I think I may never be sad ever again.
There is a statue entitled "Farewell to Orpheus" on my college campus. It's been there since 1968, created by a Prof. Frederic Littman that use to work at the university.
It sits in the middle of a fountain, and the fountain is often full of litter. I have taken it upon myself to clean the litter out when I see it (the skimmers only come by once a week at max). But because of my style of dress, this means that bystanders see a twenty-something on their hands and knees at the edge of the fountain, sleeves rolled up, trying not to splash dirty water on their slacks while their briefcase and suit coat sit nearby.
This is fine, usually. But today was Saturday Market, which means the twenty or so people in the area suddenly became hundreds. So, obviously, somebody stopped to ask what I was doing.
"This," I gestured at the statue, "is Eurydice. She was the wife of Orpheus, the greatest storyteller in Greece. And this litter is disrespectful." Then, on a whim, I squinted up at them. "Do you know the story of Orpheus and Eurydice?"
"No," they replied, shifting slightly to sit.
"Would you like to?"
"Sure!"
So I told them. I told them the story as I know it- and I've had a bit of practice. Orpheus, child of a wishing star, favorite of the messenger god, who had a hard-working, wonderful wife, Eurydice; his harp that could lull beasts to passivity, coax song from nymphs, and move mountains before him; and the men who, while he dreamed and composed, came to steal Eurydice away.
I told of how she ran, and the water splashed up on my clothes. But I didn't care. I told of how the adder in the field bit her heel, and she died. I told of the Underworld- how Orpheus charmed the riverman, pacified Cerberus with a lullaby, and melted the hearts of the wise judges.
I laughed as I remarked how lucky he was that it was winter- for Persephone was moved by his song where Hades was not. She convinced Hades to let Orpheus prove he was worthy of taking Eurydice.
I tugged my coat back on, and said how Orpheus had to play and sing all the way out of the Underworld, without ever looking back to see if his beloved wife followed. And I told how, when he stopped for breath, he thought he heard her stumble and fall, and turned to help her up- but it was too late.
I told the story four times after that, to four different groups, each larger than the last. And I must have cast a glance at the statue, something that said "I'm sorry, I miss you--" because when I finished my second to last retelling, a young boy piped up, perhaps seven or eight, and asked me a question that has made my day, and potentially my life:
"Are you Orpheus?"
I told the tale of the grieving bard so well, so convincingly, that in the eyes of a child I was telling not a story, but a memory. And while I laughed in the moment, with everyone else, I wept with gratitude and joy when I came home.
This is more than I deserve, and I think I may never be sad again.
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iroh: once, i told zuko that he needs to work on his inter turmoil. he screamed at me that he had no such inner turmoil, and then proceeded to go to a cliff during a thunderstorm to scream at God to strike him with lightning
alfred: master bruce and i have that interaction at least three times per week.
hey bruce spent a lot of his bat-study abroad in the far east and has kind of a weeb weapon collection so proposal, what if Bruce appreciates Iroh’s tea
while Zuko is enthusiastic about cream and sugar
further fueling their dad-figures’ passive-aggressive rivalry?
Summary: When Dr. Robby returns from his extended sabbatical, he discovers that the girlfriend he thought would be waiting for him has a baby bump – and absolutely hates him for leaving.
Tags/Notes: established relationship, groveling and forgiveness, acts of service, nurse!reader, pregnant!reader, getting back together, ft. trinity as a menace and dennis as a cutie
Content: pregnancy, pregnant sex (fingering), shaving scene
A/N: im not good at math <3 sorry i haven't posted in three weeks lmao
Word Count: 14.3k
The sabbatical was supposed to be three months, but somewhere around Bar Harbor Robby decided he needed more time. For what he wasn’t sure. But he knew he needed to stay far, far away from the Pitt for a little longer. With his position at the hospital safe, he stayed in New England through the end of the summer.
On his first day back, he’d been gone as long as the two of you were together. Six months. Six months without text messages or phone calls or, hell, postcards. Six months of feeling like Robby was a ghost in your life, something you had and lost that lingers around every corner. Six months of rebuilding your life after he disappeared from it.
You found out about Robby’s sabbatical the same way everyone else did, during one of his evening speeches exactly two weeks before he was scheduled to leave. Two weeks’ notice for a relationship you’d honestly believed was headed toward an engagement ring in a few months. He didn’t think to ask you, didn’t think to check in, didn’t even bother to tell you in the privacy of the home you’d basically moved into. Your life fell into brutal clarity in that moment: Robby was a huge part of your life, but you were a footnote in his.
He sent you a text five nights ago: Back in town. When can I see you?
You didn’t answer.
You don’t plan to.
The morning of September first, Jack hands off shift change seamlessly, like Robby had never left, and Robby finds his footing on the ED floor with a newness, a fluidity, a casual lightness on his shoulders that strikes everyone as foreign. A version of Robby with no tension in his shoulders and no sarcasm biting at his tongue might as well be a new doctor.
Once he has the ED machine churning on pace, Robby leans his elbows on the nurse’s station and scans the shift board. “And where’s my favorite nurse this morning? Night shift?”
Dana barely spares him a glance as she processes the last of a stack of paperwork. She’d always disapproved of Robby pursuing you, so she’s not exactly sympathetic when she tells him, “She transferred months ago. I’m sure the notice is in your email inbox if you ever get around to clearing that out.”
His mind spins at the idea of the Pitt without you – your steady hands, your shy smiles, your forgiving wit. “Transferred? Where? Why?”
“Not my business,” Dana replies with a shrug. She pushes a chart into his chest and says, “They need you in exam six.”
As Robby takes the chart and looks over it with blank eyes that don’t see a word, Princess stands up on her toes so she can meet Robby’s eyes. With a knowing but curious gaze, she tells him quietly, “She’s working at the hospital’s satellite methadone clinic up the street now. Rumor is that she had an ugly breakup with someone at the hospital and wanted to get some distance.”
Robby sucks in a sharp breath. Holds it. Lets it out slow. His eyes focus to actually look at the chart and he mutters out, “Thanks for the info.”
She adds, “Smart money’s on Frank, by the way, since they were always so close.”
Robby grits his teeth. “They weren’t that close.”
“Whatever you say, cap.”
The biggest thing Robby notices in his shift once he’s working closely with his doctors again is a change in the batch of residents he helped onboard last year. They’ve gained confidence during his absence, which he’d expected, but there’s something else. To put it briefly, there’s a lot of scowling and it’s definitely in his direction. Even Whitaker, who used to glance up for his praise like a puppy, is now averting his eyes and keeping his sentences short, professional, unsmiling. The newest batch of students and interns is all polite deference and eager introductions, but the ones he’d come to know and care for and consider friends are acting like he stinks of BO and betrayal.
In the locker room preparing for his lunch break, he approaches Dana, trying to be casual about his tone, and asks, “What’s wrong with the kids, by the way? I have a sign that says ‘ignore me’ on my back or something I didn’t notice?”
She snickers, “Maybe they’re just mad that daddy went to the gas station for milk and didn’t come back for six months.” She gives him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder and adds, “Give them some time; it’ll take a minute for people to find their rhythm around you again.”
He nods slowly and swallows, hoping that’s all this is. “Right, sure.”
The truth doesn’t even occur to him: You had been their favorite person around the hospital, his abandonment had made you leave, and they aren’t quite ready to forgive him for that.
—
It’s almost your lunch break when a whole flood of people arrives at once. You’re behind the check-in desk today and you can’t help groaning to yourself. You have to pee, your stomach has been growling non-stop for an hour, and you’re desperate to put your feet up.
You’re on autopilot as you check in patients, collect consent forms, and support doctors however you can without getting up from the desk. You’d started modified work duty this month and it’s driving you nuts not being able to do the hands-on clinical work you love. With your eyes on your monitor, the next patient enters your peripheral vision and you tell him, “I’ll be with you in just one moment.”
“No worries, gorgeous.”
Your focus snaps.
Anger rises up like bile in your throat. Part of you wants to cry, part wants to run, part wants to scream. Ultimately, with so many wars raging inside of your body, your expression goes flat as you meet Robby’s eyes. “You pick up an opioid habit while you were screwing your way up and down the eastern seaboard?”
Robby almost laughs. Almost. He hadn’t expected you to act so hostile – in his mind, you’re still the woman he loves, waiting patiently for his return home – and it pinches like frostbite. Voice soft and respectful, he offers, “I just wanted to stop by and see you.”
You set your jaw and cut back, “Well I didn’t want to see you, but I forgot that my opinion doesn’t affect your decisions.”
He sighs. “You’re still mad at me.”
You turn back to your computer and finish up the file you need to before lunch. “‘Still’ implies that eventually I’ll stop, which won’t be happening.”
“C’mon sweetheart, you can’t-”
“Don’t.” Your eyes flick up as you shake your head. “Just- just don’t.” After closing out your computer and sighing heavily, you tell him bluntly, “You’re officially eating into my lunch, so I’m gonna ask you to leave or I can get security. I’m happy either way.”
Robby presses, “Let me at least buy you lunch.”
You extend your hand and reply without emotion, “Sure, give me $20 and I’ll happily spend it.”
Robby grits his teeth and digs his heels in. “Please.”
Anxiety sparks in your chest as you realize he really isn’t going to leave without talking to you alone first. You’re going to have to stand up from behind the safety of the tall desk and half wall right in front of him. The moment was inevitable, but you’d hoped to at least be in control of it.
“Fine. Buy me lunch.” You’re almost laughing as you mutter, “Let’s see how this goes. Might as well do it in public.”
Then you get to your feet. You stretch your arms above your head, back tight from sitting all morning, and your navy scrub top rides up slightly.
Robby’s next words are breathless and desperate. “You’re pregnant.”
“Glad your eyes still work after six months of wind burn without your goddamn helmet.”
He swallows hard, barely hearing the malice in your voice now. “How- how far along?”
“Take a fucking guess, Doctor,” you huff, shouldering your bag and walking around the nurse’s station. He moves to follow you, but you point at the ‘only employees past this door’ sign and give him a mock pout. “Wait outside if you care so much.”
Robby debates for a second and says weakly, “It’s my lunch, too; I need to get back to the hospital.”
You give him a look that reeks of ‘that’s what I thought’ and say, “Then get back to the hospital. I’m immune to being left behind now.”
It’s not your hatred that hurts. It’s your apathy.
He sends you texts. You don’t reply.
He leaves you voicemails. You don’t listen.
After a few more days of silence, he’s got his head in his hands at the bar while Jack nurses a beer, pitying his sorry ass. He’s been silent for two straight beers, clearly gathering the courage to tell him the good news. It takes Jack reminding him that this is his only night off for Robby to choke out, “She’s pregnant. Very pregnant. Seven months, probably.”
“Ah.” Jack studies his best friend’s face for a long time before settling on a simple, succinct, thorough, “Fuck.”
Robby sucks in a long breath and lets it out slow. “Yeah. Fuck.”
“And she doesn’t want anything to do with you now.” It’s not a question. It’s the truth of the matter. Jack shakes his head and then gives Robby one of those pointed looks only a brother could get away with. “I don’t blame her.”
Robby balks, “You said I should go on the trip.”
“But I’m not your girlfriend.”
“And thank god for that.”
“You didn’t talk to her about leaving?”
“I didn’t realize I needed her permission.”
“You didn’t. But you should’ve wanted it.” Jack puts on that sage old friend voice and goes on, “You told me before you left that she’s the one. What the hell is wrong with you?”
“A lot. That’s why I had to go,” Robby replies, grappling with too much of himself. “Look, leaving was the right thing to do. I know that now more than ever. I figured a lot of shit out and I feel a hell of a lot better – about myself, my future, my life. But now? Now there’s going to be a baby. My baby. Our baby.” Robby gently thumps his forehead on the bartop and groans, “The whole time I was gone, I thought she’d be waiting for me when I came home. Every step of the way, I figured- I figured she’d still want me.”
“Delusions of grandeur,” Jack opines almost absently. Then he yanks Robby to sitting upright by the back of his hoodie. “She’s so far out of your league you’d have to get drafted first just to be her water boy. Why the hell would you think that?”
“Because she always waited for me,” Robby mutters, sounding so absolutely pathetic Jack debates recording it for blackmail down the road. “She- she was always there. She always stayed.”
“And you repaid her by leaving.”
Robby’s voice drops to an ashamed whisper. “I didn’t realize she loved me enough to care that I left.”
“But she did.”
“She did.” Robby stares straight ahead, through Jack and through the walls and through the world until his eyes settle back on his relationship with you – the one good part of his life that had spiraled squarely out of his control. “She was shining a light in my face, but I was too busy covering my own eyes to see her. Too deep in my own self-doubt and self-hatred to recognize what was right in front of me.”
“Alright, Socrates, pack it in.” Jack claps a hand on Robby’s back and summarizes, “You fucked it up and you need to fix it.”
“I fucked it up and I need to fix it,” Robby confirms. “But how do I even begin to say sorry for something like that?”
“She doesn’t want you to say sorry,” Jack replies. It’s effortless for him, this kind of thing. Robby is supremely jealous of how simple Jack makes it all sound. “She doesn’t want Robby the rich attractive attending anymore.”
“Flatterer.”
“Shut up. I’m saying she’s spent the last six months thinking you were gone. While you’re god knows where, she’s figuring out how to be a single mom on a nurse’s salary. So I know she doesn’t want what you used to be for her.”
Jack pauses for long enough that Robby has to sigh and prod, “You’re really gonna make me prompt you? Tell me what you think she wants.”
“She wants a dad for her kid. A real dad, not a sperm donor. She doesn’t want a boyfriend. She wants a husband. And a husband doesn’t have to run away to figure his shit out. Show up for the baby and you’re showing up for her.” Jack finishes off his beer, slaps down a handful of cash, and tells him, “Let’s get a cab. I think you need to cry yourself to sleep to figure out your next move.”
At nine a few nights later, after his shift, Robby knocks on the door of the new address he definitely didn’t steal from your personnel file. It’s a small townhouse in an okay part of town, better than your previous shoebox, but it’s still nothing compared to his spacious home further out of the city. The place he always imagined raising his family in. The place where you’d taken up half his closet, half his bathroom counterspace, half his life. Half his heart, undeniably.
When Trinity Santos answers the door, Robby nearly falls on his ass. With a green face mask cracking on her skin and her eyes burning with anger, he’s never seen her looking so full of wrath. Which is saying something. “What are you doing here, Dr. Robby?”
His brows furrow as he explains, “I was trying to see my girlfriend, but I guess I got the wrong address somehow.”
Santos scoffs and crosses her arms over her chest. “You girlfriend? Pretty sure you forfeited that title when you ditched her like she didn’t mean anything to you.”
“Woah, Jesus,” Robby chuckles, holding his hands up. “Is that the general consensus? Guess that explains all the hostility today.”
“Not hostile, just professional.”
“You were definitely hostile.”
Trinity glares. “File a complaint.”
She moves to shut the door, but he catches it with one large hand. “Is she here?”
Trinity continues to use her body to block him from entering. She knows he’d never do anything crazy like push her, but she wants to make her allegiance perfectly clear. “Yup.”
“She lives with you and Whitaker now?”
“Yup. Saving money until the last minute.”
“God.” Robby runs his hand over the back of his head. “Can I- Can I just come in and see her?”
Holding bitter eye contact, Trinity calls over her shoulder, “Do you want to see Robby?”
Your voice is immediate. There’s more hurt in it than he’d heard this morning, and something about that makes him feel hopeful. Like there might still be something for him to hold onto. “He’s here?”
“At the door.”
Robby listens as a chair squeaks across the floor and your footsteps recede toward a staircase. Away from him. Fainter now, you call, “Get rid of him.”
Trinity nods and turns back to her boss. “You heard the woman. Go home.”
“Fuck, fine. It’s getting late anyway; she should sleep.” With a rough sigh, he reaches into his inner jacket pocket and hands her an envelope. “Can you give this to her at least?”
Santos snatches it from his hand and demands, “What is it?”
“It’s ten thousand dollars.”
She rolls her eyes. “Fuck off, Robby.”
Without saying anything else, she slams the door in his face. Shaking her head, Trinity ascends the steps to the second floor, where all the bedrooms are, and knocks on your door. You answer with puffy, tear-swollen eyes. Right away, Trinity wraps you up in a hug and sighs, “He’s the worst. I’ll kill him at work tomorrow.”
You laugh, sniffle, and shake your head. “No need. I was going to have to deal with this eventually, right?”
“Yeah, but it should be your choice on your terms, not him showing up unannounced.” You nod and pull back from the hug, swiping your cheeks one more time. Trinity holds up the envelope and says, “Robby wants me to give this to you. I can rip it up or hold onto it or-”
“I’ll take it.” You smile softly at her and add, “Thanks, Trin. You shouldn’t have to deal with my drama.”
“You deal with my gay soap opera with Yo,” she points out with a conspiratorial grin.
Your reply is interrupted by the sound of Dennis emerging from his bedroom, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He’s been on the late-night shift the past couple weeks, slowly becoming nocturnal. “What’s going on?”
Trinity answers with malice lacing her tone, “Robby showed up.”
Dennis shakes his head. “Bastard.”
“You don’t have to say that,” you reply with a laugh. “I know you want to go back to being his personal assistant as soon as possible.”
“Trinity would kill me,” he mutters.
She punches him on the arm. “And I’d be right! We don’t defend shitty men who-”
“Robby’s not a shitty man; you know that,” he interrupts her. “He handled leaving in a shitty way; that doesn’t make him a shitty person.”
“You’re too forgiving, Nebraska.”
“And you’re not forgiving enough.”
You sigh sharply, “And I need to go to sleep.”
“At least open up the letter for us,” Trinity insists. “My nosiness is absolutely screaming for the intel. I won’t be able to sleep without it.”
Ripping open the envelope, you sigh, “I’m sure it’s just some stupid saccharine guilt bomb designed to make me-” Your voice falls to the ground and melts through the floorboards. There’s a folded-up note wrapped around something much more interesting. You hold it up to Trinity and Dennis and breathlessly announce, “It’s a check for ten thousand dollars.”
“Oh my god, I thought he was being a dick,” Trinity replies, her voice equally low and surprised, almost reverent – not for Robby but for the sheer amount of money. “Why the hell would he…?”
With shaking hands, you read the corresponding handwritten note to your roommates.
I don’t know whether or not when you’ll let me back into your life.
That’s up to you. I accept it. I respect that it’s your choice.
But I’m not going to be a deadbeat dad. You know I can’t do that. You know about my father. I’m never going to become him. I hope you believe that.
So this isn’t a bribe to take me back. I promise it isn’t. It’s not an apology. I’m still working on that.
It’s for our kid. For you as the mother of my child, not just the a woman I want need miss love care about. Nursery stuff, vitamins, doctor’s appointments, your favorite hot chocolate from Vino’s, anything you need until they’re born. I’m not going to let you want for anything. If money is all you’ll accept from me, then take every penny I have. Please.
I promise I won’t abandon the baby. I promise I will do whatever you need from me and more.
And I promise I love you. Both of you.
I hope you’ll Please, let me prove it.
Love,
Sincerely,
Yours,
M.
All three of you hold your breath in the space that follows Robby’s painstakingly scrawled words.
Then Dennis takes a long breath and urges, “See? He’s good. He cares. He wants to take care of you and the baby. You could do a hell of a lot worse.”
Trinity shakes her head and swallows hard. “She could do a hell of a lot better, too. He still left.”
Dennis argues, “He didn’t know she was pregnant.”
You whisper, “Do I really want a man who would only stay because of a baby?”
Knowing far too much for his own good, Dennis touches your shoulder and presses, “Do you really want any man besides him?”
You pinch the bridge of your nose and try to breathe. “I need sleep. I’ll…Fuck. I’ll let you guys know whenever I figure out what the hell I’m doing with my life.”
Trinity brushes your cheek with her thumb. “Love you, sunshine. Goodnight.”
You wish her goodnight and Dennis a good shift before retreating into your bedroom. You change into your pajamas, ignoring the tee of Robby’s that still lives in your drawer, and curl up with your thoughts. In bed on your side, you rest your hand on your bump and wish the little life inside could tell you the right thing to do.
In his home across town, all Robby knows is that he’s never felt so much relief watching $10,000 leave his account.
In the morning, on your way out, the door thumps against something heavy on the stoop. A large plastic tote with a brown bag from your favorite cafe on top of it. You call over your shoulder for Trinity and she hauls the heavy box inside while you focus on the little bag of treats with a note card stapled to it. Inside the bag is your usual order that Robby always brought into the hospital for you in the mornings, the coffee replaced by a ginger tea but the bear claw looking as delectable as ever.
I figured you might want your things back from my place. I’m sorry for being gone longer than you expected for not giving you a key in the first place for unintentionally stealing your stuff for coming by last night. I don’t want to make anything worse. M.
Trinity reads the note over your shoulder and announces, “He’s groveling.”
“What do you think I should do?”
“I think you should let him grovel.”
Biting the sweet fluffy pastry, you consider, “I don’t want to be cruel. I’m not going to keep his own baby from him.”
“Of course not. But that’s not what we’re talking about. Do you want him? Not just as your co-parent or sperm donor or whatever. A husband. A real man. Do you want to be Mrs. Robby someday soon?”
“Of course I do,” you sigh, “but I just…I don’t trust him anymore. How could I?”
“I’m just saying,” she reasons with a shrug, “if his baseline grovel is 10k, I for one would love to see where he goes from there. Maybe you’ll end up with a private plane or something.”
“Robby’s got money, but he doesn’t have that kind of money.”
“As far as we know,” she replies with a snicker. “Look, at the end of the day, you have to decide if you can trust him, so I say you tell him exactly what you need and see if he can hack it. Be blunt with him about your expectations. He can worship the ground you walk on from here on out or he can spend the rest of his life signing child support checks and seeing his kid every other weekend.”
You laugh and polish off the bear claw. “You’re a menace, Trinity Santos.”
“My specialty.” She pours herself a coffee and collects her bag. “Now do you want a ride or are you grabbing the bus?”
“It’s a beautiful morning; I don’t mind the bus.”
“Maybe Robby will get you a car.”
“Yeah,” you snort, “maybe.”
Right as your lunch break starts that afternoon, a delivery driver shows up by the staff entrance with an order bearing your name. After one of the other nurses calls you back, you take the heavy bag of absolutely heavenly-smelling Thai food and ask the driver, “Is this from Michael Robinavitch?”
“Yeah, he said you’d be expecting it.” He checks the order on his phone and reads, “The delivery instructions said ‘tell her I know for a fact she doesn’t eat enough protein to be growing a whole new person.’ Congratulations; he sounds like a nice dad.”
You shake your head and sigh. “Yeah, he can be.”
And it goes on like that for the next five days before you decide what to do. Robby always orders you lunch. None of the following meals come with messages, though, just something carefully chosen for your tastes and needs. He even remembers the way you order things – extra lime on your pad thai, salsa verde instead of pico on your tacos, and any bonus dessert he can throw in – to the point where you wonder if people at the Pitt are helping him out, campaigning for the two of you to get back together.
Robby checks his phone way too many times that entire first week that he’s back. He keeps waiting for you to text, call, email, hell he’ll even take a DM at this point. But you don’t. It’s agony. If nothing else, Trinity’s dagger-glare has dulled into more of a butter-knife-glare by Friday afternoon.
Then.
After he clocks out and heads to the parking lot, there you are. Leaning on his fucking motorcycle. You’re a vision in the waning afternoon, sunlight catching your hair and brightening your eyes. You speak first: “Can we talk?”
“Yes,” Robby answers too fast. “Of course we can. Do you…want to go somewhere else?”
“No. I don’t.” You swallow hard and then nod to a nearby bench, sitting down before he does the same. With one hand on your belly, you train your eyes forward and tell him, “You said in your note that you want to prove you love me. But I know you love me. That’s not the problem.”
Robby has to resist the urge to take your hands in his, to tilt your face toward him, to do anything that would ground your bodies together. “Tell me.”
Confirming his every fear, you whisper, “I don’t trust you enough to raise a child with you.”
Throat thick and limbs heavy, he rasps, “You don’t want me to be involved with my own kid?”
“Of course I want you to be in her life; that’s not- that’s not what I meant. But I don’t know if I can trust you to be her dad – her mom’s partner – and not just her biological father.”
The world tilts slightly.
Robby’s breath catches in his throat.
Tears sting his eyes and he blinks them back. His voice trembles alongside his hands as he confirms, “It’s a girl?
You can’t help the way that softens you. You can see the universe he’s building behind his eyes: Robby holding a pink-blanket bundle, Robby learning to braid hair, Robby being fiercely protective and achingly tender.
You want to share that life with him so badly that it hurts. To sit by his side at dance recitals and tell bedtime stories together and be real.
“Yeah,” you settle for saying, intimately quiet, just for the two of you, “she’s a girl.”
“Wow. Holy shit. A girl. A little girl. Have you-” He clears his throat and swats a tear from his cheek. “Have you picked a name yet?”
You shake your head and admit, “I have some favorites, but it wouldn’t feel right to choose by myself. Without you, I mean. She’s not just mine.” Robby lets the next few tears fall onto his scrub pants and you can’t bear to watch. So you dig around in your purse and hand over the few ultrasound pictures you’d set aside, always hoping you’d be able to give them to him. One from each of your check-ups, a timeline from blob to baby. “Here. Yours to keep.”
Robby stares down at pure gold in his hands. He looks over each photo like a precious ancient text, smiling with those lovely wrinkles of his. After looking at the most recent one for a long time, he murmurs lovingly, “She’s got your nose.”
You touch your pointer finger to the picture and reply, “And your huge feet.”
His eyes stay locked on the scan for another full minute; he’s too choked up to add anything else. Once he’s finally starting to recover from growing a new chamber of his heart so quickly, he tucks the photos into his backpack, slides onto the sidewalk in front of you like he’s about to propose, and gazes up at your face. “I’ll do anything to be yours again.”
Biting your lower lip, you nod. Slow. Thinking. “I can’t just pick up where we left off.”
“I don’t expect you to. I don’t want that.” He sits back onto the bench next to you, this time tilting his whole body towards yours. Creating space he begs you to fill. “I know we can’t exactly start over, but I- I want to be new together. I want to fix what I broke.”
“Okay,” you whisper back, trying hard not to cry. Hormones and hope make a brutal cocktail. You sniffle hard and suggest, “Trinity told me you have the weekend off. Breakfast tomorrow? Well, brunch; the baby likes to sleep in.”
“Absolutely. Anywhere you want, any time.”
Your eyes narrow. “That fancy place you took me after the first time I slept over?”
“I’ll pick you up at ten.”
You wince as the baby launches a foot into your ribcage. “Sold.”
With those dumb beautiful wide cow eyes of his, Robby asks, “Are you okay?”
“Your daughter’s beating the shit out of me,” you groan. When he laughs, though, you soften even more. Tentative, you offer, “Do you want to feel?”
Robby’s voice is ragged and desperate like you’ve never heard it. It’s heavy with love and with need and with hope. One word holds every dream he’s ever had. “Please.”
You take his hand and guide it to the spot where the baby is currently dancing a samba, watching his tender, reverent expression every moment.
“Holy shit.” Robby laughs and grins at you while the baby nudges him over and over like she’s saying hi. “That’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever felt.”
You roll your eyes and try not to smile. “Please; you’ve felt a million babies kick.”
“But this is-” He shakes his head and chuckles again at another flutter. “This is different. Is she always this active?”
“In the evening, yeah. Like she can tell I’m done with work and it’s playtime.” You put your hand over his, nothing more than an instinct, and rub your thumb over his skin. “She’s gonna terrorize us.”
‘Us’ settles, warm and cozy, in the hearth of Robby’s chest. He leans down and kisses your bump gently. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
You’re halfway through the insanely decadent strawberries-and-cream crepes you ordered when you actually get up the confidence to break the charged silence between you and Robby. He’d overly complimented your cozy but stylish enough ribbed knit dress and you’d noted his freshly trimmed beard making him look too handsome for you to think clearly. Then a healthy dose of small talk while you waited for food. Now silence.
After licking a bit of vanilla cream from the corner of your mouth, you rush out, “I want you to audition to be my husband.”
One side of Robby’s lip ticks up into a cute, amused smirk. “Shall I prepare a monologue or a musical number? Will there be a dance portion?”
You hum teasingly, “There’ll be whatever I want; that’s the whole point.”
“This has Trinity Santos written all over it.”
You shrug and relent, “She may have had a hand in the concept.”
His fork wavers in the air. “Should I fear for my life?”
“No more than you usually do around her,” you giggle, just a bit, and Robby feels part of himself taking flight at the proof of any lightness left between the two of you. Then you go on seriously (so seriously it wraps back around to adorable for him), “For the next two weeks, I’m going to tell you what I need from you and you’re going to do it as soon as you can. Every time. I want to be the most needy, most demanding, most pregnant person in the entire world. If you can survive that, you can apologize. Give me a real, thoughtful apology and I’ll accept.”
Right away, Robby nods and confirms, “Consider it done.”
You raise a challenging eyebrow. “That easy?”
He puffs up his chest a bit. “I’m an emergency room doctor; I think I can handle a few midnight craving runs.”
“Is that so?”
“I’m 100% confident.”
“Great. Love that.” You sip your drink, gaze at him over the rim, and then tell him with the most vindictive smile you can manage, “The first thing I want you to do is sell the motorcycle.”
That night, Robby’s phone rings with a call from you for the first time in six months. It wakes him from a dead sleep, but he’s been craving your custom ringtone so much that he still manages to answer within less than a second. Rubbing sleep from his eyes, he slurs out, “Hi, mama.”
“Hey, Michael.” He can clearly picture you sitting cross-legged on your bed with a menacing smile as you ask, “Can you bring me a tub of that cake batter ice cream I like? The one with the blue frosting swirl and rainbow sprinkles and the actual chunks of pound cake.”
Robby puts you on speaker so he can sit up, stretch his arms, and hit the lights. As he tugs on whatever clothes he runs into, he clarifies, “You mean the one they sell at that kitschy 24-hour diner roadside attraction thing off the highway out in Bridgeville?”
“That would be the one.” Sounding downright wistful, you tell him, “I’ve been craving it my whole pregnancy, but I felt bad asking Trinity to do nearly an hour of driving to scratch the itch.”
Robby frowns as he fumbles through tying his shoes. “You still don’t have a car?”
“I’m living with Dennis and Trinity to save money so I can get one by the time the baby needs to go to daycare,” you tell him softly, trying not to let it sound like an invitation. You swallow hard and repeat firmly, “Ice cream. One hour.”
He smiles to himself as he picks up his car keys. “See you soon.”
Before Robby opens the door to the garage, his phone pings with a text. It’s Whitaker, for some reason.
Good luck on your first mission. Her feet are killing her extra today, by the way.
With a grateful little smile, Robby grabs a tube of the cocoa butter lotion you’d put him onto back when you were together and tucks it conspiratorially in his pocket.
Noted. Thanks for the tip.
Dennis shoots off two more texts before Robby gets to driving.
I’m rooting for you.
If you could also grab me some of those real rootbeers in the dark bottles they sell there that would be great.
Robby rolls his eyes and starts the car. It takes almost exactly one hour to make his way to the neighboring town, stand in line at the Cracker-Barrel-esque diner shop, and head over to your place. It’s quiet this time of night in your neighborhood, so quiet that he doesn’t even have to knock. You answer the door in a crop top that sits on top of your bump and gray sweatpants that hang low beneath it, rolled up around your ankles. You’re visibly exhausted and need a shower and you’ve never been more beautiful.
Then you glance over his shoulder at the car still idling by the curb and your mouth falls open in shock.
“Michael David Robinavitch,” you say breathlessly, hopping down onto the stoop to get a better look, “is that a minivan?”
“Brand new Chrysler Pacifica,” he confirms, following you over and slapping his hand on the hood like it’s a sports car. “Most safety and security features in its class. Ain’t she a beaut?”
With a shy smile, you confirm, “You got rid of the motorcycle?”
Robby shrugs modestly. “Not very practical when you have kids.”
“Kids. Plural.”
He cuts you a look that’s all cocky and loving. “Yeah. Plural.” Then, before you can stop buffering and come up with a response, he slides open the side door of the van and removes his spoils. Hoisting heavy reusable bags, Robby announces, “Two gallons of ice cream as ordered. Hopefully that’ll last you until after my next shift.”
You squeal and grab one of the bags from him, practically skipping back into the house. You leave the front door open and Robby hesitantly takes it as an invitation to join you inside, lingering in the doorway as you beeline to the kitchen, scoop yourself a hearty bowl, and put the rest away in the freezer. You pause, turn to Robby, and check, “You want some?”
Robby carefully steps the rest of the way into the living room and closes the door behind him. “I think all that sugar and fat would give me a heart attack even faster than the stress.”
You sigh and flop down on the couch, lifting your feet onto the coffee table and settling the bowl on your stomach. “Try telling that to your daughter; all she wants is sugar and fat.”
“Thus why I keep sending you balanced meals to eat.”
“Thank you for that, by the way,” you lilt gently, smiling around the spoon as you indulge in the ice cream. You close your eyes and throw your head back, moaning, “Fuck, this is so good. Are you sure you don’t want any?”
“I’m happier watching you eat it,” he chuckles as he memorizes your pleased expression. It’s the first time he’s seen you so content and not on the verge of yelling at him since he’s been back. “Is there anything else I can do for you tonight?”
“Yeah, actually,” you tell him as you try to get comfortable, adjusting pillows around your limbs, “I want to hear about your trip.”
Robby’s brows go up; he genuinely hadn’t expected you to want to talk to him at all. “Really?”
“Yup.” You pat the couch next to you. “Princess kept calling it your midlife crisis fuck-a-thon, so I want to hear about all your exploits.”
Robby tilts his head to the side and says plainly, quietly, urgently, “I didn’t have sex with anyone while I was gone.”
You try to ignore the way that knowledge makes you breathless, focusing on creating perfectly balanced bites of ice cream. “You didn’t?”
“Of course not.” He shrugs, joins you on the couch, and says sheepishly, “I thought I had my girl waiting for me when I got back.”
“Girls don’t wait for men who don’t even text while they’re gone,” you murmur back, sounding more pathetic than you’d wanted.
“I know. I was really screwed up before I left because of everything with the shooting and with Langdon and I- I didn’t see anything clearly. Couldn’t.” Without making anything of it, Robby shifts your bare feet into his lap and starts to rub the arch of one with his thumbs, deep and perfect. He gives you a cheeky look and adds, “But someone I’m trying to impress told me that I had to earn the opportunity to apologize, so I won’t get into all that yet.”
You give him a pointed look. “Any particular reason you’re rubbing my feet?”
He shrugs innocently and reasons, “You’re pregnant; I’m sure they’re killing you all the time.”
“It’s just interesting timing,” you muse, “considering I was complaining about needing a foot massage to Whitaker right before he left for his shift and you just so happened to bring him that weird Pennsylvania root beer he’s been wanting.”
“A man has to have some secrets,” he murmurs. Then he removes all pretense and rucks up the legs of your sweats, takes the lotion from his pocket, and really gets down to business. While he works tension from your feet and ankles and calves, Robby tells you honestly, “All I really did on my trip was think.”
You tease, “Sounds horrible.”
“It was, a lot of the time.” Robby takes the empty bowl from your hands and sets it on the coffee table, promising to wash it before he leaves, and insists you just relax under the expert working of his hands. “I didn’t go because I needed a vacation. I needed to…reset. I watched a lot of sunsets in beautiful places, wrote in my journal twice a day, tried to get eight full hours of sleep every night.”
Your mouth falls open. “You wrote in a journal?”
“Still do,” he replies, sounding a little impressed with himself. “It helps me think. Helps me view my thoughts more rationally – see how stupid they can get, how untrue – when I can read them on the page instead of just repeating them over and over in my mind.”
“That’s really good,” you sigh, head on the cushion and eyes closed. He’s not sure if you’re talking about the journaling or the foot massage or both. Frankly, he doesn’t care. Just getting to hear your sounds of simple pleasure is enough. Interlocking your hands over your bump, you sleepily prod, “Tell me about all the beautiful sunsets, then.”
Robby knows you’re about two minutes from falling asleep, but he happily obliges regardless. He talks about the rolling Appalachians that separate Pittsburgh from the East Coast, the light over the Atlantic early in the morning, the busy cities and empty back roads alike. He talks about the old man he sat with for three hours in a coffee shop listening to him glow about his late wife. He talks about the beach where he saw a family playing and finally felt at peace about Heather’s miscarriage years ago. He talks about the synagogue in New York City where he went just to feel connected to some peace but a rabbi sought him out from the sea of faces and said the Tefilat Haderech over him. He recites the lines he remembers.
…lead us in peace and direct our steps in peace, and guide us in peace, and support us in peace, and cause us to reach our destination in life, joy, and peace…grant me grace, kindness, and mercy…bestow upon us abundant kindness…
After a while, he hears you softly snoring, but he doesn’t stop. Instead he touches your exposed belly, gently working the lotion over your stretch marks, and soothes, “Someday I’ll take you all the beautiful places I’ve seen. You’re going to have the most perfect life I can give you. You and your mom and me.”
Coming in quietly after her shift, Trinity walks into the living room, takes in the scene in front of her, and grins unabashedly. Big bad attending Dr. Robby waiting on you hand and foot just like she told you he should. Grabbing a late snack, she chuckles and praises, “Now this is what I like to see, Rob.”
Robby whispers back, “Be quiet. She’s out like a light.”
“You were just talking to her.”
He corrects, “I was talking to the baby. Mom might be asleep, but my little girl is up and kicking in there listening to my stories.”
She gives him a slap on the back as she walks by. “You’ll bore her to sleep soon enough, gramps.”
Robby’s eating leftovers in bed the next time you call on him. He pauses the TV and picks up the call. “Michael Robinavitch personal assistant service, how may I help you?”
You groan, “I want to shave my legs and I can’t reach anymore.”
He chuckles quietly and hastens to eat the last few bites of his dinner. “Sounds like something I can handle. Do I need to pick up anything to enhance your experience? Chocolate?”
Your voice perks up just a little. “Twix. Several.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And a blue raspberry slushee if you get the Twix at a 7/11.”
“I think I can manage that.”
Half an hour later, you’re in the bath sipping on a Big Gulp and wearing a bikini – much to Robby’s eye-rolling amusement, you insisted he had to earn even non-sexual nudity – while Robby lathers up your legs with your fancy moisturizing gel. You don’t miss the way he takes the time to massage the knots from your calves with those deliciously large hands. God, you missed his hands.
“You’ve got a real jungle going down here,” Robby tuts as he starts in above your ankles, working his way over your skin methodically and thoroughly, his glasses sitting low on his nose as if he’s prepping a surgical field. If this is a measure of how much he cares for you, then he’s not going to miss a single hair. “Gonna need a weed wacker for those shins.”
You glare at him. “I will send that razor straight through your hand, Michael.”
“I’m just saying you could’ve asked me a week ago.”
“I didn’t have any reason to shave my legs a week ago.”
“But you do now?” He raises a suspicious eyebrow. “Hot date?”
“With the OBGYN, yup. She’s a real hunk.”
He gives you a very pointed look at that. “Do you want me to trim your bush?”
“Michael!”
“I know you prefer to keep the topiary neat and the ground below smooth.”
“I will not hesitate to splash you.”
Robby just laughs. As he rinses off the razor and touches up some areas – he even shaves your big toes without saying a word, the gentleman – he sighs and lets his voice go low and honest. “That was a sincere offer. I’m not trying to get off on your personal maintenance, I promise. You always told me you felt uncomfortable when things got a little unruly.”
Sounding far too flirty for Robby’s sanity, you reply, “And you always told me you like unruly.”
“But it’s your body,” he replies. Earnest. Insistent. “I’m not going to push it, but it’s on the table if you change your mind. I want to do anything that will make being pregnant more comfortable for you. I know being up in the stirrups every few weeks can’t exactly be fun.”
After a moment, you whisper, barely loud enough to be heard above the gentle movement of the bath water. “You’re making it really hard to stay mad at you.”
His eyes drift up to yours. You both hold the eye contact for so long that, for some reason, tears sting at your waterline. His golden brown irises are too familiar, too warm, too full of love you’re afraid to accept and afraid to lose. Finally he says, “I want you to be mad at me until you don’t need to be anymore.”
You scoff, “You want me to be mad at you?”
He swallows hard and amends, “I want you to feel everything you need to feel. I can take it.”
And you want to kiss him.
You hate him – and you want to kiss him. So you sigh and say, “Okay.”
“Okay?”
Untying the sides of your bikini bottoms, you confirm, “Let’s trim the bush.”
He makes a show of patting his pockets before announcing, “Crap, I think I left my pruning shears at home.”
You smile and roll your eyes, grateful for his levity and the effortless way he makes you feel safe in his presence. You slip the rest of the way out of the bikini, wring it out, and hand him the sopping fabric. He hangs it over the sink and returns to his place by your side.
As he cleans off the razor again, Robby assures you, “Tell me if you want me to stop. It’s okay if you change your mind any time. You know as well as I do that the OBGYN won’t care what your vulva looks like.”
You snicker, “I know. Get to it, doc.”
Robby chuckles, sinks his hands into the water, and guides your legs apart just enough to give him access. When his fingertips graze your labia, he hisses in a needy breath at the familiar feel of your soft lips. Then he curses softly, shaking his head with a laugh. “Sorry, sorry. Reflexive reaction. Nothing short of professionalism from here on out.”
You laugh, “It’s okay. Glad to know someone still finds me remotely attractive even though I feel like a beached whale.”
“You’ve never been more attractive,” he says quietly. Quickly. But he doesn’t let it hang. He gives a sharp soldier’s nod and gets to work, using his precise doctor’s fingertips to guide his motions. “You know, the last time I did this, it was because a woman had superglue in her pubes. Gluing her shut.”
You wince. “Jesus fuck. How does something like that even happen?”
He shrugs. “Freak sex accident, I’m assuming. That’s half the job.” Then he furrows his brow and drags his fingers up your innermost thigh, cleaning up the edges. “Alright, no more jokes, I’ve gotta focus when I’m relying on touch.”
You roll your eyes. “Yes, sir.”
You close your eyes and lean your head back on the bath pillow Robby ordered to be delivered to your place a few nights ago. In the low light with a backdrop of soothing water sounds, you relax easily; Michael’s touch could never be unfamiliar to you. He uses the fingers of one hand to guide the other, methodically following his own touch along your labia, down near your entrance, up towards your clit. You try to control your breathing as his confident motions start to work some neglected parts of your brain. When he gently pushes against your mons to make the skin straighter and easier to shave, the heel of his hand rests against your clit and you can barely think. He’s not doing it on purpose – that much is clear from how he’s got his tongue slightly out in focus, attuned only to what he’s doing – but it’s working you up nonetheless.
Your shaky voice breaks through the silence. “Michael?”
Totally concentrated on the task at hand, he slows his hands and offers, “Hm?”
Like a guilty child, you admit, “You’re turning me on.”
Right away, he withdraws his hands from under the water and moves away from the tub. “Shit, I’m sorry. I swear I wasn’t trying to do any-”
“No, it’s- it’s okay,” you assure quickly. “I just haven’t been able to, um, do anything about, ah, that particular sort of thing for the last two-ish months. I’m a little…pent up. I didn’t want to, like, start moaning or something on accident.”
Robby hesitates. There’s a war in his eyes. You watch his adam’s apple bob as he swallows hard, trying not to think about anything at all. His cheeks turn red the way you always teased him for and he opens his mouth to talk. Closes it again. Repeats that a few times.
Ultimately, he doesn’t say a thing, just waits for you to lead.
You love him for not offering, for not cracking a joke, for not deflecting. He just creates space for you, leaning against your counter and keeping his eyes on your face. The man in front of you is the same Robby you’ve adored for years and claimed as yours for months, but he’s different, too. There’s a calm to him you haven’t seen before. When Robby used to touch you, it was hot and claiming and craving and yearning. You felt his desperation in every kiss. This man is waiting. Deferent.
For the first time, you’re in charge. You get to decide.
So you decide.
Gently, certain but sheepish, you ask, “Would you mind, um, helping me out with that?”
His voice is strangled and his face is contorted into something akin to agony. “Are you sure?”
“I don’t want to change anything with where we’re at right now,” you clarify, speaking slow, like you’re worried about a nervous cat darting, “but I could really use some relief on that front. If that- if that wouldn’t be too weird.”
“Weird?” Robby laughs and rubs the back of his neck. “No, it wouldn’t be weird.”
“What would it be, then?”
He takes in a shaky breath and replies, “It wouldn’t have to be something.” Sitting down by the tub again, he says, “I said I’d do anything to make you comfortable. Anything.” He lets his hand once again drift below the water, looking at you like it’s a challenge. “I’m not a chicken about fingering a girl when she needs some help.” As his thumb ghosts over your clit, you gasp and stifle the ensuing moan with the back of your hand. Suppressing a self-satisfied smirk, Robby reminds you, “Just tell me if you want me to stop. This isn’t about me.”
You nod eagerly and tilt your hips forward to give him better access. Robby shakes his head a bit; you were always so greedy for him to touch you and it doesn’t seem like that’s changed. Robby uses the pad of his thumb to work your clit, keeping firm contact as he rubs it in small circles, not too fast but not teasing, either. Your need is obvious in the fast rising and falling of your chest, the twitching in your thighs, the way you bite your lower lip and pinch your eyes shut. He treats this like what it is: Relief.
When he can tell you’re wanting more – letting out those soft and desperate little moans he always replays when he jerks off – he dips his other hand between your legs and feels between your lips. You’re wet and begging and he’s not going to deny you for even a second. With the water not letting anything get particularly lubricated, Robby keeps his fingers seated inside of you, curling them instead of thrusting. Your pretty lips fall open in a pleased ‘o’ and Robby’s borderline dizzy from how good it feels to get you off again. He’s not sure if it’s the pregnancy or the desperation but you feel downright swollen with lust, hot and plush and like he could spend the rest of his life keeping you knocked up and-
Woah, asshole.
Calm down.
He takes a deep breath of his own, matching one of yours, and focuses back on you and not on his achingly hard cock straining for freedom from his sweats. As he massages your g-spot way too effortlessly, the palm of his other hand pulls the hood of your clit back slightly, just enough to light your nerves on fire from the intensity of his touch. Heat rises in your cheeks, your chest, your thighs. Robby knows how to work a long, hard orgasm out of you. He never rushes. He matches the curls of his fingers with his thumb on your clit and doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, doesn’t race. He lets you feel every singular sparking second until you’re tightening up around him, your toes curling, your thighs clamping around his hand, your back arching as much as it’ll allow.
All Robby gives himself permission to say as you cum around his fingers is a soft, loving, “There you go. That’s it.”
When your pussy finally starts to release him, only faint fluttery aftershocks remaining, Robby pulls out of you, resists the urge to lick his fingers, and wipes his hands dry. He shuts his eyes for a second and takes a deep breath before he can bear to look at you. The sweat on your brow, the blown darkness of your pupils, the slight swell from biting your lower lip. You’re too beautiful for him to cope with. Robby gazes at you only as long as he can handle before averting his eyes.
To distract himself from the goddess bathing below him, Robby absently strokes your oversized towel hanging on the nearby rack and offers, “Ready to get out? I’ll help you up.”
Still breathless, you stare up at Robby in surprise. He didn’t kiss you, didn’t ask for any pleasure in exchange, only gave you what you needed, what you asked for. Pure, unadulterated respect. For your body, your boundaries, your desires. That’s so much sexier than the desperate love the two of you used to make between agonized sheets. “That would be good. Thank you.”
Robby pulls the stopper on the tub and extends his strong hands for you. Your eyes lock together as you stand with a groan. As he wraps you up in the towel, he holds your shoulders a moment and says urgently, earnestly, “Anything. Any time.”
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
In the morning, Robby’s securing his sleeves with his nicest cufflinks when you call him exactly when he’d expected. He may have snooped on your calendar – it was hanging on your wall as he helped you into bed, sue him – and saw that your OGBYN appointment this morning is, in fact, your third trimester anatomy scan at 9:00am. He knew as soon as he saw it that you were going to ask him to come at the last minute, so he’d asked Jack to stay a few hours late and he’d do the same at night.
He picks up the phone, trying not to sound to pleased with himself. “What can I do for you, oh glorious mother of my child?”
“Laying it on thick already,” you tease. He can hear you talking around your toothbrush and the image makes him smile as he smooths out his charcoal gray blazer and applies a few dabs of cologne. “Would you mind coming to my ultrasound with me today? Trinity was supposed to drive me but I guess she can’t now.”
Robby grins from ear to ear when he catches you in the blatant lie. Trinity’s working a double, which of course Robby would know as her supervisor. You were never planning on asking anyone else. Tucking that knowledge away in a secret place in his heart, Robby nudges, “Do you need a ride or am I invited in?”
“It’s your baby, dumbass,” you reply, the words half-formed now as you floss. After you rinse and spit again, you tell him more seriously, “I want you there.”
“You do?”
There’s a beat of silence where he’s worried he’s pushed too far. But then you say, “Yeah, I do. I wish you could’ve been there for the first few.”
With a deep breath, he replies, “Me too. I’d give anything to go back and-” He takes another deep breath and shakes his head at himself. “I’ll be there to pick you up in a few, okay?”
“See you soon, Michael.”
“Lo- See you, sweetheart.”
When you see Robby leaning against that goddamn minivan, you nearly jump his bones. He’s wearing slim-cut jeans that make his thighs look like tree trunks, his white button-down is undone just enough to show off some chest hair, and he’s got on a fucking blazer. A blazer. The bastard. When did he start putting mousse in his hair to make it so…tousled? Touchable. You can just imagine grabbing it while you ride him into oblivion.
Robby can’t suppress the very similar thoughts he’s having at seeing your outfit. You’re wearing a tea-length floral skirt with a slouchy, oversized sweater half-tucked into it. You look so comfy. Something about how soft and domestic you look as you approach him with your lace-hemmed socks and your oversized travel mug of tea is driving him crazy. He sees his whole life walking toward him with a sleepy smile on her lips.
Trying not to gawk too hard, you eye him up and down and say, “Michael, you look-” sexy as all fuck “-very handsome.”
He puffs up his chest. “Gotta look good; it’s my first time seeing my baby girl. I need to make a solid first impression.”
You roll your eyes, grinning as Robby pulls open the front door. “She can’t see you through my organs, babe.”
You don’t notice the word slipping out, so Robby doesn’t call attention to it. He just makes sure you’re buckled in and then sits on your other side with a glow in his gut. Then he reaches into his messenger bag in the backseat and hands over a king-sized Twix before starting the car and heading toward the hospital.
As you greedily open the wrapper, you hum, “What happened to Mr. Balanced Meal With Lots of Protein?”
“Mr. Balanced Meal With Lots of Protein knows you’re having your favorite burger with bacon and an egg on it from your favorite dive for lunch, on me,” he replies, glancing at you knowingly over the tops of his too-sexy sunglasses. “Throw in a side of sweet potato fries and I’m pretty sure science says that balances out a chocolate bar or two.”
You give a mock-salute with the half-eaten Twix. “Whatever you say, doctor.”
When Robby parks in his reserved spot near the ED, you both seem to realize the same thing at the same time. Robby stiffens up in his seat and offers, “I’m sorry; I wasn’t thinking. I can, ah, drop you off at the main entrance and meet you inside?”
You turn to him with one of those soft, shy smiles that made his heart stammer every time he looked your way when you started in the Pitt. “It’s okay. Really. I mean, you’re gonna be on paternity leave in at most ten weeks, so it’s not exactly a secret, right?”
“Fair point,” he concedes. “You know they’re gonna make it a whole thing, right?”
“Of course I do.”
“There might even be cake by the time we’re done.”
“God forbid.”
“Alright, fuck it.” Robby kills the engine and then walks around to your side of the van, helping you get your footing. “Let’s announce our lovechild to the world.”
“They probably already know; Trinity isn’t the most tight-lipped person,” you reason as he guides you with a large hand on the small of your back. It feels too protective and grounding for you to even pretend to protest.
“Jack didn’t know until I told him.”
“Because he’s such a notorious gossip.”
Robby can’t even respond because, as soon as you’re through the staff entrance, Dana’s staring straight forward at the two of you. Without moving her eyes from your stomach, she beelines your direction and gasps. After wrapping you up in a a warm hug, she looks you over and, disbelieving, mutters, “Holy hell, you are extremely pregnant.”
“Not extremely,” you balk as if it’s a ridiculous idea, “30 weeks.”
Dana seems to notice Robby’s presence and she narrows her eyes suspiciously, running the numbers in her head. “Thirty weeks, eh? Is that a new Robinavitch she’s growing?”
You absolutely beam when Robby blushes like a middle schooler. He confirms, “Yeah, that would be my little girl.”
“A girl!” Dana hugs both of you again and then looks at you seriously. “This one treating you like you deserve? Groveling profusely?”
“Yes, mom.”
“Good. As he should.”
Robby cuts in gently, “We’ve got an appointment upstairs, so we need to try to get through the floor to the elevator without too many interruptions.”
“Yeah, good fuckin’ luck with that,” Dana laughs as she gestures to the buzzing crowd gathering around the nurse’s station to get a look at you and Robby. “Have fun, lovebirds.”
Your cheeks are burning hot, so you poke Robby in the side and murmur, “Can you do one of your magical Dr. Robby speeches to make them go away? I don’t do well with public interrogations.”
“Your wish is my command,” he assures you quietly, pressing a kiss to your temple. In the nerves of the moment, you want to turn and nuzzle your face into the comfort of his broad chest.
Then Robby claps loud a few times until the handful of free doctors and nurses gather up, including a deeply amused Jack, Trinity, and Whitaker. He announces in his Big Serious Attending voice, “Alright guys, a handful of things to stop-slash-start the rumor mill. One: Yes, I’m wearing a blazer; pictures are $45 a pop. Two: Yes, your former APRN is heavily pregnant. Three: Yes, it is my baby. Four: I’m in a period of repentance to regain her favor after being an ass for the last six months, but we’re figuring it out. Finally: The buy-in for the due date betting pool starts at $25; I’m not skimping out on my firstborn. Any follow-up questions can be directed to the admirable godmother Dr. Trinity Santos. Got it?”
Whitaker gives a charming little whoop and starts off the clapping, joined quickly by everyone else. As Robby accepts a handful of congratulations, Jack pulls you into a strong hug and looks you in the eyes, serious and stern as ever. There’s an undeniable warmth in the twitch of his lips, though, as he tells you, “He’s got you, kid. I know he does. He loves you to death and he knows he fucked up.”
You squeeze his bicep gently. “Thanks, Dr. Abbot.”
“No problem.” Then he points at your bump and adds, “That’s Uncle Jackie to you, miss.”
You blink back hormonal tears as you laugh. “Uncle Jackie, huh?”
He grins and boasts, “I was born to be an irresponsible but lovable bad influence uncle. That girl is gonna have the biggest and most annoying family of doctors and nurses.”
The baby gives you a swift kick in the bladder like she heard him say it. You place your hand over the ginger spot and smile. “Yeah, she will. We’re lucky.”
And suddenly so much love washes through your body you’re not sure you can hold it all. When you watch Robby absolutely glowing talking about becoming a dad, you know this is right. He’s the right man for you. For her. You’re swept up into the collection of hugs and congratulations, too, but you can’t stop watching Robby’s smile lines. The way he checks in with you every time he laughs. The way he’s looking at you not like a girlfriend or a baby mama but like the sun of his solar system.
Robby tucks you under his arm easily and calls, “Alright, alright, we have an ultrasound to get to, people, let’s back off the pregnant lady. You all have lives to save and baby shower gifts to buy.”
You giggle under your breath as he leads you to the elevator. “Baby shower gifts. Please.”
“What? You don’t want a shower?”
“I just don’t know who would put it together; I don’t really have the time.”
Robby scoffs, “As if either of us could physically stop the nurses from throwing one now that the cat’s out of the bag.”
“Good point,” you concede, trying to suppress the smile that won’t stop threatening your cheeks.
Maybe it’s just luck or maybe it’s the presence of one of the hospital’s more important doctors standing behind you, but you’re in the exam room with Robby holding your hand within a few minutes of checking in. The OB attending, Dr. Montgomery, arrives shortly after your vitals are taken.
She’s borderline glaring after she greets you and extends a hand to Robby. “Dr. Robinavitch, good to see you back at the hospital after so long away.”
“Good to be back,” he replies carefully, shaking her hand. “I’m guessing you’ve been given a harsh but fair view of me the past few months.”
“That would be an accurate assessment, doctor.”
Robby does that thing where he kind of hunches his broad shoulder to seem smaller and more approachable. It’s what he does when he’s hiding from Gloria or talking to a little old lady with chlamydia. He insists, “Call me Michael, please.”
“We’ll see.”
You snicker, “Addie, I promise he’s putting the work in.”
“Fine. Claws away while we say hi to baby girl.” Dr. Montgomery preps the ultrasound station as you get your clothes tucked out of the way. As she applies the warmed gel and manuevers the wand, she tells you, mostly addressing Robby since he wasn’t there for the other appointments, “She was a little small at our last scan, so I’m gonna take a few extra measurements to track her progress.”
Robby nods slowly and stares at the back of the ultrasound monitor like he can see through it and gather information. “Has there been anything else on the scans I need to know about?”
You gaze up at him while Dr. Montgomery takes her notes. “Nope, she’s been a total champ. I’m the problem between the two of us.”
Robby strokes your hair with his other hand; you can tell it’s more to soothe himself than you, so you let him. “What does that mean?”
You lean into his touch unconsciously and reply, “I’m just anemic; I passed out early on. That’s how I found out I was pregnant in the first place.”
Guilt skewers Robby like an ice pick. “You’re taking iron now?”
You roll your eyes. “And eating spinach and letting handsome baby daddies buy me burgers.”
Robby’s ensuing smile is cute and proud. Dr. Montgomery looks up from the ultrasound and happily announces, “Baby girl’s growth has gotten much better since your last vosot. She’s no longer small for her gestational age and is now firmly average. Good work, mom. Have you been adding more protein and healthy fats to your diet like I suggested?”
When Robby opens his mouth to speak, you narrow your eyes at him an say, “Michael Robinavitch I will strangle you right now with my bare hands if you say ‘I told you so.’”
He chuckles and gives your hand a squeeze. “I would never. I’m just glad to hear our girl’s healthy – and not a bowling ball. I was 11 pounds.”
You cringe at the thought. “Lucky she takes after me on that front.”
So softly it sounds more like a prayer, Robby asks, “Can we see her now?”
Flipping the monitor around with a smile, Dr. Montgomery replies, “Yeah, of course. There’s her side profile; she’s perfectly posed for us. I’ll turn on the doppler, too.”
Robby leans forward and looks at the screen. Something cracks open in his chest as the baby’s heartbeat fills the room, whooshing fast and steady. He lets out a tiny, barely audible whimper. Your eyes fly up to his and you see the tears flooding down his pink cheeks as he gazes at his daughter wriggling around on the monitor.
You squeeze his hand and he gasps a tiny bit like he just remembered you’re there. “Isn’t she beautiful?”
“She’s perfect,” he breathes softly. Then he presses his lips to the top of your head and takes a trembling breath. Even his softest whisper trembles. “How could I ever leave you? I can’t believe I let myself miss this. You’re so fucking perfect. So strong. I love you so much.”
Tears thicken your throat as you lean up to press your forehead to his, sniffling out, “Mikey.”
He starts to cry in earnest, then, and you reach up to hold him. Your arms tangle together and your tears stain each other’s shoulders and there’s nothing but future in the places where your bodies touch.
Things get easier between you and Robby after that. You find yourself asking him for more and more trivial things just to see him and hear his voice. Your phone calls turn from a few sentences to a few minutes to an hour or more if you catch each other at a good time. He takes you shopping for baby clothes and even pretends to have an opinion about different fabrics when you ask. He stocks up on diapers, helps with your labor go bag, and does absolutely everything in his power to take the mental load off your shoulders.
From that new closeness, a quiet tension emerges. As you reach week 32 of your pregnancy, the shared knowledge of your needing to move hangs over you both, unspoken but omnipresent. Robby hasn’t pushed the issue yet, but you know it’s going to reach a tipping point.
That day comes during the worst rainstorm of the year one gloomy day in October. It’s your day off, so you’re treating yourself to a shopping spree when the rain starts. The forecast had only been for a light drizzle, so you were comfortable leaving the apartment in something cozy with an umbrella and rain boots. But the light drizzle turned torrential while you were inside a baby boutique on the other side of town.
Meanwhile, the heavy, dark, oppressive thunderstorm has the ED swamped. All the attendings are on staff to handle the onslaught of car accidents, falls, and asthma attacks. As he’s supervising Mohan’s work on an elderly woman’s obliterated tibia, his phone vibrates in his pocket.
While closing another line of sutures, Samira asks over her shoulder, “Is that mama?”
Robby slips his phone out just long enough to check. “Shit, yes, it is. She wouldn’t call me during weather like this if it wasn’t important. Do you mind if I-”
Mohan chuckles, “I think Mrs. Frost and I have this handled. Go save your woman from her aching feet or lack of chocolate bars.”
Robby gives the patient an apologetic smile and excuses himself. He ducks around the nearest quiet-ish corner where the hospital’s chaos lowers to a dull roar and manages to pick up right before it goes to voicemail. “Hey, sweetheart, what’s going on?”
He can hear you crying on the other side, the sound barely coming through the rain. “Can you come pick me up?”
Robby half-jogs toward the locker room, already stripping off his trauma gown and dodging questions from his fellow doctors as he goes. “Where are you?”
“A bus stop in East Liberty,” you sniffle out. “The buses are all delayed because of the weather and I tried to get ahold of Trinity but she didn’t pick up and I’m soaking wet and freezing and I can’t-”
“Breathe for me, honey. It’s okay. I’ve got you.” Robby can hear the shivering and the tears and the panic in your voice and his gut clenches up in pain. He spares a glance outside and sees that the rain is still a deluge, the clouds dark and murky above and the ground shiny and slick with oil leeching out below. Lightning strikes and thunder claps. “Which bus stop?”
As you tell him, he dumps his trauma gown, rummages through his things, and grabs his keys and his gym bag, which at least has a towel and some dry clothes. “I’ll be there in ten minutes, okay? Is there somewhere warm and dry you can wait for me?”
“I- I don’t know. I’m all frazzled,” you admit. He can feel your reluctance to tell him, but you can’t stop it from spilling out through the crackling rain. “There was this guy who wouldn’t leave me alone, asking all these gross questions about my boyfriend or whatever and I just ran to the closest public spot I could find.”
Anger flares in Robby’s chest. He scribbles out a note and hands it to Dana as he passes the nurse’s station, barely pausing to see her reaction – just long enough to see her annoyed but supportive nod – before he shoves out of the door into the rain. “Are you alone now? Are you safe?”
“I’m okay, just- just kinda scared and tired and- and-”
“Breathe, baby, breathe. I’m getting in the car right now.”
A few beats pass with nothing but the rain in Robby’s ears. Then your meek, nervous voice: “Would you stay on the phone with me?”
“Of course.” He guns the engine and peels out of the parking lot, careful but quick. “I’m right here with you. Just keep talking and the time’ll pass. Tell me about what you were doing. Shopping for something fun?”
“Yeah, I was.” You sniffle again and try to smile. “I bought this, um, this handmade baby wrap carrier thing. It’s really soft and, like, this quilted fabric that I think would be really comfy for her.”
“You gonna teach me how to baby wear like all the hip dads are doing?”
“Definitely.” You actually let out a small laugh as you tell him, “The whole ‘big man carrying baby’ thing is very sexy. I’m sure it’ll help you pick up chicks at the grocery store.”
Robby snorts. “You know perfectly well there are only two chicks I’m interested in picking up the rest of my life.
“Rest of your life, huh?”
“If they’ll have me.” He makes a turn and spots you huddling beneath a leaky bus stop shelter. “Alright, I’m only a minute away now, but I might be late because I have to stop and offer the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen a ride, okay? She’s soaking wet and very pregnant and dressed inappropriately for the weather.” Robby pulls up to the curb and pushes your door open as he hangs up the phone. “Hey, stranger, can I give you a lift?”
You slide into the car next to him, your eyes puffy from crying and your hair disastrous from the rain. As you buckle in, you pout and observe, “You turned on the seat warmers for me.”
“I also brought you a threadbare towel and a hoodie; I’m a real gentleman,” he replies as he opens up his gym bag in the backseat and hands them off.
Gratefully toweling off your hair and tucking yourself under the hoodie, you smile and nudge him. “Yeah, actually, you are.”
Robby gives your knee a quick squeeze and pulls the car into traffic, heading back toward the highway. You gradually begin to feel like a person instead of a pregnant popsicle.
Teeth still chattering a bit, you manage to get out, “I’m sorry for interrupting you at work; I’m sure things are swamped there.”
Despite the fact that his phone’s been ringing non-stop since he left, Robby replies earnestly, “Nothing’s more important to me than your safety.” He swallows hard and apologizes for himself, “I’m sorry for calling you baby on the phone; I wasn’t thinking. I heard you upset and I just went on autopilot.”
You tell him softly, “It’s okay, Michael.”
“Is it?”
“Yeah, it really is,” you murmur back. “You missed the exit, by the way.”
Robby shakes his head. “I’m taking you back to my place; you need a warm bath and a hot meal and to sleep for twelve hours uninterrupted in a king size bed.”
You avert your eyes and admit, “That sounds really nice, Mikey.”
“I like hearing you call me that again,” he says gently. “Thank you.”
“Thank me by ordering me some orange chicken while I take a bubble bath.”
Robby chuckles, “Yes, ma’am.”
As soon as Robby has you inside, he’s helping you strip your exhausted, pruny body and drawing you a silky bath. As he collects some of his old comfy clothes for you to wear from his closet, you call out from the tub, “Would you actually make that matzo ball soup that you made when you gave me mono?”
“I did not give you mono,” he laughs, “but I will absolutely make you some nourishing comfort food.”
He can hear the teasing eye roll in your voice as you call back, “You had mono. You made out with me. I then had mono. Who the hell do you think I got it from?”
“Alright, whatever.” Robby sets down the clothes on the counter and points at you seriously. “Don’t you dare try to get out of that tub without my help, missy. I’ll be back once I’ve got the soup boiling.”
You smile at him fondly and bat your eyelashes. “Yes, sir.”
“Don’t play dirty with me.”
“I would never.” You sink deeper into the bubbles and sigh contentedly, “I’m more than happy to stay in here and turn myself into a little matzo ball.”
He leans down and kisses the top of your head. “Good girl.”
“Now who’s playing dirty?”
“I would never.”
Robby slips out of the bathroom and you just…relax. While Robby takes care of you. While he waits on you.
God.
God.
Between the bubbles and the bergamot bath oil, the tension and nerves leave. The sound of the storm outside becomes white noise. From downstairs, the smell of rich schmaltzy chicken broth wafts into your nose and you feel settled. Held. By the time Robby returns to the bathroom, you know, deep down in your bones, that you’ve forgiven him.
Robby helps you out of the tub and wraps you up in a fluffy robe he must’ve been warming in the dryer for you. Then he grabs a tube of lotion, sits down on the bed, and gestures for you to join him. While he tends to your feet and legs, he pleads with you, “Move in here, sweetheart, please. I can’t- I can’t function not knowing if you’re okay. Not knowing where the baby’s going to be sleeping and not knowing if I can be there for her and for you and-”
“Michael.” It’s a whisper, a tender one at that. “I don’t want to feel like I’m trying to fit into your life.”
“I don’t want to make you feel that way; I swear.” He kisses your hand a few times and then takes a deep breath. “I’d like to apologize now. If you’d let me.”
You nod slowly and try to ignore the tears that rise to your waterline. “I’m ready. Go ahead.”
“Thank you.” After a deep breath, Robby starts, “Look, I’m not going to apologize for leaving. I needed to leave. I needed to-” He gestures wide and begging as he searches for the right words. “I needed to grow up. I know I’m a little old for that, but I think it’s the closest thing to true. I’m sorry I told you instead of talking it through. I’m sorry I went radio silent. But honestly?”
Suddenly he reaches out and cups your cheek in his large hand. His palm is warm and so familiar that you can hardly breathe. With his thumb stroking your skin, he finishes, “What I’m the most sorry for is that I didn’t ask you to come with me. Every sunset, every motel mattress, every wide open highway would’ve been so much better if I shared them with you.”
He presses his forehead to yours and murmurs, “I swear I’ll spend every single one with you from now on. I’ll be there for every birthday, every Chrismukkah, every fucking thing you want me at. Nothing has ever or will ever matter to me more than being your husband. The father of our children. So tell me what you want. Tell me every single thing you want for you and for me and for the baby and you’ll have it. Because I love you more than my stupid bike and more than my career and more than everything I’ve ever had. You are everything now.”
The air sparks like the lightning outside. For a full minute, it’s you and it’s Robby and it’s the storm.
Then you lean forward. You hold Robby’s face with both hands and search his golden brown eyes. His heart pounds in his ears. His lungs are tight and screaming.
And you kiss him.
It’s slow, so gentle, and he’s holding his breath. Then reality seems to settle softly on his shoulders and he smiles against your lips, slides his hands onto your waist, thumbs affectionate on your bump, and kisses you back. When you pull away only slightly, you inform him, “I want a house with a yard. One that I get a say in. Further from the city. I want a safe, sensible family car for myself. No black interior. Light brown. I want a big fat diamond ring. Four carats minimum. I want sex at least three times a week. Six orgasms for me as a baseline. And I want a husband who works at most 50 hours.”
Robby gazes at you with watery eyes. “Okay.”
You smack him on the chest and laugh, “‘Okay’? I was trying to be unreasonable, Michael!”
“Well I’m being serious. Let’s move to the suburbs and have a huge wedding and fuck whenever you want. I’ve got savings to get us through as long as we need. I’ll start my own practice, slow down, buy a grill, join the PTA, the whole nine yards.”
You roll your eyes and scoff, “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m not,” he assures seriously. “If you’re taking me back and making me a dad, you can be a hell of a lot more unreasonable than asking me to put my family first.”
“Fine.” You cross your arms over your chest and try not to grin. “I want a puppy.”
Robby grips his heart like you’ve stabbed him. “If you really want one – when the baby’s old enough that I won’t have a panic attack having a dog around her.”
“Deal.” You rest your forearms on his shoulders, playing with the hair at the back of his neck. “I want you to mow the lawn shirtless on Saturday mornings.”
He melts under your touch and smiles. “Okay.”
You lean in closer, a smile of your own breaking out. “And I want my own craft room in the house.”
Glancing down at your lips, he promises once again, “Okay.”
“I want a hot tub.”
“Okay.”
“And a soaking tub.”
“Okay.”
“Manicures every other week. A tropical vacation every summer. Two more babies in the next ten years.”
“Okay, okay-” he kisses you again, soft and warm and unhurried “-very okay.”
Your hand slides down his chest and toys with the hem of his tee. You watch his stomach twitch and his chest gasp upwards as you purr, “And I want you to fuck me. Right now.”
Robby’s lips return to yours. Urgent now. He pulls you into his lap and drags kisses up your neck, tasting your clean skin and your pulse beneath him. His breath is hot and his every touch – slipping the robe from your shoulders, lazing his fingers along your arms, kissing the shell of your ear – is an act of worship. At last, he murmurs against your lips, “Okay.”
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the thing was, she wasn’t going to be able to pass the recertification exam, and she couldn’t figure out why. annabelle studied. she practiced. she pulled out every trick and shortcut she’d learned during her two years as an EMT and none of it worked. she just – she didn’t get it. it made no sense.
“wake up,” she urged the dummy, pressing her hands to the pulse points on its wrists. “come on. what the fuck.”
“yeah, i don’t think that asking nicely is going to do the trick,” hank said, his eyebrows raised. his helmet, the special one they’d decorated for him with craft supplies from michael’s when he’d gotten promoted to firestation chief, sat askew on his head. “i can see now why they didn’t pass you.”
annabelle rolled her eyes. “it’s a psychological thing,” she said. “it’s like, you give the brain an instruction and it follows naturally. and the pulse-point thing always works. i don’t know why it’s not, like, in any of the books, but i swear to god it’s worked for me every time.”
it was true that annabelle had the best record on low body counts, which was good because she was the smallest person on the team not counting Georgie, who was a corgi. jake and lillian were always making fun of her for having been the shortest of their whole rookie class. but it hadn’t ever been a problem before; annabelle rarely had to carry anybody out, because she was good enough at getting them on their feet.
but none of that would matter if she couldn’t pass her stupid recertification exam, because they’d take her badge and she’d have to go be, like, a doctor or something.
hank blew out a long breath and sunk down to where she was kneeling on the station floor in full fire gear, giving CPR to the practice dummy, whom they called dierdre. there was a little light that went on when you’d saved its life. it had been a dull gray for an hour now.
“look, AB. i know you’re a good firefighter, and i know you know how to deliver CPR. just do it like you do it during an emergency. you’re overthinking it.”
“but this is what i do during an emergency!” annabelle cried, throwing her hands up. “i put my hands on their pulse points and i use psychological mumbo-jumbo and they just get up and walk!”
hank blinked. “…really,” he said, voice flat. “people who’ve been inhaling smoke for half an hour just … get up and walk.”
“the brain is an incredibly powerful organ,” said annabelle, shrugging. “look man, i don’t know, okay? but it works. i haven’t had to actually do CPR in like a year and a half.”
he gave her a long, quiet look and said, “well….huh,” before pushing himself back up onto his feet and frowning off into the distance. “keep practicing,” he said after a minute, and left her there.
-
hank switched her team.
“what the fuck, man,” she said, sliding into the truck next to him as the sirens went on. “i can’t get CPR on one fucking dummy and suddenly you don’t trust me to do my job without supervision?”
carl and bethany very carefully did not meet her eyes in the rearview from the backseat. bethany pulled a magazine from beneath the seat and said loudly, “look, carl, jennifer aniston and brad pitt are getting back together.”
“thank christ,” said carl. “i’ve been really worried about jen.”
hank gave annabelle the flat look that had gotten him promoted to firestation chief in the first place, the one that said i’m your dad and you don’t want to disappoint me. as always, annabelle wilted underneath it, sliding down in her seat and crossing her arms over her chest. it was a difficult feat in full gear but she wanted him to know she was feeling sullen.
“i trust you completely,” hank told her, his voice a light scold. “i want to see you in action so i can help you figure out what’s going wrong with the dummies. sometimes it’s hard for the brain to accurately remember everything that happens during a crisis.”
annabelle rolled her eyes. “i told you,” she said. “it’s just – it’s the same thing every time, I’m not like, blacking out.”
“great, then i’m about to learn a cool new trick,” hank said serenely, and pulled the truck out of the lot. annabelle kept her gaze focused out of the window, watching the city pass as carl and bethany talked loudly about which celebrities were dating which other celebrities and who wore what better. she tried to swallow down the nerves that tightened her throat. maybe the dummy was right. maybe she was doing something else and didn’t remember it. maybe the last two years had been a fluke and she had no business being a firefighter. maybe she was about to get fired.
there wasn’t a fire, though the alarm was going off. instead they found a bag of smoking popcorn and the collapsed heap of a forty-five year old bachelor type, down to just his boxers and a pair of slippers with llamas on them. he had no pulse.
hank held carl and bethany back, directing them to deal with the smoke from the popcorn; annabelle he pointed toward the resident with a jerk of his chin.
she sighed, kneeling by his side. she pressed her hands flat to his heart and then dragged them across his chest and down each arm, to his wrists. with her thumbs on his pulse point, she hissed, “let’s go, man. up and at ’em. you’re not meant to die in your underwear while cooking popcorn, come on.”
she held her breath for a few moments, conscious of hank’s eyes on her, and let out a long sigh of relief when she felt his pulse jump beneath her, watched his eyes flicker. “what the fuck?” he asked, voice a croak. “what happened?”
“you gotta eat more vegetables, bud,” annabelle told him, and looped his arm over her shoulders to help him get to his feet. she was so relieved she could have wept, but instead met hank’s eyes with a challenging glare. see? she thought. i told you. “let’s get you to the ambulance.”
-
“the bad news is that you have a lot of practicing to do if you want to pass your recert,” hank said without preamble, showing up at her apartment. she didn’t think she’d ever seen him in jeans before. it was weird. “the good news is i understand your problem now.”
annabelle stepped aside, beckoning him in. “what problem?” she demanded. “it worked! you saw it work. that’s the opposite of a problem.”
hank shrugged. he handed her a trifold that he’d clearly printed off at home. it said so you think you’re a necromancer. annabelle blinked down at it, and then up at hank, and then down at the trifold again. “i … don’t understand what’s happening here,” she told him honestly.
“i’m not in the community and they’re kind of cagey, so i can’t really tell you a lot,” hank told her, stilted and visibly uncomfortable. “but i have a cousin who is, and um, i just want you to know that this doesn’t change anything. you’re still who you’ve always been and you have my complete support. we’ll figure out how to get around the recert. maybe i’ll – i can put you on admin duty to give you time to study. we’ll say it’s because of an injury.”
“hank,” annabelle said, with some urgency. “hank, this flier says the word necromancer.”
“yes,” agreed hank, looking relieved. “oh, good, you’ve heard of it already. i thought i was going to have to have the whole your body is changing talk.”
annabelle shook her head. “no, i – hank. you know that … um, you know that necromancy isn’t real, right? people can’t bring other people back from the dead. that’s crazy.”
“annabelle, not four hours ago you instructed a dead man to stand up and he did.”
“okay, he wasn’t dead, obviously. he was almost dead, at best.”
“no. he was dead.”
“i felt his pulse! it was very faint!”
“you called his pulse. no one else would have felt it, because it wasn’t there except in response to you.”
“hank, what the fuck.”
he shrugged. “read the flier,” he instructed. “and bring dierdre home with you. you’re going to have to practice a lot if you want to get recertified, considering you haven’t one time had to use any of the skills you learned the first go around.”
he bussed her temple as he went by, letting himself out of her apartment with a friendly wave. annabelle looked down at the flier in her hand with a frown. when she unfolded it, the first page said, everyone’s necromancy journey is different, but most people discover their gift by accident. have you ever brought a pet back to life? touched an elderly relatives hand and seen some of the color flood back into their face? or perhaps, more subtly, been able to keep cut flowers alive long past their purchase date?
annabelle looked at her kitchen table. she’d had the same vase of tulips on it since she moved in, three years ago. it was true they periodically started to wilt, but she usually just changed their water and they were fine, popping back up one after the other as she slid them into the fresh vase.
“well shit,” annabelle said, letting the flier fall from her hands.
Tumblerians tumblrites and tumblers, all and alike make writing and art prompts out of things that weren’t meant to be and that is a beauty beyond compare. Thank you members of tumblr for the amazing stories and art and for sharing it with the small world that is this website.
I do think that Shane gets a Russian language tutor. He sees that Ilya is always having to think, speak, and translate in his second language. And he knows that Ilya is fluent by this point, but if he's serious about forever with Ilya (which he is) he wants Ilya to be able to communicate with his boyfriend in his native language. He also saw how much his grandparents struggled with learning English as adults and how much more expressive and talkative they were when they spoke Japanese at home together.
So he gets a tutor. He meticulously researches her (she's from Moscow, so he'll learn from someone with Ilya's same accent). She's signed to more NDAs than he can count. She has 10 years of experience, she's certified to teach English and Russian, and she has 4.8 stars on MyTutor.
Shane pays her a frankly concerning amount of money to make house calls. Twice weekly, unless he's on the road, she arrives at his apartment to teach him foundational Russian. She gives him workbooks, Russia cartoon recommendation, podcasts for beginners, etc. He tells her he's learning because his boyfriend is Russian and she outlines a course that focuses on domestic language first (as opposed to travel or business). She even teaches him what she calls a 'culture course' with lessons on Russian music, food, and various traditions.
She's only a few years older than Shane and he actually finds himself looking forward to her visits. At this point, she's the only person other than his parents that knows he has a boyfriend.
About 4 months in, Shane finally feels comfortable enough to ask about what he'd been very excited about learning.
"You want me to teach you how to talk dirty to your boyfriend?" Ekaterina raised an eyebrow.
"Um," Shane blushed. Was this a little too far? Was this inappropriate to ask of a tutor? "Yes? If - If that's okay, I mean."
A slow smirk spread over her face. "This will be fun. Fun for me, now. Fun for you, later."
"I made a list," Shane admitted. He wasn't going to back out now, he put a lot of thought into his list. He turned to it in his Russian notebook and handed it to her.
She scanned over it indifferently. "You will use all this in one night?"
"Yeah, probably. Is it too much?"
"It is good you have a Russian man," Ekaterina said. "They have good stamina. Mostly, anyway."
And while it was a little embarrassing for Ekaterina to correct his pronunciation of please let me suck your cock, it helped that she seemed just as comfortable with that as there is tea on the stove.
Though, maybe he shouldn't have learned those phrases at the same time, because Ilya will never, for as long as they live, allow him to forget asking, while down on his knees and with excellent pronunciation, please let me suck your tea.
alternatively: shane comes out to his parents. no mention of boyfriend. so best momager and agent of all time yuna hollander asks around, does some sleuthing, goes undercover online and surveys the land for the most successful queer hockey player other than her son. imagine her surprise when she discovers from multiple sources that ilya rozanov might be gay. she arranges ads and promotions and sponsors for shane and ilya to do jointly. she hopes they hit it off and get together - only the best for her baby ofc - and she not so subtly asks after ilya from shane when they have a joint thing or an event where they meet. she is hoping, manifesting, praying and buying spells on etsy to have the two best hockey players in her family.
meanwhile every time shane and ilya meet up they fuck nasty, and ofc shane does not understand why his mom suddenly become a bears fan...
i love every version of shane going to bood's bbq in fics, and it's always so funny when they try to go "just as friends" and cannot keep up the act for the whole night. it's always good and fun and makes sense in the fic, and i always enjoy it, but it's also just funny to see when their whole deal was that they've managed to not tell anyone for a whole decade except for very select circumstances.
it makes me want a 5+1 story with 5 times shane went to a centaurs event as a "friend" of ilya's and the +1 as either him attending as ilya's partner or as a centaur himself.
the first time would be at the end of summer, right after the end of the ottawa summer camp. wyatt asks shane how long he's going to be in town for before he heads back to montreal, and he says it'll be a few more days, and hayes says bood is hosting a pre-season bbq and shane should totally swing by. he's hesitant, but the fact that it's wyatt who invites him and confirms with bood that it's cool vs him clearly tagging along with ilya that makes him risk it.
the boxing day party would probably fall as time 3 or 4? i haven't decided what the others are yet.
but through these 5 parties, shane slowly gets to know the cens and their partners, sees how different the culture is from montreal, gets to know these people ilya talks about for himself, and slowly lets his guard down.
for their part, the centaurs get to know shane as a person better and not just The Shane Hollander™️and they also can't help but notice that their captain, who's always so busy on their days off, is conveniently always available if hollander is also around.
by time 5, most people have figured out that something is going on between them. everyone has pet theories about if it's serious or exclusive or new, but they're trying to tip-toe around it and not let shane or ilya know that they suspect something. it doesn't help that ilya brings anya, and she seems very familiar with shane.
it all comes to a head when wyatt, tipsier than he usually gets at these events, notices that shane is also wearing a chain tucked under his shirt. he puts a hand on shane's shoulder and says "can you just entertain me for a second here?" before hooking a finger under the chain and pulling the rest of the chain and the ring out from where it was tucked away. he looks at the ring close up for a moment before nodding, and saying "that's what i thought." he drops the ring, letting it falls back to shane's chest before saying "thanks buddy," patting him on the shoulder, and moving on like nothing happened. shane is...befuddled, but just shakes his head at his friend and also moves on. he's a little bit panicking, but he's mostly just confused. importantly, he doesn't bother to tuck the ring back into his shirt. a little bit after that, ilya and troy and maybe bood drift over to where shane is, and troy clocks the ring on the chain and says "hey, that ring looks familiar?" and bood agrees, turning to ilya and pulling the exact same move that wyatt did, bringing the chain out of ilya's shirt, showing both the cross and the ring beside it. everyone just stares at the clearly matching rings for a moment before troy says "if you try to claim you got matching friendship rings i'm going to punch you." ilya grins, mock offended, and says "i would never." by this point harris has clocked that something is going on and comes over, taking in the matching rings on display. "holy shit, is this already married or to be--?" he asks. "to be, not yet," ilya confirms. "probably this summer, maybe july," shane says, and it's the first thing he's said in several minutes. after that, for the rest of the night they mostly drop the act. no kissing or outright pda, but they don't really leave each other's sides, and they start bickering half in russian, and they openly refer to anya as theirs (shane refers to her as "our dog" while ilya calls her "our daughter"), and when they leave they don't have to pretend like they aren't leaving together, and they haven't put their rings away again for the rest of the night.
Summary The very long awaited anniversary chapter. After a year of marriage, it's time to replace some of the bad memories with some good.
W.C. 9.2k
Tags Oral (f mentioned, m receiving), unprotected sex, creampie, vacation Titus is still pretty punchable, semi-public groping, public groping (unwanted, boo), unwanted attention and harassment, violence against gross men, some domestic fluff
Author's Note Some fun fluffy smutty marriage romp as a palette cleanser! And then because I am who I am there is an emotional ending lol I really want yalls feedback on this one please! Let me know what you think and what you want the bride's decision to be
xoxo
You wake with the sun, jet lag still lingering in your body, trying to pull you back to sleep. The sheets are plush and clean and fresh. Only in the way that vacation sheets are. They don’t smell like home. They smell like salty sea air and sunlight.
Titus is still sound asleep next to you. Golden light pours into the room, highlighting his freckled cheeks. Initial desires say to wake him with kisses, feather light and chaste, so you can feel his large hands wrap around your hips as he says devilish things in that sexy, early morning rasp.
But waking him up now would mean taking away one of the only things you can do for him on this trip, so you press a single kiss to his cheek, and slip out of the bed quietly.
Rubbing sleep away from your eyes, you yawn and pad to the kitchen, pulling the satin robe closed around your waist. You’re on a mission this morning.
Open the fridge, check the pantry. Of course, Titus made sure everything was stocked, so you have many options. It takes a moment to make a mental plan.
Coffee first. You check the time and orient yourself. It’s extremely rare for you to just be able to do something as simple as make yourself coffee, or make breakfast, you have to make sure you still know how to do that. It almost troubles you, but when the coffee maker starts humming and the smell fills the kitchen, your concerns are wiped.
Fueled with caffeine and a reminder that you’re not totally inept- not yet, at least- you start on breakfast. Eggs, sausage, plated fruit. Simple, and not the spread that Titus is used to. But enough. And made by you.
You have to move the flowers back and forth, out of the way. Titus made sure that the villa was completely overflowing when you got there yesterday. It’s a fucking flower shop- if the flower shop only sold your favorite blooms in your favorite colors. Eventually, you arrange them all on the floor next to the balcony, a small army of blooms watching you swirl around the kitchen.
It’s the start of a week-long getaway to Greece. A much needed vacation, and time away from- well, everything. It’s not often that you get time alone together, and the Mediterranean sun is a welcome break from a rainy New England spring.
You’re not worried about waking Titus up, since the villa you’re staying in is so huge, you’d probably have to scream for him to even hear you. It’s far too much space for just two people.
When you pointed that out upon arrival, Titus shrugged.
“More room for activities.”
Activities being a very chaste word to use. Not that you can really blame him. It’s not like you haven’t been mentally mapping out all of the places in the villa that Titus could have you bent in half. The insanely spacious sofa, the kitchen island, the walk in shower, the pool. Unfortunately- or maybe fortunately- you’ve grown to be just as insatiable as he is.
After only 20 minutes, there’s a change in the air. You hear his soft footsteps before you feel his arms wrap around your waist from behind.
“Hey, you,” you smile.
“Good morning,” he says in that sleepy voice you love so much. It always hits you right in your chest, making your neck prickle.
You turn in his arms to face Titus. His eyes are still heavy with sleep, but they look at you with that all-consuming adoration that he always has. His hair is softly mused, the grey slowly overtaking his cinnamon streaks. You hold his cheek in your palm, running a thumb over his morning stubble.
“I’m sorry if I woke you,” you say.
“You didn’t,” he shakes his head. “I think it was subconscious. The bed was too big. Too empty.”
You let out a small sigh, understanding exactly what he means. You two are so linked to each other, when one of you is gone, it feels like a part of you is missing. A matching set, incomplete without the other.
“Happy anniversary,” you smile.
“Happy anniversary,” he replies.
This day was always going to be a tough day for you. It’s your anniversary, yes. But there are so many complicated emotions tied to your marriage to Titus. Considering the borderline traumatizing circumstances of your wedding, Titus was hell-bent on making this trip as perfect as possible. Replace the bad memories with better ones. Consider this a fresh start.
Titus steps back to lean his hip on the nearby counter, just watching you move as you direct your attention back to the stove, where the sausage is browning and the eggs are almost perfect.
“What, no snarky remark about how you could have hired someone to cook?” you tease.
“Actually, I was just enjoying the view,” Titus replies, eyes dragging down your bare legs. “Makes me want to fire all of the chefs at home just so I can watch you cook all day.”
“Funny,” you deadpan, rolling your eyes.
Titus reaches around you to grab at a sausage link from the pan.
“Would you go away?” you swat his hand before he can take it, trying not to laugh.
Titus takes the moment of distraction to press his lips right below your ear, traveling down your neck. His fingers tug at the tie of your robe. Not enough to pull it open, but enough to remind you that he could.
“Titus,” you bite back a giggle. “Go sit down!”
“Darling, I’m hungry,” he murmurs.
“It’s almost ready,” you reply.
“Not for food.”
“I’m not letting this get cold,” you insist.
Titus huffs- nearly stomps his feet and whines- and turns to pour some coffee.
“First, you wake up before me, denying me the chance to bring you breakfast in bed, or hell, just staying in bed,” he starts. “Now you’re kicking me out of the kitchen. I thought this trip was supposed to be fun,” he mutters into his mug.
You flash your eyes at him sideways. It’s not a threat, but a promise.
Titus clears his throat, his pout gone. “Can I help you set the table?”
“I’m so glad you asked!” your tone turns saccharine on a dime. You hand him the fruit.
Being alone with Titus- truly alone, no staff on the other side of the door tending to every whim- almost makes your heart sore. He’s without his usual airs. In grey sweatpants and a black t-shirt, Titus looks like an average- extremely attractive- husband.
It’s almost like this is the first time you are regular rich people, removing the context of the satanic cult and the fact that Titus pretty much runs the world.
“Anything special you want to do today?” Titus asks after breakfast.
“You don’t have anything planned?” you raise an unconvinced eyebrow.
“No,” Titus shakes his head and leans back. “I have many things planned. But I want to know what you want to do.”
“And what if I don’t want to do anything you’ve planned?” you ask.
“Then I’ll cancel it,” he shrugs like it’s obvious. “Today is about you.”
“Technically, it’s about us,” you point out.
“Technically, we can do whatever we want. So we should do whatever we want. We’re on vacation.”
It’s almost a challenge. Even after an entire year together, you know you’ve been pretty conservative with your position- and Titus’s bank account.
So fuck it, yeah. What can you pack into a dream vacation to Greece?
“But first,” Titus grabs the seat of your chair with one hand and yanks it closer to his side, pulling a surprised yelp from you. He pulls at the tie of your robe, fully this time, and it falls away easily.
“Still hungry?” you ask, leaning back in your chair.
The robe falls open, revealing the sheer nightgown you woke up in.
Titus nudges his foot against your ankles, pushing your legs open for him. No panties. His eyes snap up to yours.
“Starving.”
There’s a sense of freedom in this kind of lifestyle. Sure, having a full staff at your beck and call is really great when you need someone to vacuum the carpet or take out the trash. But there’s way too many people around for you to be propped up on the kitchen counter, legs bare and wide, as Titus pulls a second orgasm from you.
“Ti, please,” you whimper. “So- it’s too much.”
“But you taste so good,” he drags his tongue through your folds one last time, lapping up everything you have to give.
“Come’re,” you tug at his face.
“It’s not my fault,” Titus says, finally standing between your legs. He presses a lazy, pussy-drunk kiss to your lips. His hair mused from your fingers running through it, pulling it.
“Nothing ever is,” you smile.
“You standing there, cooking for me, no panties,” he kisses you again. “You’re a vision. A fucking wet dream.”
You reach down and cup his dick through his sweatpants, feeling how hard he is just from eating you out. Titus chokes on his breath a little, leaning over to grip the counter top, arms tense on either side of you.
“I should probably return the favor, right, baby?” you move your fingers gently over him.
Titus doesn’t say anything, just lets out a low, bitten off noise and a nod.
You slide off the counter onto your knees in front of him. Titus is already breathing heavily, looking down at you with dark, hungry eyes.
You hook your fingers into the waistband of his sweats and pull them down to free his thick cock, almost painfully hard. It snaps up against his abdomen, precum already leaking at the tip. He’s achingly ready for you.
“Look at you,” you mutter, taking him in your grasp. “How long have you been like this?”
“Too long,” he groans. “All because you wanted hot eggs.”
Titus groans when you open your mouth wide and slide your tongue from base to tip.
“You didn’t like breakfast?” you say sweetly. You move slowly, waiting for his bravado to completely crumble before you indulge him.
“Fuck,” he grits. He drops a hand to the side of your face, encouraging you. “No, honey, I loved breakfast.”
“Good, for a second you sounded a little ungrateful,” you drag your tongue over him again, swirling it against the tip to collect the precum.
Titus lets out a broken moan, his fingers curling in your hair.
“Watch it,” he hisses, but it sounds almost desperate.
You decide to stop teasing, but only because your mouth is nearly watering at this point. Not because he looks like he’ll start whimpering if you don’t blow him right now. When your mouth finally moves over him, you take him as far back as you can without immediately gagging.
You move slowly along his dick at first, letting your mouth and throat work open for him, hand stroking what your lips don’t reach. Titus’s head falls back, hand still firm in your hair. A low groan escapes.
“So pretty with your mouth around me like that,” Titus moves his hand to the side of your head, fingers tangling in your hair.
You continue to work him slowly, taking as much as you can each time.
“That’s it,” His hips jerk forward, almost like he didn’t mean to. He looks down, chest rising and falling with deep breaths, trying to rein himself in. Biting back the aggression that’s sitting right behind his eyes.
You look up at him through your lashes and move your hands to his thighs, bracing yourself. A silent indication that you are giving up the reins.
Titus sees it, and understands.
His hips buck again, this time on purpose, deeper than before. Deciding the pace for himself, chasing the bliss he gave you. Saliva gathers on the corners of your mouth, eyes pricking with tears.
“That’s my girl,” Titus groans. His pace stutters, just once, and his mouth opens slightly.
Titus suddenly slides out of your mouth, breathes shallow, and reaches for your arm to pull you to your feet.
“Had enough already?” you wipe the spit from your mouth slowly, something Titus can’t pull his eyes away from.
“That was so good, my dove,” Titus says, hands gripping your hips firmly, “But I would rather fill that pretty pussy.”
He spins you around and presses you against the countertop, practically hinging you where your stomach meets the granite. He kneads your plump ass in his hands, his thick fingers pulling them apart.
“This is what you want, right?” Titus asks.
“Yes, please,” you wine, trying to push your hips out for him.
Titus steps out of his sweats fully and kicks them off to the side. You feel his cock slide over your pussy, rubbing against your clit and making you shudder. This is payback, you know it. But damn, if you don’t like it.
“You can do better than that,” he tuts. “My beautiful wife knows how to ask for what she wants.”
“Titus, please. Fuck me,” you turn your head over your shoulder to look at him, how much pleasure he’s getting from your whining. “Please, I want to feel you. I need to feel you.”
You bend over the counter fully, looking back at him with doe eyes and batting lashes.
“I never can hold out very long for you,” he mutters.
Titus slides his cock into you, pressing his hips against your ass all at once. It draws a loud, low moan from you. You’re on your toes, nearly pushed off the ground by the force of him.
You press your palms to the cool granite, pushing up so that your back arches dramatically as you take all of him in. It’s like your insides have permanently rearranged themselves just to accommodate Titus. A body made for him.
“You feel that?” Titus grunts. “You feel how deep you take me?”
“Mhmm,” you mewl.
Titus leans forward, pressing his chest against your back and pulling your hair away from your neck. He nips at you, sucking a bruise to your pulse point before pressing a kiss over it.
“So good,” he murmurs against your skin, “fucking hell you feel so good.”
Then, he starts to move, and you feel like the wind is knocked completely out of you. If it weren’t for Titus’s arms holding you up, one wrapped around your waist and one resting by your shoulder, you would have collapsed against the counter.
“Titus,” you whine, leaning your head back.
“Talk to me, sweetheart, let me hear you,” he grunts.
“Oh shit,” you whine. The words float around in your head, but you’re unable to catch them. “I love the way you fuck me.”
His pace isn’t feverish, not like it sometimes is, but it is deep and brutal. You can feel your walls clenching around him, pulling his dick in further with every thrust.
“Fuck, baby,” Titus pants in your ear. He moves his hands down to your hips, gently folding you over the counter again.
When you feel his large grip move to your thighs, you don’t even have the strength to say anything when he pushes one of your legs up, your knee resting on the counter next to you.
“Look at that,” Titus says, marveling at the new angle, and how your pussy takes him all the way in.
You’re overwhelmed. There’s nothing for you to hold on to. Nothing to bring you back down to earth. Nothing but Titus’s jagged breaths. You can feel your cunt clenching and pulsing around him, another orgasm threatening to blur your vision.
“Don’t stop,” you whimper.
“Let me feel you, honey.” Titus pushes your leg up just a little further, so he can push even deeper inside.
Suddenly, you cry out, your release squeezing around Titus. He fucks you through it, though his pace slows slightly at the feeling.
“Fuck, honey, you’re going to take it all,” he moans, hips stuttering slightly.
“Yes,” you whimper, “I want it.”
One final thrust, and Titus buries himself inside you, holding his hips close as he comes with your name on his lips. Your sensitive cunt is filled with his release.
Something rattles in your chest. The closeness, the need. Or the fact that no matter what Titus says, how cocky he is and how much he asks of you, at the end of it all, he’s completely undone by you. Only you, with your long lashes and full hips and easy smile, can make him break.
“Fuck,” you sigh as he pulls out. Your heart rate has yet to settle.
“Happy anniversary, hon,” he kisses your back, breath hot.
“Thank you, baby,” you look back at him, cheek resting on the cool countertop as you try to find yourself again.
“You’re okay?” Titus asks when you don’t immediately stand upright again. He runs a light hand over your back, all the way down your spine.
“I’m good,” you reply.
“Come on,” he nods towards the bedroom, “let’s go spend our money.”
Titus doesn’t go far. He steps back and watches as you try to collect yourself, your legs a little wobbly. You can feel his cum dripping out of you onto your thighs. What a fucking sight.
He bites his lip, trying to bite back a smile.
“Don’t,” you snap your eyes to him. “Not unless you’re going to carry me back to the room.”
“Of course,” he nods and happily gathers you in his arms. Once you’re settled, arms slung over his shoulders, he indulges himself. “Suppose this is my fault, anyway.”
“Shut up, and take me to get cleaned up” you bury your face in his neck, trying to hide the blush.
He kisses the top of your head before taking you to the ensuite for a warm bath.
You soak for a few minutes, just letting your muscles relax while Titus cleans himself off and gets dressed. He checks in on you every so often, and even helps you dry off, carrying your damp body to the bedroom to change.
When you finally get dressed- which is almost impossible to do when your legs are jelly and Titus is watching and can’t keep his damn hands to himself- you finally make it out of the villa.
It’s a sunny morning, with a gentle, warm wind. You opt for kitten heels- the wedges you planned for are definitely not stable enough for your current state- and a breezy sundress.
The driver takes you down to the shops. And by shops, Titus obviously planned for the luxury shopping district, where every single item costs an average mortgage payment.
After a year, none of this should phase you anymore. Spending money should be like breathing. But you didn’t ever want that excitement to fade. You still want to feel grateful that you don’t have to check your bank balance before buying a necklace.
“You’re not going to mope around, acting bored while I try things on, are you?” you ask Titus when the car slows to a stop.
“What?” He looks almost offended. “No. I love spending money. It’s one of my favorite hobbies. The only thing better is watching you spend my money. That, my love, is very sexy.”
It takes a mountain of willpower not to giggle like a schoolgirl when the car door opens and Titus holds his hand out for you.
“Where would you like to start?” he asks as you take it all in.
First stop is Hermes, where you pick out a silk scarf and a beautiful handback that costs more than your first car.
You leave Gucci because the skirt you liked didn’t fit around your hips. Titus got angry, and even angrier when you dragged him out of the store instead of letting him berate the uncaring staff.
It takes a few moments of talking him down, followed by some strategically placed kisses along his neck, for Titus to calm down.
“You don’t need to be a walking billboard for that tacky brand, anyway,” he huffs, lacing his fingers with yours and pulling you along to the next store.
Three jackets from Prada, and when you can’t decide on which sandals to get, Titus of course nods. “Get both.”
You spend a couple of hours moving from store to store, trying on clothes and letting Titus carry the bags. Well, he carries them until the driver meets up with you every so often to ferry them back to the car.
In every shop, Titus is there with you, watching with adoration. Every time you pick something up and exclaim about the price, it amuses Titus. How many times does he have to say that no, it’s not too much, get whatever you want? But when you find something you love, when your eyes light up and you feel at home in a new garment, or with a new piece of jewelry, it makes his heart soar. He would spend every last dollar to his name if it meant that smile never faded.
There’s a small Greek boutique that has beautiful dresses, and you head back to the fitting room with an armful. You’re in the middle of trying one on when there’s a soft knock at the door.
“One second!” you call.
The door opens anyway. You hold your breath, but it’s Titus that slips in quietly. His eyes fall on you and the dress you’re in the middle of shimmying on. You turn towards the mirror and finish pulling the straps up.
“Impatient,” you tut.
“Eager,” he corrects.
“Make yourself useful,” you turn around and move your hair so that he can access the zipper.
Titus comes behind you, his familiar presence grounding you as always. His hands settle on your hips, right above your ass, thumbs moving back and forth in the fabric.
“That’s not what I asked for,” you turn your head towards him slightly
“I’m getting there,” he replies. “Just…taking my time.”
Slowly, achingly slow, he drags the zipper up your back, pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder. You can see him in the mirror, how his eyes close for just a second. Heat rises up your neck.
“I like this color,” he mutters against your skin.
“Yeah?” You look at the dress in the mirror, smoothing the fabric over your stomach and thighs. It fits you extremely well, like the fabric was stitched around you. Showing off every curve, and enough skin to make a weak man stop in his tracks.
“You should wear it to dinner tonight,” he toys with the fabric hanging over your hips.
“Titus,” you warn.
“Hm?” He looks at you in the mirror.
“Don’t.” It’s the only word you can manage.
“Don’t what?” he asks. You hate the look on his face. It’s hungry, it’s innocent, it’s almost impossible for you to deny.
“I’m not doing this with you in a very public dressing room,” you say.
“This is fully sealed off,” he says, hands rising to the front of your dress. “We’re in a separate room. I doubt anyone can even hear us.”
When his fingers find your breasts, a low whimper escapes you. Immediately, you wish you could take it back, because he takes it and keeps going.
“Titus,” you grab his wrists.
He kisses your neck, nipping at your earlobe before pulling away. You blink, coming back to yourself. It’s the push and pull that Titus loves so much. Proving to you how depserate you can be for his touch. And you are desperate, but not without pride. Unfortunately.
“Get it,” he nods. “Wear it tonight.”
And Titus slips out with the last word. You wish you could be angry with him, or even remotely annoyed. But this dress turned from a maybe to an absolutely, just with the way his eyes devoured you in it.
You buy the dress in two different colors.
After a while, you get decidedly bored of just going from store to store. There’s no intrigue in simply swiping a card, spending money on things you could technically still get back home.
“God, rich people have the worst taste,” you groan, rifling through the hangers.
Titus’s eyes flicker up to you. “You forget, you’re a rich person now, too.”
“Yes, but the difference is, I know this isn’t worth $300.” you hold up a white t-shirt that just says ‘Chanel’ in black lettering on the front. At least it’s 100% cotton.
Titus looks at you, clearly sensing your shift in mood, your irritation.
“Come on,” Titus says, holding out his hand. “Let’s move on.”
“Oh, I forgot,” you slide your hand into his, “you have plans.”
Titus scheduled a helicopter to take you from Athens to Mykonos. You white knuckle his bicep the entire time, trying to enjoy the view without thinking about crashing and falling. Titus squeezes your hand and doesn’t even try to hide how amusing he thinks it is. As long as he’s the one you’re holding on to, he won’t complain.
It’s already midday by the time you land, and Titus has made lunch plans. A private charter boat to a small cove, not a single soul in sight. You eat fresh fruit and pasta salad while looking out at water so blue and so clear, it doesn’t even look real.
“Titus,” you catch his attention and pop a strawberry into your mouth. “If I fell into the water, would you jump in after me?”
“Why are you asking me that?” he sighs, not sure if he wants the answer.
“I’m just trying to gauge my likelihood of survival,” you shrug.
“You can’t swim?” he asks.
“If I said I couldn’t, would you come after me?” you squint.
“If you said you couldn’t, I would be scheduling lessons for the moment we get back stateside,” he says, leaning back in his chair.
“You still didn’t answer the question,” you tilt your head.
Titus leans his head back, like he’s gathering emotional strength. “Yes, I would jump in after you. Of course I would.”
“Oh Titus, you big softie,” you smile, only teasing him a little.
You throw a grape at his chest that he catches.
“Don’t go telling people that,” he huffs, but you can see he’s fighting a smile. “I have a reputation to uphold.”
“Yes, dear, a reputation for a man who loves his wife.” You rise from the table and stop behind him, running your hands over Titus’s shoulders and chest, leaning in to kiss his cheek. “Whatever will you do.”
Titus quickly reaches around, sliding one arm around your waist and pulling you into his lap. You let out a borderline shriek, bare feet flailing in the air.
“I would jump into the water for you,” he says. His tone is light, a smile pulling at his mouth as he continues, “I would crawl through broken glass for you. I would even stand in line at a regular grocery store to buy those disgusting sodas you like if you asked me to.”
“The drama,” you raise your eyebrows. You raise your hand to cup his cheek.
“So what’s your likelihood of survival, then?” he asks.
“With you around?” you pause, “probably still only about 75%.”
Titus rolls his eyes.
“But I’ll take my chances,” you smile.
The boat continues around the island, taking you on an unofficial water tour of Mykonos. You lounge around on the deck, resting and getting some sun. Titus checks in with you every once in a while, but otherwise only approaches to refill your water, and make sure you are reapplying your sunscreen. It’s serene bliss.
Eventually, Titus sits down on the lounge chair next to you.
“We can go to a wine tasting,” he starts, “we can walk around the town, we can go back to the villa.”
“Let’s do that stuff another day,” you wave. “I just want to lounge and be rich and lazy.”
Titus kisses your forehead. “Perfect choice.”
“By the way,” he looks down at you over his sunglasses. “You never answered me, can you swim? Or should I lower my expectations of skinny dipping at the pool?”
You just grin and shake your head at him.
The boat takes you back to Athens, and you arrive back at the villa in the early afternoon, feet sore and belly full.
“I want to take a nap,” you say, looking at Titus as you walk through the doors.
“Okay,” he nods, taking off his shoes but heading in the opposite direction.
You stand there, bottom lip poking out.
Titus shakes his head, but laces his fingers with yours and lets you drag him to the bedroom.
Surprisingly, he makes no passes or crude remarks when you take your dress off and lay on the bed. He strips to his boxers and slides behind you, pressing his chest to your back. He’s warm and heavy, his presence always calming to you.
“Thank you,” you murmur, sleep already threatening to take hold.
“For what?” he asks, nose pressed into your hair, nuzzling closer.
“Just. Thank you,” you say.
Titus doesn’t push it further. He doesn’t demand that you name the exact feeling, the exact list of things you are grateful for, or that you love about him. Not like he used to.
He does wake you gently, a large hand on your leg, thumb moving back and forth.
“There she is,” he says softly when your eyes finally open.
“You’re awake,” you say sleepily.
“Don’t want you to sleep through dinner.”
Titus made dinner reservations for a time and place that would have the best view of the sunset. His words.
And it is insane, of course. Right on the water, seemingly glowing from within by candlelight. You are taken up to a private table on a balcony, overlooking the beach below and the sunset just peeking below the horizon line. It’s calm and relaxing, live music drifting in from somewhere down by the shore.
Titus has a breezier air about him. For one, his phone isn’t going off constantly with market reports and news updates. His attention is on you, fully. And your attention is completely on his neck, and where it runs right down to the top two buttons of his shirt that are wide open. You just want to bite him.
“You’re staring,” Titus says, lifting his eyes from the menu for just a moment.
“You’re hot,” you shrug.
“And yet,” he sets the menu down, facing you fully, “when I say things like that, you call me a pervert.”
“That’s because you follow it up with a handful of my ass,” you point.
“I won’t be shamed for loving your ass,” he says. “It’s my second favorite part of you.”
“What’s your first?” you narrow your eyes.
Titus doesn’t answer at first, his mouth twitching in an almost smile.
“Titus!” you gasp.
I was going to say your face,” he raises his eyebrows. “Your beautiful eyes, obviously. Who’s the pervert, now?”
You roll your eyes and take a long sip of wine. Your stomach is already in knots, in a good way.
The appetizers alone have you letting out near ungodly moans.
Locally made wine, fresh fish caught that morning, and the best bread you’ve ever had, sopping up Mediterranean olive oil and herbs.
Everything is delicious, and you don’t deny yourself a single whim. Not even the food on Titus’s plate.
“Can I try your pasta?” you ask, tilting your head.
“I can order you your own plate,” Titus flicks his eyes up at you. He’s not defensive. It’s a fact. He will order you another plate. “Get whatever you want.”
“But I don’t want an entire plate of pasta,” you say, “I want a bite of your pasta.”
Titus almost smiles, and reaches his fork over the table. You lean forward slowly, trying not to be completely inappropriate in this very classy restaurant. But you see the way Titus is watching you as your lips close around the fork, and all of that caution goes out the window.
“Mhm,” you say, savoring it, “yeah, this wouldn’t have tasted as good from my own plate.”
“Ridiculous,” Titus mutters, but you can see the corner of his mouth lift just slightly.
“Do you want to try my fish?” you ask.
Specifically, perfectly cooked white fish with hand made orzo and a fennel butter sauce so good that it makes your heart ache.
You prepare your fork with the most perfect bite you can manage, and hold it out to him.
“Come on,” you insist, “it’s really good.”
Titus leans over the table, mimicking your earlier actions as he takes a bite. His eyes never leave yours. It shouldn’t be erotic. It shouldn’t be sending heat up your neck. It shouldn’t be making your breath catch.
But Titus’s eyes are sharp and focused on you. The sun is down, and his face is illuminated by soft candle light. And the wine is thrumming in your veins. There’s still soft music floating in from somewhere down below.
It’s all very romantic. Strategically romantic. Painfully romantic.
“You’re right,” he wipes his mouth. “It’s good.”
“I’m right?” you repeat.
Titus smirks and nods, trying not to encourage you. Luckily, you can do that on your own.
“Oh, say that again,” you press a hand to your chest and smile. “I’ll give you a baby.”
Titus’s eyes flash to yours. You don’t even realize what you’ve said, not really, not at first. Your brain is foggy, and the words fall out too easily. You meant it as a joke, but you realize how the air has changed.
You blink. He swallows.
“I- uhm,” you set your fork down. “I guess that’s a conversation we should have.”
Titus reaches across the table for your hand. You set your fingers in his, and he squeezes you reassuringly.
“I want to, yes.” he says. Your heart is in your throat. You try not to give your anxiety away, but you don’t know how well it’s working. Titus studies you for a moment. “But not right now. Enjoy your fish.”
You let out a slow, small breath. Something you hope Titus doesn’t notice.
It’s obviously something you’ve thought about. But you feel totally unequipped for it at the moment. You’ve been incredibly lucky- and on birth control- for the last year. Everything about your life up until this point has been so uncertain, so volatile. You want to have the chance to enjoy it, first.
But you know Titus is older than you, and has obligations. He needs to secure an heir. The last thing you want is to wait too long, and he’s not even able to enjoy being a dad.
These are all things you’ve thought about and successfully pushed to the back of your mind. And you try to do it again.
The plates are cleared, dessert enjoyed, wine glasses nearly polished off. You stare out to the water, almost not believing it’s right in front of you. It’s almost too much, and you suddenly become very existential about the last year of your life. Everything that got you to this point.
“It’s a rare moment when I can catch you at a loss for words,” Titus says. You can feel his eyes on you.
You cast a sidelong glance at him. Not angry, not irritated. Just waiting.
“I don’t like it,” he says, tone flat, but not uncaring. “What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?”
“I guess I didn’t know what to expect. You pretty much always do whatever you want, I didn’t know what vacation Titus would be like,” you smile.
Titus’s shoulders settle. He almost looks a little nervous.
“You went through a lot of effort to plan for today.” You settle your chin in your hand and just look at Titus. “Thank you.”
“I just,” he blinks and shakes his head. Titus looks almost a little sad. “I just really want you to know how much I care about you.”
The words come out clunky, like he’s surprised they’re coming out of his mouth.
“You tell me. Often,” you say.
“Me telling you is not the same as you knowing it,” Titus says, his eyes flashing to yours.
Oh.
Your expression softens.
“I’m not an easy man to know, or love,” Titus looks out into the water. “I didn’t ever think I would feel about anyone the way that I feel about you. It scares the shit out of me,” he lets out a breath and half a smile.
“You have baggage,” you shrug, “I have baggage. Yours happens to be satanic and homicidal, but-”
Titus looks at you, waiting. His eyebrow twitches slightly. He doesn’t know what you’re getting at.
But your lips curve into a small smile.
“Every marriage has its quirks,” you say.
Titus’s face softens.
“And yet, you handle it with such grace,” he says.
“I mean it,” Titus takes a sip of wine. “I want this trip, this anniversary, to be a do-over. If that’s even possible.”
“You know it’s not,” you sigh. Your relationship does not- cannot- exist without the context by which it was formed. You are reminded of it every time you visit the resort. “But as time goes on,” you continue, “I’m sure it’ll become background noise to everything else.”
“Yeah,” Titus sighs. He frags a hand over his face, and his hazel eyes have that weepy gloss to them.
Perfect time for some cheering up.
“I have something for you,” you turn to pull an envelope out of your bag and hold it out to him. “Happy anniversary,” you smile.
“What is that?” he asks. His eyebrows fold in the center, a small v forming on his forehead. He looks at your hand with sheer confusion.
“Not what you’re supposed to say when someone is trying to hand you a gift,” you point out.
“I told you not to worry about gifts.”
“Well,” you say, trying to hand him the envelope again. “I wanted to do something for you for a change. I kept thinking. What are you supposed to get the man who has everything?”
“Nothing. I told you not to,” Titus stares at your hand, not taking it. “I have everything I want.”
“You paid for it, if that helps.” You set the envelope down on the table in front of him, “So, is it technically a gift?”
Titus looks at you, brows furrowed, as he relents, finally picking up the envelope.
You wish you had taken a picture of his face. The reaction when he realized what he was looking at.
Photos of you. Specifically, boudoir photos. Lacy lingerie, hair wild, sprawled out on satin sheets, fuck me eyes looking directly in to the lense of the camera. Legs long, back arched, on your knees, on your stomach, every way Titus could want you.
Tasteful. Sensual. Absolutely devastating.
“When did you take these?” Titus mutters. He can’t take his eyes away.
“Maybe a month ago,” you say. “I had them printed right before we left.” You watch his face. It’s still astonished, but otherwise unchanging. You hate to fish, but you need him to say something. Anything. “Do you like them?”
“I don’t think like is a strong enough word,” Titus flips to the next photo. “Fuck, darling.”
You’re completely naked, save for a large, ornate breastpiece covering your chest. Sitting on the floor, legs spread wide. With Titus’s antique pickaxe propped between your legs.
“I need this as my screensaver,” Titus mutters.
It’s you, all of you, bared for the camera. The only people who have seen these photos are you, Titus, and the very kind (female) photographer who reassured you the entire time.
“Giving this to me in a public setting is not fair at all,” he looks at you, eyes dark.
You sit your chin in your hand, refusing to break eye contact. “At least I had the decency to wait until dessert.”
Titus clears his throat. He swallows hard. You let the back of your foot run down his calf.
He carefully places all of the photos back in the envelope. “We need to leave. Now.”
Titus doesn’t even wave for the bill, just drops multiple hundred dollar bills on the table and stands. He takes your hand and leads you back through the restaurant at a brisk pace. Your heart is racing, and you can almost hear your pulse in your ears.
When you reach the restaurant entrance, you pause.
“I’m going to run to the restroom,” you tug on Titus’s hand. “Have the car pulled around, I’ll meet you outside.”
Titus shifts his weight. He obviously doesn’t want to leave you alone. But the look in your eyes says there’s no arguing.
“Alright. Out front.” he kisses your cheek before you part ways.
With the amount of alcohol you’ve had at dinner, you’ve been needing to pee for the last thirty minutes. And you don’t want to cut into whatever happens when you get back to the villa with a bathroom break. You need to take a moment to freshen up, anyway.
When you head out in front of the restaurant, it’s a little dicier than you thought it would be. There’s clusters of people walking around, but it’s otherwise dimly lit, and you don’t see Titus or the car anywhere.
You clutch your purse close to you and wait exactly where you told him you’d be.
A few minutes go by, and you see a man lingering in the corner of your eye. Young, tan, and a jaw line sharp enough to make a man arrogant. Based on his step, he’s had a little too much to drink. And his eyes are locked on you.
“Ah, a beautiful woman standing alone,” he says, standing awfully close, “that can’t be right.”
His accent is American, he must be another tourist. You stiffen, hand tight around your bag.
“I’m fine,” you give a strained smile, trying to avoid eye contact.
“You’re waiting for someone?” he asks. You don’t answer, and he settles next to you. “I’ll keep you company.”
“I would rather you didn’t,” you say, finally looking at him and dropping the sweet facade.
“It’s no trouble,” he says. “I can’t leave you alone out here. We’ll wait for your friends together.”
“I’m waiting for my husband, actually,” you say.
He cocks his head, like he didn’t hear a single word you said.
“Of course, a pretty thing like you. But why did he leave you alone in the first place?” he asks, looking around.
“He’ll be right back,” you nod. The hairs on the back of your neck are rising, and a sour feeling rises in your belly. It’s not the alcohol.
This stranger leans in, his mouth pressed against your ear.
“I’m sure we can find something to do while we wait for him, right?” His hand rests on your low back.
You freeze. It moves slowly down, until he’s groping your ass.
You smile, sickenly sweet and not threatening whatsoever.
“If you don’t remove your hand,” you start, your voice low, “and crawl back to whatever decrepit, foul hole that you came from, I will cut your fingers off individually and feed them to my goats.”
He doesn’t move. You can’t tell if he just doesn’t believe you, or he’s that stupid.
You grab his hand off your ass, and with a surprising amount of strength, bend his fingers so far back, he has to twist just to keep you from breaking them clean off.
“Did I not make myself clear?” you spit, eyes narrow in a fury.
“Okay!” he cries out. “Okay, I’m sorry.”
You release him.
“Fucking cunt,” he mutters, shaking his head and cradling his hand. And his wounded ego.
Always needing the last word, you grab a fist full of his hair and slam his face into a nearby lightpost. You use all of your strength and pent up aggression, and feel immediate catharsis when his forehead makes contact with the hard metal. He cries out, holding his head as blood wells at a gash.
“Are you crazy?” he yells.
The few people in the area are starting to look at this scene, but you won’t back down. You narrow your eyes.
“I’m going to call the cops,” he spits.
A car door slams behind you. Titus reaches you in just a few long strides, and your heart immediately calms. He’s here. He’s with you. You’re not alone.
“Do we have a problem here?” TItus asks. It’s clear that he’s trying to keep his tone cool, but there’s a familiar twitch in his eye. He’s seething.
“Yes!” there’s blood seeping slowly between the man’s fingers. “This psycho bitch attacked me!”
You’ve seen Titus get mad plenty of times. That anger seems to always simmer just beneath the surface, able to be tapped into on a dime, and snuffed out just as fast.
This is one of those times where he can’t quite put it out.
Titus grabs the man’s free arm, twisting it behind his back. He cries out in pain. You watch, slightly horrified, but mostly intrigued, and extremely turned on.
“If you know what’s good for you, and you value your worthless life,” Titus hisses into the man’s ear, “I’ll never see your miserable face again. Especially not near my wife. Do you understand?”
Titus waits for a weak, terrified nod before releasing him. Without another word, and blood still trickling down the side of his face, the stranger disappears around the corner.
“Baby,” Titus pulls you in front of him, hands on your shoulders. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” you sigh. “Where were you?”
“The car was stuck in a row of drunken party buses,” Titus answers quickly. “And I pull up to the front of the restaurant to find you slamming faces into light poles.”
“Whatever you’re going to say,” you hold your palms up to him, “save it.”
“You don’t know what I’m going to say,” his mouth almost curls.
“My dove,” you drop your voice into an extremely accurate impression, “you shouldn’t have done that. He could have hurt you. It’s not safe. I’ll protect you.”
“I don’t sound like that.”
“You do.”
“You need your ears checked.”
“You need your face checked.”
It’s not your best line. But the alcohol is making your brain fuzzy. That’s what you decide to blame it on.
Titus steps closer to you, standing right over you. You open your mouth to say something, but your brain short circuits when you process how he’s looking at you. The concern has faded into something dark and lustful.
“Are you going to keep talking or are you going to let me tell you how hot that was?”
You blink up at him, mouth snapping shut, immediately humbled.
“Y-you can tell me,” you look up at him through your lashes.
Titus squints at you slightly. His face settles on a sly smile, bringing his mouth right to the shell of your ear. “And I’m trying hard not to fuck you in the middle of the street, because that was so, so sexy.”
You settle your hands around Titus’s ribs, eyes drifting down to where he’s definitely getting very hard.
“Mr. Danforth, if I knew you’d get so turned on by seeing me beat up men, I’d have taken up MMA fighting,” you tease.
“Let’s not get carried away, Mrs. Danforth,” his lips ghost your cheek.
“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” you whisper.
The ride bad to the villa is brutal. Not because it’s bumpy, or because traffic was particularly bad. Nothing could have been fast enough for you and Titus. The moment you climb into the back seat with him, you’re already practically on top of him. Brand new dress hiked up around your thighs, straddling Titus, every pothole or cobbled road bouncing you in his lap, threatening your composure little by little.
His hands are all over you. Over your ass, in your hair, on your thighs. You don’t even care that the driver swerves slightly, overcorrecting, probably because he’s looking back at you and Titus in the rearview mirror. Let him watch.
You stumble out of the car, bare foot and giddy. Titus has the straps of your wedges in his grasp and follows you up to the villa, one hand firmly planted on your ass. The moment you close the door, he’s on you again.
“I’m proud of you,” he mutters into your mouth, pushing you against the nearby wall.
“For what?” you gasp when his hand comes up to palm your breast.
“Defending yourself. Not letting him bully you. Fighting back.” Titus’s entire body is pressed against you, slacks straining where his anticipation is building.
“You like it when I fight back?” you ask, taking his bottom lip in your teeth for a moment.
“I like it when you make other men bleed,” he says. His gaze is dark and needy.
Your dress is hiked all the way up to your waist, the unyielding fabric out of the way when Titus grips your thighs and pulls them around his hips. He carries you through the villa, stopping when you pull at his curls.
“Couch,” you breathe.
He looks down at the massive sectional, and back up at you, questioning.
“We don’t get to do it at home,” you shrug.
“I’ll make sure to schedule days where everyone is out of the fucking house,” he says, gently laying you down onto your back. “If it means I get to fuck you on the dining room table.”
“Dream bigger, Titus,” you say as he climbs over you, slotting himself between your legs, dress bunched up around your waist, “If the estate is empty, you could take me on the balcony off the bedroom.”
“Fucking hell,” he grumbles, closing his eyes for a fraction of a second too long. Regaining control of himself. “You’re a menace.”
“Your menace,” you say.
“Even better,” Titus smiles before dropping completely over you, his mouth hungry for you.
The next day is a lot softer. Sleeping in, whispered good mornings, fingers intertwined. You move to rise from the bed, only for Titus to wrap one arm around your middle and drag you back in, pressing lazy kisses to your face and neck. He keeps you there for another hour, not letting go until you convince him that you really have to pee.
Coffee steaming on the side table, a modest breakfast picked apart and enjoyed.
Titus has the boudoir photos spread out on the kitchen island, analysing every single one of them. The incriminating evidence of you is all over his neck, right by the collar of his button up, where you sucked bruises and sunk your teeth into his freckles.
Not like you don’t have matching marks on the inside of your thighs.
“I did get them on a flashdrive,” you say as you pour another cup of coffee.
“Great,” he says without even glancing up at you, “now I can make a slideshow. Project it in the casino.”
“I know you’re joking based on how you almost bashed a guy's skull in when you thought he was watching me at the resort pool last summer,” you say, settling next to him.
“That’s right,” he says, looking at you now, “this is all for me.”
You sigh and take another sip of coffee. Maybe you’re tired. Maybe you’re stalling. Neither is relevant.
The excitement of vacation hasn’t worn off yet, but you know that the pin in the conversation from yesterday will rust over if you don’t talk about it. And you’re terrified. Not because you think you’ll fight about it, but because you don’t know what Titus is even going to say.
“We should talk about last night,” you say.
“Yeah?” a smile pulls at the corner of Titus’s mouth. “Which part? When you came three times in twenty minutes or when you refused to hop off me, even after I was spent?”
You stare at him flatly. “Titus, be serious for like a minute.”
“I am serious,” he says, scooping the photos up, arranging them into a neat stack. “Seriously impressed by your commitment to pleasure. And your flexibility. And your tenacity.”
“Titus,” you groan.
“What?” Titus reaches for you. His eyes are light as he looks at you, trying to lighten the mood. Now he’s the one stalling.
You step between his legs as his arms fall around your waist.
“What I said at dinner,” you start, trying to find the words.
“I was there,” Titus says.
“So then you have thoughts.”
“I have many thoughts.”
“About what I said,” you clarify.
“You really need to be more specific, darling.”
He’s torturing you. That’s the only reasonable explanation. You brought it up and now he’s making you bring it up again, as a part of some fucked up humiliation ritual.
You start to pull away, only for Titus to bring you right back, slitting your legs between his.
“Okay okay, I’m sorry, my dove,” he sighs, eyes still bright.
“You’re the worst,” you press your face into his shoulder and take a deep breath. Your hands find his sides, settling by his ribs and clinging to the fabric of his shirt.
Titus drags an open hand up and down your back in comforting circles.
“Come on, talk to me,” Titus says. “I’m right here.”
“I’m deciding if I should punch you in the face now or later,” you say into his shoulder.
“Wait until after lunch,” Titus says.
You smile against his shoulder. He feels it and pulls you to stand upright.
“I have thought a lot about it,” TItus says, expression contemplative. “You know there’s… familial expectations.”
“I do,” you nod.
“Does that scare you?” he asks.
“It is a lot of pressure,” you admit. “I know you want to make sure we maintain a long line of Danforths at the head of the council.”
Titus looks at the ceiling. “Yes,” he admits. “That is part of it.”
“What’s the other part?” you ask. Something, anything to get him to contribute his thoughts before you throw up.
“The other part is me imagining you barefoot and pregnant,” he looks at you adoringly. His thumbs move back and forth over your hips. “Seeing you be the incredible mom I know you would be.”
“You would be a good dad,” you say, resting your hand at the back of his neck.
“That’s sweet,” he deadpans. “But we know I wouldn’t win any awards.”
He looks away from you out the window at the trees moving in the breeze, biting the inside of his cheek.
“Hey,” you hold his jaw and bring his attention back to you. “You’ve been good to me. I’m sure you could…figure it out.”
The two of you look at each other for a moment, letting the words sit, before both of you let out a laugh.
“Okay, yeah maybe not the most encouraging thing I could have said,” you smile.
“It’s true, though,” Titus replies.
You press your forehead to his. Titus closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, his hands firm on your hips.
“I need to make sure you want this,” he says.
“Do I have a choice?” you whisper. You think about his obligations to the council. Your obligations to him. How little time you’ve had together so far.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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knight burlesque performance where he brings on a squire to help him take off each individual garment. the helmet stays on. squire is stone-faced and professional.
duo of knights doing a burlesque performance where they make (presumably) sensual eye contact while their respective squires help them take off their armour. the helmets stay on. the performance lasts twenty whole minutes. is this anything
The parking attendant paused by the double-length bay. Intended for mobile homes and cars with trailers, it was currently occupied by a sleeping dragon.
No parts of it extended beyond the lines, and the paper ticket was clearly displayed, impaled on a horn.
jack abbot who hates being alone with his thoughts so much he sleeps with the police scanner on, always crackling on his bedside table. that is until you started staying over at each others houses…
your friends would always joke that no man would ever share a bed with you because of your snoring, always waking them up on sleepovers or vacations with your raspy breaths.
so the first time jack slept over at your house you’d felt the need to shyly warn him that you do snore and for him to wake you up if it gets too loud. without his precious police scanner humming in the background jack wonders if he will ever fall asleep. but after you shut your eyes for a while jack feels his own eyelids start to get heavy. the hums and crackles of your breathing serving as a small reminder that jack isn’t alone right now. he didn’t wake you up. he wouldn’t dare. he started to synchronize his breathing with yours. even in the pitch dark of your room he likes that can hear you here with him.
he doesn’t even bother to use the police scanner on nights you don’t spend together, now opting for a recording he took of you, dead asleep, snoring away… his little white noise machine :)
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