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[matanvir]

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[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

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[hitlikehammers]

party staples

rating: t ♥️ cw: criminal-levels of softness ♥️ tags: established relationship, rockstar husbands, wedding plans, soul-deep love, slice of life, seriously: the softness

for @steddielovemonth day twenty-one: Love is letting him pick the music (@sparklyslug)

look look it's the rockstar husbands' third wedding! ♥️

He wants this for Steve.

Like, it’s all for Steve. Kind of…not in a way that’s, y’know, where Eddie’s not living for himself, but in the way where who and what he is, the life he has: it’s something he’s woven alongside Steve into this tapestry that’s…that’s them and so every breath he takes is from those threads, right, so all of him, all he has and all he feels and all he does: it’s them, because they’re stitched together not so that you can’t tell the difference, but so that you…you can’t unravel them. They’re too entwined.

And it is glorious.

But so, here’s the thing: they’ve exchanged rings? Twice, now. Maybe kinda-more if you want to get technical: they’d asked each other for forever, though, well—

Technically, Eddie thinks they do that every day. So, fine, but—

They have managed two formal-ish proposals. As formal as you can get if one’s the morning after you moved in together and christened the new bed, with a bread-bag twisty-tie, and the other the night after a graduation from community college with an acceptance to the night educators program in hand from IU East, fresh off the most promising label talks Eddie’s had with anybody ever, and they both just felt it, y’know, like they wanted to mark this as always, that they were growing and changing and their lives were moving and the momentum of them both was the momentum of them both, their life together was this beautiful always they were actively taking steps into, and it was just: they were dizzy with it, they were overfull of it, they were so happy and the only thing they could do was stop at a 7-11 and buy goddamn Ring Pops but they’d laughed and they’d kissed so fucking drenched in that feeling and if Eddie’d ripped off Steve’s gown to the point where it was really good they hadn’t rented it?

Eddie’ll forever pretend that was planned in advance.

Point being: Eddie’d worn Steve’s ring—his grandpa’s, who’d loved Steve right and Eddie wished he’d have known him, if only to tell him thank you—and Steve’s worn a cheap ass band Eddie’s tried to upgrade probably every-other-month for a while now but Steve won’t have it, the sentimental bastards still wears the probably-rusting remains of the twisty-tie—but they’re…they’re already married in every way that matters. So the idea of doing it again? Isn’t…isn’t stressful.

It’s kinda…exciting.

Because they’re going to share this with all their friends, their family. They’re going to bring everyone to their little house when the kids are back from school and Robin and Nance can make it in, hell: Jon just left with the intention to spend the next month roadtripping his way from California for the occasion. They’re making real money, now; the band’s doing more than he ever would have expected, Steve’s beloved—of course he is, as he damn well should be—at school, he’s the kind of counselor Eddie might have made it through senior year the first time with, if he’d had someone that invested, showing that much care for him. They’re…they’re in such a good place, and it’s only looking brighter on the horizons to come, all the way into forever: and that isn’t more than Eddie could have expected.

No: that is more than he ever even knew to hope for, it’s…it’s so much bigger than anything he ever knew existed.

But Robin’s going to officiate. Hopper and Joyce, and Claudia too: they nearly squared off for who could stand up for Steve, not to give him away so much as to hold him close and make sure he knows what he means and Eddie could kiss them for it, because the look in Steve’s eyes when they’d asked if they could share the job, it was…

Eddie might just kiss them all for it, when the day comes. Hopper included.

But everybody: Wayne’ll be there, for him, the boys are coming, gonna play requests for a couple hours, which should be fucking hilarious, and then hand it over to a band Steve insisted they hire so everyone could enjoy the evening, and it’s gonna be in their backyard, with the barbecue and a bonfire, just this mastic joyful potluck and—

“You finish the playlist, so we can send it off? I figure we’ll let the three finalists react to the song selection, might make the decision easier if any of them hate it,” Steve’s leaning over his shoulder and he turns, bumps into Steve’s cheek and Steve ducks his head to kiss Eddie’s jaw: because he was supposed to be finalizing the list for the band that would come on to give Jeff, Dougie, and Gareth the rest of the night off. Because Eddie was the musician, here. Eddie would of course pick the songs.

Except…he’s not the only person who loved music, in this relationship. And…he doesn’t know what specifically makes it so strong, and obvious in his chest, but: Eddie…wants this, for Steve.

He wants to dance to the songs Steve picks, he wants his heartbeat to waltz in time with Steve’s, first-and-foremost-and-always, but then find the rhythms Steve likes most to pick up the downbeat, he…

He wants to drown in Steve, in as many ways as he can find.

So he hands the paper over and pops the pen out of his mouth, which Steve only eyes for the movement, doesn’t even bother chastising him for chewing on the plastic cap anymore, knows to pick his battles: but Eddie hands it over, wordless—an offering, and a request at once:

Let me dance to your music, with you in my arms.

Steve look at him for a long stretch of moments, and his lips are plush around the soft smile that settles on his mouth: contented. So wreathed in love.

He leans in and Eddie’s ready this time, tilts his neck so Steve can kiss him full at the neck, wrapping arms around Eddie’s waist so he can squeeze him close and breath against his jaw:

“I’ve got just the thing.”

And then he’s gone, and Eddie stares after him, just…lost in thought except it’s not lost, even inside his head: he knows exactly where he’s at in his thoughts. Same place he always is.

With Steve.

And then the genuine article is back, grinning a little…not nervous exactly, but something, as he walks over to the stereo and pops the cassette into the deck.

And Eddie raises an eyebrow at him, curious, as he reaches an arm out toward Steve, not really an invitation just a knowing, that Steve will come to him and settle in his lap, in his arms.

Which he does. Because that’s who they are.

“Strings?” Eddie asks as the sound fills the room and Steve just grins, a little bashful; huh. “And piano,” because the keys are swelling on the track and it’s pretty, no, it’s kinda beautiful, but Eddie doesn’t know what it…is.

“Seemed appropriate,” Steve mouths next to Eddie’s ear, warm and kinda almost impish.

“It’s perfect,” Eddie whispers close but what is it, I don’t…” but: oh.

Oh: but he does.

That’s…that’s his music. His song. The band, but this is, he’s—

“Stevie?” he asks, a little breathless, a little wondering because, because—

“I’d kinda hoped you might not fill the whole list,” Steve murmurs, lips pressed against his skin so warm, so firm, so…

Perfect.

Perfect, and it sends the most delightful shivers up Eddie’s spine.

“What,” Eddie starts, shakes his head, feels his cheeks start to ache a little as he smiles bigger and bigger because…this is classical, and this is fucking professional, and it’s goddamn Corroded Coffin, in orchestral…splendor.

“Friend of Robin’s is at Berklee, in Boston,” Steve nuzzles against his neck a little as he explains; “studying composition, I asked if she could,” and he sighs a little, the softest little breath and he drags his lips to catch against Eddie’s skin, wanting nothing from it; almost lazy as he exhales: “just if she could arrange some things.”

Some things, he says, like Eddie’s heart—which was already overfull—isn’t trying to burst not just out of Eddie’s chest, but out of its own size and shape, a glorious tender explosion of just, just…

Feeling.

“I thought we could have someone to play, these,” Steve nods toward the speakers; “and then Dustin said he’d play DJ for, you know. Party staples.”

Eddie leans so he can look Steve in the eye to ask the most important question:

“Love Shack?”

He is not ashamed to say he fucking loves when that song comes on at a wedding. Steve huffs.

“Of course, baby.”

“Van Halen?” and Steve grins. “All sorts of Van Halen,” which is as it should be. Steve wooed Eddie too fucking well with Why Can't This Be Love; “also some George Michael,” and that’s perfect, Eddie doesn’t even care, he just loves the sly grin Steve gets when he says it, wants to eat that grin, if he gets to see that mouth look so soft and happy he can sure as hell appreciate some George fucking Michael; “but if I miss anything, you’ll see it before Dustin gets his paws on it, you can add whatever I overlooked,” and he leans in again, this time claiming Eddie’s lips and Eddie gives willingly, gratefully—as always.

And it settles, all around Eddie in that moment: the way he’d wanted Steve to have this thing that’s so him on the outside, but if it is, then it’s them at its core, like all of it is.

And what did this magnificent bastard go and do, but give Eddie his own songs right back as a��a gift; songs that are all Steve, anyway.

He can’t help the laughter, this buoyant thing with its own velocity: he can’t help but let it shake out of him against Steve’s lips as he kisses him harder, deeper, as he tries to get lost in the feeling, in the reality of this man: his husband.

Because wherever he gets lost? Steve’s right there, always and forever.

He’ll be just fine.

tag list (comment to be added): @pearynice @hbyrde36 @slashify @finntheehumaneater @wxrmland @dreamwatch @perseus-notjackson

♥️

divider credit here

[cheemscakecat]

Missing in Action 7

Chapter 7: Dream Team

Scout doesn’t like the fact that he misses his old man.

TW: Angst

Jeremy was surrounded by his rabid brothers. Frankie, Arthur, Henry and Jonas were all showing off how much better their civilian jobs were, and their wives, and their reading skills. He kept getting long-winded, wordy diplomas and essays shoved in his face and making it hard to breathe. They also would not stop loudly ranting about the stock market and how expensive their weddings were.

Pete, Kevin and Danny were pushing and shoving through the never ending paper and nerd arms, tryin to act like real ****; but he wasn’t paying much attention to them. He was payin real close attention to the fact that they were pressing in on him with their bodies and papers, makin it real Claus-try-fo’-bick. He couldn’t get out of the sweaty ring of siblings who were sucking up all the air just to say how much better they were than him. He was gonna suffocate at this rate.

There was a loud rumbling earthquake, and everyone’s feet lifted off the ground for a second. Then it happened again and again. His brothers scrambled away, which gave him time to breathe, but he wasn’t ready to avoid whatever was makin the earthquakes.

A big pair of fancy shoes -belongin to a giant that was towering up so high you couldn’t see his face- stopped a couple hundred feet in front of him. His brothers did nothing to help him, squawking over their precious paper trophies.

The giant’s big leather gloved hand reached down and pinched the back of Jeremy’s shirt between his pointer finger and thumb, and pulled him up into the air. He was set down in the giant’s other hand, which was cupped a little to keep him from fallin. The first hand also got cupped, in case one wasn’t enough.

The big hands lifted him higher and higher until he was face to face with Spy, who was really freakin big for some reason. Hell, if his brothers had the guts to try and scale one of his legs, it’d probably take them 2 days to reach one of his knees. Assuming they knew anything about rock climbing.

He was being held like… not an egg, people don’t hold eggs like they’re valuable. Maybe like… if Ma or Pauling got shrunk down, and he didn’t want em to get squished? Either way, big Spy started to walk away from the annoying brothers, and Jeremy could breathe pretty well even that high up.

Suddenly he was a little baby again, who had clearly been cryin for a hot minute, because there was snot dripping down his face. Spy plopped down in an armchair and wiped the baby snot off him with a tissue. Then he grabbed a baby blanket and wrapped Jeremy up in it.

It was warm and comfortable, made even better by the fact that he was held up to Spy’s shoulder and small enough to lay his head down in the crook of his neck. He curled up there, not paying any attention to the cigarette smoke smell or his loud toddler brothers running around the living room.

And then he woke up.

It was the second night in a row where he had a stupid dream about Spy being good. This one wasn’t even a memory, and Scout still remembered it in every little detail.

He hated the fact that he kept having these dreams. Spy left him and Ma behind for 20 years, stuck with his annoying gang-rat brothers and the kids at school that loved to boast about their dads. He spent 7 years not telling him the truth. And he was going to let them hang in Teufort without telling him for another 6 months.

And he was gone. Again. After promising he’d be back like a dirty liar. Spy didn’t deserve these rose-tinted dreams. If it was so easy for him to not care about Jeremy after all that, he should stop caring too.

Why’d he have’ta keep caring?

Dream Spy had carried him way better than Saxton Hale. Hale slung him like a cheap bag of potatoes and let him flop around as he galloped through the jungle. Scout felt his hard muscular arm digging into his stomach and almost threw up. And then, he got smacked around like a baseball bat.

But dream Spy wasn’t real, was he? Real Spy left him alone in the jungle like a coward, and Hale grabbed him from there.

Jeremy got up fast and shoved his clothes on. He stalked off towards the training room so he could punch something and stop thinking about it.

He remembered the ride back from the crappy Yeti theme park. Spy sat his stuck up *** right next to him like he didn’t turn invisible and leave him to go through all that.

The door was locked.

Scout was all beat up from being slammed into the Yeti like he wasn’t a human, hitting straight muscle at full force. Medic had patched him up some, but had to focus on Soldier because getting your spine snapped in half was a way bigger issue. His head was pounding and he felt sore all over.

The door was locked.

Spy tapped him on the shoulder, and made sure he was watching. Then he pulled his arm out, balled his hand into a hard fist, and punched himself square in his big nose. Spy’s head snapped against the back of his chair from the force of the blow, and he got a wicked bloody nose out of it.

Stop it.

Scout could hear himself stupidly getting concerned over Spy being hurt. Askin why he did that like it wasn’t a distraction.

Why is this **** door locked?!

“That’s for leaving you with Mr Hale. I’dve let you hit me, but you aren’t at full strength right now.”

“LIAR! It’s an act! It’s all an act with you!” Jeremy slammed his fist into the hard metal training room door and plunked his head against it. He cried out angrily.

“Scout? ‘Re you alright lad?” Demoman was starin at him, and all ready for fight too, since he was suited up with his bombs and safety pads. He must have made it sound like an emergency or somethin.

“Oh hey! Yeah, I uh… sorry.” Demo looked concerned. “‘Eard you had a bad phone call yesterday. The new Spy wouldn’t tell us exactly who it was but eh.. he said not to let ‘em Bostonian guys call ye again.”

Word had spread that fast? Well, new Spy had threatened his brothers with the scarier teammates existing. It made sense he’d want the others on board with what he said.

“Yeah, I um.. I got some crappy brothers. Always stressin Ma.. I think they stole her phone to make that call actually.” Demoman did a double take. “Them Boston brats were yer brothers? Spy said they were right cruel wit ye..” Scout tried to shrug.

“Well, those three are the worst of em.. The gang members. They think they’re real ****, acting like that n makin Ma worry… Y’know?” Truth be told, Jeremy never imagined he’d be sharing this stuff with his teammates; but now that some of the cat was out of the bag, he didn’t seem to have it in him to be secretive.

”Well, me ‘n the rest o’ the team’ ll keep an eye out for ‘nother call like that. None o us want ye to get mocked by losers again. Medic actually volunteered to scare em off if they try another stunt.”

Medic was up in arms about it?! Scout expected Demoman, Engineer and maybe Heavy to be cool with threatening his brothers, but Medic? He felt.. relieved in a way. Even though he knew the team wouldn't fire him now.

————————

None of the teammates were happy about some losers making fun of Scout for not having a dad, but by far the worst reaction came from Medic. He was seething with rage and everyone could see the bloodlust in his eyes. Heavy and Engineer hastily took him to MedBay to calm him down with the doves. Younger Spy looked terrified that he might have sent death on those clowns on the first warning.

Dr Ludvig knew a great deal about loss. He was from Europe after all, the land torn apart by two World Wars. The land of the Lost Generation. He also knew a great deal about his teammates.

Those spoiled American brats didn’t care to know about others and their loss. Not if they knew Scout and still chose to mock his father’s absence. Mikhal had lost his father to the Soviet Regime, had to raise his family. He was better at hiding it, but his rage burned against those boys too. Even if Scout didn’t know it, Spy would not have left him behind again. Heavy’s father wouldn’t have left if he could help it.

Sniper and Demoman’s foster parents wouldn’t have left them if they could help it. Sniper’s wouldn't have wished for him to meet his birth parents if they had known how scummy they were. Demoman’s foster parents wouldn’t have wished his alcoholism or strange, toxic family traditions on him.

Soldier was raised by feral raccoons from the time he was very small to the age of 7. Nobody knew who his parents were; if they’d died tragically or dumped him in the woods. The Americans tried to civilize him and were never very successful at it. It was something he didn’t speak about, but Medic had been curious about why he was not allowed in the military and had an iron stomach.

And then there was war. And the regimes. War that killed young men before they could become fathers, regimes that killed young and old for petty and hateful reasons.

In WWII, Medic targeted the important party members and not their underlings, for a very good reason. Many were brainwashed or pretending to be for their own and their family’s safety. He only wished starvation on the people in charge of the secret death camps, not the random foot soldiers who died as prisoners of war. In America more of them were taken care of well and allowed to live peacefully, in Europe they were not. Not fed well. Never to go home. Hell, Berlin was split down the middle.

The anger Ludvig felt against the three boys from Boston was close to his anger with Classic Team. There was a difference between being forced to be hateful and choosing it of your own free will. He didn’t hate the BLU teams they fought here; that Spy head would have been mutilated if he did. He stayed a mercenary because he knew he was insane and not fit to treat civilians.

But Scout’s enemies were hateful to civilians and their so-called friend by choice. And he hated them for it.

———————-

Antoine made a decision. He felt depression and lowness, but so did the team Scout. The team was missing a Spy and he felt their worry. So as much as he didn’t feel happy, he would pretend. He remembered better times and the silly things he used to do in battle. Today’s battle was too soon after his arrival for him to join; the Admin had not been alerted to him by the desert team.

But Scout -who had hurt his hand punching the locked training room door- and the scary Medic could get their frustrations out in the fight today. And he would be there to play the cheerful one and lighten the mood of the desert team.

Even if it killed him.

[irishhills]

sky

Jane always paints the sky purple. Even when it’s not a sunset or a thunderstorm, even when it’s supposed to be a perfectly temperate Shakespearean day, if Jane Egan painted the sky, it’s going to be purple.

She’s still doing this as late as ninth grade, her first year of high school, in an art class with Mr. Mills, a tough guy who’s sold a couple of paintings and a sculpture. He won’t say for how much, but Jane’s smart enough to know they had to go for pretty cheap. No one sticks around a Catholic high school if they can afford to be anywhere else. At any rate, Mr. Mills always pauses at Jane’s purple skies.

“You a big Hendrix fan?” he asks one day in October, a month and a half into the school year, exactly long enough to know that Jane’s purple sky wasn’t a gimmick.

Jane shakes her head.

“I do like Hendrix,” she says. “But this isn’t an ‘Excuse me while I kiss the sky’ moment.”

“Oh. Well, then … you like Prince?”

“Of course I do. Everybody worth their weight in salt likes Prince. But this isn’t ‘Purple Rain,’ either. Opposite, I think.”

“What’s the opposite of ‘Purple Rain?’”

Jane gestures to her canvas.

“This!” she says, a little too proudly.

Mr. Mills takes a step back and looks. His eyes flicker between the drying canvas and Jane, who feels like she might die, needing approval. She doesn’t know why. She’s had art teachers before, but it seems more important to impress Mr. Mills. Maybe it’s because he used to have a ponytail before the priest at St. Elizabeth made him cut it off. Maybe it’s because he wears a wedding ring, and Jane is desperate to figure out what kind of woman could have married him. She doesn’t have a crush on Mr. Mills. Not that she’s aware of, anyway. It’s not that. It’s something else.

“Jane,” Mr. Mills says, “have you ever seen a purple sky?”

“Sure,” Jane says. “Hasn’t everybody?”

“Maybe. But I mean … did you ever see a purple sky, and it was important to you? Do you remember anything like that, maybe when you were a little kid?”

Jane furrows her brow. Purple sky … purple sky. Pretty common, especially when you live in a place like Michigan. She’s seen purple skies on Lake Michigan when she and her family ride back to shore on the pontoon boat on summer vacation. She’s seen purple skies disappear behind her while she rides down I-94 to pick up her mother from the airport after conferences in Madison, San Francisco, Toronto, Paris, Edinburgh. There was this one time she and her dad went out to Dairy Queen in the summer after he picked her up from a birthday party, just the two of them. Jane was ten then. It was getting late, but Dad didn’t care. The next day was Sunday, and he didn’t have anywhere else to be. He just sat there with Jane and her vanilla soft serve cone, talking about silly birthday party things. He didn’t even care that she had two pieces of cake at the party. The employees at the Dairy Queen had the radio on, and they could hear it from where they sat at the picnic tables. The station played one of Jane’s favorites, “Sugar Town,” followed by one of Dad’s favorites, “And When I Die.” Something for the both of them, he said, and Jane was happy.

She looks at Mr. Mills and shrugs.

“I must have,” she says. “Maybe I’ll paint you a picture about it someday.”

Mr. Mills smiles.

“Sure thing,” he says. “Good work, by the way. Just … vary it a little, would you?”

Jane nods.

“Happy to,” she says.

And for some reason, she’s not lying.

[all-the-things-2020]

Further Along the Way - Chapter One

Sequel to “Finding His Way”

Summary: Now that he has abandoned the Way and is no longer a bounty hunter, Din Djarin and his family deal with an entirely new way of life.

Rating: PG

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Din told Mariana. “We don’t really need a ship anymore, especially a gun ship. Besides, we need the money.”

It was true. Not only was Din no longer a Mandalorian, he was no longer a bounty hunter and they hadn’t had any income for several months. Still, the thought of him selling the Razor Crest made her heart sink. It had been their home for nearly a year now, and the first real home she’d had in over a decade. She knew it was only practical to sell the ship, but it felt like an irrevocable step.

“I can get enough from the sale of the Crest to keep us afloat for awhile,” Din went on. “Definitely long enough for us to find a place to live and for me to find a job. We need to get settled, cyar’ika.” He came up behind her, slipping his arms around her, one hand gently rubbing the small swell of her belly where the baby was growing.

“I know,” she said, leaning back against him. “It’s just … I feel bad that you’re making all the sacrifices in this relationship.”

“I’m not sacrificing anything, Mar’ika,” he insisted.

She turned to face him. “You’ve given up your livelihood, your armor, your religion … I haven’t given up a thing.” She traced the curve of his cheek with her fingertips, lingering when she reached his lips.

He kissed her hand and held her closer. “I never asked you to give up anything,” he said softly. “I never will. I want you to have everything, after the Empire took so much from you.”

She sighed and pressed her forehead against his. “I want you to have everything, too. But you keep giving things up.”

He shook his head. “I have everything I need, right here. You. Ad’ika. Our unborn child. My family. Nothing else matters.”

He stepped back. “I … I was thinking of selling part of the arsenal, as well,” he said.

“No!” She cried.

He shook his head again. “I don’t need that many weapons. I’m done fighting.” He held up a hand to forestall her response. “I’ll keep enough to protect us if need be, but some of those pieces will fetch a good price.”

“Cyar’ika,” she said, sadly. “You don’t have to do this. We’ll get by. I can get a job …”

“No,” he said firmly. They’d had this argument before. Din was adamant that she was not going to look for a job until after the baby was born. It was touching that he was so concerned about her, but frustrating that he seemed to think that she was so fragile. “I’ll sell the ship, and some of the weapons, and that will keep us going. I’ll find work soon enough, and once the baby comes, you’re going back to school.”

She sighed again. “I know you want me to finish my education, and I will, eventually. But first, we need to get financially stable. Kids aren’t cheap, Din.”

“I know that. But you deserve to follow your dreams. And once you do finish a degree, you’ll probably be able to get a much better paying job than I can.” He winked at her and she relented. He was right, of course, but she still felt like she was taking advantage of his devotion.

“Okay, we’ll do this your way,” she said. “But please, my love, don’t give up everything. Keep something for yourself.”

His only answer was to wrap her in a fierce hug and start nibbling on her ear. At that point, she knew she might as well give up. There wasn’t going to be much talking for a while.

*******************************

Din crossed the spaceport, heading for the director’s office. It still felt odd to him to be walking around in public without any armor, and especially without a helmet. He felt naked, even though he was fully clothed. This planet was on the warm side, but he still wore a long sleeved shirt with a high collar. He caught himself fiddling with his wedding ring again and made himself stop. It was the only piece of beskar he still wore, and the smooth surface of the metal was so tempting. This is the past, he told himself firmly. Let it go.

He reached the office and checked in with the receptionist, a Togrutan who handed him a numbered chip and told him in a bored voice to wait until it was his turn. So very different from the days when Din walked into a room and all eyes turned fearfully toward him. Now he was just another guy. Fortunately, there were only a few others waiting to see the director and there were plenty of empty chairs. He settled into one and scanned the room out of habit. He didn’t wear armor anymore, but he still had a small blaster tucked into one boot and a knife in the other. He felt confident that he could handle everyone in the room, even if they all came at him at once, and he allowed himself to relax.

A scruffy looking man was called into the director’s office, and the pert blonde woman who had been chatting with him moved to sit next to Din. She smiled and gave him an appraising look. This was another thing he’d had to get used to. If you showed your face, people actually looked at it, and some of them appreciated the way it looked.

Before she had a chance to open her mouth, he held up his left hand. “Married,” he said.

“Too bad,” she said with a shrug before moving on to sit next to one of the other men in the room. Din supposed he should feel flattered she’d chosen him first, but it still made him feel awkward.

Eventually, his number was called and he went into the director’s office. She was a no-nonsense woman with steel grey hair and a clipped accent. “What can I do for you, Mr….”

“Djarin.” She gave him a curt nod. “I have a ship I’d like to sell. I wanted to make sure I follow the proper procedures.”

“What docking bay is this ship in?”

“6R-32.”

She tapped her datapad and raised an eyebrow. “Very impressive. I wouldn’t have taken you for the gun ship type, Mr. Djarin. This should fetch a nice price, provided there aren’t too many repairs needed. Are you looking to sell it on the legit market, or are you open to more questionable buyers?” She sat back and looked him straight in the eye. Definitely the no-nonsense type.

“I need the money,” he said. “I’m open to any good offer.”

“Good,” the director nodded. “I’ll put out some feelers, post the specs on the spaceport bulletin board, and we’ll see what we can do for you. Of course, I expect a commission if I broker a deal.”

“Of course,” Din replied. He knew how to play this game. “Ten percent?”

“Thirty.”

“Twenty.”

“Twenty-five.”

“Done.” He shook her hand. Even with a twenty-five percent commission, her contacts would bring him a higher price than he could have gotten by approaching potential buyers on his own.

He stood to leave, but turned back. “I do have a few other items that might be of interest to the type of buyer you’re talking about,” he said.

The director leaned back in her chair, steepling her hands. “Do tell,”

He gave her a brief rundown of the weapons he was willing to part with. “My, my, you are full of surprises,” she said with a smile. “Bounty hunter?” He simply nodded. “May I ask why you’re giving up the trade?”

He fingered his ring again. “It’s not the best job for a man with a family,” he said quietly.

The director stood up and held out her hand. “Twenty percent,” she said. When he gave her a questioning look, she shrugged. “I have a soft spot for men who don’t walk out on their responsibilities. Long story.”

“Twenty percent,” Din agreed, shaking her hand again. “And your pick of the weapons.”

She smiled broadly. “I like your style, Mr. Djarin.”

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Price: Show Price (as of [price_update_date] - Details) To calculate the overall star rating and percentage breakdown by star, we don’t use a simple average. Instead, our system considers things like how recent a review is and if the reviewer bought the item on Amazon. It also analyzed reviews to verify trustworthiness. Department ��� : ‎ Womens Date First Available ‏ : ‎ March 16, 2022 ASIN ‏ : ‎ B09VS4QSK6 PURE 925 STERLING SILVER - Handcrafted of 925 sterling silver to give your jewelry a brilliant shine. Sterling silver is hypoallergenic and nickel-free making this jewelry a great choice for individuals with very sensitive skin. Unlike cheap metals, sterling silver does not irritate your skin and with proper care, will last a lifetime. Bracelet 1/4" wide (6.8mm). 4mm thick. Polished and domed on both sides. Strong and secure lobster clasp closure. MADE IN ITALY - Italian jewelry is much more than a fashionable and elegant choice. Its rich history formed a people who strongly value creativity and passion. With a high demand for luxury Italian jewelry, early artisans paved the way for the superior design and quality craftsmanship still used today. High quality standards for fine jewelry in Italy are unmatched by any other country in the world making this a solid investment. Miabella jewelry is authenticated with a 925 ITALY trademark. PERFECT GIFT FOR HER - Stylish bracelet with a sense of luxury for the modern woman who values beautiful Italian craftsmanship. Its unique personal design makes a chic statement and is the perfect gift for mom, daughter, wife, sister, aunt, niece, best friend, girlfriend, for you. Give her a versatile and gorgeous gift she is sure to love! VISIT OUR STORE: For a selection of 18K gold over silver and sterling silver bracelets, necklaces, rings, hoops, stud earrings and Lira coin jewelry. GIFT BOX INCLUDED - Miabella jewelry is shipped in an elegant gift box, ready to treat yourself or a loved one for any anniversary, birthday, wedding, graduation, Christmas, Mother’s Day, Valentine’s Day and any other holiday or special occasion gifting. From cool modern to classic vintage, Miabella offers high quality affordable sterling silver jewelry for women and men, comfortable for everyday wear and for all occasions. 30-day, 100% money-back guarantee..

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Price: Show Price (as of [price_update_date] - Details) To calculate the overall star rating and percentage breakdown by star, we don’t use a simple average. Instead, our system considers things like how recent a review is and if the reviewer bought the item on Amazon. It also analyzed reviews to verify trustworthiness. Department ‏ : ‎ Womens Date First Available ‏ : ‎ March 16, 2022 ASIN ‏ : ‎ B09VS4QSK6 PURE 925 STERLING SILVER - Handcrafted of 925 sterling silver to give your jewelry a brilliant shine. Sterling silver is hypoallergenic and nickel-free making this jewelry a great choice for individuals with very sensitive skin. Unlike cheap metals, sterling silver does not irritate your skin and with proper care, will last a lifetime. Bracelet 1/4" wide (6.8mm). 4mm thick. Polished and domed on both sides. Strong and secure lobster clasp closure. MADE IN ITALY - Italian jewelry is much more than a fashionable and elegant choice. Its rich history formed a people who strongly value creativity and passion. With a high demand for luxury Italian jewelry, early artisans paved the way for the superior design and quality craftsmanship still used today. High quality standards for fine jewelry in Italy are unmatched by any other country in the world making this a solid investment. Miabella jewelry is authenticated with a 925 ITALY trademark. PERFECT GIFT FOR HER - Stylish bracelet with a sense of luxury for the modern woman who values beautiful Italian craftsmanship. Its unique personal design makes a chic statement and is the perfect gift for mom, daughter, wife, sister, aunt, niece, best friend, girlfriend, for you. Give her a versatile and gorgeous gift she is sure to love! VISIT OUR STORE: For a selection of 18K gold over silver and sterling silver bracelets, necklaces, rings, hoops, stud earrings and Lira coin jewelry. GIFT BOX INCLUDED - Miabella jewelry is shipped in an elegant gift box, ready to treat yourself or a loved one for any anniversary, birthday, wedding, graduation, Christmas, Mother’s Day, Valentine’s Day and any other holiday or special occasion gifting. From cool modern to classic vintage, Miabella offers high quality affordable sterling silver jewelry for women and men, comfortable for everyday wear and for all occasions. 30-day, 100% money-back guarantee..

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𝓁𝑒𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒹𝑒𝓋𝒾𝓁 𝑜𝓊𝓉 | ꪑ.ꪑ.

fandom marvel

featuring matt murdock x reader (f)

rating NSFW / MINORS DNI / DARK FIC

content warning CNC (consensual nonconsent), roleplaying, dark!elements, matt losing control, unprotected sex, threats, breath play, semi public play, impact play, brief blackout, creampie kink, oral sex (f), use of a safe word, aftercare

summary the best way to keep his conscience in check is to let him stray every now and then. no one seemed to understand that but you.

word count 5k (yikes, sorry) / one shot

attention not proofread. do not read if you don’t like dark!fics (duh) because i’m not responsible for your media consumption and this fic contains consensual non consensual sex acts & abusive behavior! do not copy/repost/translate. reblog / give feedback. divider by @firefly-graphics !

“Look,” you exhale slowly, twisting the golden band on your ring finger as you consider the easiest way to let him down, “no offense but I—“

“You’re waiting on someone?” he asks, brows arching above the rounded edge of his dark glasses. “Husband, maybe, judging by the way you keep fidgeting with that ring. I’m guessing it’s a wedding band.”

you sigh, and nod, but answer quietly. “I’m married, but,” you glance around the bar, scanning each face, before your gaze falls on him again. the man on the stool beside you, his arm resting on the bar top, thick digits rimming the lip of his beer bottle. “My husband— he doesn’t exactly know that I’m here. It doesn’t matter, really, just looking to be left alone tonight.”

his smile remains, as if it’s been painted on his lips. he tilts his head to one side, as if he’s intrigued, or perplexed, by this new information. “He doesn’t know where you are?” a breathy chuckle escapes his grinning countenance, and it sends a shiver down your spine. “Don’t you think that’s a little dangerous? A girl like you?”

your eyes narrow, and you hiss, somewhat defiantly. “A girl like me? A girl like me can take care of herself, keep that in mind.”

“Oh, I’m sure you can.” he answers smoothly, the arrogance that has you gritting your teeth as his smile contorts into a flippant expression as he shrugs, “Didn’t mean anything by it, you just seem sweet. Your voice is soft and kind,” there’s a subtle twitch in the left corner of his mouth that you take note of, before he adds, “but I suppose that you’ve gotten good at lying to men, haven’t you?”

staring at him incredulous, you scoff, “Just what the fuck do you know about me, anyways? I—“

“I know you’re in some sleazy bar late at night, and that your husband doesn’t know where you are.” he leans close, as if whispering a terrible secret, his palm finding your bare thigh and rubbing firm circles, “I know you’re wearing a dress too short to be wanting to be left alone, and cheap perfume that you don’t mind wasting, drenching yourself in to… cover up the scent of the man you plan on cheating on your husband with. Should I keep going?”

“No.” you snap, fed up with the glaringly obvious truths spilling from his lips, “no. You should get up and walk away. Right now.”

this is the moment his aura shifts, the air between the two of you seems to thicken with tension and you can see his jaw working as he grinds his teeth. it’s almost intimidating, but you try not to seem too disturbed by it, clearing your throat, you turn back towards your nearly-empty glass, kicking your leg in hopes to shake his hand free of your thigh.

“It’s not going to fucking happen.”

the weirdest part about him was that he stayed. sure, he put some distance between the two of you, but merely moved to one of the tables in the corner. and that’s where he sat, drinking, waiting. you could swear that the man didn’t plan on leaving until you did, so you tested your theory.

you stayed until last call.

and the man did, too. he hadn’t talked to anyone else after you, just sat at the table and ordered beer after beer.

just as the bartender swaggered over to you, flipping a rag over his shoulder, you felt a body breeze past you from behind— it was his cologne. you turned on the stool to see him leaving the bar, silently, and taking careful steps, guided by a nearly rhythmic tapping of the white cane in front of him. you felt a wave of relief upon watching him leave— not that he seemed necessarily dangerous (just a massive prick), but you couldn’t explain the jitters you felt when his hand rested on your thigh. pensive, you run your fingertips over the affected area.

“All right, lady.” the bartender huffs, “You ain’t gotta go home, but ya can’t stay here.”

snapping back to the present, you nod, gathering your things and pulling yourself to your feet. “Oh! Right, sorry.” nibbling on your bottom lip, you settle your tab and exit the bar with a couple of late-night stragglers.

you hadn’t been expected the rain. a steady shower that had started sometime after you’d went inside, and now you’re standing in the middle of it, soaking from head to toe, and wishing you brought an umbrella.

you fish in your clutch for your phone to order an Uber, but think better of it. a cab, instead. there was one approaching from over the hill and you take a step forward, extending your arm to wave it over.

that’s when he grabs you.

one palm clamps over your mouth hard, whilst the other plants itself firmly on your midsection, hoisting you off the sidewalk and away from the street. your first instinct is to scream, a muffled sound drowned out by the rain. your next was to fight. you thrash wildly against your attacker, kicking until one of your heels flies off and lands in a mud puddle he drags you by, your arms flailing in attempts to reach his face. when they do, you feel thick, soaked fabric over his eyes, and no matter how you try to sink your nails in, you can’t seem to get a grip. the man drags you into the alleyway by the bar’s employee exit with you protesting violently the whole way. finally, he grunts when you grasp his cheek, and jerks it away, before flinging you on to your back on the metal door of the dumpster.

wheezing loud through his tightly sealed fingers, you arch your back, eyes fluttering as you feel every bit of wind knocked from your lungs. his hand is tight over your mouth but he leans close to your face. even in the rain, you recognize the scent of his cologne. the man from the bar, but he’s certainly dressed different. clad in all black, he appears as a wicked shadow of the suit-wearing asshole he was before. your eyes squint, blinking rapidly as raindrops blur your vision ever so slightly, but you’re glaring up at him, screaming obscenities through his palm and kicking your legs.

“You’re going stop screaming,” he mutters, lips hovering dangerously close to your cheek, “so I can take my hand off your mouth, or I’m going to have to make you be quiet. Understand?”

fuck him. fuck him!

you only howl louder against his hand, both hands latching on to his wrist. your nails bite at the thickness of his gloves, but you can’t tell if they actually go through.

his free hand comes down in a tight, strong fist and strikes the metal inches from your skull, a bang as loud as a gunshot making your ears ring. a strangled whimper dies in his palm, dizzy from the noise and grateful that you had narrowly avoided being hit hard enough to produce that kind of sound.

“I said you’re going to stop screaming.” he repeats. his fist must’ve been throbbing, but he didn’t let any discomfort reach the stoicism of his countenance, or what you could see of it— “Now, scream again, and maybe my aim gets a little better. Understand?” the grip over your mouth has his clothed digits digging into the flesh of your cheeks, and he uses the leverage to nod your head for you. “I’m going to take it off, now, and you’re going to behave.”

he does, and you follow his rules, for now. huffing, you attempt to suck in as much, burning oxygen as you can, sputtering raindrops.

“Smart girl.” he seems pleased, or at least approves of your cooperation, and he snatches the purse from your shoulders, tearing it open.

panting, you prop one elbow into the rusted metal you’re lain upon to try and push yourself up. “So what, you want.. money? Take it, Jesus. Could’ve just snatched my purse from the street.”

“I don’t want your money.”

and, you watch him punctuate that statement by emptying the contents of your purse on to the concrete, sparkling like night stars. a small handgun, compact mirror, cellphone, wallet.

“Then what the fuck do you want?”

his hand latches on to one of your ankles, yanking you to the very edge of the dumpster so abruptly that you lose your balance and fall back against it with a soft grunt. “I want to give you what you want.” he murmurs, gripping both of your knees to pry them open. no matter how hard you try to close them, he’s much too strong to compete with, and he forces them wide enough for him to step between with ease. “What you were looking for the moment you stepped foot into that bar dressed the way you did.”

you dig your knees into his ribs from either side with a furious snarl. “No!” you exclaim, pushing yourself up again to throw both of your arms in his direction. he lays a palm flat against your sternum and overpowers you with ease, holding you down with your spine flush against the dumpster. he was so goddamn strong, you remember thinking, that fighting against him was practically useless. “I don’t want this,” you hiss, and he uses his teeth to pull the glove off of his free hand and discard it beside your writhing frame, “I don’t want this.”

“If it makes you feel any better, you can keep repeating that mantra,” he murmurs, his now bare hand delving between your open thighs to find the warmth that lives there. fist curling around the thin fabric of your panties, with one jerk, he’s torn them from your body with a horrible sound echoing around you. he grunts low, like a beast, when he finds it; the rough pads of his digits worm their way underneath your delicate nether lips, and for the first time, you see a grin etch his lips upward, flashing pearly white teeth, “but your pussy’s wet, you know. Drenched, actually.” wrist craning, his thumb presses hard on your button like he knows exactly where to find it and you suppress a needy moan, hips rocking to try and escape his filthy caress. “Been that way since I told you that it was dangerous being out here alone. I could smell your juicy cunt in the bar, you know that? Even from across the damn room, I could feel the warmth radiating from it, fucking needy, little pussy. Tell me I’m mistaken.”

even with the chill of the raindrops on your face, the apples of your cheeks burn with humiliation. had you truly been turned on at the prospect of danger, or was this masked man full of shit? you couldn’t remember properly, like everything before his hand between your hips was a distant memory. his first, two digits tease your clenching hole before he pushes them in and hooks them there, like an anchor inside of your body. the moan escapes you now, tearing through your tightly pursed lips like a bat out of hell. “You’re mistaken…” you murmur, but the excited fluttering of your walls against his fingers gives you away.

“And you’re a bad liar.”

his fingers dive deeper, curling every few centimeters or so, and you grit your teeth, your own hand covering your mouth to prevent any more moaning. still, it was hard to deny how good it felt, the skillful prodding of his digits. “Goddamn, that’s a tight, little hole.” his breathing had become somewhat ragged, like he’d been running a marathon, but only after he got to feel you. it was you that was making him this way, pant and grunt and dig his fingers into the fabric of your dress where he still held you down. “Just begging to get stuffed full of dick, isn’t that right?”

you shudder, body aching at every syllable as it hangs in the air around you. your legs tremble against his taut frame, looking up at him with a bleary gaze. allowing your hand away from your mouth, you push against the wrist that plants his palm firmly on your chest, “Don’t—“

but the sound of the zipper whirring makes your head spin. puts you on edge. you squirm until you’re partially crumpled on the lid of the dumpster, neck craned as far as it will without pain to see him retrieving himself from the fabric prison of his inky trousers. even in the blur of the rain, the dim lighting of the barren alley, you see it. thick and heavily veined, already rock hard and throbbing. ready to fuck you into an oblivion like you’ve never experienced before. the thought makes your stomach turn, for all the wrong reasons.

temporarily stunned, you don’t even realize that his hand has slipped from your chest and, instead, cradles the back of your neck, urging you forward.

“I gotta feel that tight cunt wrap around my cock right fucking now,” his words are an exhale, a spectral version of a statement that has goosebumps raising over your arms and legs, “be a good girl and take it.”

the force at which he enters you is astounding. if you weren’t so wet, it might have even hurt. you suck in a whimper that was threatening to fill the air between the two of you as he bottoms out, swelling your canal to max capacity with a single thrust.

“That’s it,” he moans, jaw clenched tight, he hauls you closer to his body, slumped in a forced sitting position with your legs swinging helplessly at his hips, “that’s good.” his grip on the back of your neck seems to tighten, pushing you closer to him as if he couldn’t get deep enough to satiate his lust for the destruction of your cunt.

you mewl, lewdly so, and slam the sides of your fists against the broad expanse of his solid chest. the fabric that clings to it makes a slick thudding, like the sound you may hear if you jumped on a wet trampoline. “You can’t!” you protest, choking back sounds of pleasure that so desperately wish to assure him that he most certainly can, “You can’t do this! Stop! Stop—“

the familiar sensation of his thick palm clamping over your lower mandible returns to shut you up, only this time, his thumb and forefinger pinch your nostrils closed at the same time. “I said I needed your cunt, never said anything about your mouth—“ he grunts, his rutting finding a violent pace as he jackhammers himself into you. you dig your nails deep into the sleeve that covers his forearm, wriggling helplessly as the masked devil takes you. “I’ll take it, too, when I’m done wrecking this sweet, little fuckhole, but hush up until then.” your eyelids flutter, lungs burning from the lack of oxygen reaching them. he doesn’t seem to care, though you get the feeling he’s aware, and he shifts, positioning you like a rag doll, with one of your legs thrown over his bicep so he can force it back towards your chest when he leans forward, opening you up for a more thorough plowing.

the angle gives his throbbing length access to new depth, and the swollen head of his cock batters your insides with reckless abandon. “Yeah,” he spits, husky and starving in your ear, “Yeah. Dick’s way deep in that pussy, isn’t it?” he can feel the vibration of your sobs of protest melding into helpless moans of ecstasy. “I know you like it, sweet girl, I can tell by the way you’re gripping me right now— holy hell, what is it? Hubby doesn’t fuck you hard enough? That why you’re here, throwing yourself into the water like a piece of fuckmeat, and waiting to see what shark is gonna come up and take the bait?” you gurgle in response, lids heavy but you force them to stay open, sinking your teeth into the glove. it wouldn’t be enough, you realized, it probably didn’t even hurt. but you were in a whirlwind of sensation, your belly churning as your walls milk his girth. he grunts, gasping for a proper breath as he keeps yours nonexistent, his lips smearing saliva and raindrops over your cheek before he snarls, “Fuck, fuck, fuck—“ the expletives sound especially sinful when uttered in that coarse whisper, broken into base syllables, edged by the pleasure of hurting you. by smothering you.

smothering. the word rings true as your lungs ache and yearn for oxygen, you start to jerk and squirm, hoping to -at least- break a gap between his fingers to suck air through, but he holds you tight and close to his heaving chest, your forehead smashed against it. “You wanna breathe, sweet girl?” he teases wickedly, plumbing your depths with a ferocity that had to be unique to him. “Because I’ll let you, all you gotta do is cum for me, first. You’re close already, I know it—“ he groans, his jaw tight, “I can hear your heartbeat, fast like a scared little bunny, and feel how tight your little pussy is getting around me, you’re gonna cum so fucking hard, huh? Even harder because you can’t breathe.”

he’s right. heavens, is he right! your climax washes over you like a tidal wave, pulls you to the depths of ecstasy like an undertow. you thrash like you’re drowning, screaming muffled through his hand until your throat is raw and sore, and you see white specks, like stars dancing about him. darkness burns the edges, vision like vingette as you quiver, locked in place. “That’s it, good girl,” he huffs, forcing you to ride through your orgasm, “give me a nice, big one. Just… like… that…”

dizzy is no longer a strong enough word to express how you feel. you’re beyond dizzy, you’re weightless. you’re floating through space, directionless, helpless, and utterly broken. your grip loosens on his wrist, only slightly, and he reacts in turn, releasing your mouth and nose to strike your cheek in rapid slaps, bringing you back into the consciousness you’d been slipping out of. “Come back, sweet girl, come on. Not, ah, not done with you, not yet.”

the breath you take almost feels like the first one. it’s new and it burns all the way down, you sputter and spew rain drops, choking on sweet oxygen when you come to, eyes wide and trying to adjust. you flail in his grip, temporarily disoriented and scared, until he hooks that one leg over his shoulder and grips the back of your neck with both hands, fingers interlacing against your nape, forcing your chin towards your flouncing breasts.

“I want you to watch,” he pants, ragged and needy, in your ear, “watch me fuck your little cunt and tell me what you see.”

you’ve no choice with the way he’s pressing your chin into your chest. you moan but it’s a strangled, frustrated sound. “I—“ you pause, pursing your lips to try and kill a whine of pleasure; it doesn’t work, “I—I see your cock going in and out of me!” sucking in another breath, your eyes are glued to the vividly obscene display where your bodies connected, “And, fuck, you’re going deep-p— my— I came all over it!”

he’s buried his face in your neck, sucking on the tender skin and teasing your pulse point with his teeth to muffle his own, needy moans. “Yeah?” he asks, “Is your clit nice and swollen? Aching?”

you bite down on your lower lip, “Y—yeah…!”

he inhales deep, teeth grazing your collar bone, rutting more erratically. “Play with it.”

you shudder at even the thought of touching the screaming bundle of nerves. “I can’t— I’m too sensitive!” you protest, shaking your head.

“Not gonna tell you again,” he huffs, “rub your greedy pussy for me.” his jaw tightens, and you can feel his member palpitating deep inside you. “Shit, I need to feel you cum again.”

you try to look at his face, adjust your body so you can see the muscles in his jaw pulled tight, or at least so you could see something other than your body swallowing his cock like you were starved for it. one, trembling hand approaches your sex with caution, fingers prodding experimentally at your clitoris. the slightest poke sends electricity through your veins, and you let out a pathetic, little squeak.

“Keep going.”

you swallow hard around a lump in your throat but obey, rubbing your nub harder and quicker. you groan, half in pleasure and half from how sensitive you were— how it almost hurt to touch yourself now.

“Ah, fuck,” he moans in your ear, heavy breath sending chills down your spine, “you’re getting tight again. Heart beat kicking up. I bet you feel that churning in your belly, don’t you? Don’t stop, sweet girl, make yourself cum on my cock one more time.”

you hated that he was right; loathed that the constant decimation of your sex and the new stimulation has brought on a second orgasm. you convulse, eyes rolling back when you cum for the second time in a matter of minutes, this one hitting you much harder than the first. expletives spill from your swollen lips and tangle within labored breathing; your hips jut forward to meet the violence of his rutting, to accept the battering he deals you with a masochistic lust.

“I’m close. Real close.” you could already tell by the way his moans had turned into hisses of breath, and how he throbs inside of you, but hearing him say it only extended your orgasm for another few seconds. “I’m gonna cum— gonna fill you up, sweet girl.”

you didn’t even have time to protest.

warmth engulfs your interior, spreading through your belly like a wildfire, and he buries his face in the crook of your neck, his moans muffled and vibrating the flesh of your throat.

several seconds pass.

you can feel his seed oozing from the join of your bodies, sticking to your thighs and smearing over his pants, and he stays there, getting his breathing under control, while he deposits what seems like years of pent up sexual frustration into your guts. after what seems like a lifetime of aftershocks shared between the both of you, he retreats, using one hand to pull himself free while the other holds your nape, flinging you off of the dumpster and on to the concrete below. you land on your feet, but your knees are like jelly, and you melt to the wet ground shortly after, panting, wheezing. looking up at him, looming over you, you can see that his cock is twitching madly, but his grip on it is tight, thumb massaging the protruding vein. was he… was he stroking himself back to life?

aware that going another round with this man meant your willpower would be completely shattered, you roll yourself on to your knees and look around, heart beating fast and hard against your ribs. you catch sight of your phone, a few feet away, and scramble towards it, extending your hand for it. you were so close that the tips of your fingers brushed across the screen and it lit up, the words FACE ID NOT RECOGNIZED USE PASSCODE flashing.

then, you feel his hands in your hair. delving deep against the roots, he yanks hard, and your back arches, knees digging into the gravel. “Ah!” it’s partially a cry of frustration, and partially a startled gasp.

“You thought we were done?” he asks, chest heaving as he drops to his own knees behind you. the grip on your scalp keeps your head forward, tilted back, and he wedges his knees between yours, forcing them wide open again. you moan, helpless and weak, when you feel the rain mixing with his cum on your thighs, more oozing out of you. “We’re not done.”

“Please!” you whine; you know how pathetic and tiny you must sound to him, but you can’t help yourself. “I can’t cum again! I just can’t!”

“Sure you can, sweet girl,” he scoffs, every word laced with acid, “I’m gonna make it easy for you.” he leans in close to your sex, inhaling the concoction of scents. yours and his, before licking a thick stripe between your nether lips. you squeal, trying to crawl forward to escape the tingling in your toes and the throbbing of your clit, but his grip is too strong. “I’m gonna fuck you with my tongue until you beg me to stop.”

your thighs quaking, you mewl and babble and beg him to let you rest, to stop this torture of never ending orgasms, but he’s too deep between your thighs to listen. his tongue dives into your abused hole, slurping on his own taste as well as your desire. he nibbles on your folds, one hand planted firm on your ass cheek with his fingers dug in deep. you reach for the phone again, and groan when you see that it’s just out of the way, the very tips of your digits can only just ghost over the home button. the visage of salvation just beyond your fingertips, leaving you at the mercy of the man in black taunts you.

his couplet encases your clit in warm, tongue swirling around it, and you can feel the stubble on his jaw rubbing you raw. your whole body is shaking so violently that you’re forced to brace yourself with both palms on the concrete. “I can’t,” you moan, desperate, “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t…” those two words are repeated over and over as he devours your core, another orgasm fast approaching. you were at your limit. you were done.

“Silver,” you whisper, breathless, and you feel him stop and pull away from you. “Silver, Matty, silver.”

your name falls from his lips. not sweet girl. your name. he releases your hair, but his palm falls to caress your face as he crawls up to kneel at your side. you rest your fiery cheek against the bare palm and look up at him— his mouth is sparkling with your arousal coating that and his jaw, but his lips are pulled downwards in a concerned frown. “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

“No, I’m fine. Just really sensitive, now.” you assure him, grabbing on to his arm with both hands to haul yourself into a sitting position, “I just—“ you tilt your head, shaking digits pushing the black mask from over his eyes. those gentle eyes. then, you cradle his face in both hands and guide his lips to yours in a soft peck. “Take me home, yeah?”

“Baby?”

“Hmm?” you hum, softly, running your fingers through Matt’s freshly washed, damp tendrils as he rests his head in your lap. the two of you had been curled up on the couch in that spot since after your shower together, where you took turns washing one another carefully. it was somewhat of a routine, and one that assured him that he had done no real damage to you during the session.

he turns his head, resting the back of it against your thigh. you pause, before brushing along his scalp near the top of his ear instead. he looks up towards the ceiling, hand reaching for your face. your free hand gently guides it to your cheek, and you nuzzle into the caress. “Why do you do this?”

“Do what?”

“All of it. The game, the safewords… why?” he doesn’t seem disappointed or angry, but merely confused. “No one’s ever really done anything like this with me… For me.”

you tilt your head, thoughtfully twirling a damp lock of his hair around your forefinger. “You told me before, that you had the devil inside of you.” he nods, still not getting it. “Well,” you start, watching his countenance carefully, “The devil’s like a dog trapped inside. And if you never let a dog out of the house, they rip up furniture, eat things they’re not supposed to. They destroy things because they’re bored, understimulated.”

“So, what you’re saying is that all of this is you metaphorically taking the devil inside me for a walk?” his brow quirks, and he chortles lowly in amusement.

you scoff, shaking your head. “Not exactly, and thanks a lot, you just screwed up my metaphor.” your fingertips glide over his scalp and towards his forehead, drawing soft, loving circles about his temple, “Every now and then, the devil needs to be let out, needs to breathe and run. If we keep him stimulated in a safe environment, there isn’t any need for him to destroy, is there?”

Matt cocks his head to the side, “But who says it’s all that safe? I could hurt you one of these nights.” his voice lowers as he says it, as if simply uttering the words brought a sadness over him.

you arch your eyebrows, “You would never hurt me, Matthew Murdock.” sinking your teeth into your lower lip, you turn your head to press your lips to his fingers, kissing the golden band on one of them in particular, “I wouldn’t have married you if I didn’t trust you.”

“And if I don’t trust myself?”

“Then, trust me.” you murmur against it, “Trust me.”

he seems pensive for a moment, and is quiet as he thinks. “All right, I trust you, baby.” he smiles, letting go of your cheek to instead pat his lips with the pad of his forefinger twice. it was his way of telling you to kiss them. you do as instructed, leaning over to press your couplet to his, and you smile into the embrace. “Mm… even though you go to sleazy bars in town late at night without telling me.”

a giggle bubbles, uncontrollably, out to break the kiss and you nip at his lower lip with a playfully thoughtful hum, “Well, I guess that means you just need to fuck me more, Mr. Murdock.”

“Oh?” he chuckles, too, and sits up, turning to angle your chin up towards him with his forefinger curled beneath it. the pad of his thumb runs over your lower lip, and he grins wide. “I think I can do that, Mrs. Murdock.”

[radiowallet]

All Tied Up

Summary: Frankie and you take care of Marcus for the night. (Part of the Like a River ‘verse. Timeline wise this is well into their relationship.)

Pairing: Marcus Moreno x F!Reader x Frankie Morales

WC: 4.1K

Warnings: Explicit, Established polyam relationship, m/f/m dynamics, BDSM, rope play, anal play, kissing, handjobs, praise kink, m/m dynamics, vaginal intercourse.

This fic is very much dedicated to my beautiful, talented, lovely, always kind @honestly-shite on their birthday. Happiest birthday to you, my sweet Maia! I know this is early but I'm horrid with dates and honestly, what's wrong with spending the whole entire week celebrating one of the best people I know!

Maia- You are kind and supportive and funny as hell, and you never ever fail to make me smile! Happy Birthday! I love you so fricking much!

It had started as teasing- light and frothy- passed back and forth between the three of you where you were curled into a booth at the back of Sam’s bar. The Miller boys were long gone for the night, both begging off with the excuse of an early morning, but the three of you stayed, something about the sparsely filled bar, the cheap beer and the late hour weaving some sort of silly magic into words. You and Frankie were tipsy at best, teetering on the edge of drunk, still needling Marcus with the nickname Benny had gifted him earlier in the night.

They had dubbed him Boy Scout and Marcus had shouldered the jokes with his natural ease, laughing off as the table quizzed him on merit badges and campouts and rope tricks, all of which he had zero experience in. Buoyant smiles were traded back and forth but Frankie didn’t miss it; the way Marcus’s heart rate picked up when his thick fingers circle his wrist just as you teased from across the table about knot tying. It’s quick, a small, sharp pull of air into his lungs, the smile stuttering on his cheeks before stretching wide into a bark of a laugh, but it was enough of a reaction to send Frankie’s mind into overdrive. 

The night ended in a tangle of limbs and laughter, one of many the three of them had grown so used to over the past year, but Marcus’s reaction remained at the forefront of Frankie’s mind, alongside the image of his hand wrapped around his wrist, the press of his thumb firm on his rapid-fire pulse. He wasn’t sure if you had seen it for yourself; the dark bark and flow of alcohol placed a haze around the jokes, but he had been wrong. Your eyes were sharp, your mind quick. You never missed a step.

In fact you’re the first one to bring it up, two nights later, as casual as ever, always patient with the two men, never one to shy away from helping them find their way. Both girls are away for the night, an unspoken promise of something always lingering around nights like this. There’s the smell of tomatoes cooking with garlic and a bottle of wine split three ways, and you take one small sip before looking at Marcus where he’s carefully chopping basil into perfect little ribbons.  

“So, ropes?”

His hands still and his cheeks tinge pink, and Frankie can’t help but smile over the rim of his glass. It’s hard not to as he takes in the other man, plush lips and coffee brown eyes taking up space beside him. He always provides that little extra sweetness the two of you crave, tempering out the bitter notes of two ex-soldiers with more than their fair share of baggage. Marcus has his own darkness tucked aside, two wedding rings nestled in a velvet box on his side of the bed, but his hardships didn’t squash the light in him, and Frankie is so grateful they were able to coax that brightness back out. 

When he glances across the kitchen at you, you’re matching his smile cheek for cheek, eyes pinned to Marcus. 

He coughs, starts chopping again, and nods his head. Slowly, a smile paints across his lips, and between slices of the blade he speaks up. “Yeah…I…I would like that…I mean,” he sighs, putting the knife down with an air of finality, picking up a towel and absentmindedly wiping at his hands.

“I spend all day looking out for everyone else. ‘Save them.’ ‘Go here.’ ‘Say this.’ Sometimes it’d be nice if…if someone would…if they could take care of…” He shrugs again, losing his nerve as quick as he found it, dropping the towel and picking the knife back up and focusing his energy on the barely recognizable herbs. His brows are bunched beneath the thick rim of his glasses, his normally steady hands shaking. 

Frankie parses through his words, picking them up and rearranging them until he finds the meaning. It’s not that he’s surprised Marcus Moreno wants to be dominated- all three of them have the capacity for give and take in all aspects of their relationship- but he assumed it was about control; the loss of it; the need to have it stripped away. But that was how Francisco Morales’s brain clicked; that was what he needed. For Marcus it was something in a different color, a lighter shade; familiar and easy to recognize, the taste sweet and gentle on the tip of his tongue.

He just wants to be taken care of. 

Frankie crosses the kitchen and touches Marcus’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting it up slowly until they are eye to eye. “Can you use your words, baby?”

He swallows around nothing, still smiling, glancing at you then back at him, stalling for courage and Frankie grips a little bit tighter, signaling he is waiting for an answer. 

“I want you to tie me up.” 

You step in closer, close enough that he can smell the wine on your tongue, your fingers sliding slowly from his elbow to his wrist until your palm slides over his hand and up the sharp cut of Marcus’s jaw. 

“How’s tonight sound?”

—

The rope is bright orange, thick and sturdy, pulled from the bottom of the bag of camping gear, a mess of other supplies spilling out as Frankie pulls it free. He leaves the mess, making a mental note to come back for it tomorrow, too anxious to think about anything but what waits for him in the bedroom. He takes the stairs two at a time, pausing just as he gets to the landing, taking in one slow deep breath. The hallway is dark, one thin sliver of light leaking out from beneath the bedroom door, the rest of the house quiet, as if the whole of it was waiting for what is coming with baited breath.

Frankie pushes into the room, and stops again, leaning into the door frame to take in the sight before him. You and Marcus are kneeling in the center of the bed, bodies bare and glowing in the soft light from one bedside lamp. You’re pressed chest to chest, trading soft kisses back and forth. 

He lets himself enjoy it a little bit longer, the sounds of breathy sighs and little moans reaching him as the kiss deepens to something with much more promise, Marcus parting your lips with the swipe of his tongue. He thinks he could stand here and watch forever, counting his blessings, one after the other, content to watch the two of you move together like you were made for it. It’s hypnotizing, leaving him feeling light headed from a kiss that isn’t his, his lips parting around a moan as his gaze lingers on the curve of Marcus’s back, the tilt of your chin, your breasts cupped between his large hands, his cock slowly filling out in length with each kiss from your lips. 

Frankie’s own pants are growing tight, and when one particularly loud whine breaks free from Marcus’s lips, his composure starts to crack, his hand reaching down to palm his erection. The added pressure only makes him more dizzy, and his own moan falls out of him. It’s enough to draw your eyes to the door, and you're smiling, a teasing little smirk pulling at your lips as you beckon him closer with the crook of your finger. He moves to the bed, dropping the rope down onto the mattress silently, but making no move yet to use it. Marcus reaches out and touches the coiled rope, tracing it slowly with his fingertips. Frankie and you give him that moment, allowing him the space to back out if that’s what he needs. 

Again and again he touches the rope, letting his nails catch at the synthetic fibers, wrapping his hands around it, knuckles bleeding white where he grips hard. Feeling emboldened, he licks his lips and picks it up, testing the weight of it in his hands, before raising his hands up to them, offering the rope like a gift at the altar. 

“You ready, sweet boy?”

Marcus nods, before shaking his head, remembering himself and turns his eyes back up to you and Frankie. “I am.”

“Good boy,” you whisper, touching his cheek gently. “Lay on your back. Hands above your head.” 

Frankie is the one who picks the rope back up, looping around Marcus’s wrists and up through the wooden posts of the bed frame. He ties the knot, taking the time to admire how the bright orange contrasts with his golden skin, the nylon biting a bright white into his wrists. Something breaks open in him at the sight, Marcus Moreno pulled tight and tied back, his strength rendered useless, leaving him open and exposed for whatever you and Frankie are willing to give and take. He looks up at the pair of you, eyes glossy and lips parted, all his trust placed in your hands. 

The sight is intoxicating and Frankie has to step away, the act of stripping out of his own clothes enough to help him center the raging beat of his heart. Behind him he can hear you cooing sweetly to Marcus, gentle praise trickled between reassurances of safety and reminders of safewords. When he turns back around, you’re straddling the smaller man’s legs, the tip of one finger tracing the length of his erection, thick and weeping, resting on the little swell of belly that has developed over the course of finding love. 

“So pretty,” you whisper to yourself, and Frankie echoes the sentiment, joining you on the bed, pressing up behind you. He feels you shiver beneath his touch, his hands skimming up your ribs and around to cup your breasts, thumbs stroking at the hardened perk of your nipples. 

Marcus tugs at the ropes, instinct to take your pleasure into his own hands kicking at the sight towering over him. It’s his first attempt, the veins in his forearms popping, his wrists bleeding from red to bone white as he tests the strength of the restraints. Frankie shushes him softly as your hand soothes gently on the inside of his thigh, the two of you working together to calm the other man down. He relaxes into the touch, arms going slack as he settles back into the mattress, but his eyes don’t leave you, glued to where Frankie continues to tease the tender skin just beneath the swell of your tits. 

“Touch our boy, Bluebird,” he whispers, teeth nipping gently at your earlobe. You comply quickly, wrapping your fingers around the base of his cock, squeezing gently before sliding your fist up to the top, gathering the precum waiting for you and sliding it back down in one long drawn out drag. Marcus groans in time with your movement, his hips canting up and into the open air. 

Frankie watches over the curve of your shoulder, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the heat of your skin, hungry eyes glued to the width of Marcus’s cock in your hand. You take your time, slowly moving up and down the length of him, stopping at the base each time and squeezing gently, drops of precum gathering again and again at the tip. Frankie loses track of time, only pulling back after he’s sure the mark on your skin will last well into tomorrow— something for both men to admire. 

Marcus is practically shaking, arms straining and mewls of pleasure pouring out of him as you continue to push him carefully towards the edge. You know his body well enough by now to know when to speed up and when to slow down, refusing to let him spill over into your hand so soon. His length is almost purple, pulsing between your fingers, and Frankie licks his lips as he zeroes in on your movements, feeling his own hunger grow. He reaches down and strokes himself a few times, groaning in relief at his own light touch, enough for now while he focuses on the two of you.

“Frankie…” It’s Marcus that breaks the trance, his voice a strangled whisper pulling Frankie’s eyeline back up the length of his torso, chest heaving, neck pulled taut, jaw clenched. His brown eyes are frantic, pupils blown wide with arousal. A few beads of sweat stick to his temple and without prompting, Frankie leans forward to swipe his thumb through them and up into his hairline.  

“Frankie, p-please…please…”

It isn’t the first time the man has been reduced to begging; it was really where all of this started, and it still sends the same thrill down Frankie’s spine, knowing that with just a little bit of whispered praise and a light touch, the ever composed and always at ease Heroic can be broken down into a quivering mess. There have been times where you or Frankie had teased just a little too hard, backing him into a corner just to see him snap, deliciously feral when he lets himself go, but this was a different sort of broken. 

Marcus is trapped, body caught between loose limbed, honey smooth and iron tight, shaking muscles. Frankie can’t help himself, curious to see how far he can push this moment. There’s a bottle of lube lying innocently by his feet (you must have had the good sense to grab it while he was in the garage looking for the rope), and he wastes no time in scooping it up and pressing it into your free hand. As always, you take his cue, the perfect soldier through and through, popping the cap off the bottle, the sound sending another tremor of anticipation through Marcus’s thighs where they’re trapped beneath the two of you. You pour a generous amount (too generous, always so careful with both men) into your hand, coating your fingers before reaching down to circle Marcus’s puckered entrance. 

“Shit! F-fuck….please p-pájarito. I need it.” 

You smile sweetly, taking the same steady pace as you did earlier, refusing to push inside him, just yet. “Need what, sweet boy?” 

“Inside me, please.” To prove his point, he thrusts his hips up, searching for relief in any way you’ll give it. You seem satisfied with his answer, at least enough to push the tip of your pointer finger inside him, a cry of pleasure jolting from him at your sudden entrance. 

This time Frankie forces himself not to watch, turning his eyes back to Marcus’s cock, left painfully hard by your sweet touch. He licks his lips again, leaning over until he’s hovering just close enough for Marcus to feel the scratch of his beard. He’s thrusting as much as the rope tied around his arms will allow, trying to meet the steady pump of your finger in his ass. Frankie’s stubble tickles at the velvet skin of Marcus’s cock and he whines a pathetic sound, shifting the cant of his hips upward towards Frankie’s mouth. 

“Shhhh, baby, shhh,” he soothes, pushing the smaller man’s hips down into the mattress, and holding them there with a firm grip. “I’ve got you.” And then he’s swallowing him down, fighting back his gag reflex as his mouth stretches around the thick cut of Marcus’s cock. A cry of pleasure rings out into the room, and Frankie can hear the wood of the bed frame creaking where Marcus is pulling as hard as he can, desperate to touch both of them as they shower him in endless, blinding pleasure.  

He’s quick to pull off, a string of spit stretching from his lips to the tip of Marcus’s cock. The sight alone makes his own length pulse with want. He ignores it for now, instead pressing a soft kiss to Marcus’s hip bone, following it with a nip of his teeth. 

“Don’t pull so hard, Fullmetal. You’ll hurt yourself. Do we need to stop?”

You still beside him, pausing your movements, a second finger already poised at Marcus’s asshole. He’s looking down at both of you, eyes bright and bottom lip caught between his teeth. After a few seconds he shakes his head, hips already trying to break free from Frankie’s grip. He tightens his hold, shaking his head while you reach up with your other hand to smooth his bottom lip free from the sharp bite of his teeth.

“Words, sweet boy,” you prompt. Frankie presses one more kiss to his hip bone, coaxing him one step closer to relaxed, tasting the salty tang of sweat that’s sticking to Marcus’s skin. 

“I’m…shit, I’m okay. Do-don’t stop.”

His voice is high, breathy and gasping, and Frankie hums in appreciation at the sound of it. He wants to tattoo the sound inside his skull; something to remind him of this night, all the ones that came before, and the ones still waiting up ahead. You’re already moving again, pumping two of your fingers inside of Marcus, pulling the sweetest sighs from between his lips. He gives the other man one more kiss, this time to the soft swell of his belly before wrapping his lips around the tip of his cock. 

Frankie moans at the taste, swirling his tongue along the head, collecting the precome that’s collected there, swallowing it down. Musk salt coats his tongue and he repeats the motion, desperate for another taste. Then, with little flourish, he begins to bob his head up and down, each time taking Marcus that much deeper. Spit trickles down his chin, dripping into the patch of dark hair at the base of his cock. 

Beside him, Frankie can feel you moving, your own hips thrusting down, in time with each pump of your fingers. When he chances a glance in your direction, he swears he almost blacks out, the hand not fucking into Marcus buried between the wet folds of your pussy, your eyes closed in concentration as you swirl the pad of your thumb over your clit. Your lips part around a moan that stutters out in frustration as you try and fail to grab ahold of your own release. Frankie swallows down around Marcus one last time, letting the tip of his cock hit the back of his throat before pulling off and moving in behind you. 

“Let me help you out, Bird,” he murmurs in your ear, pressing his chest fully to your back, taking the time to grind his erection into the curve of your ass. 

You nod helplessly, pulling your hand away from your core, the tips of your fingers glistening in the low light of the bedroom. 

“Fuck, so wet, cariño. All for us?

You nod again, your forehead falling forward to rest on Marcus’s stomach, your other hand still moving in and out of him, mewls of pleasure and pain breaking free from his lips, his body still dangling just at the edge of release. Frankie let’s his eyes rove across the both of you, your body curled over Marcus, shamelessly thrusting your hips backwards and forwards across his leg, and Marcus helplessly twisting and turning as he tries and fails to keep himself tied together, tears pricking at the corners of his umber sweet eyes. You’re both so beautiful and Frankie has to fight the urge to close his eyes, reminding himself this isn’t a dream. 

That he won’t open his eyes and find himself alone. 

He kisses just behind your ear, nudging his nose into the delicate shell to make sure he has your attention, fractured as it may be. “I need you to keep taking care of our boy, Bluebird. Can you add one more finger?”

“Yeah, yeah I can,” you answer, blinking open your fever bright eyes, heat rolling off you in waves. 

He grabs your hips, lining himself up with your entrance, and just as you slide a third finger into Marcus, his body arching in a perfect curve off the bed, he slips inside of you, the three of you crying out together. You squeeze around him, tight wet heat that nearly stops the beat of his heart. He falls forward, curling around your back, molding himself to your body. Your hand hasn’t stopped moving, a clumsy in and out that has Marcus writhing beneath your combined weight. 

“F-Frankie…” he gasps around the twist of your wrist, and there’s something intoxicating about the sound of his name on the other man’s lips while you’re the one inside him. It’s a moment that’s been mirrored in every possible combination between the three of you, and still it catches Frankie by surprise. 

Fuck, how did he get so lucky? 

Slowly, almost too slowly, he starts to move, dragging his cock in and out of you as he looks Marcus in the eye. 

“What is it baby? Like what you see?” Frankie thrusts into you deeper, holding you to his hips as he grinds against you, your own moans of his name falling out of you. “She’s so beautiful, isn’t she?”

Marcus nods, words failing him, his glazed eyes tracing your features as Frankie fucks into you. He’s just as beautiful, staring at the two of you fucking over him, transfixed, hypnotized, the only two people in the whole world, towering over him. His body is still arched off the bed, contorted so tight Frankie’s afraid he could actually snap in half. Miles of golden skin stretched out before him- thick neck, broad shoulders, pert nipples and dark hair that leads down to his weeping cock. It bobs up and down with each thrust of your fingers, precome smeared across his belly. 

“F-fuck…beautiful. Both of you….”

He loses track of himself, his hips moving faster, your pussy squeezing around him as he brushes up inside you. You're just as frenzied, trying to match Frankie’s pace with your hands, stuttering and stopping then starting up again. Below you, Marcus is sobbing, begging, and between the mix of sound from the three of you, he thinks he hears a warning that he’s about to come. 

“No…no, hold on, baby...”

“I’m close too, Fish….please. Pleeeease.” You’re begging too, your pitiful cries mixing so perfectly with the slap of skin, and just that sound alone has Frankie suddenly on the edge too. It’s not a burn, but an explosion, angry sparks of electricity digging at his lower back. His balls tighten up just as your own orgasm squeezes around his cock, and suddenly everything is too bright, shades of orange blurring his vision as he pumps his release inside you. 

Below you, Marcus is helpless, arms still tied back, lips parted around a silent cry, tears streaming down his face. He’s broken, pitifully desperate to reach out for both of you, only the touch of your fingers inside him keeping him grounded to this moment. Frankie’s hips are still moving, clumsy, shallow thrusts inside your slick cunt, but he needs to touch him, feel him as he comes apart. He slides one hand from your hip, finding purchase on Marc’s thigh, intent on wrapping his thick fingers around his cock. But even as he thinks the thought, he knows he’s too late, a gasping wail breaking free from Marcus’s throat, his body somehow drawing up tighter. Then he’s coming, completely untouched, thick ropes of white spurting out of him, painting the bare planes of his chest. 

You and Frankie can only watch, drinking in the sight of the other man, sobbing helplessly as he continues to come, seemingly endless amounts of it covering his body. The ropes around his wrists dig into his skin as he twists and turns with the release of pleasure, his face turned into the meat of his bicep, teeth sinking into the muscle as he works through it. Frankie keeps a constant pressure on his thigh, soothing circles into the skin, whispering sweet little nothings into the stuffy air of the bedroom. 

“It’s okay. Shhh, sweet boy, it’s okay. We’re here. Bird and I are right here.”

You’ve already pulled your fingers free, moving up Marcus’s body and wrapping your arms around him, pressing kiss after kiss into his jaw, petting softly at his cheeks, wiping his tears away with the pad of your thumb. After what feels like two lifetimes, he finally settles, his body falling back to the mattress, every inch of him liquid loose. Frankie licks his lips, eyeing the mess that now sticks to both of you. He knows exactly what it would taste like, has had the pleasure many times before, but still he can’t help but wonder. He’s about to lean over and indulge himself, when you call his name, drawing his attention back to the head of the bed.

“Can you grab something to help clean up?”

You’ve already loosened the knot, letting Marcus’s arms fall down beside him uselessly, the ropes pooling around his waist and sticking to his mess. You’re rubbing at his shoulders, urging blood flow back into them before trailing your fingers down to his wrists, checking for broken skin and bruising. Frankie thinks maybe Marcus is already asleep, eyes closed and breathing steady, but when he goes to move off the bed, the tips of his fingers somehow find the curve of his knee. 

“Not yet” he murmurs, half-lidded eyes, drowsy but pleading, urging him to stay close. Frankie knows he should refuse- he needs water, maybe an aspirin to keep the ache away, at the very least a warm washcloth wiped gently across his skin. But he can’t say no to him, not now. (Probably ever). 

Instead he smiles, mutters a quiet of course, and crawls up the bed, mirroring your position. In the morning there will be teasing, shy glances and loving jabs mixed between jokes about using a camping rope and coming untouched. He knows there will be a long, hot shower, and cups of coffee in bed, possibly another round, something softer, slower and just enough to push all three of you back to sleep. But for now there’s this; the three of you, curled around each other, curled around the mess, pressing lips into sore wrists and fingers into tired muscles, taking care of him until sleep comes for you all, one by one. 

Big thanks to @jazzelsaur and @astroboots for beta reading and assuring me that this is sexy.

[writefasttalkevenfaster]

Dancing with Our Hands Tied (Part One)

Series: Undercover Hotch fic/series™

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Reader 

Word Count: 4,607 | Rated: T | Warnings: swearing 

Tropes: bedsharing, fake married, mutual pining, undercover

Chapter Summary: Hotch offers you an assignment -- pretend to be married to him to draw out an unsub targeting couples at a resort. and you accept because it wasn’t like you were in love with him...right? 

A/N: the undercover hotch fic is here! keep an eye out for part 2 :) 

“How long would we be there?” you lean against the back of your chair, ignoring the thrumming of your blood in your pulse, the heat rising in your cheeks, as you maintain the façade of nonchalance needed for this op to go smoothly. 

“It will be just over six weeks,” he replies, sliding over the folder, “we would be fully immersed – new identities, new jobs, no contact with anyone, except with the team at scheduled check-ins.” You nodded, lips pursed, as you looked over the paperwork – a man targeting couples – couples that looked eerily similar to you and Hotch – down to the age difference everything — it was disconcerting, you snuck a glance at Hotch — in many ways,  “this is new for us, but the local police have been circling this for months, and the last couple they sent in nearly got found out so—” 

“So you thought it would be better to send us in, so we can profile up close and personal, huh?” you ignored the nagging thought of how the unsub would not only be the only thing that would be up close and personal—

No. Boss. He was your boss. 

“I know you just started just barely a year ago—” Hotch started, and your eyes flickered up from the work, finding his brow wrinkled, “and you’ve made impressive strides since you’ve been here,” a stripe of heat burned at your neck, resisting the urge to break his earnest gaze, “you have nothing to prove to me or the team—” 

You raise an eyebrow, flipping the paperwork shut, “When do we start, Hotch?” 

He suppresses a chuckle, and you ignore how your heart thumps happily – stupidly – in your chest at the small smile he gives, “In a week.” 

You slide the folder back, lips curling into a grin, “That’s just enough time for you to pick out a ring for me,” and he raises his eyebrows, a hint of a smile on his lips, “and usually I’m not one for a wedding ring, but for appearances’ sake, my alter ego is not cheap.” 

Ghost of a laugh in his voice, he asks, “You already have a personality?”

You grin, “I work fast, Hotch, try to keep up,” 

“I’ll try, but it’s too bad,” he pushed his chair out, slipping past you before throwing the remark over his shoulder, “I just got to liking your old one.” 

~~~

“Let’s get started,” Hotch says as you walk in, and you slide into a seat between Emily and Reid, “Garcia?” 

Garcia clicks, the screen displaying a beautiful “You two lucky lovebirds will be flying to White Mountain Retreat, a luxury retreat for couples on the rocks,” Garcia grins, as everyone chuckles. Emily and Reid raising their eyebrows, J.J. and Dave hiding their smiles, and Morgan giving a knowing look — while Hotch cleared his throat, and Garcia snaps back to attention,  “Right, so our esteemed leader and our very own agent will posing as a newly wed couple who are having marital problems, as unfortunately, this resort has more problems that meets the eye — including three couples who stayed at this resort who wound up murdered.” 

“Three couples? How did we just get this case?” Morgan asks, leaning back in his seat. “They just uncovered the last two couples’ bodies — same burial spot—” and Garcia pulls up a map, “only about a hundred miles from the resort,” 

“And the first couple?” Emily asks. 

“They were found on the grounds of the resort in the woods,” Garcia grimaces, switching to the image of the bodies, “the bodies were so mutilated that they thought at first they were mauled viciously by a bear, but after finding the other bodies, the medical examiner found it was the same unsub.” 

“How long were the couples there?” 

“All different times, weeks apart,” Garcia pulls up three dates ranging from six to eight weeks, “that’s why no one had put this together — they had all been there for a stop on a vacation, one of the couples was supposed to be on cruise right after the retreat and the other couple had a backpacking vacation together,”

“Couples with marriage problems spending several weeks together with no one else? That’ll solve any problem.” Rossi shakes his head, as the others chuckle. 

“Projecting from your own marriages, Rossi?” Reid asks, and Rossi raises an eyebrow, and he moves on, “but this explains why no one missed them. The couples’ all came from different areas in the U.S. disappeared after checking out of their retreat, and by the time anyone knew they were missing, the trail went cold for several days if not weeks.” 

“Any other connections you can spot besides the couples’ age difference, races, and the retreat?” 

“The dumping sight for one,” Emily remarks, “Hundred miles must mean it’s a comfort zone for him and look at where it is — a secluded corner of the trail that isn’t even mapped — the unsub probably from or grew up in the area,” 

“Look at the brutalization of the male victim—” J.J. flips to the image of one of the male victims, “his face and lower extremities are beaten in, but his other half? Not a scratch, even covered up,” 

“He feels guilty,” Emily adds, “he beats the man until he’s not recognizable — it shows a sense of rage — almost like he’s taking away their identity,” 

“And their manhood,” Hotch adds, “the one thing we do know for sure that he must hunt for his victims at the retreat — he could be staff, a vendor, anyone who frequents or has access to the retreat.” 

“Where do the couples stay?” 

Garcia pulls up more images of the resort — including the rooms — a plush bed outfitted with beautifully white satin sheets and a deep maroon bed scarf. The view was stunning out the glass doors, which lead to an outdoor balcony complete with a sitting area, “In fully decked out rooms,” 

“There’s no television, no entertainment—” 

“Nothing to distract you but your tumultuous relationship,” Rossi furrows his brow, “that must go well.” 

“Having flashbacks, Rossi?” Morgan grins, as Rossi shakes his head, rubbing his temples. 

“Far too many,” 

“We will be arriving on our own, flying commercial, while the rest of you take the jet there,” he turns to Garcia, “Garcia, you too, you’ll be flying out to make sure we can keep in contact with you,” 

“Sir,” she nods. 

“The rest of you — Morgan and J.J. coordinate with law enforcement and work the crime scenes. Dave and Prentiss, the bodies and victimology. Reid, you’ll be helping local P.D. put together a geographical profile,” and he spares you a glance, “We have to be packed and out of here in an hour.”

~~~

“Are you going to be alright there?” Morgan leaned against your desk, arms crossed – watching as you double checked your bags at your desk, knelt down to make sure you had everything (though you knew no matter how many times you checked, you would end up forgetting something).

“What do you mean?” you frown, as you check again to make sure you didn’t forget your towel for the twelfth time, “I’ve been undercover before, Morgan.” 

“I know, but now with Hotch,” he’s leaning against the table, “yout know that I know, sweetheart,” 

You furrow your brow, “I tell Garcia something in the strictest of confidences—” 

“She can’t hide a thing and you know that, don’t blame her,” but still you’re pouting, before sighing and letting your shoulders sag, “my feelings are not going to play into this. This is an undercover operation, I’ve been on these before — this is nothing different.” 

He raises an eyebrow, “You’re going on a couples’ retreat with a man who you have feelings for,” you purse your lips, flinching at his words, “how do you think that’s gonna go?” 

“Fine, because nothing is going to happen,” you reply curtly, before pausing, “Derek, I know you’re looking out for me, but I—” you glance at Hotch’s closed office door, “I’ve had these feelings for a while, I know how to handle myself. And I think I’m finally over it.” 

“And you don’t think this trip will bring anything back?” and you waver, but he only claps his hand to your shoulder,  “I don’t want to stand in the way of anything you want to do, but I just...I don’t want to see you hurt, alright?” 

“I know,” and he squeezes your shoulder, “now let me finish packing without you hovering over me.” 

“You know you’ll miss this when you don’t see me for six weeks,” he replies, grinning, as he walks over to the conference room. 

And you shake your head, pausing as you check your things one more time — toothbrush, check; towel, check; shampoo, check— 

“You ready?” a voice says behind you, and you glance to find Aaron standing in a short sleeve polo and khaki shorts — your basic white guy vacation outfit — but even so, your heart squeezed at the sight of his casual look. You really were in deep, weren’t you? 

“Just about,” you smile, watching him head to the conference room to debrief, bags in hand — and you wished there was a way to uncheck something — your feelings for your boss, uncheck.  

But — you get to your feet, grabbing your bag, sparing one last look at your desk before sighing — there wasn’t. 

~~~

“Uncomfortable?” Hotch asks when you shift in your seat for what you were sure was the twentieth time, but this time it was after you had returned from the bathroom. And you sigh, settling back into your seat. 

“Is it possible to be comfortable in one of these seats?” and he chuckles, watching you squirm, catching his eye, your cheeks burning, glancing at the empty seat to your left — you were lucky enough to have your section to yourself,  “do you want me to take the empty seat?” 

“It’s fine,” he replies, handing you a hot coffee. 

“Oh,” you blink. 

“Cart went by right when you went into the bathroom,” he says, as you take the coffee, your fingers brushing his. You settle back into your seat, your thigh touching his as you did, “I think that’s how you take it,” 

And you sip it, blinking — perfect, “Thanks,” 

And he nods, as your heart warms. 

Maybe it wasn’t just the seat. 

You sneak a glance at him, looking over the paperwork for the operation, his fingers ghosting over the fake wedding band. The F.B.I. pulled no punches — it was the real deal. A simple silver band, not dissimilar to the one he and Haley wore — the one he had still worn after her death. 

Your lips purse, “Still not used to it?” and your fingers find yours as well — a silver band that matched his set with a simple diamond (lesser than your alter ego wanted, but you were on a budget). 

It didn’t take long for you to learn about Haley — not with the rumors around the F.B.I. all swirling around this unit. It was almost a month in when you first realized — when Hotch had brought his son, Jack, to the office to pick something up. And you noted the wedding ring on his finger, the absence of a wife, and you remembered hearing the rumors — an F.B.I. agent who lost his wife to a serial killer. And it clicked. 

But you had never asked.

And he shakes his head, his brow wrinkled, “No,” he admits, before his hand falls away, glancing at yours for a moment, lingering, before his gaze finds the files again, the moment broken. He turns on the overhead air vent to drown out your conversations, “Have you read up on our background for the case?” 

“Of course,” a newly wed couple — Thomas and— you grimace at the name they chose for you, “did whoever chose that name for me a sadist?” 

“Well, I don’t know if I would call Erin a sadist—” 

And you snort, “Never mind,” you catch him biting back a smile, and you press the tip of your pen to your lips, “I’ll just have to get used to it,” 

“If you want, I can call you something else,” Hotch tilts his head, “and you probably should start calling me Aaron at the very least,” 

“Right, Aaron,” his name felt unnatural on your lips — intimate even. It was easy to call him Hotch, it made it easier to keep him at arm's length, it made it easier to keep that professional boundary — the one that kept you from hoping, the one that made it easier to pretend you felt nothing for him. 

Oh, when did this begin? 

Was it when he took you under his wing, and saw the potential in you that you hadn’t? Was it when he pushed you to be better, to do better? Was it when he comforted you after a hard case, a reassuring hand on your shoulder and soft words that brought ease to your mind? Was it the smiles you started to share when Morgan teased Reid or when Prentiss and Morgan bickered? Was it things like the coffee — the one that still warmed your hands — little things you have picked up on about each other? 

“Besides the fact we are newly wed and having problems, they gave us free range over our background,” his voice is low, leaning closer so other passengers wouldn’t overhear, “We should work out what our problems are to get our stories straight. One of the activities listed on the retreat’s itinerary is group therapy,” 

“There’s a therapist on payroll at this place?” 

“Counselor,” Hotch corrected you, “we checked him out — credentials are fishy, but no criminal record or complaints that we could find,” 

“Well, therapy will be a good opportunity to know the other couples who are staying there — the more we know, maybe if he doesn’t take the bait with us, we’ll know who his next choice will be,” you peer over the pamphlet — “as for our problems, well our age difference probably could cause some friction — my parents don’t approve, people look at us weird because of how we look as a couple,” you shrug, before glancing at him, “your turn,” 

And he purses his lips, “We’re both closed off,” 

“Speak for yourself, I’m an open book,” and he raises an eyebrow, “What? I am.” 

“When did you last date someone?” and you gape at him, stammering, noting the flicker of satisfaction. 

“Is that really appropriate to ask as my superior?” 

“No, but it’s perfectly appropriate as your husband,” you scoff, snatching the list from his hands, as he opens his mouth for a retort. 

“What’s yours is mine, right?” you reply, scanning the list — “I’m just curious what other activities this place is passing off as therapeutic,” swimming, cooking, yoga, nature walk, couples’ massage, meditation — and then your eye snags on one listed, “Trust exercises?” 

“We’re not here to criticize their practices,” but you can hear the half hearted sigh in his voice. 

“Well, we’re not doing that activity,” you flip through again, “wow, this place even outsources — museum, private hiking trips, kayaking and canoeing — with all of these vendors connected to this place, any one of them could be where the unsub works,” 

“We should get a list of the activities that each of the couples did — see if there’s any overlap,” and then he takes the pamphlet from your hands, tucking it away,“you should get some sleep — we only have a few hours before we land,” 

And you raise an eyebrow, looking at the time — 12:30 AM — “and you’ve evolved beyond sleep?” 

“I’ll sleep, I—” 

“Don’t keep yourself awake — you need your beauty sleep,” and you glance at him — but did he though? “unless you want to look tired and get a bunch of looks and winks when we say we’re newlyweds,”

And he cringes, turning off the vent, and pulling the thin fleece blanket over him, “You’re not comfortable in that seat, but you can sleep in it?” 

You curl up, yawning, “I can sleep just about anywhere now,” before adding, “but this is no jet.” 

And you don’t catch him smiling at you as you shut your eyes — no, it wasn’t. 

~~~

The overhead announcements make you stir — a yawn pulling at your lips, as you blink the sleep from your eyes, you realize you’re not resting on your seat anymore — no, you’re resting on something much more firm — Hotch’s shoulder. And the gentle pressure atop your head was his own, leaned on top of yours.

Fuck. 

You flinch away, making him stir, as you watch in horror, checking your chin and his jacket to make sure you didn’t accidentally drool on your supervisor’s shoulder— 

But you didn’t — but he’s awake now, unknowing or unfazed by your previous position, “We’ve arrived?” 

You peer at the screen in front of you, signaling that you were close to the landing strip, “Just about to,” 

And he’s rubbing his eyes, “Sleep well?”

Your head snaps to his, before he blinks — oh, he didn’t know — and blood rushes to your cheeks, “I did, thanks,” And he nods, adjusting his neck and shoulders, and you hide a smile, “shoulder hurting?” 

“Yeah,” he furrows his brow, “I must have slept wrong,” 

Or made an extremely good pillow, “Looks like you’re getting old,” And he glares at you as you laugh, lips curled in a grin. 

“Or I’m just comfortable to sleep on,” and your grin drops, blood rushing to your cheeks, but he pays it no mind, an almost smile on his lips as he busies himself with looking over the paperwork once more, “the retreat isn’t too far from the airport. It shouldn’t take us more than an hour to get there.” 

Your cheeks still burning, you frown, arms crossed as the pilot announces that the plane is beginning its descent, “An hour, huh,” you stretch in your seat, glancing at the window,— an hour until you two would be married— pretending to be married, you corrected yourself —-  sneaking another look at Hotch, a distinction with a very big difference. You only sigh, shutting your eyes, just as the announcements end, “I can’t wait to sleep.” 

~~~

Or maybe you could. 

You blinked at the single bed in the middle of the room, arms crossed, the two of you paused in the doorway of your suite — the room was large and lavish, but minimalist — a beautiful soft white bedspread, set with a deep emerald comforter, and fluffed pillows resting against the headrest. Two bamboo bedside tables were on either end, and there were two doors opposite of them, that you assumed were a closet and a bathroom respectively. There was a sitting area near the double glass doors that led to a balcony — a couch with an armchair with a small bookshelf nestled in the corner. 

But — your eyes fell back to the bed — that wasn’t what mattered. 

“You okay?” Hotch raised an eyebrow at you, tilting his head, unfazed by the single bed, and your cheeks were burning — of course you would be sharing a bed — you were pretending to be married.

“I didn’t realize—” you point lamely to the bed, and he’s nodding. 

“I can take the couch—” 

“No, no,” you wave him off, “it’s fine — we’re adults,” although in this moment, you certainly didn’t feel like one, “it’s not a big deal.” 

Simple �� and Hotch is unpacking his bag that was already brought up to your room, as your eyes graze over him, his back to you —  you just wouldn’t sleep for the next six weeks. 

~~~

You try to stay still — you really do. 

But you’re shifting under these soft sheets, far too close to kicking off the sheets all together, but — you glance at Hotch’s unmoving form — you know better. Your eyes burn in time with your body aching, but still, it would be too kind for you to be able to sleep. You nearly groan, turning on your back, blinking up at the ceiling. 

You hoped you would be able to sleep, but of course you could never be so lucky. And you squeeze your eyes shut when you feel Hotch shift beside you. 

But you often weren’t, were you? 

You were lucky — in a lot of respects. 

You had gotten your dream job — a placement with the Behavior Analysis Unit — one that had been coveted by many a colleague — humble and pretentious alike. It took time for you to grow to be on par with the rest of the team — there are only so many things they can teach you in the Academy — but experience is the best teacher. And your first month with the BAU proved that. 

It was hell. 

But what else was catching serial killers going to be? 

But the team had guided through it all — hell and brimstone alike — and after a few months, you felt like you had settled into a place of your own, a spot that you had carved for yourself in the team. 

And yet — you swallowed thickly in the darkness, attempting to force the sandman to do your bidding, before feeling Hotch shift again beside you, breath caught in your throat — there was another place you wanted to be. 

Even if you didn’t want to admit it. 

When was it that you first met him in his office? The first brush of his fingers against yours and you couldn’t help but note the cut of his jaw, the steady confidence of his demeanor, the softness of his smile when you asked about his son— 

Or was it the ease with how he led — every difficult decision made with thought, every hard choice that was his to bear, and every life that depended on him that he carried upon his back. There really was a way in which he carried himself? 

Maybe it was the looks you exchanged Reid made a remark or the local P.D. made a questionable choice, the way you would always get each other’s drink right, and the way he always seemed to know when you needed something. 

You were doomed from the start. 

Admiration had merged into affection — and now you would say you were seeing double, but the two were one and the same — undeniably merged. 

And you didn’t know what to do. 

But now you were lying awake in a bed beside him, and you wondered not only would every night be like this — but was Morgan right? 

Could you handle this? 

You squeezed your eyes shut — you wanted to, and you thought you could. But one day of being awake in the same bed with him was enough to make you question — everything. 

But you turn slowly to face him, and his face is barely illuminated in the moonlight filtering through the shades. His chest rose and fell with even breaths, but that’s not how you knew he was sleeping — his brow relaxed, not furrowed as it always was and his mouth parted slightly. 

And you almost smile. 

He’s beautiful, isn’t he? 

He always, but — there was something about it — about seeing him like not many had seen him before. Sure, he had slept on planes at times, but not like this. You were only one of few who’d shared a bed with him— and your cheeks burned. 

But not like that—

No, this trip would be professional, you told yourself as you shut your eyes, it would be business as usual, nothing more. 

Nothing less. 

~~~

You swear it had only been a minute since you had fallen asleep.

And yet you hear your name muttered softly in your ear, a hand on your shoulder shaking you, but you refuse to wake, brushing it away. 

You had only just fallen asleep, as you attempted to bury your face in the cushion of your pillow — it and your blanket surely conspired to pry you back to sleep, as it pulled you back to unconsciousness. 

But no such luck — as the blanket is torn away from you, and you snap awake, irritation hot on your tongue, as you finally realize who the subject of your wrath was— 

Hotch stood, blanket in hand, an eyebrow raised and unimpressed, “Good morning,” he says dryly, as your mouth hangs open lamely, blinking — mind struggling to keep up with your reality. 

He folded the blanket placing it back on the bed, as your eyes glanced over his outfit — similar to yesterday — a short-sleeve blue polo and shorts, his hair a little messier than he allowed at the BAU, and his bare arms crossed across his chest. 

“Sorry, I—” you shake yourself from your stupor, sliding off the bed, “I had a hard time sleeping last night—” 

And he frowns, tilting his head, “I don’t mind taking the couch—” 

“It wasn’t that,” it was, “it was just nerves — but I’m fine,” you add, “just need a quick shower.” you turn to slip into the shower, but he calls after you, his arms crossed his chest, eyebrows raised in concern. 

"I hope you know that you can do this," he tilts, and what was that look in his eyes — pride? "I wouldn't have recommended you otherwise," 

And your chest stirs, because he was genuine — Aaron Hotchner couldn't ever be less than — and you clear your throat, lips quirking, "it wasn't just because I fit the profile?" 

And he almost sighs, but a smile pulls at the corners of his lips, "Well it didn't hurt," 

You gape at him, "Shut up," as you shut the bathroom door behind you, you hear him laugh. 

And when you realized you’d do anything to hear it again — you rested your head against the bathroom door, cheeks warm — you knew you were fucked. 

~~~ 

"Should we hold hands?" You ask, after you're finished getting dressed, only adjusting your outfit, and he’s tying his shoes, a quizzical glance over his shoulder, “I mean how should we play this,” you turn from the mirror, grabbing your purse, “I don't know exactly how couples who are separating act like, I—” and you cut yourself off, the words caught on the utterly too big foot in your mouth, as you glance over at Hotch, mortified, “I didn’t mean—” 

He only shakes his head, “I know,” he says softly, glancing away, his gaze falling to the floor, “every marriage is different — but if we're here, we are trying to work it out," and he holds out his hand, "so we should." 

And you want to apologize, you want to ask him if it hurt to wear a ring on his finger again, ask if he was okay — but you didn't, you couldn't. So instead, you take his hand. 

There were so many things you didn't know about Aaron Hotchner — as your fingers intertwined with his, his calloused fingers in yours — but now you knew how his hand felt in yours. 

And that you didn't want to let go. 

[sleepingdeath-light]

Hello! Could you please write nsfw alphabet and marriage headcanons for Doll? Thank you! 💞

Marriage Headcanons | Doll / Freckles

thank you for requesting, anon

request from 11/09/21

reader is assumed as gender neutral

doll is aged up for this, obviously

doll is the type of partner to get easily flustered by physical and verbal affection no matter how long you’ve been together - like every time you address her by a pet name or refer to her as your wife she’s turning a lovely shade of cherry red and stammering up a storm

in her eyes, you are home so no matter how far you travel or the difficulties you face as individuals or as a couple, she’ll always be able to recover as long as you’re with her

isn’t big on traditional romance and nicknames, rather showing affection with light hearted insults, jokes and faux-aggression (e.g. calling you an idiot with a smile on her face, shoving you away when you fluster her or just mocking those around you just to make you laugh)

she usually struggles to get to sleep because of a mixture of night terrors and pain flares from her scar, but being able to cuddle into your side and listen to your breathing and heart rate helps to ground her so she can get some restful sleep before her next performance

doesn’t intend to brag about you, but if someone else brings up their spouse then in her mind it’s more than free game for her to express how amazing you are in every way

she does deal with a great deal of insecurity relating to her work and appearance and she does worry about you leaving her for someone wealthier or more stably employed or that is more conventionally attractive, so there will be frequent heart to hearts about your respective insecurities

she isn’t the best cook, but she does love spoiling you however she can and will try her best to make you a hearty breakfast in bed whenever she can afford it

if you’re one of the lucky members of society who was taught to read (which was rather rare during that period), a common relaxing pastime for you would be her laying across your lap and listening to you read your favourite books

your wedding itself was very cheap and non-traditional because you couldn’t afford anything else - just stood outside of the nearest place of worship in your best (read: least torn up) clothes with tears in your eyes as you repeat what the leader is saying (exchanging some cheap and barely fitting rings shortly thereafter, of course)

doll is also incredibly protective of you and will verbally (or even physically) attack anyone that dares to insult you or otherwise make you uncomfortable