The Obsessive Author

𝓑𝓮𝓽𝔀𝓮𝓮𝓷 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓪𝓰𝓮𝓼 𝓸𝓯 18 & 23; 𝓶𝓾𝓵𝓽𝓲𝓯𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓸𝓶 𝓪𝓾𝓽𝓱𝓸𝓻; 𝓻𝓮𝓺𝓾𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓼 𝑜𝓅𝑒𝓃 "𝕭𝖊 𝖜𝖍𝖔 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖆𝖗𝖊. 𝕹𝖔𝖙 𝖜𝖍𝖔 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖑𝖉 𝖜𝖆𝖓𝖙𝖘 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖙𝖔 𝖇𝖊."

[obsessivefanfictionauthor]

Navigation

Hi, I'm the Obsessive Author and welcome to my blog. I invite you to get lost in the forest with me.

If you wonder about me, just know: 𝕭𝖊𝖙𝖜𝖊𝖊𝖓 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖆𝖌𝖊𝖘 𝖔𝖋 18 𝖆𝖓𝖉 23; 𝕻𝖘𝖞𝖈𝖍 𝖒𝖆𝖏𝖔𝖗; 𝖓𝖊𝖚𝖗𝖔𝖉𝖎𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖌𝖊𝖓𝖙; 𝖜𝖍𝖊𝖊𝖑𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖎𝖗 𝖚𝖘𝖊𝖗;𝖉𝖗𝖚𝖒𝖒𝖊𝖗;𝖕𝖆𝖓-𝖆𝖈𝖊;𝖙𝖗𝖆𝖓𝖘 𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖈 𝓐𝓷𝓭 𝓘 𝔀𝓲𝓵𝓵 𝓷𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓻 𝓼𝓽𝓸𝓹 𝓯𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝓬𝓱𝓪𝓷𝓰𝓮

𝕄𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕝𝕚𝕤𝕥

ℝ𝕖𝕢𝕦𝕖𝕤𝕥 𝔾𝕦𝕚𝕕𝕖𝕝𝕚𝕟𝕖𝕤

𝔸𝕆𝟛

𝐻𝑜𝓅𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝑒𝓃𝒿𝑜𝓎 𝒷𝑒𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓁𝑜𝓈𝓉 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝒿𝓊𝓈𝓉 𝒶 𝓁𝒾𝓉𝓉𝓁𝑒 𝒷𝒾𝓉.

—𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓞𝓫𝓼𝓮𝓼𝓼𝓲𝓿𝓮 𝓐𝓾𝓽𝓱𝓸𝓻

Divider by @diviniyae

[obsessivefanfictionauthor]

Sneak-Peek

Hey guys!

So, I've missed a couple of Saturday Sneak-Peeks lately because it's summer and the days don't hold the same meaning so, I thought I'd do it now.

Let me know if you want to be tagged in any! (Also order of photos is potential order of release but for sure P.S. I Love You is first).

[obsessivefanfictionauthor]

I’d love to request a modern AU Yandere! Baelor Targaryen x younger reader fic. Years ago, the reader posed for an elegant portrait painted by a close artist friend who later died before becoming famous. After gaining posthumous recognition, the painting is bought at an auction by Baelor, who becomes obsessed with finding the woman in the portrait.

Over the years, Baelor searches for her countless times but never manages to find her. Eventually, he unknowingly discovers that she has been working as a junior lawyer at the firm connected to his company. I’d especially love if they properly meet when, in an unusual circumstance, she is unexpectedly asked to attend an important meeting with the firm’s most important client — Baelor himself.

I’d also love a scene where the reader eventually discovers the portrait painting in his possession and realizes the true depth of his obsession.

I got you, Anon!

Here you go: The Woman in Red. I hope it's what you wanted!

[obsessivefanfictionauthor]

The Woman in Red—Baelor Targaryen

Summary: Posing for a portrait as a favour to a friend years ago is the kind of thing that slips one's mind. But it doesn't slip Baelor Targaryen's mind when he is the one who purchases the painting at a posthumous auction celebrating your late friend. He becomes obsessed with finding you, the Woman in Red and when he does...he won't let you go.

Pairing: Modern!Yandere!Baelor x fem!reader

TW: 18+ MDNI, NSFW; Dead Dove: do not eat—manipulation, threatening, power imbalances, dub-con. Sex scene includes: fingering, masturbation, p-in-v, praise kink and dom-sub elements. Baelor's obsessed. Reader is manipulated back. Ending is sad.

Credit & A/N: GIF by @ohmylul; golden heart divider by @diviniyae; requested by anon: here | I have no idea if this is good or not, I'm surviving on limited sleep and low social battery so I hope it's good and deliciously dark.

The Painting of the Portrait:

            The dress’s bodice is tight, too tight, the corset pinching at your ribs, squeezing them and altering your shape in a way that some may find desirable, but you hate because it isn’t you. Looking at yourself in the mirror, at the way the bodice is beaded along your sides, at the way your waist dips artificially, at the full skirt and the deep, deep red of the dress itself, you do not even recognize yourself.

            You look so different. 

            Except for your face, that is your own. Pretty and perfect, makeup done not to change but enhance your features, like a glow filter, but real. Here. 

            “You ready, babes?” your friend calls out, her voice echoing into the room where you stand, the full-length mirror ornate and gilded and fading, old and in need of re-silvering yet still clear as day to show a reflection that is not you. Not at all. 

            “I guess,” you call back, turning this way and that in front of the mirror, watching the skirt and it twirls around you, spinning out like a ballgown, a blooming flower. Something pretty and strange and foreign. Something not worth it due to the fact that the corset continues to bite into your skin, your ribs, your lungs. 

            “What’s the guess about?” your friend calls out, stepping into the room, her arms crossed, hair drawn back and dark eyes lined in a way to make them larger than life, magic in her artist’s hand. 

            “It’s strange,” you tell her, nose crinkling as you look at yourself in the mirror, so different than the way you normally are, so much more elegant in a way that seems fake. Which it is even when it’s real—paradoxical really. 

            “You look hot,” she says, her tone flat, no-nonsense as she always is. She’s never one to lie or flatter, rather speak the truth no matter who it pisses off. “And come on. It’s for a painting that you’ll never even think about once it’s done. You wear this once, pose once. I take a picture and sketch while you’re here and then I go off the picture. Capiche?”

            “Capiche,” you sigh, rolling your eyes at her, affection laden in the gesture as she takes your hands, the dark skin of her hand covered in paints both bright and dull like always. She guides you from her bedroom out to the living room turned studio where her table is set up along with a dark backdrop and a chair. 

            “Okay,” she says, letting go of your hand, pointing you towards the chair, her gestures elegant without even trying. “I want you to sit on that chair, kind of drape yourself over it,” she gestures as she speaks, gestures that you watch as you sink into the high-backed, vintage chair, legs over the armrest on the left, back against the one on the right, hands how she’s displaying hers. “YES!” she cries. “Hold it right there.” And you do, holding so still that you’re barely breathing, your chest barely rising and falling as the camera clicks, the flash flashes and the polaroid spits out from the end. 

            You stay like that for an hour as she sketches, barely moving, holding still until she claps her hands, releasing you from the prison of the pose and allowing you to get back up and stand, shaking out your rigid limbs as she undoes the bodice, the corset, helps you out of the dress and tosses you your clothes. 

            It’s something that as you leave her paint-fume filled apartment you don’t think anything of it. A favour for a friend, something nice that you’ve done for them and their portfolio, something that maybe, years from now you’ll see on the internet and be reminded of this moment, this after moment standing on the sidewalk as rain drizzles down around you, drops streaking the artwork of your makeup, setting you free. 

            You don’t think it’s anything important.

The Auction:

            Baelor hates these things, these charity auctions for artists living and dead because there’s really no point to them. It’s some paint of canvas, beautifully applied paint of course, but still paint. The only value is the name on the bottom of the piece. Names which mean nothing to Baelor, who much prefers the hand turkeys made by his sons in grade school, their names scrawled on the bottom of the pages in childish chicken scratch. 

            Those mean more than these pieces any day. 

            But here he is, in the crowded auditorium, the auctioneer on the stage, at the podium, drinking water and waiting, his watch ticking in time with the clock. Here is, listening to the rustle of papers from men with ambition chasing status symbols. 

            Baelor actually doesn’t know what artist this event is for, only that Valarr was busy with finals and could not accompany him, rather he is alone as he so often is. He settles into his seat, adjusting his suit jacket, hands reaching for the papers on his lap, the one with the auction information. 

            In Memory of Larissa Addamson, artist extraordinaire. Baelor looks at the glossy photo of the young woman, no more than thirty, her hair in braids, drawn back into an updo, dark skin glimmering as if she’s glowing from within. It’s sad, a life so young, so precious, gone. He swallows hard, flipping past the front to see what pieces are for sale, noticing the portraits of people in real places. 

            It’s like she took the real world and put it on canvas in paint. War zones and poverty and the dead and the dying. It’s all there, but Baelor’s eye is drawn to one that is different, posed and practiced. One with the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen within it. 

            The woman wears a red dress, her skin glimmering, lips twisted up with a precious smile. Her body is posed and sparkling and her form hidden by the dress, but delicious all the same and he wonders if she's real or something invented by the artist’s mind. The upper half of her face isn’t visible, rather just the bottom, the nose and the lips. 

            The Woman in Red, the caption reads. One of the very first portraits Larissa had ever done, back when she was eighteen in her undergraduate years, created for her portfolio. Over the years, Larissa has never revealed the identity of the Woman in Red, simply saying, “she is the closest friend I have ever or will ever have.” The identity to this day is still unknown, though many speculate that it’s Larissa’s best friend, lawyer, Y/N L/N. But for now, the Woman in Red remains a mystery.

            Baelor swallows hard at the name, your name, one that is perfect and beautiful and fits so perfectly to the image of the woman in the bright red dress. This, this is the piece he will have. The one that he will buy to look at until he can have you, the Woman in Red, in real life. 

            Beside him. 

            “Let us start the auction today…” the auctioneer begins, his voice droning out over the audience, but Baelor isn’t paying attention, he knows the number of the painting which he wants, his trophy, the one that will do until he has you gilded and on a high shelf out of reach of anyone but him. 

            He doesn’t quite understand these new feelings, has never felt them before, this deep need to possess like he’s never had before, but he knows one thing well enough: he’ll listen to it. He’s not losing you because the idea of losing you is the worst in all the world.

            While the auction goes on, he removes his phone from the pocket of his suit jacket, sending a message to the one person who will give him the information he needs without ever questioning why: Brynden Rivers. 

Baelor: I need to know where a person is. I need all their information in fact. Brynden: How soon? Baelor: As soon as possible. Brynden: Name?

            And Baelor sends yours, no response given just as the number of the painting of you is called. 

            He buys it for one hundred thousand dollars, a steal if you ask him because it’s you. And he doesn’t even know you, but he doesn’t need to. 

            You’re his and there is no price too great for you. 

Brynden’s Dossier:

Y/N L/N, lawyer at Highgarden Corporation. Late twenties, rising star in the company. Comes from North, no known attachments to any of the large families, rather just someone from a normal family with ties to the Free Cities. 

She lives in King’s Landing, an apartment complex not far from Red Keep University, apartment 3B on Aegon Way’s, apartment block called Conqueror’s Garden. 

She’s known for her love of movies, books and music. Her favourite book in so far as I was able to gather remains Little Women by Louisa May Alcott although her opinion seems to be fiercely that Laurie and Jo belonged together. 

She’s never been in any trouble and was quite close with Larissa Addamson, the two having been friends from childhood. In fact, she’s executor of Larissa’s will and planned the auction. She took no pieces for herself, claiming that the ones she had were enough to reduce her to tears, she didn’t need anymore. 

She’s single. 

The Meeting:

            You take a deep breath, smoothing down your suit jacket with palms that are miraculously dry, the air scented with coffee and cigar smoke, the law of the Seven Kingdoms still primarily an old boys club. Which is why it was such a surprise when you were called to a meeting with the Targaryen Group, the firm’s largest clients. 

            It was even more of a surprise when you were informed that you were requested by Baelor Targaryen himself. 

            You close your eyes, drawing in one more deep breath and releasing it before stepping forwards, your kitten heels clicking on the polished marble floor as you cross the lobby to the conference room doors, doors made of carved Weirwood, the faces still there in a grotesque display of disrespect to the ones who used the Weirwood as a church. 

            You pull the door open, the hinges gliding open, quiet, nary a whisper and you step into the room, your skin heating up as you take in the sight before you. 

            The conference room table is covered in papers, orderly stacks but covered nonetheless, your boss Mr. Tyrell seated on one side of the table, the Targaryen representatives on the other. But it is not the table, nor your boss, that causes that fire in your skin, but rather one of the Targaryen representatives with one blue eye and one brown, his hair dark with only a few strands of grey cutting through. His stare is heated, trailing over your body and you know it’s inappropriate but you don’t really care. 

            “Ah, there you are!” Mr. Tyrell calls out, waving you over and you blink, moving your gaze to your boss, your skin cooling like someone’s dumped a bucket of ice water over your head and you hold back a shiver as you cross the room towards him, towards your seat, just a section of skin still heated by the trail of the man’s eyes on you. 

            “Good morning, Mr. Tyrell,” you say, inclining your head as you sit down, setting your briefcase upon the table, flipping its golden latches and withdrawing the contracts you had been drawing up for the Targaryen Corporation’s acquiring of the Redwyne Vineyards, a major player in all production of alcohol within the Seven Kingdoms. 

            “Well, these are the Targaryen representatives,” your boss says, his voice loud and booming. “Brynden Rivers,” he says, gesturing at the man with pale hair and a mark on his face that gives him a strange and haunting sort of beauty, “and Baelor Targaryen,” he gestures at the man whose gaze still follows you like predator stalking prey. 

            In the good kind of way. 

            “Good morning, gentlemen,” you tell them, your lips curving up in a soft smile as you pass the contracts across the table towards them, Brynden reaching for them first, but Baelor stopping him with a single finger lifted, taking them himself, the gesture of dragging them across the table slow, his eyes locked on yours the entire time he does so. “Those,” you continue, ignoring the strange gestures of Baelor, “are the contracts for the acquisition of Redwyne Vineyards.” 

            “They’re very…thorough,” Baelor says, his voice deepening on the last word, cracking in a way that has you shifting in your seat, skin heating up in a way that is both comfortable and uncomfortable as you cough, just slightly, the kind of cough that hints at redirecting conversation. 

            “Thank you,” you tell him with a nod, your eyes flitting back to the polished wood top of the table, the bit you can see around the papers covering it. But you can feel his eyes on you, tracing every bit of you, lingering on your lips, the swell of your chest. 

            That’s how the entire meeting goes, you and Mr. Rivers and Mr. Tyrell talking logistics and legalities and acquisitions and Mr. Targaryen watching you like you’re prey. Or, more dangerously, like you’re his. 

            “Miss,” Mr. Targaryen calls at the end of the meeting, your boss leaving, deep in conversation with Mr. Rivers, “a moment of your time please.”

            “Of course, Mr. Targaryen,” you answer, your voice even, chill and polite as you turn around, your heart skipping a beat at his proximity, the way his face is just inches from your own. 

            “I was wondering,” he whispers, his hand reaching forwards, thumb brushing along your cheekbone as if he’s checking that you’re real, electricity crackling at his touch in your skin, “if you would do me the honour of having dinner with me.”

            “I’m sorry, sir,” you whisper, the words scraping around the lump in your throat, the lump not formed of tears, but rather want. Lust. Need. Things you shouldn’t feel. “But that would be unprofessional seeing as I’m serving on your holdings board now.” He steps closer as you step back, stalking after you until your back is against the conference room wall and his hands are on your waist and this is wrong, yet you can’t find it in you to push him away. 

            “You misunderstand me,” he whispers, leaning in closer, his lips not far from yours, just a breadth away from pressing against yours. You wonder if they’re soft, your body shifting, the desire to kiss him growing stronger. “It wasn’t really a request. It’s just fact. You will have dinner with me or I will destroy your career before it’s even begun.”

            There’s that douse of cold water again, that instant freezing of fear inside your veins, adrenaline so hot it’s burning cold inside of you as you press back and away from him, back into the wall. 

            “Why would you do that to me?” you whisper, your chin turned away from him, cheek pressed against the marble wall. He places two fingers under your chin, turning you back towards him, making you look at him. 

            “Because I want you,” he whispers and you swallow hard, tears stinging your eyes, chest tightening and constricting, growing painful. 

            “Why? You want to just use me up and leave me for what?” you whisper, voice cracking with the emotions simmering in your tight, tight chest. 

            “No,” he whispers, “I want you as mine. My trophy, my prize, my wife. And it starts with our dinner. And don’t even think of doing anything to get out of it. No one will believe anything you say. You are nothing compared to me.”

            “Yet you want me,” you whisper, your chin lifting in defiance away from his touch, teeth gritting, jaw tightening and his eyes widen, pupils flaring with delight. 

            “Because to me,” he whispers, dipping in towards you again, closer than before, his next words whispered against your lips, “you are everything.” And then he kisses you, a searing kiss, a kiss that is not wanted and yet wanted and you hate this. You hate that you want this man who wants to control you. 

            But you do.

The Dinner:

            The restaurant is fancy, dimly lit and full of waiters in the costumes that you expect to see, really, only on TV, more of a caricature of serving staff, than reality. 

            You don’t really know what you were expecting based on how he asked, the demand, the threat, the inevitability in his request, but it wasn’t this. It wasn’t him showing up outside your apartment building with a limousine and stepping out to allow you to slide in first, a gentleman move. It wasn’t him offering you his arm as he guided you into the restaurant. It wasn’t him pulling out your chair for you and certainly not for the way he’s waited while you’ve ordered, never ordering for you, but rather simply going at your speed. 

            It wasn’t the small talk that he’s making. It wasn’t this: him being a guy and not a monster that he kind of made himself out to be while threatening you. 

            He almost seems like someone you could be happy with, could date and fall in love with if his threat wasn’t hanging over your head, preventing it from being genuine. 

            “Are you having a good time, darling?” he asks you, leaning forwards, his elbows on the table, stare intent as he looks at you like he’s looking into your soul, but in a way that seems to set your skin afire and reminds you that your cunt still works. 

            “Fine,” you whisper, looking down and away from him, swallowing hard, looking intently at the table top, your fork spinning uselessly, mindlessly in your fingers. 

            “Then why won’t you look at me?”

            “Oh, I don’t know,” you hiss, looking up at him, venom in your voice, the kind that is so acidic it even hurts you, your eyes narrowed at him as you grit your teeth, “maybe because you fucking threatened me to be here.”

            “Would you have otherwise?” he asks you, one thick eyebrow arching and you roll your eyes, setting your fork down with a clatter. 

            “It’s not the fucking point,” you whisper and his face twists, shifts and changes into an expression of incredulity.

            “It’s exactly the point,” he says, leaning back in his chair, arms folding, hands behind his head, plush lips curving up in a grin, a smirk. “I wanted to date you and needed some way to free you from your own fears.”

            “Because threatening me so makes me want to date you,” you tell him, voice dark and sardonic as he leans forwards again, pupils flaring over mismatched eyes, dark swallowing light in a way that has your pulse thundering and mouth growing dry, a need for friction causing you to press your thighs together. 

            Is it wrong to fuck the man who’s threatened you? Does that cross some great line? 

            You don’t really know. 

            You don’t really care because honestly…fuck it, you’re horny and he’s hot and he’s here and he probably wants it like you do.  

            “I don’t know,” he says, his voice sultry and sexy and annoying all at the same time. “Does it?”

            “No,” you tell him. “It only makes me want to fuck you.” His face pales at that before flushing anew and he reaches up, one finger loosening his tie as he nods, waving for the check. You like that he doesn’t make you wait. 

            You like the way he’s swallowing hard even more. 

            This might be fun.

            “Baelor!” you cry out, your ass up in the air, skirt rucked up, his fingers curling inside of you, your face pressed into the mattress, his other hand toying with your breasts, his thumb circling your clit, applying pressure in a maddening way, one that has you keening as he drags his knuckles down your walls one after another for each of the four fingers inside of you. 

            “Shh,” he whispers, pressing a kiss against the dip of your spine. “Just be my good girl and take it. It’s what you wanted, is it not?” His words have you crying out on their own, your pussy clenching as he pushes another finger inside of you, followed by the other three, the fingers pumping in and out, the sounds of flesh and slick echoing in the room along with your moans. 

            “Fuck!” you cry out as he shoves all four fingers back in at the same time, the tips curling in tandem, all hitting different places inside you. Your hands clench around the bedsheets, tightening and gripping, knuckles stiffening. 

            “Just be good,” Baelor says, one hand pinching your nipple hard in a way that has you crying out, hips rucking back and up, body moving and shifting, his following. It’s as he presses down on your clit, while dragging his fingertips along your walls that you feel your orgasm wash over you, walls clenching hard before fluttering with aftershocks. 

            He withdraws his fingers when your hole has stopped fluttering around him, popping his fingers in his mouth and sucking on them in a way that is audible, cracking in the stillness of his bedroom, a chorus accompanied by your heavy breathing. He pulls his fingers out with a pop as you flop over onto your back, your dress still on. He watches as you shrug out of it, eyes darkening even more when you’re entirely naked, rather than just the rucked up, unbuttoned state you were in before. 

            “Good girl,” he whispers and the praise hits you, your arousal even higher as he begins to unbutton his shirt, a sizable tent in his pants, eyes tracing every inch of you. “Touch yourself,” he rasps and you comply, one hand reaching down to rub your swollen clit, two fingers slipping through your wet folds to your entrance, dipping inside that has your back arching, everywhere hyper-sensitive, your other hand playing with your breasts as he watches, stripping. He steps out of his pants, belt on the floor, shirt discarded too. He pulls his boxers down, his hard cock springing free, the tip red, a single bead resting on it, his hand reaching for it, pumping it a few times as he watches you touch yourself, crying out whenever you hit that spot inside of you. 

            “Good girl,” he whispers again, this time pulling your hand from your legs, off your breast and replacing your fingers with his cock, sliding it between your wet folds, teasing your entrance before pulling back, turning you into a whining, keening mess underneath him. He laughs a bit at that, a short laugh, a cruel laugh before he pushes in in one thrust, the tip of his cock slamming into your cervix. 

            “So good,” he coos as you cry out, tears growing in your eyes as he begins to fuck you relentlessly, a brutal, cruel rhythm that has you moving like a doll, breasts bouncing every time, tears slipping from your eyes. He mutters praises as he does so, his pace brutal and relentless and harsh in all the right ways, your nails digging into his back, scraping down as he slams in and out, in and out over and over. 

            “God!” you cry as you come around his cock for the second time, his rhythm never ceasing, continuing to just go and go and go. You’re too fucked out to realize that he never put a condom on and isn’t planning on pulling out. 

            Instead, he flips you over, pulling your ass up, shifting his body, cock slamming against you in all the right ways, enough that you’re coming again even when he hasn’t once. You’re moaning and crying and keening beneath him when he finally releases, spilling inside of you in thick hot ropes, his cock twitching before finally falling still and he pulls out. 

            It’s then, even when you’re too out of it to really notice or care, that he turns tender, cleaning you up and tucking you into bed, his arms around you, whispering “goodnight, my darling.”

The Relationship:

            After that, a relationship built, exactly as Baelor wanted. He knew that threatening you was wrong, but he also understood that you never would have gone with him if he hadn’t. Sometimes desperate times call for desperate measures and the most desperate of times is the idea of losing you. 

            So, he threatened you and there you were, resplendent in a loose red sundress. His Woman in Red. 

            He had planned his words and stares, hoping they would turn you on and he succeeded, getting you back in his place, fucked out on his cock exactly as he wanted. Exactly as he’s needed since he saw your portrait, hung it in his study, his consolation prize until he could have you. 

            And now he does. 

            Because after the sex, it was easy. He manipulated every situation, pulled back until you came to him, needing him and his comfort and his praise. He made sure to clear the relationship and made it up to you for his threats. 

            The threats that you obviously could not remember in entirety. 

            And now, you’ve met his sons and they like you, like that you laugh and swear and make him happy. Now, you’re his. 

            And the best part of all, is that you think it was all you. 

            Even when it was all him. 

The Painting:

            You forgave Baelor for his threats, mainly because, two years ago, after you slept with him he pulled back. He apologized in the morning and ceased contact, said he behaved unprofessionally, that if you reported him he would understand. And you were going to, you really were, but then…you know, you didn’t like that he didn’t reach out at allafter sleeping with you. 

            It made you vulnerable in a way that you rarely are and so you went to him and asked him why he never said anything. And he told you it was because he wanted you and didn’t really know what to do about it. And you forgave him. 

            You don’t really know why only that you didn’t want to lose him for reasons that you cannot fathom. 

            And now, two years later, you’re happy in a way you’ve never been before. You wake feeling loved even if the start was anything but good. 

            “Baelor?” you call out, pushing open the door to his study, stepping into the dimly lit room. He’s rarely in here nowadays, preferring to do most of his work with you in the solarium of Dragonstone, Matarys joining when he’s home from school and his extracurriculars.

            It’s mostly a disused room, but you couldn’t find him anywhere else in the manor and thought to check here too. You flick the light switch on, the light flaring before you for a moment, blinding before it settles back into its natural settings, understandable and seeing, revealing the desk and armouries and a painting with a familiar frame. 

            You step deeper into the room, your brow furrowing as you step towards the painting, the frame seemingly made of clay, molded by skilled hands to be flowers and skulls and other shapes. A hand so familiar that an ache begins behind your ribcage, an ache in your heart. 

            “Larissa,” you whisper, the name of your friend like a pain cold and cruel and cutting as it leaves your lips and you look from the frame to the painting, your stomach twisting, bile rising, gut wrenching. 

            It’s the portrait from back when you were eighteen, back when you were young and stupid and thought to only help your friend rather than any lasting effects, but it’s clearly you if you put the painting beside you, that mouth yours, perfectly yours. The chin too. The hair and the body and the necklace. 

            It’s you. No question. 

            “Darling?” you hear Baelor call out, followed by his footsteps, his hand coming to rest between your shoulder blades, the touch making your skin crawl because you realize looking at the painting, the one that was sold all those years ago, that none of this was your choice. 

            You never had a choice at all. 

            He chose you long ago. 

            And there was never a way out of it.

            There still isn’t. 

[rosie-tyler]

[obsessivefanfictionauthor]

I'm Not a Problem for You to Solve —Baran Al-Hashimi

Summary: Known as one of the best nurses in the ED, despite your chaotic nature, you think everything will continue to be smooth sailing. That is, until you meet the new attending physician and find that she likes order above all else. And you don't quite fit into that. What builds over time is a love story that defies expectations. (7.6k)

Pairing: Baran Al-Hashimi x fem!nurse!reader

TW: Reader has found family with the Evans (I wrote in a best friend for the reader which is Dana's trans masc son because I wanted to); Some angst; hurt-comfort; happy ending; allusions to sex but no sex depicted; age-gap; I think this is it and it's my first time writing for Baran Al-Hashimi so I hope it did her justice and I hope the story is good.

Credits & Tags: GIF by @detailspecialist; Written for my best friend, @mp3-seraph who has a huge crush on this beautiful doctor. (I meant every word in this story, bestie! I'm with you, a hundred percent. Always)

You’re late. 

            Completely and totally, horribly late. The kind of late that means that Dana is going to rip you a new one, but maybe she’ll grant some leniency since you’re late because you were helping her son who just so happens to be your best friend. 

            Maybe, possibly, some leniency. Probably not, but it doesn’t hurt to hope. That’s what you’ve always had—hope. Something to cling to when the days are short and the nights are long, the darkness seeming stronger always, the darkness clinging longer and longer. Hope that the sun will rise. Hope that the light will come again. 

            The clock reminds you that Dana will most definitely not grant leniency, the time already reflecting 6:50 when you should have been in around thirty minutes ago. You stumble, shoes half-on, eyes darting every which way through the entrance hall, scanning for your bag, attention falling on the seated figure by the door, looking at you with one arched brow and a packed bag dangling from one hand. 

            “What would I do without you, Le,” you say, your voice dramatic, verging on a groan as you lift one foot, slipping the other shoe on, walking towards him and he looks at you, tilting his head, an analytical gaze taking over. 

            “Probably…drive over a cliff, starve or forget everything to Minecraft,” he replies and you can feel that familiar bubble of no shit, Sherlock inside of you, the one that only your best friend can ever bring up when they say literality, instead of recognizing rhetorics. 

            “It was a rhetorical question,” you return, lifting the bag from his hand, tossing it over your shoulder, more than a bit of acid in your tone. 

            “You asked, I answered,” Levi says, pulling back on his wheels and turning to the kitchen, the one right by the entryway thanks to the open layout of the apartment, the one you and he signed the lease on together, five years ago. Watching Levi hurts you because he wasn’t always like this, as withdrawn as he is, as sad as he is, as jaded. There used to be a version of Levi that smiled and laughed with ease, but the accident took that from him. “By the way,” Levi continues, “Mum says that new attending started today and she seems pretty strict.”

            “You already talked with Dana?” you ask, your hand on the doorknob, the smooth metal that separates this world from the rest of the complex. 

            “Yeah,” Levi says, his tone slow and even, talking like you’re stupid for not realizing what should be obvious, but a truth between you and Le is that something obvious to one of you is not always obvious in the entire scheme of things. Rather obvious only on your unique frequencies. “She checked in after PT. She knows you’ll be late too.”

            “You’re a lifesaver!” you cry and Levi snorts, spinning round in his chair, one dark brow arched. 

            “I’ve been called worse,” he replies and you can’t help but snort, one hand adjusting the strap of the backpack on your shoulder. “Be careful today, okay?”

            “I’ll be fine,” you reply, twisting the knob and pulling the door open, “always am.” 

            The last thing you hear as you step into the complex, closing the door behind you is Levi yelling, “only because I keep pulling you back from the cliffs!”

            And isn’t that the truth? 

            The ED is busy, full, bustling and breathing, alive in a way that is stronger than literally anyone who works there, but you don’t pay much attention to that, rather running in through the automatic doors of the ambulance bay, skidding on the shiny, slippery linoleum floor, the polish sliding along your smoothed sole shoes. You can feel that cant, that tilt of your body as it’s shifting, readying to go down, but you grab the doorframe of the security building, shooting Ahmad a smile, a small breathy laugh slipping through your lips when all he does is roll his eyes. Because…it’s you. 

            “Don’t kill anyone,” he calls out after you, just a bit of a sardonic lilt to his voice as you take off again, slipping past everyone to the locker room, sliding to a stop before your locker, the one on the bottom which was honestly so unfair because you have to bend over or kneel down every day because the locks are so close to the ground. You’re a nurse, this should be a crime making a nurse who’s on her feet all day bend down or kneel down on knees that are young yet creak like they’re decades older. But what can you do?

            You kneel down, your hands punching in your code, the lock beeping, flashing green, flicking open and you pull the door towards you, throwing your bag in, pulling the already filled bottle free from its mesh holder, the metal clinking, belaying the fact that Levi must have put ice in it, knowing that it’s summer, it’s hot and you don’t get a break. 

            Always pulling you back from cliffs, indeed.

            A cough sounds behind you, not one that is rattling and painful and ill, but rather annoyed and controlled and very, very familiar. 

            “Sorry, sorry!” you call out, rising from the ground, your knees creaking the way they always do, the way that sounds like you’re eighty rather than merely in your twenties. 

            “Uh-huh, hon,” Dana says, her voice that familiar rasp, the one that came from years of yelling and smoking, often in the same moment, but that rasp is familiar, one you grew up with beside Levi. “Now come one, you missed meeting the new attending.”

            “They cool? Levi didn’t say much,” you say, closing the door to your locker, water bottle in one hand, the other slipping into the pockets of your scrub pants. Dana’s expression is twisted in that wry way she has, her hair once a golden blonde now greying and whitening. Stress of the job she says, something you’re not looking forward to. Her blue eyes are narrowed, watching and seeing and assessing as you walk towards her, ice hitting the metal walls of your water bottle, your own personal chorus. 

            “We’ll see, kiddo,” she says, her face softening as you reach her, her hand coming out to ghost along your cheek. A surrogate mother to you, someone you’ve known since you were a kid yourself, running along the streets with her kids, staying the nights at her house. You were sixteen the first time she called you a daughter. And it meant everything. “Now…let’s go! Go, go, go!” She claps her hands, her Boston accent thick and you shoot her a smile, the one you have that promises chaos and trouble and humour. Mischievousness in perfection. 

            You step out of the locker room, shoes squeaking in the way that rubber does when it closes around something polished without ever really closing around it. The centre of the ED, the nurse’s station, (or as you call it, the bullpen) is busy, buzzing and humming its own chorus like a creature that’s alive but not quite. Something alive because others are. You should ask Levi what that’s called, maybe it’s some kind of symbiotic relationship. 

            The board is flashing, the display reflecting the banal truth of your reality: people needing help. 

            The problem is, is that you never wanted to be a nurse. You didn’t entirely know what you wanted except to make everyone around you proud and so you chose what you thought they wanted. It was a hard road to this moment, one where you often felt like you were clawing your way out of a dark abyss with only your hands and the shredding, bleeding nails for tools. Only your thoughts for company. You were used to a wealth of teasing from your friends, when they said oh never be a whatever nurse, but it left you with more questions than you had answers. It took Levi and Dana one day, sitting round to a takeout dinner of pizza, a classic movie loading on the TV to set you right. It took a single sentence. 

            “You know, Y/n,” Levi had said, looking at you with their piercing stare, “you’re a good nurse. And as much as I give you shit about it…I think you have something special. Something that puts people at ease. Something that makes them feel safe. So, whatever you do…just know, I’m with you. A hundred percent.”

            It was that last bit, that hundred percent thing, that stuck with you the most. The idea that no matter what, you had someone by you. Someone you didn’t need to impress or make proud because they just were. They were there for you. Always. 

            It was how you found yourself in the ED, asking Dana how she did it, what it took and her looking at you and answering, faith. It took faith in people and that was something that you had always had. And you wanted that faith, that unwavering bit, to matter. So, here you were, looking up at a board that just meant pain, just meant illness. Just meant someone who needed you and your faith. 

            “Okay,” you whisper to yourself, bouncing just a bit on the balls of your feet, lifting, preparing that step forwards, that step towards the desk, towards everything you’ve been doing for so long as a hand extends in your periphery. You glance over your shoulder, expecting a patient or someone who needs something, not expecting what is actually there. The hand, an admittedly pretty hand with elegant fingers and trimmed nails, wrist and fingers devoid of jewelry even when silver would probably look quite good, belongs to a…well, a goddess. 

            That’s the best way to describe the woman who the hand belongs to, the one with curly brown hair and the kind of eyes that seem to melt to liquid gold, warm and inviting, a mouth that’s curved in the prettiest, softest smile. And my god, is it hot in here, or is it just you? You swallow hard, fighting back the insane urge to giggle, that kind of giggle you have when you’re nervous, when you’re feeling feelings. 

            You reach and take the hand offered, the skin smooth and soft and oh my god, it’s perfect and it feels so good against yours and omigod, it kind of fits to yours, doesn’t it? You’re going crazy, you are, you’re fer sure going crazy. 

            “Hi,” the goddess says, her voice just as perfect as the rest of her, smooth and soft and precious with an undertone of power and power has never been sexy to you until now. If you didn’t already know you were gay, you would say she was your gay awakening, but…too little, too late. “I’m Dr. Baran Al-Hashimi, the new attending.”

            Her name is as pretty as the rest of her and you’re only slightly aware of introducing yourself, your attention still mainly fixed on her and her smile and the way she shifts on her feet, the movements graceful like the goddess she is. 

            “…but everyone calls me Nurse Chaos though because…I’m unique,” you finish, hoping she laughs. You’d like to know what her laugh sounds like, if it’s the sound of silver bells like you think it would be. Should be. Just pretty and perfect and powerful like her. 

            The goddess, Dr. Al-Hashimi, lets out a small hmm before the smile freezes on her face, growing kind of cold, kind of plastic and you wonder what you did wrong, what made her not like you. Did you come off creepy? You’re staring, too much aren’t you?

            “In the future,” she says, her voice cutting through your spiral of self-deprecation, “I would appreciate my staff present on time. I don’t know how Dr. Robinavitch ran this floor, but I’m changing it. Have a good day, Y/n.” She smiles the real smile, the soft smile before turning on her heel, hands clasping behind her back as she walks away, steps even and graceful and fuck why is this happening now?!

            You weren’t ready for an enemies-to-friends-(maybe, possibly, potentially, lovers) now! You were supposed be like Dana’s age before that happened in the workplace. And where does she get off! You’re not her staff, you’re Dana’s. 

            “Let’s go, kiddo!” Dana calls, her voice loud and clear and strong, her hand waving you off. “We’ve got a kit to do.”

            “You know!” you cry, slamming the dry measuring cup onto the counter, flour sprinkling like falling snow onto the granite. 

            “Know what?” Levi asks you, his voice a sigh as he turns, the counters lowered for him and his chair, his hands stilling their motion of kneading the dough. 

            “I am a wonderful nurse and so what if one day I was late! Where does she get off on this shit?! I’m not her staff, I’m Dana’s,” you cry, your arms crossing as you look around the mess of the kitchen, at the bits of dough stuck to floured countertops, the bowls sitting in the water in the sink. Levi’s been, well Levi, and organized almost to a fault, his side clean and neat, but yours…well, it’s not the worst. It’s just…you’ve been ranting and rants take precedence. 

            “Yo, my chaos gremlin,” he calls and you glance at him, taking in the furrow of his dark eyebrows, the natural black a contrast to the golden blonde hair on his head. 

            “What?”

            “You like her,” he says and you freeze for just a moment, breath hitching, chest constricting, that familiar feeling of oh shit, there’s someone who knows me. 

            “That has no relevan—” you start, but Levi cuts you off, a familiar glimmer in his eye. 

            “—It has all the relevance,” he interrupts and you stop, eyes narrowing at him and lips pursing. “It has relevance because you’re about to do exactly what she wants and be the nurse she wants even when that isn’t you. You are a people-pleaser to a fault and I fucking love that of you, but I’m not watching you mold yourself into something else for a crush.”

            “But—”

            “No buts,” Levi continues over you, his hands transferring the bread to his pan, setting it on his lap and wheeling over to you. “Because my friend, my dear, sweet, selectively blind friend…you need to be you. Not your chaotic act but you. I know you and you need to be you. Believe in yourself like I do, okay?” He shoves the pan of bread into your chest and wheels backwards like there’s nothing but open-space behind him, the layout of the house memorized. 

            You look down at the bread, the one pummelled by your best friend’s fist and wonder just how much truth is in what he said. 

            And how many times you’ve disappeared for someone else. 

            “I bring bread!” you call out, stepping into the breakroom, Langdon and Dana at the counter, stirring coffee, looking back over their shoulders at you, eyes already tired even though it’s morning, 6:30 AM to be precise. 

            “How are you so chipper?” Langdon asks you, his voice husky in the way that no sleep and constant worry and fear cause. 

            “Because it’s who I am,” you tell him, forcing the ends of your lips up into a smile, but it’s a struggle. It’s always a struggle, but one you push through for everyone else because they need it. They need you and that’s what you give them, every piece of you even when it breaks you into smaller and smaller pieces every time. 

            Isn’t that the cost of making everyone happy?

            “Good morning,” a familiar, perfect (annoyingly perfect) voice calls behind you, the sound that of a goddess granting her followers the comfort of her presence. Of her reality. God, Levi was right, you really do have it bad.

            “Mornin’,” Dana says, her voice raspy in the way it always is when she’s been smoking before coffee. That’s always the marker of whether it’s going to be a good morning or a bad one, a good morning means that she’s been drinking coffee before her first cigarette and a bad one means that only nicotine can save her meaning nothing can save the rest of you. 

            “We’re very busy at this present moment,” Dr. Al-Hashimi says, her voice soft yet an undercurrent of strength that is really sexy runs through it, steel underneath silk is the only way you can think to quantify it. “So, I would prefer if everyone were out and handling the cases…” she pauses, the words falling like a scythe, like the executioner’s axe over your head and you can feel that urge, that pull, to flee, to do whatever she wants to make her happy, have her smile at you, but Levi asked you to be you. Not the people pleaser, not whatever nurse she wants you to be but you and you owe it to your best friend to try. “Dr. Langon,” she finishes, the words sounding like she intended them all along, but a part of you knows that she wanted that pause for everyone to pick up on it. 

            She’s very good, you must admit. A very good leader, skilled and confident in quiet ways, but you just came in and you’re carrying two Tupperware containers, one for your focaccia and one for Levi’s precious sourdough, his science experiment of single celled organisms as he puts it. Which honestly, just means that you don’t want to eat it, but everyone else loves it. So…you will not leave until you’ve set the containers down and poured your own breakroom sludge—you mean, coffee, not really. 

            “Hey, Dr. Al-Hashimi,” you say, watching as Langon’s face flushes a deep red and he sets his mug in the sink, hands fiddling with his stethoscope as he darts from the room, head down, “I brought some bread, do you want some?” You lift the two containers out to her, her expression drawn and surprised and slightly startled as if she’s someone who never expects to have something offered to her, rather someone used to doors closing in her face. 

            “I..I..” she pauses, her face drawing tight together, a slight irritation on her face, but one that’s not directed at you, you can tell it’s at her own hesitation. “Maybe later, thank you, Y/n.” She smiles once, a different smile than yesterday, a softer one, a sadder one. A gentler one. 

            One that melts that little pit of irritation. Everyone is entitled to a bad day. An off day. You can’t judge based on one interaction alone. You know this logically and now you know this period. 

            “Well, it’ll be here,” you tell her, returning the smile and setting the bread containers on the table, turning from her to the coffee maker. 

            When you turn back around, she and Dana both are gone and the containers are open, one piece of sourdough gone (Dana, always Dana) and one piece of focaccia. 

            You can’t help the smile that curls on your lips as you step out of the breakroom, to the nurse’s station, your mind on one thing: the starfish story. 

            It makes a difference for this one.

            You feel that same bit of dangerous exhaustion, bone deep tiredness, the beeping of the monitors in the trauma bay still echoing in your own heartbeat, a metronome in your own mind. It was a child, one of five, with closed eyes and a slowing heartbeat and pain, so much pain. Too much for that small of a kid, yet it was real. 

            It never gets easier this job, watching the worst days of people’s lives flash one after another, after another, echoing longer than it lasted. But who would do this job if you didn’t? Who would keep coming back?

            “You did a phenomenal job in there,” the voice of the ED Goddess (as you like to think of Dr. Al-Hashimi because come on, man, she is a goddess) says from behind you and you turn, taking in a deep and shuddering breath, forcing a plastic, wavering, winnowing smile onto your face. 

            “I didn’t know you paid much attention to the nurses,” you whisper, your voice thick in the way it always is when dealing with cases like this. The children, the helpless, the defenseless.

            “I pay attention to everyone who works in this department,” she whispers, her face tired in the same way that yours is, her lips still curving up in a slight smile. “And you are one of the best.” You swallow hard at her words, that insane urge to giggle that only she has ever brought out in you rising up, something you have to fight back down. But she thinks you’re one of the best. It was just a singular day. 

            “Thank you, Dr. Al-Hashimi,” you whisper and she smiles a bit stronger at you, turning on her heel, hands clasped behind her back in a way that you’ve come to realize is just her. It’s not a power move or habit drilled in, it’s just her. 

            “Oh,” she says, glancing back at you over her shoulder, “and you should take a few minutes before getting back to work. That case wasn’t easy.” And then she’s gone, only that image of her looking back at you, lingering like a mirage. 

            “What is that?” you hear Dr. Al-Hashimi call out as you step into the ED, a cardboard box filled with the donuts you convinced Levi to make with you last weekend even as he complained about the smell of the deep frier and threw an oven mitt at your head. 

            “Donuts,” you reply, turning to face her, knowing instinctively where she is like she’s the sun and you’re a sunflower, tilting into her light no matter what. “Do you want one? They’re jam filled, but no gelatin or whey and were fried in vegetable oil.” A smile is on your face already, not your real one, but the one you always have because everyone needs a smile. 

            “Maybe later,” she says, her lips curving into a smile to match yours. “And you know,” she continues, walking with you through to the breakroom, “people like you no matter what. You don’t need to win them over with food.”

            “But sometimes…” you pause, swallowing hard and looking over at her, “sometimes it just takes one thing to make people happy. I like to think this might be that one thing.”

            “But what does it take from you to make people happy, I wonder,” she says, her one eyebrow arching as she begins to walk away from you, calling over her shoulder, “just something to ponder.”

            It lingers with you for the rest of the day: what does it take from you?

            You hate your locker. Absolutely hate it because you hate that at the end of a long shift you have to crouch down, your back and knees creaking and cracking in an out of tune chorus yelling out ageing, ageing, ageing even when you’re still young, young, young. You fear that you’re going to be like Dana soon, already having pulled out your first grey hairs. Personally, you don’t think you’ll look as good as Dana does, but you also can’t remember Dana without the lighter hair even though you’ve seen the pictures of her yellow blonde hair before. 

            “Do you have a minute to talk?” you hear Dr. Al-Hashimi call out and you jerk back from your locker, the back of your head slamming against the top of it, a whispered curse slipping from your lips as you grab your bag even as your vision blurs, tears stinging your eyes. 

            “Oh yeah,” you squeak, coughing once to try and mask the sound of pain and surprise, “sure, I have a minute. I have a ride coming so like one minute but yeah.” You stand, knees squeaking as you kick your locker closed, backpack up and over your shoulder as you turn to face her, her beauty slightly less intimidating now that you can’t see her clearly from the tears gathering in your eyes. 

            “I want to apologize,” she says, her voice still even and contained as she walks towards you, steps even, her form less blurry now as she stands before you, perfect face creased with sympathy. “For the first day.”

            “Oh! Don’t it’s fi—” she cuts you off with a shake of her head. 

            “It’s not fine,” she says, her eyebrows knitting together, lips pursing as she lets out a sigh, one quiet and steady just like she is. “I was stressed on my first day as much as it may not have seemed like it. It was new and I reacted badly. I am aware that days are off, time isn’t infinite. I do have a son that I have to take care of and time isn’t always on one’s side and I know, I do, that we have been getting along, but it still felt right to me to apologize. So, can you forgive me?”

            “I already did,” you tell her, shrugging once, even as your shoulders protest at the motion. “I get that people have bad days. It’s normal. There’s nothing to apologize for, but…thanks.” You can feel your eyebrows drawing together, confusion warring with a kind of pain as you nod once at her, her lips curving into a smile that is real and bright and omigod you don’t think you’ve ever seen anything like it before. 

            She looks at you for a long moment, her gaze not assessing, rather something you can’t quite understand and then she opens her mouth, looking on the verge of saying something. Asking something.

            “Hey!” a voice cuts through, one that you know, one that yells at you every chance they get (affectionately of course). “Mum’s going to go off the rails if you take up much more time, gremlin!” You look over, look away, towards where Levi is, his shaved golden blonde head catching the light, eyebrows up in the way they are when he’s not being dramatic. 

            “Sorry,” you whisper, looking back at Dr. Al-Hashimi, at the way her face has fallen, drawn together even as she forces a smile, whispering, “I best let you go. Goodnight, Nurse Chaos” before walking away, walking past you, past Levi and out back towards the bullpen. 

            “Well, well, well,” Levi says, his lips curving up into what can only be described as a smirk. “Doesn’t look so one-sided to me.”

            The dining table is a chaotic mess of papers and plates and forks and glasses and it’s okay because it works. Levi’s across from you, Dana’s at the head of the table which is technically beside you but not really and it’s just another Friday night. Just another Friday dinner, Levi’s dad busy with work like…well, normal. 

            “You know,” Dana says, her fork making a twing sound on the porcelain of the good plate, the plates that are only used on Friday nights because Dana and Levi said years ago that they would pull a Gilmore Girls and you were the unwitting guest every time. Although, not really a guest now because they take place at your place, but whatever. “I like Dr. Al-Hashimi, I really do, but it irks me still what she said that first day.”

            “Chill out, Mum,” Levi says, lifting his head from where it’s been bent over some neurology report. “But, in all fairness, I would have shown up late everyday just to make a point.” You snort, fork held aloft, partway to your mouth, the motion shaking the utensil, grains of the takeout rice slipping from it. 

            “You wouldn’t have,” Dana says, her tone fond yet annoyed at the same time and you laugh harder, the kind of laugh that rumbles through your entire body. 

            “Oh, yes, he would have! Remember the professor?” you ask, the memory causing your lips to curve up wider and brighter than before. A dress code set for one lecture, one Levi broke every day. 

            “Hey!” Levi cries, pointing his fork at you, slate grey eyes narrowed. “Don’t tell me what to wear to a lecture! Just not cool!” The three of you laugh, the sound echoing off the walls of your apartment, the good kind of echo, the good kind of sound. A lightness in your bones. “And…my friend,” Levi says when the laughter has died down, his lips pursed in the look he has when he’s planning chaos in the most ordered of ways, “what was that moment with Dr. Al-Hashimi today?” His face is positively gleeful. “It looked like she was gonna say something. Any idea what?” The tone is leading. The tone is leading in a way that is never good. 

            “No…” you reply, tone hesitant as you pause, unsure of what Levi’s leading up too, kind of scared when you see his grin deepen, become even more gleeful. 

            “Looked like she liked you, if you know what I mean,” he says and it’s like the floor has bottomed out, like the world has flipped upside down. Like the entire fucking world is different and altered and not yours because in what world would that absolute goddess like you?!

            Could it be?

            You think Levi’s broken your brain. 

            “You know,” you hear Dr. Al-Hashimi call out as she steps into the ED, night shift still working, the time reflecting 5:50 AM. You’ve been in since four, unable to sleep after the bomb your best friend dropped on you, the bomb that seems to reignite, re-explode now that you’re hearing the voice that belongs to the goddess who may or may not like you. And omigod has life ever been this complicated before? “I didn’t mean this early.”

            “I’m actually almost always early unless my best friend needs my help with PT,” you tell her, muscles rigid, tone tense as you refuse to turn, to look at those eyes like liquid gold, those eyes that make you feel like the richest woman in the world when they’re looking at you. 

            “Ah,” you hear her say, stepping up beside you, leaning on the nurse’s station in a mimic of your pose, your posture. “I take it that’s what happened my first day then.”

            “Yeah,” you tell her, still resolutely fixing your gaze on the horizon, on the image of Shen moving from room to room even as you want to turn and look and look at her because the entire right side of your body is buzzing from her proximity. 

            “I did have a question for you,” she says and you can’t help it because she is the sun and you are a flower, constantly turning towards her god help you. 

            “Okay, shoot,” you tell her and she smiles, a crooked kind of smile, yet another new one that sets your body alight, blood boiling and it most definitely is hot in here. You’re sure of it. 

            “Do you want to be…friends?” she asks her, her question hesitant, unsure and you know it’s because most of the ED still doesn’t like her, still gets annoyed, turning aside and you nod, the movement vigorous and excited and foreign because you’ve never been like this in your life before. Not even with your ex-girlfriend back in college. 

            “Yes,” you tell her and she laughs a bit at that and you were right, her laugh is like silver bells, pretty and perfect and strong, exactly like you always thought it would be. You’d like to bottle that sound up, really. It’s kind of addictive. “Hey, why don’t you come over for a movie tonight? My best friend, Levi, is off to a mandatory Evans Family Dinnertonight and I bailed on him so…yes?”

            “Yes,” Dr. Al-Hashimi says, her smile lightening and brightening and it’s like a shot of cocaine to your system because you made her smile like that, laugh like that. “My son’s with his father so yes. I would love that.”

            “It’s a date then,” you say, holding out your hand to her, one she simply takes even as your own words hit you like a replay button and you stutter, “n-not a date, but like…it’s a…it’s a time set you know, like—”

            “I knew what you meant, Y/n,” she says, cutting you off, her voice enough to calm you down, her presence making you feel at peace. She’s magical really. “I’ll see you tonight.”

            Your body is buzzing and honestly, you have idea what movie is playing anymore because Baran (she insisted that you call her that now that you’re friends and how could you not? She has such a pretty name, while she’s pretty and maybe her name is only pretty because she’s pretty and it suits her. Maybe. You don’t know know.) is sitting right beside you. 

            Like right beside you. As in her shoulder to your shoulder and honestly you don’t think you’ve ever felt this way before, your body alight in ways it’s never been before. 

            But friends, just friends, remember that, you tell yourself as you swallow hard, your mouth dry. You lean forwards towards where your drink sits on the coffee table, a glass of iced tea beside her glass of green tea, but as you lean forwards so does she, your hands brushing as you each reach for your glasses, fingers grazing fingers, soft skin against soft skin, electricity crackling like a physical thing between you. 

            You look up and over at her, preparing to say sorry but everything seems to drop away at the way she’s looking at you, her golden gaze dropping, falling to your lips. It’s like she’s tracing them with her eyes, her gaze almost a physical thing as if she were dragging her finger over them. You swallow hard, your pulse thrumming beneath your skin, shifting closer to her and she responds, her head leaning towards yours as if she’s going to kiss you and you wonder what her lips will feel like against yours. 

            Are they as soft as they look? What will she taste like? Will you mess it up? Oh my god, what if you do mess it up? Will she hate you? Will sh—

            “I hate my family!” you hear, the yell accompanied by the sound of the front door slamming, of wheels squeaking on hardwood floors. “Like my sisters are such bitches! Can you believe that Kath was like oh I’m sure you can find someone to like you despite all your…faults?! She’s such a bitch!” Levi appears around the corner, his elven face pinched and flushed, chest heaving, eyes slightly glassy before they widen, eyebrows rising, taking in your position. “Oh shit. I’m sorry,” he says, wheeling himself backwards, waving once at Baran, before wiggling his brows at you in the way that you hate. “I’m gonna spend the night at Mum’s! Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” And then the front door slams and you know that you probably shouldn’t let him do that, should probably follow them and make sure he’s okay, but when you glance back at Baran, preparing to say you have to do something, have to follow them, you see her golden eyes are black, pupils flared. 

            “Where were we?” she whispers and you swallow hard again as she leans in, pressing her lips against yours in a kiss that is sweet and soft and dangerous in how perfect it is, her hands on you, one on your cheek, one on your hip and yours around her neck. 

            And you forget everything for just a little bit except the slide of her lips against yours and the feel of her body against you. 

            This thing between you and Baran hasn’t been given a label, rather it just is. It’s late night phone calls and sitting on living room floors, sharing takeout and kisses and more. It’s early mornings and showers and coffee and carpool. It’s weekend farmer’s market and meeting her son, being introduced as someone special to Darius. 

            It’s going to movies with Levi and inviting Baran to movie nights. It’s having a person even without a label.

            It’s kind of everything to you because she fits in your world. It’s her helping Levi, recommending doctors that won’t make comments based on his identity and disability and a surgeon that she knows who does top surgery very well. It’s her listening to Dana as she speaks of the golden days, of your childhood and the chaos that you and Levi used to get up to. 

            It’s her being there for you.

            And you can’t imagine anything ever changing that. Breaking that. 

            But of course…just because you can’t imagine it, doesn’t mean it can’t happen.

            You like times like this the most, times when you and Baran are curled up on the couch, curled into each other, talking about everything and nothing, Levi having taken Darius out to a movie and then ice cream, relegated to, as he states, the glorified babysitter. The unpaid labour. But Levi likes Darius, calls him a good kid. 

            “I’ve having trouble with my latest Master’s project thing,” you complain, your head on Baran’s shoulder. Your one hand is in one of hers and she squeezes it sympathetically, the touch grounding. 

            “What about it?” she asks and it’s not the annoyed ask of someone who doesn’t really care and is only asking in that cursory way, it’s the way of someone who genuinely cares. And you’ve rarely had that in your life. You’ve mostly had yourself and it’s hard to genuinely care for yourself when other people don’t care for you because what can you find in yourself that they didn’t?

            “Motivation,” you sigh, the words the kind of sigh that run through your entire body, that leave your entire body in one breath. 

            “Well,” Baran says, sitting up, her tone becoming agitated, excited. “What if we changed your schedule? Increase your sleep time and extend your waking hours. We can bracket in time for activity and work and then dedicated time for your Master’s project. We can also cut out certain things from your diet such as the copious amounts of caffeine you consu—”

            “Baran, stop!” you cry, your throat thickening as you pull away from her, pull yourself almost off the couch, stumbling to your feet, eyes stinging with tears. “I’m not a problem for you to solve! I’m your partner! Not a puzzle!” The words are screams torn from your throat and vibrating in the air with the force of your pain, her face falling, but it doesn’t matter. You thought she understood that sometimes you can complain, that sometimes you don’t need someone coming in and acting like you are something that should be fixed. 

            “But Levi does schedules all the time for you,” she whispers and you scoff, your hand coming to rest on the back of your neck, worrying the skin between your fingers.

            “Levi makes schedules from whatever information I supply him with! He’s my friend and he doesn’t act like I need to be fixed!” you cry and Baran’s face cracks, a single silvered tear slipping from her eye, trailing down her cheek. A mirror of yours. 

            “Perhaps you…” Baran trails off, swallowing hard, her throat bobbing with the motion, golden eyes casting downwards away from your gaze. Away from the pain there. 

            “I didn’t mishear you, B,” you whisper, voice cracking and breaking in the way one is when already broken. “Please just get out.” She listens even when you wish she wouldn’t, when you wish she would stay and demand more. When she would stay and say that there was more to this relationship. That it was worth saving. 

            But as the door closes behind her, soft and steady and final, you know it’s not because what is to save from something that never had a title at all?

            You don’t know how much time has passed since she left, only that you’re sitting on the floor, curled up, dazed and startled and confused, looking down at your knees, hands around your legs when the door opens again and you look up, hoping beyond hope that it is Baran, saying that you need to talk. 

            That it can’t end like that. 

            But it’s not her, it’s Levi, rolling in, face grim, dark brows set in a firm line, the planes of his face catching the light as he wheels to you, hurried. He looks like some messenger of Death with the gaunt angles of his cheeks, the hollows time has worn into the smoothness of his skin, testosterone stubble on his chin. 

            “Don’t you do that,” he hisses as you smile at him despite the tears in your eyes, the tears stinging your eyes relentlessly and have since Baran left. 

            “Do what?” you ask, your voice breaking as you strive for brightness. Levi glares at you, slate eyes narrowed in a caring way, nostrils flaring as he opens his arms for you to fall into which you do because he doesn’t like touch, doesn’t like being held, so when he opens his arms, it’s because he knows you need it or he needs it. 

            And this time might be a little bit of both. 

            “Don’t you put on a happy face even when inside you’re dying,” he whispers into your hair, his touch soothing and grounding and familiar. “I need you to scream and cry and let it out because I watched you all our lives do this: put on a smile even as you were dying inside and saying you were fine. So, no more. Come on! Let it all out and then we’re going to put everything back together, together, okay?”

            “Okay,” you whisper into his shoulder, the word swallowed by the thick fabric of his sweatshirt. 

            “Good,” he whispers. “Because even when you think you have no one, you have me. Always.” 

            You hate this shift.

            Mainly because Baran is working the same day as you are and it’s really hard trying to avoid your not-ex, yet ex the day after the not breakup yet breakup. It’s hard because she keeps shooting you glances all day which are longing and precious and make your heart flutter even as they come crashing down around you because you remember the way she started spouting solutions to a problem you didn’t know you had or were or whatever!

            Last night hurt. It hurt when Levi hugged you, when he told you that he was always there. It hurt when Levi handed you the pillow and let you scream into it until there was nothing left inside of you to scream. It hurt when Levi just let you talk. It hurt when you cried and yelled and pleaded with whatever god would listen. 

            It just hurt because you listened to your heart break over and over. 

            So, you’re more than happy to be going home, your bag heavy on your back as you walk into the dimly lit parking lot, your car flashing as you click the unlock button, comfort so close and yet so far. 

            “WAIT!” Baran yells out, her voice high-pitched and cracking, aching in a way if a sound can ever really ache and hers does. You pause, stilling and you’re not sure why, you’re not sure why you bother to listen except that you don’t want this to be over and let’s be honest: couples fight and make up, right? So, why can’t you two?

            “What, B?” you ask as she runs to you, her curly hair frizzing the way it always does at the end of shift when she’s stressed, when she’s pained. 

            “I’m sorry,” she whispers in that voice that is aching and pained and you want to just hold her until it stops, but you’re aching too. You’re aching so much. 

            “I forgive you. Whatever,” you say, pushing past her, but her hands come to rest on your shoulders, holding you place as the streetlights flicker overhead casting the parking lot in a stranger golden glow like a liminal picture. 

            “I don’t know what to do when I’m in love,” she blurts out, her golden eyes turning liquid, glassy from the tears in them. “It’s what ruined my marriage because I want to help when I’m in love, but it…it comes across all wrong and I’m sorry but I didn’t mean it the way you took it.”

            “In love?” you whisper, your voice scratching against the walls of your throat as you arch an eyebrow at her. 

            “Yes,” she whispers in reply. “I’m in love with you.”

            “Okay,” you say, drawing in a deep breath, one that smells like diesel exhaust and rain and citrus like her. “Okay because I love you too, but I need you to promise me one thing.”

            “Anything,” Baran whispers. 

            “Promise me that you’ll never treat me like a problem to be solved again.”

            “I promise.”

            Baran looks breathtaking in her light blue dress, the A-line cut fitting just right, her cheeks stained with just a few tear tracks from when she watched you walk the aisle towards her. You had wanted to walk with her, but she said she’d already done the white-dress-walk-down-the-aisle-thing before and she wanted to know what it was like to watch the one you love walk to you. 

            “…and I vow, like I promised all those years ago, to never treat you like a problem to be solved,” she finishes, folding her paper back up, the one on which she’d written her vows, slipping it back into the pocket in her dress, her hands finding yours again as Levi clears his throat. He wanted to officiate and you weren’t going to fight him on it. 

            “Then, with the power invested in me by the State of Pennsylvania and the internet, I now pronounce you woman and wife. You may now kiss one another!”

            And when Baran presses her lips against yours it’s a kiss that just feels right, that feels like it was always meant to be, to belong. 

            Like this was always meant to happen. 

[melsglasses]

i forgot to post this here my b

[814519]

let's have a smoke break with mama (and question our career choice)

[obsessivefanfictionauthor]

Hi! First of all, thank you so much for all the fics you post, and especially for being willing to write for characters from movies or shows you haven’t seen. I really appreciate all the work you put into your writing, and you’re incredibly talented. I was wondering if your requests are currently open and if I could send one in?

Hi Anon!

Thank you so much for this ask, it meant a lot. And yes, my requests are open. They're actually always open because my rule is I write what speaks to me first and then I write everything else when I have time. So, everything WILL get written, it just takes time.

But yes, of course, send the request in. Most of the characters I've written for, I've actually never watched the show for, fun fact so...yeah. Send it in, I always love researching these new characters and these shows and it's actually increased my "to-be-watched" list so always great. And I love writing.

Thank you so much, Anon! Looking forward to your request!

À bientôt!

[obsessivefanfictionauthor]

Update

I've been a little inactive lately because I've been updating my theme and stuff, so, I have a couple stories I'm working on and was wondering if anyone wanted to be tagged in them. Let me know in the comments if you do!

[obsessivefanfictionauthor]

Main Masterlist

A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms

House of the Dragon

The Pitt

Stranger Things

Shawn Hatosy

Misc.

Different

Follower Celebrations

[obsessivefanfictionauthor]

Different Masterlist

My Original Poetry Butterfly Kisses Star Dust

Addie LaRue Epilogue The Curse of Forgetting, the Price of Remembering

Divider by @diviniyae

[obsessivefanfictionauthor]

Misc. Masterlist

🖤 —dark content | ❤️—smut | 💔—angst | 💕—fluff

Clark Kent Danger Was My Playground 💕💔

Scott Miller Sunshine? In This Business We Bet On Rain❤️

Bobby Franklin The Mirror Wore Your Face 💔 My Prison; Your Salvation 💔💕

Kylo Ren I Am Yours—That is All That Matters❤️💕💔

Holmes Brothers Pleasing a Woman is Elementary, My Dear Brother❤️

Divider by @diviniyae

[obsessivefanfictionauthor]

Shawn Hatosy Masterlist

🖤 —dark content | ❤️—smut | 💔—angst | 💕—fluff

Titus Danforth I Want You to Want to Live 🖤💕 Future Mrs. Danforth ❤️

Andrew "Pope" Cody You've Given Me All I've Ever Dreamed 💕 Leather and Lace 💕❤️💔 Wasn't This What You Wanted? ❤️💕

Sammy Bryant Watching the Clock Countdown 💕 I Thought I Mattered More to You❤️💔💕

Jack Abbot See: The Pitt Masterlist

Dividers by @diviniyae

[obsessivefanfictionauthor]

Stranger Things Masterlist

🖤 —dark content | ❤️—smut | 💔—angst | 💕—fluff

Strangest Things Season 1 Season 2

Henry Creel I Warned You This Wouldn't Be Easy 🖤 Henry's Darling🖤💔

Billy Hargrove Henry's Darling🖤💔

Steve Harrington When the Pain is Bad, Lean on Me, Darling💔💕

Divider by @strangergraphics

[obsessivefanfictionauthor]

Oh great, I love Pope ❤️‍🩹 I was asking for Brendon Park... Would you write a dddne fic for him?

Oh totally!

I feel like his character can go several ways (mainly because he's like a build-your-own-character due to his limited screen time) so yeah. I was already thinking of some, but nothing was really fleshed out. But, yeah, Anon, feel free to send the idea in as long as it abides by my incest thing.

Thanks for checking by the way, it means a lot!

À bientôt!

[obsessivefanfictionauthor]

The Pitt Masterlist

🖤 —dark content | ❤️—smut | 💔—angst | 💕—fluff

Hucklerobby Early Mornings, Late Nights 💕

Michael "Robby" Robinavitch I Think This is it For Me ❤️ You Don't Have to Go it Alone Anymore 💔❤️💕 Achilles Come Down 💔💕 Eight Days of Hanukkah💔❤️

Jack Abbot Let Me Carry the Weight, Love 💕 I'm Always Here for You 💕💔 The Scars She Left Behind 💔 You Don't Have to Go it Alone Anymore 💔❤️💕 Missing You 💔 Never Enough 💔❤️ What We Were Before 💔 Keep Trying💔💕

Brendon "The Shark" Park Only for You ❤️ Fallin' All In You ❤️ You Don't Have to Go it Alone Anymore 💔❤️💕 A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes 💕💔 Who Would Win—The Wolf or the Shark? ❤️ Fragile Bones; Fragile Hearts 💔 Hearts Work the Way Bodies Cannot💔💕

Dennis Whitaker You Don't Have to Go it Alone Anymore💔❤️💕

John Shen You Don't Have to Go it Alone Anymore💔❤️💕 It Has Always, Always, Been You💔💕

Jesse Van Horn You Don't Have to Go it Alone Anymore💔❤️💕

Cassie McKay Stuck in the Nettles with You💔❤️💕

Baran Al-Hashimi I'm Not a Problem for You to Solve 💔💕

Frank Langdon You Don't Have to Go it Alone Anymore💔❤️💕

Divider by @diviniyae