do, and you have to commend that in someone who works in such a dour field. Even art crimes — being less violent in nature, according to what you looked up the other night out of sheer curiosity — can’t possible be all sunshine and roses.

“Exactly.” He nods. “Sometimes we have all night surveillance or going through the evidence when something is time sensitive. My teams work better when they are well fed, and know how much they are appreciated.” He shrugs slightly, “everyone could benefit from know that every now and again.”

"Sometimes the weddings we run are just...they're insane. Or last year we had an entire family reunion take over the grounds for four very long days. I can't imagine it's half as stressful as what you deal with but the days can be really long and busy in their own right." For what it's worth, at least, you do love your job. And it's obvious that Marcus feels just as passionately about what he does.

“Oof.” He winces. “I bet the staff wanted to break out a bottle of bubbly when they were checked out.” Marcus jokes, chuckling slightly. “Yeah a lot of people don’t understand that when you love your job, the long hours are worth it.”

"Yeah." A tinge of regret breaks your smile, barely twitching in the corner of your mouth, and you barely nod. He can't possibly know what kind of a nerve he's hit — hell, you barely know yourself and you're the one feeling it. It just...it stings.

“Did I say something wrong?” He asks, immediately concerned when your smile seems almost sad.

"No." You reassure him much too quickly, and flinch in your own right when he looks skeptical. "It's just...not everyone thinks what I do is as worthwhile as, say, something like what you do. A—and that makes sense. Running an inn and upholding the law are—they're not the same. I'm not saying they are. It's just...that important to me. That's all."

“Whoever believes that is wrong.” Marcus insists wholeheartedly. “Running an inn is absolutely crucial. Maybe not to everyone, but to the people who need a little escape, a retreat to relax and revive themselves, your inn is a haven to them.” He is speaking passionately because he believes it. “When I’m out of town on a case, I hope that I can book a little inn. Something more personable than a Holiday Inn, so when I come back, it’s like a little slice of home.”

“I appreciate that. Really. It’s—I guess it’s a sore spot at the moment and I didn’t realize it. That’s all.” And you are absolutely not going to allow yourself to indulge in the image of Marcus coming back to the inn for you. Your place is not his ‘ little slice of home’. Even if you’re wondering what the would feel like if it was real.

“Well, you can always gripe and complain if you need to.” He promises.

“No, that’s—that’s not it.” It’s a little embarrassing, if you’re honest, but that’s only because you’re fighting being attracted to the man beside you. Otherwise you would just be chatting to a friend. “I just…don’t get to spend as much time with Sam as he would like. That’s all. Because we both have busy jobs.”

Marcus winces. “With the job he has, it would be hard unless you didn’t work.” He murmurs quietly. “But what counts is that you make the time you do have together special.”

“That’s what I said. Making the most of our time it’s what is most important.” The topic had come up again in conversation when you and Sam had talked about next steps — through the odd avenue of discussing your commute. His house to the inn isn’t a prohibitive drive, but it will warrant either having a lot of work done on your car or getting an upgrade. Right now you have no commute whatsoever, so you’re barely using your car outside of town.

“My favorite thing to do with my ex-wife was to curl up and watch a movie.” He admits. “Or work on a crossword together.”

“Those…” You laugh quietly, almost self-consciously, and shrug with the air of someone who is just about to give up. “Are the things I do with my good friend Agent Bailey, here. Though she kicks my ass at the Times Sunday crossword every single week.”

He rolls his eyes at himself. “I know it’s an old person’s activity, but I was normally exhausted from the academy.”

“Don’t you dare besmirch the Times Crossword.” A waggles finger and disapproving tsk seems to amuse him and it makes you smile, too. “That’s a mandatory topic of conversation at my mother’s dinner table.”

“Your mother enjoys the Times Crossword?” He asks, grinning at you. “She would get along with my parents. They have two subscriptions just so they can each do their own.”

“I’m keeping that in mind for Dad’s birthday this year.” It’s a brilliant idea. They would love to make a competition of it. It would be the highlight of their week.

“My parents got it as a wedding present and they enjoyed it so much, they kept it.” He tells you, smiling fondly at the memory of the two of them arguing playfully over their crosswords.

“That’s incredibly sweet.” There is a crowd at the bakery, as to be expected, so you and Marcus step into line to wait your turn. “I love the idea of being able to share small things with your partner. They’re every bit as important as the grand gestures, if not more.”

“Sometimes the smaller gestures are the most meaningful.” He admits with a grin. “I love cherry Danishes, and so did my ex. We would find these combo boxes of assorted and she would get the cherry one.”

“Giving up your favorite Danish flavor is not small.” An attempt at lightening the already light and sweet conversation is maybe…just trying to keep your own mind off of things. But that somehow doesn’t keep you from admitting the truth before you can stop yourself. “I have yet to meet the man I would give up my lemon poppyseed muffin for.”

“That’s only because you’ve never traded for a raspberry crumble muffin.” Marcus vows, smirking at the way you look stingy, even though he knows for a fact you aren’t.

“You’re on, Pike.” The smirk on his lips spreads to yours as effortlessly as breathing. “But lemon poppyseed is pretty impossible to unseat.”

“I don’t think you’ve ever had a raspberry crumble then.” He huffs, looking offended at the idea. “But I don’t think this place has them. I get them from a little bakery near the Bureau. I’ll have to bring you one.”

“I’ll get you a lemon poppyseed from the coffeeshop I go to in Old Town.” Even as its coming out of your mouth you know it sounds like flirting, but the fact is that you just feel so naturally comfortable with him. There is nothing flirtatious about muffins, you tell yourself. Nothing at all. “We can compare notes.”

“That sounds like a plan to me.” Marcus is extremely happy that you would like to make plans with him, any plans. Even if it’s just a friendly wager. “I’ll get the raspberry crumble. I say we each get two. And if you like the other one so much, you have to give up both.”

“Deal.” You put your hand out to him, willing to make a friendly bet on almost anything. That’s gotten you and your brother in trouble before, but this is harmless.

Marcus grins as he takes your hand, imagining that lightning bolts are shooting up his hand. Winking, he laughs, “just don’t be disappointed when you break that little rule of yours for me.” He boasts.

“We’ll see.” The tone of the thing really tries for teasing, but you end up so taken aback by the electricity in shaking his hand that you fluster — which is only compounded when you end up next in line and completely forget the word for ‘sourdough’ in the process.

“I, uh, I want-“ you seem completely out of it, and the bored looking boy behind the counter seems to be getting annoyed with you. “Can we have just a second?” Marcus asks, pulling you back and allowing another couple to go ahead of the two of you. “I’ve completely forgotten what I wanted.” He takes the blame, not wanting to embarrass you.

“Bread?” You manage to supply, feeling like a world class idiot for clamming up on something so routine. If being around him is going to be this big of a problem, you need to get yourself in order.

“Yeah, bread.” He nods, wrinkling his nose slightly. “What’s that type that I like?”

At this point he could mean him or he could mean you, or he could even just be speaking in theoreticals, but you have you head in straight enough again to blow out a breath and remember yourself. “Sourdough. I forgot the damn word for sourdough.”

“Thats it.” He snaps his fingers and looks back at the boy. “Could we get some sourdough bread?”

“Sure.” The kid looks at the both of you like you’ve gone insane but turns around to bag a loaf of freshly baked bread without a second thought for his strange customers.

Marcus pays for the bread, even with you huffing beside him and guides you towards the clearing. “That wasn’t that bad.”

“Only because you saved me from sputtering like an idiot.” It’s beside the point that he is also the reason you were sputtering in the first place. That doesn’t matter. It’s the fact that you couldn’t keep it together that bothers you. “Thanks for that.”

“Not at all.” He waves off your thanks. “Everyone has those moments.” He promises, smiling at you.

There is such a moment of relief when you exhale again that you have to make light of it or else you’re in danger of feeling far more grateful than is probably necessary, and that makes your chest ache in a dull and insistent kind of way. “That’s either very sweet of you or a complete placation, but either way I appreciate it.”

“No placation, I promise.” He crosses his finger over his heart and smiles at you. “Anywhere else?”

“That was the last thing for me.” Even though you have plans to have dinner with him that night you still can’t help feeling a little disappointed that the impromptu shopping trip has come to an end. “Unless you needed something else?”

“Well…” Marcus looks around, not wanting to let you leave just yet. “Maybe I could find a plant to kill?” He asks. “Something to brighten up my place?”

"Bit of a black thumb?" The excuse to not say goodbye yet is welcome, and you end up smiling more broadly than you mean to. "Let's see what we can do about that."

“More that I forget to set up someone to water my plants when I go out of town and they die miserable, thirsty deaths while I’m away.” He flashes you a guilty grin. “I’m a murderer.”

“Very rude of you to do to your plants.” The wholesome, straight-faced nod that you cry for cracks on a giggle, though, and you nod in the direction of an entirely different florist stand than the one you were at before. “What you need is a succulent.”

“That sounds a little dirty.” Marcus admits, not even realizes how flirtatious that sounds.

It does. And you didn’t mean for it to. You were just talking about the type of plant he could get. But then there’s that grin on his face and it’s so fucking puckish and * handsome* that you practically groan about how unfair the whole damn thing is. “Whoops?” You offer, obviously not apologetic in the least.

He snorts and winks at you again. “I don’t mind. Sometimes being a little dirty is a good thing.” It’s borderline inappropriate, so Marcus doesn’t say anything else.

“Sometimes it’s the fun of an otherwise boring day.” But since you’re genuinely afraid you might say too much if you go ahead with this line of thought, and since Agent Bailey is steadily avoiding your eyes like an older sister trying not to bear witness to your trouble making, you clear your throat and change the subject. “I think I snake plant would work for you. They’re really easy to care for and great for beginners or busy people.”

Marcus takes your lead and nods seriously. “I’ll take some advice. Any advice.” He shrugs slightly. “I wish I had the time for pets, but I don’t and it’s wrong to do that to them.”

“If I could have a dog, I would have a little corgi or a Yorkie in a heartbeat.” It comes with an almost wistful sigh, but you feel the same way he does. It would be cruel to the animal you’re supposed to be taking care of. “But since I have no concept of work-life balance? I have plants.”

“I’ll start with plants.” Marcus huffs. “If I can keep one alive? Maybe I’ll move on to cats? They are low maintenance.”

“Cats are fantastic. Sydney and Anna Leigh always had a couple when we were growing up and they can’t be the sweetest animals in the world.” There is a florist that specializes in succulents and potted plants further into the market and you head that way, chatting as you go. “I just always said I would want my kids to grow up with a puppy.”

“Puppy, a swing set in the yard and dinner together.” Marcus adds wistfully, having his own version of that same dream. “Every kid needs a puppy pal.”

“That’s exactly what I said.” And the knot in your stomach tells you that that isn’t a coincidence — that the future you’ve dreamt about probably lines up with the one he wants in so many different ways.

“We had my dog for nearly twenty years.” Marcus tells you. “He was my best friend and the best soul I’ve ever met.”

“I got Alex instead of a dog,” you giggle, silliness tinging the edge of his sweet nostalgia. “My little brother.”

“Isn’t a younger brother the same thing?” He asks with a grin.

“Very much so. And Alex is as much Golden Retriever as he is human.” If he were here, he’d give you so much grief for that comparison, but you stand by it. “What kind of dog did you have?”

Marcus chuckles. “A golden retriever.” He tells you without skipping a beat. “I’ve got a picture of him, wanna see?”

“Absolutely!” They say you’re either a kid person or a dog person, but you’re definitely both. Anything cute and squishy is right up your alley.

Digging out his wallet, it might be a little old fashioned to carry a physical photo of the favorite family pet, but he likes looking at it sometimes. He’s holding his dog, Hansel, in the picture. The white around the dog’s snout indicative of the older age of the golden retriever. “Here he is. Hansel.”

“What an angel!” If you could jump right through the photo and squeeze his beautiful face you would — the only problem is that you don’t know if you mean young Marcus or the dog.

“Wasn’t he?” Marcus hums happily. “He slept in my room growing up. Hated me leaving for college, although I hated being apart from him too.”

"How could you possibly leave that face? Look at him!" Yeah, it's definitely the dog that you're talking about. At least right now.

“Yeah.” He smiles down at the photo, unable to resist brushing his thumb over the canine face with happy memories flooding through him. “He was the best.”

"So would you want another Golden Retriever?" Looking between him and the photo, you think you might be able to guess the answer yourself. "Or will no other Golden ever live up to him?"

“Probably not.” Marcus shrugs. “He was from a litter of puppies at the shelter. It was just a coincidence that he was a pure Golden.” He frowns slightly. “I would want to adopt. It’s the best way to give a loving home to an animal.”

"Adopting is the only way." On that, you can firmly agree. But you point to the florist stand up ahead and touch his arm gently in an unconscious moment of casual comfort. "First, let's get you a plant to adopt."

“Yes, I would prefer adopted over nursery grown.” Marcus jokes, trying to ignore how easy it is to be with you. You can just be a friend. It’s possible and it’s possible he’s lying to himself.

"Wild, orphaned plants wandering the lonely roads with all their belongings tied up in a little bandana on a stick," you tease, conjuring the image of a cartoon orphan as best you can. To the girl behind the counter, you turn your full attention and the best conspiratorial smile you can conjure. "We're looking for something he'll have trouble killing," you confide with a chuckle. "Something like a snake plant, maybe? Or if you have a better recommendation we're all ears."

“It’s best to start them out with a plant before having pets or kids, isn’t it?” She asks with a grin, eyeing Marcus in amusement. “But he seems like the trustworthy type to me.”

"A fine, upstanding citizen if ever I saw one." The smirk you offer her is playful, and you glance up at Marcus beside you. "Plus, I'll be keeping an eye on the situation. For the good of the adoptee, of course."

“Of course.” She nods seriously, even though there is a definitely shaking to her voice, like she’s holding back laughter. “Let me show you the best options for a recovering black thumb.”

It's several minutes of back and forth with the florist who parries your playful banter well, and you end up leaving her stand with not just a lovely potted snake plant for Marcus, but an identical one for your apartment as well. "I had to!" You coo, when Marcus laughs at the little plant that you're cradling like a newborn. "It's so precious! And they're twins! I couldn't just leave it abandoned."

“Well, we have to name them.” Marcus decides. “Twin names.” He grins at you, “what do you think?”

"Luke and Leia," you joke right away, because that will always be the first pair of twins you think of in any situation. "Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum? Oh, do the creepy girls from The Shining have names?"

Considering The Shining was his first foray into horror when he was younger, it was also one of his favorites. "No, they were just called Grady Daughters one and two." He tells you. "But..." He whips out his phone. "They are Lisa and Louise Burns, in real life."

“So are the plants Grady and Burns, or Lisa and Louise?” Either way they’re exceedingly silly choices, and you’re going for it.

“Either one works for me.” Marcus laughs. “It depends on if the plants are male or female.” He jokes.

“I think we probably get to pick,” you joke right back, making a show of rolling your eyes at him even though you’re laughing.

“Hmmmmm.” He pretends to take a closer look at his plant. “I’m going to surprise you.” He decides. “My plant is female.”

“Oh, that’s no surprise to me.” The smirk you shoot back at him is probably the lightest and most carefree you r felt in ages, and just for the moment you’re not going to second guess it. You’re just going to revel in the moment. “All my plants are female.”

He snickers with you and then tilts his head. “Lisa or Louise for you?” He asks, before he answers. “I bet you want the name Louise. You’ll pretend it’s for Thelma and Louise.”

“I—how—” Staring at him in utter confusion does not help matters one bit, but you still don’t have any clue as to how he could possibly have guessed that about you after only having met you two whole times. “So?” You ask after a second, realizing you’re laughing with the absurdity.

You have the most beautiful laughs Marcus has ever heard, and he loves that he caused it. There’s a flash of guilt that comes with the thought and he decides to reel it back into the scope of reality. You are becoming a friend, nothing more. “Who wouldn’t?” He asks, still chuckling. “They were the greatest female duo in modern cinema. In my opinion.”

“They line up against Idgie and Ruth from Fried Green Tomatoes.” You’ll stand by that pairing until the day you die, but the way warmth is spreading through your chest and your fingers ache dully from wanting to reach out for him is a special, damning sort of agony. “And I will die on that hill.”

“I had completely forgotten about Idgie and Ruth.” He admits, hanging his head in shame. “Forgive me.”

“Just this once.” There is still a teasing grin on your face when your phone goes off in your pocket. Sam’s name splashed across your caller ID and guilt crawls through your veins immediately. “I’m sorry,” you apologize, glancing up at Marcus. “Just give me one second.”

Marcus catches a glimpse of the name and it’s like he’s doused with cold water. “Of course.” He murmurs politely, turning towards a little book stand to give you some privacy, beating himself up for flirting with another man’s significant other.

“Hey honey.” The second you pick up the phone with a plant in your other arm and your groceries weighing on your shoulder, that is the second you feel most self-conscious.

“Hey,” Sam’s voice comes over the line and he has a straightforward attitude, jumping into the reason for his call. “I’ve had a dinner invite tonight, some potential donors.” He tells you. “Can you make it?”

“I—” It’s not like it’s an unusual request. If he has a work event tonight then the best possible person he can have at his side is you. The idea of having dinner with Marcus had been so uplifting, and now cancelling on him makes you feel awful. But this is your boyfriend. “Yeah. Yeah, I can make it. Where and when? Is there a dress code?”

Sam rattles off the address and dress code. “Thanks honey, I knew I could count on you.” He tells you before he murmurs to someone else. “Hey, I’ve got to go, I love you.” The line clicks off immediately.

“I love you too.” It’s said to the silence, and you look down at your phone for a moment before pocketing it again. Marcus has stepped away to give you privacy, and you shift your weight from one foot to the other before walking back over to him. “I’m really sorry,” you murmur, actually looking as apologetic as you feel. “Can we postpone dinner tonight?”

“Oh….yeah, of course.” He hates the way the feels rejected, but you have priorities, ones that aren’t him. “That’s no problem at all.” He nods quickly and looks around. “Well, we should probably get your things to your car, right?”

“I—I’m really sorry.” Repeating it just makes you feel worse. But both of you feel worse, unbeknownst to you, and you walk in the direction of your car with Agent Bailey her usual two steps behind. “Something came up.”

“Not a problem at all.” Marcus promises you, plastering on a smile as you turn to him at your car. “I understand. Believe me, I’ve had plenty of things come up.”

"It was really nice to run into you today." There is no word of a lie or even exaggeration in that, and you take your flowers from Marcus's arms carefully, loading it into the backseat with your other bags and Louise the snake plant.

“Yeah, it was nice seeing you. Marcus holds up his plant. “Thanks for the help.” He hums. “Hopefully I won’t kill Thelma.”

"If you do, try to make it as spectacular as possible." Offering him a half smile, you realize that you just wish you could give him a big hug, but that would be totally out of line. So instead all you can think to do is shift your weight awkwardly again before opening your car door. "I'll see you around, Marcus."

“See ya.” He nods and turns around to walk to his car. He doesn’t turn around, knowing that it would look weird if he did.

Once you’re in the car with Agent Bailey and focused on getting back home to put everything away and make a cup of coffee before you have to start getting ready for the night, you sigh softly and sit back in your seat. You can feel the curiosity of the Secret Service agent beside you and you wonder if you look as guilty as you. “That was a nice surprise.”

“Yes.” Agent Bailey hums. “Special Agent Pike was quite a surprise.”

“He’s nice,” you defend, very aware that you’re defending yourself and not him.

“He’s very nice.” She agrees. “And exactly who he says he is.” Of course a background check had been done on the agent, which she was glad of now that he had popped back up on radar. Not quite sure what to make of the interaction at the market, it’s also not her place to judge it.

"Well, that's a comfort." The drive back to Alexandria won't take long, but you twist your hands around the steering wheel a few times before pulling out into traffic. "Unfortunately, tonight will be the opposite," you tell her with a dramatic sigh that cushions the blow of having to attend an impromptu event. "Sam asked me to come to a dinner party tonight. Last minute invitation, I guess somebody had a seat they needed filled and asked him."

“I see.” Now she has to find out where you are going to be, who is on the guest least and it means overtime tonight. She doesn’t sigh, but she wants to, much preferring to go to small Indian restaurant over some political function. “I’m sure it will be a lovely evening.”

"I know you have to vet everything." The process seems exhausting, but you would never question the agent's ability to get her job done. "It's a private party at Arthur Connesby's house. The aerospace tech guy? Apparently it's a party for his wife, but everybody invited are Sam's constituents. I have a feeling they're going to spend the night trying to pitch their own interests to him, but if nothing else they might donate to his next campaign if they feel like they got to be friendly with him." It sounds like it will be a fairly boring night of overly rich old men feeling self-important, but Sam asked you to be there and that's why you're going.

“Noted.” The agent is immediately firing off a text to her support team, letting them know about the change of plans tonight.

"I know it's not what we had in mind." The night has gone from staying home and watching a movie and maybe playing cards, to dinner out, to an entire party. It's a lot of jumps in not much time. "And I appreciate you being flexible. Truly."

“It’s my job to protect you no matter what.” She reminds you softly. She enjoys you, has gotten to know you and thinks you are lovely, but you are Hummingbird to her. The First Daughter of the President of the United States and her assignment. She would guard you regardless of what you were doing because it’s her job.

"Right." You nod slightly, eyes cast back out on the road, and try not to slump even a little as you drive. It's not necessary to be everyone's best friend. You know that on a practical level. Right now your energy is better served focusing on the night ahead. "Well, I can still be grateful. So thank you. For...being professional. An very good at your job."

She knows that you are disappointed, but one of the cardinal rules of the secret service is to not be emotionally attached to your assignment. It would be too difficult to make life or death decisions. “Protecting you has been my pleasure.” She promises.

"I appreciate that." For better or for worse, the Secret Service will be a part of your life for the rest of your life. So if you can't be friends, at least you can appreciate each other. For now, though, you ought to focus. A party with your boyfriend's constituents is no place to have your mind wander.

The dinner party is exactly what you imagined it would be. Self important people, boasting about how important they are as they fawn over ‘more’ important people. Or the people who could give them access to the power they wished to have. Sam was in his element, smiling and shaking hands. Listening to ideas with a feigned interest that comes naturally to politicians.

He's charismatic enough to keep their attention but has enough of his own heart left that he does seem to care about issues being brought to him. Unfortunately for these folks, they're talking about a whole lot of things that just one man can't change on their behalf. So all he can really do is listen and express interest in whatever plight it is they have.

You have found yourself in the rather unfortunate position of being inundated by the significant others of these men, and when the party turns to mingling after dinner they somehow manage to whisk you away to the garden where you aren't sure if they're planning on trying to get you to dance with various people, or maybe join their country clubs, You really can't tell which.

“You must tell me, how is living in the White House?” One asks you, under the impression that you are still living with your mother.

“I understand it’s very comfortable.” It’s almost a relief that these women seem not to know a thing about you beside who your mother is. Your greatest fear about the whole thing was being hounded through every day of your life — so far that hasn’t been the case. But it’s been barely more than a month. There’s time. “However, I chose not to reside there.”

“Oh, what a shame.” She hums, wondering why you wouldn’t want to call the most famous house in America home. “I hear that it’s haunted.”

“That is what they say.” And according to your little sister, it’s absolutely true. But an upscale party of relatively stuffy guests like this doesn’t seem like the place to spout tales of your sister taking her homework to the Lincoln bedroom. “And it’s certainly very beautiful.”

“I would love to take a tour sometime.” She tells you, hoping that you might offer to set it up for her. An intimate tour would be amazing.

“I’m sure that can be arranged.” You aren’t the sort of person who would exchange favors, so the thought that this could mean a donation for Sam’s campaign in the near future. Instead, you just know it would be something nice. “I can have something put together for you if you like?”

“That would be lovely!” She exclaimed, sending you a warm smile. “You know, you and the congressman make a beautiful couple. Possibly even presidential one day.” It’s a fishing expedition, feeling you out for your thoughts on a possible run.

"Possibly." And two weeks ago, you might have beamed at that implication. At the idea of Sam moving through his career with such gusto and motivation that he makes it all the way to the White House. But seeing what your father contends with as First Gentleman, the idea of being First Lady sounds overwhelming to you. It's even less likely that you would end up in politics yourself. "Sam takes his work very seriously, and he has high hopes for the future of our country."

“And what about you?” She asks. “You made waves, positive ones in my opinion, during your mother’s campaign about your stance on soulmates.”

"I don't have any political ambitions for myself." Of that, you can absolutely assure her. "While I'm more than happy to support the people around me, I'm very happy with my own career."

“At least until Congressman Chase makes an honest woman out of you.” She hums. “Then it’s so hard to balance your own career while supporting the ambitions of your husband.” There’s a rueful chuckle on her part. “Believe me, I know.”

"I won't be giving up my career." This is always a topic of conversation amongst significant others, you've found, and a topic that your father has contended with on multiple occasions. As your mother's career grew, he became a stay-at-home-dad and raised three kids. Because it was something he wanted to do, not because it was forced on him. And that has always been the key to you. "I own a business. So it's essentially my first child already."

“Oh?” Her brows wing up in surprise. “My apologies. I must have misunderstood.” Her eyes slide past you. “Excuse me, I must go catch Mrs. Jackson before she leaves.” She cuts off the conversation and hustles away.

It's a bit on and definitely abrupt, but the conversation wasn't very enjoyable to begin with so you smile politely and just let it roll off your back. Whatever she 'misunderstood' doesn't really concern you. Some gossip article must have speculated on the next steps of your relationship with Sam and you try not to let that kind of nonsense get to you.

“Having fun?” Sam comes up to you, his hand slipping around your waist and he presses a kiss to your cheek. “You look amazing, especially since it was so last minute.”

"You always like this dress." The first time you wore it was the nominating party after the Democratic National Convention, and then again to a fundraiser in Chicago. That was the night you met Sam, and he had remarked even then that the dress was particularly beautiful. It seemed like the logical choice for tonight based on that alone. "It's a nice party." The food was predictable but tasty, and the drinks are flowing, just like the way you expected the night to go. "Do we think there will be birthday cake?" You ask conspiratorially, looking up at him beside you with a smirk. "Is that something people still do for fancy fiftieth birthdays?"

“Cake is universal.” Sam snorts and nods. “I have it on good authority the cake is a chocolate raspberry mascarpone cream cake.” He tells you, knowing it will be an idea you carry back to Sydney.

"I know exactly what Saturday's dessert special is going to be." Somehow your best friend will turn a classic cake into something elegant and thoughtful, and you know the entire restaurant will go nuts for it. They always do, when Sydney gets to show off. "Are you having a good night? I know you had high hopes for networking tonight."

“It’s going well.” He hums happily and beams at you. “How about you? Working the other side for me?” He teases playfully, aware you don’t usually like campaigning.

"Nothing that will get me in trouble with my Mom's staff." Not that he would ever ask you to do anything like that. Sam doesn't go in for most of the entitled bullshit that other politicians do. "One request for a White House tour that I'll put through the appropriate channels. Nothing too odd."

“Interesting.” Sam looks thoughtful. “Who asked for that?”

"Shelly D'Amario." The wife of District Attorney-turned-Superior Court Judge Raymond D'Amario was one of the few people you had recognized from press coverage of events supporting your mother's campaign. Her husband's politics were lined up with most moderate Democrats, and he tended to hand down verdicts with thoughtful conclusions at the end of each case. He's one of those people you wouldn't have minded at all sitting at this dinner party with, but unfortunately the Judge was not able to attend.

“Oh.” Sam nods. “I was at another dinner with her and the judge just the other night.” He tells you. “Picking his brain about Constitutional law.”

“She was very nice.” Though instinct takes over, and you chew on your bottom lip for a second before going on. “Did you guys talk…about me at all? About us, I mean? At your dinner?”

“Well, naturally you came up.” Sam admits with a slight frown, wondering if Shelly had somehow insulted you. “Not everyone is dating the daughter of the current sitting President. But I didn’t share any private details about you.” He promises. “Or your family.”

“I know you wouldn’t do that.” If he was the sort of person who went around sharing personal details with anyone and everyone, you wouldn’t have been able to trust him. Especially not under the condition you met in. Campaigns are cutthroat. “She just…said something that kind of confused me, that’s all.”

“What confused you?” He asks, trying to recall the exact details of the dinner with the judge and his wife.

Without wanting to imply that he might have said anything, you still glance around you to make sure that Agent Bailey is the only one close enough by to overhear you. “She seemed to be under the impression that I would be quitting my job if we ever have a family. And when I said that wasn’t the case, she said she must have ‘misunderstood’ something and walked away immediately.”

Understand dawns in his eyes and Sam shifts slightly. “Well, that’s not something we’ve talked about just yet.” He reminds you. “That’s a conversation we need to have.”

"Right." You couldn't agree more. "Which is why I was confused that she seemed to have heard an opinion about it somewhere before. But it was probably just some gossip article."

He hesitates and then decides to come clean, you don’t like liars. “I might have voice my hopes for our future.” He admits. “It’s not so unexpected, is it?” He asks. “I’ll be spending a lot of time at different events and I will want you by my side.”

"Sam..." There's disappointment in your voice that you don't bother to hide. Of course he's absolutely entitled to talk about hopes, as he puts it, but you can't believe that he would ever think you would give up the inn. "I own the place, honey. It's not like taking a smaller role in an office or shifting to part time somewhere."

“Yes, you own it.” Sam stresses. “But you can have someone else manage it.”

"But I don't want to have someone else manage it." It's really like you can't believe your ears. Sam has never voiced anything like this before within the dynamic of your relationship and he knows very well how proud you are of your work at the inn and how much it means to you.

By the set of your jaw and the frown on your face, Sam knows that he can’t argue the point right now. He shakes his head, smiling at you and taking your hand. “You’re right. I—I wasn’t thinking about how much you love your inn.” He admits softly. “Let’s just forget about it, hm?”

"O—okay." There he is again. Your understanding, supportive Sam smiling at you and taking the stress out of the situation. The man you started dating almost a year ago. Dependable. "Okay."

“Good.” He pats your hand gently and leans in to kiss you softly. “But I do still want to talk about moving in together.”

"After our date on Tuesday?" The Valentine's night you had settled on together is dinner at a small, family-owned restaurant in his hometown followed by a fundraiser screening of short films made by local high schoolers looking to update their school's resources with the proceeds. Community-oriented is the theme of the night.

“That sounds appropriate.” He agrees with a nod. “For now, let’s just enjoy the rest of the evening.” He looks towards your secret service agent. “Will you be allowed to come to my place tonight?”

"I think that can be arranged." The invitation means you'll be sleeping over at his place twice this week, which is definitely more than you've been able to do lately and maybe that's a good thing. Maybe you just need to refocus yourself. And stop thinking about Marcus, for fuck's sake. You slip your arm around Sam's waist and lean into his side. "I just have to let Bailey know. Her relief agent will have to be told to go to your place instead of mine."

"Of course." Even though it irritates him, he nods. Understanding that you cannot help it right now. After your mother's term, perhaps you will decline protection.

"I know it isn't perfect." He's bristled about lack of privacy before, and though you can't say that you really blame him? There's nothing you can do about it. Secret Service protect for the President's immediate family is mandatory. And hell, you have a Secret Service agent in your apartment every night. At least when you stay with Sam, your agent usually stays in the living room or their car like a stakeout. It's typically left up to them. But still, you do understand the objection. "I'm sorry. It is what it is."

"I know." He sighs softly, hating that the evening has been sidetracked from what he imagined. "I understand. I just don't like them be so close when we are alone." He admits.

"I know." The last five minutes have become increasingly uncomfortable, but you still stick close to Sam and continue smiling, aware that eyes at the party might be on you just like they are anytime you go anywhere outside of your little haven at the inn. "But better that, than someone breaking into your house."

He doesn't point out that he has a security system and his townhouse is in a gate community. There's no point and it would just further cause an discussion that is best left for the relative privacy of his bedroom - with a secret service agent parked outside in his living room. He sighs. "Shall we get more wine?" He asks, trying to change the subject.

"Sure." There are people starting to dance to the music being piped through outdoor speakers, but you're not really in a dancing mood. There's too much swirling around in your mind to be light on your feet. "Wine sounds like a good plan."

Sam leads you over to the bar, ever the gentleman and stands beside you to look at the drink selections. "They have a nice pinot grigio." He murmurs softly.

"Is that what you want too?" The bar is open, of course, but the catering company has allowed the bartender to put out a small and discreet tip jar for the reasonably large party tonight, and you have a few more bills in your purse that you're happy to add to the jar.

"I think I'm going to stick with the pinot noir." He tells you, holding up his almost empty glass.

You order both glasses without hesitation and tip the very pleasant bartender, handing Sam his glass after it's put on the bar top. Just something nice to get the night back on track. At least as far as the two of you go.

"So I think that we should drink our wine and then dance." Sam suggests. It would be a good visual and romantic as a bonus. He's not calculating, but he does understand that optics are important in politics. It's a good opportunity to romance you and look good for the discreet photographers that are roaming around.

"And at some point, eat cake." Trying to lighten the mood a little is really your go-to for diffusing tension in any situation, and the air around the two of you feels a little thick, so you offer him a big smile instead of getting serious again.

"Eating cake is always a good way to spend a night." Sam agrees, smiling back at you.

"Morning." You haul yourself into the restaurant's kitchen the next morning when you arrive bright and early for your eight-a.m. start time looking vaguely less drowsy than usual. The other member of your Secret Service detail — Agent Sisson — has music taste more in line with yours and you'd listened to Duran Duran on your way back to town this morning. That and a cup of strong coffee means that you're feeling okay but definitely in need of breakfast.

“Wellllllll,” Sydney’s grin is bright as she eyes you. “I see the walk of shame has taken on a festive air.” She teases, laughing as she moves over to pour you a cup of coffee. “I take it last night went well?”

“I have enough time to go upstairs and change before work,” you grumble, though you’re smiling and accept the cup of coffee gratefully. “Usual boring party, but I bring you home a new cake flavor combination to try, and it was nice to see Sam.”

She snorts. “Nice to see Sam.” She mimics. “It’s like you ran into him in the store.” She huffs at you. “This is your boyfriend. The man you love.”

“And that’s why it’s nice to see him more than just one measly night a week.” Given that you have a few minutes, you hop up on a stool at the counter beside her work station and groan in appreciation at the slice of sweet Italian brioche and carefully cut piece of frittata she plates up for you without hesitation. “Oh my god, thank you. All I’ve had so far is coffee. We overslept and both had to run out to get to work on time.”

“Overslept…” she rolls her eyes and rubs her stomach. “I wish I could remember what that was like.” She grumbles. “This one is giving me heartburn all the time and keeping my sleep short.”

“They just really want to make sure you remember they’re there,” you tease, picking up a forkful of frittata and not even caring what’s inside. Everything Syd makes it incredible. “Twenty-seven whole more weeks of this, Mama. Get excited!”

“I am, I promise. But the kid can let me sleep in a little, right?” She huffs playfully. “So how was the dinner? You came back from the market in a hurry so I didn’t get to talk to you. Did you forget about this or was it last minute?”

“It was last minute. He got a spontaneous invitation to a potential supporter’s wife’s birthday party.” Oh my god, spinach and artichoke frittata, so fucking good. “She got the gift of bragging rights that a Congressman and the First Daughter came to her party, and a very nice bottle of champagne.”

“Sounds like a ton of fun.” Sydney likes hobnobbing even less than you do, preferring to be on the service side of fancy events. “So you ate mildly bland catered food and drank way too much wine?”

“Exactly. Which is why this tastes even more incredible than usual.” You point at your plate even while scooping up another bite. “So did you and Juanito ever decide what you’re doing tomorrow? I know you scheduled yourself for the dinner rush, but you’ve got to do something.”

“My husband is amazing.” She promises, beaming in delight. “He actually got us reservations at St. Regis for the Valentine’s Day Afternoon Tea.”

“Oh, that’s so sweet! It’s so utterly romantic I could barf.” The momentary flash of jealousy is nothing, and you’re genuinely happy that they’ll be able to get out and do something. They work so incredibly hard and never complain for a second. “It’s perfect, Syd. I want a full report.”

“I’m excited.” She admits, biting her lip and fiddling with her practical silicone wedding band that she wears in the kitchen. “I’ve also been promised a very relaxing massage and a few orgasms.”

“All things which you deserve very much.” You raise your coffee cup in salute to her and grin.

“At the very least.” She huffs, her own grin one of pure happiness. “I am growing Badillo’s baby.” She reminds you, as if it isn’t common knowledge at this point. She’s so proud of being with her soulmate and she cock her head at you curiously. “Have you given any more thought to that tattoo?” She pries gently.

“Yes and no…” It’s much more yes than no, if you’re honest with yourself, but the fact is that it’s probably not good to think about it as much as you have. It’s like a never-ending loop in your mind and you absolutely can’t shake it. “I just don’t know what good it would do to bring it up. Or who I would even bring it up to.”

“You know who you should bring it up to.” She huffs.

“Who?” You challenge, feeling like you’re stuck between a rock and a hard place without doing so much as being awake this morning. “My boyfriend of almost a year who asked me to move in with him and wants to start planning our future? Or the guy I barely know who invited me to dinner yesterday when I ran into him at Eastern Market and looked so hurt when I had to ask him to reschedule that I still feel like I kicked the world’s cutest puppy?” Clearly it’s been on your mind, and Syd is really the one person you can talk to about any of it. But admitting that you’ve been thinking about Marcus feels like cheating and you have always despised cheaters deeply. Being cheated on will do that to a person.

“You ran into Marcus?” Her eyes widen with the new information and she immediately sets down her spoon and walks around the counter to hug you. “Oh honey, talk to me. What happened?” She asks softly. While she might be pushing you to at least ask if you might be soulmates, she doesn’t want you to be upset.

“It wasn’t a big deal…we ran into each other and we finished our shopping together.” It’s such a relief to have a space to talk about it, and yet you know you’re blowing it out of proportion in your head. It was just a coincidence that you ran into him. Not fate. “We were both talking about wanting Indian for dinner so he asked if I wanted to go to the restaurant with him. We were just going to hang out. Then Sam called.”

“And of course you said yes to Sam.” Sydney doesn’t exactly approve of the way Sam seems to think that you wait for his call and will drop everything to accommodate him, but she doesn’t say anything. “How did Marcus take the change of plans?”

“He said he understood and that it was fine.” Which is, technically, what happened. So when you shift your eyes away from hers, Sydney makes a noise and you cave. “He seemed disappointed,” you admit, throwing up your hands. “But I’m probably just projecting that.”

“Anyone would be disappointed to not spend time with you.” Sydney defends immediately, always the best cheerleader for you. “Maybe text him and reschedule?” She suggests. “Friends have dinner, it’s not cheating. You aren’t going out on a date.”

“I know it’s not cheating.” Syd knows better than anyone why you hate liars and cheaters. “I texted him on my way in this morning to reschedule, but I don’t…I don’t know if he’ll respond. He was probably just being polite asking in the first place.”

“I doubt that.” Sydney had seen the covert looks that each one of them had given the other when they weren’t looking during game night. Both of them were curious and she is interested to know about that hummingbird tattoo, it’s not common, despite what you might say.

“Then it’s because I’m best friends with his friend’s soulmate,” you reason instead.

“No, it’s because Juan said that Marcus was trying to be polite but that he was interested in you.” Sydney tells you.

You feel the blood drain from your face shamefully fast, and your eyes dart up to meet your best friend’s. “He said that?”

“Yes.” She isn’t going to lie to you, Juan had told her that. “But, he also said that Marcus respects relationships and he’s not the type of man to make a move on you if you’re in a relationship.” She knows how you feel about that kind of thing and she agrees with you.

“Well…I mean…that’s good? Isn’t it? That just means he’s respectful.” Still , you find yourself sitting on the idea that Marcus likes you and being halfway between mortified and grinning. It feels ultimately childish and yet like your chest is filling full of something very much like joy.

“According to Juan, Marcus Pike is the best man, the best person that he’s ever known.” Sydney acknowledges with a nod, deciding not to comment on your giddy expression. “Even though he was busy with training at the academy, he was always helping with housework or running errands to take care of things.” She shrugs. “His ex-wife was a med student. So I guess she’s a doctor now.”

“It’s just a coincidence.” This mantra of yours is going to get old quick, but you have a partner. A long term one, even. One that until a week or so ago, you had thought you had a future with. Now that resolve is waning and you don’t really know how you started to question yourself so easily.

Sensing that you’ve dug your heels in, she backs off, giving a small shrug. “I’m sure it is.” She hums. “So what are your Valentine’s Day plans with Sam?” She asks. “Did he plan something romantic?”

“We’re going to dinner and then a community fundraiser in his district.” It doesn’t sound romantic, you will admit that, but anything too luxurious you did can be perceived in a very wrong way by the general public if it gets out. A Congressman and the First Daughter going to a spa getaway or the symphony would be seen as being out of touch with the people. “He…wants to talk about the future.”

“And you don’t sound like it’s a conversation that you are eager to have.” She sits down, her own herbal tea in front of her and she frowns slightly.

“I’m…not sure, honestly.” Without hesitation and without filter, the explanation about your conversation with Judge D’Amario’s wife and what Sam said at dinner with them comes tumbling out of your mouth and you can’t help but cringe to yourself when you get it all out in the open air. “Am I overreacting? Please tell me I’m overreacting.”

Sydney winces and gives you a small shrug. “He has known from the beginning that you aren’t the type to want to be a typical politician’s spouse and give up your career.” She reminds you. “Remember that night out in Alexandria? Where we were bar hopping? I had a very frank conversation with him about that.”

“You did?” Your forehead scrunches as you take a sip of coffee. “Then why would he think I would be willing to have someone else manage the inn?”

“I don’t know if I can answer that.” She admits quietly. “But I think he gave them his true ideal. You quitting and being by his side for all his accomplishments.”

“It’s not that I’m not proud of him.” Some would argue that that is what it signals, but you and Sydney are not those types of people. “He’s doing such good work, and I do want to have kids and a house and all that domestic stuff. I just…I don’t want to give up working. And I don’t want to spend the rest of my life standing behind a podium waving politely. I’m—I want to be me, not an extension of my partner.”

“I know that.” She reaches out and takes your hand. “But does Sam? Really? I think that he can convince you that it’s what you want.” She huffs. “I know he’s a good guy, but is he the right guy?”

“Not everybody finds perfect,” you remind her quietly, knowing that that is exactly what she has with Juan. Their version of perfect is about support, respect, and unending silliness, and you’ve always craved the same. But there aren’t many men in the world like Juan. Not many at all.

“That doesn’t mean you need to settle.” She tells you, squeezing your hand gently. “If you are happy, I’m happy. All I want is for you to be happy.”

“To be honest?” Closing your eyes for a second to swallow a sigh, the best you can do is shake your head. “I didn’t think I was settling. But now I can’t help but wonder…”

“Then you owe it to yourself, and to Sam, to make sure before you commit any further.” She suggests, knowing that you would feel horrible about divorcing later on.

“How?” It’s an honest question, since the situation is tangled up in guesses and implied maybes. “Break up with Sam because Marcus might be my soulmate? What happens if I’m wrong and I regret the whole thing? Sam would never take me back and I would deserve it.”

“Ask Marcus to show you the tattoo.” She hums. “That’s not cheating. It would be no different than seeing him in swimming trunks.”

“If he ever responds to me.” Which you sort of doubt. You sort of did just drop plans with him the second your boyfriend called. But you are the kind of person who makes your relationship a priority. You always have been.

“And if he doesn’t….” She shrugs. “You just deal with that.” She frowns. “But I would be upset if you had done the same to me.”

“I’m not saying he doesn’t have a right to be upset with me.” Marcus has a right to feel however he feels. He’s human, after all. “This whole thing is just so out of left field. Especially after spending all of last year talking about freedom of affection and being happy with a partner who isn’t your soulmate.”

“Except you had never potentially met your soulmate.” She pauses and shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter, if you don’t want to pursue it, don’t. Juan won’t say anything and I’ll just encourage him to hang out with Marcus on a guys night.”

“I don’t know,” you admit honestly, poking at the remains of your breakfast with a frown. “First let’s see if he speaks to me again. I gotta go change my clothes for work.” A heavy blanket of tension works on you that wasn’t there when you came home, and you drag yourself off the stool with a swallowed sigh. “Thanks for breakfast, honey.”

“I’m sorry.” She murmurs, wishing for a moment that Juan hadn’t run into Marcus. Hadn’t mentioned a tattoo that was throwing you into a spin. “I’m here whenever you need.”

“Thank you.” Coming around the counter, you wrap your arms around her tightly and inhale, trying to remember your yoga and let the stress roll off your shoulders and not carry it into the work day. “And I’m always here for you. No matter what.”

“I know.” She grins into your shoulder. “You’re my best friend, bitch.” She teases. “I will go to war for you, bury bodies and not even think twice.”

"No hesitation." You link your pinkies together, the same way you have since you were little kids. "I really have to go change now. But thanks for listening to me ramble and fret."

“Anytime.” She scoffs, waving away your thanks. “You’ve listened to me plenty.” Lately it’s been about being a good mother and not completely wrecking Baby Badillo, but she understands the need to just vent. You’re there for one another, both of you, through thick and thin.

______

Master Tags: @pixiedurango @chattychell @winter-fox-queen @lady-himbo @artsymaddie @princess76179 @paintballkid711 @missminkylove @pedrosbrat @ew-erin @sarahjkl82-blog @sharkbait77 @justanotherblonde23 @lv7867 @recklesswit @mylittlesenaar @f0rever15elf @gallowsjoker @steeevienicks @athalien @sherala007 @skvatnavle @thatpinkshirt @jaime1110 @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @goodgriefitsawildworld @greeneyedblondie44 @littlemousedroid @harriedandharassed @churchill356 @ajathegreats-blog @haylzcyon @beardsanddetectives @kirsteng42 @ladykatakuri @adancedivasmom @madiebear @tanzthompson @emilianamason @bigsdinger @xocalliexo @pedr0swh0r3 @avaleineandafryingpan @charlyrmv @avidreader73 @iceclaw101 @loveslide @elegantduckturtle @becsworld @julesonrecord @its-nebuleuse @itsrubberbisquit @mikeyswifie @guelyury @lizzie-cakes @for-a-longlongtime @vabeachazn @purplerain04 @weho2kcmo @madnessofadaydreamer

HHL: @haileymorelikestupid @anoverwhelmingdin @storiesofthefandomlovers

My Masterlist!

#Pedro Pascal #Pedro Pascal character fanfiction #Pedro Pascal fanfic #Marcus Pike #Marcus Pike x you #Marcus Pike x reader #Marcus Pike x female reader #Marcus Pike x f!reader #The Mentalist #soulmate au #First Daughter reader #Juan Badillo #Graceland #Juan Badillo x f!OC #Juan Badillo x OC #love triangle

168 notes · View notes