GremlinKat

--

jack hated mornings like this, it broke his heart to see robby so upset every time he had to take his collar off. they'd tried day collars before but robby didn't like wearing something metal around his neck on top of his Magen David necklace, so they'd had to settle on no collars at all at work.

but jack still wanted to find a solution, something that would keep his pup settled when he was at work and away from jack.

--

when jack arrived at ptmc to pick robby up, he saw him standing at the nurses' station with his hands on his stethoscope, tugging on it slightly to dig softly into the back of his neck. jack's eyes lit up with an idea.

--

it was a couple weeks later and jack and robby were coming to the end of a few shared days off. robby was curled up on the couch, his collar worn proudly on his neck as he laid his head in jack's lap.

"mikey?" jack asked softly, fingers scratching soothingly at robby's scalp.

"mmm?" robby hummed in response, enjoying the floaty headspace he'd gotten to indulge in over the past few days.

"i got a present for you, pup," jack said, "do you want to see it?"

robby perked up at that, sitting up so he could kneel next to jack on the couch. his eyes were big as he looked at jack and spoke, "present? f'me?"

jack smiled, reaching to scratch at robby's beard, "yeah, baby. all for you. think you can be a good boy and wait here while i go get it?"

robby nodded excitedly as jack stood up and went to retrieve it.

when jack walked back into the living room he found robby kneeling on a cushion at the foot of the couch, his hands folded neatly in his lap.

"sweet boy, waiting so prettily for me, huh?" jack said as he sat down and ruffled robby's hair. "do you want to see what's in the bag, pup?"

robby moved to kneel in between jack's legs, "please?"

jack smiled and reached into the bag, he pulled out robby's stethoscope.

robby's brow furrowed in confusion when he saw it, how was this his present?

jack pet robby's hair softly as he spoke, "let me explain, okay, pup? i know how much you love wearing your collar," he said as he ran his fingers reverently across the leather adorning robby's throat, "but we can't have you wearing it at work. so, i had something special done to your stethoscope instead." jack held out the chest piece in front of robby.

robby leaned forward to take a closer look and, oh, the bell now read J.A. in the same script that was inscribed on the inside of his collar. robby didn't notice the tears welling in his eyes until he felt jack's thumb brushing them away.

"oh, puppy, do you like it?" jack cooed, hand still cupping robby's face.

robby nuzzled into jack's palm before whispering out, "thank you. love it."

"come here, mikey," jack said as he placed the stethoscope off to the side and pulled robby onto the couch with him. jack brushed robby's hair out of his face and kissed him softly, "now i'll always be with you, baby."

robby nuzzled into jack's neck, kissing at whatever skin he could reach, "love you, jack."

Routinely he dropped his bag by the door, toed off his shoes, but something was off. Not alarmingly so. The air had a warmth to it that suggested the heat had been running, though he was certain he'd turned it down before leaving. He padded through the living room. A half full glass sat on the coffee table. Jack paused, frowning slightly. He had a handful of colleagues who knew the code to his door, fellow night-shifters who sometimes needed a place to crash when the hours got too brutal. A few had taken him up on the offer over the years.

Curiosity pricked at him as he made his way down the hall, past the bathroom, toward his bedroom. The door was slightly ajar, while he always kept it closed. And then he heard it, a soft, rhythmic sound. Familiar in a way that made his stomach tighten. Jack pushed the door open. The sight that greeted him stole the breath from his lungs.

Robby lay sprawled across his bed, completely, utterly naked. His body was a study in contrasts. The sharp cut of his hip bones against the softness of his stomach, the broad expanse of his chest with its dusting of grey threaded dark hair, and firm pale thighs spread open in invitation. His hand moved in a slow, lazy rhythm along the length of his cock, which was—

Fuck.

In the soft morning light filtering through the blinds, with the man stretched out like an offering on his sheets, the sight hit him like a physical blow. Robby's cock was heavy and thick, flushed a deep rose at the tip, and Jack's mouth went dry watching Robby's thumb circle the slick head with practiced ease. Robby's eyes were hooded, dark with intention, fixed on Jack with an intensity that made him feel pinned to the spot. He didn't stop stroking himself, didn't so much as slow his pace.

“What," Jack managed, his voice coming out rough from surprise, "the actual hell."

A slow smile curved Robby's lips. He looked devastating like this. Fully relaxed and utterly sure of himself. "That's how you greet someone who's been gone for three months?"

"Someone—" Jack sputtered, gesturing helplessly at the bed. "You were supposed to be gone for another week. Your sabbatical isn't over."

"I got bored." Robby's voice was a low rumble, the kind that always did something complicated to Jack's insides.

"I—" Jack's brain short-circuited. "So you broke into my house?"

"I let myself in." Robby's hand continued its lazy rhythm, and Jack couldn't stop watching. "You gave me the code, remember?”

"To crash on my couch, Robby. Not to—" He gestured vaguely at the state of things. "To break into my bed and—"

Robby was so fucking hard, and his fingers were glistening with what Jack realized must be lube, and his stomach was flexing slightly with each slow stroke.

"Your bed's better anyway," Robby said, as if this explained everything. "More comfortable. Smells like you."

"You could have just asked."

"And miss the look on your face right now?" Robby's grin was wolfish. "Absolutely not."

Jack crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe, determined to project some semblance of control. "You're an asshole."

"Mm." Robby's hand sped up almost imperceptibly. "You know what else I am?"

"Hung like a goddamn horse and way too cocky about it?"

"That too." Robby's eyes swept over Jack, dark and hungry. "I'm also the guy who knows exactly what you're going to do next."

Jack snorted. "Oh, really?"

"Yeah," Robby's voice dropped lower, that intimate register he only used when they were alone like this. "You're going to stand there and pretend you're annoyed for another minute or so. You're going to point out that I'm an inconsiderate dick who should've called first. You're going to make some comment about having plans that I've clearly derailed. I know your tells, that little furrow between your eyebrows when you're pretending to be more irritated than you actually are."

Jack's protest died in his throat.

"You're going to point out," Robby continued, "that you just worked a twelve-hour shift and you need to sleep. And then you're going to walk over to that dresser, open the second drawer where you keep the good lube and the box of condoms I bought last year because I was tired of you having a panic attack in the drugstore aisle—"

"I did not have a panic attack."

"You had a minor existential crisis over the texture options. Same thing." Robby's smile softened, just slightly. "You're going to get undressed, and you're going to come over here, and you're going to sit on my dick, because you've been thinking about it too."

Jack's mouth opened. Closed. "All that from three months apart?"

"All that from years of knowing you, Abbot." Robby's voice was softer, sincere despite the obvious arousal straining in his grip. "The sabbatical just gave me time to get really good at imagining exactly how this would go."

Something in Jack's chest cracked open with warmth. He'd missed this, missed Robby, more than he'd let himself admit over the past months. The texts had been frequent, the calls regular, but nothing replaced the reality of Robby's presence. The way he filled a room.

"You're a dick," Jack said, but he was already crossing to the dresser.

"Mm. And yet."

The second drawer opened with its familiar resistance. Inside, exactly as Robby had described, sat the lube and the box of condoms. Jack stared at them for a moment then looked back over his shoulder. Robby had shifted on the bed, propping himself up on one elbow, his cock still hard and waiting, his expression hungry and soft all at once.

"Three months," Jack said quietly. "And you couldn't have texted that you were coming back early?"

"I wanted to surprise you."

"You've surprised me." Jack pulled his scrub top over his head, tossing it aside. His grey undershirt followed. "I'm surprised. Congratulations."

Robby's eyes tracked the movement, lingering on the expanse of Jack's chest, the swell of his freckled chest. "Strip faster."

"Demanding."

"I've been waiting for this since I got off the road." Robby's voice had roughened, the teasing edge giving way to something rawer. "I've had three months of imagining you underneath me and right now you're wearing too many layers."

Jack's hands moved to his scrub pants, he pushed them down along with his briefs, stepping out of the pile of fabric. The morning air was cool against his skin, but his body had already been heating up under Robby's gaze. He reached down and unclipped his prosthesis, the familiar weight releasing as he leaned against the dresser to steady himself. The silicone liner came off next and then he was standing in the golden light with Robby watching him impatiently.

"Come here," Robby said, it wasn't a request.

He didn't feel self-conscious with Robby, hadn't in years, not since the first time Robby had pressed his lips to the scarred tissue at his knee. They'd been together too long, known each other too deeply, for that kind of anxiety. The mattress dipped under Jack’s weight as he climbed onto the bed, settling beside Robby. Up close Robby was even more devastating, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, and the warmth of his sun kissed from the roadtrip.

Something vulnerable flickered across Robby's face before the mask slid back into place. "I missed you.”

Jack reached out, fingers brushing through the scruffier beard along Robby's jaw. "I missed you too. Even if you are a dramatic bastard who breaks into people's homes."

"Your house."

"My point stands."

Robby turned his head, pressing a kiss to Jack's palm. "I love you."

And Jack's throat tightened, the way it always did when Robby said those words. After years of dancing around each other, of careful conversations, hearing it each time still felt like a small miracle.

"I love you too brother," he managed. "Now are you going to actually fuck me or are we just going to sit here being emotional?"

Robby laughed, bright and surprised. "There he is. The romantic I fell for."

"Shut up and kiss me."

The kiss was hungry with months of longing pouring into the press of lips and tongue. Jack melted into it, his hand fisting in Robby's grown out hair, pulling him closer, until there was no space left between them. Robby's hand found his hip, fingers digging in just shy of pain, and Jack groaned against his mouth.

"How do you want me?" Robby asked, pulling back just far enough to meet Jack's eyes. "I have ideas, but I'm also perfectly happy to let you direct."

Jack's brain scrambled for coherence. "I—"

"Because I spent three hours on the bike thinking about all the ways I could have you, and I've narrowed it down to about twelve, but I'm willing to take suggestions."

"You have a problem."

Robby's hand slid down, fingers brushing the inside of Jack's thigh. "Tell me what you want, Jack. I'll give you anything."

Jack shivered at the promise in those words. He thought about the way Robby looked earlier, spread out and shameless, and felt heat pool low in his belly.

"Earlier," he said, his voice rough. "I want you like you were earlier. On your back, me on top."

Robby's eyebrows rose. "You want to ride me."

"Problem?"

"Not at all." Robby's smile was slow and devastating. "I just like hearing you say it."

Robby rolled onto his back the movement fluid and graceful despite his size. He reached for Jack, pulling him closer, one hand already finding its way to the dip of his hip. "Come here. Let me get you ready."

Jack reached for the lube, but Robby's hand caught his wrist.

"Let me," Robby said again, softer this time. "Please."

Jack settled between Robby's spread legs. Robby's hands were steady as they worked, slick and careful, one finger circling his hole with practiced patience.

"Breathe," Robby murmured, pressing a kiss to Jack's shoulder. "I've got you."

"I know." Jack's voice was tight with anticipation. "I know you do."

Robby's finger slid inside, slow and gentle, and Jack let out a shaky exhale. Robby worked him open with that same patient rhythm, adding a second finger, a third, stretching him with the kind of expertise that came from practice and careful attention. Jack rocked back against his hand, chasing the pressure, and Robby's breath hitched.

"Jack, you have no idea what you do to me."

"Pretty sure I do." Jack's voice was strained. "You're about to— fuck—“

Robby's fingers found the spot and Jack's hips jerked up involuntarily. Robby grinned, that infuriatingly satisfied expression, that Jack had wanted to wipe off his face since the day they'd met.

"There?"

"Asshole."

"Mm. Get on top of me and say that."

Jack didn't need to be told twice. He shifted, straddling Robby's hips, the movement awkward for a moment before he could find his balance. Robby's hands settled on his waist, steadying him, and Jack reached back to guide Robby's cock to his entrance.

The head pressed against him, and Jack paused, letting himself feel the weight of it. Robby's eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. He looked wrecked already and Jack hadn't even done anything yet.

"You okay?" Robby asked, his voice rough as he waited.

Jack nodded and sank himself down. The stretch was familiar but intense, Robby's size pushing at his limits in the way that always made him gasp, especially after three months. He took it inch by inch, letting his body adjust, and Robby's hands tightened on his hips.

"Fuck," Robby breathed, hips impatiently bucking. "Jack—"

"I know." Jack's voice was strained. "I know. Just… give me a second."

Robby nodded, his jaw tight with the effort of keeping still. Jack could feel the tension in Robby’s thighs and in the way his stomach muscles quivered with restraint.

When Jack was fully seated, he paused, letting himself feel the fullness. Robby filled him completely, and for a moment they just breathed together, connected in the most intimate way possible.

"Okay," Jack whispered. "Okay."

He started to move, rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. Robby's hands guided him, fingers pressing into the flesh of his hips, holding his weight. The angle was perfect, Robby's big dick hitting that spot inside him with every downward stroke, and Jack's head fell back with a groan.

"Look at me," Robby said. "Jack. Look at me."

Jack's eyes found his, and the intensity there stole his breath. Robby's face was open, raw, all pretense stripped away. This was the Robby that no one else got to see. Robby's hips thrust up to meet him, driving deeper, and Jack cried out. The rhythm built between them, frantic and desperate, three months of separation pouring into every movement. Jack's hand found his own cock, stroking in time with Robby's thrusts, and the dual sensation made his vision blur at the edges.

"Close," he managed. "Robby, I'm—"

"Cum for me." Robby's voice was a command and a plea. "Let me see you. Let me feel you."

Jack's whole body went tense. His orgasm ripped through him, sudden and overwhelming, his body clenching around Robby's cock as he came. Robby followed moments later, a broken groan escaping his lips, his hips thrusting up one final time before he stilled.

They collapsed together, a tangle of limbs and spent desire. Jack's face was pressed into the curve of Robby's neck, and he could feel the rapid flutter of Robby's pulse beneath his lips. Robby's arms tightened around him.

"I really did miss you," Robby said quietly. "Not just this. All of it. Your grumpy morning face and the way you kick all the blankets off in the middle of the night."

Jack snorted. “It’s my bed."

"It's weird."

"You're weird."

"I'm in love with you." Robby pressed a kiss to the top of Jack's head. "Is that better?"

Jack smiled against his skin. "Marginally."

They lay in comfortable silence for a while, the warmth of the bed and each other's bodies lulling them toward sleep. Jack's eyes were heavy, his limbs pleasantly weighted, the 12 hours catching up to him fast.

"You know," Jack murmured, “Your sabbatical's almost over. You have to go back to work on Monday."

"Then I'll just have to make the most of the next few days." Robby's hand traced lazy patterns on Jack's back. "Starting with a shower. Then breakfast. Then round two and maybe three.”

"Round three," Jack repeated, not bothering to hide his smile. "You're insatiable."

Jack lifted his head up out of Robby’s shoulder. In the morning light, with his hair mussed and his face soft with contentment, Robby looked younger somehow. The trip had done him well, he looked happier now.

"Welcome home," Jack said softly.

Warnings: Dark Romance, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Sugar Daddy/Sugar Baby Relationship, Dubious Consent, Possessive & Obsessive Male Lead, Kidnapping, Manipulation, Emotional Dependence, Power Imbalance, Explicit Sexual Content, Financial Manipulation Is His Love Language, BDSM Elements, Bondage (Silk Rope), Praise & Degradation, Daddy Kink, Oral (F Receiving), Rough Sex, Hair Pulling, Breast Slapping, Clitoral Slapping, Breath Play/Choking, Breeding Kink, Creampie, Pregnancy Talk, Dumbification, Body Possession Themes, Murder Mention, Psychological Manipulation, Reader Discretion Advised, The Safe Word Is Probably "Titus", Titus Danforth Needs Therapy (He'd Buy the Therapist)

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Author's Note: After teasing y'all for so long... I am FINALLY uploading a full Titus Danforth fanfic! This is the longest fic I've ever written (7k), and oh my God... so much blood, sweat, and tears went into her. She's officially my baby.

While writing this, I kept thinking, "Christ... I'd fold so quick for him." LMAO. Like seriously... if evil, why hot? Explain that.

I tried to keep Titus semi-realistic to the movie, but c'mon, guys... he's a murder-ahh. 😭 The man barely had enough screen time for us to fully dissect his personality in the first place, so I had to fill in the blanks. Canon or not... our Sugar Daddy Has Separation Anxiety. I won't be accepting criticism on that because, respectfully, he just does lolz.

As always, please read the warnings before diving in! And if you enjoy it, I'd absolutely love it if you'd leave a comment, like, or repost. (I'm not above begging when it comes to this fic. I'm attached to her, okay?)

I really hope y'all love this one as much as I do. Love y'all 🩵

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

...

The marble is cold beneath your bare feet.

You've been padding around Titus's house for three months now, and you still can't get used to how cold everything is. The floors, the walls, the air itself.

As if the whole place is designed to remind you that warmth is a privilege, not a given. Comfort is something granted here, not something you're entitled to.

You're heading toward the kitchen for coffee when you hear them. Two voices, low and casual, drifting from the servant's corridor just off the main hallway.

You should stop. You know better than to eavesdrop on the staff.

Titus has made it clear that his business is his business-

"Curiosity is a dangerous thing in a house like this," he had warned.

But something in their tone makes you pause.

"—Can't believe he's actually going through with it..."

"Why not? It's been in the works for months. The Windsor girl is perfect for him. Old money, good breeding, knows how to keep her mouth shut."

Your heart stutters. You press yourself against the wall, just out of sight, pulse suddenly loud in your ears.

"What about the girl upstairs?" The first voice again, tinged with pity. "...The pretty one?"

A dismissive laugh. "What about her? You think Mr. Danforth keeps girls like that around for anything permanent? She's a distraction. A toy. When the wedding happens, she'll be gone."

The words hit you like a punch to the gut.

You can't breathe.

Wedding. Windsor's daughter.

She'll be gone.

The hallway tilts. You reach out, fingers brushing the cold wall to steady yourself, but it doesn't help. Nothing helps. The world has narrowed to those few sentences, playing on a loop in your head.

He's getting married.

Titus is getting married.

And you—

You're nothing. A distraction. A toy.

…

You remember the first time you met him. Some charity gala you'd been dragged to by a friend. He'd approached with that predatory smile, all confidence and expensive cologne-

You'd looked right through him. Told him you weren't interested. Walked away while he was mid-sentence.

You'd seen the flash in his eyes. Not anger, but fascination.

Most women fell at his feet. You didn't even look back.

That's what started it. Your indifference, the refusal.

Every time he called, you didn't answer.

Every gift he sent, you returned.

Every invitation, you declined.

You had your own life, your own plans. And Titus Danforth? No matter how powerful, wealthy, or dangerous- he wasn't part of them.

But he loved it. God, he loved it.

The chase thrilled him in a way possession never could.

He'd show up at your work with coffee. At your apartment with flowers.

He'd corner you at events, voice low and amused, "Still playing hard to get, sweetheart?"

Like your resistance was a game. Like he knew—

Always knew how it would end.

And slowly, so slowly you didn't even notice, he wore you down.

The gifts became more thoughtful, the attention grew more intoxicating.

He remembered things you'd mentioned in passing. He made you laugh despite yourself.

He looked at you like you were the only person in the room. In the world.

Your refusal only made him want you more.

Until you’d say yes.

One dinner. That's all it was supposed to be. It’s what you had told yourself.

But Titus Danforth doesn't do anything halfway. By the end of the night, his hand was on your thigh, his mouth at your ear, voice a dark promise,

"I always get what I want, sweetheart… and I want you..."

You'd surrendered. Let him take you home. Let him take you to bed. Let him take everything.

And he did.

For three months, he consumed you. Made you his in every way that mattered. You moved into his house, wore his clothes, slept in his bed.

You became the thing he'd hunted- the prize he'd won

The chase was over.

Now you're just another trophy on his shelf. Used up. Worn down. Ready to be replaced by someone appropriate.

Someone whose last name opens doors instead of closing them.

The thrill was in breaking you. In making you his.

But once you were? You became disposable.

...

You should've known.

God, you should've known.

Men like Titus Danforth don't fall in love with girls like you.

The servants' voices fade as they move deeper into the corridor, but you're still frozen. Your back pressed against the wall, chest tight with something that feels like drowning.

How long have you been lying to yourself?

Three months of silk sheets and whispered promises. Three months of his hands on your skin. His voice in your ear, low and possessive—

You're mine, sweetheart. Don't forget that.

But you're not, are you?

You never were.

You push off the wall, legs shaky as you stumble back toward the staircase. The house feels bigger now, emptier. Every polished surface, every expensive piece of art lining the walls,

It all feels like a reminder of how little you belong here.

Your phone buzzes in the pocket of the silk robe you're wearing. His robe, technically.

Everything here is his.

You pull it out with trembling hands.

TITUS: Where are you?

Your stomach twists.

TITUS: Come back to bed.

You stare at the screen, vision blurring. Three months, and you thought you knew what this was. Thought you understood the rules.

But standing here, in his cold, perfect house, you realize you've been playing a game you were never going to win.

Another buzz.

TITUS: Sweetheart.

The word used to make me melt. Now it feels like a leash. You don't respond.

Instead, you turn and head up the stairs, bare feet silent on the marble.

Your room- His room. The one he keeps you in, at the end of the hall.

You push the door open and go straight for the closet, pulling out the small bag you brought with you when this whole thing started.

It all feels like a lifetime ago.

You're shoving clothes into the bag when your phone buzzes again. And again. And again.

You don't look. You can't.

If you look, you'll lose your nerve. Convince yourself that the servants were wrong. That there's some explanation.

That Titus wouldn't do this to you.

But deep down, you know the truth.

Men like Titus Danforth don't explain themselves. No apologies. They only take what they want, and when they're done, they move on.

You were stupid enough to think you were different.

Not anymore.

The bag is packed in minutes. You pull on jeans, a sweater, shoes. Your own clothes. Not the designer things he's bought.

You need to feel like yourself again. You refuse to look, to feel like his.

No longer some kept bird in his gilded cage.

Your phone is vibrating nonstop now. You silence it.

...

The hallway is empty when you slip out of the room. You half-expect one of the servants to stop you, ask where you're going, but no one does.

Maybe they already know.

Maybe they've been waiting for this...

The front door feels impossibly far away.

Every step echoes in the cavernous entryway. You're sure someone's going to appear. That Titus is going to materialize out of nowhere and demand to know what you're doing.

But he doesn't.

You reach the door, your hand on the cold brass handle, and for a moment you hesitate.

This is it. Once you walk out, there's no coming back.

He won't forgive this.

Men like Titus don't forgive disobedience.

...

Your phone buzzes one more time.

Pulling the door open, you step out into the morning air.

It's the first time you've felt warm in months.

-----------------------------

That night, you go out. Old habits die hard.

The club is exactly what you need.

Dark, loud, anonymous.

Bass thrums through the floor and into your chest, rattling your ribs with every beat. Bodies press together in the strobing lights, a mass of sweat, perfume, and reckless abandon.

You can barely see three feet in front of you.

That's perfect.

You don't want to see. Don't want to think.

Your phone has been ringing for hours.

You don't care.

The music is loud enough to drown it out. Loud enough to drown out the voices in your head whispering the same thing over and over-

You're nothing. A toy. Disposable.

"Here!" One of your old friends— Sarah, maybe? You haven't seen her since you moved into Titus's house— shoves a shot into your hand. Tequila.

You don't even taste it as it burns down your throat.

Another friend appears with a beer. Then someone else with something bright blue and sweet. You let them. You take everything they offer. Every drink, every distraction.

Tonight, you're not thinking about him. You're not going home to him. Tonight, you're free.

...

"Hey." The voice comes from your left. You turn to find a guy leaning against the bar.

Early twenties. Short, muscular. A patchy goatee that would've made you laugh a week ago.

He's cute in a generic way. Safe— Forgettable—

Not your type at all. You like ‘em older. Dangerous. Men who know exactly what they want and take it without asking.

But tonight? Fuck it.

"Hey," you smile back, warm and easy.

He buys you drinks, flirts his way closer.

His name is Chad or Brad or something equally bland.

He's charming enough. Compliments your smile, asks about your night, laughs at his own jokes.

You nod along, sipping whatever he puts in your hand. Letting the alcohol blur the edges of everything.

When he asks you to dance, you surprise yourself.

You say yes.

The dance floor is packed, bodies moving in rhythm to the pounding beat. Chad's hands find your hips immediately, pulling you back against him. He grinds against you, breath hot on your neck. You let him.

You move with him mechanically, your body going through the motions while your mind floats somewhere above it all.

This is what freedom feels like, right?

This is what you wanted.

Your eyes scan the crowd. Unfocused and numb. The lights flash red, then blue, then dark again. Bodies blur together. The music is so loud you can't hear yourself think, and that's good.

That's what you need.

...

Then you see him.

An older man on the balcony above, leaning against the railing. Dark suit, broad shoulders. The way he stands, commanding and still. Like he owns the entire room—

Your breath stops. No.

Your heart lurches into your throat. You freeze mid-movement, Chad still grinding against you oblivious.

You stare up at the balcony, pulse hammering so hard you can feel it in your teeth.

Is it him?

The man turns slightly, the light catches his face.

It's not Titus.

Relief floods through you so fast it makes you dizzy. You exhale shakily, hands trembling as you grip Chad's arms for balance.

But underneath the relief is something else. Something darker.

Disappointment?

No. That's insane. You ran from him. You left. Why would you be disappointed that he's not here?

"You okay?" Chad's voice cuts through the music, concerned. He's stopped moving, his hands still on your waist.

You force brightness into your voice, a smile onto your lips. "I'm great!"

The lie tastes bitter.

Chad seems satisfied, pulling you closer again, his mouth at your ear saying something you don't hear.

You move with him. Let him touch you.

Let the music swallow you whole.

But the freedom you ran for, the freedom you thought you wanted, feels like a cage.

There's a hunger deep inside you, rattling against your ribs. A need for warmth. For protection, for hands that don't just touch but pin. Hands that restrain, claim and own.

For Titus.

No. You shake your head, trying to dislodge the thought.

Let this be easy. Let this be fun.

You don't need that. You don't need him.

It's a lie. You know it is.

The lie is written in your bones. In the way your body aches for something Chad can't give you. It’s in your eyes that keep drifting back to the balcony, searching for a man who isn't there.

You wanted freedom, but all you feel is empty.

-----------------------------

You don't remember leaving the club.

One moment you're on the dance floor, Chad's hands sliding lower on your hips, breath hot and beer-soaked against your neck.

The next, you're shoving him away. Too hard. Too sudden. His face twists in confusion, maybe offense, but you're already moving. Stumbling forward.

The room tilts sideways as you push through the crowd, bodies pressing in from all sides. The music so loud it feels like it's inside your skull.

Too grabby. Too much.

Not warm. Not strong.

Not him.

...

Fuck.

The night air hits you like a slap when you finally burst through the club's doors. Cold and sharp like a knife.

You sway on your feet, the world spinning lazy circles around you.

Swaying too much, you have to grab the brick wall to steady yourself. Your phone is somewhere in your purse— dead probably.

You fumbled with the Uber app ten minutes ago and ordered a car that's supposedly seven minutes away.

Seven minutes. You can do seven minutes.

You sink down onto the curb, legs folding beneath you in a graceless heap. The concrete is cold and gritty under your thighs, but you don't care.

You dig through your purse with clumsy fingers until you find the pack of cigarettes you bought on a whim weeks ago.

Titus hates when you smoke. Says it's a filthy habit.

Says you're too pretty to ruin yourself like that.

Good.

You pull one out, stick it between your lips, flick the lighter once, twice— your hands are shaking too much. On the third try, it catches.

You inhale deep, letting the smoke fill your lungs, and burn your throat. The sensation familiar.

It doesn't help. Nothing helps.

You're still empty. Still aching.

Still—

The car.

You see it before you process it fully. Black and sleek. Idling at the curb twenty feet away, engine purring low and predatory.

The windows are tinted so dark you can't see inside, but you don't need to.

You know that car.

Your stomach drops.

No.

The cigarette falls from your fingers, forgotten. You stand too fast, the world tilting dangerously. You turn to walk the opposite direction.

Your legs feel like water, heels catching on the pavement.

You don't care, you just need to move-

"Sweetheart."

The voice stops you cold.

It comes from behind you, low and smooth. Laced with something that makes your spine lock up and your pulse hammer in your throat.

"Where have you been? Hmm?"

You turn slowly. He's standing there.

Titus.

Tall and broad-shouldered in a dark suit that probably costs more than most people make in a year. His hands are in his pockets. Posture relaxed, as if he's got all the time in the world.

Like he didn't just track you down in the middle of the night. Like this is normal.

Your mouth opens, then closes. Opens again.

"T-Titus-"

"Shh... shhh." He takes a step closer, you take one back on instinct. His eyes track the movement, a flicker of amusement crossing his face.

"That's no way to greet your daddy, is it? Hmm?"

The word daddy sends a shiver down your spine that you hate yourself for.

You're drunk. You're angry.

You're terrified.

But your body doesn't care. Your body remembers what that word means. What it promises.

You force steel into your voice. "Fuck you."

For a moment, he just looks at you. Then he smiles- slow, indulgent. Like you're a child who just said something adorable.

"That's cute." the smile fades.

He tilts his head, a small nod toward the car. When he speaks again, his voice isn't commanding, just knowing, like he's already seen how this ends.

"Get in the car."

Your heart is pounding so hard you can feel it rattling against your ribs. "No."

The word comes out stronger than you expected.

Titus raises an eyebrow, and then chuckles. Low and rough. It's the funniest joke he's heard all week.

"No?" He takes another step closer. "You wanna play rough tonight, huh? That what you want?"

"Titus, I don't want to play anything." your voice cracks, but you push through it. "I told you to fuck off."

His smile widens. There's something manic in it now, something unhinged that makes your stomach twist.

"Yeah, okay, baby-"

You turn and start walking before he can finish. Fast.

Your heels click against the pavement, too loud in the quiet street. You don't know where you're going.

You just know you need to move.

Need to get away from him, from that car.

From the way his presence makes your entire body hum with want and fear in equal measure.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

His voice is closer now. Fuck.

"Fuck off," you throw over your shoulder, now walking faster.

"So tough, huh?"

He's gaining on you. You can hear his footsteps, steady. Unhurried. He's not even trying. He knows he'll catch you. He always catches you.

Your steps quicken. Your breath comes in short, panicked gasps.

The street is empty. No one around. Just you and him, and the sound of your heels on concrete and—

His arm wraps around your waist from behind.

Decisive— Inescapable.

"No-"

You thrash, but he's already lifting and turning you. Suddenly you see the car door open. A servant, blank-faced and efficient, holding it wide.

You're pulled inside before you can scream or think. Then Titus is in with you. The door slams shut, the car is already moving.

"LET GO— LET GO OF ME!"

You're kicking, clawing, but his grip is iron.

He maneuvers you into the seat with terrifying ease, one hand pinning your wrists, the other braced against your hip.

"Baby, please-" His voice almost gentle. "Stop resisting. I know you don't want to fight it."

The car speeds away, city lights blurring past the tinted windows. You're trapped. You're his.

And the worst part?

Some dark, traitorous part of you is relieved. You whine, a sound caught between protest and something else entirely.

You twist against his hold, your body still thrashing even as your muscles betray you, going soft where they should stay rigid.

Part of you is screaming to fight harder, to claw your way out of this car. Out of his grip.

But another part, the one aching for him, melts into his chest.

You hate yourself for it. You hate that your body knows exactly what it wants. Even when your mind is still trying to convince itself otherwise.

...

"You're supposed to be MARRIED." The words rip out of you before you can stop them.

You're still breathing hard, your wrists aching where he held them. Body still pressed back against the plush leather seat.

Titus has let you go now, but he's still close. Too close. His presence fills the entire car.

He goes still.

Completely, utterly still.

"And why is that?" His voice is soft, with danger playing in it .

"I heard the servants talking." You're shaking now. From anger, fom fear, from all the alcohol still sloshing through your system.

"You're supposed to be married to Windsor's daughter- don't give me that shit."

His eyes narrow.

For a long moment, he just looks at you. Then he shakes his head, slowly. He’s disappointed.

"Poor girl." His voice is almost pitying. "For someone so brave, you're acting real stupid."

"Fuck you—“

"Careful."

The word cracks through the car like a whip, violent and loud. You flinch. His expression shifted.

No more amusement. No more patience.

Just cold, hard authority.

"I let a few of those slide." His voice drops, lethal. "No more."

You're breathing too fast, your chest tight. But you can't stop.

"I don't want you, Titus." The words taste like ash. "Go get fucking married."

For a moment, there's silence.

And then he laughs.

Soft at first, then louder. Now cackling, head thrown back, shoulders shaking. Like you've just said the most absurd thing he's ever heard.

It's the laugh of a man unhinged. A man who's lost his mind.

"What's so goddamn funny?"

He wipes his eyes, still chuckling, and leans forward. His face now inches from yours, a cruel smile grows,

"What's funny," he says slowly, "is that you think I'd let anyone tell me what to do."

Your breath catches.

"The Windsor clan is dead." His voice casual. Matter-of-fact. "I made sure of it."

Silence.

The words don't make sense. They can't.

You stare at him, mind scrambling to process— "What?"

"It was none of your fucking business anyway." he leans back, crossing his arms, "But now you know. Windsor clan is dead. No daughter to marry, sweetheart."

He chuckles again, shaking his head. "What a ridiculous idea. That's what had you running, huh?"

You can't speak. Can't breathe. Dead.

He killed them, killed an entire family because— because what?

Because they tried to arrange a marriage?

Because they thought they could control him?

"Yeah," he nods, watching your face. "Guess it was."

The silence stretches.

Then his expression shifts, hardens.

"So what?" his voice now cold, "You go grind on some filthy man for a few hours? Ignore my texts? Leave me? What's all that for, huh?"

You shake your head, tears welling in your eyes

Fuck

Don't cry. Don't cry.

"Ah, poor baby-" his voice softens, mocking. "The bad old man hurt your feelings, huh?"

"Fuck. You."

It comes out broken and cracked. Your voice barely a whisper.

He goes still again. He sees it now

How shaken you are, how close to breaking.

But he can't ignore the disobedience. He won't.

A small smile grows on his face.

"Tell you what," voice eerily calm. "You get in the house. Go upstairs. Strip. Wait for me. And I'll let that slide."

You want to resist, want to fight back, want to tell him to go to hell.

But nothing comes. Your silence is answer enough.

"Good." he nods, satisfied. "Don't wanna be harder than I have to, sweetheart... I'm a busy man. Don't make this difficult."

Don't say it.

Don't.

The words fly out before you can stop them.

"I hate you."

...

The mans eyes narrow. His smile doesn't falter, if anything, it widens.

"So that's how it's going to be?"

-----------------------------

You're sitting on the edge of his bed when he enters.

Still dressed despite him. In that dress. The short one that clings to every curve and leaves nothing to the imagination.

The one you bought with your own money because fuck him and his rules.

Fuck his carefully curated wardrobe of things he deemed acceptable for you to wear.

You didn't strip like he told you to.

The door opens slowly. He steps inside and closes it behind him with a soft click that makes your stomach drop.

His eyes find you immediately, sweeping over you. They linger on the dress.

His jaw tightens. He crosses the room in three strides.

Before you can react, his fingers are at the hem. Pulling at the fabric, lifting it slightly. Inspecting it like it's evidence in a trial.

"So you wore this one out, huh?" His voice is low, edging on dangerous.

You swallow hard but don't look away.

"Yeah. I did."

He tugs the fabric again, harder this time. You feel the dress ride up your thighs. His eyes cold and calculating. Threatening you just with his gaze.

"I didn't buy you this one." It's not a question— it's an accusation.

You lift your chin, defiant despite the tremor in your hands.

"No. I did. I can buy my own shit."

For a moment, he just stares at you. Then a smile creeps on his face. You’re horrified. That smile… the smile of a man who's just been handed another reason to break you.

"Still fighting, huh?"

He releases the dress and steps back, turning toward the mini bar in the corner of the room. His movements are unhurried. He has all the time in the world…

Like you're not sitting there with your heart hammering in your chest, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

He pours himself a drink— Whiskey, neat— takes a slow sip with his back to you.

The silence stretches.

You watch the line of his shoulders. The way his hand grips the glass, controlled precision of every movement.

Finally, he turns, leaning against the bar, as he takes another sip. His eyes lock onto yours. The weight of his gaze makes it hard to breathe.

"You're gonna regret that if you keep it up..." his voice is soft, almost gentle. But there's nothing gentle about the promise in his words.

"I don't need you, Titus." your voice comes out quieter than you intended. Fragile, "I can take care of myself..."

The words hang in the air between you.

He laughs. It's a short, sharp sound. Humorless and cutting.

"Can you?" He takes another sip of whiskey, his eyes never leaving yours. "Is that what tonight was? Taking care of yourself?"

…

Yes. No.

You don't know really.

Your jaw tightens. "Yes." You decided.

"Hmm." He pushes off the bar, moving closer. Not close enough to touch, just close enough to make you feel small.

"So grinding on some nobody in a club- that's you taking care of yourself? Getting drunk off cheap shots your friends bought you? Wearing a dress that screams 'desperate'?"

"Fuck you."

"There she is." His smile widens, cruel. Satisfaction etched on his face. "There's that fire. Where was all this backbone when you were running away, huh? When you were ignoring my calls like a scared little girl?"

"I wasn't scared—“

"Bullshit." His voice cuts through yours like a blade. "You were terrified. Still are. That's why you're sitting here in that pathetic excuse for a dress, trying to convince yourself you don't need me."

Your hands curl into fists on your thighs. "I don't."

"Then leave." The words hit you like a slap.

He gestures toward the door, his expression cold, detached.

"Go on. Walk out. I'd like to see you do it. See you try..." he chuckles, amused by the thought, "Go buy your own shit. Grind on whoever the fuck you want."

He tilts his head, watching you. "What's stopping you? Now that I've given you my permission... Precious freedom."

You open your mouth. Close it. Nothing comes out.

Because you can't. You both know you can't.

"That's what I thought." He takes another step closer. "You don't want to take care of yourself, sweetheart. You want me to do it. You want me to tell you what to wear, where to go, who to fucking talk to. You want me to own you."

"That's not—"

"It is." His voice drops low and vicious. "And the worst part? You hate that you want it. You hate that you need me. That's what tonight was really about, wasn't it? Punishing yourself for needing me."

You can't find it in yourself to reply. To meet his eyes, To breathe.

"I won, baby. I played the game perfectly, and you fell right into my hands. My prize is you. I have you. Completely."

He leans closer, voice dropping to something almost tender, almost loving—

"So why do you keep fighting what we both know you love?"

Your throat tightens, your vision blurring. "Stop."

"Why? Because I'm right?"

A tear slips down your cheek before you can stop it.

He sees it.

His expression shifts just slightly. The cruelty softens. The anger that had been coiled tight in his shoulders releases.

For a moment, he just watches you. Studies the tear tracking down your face like it's the most important thing in the world.

He sets the glass down slowly, the movement painstakingly controlled. His eyes never leave yours.

Then he's crossing the room slow. Each step making your heart thud faster.

Fuck. This is it.

He stands above you, head tilting. Before you can react, he's kneeling in front of you. The sight alone steals your breath.

Titus Danforth on his knees. For you.

His hands find your thighs. The grasp warm and familiar, rubbing slow circles up and down over the fabric of that dress. The touch is grounding, claiming all over again.

"What can I do, baby, hm?" his voice has shifted entirely. Soft now, coaxing. As if he's trying to solve a puzzle.

"Trip to Morocco? Want another credit card?"

"No-" The word comes out small, broken. You hate how fragile you sound.

His eyes study you with extreme focus. A flicker of desperation behind his cold exterior.

"Come on, let me take care of you." his voice drops lower, almost pleading. Though you know Titus Danforth doesn't plead for anyone.

His eyes travel across your face, scanning every microexpression. Every breath you take.

That's when you see it.

The panic settling on his face.

Not the panic of a man losing control, but something raw, something that terrifies him. His dark eyes search yours with an intensity that borders on desperation.

You realize he's not afraid of losing you.

He's afraid of your pain.

Of the tears. Of the fact that he can't simply buy your happiness back into existence. It's a vulnerability that shouldn't exist in someone like him, yet there it is.

The obsession manifesting as a need to fix you,

To make the hurt disappear,

To be the only thing that matters enough to stop your crying.

...

"Let me fix it up for you, huh? What?... what do you need?"

The question hangs between you, loaded with something deeper than material things. He's not offering money anymore.

He's offering himself.

The only thing that's ever made you feel whole.

His hands still for a moment, then continue their slow, deliberate path. Up… Down…. The heat of his palms seeping through the thin fabric, warming you from the outside in.

He tilts his head, studying you like you're the most fascinating thing he's ever seen.

"No, you're right..." a slow smile curves his lips, dangerous and knowing. "I think I know what you need."

Before you can respond, his hands are pushing the dress up your thighs, spreading your legs. His eyes go dark as he settles between them, shoulders forcing you wider.

His fingers trace the edge of your panties. Lace, delicate, and soaked through. He hooks his fingers in the waistband, with a touch feather-light, and pauses. His gaze lifts to yours, holding you captive.

"You want me quiet, huh?" His voice is low. Teasing, "You want my mouth here instead?"

Your breath catches. You can't speak, only nod.

He smiles, slow and satisfied. You've just given him exactly what he wanted.

He begins pulling the lacy fabric down. Inch by inch. Torturously slow. His knuckles brush against your skin as he slides them down your thighs, over your knees, now past your ankles.

He tosses them aside without looking, his attention fixed entirely on you.

Then his hands are back on you. Warm palms sliding up the inside of your calves, your knees. Spreading you wider.

He leans in. The first kiss lands on the inside of your knee softly, almost reverent. Then another, higher. And another.

His lips trailing up the sensitive skin of your inner thigh with agonizing patience. Each kiss a promise. Each touch making your pulse race faster.

"So soft," he murmurs against your skin. "So fucking perfect... All mine."

Your fingers twist in the sheets beneath you. Your hips shift, seeking more, but he takes his time. Kissing. Tasting.

Building the anticipation until you're trembling beneath him, thighs shaking with the effort of staying still.

When his breath finally ghosts over your core, you whimper. "Titus—"

"Shh."

"P-please."

His mouth is on you before you can finish the thought. Hot and demanding, his tongue dragging through your folds with obscene precision.

You gasp, your hands flying to his hair. Fingers tangling in the dark strands tugging. He groans against you, a sound of pure satisfaction vibrating through your entire body.

"My poor girl," he murmurs between strokes of his tongue, voice dripping with condescension.

"Just needed her pussy touched, huh? Need me to make you better?"

You can't answer. Can't think.

Can't do anything but feel.

His mouth is relentless. Sucking your clit with just enough pressure to make your thighs shake, then soothing it with his tongue. The rhythm is maddening.

"You know I take care of my girl. Always will. Just stay right here for me..." His hands grip your hips, holding you in place as you try to squirm away from the intensity.

There's nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide from the pleasure he's forcing on you.

"That's it, baby. Let me take care of you."

The pity in his voice should make you angry.

Should make you push him away. But instead, it makes you wetter. Makes you grind against his face as he devours you like a man starved.

When you come, it's with a broken cry that echoes through the room. Your body shaking, fingers twisted in his hair, holding him against you as wave after wave crashes through you.

He doesn't stop.

Not until you're whimpering. Not until you're begging.

He wants you boneless and trembling in his hold. Completely undone.

Then he pulls back, his mouth glistening. The look of pure possession in his eye. Pure satisfaction.

...

"Now, on the bed." the command is soft, yet irrefutable.

You obey without thinking, crawling backward onto the silk sheets.

Here you are again, listening to a man who will never keep you.

Fuck

He stands, unbuckling his belt with slow, deliberate movements. Transfixed as he watches you sprawled across his bed.

When he's finally naked, he climbs over you. The sight steals your breath.

His body is a masterpiece of controlled power. Broad shoulders tapering to a carved abdomen, muscles defined and dangerous. Scars map his chest and ribs. Each one a story of violence you'll never fully know.

His skin is warm, radiating heat as he settles over you, caging you beneath him.

"You're mine," he says, his voice low and absolute. "I'd never marry someone else. You understand me?"

You nod, breathlessly. There’s still some uncertainty toying with your mind.

He catches it. The flicker of doubt in your eyes.

"You don't believe me?" his jaw tightens.

Your mouth open. The words die in your throat before they can take shape.

"Answer me." His voice rough and strained, as if the words hurt him to say. Your doubt cutting deeper than he wants to admit.

Tears well in your eyes. You hate it.

Hate that he can see you like this.

His expression softens slightly. He leans closer, his forehead nearly touching yours. When he speaks again, his voice is barely above a whisper.

"You're going to know it." A promise, a threat. A vow he carries with him always.

"I'm going to make you know it. You won't ever doubt it again. Got it?"

Your heart hammers against your ribs. You nod, not trusting your voice.

"Now who do you belong to?"

Your lips part, trying to form the words, but they come out barely audible, "Y-you..."

"Say it."

"I'm yours."

"Good girl."

Then he reaches over to the nightstand drawer. The movement so practiced, your breath catches.

You already knew what he was doing.

He pulls out rope. Black silk rope.

The kind that won't leave marks but will hold firm.

"Can't have you running again," he murmurs, his voice almost conversational as he takes your wrist in his hand. His touch is gentle as he wraps the rope around it, looping it with precision.

Each knot is tied with the expertise of someone who's done this before. Who's planned this.

"Need you right here. Need you still for me."

He secures your other wrist, pulling both arms up above your head, tying them to the headboard. The rope is snug but not painful.

He knows exactly how tight to make it. Knows the difference between restraint and harm.

"There," he says, leaning back to admire his work. His eyes trace the line of your body, bound and waiting for him.

"Perfect. Now you can't go anywhere. Now you're exactly where you belong."

Your heart hammers in your chest as you test the restraints. They don't give. You're completely at his mercy.

And God help you, you want to be.

He crawls back on top of you, settling his weight over you. His eyes are dark, pupils blown. They rake over your face with an intensity that makes your breath catch. There's no softness in his gaze now.

Only the look of a man who owns what he's looking at. Possession.

"Now," he says voice low. His hand comes up to your jaw, tilting your chin up to meet his eyes.

"Now you're gonna pay for that smart mouth, yeah?"

The words are a promise and a threat wrapped into one. His thumb traces your lower lip, and there's something almost tender about the gesture.

You nod softly.

A smile grows on his face. Slow and dangerous. "Good. No more fight in you, huh?"

He shifts his weight, spreading your legs wider with his knee, positioning himself between your thighs. His cock runs against your entrance. A deliberate, torturous drag, making you shudder.

"And you're gonna take every fucking inch of me. Understood?" His voice is a low growl against your ear. No room for negotiation.

Then he's pushing inside you, one brutal thrust that splits you open. The stretch is immediate, overwhelming, stealing the air from your lungs.

You cry out, your bound hands jerking against the restraints. "Titus- wait- "

"No." His voice is iron. "You don't get to run anymore."

He doesn't give you time to adjust. Doesn't ease the burn, just pulls back and slams into you again, setting a punishing rhythm that makes your vision blur.

Each thrust drives deeper, harder, like he's trying to fuck the defiance out of you.

Like he's trying to remake you from the inside out.

His hand comes down on your breast. A sharp, stinging crack that makes you gasp. The pain blooming hot across your skin.

"This what you needed?" His hips drive forward, another brutal thrust, hitting something deep inside you.

Then his hand finds your core, fingers splayed against your clit before he delivers another sharp slap. The pain hot and electric.

"Needed to be reminded who you belong to?"

"Titus— fuck—"

"That's right." Another brutal thrust. "Say my name. Let me hear it."

"Titus—" Your voice breaks on a moan as he hits that spot deep inside you. The one that makes your vision blur and your muscles spasm.

"Good girl." His hand wraps around your throat, not gently. He squeezes. Your airway narrows. Your pulse hammers against his palm, frantic and desperate.

"Just needed some sense fucked into you, huh?"

You try to nod, but his grip tightens. Your bound hands jerk against the restraints,

Instinct screaming at you to fight, to pull away.

But he doesn't let go. Just keeps fucking you, keeps choking you. His eyes locked on yours with an intensity almost frightening.

"That's alright, baby." His voice is soft now, but his hand doesn't loosen. "Just take it. Don't need to think no more."

Your vision starts to blur at the edges, body caught between panic and pleasure. Between the need for air and the need for him.

He loosens his grip just enough, lets you gasp in a desperate breath, then tightens again.

"Just be mine." voice commanding, yet reverent.

The words break you.

Your orgasm crashes through you without warning. Violent and all-consuming. You clench around him, your body shaking, nails digging into your own palms as you come harder than you ever have.

The lack of oxygen makes everything sharper, brighter, more intense.

"Fuck- that's it." he groans with satisfaction. "That's my good girl. Coming on my cock like you were made for it."

He doesn't stop, doesn't slow. Just keeps pounding into you, hand still wrapped tight around your throat. Controlling your air. Controlling you.

The praise spills from his lips mixed with filth—

—so fucking tight, taking me so well, knew you needed this, all mine sweet girl, so pretty under me

Until you can't tell where the degradation ends and the worship begins.

Another slap to your clit. Another squeeze of your throat. You're drowning in him, in the sensation.

In the absolute certainty that you belong to him and no one else.

His thrusts grow harder. Deeper. His breathing ragged against your ear as his hips drive into you brutally with each move.

His smile widens. Something dark flashing behind his eyes. An idea— a twisted, sick thought—

"I'm gonna fill you up," he grunts, voice dropping dark. "Keep you right here. Keep you full and pregnant"

Your eyes go wide "Titus- !"

"Shh, shh—" His hand tightens around your throat, cutting off your protest. "I know baby, I know it's just what you need. Just take it. I'll give it to you."

You whine, a sound caught between shock and need, body trembling beneath him.

"A-are you sure?" The words escape uncertain and fragile.

You can't let him do this. He'll be tied to you.

He can't.

The words now echoing again.

You're nothing. A toy. Disposable—

His laughter pulling you from your thoughts. Dark and rumbling against your neck,

"Of course, sweetheart—" Another brutal thrust that steals your breath. "I'm gonna fill this pretty pussy up. Make you mine forever. No more running."

Your breath hitches. He's serious.

He wants me.

His hips stutter, a guttural groan tears deep from his chest. Raw and uncontrolled, your name spills from his lips like a prayer.

He buries himself to the hilt, entire body going rigid as he spills inside you. Hot, deep, and overwhelming. You feel every pulse of him. Every rope of cum flooding your core, marking you from the inside out.

His hand tightens one last time around your throat as he grinds into you, making sure every last drop is buried deep inside you.

"So good," he moans against your skin. "Fucking perfect. F-fuck— There it is..."

He stays there, still buried inside you. His forehead pressed to yours, eyes shut resting. His breathing heavy, ragged.

The emotions hit you all at once.

A dam breaking. Every wall you've built tonight, every drink, every lie.

Every moment of pretending you didn't need him comes crashing down in a single, devastating wave.

You can't hold back the sob that escapes you. It tears from your chest before you can stop it, your entire body shakes with the force.

Titus jolts, eyes snapping open. The satisfaction on his face vanishes instantly, replaced by something you've never seen before.

True unbridled terror.

"Baby" His voice cracks. "What's wrong? Fuck, are you hurt?"

His hands move immediately. Frantic and desperately. He pulls out of you carefully. You feel the loss of him like a physical ache.

But he's already reaching for the restraints, fingers working the knots with practiced efficiency.

"Talk to me, sweetheart. Did I hurt you?"

The silk falls away from your wrists, and before you can even process it, his hands are cupping your face.

Rough palms cradling you like you're something precious, something fragile.

"Look at me. Look at me."

But you can't. The tears won't stop, streaming down your cheeks in hot, relentless tracks. Your chest heaves with hiccuping sobs that you can't control.

"You can't, Titus—" words coming out broken, barely audible, "—You can't have a baby with me."

He goes completely still.

His hands don't leave your face, but everything else about him freezes. The panic fades, replaced by quiet.

Silence stretches between you. Heavy and suffocating.

Then, slowly, he pulls you into his chest. One arm wraps around your back, the other hand threading through your hair. Stroking and soothing.

His touch is so gentle it makes you cry harder.

"And why is that?" His voice is soft, coaxing a confession from you.

You try to speak, but the words won't come. They're stuck in your throat, tangled with the sobs and the shame.

The overwhelming certainty that you're about to lose him.

You just look at him.

His eyes lock onto yours. Dark. Unreadable.

"Sweetheart... what is going on?"

...

"I'm not permanent." The words tumble out in a whisper. "I'm not... I'm not meant to be here."

His brows furrow, confusion flickering across his face.

You force yourself to continue. To say the thing that's been eating you alive since the moment you overheard those servants.

"I don't have class. Or some high status. I'm not from a rich family. We can't— you're just gonna leave for someone who—"

"No." The word cuts through the air like a blade.

You freeze shocked into silence.

"Titus..."

"No."

His voice is stern now. Commanding. The softness is gone, anger rumbling in his chest.

He shifts, pulling back just enough to look at you. His hands still frame your face, but his grip tightens. Hands firm and unyielding.

"I've lived life long enough having family controlling me. People telling me what to do..." his voice unwavering.

"I am the goddamn High Seat. I am in control." His voice grows louder, more forceful. The authority in it makes your breath catch.

"I say what goes."

Your heart hammers against your ribs.

"Whatever I want goes. I fucking want this."

You nod softly, but his expression doesn't change.

He looks dissatisfied.

His hand moves, fingers gripping your chin. Forcing your eyes to meet his. There's no escape from the intensity of his gaze.

"I said— I want this. Do you understand?"

His thumb brushes over your jaw, contrasting the steel in his voice.

"No one can stop that. No one can stop me. Yes?"

"Yes." The word comes out small.

"Good."

Silence falls around you again, but this time, it's different. Heavier. Weighted with something you can't quite name.

His hands, rough and possessive just moments ago, now soothe over your skin gently. He leans forward and presses a soft kiss to your forehead. Then another.

You close your eyes, letting the tenderness wash over you. Then his voice cuts through the quiet.

…

"You know I killed the Windsor clan, yes?"

Your eyes snap open.

You feel his gaze on the top of your head. Waiting.

"Y-yes."

You can't manage to look at him. Your heart is racing again, but for a different reason now.

"Look at me, sweetheart."

It's a command. Soft, but undeniable.

You lift your head slowly. His eyes find yours immediately.

"Don't you want to know why?"

You shake your head. No.

You don't want to know. You're terrified of what he'll say.

But he tells you anyway.

"I did it for you."

The words hang in the air between you.

You're horrified. Shocked, disgusted.

But somewhere deep inside, somewhere you don't want to acknowledge,

You find yourself enthralled by it.

You can't form words. Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

His face is expressionless watching you take in his words. Waiting for your reaction.

"I—"

"I'd do it again."

He cuts you off. His voice is cold now, matter-of-fact.

"Again, and again to have you. To have you here by my side." His eyes narrow. There's something dark in them, something unhinged.

Something you should run from.

But you don't. You just nod.

"I won't have you leaving me. Won't let something as stupid as a 'good match' get in the way."

His hand moves to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair grounding, yet claiming.

"You're here now. You'll always be here."

It's not a question. He says it as if it’s fact. A certainty.

Like he's reiterating something he thought you'd already known. You did.

Somewhere deep inside, buried beneath the fear.

Under the doubt and panic.

You knew.

You nod softly. "Okay, Titus."

A smile slowly grows on his face. Satisfaction.

"Good... that's my girl."

He pulls your head back down to his chest. His arms wrap around you, holding you close.

His heartbeat is steady beneath your ear. Strong. Unshakable.

"Now rest. We've got a long day tomorrow."

You close your eyes, letting the warmth of him seep into your skin.

"We're going to the lawyer tomorrow."

Your eyes snap open. "What?"

"Shh- don't worry your pretty head about it. I'll figure it all out. I'll arrange the ceremony."

The words turn your stomach.

He couldn't mean—

No. That's ridiculous.

You've known Titus for six months. Been with him for half that.

Your head lifts, searching his eyes. They're fixed forward. Calculating, deciding. Already planning for you.

He's serious.

Your stomach drops, your breath catches.

He's going to marry you.

The realization settles over you like a weight, heavy and inescapable. Your head drops back to his chest.

His hand strokes through your hair slowly like he's already won.

And maybe he has.

Because despite the fear, despite the shock,

Despite that voice in your head screaming that this is insane—

You're not running.

You're still here in his arms, in his bed, in his life.

And deep inside, you know you always will be.

His.

Forever.

His body aches, muscles sore from weeks on the battlefield, but the moment he sees you, all his pain vanishes. His white and gold armor rests against the foot of the bed; signs of war have no place in this sanctuary.

You beckon Marcus in the silence of his bedroom, lit only by candles that make the room glow an ethereal hue, while your supple body is wrapped in his cream-colored sheets like a bouquet. Your fingers find his as he climbs into the bed, interlocking like vines along a lattice as he lies beside you. He rests his laurel-crowned head on your lap like a child longing for warmth and compassion.

Marcus gazes up at you, his other half in this forsaken world, his goddess.

"You did well today." You praise, smiling down at him, remembering how regal he looked in the golden diadem as he gave another victorious speech to the crowd.

Marcus hums as you run your fingers around the golden leaves and through his curls. He allows himself to rest in your divine embrace, if only for a moment. Your heavenly harmony soothed his worn, remorseful soul.

"I do it all for you, my Lady." the General purrs, tenderly lifting your hand to kiss your knuckles.

Marcus's white tunic shifts as he rises to his knees and plucks the crown from his head. His curls bounce with the movement before he places the crown atop your own.

You timidly raise your hands, feeling the intricate design and the solid gold leaves as the crown sits heavy on your head, but he looks at you with awe.

"I've never seen such beauty in all my days." Marcus compliments like a man staring at the sunrise for the first time.

You were the shining beacon that kept him sane during the days of war, and he would make sure you knew the effect you had on him.

"My Empress," Marcus gently tugs the sheets, dragging the cotton down your body. He relishes your voluptuous form with a soft groan. "It's been too long since I gazed upon you." The skin at the corner of his eyes crinkles as he trails his gaze from the tips of your toes to your gilded halo.

His hands burn. He flexes them at his sides as he hungers to feel your tenderness, warmth, and compassion. "My goddess."

Your face flames as your lashes flutter to the sheets, overwhelmed by Marcus' adoration. If he only knew that you'd happily drown in the wake of his love.  

A solid finger lifts your chin to meet his sober stare. "Do me the honor of watching me pour my devotion upon you."

A lithe gasp falls from your lips as he drops his hand and lightly cups your breasts. Worn and calloused, the hands of a known killer, though he's always so gentle with you, your nipples pucker as he skims each bud with delicate circles.

Your lips part with a gasp, chasing his hands when he withdraws. He chuckles at your panting breaths. "Do not fret. There is still much time to ravish you."

His mustache tickles your skin as he leans and sucks your left breast into his mouth. Tounging the pert bud, he brings succulent pleasure to the surface and a soft cry from your lips. He massages the right with expertise, kneading and pinching, knowing exactly how much pressure to apply until he has you squirming.

He strives to leave no spot unclaimed. He's a man of his word; nothing can stop him once he's begun. Stone walls and fleets of men wielding swords and canons cannot stop him.

Soft lips trace under the arc of your breasts before moving to your ribs. A mischievous tongue darts out at the curves, tasting the thin layer of salt on your skin.

"I'd sail across the ocean for you." he professes; the timbre of his voice is as deep as the sea.

A barrage of kisses presses to your waist and the softness that you carry. Marcus's stormy beard lightly grazes your skin as he makes his ascent, leaving pebbles in its wake.

"I'd fight my own army to get to you."

Your fingers card through his locks as he settles between your thighs, making room for himself and pushing your legs apart. He hooks them over his broad shoulders with a devilish smirk. A wry tongue licks a straight line from your pulsing opening to the crux of your mound, making you tug his hair with a wanton mewl.

Marcus stills, like a predator, having just sunk its claws into prey, and presses his scarred, aquiline nose into the soft curls that top your mound. His nostrils flare as your heady scent invades his senses. A low growl rumbles from his chest as he lowers his head, watching you from under his lashes. His once enchanted eyes have now become slivers of torrid black as he latches his teeth into your fleshy mound.   

You cry out from the impish bite, hips unconsciously grinding toward your lover as he unlocks his jaw and finally smothers your cunt with his mouth.

Your nerves sizzle from the immoral embrace as his tongue dances over your clit. Nimble fingers trace your sticky petals, dipping in and out of your hole, drawing more blood to fill your already throbbing folds. Your heart beats in time with the pounding of your lower half as Marcus takes his time to worship you.

"Seems my Lady enjoys my touch." He purrs— a slick, shiny grin plastered on his face.

Your body bends, curving sharply like a bow aimed and waiting for the charge. Marcus keeps you primed like the General he strived for ages to become. "Tonight, you will not want," he claims, notching two fingers at the opening of your core.

He holds your fiery stare as he presses into your soaked channel. Your head lolls, and your eyes flutter like butterflies as his thick digits widen your velvet passage.

"Always so good to me." Marcus coos, curiously curling his touch along the hidden ridges deep inside. His cock aches, soaking the sheets with his pearly spend, desperate to be inside you. "Letting me adore and worship as I please."

You want to hold him in your arms and repeat every word he praises back to him in a whisper, but Marcus is a man of his word; tonight is about you and only you.

His shoulders stop your legs from closing as a violent wave of pleasure rolls over you. A wicked laugh rumbles from the man as he suckles your inner thigh. "So close, my Lady. I can feel it." Marcus works his fingers in and out, driving you to the edge, and there's nothing you can do to stop it.

Slick, drenched kisses stain your skin, another sign of his devotion, as your limbs tangle even more with the stoic man. His rough hands easily hold you down as you wriggle in his grip. Your breathing escalates, and blood pulses in your ears as the eager desire to come consumes you.

"Yes, my Love, take what I give you," Marcus begs, thrusting his weeping cock against the bed in time with his fingers, working you higher and higher.

Marcus wraps his lips around your clit, suckling and swirling the tiny bud until you're chanting his name. He tortuously hooks his fingers onto the spot behind your clit, forcing you to swell and explode into a mass of sparkling particles.

The moment your eyes blink open, having floated back down from your glorious high and into the comfort of Marcus' bed, he notches his cock at your creamy opening and thrusts himself to the hilt.

Your jaw drops with a silent cry. It's devastating and empyreal but your body welcomes him home like always.

"Her embrace is so warm and tight. Like how I dreamt on all those lonely nights", Marcus groans, dropping his head to your shoulder.

The image of Marcus touching himself in the darkness of his tent after a day of savagery makes your cunt quiver. The power you hold over this man is not to be taken lightly.

As you become one, your breasts press against his broad, dewy chest as he blankets your smaller frame and pushes you into the mattress with every cant of his hips, driving his length into the deepest depths.

Crescent moons pepper his freckled back as he shows you sights you've never seen, eliciting his name from your lips with a broken, gasping prayer. Your hold tightens around his bouldering shoulders, his thrusts gaining immense strength as the end closes in, shoving you up the bed.

Marcus noses your cheek, drawing your attention from the blissful heaven. "My Love," his hands encompass your face, from chin to temple, so cautiously, like he's holding a newborn. "I've never experienced such wonders than when I am inside you."

He continues to rock you in the safety of his arms and his bed, hurrying his thrusts when your eyes roll and your limbs become stiff. Marcus wants to meet the Gods with you and feel the rapture and glory as they carry you off into the heavens as one.

Marcus growls with bared teeth as he comes; his spine flexes as he spills his seed and fills you to the brim. He doesn't stop thrusting until his come is leaking onto the sheets, and your folds can no longer hold his offering.

You are his temple, and he will worship until the day he falls.

feel free to scream at me -> 💌

“Happy first year down..” Shen smiles as he sets down a dunkin cup on your desk, making you stare on in shock.

“Oh. Shen, you shouldn’t have-“ He waves a hand, interrupting your humbleness.

“Just be grateful. I spent points on you.” He teases as you quickly get up to hug him.

“You’re such a dork. Thank you..” You giggle.

“No hugging on the clock.”

The voice comes from behind you both, but you already know who it is. Pulling away, you give Jack a playful up/down.

“We hug ‘on the clock’..” You point out as you squint your eyes at the older man’s ‘rule’.

“That’s different..” He shrugs as he sets the copies in front of Lena so she can start filing them away.

“How so?!” You chuckle, crossing your arms over your chest and corking your head to the side.

“I’m the one getting a hug.” Jack smirks a bit as if it’s obvious. Shen shakes his head before turning back to you.

“See? You earned the coffee simply for putting up with that for a whole year.” Shen states as he nods towards a now playfully offended looking Jack.

“Aw..” You play along. “It was hard work. I’m so glad I’m being acknowledged for it now..” You smile as you playfully place a hand over your heart, acting as if you’re about to cry.

“Ha ha. You two are so very entertaining.” Jack says sarcastically as you grab your files and your coffee, muttering another soft thank you to Shen before you slip away to do your rounds.

Being a resident on the night shift was only doable when you had coworkers like Shen.

Well, it also helped when you had Jack on your side too. And as if sensing his residency in your mind, the 50-year old attending makes himself known beside you.

Innocently, he stays in step with you until you feel him nudge you ever so slightly, making you turn down an empty hallway before you can fully comprehend the change in direction.

Hands find your waist, pulling you close and making you laugh giddily before you can help yourself. Mostly, you’re just pleasantly shocked. How the hell Jack manages to act like you’re in high school, you’ll never know.

Some may say having a secret love affair with your attending is a ‘bad thing’. Hell, even one of your friends proclaimed you were just living a real life episode of Grey’s Anatomy..

But, this was way more than some dirty, little, collection of rendezvous. Jack and you were actually dating.

You were just.. Taking things slow..

You two actually started dating after your first day here at the Pitt.

Fourth of July.

It was hot and muggy and you wanted to have a minute to yourself in a private hospital room. When you walked in though, you found Jack already trying to settle himself.

He halfheartedly attempted making a joke about the irony of Fourth of July being a terrible day for veterans, but you saw right through his act. You instead sat next to him and held his hand until the sounds of fireworks faded enough for him to settle.

After shift, he offered you breakfast as a thank you. And that friendship very quickly turned into.. Well, this.

“Happy one year, bunny..” He says tenderly as he watches you with soft eyes that shine with pride. It makes you blush.

“Oh, so you do remember..” You tease quietly as you let him hold you close, leaning somewhat against him even with your hands full.

“I remembered. Just trying to surprise you with something later..” Jack defends assuringly with a shrug.

You bite your lip.

A part of you genuinely thought Jack had forgotten. But how the hell could he forget your anniversary as a resident when tomorrow is the anniversary of this relationship?!

“I told you it’d go by fast though, didn’t I?” He continues, looking down at you as his one hand reaches up to move your hair away from your face more. Jack was just attentive to detail like that..

“You’ve been kicking ass at this, bunny. I knew you’d make it a year. And you’re gonna have many, many more ahead of you..” He compliments gently as you bashfully look elsewhere.

“Here’s hoping..” You say gently before looking back up at him.

“Happy almost one year, Fox..” You finally say back, making him smirk. He lazily pecks your lips, humming to savor the flavor of your lipgloss.

“Tonight’s not about me. It’s about you. We’ll celebrate us tomorrow night. Tonight… I’m waiting for a good moment to give you your surprise.” Jack explains gently as you quietly try to fuss with him about surprises.

Jack always did too much with romantic gestures. He was real old school in that way. You could never get used to it..

“Hey. Big occasion. I’m allowed, that was the deal..” Jack smirks as you playfully groan, remembering.

“Fine. You get to be all cheesy and romantic tonight.” You mutter jokingly, as if it’s so dreadful.

“And tomorrow night.” Jack brags, making you laugh. You sweetly kiss him before pulling away, reminding him about the rounds you still need to make. You had one patient that was still unconscious, after all..

Jack lets you slip away, sighing in content to himself before he gets himself busy as well..

You do your rounds of all the 7 patients you have.

Some here because they’re sick, some because of accidents, and one because of drunkenly slipping outside of a bar earlier in the night. Still out cold and 12 stitches had to be given.

Walking into the man’s room, you silently work on charting and realize one of the pads is misplaced. With a heavy sigh, you set down your iPad and coffee before you move closer to the man as he lays soundly in the bed. You gently tug at his hospital gown so you can check the tags and it’s that moment that he begins to stir.

“Wha…” The man slurs a bit.

“Oh. Hi, Mr. Westley?” You ask, only knowing his name from the ID you’d taken from his wallet when he was being admitted.

“What the fuck?!” The man snaps, instantly pushing at you a bit. Your eyes widen, thrown off by the sudden aggression.

“Oh! Uh.. M-Mr. Westley, please relax, I can explain everything.” You try, heart racing. You’ve had patients wake up disoriented before, sure. Some even wake up terrified. But you’ve never dealt with anger.

“Fucking bitch. Where’s my fucking… Fucking..” He angrily rambles as he sits up more to fight with the cords all around him. You step closer without thinking, just wanting him to relax for a second. Your hands hover close to him.

“Don’t pull on those. I can help you take them off if-“

It all happens so fast.

Too fast.

It’s actually embarrassing how quickly he’s able to grab you by your neck and put you in a headlock. Your hands instantly go to his forearm, whining because that’s the only sound you can let out as you try and tug and claw at his arm.

Fuck.

Fuck, you’re in here all alone. Fuck, your iPad is on a chair that’s nowhere in arm’s length, and fuck, you don’t know when someone is going to notice you’re gone.

“Yeah. That’s right. Fight back..” The man growls lowly, making your stomach lurch. You could throw up in this moment if it wasn’t for the panic making your throat close. Tears flood your vision and you let out a broken sob before you can stop yourself.

You remember learning that some men really like fear in women. That no matter what they’re doing, it’s only because they want that reaction. And it’s best to not give in. It makes you feel worse now though. To know that you’re giving him exactly what he wants.

But you know the fear isn’t over if he does manage to knock you out. Because then what would be next.

That thought only makes you cry more..

“Get off of her!”

The voice is like a godsend in this moment you’ve got such a head rush that you don’t even know who it belongs to.

The grip around your neck is loosened enough for you to fall back and hit the floor flat on your butt because of the force and pressure. You cough wildly, grabbing at your neck and jaw. Both feel sore already.

“She stole from me!” The man slurs back as hands try to grab at you and you fight against them.

“Don’t touch me!” You snap out in a rasp, saying the words that had been burning in your mouth since this attack first started.

Shen steps back from you and Lena instantly yells for security as the man continues to proclaim you stole his watch. A watch you don’t even recall him coming in with.

“Hula Hoop! I repeat, Hula Hoop!” Lena shouts as three security guards run inside the room. Lena moves now to grab you. This time, you take the help..

You don’t know where you’re being led to until you’re being told to sit down on a hospital bed. It only adds to your embarrassment..

“Only women..”

You hear Lena saying it but you don’t look up to see who she’s saying it to.

Ellis and Vivi are by your side instantly.

“Shit. Y/N, hey. Look at me..” Vivi says quietly as she tries to get your attention. You two are already close as is given your ages and common interests, but you can’t bring yourself to look her in the eyes.

“Hey. Y/N, you… You did nothing wrong..” Vivi continues softly as you finally look at her, softly breaking down. She moves to hug you carefully as Lena looks away but rubs your back.

You shake a bit as it all starts to sink in. And one thing becomes extremely clear in your mind. “Don’t tell Jack..” You whimper to Lena.

He’d go to jail tonight if he knew…

*

*

*

“And you didn’t provoke him in any way?”

You slowly look up at the police officer as he stares at his notepad, not glancing at you until he realizes you aren’t answering his question. His partner raises an eyebrow at the tense silence.

“Ma’am?” His partner asks, thinking you just hadn’t heard him.

“I’m just gonna let you sit with that question..” You finally whispers, voice hoarse from both the attack and the crying done before the police got here. Both officers shift a bit as if not understanding what’s so hard about answering it, but Lena is quick to step in.

“Is that all?” She bluntly asks. “Because there’s sure a lot of questions that need to be asked to someone who’s a medical professional and attacked while providing a service..” She states.

“Standard protocol.” The officer argues back, letting the annoyance show on his face now. Vivi had yet to leave your side, rolling her eyes at the officers too just as Jack comes storming down the hallway towards the hallway bed.

“Shit.” You whisper as you try to reach up to cover your neck.

“Y/N..” He calls as he reaches you. “What happened? Are you okay?” He asks firmly as he pushes past the cops without a care, standing right in front of you. You try looking away, but he tenderly touches your jaw. His face hardens as the bruise he sees.

“Fuck. Bunny…” He whispers, making Lena and ViVi share a look. It was teased a lot on the ED floor, but… Actual confirmation wasn’t going to be celebrated tonight..

Jack turns to the cops. “You’re gonna arrest him, right? Why is he still here and not in cuffs?” He asks, voice tense and authoritative.

“We plan on taking him in after his care is done.” The other officer assures with a slight hand raise as if it’s no big deal. Jack’s eyes darken.

“He got his stitches. His care is done.” He says lowly, as if that’s a warning.

“Not according to him. He says he’s still in need of medical care.” The other officer shrugs and Jack watches both cops before he slowly nods.

“Ask him again. I think he changed his mind..” Jack says calmly. Both cops pause before excusing themselves.

“He did?” Lena asks.

“Well, when it’s between jail or being forced into a 48 hour psych hold… You tend to want the safer choice, right?” Jack mutters, letting it be clear that he made sure Mr. Westley would rather jail than to be stuck here with Jack as his primary care.

“Jack. You threatened a patient?” You whisper.

“He’s lucky I didn’t rip the stitches from his head..” Jack says shortly before gently checking on you again. You try to whisper you’re fine and Lena finally gives a look to ViVi.

“Let’s… Give them some privacy..” Lena says. The two women leave, closing the privacy curtain behind them.

Maybe it’s the fact that his hands are cradling your face like he needs the assurance that you’re still here. Maybe it’s the hospital being shut out behind that curtain. Maybe it’s the fact that deep down all you wanted when the attack was happening was Jack. Whatever the reason, you softly begin to cry again.

“I’m here. I’m so fucking sorry, bunny. I’m here…” He whispers lowly as he presses his lips firmly to your forehead, just leaving his lips there as you grip his shirt to hold him close. He stands in front of you, between your legs to get as close to you as possible.

“I feel so stupid…” You manage to sob out.

“No…” He whispers against your skin, eyes closing as if in pain from hearing your cry. His hands stay on your face though, his nose nuzzling into your hair as you whine nonsense. You’re just ranting and rambling at this point. You don’t even know half the things you’re saying, but you know it feels good to let it all out.

“You didn’t do this. You were doing your job, you were helping. He’s the monster here, Y/N. Not you. He’s the fucking idiot here, Y/N. Not you. Do you understand me?” Jack whispers as you sniffle more while moving to hug him tight like a teddy bear.

Your head goes to the cork of his neck as your hands nervously knead his shirt. He rubs your back comfortingly as he kisses anywhere his lips can reach. Temple, cheek, ear..

“I wanna get you home..” Jack whispers close to your ear after a moment. “Hm? Home?” He offers quietly. “Bed? Bath?” He tries to sell it to you, making you hesitate.

“My shift-“ He cuts you off.

“Fuck the shift. You need rest. I already called in a favor, we’re covered. Hm? Come on…” He whispers as he gently tugs at you to get you off the hospital bed. You sheepishly agree the second your feet touch the ground…

*

*

*

It’s a last minute choice in the cab to go to Jack’s place instead of yours. You always loved his bed a little bit more. The sheets were soft and warm and always smelled like him. So even when he would slip out of bed early in the mornings, that and his black out shades would never wake you.

You slowly step out of his bathroom in a t-shirt of his and some boxers that you could use as shorts. You dry your hair with the towel as you see Jack already setting his leg aside for the night.

That’s not what slows your movements.

It’s the white bakery box on the bed and the two forks on top of it.

“Even if this put a damper on my original plan, you still deserve a surprise..” Jack says softly, as if reading your mind. You slowly set the towel down and walk over to the bed.

“How did you…” You trail off.

“Ran out while you were showering found this at a bakery about to close..” He exposing gently. You get into bed and then carefully uncover the box.

It’s a small, personal, heart shaped cake with the words ‘One year down, forever to go!’ on the front of it. You smile tearfully and turn to face Jack. He cups your face with one hand, stroking your cheek.

“I love you..” He says firmly and shamelessly, looking you directly in the eyes so you know he means those words with his whole chest. “And I am so fucking proud of you..” He continues quietly.

You pout a bit. Not out of sadness, but.. Gratefulness. “I love you..” You sniffle back before kissing him certainly. You pull back slightly when he playfully offers you a fork so you can have the first bite of the cake. You smile shyly as you grab the fork, both of you settling in for cake and movies in bed..