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emchant3d · 19 days

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part 2 of runaway bride stevie! modern au, exes to lovers, transfem stevie harrington pt 1

Eddie Munson is not having a good day.

His phone died last night so his alarm didn’t go off, his bassist is sick so their gig tonight has to be canceled, and his last three Uber rides have stiffed him on a tip.

He accepts a request from some dude named Scott with a terrible comb-over in his profile picture and gives himself two seconds to bang his forehead into his steering wheel in frustration with a closed-mouth scream. Then he dials it back so he doesn’t seem absolutely fucking insane. He can see the suit he’s about to escort to some fucking meeting even though he’d rather be doing any-fucking-thing else, and he pastes a fake smile on to greet him. He’s gearing up to fall into the usual routine of this godforsaken job, but then it all goes a little sideways.

There’s movement from the corner of his eye, and then a blur of a body is slamming into poor Scott from behind, shoulder checking him and almost sending him careening onto the sidewalk. The dude pinwheels his arms like a cartoon character, suit jacket puffing up around his shoulders awkwardly, expression so baffled it makes Eddie snort despite himself.

“Oh, shit,” he mumbles, and he’s reaching for his seatbelt to see if the guy needs any help - he looks like he might break a hip if he hits the ground - but then a whirlwind of white fabric swoops into his backseat and a loud, desperate voice yells "DRIVE!" in his ear, and he sort of just thinks 'sure, why the fuck not,' and slams his foot on the gas.

The car fishtails a bit and the tires squeal as he swerves into traffic, horns honking after him, and he picks a direction at random, going way too fast for this area of town.

His heart is pounding in his chest, worst case scenarios running through his head. He’s going to get car jacked. He’s going to go to jail for being an unwitting getaway driver. But there isn’t any more yelling from the back seat, just heavy, panicked breathing, and he settles into traffic and slows down to a more normal speed before he cuts his eyes up to the rearview mirror.

Time stops.

It’s Stevie.

He can’t believe he didn’t recognize her the second he saw her, but in his defense, it's not like he was expecting to see his ex-girlfriend in a goddamn wedding dress running like she stole something today.

Pure panic wraps tight around his throat as he takes her in - is she hurt? In danger? Nothing good could have had her sprinting away from her own wedding, but it seems like she’s just shaken up.

His heart calms a bit once her tears dry and they get properly on the road.

And shit, it’s so unfair, because she's just as breathtaking as she was the day they split. She looks just as sad, too, which is certainly not how a woman like Stevie Harrington should look on her wedding day. But seeing her in a gown like that - Jesus Christ. His heart squeezes painfully in his chest. It’s like something out of a fantasy, seeing her in the exact kind of dress she used to whisper to him about wanting, the kind of dress he’d once promised to marry her in. Of course, they fell apart before he could even get a ring on her finger, but it still sends his stomach swooping to see the future they’d spoken about come to life.

“You’re sure you’re okay?” he can’t help but ask, glancing over his shoulder at her.

“Yeah,” she says, voice high and a little squeaky. “Yeah, I’m totally fine. Just in my ex-boyfriend's car after I left my fiance at the altar, it’s all fine, it’s chill.”

“Okay,” he says haltingly, delicately, because Stevie Harrington is not the kind of person who says it’s chill, “it’s just that, you know, all of that sounds decidedly not chill.”

“This is so chill. It’s the chillest I’ve ever been, actually - hold on–” she says, and next thing he knows a swirl of silk is blocking his view and he sputters a bit as the train of her dress smacks him in the face, but she’s clambering gracelessly from the back seat and over the console to plop down on the passenger side with a loud huff and a cloud of perfume.

It’s different from what she used to wear. She used to smell spicy and warm, with notes of amber and cinnamon. He’d kiss the little spots in her wrists where she’d spritz it on, trace the veins beneath the tan skin with his nose to keep the scent of her with him.

Now she smells like vanilla and something floral, airy and light. Like he stepped into a bakery. It’s not bad, of course it’s not bad, but it’s…different. Not her.

Or not his version of her, anyway.

This is someone else’s Stevie now, and she smells like fucking cookies instead of home.

Instead of commenting on it, he just tells her to put on her seat belt, and she looks at him like he’s an idiot.

“And wrinkle this dress?” she says, her nose curling a little, and God she’s such a bitch and he’s missed it so much.

“I hate to break it to you,” he tells her, “but some wrinkles are not the worst damage that thing has seen today.” There are small grey splotches on the bodice where her makeup dripped as she cried earlier, and the hemline has some muddy staining from her mad dash on the sidewalk. It’s not ruined, but it’ll have to be cleaned, and a couple of wrinkles will be the easiest thing to get out of the formerly pristine fabric.

He glances over at her in time to see her run her hands over the skirt of the dress, smoothing it out over her thighs. It shifts, the leg slit parting to show her skin, teasing at the hint of a crease where her thigh and stomach meet, and Eddie rips his gaze away to stare at the road instead.

“Probably for the best, anyway,” he says, and he feels her eyes latch onto his profile.

“And why’s that?” she asks, and he smirks.

“Well, pure white? C’mon, Stevie, we both know that’s a lie.” He flashes her a wicked grin and she makes an outraged sound, but a small smile is teasing at her mouth even as her cheeks flush.

She kicks off her heels - red bottoms, because of fucking course they are - and slouches in the seat. She pushes herself up, adjusting in the pile of silk and corsetry she’s been strapped into, and he sees the absolute mountain of a rock on her hand, and manages to bite his tongue about it being the gaudiest thing he’s ever seen.

"So who was the lucky guy?" Eddie asks before he can stop himself, and the glare Stevie gives him could cut glass. “Or lucky woman. Person? Far be it from me to deny you your bisexual rights.”

He probably sounds like a jealous asshole, but he can't help it. He's the getaway driver for his one that got away on her fucking wedding day, and he feels like he deserves to ask a few questions.

His hands tighten on the steering wheel as the silence lingers, but eventually, Stevie just groans, letting her head fall back against the headrest dramatically.

"Don't laugh," she demands, and Eddie shakes his head.

"Scout's honor," he promises, and he swears a wry little grin teases at her lips.

“You were never a scout. You would have been kicked out for inciting a riot.”

“Hey, I just ensured we all earned our arson badges, okay? I did every one of those kids a favor.” Stevie scoffs, and it almost sounds fond.

Then she says, “Tommy,” and he almost swerves into oncoming traffic.

"HAGAN?" he says, louder than he means to, and her hand flies up to grab the oh-shit bar.

“Eddie, Jesus!” she says, glaring at him, and he shakes his head, focusing back on the road.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, but fucking - really? “Really?” He can’t help himself. “Tommy Hagan?”

“Yes, really, Tommy Hagan,” she says hotly, like she’s defensive, like she didn’t just leave the schmuck at the fucking altar.

“Well that explains the ring, at least.” She reaches over, smacking at his arm, which, thanks to the aforementioned ring, is probably going to bruise. “Hey, ow!” He glares at her, taking a hand off the wheel to rub his bicep. “Watch it, that thing’s a weapon.”

“Then stop sassing me about it,” she snaps, rolling her eyes and crossing her arms and her face falls into that adorable bitchy little pout he’s always fucking loved, and he looks away again.

He can’t help but glance back over at her left hand. The ring is…certainly something. Giant, square, one big diamond surrounded by other, smaller diamonds, with even more diamonds on the band. It looks heavy and cumbersome and like she’s going to smack it into every wall and door and get it caught in her hair and seriously, he’s pretty sure he’s already got a knot forming on his arm where the thing hit him.

It looks like Tommy walked into the priciest jewelry store he could find and asked for the most expensive ring they had.

It looks like a status symbol.

It doesn’t look like her.

“Apologies, highness,” he says, shaking himself free of his thoughts. It’s not fair to hold her to those standards. He hasn’t spoken to her in years. He can’t know what kind of person she is now.

But there’s still a bone-deep knowing that overtakes him at the feeling of the woman next to him. A sense of deja vu so strong it threatens to knock him over.

A different car, a different time, a different circumstance, but the same person. The same love.

He’d picked a direction at random, but as the streets become more familiar, he realizes he’s heading towards his place. It’s as good as any, he figures, and he shifts lanes, reaching to tap on his phone and shutting down his Uber account.

“You know, I almost expected you’d still be driving that beat up old van,” Stevie says suddenly, and he crows a laugh.

“Ah, Van Halen, you served me well until you almost blew up on the highway,” he says fondly. “Lost her about a year ago. It was tragic. I held a funeral.” She laughs again, shaking her head.

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” she says, turning that pretty smile his way, and his heart does a somersault.

“That was a very impressive move back there, by the way,” he tells her, “that shoulder check of that old defenseless businessman?” He whistles. “Haven’t seen anybody move that quick to steal an old man’s ride before, really, it should have been documented.”

“Oh my god, shut up,” she says, but there’s a laugh in her voice, and she brings up her hands to press to her pink cheeks. He can’t help but keep digging.

“No, seriously! And sprinting like that in heels? And in that dress? What’s that thing weigh, like twenty pounds?”

“It’s a dress, not a suit of armor,” she tells him, but her smile is growing, making her eyes crinkle.

“Just saying, it was pretty metal,” he shrugs, and she snorts.

“Well, you would know,” she says, and he ignores the way his face flushes in response. She gives a little sigh, wiping below her eye and frowning at the smear of black on her fingers.

“Here,” he says, reaching across her. His arm brushes her leg as he opens the glove box and he’s so fucking normal about it. He pulls out a few fast food napkins, holding them out to her. “No makeup wipes in here, but that’ll help with the worst of it.”

“Thanks,” she says, and she flips the visor down, tapping a napkin to her tongue to wet it before wiping at the mascara tracks running down her face. “God,” she groans, scrubbing at a particularly stubborn smear, “I look like a raccoon.”

“A very cute raccoon,” he says before he can stop himself. Jesus, Munson, dial it back. “Like the raccoon that’s about to get the best trash in the bin, she doesn’t even have to ask for it.” Stop talking. “The other raccoons are just gonna give it to her, on account of how cute she is.” He’s gonna throw himself into traffic.

“Did you just call me a raccoon on my wedding day,” she asks. Fine, commit to the bit.

“You called yourself a raccoon on your wedding day. I was just agreeing with you,” he replies, keeping his eyes fixed to the road.

Her eyes are on him - he can feel her stare burning into the side of his face, and his cheeks are going pink and blotchy and God, he’s an idiot–

And then she laughs. Not her polite little contained laugh, either, no, this is that loud, wide mouthed laugh that she hates, that makes her shoulders shake and her head fall back. It’s squeaky and hearty and a little obnoxious and he’s always been so obsessed with getting her to let it out, and he can’t help the smug beaming little smile he gives at the sound.

“You’re such an ass,” she says through her laugh, and Eddie can’t help but laugh with her even if it’s at his own expense, because at least she doesn’t look so goddamn sad anymore.

When they finally reach his apartment complex she’s a little more subdued, but the look on her face isn’t totally heartbreaking, and he’ll take what he can get. He comes around to the passenger side to open her door for her and helps her gather the dramatic skirt of her dress to keep it off the pavement as they head towards the stairs, and he knows he looks like an insane person as he carts a bride down the hall, but he just smiles at his nosy neighbors and lets this cement his reputation as the weird as fuck off-putting metalhead he knows they all think of him as.

He feels a little self conscious as he opens the apartment door for her, sweeping an arm dramatically to allow her to enter first. For the first time since she swept into his car, he wonders if this is a good idea. But it’s too late now – Stevie’s giving him a little smile and stepping into his home, and part of him knows this was inevitable. She may not have called him, but he was always going to come if she needed him.

He follows her inside and tries to calm the pounding of his heart, watching her take in his space, struck all over again by her beauty and the impossibility of her standing here, and silently prays he isn’t going to fuck it up all over again.

this was almost even longer, but I figure 2.5k is enough for a part 2! no tag lists, sorry, but part 3 will be here at some point. thank you to everyone who's had a kind word to say about this au these two are very near and dear to me 💕

#steddie #trans steve harrington #transfeminine steve harrington #stevie harrington #runaway bride stevie #my fic #steddie fic

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qqueenofhades · 8 months

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I'm a little confused by the left's repeated assertion that they're "trying to hold Biden accountable" and push him left, things they've been talking about since before he was elected, and the ramifications of that at this point in time. I do think we need to be calling out things we disagree with and making our feelings known, but seeing people like Nina Turner complain about student loan forgiveness when it's been made abundantly clear Biden is doing all he can and he can't actually cancel anything as just the President (without being sued or having it reversed by Republicans - please correct me if I'm wrong and there's more he could do here?) doesn't feel like it's that? I just don't understand the logic behind people on the left adding to this narrative that he isn't trying hard enough on what we want, rather than the Republicans are preventing things from being done. We need to not sit back and get complacent, yes, sure, but I feel like the line where it goes from helpful and necessary to harmful and more beneficial to the right was crossed a while ago.

The thing is, you're confused by it because it's a bad-faith argument. Actually "holding someone accountable" means honestly assessing what they can do, what they have done, what they can be expected to do in the future, and if they haven't done it, what's stopping them (i.e. have they just not done it or are they being actively stopped from doing it by factors beyond their control)? It doesn't mean "constantly moving the goalposts to constantly criticize someone if they don't magically get everything done immediately, regardless of reality." The way Online Leftists use it, "holding Biden accountable" means "relentlessly criticize him every instant he doesn't magically transform into the Socialist Messiah overnight, the end." That's not actually a useful, honest, reliable, or constructive metric.

This is also the case because their version of good policy is "someone thinks the Correct Thoughts all the time and any failures to achieve it means they are not thinking the Correct Thoughts hard enough." I'm not sure how anyone could have missed what SCOTUS is doing right now, but Online Leftists remain determined to discount, minimize, or otherwise totally ignore its role, because that would mean a) there is in fact a difference between the parties, b) Hillary Clinton would not have made the same appointments Trump did, and c) they might therefore have some responsibility in not voting for her, none of which can be countenanced. As such, if Biden has failed to wave a magic wand and get all student debt erased for everyone overnight, He Is Just Not Trying Hard Enough. SCOTUS very notably outlawed his first forgiveness program? BIDEN'S FAULT!

Even though Biden extended the Covid-era payment pauses as long as he could (it was Congress that passed the law mandating an end to them, because THE PRESIDENT IS NOT AN ABSOLUTE MONARCH!), and even though he's now rejiggered the entire repayment program so that your monthly payments can get lowered to $0, these count as payments, and no interest accumulates as long as you "make" them, which in practice adds up to full forgiveness -- this still isn't good enough for the Online Leftists, because it happened after trial and error, is a partial solution, doesn't snap its fingers and erase everything, and relies on slow and careful policy work. And yet, it's going to be a lot harder for SCOTUS to overturn than just "the president forgives your debt," which was the first thing he tried to do and it didn't work! With a different SCOTUS, it might have! But we have this nightmare court BECAUSE OF TRUMP, and all the Pure Thoughts in the world won't get rid of it!

Biden is the most liberal president we have ever had, period, full stop. It's not sexy and it's not exciting and it's not something the Online Leftists will ever acknowledge, but it's the truth. And whenever he is actually and extensively pushed, he goes more left, not less. I suspect at least part of the recent negative press barrage he's gotten is because he's openly come out with a plan to raise the tax rate on billionaires to 25%, and the corporations and oligarchs that own the mainstream media Really Don't Like That. (They've always been unfair to Democrats, but look for it to be especially so.) That would be, BY FAR, the highest the top-rate tax bracket has been since Reagan. Biden is the first president ever to actually address the scam of "Reaganomics" and take credit for "Bidenomics," which actually does represent a major rearrangement of the way capital is envisioned and distributed in this country for the first time in the 40+ years since Reagan wrecked it. That's why the capitalist media is really, REALLY determined to muckrake him as much as possible, and to do Kamala even dirtier than they did to HRC in 2016.

Anyway also: Holding someone accountable also implies that you're working with them and will reward them (i.e. voting for them, engaging with them) if they do the things you expect, which is another thing the Online Leftists won't do. So yes. This. The end.

#anonymous #ask #politics for ts

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piratecaptainscaptainpirates · 4 months

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It's been a week today since we got the news OFMD was cancelled, and today I'm thinking about how much we deserve to see Ed and Stede get married.

We see the desire to marry Stede as such a desperate, tender, heartfelt wish for Ed. When he puts his little cake toppers next to each other, it's so tentative. He painted the bride to look like himself so carefully - look at the little swirling details he's done on the dress! And the way he nudges it over next to the one representing Stede is so slow and hesitant, like he's scared to even admit to himself how much he wants this.

There's such a palpable yearning in Ed's expression here. He wants this so badly. We know that this is what Ed's decided as his last night, we know he's planning on committing suicide the next day, and he just wants to indulge in imagining a happy, soft future he thinks he's never going to get to have.

And at the end of the season? Ed is, slowly, learning that he's not the unlovable monster he thought he was. He knows Stede loves him, and he feels secure enough to tell Stede he loves him back. He knows Stede is committed to him just as deeply as he's committed to Stede; they're each other's first priority and they're going to settle down to build a life together, free from the pressures of Blackbeard's image and safe from the dangers of piracy.

When Lucius and Pete get married, as they hear the vows, Ed's able to think about how they apply to him and Stede, too. And he's able to take that desperate longing for something he thought he couldn't have and know he's going to get it.

When you combine that with Stede's whole thing? How he expressed his wish in s1 that he'd be able to marry for love? How that was something he probably never thought he'd actually get once his father paired him off with Mary, how he resigned himself to a loveless, miserable marriage - and how he found love with Ed? When Stede realizes he can actually ask Ed to marry him, that he can actually choose to marry this man for love-

They're gonna get married so hard and we deserve to see it!

#look at the state of him. unsubtle.#ofmd #our flag means death #renew as a crew

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thedensworld · 7 months

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Guilty Flower | C.Sc

Pairing: Seungcheol x Reader

Genre: angst, fluff, slow burn

Summary: Seungcheol accepted his mother offer to meet you, his potential future wife said his mother, without knowing what kind of person you are.

Seungcheol, a man of countless responsibilities, found himself entangled in a web of anticipation. With a laundry list of 99 tasks to tackle, the last thing he desired was to be kept waiting. Almost half an hour had slipped away, and there was no sign of you. No message from his diligent secretary, Chan, indicating a cancellation. An internal sigh escaped him, a realization dawning that perhaps he was being overly considerate to a stranger.

His mother, insistent as ever, had urged him to meet you—Moon Y/n, a woman she'd encountered in a cooking class unbeknownst to Seungcheol. Information trickled in about your professional life, as a member of the Moon clan overseeing a significant conglomerate, Nova AutoWorks, headed by none other than your brother, Moon Junhui. The context lent some leniency to your tardiness.

With reluctance, Seungcheol reached for his phone, dialing Chan's number. He notified him of his imminent departure, resigning himself to the fact that dinner would remain elusive. Tonight's mood was effectively soured, all thanks to you.

Not one to retreat immediately, he sought refuge in his office, determined to chip away at the looming workload. Chan's competence was evident, yet Seungcheol couldn't resist the urge to scrutinize every detail before the dawn of the next day.

Morning light filtered into his office, accompanied by the fragrance of fresh blooms. Chan entered, bearing a bountiful bucket of flowers. Seungcheol rose from his chair, fingers tracing the sender's name on the accompanying note—Moon Y/n. An apologetic message nestled within, explaining your absence.

Seungcheol's brows knitted in contemplation. Was it common for a man to receive such a gesture? His mother's adoration for you, forged in the fires of their shared culinary pursuits, would surely wilt upon learning of last night's disappointment.

Chan, sensing the internal conflict, began to offer a solution. "If you'd prefer, I can get rid of these," he suggested, but Seungcheol intercepted the offer with a raised hand, his thoughts tangled in uncertainty. It seemed wasteful to discard such a gift, yet he was decidedly unversed in the language of flowers.

With a tentative query, he asked Chan if he possessed any proficiency in tending to such flora. Chan's surprise was palpable. "You'd like me to arrange them in a vase?" he confirmed.

Seungcheol inclined his head, the question resolved. "Is that the protocol for these... specimens?" he inquired, met with an affirming nod from Chan.

"Yes, sir. We'll supply them with water and ensure it's changed regularly. Any withering leaves, we remove; it prolongs their bloom," Chan elucidated, his tone adopting an air of expertise.

Seungcheol absorbed the guidance, a silent signal to his capable secretary to undertake the task. "And," he added before Chan could retreat with the bouquet, "once you've tended to them, kindly place them upon my desk."

Chan nodded crisply. "Of course, sir. It won't take more than five minutes." The words lingered in Seungcheol's mind, leaving him to ponder the unexpected role of a flower in his evening.

As you step out of the car, the clatter of your discarded helmet and gloves punctuates your frustration. The manufacturing manager, Kim Mingyu, approaches swiftly, sensing the gravity of the situation. Your face bears the weight of your anger, but you temper it with a cold composure as you lock eyes with him.

"You know exactly what needs to be said," you remark, your voice steady, arms crossed in stern resolve. The anniversary event looms, a mere two months away, yet the persistent recurrence of errors threatens to jeopardize its success.

Mingyu's gaze remains lowered, an acknowledgment of his accountability. He mumbles a conciliatory admission, his eyes shifting to the car that, in your estimation, still falls short of the masterpiece it should be.

Another sigh escapes your lips, laden with the weight of responsibility. "And what of our previous manufacturing vendor?" you press, seeking alternatives. Mingyu shakes his head, delivering the sobering news that even the best option has been snatched up by Hyundai, leaving PrecisionTech struggling to accommodate your intricate design.

Silent curses swirl in your mind for your brother's penchant for complexity and your ensuing burden. Not only must you ensure the flawless completion of this project, but you're also tasked with surpassing last year's anniversary event.

Your thoughts shift to the impending meeting with the vendor handling the anniversary launch, a critical milestone for both the car and your family's legacy.

"Innomatic, from the Seventeen Series," you suggest, memories of past successes with the company resurfacing. "Can we collaborate with them again?"

Mingyu's response brings a flicker of hope. "I believe so. Although, I'm not sure if Seungcheol is still overseeing it. He's now the COO."

Your brows arch inquisitively. "Choi Seungcheol?"

Mingyu nods, providing the confirmation that Choi Seungcheol holds a pivotal role at InnoCorp. He elaborates on the potential benefits of rekindling the partnership with Innomatic, drawing on their previous triumphs with the Seventeen Series.

Without further ado, you stride away, leaving Mingyu to ponder your sudden departure. Pulling out your phone, you dial your trusted assistant, Seo Myungho, whose loyalty has been unwavering for half a decade.

"I need you to cover for me," you implore, the urgency evident in your tone.

A scoff precedes Myungho's response. "I do it every day."

Your request takes an unexpected turn, one that elicits laughter from Myungho, followed by a barely stifled chuckle. "You claimed zero interest just last night."

A sigh escapes you, your fingers threading through your hair. "I know, and I am. But circumstances have shifted. I'll explain later. Just send him something... an email, an invitation to brunch, a thoughtful souvenir, or perhaps our exclusive repairment voucher. Please, please, please!"

You can almost hear the mischievous grin in Myungho's voice as he agrees, reveling in your unusual request, "it's refreshing to hear you begging like this, Y/n. Alrighty, I'll handle this easy-peasy task."

Seungcheol gestured towards the plush couch in his office, inviting you to take a seat. After a week of correspondence through emails, you finally found yourself face to face with Choi Seungcheol—the man who had been your beacon of hope. He was also the one you had inadvertently stood up on a date.

Politely declining the offer of a drink from his secretary, you turned to face Seungcheol, who occupied a chair arranged for him.

"I've reviewed your proposal to collaborate with Innomatic, but I believe a more in-depth discussion is in order, given our previous decision to decline Hyundai's offer. We need to ensure our alignment in the automotive industry, Ms. Moon," Seungcheol stated, his gaze steady and intent.

You reached for another file you had brought along, presenting the sales report and insights from the previous Nova-Innomatic venture. "Indeed, Mr. Choi. Based on this sales report and our collaboration history, I believe it's advantageous to build upon the strong foundation we've established."

Seungcheol perused the report before placing it on the table, leaning back and fixing his gaze on you. "I wouldn't characterize our relationship as 'good terms,' Ms. Moon."

The mention of the Nova Seventeen Series gave you pause. Suddenly, it dawned on you what he was alluding to. You promptly bowed, apologizing for the date you had flaked on.

"I'm sincerely sorry about that," you admitted, acknowledging your lapse in etiquette.

Seungcheol's response was a measured nod. "I waited for... nearly an hour. A significant stretch of time, particularly for individuals with demanding schedules, wouldn't you agree, Ms. Moon? Nonetheless, I appreciated the gesture the following morning."

You nodded, inwardly grateful that you had delegated the situation to Myungho. "Thank you. It was a memento from our previous collaboration—"

"I've taken to adorning my office with flowers. They're both aesthetically pleasing and calming," he interjected, motioning to a vase of blooms on the nearby table. Your curiosity piqued. What variety of flowers were they?

"I'm sorry?" you mumbled, slightly taken aback.

Seungcheol acknowledged your confusion with a nod. "You sent me flowers the next day. It was... the first time I'd received such a gift," he admitted, his tone tinged with a hint of reticence.

Your own words tumbled out in response, "I sent you flowers? Yes, I did. I'm glad they found favor with you," you replied, offering a sincere smile.

A smile you replicated every time you contemplated seeking retribution against Seo Myungho.

Seungcheol sat in an odd calmness amidst the lively banter of his friends. His fingers absently twirled the whiskey in his glass, his thoughts far from the story Jeonghan was sharing. It was Jisoo's sharp slap on his arm and ensuing laughter that snapped him back to reality, a stark contrast to Seungcheol's own demeanor.

Jeonghan's playful annoyance flared up. "I just told a hilarious tale about Soonyoung. How did you not crack a smile, Seungcheol?"

Seungcheol blinked, downing the contents of his glass in one swift motion. "I'm sorry, my mind's preoccupied at the moment," he admitted, setting the glass down.

Jisoo's smirk danced across his face. "I'd wager it's not work-related," he quipped, piquing Jeonghan's curiosity. "Work never troubles Choi Seungcheol. My dad even calls him the 'Jesus of InnoCorp.'"

The comparison made Seungcheol cringe. "What on earth does that mean?"

Jeonghan scoffed. "It means you're the savior of InnoCorp. You could be my Jesus too, Seungcheol."

"Does that imply Seungcheol has to make a sacrificial offering for you?" Jisoo chimed in, earning a casual shrug from Jeonghan.

"He saved me from a call to my dad's worker, if you must know," Jeonghan clarified, alluding to Seungcheol's initial role in the family business before his venture into the entertainment industry.

"So," Jeonghan clapped his hands to recapture their focus, "is this about the woman your mom set you up with?"

"She stood you up, didn't she?" Jisoo interjected. Seungcheol's brows furrowed, while Jeonghan gasped in astonishment.

"How did you know?" Seungcheol inquired, surprised at how swiftly the news had circulated within their circle.

Meanwhile, Jeonghan's irritation flared. He was entirely in the dark about the specifics of this supposed meeting. "Hold on a minute!"

"I heard it from Chan when I called him a few days back," Jisoo clarified, recounting the tale of Seungcheol's foiled date from a week prior, as if Seungcheol were a spectator to his own story.

"Moon Y/n, President Moon's daughter? The businesswoman? I can't fathom how President Moon managed to pass on his business acumen to all his children, while my father bequeathed me nothing but a stubborn streak," Jeonghan remarked, shaking his head in mild exasperation.

Jisoo chuckled. "Dokyeom is her friend, and he's spoken highly of her since their college days. She's our junior, Seungcheol," he revealed, prompting a raised brow from Seungcheol.

"She is?" Seungcheol queried, the revelation sinking in.

His lips pressed into a thin line as a flurry of questions about you crowded his mind:

1. What compelled his mother to be so insistent on introducing you?

2. Why did you stand him up on their date, only to send flowers the next day?

3. Why did the mere thought of you leave him feeling oddly fluttery?

4. Could this all be part of a strategic move, considering your interest in Innomatic?

"Out with it, Choi Seungcheol! Not everyone's a mind-reader," Jisoo chided, delivering a playful slap on his arm, a gesture he'd made more than once that evening—surely a sign of his inebriation.

Jeonghan, ever the perceptive one, added, "I can read about 50% of it, though. And right now, it's likely about Y/n."

Seungcheol chuckled, waving off Jeonghan's words. "Quiet, you two. I was merely contemplating something..."

"What if..." he began hesitantly, "someone were to send you flowers?" Seungcheol asked, addressing his two friends with a touch of uncertainty.

"Condolence flowers?" Jisoo's response made it clear he was thoroughly inebriated. Meanwhile, Jeonghan gasped dramatically, chanting, "She sent you flowers?!"

"Dude, she's a keeper. She's got you... She's definitely got you!" Jeonghan laughed, clearly unable to believe the turn of events.

Seungcheol regarded him with a bemused expression. "I'm not that easily swayed. I was just curious, is it commonplace for a woman to send flowers to a man? If so, then it was likely just her way of apologizing." Seungcheol explained slowly, but Jeonghan dismissed his words.

"But she's already won you over. I can tell, 100%. The moment you see her again, you'll be smitten. Trust me!"

Jeonghan's prediction had turned into an undeniable truth. Seungcheol's mother called him suddenly, requesting his presence to pick her up from her cooking class. Her request, however, entailed much more than a simple ride home; it involved a tasting session of the dishes she'd prepared, introductions to fellow classmates, and then their departure together. So, Seungcheol arrived promptly at the designated course building.

Upon his arrival, he discovered a scene of communal celebration, each student proudly presenting their meticulously prepared traditional Korean meals to their special guests. Standing by his mother's side, Seungcheol couldn't help but wonder if being here was indeed a wise decision.

Before the instructor could commence the class, a familiar figure entered the room. It was you, donning a striking white Etsy dress that complemented your complexion, exuding a unique blend of elegance and the commanding aura of a career-driven woman.

Did he just find you beautiful? No, it was more accurate to say he appreciated the beauty of your dress. Yes, that was it.

"Did you meet her on the date I arranged?" his mother discreetly inquired, to which Seungcheol simply nodded, now understanding her motive for summoning him here.

You swiftly made your way to the counter, offering an apology for your tardiness. As the class began, Seungcheol found himself stealing glances in your direction every few minutes, silently pondering why you had come alone.

"Will someone be picking you up later, Ms. Moon?" the instructor's voice carried clearly to Seungcheol's ears.

"I doubt it. My family members are quite busy," you replied with a light chuckle.

As his mother was called to present her creation, Seungcheol stood alone behind the counter, your eyes never once meeting his. It was as though you two had never crossed paths before, never shaken hands in agreement for the collaboration between your respective companies.

The instructor turned their attention to you. "Who have you brought with you today, Ms. Moon?"

You heard your answer, your gaze fixed on your dish, the instructor, anywhere but Seungcheol. Like the meeting and collaboration between the two of you had never happened.

Seungcheol's mother began to speak, "I brought my one and only son today. He used to complain that I never cooked for him when he was a child. That's why I worked hard to learn cooking, so I can prepare everything he wants now that I'm older."

Seungcheol couldn't help but steal another glance at you. He saw the gentle smile you directed at his mother. Unconsciously, he found himself mirroring your expression, a smile etched across his face until it was your turn to present your creation.

"You didn't bring anyone today, Ms. Moon. But could you share with us what inspired you to join our class? It's not often we have a young lady like yourself join us."

explained.

Seungcheol's gaze remained fixed on you, his ears attuned to every word that left your lips, your voice soft-spoken and gentle, a facet of your personality he'd noticed from the very first encounter.

"I've always loved home-cooked meals since I was a child. They remind me of the memories I shared with my grandmother. Sadly, no one in my family knows how to cook now. So, I thought it would be a good idea to learn to cook for myself," you explained.

Perhaps Seungcheol didn't understand how it all began. He might not have realized that his feelings for you had taken root from a simple flower you had sent him out of guilt. However, in that moment, he knew that his feelings for you had no intentions of finding an end.

Wednesday, July 26th

Seo Myungho: Chan, I don't think my boss will ever budge from her desk. She's knee-deep in wrapping up the end-of-month report!

Lee Chan: No way! My boss is already on his way :(

Seo Myungho: I just don't get why she agreed to the date in the first place if she wasn't interested! She clearly has a soft spot for your boss's mom, but not for your boss.

Lee Chan: But I swear, my boss is genuinely kind. He even told me to go home instead of waiting for him:(

Seo Myungho: Chan, that's just basic courtesy. Making sure you get home on time is what he should do.

Lee Chan: But he also surprised me with my favorite coffee and cookies this morning. He's seriously the sweetest boss ever.

Seo Myungho: Well, good for you. I can't relate at all -_-

Lee Chan: Anyway, my boss just arrived.

Lee Chan: Yo!

Lee Chan: Hyung, really :(

Thursday, July 27th

Seo Myungho: Chan! My phone died yesterday and I forgot to let you know. Turns out, my boss couldn't make it because she had a sudden bout of constipation!

Lee Chan: You're such a pain, hyung. It's all good though, I handled everything.

Seo Myungho: What do you mean?

Lee Chan: I'll fill you in later... Lunch at Kimbab Heaven?

Seo Myungho: Deal!

341 notes · View notes

criticallyacclaimedstranger · 2 months

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

142 notes · View notes

thefallennightmare · 7 months

Text

Miracle-eight

(gif created by me, the fallen nightmare. feel free to use, simply give credit)

Pairings: Noah Sebastian x Reader

Warnings/Tropes: forced proximity, slight enemies to lovers, slow burn, smut, angst, fluff, mentions of death, and swearing.

Summary: Reader is the merch girl for Bad Omens. It wasn't what she wanted to do with her life but when her mother got sick with Alzheimer's, reader took a job where she could to help with the costs. She thought it would be a one-time gig but the longer she was on the road with them, the harder she fell for Noah Sebastian; even if he wanted nothing to do with her. She needed a miracle to save her mom and her future.

Author Note: things are about to get REAL intense so buckle up!

Tags: @ada-clarence @nonamessblog @thescarlettvvitch @malice-ov-mercy @crimson-calligraphyx @theoneandonlykymberlee @yumikitten @blackveilomens @cherrymedicine13 @thebadchic @notmaddihealy @jay02bo @beaker1636 @jakekiszkasguitarpick @punk-pr1ncessxoxo @er3nslovergirl @iamdesolate @lma1986 @jessitpwk @themodern-daywednesday @writethrough @bngurngheart @dreams-that-are-anwsered

Holy shit, I give Bryan so much damn credit. He does this almost every single night and I've only been hopping around back and forth in front of the stage to get random clips or videos of the guys set for one night. At first, I was nervous to tell Bryan about my promotion because I felt as if I was stepping in his territory with taking pictures but he was ecstatic. Even offered to show me how to work the camera that I'd bought for my other content. I remembered how red in the face I'd gotten when he asked if I'd always been interested in photography when he saw the type of camera I had. Obviously I didn't tell him the real reason I had to buy it.

"It was a gift from an aunt," I lied.

My eyes glanced away from my camera over to Noah as he finished the last line of Like a Villian and snapped a few photos of him from different angles. I wasn't great at editing pictures, something else Bryan offered to help me with, but I still could tell what was considered a good shot.

I stood in front of the barricade and the crowd behind me screamed for the guys, absolutely thrilled that they could see them live even when the festival was canceled. It was the last-minute show that I pulled together and the small venue we were in was packed full of fans.

After our early dinner, before the show and after Noah fingered me under the table, we played oblivious to what happened. I hated we didn't talk about it because all I thought about while I was getting ready for the show tonight was if Noah and I were dating or if we simply were messing around. Even though I didn't want a relationship right now because of everything going on with my mom, I also didn't want us to be a casual hook up whenever one of us were horny.

I knew I needed to talk to Noah about this; it wasn't good to keep everything bottled up because it would only fizzle over before exploding. But the part of my heart that has genuine feelings for him was afraid of getting hurt if I found out he only had sexual feelings for me.

"How are we feeling tonight, Cleveland?" Noah asked the crowd.

Their screams echoed loudly around me as I took a few pictures of Nick before walking over toward Jolly to get a few pictures of him. I made a mental note to get back on stage to get a video of Folio drumming when Noah's voice stopped me in my tracks right to the side of him. I was on the floor but still only a few feet away from him.

"Before we play our next song, I want to give a shout out to someone special. She was the one who set up the pop up event earlier today and put this whole show together," Noah waved a hand around, showcasing the sold-out crowd.

The crowd cheered again as I gulped, not knowing where he was going with this.

A smile graced his face as he pulled the microphone closer to his lips. "She's someone that's been with us for two tours now and she's become a great friend to us."

I narrowed my eyes at him as ours locked.

"What are you doing?" I mouthed.

Noah ignored me, only giving me a smile and a small wave, even under the dark stage lights his eyes burned bright.

"You might recognize her as our merch girl but recently she became our social media ambassador so whenever you guys send us weird D.M's, just know she's the one reading them."

The crowd laughed at that, and I couldn't help but chuckle as well.

"But in all seriousness, she deserves this. Lets give Y/N a huge scream of thanks for putting all of this together."

Now the screams were deafening, and I tried not to sink into myself as people in the first few rows noticed me standing there. I gave a tiny wave to the crowd before snapping back over to Noah.

"Fuck you," I yelled up at him, no hint of malice behind it.

Noah winked. "You know if I'm being honest. I didn't think she could pull it off, so we made a bet. If she was able to, she'd get to design my next tattoo."

Some people in the crowd hooted and hollered at that.

"So if you see me with a tattoo of her name or some shit like that; that's why."

Before I could crawl into myself even more for having the spotlight on me, they started up into the next song, and letting my camera hang from my neck; I walked up the back of the stage up to the platform where Folio's drums were and watched in awe as he let himself go, being the beat that everyone followed. It was a true experience being able to watch him. I took out my phone to record a video of him to post on the Bad Omens Instagram story and when he finally noticed I was there; he winked after I took a few pictures of him with my camera, I walked down the stairs of the platform thinking of what I could get for the final shot of the night. I had a lot of close-up shots of Nick, Folio, and Jolly but none of Noah.

Biting my lip, I snuck up being him not to get in his way of performing, and as he sang the last few lines of Just Pretend, the lights in the venue went dark. The only source of light was from the flashlights of the fan's phones and seeing how ethereal Noah looked, I snuck up beside him to take two quick pictures.

He peered at me with a sideway glance as the corner of his lip lifted in a sly smile and once I was satisfied with all the pictures I took tonight I walked off the stage to the back. Noah, however, hooked a finger in the belt loop of my jeans and yanked me back towards him.

"Would you say I'm worthy?" he sang the last line, the lights fading around us.

I couldn't see anything in front or around me but I could feel Noah's presence behind me. His warm breath fanned across the back of my neck as mouth pressed gentle kisses there.

"Angel," he mused. "Do you know how beautiful you look tonight?"

His hands gripped my hips, and I shivered with his touch as he led us to the side of the stage where the rest of the guys were waiting. They would hang out for two minutes before going back on for their two song encore; Concrete Jungle and Dethrone.

I was turned in his embrace and saw the huge grin spread over Noah's soft features. Sweat glistened his body all over and his hair clung to his forehead.

Fuck, he looked so good.

My fingers raised to brush the hair back, but I stopped myself. Noah noticed, and he gave me a confused look.

"Everything alright?"

As much as I wanted to talk to him about us, I didn't want to do it before he was about to go back on stage.

"Yeah, you just took me by surprise is all with what you said."

"It's true," he shrugged. "Before when you were at the merch table, I could barley see you but now that you're so close to me, I couldn't stop watching you all night."

A blush painted over my skin and I cast my gaze downward, not wanting Noah to see how much his words affected me; although, I had a feeling he already knew. This was becoming more of a problem than I liked. I was allowing him to inject himself in my bloodstream, infect me with his presence and it would hurt me in the end. Whether it was because I ended things or he realizes that the problems with my mom were too much to deal with. I need to focus on my mom and now this huge step in my career, I couldn't let myself get blinded or involved with someone I worked with.

Too late for that.

The crowd was cheering for one more song and I knew they would run back out on stage in less than ten seconds.

"Angel," his finger brushed along my jaw. "What's wrong?"

My lips parted, but no words came out, unsure what to say. This wasn't the time and Jolly could tell as he watched us so he adjusted his guitar before slapping Noah on his shoulder.

"We have to go."

I nodded behind Noah. "I'm fine."

His eyes searched mine, fingers still gripping my chin. "You're sure?"

"Yep," I lied while patting his chest. "Go fight God; I'll see you guys back on the bus."

With a chuckle, Noah's fingers slipped away from me and I watched the four of them run back out on stage for the encore part of their song. I could stay and watch but there was no need to hang back anymore. They gave me the choice if some nights I wanted to help the crew take everything down I could or I could head back to the bus early to rest or do whatever I wanted.

I know I should hang back to help tear everything down but right now, all I wanted was a bit of solace on the quiet bus away from everyone.

"Oh, god not that one," I muttered to myself as I browsed through the pictures of my phone.

I should look at the ones I took tonight, but I was looking at more risqué pictures. Tonight, Lana's second payment was due and as usual, I was short. Even with being promoted, I wouldn't get paid until the tour was over. So, the only thing I could do was ask Lana if she was fine getting the payment a few days later than normal and thank fuck she was.

Take your time, dear. We're all good over here.

Even though I was alone on the bus, I couldn't risk recoding something in case someone walked on so instead I took a handful of different pictures. These, though, were way more revealing than I usually take. One was in the bathroom on the bus; I was bare from the waist down with my pussy in full view but kept my Bad Omens t-shirt on, rolling it up from the bottom until it stopped over the middle of my breasts. You could see half of them, but the nipples were covered. My phone blocked my face, which was something I still wouldn't forget, and I took a few different angles.

The next set of pictures were of me laying in my bunk, now wearing a black thong but now the shirt was off, and I had my hand resting over one breast while the other was bare for the camera.

As I was still deciding, Folio came bounding up the stairs of the bus, his energy radiating off of him. When he saw me scrolling through my phone, he sat down and took my phone from my grasp.

"Are those the pictures from tonight?"

"Folio, no!" I bellowed while reaching for my phone.

I fell onto his lap, my chest pressing against his hips and he stiffened when he realized what he was staring at; the picture of me in the bathroom mirror.

"Woah," was all he said.

I groaned in embarrassment as rolled over in his lap now looking up at him and snatched my phone back.

"Please forget you saw those."

Folio stared ahead as he blinked a few times, almost processing what he saw before his gaze fell on me. Something twitched beneath me and when I realized what it was, I sat up with a start staring down at his dick, which was semi hard.

Oh God.

"This is so embarrassing," I covered my face with my hands.

Folio let out a low chuckle before slowly removing my hands.

"Who were you sending those to?" He wondered.

I quickly shook my head. "No one."

A small noise sounded from the back of his throat as he adjusted himself on the couch, still clearly affected by seeing my half nudes.

"If it makes you feel better, I like the one in our shirt the best," Folio grinned.

I smacked his chest. "You can't tell anyone about this, please. I already feel weird about taking them and now that you saw them, it's going to make things weird between us."

"You're the only one that thinks that, Y/N. And if you feel weird about taking them, then why did you? From what I saw, you have nothing to worry about."

My eyes narrowed at Folio in a playful glare; it was very clear that he indeed liked what he saw.

"If I wasn't mortified by you seeing my nudes, I'd take that as a compliment."

His brow raised in amusement. "Were they for Noah?"

"Hell no. He can never know about these or even see these, understood?" I pointed a finger to him.

"I won't tell him but I can't promise that I'll forget what I saw," Folio winked before get up from the couch and headed back to his bunk.

I was still burning up when Nick, Jolly, and Noah came onto the bus and when the latter's eyes fell on me, he reached for my hand.

"What?" I stared at it.

Noah lifted me from the couch and dragged me to the back area of the bus so we could have some privacy. He was still wearing his stage clothes, and I marveled at the tattoos that peaked through his blank tank top. Once alone, he let the door shut behind us as he fell to the larger couch in the room; me falling into his lap.

"What are you doing?" I asked while trying to sit next to him instead.

Noah's fingers dug into my hips to lock me in place. "I think we need to talk."

With a sigh, I nodded. He was right and as much as I didn't want too, this had to be done. Still in his lap, I positioned myself so I could look directly in his brown eyes.

"This," I pointed between us. "What is this?"

I could see with the look that flashed over his face that Noah was trying to figure out the best words to describe us.

"I'm not sure what to call it but I like what we have going. I don't want it to stop," he admitted.

"What changed, though? Last week it seemed like being around me was like pulling teeth," I said.

Noah sighed and wrapped his arms around me to pull me into his chest. "I tried to stay away from you because I thought it was a bad idea to get involved with someone on the crew and with what happened in Chicago, I took it as an opportunity. But the harder I tried to forget about you like that, the deeper you sunk your claws into me."

My heart shuddered in my chest.

"Can we maybe take things slow? Maybe see where this goes. I can't have a relationship right now. There are some things going on in my life that needs my attention, especially once I'm home," I explained.

I didn't miss the hurt look that shined in his eyes but Noah nodded. "I can wait, angel."

He was not making this easy.

This time, I extracted myself from his grasp and stood on my feet, giving us some distance.

"I can't ask you to do that," I said.

"You're not. Whatever you've got going on, I want to be here for you," Noah assured.

Tears brimmed in my eyes as I let out a long shaky breath. "It's a lot and I don't want to push you away again. If I'm being honest, I've wanted this from you for so long and now knowing you feel the same, I'm afraid."

He was on his feet fast to press me against the wall with his hips. Noah's large hands pinned mine above my head then he buried his face deep into the skin of where my shoulder met my neck. I let out a mix of a whine and moan when his rutted his hips into mine.

"Angel, I'm not going anywhere."

I gave a half nod, understanding, but I couldn't really focus with the way his cock pressed against my lower abdomen.

"This," I panted. "Isn't slow."

Noah hummed as he left a small mark on the skin behind my ear and I nearly melted into him.

"You're going to kill me," he breathed before pulling away from me, my hands falling to my sides. "But we can take things at your pace. If you want to hang out and watch a movie or something, I'm here. Or if you need help with other things, I'm here."

I linked my fingers with his and brought them to my lips to kiss the tattoos on the back of his hand.

"Thank you, Noah."

With a fond smile, he led me out of the room to the front of the bus where he motioned for me to sit at the table.

"Want some tea?" He asked.

I smiled. "Please."

I then sat at the table across from Jolly and Folio. Still embarrassed by him seeing my nudes, I refused to meet Folio's amused gaze and kept my own on my phone. I was turned away from everyone so no one could see me as I uploaded a few pictures to my Only Fan's page. I needed these pictures up as soon as possible to start making money.

"So are you excited to go back home for a few days?" Jolly asked.

"Oh shit. I almost forgot!" I beamed.

Bad Omens had a two-night show in Los Angeles, where we headed next. Then after those two nights, we would head up to Washington. With everything that had been going on lately, I forgot to mention to Lana that I could stay home those nights with my mom.

"We can book you a hotel for you if you want," Folio said.

"Or you could stay with someone," Noah piped up from behind me.

I glanced over my shoulder at him. "Slow, remember?"

He bent low to leave a kiss on my forehead and my eyes fluttered shut. "I'm only kidding."

"My mom's excited to see me so if it's alright, I'll stay at my place," I said.

Noah's lips twitched before he nodded. "Sure."

Seeing that the pictures uploaded to my site, I stuffed my phone back into my pocket and talked some more with Jolly, not realizing that Noah's phone went off with a notification or the way he adjusted himself in his pants when he looked at the screen.

#noah sebastian #noah sebastian and reader #noah sebastian x reader #noah sebastian reader insert #noah sebastian smut #forced proximity #enemies to lovers #slow burn

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outtoshatter · 6 months

Text

Inspired by @christinesficrecs, I'm going to do a few author spotlights! No one can stop me. I am going to shower love upon my pals and boost other writers in this fandom.

Up first we have @halevetica! She has so many options for readers!

Multi-Chapter Fics:

Leave Me in Ruins | 66K+ | 48 chapters tags: friends with benefits, slow burn, miscommunication

Summary: Derek finds himself in a difficult spot when he mistakenly sleeps with Stiles. The two agree to forget it but Derek can't. Before long, its becoming a regular thing, now Derek has to deal with the issue of falling even more for Stiles or losing him all together.

Stiles never dreamed of waking up next to Derek, but it's now a regular thing. However, he has to keep his emotions in check so Derek doesn't realize how he truly feels all while keeping their 'relationship' a secret from the pack and fighting the new big bad in town.

Like it or Not | 80k+ | 56 chapters tags: fake dating, enemies to lovers, mutual pining!

Summary: Stiles works as the editorial assistant at Vogue. He loves everything about his job except for his boss, Derek Hale. Derek Hale is the worst and Stiles hates him. But when Derek drags him to the yearly awards dinner within the company, he is forced to play boyfriend for the night to make Derek's ex jealous. Things couldn't get much worse…or so Stiles thought.

Same Old Song and Dance | Rated: E | 125k | 91 chapters tags: Alpha Derek, hunter Stiles, enemies-to-friends-to-lovers

Summary: Raised in the hunter life after his father was killed, Stiles hates werewolves. So when he lands a contract to kill the alpha of the pack that killed his father, he's elated. Until he runs into complications. The alpha is smart and strong and playing a game Stiles can't figure out. When secrets are revealed and new enemies made, Stiles must decide for himself what side he's on and who he can trust.

One shots:

Cute Together | 4k Summary: When Stiles gets stuck on a ski lift he meets Derek, who is scared of heights. He helps keep Derek calm until they can get rescued which leads to Derek teaching Stiles to ice skate. Along the way he helps Derek's two friends get together.

Promise | 3k Summary: Derek is stuck in the airport after his flight gets cancelled on Christmas eve when he meets Stiles Stilinski. Stiles is a friendly stranger that convinces Derek to have a little fun while stuck in the airport. His night with Stiles has more of an effect that Derek thought it would.

Feels Like Home | 4k Summary: Derek has spent years trying to quell the storm in his chest. The one that makes him feel lonely, like he doesn't belong. When searching for that feeling of home in New York where, he lived with Laura, he runs into Stiles Stilinski, who insists on Derek staying with him while in town. Derek shouldn't be shocked to find that Stiles feels like home.

Things to look forward to (aka works in progress!)

Shatter my Reality | 32k so far | 23 chapters to feast on! tags: mutual pining, jealous Stiles, ~magic~ Stiles, Stilinski twins! Summary: Months after the nogitsune, Stiles starts to see his own face around town. He dismisses it as PTSD. That is, until Lydia starts having a feeling that Stiles is going to die. As the pack scramble to find out what is going on, Stiles is forced to face a ghost from a past he didn't know he had and a future that seems to threaten his place in the pack.

Tangled Crowns | 23k so far~ | 14 terrific chapters to enjoy! tags: royal au, prince Stiles, prince Derek, magic Stiles! Summary: Flattery. Derek's life is full of it. Fake smiles, fake compliments, fake people. It's exhausting.

Desperate for a night away from the high expectations and rigid life of royalty, Derek escapes to a small tavern where he meets a sweet, attractive, genuine man who only gives him the name "Mischief". He has Derek swooning by the end of the night, and Derek doesn't swoon. Their night together, the first and only real connection Derek has had in years, if not his whole life, ends too soon, and he must return to his responsibilities.

Stiles isn't ready to give up on the mysterious, handsome "Samuel" that he met in the tavern, convinced they have a connection. He finds himself risking family secrets and even the peace of his own kingdom just to keep that connection even when it seems impossible. As circumstances force them together despite betrayal and aching hearts on both sides, Derek must fight both his heart and Stiles while Stiles struggles to prove to Derek that everything between them is real.

Go check out Halevetica's AO3 page and enjoy! Don't forget to mind the tags, leave a kudos, maybe even drop a comment!

#sterek #author spotlight #sterek fandom #teen wolf #stiles stilinski #derek hale #halevetica

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hitlikehammers · 2 months

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there is a tree as old as me

rating: teen tags: future fic, outside POV, trespassing, established relationship, engaged steddie💍 ✨for @kallisto-k at my BIRTHDAY MONTH PROMPT FEST for the prompt: To Build A Home—The Cinematic Orchestra: 'and now, it's time to leave and turn to dust // out in the garden where we planted the seeds // there is a tree as old as me

She catches the trespassers by chance, really.

She’s awake early even for her routine, age doing nothing for the capacity to sleep in on a good day but her hip’s been a trial, and she needs buy a new mattress but Richard’s insistent he can’t bear to sleep on a stone slab, Patricia, good god—she wants to get one of those Select Comforts that splits their settings between two sides as a compromise; he argues those are for lesser mortals, which she’s long learned has evolved in recent years to mean not just that he thinks he’s above something in general, but more now that he thinks he’s better than technological advances.

And Patricia Harrington has standards, certainly, but she can also recognize when

She’s also old enough to remember when ‘new’ was an opportunity to throw her Black Card and gloat a little in the rush of the novelty, the momentary shine until the next new thing appeared to repeat the cycle.

She might be feeling her years, but she doesn’t understand when her husband got so damn old.

At least he’s still savvy enough to the time that they’ve got an airtight security system for the house itself, given the trespassers—more likely would-be-burglars, given the evaluation they’d just paid taxes on for the property—that she spies out the window, hears where she cracked the window in the kitchen to light a cigarette as she brews an early coffee.

Maybe Richard will agree to motion sensors for the yard, if she tells him about these…miscreants.

They’re moving carefully, like they don’t want to be seen, or more likely caught—suspicious, obviously—but they’re also moving like the know where they’re headed, as if they’re familiar with the space they’re traversing even in the pitch dark: even more suspect, really, and she wonders if they’ve cased the home, adds full-property camera surveillance to her list of proposals for reevaluating their security.

“I can’t believe you convinced me to—“ she barely catches the hiss from one of the criminals from across the yard, but it doesn’t last.

It doesn’t last because the second party drags the first close and: the lighting’s horrible, the moon’s crescent at best, but there’s really only one thing to be doing when two bodies press close, and then break apart with a pop she makes out on the breeze and, well. She was young, once.

“Believe it, baby,” the second trespasser rumbles low, and, oh, good god: “we gotta hit all the landmarks.”

They’re men. They’re both of them men and they were just—

“Landmarks?” the first one hisses sharper, this time, and Patricia…she doesn’t care nearly as much as Richard does about what people do in their bedrooms that she personally doesn’t agree with.

But this isn’t anyone’s own bedroom. This is her lawn.

“Of our story,” the second one, he—he—has got such curly hair she likely would have assume it was a very tall women, if it weren’t for the voice; “all our highlights.”

“What, exactly, was—“ the first man, he sounds a little exasperated as he whispers, but…fond. Fond like Patricia hasn’t heard in…well.

A very, very long time, at least.

“Here,” the curly haired fiend traipsing her property stops at a redbud tree Richard had always despised, said it looked tacky, common. Patricia canceled every removal service he’d had whichever secretary he instructed to send.

The second man turns, moves slow toward the tree before reaching, placing a hand on the trunk almost carefully, reverently. There’s something…familiar about him. The shape of his face, the way the the coif of his hair catches in shadow—

“My nanny used to tell me this tree was planted the year I was born, that it grew up with me,” and oh, oh, that’s, he’s—“so that I’d have to eat my vegetables and stuff, if I wanted to see it grow.”

He sounds so nostalgic, so soft at the edges; Patricia doesn’t know if she’s ever heard her son sound like that.

Because that’s who it is; why he seemed familiar even at a distance.

Even if she hasn’t seen or heard from Steven in nearly twenty years.

“And look at you both,” the other man, with the curly hair, he’s holding Steven by his arms, and the motion, the body language is…tender even before she hears the words filter over:

“Big and strong,” the man says, and then he’s cupping Steven’s cheek and Steven leans in so quick, like he trusts deeply, here: “fuckin’ beautiful.”

She can’t see it, not in the dark, but something tells her Steven’s smiling for the words. It makes her feel…uncomfortable.

Because it’s not as if they hadn’t seen it; she doesn’t know where Steven’s moved, where he ended up when he moved out while they were gone, left his key and a simple, terse little note about the furnace needing looked at—she only knows he’s nowhere near here, anymore, and she suspects there are some, like the former police chief and his wife, who know where he went but she never asks. She’s too proud for that.

But the point is: Steven doesn’t live in Hawkins anymore, and likely lives nowhere near Hawkins. But when The Post ran the engagement announcement it had only been implied, she’d never have been able to place is, but: when and S. Harrington and E. Munson announced their happy news in print, in a town that didn’t house people by those initials, even if it still housed residents by those family names?

Well. Patricia had suspicions. And she remembers the Munson boy largely because his hair was an unmistakable mess.

Apparently some things didn’t change.

“This,” the Munson boy, because that’s who it is, that’s who’s still cradling her son so close and so gently: “this was the first place I knew you wanted me.”

Steven’s head, she sees, still tilts just so when he’s baffled.

“What?”

“I knew you loved me like I love you, I knew that way before but you,” and the Munson boy, he pulls his hand across his face like the night isn’t doing the hiding for him. Preposterous, really.

“The urchins were inside, we were going to grab more pop to bring in and you pushed me up against this very tree,” and the boy—man, they’re men, they’ve long been men and Patricia doesn’t want to pry up the implications of how she saw no part of the becoming part of that process with her own eyes—but the man’s voice is so warm, so…smitten.

It should be nauseating. Another thing she doesn’t want to pry at is why it…isn’t. At least not quite.

“Couldn’t wait, you said, couldn’t keep you hands off me,” and he’s turning Steven, walking him back against the tree as he speaks the words, like he’s reenacting something nigh-sacred.

“And I knew that I was out of my mind with wanting you like that, on top of loving you more than fucking life baby, but,” and Munson, she can see the way he breathes in his deep for the heave in the line of his back, and she can see the way he…brushes the line of his nose back and forth against Steven’s.

Who still has her father’s nose.

“You were hard as soon as you pinned me,” and Patricia frowns at the glass, when she hears that; and she barely hears is, in fairness, it’s pitched low even as they think they’re alone which is the least they can do but they are not alone and Patrician does not need to be subjected to—

“And it was like a light switch, or a lightning bolt,” the Munson boy—they’re boys they are still boys—but the Munson boy whispers it, and sounds like he’s wondering at it;

“He loves me,” he breathes, the line of his back breathing so deep again; “and he fucking wants me.”

And no, Patricia does not need to hear that at all, but.

There is a part of her, buried somewhere, who…does miss the idea of wanting. Of being wanted. In the abstract.

“You’re absurd,” Steven snorts and oh; oh, she remembers that tone, that testy little snark that always riled Richard enough that he’d largely stomped it out of the boy but oh: Patricia did love when Steven failed to rein it in.

Because it always reminded her that Steven was her son.

She doesn’t intend to start rubbing at her chest, but it…it feels kind of tight, there, just now.

It aches, there. Just now.

“I love you,” and Steven’s voice, she’s never heard him speak with that much feeling, and it’s difficult not to…to react to even just overhearing, to eavesdropping, though in fairness: it is, again, her property.

“And I want you,” Steven leans in, and kisses at Munson’s cheek with such affection, a devotion that’s obvious, near-blinding even in the dark; “just as much now as then,” and then Steven, Steven—

He laughs.

He laughs and it’s such a light and carefree sound and it’s so foreign to Patricia’s ears that it almost makes her anxious, or something of the like.

“But then so much more, baby,” and the warmth in those words: those are foreign too.

Those feel strange to hear, not least in Steven’s voice which…

She thinks she may not have recognized, if the first thing she hear were these words, in this tone.

She’s not wholly sure how to sit with that suspicion.

“Ten days,” the Munson boy’s hands go to Steven’s hips and he rocks them back and forth a bounce in the motion, a levity.

“Ten days,” and Steven…no.

No: she would not have recognized that voice.

She would not have known her son.

“You’re gonna be my husband,” the Munson boy whispers, Patricia only hears because she’s trying to, now, she…she wants to even if it hurts unexpectedly, the tightness under her hand in her chest a pain, now, a small little stab when this man cups her son’s cheeks, cradles him so careful and so…so loving, undeniable even like this, and says what she suspected from that notice in the paper.

Steven is getting married. Steven is getting married and he is proud enough to flaunt it in a town who could never prove it, where he no longer has tied; to a a partner who is proud enough to do the same just as brazen, and she doesn’t know if she’s proud or put-off, but she does know here, now—

Steven is in love. And he is loved deeply in kind. And the person who loves him sounds in awe at the idea of pledging forever not as a contract, but maybe more as a privilege.

She wasn’t paying attention for a strand of seconds as she acknowledged this, and decided ultimately to stop trying to do anything deeper than just that.

But she sees them pull apart; they’d been kissing the entire time she’d been thinking it through.

She isn’t even interested in acknowledging the…niggling little feeling of that kind of prolonged affection, let alone the way they reach for each other, steady each other in the coming apart, as if they have no desire to wholly come apart.

The idea of trusting another pair of hands like it looks as if they do, in the dim of these early hours, is…another foreign thing.

“Okay, okay,” the Munson boy laughs, no, giggles; “let’s get out of here before the owners notice.”

And he turns, would meet her eyes if he could see her; she knows he can’t, knows she’s standing just beyond the capacity to be caught and how absurd, caught inside her own house.

But then he’s turned away again; the house, and whatever it holds, far less compelling than the man at his side.

“Wayne’s place?” Steven’s asking and the Munson boy grabs his hand, lifts it to his mouth.

“Yeah,” the Munson boy says so low, so soft and sweet; “we can hit some more landmarks before that bagel joint he likes opens, we can take him breakfast.”

“More landmarks?” Steven sounds baffled, but so very fond and his partner doesn’t let go of his hand once, reels him in to peck his cheek.

“Of course, sweetheart,” the Munson boy nearly…purrs, how ridiculous; “so many. Because we’ve got one hell of a story.”

But ridiculous or no: the moon shifts out from the clouds as they make to scamper off the lawn and Patricia sees her son’s face for the first time in decades, now, and oh.

Oh: she’s never seen him smile like that. Not…not once.

She turns away, because the sting in her chest burns behind her eyes, a little; because the joy on Steven’s face is…

It feels private; like something she’s not meant to see.

She goes to pour herself the coffee she’d largely forgotten, and, well.

She’s still going to talk to Richard about security, but maybe…

Maybe not just now.

permanent tag list (comment to be added/removed): @pearynice @hbyrde36 @slashify @finntheehumaneater @wxrmland @dreamwatch @perseus-notjackson @estrellami-1 @bookworm0690

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