─ princess pink

Louis returned the grin after a second to overcome his surprise. “I’m sure they do. Why here, though?”

“Your establishment has the highest rates of colored women. Not many are willing to listen to what they have to say.” You fiddled with the buttons on your jacket, and tipped your head down into a nod. “I’d best be leaving. The night is late, and the sun will greet us soon.”

“Not a morning person?” Louis asked, falling into step with you as you made your way to your convertible.

A huff of a laugh fell past your lips. “You could say that, yes.”

From then on, Louis went out of his way to greet you like clockwork. Every Wednesday and Saturday you came, bright-eyed and pencil ready. Those days, Louis watched you come by nightfall and leave before morning dawned, always making sure to exchange pleasantries. One of the nights, you asked if he had any stories to tell you—though there was little talking or writing that night. It was hard to jot down what he was telling you with his head between your thighs.

You were, by no means, a possessive vampire. You liked to keep your options open and drift from place to place. But around a year and a half later, you heard of Lestat landing in New Orleans, sucking the furniture stores and libraries dry—and setting his eyes on Louis. Your Louis.

You and Louis were not lovers, and the same would apply to your and Lestat’s relationship. You would say you were far closer to being friends with the two than lovers. Though… the prospect of love was not a far away concept to you. Not when it came to Lestat and Louis.

“You turned him,” you said to Lestat with a disapproving frown. Louis was sleeping fitfully in a coffin between the two of you, skin charred and covered in dust and burns. Lestat didn’t have to tell you—you put the clues together and figured out that Louis had run into the morning sun without knowing what it would do to him. “You were always the selfish one, weren’t you? I could never have anything for myself.”

“I’m sorry, did I spoil your little toy?” Lestat said, leering over you with a grin.

“He wasn’t a toy. He’s a friend.”

The blonde vampire’s hands reached out to caress over your face, soft and cold. “A friend that you fucked.”

“On occasion.” Your nose wrinkled. “You fucked him, too.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement. It would have surprised you if Lestat hadn’t fucked Louis.

“Don’t be jealous, my darling,” he said, eyes glinting dangerously. “I’ll fuck you, as well. You need only ask. It has been a long while, no?” 

He kissed you then, tasting of sweet blood and sharp wine. As angry as you were with him, you didn’t push him away. With Lestat, it was hard to say no. That morning, you fell asleep in his coffin, limbs woven together. Come sunset, you were already gone.

It took you a few days to get around to forgiving Lestat. Louis made you softer—his inexperience to vampire life was ever so endearing to you. When you explained to Louis that you were also a vampire—one with a deep history with his maker, he stared at you with widened eyes.

“It’s no wonder I never saw you during the day,” he said, Lestat’s arm slung around his shoulder. “But why didn’t you kill any of my girls? How could you resist it?”

“Older vampires find it easier to resist temptation,” you told him with a dangerous, fanged smile. “Besides—I wanted their stories more than I wanted their blood. I can find food… elsewhere.”

“Elsewhere?” Louis glanced between you and Lestat, the first thought vanishing from his mind just as quickly as it came. “Wait, were you two—did you… did he turn you, too?”

A bark of a laugh fell from your lips. “Oh, Louis, my dear, no. Lestat may have left hundreds and thousands of fledglings in his bloody wake but I am not one of them. My turning will be a story for another time,” you assured him, pressing a kiss to his cheek. Louis smiled and nodded as if he was in a daze. To his side, Lestat looked visibly annoyed. Whether he was jealous of you or Louis, you couldn’t tell.

Sharing is caring, you greedy whore, you said to him without moving your lips. Lestat only stared at you with those icy blue eyes and huffed out a dramatic sigh.

“Well, since the fledgling has already taken a liking to you, would you like to stay?” Lestat gestured around his decorated halls. “There is more than enough room here for three coffins.”

As always, saying no to Lestat was usually not an option. 

“You could just say you’d like me here. Don’t have to be dragging Louis into it,” you told him, patting his chest with a mocking simper.

“Yes, yes, fine—I’d like you to stay, as well. I’ve missed you terribly.” Lestat moved closer to you as if he was going to kiss you, but you leaned away at the last moment and grinned at Louis.

“Louis, hon, how about we get a nice fire started and you tell me all about what mean ol’ Lestat did to you the first few hours of your turning? I love hearing about new vampire experiences. It’s been so long I can hardly remember mine.” You offered Louis your arm and gestured to the living room. The man looked to Lestat, almost as if asking for permission, but turned away just as quickly to take your arm. 

Louis, in his hunger and youth, had impulsively killed an important man in town. Lestat had already angrily berated him enough whilst tossing the body into the cremator. You were more gentle with your approach, taking Louis’ hands and goading him to wash the blood off and change into a new set of clothes that weren’t soaked with his kill.

The amusing thought that you and Lestat were raising a child and parenting together briefly crossed your mind. But then again, the two of you had both fucked Louis before and were most definitely going to again in the future, so perhaps it wasn’t the best analogy. 

“Here, put this on.” you handed Louis, stripped naked and scrubbed of the blood, a fresh button-down whilst Lestat was off cleaning up the mess Louis had made. “That was real dangerous what you did back there, you know. You’ll get detectives sniffing around and swarming you like ants to a honey pot. They don’t take kindly to black folk, neither.”

“I know,” he said, shrugging on the shirt. “I was hungry.”

“I know,” you parroted, though your tone was considerably softer. You placed your cold palm against Louis’ face and he leaned into it for a few silent moments. “Just be more careful next time, alright? Lestat and I have centuries of experience between us—you can trust us.”

Louis’ face contorted at the realization. “Sometimes I forget that this is gon’ be forever. That I won’t just wake up and you two will be gone. That I’ll be human again and my brother will still be around and my ma would still be asking me to come over to her house for dinner every Sunday.”

“Forever isn’t always a bad thing,” you said, voice soft and soothing. “It is daunting, yes, but you still live from day to day just as the mortals do. You’ll grow more comfortable in your skin with time, I promise.” You hesitated to say the next few sentences. “Lestat, as much as you admire his strength, is just as afraid as you sometimes. He’s afraid of being lonely. I confess, I have been afraid to be lonely more than once myself, but I have made peace with the fact that I will be alone sometimes. Immortal life makes it inevitable. My point is, though… you aren’t alone. Lestat is not as godly as you think he is.”

“And are you?” Louis asked.

“Do you think of me as godly?” 

One of his shoulders lifted in a half-shrug. “Most of the time.”

“I’m still a person,” you reassured him. “Lost to time, perhaps, but a person nonetheless. And you are, too.”

Your words seemed to placate Louis, though only momentarily. He parted his mouth open to say more, but Lestat dramatically stormed in the room, expression still creased with anger. After decades upon decades of knowing him, you knew by now that he would get over it eventually—it wasn’t really that big of a deal. But Louis, quite shaken up by the kill and his maker furious with him, couldn’t shrug it off as easily as you. The two of them went to their respective coffins angrily. 

Hours later, whilst you were writing up drafts of your most recent discussions with a few townspeople, you heard the two of them quietly exchange words of apology and plans for the future from their coffins. You smiled down to yourself. The romance between them was strong, you knew. You wondered if you ever had the same connection with Lestat. Or even Louis. You were growing quite fond of him. And you’d always been fond of Lestat, even though he irritated you to no end. 

When Louis bought the most expensive, the biggest, and the brightest club in the district, he made sure to pay all the working girls and musicians twice what they earned before. The doors were now open to anyone, not just folks with light skin. And he even had a room especially booked for you—always decked with the finest pencils and pens and papers and books and the most heavenly chairs imaginable—Louis was a man who thought out your every need. It startled you to think that your fondness for him may be far greater than just fondness. How would Lestat feel about you falling in love with his fledgling? Louis was yours first. And before that, you and Lestat were also each other’s for a time.

With Louis still at the club entertaining guests, Lestat heard your thoughts as soon as you returned from your work—you didn’t bother hiding your mind from him, because he had ways of getting information out of you regardless. 

“I don’t mind,” he said, greeting you as you changed out of your attire into more comfortable clothes for home. He hung by the doorway for a moment before slinking closer to you, running his hands up and down your bare skin. “We can share, my love. I don’t mind—not with you. And I’m sure Louis wouldn’t mind sharing you with me.”

“Rather presumptuous of you,” you replied.

“Not presumptuous if you’re thinking it,” Lestat said, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, then several more up your neck. “Don’t resist us. It can be the three of us together. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

“There’s a reason I left you in the first place,” you whispered. “You are possessive and mean when you want to be.”

Lestat tilted your face so his lips hovered just an inch over yours. “That may be true… but you’ll stay for Louis.” 

It wasn’t a question, but a statement. He knew you better than anyone undead or alive.

“I will.” 

“Good,” he said, and then kissed you as if he was going to devour you whole.

Many moons later, you walked into one of the house’s many bedrooms, about to enquire if either of the vampires had seen your notebook lying around anywhere, when you saw Louis lying on the bed, tears of red slipping down his face. Lestat dabbed the blood away with a napkin.

“What’s going on?” you asked with a concerned tone, sitting down next to him on the mattress opposite Lestat. 

“My nephew,” Louis practically spat out the words as if they had scorched his tongue. “I was so afraid I would… I could hear his heart—his tiny little heart—and I wanted to rip it out and eat it. I’m a monster.”

There was a moment of silence as you studied the young fledgling.

“If you’re a monster, what does that make me?” you whispered, leaning down to press your nose to the back of his ear. “You didn’t kill him, Louis.”

“No, but I could have.” Another bloody tear slipped down his eye and slotted against his nose bridge.

Whilst Lestat wiped his face again, he said, “You have to stop seeing them, Louis. They’ll grow fearful of you if they haven’t already.”

“No,” said Louis, voice hoarse and quiet. “I can’t do it.”

“It’s a rite of passage for all of us,” Lestat went on. “If you love your family, as I know you do, spare them all the pain that you are causing them.” Knowing Lestat’s relationship with his mother, you found his words quite ironic. Louis didn’t need to know about that right now, though. 

“My siblings spent many decades looking for me once I ‘disappeared’,” you told Louis. “It hurt to distance myself from them, but I was protecting them.”

Louis glanced up at you. Sitting with your back to the lit fireplace, there seemed to be an angelic glow framing you. “I didn’t know you have siblings.”

“Had,” you corrected. “They are long gone now, though many of their children’s children and further generations remain. They lived long and happy lives even after I left.”

“I ain’t never gonna have a family of my own, am I?” Louis lamented. “No sons, no daughters.”

It was silent for a moment when you and Lestat locked eyes. The blonde looked back down at his fledgling. “We’re your family, Louis.”

“You should just throw me in the incinerator,” said Louis. “Make another one.”

“What a waste that would be,” Lestat remarked.

You nodded. “And if he did, I would rip him apart limb from limb. You are not replaceable, Louis.”

“The both of us have been on this Earth for around two centuries and we can confidently report that you have no twin,” said Lestat. “No one as angry, as stubborn, as unaccommodating, as maddening—”

Louis frowned. “Sound like trash to me—”

“—as loving, as dedicated, as thoughtful, as imperfectly perfect as you’ve become. You’re a challenge every sunset, Saint Louis. We’d have it no other way.” Lestat waited a second before nudging you to agree with him.

“Yes,” you jumped to say, perhaps a second late. “Louis, hon, I don’t want to force you not to see your family. You’re free to tell them the truth if you’d like. Let them see you as a monster, as a murderer—because they certainly won’t see you in the same way we do. I’m just saying… letting them go may be the less painful option.”

Louis squeezed his eyes shut and inhaled sharply. Though he said nothing, you knew that he knew you were right. 

“Here’s an idea… let’s take a holiday,” ventured Lestat. “What about Rome?”

“Rome sounds lovely,” you said with an excited grin. It had been a handful of decades since you last stepped in Europe. Most of your recent years had you traveling much of North and South America.

“Rome? Rome, like, Italy?” Louis said, cracking an eye open to scrutinize his lovers. 

“Would you prefer Rome, Wisconsin?” Lestat fired back, which made Louis sit up on the bed and shake his head.

“I can’t just pick up and go to Rome. I got a business to run!”

You snaked your arms around Louis from behind and pressed your nose into his neck. You could hear his thoughts of how nice you smelled and smiled against his skin. “I’m sure you have many trusted work buddies that can manage the Azalea for a few days.”

Louis and Lestat bickered some more about transporting the coffins after that, as if they were an old married couple. You only listened in amusement and kissed down Louis' jaw.

Finally, Lestat relented his plans of Rome and instead brandished tickets to another opera. 

“I can spend a few days apart from the two of you to go to Rome myself,” you said, arching your back as if you were a cat and sprawling down on the mattress to watch Louis and Lestat upside down. “I can bring back souvenirs. The Italians have the most divine oil paints—”

“Don’t go,” Louis blurted, interrupting you. “Don’t—not yet.”

For a moment, you studied him with curious eyes. His thoughts were telling you he wasn’t sure if he could handle being left on his own with Lestat without you. Codependency was a common trait amongst vampire couples, you knew this, but that didn’t mean it was at all healthy. Nonetheless, you reluctantly nodded. “Alright. I won’t leave. But we do have to get out of the country at some point—it’s important to see more than America, Louis.”

“With that, I concur,” Lestat chimed his agreement. Then, he seized both of your arms and began to drag you off the mattress until you laughed and twisted up to get onto your feet yourself. “Come, my darlings, I’ve had suits made for us.”

There was a methodology to going to the opera to keep eyes off of you. You would go in first, alone. Then Lestat, with Louis walking a pace behind him, masquerading as his valet. It was degrading, all three of you knew. But it was the early 1900s, and there was little more you could do without drawing attention from passersby. 

Though the opera was a cheap affair, you were considerably entertained until the tenor entered the stage and began to sing all the wrong notes. To your ears, which were sharp, but not suited to the intricacies of musical notes, his singing was strangely off but still fine. To Lestat, however, he was not at all amused. His jaw muscles clenched and his fingers curled and uncurled over the sheet music he had brought. One glance his way and you already knew he had made his mind on who would be that evening’s supper.

Hours later, when Lestat had taken the young singer to your hotel room, you wondered if he was planning on simply fucking some sense into him before biting into his throat. Instead, Lestat sat down by the piano and played the notes, forcing the singer to sing. He pointed out each and every flaw, tone growing harsher with each mistake. 

Louis watched the two with a nauseous stomach and an uneasy mind. You tried to pull him away to another room, tried to kiss him until he forgot about Lestat and his fixation on the poor man, but Louis’ mind was adrift.

“Louis, this is meant to be a vacation,” you reminded him, massaging your fingers over his tense shoulders.

“How can it be a vacation when he’s in the other room about to murder some guy for a note he sang offkey?” Louis asked, a tad too loudly for your preference.

“Lestat gets this way sometimes. You know this by now. He gets angry, he gets sucked in, he gets tunnel vision until something is done exactly how he wants it to be done. It doesn’t affect us, though, not really. Dinner is dinner, Louis.”

Louis crossed his arms. “You have animals for dinner most of the time. And you kill people who deserve it. Lestat, he just—that man could have a family, a whole life ahead of him!”

“The same could be said for the people I’ve killed,” you replied easily.

“No, no, it’s different!” he vehemently said. “You killed the rapists, the child-fiddlers, and even the slave-owners back when they were still around! Lestat, he—”

“I know,” you said, tone firm. “Louis, I know.”

“Do you, though?” Louis shook his head in incredulity at your nonchalance and walked back into the main room where Lestat had just struck the young tenor across his vocal cords, destroying them beyond repair. “Why do you do this, Lestat?”

The blonde licked the blood off his fingers. “Well, I like to do it. I enjoy it.”

“Well, I don’t,” said Louis. “You don’t have to humiliate him like that.”

In a burst of outrage, Lestat yelled, “Well, I don’t say that you have to enjoy it! Kill them swiftly if you have to, but do it! Embrace what you are! You are a killer, Louis!”

You walked into the room at that, brows furrowed. “Will you two stop it? All this yelling and drama—this was meant to be a vacation!”

“How can it be a vacation when we haven’t even left this damned country?” Lestat bitterly replied. “I should have gone to Italy with you and left Louis here to scavenge through corpses until he rotted away.”

“You don’t mean that,” you angrily said, volume rising. “You’ve had decades to temper your anger issues, and yet you haven’t changed a single bit!”

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

People whisper of a beast that lives in House Hightower.

A beast that bludgeons men who anger him, destroys rooms, and burns down buildings.

You hear the servants warn each other of it, their whispers reaching your ears during quiet spells in the night.

During your first months at House Hightower, you wondered if this beast actually existed, or if it was a mere horror story told between serving staff to keep them on their best behavior.

But slowly, as more time passed during your stay in Oldtown, you began to hear it.

Shouts carry through the hallways. You hear screaming from areas you did not know existed. You see servants running from something that you have not witnessed yourself.

Prince Daeron is the one to finally explain it to you.

The two of you sit together in the Hightower library reading through histories of the Gardening when you hear the sound of glass shattering on one of the floors above you. You then hear heavy footsteps, and a crash that is so loud it makes you flinch.

Two guards run past the library doorway, and you begin to fear something is wrong.

“It is only my Uncle Ormund,” Prince Daeron tells you, noticing your expressions. “You needn’t worry, he will not come down here.”

“Lord Ormund?” Your shoulders jump as you hear another crashing of glass. “Is he okay?”

“He must have received a letter he did not like.”

“It sounds worse than an ill-received letter.”

“It is actually quite tame for him.”

You don’t understand it.

Lord Ormund Hightower appears to be the very definition of prestige and class when you are near him.

He is a man that never slouches, never curses, never complains. He is a compass of what a good man should be, and he carries himself as if he is the role model for the world.

“He hides that side of himself from you,” Daeron once confessed to you. “He is easily angered, and is quick to react with violence. He tries to pretend he is well tempered but he is not.”

“I have seen him angry,” you tried to reassure him. “You have not seen him angry. You have seen him upset. He is different when he is angry. He will break everything in his path. He will destroy an entire room. He will wound servants that are near him.”

“It is a sin to harm an innocent in anger-”

“He is different,” Daeron insisted. “That is what I am warning. He believes you to be too gentle to see such a thing, so he hides it, but he is a beast at times. You must be careful.”

A beast. His word choice set you on edge.

It was difficult to believe the almighty Ormund Hightower was the beast everyone spoke of, and not the dragon that lived in the lowest level of the tower.

Even after all the warnings, you still thought people must have been exaggerating to scare you. For months you lived in Oldtown, and you never once saw Ormund raise a hand to anyone.

Until you reached your second year with the Hightowers.

That was when you first saw him physically punish Daeron with a slap to the face. It had been a petty crime Daeron committed, being caught having a taste of his uncle’s wine when he thought he wasn’t looking. It scared you so badly you could not look the Lord in the eye for a week.

By the time your third year here came around, Ormund would frequently discipline the Prince by striking the back of his hands with a leather rod.

Seeing such things made you…wary of him. But he never placed an unkind hand on you.

Daeron says he’s soft for you.

Now, as you neared your fourth year in Oldtown, you find yourself unsure of your attitude towards Ormund. He was a Lord, so you respected him. You try to remember how you have been raised, all the politeness you must show, so you put your personal feelings aside so that you can do your duties properly.

Your duties, which involve the education and faith of Prince Daeron, are difficult at times.

Especially today.

You have sat Daeron down in the library, and you are attempting to get him used to more diligent notetaking, yet he is fighting back with everything he has.

“We spend so many hours in this library,” he complains. “Can we not go somewhere else?”

“We can visit the Sept.”

He lets out an uninterested grunt.

“We can take a break once we reach mid-hour,” you offer. “We’ll take a walk through the gardens.”

Daeron fidgets in his seat. “I wish to visit Tessarion.”

“You know that is not allowed.”

“It’s not recommended. I am the Prince, I can order you to take me anywhere if I really want to.”

“It would be much easier if you just finish your notetaking.”

He sighs as he looks down at the paper. His quill finally starts moving again.

“Perhaps we can ask your uncle at dinner if he can take you down to Tessarion.”

“He would never agree to that, he dislikes her.”

“There is no harm in asking him. The worst he can do is say ‘no’.”

You hear Daeron chuckle, like you have made a joke. “Only you would say such a thing.”

You place down your book. “And why is that?”

“Because you are the only one he does not throw a fit in front of. He’ll hold his tongue for you.” Daeron risks another smile as his quill scrolls across the paper. He uses a mocking voice. “Uncle Ormund says that you are a proper woman, and should not have to bear witness to such foul, abhorrent language.”

You straighten yourself to better posture, surprised by the comment. Lord Ormund was one of the most prestigious, well-classed men you have ever met. To hear such a compliment from him was beyond meaningful.

“Well, that is true,” you say. “Foul language should not be said around ladies.”

“And what of your foul language?”

“I do not use foul language, it is a sin.”

Daeron’s smile turns to a smirk. “You do not think of the word ‘bastard’ as foul? Or do you assume your context of calling the street merchant a ‘bastard’ acceptable?”

Your shoulders slouch, and you feel heat rush to your face. “That was a moment of wrongfulness, and you heard me pray for the Mother to forgive me for it.”

“Perhaps I should tell Uncle Ormund all the words I’ve heard you use so that he is less worried about exposing you to such language-”

“You will not.” Your words come out flustered. “I hardly ever use such language and-and if I have it was well deserved.”

Daeron is even more amused. He leans closer, and fakes a gasp. “You dare believe someone deserves such a name? And here I thought you were supposed to be aiding me in my ethics of the Seven.”

“You stop it,” you tell him. “I have prayed for my wrongdoings. But even if I didn’t...that merchant ripped my coin pouch right from my hands. Had you not retrieved it, your uncle would have never allowed us back to the market again.”

Daeron chuckles, leaning back in his chair. “Alright, I agree. The bastard was deserved. And I have to admit it was quite humorous to hear my proper teacher shouting that word across a crowd.”

“You should be finishing your notes, not trying to rile me up,” you tell me. “Let me see your paper so I can be sure you complete your studies before dinner.”

“Let me see your paper,” Daeron counters.

He reaches over, but you quickly flip the book over. “I am not the one who needs to take notes.”

“But let me see yours, so I know I am taking notes correctly.”

You pull your book away.

He smiles wider. “Unless, perhaps, my teacher has not been taking notes. Perhaps she has just been drawing.”

Your face grows hotter in embarrassment. He knew how to get under your skin so easily.

“As the teacher, I am asking to see yours-Daeron!”

He reached over and snatched your parchments from you. He laughs, flipping it back towards you to say, “It is a beautiful flower you have drawn.”

“I have learned these lessons before, I can draw if I wish.”

“Shall I tell Uncle Ormund that you are wasting time in the library with such drawings?”

“You will do no such thing.”

You would be humiliated. You could picture it now. His stern stare looking down at the stupid flower, and then back up at you, silently labeling you as incompetent for the rest of your time here.

“I will keep my mouth shut if we end lessons early today,” Daeron says. “And you allow me to visit Tessarion.”

“Lord Ormund is displeased when you visit her.”

“He would also be displeased by this,” Daeron countered, waving your drawing in front of him.

You are tired of the library anyway, so you figured there was no harm in a quick visit downstairs. You sigh. “Fine. But you must wash before dinner so that he does not smell her on you.”

Daeron smiles again, like he tricked you into giving him the upper hand. Though, in all honesty, he was the Prince. He could have left the library at any time, and you had no true power to stop him.

“May I at least see that you have taken notes?” you ask.

He flips his book around to show you his parchment.

There were no notes. There was only a drawing of you sitting in front of him, drawing a flower.

You open your mouth to lecture him, but quickly shut it. “We will be going to the Sept tonight, and we are going to pray about your lack of enthusiasm for your education.”

He paid no mind to your words. “Come on. I’m sure Tessarion had been missing me greatly.”

The days are always like this with Prince Daeron. Amusing. Frustrating. Happy. Exciting. Nerve wracking. You feel every emotion with the boy everyday.

And it brings you more joy than anything.

When you first arrived at House Hightower, nearly four years prior, Daeron hardly spoke to you.

He had recently turned the age of ten, and at the time you were barely ten and six. He was a quiet boy, and you were a quiet girl. It was extraordinary to see the difference in him now.

Originally, you had been sent to Oldtown by your father, who was a strong believer in the Faith of the Seven. He wanted you to learn how to pray from the Septas of Oldtown, the most devoted women in the realm.

It was Gwayne Hightower that offered for you to stay in House of Hightower, your mother having been a dear friend to Alicent and him in their younger days.

You were meant to be in Oldtown for one month, and then you were to be sent home.

But the gods had a different plan for you.

It was Ormund Hightower that spoke to your father about you becoming an aid for the young prince.

Lord Ormund was a man of religion. He visited the Sept every morning and every night. He was quick to notice, staring on the morning of your arrival, that you did as well.

He admitted to your father that he was impressed with your faith, and even more impressed with how often you partook in prayer.

“Daeron has become very lonesome being so isolated from his siblings,” Lord Ormund had said to you. “It would be beneficial for him to have the company of a girl as mindful as yourself. A girl proper in her ways, and a devoted servant to the Seven.”

When the offer of a more permanent stay was first given to you, you were wary of it. “This is the first time I have been away from home,” you admitted. “I do not know if I would be able to assist the Prince as well as a Septa could.”

“Septas know only scripture,” Ormund reasoned. “They are the education of the spiritual world, and you will help teach him the ways of the physical one.”

In honesty, you felt too young for such a position. Ten and six, you still felt like a child. You were frightened to be so far from your mother, and even more frightened to be in a position responsible for royalty.

And in the beginning, you were frightened of Lord Ormund as well. You had been so scared to talk to him the day he brought his proposal up to you. You had never spoken to him prior to it, and the only reputation you knew was that he was a serious man who was easily disappointed.

So you try to be honest with him, hoping he would understand your hesitancy. “I do not know if I am equipped to handle such a task, my Lord.”

He had smiled at you. A warm smile that made him appear as such a kind and considerate man.

Placing a hand upon your shoulder, he told you, “You are a good girl, (Y/N). All I need is your help in raising my nephew to be just as good.”

Now, nearly four years later, Oldtown feels more like home than your homeland ever did.

Because your brother is here.

Daeron Targaryen, Prince of the realms, will always be the brother you never had. Not a blood brother, like the ones from your homeland, who were cruel to you in your childhood and would throw things your way when you became bothersome. Daeron was a real brother, and seeing him grow up to be kind was the best gift the Mother could ever give you.

“Come,” Daeron hurried you as the two of you descended down the staircase to where Tessarion was kept. “She has been alone for so long, she must be dying for company.”

You disliked the way the Hightowers treated Daeron’s dragon. But you knew it was not your place to interfere with such a thing.

Daeron’s face lights up like the boy he is as he sees her. You stay back against the staircase as Daeron jogs down the steps and over to the creature. “Here I am, girl. I promised I would return to you.”

The sight of the large dragon always makes you wary. Even as she makes screeches of joy as she sets her eyes on her rider, you feel yourself fearing for him.

Yet, he nuzzles his head against hers, and she appears to nuzzle him back. “There you are,” Daeron whispers with a laugh. “Shh. Shh. I told you, I can come down here more often if you are quiet.”

“Be cautious of her claws,” you say as she paws near his feet.

“She knows her strength, she will not harm me,” Daeron assures you.

You rest against the wall, and listen to him whispering soft words of admiration to her.

You are patient as he takes a brush to draw over her scales, grooming her body. He glances over to you. “She is not a monster like they say,” he tells you. “I have raised her to be good.”

You give a soft nod. “She is good, I know.”

“Would you...” He hesitates. “...Would you like to pet her?”

You take a quick step back, shaking your head. “I will keep my distance.”

“She will not harm you, you have my word.”

“Lord Ormund warns they are unpredictable with those that do not have the right blood.”

“Please,” Daeron says. “She sees you so often. I want her to actually meet you.”

Your eyes take in the creature. You stiffen as she stares right at you.

Daeron holds a hand out. “I will be right beside you.”

“What if she dislikes me-?”

“She will not. I promise.” Daeron steps close to you with his hand out. “Trust me, Lady (Y/N).”

It takes a moment of contemplation before you finally decide you do trust him. And if your trust gets you burnt, so be it. You take his hand, and he leads you to the dragon.

He lifts your arm and slowly places it on Tessarion’s head. The texture catches you by surprise and you flinch back.

He chuckles. “It is an odd feeling, isn’t it?”

You choke back a scream when Tessarion moves her head against your stomach. You stumble back, but Daeron places an arm out to steady you. “Daeron-”

“It’s alright. She just wishes to feel you too.”

You force yourself still. The dragon runs her head along your abdomen. Slowly, you lower your hand back onto her. The scales are not so frightening now.

“See,” Daeron smiles. “She likes you.”

“That is very relieving,” you laugh.

“Sometimes I think she can sense how I feel about people,” he tells you. “And that’s how she judges them.”

“Does that mean if you decide you hate me, she will eat me?”

“I would never hate you,” Daeron says. His voice grows more somber. “You are the only true companion I have ever had.”

“For now,” you say. “I am sure you will gain allies over time.”

“Allies,” he repeats. “Not friends.”

“I have no other friends either,” you tell him. “It is not so bad.”

As an aid to royalty, you are secluded from the outside world. Lord Ormund has insisted on it.

‘There is no room for distractions when it comes to your care of my nephew,’ he told you when you first arrived. You were just a girl then, so it made sense to you. But now, nearing your twentieth summer, you feel the seclusion is less necessary. Yet, he still insists on it.

It does matter your opinion, however. It never does with him.

Lord Ormund is the man of the house, so you must bend your knee to his orders.

Daeron is quiet for a moment. He brushes along Tessarion’s back.

“...I wish you were my true sister,” he whispers. “So that I did not have to fear you leaving.”

He has said this before. It makes you feel sympathy that he is so far from his real family, he sometimes forgets he actually does have a true sister.

“I would not leave,” you quickly insist. “I promised I would remain at your side for the rest of your youth.”

“And after?” he asks.

You sigh. “I do not know the plans my father has for me after.” You look again at the creature that has settled comfortably with leaning against your body. “But Tessarion will be here forever, at least for that you are certain. So be good to her.”

“I am,” he swore to you. He leaned his head against the dragon’s once more. “Aren’t I good to you?” he whispers to the dragon.

He was so gentle with the creature.

Daeron was always so gentle, and so kind.

You could not be more proud of him for it.

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

A few weeks pass, and the weather becomes warmer. It causes Daeron to lose energy in the day.

“It is shameful to sleep in the Sept, Prince Daeron,” you chide softly, “It is best you wake before someone else sees you.”

The boy barely stirred. Head resting on the pew in front of him, arms folded beneath him, he muffles, “I am not sleeping, I am praying.”

The yawn was still in his voice, and it made you chuckle. “You’ve been unmoving for fifteen minutes.”

“Deep in prayer,” he insists.

Another laugh. “It is almost time for dinner, Daeron. Come. Raise your head, and pray with me once more before we go.”

Daeron slowly lifts his head. He rises from the bench, and comes to kneel beside you in front of the candle altar. He clasps his hands together, and waits for you to begin.

You let your eyes flutter closed and pray, “Mother, please grant us peace of mind in these upcoming weeks. Give us honor in what we do.”

Daeron repeats, “Mother, please grant us peace of mind in these upcoming weeks. Give us honor in what we do.”

“Warrior, please send strength to King Viserys. Please give him health and extend his kingdom.”

Again, Daeron repeats after you. “Warrior, please send strength to my father. Please give him health and extend his kingdom.”

“Crone, please give Prince Daeron wisdom in his studies, and the foresight to see the consequences of laziness-”

“I am not lazy.”

You laugh, and continue, “Please make him into the best scholar he can be.”

Daeron eyes you, before praying, “Mother, please give (Y/N) a kinder heart that is less overbearing-”

“Shh,” you laugh, sticking out your hand to cover his mouth. “Do not say that to her.”

Daeron smiles as he continues, “Crone, give her the wisdom that reminds her I am her Prince, therefore I am in charge-”

“Daeron,” you scold with amusement, “We do not play with the gods.”

“I am not lazy. Take it back.”

“You were sleeping in the Sept.”

“Exhausted, not lazy.”

You huff, yet a smile still plays on your face. “Fine. You are not lazy. But you better be careful. What would you have done had Lord Ormund heard you snoring?”

“I do not snore.”

You shrug. “You would not know.”

You catch him rolling his eyes, to which you criticize, “Do not roll your eyes in the house of the gods.”

“Then let us leave the house of the gods. I am starving.”

“In a moment,” you tell him. “Allow me to do a prayer for our food.”

He sighs, but he stays kneeled beside you. He is patient with you in the Sept, just as you are patient with him with his dragon.

When you two are finished, the guards escort the two of you to Lord Ormund.

It became customary over the last few years for Daeron and yourself to have dinner with Lord Ormund in his private study. The Lord often complained that the Hightower dining hall was unappealing, that it was too close to the kitchens, the aromas were too strong, and he was unable to eat there. The difference in rooms mattered very little to you. You did not mind eating in his study. In fact, it felt like a compliment that you were even invited. It made you feel more valued that your company was enjoyed by both the Lord and Prince.

You are still laughing with Daeron over mundane things as you make your way through the halls.

“What brings such laughter from my nephew?” Ormund asks as the two of you arrive at his study.

You greet the Lord with a curtsy of respect. “Good evening, Lord Ormund.” You rise and smile, “Daeron speaks of plans for his fourteenth nameday.”

“Ah,” he grins. “Yes, that is arriving soon.”

As always, Lord Ormund stands as you enter, and he pulls out your chair for you. You take it with a gracious, “Thank you, my Lord.”

“What kind of celebration would you like?” Ormund asks as he takes his seat. He sits at the head of the table, as always. You take the left side of him, Daeron is sat on the right.

The prince smiles shyly. “I need nothing extravagant. I only wish to have a feast with the three of us, as always. With cake. Perhaps Uncle Gwayne can be here.”

“I can prepare you a cake,” you tell him. “It would be my honor.”

“You need not do it,” Daeron quickly says. “We will pay a baker.”

You tilt your head. “You do not trust my cooking?”

He chuckles. “No offense, my Lady, but I have yet to see you in a kitchen. It seems you do not get much practice at it.”

You let out a laugh. “Is that so?”

“Careful, Daeron,” Ormund chides. “Insulting a woman’s cooking is as if she were to insult your sword fighting.”

“She knows I jest,” Daeron says. “But either way, you should not waste time on such things, Lady (Y/N). Any day that honors me should honor you as well.”

The words warm your heart, and you wonder if this is what motherhood is meant to feel like. “You flatter me.”

“It is true. I feel I am becoming a great man due to your teachings. You as well, Uncle Ormund. I believe I am growing into my strongest self here in Oldtown.”

Ormund smiles proudly at his nephew. He reaches over and places a hand on his shoulder. “The Father smiles upon you, Daeron. You are a blessing to us all.”

“My father sends coin on my nameday,” Daeron says. “I would like to purchase gifts for the two of you. As well as Uncle Gwayne.”

“That is very thoughtful of you, Prince Daeron, but it is not a day you must buy gifts for others. Others should buy gifts for you.”

“I want to,” he says. His tone becomes shy. “I…would like to show my appreciation. With something you will be able to cherish.”

The idea warms your heart.

“Besides, I need nothing,” Daeron says. “And I want for nothing. I would donate my coin rather than hoard it.”

You smile wider, and you meet Lord Ormund’s eye. “He is a very noble boy, your nephew. You should be very proud of him.”

“I am,” Ormund smiles. “My nephew is growing to be flawless.”

“Flawless.” Daeron chuckles. “Except for the snoring, I suppose.”

You laugh. “Yes, except for the snoring.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Lord Ormund lean back against his chair.

“I am very much looking forward to hearing from my mother,” Daeron continues. “She writes to me an especially long letter on my name day each year. My father as well.”

“Perhaps you can have a portrait made to send them,” you suggest. “I’m sure your mother misses your face dearly.”

He lights up at the idea. “A portrait. Yes. I have not had one of those done in a few years.”

“Me neither,” you admit. “I fear my mother has not seen a new portrait of me since I was the age of ten and seven.”

“Then we could all have portraits done. Uncle Ormund, do you think you could call upon an artisan to-” Daeron’s smile drops and his words cease.

Your attention turns to Lord Ormund. A pit forms in your stomach.

He is not looking at either of you. He is simply staring ahead, silent.

Daeron becomes tense. “…Uncle?”

Ormund continues staring ahead, only his finger moving as he taps upon the table, quickly and precise, as if counting the seconds.

“I need no portrait,” Daeron quickly says. “It was only an idea.”

Lord Ormund is angry. You do not know why, or over what, but you know that this is his first stage of anger.

He stares.

He stares, and it gives him time to think. And the more he thinks, the angrier he gets.

Daeron becomes a shade paler at the lack of response. “I-I do not look forward to hearing from my mother as much as I look forward to seeing you, Uncle,” he spurts out, going through every last word he said to think of what could have angered him. “I do not take my place here for granted.”

Ormund’s head tilts to the side, his stare still blank and ominous.

When his eyes land on you, his gaze is so piercing that you flinch.

“My nephew snores?”

You blink, caught off guard by the question.

His hands open and close. “How would you know my nephew snores, Lady (Y/N)-?”

“I fell asleep today,” Daeron quickly cuts in. “I apologize for it. I drifted off, and she-she merely teased me for it.”

Ormund’s eyes don’t leave you.

You have been scolded by Lord Ormund before, plenty of time in fact. But there is something different in his voice now. Those scolding were small corrections, his voice never, ever rose at you. Even now, he speaks calmly. But the look in his eye makes you feel cold.

He does not speak again, simply waiting and watching for you to answer.

“It was only for a moment,” Daeron repeats with worry. “No wrong was done.”

Ormund continues to wait for your response only.

You swallow before speaking, “The Prince drifted off today, as he said. I allowed him to rest for a few minutes because he was tired. I should not tease a Prince about such things, I am sorry.”

“Where did he fall asleep?”

Daeron’s posture is rigid. You bite your lip, considering the consequences of your answer.

“Lady (Y/N).” He speaks your name softly, but there is an edge to his voice that you did not want to press.

You look again at Daeron, and feel as if it would be against your faith to tell on him. Daeron must’ve seen it in your eyes that you were unwilling.

Internally, you make the decision not to answer. You did not fear his uncle harming you for your silence.

But Daeron feared it.

Daeron quickly answered for you, “It was in the Sept.”

His uncle frowned. His head slowly turned to his nephew. “In the Sept?”

“Yes-”

“In our most sacred place of prayer?”

His voice is only a whisper. “I am sorry.”

Ormund slowly pulls his napkin off his lap, folding it and calmly placing it onto the table. He stands to his feet, his boots heavy on the floor as he walks to stand behind Daeron’s chair. He asks, “Did you pray for forgiveness before you left?”

“I...” He swallows. “I did not think to pray for that specifically-”

“Both hands flat on the table.”

Daeron’s face goes completely pale.

Ormund crosses the room to his bookshelf.

Your heart slams in your chest as you rush to your feet, hurrying over to Ormund’s side, trying to match his quick strides. “He said prayers before leaving, my Lord.”

He ignores you. He grabs the leather strapped rod he keeps on the shelf.

The sight of it surges your panic. You struggle to remain by Ormund’s side, placing a hand on his arm to slow him. “He did not mean to offend the gods. He was only tired from the heat of the day-”

“If he did not pray for forgiveness, I will administer punishment.”

“He will not commit the offense again.”

“Spare the rod, spoil the child. He will receive seven lashes. One for each god he offended.” He snaps at Daeron, “Both hands flat on the table. Now.”

Daeron shuts his eyes tightly, doing as told.

You run forward and force yourself in front of your prince. “The lashes should be mine,” you tell Ormund.

Daeron tries to push you away. “No-”

“I was in charge of him, the fault is mine. Allow me the lashes, not him.” In a surge of protectiveness, you try to hide Daeron behind your body. “I offended the gods, not him.”

Lord Ormund watches you with critical eyes.

You knelt down, and place both hands flat on the table.

Daeron’s voice is a quiet whimper as he says, “(Y/N), get up, this is not your punishment.”

You physically push his hands back to his lap, and lay yours flat on the table once more. You stare up at Lord Ormund, whose eyes are still so meticulous.

He stays staring at you a moment longer, and every second that passes, you feel your heart will give out from beating so fast.

Finally, Ormund drops the rod onto the table. Slowly, he kneels beside you and rests his elbows on the table, clasping his hands together. “Lady (Y/N), lead us in a prayer of forgiveness for Daeron’s offense.”

A shaky breath of relief escapes your lips. “Y-Yes, my Lord.”

Daeron quickly kneels beside you as well.

“Mother, please forgive the transgressions of Daeron. He has committed an offensive act that he shall not commit again. Please, allow him grace and hospitality.”

Daeron quickly repeats, “Mother, please forgive my transgressions. I have committed an offensive act that I shall commit again. Please, allow me grace and hospitality.”

Ormund speaks next. “Mother, please forgive the transgressions of Daeron. He has committed an offensive act that he shall not commit again. Please, allow him grace and hospitality.”

Another nervous breath. “Mother, please-please put mercy in the heart of Lord Ormund. Please allow him to grant us the patience and grace that you would.”

Daeron hesitates, his eyes shooting to his uncle, as if terrified of the consequences of this prayer.

“Daeron,” his uncle urges.

Daeron follows, “Mother, please put mercy in the heart of Lord Ormund. Please allow him to grant us the patience and grace that you would.”

Ormund finishes, “Mother, please put mercy in my heart. Please allow me to grant them the patience and grace that you would.”

“And so it is.”

“And so it is.”

“And so it is.” Ormund rises to his feet. “Let us finish dinner.” He pulls out his chair for you to sit.

The rest of the dinner is silent. You have lost your appetite, but try to finish the plate anyway. Lord Ormund is strict with your diet, and if you do not eat now, you will not be allowed food again until morning.

The time ticks by slowly. Daeron fidgets more and more as each minute passes.

“Daeron, you are excused,” Ormund speaks after he is finished with his own meal.

You see in the prince’s eyes that he does not want to leave you.

“Go on,” you tell him. “I will see you in the morning at the library.”

He hesitates only a moment longer. Ormund clears his throat, and he finally goes.

You are left alone with Lord Ormund.

“It is not your place to stand between that boy and his punishments,” he tells you.

You stare down at your hands. “I apologize, Lord Ormund.”

“You apologize, yet if it came down to it, you would do so again.”

You do not lie. “I would.”

Ormund sighs. He rises to his feet. He walks to you, and leans upon the table beside you. His fingers ghost your chin, and he tilts your head up to face him. “I hope you are not allowing your loyalty towards him to cloud your judgement.”

“I am not.”

His fingers graze the side of your face, pushing your hair behind your ears. “I do not only feel responsible for Daeron, (Y/N), I also feel responsible for you. I want what is best for you, I hope you know that.”

“I do, my Lord.”

His hand brushes down the back of your hair. “You have always been such a good girl for me.” His hand stops on the back of your head, and you flinch as his hand suddenly grips your hair. “But I need you to remember that your obedience is to me before my nephew.”

His grip does not hurt, but it frightens you.

You force your hands to remain in your lap. “Y-Yes, my Lord. I remember.”

“The next interference, I will not spare the rod on you.”

You swallow. “I understand.”

Ormund smiles at your agreement. His hand loosens on your hair, and he cups your cheek instead. “I have been told I have a weakness for you, Lady (Y/N). That I am too lenient when you are around, that I lack appropriate sternness.”

You have been told the same thing about him. That he is fond of you, that he treats you kinder than others, that your faith in the Seven makes him more gentle.

Ormund’s hand lingers on your cheek a moment, before he turns your head to the side, and reaches out to wipe away a bead of sweat that began to form on your temple.

“You would not dare use that against me, would you?”

“Never, my Lord.” You realize your hands are forming sweat as well. You open and close them to try to release the nerves. “I-I appreciate your mercy, but it is never expected.”

“Good.” He turns your jaw to face him head on. “Because my patience is not limitless.”

You do not know what he wants you to say. You wonder if he even wants you to say anything at all, or if he just wants to frighten you so you do not interfere again. You simply repeat, “I understand, my Lord.”

You think he will let go of you, but he does not.

Instead, he leans closer, and you hear his long inhale. It is what he does whenever the serving boys bring him new scented powders.

“You smell of candle smoke,” he tells you.

“From my prayer in the Sept, my Lord.”

Your answer satisfies him.

Another moment passes of uncertainty for you. You have never been alone with Ormund for this long before. Your mind goes back to Daeron, and where he might be.

“I think it is time we find a perfume for you.”

The comment catches you by surprise. “A perfume, my Lord?”

“Noble women choose perfumes for themselves. Ones they reorder time and time again. They spray it upon letters when they send it away, and sometimes gift small portions of it to women in their service. It will help mask the scent of the other tasks you attend to during the day. You are old enough now to go and choose your own.”

The idea uplifted you. “I will be able to choose?”

“You will be taken to the market tomorrow. You will pick three scents you like, and I will make the final decision on which one will be yours.”

“Any perfume?”

“Any you desire. There is no budget when it comes to a woman’s cleanliness.”

You feel yourself getting excited over the prospect of shopping. Lord Ormund usually hand picks everything for you, without your opinion on things.

Your excitement makes you bold. “May I choose a new dress for myself as well? It has been a long time since I have had myself fitted.”

His eyes flicker over your face. “You push your luck.”

Your heart drops, and you think you have angered him.

But he merely asks, “What would it be for?”

“For my visits to the Sept,” you quickly tell him, because you know he will not refuse this. “A dress with a thicker skirt so that my knees do not ache at the end of the day.”

Ormund leans back and contemplates. “You recall the rules of modesty for clothing?”

“Of course, my Lord. Neckline higher than the collarbone. Skirts passed the ankles. Arms to the wrist.”

He reaches down and drags his hand up the side of your arm, feeling the material. It was as if he was imagining something new. “Very well then. You may pick up a new dress.”

Your smile grows. You lean up, and you place a kiss on his cheek. “Thank you, Lord Ormund.”

His smile warms, and his expression turns kind. He is happy with you, and you hear it in his voice as he relents, “I will allow two dresses, if it pleases you.”

“Yes.” Your spirits raise even higher. “Yes, it pleases me greatly, thank you.”

Ormund chuckles at how elated you have become. He leans down and places a kiss onto the top of your head.

He lingers for a moment. You hear his gentle inhale, his quiet judgement of what he smells.

“What oils are used for your hair?”

“Roses, my Lord.”

“Do not choose roses tomorrow. This scent is tied to your girlhood with Daeron. You must find a new scent for womanhood.”

You find the comment odd, so you risk a laugh. “I am already a woman, Lord Ormund.”

His response is just a repeated, “No roses.”

Your laugh goes away. You shake your head. “No roses.”

The carriage ride leaves your bones aching, but as soon as the colossal shadow of the Hightower falls over you, all your exhaustion is replaced by an overwhelming dizzying anxiety.

You step out onto the ancient cobblestones of Oldtown, the salty sea breeze immediately clinging to your skin. Above you, the tower stretches so high it seems as though it pierces the heavens, a monument to a family whose wealth and piety are unmatched in Westeros. You pull your cloak tighter around your shoulders, clutching the small lavender sachet hidden in your pocket. It is one of the few comforts from home you brought.

Your father’s parting words still echo in your ears: “You are eighteen now. A woman grown. Serve Lord Ormund’s daughter well, keep your head down, and pray that the Maiden smiles upon you enough to catch the eye of a wealthy knight or noble.”

You are a lesser noble, born to a house with a proud name and beautiful lavender fields but empty coffers. You are here under the guise of an honour; to be a companion and caretaker for Lord Ormund’s toddler daughter, a child tragically left without a mother, since birth. But you and most likely everyone else knows, that you are here to secure a good marriage, completely at the mercy of the Hightower’s hospitality.

A stiff-lipped steward leads you through the winding, cavernous halls and never-ending stairs. The sheer opulence of the keep is suffocating, tapestries woven with gold thread, braziers burning with expensive incense, and statues of the Seven watching your every step with unblinking stone eyes.

You are escorted into a grand, sunlit solar to await the Lord of the house.

The heavy oak doors open, and Ser Gwayne Hightower steps in first. He offers you a warm, handsome smile. "Welcome to the Hightower, my lady. I trust the journey wasn't too punishing?"

Before you can offer your curtsy and reply, the air in the room suddenly grows heavy.

You smell him before you see him. The overwhelming, but soft scent of crushed clove, and citrus oil sweeps into the room, overpowering the gentle warmth of the solar.

The guards at the door snap to attention and Lord Ormund Hightower steps over the threshold.

He is a striking, formidable man, a decade and a half your senior, wearing a pristine doublet of dark grey and forest green. In his left hand, he holds a silk handkerchief pressed lightly beneath his nose, his eyes narrowed in a faint display of distaste, as if the very air of the world outside his tower offends him.

"Cousin," Ormund says, his voice rich and confident. He barely looks at Gwayne. His pale, calculating eyes are fixed entirely on you.

You drop into a deep, immediate curtsy. "My Lord. Thank you for your gracious hospitality."

Ormund steps closer. You keep your eyes trained on the stone floor, but you can feel his imposing height looming over you. He stops just a fraction of an inch too close. You tense, waiting for him to speak, but instead, you hear the softest intake of breath. You stay frozen, extremely aware of the clean, soothing scent of lavender and rainwater clinging to your own skin, praying he doesn't find it offensive, but slowly, Ormund lowers the handkerchief from his face.

"You are a welcome sight," Ormund finally says, as he takes a step back. "And a welcome presence. My household has been... bereft of gentle graces since my wife's passing."

He smiles, a perfectly gracious, lordly expression that soothes your nerves. He gestures to the shadows near the door, and a boy steps forward.

"This is my ward, Daeron," Ormund says, his tone shifting instantly from soft to sharp, expectant.

You look at the boy and your breath catches. It was Prince Daeron Targaryen almost your age, with silver hair and violet eyes. But despite his royal blood, his posture is rigid, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. He looks at Ormund with a need for approval, before turning his gaze to you. In his eyes, you see the exact same anxiety you feel twisting in your own stomach.

"It is a pleasure, my lady," Daeron says, his voice polite but strained.

Gwayne steps forward then. "She must be exhausted. The nursery has been prepared, and I am sure little Lady Bethany will be thrilled to have a new companion,”

"Of course," Ormund murmurs, his eyes dragging over your face one last time. "See that you settle in well." He turns mid-sentence and sweeps from the solar, taking the heavy scent of cloves with him. The moment the doors click shut, the suffocating pressure in the room vanishes. Daeron's shoulders slump in relief, and Gwayne lets out a quiet breath, offering you a sympathetic smile before guiding you away to your new quarters.

The next few weeks slip into a quiet, unexpectedly gentle routine. The nursery quickly becomes your sanctuary. Little Lady Bethany is a sweet, lovely child who latches onto you almost immediately, burying her face in your skirts and finding comfort in the soft scent of lavender you bring.

Every afternoon, the heavy oak door opens to welcome the Lord of Oldtown, and every time, you prepare yourself for the imposing, arrogant man you met on your first day. Instead, you are met with the picture of a devoted, grieving father.

He sits in the plush chair by the window, lifting little Bethany onto his lap with a startling gentleness. While she plays with his signet ring, Ormund talks to you, he asks about the songs you hum to his daughter, which leads to long, surprisingly deep conversations about the old ballads of the Reach and the histories of the First Men.

During these visits, you often notice him closing his eyes and taking deep breaths. But in truth you think nothing of it. The nursery always smells of clean linen and the lavender oil you dab on your wrists and neck. To you, it simply seems that the heavy burden of lordship exhausts him, and he finds peace in the innocent, sweet-smelling quiet of his daughter’s room. You begin to admire him, seeing a gracious, intelligent man who deeply loves his family beneath his imposing exterior.

Daeron also makes a habit of slipping through the door, when Ormund is occupied with duties of his court. Without his guardian’s looming shadow, Daeron is entirely different, he is quick-witted, kind and funny. Your friendship with him blossoms effortlessly.

You sneak down to the kitchens to steal warm lemon cakes and spend hours wandering the library, stifling giggles as Daeron dramatically recites terribly written poetry he finds in the dusty archives. Ser Gwayne often catches you both in your mischief. Instead of reprimanding you, the handsome knight always covers for you two, offering a quick wink or even distracting the guards so you and Daeron can make an escape to the gardens.

For the first time since arriving, you begin to believe you might actually be happy here and the anxiety that you felt on your arrival has almost completely melted away. Until one night on your fourth week you were walking down one of the grand corridors, carrying a mended cloak for Bethany, when you heard footsteps.

Lord Ormund is walking ahead of you, deep in conversation with a steward. From a side passage, a young, nervous servant girl hurries out. She is carrying a heavy basin of hot water mixed with strong, pungent pine oil and vinegar for scrubbing the floors. In her haste, she trips. The basin clatters loudly against the stone, and the hot, sour-smelling liquid splashes directly onto the hem of Lord Ormund’s velvet cloak.

Ormund stops. The silence that falls over the corridor is freezing. The steward immediately takes three steps back.

"Forgive me, my lord!" the girl sobs, immediately dropping to her knees in the puddle, her hands shaking violently. "Mercy, please, I tripped…"

You freeze a dozen paces away, hidden in the shadow of a stone pillar. Ormund looks down at the weeping girl. His handsome face contorts into something monstrous. His eyes darken and his lips pull back in a sneer of pure, unadulterated disgust. He kicks the bucket at the girl cowering on the floor, who lets out a pained sob when it hits her.

"You ignorant, clumsy little rat," Ormund hisses. His voice is cold, it carries a venom so potent it makes your stomach turn. He steps closer to the cowering girl, looming over her. "I will have you stripped and thrown into the harbor to wash the stink from your skin…"

You take a tiny, involuntary step backward. Your shoe scuffs softly against the stone.

Ormund’s head snaps up. His pale eyes lock onto you in the shadows.

For a terrifying heartbeat, you see the monster looking right at you. Then, as if a switch has been flipped, the cold fury vanishes. His features smooth out into a picture of polite grace. The vicious lord disappears, replaced instantly by the gracious, smiling patriarch.

"Ah, my lady," Ormund says smoothly, stepping neatly around the trembling, sobbing servant without a downward glance. He pulls his clove-scented handkerchief from his pocket, dabbing at his nose with practiced elegance before offering you a warm smile. "Minor clumsiness. Nothing to fret over. Come, walk with me away from this dampness. The air here has grown terribly foul."

You take his offered arm, your hand still trembling slightly. For days after the incident, you cannot shake the image of the weeping servant girl and the monstrous, flat look in Lord Ormund's eyes. It haunts you. Yet, every time you see him in the nursery or the great hall, he is the very picture of grace. He asks after your health with genuine warmth, and he listens to your thoughts with rapt attention. He is so perfectly gracious, so attentive, that you begin to doubt your own memory. Perhaps you misunderstood the situation. Perhaps the overwhelming stress of ruling such a massive city and lordship had simply caused a momentary lapse in his otherwise noble composure.

You try to push the lingering unease away and focus on the real reason your father sent you to Oldtown. During the evening feasts, you make polite conversation with a few eligible knights. One of them, a charming third son from house Rowan, even asks you for a dance and promises to call upon you the next day in the gardens. But the next morning, he never arrives. When you see him across the courtyard later that week, he averts his eyes, and quickly turns in the opposite direction. He is not the only one. Any suitor who shows even a flicker of genuine interest in you soon finds an excuse to keep their distance.

You assume it is simply your lack of a substantial dowry, but the isolation soon begins to spread into your daily routine.

Your joyful afternoons with Daeron are suddenly cut short. Just as you are settling under a tree in the gardens, a steward will appear, bowing deeply. “Forgive the intrusion, my Prince, but Lord Ormund has ordered an urgent review of your High Valyrian translations.” Gwayne, too, finds himself unexpectedly burdened. Whenever the knight stops by the nursery to share a joke and a lemon cake, a guard inevitably arrives to summon him to the armory or dispatch him on a patrol of the city gates.

You never suspect that Ormund is orchestrating it. How could you? He is the Lord of Oldtown, his mind is occupied with trade routes and the Faith, not the social calendar of his daughter's companion.

Yet, as the keep seems to empty around you, you increasingly find yourself alone with him.

It begins with small gestures that leave your head spinning. You tell yourself you are simply unused to the customs of such a big court. He is a powerful lord and you are a lesser noble in his care. It is only natural he checks on you.

One afternoon you are sitting on the rug, humming softly as you braid little Bethany’s hair. You know Lord Ormund has entered the room, but you are so focused on the child that you do not look up at him until he is kneeling right beside you.

"She loves you dearly," he says, his deep voice vibrating in the quiet room.

You look up, startling slightly. A loose strand of your hair falls across your face. Ormund lifts his hand. His knuckles are warm and slightly calloused as they graze your cheek, gently tucking the stray lock of hair behind your ear. His fingers linger against the shell of your ear for the briefest heartbeat before falling away. His eyes are dark, focused entirely on your face. But when your breath hitches in panic, he merely smiles, a soft, paternal smile and turns his attention back to his daughter. The warmth of the touch remains long after his hand has withdrawn. You felt foolish for the way your heart had begun to race.  

You were in your chambers, brushing out your hair and preparing for sleep one night, when a sharp, heavy knock rattles your door. A guard stands in the dimly lit corridor, his face unreadable. "Lord Ormund requires your presence in his office, my lady."

Your stomach twists into a tight, cold knot. It is far too late for a proper visit, and inappropriate for an unwed maiden to be summoned to a lordly office at this hour. But you have absolutely no power to refuse the Lord of Oldtown. You pull a modest woolen shawl over your thin nightgown and follow the guard through the dark, echoing halls.

When the heavy oak doors of the solar close behind you, the silence of the room is suffocating. Ormund is pacing behind his massive carved desk. The usually pristine lord looks unraveled. His dark velvet doublet is unclasped at the throat, his brown hair is slightly disheveled. Scattered across the desk are crumpled pieces of parchment bearing the broken wax seals of the Tyrells.

"Fools," Ormund mutters, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that vibrates in the quiet room. He doesn't even look at you as you stand frozen near the door. "Surrounded by ignorant, grasping fools who cannot see past their own miserable, petty ambitions." Then he finally looks at you with hard eyes and takes you in. "Pour me a drink," he orders, gesturing tightly toward a silver flagon and jeweled goblet resting on a side table in the darkest corner of the solar. "The Arbor Red. And be quick about it. My patience has been thoroughly bled dry tonight by fools."

You swallow hard, keeping your head down as you cross the room. You can feel the crushing weight of his stare tracking your every movement. You reach the table, your fingers shaking as you lift the heavy silver flagon. The red wine sloshes slightly, threatening to spill over the rim of the goblet. You are so focused on keeping your hands steady that you don't hear him move.

You don't hear his footsteps on the carpet. You only realize he is there when the overwhelming heat of his large frame radiates against your back.

You freeze, the flagon suspended mid-air.

Ormund steps flush against you, entirely eradicating the distance between you. His chest presses heavily against your spine, solid and immoveable. You are trapped between the edge of the table and him. Your breath catches in your throat, a quiet, terrified sound, but you are too paralyzed by the sheer power imbalance to pull away.

Slowly, deliberately, Ormund lowers his head. You feel the faint scratch of his jaw brush against the shell of your ear. He buries his face in the curve of your neck, his nose pressing into your hair.

He takes a long, shuddering intake of breath, inhaling the clean, soothing scent of the lavender oil on your skin. His broad chest expands against your back. As he breathes you in, the rigid, tension in his body seems to melt away, leaving behind something far heavier.

"My lord…" your voice comes out as a breathless, panicked whisper.

"Hush," he commands softly. "They suffocate me with their stench," Ormund murmurs, his lips brushing right against your fluttering pulse point as he speaks.

He lets out a low, rough sigh that vibrates against your collarbone. "Seven hells," he murmurs, his voice stripped of all its polish reduced to a dark rumble. "You are the only clean thing in this rotting, foul-smelling city."

You try to shrink away, to slide out from between him and the table, but the moment you move, his large palms grip your waist with bruising, possessive force, halting your escape instantly. He easily holds you in place with just his hands on your hips, dragging you backward until your lower half is pulled flush against him. You can feel every hard line of his body pressing into yours.

His right hand slowly releases your waist, sliding upward. His long fingers drag possessively over your stomach, the searing heat of his palm burning through your thin nightgown. His hand moves higher, spreading wide as his thumb deliberately brushes against the soft underside of your breast.

"Lord Ormund, please," you plead, your voice shaking. "This isn't proper."

His hand tightens slightly and he turns his head, pressing an open-mouthed, wet kiss against the column of your neck.

Panic finally shatters your paralysis. With a sudden, desperate surge of strength, you twist your body to the side. Your arm strikes the silver flagon of Arbor Red you had just poured. It tips over with a deafening crash, sending a wave of wine splashing across the polished oak table and down the front of Ormund’s doublet.

Ormund flinches, his grip loosening for just a fraction of a second, but it is enough and you rip yourself away from his warmth. You do not look back to see his reaction. You run.

You do not sleep that night. You sit on the edge of your bed, shivering in your thin nightgown, watching the moonlight slowly turn to the grey light of dawn.

As soon as the sun breaks over the horizon, you drag your worn leather trunk from beneath the bed. You are leaving. You will face your father’s wrath and return to the beautiful lavender fields of your home. It does not matter that your family has empty coffers, you cannot stay in the shadow of this tower a moment longer.

A sharp knock at the door makes you freeze.

"My lady?" It is the cheerful, airy voice of a senior handmaiden.

You hesitate, your heart hammering against your ribs. You slowly pull the door open to reveal not just the maiden, but a steward and a household guard. In the maiden's arms is a breathtaking gown of smoke grey velvet, intricately embroidered with the emerald green flames of House Hightower.

"What is this?" you ask, your voice hoarse and broken.

"A gift from the Lord of Oldtown, my lady!" the handmaiden beams, entirely oblivious to your horrified face. "And my deepest congratulations! The entire keep is celebrating."

The floor seems to tilt beneath your feet. "Celebrating?"

"Lord Ormund announced it at the break of dawn. His mourning is over. He has sent his swiftest raven to your lord father and already spoken to the Septon." The steward steps forward, bowing deeply. "You are to be wed before the moon turns."

The breath leaves your lungs. He bypassed you entirely. As the absolute authority in the Reach, where the Tyrells aren’t concerned, his word is law. Your impoverished father will surely accept a massive dowry and from the Lord of Oldtown no less, who he holds in such high regards. You are utterly trapped.

Before the maiden can step into the room to dress you. The familiar scent of crushed clove and citrus sweeps through the corridor.

Ormund steps into the doorway. The servants immediately bow and scatter like frightened mice, leaving you alone with him.

He is perfectly composed. The monster from last night is completely gone, replaced by the immaculate, gracious lord you have come to know in the sunlit nursery. His hands are clasped loosely behind his back, making him appear open, unthreatening. 

His eyes sweep over your terrified frame, taking in your trembling hands and the worn leather trunk dragged halfway across the floor. A look of sorrow crosses his handsome features.

"My lady," Ormund murmurs, his voice rich and soft. He does not approach you. He purposefully leaves a wide, respectful distance between you. "Did I frighten you so terribly?"

You swallow hard, unable to find your voice.

Ormund sighs, a heavy, weary sound, and lowers his head. "I came to offer my most sincere apologies. When I woke this morning the shame I felt was devastating." He looks up, his eyes meeting yours with such vulnerability that it knocks the breath from your lungs. "The letters from Highgarden, the endless demands of the Faith... the crushing weight of this lordship had utterly broken my spirit. I poured cup after cup of the Arbor Red until my senses were clouded.."

He takes a single, slow step forward. You stiffen, but he immediately stops, raising a hand in a calming gesture.

"I meant you no disrespect. I swear it by the Seven," he says, his voice thick with what sounds like genuine emotion. "You must understand, you have been such a comfort to me since you arrived. You quiet the noise in this keep. Last night... I was a drowning man, and you were the only solid ground. I allowed my desperation to overwhelm my manners. I was a fool to let my affections frighten you."

You stare at him. The sincerity in his voice makes the room spin. Affections? Last night, his large palms had gripped your waist with such force. He had backed you against a table, his voice completely stripped of its polish. But looking at him now, a powerful lord humbling himself before a girl of a noble house of no real consequence, speaking of his burdens with such openness, and a terrible seed of doubt begins to take root in your mind.

Was he truly trying to hurt you? Or was he simply a lonely, exhausted man who had momentarily lost control of his heart?

"I realized this morning that my actions had compromised your honour, and my own," Ormund continues smoothly, his tone shifting into one of noble resolve. "And I could not bear the thought of you fleeing Oldtown in fear, returning to a life of hardship when I could offer you everything. I wished to show you that I do not view you as a fleeting comfort."

He offers you a small smile. "You will never have to worry about your family’s empty coffers again."

Ormund bows deeply to you, the absolute picture of chivalry and grace, before turning and sweeping from the room.

Disclaimer: YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO REPOST MY WRITING ANYWHERE ELSE WITHOUT MY CONSENT. REBLOGS ARE ENCOURAGED THOUGH. YOU MAY NOT FEED MY WORK TO ANY AI DATABASES OF ANY KIND, USE MY WORKS TO TRAIN AI OR USE AI TO TRANSLATE MY WORK. FUCK AI.

"Daddy!"

The shrill of childish excitement lights up the surgery department in an instant, eyes and ears cutting through the sterile floor towards the sound, eager for a reaction from someone, anyone.

It's even more satisfying when Brendon Park, the Shark of orthopedics, stops mid sentence, turning swiftly to the sound, his blank expression curling into a gentle smile as he bends down to pick up the three year old in his gigantic arms.

"What're you doing here, guppy?" he teases. Brendon Park jokes, and glances get thrown between residents, interns and nurses alike.

Ah gossip, the great equalizer.

"Wanted to see you."

The little girl manhandles him, pulling and squeezing his cheeks like he's not a great white but rather a pliable flounder, reducing him to nothing more than a sucker for his kid.

"Oh yeah, where's—?"

"Jesus trouble, how do you run so fast?"

The way Brendon Park lights up for the second time practically blinds everyone. Oh this is definitely making the rumor mill rounds today. So long boring ten hour surgery to come.

"I didn't run!" the child huffs. "I ski...skiddered."

"Skipped?" Brendon looks to you for confirmation.

You roll your eyes at her antics, nodding your head towards her father, gracing him with a smile that makes everyone understand exactly why their big, mean, scary boss is acting the way he is.

The floor returns to its normal shuffle after that, one more second of inaction and the Shark would've definitely snapped.

"Hey," Brendon greets you, a little reserved, definitely surgical in nature.

"Hey Mr. Park," you beam and he instantly stills.

"How many times do I have to tell you," he starts to chide. "At least call me doctor Park."

You sigh out a laugh at that, rolling your eyes playfully as you instinctively step closer. He can smell the faint sweetness of your perfume, the spilled apple sauce on your shirt, the hint of laundry detergent on your fingers.

"I'm glad we caught you," you tell him. "We didn't know if you'd started on time today."

"Just about to go in."

You nod, clinical, like you're absorbing information and processing how you're going to get out of his hair in the next twenty seconds.

"Gotcha, well, you got what you wanted trouble," you hum, moving to grab the child in his arms.

She knows what's coming and so she throws herself onto her dad, tiny hands fisting the purple scrubs, cheek pressed tightly over his chest.

"No! I wanna stay with daddy."

Brendon opens his mouth to speak, to defuse the situation before the guilt eats him alive. But you're no sucker, unlike him.

"Really?" you frown. "You wanna stay with your daddy while he does his surgery instead of going to the park to get ice cream with me?"

In all honesty, he stopped listening to you the second the word daddy left your lips. He's certain his kid can feel his heart beating uncomfortably fast, rattling against this ribcage and threatening to burst out of his chest.

All he registers is the toddler flinging herself out of his loose embrace, almost face planting against the sterile floors and practically buzzing with excitement.

"Brendon?" you turn to him, smile turning into a frown quickly.

He springs back into reality when your hand lands over his forearm, light and grounding, like an anchor he didn't know he needed.

"Yeah, yeah," he responds, pretends, shifts out of your touch like he's already late for something that isn't even remotely time for. "I'll see you for dinner, okay guppy?"

But she doesn't care anymore.

"Okay! Bye dad."

Instead, she grabs your hand, demanding and pushy, and pulls you down the hall.

"Bye doctor Park," you tease. "See you later."

And just like that, calm and cold return to the surgery department, and Brendon Park snaps back into the sharpness that defines him.

It's late by the time he makes it home.

Too late, too tired, too...everything.

He sneaks into his own home like a teenager, light steps, a soft touch as he turns the key, even takes off his shoes by the door before he even makes it into the house.

It's not the first time either, not gonna be the last.

He shouldn't feel bad, this is what he pays you the big bucks for at the end of the day.

It's when he peeks into his daughter's room, catching the two of you snuggled together in her tiny bed, butterfly printed comforter covering her and not you, a book forgotten, Mr. Stuffles the rabbit on the floor that it hits him.

Hard.

He'd been miserable that first year after his girlfriend left him. They'd been planning a wedding, the baby being just another blessing in the string of goodness that they had been experiencing.

At least it had been to him.

It took her a year to leave, to finally crack under the pressure and run away. He didn't know how to be a dad alone, much less navigate co-parenting with the woman who had torn his heart out of his chest with her bare hands.

If it hadn't been for his mother, sisters and brothers, Brendon would not have made it through it.

But even they could only get him so far. He needed to go back to work, needed to find something to keep him going, needed...help. Professional help.

And that's when he'd found you.

Frank Langdon's occasional babysitter, full time student looking for a summer job while you got yourself situated for your master's program.

The little guppy was two at that point and Brendon simply couldn't be there for her all the time. So he poached you away from the ED doctor.

To say the dynamic had started out a little toxic would be...an understatement.

Once Brendon returned to the OR with full force, he fell hard into it, into the love and thrill and control that he could exert over his patients, his work, his process.

All the control he'd lost, the scared man that he had become—frantic and powerless—disappeared the second he got back in those scrubs.

And so did the loving and caring father that had put his kid first.

You ripped him a new one about eight days after first meeting him, a night like this, one where he came back home buzzing from a procedure well done, pupils dilated and ego through the roof.

She was young enough to not remember then, but she was definitely old enough to hold onto broken promises now, and that is what tugged at his heartstrings.

Now, tea parties and recitals were just as, if not more important than getting to do a risky procedure no one at PTMC had done before.

Of course, this time around he'd texted, let you know there had been a complication with the surgery. The shaky intern typing out the message practically stopped breathing every time Brendon asked him to erase everything and start from scratch.

They all thought it was cute how he wanted it to be perfect and gentle for his daughter, but the truth is, he needed it to be for you.

Brendon steps into the room softly, bending down to pick up the stuffy and placing it in between his kid's arms before he closes the picture book and sets it on the nightstand.

Neither of you startle at the movement, the soft glow from the salt lamp casting shadows that you knew were never meant to harm you.

It's only when Brendon places a hand over your shoulder, squeezing gently that you blink awake.

"Hi," you whisper, barely turning back to look at him.

"Hi," he smiles softly. "Are you comfy?"

You scoff out a laugh, soft enough not to wake up the kid but loud enough to make his smile grow twice the size.

"Let's get you to bed then," he places a hand under your neck then, pushing you up by supporting your back with his forearm while you tangle your hands around his other arm and pulling yourself into a sitting position.

Certain you're awake enough not to topple over, he leans over you and places a kiss to his kid's temple, watching her nose scrunch ever so slightly before settling back into comfortable sleep.

You smirk at his antics, using his body as leverage to get up to your feet, hands clumsily digging into the muscles of his back.

He groans lightly, old man that he is, and quickly retaliates, holding onto you so that you'll hoist him up with you.

"So heavy," you joke, straining to keep the two of you upright.

Brendon shrugs. "Just full of love."

"Booo," you chuckle, making your way out of her room, Brendon's hands over your shoulders to steady you. "There's leftovers in the microwave if you want them."

He hums in acknowledgment, letting you go as you make it out to the hallway.

"Eat, then shower?" he asks you.

"I'll take advantage then."

He nods. "Yours is still busted?"

"Yeah, guy said earliest he could come is next week."

"Damn plumbers."

"Indeed."

He stares at you for a long second after the conversation settles.

He's...comfortable. Too comfortable with you.

The past year has been a whirlwind. One summer quickly turning into you deferring your master's program so you could finish out the year with them. Then one semester turned into two, into you moving in, into...this.

Don't get him wrong, Brendon knows where the two of you stand. It's not necessarily healthy, but it's innocent, it's professional, it's...just a pathetic crush, nothing more. A fantasy he'll never allow himself to indulge in.

And yet, he cannot stop himself every time his eyes fall on your lips, the plumpness calling to him, beckoning him forward, demanding attention, truth.

"Goodnight then," he manages, rough and exhausted, desperate yet...not enough. Never enough.

You smile dopily at him. "Goodnight Brendon."

It's his own fault really, he should've knocked. But it's his house for fuck's sake, why should he?

So that's how he gets a complete eyeful of you taking a shower the next morning.

He got a late start which meant making breakfast, taking his guppy to school and then going to the gym, all before nine.

Unfortunately for him, earbuds in, distracted as all hell, he completely misses all the warning signs, the closed door, the steam, your clothes on the floor, the music blaring from the speaker.

He's certain he's dead and this is both heaven and hell simultaneously when he finally dares to look up and—

Jesus fucking Christ.

He should look away, he needs to look away...but he physically can't, his hungry gaze taking in every inch of skin visible through the condensation of the glass shower.

If only he would've reacted a second earlier...

You turn in slow motion, your reaction catching up late. You yelp, hands coming up to wrap around your chest, only aiding in pushing your boobs up further.

He instantly snaps into action, blush taking over every inch of his face and neck as he curses out a long string of apologies, blood pumping through his heart and his...yeah, he needs to get the fuck out of there.

"I'm sorry, so sorry," he stumbles out of the bathroom ungracefully, fast enough that he doesn't catch your own reaction, the way your chest constricts, the way your legs rub together.

Brendon manages to hurriedly hide in the kitchen, heart hammering against his ribcage, eyes wide and mind absolutely running a million miles an hour.

He needs to forget he ever saw that, needs to erase it from his brain...but his stupid erection won't let him.

The tent in his pants becomes painful the second he gives it attention, the flimsy material of his work out shorts just not helping his case at all. He needs to take care of this, needs to stop being such a weirdo before you come out.

So he rushes into your bathroom, locks the door like a sane human being does, and pulls himself out of his boxers methodically.

This isn't pleasurable, no, not at all, never. This is necessity. Emotionless, cold and surgical. He spits on his hand, wrapping it around himself without much preamble, thinking of nothing, searching for only one thing, release.

But he looks down at himself and his brain betrays him.

Imagine her on her knees.

"Fuck no."

How beautiful does she look, skin wet, hair stuck to her neck, eyes wide, mouth open?

"Shut the fuck up."

Her mouth would be so hot, come on, Brendon, give into her—

"Go away."

And yet he groans, the mere thought of you knowing what he's doing two doors away, the way you pushed up your chest, the need to paint it—paint you—white with his spend—

He's biting down on his other hand quickly after as he cums loudly, making sure to aim for the toilet while does.

You're no longer in the shower when he comes back out, your movements confined to your room. He doesn't have the courage to seek you out, so instead he just showers in silence.

The two of you don't interact at all before he's making his way into work.

You left his food prepped on the dining room table, disappearing out of the house the second you did to run some errands.

The tinge of shame and embarrassment linger deep in his bones all throughout the day, following him around like an unwanted shadow.

How would he even start to apologize? You have to talk about it, there's just no other way around it, but...how could he ever tell you it was a mistake when a part of him wanted nothing more than for it to happen again—to get a better look?

Since he made it to work late, he leaves even later. As he makes his way into his home, the same stillness from the night before greets him, only this time, it's heavy, like a breath that's been held in too long.

He goes through his routine quietly, dropping his bag by the door, checking in on his kid before walking down the hallway towards his bedroom.

But before he can make it, something catches his attention.

A breath. A gasp. A moan.

He freezes in front of your closed door, body going rigid with goosebumps, head turning almost robotically as his senses sharpen.

Your light is still on, peeking through the bottom slit of the door. Not uncommon, you like staying up to wait for him before you go to sleep.

No, what catches his attention is the distant...humming.

He steps forward, tentatively pressing his ear to the wood. It's not just a humming, it's vibrations, soft and steady.

Another shaky breath escapes you, louder than you would've liked, and you readjust the toy.

A shiver passes through Brendon as realization hits.

His cock twitches painfully against his underwear. Fuck this cannot be happening right now.

His head falls against your door, stabilizing, grounding. He can't, he will not—

Another moan from you. You're close.

Whatever resolve Brendon has snaps as he pulls himself out of his pants, hot, heavy and leaking.

"Jesus fucking Christ," he whispers as he takes himself into his hand. He begins to pump quickly, the pace excruciating and borderline painful, but he doesn't care, he needs to—

"Brendon," you huff, a breathy moan curling around his name. "Please I'm—Motherfucker!" you curse through gritted teeth, the vibrations stopping abruptly.

Brendon's heart does a leap in his chest.

Oh my god.

He can feel how frustrated you are, can hear how you shift uncomfortably over your sheets, can practically taste how wet you are as you toss the toy with a thump on the mattress next to you.

And Brendon doesn't think. Can't think, can't process a logical thought to save his life as he lifts his unoccupied hand and—

Knocks.

Says your name in that soft, saccharine voice of his that he uses when his child is throwing a tantrum.

Oh how he wishes he could see your face pale in horror at the knowledge of your boss being on the other side of the door.

"Are you okay?" he keeps poking.

You swallow thickly, shame mixing with terror.

"Mhmm."

"Can I come in?"

A broken sound leaves your chest, unprompted and definitely surprising you just as much as it does him.

"Um...no?"

He says your name again, stern and fatherly. He hears you moving around frantically, hiding all evidence of what you were just doing.

"Okay."

"Okay." A Cheshire smile curls at his lips, a thrill of satisfaction coursing through him as he tucks himself into his pants, the outline of his still rock hard dick on full display.

It's now or never.

He opens the door. You never seem to lock it, fucking adorable.

He has to physically hold himself back from pouncing on you as his eyes land on your heated cheeks, on your slightly tussled hair, on how you're gripping your comforter to save your life.

He shoots you a calming smile, boyish and embarrassed, as he steps into your room and closes the door behind him. Locking it.

He hears you gulp loudly as you notice his final movement.

"How was your day?" you barely manage to ask, your throat hoarse, your breathing broken.

He settles down on the bed by your feet, close enough to make your heart beat out of your throat, far away enough that he won't overwhelm you entirely.

"Good, good," he sighs, one hand tentatively inching closer and closer to you. "Lot of injuries today."

"I bet."

He smirks, a huff of a laugh cutting through the tension in the room.

"Listen—" he starts, looking up at you before continuing. You choke on your own breath, body becoming a statue with shame. "I'm sorry, I should've realized you were in the shower. It was very inappropriate of me and it will not happen again."

You let out a shaky breath, settling into the false sense of security, choosing to believe that he definitely did not hear you...yeah.

Brendon has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop from grinning like an idiot. God, you're just so adorable.

You nod, shifting forward, closer to him. "It's okay, I know you didn't do it on purpose. It was just...weird I guess."

You laugh, awkwardly, because what a silly predicament the two of you have found yourselves in, clearly.

Brendon doesn't follow your lead, not at all. He just keeps watching you, eyes darkening as he leans into you as well, his hand finally coming up to grab ahold of your foot over the comforter.

He squeezes enough to punctuate the moment, the tension, the heat. Your gaze snaps towards his hand, towards him, towards—

Your eyes widen without your consent as they land on his crotch, on the straining in his scrubs, on his still practically throbbing erection.

"Brendon," you exhale, confusion and desire blending together excruciatingly.

He shivers over you, his grip tightening on you.

"Don't," he warns. "Don't start something you won't finish, sweetheart."

Your gaze meets his then. He looks like a caged animal, practically vibrating as he holds himself back.

Emboldened by your lust, by the pent up frustration left coiling in your lower stomach, you get up on your knees, letting the comforter fall around your waist, the slightest sliver of skin peeking through.

"Oh I intend to finish it," you whisper.

"Unlike your vibrator?"

That breaks the spell quickly, heat rushing up to your face, neck, back instantly.

"Oh my god, Brendon!" you smack his arm, falling back down on your heels.

He smiles dopily, his hand sliding up your thigh as your brain processes all this new information. Distracted, you don't even notice when he slides beneath the fabric. It's only when the backs of his fingers graze your dripping folds that your breathing hitches.

"Fuck, sweetheart," he groans. "You're so wet."

You whimper at the feather light contact, hips bucking towards his touch.

"Please," you're no longer thinking, finally. "I need...make me cum, Bren."

The smirk that adorns his face then, all self-righteous and proud, only gets you wetter.

"Is this what you need, baby?" he leans in, breath hot against your ear as he presses a kiss just below it. "Needed my fingers to get yourself to cum?"

You moan, hands coming up to grab a hold of him, nails digging into the toughness of his arms.

In response, Brendon presses his thumb over your clit, slowly moving the pad in torturous circles. You pull him closer, opening your legs so that he has better access.

"Tell me what you need," he commands. "Tell daddy how to make you feel good."

Oh your head is spinning. A tear falls down your cheek, frustration rocking you out of control.

"Need your fingers," you pant.

He grins against your skin. "You already have 'em."

You whine, patience wearing thin. Who would've ever thought, his good girl, so demanding.

"In me, please," you choke, swallowing the drool that has gathered in your mouth before continuing. "Please daddy."

It breaks him, his ring and middle finger thrusting into you in one swift movement as his thumb picks up the pace.

You instantly hide your face agains the crook of his neck, your breathy moan muffled against him as he hooks his fingers into you, curling them over and over again against you until your legs are shaking beneath him.

"That's it, baby, such a good girl for me."

You shiver against him, melting against his warmth.

"Help daddy out, baby, wanna—" he groans. "Wanna cum with you."

He slows down his movements, keeping you right on the edge between putty and alert.

You nod against him, timid hands grazing down his torso towards his pants. The second your hand slides under his waistband, a hiss escapes him, causing a shiver of praise to boost your ego.

You manage to pull him out, long and thick and hot and heavy against your palm, you can't help but salivate at the sight. You let your drool drip down on him, his hips jerking as the wetness lands over his sensitive tip.

You giggle, overly amused by his reactions, emboldened by how easy it is to tame the Shark with just a simple swipe of your hand over his leaking head.

"Fucking hell, baby," he groans, picking up his own pace in retaliation.

You pull back to look at him then, gazes locking in silent competition.

He looks completely disheveled, broken and almost...reverent. Gratification blooms in your stomach, your hand pumping his length in tandem with his own fingers inside of you, the pace causing the two of you to slowly start to unravel together.

Your mouth hangs open in a silent moan as your body clenches around him, so close to the edge, so, so, so perfect—

"Daddy," you warn. "I'm gonna—"

He grunts, grabbing your hand and pulling it back up to his tip, urging you to focus your efforts there.

It takes him no time to catch up to you, his own body tensing in anticipation.

"C'mon baby," he implores. "Let go for me, cum with me."

A choked moan ripples through you as the coil snaps. Your legs quake, your vision blurs from pleasure, your hand stills over him as you feel his own release take over.

It's overwhelming to say the least, his hot moans heavy in your ear, his spend spurting onto your hand, painting his scrubs and your delicate skin, his warmth...oh my god he's so everywhere.

You can't think straight. Can't breathe right. Can't—

You groan as he removes his hand from inside of you, wetness running down your inner thighs as he does. Pleasure clouds your brain as you watch him bring his hand up to his mouth, his tongue lapping up your release, humming contently at the sweet taste.

Hunger flares in your belly as you do the same, lifting your hand up towards your mouth and sucking down on the spot covered by his cum.

You can feel the moan that ripples through him, his body tensing up with lust once more as he watches you.

"Fuck sweetheart, who would've thought..." he smirks, leaning down to smash his lips with your own, mouth desperately seeking to combine your tastes into one sloppy, searing kiss.

You oblige instantly, opening up for him to take whatever he pleases.

He pushes you down onto the mattress, his imposing body slotting itself perfectly in between your open thighs.

He's about to join you on the bed when you break the kiss.

"Outside clothes," you grumble, sleepy and spent.

It tugs at his heartstrings, his mouth curling into a loving smile as he strips down to his boxers before slipping back into bed with you, pulling your body to nestle snugly against his.

"I'm sorry, baby," he kisses your temple, watching you settle into sleep beside him, completely oblivious to how he licks and cleans your skin before finally allowing himself to succumb to the darkness.

You're woken up by laughter.

Soft and airy, like a gust of wind rustling outside your window.

Your curtains are still drawn, only slivers of light peeking through into your room, the warmth from outside starting to become overwhelming as you toss the comforter aside.

You sit up with a start, memories from the night before crashing through you like a downpour.

You almost, almost could've pretended it had all been a dream. Almost, if not for the stickiness lingering between your thighs, for the Brendon sized dip in your mattress that he left behind.

It's impossible not to feel his lingering presence in your bed, the way the sheets molded to accommodate him, the way his woodsy scent mixed with hospital antiseptic lingers on the cotton.

Fuck!

You're so close to spiraling, to having your chest cave in from the pressure of guilt, but then you hear it again.

That laugh, like a tug, a spark, a lifeline.

School, you're supposed to up to help with drop-off today.

You're quick to dress, pulling on your sleep shorts, hastily forgoing underwear because you simply aren't thinking straight.

It's late, too late to be thinking instead of moving.

You burst into the kitchen, ready to hastily put together breakfast and Brendon's lunch when—

"Noooooo!" the toddler screams at you from her high chair. "Go back!”

You frown at her, moving slowly around the kitchen island to catch her dad, sweatpants low on his hips, topless for added effect, just finishing up at the stove.

Behind him, a plate with a mountain of pancakes, and beside it, a tray, decked out with cut fruit, a cup of coffee, scrambled eggs, bacon, even a cup with a little flower from the backyard.

He must see the flurry of emotions taking a hold of you, so he softens instantly.

"Morning," he steps forward slightly. "We were just coming to surprise you."

Your gaze snaps up to his, searching, panicked, overwhelmed and then...grateful.

Your cheeks heat up softly, not instantly, not rushed, just comfortable, safe, loved.

"I'm sorry bug," you lean over and plant a kiss on her head, unruly curls frizzy from sleep. "But now we can have breakfast together, yeah?"

She sighs, dramatically, before she turns to you, arms high up so that you'll pick her up.

You roll your eyes, obviously doing exactly what the princess wants.

You're about to walk out into the living room when you turn back to Brendon, the expression you manage to catch across his features just barely shy of adoration.

You've done this plenty of times before but it's never felt this...domestic. And you can't help how your stomach twists, how your heart blooms—you like this.

Breakfast continues on in that same way. Stolen glances, confusing feelings and an overly energetic toddler that get maple syrup over everything, especially her hair.

One rushed bath time later, you're putting her hair up into ponytail braids, her request, when his imposing frame slides up to lean against his daughter's open door, purple scrubs hugging his body deliciously.

"Ready to go, guppy?"

The kid nods, bashful, as she takes in the little hair clips in her hair, the beads from her ponytails.

"You look beautiful, trouble," you kiss her cheek and she responds by throwing herself around you, a hug so tight it melts you right into her.

"Thank you!"

"You're so welcome."

When she finally lets you go and runs towards her dad, you catch his stare through the mirror. It's...everything. Stormy, bright, hopeful, sorrowful, angry, pleading, you can't look away.

Later, he mouths. We'll talk.

You nod, shooting him a timid smile before he's being dragged out of the house.

Your brain is fuzzy for the next half hour, your movements slow and sluggish.

You focus on tidying up around the house, going through routine out of muscle memory. Cause the truth is, your mind is far away, stuck on the night before, on his lips, his fingers, his hot breath—

Jesus fuck you have got to get it together.

The postman comes through at the perfect time, envelopes snapping you out of inaction. You sort through them absentmindedly still—energy bill, invitation to the annual hospital gala, ortho research magazine, University of Pittsburg—

Your name.

His address.

Your heart constricts, your throat tightens.

Shaky fingers tear through the sticky adhesive, almost tearing the letter within its confines.

Rabid eyes scan the corporate jargon.

Final notice. Unable to push back start date another semester. Confirm attendance or forfeit spot. And then, a deadline.

Sink or swim.

Reality pounding at the door of your carefully crafted fantasy.

It all crumbles instantly.

You've grown attached, complacent, lost yourself as you found a new place, comfortable, easy, simple. You love your life, you love how easy it is to not have to think, to just do, to soak up the joy and the tantrums and the late nights and...

Him.

He's your fucking boss for crying out loud! He can't...he doesn't...you live in his house, you eat his food, you take care of his kid.

How can you take his money and be with him romantically?

You're taking advantage of him, this is so wrong, how could you ever do that to him? To them? To yourself?

But if you leave...if you leave you lose everything you've grown attached to, everything that makes up who you are now, everything—everyone—you love.

This isn't fair. This isn't how it's supposed to go. How could you have been so stupid to—

Your phone blares, a reminder alarm goes off, effectively cutting off your spiraling but only making you even more panicked.

You're late for pick up.

You don't remember much, just that you're driving a little more on edge than you usually are. The lunch traffic is easing down, luckily, but it's just a reminder that you're late.

The school calls, you tell them you're on your way.

He texts, you ignore it.

The green light turns red after you cross—

And it all goes dark.

You're so out of it that your name doesn't sound real.

There's overlapping voices, bright lights, too many hands touching your sweaty skin.

You try to push them off, try to close your eyes for them to be pulled open, try to complain but your throat is so dry nothing remotely close to words spill out.

You know where you are before the nurses have a chance to ease your discomfort.

You can't be here. Nope, not here, bad place to be cause he's here.

You try to get up the second they transfer you into a bed, even manage to sit before Langdon's hands are pulling you back down against the pillow.

"No, nope, none of that," he chides.

"Frank—" your voice sounds so broken it scares you.

"You're okay, let us take care of you," he stares deep into your eyes, his baby blues reminding you of the exact person you're desperate to avoid. "Please."

Before you can continue protesting, they drug you. Yeah, not their finest moment, not yours either. Lorazepam, just enough to calm you down, to finish their exam.

You're lucid, you think, just...softer. It's only then that your body comes back to you, the weight of your bones, the exhaustion in your muscles.

You don't complain again, only answer questions when they're asked.

You're fast tracked to CT, nothing abnormal though you definitely have a concussion. Your body is littered with little cuts and bruises from impact, apparently a motorcyclist who decided to accelerate to sixty without thinking twice. He's being treated at Westbridge so you'll know more later.

Now...now you're just a guilty, crying mess, injuries wrapped, IV almost done, waiting for an ortho consult because everyone in the ED knows you.

But he's not here yet.

It's been hours and he hasn't shown his face.

Logically, you know why.

He had to go pick her up when you didn't know. He had to call out of work because you weren't reliable, he had to—

The curtain is drawn and a child's voice says your name.

You can't help but burst into tears again, desperately trying to hide away, to brace yourself for the impact that follows her around.

But it only makes her more afraid, more distressed, and it breaks your heart.

With your eyes shut, tears streaking down your face, you don't see him, but you hear him.

Hear how he steps into the room, how he refrains from speaking your name, how he pulls the curtain closed again, how he picks up his kid and settles down on the stool beside your bed.

And then you feel tiny, cold hands press over your cheeks, gently poking at you until you break, calling out your name over and over and over until he says it.

Low and soft, pleading.

You open your eyes, a fresh waterfall dripping onto her fingers, causing her to recoil adorably.

"Yucky," she shivers, wiping your tears on her father's shirt.

That gets a laugh out of you.

"There she is," Brendon's voice is heavy, like the emotional weight has solidified into his body and is crushing over his chest.

You finally look up at him then, relinquishing your fears and staring directly into the place you know is both salvation and ruin.

"Well hello baby shark," Dana's signature snark breaks the moment. "Y'wanna come with me and let the boring grownups talk? I got apple sauce and crayons."

Wow she's so easy to lure away it's a wonder she's still in one piece. Well...who wouldn't be, with a dad like that and a nanny who would kill anyone that even thought about breathing near her with wrong intentions.

She winks at you and shoots a stern look at Brendon before leaving the two of you alone.

He doesn't even let the room settle before he's pouncing, lips on yours simply to prove to himself that you're alive, that you're breathing, that you're still here.

You can't stop crying, can't stop shaking, can't—

He shushes you gently, warm hands cupping your cheeks and wiping away the wetness as it falls.

You choke out a half-hearted laugh. "Not yucky?"

He smiles against your mouth, kissing you one last time before he pulls back to look at you.

"I was so worried," the confession is a mere whisper but it hangs thick in the room, suspended in a web of all the things you've both left unsaid. "When Dana called—" he chokes on a breath. "Fuck, sweetheart I almost—I couldn't think, couldn't breathe, I was resetting someone's fucking shoulder and..." he chuckles at the memory. "Almost made it worse."

"The great Brendon Park, almost ruined by one phone call," you try to joke, try to lighten the mood but...it's impossible. The way he stares at you, his gaze searing, his hands holding onto you as if he's afraid if he lets go you'll disappear—"Brendon."

"I know," he murmurs. "I'm sorry, we should've—I should've—"

You shake your head as much as the concussion will allow, your hands coming up to lace with his own.

"It's my fault," you sob. "I wasn't thinking—I...I got scared."

His brow furrows but he doesn't prod, doesn't force you to speak. He just waits, patiently, like you've seen him do plenty times before with a snotty, emotionally confused toddler.

So you take a steadying breath, grab his hand tighter, and tell him everything. The letter, your panic attack, your uncertainty, your fears, your...hopefulness.

It doesn't matter that your brain doesn't feel comfortable baring your soul to him, your heart does. With each word, the clutches of doubt and panic ease off, your grip lightening until you're unashamedly fiddling with his fingers, tracing lazy patterns over his skin like he...like he belongs to you.

He sits with your confession for a while, a few seconds turning into a few minutes but he doesn't pull away, doesn't make you feel unwanted. So you don't panic either, you just trace his nails with your fingers over and over and over agains until—

He lifts your hand up to his mouth and places a soft kiss onto your knuckles.

"What do you wanna do, baby?"

Baby, like it's simple. Baby, like it's normal. Baby, like you're his.

You search his eyes for malice, for a truth that you desperately need to push on him so that you can focus on a broken heart and not the overwhelming reality of choice, of making it work.

But all you find is patience, kindness, openness.

Fucking girl dad ortho bros that are emotionally intelligent—they're the worst.

You sigh, honest and raw. "I don't know. I just don't want to lose you."

He hums in understanding, rolling closer to the bed.

"I don't want to lose you either," he states, unflinching. "We can take this however you need, you can still live with us, you can..."

He trails off as he notices the hesitancy in your eyes.

"You don't want that?"

He doesn't say it maliciously, but it still sucker punches you all the same.

"I don't know...what about trouble? She's young but she's not stupid. I don't...I don't want her to think that I'm...that I don't love her because it's not the same—"

"She's a smart kid, she'll understand," he's too quick to catch your lie. "Now if you're afraid of things changing..." he catches your guilt flash through your eyes. "Then that's okay. We can go slow. We don't have to figure it all out right now."

You nod, accepting the easy way out.

One step at a time.

You can live with that.

Recovery is...boring as all hell.

The motorcycle guy lived, your insurance companies settled out of court, nothing to worry about according to Brendon who's been fussing over you for the past five days.

He's taken a temporary leave to nurse you back to health and "take care of his girls" as he put it, settling some stupid bet that the surgery department started a few days ago.

The little bug is practically glued to you, helping out her dad in whatever way she can, which isn't much, but it's always appreciated. She's even started reading you bedtime stories, but in truth she's just making things up as she points to the pictures.

At night, when she finally knocks herself out, Brendon settles into bed next to you, those first couple of days unable to get you into bed with him but finally, after much groaning and moaning, claiming he needed the extra room from his king for his back—which is a fucking lie since he always just sleeps tangled around you—he finally comes out victorious.

It's a Saturday when it happens.

No school, no early alarms, no nothing except his steady breathing, his safe embrace keeping you flush against his front, your leg straddled over his hip so that he can pull you in closer—

It's his own damn fault honestly.

You blink awake as a hardness pressed against your front. His heat pulls you in, your sleepy brain not thinking anything other than closer, warmer...so you roll your hips and a jolt of pleasure courses through you.

You're suddenly extremely aware of everything, frustration rearing its ugly head as memories flash from that night again.

You haven't touched yourself since then. Haven't wanted or been able to. But now, this morning you're just...very aware of how much you need it.

You roll your hips again, hoping to wake him up and have him take care of you. You can feel how much he needs it too, how much his body craves yours. If you can just—

"Baby," he groans against your temple, grip on you tightening, pulling you further into him. "What're you doing?"

You huff, desperate, sliding a hand in between your bodies and accidentally on purpose raking your nails along his length.

He hisses against your skin, question answered instantly as his eyes snap open.

"Oh sweetheart," he coos, merciful it seems. "Did you wake up needy, baby? Need me to take care of you?"

You nod, pathetically honestly, but you can’t care less.

He's got you sprawled under him in the blink of an eye, his mouth connecting with yours in a searing kiss before his lips begin to trail a path downward.

You're doing much better today. The cuts have scabbed over, the bruises are starting to fade from purple to brown, movement doesn't make you dizzy, if anything, it makes you just the right amount of lightheaded.

You feel his touch everywhere. Feather light grazes over your abdomen, nails raking up towards your breasts under his obnoxiously soft cotton t-shirt.

He removes his mouth off you so he can pull the shirt off your body, the offending fabric getting tossed to the side as his mouth latches onto your nipple.

You arch into his mouth, strangled moans escaping before his hand comes up to slide his fingers inside. He presses them against your tongue and you instantly suck on them as he too continues his assault.

When he's finally satisfied, he trails lower, hot tongue licking down your stomach until he reaches your pubic bone. His hand slips out from between your lips so he can hold your legs open for him before settling his mouth over your panties, taking a deep breath in and relishing in the way your breathing hitches.

Fuck he's so beautiful like this.

"Thank you baby," he grins against you. Fuck did you say that out loud?

He doesn't let you think on it as his mouth opens up, wide and predatory, and bites down on your mound, his tongue pressing against your clothed clit, working it through the fabric.

"Bren—please, I need—" you pant, already delirious.

"What do you need baby, tell daddy what you need."

Your head spins, heat blooms everywhere.

"Your mouth," you try, hoarse and needy. "Need your mouth."

He doesn't force you to beg, it's not the time for that. Instead, he shows you mercy, pulling your underwear to the side and diving right in.

His tongue is ravenous, licking a powerful stripe from your entrance up to your clit, groaning against your folds at the gathered wetness.

"So fucking good," he mumbles into your skin before his puffy lips latch onto your clit. He sucks and licks and pulls and tugs, all the while your body thrusts into his mouth. You almost hit him before his grip on your thighs tightens and he reminds you swiftly that he's much stronger than you.

You bite down on your tongue, hard enough to feel the sting, the faintness of copper lacing your taste buds. You know you have to be quiet but fuck do you want to scream.

"Bren fuck oh my god," you whimper, your hands threading through his soft waves, the lack of gel sending another shiver down your spine. No one else gets to see him like this.

He bites down on your clit then, pulling slightly before he slides down again, his nose perfectly hitting your bundle of nerves as his tongue and mouth fuck your entrance.

He feels you cumming before you even know what's happening, the coil in your abdomen snapping without even giving you a heads up. Your hands come up to muffle your screams while your body rocks, a tidal wave crashing through you as he does his best to hold you down, to work you through it.

He's gentle, diligent, devout almost as his mouth continues to kiss and lick and suck until you twitch from overstimulation. Only then does he detach himself from you, the bottom half of his face glistening with your release.

You look at him with the most gleeful expression, so proud of yourself, of his smugness.

He settles in between your legs again, pulling them tight around his waist, just reveling in being able to hold you against his naked front.

You're so blissed out, grateful and happy, planting your lips over every inch of skin he'll let you. But you're greedy now, you need more, want more.

You press your front against the bulge in his sweats and he hisses.

"We don't have to—"

"I want to," you kiss him again, your lingering taste euphoric. "Please."

You don't need to tell him twice. He rolls over towards his bedside table instantly, pulling out a silver wrapper and discarding his pants in what feels like seconds.

You can't help but giggle, the boyish smile on his lips and the way his cheeks tinge pink quickly sending you into overdrive.

You need this man inside of you right now.

You watch in awe as he tears the wrapper with his teeth, rolling on the slick condom over his impressive length.

Yeah, he's perfect, and he's yours, there's not a shred of doubt in your mind. You don't know how everything will fall into place but you don't have to, because you'll figure it out together.

He settles in between your thighs again, his chest pressing down against yours, desperate to be as close to you as possible before he lines himself up with your entrance and slowly thrusts himself inside.

You're wet enough that with the lube, he slides right in, your ass flush with his thighs in a dizzying, all consuming instant. He's perfectly snug, fitting so perfectly inside of you that neither of you can help the moan of satisfaction that spills.

It quickly turns into a fit of laughter, easy and shy, like you're both making love instead of having sex. And that just feels right.

He kisses you softly, tentatively, letting you get used to him before he begins to move. But you're impatient, your hips rolling on their own as you seek some friction.

He groans into your mouth. "Fuck baby, trying to kill me."

You smirk against his kiss, cocky for exactly three seconds before he meets your movement with a thrust of his hips. With the air getting knocked out of your lungs, he begins to move, slow and unhurried, all the way out before he thrusts right back to the hilt.

You hold onto him like your life depends on it, pressing further into his skin, his warmth, his safety. You can't get enough of him, of the excitement of tomorrow, of the need that comes from wanting nothing more than to be close to him.

"Such a good girl for me," he praises into your ear. "Letting me take care of you, only complaining a couple times."

You huff out a laugh, remembering the first time he'd helped you to the bathroom and then waited imposingly on the other side of the door until you were done. He's lucky he never tried to get in with you otherwise you would've hit him.

His thrusts pick up the pace in response.

"Let me take care of you, baby," he pleads then. "Whatever you decide, let me help you, please."

You blink back tears, nodding against his cheek, nails digging into his chiseled back.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," you moan. "Please daddy—"

You don't get to finish as he groans, hoisting your bottom half off the bed as his mercifulness finally snaps.

He fucks into you like he needs to show you just how much your words affect him. The bed rattles, the mattress squeaks awkwardly but neither of you cares. You need this, need each other.

"Come on, pretty girl," he pants. "Cum with me, cum with daddy."

You're just as affected as him, your second peak slowly but surely sneaking up on you again as he sneaks a hand in between your bodies, pressing the pad of his thumb over your clit.

You clench around him and he hisses, leaning down to capture your lips with his in a searing kiss as warmth floods you both. Your moans get tangled in between hungry tongues and teeth, your bodies vibrate against each other in bursts of pleasure and care and...love.

You're unsure how long you're stuck there, in between real life and whatever the fuck you're feeling, but finally when your body pushes him out of you, he rolls over and goes into the bathroom.

You watch him through hazy eyes as he cleans himself up, his adonis like body always such a sight to gaze upon. He blushes crimson when he catches you watching him, the apex predator reduced to a blubbering mess by just one simple look.

But it's not simple, and you both know that.

Pride swells up in your chest as he runs a wet towel in between your legs, leaning down to kiss you over and over again before he finally deigns the day worthy enough to begin, or rather, three soft knocks on his bedroom door startle you back into reality.

"Can we have ice cream for breakfast?"

You roll your eyes, sharing a glance with him that warms your heart.

Yeah, you're gonna be alright.

He had picked up your books, though. Once everyone was done laughing at the whole ridiculous spectacle and moved on, he’d grabbed your discarded books from the floor. A fat textbook and your cute binder with all the flower stickers and shit. Your name spelled out in swirly cursive pink pen on the front. So fucking cute, it made his insides hurt. Why the fuck did you have that effect on him?

“Is that your girlfriend?” One of the girls asks, looking at your name on his phone screen.

“You’re not getting paid to talk,” he growls, pushing her head down to his crotch. And he pretends it’s you, of course he pretends it’s you. With your pretty lips wrapped around his cock, crying and choking because he’s so big and you’ve never sucked cock before. And he’d coax you gently, stroke your hair back and tap your cheek condescendingly, tell you what a good girl you are for taking him like this. So brave and pretty, his good little girl. And you’d cry and cry, looking up at him with scared, devoted eyes…

He kicks the girls out the moment he’s finished with them. Tucks the cash into their underwear and sends them packing without another word. One of Ward’s friends had a high-end escort service. Rafe never really felt the need to indulge in it before, since he didn’t really have a problem hooking up with girls. But he’d been on edge and wanted a quiet distraction, a quick fix. It had not worked.

Rafe: Hey. I’m sorry about what happened the other day. I think we should talk.

His thumb hovers over the send button. He wonders if he’d be able to sweet-talk you into forgiving him. Because yes, he wants you to forgive him. He wants you to be his in every way possible, and to achieve that, he needs you to like him again. Fuck his friends and the stupid bet.

He sucks in his breath and presses down on send before he can stop himself. Waits one second, two, three, four, five. Heart lurches to his throat when an error message comes up:

Your message is unable to be delivered to the recipient.

White hot anger chokes him like a vice. You had blocked him. Fuck. Motherfucking shit.

Rafe’s always had issues with his anger. He couldn’t control it most times, and as a result he’d explode like a fucking volcano. He’d try to contain it, but the rage always found its way out. And he throws his phone across the room, where it crashes against the wall with a loud smack. How dare you fucking block him? How dare you? Who the motherfuck did you think you were?

Blindly, he searches his drawer for his coke. Hands shaking, he pours it out into a small heap and snorts it straight up, his heart already racing with an all-consuming rage. Fuck you for blocking him. Didn’t you know Rafe owned you? You were his property, and he had to have access to you whenever he wanted, however he wanted… He had to.

He makes a snap decision. Grabs your books and his keys, his actions fuelled by pure rage and drug-induced adrenaline. Stuffs his phone – now with a shattered screen – into his pocket and wipes any white residue from his nose. He was losing control of the situation. And that just wouldn’t do. He had to fix it. Now.

And Rafe wasn’t anything if not proactive.

Unfortunately, he runs into Ward on the way out.

“Rafe. We need to talk.”

“Not now, dad. I’ve got shit to deal with.”

Ward’s got a newspaper in his hands which he’s undoubtedly reading performatively, and he takes a moment before he folds it down on the kitchen island. “Shit to deal with, huh? Like trying to fuck every girl on the island?”

Rafe sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, “I’m not doing this right now.”

“I’ve got business partners, investors coming in and out of here. Doesn’t look great when there’s coked out hookers limping out of my son’s bedroom every other day.”

“Your business buddies all do the same shit, dad–”

“Yeah? Well I don’t give a fuck what they do. I’m talking about you. I’m trying to push a clean, family-man image here–”

Rafe snorts. Ward ignores him.

“You’re getting too old for this shit, Rafe. You’re graduating soon, then you’ll take over the family business. You need to get your shit together, find a nice girl and settle down.”

Rafe rolls his eyes. He knows what’s expected of him. Knows his father wants him married sooner rather than later. Probably to some spoilt kook princess that he wouldn’t give two fucks about, a marriage built on connections and maximising power for the Cameron business. He figures being married wouldn’t be much different from being single. He’d still sleep around with the Pogue girls like he always did. But his mind’s too occupied by other things to really focus on this redundant conversation with his father.

“Look, dad, I have to be somewhere right now, so…”

“Who was that one girl you had over the other day? In the cute dress?”

Rafe stops short, feeling like he’s been injected with a dark, poisonous, all-consuming dose of sudden, icy-cold jealousy that winds him from the inside out. “What?”

“I was looking over the security footage. You had her on the patio. Cute, innocent looking girl. Now someone like that would be much better for your image, Rafe.”

Rafe’s jaw tenses, his fists clenched to his sides. He doesn’t want to react in front of his father, but it’s hard. The mere mention of you by another man – even if it was just his fucking dad – was making his blood boil. Boil in a way it never had before. He feels like choking someone the fuck out. Nobody was allowed to look at you. Jesus fucking Christ, what the fuck had you done to him? Now he’s even more determined to fix things with you, have you safely under his wing again so he could protect you from the lecherous gazes of other men.

He leaves without another word.

He takes his motorbike. It’s his preferred method of transport anyways. Quicker, less attention drawn to him than when he’s in one of his big cars. And he deliberately leaves his helmet behind, needing to feel the air whip on his face. Maybe it would snap him out of whatever crazed spell you’d put him under. He feels like ripping his fucking hair out – how dare you fucking block him? He was your only friend.

Rafe’s feeling no less crazy when he finally pulls up to your street. If anything, he’s even more incensed. His girl. His property. And he’d lost you? All because of some stupid shit he’d said to his dumb idiot fucking friend group? Fuck them – it was all their fault for making up that bet. All their fault for badgering him for private pictures of you. Fuck them.

He’s still reeling with rage when he knocks harshly on your front door. Which is why he’s caught off guard when someone opens it immediately.

At first, he thinks it’s you. No, this woman looks older. Not much older, though. It’s your mother.

“Is everything alright? Can I help you?”

He forces himself to calm down, running a hand through his hair to get it out of his face. Switches on the charm, smiles down at the woman who gazes at him with an unreadable expression.

“Hi. I’m Y/N’s friend from school. Is she at home?”

Your mother blinks, doing that thing that he knows people from The Cut do. Takes in his expensive clothes, the Rolex on his wrist, his signet ring that gleams in the afternoon sunlight. People like her looked at him often with clear disdain simply because of his family’s wealth and where he came from. It was a good thing Rafe did not care much for what a Pogue thought about him.

He tries again when she doesn’t immediately respond; “I’m very sorry to show up unannounced, ma’am. She left her books on campus and I thought I’d return them.”

Your mother clears her throat, “I’m sorry, she’s not at home right now. But you can give her books to me.”

Rafe hesitates, not wanting to give up your things just yet. “Where is she? When will she be back?”

“Who are you?”

He tells her his name, watching as her eyes widen slightly. That was the usual reaction he got. The Cameron name was well known in Kildare. His dad’s company – soon to be his – was global, but notoriously well known around the Outer Banks.

“Thank you for bringing my daughter’s things back, Mr. Cameron.” There’s an air of formality in her tone as she takes your books.

“That’s okay. When did you say she’d be back?”

There’s a long pause.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for her to be seeing you.”

It takes him aback, the frank way in which your mother speaks. He feels shock, and then a wave of anger.

“Well, I think that’s up to her, isn’t it?”

Your mother’s jaw twitches, and she steps back slightly, inching the door closed as if shutting him out. He gets the message but does not care.

“Look. My daughter hasn’t been the same for the last few days and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out it’s because she got involved with the likes of you.” She sounds cold, distant, almost resigned. “I don’t know you personally, Mr. Cameron, but I know people like you. And I know my daughter is sweet and unassuming. So please, leave her alone.”

It takes everything in him not to lose it. He knows it’s best not to get into it with your mother of all people, and yet he hates when people assume shit about him. Nobody knew him, least of all some nobody-Pogue from the Cut. He wasn’t like Topper and them, but he couldn’t expect this woman to know that.

He forces a smile, “Just returning her books, ma’am. I’m her only friend.”

“As I said, thank you for bringing her things back.” She sniffs, closing the door till it’s only open a crack, “But please stay away from my daughter. It would be best for you both.”

The door slams in his face.

He has to physically retreat before he kicks your fucking door in. Her fucking audacity. As if she didn’t fully understand who the fuck he was. One meeting and a deal is all it would take for Cameron Development to buy this fucking dump of a street where your house was situated in. He’d like to see her slam her fucking door on his face then.

He does that thing his therapist taught him, breathes in and out but it doesn’t calm him down in the slightest. Instead, he clenches his fists by his side, his blunt nails digging into his palms till he knows he’s drawn blood.

Before he really knows what’s doing, he makes his way to the back of your house where he knows your bedroom window is. But the curtains are drawn. Fuck. Were you actually not at home? Or was your mother lying? He bets she was lying. If only he could get to you–

“What are you doing here?”

Rafe whips around, heart lurching to his fucking throat because it’s you. Standing right there in front of him. And he almost can’t believe it. Out here in this seedy little street on the Cut, dressed in a pair of tiny denim shorts and a tank top. Face devoid of any emotion, stripped of any kind of makeup. Lips downturned and pouty, eyes narrowed yet still so big and pretty.

For a moment, you take his breath away.

“Go away, Rafe.”

Promptly, you turn on your heel. Well, you turn in your scuffed white converse, speed walking away from him faster than he can even wrap his head around what’s happening. You’ve got your earphones in, your arms crossed in front of your chest, going as fast as your legs can carry you. Down this dangerous fucking street, dressed like that.

Rafe catches up to you in two strides.

“Wait, I came to talk to you–”

“There’s nothing left to say… LET GO OF ME!”

You scream it so loud, he drops your hand like a hot coal. Taken aback by your fire, but he recovers quickly. Walks around till he’s facing you and blocking your path. Tries to catch your gaze but you look anywhere but at him. Your chest rises and falls, your lips pressed into a thin line as if your emotions are getting the better of you. He’s always seen you as pristine and perfect, but now you’re dishevelled, upset, won’t even look at him. Still so fucking beautiful though.

“I didn’t mean all those things I said, okay?”

You swallow harshly, “I’m not stupid, Rafe.”

“It’s my fuckin’ friends – hey, listen, it was my friends, okay?! They kept goading me about you. I had to say something to get them off my back.”

Finally, you meet his eyes. A look of incredulity on your face.

“You… You told everyone that you slept with me, Rafe! You lied! About everything!”

He sighs impatiently, running his hands through his hair, “I know, fuck, I know I lied, okay? But they kept asking. You need to understand that I only said those things to protect you.”

Silence. You just stare at him. He thinks he sees something break behind your eyes. That same look you’d had on your face when he’d locked eyes with you the last time he’d seen you on the campus courtyard. As if you’re looking at a stranger, and he hates it.

“I had to protect you, okay?” He repeats, trying to ignore how hollow and wooden his words sound, “they all want to sleep with you. I had to tell them I had, so that they knew that they couldn’t–”

You shake your head slowly, “Y-You can’t even accept responsibility for what you did…”

“Fuck, this is me accepting responsibility, don’t you get it?!”

He lowers his voice when you flinch. But he’s so fucking desperate, wants you to understand what he’s trying to say although even he doesn’t understand it. He feels fucking insane right now, and you’re seeing it all unfold first hand. “Look, I didn’t mean any of it. You need to understand that. Hey, hey don’t walk away from me!”

“I feel disgusting, Rafe!” You burst out. And he really sees you then, sees your face crumple up and yet you try to keep this false bravado, chin up, eyes blazing. “I-I trusted you. I did things with you that I… that I’ve never done before. And to think this whole time, it was all just a joke for you. I told you about my dad, and I told you all those things because this whole time I thought you genuinely wanted to be friends, and I trusted you.”

“You can still trust me–”

“No, I can’t! You were lying the whole time.” You swallow again, and through your glasses, he can see the tears welling in your eyes, “I was nothing more than a bet for you. And I… I can’t believe I fell for it, that I let you…”

Your voice breaks, and you wrap your arms around yourself, almost like you’re hiding your body from him. Like you can’t bear the thought of him even looking at you now, can’t bear the thought that you ever let him look at you. Makes him feel like a goddamned monster.

“I wish I’d never called you that night,” you whisper, “I wish I’d never let you see me like that. I wish I could… I wish…”

“You don’t mean that,” he reaches out, doesn’t know why but just wants to hold your arm, but stops himself when you flinch once more. You’re far away, lost in your own broken thoughts, and yet you step back when he tries to touch you. Like you’re scared of him, and it kills him, because you were the only one who wasn’t.

“I feel dirty,” you say, voice thick yet pitiful, “I-I feel like… Like I can’t get myself clean no matter how hard I try.”

It’s Rafe’s turn to swallow, and he’s got a huge lump in his throat, and it makes it harder for him to speak. Like there’s a boulder on top of his heart, weighing it down to the fucking pits of his stomach. Guilt and frustration like flames licking and growing inside him.

“You’re not dirty,” he says softly, wanting, willing you to look at him but you don’t. And he wants you to say something, anything. But you don’t. Like you’re done. And he can’t have that, he fucking can’t. The control is slipping out from under his fingertips, and it’s an all-consuming feeling that he hates.

“I like you,” he tries again, but he’s never been good with his fucking words. His mind’s screaming ten different things for him to say, brain feels like it’s about to explode with frustration because he knows no matter what he says, it won’t be the right thing. How could it be? When he’d done what he’d done and there was no way around it? “I never lied about that. It started out as a bet but I always liked you.”

“You don’t speak about someone like that if you like them.” You look defiant and deflated all at once, angry yet upset, those fucking lips of yours downturned in this crestfallen way that hits him straight in the chest. “I hate myself for being so stupid. Trusting you when all this time, you were probably just laughing behind my back, thinking I was beneath you because I’m just a Pogue.”

“I wasn’t.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, why can’t you just understand that I’m telling the goddamned truth?!”

He doesn’t mean to raise his voice. It just happens. It happens a lot with him, and he regrets it instantly when he sees your face morph in fear. Again, you flinch away from him, and he wishes to God you’d stop doing that. Stop being afraid of him because couldn’t you fucking see how insane you made him?

“S-Stay away from me,” you back away towards your house.

“Wait! Shit, I’m sorry, I– hey! Come back! Please, come back!”

You ignore him. Don’t even look back. In fact, you break into a run, as if you can’t stand being near him. And he can tell you’re crying in earnest now, with how your hands reach up and snatch your glasses off your face to blindly wipe away your tears. He calls out again, but his voice is lost in the wind. Fists clench to his sides again, and he hates how helpless he feels. The control he had, it’s dissipated like a cloud of fucking smoke and he hates it.

“Fine! Don’t fuckin’ listen!” He wants to punch something. The frustration of being unable to explain himself is slowly morphing into rage like how it often did. And he doesn’t know what to fucking do, and he’s trying to control his breathing, and he’s itching for a line, anything that’ll make him stop feeling whatever it is he’s feeling right now. “You think I can’t walk away from this shit too? Well, fuck you! I’m done too.”

Your front door slams shut. You don’t even look back once.

***

It’s a whole week before Rafe sees you on campus again. And in those seven days, he’s convinced himself that he doesn’t care. That you didn’t matter. That this was it. Whatever the fuck he’d thought he’d felt for you was clearly not real. And it never had been. He was just a fucking idiot who’d had a lapse in his judgement. Let a stupid Pogue fuck around with his feelings. Never again. Never fucking again.

And yet his heart skips a beat when he sees you. It’s been a whole week of you not showing up to classes, and a part of him had thought you’d transferred out. But there you are, bright and early on a fucking Monday morning. Books and binder clutched to your chest. In a blue top and matching skirt, looking every bit as cute as you always did.

For some reason, he’d half expected you to show up sad and forlorn, in a big hoodie or some other equally unflattering item that chicks wore when they felt depressed. Clearly not.

Rafe himself feels like shit and has all week. He’s got bags under his eyes and stubble he can’t be bothered to shave off. And he hates it, hates how he’s spent the past seven days at home, listlessly staring at his chat with you on his phone. Reading over your old messages again and again. Back when he still had control over what you thought of him. He also keeps staring at the pictures he took of you. He knows he should delete them but he can’t. You were his after all. He had every right to have those pictures on his phone. And you were so fucking hot…

“Look, it’s your little girlfriend,” Kelce snickers, and his entire group turn their heads in your direction. You’re trying your best not to make eye contact, quickening your pace as you speed-walk across the field.

It takes everything in him to keep his cool. “Change the fucking subject, man. If you know what’s best for you.”

They all straighten up, cough, look away. Like fucking clockwork robots responding to their puppet-master. They’d calmed down about the whole debacle, stopped begging for the pictures of you after Rafe had made it clear he wasn’t going to show them. Now, he just wanted to move on. Forget about it all. Pretend like he didn’t know you, just like he did with every other girl he fucked.

It was difficult, though. When you looked so fucking beautiful.

Rafe can’t help but try to meet your gaze, but you don’t look at him even once. And it incenses him. He knows he’s supposed to forget about you, discard and move on like he did with all the other girls he’d been with. And yet…

“Hey man, did you hear what I said? What do you think?”

Rafe blinks, forcibly peeling his eyes away, and trying his best to suppress the wild, innate desire to follow you, keep tabs on you, make sure he knows what you’re doing at all times.

Topper waves his hand in front of his face, “Rafe?”

His eyes narrow in irritation, “What?”

“The party. Saturday night. It’s at this abandoned beach house in the Cut. I’m pretty sure Sarah’s gonna be there, and–”

“No.”

Topper sighs, “I mean, I think you should go, man. There’ll be plenty of other Pogue girls there if you’re looking to hook up.”

The thought of that makes him sick.

“I’m not going to some Pogue-infested crack house on the Cut, Topper.”

“But I think the best way for you to get over her is to find someone else–”

“Get it through your thick fucking skull,” Rafe grabs him by the collar, a sudden rage coursing through his veins and he can’t even pinpoint why, “I’m not trying to get over shit, okay? There’s nothing to get over. Don’t fuckin’ project your shit on me just ‘cause you can’t get over my bitch of a sister.”

“Jesus Christ, alright!” Topper shakes him off, backing away and raising his hands in the air, “You shouldn’t speak about Sarah like that.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Everyone’s staring at him again. Like he’s the crazy one or some shit like that. Fuck them all. His nose twitches, and he wishes he’d brought some coke with him. But the last time he’d been caught on campus with drugs, Ward had to pay a shit ton of money for the faculty to forget it ever happened. Doesn’t help now, when he feels like he’s gonna implode. A part of him wishes he could go to you, because you’d make him feel calm and in control again. But that isn’t an option, and so he tries to control his breathing. He can’t.

Fuck.

Get you back or forget about you. Something had to give.

***

It’s on impulse, really. He doesn’t even remember doing it till it’s done. It’s after he’s spent a good twenty minutes lying on his bed and staring at your pictures on his phone. Fuck, you were so sweet and hot. He still remembers it, waking up next to you on your tiny pink bed, an assorted range of your stuffed animals surrounding you both. You, naked and in his arms. Right where you belonged. Sucking his thumb like you were his baby, and you trusted him with everything.

Before he realises what he’s doing, he orders a Chanel bag. A light pink one with a gold chain. Puts in your address so it can be delivered straight to you. He’d grown up with two sisters and a stepmother obsessed with shopping and designer labels, so he has an idea of what women like. And he’s used to girls from Figure 8, who’s love language was gifts and money. You were different, though, but he still can’t help himself.

He imagines you dripping from head to toe in gifts bought by him. Cute little designer dresses, all in pink or light blue or yellow or some pretty girly colour like that. Fur jackets and dainty, expensive jewellery. And he’d give you an allowance, hell he’d make you save his credit card details on your phone. And he’d pay for you to get your nails done, and your toes too. Pretty, gleaming white polished toes.

He’s jacking off now, picturing it so clearly in his head. He’d move you into his house, and you’d look at him with glowing eyes, so thankful that he’d saved you from the poverty you’d been so used to. And you’d be his little princess, draped in the gifts he’d shower you with. And in return, you’d let him do anything to you. Because you were his. Only ever his.

And he’d push you onto his bed, press your legs up against his chest while he fucked you so good and hard. Came inside you, filled you up till the brim, till his cum was leaking out of you. And even then, he’d push it back inside, stuff you so fucking full of him that you wouldn’t know how to act, and you’d cry and be confused. You’d beg him not to, but he’d do it anyways because he owned you. And if he knocked you up? Fuck, he wouldn’t even care because it would mean you’d be bound to him forever.

He cums at that last thought, the visual of it too fucking hot for him to even fully wrap his head around. High off the fact he’s bought something for you. It gives him a fucking power trip like no other. You were his. Completely and utterly his. He knows he’s supposed to forget about you but fuck it. Maybe, just maybe, he could buy his way back into your life.

It’s only two days later when he’s leaving his car in the campus parking lot that he feels a little tap on his shoulder.

“You can’t do things like this.”

It’s you. Looking all tiny and cute as ever, a fiery look on your face that’s about as intimidating as one of your stuffed animals. Your face that’s half hidden by the big Chanel box you’re carrying in your arms.

“Hello to you too.”

“You… You need to take this back.”

Rafe squints down at you, running a hand through his hair and trying to act nonchalant, “It’s rude to return gifts.”

You look genuinely upset. Distraught, even. It confuses him.

“I don’t want any gifts from you, Rafe. Why can’t you understand that I want nothing to do with you?”

Didn’t he know this would happen? He knew you weren’t materialistic like the girls he was used to. And yet he’d still done it. But at least you were speaking to him again.

“I thought you should have it,” he says. “I was thinking about you.”

“Stop. Don’t.” You swallow harshly, your chest rising up and down as if you have so much you want to say. “Please. Just take this back and leave me alone.”

I CAN’T! He wants to scream, but he knows he can’t risk scaring you away again.

“Take it as an apology,” he says, take a step closer to you except you instantly take a step back, a fearful look in your eye that he hates. “Look, I know I fucked up, okay? Let me make it up to you.”

“You’re unbelievable,” you whisper, “You lied, and now everyone thinks that we…” You gulp, pressing your lips together and trying to push the box into his arms, “My mom saw the bag. She-She thinks I’m sleeping with you in exchange for gifts.”

Rafe blinks, “Why would she think that?”

You gape at him incredulously, and he can’t help but think how cute and hot you look. All weepy and indignant, acting all upset but all it does is get him hard. The Chanel box is almost as big as you, and it makes you look even tinier. And you’re wearing this little buttercup yellow top trimmed with white lace. So fucking hot. He wants to grab you and push you into the backseat of his car. Lock the doors and have his way with you. Fuck you dumb, fuck that indignance straight out of you, till all you can say is thank you daddy for the pretty purse and the orgasm while you cuddle and cry into his chest.

When he doesn’t take the box back, you huff and drop it at his feet.

“I…I don’t care about expensive gifts, Rafe. And if you think you can just throw money at me and expect things to go back to how they were, then I guess we never really knew each other to begin with.”

Rafe sighs, reaches out to grab your wrist, “Look, wait–”

“D-Don’t touch me!”

There it is again. Don’t touch me. It’s the second time you’ve said that to him, and he watches as you flinch away from him again. Like you’re scared. Of him. And he fucking hates it so much, it’s like he can’t breathe.

“Wait–”

You scurry away without looking back at him even once. When all he can do is look at you. Like you’re a drug and he’s an addict. He can’t rip his gaze away. He feels so out of control of the situation, it makes his palms itch and his head hurt. He feels like throwing up. Like fucking punching someone. He wishes you’d just understand him, and he hates himself for not being able to explain himself to you. He’s so fucking obsessed with you, it’s insane.

How the fuck was he supposed to get over you?

***

His eyes follow you wherever you go. He memorises your schedule, your classes, everything. He doesn’t mean to, exactly. It just kind of happens. It’s like he has this innate need to know exactly where you are and what you’re doing. You’re his property after all, so it was only natural.

And Rafe watches you all the time. Whenever he can. He knows it’s unhealthy as shit, this growing obsession he has with you. But he’s been like this as long as he can remember. Hyper focusing on one thing until it consumed him completely. His dad’s approval. Drugs. Alcohol. You.

And you’re putting on a brave front, walking around campus acting like everything between you and him never even happened. But Rafe likes to think he knows you, despite only interacting with you for a week. He knows it’s all an act, and on the inside you’re feeling just as shitty as he is. He watches you smile, nod, hang around the outskirts of some Pogue girl group who barely pays you any attention. And it’s sick of him, but he likes how you don’t have any true friends. All you had was him, and he was hell bent on getting you back no matter what it took.

Which is why he feels this cold, numbing feeling of pure rage when he sees you leaving your last class of the day walking side-by-side next to a boy. Talking to him. Laughing with him.

Rafe’s hands curl into fists.

He doesn’t want you speaking to any other man. Even what looks to be some sorry ass Pogue nerd who’s in your class. No, you were his. You weren’t allowed to even look at another man unless he approved of it. What the fuck could this clown give you that Rafe couldn’t? Nothing. What the fuck.

He waits till you part ways with the boy and make your way out of the building. That’s when he grabs him by the shirt and slams him into a locker, not giving a fuck who sees.

“What the fuck?!” The boy struggles, but it’s extremely easy to overpower him. Rafe’s used to being bigger than most people.

“Shut the fuck up, Pogue. I just want to talk.” Rafe shoots him a wooden ass smile, although it’s taking everything in him not to punch the shit out of this fucking guy. As quickly as he’d grabbed him, he lets him go, straightening him up and smoothening his shirt while the boy stares at him like he’s insane. He’s used to that too.

“Why were you speaking to her?” He asks softly, keeping his tone cold and calculated.

“I don’t know what you’re taking about– OUCH!”

Rafe slams him against the metal lockers again before smirking, “Try again.”

The Pogue scrunches his eyes shut for a second before exhaling loudly through his nose. When he speaks, his voice shakes, “She’s in my class, man. We were put together for a project.”

“Mm,” Rafe’s thoughtful for a second, “You know who I am?”

“Y-Yes.”

“Who am I?”

When the kid doesn’t respond immediately, Rafe takes his head and slams it against the hard metal behind him. He cries out in pain, coughing with a stricken look on his face like he’s about to piss himself.

“You’re Rafe, OK?! R-Rafe Cameron! Please don’t hit me again!”

Rafe smiles, patting his cheek, “Relax, Pogue. You know who my friends are?”

“Yes!”

“Then you know you won’t speak to her again. You won’t even look at her again. Or else I’ll personally come after you. And my friends will too.”

“Look, I don’t know what this is about! We were just discussing our project, it’s worth a lot of credits–”

“You’ll do it yourself,” Rafe fixes the boy’s collar slowly, “You’re not going to say another word to her. If you do, I’ll know.”

The boy gulps, “O-Okay.”

Rafe smirks, patting the boy’s cheek again, “Good boy. And you let your pathetic little Pogue friends know too. She’s off limits to all of you. If any of you so much as look at her, I’ll personally break your fuckin’ legs myself. Got it?”

“Yes, I-I understand.”

Rafe lets the boy go before he pisses himself in fear. He knows the threat will be enough, and yet he still feels so fucking angry. Like he can’t believe you’ve found another man to talk to. He was supposed to be your only friend.

He hates this feeling of desperation that’s only heightening within him as the days go by. A pretty girl like you were bound to find someone else unless Rafe took action.

But what the fuck could he do?

***

He’s still stewing over it when he gets home that day. He’d threatened the kid but would it be enough to keep him away from you? Rafe bets that dumb fucking Pogue had requested to be partnered up with you, thought it’d be an easy way to get in your pants. He thinks back to you in all your cute, sexy outfits, flouncing around campus like you were a free piece of ass. Suddenly acutely aware of just how many men probably wanted to fuck you just like he did…

Over his dead fucking body.

In frustration, he whips out his phone and opens to your chat. He was still blocked. A wave of pure rage completely throttles him, and he throws his phone against his bedroom wall. Again. He’s surprised the damn screen doesn’t completely shatter from the impact.

You’re fucking losing it, he thinks to himself.

After snorting a few lines to calm his nerves (it doesn’t work) as well as downing half the bottle of Gray Goose that he’s got stashed under his bed, Rafe decides to pay you another visit.

“Rafe, we need to talk.”

He’s about to leave the house when Ward’s booming voice halts him. Jesus fucking Christ.

“Not now, Dad,” Rafe mumbles, running a hand through his hair in frustration.

“Yes, now. Come here, son.”

He resists the urge to roll his eyes, entering his father’s study. “Look, Dad. I need to be somewhere.”

“Yes, Rafe. You always need to be somewhere.” Ward is unperturbed as usual, stoic as he sits behind the grand desk of his study, barely even looking up from the papers he’s sifting through. “I don’t care where you’re going. But I need you to be here Sunday. I’ve got someone coming over to talk business.”

His ears perk up, “I get to sit in on a deal?”

“If you want. But he’s bringing his family over for brunch. He’s got a daughter your age whom I’d like for you to meet.”

Rafe loses interest immediately, not giving a fuck about whatever spoilt Kook slut his father was trying to set him up with this time. Instead, his mind wanders back to you again. He wonders what that slimy little dweeb in your class had said to you. Had you been impressed by him? Surely not, he couldn’t offer you what Rafe could. Why the fuck had you been talking to him? Laughing with him? God, he needs to see you now. Set the rules straight: you weren’t allowed to talk to any other man. He doesn’t give a shit if you’re mad at him, you’d still need to follow his rules, and–

“Are you listening to me, Rafe?”

“Mm.”

“I said it’s about time you settled down and got serious about your future. Cameron Development has always been a family-orientated business. There’s a certain image you need to build up and maintain, son.”

Ward drones on and on about “settling down” and “eventually starting a family” and some other bullshit along those lines. Rafe’s too busy thinking about you to listen. What if that stupid Pogue fuck didn’t listen to him? What if he was at your house right now? Using the excuse of “project work” to get close to you? In your bedroom? When the only one who’d been in your bedroom was Rafe, and he intended to keep it that way.

“Sure, Dad. Look, I’ll talk to you when I get back.”

He leaves, ignoring Ward shouting his name and calling him back. Usually, he’s pretty good with listening to his father but right now he couldn’t be fucked with it. He has bigger priorities to deal with.

And he knows he probably shouldn’t drive after he’s just inhaled half a bag of coke and chased it down with half a bottle of vodka. Which is why he takes his motorbike again, hoping the roads would be empty at this time of night.

He gets to your house in record time. He’s got the route memorised at this point.

He doesn’t bother with the front door. Knows if your mother answers, she’d probably call the cops on him or some shit like that. When really, she should be calling the cops on that dumb fucking pervert Pogue from your class.

He makes a beeline for your bedroom window at the back of the house. Luckily, your curtains aren’t drawn, and he can see inside. Your bed’s all made, pristine pink sheets with the same stupid stuffed animals arranged meticulously on your pillow. The memory of him on top of your naked body while you quivered underneath him is fast fading, which he hates. He can’t believe you still haven’t forgiven him. He’d give anything to have you look at him like that again, look at him with stars in your eyes as if he’s your saviour, your hero, your god.

“Leave me alone, okay?! Stop telling me what to do all the time!”

For a moment, Rafe thinks you’re talking to him. He steps back, allowing the sidewall to conceal him yet still having a perfect view through your window. You’ve got your back to him, dressed in this fucking insane pair of pink pyjama shorts that make your ass pop. You’ve got your hands on your hips, facing out your bedroom door.

“It’s that boy, isn’t it? Didn’t I warn you not to get mixed up with people like him?” Your mother’s voice.

“Why can’t you just trust me, mom? I’ve always done what you’ve asked, but it’s never good enough!”

You look so petulantly pretty, and it’s a side to you he’s never seen before. Sure, he’s seen you angry, hurt, upset. At him. But this is different. You seem… frustrated almost.

“You can’t afford to get distracted by boys who will just hurt you. You need to keep your head down and mind your own business.”

“That’s all I ever do!” You cry, stomping into your room and he gets a flash of your face, indignant and upset. “I just want to be normal, mom! I just want that normal college experience that everyone else talks about! And I want friends, I want freedom–”

“You’re too naïve.” Your mother appears in your doorway looking grim, “I don’t know what that boy did to you, but maybe now you’ll learn your lesson. Most people at that school are not your friends. You need to remember that, and be smart, and–”

“This isn’t about him!” You look helpless, as if you know whatever you’ll say won’t have any type of effect on your mother’s view. Rafe gets it, has that same problem with Ward. “I’m just so sick of being so good all the time. I hate that everyone thinks I’m so naïve, I-I wish I could show them I’m not.”

“You are.” Your mother says impassively. “And you will stay that way. I forbid you from talking to that boy or anyone like him.”

An incredulous pause, and then:

“JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!”

You slam your door shut and throw yourself on your bed, crying your little eyes out into your pillow. And admittedly, it touches him a little bit. How sweet and soft you look, crying like that with such abandon. Thinking no one’s watching you, thinking no one understands you. Well, Rafe does. And ironically enough, he feels like he’s the only one who could comfort you when you’re like this.

And, despite how sick it sounds, a part of him likes how you’ve fought with your mother. If anything, that distance would only make you more likely to fall back into Rafe’s arms. As long as he was patient and bided his time.

Patience, however, has never been his strong suit. But even in his drunk and high current state, he knows that making his presence known to you right now probably wouldn’t be the best idea. You look equal parts upset and angry, if he added himself to that mix you’d definitely bite his head off. He’d find it hot though, but nevertheless…

He leaves, feeling slightly better. He doesn’t even fully understand why. Maybe it’s because he’s seen you now, and you’re not doing project work with that worm from your class. In fact, he’s not on your mind at all, which was reassuring. Or maybe it’s because the fight with your mother meant you’d slowly come back to him.

Maybe.

***

“Hey Rafe, you spoken to your girl lately?” Topper asks him the following day on campus.

Rafe frowns, “Why are you asking me that?”

Topper shrugs, looking oblivious and gormless as usual, “I don’t know, just asking.”

“Well, don’t.” He doesn’t like when other men talk about you, including Topper. Lately, he’s gotten a lot more paranoid about who’s watching you, who wants to fuck you. Which, he guesses, is most likely every male at this college. Makes him even more eager to publicly claim you, make it be known that you weren’t up for grabs. Sure, his friends knew better than to talk to you or look at you, but he wanted everyone to know. And he didn’t have time to go around personally threatening any man who looked at you.

“Look, there she is now.”

Topper cleanly points at you. Rafe slaps the back of his head and shoots him a dirty look.

“Don’t fucking do that.”

You’re standing on the fringes of that one Pogue girl group that you hang around with sometimes, pretending like they’re your friends. The same ones you were standing with the first time he’d ever seen you. And that was weeks ago, and yet your friendship with them hasn’t seemed to progress. They still ignore you, and you still stand there like you know you don’t fit in, but you try your hardest anyways.

“So anyways, it’s gonna be at this abandoned beach house.”

“Yeah, and Brittney, it’s still OK if we all get ready at your place, right?”

Their stupid chatter doesn’t interest him. But then you speak up.

“What’s happening at the abandoned beach house?” You ask politely, like you’ve rehearsed the line a million times in your head to make sure it comes out right. Tinged with nervousness, afraid they might ignore you as if you hadn’t even spoken.

There’s silence for a beat or two, and Rafe doesn’t miss how some of the girls smirk and exchange looks before one of them answers.

“It’s a party. We would’ve told you but… well, we know you probably wouldn’t be allowed to go.”

“Oh.” Hurt clouds your features for a moment before you force a smile, “I-I’d be allowed to go.”

One of the girls raises an eyebrow, “Really? You? Have you ever even been to a party before?”

They all burst into giggles. You join in too, despite the fact they’re all laughing at you and he bets you know it.

“I have.” You say, sticking your chin up so cutely. And Rafe knows you’re lying through your teeth, and wonders why you feel the need to impress these stupid Pogue sluts who were clearly being mean to you because they were jealous. Couldn’t you see that?

“Okay, well, then you should come too,” one of the girls says, her lips quirking up into a smirk, “Although I doubt Rafe Cameron’s gonna be there, if that’s why you want to go.”

Your face morphs in disgust, “I…I… No, I don’t care about him. I should’ve listened to you guys, you were all right about him.”

Stupid Pogue whores, spreading lies about him to you as per usual.

“Well, we warned you.” One of the girls says, looking like she’s about to burst into a fit of laughter, “But I guess you got a bit overexcited, and thought he was giving you attention because he actually cared about you.”

“Which he doesn’t,” another one chimes in, “I mean, let’s make that clear.”

You giggle nervously, but he can tell you’re hurt.

“Yeah, I mean no offence to you, you’re just so sweet and innocent,” one girl pats you on the shoulder condescendingly, “He probably went for you because he knew you’d be an easy target.”

“No offence,” another one emphasises, although the smirks they all exchange say otherwise. “But yeah, you should totally come to the party on Saturday. We’ll take care of you.”

It’s when they’ve all dispersed and you’re on your own, that he corners you before he can stop himself.

“You shouldn’t go to that party.”

You stare up at him in disbelief, “Get away from me, Rafe.”

“It’s not the type of place for someone like you.”

“Someone like me,” you echo, a cloud of hurt crossing your features for a split second before you cover it up with a brave attempt at a glare, “Y-You don’t know me.”

“I do. And those girls are not your friends.”

“Stop.”

“I’m just trying to help you.”

“They didn’t lie to me and pretend to be my friend,” you hug your books close to your chest like they’re a fucking shield against him or something, “that was you.”

You say it so quietly, in such a resigned way that it kills him. And then you turn and leave, and again you don’t even look back once. And he can’t take his eyes off of you.

He doesn’t waste time in texting Topper after that.

Rafe: Send me the location of that party.

***

Rafe fucking hates the Cut. Disgusting place filled to the brim with disgusting people. For the life of him, he doesn’t understand how Sarah had chosen this life over Figure 8. The beach house – if it could even be called that – is all rotting wood and peeling floorboards. And yet the Pogues here were acting like it was some kind of VIP beach club and the party of the century. Fucking losers.

Topper is all smiles, though. Scanning the crowd for Sarah and her little Pogue group. Rafe’s already surveyed the whole sorry property for you, but you weren’t here. And a part of him is relieved, because maybe you’d taken his advice after all. He’d give it another fifteen minutes before leaving.

“You think Sarah decided not to come or something?” Topper asks, plopping down on the couch next to Rafe and handing him a beer.

“Do I look like I know what goes on in her head?”

“Jesus, man. It was just a question.”

“You both need to get a grip,” Kelce leans forward, a scantily clad girl already in his lap and a drink in his hand, “There’s too much fresh meat here for you to still be hung up on anyone else.”

“I’m not hung up on shit,” Rafe seethes.

“Prove it, bro.”

“Shut up before I knock you the fuck out.” He’s not in the fucking mood for this bullshit. The girls here all looked like typical Pogue sluts. Of course, you wouldn’t be here. Either you’d come to your senses, or he’d gotten through to you, or hell, your mother probably didn’t give you permission.

The music is loud and pulsating, making the creaking floorboards vibrate. This beach house might have been considered luxurious once upon a time – by 1960s standards probably – but now it lies in complete desolate disrepair. With way too many sweaty bodies filled to the brim inside. Rafe can’t believe he made the mistake of coming here.

He’s getting up to get the fuck out of here, and that’s when he spots you at the entrance.

And he almost doesn’t recognise you. Yet at the same time, it’s like his heart does because it does this weird fluttery shit the moment he sees you. Walking through the door with that Pogue girl group, except you stand out from them in so many ways, and he knows he’s not the only man in the room who notices.

You’ve got some smoky black shit on your eyes. That’s the first thing he sees, because you’ve never done that kind of makeup before, and you’re not wearing your glasses either. It looks… different. Still so fucking hot, though. Like black eyeshadow smeared over your eyes in the sluttiest way, and your cheeks tinted this sexy, flushed pink with glitter. Lips glossy and berry-coloured, lined with something darker – something else you’ve never done before.

And your dress. It makes him clench his beer so hard he’s surprised the bottle doesn’t shatter. It’s the sluttiest thing he’s ever fucking seen, and it’s almost like the sluttiness of it is amplified because you’re the one who’s wearing it. And he’d never pictured you dressing like this, he didn’t think you could or ever would. In his head, you were the perfect picture of innocence in your cute pastels and flowery prints.

But this. It’s like you’ve taken a dress from your mother’s closet and cut it as short as you possibly could, and he can tell that’s what you’ve most likely done, because the bottom looks slightly frayed, like it’s been cut last second with a pair of kitchen scissors. Barely reaches the bottom of your ass, and it makes him want to audibly growl. Make his way over to you and tug it the fuck down, and then drag you out of here for daring to look so slutty.

You look like you’re cosplaying as a goddamned whore.

But it’s still you. And he can’t tear his eyes away. Like you’re so fucking compelling, so different from any other girl in here. Like there’s a spotlight on you and just you, and you look so deliciously uncomfortable. Like you know you don’t belong here, like you know this dress and that makeup just isn’t you, and yet you smile and try and act confident. But he knows you. He knows you better than anyone here.

“Who the fuck is that?” Some guy Rafe doesn’t know whistles loudly, “Never seen her before.”

And suddenly, it’s all around him. The whole fucking room buzzing as if they all see you like how he sees you. Like every man in here has his eyes on you and solely you. Like you’re some type of fresh meat, a beautiful girl who looks innocent enough to manipulate into hooking up with, despite what you’re wearing.

He’d beat the shit out of anyone who tried.

For a moment, he just watches. Watches as you follow your little girlfriends into the kitchen. To the counter where all the booze is. He notes how your eyes widen, how you take a deep breath before smiling and accepting a drink some fucker offers you. And Rafe’s hands are shaking with rage.Half of him wants to cause a scene right the fuck now, let everyone know who the fuck it is you belong to.

But he knows it would be best if he kept his cool. Figured out what to do in a calm and calculated manner.

“Sarah’s still not here,” Topper’s whining snaps him out of his rageful thoughts.

Kelce groans, “Man, stop talking about Sarah for just two seconds. There’s so many other options here, you know how easy these Pogue sluts are.” He snickers, “Rafe definitely knows.”

“Shut up.” Rafe says warningly, his eyes still locked on you.

“Bro, just get on top of another one to get over the first one. They’re all the same anyways–”

“Shut the fuck up, there’s nothing for me to get over.” He doesn’t know how many times he has to tell his friends that.

Kelce shrugs, “If you say so.”

He knew so. And yet, it doesn’t stop him from making his way over to you, pushing past the crowd and not missing how he’s definitely not the only one staring at you right now.

“That’s some dress.”

He comes up behind you, and you jump despite him making a conscious effort not to touch you. Your eyes widen, but he thinks he detects a brief flicker of relief, as if you’re happy to see a familiar face.

“R-Rafe, what are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same question.”

“I came with my friends.” You gesture loosely, but it’s clear as day your little girl group has already dispersed without a trace, all but throwing you to the wolves. “Uh, I think they went to the bathroom or something.”

Rafe snorts, but the look on your face pulls at something inside of him, makes him want to just grab your hand and take you back home and keep you happy in a way he knows only he could. If you’d let him. But then it’s like he can’t stop himself:

“Well, homeschool, I barely recognised you in this little outfit. Maybe your friends don’t either.”

You blink up at him with black-rimmed eyes, and he sees a flash of hurt glimmer within them. And he wishes he hadn’t said it, sees how you shrink in within yourself, step back and cross your arms over your chest protectively. Tug your dress down except it’s so short it didn’t even matter.

“Homeschool,” you repeat softly “I used to think you called me that as like a cute nickname. Now I know you were just making fun of me.”

“I’m not. I wasn’t. Look, I–”

“Please, just leave me alone.” You try to push past him.

“I’m surprised you were allowed out of the house in that. You’re a walking target here with a dress that short,” He moves to block your path.

“Well, it’s a good thing I can take care of myself!”

“Yeah? How’re you gonna do that when you can’t even see? With all that black shit smeared all over your eyes?”

He wants to kick when he sees the hurt on your face. It’s like he’s so used to being the asshole version of himself that everyone knew him as, like it’s so easy to slip that mask back on now that things aren’t going his way. Fuck, why couldn’t you just give in and stop fighting him?

“I can take care of myself.” You repeat, although your voice wavers and your lower lip quivers.

“You can’t do shit dressed like that,” he runs a hand through his hair in frustration, “Look, trust me, this party sucks. Just let me take you home.”

You push past him without another word, and it fucking angers him so bad he wants to punch the goddamned wall. Instead, he watches you with dark eyes as you weave through the crowd. How naïve of you to think you could take care of yourself. When every single man in here was staring at you like you were some hot fucking commodity. Well, he was officially done trying to help you out.

“What’re you doing here, Rafe? Thought this was beneath your country club ass.”

Rafe watches you join back up with your girl group before forcibly turning away, “Barry. Tell me you got some shit on you right now.”

“Is that how you say hello to all your friends?” Barry grins, “You look like shit by the way.”

“You obviously do have some, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”

“You sound like an addict, country club.”

Rafe rolls his eyes, looking beyond Barry’s shoulder at you sipping on another drink. Who’d given you this one? How many had you had? Jesus fucking Christ, was he going to keep tabs on you all night? He felt like he had to, and it’s putting him on edge.

“Who’re you lookin’ at?”

“None of your business,” Rafe snaps, “Just…Please, if you have anything on you.” He wants to snatch the drink from your hand, scold you for accepting drinks from anyone that wasn’t him. Instead, he watches helplessly as you sip it, scrunching up your nose all cutely because he bets it tastes awful. Like cheap liquor and dollar store soda.

“She’s cute,” Barry says.

“Shut up.”

“Her brothers would kick her ass if they knew she was here.”

That catches his attention, “You know her?”

“I know her brothers.” Barry snickers, patting him on the shoulder, “You might be a little out of your depth with this one, country club.”

Rafe doubts it. Pogues did not intimidate him in the slightest, and he doubts your brothers would be any different. Hell, they could be military-trained mercenaries and it wouldn’t stop him from making you his.

“I wasn’t out of my depth when I fucked her.” It comes out before he can stop himself. He just needs Barry to know. Hell, he needs everyone here to know. Even though it’s technically a lie, but he may as well have fucked you with how close he got.

Barry whistles lowly, “And yet here she is, clearly unclaimed.”

Rafe clenches his fists, eyes trained on you once more. He’d looked away for barely a minute and now you’re surrounded by men. Like a bunch of sorry ass losers vying for your attention, and it’s like you don’t even know how to react to it. You keep looking down, opening your phone, sipping your drink, pulling at your dress. Smiling awkwardly. Reaching up to adjust your glasses before realising you’re not wearing them. Fuck, you were so cute. So different from all the other girls and so fucking cute.

“Hey country club, do all the girls you fuck act like they don’t know you?”

“Don’t fuck around with me, man. I’m not in the mood.”

He runs a hand through his hair, watching like a hawk as you tug your dress down again. God, the way it hugged your ass was insane. You look so fucking hot, and despite the less than stellar interaction he’s just had with you, he still can’t help but think of fucking you. In that slutty fucking dress, but he’d push it up to your waist, rip your panties off and pocket them before jackhammering his cock inside you with such force just so you’d know never to wear something like that in public again. Maybe he’d drag you to his car, maybe one of the rooms upstairs. Or maybe right here in front of everyone while you cried because you were shy but he wouldn’t give a fuck because he’d be showing you who you belong to.

Maybe that’s what you wanted, maybe that’s why you’d dressed like this.

Barry pulls out a baggie, “You wanna push this to your preppy crowd?”

Rafe snatches it up quickly, “Sure, whatever.”

Just then, he sees you being cornered by some idiot who’s talking all animatedly with you, pushing you away from your friends, clearly trying to get you alone. Rafe sees red, pushing Barry aside and making a beeline for you.

“Hands off, asshole.” He seethes, physically putting himself between you and the guy.

The guy raises an eyebrow, “What are you, her bodyguard?”

“Meet me outside and I’ll show you exactly who the fuck I am.” Rafe grabs the guy’s shoulder when he tries to leave, “No, no, where you going, pussy? Come outside with me.”

“Rafe, stop! You’re acting insane.”

Your voice cuts through all the other noise, and the guy takes that moment to scurry away into the crowd like a little rat.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought, fuckin’ pussy ass bitch.” Rafe barks out a hollow laugh before turning back to you. “Are you okay?”

“Why did you do that, Rafe?!.”

He scoffs, “Are you kidding me? He had his hands all over you.”

“No, he didn’t! And even if he did, I could’ve handled it.”

Rafe pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. Were you deliberately being obtuse just to make him out to be the bad guy again?

“Just stick with your girlfriends. You shouldn’t be talking to these kinds of men anyways.”

You look up at him indignantly with engorged pupils, clearly already half tipsy when you’d barely had a drink or two, “Stop it. Please. You’re not my dad!”

That’s not what you were saying when I was in your bed, he wants to shoot back spitefully. Instead, he rolls his eyes, “I’m the only one here looking out for you.”

“And I’m telling you; I don’t need you to do that. I can look after myself so just leave me alone, okay?”

“Stop trying to be something you’re not,” Rafe hears himself say, gesturing loosely at your body, “This… This shit isn’t you.” 

Again, hurt flashes across your face. 

“You don’t know me, Rafe. You never did and you never will.”

You push past him and rejoin your girlfriends and whatever group of men they’re talking to. Making him look like a gormless fucking chump when he’s the one who was trying to save you. Well, fuck you too then.

That’s how he finds himself back with his friends, at a table snorting up line after line like it’s his fucking job. It’s a distraction really, from all the conflicting thoughts swimming around in his head. Fuck you, protect you, forget about you. You, you, you. He needs this escape. He needs to stop thinking completely.

“Some for me?” a girl sinks down on his lap, her cleavage right in his face. He feels numb to everything, barely even registers her. But nods anyways, pours out a neat line for her. She’s all over him after that, but it’s like a blur to him. The music, lights, this girl’s lips on his, his friends cheering him on. He bets this slut would let him fuck her right here on this couch in front of everyone. And what was stopping him?

She’s pressing kisses down his neck, her hands up his shirt when he opens his eyes almost on intuition. Looks straight across the room and locks gaze with you. The shock is frozen on your face for just a moment or two, before you quickly look away.

The mask was truly off now. You knew who he really was.

Forcibly, you turn away from him. And he wants to look away too, just fuck this girl to forget all about you. But then he sees you bump straight into the chest of someone else. Some stupid fucking punk ass Pogue, different from the other one. More intimidating, larger too. He grins at you, his hand pressing down on your lower back. And it plays like slow motion in front of Rafe’s eyes, and he feels like someone’s put his heart through a fucking shredder.

He pushes the girl off him, gets to his feet. The guy’s talking to you now, talking to you like he knows you. Rafe’s hands shake; he balls them into fists. Shoves his way through the crowd of bodies, keeping his eyes glued on you. The drugs in his system have made him a bit sluggish, but he can still make out the two of you, how the guy’s got you cornered against the wall now. He sees you laugh nervously, and the punk tucks a piece of your hair behind your ear.

That’s when Rafe sees him start moving you. Towards the stairs. And he sees your face twist in fear; sees you swallow and try to act brave. Sees you looking around for your friends but they’ve ditched you again. The guy’s gripping you tightly by the arm, no doubt sweet talking as he pulls you up the stairs. Rafe sees your chest rise and fall rapidly; sees you try and talk your way out of it. But he also knows how men think, knows how much stronger they are, and the guy keeps pushing you up the stairs.

Rafe feels like he’s a million miles away. By the time he gets to the stairs, the two of you are long gone. There’s this tightness in his chest, and it won’t go away. He pushes people out of the way, takes the stairs two at a time. Gets to the first-floor landing and grabs some fucker by the shirt.

“Where’d they go? The girl in the black dress and the guy?”

“What the hell!? I don’t know!”

He throws the guy aside, stumbles into the first door that opens. Empty. Then the second. Not them. Fuck.

He finds you behind the fourth or fifth door he throws open. And it’s almost like an out of body experience. He’s not sure he’s ever felt such visceral rage before. The guy’s got you up against the wall, trying to kiss you. His hands all over you. Your tiny fists trying to push him off, and for a split-second Rafe feels like his chest is about to explode.

He doesn’t think before he throws him off you.

“What the fuck, man?”

“Get out.”

The guy snorts, “How about you get out? We were in the middle of something.”

Rafe’s not in the mood to fuck around. He looks at you, sees you sniffle, readjust your dress. Your face is usually expressive, but he can’t read it now. And usually, beating up on Pogues like this guy is an amusing pastime for him, maybe even a hobby. There’s a certain satisfaction that comes with it, a certain rush of adrenaline. But one look at you, and he knows now isn’t the time for that.

“Get out. I won’t ask you again.”

The guy – all tattoos and burly chest – chuckles, tries to grab you again, “I ain’t leaving bro. Hell, you can stay too if you wanna watch.”

That’s when Rafe pulls his gun out.

You gasp. The guy stops short. Holds his hands up.

“Hey, c’mon man, it’s never that serious–”

“You don’t want me to ask again.” Rafe points the barrel straight at him. The coke’s coursing through his veins, pumping through his blood. He’s never entered the Cut without his gun, and in the state he’s in right now, he’d risk getting thrown in fucking jail because he can’t think of a reason why he shouldn’t shoot this fucking pervert right now.

“Okay, okay, I’m going.” The fucking pussy leaves quickly after that. Once he’s gone, Rafe tucks the gun into the back of his waistband. He feels completely calm in the moment. Eerily so, but he knows it’s that certain type of calm that only comes before a storm.

He locks eyes with you, and there’s a moment of absolute silence. All he can hear is your shallow breathing, short and rapid. Glistening eyes looking up at him in what he could only describe as fear. Or reverence. He can’t tell, and it bothers him.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” He’s trying so hard to keep his voice level, but it almost shakes with anger. Anger at the situation, at what he’s just seen. Anger at that punk that he knows, he knows, he’s gonna take out on you.

You swallow, “I…I…”

“You realise what the fuck would’ve happened if I hadn’t been here?” He takes one step towards you, for once not giving a fuck when you flinch. “I know you’re innocent but you can’t be that fucking stupid.”

Hurt flashes across your face, “I could’ve taken care of myself–”

“You wouldn’t have been able to do shit.”

You shake your head, “Yes, I could! I can handle myself just fine, and my friends knew I was up here, they saw me, so they would’ve come–”

He stares, incredulous as it dawns on him just how naïve you actually were, “they’re not your fucking friends.”

“Neither are you!”

“I saved you.”

Your face crumples up like a piece of paper, your chest rising up and down. Like you’re trying your hardest not to burst into tears, “I’m not some naïve little girl who needs saving, Rafe.”

“Yeah? Is that what you were trying to prove tonight?”

“No! I wasn’t trying to prove anything, I just… I just…” your lower lip quivers, and yet you still will yourself not to cry, “I’m just… I’m not naïve, okay? I’m not some stupid little girl that men just... take advantage of.”

He runs his hand through his hair, “Do you even realise what you’re saying? He was going to take advantage of you.”

“I wouldn’t have let him!” Your eyes are wet with tears, and it’s smudging the black makeup, making it smear and run and you look so hauntingly beautiful like this, “Not how I let you.”

And there it was. It all came back down to Rafe. He was always the bad guy in everyone’s eyes, even yours. Even after he’d saved you. He was evil, through and through – isn’t that what he always knew deep down? Isn’t that what his father saw when he looked at him? And his stepmother? And Sarah? Even now, you look scared like a little fucking mouse. Scared of him, and not the fucker who’d just tried to force himself on you. It was always Rafe who was the villain in everyone’s story, no matter how hard he tried to protect them.

“I stopped.” Rafe steps closer, knowing you’ve got the wall behind you and nowhere to run, “I stopped when you asked me to. He wouldn’t have.”

“You lied about everything.”

He remains silent, not wanting to rehash this shit with you right now. Instead, he closes the gap between you both, pressing you against the wall. You push against his chest, but it’s ineffectual. He needs to touch you, lay claim on you. It’s like an innate, animalistic desire to mark his territory after that fucker’s had his hands all over you.

“G-Get away from me.”

“No.”

“Rafe. Don’t.”

You’d already made up your mind that he was the bad guy, no matter what he said or did. And it would be so easy to be the villain you clearly thought he was.

Gently, he tucks a piece of your hair behind your ear. You gulp, half-heartedly attempt to bat his hand away when it lands on your hip.

“He shouldn’t have touched you.”

“I could’ve gotten away–”

“Nobody else is allowed to touch you.” He says it quietly, but he knows you’ve heard him.

Your eyes widen, “R-Rafe–”

“Only me.”

His lips press against yours in a kiss so possessive, it almost knocks you off your feet. But he’s got you, holding you steady and pressing you against the wall with all his weight. And he’s dreamed of this moment, dreamed of kissing you again. And your lips are so soft, so perfect, exactly how he remembered. Yet all he can think of is making you forget that other man had ever even touched you. His tongue is in your mouth, claiming you like he’s swallowing you whole from the inside out. And he’s so much bigger than you, so much stronger that he doesn’t even notice or register if you’re trying to push him off. It’s ineffectual, irrelevant. He needs this. Needs you to know you’re his.

“Stop!” You finally manage to push him off you, and your lips already looked bruise from his kiss. Bruised and so fucking pretty. Another mark of him on you.

He’s staring at your lips when you slap him hard across the face.

Immediately, your face crumbles, like you’re horrified at what you’ve done.

“I-I’m sorry, I’m… I’m–”

You burst into tears. Like waterfalls flowing down your cheeks. You reach up to blindly wipe at your face, smearing your black eyeliner all over your eyes. And he just watches you, the sting of your ineffectual little slap already fading. Watches how you sob, how your whole body shakes. Watches as your wild eyes look somewhere beyond him. At the mirror in the corner side of the bedroom. Watches you stare at your reflection like you’re looking at a stranger.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” you whisper like it’s a confession, but more to yourself than to him. “I-I don’t know who I am, I don’t… I don’t…”

In that moment, he sees something broken inside you. Something he’d never seen before. Maybe it wasn’t there before. Maybe it’s only here now. Maybe he was the one who’d broke you. The thought makes him sick to his fucking stomach.

Rafe hoists you up, slings you over his shoulder without another word. You pound against his back.

“No, no, let me go! Let me go!”

He ignores your cries. All he knows is that he needs to get you out of here. You didn’t belong in a place like this. You were too soft, too sweet to be corrupted. He had to save you again, even if he was the villain in your eyes.

He carries you out the bedroom, past the landing, down the stairs. Everyone stares; he doesn’t give a fuck. He weaves through the crowd of writhing bodies, the pulsating music drowning out your cries. One of his hands firmly holding your dress down over your ass while you wiggled and squirm against him.

He only puts you down when he’s got you outside in the back where his car’s parked. It’s a hot summer night, sticky and humid. The stars look huge, almost like they’re weighing down on his shoulders. And reflecting in your eyes, making them shine with indignance and that fierceness he’s only recently learnt you possess.

“Get in the car.”

Incredulously, you shake your head, “I’m going back to my friends.”

“Don’t fuck with me right now. Get in the car.”

You try to storm past him, but he’s already so much quicker than you. The copious amounts of coke he’s snorted tonight paired with the pure adrenaline and determination of wanting to get you out of here makes you no match for him. You, in your heels which you weren’t used to walking in, and that tiny, tight fucking dress. Fuck, he needed you out of here. Now.

Your lips press into a thin line, and your eyes look so big as you stare up at him pleadingly, “I can’t, Rafe. Please. I can’t go with you.”

His face softens, “I’m gonna take you home.”

“I don’t trust you.”

His jaw tenses. I FUCKING SAVED YOU! He wants to scream. Instead, his features grow stoic, the mask slipping back on.

“I don’t care if you don’t trust me. You’re not going back in there. You should’ve never gone to a party like this to begin with.”

“I can handle myself–”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, don’t start with that again. You can’t handle shit, okay? I handled shit back there. God knows what would’ve happened to you if it weren’t for me.” He grabs your wrist, ignoring your sharp intake of breath and yanking you back towards his car. He opens the door, tries to push you inside.

It’s when you’re fighting against him that he realises how drunk you are. God knew how many cheap drinks you’d been given tonight, and you’d been polite enough to accept all of them. Probably thought drinking them would help you fit in better, socialise easier. And now your movements are sluggish, slow, erratic.

He easily throws you into the backseat of his car, child locking the doors so you don’t escape.

He half expects you to launch yourself at him the moment he gets into the driver’s seat. But surprisingly, you’ve gone quiet. Gathered yourself in the corner at the back, hugging your legs with your face buried between your knees as you sobbed to yourself.

And there are so many things he wants to say, now that he’s finally got you alone. But it’s like there’s something lodged in his throat, and he doesn’t know what to say or how to even speak. He’s angry, concerned, buzzing from everything that’s just happened. Silence ensues, with just the gentle hum of the car as he drives into the night.

He pulls up to the now familiar dirt road that is your street and unlocks the doors. Waits a handful of seconds, surprised you don’t immediately jump out of his car. Instead, he watches silently through the rearview mirror as you rummage drunkenly through your little purse.

“I, uh, I don’t have my keys.”

“What?”

“I must’ve dropped them at the party… your voice trails off before you clear your throat, “It’s okay, I’ll just–”

“Your mom can’t let you in?” Although Rafe bets your mother would have a fucking heart attack if she saw you being dropped off in his car.

 You swallow, “She’s not at home. She’s… working.”

For the whole night? This was the second time your mother was away from home for the entire night. He wonders what exactly she does for work.

You sit up and open the door, jumping out of the car and immediately teetering in your heels. You were still very drunk, and it shows. Rafe sighs, getting out too.

“You got a spare key under the doormat or something?”

You hold on to the side of his car to regain your balance, blinking rapidly. Your pupils are so dilated, he can see his own reflection in them. And in that moment, it’s like all the frustration and anger he’s feeling at you for how stupid and naïve you’d been tonight, it’s it all dissipates because of how cute and lovely you look in the moonlight. Drunk and fumbling and innocent and away from that party.

“I… I think I’ll just camp out on the porch. The sun should rise soon…”

Rafe stares at you as if you’re deluded. It was only a little past midnight; the sun wasn’t going to rise for a while. And even if it was, there was no way he was leaving you out here in the open on this seedy little street on the Cut.

 “Get back in the car.”

Of course, you choose now to be stubborn again, “N-No! I’ll be fine.”

“Yeah? I know the kind of people that crawl around out here at night. Get in the car.”

You stick your chin out, “Stop trying to help me, Rafe! I’ve lived here all my life, I know what I’m doing–”

He hauls you back into the car. It isn’t too hard, considering how much smaller you are than him. Weaker. Drunk, too. You try to fight against him again, but not too much. Like you know making a scene right now wouldn’t be the best thing to do.

“Where are we going?” You ask timidly once he’s revved the car back up and driven off your street.

“My house.”

You don’t say anything and for once, he’s glad.

*

Tannyhill looms big and shadowy in the moonlight. Rafe watches you gape drunkenly, probably drinking in how big it is just like you had the first time he’d brought you here. You’d remained quiet for most of the drive here, just staring sorrowfully down at your shoes. Once or twice, he’d caught your eye through the rearview mirror, but you’d looked away every time.

“Wait.” He orders before getting out of the car. He opens the door for you and hoists you up into his arms. He means to put you down on your feet, but decides to just carry you. And by some miracle, you let him. And he can’t make sense of this hot and cold behaviour, how all night you’ve been switching between two different characters. Loud, outspoken, angry, not letting him touch you, to then soft, docile, weepy and innocent.  

“I’m scared,” you confess quietly, your pupils dark, glassy and shining in the moonlight. You’re just laying limply in his arms now, as he carries you down the cobblestone driveway of Tannyhill.

“You’re just drunk.”

“No I…” You twist your face to look up at him, and he feels it, so he meets your gaze, “I’m scared of you, Rafe.”

It hits him like a bullet, but he ignores it. Buries it down, deep down in the recesses of his mind where he buried all the other shit. Like his dad not loving him, like the memories of his mother. Buried deep down and abandoned, because he couldn’t deal with that shit. He can’t. You weren’t supposed to be afraid of him. He had saved you.

He doesn’t say anything, expects you to fall back into whatever drunk stupor you’ve been drifting in and out of.

“I didn’t know you had a gun.”

Hadn’t he known you were going to bring that up? He’s surprised it’s taken this long, but he can still remember the frozen shock and fear on your face when you’d seen him point his gun at that guy.  

“You don’t know a lot of things.”

He waits for you to bring up the other things you’d seen him do tonight. All the drugs, or maybe the girl he’d been kissing in front of you. In fact, he half hopes you bring up the second part because it would show that you’d cared, that it had affected you.

But you don’t say anything else, just stare off into the distance. And yet you’re still allowing him to carry you, you’re not trying to get away from him despite being scared. He doesn’t want to cling to that, but a part of him does.

He’s somehow able to fish his keys out of his pocket and unlock the front doors, all while holding you steady with one arm. You’re just so small, and slot perfectly into him, like you were made for him. He’s glad it’s gone well past midnight; means he doesn’t have to deal with his family and their questions. Not that they’d even bother questioning him – they no longer cared enough to.

It’s when he’s carrying you up the marble staircase that you start struggling against him again.

“Not your bedroom–”

“Where the fuck else do you want me to take you? The couch?” Rose would damn near have a heart attack if she woke up to you sleeping on her precious antique furniture imported straight from Paris or wherever the fuck. Not that Rafe cared, but he’d rather have you in his room.

You keep protesting softly, but he takes you to his bedroom anyways. Closes the door and locks it. Places you gently on his bed. And he’s dreamt of this moment for a while, and would’ve savoured it had it been under different circumstances. But he feels a weird mix of leftover anger and a sort of bittersweet sadness. You didn’t want to be here at all. Like any feelings you may have developed for him in that one week had so easily been switched off, and yet he couldn’t switch anything off no matter how hard he tried.

“You should, uh, get some sleep,” he says, quickly turning away lest you think he’s trying to get into bed with you. Rummages through his closet, tosses you one of his shirts, “Here.”

“I’m okay, thank you.” You’ve pulled yourself up into a sitting position, legs hanging off the side of his king-sized bed. You look even smaller than usual, and you’re doing that thing again – hugging your arms protectively around yourself as if he’s some fucking predator who’s kidnapped you, instead of the guy who’d just saved you from sexual assault.

“Just put it on.”

“I’m fine in this.”

Rafe sighs, pacing the room for a second to get his thoughts straight. Then he makes a beeline for you, kneels down in front of you before thinking. Reaches out to touch your legs before he sees you flinch and pulls back.

“Look, I’m not gonna try anything, okay? I know I lied and manipulated you before, but I’m not doing that right now.”

You stare at him for a long few seconds before swallowing, “I can’t tell when someone’s lying.”

He nods, “I remember. And I told you I’d be straight up with you.”

“But you weren’t.”

He runs a hand through his hair in frustration, “I know, but I’m not doing that shit anymore now, okay? I’m not trying to hurt you so just put it on.”

Your dress looks uncomfortably tight now, the straps digging into your shoulders and the bottom riding up. Again, you tug it down, and bite your lip before sighing, accepting the soft shirt.

“O-Okay. But you need to turn around and close your eyes.”

He huffs, but he does it. Stares at the wall for a good ten seconds. Then fifteen. Twenty. Huffs again. “You done?”

He turns back around when you don’t respond, only to find you struggling with the zipper. The dress is so goddamned tight, it may as well have been painted on. And you’re drunk, can barely locate the zip to begin with, and it’s pathetic how you keep tugging at it. And so fucking cute.

“Stand still,” he orders gently, and by the grace of whatever the fuck, you obey for once. Breathing shallow as he comes up behind you, and then your breath hitches with a cute little squeak when he places a hand on your hip to steady you. Easily undoes your zipper, and he likes how he’s the one who’s done it. He likes taking care of you, wants to help you out of it and put his shirt on you himself.

But all too quickly, you pull away, holding the dress taut against your body. He rolls his eyes and turns around again, listens to you shuffle around as you change.

When he turns back the second time, his heart almost leaps up into his throat. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen something so pretty, so precious, so innocent. His shirt is huge on you; makes you look so small and cute. Eyes so big as they blink up at him, and you look so vulnerable. Like you were done playing the part of a whore for the night and you were yourself again.

He finds himself swallowing hard, “You look…”

“Don’t.” You cover yourself with your arms again. Words can’t explain how much he hates when you do that.

He clears his throat, eyes trailing down your bare legs. Somehow, you’ve managed to change out of your dress without even taking your shoes off. And now you’re standing there teetering in your heels, looking at him with those big eyes of yours.

“Sit.” He orders you again, gently pushing you down to the edge of his bed. Again, he kneels in front of you. His hand on your smooth calf, stroking down before he can stop himself. You squeak again, but this time you don’t stop him. He doesn’t know why sometimes you let him touch you, and other times you don’t. But he’s not one to question it.

Your heels have ribbons that criss-cross around your calves, and he works to untie them. Deliberately slowly. And it’s getting him so hard, despite everything, to be the one taking care of you like this. How you’d huffed and puffed and gone to this party, pretended to be an attention-seeking little slut, all for you to end up in his bedroom anyways.

“You really had to wear these?” He murmurs, although he’s secretly glad you wore such complicated shoes because you’re letting him help you take them off.

“I… I thought I looked pretty in them.”

He feels a growl emanate from somewhere in his throat, remembering all the men who’d been staring at you so brazenly tonight, “You do. That’s the problem.”

Silence. And then:

“Why do you care?” It comes out like a genuine question, rather than a spiteful remark, “I…I saw you kissing that other girl tonight.”

“That was nothing.”

“I see.” 

He wants you to ask him more, maybe show that you’re jealous, that you wished he’d been kissing you instead. But you don’t. 

“She came onto me,” he feels the need to explain, “and she didn’t mean anything to me.”

You nod, “Okay.”

It irritates him, how you’re not at all fazed. When every time he’d seen a man approach you at the party, he’d wanted to throttle them with his bare hands. As for the guy who’d taken you upstairs? He deserved to be shot. Point blank. Maybe the only reason Rafe hadn’t done it was because he didn’t want to traumatise you.

And yet… you don’t seem to care at all. Or maybe you’re too drunk to care. You look so fucking adorable, sitting on his bed in his shirt, letting him undo your heels for you like a good little girl. 

“I didn’t mean anything to you either.” You say it so softly, he almost misses it.

Rafe flinches, “That’s not true.”

“But you said it. You said I was just another Pogue who spread her legs for you.” 

“Yeah? Well, I say a lot of shit I don’t mean.” He slips your heel off, and he can’t help but stroke your dainty, bare foot before moving on to your other shoe.

“That’s what I’ve realised,” you stare somewhere beyond his shoulder, “Everyone keeps saying things they don’t mean. And I keep believing them.”

He glances up at you, “Who are you talking about?”

“My friends. They said they wanted to be friends with me, but they… they haven’t even asked if I’m okay.”

He almost snorts out loud, but stops himself just in time.

“And it’s not just them, or you, it’s everyone. Even this guy I was supposed to do my project with. I thought we were getting along fine, but now he won’t even look at me. He asked to join someone else’s group, so now I have to do it alone.” Your voice breaks, “I don’t even know what I did to make him hate me…”

Rafe clears his throat and looks away for a second, “You can’t count on everyone, baby.” The pet name just slips out naturally, but you don’t even notice.

“I know. I wish college came with a manual, because I keep messing up and trusting the wrong people.”

“You can trust me.”

“No, I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.” He takes his chance, sits up on the bed next to you and grabs your hand, and hurriedly keeps talking, “I know I fucked up but I saved you tonight. That should count for something.”

Your lower lip trembles as you look at your tiny hand in his much larger one, and yet you don’t pull away.

“Y-You confuse me so much, Rafe.”

He could say the same thing about you. But he doesn’t. Because he can’t do words and all that shit. He’s never been good at it and he’d just mess things up even more than he already has. He knows what he is good at. And he knows he shouldn’t do it. And yet...

Rafe presses his lips against yours. Softly. Cautiously. Yet with determination. You don’t respond, and it’s like he wants you to so bad. He can’t stand it. His hand goes up to cup your jaw, thumb gently stroking your cheek. He thinks he feels you sigh, or he could just be imagining it.

“Stop,” you beg against his lips, but you don’t push him away.

“Just let me,”

“Rafe, no–”

“Please.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to pull away. And he knows he shouldn’t, he knows he promised you he wouldn’t try anything tonight and he’s going back on his fucking word but he doesn’t care. He needs this. Needs this more than you know. More than he himself knows. Because kissing you feels like he’s been parched his whole life and you’re the only thing that can quench his goddamned thirst. He can’t let you go. He doesn’t know why but he just can’t.

He pulls you into his lap, and you squeak into his mouth, your little hands grabbing on to his shoulders and it feels so familiar. He increases the pace of the kiss, slowly slipping his tongue into your mouth, and you taste so fucking sweet. He’s missed this so much, despite how he’s only kissed you a handful of times before this but you fit so perfectly on him. Like you were made for him and him only. And he deserves this. He’d saved you.

“I can’t,” you whisper brokenly, “I can’t let you take advantage of me again.”

“I’m not,” he says between desperate kisses, “I promise you I’m not.”

“You-You’ll tell all your friends. And you’ll laugh like how you did before.”

He kisses down your jaw, your neck, your skin so sweet, “I won’t, baby.”

“You’re just using me. Y-You’ve probably made another bet.”

Why can’t he just say it? Why can’t he tell you that all he can ever think about anymore is you? That it makes him sick, the fact that he’d hurt you? That he’d do anything to take that stupid bet back, to get you to look at him how you used to. What the fuck was stopping him from saying it?

But he can’t, so he just keeps kissing you, and hopes you’ll accept it. Hopes you’ll get him, which was wishful thinking, because nobody got him. His hands curl into your hair, pressing you closer to him, and it feels visceral, it feels desperate. And yet, it almost feels unreal, like he’s kissing you on borrowed time, and it would be over soon and he wouldn’t get his fill.

Sure enough, you pull away, “Why are you doing this, Rafe?”

“Because I want to.” He tucks a piece of your hair behind your ear, “And I think you do too.”

You press your lips together, words coming out hushed and shaky, “No one would respect me if I went back to you, knowing how much you lied and everything you said about me.”

“Fuck what everyone else thinks.”

You slip off his lap, “I wouldn’t respect myself.”

He wills himself to say something, anything to reassure you. But nothing comes out. It’s like his mind is frozen, betraying him once again because he’s shitty with words and can’t think of the right thing to say. And it’s getting too much for him… Too emotional, too vulnerable. He can’t.

“You’re thinking about this too much,” he says finally, and his bedroom’s dark except for the dull lamplight, and you look so fucking pretty that he’s in awe.

You sniffle, “M-My mom said I’m not allowed to see you.”

He exhales, “And yet here you are.”

“Here I am,” you echo weakly. “She doesn’t even know I was at the party tonight. I snuck out.” 

He’d figured as much, “She’s kept you in a cage for long enough, don’t you think?”

You shrug, but he can tell you’re mulling over what he’s said.

Rafe pulls you back into his lap, “I don’t care what your mom says. I don’t care what anyone says.” He pauses, the words I like you, I want you to be my girlfriend on the tip of his tongue. But he can’t be vulnerable like that, he just can’t, “You’re mine. And you need to understand that.” 

“I don’t wanna be yours. I want to be my own person.” 

“Shhh,” he kisses you again, “Remember how I said I’d take care of you? It’s because you’re someone who needs taking care of. Your mom’s coddled you all your life, so you have no idea how the real world works. That’s why you need someone like me.”

You swallow, looking up at him with those shining, imploring eyes. You’re so sweet and naive, you don’t even realise how much, “I want to figure out how to take care of myself.” 

“But you can’t. You keep trusting the wrong people and getting yourself hurt.” The irony of his statement isn’t lost on him, but he hopes the alcohol in your system will make you ignore it.

“That’s what my mom says.” 

“Forget about your mother. Let me take care of you. I’ll make all the tough decisions, you won’t even have to think about it.” 

Rafe lays you down on his bed, right in the centre where he knows you won’t scurry away. He hovers on top of you, much like how he did in your tiny bedroom weeks ago. But this time, you’re in his territory. And he has complete control. And maybe, just maybe, you’re drunk enough to trust him again.

He grabs your hand, pressing his much bigger palm against yours, “Look how little you are. You really think you could’ve protected yourself tonight without me?”

You blink up at him with big, dark, sad eyes. Bite your lip like you’re unsure but he thinks it’s so sexy. 

“Mm, that’s what I thought.” He strokes your hand, his thumb grazing his initials on your palm over and over again, “You’re so small and cute, and completely out of your depth. You need me.”

“N-No…”

“Yes.”  He kisses the sensitive skin of your neck, his hands knotting into your hair. You whimper, but you lie there and let him do it. It’s because you want him too. He knows it. And he allows himself to imagine it again. You under his wing, quietly allowing him to make all your decisions for you. Chanel bag on your arm, a dozen more in your closet. All gifts from him, to let everyone know who exactly was taking care of you.

And there’d be no more parties, especially not in the Cut. He wouldn’t allow you to attend them because you were simply too naïve and sweet. He’d take you to drinks at the country club, or maybe to a game of golf. You’d sit pretty in his lap, like a cute little ornament. His little girlfriend that he’d rescued from poverty, his little doll, that he’d dote on and dress up. All his.

“I don’t want that, Rafe. Please stop.” 

YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU WANT! He wants to scream. Sure, he’d wronged you but you were too fucking naïve to understand how he was your best bet right now. That he would take care of you, and no one would ever fuck with you again when you were under his wing, because he’d kill them.

“Just kiss me back,” he whispers against your lips, his hands itching to slip under his shirt you’re wearing. He kisses you again, hoping you sense his urgency, sense how badly he wants you.

“Please stop, I can’t let you, I can’t…”

Rafe huffs in frustration, a few choice words on the tip of his tongue. Stop being such a tease, or you owe me for tonight, or you wouldn’t have agreed to come to my house if you didn’t want this.

But he realises you’re the only girl in the world he doesn’t want to say those things to. He can’t say them, can’t bring himself to utter a single spiteful word despite the fact had it been anyone else, he wouldn’t have hesitated even for a second.

He’s about to pull away when:

“R-Rafe? I… I think I’m gonna…”

He draws back at your abrupt shift in tone. The room’s dark, but he can see you’ve suddenly gone a shade of green. Your chest heaves underneath him, your eyes widening. Realisation dawns on him in a millisecond and he scrambles off you. Pulls you upright, debating whether to point out the bathroom to you. That’s when your whole upper body lurches, your hand going to cover your mouth. Without another thought, he picks you up and carries you into his bathroom himself.

He barely gets you to the toilet in time before you start throwing up. Hunched over the toilet bowl, barely holding your hair back. Letting it all out. And he just stands there and watches, never having been in such a situation before.

“I’m sorry,” you sob drunkenly between heaves, “I’m so sorry, Rafe, this is so rude of me.”

Despite everything that had happened tonight, despite how mad you were at him, here you were apologising to him. It makes him feel it again, that weird feeling in his chest. It comes in waves so strong he’s almost knocked off his feet. Instead, he crouches down behind you, gently holds your hair back.

And it feels so alien, because Rafe hasn’t done this for anyone ever. He wasn’t some pussy ass bitch who went soft on the girls he dated. But this… you… it was different.

“It’s alright,” he hears himself say softly, stroking your hair and rubbing your back. And it almost feels like he’s no longer himself, like he’s someone else. Affection had always felt unnatural to him, like he was putting on an act any time he tried to show it. And so he never did. It was easier to just to have everyone be scared of him.

But this right here, sitting on the gleaming floor of his bathroom with you, it felt… it just felt like something. Something he can’t quite put his finger on, except he likes the feeling. And you look so sweet, so vulnerable. He feels almost a sense of pride, because he’s the one taking care of you right now.

You keep apologising. Even once you’re done throwing up, and he helps you to your feet. Takes you to the sink, lets you clean yourself up. Hell, a part of him wants to sit you down on the marble countertop and clean you up himself. But it seems too… intimate. And Rafe doesn’t really know how to be like that.

“I’m really, really sorry,” you hiccup once he places you back down on his bed. You make a move to get back up, “Just let me go clean it up, I can’t bear that I left your bathroom in such a state–”

“No, don’t.” Rafe gently pushes you back down, and you’re so little and cute and tipsy that you fall right back on your butt, “The maid will clean it tomorrow.”

You blink as if you don’t understand, “But it’s my mess.”

Rafe rubs his temple, “It’s her job. Now get back into bed.” He goes over to his mini-fridge, thanking his lucky stars there’s a bottle of water in there amongst all the beer and other bullshit. “Here.”

Obediently, you gulp the water down like a good girl before carefully setting the bottle on his bedside table. Your makeup’s almost all washed off now, face scrubbed clean and you look so innocent it makes his head hurt. Like there’s so much he wants to say to you but he can’t figure out how to get you to understand him.

He sighs, “You should get some sleep.”

“Where’re you gonna–?”

He nods at his leather armchair on the other end of the room. You look over and swallow.

“Oh, uh, I could sleep on the chair. It’s not right that you have to–”

“It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not. It’s your bed…”

Drunkenly, you try to get to your feet again. It’s amusing, and he gently pushes you back down a second time before grabbing the duvet cover and throwing it over you.

“Go to sleep,” he repeats, ignoring how his heart thrums and that feeling manifests again. That weird, bubbling feeling under the surface of his chest that seemed to appear every time you did something cute or enamouring or sweet. “I’ll drop you home in the morning.”

You’re too inebriated to argue any further, which he’s thankful for. His thoughts feel all jumbled up, like he can’t understand for the life of him how this is the second time he’s had you alone in a bedroom and he hasn’t fucked you. But now, he settles down on his armchair and watches you slowly make yourself comfortable on his sheets. Shuffle around a bit before tucking the covers till your chin.

It doesn’t take you long to knock out. And he just keeps watching you, how sweet you look, how perfectly you fit into his room, his house, his life. And he hates how he can’t completely read you – can’t tell how you feel because you didn’t want him to touch you and yet you’re sleeping on his bed, and not anyone else’s. How you kept saying you wanted to take care of yourself and yet you’d let him take you home tonight, let him change you and tuck you in. Take care of you.

Rafe decides you have no idea what you want. You’re too naïve. Which means it’s his job to teach you. Teach you that you belonged to him, and he wasn’t going to let you go.

He tries to sleep after that. He really does. But the armchair is fucking uncomfortable, and it’s his room. And he’d saved you tonight.

It doesn’t take him long to get back into bed next to you. Gently, he pulls the covers back over you both, his heart skipping a beat when you immediately cuddle into him. It only further affirms that you wanted this — you just don’t know it yet. He runs his hands up and down your body, from your waist, to your ribcage, to your arms. You mumble, shuffle around sleepily, and somehow end up with your head on his chest. 

He kisses the top of your forehead, before allowing himself to fall asleep too.

***

It’s all too soon that he’s woken up to loud, incessant knocking. Rafe swears under his breath, rubbing his eyes and immediately checking his phone. Fuck. It was past noon. The sunlight streams in through the large windows, landing perfectly across your face. It scrunches cutely as the knocking continues, but you’re still asleep.

So fuckin’ pretty, he thinks as he gazes at you, all serene and adorable and still very much in his arms. Slowly, he detangles himself from you, sits on the edge of his bed. His phone’s filled up with texts he’d ignored from the night before.

Topper: Bro, are you okay? People are saying you tried to shoot someone.

Topper: Everyone saw you leaving with the homeschool girl.

Barry: You pull a gun on a guy??? You can’t fucking do that shit.

Barry: You don’t know how dangerous these people can be.

Barry: ??? You’re fucked.

If pulling guns on Pogues meant he was fucked, then Rafe would’ve been fucked a long time ago. But most Pogues were stupid and inept, and so he was not worried. In fact, he fucking dares that punk from yesterday to show his face now. Rafe would murder him for real, and he wouldn’t even need a fucking gun.

The knocking increases, growing louder and more rapid. Rafe swears again, glancing back at you. You shuffle and turn on your side, lips all pouty as you cuddle into his pillow.

He makes his way over to the door, unlocking it only to see Ward staring back at him in disbelief.

“Don’t tell me you’re just waking up now.”

Rafe yawns, but straightens up at the same time, “I was out late.”

Ward blinks, does that think where he exhales loudly through his nose. He does that whenever he feels disappointed, which was all the time whenever Rafe was around him.

“Everyone’s waiting downstairs for you, Rafe.”

Rafe blinks before it dawns on him. The brunch. The business meeting. The random girl he was being set up with.

“Shit, that’s today?”

A beat of silence. Ward looks like he’s about to choke him out, “Well, son, you’ve proven again how you can’t fucking be trusted. With anything.”

Rafe rubs his forehead before running a hand through his hair and looking back at you. He can’t be fucked with this shit right now, not with his headache and the fact you’re in his bed and all this yelling would wake you up.

“I’m sorry.”

“You get your ass down there in five fucking minutes, you hear me?”

Rafe doesn’t think he has it in him, to sit through some fuck ass brunch right now. He glances back at you again. This time, Ward sees and narrows his eyes.

“Don’t tell me you’ve got another hooker in there. Jesus Christ, Rafe. It’s like me talking about this family’s image means nothing to you, the way you bring these hookers into my house in fucking droves.”

“It’s not what you think.”

“No?” Ward looks fucking livid, Rafe wonders how he has the energy to be like this so early in the day, “You think I’m stupid?”

“No.”

“Does it go over your fucking head every time I tell you it’s time for you to stop this bullshit and settle down? People are watching us, Rafe. Potential investors, business partners. They see all this shit, okay? And yet you insist on going around and–”

“She’s my girlfriend.”

“What?”

Rafe coughs, again looking back at you to make sure you’re still sleeping, “Uh, she’s my girlfriend.”

“You have a girlfriend? Since when?”

Rafe doesn’t quite know why he’s just thrown this lie out in his father’s face. Maybe because in his mind, it’s not really even a lie. You weren’t just some random girl, you were his girl – even if you didn’t realise it just yet. Or maybe he’s lied because he wants his father to just take him seriously for once.

“Since a while now.” He clears his throat, “She was out late last night and I went to pick her up.”

“How come I’ve never seen her before?”

“It’s serious so I was trying to keep it under wraps,” lying has always come easily to Rafe, and so he speaks smoothly, quickly gaining traction, “And you’ve seen her. On the security footage. She’s the one I had on the patio.”

Ward nods thoughtfully, “The one in that dress? The cute one?”

A strong wave of irritation courses through Rafe’s body, he takes a few quick, deep breaths to keep it at bay, “Yes.”

There’s another long pause as Ward takes it all in. At one point, he looks beyond Rafe’s shoulder and into the bedroom as if to get a glimpse of you. Rafe’s quick to subtly shut the door and step outside of it. Fuck if anyone else saw you right now.

“Fine. You can skip the brunch. We have a business meeting afterwards though. Join us for that, if you can clean yourself up in time.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Rafe? I expect a formal introduction with her. If she’s to be a part of this family then you can’t keep her a secret for too long.”

“Okay.”

Rafe breathes a sigh of relief when his father leaves, and he returns to his bedroom, shutting and locking the door behind him.

You’re still lying there, in the middle of his king-sized bed with sunlight dappled all over your face. Completely asleep and so serenely sweet. It makes his heart lurch, but he swallows that feeling quickly.

Your phone’s glowing dimly beside you. He doesn’t hesitate at all, whipping it up to see who exactly was texting you. It’s your mother. Multiple messages. He can’t see what they say without unlocking your phone first, but he can guess she probably wouldn’t be too happy with you right now. In a sick way, the idea of that makes him glad.

And Rafe just sits there on his bed, watching you sleep. Strokes your cheek with his thumb, watches as you lean into his touch. That’s when he consolidates it in his head. After last night, you were his. Completely. And now everyone would know. His family. His friends. Your mother. The whole of fucking Kildare would know you belonged to him. You’d know too. And you’d accept it. He’d make sure of it.

Even if that meant turning you against your mother completely.

A/N: Okay. There we go. Rafe's lie counter is through the roof lmfao - how many times did this man lie throughout this chapter???

Anyways, please PLEASE let me know what you thought of this chapter. Any opinions/predictions/thoughts/ANYTHING. Feedback means the world to me. I'll be honest, I am very very nervous about posting this chapter bc I don't know what people will think of it. Like genuinely. And it's a bit scary. I really did try my best to get this out for you guys as quickly as I possibly could write it. Your feedback would mean the world - so please, if you read this and like it, do also consider dropping a comment or reblog or sending me an ask on what you think!

Also, some questions! You don't have to answer, these are just for fun!

Do YOU think reader could've protected herself at the party if Rafe hadn't been there?

What exactly does Rafe feel for reader after this chapter?

What do you think Ward will think of reader?

Do you think reader will go along with Rafe's plans or keep fighting against him?

The door to your shared chambers had barely closed behind you before Ormund's hand found your wrist.

His grip was firn, a silent command that stopped you mid-step, your body turning toward him before your mind had fully registered the movement. The warmth of the fire in the hearth washed over your arms, a pleasant contrast to the chill that had settled into your bones during the long walk back from the great hall.

He said nothing at first. His eyes swept over your face, searching for something you could not name. His jaw was tight, the muscles in his neck corded with a tension that had not been there an hour ago, when you had all sat together at the high table. You had seen that tension building throughout the evening, the way his gaze had followed you across the room, the way his fingers had drummed against the arm of his chair, the way his smile had grown thinner and more brittle with each passing course.

You had done nothing wrong. You knew that and yet your heart had begun to beat faster the moment he took your wrist, a familiar dread coiling in your stomach like a serpent waking from sleep. You had learned to recognize that dread over the months of your marriage. It was a constant companion now, a shadow that walked beside you through the halls of the Hightower, that curled beside you in the bed you shared, that whispered in your ear when you tried to sleep.

"Sit," he said.

His voice was low. Calm. That was what made it frightening, the utter control in it, the absence of any raised tone or sharp edge. He gestured to the small writing desk by the window, where a leather bound copy of the Seven Pointed Star sat waiting, its pages worn from use. The desk was positioned beneath a narrow window that looked out over the Honeywine, its waters glittering silver in the moonlight. But you did not look at the window. You looked at the book, and your stomach tightened further.

You sat. Your legs felt weak beneath you, and you were grateful for the chair's solid presence. The wood was cold through the thin fabric of your gown, a chill that seeped into your thighs and made you shiver. You clasped your hands in your lap, fingers interlaced, and tried to steady your breathing.

Ormund walked to the desk. He moved slowly, deliberately, the soft thud of his boots against the stone floor the only sound in the room besides the crackling fire. He picked up the heavy tome, its leather cover worn smooth from generations of use and opened it to a marked page. His finger traced down the lines of text, finding the passage he sought. He knew exactly where it was. He had chosen it before you ever entered the room.

"Read," he said, placing the book before you. "From here."

He pointed to a passage near the middle of the page, his fingernail pressing against the parchment hard enough to leave a faint indentation. You recognized the words even before your eyes focused on them. The Faith of the Seven's teachings on marriage. On duty. On the sacred bond between husband and wife. You had read these passages before, in the long lonely months since your wedding, when you had sought comfort in the words of the septons. You had found none.

Your throat tightened. Your voice, when it came, was barely a whisper. "What is this about?"

He did not answer. Instead, he lowered himself to his knees beside your chair, his movements fluid and unhurried. The sound of his knees settling against the rushes was soft, almost reverent. His hands came to rest on your thighs, his palms warm through the silk of your gown, his fingers curving around the soft flesh with a possessiveness that made your breath catch.

"Read," he repeated. His voice was silk over steel.

You swallowed. Your eyes dropped to the page, and your voice came out quiet and trembling as you began to read aloud.

"'The wife shall honor her husband in all things, for he is her protector and her guide. She shall not raise her voice against him, nor speak ill of him to others, nor look upon another man with desire in her heart…'"

Ormund's hands moved.

His fingers found the hem of your gown and lifted it, inch by inch, baring your legs to the cool air of the chamber. The silk slid up over your knees, your thighs, until the fabric pooled around your waist and left you exposed from the waist down. Your skin prickled with gooseflesh, and you faltered in your reading, your voice catching in your throat. But his eyes flicked up to meet yours, and something in his gaze made you continue.

"'…for the bond between man and wife is sacred, blessed by the Seven who watch from on high. A wife's body belongs to her husband, as his body belongs to her, and neither shall withhold what the other rightfully…'"

His lips pressed against the inside of your knee.

Your breath hitched. The words on the page blurred before your eyes, but you forced yourself to keep reading, your voice wavering as his mouth traveled higher. His lips were warm and dry, he pressed open mouthed kisses along the soft flesh, leaving a trail of warmth that made your thighs tremble.

"'…rightfully claims,'" you continued, your voice rising in pitch. "'For in the sight of the Seven, a wife who strays is as one who…'"

His hand pushed your thighs apart. You were bare beneath your gown, you always were, at his instruction, a practicality that had become a silent act of submission. The chill air of the chamber kissed your exposed flesh, and you felt yourself clench involuntarily against the cold. He parted you with his fingers, exposing you to the firelight, to his gaze, to the warmth of his breath as he leaned closer. His thumb brushed over your folds, spreading you open, and you heard the soft, wet sound of your own arousal—a sound that made your cheeks burn with shame.

"'…who strays is as one who denies the Mother's wisdom and the Father's…'"

He lowered his mouth to you.

The words died in your throat, replaced by a sharp gasp, his tongue was warm and wet against your most intimate flesh, tracing a slow, deliberate path from your entrance to the small bud of nerves at the apex. The sensation was electric, a jolt of pleasure that shot through your pelvis and made your hips jerk involuntarily. Your hands gripped the edges of the book so tightly that the leather creaked beneath your fingers.

"Keep reading," Ormund said, his voice muffled against your skin.

You could not. You could not form words, could not remember the passage, could not think past the sensation of his mouth working against you. His tongue circled your clit, slow and torturous, and your vision swam. But he had not asked—he had commanded, and you had learned that his commands were not suggestions. You had learned that in the first weeks of your marriage, in the long nights when he had taught you what it meant to be his.

"'The Father,'" you started, your voice high and strained. "'The Father judges the faithful and the unfaithful, and the Mother's mercy extends only to those who…'"

His tongue flicked against you, quick and precise, and your hips bucked of their own accord. You bit your lip hard enough to taste copper, trying to stifle the sound that wanted to escape your throat. But he heard it anyway—felt it, perhaps, in the way your body reacted to him—and his hands tightened on your thighs, holding you steady. His fingers dug into the soft flesh hard enough to leave bruises, and you knew you would find purple marks there in the morning.

"'…who repent,'" you forced out, the words a broken whisper. "'And who return to the arms of their…'"

He hummed against you. The vibration shot through your pelvis like a bolt of lightning, and your vision went white at the edges. Your body was betraying you—had always betrayed you, in this room, in this bed, in his hands. The pleasure was unwelcome and unwanted, a violation in its own right, and yet you could not stop it. Your hips were moving now, rocking against his mouth, seeking more of that sensation, and you hated yourself for it.

"'…their husband,'" you gasped, the words tumbling from your lips without thought. "'For the husband is the head of the household, and the wife is his…'"

He pressed his tongue inside you.

Your back arched. The book slipped from your hands and fell to the floor with a heavy thud, its pages splaying open on the rushes. You did not reach for it. You could not reach for it. Your hands had found the arms of the chair, gripping the carved wood so tightly that your knuckles went white. The wood was smooth beneath your fingers, worn by the hands of generations of Hightower lords, and you clung to it as though it could save you.

His tongue was inside you, curling and stroking, and the pleasure was building into something unbearable. He lapped at your inner walls, tasting you, drinking you in, and the wet sounds of his mouth against your flesh filled the room. You could feel his breath hot against your skin, could feel the rough callouses of his fingers as they gripped your hips.

"His," Ormund prompted, his voice a low rumble against your flesh. He pulled his tongue out just long enough to speak, his lips brushing against your clit as he did, and the sensation made you sob.

You could not answer. Your mouth opened, but no sound came out. His tongue was moving inside you again, curling against that sensitive spot that made your vision flicker. The pleasure was mounting, coiling in your belly like a spring wound too tight, and you knew what was coming. You knew it was inevitable.

"His what?" he asked, and his teeth grazed you lightly—a warning, a reminder of who was in control. He bit down just enough to make you gasp, a sharp jolt of pain that cut through the pleasure like a blade.

"'His—'" You sobbed the word. "'His vessel. His—his property.'"

"Good girl." His voice was muffled against your flesh, but you heard the satisfaction in it. "That's right. You remember your lessons. You remember what you are to me."

He licked you again, long and slow, and your hips jerked toward his mouth. You could not help it. Your body was no longer your own, it belonged to him, as he had told you a hundred times before. It belonged to his hands, his mouth, his cock, his will. You were just the vessel that housed it, the shell that contained what was his.

Ormund lowered his mouth to you again, and this time he did not stop. His tongue worked against you with a relentless intensity, licking and sucking and probing, pushing you higher and higher toward that peak you had learned to dread. His fingers pressed into your thighs, holding you open, holding you still, and you could do nothing but take it.

Your head fell back against the chair. Your eyes rolled up toward the ceiling, toward the painted beams and the shadows that danced there. Your chest heaved with each ragged breath, your breasts pressing against the bodice of your gown, your nipples tightening into hard peaks beneath the silk.

The pressure built. The spring coiled tighter. You could feel it approaching, could feel the edges of your vision starting to grey.

"No," you whispered. The word came out broken, desperate. "Please—"

But he did not stop. He never stopped. His tongue circled your clit with renewed urgency, his hands gripping your thighs with bruising force, and the pleasure crashed over you like a wave breaking against a shore. You screamed—or tried to, the sound came out as a choked sob, your throat too tight to release it properly. Your hips bucked against his face, and he held you steady through it, his tongue continuing to work against you even as your body shuddered and convulsed.

He did not stop when the orgasm faded. He did not stop when your hands released the chair and fell limp at your sides. He did not stop when you began to weep, silent tears streaming down your cheeks, your body trembling with the aftershocks of pleasure you had not wanted and could not refuse.

He kept going. His tongue lapped at you, tasting your release, drinking it in, and you could feel yourself growing sensitive—too sensitive—and the pleasure was turning into something else, something sharper, something that bordered on pain.

"Please," you sobbed. "Please, Ormund, I can't—"

He pulled back just enough to look at you. His chin was wet with your arousal, glistening in the firelight. His eyes were dark, the pupils so dilated that they had swallowed almost all the grey-green. His lips were swollen and red, and he licked them slowly, tasting you on his own mouth.

"You can," he said. "You will."

He lowered his head again, and this time he was gentler—but that was not a kindness. His tongue traced soft, lazy circles around your clit, teasing you back toward arousal even as you tried to push him away. Your hands found his shoulders, your fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic, and you tried to push him back.

He did not move. "You think I don't know what I saw tonight?" he asked, his voice low against your skin. His breath was warm, his words muffled by your flesh. "You think I didn't notice the way you looked at him? The way you laughed at his words?"

The accusation landed like a slap. You had done nothing wrong—you knew that—but the guilt that bloomed in your chest was real and immediate. You had laughed at something your stepson Lyonel had said at the high table. It had been a small thing, a quiet comment about a courtier's ridiculous hat, and you had laughed because it had been genuinely funny.

But Ormund had seen, every smile, every glance, every moment of warmth you had shared with the son who was closer to your age than your husband.

"I wasn't—" you started.

"Lionel is ten and seven," Ormund interrupted. His tongue flicked against your clit, and you gasped. "Closer to you than i am. Young. Strong. Handsome. And you—" He bit down lightly, and you cried out. "—my beautiful wife, who blushes when a man so much as looks at her—"

"Ormund, please, I didn't—"

"You didn't what?" He lifted his head again, and his eyes burned into yours. "You didn't look at him with desire? You didn't enjoy his attention? Because I saw you. I saw every moment."

His words were knives, and he twisted them with precision. You had done nothing wrong, and yet he had found the sin anyway—had invented it, perhaps, because he needed a reason to do this. Because he needed to remind you of your place.

"Lionel is your son," you whispered. "I was simply being kind to him. That is all."

"Kind." The word was bitter on his tongue. "Yes. You are very kind. Kind to everyone. Kind to the servants, kind to the guards, kind to my children. But you are not kind to me."

"That is not true—"

"Then why," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, "do I have to remind you every day that you are mine?"

His tongue was on you again, rougher this time, less careful. He licked and sucked at your clit with a ferocity that made you cry out, your fingers tangling in his hair, pushing and pulling at the same time. You could not decide if you wanted him to stop or to continue—your body wanted the pleasure, even as your mind recoiled from it.

You were already sensitive from the first orgasm, and the second was building faster than you could have imagined. Your thighs trembled against his shoulders, and your hips were moving again, grinding against his mouth without your permission. The wet sounds of his tongue against your flesh were obscene, and you could not stop them.

"Please," you sobbed again. "Please, I'll be good, I'll be better, just—"

"Just what?" He stopped, his lips hovering over your clit, his breath hot against the sensitive flesh. "Just what, wife? Tell me what you want."

"I want—" You could not finish the sentence. Your body ached with need, and you hated yourself for it. "I want to—"

"You want to come," he said. It was not a question. "You want to come on my tongue, while you think of my son, is that it? While you pretend I am someone else?"

"No!" The denial tore from your throat, raw and desperate. "No, Ormund, I would never—"

He smiled. It was that same pleasant, courteous smile, and it was more frightening than any rage could ever be.

"Then read," he said. "Read me the passage. Read me the words that remind you what you are."

He pulled away, leaving you aching and empty, and you looked down at him through tear-blurred eyes. He was still on his knees, his face flushed, his chin wet with your arousal, his eyes dark with something that was not quite anger.

The book was still on the floor. You leaned down, your fingers trembling as you retrieved it, and you searched for the page. Your hands were shaking so badly that you could barely hold the book, and tears were streaming down your cheeks, but you found the passage.

"'The wife,'" you read, your voice cracking, "'shall submit to her husband in all things, for she is his helpmate and his—'"

He pushed his face between your thighs again, and your voice dissolved into a moan. His mouth was on you again, his tongue plunging inside you, and your back arched against the chair. You could not think. You could not read. All you could do was feel.

"Keep reading," he said against your flesh.

You tried. You tried so hard. But the words were blurring together, and the pleasure was building again, and you could not focus on anything except the wet heat of his mouth and the way your hips were grinding against his face.

"'His—his property,'" you managed. "'His—his vessel, his—'"

He pressed his tongue against your clit, and the second orgasm hit you like a wave.

You screamed, a sound so raw and broken that you did not recognize it as your own. Your body arched off the chair, your hands flying to his head, gripping his hair so hard that you must have hurt him. But he did not stop. He kept his mouth on you, working you through the pleasure, until you collapsed back against the chair, trembling and weeping and utterly spent.

And then he did not stop.

You felt his tongue continue its relentless assault, and the pleasure that had been so overwhelming now teetered on the edge of pain. The sensitivity was unbearable, every stroke of his tongue sent jolts of electricity through your nerves, and you could not breathe, could not think, could not do anything but feel.

"Please," you sobbed, your hands pushing at his head. "Please, Ormund, no more, I can't—"

"You can," he said against your flesh. "You will take what I give you. You will take all of it."

His tongue flicked against your clit, and your hips jerked away instinctively. His hands tightened on your thighs, dragging you back to his mouth, holding you in place. You were trapped—trapped in this chair, trapped beneath his mouth, trapped in this body that was responding against your will.

"Please," you begged, the word a broken litany. "Please, please, please—"

The third orgasm was building before the second had fully faded. It was too much, too soon, and you were crying openly now, your tears streaming down your cheeks and dripping onto your chest. The pleasure was so intense that it was indistinguishable from pain, and you could not tell which was which anymore.

"Ormund," you gasped, "Ormund, I'm going to—please, let me, please—"

"Not yet," he said. His voice was calm, controlled, utterly unaffected by your desperation. "You will not come again until I allow it. Do you understand?"

You nodded frantically, your head bobbing up and down, anything to make him stop, to give you a moment of respite. But he did not stop. His tongue was still working against you, circling and flicking and sucking, pushing you closer and closer to that edge even as you tried to pull away.

"P-promise," you stammered. "I promise, I'll be good, I'll do anything, just please—"

"You will beg," he said, and his voice was dark, almost cruel. "You will beg me for permission to come. And you will not come until I say you may. Is that clear?"

"Yes," you sobbed. "Yes, Ormund, yes, I understand, I'll beg, I'll do whatever you want, just please—"

He hummed against you, the vibration sending another shockwave through your pelvis, and you clawed at his shoulders, trying to push him away and pull him closer all at once. The pleasure was unbearable, unbearable, and you were so close, so close to the edge that you could taste it.

"Please," you begged, the word coming out in a desperate moan. "Please let me come, please, Ormund, I'll be so good for you, I'll never look at anyone else, I'll never smile at anyone but you, I swear it, I swear it on the Seven, please—"

His tongue continued its assault, and you could feel yourself teetering on the edge, your whole body trembling with the effort of holding back. It was agony, pure agony, to be this close and not allowed to fall.

"Please," you sobbed again. "Please, please, please—"

"Look at me," he said.

You looked down at him through tear blurred eyes. He was still on his knees between your thighs, his face flushed, his chin wet with your arousal, his eyes dark and hungry. And as you watched, you saw something shift in his expression a tightening of his jaw, a shudder that ran through his body.

And then he was coming. His hands tightened on your thighs, his fingers digging into your flesh hard enough to bruise, and a low groan escaped his throat. You felt his hips jerk against the air, his body arching as he spilled inside his trousers, his cock pumping into the fabric of his breeches even as his mouth remained fastened to your clit. He was coming untouched, completely undone by the sight and taste of you, and you stared at him in shocked silence as the pleasure wracked his body.

His eyes were locked on yours. He did not look away. He watched you watch him as he came, his breath ragged, his teeth grazing your clit as his body shuddered through the release. The sight of him—the perfect Lord Hightower, so composed and controlled, undone by his own desire—sent a jolt of something dark and triumphant through your chest.

But the triumph was short lived.

Even as his body trembled with the aftershocks of his orgasm, his tongue continued its work. He was relentless, driven, and the pleasure that had been building inside you was now a wildfire that you could not contain. You were so close, so unbearably close, and you had not been given permission.

"Please," you sobbed. "Please, Ormund, please, I can't hold it any longer, please let me—"

He pulled back. His lips left your clit, and the sudden absence of sensation was almost worse than the overstimulation. Your hips thrust into the air, seeking his mouth, seeking the contact that had been stolen from you.

"No," he said. His voice was rough, rougher than usual, his breathing still heavy from his own release. "Not yet."

"I can't—" You were weeping openly now, your whole body trembling. "Please, Ormund, I need to—"

"You need to what?" He pressed a kiss to the inside of your thigh, the touch soft and gentle and maddening. "You need to come? You think you deserve to come?"

"Please," you begged. "I'll do anything—"

"You will be good," he said. "You will be faithful. You will remember that you are mine."

"Yes," you sobbed. "Yes, I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm yours—"

"And you will not look at my son again. You will not smile at him. You will not speak to him unless I am present. Do you understand?"

"I understand," you cried. "I understand, I promise, please, please, I'm so close—"

He pressed two fingers inside you, curling them against that sensitive spot, and you screamed. Your hips bucked against his hand, and the pleasure was so intense, so overwhelming, that you could not hold it back. You were on the edge, teetering, your body screaming for release.

"Beg," he said. "Beg me properly."

"Please," you sobbed, the word a broken chant. "Please, Ormund, my husband, my lord, please let me come, I'll be so good, I'll be perfect, I'll do whatever you say, just please, please, please let me come—"

"Look at me," he commanded.

You looked. Your eyes met his, and you saw the satisfaction there, the dark pleasure he took in your desperation. He curled his fingers inside you, pressing against that spot that made your vision go white.

"Come," he said. "Come for me."

And you did.

The orgasm tore through you like a wildfire, consuming everything in its path. Your body arched off the chair, your mouth open in a silent scream, your hands gripping his shoulders so hard that your nails drew blood. The pleasure was blinding, overwhelming, and you could not breathe, could not think, could not do anything but feel.

It went on and on, wave after wave crashing through you, and Ormund did not stop. His fingers continued to move inside you, working you through the orgasm, drawing it out until you were sobbing and trembling and begging for mercy that would not come.

Finally—finally—he withdrew his fingers.

You collapsed back against the chair, your body limp and shaking, your breath coming in ragged gasps. Your thighs were wet with your own arousal, and you could feel the evidence of his release soaking through his breeches where they pressed against your leg.

Ormund rose to his feet. He was still fully clothed, his tunic and trousers intact, and the contrast between his composed appearance and your debauched state made something twist in your chest. His breeches were dark with a wet patch at the front, the evidence of his own pleasure hidden by the dim firelight.

He looked down at you—at your flushed face, your swollen lips, your tear streaked cheeks, your exposed body—and he smiled. It was that same pleasant, courteous smile, and it was more terrifying than any rage could ever be.

"Good girl," he said. "That is what I wanted to hear."

You could not respond. Your voice was gone, your throat raw, your body limp and trembling. The book had fallen to the floor again, its pages stained by your tears and the evidence of your shame.

Ormund stepped closer. His hand came up to cup your chin, tilting your face up to meet his eyes. His thumb brushed across your cheek, wiping away a tear, and his touch was almost gentle.

"Will I have to remind you again?" he asked. "Or can I trust you to behave?"

You shook your head weakly. "I'll be good," you whispered. "I promise. I'll be good."

He leaned down and kissed your forehead, his lips lingering for a moment against your damp skin. His other hand found your thigh, his fingers tracing the bruise he had left there, and you flinched at the touch.

"If I see you look at my son like that again," he said, his voice soft and calm and utterly terrifying, "I will not stop when you beg. I will keep you right there, on the edge, until you forget your own name. Do you understand?"

"Yes," you whispered. "I understand."

He smiled again and turned to walk to the door. You could see the evidence of his release darkening the front of his breeches, a damp stain that marked his own loss of control. He had come untouched, completely undone by the sight of you beneath his mouth, and the knowledge of that gave you a strange, fleeting sense of power—power that you knew would be taken from you the moment you showed it.

"Clean yourself up," he said without looking back. "I will send a servant with hot water. And then you will join me for a late supper. Lionel will not be there. I have sent him to his quarters for the evening."

The door closed behind him. The lock turned.

You cast a glance over your shoulder. Heart, now definitively, in your throat, with shudders running through you at the sight of the hooded figure at your back.

You walk a little faster. Eyes skittering around to see if there are any others around to witness the worst of your fears. Seeing you’re alone, you pick up the pace even more. Any faster now and you’d be jogging. Yet, you don’t want to be too presumptuous. After all, you don’t know if the guy’s even following you. It would be rude to treat him like he’s already committed a crime, when he isn’t guilty of anything other than walking home. And so, out of courtesy,  you give him the benefit of the doubt and stick to power-walking. 

Gratefully, you make it to your outergate. Keys already in your hands. You're happy to find the keyhole on your first try. Even so, with thoughts regarding the worst still unpleasantly lingering in the back of your head, when you pull the door to yourself, you make sure to crack it open just wide enough for only you to slip through. Wanting it to close behind you quickly, so that the automatic lock could do its job and shut out whoever it was that might be following you. 

You skip along, through the passage leading to the inner-yard, paranoid with a simultaneous feeling of being silly for feeling paranoid, side-eying the gate again before you turn the corner—utterly horrified upon what you catch in your peripheral. 

Shit, fuck-fuck-fuck, he made it inside. It's official then, he’s definitely fucking following you. 

This time you skip jogging and go straight to running to reach the door to your block. Hands shaking a little too much to make it on the first try this time, but somehow you manage in your scramble, making sure to pull the door closed behind you, hearing it click in place, signalling that it’s been locked tight. Despite it, just in case you still straight jump up the stairs, two at a time to reach your flat.

You can’t see it, but you hear it—how he makes it through the second door.

Feeling a mix of terror and confusion all at once. You don’t understand, you’re certain you heard the door lock, but somehow now it’s open again. Your keys jingle as you steady them to open your door in a panic. Listening to the stranger climb the stairs. Once it’s open you nearly tumble inside your apartment, all but slamming it shut to lock it—only… along with your keys, there’s another pair jingling in the staircase.

That's when you realize. He’s not following you. He lives here. He’s your fucking neighbour. 

He lives in the apartment under you. He lives in the apartment under you and you’d clearly just treated him like some sort of a criminal. He’s your neighbor and you’d all but slammed two doors in his face and sprinted away from him.

Embarrassment takes the place of your fear, filling it with regret and guilt. “Shit.”

But can he blame you though? Dressed like that? Dark hood hiding his face, like some sort of thief in the night. What were you supposed to do? Hold the door open for him and say “Heya there, mysterious stranger, you wanna come join me for a nightcap?”

“Shit,” you repeat to no one but yourself. Now you’re just being sarcastic because you feel bad. 

You sigh, then decide you’ll apologize next time you see him. A most dreaded and most-certainly awkward event which turns out to be as soon as the next day.

“Oh! Hey!” Newly awoken from your drunken slumber, you’d just stepped out after a failed mission to find some breakfast in your fridge—having found it completely empty except for a couple of expired tubes of condiments. “Hey, you!”

You rush down the steps, seeing the guy from last night lurking outside his apartment door, keys in hand like he’s just locking up to go as well. He pulls out his earphones once he sees you, a little taken aback by the sight of you panting, all out of breath in front of him.

Jeez, you need to start taking the gym more seriously, you think to yourself as you catch your breath. “Hey, listen, I’m real’ sorry ‘bout the other night. That was so rude and uncalled for,” you apologize. Face all riddled with embarrassment and guilt, smiling at him in the awkward hope of his understanding forgiveness.

The only problem is, he’s got no idea who you are or “What’re you on about?”

Oh, you pause, maybe he hadn’t noticed you? Still, you start explaining, “Last night, or well, this morning I guess, we came home at the same time. I was sorta… nearly, kinda running away from you? I was drunk and paranoid—I didn’t know you live here—I should have held the door open. Anyway, I just wanted to say sorry.”

His chin tilts up in recognition after that, “Ah, right, yeah,” then waves his hand, saying, “No worries. I know how it is. Dressed the way you were, I'd have been scared too. Hardly recognized you without that little dress you had on.”

You look down at yourself, all covered up in baggy sweatpants and a hoodie—a far cry from yesterday’s get-up—now make-up free, not to mention your hair in a messy updo. No wonder he didn’t put two and two together.

“Right,” you giggle then, suddenly feeling embarrassed for a whole other reason. You were just going to pop in and out to the store—you hadn’t exactly accounted for anyone to see you. “Yeah, I was just gonna grab some breakfast. Mornin’ after and all that—need something fatty, you know?”

He returns your smile, way cooler than you, eyeing you like he’s amused before offering, only with a small pause, “How ‘bout we go to the bakery around the corner? I'll forgive you for yesterday if you pay.”

It stuns you. Thinking, that’s brazen—a little impressed by his forwardness. Your smile gets brighter with another laugh. This was not the morning you were expecting. But heck, why not?

“A’right, sure,” you agree, before putting up your pointer, jokingly stating, “But then we better be square.”

He whistles, “Sounds good to me.”

And that’s how you end up having breakfast with your downstairs neighbour.

And as you sit there, opposite each other, you let your eyes wander because holy cow, he’s absolutely massive. You’d noticed when you were standing inside as well, but you’d been too busy making your awkward apology to really have taken him in.

No wonder your female heart was cowering in your chest last night, it must have sensed the size of the guy from the sound of his footsteps. You're completely flabbergasted how you’ve never seen him before. Two meters easily, big broad shoulders with a back you could build a house on and two gigantic arms that could easily lift it straight above his head and toss it across a football field if he wanted to.

He's a cop, you learn over breakfast. He hits the gym early and comes home during the day or works the late shift and comes home in the morning, which explains why you’ve never run into him except last night. He’s a bit of a routine junkie, he admits. 

And, well, though he doesn’t come clean about it, it’s not hard to tell how he’s also a bit of a flirt.

“I gotta be honest, I thought you’d lost your pants or something,” he chuckles, smirking at you playfully from atop his coffee cup, forcing a permanent heat in your cheeks as well as a cramp from the bashful smile you’re unable to make settle through all his teasing.

“Quit bullying my dress!” you nearly whine. “It’s cute. You can’t deny it’s cute.”

He gives a can’t-argue-with-that type of shrug. “I mean, yeah, I've just never seen such a thing besides on film,” he says, then inquires, “What were you up to anyway?”

“Oh, you know…” You pluck the last blueberry off your plate, wondering if you should order more pancakes. “Just’ at the club with some friends. Dancin’.” 

Popping the berry in your mouth, you decide against another round as you suck the cream off your digits—thinking you should show some restraint in front of the gym-freak across from you. You wouldn't want to come across as a complete glutton either.

Besides, just looking at him is a meal enough on its own, and you can tell he’s enjoying you the same way. And so, you lay it on extra thick for him. “It gets hot in there, so the less you wear the better.”

He scoffs, “Oh, really?” brows raised, grinning at your display. “You sure it ain’t got nothin’ to do with makin’ people look?”

You make a show out of getting offended with a fake gasp, before bringing forth your wrists. Your voice thick with sardonic theatrics, speaking your words through a pout, “Well, arrest me, officer. I didn’t know that was a crime.”

Shaking his head, he chuckles some more at you. “Nah, you’re good. But maybe I should come along to chaperone you next time—you know, make sure you get home all safe and sound.”

He takes another sip of coffee while watching his words and how they affect you. Yeah, he knows exactly what he’s doing, the scoundrel—you know he knows, shamelessly making you gush like this. 

You bite your lip—it’s all you can do to keep yourself from kicking your feet. A man hasn’t flirted with you in broad daylight like this in some time, you don’t even know how long, and you’re not going to lie, it’s making you weak.

“You don’t have work?” you ask—perhaps a little too eager.

But he doesn’t seem to think so, answering with charm, “I get time off just like everyone else.”

You bite your lip, trying to force yourself into acting casual even though you’re squealing on the inside, “Okay, sure, why not? But you gotta promise you won’t be all police-like and stuff though.”

He chuckles again. “Don’t worry. I’ll leave my gun at home.”

Yeah… You end up dating. 

In fact, you make pasta together and fuck that very same night. Multiple times, multiple positions, multiple rooms, and, most important of all, multiple orgasms. 

You’ve never been with a guy like him, outside of your fantasies. A monster truck of a man, he’s practically herculean—he could literally carry you on his back up a mountain if he wanted to. So of course the sex is amazing. He puts you in all kinds of crazy states you’ve never been in before—full-nelson, pile-driver, standing missionary—he fucking rails you like a jack hammer until your positively destroyed.

Honestly you weren’t too sure you liked muscle freaks who could manhandle you any way they want, but now you can say you’ve been fully baptised into the church of size difference and you’re afraid there will be no going back. 

Not only is he built for it, but he’s good at it too. He knows how to foreplay, how to get you going, how to tease and make you all hot and bothered and desperate for it. Not just sexy, but playful. Always joking when knocking on your door—saying FBI open up while posted there in his uniform—roleplaying with it, frisking you after putting you under arrest with real handcuffs, even using his gun sometimes—unloaded, of course.

Outside of sex, he’s a real gentleman too. Takes you out for dates—dinners, parks, movies. Tells you that you look good and wraps you in his jacket when you’re looking chilly—or when he spots other guys leering.

He’s just a really good guy overall. You actually really like him. And that’s saying a lot, given how many shitty dating situationships you’ve had over the past years. This might be something real.

Is what you thought until, well… 

After a few weeks, it's revealed he doesn't like it when you go out by yourself.

It’s nothing, at first—not something you pay much mind to. He’s just a bit protective, is all—any decent man who cares for his girlfriend will show some instinct regarding her safety when he’s not around. It’s normal. 

Still though, you can’t help that it rubs you the wrong way just a bit.

It’s dangerous, he’ll argue, and you can’t really disagree when you've already admitted to being scared going home alone. But even though you know it comes from a good place—that he’s just looking out for you—it’s still a little… you don’t know. Patronizing? 

At least, that’s what it feels like…

Then again, he doesn’t strike you as very traditional. He’s supportive of your studies, comfortable watching chick flicks with you, doesn’t care when you dress like a slob, joins you shopping, cooks for you, he even goes down on you. Like you said, he’s a good guy. And you really like him.

But shit… this increasing need of his to chaperone your every move? You’re not going to lie, it’s getting a little annoying.

“Going somewhere?” he stops you on your way out.

You’d given one another the keys to each other’s apartment some time ago now, and he’d taken it as an invitation to come by anytime he wanted. You thought it was sweet at first, and you still do—your schedules don’t always line up, so it’s nice to keep it easy-access. It’s just, you already told him you’d be busy today.

“Yeah, just out with some girlfriends,” you repeat, sitting down to put on the pair of strappy black heels you’d just bought, excited to hear what the girls will say—already hearing them go silly with cat-calls, howling compliments at you.

“Like that?” he questions, standing with his shoulder leaning against the wall and arms crossed over his chest.

You get up and do a spin, wearing a tight but classy black cocktail dress. “What’s wrong with this?”

He throws his brows up, scratching the back of his neck while stepping closer. “Nothin’.” He releases a sigh, dwarfing your waist in his hands, pulling you flush against him. “You don’t think it's a little dressy for a girl’s night?”

You pout, placing your chin on his chest, batting your lashes with puppy-dog eyes looking up at him. “I like looking nice, is that so bad?”

His hands travel, over the small of your back, down the dome of your ass, swaying with you in his arms. “No. Of course not.” He sighs again, squeezing you tight. “I'm just jealous of whoever’s gonna get to look at you all night.”

You smile, thinking, despite how it gets on your nerves just a bit, it’s still kind of cute how needy he is.

“Where’ you going?” he asks, chin atop your crown, still keeping you close, as though charging himself up, knowing he’s going to be without you for the evening.

“Just the lounge down by the pier.”

He groans then, hauling you off by your forearms to give you a stern look. “You know I don't like when you drink when I'm not around.”

You tilt your head and return his look with a softly patronizing one of your own, silently trying to tell him he’s being childish again like the two of you’d spoken about. Because you had told him—how unreasonable it was. And as mentioned, you were beginning to get a little sick of having to tell him off about it.

When he doesn’t say anything, you roll your eyes and show him enough sympathy to reassure him of how “It’s just gonna be a glass of wine.”

“Mh…” he hums, looking at you, not fully convinced. “Give me five minutes and I'll join you.”

“No.” It slips before you give it much thought. And yet, even after having said it, despite it having been a bit rude, you still don’t regret it or make any proceedings to take it back.

“No?” he echoes. A little affronted—to be expected.

Still, you don’t let it deter you. “Well, it’s a girl’s night. You know…” you explain, hoping to appeal to his sense of reason. “It would be rude if I brought you when the rest of the girls have left their man at home.”

It doesn't seem to persuade him. His face just scrunches, as though the entire idea of a girl’s night is absurd in and of itself, arguing, “Tell ‘em to invite them then. Problem solved. None of you should be out on your own anyway.”

And it’s comments like that that really upset you. You bite your lip, trying to think of the most disarming response—not wanting to fight it out right now, thinking you could bring it up later at a better time.

“I'll be home before ten. I'll only have one glass of wine. I'll take a taxi home. And…” You give him a playful smile as you wrap your arms around his neck and give the locks on his nape a light tug. “I'll make it up to you all night long.”

You feel his frame tense up at the offer, enticed by your words until he, at long last, finally grumbles out a defeated, “Fine.” 

He releases you then, but doesn’t leave you alone for too long before grabbing your chin. 

“No need for a Taxi, I'll come pick you up,” he says firmly, laying it forth like a condition to his allowing you to go. “Stand ready outside at ten o’clock sharp.” 

Giving you a small kiss, he continues before you can voice any complaint. 

“Or else I really will have to spend all night long punishing you.”

It gives you goosebumps. And yet, because you don’t entirely hate the sound of it, you decide to treat it like a joke, and against reading all that deep into it—even though you’re aware there might be some small truth behind the warning. 

You know if your friends were to have heard it, they’d probably disapprove, but come on… Being threatened with sex is harmless enough. 

And so, you brush it off and play along, answering him with a bright and bushy-tailed, “Yes’sir.”

To which he proudly smiles, “Atta’ girl.”

Despite promises made, that first glass of wine disappears quickly. 

You never were much of a slow drinker. Not that you’re an alcoholic either, of course, it’s just… it’s hard pacing yourself when you’re in good company. And your girls? Well… let’s just say they know how to bring the party.

“Another round of wine?” Franny declares more than asks.

You shrink back a little in your chair. Not only not wanting to be a bummer, but also fearing how they’d most likely see right through it not being your decision, then actively begin to judge you for letting yourself be governed by your boyfriend. 

Still, you shake your head and hope they might not catch on. “I shouldn't—”

“What? Why?” Franny immediately boos, all but gawking at you from across the table like you’d just declared you were becoming a nun or something else equally baffling.

Carrie, on the other hand, doesn't seem surprised at all, throwing the rest of her wine back before mumbling, “Or else Mr. Officer will put her under arrest.”

Franny’s head snaps to her at that, again, gasping, “What? Really?”

Carrie throws up a brow, cool like a mean-girl about it, “Oh, you haven’t heard?” before cocking her head back at you, putting you on the spot, “Tell her then. Go on.”

You pout at her judgementalness, knowing you won’t be able to hide it either if she decides to push—which she most certainly will. “Come on, he’s not that bad...”

That’s when her cool demeanor takes a twist, all but banging her glass on the table with her outburst, “Girl, be so real! Man’s a total chauvinist, you gotta break up with him.”

You weren’t in the dark about her attitude regarding your relationship, so it doesn’t exactly come as a big shock to hear her criticize it to your face. It wouldn't kill her to learn some tact though. Even so, you’re willing to forgive her, given you know her tolerance to be rather low and her need to be candid evidently very high.

“I like him,” you defend under her disapproving glare and Franny’s wide-eyed stare, the both of them awaiting something more persuasive.

“Besides…” you drift, feeling the wine in your system forcing you to be a little more honest with both them and yourself. “He’s my neighbour, you know… If I break up with him I'll still have to run into him.”

Carrie deadpans at that. Looking at your square in the eye with dull ones of her own, her mouth catching flies, back to being as suave as always while stating in a more-than-obvious manner, “Start looking for places to move.”

You sigh, pouting even more while you whine, “But I like my apartment.”

There’s a moment of silence, as though in solidarity of your situation, letting you come to terms with what you have to do.

Franny lifts her glass after a moment. A sympathetic quirk on her lips, repeating, now suggestively in comfort, “Another round of wine?”

You look at her, then at Carrie, who just shrugs, also with her glass in hand—tone equally suggestive, “We won’t snitch.” 

You bite your lip, letting their mischief rub off on you like you do so well. Smiling. “Oh, fine. You win.”

The three of you chat more about each other’s hopeless love pursuits, how no men are perfect, how friendship is so much more reliable, and how being alone might just be the only reasonable thing for any one of you.

You like him, but you can see Carrie’s point. You’ve had the same concerns yourself, despite not wording them as harshly as her. Of course you don’t enjoy having to argue about going out with your friends or dressing the way you want. 

Having to ask permission for such things doesn’t make sense to you, and it never will. You’re a grown woman who pays her own bills. You don’t have to run your decisions by anyone. And even if you did feel the need, it would be out of pure consideration—simply to keep the other person in the loop, and not something to be discussed—at the very least not something to be prohibited. You’re not a prisoner, and you’re certainly no child either.

Shit, you don’t know… maybe dating the guy in your building wasn’t the brightest decision after all.

“I said ten,” he admonishes as you step towards the parking lot. 

It’s just gotten dark. You’d hadn’t seen him yet and so the sudden sound of his voice spooks you, making you slap a hand over your pulse with a gasp.

If he notices, he doesn’t seem to mind. Not offering you an apology. Rather the opposite. Standing there, posted against his squad car with his arms folded upon his chest—staring at you like some criminal, awaiting your confession.

“Sorry, it took some time figuring out the bill–”

“You're drunk,” he cuts you off, shaking his head in disapproval as he goes to grab your purse in one hand and your upper arm in the other.

“No,” you argue sharply, saying “I'm not drunk.” because you most certainly are not. In fact, between two glasses of wine and a whole meal, you wouldn't even describe it as being tipsy.

He ignores you while opening the door to the passenger seat, ushering you inside with a strict, “Get in the car.”

You have to roll your eyes. Sarcastically thanking him for not going so far as to place you in the back like an actual arrestee, muttering, “Yes, sir.” under your breath.

He then even leans across you to put on your seatbelt, prompting you to almost push him off. Saying, “Dude, chill. I had two glasses of wine. Like, how—”

“We agreed on one,” he cuts you off again, making it very clear how little interest he had in hearing  any of it.

Again, like his previous comments, it upsets you. In fact, it’s the last straw. “Yeah? Well, you’re not the boss of me. If I want another glass of wine, it’s in my rights to fucking have one.”

You don’t scream it, and yet, he acts like you do. Scolding you like you’re some child throwing a tantrum, nearly growling at you in return, “Lower your voice. I'm not having this discussion with you if you’re going to be yelling.”

You can only scoff, completely flabbergasted by him and his behaviour. “Ugh, you’re so infuriating sometimes,” you nearly shriek, though he shuts the door in your face before hearing it.

He gets in the driver’s seat, snaps his belt in place, and veers out of the lot in one swift movement. In any other circumstance, you’d find his capabilities assuring—maybe even a little arousing. But, right now it only serves to piss you off.

The rest of the drive is silent. You keep your gaze fixed out of the window, not even acknowledging the way his wrist go white wringing the wheel—probably sitting there waiting for you to beg his forgiveness or something stupid.

You don’t know what to say. All you know is that you’re going home by yourself. 

“Give me my purse,” you demand once you’re outside his apartment. Your hand stretched out, waiting for him to hand it to you. You’d abandon it if it weren't for the unfortunate fact that your keys and your phone were both confiscated within it.

“You’ll get it once we’re inside,” he sighs, his entire back bulking with the action, standing with it facing you as he unlocks the door. Again, flat-out ignoring you as if you had no say in the matter.

“No,” you protest, insisting, “I'm going to my own apartment, so give me my purse.”

With his hand once again around your upper arm, he tugs on you despite you planting your feet and pulling back. “Don’t be difficult.”

You grab his wrist, trying to twist it off, but failing. “I don’t need you to baby me—I’m not a fucking child.”

“Oh yeah? You could have fooled me, standing here throwing a fit for everyone to hear.” He only tightens his grip, tugging you harder—so hard you’re forced off balance and nearly fall straight into him. “Now get your butt inside before I throw you over my shoulder.”

He doesn’t give you any time or room to refuse, all but dragging you inside and placing you on the couch with a mean and very nearly brutal shove. “Sit down.”

He then gets down on one knee in front of you. Hands lifting your foot onto his thigh as he begins undoing the straps to your heels.

“I can do that myself—” you try to pry it away from him, but he only pulls it back into place.

“Just sit.”

You don’t know what to do at that point. Eyeing him and the way he was positively radiating annoyance. You’re equally frustrated, and still, you can’t help but be struck with this sensation that it doesn’t matter much when he’s more equipped in enacting his will. 

In the end, you just sit there like he’d commanded, at a loss for what you could do or say—and only getting more frustrated by it.

“Now this,” he declares once done, gesturing to your dress as he gets up, fingers clawing under the hem, beginning to pull it up.

“Stop it already. I said I can do it myself!” Your hands are on his chest then, having had enough—this time officially. “Ugh, just get off, I’m going home!”

You don’t know what happened, but something instinctual must have kicked in once it was clear he wouldn’t listen, because suddenly, without warning, you kicked him in the shin in order to get him off.

But little good it does you...

In fact, it only makes the following events that much worse.

“What's gotten into you, huh? Acting so fuckin’ bratty—” 

His hand is atop your mouth like a piece of duct tape, trapping all unwanted noise beneath it. He’s got you lying on your back now, himself on top of you. Your dress balled up in his other fist, this time opting to rip it off rather than tug you out of it. 

“I swear, nothing good ever comes from letting you women yap amongst yourselves—you always come back with so much attitude and dumb ideas I gott’a straighten out.” 

Your struggles seem to mean nothing to him—all efforts to thwart him, easily ignored. 

“You can bet your ass this is the last time I let you go anywhere with those sluts. I mean, just look at you—dressed like a fucking whore. A shitty fucking influence the lot of ‘em.” 

He succeeds in tearing the dress, throwing it across the floor like trash—passing little consideration to the way it has you squirming beneath him with fat tears now streaming down your cheeks, soaking his fingers in a way that should have been enough to reconsider.

And yet, his eyes seem more concerned with your other articles. 

“You even wear pretty underwear for ‘em—fuck’s that about, huh?” Clicking his tongue, the frown on his face is enough to make your stomach churn—fully terrified of what he meant to do next. 

“What’s left for me?” His eyes meet yours, demanding an answer from you even though your lips were sealed under his grip. “If you go parading around for the entire fucking world to see, what’s left?” 

His other hand balls up into a fist, then bangs against the back cushion to the side of your face, hard enough to make the entire couch skirt just a bit, making you let out a muffled scream, followed by a whimper as you shut your eyes hard and start praying.

“I’m the only one who’s supposed to see you like this. It’s supposed to be my fucking privilege. Something special for me to cherish.” 

You feel his touch return to you, and you tremble receiving it, despite it only softly stroking your skin in ticklish touches, down your chest and belly until stopping at the lace of your panties. 

There’s a heavy sigh, loud enough for the pursuing silence to feel deafening.

“But I guess… if you’re gonna act like a cheap whore, I might as well treat you like one.”

The quickening beat of your heart makes it hard to breathe while your eyes blow open wide at the feel of him tearing at the lace. Your sobbing turns more violent, while your hands fly to keep the flimsy garment in place. 

“No? You don’t want that?” he mocks without humor, and you try your best to shake your head under his hold, every thought begging him to stop. 

Teeth grit, he continues, “Then quit being difficult and start doing what I say. Can you do that?”

You peel your eyes open, now nearly choking on the tears clogging your nose. Sniveling as you give him pitiful nods, hoping it will suffice.

“Good,” he affirms. 

His hold relents after that, just enough for you to be able to suck in a breath. Sill though, calming down takes you a moment, and even then you never fully manage completely—just enough to turn your sobbing into softer bleating.

He allows you the time to recover, before getting up and demanding the same of you. 

“Come on. Bathroom.”

His hand’s on your nape, guiding you like a leash and collar. You keep your head bowed, feeling exposed as you shuffle along just in front of him. Regarding him like a beast on your heels.

You enter the bathroom, where he positions you in front of the sink.

“Let’s get all this clown shit off.” 

His actions are gentler now, but they still feel anything but. Still making you sniffle as you stand there, knees wobbly, stuck in shock as he proceeds to find your makeup remover.

Your breaths are wintry as you stand there, both hands shaking, holding onto the white marble, staring into the drain, terrified to meet his reflection in the mirror above as he starts to drag a wet wipe over your cheeks and lips, rubbing your no-doubt ruined make-up off. 

You watch as each cotton-cloth is discarded one after the other in the basin below, flecked with black mascara streaks and pink rouge, the latest one cleaner than the first few.

“There she is—that’s better,” he coos once done. Caressing your face in his hand as he lifts it up to look straight ahead. 

You don’t want to, but the way his fingers all rub against your jugular, is enough for you to take as a warning. Seeing yourself—your eyes puffy, lashes gathered in wet wisps, bottom lip trembling. 

“My pretty girl.”

He sags forward, lowering his mouth to your neck, kissing you there in slow but heavy mouthfuls. His other hand, the one not holding you by the throat, is snaked around your midriff with his arm across your body, pushing you against him and the way he angles his hips against your ass and grinds into you from the back.

“I’m sorry for getting upset,” he murmurs with a groan then, but it’s not an effective apology. “It’s just so frustrating, you know? To be here, worrying about you out there—epsecially when you don’t take any safety precautions. You just…” His mouth reaches your ear, nuzzling the shell, his breath making it burn. “You drive me fucking nuts.”

You don’t dare reply. You don’t dare do anything. You just keep clutching onto the sink, as though letting go would result in him pulling you away somewhere more dangerous.

“You’re so cruel—always leaving me with my dick in my hand.” His hands fall to your hips, his grip bruising as he kneads you against him and the hard thing jabbing itself against your ass.

“I’m sorry–” comes out of your mouth before you can think.

To which he releases a pent-up chuckle. “That’s okay…” 

He rests his chin on his shoulder, mouth perfectly level with your ear with words holding onto something utterly horrid, saying, “It’s like you said—you can make it up to me.”

You cast a glance over your shoulder. Heart, now definitively, in your throat, with shudders running through you at the sight of the hooded figure at your back.

You walk a little faster. Eyes skittering around to see if there are any others around to witness the worst of your fears. Seeing you’re alone, you pick up the pace even more. Any faster now and you’d be jogging. Yet, you don’t want to be too presumptuous. After all, you don’t know if the guy’s even following you. It would be rude to treat him like he’s already committed a crime, when he isn’t guilty of anything other than walking home. And so, out of courtesy,  you give him the benefit of the doubt and stick to power-walking. 

Gratefully, you make it to your outergate. Keys already in your hands. You're happy to find the keyhole on your first try. Even so, with thoughts regarding the worst still unpleasantly lingering in the back of your head, when you pull the door to yourself, you make sure to crack it open just wide enough for only you to slip through. Wanting it to close behind you quickly, so that the automatic lock could do its job and shut out whoever it was that might be following you. 

You skip along, through the passage leading to the inner-yard, paranoid with a simultaneous feeling of being silly for feeling paranoid, side-eying the gate again before you turn the corner—utterly horrified upon what you catch in your peripheral. 

Shit, fuck-fuck-fuck, he made it inside. It's official then, he’s definitely fucking following you. 

This time you skip jogging and go straight to running to reach the door to your block. Hands shaking a little too much to make it on the first try this time, but somehow you manage in your scramble, making sure to pull the door closed behind you, hearing it click in place, signalling that it’s been locked tight. Despite it, just in case you still straight jump up the stairs, two at a time to reach your flat.

You can’t see it, but you hear it—how he makes it through the second door.

Feeling a mix of terror and confusion all at once. You don’t understand, you’re certain you heard the door lock, but somehow now it’s open again. Your keys jingle as you steady them to open your door in a panic. Listening to the stranger climb the stairs. Once it’s open you nearly tumble inside your apartment, all but slamming it shut to lock it—only… along with your keys, there’s another pair jingling in the staircase.

That's when you realize. He’s not following you. He lives here. He’s your fucking neighbour. 

He lives in the apartment under you. He lives in the apartment under you and you’d clearly just treated him like some sort of a criminal. He’s your neighbor and you’d all but slammed two doors in his face and sprinted away from him.

Embarrassment takes the place of your fear, filling it with regret and guilt. “Shit.”

But can he blame you though? Dressed like that? Dark hood hiding his face, like some sort of thief in the night. What were you supposed to do? Hold the door open for him and say “Heya there, mysterious stranger, you wanna come join me for a nightcap?”

“Shit,” you repeat to no one but yourself. Now you’re just being sarcastic because you feel bad. 

You sigh, then decide you’ll apologize next time you see him. A most dreaded and most-certainly awkward event which turns out to be as soon as the next day.

“Oh! Hey!” Newly awoken from your drunken slumber, you’d just stepped out after a failed mission to find some breakfast in your fridge—having found it completely empty except for a couple of expired tubes of condiments. “Hey, you!”

You rush down the steps, seeing the guy from last night lurking outside his apartment door, keys in hand like he’s just locking up to go as well. He pulls out his earphones once he sees you, a little taken aback by the sight of you panting, all out of breath in front of him.

Jeez, you need to start taking the gym more seriously, you think to yourself as you catch your breath. “Hey, listen, I’m real’ sorry ‘bout the other night. That was so rude and uncalled for,” you apologize. Face all riddled with embarrassment and guilt, smiling at him in the awkward hope of his understanding forgiveness.

The only problem is, he’s got no idea who you are or “What’re you on about?”

Oh, you pause, maybe he hadn’t noticed you? Still, you start explaining, “Last night, or well, this morning I guess, we came home at the same time. I was sorta… nearly, kinda running away from you? I was drunk and paranoid—I didn’t know you live here—I should have held the door open. Anyway, I just wanted to say sorry.”

His chin tilts up in recognition after that, “Ah, right, yeah,” then waves his hand, saying, “No worries. I know how it is. Dressed the way you were, I'd have been scared too. Hardly recognized you without that little dress you had on.”

You look down at yourself, all covered up in baggy sweatpants and a hoodie—a far cry from yesterday’s get-up—now make-up free, not to mention your hair in a messy updo. No wonder he didn’t put two and two together.

“Right,” you giggle then, suddenly feeling embarrassed for a whole other reason. You were just going to pop in and out to the store—you hadn’t exactly accounted for anyone to see you. “Yeah, I was just gonna grab some breakfast. Mornin’ after and all that—need something fatty, you know?”

He returns your smile, way cooler than you, eyeing you like he’s amused before offering, only with a small pause, “How ‘bout we go to the bakery around the corner? I'll forgive you for yesterday if you pay.”

It stuns you. Thinking, that’s brazen—a little impressed by his forwardness. Your smile gets brighter with another laugh. This was not the morning you were expecting. But heck, why not?

“A’right, sure,” you agree, before putting up your pointer, jokingly stating, “But then we better be square.”

He whistles, “Sounds good to me.”

And that’s how you end up having breakfast with your downstairs neighbour.

And as you sit there, opposite each other, you let your eyes wander because holy cow, he’s absolutely massive. You’d noticed when you were standing inside as well, but you’d been too busy making your awkward apology to really have taken him in.

No wonder your female heart was cowering in your chest last night, it must have sensed the size of the guy from the sound of his footsteps. You're completely flabbergasted how you’ve never seen him before. Two meters easily, big broad shoulders with a back you could build a house on and two gigantic arms that could easily lift it straight above his head and toss it across a football field if he wanted to.

He's a cop, you learn over breakfast. He hits the gym early and comes home during the day or works the late shift and comes home in the morning, which explains why you’ve never run into him except last night. He’s a bit of a routine junkie, he admits. 

And, well, though he doesn’t come clean about it, it’s not hard to tell how he’s also a bit of a flirt.

“I gotta be honest, I thought you’d lost your pants or something,” he chuckles, smirking at you playfully from atop his coffee cup, forcing a permanent heat in your cheeks as well as a cramp from the bashful smile you’re unable to make settle through all his teasing.

“Quit bullying my dress!” you nearly whine. “It’s cute. You can’t deny it’s cute.”

He gives a can’t-argue-with-that type of shrug. “I mean, yeah, I've just never seen such a thing besides on film,” he says, then inquires, “What were you up to anyway?”

“Oh, you know…” You pluck the last blueberry off your plate, wondering if you should order more pancakes. “Just’ at the club with some friends. Dancin’.” 

Popping the berry in your mouth, you decide against another round as you suck the cream off your digits—thinking you should show some restraint in front of the gym-freak across from you. You wouldn't want to come across as a complete glutton either.

Besides, just looking at him is a meal enough on its own, and you can tell he’s enjoying you the same way. And so, you lay it on extra thick for him. “It gets hot in there, so the less you wear the better.”

He scoffs, “Oh, really?” brows raised, grinning at your display. “You sure it ain’t got nothin’ to do with makin’ people look?”

You make a show out of getting offended with a fake gasp, before bringing forth your wrists. Your voice thick with sardonic theatrics, speaking your words through a pout, “Well, arrest me, officer. I didn’t know that was a crime.”

Shaking his head, he chuckles some more at you. “Nah, you’re good. But maybe I should come along to chaperone you next time—you know, make sure you get home all safe and sound.”

He takes another sip of coffee while watching his words and how they affect you. Yeah, he knows exactly what he’s doing, the scoundrel—you know he knows, shamelessly making you gush like this. 

You bite your lip—it’s all you can do to keep yourself from kicking your feet. A man hasn’t flirted with you in broad daylight like this in some time, you don’t even know how long, and you’re not going to lie, it’s making you weak.

“You don’t have work?” you ask—perhaps a little too eager.

But he doesn’t seem to think so, answering with charm, “I get time off just like everyone else.”

You bite your lip, trying to force yourself into acting casual even though you’re squealing on the inside, “Okay, sure, why not? But you gotta promise you won’t be all police-like and stuff though.”

He chuckles again. “Don’t worry. I’ll leave my gun at home.”

Yeah… You end up dating. 

In fact, you make pasta together and fuck that very same night. Multiple times, multiple positions, multiple rooms, and, most important of all, multiple orgasms. 

You’ve never been with a guy like him, outside of your fantasies. A monster truck of a man, he’s practically herculean—he could literally carry you on his back up a mountain if he wanted to. So of course the sex is amazing. He puts you in all kinds of crazy states you’ve never been in before—full-nelson, pile-driver, standing missionary—he fucking rails you like a jack hammer until your positively destroyed.

Honestly you weren’t too sure you liked muscle freaks who could manhandle you any way they want, but now you can say you’ve been fully baptised into the church of size difference and you’re afraid there will be no going back. 

Not only is he built for it, but he’s good at it too. He knows how to foreplay, how to get you going, how to tease and make you all hot and bothered and desperate for it. Not just sexy, but playful. Always joking when knocking on your door—saying FBI open up while posted there in his uniform—roleplaying with it, frisking you after putting you under arrest with real handcuffs, even using his gun sometimes—unloaded, of course.

Outside of sex, he’s a real gentleman too. Takes you out for dates—dinners, parks, movies. Tells you that you look good and wraps you in his jacket when you’re looking chilly—or when he spots other guys leering.

He’s just a really good guy overall. You actually really like him. And that’s saying a lot, given how many shitty dating situationships you’ve had over the past years. This might be something real.

Is what you thought until, well… 

After a few weeks, it's revealed he doesn't like it when you go out by yourself.

It’s nothing, at first—not something you pay much mind to. He’s just a bit protective, is all—any decent man who cares for his girlfriend will show some instinct regarding her safety when he’s not around. It’s normal. 

Still though, you can’t help that it rubs you the wrong way just a bit.

It’s dangerous, he’ll argue, and you can’t really disagree when you've already admitted to being scared going home alone. But even though you know it comes from a good place—that he’s just looking out for you—it’s still a little… you don’t know. Patronizing? 

At least, that’s what it feels like…

Then again, he doesn’t strike you as very traditional. He’s supportive of your studies, comfortable watching chick flicks with you, doesn’t care when you dress like a slob, joins you shopping, cooks for you, he even goes down on you. Like you said, he’s a good guy. And you really like him.

But shit… this increasing need of his to chaperone your every move? You’re not going to lie, it’s getting a little annoying.

“Going somewhere?” he stops you on your way out.

You’d given one another the keys to each other’s apartment some time ago now, and he’d taken it as an invitation to come by anytime he wanted. You thought it was sweet at first, and you still do—your schedules don’t always line up, so it’s nice to keep it easy-access. It’s just, you already told him you’d be busy today.

“Yeah, just out with some girlfriends,” you repeat, sitting down to put on the pair of strappy black heels you’d just bought, excited to hear what the girls will say—already hearing them go silly with cat-calls, howling compliments at you.

“Like that?” he questions, standing with his shoulder leaning against the wall and arms crossed over his chest.

You get up and do a spin, wearing a tight but classy black cocktail dress. “What’s wrong with this?”

He throws his brows up, scratching the back of his neck while stepping closer. “Nothin’.” He releases a sigh, dwarfing your waist in his hands, pulling you flush against him. “You don’t think it's a little dressy for a girl’s night?”

You pout, placing your chin on his chest, batting your lashes with puppy-dog eyes looking up at him. “I like looking nice, is that so bad?”

His hands travel, over the small of your back, down the dome of your ass, swaying with you in his arms. “No. Of course not.” He sighs again, squeezing you tight. “I'm just jealous of whoever’s gonna get to look at you all night.”

You smile, thinking, despite how it gets on your nerves just a bit, it’s still kind of cute how needy he is.

“Where’ you going?” he asks, chin atop your crown, still keeping you close, as though charging himself up, knowing he’s going to be without you for the evening.

“Just the lounge down by the pier.”

He groans then, hauling you off by your forearms to give you a stern look. “You know I don't like when you drink when I'm not around.”

You tilt your head and return his look with a softly patronizing one of your own, silently trying to tell him he’s being childish again like the two of you’d spoken about. Because you had told him—how unreasonable it was. And as mentioned, you were beginning to get a little sick of having to tell him off about it.

When he doesn’t say anything, you roll your eyes and show him enough sympathy to reassure him of how “It’s just gonna be a glass of wine.”

“Mh…” he hums, looking at you, not fully convinced. “Give me five minutes and I'll join you.”

“No.” It slips before you give it much thought. And yet, even after having said it, despite it having been a bit rude, you still don’t regret it or make any proceedings to take it back.

“No?” he echoes. A little affronted—to be expected.

Still, you don’t let it deter you. “Well, it’s a girl’s night. You know…” you explain, hoping to appeal to his sense of reason. “It would be rude if I brought you when the rest of the girls have left their man at home.”

It doesn't seem to persuade him. His face just scrunches, as though the entire idea of a girl’s night is absurd in and of itself, arguing, “Tell ‘em to invite them then. Problem solved. None of you should be out on your own anyway.”

And it’s comments like that that really upset you. You bite your lip, trying to think of the most disarming response—not wanting to fight it out right now, thinking you could bring it up later at a better time.

“I'll be home before ten. I'll only have one glass of wine. I'll take a taxi home. And…” You give him a playful smile as you wrap your arms around his neck and give the locks on his nape a light tug. “I'll make it up to you all night long.”

You feel his frame tense up at the offer, enticed by your words until he, at long last, finally grumbles out a defeated, “Fine.” 

He releases you then, but doesn’t leave you alone for too long before grabbing your chin. 

“No need for a Taxi, I'll come pick you up,” he says firmly, laying it forth like a condition to his allowing you to go. “Stand ready outside at ten o’clock sharp.” 

Giving you a small kiss, he continues before you can voice any complaint. 

“Or else I really will have to spend all night long punishing you.”

It gives you goosebumps. And yet, because you don’t entirely hate the sound of it, you decide to treat it like a joke, and against reading all that deep into it—even though you’re aware there might be some small truth behind the warning. 

You know if your friends were to have heard it, they’d probably disapprove, but come on… Being threatened with sex is harmless enough. 

And so, you brush it off and play along, answering him with a bright and bushy-tailed, “Yes’sir.”

To which he proudly smiles, “Atta’ girl.”

Despite promises made, that first glass of wine disappears quickly. 

You never were much of a slow drinker. Not that you’re an alcoholic either, of course, it’s just… it’s hard pacing yourself when you’re in good company. And your girls? Well… let’s just say they know how to bring the party.

“Another round of wine?” Franny declares more than asks.

You shrink back a little in your chair. Not only not wanting to be a bummer, but also fearing how they’d most likely see right through it not being your decision, then actively begin to judge you for letting yourself be governed by your boyfriend. 

Still, you shake your head and hope they might not catch on. “I shouldn't—”

“What? Why?” Franny immediately boos, all but gawking at you from across the table like you’d just declared you were becoming a nun or something else equally baffling.

Carrie, on the other hand, doesn't seem surprised at all, throwing the rest of her wine back before mumbling, “Or else Mr. Officer will put her under arrest.”

Franny’s head snaps to her at that, again, gasping, “What? Really?”

Carrie throws up a brow, cool like a mean-girl about it, “Oh, you haven’t heard?” before cocking her head back at you, putting you on the spot, “Tell her then. Go on.”

You pout at her judgementalness, knowing you won’t be able to hide it either if she decides to push—which she most certainly will. “Come on, he’s not that bad...”

That’s when her cool demeanor takes a twist, all but banging her glass on the table with her outburst, “Girl, be so real! Man’s a total chauvinist, you gotta break up with him.”

You weren’t in the dark about her attitude regarding your relationship, so it doesn’t exactly come as a big shock to hear her criticize it to your face. It wouldn't kill her to learn some tact though. Even so, you’re willing to forgive her, given you know her tolerance to be rather low and her need to be candid evidently very high.

“I like him,” you defend under her disapproving glare and Franny’s wide-eyed stare, the both of them awaiting something more persuasive.

“Besides…” you drift, feeling the wine in your system forcing you to be a little more honest with both them and yourself. “He’s my neighbour, you know… If I break up with him I'll still have to run into him.”

Carrie deadpans at that. Looking at your square in the eye with dull ones of her own, her mouth catching flies, back to being as suave as always while stating in a more-than-obvious manner, “Start looking for places to move.”

You sigh, pouting even more while you whine, “But I like my apartment.”

There’s a moment of silence, as though in solidarity of your situation, letting you come to terms with what you have to do.

Franny lifts her glass after a moment. A sympathetic quirk on her lips, repeating, now suggestively in comfort, “Another round of wine?”

You look at her, then at Carrie, who just shrugs, also with her glass in hand—tone equally suggestive, “We won’t snitch.” 

You bite your lip, letting their mischief rub off on you like you do so well. Smiling. “Oh, fine. You win.”

The three of you chat more about each other’s hopeless love pursuits, how no men are perfect, how friendship is so much more reliable, and how being alone might just be the only reasonable thing for any one of you.

You like him, but you can see Carrie’s point. You’ve had the same concerns yourself, despite not wording them as harshly as her. Of course you don’t enjoy having to argue about going out with your friends or dressing the way you want. 

Having to ask permission for such things doesn’t make sense to you, and it never will. You’re a grown woman who pays her own bills. You don’t have to run your decisions by anyone. And even if you did feel the need, it would be out of pure consideration—simply to keep the other person in the loop, and not something to be discussed—at the very least not something to be prohibited. You’re not a prisoner, and you’re certainly no child either.

Shit, you don’t know… maybe dating the guy in your building wasn’t the brightest decision after all.

“I said ten,” he admonishes as you step towards the parking lot. 

It’s just gotten dark. You’d hadn’t seen him yet and so the sudden sound of his voice spooks you, making you slap a hand over your pulse with a gasp.

If he notices, he doesn’t seem to mind. Not offering you an apology. Rather the opposite. Standing there, posted against his squad car with his arms folded upon his chest—staring at you like some criminal, awaiting your confession.

“Sorry, it took some time figuring out the bill–”

“You're drunk,” he cuts you off, shaking his head in disapproval as he goes to grab your purse in one hand and your upper arm in the other.

“No,” you argue sharply, saying “I'm not drunk.” because you most certainly are not. In fact, between two glasses of wine and a whole meal, you wouldn't even describe it as being tipsy.

He ignores you while opening the door to the passenger seat, ushering you inside with a strict, “Get in the car.”

You have to roll your eyes. Sarcastically thanking him for not going so far as to place you in the back like an actual arrestee, muttering, “Yes, sir.” under your breath.

He then even leans across you to put on your seatbelt, prompting you to almost push him off. Saying, “Dude, chill. I had two glasses of wine. Like, how—”

“We agreed on one,” he cuts you off again, making it very clear how little interest he had in hearing  any of it.

Again, like his previous comments, it upsets you. In fact, it’s the last straw. “Yeah? Well, you’re not the boss of me. If I want another glass of wine, it’s in my rights to fucking have one.”

You don’t scream it, and yet, he acts like you do. Scolding you like you’re some child throwing a tantrum, nearly growling at you in return, “Lower your voice. I'm not having this discussion with you if you’re going to be yelling.”

You can only scoff, completely flabbergasted by him and his behaviour. “Ugh, you’re so infuriating sometimes,” you nearly shriek, though he shuts the door in your face before hearing it.

He gets in the driver’s seat, snaps his belt in place, and veers out of the lot in one swift movement. In any other circumstance, you’d find his capabilities assuring—maybe even a little arousing. But, right now it only serves to piss you off.

The rest of the drive is silent. You keep your gaze fixed out of the window, not even acknowledging the way his wrist go white wringing the wheel—probably sitting there waiting for you to beg his forgiveness or something stupid.

You don’t know what to say. All you know is that you’re going home by yourself. 

“Give me my purse,” you demand once you’re outside his apartment. Your hand stretched out, waiting for him to hand it to you. You’d abandon it if it weren't for the unfortunate fact that your keys and your phone were both confiscated within it.

“You’ll get it once we’re inside,” he sighs, his entire back bulking with the action, standing with it facing you as he unlocks the door. Again, flat-out ignoring you as if you had no say in the matter.

“No,” you protest, insisting, “I'm going to my own apartment, so give me my purse.”

With his hand once again around your upper arm, he tugs on you despite you planting your feet and pulling back. “Don’t be difficult.”

You grab his wrist, trying to twist it off, but failing. “I don’t need you to baby me—I’m not a fucking child.”

“Oh yeah? You could have fooled me, standing here throwing a fit for everyone to hear.” He only tightens his grip, tugging you harder—so hard you’re forced off balance and nearly fall straight into him. “Now get your butt inside before I throw you over my shoulder.”

He doesn’t give you any time or room to refuse, all but dragging you inside and placing you on the couch with a mean and very nearly brutal shove. “Sit down.”

He then gets down on one knee in front of you. Hands lifting your foot onto his thigh as he begins undoing the straps to your heels.

“I can do that myself—” you try to pry it away from him, but he only pulls it back into place.

“Just sit.”

You don’t know what to do at that point. Eyeing him and the way he was positively radiating annoyance. You’re equally frustrated, and still, you can’t help but be struck with this sensation that it doesn’t matter much when he’s more equipped in enacting his will. 

In the end, you just sit there like he’d commanded, at a loss for what you could do or say—and only getting more frustrated by it.

“Now this,” he declares once done, gesturing to your dress as he gets up, fingers clawing under the hem, beginning to pull it up.

“Stop it already. I said I can do it myself!” Your hands are on his chest then, having had enough—this time officially. “Ugh, just get off, I’m going home!”

You don’t know what happened, but something instinctual must have kicked in once it was clear he wouldn’t listen, because suddenly, without warning, you kicked him in the shin in order to get him off.

But little good it does you...

In fact, it only makes the following events that much worse.

“What's gotten into you, huh? Acting so fuckin’ bratty—” 

His hand is atop your mouth like a piece of duct tape, trapping all unwanted noise beneath it. He’s got you lying on your back now, himself on top of you. Your dress balled up in his other fist, this time opting to rip it off rather than tug you out of it. 

“I swear, nothing good ever comes from letting you women yap amongst yourselves—you always come back with so much attitude and dumb ideas I gott’a straighten out.” 

Your struggles seem to mean nothing to him—all efforts to thwart him, easily ignored. 

“You can bet your ass this is the last time I let you go anywhere with those sluts. I mean, just look at you—dressed like a fucking whore. A shitty fucking influence the lot of ‘em.” 

He succeeds in tearing the dress, throwing it across the floor like trash—passing little consideration to the way it has you squirming beneath him with fat tears now streaming down your cheeks, soaking his fingers in a way that should have been enough to reconsider.

And yet, his eyes seem more concerned with your other articles. 

“You even wear pretty underwear for ‘em—fuck’s that about, huh?” Clicking his tongue, the frown on his face is enough to make your stomach churn—fully terrified of what he meant to do next. 

“What’s left for me?” His eyes meet yours, demanding an answer from you even though your lips were sealed under his grip. “If you go parading around for the entire fucking world to see, what’s left?” 

His other hand balls up into a fist, then bangs against the back cushion to the side of your face, hard enough to make the entire couch skirt just a bit, making you let out a muffled scream, followed by a whimper as you shut your eyes hard and start praying.

“I’m the only one who’s supposed to see you like this. It’s supposed to be my fucking privilege. Something special for me to cherish.” 

You feel his touch return to you, and you tremble receiving it, despite it only softly stroking your skin in ticklish touches, down your chest and belly until stopping at the lace of your panties. 

There’s a heavy sigh, loud enough for the pursuing silence to feel deafening.

“But I guess… if you’re gonna act like a cheap whore, I might as well treat you like one.”

The quickening beat of your heart makes it hard to breathe while your eyes blow open wide at the feel of him tearing at the lace. Your sobbing turns more violent, while your hands fly to keep the flimsy garment in place. 

“No? You don’t want that?” he mocks without humor, and you try your best to shake your head under his hold, every thought begging him to stop. 

Teeth grit, he continues, “Then quit being difficult and start doing what I say. Can you do that?”

You peel your eyes open, now nearly choking on the tears clogging your nose. Sniveling as you give him pitiful nods, hoping it will suffice.

“Good,” he affirms. 

His hold relents after that, just enough for you to be able to suck in a breath. Sill though, calming down takes you a moment, and even then you never fully manage completely—just enough to turn your sobbing into softer bleating.

He allows you the time to recover, before getting up and demanding the same of you. 

“Come on. Bathroom.”

His hand’s on your nape, guiding you like a leash and collar. You keep your head bowed, feeling exposed as you shuffle along just in front of him. Regarding him like a beast on your heels.

You enter the bathroom, where he positions you in front of the sink.

“Let’s get all this clown shit off.” 

His actions are gentler now, but they still feel anything but. Still making you sniffle as you stand there, knees wobbly, stuck in shock as he proceeds to find your makeup remover.

Your breaths are wintry as you stand there, both hands shaking, holding onto the white marble, staring into the drain, terrified to meet his reflection in the mirror above as he starts to drag a wet wipe over your cheeks and lips, rubbing your no-doubt ruined make-up off. 

You watch as each cotton-cloth is discarded one after the other in the basin below, flecked with black mascara streaks and pink rouge, the latest one cleaner than the first few.

“There she is—that’s better,” he coos once done. Caressing your face in his hand as he lifts it up to look straight ahead. 

You don’t want to, but the way his fingers all rub against your jugular, is enough for you to take as a warning. Seeing yourself—your eyes puffy, lashes gathered in wet wisps, bottom lip trembling. 

“My pretty girl.”

He sags forward, lowering his mouth to your neck, kissing you there in slow but heavy mouthfuls. His other hand, the one not holding you by the throat, is snaked around your midriff with his arm across your body, pushing you against him and the way he angles his hips against your ass and grinds into you from the back.

“I’m sorry for getting upset,” he murmurs with a groan then, but it’s not an effective apology. “It’s just so frustrating, you know? To be here, worrying about you out there—epsecially when you don’t take any safety precautions. You just…” His mouth reaches your ear, nuzzling the shell, his breath making it burn. “You drive me fucking nuts.”

You don’t dare reply. You don’t dare do anything. You just keep clutching onto the sink, as though letting go would result in him pulling you away somewhere more dangerous.

“You’re so cruel—always leaving me with my dick in my hand.” His hands fall to your hips, his grip bruising as he kneads you against him and the hard thing jabbing itself against your ass.

“I’m sorry–” comes out of your mouth before you can think.

To which he releases a pent-up chuckle. “That’s okay…” 

He rests his chin on his shoulder, mouth perfectly level with your ear with words holding onto something utterly horrid, saying, “It’s like you said—you can make it up to me.”

"C'mon hot stuff! Show us something!" A southern laugh barked as the car flew bye, mens chuckles echoing like a taunt before you were once again left alone in the night.

As you passed by the nightclubs, the same routine appeared. Hoots and hollers yet no one was willing to spend a dime. You gaze racked the row of cars lining the street, some beat up and bruised, others an attraction for robbery.

Your gaze narrowed as you passed, peaking through wing mirros of cars to see if anybody sat inside. And with your luck you caught a flash of a man on his phone, a bored stare forward with the passenger window rolled down.

"If you don't like the way I do things, I'm sure you could do them yourself." he mused, expression— or lack of — unchanging as his gaze moved to the shadow casting over him.

You fluttered your eyelashes at him, arms leant on the window frame with a shy smile and a wandering gaze. He only stared back at you, listening to the voice on the other end of the phone before humming and closing the line.

"Hard day in the office?" you asked with a teasing tone.

"Somewhat." he shrugged, eyes not moving from your connected gaze — strong-willed considering more than 70 percent of your skin was on show.

You shift on your feet, the heels starting to make their impact. "I think I could help with that..." you bite your lip, the same rehearsed practice that works on every man as you secure a client.

"Would you like to sit inside my car, those heels must hurt." He murmured, no shift in tome or even a quirk of his brow from your suggestion.

A pout laced its way onto your lips, though you nodded nonetheless, hating the feeling of goosebumps lining your legs and arms. Bishop leant forward to unlock the passenger door, allowing you to slide into the car and let outna soft sigh of relief.

Baby steps perhaps.

"So... what do you do for work?" you questioned, leaning towards his side of the car to break boundaries.

"I work for a company."

A soft sigh leaves you as this man very obviously has a built up wall. "Yea, so does everybody else." you huff, leaning back once more and toying with your fingers.

"You don't." he added, eyes on you still. He was a strange man, so unmoving and unexpressive, you wondered if this appearance was disciplined or a facade. You nod, thinning your lips because you know it's not something to be proud of. "Would you like me to drop you somewhere?"

As contradicting as it sounds, home sounds good. The apartment that had no room to breathe, the mattress on the floor and the pigeon that flew into the window every morning to wake you up.

"The closest bus stop will do." You mutter with a nod, not facing him because the awkwardness on your behalf was too much. Walking home with empty pockets after four hours of wandering the streets, appearance leaving little to the impression.

The drive was silent as he rounded corners like he knew LA by the back of his hand. The radio was untouched and his phone didn't buzz once. The car slid onto the sidewalk easily, the bus stop in sight.

Suprisingly, he made the gentlemanly effort to exit the car and open the door for you. "I hope the night finds you well and safely." he bowed his head slightly, watching you walk away with a short smile of appreciation.

You walked past the bus stop, having no money to fund your fare. Maybe this street would bring you some luck.

"That's not the bus stop." a voice sounded, the same voice. Louder than your entire time spent together. You turn, and he's still there. Stood beside his car, the moonlight emphasising his dark features and making his afro shine.

"Yea... I don't have enough money." you raised your brows in a manner that brushed it off. Shifting on your feet again, because it felt like the heels were piercing through the balls of your feet.

Neither of you broke eye contact, not when he stepped forward a few feet. "How much for an hour?" he asked, much quieter like it was something he didn't want to confess, a taint to his demeanour.

A smirk settled upon your face. "One-fifty." You closed the bridge, stepping closer to him until his cologne clouded you.

"May I have an hour please, ma'am." he asked, holding his hand out.

You nodded, taking his hand in yours. "Call me y/n." you smiled softly, paired with a flirty wink.

"Bishop."

.𖥔 ݁ ˖

The drive to 'Bishops' place wasn't long, enough for you to try initiate conversation but not enough to dig deeply into him. His keys shuffled in the door before it clicked open, revealing a neat studio apartment.

The place was filled with brown leather and warm tones. A slight chill to the air though it suited Bishops mystery. A miniature poodle ran to the door with a bark and excited pant, spinning around at the sight of Bishop.

You raised a brow, not expecting the sight at all. Squatting down, you guestured a hand forward to allow the poodle to sniff and test you out before it came closer, accepting you into his house. "What's his name?" you laughed softly, stroking through the poodles curls.

"Snowflake." Bishop muttered, placing his keys down on the coffee table and slouching down onto the leather. Your eyes followed him, realising you were here for 'business' rather than to play with his puppy.

You crawled over, sitting yourself in-front of him between his manspread legs. Your cheek pressed to his knee, lashes fluttering. "Time is ticking y'know." you murmur, fingers pulling and pinching at the soft of his pants material.

"I don't intend to have sex with you." he muttered, looking down at your soft gaze, placing a hand on your cheek and stroking it a singular time.

Your brows pulled together, head tilting slightly further into his knee. "You hired a prostitute to... hang out with?"

His nostrils flared, the first mixed expression he's made. "Don't call yourself that." because as much as it was your society given title, he didn’t want to face his sin.

You kissed his thigh through his pants, soft kisses moving closer and closer to the part of man you've grown to know best. Your hand danced across his other thigh, stroking his zipper.

His breath noticeably shallowed and his thumb stroking against your cheek stopped. You pulled his fly and slipped the button from its place, glancing back up at Bishop to signal him to help pull his trousers down.

"There's no rush." he spoke, seemingly changing his mind about the 'no sex'. "You can stay the night."

You recoiled, jaw tensing softly. "The whole night? Sleep over?" you ask, and he nodded. "That'll cost you."

He nodded once more in a way that said 'I know'. "I'll pay, moneys no issue." he comforted, thumb pushing against the plush of your cheek.

A shift of time frame somewhat eased your mind, though staying the night was a first in your 'career'. You pulled his trousers down, facing the growing tent in his boxers as the night grew darker.

You felt his length within the rich cotton, watching it as it grew tall. With a soft swallow of your build up of saliva, feeling a more intimate closeness than other clients, you hooked your fingers on the waistband — thumb ticking over the embroidered words of 'Calvin Klein'.

His boxers sat at his knees after the painful moments of taking each others' essence in. The thick band and the cotton creating a border, preventing you from getting too close.

Your hand shook, hesitant before taking his length within your hold. He noticeably shuddered, though as you peered up his expression was twitching to stay contained.

Up and down, you stroked before bowing down, kitten licking around his tip which pulled a low exhale from Bishop. Gentle kisses and licks as you moved down his dick, all the way to the bottom before you dragged your tongue along his veins.

Bishop grunted, his knuckles pushing into the leather of the couch and turning white.

Hollowing your cheeks, you finally took him, slow and precise. Working your rehearsed magic as your  tongue swirled, hands stroking what was left in a tight, stimulating manner. His hand gripped the back of your head, fingers wrapping between your hair as he controlled the boos of your head. He head lolled back onto the couch, eyes screwed and stomach tight and tense.

"Fuck, you got a mouth on you." he grit, chest uneven as he breathed, allowing himself to feel you fully. Taking him, deep. His tip hitting the back of your throat as he pushed you down, your shaky hands gripping his thighs in a manner he knew left soft red marks — even through his trousers.

It didn't take long for the knot in his stomach to undo, beads of sweat kissed against his forehead, chest rising and falling in an off kilter pattern. Because you, the sight and the feeling, tainted him in such a way that it wouldn't take much for him to feel so largely.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖

He had insisted you took his bed, deeming he had work to do but really he sat on his couch. The TV screen reflected the sight of him in the dark. Bishop felt he had a sense of disciplined self control, especially compared to his co-workers. But tonight he had crumbled. Gave in to a service his morales didn't sit with.

His fingers circled his rosary, the beads a familiarity to him. He fell asleep in silence, the coolness of the leather giving him an embrace full of mocking pity. As usual, he followed his routine.

Wake up at eight AM, pray, then shower until eight-thirty. He stood in-front of the mirror, picking through his afro that had speckles of water throughout. His towel wrapped tightly around his hips.

Peering through his bedroom door, you were still knocked out cold. Cocooned within his blankets and your hair spread across the silk pillows. It made him wonder when you last slept in a bed so comfortably, or was it more of a mind thing? Was your environment not a place to sleep in?

He placed his rosary on the kitchen counter, making his breakfast doubled. Eggs, faux bacon, two slices of toast and sliced avocado.

His watch read nine thirty by the time you yawned and made the effort to slip out of bed, a plain white tee covering your torso with basketball shorts grazing your knees. Your hand ran through your hair, now in its more natural state after a night of tossing and turning to your own will.

"I made breakfast. If you don't like it I'm happy to order something for you." he spoke up, eyes unmoving from the book he read — the cover custom and blank. His life crafted to be blank.

"Thank you." you smile softly, voice quiet from your slumber. You crouched within the dining chair sat opposite Bishop. The food was slightly cold, though at least you had breakfast, and it was cooked to perfection.

Breakfast washed over you in peace, an R&B melody playing from the radio in the kitchen. An untraceable, old fashioned man, you observed. "I was thinking, you can just owe me three hundred for the night." you shrugged, avoiding eye contact and picking at the leftover bacon slice.

Because you hated goodbyes.

"That's not 150 an hour." he mused, eyes glancing up at you and your hesitant state. Normally he'd roll his eyes at your leg propped up on the chair and elbow on his glass table — though he said nothing. Instead, he pulled his wallet from his back pocket like he'd been waiting for the moment and placing a band on the table. "I figured you'd like me to pay cash."

You couldn't help but stare at the wad of cash sat on the table, tied politely with a rubber band. The most amount of money you'd ever received for your deeds.

"I was also wondering how much would it be to keep you for the week?" he asked, the same tone as proposing coffee over a catch up. Your eyes connected, and deep within the walls he had built, you couldn't find any joking manner within there.

You’ve learned many things about Brendon Park in the month or so since you met him. You know he takes his coffee black, like a complete psychopath. You know he has a secret sweet tooth (black coffee notwithstanding) and that he never lets his fuel tank drop below a quarter. You know he loves Sudoku, his favorite color is blue, and that he can’t draw to save his life. 

What you don’t know is whether or not you should call him.

You’re sitting on a bed in the ED, picking nervously at the sheets and trying to pretend there’s not an IV needle inside of you. Your head is throbbing, there’s dried blood itching the side of your face, and you’re so embarrassed you almost forget both of those things.

You’d been standing on the second floor balcony that overlooks the main atrium, head buried in an email on your phone. It was an email from the outside member on your committee, and you’d been so wrapped up in wording your reply properly that someone could probably had died next to you and you wouldn’t have noticed. Ironic, given that some poor radiology intern carrying a stack of boxes had then crashed into you. The force of the collision had knocked you off your feet, and you’d subsequently hit your head on the balcony railing and, humiliatingly, passed out.

Apparently any loss of consciousness is a big deal, because even though you’d been down for less than thirty seconds, you’d still been rushed to the ED. That was almost an hour ago, and in that time, you’ve been poked, prodded, and questioned half to death. 

What day is it?

Do you know where you are?

What’s the last thing you remember before losing consciousness?

Can you tell me what five times seven is?

Friday, PTMC, emailing Dr. Usher, thirty-five.

The resident checking you out had seemed satisfied with both your answers and your vitals, and it wasn’t long before they sent an intern in to stitch up the nasty gash on your temple. They’d given you a local anesthetic, but your head still hurts. You can hear them in the hall now debating whether you need a CT, and you’re suddenly confronted with the fact that you know next to nothing about medicine.

Sure, you did your obligatory Grey’s Anatomy stint in high school, but that highly questionable, medical-adjacent soap opera is your only reference for anything that’s happening right now. You feel out of your depth, lonely and sort of scared, and of course the first solution your possibly-concussed brain provides is call Brendon. 

It’s past five, so he should be finishing up his last consults for the day. He’s not on call this weekend, and you don’t remember him mentioning any evening plans. He’s also the most medically competent person you know, and he would definitely know what’s happening and what to do. 

Some part of you doesn’t want to call him though. The two of you haven’t talked any more about whatever it is happening between you after the night he’d driven you home. He’s not quite your boyfriend, not quite just your friend. There’s no real reason to call him except you want to, and you’re very good at convincing yourself that that’s not a good enough reason to do anything. You don’t want to put him on the spot, don’t want to make him uncomfortable or make him feel obligated-

That last thought stops you. You don’t think there’s a multiverse out there in which Brendon Park feels obligated to do anything. The President himself could probably stand directly in front of him and ask him to do something, and Brendon would just stare flatly back and say no. If he doesn’t want to come down to see you, he won’t. Simple as that.

Feeling slightly better, you pick up your phone and call him before you can talk yourself out of it. It rings once before he picks up.

“Imp.”

His voice — sharp and biting and familiar — washes over you like a wave. The sound of it touches the fragile part of you you’ve been holding together since you woke up on the tile, and you immediately feel tears begin to well. Shit, you take back all your prior reasoning. You’re just going to hang up. You are not going to cry on the phone with him-

“Imp, why are there monitors beeping in the background. You’re not observing today.”

Well, now you’re definitely crying.

He remembers your schedule. He remembers your schedule and your ridiculous coffee order and tiny details about your ten thousand page long dissertation.  He remembers unimportant things because they’re important to you. He would rather die than admit he’s maybe a nice person, but you love his caustic brand of care, and you suddenly want him here with you so badly it aches.

“Um, would you-, could you come down to the ED?”

The brief silence that follows your question is the loudest thing you’ve ever heard.

“Bren?”

“What room are you in.”

The words are short, clipped, and everything you needed to hear.

“I think Central Three-“

“Hi, Ms. Y/l/n, I’m just here to check on your stitches.”

The same resident you saw when you first came in walks into the bay, Dr. Copeland you think is his name. He’s probably your age, with sandy blonde hair and the greenest eyes you’ve ever seen. The intern who did your stitches is trailing behind him. They both pause when they see you on the phone, and you’re about to hang up and apologize for whatever hospital policy you’re probably violating, when Brendon’s voice snaps in your ear-

“Give me five minutes. And tell whatever fuckwit resident that is to keep his fucking hands to himself until I get there.”

The line goes dead, but you don’t feel nearly as alone as you did a few minutes ago. 

“Everything okay?” Copeland asks.

He seems genuinely concerned, and you suddenly feel kind of bad for him. You don’t know what Brendon’s going to say when he gets here, but it’s certainly not going to be good job.

“Um, yes?”

None of you are convinced by your unenthusiastic answer, but no one points it out. Instead, Copeland snaps on some gloves and starts moving towards you. You make a sound of protest and lean away. You’re pretty sure he’s a senior resident, he seems perfectly competent, and he’s been nothing but nice to you, but the need to obey Brendon’s directive outweighs the need to get your busted-open skull checked out. That is something you will one hundred percent have to unpack later in therapy, but right now, you’re standing by it.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Copeland asks again, looking even more concerned this time. “Would you like a female doctor?”

Very observant and kind of him, but no, you don’t think that will help. Brendon’s fuckwit resident comment probably applies to the entire ED if not the entire hospital. You’re trying to think of a way to explain why you don’t want your head examined yet, when you hear it.

“Park? I didn’t know we called for a-”

Brendon says something biting and likely rude though you can’t make out the specifics, and then he’s there. Standing in the entrance of the bay, looking like wrath given form. His eyes assess the room in one quick sweep before settling on where you’re curled up on the bed. Something complicated passes across his face, and you’re sure your expression does something similar.

You can’t explain why the sight of him feels so reassuring, or why he’s the person you want with you right now. Your parents and siblings are states away, but you could have called one of your friends from school — your cohort is actually quite close, and you enjoy spending time with them. But right now, when you’re tired and injured and not sure what to do next, his iron control and ruthlessness confidence are what you need. Just the sight of him makes some of the rigid tension in your body ease.

“Hi,” you say softly.

“Dr. Park,” Copeland greets. “Can I help you?”

Brendon ignores him completely and makes his way over to you.

“What happened.”

It’s a command, not a question.

Copeland is still standing next to you, gloves on and clearly unamused with this sudden interruption, and you hesitate. Maybe you should just let him work first. But Brendon says your name once — low, dangerous —and you start speaking before your brain catches up. 

“Um, I fell?”

His eyes narrow.

“Okay, I fell and then hit my head. And maybe I passed out, but it was only for like…twenty seconds.”

He exhales slowly through his nose and makes a visible effort not to say something nasty. Instead, his hand comes up to rest on your jaw, and his touch is so gentle it steals your breath. His fingers trail featherlight over your cheek, and then he turns your head to the side, so he can see the gash on your temple. The complicated look from earlier intensifies.

“Vitals and GCS.”

Once again, it’s not a question, and Copeland answers albeit reluctantly.

“98/63, 79 pulse, 98 sat. GCS 15.”

“Which of you idiots put these sutures in?”

You don’t mean to, you really don’t. But your eyes flick over to the intern in the corner, and Brendon follows your gaze like a shark scenting blood. It’s only then that you recognize the woman, Dr. Wilts. She’s the same intern Brendon tore to pieces the last time he was down here. She clearly also remembers the incident — she looks mildly terrified and actually takes a half step backwards.

“Dr. Wilts is a talented doctor and is perfectly capable of suturing a head laceration,” Copeland says calmly.

You have to admire his composure — Brendon’s radiating caged-tiger energy right now. He dislikes most other people on a good day, and he’s definitely not having a good day. In fact, he looks one step away from homicide. 

“If this scars, it’s because you suture like shit,” he says to Wilts. “And where are her films?”

He directs the second part to Copeland while simultaneously looking at your chart, open on the work station next to your bed.

“She hasn’t been to CT yet.”

Brendon turns slowly with a glare that makes even you flinch. 

“Is there a specific reason, or were you just feeling particularly fucking useless today?”

It’s at this moment that another man walks into the room. He’s older than the residents, maybe in his forties, with dark hair and a scruffy beard on his jaw. He looks tired in the way everyone in the ED looks tired, but his brown eyes are kind. 

“Park, why are you harassing my residents?” he asks, amicable but firm.

“Robinavitch.”

From his tone, you can tell Brendon doesn’t necessarily like this new man, but he at least respects him. Sort of. 

“A trauma came in earlier, but Ms. Y/l/n should be up for CT soon. Dr. Copeland and Dr. Wilts have followed procedure and done an excellent job.”

Brendon clearly disagrees with the word excellent, judging by the sneer that curls his lip.

“Ms. Y/l/n, my name is Dr. Robby, one of the attendings here. How are you feeling?”

You actually feel quite a bit better now that Brendon’s here, but you don’t think your emotional state is what Dr. Robby was interested in. You take a minute to think about it, taking stock of your body now that your brain isn’t so frazzled. The anesthetic is still doing its job, so you can’t feel the stitches, but the rest of your head is throbbing dully. That, and your whole left side feels bruised from where you’d hit the ground. 

You tell him, and he nods.

“That’s normal, but we can get you something for the pain. Otherwise, if your CT comes back clean, you should be good to go.”

You nod, then immediately regret it when it makes your head worse. 

“In the meantime, Dr. Wilts will bandage your-”

“Like fuck she will.”

Brendon’s voice cuts like glass in the wake of Robby’s warmth. You turn your head to look at him, and your breath catches. His face is carved of ice and quiet fury. He’s looking at poor Dr. Wilts like he’s trying to eviscerate her with his eyes, and the hand that had been on your face is now resting possessively on your shoulder.

Oh god, maybe you are concussed.

Because there’s no way that Brendon Park’s attractiveness should be anywhere near the top of your current priority list, but oh. It is. It really, really is. You like that he came for you. You like that he’s touching you. And maybe it makes you a terrible, horrible, no-good person, but you really like that he’s being all snarly at other people over you.

“Park,” Robby starts. “This isn’t the OR, you’re not in charge down here.”

“No one else is touching her.”

The two of them lock eyes for a long moment, and it’s like watching a rabid tiger and a slightly confused bear stare each other down. Robby ends up looking away first, which you know he would probably call being the bigger person, and Brendon would definitely call being the loser.

“Ms. Y/l/n, is it okay with you if Dr. Park takes care of wrapping your wound?” Robby asks.

Brendon smirks like he knows exactly what you’re going to say, which, fair, but you still shoot him a look to cut it out.

“Yes, thank you, Dr. Robby.”

Robby nods before leaving with a promise to check on you after your CT. Copeland and Wilts trail after him. Brendon waits until they pull the curtain closed, giving the two of you at least the semblance of privacy in the busy ED, before rounding on you.

“How the fuck do you knock yourself out just by standing?”

The words are biting, angrier than when he spoke to anyone else, but his hands are impossibly gentle as they reach up to cradle your face. He tilts your head to look at the wound again, but his hands linger this time, and he strokes one thumb carefully over the uninjured side of your face. Your eyes flutter shut, and you nuzzle closer into his touch.

“Wasn’t my fault,” you mumble.

“What?”

It takes you a second to find more words. Some of the adrenaline that’s kept you upright and alert has started to wear off, like your body knows it’s safe now that he’s here. Without it, you realize just how tired you are. It takes concentrated effort to open your eyes and arrange a sentence.

“Someone bumped into me.”

His eyes turn downright murderous.

“It was an accident,” you hasten to add. “They were carrying a lot of boxes, and I think they just didn’t see me.”

That doesn’t appease him in the least, but he thankfully doesn’t push it. Instead, he grabs the tray of supplies Wilts left behind and gets a pair of gloves from the boxes attached to the wall. 

“Don’t move,” he orders.

Once again his touch is at odds with his tone. He does a bit more poking and prodding at the sutures, but so carefully it’s like you’re made of glass. Then he cleans the wound again, even though you know Wilts already did it, and applies gauze and tape with the kind of focused attention usually reserved for diffusing bombs. 

“Thank you,” you say softly when he finishes.

He doesn’t answer at first. His pelagic eyes are calmer now, like taking care of you himself has eased some of his fury, and he watches you with an unnameable expression. He strips off his gloves slowly.

“Why did you call me?” he finally asks.

You could say so many things.

Because he was already in the hospital, and it was convenient. Because he’s a doctor and would do things like demand to know your vitals and see your films. Because he’s Park the Shark, and the ED respected him. All of those things were true, and easy.

“Because you make me feel safe.”

You weren’t expecting him to confess his undying love to you after that, but you weren’t expecting…nothing either. He just stares at you. Silent, unmoving, face blank. It takes about three seconds of that for you to regret your words, then an additional five for you to start panicking. 

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t ha-“

He kisses you.

He braces one hand next to your head and leans down before brushing his lips against yours. The touch is brief, over nearly as quickly as it started, but sure. You feel it with every nerve in your body. A breathless noise escapes you, and he pulls back just far enough to meet your eyes.

“Brave girl,” he murmurs. “Swimming with sharks.”

He moves to kiss you again, but the curtain behind him jerks open. You both freeze. Your cheeks immediately go nuclear at being caught, but he just looks annoyed. He straightens slowly and turns to face whoever it is with a nastier-than-usual scowl on his face. You wince when you see its Wilts.

“What?” he barks.

“I’m uh, I’m here to take Ms. Y/l/n to imaging.”

She sounds like she would rather be doing literally anything else right now, and you place a hand on Brendon’s arm before he can take her head off. Very, very begrudgingly, he turns his attention to you again. 

“Will you be here when I get back?” you ask, partially to distract him, partially because you want to know.

He gives you a look that clearly says what kind of stupid question is that and sighs in annoyance. But he still reaches to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear and lets his hand linger. 

“Yes.”

You smile.

“But only if you don’t take too long.”

You’re laughing as they wheel you away.

 ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Robby

“Huh.”

It’s nearing seven, he’s been on his feet for twelve and a half hours, and all that stands between him and his couch is shift change with Jack. But for some godforsaken reason, Robby finds himself standing at the nursing station, staring at Central Three like he’s being paid to do it.

He doesn’t know The Shark well. He knows he’s something of a god to the surgical residents that are down here sometimes, and he certainly commands the room when he himself deigns to make an appearance. But short of being ruthlessly efficient, allergic to small talk, and kind of a dick, Robby doesn’t know anything about him. So really, there’s no reason to be surprised that the other man has a girlfriend.

He is indeed, surprised.

Maybe it’s not because Park has a girlfriend, but because Park has this specific girlfriend. She’s sweet, quiet, though that could admittedly be because she’s in the ED. But she spoke very politely to Copeland and Wilts, didn’t show any indication she was annoyed by the wait for CT, and had apologized at least twice for things like twitching while getting sutured. 

“What are we staring at?”

Jack steps up to the desk next to him, backpack slung over his shoulder and energy drink sweating in his hand. Robby just nods his head at Central Three. As they watch, Park’s girlfriend walks out of the room, looking calm if not a bit tired. Park follows close on her heels, and he looks exactly as pissed off as he did when Robby talked to him an hour ago.

“Apparently Park has a girlfriend.”

“Huh. I think I saw them in the elevator together a few weeks ago.”

“She came in with a head lac and a minor concussion, and he bit Wilts’ head off over it.”

Wilts was normally confident and decisive, especially for a first year, but there was something about The Shark that made even seasoned residents question themselves.

“Nearly took off my head, too.”

“That’s kind of sweet.”

Robby looks over at Jack like he’s the one with head trauma. 

“Excuse me?”

“At least now we know he’s capable of an emotion besides disgust.”

Like he knows they’re talking about him, Park’s head swings in their direction, and his lip curls in a sneer. His girlfriend follows his gaze and offers them a shy smile. The dichotomy is actually kind of funny once you get over the oddness of it, and Robby finds it in himself to offer a genuine smile back.

“He’s still an asshole,” he says to Jack once the couple leaves.

oscatpiastri LMAO admin just said ‘I’m so hungry, I could eat YN YLN’ and that was the face Oscar pulled😭😭 what kind of trauma did they unlock??

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user I’M CRYING the man was flabbergasted

user I NEED TO KNOW WHO THAT IS IK YOU GUYS ARE GOOD AT STALKING

-> user I could only find a private acc with that name @.yourusername but there is no way to tell if it’s actually her

-> user wow you guys are quick

user oh to be able to read his mind rn

user admin chose violence today

-> user he looked so betrayed my poor boy💀

user how did admin even get such private information about Oscar?? like there is absolutely no history of a YN YLN anywhere in Oscar’s digital footprint

-> user I mean, that’s their entire job no? find things that get clicks and oscar’s past def does that

🔒 yourusername

yourusername university is slowly turning me into a hermit

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yourfriend1 caption is so real dude

yourfriend1 one more class with professor brenner and I’ll actually break all of my good pencils

-> yourusername REAL

yourfriend2 movie binge night was so good we have to do it again

-> yourusername ‼️‼️

yourbestfriend girly you’re famous

-> yourusername fuck you mean by that?

-> yourbestfriend have you ever watched f1? does the name oscar piastri ring a bell?

-> yourusername YOURE FUCKING JOKING

yourfriend3 I’m so hungry I could eat oscar piastri🤔🤔

yourfriend4 what just happened

yourfriend5 the art faculty bathroom is actually so peak

yourfriend6 you’re so gorgeous one chance pls pls pls

TEXTS BETWEEN NICOLE AND OSCAR

TEXTS BETWEEN YOU AND YOUR BEST FRIEND

👤 OSCAR PIASTRI WANTS TO SEND YOU A MESSAGE

oscarpiastri: Hello YN, I’m not sure if you remember me, we went to kindergarten together. I just wanted to give you a heads up, incase you haven’t seen it yet. There is a video going around on the internet of the McLaren social media admin mentioning you in an interview and people are taking it all sorts of ways. I hope it doesn’t cause you any trouble, if it does, please don’t hesitate to reach out and I will take full responsibility for it. I hope you are doing well!

INSTAGRAM DIRECT MESSAGES BETWEEN YOU AND OSCAR

yourusername: Hello Oscar, it’s nice to hear from you! Thank you for the heads up, that’s really kind of you. I saw the video and the reactions, but don’t worry, it’s really no trouble. How are you? Maybe we could catch up? We haven’t seen each other for so long

oscarpiastri: Good to hear that it’s not troubling you. I’m sorry anyway. And I’d love to catch up. Are you still in AUS? I’m there from December until February, incase you are.

yourusername: Yep! Still an Australian resident:) I have a small semester break in Janurary, if that works for you?

oscarpiastri: Great! 👍

🔒 yourusername

yourusername touching grass because why am I doing all that over a MAN

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yourfriend1 I just looked oscar piastri up and jeezus YN go get him or I will

yourbestfriend my girl is crushing on the f1 championship leader… i always knew you had big ambitions but I didn’t think they were that big

-> yourusername YOU REALLY ARE NOT HELPING IT

yourfriend2 we’ve lost her😞😞

-> yourfriend3 to a MAN of all things smh

-> yourusername YOU GUYS

yourfriend4 why do I have to be on an semester abroad right now of all moments I FEEL SO LEFT OUT

yourfriend5 she was crouching like that for a good 5 minutes btw

-> yourusername STOP EXPOSING ME

-> yourfriend4 why was she even crouching??

-> yourfriend5 he was texting her really dryly and she freaked out bc obviously that means he hates her and she wants to die and he should crash

-> yourfriend4 you are absolutely hopeless YN

-> yourusername I need to find friends that actually love me

yourfriend6 yk when you start dating you’ll have to open this insta to him and he’ll see how pathetic you are for him

-> yourusername WAIT THATS SO EMBARRASSING

🔒 yourusername

yourusername no idea what just happened I just know it wasn’t good at all I’M SO SORRY OSCAR WHEN I SAID I WANTED YOU TO CRASH I DIDNT MEAN IT

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yourfriend1 you’re so unserious wearing a tshirt that says your tears don’t fall they crash around me after your CRUSH DNFED

-> yourusername gotta have some humour or I’ll cry

yourfriend2 I’m seeing this as a sign that he’s so obsessed with you that he does everything you say

-> yourusername THEN HE SHOULD LOCK IN AND WIN THE STUPID CHAMPIGNONCHIP OR WHATEVER

-> yourfriend2 CHAMPIGNONCHIP I‘M CHOKING

f1updates

f1updates oscar piastri when asked about the title fight and the support of family and friends for the race this weekend:

“I know a lot of things have to go right today, in order for me to win, but as long as it is a possibility, I will stay positive that I can do it.” Said the Australian. “I’ve got a lot of people here to cheer me on, my mum, dad and sisters, for one, but also an old friend, who I haven’t seen in a long time. They give me the strength to push one last time.”

view all comments…

user I KNOW HE CAN DO IT

user Norris needs to fuck off it’s Oscar’s turn

user I wonder who the “old friend” is🤔🤔

-> user YN YLN? I’m still not over that mystery

-> user that would be the plot twist of a century

user my entire body is vibrating like I just drank four gallons of coffee

user THIS IS STILL MY BOY

🔒 yourusername

yourusername ABU DHABI ARE YOU READY?

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yourfriend1 HE WILL NOT KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH HIMSELF WHEN HE SEES YOU

yourfriend2 wow😳

yourbestfriend forget that wanna be athlete and come home to your wife (me)

yourfriend3 your nervous f1 rambling made me invested as well, I’m rooting for the blonde with an attitude problem

-> yourusername max verstappen?

-> yourfriend3 that one, yes

yourfriend4 HOW ARE YOU FEELING ABT TODAYS RACE?

-> yourusername I’m fucking shaking bro, Verstappen idk you like that but please find the closest barrier and take that Norris guy with you

oscarpiastri

oscarpiastri lots achieved. lots learnt. coming back stronger next year

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mclarenf1 we are so proud of you oscar🧡

user no one is in doubt that you’ll win the title one day

user not even Norris bottled this hard

user I don’t get why people are so harsh on him all of the sudden, have we all forgotten that he lead the wdc for half a season in his 3rd year in f1??

user op the man you are

user AURA

user oh 2025 you were so promising

yourusername still not sure if I understood it all, but I know that I’m incredibly impressed:)

-> oscarpiastri I’m glad you could make it🙂

-> user OMG IT WAS YN YLN

-> user he’s so awkward with emojis💀💀

-> user GIRL PLEASE OPEN YOUR INSTA I NEED TO BE PARASOCIAL

🔒 yourusername

yourusername nothing to sayyyy🧚‍♀️

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yourfriend1 do we have to act normal now bc he can see the posts?

yourbestfriend you smart little finch, I recognise a thirst trap when I see one😛😛

-> yourusername BE QUIET

yourfriend2 RIP unhinged instagram posts, you will be missed😞

-> yourusername you guys are so dramatic

oscarpiastri I'm not sure if I want to look at the other posts

-> yourusername don't, just don't do it

yourfriend3 one man in your life and you have an entire rebrand smh 🤦‍♀️

yourfriend4 you? speechless? what have you done to my girl, oscar piastri🤨

yourfriend5 WHAT IS A MAN DOING HERE?

-> yourusername BE NICE

yourbestfriend my girl is gonna be a famous wag🥲

yourfriend6 he can take great pictures at least

f1gossip

f1gossip Oscar Piastri was sighted in Melbourne, Australia with a mysterious woman on his arm. Who do we think she is?

view all comments…

user NO😫

user oscar piastri daring rumours in the first weeks of 2026 what is going on

-> user I started to doubt his abilities

user cant even see her properly but i already know shes so pretty

user wait I think I’ve seen her before?? At the Abu Dhabi GP

yourbestfriend OMG MY GIRL IS ON A GOSSIP PAGE @.yourusername LOOK MY GIRL GOT PAPARAZZIED

-> yourusername GIRL DON'T PUT ME ON BLAST LIKE THAT

user i’m not ready for everyone to become parasocial about him all of the sudden

user not him wearing the fugly ass burgundy shirt on a DATE

-> user we don’t even know if it’s a date, could just be a friend

user did anyone see that comment from @.yourbestfriend?? they tagged a user named YN YLN….. coincidence???

-> user did I miss something?? who is that?

-> user there is a video of the mcl admin saying I’m so hungry, I could eat YN YLN and everyone and their mother has been trying to find out who she is and what correlation oscar has to her since then

-> user yeah and her account is private, so there’s absolutely NO WAY for us to find out anything about her

81_updates

81_updates Oscar Piastri, Mark Webber and friends on Melbourne Beach. Some fans even stated that Oscar was with a girl and they seemed to be very close🤔

view all comments...

user HOLD ME BACK

user I hate to say this, but I think oscar really does have a girlfriend now

user congratulations to whoever get’s to have that every night

user lmao the imprint on his chest looks like a 4

user god that girl is lucky

user I think it’s safe to say it’s YN

user oscar jack piastri I was unfamiliar with your game

🔒 yourusername

yourusername after being forced to participate in all of Oscar’s hobbies, I think it’s only fair if I force him to paint with me, right?

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yourfriend1 turn that frown upside down😛

yourfriend2 you guys make me sick

-> yourusername jealousy doesn’t suit you babe💋

yourfriend2 and yes, that’s absolutely fair

yourfriend3 be honest, who won the race?

-> yourusername I love how much faith you have in me, but be fr who is winning the race? A girl who has known about f1 for 3 months or an actual f1 driver??

-> yourfriend3 he didn’t let you win? break up with him

-> oscarpiastri she told me not to let her win🤷 said it would be satisfying for her ego if she beat me on raw talent

-> yourfriend3 oh my sweet angel😞 THAT MEANS LET HER WIN

yourbestfriend no photo credit for the picture smh🙁

-> yourusername sorry babe, credit to you for pic 6, and to osc for literally every other one

oscarpiastri I don’t think you want to see the monster I create when I touch a pencil

-> yourusername as if I was graceful playing paddle

-> oscarpiastri you’d look beautiful while digging in dirt

-> yourusername HKDBHAYPQA

-> oscarpiastri are you ok?

-> yourusername just fine:)) my cat walked over my keyboard:))))

-> yourfriend4 you don’t…..have a cat?

-> yourusername SHHH

oscarpiastri and I did not force you

oscarpiastri

oscarpiastri 🔋☀️

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user when hes good with words😍😍

user I’m so obsessed with his gf and I don’t know anything about her

-> user I think that’s part of the appeal

user KARTING OSCAR

user that looks suspiciously like a date🧐

user I can’t wait for them to feel more comfortable and reveal a little more about their relationship

-> user I’m so excited for her to attend more races next year

user I don’t think they will ever confirm anything you guys, this is all we’re gonna get THEY ARE JUST SO PRIVATE

user HES SO CUTE