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lukehughes43 · 1 year

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nye traditions - luke hughes

word count: 2,469

a/n: happy new year everybody! first post in like, ages. so please, enjoy this wholesome lukey content because I love it and him with all my heart🫶🏼

“so you’re telling me if we don’t win today, that i don’t get my new year’s eve kiss?” the shock was evident in luke’s voice, and you couldn’t help but giggle at how worried he had gotten over something as little as the new year’s eve kiss. “that’s just cruel, y/n/n, absolutely cruel,” he then added on as he finished packing up his usa backpack through the phone screen.

shrugging your shoulders you slumped further into the white sheets of your hotel bed. “figured you could use a little more motivation, lukey, that’s all,” you answered with a sweet smile. “plus, if you wanna kiss me for the fifth year in a row you’ve got to work for it, hughes.”

his eyes rolled while he barely glanced back at his phone to see your smiling face. “if i don’t get to kiss you at midnight then i guess that means i have to kiss duker,” the captain then smiled, his blue eyes glancing towards something out of frame.

“absolutely not! you will not be kissing anybody but y/n!” dylan then screeched, his face popping into the screen to glare at you. “y/n m/n l/n, i swear to god if you’re not in our hotel room by eleven fifty tonight i’m going to hunt you down and drag you up here to kiss hughesy, because i will not be doing it.”

humming you just nodded your head softly at the two, “beat finland first and then we’ll talk.”

luke’s former roommate rolled his eyes before disappearing off screen once more. mumbling something to your boyfriend of five years as he went. “yeah, yeah that works,” he spoke, “i’ll just be a couple more minutes and then i’ll meet you down there.”

once his attention was fully back on the phone screen your smile grew even larger on your face, “hi moosey.”

“hi baby,” he mused, hand running through the curls that were beginning to fall on his forehead. “‘ve gotta head out soon, so only couple more minutes with you.”

you let out a blissful sigh while you sat back up against the headboard. “that’s okay, love. i have to start getting ready pretty soon anyway. your mom and i are leaving for lunch in an hour and i haven’t done anything to get ready yet. too busy staring at my boy.”

the red that painted the apples of the nineteen year old’s cheeks was your favorite color of the shade. “oh stop it, honey. there’s no need for flattery when you already broke my heart by saying if we don’t win i don’t get a new year’s eve kiss.” his bottom lip was jutted out just barely as his eyes met yours once more.

your e/c eyes rolled as you stared at the youngest brother who was almost never over dramatic. “lukey, honey, just worry about the game. you’ll get your kiss, i promise you.” your words instantly caused a smile to blossom on his face. “now, i’ll see you after the game, okay? i love you, good luck.”

“i love you too, y/n/n, and thank you,” he answered while reaching forward and grabbing his phone. “i’ll see you there.”

smiling you nodded, “i’ll be the one cheering the loudest in the stands.”

“bye, darling. i love you,” luke promised one final time silently waiting for you to do the same.

there wasn’t even a second of hesitation before you answered:

“i love you too, lukey.” and with that he gave you a half wave and his toothy smile before he ended the call. leaving you waiting not so patiently for four o’clock to see him dressed in his blue usa jersey.

—

there was a frantic knocking on ellen’s hotel door at eleven forty-five. a confused look was shared between the two of you before you pushed yourself off the couch and slowly started making your way to investigate. “i don’t think that i know anybody that would be coming to the door this late,” ellen said while giving you a skeptical look.

“it won’t hurt to look,” you answered while already pressing your upper body against the white wood, eye peeking through the peephole. “it’s dylan?” while you didn’t intend for the statement to come out as a question, your bewilderment was hard to miss.

smiling and shaking her head, ellen got up from her spot on the couch and joined you over at the door. “somebody is clearly eager to get you with luke,” she teased as you pulled the door open to meet the michigan forward face to face.

“duker,” you sigh while leaning against the doorframe, “you said i had until eleven fifty! i don’t want to impose on the team more than i’m already going to be.”

with in seconds dylan was shaking his head to disagree with your words. “i don’t care, none of us care! i just need you to come with me. right now or luke’s going to have a fit, and if luke has a fit that means i’m going to have a fit. and if i have a fit gavin and rutger will have a fit. and then suddenly every single michigan hockey boy will be throwing a fit because mom and dad didn’t kiss at midnight on new years eve.”

after the rambling mess also known as dylan duke had subsided, you slowly turned your head to share a look with your future mother-in-law. “i, uh,-”

“well, you better get going, ‘mom,’” ellen teased with a knowing smile, “we can’t have any of our boys throwing fits because my son didn’t get his new year’s eve kiss.” a flush covered your own cheeks as you gently nodded your head to agree with her. “i’ll see you after sweetheart, next year even.”

shaking your head the smile grew on your face once more, “i’ll see you next year, ellen.” you then turned your attention to dylan and pushed yourself off the wall. “alright, duker, let’s go find my boy.”

the elevator ride up to the sixth floor where all the players were lodging, as well as celebrating the new year, probably last about two minutes, but to you it felt like a century. the first reason being because of how excited you were to see luke for more than five minutes after a game. the second reason being dylan’s head was dropped against your shoulder, eyes closed and drool just barely starting to fall from his mouth and to the ntdp sweatshirt you were wearing. when the elevator dinged you shrugged your shoulder to wake the boy up.

“am i going to the left or right, duker?” you asked while he began to rub his eyes with his right hand, and his mouth with his left.

“right, we’re all in some little like conference room thing,” he explained while pushing past you and immediately going to the right. “don’t waste another second, y/n/n, it’s almost eleven fifty-five. i know that luke is having a heart attack right now.” you silently saulted the boy as you followed behind him, thinking about how the entire usa team was about to watch you and luke have your new years eve kiss. “look how i found!” dylan yelled while the two of you broke the threshold of the conference room.

without fail, every pair of eyes had fallen on to you, but the only person you cared about was luke. your body slowly gravitated towards the six foot two curly haired boy, only to be stopped by rutger jumping up from his chair and hugging you: “mom! gavin look! mom made it!”

you hugged the boy back, eyes locking with luke’s as he began to tap on his wrist. “of course i made it, rutger, i wasn’t about to leave my boy hanging after you guys won today. we’ll catch up in a little bit, okay? right now i have to go be with my actual boyfriend.” grumbling under his breath the freshman let go of you just barely enough for you slip out of his arms and right into luke’s.

“hi honey,” he smiled down at you, right hand slipping into your left. “wanna step into the hallway for a couple minutes?” instantly you were nodding your head, already knowing that luke didn’t want to kiss you in front of everybody if he didn’t have to. not that he didn’t want to, because he gladly would, but when he hadn’t been able to spend much time alone with you he wanted to take the chances he could.

“i thought you’d never ask,” you smiled, slowly backing up towards the door you had just walked through, tugging his hand as you went. “did you guys have a nice team dinner, lu?” you asked once you were through the door and looking back at him.

he shrugged his shoulders while leaning back against the wall and pulling you in front of him, and his left hand up to his mouth to give it a gentle kiss. “as good as team dinner can be i guess. food was good, just dead from the game,” he answered, lips just barely brushing against the skin of your hand before he kissed the metal of your promise ring.

“i already kind of assumed that,” you smiled while wrapping your arms around his neck, “dylan fell asleep on my shoulder in the elevator.” luke’s mouth dropped open with a small laugh, his hands finding home on your hip and the small of your back. “he was drooling even.”

“of course he was,” luke mumbled, “i’m sorry, honey. i told him i’d go and get you, or just go down there and be with you but duker had insis-”

luke was cut off by the sound of the countdown that had began to take storm of the makeshift party room:

“ten!”

you couldn’t help the way the blush again to paint your cheeks red. even with this being the fifth year of kissing luke.

“nine!”

luke’s goofy smile was spread across his face ear from ear as he stared down at you. his lips just barely cracked from being chapped.

“eight!”

unbeknown to the both of you, dylan, gavin, and rutger were making their way to the door way.

“seven!”

“i love you.”

“six!”

“i love you too.”

“five!”

your hand just barely started to creep up towards luke’s hair, barely running through it.

“four!”

luke pulled you in closer. your body pressed completely up against his.

“three!”

“nother year with you, y/n/n.”

“two!”

“another year with you, lukey.”

“one!”

you were pulling luke down to meet you halfway, standing on your tip-toes in order to mesh your lips with his. his hand on your hip gave you a gentle squeeze, trying to help steady you, the hand on the small of your back pushing you in closer to him. all while you couldn’t help but start to smile against his lips. the kiss suddenly became clashing teeth as he couldn’t fight the smile on his face either.

“happy new year, darling,” he whispered into your ear as he pulled you into his chest to keep you wrapped in his arms.

humming you pressed a kiss against his clothed chest, “happy new year, love.”

“YES! MOM AND DAD KISSED! MOM AND DAD KISSED!”

the sound of cheering had both you and looking and turning your attention towards the doorway, dylan, gavin, and rutger’s head just peeking out one on top of the other. both gavin’s and dylan’s cheeks were flushed pink, embarrassed rutger had gotten them caught, but he could care less. he was all smiles as he stared happily at the two of you.

pulling away from luke you earned what sounded like a whimper before you slipped your hand into his to walk over to the three. “just because of this little stunt, i do believe it’s bedtime for you and gavin, rutger.”

“but mom,” gavin pouted while fully stepping into the hallway, “how are we supposed to go to sleep when you can’t even tuck us in like you do at school.”

rutger nodded his head to agree, “lukey’s been tucking us in, but he’s not good at it without you. and he doesn’t give us our forehead kisses.”

“you never asked for them!” luke interjected, trying to make sure he didn’t come off as the bad guy in this situation.

you shushed him, your attention back fully on the two freshmen you had taken in this year. “if you guys wanted your forehead kisses all you had to do was ask - but straight to bed after, deal?”

“deal!” gavin and rutger said in perfect unison.

smiling you leaned forward and pressed a kiss first to gavin’s head, as he had been the more patient of the two. “goodnight gavin, i love you. get some sleep tonight, you deserve it after that game.” he happily smiled back at you as you turned your attention to rutger. “rutger, rutger, rutger, what am i going to do with you?”

“pack me up in your suitcase when you and luke move out to new jersey?” he suggested with a sweet smile.

shaking your head you laughed, “i don’t think so buddy.” you then grabbed his cheeks and kissed his forehead. “goodnight rutger, i love you. you had a great game, great goal. i’m so proud of you.”

“did you hear that gavin? y/n said she’s proud of me!” and just like that him and gavin were making the trek towards their shared room, all while dylan shared at you longingly.

“come on duker, get over here for your forehead kiss,” you smiled, already knowing that’s why he was suddenly gloomy. dylan planted himself where rutger was previously standing right in front of you, leaning his forehead towards you for more access. laughing you leaned the rest of the way and pressed a kiss to the crown of his head. “goodnight duker, i love you. you played so good today, now go and get some sleep. put some neosporin on your cuts.”

luke wrapped an arm around your waist, head dropping against your shoulder. “i’ll be in soon, dyl, just gonna walk, y/n/n back to her room first.” nodding his head duker was the last of your children to disappear back down the hallway to his hotel room leaving you and luke alone once more. he pressed a loving kiss against the side of your neck before talking, “you know, when we have kids in the future we’re gonna have the bedtime routine down because of our first three children.”

“bedtime routine, and three babysitters we won’t have to pay a single dime to after having to put up with them for the past year.”

#umich hockey #umich #luke hughes imagine #luke hughes x reader #usa hockey #ntdp #new jersey devils #my works #my writing #dylan duke #gavin brindley #rutger mcgroarty #wjc 2023 #luke hughes

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thankspete · 1 year

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Swimsuits & Sangria | dob

Word Count: 8.7k Rating: M Summary: All it takes is the hot summer sun and some boozy fruit to turn good friends into a little something more. | Also on Ao3! Warnings: friends to lovers, drunk flirting, mutual pining, SMUT (oral, fingering [F receiving], masturbation, praise kink, orgasm denial, unprotected sex) ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅

You knew you loved Dylan when you were sitting at his poolside minibar, all sunglasses and swimsuits, watching him place a tiny umbrella in your drink. It was a Saturday, sometime past four and the heat beating from the sun had you sticky with a combination of SPF and sweat. Guests wouldn’t be arriving for at least another 45 minutes, but Dylan invited you to come early. You’d shown up two hours ago to make your sangria recipe as he requested. It took no longer than fifteen minutes to cut up the apples and citrus, then combine them with sugar and alcohol in a pitcher. It was placed in the fridge, ready to drink, at 3:09 and the party didn’t even begin until 5:30. Knowing your friends, that meant 6:15.

Dylan isn’t an idiot, he must’ve known he invited you far too early, but you didn’t want to feed into your own delusion. You’d met eight months ago in an ill-lit dive bar on trivia night in an unintended merging of yours and Tyler’s friend groups. Your team had managed to claw your way to third place by the end of the tournament, despite you shoo-ing Tyler’s phone away when he tried Googling answers. Dylan sat across from you on the innermost part of the booth, your friend Jade to your right. Two vodka lemonades in and you were struggling not to try to get a better look at his face. Despite the tug you felt to do so, you were terrified to really look at him, terrified that the tips of your ears would get red and your cover would be blown. You pulled the claw out of your hair and let it settle around your shoulders. You didn’t think it would be more than a silly drunk crush, primed by Deep Eddy and the fact you hadn’t gotten laid in weeks. Drunk enough to feel a tug in your abdomen when you watched his hands as he shuffled a deck of cards and dispersed them among you, but not dumb enough to try to do something about it.

The only difference now is that you could look at Dylan without feeling like you were going to fall over. Barely. Pregaming the party certainly wasn’t necessary, your sangria was boozy enough, but taste testing a new cocktail recipe devolved into three and now you’re both giggly and droopy-eyed under the California sun.

“I think the last one was the best,” he sets the glass down on the counter and pushes it in your direction. You pull the straw to your lips and take a sip.

“Hm.” Another sip. “I don’t know. The amaretto really goes off in this.”

“No, no,” he tuts, reaching for the last glass you shared. “You need a reminder.” He swaps the glass of drink three with drink two in front of you, then takes a swig and makes a face. Maybe amaretto just isn’t the liqueur for him.

“There’s, like, nothing in this, Dylan.”

“That’s definitely a taste-worth’s amount of liquid.” You look at him in disbelief. “Look, if you’re not gonna drink it I’m gonna go ahead and lick the glass clean. You have five seconds.”

“Shut up.” You take the glass and tilt it over your mouth, with no more than seven drops dripping onto your tongue.

“So? Definitely better.” He grabs the cup from your hand and replaces it with the drink he dislikes.

“Definitely good, but I made it so that’s not really news.”

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, whatever. You’re making it for me again soon.” He’s leaning on the bar counter in front of you on his forearms, eyeing the empty glass and seemingly genuinely debating if he should lick it clean.

“Maybe if you ask politely, Dylan.” You stir your drink with the straw before taking a big sip.

“Sorry, baby.” He grabs your hand and leans closer to your face. “Could you, please, make me that delicious drink again sometime?”

“I could send you the recipe.” You take pleasure in the way his face twists to your response. You can’t see his eyes behind his sunglasses.

He squeezes your hand. “No, it’s not the same. I’ll make it worth your while.”

You laugh out loud and push his glasses up to sit behind his hairline. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Whatever you want it to mean.” He takes the glass in front of you and pulls his glasses back onto his face. “Ugh,” he says after taking a drink. “We gotta end on a better note than this. I’m making a tequila sunrise.” He passes the drink back to you.

“You’re gonna let me finish this on my own?”

“Yeah.” He grins, all straight teeth and wide lips, as he pats your arm before leaning down to get a bottle of Espolon from under the counter.

“Dick,” you grumble as you pick up your drink and stand from the barstool. There was a set of four lounge chairs on the right side of the pool and you settle on the nearest one. On your phone, you connect to the Bluetooth speakers set up behind the bar where Dylan stood. The sound of your phone unexpectedly pairing to the speaker spooks him and you hear the ice tray fall onto the counter.

“You okay over there, butterfingers?” You take your glasses off and look in his direction.

“Yeah. Play something good, will ya?” He throws a broken piece of ice at you and misses. You put Microwave’s Much Love on shuffle, the sound of crunchy guitar blasting from the wall behind him.

Dylan walks to the chairs, two drinks in hand. You are nearly done with your drink, but happily put it aside to accept a new one.

“Are you trying to loosen me up right now?” You cock your eyebrow at him when he sits down. “I’m gonna be a whole drink ahead of you by the time I’m done with this.” You keep your eyes steady on his face while you drink. There’s so much grenadine you can’t even taste the tequila.

“You make it sound like it’s easy.” His voice is even and his lips settle into their neutral position. You wish he would take his sunglasses off.

“It’s hard? I don’t know about that.”

“Maybe boozing you up isn’t the preferred gameplan,” Dylan says flatly. He lets the words settle between you for a beat. “Let me finish your other drink.” He holds his hand out and you pass him the glass.

“Thank you.”

You sit in silence together, soaking in the sun and occasionally humming along to the music. There’s no point in dissecting whatever the hell that was, not when Jade had already texted that her, Jenny, Marcus, and Tyler were en route. But… had he done it on purpose? Just a taste, less than a taste, but more than enough to pique the part of your psyche devoted to some of your most private fantasies. Your skin felt hot, but not because of the ninety degree dry heat or the sun, far lower in the sky than when you arrived, but of the perceived intentions of the man to your right. Your sunglasses are back on, but its thin frames don’t hide your side-eye look-over of him. It’s like he was expecting it, the way he immediately turns to look at you, head tilted. You surrender and shift your torso to face him head-on, too tipsy to feel embarrassed about getting caught peeking. Maybe it was delusional, but the tightness in your lower abdomen was as real as the straw dangling from his lips. Your reflection is small in the impenetrable black of his Ray-Bans and you allow yourself to dwell on the idea that he was enjoying a far greedier look at your body than yours at his.

“Were you going to say something?” His words interrupt your train of thought, which had gone entirely off the rails as you struggled to separate your thoughts into what was and was not appropriate to say aloud. He was right, you had turned to him so confidently, but with nothing else for him to work with.

“Can a girl just have a look?”

That seemed to catch him off guard, eyebrows high and mouth ticked into a loose smile. “Are you objectifying me right now?”

You let out a noise of dismissal and grab your cup from the small glass table between you. “You love it. From the right people.” The end of your sentence is punctuated by the sound of air sucking through your straw as you finish your drink.

“You think you’re ‘the right people’?” Dylan licks his lips and finally pulls his glasses up to the crown of his head. His taunt only makes your core beat harder, body entirely uncaring of what was real and was in your imagination. If he was setting up a game, you happily play along–and win.

“I’m pretty certain, Dyl.” You shift your body again to sit up and place your feet flat on the ground. “If it were up to me, I’d be the right person.” You gather the three empty glasses from the table and get up to bring them inside.

You don’t hear him stand to follow, but you see his reflection not too far behind yours in the sliding glass door. You can’t tell if you expected him to follow you back in or if you just hoped for it. Either way, you couldn’t help but be struck with a vision as you step into his home and the kitchen island comes into view: Your chest pressed flush to the cold granite, breasts spilling out of the tiny bikini top you embarrassingly wore just for him today. One foot on the floor while your balance is supported by your knee on a stool, spread and gasping underneath the pressure of his big palms on your hips and his cock slipping in and out through the side of your swim bottoms. You attempt to get to the dishwasher without stumbling, mind hazy from the drinks and the intrusive daydreams. Dylan’s long strides bring him to the counter at the same time as you, reaching around your hip to hold you steady. His other hand opens the dishwasher and pulls out the top tray. You work together to arrange the glasses among existing dishware, awkwardly clinking against one another in an uncoordinated symphony. Despite having an approximately equal number of drinks, he was composing himself much more than you thought you even were capable of right now. Was it risk it all territory? You were unsure. LA traffic was atrocious, but not bad enough you were willing to attempt to make your wish come true. There was no way you’d be able to sneak to the bathroom, even if your little hole was already pulsing and sensitive, clenching around nothing at the sensation of his fingers resting on your side. You could do it fast, you feel like you’re about to blow, but you’re haunted by the fear he’d know. Your eyes might give you away, or maybe the way you talked to him. Even with hands freshly washed, he might smell it, might be so curious as to ask what got you so worked up while you were here, alone together. What level of desperation caused you to slip away just to get off on your own. Fuck, honestly you might even want it.

He shuts the dishwasher door, hand remaining on your hip. “Thank you for helping.”

You don’t respond to his words, focused on the light pink color spread across his cheeks and nose. “Sunburn?” You ghost your thumb over the area. He raises his eyebrows. You press down on the area, thumb a few centimeters below his eye and fingers framing the side of his face. His hair is thick, but soft against your fingertips. His skin turns from white back to pink as the blood rushes back into the region. “That hurt?”

“No.” The shade of pink deepens slightly. Not a sunburn.

You stand there playing a game of chicken with one another, trying to read the situation as if his palms weren’t sliding up your waist and you hadn’t removed your hand from his face. You refused to be the one who did it, especially after today.

The sound of the doorbell causes your hand to fall from his face, but he is unmoved. Dylan presses his lips together as he looks at you, then past you toward the direction of the door.

“Be good and get the sangria out, okay, angel?” His hands release your sides and he gently shakes your chin before brushing past you to greet your friends. You let out a breath when he’s out the room, dnomi from his proximity to your face. Your task is simple and you get to it. Six small glasses are fished from the cabinet to the left of the fridge and you get the ice tray from the freezer. Two cubes go in each glass and you refill the tray before placing it back in the freezer. You hear everyone before you see them, Jen excitedly chattering about a date last night while Tyler laments about the drive up. Once the six glasses are full, you’re greeted by a hug from Jade as the crowd enters the kitchen. Dylan wordlessly takes the half-empty pitcher from the counter in front of you, unnecessarily reaching around you for it. You savor the moment where his hand rests on your skin, warm and firm against your stomach.

You and Jade stay behind as the group moves through the room to the backyard, shuffled rock music blasting from the speaker connected to your phone. Once the room is empty, you turn to her in disbelief. “Today was weird. Like, good weird, but weird.”

“I saw… That man did not need to get so close to you to get that pitcher,” she laughs.

“He said… I don’t know, interesting things? Like, now-I’m-horny types of interesting. I don’t know, Jade, I literally–”

“I’ve been telling you! He wants it so bad and you…” She gestures to your swimsuit, “...look so fucking hot. I’m personally struggling with not motorboating you right now.”

You laugh and hope that you’re not both too delusional to read the situation. “Ah, well… We should go, they definitely think we’re talking shit.”

“We’re not?” She giggles and picks up both of your drinks. “Alright…”

The sun slowly sets as you lounge and watch your friends play 2v2 pool volleyball. Dylan and Jade are on one team, Tyler and Jenny on the other. Marcus is sitting to your left, scrolling through Twitter and occasionally tilting the phone in your direction to show you memes. Tyler and Jenny were winning, namely as a result of Dylan’s uncoordination. It was nearly a shut-out, with Marcus eventually playing ref and calling the game once it got ridiculous.

Dylan is soaked, cold water dripping from his hair onto your chest as he leans over your shoulder post-game. Goosebumps appear on your skin from the sensation.

“Can I help you?” You turn your head to face him.

“Can you make me that drink? A consolation prize? Pretty please.” His right hand is on your neck, thumb rubbing up and down the bones of your spine.

“What do I get if I do?” You stand and he removes his hand from your neck. He follows you to the bar, roles reversed as he sits on the stool and you stand behind the counter.

“What do you want?”

You line up the drink components on the counter and grab two empty glasses that had previously held your sangria. “I think you’re smart enough to figure it out, babe.”

“Honey…” He’s tapping his fingers on the table. The drink comes together quickly and you push a cup in his direction. He’s looking at you contemplatively and you lean on your elbows, pushing your face closer to his. He’s coated in the yellow glow of the sunset, light peeking from behind his hair like a halo. His brown features are enhanced by the warm light, your stomach doing flips as you try not to stare. You’re close enough to smell the sunscreen on his face. “Play volleyball with me and we can discuss.”

You roll your eyes, disappointed in his response. “You’re kinda ass at volleyball, Dylan. I don’t like being on the losing team.”

“I promise you’ll win, angel.”

You raise your eyebrows in amusement. “You promise?”

“With me?” You pretend not to catch the way his eyes move between your face and your breasts for a moment. “Yeah.”

You lose against Tyler and Jade, as expected. However, with the few successful spikes you were able to pull off, Dylan exhibited terrible sportsmanship. He gloated, picking you up and parading you, cheering in celebration around your half of the pool. You weren’t afraid that he would drop you, but happily took the opportunity to cling to his shoulders and press your breasts to the side of his face as he lifted you up and out of the water. It wasn’t winning, not yet, but you were lying if his grip on your thighs didn’t feel delicious.

Marcus starts up the grill while Jen begins to chop kebab vegetables on the bar counter. Tyler and Jade vacate the pool to help with the meal while you and Dylan remain. You sit closely on the steps on the far side of the pool, sunglasses on even as the sun disappears behind the horizon.

“Should we help out?” You ask, voice barely above a whisper.

Dylan shrugs. “I’m providing the grill, the venue, and the propane. I don’t feel too bad about waiting a sec before stepping in.” His hand rests on your inner knee.

“Can’t say those things apply to me, Dyl.”

He smiles. “But you’re keeping me company. Counts for something.”

“When you’re already deeply indebted to me…” You place your hand on his forearm.

“There was no way in hell we were winning that game, baby, you gotta know that.” You purse your lips and he continues. “But you don’t want payment now, do you?” His hand moves further up your thigh and he moves his face closer to yours. “Not with all our friends here, right, angel?” You narrow your eyes at him. You’ve reached an impasse, heart and pussy pounding in sync with one another. His free hand cups your face and you can see all of your friends distracted on the other end of the yard in your periphery.

“Dylan,” you breathe. His hand moves further up your thigh, thumb rubbing circles into your upper inner thigh, mere centimeters from your sensitive center.

“You can be patient, can’t you?” His cheek is pressed to yours. You can’t tell if you're imagining the kisses scattered down your cheek. “You’ve been so good all day for me, yeah?”

You nod limply, but pinch his forearm lightly before dragging his hand from your thigh to the edge of your swim bottoms.

“That’s not being patient.” His tone is firm, but the tips of his fingers dip into the fabric. “We could have avoided this entirely if you just said something, baby.” You glance back at the group, still enjoying their time and minding their business. “Would’ve called it all off if I knew…” You shift your hips so he has easier access to your core. His fingers find their home between your folds, exposing the extent of your pent-up arousal. You let out a soft sigh at his touch and he pulls his face from yours to look you in the eye. Dylan continues, rubbing up and down the entirety of your cunt slowly. “Have you been like this all afternoon, angel? Thinking about when you get to go home and fuck yourself?”

“Please,” you whimper, gripping his arm.

“Do you think of me? I haven’t been able to get you out of my head for months. And now… Now when everyone is here, you’re so desperate for me. It’s torture, baby. Do you want our friends to see? To watch you fall apart beneath me?”

You shake your head, unable to form a coherent sentence. He moves his hand from your swim bottoms and places it back on your thigh.

“Then be patient. You’re my good girl, yeah? I know you can do it.” Dyaln presses a chaste kiss to your lips and stands from the pool. He chats with Marcus as he heads the grill, then collects empty glasses to bring inside. Your head is spinning as you get up and make your way to the bathroom, being sure to detour your route to brush past him a little too closely.

It’s a mostly bare room, walls hosting a couple of pieces of Mets memorabilia and not much else. Your reflection looks far less wild than you feel internally, the warm lightbulb making you look a little jaundiced. Your heart is pumping faster than it has since you met Dylan and you steady yourself on the counter. Desperately, one hand snakes into your bottoms and you’re hit with a rush of sensitivity. A few targeted rubs cause your orgasm to wash over you like a dam break. Your fingers stutter when it hits, body falling over on itself while your lonely pussy clenches around nothing. Your bottom lip is between your teeth, muffling any cries that manage to escape. Dylan’s fingers and voice were nearly enough as is, but the reality of fucking him was dawning on you. It was mere hours away, but the idea of adding them to your 8-month pining streak wasn’t favorable. A sigh of frustration leaves your mouth as you stand there, looking in the mirror and pressing your thighs together. You piss and clean yourself up before making your way back outside. It couldn’t have been more than seven minutes since you stepped in the bathroom, but when you lock eyes with Dylan, you know you’re fucked. He raises his eyebrows at you like you’re both in on a joke. You avert his gaze, embarrassed of how quickly he clocked you, and sit to chat with Jade.

“Hey, so… What’s your plan for the rest of the night?”

“Subtle.” She gives you a knowing glance. “Jen’s got work in the morning and Marcus and Tyler are going to a concert tonight. So… we’ll probably head out not too late after dinner. Got plans? More pool canoodling?”

“Fuck off.” You clear your throat. “Well, yeah. Actually. I think.”

She grins at you. “I’m tellin’ ya, your tits look–”

“Food’s ready!” Tyler calls from the grill, clicking the tongs together.

You gather around where the plate of kebabs sat on the bar counter, across the circle from Dylan. Over dinner you learn they’re seeing A Day to Remember tonight, followed by an apology for needing to dip so soon.

“No problem, man,” Dylan assures, but he’s looking at you when he says it.

Once full, everyone helps by collecting plates and glasses and stacking them near the dishwasher. Marcus loads the dishes in while you, Jen, and Jade change into dry undergarments and fresh clothes. Tyler lost, found, and lost his keys again within the span of three minutes, causing everyone to search tables and between couch cushions. Dylan’s antsy, grumbling about how Tyler’s shit memory is the weed’s fault, until Jenny finds them. Once his keys are in-hand, your friends gather their things and file up at the door to leave. Maybe it was because you were experiencing the same anticipation, but Dylan seemed to rush the group out, saying something about getting to the concert in time to get merch without ridiculously long lines.

You go to the kitchen, leftover alcohol-soaked fruit calling your name from the empty sangria pitcher. You hear everyone bid their farewells one at a time as you fish a fork from the drawer near the sink. The citrus was cut a little too thin for your liking, courtesy of Dylan’s knife skills, and slipped off the tip of the fork each time you tried impaling it. It’s fine, the apple chunks absorb wine best anyway. You are on chunk three by the time you hear the door shut.

Once the door is locked, Dylan makes his way into the room and points in your direction.

“You,” he says, walking towards you.

“Me.” You poke into a piece of apple and wave the fork in his direction. He doesn’t look like he’s in the mood for your shenanigans, but you poke the fruit between his lips anyway. His face doesn’t move and he grabs your wrist to tilt it away from his face. You accept your defeat and pop the apple chunk into your mouth instead. No need to waste it.

“What did I say about being patient?” His hands rest comfortably on your hips and he pulls you close. You don’t know what you were expecting, maybe some more back and forth, but it certainly wasn’t getting straight to the point.

“I’ve been patient, Dylan.” You put the fork down and place your hands on his biceps. Your eyes are wide as you look up at him, hoping to charm him into fucking you now.

“Mmm… I don’t know.” He starts to press kisses to your neck. “You were in the bathroom for a while…”

Your face flushes with blood. “It was like, five minutes. Dylan… please.” You avoid verbally confirming his suspicions of what you were doing in that time.

“You don’t need to hide from me.” He bites down hard enough to leave a mark, then licks the sting away. “But that’s not fair, is it?”

“Dylan.”

He pulls back from your neck to look at you, brown eyes dark under the soft lamp light. “Do you want to cum tonight?” It catches you by surprise, wide eyed watching him closely. “I said, that’s not fair, is it?” You blink, nod, then furiously shake your head. “Let me hear it.”

“No, it’s not fair. I’m sorry.” It takes everything not to squeeze your thighs together for some relief.

“Haven’t even had a taste yet and you’re helping yourself. I thought you were going to be good for me.”

“I am, Dylan, I promise.” Your hand moves from his arm to the nape of his neck, pulling at the short hairs that reside there. The game continues, and you can’t tell if you’re winning or losing right now.

His lips press messily on yours. One of his hands travels from your torso to cup your core outside of your shorts. “You gonna keep touching yourself, baby? Or are you gonna let me handle it?”

“I’m gonna let–” your breath catches when he applies hard pressure over your center. “You, please.” You’re fighting the urge to pass out, breaths shallow and labored.

“Isn’t this what you wanted, all along? You could’ve told me, angel; I would’ve done it for you.” He’s reaching under your shirt, leaving a trail of goosebumps on your stomach as his fingers find one of your nipples. “You think I’ll live up to your imagination? Tell me, baby, how hard do you think I can make you cum?” You let out a strangled groan, senses overwhelmed by his hands and voice. “Wish I thought of getting you hot and half-naked in my yard sooner. Didn’t know that’d be what did it.”

“At the risk of getting another lecture on patience, could you politely get on with it?”

He removes his hand from your cunt to hold your jaw. His lips are in a sweet pout. “Honey… you’ve got a lot to learn.” You’re unmoving, unsure of what he has planned. “Tell me what you were thinking about.” All the blood in your body feels like it’s rushing between your face and your pussy, back and forth as the words fall from his lips. His eyes are unrelenting, holding your gaze like a deer caught in a snare.

“Well…” you let out a shaky breath. Your hands spread to the kitchen island behind you as you speak, “Us, right here.” Dylan’s still stoic, seemingly unaffected by your confession. The game was just getting fun, even if your mind was screaming to tap out, go home, figure out another way. You can hear your heartbeat conducting through the bones in your head and feel it pumping all the way to your fingertips. You’re trying to focus on the man whose face is mere inches from yours, the way he’s touching you, but the thick, heavy pump in your chest overwhelms your senses.

“Go on.” His hand moves from your jaw to your collarbone. “I know that’s not all.”

You’re trying to hide the tremble in your arms as you lean back against the edge of the countertop. “I guess…” You slowly turn 180 degrees, palms flat against the granite and his hot chest flush to your back. His hands remain on your body as you move and travel down your back. They land exactly where you’d envisioned they would. “Something kind of like this.” You raise yourself on your toes, pushing your ass into his crotch and leaning your elbows on the counter for support.

“Kind of?” One hand moves up your back underneath your shirt while the other fiddles with the elastic on your shorts.

“Less clothes, maybe?”

He laughs for the first time since your friends left. “I think I got that part.” His hands move again, this time settling on your outer upper thighs, gripping the area where your legs meet your torso. You don’t know what else to say. He is toying with you, seeing how much humiliation you can bear before begging for some relief. “Feeling shy? That all you wanna tell me?” You gulp and nod. Hopefully it’s enough. His left arm wraps around your torso to lift you to press tight against his chest. His right hand is still firmly on your pelvis, pulling you to rest on his semi. “You don’t need these, do you?” Dylan’s right hand moves to your front, fingers just barely dipping past your waistband.

“No.” It comes out far shakier than you intended.

“Take them off, then.” He releases you from his grip and you’re left supporting your own weight. Your arms and legs feel frail, like they should snap at any moment. You can sense his frame looming behind you, just far enough that you’re unable to touch him. Your clammy fingers wrap around your waistband and gently slide the shorts over the curve of your ass and down your legs. They fall to the floor with a gentle swish. After all the dreaming, three quarters of a year’s worth of thoughts kept between you and your bedside drawer, you feel unsure of what to do next. The anxieties of fumbling your course of action disappear as you hear Dylan drop to his knees and use a firm hand to spread you apart. You’re trying to steady your breathing, or at least reduce the noise you’re making, as he pulls your underwear to the side. “Hm.” Hm? “You put these on, like, half an hour ago. Already pr’soaked through.” Your head falls into your hands.

“Dylan.”

“Yeah, angel?” His fingers are gentle in their prodding, spreading your arousal to the outer edges of your cunt. “You’re real pretty.” He glides his wet thumb once over your clit, causing you to twitch into him.

“Please.”

“Please what?” He taps your leg and pulls a stool from your left. You’re fucking kidding. You appreciate the extra support as you lift your knee to the plush seat. With the new angle, he’s able to fully spread you with two fingers.

“I–anything, Dylan, please just touch me.” He blows air over your sensitive core and as much as you try to restrain yourself, your body betrays you. Your hole pulsates at the stimulus, as minor as it was. He circles your entrance with his thumb like he’s trying to calm the area, hysterically clenching and grasping, begging for his fingers.

“I know, it’s not fair.” He pulls your underwear back to its proper place and pulls your leg down to stand. This is retribution. The game is sick, you’ve come to learn.

He stands up and turns you around, fingers holding your hips beneath your waistband. Your hands are pressed to his stomach. “You’re evil.” He smiles at that, proud of his ability to get you so distraught with nothing more than a few words and fingers.

“You don’t mean that.” He moves a hand to cradle your face.

You nod. “I do mean it.” For all your begging to God to make this moment happen, you still need to beg Dylan to give it to you.

“I keep my promises, baby.” He helps you sit up on the counter and presses a soft kiss to your cheek. “Don’t worry, you’re gonna win.” He kisses you deep and slow, strong hands shifting your hips to hang off the edge of the granite. One of your arms is locked around his neck holding you flush to him. Your right hand ghosts the waistband of his swim trunks before pulling the drawstring out of its knot. He grunts when your hand brushes his clothed cock as you pull the shorts down his legs. He pulls your hands from his body and holds them on the countertop behind you, pressing himself into your core as he licks the inside of your teeth. Your ankles lock behind his back and press him further into you. You groan into each other's mouths as you rock against each other. He’s calculated in his thrusts, snapping his hips right as your cunt rocks over him. The friction against your sensitive little nub pulls the strings in your abdomen tight, soon to snap. You attempt to break free from his grasp to no avail. Your movements stutter as every swipe feels like it’s shooting electricity up your spine.

“Ah, please, harder. Please!” Your legs tremble as your orgasm begins to overcome you. Dylan steps back from your body abruptly, the force of his movement unclasping your ankles and leaving them without support. Your hands are still held flat on the counter, keeping you from touching him. His eyes are dark, lips swollen and open from his labored breathing. You’re frustrated, shaking and reeling from your almost-completion. “What the f–!”

“Don’t move.” He pulls his hands from yours. He moves your thighs to spread you open for him again. He palms your cunt over your underwear, pressing firmly as you squirm beneath him. “You think I’m gonna make this easy on you?”

“Clearly not,” you huff.

“You haven’t made it easy on me either, angel.”

“Is this some sort of sick revenge for you?” You regret your rebuttal as soon as he stops the circling of his palm.

“You love it. Swear to God…” He pulls your underwear aside again, reviewing his work. You are glistening everywhere, cunt clenching and dripping for him. “Just need the right person.” He places the underwear back where it belongs. “Are you feeling tired, angel? Spent all afternoon lounging in the sun and now here I am, taking care of you, and you’re still unhappy?” He caresses your face, but keeps his hard dick away from your core. “Tell me, baby, do you really think I’m evil?”

“No.” You’re overwhelmed, and maybe he is evil, but you have one goal in mind. “I want you to fuck me,” you say bluntly.

He chuckles. “You only had to say so.”

He pulls you off the counter and tugs you to his bedroom with him, leaving your discarded shorts on the kitchen floor. He’s not so coy here, open mouth on yours and hands tugging to remove your shirt. You assumed it’d be more of a marathon than a sprint with Dylan, but he had you completely naked, lying on the bed within two minutes. He was a gentleman, of course, stripping himself of his underwear to match your level of vulnerability. You try to keep your focus on his face, but his red-hot cock pressing into your thigh is understandably making it difficult.

“You’re gonna tell me what you like, okay angel?” He slips a finger between your folds, collecting your wetness and rubbing your clit vertically like he was in the pool. You nod. “How’s that?”

“Mm… it’s good.”

“Just good?”

“A little to the right maybe? My right?” He shifts slightly, finding the spot you use to make yourself cum. You cover your mouth with your hand as he uses the tip of his finger to gently brush over the area, sending shockwaves through your body. You were already so sensitive from your denied orgasm, you had no clue what you were capable of handling.

“Better.” It’s not a question, but you nod anyway. He continues, kissing up your neck and telling you to relax. “Remember, I got you. I’m gonna make you feel good, okay? I’m here to make you feel good.”

“Ah..!” You twitch away from his hand from the hypersensitivity. “Uh-huh. You got me.”

His finger moves from your clit to your pulsing little hole, circling it and spreading your wetness slowly. It wasn’t going to make you cum on its own, but it still felt divine. “Can I taste?”

“Please,” you beg.

“So needy for me.” He bites your breast on his way down. “My needy baby. How long have you been dreamin’ about me, angel?” He’s kissing your inner thigh, waiting for a response to his question.

You’re honest. “Forever. Since I met you.” The words rush out with your breath, uneven. You sit up and look at him, big brown eyes and pink lips mere inches from where you wanted him.

“Forever,” he mumbles into your skin. “You did a good job keeping it to yourself for the first few months.”

“I’m glad I don’t anymore.”

“And why’s that?” He’s smiling up at you, far too goofy for being between your aching legs.

“Ugh. I take it back.” You groan and lie back down on the bed.

“Okay, okay…” He taps your clit with his thumb. “You still gotta tell me what you like, okay?”

“Okay.” You reach down to tangle your fingers in his hair as he swipes his broad, flat tongue over your cunt. You can’t help the noise that comes out of your mouth, nor the clench of your pussy that he certainly felt against his tongue. He circles your clit, saliva mixing with your own arousal and creating wet noises that are sure to reappear in the fantasies that result from this encounter. You scratch his scalp lightly. “I think vertical is a little better.” He grunts and changes his technique. You squirm at the feeling of his hot, wet tongue pressing onto you, eating like it was his first meal in months. His left arm is wrapped around your leg, hand resting on your lower stomach pulling you to his face. You’re unable to move under his grip, every twitch or flail impeded by his strength. His tongue travels further down to your hole, slipping in and out of it as excruciating intervals. It feels good on its own, but great when coupled with the way his nose brushes against your clit with every pump. “That’s good. That’s so good,” you gasp. Your forearm is clamped between your teeth, muffling your cries.

“You’re close?” The vibration of his words against your cunt cause you to twitch into his mouth.

“Uh-huh.”

“I can feel it.” You tug on his hair, encouraging him to allow you to finish. The way his tongue licks up your pussy, pushing and rubbing firmly against your clit, elicits a choked moan. Again, he pulls back suddenly. You thrash your hips in frustration, letting go of his hair to grip the sheets beneath you. Before you’re able to complain, he presses his wet lips to yours. His tongue tastes like you, tangy and familiar. He settles between your legs, pressing his cock between your folds. Dylan rocks across you, never moving from your lips. The only noises in the room are the wet ones coming from your two points of connection. To regain some semblance of control, you snake your hand down between you to grab his cock. It’s already well lubricated from the way it was nestled in your cunt. He bites down on your lip when you grasp him, losing control for a moment and fucking into your tight fist. Your hand twists around him so your fingers are pressing into the most sensitive part of his cock and your knuckles brush against your core. He’s gasping and biting at your neck as you pump him, clearly wound up after your afternoon of back-and-forth. He’s not distracted for long, as the sweet symphony of your cries tip him off to exactly what you’re doing. “That definitely counts as touching yourself, angel,” he says while pulling your hand away from where your bodies meet. You’re frustrated, body brought so close and kept so far from your release for what felt like hours.

“Can you blame me?” Your breathing is heavy; your eyes are looking into his for an ounce of mercy. He only holds your gaze for a moment before sitting back on his knees and scanning your body, saving its image for his own lonely nights.

“No,” he says, caressing your thigh. “Definitely not. Roll over.” You do, making the decision not to press your hips into the bed for a twinge of relief. Dylan is being needlessly cruel, but the end has to be near. You can be good; you can do it for him, give him what he likes. You never thought you’d see this side of him, domineering, competent, and so incredibly sexy. It was almost worth the eight months of fumbling and awkward quasi-flirting–given that he actually lets you finish. The game was fun, but you both knew the feeling of clenching around him with stars behind your eyelids was infinitely better. He sighs as he pulls your hips up off the bed, finally ready to play fair. Gently, he pulls your legs apart. His fingers are no longer exploratory; his purpose is explicit as he swipes his thumb against your clit at a casual pace. His middle finger circles your hole so lightly it feels like a tickle. “This okay?” He presses onto your entrance, but doesn’t push in. “Jus’ wanna see…”

“Yes,” you say, voice muffled by the sheets pressing against your face.

“Wanna know what you feel like,” he continues, talking to nobody but himself. His middle finger slides in easily. “Jesus.” Your body is ecstatic to finally have something to tremble around. “Why y’been keeping this from me, baby?” He pumps slowly, rotating his wrist to push down on your g-spot. His thumb still rubs across your clit in an almost excruciating manner. You’re lubricated and loose enough to allow him to put his index finger into the mix, your cunt grasping and twitching around him.

“I could say the same thing,” you sigh. Your arms are outstretched to hold onto the mattress for support as you move your hips to softly fuck onto his fingers. He’s motionless, fingers curled and allowing you to use him for your pleasure. It’s good, it’s building, but it doesn’t fill you right. “Dylan?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re not gonna let me cum on your fingers, are you?”

“Absolutely not.” His thumb picks up speed on your clit, continuing to play with you, to challenge you. Your breath hitches, sheets between your teeth.

“Please, Dylan, I think I’ve learned my lesson.” You clench around his fingers, hoping to entice him for just long enough to want to know how his cock would feel inside of you. A soft groan escapes his throat. You’re warm and soft and wet, perfect and ready for his pretty pink dick. “I need you to fill me up. Please, I can’t–“ You’re interrupted by your own pleasure, shooting it’s way up your body as he presses into your g-spot and taps your clit in unison.

“You need me that bad? Been waiting for so long, haven’t you?” He purrs and removes his hands from your center. Despite the shakiness in your thighs and the beat of your cunt, relief washes over you.

“Please. So bad.” Dylan pushes your lifted hips back down onto the bed and lies overtop of you.

“Okay,” he says while tucking your stray hair behind your ear. He’s looking at you–really looking at you for the first time since your friends left. You wish you knew what his eyes were searching for. He’s the same Dylan he’s always been, but it’s different. His tousled hair was your doing, as were his kiss-bitten lips and the haziness behind his eyes. You soak it all in on the off-chance this is a fluke, that you’ll never find yourself here again. He rubs the underside of your thigh as you hook your ankles over his back. “Are you ready?” His tone is softer than it’s been in nearly an hour.

“Yes.” He aligns himself with your entrance and gently presses into you.

“Ah, relax…” He braces himself on one hand, placed to the left of your head. His other hand grips your side. He continues to inch himself into you, eyes watching your face to gauge your comfort. You’re gripping his shoulders, trying not to dig your nails into his skin. “It’s okay, relax, I got you.”

“Okay, okay,” you whisper as he bottoms out inside of you. He grunts, pressing in as much as he can and holding it, pubic mound pressing to your clit. He partially pulls out, then pushes himself back in. Air escapes through your teeth as you cling harder to him, no longer giving a damn if you mark him or not. He fills you just like you hoped he would: to the brim until it stung with pleasure.

“Fuck.” Dylan finds a comfortable pace to allow you to get used to him, mumbling expletives and replacing his faded bite mark on your neck. “So wet for me.” You use the leverage from your locked ankles to meet his thrust midway, pushing him even deeper into your core. You squeak with every scrape against your g-spot, bottom lip clamped firmly between your teeth. His hips quicken their pace as his lips press to yours. You feel a shift behind your head, then Dylan pulls back. “Up,” he says, tapping your hip. He slides a pillow, silk case and all, underneath your ass to provide him with better access. He pushes your leg up so your knee is near your head and holds it there as he begins to roll into you. His head pokes into your g-spot at the same cadence of the skin of his lower stomach scraping against your sensitive clit. Your pussy clings to him each time he pulls out; its only purpose is to milk him dry. The adam’s apple in his throat bobs as he watches himself disappear within you. “Jesus Christ, how are you still so tight?” It rushes out of him in one breath. You tug him back down, needing to feel his chest on yours as he brings you, finally, to your completion. Every thrust feels like it’s stretching the rubber band in your stomach further and further, its elasticity painfully endless.

“Ah, yeah, like that.” You can feel your cunt gripping him, pulling at him as he hammers into you. “Don’t stop, please, Dylan, please,” you cry, holding on for dear life as his thrusts begin to shake the bed.

“I know, I know,” he coos. “Me too, baby.” All his weight is on the elbow by your head, spare hand on your hip to hold you still as he stutters into you. The pit of your stomach feels like you’re on a roller coaster lift, up, up, up until–

“Oh, my God.” Your eyes screw shut when it hits you, the pulsations of your cunt reverberating up your torso and through your limbs. Your back arches uncontrollably, stomach pressed to his. Your heart is beating out of your chest, wet and heavy like the cock still pistoning in and out if you.

“You’re so good. Fuck, you’re so good.” It’s muffled in your ears, your overstimulated body focusing on the stretch of his dick and the shakiness in your thighs. He presses himself fully into you and holds it there, a yelp escaping from your lips as he does. “Where?”

“Doesn’t matter,” you choke out. He sits up as he pulls out quickly, though you wouldn’t mind if he didn’t. Next time, maybe. Before he’s able to finish, you grasp and pump him from where his cock rests on your mound. It takes one tight squeeze before he twitches in your fist and ribbons of cum adorn your stomach. He’s holding onto your knee for support, breathing labored. You’re flat on your back, sinking into the mattress to center yourself and organize your thoughts.

“You okay?” He leans over you again, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips. You nod, a small smile gracing your face as you notice the sweat on his brow. He grins and places another kiss on your mouth before getting up and retrieving a towel from the en suite. He wipes your pussy first, needing to hold you still as the feeling of the towel is still too much, then delicately cleans up your stomach. The towel gets tossed to the floor, a responsibility for another time. The room is dark, but he finds you anyway, pulling you to his chest. “Was it worth the wait?” You laugh, unsure if he was referring to the day or the year.

“Hmm.”

“Hmm?” He feigns offense at your response.

“I need a few more data points before I’m sure.” He scoffs.

“Oh, fuck off,” he laughs and pulls you tighter to him. “You don’t need some elaborate ploy to get me again, baby. I saw you–no, felt you cum so hard; no need to be coy with me.”

“Okay…” You fiddle with the hairs on the back of his neck. “Definitely worth it, but I want it again. And I don’t wanna wait.”

“I can make that happen,” he says while ghosting kisses on your shoulder. You lie comfortably together, skin-on-skin listening to each other breathe. Your mind is a haze of the day’s activities, unsure of what memories you can truly believe.

“Dylan?”

“Yeah, angel?”

“What did you mean when you said I did a good job ‘keeping it to myself for the first few months’?” He laughs and his hand travels down to rest on your ass.

“God, see this is why I couldn’t do anything. You tried making out with me on, like, four separate occasions at Jenny’s birthday party. Very persistent.” You groan as you remember, or more, don’t remember that evening. The first thing you know about Jenny’s party was walking in, already riding the high of a successful pregame, with a bottle of tequila tied with a bow for her, and taking a required shot at the door. The second thing you remember is waking up in Dylan’s spare bedroom the next morning. This was three months ago.

“That… explains a lot.” You hadn’t noticed at the time, far too in awe of Dylan’s attention, but he did act differently as the spring transitioned to the summer. He would sit next to you at group brunch, suggest outings with just the two of you, occasionally get a little handsy, and start peppering pet names in his conversations with you until it became second nature. You weren’t delusional, at least not in the ways you thought you were.

“It’s okay. It’s cute.” He rubs your thigh as he speaks. “It’s funny though, you refused to get in an Uber with Jade to take you home. You literally wouldn’t let go of my hand.”

“So fucking embarrassing.” You cover your eyes with your hand as you cringe at the thought.

“Look where it got you, though.” He pulls your hand from your face and presses a kiss to your lips.

well. that’s it. hope u enjoyed <3 i have some (many) ideas for continuing this soooo maybe that’ll show up soon ;) pls feel free to leave me feedback, like, n reblog!

#dylan o’brien x reader #dylan o’brien smut #dylan o’brien imagine #dylan o’brien x you #so about that fic i promised a few weeks ago…… mama got writers block at 10.3k so i will prob edit and scrap for parts soon #anyway new 5sos (calum. lmao) smut coming soon i promise <3 #dylan o’brien

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thewayofthemandalorian · 1 year

Text

feels like home - oneshot

Pairing: Marcus Pike x F!Reader

Rating: M

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

Word count: 11,527

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

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

Comments/reblogs appreciated.

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

masterlist (main) || masterlist (marcus pike)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Don doesn’t seem to care.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can we do this again?” he asks.

Absolutely not. “Gotta go!”

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

- - - -

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It looks like your mom is going to voicemail.

- - - -

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

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

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

“How long do you have?” asks Marcus.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not with what, honey?” she asks.

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

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

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

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

“I love you, Mom.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sounds great. Have a good weekend in Texas.

- - - -

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

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

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

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

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

“Busy day for you, too?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then why—?”

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

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

Marcus nods. “Yes, please.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Marry me.”

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

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

“You heard me just fine, honey.”

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

“Yes, I do,” he counters.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

- - - -

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

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

Something that isn’t a stretch for you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your silence is worth a million words.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

- - - -

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

- - - -

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Uh-oh. You’re in trouble.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yep,” you reply. “Goodnight.”

“Sleep well, honey.”

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

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

With that, you fall asleep.

- - - -

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s like he read your mind.

- - - -

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

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

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

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

“Best friends,” Marcus clarifies.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You missed.”

He blinks. “What?” he asks.

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

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

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

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

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

- - - -

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod wordlessly.

Places, everyone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course. Shall we get to it?”

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

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

Marcus answers this question. “Five months ago.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

- - - -

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

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

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

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

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

You gasp softly. “You did?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

- - - -

Two years later…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The End

--- taglist in reblog.

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

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guybitesatgames · 2 months

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TMAGP 08 - They Already Named One "The Architecture of Fear"

Okay so obviously everyone is going to go bananas about what happened after the 19 minute mark (its me, I'm everyone, my response was undignified). However, Alex's tweet put me on high alert so lets dig our claws into some incredibly specific inclusions from just the case section of today's episode.

There have always been nods to real-life locations and historical figures across the Magnus-series, but this episode is particularly grounded. The case takes place here-

-Forton services - a service station that still exists, I assume entirely thanks to its listed status. It's a semi-historical site, which means lots of pictures have been taken of it, including its interior. Behold, the restaurant Terrance Stevens was sucked into, both (likely) the version he saw vs. what he should have expected at the top of the elevator:

I've not been to this place, but it is highly documented. I was able to find out that, just as it is in the show, the button for the restaurant floor has been disabled (unless you have the manufacturer's key). In fact, I think I might have found the exact website as whoever was doing research for this episode (Alex?) because they both mention seating for "700 people, with 101 toilets and 403 parking spaces".

And Terrance Stevens was doing such a good job with his sources up until this point! And I mean that - early in the case he cites (Zumthor, P. 2006), (Augé, M. 1995), (Bachelard, G. 1994) and (Trigg, D. 2012). Now, it'd be super easy for a writer to make up some names and append some years on them and call it a day but- no! Peter Zumthor's lecture Atmospheres: Architectural Environments, Surrounding Objects was published in 2006. We can similarly find Non-Places by Marc Augé, The Poetics of Space by Gaston Bachelard (reprinted in 1994), and The Memory of Place: A Phenomenology of the Uncanny by Dylan Trigg.

Given the emphasis on Smirke's architecture in The Magnus Archives (and the preponderance of liminal spaces as a source of horror, generally) I shouldn't be surprised that the authors have read up on academic papers linking structures to emotions. I was just a little blindsided that they would hand us a "further reading" section.

The real question at the end of all this is: will any of this be on the quiz?

Surely, surely if the writers wanted to be so precise as to get information about which elevator buttons are currently accessible in a real life truck stop correct, there must be something important about Forton services, right? Thankfully, we have an answer, from the Q&A for The Magnus Archives Season 3.

Well done, I am slightly worried.

Though the details of specific locations may not really really matter, I think the idea that there are nexuses of fear - places that themselves just aren't right - was laid out quite plainly in this episode. Forton services could harbor another gap in reality much like Hilltop Road, and I don't think this will be the last we hear of "hungry architecture."

#the magnus protocol #tmagp #tmagp spoilers #long post

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hadeslegacyhephgirl · 15 days

Text

Midnight adventure

Nico woke up alone.

Which was, in and of itself, not unusual. But tonight was different

Because tonight, he hadn't fallen asleep alone.

When he'd fallen asleep, it'd been to Will's warmth and whispered reassurances that he'd never leave.

His first instinct was monsters.

But no, there was no blood and he was unharmed.

He sniffed the air

And was met with a sickenly sweet smell

Chlorophom

Which mean someone had drugged Will (maybe even Nico himself, and kidnapped him (Will, not Nico)

Nico jumped off the bed and, grabbing his sword and jacket, headed outside.

It was cold

And damp

But there was moonlight

And a very clear drag trail leading from his cabin to the forest.

He grinned, a wolflike grin as he tightened his grip on his sword

He was hunting

And Wills kidnappers were his prey

~*~

Will tried to flick on his glowing ability and was immediately kicked in the head.

Not that that particular bruise would stand out among the dozens fo others she was sure he was obtaining as two Roman demigods, a girl and a boy, dragged him along.

"I don't understand" the girl whined "why can't we just kill him now?" The boy kicked her in the shins.

At least he wasn't the only one. "Be quiet!" So, no answers.

~*~

Nico was close. He knew it.

He'd seen the brief flash of light in the forest; Will had obviously tried to signal for help.

He hurried after them, quiet as possible.

Sproing

Fuck.

He'd stepped right into a net trap. He let out a string of curses under his breath. His sword arm was trapped under him and his was basically upside down in the net. He was too tired to attempt shadow-travel.

And every second he spent trapped, Wil was carried further away.

~*~

Will came to tied to a tree.

He'd fainted from pain and exhaustion a while back, and while he'd been unconscious, they'd either arrived at where they wanted to go or had just stopped for the night.

The girl glanced over at him. "'e's awake!" A guy walked into the clearing, the firelight illuminating his scarred face as he smiled.

Will felt a sense of dread. "Search him"

The girl and the other boy approached him.

Roughly the turned out his pockets and searched his flannel for anything.

The girl felt around his (still clothed) chest and grinned when she felt the necklaces. She pulled them up out of his shirt and surveyed them.

There was the camp bead necklace, which she glanced at once and dropped it, turning her attention to the other one.

See, Will had a penchant for charms, and his charm necklace was almost as full as his camp one.

She flicked through the charms until she stopped.

Oh, shit

It was the two little pride charms he'd got when he'd found out that he was bi. One little rainbow and a bi flag.

"Hey, Thomas! Check this out!"

The two boys stopped. The one by the fireplace, obviously Thomas, walked over and surveyed the two charms.

"Well, well, well, would you look at that. Not only is he graceus scum, he's a fag too!"

Thomas slapped him across the face. "Beat him up. I loathe fags, and here is some practice for you two in beating up skills."

Will felt blow after blow until his entire body was in pain, he curled up into a ball, protecting his face as they rained kicks and punches on him and then... stopped.

He looked up.

Nico was in front of him, sword drawn, probably glaring them down.

He smiled.

Thomas spat.

"The camp traitor! What a find. You care for this one? Pathetic. Kyle, Dylan, let's go."

The girl, Kyle, make a small sound of indignance

Thomas whirled around "Oh, by all means, if you want to fight him, go ahead. I don't care. Dylan. Let's go"

The three trooped out of the clearing, Kyle flipping them off as she passed them.

Nico didn't move until they'd disappeared, then whirled around, crouching, all worry and care now.

"Will? Are you okay? What am I say, of course you're not okay. Let's get you home. Do you need to go to the infirmary?" "No, 'm fine. Le's jus' ge' back to your cabin, please. I need sleep" Nico threw Wills arm around his shoulder and helped him up. "Sorry I couldn't be here earlier." "'s okay, at leas' you got there at all"

They managed to get back to camp and back to Cabin 13, where they collapsed back onto the bed, Nico big spooning Will as they drifted to sleep

~*~

The next day Will woke to find most of his bruises gone, due to his fast healing ability. The only visible reminder was a small cut on the side of his head, obviously from one of the rocks.

Neither Nico or Will spoke of the late-night adventure again.

#solangelo #solangelo fanfiction #angst #fanfiction #nico di angelo #pjo #will solace

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sunlightmurdock · 2 years

Text

Ceasefire | 0.1 | Bradley Bradshaw x Reader

Prologue | Masterlist | Next Chapter

Synopsis: Bradley Bradshaw is in San Diego, summoned to Top Gun for the first time. Commander “Hyde” Simpson is his flight instructor, and she doesn’t have time for schoolboy crushes.

Warnings: ex-husband!beausimpson, divorce, age gap (rooster is somewhere between 26-28, reader is 38), power imbalance between instructor and student aviator, swearing, angst, smut, pinv, oral (f&m)

…

You move out on the fourth week of class. A year ago, you could have never imagined finding four weeks of sleeping under the same roof as your husband to be so difficult. Everyone in the house was walking on eggshells around Beau.

He never lost his temper with you, and especially not around his children, but he made it clear that he wasn’t happy. He spent most of the time in his office.

You were actively looking at properties the entire time, but the urgency came in the third week. You were packing lunches for the kids whilst Beau was standing to your left, making a coffee. One of the rare times he had let himself be alone in a room with you since you told him you were leaving him.

“Where’s your ring?”

You had paused, halfway through cutting the crusts off of Taylor’s sandwich. Your eyes had fallen down to your ring finger. To Beau, it looked exceptionally bare. To you, it looked exactly the way it had for over a week by that point.

“I stopped wearing it.” You answered softly, without turning to look at him. There’s a heavy silence between the two of you. He sets his mug down on the island, leaving his half-made coffee to go cold.

He passes by you without a word, sulking off back to his office.

You know that Taylor is finding it difficult to grasp. She knows what divorce is — she has friends with mommies and daddies that don’t live together anymore. She just doesn’t understand that situations change. In her head — divorced parents were divorced parents and together parents were together parents.

Dylan doesn’t want to talk about it. He told you on the way to school drop off that he was happy if you were happy. That isn’t as true as he would like you to believe, you know him well enough to know that for certain.

Beau barely acknowledges you telling him that you’re moving out — beside the initial custody argument.

You offered fifty-fifty. He’s hurting. He wants full.

You got the keys for your new place on Wednesday. Dropped the kids off at your mother’s house on Friday night — giving you Saturday and Sunday morning before your mom drops the kids home, to make your new house a home.

It’s nowhere near as big as the place you shared with Beau, but it’s nice. Two storey [ ] with a yard, still close enough that they can stay in the same school and see their dad as often as they would like.

You set up your bed on Friday night just so that you don’t have to spend a second in that big, old house with Beau, alone. You just can’t stand the way that he looks at you these days.

You move all of the furnishings in first. You let yourself think that you’re doing a great job bringing everything in from the u-haul and finding a new place for it in the house.

Until it comes to putting the kids’ rooms together.

You growl in frustration, dropping the screwdriver to the hardwood.

Whoever decided to make the instructions for furniture picture only was going to have to fight you one day soon. Words would help. Words would make this entire situation infinitely easier. You’re in your own head about it more than anything. If you splinter a piece of wood on one of these bed frames, your kids will show up in a strange place with no place to sleep.

You’ve already uprooted a huge part of their life. There’s no way in hell you’re letting them turn up here without somewhere to call their own. You check your watch. It’s already 2pm. You still have half a truckload of stuff to unpack, and two bedrooms full of furniture to build.

You should’ve been able to do this. When you had told Beau you were leaving him, it hadn’t once occurred to you that the hardest part of divorce would be conquering flat-pack furniture. You’re strong, and smart and you’ve always been so independent. Flat-pack furniture should not be your downfall.

And yet, here you are.

Surrounded by pieces one through fifteen, and bunches of screws A through H - with no idea how they’re supposed to fit together.

You could call Beau. He’s only twenty minutes away. You know he’s sitting in that big, empty house, all by himself. He’s probably waiting for you to call him. Probably just waiting to know that you can’t do it without him.

You won’t give him the satisfaction.

You pick up your glass and take a sip of the mediocre wine your mom had given you as a housewarming present. The liquid swishes around your mouth as you pass it from cheek to cheek. You stare at the unassembled furniture. You make a mental note to buy yourself something a little stronger as a real housewarming present once you’re done with this crap. You’re reminded of playing Lego Star Wars with Dylan. If only assembling things in real life was as easy as it was on that game.

That’s when it clicks. The number in your phone from two Fridays ago. Bradley. Sweet, willing, eager Bradley. ‘Call me for anything’ Bradley. He did say anything.

It’s been easy enough to ignore him so far.

You purse your lips and consider whether it’s an abuse of your power to have one of your students do your dirty work for you. It does seem kind of like you would be taking advantage of the fact that this boy clearly has feelings for you. But - it’s not your fault that men will do anything for a chance to get in your pants. You could do with the help.

You wish you could say that you debated it for longer than a minute. Even more than that, you wish he didn’t pick up as quickly as he did.

“Hello?” He pants. Your brows scrunch. He’s really out of breath.

“Hey, it’s Hyde… are you… in the middle of something?” You ask tenderly. He’s breathing on the other end of the line like he just got done running a marathon. He quickly reassures you that he isn’t busy. “Okay. Um… I need a favour. If I texted you my address, do you think you could help me with something?”

He agrees. So quickly. Quick enough that you regret asking him before the call is even over. You sit back against the wooden floor and stare at the disassembled furniture for a moment. This is a mistake.

You make as much progress as you can before he arrives, so that he doesn’t have to be here for as long. You’re about halfway through building Taylor’s big-girl-bed when the doorbell rings.

You push yourself up and walk to the front door. Regret fills you for not tidying the place before he got here - there are boxes everywhere. You correct yourself. Your intention isn’t to impress him. Maybe this will be the thing to finally put him off. Hopefully after he’s done what you need him to do.

“Hi,” You pull open the front door and look him up and down. He’s standing there in jean shorts, flip flops and an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt with a tank top under it. He grins at you and pushes his sunglasses up onto his head.

His cheeks are flushed and a little red. Those stupid puppy dog eyes are looking at you like you’re the best thing they’ve ever seen. Not to mention, he’s quite literally glistening. It’s a hot day. You can tell he’s been out in the sun, his chest is a little too red.

Your smile falters slightly, “You’re… really sweaty.”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry,” Rooster chuckles, wiping his forehead with the back of his palm. “I was playing football down at the beach with a couple of the guys.”

You swallow. Nod your head. Remind yourself to breathe.

“Of course you were.” You mutter under your breath as you step out of his way and motion for him to come inside. Of course he was. You can picture it now. You bet every woman on the beach couldn’t take their eyes off of him. The tank top is thin and exceptionally dry for how warm his cheeks look. Meaning he was most likely playing shirtless.

You don’t want or need to think about that right now. It’s already been a long day.

“Sorry?” Rooster didn’t quite catch what you said. Thank god.

“Nothing, um - this way.” You walk off ahead of him. He happily trails along behind you. He’s never seen you out of your work clothes before. You’re just wearing a simple sundress, nothing special, and your hair is claw clipped up out of the way. His eyes are on the back of your neck as you walk up ahead of him.

He imagines what it would be like to touch. To run his fingertips along the length of your spine. In lieu of that, he trails the same distance with his eyes. They linger on the curve of your ass, the way the material hugs it. The way he could surge forwards and press you into any wall in this house and just push that fabric up out of his way.

Rooster takes a deep breath. He swallows, then turns his focus to the architecture.

“Beautiful home, Commander Simpson.” He remarks politely.

You feel bad for having him come all the way out here, taking him away from his friends in the middle of summer to have him build furniture.

“Thank you, Bradley, that’s very sweet of you.” You stop outside of the kitchen, figuring that the least you could do is supply him with free alcohol for his troubles. “Can I get you something to drink? I have beer, wine, or lemonade.”

“Beer’s fine.” He smiles and leans against the kitchen doorframe as you step into the kitchen to get him his drink. It’s as you’re pulling a can from the fridge that you notice just how big he is. His head isn’t that far from the top of the door frame, that door frame’s at least six and a half feet tall. He’s broad too.

Your eyes are on him for a second too long, the fridge door hanging open as you stare at him.

“Did you want a glass? Ice?” You ask as you set the can on the kitchen island. Rooster shakes his head and steps forward to take it.

“No thanks, this is perfect.” He smiles once more. Isn’t it? Inviting him here was a bad idea. You know that now. Now that the only thing stopping you from tackling him to the ground and putting your mouth on every inch of that tanned, muscled skin is this kitchen island between the two of you.

“So, what did you need my help with?” He taps the top of the can for make sure it won’t fizz too much when he opens it, then pulls back the tab. You watch the way the material of that ugly shirt tightens around his bicep as his arm bends to bring the beer to his mouth. His lips cover the edge of the can. Then his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he takes a sip.

You watch the condensation drip from the bottom of the can onto the reddened skin of his chest, the droplet sliding below the fabric of his tank top.

Badideabadideabadidea. This was a bad idea.

This is going to make a funny story for your friends to hear. You inviting over one of your students, who you know has a crush on you, making him do your dirty work and then checking him out whilst he works. This is a HR nightmare. It might make a funny story someday, but right now, alarm bells are going off in your head.

You close your mouth. Find the neurological function to make yourself nod. Lift your hand and tap the counter to remind yourself to move.

“Right,” You’re back in the room. You’re Commander Simpson. He’s a Lieutenant. That’s all. Rooster doesn’t seem to have noticed your temporary mindlessness, “Um… I was trying to figure out how to build some furniture, and the instructions are all pictures - and I thought back to how you said you were a visual learner, and um…”

He watches you, lips quirking as he waits for you to finish your sentence. This is ridiculous. You should not be getting this hot and bothered over someone who was in high school when you were pregnant for the first time. You collect yourself.

“I was just wondering if you might be able to help me figure it out.” You finalise calmly.

“Sure, I’m great at this kinda thing,” Rooster agrees, “I love building stuff.”

He does. Genuinely. But truthfully, you could’ve asked him to clean the gutters and he would’ve done so with a smile on his face.

You’ll never know how hard it was for him to try to control his expression as he left the beach twenty minutes earlier. The urge to grin as big as possible was truly difficult to combat.

“Okay, great. I’ll show you what we’re working with.” You step out from behind the kitchen island and nod for him to follow you. He trails behind, looking around at the place as you lead him. It’s nice. Much nicer than his apartment near the beach with Jake and Javy. That’s kind of a man cave. He imagines you wouldn’t like it too much.

His presence behind you is heavy as you lead him upstairs. He hopes you’re headed to the master bedroom. His eyes are still on your ass as you walk up ahead of him. Bradley’s brain is working in overdrive right now, trying to figure out how to make a move without freaking you out. Without overstepping.

You stop at the end of the hall. Point to Taylor’s room on the left, then Dylan’s room on the right.

“You have two kids?” He knows this. He saw the picture on your desk. They’re cute kids. You hope that this puts him off.

“Uh-huh. Taylor’s five, Dylan’s eleven.” You tell him. His face doesn’t change, his expression remains calm and positive. You fight back a scowl.

“Wow. I can’t believe you have an eleven year old.” He tells you.

You stare at him, expressionless. Maybe for a second too long. You stop once he shifts uncomfortably and scrunches his brows slightly, worried that he has said the wrong thing.

“I just mean, because-“

“Rooster.” You interrupt, raising your palm to stop him. He shuts up. You shake your head slightly. “I didn’t ask you to come over so that you could flirt with me. I’m flattered, but this is not going to happen. Are we clear?”

“Crystal.” He agrees. The look in his eye lets you know that he doesn’t actually agree. He passes his beer into his other hand, “But I can’t promise not to tell you how pretty you look, Mrs. Simpson.”

“Commander.” You know he knows that. He’s testing you to see how committed you are to the identity of being a married woman. “And easy on the Simpson. I’m still debating getting rid of it.” - and you just played right into his hands.

Bradley smiles with his back to you as he steps into Taylor’s room and looks around, then composes himself before he looks at you over his shoulder. “What’s your maiden name?”

You pause, leaning against the doorframe. You debate not telling him. It would set a principle, but would but ultimately pointless. He could just check in work on Monday. Your maiden name is clear as day in your Top Gun class portrait. So, you lean your head against the doorframe and you tell him.

He nods. Then, he says your full name. Your first name and your maiden name together.

“I like it. Doesn’t sound as scary as Commander Simpson.” He decides. He crouches down and grabs the sheet of instructions from the floor, mulling over the pictures. You watch him. Beer in one hand, instructions in the other. Sunglasses on his head. Gold cross necklace dangling between his collarbones. Your gaze lingers there.

You wouldn’t have pegged him as a man of faith.

“Maybe I’ll stick with Commander Simpson, then.” You answer. He looks up at you through his lashes and smiles.

He shrugs his broad shoulders slightly. “Hyde works too.”

You chuckle. Then nod towards the pieces of wood on the floor. Time to get this conversation back on track. “The beds are the most important thing, because they’ll be here tomorrow and obviously they’re going to need somewhere to sleep.”

“Sure, makes sense.” Rooster agrees. He shrugs the Hawaiian shirt off of his shoulders and drops it to the floor. The way his eyes meet yours as the fabric falls to the ground tells you that that was an extremely tactical move. Your lip quirks. He might as well be flexing for how much he’s trying to impress you right now. “Got it.”

You nod your head, pushing yourself off of the doorframe as he settles down to sit on the floor of your daughter’s new room. He grabs the base of the bed and pulls it up to rest on his knees, then examines the bags of screws. Right to it. He makes quick work of figuring out which pieces are which and which screws he needs.

You watch for a moment. It’s clear from this glimpse of him at work that you’ve been neglecting your more personal needs these last few weeks. That’s all that this is. That’s the only rational explanation for this. You haven’t slept with Beau in two months now, and you’ve been so busy, and you just haven’t felt like taking care of yourself. Clearly, after Bradley leaves, you need to spend some time alone to tend to those needs. That’ll clear your head.

Once you have made this decision, you bring yourself to stop staring at the way the muscles in his arms move as he begins to put the bed together.

“Should I stay and help?” You ask. Is it wrong to treat him like a handyman? - Probably. But you really can’t stay and watch much more of this. It’s regressive, honestly, what seeing a man at work does to you.

“No, this won’t take me long. If you’ve got other stuff you need to be doing, I’ve got this handled.” Rooster looks up at you, big brown eyes and all, and answers you with a smile. You nod your head.

“Alright. I’ll be downstairs if you need anything.” You tell him. You turn and head downstairs.

Without the added pressure of wanting to physically assault furniture, you actually manage to make a good amount of progress. You empty the remainder of the truck, even if that means filling your garage with boxes for later. They’re all things that can wait. After that, you finish getting the living room unpacked and decluttered. It actually looks worthy of being seen by the time you’re done.

About an hour after you originally left him, you decide to check on Rooster. You grab him another cold beer from the fridge and pad barefoot through the house. A dangerous game when there are loose screws around. As you walk up the stairs, your brows furrow. The hallway is suspiciously tidy. There aren’t screws on the floor anymore.

Only, Bradley isn’t where you left him. Your lips part in surprise as you step into Taylor’s room. Not only is her bed built, but so is everything else. The wardrobe, the dresser, her colouring desk. Her curtains are even up. Granted, this is all flatpack furniture. It’s probably pretty easy to put together if you know what you’re doing. You understand that he did this just to impress you. Well, you’re impressed.

You press a hand over your mouth. You can’t help but compare him to Beau. This would’ve taken Beau weeks to get around to. When Taylor was born, her nursery wasn’t finished until a week after her first birthday, and that was after you finished it with your dad on Labour Day weekend. Beau was just always too busy.

“Rooster?” You call out, wanting to thank him. Maybe wanting to kiss him a little bit too. You shake your head.

“In here.” He calls back. You turn and cross the hallway into Dylan’s room. Dylan’s bed is built and Bradley’s working on his desk now. Your jaw hangs open.

Your eyes fall immediately to the folded Hawaiian shirt on the floor, and the tank top that has joined it, messily discarded on top of it. Your eyes land on him. He’s on his knees, not looking at you, attaching a metal leg to the top part of the desk. The gold cross on the chain hangs loosely over his collarbones as he works. He’s leaning forwards slightly, brows furrowed as he focuses.

He knows you’re standing there. He knows what he’s doing.

You’re grateful he’s so focused, because it means he doesn’t notice the way your eyes linger on his bare chest. It isn’t your fault. The way the muscles in his arms contract each time he turns the screwdriver would have anyone staring, you’re sure of it.

Finally, he lifts his head and looks up at you through his lashes. He looks at the beer in your hand, then back at your face, “Is that for me?”

“Yeah.” You realise, letting out a breath as you extend the drink towards him. He sets the screwdriver down and stands to take it. You watch as he brings himself to his feet, standing in just jean shorts, his boxers peeking out just slightly from the waistband.

Your eyes trail up, towards the soft line of hair on his stomach, to the small patch on his chest, stopping to admire each ab on the way up. Rooster watches the way you look him over. He bites his cheek to keep from grinning. Or worse, talking and ruining this moment.

“I just wanted to say how much I appreciate you helping me today, you’re — you’re a lifesaver, really.” You breathe, folding your arms over your chest as you lean against the doorframe to your son’s room.

Rooster shrugs his shoulders like he isn’t thrilled with the praise he’s receiving, “Happy to help. Plus, like I said — I love this stuff. It’s kinda therapeutic. Some people do puzzles, I build flat-pack furniture.”

You laugh softly and this time he does grin at you, pleased with himself for making you smile. There’s a beat of silence between the two of you. He doesn’t want to speak again, he’s worried he won’t be able to stop and he’ll scare you off with word vomit.

“I’m almost finished with this room, if it’s alright?” He nods back down to the half constructed desk. You nod your head quickly and take a step back.

“Sure, of course.” You breathe out. “Um… well, I’ve got a few things left to unpack in my room. So, I’ll - I’ll be right across the hall. Okay?”

Well, now he knows where your room is. And you just invited him to head over once he’s done in here. He nods his head, chewing on his cheek for a moment, “Sure thing.”

“Okay.” You turn and walk towards your room and shake your head. This is ridiculous. You’ve never been floored by a set of abs before. You roll your eyes at your own behaviour as you push the door half shut behind you.

Rooster finishes Dylan’s room. Desk, dresser, hangs the curtains. Then, he walks the length of the hallway and nudges your door open, knocking as he opens it. You were expecting him to take longer. You’re sitting on the floor, flicking through a photo album that you came across.

“Finished already?” You ask, looking up at him in the door way. You notice that he has failed to put his shirt back on. You look him over, then look back down at the photo album and turn the page away from your wedding pictures. Rooster crosses the room without waiting for permission, and crouches beside you. He mhm’s and tilts his head to look at the pictures.

You turn your head and scrunch your brows, fighting back a smile at his sudden confidence.

“Is this your daughter?” Rooster asks as he points towards the toddler on the bottom left. You smile softly.

“My son.” You correct. Dylan was a mama’s boy growing up. Mama had longer hair, Dylan wanted longer hair. Beau had taken him for a haircut before his first day of Kindergarten. Dylan had loved his big-boy hair but you had cried for hours. He looked too grown up, too much like his dad.

“Look at those freckles.” Rooster smiles. Your eyes are on him. He chuckles softly as his attention turns to a picture of Dylan with Spider-Man face paint. Realising that you aren’t looking at the album anymore, Rooster turns his head to look at you. He’s kneeling right next to where you’re sitting. He’s far, far too close.

You look back to the album and flip the page. Rooster gasps.

“Wow, look at you!” He leans in closer, his bare shoulder brushing against yours. You look down at the vacation picture he’s staring at. It’s you with Dylan from nine years ago. You’re in Florida in this picture. You’re at the beach. You’re in a bikini, your hip is popped out and you’re laughing towards the camera.

Dylan’s almost two in the picture. You’re both down by the waves, walking back up towards the dry sand, each of you with one hand on the handle of his bucket filled with water. You remember that day so clearly. The water was to fill the moat around the sandcastle you and Beau had spent hours building, with extremely minor assistance from your toddler son.

That had been such a fun day.

“He looks just like you.” Rooster smiles. You aren’t sure yet if Rooster knows who your husband is. You’ve never hidden your relationship with Beau, but in the interest of preserving your work-life balance, you don’t exactly publicise it either. Everyone always says Dylan looks just like his dad. All he got from you was his smile.

“Can - May I?” He remembers that day in your office as his hand reaches past you for the edge of the page. You watch his hand pass by you. This can’t go on. You grab his wrist, wrapping your fingers around tanned skin.

“Rooster, I know what you’re doing.”

He looks at you, caught. Then, he smiles, a mischievous glint in his eye, “What am I doing?”

You could tackle him. Space. You need space. You push yourself to your feet, taking a few steps back to put some distance between the two of you, “You come over here all sweaty and… ugh, and then you take your shirt off and you’re so helpful and polite — and you just need to get it through your head that this is not going to happen!”

He watches you. Bradley tries not to smile. He nods seriously, like he understands. He’s not even on the same chapter, much less the same page.

“Okay? Ever!” You reiterate.

“Ever?” Rooster’s lips quirk. He tries to stop himself from smiling, but fails. The twinkle in his eye makes you want to scream.

“Ever!” You bite back. “It can’t. I’m your instructor, we have a professional relationship and it’ll never be anything more. That’s that.”

He nods. Everything about what he says next tells you that he understands what you have said. The gentle okay, the competent nodding. But it’s the look in his eye that tells you he thinks he still has a chance.

“Stop looking at me like that!”

“Like what?” He laughs, shrugging his stupid, strong, broad shoulders at you. He pushes himself up from the ground, still grinning at you.

“You know like what!”

“I just think you wouldn’t regret giving me a chance.”

“Every guy your age thinks they’re good in bed. They’re not.” You squint your eyes at him. Maybe you’re trying to convince yourself more than him. Nonetheless, he listens. Which makes it even worse. Beau would ignore you until you calmed down. Not Bradley. He wants to hear this. “Why would I put my entire reputation, everything I’ve worked for through my career, on the line for a five minute fuck with a kid who probably hasn’t made a woman cum in his entire life?”

“I’ve made women cum.” Bradley answers defensively. He holds himself back from telling you how many times. Because he knows exactly how many times.

“Every guy thinks they have.” You’re still dubious. This is still not happening.

“I have!” He insists. “Y’know, I’d be happy to show you-“

He takes a step forward, you take three steps back and point a finger at him accusingly. He raises his palms in surrender.

“Damn it, Bradley — what is the matter with you? - Why can’t you just go point those puppy-dog eyes at someone your own age?”

His lip quirks. That might not have been a compliment, but he appreciates the fact that you think he has cute eyes anyway. He licks his bottom lip, tilting his head. His eyes fall down to look you over before he finally shrugs and explains himself.

“I think you’re beautiful. I think you’re funny, you’re smart — actually, I can’t stop thinking about you.” He admits. He isn’t sheepish about it at all. He looks you in the eye as he says it. “And I think that I’m pretty good in bed. But… if I’m not, then maybe you could teach me a few things.”

This time he takes another step toward you and you stay where you are. He takes another step. Then another. A few more. Until he’s standing in front of you. He reaches out tenderly and touches your waist, stroking the curve above your hip with his thumb.

“You know I’m a fast learner.” He whispers.

You look up at him. Those soft, longing, puppy-dog eyes are staring down at you. Waiting for your answer. You do know that he’s a fast learner. He’s an excellent student. He doesn’t feel the need to say anything else. That’s good, because if he had, you might’ve combusted.

There’s silence between you as you look over his features. Bradley knows that this is make or break. He leans forwards, closes his eyes.

“Ah- stop.” He jolts and pulls back, blinking at you, afraid he’s done something wrong. Your first instinct is to shove him. The rational side of your brain wins this argument and you don’t push him, but you still need him — and his fucking perfect torso — away from you. “Sit down.”

Bradley hesitates. His brow furrowed slightly, lips parting like he might have something to say. You point at the edge of your bed sternly. Ultimately, the teacher’s pet in him takes control. He stumbles back and sits on the edge of your bed with his hands in his lap. He smiles at you.

It takes real willpower to not comment on how soft your sheets are. He wonders where you got them from. His aren’t anywhere near this nice.

You relish in the distance, like it finally gives you room to breathe. Your lungs fill and deflate a few times over, grateful for the sense of calm each breath brings you.

He’s just looking at you. Strong and tanned, a grown man, sitting on your bed and waiting for you to tell him he isn’t in trouble.

“Talk me through it.”

“What?” Bradley seems confused. There’s still such eagerness behind those eyes. He wants to do what you ask of him, he just doesn’t know what you want from him. This isn’t entirely his fault. You know you’ve been giving him somewhat mixed signals.

So, you’re as clear as you can be.

“Tell me what you’d do to me,” You watch his eyes glint with excitement. He smiles slightly. “If I let you. I’ll decide if I think it’s worth it.”

You watch him shift. He leans back on his palms, parting his knees a little as he takes a moment to unashamedly look you over. It feels good to do so. He’s tired of having to steal glances at you during class. Truthfully, last week he had a kink in his neck for two days because of how long he had spent with his head tilted, watching the way you looked bending over your desk to grab something.

“I’m not the best with words.” He admits sheepishly. You watch a gorgeous terracotta spread onto his cheeks, warming his chest.

You maintain your cool composure. You know that you’re the one with all of the power here. He’ll never know you’re bluffing. You fold your arms over your chest. “How about you try, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Rooster breathes out, clearly excited by the fact that you just pulled rank on him. Your lip twitches at this knowledge. “I-I would… alright, fuck, um… Well, I haven’t stopped thinking about tasting you since I first saw you.” He shifts but doesn’t stand, he swallows nervously. You bite your cheek, not wanting to give away your feelings about what he just said yet.

“So first,” He leans back on his palm, breathes steadily and continues, “I’d kiss you. Show you how good I am at that.” He grins, amused and half-embarrassed. He bites his lip and fiddles with the ring on his finger. “I-I’d…”

You watch.

It’s clear that his mind is in overdrive. It’s not that he doesn’t know what he wants to do to you, it’s that he doesn’t know what he wants to do first. You swallow at the realisation.

Bradley’s staring at you and trying to ignore his cock stirring in his shorts as he thinks of you naked. Under him. On top of him. In front of him. He shifts slightly. He doesn’t know whether to start thinking about something less sexy, or to keep talking.

He doesn’t have time to decide.

You rush forwards, pressing a knee into the mattress, swinging your other around his hip, grabbing the back of his neck as your ass rests against his thighs.

You grab the back of his neck, pulling him forwards until your mouth is on his. He’s been waiting for this, and he doesn’t waste a second in making sure you know you’ve made the right decision. His arm snakes around your waist, pulling you tight against him.

It’s desperate and fast as his other hand slides up into your hair, controlling the way your mouth moves against him.

Beau hated facial hair. He found it untidy and unprofessional. You loved the feeling of scruff on your cheeks and your thighs but it was a rare occasion that you experienced that with Beau. With Bradley, that stupid 80s moustache is everything you’ve been missing.

His hands skim down your sides, gliding over the curve of your ass and pulling you forward. He grinds his hips forwards against you and squeezes at your backside, groaning gently against your lips.

You relax in his arms, lips parting just enough for him to slip his tongue into your mouth, caressing it against yours.

Your fingertips skim over his muscles shoulders, down onto his back. His lips move against yours as your hands explore his torso. You rake your nails along his shoulder blades. Revel in the feeling of him holding you, kissing you.

Bradley stands and turns, placing one knee onto the mattress, holding you tighter against him as he lowers you down onto it. He settles between your legs, rolling his hips forward against your core. Your dress bunches up around your waist as he grinds against you.

“You always smell so good.” He murmurs affectionately against your mouth before lowering his head to kiss softly at your throat. He slides his hand up along the length of your neck, taking your jaw between his index finger and thumb, keeping you where he needs you. Your head lulls back willingly against the sheets, exposing your neck to him.

He works soft kisses along the length of your throat, his fingertips skimming along the soft skin of your thighs, his hips grinding forwards. It hits you like a tonne of bricks when he pulls back to look at you. Those pretty, brown eyes.

The gold cross dangles forwards off of his collarbones, grazing your lips. You open your mouth and stick your tongue out, letting the metal fall against your tongue. Bradley watches, his arms planted on either side of his head, a soft smile toying at his lips.

“Fuck,” He breathes out. His hands push up along your thighs, squeezing every inch or so until he’s at your hips. His eyes flicker downwards and linger between your legs. He swallows, “You’re so sexy.”

You lift your chin, tilting your head slightly as your eyes fall down to admire the way he looks kneeling between your legs.

His fingers reach the edge of your dress. He runs the fabric between his fingertips and looks back up at you. Asking silently for permission. You give a soft nod and lift yourself so that he can get rid of it. Bradley’s hands move knowledgeably, firm on your sides as he guides the fabric up, up, until it’s not covering you anymore.

He drops the dress down onto the floor and sits back on his knees.

You stretch your arms out above your head, extending them across the mattress behind you. His eyes glint excitedly. “Is this what you had in mind?” You breathe out.

Bradley grins as his fingertips curl around your hips. He tugs you closer to him, grabbing and squeezing at the soft skin of your thighs. He shakes his head, “So much better than I could’ve imagined.”

He moves, leaning down and pressing his lips to your collarbone. His mouth moves slowly, firmly. His tongue grazes your skin as he pulls away. Your instinct is to close your eyes, to give in to the warm feeling his mouth sends through you — but you have to see this. You can’t take your eyes off of him. Each kiss ends with his tongue grazing your skin and a soft sigh slipping your lips.

His lips work along your bare torso, leaving soft, open-mouthed kisses in his path. He pauses when he reaches your breasts, squeezing them in his hands.

Bradley groans, grazing his teeth along your right breast and he kneads the left in his hand. His hips grind forwards against the mattress, searching for friction, as he takes your nipple into his mouth. You exhale softly, sliding your fingers up into his sandy curls, keeping his mouth on you.

“Mmm.” Bradley’s heart soars as the sound leaves your mouth. He’s been daydreaming for four weeks about what you would sound like, and it’s so much better than he could have ever hoped to hear it in real life. He’s spurred on, even more desperate to please you now, flicking his tongue against the sensitive bud, pinching the other between his index and thumb. He pulls away, grazing his teeth lightly over the skin - just enough to make you shiver.

Then his trail of filthy kisses continues. His nose grazes your sternum as his mouth works towards your navel. His hands are strong and capable, holding you in place by your ribs. You remind yourself that he’s one of the best fighter pilots in the world - behind you, of course he knows what to do with his hands. You’ve been underestimating him.

Perhaps on purpose to deny yourself the same luxury of daydreaming. It’s almost dismaying to know that you’ll be aching for this feeling again once it’s gone. Part of you was hoping that this would confirm to you that he’s just a boy posing as a man - a kid with no idea how to please a woman. His eyes are on you as he sticks out his tongue and trails it in a line across your stomach. From your ribs, over your bellybutton, ending with a desperate and open mouthed kiss to your bikini line.

You think that he’s going to go all the way. His hands slide down to your hips, fingertips curling into the edges of your panties on either side. He groans softly, closing his eyes. Then, his mouth works more kisses, dirty and possessive, against your hips, lips nudging at the hem of your panties. But you don’t feel like you’re kept waiting. If he told you that this was the main event, you think you would be okay with that.

It’s odd. You can feel his eagerness in his movements, his desperation to please in the way his tongue moves against your skin. It’s been a long time since someone has burned for you in the way that Bradley so clearly does.

“There’s so many things I want to do to you.” Bradley mutters against your skin.

“So, impress me.” You tell him. Your confidence is false. You just need him to think you’ve still got your sense about you, when truthfully, if you had any - you wouldn’t be in bed with one of your pilots.

Bradley lifts his head. His chin grazes the edge of your panties as he does. He smiles up at you. “Yes, ma’am.”

You chuckle softly. Rooster’s fingers pull gently at your underwear, he guides it down just an inch or so. His mouth is on your hips, leaving kisses against each one, pulling slowly at the fabric, moving his mouth with it. His eyes are on you, smooth honey and shining amber. His mouth works alone your pubic bone, soft kisses, gentle flicks of the tongue.

Then his mouth is on your clit as soon as it’s exposed to him. It isn’t rushed. It’s just what he needs, what he’s been waiting for. He groans against you, working his tongue in soft circles around the throbbing bundle of nerves. His eyes are still on you. Your eyes are closed. He doesn’t stop what he’s doing as he admires the way your tits rise and fall with each deep breath you take.

His hands trail from your hips, up and along your sides. His hands roam your skin. Move up and back down again. He revels in the feeling of you under his fingertips, on the tip of his tongue.

“S-Shit.” The realisation is all-consuming. You don’t mean to say anything until the word is already out there. This is not the last time you’re going to let this man into your bed, is it?

Rooster hums contentedly at your praise, his hands slide back down to your thighs to squeeze at the muscle. He pulls back just long enough to get your underwear the rest of the way down your legs, guiding your right leg over his shoulder as he settles back down into his previous position. His hand grabs at the back of your left thigh, he lifts it up and out of his way.

You aren’t struggling against him, but you can feel his grip on you. He’s stronger than you gave him credit for.

He’s gentle between your legs, pressing his mouth firmly against your core and working his tongue against you. His free hand slides between your legs, he dips the tip of his index finger into you, then slides it in up to the knuckle and curls. You moan softly, grabbing ahold of those beautiful umber curls, ensuring that he doesn’t get ahead of himself and lose pace with his mouth.

“That’s it.” You whisper. Rooster looks up at you. “Just like that, that’s good.”

Told you so. It’s written across his face. Luckily for you, you can’t see that. He slips his ring finger into you alongside his middle whilst his tongue works confidently along your core and back up to your clit. He lets go of your thigh and rests his forearm across your stomach, keeping you nice and still for him.

He scissors his fingers inside of you, making you gasp softly. You tug at his roots, he moans against your clit. You both shiver. Rooster’s tongue flattens as he drags it along your core. He pulls his fingers out and puts them immediately to work, taking over the pace on your clit. He buries his face between your legs, curling his tongue into you.

“O-Oh.” You can’t pretend you aren’t surprised. It’s like every single sound that slips your lips spurs him on more. Your grip in his hair tightens with the knot in your stomach. You press your heel hard into the mattress, shifting your hips against his mouth. He presses down hard on your middle, keeping your firmly in place.

You moan, head lulling back against your sheets.

“I’m almost there.” You breathe out. You can’t remember the last time you came from oral alone. Rooster groans softly, his mouth and fingers switch place again. He can’t resist looking up at you, the wound up look on your face makes his shorts grow impossibly tighter. His fingers fuck into you, curling and twisting. Youre gasping, willing yourself not to cry out his name - you figure that’ll probably send the wrong message.

This whole thing is sending the wrong message.

Fuck it. You moan his name softly, his grip on your hip tightening in response. It’s toe-curling. You’re busy trying to catch your breath during your comedown when you remind yourself to loosen your grip in his hair. He doesn’t seem to mind one bit, grinning as he peppers kisses across your thighs.

He unbuttons his shorts, kicking them off and moving back up to kiss you on the mouth. You grab hurriedly at the back of his neck. He grinds himself against your core, his straining cock grazing your soaked folds. Rooster slips his tongue into your mouth, letting you taste yourself on him. He guides one of your thighs up around his waist, then pauses to palm over his cock, trying to ease his discomfort.

“Where do you keep your condoms?” You’re half grateful that he’s smart enough to wear one. His question snaps you back to reality. Your eyes widen. He winces internally for breaking you from the moment. He feels you grow more tense against him. He strokes delicately against your waist to ease your tension.

“I don’t have condoms, I wasn’t - I don’t do this.” You motion between the two of you and sigh. Rooster holds up one finger. He stands and grabs his shorts, dipping his hand into the back pocket. You feel like this is a sign. Maybe not from god, you don’t know whether you believe in this kind of divine intervention. Maybe from your Grandmother. Some kind of horrible punishment for letting yourself fall for this.

Doubt fills you. You absolutely should not be doing this. Beau received the divorce papers yesterday, and here you are - in bed with someone else. Not only someone else, but someone in your class.

He pulls a condom from his wallet and stands upright to push his boxers down. Your mouth goes dry as he steps out of them and tears the foil. He isn’t looking at you, focused on the latex instead. You’re glad.

Every ounce of doubt that you had just left your body. When Rooster lifts his eyes again, you have moved. You’re pushing yourself towards the edge of the bed. His hand drags from the base of his cock to the tip again and back down as he watches you near him. He watches, taking his lip between his teeth as you look up at him and lean forwards.

Five weeks of daydreaming of this moment hasn’t been enough to prepare him for the sight of his cock on your tongue. He swallows, reaching out and grabbing a fistful of your hair to keep it out of your face. Your lips wrap around him, the taste of latex on your tongue as you work your mouth around his length. Your fingertips follow the line of soft, almost blonde hair from his pelvis, up onto his stomach and onto his pecs.

You’re glad he had a condom, because there’s no way you’re backing out when you’re already in this deep - and it would have been truly shameless to let him fuck you raw. You are glad. But, you can’t help but find that it was either an extremely presumptuous choice, or a signal that he is no stranger to casual hookups. Either answer displeases you.

To signal this to him, you use your nails as your hand trails back down the same path it had moved up. Rooster watches faint red lines form in the wake of your fingernails, trailing the length of his entire chest. His cock twitches on your tongue. Interesting.

“Fuck, I have to be inside of you.” He breathes out, tugging at your roots. Your eyes widen slightly at the action, you pull back and wipe the corner of your mouth. He wastes no time in grabbing your hips, lifting and dropping you more into the centre of the mattress. His lifting technique is poor, he’s going to give himself a bad back by his mid-30s.

You open your mouth to tell him this, then close it again. It’s not the time.

“Ah.” You press your foot against his thigh and he stops immediately. He’s getting a little too cocky for your liking. “Say please.”

Rooster’s brows scrunch for a fraction of a second. Your eyes bore into each other’s. His lip quirks slightly.

“Please.” He says gently.

You smirk, lifting your foot and instead resting it against his shoulder, parting your legs for him. He lets out a heavy breath, almost a groan of relief, then moves forward. He kisses your knee as he shifts closer, planting his palm beside your head, his other hand guiding his cock between your legs. His eyes are on yours as he presses the tip of his cock into you and then pulls back. You narrow your eyes at him. His lip twitches as he sinks into you, just a few inches at first.

He squeezes at your hip, rocking his hips gently back and forth to let you adjust to his size. You moan softly as his cock grazes a nerve inside of you, letting out a contented sigh.

“Fuck.” Rooster curses. His fingertips whiten against your hipbone as his pelvis presses flush against yours. His stomach presses to yours, your leg over his shoulder letting him fill you as deeply as possible. He leans his head forwards and presses his lips to yours, licking into your mouth. “Fuck.”

You arch your back, pushing your chest up against his as he fills you up. There’s a silent exchange between the two of you. Rooster takes the hint, picking up the pace, rocking his hips to fill you harder and faster.

He’s relentless, dragging against your walls as he bottoms out again and again. It’s impressive, really. You’re doing your best not to look like a completely fucked out mess under him. He’s mesmerised, his lip between his teeth as he watches your face. Even now, you’re so cool, staring up at him.

Your lips are parted and you’re moaning for him, he knows he’s making you feel good, but this is different than when he sleeps with girls his own age. You’ve still got an air of control about you. He likes it. He sits back on his knees, grabbing your hips with both hands so that he has more power to fuck you harder.

“A-Ah… oh, fuck.” You moan out, grabbing hard at his thigh for leverage.

Rooster groans, sliding his hands along your sides, cupping your breasts in his hands.

Beau wasn’t much of a moaner. You’ve been missing out. The sound of Rooster’s hoarse, deep, desperate groans would’ve been a fine form of foreplay because they’re bringing you closer and closer to coming for him just as much as his cock is. His thumb swipes across your nipple, pinching the bud gently. You swallow hard, pushing your hips against his to meet his thrusts.

He fills you over and over. You’re doing your best not to compare him to Beau. He’s doing a good job of keeping your mind off of your husband. Ex-husband. You’re going to have to get used to that.

“You’re so gorgeous,” Rooster murmurs, squeezing your tits in his hands, punctuating his declaration with a sharp thrust. You gasp, arching your back away from the mattress. “So fucking sexy.”

Your eyes close for a few seconds, focusing on the intensity of the orgasm building in the pit of your stomach. Rooster moves his hand between your legs, he pushes down gently on your pelvis, circling your clit with his thumb. His thrusts remain at the same pace - relentless - fucking you until you can barely keep your eyes open.

His name spills off of your tongue so naturally, over and over. You’re amazed - later you’ll be embarrassed - at how easy it was for your brain to accept that this is happening, and with him of all people.

Rooster watches as you near your climax. His lip between his teeth. That gold chain bouncing on his collarbones. His curls sticking to his forehead just slightly. The sun-soaked redness on his chest and shoulders has deepened now that his body temperature has risen. He’s gorgeous.

“Oh, fuck. Fuck. God, you’re fucking incredible.” He pants. His thrusts become more desperate. Hard and fast, but not rushed. Bradley’s thumb continues at the same steady pace, working your clit until you’re gasping for air. He watches, mesmerised. Your chest heaves, tits rising and falling with each breath. Your eyes are screwed shut, lips parted, moaning. You’re pressing your nails into his thigh.

He has to close his eyes. He pants hard, trying to ground himself.

Your walls clench around him, squeezing his cock. He whimpers, leaning forwards and pressing his chest firmly to yours. You grab the back of his neck to keep him against you, shivering from the unfaltering stimulation. Rooster slips an arm under your back, pulling you tight against his body. He manages a few more hard thrusts before he’s faltering, moaning against the crook of your neck as he fills the condom.

Bradley rolls off to lay at your side, breathing hard.

“Christ.” He mutters, letting out a contented sigh. He reaches out and grabs your arm, tugging hard. You hit his chest, brows furrowing as your cheek smushes up against his pec. He wraps both arms around you and rests his head on top of yours.

“Oh, um…” You’re trying to pretend you aren’t trembling. You haven’t had an orgasm like that in a while. “I don’t… I-I’m not a huge cuddler.”

Rooster lifts his head as you wriggle out of his arms. His brows furrow slightly. You can tell he’s disappointed by that revelation. You stare at him. “Huh. I love cuddling.” He explains.

You nod, pushing yourself up until you’re sitting. You look across at the person laying in your bed. He’s stretching his arms up above his head, eyes squeezed shut. He relaxes again with a sigh and turns his head to look at you.

He smiles sweetly. Like he didn’t just rail you.

You smooth down your hair a little and then move to stand up. This was a mistake.

Rooster catches his breath first. He doesn’t seem to notice your inner turmoil. He takes the condom off carefully and ties it, “Do you have a trash can?”

“There’s one in the bathroom.”

When he returns, you’re back in your dress, scraping your hair back into a makeshift ponytail. He leans against the doorframe to your bathroom, clearly not ashamed that he’s severely underdressed.

“Look, Bradley,” You reach up and scratch at the back of your neck nervously. He’s naked in front of you, watching you shift awkwardly on your feet. There’s no easy way to say this, and you’re a little out of practice. “This… was fun. But-“

He nods his head, moving his hand to cover his modesty.

“Sure. Got it. Our secret.” He agrees, nodding his head.

You nod, ready to agree with him, then pause. Your mouth opens and closes again. Then, you sigh. “Well, yes. But - also, this can’t happen again. You know that, right?”

He fights back the urge to smile. He nods his head seriously.

“Oh. Sure, that’s okay.” He has a feeling you’ll warm up to the idea, especially as you get to know him better. He swallows, then looks down pointedly. You realise his boxers are on the floor beside your foot.

You crouch and pick them up, handing them to him quickly. You watch as he steps into them and adjusts himself, then grabs his shorts to do the same. He fixes his hair, running his fingers through it and shaking to spring it back into its usual style.

“Alright. Um… I’ll see you on Monday.” Rooster decides. “I know the way out, I’ll just grab my, uh, my shirt and stuff first.”

It’s awkward already. You nod nervously. You hope that this tension doesn’t carry over into the classroom - or worse, into the air. You’re scolding yourself right up to the point that you hear the front door close behind him. What the fuck was that?

You stand alone in your room and press a hand over your mouth. Holy shit. Monday is not going to be easy.

…

Tag List:

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#bradley rooster bradshaw #bradley bradshaw #miles teller #bradley bradshaw smut #rooster x you #rooster bradshaw imagine #top gun smut

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yelenasdiary · 1 year

Text

Different Kind of Love || Part V

Pairing: CEO! MobBoss! Natasha Romanoff x Assistant! Reader (Platonic)

Summary: Working for Natasha was never easy and being a low-level assistant for the CEO wasn’t where you thought you’d be after working your hardest for 2 years. After catching you in tears on Christmas Eve, Natasha’s cold ways start to warm up.

Notes: Dylan’s dialog is meant to sound like how a 5-year-old would talk and his nickname is Dyl and not a misspell.

Different Kind of Love Masterlist

"I'm not sure" Natasha replied looked directly into your eyes, "I'm going to see him to the police, will you be okay?" she adds as a slight frown forms on your face, "Mhm" you nod before she's out the door, closing it behind her. "You will pay for this!" Kane scoffs at Natasha as she politely guides him to the elevator while the entire office as their eyes on the pair of them, "Save it for the police" she hushes him before pressing the number 3 button.

"You won't get away with this! how the fuck are you a lawyer?! You lit-"

Natasha cuts Kane off by slamming him to the wall, her right hand tightly wrapped around his throat, "You're foolish if you think Y/n will ever believe a word you just told her! You brought this upon yourself and this time, you won't be seeing the light of day!" She tightens her grip with every word just as the elevator doors open, she throws him to the floor as Bucky comes around the corner.

"Who cut him free?" Natasha asked, glaring at Bucky.

"Nobody!" Kane coughs as he catches his breath, "I did it myself" he adds.

"I didn't ask you!" Natasha delivers a harsh kick to Kane's ribs causing him to whine in pain, "take him back and keep a fucking eye on him, can you do that?" she looks up at Bucky who nods, "and find who cut the prick free" she adds.

Natasha returned to your office with a look of worry, "are you okay?" she asks softly. "No, I'm not" you mutter, "I don't know what's going on but Kane seemed really sure about blaming you for kidnapping him? He said that I asked you to do th-"

"Hey, hey" she walks over to you, "he's just trying to get into your head. I'm sure he's lawyers told him I'm representing you in the case. You know I wouldn't do something so stupid" she tries to assure you, but her words aren't enough to convince you.

"His hand was bandaged and you" you took a step back from your boss, "you take off randomly" you add.

"Y/n, listen to me. Kane wants me off this case, he wants to make you out to be a bad mother, these are just stories he's coming up with. He's already in enough trouble for breaking the order in place. This is what he wants from you, to be second guessing and worried"

Natasha's words now made more sense as you took a moment to think about everything that had just happened, "I'm sorry" you sigh in relief. "You don't have to apologise, how about you and Dylan go home as soon as he gets here? It's been a tough day" your boss offers.

"Thanks" you smile softly as you feel yourself start to calm down, "if Kane's in custody, I think Dylan and I should go back home, I don't want to keep throwing him out of routine" you start to tidy your desk as Dylan should be arriving within in the next 10 minutes, "thank you for letting us stay with you and for helping" you add.

"Will you stop thanking me? You're m-" Natasha pauses for a moment as you look up at her, "go on" you coached.

"You're my" she paused again as if the words were starting to make her choke, "you're my f-"she tries once more. "Friend?" you ask with a raised brow, "Yes" she answers quietly with a light nod. A warm smile tugs proudly at your lips, "why are you smiling like that?" Natasha almost seems disgusted.

"Because I think it's sweet that the not so cold hearted and very threating boss considers me her friend"

"Don't make a big deal out of it, the others will get jealous"

"Your secret is safe with me, bestie" you could tell the term made Natasha cringe. "J-just call me if you need anything, please" Nat is quick to excuse herself.

----

Even though Natasha made sense with Kane trying to make you out to be a bad mother, it still didn't stop your mind from wondering why she had a phone locked away or why she did take sudden trips and you weren't exactly sure that being a lawyer and whatever family business the woman had was enough to pay for things you'd seen.

"Mommy, you're not watching!" Dylan pouts as you look up from the laptop, "sorry darling, I'm just doing something for work" you smile softly at your son. Your laptop screen showing the google search results for the hour glass keychain you saw on the maids set of keys. "But you promised" Dylan crossed his small arms over his chest, you did, you had promised the two of you would have a movie night with popcorn and no distractions.

"You're right, I'm sorry" you reply, closing the lid of your laptop and turning your full attention to the movie Dylan picked. "So is that Mater?" you asked pointing to the red car on the TV. Dylan giggles and shakes his head, "no mommy that's lightening mcqueen!!" He corrects you before you pull him close to you and pull the throw blanket over you both. Just hearing him laugh was enough to stop your worries for the evening.

As always, Dylan was fast asleep just before the movie came to an end. Popcorn crumps sprinkled on his top reminding you to make sure he brushes his teeth first thing in the morning. Carefully you carry him to his bed, tucking him in with a soft kiss on his forehead before taking a moment to admire the little human that you would do anything for, even if it meant spending some time apart.

It wasn't an idea you loved but with everything going on, all you wanted was Dylan to be safe. You sat with the idea for a while as you slowly sipped your way through a nice hot tea. To ask your parents to have Dylan until the court case was over or to hope Kane would stay in police custody until then. You knew Natasha would have you and Dylan back in her condo if you'd asked but you had questions and even though it was none of your business truly, it still made you start to question Natasha's private life.

"Y/n? is that you?" Your mothers soft voice came through your phone making you smile instantly at her voice, "Hi mum" you replied.

"Oh my god, it is you! Darling is everything okay? We haven't heard anything in a while, we assumed you had to move again, how's Dylan? How are you?" Her questions came flying at you without giving you a split second to think.

"A lot has been going on, I hope I'm not calling too late"

"Of course not darling, your father is just getting in from poker night" she chuckles lightly, oh how you miss them, "what's going on sweetheart?" she asks.

"Can you put me on speaker? I need to ask you guys something"

"Sure, George honey!" your mother calls for your father, "how do I put this on speaker phone?"

"Why do you want it on speaker? I don't want to hear about the town gossip" you hear your father mumble as he comes closer to the phone, "just do it would you" your mother sighs. Nothing has changed, they still argue as they did when you were living with them. "There, it's on speaker" your father says, "tell Brenda that John owes me a case of beer for tonight" he adds.

"It's not Brenda, it's Y/n" your mother corrects. "Hi dad" you smile softly to yourself.

"Well, I'll be damned! Is that my little girl?" Hearing your father call you his little girl once again almost made you tear, "She has something to ask us, go on honey, what is it?" Your mother speaks.

"It's a long story, something I'd rather tell you both in person but I was wondering if you both would take Dylan for a while? It wouldn't be for long, it's just I ne-"

"Of course, we will, you know we'll do anything for you both. What's going on? are you both okay? Do you have to move again? Please honey, we're just worried about you both" Your mother's worried town starts to break your heart, you hated so much that you left them behind.

"He found us again" you sighed.

"I wish you would've let me rip his head off when I had the chance!" you heard your father scoff, "But" you add before another word was mentioned, "My boss, Miss Romanova, she's a lawyer and damn good one. I've been working for her since we moved to New York and she knows about Kane and the whole situation" you explain

"A lawyer? Now I'm just getting more worried, Y/n"

"Mum, please, it's okay" you assure her, "Kane just wants custody of Dylan but Miss Romanova says we have a good case against him, I gave a statement to the police today about….you know and uhm, we put a restraining order in place"

"I wish you would've done this years ago when you had the chance instead of running off like you did" your father's tone is full of hurt, a hurt you caused. "I know dad, I'm sorry…I was scared but I promise this time is different, I just, I need Dylan to be safe… Kane is worse than I thought"

"Nothing was ever good about that boy" your mother mutters like you wouldn't hear, "Does this mean you're taking him to court?" she asks.

"Yeah, Miss Romanova won't let me pay for her services, I just want Dylan away from all this until it's over" you explained just as you heard a knock on your door, "guys, I'll call you back, somebody is at my door, I love you" you added quickly before pressing the red button on your screen.

The knock came again, this time louder. "I'm coming, gez!" you mumbled to yourself as you walked up to the door and looked through the peep hole. "Who are you?" you asked, making sure the door was locked. "Oh, I'm a friend of uhm, Romanova's" the mans voice sounded familiar but not somebody you could remember.

"She doesn't live here, go away"

"Come on, Y/n, we used to be great friends and I think you're going to want to open that door" the man spoke sternly, the smell of cigarette made its way under your door but still you couldn't make out who he was by the small hole you were looking through.

"Please leave before I call the police" you say as you pull up Natasha's number on your phone.

"Don't make me break down the fucking door, I just need to talk about Kane and the things you're saying" you stopped your actions and looked up at the door with a frown, "you know Kane?" you question but got no answer. The loud shot of a gun being fired caused you to jump back from the door.

Before you could even make a run for Dylan the man you now had better view of kicked the door open and smirked at you, "Remember me? Darling" he chuckled making your stomach turn, "What do you want?! Please, just go away!" You begged as he stepped towards you, the commotion waking Dylan. "Kane mention you were telling stories about what happened that night, I'm just here to remind you of the truth" Matt spoke with every step he took close to you as you backed yourself into the wall, your eyes traveled to Dylan who stood in the doorway of his room.

"Kane is in custody, and I've alerted the police!" you spat giving Dylan a quick shake of your head to tell him to stay where he was. "You really are stupid, aren't you? Just like that wonderful night, tell all of us how much you wanted it" Matt comes to a stop, a little to close to you. "Please, just leave me alone!" You begged unsure what was going to happen, Matt chuckled once more at your begging, "come with me without making a scene and you'll be okay"

"Matt, I'm not going with you!" you said, making sure to say his name, "don't make this harder than it has to be" Matt replied brushing a lock of hair out of your face as your jaw clenches at his actions, "so pretty, you haven't changed a single bit" he runs his tongue over his lips, "it's a pity you had my boss torture Kane, otherwise I wouldn't be here. I'm surprised she ate up your lies"

"Leave my mommy alone!" Dylan runs up behind Matt doing his best to punch the taller man wherever he could get his little fists on. "This must be little Dylan" Matt smirks at you before he turns around to look down at Dylan.

"Leave him alone, Matt!"

"Maybe I'll just take you huh?" He slightly pushes Dylan to the side, "do you want to come on a little holiday?" he asks your son. "Fine! I'll go with you but leave him alone!" You step in front of Dylan with your eyes glued to Matt as his smirk only makes you want to be sick. "Good girl lets go" he grabs your arm.

"Wait! Let me just put him back to bed, please"

Matt groaned, "no, he'll be fine. I don't have time to waste, let's go!" He tugs at your arm. "Dylan, honey, go to your room, okay? I'll be soon, I promise" you say as Matt drags you with him, his grip on your arm was sure to leave a bruise. Dylan's eyes filled with tears as be begged for you to stay with him, "it's okay baby, I'll be back, okay?" was the last he heard of you as Matt dragged you out of the apartment.

#natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff #marvel #fanfiction #black widow

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bordysbae · 1 year

Note

“He’s my ex, we broke up for a reason” for Ethan

i decided to combine these requests! hopefully that’s okay with both of the anons who requested these, i’m so sorry if that’s not what you wanted :)

“m&ms”

ethan edwards x reader

please read this: i do not know much about type 1 diabetes, so if ANY of the info in this story is incorrect, PLEASE let me know so i can fix it to be correct! <3 UPDATE: i changed part of the story (a small small bit, might even go unnoticed to some re-readers) due to some incorrect info on diabetes!

word count: 1.0k

it’s been 2 months since you and ethan broke up, and you’re finally okay enough to start going out again. ethan broke up with you out of nowhere, and it seriously broke you.

for the first month after the breakup you avoided anywhere and anyone that could possibly lead you to even a glance of him, but you’re finally branching out, and going to a party. you’re really only going since majority of your friends, who happen to be ethan’s teammates, wouldn’t stop begging you to come. but you’re actually excited, who cares if you see ethan? it’s time you show him what he missed out on.

“does this shirt make me look like a slut?” your roomate ella asks you. “no not at all, it makes you look really good!” you smile, looking her up and down. “okay good, luca is gonna be there” she smirks. “you and luca need to get together already jesus, i cant keep dealing with having to leave the apartment every time he’s coming over at like 10:30” you roll your eyes playfully. “well, we both know where you used to go when luca came over. speaking of which, is he gonna be there tonight?” ella asks, obviously talking about ethan. “i don’t know and i don’t care. he’s my ex, we broke up for a reason.” “yeah, a reason which you still don’t know of. you guys at least need to talk about it” “yeah yeah whatever” you say as you put your hoop earrings in your ears.

you both arrive at the frat house filled with the smell of cheap cologne, sweat, and alcohol. “hey y/n! i’m glad you made it!” dylan calls out as you shuffle around the already drunk crowd. “hey duker!” “oh hey ella! luca was wondering if you were coming, i last saw him in the kitchen.” “oh shush dylan, don’t tell her that. you’re just boosting her ego even more” you chuckle, earning a soft shove from her. “i’m gonna go find him and maybe grab a drink too, you okay to stay with dylan?” ella asks you, and you nod as an answer before she slips away into the crowd. “so um, is he..”“yeah, he’s here.” dylan says giving you a small pitiful smile. “don’t give me that pity smile dylan, i’m done with all of the pity everyone’s given me these last couple months. i’m over him.” you say. “i know i believe you, but you haven’t seen him since he ended things” “so? what has he changed or something?” “well no..” “exactly dylan, so it’s fine” “you’re right sorry” he says meaningfully, understanding of your attitude. that’s what you loved about dylan, he was the only one who always understood your feelings and never blamed you for distancing yourself from everyone completely. “THERE SHE IS! the myth and the legend!” you hear luke shout as he wraps his arm around your shoulder. “hey luke!” you smile. “cmon i gotta get another white claw, the cooler is outside” he says as he leads you outside, dylan following at your guys’ side.

you greet some of your other friends on the way to the porch, dylan and luke greeting people on the way as well. you get outside and there’s barely anyone there, so you finally get the slightest bit of quiet from the loud blaring music inside. as luke and dylan are trying to find good white claw flavors, out of nowhere your head begins to feel empty, and your hands start to shake slightly. you feel a little dizzy, and grab onto the wall as you begin to feel your legs getting weaker. “y/n? what’s going on?! are you okay? dylan help her up!” luke calls out, as they both rush over to help you stand up straight. “shit, i know what this means, she’s low. go get ethan, he knows exactly what to do!” hearing his name brings you back to reality, “what?! no no no please don’t get ethan!” you cry out. “luke don’t listen to her, go get him!” dylan yells as luke rushes inside to go find your ex-boyfriend.

your head is still spiraling and your now sitting against the wall, as ethan comes rushing outside. “y/n, here eat this!” he says as he shuffles through his pockets. you look at him with a confused face, as he pulls out a small fun-sized bag of m&ms from his wallet, your favorite candy. “ethan why do you-“ “shhh, we can talk about this after you’re stable, eat them.” he says, handing you the bag. after a few minutes, your blood sugar is back to normal and you now realize that it’s just you and ethan outside. ethan sighs and sits down next to you, fiddling with his fingers. after a few moments of silence, you break it. “ethan, why do you still keep m&ms in your wallet?” you ask softly. “just incase you ever need them.” “but i haven’t seen you in two months, there’s no need to keep them there. don’t they get stale?” “i switch them out every few weeks, just incase i ever run into you again” he admits, looking up from his lap and turning his head to you before starting up again, “it became a ritual for me when we were dating, and i just kept it going. i still care about you y/n, so so much.” he sighs.

“why did you break up with me?” you ask, afraid of what he’s going to say. “because i was scared. the draft was coming up and i wasn’t giving you the attention you deserved, so i got scared you’d leave me, so i ended things first. i regretted it more than anything but you shut yourself away, and i knew it wasn’t my place to barge in and beg for you back. but never in those two dreadful months have i not thought about you, y/n.” “i miss you too, e.” you admit. “i miss you so much more” he says, entangling your guys’ hands together. “can i kiss you?” he asks you softly, brushing a piece of your hair behind your ear. “absolutely” you say, as you both lean in.

#ethan edwards #ethan edwards imagine #ethan edwards x reader #ethan edwards blurb #hockey blurb #michigan hockey #hockey imagine #umich hockey #luke hughes #dylan duke #ethan edwards x diabetic

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ggblasts · 1 year

Note

I don't know whether to ship Mary with a bad boy, aka Riker or a good guy, aka Tucker.

First off, if you’re going to try to ship people, at least spell their name right. It’s Ryker, not Riker. Second off Ryker and Tucker have never been in a committed relationship. At least not from what I can tell. She’s better off going for someone like Roxanne, Dylan, Evelyn or Erin.

@rykermaddoxxo @tuckerzbanks @marryy-bowderxoxo @roxannelong @dylanrjackson @evelynxsimmsx @erinxlane

#ggpost #ryker m #tucker b #mary b #roxanne l #dylan j #evelyn s #erin l #answered #Anonymous

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hopelessrromantix · 2 years

Text

The Jackal and The Bird | 1

chapter summary: In which Y/n and Steven have very different interpretations of the same day. Aka: Steven wonders why on Earth an attractive man is talking to him of all people and Y/n doesn't remember his husband being this shy. Or British.

a/n: long chapter! i had work, so no beta akdjdf 4,972 words

(t/w): m/m, cursing

for m/nblm, no fem aligned

masterlist

Two Side of the Same Coin

Steven was late yet again, had gotten called both ‘Scotty’ and ‘Stevie’, yet again, and got yelled at by Donna, yet again.

She’d put him on inventory the next day, so he’d be staying far later than he liked. But, for now, he could admire the Egyptian exhibit.

The staff was supposed to meet the curator that morning, but he’d completely missed the meeting. He’d probably have the chance to meet him later, maybe pick his brain with questions about his collection. God he’d love to do that.

Among other weird things that day, he’d apparently gotten asked out by Dylan. Though, according to her, he wanted her to go to a steakhouse. He couldn’t think of why he’d want to go there (nor why he wouldn’t remember asking), but she seemed completely certain.

Dylan was pretty, sure, but he’d never had much of a crush on her. But what was he supposed to do, say no? I mean, he couldn’t say no, could he? Was that an option?

He shook his head, breaking out of his thoughts as he rang up a group of kids on a field trip. They were all excitedly talking about their trip, snatching whatever candy they could get with the money their parents had given them.

Once the last one walked away, his eyes fell on a man across the room. He was handsome, that was certain. He wore a suit, perfectly pressed and clearly expensive. But the thing that truly got Steven’s attention was how the man looked at him.

It was an emotion Steven couldn’t recognize. He hadn’t seen it on anyone before. The way his eyes lit up like he’d seen color for the first time. He tried not to stare at the man too long, but he couldn’t help himself.

He suddenly felt a bit self-conscious about his appearance. He was sure his hair was messy and his eyebags were much more visible than he would like. He didn’t think he was ugly, per say, but he didn’t think of himself as the most good-looking person either.

As far as he was concerned, that title belonged to the man currently walking over to the shop.

The second you approached he had struggled to decide on what to say. He eventually landed on “Um, hello! Can I help you?” He almost slapped himself for how nervous he sounded.

“Steven, hm?” You questioned, your voice sending a shiver down his spine. He liked the way you said his name.

“Yup! That’s me! Just Steven. With a V.” He said awkwardly, cursing himself for accidentally rhyming. You were going to think he was some idiot.

Oddly enough, you only smiled, as if you were amused by his obvious mistakes. It wasn’t really the outcome he’d been expecting. You chuckled lightly, a sound he decided he liked very much.

“I’m Y/n, Steven with a V.” You stuck out a hand and Steven nodded. Glancing down at your hand before remembering he actually had to shake it. Yet again, you only seemed amused by his dumb moves while he was about ready to slam his head into a wall.

He remembered that name, though. Y/n.

It only took him a moment to realize you were the curator. The same one he was dying to talk to. You seemed less intimidating with a charming smile on your face, but Steven was thankful for the lack of pressure.

“You’re the curator, right?” He questioned. “I mean, you watch all this stuff, yeah?” His eyes widened slightly. Though he knew the answer was yes, he couldn’t shake the anticipation of drilling you for everything you knew about the artifacts in the gallery.

“Not just watch, technically,” You said, shrugging. “Just about everything here is part of my collection.”

You said it so nonchalantly. Like you hadn’t just confessed to owning more history than most people would know what to do with. He hadn’t even noticed that he mouth was hanging open until you chuckled again.

“Sorry, your collection?! You mean you’ve got all this to yourself?!” He felt a bit of jealousy spark into his mind, but it faded rather quickly. “You must be bloody loaded-”

His hand snapped over his face. He didn’t mean to say that out loud.

Thankfully, you seemed to find it funny rather than rude.

“That’s certainly one way to put it.”

“I really didn’t mean to say that, I’m so sorry.” You waved him off, reassuring him ever so slightly.

“No worries, Steven.” He nodded. “You seem surprised though. You into Egyptology?”

You couldn’t have asked a better question.

He nodded fervently, “Am I ever! I mean, this whole exhibit is insane! Some of the stuff you’re managed to show off here, it’s bloody amazing!” Your head tilted slightly at him, and he assumed you wanted him to continue.

“You’ve got material about the whole Ennead, and I don’t think I’ve seen so much text about Anubis in a museum before! Even found some about Taweret and Set. Not a combo you see often. I mean, stuff about Set is fairly common, and Taweret is a protector, but I hardly see the two of them together, you know? Not many myths include evil and the protector of children.”

You smiled softly as he spoke, before he suddenly realized that the damn curator of the exhibit probably knows that already.

“Sorry,” He rushed. “You probably know all that. It’s your stuff after all, right?” He tried joking, unsure if it worked.

“Perhaps, but I liked hearing you talk about it.”

His jaw fell open slightly. He knew he had to say something though, so he shook out of his stunned state in a few seconds. “I uh… not many people say that.”

“I wouldn’t mind hearing you talk about it more.” Your words confused him, but also excited him. It wasn’t often people were interested in his busied ramblings. “Maybe you’ll tell me something I don’t know.”

He doubted he could do that, but he’d be willing to try.

“Really?” He questioned. “You don’t have to or anything, not like I could leave here anyway.” He gestured to the giftshop’s counter.

“You could always come over tonight?”

If you didn’t shock him already, that would’ve been the final straw. He didn’t have handsome men asking him over very often, much less ones who wanted to hear about his interests.

Frankly, he had no idea what to say.

“Just dinner and talking,” You reassured. “We could order something nice, hm?”

He found his head nodding without his permission.

He couldn’t say no, right? That might be rude. Plus, he wouldn’t complain about spending his time with someone like you.

You nodded, taking out a card and scribbling down a number. You handed it to him and he took it, completely running on autopilot.

“I’ll find you at the end of your shift. You can pick the restaurant if you like.”

“Yeah, I just, yeah!” He said, blurting out the words that had been completely stuck in his throat. He’d never really gone home with a man he just met. But you said dinner and talking. That’s it. If you tried anything he could always just leave. Not that he’d really complain if you did.

You’d woken up on time, as usual, and gotten ready quickly. You chatted idly with Anubis, catching up on whatever the gods were complaining about now. Though he wasn’t technically part of the main Ennead, as the god of death and a friend of Osiris, the head of the gods complained to him rather often.

You’d driven to the museum in a new car, one you’d picked out just a few days ago. However pretentious it sounded, you just couldn’t stand on buses anymore. Those things were horrible, in your opinion.

You got to the National Gallery an hour early, greeting the few people you saw along the way.

Seeing your collection spread out for the public was somewhat nice. Like you got to share a piece of yourself with everyone.

You’d met with the employees that were there, telling them a bit about yourself and your collection. As per usual, there were plenty of questions, but you answered each of them with ease.

You’d gone to your small office in the back of the staff area, looking over the pile of paperwork you had yet to complete. Thankfully, you had plenty of time to do so, and you planned to do it tomorrow. You could hate your procrastination later, for now, you wanted to see how everyone was doing.

Stepping out of the staff hall, you immediately looked over to the gift shop, wanting to look at whatever trinkets they’d decided to sell.

Nothing about it looked particularly interesting until you looked at the gift-shopist.

In all honesty, you’d almost completely ignored him.

It couldn’t be him, right?

After going missing for months, there’s no way in hell he’s just… working at some London gift shop. It wasn’t far from Layla’s old apartment, sure she’d say something if she’d seen him?

Had he been here the whole time? Trying to live a ‘normal’ life without you?

Granted, you’d never told him you were an avatar, much less a demigod. Maybe he found out and was angry with you? Maybe he wanted to get away from you.

Marc was always one to run. He didn’t say it out loud, but he liked to avoid his problems as long as he could. It usually meant you had to annoy him until he’d tell you he was angry.

But he wouldn’t just run without saying anything… right?

You’d never sensed Marc die. You asked Anubis plenty of times and every time he insisted Marc was still alive.

You weren’t sure when you’d see him next. And now, he’s standing in the middle of a gift shop? This was the last thing you expected.

You cleared your throat, looking away quickly. He was nervously glancing at your figure, trying not to stare for too long. You weren’t certain how long you’d been looking, but you could hear Anubis chuckling next to you.

You shot him a glare as he sat atop a glass case, but tried not to make it obvious. The last thing you needed was people thinking the curator was insane.

You weren’t sure what to do, honestly. You could go up and talk to Marc. Maybe this was some attempt at a secret identity, and if it was, you might blow whatever cover he needed to have.

You sighed, eventually deciding that if this was an identity, you could help him fix it if you ruined anything.

Once the group of school kids had left the gift shop area, you approached, staring at him softly.

You could tell he hadn’t slept. His eyes carried heavy bags and his hair was messier than usual. You had to keep yourself from reaching out and cupping his face. You were suddenly trying to think of ways you could get him off this shift and take him home.

“Um, hello! Can I help you?”

The accent threw you off for a moment. So this really was an identity.

You glanced down at the name tag, “Steven”.

For now, you’d play along. Just until you could get somewhere away from prying eyes. It looked like he was running from something again.

“Steven, hm?” You questioned, leaning on the glass counter. Marc blushed a bit, glancing away from your eyes every few seconds. You had to admit, he was really sticking to his cover.

“Yup! That’s me! Just Steven. With a V.” You chuckled at the nervous persona he was putting on. It was sweet. It felt like it was the first time you met him.

It was a long time ago, maybe longer than you’d like to admit. Back then, Marc had just transferred into your company and you’d been promoted to captain. You’d never admit it, but you were nervous with the new position. Leading troops was a skill of yours, but the new title brought on new pressure.

Marc was tough then. A hardened exterior that took you months to break. That had never changed, really. Though he’d gotten softer over the years, it was only in front of you. He certainly wasn’t the same blushy mess standing in front of you now, but he’d always seemed more nervous with you in the room. You thought it was sweet.

At first, you’d show up just to bug him. It was cute watching a trained killer try not to stumble over his words when talking to you. But pretty soon, you couldn’t justify your constant need to see him with ‘annoying the new kid’.

But now, having him standing in front of you again, it was like you were meeting him all over.

“I’m Y/n, Steven with a V.” You stuck out one hand and he looked down at it for a moment, seeming surprised. A second later, he seemed to realize what you were asking and fervently shook your hand.

“You’re the curator, right? I mean, you watch all this stuff, yeah?” He asked, his eyes lighting up slightly.

“Not just watch, technically. Just about everything in here is part of my collection,” You smirked, watching the way his jaw nearly dropped.

“Sorry, your collection?! You mean you’ve got all this to yourself?! You must be bloody loaded-” He covered his mouth quickly, as if he didn’t mean to say that last part.

You laughed at the gesture. It felt like you were talking to someone new. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say Marc had some long-lost British doppelganger.

“That’s certainly one way to put it,” You smiled at the blush that slowly covered his face.

“I really didn’t mean to say that, I’m so sorry,” He said, rushing out the words.

You waved him off, “No worries, Steven.” You smiled at the nervous nod he gave you. “You seemed surprised though. You into Egyptology?” You knew the answer was no. Sure, he worked for Khonshu, but Marc never had much of an interest in Egypt or its mythos.

“Am I ever! I mean, this whole exhibit is insane! Some of the stuff you’ve managed to show off here, it’s bloody amazing!”

You quirked a brow at the response. That… wasn’t what you expected. Usually you’d get a tired sigh and your husband insisting ‘he gets enough Egypt talk from the dead bird’.

You couldn’t help but find yourself transfixed as he spoke. You’d never seen Marc talk like that, nor had you seen him show much love for Egypt.

“Sorry, you probably know all that. It’s your stuff, after all, right?” He joked, chuckling nervously.

You did as well, smiling. “Perhaps, but I liked hearing you talk about it.”

Steven’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. You didn’t think it was that bold a compliment, was it?

“I uh… not many people say that,” He shrugged. Ah, that’s what it was.

“I wouldn’t mind hearing you talk about it more. Maybe you’ll tell me something I don’t know.” You doubted he would, but you’d listen to him say the same sentence over and over if it meant hearing him talk.

“Really? You don’t have to or anything, not like I could leave here anyway,” He gestured to the gift shop’s counter with a sad smile.

“You could always come over tonight?”

He froze yet again, mouth slightly open. When had Marc gotten so easy to fluster? You weren’t complaining, but it was still odd.

“Just dinner and talking,” You reassured. “We could order something nice, hm?”

Marc’s head nodded, though he still wasn’t saying anything.

You nodded anyway, taking out a business card and a pen from your pocket. You quickly scribbled your personal number on the back, handing it to Marc who took it without a word.

“I’ll find you at the end of your shift. You can pick the restaurant if you like.”

“Yeah, I just, yeah!” He finally said, as if his brain had only just caught up. You gave him a swift nod, about to say something else when you heard a woman’s voice behind you.

“Stop flirting with customers Stevie, you’ve got work to do. You’re bloody useless, I swear.”

You recognized the voice as the museum’s manager, Donna. You weren’t a huge fan of hers. Considering that, as a curator you were well above her in ‘rank’, she acted like far too much of a kiss up for your liking.

She had to have complimented your suit at least four times. Eventually you just got tired of it.

“Can’t be chattering about with the first person that looks at you nice. You’re already on inventory tomorrow, don’t make it next week too.”

Marc sighed. “Right Donna. And it’s Steven. Steven.”

You heard an exasperated sigh from behind you before you finally turned around. Whatever Donna was going to say, she just choked on it.

“Oh, Mr. L/n. Didn’t recognize you there. Should’ve, with a suit like that.”

Five times. She complimented it five times.

“Right,” You said, head tilted as you looked at her, your head tilted. “Do you talk to your subordinates like that very often?” You could practically see the wheels turning in her head, trying to reason a way out of your confrontation. You were just happy you got a reason to tell her off.

“Only when they don’t do their jobs, y’know? You must have plenty of those,” She laughed. You didn’t really see the humor.

“Hm,” You hummed, thinking over your next words. “I’d suggest treating your employees with a bit more respect. In my experience, they tend to be more helpful when they actually like you.”

She stuttered a bit, clearly not knowing how to respond.

“I’ll see you later, Steven,” You said, emphasizing his name as you walked off. Donna didn’t stay by the gift shop, moving on almost immediately.

Steven uttered a quiet “cheers”, before you walked out of range.

Steven was practically buzzing when his shift finally ended. It was late afternoon and finally he could put down his name tag and get some food with the nice man who started talking to him.

“Don’t you do it, Steven.”

Steven’s eyebrows furrowed as he turned around, ready to question whoever was whispering to him. Only, no one was there.

The gift shop was devoid of life, save for him. Even his reflection looked unamused.

“Hello?” He questioned aloud, spinning back and forth, looking for anyone who might’ve said that. The only thing even remotely person shaped was the picture of a sarcophagus on the wall.

Giving up on the mystery voice, he headed toward the employee lockers, grabbing the small bag he’d taken with him to work. It didn’t contain much more than his ID and some loose change, but he lugged it around anyway.

“Don’t you dare go with him.”

He turned around quickly, this time with much more force than before. But he was met with an empty locker room. The only items being left over bags and one tour guide's open locker, including her impressive collection of make-up and mirrors. At least she valued her looks?

For a moment, he swore his reflection glared at him, but a closer look revealed a completely intact mirror. He huffed, dragging a calloused hand down his face.

“I need more sleep, swear to god,” He muttered, walking out of the room and ignoring the supposed voices.

Almost a second later, Y/n’s office door swung open, the man stepping into the hallway and sighing. A moment later, he spotted Steven, who was currently rooted to the spot.

Should he say something first? It’s not often he accepted dates with nice men who stood up to his annoying boss.

Was this even a date?! There’s no way a man looking like that would ever go out with him. Maybe Y/n just wanted to get to know his coworkers. But he hadn’t asked anyone else, had he?

“Steven, you alright there?” You asked, tilting your head in concern. Steven shook himself out of his thoughts, dragging himself back into the conversation.

“Fine! Peachy! Right as rain,” he sputtered, mentally kicking himself for speaking like that. Thankfully, you seemed to find it amusing instead of annoying.

“C’mon, we can head out the back. I’ve got my car here. Did you drive?” You asked, walking toward the employee exit. Steven shook his head, looking around the hallway. He wasn’t entirely sure where to focus his eyes, so he decided to trace the walls he’s seen a thousand times by now.

The air outside was much better than the stuffy museum. Despite the AC pumping through it, the building always felt cramped.

You lead Steven to your car, though the older man still didn’t know what to say. He didn’t think the silence was awkward, but he wasn’t sure if he should fill it. We’re you waiting for him to talk? Did you want it to be quiet?

You opened the door for him, allowing him to slide into the passenger seat. He gave a rushed ‘thanks’, not expecting you to hold it open for him.

It was only a second later when you sat down in the driver’s seat that the look on your face completely changed.

The soft smile you wore dropped into something much more severe, and Steven was about to ask what he did wrong before you spoke.

The pile of paperwork on your desk didn’t seem to be getting smaller. No matter how many pages you signed off on or documents you put aside, it seemed just as big as when you started.

You gave a heavy, tired sigh, leaning back in your chair. You looked over to the clock on your wall. Thankfully, it was about time for you to go home. Marc’s shift was also ending soon, and the second you dragged him into your car you could finally figure out what all this was about.

Maybe that’s why your paperwork wasn’t getting done. You couldn’t stop thinking about Marc.

What was he doing at a museum? Hell, what was he doing in England?! Layla’s old apartment was less than a half hour away. Sure, she didn’t live there right now, but he didn’t even check?

Did he even want anything to do with you anymore? You’d always been understanding with his business as an avatar, and it’s not like he could get you hurt anyway. Most weaponry couldn’t pierce your skin, and even if it could you could heal faster than it would take to hurt you. Not that Marc knew that.

Maybe he found out.

Maybe he found out about you and Anubis. Maybe he knew about your father. Most people weren’t a huge fan of evil incarnate. Maybe he thought you were just like your father.

Most gods were confined to their godly form. You on the other hand, had the gift of turning human. It was much… smaller… than your other form, but it was one you’d gotten far too used to.

Despite all the questions about Marc finding out your secrets, there was only one question your really cared about.

Did he even want you anymore?

If you were able to fix everything, to get on your knees and beg for him to accept your apology, would he even love you?

You’d lied to him and he’d disappeared. As much as you wanted to be mad, you were pretty much even now.

But what if he didn’t even want you back?

“Don’t let yourself drift, Y/n.”

Anubis’ voice rang out through your small office, the deep sound bouncing off the walls. It wasn’t a particularly large room, but it was enough for a bit of an echo.

“He’s been hiding from me all this time.”

The god sighed. He sat across from you in one of the chair in front of your desk. It was too small for his body, though he managed to fit.

“You do not know why, nor do you know why he was acting strangely. Do not drift into your thoughts until you know his reasoning, old friend.”

He was right, as usual.

“Do you think he’ll still want to be married?”

You knew the likely answer.

You’d seen the divorce papers. Sure, he hadn’t formally handed them to you, but you’d found them anyway. Did he still want that?

“I do not know. You will have to ask.”

You knew he was right.

You attempted to calm your mind enough for you to gather your things. Marc would surely be heading back from the gift shop any moment.

You left your papers openly on your desk, grabbing the small satchel your brought to work.

Walking past Anubis, you slid out of your door and locked it with your small key. When you turned back around, you spotted Marc, staring at you with a slightly dumbfounded expression.

“Ah, I was just coming to find you! Thought we could head over to my house and order in. Don’t feel much like cooking,” You chuckled to yourself. Steven didn’t seem to process your question and you looked at him in concern. “Steven, you alright there?” You questioned, taking a few steps toward the man.

He shook himself out of his reverie, “Fine! Peachy! Right as rain,” He answered quickly, surprising you. The accent threw you off again. Honestly, it wasn’t half bad.

You smiled at his expression. It was a bit dorky, more like he was trying to figure out what to say. He was more nervous than before you were dating.

“C’mon, we can head out the back. I’ve got my car here. Did you drive?” You smiled softly at him, watching the way his hair bounced when his head shook.

The London air hitting your skin was strangely refreshing. It was cloudly, (when was it not) and the air was definitely more stuffy than most places you visited, but it was nicer than the recycled air of the museum.

You opened the door for 'Steven', who looked rather surprised, giving you a soft ‘thanks’. You weren’t sure why he wasn’t expecting it, you’d done it plenty of times with Marc.

But the second you sat down in the driver's seat, you couldn't resist asking.

The small smile you’d had just a minute ago dropped quickly, the humor fading from your faced. Steven looked surprised, nervously glancing around as if he could find the source of your discomfort.

“Okay, enough of this,” You said. “What’s going on?” It was a bit direct, but you didn’t really feel like beating around the bush.

“What?” He asked, eyebrows furrowed. “You said we’re going to yours, right? Were you joking or something? If you wanna go to mine, it’s a bit of a mess right now, but I could tidy up if you give me a minute.”

You slammed your hands down on the wheel, watching the way Marc jumped. Loud noises still bothered him that much? As far as you knew, he was doing fine with them.

You settled down anyway, resorting to gripping the steering wheel.

Why was he still using that accent?!

“Stop talking like that, Marc. Just talk to me. Don’t mock me right now, okay?” You asked, your voice breaking slightly despite your attempts to keep it sturdy.

“I’m sorry, did I do something?”

He asked you so genuinely that you were confused. He looked sorry. Like actually sorry.

“His mind is fractured.”

The large god sat in the back of your car, staff at an angle and head bent down.

“And your car is far too small,” He huffed, trying to shift into a more comfortable position. You’d laugh or help him usually, but you couldn’t bring yourself to do it.

You didn’t turn or make any indication you heard him, but Anubis knew you were listening.

“I can feel it, the split within his head. You are not speaking to your husband.”

That got you to turn back, trying to ask the god what the hell he meant, but he was gone by the time you did.

You weren’t speaking to Marc.

Surely this was him, right? No one looks that identical, and Marc sure as hell didn’t have a secret British twin.

“Sorry, Steven. You didn’t do anything, I just got in my own head for a moment, don’t mind me much,” You said chuckling, trying to play it off. Steven looked confused, but nodded.

“Don’t worry, couldn’t be as bonkers as me. I sleep all weird, ending up sleep walking myself half across my room,” He chuckled. He seemed to regret saying that after, but didn’t move to correct himself.

“Sleeping walking isn’t that bad, done it myself a few times,” You shrugged, starting up your car.

“Not like me,” He said, half-heartedly. You would’ve asked about it, but it was clearly a sore subject.

Instead, you pulled out of the parking lot, changing the idle conversation to whatever you came up with. Occasionally you’d spot Anubis following you on buildings, giving you a golden toothed smile at you (strangely) rekindling your relationship.

And no matter how you gripped the wheel, you just couldn’t stop the question from entering your head.

“Who is he?”

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