mostly reading, sometimes writing, always h word

⛧⃝

When you were hired on to serve the Danforth family—or the Danforth Clan as many liked to call them—you knew that you were stepping foot into the devil’s lair the moment a huge stack of papers were placed before you to read and sign. You knew there’d no doubt be things you’d witness and be privy to that you’d be legally barred from ever speaking about. You hadn’t known then just how depraved and differently the top 1% of the world behaved, but you’d known that you were signing a piece of your soul away in a sense. 

…but when you impressively scrawled your name in cursive on that dotted line, you hadn't known you’d be signing your body away too.

Titus Danforth was a gentle brute, if such a thing ever existed. He was one half of the Danforth legacy, a title and inheritance he shared with his twin sister Ursula. He was gruff and crass and possessed a child’s demanding nature despite not having been one for decades. With all of the money in the world in his pocket—and an army of people ready to answer his every beck and call and request at the drop of a hat—he could behave however he pleased without fear of consequence. 

An unfortunate fact he took great advantage of.

“This one’s new.”

That was how you were formally introduced, the older man eyeing you in a way that felt extremely distrusting. It didn’t necessarily offend you, understanding the protective nature of some rich asshole to guard his assets and livelihood. Still, the screening process to get hired onto the Danforth estate was a tedious and rigorous one, hardly a walk in the park, so he should’ve known that no one passed through these doors without the utmost confidence they could be trusted.

Your superior, Pernilla, had taken on the task of showing you the ropes, and she’d stopped any and all focus on anything else to give the grey-haired man her undivided attention. It was your first example as to how to act around the immediate family members, and you’d followed her lead, straightening and focusing on nothing else but him.

Such a small act had his full attention.

“Yes, Mr. Danforth,” the other woman confirmed despite the fact that it wasn’t a question. “She’s one of two new editions to the staff, fully screened and hired on only a week ago.”

You hadn’t moved a muscle as he eyed you, looking down his nose at you in a way that had you reminding yourself what you’d signed up for. The money you were getting just to wait on some privileged jerks had you ignoring the glint that passed through his gaze as he ran his eyes over you, slowly as if not to miss a thing.

Mr. Danforth only hummed, a low and deep sound from within his chest.

“Let’s hope you last.”

He was gone without another word, completely dismissive of your presence, and that was the last time you saw him for a while. Two months, in fact. The job didn’t require much more out of you than you expected, and that wasn’t to say that it was easy, but you’d been prepared for the demanding nature of your new employers. Two months. That's how long the wool stayed over your eyes, how long you’d been under the impression you were working for normal rich assholes.

…but then Ursula announced her engagement and then the wedding seemed to happen only a month later and then the wedding night changed everything.

The screams that rang throughout the estate gave you nightmares for months, assaulted by the visions and memories of mopping up fresh blood off of the hard wood floors. You hadn’t been able to stop shaking, a heavy weight settling in your chest as the reality of your new employer crept in. The mountain of papers you’d been forced to sign made more sense than ever in that moment, and you’d only been able to ask yourself one question.

What had you gotten yourself into?

You’d had no way to guess that cleaning up crime scenes would be the least of your problems. Your bloodstained hands took up all of your attention as you slowly and dazedly walked back to the servants’ quarters, cheeks damp from your tears and wondering if there was any way to get out of this. The contract was legally binding, legally preventing you from saying a thing, so surely you could just…leave, right?

So distracted by the physical evidence of your part in all this, you almost ran into one of the few people who could decide your fate in this household. You hadn’t been able to stop yourself from gasping in shock, stopping in your tracks and lifting your gaze to his face. The first time you ever met him felt like a whole other life ago, the events of Ursula’s wedding night serving as some paradigm shift.

There was only before and after, now.

Titus Danforth stood before you in all of his intimidating glory, made doubly so by the bloodstained shirt he was still wearing, and you forced yourself not to linger your gaze on it. He seemed to notice your discomfort—your fear—and if you hadn’t known better, you’d say he relished in it. When he took a step towards you, it took everything in you not to take one back.

“What’s your name?”

You forced your mind to work, blinking as you started to mumble the throw away name you’d been told to choose. However, before you could fully get it out, the older man was interrupting you with a bark of a tone. He sounded upset.

“Your real name.”

At that, you frowned, uncertainty tainting your chest. You furiously wracked your brain, accepting that you had never been trained on such a situation before. No one in the family was supposed to even care to know your real name and anything pertaining to your personhood outside of your role as their staff, let alone go out of their way to ask for it.

You nervously swallowed.

“Pernilla said…”

Your quiet words died in the air as Titus Danforth slowly shook his head, stepping towards you with an unyieldingly stern look on his features. You tried and failed to ignore the way your heart raced, keenly aware of the blood on his person and the confirmation of a violent disposition. The terrifying man before you clasped his hands behind his back, and you were forced to stare into his eyes as he held you hostage in this dimly lit corridor.

“What’s my name?” he asked you, that gruff tone of his making the question sound like a growl.

“Titus Danforth,” you answered without hesitation.

“Exactly, and that means this is my estate you’re working on, my money that employs you, and my person that your boss answers to. Do you know what that makes me?”

He didn’t give you a chance to answer.

“That makes me your boss. That means that anything Pernilla or any one of these other disposable staff members ask of you is irrelevant as far as I’m concerned. If she tells you to go left and I tell you to go right, you fucking go right,” he said to you, and you nodded. “Do you understand? Say you understand.”

“I understand,” you forced out, finding it hard to breathe.

Your shaky breath was noticed, and you didn’t like the way he straightened, eyeing you differently now. There was the faintest twitch to his pink lips, and something resembling a faint yet cruel smile lingered.

“Now…what’s your name?” he repeated, his voice softer now.

You quietly told him without hesitation, and he mimicked it.

“Y/N,” he said again with a nod, voice louder now. “Go get yourself cleaned up, and bring a bottle of brandy and a fresh set of towels to my room.”

“Yes, Mr. Danforth.”

At that, he finally moved again, hand coming up between you and you weren’t able to stop yourself from flinching. He only held it there, and when he stepped towards you again, this was the closest he’d ever been. The silence was suffocating as he merely looked at you, a thoughtful look behind those hazel eyes.

“Sir. I want you to call me sir, Y/N.”

You really hated the way he said your name, and you regretted ever telling it to him.

“Yes, sir,” you whispered, and he slowly nodded, a satisfied look washing over his features.

With a simple nod, he dismissed you, and in a short time, you found yourself increasingly more worried about Titus Danforth than the bodies piling up on this estate. 

“What about this one?”

You hesitated for only a moment before answering.

“That one’s nice.”

Mr. Danforth threw you a look at that to which you glanced away, and his deep laugh had a shiver crawling up your back.

“You said that two shirts ago,” he distractedly replied, reaching behind his head to slide it off.

“They’re all very nice, sir,” you told him, an honest response. 

You avoided looking at him as he searched for another expensive shirt that looked like any other regular shirt, wondering if you would ever stop feeling so…afraid around him. 

You didn’t know how nor why, but some kind of way, Titus Danforth decided that it would be you who would see to his every beck and call no matter how small it seemed. It felt like so long since you were even able to fulfill any other kind of household duty, recalling that every time you had a broom or a duster or a load of laundry in your hand, you were being summoned by the older man.

He needed a drink or he wanted a caddie as he golfed or he needed someone to lay out an outfit for him while he showered. You were hired on to answer to the every whim and need of the Danforths, but somehow it was only Titus who consumed most of your time. It was a strange position to be in, having to constantly be around this man who frightened you, but in a way…sometimes you felt like his friend. Or something like it.

The man grew up with the shiniest of silver spoons in his mouth sure, but all of the money and expensive education and best nannies the world had to offer just couldn’t refine the man. They couldn’t make him…fit. The expensive clothes and the handsome face could not hide how rough he was around the edges, how much he seemed to struggle with…behaving.

You, a seemingly nameless staff member, barely counted as a person in their eyes, and so…Mr. Danforth talked. He talked about any and everything to you, some of it interesting and some of it disturbing, but forced to be his confidant regardless. You were a nobody with no one of consequence to repeat it to, and he treated you like your sole purpose was to amuse and humor him.

When you heard him approaching you again, his voice pulled you from your thoughts. 

“...and this one?”

He was just barely pulling it on when you looked up, and you ignored his watchful gaze as he moved closer. Sometimes Mr. Danforth watched you like he was looking for something from you—expecting something—and you really wish you knew what it was at times so that you could give it to him and end that observant little stare he liked to fix you with.

“That one’s my favorite,” you honestly told him, and he liked that.

You could tell by the way he tilted his head at you, a secretive smirk on his pink lips.

“Then I’ll wear this one.”

You nodded at that, just wanting this to be over. 

You were sure the other staff members thought you got it so easy being forced to spend so much of your time sucking up to and answering to Titus Danforth, but it was worse than scrubbing the kitchen floors to you. The man terrified you beyond belief, even more than Chester Danforth who you’d met only on occasion, the elderly man confined to a bed most days.

Mr. Danforth was quick to react—quick to anger—and in the time you were forced to spend with him, it became clear that the man couldn’t be controlled. Ursula tried, oh she tried, but even you knew that she only had as much control over her brother as he allowed her to. Her hold over him wasn’t real, very easily broken, and you tried not to linger on the things you’d seen in your time here.

“What will you do while I’m gone?”

His gravelly voice had you giving him your attention, and you wracked your brain.

“Your father wants the main garden replanted, and it’s something I’ve been assisting with in between other duties.”

Mr. Danforth had a look on his features like he didn’t like that, lips turned up ever so slightly as he turned his back to you, arms spread out. You rushed to grab his suit jacket from a nearby chair, helping him slide his arms through the sleeves. You didn’t like the low hum that reached your ears, and when he abruptly turned around to face you, you flinched. He was so close, and his gaze slowly dropped, and you took the silent hint.

It was scary how much you grew to know him.

“I want you to wait here…until I get back,” he slowly said as you buttoned the piece of clothing.

His words gave you pause, and he noticed.

“I don’t like these stupid gatherings, and I don’t want to have to hunt you down when I finally return.”

When his jacket was buttoned properly, you took a few steps back, forcing yourself to nod. You regretted it almost immediately, briefly squeezing your eyes shut.

“You know I hate that…”

“Sorry, sir.”

“I want to hear you say it.”

“I understand,” you said to him. “I’ll be here.”

He fixed you with a look that you couldn't name, and then he was gone, and you let out the breath you’d been holding.

It wasn’t the first time Mr. Danforth demanded you basically die of boredom in his bedroom while you waited for him to come back. Sometimes you had to when he was meeting with his father or having a drink with a friend in one of the studies or even when he went out for the night and brought some strange woman back to one of the many guest rooms. He’d offhandedly mentioned once that he didn’t like bringing women back to his bedroom.

You only guessed why when you had the unfortunate task of cleaning that previously occupied guest bedroom one day, disturbed by the alarming amount of blood on the sheets.

Too many times did you find yourself fetching him a fresh towel or something to drink or even eat in the middle of the night, doing your best to ignore his state of undress while some other staffer handled the task of escorting his woman of the night off the property. You felt like a mere object with the sole purpose of serving him in some way, like a letter opener patiently waiting in his desk drawer until it needed to be used.

You told yourself that you could be spending this time doing worse things, acknowledging that at least his bedroom was five times the size of every apartment you’d ever had. During moments like this you mostly sat around in a chair, occasionally poking around in something innocent. Even rarer, you sometimes nodded off, hard to fight sleep when Mr. Danforth had you waiting around like some dog.

…and it didn’t help that he required so much of you.

You sometimes thought that it was fortunate you didn’t get to accomplish many other household tasks because waiting after the older gentleman took so much out of you itself. It never sank in just how much you’d been running around until it was time for bed and your body felt weighed down by sand. This being one of those times.

Approaching his bookshelf, you pulled one at random and plopped yourself into a chair.

You were at the estate for a year when Mr. Danforth made you cry for the first time.

It was a miracle really that you lasted a year before he ‘broke’ you, but the circumstances didn’t call for any other reaction. A year of doting on him and validating his every choice and fetching him his every desire no matter how ridiculous ultimately amounted to nothing. Well…it wasn’t nothing, but more so the complete opposite of anything you’d ever expected.

Titus Danforth was a protective and selfish bastard when it came to anything he deemed as his. His fortune, his house, his car. Resource guarding is the term you often heard used for animals, and Mr. Danforth—not all that removed from an animal—was very guilty of such. You were a frequent witness to the way he snapped and growled and protectively curled over anything he thought someone was trying to take from him. That description didn’t seem like an exaggeration in your mind, thinking to yourself that that’s exactly how he came off.

It didn’t scare you until the thing he was viciously guarding was you.

A year of answering his every beck and call had certainly garnered you the unofficial title of Titus Danforth’s servant amongst your coworkers. His food was always handed to you, his rooms were left alone by anyone but you, and it was only you who handled his every need and request. So much so that when he needed to travel, he wouldn’t hear of taking anyone but you to accompany him.

You’d gotten sick once, and hearing that it wouldn’t be you fetching his towels, he hadn’t wanted assistance from anyone else. Of course, he’d made that known at the time in a way that was less than polite, but the message had gotten across loud and clear. You thought he just saw your labor and your time on the clock as his—his right, you supposed—but you hadn’t realized that he saw you the person, not the employee, the same way.

You made a mistake by getting distracted.

Mr. Danforth’s food wasn’t quite ready when you went to retrieve it, and so you’d occupied the wait time by exchanging silly bullshit with one of the cooks you saw often. He was younger than you, but still handsome nonetheless in that boyish charm sort of way. You two weren’t best friends or anything, but you were no strangers to each other. A soft laugh had been on your lips when the kitchen grew so silent so quickly, it couldn’t help but to be noticed. The young man in front of you had swallowed the rest of what he was saying, looking over your shoulder now with a back so straight that you knew who was back there before you even turned around. 

Titus Danforth wasn’t looking at anyone but you when you faced him, and you swallowed at a look in his eyes you weren’t used to being on the receiving end of. His hands were behind his back and his legs were spread just enough to firmly plant his feet, looking more like a strict military man than some spoiled heir. The relaxed slouch of your frame dissipated, and the older man before you took notice.

You could hear a pin drop.

“Is this how you choose to spend your time when you’re supposed to be waiting on me?” he slowly asked, a sarcastic lilt to his tone.

“No, sir,” you hurried to answer. “Your food isn’t ready yet–.”

“So you come back to me and tell me that,” he sternly interrupted with a nod. “...and then you come back down here and get it when it is ready.”

You swallowed, starting to nod before thinking better of it.

“Yes, sir.”

Those hazel eyes of his eyed you for what felt like a long time, and you’d gotten better at not squirming beneath his gaze. You couldn’t tell what he was thinking at this moment, but you knew that you didn’t like it, and you didn’t relax at all when he turned his attention to the man behind you instead.

“What’s your name?”

He accepted your friend’s response, slowly nodding.

“When my food is ready, you bring it to me,” Mr. Danforth pointed at him, and you fought to keep the frown off of your face.

The grey-haired man sharply cut his gaze back to you, jerking his head, and you moved quickly, not wanting to upset him further.

His footsteps were heavy behind you as you exited the kitchen, and the walk back to his room was silent. For the most part. You could hear his breathing, that's how close he was, and you could feel the heavy and heated weight of his gaze on you. You mentally scolded yourself, torn between wanting to call yourself all kinds of idiotic names and giving yourself grace for arguably the smallest fuck up you could make.

…and it was your first offense too.

“I want to apologize again, sir,” you said to him once the door was closed behind you both. “I didn’t think it would take more than a few minutes.”

He didn’t respond right away, merely looking at you as he moved about his room. 

“Ursula has taken it upon herself to be a gracious host to some friends tomorrow night,” he finally said, completely ignoring your apology. “Find me something…nice to wear.”

You felt somewhat relieved at the direction of the conversation, a soft ‘of course’ leaving you as you made your way to his closet. You knew what he liked and what colors suited him best, so you were completely immersed in your thoughts when he followed you. You hadn't even heard him approach, normally so careless about the sound of his footfalls.

“Do you like him?”

His voice surprised you, and you jumped slightly before turning to face him.

Mr. Danforth was staring at you with an expectant look on his face, brows furrowed just the slightest. He was closer than he normally stood, head tilting just a tad as you processed his words.

“I’m sorry?”

“Do you like him?” he repeated, saying your friend’s name.

Understanding washed over you, and you blinked.

“He’s my friend,” you answered with a shrug. “I see him a lot whenever I have to go down to the kitchen.”

Mr. Danforth’s only response was a low hum, seemingly satisfied with that answer, and he took a step back just as a knock sounded on his door. You had no doubt that was the food that he’d just made such a fuss over, proven right moments later, and as you tilted your head to gaze into the bedroom, you watched the way the older man eyed the younger one. Mr. Danforth stood close to him as he watched him set down his food, thick arms crossed over his chest, and when those hazel eyes rose to meet yours, you quickly looked away.

You found it odd that he both asked for your friend’s name and asked him to bring him his food. It was unlike him, and while Mr. Danforth could be unpredictable on occasion, he was a pretty consistent man who liked his routine. That’s why no one was more surprised than you to be woken out of your sleep by Pernilla, the other woman telling you that Mr. Danforth—your Mr. Danforth—was requesting the presence of you both.

“It’s probably some poor woman he’s brought back to the estate,” she’d mumbled as you both hurried through the corridors. “He must need a clean up.”

Her wording gave you pause, and you recalled the blood you saw on occasion after he spent a night in a guest room. You had naively assumed things got a little rough, perhaps a nose bleed or some kink gone wrong, but it hadn’t occurred to you that anyone in this family could be killing people outside of a wedding night gone wrong. Your stomach churned at the thought, but you frowned as you thought to yourself that you never knew Mr. Danforth to bring women back to his room.

Your uneasy feeling only increased when you made it through his threshold.

The older man stood there in a bloodstained shirt, reminiscent of that night of Ursula’s wedding, and his hands weren’t too much cleaner. He looked so calm, like he wasn’t standing before you as some bloody mess, and you found yourself shaking much like you had that night. As you moved closer, your vision was drawn to shiny black work shoes just barely peeking out past the foot of the bed.

“Pernilla, give that to Y/N so she can start wiping this up. Go bring us a mop too.”

He said the words so nonchalantly as you slowly moved further into the room, the frown on your face dropping completely.

The scream that left you sounded like something out of a horror movie, and you couldn't stop yourself from stumbling back against a nearby chair. Your hysteric reaction had Pernilla following you before listening to him, and you even heard her gasp. If she was just as shocked and horrified as you, she didn’t show it, and you could feel her eyes on you as you stared at the body—the familiar body—through tearful wide eyes.

“Pernilla,” Mr. Danforth snapped, and she didn’t hesitate any longer…leaving you alone with him.

He tossed the towel at you, and it bounced off of your chest and onto the floor.

“Clean this up,” he spat, but you couldn’t move.

The body of your friend was facing away from you, facedown but the way his head was turned on his cheek allowed your eyes to connect with his empty lifeless ones. There wasn’t much blood beneath him, most of it on Mr. Danforth’s shirt, and you couldn’t stop yourself from shaking. You could hear him speaking, but barely so, the sound muffled to your ears.

When he was in your line of sight again, you just stared at him in a mixture of horror and disbelief. Your body kept going back and forth from hot to cold, growing more lightheaded by the minute as the room started to sway. You hadn’t even realized that your legs had begun to shake until you reached out for the chair to steady yourself.

“Y/N,” he finally said your name, voice gruff and bordering on angry. “Clean. This. Up.”

You just stared at him, unable to move and asking yourself why, using your eyes to ask him why.

Pernilla returned before you could move, and you could feel her looking between you both. Logically you knew that you needed to listen to him unless you wanted to lose your job or worse, but you physically couldn’t move. He was giving you a demand, and you couldn’t bring yourself to obey. A sob climbed out of your throat, and you tried to blink the tears away.

“Mr. Danforth, I’d be more than happy to–.”

“No, Pernilla,” he barked, keeping his eyes on you. “She will clean this up.”

Your gaze turned pleading as you looked at him, slowly shaking your head.

“No?” Mr. Danforth wondered, leaning in. “Are you telling me no?”

Your breath was coming out in chops, now, and you were finding it so hard to breathe.

“Please…please,” you softly said. “I…”

You felt like you were going to be sick, but before you could be, Mr. Danforth lunged for you. The shriek you let out was loud, a pained whine escaping you at the harsh grip he had on your arms. He was sadly just as strong as he looked, and you couldn’t swallow down your cries as he all but threw you to the ground…right next to his body.

You were an inconsolable mess as you attempted to stand, but the older man was right there, harsh hands on your shoulders as he forced you back down to your knees. He forced the towel into your hands, his own hands wrapping around your wrists as he physically made you move yours back and forth along the bloody floor.

“Pernilla, get it out of here,” he told her, and your sobs grew louder as she did just that, dragging the body of your friend towards the door. “Y/N will clean up this mess.”

You could barely see through your tears, crying out every time more blood got on your hands. Mr. Danforth knelt over you the whole time, fingers harshly pressing into your skin and nose gently at your ear as he forced you to do what he demanded. When the towel had served its purpose, he repeated the actions with the mop, harshly yanking you to your feet.

Mopping up the rest of the blood felt like an out of body experience, his hands over yours and his chest at your back as he forced you to participate in the disposal of your friend. When the floor was spotless, Pernilla returned to retrieve the cleaning supplies, and again you could feel her eyes on you.

You knew what she was thinking.

What did you do? How had you offended Titus Danforth to deserve this? And how had you dragged your coworker into it? The man had so much as never laid a finger on you, and in one hour he’d yanked you around and threw you to the floor into a pool of blood. You were covered in it.

With her gone, and with the floor clean, Mr. Danforth kept a firm hold on you as he forced you into the bathroom. The bright lights had you blinking and squinting, looking down as you stumbled forward. His firm chest was still at your back, and you couldn’t even linger on the oddness of that, too distracted by the blood on your hands.

When he turned on the sink, it felt almost…romantic as he put both of your hands under the water. The hot liquid and soap broke up the bodily fluid, and you could only tearfully watch the pink water swirl down the drain. Mr. Danforth meticulously washed both of your hands together, his even breathing in your ear such a contrast from your own. You absentmindedly noted how warm he felt against you, the smell of cigar smoke and cologne filling your nose.

When he was satisfied, he turned off the water, and he took half a second to grab a towel and push it into your hands. He held it there, and you slowly lifted your tearful gaze to meet his evenly cold one, pink lips pressed together. The grey stubble around them moved slightly as they twitched, and he eyed you with a look that made your blood run cold.

“I hope that now nothing else will distract you from me.”

An unintelligible sound left your throat at his words, and for the first time ever, you shrank away from him in unbridled fear.

Mr. Danforth watched you keenly as you wiped down his desk, and you pretended not to notice.

You’d always been a little terrified of him, but it was different now. Seeing the aftermath of his brutality or watching him manhandle some other staffer hadn’t prepared you for being on the receiving end of it yourself. Especially not in the manner you had that night, and you swallowed at the thought.

The memory of blood and a body haunted you for months, plaguing your mind with nightmares night after night. It made it hard to find sleep, and many days you might as well have been dead on your feet. Your friend had been killed because of you, that much you knew whether Mr. Danforth came outright and said it or not. He never did even try to give some half assed excuse that explained how an employee ended up dead in his bedroom, but this was the Danforth Clan—a family that practically controlled the world—and what was one body of some insignificant employee?

Your friend’s fate often brought tears to your eyes.

Sometimes you wondered if you’d be next should you piss him off enough, but there was a part of you that vehemently denied that. Mr. Danforth seemed very…intent on you—intent to watch you, intent to have you near him, intent to keep you. Funnily enough, that knowledge scared you more than anything, keenly aware of the way he studied you any time he so much as told you to get him a drink.

Tonight, it was several drinks.

“I’ll be back late, but I want two glasses brought to my room,” he said to you.

“Yes, sir.”

The greying man simply eyed you at that, so close and so silent as he ran his hazel eyes over your face, drinking you in. That air of distrust he’d first expressed when you first met was long gone, the older man more than sure that he’d scared you into submission, scared you so much that you would never even dream of crossing him.

You hated that he was right.

When he was around, the hours seemed to drag on for ages, but when he was gone, time seemed to fly by. Between cleaning duties and fetching a thing or two for Ursula, the hours passed swiftly, and you were informed when he was back at the estate well into the night. You were alone as you fixed the drinks—always alone these days—and you tried not to linger on the aftermath of that night.

None of your coworkers wanted to get too close to you, the rumors spreading amongst the staff, a mix of speculation and the truth swirling around you. Pernilla often sent you a sympathetic look when no one was looking, she being the only other witness to that horrible night and Mr. Danforth’s treatment of you. Only she had witnessed the second defining night of your time here, and as you made your way upstairs, you were unaware that a third was in the making.

So focused on pleasing him and not wanting to be on the receiving end of some other traumatic treatment, you hadn’t realized what you’d walked into until you were right in front of it. You almost dropped the tray of drinks, a full bottle of some expensive Cognac in the other hand. You were quick to steady your grip, squeezing your eyes shut and turning your head away.

“I apologize, sir Danforth, I had not realized…”

Your words died in the air as you completely turned away from the scene before you.

You weren’t currently looking at them, but the sight of his taught form brutally pushing into the woman beneath him was at the forefront of your mind. You could still hear her soft moans and his heavy breathing, and you briefly looked towards the ceiling, wondering if this could get any worse.

“Set it down,” you heard him say, voice strained and tone thick with an unsatisfied appetite.

You did as he said, placing everything just as he liked it, fully prepared to leave.

“Did I say you could go?”

His question had you halting your steps, and your lips parted as you stared at the wall in front of you. The woman he was with made a slight noise filled with frustration and confusion, and you noted that you didn’t hear the soft movement of the bed anymore. A chill passed through you as you internally wondered if this was actually happening, and you felt you should’ve known this night was going to be off when he brought a woman back to his bedroom.

You knew Mr. Danforth was entirely serious, and your shoulders sank.

“Turn around.”

The huskiness of his tone has you shuddering, and you hesitated for half a second before doing just that.

You stared at the wall behind them, forcing yourself not to cry at the trajectory of your night. The room was filled with silence, and you could feel his gaze on you, watching you and watching your reaction. You didn’t understand why he was doing this, but then he told you to look at him, and your frown deepened.

When you did, he held your gaze for a few seconds before he started moving again. Your brows twitched as he fucked some woman you’d never seen before, her tan skin contrasting against his pale hue. She didn’t seem to mind, at all that you were an unwilling voyeur to this, and when the older man looked down at the woman beneath him, you looked away.

That lasted for all of four seconds.

You heard her gasp in shock and when you looked over he was up and coming towards you. You couldn’t stop your eyes from widening, keeping your gaze on his face as Mr. Danforth approached you in all of his naked glory. The muscles in his arms and chest moved with every step, and your employer didn’t stop until he was right in front of you.

His bare chest heaved as he stared you down, nostrils flaring.

“What did I say?”

Your face was on fire, but your eyes were anything but, looking at him pleadingly.

“Sir–.”

Your words were cut off as he roughly grabbed your chin, holding it in his hand as his gaze passed between your own. You glanced behind him briefly, noting the way the woman was propped on the bed, an impatient look resting on her face. When you looked at him again, his thumb brushed along your skin, and you were sickenly aware of his state of undress and his close proximity.

“You will look at me, and if I catch you looking away, I’m going to be very unhappy,” he gruffly told you.

When you gave him the response you wanted, a tear skipping down your cheek, he turned his back on you.

Forced to watch this, you couldn’t do anything but wring your hands together, flinching every time his palm sharply came down against her skin. She seemed to like it, and you wished you could disassociate on command, but alas you were acutely aware of everything. Every groan he made, every curse that fell from his lips, and every animalistic noise that climbed out of this throat. You were even aware of the way his tongue touched his lip as he watched himself disappear into her and the way his stomach tightened with every push of his hips.

You felt yourself shudder every time his gaze lifted to you, and you knew that Mr. Danforth had no doubt you wouldn’t disobey him. He just wanted to watch you watch him fuck this woman. Those hazel eyes of his wanted to watch you squirm with discomfort, wanted to look at you as you observed him in his most bestial—yet vulnerable—moments.

Your skin was warm and your head was spinning and to your great dismay, there was tightening that had begun in your lower stomach. You hated this, and you’d only been more miserable one other time in your life, but even still the sight before you had you squeezing your thighs together, wholly ashamed of what was happening.

…and when he came inside of her with a brutish grunt, pinning her beneath him and a thin layer of sweat coating his frame, you couldn't have run away faster, consequences be damned.

The trajectory of your relationship with Mr. Danforth—with Titus—shouldn’t have surprised you.

…and yet it did.

It seemed that he didn't want to deal with the hassle of a body every time he wanted to break you a little more, so his new favorite pastime was getting his rocks off with you as a witness. Nameless woman after nameless woman was brought onto the estate, and night after night, you were forced to stand there and watch as he fucked every single one. You wondered if this was your punishment after running out that first night, or if this was inevitable and staying put wouldn’t have changed a thing.

Every time he finished inside of them, he crudely sent them on their way, promising that someone would see to it that they get home. They would leave while still struggling to get their dress zipped up or their underwear completely on, and Mr. Danforth would stride around you as naked as the day he was born, telling you to turn his shower on while he nursed his drink.

This psychosexual torture he liked to engage in was messing with your head, and he knew it, and you often wondered what the end goal was. Maybe he took pleasure in just messing with the staff, with you, or maybe this was all part of some drawn out punishment for offending him months ago. You often wondered when it would end, when he would grow bored of tormenting you or bored of even just having you around.

It had never occurred to you that he was purposely fighting against something that was inevitable.

Titus Danforth wanted you, and not just in the way that a spoiled child wants his favorite toy all to himself. He wanted every part of you in his hands and beneath his lips. He wanted all of you in every way he could get you, and the countless women he fucked underneath your terrified gaze served a purpose of satisfying the twisted sexual craving he had for the very same woman he was forcing to be a witness to his depravity.

You didn’t know any of that though.

Not until he was gruffly telling you to sit on his bed one day.

You’d hesitated, glancing at the untouched dinner you brought him, and you could tell by the darkening look in his eye that he didn’t want to have to tell you twice. Your heart was in your stomach as you slowly walked towards the impressive piece of furniture, legs shaking with every step. You didn’t want to believe what your mind was lingering on, but something in the back of your mind scolded you, calling you a fool for never considering this is where you’d end up. 

Any man that could kill without so much as a blink or ounce of remorse was a deviant, and any man that could force you to watch him have sex with countless women with no care to how uncomfortable it made you was a sexual deviant. It made sense in the moment that he wouldn’t just stop there, and still you hoped. His eyes never strayed from you once, and giving him one last glance—looking for anything that might ease your worries—you leaned your hands and backside against the mattress.

You didn’t miss his slow exhale as you pressed down, sliding back.

“Right there is just fine,” he said, forcing you to stop, just seated on the edge.

The silence surrounding you was deafening, and Mr. Danforth only stared at you for a moment or two before slowly walking towards you. You couldn’t stop yourself from swallowing at his approach, and you had no doubt that he noticed. You didn’t take your eyes off of him as he stood this close to you—too afraid to—and you only had a few seconds to mentally prepare yourself for whatever was about to happen.

He was slow to kneel in front of you, and your fearful confusion morphed into just plain old fear when his hands found a home on your knees, slowly pushing. You couldn’t stop your lips from trembling as he parted them slightly, hands sliding up your thighs to meet at the button in the center.

“I don’t want you wearing these pants anymore,” he quietly said to you from in between your legs as he unbuttoned them. “A skirt. You’ll look nice in a skirt.”

Your gaze slowly lifted to the ceiling as he curled his fingers over the top of your slacks, yanking and jerking them until he was sliding them off of your legs. If he noticed the tears in your eyes, tears that eventually fell, he didn’t say anything. He likely didn’t care.

When he leaned in, you could feel his breath on your clothed skin, your legs trembling when he slowly parted your thighs further. His rough fingers gently brushed along your flesh, and you heard him deeply inhale the closer he got. His fingers were getting dangerously close to your underwear, and you could only close your eyes as he hooked a finger into them.

The tip of his tongue touched you as he held the fabric to the side, stretching it to give him access. It was a featherlight touch, and yet you jerked all the same. Your nails dug into his bed as a means to cope, wishing that you could just push him away and run off of this estate without fear of consequence, never looking back. As it were though, all you could think about was bloodstained shirts and dead bodies and a family with enough money to make you disappear a thousand times over.

Mr. Danforth gently touched you with his tongue again…and again, and when he did something unexpected, pressing an open mouthed kiss to your mound, you couldn’t hold in your gasp. It seemed to trigger something in him, a switch turning on as he practically growled against you before leaning back and roughly ripping the thin scrap of fabric past your thighs and off your ankles.

When the older man fully pressed his mouth to your cunt, you tried to control yourself. One of your hands slid to behind your back, struggling to remain sitting up as his stubble scratched against your thighs in a way that had you squirming. His hold was tight on you as he ate at you, tongue sliding between your folds so slowly and in a gentle way you didn’t expect. When he yanked you just a little more towards the edge, your arms faltered, and you desperately wanted to remain as unfazed as you could.

…but Titus Danforth was good at what he was doing.

When he sucked at your flesh in time with pressing his tongue to your walls, you let out a shuddering breath against your will. The longer he moved his tongue inside of you, the harder it was to remain sitting up, lashes fluttering as you desperately pressed a hand to his head. He didn’t budge, and you sank your teeth into your lip.

You wanted him off of you.

No such thing was going to happen though, you knew that, and you whined in frustration. When he spread your thighs further, your arms finally caved, failing you and you stared at the intricate designs on the ceiling when you fell back. Your thighs were trembling, and steady moans started to crawl out of your throat, each one louder than the last.

You could hear yourself pleading, sometimes pleading for more, sometimes pleading for him to stop. His fingers dug into your thighs painfully as he held you open for him, and your head slowly moved from side to side in time with the heaving of your chest. When you dared to look down, all you saw was a vision of silver in between your thighs, and you threw your head back once again.

When you came, it was with an embarrassing whimper, eyes squeezed shut and thighs pressing against his head. You came so hard it almost hurt, and Mr. Danforth didn’t pull away until he felt like it, mouth completely pressed to you as you fell apart onto his tongue. When you tried to crawl away, he just held you in place, lazily curling his tongue into you and making your toes flex.

When he finally pulled away, letting you go and allowing your legs to drop, the tears finally spilled over. You laid there on his bed with tears running past your ears as he stood over you, and you didn’t know where to go from here. You didn’t want to look at him, just waiting for him to dismiss you so you could be free to lose your mind in peace.

When he eventually did, you couldn’t get away from him fast enough, grabbing your underwear and your pants with a quickness that surprised you. Your speedy exit however was stopped by a harsh grip on your arm, and when that harsh grip became outright painful, you were forced to meet his gaze, shrinking away at his close proximity.

You didn’t know what he was thinking as he intensely eyed you, and you flinched when he jerked his head.

“My food is cold,” was all he said, making you deflate.

When he let you go, you took a few shaky steps away from him, struggling to organize your thoughts.

“Yes, sir,” you forced out with a nod. “I’ll get you a new plate, right away.”

You felt nauseous as you grabbed the tray, legs unsteady as you walked towards the door. He didn’t stop looking at you once, and you felt deeply uncomfortable with every step you took, cringing at the wet feeling between your thighs as you made your way back down to the kitchen.

Titus Danforth was an insatiable man.

That one evening in his bedroom triggered a chain reaction of events that weren’t surprising to you, just disappointing and terrifying. The number of women he brought back to the estate decreased until he eventually brought none back at all. Why would he now? That was what you were for—a ‘willing’ and bought body that couldn’t fight back or refuse him.

You didn’t know if you’d ever get used to the sound of his heavy breathing washing over you, a rough and tight grip in your hair as your lips covered his cock. That was mostly what you did at first, suck him off during just about every visit, and that seemed to be all he wanted for a time. That and spending the occasional afternoon with his face between your legs, making you fall apart again and again when you were supposed to be steaming his clothes or dusting his furniture. 

It almost seemed like he was holding himself back from crossing another line—the final line—but you knew that it would be crossed eventually. He was never going to be satisfied with just the feel of his cock in your mouth, inevitably giving into that hunger for more. It was an every day thing, his hands on or in you, curling his fingers into you and massaging your walls, whatever task you’d been in the middle of long forgotten.

It went unnoticed. After all, it wasn’t unusual for Titus Danforth to take up so much of your time, and it’s not like the sexual abuse was taking place anywhere outside of his bedroom. For the time being anyway. The toll it was taking on you, however, did go noticed, and Ursula merely pursed her lips at the third piece of china you broke this week.

“I’m so sorry, Ms. Danforth,” you hurried to say, looking for something to clean it up with. 

You didn’t even bother giving some excuse, only struggling to avoid her thoughtful gaze as she looked down at you. A soft hum left her throat, and her heels slowly clicked against the floor as she circled you.

“My brother isn’t working you too hard, is he?”

You almost laughed at the loaded question, schooling your features and looking up at her with a tight smile.

“No, Ms. Danfoth,” you lied. “I just haven’t been sleeping very well.”

That part wasn’t a lie, and the half truth seemed to satisfy her although it did nothing to lessen the frown on her face. Ursula was by no means a good woman, but you knew that she didn’t appreciate her brother’s brutal nature. Especially when it came to women, and she only watched you for a moment more before telling you to be swift in cleaning up the mess.

Ursula was smart, and you knew that she didn’t fully believe you, but clearly she didn’t feel unnerved or worried enough to press it further. Her brother’s attachment to you was no secret, and truthfully, she’d probably long seen where this would inevitably lead before you had. Even if you did tell her the truth, you knew that she couldn't stop him, Ursula having no real control over Titus.

She wouldn't have been able to stop him from killing your friend just to scare you into submission nor stop him from forcing you to be a witness to whatever depravity he was up to at night nor keep his hands off of you. She especially wouldn’t have been able to stop him from fucking you.

There was nothing special about the day he first pushed his cock into you.

The sun was shining and the food you brought him was only half eaten and he’d only taken a few sips of the brown drink you brought him before he was roughly reaching for your face. He’d never kissed you before, and the action took you by surprise, a noise of shock escaping you. His hands were tight on your face, holding you so fiercely that you couldn’t even think about getting away.

Your hands against his chest meant nothing as they became pinned between you, and as he pressed himself against you, you could feel him. You could feel his arousal, feel how hard he was, and you knew then that he had no intention of stopping. He had no intention of letting you walk out of that door without knowing what it felt like to be stretched around him—to be dominated in the way that mattered most.

You hadn’t been prepared for all the biting.

Titus liked to leave little nips along your neck and shoulder and even breasts, hands painfully tight on your skin as he drove himself into you again and again. The bands of muscle that were his arms rippled with every movement, and you hadn't been able to swallow down a single noise as he fucked you into his bed, his bare skin slapping against yours.

However brutish you thought he was during the day was nothing compared to what he was like when he had you wrapped around his cock. He was borderline feral, noises leaving his lips that sounded a lot like the growl of some predatory animal enjoying the taste of its prey. Every movement from you resulted in him tightening his hold on you like some constrictor, satisfied at the way you could barely move beneath him, serving your only purpose of taking the length of him with ease.

Titus fucked you well into the evening, coming into you with loud groans before catching his breath in the crook of your neck. You laid beneath him shaking like a leaf, chest heaving and skin glistening with sweat. When he eventually pulled out of you, any thoughts you had of leaving were shut down as he gruffly told you to get his shower going for him.

You hadn’t expected him to pull you inside with him, feeling wholly out of place as he showered with his back to you. You’d glanced at the exit through the glass shower door, turning back only to find his intense gaze on you. He said nothing—his eyes saying it all—and you’d swallowed as he moved closer, handing you a bar of soap and turning back around.

“My back,” was all he mumbled, and you listened to the unsaid request.

When you were done in the shower, you hadn’t been prepared for him to force you to your knees, a harsh grip in your hair as he pulled you closer.

Titus loved the sight of your lips wrapped around him, sometimes more than satisfied with just that, sending you on your way for the time being with the taste of him lingering on your tongue. But he didn’t love it more than being inside of you, looking the most at peace you’d ever seen him when he was watching his cock disappear into you.

Every chance he was presented with, he was fucking you with a vigor that always left you so worn out. When he summoned you to his room at night or when he bent you over his desk and even when he had you on his bathroom counter, your lips parted and head forced back as he yanked on the hair at the nape of your neck.

“Look at me, Y/N,” he breathed, thighs pressing against yours. “Look at me.”

There was an edge creeping into his voice when he repeated himself, and you obeyed him, tearful eyes on him as he pounded into you. Your uniform was haphazardly thrown somewhere, and one of your hands was pressed against the hard wood of his desk, the other pressing into his defined chest. Your breathing was choppy and your eyes were fluttering, the weight of unfinished tasks and all that came with Titus’ demanding appetite catching up to you.

“Keep them on me,” he told you. “I want you to look at me when I fuck you.”

The desk shook beneath the force of his thrusts.

“I want those pretty eyes on me when I take you apart.”

His nose brushed against yours with every movement, and you fought to hold his gaze, recalling the last time you disobeyed him. Your backside had been sore for days, shuddering at the memory of his hand coming down again and again onto the sensitive skin of your ass cheeks.

Titus always talked to you during like a normal couple—telling you what felt good, telling you what he wanted you to do, praising you. It was an interesting position to be in because hours later, he’d be treating you like the servant you were, but somewhere in his twisted mind, this whole arrangement was…nice. To him, this was wholesome.

So much so…that when Chester Danforth demanded a marriage and an heir under threat of revoking the fortune, Titus Danforth would not consider anyone but you.

…what…?” you breathed, frowning at Ursula, tears collecting in your eyes.

She looked just as distraught as you though she did a much better job of hiding it. 

When she requested your presence in her study one morning, you’d had no way of guessing what this could possibly be about. All sorts of possibilities ran through your mind, your unconventional dynamic  with her brother being at the top of the list. You’d been wracked with nerves the whole way there, and the words she said to you were the absolute last thing you'd ever expected.

“It’s…not going to happen,” she slowly told you, leaning against her desk and gazing down at you. “Titus is no better than a child with his favorite toy of the week.”

You took no offense to her analogy, often repeating something similar yourself.

“Although I shouldn’t be surprised at the true nature of your…rapport.”

She made a slight face at her choice of word, and you swallowed. The blonde woman didn't miss that, and she pursed her lips, something akin to a look of sympathy on her beautiful features.

“My brother has never had any qualms about getting what he wants, no matter how frowned upon or uncouth it may be. I can’t imagine what you’ve endured.”

You blinked back tears, looking away and shaking your head in disbelief.

“Father’s putting his foot down and giving us an ultimatum and Titus is lashing out,” she assured you. “That’s all this is.”

That's what she said, but somehow you still found yourself standing before Chester Danforth in all of his sickly glory, having a discussion with him you never thought you’d have.

“What is the nature of your relationship with my son?”

You said nothing to the ailing man, pressing your lips together as you fought the urge to tell him that his son was a depraved rapist, fully aware that the man in question was just outside of that door. When your lips quivered and you looked away, the older man made a noise.

“Ah.” he quietly said. “I feared that was the truth of it.”

You weren’t some gold digging whore after the Danforth fortune, and you weren’t some wanton maneater looking to get your claws into Titus Danforth. You were a woman who realized too late that she signed every single part of her away on that fateful day, and that was the gist of what you said to him.

“I’m sure you can find some other woman—any woman—willing to be his bride who he will be satisfied with.”

The other man coughed, an awful hacking sound, and you flinched.

“He demands no one but you,” he finally breathed. “He is entirely willing not to fight me on this…so long as it is you.”

You looked down at that.

“That is the only satisfaction he seeks.”

You wracked your brain, fully prepared to come up with some other argument when he spoke again, completely quieting your fears.

“It will not happen,” he said with so much conviction that it should’ve offended you, but you were only glad to be in agreement with the dying oligarch. “I will not give into his childish whims.”

The old man told you that, and you certainly believed it, but even he hadn’t been able to predict the ruthlessness Titus could possess when he felt like he was being controlled.

Chester Danforth died peacefully in his sleep, and for a long time, that's what mostly everyone believed, but only you and a few others had been privy to the screams that night. Only an unlucky few heard the sound of Ursula’s panicked voice bouncing throughout the corridor walls, asking Titus what he’d done. Only you had the luxury of stripping the old man’s former bed, shaky gaze locked onto the small spots of blood on his pillowcase.

It wasn’t long before Ursula was singing a different tune, and you didn’t know what Titus said to her, but she’d only watched in perfect silence and an unspoken disapproval as her brother presented you with a ring. You’d stared at it in horror, stomach churning to a painful degree, and you made the mistake of looking to the blonde woman for help.

“Don’t fucking look at her,” Titus snapped, and he forced your gaze back to him. “What are you looking at her for?” 

He tilted his head at you, that hazel stare of his so intense, and you could feel your legs shaking.

“Titus,” you breathed, a few tears finally spilling over. 

You could tell he was getting angry, his chest starting to heave, and when he pressed his chest to yours, all you could do was squeeze your eyes shut. The ring carried the weight of the world as he slid it onto your trembling finger.

The wedding was a small intimate affair, only close family in attendance, many of whom you’d met before but under completely different circumstances. On one hand, you felt like you should’ve counted yourself lucky to be marrying into the Danforth family, but you knew you held absolutely no power even though you carried the name.

The ring, the dress, the ceremony…none of it was proof of your transition from a nobody to someone with a hand in the biggest influence over the world. It was not a ceremony that propped you up as an equal, worthy of walking side by side with Titus Danforth as he controlled the seat in tandem with his sister.

You were official property now.

The ring may as well have been a collar, the dress a noose, and the name a brand placed upon your skin. You were not Titus Danforth’s wife now, but his property with nothing to your name that wasn’t acquired through him. He owned you with pride, and as you said ‘I do’ and allowed him to fiercely press his lips to yours, there was no escaping him.

Your only hope was the wedding night.

The fucked up tradition was no secret to you, and as the defining moment drew closer, you could only hope that you’d pull the one bad card. You practically prayed for it, knowing that you’d only escape your new husband through death, and some part of you wondered if he would have what it took to do it should fate have other plans for you that didn’t involve a married life with Titus.

You begged and begged and begged for it, desiring death over this. 

You considered it an act of mercy, one you hoped you were granted, and as you all sat around the table, no one was more nervous than you as that old intricate card dispenser was passed from hand to hand and then finally you. Your left hand felt weighed down by the ring you didn’t want, and as you turned the box in your grasp, you briefly glanced up at Ursula.

You knew if it came down to it, she’d have no trouble killing you.

The thought almost made you smile, but you didn’t, glancing over at Titus as he leaned back in his chair…waiting. You looked around at your other new in-laws too, your veil grazing your cheek as your heart raced. You could tell by the sound of him shifting that Titus was growing impatient—anxious to see how this night would progress—and you flinched a bit when the box clicked, the sound of your fate ringing in the quiet room.

You felt yourself go stiff when the card was finally in your hand.

You could hear a pin drop, that’s how quiet it was, and the longer you stared at the card, the more your heart started to race. Your lips trembled, and you couldn’t stop yourself from collecting tears in your eyes, wanting a hole to swallow you up. 

“What does it say?” Titus impatiently asked, and when you didn’t answer he took it from you.

The tears finally spilled over just as you looked up at Ursula, a familiar deep laugh reaching your ears.

“She got Old Maid,” he huskily said, flipping the card around to show everybody

Light laughs reached your ears, and you tried to hide just how upset you were, but when your gaze met that of your husband’s…he saw. He saw the sadness and fear and even disappointment, disappointment that you wouldn’t be killed tonight, and his jaw clenched.

You paid for it later when it was just the two of you, consummating your marriage in true traditional fashion. Your dress was a bundle of white on the floor, and Titus had your legs wrapped around his waist. His strokes were slow and torturous, his heavy breathing mixing in with yours—his excited and yours pained.

His hand was tightly curled around your throat, thick fingers harshly pressing into your skin as he leisurely fucked you. He didn’t take his eyes off of you once, wanting to witness every part of you tonight, basking in the spoils of his victory.

Titus had you, officially and legally and bloodbound and all. The heaviness of your vows still rang throughout your mind, and you’d wanted to faint as you agreed to ‘the possession of each other’. Maybe in some sick twisted way you’d never understand, Titus did belong to you, but all that mattered was that you belonged to him. The ring on your hand was proof of such.

His other hand pressed into the mattress as he curled his hips unto yours, basking in the feel of you clenching around the length of him, moving inside of you with ease. It still embarrassed you how wet you could get when he was fucking you, desperately wishing that your body could be as repulsed by him as your mind.

His facial hair gently grazed your skin, almost like a kiss, when he leaned closer. He didn’t look away from you once, and you winced when he tightened his hold on your neck.

“I know you wanted to die tonight,” he whispered to you, and you bit your lip. “I know you wanted to pull that card and just wait for one of us to kill you…to take you away from me.”

A particularly hard thrust had you gasping, and Titus hummed.

“...but Mr. Le Bail wouldn’t do that to me. I’ve always followed the rules, always played the game well, and you’re my reward.”

You sniffed at that, struggling to breathe under his grip.

Robby rushes in with Dr. Al-Hashimi just behind him a second later, shattering the playful tension between the two of you with a thousand different questions. You’re left as the only resident in a sea of attendings and nurses; Dr. Al passes you the reins accordingly. “This is a learning hospital, right? Time for you to learn how to be the boss, R4.”

“Hear that, Abbot?” you joke as the older man migrates inevitably to your side, smelling of blood and sweat and the cologne he always leaves on your pillow. “I’m the boss here.”

“Well, you could try to be a little more humble about it, sweetheart,” he squints and tugs on a disposable PPE gown, which Perlah helps him tie in the back. “Let’s do some skin hooks— 4 Shiley. Sound good?”

You hiss through your teeth and drag the clear blue sleeves of your own gown over your shoulders, while Robby stands behind you to knot the garment in place. “I don’t really like the curve of a Shiley… Especially not if we’re about to rush him up to the O.R.”

“I didn’t know you were so picky.”

“Well, you should know better than anyone, Dr. Abbot,” you grin. “Cut me an ET tube, will you? 6-0?”

“Yes, ma’am…” the older man nods and holds back his giddy grin until he turns away from you.

Robby grumbles a noise of disgust in the back of his throat in the meanwhile — quickly realizing that the two of you were much easier to stomach when you were working night shifts together, and he only had to see you for half an hour in passing, at most. 

“Jesus Christ— Get a room, you two.”

“Well, technically, this is a room,” Jack quips distantly as he returns to your side with the endotracheal tube in tow. You make room for him at the head of the gurney on instinct, and drape a thin blue cloth over the patient’s neck, centering the aperture over the gushing wound. 

Robby moves to the opposite side of the bed and pulls the haphazardly placed intubation bag from the man’s mouth with careful hands. “One without me in it, preferably,” he argues.

“Ooh…” you lilt. “Don’t threaten me with a good time, Dr. Robby.”

“Just focus,” he scolds in a gritty tone of voice.

“You need to find the second and third tracheal rings,” Dr. Al instructs, sliding between the crowd and motioning to his neck with her gloved pinky. “You’ll be able to feel them with your fingers— just make the incision through the cricoid cartilage and be careful to avoid hitting the vocal cords, yeah?”

She flashes you a dark, doe-eyed, and distantly unamused look, seemingly immune to the playful banter surrounding her. 

You nod once, scalpel in hand. “Yes, ma’am.”

You make the incision while Jack preps the tube. You work together with deft hands and a relative silence, aside from a few procedural directions. For the most part, the two of you communicate without words — you locate the man’s ruptured trachea in a sea of bright red blood while Jack slides the thin tubing to make an airway.

“I’m in,” he blurts after a few tense minutes. “Balloon up.”

The rapid beeping of his dropping SATs begins to even out almost instantly. 

“I’ll sew the tracheal to the skin,” you announce within a sigh of relief. “2-0 silk, please.”

Jack passes you the round of sutures with a proud nod and a quiet smile. “Not too shabby, Doc… We make a pretty good team.”

“Or maybe I’m just really good at telling you what to do, Abbot,” you quip.

“Yeah,” he shrugs. “That, too.”

Robby and Dr. Al take their leave when the chaos dissipates, and Garcia comes down from the O.R. for a consultation. They trade the crowded trauma room for an equally crowded emergency department — slowly filling to the brim, like a pot bound to boil over. But, even still, it’s not nearly as tense as whatever you and Abbot have going on.

“Are they always like that?” the woman wonders aloud, nodding her tied-back curls towards the room behind them.

“Yep…” Robby nods with a heavy sigh, rubbing hand sanitizer between his calloused palms. “But they’re not usually dayshift, so… My philosophy is— let the night crew deal with it.”

You and Jack decide to follow Robby’s advice and find a room of your own — on the half-abandoned wing of the eighth floor, where everything smells like dust and time gone by, and the dying overhead lights only work a quarter of the time. It’s a good enough place to be alone with him, though; it gives you ample time to patch up the wound on his shoulder, and saves Jack the trouble of getting caught with the injury and being forced to fill out a mountain of paperwork accordingly.

He sits on the edge of the hospital bed with his shirt off and his broad arms crossed over his chest. The tendons in his freckled back twitch despite himself when you smooth a fresh bandage over his freshly cleaned scrape.

“Does it feel okay?” you ask him.

“Yep…” he nods once, trying and failing to get a peek of the gauze from over his shoulder. “Fine.”

Your concern doesn’t waver. Your brows lower with it, in a palpable look of worry that etches across your face. “You’d tell me if you were, like, in pain, though, right?”

Jack ponders for a moment, lips jutting faintly. “No, probably not,” he answers, too blunt for his own good.

“Well. At least you’re honest…”

You sigh and turn on the heel of your sneaker to chuck the dirtied napkins and crumpled wrappers into the bin across the room. Jack watches you go with something mischievous glimmering in his gaze.

“But I am fine, though— If you’re really all that worried about me,” he assures you with a quiet smile. “I’m a little banged up, but… I’ll survive.”

“So I can still come over tonight?” you wonder, half-shy.

Jack nods slowly and tilts his scruffy chin to keep your gaze when you walk the short distance back over to him. “Yes, sweetheart— I still plan on buying you dinner tonight,” he answers in a dry, sarcastic lilt.

Because that’s usually how it goes nowadays. You keep him company for a night, and he gets you food, pays off your grocery bill, or covers your rent — and then you go to work the next day like none of it ever happened. 

It didn’t always used to be that way, though, this quid pro quo thing that the two of you had struck up over time. Jack bought things for you because he cared about you, because he didn’t want you to go hungry or homeless when he knew he had the money to help. It was all a part of his job, he figured, to help his residents out whenever he could. But, somewhere down the line, he became more than just your attending, and a whole lot less than your boyfriend. It was more like a secret, third thing that the two of you never bothered to put a label on.

You frown. “That’s not why I was asking, smartass.”

“Well, that’s the arrangement, though, right?”

“Calling it an arrangement makes it sound like I’m your— mail-order bride or something,” you scoff and cross your arms over his chest, following his form with a squinted gaze as he reaches for his discarded shirt. “You don’t have to make it sound so formal, Jack. I know this is fun for you, too.”

“Well, I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t…” he quips with a faint wince as he slides the thin black t-shirt over his head, grimacing at the burn that blooms beneath the bandage as he does so.

“And no pressure or anything, obviously, but, uh…” You trail off and swallow hard, struggling to find the courage to continue as your eyes flit everywhere but at the man before you. “My student loans are about to hit for this month, and I—”

“I know,” Jack interjects with a polite nod. “I already took care of it.”

You lose your breath almost instantly, for a reason you can’t quite name.

“…Seriously?”

He scoffs like it’s obvious and rises from the bed, towering several inches over you. “Well, yeah. I told you, sweetheart— You don’t have to worry about that stuff anymore. As per the arrangement...” he croons lowly, with a playful half-smile, before bending softly at the waist to press a fleeting kiss to your lips.

You’re too busy trying to remember how to breathe to respond.

You struggle to finish the rest of your charting through the thoughts of Jack still plaguing your mind. You don’t think you’ve been so taken care of before; so seen, so held. You’re not entirely sure what to do with all of it now — these feelings that you’re harboring for your boss, of which you’re almost certain there is no room for in such an arrangement, as he so lovingly calls it. 

Because he doesn’t take care of you because he loves you. He takes care of you so you’ll come over at the end of every night, and remind him what it feels like to be a little less lonely. And even still, you run hopelessly to his side anyway — half-ashamed because you don’t even care that he’s using you; half-ashamed because you like it.

“Have you seen Dr. Abbot?” Samira wonders through panted breaths, disrupting your distracted train of thought. She enters your tunnel vision from the opposite side of the desk, and all of a sudden, you’re back in the E.R. The distant droning of constant noise fills your ears when you’re shoved back to reality again. “I’ve been trying to find him for, like, ten minutes at this point.”

“Uh… No— Not recently, no,” you stammer.

Her chest deflates with an exhaled breath. “Shit…”

Your eyes narrow as they scan over her form, frazzled and sweaty, with dark curls falling out of her claw clip to frame either side of her face. “You okay? What happened?”

She sighs and leans her elbows on the desk in front of her.

“Nothing, I just… I should’ve planned this better,” she murmurs, mostly to herself. She talks with her hands as she rambles, “My patient doesn’t have any insurance. And he’s already in a mountain of medical debt as it is, so I was gonna send him home with some supplies, right? But then I lost him, and I was gonna Uber the stuff to his house, but then Dr. Abbot said he’d pay for it, and… Now I can’t find either of them, so…”

She trails off with a deep huff.

You forget that it’s your turn to respond, too hung up on the fact that Jack had offered to help her pay. It shouldn’t bother you as much as it does, but it hits you like a punch to the stomach all the same. Because you weren’t special, Jack was just kind; and you’re only realizing now that this arrangement of yours was never exactly exclusive.

“Sorry,” Samira shakes her head. “I know I’m rambling. It’s just… been a long day.”

You blink rapidly, clearing the haze of hurt from your eyes. “No, I— I totally get it. You should check upstairs. He might be with Hiro in the O.R.”

“Thanks,” she says with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes, that disappears the second she heads back for the elevator across the room.

You return to your charting when she’s gone, but forget to do any of it. You lose yourself in the void of the stark white computer screen, instead, while your hurt and distant jealousy scratches at your chest from the inside out.

Robby watches from afar, giving you a few minutes alone, before dismissing himself from the interns and shattering your cynical stream of consciousness. “How’s the charting coming along?” he asks in lieu of a greeting as he walks to stand at your side.

“Great,” you deadpan, muffled into the hands holding up your heavy head.

He scoffs out a quiet laugh. “Not to say I told you so, but… I did kinda tell you so…”

You turn slowly, peeking at him with one glaring eye as he leans against the desk beside you with his arm crossed over his chest. “What’s that supposed to mean?” you question in a gritty monotone.

“I told you not to get involved with Abbot,” Robby shrugs. “Not until you were done with your residency— ‘cause you already repeated one year, and if you want that neuro fellowship, you can’t have Jack screwing with your head.”

“Oh, yeah?” you squint, feigning interest as you slouch back in your chair. “The same way you screwed with Heather’s? When you got her pregnant when she was your resident?”

You say it to hurt him, and you can tell that it does, though it doesn’t feel as rewarding as you thought it would.

“Yeah, actually…” Robby nods and scratches at the greying patch in his beard. There’s a hurt look swimming in his dark eyes that almost makes you cower when he peers down at you. “Look, kid. I don’t care what you and Abbot get up to in your free time. That’s not what this is. But I’ve known you since you were an MS3— and I know you’re gonna go off to do great things, because I’m the one that taught you, right?”

Your frown deepens.

He smiles wider. “I just don’t want some relationship getting in your head, that’s all.”

“Well, it’s not, so…” you trail off with a less than convincing waver in your voice. 

“Really?” he hums, eyes narrowing in a challenging squint. “Have you checked in with that fellowship you wanted?”

You smack your lips against your teeth. “Not yet…”

“And why’s that?”

“When did you become my mom, exactly, Dr. Robby?” you joke and spin in your chair to face him. “‘Cause it feels a little like you’re reprimanding me here—”

“I am reprimanding you,” he tells you, only partially joking, before turning at the distant call of his name. He stands to full height again and flashes you a playfully stern look as he walks away. “Take care of it, alright? Or else I’m grounding you.”

“For how long?” you call after him.

“However long it takes to get your head out of your ass—”

You’re left reeling for the rest of the day, trapped in a merciless cycle of want and unwavering doubt. 

Jack is not yet close enough, even when he’s all but smothering you in the center of his bed, pressing you into the mussed sheets below with his broad body propped on top of yours. He smells distinctly of sweat, stale cologne, and the steak dinner he took you to after your shift ended. 

You wrap your arms around his freckled shoulders in a feeble attempt to pull him impossibly closer, careful to avoid the bandage still stuck on his left shoulder blade. You bury your nose in his greying curls while he sprinkles warm, wet kisses along the tendons of your neck, relishing in the salty tang of sweat staining your skin.

But even as he slots himself between your spread thighs, even as he marks his territory in the lovebites he litters on your collarbone, you can’t shake the feeling that he’d rather be somewhere else — that there’s someone else he’s thinking of, someone else he’ll call after you’ve left for home, someone else he’ll take care of when you’re gone.

The train of thought leads you inevitably back to the root of your cynicism, which you struggle to shake out of your mind once the visual has entered it.

“Did you ever find Samira?” you hear yourself ask, shattering the honeyed quiet of his lamplit bedroom. 

Jack’s head is far too cloudy to hear you properly the first time. 

He pulls away from you with a quiet smack and sits back on his haunches. Your hands fall to your stomach, clad only in a thin white tank top, while his rest over your bare thighs, propped on either side of his waist. Your cotton panties are the only thing keeping you hidden from him now, and his form-fitting boxers cradle a hardening length that threatens to make your mouth water.

He wears a swirled look of confusion across his scruffy face, along with his spit on his swollen, kissbitten mouth, as he asks, “Did I ever find what?”

“Samira,” you echo, brows raised to your hairline. “She was looking for you a little bit before we left— Said she needed your help paying for something.”

“Oh. Yeah,” Jack hums, pale shoulders bouncing in a lazy shrug. “Her patient needed some supplies Ubered to his house, so… I took care of it. No big deal.”

He bends down to kiss you again, but freezes with his nose pressed against the bridge of yours when he feels you tense below him. His heavy sigh fans warm across your jaw before he sits back again, features screwed in a faint grimace.

“And I’m realizing now that that’s probably not the best phrase to use, but… I was just helping out a friend— a patient, actually,” he rambles. “That’s it.”

Your eyes narrow in a playful squint. 

“That’s it?” you echo.

“Trust me, sweetheart,” Jack scoffs and shifts between your thighs, lifting your hips with his wide hands cradling your ass and bending at the waist to press his mouth over the bow in the center of your underwear. “The only girl getting her student loans paid off by me, is you.”

He leaves another chaste kiss on the cotton of your panties, right over the place where you throb like a heartbeat for him. Your stomach blooms with warmth.

“Because I’m special or because you don’t have the money to afford anyone else?” you ask.

Jack squints, light eyes glimmering with mischief in the low light. “Because you’re special and because I don’t have the money to afford anyone else. How about that?”

You roll your eyes despite the soft smile hinting at the corners of your mouth. “Just get to work, Dr. Abbot,” you scold in a distant monotone.

“With pleasure,” he mumbles, right before sliding his fingers through the hem of your underwear, pulling them to the side, and kissing your glittering pussy the way he would your mouth.

The lamplit bedroom swells with panted breaths and the heavy scent of sex. 

Jack slouches against the headboard, heavy-eyed and wearing a mixture of your cum and spit down to his scruffy chin. His toned chest is coated in a thin layer of hair and glittering sweat. You watch a rogue bead trail down his sternum from where you’re perched on top of him — with the sheets bunched around your hips, and your thighs straddling his waist. Your pussy still clenches with the aftershocks of your orgasm while his spent cock softens slowly inside of you. 

His calloused hands trail slowly up and down the length of your torso — from your shoulder blades, down to your ribs, over the bend of your waist, and up again. His touch is softer than summer rain, warmer than the cum leaking slowly out of you now.

“Do you think you could write me a letter of recommendation?” you ask, tracing the freckles on his chest with your pointer finger. “You know, for the neuro fellowship we talked about?”

“Wow…” Jack croons drily, brows raised to his hairline. His words slur slightly together as he comes down from the remnants of his high. “No aftercare, huh? Not even a little pillow talk? Just… straight to the point?”

You flash him a playfully stern look from beneath your lashes, lips quirking in a shy smile. “‘M just asking a question…”

“Yeah, while I’m still inside you,” he scoffs a tired laugh. “You know you don’t have to sex with me to get what you want—”

You frown. “That’s not what I was—”

“—You can just ask.”

“I’m having sex with you because I like it, Jack,” you blurt, very foreignly stern with him, as your eyes harden in a glare. “And I’m asking you for a letter of rec because I respect your opinion—”

“And because you don’t trust Robby to give you a good one, I’m assuming?” he quips with an arched brow.

“Exactly,” you nod.

Jack laughs. You can feel it rumbling in his chest beneath your palms. “I’ll e-mail it to you later. How about that?”

“There’s no rush,” you assure him. “Seriously. I haven’t even applied for it yet—”

“Don’t worry about it. I already wrote it.”

He steals the breath from your lungs for the second, third, or hundredth time that day.

“You already wrote it?” you echo, brows furrowed. “When?”

“When you told me about it the first time,” he confesses, bouncing a bare shoulder in a lazy shrug. “I knew you’d need a letter of rec eventually, so... I wrote while I had some free time and just… waited for you to ask, I guess.”

Your face screws with skepticism. It burns somewhere in your chest, too. 

Even with him softening inside of you, leaking out of you, you can’t help but feel slightly suspicious of his sincerity. You still can’t quite believe that he cares about you this much.

“…Really?”

“Yeah,” he laughs and squeezes gently at your sides. “Why do you look so shocked? I do care about you outside of… all this. You know that, right?”

“I didn’t…” you confess, painfully shy, and lacking the courage to meet his gaze for several long moments. You focus instead on your hands, and the shapes you trace along his chest. “Not until now…”

“Well, what do I gotta do to prove it to you, huh?” Jack asks within a huff as he rises from his slouched position against the headboard. 

The mattress creaks softly as his weight shifts. His warm chest presses firmly to yours, smothering your breasts against his heartbeat, as he cradles you to his chest. His glittering eyes dart back and forth between the two of yours as he says, “I’ve already given you everything, sweetheart…”

“I don’t want everything,” you murmur with a shake of your head, unable to tear your gaze from his attentive one. “I just want you.” 

“Dr. Abbot,” Dana calls, peering over the top of her glasses. “You’re early.”

Beside her, you glance up from your tablet, meeting his eyes across the ER with that same soft smile.

“Dr. Abbot,” you say, like you can’t quite help yourself.

Jack squares his shoulders and starts toward the nurses’ station, determined not to let Dana and her all-knowing, all-seeing bullshit clock exactly why he’s at work almost two hours earlier than he needs to be.

“Yeah, I’ve got some stuff I didn’t get to wrap up this morning,” he lies.

Princess pops up from behind the desk. “I thought you said you stayed back this morning to make sure everything was sorted?”

Jack’s gaze cuts to her. “Yes. But I forgot something.”

Dana narrows her eyes. “Mhm. What’d you forget?”

“A few notes from the three a.m. GSW,” he replies quickly—too quickly.

It’s weak and he knows it, but there’s nothing else he could think of with Dana watching him like that and your warm, sleepy gaze still lingering from across the desk.

Dana nods slowly, adjusting the chart in her hands. “Right. Two hours early for a few notes.”

Jack just shrugs, avoiding her gaze as he walks past—and he doesn’t look back until he’s safely around the corner, standing in front of his locker. Only then does he risk a glance, just briefly over his shoulder, quick enough to catch a glimpse of you disappearing down the North hall.

God. It’s ridiculous, really. He’s a grown man.

More than that—he's an old man.

Yet here he is staying late at work and coming in early just to see more of you. Because ever since you swapped from nights to days, Jack doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. Sure, he could barely concentrate when you were on shift together, but who knew not having you around would be even worse?

He spends the first half of his shift hating himself for being so hung up on someone so young and so impossibly out of reach—then spends the second half anxiously awaiting your arrival for the day shift.

And it’s only been two weeks.

But the absolute worst part?

He doesn’t even know why you swapped shifts. You never even spoke to him about it. You just told him at four a.m. two Saturdays ago that you were switching to day shift. No reason. No explanation. That was it.

At first he wondered if it was his fault—if maybe you’d simply decided you didn’t like working with him.

But you still greet him every morning and every evening with that same warm smile. You still look to him first whenever someone asks for an attending and he’s still around. You still text him whenever the ER cat shows up outside the ambulance bay—which apparently happens much more often during the day shift.

And Jack still buys a packet of freeze-dried liver treats every Sunday to keep in the cupboard above the break room fridge—because he knows how much you love feeding that cat.

“What’re you doing here?”

Jack’s head whips around at the sound of his friend’s voice.

“I—uh—came in early to fix up a few notes,” he says, turning back to shove his bag into his locker.

Robby’s brows lift. “Two hours for notes?”

Jack sighs, slinging his stethoscope around his neck and shutting his locker before turning to face his fellow attending. “Are you of all people really going to lecture me about not having a life outside of this ER?”

Robby chuckles quietly, lifting both hands out of his pockets in surrender. “I wasn’t judging.”

“Good,” Jack mutters, already starting back toward central. “Anything I need to know?”

Robby falls into step beside him. “North Three’s waiting on a CT for possible appendicitis. Kid in Five came in with chest pain but his labs look clean so far. Dana’s still fighting with bed control about moving the pneumonia admit upstairs.”

They both stop at the nurses’ station, glancing up at the board.

“Otherwise it’s been unusually calm,” Robby adds. “Which probably means you’re about to get slammed.”

Jack gives him a flat look. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.” Robby claps him on the shoulder. “Oh—and that R2 you gave me?”

“What about her?”

Robby shrugs. “She’s great.”

“I know,” Jack says, keeping his voice carefully even.

Robby studies him for a second, eyes narrowing just a fraction, the corner of his mouth threatening to lift. The man might be a disaster when it comes to his own feelings, but he has an uncanny talent for spotting everyone else’s.

“We’re alright out here if you want to catch up on your notes,” he says after a moment, already turning away. “Or go make the rounds. Get some very thorough handovers from the residents.”

Jack keeps his eyes fixed on the board. “I hate you.”

Robby huffs out a quiet laugh. “Then why are you here two hours early?”

Jack exhales sharply and steps forward, pulling one of the tablets from the rack.

“Notes,” he says, a little louder than necessary.

Robby just shakes his head, still smiling faintly as he disappears down the North corridor.

For a moment, Jack doesn’t move. He lingers at the nurses’ station, tablet in hand, pretending to analyse the board while ignoring the incredibly unsubtle looks from Perlah and Princess—both of them watching him with the kind of interest that usually means someone’s about to become the subject of a very entertaining conversation.

Then, with a polite nod to each of them, he clears his throat and steps away, turning toward the break room—trying very hard not to hope he runs into you on the way.

And trying not to be disappointed when he doesn’t.

The break room is empty when he steps inside, the noise of the ER dulling as the door falls shut behind him. He sets his tablet on the table—next to someone’s half-eaten lunch and a discarded Lean Cuisine container—and grabs a clean mug from the cupboard, pouring the last of the coffee pot into it.

Then he drops into the seat furthest from the door, his back to the bulletin board, and taps the tablet awake, pulling up the notes for the three a.m. GSW. The same notes he already finished in detail while staying back this morning—before Robby told him to get the hell out of his ER and get some sleep.

He barely makes it through two lines of the chart before the door swings open again.

“Shit, sorry,” you say quickly, stepping toward the table.

Jack’s pulse does the same stupid thing it always does whenever he sees you, making his chest feel hot and his head a little fuzzy.

“What are you sorry for?” he asks, as if it isn’t obvious.

You’ve already stacked the Lean Cuisine container on top of the half-eaten bowl of something grey and mushy-looking and are halfway to the sink with them.

“I only got, like, a five-minute break today and had to run out for a trauma, then completely forgot about my lunch,” you explain, cheeks flushed as you glance down at the bowl. “This is gross. I’m so sorry.”

Jack shifts in his chair. “I’ve seen worse in here, I promise.”

You glance over your shoulder as you turn on the tap, the corner of your mouth lifting just slightly. “Really?”

He nods. “Really.”

He could almost swear your smile lifts a little higher before you turn back to the sink, scrubbing hurriedly at the bowl of slop that probably shouldn’t be going down the drain anyway.

Jack clears his throat. “But—uh—Lean Cuisine? Really?”

You look back at him again, brows drawn. “What’s wrong with Lean Cuisine?”

“Nothing,” he says lightly. “If you’re trying to survive a very stressful twelve-hour shift on only four hundred calories.”

You huff a quiet laugh, turning back to the sink. “I actually managed to eat lunch today. That’s already a win.”

“It’s mostly sodium and sadness,” he adds, almost absently. “Not much protein.”

You finally turn the tap off and spin around, leaning a hip against the counter. “Alright, Dr. Abbot. When I find the spare time to start meal prepping between my very stressful twelve-hour shifts, I’ll let you know.”

Jack opens his mouth—then closes it again. Because what he wants to say is ridiculous.

But it comes out anyway.

“…I cook.”

You blink.

“You cook?”

Jack clears his throat, suddenly very interested in his coffee mug.

“Yeah. Well.” He shrugs. “I’ve been told I’m reasonably good at it.”

You stare at him for a second, brows knitting slightly as you clearly try to figure out where the hell that came from.

“Well,” you say with a quick smile, “I guess your dinner guests are pretty lucky.”

Before he can respond, you grab the Lean Cuisine packet, toss it in the bin, and step toward the door.

“Sorry again for the mess.”

Then you’re gone—leaving Jack alone with his coffee, his notes, and the growing suspicion that there might actually be something seriously wrong with him.

-

“Is that Dr. Abbot in the break room?” Santos asks, falling into step beside you.

You keep your eyes fixed on your tablet.

“Yep.”

She leans closer, steering you out of the way of a gurney.

“But night shift doesn’t start for like two more hours.”

“I’m aware.”

“So, why is he here?”

You exhale sharply and finally look up from your tablet. “I don’t know, Trin. Maybe because the universe hates me.”

She snorts. “Or maybe because he likes you.”

You roll your eyes, turning toward the South corridor. “Please don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything,” she insists. “I seriously think that old man has a thing for you.”

“Don’t call him that,” you mutter.

“Okay, fine. I seriously think that hot, older man has a thing for you,” she says, stopping beside you at the South desks. “And we all know how you feel about him, so—”

“No,” you snap. “We don’t all know how I feel about Ja—Dr. Abbot.”

She presses her lips together to keep from laughing.

“Besides,” you go on, dropping into a chair. “I swapped to day shift so I could stop being distracted by my attending and actually focus on being a good doctor—so could you please stop distracting me?”

She leans a hip against the desk, completely ignoring you. “And don’t you think that’s a little strange? I mean, you swapped to day shift—what, two weeks ago?”

You glance at her from the corner of your eye. “And?”

“And,” she says dramatically, “for the past two weeks Dr. Abbot has been staying back every morning and coming in early every afternoon.”

Your gaze slides back to the computer. “So?”

She sighs, exasperated. “It’s not a coincidence.”

“Actually, I think it is,” you argue.

She stares at you for a second, eyes narrowing. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re annoying.”

She rolls her eyes and pushes off the desk. “Whatever. You’re still coming out tomorrow night, right?”

Your fingers hesitate over the keyboard. “Uh—I’m not sure yet.”

“Dr. Ellis is the only person from night shift that’ll be there,” she says.

You let out a quiet sigh of defeat.

“Fine,” you mutter. “I’ll come.”

“Good.” She grins, already turning away. “Come to my place around six. We can get ready and pregame.”

“Why can’t I get ready at home?” you ask.

“Because,” she calls over her shoulder, “I get to pick what you wear.”

And before you can argue, she slips into a patient room, effectively ending the conversation.

“Great,” you mumble, turning back to the computer. “Can’t wait.”

It’s not like you’re not looking forward to finally joining in on a night out now that you’re no longer on the night shift.

You are. You’re just... nervous.

Nervous, perpetually stressed out, and still adjusting to life as a day-walker. And Santos knows that. She probably knows you better than anyone else at PTMC—even though you’ve spent the better part of ten months working opposite shifts.

Which is exactly why she’s pushing you to join this night out. Because she knows you need it. She knows you need to relax, forget about work, and do something other than obsess over the night shift attending who’s had you completely undone since the day you first met.

God.

Jack Abbot. The single most dangerous man in Pittsburgh.

Not only is he stupidly hot, but he’s also annoyingly competent, irritatingly attentive, and has the starring role in every single one of your most inappropriate fantasies.

He’s also the very reason you’re terrified of having to redo your second year of residency, because that man affects your focus so much you literally can’t function. Like three weeks ago, when you walked straight into the glass door of Trauma One because you were too busy watching him take his jacket off.

His damn jacket.

That was the moment you finally decided you needed to swap shifts—because Dr. Shen couldn’t look at you for the rest of the night without bursting into laughter.

Jack Abbot is a liability to your health and wellbeing—which means he is a liability to your career. And even though asking Dr. Robby to swap to day shift was one of the most ridiculously difficult things you’ve done since starting at PTMC, you stand by the fact that it was the right decision.

The smart decision. The professional decision. Even if… it might not be working yet.

Because now you can’t just glance across central anymore and see Jack leaning against the desk, talking through a case with Lena. You can’t have him step up beside you when you’re unsure about something and quietly walk you through it. He’s not the one across from you in the trauma bays. And there isn’t a coffee cup that magically appears in front of you during the three o’clock lull.

Now you just… think about him instead.

But it’s only temporary. You’re sure of it. You just need to get used to the day shift and figure out how to get Jack Abbot out of your head.

Which… you have a sneaking suspicion is what Santos plans on helping you with this weekend.

You’re pretty sure you overheard her the other day telling Whitaker that the only way to get over someone is by getting under someone else. And maybe that’s exactly what you need to do—get under someone else so you can stop thinking about the maddeningly hot man who’s nearly twice your age and most definitely does not have a thing for you. Regardless of what Santos seems to think.

You spend the rest of your shift catching up on charting and trying very hard not to think about Dr. Abbot.

When someone asks for an attending, you call Dr. Robby. When you hear his voice just around the corner, you change paths as quickly and inconspicuously as you can. And when your notes are up to date and night shift starts rolling in, you find Dr. Ellis and give her—and only her—the rundown on your patients.

By the time you shut your locker and sling your bag over your shoulder, the sky outside is dark and there are only a few day shifters left lingering around the nurses’ station.

“Did you drive today?” Whitaker asks, shutting his locker only a moment after you.

“Yeah,” you reply. “Need a ride?”

He nods sheepishly. “That’d be great. Santos left already, said I was taking too long.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, I bet it had nothing to do with whatever she and Garcia were whispering about in the stairwell.”

Whitaker winces. “I just hope they’re at Garcia’s tonight.”

You huff a small laugh and hitch your bag higher. “You ready?”

He nods.

You both turn and start back toward central—but just as you reach the nurses’ station, his steps slow.

“Do you need to…?”

He jerks a thumb over his shoulder.

You frown. “Need to what?”

He hesitates. “Don’t you normally say goodbye to Dr. Abbot?”

Your eyes widen slowly. “Uh—no. Why would you say that?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I just thought you two were close.”

“We’re not close,” you say, a little too quick.

“Sorry,” he mutters, raising both hands in surrender. “I just—I don’t know. I thought because you were his resident you two were… close.”

“I’m not his resident,” you snap. “I’m just… a resident. I don’t belong to him.”

“Okay,” he says slowly, brows drawing together. “I’m sorry, I just thought—”

“You thought wrong,” you mutter, glancing over your shoulder to make sure no one is listening.

Thankfully, the two nosiest nurses in the ER have already gone home for the day.

“Let’s just go.”

You grab his wrist and walk quickly toward the ambulance bay doors, giving Ellis and Shen a small nod as you pass—completely missing the middle-aged attending who just overheard most of your conversation.

The car ride to Santos and Whitaker’s isn’t long. Whitaker fills most of it anyway—rambling about the shift, about the kid in Five and whether night shift is going to get slammed, about how Dana looked like she was two seconds away from strangling bed control by the end of the day. And every few minutes he circles back around to apologising for making you drive him home.

You wave him off each time.

“It’s fine, Whitaker.”

“Seriously though,” he says as you pull up outside their building. “I really appreciate it.”

He slings his bag over his shoulder and climbs out of the car, pausing on the sidewalk to give you one last wave before heading toward the front door.

The moment the passenger door falls shut, the quiet settles in. You let out a long breath, tipping your head back against the headrest and letting your eyes fall shut for a moment. And immediately—inevitably—your brain drifts straight back to the same place it always does.

Jack Abbot. Of course.

You scrub a hand over your face before shifting the car back into gear and pulling away.

The rest of the night passes the way most nights do—with a quick shower, something vaguely edible scavenged from the fridge, and half-heartedly scrolling through your phone until exhaustion finally drags you to bed.

When your head finally hits the pillow, you tell yourself you’re too tired to think about him. It’s been a long day—long week—and all you need right now is sleep, not fantasies.

But that doesn’t stop your brain from doing it anyway. Because sometime in the early hours of the morning, Jack Abbot shows up in your dreams. Not in the ER. Not standing beside you at the nurses’ station or leaning over a chart.

He’s in a kitchen. Cooking.

Sleeves rolled up to his elbows, moving around the stove with the same quiet confidence he carries through the hospital—like he knows exactly what he’s doing and expects the rest of the world just to trust him.

And in the dream, you do.

You lean against the counter and watch him the way you sometimes watch him in the trauma bays, telling yourself you’re just observing. Just curious. Just learning.

He glances over his shoulder eventually, catching you staring—and says something you can’t quite hear over the soft clatter of the pan. But he’s smiling.

Then the dream shifts the way dreams tend to—logic slipping sideways until suddenly you’re standing much closer than you should be. Close enough to smell whatever he’s cooking. Close enough that when he turns toward you the space between you disappears entirely.

His hand settles at your waist like it belongs there.

Your back meets the edge of the counter.

And when his mouth brushes your neck—

You wake with a sharp inhale, staring up at the ceiling, heart racing.

“Fuck,” you mutter, dragging a hand over your face.

So much for getting him out of your head.

For a while, you just lie there, staring at the ceiling, watching the first pale line of sunlight creep across until it touches the wall opposite your window.

At some point you realise you’re still replaying the dream in your head.

The kitchen. The way his hand had felt at your waist. The warmth of his mouth against your neck.

You groan quietly and drag the blanket over your face.

“Get a fucking grip.”

Then you throw the covers back and force yourself out of bed, heading straight into the kitchen in search of coffee.

Your small apartment is always quiet—but this morning it feels too quiet. Too still as you silently sip your coffee, one hip leaned against the kitchen counter. Which, unfortunately, leaves far too much room for your brain to wander right back to its favourite topic.

Jack Abbot.

After coffee, you take yourself for a long walk around the block, hoping the cool morning air might help clear the remnants of the dream from your head.

It doesn’t.

But by the time you make it back to your apartment, your legs feel loose and your mind feels a little quieter, and for the briefest moment you almost manage to convince yourself that you’re excited about tonight. That you’re going to be able to do what Santos is clearly angling for and go home with an attractive stranger so you can stop draining your vibrator battery with inappropriate thoughts of your attending.

The rest of the day drifts past in a slow blur of small, forgettable things. Laundry. Answering a couple of messages in the group chat. Half-heartedly reviewing a few notes from earlier in the week before deciding you absolutely refuse to think about work on your day off.

Eventually the afternoon light begins to soften and stretch across the floor, which means it’s probably time to start getting ready if you’re actually going to make it to Santos’ place before she decides you’re bailing and comes knocking to drag you there herself.

So you shower, change, pack a bag, and throw it over your shoulder on the way out the door—trying very hard not to feel disappointed that Dr. Ellis is the only person from night shift who’s going to be at the bar tonight.

It really is for the best.

You, alcohol, and Jack Abbot in the same room is a terrible idea.

“Alright, I’m ready,” Santos announces, finally stepping out of the bathroom.

You, Javadi, and Whitaker—who have spent the last twenty minutes on the couch chatting and sipping beer—look up.

“Aw, I wish I could do winged eyeliner like that,” Javadi says. “It just doesn’t suit my eye shape.”

“Don’t look too close,” Santos mutters. “It’s super uneven, but I don’t have time. I still have to fix this one before we go.”

She tips her chin toward where you and Whitaker are sitting on the opposite end of the lounge.

Whitaker’s eyes go wide. “Me?”

Santos scoffs. “Not you, Huckleberry. God, I don’t have enough time in the world to fix whatever’s going on there.”

Whitaker frowns, glancing down at his navy-blue button-up shirt. “What’s wrong with this?”

“Everything,” Santos says, already turning away.

Whitaker lifts his head, glancing between you and Javadi. “Is it really that bad?”

Javadi leans forward, lowering her voice. “There’s nothing wrong with it, Whitaker. You look great.”

You pat his shoulder. “It’s fine, really. She’s just—”

The words die on your tongue as Santos reappears, holding what can only be described as a sparkly scrap of fabric on a hanger.

Javadi tilts her head. “What’s that?”

Santos grins. “A dress.”

Whitaker chokes on his beer. “That’s… not a dress. That’s a glittery napkin.”

“Oh my God.” Javadi snorts. “My mom would kill me just for buying that.”

“I didn’t buy it,” Santos says lightly. “A friend in college gave it to me, but it’s never fit quite right.”

She steps forward, extending the hanger toward you.

“But I know you’ll be able to pull it off,” she adds, her grin sharpening.

You stare at it—glinting in the low evening sun spilling through the windows.

“Santos… this is a work thing,” you mutter.

She rolls her eyes. “It’s not a work thing. It’s just an outing with people from work.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?” Whitaker asks.

Santos sighs. “No, it’s not. And are you forgetting our main objective?”

You blink at her.

“To get you laid.”

Javadi giggles nervously, trying to hide it behind a swig of beer.

“Come on,” Santos says. “Just put it on and if it doesn’t work, we try something else.”

You hesitate, staring at the glittery thing like it might catch fire at any moment. Which, given enough sunlight, it probably could.

“Fine,” you say at last, pushing off the couch. “I’ll try it on, but that does not mean I’m wearing it.”

Santos’ eyes sparkle with excitement. Or maybe it’s just the dress.

“That’s my girl.”

You take the hanger from her and trudge into her room, nudging the door shut behind you. It takes a minute for you to figure out how the glittery napkin is supposed to go on—but once you do, you shed your comfortable clothes and shimmy into the most sparkly piece of fabric you’ve ever worn.

And somehow, the shimmering scrap of nothing turns out to be an actual dress—short, sparkling, and just structured enough to stay where it’s supposed to while still feeling mildly illegal.

With a deep breath, you turn away from the mirror and open the door, stepping back out into the lounge room.

“So?”

For a moment, no one says anything.

Whitaker’s mouth falls open.

Javadi’s eyebrows lift. “Oh.”

Santos, meanwhile, tilts her head appreciatively, one hand on her hip, eyes gleaming as she looks you over from head to toe.

“I knew it,” she says smugly.

Whitaker blinks. “That is not a dress.”

Javadi elbows him. “Stop talking.”

You tug awkwardly at the hem—which doesn’t actually move much because there isn’t very much hem to tug.

“Santos,” you say carefully, “I’m not sure—”

“Relax,” she says. “You look incredible.”

She circles you slowly, like a stylist inspecting her work.

“And you’re definitely going to get laid.”

“I feel like I shouldn’t be here,” Whitaker mutters, his face bright red.

Santos rolls her eyes. “You’re only here because you live here, Huckleberry. Now go grab that bottle of tequila from on top of the fridge—we’re going to need some liquid courage before we head out.”

After two shots of tequila and Santos’ finishing touches to your makeup, you all head out the door. Whitaker calls an Uber, the four of you pile in, and you carefully keep Santos’ leather jacket wrapped around yourself for some semblance of modesty.

You don’t really plan on taking it off for the rest of the night—even if it isn’t that cold.

The ride to the bar isn’t nearly long enough. Javadi spends most of it excitedly talking about how she can finally go out drinking now that she’s twenty-one, which Santos encourages with the enthusiasm of someone who clearly intends to make the most of that milestone.

You mostly just stare out the window. Trying not to think about the dress you shouldn’t have agreed to wear and the night shift attending you definitely shouldn’t be missing right now. Because if someone asked you where you’d rather be tonight—the bar or the ER with Dr. Abbot—your honest answer would be incredibly depressing.

Who would rather be at work than out with their friends on a Saturday night?

“We’re here,” Santos announces, nudging your side a little too hard.

You all thank the driver before climbing out, gathering yourselves on the sidewalk in front of the familiar establishment Santos loves dragging everyone to.

“Relax,” she says, dropping a hand on your shoulder. “You don’t need this.”

She tugs at the leather jacket, pulling it off your shoulders until it’s bunched at your elbows.

“I feel naked,” you mutter. “Like this is some nightmare where I show up to work in my underwear.”

Whitaker snorts. “Not far from it.”

Santos rolls her eyes. “Well, you’re not at work. You’re at a bar. And this is supposed to be fun.”

Right. Fun.

That is the entire point of tonight. Go out. Have a drink. Meet someone who isn’t Jack Abbot. Ideally forget Jack Abbot exists for at least a few hours.

Completely achievable.

Right?

“Fine.”

You draw a deep breath and drop your arms, letting the jacket slide off completely. Santos grins as you sling it over one elbow, trying not to instinctively hold it in front of your body like armour.

“See?” she says. “Much better.”

“Let’s just go inside before I change my mind,” you mutter, already starting toward the door.

Javadi loops her arm through yours. “You look amazing. Seriously.”

You give her a small smile, trying not to feel quite so awkward as Santos leads the way toward the main entrance.

It’s just a bar. Just a normal Saturday night. You’ll be fine after a few more shots of liquid courage.

You glance through the front window as you approach—more out of habit than anything else, your eyes drifting lazily over the crowded room inside.

People. Low lights. Patrons lingering around the bar.

And—

Your brain stalls.

Because there’s a man leaning against the bar with one elbow braced on the countertop, his shoulders broad under a tight black shirt, head tipped slightly as he talks to someone beside him.

A familiar someone.

Dr. Ellis.

And the man—

Oh.

Oh fuck.

Your stomach plummets.

Jack fucking Abbot.

Your feet stop moving, your whole body suddenly forgetting how to function.

Your pulse kicks violently against the inside of your throat as a wave of heat rushes up the back of your neck, sudden and dizzying and sharp enough to make the edges of your vision blur for half a second.

Because he looks—

He looks so good.

Relaxed in a way you’ve never seen at work. One hand curled loosely around a glass as he frowns slightly at something Ellis is saying, that small crease between his brows you know far too well.

And suddenly you are extremely, violently aware that you are standing outside a bar wearing approximately three square inches of glitter.

“Hey,” Javadi says beside you. “What’s—”

“Santos.”

She doesn’t stop.

“Santos,” you say again, your voice almost breaking.

She glances over her shoulder. “Hm?”

“You knew.”

She stops, her hand hovering near the door.

Whitaker glances between the two of you. “What’s happening?”

“Technically,” Santos says slowly, “I didn’t know. I just... suspected.”

“You said Ellis was the only one from night shift who’d be here.”

She winces. “I did, but what I meant is… Ellis is the only one who actually told me she’d be here.”

You stare at her. “So you did know?”

“I knew it was his night off.”

“Santos, I—” You glance back at him through the bar window. “I can’t go in there like this.”

“Like what?” she asks. “Smoking hot?”

“Half naked.”

She rolls her eyes. “Yes, you can.”

“I will actually die.”

“No, you won’t,” she says firmly. “You’re an adult. You can wear whatever you want, talk to whoever you want, and just because your incredibly inconvenient attending crush happens to be inside does not suddenly revoke your civil liberties.”

She pulls the door open.

“Now stop panicking and get in the bar.”

-

“He swore the chest pain had nothing to do with the seven energy drinks he’d had that night,” Ellis says, still rambling about a patient who pissed her off two nights ago, “which was a bold position to take with a heart rate of one-forty.”

Jack snorts softly. “And did you believe him?”

Ellis’ eyes go wide, and she takes a long drink before continuing her rant about night shift patients and the strange confidence people have when explaining why their terrible decisions definitely have nothing to do with the symptoms they’re currently experiencing.

Jack nods along, offering the occasional comment or question where needed, meeting her gaze now and then—but mostly keeping his attention on the door. Waiting. Because he’s not stupid enough to ask anyone if you’re going to be here tonight, but he is naïve enough to hope you will be.

He wasn’t even supposed to be here tonight—his first night off in two weeks.

He was supposed to be at home, cooking something decent for dinner, enjoying the rare luxury of not wearing scrubs, and inevitably indulging in his favourite guilty pleasure—involving nothing but his hand and some very inappropriate thoughts of you.

But he’s not.

He’s here. In a crowded bar, sipping cheap scotch, listening to Ellis complain about the night shift patients and their weird confidence, just… waiting.

For you.

He’d wanted to ask you yesterday if you were coming to the bar tonight—before he agreed to join—but he’d barely seen you before the end of your shift. And you didn’t even say goodbye. Which isn’t unusual, given how chaotic the ER can be, but then he’d overheard your conversation with Whitaker—and something about it made his chest feel too tight.

It wasn’t anger. Not exactly. Not jealousy, either. It was just... wrong. Not because what you said was wrong, but because he hates that it was right. That you don’t belong to him. Even if Robby calls you ‘his R2’ and Whitaker thinks you’re close because you’re his resident—none of it changes the fact that he has no real claim over you.

Which is ridiculous. He knows it.

He shouldn’t feel territorial. He shouldn’t want this. Want you. And yet, his chest still feels too tight—a slow, hot coil of frustration and longing curling up into his throat, and he hates it. Hates hearing it out loud, hates how much it matters, hates that he can’t make it not matter.

“Oh.” Ellis glances over her shoulder. “Looks like Santos and the others are here.”

Jack’s gaze flicks back to the door.

He tries not to react, not to straighten, not to square his shoulders as if he’s bracing for something—but he can already feel his composure slipping.

Santos steps in first, her head turned slightly as she talks to Whitaker, who walks in behind her. Then it’s Javadi, an unusually wide smile on her face as she looks at—

You.

Oh.

Oh fuck.

Jack stops breathing.

His chest burns. His stomach flips. His hand tightens dangerously around his scotch glass.

It’s you. Of course it’s you. You’re perfect.

But then—

That dress.

God.

That dress—short, sparkling, clinging just enough to make every nerve in his body snap awake. It shimmers under the low lights as you move, and he hates himself for noticing every subtle curve, every shift of fabric, as if time itself has slowed just to torture him.

It’s all too much.

He can feel his pulse in his throat, heat burning beneath his skin, blood rushing in the one direction it really, really shouldn’t be right now. In public. In front of his coworkers.

He blinks, finally tearing his gaze away from you.

And that’s when he notices the rest of the bar. All staring. All stunned.

He hates them all.

He hates that they can even look at you. Hates that the universe allows it. Hates that they might see even a fraction of what he sees—and feel a fraction of what he feels.

And he hates, more than anything right now, that you’re not his.

“Dr. Abbot,” Robby says, appearing beside him and slinging an arm across his shoulders. “What’s your poison tonight?”

Jack lifts his drink, knuckles still white around the glass. “Scotch.”

Robby claps his shoulder, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “You might not want to have too many of those.”

Then he slips past both Jack and Ellis and raises a hand to flag down the bartender.

“Alright,” Ellis says, pushing off the bar. “I’m going to go grab a seat before the table gets too crowded.”

Jack nods, but he doesn’t follow. He stays beside the bar, rigid now, eyes fixed on the group of men at a high table just a few feet from the front door. They’re muttering to each other, leaning in, voices low—but nothing about it is subtle. Their gazes are glued to you as you weave through patrons and tables to greet the rest of the PTMC crew gathered in a booth near the back.

One of them—the dumbest looking one, Jack’s already decided—slowly slides off his stool, nodding along while his friends murmur their advice.

Jack glances back at you, now standing beside McKay, sliding your arms into the leather jacket you’d been carrying. Santos grabs your wrist, tilting her head toward the bar as she starts dragging you with her.

And, like a fourteen-year-old boy with a crush, Jack’s pulse starts racing.

“Dr. Abbot,” Santos says, grinning as you both approach the bar. “Fancy seeing you somewhere other than the ER on a Saturday night.”

“I do have a life outside of work, you know,” he says dryly, lifting his drink and looking anywhere but at you.

“Like playing bingo at the senior centre?” Santos asks, resting both forearms on the bar.

You step up on her other side, squinting at the shelves of liquor on the back wall like they’re the most interesting thing in the room.

“Bingo’s on Wednesdays,” he says mildly. “Try to keep up.”

Santos snorts, shaking her head as she reaches for the small leather-bound bar menu. But out of the corner of his eye, Jack sees your head dip—just slightly—and you try to hide a small laugh against your shoulder.

Jack feels it like a punch to the ribs.

Because you’re listening.

And apparently… you think he’s funny.

“Alright,” Santos says, lifting a hand. “I think we need some tequila over here.”

The bartender steps away from where he’d been serving farther down the bar, but his attention quickly drifts past Santos and lands on you. He leans in, resting one palm flat against the bar while he wipes down the counter with a rag that doesn’t really need wiping.

“So,” he says to you, not Santos. “What are you drinking tonight?”

Santos blinks.

“I just told you,” she says flatly. “Tequila.”

The bartender barely glances at her.

Jack’s jaw tightens.

You look briefly confused, glancing between Santos and the bartender.

“Uh—whatever she orders is fine.”

“Yeah. Tequila,” Santos repeats, slower this time.

The bartender laughs like she’s joking—and Jack sets his scotch down slowly. Carefully.

His eyes stay locked on the man now lining up four small glasses in front of you, still completely ignoring Santos. The way he’s watching you is too much. Too close. The faint curl at the corner of his mouth makes Jack want to punch the smirk right off his face.

And by the way you shift a little closer to Santos—pulling your jacket tighter around yourself—he knows you’re uncomfortable.

His hand clenches at his side.

Robby pauses as he walks past, a beer in each hand.

“Easy, tiger,” he mutters. “She can handle herself.”

“I know,” Jack says, voice low. “Doesn’t mean she has to.”

Robby gives him a look—a brief, knowing glance, somewhere between amusement and warning. “Careful.”

Jack doesn’t respond. He just turns back to you and Santos, watching as you each knock back two shots of tequila, your nose scrunching as the burn hits. And he can’t help the small twitch at the corner of his mouth, because the face you make as you set the second glass down is ridiculously cute for someone wearing a dress like that.

“Okay,” Santos says. “I need a vodka soda before I start making bad decisions.”

The bartender nods, already reaching for another glass—and before he can even ask if you’d like another drink, someone else steals your attention.

“Hey,” the guy says, stepping up beside you. “Can I get you another one?”

He leans in, just enough to be heard over the noise—but it’s still too close.

You shift slightly, angling toward him. “Oh. Uh—sure.”

Santos presses her lips together, clearly fighting a smile as she turns back to the bar, suddenly very invested in whatever the bartender is doing. The second he sets the vodka soda in front of her, she scoops it up and drops a few bills on the counter.

She lifts the drink to her lips as she turns away, pausing just long enough to glance at Jack over the rim of the glass.

Her brows lift. “You really gonna let that happen?”

Jack frowns. “What—”

But Santos is already gone, drink in hand, halfway back to the booth where everyone else is.

Where Jack should be headed too—because there’s no reason for him to stay here. No reason for him to linger, to hover, to make sure you’re okay, to stand there glaring at the guy buying you a drink like that’s going to change anything.

It’s not like he can blame him. If Jack thought he had a shot with you, he’d take it too. The difference is, Jack wouldn’t need the dress. Or the drinks. Or the crowd. He’d take that shot with you even when you’re tired and stressed out and covered in blood at the end of a bad shift in the ER. He’d take it any time. Any place.

But Jack doesn’t get that shot.

Because you’re young. You don’t have baggage. And you’re a resident—maybe not his resident, but still a resident.

It’s just too inappropriate.

Jack sets his glass back on the bar a little harder than necessary—and the bartender glances over, brows raised as if silently asking if he’d like another, but Jack just shakes his head.

His eyes flick back to you. To the way you’re smiling now—soft, not uneasy. To the way you seem to have forgotten about keeping your jacket closed, and now the idiot talking to you is looking anywhere but your face.

Then you laugh—light, easy—and something in Jack’s chest tightens again.

He looks away. He can’t keep standing here. He’s not going to stand here and watch you flirt with some idiot at the bar like he has any right to care.

With a deep breath, he forces himself to turn away and start walking back to the table.

Where he should have been five minutes ago. Where he plans on staying for the rest of the night.

Half an hour later, most of PTMC’s day shift staff are gathered in the booth, half still wearing their scrubs after coming straight from the hospital. The volume of conversation builds with the growing collection of empty glasses in the middle of the table, voices overlapping, getting louder with every round—but Jack doesn’t order another scotch. At some point, Ellis sets a beer in front of him, which he nurses until it’s too warm to enjoy.

Every now and then, he makes a point of nodding or laughing or glancing at someone across the table—pretending to follow the conversation, pretending he’s paying attention—when really, all he can focus on is you. You and your smile. And your laugh. And the way your hand settles lightly on a man’s bicep when he says something that makes you blush.

Not the same man as before, either. No—this one is new. This one swooped in when the first one excused himself to take a phone call, and now that one is back at the table with his friends, sulking.

Kind of how Jack is right now, sitting at the table with his friends. Sulking. Glaring. Plotting.

He knows he shouldn’t. He knows it’s none of his business. But he can’t stop himself from trying to come up with an excuse to interrupt you. To get you away from those men and their lingering stares.

Not that he’s any better.

“Abbot.” Robby nudges his side. “Hungry?”

Jack blinks, finally dragging his gaze away from you to where Ellis is standing, looking expectant.

“Hm?”

“Are you hungry?” Ellis asks. “I’m going to order some wings.”

Jack frowns. “Uh—no. I’m good. Thanks.”

Ellis nods once and turns away, heading straight for the bar.

Robby huffs a quiet laugh beside him. “You might want to turn your hearing aids up, old man.”

Jack doesn’t even look at him. “Funny.”

“I’m serious,” Robby says mildly. “You’ve missed, what, three questions in the last five minutes?”

“I heard her,” Jack mutters. “I was just... thinking.”

Robby hums like he doesn’t believe that for a second.

Jack shifts, pushing his chair back as he sets his warm beer on the table. “I’m gonna hit the head.”

Robby’s brows lift, slow and knowing, his gaze flicking briefly toward the bar.

“Mm,” he says. “Sure you are.”

Jack does, in fact, turn toward the bathrooms first—mostly because he needs a second away from all the music and chatter to try and clear his head. To try and stop himself from doing what he really left the booth to do.

He locks himself in the accessible bathroom—not that he needs it, but it’s more private than the men’s—and stands in front of the vanity. He presses his palms into the porcelain sink, shifting his weight forward with a deep, steadying breath.

This is ridiculous, and he knows it.

He’s a grown man. He shouldn’t be acting like this.

This is trivial shit, for God’s sake. Jack is a vet. A seasoned ER doctor.

So why is a goddamn crush undoing him like this?

Why are you undoing him like this?

He lifts his head and stares at his reflection—jaw tight, shoulders rigid—trying to get a grip. Trying to remember that he is a grown ass man, not some idiot who can’t keep his shit together.

His gaze drifts across his face—the day-old stubble, peppered hair—then to the reflection of the bathroom behind him. The graffitied walls, covered in stickers and spray paint, a chaotic collection of late nights and inebriated thoughts. He wonders, briefly, how many people came in here intending to leave something behind.

Then he spots something scrawled in the corner of the mirror in thick black marker.

HESITATE AND SOMEONE ELSE WON’T.

Jack tilts his head.

That’s not exactly... subtle.

But that’s the thing, isn’t it?

He doesn’t hesitate.

Not in the trauma bay. Not out in the field. Not when it matters. Not when someone’s life is on the line and everyone else is waiting for someone to make the call.

So what the hell is this?

This… standing back. Watching. Letting it happen.

Like he doesn’t know what he wants. Like he hasn’t already made up his mind.

He drags a hand over his mouth, shaking his head once—sharp, annoyed.

“Jesus Christ.”

It’s not caution. It’s avoidance.

With another deep breath, Jack reaches for the tap and braces his hands beneath the stream. He scrubs them together—quick and thorough—then turns off the water, grabs a paper towel, and dries his hands with more focus than necessary. He tosses the towel in the bin on his way out the door, his gaze sharpening as he scans the bar—finding you immediately.

You’re still standing where you were, maybe a few steps closer to the back of the room. There’s a new guy in front of you now, closing you in, crowding your space just enough to make Jack’s eyes narrow.

The man’s hand settles at your waist, a little lower than what could be considered innocent. And anyone else watching might think you’re okay with it—but Jack knows you. He sees the small flicker of discomfort that crosses your face, the subtle drop of your shoulder as you try to angle yourself away without seeming rude.

Good thing Jack doesn’t mind being rude.

He’s already moving before he’s fully decided to. Just a few long strides and he’s there—close enough to cut through the space between you and the guy without touching either of you, his presence alone enough to interrupt whatever the hell this is supposed to be.

He looks at you. Just you.

“Hey.”

Your head turns immediately—and the shift in your expression is instant. Relief.

“Oh—hey,” you say, a little breathless.

And then you step into him. Not too close. Not in a way that draws attention or suggests anything—but enough to make Jack’s pulse jump. Enough for him to feel your warmth and the way it settles under his skin.

“Hey, man,” the guy says, holding out a hand. “I’m Trent.”

Jack ignores him.

“You alright?” he asks you.

You nod slowly. “I am now.”

Your fingers curl into the back of his shirt, just for a second—like you didn’t even think about it. Like you just needed something solid to hold onto.

Jack goes still.

Trent clears his throat. “Sorry—uh—who are you?”

You glance at him with a tight smile. “This is my attending.”

Jack likes being called your attending.

Trent frowns. “What?”

“Remember how I said I was a doctor?”

Trent just stares at you.

“Well, Dr. Abbot is my attending,” you go on anyway. “He’s like my supervisor. I’m his resident.”

His resident.

“Right,” Trent mutters, eyeing Jack. “Cool. So—you’re a doctor?”

Jack doesn’t even look at him. His eyes stay fixed on you.

“Are you hungry?” he asks. “Ellis is ordering wings—we can grab a menu.”

“Starving,” you reply, the corner of your mouth lifting slightly as you look up at him.

“Great.” His hand settles at your shoulder, firm but casual. “Let’s get back to the others.”

“Wait,” Trent says. “Are you—”

“It was nice meeting you,” you cut in, flashing him one last tight-lipped smile before Jack steers you away.

He keeps his arm around your shoulders until you’re halfway back to the booth of PTMC doctors and nurses. Only then does he pull back, clasping his hands behind his back like he needs the physical restraint.

“Thanks for that,” you murmur. “He just wouldn’t take a hint.”

Jack nods. “I noticed.”

He doesn’t look at you as he turns back toward the other end of the table, toward his seat beside Robby—because if he did, he might not be able to leave your side. From the corner of his eye, he sees Santos reach for you, already asking what happened as she pulls you into the seat between her and McKay.

And for twenty blissful minutes, Jack feels okay. The most okay he’s felt all night.

Because you’re here, at the table, talking to Santos and McKay—and not some idiot who thinks he deserves a chance with the prettiest girl in the room. In the world, according to Jack.

But only for twenty minutes—because once you finish your drink, Santos drags you back to the bar.

Another shot. Another drink. Another guy.

Jack shifts in his chair, trying to listen to whatever it is Ellis and Mateo are arguing about, but he can’t focus—not when your hand settles lightly on this new guy’s shoulder. And especially not when it slides down his bicep, flirty in a way that makes Jack want to get out of his chair.

He tells himself he’s not going to. That he shouldn’t.

But the second the lights dim and the music gets louder, he pushes out of his seat.

He finds you at the edge of the dancefloor, catching your wrist before you can disappear into the crowd.

“Hey,” he says, voice raised over the music.

Your head whips around, your brows lifting slightly in that soft, expectant way—like you’re waiting for him to say whatever it is that’s so important he had to stop you right here.

Jack clears his throat. “Have you been drinking water?”

You frown. “Um. Not really.”

“You should really drink some water,” he says, tipping his head toward the bar.

You hesitate, glancing back over your shoulder at the man waiting for you to follow him into the crowd.

Then you look back at Jack.

“Uh, yeah. Okay. Water.”

He knows he shouldn’t have done it. He knows it was stupid and petty and jealousy-driven—but he can’t help the flicker of satisfaction when you follow him to the end of the bar with the self-serve water tower.

The music is too loud for conversation—and even if it wasn’t, he’s not sure what he’d say. Not when you’re looking at him like this. A little drunk. A little curious. Your brows drawn, your skin glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, your lips wet from the water.

God. This has the be the finest form of torture.

Because here you are—so young and so sweet, so trusting in Jack that he’s just trying to look after you, when all he can think about is the fact that you’re not his. That they think you’re fair game. That every man in this room thinks he has a chance.

And the fact that he’s not going to let them anywhere near you.

-

The third time Jack Abbot appears at your side, he catches your elbow just as you’re about to step out the door with a man named Leo. Not to leave the bar—just for some air—but then Jack says something about Mateo buying a round of shots and guides you back inside.

You don’t mind. Not really. Especially not when a free drink is involved.

So you line up beside your coworkers and sink another shot of tequila with a grimace before Santos drags you back to the dancefloor.

The fourth time Jack Abbot intercepts you, you’re just about to start dancing with a handsome stranger Santos accidentally made you bump into—but before you can even take the man’s hand, Jack pulls you away, insisting you take a seat for a minute and drink more water.

Which, fine. Whatever.

But by the fifth interruption, you’re starting to notice a pattern.

And you’re getting a little annoyed.

“Oh my God,” Santos says, her eyes going wide as the opening notes to ABBA’s Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! start blaring through the speakers. “We have to dance. Come on!”

You barely have time to scoop your drink up off the bar before she’s dragging you onto the dancefloor—into the throng of warm bodies all moving to the beat beneath the single, sparkling disco ball.

The music pulses through the floor beneath your feet, the bass thrumming in your chest as Santos drags you deeper into the crowd. Somewhere between Mateo’s round of shots and your tenth song on the dancefloor, your jacket disappeared—and now your dress catches the light with every movement, glittering under the shifting colours as bodies press in from all sides.

The bar is still pretty full, even if the PTMC booth has already lost a few soldiers. There are still plenty of prospects—plenty of strangers who might offer to take you home and make you forget all about Jack Abbot. Which is still very much the plan.

If only the man himself would stop interrupting every interaction like he’s doing you a favour.

At some point during the second—or maybe third—chorus, Santos subtly steps away and a guy ends up in front of you. You’re not even entirely sure how. One second you’re dancing and screaming the lyrics, the next he’s there—close enough that you can feel the heat of him, his hands hovering like he’s trying to decide where to put them.

You let it happen. Because this is what you want, right?

This is the plan.

He leans in and says something you don’t quite catch over the music, but you laugh anyway—more out of obligation than anything else.

Then his attention shifts.

His eyes flick past you. And just like that—he falters.

It’s subtle, but you feel it. The hesitation. The way his body pulls back a fraction, like something just snapped him out of it.

“Uh—actually,” he mutters, already stepping away. “I—yeah. Sorry.”

Then he’s gone.

You blink, frowning slightly as you glance over your shoulder and—

Of course.

Jack Abbot, standing just beyond the edge of the dancefloor, drink in hand, eyes locked on you with a look that makes your stomach drop.

Not angry. Not exactly.

But intense. Sharp. Focused in a way that feels… deliberate.

You stare at him for a second—frustration flickering across your face—then turn back to Santos, who is still dancing with her vodka soda lifted in the air.

You lean in, raising your voice just enough to be heard over the music. “Your plan isn’t working!”

She turns to face you, frowning. “What do you mean it’s not working?”

You stare at her. “The plan to get me laid? It’s not working.”

“Why not?”

You huff out a laugh, incredulous.

“Because of him,” you say, nodding toward Jack. “Because I let him save me from one bad interaction and now he’s just—hovering. Interrupting. Scaring people off.”

Santos’ mouth twitches.

“I think he thinks he’s being helpful,” you add, shaking your head. “Like he’s doing me a favour or something, but—God, I’m never going to get a stranger to take me home with a hundred-and-ninety-pound war vet glaring over my shoulder every five minutes.”

Santos just looks at you for a second—then smiles. Slow. Knowing.

“And what part of my plan isn’t working?”

You frown. “Are you even listening to me?”

“I said I was going to get you laid,” she says, lifting her drink to her lips. “I never said anything about going home with a stranger.”

It doesn’t land straight away.

You blink at her, still frowning as you try to follow the logic—because that doesn’t make sense, that’s not the plan. If you’re not going home with a stranger, then who—

And then it clicks.

Your stomach drops.

“Wait—Santos,” you start, eyes widening. “You don’t mean—”

Santos just looks at you over the rim of her glass. Calm. Patient. Smiling faintly, like she’s been waiting for this exact moment all night.

You glance toward the side of the dancefloor again—to the man still focused on you in a way that feels far too intentional now. Arms folded, jaw set. He doesn’t even pretend to look away when you meet his stare.

“Actually,” Santos says, her hand closing around your wrist. “I think my plan is working perfectly. Now, come on—” she nods toward the booth where everyone else is, “let’s play a game.”

A game?

Before you can argue or even question it, Santos is dragging you off the dancefloor toward the booth at the back of the bar. The thrum of the music dulls the further you get from the crowd, and by the time you both slide into empty seats at the table, you no longer feel like you need to yell just to be heard.

The PTMC crew has thinned since you were last sitting here. Robby, Dana, and Donnie are gone, and McKay is holding her purse in her lap like she’d been trying to leave when Mateo cornered her with another rant about how no patient actually seems to understand the pain scale.

“Alright,” Santos announces, picking up someone’s abandoned drink and taking a sip like she owns it, “we’re playing a game.”

Whitaker leans forward. “A game?”

“Yes, Huckleberry. A game.” Santos glances around the table with a lazy half-smile. “It’s called Never Have I Ever.”

Mateo snorts. “That’s a middle school sleepover game.”

“Great,” Santos replies. “Then it should be easy for you.”

There’s a ripple of laughter around the table, but no one else seems to object.

“Can I start?” Mohan pipes up beside Santos. “I’ve got a good one.”

Santos nods. “Be my guest.”

You’re not entirely sure when Jack rejoined the table, since he’d been at the edge of the dancefloor just a few minutes ago, but now you’re suddenly very aware of his presence across from you. Like the few people that called it a night have unintentionally left a smaller, more intimate group behind—and now Jack Abbot is almost directly across from you while you play one of the most notorious, tension-raising middle school games of all time.

“Okay,” Mohan says, sitting up a little straighter. “Never have I ever… called in sick when I wasn’t actually sick.”

McKay laughs. Mateo groans. Almost everyone at the table lifts their drinks.

“Really?” Santos says. “That was your good one?”

Mohan shrugs. “I thought—”

“Never mind,” Santos cuts her off. “My turn.”

Her gaze moves slowly around the table before landing on you, the corner of her mouth lifting just slightly.

“Never have I ever,” she starts slowly, “fantasised about someone else sitting at this table.”

Your pulse jumps.

McKay snorts.

Mateo leans forward. “Like, intentionally. Or…?”

Whitaker frowns. “You’ve accidentally fantasised about someone here?”

He shrugs. “Sometimes the wrong people pop up, you know?”

Santos rolls her eyes. “Oh my God. Whatever. Intentional or not.”

Mateo nods once and lifts his drink. Javadi sinks lower in her chair as she lifts hers—and you try not to look around at the rest of the table as you bring your own up to your lips.

Beside you, McKay drops her purse to the ground and straightens, clearly invested now.

“Alright, I’ve got one,” she says, grinning. “Never have I ever… faked it.”

Javadi chokes, Santos snorts, and across from you, Jack huffs out a quiet laugh.

“Never?” Ellis asks, eyes wide. “So you always—”

“Oh, God, no,” McKay laughs. “Definitely not. I just refuse to fake it.”

Laughter moves through the table again, a little louder this time, and everyone takes a second to decide whether or not to raise their drinks.

You lift yours slowly, looking anywhere but at Jack.

“Okay, my turn,” Ellis announces, shifting in her seat. “Never have I ever… hooked up with someone at work.”

The table reacts around you, a mix of laughter and quiet protest, but it all blurs at the edges when you finally glance up—because Jack is already looking at you.

Not surprised. Not amused.

Just… watching.

He doesn’t laugh or say anything. He just lifts his drink, slow and deliberate.

And something sharp twists in your chest.

“What’ve you got, Langdon?” McKay asks, nodding at him across the table.

Langdon strokes his chin thoughtfully for a moment—then sighs.

“Alright, I already know I’m going to get shit for this, but—” He clears his throat. “Never have I ever… had sex in public.”

McKay laughs, loudly, and lifts her drink to her lips without hesitation. Ellis and Santos drink too, while Mohan laughs into her hand and Javadi sinks even lower in her chair.

Across from you, Jack sips his drink again like it’s nothing.

And that sharp twist in your chest doesn’t ease.

Because of course he has. Of course there are other people. Other women.

And you—

You catch Santos’ gaze from the other end of the table—sharp, knowing, daring.

Your grip tightens slightly around your glass.

And before you can talk yourself out of it—

“Okay, my turn,” you say lightly, sitting up a little straighter.

Everyone turns to you, but you keep your eyes fixed on your glass.

“Never have I ever,” you say slowly, “…finished during sex.”

For a second—nothing.

Then the table erupts.

“What—no—” Mateo is already laughing, leaning forward like he thinks you’re joking. “You’re kidding.”

Javadi chokes on her drink, coughing as she turns toward you. “Wait, seriously?”

“Oh my God,” McKay says, half-laughing, half-staring at you like she’s trying to figure out if you’re lying.

Langdon huffs out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “Well… that’s unfortunate.”

Whitaker just blinks at you, caught somewhere between surprised and confused, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with that information.

Santos doesn’t say anything. She just leans back in her seat, watching you over the rim of her glass with a slow, satisfied smile.

And across from you—

Jack just goes still.

Completely still.

His expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes does—sharp, dark, focused in a way that makes your stomach flip.

It takes you a minute to remember how to move. How to breathe. How to laugh and sip your drink and keep playing the game that doesn’t stop just because it feels like your heart did.

Eventually, everyone eases off the third-degree on your embarrassingly real confession, and Mateo pipes up next with something ridiculous that makes the table groan. Then Javadi comes out with something surprisingly rebellious—and blushes hard when Mateo flashes her a wink.

And so it goes on.

You know it does.

You can hear it—voices overlapping, laughter breaking out again, someone arguing over what counts, someone else swearing they’re being misrepresented—but it all feels… distant.

Like it’s happening a few steps away from you instead of right here at the table. Because now, all you can focus on is Jack. On the way he’s hardly moved. Hardly spoken. Hardly looked away from you.

At some point, he mutters his own confession with a small smirk and everyone laughs—but you don’t catch the words. You’re too aware of everything else to hear them. Too aware of your pulse pounding in your ears, the thrum of the music beneath your feet, the way Jack’s jaw ticks every time you glance back at him.

Another round starts. Then another.

Someone groans. Someone laughs too loud. Santos says something that earns a chorus of reactions—but it all slips past you, unimportant, forgettable.

Time stretches. Blurs.

Your drink empties, refills, empties again.

People shift in their seats. Someone stands. Someone leaves.

Then suddenly—

“You ready?”

You blink.

Santos is standing beside you, brows raised.

“Ready?” you echo.

She nods toward the door. “Time to go. Most of us have to work tomorrow.”

You glance around at the empty table. “Oh.”

Santos is already halfway to the door by the time you gather your things and catch up to her. You’re still pulling your jacket on as you step outside, bracing against the cool night air that nips at every inch of exposed skin—which, in this dress, is a lot of skin.

“The Uber’s just around the corner,” Whitaker says.

“Great,” Mohan mutters, hugging her jacket tighter. “I’m freezing.”

You’re not sure if it’s the alcohol or just the heat lingering beneath your skin from the way Jack had been watching you earlier, but you’re not nearly as cold as you should be.

“You sure you don’t mind if I stay over tonight?” Javadi asks, glancing between Santos and Whitaker.

Santos shrugs. “As long as you don’t mind the couch—and Dr. Shamsi isn’t going to have us arrested for kidnapping.”

Javadi lets out an awkward laugh. “Uh—no. It’s totally fine. I told my dad.”

“Are you working tomorrow?” Whitaker asks.

Javadi shakes her head. “Day off. You?”

Whitaker sighs. “Yeah.”

“So am I,” Santos adds. “And if I don’t get at least five hours sleep, I cannot be responsible for other people’s lives.”

“That’s reassuring,” Jack mutters, almost startling you as he steps out of the bar.

He buries his hands in his pockets, hardly sparing you a glance as he steps closer to the group. There’s a faint hitch in his step—something you recognise from the waning hours of a night shift, when he’s been on his feet for too long and starts to favour one leg.

“This is us,” Whitaker announces, nodding toward the car pulling up at the curb.

Mohan hurries forward first, yanking the door open and climbing into the back seat—and Javadi is next, flashing you a smile before she ducks in beside her. You step forward—then hesitate. Whitaker is already holding the front passenger door open, and Santos is standing at the curb, about to join the others in the back.

“Wait.” Your pulse jumps. “There’s too many—”

“You’re with Dr. Abbot,” Santos says lightly, her mouth twitching like she’s trying not to smile.

Your stomach drops.

“I—I’m what?”

Santos shrugs. “Javadi’s staying over and Mohan’s place is on the way to ours. Just makes sense.”

Then she climbs into the car, shuts the door, and rolls the window down.

“See you tomorrow!”

There’s a chorus of goodbyes from the others before the car pulls away from the curb—and the cool, quiet night settles in too quickly. The only sound is the dull thrum of music from the bar, and the pounding of your pulse in your ears.

For a second, you don’t turn around. You can’t. Not now that you’re alone with him.

Then—

“I’m this way,” he says, voice low and rough and maddeningly hot.

You nod, but don’t dare look at him as you start following the line of parked cars up the street.

The night air feels sharper now, cooler the further you get from the bar—and it makes you pull into yourself, arms folded tightly while your jacket barely does anything to help.

Jack keeps an easy pace beside you, not crowding you, not touching you, but close enough that you’re aware of him anyway. Of the space he takes up at your side. Of the way he adjusts slightly so you’re walking on the inside of the path, further from the curb, without making a thing of it.

Neither of you says anything.

It’s not awkward. It’s just… quiet in a way that feels heavy, like the silence is holding onto everything that happened inside instead of letting it go.

Your heels click unevenly against the pavement, catching slightly every few steps, and you’re suddenly, painfully aware of everything—the way your dress shifts as you move, the cool air against your skin, the way your pulse hasn’t quite settled.

You feel too sober. Too aware.

When his car finally comes into view, he moves ahead of you just slightly—just enough to reach the passenger door first and hold it open.

God. He’s so annoyingly considerate.

You give him a small, tight smile before climbing into the passenger seat.

The car is still warm, still holding onto the heat from earlier in the day, and it smells like him in a way that’s subtle but unmistakable—clean, familiar, something faintly sharp beneath it that you can’t quite place but instantly recognise. The seat gives slightly beneath you, softer than you expect, and for a second you just sit there, hands hovering like you’re not entirely sure where to put them.

It’s his.

All of it.

The way everything is exactly where it should be, nothing out of place. The faint scuff on the console. A pair of sunglasses tucked neatly into the centre compartment. His backpack thrown into the back seat like he’d discarded it in a hurry and never thought about it again.

The sound of the driver’s side door opening almost startles you.

You drop your hands into your lap, shifting slightly and smoothing your dress down over your thighs like that might ground you somehow.

The car immediately feels smaller when Jack climbs in. More intimate. Closer in a way that’s almost stifling.

You keep your eyes fixed out the windshield.

Waiting.

For the engine to start. For the car to move.

But nothing happens.

The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, settling into every inch of the space between you.

And then—

“You can’t say shit like that around me.”

You blink, finally turning toward him—and regretting it immediately. He’s so irritatingly handsome, so annoyingly gorgeous in a way that makes you want to be stupid and reckless and climb across the console into his lap.

“Say what?” you ask, your voice embarrassingly thin.

He looks at you—not fully, just turning his head slightly.

“You know what,” he says, his voice low and rough with something that sounds a little too close to control slipping.

And you do.

You know exactly what he means.

But before you can say anything else, he turns the key and the engine rumbles to life. The radio crackles a little before some late-night news station fills the silence—and he doesn’t move to turn it off, doesn’t even turn it down. He just drives.

The radio reporter’s voice hums through the car like white noise, talking about something you’re not really listening to as you try to focus on keeping your breathing even.

You can still hear his voice.

You can’t say shit like that around me.

The way he said it. Low. Controlled. Like it cost him something to keep it that way.

Your fingers shift slightly in your lap, smoothing over the fabric of your dress again without thinking, and your mind starts turning his words over before you can stop it—pulling at them, testing them, trying to make them mean something that makes sense.

Because what does that even mean?

You glance at him, quick, like you might catch something you missed—but he’s focused on the road, jaw set, one hand loose on the wheel like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just change everything with eight little words.

You look away again.

No. He didn’t mean it like that.

He’s just—he’s your attending. He’s responsible. Of course he’d say something. Of course he’d—

Except he didn’t say it like that.

Your stomach tightens as your thoughts circle back, slower this time, more deliberate.

The way he kept pulling you away from people tonight. The way he’d been watching you. The way he didn’t laugh, didn’t joke, didn’t let it go.

The way he said it.

Around me.

Not here. Not in front of people.

Around me.

Your breath catches slightly, and you shift in your seat, suddenly very aware of the space between you—of how close he is, of how easy it would be to just turn your head, lean in and—

No.

No, that’s not—

You swallow, gaze fixed stubbornly ahead.

You’re just reading into it. You have to be.

Because the alternative—

Your pulse jumps.

God. The alternative is too much to even consider.

But the thought lingers anyway.

It settles in the back of your mind, quieter now, but heavier—pulling at everything he said, everything he did, everything you might have missed until now. The words circle back, sharper this time—until—

The car stops—and you blink.

For a moment, you don’t move. You can’t.

Then Jack clears his throat.

“Oh—uh—thanks,” you mutter, reaching for your seatbelt buckle.

He nods once. “Anytime.”

You push your door open before you can think too hard about it, stepping out into the cool night air that hits a little harder this time. Your heart is still beating in your throat, your pulse still too loud, your thoughts are still circling those eight words—eight little words that feel like they weigh far more than they should.

You hesitate—one hand on the door, the other gripping your keys in your jacket pocket.

God.

This is stupid.

This is reckless.

This is—

“Do you—” You clear your throat, the words catching slightly before you force them out. “Do you want to come up?”

He stares at you for a second, then lets out a short, disbelieving breath, like he’s not quite sure he heard you right.

“You can’t be serious.”

Heat rushes up your neck, quick and unwelcome, and for a second you just stand there, wishing you could take it back—rewind a few seconds and keep your mouth shut.

What the hell were you thinking?

“Yeah,” you say, a little too quickly. “No, that was—that was stupid.”

You turn away before he can say anything else, pushing the door shut harder than you mean to as you step back onto the sidewalk. You don’t look back. You refuse to. You just keep walking toward the lobby door, drawing your keys from your pocket and fumbling through them to find the right one.

It takes longer than it should, but eventually you find the lobby key and wriggle it into the lock.

This door has never been your friend. It’s old, a little rusted, and the lock has always been janky—but now your hands are shaking, and this stupid old door seems to think that’s funny, because it won’t budge.

You jiggle the key and try again, but nothing changes.

Then—

“Here.”

His voice is low. Close.

Your hand stills as he steps in behind you, not touching, but close enough that you can feel the heat of him at your back—the solid line of his chest just shy of pressing into you as he reaches past your shoulder.

His fingers brush yours as he takes the key—and the lock turns easily this time.

Of course it does. Traitorous fucking door.

His arm lingers there for a second longer than it needs to—then he pushes the door open.

You don’t even glance at him as you step inside, already turning back to grab your key before the door swings shut—but he’s still holding it, barely a step behind you.

He tilts his head slightly, nodding toward the lobby. “Go.”

It’s quiet. Controlled.

Not a suggestion.

Your breath catches, just for a second, and you hesitate—long enough to feel it, whatever this is, tightening between you—

Then you turn and keep walking.

And he follows.

He follows you across the lobby, up the fire stairs, down the corridor, all the way to your apartment door. He stands a little closer than necessary as you unlock it—almost like he doesn’t think you know how doors work now—but the key turns smoothly this time.

You push the door open and step inside.

The apartment is quiet, dim, and you shrug out of your jacket without thinking. You can feel him watching you as you drape it over the arm of the sofa, and it’s a little... thrilling. Dangerous. Because Jack Abbot is in your goddamn apartment right now, looking at you like he’s a man on the edge—

And you’re daring him to jump.

“Drink?” you offer, keeping your voice light—innocent.

He clears his throat. “Water, please.”

You can’t help the small smirk on your lips as you brush past him, a little closer than necessary.

“So polite,” you murmur.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t shift—but you can feel him there, tense just beneath the surface.

You open the fridge and bend over to grab a bottle of water, letting your dress ride up the backs of your thighs in a way that’s totally unnecessary. Jack clears his throat again, just a little too sharp, and when you glance back toward him, he’s turned away completely.

You press your lips together to keep from smiling too wide as you straighten again.

“Here,” you say, stepping toward him and holding the water out.

He turns hesitantly, taking it. “Thank you.”

Your eyes catch his, a slow smile tugging at your lips before you bite the corner gently, just enough for him to notice. He looks away quickly, jaw tightening as he focuses on uncapping the water bottle.

You brush past him again, still a little too close, and move toward the sofa, dropping onto it and leaning forward to take off your shoes.

Jack takes a long swig of water, then clears his throat for the third time.

“Are you working tomorrow?” he asks.

You glance up, still leaned forward, and it’s hard not to notice the way his eyes dip from your face.

“Isn’t that something you should already know?”

The corner of his mouth twitches, like he can’t quite help himself.

“You’re impossible. You know that?”

Heat rushes up your neck at the way he says it—short, sharp, loaded—and you bite back a grin, letting your eyes glint just a little as you straighten.

“Am I?” you murmur, tilting your head just slightly. “Only one way to find out.”

He freezes for a second, shoulders tight, hand curling slightly around the water bottle—and it crackles softly under his grip. His breath hitches, just barely.

“I should go,” he mutters, voice low and clipped.

He takes a step toward the door—and you shoot up from the sofa, heartbeat racing.

“Wait—uh—before you go,” you say, stepping toward him, “could you help me with something?”

He hesitates, turning slowly, as if every second in here is costing him something.

You move until you’re almost between him and the door, looking up at him through your lashes.

“Could you help me out of my dress?”

The second the words leave your lips, you forget how to breathe.

Jack’s jaw tightens, his shoulders coiling ever so slightly. His fingers twitch around the bottle, just a whisper of movement, as if holding himself together by force. His eyes catch yours, dark and sharp, taking in the faint scrunch between your brows, the small pout on your lips, the way you’re offering him something he never thought he’d be allowed to have.

He nods once—careful, controlled—but the tension radiating off him is almost unbearable.

Your stomach flips.

Without a word, you turn, sweeping your hair out of the way while your pulse hammers in your ears.

You feel him shift, his warmth, and the ghost of his touch at the nape of your neck. And that first, tiny contact sends a shock straight through you—hot, sharp, impossible to ignore.

He pauses, just a heartbeat, and you catch the tiniest hitch in his breath.

Then he moves again, slow, deliberate, dragging the zipper down almost painfully slow, his knuckles grazing your skin—warm, rough, controlled, just enough to make your heart pound in your throat.

“How do you do it?” you whisper, voice catching slightly. “How are you always so… unaffected by everything?”

“Unaffected?” he murmurs, almost tasting the word, as if testing it against himself.

His knuckles brush the small of your back, pausing where the zipper ends—but he doesn’t stop. His fingertips graze your skin, deliberate, teasing, tracing the line of your spine upward again, slow enough that it drags your breath with it, sharp enough that heat blooms through every nerve.

“You have no idea,” he whispers, voice low and rough, almost breaking, “how much you affect me.”

Your breath catches, sharp and sudden. Everything in your chest pulls tight, something hot and dizzying blooming low as his words sink in.

You turn before you can stop yourself—and he’s closer now. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the shift of his breath, the space between you narrowing into something fragile and dangerous.

For a second, neither of you move.

And then his hand finds your neck—

Not rough, not rushed—just firm enough to anchor you there, thumb pressing under your jaw like he needs to feel that this is real, that you’re real. His other hand tightens where it still holds the loosened fabric of your dress at your back, fingers curling into it like restraint is slipping through his grip.

He hesitates, just for a breath. Like he’s giving himself one last chance to walk away.

Then he kisses you.

It’s not tentative. There’s nothing careful about it. It lands like something he’s been holding back for too long, all that control finally snapping under the weight of you standing here, asking for him, looking at him like that.

His mouth is warm and certain against yours, a sharp inhale breaking through you as you lean into him without thinking, your hands finding him just as quickly—his stomach, his chest—anything to hold onto as the world tilts. He makes a low sound, barely there, but you feel it more than you hear it, the vibration settling deep in your chest as his grip tightens.

You melt before you can stop yourself.

Your head tilts back, giving him more, and he takes it immediately, deepening the kiss with that same quiet intensity that steals the breath right out of you. His thumb shifts along your jaw, not lingering, just enough to guide you where he wants you, and the control of it—God, the way he still tries to control it after everything, after all that restraint—makes something in your stomach flip hard.

His hand at your back slips under the loosened zipper, fingers pressing into your bare skin now, warm and steady, but there’s tension in it. You can feel it in the way his grip flexes, like he’s still trying—still—to hold the line even as he pulls you closer.

It doesn’t work.

Not when you press into him like this, not when your fingers curl tighter in his shirt, not when you kiss him back without hesitation, without thinking about consequences or lines or anything except how he feels against you.

He exhales against your mouth, sharp, like you’ve just undone him, and for a second the kiss falters—not because he’s pulling away, but because he’s trying to.

You feel it. The conflict. The split second where he almost stops.

Your hand slides up to his jaw, fingers catching there, holding him in place before he can even try.

“Don’t,” you whisper, barely pulling back, your lips brushing his as you speak.

And something in him gives.

You see it in the way his eyes darken, in the way his hand tightens at your back, pulling you flush against him this time, the last inch of space gone like it was never allowed to exist in the first place.

When he kisses you again, it’s deeper.

Less restrained.

Like he’s finally stopped pretending this isn’t exactly what he wants.

It’s different now—harder, hungrier, like something in him has shifted for good. His hand slides from your jaw to your waist, gripping tight as he steps into you, crowding you back without breaking the kiss, without giving you a second to think.

Your back meets the door with a soft thud.

He doesn’t stop.

If anything, it only makes him sharper, more certain, his mouth moving against yours with a kind of urgency that steals the air right out of your lungs. You barely get a breath before he takes it again, and you let him—God, you let him—tilting into him, giving him everything he reaches for.

His hand tightens at your waist, then slips lower, dragging you flush against him again, like he needs to feel exactly how close he can get before he loses control completely.

And you can feel it—how close he is.

It’s in the way his grip flexes, in the way his breath turns uneven against your mouth, in the way the kiss keeps deepening like he can’t quite stop himself from taking more.

Your fingers find his shirt again, pulling him closer, and he breaks the kiss just long enough to drag in a breath, his forehead almost brushing yours, like he’s trying—one last time—to get a handle on this.

He doesn’t.

His hands are on you again, immediate, sliding up your sides, pushing the straps of your dress from your shoulders in one smooth, decisive motion. The fabric gives easily, slipping under his hands like it was never meant to stay there in the first place—and it falls to the floor, pooling at your feet.

His breath catches, and his gaze drops—just for a second, but it’s enough.

“Tell me to stop,” he says, voice low, rough—nothing steady about it now.

You meet his eyes, chest rising and falling fast, heat still sparking under your skin.

“Bedroom,” you murmur.

For a second, he just looks at you.

Something in his expression shifts—tightens—like that word landed exactly where it shouldn’t. His gaze searches yours for a moment, checking for hesitation, for doubt.

But he doesn’t find any.

He nods once—and you turn, already moving toward the bedroom. You can feel him right behind you, close enough that his hand finds your waist again before you’ve even taken two steps, steady, grounding, like he’s not about to let you get too far ahead of him.

It’s barely a walk.

More like being guided—pulled—across the apartment toward your room, your pulse loud in your ears, every step charged with the knowledge of what you’ve just set in motion.

The door barely makes it closed before he’s on you again.

Not rushed—never rushed—but certain, like the decision has already been made and there’s no point pretending otherwise. His hands find you first, steady at your waist, turning you back toward him before you can take another step into the room.

Your breath catches as you look up at him. There’s something in his expression you’ve never seen before. It’s not soft, not gentle—just stripped of whatever distance he’d been holding onto all night.

Gone.

His gaze drags over you, slow and deliberate, and this time there’s nothing in the way of it—nothing to hide behind, nothing to buffer it—and the heat in it settles low in your stomach, heavy and immediate.

“Still want this?” he asks, voice rough, quieter now—but it lands heavier here.

You don’t answer. You just step into him.

And it’s all the permission he needs.

His hand tightens at your waist as he pulls you back into him, and the kiss this time is slower, deeper in a way that feels intentional—like he’s choosing it, not chasing it. His mouth moves against yours with a kind of controlled hunger, every shift measured, every breath deliberate, like he’s letting himself feel it fully instead of fighting it.

Your fingers curl into his shirt, and he exhales against your mouth, something unsteady finally breaking through.

His grip shifts—firmer now—guiding you back a step, then another, not hurried, not careless, but unrelenting all the same. You feel the edge of the bed behind your knees before you fully register moving at all, your focus too caught in the way he’s kissing you, the way his hand anchors you like he’s not about to let this get away from him.

His mouth breaks from yours just long enough to draw in a breath, his forehead pressing briefly to yours.

Not hesitation. Control.

Or what little he has left of it.

“Last chance,” he murmurs, quieter now.

You drop back onto the bed, gaze locked on his, breath still uneven.

“I’m not the one holding back.”

You barely have time to move up the mattress before he’s there, crowding over you, hands braced on either side as he follows you down. The mattress dips under his weight, the space between you gone in an instant—replaced by the solid heat of him, the firm press of his hips against yours.

His mouth finds yours again, hot and insistent, teeth catching your bottom lip just enough to pull a soft sound from you—but it’s different now. Slower. Not restrained, but deliberate. Curious, almost.

Like he’s learning you.

The way you react. The way you move under him. The way you give.

Your hands slide up his chest, fingertips digging in as heat coils low in your stomach—but they don’t stay there long. He shifts his weight slightly, steady, controlled, one hand lifting off the mattress to catch your wrist.

His fingers close around it—not tight, not forceful—just certain, guiding.

He lifts your hand above your head.

“Jack,” you whisper. “I—”

He shushes you.

“Let me do this, okay?” His voice is rough, thick with something unsteady beneath it—something that makes your stomach knot. “I’ve got you.”

And you believe him.

His hand slides down your body, slow and sure, brushing over your chest, your waist, the curve of your hip—each touch deliberate, like he’s taking his time even now, even like this. His fingers hook at the inside of your thigh, grip firm as he nudges your leg wider.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Good girl.”

The words go straight through you.

You can already feel the damp heat between your legs, the slick fabric pressed close, but the way he says it—the way his voice drops—makes your hips shift up instinctively, chasing something you can’t quite reach.

Chasing him.

And he notices. Of course he does.

You only just catch the faint lift at the corner of his mouth before his lips are back on yours, swallowing the breath from you as your back arches, pressing yourself up into him without thinking. Your fingers curl into the sheets above your head, tension pulling tight through your body as everything narrows down to where he’s touching you—where he isn’t touching you.

His hand drags back up your thigh, slower this time. Intentional. And when his fingers finally press against you through the thin fabric, you gasp.

He takes the sound from you immediately, mouth moving against yours, deeper now, like he’s feeding off it, like every reaction just pushes him further. His fingers start to move—slow, circling, testing—while his mouth leaves yours to trail along your jaw, your cheek, the side of your neck.

With your mouth free, the sounds slip out before you can stop them.

Soft. Unsteady. Needy.

And he loves it.

You feel it in the way his breath shifts, in the way his grip tightens just slightly, in the way his hips rock—slow, controlled, a subtle pressure of denim that’s more suggestion than friction.

“Jack—” your voice catches, breaking on his name. “Please. I want—”

“Tell me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your shoulder, voice low and coaxing.

“More,” you manage, breath shaking. “Need more.”

He groans against your skin, the sound low and rough, his body settling heavier over yours like any space between you is something he can’t stand.

Then his hand shifts.

Your breath catches as his fingers slide beneath the damp fabric, dragging through your wet heat in one slow, deliberate stroke.

Your whole body jolts. “Fuck—Jack—”

The reaction pulls something from him—a sharp inhale against your neck, his mouth pressing there like he needs to ground himself for a second before he loses it completely.

You’ve never felt like this before. Never this hot, this open, this aware of every inch of your own body.

And you’ve never wanted anyone like this before.

“God,” he murmurs, voice thick, lips tracing back up your throat. “You’re so wet for me, sweetheart.”

All you can do is nod, whimpering softly, your hips lifting without permission, chasing him, asking for more without the words—and he gives it to you. Of course he does.

His finger slides inside you, slow at first, letting you feel it—the stretch, the heat—before he pushes deeper, and the sound that breaks from you is swallowed instantly as his mouth finds yours again, your back arching beneath him as he starts to move. Not fast. Never fast. He sets a rhythm instead, steady and controlled, curling his finger just enough to make your breath catch, just enough to make your hips move against him again.

And when you press into it, when your body starts to chase that feeling properly, he adds another finger, the stretch pulling a broken sound from your throat as your hands tighten in the sheets and your body rolls beneath him, helpless to it now, completely caught in the slow, deliberate way he works you open.

Every movement is intentional. Every curl hits deeper, sharper, building something tight and aching low in your stomach that makes your whole body tremble, your breath coming out in uneven gasps as you press into his hand, chasing, needing.

Then his thumb finds your clit, and the contact is immediate—devastating.

You cry out, sharp and breathless, your whole body tightening as he starts slow, deliberate circles that send heat spiralling through you, your hips lifting again, desperate now, unable to stay still under him.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice rough, barely steady. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

You can’t answer—not when his mouth is everywhere, your throat, your jaw, the corner of your mouth, like he can’t decide where he wants you most before he finds your lips again, and this time the kiss is different again. Hungrier. Messier. His tongue presses into your mouth just as his fingers push deeper, his thumb working harder, more deliberate now, and the moan that tears from you is swallowed whole.

“Please,” you whimper against his mouth, breath breaking. “Please, I—need you.”

He lifts his head, dark eyes searching yours, brows pulling together just slightly.

“You sure?”

You stare at him, trying not to whimper as your whole body clenches around his stilled fingers, the sudden stillness almost worse than anything he was doing before.

“Never have I ever finished during sex, remember?” you manage, breathless but steady enough to land. “You gonna fix that, or what?”

Something feral flickers across his face.

And then it’s gone—replaced by something heavier. Something decided.

He kisses you again before you can catch your breath, all teeth and tongue, the restraint he’s been clinging to snapping clean in half as he groans into your mouth, the sound dragged straight from his chest. You feel the loss of his fingers immediately, your body protesting it, but it’s replaced just as quickly by the slow, deliberate roll of his hips, the friction of denim against your soaked panties making you gasp against him.

“Fuck,” he breathes, like he can’t quite believe it.

He pulls back just enough to shift, bracing himself on one arm while the other moves to his belt, not rushed but far from steady now. There’s a hitch in his breath, a tension in the way his fingers work at it, shoving his jeans and briefs down just enough to free himself, and your gaze drops before you can stop it.

He’s already hard—fully, heavily—flushed and slick at the tip, and the sight of it sends a sharp pulse of heat straight through you, your mouth going dry even as your body reacts in the complete opposite way.

“Fuck—” he chokes, the word breaking out of him. “I haven’t been this hard in—” His eyes flick back up to yours, dark and molten, and whatever he was going to say changes. “—ever.”

It hits you low and deep, twisting something tight in your stomach that makes your hips shift under him without thinking. You finally let go of the sheets, your hands finding him, sliding up to wrap around his neck as you pull him back down, needing him closer, needing him everywhere.

Your legs come up around his waist, drawing him in, urging him forward, and his breath stutters as he presses in, his swollen tip dragging against the damp fabric between you. The contact is just enough to make your head fall back, a broken sound slipping from your throat as he tries—tries—to hold himself up, one arm braced, the other moving between you.

You can feel the strain in him now, the way everything is slipping in real time, in the slight shake of his arm, in the uneven rhythm of his breathing as his hand hooks into the waistband of your panties.

“I’ll buy you new ones,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice rough, almost distracted, like the thought barely registers before it’s gone. “Promise.”

And then the fabric gives.

The sound of it tearing—sharp, sudden—goes straight through you, your breath catching hard as he pulls the fabric out of the way, the last barrier gone in an instant.

It shouldn’t be as hot as it is.

But it is.

Jack Abbot—controlled, composed, always holding the line—losing it enough to rip your panties off you?

Fuck.

He sinks into you in one steady thrust, and both of you gasp at the stretch—the sudden, overwhelming closeness, the way want crashes hot and heavy between you. Your pulse hammers in your ears, that dizzy edge of fear and urgency tangling together until all you can think is him—here, now, inside you.

For a moment, you just breathe—pant, really—eyes squeezed shut, hands locked on his shoulders as your body clenches around him, like you’re trying to keep him right there, like you never want to let him go. He drops his head to your neck, breath hot against your damp skin, and you feel the way it shakes out of him.

“You—fuck—you’re so tight, sweetheart,” he pants, voice rough and muffled where his mouth presses into you. “I’m not gonna last—”

“Then don’t,” you murmur, your voice softer but no less certain. “Just fuck me. Please, Jack.”

A groan tears out of him, low and wrecked, and you feel it through his chest as he shifts above you, hips pulling back, his cock dragging against your walls in a way that makes your stomach coil tight, sparks chasing across your skin. You suck in a sharp breath, your grip tightening on him—and before you can brace, he drives forward again, deeper this time.

“Fuck—” you cry out, the sound breaking loose without warning. “Jack—”

He doesn’t stop. His hips roll back again, slower now, controlled in a way that almost makes it worse, his head lifting so he can look at you, really look at you, like he’s checking, like he needs to see it.

“You ready, sweetheart?” he asks, voice low, rough, barely holding together.

The anticipation coils tighter in your chest, sharp and electric, lighting up every nerve in your body until it almost hurts.

“Mhm,” you manage, breath unsteady, nodding as your arms wind tighter around his neck, pulling him closer, needing him closer, like it still isn’t enough.

For a second—just a second—you’re distracted by something stupid, the feel of his shirt between you, the barrier of it, the way you want it gone, want skin on skin, want to see him, feel him, all of him—

And then he thrusts forward again. Harder again. And the thought disappears completely.

Your body jolts beneath him, every movement knocking the breath from your lungs, and the sound that leaves you is loud—too loud—echoing back off the walls in a way that would make you self-conscious any other time.

But not now.

Right now, you don’t care who hears. Not when it feels like this.

His name spills from your lips in broken gasps, tangled with raw cries, and he answers with a rough sound against your shoulder, biting it back as his hips drive into you at a relentless pace. He’s barely holding himself up now, his weight pressing into you in a way that feels like too much and somehow still not enough, the strain in him obvious in every uneven breath, every sharp exhale against your skin.

His hand drags down your side, back to your thigh, fingers digging in as he pushes your leg wider, and the shift—small as it is—hits something deeper, sharper, your vision flashing white as your head tips back and the knot in your belly pulls tight. His grip slides to your hip, anchoring you there, holding you in place so every thrust lands exactly where it needs to, deep and unrelenting, the sound of it filling the room, wet and rhythmic and impossible to ignore beneath the broken sounds you’re both making.

And then his hand moves between you.

You feel it immediately—the change, the focus—as his fingers find your clit in the slick mess between your bodies, steady despite everything else, despite the way he’s losing himself in every way. Your back arches, breath catching sharp as his touch turns deliberate, circling, pressing, coaxing, sending jolts of sensation straight through you until it’s too much, not enough, everything all at once.

“Jack—” you whine, the sound falling apart as soon as it leaves you. “Fuck, I—”

“I know, sweetheart,” he mutters against your jaw, voice wrecked. “Come on my cock, yeah?”

Your hips lift to meet him without thinking, chasing the rhythm he’s set, chasing the pressure, the friction, the way he’s working you with a precision that feels almost cruel now. His hand doesn’t falter, his fingers moving with intent, building and building, every touch sending sharp bursts of pleasure up your spine as the tension in your stomach pulls tighter, tighter, until it feels like it might snap.

It’s never felt like this before. You’ve never felt like this before.

Your whole body tightens, back arching, legs trembling around him as your hips grind up against his, desperate, chasing something you can’t hold onto. He keeps hitting that same spot, again and again, relentless, his pace rougher now, less controlled, while his fingers stay locked on you, steady, practiced, pushing you right to the edge and holding you there.

You cry out, the sound raw, breaking from your chest as everything finally tips.

The release hits all at once—sharp, overwhelming, tearing through you in a rush that steals your breath and leaves nothing behind but heat and tension snapping loose. Your body locks up around him, tightening, pulsing, your hands gripping at him as your legs shake, your hips still moving against his like you can’t stop, like you don’t want to.

“Fuck,” he groans, burying his face in your neck, his voice wrecked as he keeps moving inside you—slower now, but deeper, like he’s chasing every last pulse of you, like he doesn’t want to miss a second of it. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”

His rhythm falters, hips stuttering, and then he loses it completely—a broken sound tearing from him as he drives into you one last time, deep and hard, spilling inside you as his whole body tenses, shuddering above yours.

You feel it—every part of it—the way he comes undone, the way he clings to you through it, like he needs something to hold onto just as much as you do. Your bodies keep moving together, slower now, instinctive, chasing the last fading edges of it as your breathing stays uneven, your chests rising and falling in sync, skin slick and overheated where you’re pressed together.

It takes a moment to come back down—a long one.

But eventually, the tension drains from him and he collapses almost fully above you, face buried into your shoulder, his weight heavy and grounding as he exhales, slow and spent. It makes it a little harder to breathe—but you don’t mind.

Not when you can feel his heartbeat against your chest, strong and real, still racing like yours.

-

For the first time in two weeks, Jack Abbot isn’t stupidly early for his shift. He couldn’t be, really. Because he’d woken up late this morning, limbs tangled with yours in warm sheets that smelled so much like you it made his head spin—and that had thrown off everything else he needed to get done today.

If it was up to him, he wouldn’t have left at all—but he had to. He had police paperwork to finish, a neighbour’s cat to feed, and sleep he should’ve caught up on before being back in charge of an entire emergency department for twelve hours. But on the bright side? He knows you have a swing shift today, which means he doesn’t need to be early to see you, because you’re going to be stuck at PTMC until at least ten p.m. tonight.

With him.

And he really shouldn’t be looking forward to that as much as he is.

“Afternoon, Dr. Abbot,” Dana says, glancing over the top of her glasses. “Wasn’t sure we’d see you today. Aren’t you usually here by now?”

“I’m on time,” Jack mutters. “I’m a busy man.”

Dana hums, the corner of her mouth lifting slightly as her eyes drop back down to the tablet in her hands.

Jack tries not to appear too conspicuous as he scans the department, glancing toward the trauma bays and South corridor as he passes the nurses’ station. He shouldn’t be this anxious to see you again—not in the apprehensive kind of way, but in the way that makes it feel like his lungs won’t quite fill until you’re near him again.

“She’s not here,” Dana says without looking up from her chart. “Wasn’t feeling well, so Ellis came in early.”

Jack spots Ellis across central, exiting one of the rooms with Santos at her side, and he opens his mouth to say something—defend himself, maybe, lie about what or who he was looking for—but he hesitates, unsure what he could say that wouldn’t incriminate him further.

So instead, he just drops his head and keeps walking, fumbling for his phone in his pocket.

He’d seen you this morning. Just this morning. You were sleepy, had a headache, so he got you water and Tylenol and kissed you before he left—but you hadn’t said anything about feeling so unwell you were going to call in sick.

Jack doesn’t stop until he reaches the lockers, then turns back to survey the ED one last time before leaning a shoulder against the wall and pulling up his text thread with you. He hadn’t texted you today because he knew he’d see you tonight and didn’t want to seem… overbearing. Even now, he’s not sure if he should—but he feels off in a way he hasn’t in years, like he’s waiting on something he can’t control and it’s making him feel sick.

What if last night hadn’t meant what he thought it did? What if you regretted it? What if it was just—

“Hey, kid,” Dana calls from the nurses’ station. “Big night?”

Jack’s head snaps up—and there you are.

The relief hits before he can stop it, sharp and instant, loosening something in his chest he hadn’t realised was wound so tight. He swallows it down just as quickly, his expression settling before anyone can clock it.

“You don’t know the half of it,” you mutter.

Dana huffs a short laugh. “I have a feeling I don’t want to know.”

Jack can’t help but watch as you cross the floor toward him, your backpack hanging from one shoulder while the other hand presses two fingers to your temple, like you could massage the headache away. There’s a smug little smile on your lips when you reach him, slowing your steps until you pause just beside him—not too close, but enough to make his breath catch.

You glance down at his phone, at the open message thread where his thumb is hovering, and your smirk curves a little higher.

“Miss me?”

Jack locks his phone and tucks it back into his pocket.

“Thought you were sick.”

You lift one shoulder. “A little hungover, so Ellis swapped with me.”

For a second, neither of you move. He just looks at you—and you look right back, like you both know exactly what’s changed, even if neither of you is about to say it out loud. Not here. Not now.

“And I missed the night shift attending,” you say finally.

Then—before he can respond, before he’s even fully processed what you said—you lean in and press a quick kiss to his cheek. Only brief. Barely anything.

But it feels like everything.

And just like that, Jack Abbot is done pretending he isn’t yours.

Key

❤️‍🔥 - Smut 💛 - thunderbolts!bucky 💚 - tfatws!bucky 🩵 - avengers!bucky 💙 - winter soldier!bucky 💖 - fluff 🧡 - Angst

Every Devil - Mini-Series 💙🩵💖🧡❤️‍🔥

There are a few things that simply aren't understandable in the universe. Things that push the boundaries of what we know, and understand.

Things like how, even through the Winter Soldier programming, Bucky was still able to find you.

Think like how, no matter how hard the world tried, they were never to keep you apart.

Blind Collision - Mini-Series 🩵💖🧡

Soulmates are the rarest thing in the world. To even know a pair is almost unheard of, let alone to meet your own.

Some people hold out hope. You know better.

Or you thought you did. Until you met Bucky, and realized the odds you never wanted were leaning in your favor.

One-Shots

✦It's Been Calling Me ❤️‍🔥💖💙💚🧡 - You've had these… dreams. Strange, realistic, detailed dreams of the same man, almost your whole life. But they're just dreams. You've been so sure, for so long, that they're just dreams. So sure, until you're not.

✦Louder Than Fear 🩵❤️‍🔥🧡 - Missions involving Hydra often go very wrong. This is different. This is worse. This is a strange bioweapon, nobody telling you exactly what's wrong, and staring at the ceiling as Bucky roars you name. It's echoing in your brain. And you love him. So you have to fix this.

✦And You Were Brighter Than The Light Pt. 1 - Pt. 2 🩵💖🧡❤️‍🔥 - There are a lot of Avenger's at the compound. And you never leave your room. It's a good thing you did, though. Just once. Otherwise you never would've met Bucky

✦Written In Skin 🩵🧡❤️‍🔥 - Bucky's been gone on a mission for about a week, and you love him, so you wait. And when he returns, he has a question that might finally let you say those three words aloud.

✦Look Behind You 💚💖🧡❤️‍🔥 - You've made a mistake. You've been reckless and fallen in love with Bucky. There's only one way to deal with this. Make a list.

✦A Long, Long Time 💚💖🧡❤️‍🔥 - The truth doesn't hurt. It's not freeing, either. It just sits in your chest, until it's pried out, and you're looking it the eyes with nowhere to run, and Bucky knows you love him. But he's not running either.

✦Fly Back Here, And Keep Warm 🩵💖🧡❤️‍🔥 - Bucky hates you. He doesn't talk to you, or look at you, or linger in your presence for too long. But he's still saving you from the river. From the cold. And maybe, if you're not losing your mind, he doesn't really hate you at all.

✦Not A Scar I'd Want To Fade 🩵💖🧡❤️‍🔥 - Bucky can't remember anything, but he's not the Soldier. He simply can't remember. If you tell him something, he forgets everything again. But he always remembers you first

✦All I've Wanted Was You - Request! 🩵💖🧡❤️‍🔥 - You have an arrangement with Bucky. You sleep together, and nothing more. Every time is supposed to be the last time. You love him too much keep this up and pretend it's not killing you. But it might be killing him too.

✦Along the Line 💛🧡❤️‍🔥 - After you get hit with a chemical on a mission, Bucky has to take care of you. But he won't do the one thing that will fix it, no matter how much you want him to. And he wants it too. Maybe more. And, at some point, something has to break.

✦In Uniform - Request! ❤️‍🔥💖💚 - Bucky brings you a surprise, and fulfills a fantasy.

✦Feelin' Good ❤️‍🔥💖💛 - It's been a long, rough day, and it's easy to sink a little lower into worse feelings. Luckily, Bucky is always there to pick you back up.

✦All The Right Places 🩵💖🧡❤️‍🔥 - Four times you broke the friends with benefits rules, and the one time you didn't.

✦These Nights 💛💖❤️‍🔥 - Bucky gets home late, and you take care of each other.

✦I Must Have Missed it in the Rain 💛🧡❤️‍🔥💖 - You're, somehow, the best person for this undercover mission. The one where you have to pretend to be Bucky's girlfriend. You don't know why he agreed to it when he can't stand you. But you love him. So you'll get through it, if only to play pretend for one night.

✦Don't You Know (You're Something Good) - Request! 🩵💖🧡❤️‍🔥 - It's impossible to think that you could be worthy of him. That Bucky could ever want you back. But he's patient, and you're far more wrong than you think.

✦Lay Me Down 💛🧡❤️‍🔥💖 - All you wanted in a roommate was someone not insane, who didn't shift anything in your life who didn't drive you out of your mind. You didn't get either of those things. You got Bucky Barnes

✦I've Been Waiting (And So Have You) - Request 🧡❤️‍🔥💖 - You've been in love with Bucky Barnes since you first saw him. You've waited for him, even when you knew it was pointless. Then, when you finally decide to move on, you ask him for help. But he doesn't seem to be putting his all into helping you find a relationship. And you can't seem to give yours to getting over him, at all.

✦Don't Stop Haunting Me❤️‍🔥💖💛 - You and Bucky have a (sort of) quiet arrangement. He takes care of you, and you return the favor. And you've gotten pretty good at pretending you don't want more, but after the Halloween party, it's suddenly a lot harder to pretend. Good thing Bucky is feeling the exact same way.

✦How to Let Go - Request 🧡❤️‍🔥💖 - After you meet Bucky at a gallery, he slowly, but certainly becomes a part of your life. An important one. One that could mean something. And you don't know how to do that. How to just be loved. But Bucky doesn't just walk away. And together, you learn.

✦Can You Feel It (through you) 💛💖❤️‍🔥 - After you meet Bucky at a gallery, he slowly, but certainly becomes a part of your life. An important one. One that could mean something. And you don't know how to do that. How to just be loved. But Bucky doesn't just walk away. And together, you learn.

✦Cold Eyes, Warm Hands 💛💖🧡❤️‍🔥 - You know Bucky hates you. He's not secret about it. He hates you so much, he can't seem to stand you even getting along with an agent on a mission, and can't help but rush to your side when you need him. That's what hate is, right?

✦His Favorite Gift 💖❤️‍🔥 - On Christmas, the only thing Bucky needs is you.

✦Tipping Point🧡❤️‍🔥💖 - You agree to friends with benefits, knowing Bucky already has your heart. Knowing that he's so blissfully unaware of it, that there's never any hope to be anything more. Which makes it strange, how possessive he's getting after you're flirted with at a party.

You can’t explain what it is. This place was once just a check on a list; you worked there. Then it became your prison. Now... now the rest of your life is within those walls. Strange. The girl who walked through that back door would not have ever expected all this. 

“You alright, dear?” Frigga frightens you as she touches your hand. 

The engine is off as the car is parked neatly alongside Loki’s. You blink and nod, “tired.” 

“Ah, yes, these last few weeks, this day alone,” she trills as she pats your hand, “you deserve rest, darling. I will be sure my son allows you some.” 

She smiles and you do your best to return the gesture. You unbuckle the seat belt and get out. Frigga catches you before you can head for the front door. She reminds you of the paper bag of goodies she insisted upon. A dress for the engagement party, shoes, and handbag she was particularly fond of. 

You peer up at the house as she locks the car with a beep. You see the curtain upstairs stirring and a tremor plucks in your chest. As you approach the front door, letting Frigga take the lead, you are unsurprised by Loki’s appearance. Has he been so impatient for your return? 

“Mother,” he stops himself before he can elbow past her, “you’re back.” 

He kisses her cheek as she touches his chest sweetly, “Loki, please, we’ve only just returned.” 

“Yes, yes, I was only... I heard the motor and I thought I might come out to see you in.” 

“I’m sure you are only being the gentleman I raised,” she mocks, “but by god, you must give the woman some space. Let her breathe before you smother her once more. You will be married soon and have all your entire life to do so.” 

“Mother,” he girds abashedly. “I did have something pertinent to speak of with my fiancee. I don’t appreciate the insinuation. Darling,” he faces you as you linger behind Frigga, just at the bottom of the steps, “when you are ready, I would speak to you in my office. Of course, I will allow you to settle in,” he sends his mother a trite look, “I can wait, never you mind me. I am not... not mad.” 

Frigga chuckles, “oh, Loki, you are silly. Dear, come along. We will have some tea. I’d like to try these macarons and I think they’d pair well with some darjeeling,” she trills, “you are welcome to sample some as well.” 

Her son steps back and crosses his arms, “no, mother, I’m not of the mood,” he drops his arms and turns, pulling open the door, “please.” 

You trail after Frigga, coming up the steps as Loki offers his free hand. You take it as your heel knocks off the stair. He squeezes and clings before finally letting you go. 

“I might take your bag,” he offers as he follows you within. 

“You will not,” Frigga insists without looking back as she struts forward, “you won’t spoil the surprise. Go and wait in your office then, or find your father and trouble him.” 

Loki sighs but does not argue. As you flit after the confident matriarch, his soles scuff towards the stairs. It might be amusing to see him so pressed but you worry it will fall back on you. His frustration is palpable and leaves a gloom in his wake. 

Frigga puts on the kettle and fleetly moves around the kitchen. You set the bag on the marble counter top and offer help. She declines as she sets out a pot and two teacups with saucers. She sifts around in her own bag and pulls out the box of macarons. 

“Do you see it, dear? My son is like a hummingbird. He cannot stay still,” she snickers, “all for you. You see? I am never wrong about my sons...” her words hang in the air and her face falls, “well, mostly.” She frowns and thins her lips. “Pardon, I... I...” her lip trembles and she watches her hands as she counts out tea bags for the pot. You’ve never seen her falter but in that moment, she looks almost terrified. 

You know why. It is the elephant in the room. The large man looming over you all, just like he did on Walpurgisnacht. You come up to the other side of the island and watch her. 

“It isn’t your fault what he did,” you say quietly, voice cracking as the memory flickers in your mind. 

“Dear, please, I don’t want to upset you--” 

“I...” you begin and weigh your words with the rush of emotions swirling in your stomach, “please. He won’t speak of it. At all.” Her green eyes flick up and meet yours, the lines in her forehead deepening as her cheeks pinch, “but if... if it upsets you then you don’t need to either.” 

Her lips purse then slacken and she exhales, “it isn’t about me. I am... trying to understand what happened. I... they are both my sons but I didn't... how could I know?” 

“He did it, not you,” you reach up to touch your nose, still set and tender, “I’m... getting better.” 

Her eyes glisten and she looks down, hands shaking as the lid of the pot clinks loudly against the body. She swallows and shoves aside the pot and balances the lid on it. She brings her hands together, weaving her long fingers through each other. 

“What did he do?” She asks in a whisper. 

“Frigga, I don’t want to say it all." 

“I need to know. Dear. All I saw was Loki, angry, he was yelling and he... both my boys, bloodied and about to do worse to each other, and then you both were gone. I don’t know everything but I know it is bad and I am so sorry,” she looks at you and dabs the brims of her eyes with her knuckles, “I see he’s hurt you. It is all over you.” 

You cross your arms and look down at yourself. The cuts on your arms and legs are scabbed still and the bruises are no longer swollen but still noticeable in some lights. You push your shoulders up. 

“If Loki cannot listen, I will,” she says and the kettle clicks, “and what better way to do so than over tea.” 

You’re quiet as she turns to take the kettle. She pours the steaming water into the teapot. You go to the fridge and take out the milk. You find a small milk pot and fill it. You put it on a tray wit the sugar dish and small spoons. Frigga adds the pot and cups. 

She stops you as you come close, her hand on your arm, “you can tell me. I should know. Truly, it wouldn’t be fair for me to live in ignorance as you suffer.” 

You look down and your eyes sting. Your cheeks tighten and your throat aches. You raise your head again, “Loki saved me. That’s what happened. Thor hurt me but not that bad. Not as bad as he meant to because Loki was there.” You tear your eyes away and stare at the wall, “I’m not afraid of Thor but Loki is and that scares me.” 

She hums and rubs your shoulder, “you are brave, dear.” She kisses your forehead and draws you into a hug, “should my other son ever hurt you so bad, well, I will string him up myself.” 

✨

Frigga goes off to find Odin, leaving you to a rare moment of solace. Funny. Before, you spent so much time alone and now you can hardly get a second to yourself. You linger in the kitchen, reluctant to break the serenity. You know you must. It is best to go to Loki before he comes to find you. 

You make the long descent up the stairs and shuffle down to his office door. Another reminder of how much changed so quickly. Everything has been cast in a new light since Walpurgisnacht, though it isn’t the renewal promised by so many. 

You knock and wait for an answer. You have that little time to prepare yourself for Loki. The door opens before you’re ready. You don’t know that you ever can be. 

“Ah, there you are,” he sounds relieved, “I thought my father was back to berate me once more.” 

“Berate you?” You wonder. 

“Ah, he always has some gripe for me. Second son, second best,” he shrugs, “come, come, I’ve been waiting. Very long, mind you, so don’t forget...” 

He leans in and it takes you a moment to catch his meaning. You kiss him as his fingers flutter down your arm and he takes your hand. He draws you into the study and shuts the door. You let him guide you across to the desk, too worn out to resist.  

Your conversation with Frigga needles in the back of your mind. You feel lighter for saying it all aloud and yet it is Loki you wish to hear it. You resign yourself to disappointment. You suppose marriage entails a lot of that. 

He stops you before his desk and lets go of you, raising his hands to frame you, “stay there.” 

You obey easily. You don’t have the energy to do more than go along. He rounds to the other side and sits in the leather chair. He opens the top drawer and grumbles at himself. He is almost jittering as he pulls open the next. 

You look at him. The faded bruises, his discoloured knuckles, and the small scab at the corner of his lip. He is not healed either. Both of you are still so battered but neither of you can admit it.

“Ah, forgive me, my mind has been all over,” he declares as he reaches inside, “and yet I could think of nothing else.” He hesitates to reveal the contents, “pet, I’ve sat here for hours trying to decide. I’ve thought of you only and tried to make up my mind and I cannot. Then I saw what should be so plain. It isn’t my decision to make.” 

He pulls a shallow wooden case from with the drawer. The lid has a glass window that peers in on the sparkling contents. He turns it towards you, setting it down on the leather desk pad delicately.

You stare down as he undoes the clasp and opens it, baring completely the rows of bands and gems set upon velvet cushion. There are at least thirty rings firmly placed into the slots, glinting in the light; silver and gold, ruby, sapphire, and diamond. You blink then look at him. 

“I must apologise once more. I should never have gotten on my knee without a ring,” his fingers twiddle along the sides of the case, “so you may have your pick.” 

You glance down again, awestruck at the array of jewels and metals. You shake your head and clutch your hands in front of your chest, “I don’t... I can’t...” 

“Of course you can,” he insists. “I’ve acquired these through my work. All antique, all one of a kind. They sit in this box and for what? So go and choose.” 

You stand and stare. You’re silent. It’s all so much. They are all so beautiful and you don’t deserve any of them. They are too much for just you. 

“Pet,” he breathes and sits back, retracting his hands from the case, “I’ve... what’ve I done wrong?” 

“What?” You bat your lashes, “nothing. Nothing, I’m only... surprised. I never expected... to have a ring. From anyone.” 

“Not least of all me, I know,” he utters, forlorn, “I know I've made many mistakes. Many. Now I am trying to do something right.” 

“It’s very sweet,” you gulp as you resists a hot haze of tears. It’s overwhelming. “Can I think?” 

“Yes, please, take your time,” he flutters his fingers and crosses one arm over his middle, “look as you will.” 

“Right, er...” you step closer and hug yourself.  

You lean over the desk. It takes a few minutes to focus and actually look at the rings. To delineate between this one and that. They are all beautiful but to you, one stands out especially. You bring a hand up then close your fingers. 

“May I?” You peer up at Loki. 

“Yes, do,” he sits forward slightly, curious as your eyes fall back to the case. 

It’s much simpler than the rest. The band is slim with fine patterning along the gold. The little metal claws hold in place a single pearl; shining white. You wiggle it free carefully and squint at it as you take in every detail. 

“Try it,” he goads. 

You turn it and line your finger up. You hold your breath as you slip it on. It fits snug at the base of your finger. You keep your grasp around it for a second before you finally reveal it. You examine it as you sense Loki lean further forward. 

“Might I see?” He asks. 

You extend your hand to show him. 

“It fits?” He wonders. 

“I think,” you answer. 

He nods, “would you like to try any others?” 

“No, I like it,” you say and tilt your hand to get a better look. 

“Pearl, simple, classic,” he intones, “that one I believe is from the Georgian Era. Some earl’s wife was gifted it by King George IV. So it is said. The age of the pearl is confirmed, however, one can never verify hearsay.” 

“Wow, that’s... old?” You remark, feeling a bit dumb. 

“More than two centuries,” he closes the lid and stands, “you will let me know if it requires a proper fitting. I should hate for it to slip off.” 

“I... It is expensive, should I--” You go to take it off. 

“It is yours, pet. I wouldn’t ask it back. Ever.” You watch him clasp the box shut and he stands straight, watching you across the desk, “that is for the engagement. For the wedding, we will have matching bands.” 

“Thank you, it’s...” you look at the ring again, “it’s beautiful.” 

“Mm, beautiful enough that I might have a kiss?” He wonders as he slithers around the desk, “I have been patient for you, darling.” 

How many times did you wake up alone, just as reluctant to get up but for a different reason. And how many times did you go to bed the same way? That was harder. Trying not to think about him when you had no one to distract you.

Thor isn’t just a distraction. He’s the first thing you think of. Not Steve, not anymore.

“I’m painfully happy too,” he grumbles in your ear.

You wince. You thought he was sleeping. His arm is slung across you and his large leg hooked around one of yours. He nuzzles your cheek as he nuzzles closer.

“Do we have to get up?” He rumbles.

“Not yet,” you keep your eyes closed. He tucks his hand under your side as he clings to you.

“Good, for I don’t think you could get me off you.”

You chuckle. He hums as his hand slowly drifts down, fingertips pressing into your flesh. His touch sends a shiver through you as his breath dampens your cheek. You’re naked beneath the twisted blankets. You never thought of this kind of comfort. Of not wanting to hide from someone.

He traces the crease between your thigh and pelvis. You moan as he tickles the curly hairs along your cunt. You run your hand down his arm and lean your head against him.

You open your legs as his teases between your lips. He exhales against your temple as he glides up and down your cunt. He swirls around your clit and your thighs clench. You murmur and push your head down into the pillow.

You tilt your pelvis, welcoming him. He dips his finger into you, then a second. He growls and kisses along your cheek and hair as he pushes the heel of his hand against your clit. He rocks his grip steadily, until you’re squirming and squealing.

Your body contorts as you cum. Your head lolls and your spine curves. You shake in ecstasy as he eases you through your climax.

He shifts slowly and brings himself over you. He splits your legs with his knees as he holds his body over yours. He leans on one arm and guides his tip up the inside of your thigh. He sinks into you inch by inch. 

You sigh and frame his face between your hands. You kiss him as he bottoms out. You nibble his lip as he thrusts. You hook your legs around his and drag your hands down his thick neck. He snarls down at you as you spread your fingers across his chest and let your eyes rove over the perfection of his body.

“You’re not real,” you say.

His lip twitches and he smirks. “All real, all yours,” he rasps as he pumps into you. “Good luck getting rid of me.”

You giggle and pull him back down to your mouth. Your bodies move in tandem, in a desperate rhythm, eager to find comfort in each other. He brings you over the edge again and you cry out shamelessly. It isn’t long before he’s spent as well.

He drops down on you. His full weight makes you claustrophobic, but only for a moment. You stay like that until you ache. You tap his arm gently.

“I need to… go,” you utter shyly.

He chuckles. “Go where?”

“You know,” you squeak.

“Mm, not too far,” he warns.

He slides out of you reluctantly and flops onto his back. Your insides clench at the sudden hollowness. You sit up and brace yourself before you stand.

You go to the bathroom to relieve the hot pressure. That’s better. You finish up and go back out. Thor’s not in the bed.

You didn’t hear him. You frown. How can such a big man be so sneaky?

You grab your robe and your phone and head downstairs. As you do, your phone flashes. You have several missed messages from Sam. Again. And that one email you’ve been avoiding.

Thor’s in the kitchen. You enter behind him and watch his muscular back. You shiver. You don’t know how he can stand it in just his boxers. You suppose it’s normal for locals.

“Coffee or tea?” He offers.

“Coffee, please,” you rub your eyes.

“Wonderful,” he says as he sets up the press. “Then I will make you a proper Norwegian breakfast. You don’t mind if I run out quickly? It wouldn’t be right without smoked salmon.”

“You don’t have to do all that,” you protest.

“Yes, I do. Because I want to.” He insists. “So let me.”

You sigh softly. “You’re going to get tired of me sooner or later.”

“Never,” he avows. “Now, don’t you come over here trying to help me. You aren’t to lift a finger. And if I catch you…” He arches a brow. “I will make certain you don’t leave that bed all day.”

“Oh?” You grin. “Is that a promise?”

💕

You finally call Sam back. Thor’s in the shower so you should have enough time to assure him you’re okay. No more storms.

You let the phone dial out and he picks up in a scuffle of fabric and huffing. He’s sweating as he centres the lens on himself. He grins.

“Hey, girlie, you’ve been dodging me again.”

“No. I was… sleeping.”

“And then what?” He challenges. “Too busy for me, huh?” He sits down and wipes his face with a towel. “Or avoiding me.”

“No, why would I…”

“I know you got it too,” he goads.

You purse your lips and look away. You shrug.

“Yeah, and… I mean, it’s not a surprise.”

“I know you haven’t replied yet either,” he points his finger at the camera.

“I haven’t had the chance.”

“Uh huh,” he clucks. “You don’t wanna know how I know?”

“No.”

“Because he told me.” He tilts his head. “Looks like your BFF might have just clued in that you’re gone.”

You huff. “Sam.”

“Well… are you coming? I kinda gotta know if I’m stuck with Mr. Mopey Pants by myself.”

You scratch your forehead. “It’s kinda… soon. Three months away.”

“Oh, yeah. I gotta say I was surprised since they haven’t been able to agree on anything.” He scoffs. “Actually… you don’t think it’s because… you’re there?”

You shake your head. “Well, I’m not due back for another what, eight months? Sure is convenient.”

“But Steve wants you there. How long have we known each other? I know he’s stupid but you know he does.” Sam argues.

“Maybe he does but Peggy… she doesn’t.”

“Ah, come on. Peggy just happens to be with Steve. I’m sure she doesn’t actually hate you–”

“She does, Sam. She told me as much the day I left. In the bathroom. It was… eye opening but exactly what I needed.” You hunch down. “Sam, you’ll always be my friend but I think this is the end for me and Steve. I… what I did all those years, hanging off him, that was unfair.” You rub your neck. “I wasn’t the victim. I did it to myself.”

Sam’s quiet. You are too.

“Well, glad to finally get some honesty out of you,” he sits up. “So, you gonna tell me what you’ve been doing over there.”

“Working.”

“Working. Sure. I will get it out of you–”

“I was thinking,” Thor’s booming voice startles you. “I might go up and get Thunder. We could take her to that puppy cafe–”

“Thor, uh, oh!” Your eyes round at the screen as he comes into frame in only a towel. “Shit!”

You slam your thumb against the red button and hang up. You stand and face Thor. “Sure, that sounds great.”

“I interrupted?” He drawls.

“It was just my friend Sam checking in. We were done anyway.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean to. In fact, I’d have liked to meet him. You speak so highly of him.”

“Maybe next time,” you smile sheepishly. Your phone shakes in your hand. You can hear it buzzing.

He looks down. “Are you sure that isn’t him?”

You stare at him. Blond hair damp and slightly wavy. The towel is low on his hips, the vee of his torso making you a bit dizzy. You have to keep from staring at him because you still can’t believe he’s really real.

“Ummmm,” you check your phone. “I’ll just be a second.”

“Are you hiding me?” He challenges.

“No, I just think… you might like to have a shirt on when you meet him.” You rebuff.

“Ah, yes, perhaps,” he looks down. “But I’m not very shy.”

“I know,” you chuckle. “I’ll be right back.”

“Alright, I will be patient.” He resigns glumly.

You scurry away and answer the phone, rushing up the stairs. You’re not lying to Thor, you’re just being cautious. Besides, you want to keep the old and new apart for just a little longer.

“Hi. Sam.” You say sharply.

“Spill. Now.” Sam snips.

“What? I don’t know–”

“No, no. I saw him. Alllll of him.” He insists. “Looks about six foot five, at least two-fifty–”

“Sam,” you squeal. “Please.”

He cackles. “Why the hell are you hiding that!? He’s like an actual viking. Wait, no, what’s there God over there or whatever?”

“Sam, stop.”

“I knew you were lying!” He boasts.

“I wasn’t lying, I just wasn’t telling you–”

“Oh ho ho. That’s fucking amazing. I knew you were getting some.” He wiggles excitedly. “Is it big? Thick?”

“Sam!”

“Don’t worry, I got nothing to be jealous of. Trust me,” he winks.

“Oh my god!” You smack your forehead. “Please stop.”

“If you told me, I wouldn’t be like this but you asked for this.”

“Please, Sam,” you plead. “You’re not going to… tell?”

“Who? Bucky?” He snorts. “Guy can’t figure out it’s raining when his shoes are soaked through.”

“Sam,” you chide anon.

“Him? No.” His face falls. “No, you enjoy that big hunk of Norwegian beef cake.”

You exhale and cringe. “It’s just… it’s new and… he’s…” you try to find the words. “He’s really hot.”

He chortles madly. “Damn right!”

“Like really hot,” you press your palm to your hot cheek.

“Okay, now you’re getting a bit cocky,” he warns playfully. “Well, you know, if you don’t wanna come home… maybe I’ll just have to come drag you back. And no hiding behind the viking.”

💕

It’s hard to go back to normal. Or even just the usual. Hard to focus as Thor sits outside the site with Thunder, taunting you with just his presence. Each minute is torture as you can’t wait to get home and just be together.

The more time you spend with him, the more realisation crashes down on you. All those years with Steve were never like this. They were never calm, never cozy. You were always performing, always dreaming. With Thor, you can just be there, just in the moment, doing absolutely nothing, and entirely content.

Yet so much weighs on you. This won’t last forever. You can’t let yourself fall too fast or too deep. It’s doomed from the start and of course it is. All you can do is make the most of the time you have.

“I’m so tired,” you yawn as you drive down the mountain road.

Thor struggles to keep Thunder from hopping onto the dash. “If only we had the energy of this mighty goddess.” He muses.

“Mm, I envy her.”

“Oh, don’t be too jealous. You may sit in my lap as soon as we are off the mountain,” he teases.

“Hah,” you snort dryly. “Very cute.”

“Don’t act as if you don’t long for it,” he goads.

“Maybe,” you mutter. “I think I just want to lay down.”

“Under me? Or on top me?” He asks.

You slow and look over at him. He smirks coyly. You roll your eyes.

“Ah, I only kid. Allow me to do all the work. I’ll have your dinner cooked and a hot bath ready.” He avows.

“You don’t have to do all that.”

“And maybe a massage,” he ignores your protests. “Help get out those kinks. The way you hunch over your work, it isn’t good for the neck.”

“I know,” you mutter. “Alright… that all sounds lovely. I’ll let you spoil me.”

“Thank you, my queen,” he reaches over to rest his hand on your seat and pets your hair. “That’s all I ever ask of you.”

You giggle and keep driving. Those little moments you’ll hang onto forever. You try not to think about what you’ll miss in the future. Too long you spent concerned with what could and would happen.

You pull up to your house and slam on the break harder than you mean to. Two figures sit on your steps, suitcases by the railing. Sam pops his head up and waves, nudging Bucky who nearly falls over. You stare, dumbfounded.

“Uhhhhh….” You drone dumbly.

Thor tilts his head, “looks like you have visitors.” Thunder wiggles and turns to yap at your unexpected guests.

Your chest coils tight as you lay helpless. This isn't what you want, you want to talk, yet you cannot stop him or the heat coursing from your core. You tilt your chin up, arching your spine as he tickles along your side.

You close your eyes and try to push away the thoughts storming inside of you. Forget about everything; about Thor, and the locked door, and that fear plucking at your chest. This is what you're supposed to do. As long as he wants this, you still have a place here.

He brushes along the angle of your pelvis and down the crease of your thigh. You gasp as his touch sends a chill through you. He drags himself down your body, feeling along your legs as he lifts your feet onto the bed. You bend your knees, open to him as he slithers over the edges.

He kneels at the side of the bed and you turn your head away, shy as he glides a finger between your folds. You push your hands down to cover yourself, knowing he's looking at you. 

He pulls your hands apart, twining his fingers through yours as he leans forward. You tense as his breath scours you and he delves his tongue along your cunt. You squeak and spasm at the cool sensation as it mingles with your warmth. 

Your toes curl as he dives into you, cling to your hands as he laps you up ravenously. You moan and squeeze your thighs against his head. You rock as he teases you just so, tasting you with delighted growls. 

He lets go of one hand, drawing his down, tracing a line along your flesh and down to your thigh. His tongue flicks over your clit as he prods along your entrance, toying with you as he spreads the slickness gathering there.

You whine as he dips a fingertip inside, he pulls in and out, sliding deeper each time. Your walls clench around him as your nerves ping against each other. You reach down without a thought, latching onto the coils of his hair.

He pushes another finger into you, sinking up to his knuckles. He rocks his hand in time with the motion of his tongue dancing around your tender bud. You tilt your hips towards him, welcoming him in as you block out the world on the other side of your eyelids.

You feel the bloom inside of you, like a morning glory opening to the sweet rays of sunlight. Your breath hitches and your muscles draw tight. You grit your teeth down on a moan and tug at his hair, rolling against his mouth, pleading wordlessly for more.

He keeps going, faster, deeper, working his hand against you as he drinks in your pleasure. You pant wildly as you ascend, higher and higher, and the wave crests, crashing down on you in tendrils. You twitch and whine, giving in to the sheer ecstasy of his touch.

He doesn't relent. He releases your other hand and spreads his hand wide across your stomach as if to hold you there. You couldn't move if you tried. You're so overwrought by his tending, your legs slip down and dangle over the edge. 

You lift your head and your lashes part. You peer down at his dark strands as they drape over your pelvis, tickling along your lower stomach. The very sight of him lights a new fire in you. You fall limp and drone weakly. It's too much and yet you don't want him to stop.

Another orgasm breaks within you. This one has your voice pitchy as it piques. You cry out and thrash, the scattering of your nerves too intense. 

You yank on his hair and push on the side of his head.

“Please, please, I can't…” you beg.

He chuckles against your cunt and rams his fingers as far as they'll go. You squeal and jolt on the mattress, pulling a hand asay to slap the bed.

“Please,” you whimper, “Loki…”

“Yesss,” he hisses and flicks his tongue up, “say my name, pet.”

“Loki,” you huff, “Loki, please…”

He purrs as he tastes you again, growling into you. You squirm and clasp the blanket, dragging it towards you as your nails graze his scalp. Your eyes roll back and you suck in air through your nose.

“Loki!” You exclaim, “Loki, I-I–”

You quake as you cum a third time. The bed trembles with you as you sink into the waves. Your hand falls away from his head and you just lay there in surrender. 

He raises his head, parting from you as his humid breath stains your skin. You shiver as he slips his fingers from you, dragging them between your folds and you close your legs. He retracts his touch with a snarl and stands. 

As he looms over you, you fold onto your side. Your heart raises, breath bated, skin buzzing. You watch his shadow against the wall as he unbuttons his shirt. 

You inhale and let your eyes close. You're tired already. You listen to the rustle of his clothing as he undresses. A current flows through you at the thought of what he'll do next. A tremor at the question mark still between you.

He crawls onto the bed. He urges you onto your back as he brings himself over you, keeping himself cradled between your open legs. He sweeps his hand along your hairline and down your cheek, framing your face as he bows to kiss you.

His nose presses against yours but the pain fades into the echoes of delight. He curls his other arm beneath you. He breaks away from your lips and smears his mouth down your cheek. He nibbles and nuzzles down to your neck.

His hand creeps down to your chest once more, savouring every curve and line, doting on every inch. His naked body crushes yours into the bed as he growls and nips at your throat. You moan as his length rubs against you.

He shifts his knees, lifting himself, angling his tip down and gliding it along your cunt. You grasp the back of his head, chest clutching, muscles knotted. Are you ready for this?

It doesn't matter. He isn't stopping and you can't make him. His hand snakes down as he guides himself along your folds, wetting himself as he groans into the crook of your neck. He pushes against you, your body resisting his intrusion.

You hook your other arm around his neck, hugging him as he rocks, working against the invisible barrier. He eases inside, stretching you around his swollen tip as you whine and whimper. Your eyes prick with tears as ripples sear through you.

He wiggles his hips, patiently tilting until he slides a bit further. You gasp and push your head back, your arm looping tighter around his neck as you clutch his arm with your other hand. He breathes against your skin as he thrusts carefully, each time a little further.

“Mmm,” he purrs, “pet, you're so good…” his teeth pinch you again, “how could I not want this.”

He delves in even deeper and you exclaim. A heavy pain fills you as he overrides the last of your resistance. You dig your nails into his firm muscle as his hand slips beneath your ass, lifting your pelvis against him.

He sinks to his limit and your tears flow over. Through the agony, the spark remains, burning hot through your core. He unhooks his other arm from beneath you and stretches his hand across your neck, his fingers closing around your throat as he pushes his lips to your cheek.

He rolls his hips as you whimper. You gnash your teeth and you flutter your lashes against the swell of pain. Slowly it recedes and once more you plunge into the raging tides. 

The bed moves with him, scraping on the floor as he ruts hard and faster. He puffs against your cheek, gristly whispers wafting into your ear, “pet… so delicious… mine…”

He squeezes your neck tighter as he picks up his motion. The friction of his pelvis strikes heat in your clit, burning hotter and hotter with his tempo. You wheeze above his grip and whine, spasming through another climax.

“Say it,” he snarls.

You obey, “Loki.”

“Louder,” he demands, pounding you into the bed, his body flush to yours, sweaty skin sticking together.

“Loki!” You bluster.

“Pet,” he growls as he buries himself in you over and over. “Do you feel… how much I want you?”

You moan and bite your lip, quivering in the dregs of your orgasm.

“Do you?” He rasps. 

“Y-yes,” you babble.

He grunts and tears his hand from your throat. He brings both arms beneath you, hooking his fingers around your shoulders as he hangs his head down next to yours. He rams into you with all his strength, fucking you so you bounce against the bed.

Again, the pressure aches in you. It doesn't take much for it to snap again. You drone madly as pleasure flows from you. Loki drives harder and harder until you think you might break.

He growls and grunts, whipping his hair behind his head as he lifts himself. He slides out of you, your insides twitching, and slides his length along your tender lips, rubbing himself against your cunt as he tenses and shakes.

He cums with a gritty series of groans  spilling hotly onto your pelvis and stomach, spreading the mess with his slowing motion. He drops his head and puffs. Dazed and drained, you reach to touch his shining stands. He flinches and raises his head, looking down at you with fiery hunger in his eyes.

He angles himself back and eases down, slipping inside of you once more. You squeal, oversensitive and worn out. He shudders and lifts you, sitting on his heels as he brings you onto his lap. 

“Pet,” he utters, his tone agonized, “you will never leave me.”

He covers your mouth with his, swallowing down your shallow breaths as he rock you atop him. He trembles as he does, small whimpers spilling into you. But he doesn't stop. It's as if he means to consume you entirely.

You melt into his kiss and his embrace. You don't have the strength to deny him, you don't even have the energy to think. The world beyond your bodies is fuzzy and insignificant. 

✨

The afternoon wears on in shades of blue. You lay beneath Loki’s arm as he dozes beside you. He needs the sleep so you let him be, happy to see him rest.

As you lay trapped, you grow restless. You shift from his grasp, gently leading his arm over the pillow. You get up, careful not to jostle too much, and retreat to the bathroom.

You relieve the pressure in you and sigh up at the ceiling. You rinse yourself and stand gingerly, thighs pulsing as they meet. You limp to the mirror and wince at your reflection.

You forgot it all. The tree cracking cartilage, the stain of dirt and blood, the unheard pleas. You grip the counter and hunch over the sink.

And what is so different now? Loki didn't want to hear you so he took. He took exactly what you promised but is it any better?

You feel sick and dizzy. It's just the concussion. It's the whirlwind of it all. You can't think straight. 

You wanted it too, didn't you? You begged for more. You moaned in delight. You even came you don't know how many times.

So why does it feel so… strange?

You close your eyes and turn on the facet. You dab water around your face, trying not to wet the bandages, and centre yourself. There isn't much of a centre to be found. You are more lost than ever before.

He wants you, but do you want this? Do you even know what this is? It's all foggy and he refuses to wipe the glass clean.

You shut off the water and raise your head. Your eyes widen as you notice the figure behind your reflection. Loki stands in the doorway, his face unreadable.

“I thought you'd wandered off,” his voice is brittle as he approaches.

You shake your head and dry your hands, hanging the cloth back on it's hook. Before you can face him, he has you penned against the counter. He reaches to your chin and turns your head straight.

“Do you understand now, pet?” He lays a kiss on your crown, his eyes alight as he watches you ib the mirror.

“No,” you whisper and clear the frog from your throat, “I don't understand. Loki…” you shudder and stop his hand as it rests on your hip, “we need to talk about what happened.”

“We… did we not enjoy ourselves?” He asks with an arch in his brow, his other arm snaking around you.

“Not that,” you try futilely to escape him, “about Walpurgisnacht–”

He hushes you and tuts as he pushes you against the counter, “it's over now. Behind us. Let's not worry–”

“Loki,” you twist around and press your hands to his chest, “Thor–”

“Don't say his name,” he recoils and wags a finger at you, “ever. Not to me.”

“He–”

“Enough,” he snaps.

“I just want to move past it–”

“I am past it,” he insists, “it's as simple as that. Walpurgisnacht is over, this a new beginning. For us. Just us.”

“I… know, but–”

“But?” He sneers. “We are home. We are here. They will not bother us here. I will be certain of it.”

“Them? Loki? What does that mean? Frigga? Odin?”

He scoffs and waves his hand dismissively, “I told you this conversation is over.”

He spins on his heel and marches out. You gulp and follow him as he disappears into the bedroom. He snatches his robe from where it hand by the closet and continues to the door. You scurry to catch him but the door closes before you can reach him.

The laptop continues to play the show you've lost track of. You wring your hands and close your eyes, skull pulsing as your nose throbs. The smell of grass and snarling grunts fill your head and you force your eyes open. You're in that room, not there…

You reach over to the cell phone on the night table and bring up Loki's conversation. 

“May I have some water?” You send the text and sigh. He said if you need anything, to ask.

You wait, not certain if he's seen the message or even if he'll answer your request.

Some minutes pass as you examine your palm, tracing the lines listlessly. You might be waiting for nothing. It feels like you've been doing that all your life.

You slump down and mindlessly stare at the laptop. You run your fingertips lightly over your bruises and the thin cuts on your arms. The movement raises goosebumps on your skin.

You might take a bath, it might calm you. Maybe that's what you need. You can't figure out what exactly that is, just warmth, just... certainty.

You sit up but stop yourself as you hear the lock click. You glance over as the door opens little by little. Loki enters, gingerly balancing a tea cup in one hand.

"I forgot," he says as he speaks quietly, "I thought perhaps you might be sleeping."

"Oh, uh, thanks," you turn your legs over the edge of the bed and fold your hands one over the other. You watch him place the cup and saucer on the night table.

"Not at all, my pleasure," he assures, taking a pointed step back as he faces you. "Are you hungry? Or perhaps you require another blanket--"

"Why did you lock the door?"

He blinks and raises his chin. For once, he doesn't have an answer ready. He looks at the door then back to you.

"To keep you safe," he replies as if it's obvious.

"I am... aren't I? It's just us--"

"It is only an extra measure. Last night..." he trails off, his green eyes flitting back and forth, "we needn't talk of it but we know now we can never be too safe."

You frown, "but... but you don't need to lock me in--"

"I must," he insists and throws his hands up, marching away, "if you only require tea, then I must return to my work."

"Loki," you stand, "I want..." you hesitate, "I want you to lay down. You don't need to work. You need to rest."

"Me?" He presses his hand to his chest, "I'm quite well, thank you."

You shake your head, "I don't think--"

"I will be back again to check on you," he dismisses as he spins away, "enjoy the tea."

Before you can argue further, he's gone. The door snaps shut behind him and you rush forward. The lock loudly grinds into place and you wiggle the handle.

"Loki," you slap the door, "please..."

You hear his footsteps on the other side, walking away from your pleas. You huff and let your forehead rest against the wood. What is wrong with him?

✨

After a long but unsoothing soak in the tub, you return to bed. You put on a movie, and lay on your side as you curl up. You don't know what else to with yourself. You don't have the energy to bang or holler at the door.

The windows darken and cast a haze over you, adding to the darkness creeping through the silent house. You wish it would just be over. That he'd stop feeling sorry for you and just send you off. The only reason he hasn't is because you look like a beat cat. You saw yourself in the mirror, you are pathetic.

You roll onto your back and stare at the ceiling. The lock once more ticks. You lift your head as Loki enters. This time, with a tray. He places it on the dresser then comes to take your empty cup.

"Dinner, pet," he announces.

You sit up, leaning on the heels of your hands, "have you eaten?"

"Don't worry for me," he chimes in a shallow tone, "you must eat."

You push yourself straight and cross your arms, "will you eat with me?"

"I'm not hungry," he clinks the cup on the saucer.

"You should eat anyway--"

"I have," he interjects so quickly he must be lying.

"Loki," you stand and once more he's on the retreat.

"Please," you step closer and he evades you. "Why are you doing this? What did I do?"

He stops, just by the door. He clutches the cup tightly.

"You did nothing," he says, "and I should've done more."

He turns without another word, before you can think of any response, and leaves you to ponder his cryptic statement. You sigh and listen for the lock. Click. You look over at the tray of food.

There's enough for two there. More than. If he'd just come back, you'd share it with him and you could talk. 

If you weren't so afraid of talking, maybe life wouldn't be like this. If you'd been braver with your dad, asked him why he didn't love you, asked him what you could've done to make him. You think you're done being quiet.

Your stomach growls loudly as the scent of the pasta tugs at your nose. You near the dress and consider the heaping plate. It was nice of him but he shouldn't have to keep you like a mouse in a cage.

✨

Loki returns to gather your unfinished dinner. He doesn't linger, once more abandoning you to silence. You lay in bed, alone. He doesn't return.

The morning arrives and you get up to look out the window. You take in the greenery below, longing to sit among it. You open the pane as far as it will go and let in the scent of pollen and dew. The song of birds only has you distraught. You’ve never felt more desolate.

You shut the window and go back to bed. You’re exhausted. You can’t worry anymore. Not about him or even you. The dread is eating you up. You can’t fight the inevitable. So you’ll just let it happen. You give up.

You cocoon yourself in the blankets and close your eyes. You drift into a vague sleep. You hear the door and Loki’s voice but pretend to be asleep. You don’t want to talk to him when you won’t get much of a response. He can just get it over with already or leave you alone.

You slip back into unconsciousness. When you wake again, there’s a cup of cold tea and porridge waiting for you. You eat the gummy oats in stale milk and sip the tea. You roll back into the thick duvet and cling to the only escape you have; sleep.

The day passes in that pattern. You wake to nothing at all or a glass of water, a clementine, a turkey sandwich… The only marker of time is the hue leaking in through the window. The night welcomes you kindly into darkness and you sleep deeper than before. 

Another morning. Your head aches. You can’t sleep anymore. You can’t keep hiding in the blackness.

You moan and watch the sunlight on the ceiling. Loki lets himself in, the click of the lock announcing his arrival. He puts a cup of tea on the nightstand.

“Good morning,” he greets.

You don’t answer. He stands straight and peers down at you as you ignore his gaze. He hovers.

“Would you like me to draw you a bath?” He asks.

You blink and stay silent. You refuse to move.

“Pet…” he says tentatively.

You roll your back to him, “leave me alone.”

You hear him inhale but he keeps from his retort. He hums and clucks. His footsteps trail away from you, the door shutting gently right before the lock slides into the slot. If he’s going to lock you up, you’ll do the same. You’ll lock it all inside.

You don’t touch the tea. You get up to sit by the window and watch the cardinal soar in red smears in and out of the trees. Blue jays hop along branches and grackles peck at the grass. You cup your chin and lean on the window ledge as you imagine yourself out there.

The sun reaches its peak but Loki doesn’t show. Good. At least you understand each other. Your stomach growls but you ignore it. You go into the bathroom and draw another bath. You bask in the heat and emerge, less than refreshed as the grimness remains.

You knot a towel above your chest and stand at the mirror to change the bandages on your nose. The doctor told you how before he set his attention on Loki. You do your best to remember what he said. You finish, nose thrumming.

You go into the bedroom and stop short. Loki’s there at the foot of the bed. He looks at you as you enter. There’s some stubble around his jaw and his hair is uncombed.

“You are upset,” he says.

You shrug and cross your arms.

“You should be, I failed you,” he begins, “my brother…”

“Not that,” you say. “Loki, let me out.”

He leans back on his heel and peers over at the door. He returns his gaze to you, eyes narrowing. His jaw clenches and his throat tightens.

“Why?” He asks, “you’re safe here.”

You heave, “I’m tired. You need to let me go. You don’t want me and I don’t want this. I don’t want to be stuck inside forever. I don’t want to be a burden anymore…”

“You can’t go,” he shakes his head, “why… you think I don’t want you?”

You sniff and gulp tightly, “I’ll be okay. I’m feeling better and you don’t have to worry about me anymore.”

“I want you,” he says.

“No you don’t. You barely look at me. You leave me here all alone. You won’t sleep beside me, you won’t let me touch you. That’s what we agreed to, or maybe I misunderstood.”

He lowers his chin and sucks in his cheeks. He shifts on his feet and flutters his fingers at his side. He’s silent as you wait for his final word. Go, get out, leave.

“Loki!” You scare yourself as your voice rises, “you have to talk to me. You can’t do this. You can’t keep me here and just ignore me. You can’t… keep me in this prison.”

“Pet…” he murmurs, “I have to… I have to…”

“I can’t– I can’t do this. If you won’t tell me to go, then I’ll just go,” you warble, shaking, “I’m old enough to take care of myself.”

You go to the dresser and hastily grab clothes. You look at them, all you need is a top and a bottom, you must have some shoes on the mat. You storm towards the door but he catches your arm and spins you back, inserting himself in your path.

“Loki,” you clutch the clothing to your chest as you rip away from him. You back up, facing him as he blocks the door. “It’s okay, you don’t have to do this.”

He startles you as suddenly he’s charging at you. You stumble back, dropping the clothing as you backpedal away from him. Your heart lodges in your throat as flames lick in his irises. You hit the door frame as he corners you by the wall. 

His hands come up to frame your face and he leans in to kiss you. You squeak as his nose brushes your painfully and he grips you tightly, urging his tongue between your lips. You touch his arm, squeezing it as he devours you.

His urgency is terrifying. His arm loops around you as he presses himself against you, crushing you to the wall. He enshrines you and you hit the dresser as he throws you off balance. He staggers with you as you bounce off the wood. He keeps you against him, clinging to your lips as he moves blindly around the room.

You hit the footboard then the bedpost, grunting into his mouth as breathes you in. He stops you at the side of the bed and lifts you off your feet, breaking away to toss you onto the bed. You cry out as he crawls onto you, penning you in as he holds himself above you. He pants down at you as you writhe and whine.

“Loki…” you gasp.

“I want you,” he repeats, “I want you. You are mine,” he lowers himself to kiss your lips again, “all mine,” he pecks your cheek, “you belong to me.” His lips make a path along your jaw and down your neck.

You squirm as he covers you in kiss, tickling down your neck and across your shoulders. The towel slackens and falls open as he pins you down, your knees splayed around his. His fingertips brush along your skin as he dotes on every inch. Just along your chest as he follows the curve of it.

You look down at his dark hair, hanging in a disarray of coil. You clutch the blankets beneath you and murmur. He stops and flips back his locks, looking at you. His gaze gleams with desperation. His hand frames one side of your chest and his eyes cling to yours as he slowly leans down to kiss the swell of your breast.

Bragi begins his set, a brief tidings for the event before he strums into a tune. You wiggle your foot to the beat, peering over at the full band behind the lead. It's all so big and bright.

You turn back, reaching for your glass, as Laufeyson draws from his own. He watches you over the brim, eyes traveling down your body, focusing on the movement of your foot. You still it and uncross your legs, setting your soles flat.

He puts his drink down, half-finished. You sit back and fold your hands in your lap, peering around evasively. He probably saw you slouching or was annoyed by your fidgeting. You blow out between your lips as the party blooms around you.

Voices thrum in ripples beneath the steady rhythms of the stage, hollers go up now and then, piquing your interest as you look over to see a group cluster. They stand around smaller tables framed by two chairs each. You can barely see those sitting at them moving small pieces around the board.

“Hnefatafl!” The cry goes up as Thor stands and the pieces scatter on the table before him. You quickly look away as his head pops up above his audience.

“An old game,” Laufeyson explains, “rather dry for an event like this.”

You raise your brows curiously. You’re almost tempted to ask him more but think better of it. He hardly seems interested. Distant thunks bring another roar from a crowd further down. You twist in your chair to see across the field large round boards set up. A man with blond hair hurls an axe towards the wood, embedding it. You flinch and face the table again.

“Chaos,” Laufeyson mutters.

“Yes,” you agree, your toe tapping on the grass until you stop it again.

You sink into a silence which exists only between you and him. The furor of the party crackles around you, circling you in a whirlwind. There in the eye of the storm, there is no sound. It is deafeningly hollow.

“Ahem,” the clearing of a throat and tap on your shoulder brings you around. Laufeyson looks over your head, fixing his posture as you face Odin, “hiding in the corner?”

“Not exactly, father,” Laufeyson says, once more taking up his drink.

“There is much to enjoy. Your mother’s put in so much effort, I’d for her to see you glowering like this,” Odin reproaches.

“I do not glower,” his son snips.

“Mm, yes, well, you are more than welcome to wallow alone,” Odin replies flippantly, “but you needn’t cast a cloud over others…” he shifts to face you, opening a hand to you, “might I be so humbled as to request a dance from the lovely lady?”

You look up at him and your mouth falls open, “dance? I don’t know… how.”

“Well, then it is a good thing I must take it slow,” Odin insists, “it isn’t so hard to learn.”

Laufeyson sighs and drains the last of his whiskey. He stands abruptly, “I need to top up.”

Odin eyes him tensely but doesn’t remark. He looks back to you, “you don’t need to sit in his shadow all night. One dance, fair maiden of Walpurgisnacht, I see you can barely contain yourself.”

You look down as his gaze falls to your foot, once more wiggling. You still it and accept his hand. You hope Laufeyson isn’t too upset. It is only his father after all, he can’t be too put out.

“Thank you,” you stand and let him lead you away.

Odin brings you amid the other dancers, on a flat white floor laid out over the grass. He guides you to face him and helps you place your hands before he hooks an arm around you. He’s gentle but firm in leading you, counting with the rhythm between directing you how to move your feet.

“That’s it, dear, you’re a natural,” he praises as you let the music guide you, “and a beauty. That dress is very becoming, though it pales on you. You look immaculate…” he continues to sway with you, “my son is a fool not to say it himself.”

“Odin,” you look past him sheepishly.

“It is the truth. You are glowing and he is playing the troll, secreting you away from the light,” he tuts and shakes his head.

“It isn’t my party,” you utter.

“You belong here,” he insists, “don’t you think otherwise.”

“I am the house manager–” you rebuff.

“You aren’t,” he says, “my son didn’t get his senselessness from me. No, that is bred of mistrust. Fear, truly.”

“Odin, it’s true–”

“If he says it, it cannot be,” he counters, “when he looks at you, he is not looking at a house manager. He will claim I do not know him but he is my son. I see through him, it is only a pity he looks in the mirror and cannot do the same.”

You stare at the button of his vest. You don’t believe him. You don’t want to. You’re too afraid to think it could ever be true. Yet how can you tell him the truth? That would be humiliating. You are only half-right, your son wants more of me but only to sate his worst urges. It isn’t sentiment, it is convenience.

“Pardon,” a voice has you tripping over your own feet but Odin keeps you balanced, turning you as another figure stands close, “father, may I… take over?”

“Ah, but we are having such fun,” Odin taunts and twists you away from Laufeyson again.

“Yes, it seems so,” Laufeyson says thickly, “perhaps the next song…”

“Oh, don’t be so mopey,” Odin stops you as he chuckles, “I was only trying to pep you up, yes? It’s a party.” Odin raises your hand and kisses it gently, “thank you, dear, for humouring an old man.”

He stands straight and lets you go. He faces his son but you cannot see his expression, only the way Laufeyson’s eyes gleam back dangerously. Odin departs and Laufeyson’s attention flits onto you. He takes a step forward, once more looking you up and down.

The music ebbs and a new song begins. The soft plucking begins, then the reedy tone of a flute. Mr. Laufeyson offers his hand and you accept it, awkwardly coming closer as he sweeps his arm around you, his hand stretched over your lower back. He looks down to place his feet with yours before he begins. He is lithe and graceful, you feel otherwise.

“This is your song,” he says as the melody comes clearer.

You tweak an ear as you follow it, then lyrics begin.

“Moon River, wider than a mile…” 

Your heart pulses in recognition. You smile towards the stage. You didn’t expect him to truly do it but it’s wonderful.

“I like it,” Laufeyson says, “it is very… whimsical.”

You turn your head straight, focusing on your footwork, careful not to trod his feet, “it is.”

He’s silent as you feel his gaze upon you, bearing down. He must be annoyed by how you follow his lead, uncertain in your body. How pathetic; never had a birthday cake, never had a dance. You look up and gulp shakily.

You almost stop dead in your heels as you see something less than agitated in his expression. He is fixated on you without a trace of chagrin. His hand shifts on your back, his other on your hip as you hold his shoulder and his upper arm. He is handsome in the dimming approach of the evening.

“When I said before that you look nice,” he begins, “I was remiss. You look… beyond anything I could ever put into words. You are magnificent, pet.”

“Mr. Laufeyson,” you stutter, “well, you look very handsome as well.”

“I am not looking for compliments,” he dismisses, “and I think I owe you more than that.”

You don’t know what to say. Is it an apology? You don’t know entirely what he means. He’s had three glasses of whiskey, just like that night, and in the morning, he was just the same as before. You won’t count on the kindness he finds at the bottom of a bottle.

A sudden flash makes you squeak. You look over as Yvonne smiles over the large lens. You give a nervous giggle and brace Laufeyson tighter. He sweeps you away from the camera.

“Tomorrow, we will talk,” he avows, “but we can enjoy tonight. It is Walpurgisnacht and it is a new beginning.”

“Yes, Mr. Laufeyson.”

He winces and exhales, “can I be Loki for tonight?”

“Loki,” you echo, “yes.”

As the song ends, the heat speckling in your skin licks to flames. You don’t know if it’s being so close or his constant gaze or the thought of tomorrow and whatever you might talk about. You’re sweating and you're uncomfortable and you need a breath.

“Excuse me, um, I need the bathroom,” you gently pull away. 

He reluctantly lets you go, his hand lingering on your hip as he points, “there, in the tents, I believe mother had facilities put up.”

“Thanks,” you offer a weak grin and step away from his grasp.

“I’ll be here,” he promises as you go.

You try not to hurry. You don’t want him to see how desperate you are to be away. It isn’t him, it’s you. This is all too much for you. It isn’t you. You’re not one of these people but they treat you like one. You’re just a poor girl born of cigarette ash.

You find your way to the tent housing the stalls. You take your time and try to collect yourself. Your nerves are tingling in your fingertips and where he held you; just along your lower back and your hip. It’s that urge that worries you, the one that made you think of resting your head on his shoulder.

You emerge and use the outdoor sinks set up in front of the stalls. You dry off and measure your breaths. You can do this. You go back down towards the fervour and as the night sets in, the large lights come to life and light the crowd.

You search the clusters of bodies. Where is Mr. Laufeyson? As you inch along the threshold, a shadow shifts to your right. You glance over but the figure disappears. You shake off the eerie sensation creeping down your spine and march forward into the tide of people.

You weave around bodies and tables, dizzy from the flurry all around you. You stagger as you’re nearly stampeded by a rowdy group of guests and you spin around to face a table in the far corner. There you find a scene that makes your heart plummet into your stomach.

You can’t stop yourself as you near the pair. Laufeyson, Loki, sits in a chair, two drinks on the table; his whiskey and another bright purple concoction. But beside him is Sif. She leans forward, her wrist clutched in his grasp as she whispers through the curve in her delicate lips. He stares back at her, eyes fiery, jaw locked.

“Loki, we had something good…” you hear her slither as you get closer. Her blue eyes dance over to you and her lips curl, “I still love you.”

She looks at him again and smashes her lips into his. He winces and turns his head, his gaze finding you as you stop, paralysed as you watch helplessly. You blink and swallow, wetting your lips as you bring your hand up to your sickened stomach.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

You turn and race away on clacking heels. You don’t look back as you elbow through bodies, running without direction, without escape. You just need to be away from it. All of it.

You find the pathway into the garden, plunging into the brush as your heels wobble with each step. You stumble and grunt in frustration. You stop and bend to unbuckle the shoes, tossing them away before you hurry on.

You find the stone gazebo, lit only by moonlight, and throw yourself inside. You land on a stone bench and hang your head in the frame of an arched window. You deflate as you hunch over, trembling so much it hurts.

You won’t cry. Why would you do that? It doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. Mr. Laufeyson only said you looked magnificent then turned around to kiss his ex-wife. And why wouldn’t she? She’s much more than you’ll ever be. She fits neatly into their puzzle.

“Ah, little maid,” the gazebo darkens as the moonlight disappears as if a clouds passed over the nocturnal guardian, “what is the matter?”

You sit up and shudder as Thor’s burly silhouette limns in silver. You brace the edge of the bench and stand.

“N-nothing, I was only… having a break, I should head back–”

“It is peaceful out here,” he says, unmoving as you gesture around him. He fills the entire doorway.

“Yeah, but er, I should–”

“How do you like Walpurgisnacht? Are you having fun?” He asks, propping and elbow against the stone.

“Sure, I guess.”

“And did you play any games?” he sneers.

You falter and lean back on one heel. You have a bad feeling. You wring your hands as the air breezes in, a shiver rattling you.

“No…”

“That is too bad. This is a day of fun! Games are fun, aren’t they?”

“Please, Thor, I have to get back–”

“Let’s play a game,” he ignores your protest and steps into the gazebo, “I know a special game.”

“Thor,” you croak as you glance towards the windows. You see the lights above the trees and hear the muted noise of the partygoers and Bragi’s tunes. You look back to him as he takes another step towards you.

“You can be the mouse…” he says, “and I shall be the cat.”

“No, please, I don’t want–”

“You best be nimble, mouse. for the cat is hungry,” he growls as he looms closer, “and ready to pounce!”

He lunges and you jump back. Your shoulder hits the wall and you cry out. You turn and feel around, nearly falling through the opposite doorway as your feet slip over the stone steps. You stumble at the bottom, slipping in the grass as twigs and stones poke into your bare soles.

You hear him behind you, laughing as he makes a steady but easy pursuit. You sprint across the small field towards the row of brush, skirt catching on bramble as you dive into the wilderness. You don’t know where you’re going, you just need to get away.

Your feet slip on moss as dirty sticks to your skin. You puff as you pump your arms, glancing back over your shoulder frantically. He isn’t running, but he is coming. You can hear him laughing.

You swerve around, towards the noise of the party. You just need to get back there. You need to find a path. You don’t know where you are, the further you go, the more lost you are. The noises fade further and further. Oh god, wrong way!

Suddenly, your toe hits something hard and you nosedive forward. You don’t have time to get your hands up as your face crunches into a thick trunk and you collapse to the ground. You roll over as you taste iron on your tongue. Ow.

You sit up and touch your throbbing nose. As you plant your feet to stand, you hear a rustle and suddenly, you’re pushed flat to your back. Thor snickers as he holds you down by your shoulders, straddling you beneath him as he huffs.

He doesn’t look up as you come around the bed and climb up on the other side. With a long day in the car ahead of you, you’re eager to tuck in. As your bottom touches the mattress, you're reminded of the raw bruises and tender gashes. You hold back a whimper and settle in, fixing the lacy strap of the nightgown.

“You’re tired?” Mr. Laufeyson asks, though it sounds more like an accusation.

“A little,” you answer, “we’re leaving early, aren’t we?” You ask, then sit up as a rush of panic swells over you, “did I forget something? Do you need anything, Mr. Laufeyson?”

He laughs and your heart flips. You stare at him horrified. He reaches over to caress your cheek, “no, you haven’t anything to worry about, pet.”

You exhale and lay back. Your pulse slowly peters out. He trails his hand along your cheek and pets your hair. You look at the ceiling and try to relax.

“I will read to you, it will help,” he offers, “you will need your sleep.”

“Oh, thank you,” you murmur.

“Mm,” he hums before he looks back to the pages. He rescinds his hand and licks his fingertip, flipping back in the book, “let’s return to where we left off…” he clears his throat before he begins. You close your eyes and let his narration ripple over you. How is it that his voice can inspire both peace and horror?

You fall into the rhythm of his cadence. It doesn’t take long for him to lull you into sleep. You succumb to it easily, shielding yourself in your unconscious. Your dreams are fractured and nonsensical between patches of all-consuming blackness.

The morning greets you with the soft speckle of rain on the window pane. Your eyes roll open and you stare at the space between the curtains. You see a rivulet flowing down the glass against the gray cast of the early hours.

You yawn quietly into your arm and turn onto your back. You’re careful not to disturb Mr. Laufeyson as his breath ebbs and flows. You glance over at him. He’s still a mystery to you. Still that unreadable man in his stiflingly silent house.

There’s a soft ticking in the air, as if counting down to something. You peek over Mr. Laufeyson’s profile and see his watch placed on the nightstand. Carefully, you get up and circle the bed to check the time on the face. You don’t dare touch the piece.

As you stand straight, you nearly yipe at the sudden clamp around your wrist. Mr. Laufeyson grabs your arm and tugs you towards the bed. You stumble against the mattress as he yanks you again. You fall over him and he snakes his arms around you.

You lay atop him, squirming as you brace his chest. He chuckles rockily as his green eyes glimmer from beneath his long dark lashes. His hand walks down your back and gathers up the silky skirt of your nightgown. He spreads his large hand across your fiery, bruised ass.

You squeak and wiggle again.

“Good morning, pet,” he purrs and shifts his hips beneath you, “what are you doing tiptoeing around?”

“Um,” you gulp, trying to ignore the rigidness against your pelvis. You think you know what that is. The thought scalds your face. “Checking the time–”

“Ah,” he sighs and gropes your rear until you whimper, “you needn’t lie…”

“Mr. Laufeyson, I…” you search his face. He’s in a pleasant mood, you wouldn’t want to spoil it. “Sorry.”

“You may kiss me,” he declares abruptly.

You bat your lashes and hesitate. You press your lips together as you bolster yourself. You should just do as he wishes and it’s no great task, is it?”

Impatient, his hand crawls up your back and grips the back of your head. He pulls your head down and crushes his lips against yours. You squeak and let him take over, curling your fingertips against the top of his chest.

The world spins as he flips you onto your back, rolling with you as he keeps his mouth over yours. He lifts himself over you, urging between your legs as he traps you against the mattress. He rocks slightly as he devours you, his hand slipping down to your neck, stretching across it firmly.

He grinds into you as he loses himself in his hunger. Your hands trail along his shoulders and you hold on to him, trying to slow him. Your heart is in your throat, knocking behind your ears. Your skin tingles as fire flows through your veins. You’re terrified but excited.

You let your touch wander down his arms, feeling the firm muscle. He’s suffocating but intoxicating. You close your eyes and think of the shower, trying to put yourself in that scene. A blaze sears over your face as you drag your hand down and twiddle your fingers.

You slip your hand between your bodies and feel around, finding his hard bulge and squeezing. He grunts and parts suddenly, pushing himself on one elbow as he keeps his hand on your neck. He dips his head to look down at your grip on him.

“Pet, what…” He murmurs.

You quickly retract your hand in horror, “i’m sorry, I thought–”

“No, no,” he purrs and rubs his thumb behind your jaw, “it’s… it’s nice.” He lowers his hips back down and rolls them. “Do you like touching me?”

You bite your lower lip and nod. You're quivering with embarrassment and eagerness. He draws his hand from your throat and caresses along your chin. He lowers his mouth to yours once more, kissing you hungrily.

He pushes his arousal against you, rocking between your legs as hot friction builds between you. He groans into you as he drags his hand from your face and grabs your arm, pinning it by your head. He does the same to the other, lifting himself over you as you puff weakly beneath him.

He keeps his hips rolling as he watches you. You squeak between shallow breaths and turn your face away. He growls and tilts harder against your cunt. Your nightie is above your thighs and the fabric of his panties is pressed to your bare lips. You feel your own delight staining it.

“Look at me, pet,” he sneers.

You snap your head forward and obey. You almost melt as you meet his fiery gaze. He ruts harder and a heavy pressure fills you, pulsing to the point of agony. Not a bad sort of pain, the type that needs release. You arch your back, pushing your chest up as you whine.

“Is this what you want, pet?” He taunts, “you want me fuck you like this?”

You gasp at the obscenity on his lips. You hum between your pouting lips and nod. He snarls again.

“Say it,” he demands.

“Yes, Mr. Laufeyson,” you babble.

“No, say it,” he repeats.

“I… I want you…” your throat clenches around the words. “I want you to… fuck me… like this.”

He snickers and picks up the pace. He looks down at his pelvis rocking into yours. You whimper and shake as you feel the coil winding tighter and tighter. You push up against him, wanting more, wanting to overflow.

He seems to go forever, groaning and grunting as he simulates his desire. He looks you in the face again and smirks, “tell me again.”

“Mr. Laufeyson–”

“Tell me to fuck you.”

Your eyes round and your lip trembles. You squirm as he keeps your arms pinned, still pounding against your cunt.

“Fuck me…” you whisper.

“I can’t hear you, pet,” he teases.

You recite it again, throat tightening as you do.

“Louder,” he commands.

“Fuck me!” You nearly shout, as close to it as you could ever get.

“Yes,” he puffs, “again,” you say it, “again,” you obey, “again…” He goes on, call and answer, until you’re breathless and he’s quaking. 

He lets out a strangled snarl and spasms. His motion staggers but he pushes through. He slows, little by little, and hangs his head. He holds himself over you for just a moment longer then pushes off. He sits back on his heels and you see the sheen of your arousal on his pants.

He looks down at himself and heaves, “I should clean up…” he utters, “I might require some help.”

He backs off the bed and you shakily sit up. You flatten your legs and look down at them as they tremble. You lift yourself as Mr. Laufeyson retreats. There’s a wet spot on the sheets as well. You tamp down your humiliation as delight swells inside of you.

The video once more flashes in your mind. The droplets of water on slapping flesh. You’re wobbly as you stand and cross to the bathroom door. You peer through as you hear the shower humming and see Mr. Laufeyson step inside. 

You follow and pull off the nightie. You pull back the door and slip in behind him. You look at his lined back, admiring the muscles and his build. You falter and look down at your body… does he think yours is nice too?

You shrug away the fear. He wants you, doesn’t he? He wouldn’t do all those things if he didn’t? You wouldn’t be here as he never shies away from casting out what he dislikes.

You reach to touch his back, visions of the shower scenes feeding you courage. You trace his spine and watch a shiver ripple through him. He purrs and faces you, holding out a loofah and a bottle of soap.

“Yes, you may get my back, pet,” he shoves both towards you, dismissing your lurid thoughts. “We should set off early to avoid the rush.”

You swallow and nearly choke, “yes, Mr. Laufeyson, of course,” you push the cap of the soap until it opens, turning your focus onto the task. How dumb you are.

✨

You’ve never been on a long road trip. Never spent more than an hour in the car with your father, never left the city limits even. You’re restless within the first twenty minutes, not able to focus on the book as the motion around you makes you dizzy. You squeeze the borrowed book and huddle back into the seat, fidgeting as Mr. Laufeyson cruises down the highway.

Instrumental music wafts in a low drone from the stereo but it’s not enough to entertain you. You stare at the dashboard, the sight of the road makes you queasy. You cross your leg over the other and shift, trying to get comfortable.

“Well, pet, we have some hours ahead of us so you better still yourself,” he reprimands.

“Sorry, Mr. Laufeyson, I’m trying.”

“Mm, well, try harder,” he sighs.

You make yourself stop moving and clutch the book tight. You keep your eyes on the interior, admiring the smooth finish and all the little knobs along the stereo. You could play one of the games you made up for yourself. You take a word and parse it out into smaller words.

“...an idea,” Mr. Laufeyson’s words break past your trance. 

You glance over at him, hoping he doesn’t realise you didn’t hear him.

“An idea?” You repeat back to him.

“Yes, to keep you from all that squirming,” he reaches over to squeeze your knee. Your leg was jittering and you didn’t even realise. 

“What is it?” You ask.

He grins and snickers as he pulls his hand back. As he does, he pushes up the armrest of your seat, then that on his own. You watch him curiously as he keeps his other hand firmly on the wheel. He beckons you nearer with a flick of two fingers.

“Mr. Laufeyson, “I don’t…”

“We can have some more fun,” he suggests as he rests his hand on the corner of your seat, arm extended between them. “You could… use your mouth again.”

Your eyes round in shock. You peer over the dashboard and immediately regret it. It makes your stomach swirl. You gulp down and look back at Mr. Laufeyson.

“Are you sure?”

“Let me worry about the road,” he dismisses, “come on, pet, you won’t be so bored.”

You restrain a frown and rub your hands together. It isn’t a request, you know that much. His delivery might be gentle but no is not an answer.

You push the seat belt behind you and twist in the seat to reach across as he sits up straight. You pluck open the top of his pants, hands clumsily brushing the fabric as you see him twitching. You push down his zipper, his tip throbbing and unrestrained beneath. You pull him out through the vee as he wiggles in the seat to slacken his pants.

You shudder and grip him firmly. You pump him up then down. He tenses and breathes out through his nose hotly. You do it again and he shivers. His reaction sets you alight. That thrill courses through you, the one where you feel powerful.

You take a breath and think of the shower scene and how the woman did it. She was so reckless and carefree. The way she did it, she seemed to enjoy it. You just have to pretend that you're her… maybe you’ll end up liking it.

You bend further over the space between the seats and bow your head. You pout just above his tip before pressing your lips to it. You flick your tongue against him and he growls. You slide your hand down and follow it with your mouth. You start slow, mimicking the woman as you pull back off of him and swipe along his length with your tongue.

Mr. Laufeyson rumbles and rests his hand between your shoulder blades, a wisp escaping him, “pet…”

You keep going, hiding behind your eyelids as you drift into the fantasy. This isn’t what it is. This is more than a task. In your head, you can make this man want you and you can make yourself want him.

You push your thighs together and moan around him. You do want him. You feel how badly you do. Your core thrums with desperation. 

It isn’t just the blankets that make you swelter. Shame nips at your cheeks and ears as you try to forget the scene in the library. Yet, you know it will likely play out again when you make another mistake.

As the morning hue pales to yellow, you dare to sit up. The covers fall away and you peek back at Mr. Laufeyson. He sleeps soundly, content and calm. If only he could be so placid when awake.

You stand cautiously, certain not to jostle the bed. Waking him would be another sin to tally. You tiptoe around the foot of the bed and flit into the bathroom. You close the door gently, the clasp clicking a bit too loudly in the early lull.

You stop before the mirror but don’t look at yourself. You can’t. You shimmy out of the silky nightgown and fold it on the counter. You shiver and pad across the cold tiles to the shower. You step inside and close the glass door. You can’t wash away what happened but you can start again and do better.

You crank on the shower head and nearly squeal as it pours out cold water. Just as quickly, it turns scalding and you press yourself to the wall of the booth, just outside the umbrella of the deluge. You adjust the faucet and test the temperature with your fingertips. You sigh and step under the flow once more.

You close your eyes and tilt your head back, letting the warmth slake over you. Chills spiral over your skin as water trickles from the swell of your chest. You’re caught in the still moment. You breathe, in, out, deep, slow.

The steam plumes around you, enshrining you in a misty cocoon. Then, all once, the peace breaks and you wince as the glass door opens. The heat puffs out as frigid air washes in and raises bumps on your skin. 

Mr. Laufeyson enters without a word, frightening you. He shuts the door, closing you in with him as he steps behind you. You cower and hug yourself as he reaches to adjust the shower head so it sprays past you. He groans and pulls his arms back to stretch by his head. He looms over your withering form.

He touches your shoulder, startling you again. What is he doing? Is this real or a distorted dream you can’t escape? You’re so tired that everything blurs at the edges.

He grips you tighter and turns you to face him. He doesn’t say a word as he bows, bringing his hand to your chin to angle your head back. He presses his lips to yours and hums, his other arm hooking around to bring you flush to him. He kisses you, a man determined, as his hand trails down your back, groping your bottom until you whine.

The peace fractures completely. Your skin buzzes and your insides writhe. His thumb stretches to caress your chin as he consumes you. His nakedness mingles with your own and twitching prod tickles your skin.

He parts and frames your face with his long fingers. Sleep still weighs down his lashes and pales his complexion. He flutters his fingers down your neck and draws both hands to your shoulders. He follows the lines of your arms and guides your hands to his chest. He holds them, pressing so you can feel the taut muscle.

You're alright with more than the water’s temperature. The firmness, the tension in him plucks inside of you. He terrifies you yet enthralls you. The power he has over you is both suffocating and seductive.

He moves your hands down to his stomach. You feel his muscles clench as you do and he lets out a shuddery breath. You stare at his throat, too shy to watch the descent of your touch. He groans as he trails your hands closer together. He closes them around his rigid length and growls.

“Pet,” he rasps as his throat constricts, “I woke and you were gone.”

You swallow, your tongue sticks before you can muster your voice, “Mr. Laufeyson, I’m sor…”

He hushes you and lets you go. You don’t rescind your touch, you don’t dare. He purrs again and grabs your head with both hands, drawing you into another hungry kiss. He devours you until you're breathless and your grip tightens around him. He gasps and nibbles your lower lip.

“Ahhhh,” he sighs and reaches to pull your hands away from him, “no, no…”

He grips your shoulder again, nudging you to face the shower head once more. You quiver as let his hands fall and trace the curves of your sides and hips. He braces you and pulls you against him. He bows his head, looming over you, encircling you with an arm. He dips his nose down to nuzzle your neck.

“It is a new day,” he snarls between nips, “yes?”

“Yes, Mr. Laufeyson,” you tremble even more as his arousal presses to your back.

“Mmm,” he drags his nose up and down the crook of your neck, biting down suddenly so you gasp.

The arm hooked around you bends and he brings his hand to fondle your chest. His other ventures down your pelvis as he wiggles his own, reminding you of his need. He slips his foot between both of yours and inches them apart. He feels along your folds and delves between them, pushing down on that most tender spot.

You squeak as he rolls your clit. You grasp his hip to steady yourself, extending your other arm to the wall. He tweaks and gropes your chest, your nipples budding beneath the downpour. He pulls you back as his fingers work at your cunt, teasing you until you’re slick.

His teeth pinch down on the muscle along your shoulder. Pressure builds as he tortures your flesh with his mouth, sucking until you can’t bear it. He unlatches from you and stands straight, hooking his arm around your neck to pull your head back.

You reach to his wrist, clasping on as your other hand latches tightly to his hip. He rocks slightly against you as his fingers coil your nerves around him. He swirls and flicks around your clit, embers sparking to a flame.

You babble as your head lolls back and your lips part. Your heart beats furiously as you feel the peak building inside of you. His hand crawls further and he feels along your entrance. You twitch and he bends his arm tighter around your neck. He pokes along your cunt, slowly easing a finger into you.

You moan at the sensation of his intrusion. Fiery and fraught as he sinks past his knuckle and to the next. He slides in and out of you, wiggling and curling his finger to test your limits. He slips out complete and presses two fingers to your entrance.

You gasp as he urges both into you. You arch your back and dig your nails into his forearm. There’s pain this time. A sear that stretches you as you teeter on your toes. He’s the only thing keeping you on your feet.

He pushes the heel of his hand to your clit and rocks his hand. The cluster of pressure of sensations knot together and tangle your muscles. You heave, fighting to catch your breath as he plays with you so expertly. You lean your head back and close your eyes. He presses his lips to your temple as his hand carries its motion.

“Oh, pet, you see how nice I can be? Hm? If you’re good for me,” he rams his fingers deeper, squeezing on your bud as your thighs quake. 

He moves so his dick is firm against your ass, gliding along your lower back as he rolls his hips. He tilts his hand faster and faster, your breath shaky as pathetic mewls flutter through your lips. You can’t take much more.

“That’s it, pet, you’re so close,” he sneers behind your ear, “remember you must obey…” he nearly shakes you with the violent motion of his hand, “cum for me, pet.”

All at once, you unravel. You cry out as the swell within you bursts and spills into his hand. You shake as you succumb to the violent tides gushing around you. He coils you tighter, his bicep bulging against your neck as he straightens. He bucks against your back and groans as the friction turns erratic.

He grunts and a new warmth pools along your lower back. He spasms as he spurts onto your flesh, quaking as he slows and turns you with him as he staggers to lean against the shower wall. His arm falls from around your neck, instead locking across your chest as he keeps you flush to him. He huffs out as you lean into him, clinging to his arm.

“Pet,” he rasps, “you do make as many messes as you tidy.”

✨

It’s Wednesday. It’s supposed to be your day off, but given the nonentity of Monday, you’re not sure you can still claim that time. You’re too afraid to ask, paranoid that it would come across as lazy. Or worse, neglectful.

Mr. Laufeyson hasn’t said much since the shower. He left you in there and dressed before you emerged. Stunned, you hardly remember picking out the light-blue skirt and blouse in a dark shade of the hue. 

Without guidance or permission, you go to the library to tend to the list. Even if it is meant to be your day, you won’t be able to relax so long as there are tasks undone. You peek over at the door to the study, firmly shut, and refocus on the glowing screen.

Your phone, not the touch screen, the flip, chirps. You silence it and check the missed calls. It’s getting worse. The electric, the landlord, and Leslie. You have dozens of unanswered calls. You don’t know what to do. You know you can’t abandon your dad but you feel paralysed to do anything about him.

You shut the phone and hide it away in your bag, sliding it under the desk. Out of sight, out of mind. You rub your eyes and bring your hands to cradle your chin. You stare at the screen, unable to decipher the bullet points as your eyes gloss.

The noise of the door pulling back on its hinges jars you. You sit up abruptly and bat away the haze. You look at Mr. Laufeyson as he fills the door frame.

“Tea.”

Just a single word before he retreats. You furrow your brow and brace the desk, pushing yourself to your feet. You stand and mechanically set off on the task. You need the simple duty to keep you from thinking too much.

In the kitchen, you pace as you wait for the kettle. You fill the pot and arrange a tray. With thee breakfast tea steeped and everything in place, you balance it all and set about the treacherous climb back to the second floor.

You enter through the library, clearing your throat as you pass into the study. Mr. Laufeyson polishes what appears to be a telescope with a cloth as you set down the tray. You step back, folding your hands as you expect your next order.

“I should like it from a cup,” he peeks up pointedly.

You pour a cup and place the pot back down.

“Milk?” You offer.

He shakes his head and his eyes recenter on the telescope. You watch him wipe the edges with the cloth, his finger making a point in the fabric as he traces the finger ridges. You’re hypnotised by his intense attention.

You assume it’s part of his work. From what you know, he collects old things. Maybe sells them too?

“Well,” he stops his work and lowers the telescope, “was there something else?”

“No, Mr. Laufeyson, sorry, I…” you drop your arms straight and push your shoulders back.

You turn on your heel and march to the door. As you reach it, uncertain if you should close it, a chime interrupts that menial concern. You spin and look at Mr. Laufeyson as he arches a brow.

“I’m not expecting visitors,” he states, “I didn’t think the carpenter scheduled.”

“No, it can’t be Ronan,” you murmur thoughtfully.

He sighs, “well, go see who it is.”

“Yes, Mr. Laufeyson.”

You scurry out as your skin speckles with embarrassment. You’re so confused. You can’t get the scene in the shower out of your head but he’s acting like none of it happened. Even as if the night before is just a figment of your own naughty fantasies. You’re starting to think it might be.

You stop at the front door to step into your flats and pad out into the daylight. It’s bright but the sun is crested with pillowy clouds. You can feel a rainstorm brewing in the air. You shade your eyes as you squint across at the gate. You can’t see much beyond it.

You follow the curve of the drive to the control box and peek out through the bars of the gate. You don’t recognise the large SUV on the other side. You push the button to talk through the speaker box.

“Hello?” You utter dumbly into the box.

“Ah, little maid, I’ve come to see my brother,” Thor’s voice booms like thunder, echoing as you hear him both through the speaker and through the gate.

“Erm…” you babble before letting the button go. What do you do?

You turn to look up at the house. You don’t have your phone. You’ll have to run back in and ask. You flee, scrambling back to the door and racing inside without shedding your shoes. Your soles clap up the stairs and you rush into the library, stopping yourself at the threshold of the study. You’re out of breath.

A loud, long honk comes from outside. You gulp as Mr. Laufeyson scowls. His mouth clamps in a tight line.

“Mr. Laufeyson, it’s your brother,” you heave.

He visibly cringes and his eyes flit away in thought. His cheek twitches and he slowly puts down his cup. He stands and rolls his shoulders. He shakes his head as he nears you.

“Stay in the library,” he points you out of the study, “and do not come out until I bid you.”

“Yes, Mr. Laufeyson,” you recite.

“Not even to use the bathroom, you understand?”

A chill ripples over you at his foreboding tone. Once more, you acquiesce. He’s already closing the study door, shutting you in. You go to secure the other one and back up, staring at it as you hear him stomping down the hallway.

You shiver, not cold but terrified, embarrassed, and entirely helpless. He stands so suddenly you sway, steadying yourself as you step back with one foot. You turn as he strides up the side of the bed and comes around the end. You stagger back with his abruptness, hitting the other corner with your hip.

He grabs your arms and pulls you before him, holding you at arm's length, another snarling breath escapes him. You can't speak. You don't dare.

He squeezes and moves you to whim. You let him turn your back to the bed and he walks you against it. Your legs bend to his will and your bottom meets the mattress firmly.

He urges you onto your back, like before, pinning your shoulders as he bends over you. His lashes flutter and he drags his hands down your arms, standing with sigh. He flicks his finger, gesturing you further onto the bed. 

You obey his silent command and push your hands into the mattress, pulling yourself up until your legs are straight across the bed. He rolls his shoulders as he observes you, his posture sinister in the lamplight. You are prone and exposed, entirely at his mercy. He nears the bottom of the bed. You wince but don't shy away.

He touches the arch of your foot, running his knuckle along it then brushes both hands down to your ankles. He trails up your calves as you twitch and brings himself to straddle you, moving on his knees as he follows the length of your legs to your hips. He lowers himself over you, keeping you penned in under him as he fixates on your body. 

His eyes cling to his fingers as he explores your soft flesh, feeling along your stomach and sides, sending another wave of ripples through you. You whimper as your body reacts. Your nipples bud and that tingle sparks between your legs. You can't help but squirm as he traces swirls across your skin. 

You feel the restraint rigid in his touch as his fingertips crawl further up your body. He brings his hands to your chest, framing your tits, groping and fondling as his thumbs twirl around your beaded nipples. His breath is deep enough to hear, his chest rising and falling markedly. A tremor flows from him into you.

He spreads his hands wide and pushes them up to the flat of your chest and curls them over your shoulders. He wiggles his pelvis as he brings both hands to grip your neck. Your eyes round as you tremble. He squeezes, not enough to choke you, but enough to make you gasp. 

He bends over you, his nose brushes the side of yours as his lips hover just over your mouth. He groans and tightens his hold just a little then all at once releases you, planting his hands on either side of your head as he huffs. He glares down at you, face wrought as he lifts himself slowly. He sits back on his knees again.

His eyes wander down your body, following the line of your limp arm. He takes your hand and opens it in his. He draws the lines of your palm as he considers it. Then he moves it down, pressing it around the front of his pants. You let out a groan as it adds to the throbbing in your core. He groans too, closing his eyes as he holds your hand against his hard bulge.

He shudders and smirks, shoving your hand away sharply. He tosses your arm out and shakes his head. He lifts his knee and swings off of you. He tuts until he's snickering. He stands and quiets, keeping his back to you. You squeeze your thighs together and whine.

"No, not yet," he sneers as he turns so you can see his profile, "now you know, pet, how it hurts, don't you?" 

You blink and part your lips speechlessly. You look down at yourself, your legs moving against each other almost without thinking as you try to sate the heat blooming in you. You peek up at him again and roll over to hide your nakedness.

"I promise, pet, when it happens, you will be begging," he snarls, "you will be crying out my name.”

He spins and gathers up the heap of your disposed clothes. Without a glance back, he struts to the door. You don't move as you listen to him go, the lock clicking to assure you of your isolation.

You curl up on your side again and feel the beating in your chest with your hand. As much as his absence lends you relief, it leaves you wanting as that fiery sensation gnaws at your insides. 

✨

When Mr. Laufeyson appears again, he tosses a silk nightie on the bed. You snatch it up without command and slip it on, happy for something to cover you up. He doesn't say a word as he loosens his tie and goes about undressing.

His movement is deliberate as he strips piece by piece. You lay with your back to him, feeling uneasy knowing he's bare behind you. His shadow looms over you, outlining his naked figure in a lurid reflection.

You close your eyes and shudder. 

He gets into bed and you stay as you are. He jostles you slightly as he does and leans against the headboard behind you. You hear the scratch of pages as he opens his book, the lamplight dimmed on the other side of him.

He's silent as he reads, almost as if you aren't even there. You flutter your eyes open and stare at the wall. You'd like a book of your own but you suspect you've spent all his generosity. You merely lay in the tension as he flips to the next page.

You wince as you feel a tickle on your shoulder. He caresses you with his fingertips as he hums, his other hand still firmly around the book. You just stare at the shadow, stuck in place.

He hooks his fingers under the strap of the nighty, playing with it, twirling and letting it loose. You shiver and he grips your shoulder firmly.

"Ah, pet, don't be so jumpy," he reprimands, urging you onto your other side, "come."

He pats the bed next to him. You hesitate, pushing yourself up and sidle over to him. He sweeps his hand over your head and urges you back down, against him, nestling so your head is almost in his lap, just on his thigh.

"Isn't that nice?" He muses, his hand wandering down your back once more.

You're quiet for a moment, "yes, Mr. Laufeyson."

He hums again and drags his hand away, only to flip to the next page, quickly returning it. As he rubs your back, trailing up and down, you notice a twitch next to your eye. You try not to react, keeping your head straight as you strain your eyes to see.

Another twitch and another, until you see the shape of him clearly through the silk pants. You swallow a gasp at the sight. You feel that pluck again and a curiosity that makes you fidget. You remember how he felt in your hand, rigid... big.

He snickers and brings his hand to your cheek, "you can be endearing, pet. A sweet little thing," he coos as he continues to caress you, "I can hardly be mad that so many want a taste."

You wiggle, unsure how to answer, not thinking he wants one. He is reproaching you, something quite the opposite. He relaxes against the headboard and shifts the book in his other hand.

"Shall I read to you?" He asks.

You think, pursing your lips. You nod so your cheek rubs against his silk pajamas and you utter your acquiescence. You need anything to fill the silence.

"Very well," he clears his throat, resting his hand on your head.

You feel odd as you lay there. Smaller than usual. Like a thing for him to possess, to hold, to move as he likes. You are like a kitten in his lap, there for him to pet and tease.

He begins to read and his timbre carries a roll that enthralls you. Melodic and deep. You never noticed before how nice his voice can be. If only he were the same.

✨

You awake to an empty bed. You barely recall falling asleep, nor Mr. Laufeyson's departure. You sit up and rub your eyes, yellow light casting in between the curtains. You yawn as you peer around. The same book sits on the night table. You only remember your eyes drooping to the steady drone of his voice.

There, at the foot of the bed, a bolt of black and white catches your eye. You stand and go to examine it. There's no confusion as to why it's there. Monday was wasted and you still have to clean the first floor. And Mr. Laufeyson's expectations are even clearer as you lift the short garment to hang from your fingers.

The black velvet sheath is slit on both thighs, extending no further than just that, and the bodice is trimmed in white lace that matches the edges of the tie-on apron. It would be ridiculous if it wasn't absolutely humiliating. It's less than practical and the reason for it is easy to understand. To put you even more in your place.

You change reluctantly, the matching panties are cut halfway along your cheeks and the stockings have a little polka dot pattern in the thin mesh. You put them all on along with a pair of low blunt heels. You feel like a clown but embarrassed nonetheless.

You near the door, expecting it to be locked as the day before. It's open. You let yourself out and proceed down the hall. You stop just at the top of the stairs. You don't hear anything. You descend, clinging to the railing until you're on even ground. You tromp back to the closet and take out what you need.

You begin your usual rote. It almost feels like normal as you set off in your solitary tasks. The kitchen is empty as you start there. Not too much to do but a bit of extra scrubbing on the stove. As you wipe off the counter, you have to stand on your toes to get the back. You feel the skirt lift enough to expose the bottom of your ass.

"There is some on the floor, pet," Laufeyson startles you and you spin to face him, bracing the counter.

He eyes you shamelessly. He grins as he enters and nears the other side of the island.  You flutter your lashes as your cheeks pinch. You turn around and continue your task, pausing to bend and grab the fleck of dirt from the tile.

"I'll mop..." you assure him but a low hum underlines your words.

You snap up and the skirt brushes the top of your thighs. Oh gosh. You continue to wipe the counter as he tuts.

"You are so diligent in your work. It's almost admirable," he marvels, "oh, oops." 

You gasp and jump back as the sugar dish rolls off and hits the floor, dumping powder across the tile. You gape at Mr. Laufeyson as he gives a crooked smirk. He pokes his tongue out as his eyes flit down to the mess, "well?"

You flinch and bend to pick up the dish and its lid. He purrs again and you stand up, your chest nearly falling out of the cups. You face him again and step forward to put down the dish.

"I'll get the broom--"

"You'll get on your knees and clean it," he commands as he leans forward across the counter.

You gulp and nod. You lower yourself down and use the cloth to push the grains of sugar into a pile. You cup your hand and sweep it into your palms. You get up to dump it in the bin. You feel him watching you're every move.

"Lovely, now you've cleaned up that mess, some tea would be in order," he intones.

"Yes, Mr. Laufeyson.," you murmur.

"Louder, pet, I can hardly hear you," he taunts.

"Yes, Mr. Laufeyson," you repeat, louder, voice quaking.

He scoffs but doesn't comment. You take out the tea pot and put the kettle on. You add bags to the porcelain and keep your back to him as you watch the silver vessel hiss in its slow boil. 

His sole slips over the tile and his heels tap slightly as he comes nearer. You expect him to step up right beside you, instead, he's behind you. He reaches his arms around you to place his hands on yours as you grip the counter. He holds himself flush to you as a hardness prods your back.

"Pet, that is a rather nice uniform you have today," he purrs as he trails his hand up your arm. "Ravishing..." You quiver as his hand creeps along your collar bone and up your throat, "it fills my head with all sorts of ideas." His other hand falls away and he shifts, bringing his other hand to your ass. "It does accentuate your better features."

You curl your fingers against the granite and squeak. He squeezes, nails digging into your flesh, and wiggles his hips. He bends his head to nuzzle your crown.

You're overwhelmed by his intensity. Not just his proximity, but his words. The way his longing mirrors that brewing in your chest. The knot tangling in on itself that you keep trying to ignore. Is this what it feels like to be wanted?

"Don't make me do all the work, isn't that why I hired you?" He grabs your wrist, his other hand still across your neck. 

He guides your touch back, bending your arm as he places your fingers at the top of his trousers. He releases you and your hand shakes against him. He picks open his fly before guiding your hand down the front. He retreats, just a step, and he grips your shoulder to turn you around.

You gasp and stare at his throat, bobbing as he swallows tightly. His hand covers yours as he urges it further and he closes your fingers around his hard length.

"You sinful little creature, do you feel how you have me pent up?" He growls.

Your lashes bat as your skin sears. He moves your hand up and lets out a grunt, then leads it down again, quaking at the motion. He tightens his grasp for just a moment then rescinds it.

"Keep going, pet," he grits.

You obey. You don't think. You're almost curious as you touch, repeating the same pumping movement along his length. Watching how he tenses and twitches. As you stroke him, you almost feel powerful.

His breath hitches, escaping him in fractured spurts. He frames your neck with his hand once more, his other bracing the counter as he leans over you. You dare to look down and see his dick poking out over his pants.

Your lips part as you're hypnotised by the sight of him and your hand around him. You speed up, just a little bit, and he groans. As your thumb slips over the edge and you bring it back, he croaks and chokes on his voice. He squeezes your neck tighter.

He bows and curls forward, resting his head on your shoulder as he shudders. His hand squeaks on the granite as you keep going. His breath dampens your skin and your breath slows against his hold on you. You can feel something burgeoning in him, he trembles and all once, unravels with a stuttering groan. A hot flow spurts out and coats your hands, smearing between your touch and his skin.

He whines and pulls back, grabbing your hand to slow you as he spasms. He breathes through the O of his lips and quakes.

He's silent as he looks down at himself. You are too. You draw your hand away and he lets you go. You stare at the sliminess on your palm as he latches onto the top of his pants. He leans back on one heel and whistles.

"Mmm, it seems I have a mess of my own to clean up," he rasps as he turns, "I trust the tea will be ready upon my return."