#HE'S SO [incomprehensible hand gestures] | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

perpetuallyconfused10 · 8 months

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Im the one who asked about requests lol, I just have this Hotch thought and I can't stop thinking about it 🫂😭

Imagine Garcia "screaming" about a video, telling the whole team about it (except Hotch and Reader), and that video is on tiktok. When they spill something about the video, Hotch and Reader ask which video they're referring to, not knowing it's from a tiktok account where the person makes videos on Hotch x Reader (like edits taken from some interview where they look at each other, slightly touches and things like that) and it's a whole profile with a lot of videos like that! So the whole team teases them and they obviously like eachother!!

Feel free to change anything!!

Gone Viral, Gone Wrong

Thank you to this anon for submitting my first request! I might have written it (and especially Hotch) be a little (way) too sappy, but I love your idea so much and I hope I did it some type of justice! WC: 3.3K

GIF by ssa-aaron-hotch-hotchner

There must be something on your face. Toothpaste, maybe, or coffee on your shirt, or a tear in your trousers. Something to explain the numerous pairs of eyes following you as you dash for the elevator, just as you always do.

This morning’s been one for the books. Between a text from your highschool ex-boyfriend, congratulating you on your ‘newfound fame’ — whatever he means by that, you don’t know — and the incomprehensibly slurred voicemails you woke up to from your sister, you aren’t quite sure what to do with yourself.

You tell yourself you’re probably imagining it. But Anderson doesn’t say a word to you as you both make your way to the BAU, just casts you sidelong glances between the rapid texts he’s sending. You hope to God it’s not you, that he's just having an awful morning, then scold yourself for it. If you’re not off to a good start, at least somebody should be.

It’s the silence in the bullpen that confirms your suspicions. Emily, JJ, and Garcia sit huddled around Emily’s computer, squeezed onto two chairs they’ve pulled together. Morgan leans over them to look at the screen. He’s in the middle of laughing at something Garcia’s said when you walk in.

You don’t even need Reid’s not-so-subtle hiss of “Guys–” to know you’re not going crazy. The smirks that drop from their faces, the giggles that extinguish themselves as you enter through the double doors, are more than enough.

Four profilers and a technical analyst, as it turns out, can be rather terrifying when the force of their stares are directed at you.

A sheepish grin tugs at your lips as you hold up your peace offering: a tray of coffee. “Hi?”

You’ve come to know how the team works. You know exactly how they react when ambushed, how they spring to action like a well-oiled machine.

There’s something a little mechanical to them now, bared in their responses to your arrival. After giving you one of his usual tight-lipped smiles, Reid flips open a random file on his desk and begins to read. JJ grabs the computer mouse, clicks a few times, and turns away from the monitor to greet you. Morgan clocks the drinks in your hands and conjures a grin just a little wider than normal.

“Morning, sunshine,” he says as he plucks the tray from your hands, thanking you with a squeeze to your forearm.

Garcia, eyeing the gesture, nearly chokes on the end of the pen she’s chewing. She stands to usher you over to your desk, her chirpy voice a balm attempting to smooth over what has been a very odd start to your working day.

“What were you guys looking at?” You ask her, eyebrows raised. If anyone’s going to tell you what’s going on, Penelope is, without a doubt, most likely to spill.

You’re disappointed – and even more confused – when she stands her ground. Through her ramble, you just about make out the words “cat” and “spa” before she’s kissing your cheek and speeding away to your lair.

You sigh as you switch on your own computer. One thing is clear. The team doesn’t like to be ambushed. And, somehow, that is exactly what you have done.

—

After finishing off one of your consults, you suffer through a morning briefing that ends up being far more complicated than it needs to be. It’s only a paperwork day, by the looks of things. In theory, this is the ‘easiest’ your job gets; if you’re not called out on an emergency, you can bank on a day of case reports and shitty coffee.

Nothing is ever easy at the BAU, not even now. Everything is out of order. There’s none of the usual idle chatter that precedes a briefing, just a fragile silence. Rossi moves from his normal position to take your place between Reid and JJ. He mutters something about the chair being uncomfortable and shoos you away from your seat. Though you can’t resist the opportunity to call him an old man for his pedantics, you acquiesce and take his spot instead. You find nothing wrong with it.

Then Hotch walks in to start the briefing, and you find about a hundred reasons to curse David Rossi. He’s wearing the gray suit, again, the one he likes pairing with his red tie. That should be a crime in itself. When he takes the only seat available — his usual seat, the one now next to you — you’re almost sure you hear JJ snort. Emily pats her on the back as she conceals it with a very unconvincing cough.

Hotch frowns in your direction, probably mulling over the change in seating plan, then turns his attention to JJ. “Are you alright?”

The blonde clears her throat. “Fine. Thanks, Hotch,” she says.

Garcia rests her elbows on the table, her mouth concealed by the palm of her hand.

Hotch nods, casting another short glance your way. “Good.”

Then he launches into the briefing, and you can almost convince yourself things are perfectly normal, that your face isn’t alight with heat and you’re not avoiding looking at him, that everything is fine. When you’re dismissed, you scurry towards the door fast enough you almost miss it.

“Garcia?” His voice is quiet, his tone soft with something disapproving hiding beneath it. “My office, please.”

Everything is decidedly not fine.

—

By noon, you can’t take it anymore. “Emily Prentiss, what the fuck are you doing?”

The question comes out louder and more harshly than you’d intended. In your peripheral vision, you see Reid’s eyes widen at the desk next to yours. Emily, halfway through a sandwich, freezes.

“I’m sorry?”

The grin fades from her face.

You huff. “You’ve been looking between me and your computer for the last half-hour. What is it? Is there something on my face?” Morgan laughs from the other side of the bullpen, and you raise your voice a little in desperation. “Seriously. Have I done something wrong?”

JJ must have heard the commotion, because she pokes her head out of her office door. She takes one look at you and sighs. “Probably best to get it over with, Em.”

When Emily hesitates, your eyes narrow. “Get what over with?”

She stands and beckons you over to her desk, firing up her computer screen as you settle into her chair. JJ comes down the stairs to join you. Though they don’t move, you can practically feel Morgan and Reid staring at the three of you from across the room.

What you see projected on Emily’s screen doesn’t make things any clearer.

“That’s—” you pause, dumbfounded. “Why are you looking at me and Hotch?”

The picture is easy to place. It must have been taken a few days ago, during a small-town case. Hotch had asked you to deliver a profile to the media when JJ was working on something else. It was far from the first time you’d faced the press head-on during your time at the Bureau, but Hotch had stood by your side anyway.

You’re not sure why she’s chosen this photo, if any, to look at. The wind’s blowing your hair into your face, and you’re midway through changing expressions so it almost looks like you’re in pain.

“Just watch,” Emily says. She presses the spacebar and the picture bursts into action.

—

“—If you believe you have any information that may relate to this case, we’d appreciate you calling the following number…” you say. You proceed to rattle off the number for the tip line JJ’s set up, but only get halfway through before everything derails.

“How do we know this isn’t all just bullshit?”

The voice overpowering yours is weathered, and so is the man who pushes through the crowd of journalists to get close to you and Hotch, whose posture you see straighten in an instant. You watch as the reporters from the city turn to look at the interloper, pens out and waiting, no doubt, for either you or your boss to slip up.

For a long moment, Hotch watches the man, his face twisted in irritation. He merely restates the tip line number and your request for any potential witnesses to come forward.

But the skeptic doesn’t let up. “This guy’s an outsider. Not one of us. Everyone here knows each other, they have done for years—”

“We’re not trying to cause a panic,” you say, your tone even, “We don’t want you all to turn on each other. But the man we’re looking for knows this town. He’s confident finding his way around the forest, even the areas that haven’t been mapped out yet. He knows the shortcuts, which roads are quiet and which are too risky to take. We’re asking you to exercise caution, and to report anything suspicious if you see it.”

“So what? A few pins on a map and you’re convinced it’s one of us?”

Hotch’s jaw tightens. This case has been harder on him than most, and you can sense that he’s on the verge of responding in a way he’ll regret later. You put a hand on his forearm as he raises it to retort, squeezing it gently in the hopes he’ll get the signal you really don’t have the seniority to be sending him: stand down. He takes a deep breath, and you let your hand slide down to meet his wrist, guiding it just a fraction backwards to rest by his side. The contact lasts only a second, maybe two, before you let him be.

When he finally speaks, his voice is measured, his eyes slow to drag themselves from your face. “We’re not here to defend the science behind criminal profiling. Our priorities remain finding the person responsible for these crimes and the safety of this community until we do. If you have any information at all, please don’t hesitate to contact us. We appreciate your cooperation.”

Even the most amateur journalist would know he’s done answering questions. Hotch gives a brief nod, turns and leads you out of the Georgia heat and back into shelter of the precinct. All the time, his hand hovers over your back, his gaze searching for any potential disruptions.

Then there’s his voice, deep and almost inaudible. You feel his breath brush your earlobe. “Thank you.”

—

Oh.

Now you’re looking at it from an outsider’s perspective, you do look a little…cozy with Hotch. Not enough to walk the line of unprofessionalism, but enough for you to notice it.

Emily folds her arms, leans back in her chair. “What’s that about?”

Avoiding her eyes, you shrug. “What’s what about?”

“The canoodling,” JJ says with a smirk, and you slap her arm.

You’re a profiler. You should know your little attempt at denial isn’t going to work, but it doesn’t stop you from trying. “Canoodling? Seriously, Jen? I don’t think anyone under the age of eighty has ever said the word ‘canoodling’.”

You hear Penelope’s kitten heels clacking against the floorboards before you see her. “Doesn’t mean you’re not doing it,” she sings. Her arms wrap around your shoulders from behind.

You groan. “Penny, you know I love you, but what are you doing here?”

“I got lonely,” she says, and her expression is so genuine that you can’t even bring yourself to be upset with her. “Just wait…”

Leaning over you to press the escape button, she exits out of full screen mode and points to the corner of the screen. When you read the number she’s showing you, your breakfast threatens to make a reappearance.

“Would you look at that?” Emily laughs. “It’s gone up.”

You blink. Once, twice, three times. And once more, for good measure. “Six-hundred-and-fifty thousand people have seen that?”

It all starts to make sense. The texts, the calls, the stares, the team’s behavior…you don’t know whether to be relieved or horrified. On the bright side, you’ve done nothing wrong, nothing that could get you fired. But more than half a million people have seen you practically mooning over your boss.

Emily makes a noncommittal noise. “Half of them were probably Garcia. And a good twenty-five or so were us, if that helps.”

“It doesn’t,” You resist the urge to slam your head against the desk. You’ll have to settle for burying it in your hands instead. “Six hundred and…fuck. And they all think–?”

“—That you’re in love with our boss? And that he’s in love with you? Yes.”

“Oh, fuck.” “They think that, too,” says JJ, sounding sympathetic. If it weren’t for the frankly dastardly smile on her face, you’d think she was on your side.

Picturing the general population witnessing you make an idiot of yourself is bad enough. How do you even conceptualize that many people? How many stadiums could you fill solely with people who have seen you head over heels for your boss? Even worse is the thought of Anderson, or your parents, or – God forbid – even Strauss having seen it. You’ll be suspended. Fired. Or, even worse, be called into a mediated meeting with Hotch and HR, where they’ll ask him if you’ve been making him feel uncomfortable.

Emily’s voice pulls you from your shame spiral. “And there’s more, too.”

This world hates you. You’re certain of that as she opens Twitter, putting “FBI agents” into the search bar and bombarding you with hundreds, maybe thousands, of tweets with your image attached. Some are disturbingly sweet. Others poke fun at how obvious you are, and even more disturbingly, seem to think your feelings are reciprocated. That’s not a mental path you can allow yourself to go down.

“So…” You say after a long ten minutes. “What do we do?”

Footsteps, then Rossi appears at the stop of the stairs. “You go back to work. Your break’s over.”

He’s lucky you’re so fond of him. Had it been anyone else (save maybe one person) to disrupt your shame spiral, you’d have been furious. More than furious. You’re still a little irritated now.

There was nothing wrong with his fucking chair.

—

Your mission is simple. Avoid. Deny. Deflect. The rest of your afternoon drags along in a blur of paperwork and teasing comments you choose to ignore (mostly courtesy of Morgan — JJ and Emily have decided you’re nearing your breaking point and vow to leave you alone).

Five o’clock can’t come soon enough. Even when it does, there’s no reprieve. Reid turns out to be the one to betray you as everyone else packs up to leave, their files in his hand. “Sorry,” he whispers. To his credit, he looks like he means it.

“Judas,” you hiss back, but you stand and take the reports from him anyway.

Morgan raises an eyebrow at you. “Going somewhere special?”

You flip him off, muttering something under your breath that sounds just a little like “your funeral”.

The stairs to Hotch’s office feel much longer and much steeper than usual. At every step you reconsider. Reid’s probably still heading for the elevator now. If you catch him, you can guilt him into doing this instead. But your thoughts carry you close enough for Hotch to spot your approach through the blinds. He rises from his desk, opening the door before you can even reach for the handle.

You can’t even look him in the eyes. “Hi.”

Stepping aside to let you inside, he says your name, and it sounds so warm coming from his mouth. You wonder if he knows about your newfound fame, too. He seems to be focusing his stare directly between your eyebrows.

“I just came to drop these off.”

As if your words aren’t explanation enough, you hold up the files for him to see.

“Thank you.” Hotch reaches out to take them, and you feel his fingers brush yours as he does. He stops before the exchange is over. “Are you alright? You seem distracted.”

It won’t be long now before the sun sets. It’s making its final play for glory now, golden light filtering through the window and settling over Hotch’s face. Hints of amber tones surface in his eyes, usually so dark and unreadable, making him appear much softer than usual. Safer.

You sigh. “I think some people got a little more out of that press release in Georgia than we intended them to.”

“Oh. Yes.”

“You know about that?”

You wouldn’t half mind if a wormhole opened up, right there in his office, and transported you to another universe where you don’t even have to think about this moment ever again.

“I do.” He winces. “Garcia’s computer system is the most secure in the FBI, but she doesn’t have an inside voice.”

The dry comment shocks a laugh out of you. “No, she doesn’t. But…it’ll die down, right? No one is actually going to believe that. Us being together would be—”

“Unprofessional,” Hotch supplies after a beat. “Very unprofessional.”

He reaches backwards to put the files you’ve given him on his desk, somehow managing to do so without actually taking a step away from you. If anything, he gets a little closer.

“Exactly. Strauss would kill us if we even thought about it,” you say, “Not that we would, I’m just…”

Now he looks down at you, straight into your eyes. You swear his pupils are dilated, that he slips for just a half-second and lets his attention drift down to your lips. “There’d be a lot of paperwork.”

You nod. “Too much, really. You’ve got enough already. It’d also be…”

“…Nice.”

Hotch stops breathing, lips downturned in a frown. You’re sure you’ve heard him wrong. But half a minute passes, and he doesn’t retract his statement, though he looks as if he’s close to doing so.

“I’m sorry?” Your voice is barely above a whisper. He’s close enough you catch a hint of his cologne, and the woody scent of it makes your head spin.

“I can say it again,” he says through a long exhale, searching your face for any sign of discomfort as he takes another step closer. His breath ghosts your neck. “Or we can forget this ever happened.”

Your answer is almost immediate. “Let’s not do that.”

Hotch tilts your chin up so you’re forced to look at him. You lean upwards to meet him halfway in a kiss that is soft and tentative, the sort that promises everything and asks for nothing in return. One of your hands cups his jaw, and both of his find their way home to your waist, rubbing circles into your skin through your shirt. You smile against his lips. He leans forward as if to chase yours when you pull away. It hits you, now, that this is really happening. The months you've been agonizing over this - whether to make a move or to shut the part of you that cares for him away - have led you here. There's much you've got to think over: what this means for both of your careers, the risk to the team's dynamic, whether it'll even work in the long run, if Hotch wants that too. You know he's thinking the same thing; his face adopts the same mask of concentration it always does when he's considering something. You take a deep breath. It might be hard, but does that stop it from being worth a shot? In the end, you don't think it does.

“I think I’m gonna order takeout tonight,” you say quietly. “There’s a really good Thai place down the street from me.”

Hotch clears his throat. “That sounds nice.”

Shaking your head, you rest both hands on his shoulders, laugh at him. “That was my way of asking you if you wanted to join me.”

“Oh.”

His brow furrows. For a terrible moment, you think he’s about to say no. And then, “Haley has Jack tonight. I…I’d like that.”

You beam, pull back, and head towards his desk to find a pen and a scrap bit of paper. “Here’s my address.” A quick glance down into the bullpen, which is thankfully empty. “Give it ten minutes, then follow me?”

“Okay,” Hotch says. Even you can tell he’s grinning like an idiot, and you make a note of the rare expression. “Okay. I’ll see you soon?”

Squeezing his hand, you kiss his cheek and walk towards the door. “Soon.”

You feel his eyes on you until you reach the elevator.

If you got this far, thank you for reading! I've watched a lot more Dharma and Greg than CM, lately, so I have a feeling that my version of soft!Hotch is currently just a grownup version of Greg Montmgomery????

#aaron hotchner #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #aaron hotchner x reader #ssa aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fanfiction #hotch x reader #aaron hotchner x y/n #thomas gibson #aaron hotch fanfiction #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotch hotchner #this is pure disgustingly sappy fluff I'm sorry guys #I think I'm too down bad right now to write any angst whatsoever #But maybe I'll start crying one day soon and decide to write one #who knows

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pinkie-pop · 7 months

Text

"We've Seen The Devil—He Was Hiding In The Mirror."

Part I Part II Part III Part IV

Featuring: Gender-Neutral Reader, Twisted Wonderland Various x Reader, Self-Aware AU, Yandere TWST

Synopsis: A promise as foolish as it is irrevocable. I hope you're happy with yourself. The real oath is made.

Word count: 3.1k

Includes: Drugging, magical branding, possessiveness, obsession, maggots/spider mention (briefly), murderous implications, manipulation

"You are no savior—nor purpose nor God. You are damnation—a phony and fraud."

--------------

You nearly jump out of your skin as your instincts propel you backwards—right into the arms of the one you should be running from.

"Y-Yuu! What...what's wrong with you?! You scared the life out of me…" Yuu chuckles, breath tickling the skin on your neck. They squeeze you a little tighter in their hold before finally releasing you. You stumble back, holding a hand to your chest as you try to calm your erratic heartbeat.

"Oh! Sorry, did I frighten you?" Are they seriously trying to feign ignorance right now? Your train of thought is interrupted as they bend down, picking up the books you were reading (when did you drop those?) and examining them closely. They make a show out of turning each over, even going so far as to blow non-existent dust off of the covers. "Didn't I say it was rude to go through another person's things? Really, to read a poor maiden's diary while they're away, how shameless…"

"Your 'diary' is very clearly addressed to me," you retort, unfazed by Yuu's theatrics. Their innocent demeanor melts away, an all-too-familiar smirk popping up in its place. "Why shouldn't I read it?"

"Aha, [Name] is so smart! You're right, it is addressed to you, and everything that is mine is yours. Even so, I recommend you don't go poking around in here."

"Well, why not?"

"Because…" Yuu looks away, a very uncharacteristic gesture. They mumble something incomprehensible, then snap their head back to you with a smile. "That's why!"

You stare at them, unimpressed. They stare back at you with such intensity you feel near forced to look away—lest you get swept up in their gaze. You want to ask them to repeat themselves, but you know by now that asking things directly will never yield you answers. You have no choice but to participate in their mind games.

"Well, if you don't want me to read it, perhaps you should have considered hiding it?"

"The Wraith doesn't work like that, I'm afraid." You hold your breath, praying for them to continue. To give you any information onthe innerworkings of the bizarre encampment you’ve found yourself in. Yuu flips through one of the books you had been holding and sighs. "You already know about Wraiths, don't you? Fine, I suppose I can indulge your curiosity, just a little. This Wraith—our Wraith—is intrinsically tied to the both of us. If you look for something here, you'll be sure to find it. Many of the books here store memories, and they can't be taken out. Hence why I can't just hide my diary from you." That's…valuable information. Far more valuable than you had been expecting.

You take a moment to dissect everything that you've just learned. Yuu waits patiently as you comb through the information. Every so often, you catch a glance from them. They never stop smiling, do they?

The place you're in now, the Wraith, is likely to be the second type mentioned in the book you had been reading. It's a place born from death, and it has a connection not just to you, but to Yuu as well. Does that mean that you're dead? What about Yuu? They first came here when they 'shut down', was that death? What about when you took their hand? What was that? Your head was starting to spin.

“Aw, I can see the cogs in your head turning; you must be thinking so hard!” Yuu’s cheerful voice annoys you, but you do your best to ignore them. “Do you want some help, little one? Do you want me to give you the answer?” Hesitantly, you peer back up at them, eyes full of suspicion.

“What’s the catch?” If there’s one thing you’ve learned about Night Raven, it’s that there’s always a catch.

“All I ask for is your attention,” they say. When you don’t respond, they add: “You don’t have to love me—just promise that you won’t leave. I don’t know what I’d do with myself if you did.” There’s a hint of desperation in their voice, a panic that threatens to spill out of them growing louder with every second you remain silent. You don’t know what to say. What can you say?

Yuu steps closer to you.

“Promise me, okay? Promise that you won’t leave.” Their smile is gone, replaced with pure pleading as they press their body against yours. Their embrace used to feel like a python squeezing itself around you, like a spider encasing you in its web, but now, it’s different. Now it feels like the hug of a scared child. Their voice and body is shaking. Only a second ago, they were teasing you as if there was no tomorrow, now, they cling on to you as if you are the only thing left. The power between you two has shifted dramatically, causing you to wonder if their previous bravo was nothing more than a facade—a shield to hide their own feelings. You feel a little sorry for them.

“Okay. I won’t.”

“Do you promise?” They pull back to look at you, tears dotting their eyes. Your heart clenches at the sight. “I promise,” you say. In an instant, their tears are gone, replaced by a victorious smile as they drag you into yet another hug. Your heart drops, were they…tricking you? Were they only pretending to cry, just so you would feel pity and take their side? You are so wrapped up in these thoughts that you barely register the way they squeeze you tighter, tangling you in their arms like the tail of a python, like the web of a spider. You are so wrapped up that you do not even notice the prickling sensation on your wrist, as if you are being burned by something.

“So, what do you want to know?”

“I want to know about you. What…what are you, exactly?” Yuu ponders the question for a minute, then hands you a book, you read the page they’re pointing to.

Homunculus:

(Editor’s note: the following passage has no scientific backing and should be taken with a grain of salt.)

Literally “Little man”. A theoretical alchemical construct made to mimic human life. Technically biological, they are distinct from the Golem, which is made of non-organic material. This is often considered a moot pont, though, because homunculi are nothing more than fables…or so they say. The truth behind homunculi is far darker than what your textbooks would lead you to believe. In reality, homunculi can be created; they are not just theoretical. In fact, there have already been successful trials in their development. But, “why are you speaking of this in a book meant to be about ghosts?”, I hear you say. Well, my dear reader, that all comes down to how they’re made. As you likely know, alchemy is based upon the principal of equivalent exchange. So, how does one create a human body with alchemy, all while following the rule of exchange?

Well, my dear reader, it’s rather simple: you just need a human.

“You’re…a homunculus?” “No, sorry, wrong page.” They take the book back and flip to (presumably) the correct passage. "I was going to keep this from you, but you're just so cute, I can't help but bare my heart to you~" Yuu hands you the book again, then twirls around behind you, peeking at the page from over your shoulder. A bead of sweat runs down your back as you read the correct passage. You’d read it before, but scary stories are always scarier when the monster is standing behind you.

“Lonesome Ghosts”

“You read this one, right?” You nod, trying not to let your fright show. “Well, this poem is about a face stealer—you already figured that out, though, didn’t you? You also figured out which character is meant to represent me, right?” You can’t see them, but you can feel the grin on their breath.

“I was always…different from the other three. I don’t remember much from back then, but I do remember the weary glances the others would toss me from time to time. We didn’t get along, I think. Even so, I stuck around. Waiting for my purpose,” Yuu pauses, an unchracteristic tint of solemness in their voice. “I tried a bunch of different things, trying to spark a passion, but nothing ever worked. I was getting desperate, and ended up doing something unforgivable. The three cast me out, and I spent decades wandering the world, looking for my purpose. I never found it, so I thought I’d go back to the house, hoping time had taken the edge off our little squabble. That’s when I found them. A human in a coffin, whose lid was about to be blown off. Yuu.”

“It felt like I was seeing color for the very first time. Like I was alive. I had to have them—no, I had to be them. I had to take their skin and wear it as my own. I had to have what they did. And when I did, that was it. My purpose. What I had been waiting for all along. You.”

“My past washed away the second I entered their body. I became a blank slate with no past or history, but even so, I felt complete. The ghosts didn’t even recognize me when I came back, you know? I didn’t recognize them, either, though. I had forgotten everything. Maybe they did, too. But I didn’t forget forever. When I shut down and created the Wraith, my memories started to resurrface. You ruined me, you know? I lost everything when I met you. But, you know that I’m not angry about it, right? After all, the old me was broken. The old me didn’t have you. It was worthless. You gave me worth. It’s because of you that I’m anything at all.”

“You took away my entire being, and replaced it with something better. Just like you did with everyone else.”

Yuu’s words start to blur together as your eyes loose focus. It’s hard to tell what’s going on, and even harder to tell what’s causing it. You think, briefly, that you are having a panic attack, but it is hard to tell. Your breathing is rapid and shallow, and you feel as if the whole world has run out of air. You don’t notice yourself stumbling towards the door, but you do notice the way you trip over yourself. You notice the way you are falling to the ground in slow, agonizing motion. You do not react. You can’t. It is over all too soon.

You think you hear someone screaming, but you pay the voice no mind. You get up, not wasting any time to brush off, and begin to run. You do not quite know why you are running, your body is merely in autopilot, but you run, regardless, and you do not stop until you hit something.

You do not stop until you hit something with a thud!

It is Ace, you realize, mind finally beginning to clear up. You are on the ground outside of Ramshackle, the dirt is cold and wet beneath your bottom, and the air is sharp against your skin. Ace and others stand before you. They seem surprised. You are the same. Why are they here? To torment you? To catch you, once and for all?

They are getting closer, you realize with alarm. Azul is crying, but keeping his distance. Jamil is holding Kalim back from lunging at you. Rook is stalking closer to you. They’re all talking, but it is as if you have gone deaf. You cannot hear them. Your ears are ringing, your heart is pounding out of your chest.

Someone touches you, and the world goes black.

———

You wince at the incoming light as white fluorescents flood your vision. Your head feels as though it has been filled with water, an oddly calm sensation washing over you. You blink up at the white ceiling from your place underneath the white sheets, trying to put the pieces of what brought you here together.

“You’re awake,” Yuu says. Your body burns cold. That’s right, you remember it now. You had fainted earlier. “How are you feeling?”

“Not great,” you answer. There’s no reason to lie.

“We didn’t get to finish our conversation from earlier. Let’s talk, now that you’ve been calmed down.” Something about the way they phrased it sets you on edge, but you have no time to question them, as their voice cuts your thoughts short.

“You know, I was a little hurt when you tried to get rid of me. Sending me to school was just an excuse, wasn’t it?” “How did you…?”

“I’ve known all along. Remember, darling, no one knows you better than I do.” “If you knew it was an excuse then why did you go along with it?” “Because it was a request from you, dearest. How could I ever turn it down when it was you who asked it of me?” Your mind feels cluttered. Have they always been this heavy on the petnames?

"And the reason you came back?"

Yuu smiles. "I just missed you." You aren't sure whether or not you can believe them. Where do the lies start and end? How can you possibly trust them, when their motives are so unclear? As if there is cotton in your ears and eyes, you are disconnected from what is happening around you. You realize that Yuu is talking, but they sound so far away.

You are underwater, you try to listen, but bubbles fill your ears. You swim up to the surface, desperate, splashing and fighting against the tide.

You are on land. You have not left the infirmary, you realize. Yuu is still talking. They sound so far away, but you can hear them just fine.

“My body?” You have no idea what they're talking about. Yuu flashes a grin, seemingly aware of your predicament without you ever having to explain it. “Do you remember how you died, little one?"

What…?

"How I…died?"

"Yes, you've been dead for quite some time, actually. Dying is an unfortunate but necessary part of transmigration—that is, in relocating your soul."

"Then…my body right now is—"

"Artificial, yes. I had wanted to use one of the particularly irksome students as the equivalent for your body, but the system intervened. I could never get an NPC alone, either—the cast was always too jealou. They’d step in before I could so much as say hello.

All those alchemy classes you had me take really paid off in the end, you know? I had to take the long route, unfortunately. That’s alright, though, because I found a workaround. The solution was right beside me all along.”

"The ghosts," You murmur, trying to will yourself to be horrified. Perhaps you are simply tired, but you are far less unnerved about the situation as you should be.

Almost as if reading your mind, Yuu speaks up, “Sedatives,” they say, “for security.” You wonder what they could possibly mean by ‘security’, but they continue before you get the chance to ask. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of this earlier. You’re so much more compliant with these.” They stroke your cheek while gazing fondly at you. You feel as if maggots are writhing underneath your skin where they have touched you.

Your hands go numb.

You glance down at them, if only to make sure they’re still attached to your body, when you spot something on your wrist. A glowing symbol—two Triquetras placed together, with a dot in between.

“Ah, are you looking at our mark now, dear one?” Your blood freezes in your veins. “Our what?” Yuu raises their own arm, revealing the very same symbol on their wrist.

“It’s called a Serch Bythol, and it represents everlasting love.” There’s a giddiness to their voice that sets you on edge.

“When did you…?” “You promised yourself to me, don’t you remember? We’re practically married now,” Yuu says, kicking their feet with excitement. “The seal is made with alchemy, so you can’t remove it. That shouldn’t be a problem, though, right? After all, you have no reason to break your promise.” A chill runs up your spine. They marked you? You should be scared, but you feel little more than a vague sense of unease. Damn those drugs.

“What…what does the mark do?” “Are you sure you want to know that, darling? You aren’t looking so well…” Excuses, excuses. Anger bubbles beneath your sedated state; you can’t quite feel it, but you know it’s there. Every word coming from that wretched mouth is just another excuse.

“I’m fine,” you say through gritted teeth. “Tell me what it does—and stop calling me that.” Yuu sighs.

“When we made a pact, our souls bound together.”

“Meaning?” “Meaning that we’re now more in-tune with what the other is feeling. We can’t lie to or hurt one another other, either—physically, I mean.If you don’t believe me, then go ahead and try lying. You could attack me, too.”

You try lying, first, but your mouth stays firmly shut. You try again, but nothing happens. You try saying something that is almost true, but exaggerated. Still, no dice. Finally you decide to try saying something that’s true, but misleading, but Yuu starts talking before you can come up with anything.

“I know that you’re angry, but even so, aren’t you glad?”

“Glad? What could I possibly be glad about right now?” You think the sedatives are starting to wear off, as a freshly lit kind of rage sparks itself into your chest.

“Wouldn’t you rather I be honest with you?”

“I’d rather you do that without tricking me into it.” Yuu feigns a sigh.

“It could be worse, you know? This is nothing compared to what the others had planned.” Your first instinct is to assume they’re lying, exaggerating, or otherwise, but your tests from earlier prove your instincts wrong. “Do you want to know what they would have done, had the hunt never occurred?” You nod.

Yuu fills you in on everything. Every plan, every passing musing or idle comment. Everything. The things these people would have done, had the guilt of nearly killing you not gotten in the way…You almost feel grateful for the hunt—no, you do feel grateful. The fates they would have forced upon you, had you not almost died by their hands would have been far worse than death. Demons…They're demons! They cannot possibly be human! But…what does that make you? The ones who demons revere, the one who they worship as if they are God?

There is no longer any hiding from it, you know the answer. An odd sense of peace washes over you at the realization. You stand up, finally ready to confront your wayward worshippers.

You know what you are.

The devil sits upon heaven’s throne, and they are the ones who placed you there.

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fangirleaconmigo · 2 months

Text

Geralt pointed at Dandelion and back to himself. “This snuck up on me you know.”

Dandelion tossed back a gulp of wine and set the glass down so he could stretch and look out over the countryside. “Did it now? Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

“It’s true! Sometimes I’ll still look over at you buck naked or something and think, holy fuck. Me and Dandelion huh?” He chuckled and caressed Dandelion’s hand on the bench between them.

Dandelion snorted derisively. “Twenty years is a slow sneak, my love.”

“Oh, like you knew,” Geralt said.

Dandelion sniffed. “I did. I was just waiting for you to remove your head from your asshole.”

“Please,” Geralt gestured dismissively. “It’s like you always say. Love is an incomprehensible fucker.”

“I most certainly do not say that. If I did, I wouldn’t be very good at my job would I? Love is like a pear.”

“Yeah yeah. Come closer then and let me take a bite.” He grinned with a soft predatory glint.

Dandelion scooted over. “Well alright you sweet talker.” He planted a kiss on Geralt’s forehead.

“Not there,” groused Geralt, hand comfortably stroking Dandelion’s back.

“Oh,” said Dandelion. “Fine.” And he kissed Geralt on the nose.

Geralt made a noise of complaint.

“Alright,” said Dandelion. “You win.” He rewarded Geralt with a tender, scorching kiss on the lips.

Geralt withdrew from the kiss with a lopsided smile. “That’s it.”

Dandelion laughed. “Happy anniversary my love.”

“Happy anniversary sweetness.”

#the witcher #geralt of rivia #dandelion #gerlion #geraskier #jaskier #just a lil ficlet

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breadbrioche · 9 months

Text

apologies

so mun x reader

➳ summary: after telling mun to take better care of himself, he ends up taking care of you instead

➳ warnings: description of treating wounds, mention of guns/gunshot wounds, self deprecating thoughts, season 2 episode 3-4 spoilers

➳ word count: 1.5k

➳a/n: my offering to the tuc tumblr fandom haha fyi the reader is also a counter but was not with mun during the scenes mentioned

As you hunch over your desk, trying to get as close as you can to your mirror, you become aware of how pathetic your situation is. Blood soaked cotton balls litter the surface of your desk from your attempt to clean the injuries inflicted on you just hours ago, though you’re doing a pretty horrid job at it because every time an alcohol swab just even brushes against the open wound, you flinch away from your own hand and hiss at the pain.

You sigh regretfully, thinking about how you could’ve avoided all this, been fully healed and pain free hours ago, if you just didn’t cause such a scene earlier.

You bursted into the base, shoes slapping against the floor loudly as you made a beeline towards the table where all the counters were waiting to be healed by Ms Chu. Stopping right in front of Mun, who was looking worried at your apparent injuries, your scowl deepened as your gaze landed on his shoulder and the perfectly circular openings in it.

Frustrated and thinking of no other way to express this, you slapped your palm against the offending shoulder. Mun jerked back with a yelp and looked at you in disbelief.

“You’re an idiot, did you know that?” You began, not beating around the bush.

“Let me expla-“

“Explain what? That you let yourself get shot?” You cut him off quickly. “Us counters may be stronger than average humans but at the end of the day we’re still humans! And humans aren’t bulletproof like how you apparently like to think!”

Words were spilling out of your mouth without a second thought, your voice getting louder with every angry confession.

“Do you think of yourself as someone who can just die whenever they want? Evil spirits aside, did you even think about how your death would impact everyone!”

At this point, you couldn’t remember how the rest of the confrontation went down apart from that when you finally finished your rant he looked at you with an expression incomprehensible to you at the time - maybe he was shocked or mad or sad, either way you didn’t stick around long enough to find out as you finally gained back your sanity and dashed to hide in your room.

Maybe you’re the idiot, and not Mun.

He didn’t get shot for no good reason; he saved the chairman’s life! And you had a go at him for doing what was right. So on top of being a pathetic coward, you were also an idiot who blamed innocent people. What an amazing turn of events.

Before you could wallow in your pity for any longer, knocks on your door pull you out of your thoughts and make you turn towards it. You come eye to eye with So Mun, who’d left himself inside your room before you could even get up to open the door.

“Hey.” He begins awkwardly, probably trying to gauge your reactions to see if you were still angry at him. “You missed dinner.”

“Oh. Sorry, I didn’t realise” you say dumbly.

“I just wanted to let you know that I saved some food for you, its in the kitchen if you ever feel hungry”

You smile slightly; grateful for Mun’s thoughtfulness, even if after your tirade on him earlier.

“Thanks, Mun-ah. I’ll go eat in a sec once I’m done with all of-“ you gesture to the mess of medical supplies on your table “-this.”

Taking note of it, Mun frowns before approaching you and leaning down to assess your injuries. He immediately picks up an alcohol swab and gently cleans the cuts on your face. Instinctively, you jerk away from the sting but Mun keeps you still with a hand on your cheek.

“You know that Ms Chu can heal these for you.” He says gently, though the close proximity of your faces makes you hear it loud and clear.

“They’re not big… I don’t wanna be a bother for a few cuts here and there” you murmur in defense.

Mun’s hands pull away from your face for a moment to reach for a band-aid on your desk but you grab his wrist to stop him.

“I can treat myself, you don’t have to do it”

He huffs shortly before pulling out of your grasp and shaking his head stubbornly.

“I want to. Please?” He asks with a classic So Mun smile that makes it hard to remember why you were ever mad at him. You reluctantly nod, allowing Mun to put the bandage on your face.

It’s quiet as he repeats the process of cleaning and wrapping the rest of your wounds.

“Uh-“ You speak up suddenly, unable to handle the suffocating silence. He perks up and faces you fully, attentive.

“Sorry about what I said to you earlier…you did what you had to save the chairman and I blew up at you for no real reason but when I heard that you’d gotten shot, I guess I started spiralling and assumed the worse so…” you trail off and lower your head in shame, eyes focused on the scrapes on your knuckles that Mun is currently working on.

His hands clasp yours and intertwines your fingers together with his, then pulls you up to your feet which forces you to maintain eye contact with him. He’s smiling at you calmly, eyes creasing ever so slightly.

“Don’t worry about it. Honestly it’s okay.” he says in a reassuring voice. “I’m sure I worried all of you so I would’ve gotten an earful from someone eventually.”

You laugh slightly at his comment lightening your mood. Being around Mun is addictive - his warm presence pulls you in and his positivity infects you, putting a small smile on your face too.

Though, part of you couldn’t let go of your guilty thoughts and you still feel apprehensive. Mun must have sensed it because he squeezes your interlaced hands tight, stroking your hand with his thumb.

“You had every right to be mad at me. I don’t regret what I did but you're right about the fact that I didn’t think about how my actions would affect everyone else. So I guess that was pretty selfish of me.”

Mun rests his head down on your shoulder, face nuzzling into your neck slightly. His breath tickles your skin as he exhales which makes you squirm slightly.

“Could you forgive me?” He whispers into your ear.

Since he entered your room, all of his sweet actions were slowly piling up, making you feel flustered and heartbeat speed up, but this was the tipping point. You try to push away from Mun, feeling far too overwhelmed, but he effortlessly pulls you back in, his eyes twinkling.

“So~?” He insists you answer, dragging out the last syllable. You roll your eyes, feeling heat rise to your cheeks.

“Fine. I guess I could forgive you” you huff out. “But only because you’re annoying and you won’t stop until I do.”

Mun chuckles and brushes away hair hanging over your face to get a clear view of your reactions.

“You’re so cute.” he points out teasingly. He watches your nose shrivel when you scowl at him.

“And you are a little shit.”

“Hey! Is that any way to speak to your cool and amazing boyfriend who patched you up?” Mun grabs your bandaged hand and shakes it in front of your face to emphasize his point.

“I told you that you didn’t have to do it”

“And I told you that you should’ve seen Ms Chu!”

“It’s too late for that now anyways, she’s probably sleeping. I can just have it done tomorrow” you defend yourself.

“But knowing you, you’ll definitely forget!”

God, Mun could be so stubborn sometimes. You sigh before flopping onto your bed, bouncing slightly as the springs in the mattress resist against you.

“If you’re so bothered, maybe you should just sleep with me tonight so you can remind me in the morning.”

Mun gasps dramatically as if your suggestion was something obscene. You roll your eyes at his act, your point from earlier being proven - he is a little shit.

“You’re welcome to go back to your room then” you point out, gesturing to your door. Mun shoots you an offended look before pulling your blankets open to climb onto your bed quickly.

“I never said no!” He complains as he worms his way to get closer to you.

You shuffle about for a second before getting into a comfortable position, with your face pressed against Mun’s chest, head laying on one of his arms. A silence envelops the two of you again but it’s not the awkward tension from before.

This silence was cozy. Relaxing.

“Thank you, Mun-ah” you whispered, cuddling against him more. He pressed a kiss on the top of your head, silently answering you. Gently he stroked your hair, lulling you to sleep.

#the uncanny counter #the uncanny counter fic #so mun #uncanny counter #so mun x reader #the uncanny counter x reader #kdrama #kdrama fic #kdrama x reader #own works

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scoopstomyahoy · 9 months

Text

dating someone who is obsessed with their platonic soulmate (and vice versa) must be so difficult sometimes.

like, imagine eddie, waking up early one morning in steve harrington's bed, still too hazy with sleep to open his eyes. steve harrington's bed. his beautiful, wonderful boyfriend, who is currently lying with his back to eddie, just inches out of reach.

eddie scoots over blindly, hands outstretched to find said beautiful wonderful boyfriend. when he finds him, he wraps his arms around his waist, spooning him close. apparently already awake, steve clasps one of his hands over eddie's, nesting back into him. as he cuddles into steve, eddie hums happily, brain not quite yet on. steve normally sleeps shirtless, but today eddie's hands find cloth blocking him from touching steve directly. a shirt. this won't do.

eddie slides one of his hands under the edge of steve's shirt, rumpling the cloth and dragging it up. he doesn't mean anything by it—it was too early—he just wants to be closer to his boyfriend, craving skin to skin contact. he might have gone back to sleep if steve hadn't tensed under his touch. he mumbles something to eddie, something eddie doesn't catch.

"hnnh... what...?"

steve repeats himself, a touch louder. "robin's here, eddie."

"mmokay."

eddie buries his face in between steve's shoulder blades, ready to let sleep overtake him for a few minutes more. he almost drifts away before—

"wait, what?"

"robin's here, eds."

eddie sits bolt upright. his eyes, still crusty with sleep, fly wide open to see steve harrington, his beautiful, wonderful boyfriend, turning back to look at him and smiling. and there, on the other side of his beautiful, wonderful boyfriend, is his boyfriend's best friend, hair splayed across the pillow, mouth wide open. some of her hair is actually caught in her mouth, sticking to her teeth. she's holding steve's other hand, the one that wasn't holding eddie's.

robin buckley is in their bed. eddie's eyes are comically wide—he probably looks like a cartoon, if steve's snort is anything to go by. he looks at his beautiful, wonderful, traitorous boyfriend, who allows robin to come over when eddie is asleep, when his hair is frizzy and messy and looks terrible and his breath probably smells bad. eddie opens his mouth to complain—loudly—and steve shushes him.

"don't you dare wake her up."

at this, eddie gestures widely, his arms moving in a way that he hopes conveys the message don't wake HER up, what about ME, steve, you didn't think to wake ME up when robin came over and apparently fell asleep next to us?? and is probably entirely incomprehensible. but steve seems to get it. he smirks.

"sorry," he whispers cheekily. "soulmate privileges."

eddie considers getting upset about this. then he weighs the merits of getting upset versus going back to sleep. he shrugs. lies down. snuggles up next to his beautiful wonderful boyfriend again. and goes back to sleep.

#steddie #steddie drabble #steddie ficlet #stobin #stranger things #mine #robin got bored in the middle of the night and came over. eddie sleeps like the dead and didn't notice #i think eddie would be 100% fine with this he's just dramatic

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cuubism · 11 months

Note

I’m BEGGING for more “retired!Dream opens up a weird magic fey bookshop” au. Its so intriguing!

you are in luck. i wrote more

"So," Hob says, leaning in the doorway of Dream's study-of-sorts, "much as I love the recommendations, do you mind if I browse?"

He's taken, recently, to meeting Dream on the upper floor of the shop, bringing coffee and watching Dream label and sort his new books in incomprehensible categories. He usually gets some interesting book facts out of it, too, or strange little stories -- "this book washed up on the Sardinian shore some years ago", "this was signed by a long-dead author, I've been curious to see how long it will take for a collector to find it," "an old man bestowed this upon me on the eve of his death, it's the only copy in existence" and so on -- not to mention the pleasure of Dream's company. He is so odd, and so engaging.

Dream looks up at him now with a tiny smile that crinkles the corner of his eyes. "Of course. Find whatever you wish."

Hob has been wondering if Dream's serendipitous knack with books will extend to browsing, to random finds. Only one way to know.

He leaves Dream to his labeling and goes to wander the shop.

This time, he does get swallowed in Oneiromancy, where he finds Sleeping Worlds, a book about dream travel. Then he wanders deeper into the shop, passes categories like, "Cat Training," CLOCKS, "Mathematics: Easy -> Impossible", and, "♾". Of course he goes into Infinity, and picks up The Birth of Numbers, a book whose text starts in the center of the page and spirals outwards, font growing larger as the book goes on, and in another section called "Romance: DIFFICULT LEVEL" -- whatever the hell difficult means -- he picks up a tiny book that's just one line, one syllable on each page.

want

you

see.

God, Dream's shop is weird.

Dream finds him there some time later, deep in Sleeping Worlds. "I see you've had a productive day."

"Yeah, sorry, lost track of time."

Dream keeps looking at him with a little smirk.

Worry darts through Hob's stomach. "Wait, what time is it?"

"Midnight," says Dream, with satisfaction. "I've absorbed you."

Yeah, no kidding. Hob scrambles to his feet. "Jesus, Dream, sorry. I'll get out of your hair."

"No matter. This is what The Library is for."

Hob goes to hand him the books, and he waves a hand. "Keep them, I will get them back eventually."

Ominous. Great.

"Gonna break into my house and retrieve them?" Hob asks. He probably wouldn't even mind, to be honest.

"Nothing so alarming." He gestures Hob forward, and Hob follows, lets Dream walk him out.

It is, indeed, pitch dark outside on their shared street. Hob's supposed to open the cafe at 6. Whoops.

"Thanks for the books, Dream," he says. "And for. Ten hours of distraction, apparently."

Dream leans in the narrow doorway of his shop. "Of course. Come browse... anytime."

And he melts back into the shadows as Hob steps down onto the street.

Hob wonders if he's an idiot for wanting to ask Dream out. Dream is clearly some kind of other thing, and hanging around him did kind of get Hob cursed. But the way he bites his lip when he's making notes in books is so cute. His unerring ability to make perfect book selections is both strange and endearing -- even the books Hob had picked up on his own had been exactly what he hadn't known he was looking for. Hob's heart picks up every time he steps into the cafe.

But if he's to ask out Dream, his own personal weird bookshop creature, he has to do it right.

And he knows how.

The next time Dream comes in for coffee, Hob sits down across from him and hands him a book. Dream looks at it in surprise, and Hob has the sudden thought that as the all-powerful selector of tomes, he probably isn't gifted books himself.

The book is called, Broken Hands. Hob had pulled it off his own shelf. Dream doesn't ask him what it is, instead he flips open the cover and reads, as Hob had hoped he would.

The first page of Broken Hands has the following paragraph:

Kissing her hand, he came to know himself. Kissing her mouth, he came to know them both. When they went onward, for now only in his mind, he kissed more of her, and more, and more, and then, he knew her. He wanted to know her.

Dream reads it, and looks back up at him. Offers a tiny smile. Yes, Hob knew he would get it.

"You have something you would like to ask me, Hob Gadling?" he says softly.

"You have something you want to answer?"

Dream takes a long sip of his coffee, but looks at Hob over the rim of the mug, a smile in his eyes. Then he swipes away the milk foam from his upper lip with his tongue and says, "I'd say that you are very foolish, to still wish to associate with someone who did, in a sense, get you cursed. But that I find myself grateful for this foolishness. People do often come back to the library, once they find it-- but they don't often come back for me."

It makes Hob sad to imagine--Dream the perennial custodian of The Library, shepherd of its patrons, gifting small touches of coincidence and magic, but always in the background, a bridge and not a destination. Meanwhile, Hob likes the strange books, but it's Dream he keeps wanting to hover around, to lure back into his own space.

He dares to take Dream's hand and squeezes. "...So?"

"I'd say that I'd like to get coffee with you, if you know a place."

Cheeky thing. "Yeah, there's a Starbucks a couple blocks down," Hob says, gesturing, and Dream chuckles. Hob's still holding his hand, and brings it to his lips for a light kiss, and gets to watch as Dream's cheeks tint pink. His heart lifts in his chest. So easy and light.

"You're gorgeous," he says, and that blush deepens. "I'd suffer even Starbucks for you."

"You would suffer much, then," says Dream.

"We'll get our Starbucks and wander around WHSmith and have a fabulous date," Hob says, and Dream's face goes through the most exquisite journey of horror.

"You demand too much," he says, faint. "You enjoy my suffering."

"Little bit, yeah." Hob's certainly enjoying the reaction.

Then Dream looks at him in challenge. "Very well," he declares. "You've set the date. Now you must follow through."

Hob can't even spare a thought to the distasteful activities he's now gotten himself into--he has a date with Dream. "So that's a yes?"

Dream smiles again, a tiny, pleased thing. "It is a yes, Hob Gadling."

They do go to Starbucks. Hob is treated to the glorious sight of Dream sipping a pink drink out of a long straw, which is so worth dealing with the coffee. Then he indeed drags Dream to WHSmith, where Dream stands in the middle of the brightly-lit store, spins in a circle staring at carefully lined book displays with wide eyes, says, "Hell would be more merciful," and bolts away. Hob follows him, laughing.

Outside, he finds Dream leaning in the shade of a tree, looking vaguely shell-shocked. Hob really shouldn't keep laughing at him, but he can't help it. "Were you traumatized permanently by the big chain store?"

"Yes," says Dream, but, despite the perilous adventure, smiles. "You are a cruel man, Hob Gadling."

"Nah. Just harnessed the fluorescent lighting to chase you back into the safety of my arms."

"Oh?" Dream pushes off the tree and steps closer, until he's standing just before Hob, close enough to touch. "Was that the goal?"

Hob takes the leap that's offered and touches Dream's cheek with a light hand. "Did it work?"

This close, in the midday light, Dream's eyes are almost grey. The shade of the tree dapples his skin. It's still odd to see him out of the contained space of his bookshop, of Hob's cafe, but it does make this feel more real. A part of the world beyond the spun-sugar story of their orbiting binary stars.

Dream rests a feather light hand on Hob's chest. Studies Hob from under his eyelashes. And instead of answering, he leans up and, with that same light touch, presses his lips to Hob's.

Hob revels in the mere touch of him for a moment, but doesn't let it stand at light for long. He takes Dream's face between his hands and deepens the kiss, sweeping his tongue into Dream's mouth, swallowing Dream's hum of pleasure. If only he could put into the kiss what he had felt when Dream had handed him Nightingales. A sudden finding of something long lost that was always meant to be rooted in his heart.

When they part, he makes good on a promise and does pull Dream into his arms. It feels like a great indulgence. It also feels right.

"Make me a solemn promise, Hob Gadling," Dream says against Hob's cheek, arms wrapped around his back.

"Anything."

"Never take me here ever again."

Hob laughs into his hair, squeezing him tight. "What could one possibly want from here when The Library exists?"

This seems to greatly gratify Dream, who preens in Hob's arms. Hob kisses the shell of his ear, then his cheek, then they part again, and he takes Dream's hand. "I'm glad you expanded your horizons with me for a day."

"And now I will shrink them again," says Dream. "Except for one." To which he runs his thumb along Hob's lower lip, a touch Hob sways forward to follow almost drunkenly as Dream smirks. "Come."

He starts leading Hob back in the direction of their quiet street, and far far away from any fluorescent lighting, and Hob follows, touching his lips fondly. And lets himself be cautiously, tentatively hopeful that this will continue spiraling up into something real, because he wants it so bad. Curses and all.

#hob brilliantly asking dream out by giving him a book that basically said 'i wish to know you carnally' but hey it worked!!#and i'm sure he will know dream carnally soon #3 likes and next time they get to explore each others bodies #bookstore cryptid dream #my writing #dreamling #dream of the endless #hob gadling #dreamling fic #thank u louise for the extra special british accuracy in this one XD it is essential that my silly drabble stories channel the TRUE #and ACCURATE experience of the united kingdom. i'll die otherwise

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criticallyacclaimedstranger · 1 month

Text

The Plan [Marcus Pike x f!reader]

Read on Ao3

Rating: Explicit

Fandom: The Mentalist

Pairing: Marcus Pike x you/cishet f!reader. Reader is fat/overweight but this is never explicitly mentioned. Also, reader is a lawyer. (I know nothing about lawyering.)

Tags/Warnings: Sad Marcus, alcohol mention, one night stands, fellatio mention, neighbours with benefits, safe sex, squirting, cunnilingus, reader has a difficult relationship with her family, mad dash through the airport at Christmas, trauma dumping (Marcus coming clean about his disappointment after Lisbon dumped him).

Summary: A drunken one night stand with your cute new neighbour Marcus Pike eventually leads to more. Takes place after his story arc in the show.

Words: 7,895

A/N: My first Marcus Pike fic, and also I finished a goddamn fic! There is so much cause for celebration here, folks. Remember to comment and reblog: sharing is caring.

Shout-out to @missredherring and @pazizz who read drafts and helped me forward with this story <3

Marcus Pike does not have a bitter disposition. He does not sulk, or harbor resentment. It's just not in his nature.

Until now.

There is just something so unforgivable, incomprehensible, wrong about the way Teresa Lisbon left him. She called him to say she was coming to D.C., that she would marry him, and two hours later she called again to inform him that she wasn't. That she was in love with Patrick Jane. That asshole.

Marcus has been divorced, and not even that made him spiral as hard as the breakup from Teresa. It just hit harder, because he had fallen so hard for her, for the way she dipped her gaze and chin when a smile broke out on her lips, before looking back up at him with those pretty eyes of hers. He fell for her sense of humor, her intelligence, the way it was so easy to be with her. And he really thought that she fell for him in the same way. Maybe she did - but Jane was there, in the background, confusing her, wooing her with one last big, desperate gesture. If Marcus had known that all it took to keep Teresa was to get himself arrested, he would've done that instead of bringing her takeout at work, making her morning coffee just as she liked it, loaning her his jacket when she was cold during that date, all the thousands of little things that he did for her, that he loved doing for her because he loved her so much that doing those things weren't a chore, they weren't planned, they were an honest, spontaneous expression of his feelings for her.

And then, one big, desperate gesture that rendered Marcus's all small, everyday gestures moot. And it pisses him off.

Practicality kicked in as a form of survival. He quickly cancelled the purchase of the house he had Teresa had picked out, found a condo instead, moved in with his things, and threw himself into his work. Most of the boxes were left unpacked. His place didn't feel like a home because he couldn't let it. He was supposed to share one with Teresa, and now there was just him, surrounded by moving boxes that he had to deal with but couldn't, wouldn't. What should've been a house for the two of them - maybe more in the future? - with a little garden, walls impregnated with love and excitement for a life together, sunlight through the window during long weekend mornings of slow breakfasts, putting up Christmas decorations together, all those things that he was looking forward to. Now he has a bachelor pad, in a fancy apartment building with a doorman, but a sad bachelor pad all the same. The furniture is more or less where it should be, but he hasn't bothered to plan that much. The kitchen table is too big, but he's not in any condition to sell it off and buy a new one. The bookcases are half full, and his artwork is still unhung. He really tried there, but the first painting he got his hands on was one that he had seen before him in the spacious yet cozy living-room in That House, with the fireplace, and suddenly no wall in his apartment was good enough. So he put the painting away, and the rest were left packed down.

He even started going out after work, when he couldn't stay any longer but didn't want to go home. He found a watering hole to his liking, and became a regular, nursing one whiskey after another until he could go home and fall into bed for a deep, dreamless sleep.

It's after one of those nights that he finds you, his neighbor, trying to open his front door with your key. Your clumsy yet meticulous movements tell him that you're intoxicated, and there is something endearing about the way you're frowning, the tip of your tongue sticking out the side of your mouth as you focus on sticking in the key that doesn't fit.

When Marcus comes closer, you notice him, and look up. Quickly registering that it's the workaholic neighbor that you rarely see, you just nod, and go back to trying to open the door.

"That's my door," he says, and you look up again.

"What's that?"

"That's my door. You're trying to get into my apartment."

You frown, your hand holding the key falling to your side as you process his words. You then squint at the number of the door, taking a few seconds to realize that this is, indeed, not your front door.

"Oops," you mutter, then grimace apologetically at your neighbor. "Well, this isn't embarrassing at all."

"Don't worry about it," he shrugs, fishing his own key from his pocket. You step to the side to give him access to the door, and when he stands right next to you, you can smell his cologne, sophisticated and with a hint of bergamot.

He eyes you, just as drunk as you are.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, sure. Late night. You?"

"Same." He looks so tired when he says it, but you can tell that there is a dimple aching to appear in his cheek. His face, bleary though it is, is handsome, and looks like it was made for smiling.

"What is it you do again?" you ask. You've exchanged pleasantries with him when he first moved in, but you never had the time or mental capacity to actually remember who he is.

"FBI, I investigate art theft."

"Ah, right." Yeah, that's it, something so unusual and random that one couldn't make it up. Then again, D.C. is full of people who do stuff you only hear about in movies.

"Marcus," he offers his hand, and you take it, and give him your name.

"And what is it that you do?"

"Law. I work with government contracts and related investigations at a law firm here in D.C."

"Sounds complicated."

You shrug. "I'm smart enough."

"You look good, too."

You scoff. "Are you coming on to me?"

"I'm trying." Now the smile breaks through, lighting up his whole face. Gods, but he's cute.

"Okay." You make the decision quickly, nodding at his door. "Looks like I picked the right door, after all."

Marcus unlocks the door and opens it for you.

His head is pounding, and his mouth is dry when he wakes up. For a moment, he doesn't know what day it is, what he's supposed to do, or what happened last night, but then the flashbacks start to put things together. The flirty neighbor. Her naked skin. Her alcohol-fuming kisses.

He turns his head and sees you, still asleep next to him. Oh, okay.

Sitting up slowly, he gets his bearings before swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. Clothes are strewn over the floor. Right next to the bed is a used condom, tied up and looking sad and abandoned. Okay, good, at least he remembered to use protection. He picks it up and takes it to the bathroom, where he disposes of it before washing his hands and face.

He hears the rustle of bedsheets, and returns to the bedroom, realizing that he's naked. You might not want to be greeted by a naked stranger first thing. Looking around for his underwear, he's nevertheless too slow in finding them: you're already sitting up and rubbing your forehead.

He clears his throat. "Good morning."

Your smile is a little lopsided. "Morning."

"You want breakfast?" Marcus immediately offers, wanting to do the gentlemanly thing before he sends you off so that he can take about ten aspirins, and go to work. "And I'll put out a clean towel for you so that you can use the shower."

"Appreciate it, but I live right next door," you point out as you get out of bed. You're as naked as he is, and Marcus tries very hard not to ogle your body for what he suspects will be the last time.

"I don't mind."

"Thanks, but I have to get to work." You pick up and put on your panties, bra, skirt, shirt. Marcus spots his boxer briefs, and pulls them on.

"Okay, well... I had a good time."

"I did too."

Now you're standing right in front of him, buttoning up your silk shirt. Even with your makeup smudged out, and terrible morning breath, you look really nice.

"I gotta ask you something, though, because my memory is a little... hazy." Your cheekbones seem to glow, and he realizes that you're blushing.

"Yeah?"

"I sucked your dick, didn't I?"

Marcus feels the heat rise to his ears. "Um... well... yes, you did."

"Well?"

"What?"

"Did I do it well?"

"I think so."

You grin at him. "You don't remember much either, do you?"

"It was all consensual, if that's what you're asking."

"Oh, I have no doubt about that." You surprise him by placing your hand on his naked chest. His heart skips a beat, and he hopes that you won't notice.

"I really have to go, but maybe I'll see you again soon?" you ask softly, and Marcus finds himself relaxing.

"I'd like that."

You even kiss him good-bye, a quick, closed-mouth peck to keep morning breaths from mixing, before you grab your shoes, your purse (muttering under your breath about several emails, and two missed calls), and head over next door.

Marcus, still only wearing his underwear, looks thoughtfully at the closed door for a long while before going into the kitchen with the too big table to make coffee.

Work occupies most of your waking hours, six days a week, often seven. You don't see Marcus again for weeks, don't hear any sounds from his apartment during the hours you're home and awake. Barely having time to think about him, your thoughts nevertheless stray to him when you're standing in the shower or going to bed at night. You haven't been able to fit a boyfriend into your life in a long time, and casual hook-ups have rarely left you satisfied, but even with your hazy memories of the night with Marcus, you left his apartment that morning with a feeling that it was good. So that's where your thoughts go when you touch yourself, the few times you have the energy to do so.

One Friday night, after a long but satisfying week that ended with a contract being accepted as it was, which meant you could have a weekend with only a couple of hours of work from home, you're hurrying home with Chinese takeout in a bag. Looking forward to a quiet night in front of the TV, with an early morning at the gym the following day, you run into Marcus on your way into your apartment building.

"Hi," you smile, immediately noticing how he seems to square his shoulders when he sees you. "Going out?"

"Yeah," he nods, moving his weight from one foot to the other as he takes in your food bag. "And you're staying in?"

"Finally, a Friday night without work," you acknowledge. Marcus's smile lets you know that he knows about that all too well.

"Enjoy."

"You too, you going somewhere nice?"

"No, I mean... I'm just going by myself."

There is something so despondent about the way he averts his eyes when confessing to going out alone. You're not in a position to start saving people, but you see an opening here.

"Join me for dinner instead, Marcus."

"I don't want to bother you."

"It's no bother," you shake your head, now moving towards the elevator while beckoning him to follow you. "Come on, before the food gets cold. There's enough here for two, I always buy extra."

He hesitates for only a split second, you can see it in how his body seems to pull him away, out to some sad bar with too much to drink. Instead, he nods, smiles softly, and follows you. He insists on bringing a bottle of wine from his place, and you accept.

You find out more about him that night, as you share your takeout with him, and he shares his wine. He tells you of heartache, only summarily, clearly not wanting you to feel sorry for him, but you can tell that he's been torn up about the "amicable" break-up. He also mentions that he's been married, and you wonder what's wrong with him. He seems perfectly nice and normal, why hasn't he been able to keep a woman? To his credit, he never complains about nice guys finishing last, only states that maybe he's meant to focus on his career.

"There's a lot to be said about having a good career," you agree. Marcus sips his wine with a small smile.

"Work doesn't break your heart."

"That, too."

"I take it you don't have a partner who'll suddenly come home to find me in his kitchen?" he jokes lightly, but you recognize the question for what it is: he wants to know if you're Seeing Anyone.

"Not one for relationships," you shrug.

"You don't long for anyone to snuggle up with in front of the TV on a Friday night?"

"I don't have time. And they never seem to understand that. Or they're working, too." You pick at the scraps in your takeout box with the chopsticks. "And I seem to attract douchebags. Dunno if it comes with the field in which I work. I always seem to go out with terrible lawyer guys."

Marcus chuckles. "Their loss."

"I miss having sex, though." You look him in the eye, and his tongue slides over his lower lip, catching some runaway sauce.

"Yeah?"

You nod, and feel your cheeks heat up. You're a no-nonsense person, but not always this forward with men. But it's easy with Marcus. He takes it all in stride, doesn't seem to think you're aggressive, or slutty, he just smiles and tells you that he misses sex too.

"But what we had was okay, though?" he adds. "Even if neither one of us seems to remember it that well."

"It was," you agree, raising the glass to your lips and draining the rest of the wine. After putting it back down, you tilt your head and bite your lower lip.

"You wanna do it again? Now that we're sober and all?"

"I'm a little tipsy," he warns you with a chuckle, "But I'm in."

Both of you get up at the same time, chairs scraping the floor simultaneously in the kitchen that mirrors his own but has a table that fits it. All of your apartment just fits in a way his half-assed dwelling doesn't. He realizes that it's because your apartment is a home, decorated and lived-in, warm colors and fabrics, Scandinavian wallpapers in bold but tasteful patterns that he himself would never consider but that feel right here.

You step up to him, snugly fitting yourself to his frame, and place your hands on his narrow hips as you kiss him. The two glasses of wine that you've had have laid a warm, cozy blanket over your busy mind, and now you're fully focused on Marcus, whose soft, plump lips are meeting yours as his arms go around your waist.

You make your way to the bedroom, leaving a trail of clothes as you kiss and get undressed, get undressed and kiss. The bed in unmade, you just threw the covers to the side when you got up this morning. Wearing only your underwear, you lay down, pull Marcus over you, rake your fingers through his hair, moan when he palms your plump tits through the bra.

"Tell me what you like," he asks you hoarsely. You hum when he scatters kisses along the lace trim of your bra.

"That's a good start."

He hums back as he pops your tits out of your bra and lick around the nipples.

"Go on," he asks, and a shiver runs down your spine at the low barytone of his voice. You reach around to unhook your bra, and Marcus takes it off you and flings it to the side before burying his face between your breasts.

"You eat pussy?" you ask him breathlessly, and he looks up at you.

"Of course."

"Not everybody does," you wink, and he shakes his head.

"Their loss."

He's in a hurry, you note, but it's endearing in an unexpected way. When he pulls down your panties and gets settled, your legs over his shoulders, you remember to give him a warning.

"I, uh, I don't orgasm from oral, just so you know."

"Really?" His breath is hot against your folds, but he's looking up at you with attentive eyes.

"Yeah. It's not a comment on your skills, I just need you to know it," you shrug, accustomed to always having to tread carefully around the matter. Too many men get offended or take it as a challenge.

"Thanks for telling me," Marcus smiles in a way that's way too innocent and adorable for a man who's got his face inches away from your pussy. "But do you really want me to...?"

"Oh God, yes!" you reassure him. "I enjoy it a lot, and it gets me wet. I just can't cum, I need vaginal stimulation for that."

"You got it," he pats your thigh lightly before his tongue connects with your folds, and your eyes fall shut as you hand yourself over to the pleasure, to Marcus's deftly dancing tongue. He's good, he's attentive and eager, yet you don't get the feeling that he's trying to prove you wrong, to make you orgasm. Lord knows men have tries that in the past, and it's just stressful. No, he just seems to enjoy your moans, the way you writhe and grab his hands, the twitches of your pelvis when he does something extraordinary.

"Goddddd, Marcus, that's so fucking good..." you wail when he alternates between sucking your clit and licking it with a quick tongue. He's getting louder, sloppier, and you know you're dripping. Your clit is throbbing, and you know this is the perfect time to speed things up. You push him away, your thighs closing around his head, and Marcus retreats, chin glistening as he licks his lips.

"You okay?" he wants to know. You nod, breathless and with a pounding heart.

"Need to fuck you."

He scrambles up for a deep kiss, wet and lewd, before you push him over to get a condom from your nightstand. He drapes himself over you as you stretch across the bed, and peppers your back with kisses, like he's unable to stay away from you. You roll around, finding yourself caged between his strong arms, and you pull him down for more kissing with lips swollen and dry but still wanting more.

"How do you want me?" he gasps between the kisses as you pull down his underwear and paw at his small butt.

"Can I be on top?"

He rolls over onto his back immediately, watching you with open-mouth excitement when you remove his shorts and put on the rubber. When you finally sink down on his length, his fingers dig into your thighs as his breath hitches.

"Oh, that feels good..."

"Uh-huh," you sigh, staying still for a moment to adjust to his cock inside of you. You smile inwardly as you find yourself thinking about just how perfectly sized it is: thick but not too long.

"What?"

Your eyes open to find Marcus grinning at you.

"What what?" you grin back. He caresses your hips slowly.

"You looked like you had something to say."

"I was just thinking about what a perfect, gorgeous dick you have."

His cheeks turn pink. "Thank you. It came with the body."

You chuckle and start a slow grind, hips moving lazily back and forth as you seek out the right spots, the right rhythm. Finding it, you plant your hands on Marcus's chest and let out a low moan as you go slightly faster.

"That right for you?" he huffs, sitting up to catch a nipple in his mouth.

"Mmmfuckyes..."

You drop your hand to where your bodies meet, fingers seeking out your clit. Pleasure zaps through your body when you rub it, and you clench tightly around Marcus, causing him to dig his fingers into the soft flesh of your hips, both of you groaning.

"So good," he gripes, soothing the sting of his fingertips by rubbing his palms over the affected areas before he moves his fingers to your front. "Need a hand?"

"'m good," you gasp, your free arm slinging around his neck. You clench around him again, and Marcus's hips jut upwards, slamming into you with a force that makes you choke.

"Fuck! God, Marcus, that was..."

"Can we try something?" he pants, pulling you in for a kiss. "Please?"

"Okay?" you frown, a little frustrated at being interrupted, but Marcus gestures for you to rise, so you do as he asks, and let him pull you down with him.

"Get on top of me again, but lie down," he instructs you. You must look doubtful because he immediately adds:

"Just try it, if you don't like it, we can go back to what you were doing."

"I'll try anything once," you shrug, and get on top of him again, this time with your back turned to him. Marcus pulls you down, positioning you on top of him, legs spread, his own legs on the outside of yours. You hesitate for a second, the reality of your weight sometimes haunting your mind, but Marcus insists.

"Just come here, baby," he tells you softly, so you let him take your weight. One of his arms sneaks up the side of your ribcage to cup a breast. With the other, he guides himself into you, pushing himself in with an upward thrust of his hips. You choke on your breath and let your head hang back on his shoulder, one arm seeking a position to support you, the other coming around Marcus's neck when he presses a toothy kiss to your neck. He thrusts into you again, fingers playing with your nipple, and then his other hand comes to rub your clit.

You keen at the sudden intensity, back arching on top of him, and he plants his feet more firmly on the mattress.

"Fuck," you gasp, "that's good, Marcus, this is good..."

He sucks a kiss to your neck, his teeth stinging just a little, and your legs kick in search of a hold so that you can stay just above him. He slips out, and you whimper.

"Relax," he soothes you, thumb abandoning your clit to instead guide himself back into you. "Put your weight on me, I can take it."

You follow his instructions, back sinking down onto his chest and stomach, pelvis angling slightly to help him stay inside you. His fingers return to tease your clit, and your head falls back onto his shoulder as he settles into a rhythm that makes your toes curl.

"That's it," he praises you, his breath hot against your ear. "Just like that, take it, just enjoy it, let me take care of you."

The slow drag of his cock against your slick walls is maddening in how it pushes at your spot but leaves you wanting more. You buck your hips down eagerly.

"Faster, please, Marcus."

He obeys immediately, moaning at how you immediately clench around him. Your fingers thread through his hair, the other hand fists into the sheets. The pressure on that one spot inside you is growing in intensity, insanely, perfectly, knocking your breath out with each jab of Marcus's cock against it. Your moans become whimpers, a moan too complex a sound for you at this point, when you are so close, so utterly close to the climax that you now need as much as you need air -

The release floods your body and your cunt, and for a split second you're horrified at the wet feeling on your thighs, the rippling sound, until you realize that you squirted. A half moan, half giggle escapes you as you press your thighs together as if to lock in the orgasm that pulsates through your cunt and lower belly. Marcus gasps an excited Fuck, yes before bucking up a couple of errant times, and then relaxing down. He kisses your temple, drags his soaked fingers up over your soft belly, making you squirm.

"Sorry," he murmurs throatily. You murmur something back and slide down next to him. Everything between your legs seems wet and now cold, but you're still prickling all over with excitement.

Marcus heaves a deep sigh before turning his face to you. "That was so hot."

"I didn't know I could do that with a man."

"You haven't before?"

You shake your head. Marcus smiles softly.

"I'm honored. Was it good?"

"Yeah. How about you?"

"So fucking good."

You smile back at him before turning your face back towards the ceiling, and taking a deep breath that you sigh out audibly. Your body relaxes quickly, a muscle in your lower back mutters about the position you just were in, but you feel extremely good, and wrung out in a fantastic way. In the corner of your eye, you catch Marcus taking the condom off, before getting up to take it to the trash. When he returns, he looks around, looking for his clothes. You roll over onto your side.

"You don't have to leave, you know," you tell him quietly. Marcus stops, boxers in hand.

"Yeah?"

"I mean... don't get me wrong, I'm not looking for a relationship," you hurry to assure him. "But I wouldn't mind you staying over. Unless you have plans?"

"I don't."

He drops the boxers, and slides back into bed, next to you. You smile a little wryly.

"The sheets are wet. I'll change them, feel free to grab a shower.

"Soon," Marcus tells you, low voice heavy with a calm confidence. "I suggest we wet them a little more first."

Your deal with Marcus is simple and beautiful: sex, with or without staying the night. The occasional take-out dinner. Quickies when you run into each other in the corridor outside your front doors, with ten minutes to spare. It's undemanding, friendly, mutually satisfying. Uncomplicated, with no romantic feelings involved, so nobody can get hurt.

Marcus is an active lover who smoothly takes charge. Not bossy, but firm and empathic, and not afraid of using aids of different kinds to raise your orgasms to the next level. He's not opposed to fucking you fully clothed in the morning and leaving you wanting as you go to work with his cold cum in your panties, shot there after he removed the rubber after fucking you.

It is, in short, the perfect set-up.

Fall passes by, and you see yourself forced to fly out to see your family over Thanksgiving. You spend as much time as you can working in your childhood room, however. Your parents do not understand your choice of profession, your mother does not see how a woman of your age has chosen to be childless. Your older brother knocked his girlfriend up at sixteen, your younger sister was married at eighteen and divorced at twenty-eight. You love them, but you don't have a lot in common with them, and even if your siblings at least pretend to understand your life choices, their contempt steeped in jealousy of your life shines through at times. Your parents choose to simply ignore the life you have built for yourself in D.C., talking instead about Mrs. McCall next door, Annie down the street, Cybil in town, Kearney at the gas station, as if you knew any of them or cared about what they said about Kayleigh's twins.

You endure for two nights, and text Marcus from the airport, before boarding: I'll be home after nine tonight. You free?

He replies almost immediately: I'll pick you up at the airport.

You text him the flight number before turning off your phone, settling for a three-hour nap in lieu of working.

When you finally land, puffy-faced but breathing freely now that you're back in the city you call home, Marcus is waiting for you in arrivals. The way his smile lights up his eyes when he sees you makes your heart miss a beat. There is something there that's beyond what the two of you have, something much more sincere.

You shake it off and smile back as you walk up to him. He leans forward, like he's about to kiss you, but ends up giving you an awkward half-hug.

"Welcome home."

"Thanks. And thank you for picking me up."

"My pleasure."

The two of you turn and start walking towards the exit. Marcus offers to take your carry-on wheelie bag, but you decline, accustomed as you are to carrying your own luggage yourself.

In the car, he asks you how your Thanksgiving was.

"As holidays at my parents' usually are. One night would've been enough."

"That bad, huh?"

"Yeah. It's just..." You rub your forehead. "Whenever I visit, I feel trapped. Everything back home is... small. People are kind, yes, but they're small-minded. The town is small. The spaces in which to move, physically and mentally, are small. And I feel like some kind of big city snob who comes to visit twice a year, scoffs at their very ordinary and, as far as I know, happy lives, and then flies back to my vegan frappuccinos and twenty-four-hour sushi restaurants."

Marcus chuckles low. "I think I know what you mean. But it's hard for me to imagine that you'd be a snob about anything."

"I probably am. But I... I don't know, I outgrew that town when I was fifteen. Couldn't get out fast enough. And I don't like going back."

"Does your family support your choices?"

You shrug. "Yes and no. Mom and dad are proud, I guess, but at the same time they don't have any idea what it is that I do. 'If you wanted to be a lawyer, couldn't you be one here? Where it's not as stressful and you could start a family, and work normal hours?' As if I could practice the law I'm interested in over there."

"What's the most common type of lawyer in your hometown?"

"General practitioners who do a little bit of everything, wills mostly. And there are three, I think."

"Wow."

"Exactly."

The conversation turns to other subjects as Marcus drives the two of you to your apartment building. As he parks in his spot in the underground garage, you place your hand onto his thigh. He turns off the engine and looks at you.

"Thanks for picking me up," you tell him quietly. His hand comes to rest on top of yours.

"No problem."

"You have any plans for tonight?"

He shakes his head, then leans forward over the middle console as you reach across the same for a kiss. His fingers thread into your hair before closing around the back of your head to bring you in, and you sigh softly against his lips as you feel the rest of the pressure from your Thanksgiving visit melt away. If the town you grew up in felt unfamiliar and uncomfortable, D.C. and Marcus feel like home. And there's nothing you want to do more now than be with Marcus in this city.

You break the kiss and lower your gaze to his fly, where your fingers are already working on unzipping him. Marcus exhales in an audible sigh.

"You missed me that much?"

"Don't get any ideas," you warn him before bowing down over his lap.

Later, when you are freshly showered, and lying awake in Marcus's bed with him deeply asleep next to you, you wonder when his presence at night became such a comfort for you.

Marcus visits his parents over Christmas. You manage to convince yours that you're way too busy and the holidays too short for you to fly out. Settling in for a couple of days off work, you plan to go to the gym, meet friends, and maybe finally get through that book you started three months ago. You plan for simple yet delicious meals and come home with bags full of groceries and bottles of wine that you balance in your arms as you're digging for the keys in your pocket.

"Lemme get that."

Marcus appears by your side, taking a grocery bag from you.

"Thanks."

You manage to let yourself in, and Marcus follows you to the kitchen, where he leaves the bag on the table.

"Hi," he smiles. There is something so endearing about this man, his smile lights up the whole room, you can't possibly keep from smiling back at him.

"Hi. I thought you already left for the airport?"

"Just on my way now. Glad I caught you."

"Oh?" You unbutton your coat, unwrap the scarf from around your neck. "What's up?"

"Just... I wanted to see you before I left. Wish you happy holidays."

"Right." You take off your coat and leave it over the back of a kitchen chair. "Well... happy holidays, Marcus. I hope you have a nice weekend with your parents."

"Thanks." He clears his throat, looks down and scratches the back of his head. "Do you have any plans for New Year’s Eve?"

"Not that I know of."

"Do you maybe... want to do something?"

"Sure," you nod, a warmth spreading in your belly. "Like, dinner?"

"I was thinking Hirschhorn? You said you were curious about their special exhibit. Then dinner, and maybe a movie, if you're not opposed to spending so much time with me at once?"

You feel your cheeks heat up a little. "I don't mind at all. That sounds lovely."

His smile widens, his warm eyes glitter. "Great. I'll get back to you as soon as I return."

He kisses your cheek before leaving, his hand resting momentarily on your arm. When he closes the door behind him, the apartment feels empty.

That emptiness stays with you over the holidays. You're enjoying the time off, yes, and downright cherish not having to spend time with your family. You were looking forward to Christmas eve drinks with a couple of friends but are disappointed when they only talk about holiday preparations, gift shopping, and visiting in-laws. The detachment makes you annoyed. It's not that you want that kind of life, you don't want kids and a house and Thanksgiving dinners and all of that. But there doesn't seem to be any alternatives. You get the feeling that they feel sorry for you, that they think you should look up from your laptop once in a while, go dating, settle down, maybe work less.

Always work less. You love your job so much, maybe you won’t forever, but right now you do, and it doesn’t feel taxing when it gives you the gratification it does.

You grab a cab home, earlier than you thought and morose for not getting the carefree night you had planned for. Maybe it's your own fault for thinking that people with families wouldn't have changed.

You weigh your phone in your hand for a couple of blocks before texting Marcus.

Hope you're having a better time than I am. Just getting home after drinks, and realized I have nothing in common with my friends anymore :/

You regret the text as soon as you've sent it. It sounds whiny, and you know that you're being unfair to your friends. But Marcus replies almost immediately:

Sorry to hear that. Wish I was there to make you feel better.

You smile, and your heart skips a beat. He always knows what to say.

It is what it is. Early night for me.

He replies with a Santa emoji that makes you chuckle.

Too old for Santa, you type back. Or too naughty. Either way, he's not coming.

Only man who should come in your apartment is me ;)

You stare at the message, cheeks heating as you lick your lips. Your brain scrambles for an answer to match his tone.

I'll be the judge of that, mister. If you're away for too long, I might get lonely.

The reply comes almost immediately.

I'll be back before you know it.

Your heart is fluttering like a butterfly inside your ribcage, and you react with a thumb up to the last message. For the rest of the cab ride, you're chewing on your lower lip while looking out the window, decorated windows racing past you as the cab driver navigates towards your apartment building.

You fall asleep in front of the TV and are awakened by a text.

You up?

You rub your eyes, realize that you're still wearing makeup, and curse low.

It's two am.

Marcus's name immediately lights up on the phone, and you answer the call.

"What's up?"

"Sorry to wake you."

"That's fine, I was on the couch. Gotta schlep my ass to bed," you yawn as you turn off the TV, and stand up, scratching your head.

"I'm outside."

"What?"

"I'm outside your door."

You frown, trying to understand what he's saying. "What are you doing there?"

"Just open?"

Call still active and phone held to your ear, you walk over to the front door, and unlock it. And there Marcus is, holding his phone but lowering his hand and ending the call while smiling wryly at you.

"Hi."

"What... why aren't you at your parents'?" you stutter, still holding the phone like you're talking to him through it.

"Because I can't do this at my parents'." He steps up to you, cups your cheek, and brings his lips to yours. His face is cold, so you understand that he has just arrived from the airport. Your sleep-riddled brain still doesn't understand, and Marcus breaks the kiss, breathing softly against your lips before drawing back.

"Did I... fuck this up now?"

You lick your lips and realize that you're feeling calm and steady in a way you no longer do when he's not around. You grab him by the jacket lapel and pull him in through the door.

"No," you reply, a shiver running through you when he puts his arms around you. "No, you did just the right thing."

You don't use your tub as often as you would like to, yet it was one of the main reasons why you bought your apartment. It's spacious, has gorgeous vintage style brass faucets, and is placed by the window, from which you can see the park, now wearing a white winter coat of snow, on the other side of the street. The shower booth is at the back wall of the bathroom and your busy lifestyle has you favoring quick showers instead of long, luxurious baths.

Now, however, you're stretched out languidly in Marcus's arms, the back of your head on his shoulder, his hairy thighs pressing up against you on either side. The water is hot and scented with oils, and if the orgasms you had before getting out of bed hadn't relaxed you, this would definitely take away the last vestiges of stress knotting your muscles.

"This is a really nice tub," Marcus mumbles into your ear, his hand running up the inside of your arm, resting on the edge of the tub. "Wish I had one."

"You're welcome to use mine," you smile, just as his hand disappears into the water, finding your breast and cupping it, thumb lazily stroking the nipple.

"I like your apartment better anyway," he admits. "Mine doesn't feel like a home."

"That's just because you haven't unpacked."

He raises his shoulders in a shrug. "Been busy."

"Doesn't help much that you're fucking me every time you're off work."

“One could even say it’s your fault I haven’t unpacked,” he muses, lips touching your temple. You shake your head, hand finding his and leading it away from your breast.

“Nuh-uh, you don’t get to pin this on me.” There is no vehemence in your voice, and even if Marcus can’t see your face, he can plainly hear the smile threatening to break out.

“I had to try.”

You bring your hand back to your chest, and sigh when his fingers brush over your nipple. It would be so easy to just let things slide, enjoy his hands, his mouth, his cock that’s resting softly against your lower back… But your interest is piqued.

“Why haven’t you unpacked, Marcus?” you ask quietly. “I’ve seen that you have painting just waiting to be hung on the walls and given how much you like to criticize my dentist’s office artwork from Ikea, I can’t imagine why you haven’t done more to decorate your apartment.”

His hand stills, and you feel him swallow. He clears his throat, sighs, clearly stalling, but you don’t show mercy. You want to know.

“I guess… I thought I’d be making a home with someone. And when that didn’t happen, I didn’t like the idea anymore.”

You braid your fingers with his, the water gently rippling with your movement.

“Your ex?”

“Yeah. Teresa.”

“What happened?” He’s mentioned some tragic breakup but never specified, and you’ve never asked. Now, however, you’re asking. You want this puzzle piece to fit right, want to know everything there is to know about Marcus Pike.

“I don’t want to burden you with that…”

“I want to know, Marcus.”

He hesitates, but eventually tells you how his ex, a smart, beautiful woman that he fell head over heels for and eventually proposed to, accepted his proposal over the phone but called again thirty minutes later to tell him that she was leaving him for a coworker. Marcus had been transferred to D.C., had asked Teresa to come with, had a plan for a life together, and she turned out to be in love with a coworker: a charming, unreliable man who worked out an elaborate scheme to make her choose him instead of Marcus.

You’re shocked to silence when he stops talking, an array of emotions simmering inside you. When Marcus speaks your name, the first one to burst is anger.

“What a cunt!”

Marcus sputters your name, but you don’t feel bad.

“You know I’m right!”

“No need for language like that,” he protests, but you can sense a change in him. It’s like something’s loosened in him. Even if you can’t see his face in this position, you can feel it in how his body feels against yours.

“I’m sorry, but that behavior is despicable. And from what you’ve told me about that asshole that she went with because of you, I’d say they deserve each other.”

He shrugs. “Or maybe I was too pushy. We didn’t date for long before I asked her to marry me. I should’ve given her more time.”

You turn around in his arms so that you can meet his flickering gaze. Raising your hand to his cheek, you caress the slightly scratchy surface that sorely needs a razor.

“If it feels right, it feels right,” you tell him softly. “There’s no shame in being open and honest about your feelings, Marcus.”

He blinks, and for a second you think his eyes look shiny. His lower jaw moves as he swallows.

“Thank you,” he eventually mumbles. “I don’t want to sound like I’m making excuses but… I did feel I was being straight with her. And she… really fucking hurt me.”

“Yeah, she did.”

His stare is suddenly relentless.

“Will you? Hurt me, I mean?”

You feel nothing but calm. “Marcus, I like you a lot. This is more than just sex now. But I won’t marry you in six months, and I don’t need you to have a plan for us. I like my job, I have a good career that I won’t give up. I don’t want kids, but I like being with you, and I want to keep being with you, not just have sex but do other stuff with you.”

He smiles at that and casts his eyes down. You lean forward to press a small kiss to his lips.

“And I will help you to unpack your shit, and I will come with you to get a new kitchen table tomorrow when the stores open. Because that huge monster you have jamming up your kitchen has got to go.”

“Not tomorrow,” he immediately tells you, and you quirk an eyebrow. “Because tomorrow I’m taking you to the museum, out for a meal, and then we’re watching Casablanca.”

You chuckle. “It’s a deal.”

He pulls you in for a deeper kiss, water splashing when his arms go around you.

“For the record,” he murmurs against your lips, “I like you too.”

“That’s a relief,” you smile, before a gasp escapes your lips; Marcus’s hand has slid down your soft stomach to the apex of your thighs, and one finger is slowly circling your clit.

“Open your legs,” he whispers, breath almost scorching your cheek that is already warm from the water and your rising desire. You move around, legs and hips repositioning themselves so that he can cup his big hand over your sex.

“Marcus,” you breathe in a low moan, “I already came twice this morning…”

“And you’ll come a third time,” he promises as he slides a finger inside your warm heat, rolling a nipple between two fingers of his other hand. You curl your arm back and around his neck, seek his lips for more kisses, push down against his hardening cock to make him gasp into your mouth. Thumb on your clit, he adds a second finger to your pussy, fucking you slowly as you exchange moans along with your kisses. Your hips jut upwards when he hits the right spot, and then he stays on it, water splashing over the edges of the tub when he goes increases speed. Your hand dives underneath the surface to find his cock, and a strangled moan travels from Marcus’s mouth to yours when your fingers close around the stiff length. When he slows down, so do you, when he fucks you faster, your hand works him faster.

The climax reaches both of you at the same time, your bodies tightening up, Marcus’s hips jerking up as your thighs clamp shut, cries bouncing off the tiles as you press your bodies together. As silence falls, the water stills and your hearts return to their normal rhythms, and Marcus’s lips are on your temple.

“Fuck, you’re amazing.”

“So are you,” you hum, a ripple of lingering pleasure making your legs twitch. He kisses you again, a light smattering of kisses over your temple, brow, cheekbone, before reaching your mouth. That last kiss is deep and slow, loving, and intimate in a way you haven’t had with him before. It’s unnerving, almost scary, but there is something so comforting about Marcus’s broad-shouldered body underneath you, something that makes you embrace the unknown.

“Happy Christmas, baby.”

The underwhelming meeting with your friends, the flirty texting with Marcus, that feels like weeks ago. But it was only last night, and your world has been thoroughly rocked since then.

“Happy Christmas, Marcus.”

#marcus pike #marcus pike fanfic #marcus pike x reader #marcus pike x you #my fic

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ewanmitchellcrumbs · 1 year

Text

Light the Way - Part One

Pairing: Modern!Aemond Targaryen x female character (third person) Warnings: Angst, date rape/roofies, slight BDSM Word count: ~4k Series masterlist

Chapter summary: Starting a new job is never easy, it's even worse when your boss is an arsehole. When he unexpectedly comes to the rescue though, the relationship dynamic changes drastically.

She graduated from university a year ago with a Bachelor’s degree in PR and Marketing, and still has no idea what she wants from life, although the last twelve months of working as a barista have proven to her that a career in hospitality and customer service is definitely not it. Having happened across an online advertisement of a vacancy for the position of a personal assistant at a private law firm, she applied on a whim, never expecting to hear back. It’s not like she was qualified anyway, so she had nothing to lose

Yet, here she is, almost four weeks later, standing in the foyer of Red Keep Legal, preparing to begin her first day. The office building is sleek and modern, minimalist in decor, yet the polish of everything suggests it is incomprehensibly expensive. A handsome, bearded, older man, dressed in a sharp suit collects her from reception. She learns his name is Otto Hightower and he is a partner at the firm. They are high end solicitors and only take on the most exclusive of clients. She turns his business card over in her hands, the thickness of the smooth, matte black cardstock is high quality, with ornate golden lettering and a blood red logo of a three headed dragon. She knows she has seen that logo before, but can’t place where exactly.

“You’ll be a personal assistant to my grandson, Aemond.” Otto tells her. “He’s working on a particularly tricky case at the moment, so you’ll be responsible for ensuring he has everything he needs. I imagine he won’t ask you to do much more than get him coffee.”

So there it was, the reason she’d gotten the job. She was hoping her coffee making days were behind her, but no such luck. She sighs inwardly, the bitter irony is almost comical.

“Anyway, if you have no further questions, I shall introduce you to Aemond.” Otto concludes.

She smiles and nods politely as he turns on his heel and leads her towards the elevator, stopping on the second to last floor. She follows him along a marble floored corridor, before he gently raps his knuckles against the rich mahogany of an office door. After a few moments the door swings open to reveal the most ethereal being she’d ever laid eyes upon. He is impossibly tall without being gangly or awkward; his long, lithe limbs flow like water as he props himself against the doorframe. His silky, silver locks are perfectly coiffed and she feels self conscious as the bright blue of his right eye scans all the way from her feet to the top of her head, analysing every inch. She notices the skin around his left eye is lightly scarred - the only indication that the realistic prosthetic that sits within the socket isn’t something he can actually see out of. The simple long sleeved top and black trousers she’s wearing suddenly feel drab in comparison to the well tailored navy blue suit he wears, and she fights the urge to hide herself.

“Aemond, this is your new personal assistant.” Otto informs him, gesturing towards her. “Your mother and I worked hard to find this one, so perhaps you could try being a little more cordial than last time.”

She doesn’t stop to think about what that could possibly mean, letting out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding in and rushing forward, smiling wide and extending a hand.

“Hi Aemond! It’s wonderful to meet you!”

His plush, full lips remain unmoving, as he stuffs his hands into his pockets, not returning the gesture and continuing to study her.

She drops her hand, feeling deflated and laughs nervously.

Clearly not picking up on the awkwardness, or simply not caring, Otto glances between the two of them, before giving a curt nod and striding back towards the elevator.

Aemond watches him go before returning his attention back to her.

“Wonderful to meet me, hm?” he finally says, quirking an eyebrow.

Before she can respond, he continues, “Look, I’ve told my grandfather I don’t need an assistant and I like my own space. I’m looking over some contracts at the moment, so I would prefer it if you could make yourself scarce.” He disappears from view, allowing his office door to close behind him.

She immediately feels miserable. Her shoulders slump as she stands in front of the closed door. The first day of a new job should feel exciting, especially when your boss is so breathtakingly handsome, but this guy is rude and has declared her useless within minutes of meeting her. For a moment she considers just walking out and not returning.

She spends the remainder of the day sitting at her desk that’s positioned to the outer left of Aemond’s door. No one goes in or out, and not once does she catch sight of him. As far as first days go this is undoubtedly the worst she has ever experienced. As tempting as it is to just bail and head home, she desperately needs the cash, so she watches the hours slowly tick by on the off chance her stand-offish boss may suddenly decide he needs something. By the time 6pm rolls around, and she stands to gather her things, her legs have cramped from sitting for so long and she curses herself for only stretching her legs on the few occasions she went to the bathroom.

Arriving home, she finds her flatmate isn’t back yet and breathes a sigh of relief, knowing she’d be bombarded with questions about her first day and not have a positive answer for any of them. She uses the opportunity to pace the flat, rifling through the contact sheet and paperwork she has been given. She sighs when she happens upon the number listed for Aemond - what was the point of having the number of someone who seemingly wanted nothing to do with her? She saves it to her phone anyway, tomorrow was a new day after all. Perhaps she’ll score a few brownie points if she texts and offers to grab him coffee on her way to the office. She still can’t figure out why he’d been so cold towards her. Flopping down on the couch with a glass of wine, she boots up her laptop, deciding to do some research on Aemond Targaryen, as she realises that beyond meeting him today and knowing he works for one of the most prestigious law firms in all of Westeros, she really knows nothing about the man she is supposed to be working for.

She wakes up early the next morning, armed with a plan. Her evening of wine-fuelled research had been fruitful. She’d discovered that Aemond was from a family of famous Valyrian legal, political and business figures. Her recognition of the logo on Otto’s card was because it was regularly splashed across all of the major tabloid and broadsheet newspapers. She’d read through a few old articles regarding family drama, disputes over assets, and the death of his father to get an idea of who he was, before deciding his cold demeanour is likely attributed to the combined stress of his job and seemingly endless rifts between his mother and half-sister. She decides that if she is to break down his walls then she will do so with kindness, but she also wants to look the part - if she is to fit in with such sophisticated people then she needs to start dressing like one. She slips into a pencil skirt so fitted it looks like it has been painted on, alongside a sheer white blouse and a killer pair of black stilettos. She completes the look with perfectly styled hair and a thick coat of blood red lipstick. She’d be lying if she said she wasn’t vying for more than Aemond’s professional attention, but she’d try anything at this point just to get him to acknowledge her presence. Giving herself a last once over look in the mirror, she fires off what she considers to be a breezy good morning text to Aemond, before heading to the coffee shop she used to work at. “Good morning Mr. Targaryen! Hope you’re well today. I’ll grab you a coffee on my way to the office. See you soon!”

Arriving exactly thirty minutes later, coffees in hand, she is disappointed to see that she’s been left on read. Nevermind. She has gone all out with the coffee order, asking for the special roast of beans with an extra shot and foamed milk. This was sure to win him over. She knocks timidly at his office door and after a long moment is about to knock again when it swings slowly open with a perfectly poised Aemond on the other side. God, he was breathtaking.

She realises she has gone too long without saying anything when he snaps out an impatient “Yes?” She jumps slightly, stepping forward into his office without an invitation. Aemond cautiously backs away, his brow furrowing with suspicion and confusion.

She thrusts one of the cups towards him, “Umm…I text you. Did you - uh - coffee?” Great, now I’ve lost the fucking power of speech.

Aemond gingerly accepts the cup from her, without saying thank you. “Are you always this articulate?” He says flatly, before taking a sip. His nose instantly wrinkles, “Ugh, does this have milk in it? I’m allergic to dairy."

Her eyes widen in horror, "Oh gods,, I’m so sorry! I should have thought to ask, I can always get you-"

"Forget it.” He cuts her off, “That will be all for the day, before you try to poison me any further. Close the door on your way out.”

Fantastic, another day sat at my desk, except this time I’m dressed like a cheap escort.

The confidence she’d felt when she stepped out of the door this morning had been crushed flat by Aemond in a matter of seconds. She sits with her hands clasped tightly in front of her on the desk, willing her unshed tears away. Did he want her to quit? She’d placed everything on this job and she didn’t want to give it up without a fight. Sje simply couldn’t understand why Aemond seemed to hate her so much.

After a few hours pass by, she notices it is lunch time - he has to take a break some time. She decides that now is when she’ll make her move. Standing purposefully, she sniffs back her tears and checks her make-up in her compact mirror, before strutting back towards Aemond’s door. She’ll give that arsehole a piece of her mind. It was about time he learned to respect her.

She bursts into Aemond’s office without knocking. “Just who in the hell do you think you are?!” she rants, not waiting for his reaction to her sudden intrusion.

He looks up from the documents he has been reading and stares at her, but his expression is unreadable.

He stays silent, so she continues her tirade. “I didn’t have a fucking clue who you were when I accepted this job, despite that I’ve treated you with nothing but respect and you can’t even extend me the same courtesy!” She paces as she yells at him, gesticulating wildly. There’s a part of her telling her to stop, that this behaviour will likely get her fired, but at this point it would have been like attempting to put toothpaste back in the tube. “I know you think you’re hot shit, but that doesn’t exempt you from behaving like a decent human being.” She stops and looks at him then, his face still a mask of neutrality as he gazes up at her from his seat at the desk. “Why aren’t you saying anything?!” She demands.

“Oh, are you done?” He replies sarcastically.

She throws her hands up in exasperation, eliciting a huge sigh at his complete lack of emotion.

Accepting her reaction as affirmation, he diverts his attention back to his paperwork and mutters “Well, if that’s all, you know where the door is.”

It takes all of her willpower not to grab the nearest object and launch it towards his head. She storms outside, slamming the door as she goes. Fuck this. Walking purposefully straight to the elevator, she lets it take her to the ground floor before hastily exiting the office building. There was absolutely no way she was spending another second in this godforsaken building.

Arriving home she throws her keys a little too aggressively onto the kitchen counter and heads straight towards the fridge, grabbing for the can of whipped cream. As she loudly squirts an unhealthy sized swirl of it into her mouth, her flatmate, Rhea, looks up from her laptop with an amused smile and asks “Rough morning?”

She hadn’t noticed her sitting at the dining table, too engrossed in her own foul mood to have any awareness of her surroundings. “Think I lost my job.” She slurs without bothering to swallow.

Rhea closes the lid of her laptop and rushes to pull her into a bear hug. Finally releasing her, she smiles kindly and wipes cream from her chin, before saying “First of all, you’re gross, and second, how has that happened? You’ve been there less than 48 hours!”

“It’s a long story.” She sighs, “The short version is that my boss is an arsehole, so I yelled at him and then left the office.”

“Oh.” Rhea winces, “That’s bad.”

“What the fuck am I going to do?!” She whines, rubbing her temples.

“Well, it might not solve your impending unemployment, but we could go out tonight?”

“Are you high right now, Rhea?! The only thing I’ll be doing tonight is looking at the classifieds!”

“Come on, you were miserable for so long in your last job and don’t seem to be faring much better in this one. You deserve a little fun!”

“I dunno…”

“I’m not taking no for an answer! I’m working from home today, so having a reason to leave the flat later will keep me sane. Plus you don’t even need to get changed - you are wearing that outfit!”

“Fine. I guess one drink couldn’t hurt.”

Rhea squeals with excitement, clapping her hands. “Amazing! Now be a doll and fuck off until 7pm, I have to concentrate.”

Rhea returns to her laptop while she retreats to her room, wondering if there will ever be a point this week where she isn’t being told to go away by someone.

The bar they end up at later that evening is loud and overcrowded. Despite that, she can feel herself relaxing. Perhaps it was the second white wine she was sipping or the steady beat of the music causing her to sway your hips involuntarily, but for the first time in two days she wasn't thinking about Aemond. She sighs contentedly, draining her glass and flashing Rhea a toothy grin as she pushes through the crowd with their next round of drinks.

“Having fun?” Rhea half shouts over the cacophony of noise.

Nodding, she grabs her hand, dragging her towards the dance floor. She chugs her drink as they both move to the rhythm of the song playing. She feels woozy and attributes it to drinking too much wine too fast.

“You want water?” She shouts to Rhea, making a drinking motion with her hand. Rhea nods gratefully and she staggers her way to the bar. She can feel her vision shifting in and out of focus and getting her legs to work the way she wants them to is proving difficult. Changing course, she heads outside, deciding a few lungfuls of fresh air will help set her straight.

As she slides down the brick exterior of the building she barely notices the dark figure that has followed her outside. “Easy.” A gruff male voice says, though in her mind it sounds far away, “Just relax.” Rough hands paw at her as her head flops around on a neck that feels boneless.

“Get the fuck off her.” She hears a familiar voice snarl demandingly. The man is gone in a flash and replaced instead by someone crouching in front of her, cupping her cheeks and coaxing her to look up into a concerned blue eye.

“Aemond?” She slurs.

“Keep looking at me.” Aemond says, cradling her head, “I’m fairly certain that that prick spiked your drink. I’m going to make sure you get home safely, but you need to stay awake, okay?”

Her eyes are glassy and Aemond blurs and duplicates in her vision as he keeps her face tilted up towards him. “Rhea.” She mumbles groggily.

As if summoned by the utterance of her name, her room mate pushes her way out of the bar, phone in hand, looking left and right. When she finally catches sight of her slumped on the ground with a man crouching over her, she shrieks and runs towards her. “What are you doing to her?!”

“Helping her.” Aemond replies flatly, without looking away from her. “Pretty sure she’s been spiked.”

“Jesus!” Rhea squeals, kneeling at her side, before finally looking over at Aemond. “Holy shit! You’re Aemond Targaryen! Your uncle is so hot!”

Aemond rolls his eye, hooking his arms around the body of the semi-conscious woman in front of him and slowly lifting her to her feet.

“Should we call the police?” Rhea asks, slowly realising the gravity of the situation.

Aemond turns to stare at her. “It will take an hour for them to get here.” He explains. “And when they do they’ll just file a report which they’ll never follow up on. Our time is better spent getting her home, so she’s at least safe. I’m assuming you know where she lives?”

Rhea nods. “We’re flatmates.”

Aemond momentarily supports her weight with a single arm as he fishes his phone out of his pocket, unlocks it and passes it to Rhea. “Order an Uber”.

“Thanks for helping her.” Rhea says, as the Uber finally pulls up to the curb. They waited in total silence and any excitement Rhea had felt at having met Aemond was rapidly dissipating into awkward discomfort. “I can look after her from here.” She moves to take her from the supporting hold he has on her.

“Because you’ve done such an incredible job of that so far.” He retorts icily. “I’m coming with you.”

He maneuveres her limp form into the back of the car as Rhea makes her way around to the other side to sit next to her. She is surprised to see Aemond fold his tall frame into the backseat beside her, fully expecting him to ride shotgun. The drive back is tense and uncomfortable. She sits unconscious, sandwiched between the two of them, her heading lolling against Aemond’s shoulder.

“So…” Rhea begins, attempting to break the silence, “You’re the arsehole boss then?”

It was intended as a joke, but Aemond’s humourless chuckle instantly makes her cheeks burn at having said something so rude. “Is it true you’re going to fire her?”

Aemond seems surprised at that. “No,” He says simply. “I won’t expect to see her in the office tomorrow, she’ll need a day to recover, but tell her to be there at 9am sharp on Thursday. And I take my coffee black.”

“Sure.” Rhea smiles meekly. By this point, the Uber has pulled up to its destination. “Would you like to uh…?” She asks, gesturing towards the block of flats.

“No, I think you’ll be fine from here.” He responds, “Goodnight.”

With that, Rhea is left to help her out of the car, which pulls away as soon as she's closed the door.

The next day she awakens with no memory of the evening before, feeling like she has the mother of all hangovers. She swears loudly as she looks at the time and realises it’s almost midday. If she wasn’t fired before, she certainly was now.

Hearing she is awake, Rhea sweeps into the room with a tall glass of water for her. She fills her in on the details of the previous evening and she listens in stunned silence. She spends the rest of the day in bed, struggling to process what has happened to her and the fact that a man she’d assumed hated her had come so valiantly to her rescue.

Thursday morning rolls around quickly and she dresses simply in black trousers and a sensible cardigan. She heads to grab Aemond his morning coffee; black coffee. No sooner had she deposited the cup into his hand had apologies begun tumbling from her lips, saying sorry for how she’d spoken to him, sorry for storming off, sorry for him having to look after her. He cuts her off, sliding a sheet of paper towards her.

“This,” He begins, “Is a list of things I need you to do for me today. Think you can handle it?”

She nods, stunned at finally being asked to help him out.

“Perfect. See you later.”

The day passes in a blur and she struggles. This is the first day she’s actually performing the job she has been hired to do and the busy, demanding nature of a prestigious law firm was worlds apart from the past two days of sitting at her desk and sulking. She gets lost trying to deliver documents to various people’s offices, forgets to seal contracts in confidential envelopes and accidentally hangs up on no less than five clients while trying to transfer their calls. It is a complete disaster.

She sits, highlighting every instance of the word “Harrenhal” in a document, feeling totally overwhelmed. How could anyone manage to be so bad at a relatively simple job?! The truth was, she kept finding herself distracted, thinking about what had happened to her two nights ago. What would have happened if Aemond hadn’t shown up? She caps the highlighter pen, resting her head in her hands and fails to suppress a sob.

Hearing his office door open, she turns to face Aemond as he exits, attempting to compose herself, but knows he has likely already seen her crying. “Sorry.” She whispers. “I’m just having a bad day. Ignore me.” She sniffles and wipes her eyes.

Silently Aemond beckons her into his office, maintaining eye contact as he does so.

She follows obediently, dread gnawing at her insides, certain he’s going to fire her.

“Kneel.” He quietly commands, once the door is closed behind them.

“What?!” Her eyes widen in shock.

“Trust me, you need this. Kneel.” He insists.

She does as she is told, kneeling before him, gazing up at his impossibly tall frame with curiosity.

He slowly reaches out a hand, fingers gently grazing her jawline, before running a thumb over her lips. He pushes gently, parting them and meeting the resistance of her teeth. “Open”.

This time she doesn’t question his request, silently accepting the alien intrusion of Aemond’s thumb into her mouth. Instinctively she feels herself sucking on the digit and gradually relaxes. The sensation sends a throb of arousal straight to her core. She’d never experienced anything like this before, but seeing him tower over her, offering his thumb for her to suck was strangely erotic.

“Better?” He asks.

She simply nods, doe-eyed and staring at him in awe.

“Good.” He smiles slightly, stooping down until his lips are ghosting the shell of her ear. It makes her shiver. “I much preferred Tuesday’s outfit, by the way. Maybe that can make a reappearance tomorrow?”

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azurevi · 1 year

Text

on your side

pairing: leona x gn!reader

cw: alcohol

summary: leona reckoned that bringing you home for the holiday was not the best idea, especially when you started rambling on about how amiable his brother was.

note: some good ol’ hurt/comfort for my favorite lion

Leona, head in his hand, silently regretted having brought you home for the two-week break.

To be fair, he never would’ve approved it, let alone suggested it. But the only alternative you had was to stay at one of Rook’s villas, and that peeved Leona in more ways than he cared to admit.

Mostly he worried that you wouldn’t get along with his family (because he never could), while a smaller part was concerned that you would be scared off by their… forcefulness.

All of that went out of the window as he sat across you at the dinner table, waiting for the moment his patience snapped so that he could drag your ass back to his room. It only took one day for you to get chummy with Farena and his wife, while Cheka had long been planning your wedding.

Well, that’s not surprising. You managed to sneak your way into his heart after all, so it should really be within expectation that you managed to steal theirs.

What was surprising though, was that Farena would take so much of a liking to you that he busted out one of the best (and strongest) fruit wines from the cellar after dinner. What was more surprising was that you accepted.

So now he was watching his brother and his wife struggle with the most basic of human abilities, speech, while you babbled on about your misadventures in NRC, your sobriety thrown out of the window.

“And then the chandelier fell-” You hiccuped. “-fell on Ace, and stirred up a whole dust storm in the canteen!”

Farena inhaled loudly through his mouth before chortling. All his royal burdens, which were normally so indivisible from him, seemed to have vanished in his drunkenness, though Leona reckoned that he never had many to begin with.

The heavy door was pushed open, and Cheka poked his disheveled head in. “Oji-tan! Here you are! Can you tuck me to bed?”

Leona groaned and turned away in his seat, vaguely gesturing at the inebriated couple. “No. Ask your parents.”

“Ah, dar…darling,” Farena spotted his doe-eyed son and tapped his wife, attempting to rouse her from her haze, and made a series of incomprehensible hand gestures. Then he nodded and stood upright, swaying a little as he walked towards Cheka with open arms.

“It’s a pity, my dear,” she clasped her hand atop yours, face still raw from all the laughing. “But we should call it a day. Let’s talk- talk more tomorrow, ‘kay?”

“That sounds amazing, your majesty!” You saluted, earning an unbecoming snort from the queen.

“And you, Leona, escort our lovely guest to their room, ‘kay?”

Leona hummed half-heartedly.

The family proceeded to trudge out of the dining room, leaving only him, you, and a few guards inside. After a beat, he started, “Had fun?”

“Oh, so much fun.” You giggled and reached for the bottle of wine. He snatched it out of your reach in a flash.

“Hell no. We’re leaving.” He walked around the table and grabbed your elbow, hoisting you up.

“Ugh, the floor is melting…” you muttered before tripping over your own feet. If it weren’t for his iron grip, you would’ve face-planted onto the hard floor.

Soon as you regained your footing, you threw your arms around his neck, “Pleaze carry me.”

He clicked his tongue and pushed a few stray strands out of your face. “No.”

“Pleaseee?” You smushed your cheek against his shoulder, your hold around him loosening as a telltale sign of falling asleep. The tips of your ears were tinted red by the wine, and your body felt like hot iron against his.

The next thing he knew, he was cradling you in his arms as he paced the long corridors of the palace. Outside, Sunset Savannah was but a shadow against the night sky. It wasn’t totally dark, but a deep blue canvas with large and small stars embedded across it. The world out there had an unfathomable vastness, ever-expanding, never-ending. But right now, all Leona could focus on was your short breaths and attempts to snuggle even deeper into his embrace.

“Stop wriggling,” he said.

“You’re so mean…” you murmured, letting your arm fall limply to your side.

“This is what you signed up for.”

“Yea, I know."

He turned a few corners and finally got to his room. It was many times bigger than what he had back at NRC, but the space had always been suffocating. With your presence though, it felt a little more pleasant.

Just a little.

“Drink up.” He nudged your feet that were dangling off the side of the bed, offering a glass of cool water. You emptied it in no time.

“Your brother…” you said after leaning back onto the bed, now sounding less like there were sandpapers in your throat. “He’s nicer than I imagined.”

“Yeah?” He replied curtly, shrugging off his top layers so he could get cozy for bed. He had his back to you, but the flutter of his ears indicated that he was listening.

“Mhm. From what you told me, I expected him to be big and scary and unforgiving…” you slurred.

He couldn’t recall what exactly it was that he’d told you, but it must’ve been nothing good. Across the room, you fumbled with the collar of your shirt, trying to get some air. Agitation grew the more he watched. Eventually, he clicked his tongue and helped you release a few buttons.

“But he’s so nice! I mean, he’s a king and all that, but he’s also… not? I dunno. He’s really warm . It’s not awkward talking to him at all,” you grabbed his arm, as if remembering something. Your eyes were almost twinkling from your enthusiasm, and his hand working on your shirt faltered for a split second. “Oh, and he’s bright, y’know what I mean?”

Leona didn’t answer. Of course he knew, he’d been hearing those words since he was born. What a radiant and exuberant boy! He’s sure to lead the country to a great future. All the while he would conceal himself in the shadows, listening in on those ignorant people’s exchanges.

It was only when he opened his mouth to speak that he realized how clenched his jaw was. A sense of unease had crept up on him, and your wobbly voice complimenting all of Farena's virtues swam in his head. No words came, or more precisely, no words that weren’t venomous.

Then, with a start, he realized he hadn't been worrying that you wouldn't bond well with his family at all-- he knew before anything that you would click the moment you met. No, he was just scared that you would come to understand why people compared him with Farena. He was scared you would see him how everyone else did:

Aloof, vicious, not enough.

Buried memories flooded back into him, sharp as a polished knife. He touched the thought of you being on their side like a wound, and it answered with an ache. The pain was so abrupt that he could already feel something hardening within him. He opted to ignore it.

"Move over." He ordered, and you rolled to the other side of the bed. Without another word, he got under the covers and turned his back to you.

Silence seemed to stretch out, filling every corner of the room. Your shallow breaths gradually took on a calmer pace, and Leona thought for a second that you were already out for the count. Then your voice came, quiet but startling.

"Are you mad?"

A pause. "No."

"'Kay," you shuffled, turning to lay on your side. "Are you upset?"

"Go to sleep." He snapped.

"Was it something I said?"

He was partly annoyed, partly confused as to how you managed to notice the shift in his emotions even when you were drunk as a skunk. The space right behind him sank as you hovered over him, watching his side profile. He didn't need to look to know that you were observing him, but he did anyway, glaring back at your wide eyes with an edge impossible to hide.

"Was it the stuff I said about your brother?"

The mention of Farena was like a step on his tail. Leona growled, pulling up the blanket so you would have nothing to look at. "Shut up."

Your arm gave out under you, and you fell back onto the mattress with a huff, creating the illusion that you'd given up. But knowing you, there was no way you would just let this slide.

Predictably, you started moving around again, this time trying to pull him down onto his back. Compared to him, your feeble arms felt even weaker when you were drunk, but you were annoyingly persistent enough that he gave up and complied. A scowl seemed permanently pasted on his countenance. "What."

In the lightless room, Leona had a better look of you than you did him. Your hair was a spectacular mess, spilling over your eyes, in which there was determination, penetrating his soul. He fought the urge to look away, fearing that his feelings, those idiotic fears of his, would somehow reach you.

“C’mon, don’t give me that look,” you scratched the back of your head. “Sure, your brother may be charming and— hey, don’t push me!” You slammed your hands down on either side of his head.

“I swear to the Sevens, if you don’t-”

“No one can hold a candle to you, okay?” You snapped, as if the loudness of your voice could somehow force some senses into him. “No one even comes close. I know you’ve been told otherwise more often than not, but they're wrong. You're not abominable or wretched or lacking or pathetic or whatever the hell it is that they associate you with. Yes, you can be obnoxious and have a shell impossible to crack. Like a... turtle. But I know that deep down, you are not as unkind as they make you out to be.”

You waited and sighed at his silence. “Look, you don’t have to tell me how you feel. I know you hate gushy conversations. Just… I see you, okay? Even when the world doesn’t. And I love every part of you, even the hidden layers. Plus, you do have something your brother doesn’t.”

“And what may that be?” He probed.

You jabbed your finger at his chest. “This.”

“…My heart?”

You blinked, then cleared your throat. “Yea, that too.”

He wasn’t sure where to start, the whole speech you just did, the spontaneous turtle simile, or whatever the hell you meant by ‘that too’. The only thing he could mutter was, “Are you sure you’re drunk?”

“That’s your response?-”

“You just sound really collected-”

“Did you even hear a word I said?”

“Yes, crystal clear. Now sleep.” He grabbed your wrists and pulled, scoffing as you flopped onto him with a yelp.

Calm seconds ticked by as you shifted in his arms, positioned just how you usually were back in his dorm room. The only difference was that his hold was tighter than usual, a silent revelation of the thoughts he couldn't voice.

“For the record,” he pressed his lips to the crown of your head. “I don’t give a damn about what anyone has to say about me, except you. So…”

So as long as you’re by my side, I’ll never be afraid.

“…Never compliment my brother in front of me again.”

His words were wasted to the air— you were already gone in the land of Nod, blissfully unaware of the hell of a hangover you were going to go through the next day. A loving sigh escaped Leona as he ran his hand through your hair before dipping his head to kiss your cheek.

“Mm,” he grimaced as the sharp alcohol assaulted his nose. “Remind me to never let you drink again.”

#twst x reader #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #leona kingscholar x reader #leona x reader #leona kingscholar #sie writes

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