eeka

He probably just was finishing picking up some paperwork from Nanami or maybe held up by one of the students with a question after training. You sighed, the drawer rattling as you shoved it closed again, turning your attention to his little collection of fancy pens tucked in a souvenir cup Gojo had gotten him a few years ago. You'd probably blame Suguru's tardiness on him if he wasn't out on a solo mission a plane ride away.

It was stupid. Or just stupider than what you were currently doing, trying to twirl one of them on the tip of your finger just to send it flying into the corner of the room, watching it hit the wall and roll behind one of the filing cabinets lined up underneath the windows.

Trying to pull your skirt down to cover more than your ass when you walked over, squatting down to squint in the shadows just to discover it had rolled all the way back behind the middle filing cabinets out of your reach. Huffing, you struggled to pull out one of heavy metal rectangles, heaving to move it backwards until you had enough space to fit behind the first one.

The floor was clean, at least.

Getting down on your hands and knees, painfully aware of how exposed you were when you had to crawl to reach it, palm outstretched and about to close around the sleek metal of the pen when the door creaked opened.

"And then, I swear it-" The all-too-familiar sound of Gojo's rambling was cut off by what sounded like Nanami clearing his throat.

You might actually ask your boyfriend's best friend to hollow purple you.

You knew you needed to move. Wiggle out and try to cover yourself up before finding a hole to curl up and die from embarrassment in since you apparently just accidently flashed two of your longtime friends and coworkers.

"Get out."

Suguru's voice wasn't a warning, but a command, low and firm as the door suddenly slammed shut, the clock of the lock clicking into place. You hadn't even begun to shuffle backwards before the filing cabinet was suddenly pressed against your hip, cold metal pinning you between it and the wall.

Stuck.

"S-Sugu, I can't move," You stammered, every breath getting caught in your throat when you tried to move, but it wouldn't budge, trying to glance back over your shoulder at your boyfriend when there was barely any room.

"Uh-huh," He wryly murmured, closer than you expected.

It struck you after another second that he was the reason you couldn't move, that he pushed it to keep you stuck like this was some cheap porno. Your mind was already trying to think of a tagline before his palm grazed against the curve of your ass, your thighs already damp from the weight of his presence, the energy rolling off him in heated waves that seemed to sink and simmer into your stomach. The realization sinking in that you really were trapped and at his mercy.

"Care to explain this?" He spoke slowly, his words deceptively soft as his fingertips skimmed down to the inside of your thighs, phantom touches sending shivers down your spine.

"Your pen fell," You muttered, weakly wigging back into his hand, not really trying to escape, but his other hand landed on your hip, pushing up your skirt the rest of the way like he hadn't been able to get a full view from the moment he stepped in.

"Uh-huh," He repeated, a slow drawl to match the creep of his finger curling down to cup your cunt.

"D-did Gojo get back early?" You shivered as he suddenly rolled your clit carefully between two sturdy fingers, tsk-ing his tongue in disapproval.

"Why? You wanted to surprise him too?" Suguru dryly mocked, collecting the slick now dripping down your thighs before his hand pulled back, waiting until you whined at the absence of his heat to bring his palm down for a smack! you hoped they didn't hear down the hall.

"Don't act like you wouldn't love cu-" You yelped when he spanked you the second time, your own taunt cut off by the sharp sting of his fingers connecting with your clit.

Before you could react, you felt something wet hit your bare skin, barely registering the fact he just spit on your cunt for lube before his fingers were messaging the sore and swollen bud again, softer this time to soothe the pain and overwrite the pleasure.

"Y-you, fuck," You muttered, biting down on your lip, lost in what you were trying to say when you heard the sound of his belt hitting the ground, the rustle of clothing before something warm was nudged at your entrance, teasingly rubbing the thick head of his cock to watch you mindlessly try to grind back against it.

"You wanna try saying that again?" He hm-ed, like he didn't just want to hear you whimper trying to catch the tip against your entrance and edge it inside.

"You're such an a-"

Suguru shoved the first inches in to shut you up, a moan they definitely heard escaping your mouth at how easily he slipped in, pushing past the first bit of resistance to start inching forward.

"I'm sorry, baby, what's that?" He murmured, his hips hitting your ass when he buried himself in to the hilt, his honeyed voice making you shiver just as much as his tip smashing against your cervix was. He held it there, only moving to angle himself deeper.

All you could do was throb, pinned between the cabinets and the wall while he filled you up, not giving you the space to think of anything but him.

"You're being mean," You desperately mewled, one of his huge hands pushing your shirt up to trace an appreciative line up your spine, refusing to pull out like it was some petty punishment.

"You want me to be nice?" He chuckled, knowing the condescension only made you squeeze around him tighter, cling to him more.

"N-no," You reluctantly admitted.

He leaned in so his chest was pressed against your back, slipping his hand around to grip your throat, lightly applying pressure before his fingers drifted up until his thumb grabbed your chin, forcing you to crane your neck to the side to look back at him over your shoulder. You expected him to kiss you.

But he clicked his tongue.

"Open up, pretty girl," He murmured, and your compliance came without thinking. When his cock was currently stuffing you so full you couldn't do anything other than obey him.

Your lips parted from their pout, the seconds stretching before he forced your chin down, opening it wider so he could spit into your mouth before guiding it shut again, his cock throbbing inside you at the bob in your throat, the sight of your automatic swallow.

"Fuck," He groaned, angling the head of it even deeper, your whine at the stretch only making the fingers on your throat, his hold on your jaw tighten, trying to keep you in place until every last fucking centimeter was inside. "Made for me, you know that?"

"Mhm," You whimpered, sucking in a gasp, your throat still somehow dry, trying to squirm away? against? him with every little movement of his hips. "J-just you."

You'd been his from the moment you met him.

He released his grip, but the fingers holding up your hips dug in, his clipped nails creating tiny divots into your skin while his other hand quickly found it's way around the front to your clit, painting practiced circles like he wanted to make you cum as fast as possible. Hurtling you closer to the edge with each swift motion, ripping out broken little gasps from your throat, shattered cries of his name when you dug your own nails into your palm and chewed on your lip trying to hold it in.

"S-Sugu, I c-can't," You whined, tears already forming in the corners of your eyes, ready to spill over at any second. "Gonna cum."

"You can," His voice was so soft, deceptively sweet. You knew him though. It was an unspoken promise you'd get what he really wanted to give you later, that this was just the warm up.

"I, fuck," You still snapped though, unable to hold the strands of your sanity together when he had the scissors, unravelling under the pressure of his fingertips and the steady slams of his cock pumping inside you, a stray tear falling as white splotches filled your vision.

Thick cum spurting inside of you, a low groan leaving his throat when his thrusts became sloppy, finishing only a few seconds after you. Waiting until the last drops fell out before stuffing it back in with his thick fingers and pausing to admire his handiwork.

But even after he finished, he didn't help you out or even clean you up.

"Suguru?" Your voice was weak, whiny, cheeks starting to flush with embarrassment at him leaving you in that position.

"Hold on a second, sweetheart," He murmured, rubbing your ass appreciatively, but he sounded well, distracted.

"Seriously, Suguru?" You repeated, nervousness creeping in.

Then you heard the soft click! and registered the faint flash of his phone behind you.

"Sorry baby, just had to remind them who you're made for too."

Even beaten, burned, and dressed in the evidence of your blasphemy, you were a wondrous thing to behold. He had tried to be gentle in your recovery, but between managing the fire lotuses’ spread and fending off your previous captors (because, surely, you wouldn’t endure the company of such heathens willingly), there hadn’t been much room for delicacy. Bruises circled your wrists, forming defined rings underneath the braided cord that kept your hands safely bound above your head. Ash and debris coated your hair, your skin from where you had nobly but futilely attempted to save the citizens of Fleur City from their inevitable redemption. Your masquerade dress was tattered and sullied, but that was fine. He would fetch you other clothes, finer clothes. Under his care, you would want for nothing.

Already, you wore a testament to his reverence around your neck. A golden collar, polished dutifully enough to shine and engraved with reliefs of lotus blooms and curling vines. A thin chain kept it tethered to the headboard, your leash secured by a fastener for which only he possessed the key. It looked lovely against your skin, rising and falling in time with your steady breathing. He’d been waiting to see it hanging from your throat for quite some time, now. Since the day he met you.

Really, he ought not to let you wear it. It was a thing of beauty, of purity. You were beautiful, but not of purity. Not ye—

“Uh… Hello?”

Ah.

He hadn’t expected you to wake up so soon.

Thankfully, he’d thought to blindfold you. Rollo watched you turn your head from side to side, tugging uselessly at your bondage for a few more blissful moments before sighing, crossing the threshold, and making his way to your bedside.

You were talking, by then, your voice light and level. You were making an effort to sound calm, clearly, but your fear shone through in the stilted lilt of each word, of how often you cut yourself off to let out a breathy laugh or gnaw at the inside of your cheek. “Ace, I swear to God—” And then, thinking better of it, “Deuce, if you’re trying to freak me out, it’s not funny.”

He offered no response. You hadn’t thought to call for him yet, but that was fine. Stumble through the dark for a few more seconds. You would be that much more grateful when he showed you the light.

That was what he’d planned to do, at least. And then, that terrible name slipped past your perfect lips, and he no longer felt so patient.

“…Malleus?”

It took more effort than he would’ve liked to bite back his scowl. Immediately, he was reaching for you, tearing away the strip of fabric and cupping your chin as you blinked up at him. A small smile spread over your lips as you recognized the face of your true savior — hesitant, but no less warm for its delay.

“Hi, Rollo.”

He nodded by way of response, and your gaze slipped past him, scanning over the bare stone walls of your bedroom. Again, you tugged at your restraints, letting your smile ebb. “I don’t— Is everyone okay? I remember losing track of Trein, and then— Where are we, exactly?”

Your thoughts were disordered, overlapping and repelling one another in turn. That was alright. He would make sense of your mind for you.

“Your companions are safe.” Unfortunately. The events of the masquerade had been… beyond his control. His plan, while brilliant, had been foiled by the antagonism of Night Raven College. He didn’t blame you. How could he? Such a powerless thing — you were no different from a scared animal, huddling in the smallest corner of its cage, too terrified to imagine what life may look like outside of the bars you’d lived inside of for so long. Too long. “You’re a few miles outside of Fleur City. This is the parish house — a luxury afforded to Noble Bell’s president so that they may pursue their studies unbothered.”

Luxury might’ve been too generous. Virtue came with modesty, and the parish was nothing if not modest. A few rooms of age-old stone populated only by books, simple wooden furniture, and the most humble of creature comforts. He would move you to his homey apartment in the city soon enough. For now, isolation was more important than comfort. It was vital that two of you should not be disturbed.

Judging by how quickly your smile had fallen away, it would seem you’d realized this, as well.

“What are you going to do to me?”

Direct, cutting, magnificent in your simplicity. Rollo softened, letting his hand drift to the top of your head and petting the debris out of your hair, sparing you the burden of a verbal response. Surely, you must’ve known by then that he was a man of faith.

And, when he was finished, you would be a reward worthy of his devotion.

~

Your first impression of Rollo Flamme was that, abandoning all attempts at eloquence, he was kind of a prick.

It was something about the eyes. If your time at Night Raven had taught you anything, it was how to identify a man who would eventually prove to be either a mild annoyance or a threat to your life on sight. Rollo, for all the deadpan niceties he’d offered during his initial introduction, had the coldest eyes you’d ever seen; prone to glancing off the person he was speaking to in favor of settling on some abstract point in the far distance. He hadn’t kicked any puppies yet, but you didn’t like it.

You were currently doing an excellent job of masking your distaste by loitering on the outskirts of Noble Bell’s courtyard, silently glowering at Azul as he tried to turn a guided tour into a networking opportunity. Deuce and Epel had briefly joined your quiet protest, only to abandon you when interrogating the student body president of a jarringly traditional arcane academy proved more engaging than your baseless paranoia. Ruggie and Riddle were similarly uninterested in your cause and Idia, the ball of white-hot anxiety that he was, had enough problems of his own to deal with. Not that you were in a very sympathetic mood. As far as you were concerned, you were surrounded by a lot of traito—

“Pouting so soon, beloved?”

Ah, right.

A lot of traitors, and your perfect boyfriend Malleus.

“I’m not pouting,” you sulked. You cast a withering glance to Rollo, now exchanging pleasantries with the Pomefiore representatives. “I don’t like the president. He’s very…”

“Formal?” suggested Malleus.

“Catholic.”

He pursed his lips. Confusion knit itself into the corners of his mouth, the wrinkle between his eyebrows, and beneath it, concern. Of course. It was so easy to forget how many parts of your world hadn’t carried over into this one, and how many more were lost on Malleus in particular. That might’ve been why you loved him so much. Even when he had no idea what the hell you were talking about, he still knew what you were trying to say. He still recognized that you were worried.

“You’re afraid Flamme might have ill intentions?”

“I wouldn’t go that far, I just—” You had a bad feeling. The same feeling you’d had when you first met Riddle, Leona, Azul. The same feeling that would’ve saved you a lot of time and a lot of pain if you’d just listened to your gut and run. “I don’t like him.”

You were making an effort to clip your words, but still, Malleus’ expression darkened. Of course. He’d been looking forward to this for weeks, ever since he found out he’d been personally invited. And here you were, ruining it for him because one of the organizers didn’t look very friendly.

You did what you could to play damage control. “But that shouldn’t matter. We’re here to have fun.” And then, taking his hand, “Besides, I’ve got you to protect me if anything goes wrong, right?”

Immediately, the shadow lifted. You’d been told that a not inconsiderable portion of Night Raven’s student body considered Malleus’ smile to be among the scariest things they’d ever seen. You weren’t sure why. It was hard to believe that anyone could be afraid of something so warm.

You were still admiring him when he interlaced his fingers with yours, tugging you closer. A hand found its way your cheek, then your jaw, cupping your chin and tipping your face up toward his. Less patiently, you threw your arms around his neck, dragging him down to your level and pulling him into a—

“And the Ramshackle prefect, of course.”

Cold as ice and just as sharp. You and Malleus separated in an instant — no better than two teenagers caught making out behind the bleachers during gym. Rollo stood in front of you, your classmates gathered behind him and those frigid eyes staring past you altogether.

It took a long beat for you to realize you were meant to respond, then another for you to scrounge something coherent up. “The one and only.”

You extended a hand. Rollo eyed it wearily.

“How rare it is, for a magician to be so…” He trailed off, the corner of his mouth curling back into a poorly disguised sneer. “So tactile.”

Okay. Ouch. Whatever. “It’s a good thing I’m not a magician, then,” you laughed. “Maybe I should’ve been more specific. The one and only magicless prefect of Ramshackle dorm, at your service.”

It was a defense mechanism, really. The faster you made it clear that you didn’t have a drop of magic, the sooner those drowning it would stop paying attention to you. Tragically, your disclosure seemed to have the opposite effect on Rollo. You’d begun to draw back as you spoke, but before you could fully pull away, he was lashing out — catching your hand with both of his. His gaze, previously lifeless and dismissive, was now unfalteringly focused on you.

“Magicless,” he repeated, as if all the air had been forced out of his lungs. “What a wondrous thing.”

You blinked at him, not sure what to say. Rollo seemed to catch himself, dropping your hand and clearing his throat. “Living among so many mages must be very taxing. I sincerely hope my city offers you a moment of respite.”

“I’m sure we’ll find more than a moment, Flamme.”

Malleus’ hand on your back, his body behind yours. Unconsciously, you melted against him, and Rollo’s eyes narrowed.

“Prince Draconia,” he drawled, his disinterest flooding back in full force. “Do enjoy the social.”

Without another word, Rollo turned on his heel, gesturing for your classmates to follow as he continued on through the courtyard. Malleus moved to keep up with the group, but you caught his sleeve, holding him back. You only explained yourself once you were sure the others were out of earshot.

“I think,” you started, tone dire. “that we got interrupted, earlier.”

“Oh?” And then, understanding dawning on him with a breathy chuckle, “You only ever need ask, my love.”

Malleus’ kiss was as sweet and as warm as his smile. And yet, even as you melted against him, your mind drifted back to steely grey and biting cold.

~

Purity, of course, was not easily won. You learned that quickly enough.

You put up more of a fight than Rollo had thought you capable of. You were still a meek thing, delicate in your inability, but your time among the barbarians must have endowed you with a misplaced confidence to fend for yourself. You never refused to eat or drink, but he could see the phantom of resistance playing across your expression every time he brought you a meal. You allowed him to dress you, but never without shying away from his hands or insisting that you could see to the task yourself. You didn’t try to escape from your collar, but you flinched when he reached for it. You didn’t trust him.

Your first real show of resistance came a month into your penance. At that point, you’d grown more comfortable — restless, even. Mistaking his self-restraint for kindness, you took to stretching the limits of your leash and sitting by the sole window in your chambers at all hours of the day, watching the empty countryside. After a few days of this, you finally grew bold enough to test the bars of your cage.

“Do you think—” He watched with rapt attention as you cut yourself off, pursed your lips, and tried again. “Would it be possible for me to go outside?” And then, when he failed to respond, “Just for a few minutes. Please.”

Needless to say, your insolence was insufferable. Rollo was delighted beyond words.

He made quick work of unanchoring your tether. The simple silver key was kept on a cord around his neck, where it would share your place next to his heart. Wrapping the now free end around his fist, he jerked once, pulling the chain taut. You stumbled to your feet, doe eyes wide with panic. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“Quiet.” Harsh, but effective. You shut your mouth as thoughtlessly as you’d opened it. “Come with me, unless you’d prefer to be dragged.”

Rollo moved towards the doorway. You didn’t follow, not immediately, but another tug corrected that. Without another sound, you felt into line behind him.

Rollo neglected most of the parish house. His needs were simple and the crumbling architecture was a pain to navigate. The only spaces that saw regular use were the kitchens, bedrooms, his study, and, of course, the chapel. But that was an excursion for another day.

For his current purposes, the study would suffice. This room was where he spent most of his time, which he supposed was more than evident in the clutter. Bookcases ran parallel along the east and west walls, each shelf filled to bursting, their miscellanea allowed to spill onto his writing desk. The only source of light was the low-burning fire in the hearth along the far wall — its flames made perpetual through enchantment. The best use of magic, if one could be said to exist. All utility without the emotion that so often led mages astray.

He pulled you in front of the fireplace, keeping your chain wrapped tight around his hand. Extinguished candles lined the mantelpiece. He lit a smattering, then turned to deal with you.

“Kneel.”

Again, he caught it — the beautiful spark of rebellion in your eyes. Still, you were smart enough not to act on it. Carefully, you lowered yourself to your knees, settling your weight on your ankles. Rollo rewarded your obedience with a stern nod.

“You asked me to leave.”

He watched your features tighten. “I asked to go outside,” you corrected.

“And what is it you were hoping to find, out there?”

“Fresh air. A change in scenery.” And then, under your breath, “A few minutes away from you.”

He hummed. “You can’t expect me to believe your heart’s desires are so simple.”

You pursed your lips, dropping your gaze to the floor and narrowing your eyes. So be it, then.

“Show me your hands. Palm up.”

You didn’t move. Again, he tugged on your chain, just hard enough to watch you jerk forward and catch yourself before, glowering, doing as you were bid to. He tried not to take satisfaction in the swiftness of your submission. Tried, and failed.

He plucked the tallest candle off of the mantle and, without the ceremony of hesitation, tipped it over your waiting hands. The melted wax that had accumulated around the wick poured out and over your palms, still hot enough to scald. You gasped and jerked back, but that was the thing about wax — it stuck. It took you precious seconds to wipe away the quickly drying residue, reveal angry reddened tracks beneath. Benevolent as he was, he let you nurse your burns for a long moment before going on.

“I’ll ask you again,” he said, replacing the candlestick and taking up another. “What do you think is waiting for you out there?”

You opened your mouth, but closed it just as quickly. Good. There was a thought or two rattling around in that empty head of yours, after all.

“The truth will not be punished.” He leaned down, petting his free hand over the top of your head. “Honesty is a virtue, no matter how ugly. But, there will be consequences if you lie again. Worse consequences,” he added, nodding to your red-streaked hands.

You nodded slowly, considering. “A way back to my own world,” you answered, finally. “Our headmage was working on sending me—”

He grabbed your collar, hauling you upward until your knees barely touched the ground. You grabbed for his hands, trying to pry him away, but he didn’t let your feeble attempts distract him from the task at hand — trickling wax down the tender underside of your throat, disappearing beneath the loose neckline of your nightgown. You whimpered, clenching your eyes shut. As if he would stray from his path for such a meager temptation.

He let go of your collar and you collapsed to the floor. He allowed himself a moment to watch as you gasped and pawed at your chest before retreating to the hearth and retrieving the poker propped next to it. It was an ugly, tarnished iron thing, charred from heavy use and little care. It would do you well to see what became of the things deemed unworthy of his love.

Your strained breathing kept him company as he held the spiked tip over the flames, waiting until the blackened metal glowed gold. Satisfied that its scald would not fade quickly, he returned to you — only just beginning to pull yourself off the floor.

“Penance will be necessary.” And then, gesturing to his boot with the white-hot spike, “Be quick about it.”

Your perfect eyes went very wide. For the first time, he thought you might have actually been frightened of him. “But, I didn’t—”

“My patience won’t last all night, dear lamb.”

You swallowed, then slackened. You fixed your gaze pointedly on the floor as you picked yourself up and closed the distance between you and him. Inelegantly, wondrously, you balled the hem of your nightgown in your fists, straddled the polished leather, and started to grind.

Rollo couldn’t help but smile. What a poor, sweet thing you were — moving mechanically back and forth, your lips pursed into a thin line as you clumsily humped his foot, the material of your panties creating even more friction as your cunt dragged over him. If he couldn’t help but treat you this way, he couldn’t imagine what you dealt with under the care of those ruffians. Speaking of—

“I’ll only ask one more time,” he began. Your hips bucked, and you glared decisively at his knee. He was quick to correct you — tangling his fingers in your hair and forcing your head back, making you look at him. “What is it you desire that you don’t believe I can provide for you?”

Your answer came quickly, this time, albeit hissed through clenched teeth. “Malleus.”

Rage and satisfaction flooded Rollo’s system in tandem, both scalding hot and gratifying beyond words. He tilted his foot back on his heel and your breath hitched, your pace stuttering. All it took was a tap of the firepoker against the floor for you to rally yourself, though.

Relaxing his hold on your hair, he dragged his blunt nails over your scalp. It was meant to be a reward, but you flinched away from his touch, too shy even to properly enjoy what you’d earned. But he could see it. A slick dampness coated the leather, drenching the seat of your panties a shade darker. How wonderful it was, to see you reaping the rewards of your good behavior.

“That’s to be expected.” And it was. He couldn’t expect you to purge yourself of such demons overnight. “You were manipulated, misled, made to believe that the perpetrators of your subjugation were attempting to free you. Of course you would hold on to some level of…” He trailed off, considering. “Of fondness. I have told you why you’re here, haven’t I?”

You shook your head. He could see something in the corner of your eyes, a shine more breathtaking than that of any precious gem. You sniffled miserably once, and then, the flood broke loose, tears streaming down your cheeks before you could so much as raise a hand to stifle them. You cried unabashedly, and he loved you all the more for it.

Allowing himself the smallest possible smile, he let his hand dip low enough to cup your chin. His thumb dragged over your cheeks, more to better admire your suffering than to wipe it away. “Magic is a powerfully corrosive force,” he explained, releasing you. Unsupported, your head lulled forward, coming to rest against his thigh. “Untended to, it strips away the things you hold dear. I can only imagine what you lost, surrounded by it so completely with so little preparation.”

You stiffened suddenly. There was another ragged drag of your hips, a small sound of pleasure, and then you were deliciously slack. He could see the arousal staining the inside of your thighs, dripping onto the stone of the floor beneath you. Proof of your dedication. Evidence of your redemption.

He leaned down, petting your hair flat and pressing his lips against the top of your head. Indulgently, he allowed himself to linger there, to speak against your skin. “Fear not,” he muttered, relishing how quickly you tensed against him.

“I will make you whole again.”

~

You’d been wrong. Rollo wasn’t a little prick.

He was a massive creep.

You were watching Malleus from the other side of the festival square when he approached you, taking in the show from a distance as your boyfriend set off miniature fireworks and conjured illusions for a growing audience of townspeople. You would’ve preferred to be next to him, of course, but the square was crowded and he so rarely found himself as an object of adoration, rather than one of fear. Even from a hundred feet away, you could see that he was smiling, and to know he was happy for enough of you.

You were just beginning to consider if it would be worth the trouble of joining your other classmates as they attempted to out-compete one another when you caught that pale figure looming in your peripheral, felt the tell-tale chill of those Ftricold eyes latching onto you. It was uncanny, really. He hadn’t talked to you again after that initial introduction, and yet, you were the only person he ever really seemed to look at.

You made a valiant effort to slip away, but he was surprisingly fast for a bookish mage — appearing as if by magic in your escape route. He greeted you by name, and then recognizing your sheepishness, added, “If you have a moment.”

You really didn’t, not for him, but Trein would skin you alive if you were anything less than perfectly polite to your host. You put on your best affable smile and tried not to look as flighty as you felt. “Of course. Anything you need.”

“What I need is of no concern.” His tone had the same flat, scalding frigidness as his gaze. You tried not to grimace as he positioned himself beside you, turning towards Malleus’ display. His expression was less schooled — the corner of his lips curling back as Malleus sent up another array of gold sparks. “Your companions are very… lively.”

You nodded eagerly, just glad he was staring down something that wasn’t you. “They’re excited.” Nodding toward Malleus, you added, “Malleus, especially.”

"You’re close to him, aren’t you?”

The question caught you off guard. Your relationship with Malleus wasn’t a secret, but you had been trying to tone things down ever since your rocky first impression. Aside from a few less-than-platonic comments whispered to one another during your tour of the city, the only time you’d even had a chance to speak to him was last night, when you’d sneaked out of your room to visit his. But Rollo couldn’t have known that. Not unless he’d been following you around since you arrived.

Maybe you weren’t as subtle as you’d been trying to be. Looking pointedly at the ground, you rallied and gave the only answer you could.

“Very.”

He nodded solemnly, as if you’d just told him about a very bad diagnosis rather than your very happy relationship. Malleus sent up another firework — this one black against the cloudless sky. There was a sound like thunder in a concrete box. You flinched into yourself, but Rollo never wavered.

“I understand that this world is not your own.”

You shook your head. “Not originally, no.”

He hummed. “How wonderful it is to imagine a reality without such—” His wrist flicked accusingly toward Malleus. “—waste. You must miss it dearly.”

You wondered absently if being skinned alive would really be so bad, after all. “I— Uh, I definitely used to, yeah.”

You didn’t hear him move, but when you glanced at him, his head had snapped in your direction. “Used to?”

You laughed. He didn’t.

“…I guess I’ve gotten pretty settled in here,” you said, shrugging. “There are a lot of things I’d miss from this world if I left now, too.”

You tried to hold your poker face, not to let your attention drift, but inevitably, your gaze flickered from Rollo to Malleus and back again as you considered what parts of your life you would miss too much to abandon outright. Something flashed across Rollo’s expression — scalding and sudden and severe — but it was gone before you could be completely sure it had been there at all. His scowl softened, then disappeared altogether. With a surprisingly lightness, he nodded his head, the hollows of his cheeks rounding in the faintest impression of a smile. “Of course. How foolish of me, to think you would be above sentiment. My humblest apologies.”

It was still more patronizing than you would’ve liked, but he seemed genuine enough. You beamed at him with your best ‘I don’t like you but I think it’ll significantly improve my chances of survival if we’re friends’ grin. “Don’t sweat it.”

It looked as if there was more he wanted to say, but students from other schools were starting to find their way to the square — drawn in by the barely controlled chaos of Night Raven’s, of course. His constant exasperation already beginning to settle back in, he looked toward them, conflict written into the purse of his lips, the new creases at the corners of his eyes.

“I get it,” you assured him. “Take care of your other guests. I’ll save a dance for you at the masquerade.”

This time, you definitely saw the edges of his lips quirk. Before you could ask what he found so funny, he was lost to the crowd. You waited a beat then, giving up on all pretenses of dignity, shouldered your way through the townspeople until you were at Malleus’ side. He wrapped his arm around your waist by way of greeting, pulling you against his side, either unaware or uncaring of your attempted nonchalance. You weren’t much better — burying your face in the side of his neck and groaning.

His tone was cloyingly sympathetic, if a bit amused. “Did Flamme upset you, again?”

So he’d been watching you, too. “He’s just so—” You cut yourself off with a groan. “He keeps prying, and I— I just don’t know what he wants.”

Malleus hummed. “What did he say to you, exactly?”

If you hadn’t known better, you might’ve thought he sounded a little jealous.

“Nothing important. He just asked if I missed my own world — y’know, the magicless one.”

“And you told him…?”

You pulled back just far enough to peck his cheek. This was a game you’d played before. Every time Crowley discovered another false lead, every time you made the mistake of sharing a memory from your first home. “That I love my big, beautiful boyfriend too much to ever even consider leaving, and that someone would have to drag me away kicking and screaming before you ever got rid of me.”

He all-but purred with satisfaction, resting his forehead against yours. You let him pull you closer, kiss the corner of your jaw, but for whatever reason, the affection abruptly felt shallow, cold. You’d come to him for comfort. You couldn’t entirely convince yourself that was what you’d gotten.

Somehow, even wrapped in his arms, you felt as cold as you had standing next to Rollo.

~

After your confession, your behavior improved drastically. There was no more sitting by the window, no more tugging on your collar, no more begging for a life that would ultimately see you drained away and broken down. You listened when he spoke. Your eyes took on the glassy, dewy sheen of a proper lamb, a lamb aware of its need for guidance.

Best of all, you began to seek him out. He would never allow something as precious as you to wander freely, of course, but he couldn’t bring himself to punish you for stretching your leash to meet him by your bedroom door, for asking so sweetly if you could join him while he worked in his study. Finally, after weeks of carefully sowing your curiosity, you raised the question he’d been waiting so, so very long to hear.

“When you said you would make me whole,” you began, in your adorably sheepish way. All downcast eyes and kneading hands and perfectly pursed lips. “What did you mean?”

Rollo couldn’t help himself — cupping your face with both hands and kissing the top of your head.

Finally, it was time for you to visit the chapel.

With your chain in-hand, he led you down the long barren aisle, your procession gated by stone pews that had sat empty longer than they ever could’ve possibly been occupied. An elevated stone slate stood proudly at the front of the hall — your altar. All idols and paraphernalia had been done away with long ago, but Rollo didn’t mind the emptiness. False gods were not what he planned to worship, tonight.

He brought you in front of the altar and curled your chain around his fist. “Derobe at your leisure.”

You hesitated, but only for a moment. He watched as you swallowed the urge to demand an explanation and dutifully began to tug at the laces of your dress. Your faith was blind, your devotion bone-deep.

You were perfect.

Unbound, your dress slid from your shoulders and pooled at your feet, your panties joining the heap a moment later. Rollo took your hand, guiding you forward and onto the altar. You faced outward, your legs dangling off the edge. Your arms rose instinctively to cover your chest, your thighs pressing together despite his closeness. You looked so incredibly small like that — surrounded by harsh rock and stone, exposed and shrunken into yourself. He couldn’t imagine how you’d survived for so long before he found you. He couldn’t imagine how you’d made it a single day in that dragon’s den without being eaten alive.

The thought of Malleus — the abrupt awareness of a stain on your otherwise unblemished purity — caused something ugly and hot to rouse within Rollo. He kissed you before the heat could fade, quickly and deeply with enough force to bruise. You froze against him, and had he been more coherent, he might’ve thought to chastise you for your ungratefulness. As it was, his mind had already moved on to other things. More important things.

His mouth fell lower, catching on your neck, then your chest. Your hands shot to his shoulders as his lips sealed around one of your nipples, laving over the sensitive bud with the flat of his tongue. He would never dare to leave a mark on you, but the temptation was beyond words. He could only be grateful that callous heathen hadn’t managed to scar what Rollo sought to restore.

Unable to separate from your chest, his hand found the space in-between your clenched thighs. You parted your legs obediently as he cupped your sex, finding that you were already adorably wet. Using two fingers to gather your excess slick, he savored the feeling of you — so wonderfully soft under his fingers, his tongue. He pressed the pad of his thumb, calloused from years of late nights spent writing, against your clit and drank in the way you squirmed against him. This was the way it ought to be, he decided somewhere in the deepest, darkest, most selfish pit of his mind. You, bared in all of your glory, and him, worshiping at your holy altar.

And you were coming apart so beautifully for him. You gasped as he eased two lean fingers into you, your hands finding his hair. He wanted to be gentle with you, but you made it so difficult. Every movement of his hand, every lap of his tongue was accompanied by yet another of your pitiful noises, each more heartbreaking than the last. Before he could remember himself, he was spreading his digits apart too widely, flicking his wrist too roughly, biting down too hard not to break the skin. He tasted blood, heavy and heady and sweet as heaven, and could not bring himself to regret his sacrilege.

He was kinder to you than the dragon would ever be. He treated you more gently than a drooling, power drunk beast could ever think to. He loved you more than Malleus ever had, and that was why he got to be the one biting into your collarbone, your throat. That was why he got to touch you with a roughness that might have been mistaken for irreverence, why he deserved to drink down the feeling of your cunt clenching around him, of your nails burrowing so harshly into his scalp. You moaned something incomprehensible, but Rollo only heard the ringing of church bells. The distorted drawl of his own name.

There was no time for further preparations. He pulled back from you, turning your body over so that the edge of the altar pressed into your stomach. It was inelegant, but efficient. As you scrambled to find your footing, he brushed his own robes aside and took his cock in one hand, steadying your hips with the other. You made a small sound — the first syllable of a half-choked protest — only to fall silent as he thrust into you. As you ought to. There was nothing to fight against.

Not when he fit so perfectly inside of you.

The euphoria was unbearable. He shut his eyes, leaning against your back. He might have stayed there for another hour, another day, another hundred years had it not been for the ragged sob that slipped past your lips — wretched and ugly. “I— I changed my mind,” you stammered. “I don’t want to— Please, stop—”

He shut you up with a harsh thrust. Your voice cut out into nothing, anything you may have gone on to say replaced by a hitched whimper as he began to move in earnest. He retained himself to short, stilted motions — content that he should never leave you completely. A lamb should never be without its shepherd, after all.

“You asked me to make you whole again,” he explained benevolently, although his voice could hardly be heard above the sound of skin against skin, of your nails seeking purchase in unrelenting stone. “And I will.”

He curled an arm around your waist, pulling you that much closer. His hand found your lower stomach as his cock twitched against the warm, welcoming walls of your cunt. One part of your body was grateful for his worship, at least.

“No matter how long it takes to sow the seed.”

He felt you stiffen underneath him. His steady pace grew more frantic in response.

“But, I don’t—”

“Nonsense.” His lips on the shell of your ear, his body draped over yours. For a brief moment, the world was just pleasure and warmth and the two of you, perfectly fitted against one another. As it should’ve always been. “It’s not as if there’ll be anywhere else in this world for you, once I’m finished.”

It began very slowly, then seemed to happen all at once. The tension left your shoulders. Your knees bent, and a moment later, your legs went slack altogether, leaving Rollo to hold you up. By the time he reached his climax, pressing into you as he spilled open, you lay still over the altar. Your eyes had taken on a blurred, unfocused quality. There was no curiosity, no malice, no spark. If he hadn’t known better, he might’ve thought there was no life at all.

His spend dripped down the inside of your thighs. Still buried inside of you, he felt himself harden again.

“You understand, don’t you?”

Your head barely moved. You might’ve nodded, or it may just have been a trick of the light. Either way, it didn’t matter.

He’d already begun to move again.

~

But, above all, Rollo Flamme was a self-righteous fool.

You played dead as he scraped you off the stone slate and carried you back to bed. He took you again — once or twice, there was really no point keeping track — then fell asleep beside you. You never made a sound, not after the first time he came inside of you. You didn’t move. If it’d been possible, you would’ve stopped breathing, too.

He held you close as he slept, his dependence an unfortunate convenience. It took you endless, aching minutes to wriggle out of his arms and even longer to carefully lift the key around his neck over his unwitting head. You unlocked the fastener that kept you bound to the bedpost, coiling the now unanchored chain around your wrist. There was nothing you could do about the collar, at the moment. For that alone, you hated Rollo more than anything.

You wanted a bath. You wanted to scrub yourself clean with a nail file. You wanted to throw yourself into the fireplace and roast until your skin had all peeled away and uncovered something new and untouched beneath. You settled for snagging a nightgown out of your armoire and creeping your way silently through the parish, the stone cold as ice against your bare feet. Beyond the bars on the windows and the collar around your neck, Rollo had taken laughable little security measures. You didn’t stumble across any enchantments, and you didn’t spot any wards carved among the decorative motifs. Even the main entryway was almost invitingly undefended — void of protection save for a single iron bar across the inside of the door. Of course. He’d already explained himself. He hadn’t wanted to keep you here forever.

Just long enough for you to forget that you could leave.

You clenched your jaw and slid the iron bar out of place, throwing the door open in the same motion. For the first time in months, you stepped out of Rollo’s home and into the waiting night.

Malleus was there in less than a moment.

Whatever chance you might’ve had to savor the fresh air, to bask under the starry sky, to stare out at the distant lights of an all-but unknown city and simply decide what to do next was stripped away in a flash of green light, a wave of fresh heat. He materialized immediately in front of you, as solid as stone and as all-encompassing as shadow. You blinked up at him, half disbelieving and half happy beyond words. Or, attempting to be happy, at least. You wanted so badly to be happy to see him.

Malleus, for his part, seemed less strained. He was smiling fiercely. He began to raise a hand to your cheek, but you flinched away before he could make contact — pressing yourself flush against the parish door. “Please,” you managed, through gritted teeth. “Don’t.”

His smile fell away in an instant. For the first time, he seemed to look at you, his fire-warm eyes raking over your disheveled form until they caught on the collar around your neck. His hand came up again, but this time, his fingers merely slipped underneath the polished gold. At the same time, you heard frantic footsteps, felt the door behind you pull away. You didn’t have to look back to be sure.

There was only one voice that could ever possibly be so frigid.

“Draconia.”

In an instant, Malleus’ smile had returned. He dipped his head low, ghosting his lips over the top of your head and tightening his hold on your collar as you tried desperately to get away. “You will not be leaving me again, my dear,” he muttered into your hair. And then, to Rollo, “I believe we have a matter of great importance to discuss.”

You tried to feel something, anything. Betrayal. Devastation. Despair. Instead, the gaping absence inside of you only seemed to fester. The hole grew larger. The cold and the heat, each more unbearable in turn.

Rollo had been right. There had been something vital inside of you, and now it was gone. Only, he’d thought he could repair the corruption. You knew better.

Even beaten, burned, and dressed in the evidence of your blasphemy, you were a wondrous thing to behold. He had tried to be gentle in your recovery, but between managing the fire lotuses’ spread and fending off your previous captors (because, surely, you wouldn’t endure the company of such heathens willingly), there hadn’t been much room for delicacy. Bruises circled your wrists, forming defined rings underneath the braided cord that kept your hands safely bound above your head. Ash and debris coated your hair, your skin from where you had nobly but futilely attempted to save the citizens of Fleur City from their inevitable redemption. Your masquerade dress was tattered and sullied, but that was fine. He would fetch you other clothes, finer clothes. Under his care, you would want for nothing.

Already, you wore a testament to his reverence around your neck. A golden collar, polished dutifully enough to shine and engraved with reliefs of lotus blooms and curling vines. A thin chain kept it tethered to the headboard, your leash secured by a fastener for which only he possessed the key. It looked lovely against your skin, rising and falling in time with your steady breathing. He’d been waiting to see it hanging from your throat for quite some time, now. Since the day he met you.

Really, he ought not to let you wear it. It was a thing of beauty, of purity. You were beautiful, but not of purity. Not ye—

“Uh… Hello?”

Ah.

He hadn’t expected you to wake up so soon.

Thankfully, he’d thought to blindfold you. Rollo watched you turn your head from side to side, tugging uselessly at your bondage for a few more blissful moments before sighing, crossing the threshold, and making his way to your bedside.

You were talking, by then, your voice light and level. You were making an effort to sound calm, clearly, but your fear shone through in the stilted lilt of each word, of how often you cut yourself off to let out a breathy laugh or gnaw at the inside of your cheek. “Ace, I swear to God—” And then, thinking better of it, “Deuce, if you’re trying to freak me out, it’s not funny.”

He offered no response. You hadn’t thought to call for him yet, but that was fine. Stumble through the dark for a few more seconds. You would be that much more grateful when he showed you the light.

That was what he’d planned to do, at least. And then, that terrible name slipped past your perfect lips, and he no longer felt so patient.

“…Malleus?”

It took more effort than he would’ve liked to bite back his scowl. Immediately, he was reaching for you, tearing away the strip of fabric and cupping your chin as you blinked up at him. A small smile spread over your lips as you recognized the face of your true savior — hesitant, but no less warm for its delay.

“Hi, Rollo.”

He nodded by way of response, and your gaze slipped past him, scanning over the bare stone walls of your bedroom. Again, you tugged at your restraints, letting your smile ebb. “I don’t— Is everyone okay? I remember losing track of Trein, and then— Where are we, exactly?”

Your thoughts were disordered, overlapping and repelling one another in turn. That was alright. He would make sense of your mind for you.

“Your companions are safe.” Unfortunately. The events of the masquerade had been… beyond his control. His plan, while brilliant, had been foiled by the antagonism of Night Raven College. He didn’t blame you. How could he? Such a powerless thing — you were no different from a scared animal, huddling in the smallest corner of its cage, too terrified to imagine what life may look like outside of the bars you’d lived inside of for so long. Too long. “You’re a few miles outside of Fleur City. This is the parish house — a luxury afforded to Noble Bell’s president so that they may pursue their studies unbothered.”

Luxury might’ve been too generous. Virtue came with modesty, and the parish was nothing if not modest. A few rooms of age-old stone populated only by books, simple wooden furniture, and the most humble of creature comforts. He would move you to his homey apartment in the city soon enough. For now, isolation was more important than comfort. It was vital that two of you should not be disturbed.

Judging by how quickly your smile had fallen away, it would seem you’d realized this, as well.

“What are you going to do to me?”

Direct, cutting, magnificent in your simplicity. Rollo softened, letting his hand drift to the top of your head and petting the debris out of your hair, sparing you the burden of a verbal response. Surely, you must’ve known by then that he was a man of faith.

And, when he was finished, you would be a reward worthy of his devotion.

~

Your first impression of Rollo Flamme was that, abandoning all attempts at eloquence, he was kind of a prick.

It was something about the eyes. If your time at Night Raven had taught you anything, it was how to identify a man who would eventually prove to be either a mild annoyance or a threat to your life on sight. Rollo, for all the deadpan niceties he’d offered during his initial introduction, had the coldest eyes you’d ever seen; prone to glancing off the person he was speaking to in favor of settling on some abstract point in the far distance. He hadn’t kicked any puppies yet, but you didn’t like it.

You were currently doing an excellent job of masking your distaste by loitering on the outskirts of Noble Bell’s courtyard, silently glowering at Azul as he tried to turn a guided tour into a networking opportunity. Deuce and Epel had briefly joined your quiet protest, only to abandon you when interrogating the student body president of a jarringly traditional arcane academy proved more engaging than your baseless paranoia. Ruggie and Riddle were similarly uninterested in your cause and Idia, the ball of white-hot anxiety that he was, had enough problems of his own to deal with. Not that you were in a very sympathetic mood. As far as you were concerned, you were surrounded by a lot of traito—

“Pouting so soon, beloved?”

Ah, right.

A lot of traitors, and your perfect boyfriend Malleus.

“I’m not pouting,” you sulked. You cast a withering glance to Rollo, now exchanging pleasantries with the Pomefiore representatives. “I don’t like the president. He’s very…”

“Formal?” suggested Malleus.

“Catholic.”

He pursed his lips. Confusion knit itself into the corners of his mouth, the wrinkle between his eyebrows, and beneath it, concern. Of course. It was so easy to forget how many parts of your world hadn’t carried over into this one, and how many more were lost on Malleus in particular. That might’ve been why you loved him so much. Even when he had no idea what the hell you were talking about, he still knew what you were trying to say. He still recognized that you were worried.

“You’re afraid Flamme might have ill intentions?”

“I wouldn’t go that far, I just—” You had a bad feeling. The same feeling you’d had when you first met Riddle, Leona, Azul. The same feeling that would’ve saved you a lot of time and a lot of pain if you’d just listened to your gut and run. “I don’t like him.”

You were making an effort to clip your words, but still, Malleus’ expression darkened. Of course. He’d been looking forward to this for weeks, ever since he found out he’d been personally invited. And here you were, ruining it for him because one of the organizers didn’t look very friendly.

You did what you could to play damage control. “But that shouldn’t matter. We’re here to have fun.” And then, taking his hand, “Besides, I’ve got you to protect me if anything goes wrong, right?”

Immediately, the shadow lifted. You’d been told that a not inconsiderable portion of Night Raven’s student body considered Malleus’ smile to be among the scariest things they’d ever seen. You weren’t sure why. It was hard to believe that anyone could be afraid of something so warm.

You were still admiring him when he interlaced his fingers with yours, tugging you closer. A hand found its way your cheek, then your jaw, cupping your chin and tipping your face up toward his. Less patiently, you threw your arms around his neck, dragging him down to your level and pulling him into a—

“And the Ramshackle prefect, of course.”

Cold as ice and just as sharp. You and Malleus separated in an instant — no better than two teenagers caught making out behind the bleachers during gym. Rollo stood in front of you, your classmates gathered behind him and those frigid eyes staring past you altogether.

It took a long beat for you to realize you were meant to respond, then another for you to scrounge something coherent up. “The one and only.”

You extended a hand. Rollo eyed it wearily.

“How rare it is, for a magician to be so…” He trailed off, the corner of his mouth curling back into a poorly disguised sneer. “So tactile.”

Okay. Ouch. Whatever. “It’s a good thing I’m not a magician, then,” you laughed. “Maybe I should’ve been more specific. The one and only magicless prefect of Ramshackle dorm, at your service.”

It was a defense mechanism, really. The faster you made it clear that you didn’t have a drop of magic, the sooner those drowning it would stop paying attention to you. Tragically, your disclosure seemed to have the opposite effect on Rollo. You’d begun to draw back as you spoke, but before you could fully pull away, he was lashing out — catching your hand with both of his. His gaze, previously lifeless and dismissive, was now unfalteringly focused on you.

“Magicless,” he repeated, as if all the air had been forced out of his lungs. “What a wondrous thing.”

You blinked at him, not sure what to say. Rollo seemed to catch himself, dropping your hand and clearing his throat. “Living among so many mages must be very taxing. I sincerely hope my city offers you a moment of respite.”

“I’m sure we’ll find more than a moment, Flamme.”

Malleus’ hand on your back, his body behind yours. Unconsciously, you melted against him, and Rollo’s eyes narrowed.

“Prince Draconia,” he drawled, his disinterest flooding back in full force. “Do enjoy the social.”

Without another word, Rollo turned on his heel, gesturing for your classmates to follow as he continued on through the courtyard. Malleus moved to keep up with the group, but you caught his sleeve, holding him back. You only explained yourself once you were sure the others were out of earshot.

“I think,” you started, tone dire. “that we got interrupted, earlier.”

“Oh?” And then, understanding dawning on him with a breathy chuckle, “You only ever need ask, my love.”

Malleus’ kiss was as sweet and as warm as his smile. And yet, even as you melted against him, your mind drifted back to steely grey and biting cold.

~

Purity, of course, was not easily won. You learned that quickly enough.

You put up more of a fight than Rollo had thought you capable of. You were still a meek thing, delicate in your inability, but your time among the barbarians must have endowed you with a misplaced confidence to fend for yourself. You never refused to eat or drink, but he could see the phantom of resistance playing across your expression every time he brought you a meal. You allowed him to dress you, but never without shying away from his hands or insisting that you could see to the task yourself. You didn’t try to escape from your collar, but you flinched when he reached for it. You didn’t trust him.

Your first real show of resistance came a month into your penance. At that point, you’d grown more comfortable — restless, even. Mistaking his self-restraint for kindness, you took to stretching the limits of your leash and sitting by the sole window in your chambers at all hours of the day, watching the empty countryside. After a few days of this, you finally grew bold enough to test the bars of your cage.

“Do you think—” He watched with rapt attention as you cut yourself off, pursed your lips, and tried again. “Would it be possible for me to go outside?” And then, when he failed to respond, “Just for a few minutes. Please.”

Needless to say, your insolence was insufferable. Rollo was delighted beyond words.

He made quick work of unanchoring your tether. The simple silver key was kept on a cord around his neck, where it would share your place next to his heart. Wrapping the now free end around his fist, he jerked once, pulling the chain taut. You stumbled to your feet, doe eyes wide with panic. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“Quiet.” Harsh, but effective. You shut your mouth as thoughtlessly as you’d opened it. “Come with me, unless you’d prefer to be dragged.”

Rollo moved towards the doorway. You didn’t follow, not immediately, but another tug corrected that. Without another sound, you felt into line behind him.

Rollo neglected most of the parish house. His needs were simple and the crumbling architecture was a pain to navigate. The only spaces that saw regular use were the kitchens, bedrooms, his study, and, of course, the chapel. But that was an excursion for another day.

For his current purposes, the study would suffice. This room was where he spent most of his time, which he supposed was more than evident in the clutter. Bookcases ran parallel along the east and west walls, each shelf filled to bursting, their miscellanea allowed to spill onto his writing desk. The only source of light was the low-burning fire in the hearth along the far wall — its flames made perpetual through enchantment. The best use of magic, if one could be said to exist. All utility without the emotion that so often led mages astray.

He pulled you in front of the fireplace, keeping your chain wrapped tight around his hand. Extinguished candles lined the mantelpiece. He lit a smattering, then turned to deal with you.

“Kneel.”

Again, he caught it — the beautiful spark of rebellion in your eyes. Still, you were smart enough not to act on it. Carefully, you lowered yourself to your knees, settling your weight on your ankles. Rollo rewarded your obedience with a stern nod.

“You asked me to leave.”

He watched your features tighten. “I asked to go outside,” you corrected.

“And what is it you were hoping to find, out there?”

“Fresh air. A change in scenery.” And then, under your breath, “A few minutes away from you.”

He hummed. “You can’t expect me to believe your heart’s desires are so simple.”

You pursed your lips, dropping your gaze to the floor and narrowing your eyes. So be it, then.

“Show me your hands. Palm up.”

You didn’t move. Again, he tugged on your chain, just hard enough to watch you jerk forward and catch yourself before, glowering, doing as you were bid to. He tried not to take satisfaction in the swiftness of your submission. Tried, and failed.

He plucked the tallest candle off of the mantle and, without the ceremony of hesitation, tipped it over your waiting hands. The melted wax that had accumulated around the wick poured out and over your palms, still hot enough to scald. You gasped and jerked back, but that was the thing about wax — it stuck. It took you precious seconds to wipe away the quickly drying residue, reveal angry reddened tracks beneath. Benevolent as he was, he let you nurse your burns for a long moment before going on.

“I’ll ask you again,” he said, replacing the candlestick and taking up another. “What do you think is waiting for you out there?”

You opened your mouth, but closed it just as quickly. Good. There was a thought or two rattling around in that empty head of yours, after all.

“The truth will not be punished.” He leaned down, petting his free hand over the top of your head. “Honesty is a virtue, no matter how ugly. But, there will be consequences if you lie again. Worse consequences,” he added, nodding to your red-streaked hands.

You nodded slowly, considering. “A way back to my own world,” you answered, finally. “Our headmage was working on sending me—”

He grabbed your collar, hauling you upward until your knees barely touched the ground. You grabbed for his hands, trying to pry him away, but he didn’t let your feeble attempts distract him from the task at hand — trickling wax down the tender underside of your throat, disappearing beneath the loose neckline of your nightgown. You whimpered, clenching your eyes shut. As if he would stray from his path for such a meager temptation.

He let go of your collar and you collapsed to the floor. He allowed himself a moment to watch as you gasped and pawed at your chest before retreating to the hearth and retrieving the poker propped next to it. It was an ugly, tarnished iron thing, charred from heavy use and little care. It would do you well to see what became of the things deemed unworthy of his love.

Your strained breathing kept him company as he held the spiked tip over the flames, waiting until the blackened metal glowed gold. Satisfied that its scald would not fade quickly, he returned to you — only just beginning to pull yourself off the floor.

“Penance will be necessary.” And then, gesturing to his boot with the white-hot spike, “Be quick about it.”

Your perfect eyes went very wide. For the first time, he thought you might have actually been frightened of him. “But, I didn’t—”

“My patience won’t last all night, dear lamb.”

You swallowed, then slackened. You fixed your gaze pointedly on the floor as you picked yourself up and closed the distance between you and him. Inelegantly, wondrously, you balled the hem of your nightgown in your fists, straddled the polished leather, and started to grind.

Rollo couldn’t help but smile. What a poor, sweet thing you were — moving mechanically back and forth, your lips pursed into a thin line as you clumsily humped his foot, the material of your panties creating even more friction as your cunt dragged over him. If he couldn’t help but treat you this way, he couldn’t imagine what you dealt with under the care of those ruffians. Speaking of—

“I’ll only ask one more time,” he began. Your hips bucked, and you glared decisively at his knee. He was quick to correct you — tangling his fingers in your hair and forcing your head back, making you look at him. “What is it you desire that you don’t believe I can provide for you?”

Your answer came quickly, this time, albeit hissed through clenched teeth. “Malleus.”

Rage and satisfaction flooded Rollo’s system in tandem, both scalding hot and gratifying beyond words. He tilted his foot back on his heel and your breath hitched, your pace stuttering. All it took was a tap of the firepoker against the floor for you to rally yourself, though.

Relaxing his hold on your hair, he dragged his blunt nails over your scalp. It was meant to be a reward, but you flinched away from his touch, too shy even to properly enjoy what you’d earned. But he could see it. A slick dampness coated the leather, drenching the seat of your panties a shade darker. How wonderful it was, to see you reaping the rewards of your good behavior.

“That’s to be expected.” And it was. He couldn’t expect you to purge yourself of such demons overnight. “You were manipulated, misled, made to believe that the perpetrators of your subjugation were attempting to free you. Of course you would hold on to some level of…” He trailed off, considering. “Of fondness. I have told you why you’re here, haven’t I?”

You shook your head. He could see something in the corner of your eyes, a shine more breathtaking than that of any precious gem. You sniffled miserably once, and then, the flood broke loose, tears streaming down your cheeks before you could so much as raise a hand to stifle them. You cried unabashedly, and he loved you all the more for it.

Allowing himself the smallest possible smile, he let his hand dip low enough to cup your chin. His thumb dragged over your cheeks, more to better admire your suffering than to wipe it away. “Magic is a powerfully corrosive force,” he explained, releasing you. Unsupported, your head lulled forward, coming to rest against his thigh. “Untended to, it strips away the things you hold dear. I can only imagine what you lost, surrounded by it so completely with so little preparation.”

You stiffened suddenly. There was another ragged drag of your hips, a small sound of pleasure, and then you were deliciously slack. He could see the arousal staining the inside of your thighs, dripping onto the stone of the floor beneath you. Proof of your dedication. Evidence of your redemption.

He leaned down, petting your hair flat and pressing his lips against the top of your head. Indulgently, he allowed himself to linger there, to speak against your skin. “Fear not,” he muttered, relishing how quickly you tensed against him.

“I will make you whole again.”

~

You’d been wrong. Rollo wasn’t a little prick.

He was a massive creep.

You were watching Malleus from the other side of the festival square when he approached you, taking in the show from a distance as your boyfriend set off miniature fireworks and conjured illusions for a growing audience of townspeople. You would’ve preferred to be next to him, of course, but the square was crowded and he so rarely found himself as an object of adoration, rather than one of fear. Even from a hundred feet away, you could see that he was smiling, and to know he was happy for enough of you.

You were just beginning to consider if it would be worth the trouble of joining your other classmates as they attempted to out-compete one another when you caught that pale figure looming in your peripheral, felt the tell-tale chill of those Ftricold eyes latching onto you. It was uncanny, really. He hadn’t talked to you again after that initial introduction, and yet, you were the only person he ever really seemed to look at.

You made a valiant effort to slip away, but he was surprisingly fast for a bookish mage — appearing as if by magic in your escape route. He greeted you by name, and then recognizing your sheepishness, added, “If you have a moment.”

You really didn’t, not for him, but Trein would skin you alive if you were anything less than perfectly polite to your host. You put on your best affable smile and tried not to look as flighty as you felt. “Of course. Anything you need.”

“What I need is of no concern.” His tone had the same flat, scalding frigidness as his gaze. You tried not to grimace as he positioned himself beside you, turning towards Malleus’ display. His expression was less schooled — the corner of his lips curling back as Malleus sent up another array of gold sparks. “Your companions are very… lively.”

You nodded eagerly, just glad he was staring down something that wasn’t you. “They’re excited.” Nodding toward Malleus, you added, “Malleus, especially.”

"You’re close to him, aren’t you?”

The question caught you off guard. Your relationship with Malleus wasn’t a secret, but you had been trying to tone things down ever since your rocky first impression. Aside from a few less-than-platonic comments whispered to one another during your tour of the city, the only time you’d even had a chance to speak to him was last night, when you’d sneaked out of your room to visit his. But Rollo couldn’t have known that. Not unless he’d been following you around since you arrived.

Maybe you weren’t as subtle as you’d been trying to be. Looking pointedly at the ground, you rallied and gave the only answer you could.

“Very.”

He nodded solemnly, as if you’d just told him about a very bad diagnosis rather than your very happy relationship. Malleus sent up another firework — this one black against the cloudless sky. There was a sound like thunder in a concrete box. You flinched into yourself, but Rollo never wavered.

“I understand that this world is not your own.”

You shook your head. “Not originally, no.”

He hummed. “How wonderful it is to imagine a reality without such—” His wrist flicked accusingly toward Malleus. “—waste. You must miss it dearly.”

You wondered absently if being skinned alive would really be so bad, after all. “I— Uh, I definitely used to, yeah.”

You didn’t hear him move, but when you glanced at him, his head had snapped in your direction. “Used to?”

You laughed. He didn’t.

“…I guess I’ve gotten pretty settled in here,” you said, shrugging. “There are a lot of things I’d miss from this world if I left now, too.”

You tried to hold your poker face, not to let your attention drift, but inevitably, your gaze flickered from Rollo to Malleus and back again as you considered what parts of your life you would miss too much to abandon outright. Something flashed across Rollo’s expression — scalding and sudden and severe — but it was gone before you could be completely sure it had been there at all. His scowl softened, then disappeared altogether. With a surprisingly lightness, he nodded his head, the hollows of his cheeks rounding in the faintest impression of a smile. “Of course. How foolish of me, to think you would be above sentiment. My humblest apologies.”

It was still more patronizing than you would’ve liked, but he seemed genuine enough. You beamed at him with your best ‘I don’t like you but I think it’ll significantly improve my chances of survival if we’re friends’ grin. “Don’t sweat it.”

It looked as if there was more he wanted to say, but students from other schools were starting to find their way to the square — drawn in by the barely controlled chaos of Night Raven’s, of course. His constant exasperation already beginning to settle back in, he looked toward them, conflict written into the purse of his lips, the new creases at the corners of his eyes.

“I get it,” you assured him. “Take care of your other guests. I’ll save a dance for you at the masquerade.”

This time, you definitely saw the edges of his lips quirk. Before you could ask what he found so funny, he was lost to the crowd. You waited a beat then, giving up on all pretenses of dignity, shouldered your way through the townspeople until you were at Malleus’ side. He wrapped his arm around your waist by way of greeting, pulling you against his side, either unaware or uncaring of your attempted nonchalance. You weren’t much better — burying your face in the side of his neck and groaning.

His tone was cloyingly sympathetic, if a bit amused. “Did Flamme upset you, again?”

So he’d been watching you, too. “He’s just so—” You cut yourself off with a groan. “He keeps prying, and I— I just don’t know what he wants.”

Malleus hummed. “What did he say to you, exactly?”

If you hadn’t known better, you might’ve thought he sounded a little jealous.

“Nothing important. He just asked if I missed my own world — y’know, the magicless one.”

“And you told him…?”

You pulled back just far enough to peck his cheek. This was a game you’d played before. Every time Crowley discovered another false lead, every time you made the mistake of sharing a memory from your first home. “That I love my big, beautiful boyfriend too much to ever even consider leaving, and that someone would have to drag me away kicking and screaming before you ever got rid of me.”

He all-but purred with satisfaction, resting his forehead against yours. You let him pull you closer, kiss the corner of your jaw, but for whatever reason, the affection abruptly felt shallow, cold. You’d come to him for comfort. You couldn’t entirely convince yourself that was what you’d gotten.

Somehow, even wrapped in his arms, you felt as cold as you had standing next to Rollo.

~

After your confession, your behavior improved drastically. There was no more sitting by the window, no more tugging on your collar, no more begging for a life that would ultimately see you drained away and broken down. You listened when he spoke. Your eyes took on the glassy, dewy sheen of a proper lamb, a lamb aware of its need for guidance.

Best of all, you began to seek him out. He would never allow something as precious as you to wander freely, of course, but he couldn’t bring himself to punish you for stretching your leash to meet him by your bedroom door, for asking so sweetly if you could join him while he worked in his study. Finally, after weeks of carefully sowing your curiosity, you raised the question he’d been waiting so, so very long to hear.

“When you said you would make me whole,” you began, in your adorably sheepish way. All downcast eyes and kneading hands and perfectly pursed lips. “What did you mean?”

Rollo couldn’t help himself — cupping your face with both hands and kissing the top of your head.

Finally, it was time for you to visit the chapel.

With your chain in-hand, he led you down the long barren aisle, your procession gated by stone pews that had sat empty longer than they ever could’ve possibly been occupied. An elevated stone slate stood proudly at the front of the hall — your altar. All idols and paraphernalia had been done away with long ago, but Rollo didn’t mind the emptiness. False gods were not what he planned to worship, tonight.

He brought you in front of the altar and curled your chain around his fist. “Derobe at your leisure.”

You hesitated, but only for a moment. He watched as you swallowed the urge to demand an explanation and dutifully began to tug at the laces of your dress. Your faith was blind, your devotion bone-deep.

You were perfect.

Unbound, your dress slid from your shoulders and pooled at your feet, your panties joining the heap a moment later. Rollo took your hand, guiding you forward and onto the altar. You faced outward, your legs dangling off the edge. Your arms rose instinctively to cover your chest, your thighs pressing together despite his closeness. You looked so incredibly small like that — surrounded by harsh rock and stone, exposed and shrunken into yourself. He couldn’t imagine how you’d survived for so long before he found you. He couldn’t imagine how you’d made it a single day in that dragon’s den without being eaten alive.

The thought of Malleus — the abrupt awareness of a stain on your otherwise unblemished purity — caused something ugly and hot to rouse within Rollo. He kissed you before the heat could fade, quickly and deeply with enough force to bruise. You froze against him, and had he been more coherent, he might’ve thought to chastise you for your ungratefulness. As it was, his mind had already moved on to other things. More important things.

His mouth fell lower, catching on your neck, then your chest. Your hands shot to his shoulders as his lips sealed around one of your nipples, laving over the sensitive bud with the flat of his tongue. He would never dare to leave a mark on you, but the temptation was beyond words. He could only be grateful that callous heathen hadn’t managed to scar what Rollo sought to restore.

Unable to separate from your chest, his hand found the space in-between your clenched thighs. You parted your legs obediently as he cupped your sex, finding that you were already adorably wet. Using two fingers to gather your excess slick, he savored the feeling of you — so wonderfully soft under his fingers, his tongue. He pressed the pad of his thumb, calloused from years of late nights spent writing, against your clit and drank in the way you squirmed against him. This was the way it ought to be, he decided somewhere in the deepest, darkest, most selfish pit of his mind. You, bared in all of your glory, and him, worshiping at your holy altar.

And you were coming apart so beautifully for him. You gasped as he eased two lean fingers into you, your hands finding his hair. He wanted to be gentle with you, but you made it so difficult. Every movement of his hand, every lap of his tongue was accompanied by yet another of your pitiful noises, each more heartbreaking than the last. Before he could remember himself, he was spreading his digits apart too widely, flicking his wrist too roughly, biting down too hard not to break the skin. He tasted blood, heavy and heady and sweet as heaven, and could not bring himself to regret his sacrilege.

He was kinder to you than the dragon would ever be. He treated you more gently than a drooling, power drunk beast could ever think to. He loved you more than Malleus ever had, and that was why he got to be the one biting into your collarbone, your throat. That was why he got to touch you with a roughness that might have been mistaken for irreverence, why he deserved to drink down the feeling of your cunt clenching around him, of your nails burrowing so harshly into his scalp. You moaned something incomprehensible, but Rollo only heard the ringing of church bells. The distorted drawl of his own name.

There was no time for further preparations. He pulled back from you, turning your body over so that the edge of the altar pressed into your stomach. It was inelegant, but efficient. As you scrambled to find your footing, he brushed his own robes aside and took his cock in one hand, steadying your hips with the other. You made a small sound — the first syllable of a half-choked protest — only to fall silent as he thrust into you. As you ought to. There was nothing to fight against.

Not when he fit so perfectly inside of you.

The euphoria was unbearable. He shut his eyes, leaning against your back. He might have stayed there for another hour, another day, another hundred years had it not been for the ragged sob that slipped past your lips — wretched and ugly. “I— I changed my mind,” you stammered. “I don’t want to— Please, stop—”

He shut you up with a harsh thrust. Your voice cut out into nothing, anything you may have gone on to say replaced by a hitched whimper as he began to move in earnest. He retained himself to short, stilted motions — content that he should never leave you completely. A lamb should never be without its shepherd, after all.

“You asked me to make you whole again,” he explained benevolently, although his voice could hardly be heard above the sound of skin against skin, of your nails seeking purchase in unrelenting stone. “And I will.”

He curled an arm around your waist, pulling you that much closer. His hand found your lower stomach as his cock twitched against the warm, welcoming walls of your cunt. One part of your body was grateful for his worship, at least.

“No matter how long it takes to sow the seed.”

He felt you stiffen underneath him. His steady pace grew more frantic in response.

“But, I don’t—”

“Nonsense.” His lips on the shell of your ear, his body draped over yours. For a brief moment, the world was just pleasure and warmth and the two of you, perfectly fitted against one another. As it should’ve always been. “It’s not as if there’ll be anywhere else in this world for you, once I’m finished.”

It began very slowly, then seemed to happen all at once. The tension left your shoulders. Your knees bent, and a moment later, your legs went slack altogether, leaving Rollo to hold you up. By the time he reached his climax, pressing into you as he spilled open, you lay still over the altar. Your eyes had taken on a blurred, unfocused quality. There was no curiosity, no malice, no spark. If he hadn’t known better, he might’ve thought there was no life at all.

His spend dripped down the inside of your thighs. Still buried inside of you, he felt himself harden again.

“You understand, don’t you?”

Your head barely moved. You might’ve nodded, or it may just have been a trick of the light. Either way, it didn’t matter.

He’d already begun to move again.

~

But, above all, Rollo Flamme was a self-righteous fool.

You played dead as he scraped you off the stone slate and carried you back to bed. He took you again — once or twice, there was really no point keeping track — then fell asleep beside you. You never made a sound, not after the first time he came inside of you. You didn’t move. If it’d been possible, you would’ve stopped breathing, too.

He held you close as he slept, his dependence an unfortunate convenience. It took you endless, aching minutes to wriggle out of his arms and even longer to carefully lift the key around his neck over his unwitting head. You unlocked the fastener that kept you bound to the bedpost, coiling the now unanchored chain around your wrist. There was nothing you could do about the collar, at the moment. For that alone, you hated Rollo more than anything.

You wanted a bath. You wanted to scrub yourself clean with a nail file. You wanted to throw yourself into the fireplace and roast until your skin had all peeled away and uncovered something new and untouched beneath. You settled for snagging a nightgown out of your armoire and creeping your way silently through the parish, the stone cold as ice against your bare feet. Beyond the bars on the windows and the collar around your neck, Rollo had taken laughable little security measures. You didn’t stumble across any enchantments, and you didn’t spot any wards carved among the decorative motifs. Even the main entryway was almost invitingly undefended — void of protection save for a single iron bar across the inside of the door. Of course. He’d already explained himself. He hadn’t wanted to keep you here forever.

Just long enough for you to forget that you could leave.

You clenched your jaw and slid the iron bar out of place, throwing the door open in the same motion. For the first time in months, you stepped out of Rollo’s home and into the waiting night.

Malleus was there in less than a moment.

Whatever chance you might’ve had to savor the fresh air, to bask under the starry sky, to stare out at the distant lights of an all-but unknown city and simply decide what to do next was stripped away in a flash of green light, a wave of fresh heat. He materialized immediately in front of you, as solid as stone and as all-encompassing as shadow. You blinked up at him, half disbelieving and half happy beyond words. Or, attempting to be happy, at least. You wanted so badly to be happy to see him.

Malleus, for his part, seemed less strained. He was smiling fiercely. He began to raise a hand to your cheek, but you flinched away before he could make contact — pressing yourself flush against the parish door. “Please,” you managed, through gritted teeth. “Don’t.”

His smile fell away in an instant. For the first time, he seemed to look at you, his fire-warm eyes raking over your disheveled form until they caught on the collar around your neck. His hand came up again, but this time, his fingers merely slipped underneath the polished gold. At the same time, you heard frantic footsteps, felt the door behind you pull away. You didn’t have to look back to be sure.

There was only one voice that could ever possibly be so frigid.

“Draconia.”

In an instant, Malleus’ smile had returned. He dipped his head low, ghosting his lips over the top of your head and tightening his hold on your collar as you tried desperately to get away. “You will not be leaving me again, my dear,” he muttered into your hair. And then, to Rollo, “I believe we have a matter of great importance to discuss.”

You tried to feel something, anything. Betrayal. Devastation. Despair. Instead, the gaping absence inside of you only seemed to fester. The hole grew larger. The cold and the heat, each more unbearable in turn.

Rollo had been right. There had been something vital inside of you, and now it was gone. Only, he’d thought he could repair the corruption. You knew better.

Nurses turned to look at him and then back to you and Jack, un-sure of which immovable force was greater.

You only focused on the woman in front of you. Bruises up her arms, blood on her cut-away clothes, tubes coming out of her and into her, monitors beeping with life signs fleeting.

“It's a hypotensive pelvic bleed,” you said through your face screwed in concentration.

“A REBOA? Are you serious, right now?”

“I'm here, supervising, brother,” said Jack, still caved over you like he could protect you from Robby's wrath.

“You're not her attending,” Robby argued.

“No but I'm an attending.”

You could hear Robby's sharp inhale of breath, picture the clock of his head in annoyance and the tight pinch of his eyes. You knew every small give away of his that he didn't know he had. The tightness of his muscles when angers, the way he clutches at his chest for his star of David when silently scared.

The tension in the room chocked you.

Jack was still at your side, a comfort, a gentle wave against the sharp rocks. “Keep going.”

Robby said your name, an edge to it you'd never heard before.

Looking past Jack you found Robbie. He stood blocking the door, gowned up already, arms over his chest. His brows were pulled in, eyes dark as they levelled on you. He was danger dressed as a man.

But in front of you there was Jack, nodding encouragingly.

“Keep going.”

Your hands moved to carry on in spite of Robby's sigh.

“Okay... good...” said Jack as you pushed in the needle. “Femoral artery, couple inches. All right, let's guide wire and introduce the sheath.”

You pushed and did what Jack said, careful under his guidance.

Robby watched all the while, walking slowly around. He knew how well you preened under praise and careful instruction, like a cat purring at an owners touch. Robby knew because it was always him, ever since you began as a med student to intern to resident he'd been there to build you up, crafting you into a perfect doctor.

His perfect doctor.

Apparently he didn't like to share.

“How much saline have you pushed?” asked Robby.

“Five CC'S,” said Jack, without entertaining his attitude.

“Your carotid is weak,” said Robby. “Is it even there?”

“Yes,” you said.

Jack caught your gaze behind your goggles, pleading silently. You hadn't worked with him as much as you had Robby, or Langdon or almost anyone in the day shift but he seemed to catch on to your needs at once. “You know what to do.”

With his words you proceeded.

“Push another three CC'S of saline in the balloon,” you ordered.

“Injecting.”

There was a moment of silence as the saline was passed through tubes into the woman.

“How we looking?” asked Robby.

“Radial is up, pressure's up too- BP hundred-and-ten,” said Donnie.

For the first time since Jack dragged you into the trauma to teach you a REBOA, you looked at the patients face. At the blankness of it, the blood splattered at her cheek. There was colour returning to her.

“Check the wound,” said Jack.

You did so, the wound at her pelvis are that had been gushing on arrival had stopped bleeding.

“Looks okay,” you said.

Jack's gloved hand squeezed your gowned shoulder, blood of the woman passing between the two of you. However, it was the physical contact that broke you from your trance, pulling you up taller. “Good job, you saved her life, another couple minutes she wouldn't have made it.”

“She's still not out the woods yet,” said Robby.

You looked back at him with enough time to catch an un-characteristic roll of his eyes.

“Surgery can take her now,” said Jesse from the phone.

“Oh, finally they're ready for us?” teased Jack as he moved around the gurney. “Now that they've missed all the fun.” He passed you a wink that sent butterflies in your stomach rolling around.

The team pulled off gowns and gloves, pulling the gurney out the room.

“Wait-” said Robby, arm out stopping you as you went to follow.

The doors shut behind the gurney before Jack could understand you were behind, trapped in a room with a bear of a man who was failing at concealing his anger.

You waited for him to begin. Whether it were to be a lecture or an approval that you saved a woman's life, you wanted it over and done. The adrenaline was coursing through your body in crashing waves of red. You'd crash if you didn't calm. “There was no time for anything else-”

“- save it-”

“- there was no time for me to come and get you-”

“- stop!”

You stepped back, hands balled at your sides.

It wasn't un-common for any member of staff at PTMC to have Robby Robinavitch yell and demand the stars and moons from a person. It was scary to have him yelling at you, his deemed shadow and golden girl.

Since day one everyone knew you held a special place in Robby's heart.

“I saved a patient's life,” you defended. Was that not the most important thing to be doing? Could you not be attending to at least two other patients while he stood- imposing- in front of you.

“Doing an extremely risky procedure that is only reserved for the senior residents which you are not,” he scoffed out.

“Doctor Abbot was at my side the whole time, he talked me through every step.”

Robby shook his head, chuckling and looking around the room as if to be anywhere but with you. “Abbot-”

“- he believed me capable,” you said. “Don't you think I'm capable?”

His teeth bit into his bottom lip as he turned away from you, stretching his hand to the back of his head and flattening the hair there. When he turned back to you he took a step closer, watching the toes of his shoes meet yours.

“Do you know why I'm angry?”

No, you really didn't.

You took in a deep breath, meeting his eyes that lowered to yours. “Because I performed a high risk procedure.”

“A high risk procedure without me,” he corrected. “You're on day, not night. I'm your attending, not Jack. You get me when you're doing something like that, you understand?”

There was little room for argument. Your body trembled, the mixture of blood on your gloves and the beating of your heart heard in your ears. The lights of trauma two were suddenly too bright; walls too sterile. You nodded.

Robby tsked. “Do you understand?”

Every word was punctured with anger.

You rose to all your height. “Yes, I understand.”

He didn't dismiss you, only jutted his head back as he dragged a hand over his beard.

Without a word, you dismissed yourself.

“I just don't get why he was so.... angry,” you admit quietly.

The lights of the bar were dimmed in a golden light, casting sun set gazes around the bar Jack had told you was a good place to get a drink. He'd led you to a small table by a window with the blinds pulled down, his hand- the one that had saved so many lives- splayed out on the small of your back.

Somewhere along the night Jack's chair had scraped around closer to you. So close with every inhale you could catch the musk on him and his arm was comfortably slung around the back of your chair.

There were two empty whiskey glasses of Jack's and you were still cradling your first, down to the dregs.

“It's Robby,” said Jack with a shrug of his shoulders, but it didn't stop the crease in his brows.

“But he's never been like that with me.”

Was it the fact you'd seemingly lost your favouritism bothering you? More than you cared to admit. More so the fact you didn't understand why he'd yelled.

Why the flare of anger had burned brighter with you saving a life than anyone else?

Why your body had trembled at the rise of his voice.

Jack's body tilted toward yours, head bowed low as he looked up at you through his lashes. “Oh, come on....”

You slurped the last from your straw and looked at him. “What?”

“You don't have to play dumb with me.”

Your own body gravitated towards him. “Play dumb? I'm not playing dumb, what are you talking about?”

Jack chuckled, shaking his head to himself. He sipped the last of his drink. “Robby's...” he trailed off.

“Robby's...”

Jack levelled his gaze to yours. “He likes you.”

The words sat frozen in your brain. You knew Robby must have had some soft spot for you, you knew he liked you. But the way Jack said it, a teasing lift to his voice and the serious gaze of his eyes suggested it was more than the competence of your skills as a doctor that had Robby's affection.

“He doesn't,” you chuckled.

“He does,” said Jack, nodding along with your words.

“How would you know?”

Jack's cheeks dusted a faint pink, the rain on the window behind you dropping like mini thunderstorms. “Believe me, I know.”

You waited for more clarification.

“You have no idea the kind of effect you have on old men like us.”

Like us. Jack didn't just speak for Robby but himself. The pink in his cheeks, the hand on your back earlier. The heat from him was all different now. A wanting.

“Old men?” you smirked.

Jack's eyes darted between your eyes and lips. “Yeah, old men.”

“You're not that old, are you?”

Jack tilts his head side to side.

You peer closer at him as if trying to find the lines of age in his face. “Younger than Robby though, right?”

Jack nods. “Younger than Robby, if that makes any difference.”

“Any difference to what?” you asked, stirring the straw against the ice in one hand, the other holding your chin.

“To you.”

Under the table Jack's fingers traced over your knee, gently, as if he was trying to go un-noticed. You felt it anyhow. Felt as his fingers gripped your knee when you pushed your leg against his.

He watched you, analysing.

“Well,” you began, pushing your leg to kick over the other under the table and moving his hand further up your leg, till his all too eager fingers were splayed over your thigh. “What kind of effect is that?”

Jack was always a serious man at work. Competent and well kept. You didn't expect him to be so well versed in 'playing games'. “I dunno if I can tell you.”

“No?”

Jack shook his head, eyes lingering over his lips and his head tilted to the side, watching you. “I could show you?”

There was lip gloss stain over the straw in your glass, you saw it catch Jack's eyes as he pushed away your empty glasses to provide more space on the table.

“See any time you look at us, it's like-like a tingling sensation,” he said. “Like when you know someone's got their eyes on you.”

His hand that had been riding higher at your thigh darted away, leaving a sudden tremble of everything cold through your body. Instead, he rested his elbow at the table and beckoned your hand to his. He didn't hold it, instead, spread your fingers out and put palm to palm in a tender touch.

“And then when you touch us, it gets worse,” he uttered, eyes stuck on where your palms met. Jack's hand moved around yours, playing with your fingers.

“Worse?” you ask.

“A good worse. Good shivers,” said Jack, pulling at a finger.

“I touch you enough for you to gather all that?”

Jack's dark gaze found yours again. He bit down on his bottom lip. “Not nearly enough as I'd like.”

The door of the bar opened and a gush of wind cooled the heat on your skin. But Jack's eyes were like a furnace that you were sitting too close to, burning yourself and delighting in it. When the door shut again with an un-oiled squeak, Jack reached over.

He plucked the necklace charm from against your chest, the brush of his knuckles against your chest. “Pretty necklace.”

“Thank you,” you said, voice shaky un-characteristically.

“You get it yourself?”

“No, it was a present.”

It was almost as if he didn't have to ask who had gifted it to you. Whose hands had brushed back your hair in the middle of a shift and clasped it around the back of your neck.

Or maybe he just didn't want to know.

Jack's apartment was everything that made him.

As you passed the kitchen and he peeled off his jacket, keeping his lips close enough to breathe you in, you could smell the coffee from the morning plastered to the walls.

When he pressed you up to the sofa to shove his hands down your pants and slide a finger into your wet pussy your fingers scratched at some blanket he had thrown over the back of it.

You caught a glimpse of pictures around the place, a frame of meddles too but his place came to you in flashes and glimpses through pleasure.

“I'm gonna show you,” he uttered against your mouth as another finger slipped into you, worked inside of you. They curled up, your body moving into him at the feeling. “Just how I want to touch you.”

The car ride over had been torture enough. He could hardly get himself inside the car, stealing himself away from you. But your lips had been at his neck at every stop sign and red light. Your hand had ghosted over his crotch and the hardening length of him. As occupied as you'd been in each other in the front seats of his car you'd been beeped at twice.

“Jack,” your voice whispered, lips dragging against his as he slowly worked his fingers in and out of you, pulling at the seams of your panties.

“I'm gonna show you just how Robby wants to touch you.”

You wish the name didn't have the effect it did. That the fury you felt at him for how he yelled didn't turn to a throb in your core when Jack said his name.

“You're touching me, Jack,” you said, breathless.

“Yeah... yeah,” he said. “You like that I'm touching you?”

You nodded as his fingers retracted, finding your clit and wetting the bud of nerves, circling it.

“Say it,” said Jack. “Say it.”

“Yes, I like it.”

Jack grinned into the curve of your neck as his fingers plunged back in, working you open and spreading your wetness of the black of your panties. “God, you're making such a mess for me baby, aren't you?”

He worked you open a little longer, mumbling encouragement with every moan and throw back of your head. 'So pretty, arg, you're so pretty baby.'

By the time your stomach was coiling tight like a snake ready to pounce Jack removed his hand from your pants and kissed you again. It was a hard kiss, his clean hand grasping your cheek and keeping you still as he forcefully worked his lips against yours, like it had only just clocked in his head it was you he had on his lips, it was you he was turning to putty in his hand. Like he wanted to forge you into his lips

“Not done yet,” said Jack, hands sliding down to your hips as he guides his nose up and down your neck, breathing you in. “I wanna make you moan on my tongue, like Robby wishes he could, yeah?”

Your body betrayed you, shivering again in anticipation.

Jack's hands stirred you by the hips, urging you to his room. He pushed the door open over your head, licking into your mouth.

“Please... don't mention Robby right now,” you said as Jack fell slowly to his knees in front of you.

His brows rose. He kept his eyes on you as he pulled down your pants, helping you step out of them. “No? You don't want me to mention Robby?” he asked.

You shook your head, looking away from him. You knew you'd soaked yourself through by the small touches and passionate kisses from Jack. But you didn't need to see the realisation hit when he realised Robby's name had as much effect on you as Jack's own touches.

“Eyes on me, keep your eyes on me,” said Jack.

With a tight squeeze, you looked at him, seeing the attending of the night shift get closer to your heat.

“See, I think, you like when I say his name, huh?” his nose nudged your clothed clit. “Robby.”

Jack licked a stripe up your pussy, gathering your want through the cloth.

You were left, mouth agape, to catch your breath. Your hands didn't know where to go till Jack peeled off his shirt and guided your hands to his shoulders, your nails digging into the freckled skin there.

Jack wet his tongue with his spit before he rubbed it along your panties again, kissing you there. “I think you're so wet for me, but you're wet for Robby too, huh?”

“Jus-just you, Jack,” you gasped.

He swept a finger into your panties and let the elastic snap back against your skin.

Your body jolted in its wake.

“Not just me, don't lie,” he said, darkly.

In the morning would you realise what you'd done? Jack wasn't your attending but an attending none the less and Robby's friend- brother- at that. Although you and Robby were nothing more than colleagues, it didn't feel right to have Jack licking up your want with his name on his tongue.

“Liars don't get to come, you know,” he said. “So, you get this wet when you think about me?”

“Y-Yes.”

You could feel Jack's smile against your thigh as he pressed a kiss there.

Jack hooked two fingers around the bands of your panties and slowly dragged them down. “Do you get this wet when you think about our Doctor Robby?”

“Yes. Yes I do,” you gasped, your body curling up in the relief of letting go.

Yes, you liked Robby's extra attention. You couldn't even be left angry at his chastising you when it sent a wave of need through you, settling in your core. When you'd been at the bar with Jack, touching him in ways you'd thought about touching your own attending, almost wishing he would storm through the door and see the two of you.

“Good girl.”

Quickly Jack tilted his head back and found purchase in your pussy.

His tongue laid flat against your core.

It didn't stay in one place long. It explored all around you, tasting you for the first time and mapping out delicate spots. He slipped between your folds like he was always supposed to be there, moaning into you.

Your nails dug into his shoulders. “Mmh, Jack!”

He licked you up, spreading the mess of your want around and cleaning it up. “Taking my tongue so well,” he said against you. He dragged his lips down your thigh, wet tongue dragging up and down.

Your legs trembled as Jack spread the lips of your pussy and buried himself in there again. He pressed his thumb onto your clit, your body lurching at the pressure.

“Oh fuck, J-Jack!”

“Pull my hair, pull my hair,” he said into you.

Your did so. Your hand fell into the short strands of his salt and pepper hair, twirling into the strands and tugging just enough to rip a groan from him.

Jack buried himself into your further, his nose nudging into you deeper and deeper till he was almost trying to be inside of you.

Every time your eyes fluttered shut Jack pulled back, easing up on his work of your pussy and easing the orgasm that was slowly building up.

“No, no- eyes on me, keep your eyes on me, baby,” he said.

You looked down to him. “Jack, I want- I want to come.”

“I know, I know you do baby,” he said, flicking the tip of his tongue against your clit again. “You will, I promise, I promise.”

He eased himself up from his knees and helped off your shirt and peeled off your bra before he latched himself onto your breast.

Your back arched into him. His hands felt larger than ever as they curled around your waist and held you in. He groped at your breast, watching it jiggle as he moved before swirling his tongue around your nipple.

“Jack-”

“God, I wish Robby were here,” said Jack as he switched his attention to your other.

“Wh-what?” you didn't know if you'd heard him right.

Jack looked at your breasts instead of you, dedicating time to licking up each of them. “Wish Robby could see how good a girl you're being,” he muttered, almost to himself, like he wasn't talking to you. “How responsive you are. Would you like that? Would you like Robby to watch?”

You imagined it, closing your eyes.

Jack let you.

You pictured Robby sat on the bed, watching. Would he watch with his glasses perched low on the bridge of his nose? Would he keep his hands to himself or want to touch and play? You imagined how big he was, if he'd get hard watching.

If he'd touch. If he'd stand behind you while Jack kissed along your breasts. Would Robby dedicate enough time to the back of you?

“You want Robby?” asked Jack.

Anyone else eating you out or with hands on your chest wouldn't want another mans name on your lips.

Jack seemed to thrive on it.

“Yes,” you gasped.

Jack reached back up to you. “Yeah.... yeah...” his nose ghosted yours as he inched closer to kiss you.

In the slim lighting of his bed room you could see the shine of his lips from your arousal, the burn of red at his cheeks. There was a clink as he un-did his belt, throwing it behind him as he slowly pulled down his trousers.

First you saw the prosthetic of his leg before you trailed up, past the scars, to the heavy set of his cock. It flushed red at the tip, a leak of pre-cum running down. It stood tall onto the thin, greying hair down his sternum.

“Jack-” you reached for him, wrapping your hand around him.

“Ah- ahh fuck, baby,” he moaned as you slowly pumped him. “You feel so good. God, Robby doesn't know what he's missing.”

You tangled your tongue with his as you pumped, growing confident in every pump, in every leak of his cock, in ever groan of him into your mouth.

Would Robby guide you to holding Jack's man hood in your hand? Would his own hand wrap around your wrist and guide you up and down, muttering how good you were doing.

It was like you could hear him in your head.

'What a good girl doing what you're told, so responsive,' you imagined the heavy set of his tongue dragging over your pulse as you wrapped your arm around Jack's shoulders, smothering him in closer.

“I wish-” you said against his lips, making a mess out of you mouth as you squeezed his cock. “I wish Robby were here.”

“Yeah. Yeah, me too baby,” said Jack, slowly wrapping his fingers around your wrist and peeling back your hand. He pulled two of your fingers into his mouth, licking the taste of himself off and into the warmth of his mouth. “Next time.”

Jack eased you back on his bed, crawling over you.

You shuffled up, sitting up on his headboard. “Do you- do you want me to?”

Jack's brows pulled together as he brushed back your hair, tucking it behind your ear. “To what, baby?”

“To ride you? Would it be easier on your leg?”

Jack smiled, love sick. “That's very kind of you sweetheart. Next time, I'll let you ride me like I'm a damn horse,” he whispered as he slowly lowered you down. “Right now I want you to finish on my tongue. Then I'm gonna really fuck you like I've wanted to for so long.”

You watched with a bite to your lip as Jack rolled a condom over his cock before hovering over you.

He stirred the base of his cock against your pussy, rubbing the arousal of you over your slit.

“You want me to fuck you?”

“Yes, yes.”

Would Robby hold you against him, keep your legs spread for Jack? Or would Jack insist on Robby going first.

“Beg for it, baby.”

Before your words could leave your mouth the familiar buzz of your phone echoed between you.

Maybe anyone else would have ignored it, sent it to voicemail or let it ring. Except Jack- he moved down his bed, reaching for your pants and fishing out your phone. He smirked down at the contact before holding the phone out to you.

“Answer it.”

You pushed yourself up onto your elbows, looking at him. “Wh-what?”

“Answer him,” he said, grabbing your hand and putting the phone it in.

Robby.

You looked to Jack, having no time to ask if he was serious before he was descending on the bed again. His eyes were pointed, gaze locked on you.

You answered, holding the phone to your ear. “H-hey, Robby.”

“Hey. Is everything okay?”

Did he know you'd left the bar with Jack? Did he hear his name called from both your lips?

“Yeah, everything's okay.”

Jack smirked at you.

“I've been calling you all night, you didn't answer,” you could hear the slight accusation in his voice, the small anger you hadn't bowed and answered the phone when he called. He wasn't good at hiding it though maybe he thought he was.

“Sorry I-”

Jack slid two fingers inside of you at once and pumped them without warning.

You caught your breath in your throat. “- I was busy.”

“Busy?”

“Yeah,” you gasped.

Robby stirred down the line. “You okay?”

Jack was looming close enough to you, nodding for you to pull the phone back enough for him to hear.

“Yeah, it's just, cold in my apartment,” you lied.

Jack's brows rose, he mouthed the word, cold?

“Still haven't sorted that heating, huh?” Robby chuckled down the line. “You need someone to come sort that out for you.”

Jack withdrew his hand, dragging those two fingers from inside of you around you, before lowering himself back down. He spread you open, lying his tongue back in.

“Yeah, I do.”

“Want me to come take a look at it?” asked Robby.

“Not- not right now,” you pushed your phone back as Robby scoffed lightly. You sort Jack's attention, begging for the end of the torture he was inciting. His eyes were a haze of lust as he only watched you, shaking his head slowly to feel all around you.

His hand pushed your knee up to your chest, welcoming him in deeper.

“Are you still mad at me for earlier?”

“Y-yes!”

“You are?”

You'd forgot Robby down the line, forgot his question, could only feel the depth of Jack's tongue in you. You bit down on the bottom of your lip. “Yes! Yes! Yes, I am!”

“Okay- well, i'm sorry,” he said down the line. “You just have no idea what seeing you with Jack does to me.”

Jack moaned into you, sending vibrations through your body. His nose nudged against your clit, circling his tongue in you. Your mouth opened, a moan ripping through you that Jack managed to stifle quickly by slamming his hand over your mouth.

“- It's just, I think of you as one of mine,” Robby continued down the line, un-aware's to Jack tapping your phone on speaker and placing it next to you.

Jack dropped his mouth next to your ear, nipping at the lobe. “As mine,” he uttered.

“- seeing you with Jack, I can't stand it, you know I can't-”

Jack went back down to his work, two fingers working inside of you as he sucked in your clit. Your walls are like silk that his fingers thread through with ease, your mind blank with pleasure.

Your moans continued to be muffled by his mouth, he dared not move it.

“- you know I... you know I favour you over anybody else in that ER-”

Your hand reached out for your phone, sure you would come soon and needed to end the phone call.

Jack reached out for you. “Be nice, be nice.”

You picked up the phone and put it to your ear, Jack sucking diligently at your bundle of nerves. “Robby, I-”

“What is it? You sound like you're burning up? You need me?”

Yes, you needed him.

Jack curled his fingers up and you came with a loud gasp, ending the call abruptly as your world shattered in stars of want. Your back arched into Jack's mouth as he laid there open mouthed, taking what you could give him like a man dying of thirst.

Only when your breathing calmed and you could open your eyes to make sense of the world- and Jack's room- did Jack slowly move out his fingers, gently crawling up you body with kisses like butterflies.

You laughed when Jack reached your neck. “Oh god.”

“What?” he said, laughing along with you.

“I hung up on Robby.”

001. Steel ball run by @uzugeto 𖤐 Cowboy!Suguru Geto x Cowrgirl!Fem reader 𖤐 I swear I was waiting so long for this fic, and when it finally dropped... UGHHH. AMAZING. I've recently become such a sucker for Wild West AU stories, and this one filled my craving oh so perfectly.

002. Satosugu are cheating on each other with you by @doviled 𖤐 Satosugu x F!Reader 𖤐 Spectacular, great idea. I loved every second of this fic. It was genuinely so much fun to read and felt a bit refreshing, yn? I simply enjoy everything involving Satosugu, hihi.

003. 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩 Just Satoru by @laeyliaa 𖤐 Fem!Gojo Satoru x Fem!Reader 𖤐 This one is inspired by the film Obsession, and we all already know where it's going, right? I haven't seen any dark wlw stories for so long, and honestly, I think about this fic every single day! Waiting for part two while gnawing on my fingers...

004. Toji F. x Fem!Reader x Choso K. by @6x-x9 𖤐 Honestly, I don't know why the reader is here. Ana, why are we third-wheeling? Because the tension between Toji and Choso was so intense, I was going mad whenever the reader was mentioned. I don't know this bitch. Someone take her away from them! This fic changed something in my brain, and I reread it from time to time... in the evening.

005. Beach day with Suguru by @rengoatku 𖤐 Suguru Geto x F!Reader 𖤐 There's nothing better than fucking on the beach with your hot man. 10/10, fun and nasty read; I loved it.

006. 🏳️‍⚧️ Long distance gf!suguru geto giving you replica of her cock by @moviecritc 𖤐 Transfem!Suguru Geto x F!Reader 𖤐 NOW HOLD ON. You know how obsessed I am with my transfem Satoru, so when I saw Nora drop this fic, my ovaries literally burst. Transfem Suguru is so hot; she's such a minx, literally pls get me pregnant. Spectacular. Nora never disappoints with her wlw fics!

007. 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩 Your girl-friend a menace! by @/6x-x9 𖤐 Gf!Shoko Ieri x Fem!Reader 𖤐 Shoko buying a lipstick in the colour of the reader's nipples... do I have to say more? Go, read it and touch yourself.

008. Make a man outta you! by @xchosos-wifex 𖤐 Li Shang!Toji Fushiguro x Mulan!Reader 𖤐 Omg, Mulan has always been one of my favourite films, and Li Shang is JADNBjbfe. A crush since I was 10. This fic was so much fun and original; I absolutely loved the whole concept, and ngl, Toji has such an amazing commander aura! Also, I was laughing so hard at the sudden speed face link. Like, okay, you're funny; join my court of jesters.

009. 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩 Like sugar on my tongue by @jazzthatonewriterchick 𖤐 OF Girl!Femjo x Camgirl!Reader 𖤐 YOU KNOW I'M SO WEAK FOR MY WIFEY FEMJO. Jazz, I hope your pillow is always cold because I was reading this fic with clenched thighs. I absolutely love slutty, sly femjo, and you wrote her so perfectly here, ugh! I need more queer content from you, begging on my knees...

010. 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩 Equal rights, equal fights by @reignpage 𖤐 Femjo x Fem!Reader 𖤐 Gojo lets himself be struck by a gender-bending curse, and he's using it to the fullest. It was so much fun and HOT AHH. I love everything Reign writes, but it was my first time reading a wlw story by her! More, more, more!

011. A bouquet of brambles by @sukunahs 𖤐 God!Ryomen Sukuna x Priestess!Reader 𖤐 Listen, the stories Iris writes are a true blessing from the heavens themselves. So rich and beautifully written, you can feel the weight of each word! I adore this story so much, and the simple fact that it's a Greek mythology au should be enough to make you read it!

012. The story of Princess Sita and Prince Rama by @httpskrys 𖤐 Prince Rama!Satoru x Princess Sita!Reader 𖤐 One of the best things about my 3k even is how many new cultures I was introduced to! Krys's story was amazing, the cutest, I loved reading the little introduction to the tale itself and eating up the whole fic. Thank you so much and tbh I would love to see more similar stories from you :((

013. 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩 Mom's best friend!Yuki Tsukumo by @/moviecritc 𖤐 Yuki Tsukumo x F!Reader 𖤐 Dad's best friend.... MOM'S BEST FRIEND? Give me two seasons, merch, books and a movie. I already said it, but Nora is one of the best (if not the best, shall I say) wlw writers on Tumblr and her stories are a literal blessing to the small sapphic JJK community!

014. 閻魔大王!Sukuna x Dead!reader (Enma Daiō!Sukuna) by @bearlovestea 𖤐 Sukuna fits the King of Hell so freaking well! I loved the whole concept of the story, how original it was, and THE SMUT PART, arhhh, amazing! Bear, I need more stories from you inspired by Japanese culture <3

015. 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩 Guilty pleasure by @indiewritesxoxo 𖤐 Mermaid!Yuki x F!Reader 𖤐 I have no words... doomed yuri, they could never make me hate you. And also inspired by The Little Mermaid? I need 10k words for yesterday, please...

Do you want to read more wlw stories? Check wlw list by @hotties4gojo !

I had soo little time in June, and it's a pity I haven't read and written more queer stories :( I will try to make up for it during the summer holidays <3

This wasn’t random. Not by a long shot.

It was him. Your attending. The stubborn, overworked, infuriatingly competent man who makes unresolved emotional baggage look hot. The man you have to see in barely two hours.

A small, helpless sound escapes you as you roll onto your side again, squeezing your eyes shut.

This is a problem.

A very real, very immediate, absolutely unprofessional problem.

And yet, you still don’t move. You lie there too long, cheeks burning despite the fact that no one else can see what you’re replaying in your mind. Warmth lingers beneath your skin, pooling low in your belly as you let yourself remember every phantom touch. Every whispered word. The look in his eyes as he’d settled between your legs and—

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

You bolt upright, your hand flying out to find your phone.

You’re still hot, still flushed and sticky. Still half-dreaming about Robby and his goddamn hands—but now? Now you’re late. Horribly late. Because that alarm isn’t your wake-up alarm—it’s your backup alarm. The one that goes off when it’s time for you to leave for work.

“Fuck!”

You throw the covers back and rush into the bathroom. You strip quickly out of your damp sleep shirt, tossing everything on the floor before stepping into the shower without even waiting for the water to warm. Which is exactly what you need, you remind yourself as you hiss beneath the cold spray.

Fifteen minutes later, you’re standing in front of the mirror in your black scrubs, trying to fix your hair and will the colour to drain from your cheeks. But it’s stubborn. Bright. Hot to the touch and utterly telling.

“Jesus Christ,” you sigh, squeezing your eyes shut for a second too long.

A second you don’t have.

With a deep breath, you turn, grab your bag, and sling it over your shoulder, wondering whether running to the hospital might actually be quicker than your usual commute at this time. Traffic is never great—you never truly know which route will get you there fastest—but now you’re about to hit peak hour.

You spend the entire drive trying to think about literally anything other than the dream—patient charts, upcoming shifts, whether your stethoscope is in your bag or your locker—but your thoughts keep slipping sideways, traitorous and vivid.

So vivid.

Stop thinking about his hands.

Stop thinking about his voice.

Stop—

You groan softly and turn the radio up louder.

It doesn’t help.

By the time you pull into the hospital parking lot, you’re almost twenty minutes late. You slam your car door shut, hike your bag higher on your shoulder, and practically run toward the ER doors.

“Woah,” Donnie says, quickly stepping out of your way. “Someone’s in a hurry.”

You don’t reply. You just keep going until you hit central, then slow to a hurried walk—head down, eyes fixed on your feet, praying everyone is already too busy to notice you.

“You’re late,” Dana says.

You stop mid-step, more out of habit than intention.

“Yeah, I’m sorry. I—”

“Shit, hon, you okay?” She steps around the desk, peering over her glasses. “You look like you’re burnin’ up.”

You step back before she can press a hand to your forehead.

“I’m fine, I swear.” You keep backing up. “Just my—my car’s A/C isn’t working and I’m a little warm. That’s all.”

You know she doesn’t believe you. This is Dana you’re talking to, not some brand-new, bright-eyed RN. Dana can see through any and all bullshit, and by the look on her face, she isn’t buying this at all.

“I’m fine,” you say again, forcing a smile before turning sharply on your heel.

Only to turn right into something solid.

Warm. Tall. Unmoving.

“Shit, I—”

You look up.

And your entire nervous system shuts down.

Dr. Robby.

“Sorry,” you blurt instantly, stepping back so fast you nearly trip over your own feet. “I didn’t see—I mean, I was looking, just not—”

His hand is still wrapped around your elbow, grounding you in place, and for one terrible second all you can think about is how close he is. How close he’d felt last night. How real it feels right now.

His eyebrows lift slightly, confusion flickering across his face. “You alright?”

“Yes,” you say too quickly. “Fine. Totally fine.”

You are not fine.

Your face feels nuclear, and you’re suddenly aware of everything at once—his height, his proximity, the way his sleeves are pushed up, the fact that he’s looking directly at you like he’s trying to figure something out.

His head tilts slightly.

“You’re late,” he says, not unkindly.

“I know.”

Neither of you move for a moment.

You can feel your pulse in your throat. Your chest. Lower.

“I—I’m gonna—”

You don’t even finish before you turn away, hurrying down the hall toward the lockers. Every inch of your skin feels like it’s on fire—and every thought in your head is so wildly inappropriate for where you are right now you feel like you might throw up.

“Damn.” Santos appears beside you, her eyes flicking between your face and the tablet in her hands. “Either you’re febrile or you just did something really embarrassing.” She tucks the tablet under her arm. “What gives?”

You shoot her a flat look as you key in the code to your locker. “Nothing gives. I’m fine.”

She snorts. “Sure. That tone is really selling it.”

You take a deep breath and turn toward your locker, shoving your bag inside before unzipping your jacket and shrugging off. You stuff that in too—then sling your stethoscope around your neck, shut the door, and turn back to your fellow R2.

She looks concerned now, brows drawn as her eyes track over your face and neck.

“You’re seriously flushed,” she says. “Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”

“I’m fine.” You turn and start walking back toward central. “Just running late, okay? Now can I start my shift before—” You stop yourself, his name catching somewhere in your chest. “Before I have an attending down my throat for slacking off?”

God. You could have chosen better words.

“Okay, whatever,” Santos mutters, holding her tablet out again. “Sorry for caring.”

She gives you a sarcastic little eye roll before veering off around the other side of the nurse’s station and ducking into one of the active patient rooms. You watch after her for a second before a voice across the room steals your attention.

He’s on the other side of central, nodding along while Mohan and Whitaker brief him on a patient—and looking entirely too hot for seven-thirty on a Monday morning beneath harsh fluorescent lights.

“Stop it,” you whisper to yourself, pausing at the nurse’s station to collect a tablet.

“Stop what?”

You startle, head snapping toward the man suddenly beside you.

“Jesus Christ, Dr. Abbot,” you sigh. “Are you trying to get me admitted for a heart attack?”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “You already look halfway there.”

You roll your eyes. “Okay, I get it. I’m red and I’m sweaty—can everyone please stop commenting on it now?”

He chuckles. “Sorry. Didn’t realise you’d already been bullied about it.”

You sigh again and turn your attention to the board, tipping your head back to read it.

“Why are you still here, anyway?” you ask.

“Wanted to see my favourite resident,” he says. “You sure you don’t want to come back to nights?”

You huff a laugh through your nose. “I love you, Abbot, but nights aren’t for me.” You glance across the nurse’s station, where Dana and Robby are now discussing the latest incoming trauma. “I just miss Dana too much.”

Abbot snorts. “Dana?”

You look back at him. “Yes. Dana.”

Amusement flickers across his face. “You sure?”

“Yes,” you say, too quickly. “I mean, who—what else would—”

“Doctors,” Javadi interrupts, stepping in front of you both. “Sorry to interrupt, but could I get a second opinion on a patient in South Twenty-One, please?”

Abbot nods, glancing at you. “I’ll go. You settle in.” The corner of his mouth lifts a little higher. “Maybe check in with your attending.”

Then he turns and walks away with Javadi at his side.

You stare after him—eyes wide, pulse racing, wondering what the fuck he meant by all that.

You’ve always suspected Abbot might be a mind reader, but that? That was something else. Too knowing. Too dangerous. And now you need to figure out what the hell he thinks he knows.

“Doctor,” Perlah calls from behind the desk. “Could you check on Central Twelve? She’s still complaining of pain after morphine and Zofran.”

You turn to her, shaking your head as if that might knock your thoughts back into place. “Uh—yeah. Of course. Central Twelve, heading there now.”

She gives you a curious look, brows drawn, but you turn away before she can ask any more questions.

On your way to C12, you pull up the patient’s chart—seen by Whitaker about half an hour ago—and double-check the morphine and Zofran doses she received. You pause just outside the room, drawing a deep breath and reminding yourself that you are at work. You don’t have time to be flustered. You don’t have time to worry about what Jack Abbot may or may not know. And you definitely don’t have time to obsess over the imaginary rasp of Robby’s beard against your thigh that you can somehow still feel.

When you push the door open and step inside, you’re the picture of professionalism. You offer the patient a polite smile, introduce yourself, and start the routine checks that feel more like second nature than work.

After the exam and a brief conversation, you order two more milligrams of morphine, review the labs Whitaker sent, and make a note to check back in fifteen minutes. Then, still intent on avoiding your attending, you bury your nose in your tablet and move on to the next patient waiting in South Sixteen.

Pressure-like chest pain. Diaphoretic, no shortness of breath. Initial ECG normal. Labs pending.

“Alright, Mr. Mullens,” you say, squirting a pump of sanitiser into your palm. “We’re going to get some scans done so we can get a better idea of what’s going on. If the pain gets worse before then, let us know.”

The man nods. “Thank you, Doc.”

You smile, stepping out into the hallway. “I’ll be back soon to check in.”

As soon as you turn around, you look for Robby, making sure you’re not about to run into him again. Literally.

You spot him all the way across central, walking with Santos toward the North hallway. Good. You’re safe. And if all goes well, maybe you’ll manage to avoid him for the entire day. Maybe you won’t have to come face to face with the face you can still see buried between your legs.

Fuck.

Your pulse kicks, heart beating too fast as you remember the way his eyes had watched you in your dream. It’s almost too much. Even the phantom memory of it is making you breathless.

God. If it ever actually happened, you might pass out.

“Why would you even think of that?” you mutter to yourself, stopping at the nurse’s station.

When you finally look up, Perlah and Princess are watching you closely, speculation sparkling in their eyes.

“Sobrang pula ng mukha niya,” Perlah murmurs.

Princess nods. “Hindi lagnat ’yan.”

Perlah lowers her voice even more. “Sa tingin mo ba may kinalaman ito sa crush niya?”

They both laugh quietly, turning away from you as if it isn’t you they’re gossiping about.

“Malinaw,” Princess says.

You give them both a tight smile before glancing up at the board, searching for something suitably distracting and far away from nosy nurses and unfairly attractive attendings.

You’re just about to head back toward the South hallway when a gurney crashes through the ambulance bay doors.

“Trauma Two!” Dana calls. “Robby!”

Abbot is already moving, meeting the paramedics halfway and guiding the gurney toward T2.

He points at you as he walks. “With me.”

“Shit,” you mutter, dropping your tablet on the desk and jogging over.

“Thirty-two-year-old male, MVC, restrained driver,” the paramedic says. “Front-end collision, airbags deployed. No LOC. Increasing shortness of breath during transport. Breath sounds decreased left side.”

“Let’s get him on monitor,” Abbot says, moving to stand opposite you at the head of the bed. “On my count.”

Robby steps in at your side, like he always does—close enough that you feel him before you see him.

His arm brushes yours.

Your stomach flips.

Focus.

“One. Two. Three,” Abbot counts.

You transfer the patient from gurney to trauma bed, and Santos starts cutting away clothes.

“Two large-bore IVs,” Abbot tells Jesse. “Trauma labs. Portable chest X-ray.” Then he looks at you, brows raised. “Breath sounds?”

“Oh—uh—” You fumble with your stethoscope, pressing it to each side of the patient’s chest. “Diminished on the left.”

You reach for the patient’s neck, fingers steady despite the noise around you.

“Trachea midline.”

Abbot nods, then turns to Santos. “Let’s get ultrasound.”

“BP holding?” Robby asks.

The sound of his voice sends goosebumps racing along your arms—and you shiver before you can stop yourself.

“Pressure’s 118 over 76,” Jesse replies. “Stable.”

Robby glances at you, brows drawn. “You okay?”

You nod quickly, without looking up. “Never better.”

“Absent lung sliding on the left,” Santos announces.

“Likely pneumothorax,” Abbot says, looking at Robby.

“Sats dropping,” Jesse calls. “Eighty-nine.”

Robby nods once. “Okay. We’re putting in a chest tube.”

“Chest tube tray. Twenty-eight French. Left side,” Abbot orders.

You try to move out of the way, but Robby’s hand catches your elbow—and you can’t help but look up. His dark eyes meet yours with an intensity you’ve never noticed before, and suddenly your lungs forget how to work.

“You’re up,” he says. “I’ll walk you through it.”

You know there’s no time to argue. You know you can’t. Shouldn’t. This is your job. And it’s not like you could say no to this man even if you wanted to.

You swallow. “Okay.”

Robby nods, then looks at Jesse. “Alright, let’s get some lido. Sutures ready. Hook up suction.”

You turn back to the patient, watching Abbot position the left arm above his head while Jesse preps the area—chlorhexidine swab, sterile drape. The rustle of sterile gowns and the snap of gloves fill the room as you pull on your own and push a pair of protective glasses up your nose. Then you grab the lidocaine from the tray and lean over the patient’s left side, steadying your hand as you guide the needle in.

The room is quieter now—save for the steady beeping of the monitors—chaos narrowing into focus as everyone watches you sink the needle into the patient’s skin.

“A little deeper,” Robby murmurs.

Your breath catches, but your hands stay steady.

You can feel him just behind you, leaning close, his warmth bleeding through your scrubs and setting your whole body on fire.

“Now find the rib,” he instructs. “Stay above it.”

You discard the needle onto the tray and start feeling ribs, counting down until you find the space.

“Scalpel,” you say, refusing to take your eyes off the spot your fingers found.

Jesse places the scalpel in your hand, and without hesitation, you cut a three-centimetre incision.

“Good,” Robby murmurs.

Your pulse thrums beneath your skin.

“Clamp,” you say, your voice almost breaking.

Jesse takes the scalpel from your hand, replacing it with a curved clamp.

You insert the clamp, pushing past muscle layers, and begin to spread. It feels forceful. Too much. Invasive, even though you know this is exactly what you’re supposed to do.

Robby steps closer. “Commit to it.”

His hand covers yours to adjust the angle, add pressure—until you feel the pop. And it takes every ounce of your self-control not to react. Not to whimper at the very normal, very professional way your attending is guiding you right now.

“Now sweep,” he says, so close you can feel the warmth of his breath against your cheek.

You insert your finger into the space, confirming entry into the pleural cavity and checking for adhesions—then nod. You don’t dare turn your head as you hold your hand out for the tube. He’s too close, too warm. You can smell the faint scent of soap on his skin even over the antiseptic and metallic tang in the air.

“Inserting tube,” you say, more to yourself than anyone else.

You start guiding the tube in—slow and controlled—feeling every millimetre of movement.

Until it stops.

Too much resistance.

“Up,” Robby says, his hand covering yours again. “Aim higher.”

He adjusts your wrist slightly, guiding the pressure.

You swallow hard and nod, hoping no one else can hear your uneven breathing—but knowing Robby definitely can.

He helps you apply more pressure, firmer now, angle corrected, and the tube starts moving again.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Good girl. Keep going.”

Your brain short-circuits.

Heat floods your face. Your chest. Lower.

His voice echoes from your dream. Breathless. Panting. Words whispered against your skin.

Fuck. Now is not the time.

You tighten your grip on the tube and push.

Then—

A rush of air.

“Air return,” Abbot says, a hint of pride in his tone. “Now secure it.”

Robby steps back, and you hear the snap of his gloves coming off.

“O2 sats climbing,” he announces.

“Cool,” Santos says, grinning at Abbot’s side. “I’m doing the next one.”

You barely look up. You can’t. Your whole face feels like it’s on fire. You've never blushed this hard before. You’ve never been this hot in your life. And you’ve definitely never been this horny in the goddamn trauma bay.

“You good to finish up?” Robby asks Abbot.

Abbot nods.

From the corner of your eye, you see Robby step toward the door, glancing over his shoulder with a small, impressed smile.

“Nice work, Doctor.”

You don’t reply. You just nod, lips twitching with a soft smile as you keep your eyes on the patient.

As soon as you finish suturing and securing the tube, you step back, tearing off your gown and gloves as if that’ll somehow give you a reprieve from the heat beneath your skin. Jesse takes your place beside the patient, nodding along to Abbot’s orders while he and Kim start cleaning up.

You shove your gown, gloves, and glasses into the biohazard bin and head for the door without looking back—which is exactly why you don’t notice Santos trailing you.

“That was so cool,” she says, startling you.

“Jesus,” you mutter. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

She frowns. “Sneak? I was right behind you. It’s not my fault you’re all weird and jumpy today.”

“I’m not—” You glance across central to make sure Robby isn’t somewhere in your path to the ambulance bay. “I’m not weird and jumpy.”

Santos scoffs. “Right. And I’m not behind on my charting.”

You don’t bother arguing with her. You just keep walking—and she follows. All the way through the ER and out to the ambulance bay, where you stop just before the curb and draw a deep breath. It isn’t nearly as refreshing as you’d hoped, but a break from the fluorescents is always welcome.

“Okay,” she says, folding her arms. “What is with you today? You’re never this off. I’ve seen you perform procedures you’d only read about without a single assist from the attending. And I know you’ve done a chest tube before.”

You don’t answer. You don’t even look at her. You just tip your head back and stare at the roof of the ambulance bay, wondering whether it might collapse and save you from this conversation.

“And on that note,” she goes on, “Dr. Robby knows you’ve done a chest tube before, so why the hell was he being so patient? I swear he’s got a soft spot for you. Javadi pointed it out a few weeks ago and I honestly don’t know how I missed it. I mean—has he ever yelled at you?”

You finally look at her, brows drawn. “I—uh—no, I don’t think so.”

“Exactly,” she says, stepping closer. “And please tell me I heard wrong, but did he say good girl to you back there?”

As soon as she says it, your cheeks burn with renewed intensity. You can feel your heart in your throat, beating out of rhythm and way too fast for someone who is definitely not in a life-or-death situation.

And Santos notices—because of course she does.

Her eyes go wide. “Oh my God. This totally has something to do with Dr. Robby.”

“Shut up,” you mutter. “It’s not—”

You stop yourself, squeezing your eyes shut and pinching the bridge of your nose.

Santos isn’t going to let this go. You know her. She’s too inquisitive, too nosy, and there’s not nearly enough chaos today to distract her.

“Okay, fine,” you sigh, looking up, face burning. “I had a sex dream about him and now I can’t stop thinking about it.”

She stares at you for a second.

“A sex dream?”

You nod miserably.

Her mouth twitches—then she snorts.

Not a polite laugh. A full, startled snort she tries—and fails—to muffle behind her hand.

“Oh my God,” she says. “I knew you had a thing for him, but a sex dream?”

“Would you stop saying it?” you hiss, glancing nervously around the empty ambulance bay.

She laughs a little harder. “Was he good?”

“Oh my God,” you mutter, dropping your head into your hands. “I regret everything.”

“Hey,” she says, still laughing as she drops a hand on your shoulder. “For what it’s worth, I’m pretty sure he’d go there if you asked.”

Your head snaps up. “If I asked?”

She shrugs. “Why not shoot your shot?”

“Because he’s my boss!”

“He’s your attending,” she says. “Technically, Dr. Underwood is your boss. Dr. Robby just supervises you.”

You shut your eyes again and draw a deep breath, trying to steady your pulse.

“Okay,” you say, squaring your shoulders. “I’m done with this conversation. I’m going back to work, and you’re not telling anyone what I just told you. Okay?”

She mimes zipping her lips. “I’m a vault, I swear.”

You nod. “Good.”

Then you turn and start walking back inside, trying not to conspicuously check for Robby on your way to the nurse’s station. Santos is still at your heels, still wearing an amused grin as if your humiliation is her exact brand of humour.

“One more question,” she says, stopping beside you as you grab another tablet from the rack.

You sigh. “What?”

She leans in. “Did he say ‘good girl’ in the dream too?”

Your pulse jumps.

“Goodbye, Dr. Santos,” you say, turning quickly on your heel.

“I’m taking that as a yes,” she calls after you.

You ignore her, turning toward S16 to check on your chest pain patient.

“Hey, Mr. Mullens,” you say as you push back the curtain. “How are you feeling?”

The older man sits up a little. “I’m okay.”

“Good.” You pull up his chart on your tablet. “The pain hasn’t gotten any worse?”

He shakes his head. “No.”

“That’s good to hear,” you say, quickly flicking through his lab results. “Your first labs look reassuring, but we’ll repeat them in a couple of hours just to be safe.”

You glance up, and he nods.

“Thank you, Doctor.”

You smile softly. “If the pain gets worse, or if you start having trouble breathing, press the call button.”

“Will do.”

You offer him one last nod before tucking your tablet under your arm and squirting a pump of sanitiser into your palm as you exit the room.

The second you step into the hall, you take a deep breath, finally feeling like your lungs remember how to work. Like your pulse might finally be settling into something resembling a normal rhythm. Like maybe—just maybe—you can survive the day if you stay distracted with work long enough not to think about last night.

About his voice—low and rough in your ear, whispering something you can’t quite remember.

Except the way it made your spine arch.

Or the moment he’d braced his hands on either side of you, his head dipping just enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath before he—

“Doctor.”

You jerk slightly, heat rushing straight back into your face as the memory evaporates.

“Sorry—what?”

Whitaker, now standing in front of you, clears his throat. “Nothing. I just—you looked a little out of it.”

You shake your head and turn toward central. “Yeah. Sorry. I’m a little off today.”

He nods, falling into step beside you. “Santos mentioned.”

Your head snaps toward him. “Santos mentioned what?”

“Just that you were out of it today,” he says quietly, staring at the floor.

You stare at him. “And?”

He shrugs, but it’s stiff. “And nothing.”

You stop at the nurse’s station and drop your tablet on the desk.

“I swear to God, Whitaker, if she told you—”

“She didn’t tell me anything,” he says, clearly panicked now. “I—I’ve got to go check on a patient.”

Then he’s gone, hurrying off toward the South hallway.

Fuck.

You told Santos barely ten minutes ago and she’s already told Whitaker?

So much for being a vault.

“What’d I tell you about swearin’ on God, little lady?” Dana asks, peering over her glasses from the other side of the desk.

You sigh, resting both forearms on the counter. “Sorry. Rough morning.”

“Tell me about it,” she says, glancing down at her tablet. “Sprained ankle in North Four wants an MRI and a wheelchair escort to the parking lot. Psych hold in B2 tried to climb out the bathroom window. Ogilvie ordered the wrong labs and blamed the computer. And someone—” she pauses, squinting toward where McKay is assessing a patient, “—keeps leaving half-empty coffee cups everywhere like we’re running a café instead of an emergency department.”

You huff a quiet laugh.

“And we’re only on hour two,” she adds, looking back up at you.

“Lucky us,” you mutter.

She sets her tablet down and slides her glasses off, folding them into the breast pocket of her scrubs.

“What’s with you, hm?” She leans in. “First you’re late, then you run out of trauma like you’re about to pass out. That’s not like you, kid.”

You shrug. “Just a little off today.”

She watches you for a second, her eyes narrowing just a fraction. She’s not stupid. She knows there’s more to it than that—but Dana isn’t the type to push.

She hums quietly.

“Alright,” she says. “I’ll pretend I believe that.”

You give her a small, appreciative smile as you push off the counter. “Love you, Dana.”

She just shakes her head, the corner of her mouth lifting as she glances back down at her tablet. “Yeah? Then check on North Four for me and see if you can get ‘em discharged.”

You nod. “North Four, on it.”

You start to turn away, then stop yourself and swivel back toward her.

“Hey—uh—is Abbot still here?” you ask.

“No, he left right after the MVC trauma,” she replies without looking up.

“Oh.”

“Why? You need him?” she asks. “I’m sure whatever you need, Dr. Robby can—”

“No,” you say quickly. “Nope. I’m good. Totally fine. Don’t need anything at all.”

You hug your tablet to your chest and start turning away again.

“Everything’s fine!”

You don’t dare look back. You just keep walking toward the North hall, completely missing the sceptical look Dana sends after you—and the confused look on Robby’s face as he glances between the two of you.

On your way to N4, you pull your phone out of your pocket and tap on Dr. Abbot’s contact, typing quickly.

So much for saying goodbye to your favourite resident.

Then you hit send and tuck your phone back into your pocket.

You’re not actually offended. Not really. This is the ER. People barely have time to finish a sentence, let alone say goodbye.

You’re just… nervous.

Nervous because Abbot thinks he knows something—and you need to figure out what that is before he decides to say something to Robby and make this whole situation infinitely worse.

You stop outside N4 and take a deep breath—your hundredth deep breath of the morning. You can do this. This is the easy part. The patients. The work. The familiarity of what you do every day. You just need to focus on this for the next twelve hours and definitely not the way you can still feel the weight of his hand on your hip, steady and certain, holding you exactly where he wanted you as he—

“Nope,” you tell yourself out loud. “Absolutely not. Focus.”

You shake your head as you step into the room and slide the curtain back, greeting the patient with your practiced mask of cool, calm, and collected. You manage to convince them they don’t need an MRI, since their ankle is only sprained, but you do get Ahmad to escort them out in a wheelchair—and now you owe him ten bucks and a bagel tomorrow morning.

Then you move on to the next patient. And the next.

The next few hours pass by in a blur of minor catastrophes. A migraine that melts away with the standard cocktail of Toradol, Reglan, and Benadryl. A Lego piece extracted from a three-year-old’s nose while Whitaker distracts the squirming patient. Three stitches in the eyebrow of a man who swears he doesn’t drink before 10AM—even though you can smell the alcohol on his breath. An overworked woman with chest pain that turns out to be a panic attack. A teenager with a swollen knee and a devastated look on his face when you suggest he might be benched for the rest of the season.

And at half past noon, you step into C9. Mid-thirties, right lower quadrant abdominal pain, nausea, mild fever—what you can already guess is appendicitis.

“Hi, Ms. Park, how are you feeling?” you ask, squirting a pump of sanitiser into your palm.

She winces. “Not so good.”

“It says here you’re having abdominal pain, nausea, and a bit of a fever,” you say. “When did that start?”

She nods. “Early this morning. Four, maybe.”

You set your tablet on the cart, grab a pair of gloves, and drag a stool beside the bed. “Mind if I take a look at your abdomen so I can get a better idea of what’s going on?”

She nods and tips her head back against the pillow, hands falling either side as you start palpating her lower abdomen. It doesn’t take more than a few presses for her to hiss and lift a hand, trying to push you away.

“Sorry,” she says, voice strained. “It hurts a lot.”

“That’s okay.” You scoot back and rise from the stool, peeling off your gloves. “I’m going to order a CT scan to take a better look, and we’ll give you something for the pain and something for the nausea in the meantime.”

You step around the bed and grab your tablet off the cart.

“A nurse will come in shortly to start fluids too,” you add. “You’re probably a little dehydrated if you haven’t been able to eat or drink much this morning.”

She looks at you with wide eyes. “I don’t know if I want a CT. Isn’t that a lot of radiation?”

“It’s a relatively small amount,” you reply evenly, “and it’s the best way for us to see what’s going on inside your abdomen. I can assure you, it’s very safe.”

“I try to avoid unnecessary radiation,” Ms. Park argues, shifting uncomfortably. “Is there another option?”

“Ultrasound can sometimes help, but it’s not always reliable in adults,” you say. “A CT scan will give us the clearest answer.”

She hesitates, eyes dropping to her lap. “Well—could I please speak to the doctor in charge?”

You open your mouth to reply when someone steps in beside you. Tall. Solid. Close enough to make your pulse skip and your stomach take a nosedive.

“You are,” Robby says, arms folded. “She’s the physician managing your care right now, so we’ll follow her recommendation.”

You step to the side, nearly tripping over nothing, clutching your tablet to your chest.

“Uh—Dr. Robby, this is Ms. Park,” you say quickly. “Thirty-five, right lower quadrant pain since early this morning. Nausea, no vomiting, low-grade fever at triage. Tenderness at McBurney’s point. I’ve ordered labs and a CT abdomen to rule out appendicitis.”

Robby nods once. “That sounds appropriate.”

Ms. Park sighs.

“Alright,” she says, a little more pleasantly now. “If that’s what you recommend.”

She doesn’t even look at you as she says it—her eyes stay fixed on Robby, softening in a way that makes you briefly consider poking her appendix again.

Not that you can blame her.

Your gaze flicks to Robby, wondering if he’s noticed the sudden change in demeanour—or the way she’s practically making heart eyes at him.

But he isn’t looking at Ms. Park.

He’s looking at you.

You clear your throat, quickly glancing back down at your tablet. “Uh—that’s good. Great. I’ll finish the orders now, and a nurse will be by shortly with some pain relief.”

Ms. Park gives you a brief nod before turning back to Robby with a smile that makes you want to roll your eyes. Robby just nods, squirts a pump of sanitiser into his hand, then steps out of the room—and you try not to follow too closely.

You slide the curtain shut before turning into the hall, half expecting Robby to be gone—but he isn’t. He’s still standing there, holding his tablet in one hand while the other scrubs at his jaw in that mildly anxious way it always does.

“Nice work in there,” he says without looking up.

Heat floods your face.

“Thanks,” you say with a tight smile. “And thanks for backing me up.”

He glances at you over the top of his glasses.

“You had it handled.”

You clutch your tablet to your chest. “Well—uh—thanks anyway.”

Then, before you completely lose the ability to function, you turn on your heel and start down the hall—but not fast enough to miss Dana’s voice.

“Careful, Robinavitch,” she says dryly. “You’re hovering.”

“I supervise,” Robby mutters.

Dana hums.

“Uh-huh. I’ll pretend I believe that.”

Hovering?

You tighten your grip on your tablet as you hurry down the South hall, pretending you know where you’re headed.

Robby wasn’t hovering. He was just doing his job. Right?

He hovers around every resident and med student.

It’s not like he was—

You shake your head.

No—Dana’s just teasing. It’s her thing. It’s practically her love language.

You stop short when you reach the end of the hall. Elevator ahead. Restrooms to your right.

Nowhere else to go.

“You okay, Doctor?” McKay asks, stepping out of the ladies’ room.

You blink. “Uh—yeah, I just—”

You’re not sure what excuse to use now—standing in the middle of the hall, staring at the elevator, white-knuckling your tablet like you’re one bad patient away from a psychotic break.

“You look like you’re buffering,” she says, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Why don’t you take a break?”

You shake your head. “I don’t need a break.”

Her brows lift as she gently places a hand on each of your shoulders, turning you back the other way. “Alright. Well, why don’t you go sit down and catch up on your charting?”

She starts guiding you slowly back up the hall.

“Charting,” you echo, a faint frown forming between your brows. “Yeah. That’s a good idea, actually. I haven’t done much all day.”

She nods. “See? I’m full of good ideas. And you are seriously concerning me today.”

You give her a look. “I’m fine. Everyone is just being—”

“Caring?” she offers.

You roll your eyes. “Overbearing.”

She shakes her head, laughing quietly as she steers you toward the nurse’s station.

“Here,” she says, pulling out a chair in front of a vacant computer. “Sit.”

“Yes, ma’am,” you mutter, dropping down at the desk.

She steps behind you, pushes the chair in, then leans over your shoulder.

“Good girl,” she murmurs.

Your entire spine locks.

“What was that?”

McKay straightens, already grinning.

“Charting,” she says lightly, tapping the monitor. “Try it.”

“But—you just—”

She laughs under her breath, already backing away.

“Finish your notes, doctor. You don’t want to have to stay late.”

Then she’s gone, shaking her head again as she disappears back toward triage.

You sit there for a few seconds longer than you should, staring after her while your brain desperately tries to reboot.

“Fucking Santos,” you mutter, finally turning back to the computer.

“You called,” Santos says, appearing on the other side of the desk.

Your eyes snap up. “You.”

Her brows lift. “Me?”

“Yes,” you snap. “You’ve been telling people.”

She tries—and fails—to suppress a smile.

“Not technically.” She leans forward, resting both forearms on the counter. “I only told Huckleberry, but McKay overheard. Can you blame me, though? It’s the most interesting thing to happen around here today.”

“Yes,” you hiss. “I can blame you. And I will blame you if—”

You stop, your eyes flicking past her to where Robby has just stepped out of C8, chart in hand and head bowed. Santos frowns for a second before following your gaze over her shoulder.

She snorts. “Oh my God. You can’t even function.”

“Who can’t function?” Whitaker asks, stepping up beside Santos.

You drop your head into your hands and sigh. “Great. They’re multiplying.”

Santos leans closer. “Hey, what’s the song that plays in your head whenever he walks past? Is it, like, SexyBack, or more… Like a Prayer?”

Whitaker snorts softly, his cheeks turning pink.

You glare at Santos. “Neither.”

“You’re right.” She nods thoughtfully. “I can practically hear the Careless Whisper sax playing in your mind right now.”

Your eyes go wide as you snatch a pen off the desk and lob it straight at her—but she dodges it easily.

“Wow,” she says, still laughing. “I’m on fire today.”

“Is that so, Dr. Santos?”

You recognise the voice before you even see him—because of course you do. You dream about that voice.

“That would mean you’ve caught up on all your charting and discharged your patient in North One?” Robby asks as he steps up beside Santos.

Her grin drops. “Uh—yeah. Actually, I was just on my way to North One.”

Her eyes slide back to you as she pushes away from the desk, lips pressed tight to keep herself from laughing.

“Dr. Whitaker,” Robby says. “Are you hovering?”

Hovering?

Whitaker glances up. “Oh—uh—no. I was just finishing some orders.”

“Good. You can finish them on your way to discharging South Twenty.”

Whitaker nods, barely even glancing at you as he grabs his tablet off the desk and turns toward the South hall.

Then Robby looks at you, holding up the pen you threw at Santos.

Your pulse stutters.

“Think you lost this,” he says, leaning forward to drop it on the desk.

“I threw it,” you blurt.

He hesitates, the corner of his mouth twitching before he turns away.

“I know.”

You watch him go until he turns a corner and disappears—then you look down at the pen.

“Fuck,” you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “I need today to end.”

You slide the pen aside and force your attention back to the computer—to the cursor blinking patiently beside the single word you’d managed to write since sitting down.

Right.

Charting.

You manage exactly four more words before you’re interrupted again—something about your abdominal pain patient in Central Nine.

With a sigh, you push away from the desk, grab your tablet, and head for C9.

After confirming Ms. Park does indeed need an appendectomy and contacting Garcia for a surgical consult, Dana stops you in the hall to ask if Mr. Mullens can be discharged from South Sixteen. Then Javadi grabs you to present a calf laceration that you end up supervising while she sutures it, and after that Whitaker calls you in for a second opinion on a dizziness patient in North Five.

The hours start to blur together. You bounce from one room to another, just barely finishing your notes in between patients and med students and reviewing labs. By the time you finally make it back to the desk again, you’ve almost—almost—forgotten about why your heart is still beating a little too fast.

“Back to charting?” Princess asks.

You nod. “The never-ending task.”

She gives you the same quiet, speculative smile she gave you this morning.

“You seem off today,” she says.

“I’m fine,” you mutter. “Just tired.”

“And red,” she adds before turning away.

You frown, pressing a hand to your ridiculously hot cheek as you turn back toward the computer. If this keeps up, you’re more likely to end the shift as a patient than a doctor.

With a small sigh, you scoot your chair closer to the desk and pull the chart back up. Your eyes flick to the corner of the screen, to the little clock telling you that you only have a few hours left. A few hours to finish your charting, discharge a couple more patients, and keep avoiding Dr. Robby. Then you’re free. Then you’ve got at least eight solid hours to sort yourself out before you’re back here tomorrow.

Just as you position your fingers over the keyboard to start typing, your phone vibrates in your pocket—and your pulse jumps.

Abbot.

You quickly pull it out, swipe up, and open the notification.

Sorry. Too busy mourning the loss of my status as your favourite attending.

Your stomach drops.

What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

You stare at the text for an unreasonable length of time—heart pounding, face burning, thoughts racing. Abbot definitely thinks he knows something. Something he shouldn’t know. Something he’s probably very wrong about. Something you need to figure out and shut down immediately.

Before he decides to say something to Robby about whatever it is he thinks he knows.

“Hey,” Dana says, stopping on the other side of the desk. “Thought you were working?”

You clear your throat. “Uh—yeah. Sorry. Got distracted.”

Her brows lift. “Distracted, huh? That’s exactly what we want in emergency medicine.”

Then she shakes her head and walks away.

You tuck your phone into your pocket and turn your attention back to the chart in front of you. The chart of exactly five words—the first of many unfinished charts standing in your way of going home on time.

And today is not a day you want to stay back.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard again, eyes flicking over the few words already written. It takes a minute—probably longer than it should—but eventually you remember how to do your job and start typing.

The ER fades into background noise—monitors beeping, nurses chatting, the rumble of beds rolling past—and for the first time all day, you feel focused. Steady. Until—

“Robby,” Dana calls, “can you come over here for a sec?”

Your fingers slow over the keys—and against your better judgment, you glance up.

“Mrs. Alvarez,” Robby says fondly. “What brings you here?”

Your brows draw together as you study the older woman sitting on the bed. She looks familiar, and Alvarez rings a bell, but you can’t quite place it.

“Perlah,” you say, without fully looking away from the woman. “Who’s Mrs. Alvarez?”

“She used to work here,” Perlah replies. “She was the night shift charge nurse before Lena. Partially retired a couple years ago, but she’s covered a shift or two since then.”

You tilt your head. “Oh.”

“She probably asked for Robby,” Princess chimes in. “She always had a soft spot for him.”

Perlah tries to muffle her laughter. “Katulad ng ibang kakilala natin.”

Princess laughs behind you, but the sound barely registers. You’re too captivated by the scene unfolding in front of you. The very normal, very professional interaction that is hardly out of place in an ER—yet for some reason, it feels like you’re watching an adult film made specifically for you.

Mrs. Alvarez’s bed is parked up against the wall—a sight that would normally remind you to look for patients to discharge, but right now that’s the furthest thing from your mind.

Robby has pulled a stool up beside her, leaning in while she talks, forearms resting loosely on the bed rail. He nods along as she explains what’s wrong, his expression soft, his posture relaxed. There’s absolutely nothing obscene about it—but your pulse is still racing.

There’s just something about the way he listens—really listens—that makes it difficult to look anywhere else. That makes it difficult not to envy Mrs. Alvarez right now.

“Let’s take a listen,” he says after a moment, voice low and steady.

Your stomach does a strange little flip.

It’s such a normal sentence. Completely harmless. Totally professional. You’ve probably said the same thing yourself at least three times today. But hearing it in that voice—calm, warm, just rough enough at the edges to carry across the department—does something deeply unhelpful to your concentration.

He slips the stethoscope from around his neck, the tubing sliding through his fingers with the kind of easy familiarity that only comes from years of doing the same motion over and over again. The movement is quick, practiced, almost absentminded.

Still, your eyes follow it.

They follow the way he leans forward, one hand bracing lightly against the mattress while the other presses the diaphragm of the stethoscope gently against Mrs. Alvarez’s chest.

“Deep breath for me.”

Your pulse stutters.

Because suddenly—unhelpfully, vividly—you remember exactly how those hands felt in the dream.

The same steady fingers. The same calm voice, dropped just a little lower when he leaned close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath near your ear.

His hand had been wrapped around your wrist—firm but careful—guiding your hand above your head and pinning it against the pillow.

“Hold still,” he murmured.

The memory is sharp enough that for a second you can almost feel it again. The weight of his body pressing into the space between your knees, the quiet authority in his voice when he spoke, the way his fingers tightened against your skin just enough to keep you right where he wanted you.

Your hands had curled into the bed sheets as his lips traced the line of your jaw, his voice dropping again—softer now, almost thoughtful.

“Look at me.”

Your breath had caught in your throat when you did.

Because he was watching you the same way he watches patients—calm, focused, completely absorbed—except the attention felt different in the dream. Slower. Heavier. Like he was studying every reaction you gave him and deciding exactly how much more you could handle.

Your pulse had started racing the second his gaze dropped to your mouth.

It wasn’t subtle.

Just a brief shift of his eyes—thoughtful, almost curious—but the heat that followed it made your stomach tighten.

His thumb found its way back to your jaw, tracing slowly along the curve of it as if he were considering something. Following the line of your chin as he tipped your head back just slightly beneath his hand.

You hadn’t realised you’d stopped breathing until his fingers stilled.

“Breathe,” he said quietly.

The word brushed over your lips.

You remember the way your chest rose when you obeyed him—slow, unsteady—and the way his gaze followed the movement before drifting back to your mouth again.

God.

The corner of his mouth had lifted slightly then, like he’d noticed exactly what he was doing to you.

Like he wasn’t in any hurry to stop.

His hand slid from your jaw to the side of your throat, fingers warm against your skin, thumb resting just beneath your chin as if he were holding you there—not tightly, just enough that you stayed exactly where he wanted you.

And the entire time he watched you with that same quiet concentration.

Like this was just another thing he was very, very good at.

“Hey,” Santos says, appearing beside the desk. “Your abdominal pain in C9 just went upstairs.”

You blink at her. “Already?”

She shrugs. “Garcia signed off.”

You nod once, shifting awkwardly in your chair as you turn back toward the computer, trying very hard to ignore the heat pooling low in your belly.

“You good?” Santos asks, as if you haven’t been asked that enough today.

You clear your throat, eyes flicking briefly back to Robby and Mrs. Alvarez. “Yeah. Fine.”

She follows your gaze, the corner of her mouth twitching.

“Wow,” she says. “You’re down bad.”

You glare at her. “I’m charting.”

“You’re drooling.”

You quickly lift a hand to your mouth, swiping at the corner.

Santos smirks. “Metaphorically.”

“Fuck you,” you mutter.

“Fuck who?” Whitaker asks, appearing beside Santos.

Santos grins. “Well, it depends who you’re asking, because if you ask—”

“Santos,” you warn.

She laughs. “Come on. It’s just a joke.”

“Isang biro?” Princess says, smiling. “Walang nakakatawa sa paraan ng pagtitig niya kay Robby.”

Your stomach drops.

You might not understand Tagalog, but you sure as hell know what that last word was.

“Santos,” you say, slowly rising from your chair. “How many people have you told?”

She presses her lips together sheepishly. “Again, technically? Just Huckleberry.”

“And—and I haven’t told anyone,” Whitaker adds quickly.

“Ano ang pinag-uusapan nila?” Perlah says behind you.

Princess shrugs. “May alam lang na sikreto si Santos.”

Your eyes widen. “Santos, I swear—”

“Relax,” she says. “They’re not talking about the dream. They were talking about your staring.”

Princess steps forward. “A dream? What dream?”

You bury your face in your hands. “Oh my God.”

“Wait,” Perlah says. “Did she have a dream about—”

Santos smirks. “Yep.”

“Oh,” Princess gasps. “That’s why she’s been so weird today.”

Perlah snorts.

Princess mutters something else in Tagalog that makes them all laugh again.

“Oh my God, Santos!” you say again, louder this time. “I’m just trying to get through the day without my attending finding out I had a sex dream about him and you’re telling the entire emergency department?”

Silence.

Perlah is staring at you.

Princess is staring at you.

Whitaker looks like someone has just pulled the fire alarm inside his head.

And Santos—

Santos is very carefully not looking at you anymore.

“What?” you snap. “No more jokes?”

No one answers.

Instead, Princess’s eyes flick slowly past your shoulder.

Whitaker clears his throat.

Santos presses her lips together, the corners twitching like she’s fighting for her life not to laugh.

“What?” you repeat, glancing over your shoulder.

And there he is.

Your attending—standing just a few feet from the nurse’s station, tablet still in one hand, glasses sliding slightly down his nose as he looks at you over the top of them.

Your stomach drops so violently it feels like all your organs have fallen out of your body.

He clears his throat.

Once.

“Alright,” he says evenly. “Back to work.”

That’s all it takes.

Perlah and Princess busy themselves on the other side of the nurse’s station.

Whitaker rushes off toward triage.

Santos lingers just long enough to give you a look that promises she will never let this go before she slips away too.

And then it’s just you.

And him.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment. Just adjusts the tablet in his hand, pulls his glasses off, folds them into the pocket of his scrubs, and turns away.

And as he steps away, you could almost swear you see the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Almost as if he’s fighting a smile.

But that would be ridiculous, right?

It takes an embarrassingly long time for you to remember how to move.

How to function.

You can feel Perlah and Princess watching you. Waiting for you to do something other than stare at the spot your attending had been standing when you announced your sex dream about him to the entire department.

God.

This has to be some kind of HR violation.

Robby is probably on his way to find Dana right now so she can tell you to go upstairs and talk to someone about misconduct. If you’re not fired, you’ll be transferred.

Or worse—night shift.

You gasp and fumble for your phone, pulling it out of your pocket.

Abbot's message thread is already open when you swipe up and start typing.

What’s that supposed to mean?

Then you hit send and tuck your phone away again.

It’s a ridiculous thought, but maybe if you can talk to Abbot and explain that this was all just one giant misunderstanding, maybe he can convince Robby not to hate you for it. Maybe he can convince Robby to let you finish your residency at PTMC without it being painfully awkward for both of you.

Because as funny as this is to Santos and the nurses, you’re not so sure Robby will see it that way.

Not when you’ve let it affect your work.

Not when you just embarrassed him—and yourself—in front of the entire emergency department.

You draw in a slow breath and grab your tablet off the desk.

All you can do now is your job.

All you can do for the next hour is avoid Robby and pray Abbot will hear you out when he comes back on shift.

You turn deliberately toward the North hallway and pull up the lab results for Whitaker’s dizziness patient, keeping your eyes fixed on your tablet as you walk.

The department hums around you like it always does—monitors beeping, beds rolling past, nurses calling out vitals—but you can still feel eyes on you. Whether it’s the nurses or the med students, or even a patient who overheard your outburst, you know you’re being watched.

Whispered about, probably.

But if you don’t look up, it doesn’t count. Right?

By the time you circle back to central, Mrs. Alvarez has already been discharged, which you take as a small mercy. Then you duck into South Fifteen to check on a teenager with a sprained ankle who is mostly interested in whether he can still play soccer this weekend. After that it’s a quick review of labs for a chest pain patient in Central Ten—normal troponins, thank God—and a brief stop at the nurse’s station to sign off on discharge instructions Dana has already printed.

None of it requires you to look up very much.

Which is ideal.

You spend the next half hour moving steadily from room to room—listening to a set of lungs for a persistent cough in North Three, answering a worried daughter’s questions about her father’s blood pressure in South Twenty-Two, and checking a set of repeat vitals on a dehydration case Princess flagged earlier. Every task is perfectly ordinary. Completely routine.

And through all of it, you make a very conscious effort not to look for your attending.

Not that you’re avoiding him.

Obviously.

You’re just… busy.

You still see him, though—across the hall, talking to patients, nodding along while med students present. He doesn’t look up. Never looks at you. Just keeps walking, keeps working, keeps nodding.

Like nothing happened.

And somehow, that’s worse.

You’re on your way back from dropping discharge paperwork at the front desk—walking a little slower than you should as you wonder how long until the end of your shift—when McKay calls out from triage.

“Hey, you busy?”

You stop mid-step. “Always. What’s up?”

“Can you grab me a suture kit?” she asks. “I’m out in here.”

“Of course. What size?”

“Four-oh nylon. Whatever's closest.”

You nod. “On it.”

“And maybe send a med student to grab more from supply,” she calls as you walk away.

You don’t reply. You just duck into Trauma One—thankfully empty—grab a kit, then call out to Ogilvie on your way back, telling him to go get more suture kits for triage as soon as he’s free. You don’t even wait for him to answer, but you do hear him turn to a nurse and ask where supply is.

You wedge your tablet under one arm as you head back toward the triage bay. With the kit held against your chest, you start peeling back the sterile packaging—since you know McKay’s already halfway through cleaning whatever it is she needs to suture up.

You’re just being helpful.

But the plastic seam is stubborn, and just as you turn into the bay the wrapper gives with a jerked tear—and the scalpel slides free.

You shift to catch it, but the blade grazes the inside of your upper arm before you can pull away.

“Oh—shit.”

It’s not dramatic. Just a sharp sting at first, and for a second you assume it’s nothing more than a scratch.

Until the warmth starts to trickle down your arm and drip from your elbow.

“Damn,” you sigh, watching a small droplet of blood hit the floor.

McKay glances up, eyes going wide. “What the hell happened?”

She quickly takes everything out of your hands, and you lift your arm to inspect the damage.

“Scalpel slipped.”

McKay winces. “That’s going to need stitches.”

Ignoring the confused patient still sitting in the triage chair, she grabs a wad of gauze off the cart and presses it against your arm.

“Hold this,” she says. “I’ll go get someone to take over here, then we can—”

“It’s alright,” a familiar voice says from somewhere behind you. “I’ll deal with this.”

Your stomach drops.

“Oh.” McKay glances over your shoulder, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Thanks, Dr. Robby.”

Fuck.

You turn slowly, one hand still clamped over the gauze on your arm.

He’s already so close—barely half a step away—and you have to tip your head back to look up at him.

“Let me see,” he says, voice low.

You hold your arm out obediently.

His fingers brush yours as he peels back the gauze, and your pulse jumps.

“Alright.” He nods once, something indistinguishable flickering across his face. “That needs stitches.”

Before you can respond, his hand closes lightly around your wrist, guiding your arm back toward your side as he turns you with him.

“Come with me.”

The touch is brief, professional—but when his hand shifts to the small of your back to steer you out of triage, the warmth of it makes your heart stutter out of rhythm.

“Dana,” he calls, walking quickly through central. “What’s open?”

Dana looks up from the desk just as the two of you pass. Her gaze flicks from the gauze on your arm to Robby’s hand still resting lightly at your back, and something sharp and knowing slides into her expression immediately.

“Central Eleven just got cleaned,” she says.

Robby nods once. “Thanks.”

Dana’s brows lift just a fraction as she watches the two of you step into the room, like she’s just connected several very interesting dots.

You move automatically toward the bed, trying not to feel disappointed when Robby’s hand leaves your back. He shuts the doors on both sides of the room, then slides the curtain closed—and every move makes your heart rate climb higher.

“Lay back,” he says.

Your whole body flushes with heat as you adjust yourself on the exam bed, trying desperately not to think about the other circumstances in which he might give you that instruction.

He rolls the stool beside the bed and reaches for your arm, turning it out gently.

His fingers are warm as he removes the gauze.

You try not to think too hard about his fingers.

“It’s a clean cut, at least,” he says after a second.

You nod. “Sharp blade.”

Like he didn’t already know that.

He releases your arm long enough to pull on a pair of gloves and gather what he needs from the tray beside the bed. You watch him move around the room with that same quiet efficiency that has been ruining your concentration all day—steady hands, calm voice, not a hint of hurry even though the department outside the door is probably chaos.

“Come a little closer,” he says, almost absentmindedly—as if he doesn’t know what saying something like that is going to do to you.

You shift against the mattress while he lifts your arm again, angling it under the exam light.

He’s so close now you can hardly breathe. You can feel his breath against your cheek, his warmth bleeding through the thin fabric of your scrubs, every touch careful as he starts cleaning the cut.

The antiseptic stings enough to make you tense.

“Easy,” he murmurs, steadying your arm. “It’s not that bad.”

“I’m aware,” you say quickly. “I do actually work here.”

“Yes,” he says mildly. “I’m aware of that too.”

You risk a glance at him then—and immediately regret it.

He’s standing now, leaning close enough that you could count every fleck of grey in his beard. Close enough to notice the way his glasses have slid slightly down his nose while he concentrates on the wound. His fingers move with careful precision as he prepares the needle driver, completely focused.

Completely calm.

Completely unaware that your brain is still stuck somewhere between the nurse’s station and a very inappropriate dream.

“Hold still,” he murmurs.

Your stomach flips—and when you squeeze your eyes shut, that exact moment from your dream flashes through your mind again.

The lidocaine burns for a second when he injects it, and you suck in a breath before you can stop yourself.

“Breathe,” he says automatically.

God.

If he could stop with the direct quotes from your dream, maybe you would actually be able to breathe.

You clear your throat, staring stubbornly at the wall now while he begins the first stitch.

“Try to relax,” he adds quietly.

You let out a short, incredulous laugh. “I’m trying.”

His hands pause for the briefest moment.

Then he glances up at you over the rim of his glasses.

“You of all people should know better than to open a suture kit while walking.”

You let out a small, embarrassed breath and shift slightly on the bed while he works, trying not to react every time the needle passes neatly through the edge of the cut.

“Sorry,” you mutter. “It’s been a weird day.”

“Mhm.”

The sound is absentminded, the same one he makes when a patient is explaining symptoms he already understands. His attention stays on your arm while he ties the knot and reaches for the next stitch, movements calm and precise, like this is the most ordinary thing in the world.

“You seemed a little distracted earlier,” he adds after a moment.

Your stomach tightens.

“Busy department.”

He hums again as he adjusts your arm slightly.

“Not exactly what I meant.”

You stare at the ceiling again, your pulse racing dangerously fast.

“It’s not unusual, you know,” he says after a moment, his voice calm and thoughtful as he works. “There’s actually quite a lot of research on it. In high-stress environments people’s subconscious tends to latch onto someone they admire rather than… straightforward attraction. It’s a way of organizing all that pressure—long hours, constant adrenaline, the need to trust the people around you.”

He pauses briefly to adjust the stitch.

You feel like you’re about to throw up.

“Hospitals are particularly good at creating that kind of dynamic,” he goes on. “Everyone’s exhausted, everyone’s relying on each other, and if there happens to be someone who seems steady in the middle of all that—someone people look to when things go wrong—it’s very easy for admiration to blur into something else.”

Another small pause, the thread tightening neatly under his fingers.

“It’s rarely intentional,” he adds, quieter now. “Most of the time the person experiencing it doesn’t even realise what their brain is doing.”

You finally look at him. His face is barely inches from yours, close enough that you can see the faint crease between his brows while he concentrates on the last stitch, all of his attention focused on closing the cut.

“Wait,” you say slowly. “So… I—I’m not fired?”

His hands still for the briefest moment before he glances at you, genuine confusion flickering across his face.

“Fired?”

You swallow. “For… you know. The thing I said. Out there. To the entire department.”

He huffs a small laugh—barely a breath.

“Why would you be fired?” he says mildly. “Embarrassing yourself in front of the nurses isn’t exactly grounds for termination.”

Your face burns.

He sets the needle driver down and reaches for the scissors, his tone settling back into that same calm, matter-of-fact rhythm.

“You shouldn’t have let it distract you from your work, though,” he continues. “That’s the only part I was concerned about. But one off day doesn’t suddenly erase an otherwise solid record.”

You stare at him.

“Concerned?”

“Mhm.”

He snips the suture, then reaches to adjust your arm slightly under the light, examining his work.

“First you were late,” he says, almost absently. “You were flustered during the chest tube. You’ve been avoiding traumas all day—” His eyes meet yours briefly. “And your attending. You’ve barely caught up on your charting, and you’ve unintentionally encouraged the nurses’ gossiping.”

Your stomach drops.

“Not to mention,” he adds, just a little drier now, “the pen you threw at Dr. Santos for—what? Teasing you, I presume.”

Your brain short-circuits.

Because suddenly, Dana’s voice echoes through your mind.

Careful, Robinavitch. You’re hovering.

Hovering?

Like the way he’d stood so close while you placed that chest tube. The way his hand had settled at your back when he guided you out of triage.

Why was he even there to begin with?

Santos’ voice cuts through your mind next.

I swear he’s got a soft spot for you.

I’m pretty sure he’d go there if you asked.

And suddenly the entire day looks… different.

Not like an attending keeping an eye on his resident.

Like a man trying very hard not to make it obvious he was paying attention to you.

Robby smooths the edge of the dressing over the sutured cut, pressing it down carefully as he glances back up at you.

“Keep that dry for the next—”

And that’s the moment your brain finally catches up.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, your hand shoots out and grabs the front of his scrubs, fingers bunching the fabric at his chest as you pull him the few inches closer.

Then you kiss him.

It’s not graceful.

It’s barely even planned.

Just a quick, impulsive press of your mouth against his—warm and startled and over almost as soon as it begins.

For half a second, he doesn’t move at all.

“Oh—fuck. I—”

You drop his shirt like it’s suddenly on fire and lean back on the bed, horrified.

“I’m so sorry,” you blurt. “I don’t know why I just—”

The apology dies halfway through, because Robby hasn’t stepped away.

He hasn’t leapt back, shocked or offended. He’s just… there.

Where he was when you grabbed him—close enough that you can still feel his warmth, with one hand resting lightly near your arm where he’d been finishing the dressing. For a second he simply watches you, studying your face with the same quiet concentration he uses when he’s working through a diagnosis, like he’s trying to decide whether the last thirty seconds actually happened.

Your pulse is hammering.

“I shouldn’t have—” you try again.

His hand lifts.

The movement is slow, deliberate, and before you can finish your sentence his thumb and forefinger settle lightly around your chin, tilting your face upward just enough that you have to look at him.

Your breath catches.

He hesitates for the briefest moment, his gaze moving across your face as if he’s still weighing the decision.

Then he leans in.

The first contact is firmer than you expect—his mouth warm and solid against yours, the faint scrape of his beard against your skin as he adjusts the angle. His glasses are still on, the frame nudging the bridge of your nose when he shifts closer. His nose bumps yours before he tilts his head, finding a better position.

For a second it’s almost restrained.

Then it isn’t.

His grip on your chin tightens a fraction as he deepens the kiss, tipping your head back against the pillow while he leans over you. The change is sudden enough that your hands catch the front of his scrubs again without thinking. The fabric bunches in your fingers as he moves closer, the pressure of his mouth shifting—slower now but more certain, like he’s stopped pretending he’s about to pull away.

The beard you’d been trying not to notice all day brushes your cheek again when he moves, softer than you expected, and when his teeth graze your lower lip for half a second the sound that escapes you is embarrassingly honest.

He exhales quietly through his nose against your skin.

Not stopping.

If anything, the opposite.

His free hand comes down beside your shoulder on the mattress to brace himself as he leans over you, the movement tilting your head back further while his mouth finds yours again—deeper this time, the rhythm of it suddenly practiced enough to make your stomach flip.

Like this is something he hasn’t done in a while.

But definitely knows how to do.

And the entire time his thumb stays lightly under your chin, holding you exactly where he wants you while he kisses you like he’s still trying to decide whether this is a mistake—and losing that argument by the second.

You barely notice when he shifts closer again, the movement subtle but unmistakable, his hand tightening slightly against the mattress beside you as if he’s about to lean in further, about to let himself forget the door, the department, the fact that this is an exam room in the middle of a shift—

The curtain whips open.

“Been looking for you, Robinavitch—”

Abbot stops dead.

For half a second no one moves.

You’re still on the bed, Robby bent over you, your hands fisted in the front of his scrubs while his hand is still braced beside your shoulder.

Abbot’s gaze flicks from your grip on Robby’s shirt, to Robby’s face, to the dressing he’d just placed on your arm.

His eyebrows climb slowly toward his hairline.

“Well,” he says after a beat. “I wish I could say I'm surprised, but…”

Robby straightens immediately.

Not panicked. Not flustered.

Just very, very still for a second before he adjusts his glasses and steps back from the bed like he’d simply been finishing a routine procedure.

“Jack,” he says evenly.

Abbot folds his arms, the corner of his mouth already curling upward.

“Michael.”

The silence stretches just long enough for the humiliation to fully settle in.

Abbot glances at you again, then back at Robby.

“Should I come back later,” he asks mildly, “or are you two… just about done here?”

The heat that floods your face is instantaneous, and you slide off the bed so fast you nearly fall.

“Don’t get it wet for twenty-four hours, stitches out in a week unless there’s redness, swelling, drainage, fever—I know the drill,” you ramble, slowly backing toward the door.

Robby has already turned back to the tray, calmly disposing of the suture needle like none of this is remotely unusual. Only the faint redness creeping up the back of his neck gives him away.

Abbot doesn’t move. He just stands there, arms folded, with a look of deep theatrical satisfaction on his face.

“This,” he says pleasantly, “is exactly what I meant, by the way.”

Your stomach drops.

“What?”

His brows lift.

“Your text.”

Your eyes widen.

Abbot tilts his head, studying you for a moment before glancing toward Robby again.

“I mean, honestly,” he adds. “I leave you two alone for what—ten hours?”

“What day shift does is none of your business, Dr. Abbot,” you mutter, trying to slip past him.

Abbot’s mouth twitches.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” he says. “It seems very much like my business now.”

You snort, the sound escaping before you can stop it.

“Don’t be jealous,” you say, glancing over your shoulder as you step out the door. “He’s still your boyfriend.”

Behind him, Robby drops the gauze into the bin and gives a quiet shake of his head, laughing softly despite himself.

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs.

Abbot’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Your girl, huh?”

Robby scrubs a hand over his beard and turns away.

“Shut up.”

You’re not sure you were supposed to hear that last bit—but it makes your heart race anyway.

The second you step into the hallway, the emergency department crashes back in around you—monitors beeping, nurses calling for labs, a stretcher rattling past that you have to dodge. Almost like the last fifteen minutes never happened at all.

“Hey, Doc,” Princess calls from the nurse’s station. “North Five, dizziness patient’s daughter is looking for a doctor, but Whitaker’s stuck in chairs.”

“And Javadi needs you in South Seventeen,” Perlah adds. “Something about a rash.”

“Oh—and imaging’s back on your sprained ankle kid,” Santos says. “He’s asking when he can get out of here.”

You nod. “Uh—right. Okay, yeah. I’ll just—”

“Hey,” Dana cuts in, appearing beside you. “You okay? How’s the arm?”

You blink down at the fresh dressing like you’d almost forgotten about it.

“Oh. Yeah. It’s fine.”

She studies it for a second before her gaze drifts up to your face—and her brow lifts.

“Uh-huh,” she says slowly.

You frown. “What?”

“Nothing,” she says lightly, starting to walk away. “Just thought that looked like beard burn.”

She gives a small shrug, then glances back over the top of her glasses.

“But I know my doctors are far too professional for that.”

Your entire face goes hot.

You open your mouth—then close it again, because there is absolutely nothing you can say to that without making it worse.

Santos leans across the desk at the nurse’s station, squinting at your face.

“…Oh my God.”

Her eyes widen.

“Oh my God.”

Your stomach sinks.

Will this day ever end?

“four. handsome. deliciously so. body and face. rare,” bakugou laughs, boyish and booming, “thanks, babe.”

you feel uncomfortable, perspiration dribbling between your breasts, limbs heavy with exhaustion.

“what is that? what are you reading?”

still bakugou ignores you and continues reading from the paper, “five. successful and ambitious. six. good friend even though he pretends he’s not. protective!! seven. so gentlemanly, holding open doors, paying for dates, very clear on why he likes me.” ruby pupils flicker over to you, “that last one is bare minimum.”

then it clicks, about seven points too late. your head snaps over to him robotically, eyes about to fall out of your head. “where the hell did you find that! stop reading it! stop katsuki!”

you hop up from your seat on your sofa, speed like no other taking over you as you run across the room to grab at the paper in bakugou’s hands. his laugh only booms louder, holding the flimsy sheet in the air over your head as you jump like a child.

“seriously, don’t read anymore!” you shout, trying to hoist yourself up his larger body, using his arms and shoulder as a climbing frame.

nothing about bakugou budges, he just continues reading with the paper in the air.

“it’s getting good, baby!” he laughs, ignoring your jumps and furrowed brows, “eight. listens to me. really listens. makes me feel heard and remembers what i say.”

he looks down at you, whose fingertips are slapping the bottom of the paper. you recognise it all too clearly now. the pink ruled lines, the edges ripped out from one of your old notebooks. your handwriting. “that’s cute. i still listen to you, don’t i?”

“you’re not now! give it back!”

“i’m almost done, two more,” bakugou says, hooking his arm behind your back to keep you locked close to him. you’re both sweaty and sticky. you’ve got no choice but to listen, “nine. cooks. such a good cook! you added five exclamation marks there. ten. fulfils some of my love languages. some?”

“now stop.” you urge. he can’t turn the paper around. he can’t.

bakugou pecks your forehead, his cheeks blushed with all the compliments. he continues skimming the list, rereading it. 

“so this is why you chose to date me, huh?” he looks down at you, pours his lips, “c'mon gimme a kiss.”

if you just grab it out his hands, he won’t see the other side. with pros always comes—

he stops pouting at you.

“give me the paper. i wrote this all a few years ago!”

“if these are the pros, where’s the cons? you must have done a cons list.” 

you shake your head, side to side. he holds the paper away from you. the opposite side, the list of all your cons, written back at you. you loop out of his arm, trying to reach for it.

he notices you staring, eyes fixated and that’s when he flips the paper around. CONS in big red capital lettering.

“this is private! you weren’t meant to see this, you shouldn’t be snooping in my room!” you squeak but bakugou’s already half down the page, pupils running across every line like he’s in a race.

“one. WILL choose his job over me—,”

“well obviously, your job is to save the world!”

“two. odd relationship with his mother? but apparently it’s better than before.”

“it’s so much better now!”

bakugou’s eyebrows drop now, voice getting lower as he continues, “three. argumentative. argues with EVERYONE. his agency workers, the media and his friends.”

“i understand why you argue with them all now! it makes sense!”

“three. his job is terrifying.”

bakugou looks over to you, solemn narrowed eyes and you don’t have a positive word to say about that.

“it is, sometimes i don’t know if you’ll come home.”

“four. he doesn’t do much else besides work. all his friends are from work.” bakugou pinches his nose bridge, “really? you think that?”

“now i don’t! and i know they’re childhood friends and… and we do things together all the time. i know you love to read, game, you’ve got your lego. i didn’t know all of that then.”

“five. don’t know if my friends and family will understand.” bakugou steps away from you, “the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

you huff on the spot, “this was from when i met you! all they’ve seen of you is shouting and yelling on the television. they didn’t know how lovable you are. how well you treat me.”

bakugou looks at you, then back at the paper. scratches his head. “six. inexperienced with sex but it’s really cute. has never had a girlfriend?”

“but number one pro is that you know how to use it. obviously we’re experienced now, we know everything about each other,” you flick your finger between you and your boyfriend. 

“and the girlfriend comment? i can’t help the fact you’re my first.”

“no, i mean yes i know that. it was just a question as to why. it doesn’t mean anything to me now.”

“but it was a factor in whether you wanted to be my girlfriend,” he states.

“well, yeah,” you drawl, “i thought maybe there was a reason as to why. that’s all.”

bakugou raises his eyebrows, looks back at the sheet, “seven. doesn’t always have time for me. travels a lot for work.”

“that hasn’t changed.” bakugou grunts. it’s something he knows you struggle with while dating him. it’s even been a conversation you’ve had a few times throughout your relationship. quality time. you want to spend more time with him but he simply can’t. 

you sigh, grabbing his chin between your fingers so he looks directly at you. his eyes are half lidded, cheeks red and exhausted from the negativity and heat. “we’ve been through this. i’m still gonna stick by you, everything i love about you means more than all the things i find difficult.”

he takes your palm away from your face and squeezes it. but you can tell he’s feeling off. “the last one. eight, he’s surrounded by beautiful women all the time.”

“you’re with celebrities, pro heroes, socialites a lot,” you shrug, “that was jealousy on my part, nothing to do with you.”

“i don’t give a fuck about any of that.”

you nod sharply, “i know! i wrote this a while ago, two years even? a lot has changed.”

bakugou sighs from the pit of his stomach, then flings his head back in a huff. “fuck, baby.” he groans.

then he looks down at you, looking up at him.

“just wanna put it out there, that was private, you weren’t meant to see that, my opinions have now changed and i’m sure you had a mental pro con list for me. i just wrote mine down.”

bakugou folds the paper, “yeah, yeah, i get it. you hate my job that much, huh? it covered half of the fuckin’ cons.

“i also said i liked you were successful and ambitious.” you sit on the back of the sofa, crossing your arms. 

bakugou mirrors you standing, crossing his arms too. “but nothing about my job has changed since we’ve got together.”

you groan, leaning your head on your shoulder, “katsuki, i think you’re making problems out of nothing here.”

“you made a list of the problems with datin’ me.” he frowns, holding the folded paper between two fingers.

“and a list of the reasons why i wanted to date you. obviously the good reasons won if i’m with you now.” you glare at him with a sharp tone.

he begins to pace around the room, paper still in hand. a terrible sign. you watch as sweat trickles down his skin, body flush with heat.

“but, babe. the problems you’ve had with me from before we were dating are still problems now. i still don’t have time for you, you still are terrified every time i’m minutes late from a mission, you don’t think i’d choose you over my job and you don’t think i do anything but work.”

you moan aloud, “and i still want you despite that all. i get the world needs you, heck, i need you if i come across a villain. i don’t hate you for being a hero.”

he stops behind you, on the other side of the sofa, “i don’t want you to resent me when you realise you could have been with someone who does have more time for you, isn’t obsessed with their job, can put you first and doesn’t scare you.”

you hop off the sofa. leaning your forehead on his collarbone. “katsuki. i wouldn’t be here if i didn't want to be. i love you. i choose you everyday. i don’t want to argue with you.”

bakugou doesn’t touch you. there’s a shake to his voice, “i’m sorry i’m not better. i’m gonna try to be. just wait for me, fuck, maybe when i’m slower and the younger lot take over, they’ll need me less. it’s just now—,”

“it’s okay. you have time for me right now but you wanna argue with me," you pout up at him.

“you did put that i’m argumentative,” he looks away from you as your hands link around his neck. 

“look at me.”

shiny lava red pupils find you. you ground him, takes him out of the what ifs and the failures of his past and places him in the present with you. 

“i have dated bakugou katsuki for two years and i love him so much. i love how kind and generous he is, always putting his loved ones first. how he dedicates his life and body to saving the world. how even if he’s tired from a long week of working, he still comes over to cook me a three course meal because he wants to see me eat his food. who was so open and willing to change for me. to change his routines and learn my body. who is argumentative because he wants to make things right. who wanted so hard for my family and friends to love him and manages to see his mother once a week just to check up on her.”

you search in both his eyes and he’s listening, he always is.

“i can write an updated list for you, if you want.”

he shakes his head, stuffs his forehead into your neck and slowly pushes you down into the sofa. you laugh, his hands plastered into your waist as his body crushes you in the plush cushions ever so slightly.

“‘m sorry. i shouldn’t have read it. even though i enjoyed the pros.” he muffles, lips tickling your skin.

you tap his shoulder. “you shouldn’t have but it’s okay. i still need you to get my fan. it’s hot.”

“promise you’ll tell me if you want somethin’ to change between us. i’m not wakin’ up one day to you leavin’ me for a reason right under my nose.” he urges and you can see him pleading. the desperation for you to agree.

“promise. now you promise me.”

“course i promise. i couldn’t even fill out ten reasons as to why i hate you.”

“i didn't say i hate you. and sure you can. you hate my cold feet. you hate how i moan about my job. you hate how i hate your job. you hate how i always want a massage. you hate how i wait until the last minute when you’re tucked up in bed for you to get me a glass of water. you hate how i’m indecisive for what i want for my birthdays and—,”

bakugou sits up, “i don't hate any of that shit. love listenin’ to you and half that shit is cute as hell.”

you pout, “you hate when i wear low cut tops out—,”

he frowns, “that’s foreplay, baby. you let me suck your tits after to make me happy. couldn’t give a shit what you wear.”

“how about how protective my friends are? and the fact i tell them everything?”

bakugou shrugs, “you deserve friends that love you that much and that you can tell everythin’.”

“i get snappy when i’m running late or too much is going on or i’m hot.”

with that bakugou gets up. your fan. though not without hovering over you to give you a peck. then another. you press your soft lips against his though you don’t open up because then you will get even hotter and snappy.

he pulls off you and rises from the sofa, “that makes sense, baby. you’re stressed and uncomfortable.”

you roll your eyes, “stop being so understanding!”

he walks towards your bedroom, but not without turning around to look at you. his fingers grip the door frame, “i love you.”

Going on a reluctant search was never necessary to begin with, though, because there you were all along... From the very beginning, ahead of his filing for legal separation.

Before Sammy made you a happy little housewife, you'd been a waitress at a local diner, which he soon began to frequent after every shift, in an attempt to unwind and decompress before going home to a wife he resented.

You were a balm to his ragged nerves. Always sweet and sociable, and willing to lend an ear to listen to his woes when he actually had the energy to speak.

It gutted him that you were working ten hour shifts—and on sneakers that were being held together with naught more than duct tape, at that (he always felt guilty anytime he left you less than a $30 tip, even if all he ordered that evening was a glass of ice water). Meanwhile, Tammi was at home getting high with a damn teenager who stole something he stretched himself so fucking thin over to provide her with in the first place.

He should've known photography was going to be another whim just because she was bored.

At that, instead of being thankful, she instead reminded him of how he wasn't enough—or doing enough—when she harped on and on over the phone about wanting to move into a house he could never dream of affording while he was just trying to do his goddamn job.

Pushing it all down, his anger manifested in other ways before long.

It made him seethe watching other men put their hands on you when you came by to refill their coffee, or bring them their ordered meals because they somehow felt entitled to you.

When he started pulling his badge to get them to back the fuck off, or leave altogether, is when he knew that he was absolutely whipped.

Whenever Sammy would try to flirt, though, your eyes would always drift to that bothersome gold band that he desperately wanted to flush down the toilet and forget about entirely.

He was fucking terrified of losing you.

So, he filed and risked half of everything—his savings, pension, personal property, and financial assets—just for a chance at having something better by your side before the day finally came where you either disappeared from the diner's outdated interior in search of more favorable prospects elsewhere, or you slipped through his fingers altogether while another man put a wedding ring on one of yours.

No more does Sammy come through the front door and toe off his black rubber boots before you suddenly appear before him. Pressing yourself affectionately to his chest, you wind your arms tightly around his neck and grant him a soft peck on the lips.

"Welcome home," you whisper. Running your fingers through his soft auburn curls, you rest your forehead gently against his. "How was your day?"

Snaking his arms around your waist, your husband gives you a careful squeeze while a contented smile crawls its way across his lips and feeling of uncontainable warmth fills his heart. "Better now."

Sliding a heavy palm over your swollen belly, the corner of Sammy's lips twitches when your little one kicks excitedly.

"He missed his daddy as much as I did," you murmur.

Falling back a step, you tug Sammy past your two's cozily decorated living room. "Go ahead and take a hot shower. Dinner's just about ready."

He smooths a hand down the back of your head. "Did you—"

"Grocery list is all checked off," you remark with a confident nod. "And the gentleman at the auto store even changed my wiper's for me."

He frowns slightly. "I could've done that, baby."

You pad into the kitchen. "Think it's just something they do," you state with a shrug. "One less thing for you to worry about."

Squeezing your backside, you squeak quietly while Sammy chuckles and heads back to the bathroom to wash up.

It's always the little things that she would've never even dreamed of considering which repeatedly confirms that he made such a great fucking choice in his second spouse. Like a carefully folded pile of clothes waiting on the edge of the bed for him to change into after bathing.

Happy wife, happy life indeed.

While Sammy is all too happy to be chowing down on a heaping plate of steaming hot wings, and sipping from a cold bottle of beer in-between hearty bites after suffering through a grueling day amongst the crime-riddled streets of LA, he's acutely aware of how quiet you are tonight.

Maybe the grocery shopping should've waited until he could make a trip out this weekend instead. You already do so much. What, with cooking and cleaning and growing his baby in your womb...

Tacking on a trip to Sam's Club was a task that should've been placed on his calendar, he thinks, not on yours that's already so full.

When it came to Tammi, what he wanted mattered little, if at all. But he fears with you—since you never tell him no—that you somehow feel obligated to meet his every demand because he's the breadwinner in the relationship.

You even went so far as to encourage him to sign a prenup incase he "decided he made a huge mistake" and "wanted to undo it with no financial fallout."

Sammy refused to allow papers to be put between you, though. Not a single one.

No way in hell, because he was sure this time.

He just hopes that you don't feel...trapped.

Are you happy? Do you feel safe, loved, protected, and appreciated? Worshipped?

He nudges your socked foot beneath the round wooden dining table you're both seated at, and smiles when you look at him. "You okay, baby?"

You nod and nibble on a piece of chopped celery that's drenched in ranch. "Just tired."

Sam's well of worry deepens.

"Alright," Sammy groans while dragging you into his lap now that you're both in bed. "You gonna finally tell me what's been on your mind all evening?"

Your eyes flit to his and he immediately takes note of the look of hesitation he finds within.

Curling your fingers against the warm, freckled skin of his bare chest, you worry your lower lip between your teeth.

"Is it...somethin' I did?" he questions warily. "Are you—"

"No," you state softly while cupping his stubbled cheek tenderly in your hand. "It was something that happened at the store. I planned to tell you. I just... Wanted you to be fully settled in for the night before I did."

Gripping either of your hips, he leans back against the fluffed pillow behind him. "I'm all ears, angel."

"So..." you begin while resting a hand over his shoulder. "I was done shopping and went into the baby aisle to browse for a bit before I checked out. And..." you sigh exhaustedly. "Tammi was there."

He sits up the least bit straighter.

"Nothing happened, though," you swiftly reassure. "Apart from a verbal confrontation."

"Tell me," he insists.

"I felt like I was being stared at. Turned out I was right when I looked over my shoulder. There was a moment of recognition, which she commented on: Good, you know who I am," you relay in a snide voice meant to mimic her own. "I told her that I've seen photos. When she saw that I was pregnant, she sort of flew off the handle. Started screaming that I was a whore who stole her husband from her and destroyed her life. That I was a homewrecker, a slut..."

You shake your head while blinking back unbidden tears.

"Thankfully, an employee was nearby. He broke it up and threatened to call security on her if she didn't leave. Her being forced out of the store when she wasn't done shopping only set her off further. She was yelling the whole way out the door."

He squeezes his eyes shut to force down a broiling torrent of pent-up rage. "I'm so sorry, honey." Opening his eyes again, Sammy cups your shoulder—adjusting the strap of your nightgown where it's slipped down your arm. "Why didn't you call me?"

"I had food to get home and put away. If I did, I knew you would've come running." You chew your cheek. "Or you would've made things worse by having it out with her in the parking lot."

"This bitch..." he murmurs. "Sometimes I feel like no matter what I do, I'll never be rid of her."

"I wanted to tell her that it wasn't what she thought. That you and I never had an affair, but—"

"Not entirely true," he interrupts. "No, we never screwed before my marriage was dissolved, but there was definitely emotions being exchanged."

You rest a hand atop your belly. You've tried to give her grace; understanding in her numerous issues. But you think you've finally reached the end of your rope with it all.

No wonder he was so eager to have you instead after all the bull she put him through. She nearly made a monster out of a good man, but you've done your wifely duty and healed his troubled heart.

"Cunt," you whisper.

Sammy barks a laugh and leans forward. "I'm sorry, did my perfect little do-gooder wife just say what I think she did?" he inquires with an amused, toothy grin.

You study him from beneath hooded lids while smirking salaciously. "She never deserved you," you continue. "I'm the better woman."

Now it all comes out, he thinks with satisfaction.

"Yes you are," he rumbles while cupping your ass cheeks in both his hands and kneading the plump skin. "In every way."

"Mhm," you hum while slowly nodding. "Actually know how to keep house," you add. "I have dinner on the table every night, and I spend your hard-earned money wisely. Except for when you spoil me," you murmur with a shrug while grinding down against his semi-erect cock. "I do whatever you tell me to like a good girl."

"Shit," Sammy rasps while throwing his head back.

"I'm thankful for the home you've provided, and all the nice things you give me," you continue while leaning forward and trailing soft kisses along his chin. "I'm so lucky to have such a good man who gave me his last name. Who put his baby inside me where it belongs."

His cock stirs against your thinly-clothed pussy.

"Let me help you relax after such a long, hard day," you mutter while tugging off your nightgown.

Lying on your back in the middle of the bed, Sammy is resting back on his haunches while continually sliding his swollen, twitching cock between your shimmering lips.

Gripping the velvety shaft firmly in your fist, you plant a wet kiss atop the oozing mushroom tip before circling it lazily with your drooling tongue.

"Fuck, such a good girl for me," he utters.

You open wide, and Sammy eases his erection into the back of your throat. Cradling the base of your scalp in his palm, he rocks his hips and moans when you eagerly swallow what he gives you, just like always.

"You're right," he whispers while gazing down at you with unabashed adoration. "Better in every fuckin' way."

Most of your time is spent at his place so you can cook for him like you are tonight. Usually, while you wait for the food to finish, you find yourself cleaning up a little. The way he practically drops to his knees every time you take care of him has your sixth sense going off. 

You know it’s coming soon, him asking you to move in with him. Your female spidey-senses are primed to go off the second you find a man ready to commit. It is such a rare trait nowadays. 

It would be smart to say yes to him; you practically live with him already. But something is holding you back. No matter how much you care about him (maybe even love him), there is this gnawing thought that’s been plaguing you. Everything's been going good. 

Perfect, even. 

You’re crazy about each other, your fights are always resolved quickly, and he does anything he can to make you happy. But things are too easy, too conflict-free. Something bad is coming, you just know it. 

The lock clicks on the door, and you find yourself smiling, already untying your apron. Turning the heat down on the stove, you turn in time to see Sammy walking in. His face lights up as he sees you. 

He drops into your embrace the second you open your arms. You laugh a little, shifting your hips so his holster isn’t digging into you. He mutters into your neck how much he missed you, and you feel the rest of your carefully enforced independence shrink away. 

It’s inevitable. You’ve gone full housewife. 

“How was work?” You ask, dragging your hand through his hair as he pulls back. He shrugs you off, and you sigh, realizing this is going to be a man-no-talk-about-feelings night. He huffs and tosses his jacket on the kitchen island. 

Your gaze narrows, and you click your tongue once. Sammy’s eyes widen before he picks it up, moving it to the entryway closet. Where it belongs. 

“Good boy,” you murmur, smirking when you see the color that grows on his cheeks. 

He comes up behind you, arm winding around your waist. You glance down at his thick forearm and physically hold back the urge to dig your teeth into him. “God, sweetheart, this looks amazing,” he lets out a breathy exhale as he watches you finish up dinner. You grin, making him a plate as he lets go and takes a seat at the island. 

“Beer?” You ask, already getting it for him. I’m a traitor to my people, you think as you hand your man a cold one to go with the steak dinner you’d cooked. You’re making yourself your own plate when you catch him frowning at the stove. 

“What’s wrong?” He finally looks over at you and raises his brows. “I thought you liked this,” you tell him, nodding toward the food. 

He lets out a scoff and gives you an incredulous look. “‘Course I do, are you kidding? I love anything you cook.”

You fight back your smile at such simple praise. “Alright, why do you look like someone pissed in your beer, then?” 

His face screws up and you can’t help but laugh. Almost sheepish, he rubs the back of his neck, no longer meeting your eyes. “Got a couple guys from the station coming over.”

Shrugging, you finally take a bite of your dinner. Compliments to the chef, you think smugly. “What’s the big deal? Ben comes over all the time.”

Sammy moves his food around his plate and you glare down at the action. “They might be a little hungry.”

You let out an astonished scoff and he shrinks back with that boyish grin on his face that makes it nearly impossible for you to be mad. “Jeez, what am I, Sammy? Your girlfriend or maid? You know I don’t cook for any man.”

He glances down at his plate and then back at you with a pointed look. Rolling your eyes, you wave him off. “This is a rare exception because we have such amazing chemistry in bed. I swear, if you were an inch smaller down there, you’d be nuking stouffers.”

Sammy lets out a small huff of laughter that makes the constant tight feeling in your chest ease ever so slightly. “Glad to know what I’m worth. I’ll just order a pizza.”

“Shut up,” you tell him, already digging around in the fridge for some food to make his friends. You cut open a pack of kielbasa and toss it in a pan, your dinner going forgotten on the counter. Pointing a spatula at Sammy you warn him, “Don’t get used to this.”

He laughs at the sharp look on your face, his smile dropping when you pinch your lips, openly glaring at him. “Of course, sweetheart.”

You turn back to the stove with a weak sigh. “I’m only doing this because you’ve got that pathetic kicked puppy look on your face.” Quietly, he makes his way up to you, arms once again tugging you into his firm chest. 

“I promise,” he mutters into your neck, pressing a soft kiss there that has your stomach flooding with warmth. “I’ll make this up to you with my amazing bed chem,” he mocks. You laugh but it trails off as you melt further into him, an ache between your legs getting stronger the longer he kisses you. 

“You play dirty,” you mutter, and he smiles against your skin, knowing exactly what he’s doing. 

The guys he invites over seem nice enough. They’re loud, brash, and a little abrasive in the way your dad’s old friends used to be. Nothing you can’t handle or don’t expect from a group of off-duty cops. 

Though, your skin does crawl when you set the food out in the living room and you realize just the type of men you’re currently serving. Never ever again, you swear to yourself. There’s a knock at the door and you go to open it. 

A little piece of you relaxes when you look through the peephole and find Ben waiting on the other side. He smiles as you tug open the door. “Hey,” you greet, already pulling him into a hug. He presses a brief kiss to your temple and wraps his arm around your shoulder, pulling you back into the apartment. “You have no idea how relieved I am to see you,” you tell him. 

“Yeah?” He lets out a low whistle as he takes in the disaster area that is Sammy’s kitchen. “When’d you have time for all this?” He chuckles, plucking some of your leftover steak and popping it in his mouth. 

“When I skipped dinner,” you grumble, ignoring the concerned look he shoots you. “It’s just a one time thing,” you tell him. “Sammy’s seemed a little off lately, I figured he needed an easy night.”

“Yeah,” Ben walks up to you, hand once again finding your shoulder. “I’ve noticed that, too. Was getting a little worried.”

Any further conversation is interrupted as someone shouts, “Beer!” from the living room. You shoot Ben an astonished look that he only laughs at. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” Sammy trails off, eyes narrowing at Ben’s completely platonic touch on your arm. He walks over and swats his grip away, tugging you back into his chest. 

You let out a short chuckle at the amused look on Ben’s face. “I’ve been designated the beer wench,” you tell Sammy. He scowls, brows furrowing as he scoffs. 

“I’ll take care of it.” He reaches over for the dinner you’d abandoned and places it firmly in your hands. “Finish eating, sweetheart.” He doesn’t leave any room for argument, redirecting you to a seat as he points at Ben. “You’re with me, come on.” Ben shoots you one last grin before he helps Sammy carry the beer into the living room. 

The living room gets louder the longer they stay. For the most part, you manage to ignore it, flipping through your book as you pick at your dinner. 

“We need more dip!” Your brows furrow and you look up with a scoff. There’s no way they think you’re actually going to bring them any. Right?

Shaking your head, you settle back into your seat and resume reading. “Dip!” 

“Fuck me,” you mutter, shoulders tense as you work to ignore the assholes in Sammy’s living room. 

It’s not much longer until Sammy’s walking into the kitchen. His brows raise when he spots you at the table. You give him a tense smile that’s met with a confused frown. “I thought you were in my room.”

You shake your head, “Nope. Been in here the whole time.”

Sammy glances between you and the living room with a cute little furrow between his brows. “Can you hear us in there?”

“Oh yeah,” you scoff. “Loud and clear.” Your point is almost instantly proven by a loud round of jeering laughter that makes your skin shrink back. 

“Oh, well,” he hums, digging through the fridge to grab the dip. “How come you didn’t bring this?” He asks, holding up the container. 

Your eyes narrow sharply. “Maybe because it’s not the fifties and they’re grown men who can walk their asses into the kitchen themselves. Besides, you’re the only one I’m sleeping with, you’re the only one who gets to ask for it.”

A grin breaks out on his face as he walks over to you. You lean forward, chin tilting as his hand slides around your shoulder to cup the back of your neck. “I’ll get them under control,” he promises, pressing a lingering kiss against your lips. 

You just nod, head tilting as you admire his ass as he makes his way back into the living room. With a heavy sigh, you force yourself out of your chair and start cleaning up the disastrous array of dishes. 

Your hands are pruny and dried out by the time you’re done. So, with the most reluctant gait, you force yourself out into the living room to fetch your favorite lotion. A football game is playing on the TV at an obscene volume, but they seem to be ignoring it in favor of whatever card game they’ve got going on. 

Ben shoots you a small smile as he catches you creeping around the perimeter of the living room. Just as you’re about to sneak out, he calls your name, cutting through the buzz of chatter. “Gonna join us?”

His smug grin is met with a stare that promises death. “Oh, sure,” you grit out, wishing you could choke him out. Sammy waves you over and you perch on the edge of the couch’s armrest. “You winning?” You ask, glancing over his cards and finding yourself completely lost on whatever game it is they’re playing. 

One of his buddies lets out a loud laugh and Sammy’s cheeks go red. You’ll take that as a no. The guy reaches over, slapping Sammy’s shoulder. “Hey, who knows, maybe your little lady can be a good luck charm.”

“Don’t love that,” you whisper to Sammy as he takes you by the waist and pulls you onto his lap. 

“What,” he teases,  “you don’t like being my little lady?”

You slap at his shoulder and he just laughs. You make yourself comfortable, head resting in the curve of his neck as you watch a few more rounds of this odd game play out. It doesn’t seem that anyone’s particularly good at it. Every turn ends with someone muttering something obscene under their breath. 

When your brain has reached its threshold for drunken cheers, you turn your lips toward Sammy’s ear. “I’m going to bed,” you tell him. Already struggling to keep your eyes open. 

He peers over at you, eyes a little wide. “You’re staying the night?”

You pull back, slightly offended by his tone. “Don’t I always?” 

Something shifts on his face, this fleeting emotion that he doesn’t let you get a decent read on. “Yeah, yeah,” his tone is too light, so casual you don’t believe it. “I just don’t want us being loud and keeping you up.”

You just shake your head and press a firm kiss to his cheek. “You know I sleep through anything.” Balancing slightly on his shoulder, you push yourself up to your feet. 

“Calling it quits?” Ben asks, looking just as bored as you are. You just offer him a tired smile and move to head to Sammy’s bedroom. 

“Hey, sweetheart, you mind clearing some of this away so we can use the table?” Turning, you’re shocked to find one of Sammy’s buddy’s addressing you. Although, you’re not sure how you can be certain considering he doesn’t even look at you when he’s speaking, eyes too focused on his cards. 

“Excuse me?” You mutter, so taken aback you forget to tell him off. 

“You’re a doll,” he dismisses, swiping one of the other men’s cards. Stunned by the audacity and such blatant dismissal, you actually find yourself doing what he asks. It feels wrong as you bend down and scoop up the plates. You practically made them a feast, the least these assholes could do is help you clean up. 

With a low huff and a pointed glare at Sammy, you take the dishes into the kitchen. You don’t even want to clean them. You’ve already spent half an hour doing that tonight. But the idea of all this food being dried on the ceramic tomorrow disturbs you just enough to grab the sponge. 

Ben walks in from the living room, a couple of plates and glasses in his hands. He drops them by the sink and you send him a grateful smile. “Thought you were going to bed,” he muses, digging around in the fridge for another beer. 

A little bit of shame curls in your stomach as you clean up after the men in Sammy’s apartment. “Yeah,” you shrug. “I just don’t want to worry about this in the morning.”

He lets out a snort which snags a laugh from you. “Why would you worry? This ain’t even your place.”

Your hands still, soap and soggy crumbs dripping beneath your fingers as you hesitate to meet his eyes. “Well,” you force a cheeky smile and shrug. “Not yet, at least.” God, how pathetic are you?

He holds his hands up, surrendering even though you can see there’s more he wants to say. You watch him as he heads back into the living room and drop the dishes in the sink. You’re done for the night, you’ve done far more than you even wanted to. Sucking in a sharp breath you dry your hands and try to head back to bed. 

A quick, “Beer!” has you pausing at the threshold of the kitchen. It pains you, but you’re already in here and you don’t feel like looking petty in front of Sammy’s friends. Grumbling under your breath about men and getting off their fat asses, you pluck a beer from the fridge and plop it in the first outstretched palm you see. 

The man chuckles while Ben shoots you a surprised look. “Nice, Sammy. You’ve got her well-trained. Must’ve learned from the first marraige.” Your jaw actually drops as you stare at the balding man addressing your boyfriend. 

Another one pipes up, his laughter making your skin crawl. “Everyone knows the first is just a starter. It’s not until, at least, the third that you actually land a decent broad.”

You suck your teeth, staring pointedly at Sammy while you wait for him to pipe up. When he doesn’t, a low chuckle leaves you. “Hear that, baby? You got one more after me.”

Sammy finally meets your eye, just barely. His head ducks down as he shrugs. “They don’t mean it like that.” You let out an astounded gasp, looking around for anyone to support you on just how insanely backwards this whole conversation is. But the only one who will meet your eye is Ben and his stupid face just says “I told you so.”

“Right, okay.” You finally make your way into Sammy’s bedroom, just to grab your bag and turn your happy ass right around. “I’m going home, Sammy,” you call over your shoulder. 

“Wait- What?”

You hear Ben let out a little laugh while you grab your coat from the hook. “Hope you’re ready to get reacquainted with your right hand, man.” His tone is malicious. 

It’s strange, going to your own place after work. Not immediately starting on dinner. It’s a slight wake-up call that you’re committing too much of your time to a man who hasn’t even asked you to move in yet. 

Still, that doesn’t make you miss the smile he always greets you with any less. Tossing your coat on the back of your couch, you head into your kitchen. Your cabinets are hardly stalked, the majority of your meals taking place at Sammy’s apartment. Meaning your dinner tonight is going to be expired ramen and some saltines. 

You’ve had worse. 

Your phone rings just as you toss the ramen in the microwave. Glaring down at the screen you watch Sammy’s picture light up. Crossing your arms, you lean back on the counter and wait for it to stop. He immediately calls back and you decide to let him stew a bit. You allow three ignored calls before you finally pick up on the fourth. 

“Hey, sweetheart, where are you?” He’s doing a horrible job at masking the stress in his voice and it almost makes you smile. 

“I’m at my place. Where else would I be?” You turn to the microwave, watching as the water bubbles and froths over the lid of your ramen cup. Grimacing, you redirect your attention to Sammy. More importantly, the leftovers you know he has and you really want to dig into. 

“With me,” he supplies, laughter light and uneasy. 

You hum a little and shake your head. “I don’t know. Is this because you miss me? Or is it just because I’m so well trained?” You make zero effort to hide the venom in your tone. He should know he screwed up. He should have also already figured out that he was going to be put on a week-long sex probation after last night. 

Sammy lets out a low groan and you can picture the way he probably slides his hand across his jaw, eyes clenching shut. “I’m really sorry about that, honey. I swear, I told them off the second you left. I just got drunk and…”

“And… acted like the sort of jackasses I’ve already spent a lifetime dumping?” You supply for him. 

He lets out another low laugh and you hate how you find yourself smiling at the sound. “Exactly. So, would you come over? Let me make it up to you?”

You let out a sharp breath, eyeing your boiling dinner with disdain. “You’re lucky I don’t have anything to eat over here.”

You let yourself in with the key Sammy gave you. Not an invitation to move in, just an easier way for you to get in before him and have dinner ready. Maybe his friends were right, he does have you trained. 

Shaking away the disturbing thought, you narrow your eyes as Sammy walks out of the kitchen. He gives you that familiar smile of his you love and it takes every iota of self control not to return it. 

He frowns when you don’t reciprocate. “Really, sweetheart?” 

“What?” You take your coat off, kicking the door closed behind you. 

Sammy shoots you a flat look, palm finding a spot on your lower back as he guides you into the kitchen. “Is this how we’re playing it tonight? You want to be passive-aggressive?”

You scoff, some of your anger easing as you realize he’s made dinner, tonight. “I actually just prefer aggressive-aggressive, you should be happy I’m being passive.” Sammy just laughs and presses a firm kiss to your temple. 

“You’re impossible, you know that?” You hum, watching as he grabs two plates and drops them on the dining table. You follow him, moving to take a seat when his hands snake out and take a hold of your waist. 

“What’re you-” There’s no stopping the laugh that bubbles out of you as he tugs you onto his lap. And that knowing smile he sends you means he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. “Yeah, I’m the impossible one,” you scowl, but it’s defeated by the smile tugging at your lips. 

He reaches up, brushing some hair over your shoulder as he shifts you in his lap. He’s got a better view of your face now, his expression softening into something sincere.  “I really am sorry about last night, hun. There’s no excuse.”

You bite your lip, arm lifting to wind over his shoulders. Inside, you’re still fuming, raging at him for not even attempting to defend you, just letting those guys speak to you like you were some maid. But you’ve spent years being the “cool” girlfriend, always letting shit slide so that guys don’t get tired of you after a month. 

So, instead of doubling down, you lean down and kiss him. “It’s fine, Sammy,” you tell him. 

Unfortunately, the cool girl syndrome has and always will be a chronic blight on your life.

“We, uh, have a schedule, now,” he tells you. His eyes drop from your face, fiddling with a stray thread on your sweater, instead. 

You swat his hand away before he ruins the hem. “What do you mean?” 

“Every Thursday night,” he tells you, head resting against your shoulder as you pick at the food he made. “There shouldn't be any more surprise drop-ins for you.”

You let out a huff that he tenses at. As much as you want to object, you’ve been on the receiving end of one of his rants when he was first divorcing Tammi. She had never wanted to go to his office functions. Never wanted to meet any of his cop buddies. She was always so neurotic and steadfast in being as separated from his work as she could be. 

You didn’t want to do that. You weren’t looking to be the girl that shit on her man hanging out with his friends just because you don’t like them (cool girl strikes again). You don’t want his friends to be right, you don’t want to just be the stepping stone while he looks for the third wife. 

“Alright,” you acquiesce and he perks up. That stupid, crooked grin almost makes it worth it. “But that bar-wench shit isn’t ever happening again,” you warn him, tone icy as you pull him back by his hair, forcing him to meet your eyes. 

Sammy nods eagerly, “I know, baby. We’re just gonna order pizzas from now on, you won’t have to do a damn thing.” Your gaze narrows into something sharp and he offers a timid smile. “And for the rest of tonight, I’m at your beck and call, promise.”

Slowly, you loosen your grip on his hair, running your fingers through the curls. And the way he preens when you call him a “Good boy” almost makes you think his friends won’t be a problem. 

There’s a game on the TV, soccer or football, you don’t know. Sammy’s got it turned down low so you can focus on your book. He’d dropped onto the couch an hour ago and hasn’t found the energy to move since. 

Peering over the edge of your book you watch as he pulls your legs into his lap, eyes never leaving the TV. A little smile curls on your lips as his hands idly stroke over your skin. He doesn’t even look like he’s aware he’s awake and he still needs his hands on you. 

You hide behind your book as your smile grows. Asshole, making you all flustered over something so small. 

Really, though, it’s not your fault that all your exes were pieces of crap. That now your standards are so low you think a man respecting your “no” is a sign of saintliness. 

Just as you settle back into your book, Sammy’s door slams open, loud footsteps sounding through the entryway. Your heart jumps to your throat, legs jolting as you try and get a look over the couch. Sammy’s hands tighten around your legs, stopping you from bolting. Despite the way you can feel your heartbeat in your abdomen and are about to soil yourself, Sammy looks utterly unbothered. 

“Where you at, man?” 

“Shit,” you hiss at the unnecessarily loud voice coming from the door. Grabbing your phone you check the date and, sure enough, it's Thursday. Like an idiot you’ve already forgotten that he and his buddies are now on a strict schedule. You’ve been getting good at staying away or making yourself unavailable during his Thursday night games. Not tonight, though. 

The bald cop, Tony, you think his name is, makes his way to the living room. He eyes you and Sammy, cackling when he sees your legs in Sammy’s lap. “Shit, man,” he slaps Sammy’s shoulder. “She’s got you whipped.”

It’s almost subtle, the way Sammy brushes you off, reaching up to greet the man with one of those bro hugs. But you know him too well, you’ve gotten too good at recognizing the slight flush on his face is embarrassment. As if showing your girlfriend affection is something to be ashamed of. 

No wonder they’re all divorced.

Curling completely into yourself, you watch Sammy jump up, heading into the kitchen to greet the rest of his friends streaming in. At the very least they’ve decided the dining table is a better place to play than the living room. That way you don’t have to sneak past them when you try to head into Sammy’s room. 

With something venomous burning inside you, you pick up your book again. You’ll just ignore them, read, and go about your night like they aren’t a newfound plague on your peace. As they all settle, it grows increasingly difficult to try and drown them out. 

They’re filling the apartment with expletives and insults straight from the eighties, clearly none of them are any good at whatever they’re playing. You’re not even sure why they get together. You’ve never witnessed one successful game. 

Through the tin of rowdy men, you manage to make out a knock on the front door. You can’t imagine it’s anyone from this group, they prefer just busting through like the Kool-Aid man. 

Sitting up, you tilt your head, trying to hear if anyone’s moving toward it. Another knock and then Sammy’s shouting, “Babe, can you get that?”

“Babe?” You scoff, nose wrinkling as you push off the couch. Sure, you’ll get the door he’s five feet from. You send him a glare he doesn’t bother acknowledging as you throw open the door. 

Ben’s waiting on the other side with an easy grin. He’s balancing an obscene amount of pizza boxes as you pull him inside. “Glad you’re here,” you tell him, taking half of the stack from him. 

“Thank you,” he mutters, trailing after you into the kitchen. Without even thinking, you’re grabbing plates, already pulling out slices for the others. 

Ben gives you an odd look, leaning against the island, head tilted as he watches you. “You’re turning domestic.” His tone is teasing, but it’s not friendly. It seems like a warning. 

Swallowing thickly, you shrug, too embarrassed to meet his eyes. “It’s not that big of a deal.” You pause, finally looking up at him and he offers you a knowing smirk. “Right?” You whisper, suddenly unsure of yourself. 

“Sure,” he grins, taking some of the plates for you. “Whatever you say.”

“You’re such an ass,” you hiss, following him into the dining room. His shoulders shake a little as he laughs and you roll your eyes. Sammy gives Ben a brief greeting, smiling up at you when you pass him his plate. 

You toss Tony’s plate on the table with barely enough control to not have the glass shatter. Just as you begin to walk off, his arm snaps out, hand wrenching your wrist back. “Ow,” you curse, frowning down at the tight grip. 

“How about a beer, sweetheart?” He doesn’t even look at you. 

You’re just about to tell him off when Sammy’s voice cuts through the chatter. “How about you keep your hands to yourself, Johnson?” The rest of the guys go quiet, looking up from their cards with nosy intrigue. Sammy’s just staring at Tony, and you swear you’ve never seen him so angry. 

You’ve heard him yell before, sometimes into the phone, a lot of the times when he’s ranted to you. But this was a lot colder than what you’ve experienced. Too calm to be safe. Slowly, Tony’s disgusting, clammy hand releases your arm. 

Sammy doesn't look away, cards splayed carelessly on the table as he leans forward. “You touch her again and we’re gonna have a problem. Got it?” 

God, that’s hot.

Tony cows under Sammy’s glare. He shrugs, picking up his cards and muttering how he didn’t mean anything by it. You just scoff, glaring down at the bald bastard. Then, just as you’re thinking about dragging Sammy into the bedroom for being so commanding, he laughs. 

Your lips part in astonishment, Ben’s head snaps to him with a furrowed brow. Sammy reaches over the table and slaps Tony’s shoulder. “Ah, come on, man. I’m fuckin’ with you. No big deal.” The other men let out stilted laughter, trying to get over the sudden tension. 

Sammy looks over at you, “Right, babe?”

No, it’s a big fucking deal. If I feel those clammy palms one more time, I’ll cut off his fat fingers and serve them to you all on the next game night. 

And stop fucking calling me that!

“Whatever,” you mutter, eyes narrowing at him as you swallow every venomous word down. Your dignity burns as it tries to crawl its way back up your throat. But, you force it down, making yourself turn around before you say something you regret. 

But, then, Tony chuckles. “Well, the beer, sweetheart?”

That fraying thread of self-control unwinds just a little more as you turn around to glare down at Tony. “You got legs, don’t you? Go get your own fucking beer.”

One of the other guys pipes up, snickering at you like you’re just a little dog yapping at them. “You on the rag or something? Just bring us another round.”

At this point, you don’t even look to Sammy for help. You already know he’s not going to do jack shit. He’s clearly too much of a pussy to snap back at guys with seniority over him. “Pigs,” you mutter, not caring if they hear as you storm off to the bedroom. 

The door to Sammy’s room is closed in a poor attempt to block out the noise that’s starting to give you a migraine. You can still hear them, laughing and making fun of each other like they didn’t just humiliate you. Like they didn’t just drag your sweetheart of a boyfriend to the dark side. 

You glare down at your phone, an article about that jackass Tony glaring back up at you. You’ve seen multiple bodycam videos, smaller articles, all about this asshole who uses excessive force and has been involved in multiple internal affairs investigations. Sammy might have a shorter temper than most, but he’s not corrupt and he doesn’t just casually hang out with pieces of shit like this. He definitely doesn’t play about someone putting their hands on you. There’s something about this whole situation that seems wrong. You just haven’t figured out what, yet.

The door slowly creaks open and you look up with a scowl. Sammy never checks on you when these guys are over. So, it’s not much of a surprise when you see Ben poking his head inside. “Hey,” he offers a tentative smile. 

You sit up, patting the spot on the bed by the footboard. “What’s up?” You ask, anger simmering down slightly as he drops himself beside you. 

“So,” he flexes his hands, gaze darting to the door before landing on you again. 

You give him a shaky smile. “What’s up, Ben? You’re acting weird.” You tilt your head and shrug. “Weirder than usual.”

He lets out a low laugh, nudging you with his elbow. “Shut up.” For the first time since game nights began, there’s a genuine smile on your face. “What do you think of Sammy’s new buddies?” He nods toward the dining room and you scoff. Whatever face you make clearly says everything you haven’t because he sucks his teeth and nods. 

“Yeah, I’m not much of a fan, either.” 

“What the hell is going on? I’ve never even heard half their names before and suddenly they’re infesting our apartment.” Ben’s brows perk at the slip up and you shake your head, brushing it off. 

He rubs the back of his neck, shifting further up the bed. “I don’t know, there was a change in the shift rotation, we’ve been seeing a lot more of them lately. I can’t believe he’s actually getting along with the assholes.”

“Yeah,” you laugh, but it does nothing to mask the hurt in your voice. “How the hell do you think I feel?” He looks over at you, expression softening at the pain on your face. Carefully, he wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you in for a brief hug. 

He seems hesitant to even touch you, probably out of respect for Sammy. But you’ll take whatever comfort you can get, as small as it may be. 

Just as you rest your head on him, the bedroom door creaks open completely. Sammy walks in, brows furrowed and a scowl on his face as he takes in the both of you. “Was wondering where you went,” he mutters, glaring at the arm Ben has around you. 

Ben lets out an awkward sigh, slowly letting you go. You almost complain, but you don’t feel like dealing with any more machismo drama tonight. 

“What’s going on?” Sammy asks, closing the door behind him as he steps into the room. He stands in front of you both, arms crossed in that way that usually makes you want to bite him. But your attraction to him tonight has been severely and utterly depleted. 

“We were just discussing the impeccable manners of our guests,” you joke, trailing off when he doesn’t even crack a smile.

“My guests,” he corrects, tone painfully sharp. 

“Right, well,” you stutter, completely unsure of yourself. You’ve had too manny slip ups tonight. You’ve allowed yourself far too many moments of delusion thinking that Sammy might actually take the relationship a step further. 

Ben jumps in, a scowl on his face as he gets to his feet. “You’re acting like she doesn’t practically live with you, man. Cleaning the place and-”

“Butt out,” Sammy snaps, taking a step closer to Ben. You can feel it brewing, the tension that always seems to linger between them. They’re one pissing contest away from just beating each other bloody. 

“Hey, you know,” you get up and stretch with a dramatic yawn. “I’m pretty tired, think I might go to sleep.” Sammy’s eyes dart toward yours before he takes the hint, scoffing as he storms out of the room. 

Ben shoots you one last look before he follows after him. In the wake of their absence, something like shame seems to fill you. Your relationship is deteriorating right before your eyes, slipping through your fingers. It feels like you’re just letting it happen. Should you be doing something more?

Is this just a phase he needs to go through?

He did skip the whole bachelor pad thing after his divorce, pretty much already ready to date you. Maybe some part of him never got to expel that chauvinistic resentment of Tammi and he’s doing it now. Not that it makes it any better. 

Turning off the lamp, you lay down over the comforter and force your eyes to close. 

Barely a few hours later, you can feel the bed dipping behind you. Sammy’s arms wind around your waist, careful as they pull you into his chest. He’s trying not to wake you, completely unaware that you’ve been up the past few hours debating the future of your relationship.

There's a part of you that thinks you've figured out why he's acting like this, why he would ever possibly hang around these clowns. But it's not good enough to excuse how he's been behaving.  

“They gone?” You grumble, holding stubbornly to your pillow so you don’t give in and turn around to hug him. 

“Yeah,” he hums, the noise vibrating against your back. He pulls you closer, lips slowly trailing along your neck, hands dipping to the waistband of your shorts. Your eyes narrow and you bite back a scoff. He can’t seriously think he’s going to get lucky tonight? 

“Just need to clean up,” he tells you, hands pausing their descent. The silence between you is loud, it takes a moment before you catch his meaning. 

“When the hell did I turn into your maid?” He stiffens behind you, arms tightening around you. “Not my guests,” you spit out, “not my fucking problem.”

“Oh, baby,” he rolls you over and you hold tight to the pillow. He frowns down at it as it pushes him back from you. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he promises, attempting to tug the pillow from your hands. 

You kick out at his ankle and glare. “What did you mean it like? And what was all that with Tony? You’re just going to pretend like it wasn’t a big deal?”

With a low grunt, he wrenches the pillow from your hands. You scowl as he pulls you into him. “I’m really sorry, honey,” he whispers, brushing some hair off your cheek. “That was just…” You raise your brows, so fascinated with whatever BS excuse he’s got this time. 

Sammy just sighs, forehead falling against your own as he gives up entirely. “Pathetic,” you whisper. “You’ve got nothing?” Your finger digs into his side and he lets out a low laugh. 

“No, nothing.”

“Well then-”

“‘Cept this,” he cuts you off, lips finding yours as he rolls over, taking you with him and settling you comfortably on his lap. You can’t help the little moan that slips out, hips Pavlov’d into immediately moving against his. 

His hands drift down, palms finding your ass as he pulls you tighter against him. “You do not play fair,” you mutter against his lips. He just lets out another laugh, thrusting up into you and shocking another moan from you. 

“Never said I did,” he teases, hands already reaching for the hem of your shirt. With a defeated sigh, you relent, sitting up and peeling off your top. His hands trail up your body, rough callouses ticking the sensitive skin as he cups your breasts. 

You fist his shirt in your hands, dragging him up to meet your lips. “Off,” you demand, tugging at his t-shirt. Sammy’s quick to oblige, soft muscles of his abdomen flexing as he tears it off. What little patience he has snaps as you finally take off your bra. You can't help the laugh that tears out of you when he grabs your waist and flips you over, pressing you into the pillows. 

His lips carve a path down your body, skin igniting under every touch as he hooks his fingers into the band of your shorts. “Let me make it up to you?” He asks, shoulders already parting your thighs. 

You consider it, he does look handsome between your legs like that. But there’s a barbed hurt in your chest, and humiliation from earlier tonight that makes your tongue knot.

Mouth souring, you shake your head and pull back. “No,” his face falls and you can’t help the cruel laugh that slips from you. You tug him up by his chin and offer a sharp smile. “No sex until you get your little buddies under control.” His jaw drops before his head is falling to the crook of your neck. 

“You don’t play fair,” he grumbles, and you can feel just how unfair you’re being by how tight his boxers are. 

“Never said I did,” you hum, pressing a kiss to his temple and rolling over. Sammy follows, arms winding around your waist as he mutters to himself. 

He can clean his apartment by himself. He can cook his own meals and talk shop with his friends as much as he wants. But he does not get to disrespect you and think everything’s going to be fine and dandy. 

You’ll just have to discuss this with him when you’re both not pent up and disappointed. 

Your head is resting on his lap, his hands idly stroking along your spine when he laughs. You peer up, curious as you try and catch a glance at his phone. “What is it?”

“Come here,” he pulls on your arm and you sit up, curling into his side. “Just some stupid shit from the guys.” He offers you his phone and you take it, stomach already burning with anticipation. Please just be Ben being a sweet dumbass and not something horrible. 

T > Rookie lost it on me today

J > That one’s got a stick up her ass

T > I swear to God I can’t even get through a goddamn conversation without her calling me a Pig. 

Your stomach knots itself completely as you glance over at Sammy. He’s already turned his attention to the TV, completely unaware of your internal meltdown. Then, the kicker, Sammy, replying to J’s message. 

Pretty sure it’s just a tampon

It’s immediately followed by one of those morons sending a gif of Miss Piggy losing it.

Not only did your man just make a goddamn period joke, they dragged Miss Piggy into this. How the fuck dare they? 

You toss Sammy’s phone onto his lap and he lets out a slight groan as it nails his groin. “What,” he trails off at the look on your face. “Oh, come on, sweetheart. It’s not that big a deal.”

Crossing your arms, you put as much space between the two of you as you physically can. “You really think that’s funny?” Sammy rolls his eyes, turning back to the TV and ignoring you. “Fuck that,” you hiss, reaching over and turning it off. 

Sammy’s glare is sharp and for the first time he looks like he has no interest in you. That look on his face is just flat, empty as he waits for you to get your rant over with so he can go back to his game. 

“So, you agree with that shit?” You demand, heart pumping a little too fast. 

Sammy’s head sinks back into the couch cushions with a heavy sigh. “No, come on, leave it alone. It’s just a joke.” Tears sting your eyes as you're reminded of every failed relationship. Every moment you were dismissed or appeased so they could just go back to whatever they want, not giving a damn about how you feel. 

“Seriously, Sammy. When I’m upset and just happen to be on my period, do you just dismiss how I’m feeling? Pretend to give a shit so you don’t have to deal with me? When I’m upset do you just think I’m being ridiculous?” 

You’re honestly not trying to start a fight. But you’d grown up around the type of men who knew blaming it on your cycle was the best way to shut you up. The most effective way to invalidate your feelings and make you feel so small. You need to know if the man you care so much about has secretly been that sort of man this whole time. 

Sammy scrubs his hand down his face and lets out an incredulous laugh. “This is different,” he defends, staring at you like you’re overreacting. 

And maybe you are, maybe you aren’t. At this point, it doesn’t matter, because there is no excuse for just how much he’s changed over a few weeks. “How is it different?”

Sammy just shakes his head. He gives you a flat look and scoffs, turning the TV back on. You purse your lips, biting your tongue so the tears don’t spill. “I don't like your new friends.” He either doesn’t notice how choked up you sound or doesn’t care. 

“Good thing you’re not my mom,” he mutters. 

“No,” you stand up and he sighs. “Just your live-in maid.” Sammy lets out another tired sigh, head sinking into his hand as you collect your things.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going home, Sammy. “ And as the door slams behind you, he doesn’t try to stop you. 

As you head to his apartment, making sure it's not a Thursday, you have to build yourself up. Give yourself a dozen pep talks before you manage to crawl up the stairs. 

You’re going to sit down. You’re going to have a conversation. After a copious amount of research on his new friends, you've come to your own conclusion. This has to be some sort of undercover shit he's doing for internal affairs to try and bust these asssholes. But that doesn't change the fact that prolonged exposure to their behaviors has shifted who he is as a person. Changed him into a man you want nothing to do with.

He should have given you a heads up. Told you to stay clear for a few weeks while he works on this. Anything other than throwing you into this deep-end blind.

By the end of the night you’re either going to be single, again, or have the man you care about back. 

Tonight, you knock instead of using your key, just needing another minute before you face him. When the door opens, you’re caught off guard by the wide smile on his face. “Oh, thank god.” He reaches out, arms wrapping around your waist as he tugs you into him. 

“Uh, hi,” you smile, taken aback by the sudden surge of affection. You barely have a moment to hug him before he’s pulling back. 

“Guys are coming over tonight,” he tells you, and your heart drops to your ass as the door closes behind you. “Think you could whip something up for us, baby? I didn’t have time to call the pizza place.”

You’re stunned, absolutely gobsmacked by his audacity as he pulls you into the kitchen. While you’re frozen, jaw permanently dropped, he pulls off your coat and positions you in front of the stove. He even goes so far as to tie on your apron for you. 

“I thought you guys meet on Thursdays?” You mutter absentmindedly, blindly pulling ingredients out of the fridge. 

“Had a change of plans today,” he presses a kiss to your cheek, and then he’s gone. A minute later you hear his shower start up. You stare down at the stove for a long time before you finally move. 

You whip up a feast for him, a last meal if you will. Because you don’t need a conversation anymore. You know exactly how this night is going to end. Might as well give him something decent to eat while you dump him. 

The guys start to flood in while he’s still in the shower. They don’t take their shoes off, tracking mud across the linoleum, something Sammy can look forward to cleaning up on his own. They don’t greet you, acknowledge your existence, just grab a beer and carry on. 

Feeling numb, you dig through the fridge, finding an expired carton of milk that smells nauseatingly like sulfur. You pour it into your pan, expression flat as the clumps begin to slough out. 

The door opens again, you can hear the person taking their shoes off and know who it is before he walks in. “Need any help?”

You don’t turn to face Ben, just toss a handful of vegetables into the pan. “Don’t eat the dip,” you warn him. 

“Uh,” he lets out an awkward chuckle. You turn, eyes narrowed as you shake your head. “Well, shit, alright. You got Visine in there or something?” 

“Might as well,” you shrug. Slowly, eyes a little wide, he backs out of the kitchen. You just swallow down another wave of fiery rage as you brew up a crime against cooking. But, it will absolutely give them diarrhea for the next week, so you’ll pardon yourself this one time. 

Your anger and hurt just builds and festers with every call for beer. Every shouting bought of laughter that makes your shoulders jump and your head throb. By the time Sammy makes it out of the shower, your mind has been entirely made up. Humiliation has gone cold and turned your blood to ice as you stand in his kitchen. 

No part of you melts or swoons when he comes up to you with wet curls and presses a kiss to your cheek. His hands hover over your waist, brows furrowing when you don’t turn to reciprocate. You quietly plate his food, giving him an extra serving of dip, and pass it off to him. 

“Hey,” he puts the plate on the counter, voice low and soft. “What’s wrong?” He tries to get you to look at him but you stay stubbornly rooted in place, idly pushing the food around in the pan. 

“Were you ever going to ask me to move in with you?” 

He goes stiff, backing up with a frown that somehow breaches your walls and makes your chest ache. Never been good with rejection, you remind yourself, poorly attempting to build those walls back up. “It’s a little soon, don’t you think?”

You can’t look at him. The second you do, you know you’re just going to cry. You finally thought you were good enough for someone. That someone actually liked you, flaws and all. But, like every other relationship you’ve had, you were just deluding yourself. 

Sucking your teeth, you just nod. “Are we okay?” He asks, taking the food and backing up. 

“Fine,” you tell him, turning to bring the rest of the snacks to the dining room. Sammy takes his seat, still looking worried as you set everything up. Ben reaches for the dip and you swat his hand, his eyes widen slightly as he remembers your warning and he backs off. 

The last plate you set down is with barely any care. You’re angry and hurt, about to leave the one relationship you really thought would last. So, a little sauce splatters on the guys shirts. Not enough to do permanent damage, but enough to have them bitching. 

“Damn it!”

“What’re you blind?”

Smiling, you straighten up and let out a sharp laugh. “Alright, I’m done.”

Sammy frowns, hand tightening around his fork. “With the food?” Oh, and that poor pathetic ounce of hope in his voice makes something in you burn. 

The TV is blasting behind you and it’s just another noise adding to the pain in your head. You pick up the remote, shutting it off for a moment of peace. Immediately, the grown men in front of you boo, one even tosses a napkin at you, hand reaching for the remote. 

And you just… snap. 

“Shut up. Shut the fuck up! Jesus Christ, I am so sick of this, of all of you.” They go quiet as you slam the remote on the table, plates trembling. “You are grown men, you want a beer, then you go get it your goddamn selves. And before any one of you fuckers says some shit about me being on my period… I want it to be very clear that I have never been dryer in my life than I am looking at you pathetic excuses for men.”

Sammy stands as you undo your apron, tearing it off and tossing it at him. But you’re not done, it’s just pouring out- everything you didn’t say. Everything you held back for a man who never really wanted you. 

“God, you wonder why the female rookies don’t like you people! It’s because everytime she performs better than you, everytime she calls you on your shit, you undermine her and blame it on the ‘rag.’ You’re just pathetic little men who can’t handle a woman who is secure in her job because it reminds you of just how small you are.”

Your face is hot, chest heaving as you stand there, staring at them all. You’re sure they’ve seen this meltdown before. During their divorce proceedings, watching as their marriage fell apart or their daughters stopped talking to them. But, for once, they are blessedly silent and you feel like you can actually breathe again. 

There’s laughter and you look up to find Ben leaning back with a grin. He surveys the other’s faces and lets out a low whistle. You’re almost tempted to laugh with him. 

Then, Sammy reaches for you, hand hesitant as it lands on your shoulder. “Sweetheart-”

“No,” you snap, voice quieter now. He flinches as you slap his hand away, hazel eyes wide and shining with hurt. “I am done with you, Sammy. Alright?”

“What?” His eyes dart to the others and he takes a desperate step closer to you. But you just shove him back. “Hun, let’s talk about this.”

“No, no I’m done doing that. So, uh, enjoy cracking a beer with the boys without the drama of your untrained woman. You’ve got a right hand, what the fuck else do you need me for?” You grab your purse and shake your head.

Sammy chases after you but you’re not letting him weasel his way out of this again. You’d made a promise to yourself. You’re leaving single tonight, he’s had far too many chances to get his act together. 

Just as you’re running into the parking lot, you hear footsteps racing toward you. You whip around, watery glare turning confused when you see Ben catching up with you. “Hey,” he calls out your name and you let out a tired sigh as you stop. 

“Look,” he darts in front of you, slightly out of breath. “As entertaining to watch as that was, what’s happening… It’s not what you think.”

“I know,” you interrupt him. 

His mouth droops before snapping shut again. “Huh?”

“It’s got to do with an investigation, right?” Slowly, he nods, infuriatingly surprised by you connecting the dots. “Yeah, I figured that out a while ago, Ben. But he didn’t give me any warning before he turned into this Don Draper wannabe. He didn’t prep me or just keep me out of this. This all being a part of something bigger doesn’t change or excuse how humiliated he made me feel.”

Ben wants to say more, you can see it on his face. His arm lifts before falling limply to his side. With a sigh, he runs his hand over his face and offers you a sorry smile. “Do you need a ride home?” He asks softly. 

“No, but I appreciate it.” He nods, and you blink, eyes burning as you stare down at the pavement. Hesitantly, his hand lands on your shoulder, softly squeezing before he backs up. 

“Take care of yourself.”

You hum, throat too tight for words and wait for him to go back into the building before you let the tears fall. 

When you wake up the next morning, your eyes are crusted from crying too much and your head is throbbing from, again, crying a ridiculous amount. Blindly, you grope around your nightstand until you find your phone. 

It shouldn’t be a shock that Sammy’s reached out, but the amount of missed calls on your screen is a number you didn’t think you could ever reach. 

He’s also blown your messages up. The majority of them promising to explain his behavior. Asking you to call him. Give him one more chance (he’s had plenty). And then there are ones where you can tell he’s starting to get pissed off that you’re just ignoring him. 

Serves him right. 

Your thumb twitches against the call back button. Almost wanting to hear how he’s going to explain this away. But you force yourself to put the phone down. You swore to yourself, no more cool girl BS. You’re not going to just let him treat you how he did and get away with it. 

So, as difficult as it is, you mute his notifications. You don’t have it in your heart to block him, not yet. But you can at least spare yourself the misery of watching his picture light up your screen every ten minutes. 

Occasionally, though, throughout the week you have a moment of weakness. You’ll check to see just how much more he’s reached out and then listen to a few voicemails. They all relatively sound the same:

“Please, sweetheart call me back” and then you’ll hear Ben in the background “Man, this is pathetic” Sammy will tell him to shut it and, again, plead for you to just give him a minute of your time. 

When you start to feel really lonely, when your bed is just too cold and too big, you almost do it. You’re so close to just calling him so you can hear something other than the quiet of your apartment. This space that has become foreign to you because Sammy’s place was becoming home. And then, you’re reminded of how he treated you, what he took from you both by not just giving you a heads up on the investigation. And you put your phone down, hurt and angry all over again. 

By weeks end, your friends call you out to go to a club with them. They don’t know you broke up with Sammy, they think you’re still the perfect couple. Which leads to a night filled with painful, barbed reminders of how alone you are now, while your friends bemoan how perfect and sweet your relationship is. 

You should have told them the truth before you went out with them. But they’ve witnessed so many messy breakups from you. They’d probably just blame you. If you can’t keep a decent guy like Sammy than it has to be you whose the problem. 

So, after a long night of playing the designated driver (because you’re the only one happy and dating someone, in theory) and being reminded of how amazing your relationship used to be… You’re already in a foul mood when a passing cop decides it’ll be funny to get a handful of your ass. 

Not just a slap or a quick squeeze, either. This man puts both palms, cups your cheeks, and nearly lifts you in the air he squeezes so tight. And you, completely ignoring his badge, treat him how you would any other creep. 

You deck him. 

Suddenly your face is pressing against the hood of a patrol car. Your friends are shouting “We’re recording this, babe!” And you’re being cuffed and thrown into the back of their car. 

But, hey, at least your friends recorded it. 

“Whoa!” Ben is the first one to see you as you’re pulled into the station. You’d consider yourself lucky if seeing him didn’t mean Sammy was around somewhere. 

“What the hell are you doing?” He snaps at your arresting officer while the piece of shit jerks your arm out of socket. 

“She assaulted an officer,” his partner pipes up. Your gaze goes to the deep black bruise ringing his eye and you grin. 

“All right,” you huff. “Like he didn’t assault me first.”

Ben’s eyes dart between the both of you, his jaw clenching when he sees the marks on your arm from your rough detainment. “What happened?” He asks you, holding up a hand when the cop tries to talk. 

“I was out with some friends and this asshole thought he could just stick his hand up my dress.”

“Didn’t take much,” that bitch smirks. “Look at the length of that thing-”

“Hey!” Ben snaps and it catches the attention of some of the others milling around. “That’s enough. Now let her go.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

Ben pushes the guy away, taking his key and working off one of your cuffs. “This is Sammy’s girl, you’re lucky I’m the one that found you, not him.”

The guys eyes widen and he backs off with a huffy sigh. “Shit, I’m sorry.”

“Oh,” your stomach rolls with disgust. “But if it were any other woman, you’d still somehow make yourself the victim? I see I only hold value when there’s a man attached to my name.”

“Alright,” Ben puts his hand on your back, turning you before you provoke another fist fight. “I’m sorry about that.”

He sits you down at his desk and watches you carefully. “I should file a lawsuit,” it’s an empty threat but you seriously considered it on the ride over. 

Ben snorts, eyeing you up and down carefully. “How’ve you been doing?”

“Fine,” you shrug. “About as well as anyone is after a breakup.”

Ben leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, a seriously concerned look on his fac. “He’s falling apart.”

“Ben…”

“Seriously, and not just because you poisoned him with spoiled dip,” that brings a small smile to your face. Ben returns it for a moment before his face settles into something more serious. “I don’t know how much more I can take. He’s snapping at any little thing. He won’t stop bitching at me. I’m losing my mind.”

“Look,” you rub your wrist and look away. “Am I being booked or not? I want to go home.”

Ben sighs and scrubs a hand down his face. “You’re not getting booked.”

“Thank you,” and before you can even get up, he’s grabbing the loose handcuff and snapping it to his desk. Your eyes widen, stomach sinking as you tug futilely at it. “Ben,” you hiss. “What the fuck?”

“I’m sorry,” he shrugs off his jacket, laying it over your lap so your dress doesn’t ride all the way up. “But I can’t take this anymore.” 

Your jaw drops as he walks off and you know exactly where he’s going. “Traitor!” You shout at his back, he gives you a sarcastic thumbs up that almost make you wish you had a gun. 

You’re sitting there for about ten minutes before Sammy’s rushing up. Most of the guys in here know you, but the few that don’t keep asking how much a night will cost. You’re starting to think it might be time to retire this dress. 

“Hey,” your name rushes from him in one panicked breath. “What’s happening? Why are you cuffed?”

You suck your teeth and give him a sharp smile. “Your partner decided to play Cupid.” Sammy’s brows furrow, his hands already working on taking the cuffs off. 

“Yeah, but why are you here?” He asks, thumbs brushing over the split skin of your knuckles. You jerk your hand back before his soft touch weakens your resolve. Sammy frowns and you can’t make yourself meet the hurt look in his eyes. 

“Some asshole grabbed a handful outside The Strip tonight.”

“What the hell were you doing over there?” His tone is far too sharp for a man you’ve already broken up with. Eyes narrowed, your face snaps to his. 

“Tone,” you snap. Sammy’s jaw clenches but he backs off a little. “I was out with some friends. Still, being near that place doesn’t just give guys an excuse to grope me.”

Sammy takes a hold of your arm, pulling you away from Ben’s desk and leading you toward an empty room. “I’m not saying it does. I just thought I’ve told you a lot about staying away from there. You know how many half-naked girls we’ve had to pull from their alley?”

“Jesus,” you huff, pulling your arm away as he closes the door. “I got it. I was trying to go home, anyway.”

“Why-” Sammy stops himself, taking a deep breath as color grows on his cheeks. You wait for another lecture but he seems to love proving you wrong. “Why haven’t you called me back?” 

Your jaw slacks, an unintelligible garble of words stuttering its way free. “Seriously?” You land on, voice pitched with anger. Sammy’s eyes widen, glancing through the windows of the room to make sure no one’s paying attention. Taking in a deep breath, you force yourself to keep your voice mellow. 

You really don’t need to be arrested tonight. Again. 

“Sammy, that’s why you dragged me in here? Not because a cop copped a feel?” His expression falls flat at your poor excuse for a joke. Fuck me, then, God forbid you try and ease the tension. 

“Obviously I’m upset about that, sweetheart. But it’s not your fault and it’s not you I’m going to be telling off for it. I’ll deal with him later.” You’re sure that means Sammy’s going to beat the guy half to death and Ben will have to clean up the mess.

“Right now, I want to know why you’re just pretending I don’t exist. Like we haven’t been dating for six months.”

Your feet are aching from the obnoxiously tall heels you took out tonight. Not bothering to look at him, you take a seat at one of the desks and peel them off, letting out a low sigh of relief. Sammy just watches with his arms crossed, clearly at the end of his thread. 

“Look, babe, I don’t know what you’re not getting about me being done with you, but we’re through. No sex. No calls. No texts. This is what happens when people break up, Sammy.”

Sammy lets out a stressed sigh, lips pulling down as he drags his hand through his hair. “You don’t understand. I had to act like an ass, baby, I’m-”

“Working on an investigation?” You finish, giving him an unimpressed glare. “Yeah, Sammy. I’m not a moron, I figured out why you were acting like a chauvinistic pig all of a sudden. The problem here isn’t that, it’s the lack of communication that led to me being completely humiliated.”

His arms drop to his sides and he just stares, mind spinning as he struggles to figure out a way out of this. Spoiler, there isn’t one. 

“I don’t- What do you want me to do, hm? What can I do to make this better?”

You’re ready to dismiss him when you catch an officer’s eye through the window of the room. They’re all out there, his buddies, the asshole that arrested you. Watching and trying to pretend like this isn’t the most interesting thing that’s happened tonight. 

Slowly, you drag your gaze back to Sammy, a cruel smile pulling on your lips. “Beg.”

He stills, eyeing you warily. “What?” His tone is incredulous, slightly taken off gaurd. 

You shrug, “You really want me back?”

“You know I do.”

“Aright, beg.” You tilt your head, wondering if he’s actually capable of swallowing down his pride. 

Slowly, Sammy takes another step closer. “Please, sweet-”

“Hm, no,” you click your tongue, shaking your head in disappointment. “Do this properly, Sammy. On your knees.” His jaw clenches and it's audible how he swallows. Sammy turns toward the blinds and you sigh. “Blinds open. Unless you’re just full of it?”

“You know I’m not,” he grits out, cheeks flushing as a few officers fail to hide their peeping. You almost think he’s going to give up. Before you can scold him for taking too long, he’s dropping to his knees in front of you.

Your eyes widen imperceptibly and it’s an effort not to give away your shock. Sammy’s hands skate over the smooth skin of your legs, squeezing around your calves. “I fucked up, honey, I know that. I will do anything I can to make up for it, just, please, give me another chance.”

It’s a power rush, having such a domineering man on his knees in front of you. That boost to your ego is almost enough to make you cave. But you know Sammy, he can certainly do better than this. He just hates the idea of any of his men seeing it. 

Pursing your lips, you lightly kick your leg out. “Put my heels on for me.” He huffs, clearly upset by the lack of response, but he listens anyway. Getting to your feet, Sammy follows, expression expectant. 

You pat his shoulder in that condescending way men always do to you. “That was cute, hun. But I’m not changing my mind. You want to fix this, you’re going to have to work a little harder than that.”

Sammy doesn’t object, just scratches at his jaw and lets out a disbelieving sigh. You give him a sharp smile before you make your way to the door. “You're unbelievable,” he calls after you. You shrug, not bothering to look back as you make your way out of the station. 

A week after your “arrest,” you’re flipping through channels when a familiar face catches your eye. Tony, the crapbag that Sammy had around, has been arrested. As well as a bunch of other game-night regulars. Extortion, violation of civil rights, spoliation, and a list as long as your arm that just keeps on going. Truly, they are the epitome of scumbags. 

You can understand why Sammy was so bent on getting them put away. Even if it came at the risk of your relationship. As much as that makes him a good cop and an honorable man, it doesn’t make him a better boyfriend. 

Still, you find your hand inching toward your phone, finger hovering over his contact. You bite your lip, debating the risks when someone knocks on your door. Frowning, you toss your phone on the couch and get up to take a look through the peephole. 

It’s like he’s got a sensor for when you’re feeling weak. 

Sammy stands on the other side, hands shoved in his pockets as he rocks back on his heels. You step back with a huff and glance down at yourself. Taking an extra minute to hike up your shorts and adjust your boobs, you throw the door open. 

“Can I help you, officer?”

He scoffs, lips pulled in an endeared grin. “Still mad, I take it?”

You pause, taking inventory of emotions. The sting of humiliation has eased slightly since you practically put him on a leash at the station. And you do genuinely understand the motivations behind his behavior, you just wished he hadn’t executed it all so stupidly. 

“No, I’m not angry, Sammy. I just wish you a happy life of erectile dysfunction and involuntary abstinence.” Pulling back, you go to close the door when he slips his boot inside. Glaring up at him, you frown. “Got a warrant?”

“Enough,” he scolds, pushing the door open. You stumble back with an affronted noise. “You’re not breaking up with me.”

If it were any of your other exes, you’d probably be terrified right now. But he’s not being malicious or threatening to stalk you or take out your family if you don’t unblock him. Instead, there’s almost a slight thrill coming to life in you. 

“What?” You scoff. 

“I’m not agreeing to this,” he says simply, eyeing your skimpy pajamas with an appreciative gleam in his eye. 

You scoff and cross your arms,“That’s not how this works, Sammy.”

He shrugs, “Tough.” When he takes another step closer, you’re almost tempted to run, to drag this out a little longer. But his arms are already winding around your waist and he’s heaving you over his shoulder before you even get a chance to blink. 

“Uh, Sammy,” you grasp at his shirt as he marches through your apartment. “What the hell are you doing, you neanderthal?”

“I’m going to make it up to you,” you lift your head and peer around him to see he’s walking you straight into your room. Oh, that’s how he’s going to play this. “Then,” you let out a shocked laugh as he drops you on your bed. 

His grin widens at the sound as he grabs your ankles, pulling you even closer to him. “I’m going to ask you to move in with me.”

Your heart races as your expression falls. Your gaze darts to his eyes, trying to figure out if he means this or if this is just a last ditch effort to get you back. “What?” You shake your head, but he doesn’t let you pull away. “Sammy, do you really mean this?”

“‘Course I do, sweetheart,” he brushes a strand of hair off your cheek and leans down to kiss you. Your arms wind around his shoulders off muscle memory. 

But you force yourself to pull back, noses brushing as you take a good long look at him. “I’m not playing housewife anymore,” you threaten. 

He lets out a little laugh and nods. “I’m gonna take care of you, honey. Don’t you worry.” 

And god help you, you actually believe him, but it still doesn’t feel right. “No,” you whisper. Sammy draws back, brows knit in hurt as he shakes his head. “No,” you scramble back from him, arms wrapping around your stomach as you shake your head. 

“This isn’t how it’s going to work anymore. You don’t get to fix our problems with sex. Or just decide the course of our relationship. You fucked up, you made me feel like shit. For the first time, I felt safe with someone, and you just took that from me.”

Sammy’s face falls and he takes a seat on the edge of your bed. His head falls into his hands as he lets out a broken sigh. “I’m so sorry,” you believe him. There’s shame, disgust with himself in his voice, but that doesn’t fix this. 

“I’ll move in with you, Sammy,” you promise, and his head lifts. “But not anytime soon. I think… I don’t think I’ve been honest about who I am. I’m so used to putting on a show, to trying to keep someone’s attention, I haven’t been myself. I want you to be with the real me. To actually see me, not this glamorized version of myself perfectly made for your gaze.”

“Honey,” he reaches over, taking your hands in his. “Of course I see you. You’re not as good actor as you think,” you let out a watery laugh while he rubs his thumbs across the back of your hands. “But I’m a patient man.”

You shoot him a look and he offers you that boyish smile you love. “I can be patrient,” he swears. 

Nodding, you lean forward, brushing your lips against his. “Okay,” you whisper. 

“Okay?” he questions, not quite believing you. You smile and let your head drop to the crook of his neck. 

“But if you ever treat me like that again… Not even Ben will be able to find your body.”

Sammy lets out a little chuckle, it cuts off as you pinch his side. “Trust me, I believe you.” You lace your fingers with his and let out a small sigh. A fresh start might be the best thing for both of you. The both of you could do with learning to be independent outside of your relationship. And he really needs to know what you look like not being the cool girl before he makes such a big promise as being with you for real. 

You’re not planning on making it easy on him. But you have an odd suspicion he might be into that. And anyways, how were you ever expected to say no to a man with arms like these?

𝘕𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘎𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘓𝘢𝘪𝘥

𝘚𝘢𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘢 𝘊𝘢𝘳𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳                  ♥︎

⇄              ◁◁  I I  ▷▷          ↻

⁰² ⁰⁸ ━━━━━━━━━●━ ⁰⁰ ²⁵

💿 A mind that could flip like a switch 💿

So that’s why you don’t even blink when you notice him leaning across the counter talking to a pediatrics nurse from upstairs, his pearly teeth glittering beneath the fluorescent lights as he lets out a soft laugh. He looks unfairly handsome, especially at this time of night. His dark scrubs fit him a touch too well, and it is a bit hard for you to focus when he moves in your peripheral because your eyes are drawn to the fabric stretching around his forearms. You’ve definitely reached crazy girlfriend status, you think, standing just feet away, trying to look focused on the empty patient chart in front of you but quietly listening into their conversation.

The nurse from pedes lets out a high-pitched, nasally laugh at that very moment and you swear your ears are ringing from the assault. You bring your eyes up to see if you could figure out what was so funny, but her hand’s on his forearm and you suddenly feel dizzyingly sick.

Jack is a good attending, there’s no doubt about that. You started working for him a year ago. He would casually flirt with you in a way that he didn’t with other women. The path to dating followed after that quickly. Soon, you and Jack were spending almost every hour outside of work together. When things got serious–and they did, quickly–some ground rules had to be set.

A year ago, you thought that keeping your relationship a secret would be the best option for you. You thought that it would alleviate any issues involved with HR or people thinking you had slept your way through your residency. You were beginning to think, though, that you would rather have the rumors over having to watch every woman within a quarter mile flock to him.

“If you stare any harder, your eyes might pop out of your skull.”

You flinch when Dr. Parker Ellis’s voice interrupts your train of thought. You turn around to see the woman standing behind you, smacking a piece of gum in her mouth.

“What are you, a ninja? I thought you were with a patient?”  

“I was with a patient,” she replies with a mischievous smile, “but as I was leaving, I couldn’t help wondering why you weren’t with one”--she lowers her voice conspiratorially–“could it have something to do with the new pedes nurse hanging out with Dr. Abbot?”

You wrinkle your nose in your best attempt at seeming disgusted by the notion. “I’ve told you before…” you chide the woman, “I’m not into Jack.”

“Sureee,” Dr. Ellis says. “That’s why you’re hiding behind that empty chart in the middle of rush hour. Because you don’t like Abbot.”

“Maybe I’m actually trying to get work done,” you tell her, “like, maybe it’s actually good I’m not playing around when I should be working.”

Dr. Ellis smirks like she knows something you don’t. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone this far in denial before.”

You roll your eyes at your friend’s comment. Dr. Ellis seems amused by your irritation and that only makes you more annoyed.

She looks like she’s going to say something else, but then her eyes get caught at something behind you. She ducks her head down as if trying to seem busy and her lips barely move as she mumbles: “incoming.”

“--And here are some of my wonderful residents.” 

You turn your head so fast toward the voice that you worry you’ve gotten whiplash. You immediately cringe at your overenthusiasm when you remember you’re trying to play it coy. Jack and the nurse stand there, wearing near-identical smiles on their faces.

Jack’s eyes linger on you for a moment too long. They soften and trail down your face. You clench your tablet so hard you’re afraid it will crack under the pressure.

Ellis shoots a nonchalant nod toward them. You just smile, hoping it doesn’t come across as robotically as you think it does.

Jack grins proudly as he gestures to you both. “Julia, meet Dr. Ellis and—“

“Hey, sorry, I’ve got a patient I have to check on,” you interrupt with your best attempt at a pleasant smile, “nice to meet you, though, Jackie.”

The new nurse frowns. “It’s Julia.”

You look over at your boyfriend, who stares at you like you’ve got two heads. You grit your teeth and give the nurse a closed-mouth smile before you duck your head and step away.

Good job playing it cool, you think to yourself as you head toward Central 11. Why are you such a bitch? It’s not Nurse Jolene’s fault Jack is so… himself. 

“Hey, wait up—“ Speak of the devil and he shall appear. 

You stop and look back at Jack as he lightly jogs toward you. Behind him, Nurse Joy looks around confusedly, probably wondering what soap opera she’d mistakenly stumbled into.

“I was just about to see how my scarlet fever patient is doing,” you tell him even though you know that is not why he stopped you. Perhaps a small part of you hoped that was what he’d ask.

“What was that back there?” Jack says, his light eyes sweeping over your face as if trying to read it like a book. “You doing okay?”

“I’m fine… how are you doing?” 

“Fine…” he trails off, eyebrows furrowed. You notice, peculiarly, that his eyes seem wider than normal. They dart in between the two of yours like a tennis ball jumping a net.

“Well I’m glad that’s settled.” You turn to walk away when he doesn’t immediately say anything else. “And if that’s all you needed…”

He grabs your arm before you can turn your back and turn tail, and you jolt at the pressure. When he’s got your attention, he immediately lets go. You automatically look to see if anyone noticed the transgression, swallowing nervously.

“Sorry,” he says immediately, “I just… I want to make sure you’re okay.”

You feel yourself soften at the admission. You step closer, but not too close in fear someone might think it improper. You offer him a smile.

“I should be the one that’s sorry,” you say, “I’m just a little on-edge, that's all.” You decide not to tell him that when you saw that nurse put her hand on his arm, you had wanted to kiss him in front of the entire ER staff. Now is not the time for grand admissions like that.

Jack looks relieved. A quick smile flits across his face. “Well, the ER will do that to you.”

“You would think four years in, I’d be used to it,” your words are closely followed by a small laugh. 

“Sorry to say, love, but it never gets easier,” he says with a coy grin and your chest flutters at the nickname, “unless you somehow figure out how to turn your empathy off.”

“I hope I never do that.”

There’s a lapse in conversation for a moment too long. You furrow your brows when you notice him looking at you, studying you like you’re a puzzle. 

You touch your hair subconsciously. “Something wrong?” 

His response is immediate. “No, no, there never is with you,” he says. He leans forward and his voice lowers. “I just can’t get over how fucking hot you are.”

“Jack,” you groan. Despite your attempt at pretending to be annoyed, a small smile pulls at your lips.

“There’s something about you in your scrubs and work mode that really gets me going,” he tells you. “All studious and shit.”

“--I’m leaving,” you say, turning your back. A smile lingers on your lips as you turn away. “Bye, Jack.”

“Bye, love,” he says just loud enough for you to hear as you step away. “Have a good shift.”

12:00a.m.

You think the signs that your shift is about to go from bad to worse lies in the empty coffee maker in the break room. 

No good shift starts with an empty coffee maker. It’s just one of those superstitions that you believe in that inevitably and inexplicably ends up coming true. Tonight is no exception. 

Your scarlet fever patient barfed all over your scrubs when you shined your light down her throat. She’s only five, so you just have to force a smile and try not to combust. Right after you change your scrubs, an emergency comes in that you have to jump on. It's a stabbing victim. You can’t resectate her. You’re there when Shen tells her parents. Their cries ring in your ears for an hour afterward. Another young kid comes in with a nose bleed that turns into hemorrhaging that you have to seal up–unfortunately, blood gets all over your arms and you have to clean all that off and get tested for Hep B, C, and HIV. 

An hour later, you’re clued into the bet.

You’ve just gotten the blood cleaned off, a bandage wrapped around the crook of your elbow where the nurse had drawn your blood. You’re shuffling from room to room, staying on top of patient charts on your quick breaks and updating diagnosis and treatment plans. 

You let out a heavy sigh when you feel the back of your neck begin to cramp, the telltale signs of overwork pulling at your muscles. 

It’s safe to say that the very last thing you need to hear is what you do next.

You bump into the security guard on shift, Ahmad, when you’re walking. You immediately apologise, but he just shrugs. 

“I didn’t know you were on the night shift tonight,” you say to him.

He shrugs. “Yeah, been trying to get some extra hours.”

You give him a pat on the arm. “Just make sure not to overwork yourself, okay? I’d hate to have you end up as a patient.”

“Okay, mom,” Ahmad laughs. “Maybe you should take your own advice sometime, huh?”

You hadn’t realized your overtime had been noticed by anyone other than Jack, who always complained about your absences. You offer a smile and go to walk around him when you notice him going to say something else.

“Have you gotten in on it yet?” he asks. He gestures to a whiteboard in his little office behind him, a teasing grin pulling at his lips.

You can’t help the reciprocal delight that comes across your face. Ahmad’s gambling pools have been a thing since you first started as a resident at PTMC. They weren’t often, but whenever they started up you were always happy to participate. It provided a fun distraction to an extremely bleak work environment.

“What’s it about?” You suddenly grin as you remember something you saw on the way into work that morning. “Oh, is it about what caused that powerline to fall outside the park?”

“Nah,” Ahmad tells you, “it’s about Abbot.”

You freeze. You hug your tablet to your chest in an attempt to keep your hands from fidgeting. Abbot? What could that be about? Do they know…

“Abbot?” you echo. You put on your best attempt at a genuine smile. “What’s he done now?”

“It’s not so much what he’s done, as what he might do,” Ahmad says. You cock a curious brow. “We’re betting on what woman in the PTMC will ask him out first.”

Your blood runs cold. You try to force yourself to smile, but you think it might come off as a grimace instead. You caused this, you try to tell yourself, you were the one that made it a secret.

“Surely there aren’t that many women to list.”

“Eh, you’d probably be surprised,” Ahmad continues, “we have at least twelve right now. People keep adding candidates.”

Twelve. Twelve women that people in this ER think would make a better partner to Abbot. You tug at your stethoscope and your eyes subconsciously dart to your feet. You don’t want to know more, you don’t think you can take more, but Ahmad continues.

“I think most people are voting for Dr. Mohan, but there have been quite a few for… hey, you okay?”

You hadn’t realized your eyes had gotten foggy with tears. You force a smile on your face.

“Sorry, uh, I’m not going to participate,” you tell him, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand, “it’s not like I have a bunch of extra cash laying around.” (That part is technically true, but it’s definitely not the reason you’re crying.)

Ahmad continues to look at you like he knows you’re hiding something. He doesn’t press on it, and he nods slowly. You take that as permission enough to leave.

You weave around Ahmad and pretend you don’t feel his eyes staring holes into the back of your head as you do. Nurses and doctors move around you like schools of fish navigating deep oceanic waters, and you’re a shark that they automatically go to avoid. You set your expression as you head over to Ahmad’s office. You glance up and down the busy hallways before you stop completely, peering in through the slats of the blinds to the board.

You see the names Doctor Mohan, Nurse Julia, Doctor Al-Hashimi–it goes on. Your name is the very last addition. There’s only a few dollars under you. Your heart sinks and you feel disappointment roll over you like a tidal wave.

You mull in the feeling for a moment too long, then you force it away. You remind yourself that at the end of the day, you were the one that asked for this. Jack has no role to play in your own self-imposed misery. You, and only you, had been the one afraid of what others might think. You made your bed, now you have to sleep in it.

You don’t want to face this fact, so you instead open up your tablet to check for any new updates on your patients. 

4:00a.m.

You stare at the red numbers flashing on the microwave in front of you with bleary eyes. It lets out a high pitched chiiiirp when the meal you’d packed is done being reheated. You grab the container and take a seat near the back of the breakroom. 

You put your forehead into your hand and begin to fork through the food you’d packed with a heavy sigh. 

The scarlet fever patient was in the ICU now. Her fever had spiked and after the emergency ice bath, she still hadn’t fully woken up from it despite her temperature being lower. A teenage boy had been shot in the shoulder and had waited an hour before coming in. He ended up being fine, but it was so stressful your hands still trembled for thirty minutes after. An older woman woke up with chest pain and rushed to the hospital. She died on your emergency table.

You force another bite of your food into your mouth.

Suddenly, the door to the breakroom opens and Jack waltzes in with that same nurse–Julia–-on his heels. You stab a piece of food particularly hard with your plastic fork at the sight.

“Isn’t that crazy? I mean, I wonder what it is that is making people think we’d be good together,” she says, a huge smile pulling at her lips. 

Jack looks over at you immediately as he walks in. You meet his eyes and flinch at the concern on his face. He twists his lips and turns to pull his lunch out of the fridge. You had packed it for him. Jack always insisted you didn’t have to, but you liked doing it, so you always did. 

“I think the whole thing is silly,” he tells her. She doesn’t get the hint he’s giving her and lets out another giggle.

You know what they’re talking about–it has to be the betting board. You had checked it at least three times over the past hour. Pure curiosity, of course. It’s not like you were secretly a masochist or anything.

The last you’d checked, Julia’s pool had officially surpassed the lead’s. Yours still hovered around the same amount. A part of you had wanted to put some money down on your name just to get in the running, but you thought it’d probably look weird to see you betting on yourself.

Instead of taking a seat at the other table, Jack walks over to you. “Hey, got room here?”

You look over at Julia and cock a brow. You shrug a shoulder lazily. “Sure, I’m just about to wrap up.”

They take the seats across from you, and you shoot a small smile toward your boyfriend. He rolls his eyes and gestures slyly to Julia, who’s currently discussing all the cases she’s had today to nobody but herself. You laugh under your breath at his annoyance. Knowing Julia now, you wonder if the ER staff’s hypothesis that pedes makes you go crazy was true after all.

He pops open his lunch and you notice him pick up the note you’d carefully written. He smiles lovingly down at it, stroking the creases from where it had been folded. You bite your lip to hide your smile and look down at your food.

“Who’s that from?”

Julia reminds you of her presence by asking the question. You flinch and your eyes shoot up to look at her. She’s staring at the note in Jack’s hands with furrowed brows. 

You stop eating mid chew, staring at Jack’s reaction. He hesitates, eyes darting up to meet yours. His lips part, then close, then part again. Julia looks between the two of you confusedly, jealously. The anger at her audacity to feel jealousy roars up out of you before you can control it.

“It’s from me.”

Jack’s eyes widen to an almost comical size. Julia’s mouth drops open.

“You two are…?”

“Yep,” you supply, standing up from the table with a sharp jolt. “And I’d appreciate it if you kept that information to yourself. Oh, and if you could, please stop flirting with my boyfriend.”

Julia nods slowly. 

You grab your lunch and dump the rest into the trash. As you put the empty container back in the fridge, you hear him standing, giving apologies to Julia about your behavior before slipping up behind you. You notice Julia leaving the break room as you turn around.

“I need to go,” you say, trying to weave around him.

He just steps in front of you. His arms are crossed in that delightfully sinful way he knows you like, a cocky grin on his face.

“So was I going to be told we are telling people about our relationship now or…?”

You look up at Jack and try to smile but it just feels as stretched thin as you do. You notice him deflate when you pinch your nose bridge in between your fingers.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him, “I should have told you. It was more of an in-the-moment type of thing.”

“You got jealous, didn’t you?” he continues grinning at you like he’s won the lottery. He stretches his hand out to softly stroke your upper arm. You feel your skin tingle where he touches.

“I mean, what girl wouldn’t, seeing her boyfriend get treated like a piece of meat all day?” you scoff, frustration flaring up with your words but falling away with the gentle strokes on your arm. “I think I should be rewarded for lasting as long as I have.”

He tilts his head. “Really?” a grin pulls at his lips. “How would you like to be rewarded, love?” A mischievous flirtation pulls at his words, his strokes now leaving hot imprints on your skin.

You duck your head, a smile pulling at your lips despite yourself. “Jack.”

He lets out a laugh and pulls his hand away. You mourn the touch the second it leaves your skin.

“I still think we should wait,” you tell him softly, “at least until the shift is over. Anything that comes after that can be handled, but I don’t need to have any more distractions today. It’s been bad enough having to see Joanna hanging off your arm all day.”

“Julia,” Jack corrects. You shoot him a faux glare. He chuckles. 

“Well, it might be hard…” Jack says, “I mean, I’ve already waited 12 months to tell people you’re mine.”

You pat his arm unsympathetically. “Well, that means you can wait a few more hours, can’t you?”

“You’re really going to make me put up with those flirty EMTs the rest of the night,” Jack deadpans.

“I’m sorry?” you really don’t know what he’s talking about.

“Being in a secret relationship works both ways, love,” he tells you, walking backwards to the door, “you have to be jealous about nurses, I have to be jealous about hot first responders. We both got it bad.”

6:45a.m.

“Waaait, where aaam I?” the young, blonde, completely shitface-drunk college girl asks, her eyes wide and bloodshot to all Hell.

“You are in a H-O-S-P-I-T-A-L, hospital. Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center,” Nurse Mateo says from where he adjusts the blood pressure cuff on her forearm.

You stifle a laugh. Sure, Mateo’s a bit grumpy with the girl, but she had tried to throw a chair at him when she was first admitted. She missed by about two feet, but the intent was there enough that Ahmad insisted on putting a pair of handcuffs around one of her wrists to her bed.

The girl just frowns. “Why’m in a h-o-sss…”

You lean over and pull up one of her eyelids, flashing your pin light into her left eye. It retracts normally, but she hisses like a vampire and pulls away with all her strength.

“You fell and hit your head,” you tell her, “almost got run over by a car. You’re lucky some friendly samaritans stopped to help you.”

She doesn’t reply. She stares at something over your shoulder. You take her distraction as an opportunity to look closely at the cut along her hairline. 

It’s got quite a bit of dirt and gravel in it, and is certainly deep enough to require stitches. 

“Well, hon, I know you’re drunk out of your mind right now, but I'm still going to let you know what we have to do,” you tell her, trying to get her to meet your eyes, “we are going to have to clean and put some stitches in that laceration on your head so it doesn’t get infected.”

The girl just stares past you. You finally turn. You look through the window to see Jack there, reading a patient chart on his tablet.

Your eyes roll without you even meaning to. Of course, yet another woman is interested in your boyfriend. You’re starting to think you’ll need to get him a neon sign to hang around his neck that says taken.

“She might listen to him better,” Mateo offers, “or I can sedate her. I am not trying to get another code hoola-hoop.”

You look back at the girl who’s clearly very out of it–staring at your boyfriend, even though it’s unlikely she could fully make him out–and let out a heavy sigh. You shrug one shoulder and snap off your gloves in the same swift movement. You stand and leave the room, headed to where your boyfriend stands next to desks.

Once you reach his side, you don’t have to say anything to grab his attention because he suddenly looks up like he sensed your presence. You offer him a weary smile and he returns it in full, turning his body to offer his full attention.

“What’s up?” he asks.

He’s in Dr. Abbot the ER attending mode now, all professionalism and seriousness. You smile to yourself at the memory of your first few shifts as a resident, crushing furiously like half the other women on the night-shift.

“I have an incredibly drunk twenty-one-year-old, BAC of .16%, large forehead contusion,” you say, “and… she’s been making goo-goo eyes at you since she first came in. She’s been fairly combative, so maybe you could come in and ‘work your magic’?”

“What I’m hearing is you want to use me as eye candy?” Jack’s words end in a soft laugh. “Man, maybe I should go to HR…”

You laugh at how ridiculous it all sounds. Just a few hours ago, you’d been upset at the very idea of your boyfriend being looked at by another woman. Now, you were using his good looks to win patients over. Screw it, your shift’s almost over. Anyone who tries to take your boyfriend in the last hour of your shift will have hell to pay.

“All I need is for her to be distracted enough that I can put some stitches in her cut,” you tell him with a grin. “Shouldn’t be that hard for you to stand there and look appealing, right? I mean, that’s what you do all the time anyway.”

Jack lets out a chuckle, but he nods his head and gestures for you to lead the way. You grin and walk him to the patient’s room.

The girl’s eyes immediately widen as she sees Abbot step into the room, like she’s looking at a movie star or something. You can’t fault her. Jack in his form-fitting scrubs and hair all disheveled is really a sight to see. 

“I got your boyfriend,” you tell the girl, shooting an amused glance to Jack, “now how about I look at that cut on your forehead, hm?”

She continues to smile all dopey and lovestruck as you put on a new pair of gloves and Mateo wheels a cart near you. The spot’s been numbed for hours, so she won’t feel a thing.

As soon as you reach to probe it, though, she shoots away from you. 

“Wait, waaait,” the girl says urgently. You stop, eyebrows furrowed as you look at her. “Can’t he do it?”

You sigh and look over your shoulder at your boyfriend. Jack shoots you a smile and a shrug as if to say “I don’t mind” and you can’t say you’re opposed to the idea. Anything you can do to get this girl treated and gone is what you’re going to do.

“Sure,” you tell her, “but play nicely.”

You stand and move toward where Jack stands, gesturing with a slightly annoyed smile toward the girl. “She’s all yours.”

Jack settles down in the rolling stool you abandoned and the girl immediately lets out a high-pitched, excited giggle. 

You watch Jack and the girl quietly talking together; him asking her what she was celebrating, her replying that it was her birthday, him asking what she’s studying, her telling him she’s in law school. All through the applying of the cleaning of the wound, the sutures, and then the bandage, the girl is calm and patient. Watching Jack work so nicely, so empathetically toward the girl reminds you why you fell for him in the first place. You stifle the fond smile pulling at your lips. You look over at Mateo and he gives you a shrug. 

Your eyes get drawn back to your boyfriend as he stands from the chair and walks your way. 

He stops in front of you and crosses his arms. “She’s all patched up.”

You nod. “I’m thinking I might order a head CT just to rule out any head injury.”

Jack smirks like he’d been hoping you’d say that. “Attagirl.”

You follow him out of the patient’s room and into the main foyer. You look around at all the doctors standing by desks and mentally prepare yourself for switching shifts. Dana’s already catching up with Lena, Javadi and Mohan are chatting and updating patient charts from their previous shifts.

You look over at Jack, whose body is angled toward you next to desks.

“You hungry?” he asks you. He’s looking at his tablet to give the impression to any nosey Nancys that he’s not talking to you. You bite back your smile.

You nod, thinking back to the small meal you’d had a few hours ago. “I could eat.”

“Chinese or Italian?”

You angle your body toward him. You draw a hand to rest upon his bicep. He turns his head toward you, surprised.

“I could eat an entire gallon of fried rice right now,” you tell him, a small smile curling on your lips. “How about you?”

Jack’s too preoccupied with the hand on his arm to answer immediately. “Uh, I guess I could get a stir fry.” As he speaks, his eyes draw up to meet your own. You squeeze his arm gently and he leans forward. “Are you coming onto me, Doctor?”

“If I was?” you say with a small smile curling at your lips.

“I’d tell you we still have ten minutes left on our shift,” he says teasingly, “I thought you didn’t want any distractions?”

You pull your hand away from his arm to rest back on the desk in front of you. “I don’t know about you,” you say, filling out the order form for the CT scan as you do, “but I'm tired of hiding.”

Your boyfriend chuckles softly from beside you.

You put the completed form into the outtake area. You go to turn toward Jack when your eyes get caught on a gathering of people near the front of desks. You pat his shoulder to get his attention and then follow the crowd forming near the front.

Ahmad’s at the center of the formation, and he has a big grin on his face. You watch confusedly as Jack weaves through bodies to get to Ahmad.

Your heart drops, now realizing the cause of the big commotion. Ahmad wraps an arm around Jack’s shoulder as he looks around the crowd. “And I’m happy to announce that the person with the highest bids is none other than our wonderful—“

You catch a glimpse of the paper in Ahmad’s hand as he gesticulates to the crowd and the words come tumbling out of your mouth before you can stop them. “It’s me?” you say, surprised. 

Pleased cheers go around the room. You look between Ahmad and Jack confusedly. Who’d put you in the lead? Last you checked an hour ago, Mohan was still the highest.

“In a stunning turn of events, an anonymous donor broke the tie and put her in the lead,” he continues.

You frown for just a moment as you look around the gathered faces, wondering who would do that, before realization strikes you like lightning. You grin as your eyes dart to Jack who innocently shrugs when your gaze lands on him. 

Something comes over you in that instance that has you moving through the crowd to your boyfriend. You gently grasp his face in your palm and place a chaste kiss on his lips. You don’t have a chance to savor it before a few more cheers ring out and you pull away, embarrassed by the display. Jack wraps an arm around your shoulders and gives you a side hug, leaning over to place a kiss on your cheek.

“Okay, okay,” Lena says as she breaks through the crowd, “this isn’t an episode of Grey’s Anatomy. You all have patients to see.”

The crowd disperses quickly after that. People give each of you thumbs up and congratulations as they leave, Ellis tells you to ‘find her later’ — obviously displeased about not being the first to know, and soon you and Jack are left alone.

“Well that didn’t go as bad as I expected,” Jack says, squeezing your shoulder once more before releasing you.

You cock a brow. “If you think that’s the last of it, you’re sorely mistaken. Robby hasn’t even found out yet and I think Ellis is going to brawl me in the parking lot.”

Jack lets out a soft laugh.

You look up at him with soft eyes, a small, flirtatious grin curling on your lips. “I’ll see you after rounds are shifted over. Want to order the food so we can have it back at my place?”

“If I ever say no to coming over to your place,” Jack says, “you can just shoot me, okay?”

You let out a barking laugh as you go to leave. Before you get more than a few steps, you look back at him over your shoulder.

“Oh, and tell any women who flirt with you that you’re off the market,” you say, “I’d hate to be fired because I assaulted a patient.”

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.”

"I think you’re a bad man, I know what you’ve done, You think you’re a good guy, Take it and run."

Run - Slow Funeral

        Fifty-six paramens ago.

        Him: I can provide more transcripts after I'm told about the signal.

        Them: We're at risk of packet sniffing. We'll find the rest of them on our own.

        Him: There are no hard copies left. I remember their contents. I have them typed and ready. They are not exact replicas, but you need them. I can make the files more difficult to decrypt.

        Them: Send them.

        Him: What is the signal?

        Them: Send the files. If they can prove further useful in our mission and we detect no further interference, then I will speak to my advisor about telling you more.

        Him: If The Emperor has found a way to view our messages, I'd already be dead. Your technology is bound to send off signals due to the way it's designed. This line has remained uncompromised, if it becomes so, I will cease communication. What is the signal?

        Them: We will not risk communicating that on this line.

        Him: You've risked more than enough on this line.

        Them: We have other avenues of gathering information. Slow communication for now. We'll be in contact.

        Him: The other "defector" on board hasn't sent anything useful and never will. He will not fight by your side. I, and my other Viltrumite ally will, if you tell us the signal so we can coordinate.

        Them: You can't miss it.

        Now.

        The creatures came apart at the seams, but their blood didn't ease the tension in his back. Ever tight since Hydrox, tighter still since your defiance. Gray watched Thula whisk you away, gears turning about how to proceed in the aftermath. He'd side with Mark, but be gentle with you. Humans tended to lash out when emotional- Mother framed proposals as high stress. You just needed a nap and some food, simple human routine and you'd curb that issue. Gentle re-education could- 

        The imperial tower's rightmost spire blew apart at the middle. Chunks of its walls flew overhead, crushed corpses and corpses to-be. Gray barely noticed it, or the fire suddenly blasting out of the wound in the tower. Eyes caught instead on the glittering shards of glass from the cria tanks. The fact that even keyed-in, he couldn't hear their cries.

        He was there in the next moment, an unthinking drone scanning for life. The air stuffed thick with smoke and heat, but he saw enough flying through the blasted ceilings into floors. There were no bodies left to incinerate, pack into a tube, and store close to Viltrum's core due to re-contamination concerns. Nothing but the shattered hulls, they cooed and reached for him in. Empty, aside from the ashen shadows where'd they'd once been.

        Gray rose through the fire, but the heat didn't touch the ice that'd solidified his insides. He glimpsed what was left of the waddling girl and her overseer. He started to shake. 

        At the final floor, he found the boy alive. The top floor was unscathed save for the door that had been blasted up into the ceiling. Soon the whole tower would fall, a structure older than human history reduced to rubble. The cria, slipping as the structure began to sway, would survive. He would make sure. 

        Gray brought the boy to a pavilion where there was no fire. In the half second he'd gone, it'd bloomed red everywhere like a field of poppies. He didn't know what they looked like, just that Mother said the name and red a long, long time ago, and he'd felt warm and safe and slept in her bed that night.

        Gray's hands slid off the boy's shoulders. "Stay here." Shadows zipped overhead. None of silhouettes he recognized. He watched them, tensed, ready to-

        "Sir, there's a-"

        The boy's body shattered under the mace. Gray turned a quarter second later, mouth open to tell him again to stay. Blood misted over his tongue and stung his eyes.

        Battle Beast scoffed and pulled his bludgeon from the corpse. "I left the war-dunes of Tscnar for this? You, Viltrumite, prove to me the travel was worth it." The mace came down again.

        Markus didn't leave the slaughter pit when the explosions started. He slowed, watched as the council ping-ponged in different directions to deal with dozens of sudden emergencies. The food processing plant, blown apart, animal breeding grounds, on fire, power production, mills of all kinds, historical relics, gone, gone, gone.

        And still, Markus waited for the other shoe to drop. If he'd learned anything in this life, it was the worst was always yet to come. 

        The worst came as a man in a cream robe from beyond the horizon. Behind him, beings in armor with peashooters. Blue blazes shot from their backs because they needed codes and circuits to fly. 

        Markus could've killed them all first. Mark certainly went for it, screaming his head off and lunging into the throng of them. But Mark wasn't thinking about what was holding the guns, just the weapons themselves and how they'd ruined his proposal. Markus was stuck there too, lingering on it, so angry his whole body throbbed, but it wouldn't make him stupid. The man in the cream was pointing and ordering, flying without a pack, the commander who needed to die.

        Markus had heard enough about Thaedus in Kregg's history spiels, but he'd never seen the man's face. He didn't care to make the connection as he headed for him fist first. The man started to speak in that know-it-all balm the elderly had, "You-" Markus hit him and felt the healing cracks in his bones split open. He didn't grunt or nurse the arm, just swung again.

        Thaedus maneuvered out of the swing, spat a, "Fine then." Speeches were mostly a post-victory tradition in the old days, after all.

        Towers crumbled, shots were fired, Markus took two fists to the back. The old man was faster than he looked, had an edge of five-thousand years too. Markus was spiked into the ground so hard he felt himself disconnected from his body, consciousness continuing into the planet's core. It'd been such a long time since he'd hurt so badly. Nostalgia was seeing his battered body and wondering whose it belonged to.

        His body rolled barely out of the way of the man's heels, aimed like a spear for his head. Then it clicked; it was his body. Moving perfectly as it'd been taught, even without his mind. He snapped back into it.

        Numb legs swung for the old man's ankles. Father had taught him that. A last resort only, to go low and "dirty"- it was below their Viltrumite heritage to use anything but perfect stances and strikes.

        The old man was not snared. Markus was, head pinned to the ground by a knotted palm. So quickly he'd fallen apart. The pain wasn't bad enough to justify defeat, yet there he was, about to die. Too slow, too hurt, too stupid to realize Mark was planning on proposing. Lamenting was easy on death's door, he was a failure by all metrics of the word.

        Thaedus wasn't exactly tickled by his thrashing. The overgrown cria hit hard, but there would be no more cria soon. No more grown Viltrumites either, after he eradicated the rest of his own species. "You believe the empire has taught you to win but they have not." Perhaps it was his old man tendencies, his impending suicide, or the fact Viltrum taught him to never do his brethren harm, but he couldn't stop the lesson coming from his lips. "You have never known victory and never will. Victory is-"

        "Shut up, bitch!"

        His feet connecting to Thaedus' jaw sent a shock wave up Mark's legs he wasn't ready for. He crashed and skittered through wreckage and knew by the end his ankles were shot. Which was fine, at least Thaedus was off Markus and on him.

        Markus wobbled upright, dazed and coming to quickly. Mark's blurred outline zipped around the old man's. Blows connected so hard they blasted wind through his concrete-gelled faux hawk, sending the grayed strands out of place. Fighting hurt Mark the same way it did Markus, and still the little bastard was taunting, bouncing around. Pretending he didn't notice how outclassed he was as he fought for an impossible outcome. Before, Markus would have thought it was stupidity, but now he knew it was resolve. 

        Easily, Markus had given up. Let himself be beat down. Let himself down. Which meant letting you down.

        A split moment, he locked eyes with Mark.

        Thaedus tried to throw Markus off his back, who was suddenly there and clinging on hard. Without a clue of what he was doing besides digging through Thaedus' robes and piercing shallowly into his body anywhere he could reach. Dishonorable, and messy and haphazard- something Mark would've done.

        The same thing Mark was doing to Thaedus' front. Wide open for the same rip-and-tear treatment. Didn't matter how much time the old man had over them both. They had something to live for- a knock-down drag out fight over your hand in marriage- Thaedus did not. Five-thousand years and all the love in the galaxy couldn't have prepared Thaedus for being shish kebabed by two clones of the royal bloodline. 

        The bundle of Viltrumites thudded to the ground, Thaedus no longer able to hold them up as he drifted closer to death.

        Mark and Markus breathed in the smell of each other's blood. Their noses now twins, crooked and streaming blood into their open mouths.

        "Find Gray." Mark said soft, words just for him and not for the corpses.

        Markus went.

        Mark stayed. Took in the battle around him. The council, what was left of them that Mark could see, were taking on the backpacked soldiers. Making fast progress. A pitiful army, he laughed around a mouthful of blood. How had Thragg ever thought this would destroy the empire?

        A slipstream lightened the evening sky, headed by a pale twinkle. There it was, the coup de grâce, whatever the hell it was meant to be. Probably the tiny-headed fuck himself coming in for a grand entrance. Mark wouldn't allow it.

        He took off hard for whatever it was. 

        And stopped as he heard- "Dude, (Y/n)'s not in her room." 

        Seb opened the closet, finger to his comm. You weren't there either. Grayson told him to go get you but, "She's not here!" Or on the observation deck, or in the mess hall, or in the training room. 

        Mark paused. What did he mean you weren't in your- his- room?

        "Who is this?" Gray's voice cut in over the sound of a cat's hiss.

        A pause on the comm line then, "Your emperor... Dipshit." The impression wasn't bad, they were the same man after all.

        Mark turned around. "Yeah, that's not me. I'm heading to the ship."

        Seb's hand flew off his ear. "Shit." Out of all the Viltrum tech bullshit he forgot, it just had to be how to privately comm Grayson. At least he remembered how to empty the septic tanks. God, he hated this place. 

         Air split around Mark's outstretched fist, then the airlock door just as easily. "Are you two together?" He slowed in the halls, scared he'd move so fast he'd tear you in two.

        "Yes-" Markus took his finger off his ear so the whole planet didn't hear him get body slammed. "Busy."

        "Watch for Thragg, he's-" Mark stepped into his bedroom, and you weren't there. Fine, Thula put you somewhere else, if he just checked his-

        Thragg didn't wait for the ship to land. He stepped out of the airlock and onto the screen of every speakeasy and shit box across the galaxy. Onto Mark's data pad screen, the camera floating down to his side, framed by the destruction. Easily, he'd reassessed Viltrum's broadcast system. Even his off-world earpiece was dialed into the speakers that sent his word to millions: "This chaos was preventable."

        Mark turned, mind in a million places. He nearly walked right into Grayson. 

        Thragg eyed the battlefield as if he weren't being shot at by flying rebels. "I could have stepped in at any time, stopped this from reaching our sacred homeworld."

        Mark paused, uncharacteristically quiet as his mind struggled to place the man in front of him. Why wasn't he fighting rebels? 

        Thragg continued from his arm, "The Mutt could have too, if only he'd looked in the right communication channels, but he is witless as the young often are." 

        Mark knew all at once why Grayson was at his door. So obvious, he felt stupid not seeing it coming. "What do you think you're going to do, huh?"

        "I will no longer allow him to let our home burn." Thragg prattled on. If Mark had been watching the screen, he'd have seen Kregg smacked aside like a sick puppy by Thragg's backhand. 

        Grayson shifted in the air. All he could do was float with the one leg, he looked ridiculous, raising his fists and frowning- as if he was a threat in any capacity. Mark scoffed, "Oh come on, you know you can't hit me, you forget that? Got so caught up in whatever you thought you had with my fiancé, you forgot you're also my bitch." He hit him, a pistoned punch to the chest. He expected Grayson to go through the wall, frail and easy like he'd always been. But he caught Mark's fist and twisted. Mark's own momentum sent him through a wall.

        His earpiece buzzed with Kregg's voice, "Emperor, we need you out here. Thragg is here, I repeat, Thragg has entered Viltrum's atmosphere."

        Mark floated out the him-shaped hole and found Grayson. The smooth, marble joints that carefully made up Grayson's knuckle, twitched. He waited for something, but Mark didn't care for what. "That one kiss you had really was enough to turn you traitor, huh? I mean, I'd go the same way. She's so good with that tongue. Good at lying too. What'd she tell you, she wants to run away with you?" He hit him again, same easy motion. Grayson didn't deserve a battle plan.

        "I will no longer allow The Mutt or his father's legacy to tarnish the great expansion." Thragg.

        "Mark!" Kregg.

        Grayson caught it again, taking the brunt of the impact without moving an inch. Mark felt his lips curl into a snarl as Grayson just watched him with their father's eyes. Mark tried to rip his fist free, but he was trapped in his grip. "Bet she forgot to tell you how much she loves the empire, though. She has to with all the cock she sucks for it."

        The floor met Mark's back. Grayson let go to swipe for him, but Mark twisted upright. Snarling, "You're a great lil employee, Grayson, really, ya are. Could let you in on the action anytime I want, because you wanna know something?" He was wide open and weak, but even at his most pathetic, it was enough to beat Grayson. Too easy. Should've done this months ago. "She would never be happy with you, she's too much of a slut to end up with only one of us, needs all the dick she can get."

        Soft as a kid in church, "Don't talk about her like that."

        "You can talk." Mark's fist bloomed open to a waiting spear. "Where is she, Grayson?"

        False hope was better than what the emperor deserved. Grayson gave him what he did- a prosthetic fist to the face. Joints became shrapnel, metal plating blades, Mark's face an open wound. Grayson shattered to the elbow, a stump once again.

        Mark wobbled back, a groan out his open, bleeding mouth. Metal stuck through his cheek, glimmering as it stabbed into his tongue.

        Grayson didn't wait for him to process what had happened, that the programming he'd made to trap Grayson had been nothing but an illusion. He was just as capable as the rest of them. Subjugation a mask, the same he'd worn as Invincible.

        He tore the data pad from Mark's arm and ran best a one-legged man could; through flight.

        Grayson closed Thragg's broadcast and opened the control panel for you. No passcode to it at all, sitting pretty on Mark's home screen unprotected and obvious. Turning it off a single motion, no verification needed. It'd always been that easy.

        Finding you was just as easy, your location viewable in the next thumb swipe. Your dot flashed beside two others. The angel started screaming. 

        Thick in a stupor, Mark found himself on the floor. Alone. Face throbbing. One eye swollen shut. His breath heavy and wet as his teeth clicked against a thick chunk embedded in his gums. He tore the metal out with an animal cry. Blood flooded his mouth. So much if he didn't keep swallowing, he'd choke.

        Mark checked his arm for Grayson's location and found his wrist bare. He screamed.

        The angel wouldn't stop crying. Telling him how badly it hurt to die again.

        Twice Grayson pushed his earpiece, said a quiet command of, "Seb," and he was wired into direct communication with the useless fool.

      "What!?" Seb's voice came over the universal comm line. Idiot.

      "You need to get her now." Grayson pushed himself faster through the halls. The ship shuddered as Mark tore through it, smashing through the walls instead of navigating around them. "She's in the-"

        The wall blasted apart behind him. Mark's smile wetly glimmered. "Thound you, atthhole!"

        Grayson had been counting on it. He pushed himself through the door instead of waiting for it to open, tore the cuffs away instead of sitting around while they unlocked.

        Originally, The Asshole had been a bone to throw for information. Only in The Coalition's caginess did Grayson find a place where he neatly fit. Between plan Y and Z. Freeing him wasn't optimal, but he'd planned right for it. Fed and watered the dog best he could and hoped it'd prove loyal.

        The Asshole lifted his neck and drooled out glitter, the agent fourteen vial chewed to sand. Only thing he could destroy and it was between his teeth. "Now?"

        "Now."

        The Asshole nearly fell onto his face. Unused to holding himself aloft. He'd better get used to a whole lot in the next two seconds, Mark was in the busted door frame.

        "Where is she?" Seb said in Grayson's ear.

        He wouldn't say, not in front of these two.

        Mark cackled and sent blood misting out his mouth. "This is your plan?"

       The Asshole was so tired of that smell. Ever present in this room. He lifted to his feet, body shaking the whole time, but his muscles held. "Eve." Was all he could say because it was all he could think about. So close he could almost taste her in his dry mouth- or was that just what you tasted like? 

        He couldn't remember. Too much warping and twisting and torture. He knew one thing here, in the fogginess of his cage, Eve was the light at the end of the tunnel. Really, it was the hallway light that blinded him. The emperor's throat under his forearm. Pushing, The Asshole tried to sever the man through, but Mark's meat was too gamey.

        Grayson left, finger to ear.

        Mark punched Mark in the stomach. Hard enough to make anyone puke, but there was nothing to puke, so he got a hot cough instead. Then teeth closing on his nose. "Get the-" Mark breathed in blood, choked, coughed it into Mark's mouth. 

        They snarled and thrashed and clawed wall to wall. Metal dented and went red in splotches. 

        Mark sent the Emperor through his cage, harder than he thought he could throw. The Emperor made an easy hole to the outside. Weak and hurting almost bad as The Asshole was.

        Freedom had only been six feet away this whole time. Dirty air blasted The Assholes face. He moved toward the wind and into the outside world. Once again, the sun warmed his skin. Not much of it left, and he couldn't see it through the smoke, but the warmth was there. What little fresh air there was made him human again. Spark returned to his eye.

        The Emperor shot out of wreckage to snuff it out. 

        "Emperor!" Kregg screamed into the comm line to no reply. "Generals!" He searched for their shapes in the smoke. Mechanical eye whirring in his skull, locking onto bodies, but none of them the right one.

        Mark wasn't listening anyway, blood rushing in his ears. Thragg and his political devastation had been wiped from his mind as soon as the image of him had been torn from his arm. The war march hadn't stopped, nor the monologue.

        Thragg gave no particular skirmish any mind as the creatures with nearly the same skin as Viltrum's evening sky flooded out of the ship. "The nymphs come from a race so worthless our tech has left their planet unlabeled for eons." He spoke to the universe calmly despite the threats to his life all around. He let them come just to bat them away like toys. This was his fight to win, but not yet. "Weak without my DNA. But they are better now, even as the lowest rung of abominations." They wore his red and white. His sigil. "They are beyond enough to take back my empire from The Mutt's paws." He only needed to nod toward Kregg, and a swarm of them went. "Watch them work."

        You were right where Grayson said you'd be. Worse and somehow better off than Seb had imagined. "I've got you." He pressed you so close you must've felt his hammering heart. "I've got you, dude." Your blood pressed warm and sticky to his chest. "Are you-"

        "I'll be fine." You shakily pulled up the bottoms. Wind a hard wall at your cheek.

        Seb's stomach swirled with sick. Knowing what they'd done. Wanting to make them pay, but there'd never be time for it. He told himself so he'd keep moving. "Yeah, yeah, we'll be fine. Gonna get you outta here, man."

        "We weren't done!" Ollie burst from the shattered airlock. He locked onto your retreating forms, a feral bloodhound.

        Sebastian lagged behind. Disbelief all over his face. He followed. Mouth open, hissing in your scent, still pungent in his olfactories. You haunted him from his nose and mouth and deflated, stuffed away cock. Haunted when you were right there, still living. She wasn't anymore. She was gone because she hated him. He couldn't stop thinking about it. The fact solid, absolute. Coming back again and again no matter how hard he tried to think of something else.

        "Sorry, I gotta- we gotta run." Seb covered your head the best he could and pushed harder. So fast you could barely catch enough air to breathe.

        No way in hell was he leading these two freaks right to your happy ending.

       Seb was lithe, twisting around crumbling buildings and people killing each other. Still, the pair stuck to his heels. Gaining fast. "Hold on." You already were, hard as you could, like he was worth trusting with your life. He had to earn it.

        Seb shot out his forearm. An axe of air sliced a tower in half. Sent it teetering down hard for the dog's heads. Thank you, gravity training. "I got 'em!" His dad had done that move a hundred times, and he'd never been able to, too lazy to even try before coming here. Maybe he really could do this. His arm wrapped back around your shoulders. "And I got you! Fuck those guys." He veered for the shipyard.

        Mark saw it all through blurry vision. Making out only your flowing clothes, the chase, Seb's whooping. It cost him another punch to the face. Pain didn't register when you were getting further away. In another man's arms, during a coup and-

        You'd done it to him again, hadn't you?

        They were battered, bruised, bleeding. A claw stuck out from Markus' shoulder and fur spilled out of Gray's mouth. He hadn't been proud of biting the beast, but the damn thing wouldn't go down. Only after he locked eyes with Markus did the plan slide into place. Connection between them near psychic. Gray one side, Markus the other, their fists met in the middle of Battle Beast's great, collapsible head.

        Triumph. Surely the greatest warrior The Coalition had to offer, was defeated. The hard part was over, now was the clean up. After a moment's respite, to breathe and pick at teeth. Just a second, they wanted to relax their stinging bodies.

        Mark's voice came icily in their ears. "She's trying to leave." Calm. About as much Mark could spare in his body. Emperor-like for a single moment before he exploded. "Shipyard! Get to the fucking shipyard! Now!"

        They went.

        As did The Asshole chasing after Mark's skirts. Forgotten as soon as you were on the line.

        As did Ollie and Sebastian, only mildly dusty.

        Seb didn't look behind himself, only ahead, but he heard their bodies singing. Coming in hot. He pushed his shoulder into his earpiece, "Which one is it? All these ships look the fuckin' same!" 

        Briefly, in the before when the chaos broke out, and Seb didn't know where to go- Grayson spoke in his ear. "Find the cleanest ship and wait for me." But all the ships in the yard were clean, everything was pure white, it was Viltrum for God's sake.

        Radio silence. If you ignored Thragg talking, the council screaming at Mark for help in a handful of different places. But no Grayson.

        Seb made the mistake of looking back. "Fuck, I don't know if I can lose them all." He looked back at you as a voice split the sky.

        "Give her to me, now!"

        It could've been any one of them. Each fate just as bad. Seb saw the visions on your face. Mark caught you, and it was game over. Jesus, why had he said that? "But I gotta try," he amended, "They're not touching you. I ever tell you I'm the fucking expert at girlfriend keep away? You know how many girls I was juggling, watch this!"

        Kregg didn't have to punch for the children to hurt. They wounded themselves, pounding their glass-fragile fists to his face. Burst apart at the wrists and knuckles and shoulders. Brothers and sisters shared the pain of trying to kill him together. Simply, they could not. They were Viltrumite in shape and composition, but not in age. No longer cria, but still nymphs as Thragg had called them. 

        He only needed to slash, and a row of them came apart, even on the back winds. Like cutting through mud. They hissed at him for it, came down in a tighter knot, but it didn't matter. He slaughtered through them all. Heart aching, they looked like cria, but all they were was abominable homunculi.

        Thragg piloted the camera away from Kregg and the worthless nymphs before the universe saw. Fine. He'd sent a weaker fleet for Kregg, he knew that. 

        The best grapes for the best wine. Thragg's personally picked favored. He pointed at the bodies lunging for the shipyard. Escape wasn't an option he'd allow. They, all seven hundred of the least violet-hued children, flew off as a uniformed storm.

        The rest were punished by staying, by having to join the swarm trying to kill one man. He'd told them they could kill thousands, but they knew, joining the back of the throng, they were in line for execution. They deserved it for not making it into the favored. Perhaps if they landed the killing blow, they'd finally be seen as anything other than fodder.

        Thragg followed behind, camera at his shoulder, the shot perfectly capturing the swarm. The impending impact. He turned to the camera, utterly balmy as Viltrum burned. Optics, it was all about optics. "When this is done, I will come to you and yours. I, and my full-blooded peers, will gift you all new generations of a better breed. They will never be pure, but they will be better than what you are capable of."

        The skin on your hands, your face, heated. You hissed, losing the breath before you could take it. Seb was going too fast but they were going to-

       "We were having such a nice time." Ollie swung in front of him, fist ready. "Why'd you have to-"  Seb couldn't slow down in time. He was going to ram into that fist, and it was going to go right through you. "-ruin it?"

        A flash. The tailwinds made Seb spin. He corrected before he crashed you both. The sky in front of him clear. Ollie yards away, getting further with Markus' hands on his throat.

        The others would get you back safely. It'd be fine, as soon as Ollie was dead for good.

        Seb lost speed, bobbing like a plane in turbulence. 

        An iron grip clung to his left boot. Thrashing and going faster would not dislodge Sebastian. "Get off me!"

        "You-!"

        His sole slammed into Sebastian's nose. Cartilage popped like the swollen back of a fat tick, blood bursting like one too. Sebastian howled, blood blew into his eyes. Stringing so badly, he swore they'd been burned away.

        Blindly, he snatched for Seb's other foot. Pulled to feel a give. Lids opened, not seared away but working. In his hand was not you, not Seb's corpse, but Seb's boot lined with his skin still inside. Tendons and tissues still attached, twitching and glimmering in the light.

        "Fuck!" Seb stomped him again, but the burst tick did not let go.

        If he wasn't so infected, so bogged, Sebastian would've taken the whole foot, the whole leg. You, you put something in his head that made everything boil and let off thick, toxic vapor. Made him shake, made his legs go useless behind him when you looked at him with a fear that normally fueled him.

        He let the boot fall. Blunted nails tore up Seb's leg. Piercing fabric and muscle. Ignoring the degloved foot that kept smashing at his face. Voice closer to a dying rabbit's than a man's, "You don't get to leave me."

        He left you. Not of his own volition, but Gray's. Swooped up like a baby chick by an eagle. Taking him and more flesh from Seb's leg. Gray hadn't forgotten being gutted in that cave. He'd stayed impartial in the halls for the sake of the empire. Tried to move on, but he stayed awake in the night, dreamt of the sensation of being unwound from the inside. He wanted to return the favor.

        "Motherfuckers!" Seb dipped then shot off. Mark was still coming.

        "You okay?" Choked out against his chest.

        "I'm," he swallowed bile, "fine!"

        "Come." Mark swiped for Seb's raw heel. Missed by millimeters. "Here."

        You shouldn't have looked down at him. Saw how badly he wanted to hurt you. Seb. Everything. Everyone. The longer this went on, the worse the inevitable would be. Because he always won. No chance in hell you got away. You were weak and-

        Behind him, a cloud of pale purple. Battle cry like cicada buzz. A chance in hell.

        "Mark, stay!" 

        Like a bowling ball to the chest. 

        He went straight as a pin. Fought hard as he could for the two seconds you could keep him, but it was enough. Seb gained distance, and the kids gained ground. The connection snapped as they swarmed him.

        Sebastian had been right, saving it for Mark was the thing to do.

        Seb laughed from his belly. "Suck on that, dipshit!"

        He curved down, eyes on the ships. They blended together into a perfect, colorless nothing.

        "I had to order something for them to get here." You said wispy as a dandelion in bloom. "It'll be a-"  Your head dipped. "Space ship."

        "How much blood did you lose? Of course, it's a space-" Out of all the identical ships, one was nearly without windows. Built like an eighteen-wheeler. No, like a freighter. "Oh, oh! Ship."

        The Asshole nearly had Mark until he was whisked away by a screaming ball. Then all he could see was you. Less than half a second, gazes met.

        Stomachs dropped like you were seventeen again. The sky dim and fires flickering, you both slow dancing on your apartment stoop the night he stood you up. He thinks you're good for him. You think you finally found something good.

        The next moment comes like cold water to the face. "Stay there!"

        The Asshole went stiff. Dropped half a football field before he caught himself. Gasping and terrified. Off balance as a newborn calf, as he'd been after your first kiss, as he'd been when he realized it was you at Machine Head's side. 

        That's what you were going for, right? To disarm him? To bring it all back to rub salt in his wounds? Fuck you, fuck you.

        He hurdled for you. Fists in front of himself for that extra inch of speed just to kill you faster. He wouldn't tell Eve about this. About anything that'd happened. He'd lay on her thighs and weep and tell her nothing because she'd frown and hiss, "Mark." With all the disapproval in the world. Your staunchest defender. He just needed her voice, even imagined to call to him sweetly. But as long as you existed, he only heard yours. Let the disapproval come.

        Seb wasn't wounded enough that he couldn't dodge a starving man. Though it sure came close. "Jesus!" He nearly spun out again. "Where do they keep coming from!?"

        The Asshole rasped, "The cage where you put me."

        "What the fuck?" Seb chanced a glance back, "Wait, is that your ex? How the fuck did he get out?"

        "I have no idea." But no one heard it, carried away by the wind. 

        "I didn't do shit to you man, you're looking for the guy with the mohawk!" 

        Seb (whose name he did not know) was right, he hadn't done shit. They all could've been like the Robot, petting him and feeding him like he were a stable mare. "I don't care." He shot for Seb, swung with claws for nails. Missed. "This is her fault. She-"

        "Go away."

        Blame was washed away. He was nothing but a husk. Turning away from you and floating off in a dreamy stupor. Going no particular way, just away from you. 

        Seb let out a breath, "Holy fuck, dude. Thanks." Out of fear of looking too relieved to be saved, he said, " That guy looked like he was like, gonna give me something. Ya'know?"

        "Just get us out of here."

        "Yes, ma'am." Seb landed.

        He hammered his fist to the freighter door, "Hey, we're here!" It did not budge. "It's us, the spies, let us in, man." Knock, knock. "Hey, Coalition? We're on your side." Knock, knock, nothing. "Oh, shit do you think we need a password or something?" He thought for a moment, hard as he could, "Password!"

        Nothing changed. 

         Sebastian had gotten loose from Gray's batting. He held himself together at the stomach but ribbons trailed behind him. Headed straight for you. Oblivious to Gray at his heels. Getting his hands on you mattered more than surviving. Getting his hands on you and... and... 

        The connection stretched until it held no more. The Asshole was coming again.

        "I lost him."

        "How much juice you got left, dude?" Seb watched them come, knocking on the door like an idiot.

        "Not a lot."

        "My turn then, huh?"

        Grayson was there. Suddenly and with blood dried between his remaining knuckles.

        You were alive. The angel quieted.

He hovered, a pillar between Seb, The Asshole, and the feral, gutted thing hounding for you. He turned to The Asshole, said gently something you could not hear.

       The Asshole lost momentum in a tumble. Then he was a bullet, re-chambered and shot for Sebastian. They collided, a snarling mass. Ripping and pulling instead of punching.

        Grayson linked to the overhead announcement system, via a button by the door frame. He said something in an alien language, and it opened. 

        "Thank fuck you're here, I would have never guessed that."

        The ship sat in the middle of an empty room. Bootprints painted the floor while the cruiser was shiny. Body sleek and ready to cut through Viltrum's sky.

        Grayson stepped inside. 

        "They're just gonna follow us, man, we won't make it." Seb said, following him anyway. Gray following all of you.

        "We can't stay." Space Racers gun was either about to blow or the shot was coming. 

        Except Gray, without an opponent was gaining, Markus was coming to, Ollie's limp body dropped the second he could, and Mark was clawing out of the ball. "Get her. That's a fucking order." They obeyed. Coming in fast, not to cradle you, but to tear you from Seb and freedom.

        The cruiser hadn't opened. Maybe there was no pilot inside. Maybe you'd come all this way for nothing. Be better if you'd bled out in that prison cell.

       Mark burst from the lilac cloud, but he was red all over. The favored fallen.

        "Casualties are expected." Thragg narrated, hovering slowly over the circling vultures. One himself. The only one not squawking and panicking. "They are young. Inexperienced but only a modicum of Viltrum teachings even with their flawed DNA has made them make The Emperor bleed. I can admit, he is a strong boy."

        You eyes were dragged away from your coming doom by Grayson holding something out to you. The ear piece for his communicator. You opened your mouth to ask what he was doing but when your eyes, clear and confident, you knew just what to do. You turned your head and he pushed into your ear with the ghost of a smile.

        "Huh? What's going on? I can't hear them if-"

        You interrupted him, "I'm not talking to either of you, okay?"

        Spit flew off Mark's lip, "I've killed millions- fuck, billions- of people for you, you bitch. You really think I'll let you go? You-"

        "Stop."

        For half a moment, you had all three of them paused mid-air. The moment was long enough to actually get closer to the cruiser, for Grayson to reach the control panel and shut the door of the freighter. 

         "Oh shit." You heard Seb distantly.

        Snap. 

       Mark landed through the roof. Needing to be the loudest, the spectacle, the one you looked at. Shrapnel around his feet, in his hair, shiny specs in the nook and crannies of wounds on his face. 

        Markus and Gray followed.

        They landed, an unbroken front assessing the situation. They didn't lunge further. Wouldn't with the immanent threat of death at your throat. Seb's hand open like a blade. "Back the fuck up. I'll lop 'er fuckin' head off if any one of you fuckers move."

        "Shut up, we know you won't do it." Mark smiled with all bloody teeth. Fingers flexing for a throat to squeeze. Yours if he had the chance. 

        Calmer, though with an edge you'd never heard from him. "Put her down." Gray. 

        Seb didn't budge. "You really think I give a fuck about this stupid broad? Few lies here n' there and she invites me to piss off. Not hard to get 'er to like you if you treat 'er nice." He nodded, "Get the door, dickhead."

        Markus didn't bother with words. Seb was beneath him, always had been. He looked to Gray and Gray looked back. Another killing akin to Battle Beast it'd be.

        "Markus, Gray, I know you both can beat Mark." You said, throat bobbing against Seb's hand. "You don't have to kill him, I know you're friends but just- fuck. Come with me."

        Markus paused. Gray hesitated. All they had to do was turn, punch together. This whole mess would be over. 

        "He hits hard enough but..." Thragg descended slowly through the freighter's new sunroof. The remaining favored followed, waiting for orders. He didn't spare them a glance. "Human DNA twists far too much. It's left his faculties inept. You can tell by how easily the empire has folded in his hands. He is not worthy of his lineage, he is worse. A scourge."

        Mark laughed, "You think they're gonna kill me? Do you know what that'd do?!"

        Betray the empire. Leave all structure. Create a universe ripping power vacuum. No more safety, but, no more Mark.

        "You-" Mark shook. Dug his nails into where his data pad used to be, only to find skin. "-Ungrateful fucking bitch. I gave you everything."

        Perhaps it was the blood loss, or the emotional exhaust, or maybe, you'd just gotten that good at playing victim- but your next words came out in a quiver. "Please. Please, come with me."

        Mark opened his maw in a snarl. Stepped forward.

        "Stay the fuck back!" Seb pushed his hand closer to your neck.

        Quietly, Gray's voice came to you. "Your plan was foolish, this would never have worked."

        You knew it was coming, Gray had always been loyal, but hearing it made panic well up in you. 

        "Markus!" Wouldn't look at you, another betrayal he hadn't expected. He was scared he'd kill you again. 

        Rejection slid between your ribs and slit your heart. You hitched but did not stutter. You were used to Mark Grayson disappointing you. You screamed, "Look at me." Eyes, all remaining four-hundred pairs, turned to you. Your traitorous boyfriends and fiancé, barely connected. You pointed to them, "Get them out of here!"

        Like piranhas in a feeding frenzy. They came as a wave, crashing down before Mark was halfway to you. "Bit-" The swarm cut him off. The floor shook violently as they were carried away by the riptide of nymphs.

        Grayson finally bypassed the ship securities. The pilot had locked the doors, unwilling to let you in with the emperor still so close. He didn't care what she wanted.

        The Asshole watched the nymphs make a hole out of the freighter door. Through it, he caught a glimmer. A mirage, he thought, but it didn't leave like Eve always did. Escape was right there, and they were taking it without him. He left Sebastian, a pulpy mess in the sky- the both of them.

        Sebastian chased until his ears sang. Then he was falling. A distant thought that he should start flying, but he couldn't do anything beyond thinking about it. He tried to move his body to the hole in the ship everyone had entered, but he slammed into the roof instead. 

        Ollie wheezed beside him, "Hey, buddy." Together again by pure happenstance. Fate, in Ollie's mind.

        Sebastian spat out chunks of his own flesh and blood, they didn't taste a lick like her buttery bone marrow. Swallowing down pieces of her, of you, would fix the problems. All of them. He couldn't do anything but lift his head and watch.

        Thragg let the camera follow the storm of his children. He signaled for the group to split and capture the rest of the runaways. They paid him no mind, throwing themselves at the Mutt and his generals like he didn't exist. They had known nothing but obedience their entire lives, failure of blind subservience led to death, and they knew it well. This was something beyond their control, something he would remedy himself. 

        Thragg landed on the bridge up to the escape cruiser's hull. Uncaring as the fruits of his labor were shredded limbs at a time. There were only forty of them left in a second. The camera lens caught it all, but that was okay. "The nymphs have little experience or pedigree." Thragg mused, "The Mutt has much more and still, he struggles against them."

        Seb's hand lowered from your jugular, "Can we uh... Get past, dude?" The dude was old looking, but Seb learned by now, the older, the harder the ass.

        "Dude, that's Thragg!" You hissed from his arms. Grayson was still in front of you, trying to find the next right move. 

        Thragg didn't budge, yammering on, "A few years time and their siblings that come after them will be unstoppable. This is only the first generation of the new empire, and already we reap great rewards."

        You weren't going to be trapped in another empire.

        "Hey! Hey! Look at me." You waved. Some of the nymphs turned head, easily drawn by your voice, even with their personhood revoked. "Attack!" You pointed, and the few that looked, went. Hands scratching and grabbing at their own father, though they had called him such.

        Blindsided, Thragg watched you escape through the flood of subordinates, the children not even looking as you passed. Your eyes met through the flurry, and he knew his next target.

        You disappeared inside the ship's heavenly light.

      "No." Sebastian's small intestine unfurled under his belly as he elbow crawled toward the hole. Voice small and so far away from himself, "No, don't..."

        "Don't move." Ollie said, closer. When had he gotten closer? How could he still move with so many broken bones sticking out his skin? 

        An arm squeezed under Sebastian's chest. "We won't."

        Ollie didn't have much strength left in him, Markus had played too rough. Hitting the roof hadn't been a kiss on the head either. Despite the pain, he dragged them both slow as molasses. Moving hurt too much. There was the normal weakness that came with pushing himself too far, his body begging for him to cum and drift off to sleep. 

       The cruiser opened around you. Teal and orange inside with puffy seats and neon screens. Straight out of a fifties sci-fi movie. The one thing out of place was a white box. Package slim and discreet as a customer could want. The rebels didn't have to deliver on the order, but it sure was fitting to send a cock to the empire as a last gift. Except the soldiers actually doing the fighting didn't want to see the package and think about what the emperor would be doing with it, if they were to fail- so here it went.

        But you didn't know that. You wouldn't know till later. 

        Seb let out a breath, "Sorry man, you're not stupid. You're smart and hot, and I do give a fuck about you. Like, a lot. 'S why I-"

        "Hold onto somethin'!" The pilot said. "After this door shuts, we're outta here!"

        Hands grabbed rails and throttles as the door began to close-

        The Asshole landed inside the cruiser with a thud. 

        "Dude, fuck off!" Seb kicked him in the stomach. The Asshole hit the shut door and slid to the floor. "Wait, open the-"

        The cruiser shattered out of the freighter's front. Everybody inside leaned hard and had to pull themselves harder to keep straight. Faster than anyone but the pilot thought it'd be. Less than three minutes and you'd be a blip on Viltrum's radar.

        Silence fell over the engine hum. All of you tense and waiting for the wild animal to lunge. The pilot's grip was white knuckled on the driver. Too many Viltrumites on her ship, more than she had been ordered to bring back.

        The Asshole broke the silence, "You." He peeled himself off the wall, crawled toward you on heavy, prowling shoulders.

        "Back up." Seb shifted on his feet and almost slipped on his own blood.

        You gathered power in your throat.

        Grayson shoved himself between you, "You're fast enough to kill her, but not both of us after. Don't you want to see Eve again?"

        "She-"

        "(Y/n) distracted the emperor so I could get to you. She's been trying to help you for months." Lies came out smooth as buttercream, curdled in your stomach just the same. You thought he was going to die in that ship and you'd never have to think about him again. 

        The Asshole's- Mark's eyes softened. That plump bottom lip you'd sucked on as a teenager, opened. Shut. The hardness returned. He didn't look like Mark anymore. He looked like Markus. Like Mark. Like Gray. "I don't give a shit."

        "We're a few days' trip from The Coalition stronghold," Grayson said. "Once we're there, you never have to see her again."

        Mark's toes flexed. Gripping because he needed to. Already so tired of being upright, his body wanting to return to the kneel he'd been trapped in for months. "You tried to leave me."

        "There was no safe way to get to you."

        "Bullshit." But he let his body drop anyway. Blood-caked and reliving every soft face he sheered in half. What would he tell Eve? How could he go be a Father after that? He collapsed into a chair, knees throbbing and wanting to bend shut, but he forced them to stretch, to accept his new reality out of the cuffs. And he wept.

        "You said Angstrom was coming, not him." You wiggled in Seb's hold.

        Seb started, "Hey, stop, you're-"

        "Put me down." It was over. Lot of snags in the way, but it was over. You were done being swaddled.

        Your feet hit the ground, you swayed. "Whoa, hey, take it easy." Seb steadied you by the shoulder as you pushed the still bleeding wound shut.

         Pain made you snap, "Really? Fucking Mark? What happened to the plan?"

        Grayson pushed out a sigh, "Angstrom didn't make it."

        "Didn't make it? So what he just-!" You gestured to Mark and saw a ruined mass of man. Empathy struck your righteous ass down. He couldn't help you get away like Angstrom would have, "Just keep him away from me."

        "We won't let him do anything."

        Seb nodded, "No way, dude."

        Wa-bump!

        "What's-"

        The ship groaned and teetered sideways, your feet slipping out from under you.

        Thragg slaughtered the nymphs first. With their viscera in his retinas, he found the camera and faced it. "I've allowed this to devolve too far, trusting the young too much often does that. I have learned my lesson. I will wait for them to grow a while more before moving forward. It will not be long but, while I wait to fix you-"

        Mark tore the last teenager into two. The ship in the sky getting smaller. All Thragg's fault.

        "-I will do this inexorable favor of killing The Mutt and his pups myself. Come to me, you creature, come and die."

        The universe watched Grand Regent Thragg get ripped to shreds in high definition. Too fast for most species to process. In the hours after, the recording was slowed and analyzed. First, they speared his gut in three separate places. Then they ripped him. Tore the flesh and fat right off his front in long ribbons. His face came apart in their hands, mustache first. Only scraps were left, one eyelid still blinking as he aimed for the Emperor's head.

        The Emperor took Thragg and threw. A giant baseball aimed for the ship. He missed. Thragg was a glint in the atmosphere then gone. The camera followed his image just as he'd programmed it to. Until the camera hit space and its weak propulsion left it uselessly spinning. Recording stars, then turning back to show Viltrum's scorching body before returning to the stars.

        Days after, debates on thousands of news networks. "Viltrum's long thought dead Ex-Grand Regent Thragg is dead for certain this time... or is he? Shonni, tell us what you think."

        The newscast lady pointed a green antenna toward the footage, "I can't agree with the general consensus, Smim. If we compare Viltrumite to human biology- which is the closest species anatomically- we can assume damage to the heart is enough to kill. But... There is no way they pierced his heart. Look here, they angled too low. He's hurt, recovering for sure, but that Viltrumite is not dead."

        "Oh yeah? Where is he then?"

        "Well, we can't assume anything."

        "He's an ice cube! If anyone watching is doing some intergalactic travel this week, keep an eye out for Thragg's body, contact-"

        But that was a million miles away and days from now. Now? 

        The cruiser struggled to gain speed as it left the atmosphere. Perfect calibration thrown off by three hundred extra pounds on the ship's left wing. Without calibration, the cruiser couldn't cruise. The pilot cursed, tendrils working overtime on multiple keyboards, and screens to try and get you going. 

        Ollie clung to the cruiser's wing, Sebastian held to his side. He looked at you through the port window and smiled big.

        You tensed in Seb's hold. "What are you doing? Fly!"

        "I'm trying, but Beauty's a delicate girl!" More fumbling. 

        "Open the door! I can get them off!" He said.

        "Can't guarantee I can get you back in once you're out." The pilot veered the thruster hard to the side. "Best I can do is rebalance this thing with their weight and deal with the consequences later." The ship started to tip to the other side. 

        "Just go, we can't be sittin' here!"

        "You think I wanna be a sitting starmink? I don't exactly wanna crashland on Viltrum." At Seb's silence, the pilot said, "I got it."

        Mark flew harder than he ever had, but his bones seemed to liquify and settle in his feet, his head like a balloon from the pressure. He pushed harder and only seemed to get slower. Fine. That was fine. The impossible task of catching up to the escape ship was possible now that it had nearly stopped. Still, he pushed harder for the ship, vision blurry at the edges. Tears.

        "Sirs!" Kregg's voice in their ears. "We've received a report from the warship. The infinity ray's heat signature has been picked up above your location." He was flinging the last of the children off, trying to go, but they just kept grabbing onto him. "They've been distracting us!"

        Mark tore the earpiece out and let it drop. The quiet made him faster, let him fester in the burning anger consuming him. Markus and Gray did not peel off his sides. Satisfaction swirled in his gut but, "I fucking got it. Go."

        If he didn't have it, he wouldn't order them away, Gray thought. Mark knew what he was doing. He went.

        They'd be quick. Deal with one problem, then solve the next before the minute was up. Markus thought. He went.

        "I need half a paramen!" The pilot said. "Then we're gone."

        The ring of white-clad corpses hung over the ship. Casting a shadow that left Ollie as a cancerous lump on the wing. You couldn't see his smile but you knew it was there. Same as the cold gazes, millions of them staring you down. 'How dare you leave?' Their faces said. 'How dare you leave this mass grave of a place- of a relationship- behind?'

        "I just want it to be over." You told the bodies.

        Snap. Your neck went cold. You turned to him, his sunshine of a smile, and felt the warmth of it on your cheeks. "It is over," Seb crushed the metal heart of the collar in his palm, "lil hiccup doesn't mean shit, we're out." He let it fall and tumble under a seat. A weight lifted.

        "I'll have everything that's tracking our locations deactivated before we leave the solar system." Grayson was already working on it. Sat in a chair with Mark's data pad balanced on his leg.

        "You can smile now." Seb huffed a laugh, "Wow, that makes me sound like a dickhead."

        You were an emotionless slate, saying, "Just a little bit."

        "There's my girl." Seb turned you around. Grip soft, gaze softer, "Missed you, toots."   

        The slate cracked like your lip to cheek, "Don't call me that." You laughed, once, curtly and it was enough.

       "How's about beach babe?"

        "Still a little nineteen-seventies misogynist, but you're getting better." You leaned in, dreamily light. Dopey because it'd be okay- after you got twelve or so stitches, but that was a later problem.

        "Misogynist? You shoulda heard the shit me and Rex would call girls. Wha'dya want me to call you then? Main squeeze? Man, that's also shit. Girlfriend doesn't really work that well into the end'a sentences like babe does-" You cringed. "-but I don't think I'm a big 'babe' guy anymore. What about, oh fuck- fuck- you're stepping on my foot." He hopped half a step backward, raw toes in the air like a cartoon character.

        You laughed, and fell forehead to his shoulder.

        "Ougghh, it's not funny, that shit really stings, like, all my nerves are out!" He played it up to keep you going.

        "Sorry, sorry. I just- I can't believe we didn't die out there." You shook with laughter. 

        "Hey, me too, man." Then so did he. "It's kinda like, ludicrous. Holy shit, I've never said that in my entire life. I think the empire did something to me, dude."

        "Me too, man." You kissed him. 

        Grayson's cheek twitched, but neither of you saw. Too wrapped up in celebrating together when you should've been kissing him. Why hadn't he just died?

        You pulled off Seb's lips. Said into his skin, "I really like you."

        "Wow, I help you escape, and I go from being liked to really liked... High standards, got it. Guess I gotta bust my ass for-"

        "Something's coming in hot. Brace!" The pilot shouted down the hull.

        Wha-bump!

        Two dents pushed into the closed ship door. The whole cruiser shook, but didn't stop.

        Mooaaannn.

        The door cracked open at the top, pulling down. Air hissed as it escaped. Oxygen replenishment systems groaned into overdrive. The crack widened, you saw smoke on the skyline. Widened until you saw the raging red dot that was Mark's flesh-wound of a face. Mohawk slick and fanning out as the air whooshed out of the ship, out of your lungs.

        "You're gonna regret this."

        Wider. You saw Mark's shoulders now, flexing to the point of stringiness. 

        "I don't know what I'm going to do to you yet." He said, voice tamed into raspy calm. It was a lie. He shook at the idea of ripping you apart. Wider. "Come here, and I might be good to you." 

        Seb held you so tight it hurt.

        "I said, come here." Mark had the door wide enough to plant a hand on the inside and start to pull himself in. Everything he touched smeared burgundy.  "(Y/n). You don't want me to hurt you, right?"

        "Leave."

        If you'd just been without the collar a little longer. If you'd just trained, you'd have enough left, so close. Close only counted in horseshoes and hand grenades.

        He laughed, wet and more crazed than he'd ever been in the desert, "You want me to hurt you then? Is that it? I can hurt you more if that'll make you stop ruining everything. Do you need that baby?" He was inside to the hips, bending the metal around his fingertips. 

        "I'm not her." You were shaking. "I never wanted this!"

        He grinned at your terror, "I don't care."

        Seb had been relieved, really, he hadn't had to fight Mark. Sure, he'd pumped himself up for it for months, but when it was going down- Seb was closer to shitting his pants than punching the emperor in the jaw. He'd been glad to run. He wanted to now but-

        The look on your face, as if nobody could save you.

        The others surely couldn't, untrustworthy and weak and watching from the ship's wing, down to two limbs- then there was Seb. Unscathed compared to the others. But he was the weakest link of them all- isn't that what you thought?

        No, no that couldn't be what you thought, because in the half second before the void of space tried to yank you out of his hold- you looked at him. 

        Rex turned to him. Body flying backward, neck twisted from that hell of a punch Eve threw at him. Crying already because he knew he was about to die. Could feel the heat of the pink spear about to pierce him. He decided to look at Seb. Not to beg for help, because he knew it was too late. Seb was too far away, still smashing through those stupid walls she put up- and there was no time for help. But because he just wanted to look at him.

        His sweet, stupid, useless little soldier boy that he half-hated.

        Rex smiled for a second. At him. For all the people who wished him dead, finally getting what they wanted. For himself. Free of the rotten killing work.

        After, he gasped like a dying carnival prize goldfish. Of course, he didn't get a clean break. Of course, he had to sit and wait to die while Seb cried over him and tried to fix the unfixable. And fuck, it hurt so bad. Not the wound, adrenaline cleared that, but the collapsing of his lung, the suffocation. It burned and made him all wormy and pathetic.

        "Shh-shit," he managed between blubs. The only thing Seb could do was cry louder, redder. 

        "No. No bro, you'll be fine. I just gotta-" Seb fumbled with his pockets. Wasn't there something he could use in there Dad told him about? Agent something?

        "I know what's happenin', ma-" Rex coughed out a lump of himself.

        Eve wielded another spike over her head, ready to bring it down to smash on Seb's back. It'd do nothing, but she had to try for the resistance. Sick to her stomach about Seb's turned back. He wouldn't look at her. Accepted whatever would come because the worst already had.

        Power fizzled to nothing in her palms. She left them.

        "It's- it's not that bad, man- you're good. You're gonna be-"

        Clarity. Like a crystal blue cloudless sky over a grassy field. Rex didn't know why he thought of that, but he did. Grass, oxeye daisies, the sun. 

        "I should've kissed you." Another cough. Rex didn't taste the chunks, only felt their weight on his tongue. 

        "Wha-"

        He could see it. A difference if he'd just leaned in all those times. A better apartment, real part-time jobs, and hiding from Seb's shithead Dad. It'd all go to shit anyway, but those years living paycheck to paycheck could've been good. Not a dime of going out money between them, so they'd get into hiking. Tall grass on their shins, buying long white socks to spot ticks, bug spray. The sun hot on the backs of their heads, their hands together.

        Rex lived it in seconds. Wanted more, greedy greedy. He tried to close the inches between them, feel the dream upon his lips.

        "What are you doing? St-stop moving!"

        Rex didn't. Chasing the feeling because he couldn't feel much else but fear and a need for this. He curled up and reached. Breath on Seb's mouth, their skins so close. The spike shifted, blocked or popped or ruptured something else, and he fell back.

        The sun. Bright. Warm. White. The whitest thing there ever was, so white, there was nothing else. Not even them. And Rex Sloan was too, nothing else.

        Not again. Never again. He couldn't stand by and watch anyone else die. 

        You were shoved into Grayson's lap. His one arm immediately locked over your belly. 

        Oxygen roared out of the hull, but Seb's voice came so clear. "I think I could fall in love with you stupid hard, ya'know? I'm probably gonna fuck it up. I already have a lot, but I'm gonna fix it, okay? I'm not running from this-" Hair blew over his eyes, all you could see was his crooked smile. "-just takin' care'a you."

        Seb lunged. Took Mark and himself off the ship's ass, spinning toward Viltrum.

        The hull door slammed shut. Oxygen levels equalized. 

        "We're good!" The pilot pushed the driver, "Let's go!"

        "No!" You tried to stand, but Grayson kept you down.

        He felt the wetness warm his arm. "You're hurt."

        The ship started to move. For a single instance, you saw them out the ship's back window. Then you saw nothing else, the cruiser too fast. Your getaway too clean. All because of Seb.

        "We can't leave him there!"

        "He can catch up if he kills him quickly." Grayson hoped he wouldn't. 

        He was the most afraid he'd ever been, but Seb didn't stop punching. The two of their bodies an asteroid returning to Viltrum, getting further and further away from you. Much uglier than the shot from the infinity ray that Gray and Markus were too late to stop.

        Nothing to say between them, just pure honesty in their fists. Seb's hit harder, thwack, and a tooth popped out of the fucker's mouth. Rolled down his shredded emperor's clothes and spun toward Viltrum. By the time they touched the ground, Mark would be dead. Then you'd really be free.

        Mark hit him back. Desperate. Swearing. Seb felt none of it. Nothing at all. 

        He smiled.

        Alone with Grayson. Not alone. With Mark. Sebastian. Ollie. Not a real friend between all of them.

        "We can stay close." You begged, "He'll get lost. The other's will find him, they're-"

        "They'll hurt you if they find you." Grayson finished.

        "Markus and Gray won't." was logical with blood loss to turn to the pilot and demand, "Stop the ship."

        The ship stopped, but not at the pilot's command. She couldn't do anything, crushed in the crash that sent everything backwards. Grayson twisted, took the brunt of the force, but you still reeled. More from your throbbing head. Squeezed dry.

        He stepped out of the brand-new black hole that was the cockpit. The reddest man you'd ever seen. He looked upon your feeble resistance and said, "You have something I want."

        The Asshole lunged. So afraid he ought to piss himself, but there was nothing in his body but the fear. 

        Thragg swung out an arm, slamming the boy into the wall in one motion. The Asshole rag-dolled to the floor. Skin hung off him in sheets. Bleeding so much, a pool was forming at his feet even as it was pulled into space. He paid the agony no mind. Nothing mattered, not even the remaining five nymphs stood behind him, loyal drones despite. But something did matter, one lone thing.

        "Will you try as well?" The skinless man asked Grayson. Even pulled apart at the seams, his voice stayed softly poised.

        "Are you taking us to your cloaking ship?" Grayson said back. A new plan made. Risky. High chance of failure, but it was all he had. "I've been trying to track you for weeks. The scanners haven't been able to find you at all."

        Pale pink muscles pulled into a meaty smile. "So not all of you are foolish. Good. Give the human to me, and perhaps you'll live." He held out a raw paw.

        Grayson's hold tightened. "You can have us both. I am no friend to the Emperor, they won't find you without me." He shouldn't have waited. Should've known another horrible thing was coming. The angel's silence should've told him that- why hadn't he listened?

        "Very well." Thragg spun around, said over his shoulder, "Bring them to me."

        "Alive?" A nymph asked.

        "Did I say otherwise?" He was nearly to the black hole when he spotted them on the wing. Ollie's eyes closed, but his grip still strong on the wing and Sebastian. "Fetch them as well. Bring anything valuable. Go."

        He disappeared into the black hole.

        The teenagers came for Grayson, but he floated on his own. Two stuck to his side, fists ready for funny business. 

        You could only be carried along. Mind a blur. Too terrified to speak over a whisper, "What did you do?"

        "This is our only option." Grayson stepped into the black.

        Lavender steel, screens with flight paths, unmanned seats, apparated around you. You looked back where your escape ship had been and only saw black. Through it, stepped the teens with their captives. The hole closed. Some sort of door or closing field that warped reality itself.

        "Shall we get them to the tubes or save it for you, Grand Ruler?" Asked the boy, who looked no older than fifteen. Ollie slung over his shoulders.

        "Only the weak rely on such technology, remember that, boy." And yet Thragg couldn't remember the nymph's name. He hadn't earned that even by surviving. "Put them where I can see them." He floated to a raised platform and sat heavily upon a high chair overlooking the cabin. Cold metal pressing to his open wounds. 

        The others were deposited in chairs too small for their bodies. Legs stretched long, arms hung limp, but they breathed. Grayson fit without the extra leg to take up so much room. He kept you on his lap. Heart a jackhammer.

        "Don't keep them alive, they're useless." Said the half-limbed thing. Said it, while cradling a human so preciously.

        "I did not see useless creatures in them," Thragg said.

        "They're more useful to you dead, I promise."

        "I thought that about these people at one point." Was all Thragg said about that. He flicked fingers toward the windshield, "Set a course."

        The children obeyed. Scrambling in the lowered control deck. It'd be much faster if there were more of them and the best of them with the ship's controls, Zynia and Luoth and Freigg and so many others, were all dead. Only the slipperiest remained, the ones always at the back of the pack. But they lived, so perhaps when the next generation came, they'd be the new heads. Fantasies of recognition kept their hands moving, though grief stilled the hemolymph in their systems.

        Nobody spoke. Thragg's body pulsed. Healing slow. The skin wouldn't return for days. Days where dust and cold air would irritate his sticky tissues. Hubris had to hurt so he could learn. Not to be bested a third time by a mutt that should've been extinguished in utero. 

        "This thing is, ahaha, still, haha, on?"

        Thragg lifted his palm from the armrest, a perfect print where it'd been. He pointed, "Enlarge the broadcast."

        A nymph tapped at a tiny square and swiped.

        Mark's face took up nearly the entire window, wet as a newborn. "Of course it fucking is." He laughed. Everything about him stained. His hair, his teeth, now crooked and gaped, his thumb print on the camera lens. "Are you watching this, baby?" He turned his ear to the camera like he could hear you say yes back. You said nothing at all. 

        Behind him, a purple spear had struck Viltrum through. But Mark didn't care about the infinity ray that'd slowly tear Viltrum apart in a matter of days- because planetary collapse was anything but quick.

        His dying planet didn't matter. What did was a small list comprised of you and a thousand different ways to make you pay.

        Mark turned back to the camera, nodding with a close-lipped smile, "Mhm, mhm, good! You see this?" Something was shoved into the camera. It took a moment for the lens to adjust because he was so pale that he glowed. Nearly bloodless.

        Seb looked like he'd won, face unscathed, just a misting of blood over his mouth.

        Lips apart, like he'd just blown out smoke. Eye's expectedly glassy, looking at some faraway point. Like he was high and thinking about reaching out to you. But how could he with no body to reach with. He hung from Mark's fist by his overgrown slick-back. The loser.

        Somewhere on the cracking ground, his body lay. Knuckles busted open, foot raw. He'd been running for such a long time, but now he was utterly still, only his heart moving as it pumped blood into the dirt.

         He'd just been right next to you. He'd just been holding you. He'd just been smiling.

        Grayson reached to cover your eyes, "(Y/n)-"

        You escaped his hold, swayed for the screen, told it, told Mark, Seb, "No."

        Mark smiled like he'd heard. "Yeah, you fucking do. You like that?" He pulled Seb's head back, then pushed it forward just so it'd grotesquely sway. Sway it did, a leaf in breeze, like his hair in the purple water of Ka'thala, yet when you held his cheeks, he'd been solid, immovable. "This is what you wanted, right? Don't pretend you didn't know what'd happen if you left. You knew." He shook Seb again, stained the camera red with his splatter. "Every second you're gone is you begging me to kill Markus and Gray. I'll do it for ya, baby. I'll find them right now. Let's do it live on camera, doesn't that sound nice?"

        You turned to the nymph with fingers on the controls. You didn't even hear yourself say it, "Turn the ship around." You had to kill him. Had to kill him right now.

        The nymph furrowed a brow at you. "Your word has no meaning here."

        Not even enough left in you to control one of them- whatever they were.

        "Or, or, or- you turn that tiny little ship around, and you come to me." Mark was moving now. Everything was a blur, but he kept the lens trained on Seb's head and the streamer of flesh that flapped out from his severed neck. The speed made his mouth drop open. Made his eyelids flutter. He looked mid-orgasm. Supple, sweet.

        Horrible. You'd never seen something that'd made you feel worse. Never had tears come so quick. "Kill him." You said to anybody who'd listen, but the power fell on deaf ears.

        "I see you," Mark said beyond the frame. "Good girl, stopping the ship. Wait for me."

        The lens followed Seb's eyes as Mark took off to your abandoned ship. Half lidded. Calm, cool, collected. They belonged behind sunglasses. They could've been, if you'd just gone with him the first time. If you'd just- you'd just- 

        Grayson turned you away from the screen, but you pushed and screamed and clawed. "Don't fucking touch me!" He pulled you into his chest, kept you there despite your fighting. His skin felt like Seb's. His shape. His warmth. You were sick with the realization you would never feel it again, and clung to him all at once. Screaming like Mark was hacking you apart the way he'd done to your boyfriend.

        Did it hurt? How long did it hurt? Did he regret it? Did he hate that he died for you? Did he-

       Grayson said, "Destroy the ship." The last place Seb had ever kissed you. "Mark won't look for us if he thinks she's dead." Everything tracking you was offline. 

        Thragg watched dots move on his chair's inlaid screen. Three of them, coming in hot for the stopped ship. None of them yet realized it was stopped because it'd been smashed into by an invisible ship. They'd find out if they came closer.

        "I want him to know I have her." Thragg said.

        "We won't survive that now." At Thragg's narrowing eyes, he said, "Give us time."

        "Us, so presumptuous." His teeth gleamed, somehow smiling without lips or skin. "Do it."

       The imperial vessel was piloted away from the cruiser. Pulse beams charged faster than you could blink.        

        Markus didn't know what he'd do when he got on that waiting ship. He just knew he had to get there before Mark. Stop the inevitable, though Mark didn't announce it. They were the same person. He'd thought the same thing, felt your betrayal like her neck breaking in his grip. Harder, he pushed for Mark's heels. Pushed so maybe he could be the first aboard. 

        They failed the mission. Viltrum was dying in agony. Gray couldn't stop that, but he could stop you from leaving. Holding you, in turn, would stop the slithering feeling inside him. A feeling he'd only realized was lurking in him when you'd tried to convince him with such human conviction. He'd train it out of you. Effective immediately.

        You could still hear Mark screaming as you sobbed into Grayson's collar, growing quiet in the vacuum of space as he got further away from the camera. Grayson destroyed the data pad.

        The beams on Thragg's ship too, were undetectable. Heatless. No warping light. Just seemingly nothing, and then the escape ship wasn't a ship at all, it was an explosion that sent all three of them backwards.

        Mark's fingers flew open. Seb escaped in a slow roll. Past the camera, past the ring of bodies, into the abyss. Never to be found. Forever wandering space, a nomad, just like he'd always wanted.

        The wreckage fell and burned. Pieces too small to contain your body. You were the flaming pieces, fizzling out before they hit the ground. You were the ash carried in the wind. You were the smoke in their noses. 

        You were memories. You were things left behind. You were dead.

        Actually, you were a thousand miles away already. Listening to the hunka-tunka-tunka of this new ship's engine. Beside, outside, inside yourself. Sobbing, blabbering, but you felt everything leaving you fast. 

        "I know, I know." Grayson rubbed your back.

        Hunka-tunka-tunka.

        Five thousand miles. Grayson convinced Thragg humans needed medicine. A needle pushed into your flyaway flesh.

        Hunka-tunka-tunka.

        You didn't feel it. You didn't feel anything at all.

(not so) lyrical genius (yuki ft. choso) by @stnexus ; ahh this fic is a long time favorite of mine. i remember reading it years ago and adoring it, so i was beyond elated when my reread proved to be just as enjoyable as my first read of this fic! yuki & choso are bandmates in a poly relationship with you, and when choso struggles with writer’s block, you and yuki know exactly what to do to help him along… 😏😁 i love me some dommy mommy yuki and subby choso RAHHHH

moon bend the knife (shoko) on ao3 ; to this day, this 2023 fic is one of my favorite shoko fics everrrrr. it takes place in canon, following a bad mission that reader went on before returning home to shoko. shoko wishes to care for reader, and they have the most sugary sweet, tender sex ever like omfg. i wanna melt every time i reread this fic has touched my heart in a way that few fics can… like. words Cannot describe how beautiful and moving this is. genuinely. this is poetry. it really is

lifeline (shoko) on ao3 ; the centric themes of this fic can be easily explained by these few lines in the fic itself: “You think of her and feel hope, then regret. She’ll see you in this state. You hate to do that to her. You care for her. You love her. You hate to hurt her.” ahhhh this hurt/comfort is like crack 🚬 a mission goes terribly wrong and so reader is escorted back to shoko for some healing, and shoko tends to reader so comfortingly and so sweetly 🥺😢 i adore shoko’s characterization here, same with her relationship with reader!

doctors orders (the woes of a pregnant wife) (shoko) by @manonism ² ; SHOKO FLUFFFFFF SHOKO FLUFFFFFF GATHER ROUND FOR SOME GOOD SHOKO FLUFF!!! reader is pregnant with shoko’s baby and shoko makes it her mission to dote on reader, she’s beyond cute and sweet here ^_^ this is a great read and is very funny & comforting!! love it!!

on call (shoko) on ao3 ; secret relationship trope AND shoko’s possessive?? yeah i’d be pussywhipped too! you and shoko both work at a hospital together, and when shoko’s able to score a bit of downtime with you, shoko wants you ALL to herself 😁😁 y’all know i love a good long-ish fic with in-depth smut so this fic is a winna winna in my book!! the push and pull between shoko and reader is soooo mfing good

the tartness of nicotine (shoko) on ao3 ; I LOVE MEET CUTES LIKE THIS MORE THAN ANYTHING I SWEAR ☹️ every day that reader takes her bus, she runs into shoko, who she’s dubbed ‘cigarette girl.’ in turn, she calls reader ‘strawberry girl’ given how often she brings strawberries along with her as a snack, which reader always shares with shoko :,) super cute, fluffy, and feels-good!!

suguru and the girls who ate him (shoko ft. geto) by @macbethinchains (ao3 link) ; the day that i dont glaze this fic is the day that i DIE brah . phy has such an innate talent for writing and choosing theeee most perfect/beautiful words to describe people, places, emotions, thoughts, etc. in a way that deeply immerses AND captivates you. inspired by jennifer’s body (love this movie sfm), shoko is a succubus who, after turning reader into one as well, guides reader down the path of a succubi— and losing reader’s virginity to geto, another virgin. you can FEEEEEEL shoko’s deep yearning and obsession for reader in each scene, that’s her girl fr :,) the smut is soooo mfing good, and it’s even better knowing how it will inevitably end and anticipating what shoko and reader plan on doing with geto 🤭

sleeping beauty (shoko) by @reignpage ³ ; the things i’d do for roomie shoko 🚬🚬 and if that means waking her up every morning with my mouth on her cooch, I’M IN IT TO WIN IT!!! reader here struggles with waking shoko up every morning to no avail, until accidents happen and they discover that the sure-proof way to rouse shoko is with orgasms 😁 shes so hot and flirty in this fic MEOWWWWW MEOWWWWWWWW

cherry (utahime) on ao3 ; i need to start off with saying UTAHIMES CHARACTERIZATION HERE IS SO MFING GOOD RAHHHHHH!!!!! utahime is fairly experienced and has never really had a good kiss, so reader shows her the ropes ;) utahime is sooo yummy in this i fr wanna DEVOUR her cos of how cute yet hot she is, ughhhtjshejdjw especially when some of her snark/possessiveness leaks outta her 🤭 sosososoooo good i simply cannot praise this fic enough

my rifle, pony and her (fem!gojo) by @liahcharms ; SAVE A HORSE RIDE A MFING OUTTTTTLAWAAAWW!!!!!! liah’s femjo in this fic is getting ridden through the mattress til the bedframe breaks and the floorboards below shatter like glass 🤤😋 reader works at a brothel and her new client is none other than gojo herself, a notorious outlaw. this whole fic is SO descriptively beautiful and each word drips with such gorgeous sensuality, its genuinely tooooo good. FEMJO LETS RIDE OFF INTO THE SUNSET TOGETHA 👅

equal rights, equal fights (fem!gojo) by @reignpage ³ ; gojo gets hit by a gender-bending curse and naturally that means some fun is in store for her and for reader 😇 gojo’s competitiveness that shines while trying to show how many orgasms she can give reader as a woman and as a man is sooooohjtkwhrjaj yes im actively kicking my feet and giggling like a schoolgirl!

in harmony (fem!geto) by @indom-itus ; lets all give BLANK her 10s cos oh my gawddddd this story is so lovely and god do i love femguru 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩 ESPECIALLY WHEN SHES A ROCKSTAR! cheeky, cute, smug and flirty sugu with a certified #girlfailure reader is a top tierrrr dynamic, especially with all that pining between them… dreamy sigh. you won’t regret reading this fic fs!!

move on (fem!geto) by @suguruss1ut ; conniving ass femguru is truly my achilles heel cos i’d be tripping over myself tryna get on top of her and that strap jhtjwhrjs. geto and reader are best friends and roomies, so naturally when reader gets cheated on, she turns to geto for comfort… and ohhh does she make you forget about the situation FAST 🤭 and shes sooo mean in the hottest way possible ugh #INEEDDATNEOWWW

STREEEEEETCH YOU OUT (fem!toji) by @uzugeto ; FEMJI SAVE ME FEMJIIII LET ME BOUNCE ON THAT STRAP SLOPPY STYLE!!! after reader gives birth to the zenin heir, her STANK ASS incel husband signs her up for a gym membership, where reader meets her new trainer, toji…. and whewwww is the mental picture of a sweaty, bulked up femji a TREAT. i love jade’s humor that she weaves into her fics alongside very real world insecurities and fears, there’s no dissonance cos of how seamlessly she executes her fics. this whole fic, from the yearning/thirsting stage to the eventual smut, is a certified wlw masterpiece cos WHEWWW

express yourself (yuki, shoko, utahime, fem!gojo, fem!geto, fem!sukuna) by @wiinterz ³ ; based on movies such as secretary and stoker, each smut piece features secretary!reader and a super hot boss. all of them are SO toe-curling and scrumptious that i simply cannot narrow down my favorites LOL. you will enjoy every single one of these, truuuust 🤞🏽

drabbles:

edging yuki (yuki) by @kamitv ; smut

phone sex (yuki) by @fushigur0lover ; smut

milf!yuki repaying her gratitude by eating you out (yuki) by @amortoru ; smut

prey (yuki) by @schilders ; smut

guilty pleasure (yuki) by @indiewritesxoxo ; angst, suggestive

yuki really loves her motorcycle (yuki) by @gyarujo ; fluff

yuki thinks about you when she works out (yuki) by @whosepyramidscheme ; smut

i can’t drown you out (no matter what i do) (shoko) on ao3 ; light angst, smut

your first time (shoko) by @moviecritc ⁴ ; smut

angst & miscommunication sex w/ shoko (shoko) by @ieiripie ³ ; angst, smut

lab rat (shoko) by @sugurusbadhabit ; smut

fingering you in front of a mirror (shoko) by @moviecritc ⁴ ; smut

shoko loves your nursing boobs (shoko) by @manonism ² ; smut

nicu nurse reader and ob/gyn hooking up in an on call room (shoko) by @ieiripie ³ ; smut

sex toys (shoko) by @eraserbread ; smut

messy drunk makeout with shoko turns into mutual fingering (shoko) by @gojosconsort ; smut

teeth (shoko) by @mydarlingem ² ; smut

she discovers your breeding kink (shoko) by @moviecritc ⁴ ; smut

your girlfriend and professor shoko helps you with your homework (shoko) by @requiemdesreves ² ; smut

nine in the afternoon (shoko) by @mydarlingem ² ; fluff, suggestive

halloween surprise w/ shoko (shoko) by @ieiripie ³ ; smut

granted for patience (shoko) by @kusahigunanas ³ ; smut

SMS (shoko) on ao3 ; smut

nonsexual acts of intimacy: shoulder rubs (shoko) by @kusahigunanas ³ ; fluff

nonsexual acts of intimacy: playing with hair (utahime) by @kusahigunanas ³ ; fluff

scissoring (utahime) by @kunareads ; smut

just like high school (utahime) by @wiinterz ³ ; smut

kiss it better (fem!gojo) by @wiinterz ³ ; smut

swimmer fem!gojo (fem!gojo) by @mirrrrinda ² ; suggestive

my bitch (fem!gojo) by @mirrrrinda ² ; smut

long distance gf!suguru geto getting you a replica of her cock (fem!geto) by @moviecritc ⁴ ; smut

homoerotic friendship with femguru (fem!geto) by @getozzn

the squirter (fem!sukuna) by @requiemdesreves ² ; smut

lactation (fem!sukuna) by @lilacxquartz ; smut

impatient girl (shokohime) by @cuntphoric ; smut

a man’s place (shokohime ft. gojo) by @reignpage ³ ; smut

girls girls girls (yukishokohime) by @mooniewritess ; smut

Well, you and the men he brings home on occasion.

You spit a mouthful of foamy toothpaste into the sink and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. “What makes you think that?”

Deran shrugs and shakes his head. “I don’t know. I was just talking to Adrian on the beach this afternoon and I noticed Craig looking at us like…I don’t even know. Just feel like he suspects something.”

You sigh, turning around to lean against the bathroom counter and crossing your arms over your chest. “Were you giving Adrian a handjob on the beach?”

“What the fuck?” He exclaims, face distorting in indignant horror. “No. Of course not. We were just talking.”

“Then Craig doesn’t know shit.” You shrug, bumping him with your shoulder as you move past him out of the small bathroom. “You’re being paranoid. Again.”

This is the third time he’s claimed that Craig is growing suspicious of his sexuality in the last month. Normally, you would have realized what he meant by Craig is onto me right away, but you’re practically brain dead after working back to back double shifts at the bar.

That’s the only logical explanation for why the following words leave your mouth.

“You should just tell Craig that we’re dating.”

You hear footsteps and laughter follow you down the hallway. “Us? Dating?” Deran snorts. “Yeah, right. Like he’d believe that.”

“Why not?” You shrug, plopping down on the couch in the living room of your shared house to turn on the television. “We live together. Spend the vast majority of our free time together. We even work together, since you bought the bar. You’re single. I’m single. A lot of people already assume we’re together. It makes sense.”

“Well, yeah, but—” He comes to an abrupt pause, like he’s racking his brain for a reason why your idea might not work. He sits down on the ottoman in front of you, forearms braced on his thighs. “Huh,” he hums, clarity blooming across his face. “Maybe it isn’t the worst idea you’ve ever had.”

“Thanks.”

You definitely had not given it any real thought before making the suggestion, but he’s right - maybe it isn’t the worst idea. At least now you’ll have a somewhat kinda true excuse when rejecting the advances of all of your bar regulars that just can’t get the hint that you aren’t interested in them.

Deran clasps his hands together in front of him. “Okay, but seriously. How would this even work? What are the rules or whatever?”

You stare at him and try not to laugh. “You’re overthinking it. There doesn’t need to be rules. We just keep doing what we’re already doing. We go out to eat sometimes, yeah? Go to the beach and the movies? Run errands together? Friends do those things, but so do couples.” You shrug. “So we just keep doing those things, and when anyone asks, we call it dating.”

“Boyfriend and girlfriend,” he clarifies.

You nod. “Boyfriend and girlfriend.”

He squints, shaking his head. “We don’t really act like boyfriend and girlfriend, though. We would need to make it believable. At least around Craig and our other friends. You know, hold hands, cuddle, maybe kiss—”

You cut him off with an exaggerated gagging nose.

“That’s a little harsh.”

You toss a throw pillow at his head that he catches just in time. “I’m fucking with you,” you laugh. “You’re right. There does need to be a little physical affection to make it believable. There’s no reason to stick our tongues down each other’s throats in front of your brothers and our friends, though.” It’s his turn to grimace dramatically at the mental image of that. “Just keep it casual. Holding hands is good, an arm around my shoulder every now and then won’t hurt, and the occasional kiss on the cheek should suffice.”

He tilts his head in consideration. Your words seem to appease some of his uncertainty, though you still get the feeling that he isn’t completely sold on the idea.

“Look, if you aren’t on board, just say so. It was just a suggestion. You won’t hurt my feelings at all if—”

“No, no,” he interjects. “It isn’t that. It’s just…” He trails off, pursing his lips in contemplation. You wait for him to continue with raised brows. “What happens when you meet someone? Someone you want to be with for real?”

You don’t have a quick-witted response for that.

That hasn’t crossed your mind in ages. You’ve been single for so long that you don’t even remember how it feels to truly want to date someone. Your last boyfriend left you with quite the sour taste in your mouth for relationships that still lingers more than two years later.