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winedarkthoughts · 8 months ago

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house of addams (3)

— 🌖 pairing: ot7 x fem.reader

— 🕷️ genre: mystery, angst + fluff + smut

— 🗝️ word count: 4k

— 🍄 summary: the coroner of Farrow's End finally invites you into his kingdom, and you can feel more than one set of watching eyes as you continue your investigation.

— ☕ content warnings: coroner!taehyung, assistant!jungkook, mentions of murder/death/suicide

— 🕸️ a/n: meeting more of the boys!!

previous chapter ← series m.list → next chapter

chpt. 3: into the morgue

"Have her come in," Taehyung says over dinner.

There's a collective clang as several sets of silverware are put down.

"I don't know if that's a good idea, hyung," Jungkook replies. He's nervous around you, especially because you can see more than you let on.

"We're going to have to eventually," Namjoon adds, and Jimin sends him a mischievous, knowing look. He knows how Joon likes to watch you in the bookshop, offering his assistance at his earliest convenience, asking if you need help finding anything specific.

"It's obvious she was hired by the mayor," Yoongi says. "Though, I'm not entirely sure why."

They all know that Mayor Summerbee runs in some of the same circles that they do, but they wonder if you're aware of that fact too. How much did she tell you?

"At the very least, it'll tell us what she already knows," Yoongi says.

"And if she scares easily," Taehyung adds, suppressing a smirk.

What kind of private investigator are you? Are you motivated by self interests? Are you just here to get the job done, bare minimum? Or are you the morbidly curious type? The kind that can't stop until a mystery is solved, even if it leads you to dangerous places.

Yoongi and Namjoon already have a guess at which type you are.

"She has some kind of sight," Jungkook says, biting his nails. The real question is how sharp is that sight?

"I don't think she knows that she has it," Jin pipes in.

They exchange glances, thinking.

"Well," Hoseok says, and they all turn to look at him. "I suppose we'll just have to test it."

september 27, 2004

You've seen your fair share of coroners. Good ones, even excellent ones, and the ones who never should've been appointed to the job in the first place. Most people aren't aware that there is no national standard for coroners, some don't even have medical training.

You remember a case not too long ago when a family mourning the loss of their son hired you to investigate the circumstances of his death, which was ruled "accidental" at the time. The coroner had not had any prior forensic training, he was an OBGYN turned politician. Elected by the small-town voters (nearly 80% of coroners in the U.S. are elected, by the way), he was cushy with the local police force.

And being your naturally suspicious self, or maybe it's a side effect of your job, you pressed for a second autopsy by an examiner actually worth his salt.

The external examination alone proved that it was far from accidental. His wounds suggested severe beating, and his cause of death was suffocation from being choked, homicide not accident.

Further investigation revealed police brutality. You pushed and pushed and pushed, and after being enough of a pain in the ass (and threatening several lawsuits), they finally convicted the officers responsible.

The family still sends you a Christmas card every year, and it more than makes up for being a pain in the ass for living.

So yeah, you don't trust coroners, or their reports, until you get the chance to evaluate their level of competence for yourself. And the fact that the coroner of Farrow's End has been so resistant to your attempts to contact him doesn't bode well.

But today, the Monday following your little expedition up to the Addam's House, he's finally available to see you. Last night you received a call at around midnight, seemingly from the same young man you saw on the other side of the gate the other day.

Of course you were awake, but you wondered why the coroner's office would be up and running at such an hour. Maybe a late night emergency autopsy? It wasn't unheard of, sometimes a Sheriff will request an autopsy to be completed as soon as possible when the press are particularly bothersome and the cause of death is unclear.

You didn't get the chance to ask, because the man started rattling off about how the coroner would be able to see you tomorrow morning, and he advised that you bring any notes you might have.

Good sign, it suggests that the coroner is willing to work with you.

It's early, maybe a little too early. The fog is blanket-thick and the clouds are sprinkling down a fine mist of rain.

You take your car as far as the rocky dirt road allows, park it at the base of the hill, and trudge on through the mud, the umbrella over your head immediately collecting dew.

You reach the gate, closed like last time. When you reach for it, you're expecting to find it locked, but just as your fingers are about to touch the cold metal, the gate swings open with a long creak.

You stand there for a moment, searching for some kind of mechanism that would make it open by itself, but you find nothing but old iron forged in intricate patterns.

Whatever, you've seen weirder. You slip through the parted gates and close them behind you.

Gigantic trees, pines it looks like, envelop the perimeter of the surrounding gates, with twisting, leafless trees in abundance nearer to the house, even though fall is just beginning to dawn and most leaves haven't even begun to change color yet.

You didn't notice it before, but these leafless trees are full of crows, black tufts perched on the reaching branches. No, crows and ravens. They call out as you pass by, and you get the odd sense that every single one of them is looking at you.

The cobblestone path leading up to the front door is overgrown with weeds. The exterior of the house, now that you can see it up close, is almost decrepit. The wood is rotting, the roof is sagging, the windows are dirty and smudged.

They rent this place out?

"Ma'am!" a voice calls out.

You search for the owner of the voice, finally finding it at the side of the house. It's the young man from the other day, peeking around a brick corner. He gestures you over and swiftly disappears again.

When you turn the corner, the man is standing by a double hatch door in the ground. Not a good sign for a supposed "morgue."

He seems to read as much on your face, because then he's saying, "I would take you down the elevator inside, but everyone is still asleep."

There's a childish nervousness in his voice, and it makes you send an uncharacteristic smile his way as you step through the door and down a spiral staircase.

Distracted, you don't see the curtains twitch, and the several faces in the windows above, watching.

The passage runs deep. You emerge in a wide hallway, lined with carved wooden walls and old portraits. The foundation is clearly old, but there are newly installed fluorescent lights that don't do the original craftsmanship justice.

"How old is this house?" you blurt out, and the young man can't suppress a high, boyish laugh.

"I'm not sure, around a century, I think," he says.

Wow hard to believe it's gone untouched for so long, you think as he leads you down the extensive hallway, passing several branching doorways.

Your eyes drink everything in, curious and scrutinous. Again, the man seems to read your mind.

"It might not look it, but we have a state of the art facility here," he begins.

"Crematorium," he gestures to one door. "Viewing room. Embalming room. Autopsy room. And the largest refrigeration unit in five counties."

This place is extensive, and the further you go, the cleaner and more modern it gets.

You notice that the man is wearing similar clothing from before: a large coat (broad shoulders) and big, thick boots. Black, laced up over his ankles it appears, it makes the thud of his footsteps echo against the walls.

You wonder if they are corpse-handling boots, or merely a style choice.

"Here's the office," he says, leading you into a small but cozy room fit with a cluttered desk and a few dusty but comfortable-looking armchairs.

"You can have a seat if you like," he says, nervousness creeping back into his voice.

You take him up on the offer, sinking into one of the armchairs despite the fact that you're a little damp from the rain. But judging by the state of the chairs, you doubt it would bother them.

It's then than you realize how chilly it is down here, in this basement maze tucked under an ancient house. Damn, you're so—

"Cold?" the man says suddenly. "I'm sorry, we get quite the chill down here. Would you like some coffee or tea?"

You perk up almost instantly.

"Coffee, please," you reply maybe a little too perkily, because it makes him smile at you, exposing those bunny teeth again. Very cute.

He disappears through another doorway, into some sort of kitchenette judging by the sounds coming from it (metal banging, water running, porcelain clanking).

You take a look around. The office walls are lined with framed photos and plaques all boasting the same name: Kim Taehyung. Bachelor of Science in Biology, Bachelor of Science in Chemistry, Master of Forensic Science, Embalmer's License, Medical Examiner Certification, Doctor of Medicine.

Got it, this man is learned. Good sign.

The young man returns with a silver tray in his hands. He sets it down on the ottoman between the two armchairs, grasping the black teapot and pouring fresh steaming coffee into a matching black teacup. You notice that the sugar cubes are in the shape of skulls and bones, and a part of you admires the dedication to the aesthetic.

You prepare your cup and sip greedily. The coffee is rich and strongly-brewed. Another good sign. It may not contribute to your investigation, but at least you can respect him as a person.

The young man takes the seat next to you and prepares his own cup.

For the first time since you arrived, you aren't distracted by your surroundings, and you're realizing just how strange this young man looks.

His skin is a dull shade of gray, with slight red blemishes and spots of dark purple flesh that look like deep bruises. His lips are simultaneously pale yet also tinged red, like there's blood inside his mouth. And his eyes, they look like—

The man seems to notice you staring at him, because he shifts uncomfortably in his chair and coughs awkwardly.

You blink, and his form seems to blur at the edges, becoming fuzzier and harder to latch onto. Maybe he has some sort of skin condition. But that wouldn't explain the feeling that something isn't quite right about him, something uncanny.

"I'll go see if Dr. Kim is ready for you," he says, practically sprinting out of his seat and out of the room. You hear his footsteps pounding through the halls, then hushed voices.

You being you, the debate over whether to slip through the hall to eavesdrop on their conversation does cross your mind. But you figured that even with your silent feet, they would probably still hear you rustling around in the quiet of the morgue.

A few moments later, and you hear one set of footsteps returning to the office. The young man pops his head into the doorway.

"He'll see you now," he says, vanishing just as fast. The way he appears and disappears like a ghost is starting to give you whiplash.

You follow him down the hall, entering a fluorescent-lit room fit with chrome features. The walls are lined with little doors, drawer openings, and there are several gurneys scattered throughout the room. The chill is even stronger here, this must be part of that state of the art refrigeration system.

The man standing in the center of it all is wearing a white medical gown and black latex gloves. He looks up as you enter, and—

Oh. He's young, startlingly young, early thirties max. His skin is golden tan over strong, handsome features. Dark tiger eyes, sharp and perceptive. The only indicator of his age is several tendrils of silver hair growing from the crown of his head.

"Good morning," he greets in a deep, charming voice. "Miss ______?"

"Yes, Dr. Kim?" you reply, holding out a hand.

"Just Taehyung, please," he says, taking off his gloves to shake your hand firmly, and jesus his hands are large and very pretty.

Ah, so he's not a pretentious asshole who insists on being addressed as "doctor" constantly. Another good sign. Though, judging from his extensive education, in this case it would be justified.

"I'm so sorry we couldn't see you sooner. It can get quite busy with just the two of us down here," Taehyung says.

You can't help but take another glance around the room. Only two people running this whole facility?

"I understand that you're working with the mayor?" Taehyung inquires, his casual voice good at hiding his burning curiosity.

You, in turn, are good at hiding the slight suspicion from hearing the mayor mentioned yet again. You're not sure who you're suspicious of though, him or the mayor herself.

"Yes, I was hoping I could get copies of the autopsy reports for Michael Bradley, Jarvis Laplan, and Sharon Mason."

You say it matter-of-factly, curious if they will bend at the slight flex of authority in your voice. Or, if being associated with the mayor yields certain results.

The two of them glance at each other.

"Access to Laplan and Mason aren't a problem, but Mary Bradley has requested that no further information on her husband's death be released," Dr. Kim replies, cool as a cucumber.

Your eyes widen just a bit, unable to hide your surprise. Wait...what? He would just give you the reports for Laplan and Mason, just like that? No request for credentials? No questions asked?

Truth be told, you've never gotten hold of an autopsy report after the first ask. You've always had to jump through hoops to get the right permissions and authorizations, as is the case for private investigators since they are not real police. And rightly so, the fine details of people's violent deaths is not something to be made light of, in your opinion.

Clearly your confusion is evident on your face, because then Taehyung is saying, "Laplan's wife and Sharon Mason's parents are quite eager for further investigation."

Ah, so they suspect something unusual too. Hopefully they'll be more than willing for an interview.

"And Bradley...?" your voice trails off with the question.

Taehyung furrows his brows like he isn't sure how exactly to put it.

"Mrs. Bradley has had a bad experience with the press," is all he says.

You can feel your eyebrow raise.

"Is she still a suspect?" you ask, deadpan.

Taehyung is quick to correct himself.

"No, god no!" he says, eyes wide and head shaking. "His death was purely accidental, a tragedy that could've been avoided."

Your attention catches on that last part like a snagged thread on a nailhead.

"Oh? Why do you say that?" you ask, unconsciously taking a step forward.

Jungkook, who's silently watching the whole exchange, can't help but think it makes you look predatory, a hunter locked onto their target with frightening accuracy.

But Dr. Kim doesn't bend. He tilts his head ever so slightly as the corner of his mouth curves up, like he respects your drive.

"Well, Michael Bradley exhibited signs of extreme mental distress, many of them suggestive of suicide."

"But you don't think it was suicide, do you?" you say, before you can help it really, because your mind is running a hundred miles a minute right now.

Jungkook can sense it too, his eyes Bambi-wide and watching in fascination as the cogs turn in your analytical brain.

"No, I don't." It comes from Taehyung's mouth like a sigh. You don't see it (Jungkook does), but he's impressed.

"That's all I can say really," Taehyung says suddenly, sounding apologetic. "You'll have to speak with Mrs. Bradley about getting access, but talking about her husband is painful for her. And she's been through enough."

He cares about people, the ones he works on are not just bodies to him. Very good sign. You're coming to the conclusion than Dr. Kim is definitely a coroner worth his salt.

"I'll be sure to proceed delicately, then," you reply softly. You're trying to say it back. I care about these victims, this isn't just a case to me. Everyone has a story.

He seems to get it, nodding his head with a gentle smile. Something very small, almost ghostly, clicks between you.

Jungkook observes it all in a slight state of awe. He can already tell that the rest of them, his "family," are going to like you.

Taehyung gives you the copies of the autopsy reports, a sizable stack of folders and papers and photos. He even gives you a copy of the autopsy transcript.

You realize that he was prepared to give you this information before you even got here. Either Mayor Summerbee is a very persuasive person, or Dr. Kim is eager to work with you. Maybe both.

Your point is proven seconds later when Taehyung hands you a business card (with his personal number scrawled on the back), as he tells you that you're free to contact him with any questions you might have.

You profess your thanks with an armful of documents, making a point to shake Dr. Kim's and Jungkook's hand firmly.

Jungkook leads you back, his boots softly thudding with every step, and you can feel Taehyung's eyes on your back as you walk through down the long hallway.

Jungkook is kind. He offers to help you with the massive stack of documents in your arms, but you politely refuse. You've got liquid gold in your possession.

He holds the gate open for you, even offering to walk you to your car, but again, you decline and thank him for his offer.

The gate shuts behind you with a resonate clang. As you turn away from the house to begin the trek down the muddy hill, you feel an odd sensation, like tingling insects down your back.

Looking over your shoulder, you see the curtains of several windows suddenly fall back into place. Someone, several someone's, are watching you.

You can't find it in you to be creeped out, though. Something about this house, despite its run-down appearance, is welcoming. Beckoning, even.

It's dark and old and practically falling apart, but many things that you love also happen to have those same traits.

A slight smile tugs at your lips as you turn and make your way down the path. You'll have to find out more about this place.

"Again. She saw through my glamour again," Jungkook announces to the room, sounding slightly defeated.

"Don't worry, Kook. It's a solid spell, I checked it myself," Yoongi replies as he waters one of the endless houseplants adorning their home. Thanks to Yoongi himself, of course.

"She saw through mine too," Taehyung says, resolute. He's staring at the black and white checkered floor, deep in thought.

Everyone looks up at that.

"That proves it then," Namjoon says. "She has a heightened degree of sight."

"I wanna know why though," Yoongi interrupts in a sudden bout of passion. "She's human. Why is she able to see everything?"

"Not the house though," Jungkook blurts out. "The glamour on the house held up."

"Of course it did, the house magick is stronger than any of us," Jin quips from the kitchen, standing over a sizzling stove.

"Lots of humans have the sight," Jimin says lazily, sprawled out in one of the lounge chairs.

"Yeah, but it's the type of humans who turn it into a cheap gimmick," Jungkook replies, pacing around the room now.

Taehyung crosses the distance between them in a few strides, putting a large hand on Jungkook's shoulder. The younger man looks up at him, then lets out a breath and returns the smile.

"You're safe, Kook," Taehyung says softly. "No one's gonna put up a fuss."

Jimin chuckles. "She might."

Taehyung throws a scolding glance over his shoulder. "A real fuss, I mean. Everything's been kept under wraps so far."

"And she's not a phony, or a leech. The mayor made sure of that," Yoongi says.

"In any case," Jin begins, an authoritative edge to his voice. "Hoseok said to keep an eye on her, so that's just what we'll do."

september 28, 2004

You may be a damn good investigator, but you're no med student. So the next day you set out to the bookstore, determined to understand every last term and phrase in the autopsy reports.

The same man is behind the desk, but this time he's bent over a typewriter, clacking away. You can't help but observe him for a moment, watching as his dark eyes dart over the page, the way his glasses rest at the edge of his nose like a wizened old man.

"Welcome in," he calls out at the chime of the bell on the door, like an instinct.

You take a few steps into the ever-crowded space, your eyes shifting over all the things you missed the last time you were here. Because that's what kind of place this is, somewhere you could go a hundred times and find something new each visit. Places like this are quite dear to you.

You're about to examine a shelf full of perfectly preserved beetles, when you sense the man look up at you.

"Oh," he says, like he's pleasantly surprised. "It's you."

And you would be lying if you said it didn't make your gut feel something warm squirming inside it.

"Need help finding anything?" he asks, like he has every time you've visited this place.

"Yes, please," you reply, barely hiding your smile.

He leads you through the maze of shelves like it's a map of his own brain. Several times you have to hurry to catch up to him in his excitement.

Soon your arms are occupied by an impressive stack. Anatomy, general medical knowledge, crime scene identification, even a few textbooks on post-mortem examinations.

To you, it's more liquid gold. You profess your thanks to the bookshop keeper, dropping a generous tip into the jar when you go to checkout. Again, the books are almost too reasonably priced. Not that it matters, since research purchases are an easy business expense ride-off.

Just as you turn to leave, the man clears his throat awkwardly, like he's building himself up to speak.

"There's plenty of places to sit here," he almost blurts out. "Lots of cozy nooks. Perfect for...research."

You pause at the door to glance back at him. You find him watching you closely, his expression somewhere between innocently curious and suggestive of hidden knowledge on his part.

"I'll keep that in mind," you reply, a little teasing lilt to your voice. Because clearly he enjoys your company too.

Then you turn on your heel and let the door swing shut behind you, leaving him wanting more.

a/n: thanks so much for reading!! i would combust with joy if you'd tell me any of your thoughts :D

NEXT UPDATE: 05/25/24

#bts ot7 #bts x reader #ot7 x reader #bts fanfic #bts mystery #bts x fem!reader #bts series #bts angst #bts fanfiction #bts poly au #bts poly x reader #bts polyamory

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yelenasdiary · 14 days ago

Note

christmas fluff! maybe a festive dinner with the team - so like carol, yelena, nat and as many or little characters you like and the others make fun of how of the lovebirds (reader x carol danvers or yelena) :D

Lovers

Pairing: Carol Danvers x GN! Reader

Summary: The team playful tease how cute you and Carol are.

Fluff

Warnings: EVERY light suggestive flirting | 1.1K

AC: Thank you for sending this! I hope you enjoy! x

Holiday Special Masterlist

The compound was filled with the smell of roasted turkey, spiced cranberry sauce and other cooked goodies. Christmas decorations covered the compound like it was the North Pole. A large table was set in the dining room with festive decorations surrounding the long table with enough food to feed an army.

You and your girlfriend, Carol, were in the kitchen in matching Christmas sweaters, chopping up vegetables to help Wanda with her dish. If her hands weren’t handling a knife and vegetables, they were wrapped around you from behind as she placed soft kisses on your cheeks.

“Hey lovebirds!” Natasha called, arms crossed over her chest with a teasing grin on her lips, “are you two actually helping over there? We’re getting hungry” she chuckled.

You turned to face Natasha, “we’re helping more than you are” you shot back in a playful tone. Carol chuckled, “Just be glad we’re slaving away in the kitchen when we could be out fighting crime!”

“That’s the spirit!” Clint added as he strolled in wearing a reindeer antler headband that Kate had clearly made him wear.

As the banter continued, Tony entered the room holding a bottle of whiskey. “Look at you two, giving off major ‘holiday card’ vibes!” He teased, making the other chuckle as he placed the bottle on the countertop. “Oh shit, sorry Stark, we forgot to send you one!” Carol replied with a playful eyeroll.

“Don’t worry, I think I’m seeing it in 4K” he replied.

The playful teasing didn’t end there. As everybody was finally gathered around the table, enjoying light chatter while they downed eggnog and did their best to not pick at the food in front of them until it was time to eat, the teasing was still being thrown like a snowball find.

Sam leaned back in his seat, watching as you and Carol took your seats beside one another. “You two know you are like the unofficial Christmas couple of the Avengers now, right? People are going to start hanging mistletoe everywhere!”

You laughed at your friends words, “oh no, trust me, the world isn’t ready for Carol under a mistletoe!” You said with a grin. Carol leaned closer to you, her voice low, “I know exactly where I’d want a mistletoe placed” she winked.

“OH COME ON!” Sam called out, “NOT AT THE TABLE!” He added, making you and Carol blush.

“Come on Sam, leave the lovers alone. It’s not their fault your sad and bitter on Christmas” Bucky inserted earning himself a playful punch in the shoulder from his friend. “That one hurt, buck” Sam chuckled.

“Alright let’s make a toast” Steve stood up, raising his glass of eggnog. Everybody became quiet, waiting for Steve’s words of wisdom before digging into the feast on the table. “May the lovebirds love be stronger than Thor’s hammer and as enduring as Natasha’s, that’s the saying? Sass?” He started.

“Oh god, stop while you can Steve!” Natasha said, as the others laughed.

“All jokes aside, I hope this new year brings us less trouble and more moments like these” Steve added.

“Cheers!” Everybody said in sync before taking a sip of their drink.

With every passing moment, teasing comments were thrown here and there as the evening unfolded. In the midst of all the jokes and friendly banter, you and Carol found yourselves lost in each other’s eyes, fully embracing the holiday spirit with love and happiness. You both didn’t care that you were both the core of everybody’s entertainment, it was something you had prepared yourself for since Carol told everybody who her special somebody was.

“See, they’re got some kind of love language going on over there!” Kate pointed out as you and Carol locked hands under the table. Kate turned to face Yelena, giving her a soft grin.

“Kate Bishop don’t even think about it” Yelena playfully shook her head, “you already have many odd languages I do not understand” she added. You and Carol chuckled at the couple.

There were plenty of moments where you and Carol weren’t the center of everybody’s jokes, Steve got handed his fair share, and so did Peter and Kate. As everybody slowly downed their food and the room was full of laughter and chatter, you took a moment to just admire this giant family you and your girlfriend were a part of. Everybody came together as one, even if there was a bit of banter towards you and Carol, you wouldn’t have it any other way.

“How’s the cranberry sauce?” Carol asked, eyeing the small blob on your plate.

“It’s really good, do you want to try?” You asked, looking over at her. She smiled softly with a light nob before you scooped a small amount onto your spoon and fed it to her.

“Awww!!” Kate sang as she watched.

Bruce, playfully rolling his eyes, “don’t encourage them, please” he murmured.

“Hey, you guys are the ones who can’t seem to keep your eyes off us!” You chuckled as Carol hummed in approval of the sauce. “Besides, it’s our first Christmas, what did you expect?” Carol added.

“Watching you two is like watching a rom-com in real life! Linda, are you recording this?” Clint teased, earning himself a playful slap from his wife. “Remember when we were young and in love?” She said, glaring at him in a tease.

“We’re still young” Clint replied with a cheeky grin. Linda shook her head, “I’ll remember that if we plan on having more kids!”

----

As dinner began to wrap up, dessert was served with a mix of different goods to pick from. Cookies, pies and puddings littered that now seemed to stretch endlessly. Carol, opting for a slice of pumpkin pie with some whipped cream while you opted for a small treat sized pie with custard drizzled on top.

Somewhere between taking small bites of dessert and chatting with your big, loving family, you and Carol ended up sharing your desserts and soon enough, whipped cream had found its way onto both of your noses.

“Can somebody please remind them it’s Christmas dinner, not a cheesy romance novel?” Yelena announced in a teasing tone.

“You’re all just jealous!” You replied before tilting your head slightly and kissing Carol tenderly, “they definitely are” she whispered against your lips. The room followed with playful groans.

With that, the two of you share another kiss, this one deeper and slightly longer just to tease them one last time. The world around you both began to fade as if you were in your own little universe, “Merry Christmas cutie pie” Carol smiled softly, “pun intended” she added making you chuckle.

“You’re the pumpkin of my pie” you replied, cringing at your own attempt but Carol laughed, “you’re so adorable” she said, placing one last kiss on your lips.

If you want to be on the taglist for my work, please click HERE.

#yelenasdiary asks #anon #fanfiction #marvel #christmas #Carol Danvers #Carol Danvers x Reader #Carol Danvers x You #Captain Marvel #Brie Larson

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almostgenerallyalways · 2 years ago

Text

mamas (don’t let your babies grow up to be cowboys)

Pairing: Jake Seresin x fem!reader Category: angst / fluff / run-on sentences Word count: 3,1k CW: language, I’ve been to Texas once okay forgive me, divorce Author’s note: this was supposed to be a holiday fic but I got stuck on it and almost abandoned it, but here it is rescued from my drafts, shoutout to all the amazing tgm fic writers your writing truly astounds me

Summary: Every year around the holidays, you hear from your ex. This year when you don’t respond, he decides to show up at your door.

2022

Jake UT [November 23, 2022 at 10:24 PM]

Hey stranger

Visiting my mom for Thanksgiving

How’ve you been?

You ignore the message. How you’ve been in the last twelve months is not something you feel up to discussing with him.

You spend the next weeks dealing with crisis after crisis at work, leaning into the chaos like you have been all year. Your personal life? Garbage fire. Reconfiguring your entire pump setup two weeks before going to production, because the DoC slapped an import ban on one of your key suppliers in China? You’re on top of it.

But then, the week before Christmas, another message comes in:

Jake UT [December 17th, 2022 at 3:47 PM]

Hey

In town for the holidays

Would love to see you if you’re free

Brett welcome too, of course

A pang in your chest, but curiosity gets the better of you, so you text back:

Thanksgiving and Christmas? Judy must be thrilled.

You’ve met Jake’s mom all of one time, ten years ago, but she made a lasting impression. Fiercely protective of her only son, she’d been wary of you at first (you were, in order of importance: Too non-Texan, too vegetarian, and too focused on trying to rescue an almost-due group project for your sustainable water management class in which no one was pulling their weight).

And yet, over the Thanksgiving weekend you’d spent at Jake’s mother’s house in Colton, she’d slowly warmed up to you. You’d asked her endless questions about her job as a project manager at Austin-Bergstrom, and she’d poured you half glasses of wine (still exotic, to you, back then) at the kitchen island, shooing Jake back into the living room.

She’d even called you, after you guys broke up, to say she was sorry to hear it, and to tell you to call her up any time you needed someone to talk to. You’d tried your best to keep your voice even, not to break down in tears for the seventh time that day, and never called her again.

* * *

“Dude. Put your phone away for two minutes.”

Jake looks up apologetically at his friend, and pockets the device. “Sorry. Just expecting a text.”

Sandeep holds out his bottle of Lone Star, and Jake clinks it with his own. “It’s good to see you, man. Sorry I wasn’t around at Thanksgiving, we were visiting Jed’s family in NC. I didn’t expect you to be back so soon.”

Jake takes a swig of his beer, the cold liquid feeling like a balm to his throat. “Yeah, well. It’s been a big year, work-wise, so they owed me one. I wanted to spend some extra time with my mom.”

Bringing up his drink to toast again, Sandeep says: “Here’s to you, bud. And to getting that permanent assignment in California. At least we knew where to send our holiday card this year.”

Condensation drips down the neck of his bottle, and Jake spins it slowly in his hand, stopping himself from peeling off the label. He feels on edge, unmoored, despite this 6th Street dive bar being as familiar to him as the back of his own hand.

Sandeep’s got his number. “Seeing anyone else while you’re in town? I don’t know, Myers?”

Jake doesn’t look up, but feels his cheeks heat up fractionally.

His friend takes another swig of his beer. “I guess I should stop calling her Myers. You know, with the divorce and all.”

The bottle escapes Jake’s grip, and amber liquid sloshes across the table, into Sandeep’s lap. “Shit, Seresin! Grab some napkins, will you?”

* * *

2012

You’d always known there was an expiration date on this thing with Jake, which is why you’d been reluctant to meet his mom to begin with.

You wanted fundamentally different things. He, the Navy: Adventure, excitement, a chance to serve his country. You: Stability. A family. A place where you belonged.

Both of you: an opportunity to prove yourself.

It’s civil, as far as breakups go.

“You always knew I wanted to fly.” He says, over breakfast at Magnolia Café. There’s a hard set to his jaw that makes you soften in contrast, because of course you do, everyone who’s ever been near Jake Seresin for longer than ten minutes knows he’s always wanted to fly.

From your first date he told you about how Judy used to park him in her office at the airport when her summer childcare fell through; little Jake happily spending the day watching commercial jets taxiing and taking off in quick succession.

How her coworkers, the civilian engineers who’d stayed on after Bergstrom Air Force Base was decommissioned and commercialized, would regale him with stories about generations of F-4 Phantoms. Or the British Airways Concorde, one of only twenty of the ill-fated aircraft ever made, bringing the Queen to Austin in a little yellow hat. The Reconnaissance Air Meet bringing in the best fighter pilots from across all divisions of the military and abroad, to compete and show off their skills.

Jake would listen to them with stars in his eyes.

You pick at your migas, your appetite gone. “I know, Jake. I would never stop you.”

But you look at him, and you know your face mirrors his determination. “But I can’t come with you, Jake. I can’t start my career following you around from camp to base year to year. I’m forty-thousand dollars in debt getting this degree, and I need to follow my own plan.”

You haven’t moved in together, though Jake spends most of his nights at your tiny off-campus apartment, where you’ve made him countless cups of black coffee trying to fuel weekend study sessions. Where he would come in past midnight, back from the late shift at his part-time job at the H-E-B, and bury his face in your neck, waking you up even though you’d been asleep for hours. Where you would hold his sleeping head to your chest, his deep breathing somehow felt inside of you, and run your fingers up and down the bare skin of his back, trying to memorize him.

You’re twenty-two, you tell yourself. This is not the end of the world.

So you see him off at the front door, a box of his things clutched to his chest, and you force yourself to be strong. “You better be,” and you try to smile up at him, but you’re not sure you’re doing a convincing job, “You better be the best goddamn pilot the Navy has ever seen, Jake.”

For a second, he looks like he wants to say something, but then he just puts down the box, and pulls you into a last embrace. You sink into it, the fundamentally safe feeling of his arms around you, then make yourself pull away after a minute, pretending you don’t see the wet stains on his shirt.

Later you look at all the spaces in your apartment he is now conspicuously absent from (no dog-eared volume of Game of Thrones on the nightstand, no boots by the door), and it hits you then; the crevasse he’s left in your life. It may run deeper than you thought.

* * *

Jake had gone to Officer Candidate School in Rhode Island, then designator-specific training in Pensacola, Florida, and done his best not to think about you.

It helped that his days were intense and exhausting. It helped that, on liberty weekends, girls would flock to him and his friends in bars.

It helped to be several states away from you.

It helped to be living his dream.

* * *

There is a bit of a backslide, that first Thanksgiving after, where you both think it can’t hurt to see each other for one drink, for old time’s sake, which ends in him taking you up against the door in your new apartment, your legs wrapped around his waist because he does not have the willpower or presence of mind to figure out the way to your bedroom.

He knows it was a mistake, at about five AM the next day, when the blue light of morning starts streaming through a gap in the curtains, illuminating your tousled hair fanned out over the pillow, the steady rise and fall of your chest so familiar to him he could cry.

Untangling himself from you hurts, and he does perhaps the most cowardly thing he ever will: he sneaks out before you wake up. But next week he’s shipping out, and the thought of the same dead-end conversation over coffee made just the way he likes it is unbearable, so he makes himself walk away.

Somehow it’s worse, the second time around.

* * *

You’d met someone else, like he’d known you would. He sees the engagement announcement on Facebook, browsing on his phone between drills, and likes the post. It’s the third year he’s been away, and he’s at TOPGUN by then, so he has a lot on his mind. He has a girlfriend, even, a local: cute as a button, beats him savagely at pool.

It doesn’t fully hit him until the first time he sees you with your then-fiancé, at a little holiday reunion of college friends. He sees you with that ring on your finger, another man’s arm around your shoulders, and he gets an acute sense of the alternate reality that could’ve been his.

It feels a little like losing altitude too fast.

Your initial reception of him is understandably frosty, but you seem too genuinely happy to hold a grudge. By the third round, when he sidles up to you at the bar, you give him a quick hug, looking up at him with a smile that squeezes his heart: “I’m so proud of you, Jake.”

He nods, not quite trusting himself to speak, and pulls you back in, just for a moment, tucking your head under his chin. You smell like apple and magnolia, like nights spent with his nose pressed into your back.

You don’t invite him to the wedding, and he’s all too glad not to have to make up an excuse not to go.

* * *

Things settle, after that. Jake gets deployed and reassigned, breaks up with his girlfriend and eventually gets another. You get promoted to senior engineer, then project lead. You see each other, not every year but close enough, sometimes with your husband there, sometimes without.

He braces himself for the next Facebook post; that you’re pregnant, but it never comes. Over time, even that seems to lose some of its potential emotional impact on him.

Until three weeks ago, when you don’t text him back.

* * *

2022

You kick your shoes off in the entryway, then head into the kitchen to pour a glass of water. Before you can reach the tap, the doorbell rings, and for a second you think somehow, some way, your terrible Bumble date has followed you home.

Grabbing the biggest kitchen knife you own off the magnet strip over the sink, just in case, you creep back to the door, barefoot, to press your face up to the peephole.

You don’t really expect to see the guy you just left, the ice in your glass not even melted before you were thinking up excuses to get out of there, but you sure as fuck don’t expect to see Jake either.

The door feels heavier than usual as you slowly slide it open, or maybe you’re just a little stunned. The night air hits your skin, and you can make out the sound of dogs barking in the distance.

For a long moment, Jake just looks at you, but then he says: “What were you planning on doing with that, sweetheart?”

You follow the jut of his chin down the line of your arm, and contemplate the knife for a second, Jake’s sudden appearance having made you forget all about it.

“I thought someone might have followed me here.”

“Ah.” He says, a spark in his eyes, clearly suppressing a smile. “If you were going to defend yourself in hand-to-hand combat, a knife is a terrible choice. I could give you some tips, though.”

Putting the damn thing down on your entryway console, you turn back to look at him. It’s not cold, exactly, in December in South Central Austin, but he looks underdressed: a long-sleeved light grey t-shirt, hands shoved in the pockets of a faded pair of jeans.

He looks good, you can’t deny it: he’s always had an immediate effect on you.

Jake, your somewhat gangly, sweet college boyfriend had it. Jake, ten years of military training later: older, filled out, fine crinkly lines starting to appear at the corners of his eyes (helped along by the California sun and God knows what far-off places), irrevocably still does.

You shake your head, trying to clear your thoughts. “What are you doing here, Jake?”

At that, his expression sobers, and he looks at you for a long moment before he says:

“You didn’t tell me.”

* * *

Fucking Sandeep, you think, rubbing the back of your hand across your eyes, because that fucker has not been subtle with the hints lately, tutting like a Victorian matron while you pass the time evaluating your Bumble matches with his husband during Monday night football’s ad breaks.

The granite of your kitchen countertop feels reassuringly cool beneath your thighs, and you take a deep breath, keeping your eyes on the tile below:

“I wasn’t ready.”

Jake huffs, or so you assume by the little sound that escapes him, as you determinedly face only his sneakers: “It’s been a year. You sure told everyone else we know.”

That makes your head snap up, emotion rising in your chest in a way you don’t like, have always had to tamp down when it comes to him, these last ten years. “Fuck off, Jake. You know it’s different when it comes to you.”

He leans back against the fridge, arms folded, just slightly lifting his right eyebrow at you in that irritating way of his: “I could’ve been there for you.”

Fuck it, you think, all cards on the table then. “I was heartbroken, and embarrassed, and trying to figure out how to exist on my own again after being married for five years to someone who didn’t turn out to be who I thought he was, Jake. Sorry my first impulse wasn’t to come cry on my hometown hero ex-boyfriend’s shoulder.”

His eyes soften, and he pushes off the fridge to come stand next to you, running his fingers over the edge of the countertop. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice quieter than a moment ago. “I’m being a dick. It’s just, you have to know, I would’ve been there for you.”

He pauses for a second, takes a deep breath: “It’s always been different when it comes to you too, sweetheart.”

You start to shake, a little, or maybe it’s your imagination. But your voice wavers as you say his name, everything about your tone a warning: “Jake.”

He closes his eyes, shakes his head: “Our timing sucked, and I don’t regret our decision from back then. I’m proud of who I’ve become in the last ten years, and I’m proud of you. You think I don’t keep up with what you’re doing? The articles you’ve published?”

This stuns you, momentarily. “No, Jake Seresin. If I’m completely honest, I didn’t think you gave a shit about the latest advances in Texas drought management.”

Just being near him, the familiar smell of him bringing up memories you’ve had years to unsuccessfully repress, is overpowering.

He makes it worse by turning to you, face so goddamn heartbreakingly earnest as he says: “I couldn’t give you what you deserved, ten years ago, but I always told myself, if I was ever in a position to…” He swallows. “I tried to forget about it when you got married, I tried to root for you and Brett, I swear.”

His hand settles next to your thigh, not quite touching, and your hand comes down on its own accord to cover his. He straightens almost imperceptibly, uses his other palm to wipe a tear that’s made its way down your cheek.

Cupping your face, he draws a deep breath. “I have a permanent assignment now, in San Diego. I know it’s…”

“Jake.” You interrupt, squeezing your eyes shut, grabbing the hem of his shirt. “I’m not remotely the same person I was back then.”

He moves to stand in front of you now, and you draw him in between your thighs. Suddenly it seems imperative that you feel him, that he holds you.

Dipping his head to yours, you can hear the smile in his voice, watery, tentative: “Then let me get to know you again. Get to know me again.” He leans one hand on the counter, the other tracing your cheekbone. “No pressure. I’m totally very cool about this. Whatever you want.”

You laugh, a little choked up through tears, but genuine. It feels liberating. “What if I say yes? How does this work?”

His smile broadens, eyes crinkling at the corners, and he’s so goddamn close, nudging your nose with his. “Come visit me, for a start. I’ll show you the sights.”

You draw him in a little closer still, legs wrapping around his waist, one hand finding its way into his close-cropped hair, and you could cry for how familiar he still feels after all these years.

But when you close the gap between your lips and his, it’s like coming home and yet not at all: he’s different and rougher and sharper and it floods you with emotion, something big and terrifying and old and new.

He leans into the kiss, grinning, cards his fingers through your hair before he moves to cover your chin, your brow, the space next to your ear with kisses, and you remember this with a jolt to your heart – how singularly intense it is to be the focus of Jake Seresin, like the strength of the sun is aimed at you, how he never does anything by halves.

You take his chin in your hand, kiss him again for good measure, before saying, into the stubble of his jaw: “One visit. No pressure.”

The grin he gives you in return could power half this city: “One visit. No pressure.”

He dips his head to yours again, kissing the skin behind your ear as he tells you: “Southern California has a lot of drought problems, you know. I’ve actually been reading some really scary articles about it.”

i hope you enjoyed :):) - if you liked this I hope you’ll check out some of my other work:

where the wild things are (rooster x reader)

cross my heart (hangman x reader) masterlist

#tgm fic #tgm fanfiction #jake seresin x reader #jake hangman seresin x reader #jake seresin x you #jake hangman seresin x you #top gun maverick fic #why am i like this i stg

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whataperfectwasteoftime · 2 years ago

Text

Spring Fling

(gif by @pedropascalsx. I've given up using Tumblr gif search)

Pairing: Marcus Pike x virgin f!Reader

Rating: E (explicit smut, 18+ only)

Word Count: 19,228. Oops.

Warnings: Significant age gap (almost 20 years), college-age reader, sexual tension, mentions of: strained familial relationships, divorce, unhealthy breakups, stalker(ish) behavior (PAST), therapy. Virgin/inexperienced reader, fingering, oral sex (f! receiving), unprotected PIV sex and a lot of it, comeplay if you squint, Marcus’s filthy filthy mouth, happy ending

Summary: When you and your friend, fellow pre-Law student Emma, plan to go to Washington DC for spring break instead of the typical beach destination, she makes plans for the two of you to stay with her estranged father for the week to save money on lodging. You never expected Emma’s father, a man she says she’s barely seen throughout the years, to be so sweet, so troubled, and so unfairly pretty. Neither did you expect for what you'd thought was a one-sided attraction to turn into a spring fling... or maybe something more.

A/N: I got an ask asking about 'Best Friend's Dad' Marcus Pike, so I now post a question to you, dear reader: What if Marcus Pike had a college-age kid from his first marriage, one that he'd entered into at a very young age because of an unplanned pregnancy? Anyway to find out the answer read this almost 20k fic LOL

Masterlist

"We should go somewhere for spring break."

Your friend and fellow pre-Law student at the University of Texas, Emma, laughs. "Go somewhere? Like what, the fucking beach? And with what money?"

"No, no beaches. Somewhere cool. Somewhere unusual."

"Like what?" Emma asks, shoving another handful of chips in her mouth.

"I've never been to Washington, DC," you comment thoughtfully.

"I thought every public school in the entire country went to DC at some point," Emma remarks.

"I had the chickenpox."

"Ew."

"Do you think that would be fun? Going to the Capitol for break?" you ask.

"I guess," Emma shrugs. "It's better than going to writhe on the beach with fifty thousand wasted twentysomethings."

"There's still the issue of how to pay for a trip. For any trip. I think I could cover airfare, but a DC hotel? Ugh," you say with a groan.

"I could put the hotel on my credit card and work a bunch of extra shifts at Pizza Express afterward to make up for it," Emma says. "But that would pretty much max out my card."

"I can look up the cheapest spots outside the city," you suggest. "And we can take the metro in."

"Outside the city isn't going to be much better," Emma remarks. "We could… nah."

You look up, curious. "We could… what?"

"Well, my uh, my dad actually lives in DC."

"Your dad?" you repeat incredulously. "You've literally never mentioned your dad. I thought he and your mom were estranged?"

"Sorta," Emma says. "The official story is that they married too young and eventually separated."

"...And the unofficial story?"

"My mom found out she was pregnant at nineteen, and my dad wanted to do the right thing, so he married her. But I guess they weren't right for each other, because they were already divorced by the time I was two."

"Do you see him much?" you ask.

"I used to," Emma says quietly. "But my mom was never really enthusiastic about spending much time together, so it wasn’t very often. And then he moved to DC when I was a junior in high school, and I haven't seen him since. He always sends me cards on my birthday and Christmas, though. And…" she suddenly blushes, looking down and away.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"What, Em?"

"He pays for my tuition."

"What?!"

"Yeah, I've barely had to take out any loans. It's just for housing and stuff."

"You ass, you never told me that!"

"It's not common knowledge," Emma mumbles. "Besides, no one wants to admit they've got an absent, divorced father paying the bills."

"But you'd want to contact him for this? For a place to crash over spring break for a week?"

"He's nice," Emma says quietly. "I always got the feeling that he wanted to do his best by us."

"I mean, if you're cool with it, it kinda sounds fun," you admit. "Better than Galveston, anyway."

Emma laughs. "Yeah, way better than Galveston."

"Holy shit, Em, you can see the Capitol from here."

The two of you had emerged from the underground tunnel of the metro station, trailing suitcases behind you, into what feels like the middle of the city itself. The busy street is flanked with large condominiums on both sides, with--unbelievably--a view of the Capitol building in the distance.

"I think it's this one," Emma says, squinting at the address on her phone and back up at one of the buildings.

"How do we get in?" you ask.

"He just said to text him," Emma answers. "Hang on." She taps out a message on her phone before sliding it back into her pocket. "And now we wait."

You barely have time to check your email before the front door opens and a man emerges, striding quickly toward the two of you. You think he's about to envelop your friend into a crushing hug, but he stops short, eyes wavering with uncertainty as he looks his daughter up and down. His hand reaches toward her arm, but he hesitates just short of touching.

"Emma," the man breathes, the emotion evident in his voice making you want to duck your head and turn away from the scene.

"Hey, uh, Dad," Emma says, giving him a sheepish smile. "Been a while."

"It's been six years," the man says emphatically.

"Yeah."

You watch as Emma's father's fingers twitch toward her. "C-Can I–"

Emma shrugs. "'Course."

The man carefully steps forward and wraps his arms around her, pulling her to his chest. His eyes close, his eyebrows pull upward to reveal a deep crease in between them as he holds his daughter for apparently the first time in six years. This time, you do look away from what feels like surprisingly tender and private moment.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there for your graduation," you hear him say softly. "I was undercover for a case, and… Anyway, it doesn't matter. I'm sorry. You don't know how badly I wanted to be there."

"S'okay," Emma says cooly. She steps back, and, for the first time, her father seems to notice you.

"Hi," he says brightly, and his pained, heartfelt expression melts into an easy smile as he extends his hand to you. "Marcus."

You don't know what you had been expecting. Maybe someone older. Maybe someone less… attractive. Not this frankly gorgeous man, with his boyish smile, pretty eyes that crinkle around the edges, slightly mussed brown hair that falls over his forehead, and the light smattering of facial hair that only seems to soften his features further. Not that he needed any help, in that respect. Slightly stunned, you step forward and take the man’s hand, trying not to trip over the syllables of your own name.

Marcus’s smile widens, and he repeats your name, which does nothing to quell the sudden burst of butterflies in your stomach–and are your palms sweating?

"Thank you for allowing us to stay for the week," you say politely, forcing yourself out of the trance.

"Not a problem," Marcus answers. "What a great destination for spring break! Whose idea was that?"

"Mine," you say with a little laugh.

"My kind of girl," Marcus jokes. "Keeping my daughter out of trouble."

"Dad," Emma groans. "I'm not a kid."

"Well, last time I saw you, you were fifteen," Marcus says pointedly. "You're gonna have to let my brain do a little catch-up, here."

"Well, to start with, I'm not a beach party kind of person," Emma says. "I'm a nerd–y'know, being pre-Law and all."

Emma's father beams. "So I've heard. Well, I'm happy to host two nerds while they do a little sightseeing in the nation's Capitol. I can even," he adds with a conspiratorial smile, "give you a tour of the J. Edgar Hoover building. If–If you want," he finishes awkwardly, appearing hesitant and unsure again.

"Oh, cool!" you exclaim automatically, without thinking.

Marcus grins widely at your enthusiasm, and you find yourself staring at your shoes, biting your lip as you flounder under his attention. You're being weird. Stop it.

"Y-Yeah," Emma adds, nodding hesitantly. "That would be nice... Dad. Thanks."

“C’mon,” Marcus says, grabbing both Emma’s bag and, before you can protest, yours. “Come on up. I ordered some pizza for everyone. You can get settled tonight and… go do whatever you two want to do in the morning.”

The two of you follow Marcus through the lobby and into the elevator. You can’t help but keep stealing little glances at him–the way his shoulders fill out the maroon henley he’s wearing over jeans, the way those shoulders taper down to narrow hips, the way he’s got the top two buttons of his shirt casually undone, showing you a hint of collarbone that has you damn-near salivating. Snap out of it. Oh, God, snap out of it. You’ve known the man for five minutes, and you feel like you’re losing your mind. It’s gonna be a long week if you don’t pull it together.

Marcus opens the front door and gestures the two of you in before him. You stand awkwardly in the living room, looking around at the furniture and at the decor on the walls, looking anywhere but at your best friend’s dad, whose very presence seems to fluster you beyond all reason.

“I just have one spare room, hopefully you two don’t mind sharing…?” Marcus asks.

“That’s fine,” Emma says good-naturedly.

“It’s just through here,” he says, walking past you. “I’ll set your bags down in there and show you around.”

The room is clearly his workspace–there’s a desk and a chair shoved into a corner to make room for a comfortable-looking guest bed. The side wall is covered with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and you subconsciously step toward them, eager to see what titles this man keeps on his shelves.

“Sorry, it’s kind of an… all-purpose room,” Marcus says sheepishly. “Bit cluttered.”

“I like it,” you murmur absentmindedly, still scanning the spines.

“‘Gardner’s Art Through the Ages’” Emma reads, crinkling her nose. “How many editions of this book do you have?”

Her father laughs. “It’s work stuff, mostly. Although there’s a few thrillers here and there. And some classics.” He approaches the shelves as well, and you can feel the hair on the back of your neck start to stand up on end at the sensation of his body hovering just behind you. You’re so… aware of him. You don’t know if it’s because Marcus seems to naturally command every space he’s in or if there’s something electric that’s pulling you toward him, but either way, your entire body feels as though it’s on high alert.

A sharp buzzing makes you jump comically, making Emma snort.

“That’ll be the pizza,” Marcus announces. “Be right back.”

You glance over at Emma, who is still staring disinterestedly at the bookshelves. “It’s a nice place,” you say conversationally.

“Mmmhm.”

“You okay?” you ask softly.

“Oh, yeah,” Emma scoffs, waving her hand. “Just been a while. It’s weird. You know.”

“He seems nice,” you say.

“He is,” she remarks. “I told you he was. I just… don’t know him very well. Like he said, I haven’t seen him in six years.”

“Maybe this will be good, then,” you suggest. “Get to know him now that you’re an adult and all that.”

Emma shrugs. “Maybe.”

You look back at the shelves. Emma was right; Marcus does have an alarmingly large number of editions of Art Through the Ages. You furrow your brow.

“What does your dad do in DC?”

“Oh, did I not tell you? He’s in the FBI.”

You feel as though you’ve swallowed your tongue, but before you can garble out a response–something like, “Mmmgnnbbllgffnhh?”–you hear Marcus coming back.

“Get it while it’s hot!” he says cheerfully. “You guys must be hungry after traveling all day.”

“Oh wow, Dad, that’s… a lot of pizza for three people,” Emma says, her eyebrows raising in surprise and confusion.

She’s right–there are five boxes sitting on the small kitchen island, along with several options of drink.

“I had no idea what either of you liked,” Marcus reasoned. “So I got a few different options. Cheese, pepperoni, supreme, hawaiian, and some kind of vegan thing, just in case.”

“You know, you could have just texted,” Emma remarks, at the same time that you whisper, “Thank you.”

Marcus looks sheepish. “Wanted to surprise you. Anyway, dig in–there’s obviously a lot.” He laughs quietly to himself, grabbing three plates and setting them down on the counter. You grab three different kinds–supreme, hawaiian, and the vegan option, out of curiosity��and sit on one of the barstools opposite Marcus. Emma grabs two cheeses and sits down next to you.

“So,” he says after a few minutes of surprisingly companionable silence. “I know Emma is pre-Law. Are you pre-Law too?” he asks, looking at you with a friendly, curious smile.

“Mmmhmm,” you nod, tight-lipped. You hate this conversation–the college-age version of ‘What do you want to be when you grow up?’ Everyone asks the question with good intent, but it always leaves you in an anxiety spiral, an existential crisis, because no matter how many times you’re asked, you have absofuckinglutely no idea.

“What kind of law do you want to go into?” This question is addressed more to Emma, who immediately launches into an explanation of Environmental Law and the impact of climate change on public health. Marcus nods eagerly, giving Emma his full attention as she talks, watching her with a small smile.

“What about you?” he asks when she’s done, turning to you.

You gulp.

“I don’t—I don’t really know. Not yet, anyways.” You brace yourself for the judgmental eyebrow raise, the well-meaning advice.

“That’s okay,” Marcus says, smiling. “No one says you have to have it figured out at… how old are you?”

“T-Twenty,” you mumble, feeling more naive and inexperienced than you ever have before.

“Nah,” Marcus says, shaking his head playfully. “No one has it figured out at twenty. And the people who think they do? They change.”

His eyes go far away for a split-second, and you wonder what he must have been like at twenty. Did he already have Emma at that point? Did he just find out that his girlfriend was pregnant? Was he panicking, trying to figure out how to make things work? You wonder what it was that he had wanted to do, and what he had sacrificed for Emma and her mom. You wonder if he had wanted the divorce, or if she had been the one to suggest it.

“Anyway,” Marcus says, casually waving a slice of pepperoni as he talks, “I mostly work with criminal lawyers. If that’s something you’re interested in, I could arrange a chat with someone this week.”

“Oh,” you say, too stunned to say anything else. “Yeah, maybe.”

Marcus shrugs good-naturedly. “Think about it,” he says, giving you another crooked grin. His eyes crinkle around the edges when he smiles, and it makes your stomach do somersaults.

“Yeah,” you say again, a little breathlessly. Your next bite of pizza misses your mouth entirely, and you manage to stab yourself in the cheek with your slice, transferring a glob of tomato sauce onto your face in the process.

Emma laughs, and Marcus’s eyes glitter with amusement as you frantically reach for a napkin.

“So you do, um… FBI stuff?” you ask him clumsily, trying to break the silence.

“Yep. FBI Stuff. Says it on my badge and everything.”

“Why do you have a bunch of art books?”

“I lead an international task force dealing with art crimes,” he answers patiently.

“What constitutes an art crime?” Emma asks, her mouth full.

“Theft,” Marcus lists, “forgeries, black market sales, dealing in antiquities, looting of archaeological sites…”

“Oh, wow,” you breathe, a dopey smile on your face. Emma shoots you a funny look.

“So it’s like, nerdy FBI stuff,” she says.

“The nerdiest,” Marcus agrees, smiling.

“Do you still have a gun and stuff?”

“I do,” Marcus says carefully, frowning slightly. “It’s in the safe for the week, though, while you’re here.”

Your stomach flip-flops at the mental image of Emma’s dad holding a gun, those warm brown eyes dark with focus as he stares down… an art thief. Or something.

“Enough about your old man,” he says with a self-deprecating chuckle. “What are you two looking to do tomorrow on your first day in DC?”

“Think we’ll hit the museums,” Emma says. “Get them out of the way first. We want to see the Library of Congress, obviously. Plus walking around to all the monuments and stuff. Oh, and the zoo!”

“Do you want my advice?” Marcus asks, and you both nod. “It’s supposed to be unseasonably warm tomorrow, and sunny. I’d do the monument tour or the zoo tomorrow if I were you. Save the indoor stuff for the end of the week, because it’s supposed to rain.”

“Monuments it is!” Emma exclaims. “Hey, can I… can I use your shower? I feel kinda gross from the travel day.”

“Absolutely.” Marcus hops up, leading Emma over to the guest bathroom. You listen as he points out a stack of towels intended for the two of you during your stay, the extra shampoo he’d bought, the spare toothbrushes just in case… Eventually he returns, hands stuffed in his pockets, looking hesitant again.

“Thank you,” you say again. “You went through a lot of trouble, and–”

“It’s no trouble,” Marcus says quickly. “No trouble at all. I–I have to admit I was surprised when Em–when she called, but I’m–I’m more than happy to host you two for the week. It’s no trouble at all,” he repeats.

“Okay,” you say dumbly. You’re staring again, unable to help the way your eyes are drawn to the way his arms fill out the shirt he's wearing when his hands are in his pockets like that.

"You alright?"

Your eyes flit up to his at the question. He's looking back at you, his head cocked to the side as he watches you. And suddenly, you can just tell–you can tell that he knows how flustered you are in front of him.

You nod rapidly up and down in response, not trusting yourself to answer.

"Good. Had enough pizza?"

"Mmhmm."

"Anything else to drink?" he asks.

"Got any beer?" you ask with a quirk of your eyebrow.

"You told me you were twenty," Marcus reminds you.

"Oh."

"And I work for law enforcement," he says gravely.

Oh.

"Oh, f-fuck, I um… I was kidding. Holy shit. I'm sorry. Seriously, I'm not a-a bad… student, or anything. I swear, I–"

As you continue to frantically backtrack, you realize that Marcus’s shoulders are shaking with laughter.

"Oh, you're funny. Real funny. Ha. Ha."

"Next you'll be saying I should quit my day job," he says, his eyes sparkling.

"I'm not sure what kind of art… crime… solver… you are, but I have to believe you're a better agent than you are a comedian," you deadpan.

"You can come to my stand-up show on Tuesday and see for yourself."

Your jaw drops before you realize Marcus's lips are quivering with the effort of keeping a straight face.

"You're on fire, tonight," you say, rolling your eyes.

"You'll have to forgive me," he says, a gentle, more wistful smile gracing his lips. "I don't have company often, and it's been even longer since I've seen–" his eyes flick to the bathroom door, and he looks troubled for a moment.

"Strictly off the record, if you do want a beer, I happen to have some," he says, changing the subject and smiling back at you again.

"Nah, I'll save that favor for later in the week," you tell him.

"Noted," Marcus replies. He's looking at you again, still. He seems to be one of those people who gives all of his focus to someone when they speak, and the attention is starting to overwhelm you.

"Hey!" Emma calls from the guest bedroom. "I wanna get started early tomorrow. Those monuments aren't gonna monument themselves."

You laugh and roll your eyes. "That's my cue," you say with a little smile. "Gonna grab a shower myself and call it a night."

"If you need anything, I'm a room away," Marcus says, but it only serves to remind you that this man will be sleeping in the next room.

"Got it," you say, nodding thickly. "Um, good night."

"Good night," he answers softly.

When you reach the bathroom door, you turn around again–you can't help yourself.

He's still looking at you.

"Get up!

"Get up!"

"GET–"

"Okay!" you whine, throwing an extra pillow in the general direction of Emma's voice. "Fuck. I'm up."

You throw on a pair of jeans and a faded tee, scrubbing your hands over your face as you stumble out of the guest room and into the kitchen, where Marcus hands you a cup of coffee, which you accept with a grunt.

"Emma warned me that you weren't a morning person," he says.

"God, it's both of you, isn't it?" you grumble. "Morning people."

"I guess we turned out alike after all," Marcus says with a soft smile, watching as you take a grateful sip from the mug. "What's the first stop on the list?"

"I dunno, she's got it all planned out," you murmur. "Of like, seeing the farthest place first and working our way back."

"Sounds like a plan," Marcus says. "You two have fun."

"What are you doing today?" Emma interjects, coming into the kitchen, grabbing a bagel off of the counter, and stuffing it into her mouth.

"Well, it's Sunday, so… grocery shopping," Marcus says. "Any special requests?"

"Filet mignon," Emma says.

"You got it. Want some lobster tails as well?"

"Mmhmm."

"I was thinking more along the lines of spaghetti and meatballs. Anything else you ladies would like?"

Emma shuffles her feet, and you frown slightly. You've never known her not to immediately say what's on her mind–and clearly, something is.

"What is it, Emmie?" Marcus asks softly.

"Do you remember that one time that we came to your family's for Christmas–I think I was maybe twelve?–and you made…"

"...Tamales?" Marcus asks, his eyebrows shooting upward.

"Yeah," Emma answers, her voice smaller than you've ever heard it. "I still remember those. They were really good."

"Jesus, I haven't made those in…" he shakes his head. "I don't even know. But uh, sure. We can do that. Tamale night. It's a deal."

"Thanks," Emma says, smiling. "And… really? 'Emmie?' Dad, I'm not seven anymore."

"My mistake," Marcus says with a playful wink in your direction–which might make your heart stop. "You girls stay safe. Text if you need anything."

Marcus was right–the weather is beautiful today. It’s perfect for walking endlessly from monument to monument, which you do all morning. You try to stay focused–thoughtfully reading the names on the Vietnam War Memorial and not thinking about Emma’s dad, in the plain white t-shirt he had been wearing this morning, in the produce section picking out apples. Even worse, you try not to imagine the sight of him cooking tonight.

He’s becoming a bit of an obsession for you, you can admit it. You want to know everything about him–what his job is like, what he does on the weekends, what he likes to read, what he did in the past to alienate the mother of his child enough that he’s barely seen his daughter–who he very clearly cares deeply for…

As you walk around the Washington Monument, you can’t stand it any longer.

“Sooooo. It seems like things are going well between you and your dad,” you say conversationally.

“How do you mean?”

“Less awkward, I guess.”

“It’s not that we don’t get along,” Emma says with a shrug. “We always used to. Like I said, I always thought he was nice. My mom…”

“She didn’t like him?”

“She didn’t want to be around him. I don’t know why. They tried to protect me from the messy parts of divorce, but part of that means that I have no idea what their history is. She never talked about it. Neither did he.”

“Huh.” You stare in silence at the large white obelisk. “I wonder what happened.”

“I thought about asking my mom,” Emma says. “Lots of times, but I never got up the courage.”

“You should ask him,” you say quietly. “I get the feeling he needs to tell the story.”

Emma gives you a funny look. “That’s a weird thing to say.”

You shrug. “I’m weird.”

“Fair.”

The two of you walk until it feels as though your feet are going to fall off.

“My feet are going to fall off,” you announce. “Surely there are no more monuments in the entirety of Washington, DC.”

“We’ve still got the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.”

“Uggghhhh, how important can he be? He’s unknown.”

“This was your idea,” Emma points out. “Go to DC for spring break! Stay with my best friend’s estranged dad! Walk around and see all the monuments and shit!”

“Too many steps,” you groan. “They should all be concentrated in one square mile of land.”

“One more,” Emma promises. “And then spaghetti.”

“And laying on the couch watching TV,” you counter.

“And laying on the couch watching TV,” Emma agrees. “...And tomorrow we go to the zoo.”

“No!”

Marcus chuckles as you stumble into his condo just after six. You immediately collapse onto the couch with an exaggerated groan.

“I’m staying right here for the rest of the week,” you announce.

“It’s been one day,” Marcus points out.

“My phone’s step counter measures over thirty thousand steps,” you mumble. “I’m done.”

“That’s a lot,” Marcus concedes. “Hopefully that means the two of you are hungry this evening.”

“Fucking starving,” Emma agrees, crashing onto the couch herself and nearly colliding with you as she does so.

“Well, since everyone is so tired,” Marcus says, the playfulness evident in his voice, “I’ll make spaghetti and meatballs tonight. Tamales are a group effort, so you two better be ready to work for your food.”

“I shall endeavor to do so,” Emma remarks with an exaggerated accent, causing you to laugh giddily.

While Emma’s eyes are closed, you take advantage, watching Marcus–still with that same fitted white shirt–in the kitchen, boiling water, heating the sauce, and adding the meatballs. He must sense your gaze, because he turns, a characteristic crooked smile on his lips as he acknowledges you.

“I know they’re frozen,” he admits, speaking of the meatballs, “but they always taste the same to me anyway.”

“I can’t wait,” you say, truthfully. “It’s been a long day.”

As if to demonstrate the fact, a loud snore emanates from the body next to you, making you grin.

“I’m glad you guys came,” Marcus says softly. “I don’t often have the opportunity to cook for… more than one.”

“No girlfriend?” you ask conversationally.

Marcus laughs. “I’m… in between things, I suppose.”

“In between,” you parrot with a laugh. “How long have you been ‘in between?’”

He huffs. “Too long,” he murmurs.

“How come?” you ask quietly.

Marcus frowns, thinking. “I dunno. No one recently has been… exactly what I’m looking for.”

“And what are you looking for?” you ask breathlessly.

“Spaghetti,” Emma mumbles from the couch.

“Spaghetti,” Marcus repeats, giving me a slightly melancholy smile. “Exactly. Come and get it, you two.”

Emma stirs, stumbling into the kitchen where two giant bowls of spaghetti and meatballs are awaiting the two of you.

“Holy shit,” she remarks. “Thanks for this.”

“Of course,” Marcus says. “I would never agree for you to stay and then not…” he trails off, unsure of himself.

You’re starting to realize that the bulk of Marcus’s most emotional statements go unsaid. I would ever agree for you to stay and then not take care of you, is what he hadn’t said.

“Still doing the zoo tomorrow?” he asks, changing the subject, as always.

“Yup,” Emma answers.

He huffs, smiling wistfully. “Been ages since I’ve been to a zoo.”

“D’you wanna go?” you ask, before you can determine that it’s a bad idea.

Marcus looks at you, indecisive for a few seconds before he seemingly comes to his senses. “Nah,” he says, grinning. “You two have fun.”

“Are you sure?” Emma asks. “Apparently there’s a new panda baby.”

“That’s a hard bargain,” he admits.

“You should come with,” Emma decides. “It could be fun.”

“All right,” Marcus agrees hesitantly.

“It’s Monday,” you point out. “Don’t you have to work?”

“I’ll call off,” he answers quickly. “Not everyday one’s daughter is in town for an impromptu zoo trip.”

“Look at the little lad,” Emma gushes.

“The what?” Marcus asks.

The three of you are staring at the panda enclosure, watching the newest addition to the zoo cause chaos.

“The chonky boi,” you agree.

“I have no idea what you two are saying,” Marcus admits.

“The baby panda is cute,” Emma offers.

“That I can agree on,” he decides.

The three of you, you’ve decided, make a good team. You try not to think about how your heart burns whenever Marcus looks at you, how your stomach does flips whenever he laughs. If you’re going to be a good friend to Emma–and you are–you’re going to have to put this silly crush aside and accept the fact that he’s a package deal with your best friend.

That doesn’t stop the way the man looks at you, though.

You think you’re imagining it, at first. After all, Marcus seems to be the type of person who focuses completely on whatever anyone has to say. The more you’re with him, though, it’s hard to deny that he seems to look at you just a tiny bit longer.

You start to notice it all day–when you’re looking at the exhibits, Marcus is looking at you.

He’s watching your reaction to them–smiling when you smile, laughing when you laugh. You can’t parse out the meaning behind his actions–does it mean something? If so, what? What does it mean?

You can’t admit the truth to yourself until you’re in the insect house. Emma is giddy with interest, and you… are trying.

“Are you okay?” Marcus asks softly in your ear–and you try not to shiver.

“Great,” you squeak. “Just don’t love the bird-eating spider.”

“I don’t like them either,” he confesses with a smile. “Do you need to leave?”

“Idunno,” you mumble, slurring the words together.

“Emmie,” Marcus announces, “we’re going to take a little break, okay?”

“Mmm.”

You and Marcus escape into the bright sunshine, and you let out an awkward laugh. “I can’t believe they have some of them loose in there–without glass or anything!”

“I’m not going back in that building,” Marcus agrees, laughing with you. “The giant orb weaver was the last straw.”

“That was awful,” you say, nodding.

“Come to think of it, I might be more of a baby panda guy, myself.”

“I’ll take the snakes over this,” you agree.

You sit down on a nearby bench, still giggling together as you wait for Emma.

“Is it weird if I say I’m glad you came?” you ask quietly.

“I’m glad I came, too,” Marcus says beside you.

“I think–” you begin, but Emma emerges from the insect house, grinning ear to ear.

“You think… what?” Marcus asks, but you shake your head and shrug.

“I dunno,” you mumble. “I just… think.”

“Hey, wimps,” Emma shouts. “They let me touch the tarantula.”

Marcus takes the two of you out to dinner at a casual burger spot near his place. While the tension between him and Emma has lessened significantly since the first day, it feels as though it’s been replaced by a thick cloud of tension between the two of you.

There’s something about the man that speaks to you, something within him that seems to vibrate on the same frequency as something within you. Twin souls, you’d say, if you were in a mind to be romantic, except… it can’t be. He must be nearly forty–and almost twice your age. There’s nothing you have that he would want–nothing you could offer a man who has his entire life together while yours has barely started.

Still, the way Marcus laughs at your jokes and gives you knowing glances–as if the two of you are sharing some type of inside joke that you’ve had for years–keeps you flustered and breathless throughout most of the evening.

The glass of wine he offers when you arrive home doesn’t help, either. You watch the red liquid swirl in your glass and wonder how it would taste from his lips, instead. And, when you’ve reached the bottom of your glass, the fuzzy-headed feeling you get from the alcohol combined with the way your stomach swoops in its place every time Marcus’s eyes meet yours has you feeling dizzy and enraptured in equal parts.

When he locks eyes with you over the rim of his own glass as he drains the last sip, you freeze, afraid that you’d been caught out–that he can read every dumbstruck expression on your face and knows exactly what he does to you.

But all he does is shoot you a little smile, announce that he’s going to bed– “Back to work for me, tomorrow”–and leaves you in the living room alone with Emma, trying not to look as though you’re checking out her dad’s butt as he leaves the room.

The next day, you and Emma spend most of the day at the Library of Congress while Marcus is at work. As a result, neither of you are too tired to help when Marcus suggests making the tamales tonight.

“I’m going to preface this by saying I’m not very good at making these,” he says with a laugh as he struggles with the dough. “My grandma only made these on special occasions, and I’ve done it myself approximately two times without her.”

“Well, the good news is that I’ve got no frame of reference,” you tell him. “So as long as they’re edible, they’ll be the best tamales I’ve ever had.”

Marcus chuckles and ducks his head; you can see the pink tinge on the tips of his ears as he continues to stir the mixture.

“Emmie, do you want to do the dough or the filling?” he asks.

“Filling.”

“That leaves you with the fun part,” Marcus says to you with a playful wink. “You get to spread the dough out on the corn husks like this–” he frowns as a glob of dough gets stuck to the spatula. “I told you I’m not very good at this. But you get the idea.”

You really don’t; cooking has never been your strong suit. You do your best to spread the dough out, but after just a couple of repetitions, your fingers, your shirt, and the counter around you are sticky with dough.

“This is not going very well,” you mumble.

Marcus looks up from the tamale he’s currently folding and laughs joyfully. “That’s part of the process.”

“I really don’t feel like it is,” you shoot back. “It’s sticking to everything but the corn husks.”

“Here,” Marcus chuckles. And suddenly, he’s right behind you, his chest nearly touching your back as he reaches around you to gently guide your hands himself. “Like this.”

You can’t possibly focus on your task, not when you have to remind your body to keep breathing while Marcus’s hands are on you. Your eyes stare unseeingly down at the corn husk until he releases you.

“Better?” he asks.

“Mmhm,” you hum, abnormally high-pitched.

“You’ve got some on your cheek,” he remarks with a soft smile. His thumb gently swipes across it, catching the stray dough and wiping it on a towel.

In the end, the tamales are hideous, but they taste incredible. They might be the best meal you’ve ever had–or maybe it’s just the way Marcus had smiled proudly at you when your technique improved after his intervention.

After dinner, the three of you sit on the small couch and watch a movie.

“It’s in black and white,” Emma remarks, wrinkling her nose.

“Double Indemnity? It’s a classic!” Marcus protests.

“Old movies are always so boring,” Emma says.

“It’s not boring,” he pouts. “The unhappy wife of a wealthy oil baron starts a dangerous, illicit love affair with an insurance salesman, and they hatch a plot to murder her husband and collect the insurance money.”

“That’s wild,” you laugh. “How have you seen this before?”

“I’ve always been told I’m an old soul.”

“Are you sure you’re not just old?” Emma teases.

“Hush. Watch the movie.”

The film is engaging, but all of the walking around of the past few days starts to catch up with you about halfway through. Before you know it, your eyes are drooping, and your head tips back on the couch cushion as you start to doze off. When you wake, the credits are rolling, and you’re no longer upright on the back of the couch.

You’re drooling on Marcus’s shoulder.

You startle, sitting back up with a frantic gasp and wiping your mouth in horror.

“Shh,” Marcus whispers, placing a calming hand on your forearm. “Emma fell asleep, too.”

“Fuck. I’m sorry,” you babble, taking in the little wet spot on his shirt.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he assures softly. “You’re tired. You needed the sleep.”

“Still,” you say. “I didn’t mean to…” you trail off awkwardly.

“It’s okay,” Marcus repeats, even quieter still. His hand still rests on your forearm, his thumb subtly moving back and forth across your skin.

Neither of you speak for what seems like an eternity, until finally, he breaks the spell.

“Should go to bed,” he murmurs. “I’ll wake up Emma. Go get some rest.”

“Marcus,” you whisper shakily.

“Go,” he whispers back.

He squeezes your arm once, then releases you, and you reluctantly get up from the couch and cross to the guest bedroom door. You turn again, watching as Marcus gently smooths Emma’s hair back from her forehead as he rouses her from the couch. There’s so much tenderness in his eyes, and you wonder how much different he might be if Emma had been a more constant presence in his life. He seems so lonely–does he have friends outside of work, you wonder? Does he ever date?

Emma sits up blearily and pads across the living room, walking past you and collapsing on the bed. You take one last look at Marcus, and follow her.

The next morning, you feel as though you could cut the tension between you and Marcus with a knife. There’s something there–and you both know it. He seems to be doing his best to ignore it, avoiding eye contact with you, and busying himself with pouring a thermos of coffee and messing with his tie absentmindedly as he gets ready to leave for work.

“Where are you off to today?” he comments lightly.

“Smithsonian,” Emma answers.

“Sounds fun. I’ve got a deposition this afternoon that’s probably going to run late, so go ahead and grab something for dinner while you’re out. I’m not sure when I’ll be home.”

The only time Marcus’s eyes fall on you is in the moment just before he steps through the front door. He pauses, hand on the doorknob, and glances back in your direction, dark eyes watching you for a moment before he nods subtly and leaves.

It’s funny how just a simple, seconds-long moment of eye contact with this man can turn your insides to jelly. Your breath stutters as the door clicks shut, and you try to gather yourself again.

“What’s first?” Emma asks. “Natural History or Air and Space?”

You put Marcus out of your mind for most of the day, although he’s never far away; you’re able to call up the feel of his hand on your forearm at any given moment. You can imagine the burn of his eyes even as you walk through exhibit after exhibit.

True to his word, he’s not home for dinner. You and Emma grab sandwiches from a shop around the corner and eat them in the living room in front of the TV. It’s nearly seven when Marcus finally gets home, opening the door and greeting the two of you with a tired smile and a heavy sigh.

“How did it go?” Emma asks.

“Shit,” he answers, shooting her a crooked grin. “But I’ve got leftover tamales to look forward to, so the day is looking up.”

You watch another movie–Emma’s choice this time, and something a bit more current. You don’t fall asleep this time; you can’t, not with the way your body feels on high alert tonight. Marcus is sitting beside you again, as he was the night before, and all you can think about is how much you want to sink into his arms again–and this time, intentionally. You want to lay on his chest and have him wrap his arms around you; you want him to slowly turn and press you down on the cushions, to feel the weight of him on top of you, the light scrape of his beard on your neck, his breath in your ear.

A wave of arousal washes over you, heating your skin and sending a little trickle of damp into your underwear. You wonder if Marcus can feel it–feel the elevated warmth of your skin from where he’s sitting. You wonder if he can tell how much he affects you.

When the movie ends, you can barely meet his eyes as you bid him goodnight, following Emma to your room. You can’t turn around to see if he’s watching you; you can’t stand another glance at that deep, burning gaze of his.

Sleep evades you. You’re too hot, so you kick off the covers. Then you’re too cold, so you cover up again. You flip over the pillow, turn from your back to your stomach, and back again. The fantasy plays once more in your head: Marcus’s hand cradling the back of your neck as he kisses a path down your neck and to your chest. You want to feel the weight of him between your thighs, feel him pressing against your core. You’re dripping for him, and he doesn’t even know it.

No one has ever done this to you, but he has. And he hasn’t even touched you.

You wonder if he’d be bothered by the fact that you aren’t exactly sure what you’re doing in that department. You wonder if he’d be put off by your inexperience, or if he’d be happy to guide you in the act of pleasure.

You’ve had a couple of fumbling encounters, rushed, frenzied moments as a teenager with boys who haphazardly stuffed a finger or two into you, but it didn’t feel like anything to you. Not really. No one has ever made you cum–just you, in the safety of your own bed at night, your fingers seeking relief that no one else has been able to provide.

Could he give it to you?

Your past experiences have been with boys; and Marcus is a man.

Your legs shift, rubbing your thighs against each other as you try to find a more comfortable position.

You can’t find one.

Eventually, you give up–getting out of bed with a sigh. Maybe if you grab a drink of water and sit on the couch for a while, sleep will win out in the end. You pad into the kitchen, filling a cup in the sink and taking a few long sips. The cool water is a relief, so you run your hand underneath the water next and scrub it over your face. Finally sated, you set the cup down by the sink and turn.

To see Marcus sitting on the couch, dimly lit by the glow of his laptop screen.

You nearly double over with shock, the unexpected sight causing a spike of adrenaline to course through your body.

“Sorry,” he says apologetically. “Couldn’t sleep, so I was… catching up on work.”

The mirror image of a popular news site reflects through the glass picture frame behind the couch, exposing the tiny lie.

“Yeah, me neither,” you admit quietly. “Thought I’d sit out here for a while and see if that helps, but… sorry, I’ll leave you to it.” You make to turn back, to retreat to the room again, but Marcus speaks softly behind you.

“Come sit,” he says. “I don’t mind.”

Breath caught somewhere in your throat, you hesitantly sink down on the couch beside him. Marcus closes his laptop and sets it down on the coffee table, and the silence stretches out between you.

“So, are you liking DC so far?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you answer eagerly. “I’m having a great time. I’ll… I’ll be sad to leave,” you admit. “Is that weird?”

“It’s weird if you’re talking about missing the Washington Monument,” Marcus teases. “Or the traffic.”

“I’m talking about the metro, obviously,” you joke. “The rest of the country could stand for some public transit options.”

“I’m not sure they should be taking their cues from DC,” he chuckles.

“Pssh, I like it.”

“The novelty wears off, believe me.”

You lapse into silence again. You’re sitting close enough to Marcus that you can feel the warmth from his skin, even though you aren’t touching. You want to sink into him, to have him envelop you, consume you.

You feel yourself unconsciously shifting closer to him.

Is it just your imagination, or did Marcus subtly lean closer to you?

The pull is inevitable; your eyes flick up to his, and you can almost feel the point of no return pass the two of you by.

You lick your lips, and his breath catches in his throat.

“I wasn’t talking about the metro,” you say breathlessly.

“I know.”

And suddenly, his lips are on yours.

It’s not fast, not rushed or frantic; he doesn’t surge forward to take you. It’s simply that the two of you are close enough that at one moment, Marcus Pike is not kissing you, and then the next moment, he is.

As with everything this man does, the kiss is soft and tender. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, and he gently tits his head as his lips move against yours. His mouth opens ever so slightly, and you feel a wave of pure want rush through you at the light flick of his tongue against your lower lip.

You make a ragged sound in your chest as your lips part for him, and your tongues slide against each other for far too short of a time before Marcus pulls back, suddenly, his eyes full of worry.

“Oh, shit,” he murmurs. “Shit, we… we shouldn’t.”

This time, you kiss him back. The neck of his soft t-shirt crumples in your fist as you pull him closer, opening your mouth to him, and his protests die at the feel of your lips on his. Instead, it seems to light a fire within him; one hand curls around the back of your neck and the other grips your hip and you gasp softly into his mouth at the feel of his hands on your body.

Marcus breaks the kiss again, but instead of pulling back to give you more reasons why you can’t, this time he kisses a path across your cheek and down your neck. You’ve imagined the way his light beard would feel against your skin so many times over the last couple of days, but nothing compares to the reality of having him gently scrape his teeth against your neck as you arch your back to him.

“Fuck,” Marcus whispers. “So sweet, honey.”

You whimper at the term of endearment as Marcus gently starts to shift positions, turning and guiding you down onto the couch, just as you’d imagined.

Now that you’re horizontal, the kisses that started out tender and sweet start to grow more and more lascivious. You can feel the weight of him between your legs and his hot length pressing against you, his hips rocking slightly as he lazily explores you with his hands and his mouth.

One hand creeps up your inner thigh and slips under your thin sleep shorts and underwear, gently grazing your folds and feeling the obscene amount of slick that’s already gathered there.

“Shit,” Marcus hisses softly, reverently. “You’re so wet. How are you so wet?”

“You,” you answer earnestly, staring up at him with wide eyes.

He laughs breathlessly in response, his eyes raking up and down your body, taking in your nipples peeking through the threadbare material of your tank top. His finger explores deeper, slipping inside your tight channel and immediately finding… something… that makes you gasp raggedly.

“So responsive,” he murmurs playfully. “I’ve barely touched you.” He starts to slowly pump his finger in and out, his thumb pressing on your clit as he rubs against that little spot inside of you every time, and all you can do is squeeze your eyes shut and cling to him as this one little movement threatens to take you apart.

“Honey,” he whispers disbelievingly as he feels you start to tighten around him. “Already?”

“I–”

Whatever you had been about to say dies on your lips as you suddenly fall over the edge, shaking as the pleasure overtakes you. Marcus soothes you through it, whispering in your ear as you come down from your high.

“Wow,” you murmur. “Holy shit, that was amazing.”

Marcus pulls back and gives you a funny look. “What’s going on?” he asks, frowning slightly.

“Heh–you’re going to laugh,” you say, giving him an awkward grimace.

He raises his eyebrow, waiting for you to continue.

“I’ve–kind of never done this before,” you admit, pressing your lips together sheepishly.

“Oh shit,” Marcus breathes, sitting up fully as his eyes frantically sweep over you. “Oh, honey–no. I can’t–we can’t do this.”

“Why?” you ask, wincing internally at how whiny it comes out.

“It can’t–it shouldn’t be me,” he says softly. “That’s more than I deserve to take.”

“You’re not taking anything,” you protest. “I–I want it to be you.”

Marcus shakes his head again, but you can see the cracks in his resolve, the way his eyes are searching you, devouring you with his gaze.

“I don’t want it to be some boy at a frat party back home,” you tell him. “I want you. I want it to feel good. Please?”

Marcus’s expression is inscrutable as his eyes rake over your form, disheveled and sated, underneath him. Your heart sinks when he stands up, shame sinking down into the pit of your stomach, but then he extends his hand to you, and you look up at him, questioning.

“I’m not going to let your first time be a quick fuck on my couch,” he says quietly and resolute. “If we’re going to do this, we’re going to bed.”

Wordlessly, you accept his hand and allow him to pull you to your feet. You wobble slightly, still shaky from the orgasm, and Marcus draws you into his side, steadying you. He guides you forward, keeping you close as the two of you walk to his bedroom.

Despite the fact that you were more than ready to let this man take you right there on the couch, the change in venue has your heart hammering in your chest. Now, it feels real. It feels intentional.

“C’mere, beautiful,” Marcus murmurs when he feels your steps falter. His hand slides up your arm and across your shoulder until it curls gently around your neck, causing goosebumps to rise to the surface of your skin. He presses a couple of soft, chaste kisses across your opposite shoulder, and your lips part of their own accord.

“I need you to tell me if you don’t want to do this,” he says softly in your ear.

“I want–”

“I know, I know,” Marcus interrupts. “I want you to tell me if that changes.”

He gently guides you onto his bed, one hand on the small of your back to keep you from going too fast.

“I wanna know what you like,” he murmurs as he hovers over you again, his hand coming up underneath the thin material of your top. “I wanna know what you don’t like.”

“I–I don’t really know–”

“I know,” Marcus grins wolfishly, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “That’s the idea.”

He starts to push the material of your shirt up, up, up, until your nipples are pebbling in the cool air of his bedroom. He gently pulls it over your head and casts it aside, looking down at you with undisguised hunger. He trails the backs of his fingers down the side of one breast and underneath. “I get to find out what you like,” he says. He circles one areola with the tip of his finger, making you shiver. “And I get to be the first to do it.”

He gently drags the pad of his finger across the little bud of your nipple, and you gasp for him as if you’d hit a live wire.

“I’m gonna take a guess and say you liked that,” he teases.

“Marcus,” you whine.

“Shh,” he whispers again, just before his mouth engulfs your nipple. Your hand darts out unconsciously, tangling in the hair on the back of Marcus’s neck as you squirm under his hot tongue. You can’t tell whether you want to pull away or push toward him, but in reality all you do is whine and take what he gives you. He switches to the other one; lathing and flicking his tongue and pressing down until you whimper.

“So… fucking… responsive,” Marcus murmurs in between kisses as he starts to mouth his way down your belly to the band of your sleep shorts. His fingers dip underneath, poised to pull them down over your hips, but he waits–eyes flicking up to yours to gauge your reaction.

“Can I taste you?” he asks quietly.

“I-If you want,” you laugh shakily.

“If I want?” he parrots disbelievingly. “You’re saying that like it’s not a given–like I haven’t been thinking of burying my tongue in that sweet little pussy all night. If I want,” he chuckles to himself again, slowly dragging your shorts and underwear down your legs. “I need to taste you. I need to feel you fall apart on my tongue. The first one was kind of a surprise, and all I want is to feel you shaking again.”

You’re bare before him, but you don’t have any time to be self-conscious, because Marcus is laying back down on the bed, his face inches away from your pussy. He gently guides your legs over his shoulders before lowering his mouth to you.

You aren’t sure who groans louder at the first touch of his tongue through your folds.

Marcus makes a pained noise in his throat before murmuring, “So sweet, honey–fuck, you’re so sweet.”

His tongue is delicate, but precise; he flicks it back and forth against your clit, then dips down to lap at your entrance until you’re trembling for him. He’s tireless and patient, cataloging every whimper and moan he pulls from you as the pleasure slowly builds inside of you. In no time at all, you’re dangling on the precipice, your hips locking into place as you start to reach the point of no return.

“I–I–” you stammer, trying to warn him.

Marcus hums enthusiastically in agreement, concentrating his efforts on your clit until you fall apart with a gasp.

He groans again, licking you through each little aftershock of pleasure until you’re boneless.

“You squeeze me so hard,” he croons. “Can you feel that? You’re so tight around my tongue.”

“Shit…” you murmur. You’re too fucked-out to say anything else.

“Gonna have to open you up a bit with my fingers,” he says softly. “So I don’t hurt you.”

You look up at him with half-lidded eyes. He’s still clothed–wearing sweatpants and a shirt, while you’re completely naked, and you frown slightly at the disparity.

“Everything okay?” Marcus asks, seeing your expression.

“Can–Can I see you? You’re so… clothed,” you say with a little pout.

He laughs, smiling widely so that the corners of his eyes crinkle, and your heart soars.

“Of course,” he agrees, stripping off his shirt. “Of course.”

You raise up on one elbow, gazing up at Marcus’s broad chest, the light smattering of hair, and the soft swell of his belly. You can’t help but reach up and touch him, pressing your palm to his sternum and trailing down, tracing the little path of hair until it disappears under the band of his sweatpants. Your fingers curl underneath the band, looking up at him with wide eyes.

“These, too?” he asks with a teasing chuckle, smiling wider when you nod eagerly.

His cock bobs free as he pushes his pants down his hips, and your eyes widen at the sight of him, thick and hard and heavy with want. Curiously, you wrap your hand around him, and you’re rewarded with a little ‘hnnngg’ of pleasure and surprise as you touch him.

You gently trace the little ridges on his shaft, traveling up to the flushed, purple head, where the skin is even softer, and back down again.

“F-Fuck,” Marcus muttters. “Can’t do that too much, honey, or I’m gonna lose it before we even get started.”

“I like it,” you say with a little giggle. “I never realized they were so… soft.”

Marcus makes a broken, choked sound. “Jesus. You’re gonna be the death of me.”

He falls onto one elbow, giving you a messy, passionate kiss before sucking his fingers into his mouth and gently sinking one finger into you again. His lips stay close to yours, noses almost touching, his eyes watching your face intently as he slowly opens you up. His fingers are so thick, and just like before, he seems to know exactly where to press up inside you to make the pleasure spark inside of you. He adds a second finger, and you whimper–you're already so full.

"Little bit more," Marcus murmurs. "Doing so well for me–fuck–so tight."

He gently starts to slide a third into you, the heel of his hand pressing against your clit to offer some relief.

“Is it greedy if I say I want you to cum for me again?” he asks softly. “I want to feel it again. Can you do that for me?”

You nod dazedly–wanting to do anything, everything this man asks as long as he keeps making you feel like this.

His fingers press up against your walls again, and you sob loudly into the room.

Marcus immediately muffles the sound with a kiss, swallowing your whimpers and cries in an attempt to keep the sound from carrying across the apartment.

“Gotta stay quiet for me,” he whispers against your lips.

“S-Sorry.”

“No, shh, don’t be sorry,” he murmurs. “I wish you could be loud. Wish I could make you scream for me. Just–fuck, honey, you’re right there, aren’t you? I can feel you squeezing me–fuck, you get so wet. Give me one more. One more, and I’ll give you my cock. That’s it, that’s–yes–”

Marcus breaks off on a groan as you clamp down on his fingers. It’s so much, you’re so full, and you buck against his hand, your lower back rising up off of the bed as he pulls it from you.

You slump back down, breathing heavily, as he carefully withdraws his fingers.

“Hey,” he says quietly, trying to get your attention. “Hey, I should have asked this sooner, but–are you on birth control? Do you want me to use a condom?”

“I-I’m on the pill,” you tell him. “If you… you know, if you didn’t want to. That would be–I’d like that.”

“That’s perfect,” he whispers, giving you a tender kiss. “I’d like that, too.” He pauses, and mutters a soft curse under his breath. “I wish I had some lube,” he remarks. “Just to be sure I don’t hurt you.”

You watch as he spits on his cock and takes himself in hand.

“This will have to do, though,” he says as he slicks it over his cock and crawls over you. “And I’ll just go slow.”

He cups the back of your neck with one hand as he lines himself up with the other. His lips are inches from yours, but he doesn’t lean down to kiss you–no, he seems to want to watch your reaction as the tip of his cock notches at your entrance.

“Don’t want to hurt you,” he whispers again.

“You could never hurt me,” you say confidently, and you watch as his lips part in surprise. “Marcus–” you add, as you shift your hips impatiently. “–just do it.”

Your eyes widen as you feel him push into you, his girth splitting you open. It can’t be much bigger than three of his thick fingers, but still, it just feels like more. It’s longer, certainly; he keeps pushing in, and even when you’re sure he’s reached the end, there’s still more.

“Oh wow,” you hear yourself murmuring again and again. “Oh, Marcus.”

“I know,” he returns, kissing your cheekbone, your forehead, your nose, and then finally, your lips. “I know, honey.”

He starts to rock his hips, slowly undulating them, letting his cock drag back and forth against your walls. It feels incredible–you never imagined how fucking good this would feel–and you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that it’s because it’s him. It’s Marcus–a man you’ve admittedly only known for a few days, but you feel as though you know him already–and you trust him completely.

“Does it hurt at all?” he rumbles softly in your ear.

“No,” you answer emphatically. “It feels–holy shit.”

Marcus laughs breathlessly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Can–can we do this again?”

He chuckles. “We’re currently doing this.”

“I already want it again.”

He starts to go a little harder, his thrusts a little deeper. His hand grips your hip for leverage, the other still cradling the back of your neck. He kisses you, a deep, messy, passionate thing, before burying his face in the crook of your neck and sucking a gentle mark into your skin.

“Feels so good,” he murmurs. “I’m not gonna last, not when you feel like this.”

“Like how?” you ask, smiling widely.

“So fucking tight,” Marcus groans. “And wet, and hot, and–” he brings his thumb to your clit and starts to rub little circles around it. “I need you to cum again,” he says. “Fuck, you–you feel too good, honey, I’m not gonna last.”

“I—I don’t know if I can,” you murmur.

“Please,” he says, a hint of desperation in his tone. “Please, baby, you’ve gotta do this one last thing for me. Let me feel it, let me make you feel good. Let me–let me–”

Your mouth falls open as you feel it wash over you. This is better than anything you’ve ever felt before, any relief you’ve been able to seek with your fingers–the drag of his cock along your walls only serves to prolong your pleasure, making each little aftershock feel like a new wave of pleasure.

“Oh, fuck,” Marcus groans. “Fuck.” He buries his face in the crook of your neck as he shoves his hips into you one more time, emptying himself within you with a deep groan.

The aftermath is quiet. After gently, tenderly cleaning you up with a damp cloth, Marcus collapses on the pillows and pulls you to him, wrapping his arms around you as you settle with your head resting on his shoulder.

“Was this a bad idea?” you ask quietly as you trace little shapes on his chest.

Marcus huffs a laugh. “Probably,” he answers.

“I don’t care,” you say resolutely, causing his hold on you to tighten. “...Do you regret it?” you ask, feeling unsure of yourself again.

“No,” Marcus says immediately. “No. I was drawn to you from the beginning. I’m sorry, I–I should have tried harder to prevent this, but…”

“I felt it, too,” you murmur. “Maybe we weren’t meant to prevent it.”

The two of you bask in the afterglow, reveling in the feel of your bodies pressed together. You can’t help but think of how tender, how loving he is–not just with you, but with Emma.

“Can I ask a personal question?” you ask, breaking the silence.

Marcus shrugs. “Sure.”

“This is probably weird to be thinking about right now, but… why does Emma’s mom not want you around?”

Marcus sighs, his lips pressing into your forehead–not really a kiss, just a caress of your hairline with his mouth.

“That story doesn’t exactly paint me in the best light.”

“I want to know. I just… don’t understand.”

“What don’t you understand?” he asks.

“You’re… you’re such a good dad–a good man. I don’t understand how her mom wanted nothing to do with you. I just don’t get it.”

Marcus nods, pressing his lips together. “I wasn’t always a good man,” he says quietly. “I tried to do the best I could for the both of them–for Emma and her mom–but I’m afraid I fell very short, in the beginning.”

“What happened?”

“We were in college when we found out she was pregnant,” Marcus says with a sigh. “She was nineteen, I was almost twenty-one. We hadn’t been together long; maybe a couple of months. She was terrified, of course–and so was I, but never told her that. I asked her to marry me because I thought it was the right thing to do.”

“Did you love her?”

“I cared for her, very much so. And even if we weren’t quite right for each other, knowing–” Marcus swallows thickly, “–knowing our child, my child, was growing inside of her made me feel deeply connected. If you had asked me at twenty-one, I would have sworn up and down that I was in love.”

“But not now?”

Marcus huffs softly. “I know a little better, now.”

“What happened?” you ask, tracing the line of his collarbone with the tip of your finger. “What did you do?”

“Well, the first thing I did was drop out of art school,” he says with a little laugh. “Didn’t think it would pay the bills, especially not with a wife and a baby.”

“You were an artist?” you ask, surprised.

“Wanted to be,” he chuckled. “At least at that time. So instead, I applied for the FBI. Joined the Art Crimes division. And shortly after I completed training… Emma was born.” His eyes are far away, a small smile on his face as he remembers. “And she was perfect. And I remember thinking, all the struggling, all the hardship, all the times Denise and I didn’t get along… it would be worth it, in the end. No matter what happened; because I had her.”

You swallow past the lump in your throat. “What went wrong?”

“Nothing in particular, at first. We struggled to make ends meet. We were two young parents with no idea what we were doing, and even though I might have known deep down that we weren’t right for each other, I just wanted it to go right. I wanted us to be happy, but in the end we were just too different. We didn’t work–and while I might have been blind to it at the time, Denise wasn’t. When Emma was barely even two, she filed for divorce, and I–” he sighs heavily again. “I went a little off the rails.”

You tilt your head and look up at Marcus. His eyes are stormy, and you can see the remorse etched into the lines of his face. You don’t ask how, you just wait patiently for him to continue.

“I didn’t want to be divorced at twenty-three. This wasn’t–it wasn’t the life I had expected for myself, not what I would have chosen, but because I had Emma, I didn’t want anything else. I always knew I would want a family, and so what if it happened… a little out of order?”

“What did you do?” you whispered.

“I tried to convince her to change her mind. She took Emma and went to live with her parents, and I’d call them every day, asking to talk to her. I wanted to persuade her–I thought that if she could just see that we had plenty of time, we could raise Emma and be good parents and still… still have time for whatever we wanted. That we could still build lives.

“When she never returned my calls, I started stopping by,” he confesses, his voice even quieter. “They’d always tell me she was out, so I started showing up at odd hours, trying to… trying to just catch her one time–I thought if I explained that she could do whatever she wanted, as long as we could just stay together and raise Emma, she’d agree. But the more I tried to contact her, the more she pulled away, and rightly so, honestly. I was badgering her. I tried to justify it at the time, said I was doing it all for Emma, but I, uh… It took me until much later to admit I was actually doing it for me. I was so scared of being a failure, and scared to be alone.

“Anyway, the court didn’t look very kindly on what looked to everyone involved like stalking behavior, and Denise was afforded full custody.”

“M-Marcus,” you murmur, unable to help the water gathering at the corners of your eyes.

“Broke my heart,” he whispers, his voice full of emotion. “And I was angry about it for a while, but when it comes down to it, I was just angry with myself. It was my actions that lost me my daughter, and… well, I’ve had twenty years to come to terms with that, now.”

“How did you finally… come to face all of that?” you ask quietly.

“Therapy,” Marcus says with a genuine laugh. “And that is another story for another time.”

“God, what else happened to you?”

“Nothing,” he chuckles, “just another relationship that I fought way too hard for.” He playfully runs his finger down the bridge of your nose before tilting your chin upward for a soft kiss. “And you,” he murmurs, “need to go back to bed.”

Your emotions still running on high alert after Marcus’s emotional confession of his past, you surge forward and throw your arms around his neck.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

“I’m okay,” he promises. “It was a long time ago.”

“You should tell Emma,” you say softly. “She never knew why her mom didn’t want you around.”

“Not really something you want to tell your daughter,” he says with a sad smile. “That you basically stalked her mom.”

“She’s grown up. She’s older than her mom was when–”

“Believe me, I know,” Marcus groans. “Don’t remind me; it makes this feel very… wrong.” He gestured between the two of you.

“Just trust me,” you murmur. “She’d want to know.” With herculean effort, you extricate yourself from his arms, grab your clothes, and redress. Feeling unsure in the way the conversation ended, you tell yourself not to turn around again when your hand lands on the doorknob.

“Honey,” Marcus calls out softly from the bed. “Good night.”

“Good night,” you whisper back, and then you’re gone.

“Where are you two off to, today?” Marcus asks conversationally over coffee. He’s made it stronger than usual today, and it makes warmth pool deep in your stomach at the reminder of your very sleepless night last night. You’re grateful for the extra boost of caffeine as well, of course–the morning seemed to come far too early after being up half of the night. Sleep had still been hard to come by when you finally returned to the guest room, after all; the conversation about Marcus’s past was still swirling around in your head, and every time you closed your eyes, you could still feel his hands on you.

You never knew it could feel like this, never knew how good it could be with someone who really knew what they were doing. Someone so giving, so gentle and yet so ruthless in pursuing your pleasure. Someone brimming with passion, capable of both the softest prase and the most depraved filth in the same sentence.

If you had thought your thirst would be sated after finally getting what you’d fantasized about and more, you were a fool. The flame burns hotter than ever this morning, and the sight of Marcus in a suit with not a hair out of place only makes you think about how he had looked between your legs last night–that devilish smirk as he teased about wanting to taste you.

You wonder if you’ll ever see him that way again, or if last night was a fluke.

Had he noticed when your fingers had trembled around the coffee cup he handed you?

He had given you a soft, tender stare when you had first entered the kitchen, but that’s the only evidence you can find so far that Marcus is even half as affected as you feel. You can still feel him this morning, a subtle ache between your legs when you sit down, and you wish you could see some outward sign on him that this actually happened.

“Not really sure,” Emma answers Marcus’s question. “Kind of ran out of stuff to see.”

“Impossible,” Marcus chuckles. “Well, you can hang out here if you want, or if you're really looking for a distraction, you can come to the office with me.”

“The fucking FBI office?” Emma asks. “Are we allowed?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t you be?” Marcus shrugs. “Plus, I might be able to set up some time for you to talk to someone in Legal,” he says to you. “Are you still interested in that?”

“Oh wow,” you breathe. “Really?”

“‘Course,” he replies. “I said I would.”

You nod, smiling up at him beatifically. “I’d like that a lot.”

“Perfect,” he grins. “Well, if you’re coming, we’re going to need to leave soon. Are you almost ready?”

“I’m ready,” Emma announces, shouldering her bag.

“Yeah, me too.”

Marcus winks at you, and you try not to let yourself react to it.

“Let’s go, then.”

You had assumed that you’d spend most of your day at the FBI holed up in Marcus’s office, doing nothing. You had imagined that, out of necessity, you’d be barred from attending any meetings or hearing about his department’s day-to-day activities, but when you arrive, his team seems enthusiastic to have you and Emma there. Much to your surprise, they even let the two of you sit in the back of the room while Marcus conducts a briefing.

You listen, enthralled, as he discusses a recent forgery case that the team is working on. His demeanor, as it is at home, is good-natured and easygoing. He’s easy to smile, and engaging when he talks, and as a result, he utterly commands the room. His style of quiet, unassuming authority has you subtly squirming in your chair. Even though you have no idea what’s being discussed, you can tell simply by listening to his cadence of speech that he’s incredibly knowledgeable, and fucking good at his job. It’s clear he loves the work–and when you think back to the night before and his whispered confession that he had once dreamed of being an artist, you find yourself beaming with happiness that he’s clearly found something he loves to do.

“People change.”

You suddenly recall his words the very first night you were there–his assurance that it didn’t matter that you had no idea what you wanted to do at your age, because there’s no promise that you’ll still want the same things in ten years. After last night, you realize that he was talking about himself in that moment.

You hope he’s happy and fulfilled.

He deserves it.

You watch him wrap up the meeting–delegating work to each member of the team and asking for updates–and every so often, as his eyes sweep around the room, they always seem to land on you.

As he promised, Marcus introduces you to Kimberley Alexander, the lawyer that his department works with most of the time. You’re nervous at first–you aren’t sure what you’re going to talk about, but you end up staying in her office through lunch, spending almost an hour and a half longer than you had intended, talking about potential jobs with the FBI.

Not because you suddenly have the desire to return to Washington, DC as soon as you can, nope. It does interest you–quite a bit, actually–but you can’t pretend that you aren’t excited at the prospect of living in the same city as Marcus. Would he want to see you again? Is he really interested in you, or is it just the forced proximity–because you’re convenient and available? If you had your own life here, would he be interested in a place in it?

When you find Emma and her dad again, they’ve clearly just come back from lunch. Emma thrusts a container into your hands, which you discover, with an exaggerated moan of satisfaction, is pad Thai.

“Must have been a good talk,” Marcus remarks.

“Yeah, you were there for two hours,” Emma adds.

“It was good,” you nod. “Talked about, y’know, internships and stuff.”

“You wanna live here?” Emma asks, looking surprised and curious.

You try to shrug noncommittally. “Sure,” you say lightly. “It’s as good a place as any, and it would be kind of fun to work for the FBI, right?”

“I’m afraid I can’t give you an unbiased answer to that,” Marcus says with a wry smile, “but I think you’d be a great fit.”

Your heart swells at his words. “Really?”

“Absolutely,” he says earnestly. “And I hate to do this, but I’ve gotta run to do a witness interview, and you guys have to stay behind this time.”

You watch as Marcus gives Emma a quick kiss on the forehead, and your eyebrows raise in surprise at the action. They’ve gotten more comfortable around each other in the time you’ve been here, but neither of them had seemed to be very comfortable with physical affection. Marcus, for his part, is always so hesitant–wanting to reach out, but seemingly afraid that he doesn’t deserve it, or worse, that it won’t be received well. You still remember the first day you saw him–when his hand twitched toward his daughter, seemingly desperate to wrap her in a hug, but he hadn’t allowed himself to do it.

What changed?

Marcus glances at you, and gives you a slightly awkward, stiff nod before leaving for his meeting.

You busy yourself with eating lunch, digging into the container they brought you.

“Tomorrow’s the last day, huh?” Emma says conversationally.

You gulp. You’ve purposefully been putting the fact that your time here has an expiration date at the back corner of your mind. Whatever you have with Marcus, it’s temporary by its very nature, and you know it.

You just don’t really want to think about it right now.

“Yup,” you agree, mouth full of noodles.

“What do you wanna do? I’m kind of out of ideas.”

You shrug. “We could ask Marcus if there’s anything he recommends seeing that we haven’t already been to.”

“I think we should go as far out as the metro line goes,” Emma says.

“Why?”

She shrugs. “See where we end up.”

“Whatever you want,” you tell her. “Last day is up to you.”

“How’s the pad Thai?”

“Good,” you nod, mouth full. “What’d you get?”

“Calamari,” she answers. “Never had it, wanted to try it.”

“How was it?”

“Chewy.”

You laugh, taking another bite of noodles. “Think I’ll stick to my favorite.”

The two of you huddle together on the small, two-seater couch in Marcus’s office, watching YouTube videos and laughing together until he comes back near the end of the day.

Your eyes automatically brighten when you see him return, drinking in the sight of him–the crisp lines of his suit paired with the slightly unruly hair. You discovered last night how soft it is, and how much he loves it when you thread your fingers through it and tug gently.

He meets your eyes, but quickly drops his gaze, and you try not to sink in disappointment. Did it not mean as much to him as it did to you? Or is he just better at hiding it?

“You two hungry for dinner?” he asks, putting his stuff back in his messenger back and throwing it over his shoulder.

Emma groans loudly beside you. “Gonna be honest, I’m not really feeling dinner.”

“That was a lot of pad Thai,” you agree.

“Good,” Marcus says with a smile. “Me neither. Let’s go home and have a lazy night eating popcorn on the couch.”

The moment you arrive home, though, Emma makes a beeline for the bathroom.

“She okay?” Marcus asks you.

You grimace at the faint sounds of retching. “Doesn’t sound like it.”

When she emerges again, Marcus hands her a glass of water with a concerned expression. “Everything okay?”

“No,” she mutters pitifully.

“Was it the calamari?” you ask.

“Please don’t say that word ever again,” Emma groans, flopping down on the couch. “Fuck. Everything hurts.”

“What do you need?” Marcus asks, looking a little lost.

“Distraction,” she mumbles. “Long movie or something.”

Emma takes up the entire couch, so you and Marcus have to sit in opposite armchairs while you watch Lord of the Rings. It’s almost unbearable to you, being so close to him and yet not being able to touch, not being able to look at him for fear of giving everything away. If you two were to lock eyes, you know that you wouldn’t be able to hide your reaction to him. So much so that even Emma, who’s still alternating between running to the bathroom and collapsing on the couch, would have no choice but to notice.

The pull to him feels overwhelming; the only thing you can think of doing is crossing the living room and sinking into his arms. It makes you feel guilty–your best friend has food poisoning, Marucs is trying to help by refilling her water and encouraging her to drink, and here you are, with nothing to do but yearn for your best friend’s dad.

When the movie is over, it’s late; Marcus brushes Emma’s hair back from her forehead and suggests she go lie down. As she’s stumbling toward the guest room, Marcus touches you for the first time since last night–lightly wrapping his fingers around your wrist while Emma isn’t looking.

Your eyes meet, and he gives you a coal-black stare, trying to communicate without speaking. He nods subtly, and his meaning is easy to understand.

Come to me tonight.

You come to him in the dead of night. You lie awake, listening for Emma’s breathing to even out, and then waiting another thirty minutes after that, just to be safe.

It’s nearly midnight when you slip into Marcus’s bedroom, but he’s still awake; his lamp is on, and he’s reading a book.

Waiting for you.

The moment the door creaks open, Marcus casts the book aside without even marking his place, and rises to his feet. He strides forward and you meet him in the middle, a clash of mouths and hands as you come together desperately.

“Fuck,” he whispers against your lips. “All fucking day, all I could think about was this.”

“Me too,” you mumble hastily in between kisses.

“No idea how hard it was to concentrate on giving that meeting this morning,” he confesses, “with you in the corner looking at me with those eyes of yours.”

He grabs your top and pulls it over your head in one swift motion and ducks down to lathe his tongue against your nipple, making you arch against him.

“Ah!–Really?” you gasp. “I didn’t–you looked so… calm the whole day. Like it didn’t affect you the same way it affects me.”

“Doesn’t affect me?” Marcus repeats incredulously. “Honey, I am out of my mind with wanting you.” He pulls back, his palms cradling your cheeks as he stares at you with a disbelieving smile. “Do you not have any idea what you do to me?” he asks softly.

Stunned, you shake your head.

Marcus laughs breathlessly, as he reaches down to encircle your wrist with one large hand and brings your hand forward to press against the front of his pants, where you can feel him, hard and straining against the fabric. “You feel that?” he rasps. “Do you fucking feel what you do to me?”

He shoves your flimsy sleep shorts down your legs and all but tosses you onto the bed. He strips off his own shirt and follows you down. “I’ve been half-hard all day,” he confesses. “I had to fuck my own hand in the shower this morning and still,” he groans. “As soon as I picture your face as you fall apart for me, I’m done for.”

“You thought about that?”

“All fucking day,” Marcus promises.

“That all you thought about?” you ask, your voice turning coy as you gain more confidence.

He chuckles darkly. “Thought about a lot of things,” he murmurs.

“Such as…?”

“Just–all the ways I want to have you.”

“Show me,” you demand.

Marcus chuckles again. “Show you what, pretty girl?”

“All the ways that you want me.”

“That would take a lot more time than we currently have,” he says wryly.

“Then show me how you want me most,” you say.

“Let me get you ready first,” Marcus murmurs, starting to kiss a path down your body, intent on his destination.

“No.”

“Hmm?”

“I want it now,” you say frankly.

“Honey–” he protests softly.

“Consider the fact that I’ve done nothing but think about what happened last night and fantasize about what’s going to happen tonight foreplay,” you tell him. “I can’t–I can’t wait. I don’t want it to be slow. I need–I need—” you trail off, searching for how exactly to find the words for what it is that you need.

Marcus nods slowly, his eyes darkening as he watches you plead for him to take you now.

“You really want me to show you?” he asks quietly.

You nod.

“Then get on your hands and knees for me, honey.”

You comply with a shiver, your heart in your throat as you turn around and put yourself on display for him.

Marcus mutters a soft curse behind you as his palm strokes up the skin on the back of your thigh and up over the swell of your cheek.

You hear him spit in his hand, and you know he's coating himself in it behind you, easing his way in. He does it again, and this time you whimper softly as he cups you, transferring more wetness to your folds.

"Already so wet," he teases softly. "Tell me if it's too much."

He slides forward, sheathing himself in one fluid motion, and your elbows nearly buckle at the overwhelming feel of it.

Marcus doesn't wait for you to adjust, this time. He starts thrusting right away, his hands grasping your hips for leverage. He's pressing right on the spot that makes pleasure sing throughout your entire body. Once he's sure that his pace isn't too much for you, he starts giving it to you harder, snapping his hips into you over and over.

Last night was overwhelming in its own way, but this–this is devastating. You thought last night was the most pleasure you could ever feel, but you had no idea that this could wreck you so completely.

You're crying out with every thrust, each punishing snap of his hips punching little pathetic noises past your lips as you take what he needs to give you.

"Shhh," he reminds you. "Gotta stay quiet, honey."

You drop to your elbows, burying your face in the pillows to try and muffle the involuntary sounds, but you can tell it isn't enough.

"M-Marcus," you whimper frantically. "I can't."

"Do you want to stop?" he asks (making you shake your head rapidly), "Or do you want me to help you be quiet?"

You nod frantically, although you have no idea what he means. You'd do anything to keep feeling his cock like this.

Marcus’s hand wraps tightly around your mouth, quieting your cries and forcing you to breathe through your nose. Something about the action makes your pussy clench violently, and Marcus makes a quiet groan of pleasure above you.

He fucks you harder and faster, one hand sliding underneath you to rub tight circles over your clit.

"Cum for me," he rasps brokenly above you. “Fuck, please–”

The soft plea is enough to end you. You wail into Marcus’s hand as you come undone, and he tightens his grip, muffling the sound.

It doesn’t take long for him to follow–just a couple more minutes of brutal thrusts that have you whimpering into his hand, oversensitive from your orgasm. The minute he stills, his cock slips from you as he immediately collapses on the bed and pulls you into his arms. You’re both still breathing heavily, but he smooths the hair back from your forehead as he looks you over.

“Are you okay?” he asks softly. “That was a lot, I’m sorry.”

“‘Re you kidding?” you slur. “That was… amazing.”

Marcus laughs and pulls you close again. “I’m glad,” he whispers, and you can hear the smile in his words.

“Can I stay here for a little longer?” you ask. “Just a little.”

Marcus pulls back again and looks down at you with an amused smile. “It’s cute that you think I’m done with you, honey.”

Your eyes widen. “You’re not?”

“Mm-mm. Don’t think I’ll ever get tired of the way you look when you come undone,” he murmurs, tracing the tip of his index finger down the side of your cheek. “You didn’t think I’d be satisfied with just once tonight, did you?”

You giggle. “I guess not.”

He fixes you with a fiery look. “Do you trust me?” he asks quietly.

“...Yeah?”

He raises one eyebrow.

“Yes,” you answer, with more conviction this time. “Yes, I trust you.”

Marcus kisses you tenderly before sitting back on his heels beside you. His fingertips trail down your chest, over the peaks of your nipples, and down your stomach, as though he can’t get enough of the feel of your skin. One hand travels further down, stroking the soft patch of hair on your pubic bone before he slips one finger gently inside you.

You cringe slightly at the wet squelch of your combined release, but Marcus shushes you gently. “Love how wet you get,” he teases affectionately. “And I like knowing I’m there inside of you.”

You clench involuntarily at his words, your lips parting as you exhale shakily.

He chuckles. “You like that? You like knowing that I get off on the idea of you carrying a little piece of me with you?” he asks, as he starts to slowly fuck you with one finger.

“What if I told you that I was thinking about it during that meeting this morning?” he continues. “I kept wondering if there was still a little in there from last night, leaking into your underwear as I talked.”

“Shit,” you mumble. “Marcus.”

“Wanna fill you up again tonight,” he remarks casually. “So it’s still there when you’re walking around tomorrow.” He groans softly. “Fuck–Can I–Can I give you my number? I–I want you to text me. Tell me you can still feel me.”

“Oh my god,” you murmur. “Yes.”

“Good.” He adds a second finger and presses the heel of his hand against your clit, working you up to another orgasm exactly how he now knows gets you off quickly. When you start to clench around him, though, he doesn’t stop. He starts to rub quickly back and forth on that little spot inside of you until something else starts to build.

“M-Marcus,” you murmur. “W-Wait, I–something is–”

“Shhh.” He keeps going, rubbing harder and faster until he suddenly rips his fingers from you as you gush around them, soaking his hand and the bed.

“Oh! Shit,” you cry out, panicking. “What the f–”

“Fuck, yes,” Marcus groans, the sound coming deep from within his chest. “Oh, fuck, do that again.”

When he notices your expression of utter shock, though, he pauses, a slow smile of understanding spreading across his face.

“Honey,” he says soothingly. “Was that the first time?”

You stare up at him, mouth hanging open. “I… I kind of always thought that was a myth,” you admit, ducking your head in embarrassment.

“Oh, baby,” he breathes softly. “No, it’s definitely not.”

He lays down beside you again, gently tucking a wisp of stray hair behind one ear. “That was so good,” he praises softly. “So good to me.”

You smile shakily, but something is starting to nag at you.

“What’s wrong?” Marcus asks, noticing your hesitant expression.

“I just… feel really inexperienced,” you admit quietly. “You know all this stuff, and I–it must be tedious, having someone who doesn’t know what they’re doing, or–”

“No,” Marcus interrupts, his voice full of sincerity. “It’s not tedious at all. On the contrary,” he says with a little laugh, “the fact that I get to show you… that I’m the only one who can get you to do something you didn’t even know you could do–Well, shit,” he says with a crooked grin. He reaches down and palms his cock, which is hard and weeping again. “Look at what it does to me, huh?”

“Does that mean you’ll fuck me again?” you ask eagerly.

Marcus chuckles at your enthusiasm. “I did say I was going to fill you up one more time, didn’t I?”

When you wake up (in your bed, next to Emma, after sneaking back into your own room after Marcus was finally finished with you in the wee hours of the morning), your travel companion is decidedly not ready to go.

“I feel like I’ve been run over by a train,” she grumbles. “And my stomach is still in fucking knots.”

“We can just stay around the house,” you offer.

“I don’t want you to lay around being bored just because of me,” she protests, flopping down on the couch with a groan.

“Not feeling any better?” Marcus asks, coming into the living room.

“No,” Emma pouts. “I’m gonna stay here and rest.”

“What are you going to do?” he asks, looking over at you.

You shrug. “I don’t really know. Stay here too, probably.”

“How about this,” Marcus says carefully. “I’m supposed to be going to the National Gallery of Art today to give a little talk about forgery detection. If you wanted to come, we could… walk around the museum a bit, afterward?”

You try to keep your face neutral at the prospect of spending a day with Marcus. Alone.

“Sure,” you say, hoping it sounds nonchalant. “Could be fun.”

“Great,” he says lightly. “It’s a d–it’s a plan.”

It’s a date.

You’re giddy as you wave goodbye to Emma–who’s watching daytime TV and holding a bottle of Gatorade–and follow Marcus out of the door.

As soon as the door shuts, he rounds on you, taking your face in his hands and kissing you soundly. “So glad you said yes,” he says breathlessly.

“Why wouldn’t I say yes to that?” you tease. “Spending the day with you.”

“I don’t know,” Marcus murmurs playfully, capturing your lips again. “Good question.”

“Is this a date?” you ask coyly.

He pauses, lips parting in surprise. “Do you want it to be?”

Taking a big leap of faith, you nod.

Marcus’s expression softens, and he threads your fingers together. “Then it’s a date.”

After his talk–which you listen to with eager eyes and rapt attention–the two of you stroll slowly through the galleries, talking. Marcus occasionally stops, taking in the artwork, and tells you little tidbits of information about each piece. He seems to be using the quiet setting as an excuse to keep you as close as possible; his arm wraps around your waist as he leans down and talks quietly in your ear, making goosebumps rise on the back of your neck whenever he speaks. He seems to know the effect on you–you had no idea art could be described so sensually.

You lose the afternoon to each other; having lunch in a small cafe and then walking down the National Mall, hand in hand.

You pick up a sandwich for Emma, just in case she’s feeling better, on your way home. As you get closer and closer, every step starts to feel heavier and heavier. You never want this to end.

Just before you arrive at his building, Marcus stops and spins you around, cupping your cheek and pulling you to him for a soft kiss.

“Today was–” he starts, but breaks off, shaking his head.

“Yeah,” you agree.

“Listen, I don’t–I don’t know what your plans are after you leave tomorrow, but–”

“I don’t know.”

“Okay.”

You’re both dancing around something big–both of you afraid to say what you really mean, and you know it, but you can’t bring yourself to take the leap.

You had been hoping that Marcus would.

“It was nice,” you say lamely.

“It was,” he agrees softly.

Emma is looking a little less green when you arrive back home, and accepts the sandwich eagerly.

“Sorry about today,” she says, her mouth full. “I don’t know what the hell that was.”

“It was the cal–”

“Don’t fucking say it.”

At first, when you hear Emma start to fall asleep beside you, you're paralyzed. You want to go to Marcus. This is your last night; if you want to say goodbye, you need to go to him this one last time.

You just don't know if you can face goodbye.

You don't know if you can face him.

You aren't under any reservations about what this is. Marcus is a man, and you're nothing special. You're also nearly half his age. You gave him 'fuck me' eyes for three days, and he when he gave in to the temptation, you came willingly. But this was never meant to be a long-term arrangement.

It was never meant to be in the first place.

You just wish your first time hadn't been with the total package. Marcus is sweet, kind, attentive, and can apparently make you cum like it was a competitive sport. How are you supposed to go back home, back to being around boys your age, and expect them to measure up?

You debate staying in bed. It would be the easiest thing to do. You could begin tonight: stuffing your feelings down and burying them deep, never letting them see the light of day again. You were on spring break, and this was a fun romp. A fling. You could leave it there and never give Marcus the goodbye he probably deserves.

On the other hand…

What's the harm in delaying for one more night?

You slip into his room for the third time in three days, and carefully close the door behind you. Marcus is shirtless in bed, and he beckons you over with a crooked, affectionate smile.

"Fancy seeing you here, beautiful," he says, drawing the covers back with a playful raise of his eyebrow.

Despite your heavy mood, you can't help but grin back and enthusiastically hop into bed beside him.

He takes advantage immediately, grabbing you and turning you, and pulling you back against his chest with a playful growl. You're caged tightly in his arms, and there's nowhere you'd rather be.

"This is nice," you hum contentedly.

"Oh yeah? This all you want? Just a little cuddle?" Marcus teases, nipping gently at your shoulder.

"What if it was?" You wiggle your hips playfully against his hardening cock.

"If that was all you wanted? Then I'd think really hard about dead puppies and my childhood neighbor Mrs. Fitzwilliam in order to calm myself down a little," he answers.

"Mrs. Fitzwilliam?" you laugh. "Why?"

"When I was a little boy, I was convinced she was a witch. I couldn't so much as talk to her for years."

"Stop it, no you did not."

"I wouldn't joke about that," he laughs. "I was really scared of her!"

"Do me a favor and don't think about her," you tease. "I like how it feels against me."

"Would feel better somewhere else," Marcus says darkly.

"Have somewhere in mind, do you?"

"I've had it on my mind all day," he says softly.

"Show me," you murmur. "Show me what's been on your mind all day."

"Wanna know what I was picturing while I was giving that little forgery talk?" Marcus asks.

"Obviously."

"Then sit up, pretty girl."

He loosens his hold on you and you sit up, unable to keep the grin off your face. He sits up too, gently taking hold of the hem of your shirt and drawing it up over your head. He hooks his thumbs under the waistband of your shorts.

"Help me out with these," he commands quietly.

You shimmy them down your hips and kick them off, still kneeling before him, now completely bare. Marcus sits back on the headboard and pats his thigh suggestively, giving you a wicked smile.

"C'mere."

You giggle and bite your lip nervously as you crawl forward and straddle him.

"Wanna see you just like this," he murmurs.

"I–I've never–"

"I know," he interrupts with a wry smile. "I've got you. Just wanna see you like this," he confesses, palming your jaw and rubbing his thumb across your cheekbone.

Your eyes start to flutter shut as you feel the tip of him breach you as you sink slowly down.

"Eyes on me, honey."

With a shaky breath, you open them again, holding Marcus's intense gaze as you impale yourself on his cock. Your lips part, eyebrows pinching together at the stretch of him–you don't think you'll ever get used to the feeling of being broken open for the first time.

"That's it," he whispers. "Just like that."

You slowly rock your hips, rising up and sinking back down again. You feel so full like this; your lips part and a breathy gasp escapes you as you feel the drag of Marcus’s cock inside of you.

This is the first time you've chased your own pleasure with him like this; Marcus's eyes rake over your form greedily and as you ride him, you start to feel overly conscious of his scrutiny.

"Do I look okay?" you ask shyly.

Marcus makes a disbelieving noise and surges up, his hands starting to guide the movement of your hips as he kisses you messing, trailing from your mouth to your neck as he flexes up into you.

"Are you kidding?" he asks softly. "You're ethereal. A fucking goddess in my bed. And if you're thinking about that, I'm not fucking you right."

"That's a lie," you say with a lazy smile. "You're very thorough."

"Oh yeah? You like how I fuck you?"

"Mmmhmm," you hum. "Liked what you were doing last night."

Marcus chuckles deep in his throat. "Is that so? Cum for me like this, honey, and I'll put you on your knees again."

When his thumb presses into your clit, rubbing in small circles, it doesn't take you long to start to feel the pleasure growing in your core. You start moving faster, bouncing on his cock, no longer caring if your body is jiggling too much or that your face might look silly contorted with pleasure; all you can think about is chasing that feeling that’s building inside of you. Marcus helps you along, thrusting up into you, and you swear he must get deep enough to feel the very end of you.

He whispers little praises and encouragements in your ear in that deep, raspy way his voice gets when he’s drunk on pleasure. You can recognize all his little foibles, now–the way he wiggles his wrist back and forth when something’s on his mind, the way he talks with his hands when he’s passionate about a subject, and the way he sounds when he comes undone.

You’re going to carry all of those things with you, now–the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles, the way he raises one eyebrow when he’s being playful, and the way he sometimes mouths along to the words of his favorite old movies.

Is it possible to miss someone so completely after just one week?

You’re so deep in your emotions when you cum, you barely even realize that you’re about to until you’re clenching hard around him, grinding down on his cock as he works you through it, guiding your hips with his fingers pressing hard into your skin.

You’re still in a daze as Marcus flips you over, depositing you on your back and then turning you over onto your stomach on the bed. Rather than pull you up to your knees like the night before, he straddles you like this and sinks back into you, draping himself over your back as he starts to really fuck you.

Oh. This might be your favorite position yet–it’s the same angle as it was last night with the added bonus of getting to feel the weight of this man pressing down on you. His chest is against your back, his ragged breaths in your ear. His elbows cage your face and he entangles your fingers together over your head. It’s a sensory overload in nearly every way, and you’re drowning in the feel of him.

It’s so good that you feel your core start to tighten again.

“So soon?” Marcus teases breathlessly in your ear. “Fuck, I can feel you shaking. How are you so fucking perfect, hmm? You always feel like you were made to take me.”

His words inexplicably cause a lump to build in your throat. Made to take him, but this couldn’t, by definition, last. The statement only makes you wish that your compatibility didn’t have to be so fucking temporary.

You’re teetering on a precipice–on the verge of both an orgasm and inexplicable tears. When Marcus gently brushes the shell of your ear with his lips and murmurs one last, soft sentence, you finally succumb to both.

“You can let go, honey. I’ve got you.”

You convulse with a wet sob, pleasure and sorrow overtaking you simultaneously. Blessedly, with your face buried in the pillow, Marcus doesn’t notice yet; he starts fucking into you with abandon until he lets go with a deep groan in your ear.

When he finally stills, and he starts peppering kisses across your shoulder blade, you can feel him stiffen when he realizes that, mortifyingly, there are tears on your cheeks.

“Shit,” Marcus breathes. He carefully slips out of you and turns you over underneath him, quickly brushing the tears at the corners of your eyes. He kisses them away, whispering softly to you.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks frantically. “Honey, look at me.”

“No!” you exclaim emphatically. “No, I–I don’t know why I’m doing this.”

“Talk to me,” he demands softly.

“I don’t–I don’t want to go home,” you whisper. “I don’t want this to end.”

“Oh, honey,” Marcus whispers. “Really?”

“Sorry,” you mumble. “I’m sure this is exactly what you’re looking for–for some girl to get attached to you after one whole week of knowing you…”

Marcus smiles and brushes his thumb against your cheekbone. “Attached to me?”

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” you say. “You’re just really nice, and you’re gorgeous, and you’ve been so good to me–”

“Don’t cry,” he whispers. “Please don’t cry.”

"Sorry," you say again.

"Hey," he says softly, still stroking your cheek. "You know something? You're wrong. You're not 'some girl.' You're sweet, and funny, and cute, and maybe having this girl right here be attached to me after one whole week of knowing me is exactly what I'm looking for."

"What are you suggesting?" you ask bluntly.

“All I’m suggesting is that we stay in touch,” Marcus answers. “No pressure, no expectations. We talk, and we get to know each other better, and when you graduate, Miss Pre-Law,” he teases, lightly touching the tip of your nose, “if you still feel the same way, come back to me. Go to Law School at Georgetown. Get an internship at the FBI. And whatever it is that you do, I know of a place you can stay.”

"You'd really want that?" you ask, a slow smile starting to spread across your face.

"I'd be a fool not to grab onto this with both hands," he murmurs, stroking his hand down your side. "A damn fool."

"What about Emma?"

Marcus pauses, biting his lip. "She's a grown woman," he says carefully, "and I haven't had much of a place in her life growing up. I would hope that… once we see where this goes–if it goes anywhere–she'd understand."

You nod slowly. "Okay."

"I've rushed into things in the past," he says softly. "More than once. But I'm not in any rush right now. I want to take my time, get to know you, and if you're still looking at me the way you're looking at me right now in a year, I'll consider myself a lucky man."

Your smile is brilliant. "I'd like that."

"I'd like that, too. And that means tomorrow isn't goodbye, anymore."

"No?"

"Nope," Marcus says with a grin. "Just 'see you later.'"

"Can I still get a goodbye kiss?" you ask.

He shakes his head playfully, but his lips descend to meet yours anyway.

"Not a goodbye kiss," he teased.

"A 'see you later' kiss," you correct.

"A 'you are so goddamn beautiful that I can't help to kiss you' kiss."

"You're making this too complicated."

"An 'I'll call it whatever I damn well please' kiss."

"An 'everything's gonna be alright' kiss?" you ask hopefully.

Marcus smiles and kisses you long and deep. "Especially that."

– – – – –

One year later…

“May I present: the graduating class of 2024.”

Along with Emma and the rest of the seniors in the auditorium, you throw your mortar-board hat into the air, shrieking happily as someone else’s crashes down on your head, instead.

“Fucking finally!” Emma shouts beside you, and you grin widely.

The last year has been a whirlwind for the both of you, and you know it.

After reconnecting with her dad, Emma made an effort not to lose touch again. Eventually, he had opened up about his past and the circumstances surrounding his divorce, and at her urging, even began the process of making peace with her mom. They even had Christmas together, for the first time since Emma was two.

And how do you know all this?

Well, Marcus hadn’t lost touch with you, either.

True to his word, you both took your time and got to know each other from a distance. Talking to him was still as easy as breathing, and you’d spend entire nights at the beginning staying up far too late and talking well into the wee hours of the morning.

It wasn’t hard to see that the something that was between you was still there and not going away any time soon. And the only thing you’ve found so far that rivals the strength of your friendship is the passion that you continue to have for each other in the bedroom.

Marcus would make trips when he could–some visits ostensibly to see Emma and other, more secret trysts where his only aim was to see you. (And see you he did; on most occasions, he’d barely let you out of his hotel room.)

Your beginning may have been a meteoric collision–two people forced into proximity that had no choice but to fall into each other–but the growth of your resulting love was slow and careful.

Eventually, you’d need to tell Emma, but it didn’t feel like the time was quite right, yet. Of course, when she visits you at Georgetown next year and you give her not your own address, but her father’s, the two of you will have to come clean.

Right now, though, as you and Emma weave through the crowds of people looking for Marcus, you’re content to keep things the way they are. Everything is slowly falling into place, and that piece of the puzzle will fit into the rest when it’s ready.

“There she is!”

Emma beams as she hears Marcus call out, waving his hand frantically to catch your attention among the sea of people.

She lets herself be crushed into a hug, her father grinning proudly and murmuring something unintelligible into her ear. After a few minutes, he releases her and turns to you.

“Congratulations,” he says–perfunctorily, but warmly.

“Thank you.”

After a couple of beats, Emma rolls her eyes.

“Would you just kiss her already? Honestly, it’s more weird that you’re not.”

Two sets of eyes swivel to her in alarm.

“You… you knew?” you exclaim.

Emma gives you a disbelieving look. “Okay, the fact that you two both think you were being subtle means you might actually be meant for each other. Wow.”

“How?” you choke out.

“Are you serious? You two had bizarre energy when you met, and ever since, I see you smiling at your phone all the time,” Emma says to you. “And after that week, whenever he’s come to visit, you both act weird around each other.”

“Oh,” you say dumbly.

“Plus, you had a hickey on your neck one morning,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Real subtle.”

Oops. You shoot Marcus a look, and notice that he’s as red as a tomato.

“Em,” he starts, looking pained.

“It’s fine,” she interrupts. “Look, it’s not like we had the closest of relationships when I was a kid. I'm getting to know you as an adult, and it just feels different than it would be if you had raised me. I’m not going to say it doesn’t make me feel fucking weird, and I don’t ever wanna know details about your sex life and I am not calling you ‘mom,’ but I guess I’ll just say… I get it. You two are oddly similar, and I wouldn’t want to stand in between you and happiness. Because I… you know. I love you.”

“Emma,” Marcus says, his smile turning watery for a moment.

“Don’t… make a big deal out of it,” she grumbles.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he laughs, and gives her a sweet kiss on the forehead. “I love you too, Emmie.”

He pulls back and looks at you, his eyes sparkling, and you feel your insides start to heat up just from his gaze alone.

Those words are still new, between you–the first time was whispered softly in his ear in the darkness after spending all night wrapped around each other just a couple of months ago. Marcus whispered them back immediately after; he was achingly patient and careful to take his time with you, even though you’d felt that emotion emanating from each of you for months prior.

It was just–you didn’t want to rush things. Love was new to you. Everything was. And if Marcus was going to be your first experience with all of it, you had a feeling that you were going to want to savor it.

You know he feels the same.

Stepping forward, Marcus gently tips your chin up to meet him in a gentle kiss. The shape of his lips are so familiar now, you could probably draw them in your sleep. You know the way they move against yours. You know how it feels when he smiles against your mouth–which he does often, and right now.

“Congratulations,” he murmurs again. This time, the word is dark and full of underlying emotion–love, affection, friendship, pride–and you grin back as you kiss him once more.

“What now?” you ask with a little laugh.

“I have a few ideas,” he husks in your ear, inaudible to anyone else, before pulling back. “But right now?” he shrugs. “Anything you want. Everything.”

“What if I said that all I wanted was you?”

Marcus’s eyes soften. “Well, honey,” he says gently, “you’re in luck, because that’s the one thing I can give you.”

The end.

#marcus pike #marcus pike x reader #marcus pike x f!reader #marcus pike x you #marcus pike fanfiction #the mentalist #the mentalist fanfiction #pedro pascal

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weewookinard · 28 days ago

Note

Fluff hc: Jumping off of Buck’s history with writing postcards - he has an intricate holiday card tradition. And despite Tommy’s joke to Hen, he’s never been a Christmas card kinda guy. But he’s now obsessed with helping Buck with his (theirs) ❤️💚

— 💜 @nine-one-wanton

Jo my looooove I am always so happy to see you in my dm and ask ❤️🩷💜 you and this big brain of yours!!

Evan loves to write postcards, it's his way of showing his love to people the way he showed love to his sister. He was the kind of kid who was not asked how he was doing, and always needed to be the one starting the conversation so now he starts it with cards. At first he only wrote to Maddie and a few friends. But then his life changed for the best and he started sending cards to more and more people.

Of course the entire 118 is on his list. Not only his 118 family, but everyone else. Garry, the old guy from shift B. Deborah who works at HR. Fred the janitor. He sends cards to Red and to Dr Copeland. He sends cards to every nurse's team of L.A. he knows (and the guy knows plenty), and to kids that are at the hospital when the nurses ask him to do so, and the kids are always so happy with them!

One year he sent a card to Taylor while they were dating, a special one with him naked (except for a Santa hat well placed) on the front of the card. It made her laugh a lot and what happened next is their business.

Tommy, on the other hand, never wrote a lot of Christmas card in his life. For a lot of reasons really. First, he didn't know that much people interested in hearing about him. His dad thinks it's a stupid loss of time and money. The only card he wrote while in the army was never received by his mom, lost at sea. After that he stopped caring for a while, not having the time for something this pointless anyway.

But then his mom met Sean and the man became his step-dad, introducing him to a whole new family. Sisters, uncles, cousins, for the last 10 years Tommy received a lot of cards and he always wanted to respond but never had the courage, his dad's words still on his mind. So instead he sends a text every year to everyone he cares about. Howie always responds to the text nicely, Sal tells him to fuck off before sending picture of his kids, but he never dared to ask them for Hen's number, afraid she would tell him to fuck off. Now she's on his list, and she responds with a whole lot of words!

So, Christmas cards.

The first year they spend Christmas together Tommy has to help Evan because the idiot twisted his wrist while decorating the station for the holidays. Tommy's handwriting is clumsy and awkward and he feels bad about it, terrified he's ruining Evan's work, but his boyfriend's smile is HUGE and he's so happy with it he can't stop kissing Tommy about it. After all the cards Evan asks him if he wants to send one too and Tommy hesitates before they start working on a card for his mom and Sean. It's pretty, and it makes him cry a little, but it's good tears. It's cathartic really, a way of healing years of restraint.

Since then Tommy and Evan write cards every year. The list of people they write to is longer and longer every year and it makes Tommy so happy. It means he has more and more love to give. One year they have a full photoshoot with the whole 118, everyone wearing the same Christmas Sweater, kids beaming and adults laughing. One other year they use the card to thank people for attending their wedding. The year after that the front of every card is the same: a picture of Evan and Tommy dressed as a pair of elves, a little Santa in their arms. Amelia is two and she is their whole world. The perfect gift.

Yes I HAD to add Sean to it 🤭❤️

Feel free to send me more fluffy/cute/funny headcanons! 🩷

#911 abc #evan buckley #tommy kinard #bucktommy #tevan #911 show #kinley #911 on abc #kinkley #sean verse #bucktommy headcanons #tommy kinard headcanon #911 headcanons #evan buckley headcanon

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elfieafterdark · 5 months ago

Text

Gideon busting her ass to paint the kitchen, Harrow sipping black coffee and doing her usual part in home renos, that is to say, keeping her fiance company.

It's early, the sun hasn't even risen yet. The trees surrounding their property seem extra tall today. Their greens seem extra dark and secretive. It's going to be a beautiful fall day, perfect for spending time with her jock girl.

They don't have to worry about work today, or any day if they don't desire it. Harrow supposes she'll have to thank John for that someday.

Maybe the day after she stops hating his guts. But they do send him Christmas cards every year. And he's slightly more tolerable than when they were in high school.

"Man, this lil shit is tough." Gideon grunts, wearing an off-black tank top, little burger logo on the front. She's trying to paint a corner, it's a deep cupboard and she can't quite get at it.

Her fresh haircut is all messy on the top, shaved to half an inch on the sides.

She's gorgeous. Even with sleep still lingering in her eyes. Even with those stupid skull pajamas, ratty to the point of absurdity. She's had the damn things since high school.

Harrow leans on the new granite countertops, replaced last week, she's sitting at the breakfast bar, also created last week. Gideon is amazing.

It took Harrow a few years of being around Gideon to figure her out. To figure out that there was more to her than just a gymnut sport gal with no thoughts save for tits and ass up in her beautiful head.

She's clever, she's relentless, she has a fantastic brain; probably the most attractive thing about her to be honest. She just has an eye for creating things, and almost anything she tries, she can succeed at.

That ought to be eye-meltingly frustrating for Harrowhark Nonagesmius, sickly young girl who could do nothing right. Who constantly fell ill, who missed school, who often had to ask her teachers to repeat themselves 4 or 5 times.

When they met it drove her insane, seeing Gideon easily learn anything she wanted. But just like her impression of the person, her impression of the person's talents wasn't quite right.

If Gideon wasn't interested in a thing, then no amount of work could make her good at it.

She's TERRIBLE at remembering dates and time, she forgets Harrow's birthday a lot, and beats herself up over it. She's ass at math, she can't write a poem to save her life, and she often skips half the ingredients in a recipe just because she glazed over them when reading it.

Gideon is an ongoing journey, an investigation that Harrow will never close. She doesn't want to stop comprehending this person, the love of her life perhaps. If such a thing exists.

"Gideon?" Harrow finds her mouth saying before her brain had an appropriate amount of time to consider or calculate.

"Hmm? Sup babe? Need a top up?" Gideon's gold eyes always alarm her. Mystify her. Entrance her. Deep vats of molten gold that could suck Harrow's soul right out of her body.

But it isn't so hard these days, saying what she's thinking. So she does. Sickly little Harrowhark, ex-cult member who managed to get away through luck and circumstance, says it clearly, precisely, and directly.

"I love you."

#blurb #the locked tomb #the locked tomb series #griddlehark #griddlehark fluff #fluff #creative writing #writers on tumblr #modern #modern AU #harrow is useless #but in charge #gideon likes doing things #harrow liked watching #gideon nav #harrowhark nonagesimus #tlt

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wade-winston-wilson · 1 year ago

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Eddie's abuela gets on his case about a Christmas card. She brings up the fact that both of his sisters send her one every year, but he doesn't bother. Eddie rolls his eyes at this, of course, but his abuela gives him a look that is far too similar to two pairs of puppy dog eyes he has a hard time resisting. So when he gets home, Chris tucked under his chin, he gently places his son in his best friend's arms (who had already been sleeping on the couch, and had jolted awake at the sound of the door). He rifles through his phone for a picture decent enough to put on a card, waving off Buck's soft, "What're you doin', Eds?"

Buck puts Chris to sleep.

Eddie finds a picture.

A week later, Hen is grinning from ear-to-ear as Buck and Eddie waltz into the firehouse. She's waving an envelope in their direction. "If it isn't Mister and Mister Diaz."

Buck looks confused. Eddie looks unimpressed.

"So I take it you got the card," says Eddie.

"What card?" Buck asks.

"Sure did," Hen chirps, just as Chim pops into view with his own smirk.

"So did we. Maddie framed it."

"What card?" Buck insists, looking frustrated.

Hen shoves the envelope in Buck's face, who snatches it and rips it open with a frown.

"Wait, Buck doesn't know? Eddie! I thought this meant that you finally--" Chim starts, only to get cut off by Eddie's, "Finally what?"

Buck doesn't pay them any mind. He stares down at the card with trembling hands. It's a picture of Eddie, Chris, and Buck from last year at Abuela's. They're sitting in front of her tree, Buck and Eddie thigh to thigh, with Chris in both of their laps. Chris is smiling brilliantly at the camera, one hand curled in Buck's hair. Buck is nuzzling Chris' temple. And Eddie--

Eddie is only looking at Buck.

He's looking at Buck like he's his everything.

Above them reads: Happy Holidays, from our family to yours!

"Buck?" Eddie asks, once the silence has stretched too thin. He sounds scared. Buck whirls on him, handing the card back at Hen in the process.

"You did this? Picked out the font and everything?" asks Buck, who is still frowning.

"Uh... Well, Chris picked out the font. I chose the picture. Is that... are we... Buck?"

Buck smiles. He smiles and then he steps forward; and before anyone can even blink, he's backing Eddie up against the engine and kissing him breathless.

#buddie #9-1-1 #believe it or not this was inspired by friends

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mirkwoodshewolf · 16 days ago

Text

The dad who stepped up; John Wick x oc teen

*Author's note*

Okay so this is the first update in what feels like forever. Now that I'm on winter break and away from home I can start to feel the creative juices flowing. I might also post up some other stuff that I've had saved but didn't feel confident in posting before as some christmas gifts for you all.

But this oneshot (possibly might turn this into a series but only AFTER I've seen all the John Wick films. I've seen bits and pieces on youtube but never all the way through *dodges flying objects*) So just to put in prespective this is a prologue before the first film. Like the five years John has once he retires. But I wanna see how all of you like this and if anyone wants to see this turned into a series, give me a shoutout below and comment whether you wish to be tagged or not.

Warnings: Fluff, angst, parental abandonment, cancer mentioned.

Taglist:

@jd-johndeacon-or-jackdaniels

@queen-paladin

@waddles03

@plethora-of-things

@psychosupernatural

@remussl0vers

@queensdivas

_______________________________________________________

If you think being a teenage girl is bad enough, try being the teenage daughter of the infamous Baba Yaga. Well not blood related but I’ve known John Wick for most of my pre-teen/teenage life. He was a wild card I never expected coming into mine or my mother’s life, hell men like him only exist in my mom’s Fabio romance novels.

Even though I would later in life learn of who he truly was, I still can’t help but think back to the days when he first came into our lives.

Age 11

It all started when I had came back from my first summer at Camp Walden. I had learned about this camp from my best friend and I pleaded with my mom for me to go. At first she acted like she wasn’t even going to allow me to go but then on the last day of school, she had surprised me with an application of approval and a plane ticket for me to go to Camp Walden.

I spent eight weeks at the all-girls camp learning how to fence, canoe, all the typical fun camp stuff. Made some new friends and would write letters to my mom every single night (as per her conditions since there wasn’t any cell service up there).

I got off the plane with all my bags and looked around the gate until I caught sight of my mom. She held out a welcome home sign and when she found me from the load of passengers, she and I raced up to each other and hugged each other tightly. She picked me up rocking me back and forth kissing me repeatedly.

“Oh I hope you had a lousy time at that camp because I am never sending you there again, I missed you too much!”

“I missed you too mom.”

“Wait did you…..you got your haircut?” when I had went I had pretty long hair and now I come back from camp with my hair up to my shoulders.

“Yeah when we were playing truth or dare, a girl was dared to cut someone’s hair and since I had the longest I was the victim. Luckily for me her mom’s a stylist and she learned from her. Are you mad?”

“I would be but she did something I’ve never been able to make you do since you were little.” We both laughed as she held me close to her again and we began to leave the airport.

“So mom how’s your summer been?”

“Oh the typical single mom empty nester. Watching trash tv and drinking mimosas.” I shook my head at her. “But I wanna hear more about camp. Eight weeks of not hearing your voice is way too long for me.”

“Yeah it was a lot for me too mom. But it was a lot of fun. I got some pics of some foxes that came by the camp.”

“Ohhh exciting. I know you’ll be adding those to your collection my little fox kit.”

“Yeah. And canoeing is much more difficult than they make it seem on TV. We got tipped over like five times and we didn’t even leave the docks.”

“Awww man, I’m sorry baby.” We threw my stuff into the trunk and I rode in the passenger seat while mom drove us out of the airport parking lot and we headed for home. “Oh by the way your aunt Chessy just had to be here to see you come home so expect to be smothered by her.”

“Did she bring Sammy?” I asked excitedly.

“You know your aunt. Never leaves home without that dog of hers.” I clapped my hands excitedly.

“Also baby I have surprise to tell you once you get settled in.”

“A surprise? What is it?”

“It’s a surprise and like I said I want you to get settled in first before I tell you what it is. It’s tiring flying from coast to coast non-stop so I want you to take as much time as you need to get settled.” I let out a groan as I sat back in the seat. When you’re a kid and you hear the word ‘surprise’ you never want to wait for it. But grownups just love to do that to you.

Before long we finally arrived at the house and mom put the car in park in the driveway and turned the engine off. I stepped out of the car and looked at my house in relief. The door was left wide open and I immediately heard barking as Sammy, my aunt’s golden retriever raced out and came over to me.

“Sammy!” he came up and sat down allowing me to hug and kiss him.

“Oh now this fully grown woman can’t be my little Sarah can it!?” I heard aunt Chessy’s voice say as she came out. I let go of Sammy and ran up to her and she too picked me up just like mom did at the airport. Spinning me around and rocking me back and forth. “Oh welcome home baby girl. We missed you soo much! Hey,” she separated our hug and took both my arms in her hands as she continued, “Don’t you dare convince your mom to send you that way again for far too long. You’re lucky I soil you too much otherwise I wouldn’t have extended my stay.”

“I love you too aunt Chessy. Camp was fun but there’s truly no place like home.”

“Amen to that sister. You’re just in time I made cornbread and chili your favorite.”

“Did I just hear cornbread and chili?” mom perked up as she carried my bags over her shoulder.

“Yeah it’s on the stove but Sarah gets the first bowl. And Helen don’t carry all that weight, that’s what I’m here for.” Aunt Chessy grabbed my bags while mom briefly gave her a glare but aunt Chessy gave her a look back. “C’mon kid, let’s get you inside and well fed.” As we walked back inside with Sammy sticking to mom’s side whimpering and licking her hand, that’s when I began to notice the black mustang also parked in our driveway.

I sat down at my balcony bed while aunt Chessy began unpacking my bags. I had my bowl of chili with the cornbread inside of it in my lap and I said.

“Hey aunt Chessy, how’d you afford a mustang from the rental car place?”

“Oh I wish I could afford one in real life. But that car doesn’t belong to me.”

“So what did mom get it or something?” I asked. That’s when we heard my mom giggling. I turned and looked outside and saw her with a man right out by the pool. The man was sitting on one of the pool chairs and I could see he had pure black hair, wore sunglasses and a dark t-shirt. “Who is he?”

“Sarah it’s none of my business how my big sister ruins her life she’s a big girl.” Aunt Chessy said as she began taking out all my dirty clothes. I set my bowl of chili aside and went up to her and said as I wrapped my arms around her right one.

“C’mon aunt Chessy I need to know. Who is he?” aunt Chessy let out a deep sigh and turned to me.

“His name is John Wick. Your mom met him at the gas station when she accidentally forgot to grab her wallet to pay for gas. If you ask me I think he wanted something a bit more than just to be a good Samaritan.”

“What do you mean?” this time we could hear a splash by the pool and mom’s laughter before it turned to shrieks and then back to laughter again. Aunt Chessy let out a groan as she rolled her eyes. I went to grab my camera while Aunt Chessy continued on her rant.

“Look you know how I’ve felt about men especially after your father left you guys. So I gotta ask myself what does a man like that who belongs in a Fabio romance novel want with a woman who is trying to work out her life as a single mom? Then I realize there’s a million reasons why that man has stuck around, and all of it is just waiting to be spent from the New York bank.” As she talked I stood there with my camera to see both my mom and John in the pool together at first playing like little kids before being wrapped in each other’s arms.

“What you think he’s loaded or something?” I asked.

“Ehh what do I know? But I’ll tell you one thing, this man’s got your mother eating out of the palm of his hand. They do everything together, they go on drives in that car of his, they swim together, they go out to eat dinner every single night. But you know what, meet him. See for yourself, don’t let me influence you.”

I saw them making goo-goo eyes at each other before kissing each other as they remained in the pool. I snapped a quick picture of them and felt an odd feeling in my stomach as I looked down at them. Could he be the surprise that mom was talking about?

After I had my lunch and aunt Chessy was now doing my laundry, I got on my bathing suit and put on a Shadow the hedgehog t-shirt over it along with some old sandals. I grabbed my sunglasses and decided to head out to the pool.

There I saw John once again sitting on the pool chair with my mom just coming out of the pool and grabbing a towel.

“Ohh Sarah, didn’t expect you to come down so soon.”

“Figured I’d stretch my legs out in the pool. At least this time I won’t have algae or wet sand between my toes.” I said wiggling my toes as I kicked my sandals off my feet.

“Well since you’re here I guess there’s no time like the present ehh? Sarah, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine.” She came up behind me and walked us closer to John. “Sarah, this is John Wick.”

He removed his sunglasses and I finally got a better look at his face. A sharp facial structure and a scruff beard that had some hidden grey to it. Deep brown eyes that pierced through my very soul and almost sent a chill of fear up my spine.

“Hello.” His voice had a slight ruggedness to it but it also had warmth and friendliness to it. Not like how when someone who has a rasp to their voice it makes them creepy.

“Hi, Mr. Wick.” I greeted shyly as I placed my sunglasses on top of my head.

“Well I can’t believe I’m finally meeting the famous Sarah. I’ve been looking forward to this all summer.” John said as he adjusted himself to sit up properly and get a better look at me.

“Really well here I am.” I said with a shrug.

“Helen, you’ve been holding out on me. The way your mom has talked about you I expected to meet a little girl but you are so grown up and just as beautiful as her.”

“I’ll be 12 soon. How old are you?”

“Sarah!” exclaimed my mom as tugged me by my shoulders.

“It’s fine Helen. There should actually be no shame in children asking adults their ages.” John assured my mom. “To answer your question I’m 43.”

“That’s 32 years older than me! How old are you again mom.” I asked looking up at her.

“Wow if only you were this interested in math when it comes to your homework. Look I’m going to head inside and get some food. Maybe even check to make sure Chessy is doing the laundry correctly. I love my little sister but sometimes she can be a scatter brain when it comes to laundry. Be right back.” With that mom left me alone with her new ‘boyfriend’.

“My aunt said that you guys met at a gas station, is that true?”

“Yes that is true. I don’t know the full story but from what I did see, the cashier was giving your mother a pretty hard time so I thought I’d give her a hand and help pay for her gas. And not three days later at the Walmart nearby she actually helped me with finding the better laundry detergent. From there I guess you could say the rest is history.”

“How come my mom didn’t mention you in the letters she’d send me?” John let out a deep sigh and looked at me with a sympathetic look.

“I imagine this is pretty awkward, right?” I merely shrugged as I crossed my arms over my chest. “Your mom felt that this type of news would’ve been better to be talked about in person. But I want you to know this Sarah, these past eight weeks I’ve really come to care for your mother. And I wish I can do the same for you, but if not I’ll understand and I’ll walk away.”

Now this is something I’ve never heard of happening in real life. Normally the partner wouldn’t allow their lover’s child to dictate whether or not they’ll stay together. But just from seeing mom and him together, that’s the happiest I’ve seen her since……him.

Needless to say (and as you all know) John Wick stuck around with my mother. They waited to get married until a year into their blossoming relationship. And it was also after their marriage that mom and I would leave our home of Nappa, California and go to live with John in his house in New York.

It was out in upstate New York so just roughly about a 20-30min drive away from the city. It was fairly similar in size to our old house back home with wide open spaces, a good sized backyard, and a two door garage.

Ever since they got married, mom’s always tried to have John and I do some ‘father-daughter’ bonding time. And even though John did his best to understand my interests whether it came to gaming, music, or movie trivia, there was just something about being alone with him that didn’t sit right with me. I already got fooled once by my dad once, I wasn’t going to let another one do the same thing to me again.

Age 13

I was sitting in the passenger seat of John’s mustang as we drove into the city to pick up some groceries. Mom had to suddenly be called into work with an emergency and John said he didn’t want to leave me alone in the house by myself.

After a brief back and forth with each other of how whether or not I was capable of staying at the home by myself, I ended up losing that battle and had to tag along. As we walked through the aisles picking out everything we needed, my eye soon caught a bunch of people at a table advertising something.

I noticed their posters for the Gotham Archery classes. And there happened to be one right nearby in Manhattan. I turned to John to see him looking at some deals on eggs then turned my attention back towards the table. Archery did always fascinate me but there was never any schools or lessons back at California that were within driving range of us so I could only fantasize about shooting an actual bow and arrow like Legolas or Merida did.

“You want to go talk to them?” I jumped at John’s voice and looked up at him.

“Huh?”

“You’ve been staring at them for the past five minutes without even blinking. So either you’ve got some beef with one of those gentleman or you’d like to go talk to them and think about joining them.”

“Yeah that’s funny. Me doing archery.” I scoffed as I brushed it off with a laugh.

“What’s so funny about that?” he leaned his arms over the shopping cart as he raised his brow at me. One look at his eyes and I knew he wasn’t kidding around.

“You—you’re being serious?”

“If it’s something you’re interested in, you should go for it.” A strange fluttery feeling came into my chest when he said that. Dad never really took the time to encourage me to go out for something, it was always mom who tried to push me to achieve what I want. So hearing this from an adult male, especially someone like John Wick felt strange and new to me.

I took a deep breath and walked over to the table and it was there I began my journey into the world of archery.

After bringing John over to the table so that he could get some of the information too (since I was under 18 I needed to have an adult present for the information given and to ensure that there would be an adult present whenever I was taken to classes).

We had a meeting that night with my mom and she was so proud that I had managed to find something to do here in New York. And already having John be the chosen supervised parent to go along with me also made her happy to know that we finally managed to find something to bond over.

After several months of lessons, I actually ended up doing a lot better at archery than I could imagine. So much so that my instructor encouraged me to participate in the upcoming tournament that would be held at their school in Brooklyn.

Mom, aunt Chessy and John all came to support me in the tournament but when I began to see the large crowd that was gathering around to see all of us that was competing, my heart began to race and my stomach began churning.

“Full house, oh sweet Jesus.” I groaned as I held my stomach tightly. I fiddled with my archer’s glove unhooking and re-hooking the straps as my anxiety was starting to go through the roof.

“And here we have future gold medalist Olympic archer Sarah Wick.” I shook my head trying to hide the smile etching at the corner of my mouth and looked up to see John with his phone pointed right towards me.

“Haha you’re such a comedian.” I mocked sarcastically.

“No joke. Those archers don’t know who they’re about to go against.” I winced slightly as I looked down and fiddled with my glove once again. “Hey, everything okay?” he asked concerningly. He pocketed his phone and sat down in front of me.

Could I maybe trick him into taking me home? Mom never fell for the classic ‘fake sickness’ trick whenever I needed to get out of something. Guess that’s just something mom’s automatically know, but John—he wouldn’t know and I’ll bet he wouldn’t even ask questions about it.

“I’m not feeling so good John. I think I need to go home and lay down. Yeah that’s it let’s go home.” I went to sit up but he held onto my shoulder and pressed his other hand to my forehead.

“You don’t seem to be running a fever.”

“It’s a stomach bug. Suddenly started up out of nowhere.” I let out a pained hiss as I groaned lowly. When I looked up at him, one look on his face told me that he wasn’t buying this act for a second. “This isn’t working is it?”

“It was a good try.” He acknowledged giving me a wink. I dropped the act as I let out a deep sigh.

“How do you guys always seem to know when we’re faking it?”

“I may have only been in the parenting game for a short time, but I know how to spot the classic ‘feigning sick bit’. Even pulled it myself from time to time. Now you wanna share what’s really going on?”

I don’t even know myself why I suddenly felt like coming clean to him. Whether it was him not talking down to me in order to get the answer, or him even acknowledging that I did my best to fake him out. Either way I finally came clean to him.

“I didn’t think there was going to be so many people here to see us compete. It’s stressing enough with the judges, but the people in the audience……I’m just—so afraid that I’m gonna make a total fool of myself.” John let out a soft hum as he nodded softly.

“I believe what you’re going through right now is what they call stage fright. Everyone gets it, even me.”

“You? I don’t believe you.”

“Oh yeah. Believe it or not this 45 year old, 6’1 giant of a man has and still sometimes deals with anxiety and stage fright.” We both softly chuckled at his statement.

“How do you get by?”

“One step at a time. I can only control what I can. And yes there will be the unknown that you wish you could say ‘hey I want you to do this’ or ‘you’re gonna do it this way’. But we can’t let the fear dictate over something we love.”

“Wow…..that��s—deep.”

“I try my best.” John merely shrugged, which got another laugh out of me. “And think of it this way; after today: No one but your mother, aunt, instructor and I will remember what you did here today. So don’t do your best for those nameless people out in the audience, do it for the ones that really know you.”

“Thanks John. That really helped more than you know.” He gently squeezed my shoulder and said.

“Glad I could help. And good luck out there.” He stood up and walked back to join my mom and aunt at their seats.

Whenever mom gave me advise or encouragement while she always looked on the positive aspects of it, just between the lines I knew there were times that she would sugarcoat certain things. Like there was too much optimism in certain events that I knew wouldn’t be good but she’d always make it seem like everything was going to be okay.

John, however, just hearing him speak about the reality of the situation but not making it sound too cynical. He somehow managed to find the perfect balance of optimism and realistic philosophy.

And it paid off. By the end of the tournament I had gotten three bronze medals and a silver medal for all the categories I had decided to compete in.

As the years went by, there would also come a test that would push the Wick family to the extreme. When I turned 14, my mom was diagnosed with an aggressive brain tumor. There would be days when she was able to live with us and live a normal life, but there were dark days when she’d have to live in the hospital for weeks on end.

Age 15

This was one of mom’s bad weeks. One day when John and her were out on their wedding anniversary date out in the city. I had gotten a call from John telling me that she had collapsed when they were walking along the docks after their dinner.

However unlike before, this time the tumor had attacked her so aggressively that she now has to be on a ventilator to help her breathe properly. The doctor’s say that even though there’s brain activity, she’s unfortunately locked in a coma-like state and it’s unknown on when she’ll wake up…..or ever.

It was also throughout this time that John and I began to lean more on each other now more than ever. Especially when he came back into the picture out of nowhere.

It was just after school when John and I decided to visit mom in the hospital. I had gotten my German test that he had helped me study for and I wanted to tell mom how I had aced it. She always wanted to make sure that I never fell back on my class work no matter what events or after-school activities I had. We arrived at the hospital parking lot and as we got out of John’s mustang, I asked him.

“Before long I’ll have to start driving, think I can practice driving the mustang?”

“Just because you passed your German exam doesn’t make you an expert on my mustang.” He told me.

“Oh come on John. I’ve been paying attention to how you shift the gears and I dare say I’m confident enough to drive it.”

“There’s a difference between confidence and arrogance.”

“That hurts John. That really hurts!” I exclaimed as I held my heart like I had been shot.

“Yeah, yeah report it to Child services. Come on.” we headed into the building and checked in to see my mom. We walked down the familiar corridor and saw mom in the same position as she has since her check in. Laying still and motionless on the bed. I came up and sat beside her and took her hand in mine.

“Hey mom, we’re back. Just like we promised. Hey get this, you know that German test that John’s been helping me with? I aced it. Can you believe it, after months of struggling I finally get an A+ for that class.”

“The real credit goes to your daughter Helen. She’s the one who took the test, all I did was teach her a few tricks to remember what she needed to learn.” Said John as he sat on the other side of my mom’s bed. Soon my mom’s doctor came in and greeted us.

“Mr. Wick, Ms. Wick.”

“Dr. Sanchez. How has she been?” John asked.

“Well some good news at least. We’ve noticed how she’s been able to now breathe on her own so we took her off the ventilator and for the past ten hours she’s been breathing just fine on her own.” We both sighed in a huge relief.

“Any signs on when she’ll wake up?” I asked.

“That unfortunately is still yet to be determined. But we’ll continue to constantly monitor her progress and we’ll call you with any new updates Mr. Wick.” He said the last part to John since he was the emergency contact for my mom.

“Thank you Dr. Sanchez, truly.” He nodded and soon left the room leaving the three of us alone. John took his spot back at my mom’s right side while I fiddled with the new bracelet that John had gifted them for their anniversary. “You were right about the bracelet.”

“Told yah. Mom’s never been one for clunky or flashy jewelry. And it really is beautiful.” I stroked along the silver flowers that decorated the bracelet.

“I’m gonna head down and get some coffee, you want anything from the cafeteria?”

“I’ll be okay till we get home.”

“I’ll get you some water.”

“John!” I whined.

“You don’t drink enough of it, you gotta stay hydrated.” He said standing up and circled around mom’s bed before gently shaking my head around before leaving the room. I shook my head and said.

“He really is a great guy mom. We’ve actually been getting along more lately since you had to stay here. He’s been taking me to school, archery practice, helping out with my homework. And been the support system I needed even though he’s hurting himself. He may not want to admit out loud, but I sometimes hear him cry at night without you there. So—keep fighting mom. Please, we need you home.”

I lay my head down on her bed as I gripped her hand in both of mine as tightly as I could.

“Helen? Sarah?” I gasped as my eyes shot wide open. I turned towards the door and there I saw someone I never expected to see ever again. My dad.

“D-d…..d…..” I stammered.

“My god, Sarah is that really you? God look at you you’re all….”

“What the hell are you doing here?!” I snapped. “How did you find us?!”

“I-I didn’t. My son’s here for his final chemo treatment.” His son? He went and had another kid after he abandoned me and mom? “So Helen’s got……”

“I don’t need to tell you shit!” I snapped. “Get out of here since that’s what you’re good at!”

“Sarah come on. It wasn’t my fault. I thought you were right behind me, honest!” bullshit. He knew what he was doing that day, I’ve come to grips with it. “That day at the mall…..”

“Don’t ever mention that day to me. I was so—so.......” my voice quivered as I tried to contain my emotions that were boiling inside of me after 8 years.

“Oh hey, hey. Don’t-don’t cry baby girl.” He tried to comfort me. I heard his footsteps getting closer to me and once I saw his feet within my vision I pushed him back aggressively. “Sarah!” my dad exclaimed in surprise.

“Get out.” I lowly sneered.

“Baby girl I’m trying to make things right with you.”

“Get out, get out, get out.” I kept muttering as my hand fidgeted at the door.

“Sarah I’m your father—” the second he stepped closer to me. I lashed out with my best right hook and nailed in right across the face screaming at him.

“GET OUT!!!” I tackled him beating him with my fists. Punching, clawing and slapping him repeatedly in a blind rage repeatedly telling him to get out through my grunts and growls.

I really don’t recall what all happened after that but I soon felt arms wrap around my waist trying to pull me away. I tried fighting back but my arms were soon pinned to my side as I heard John’s voice suddenly break through my rage.

“Sarah enough! Easy! Easy!” I stopped and my vision became clear once again. My dad’s face was bleeding profusely as nurses and security had now came to see what the commotion was.

John escorted me out but security tried to stop him. There were words exchanged between the two of them before John took me out of the hospital. All the while keeping a secure grip on me but not manhandling me.

Everything felt—numb. The sounds of the city were muffled and I barely felt myself being moved around. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking and my heart was pounding so fast I thought it would burst out of my chest. Never before have I felt such rage to get me into that blind state and attack someone like that.

Next thing I knew, I suddenly felt a stinging sensation on my hand and I went to lash out but a hand stopped me and my vision suddenly became clear. I found myself back at home with John kneeling in front of me, my wrist gently grasped in his calloused grip.

“Easy, easy. You’re home now Sarah.” Home. Frantically my eyes looked around to see if it was true and I soon came to realize what had happened. I was home, my real home.

Like a crack steadily increasing along a newly broken mirror, my shock suddenly began to overflow as tears rapidly fell down my face. Immediately I wrapped my arms around John’s waist as I buried my face into his chest and wept hysterically.

“I’m sorry John….I’m so sorry John…..I-I didn’t want you to see…..” I spoke through my hysterical sobs. John instantly wrapped his arms around me, one hand rubbing my back while the other was buried within my hair gently stroking and massaging my scalp.

“It’s okay, let it out. Just let yourself fall apart. I promise to hold you together.” He softly whispered into my ear. The moment he had said that, I had let out the most gut-wrenching, raw, almost animalistic sob of rage, grief, self-hate, confusion, and sorrow that I had kept bottled in since the day my dad abandoned me.

And true to his word, John kept his tight yet comforting hold on me with each raw sob that came out of my mouth.

After what felt like an eternity and for doctoring up my bruised and bleeding knuckles and palm, I lay there in my room just fingering the bandaged wraps that John had placed over my wounds. We didn’t speak after my breakdown but somehow he knew that I needed to have some alone time.

Slowly I got out of bed and headed towards mom and John’s room. The door was shut so I went up and knocked so softly I thought he wouldn’t hear me.

“Come in.” I heard him say. I opened the door and saw John laying across the bed. “Hey Sarah. You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m okay. Can…..we talk?” John nodded and allowed me to sit on mom’s side of the bed. I pulled my legs up to my chest as I took mom’s pillow and held it over my knees. The faint scent of her perfume still lingered onto the pillow. “Did she ever tell you about him?”

“Your aunt made it clear that your father was a…..sensitive subject.” Of course she did.

“I was seven years old. We were out at the mall having our monthly daddy-daughter date. He took me out to red lobster to eat, and then took me to all my favorite stores. Next thing I know as I’m looking at some video games, he’s just gone. I called out for him in the crowded mall but I couldn’t find him anywhere. It was pure luck that a mall cop found me after 20 minutes. I was so frightened and confused…….” I sniffled and wiped away the tears that were burning in my eyes. “Why did he just leave me like that? Was it something I did or said or—And to come back after supposedly living his new life…..”

“Hey, hey.” His large hand encompassed both of mine as I was clenching mom’s pillow so tightly my knuckles were turning white. His touch alone made me relax even though I didn’t want to. “He had no right to suddenly come up to you after all these years. And you are not to blame for him abandoning you.”

“Then why did he do it?” I asked brokenly.

“I wish I had an answer for you. But know that no excuse he can come up with will ever justify what he did.” he wrapped his arm around me, allowing my head to rest just over his heart once again. I shut my eyes allowing a few tears to fall drip down my face.

“You’ve been nothing but supportive and loving to me these past few years. And I never thought I’d find myself saying this but I like you John. I really, really do like you. But I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready to call you…... you know. It still hurts to even say the word out loud.”

“I understand. I never expected you to come forth and call me ‘that word’ as soon as your mom and I got married. I just wanted you to know that you’ve got another person in your corner whenever you feel like you can’t talk to your mom or aunt about something.”

“Thank you John, for everything.” We looked at each other lovingly and he brought me into a tight hug.

“And can I just say, that was an impressive right hook you gave him.” I laughed as I buried my face chest and gripped onto him tighter while I felt him place a loving kiss to the crown of my head.

One last thing I’ve noticed about John were his hugs. There truly was a difference between the way my mom hugs and the way he hugs. Mom’s hugs were always a gentle comfort like being wrapped in a fleece blanket.

John’s hugs—well his were like a protective barrier. Like nothing in the world could get to me and he was going to ensure it with each tight, comforting squeeze he gave. And while it felt like my bones could pop and break any second, it felt comforting to know that such strength could be so gentle when needed to be.

#john wick #john wick imagine #john wick x oc #john wick x helen wick #john wick imagines #john wick fanfic #john wick fanfiction #keanu reeves #keanu reeves character imagine #john wick x reader #john wick x you #keanuverse #keanu characters

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cloudlessly-light · 1 year ago

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I'd rather be a wild one instead (Stepdad Hotch/stepdaughter Emily AU, one-shot)

A/N: I know we’re a few days away still but since I’ll be working this Christmas I wanted to post this before I didn’t have time to write. I will say this universe really is the one sending me straight to hell, not one stop on the way. But I love daddy Hotch and we all know I’m a perv so I hope you enjoy our idiots being filthy in this universe as well!

And special thanks to @criminalmindsgonewrong for requesting Emily in a sexy Santa outfit! Hope this is okay bestie!

Happy holidays, whatever you celebrate (or don’t), wherever in the world you are!

Title: I’d rather be a wild one instead Summary: She hasn’t seen her stepfather in three months. But now it’s Christmas and she promised to come back.

(One-shot from my AU Find me where the wild things are) Word Count: 5,2k. This is so long I’m sorry!! Rating: Explicit Warnings: Smut, cheating, age difference, taboo relationship, stepfather/stepdaughter relationship, dirty talk, power dynamics, daddy kink, rough sex, in public, fingering, teasing, spanking (with a belt), consumption of alcohol

“I said I would stay at uni for Christmas, but I think I’ve changed my mind.”

“Is that so?”

“I’ll be back for Christmas, Daddy.”

It’s been three months since they’d been in the same room. Three months of her thinking back on her summer with him. It wasn’t love, nothing even close to it, but it was carnal, a need she hadn’t been able to shake no matter how many guys she might have dated. No one could measure up to him.

And now it’s December 22nd, almost Christmas, and she’s standing outside looking at the closed door, knowing that he was inside. So is her mom, which makes her gut twist nervously. They’d spend the holiday together as a family, as her mother had put it while on a skype call a couple of weeks ago and Emily had to force the frown away.

She opens the door and is almost smacked in the face by the Christmas decorations. Her mother had never been big on celebrating, always put up just enough decorations to keep up appearances that their life was as neat as the moronic Christmas card she’d send out every year. But this was more than that, lights and trinkets everywhere and a fucking reindeer sitting just to the left of the stairs.

“Emily!” Her mother walks towards her, a glass of champagne in hand.

“Mother.” She accepts the hug that feels forced. “Why does it look like Santa’s threw up in here?”

“You don’t like it?” Aaron’s voice makes her pause, her eyes on him as he walks closer, a smile on his face.

“It’s… different.” She mutters and looks around as Aaron wraps an arm around Elizabeth. “Didn’t think you’d be a Christmas kind of person.”

“Oh he loves all the holidays.” Elizabeth gushes and smiles at her husband before looking back at her. “Go on and change Emily, the guests will be here in a little while.”

It was a Christmas party, one that always took place if Elizabeth spent the holidays in the states. And Emily hated it every time. But she stays quiet as Aaron takes her bags and heads upstairs, following him only a few steps behind. She’s unsurprised that her mom stays downstairs, already heading back toward the back of the house where the party will mostly take place.

“Did you have a nice flight?” Aaron asks as they head towards her bedroom and she thinks that maybe he hasn’t been thinking about her the way she’s been thinking about him. But then the hand that wasn’t carrying her bag lands low on her hip as she walks ahead of him through her bedroom door and she feels the heat she now associates with him.

“I did.” She looks around and while her room has been saved from any Christmas decorations, there’s a black gift box sitting on her bed. She walks towards it when Aaron nods, a smirk tugging on his mouth. “From you?”

“Daddy thought you’d like it.” His eyes gleam in that familiar way when she looks at him with wide eyes, her tongue quickly licking over her bottom lip.

“Should I open it now? Or wait until Christmas morning?” Her throat feels dry, her pulse quickens and he walks towards her until he’s standing close enough for her to feel the heat of his body against hers.

“Open it now, wear it tonight.” His voice is low, a rumble that’s as thrilling as it is familiar.

She opens it with trembling fingers, pulls on the red bow and lifts the lid while he studies her closely. When she carefully picks up the red silk panties, his eyes are darker, pupils blown wide.

“Crotchless panties?” She smirks and his hand wraps around her throat, his thumb pushing just under her chin.

“Yes, so when I get bored I’ll have something pretty to play with.” He leans in, lips hovering above hers and she whines when he doesn’t kiss her. “And you still want to be a good girl for your daddy, don’t you sweet thing?”

“Yes.”

His confident grin turns a little darker, a sound of contentment leaving him.

“Good girl.” He squeezes around her throat once and then let’s go of her. She stumbles in place, almost chases after him when he turns to leave without another word. It was unbelievable, the power he held over her, how she so easily submitted to him, how badly she already needed him.

Before he disappears out her bedroom door he gives her a wink. Any worrying she had done had clearly been for nothing.

Just like she had expected, she hated the decorative party. She was bored standing with a flute of champagne in a red, sparkling, floor length dress with a slit up one thigh. She had decided on it for two reasons, one Aaron loved her in red, two the slit was dangerously high, showing off her smooth skin. But even as she saw the way he was tracking her, she was bored and alone. The only saving grace was the panties she was wearing, making her shiver in excitement.

“Em!” The sound of JJ’s voice cuts through her train of thought surprisingly, and she looks up to see her best friend heading towards her with a wide smile.

“JJ!” She greets her with a tight hug, at least now she had someone interesting to talk to instead of lusting after her stepfather all night. “What are you doing here? I thought your family was going to Switzerland for the holidays?”

“We’re leaving tomorrow, and I couldn’t skip seeing you now could I?” JJ takes a sip from her own glass of champagne. “I want to know about school and everything, but first, I need the details about Mr. Hotchner.”

Emily grunts in disgust.

“Oh god JJ, please it’s Aaron. Mr. Hotchner makes him sound so old.” She watches as the blonde rolls her eyes, a teasing smirk already on her lips.

“He is old, Em.”

“Shut up.” She pushes gently at her shoulder. “You want the details or not? Cause if you’re going to be a bitch, I’ll be one right back you know.” She grins when JJ starts to laugh, a breathy chuckle that Emily had missed hearing.

“Fine I’ll be nice. Now tell me everything.”

So she did, not that there was much to tell. She told him about his gift and what he had said, mentioned that if Aaron wasn’t going to come to her, she was most certainly going to come to him.

“I swear if I came here for Christmas and I’m leaving without getting another taste of that man, I’m not coming back until after graduation.” She joked, mostly.

“Just be careful, if someone finds out you’re screwed. It would be the biggest scandal that’s happened in years.”

“It’ll be fine JJ, the only people who knows are me, him and you.” She arches an eyebrow at the blonde who quickly squeezes her lips together and pretends to zip them up.

“Your secrets, no matter how depraved, are always safe with me.”

“Girls,” Aaron is suddenly there, somehow sneaking up on them without either of them noticing and while JJ jumps slightly, Emily only smiles knowing very well that her mother is watching them. “the dinner is about to start, Emily you’re sitting with your mother and me.”

“Seriously?” She frowns slightly. “I can’t sit with JJ?”

The polite smile hardens just a bit, his dark eyes zeroing in on her and holding her gaze.

“No.”

“But what-”

“Don’t argue with me.”

She glares at him but in the end she knows there’s no fighting it so she sighs.

“Fine, we’ll be right there.”

When Aaron nods and starts walking away she turns back to JJ who’s standing next to her with flushed cheeks.

“Okay, I get it now.” She says and Emily nods.

“Told you, he’s hot. Come on let’s get this over with.”

When she sits down she’s surprised to find herself next to only Aaron, her mother on his other side and she looks between his blank face and the empty chair. Normally Elizabeth was always seated in the middle.

“For God’s sake Emily, sit down!” Her mother mutters quietly and with an eyeroll she does.

The food is delicious, that’s the one upside to this night. Or at least that’s what she thinks until she feels Aarons warm hand on her thigh, easily moving up the slit. So technically there’s two upsides, she thinks as she gives him a sparse glance.

The conversations around them are loud, the drinks flowing, and while Elizabeth is turned to talk to a senator, Aaron leans a tiny bit closer to her.

“Spread your legs and don’t make a sound.”

When she doesn’t immediately do what he says and instead looks around the room to see if anybody is paying them any attention, his grip tightens on her thigh.

“No one is looking and you’re already on thin ice with your attitude earlier. Do as I say.”

She’s so close to muttering a yes daddy, but instead she gives a subtle nod and leans back slightly in her chair and her legs spread.

“This is dangerous.” She says while his hand moves higher up her thigh, easily finding the hem of her underwear. He smiles when he feels bare skin where underwear would usually be, happy that she has done as he had told her.

To everyone else it looked like they were having a normal conversation, Aaron’s face neutral as he strokes silky soft skin.

“It is. Which is why if you can’t control yourself I’m stopping.” With that he turns back to Elizabeth who’s still turned away. He’s quickly engaged in another conversation, his best friend David Rossi sitting right across from them.

Emily on the other hand can’t bring herself to talk, can barely bring herself to move in fear of someone noticing his hand that’s hidden under the tablecloth. He’s teasing her, running the tip of one finger along her folds slowly, starting at her clit and then just barely dipping inside of her before repeating the process.

She forces herself to eat small pieces of food, wanting to look busy. She takes another sip of champagne, and swallows that along with a soft moan down when Aaron suddenly circles her clit a little harder. It amazes her, how he looks so indifferent as he continues talking to the people around her like he isn’t fingering his stepdaughter in front of all their friends and associates.

He keeps his finger there, circling slowly but adding a little more pressure and while he laughs along with the jokes and continue conversations that he finds boring, he listens to any sound coming from her, watches her in his peripheral. He sees the flush on her cheeks, something he had missed seeing, notices how her breathing comes out in shorter puffs. She’s getting close but as much as Aaron wants to watch her fall apart, he knows that there’s no way she’ll be able to cover an orgasm so he stops.

“Do not complain or I won’t let you come at all tonight.” He mutters before she can argue and he sees the way she wants to fight him, her eyes heated, a small pout on her face.

“Why would you do this if you weren’t going to finish what you started?” She huffs and he chuckles and wipes his wet fingers on her thigh.

“If you weren’t such a desperate little thing I would have. But we both know that everyone would notice. Besides, you’re my plaything, or do you not remember the rules?”

Her mind goes back to that night in the study, when he had her bent over a couch and talked against her ear, making sure she heard every word he said.

“You do what you’re told, you get what I give you. If I decide to use you as a toy you will say thank you daddy and lay there, if I want your mouth, you’ll be on your knees for me, if I am nice enough to let you come then you can. You ask for what you want, because that’s what good girls do. And you want to be good for your daddy, don’t you Emily?”

“Yes Da- Aaron.” She whispers, swallowing down the urge to kiss him, her hands fisted at her sides to keep from reaching for him. He held her stare for another moment and then Elizabeth said his name and he turned to face his wife.

Emily used the rest of the dinner to try and calm herself, but it was hard when her clit ached and pulsed, the dark heat of arousal simmering just under her skin, her own slick coating her thighs.

It was going to be a long night.

After dinner the real mingling and dancing started but Emily wasn’t paying much attention. JJ had found a southern boy, leaving her alone while her best friend spent the evening flirting and dancing. Not that Emily minded, she could barely focus enough to keep a conversation going.

“Emily!” Elizabeth approaches her with swift steps and she automatically squares her shoulders. She knew that look on her mother’s face and she didn’t like it. “Come dance with Aaron.” She said, trying to usher her away from the corner where she had hidden away.

“What? Why?” She pulls her hand out of her mother’s grasp.

“For the photos, of course.” Elizabeth says like it’s obvious. “Stepfather and stepdaughter, it’ll look good.” She takes Emily’s hand again, this time not letting go.

“You don’t think that’s a little weird, mother?” She mutters but Elizabeth seems to ignore her.

“Don’t be so difficult, Emily. It’s one dance.” She huffs right back and continues to walk with Emily behind her until they’re standing in front of Aaron.

“My darling, would you mind dancing with Emily for a few photos?” She smiles at her husband and Aaron nods.

“Of course, dear.” His eyes move from Elizabeth to Emily, a light chuckle leaving him as he watched the pursed lips and clearly annoyed woman in front of him. “Let’s turn that frown upside down, shall we?”

“I’m not a child.” But she doesn’t fight him when he starts leading her away towards the middle of the room, his hand resting on the middle of her back.

“Oh trust me, I know.” He murmurs lowly when he’s sure they’re far enough away to not be heard. “But we are doing what your mother wants. And after you’re going to go to my study and wait for me.” As he’s talking he’s keeping an arm’s length away from her, one of his hands clasping hers and the other on her waist while she rests hers on his shoulder.

She can faintly hear the clicking of the photographer as they dance and she shivers when she realizes that this conversation will be caught on photos, photos that will most likely be printed out and hung up somewhere in the estate.

“Emily? Are you listening to me?” His voice cuts through her hazy mind and she looks up at him, pupils blown wide, cheeks tinted pink.

“Y-yeah, I’ll wait in your study.” She says and he smiles, satisfied by her answer.

“No one will enter, but remember that people might hear you from inside, so I’m going to need you to be quiet okay?” His voice dropped a little lower, the rasp of his voice coming through when he speaks again. “What do you say?”

“Yes daddy.”

She knows that’s the picture that’s going to be saved, that exact moment.

It’s dark in his study, only a small light on in the corner of the room, it’s cooler, less stuffy in here and Emily takes a couple of deep breaths. She can hear people talking outside, just like he had assumed, but to get into his study, you needed a key that only Aaron had, something he had slipped into her hand right before they had separated on the dance floor.

A few minutes go by, and the longer she waits the more stir-crazy she gets. Seconds feel minutes, minutes like an eternity. When there’s a decisive knock on the door she’s quick to open it, and Aaron is even quicker to push past her and locking the door behind him.

“Finally.” He breathes, dark eyes looking at her with the kind of heat she had missed since this summer. “You really are a tease, deciding to wear that dress.” He starts to walk in a circle around her, taking her in from every angle.

“I don’t think you can call me a tease when you left me hanging during dinner.” She argues and he makes a tsk sound, shaking his head.

“I see you being gone, you’ve completely forgotten how to behave.” He stops right behind her, lets his words fall against her naked shoulder and watches in amusement as she shivers.

“I wouldn’t say that.” Her voice is surprisingly steady when she speaks and she feels his lips curl into a smirk against her neck.

“I would. But we have time for a lesson later, right now we’re on limited time.”

She gasps when he suddenly turns her and pushes her against a bookshelf, a few of the books rattling when her back hits it with a thud. His body feels just as strong as she remembers as he crowds her space, his chest pressed against hers. When he finally kisses her, she sighs into it, her fingers gripping his suit jacket in tight fists to try and get him closer.

He’s already hard, the thickness of him pressing against her even through their clothes and she moves one hand from his suit down to palm him over his pants.

“So eager, so willing.” He breathes in between heated kisses. If they could he would spend hours taking her apart but he knows that they don’t have that luxury so he gets his belt undone, and then Emily takes over, her small hands unbuttoning and unzips his pants with nimble fingers.

“Daddy, I need you.” She whimpers and he groans at her words, it had been too long since he’d heard her voice like that. He hikes her leg up, never having been more thankful for a slit in a dress or Emily’s balance in high heels as he is right then. She’s biting her bottom lip, looking at him with pleading eyes and he ruts against her, feeling her slick folds against his heated shaft.

“You need me huh?” He bumps her clit and she whines and nods, her arms looped around his neck to keep steady.

“I’ve waited all day, please daddy.” If she had been more coherent she probably should give it some thought that she gets this desperate for him, but he’s pushing inside of her, pressing her back against hard shelves and any thought other that him, was gone.

“Fuck baby girl.” He growls against her neck, jaw clenched as he gives them both a moment, her tight walls cling to him, her hands grip his neck and then she moans, something soft and breathy and Aaron can’t wait another moment.

His thrusts are deep and hard, crushing her between his soft front and the hard edges of the bookshelf and she finally feels that feeling she’s longed for. The feeling of complete bliss. He kisses her to muffle her moans, pushes his tongue into her mouth and dominates the kiss, just like he dominates everything else. When they break apart to breathe she’s gasping, her nails close to ripping his suit.

“Daddy, don’t stop.” She pleads and he fucks into her harder, causing a few books to fall around them. Neither of them seem to notice, both too desperate to focus on anything but each other and pleasure.

“Did you think about me in college?” He growls against her ear and she mewls. “Did you think about how good your daddy fucks you while you were fucking boys?”

“Y-yes.” She admits and he snickers, the sound just as graveled as she had remembered.

“But they don’t fuck you like you need to be fucked, do they?” He slows down and pulls back enough to look at her face. “Only daddy knows how you like to be fucked, isn’t that right?” He rolls his hips against hers, pushes as deep as possible and then pulls out while studying her intensely.

“No one knows.” She whimpers, her eyes locked on his. “Only you do, daddy.”

“That’s right.” He claims her lips in a kiss, changes the angle of his hips slightly and Emily cries out. “Shh, it’s okay baby girl.” His large hand covers her mouth and then picks up the pace of his thrusts, continuing to press right against that magic spot inside of her.

She could feel her leg starting to tremble, the strain on it inevitable, but she didn’t care because the tension in her belly was spreading quickly. Her eyes find his, a wordless question in them and he nods.

“You can come.” He mutters lowly, his own orgasm building by each deep thrust. She clings to him as she comes less than a minute later, her leg giving out and if it weren’t for the way he had her pressed against the bookshelf she would have fallen.

“Jesus Christ you get so tight when come on my cock.” He grunts through clenched teeth. She’s panting, head back, jaw slacked, eyes hazy and this is how he had missed seeing her, fucked out and at his mercy.

“Let me feel it daddy.” She whispers and it’s the last push he needs before he comes with a strained groan. He tenses against her, doesn’t move until he’s empty and when he pulls away Emily almost falls to the floor.

“I knew it was a good idea coming back for Christmas.” She joked lightly as she leaned against the wall. She squirmed slightly when she felt his release on her thighs, the crotchless panties doing nothing to help her from creating a mess.

“A very good idea indeed.” He agreed, still catching his breath. “Still, we should clean up, someone will notice soon.

She nods, absentmindedly swiping a finger across her inner thigh and tasting him.

“I swear you’ll be the death of me Emily.”

They manage to get away with it, somehow, and when Emily goes to bed that night she feels sated. But she still had plans, plans that would require her mother leaving them alone. Luckily for her, she had last minute errands to run the following day. Emily might not always get along with her mother, but she knew her, and she knew that she always left buying gifts to the last possible moment, and she smiled at the thought.

“I’ll be back no later than 7 tonight.” Elizabeth said as Aaron helped her put on her coat.

“We’ll be fine here.” He smiled and kissed her cheek.

“Check in on Emily would you? Just to make sure she doesn’t run off. She’s done that before.”

“Will do.” He ignores the way his cock stirs at the thought of him and Emily alone in the house until he’s closed the door. He hadn’t seen Emily since breakfast, that was a few hours ago so he decided to seek her out right away. “Emily?”

He doesn’t knock on her door, can hear soft music playing from inside so he simply opens it. When he sees her his mouth goes dry, eyes not knowing where to look as he takes in her appearance. She’s laying on her bed, a Santa hat on her head and the shortest, skimpiest red Santa dress he’s ever seen and thigh high fishnet stockings on her legs.

She smirks at him, happy that she for once managed to catch him off guard.

“Santa baby, just slip a Sable under the tree for me. Been an awful good girl. Santa baby, so hurry down the chimney tonight.” She sings softly before standing up and walking the short distance to where he’s still standing, seemingly frozen to the spot. “Merry Christmas, daddy.” She hums and presses a kiss to his cheek. It seems to be enough to jolt him out of the temporary shock and his hands wrap around her waist, keeping her against him.

“I don’t think you’ve been a very good girl, my sweet thing.” He nuzzles her nose and she smiles. “But it’s time to change that.”

The switch in him is so quick that she has no time to register it, one hand wraps around her throat, the other grabs the leather belt around her waist and pushes her back. She feels like a ragdoll, almost weightless as he moves her around the room and then spins her around, the hat falling off in the process.

Her face is pressed into the mattress, the obscenely short skirt pulls up exposing her bare center and for a second she wonders how he manages to turn the tables on her so effortlessly. But she knew it would happen, granted she thought she would have gotten a few more minutes but there was no way she was complaining. Especially not when she heard the sound of his belt being pulled through his jeans.

“You had an attitude all day yesterday, baby girl.” He folds his belt in two and gently moves it up a smooth thigh, smiling when Emily’s breathing hitches. “And no matter how cute you look in your little outfit, you’re still going to get a punishment.”

She turns her head on the bed to look be able to look up at him but she doesn’t try to get up.

“I promise to be good.” She says quietly and he laughs, the sound bordering on condescending and her cheeks flare up in response.

“Oh is that right?” He lets the leather stroke down her other thigh then dip between her legs, pressing against the wet heat of her.

“Yes, I promise.” Her hips press back against the leather, the feeling against her clit new and Aaron shakes his head.

“No, I think you’re lying.” He muses and Emily whimpers. “You know what’s going to happen. You’re going to stay still and ask for your daddy’s forgiveness.” His hand tangles in her long hair and he pulls her up so she’s on her hands and knees. “And if you do a good enough job I’m going to fuck you again.”

The filthy grin appears on her face instantly and Aaron shakes his head at her.

“Dirty girl. Open your mouth.” When she does so without question he spits in her mouth and she swallows dutifully.

“Thank you daddy.” She feels him shifting behind her and then let’s go of her hair. She lays her face back down on the bed, preparing herself for the first hit.

The first slap of the belt stings as it lands on one of her cheeks and she jolts slightly.

“I’m sorry daddy.” She whimpers, the words barely out before he strikes her again, this time on the other cheek.

“What are you sorry for?” He asks as the third hit cracks down on the back of her thigh and she cries out.

“For having an attitude.” She tenses just as the fourth hit, this one hard enough that she’ll know she’ll bruise.

“And?” He hits her just as hard the fifth time, enjoying the welts that’s appearing on her pale skin.

“For questioning you.” She jerks away after the sixth hit and Aaron gives her a moment to either stop or get back in position. She takes a few breaths and then bends over again.

“Are you sorry?” He asks and hits her two times, the sound loud as the leather connects to her skin.

“Yes!” She cries out as her muscles start to tremble.

“Are you sorry!?” He says it louder, hits her straight across both cheeks and she whimpers, any other sound stuck in her throat.

“Yes daddy!” She finally gets out and then she hears the sound of the belt falling to the floor and she sighs in relief.

His hand is gentle as he caresses her hip and the outside of her thighs, then up her back under the red fabric of her dress until her breathing has calmed and she’s stopped shaking.

“You did so good baby girl. Daddy’s proud of you.” He whispers gently and Emily relaxes. When she turns over on her back she hisses at the raw feeling of her ass against the bed but she ignores it in favor of being able to look up at him.

Aaron smiles down and kisses her, something he’s intended to be soft and gentle that Emily immediately deepens, hand holding on to the back of his neck. He lays down on the bed and she helps him off with his jeans while he rids himself of his shirt. His hand moves between her legs and finds her slick and ready and he hums in satisfaction.

“Come on baby girl, ride me, let me enjoy this outfit for a bit.” He reaches for the Santa hat and puts it on her and then lays back, eyes roaming over her as she straddles him. She sinks down on him with a low moan and Aaron’s head falls back against the pillows at the feeling. He watches her through heavy-lidded eyes, from the plunging neckline, to creamy things, to her blissed out face. She was a gift wrapped in sin, he was sure of it.

She’s quick to start moving, twisting her grinding on him while his hands are on her hips, not relenting all of his control. Her hand moves down her body and starts rubbing her clit in tight circles, his low grunts only spurring her on. She rocks her hips against his, taking him as deep as possible.

“I’m gonna come daddy.” She mumbles in not time at all, her breathing heavy and his hands tighten on her hips.

“Already?” He grins as she simply nods, hips buckling wildly on top of him, fingers moving faster on her clit. “Do it.” He pushes his hips up, helping her ride out the pleasure as she starts to spasm on top of him, her moans loud and raw as her eyes roll back in her head.

She’s still coming down when he flips them around. They stay like that, Aaron whispering filth in her ear until she’s coming again and then he turns her over and straddles the back of her thighs. The heat from the welts makes him groan and Emily shudders underneath him.

When he comes it’s with a loud groan, bodies sweaty and exhausted, Emily’s dress ruined in scraps on the bed and the floor. He collapses next to her and Emily stays on her stomach, head turned towards him with a lazy grin on her face.

“Thank you daddy.”

“You’re welcome, baby girl.”

A few hours later she’s seated at the dinner table, bruises and welts on her ass that make her want to squirm. Aaron notices, a small smirk tugging on the corner of his mouth while her mother obliviously talks about anything and everything. She locks eyes with Aaron and winks.

It was a very merry Christmas indeed.

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