X Reader Fic Recommendations

The sharp crack of your head against the ground feels like a strike of lightning splitting the back of your skull, and you can’t tell if it’s blood or sweat dripping down the back of your neck. The world becomes unfocused, pain diluting the sharpness of your vision to the point where everything is a fuzzy silhouette. It could be a concussion, or it could be blood loss from all the injuries you’ve sustained during this second round of fucked up hide and seek. If you made it out of this alive, it’s a game you’d never fucking play again. 

There’s a weight that settles on top of you, almost comforting in your daze. A strong pair of calloused hands caress your neck, but it’s a misconception, a mistake your brain makes in the midst of the blunt force trauma you’d suffered when your head had smacked against the cold hard ground. It’s not a gentle touch, it’s the weaving of fingers around your throat, constricting like a snake coiling around its prey, and your world suddenly snaps back into focus.

Titus is hovering above you, his knees bracketing your hips, and his pupils are blown wide in wild bloodlust, the onyx of them nearly eclipsing the sliver of hazel. The edge of his lips curl in a snarl, or maybe it’s amusement that bares his teeth when your eyes widen in panic and you start to squirm beneath him, clawing at his forearm and his chest despite how weak you should be by now. He likes that you’re a fighter. It makes this more interesting. More fun. 

“I told you it would be me that gets you.”

You can’t tell if it's the joints between his knuckles cracking or the vertebrae in your spine when he tightens his grip. Everything starts to get blurry again, the oxygen being denied to your brain combined with your head colliding against the ground causing the edges of your vision to shrink in a vignette like the ending of an old black and white sitcom. Your breathing feels like a futile attempt against the inevitable, a desperate gasping that doesn’t even begin to rival the heavy panting of the man above you, either in exertion or excitement, you’re not sure.

It can’t end like this. After everything you’ve endured, everything you’ve survived, it can’t fucking end like this.

“I can…gurantee…head council…seat.”

Titus doesn’t stop his efforts to strangle you, but he does lessen the pressure of his hands around your throat, just slightly enough to allow you to stay conscious. A dry chuckle escapes from him as he leans closer down towards you, his blood spackled face coming more clearly into view above you. His voice is raspy when it reaches your ears.

“In case you hadn’t noticed, sweetheart, I’m securing it myself.”

“And share…with your…sister?”

That gets his attention. Titus lessens his grip just enough to let you suck in a frantic gasp of air. His head tilts slightly to the side in what could be construed as curiosity, or maybe he’s taking a moment to enjoy this, the kill that single handedly secures his spot in the head seat of the council, taking his father’s recently vacated spot. A spot that should’ve already been his if it weren’t for the stupid fucking archaic rules. The seat he feels belongs to him, and him alone. Seizing the moment, you grip onto his forearm with the strength you have left, leaving crescent indents in his skin with your bloodied nails, your other hand grasping at the front of his sweat soaked shirt. Swallowing down the metallic tang of your own blood, your labored breathing carries your offer.

“That woman said there’s a loophole. A way you get the council seat, and I get to live.”

Titus lifts his chin subtly in defiance, arching one of his brows.

“The woman you killed.”

“I didn’t kill her-”

“You got her killed. Same thing.”

Titus regards you for a moment, his eyes wandering over your battered and bloodied body beneath him. Whether it’s morbid curiosity, or him reveling in giving you a sense of false hope, he indulges your ploy.

“Let me hear it. Give me your best elevator pitch, sweetheart. It’s gonna be your last.”

He’s enjoying this. There’s an unmistakable flicker of exhilaration in his eyes. Titus could’ve killed you at any point during the hunt, easily. He didn’t want to. He likes the chase. The thrill of it all. It’s more exciting to him than the reward of the kill. It’s why he’s entertaining your last ditch offer now.

“Marry me.”

That draws genuine surprise from Titus, his brows lifting considerably up his forehead, creating creases in his blood speckled skin. You don’t waste the moment. You grip tighter onto him, almost subconsciously pulling him in closer, keeping his attention focused on your body beneath him and not the prospect of your death granting him what he wants more than anything.

“If you marry me, you get the seat. You don't have to share.”

Titus seemed to consider this. The one thing that he wanted more than his father’s seat was to not have to share it with his sister. He hated that his father saw Ursula as more capable of carrying on the family legacy. He hated that she treated him like a child. Claiming the seat was more important to his pride than his loyalty to his family. 

“And you get to live.”

“It's a win-win.”

It was strange to not believe in any deities even though you'd seen a glimpse of one. Real evidence of something beyond human comprehension. But in that moment, you found yourself begging even Mr. Le Bail to convince Titus to accept your offer. If he refused, you had no other tricks up your bloodied and tattered sleeve. 

Titus narrowed his eyes, regarding you in a new light, weighing the payoff of the transaction. He didn't care if you lived or died. All that mattered was that the golden ring was on his finger.

“I don't think we’ll have time to catch a plane to Vegas.”

Titus looked down at you in wicked amusement, his lips stretching in something that was probably meant to be a form of a smile.

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

"Daddy!"

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

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

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

Ah gossip, the great equalizer.

"Wanted to see you."

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

"Oh yeah, where's—?"

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

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

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

"Skipped?" Brendon looks to you for confirmation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Just about to go in."

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

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

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

"No! I wanna stay with daddy."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But she doesn't care anymore.

"Okay! Bye dad."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hard.

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

At least it had been to him.

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

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

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

And that's when he'd found you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Brendon shrugs. "Just full of love."

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

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

"Eat, then shower?" he asks you.

"I'll take advantage then."

He nods. "Yours is still busted?"

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

"Damn plumbers."

"Indeed."

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smile dopily at him. "Goodnight Brendon."

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

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

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

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

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

Jesus fucking Christ.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Imagine her on her knees.

"Fuck no."

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

"Shut the fuck up."

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

"Go away."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A breath. A gasp. A moan.

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

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

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

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

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

A shiver passes through Brendon as realization hits.

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

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

Another moan from you. You're close.

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

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

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

Brendon's heart does a leap in his chest.

Oh my god.

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

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

Knocks.

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

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

"Are you okay?" he keeps poking.

You swallow thickly, shame mixing with terror.

"Mhmm."

"Can I come in?"

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

"Um...no?"

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

"Okay."

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

It's now or never.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I bet."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He shivers over you, his grip tightening on you.

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

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

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

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

"Unlike your vibrator?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Need your fingers," you pant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shiver against him, melting against his warmth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Daddy," you warn. "I'm gonna—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You're woken up by laughter.

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ready to go, guppy?"

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

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

"Thank you!"

"You're so welcome."

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

Later, he mouths. We'll talk.

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

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

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

Jesus fuck you have got to get it together.

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

Your name.

His address.

Your heart constricts, your throat tightens.

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

Rabid eyes scan the corporate jargon.

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

Sink or swim.

Reality pounding at the door of your carefully crafted fantasy.

It all crumbles instantly.

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

Him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You're late for pick up.

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

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

He texts, you ignore it.

The green light turns red after you cross—

And it all goes dark.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he's not here yet.

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

Logically, you know why.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Low and soft, pleading.

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

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

That gets a laugh out of you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What do you wanna do, baby?"

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

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

But all you find is patience, kindness, openness.

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

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

He hums in understanding, rolling closer to the bed.

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

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

"You don't want that?"

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

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

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

You nod, accepting the easy way out.

One step at a time.

You can live with that.

Recovery is...boring as all hell.

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

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

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

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

It's a Saturday when it happens.

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

It's his own damn fault honestly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck he's so beautiful like this.

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

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

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

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

Your head spins, heat blooms everywhere.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"We don't have to—"

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

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

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

You need this man inside of you right now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His thrusts pick up the pace in response.

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

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

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," you moan. "Please daddy—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Can we have ice cream for breakfast?"

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

Yeah, you're gonna be alright.

You’ve known Titus Danforth your whole life - you’ve loved him, you’ve loathed him, you’ve done everything in between. As one of the lesser Families, you weren’t subjected to quite the same rituals as him. Your family worked to serve the others. Do the grunt work, and be spared from the hunts and challenges.

Protection and networking with the most powerful people in the world.

Your parents hadn’t planned on you falling in love with the Danforth heir.

As teenagers, the Danforth twins sought you out, as one of the only other people their age at each boring dinner party. Ursula became a confidant, Titus a lover.

He was your first everything.

If it had been up to you, he would have been your only everything.

But the third daughter of a second-tier family was never going to cut it. Not when Titus stands to inherit everything once his father passes.

By your twenties, he’s actively seeing other people. In private, he insists that it’s all for show, to appease his father, but you’re not so sure. You’ve seen the paparazzi pictures - full of the most gorgeous women in the world hanging off of his arm each night.

It eats you alive.

Of course, you still come when he calls.

When he turns up on your door, bloodied and bruised from a tough hunt, you tend to his wounds and kiss it better. When he invites himself into your bed, you let him do it each and every time.

When he tries to teach you self-defence, you laugh in his face.

I don’t do hunts.

You might someday.

Your only shot of that happening would be if Titus marries you. An event which looks less and less likely with each passing day. Sure, Titus has never married - unusual for a Family member well into his thirties - but he’s also made no attempt to solidify whatever it is that he has with you.

Instead, he has rules.

If you won’t learn how to throw a punch, you have to know how to keep yourself safe in a world like this. Even knowing Titus puts you at more risk than most people.

And he’d never forgive himself if something happened to you.

*****

You think you’re making the biggest mistake of your life. Ankles crossed, you glance over at Tony, and try to tell yourself that you know him.

You’ve already been out on three dates, you’ve been in his apartment before, and you’ve seen his Instagram account.

He’s not a catfish.

And yet.

After meeting on Hinge and chatting for a few weeks, he’d taken you out for dinner, and things had looked hopeful. You were out to get over Titus once and for all, while he was ready to get back into dating after his divorce a few years back.

When Titus had asked who you were meeting that night, you’d told him it was a friend from college.

The lie tastes bitter in your mouth, but it’s a necessary evil. Titus always gets strange whenever another man is in your life. You didn’t see him for a whole year while you were dating your college boyfriend. Of course, he was on your doorstep the very night that you broke up.

Quite how he knew, you’ll never know.

You’re never going to build something new if he’s hovering over you at all times. Date two with Tony had been at some upscale bar - exactly the kind of place Titus would usually take you. You hate that it makes you like him more.

Date three felt more domestic: a quiet Italian spot downtown where he split his tiramisu with you and told you the truth about his marriage ending. They were on good terms, but after five years together, there was just no spark anymore.

No red flags.

No psychotic exes.

Just a lonely man, looking for companionship. The exact way you are.

"So," Tony had said, setting his wine glass down on the table. "For next time, I’m thinking hike. More of an activity - to see how we gel outside of the wining and dining.”

You’re a little surprised. Tony doesn’t seem like the hiking type. Maybe he’s just trying to appeal to your interests. “Yeah, that would be nice. Any thoughts on which one?”

“Ah, let me surprise you, okay? I know a great one quite nearby. Incredible sunsets.”

An instant alarm goes off in your head, ringing with Titus’s voice. Never let a guy you barely know take you to a second location, let alone isolated woods, without a pin dropped. Unfortunately, your most recent experience with Titus involved watching him stick his tongue down some model’s throat ‘for the sake of appearances’.

You haven’t spoken to him since, despite the many texts and voicemails left.

Titus doesn't get to dictate your safety metrics anymore - not when he’s the one who left you stranded in this emotional limbo.

Patience wearing ever thinner, you consider Tony’s words. “Not even a hint?”

“Wouldn’t that ruin the surprise?”

Over the next week, you tried in vain to get some more information out of him, to no avail. He wouldn’t even tell you what type of terrain it was likely to be.

Sneakers are fine, don’t overthink it.

He’s picking you up at 4:00 AM, so that by the time you drive out to the trail, the sun will be beginning to rise, and you can catch the views from the top.

In theory? Super romantic.

Titus only hikes if there’s the promise of murder at the end of it.

Tony has a normal-person job, and you’d be able to leave all the LeBail business behind you with him. Which is how you end up in his car when it’s still dark, trying to discern where he’s taking you. You’re pretty familiar with all the trails in the city’s vicinity, and this highway doesn’t lead towards any of them.

You’re trying to ignore the anxious buzzing in your stomach, making polite conversation until Tony asks, “So, did you tell anyone what you were doing today?”

An answer slips out before you can consider your words. “No.”

Shit. Why did you say that?

“Well, I mean-” You stall a little, unsure of what to say, but suddenly desperate to get out of the car. “Think we could stop for coffee on the way? My treat.”

“Nah,” He shrugs. “I’d rather just get there, if that’s okay - we still have a decent drive, and I don’t want to miss the sunrise.”

Your mind races through the geography of the area, desperate to find a logical explanation for this route. None exists. The highway is empty, swallowed by the thick fog of the pre-dawn hours, and his profile in the dim glow of the dashboard looks sharper and colder than it did over tiramisu.

"So," Tony says, his voice abruptly slicing through the quiet. The sudden shift in tone makes you jump. "You never finished telling me about that project at work. The one with the crazy deadlines?”

"Oh. Right," you lie, your throat dry. You force out a brief anecdote of your awful boss, leaving out how you’d rather be having your worst day at work than be here with him right now.

Five minutes tick by. The road narrows. The highway lines fade from bright white to a weathered, neglected yellow. Every instinct is screaming at you to do something. Anything - before it’s too late.

"Hey, Tony?" you say, keeping your voice light, aiming for casual but landing on brittle. "Actually, could we pull over at the next gas station? Or even just a rest stop? I really need to pee. Especially before we start a hike.”

Tony doesn't look at you. His grip on the steering wheel doesn't shift, his knuckles white against the dark leather.

"Nah, we're making great time right now," he says, a small, dismissive shrug of his shoulder accompanying the words. "There’s nothing out here for miles anyway. You can just do it when we get there. It won't be long.”

The dismissal hits you like a physical blow. You can do it when we get there.

You have to let someone know where you are. But who?

You’re not sure that any of your friends are even awake right now. Except…

Titus.

It always comes back to him. You weigh up your options - the smugness when he realises that he has to come and rescue you again. That he can mingle with movie stars and socialites, while the only men that are interested in you turn out to be losers and psychopaths.

When the alternative is death, the decision seems easy.

You slip your phone out of your pocket, and click on Titus’ number. You don’t even tell Tony you’re making a call.

Come on, you think. Please pick up. Please still be awake.

Please please please please please please-

“Hello?”

His voice is groggy and tinged with sleep, and the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard.

“Mom!” You say immediately, barely sparing a glance at Tony. You’ve already decided that if Tony is as dangerous as you worry he might be, then phoning another man is not a good idea. “I’m so sorry to call so early, but I saw that you’d called last night.”

“What? It’s Titus, kid. Is everything okay?”

Your heart is thumping against your chest as you will him to catch on. “I know! It’s been too long - but I’m looking forward to seeing you tonight. Just thought I should tell you that Dad’s gift is ready to be picked up. I was thinking maybe you could get it, since I’m hiking today.”

There’s a moment of dead air on the line, and for one agonising second you worry that he’s hung up, or you’ve lost signal. You stare straight out the windshield, watching the headlights cut through the pitch-black void, praying that the sharp, calculating mind that makes Titus so formidable in the LeBail circle is firing through his sleep-deprived haze.

"Hiking," Titus repeats. The grogginess vanishes instantly, replaced by a cold, razor-sharp focus. His tone drops an octave, all business now. "Where exactly are you?"

"Exactly! The weather is supposed to be beautiful," you say, your voice bright, breezy, and entirely unhinged from the terror clawing at your throat. You slide your thumb down the side of the phone, blindly feeling for the volume buttons, desperately trying to click them down so Tony can't catch the low rumble of a man's voice.

"Give me a location," Titus commands. His voice is low, but you can hear the rustle of sheets, the sudden shift of weight as he swings his legs out of bed. "Drop a pin right now if you can. What road are you on?”

“The cell service isn’t great out here, Mom,” You reply, continuing to smile even though your cheeks ache from the effort. “But I’ll try and send some photos! We’re headed east, so I think the views are going to be really great.”

"I can't track your signal," Titus says, his voice cutting through with an urgency that scares you. "The connection is degrading. It's dropping to a single bar. I need landmarks, or you need to get out of-”

“Is everything okay?” Tony interrupts, and you flinch slightly.

“Fine,” You chirp. “Sorry - it’s my dad’s retirement party tonight, and I just needed to tell my mom to go grab his gift.” Turning your attention back to the phone, you swallow. “Gotta go, mom - I’ll call you later? Bye, love you!”

Titus’ voice comes immediately. “Don’t hang up the phone-”

You don’t. Instead, you drop it to your lap, with the screen turned inwards so that Tony can’t see. “Sorry about that.”

Tony’s foot hits the brake, and the sudden deceleration jerks you forward. The car swerves right, leaving the asphalt of the highway behind, replaced by an uneven dirt trail.

"Wow, it’s really dense out here," you say, forcing your voice to stay loud and clear for Titus. "It looks so dark under all these massive oak trees. And that dried-up creek bed back there - is that part of the state park border, or are we on private property now?”

“I own this land with a couple of buddies - that’s why it was such a surprise. Nobody else gets to use these trails, so we’ll have the place to ourselves.”

Great. Your heart sinks a little further.

The car crawls forward another hundred yards before the headlights illuminate a heavy, rusted iron gate blocking the road. A thick chain and a massive padlock hold it shut.

Tony cuts the engine. “Just gotta unlock it.”

He pops the door open, and you consider your chances of making it if you start running now. Probably not great. Through the windshield, you watch his silhouette move into the beam of the headlights, his hands working at the heavy chain.

You whip the phone out of your pocket, bringing up the screen to check the call status, ready to scream a real landmark to Titus.

No signal.

Call failed.

You think you might cry.

All you can do is pray that Titus has enough information to find you. Nails digging into your palms, you force another smile at Tony, as he drives you further into the woods.

After what feels like a lifetime, he pulls into an opening, and you immediately start cataloguing all the information you can.

There’s another truck down at the end - hopefully a vehicle they leave here. Because if it’s not, you potentially have another assailant to deal with. The ground is a pale, hard-packed dirt ringed by towering, skeletal trees that completely shut out the sky. Dead leaves carpet the edges, and directly in the centre of the clearing sits a massive, looming stack of logs. They’re piled easily ten feet high - thick, weathered trunks of pine and oak, rough bark peeling away.

“You bring all the girls up here?” You joke feebly.

“Only the really pretty ones.” He offers a small, boyish grin that, just yesterday, you would have found endearing.

Getting out of the car, you note the direction of the highway. It’s past about fifty metres of woodland, but you hope you could make it in a sprint. Maybe if you catch Tony off-guard. “How long do you think the hike will take?”

“Maybe an hour? Hard to say - but we shouldn’t rush.”

Terrifyingly, the cold Tony of the car ride is gone, and he’s back to date one Anthony. Maybe the LeBail paranoia has finally eroded your sanity, twisting a sweet, outdoor surprise into a psychological thriller. Maybe he really is just a corporate guy who wants to show you a sunrise. Maybe you’ve been mis-reading it all, and actually-

Out of the corner of your eye, peaking out from under the logs, sits a shoe. A New Balance trainer, pale pink, and far too small to be a man’s.

The illusion of Date-One Anthony shatters into a thousand jagged, lethal pieces. The normal job, the Hinge profile, the vulnerable story about his divorce - it was all bait.

"Hey," Tony says, the heavy thud of his car trunk snapping shut behind you. You hear his footsteps crunching on the gravel, moving steadily closer to your back. "I grabbed the backpack. You ready to head down the trail?”

If you were to run now, he would undoubtedly catch you. He’s taller, stronger, and far more familiar with this place than you are. Your only option now is to bide your time. “Shall we take a pre-hike selfie? Compare it to the top?”

Your camera is open already, and you snap a few blurry shots of him. If you don’t make it out of this, at least your evidence might stop it happening to other girls.

“Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary,” He laughs. “We can just do one at the top Ladies first.”

He gestures down the trail, and you have to fight back a wave of nausea. This is it. You’re going to die, all because you wanted to get back at Titus for seeing other women.

What a silly thing to lose your life over.

You’re hyper-aware of each and every footstep, checking for service at every possible second. Still nothing. “I’m actually kind of tired,” You try, one last time. “Didn’t sleep too well-”

“We’re here now.” Tony’s tone invites no conversation.

You turn to keep an eye on the trail behind you, pretending to adjust the collar of your jacket, and the air leaves your lungs completely.

A shadow is moving through the trees. It isn't an animal. It’s a man, wearing a dark canvas jacket, stepping silently off the main dirt track and into the brush, mirroring your pace. The driver of the mud-caked truck.

You have to get out of here. Now.

Biding your time is no longer an option. If you walk any deeper into these woods, you will be sandwiched between them, entirely cut off from the fifty meters of woodland that separates you from the highway.

You don't say another word. You don't make an excuse. You think you might die if you do.

Instead, you pivot on your heel and break into a blind, desperate sprint toward the direction of the highway.

"Whoa, hey! Where are you going?" he calls out, his tone mimicking normal, polite confusion for a split second. But as the distance between you grows, the fake concern twists into a venomous, roaring rage. "Hey! Stop! Get back here!”

You don't look back.

"Marcus!" Tony screams, his heavy footsteps crashing through the brush behind you, terrifyingly fast. "Marcus, she's running! Cut her off! Grab the bitch! I fucking told you she knew something!”

Your lungs burn like hot ash as you charge through the final thicket of briars. The trees begin to thin, and through the tangled branches, you finally see it: the steep, gravel embankment leading up to the highway. You know you only have one shot to get up. Tony is hot on your heels, and any mistakes will mean that you’re not making it out of these woods.

You throw your weight forward, scrambling on all fours, your fingers clawing at the gravel to pull yourself up.

"Get back here!" Tony’s voice is a guttural roar directly behind you.

Just as your hands find the flat edge of the highway shoulder, a hand wraps around your ankle, tugging harshly. His nails dig sharply into your skin, pinning you to the dirt. The sheer terror infuses your muscles with a sudden, feral strength. You twist your body, kicking backward with your free right heel as hard as you can. Your shoe connects squarely with something solid - maybe his nose, maybe his jaw, you don't care.

He grunts, his grip slipping just enough. You wrench your ankle free, scrambling the last two feet over the lip of the embankment and onto the cold, hard pavement of the highway.

You stumble to your feet, spinning around. Tony is already rising over the crest of the hill, his eyes wild, sweat slicking his hair, Marcus just a few paces behind him in the shadows of the treeline. You are trapped on an empty road with nowhere left to run.

And then, a light.

From around the corner, a car appears. It blinds you, but you know that if you can’t get this person to stop, there is no doubt in your mind that Tony and his friend are going to drag you back into the foliage and kill you.

You don’t realise that it’s a Danforth sedan until it screeches to a halt a few feet away, door swinging open immediately.

The moment Titus leaps out of the car, the adrenaline that was keeping your legs moving completely evaporates. Your knees buckle, and you burst into heavy, violent tears, the raw sobbing racking your entire body as the pure terror of the last hour finally crashes down on you.

"Titus, oh my god-"

He closes the distance between you in two long strides, his powerful arms wrapping around you, pulling you tightly against his chest. He holds you with a crushing, protective grip, one hand cupping the back of your head, pressing you into his shoulder.

"I've got you," He mutters, his voice a low, vibrating rumble against your ear, thick with what might be worry? You’re not sure you’ve ever seen Titus worried before, even after twenty-five years of friendship. "I've got you, sweetheart. You're safe."

Safe.

You blink through your tears, looking over his shoulder toward the edge of the embankment where Tony had been standing just a second ago.

The shoulder is empty.

They're gone.

It should fill you with relief, but all you can feel is a complete and utter dread. They're still out there.

mhmmmmm part two perhaps with some smut and titus dealing with tony and marcus?

His pale eyes follow the line of your throat until it disappears into the collar of your gown, dipping low enough for him to see the shadow of your breasts just before you rise to full height above him. You hold the draping sleeve with your free hand and shake your other free from the warm water clinging to your skin.

“Lay out my tiles for me, will you?”

Daeron smiles from his spot on the cushioned chaise by the hearth. The rays of morning light streaming in through the narrow windows catch in his auburn hair, turning them to flames of orange. “As long as you promise not to cheat this time,” the boy jokes drily, already sorting the carved bone tiles on the low table just ahead of him. 

“Winning is not cheating, little prince,” you quip with an arched brow, crossing the distance to join him by the fire. “There is a difference—”

“And you’d do well not to accuse the lady of cheating again,” Ormund cuts in without glancing up from his parchment and quill. “It isn’t polite.”

“Yes, uncle,” Daeron nods once with the smile long gone from his face, suddenly as solemn as a septon.

You glance at Ormund over your shoulder, eyes sparkling with amusement. “It was only in jest, my lord. The little prince meant no harm, I’m sure—”

A sharp knock sounds at the door before you’ve settled by the hearth; three sharp raps in a brisk and dutiful rhythm. “Come,” Ormund calls out, still half-lost in his correspondences. The old oak door groans open a second later. A steward announces from the doorway: “My Lord. Lord and Lady Footly, requesting audience.”

Ormund’s jaw grinds with a preemptive annoyance, though he sets his letters aside on the bathing tray as the lords of Tumbleton enter — Lord Footly first, narrow-shouldered and twitching with the particular anxiety of a man about to recite a complaint his wife had sent him in to tell. Lady Footly comes a pace behind, spine straighter than a spear-shaft beneath her heavy yellow dress. She sneers when her eyes find yours, narrow features twisting at the sight of you in her home, which by any right or blood should never be yours.

“My lord,” Lord Footly begins, voice thinner than paper as he wrings his hands together. Sweat beads on his long forehead, rolling down from his woolen chaperon. “We come regarding our lodging situation. Your men have taken the hall, the granary, all but one of our guest chambers—”

“Yes,” Ormund huffs with a slow nod, growing quickly weary in his patience. “I’ve heard that you are unhappy with your lodging.”

“’Tis only that we are very fond of our ancestral home—”

“You are sleeping in our bedchamber,” Lady Footly interjects, far harsher than her husband by a mile. Her gaze cuts towards you then, like a drawn sword. “And your priestess— or whatever lie you’ve taken to calling her— has filled my mother’s chambers with her… things. Her vials, her herbs, her— poisons. And I will not have my family sleep beneath the same roof as some witch.” 

Her words suck all the air out of the room, or seem to, rather. The humidity rising from the scalding bath feels borderline suffocating in an instant. The sounds of trickling water fill the heavy silence as Ormund rises from the bath without a word. 

Silken rivulets cascade down his muscular form — from his broad shoulders, to his chest, and down his lean stomach — where a line of coarse brunette hair leads to his cock, hanging heavy and limp at his left thigh.

He stands in the center of the tub, dripping and undressed, too angry to care about his own modesty. Lord and Lady Footly fight to avert their gazes without appearing weak.

“That… witch,” Ormund spits through a clenched jaw, as if the word itself were some grave insult. “Is not a guest in this house you are simply meant to tolerate, my lady.” 

Water pools on the cold cobblestone at his bare feet when he steps out of the tub, unbothered by his own nakedness, and refusing to look away from either of them. 

“She is under my protection, as I am under hers— and there is no line I can find between an insult to her and an insult to me. And I would remind you both that I have executed men for lesser treasons than what’s just uttered in this room,” he continues in a low, melodic voice, reaching for the towel hanging beside the tub and smoothing the rough nettles over his glistening skin. “So consider it a mercy that I choose to remember that you are only frightened, and not that you are traitors— That’s why you bent the knee to Rhaenyra, was it not? Because you were scared?”

The silence that follows feels like a thing with teeth, gnawing desperately at the ankles.

“My lord, we meant no—”

“I understand the situation is… less than ideal. For us all, no doubt,” Ormund interjects, though a lighter air has returned to him now. “I assure you that I will keep my men on their best behavior… So long as you remain on yours.” He goes cold again, dismissive in an instant. “See them back to their new chambers, will you, nephew?”

Dareon rises at once, dutiful and only slightly fearful. He escorts them back to their rooms despite the quiet “don’t” that Lady Footly spits at the young prince when he attempts to lead her by the arm. The woman does not glance at you again on her way out, which you see as its own kind of quiet concession.

Your slippers pad along the cobbles as you walk back towards the bath. You pluck the robe from its hook and drape the silken, emerald fabric over Ormund’s broad shoulders, walking in front of him to draw it closed over his chest. His eyes follow your hands the whole while. His chest heaves the remnants of his rage. 

He clears his throat, words softer now, “I apologize, my lady—”

“Have you done something, my lord?”

“She shouldn’t have spoken that way— not of you, not ever,” he stammers. His Adam’s apple bobs in his long throat as he swallows. His fingers twitch anxiously at his side. “Perhaps I ought to punish her. Cut her tongue from her mouth and then geld her husband for allowing his wife to say such things.”

“You were gracious to them, Ormund, as you have always been,” you coo with a tender smile, smoothing the robe flat over his damp collarbone. You think you can feel the thunder of his racing pulse beneath your palm; the heartbeat of a warhorse after a charge. “You said it yourself— they are only frightened. Most people are, of the things they do not understand. It costs her nothing to sneer at me from her doorway. But it will cost her a great deal more to watch the prophecy prove itself true, and to know that she mocked it to my face.”

He eases a little at that, broad shoulders loosening beneath his robe. His breath catches a moment later when your hands dip between your bodies to tie the waist of his robe. His chest tightens, strangled by a heat he can feel crawling up his neck and into his jaw when he feels his cock twitching — with all the helplessness of a teenage boy only just learning the touch of a woman, utterly reeling by the proximity of your hands alone.

You glance down at his lap, and then back up at him, mouth curling with a poorly concealed amusement. “Shall I have some cubes from the icehouse sent up for your bath, my lord?” you wonder with a feigned sincerity. “For your… situation?”

Ormund glows as red as the flame of the Oldtown hightower. “…No,” he chokes out before clearing his throat. “No, my lady. I— I believe I'll manage.”

The solar, which had once belonged to Lady Footly’s mother, now smells of crushed anise and tea leaves — of willow bark, tallow, and smoky embers from a crackling fire. Jars and vials line the shelves where needlework once sat; the glass catches the low firelight in shades of crimson, emerald green, and ocean blue. A pestle sits half-buried in scarlet powder on the worktable, and just beside it, a small iron pot bubbles over burning coals. The steam climbs in slow silver ribbons towards the rafters.

You flit between the two — pot and pestle, stirring and milling — with an ease that suggests you’ve done this a thousand times before, and would likely do it a thousand times again. A knock comes at the door as you crush a handful of spice into the boiling water. The sound is much too gentle to belong to a knight’s hand.

“Come in, Prince Daeron,” you call into the quiet.

The door eases open a moment later. The boy slips in with his head bowed, half in respect and half in his own innate shyness. “How did you know it was me?” he wonders aloud, brows lowered in a boyish look of confusion.

“Well, that is sort of my specialty, is it not?” you hum with a smile and a lazy shrug. “I make potions, and I know things.”

“Is that what you’re making now?” the boy asks, nodding his head to the boiling pot you stand in front of. “Potions?”

“This— is only tea.” You scoop your pointer finger into the simmering liquid without flinching, testing the bittersweetness on your tongue. “It’s ginger and willow bark. For the peasant’s wife whose arm was broken by Ser Garrick. It’s meant to help with the pain. But this…” You trail off and walk to the opposite end of the worktable for the bowl and pestle. You grind the scarlet bits into a finer powder with a few expert turns of your wrist. “This is for the Lady Kat. The woman he attacked. Or tried to.”

“…Is she a lady?” Daeron presses and inches further.

“Well, her husband is a dragonrider for Rhaenyra, so she might as well be,” you sigh, swiping your palms together to rid them of the last of the powder. “He’s surely a knight now, no doubt— or a slave, depending on how you look at it…”

Daeron leans over the other side of the table, peering down into the bowl of foreign grains with a childlike curiosity.

“Best not to get too close, little prince,” you tell him, firm but not unkind. “This could knock even the strongest of knights on his back, should he breathe too deeply of it. I'll have it bagged and sent to Lady Kat at once— so she need never fear another Ser Garrick crossing her threshold again."

Daeron nods slowly to himself in admiration. He knew long before Tumbleton that you were both the strangest and kindest person he’d ever met. His uncle was kind, too, in his own way — but he had a temper that could change quickly and with very little warning. You were gentler than that, strong without having to raise your voice to proclaim it. The kind of gentle that makes tea and poison to protect peasant women you’d never met before, as if it were something you took to by instinct alone.

You notice a pensive sort of look etching in his rounded features before he’s said another word. “Is something troubling you, little prince?” you ask him, wiping your hands off on a cloth as you round the table towards him. 

“I watched,” Daeron starts quietly, emerald eyes dropping to the cobbles. “Ser Garrick’s punishment, I mean— my uncle had him gelded for what he did, and he wanted me there for it. I didn’t want to watch it but… I couldn’t look away, in the end.” 

“Well, that’s only natural,” you assure him. The casual air in your voice eases the furrow from his brow. “Not being able to look away, I mean. Morbid curiosity is stitched into all of us— witnessing that sort of harm is often the only way we can safely face our own fears. Of death, or injury, or misfortune… You're not bad for watching it, Daeron. You're only human."

“What if I couldn’t do the same? If I were in my uncle’s place?” he presses then, voice smaller now. “Would that make me bad?” 

He says the words as if they’d been sitting on his tongue for some time — words he would not dare ask his uncle, whose love for him was absolute, but came with an edge even still. There are no edges to measure with you, he finds, so he speaks freely when the two of you are alone accordingly. You know this, too; so you take the boy’s round face in your palms and tilt it gently upwards.

“You could do the same,” you tell him, with a mother’s firm warmth, though you were not one yourself. “Not the gelding, perhaps, but the choosing. Because you are good, little prince— and sometimes goodness means refusing to let cruelty go unpunished. The gods do not ask us to enjoy it; only to be capable of it, when the hour comes."

Daeron's round eyes dart between both of yours, searching in your gaze the way children search in their parents’ — for permission, for certainty, for a safe place to land. “So you’re saying that… the hour will come for me someday?”

“It comes for every prince who lives long enough," you nod, brushing the pad of your thumb along his freckled cheekbone. “But not today. Today you are only meant to watch. And remember. And grow into a man who can someday bear it."

Daeron’s mouth parts to respond. 

The door slams open before he can. 

Ormund storms through the threshold like a sky of dark-black storm clouds blowing in — shoulders rigid, jaw tight, eyes glassy with a withheld fury. A folded letter is crushed beneath the firm grip of his left hand, while his right opens and closes in a fidgeting fist.

You feel Daeron tense beneath your palms accordingly.

“Best leave now, little prince," you murmur to him. 

The boy nods and slips free of the room’s growing tension, casting one anxious glance at his uncle before shutting the heavy door behind him.

You watch from your worktable as Ormund crosses the expansive room in long, swift strides. A growl builds low in his throat before breaking finally free as he hurls the crumpled letter at the wall. “Useless craven!” His shout rings through the room. He swipes his forearm across the table in the same breath — a vase, a candle dish, an inkpot, and miscellaneous slips of parchment, all shatter against the cobbles in a bright, violent cascade.

“Coward— Cunt!”  He unsheathes his sword from its hilt. The scrape of the steel hisses loudly in the quiet room. He drives the blade into the edge of the great oak desk until the wood splinters from the grain. He bellows through each blow. “Cunt! Cunt! Cuuunt!” 

You watch wordlessly from afar, letting the storm pass on its own. Ormund’s chest heaves beneath with each wavering breath he fights to take through his nose. His sword hangs limp in his trembling hand. He closes his eyes and tilts his head back, struggling to ground himself again. 

You say nothing as you walk to his side, lingering at his shoulder and grazing your knuckles along the warm tendon of his neck — from his jaw to his collar and back again. You can feel his pulse hammering beneath the burning skin. Ormund exhales evenly through his nose, leaning instinctively into your featherlight touch. 

Only when his breaths come easier to him do you ask, “What’s happened, my lord?”

It takes him a long moment to find the words, longer to find the evenness in his voice. “My cousin has sent word from Harrenhal…” he says finally, slightly hoarse from his yelling, and sheathes his sword with a steadier hand. “It seems Daeron’s brother, Aemond, will not be joining us after all.”

“So Gwayne is coming in his stead?” you press lightly, splaying your fingers along the back of his neck, where his dark-auburn curls coil at the nape of it. “I’m sure Daeron will be glad to hear it, at least.”

“Yes. My cousin. Who I’d wager has never held a blade with intent in his life,” Ormund nods with a humorless laugh, though a palpable rage simmers behind the smile he gives. “We’re meant to rely on him for protection, in place of the biggest dragon known to man.” 

You can feel the fury radiating off of him still, like heat waves glimmering off a flame. The raging coils tight beneath his skin; you can feel it humming like a plucked bowstring under your fingertips. You know this feeling in him well — you’ve tasted it before, took doses of his rage like medicine. Tonight it was a wellspring, sweet and plentiful and begging for somewhere to go.

“Give it to me,” you blurt suddenly.

Ormund blinks down at you, brows lowered in confusion, chest still rising too fast.

“Give it to me. All of it," you repeat, firmer this time. Your hand slips from his neck, down his taut shoulders, and over his chest. Your palm rests flat over his quilted doublet, over the furious drum of his heart. “Your anger. Give it to me. Let me take it from you— make something stronger out of it.”

Your fingers curl in his collar, drawing him closer towards you. You peer up at him from beneath your lashes, and he finds something dark swimming in your pleading gaze.

“Take it out on me,” you beg him, desperate in a way he hasn’t seen you before. “I can take it. I was made to take it."

Ormund watches with a lidded gaze as you plant yourself on the table ahead of him, right over the splintered gouge where his sword had shattered the wood. You lift your velvet dress skirts without once breaking his eye, unbothered by the wreckage of his previous outburst surrounding you. When the fabric is bunched high at your thighs, you spread them for him and rest back on your palms.

Ormund’s fingers twitch at his side in distant disbelief at your offering — at the sight of you laid open before him — at you. You watch the hesitation crumble his features; the way his adam’s apple bobs in his throat; the way his hands curl and uncurl into unsure fists.

The softness slips from your face all at once.

“Why are you holding back?” you ask, voice now stripped of everything gentle it carried moments ago. You tilt your head to your shoulder, studying him with a surgical precision — wondering which part of him to cut open first. Each word leaves your mouth like a sharp-edged blade tracing along the skin. “I know you hate that you couldn’t stop it— Your own knights, turning on the smallfolk you swore to protect.”

Ormund’s brows lower in confusion. “…What?”

“You watched them snap Ser Garrick’s arm and then strip him of his clothes to geld him for his sin,” you continue. “And you felt nothing but relief that it was done. That for one moment, you were in control of something… Say it.”

Ormund’s jaw clenches tight. He shakes his head to himself, mouth twitching. “Stop.” 

“And all of it for naught…” you shrug, rising onto your palms. “Because you have no Aemond, no Vhagar— Nothing more than your cousin’s scraps. And now you must pretend like your plan isn’t unraveling by the second. Say it.”

A mixture of offense and fury twist across his face; one entirely indistinguishable from the other. His squinted eyes dart between yours, searching for the trickery in your gaze — for the mercy.

“Why are you doing this?” he asks, voice cracking like a boy’s instead of a knight’s.

“Daeron is your only hope now— your only defense against Rhaenyra, should her dragons come— and you cannot stand it,” you press, leaning forward still, moving your body in a slow and deliberate provocation. “You raised that boy, and still some part of you hates him. Every time he speaks, you hear his father’s voice living inside him, and you want so desperately to beat him for it. Beat all that kindness out of him until he’s just flesh you can control—”

“Stop it!” 

The shout tears suddenly from his throat. His hand shoots out before reasoning can catch it ringed fingers close firmly around your throat with a primal sort of instinct. He can feel you, even now, flitting through his every thought like pages of a book. It terrifies him more than any battlefield ever has.

“—It’s why you’ve got that man in chains down there, isn’t it?” you continue through what little breath remains, smiling when Ormund’s features twist in shock at how you could know such a thing. “You want Daeron to be the one to kill him. You want to ruin that gentle boy just as much as prove to yourself that he’s more yours than Targaryen—”

“Enough,” Ormund spits through gritted teeth.

You smile wider when his fingers clench tighter around your throat, testing the give of you there. He finds none. You lift your hands and curl them around his wrist instead — neither pushing nor pulling him away, just holding him there.

“There it is,” you choke out with all the pride a woman who’s just gotten precisely what she asked for — a kitten to milk. “All that hatred. All of it. Give it to me.”

Something dark flashes across his face like lightning. He draws you in by the hand wrapped around your throat before you can blink, kissing you like he means to swallow you whole. It’s all tongue and teeth and spit — his nose smushes into the side of yours as he licks into your mouth with a ruthless abandon. The pad of his tongue feels like velvet against yours, tasting of bitter ale and sweet oranges.

You sigh hard through your nose at the distant burning in your throat from where his fingers hold you in an unrelenting grip — no longer choking you now, but making your head go heavy with a dizzy sort of feeling. You vaguely feel him shift before you, as he works his swordbelt off with his free hand to push his trousers down to his scruffy thighs. 

You don’t see his cock before he pierces you with it, and there is no gentleness in him when he splits you open, though you ask him for none. A pained noise sounds in your throat at the distant burning feeling when he enters you with little warning; a rush of breath mixed with a whimper that makes Ormund falter for a moment.

You shake your head, stern again, when you catch the hesitation that threatens to return to him. “Don’t stop,” you command.

Ormund fights his every instinct to be gentle with you when he urges you flat against the oak table with the hand around your neck. His other grips the back of your thigh to keep you spread open for him as he thrusts hard enough into you to make the desk scrape against the hard stone beneath you, adding to the symphony of sin — to the sound of skin clapping against skin, to the wet sounds of him piercing you, and to the strangled grunts from the back of his throat as he chases his orgasm.

“Yes…” you sigh in contentment as the coarse thatch of hair above his cock rubs mercilessly against your clit. You hold him by the wrist to keep him close and praise him in breathless rambles. “Give it to me, my lord— I can take it— I was made for this, made for you—”

The words spill from your mouth with a calculated provocation, like you know all the right things to say to make him tick. Ormund can hear the lazy smile in your voice as you continue to babble; his chiseled features crumble under the weight of his pleasure, eyes squeezing shut in time with the pressure building in his taut stomach.

“You’re close… I can feel it,” you say between whimpered breaths, head tipping back against the table. Your grip on his wrist tightens. Your thighs tremble around either side of his waist as your own pleasure crescendos. “I want it— I want to make you feel good, my lord— I want to feel you leaking out of me—

“Fuck!” Ormund groans as he tenses suddenly above you. The sound turns into a quiet whimper when his cock begins to jerk violently within your unforgiving confines. “F-Fuck—”

His bruised hold on you loosens when he doubles suddenly on top of you. He braces himself on your hips instead, gripping you tightly there to keep you in place while he spits ropes of cum inside you. Your cunt pulses around him, threatening to suckle him in further. 

He buries his pathetic whines in your neck and trembles through every wave of his orgasm, while your hips buck with the start of yours. You moan in his ear, fingers twisting in his wild curls — spurred on by the pressure on your sensitive clit, and by his warm seed blooming slowly inside of you.

“There it is…” you coo to him as you come down, feeling his tense body slowly relax on top of yours. “There you go, my lord… Yes… Let me have it…”

It takes Ormund a few moments more to sober from his pleasure. Dread settles like steel in his veins a second later; he smears his mouth over your throat, kissing you where his fingers had once dug into the delicate skin. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs against your pulse. “I’m sorry, my love—”

You shake your head, still catching your breath. “You did nothing wrong, my lord.”

“I hurt you,” he chokes out, half-muffled.

“I wanted it,” you remind him, urging him off of your neck with your hands in his hair. His face is flushed pink and screwed with a mixture of pleasure and regret. Your lips curl into a slow smile up at him. “I wanted to make you feel good. You deserve to feel good.”

His chest swells with a foreign emotion that makes him suddenly feel like crying. He presses a searing kiss to your mouth instead. “Thank you,” he mutters against you. “Thank you…”

𝘓𝘢 𝘢𝘮𝘰... Copia thought to himself as he fondly observed the sight before him, framed by the paned glass door leading to the balcony: his little one bouncing on your hip as you cooed at him, trying to get the bambino back to sleep. The antipope had returned home late from the ministry offices, as he often did, entering his suite completely exhausted, kicking off his shoes to let his aching feet relax, perking back up a bit upon laying eyes on you.

Eyes glossed over as a cheery little smile came to his face, he simply watches as you saunter back and forth, his progeny lulling back to sleep in your arms. Before he even realizes, his sore feet carry him right out to the balcony, making his presence known.

"Oh! Good evening, Papa!" you whisper, not wanting to rouse the little one.

"No need for such formalities, 𝘚𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘢..." he mocks you with a wink.

A faint blush colors your cheeks; always so charismatic, even when he's as tired as he looks. Luckily before you can put more thought into it, baby Giovanni stirs a little, sitting back up and eyes popping open.

"Sh, sh, shhh..." you hum pressing a kiss to his little head.

"D-deh..." he whines reaching out towards Copia.

Letting out a little shocked gasp, you feign, "Who's that? Who is he, huh? Is that Daddy?"

With the sweetest giggle, the little one exclaims for his Da-da, reaching out again.

Copia swoops right over, playfully bending down to smooch his only son, getting a bit of black face paint on the soft fuzz of the little one's head. "Whoopsies, we'll have to wash you up, piccolino," he runs a finger delicately over his little cheek.

As Copia stands up straight again, and his baby stretches right back out for him.

"I think someone wants Daddy, yeah?" you try to urge your boss to take the bundle in your arms.

Instead, he does the unexpected. Wrapping an arm around the small of your back, he pulls you flush to him, cocooning his son between you. You and Copia both have an arm supporting the baby, as he holds you both close to him.

"Someone wants Daddy, sì?" he asks, and you're not sure if that was for you or Gio. Either way, it draws another blush to your cheeks.

Copia looks you over, eyes softening now that his little one is safe between you. In your avoidance of eye contact, you didn't see him lean in, only feeling his lips press softly to your forehead; surely you would have a mark as his child did. The softest gasp escapes you; it isn't lost on you that things had not been well for some time between him and his Prime Mover...

Maybe you were reading too much into it. Perhaps he was just being affectionate. You knew he could be handsy, and he'd had a long day; he was probably just seeking a moment of comfort before bed.

"Let's go put him down for the night, eh?" Copia motions to his baby boy.

You were so lost in thought, you hadn't even noticed he drifted back off. Snapping back into action to take him to bed, Copia stops you, scooping the bundle from your arms, giving you a warm smile as he disappears back inside to the nursery connected to his bedroom. You trail behind the man to make sure he won't need help with anything.

Laying the little one in his basinet, Copia offers him one last goodnight kiss and jokingly promises not to disturb him again. The man turns to see you standing in the doorway, illuminated by the soft glow of the night light in the room.

"I should retire to bed before he wakes again in a few hours," you dutifully remark, eyes cast down and thumbs twirling together.

Gloved fingers brush your hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear, "It's a blessing having you here." Softly he cups your jaw, while his other hand grips your waist, effectively pinning you to the door frame. "May I kiss you, cara mia?"

Wide eyed, you stare up at him as about a million thoughts race through your mind. 𝘞𝘩𝘰 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘬𝘪𝘴𝘴 𝘗𝘢𝘱𝘢? 𝘓𝘦𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘬𝘪𝘴𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶... 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘦'𝘴 𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳. 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘗𝘳𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘔𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳? 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬? 𝘐 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯... 𝘴𝘩𝘦'𝘴 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘰𝘮𝘦, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘴, 𝘴𝘩𝘦'𝘴 𝘵𝘺𝘱𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘥𝘳𝘶𝘯𝘬. 𝘞𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘻𝘦? 𝘉𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘴, 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘤𝘩𝘶𝘳𝘤𝘩 𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘶𝘪𝘭𝘵 𝘰𝘯 𝘴𝘪𝘯...

Copia inhales and starts to straighten up, "It's quite alright if you don't want to, cara. I do apologize if I made you uncomf-"

Snapping out of your thoughts, your arms snake around his neck and your lips crash into his. Immediately, his hands cradle the back of your head and your waist, keeping you flush against him. The way his mouth moves against yours is sinful to say the least; he's quick to use his tongue, tracing it across your bottom lip before giving it a quick nip with his teeth. It was masterful really.

Within seconds, your mouth was giving him access, his tongue desperately wanting to meet yours, which drew a small whimper from you. While he moved excitedly within your mouth, you were more hesitant. Stupid as it may sound, you weren't sure you wanted to tempt him more; you had already totally crossed the line and disrespected your Prime Mover.

You know Copia isn't the kind to cheat, but he's been so miserable lately, always arguing with her, only for her not to remember a thing because she's so intoxicated. She was always out at parties and hardly ever home, and when she was in his suites, she was practically out of her mind. He's been trying so hard to get her the help she needs, but she won't take it. She likes the money, the power, the drink and drugs her position can afford her more than the life she's made here in the Abbey. It's sad really, especially with the baby involved.

The heat of the kiss had simmered down a lot and Papa slowly pulls away from you, searching your eyes for what went wrong. "I'm sorry, Papa, I shouldn't have- It was completely inappropriate of me to-" You try to pull away from him, but you only manage to slide your hands down to his chest before his grip on you returns, holding you close.

He swiftly pulls you outside the child's nursery and lightly clicks the door shut, so as not to disturb him.

"Papa, I'm- I'm so sorry..." It barely comes as a whisper.

"For what, tesoro? Giving me the kiss that I offered to you first? Now that's the real slight against me," he quips playfully, giving you a warm smile.

You hated to admit it, but it felt so nice being held so close to him. He always smelled of expensive cologne, it was heady getting to take in the scent at such proximity. All that consumed your mind in that moment was laying your head on his chest, so you did. Forehead in the crook of his neck, your eyes flutter closed and take in the soft moment.

Rubbing gentle circles into your back, his voice rumbles against your ears, "You're probably sleepy, piccolina. Let's get you to bed." Without another word, he leads you right down the hall to the guest room that was all yours. You never really returned to the Sisters of Sin quarters since you were the full time caregiver to the Emeritus heir.

It could get lonely at times, so you were grateful for the days when other Siblings would be assigned to work with you, whether to give you a break or to take Giovanni on an outing like a picnic or to the beach. 𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘰 𝘧𝘶𝘯, 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘗𝘢𝘱𝘢 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘚𝘪𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘶𝘪𝘭𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘤𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳... Sleepily, you yawn as you arrive at your door.

Copia opens the door for you, stopping at the threshold. A gentleman even in his own home. "Goodnight, cara mia."

"Goodnight, Papa," you mumble, hands returning to his chest.

He couldn't help himself; he leans in pressing another kiss to your lips, fingers tangling in your hair for a brief moment before pulling away again. You may have whined at the loss; you aren't sure in your sleepy state. Looking up at him, the man bites his bottom lip, and only then do you realize how smudged his face paint is, especially around his mouth. Copia simply nods at you one final time before closing you in your room, and you let out a groan, knowing you should wash all the black and gray off of your face before bed.

• • •

The next morning you emerge from your room a little earlier than normal and in a bit of a tizzy, because Giovanni is already crying and that's not like him. Turns out he just needs a diaper change, but of course he's hungry afterwards. 𝘐 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘰𝘺 𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘴 𝘴𝘰 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩, 𝘩𝘦'𝘭𝘭 𝘥𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘋𝘢𝘥𝘥𝘺.

Baby in tow, you head to the kitchen to warm up his bottle. You pass Copia in the living space, adorned with a little couch and TV, as he's having his morning coffee and reading the newspaper; he really could be a stereotypical old man sometimes. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘦'𝘴 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘨𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘴.

"Up so early, you two?" He sets his mug down, promptly following you to the kitchen.

"Yes, he was extra whiny this morning, so I couldn't put him off any longer," you explain.

It was pretty rare to see Copia before he left in the morning. He was always up so early and home so late. This morning he was already dressed and face painted; you were sure he was getting ready to walk out the door any minute.

As you reach for the kettle to warm some water for the baby's bottle, you feel a large hand on the small of your back, and suddenly you're acutely aware of the fact that you are only in your silky nightgown. You hadn't had time to put on your habit this morning.

"Let me help, Stellina, I don't get to do enough for the little guy," Copia chuckles at the little one, pinching his cheek before moving to warm up the water.

You turn your attention back to keeping the little one calm, as he could get quite cranky when he's hungry. The antipope stops to admire the sight before him as the kettle heats up: your undivided attention on his child, the curve of your hip holding him, the bare skin of your collarbones and shoulders. It has his mind drifting to all the places he'd like to mark on you; you were just so motherly, even though you had none of your own... He'd like to be the one to give you one, or many.

Just as the pot starts to spit and sputter, before it can reach boiling, Copia quickly pours it into a large bowl, submerging one of the many bottles you kept ready in it to warm the formula up.

You lightly press a kiss to baby Gio's head as he laughs at his father for some unknown reason.

"What's so funny, huh?" he turns and gets right in the baby's face, eyes wide and smile big.

"Who's that?" you coo.

"Da... D-" he babbles; he was still learning his first words.

"Close enough, eh?" Copia giggles before gasping and covering his face with his hands.

"Oh no, where's Daddy?!" you feign looking for him.

A burst of laughter comes from the little one when Copia reveals his face again. Peekaboo always did the trick.

By now the bottle would be warm enough, so the man slides an arm under his child, taking him from you. Quickly tossing him up in the air, the baby squeals happily, as he settles into his father's arms. As Copia reaches for a towel and the bottle, the infant points at you, "Mama!" It was the clearest word he'd ever said.

"Oh no, sweetie, I'm not-" you start, but Copia finishes it.

"Sì? She is kinda like your Mama, yeah?" He bounces the baby and gives him the bottle.

"Copia... I'm not his mother. She'll be pissed."

"She's never here. You're all he knows. Satanas, 𝘐'𝘮 not even here as much as I'd like to be. You'll be the only reason he turns out right," he ponders out loud, face looking forlorn at the thought.

"Well... Maybe we should plan something? Give him a Daddy son day, yeah?" you suggest.

"I shouldn't only be around for the fun times. You deserve more help, and he deserves for at least one of his parents to be here for him," Copia asserts, leaving no room for argument. "I'll go in late today. I want to help you get him ready this morning. And tomorrow, I'll come home early."

You weren't sure how Sister Imperator was going to like that, but it seems he's made up his mind, and you certainly weren't going to complain about seeing him more.

• • •

Copia kept to his word and stayed through the baby's entire morning routine, burping him, getting him washed up and dressed for the day. And of course he didn't leave you without a kiss.

The next day, he arrived to his papal suite early, just as he said, and helped you fix dinner. Normally it was just you and the baby, so you ate whatever was around; you weren't above eating sliced up hot dogs and applesauce. But since Papa was home and wasn't used to eating that way, he helped you cook, making pasta, alfredo sauce, and some broccoli and zucchini for a side.

You spoon fed Gio a jar of baby food while Copia worked his magic at the stovetop. Sleeves rolled up and apron donned, he checks every pot and pan diligently, tasting and adding ingredients where necessary. He really was built for this; it's a shame he isn't able to be home more.

Once he was done, your Papa insisted on you taking it easy for the evening. From pulling out your chair at the dinner table to fixing your plate, you weren't doing a thing. It felt unreal, like you shouldn't even be there if you weren't doing your job, but it also felt nice to have him doting over you, even if it was wrong. Copia even chopped some noodles really small for his son to try; Gio was going to be a mess later, but he needed a bath anyway.

Which after the delicious meal, Copia handled that too. He was perhaps a little inexperienced and ended up covered in water himself, but he was so happy to kneel next to you on the bathroom tile and take care of his little one. And seeing Copia holding a bundle of towels afterwards was probably the cutest thing ever.

"Go wash up yourself, Stellina. I'll put il bambino down, I picked out his pajamas and everything. Meet me back in the main room for a movie, hm?" The man softly grabs your hand, kinda like he was asking you on a date.

"Oh, o-okay," you bite your lip.

"You do not have to if it would not make you happy, tesoro." You were both treading new waters.

"No, no. I'll be there." You offer him a smile.

He returns it, happy you accepted his offer. "Bene. See you then," he gives you a wink before heading off to the nursery.

• • •

After your respective showers, Copia relaxed on the sofa in nothing more than a pair of silk pajama pants that left little to the imagination. You try to avoid eye contact with a certain... outline, as you enter the room, donning a few more layers than him. He didn't wear a stitch of paint and his hair was still damp.

He admires your look of cozy pajama shorts, a tank top, and a short robe loosely tied over top. Moving to lie on his side, Copia pats the spot in front of him, meaning you need to squeeze in right next to him on the little seat. It seemed especially small now at the thought of having to share it with him.

And it's not that you don't want to. You just knew what it could lead to, and that makes you hesitant. The thought of cuddling up next to your boss, your Papa, and his Prime Mover could walk in the door at any moment, although it was unlikely.

"Is okay, tesoro, I'm nervous too," the man admits to you, "but I desire to be closer with you." Apparently, he means physically closer as he slides an arm around your waist as you sit next to his lounging form. He quickly catches your hand, kissing your knuckles. "C'mon, cara, get comfortable," he urges you, "Lie down with me if you'd like."

You oblige him, laying on your back with him still on his side beside you, faces mere inches from one another. "Hey," you greet him, a nod to the nearness.

"Hi," he replies, looking over the features of your face that he adores so much.

You'd never really gotten to look into his eyes like this before and take in the lack of pigment in that white iris; it's fascinating the way it nearly glows, and so well balanced by the warm golden hues present in his green eye.

"You're a good dad, Copia." You're not sure what prompted it, but after all the work he'd put in this evening, he deserved to hear that. And you could tell the work wouldn't end there; he wanted to be more present in his child's life.

"Grazie, Stellina," he gingerly lays his arm across your waist, "I couldn't do it without you."

Between his praises and his fingers tracing shapes along your side, your cheeks betray you and blush a deep shade. Scanning your face for any indication he should stop, he slowly presses a few small pecks to your jawline, and he catches you in a passionate kiss before asking what movie you'd like to watch.

After settling in on a classic you'd both seen before, you turn to your side, so Copia is spooning his body against yours, propped up just so that you can both see the large screen. With his warmth settled all around you, worry crossed your mind that you may not make it through the entire movie...

He was just so soft and warm... inviting... His breath at the nape of your neck soothing your heavy eyelids-

𝘐𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵- 𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘦... 𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘸?

Keeping your eyes glued to the screen, you subtly arch your back, pretending to stretch, feeling out the... 𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 behind you. When you receive a stifled groan from your Papa, feeling his erection pressed tight against your backside, your inquiry is answered.

His arm draped around your waist tightens its grip, keeping you oh so close to him; you feel him let out a hot shaky breath before pressing a kiss to your neck. The feeling immediately sends a spark running through you as his mouth warms up your sensitive skin.

Your fingers lace with his as your ass wriggles against him again, earning a wanton moan from your Papa.

"Dolcezza... Look what you do to me," he whispers next to your ear.

"Papa," you breathe out, turning to catch his lips in a fierce kiss, the movie long since forgotten about. Quickly into the kiss, you're shifting onto your back, fingers tangling in his hair, to give him better access to your body.

His fingers delicately trace your jaw and neck, a sharp juxtaposition to the way his lips attack yours, needy and starved for attention. His lips deserved to be kissed like this every day; you couldn't understand why his Prime Mover would throw away the opportunity. Speaking of...

"Copia," you pull away from him suddenly, chests heaving as you both seek to fill your lungs again.

"Sì, bella mia? What is on that pretty little mind?"

Between the way his words make your heart swell and the shaft trapped against your hip, what you need to tell him fumbles on your lips. "We, uh... Copia, we- we shouldn't."

"Mm..." he grunts, "we shouldn't." He leans up to kiss your forehead, "But I want to. I want you. What do you want, cara mia?" He caresses your cheek again.

"I-" you look up for a minute, taking a deep breath, "I want you, too," you whisper, looking right into his eyes, like you were afraid to admit that you wanted your boss. But you do. He's damn near perfect! He's your Papa. He's the one you swore your vows to when you became a Sister of Sin. He's so devoted to his work, to the church, to his followers. He's a good dad. Damn it, you can't understand how she doesn't want him.

If his Prime Mover wasn't going to take care of him, then you would.

Your lips crash back into his, fingertips raking along his scalp harshly, causing him to rut his hips against you, desperate for your touch. As you moan against each other's mouths, his hand explores your body, sliding down your side, your hip, your thigh. Fingers trail up inside your shorts, teasing at the fabric of your panties.

You nearly whine in anticipation, only just now realizing how much you wanted his fingers inside you. Taking your little noise as a good sign, Copia slides his hand between your legs, urging your thighs apart and fabric out of the way as he runs two fingers through your slick folds.

Just to accentuate his actions, he draws your bottom lip between his, nibbling at your swollen flesh, which leaves you room to let out a breathy moan. "Cara..." he pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes blown wide with lust for you, "so wet for me..." He bites his lip, pushing those two fingers deep inside you. Gasping loudly at the feeling, your hands roam his bare skin across his neck, collarbone, chest. He ruts into you at the same pace that he pushes his fingers in and out, eyebrows furrowed, clearly fighting the urge to rush right into things.

"... feels so good, Papa. So good," you praise him, fingernails scratching at him.

"Sorella... I could say the same to you," he pants, brows softening as he presses a kiss to your cheek. How he managed to be so soft yet build such a fire between your legs made no sense to you, but you revel in the dizzying feeling of it all. You feel your walls petal around his digits thats he works in and out of you, thumb frequenting your clit, making you arch for him. "So tight, so warm, Sorella. I can't wait to feel you fully, amore."

"Copia," you drag his name out, "Copia, I need you." His duochromatic eyes search yours, and when your hand snakes down to grip his hot girth, he doesn't have to be told twice.

He curls his fingers sharply one good time, making you mewl out his name again, and pulls them out of you. Quickly, fingers rush to shove your too many layers off to the floor; first the robe, then the shorts, before he pulls you up off the couch, walking you backwards towards his room, lips never leaving yours.

Upon the back of your knees hitting the foot of the bed, the antipope shoves you back on the lofty mattress. Immediately he's on top of you, moving you back onto the pillows. After throwing your tank top across the room, his mouth latches onto your collarbone, sucking a sizable love mark there, fingers tangling into your hair. His other hand found your nipple, rolling it between his fingers as his eyes flicked up to yours to make sure he wasn't going too far.

Your fingers grant him permission with a gentle scratch on the head, and his mouth moves to suck on the soft flesh of your bosom. Toying with the waistband of your panties, he tugs them down, sitting back on his haunches as he flings them off. He leaves you on the bed to free himself from those devilish silk pants, erection springing free, heavy with lust, as he reaches into the bedside drawer to pull out a condom.

𝘏𝘰𝘸 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴? 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯'𝘵 𝘪𝘮𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘵𝘩𝘴 𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘵'𝘷𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘪𝘯 𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘶𝘵. 𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘢 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘎𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮; 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘶𝘮𝘰𝘳 𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬𝘴 𝘴𝘰 𝘧𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦...

"Are you ready, cara mia?" he prompts, almost like a nervous teenager doing it for the first time.

Scanning over his body, completely bare to you from his messy hair to his flushed chest, bushy happy trail, and leaky shaft, you nod your head, looking up at him through your eyelashes. "Please, Copia."

Without another word, he ripped the little package and rolled the protection onto himself before climbing back on top of you. It felt good to have him there, like he belonged this close to you.

Wrapping your legs around his waist, he lined himself up with you. He worked gently, as if he might break you if he did what he really wanted to do. Really, it was romantic the way he rocked his hips ever so slowly, cradling your head in his hand, his eyes fluttered closed as he exhaled what felt like all the air in his lungs, nose nuzzling against the side of your neck.

You whine for more as he languidly fills you, his girth pressing on all your walls; you were grateful to have been partially stretched by his fingers earlier. Looking down at him, you bite your lip before pressing a light kiss to his forehead. He meets your eyes, pressing a kiss to your jawline in response.

Finally, it feels like he's bottomed out in you, and his knees dig into the bed as he gives one final push, that last little bit feeling so much more sensational than all the rest as he makes contact with that sweet spot his fingers teased earlier. Letting out an airy whimper, your eyes screw shut as he stays put, taunting the spot without moving.

"P-p-mmm... papaplease-" you whine for him to end his torture.

His cock twitches inside you, and a wicked grin forms on his lips, knowing what he's doing to you. He hasn't even moved yet and you've probably already forgotten your name. It may have been a while since he'd gotten any action, but he was happy to see he hadn't lost his touch.

After what feels like an eternity, he pulls out a bit, relieving the pressure on that spot deep inside you. You let out a breath you didn't realize you were holding, and he slides right back in, his tip kissing your sweet spot. Gasping as your thighs tighten their grip around him, he grins again, this time settling just above you to kiss your nose as you take on his assault.

Moving slowly at first, he relaxes into the pleasure of you: the way your delicate fingers curl into his hair, the way your jaw hangs open in pleasure, your eyes looking up into his longing for one another... How long you'd pined for one another without even realizing it; he'd wanted you from the moment he'd met you, seeing the way you cared for his progeny better than anyone else could.

With each thrust he wants you to know how much he cares for you, wants for you, needs you. Tears of lust and longing stain his lashes as he loses himself in the feeling of you surrounding him. As if to add to what he was already feeling, you pull him into a sweet but spicy makeout. His hips pick up pace, needing more.

"Dolcezza... I don't think I'll last..." he lets you know.

"Me either, Papa. Touch me, please."

Obliging you, his hand snakes between your bodies, the rough pad of his middle finger sending a jolt through you as he finds your clit. Between that and the treatment of your g-spot, you're cumming in seconds, growing impossibly tighter around his length each time your muscles convulse.

His lips find yours again, hating to muffle the sounds coming out of you, but desperately needing to kiss you. "Stellina... Ti amo, Stellina. Così tanto... Ho bisogno di te nella mia vita," he cries out for you as he spills into the condom and goes limp on top of you.

You cradle his head against your chest, and for a moment, he wasn't unlike his little one sleeping in the next room, needing your affection. You kiss the top of his head, nuzzling into his messy hair, and he returns the sentiment by nibbling on your earlobe, earning a giggle from you.

With a quick peck on the cheek, he rolls off of you, heading to the bathroom to grab a warm washcloth to clean you up. His aftercare is nearly as good as the lovemaking, as his lips trail behind the terry cloth, leaving a kiss wherever he wipes and soothes your skin.

"Did you mean what you said earlier?" you blurt out.

"What is that, cara mia?" Copia tosses the rag aside and wraps an arm around your waist, cuddling into you.

"That... That you love me," you bite your lip, "and I think you said something about your life? I don't know Italian as well as you obviously..." you trail off.

"Mi dispiace, tesoro, I hope I didn't make you uncomfortable," he caresses your cheek, searching your eyes.

"No, no, you didn't," you tell him, also stroking his cheek.

"I just lose control of myself when I, uhhh, when mia signora makes me feel good," he smiles and taps his fingers on your collarbone, "I hope you know, cara, that I-"

"I love you, too." You stare at him like you'd just been caught with your hand in the cookie jar.

"Oh, Stellina... I didn't know you would feel the same," he admits.

"Of course, I do, Papa. You're... perfect. Who wouldn't love you?"

"Well, I can think of one person," he gives a disgusted half smirk before chewing on his cheek. It wasn't lost on you all the times Copia's Prime Mover had walked out on him, but not before screaming and arguing at the top of her lungs about how much she hated him.

"Hey, hey, don't let her ruin your night. She's ruined too many of them already." You pull him closer, seeing him fight off the anger.

He looks up at you, face softening, "You're right. I'm letting her get to me, when I should be confessing my love to you," he chuckles softly, fingers walking up your arm.

"Yes, you should, Papa. Confess away," you sigh and lean in for another kiss.

"Ahhh, ti amo, principessa mia," he starts dramatically, "sei la mia vita, the very breath I breathe..." You both share a laugh at his little act. "Really, cara mia, I've loved you a long time. And it's supposed to feel wrong, but instead it just feels like... Like what it should've always been. Like you should be the one I'm with. Like you should be il mio bambino's mother."

"Copia," you whisper, tears welling up. You know he shouldn't say things like that, but admittedly it felt nice to hear it. Actually, it made your heart soar.

He pulls you in for another fierce kiss, one that's let's you know exactly how much he means it.

• • •

"Mmm, cara mia... I think I'm calling out of work today," your lover chuckles, squinting in the bright morning sun.

"What's that, old man? Four rounds and the baby crying got you worn out?" you jab at him.

"Did we go four rounds?" He looks impressed with himself.

"Did you lose count?" You both laugh, him groaning at his tired headache. As you wiggle out of bed to go get the little one ready for the day, Copia grabs your wrist.

"Let him sleep. We should too," he begs.

"Are you really calling out today? I'm sure Sister Imperator won't be happy."

"That woman is never happy. Now get your ass back in bed," he pulls you back under the covers, holding you flush against him. "Your 𝘴𝘦𝘹𝘺 ass." He grabs your backside to accentuate his point, leaning in to kiss your neck.

"I thought you wanted to go back to sleep..." You bite your lip with a cheeky grin.

"Maybe we go for round five first, sì?"

• • •

"Sh, sh, shhhh... It's okay, baby boy, it's okay," you whisper into Giovanni's ear, kissing his head repeatedly to calm his tantrum.

Copia's Prime Mover had come home, which means everything is a mess. You'd had a peaceful few days navigating your newly admitted feelings for your boss, and he was settling in to a new routine of being home more for the baby. Of course it was an added bonus that he got to spend his nights with you. But now everything felt like it had been turned on its head.

"Oh, so you think you're the best Daddy in the world since spending more time at home, huh?! Look at you all high and mighty! Making me out to be horrible!" She screams at him, loud enough that you can hear every word from your spot of the balcony. The sound had been driving the baby crazy, so you brought him out here to try to drown it out. It wasn't working as he cried and cried against you.

"Someone has to be here for him! My being here for him says nothing about you. Your own absence says it all," Copia cuts back at her, but it was the truth.

"So... you do think I'm a horrible mother?" She shrinks, wrapping her arms around herself. You try not to look, but you can't help but be concerned for your Papa.

"Of course not, tesoro..." There it is. The little shred of hope he still has for the mother of his child. He steps towards her, gently rubbing his hands over her arms. "You need help. It's not your fault, but you need help. All that stuff you pump into your body isn't good for you. Please let me help."

Finally, the little boy in your arms starts to settle down. You just hoped they wouldn't start shouting again.

She really was a beautiful woman, Copia's Prime Mover. Tall, looks that kill, charming; she really had been a great match for your Papa. Of course that was before the pressure of her position got to her. You suppose you'd be upset too if you got forced into a marriage; you'd probably go off the deep end as well. Copia had his whole life to prepare for that fate; she had a few months, and so she makes herself numb, she runs as far as she can, she resents all of it, especially him.

• • •

You wake early the next morning to a light knock at your guest room door. The sun wasn't even up, so you immediately got worried something was wrong with Gio.

Flinging the door open, you're met with the sight of a broken man. "Papa? What's wrong?"

"She's gone... She left again." He wasn't even blinking, but tears streamed from his mismatched orbs.

"Oh, Copia," you pull him into a hug, supporting him as best you can.

"She said I could get her help. She was going to get help, but she ran away again." He rests his chin on your shoulder, staring off at nothing as you lead him to sit on the edge of your bed.

"Copia... You do everything right. You try so hard for her. And for him," you nod to the nursery, "You can only help her as much as she'll let you. If she doesn't want to change, then she won't. It's not your fault; I hope you know that it isn't your fault."

He takes your hands and nods at you. He didn't have much else to say. He'd dealt with this so many times, he was almost numb to it. Almost.

You look at the clock, seeing that it was only 4am. "Let's get some more sleep, Papa. You need to rest." You stand up to lead him back to his room, but he just sits, looking up at you like a lost dog.

"Can I stay with you, cara mia?"

The simplicity of the question cut you deep; he yearned to not be alone. He didn't want to wake up to a cold empty bed once again.

"Of course, you can."

You climb back into bed, Copia happy to spoon your body. Sitting in comfortable silence, he drifts back off, getting the deepest sleep he'd had in the days since his Prime Mover had come home.

• • •

"Knock knock!" you chirp, entering Papa's office with baby, diaper bag, and picnic basket in tow.

He looks up from something he'd been reading over, a smile spreading across his face at the sight of you, "Ahhh, to what to I owe the pleasure? It's a long trek across the Abbey just to come see me." He stands up from his desk, taking the diaper bag and picnic basket from you and setting them down.

"Da-da!!!" the little one exclaims; he was getting much better at his words.

"Oooh, piccolino, come here," he replies, scooping him up too.

"He wanted to see you," you start, "and I did too... I know you haven't been able to be home as much as you want because of work, so I thought maybe we would bring lunch to you."

Paperwork had stacked up since he was taking more time to be home; he was taking this week to just try to push through as much as he could. But he's also making a plan to hire several assistants and delegate as many of these menial tasks as he can.

"Dolcezza... That is so thoughtful of you," he cups your cheek, giving you a quick peck on the forehead. "I think I could sneak away for a little while." He gives you a wink, bouncing the baby on his hip.

"It's okay if you can't! We can eat in here too. I don't want to get you in trouble with Sister..."

"Silly girl, when are you going to learn I don't care what she thinks?" He smirks at you, returning to his office chair to sign a few more papers before heading out. Somehow him holding the baby while working made him even cuter. "Besides, technically she answers to me."

Out in the gardens, Papa plays with the child, keeping him occupied while you set up lunch. Watching the little one doddle across the grass, Papa towering over him but offering his fingers as support, warmed your heart; Copia had been trying to get him to take his first steps on his own, and he was hellbent on not missing it.

"Okay, boys, time to eat!" you call over to them.

Copia immediately scoops the child up, tossing him high in the air, watching him giggle the whole way. He does it a few more times as he makes his way over to you and the picnic blanket. "Sorella, this all looks so good. Grazie. I wish I could've been some help to you," he offers his gratitude as he sits next to you, baby in his lap.

"It's okay, Papa. We know how hard you've been working, and without you, this whole Abbey wouldn't run, so really I should thank you for making it so wonderful here."

He nods his head at you, silenced by your sweet words. "Still, grazie, cara mia."

Lunch goes by peacefully, enjoying the warm sun and the image playing out before you: Copia trying to get Giovanni to eat some cut up strawberries and the little one sputtering red mush everywhere, making a mess of himself and his father.

"You'll have to change your clothes after lunch," you giggle, taking a bite of your sandwich.

"Mm, what a shame... Won't he be taking a nap then?" Your Papa gives you a smug look.

You blush at his implication and look around to make sure no one could hear. "Papa..."

"Oh, don't be so coy, Sorella. You certainly weren't shy when you went down-"

"Papa!! Hush!" you whisper yell at him, hiding your face in your hands.

He waits for you to peek through your fingers at him, and you both burst out in laughter.

• • •

What was supposed to be a quick stop back in his suite of course turned into a heated make out session on the kitchen counter.

"Cazzo, Stellina, I would take you on the fucking dinner table right now if I could," he grunts, biting at your bottom lip.

"Hmm, guess you'll just have to daydream about it in your office, huh?" You tease him.

"I'll have you there, too, if I have anything to do with it." His hands pull harshly at your hair, smashing his face against yours again. Your tongues dance with one another as your fists crumple the fresh shirt he'd put on.

When you can no longer wait for air, you push yourself off of him, breathing heavy. "You're gonna have to fix your paint, you know that?" you chuckle.

"I can see that," he wipes some gray from your lip to show you.

You both fall into giggles again, staring into each other's eyes as you reluctantly release one another to return back to your duties.

• • •

"Mm, we've probably got a few minutes before little Gio wakes up, right?" Copia grumbles into your cleavage.

You swear this man will be the death of you. He finally gets a day off, to sleep in if he wants, and the first things on his mind this morning is pounding you into the mattress... Again. Like he didn't do that all last night.

"All you ever think about is sex," you chuckle, kissing the top of his head.

"When it's as good as you are, amore mio, sì. I think about it morning, noon, and night," he starts pressing kisses across your chest, grinding his growing hardness against your thigh.

"Copia-" you start, hearing a couple thuds down the hallway, "What is that? Do you hear that?"

Seconds later, a loud shriek comes from the baby's room. In an instant you're both jumping up to throw on some clothes.

Copia slips on some pants before bolting out of his room with you hot on his trail, tying on his robe. In the hallway, you're both confronted with Copia's Prime Mover with Giovanni on her hip and diaper bag slung over her shoulder.

"What are you doing?!" The man steps right in front of her to stop her from shoving further down the hallway.

"I'm taking him and we're going!! You've got some new life now, so we're gonna move on too!" She is clearly out of her mind, her eyes bloodshot like she hasn't slept in days and bruises all up her forearms.

"What are you talking about??" Copia attempts to grab the child from her, but she snatches him away, which only eggs on his crying.

"Oh, please! You think I don't know you're fucking the nanny?! I saw the condoms in the trash last time I was here, and now she's in your robe!"

Tears of anger build up in his eyes as he turns to look at you; he felt totally helpless.

It gives his Prime Mover just enough time to push past him and into the living area. "You just want to put me away so you can move on to your new life with your newer, younger little whore!"

"Do not talk about her! She cares for your child more than you do!! While you're out on the streets strung out, she's here, doing the job you took vows to do!" he shouts to defend you.

"That was before I knew you ran a cult! All of this is just some facade to make you famous! You're a selfish bastard, leading the blind just so you won't be lonely like when you were a kid," her words cut deep.

Copia clenches both fists, a fire you'd never seen in his eyes before, as he very evenly doles out, "Give me back my child and get the fuck out."

As if on cue, the little one reaches out for you, face red as tears stream down his face, "Mama! Mamaaa!!"

You step closer to her, wanting to reach out for the squirming little bundle in her arm.

"So you think you're his mama now?" she cuts her eyes at you.

"No, I- I tried to teach him... I would never," you stammer, not knowing what to do, "Please. Please just give him to me."

"What? Let you have my husband and my baby? I think not, bitch." She moves towards the door, but you move with her, body acting on pure adrenaline now. The child reaches out, little hands latching onto your robe, and you wrap your arms around him to slip him away from her, but her fingers lock tightly around his thigh, making him shriek once again.

"Please. Please don't hurt him!! Don't hurt him!" You raise your voice at her, holding the baby tight to your chest.

The next thing you know, Copia is letting Aether and a couple other ghouls in the room, and they swiftly pounce on her, pulling her away from you and the baby you care so much about. You look down to see that his little leg was already bruising from where she'd grabbed and twisted at his skin.

You held him tightly, bouncing him around and humming something to drown it all out as Copia and the ghouls dragged her out into the hallway. The antipope was absolutely seething, and you didn't care to know what he was screaming at her.

Looking out to the sunny balcony, you feel the urge to walk out there. Honestly it was probably to soothe you as much as it was for the screaming one in your arms. Before you can move a muscle, your lover bursts back into the room, making a beeline for you. Without a word, he wraps his arms around you and Gio, resting his chin on top of your head. Fighting back tears, he holds you like that for a while.

Finally comes a soft, "I am so sorry, cara."

Pulling away just enough to look up at him, you reassure him, "It's not your fault. Are you okay?"

"I will be. Please tell me she didn't hurt you," he brushes his fingers through your hair.

"No, she didn't, but we may need to have this looked at," you motion to his son's bruised leg.

A series of emotions flash across Copia's face upon seeing the injury. Part of him blames himself for ever letting that woman get close to either of you. But he also knew that without her, he wouldn't have either of you in his life.

"Well, she's not coming back. I won't let her hurt anyone here ever again. She needs help but I can't keep letting her come back, not when I have a son who needs safety and stability."

• • •

Months went by, and it felt like a whole new chapter for all of you. Copia officially separated from his Prime Mover, announcing it at Black Mass; he always felt transparency was important in his congregation. You had moved into his room permanently, and Copia had even hired another nanny to give you a break from time to time. He didn't want you feeling like caring for his son was the only thing you were good for. He also hired assistants for his office, Siblings of Sin who were honored to take some weight off their Papa's shoulders.

Now that the two of you had less worries, you almost didn't know how to fill your time. Almost...

"Your sidekick has Giovanni out in the gardens... What do you say we have our own playtime, eh?" Copia chuckles next to your ear as you recline back against his chest on the sofa.

"Do not call her my sidekick," you laugh at your lover, "She does just as much work as me, she deserves more credit than that."

"I don't know, dolcezza... She doesn't spend the night like you do."

"Oh, and look how much trouble that got us in," you smirk, turning to catch him in a kiss. "You're not going to start sleeping with the new nanny again, are you?"

"No, no, no, no, amore mio," he whispers right in your ear, "Il mio cazzo belongs to you alone."

You huff out a laugh, "That's all? Just your 𝘤𝘢𝘻𝘻𝘰?"

"Well, perhaps il mio cuore, too..."

"Perhaps, huh?" you tease him, turning to get on your knees in between his legs. Leaning forward, you give him a single chaste kiss. "Don't I deserve a little more than 'perhaps'?" You sit back on your heels, unbuttoning your shirt slowly.

"Dolcezza..." Copia pants, already excited just from seeing your lacy bra.

"Ah, ah, ahhh. Don't 'dolcezza' me," you wink at him.

"Please-" he whines in a way that was a little unbecoming of a Papa.

Your shirt drifts slowly to the floor, and Copia reaches out to touch you, but you swat his hands away. "I don't know, Papa. Maybe I don't mean enough to you. Maybe I should just go take care of the throbbing between my legs all by myself, huh? Make you sit out here and listen while I cry out, making a mess of myself..."

He feels his cock twitch at the thought of you touching yourself in his bed.

"Stellina, please, you know I love you so..." His eyes roam your body hungrily.

"How do I know you mean it, Papa? That you aren't just saying that? For all I know, you tell the other nanny that all the time..." You grin at him, leaning forward and propping yourself up on your knees. With your elbows propped on his shoulders, he has a nice view of your cleavage spilling out of your bra just the way he likes.

"No one else is worthy of those words, no one else is worthy of these feelings I have for you." His arm snakes around you, hand resting on the small of your back. "Let me show you, cara mia. Let me prove how much I love you. Only you."

You bite your lip. It felt good to make a powerful man like him crumble, to have him rock hard without even touching him. Your little teasing game is fun, but you know his words are serious.

"Take me, Papa. Make me all yours. Prove I'm the only one for you."

With that, he wraps his arms around your thighs, carrying you right to his bedroom and kicking the door closed loudly. Your back hits the bed and your torso is met by his hot mouth tracing all your curves. Impatiently, he pulls at your tight pencil skirt, needing to feel more of your skin.

Reaching down, you undo the zipper on your hip, "There." Another wink.

The skirt finds its place in the corner of the room as Copia kisses at the top of your panties. "Mia dea... ti amo con tutto quello che ho. Sei la mia dea."

A blush tints your cheeks, you'd learned a bit more Italian in the last few months.

"Worship me, then."

He looks up to meet your commanding eyes, freezing for a brief moment before working his own shirt to the floor and positioning himself between your sinful thighs. Kissing at the supple skin there, he hooks one of your legs over his shoulder. Hungrily, his fingers grab at your skin until they hook into the lace at your hip. A tearing sound rings out and you feel his breath on your core.

"Hey! I liked those!" you whine.

"I'll buy you another pair, principessa," he looks up at you through his eyelashes while placing a sloppy kiss right to your clit. You can't help but buck up into his mouth at the sensation.

He grips your hips firmly to hold you in place. You had taunted the beast and now you would reap what you sowed. His mouth latches onto you, sucking on your already swollen clit. The feeling is so intense, you instinctively try to push him off you, but he is having none of it.

"Oh!! Papa!" you cry out, one hand tangling in his hair and the other gripping his satin sheets.

He offers you some reprieve by backing off of your bundle of nerves and instead opting to flatten his tongue against you, licking a stripe. His tongue then traces your folds before teasing your entrance, threatening to push inside. And he does just that. Eyes rolling back in his head as he stretches you with his tongue.

It has you mewling his name and arching as much as his grip will let you. When his nose makes contact with your clit, your hand in his hair tightens as you practically fuck yourself on his face.

His lips move back up to suck on your clit again, and you whimper at the loss of his tongue, but it is quickly replaced by two fingers curling deep inside you, as deep as he can reach. 𝘎𝘰𝘥𝘥𝘢𝘮𝘯𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘪𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘦. Devious eyes watch your face as he curls his digits, scratching that spot that he finds so well.

"Papa- damnit! Satanas, Papa, I'm gonna cum," you warn him, but he's ready for it, only sucking harder at your words. You let out a needy moan as your body shudders around his fingers, juices coating his hand and chin. He doesn't stop until you're done riding out the wave of your orgasm.

Unexpectedly, he snatches you up in a kiss, forcing you to taste yourself on him. "Do you taste that, amore? You on my mouth. There will never be another, you are the only one, I could never want for anyone else." He has your head reeling; he's never been so possessive, and it's hot.

Pulling him down, you both fall back on the plush bed together. His fingers lace with yours and his erection presses against your thigh, still trapped in those unholy tight jeans. Wanting to offer him some relief, you tease your fingers over the large bulge, cupping at it and earning a groan from the man. Clearly, he was in need of some attention, so you pop open the button and slide the zipper down, taking his girth in your hand.

"Cazzo, baby, I need you," his eyebrows knit together as he begs for you.

"Then, take me, Papa," you wink at him, "No need to keep me waiting!"

He chuckles and gives you one more kiss before kicking off his jeans. "This needs to go," he snakes a hand behind your back to unhook your bra, banishing it to the corner with your skirt. His mouth gently teases your nipples as he stretches for the bedside drawer, fumbling for a condom.

Suddenly, he sits up, looking a little frantically at the empty box in the drawer. "Fuck!" He groans, head falling in his hands, "I forgot to send Aether for more..."

"Oooh so that's who does your dirty work, huh?" You tease, sitting up next to him, and giving him a kiss on the cheek. "It's okay, ya know... Maybe we don't need one."

He gives you a confused look.

"Maybe... maybe it's about time for little Gio to be a big brother, hm?"

His eyes widen, eyebrows raised drastically. He dips his head slightly, reading your face for any sign that this was a joke. "A-are you... Are you s-sure, amore?"

You love those funny little moments when the stuttering Cardinal jumps back out of him again. "Yes," you chew on your bottom lip, cupping his cheek, "I'm sure. Let's have a baby."

For a brief moment, it looked like his brain was short-circuiting. "O-okay," he nods his head, eyebrows softening and a big smile spreading across his face. "You're really sure, Stellina?" He takes his face in your hands, looking all sappy, "You want to have miei bambini?"

"Sì," you nod at his little switch to Italian, kissing him on the nose, "Now are we gonna get all lovey dovey about it, or are you gonna get me pregnant?" Your fingers tease at his erection, still standing proudly.

"Mmm, maybe a little of both, sì?" His lips catch yours again, and the weight of his body pushes your back down onto the bed. You spread your legs for him to get between them, but he simply shakes his head, flipping you over instead. When you look over your shoulder at him, feigning a snooty look, he chuckles deeply before growling in your ear, "You intend to be bred, do you not, Sorella?"

His words make your stomach do flips, and you clench your thighs together at the thought.

Now with you flat on your stomach, Copia's strong hands works the muscles in your back, slowly massaging up from the small of your back to your shoulder blades. "I need you nice and relaxed, principessa." His fingers lace into the base of your hair, tugging your head up to look at him, "You want it to take, sì?"

"Yes, Papa. I do," you moan for him.

"Bene..." He shoves your head back down in the pillows and lands a sharp 𝘴𝘮𝘢𝘤𝘬! on your ass, earning a squeal from you. After he smoothes over the red mark, he lets his hand dip between your thighs. His fingers moving over your folds at this angle feel impeccable.

You push your ass up in the air, trying to get more friction from him, not even understanding how he could be so patient right now. But as if reading your mind, you feel his warm thighs straddle yours and his tip line up with you.

"To feel you so fully and completely, amore mio... I know this will be spectacular," he praises you, pushing forward with a needy groan.

It does feel a little different than what you'd grown used to, hearing a little pop as the tip pushes through your entrance. Things feel somehow smoother than before, maybe from the lack of protection, but maybe you were just that wet. You take him all the way to the hilt, whimpering and moaning into the pillow.

He sets a devilish pace pretty quickly, barely giving you time to get used to the stretch. The discomfort quickly wanes, and you feel your lover's breath hot on your back as he fucks into you in earnest, losing himself in feeling your wet heat unshielded. He leans down to press a few kisses and small bite to your shoulder before he throws his head back, really picking up the pace.

Your hands reach back gripping at his thighs mostly, as your makeup smears across his satin pillowcases.

"Cara... I need- more," he grunts, a small warning before he sits himself up, dragging your hips up off the bed and slams back into you.

"Ah!!!" you scream at the sudden movement, trying to stabilize yourself on your hands and knees. The sound of skin slapping skin fills the air alongside your noises of pleasure.

One of Copia's hands leaves your hips to ponytail your hair, pulling harshly to urge you back on his girth with more force.

"Papaaa!" is the only thing you can manage, hardly able to form a thought at this point.

"Mia dolce dea, I'm going to fill you with my seed. I'll make you grow round with my child," he tells you between thrusts, "it will be... 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘮𝘢, 𝘢𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦, 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘮𝘢..."

"Copia, please... Please, touch me, Papa," you cry for him.

Using the grip he maintained on your hair, he heaves you up so you're standing on your knees, back flush against his chest, "You think I would leave mia principessa untouched? What kind of Papa do you think I am?"

Finally releasing your hair, the rough pads of his fingers toy with your nipples. He can't wait until your breasts swell too... Holding you stable with one arm, the other searches for your clit, finding it in expert time. As his finger starts to circle it, you arch your hips back, also aiding him in finding that perfect spot inside you, "Oh! Oh, Satanas Papa! Right 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦- 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱!"

Always a good listener, he does exactly as he's told, holding his pace, snapping up into your heat the exact same way every time. You feel your orgasm rapidly approaching under his ministrations.

"Vieni per me, amore, per favore, vieni per me. I'm cumming- cum with me," he loses himself in the feeling of you. And when you feel an unfamiliar warmth spread deep inside you, it sends you right over the edge with him.

Your lover struggles to hold you close to him as you double over, riding out your release. His hips continue to buck into you in shallow thrusts through his orgasm.

Finally, he sits back on his heels, pulling you with him, cock still stuffed inside you. He throws his head back and rakes his hands through his hair, jaw hung open as he catches his breath. "You are perfetto, amore mio. You know this?" He wraps his arms around you, hugging your torso.

"I'm far from it, Copia." You lean back against him, resting your head against his jaw.

"No, no, no. I will show you how perfect you are. Even if it takes our whole lives, you will know how much you mean to me." He kisses the top of your head, chest still heaving.

"Papa..." you turn, giving him a quick, sloppy kiss, "I love you."

You were on your way to the dining room where you were to have a “working lunch” as she’d put it. Apparently, it was vitally important you pick the table linens today. You hated this, every aspect of it. And to make matters worse, you hadn’t seen Titus all day. He’d left before dawn to take care of some business and had given no indication of when he’d return. Lucky bastard.

As you passed a cross hallway, a heavy familiar hand pulled you sideways. You found yourself with your back against the wall, Titus leaning into you with his hands braced on the wall above your head. He pressed his lips against yours and gave you a slow, lingering kiss. When he finally pulled back, he gave you a crooked smile. “Hello, sweetheart.”

Your fingers flexed feeling the broad expanse of the chest beneath your hands. “Hello, Titus. You’re going to make me late for lunch with your sister.”

He huffed in irritation before tracing the line of your neck with his lips. You tilted your head to give him better access. When he reached your ear, he paused. “Canceled.”

“And did your sister agree to that?” The words came out breathy and broken. Gods, what this man did to you.

“She didn’t have much of a choice.”

Realizing he was serious, you pushed against his chest. He allowed you to put a small amount of distance between you. “What did you do, Titus?”

“You and I are leaving tonight for the Mediterranean. We will have a very small, private ceremony, photos of which will be sent to the press. Then we will proceed to travel anywhere you wish for eight weeks.” His eyes studied your face, undoubtedly looking for any sort of disagreement.

“There is no way Ursula agreed to this.” She had been the one screaming about protocol and appearances. If it was up to you, you’d share nothing of your marriage with the rest of the world.

He straightened, looking immensely proud of himself. “That, dear wife, is the genius of my plan. Upon our return, we will host a reception here at the estate. I have informed Ursula that she is in charge of absolutely everything except your dress. That we are leaving every detail in her very capable hands.”

“Are you telling me that in one morning you have arranged for us to have a two month honeymoon and shoved all of these inane decisions off on your sister and she’s okay with it?” You couldn’t keep the hope from tinting your voice.

“I dare say she’s thrilled, actually.”

You lunged at him, throwing your arms around his neck and kissing him soundly. “You are the best husband.”

He hummed against your lips as he wrapped his arms around your waist. “Remember that. Now, we have much to do if we want to leave on time.”

Your fingers played with the fringe of hair at his neck. “I don’t know, Mr. Danforth. I’d say we have time for a little distraction.”

His smile turned smug. “Whatever my lady wishes.”

"so," you pause for effect, to which abbot rolls his eyes, "i got us a free night out at Taylor's!" the change is instant, a few people cheering while the rest clap. Taylor's is the favored Pitt bar, close to the hospital but on the right street where ambulance sirens don't echo and the drinks are good enough. you pass out a few clipboards with potential dates for people to fill out their availability and continue on. "it has to be this month, so pick your available times wisely. we've been promise free cover, even if the band is playing, and four drink tickets to a max of thirty people. i'll let you know what date wins next shift!" with that, you give the floor back to robby. as you step backwards, you stumble on a foot that wasn't there before.

"shit, sorry." you whisper, tracking the foot that didn't even flinch up to black scrubs before landing on abbot's face, serene and unmoving. "you picked the right foot to land on." he whispers back as robby continues his ending speech, a warm hand landing on the small of your back to steady you as you recover. "how many times have you made that joke?" you ask, smiling when he huffs. "not as many as you think. don't have a lot of people who know and chose to step on me anyway." you gasp in faux-outrage, quieting down when robby sends you a raised eyebrow. his speech concludes and the crowd disperses, some people waiting in line to fill out the availability forms.

"nice job on the free night out." abbot remarks. the praise turns you to mush, a fight to contain the warmth in your cheeks as you look at the crowd instead of him. "thanks. apparently, it's cheaper to pay for a bunch of alcohol than hire more nurses. i'll take what i can get." you answer, remembering the frustration you felt with how quickly the admins agreed to employee bonding over fixing the worker shortage. abbot nudges you, breaking you out of your memory of last week's meeting with gloria. "take your clipboards and go home, doctor. you look like you need it." he orders, pointing to the now abandoned clipboards. you gather them in your arms and adjust the strap of your bag slipping down your shoulder before turning to face him one last time. the silver that mixes in with his curly brown hair, his slashes of eyebrows, the fading scuff on his face. "you don't like my eyebags, doctor?" you blink your eyelashes suggestively, jokingly, but all he does is roll his shoulders before nodding his head to the exit. "never said that. get some rest, doctor."

never said that. he likes your eyebags?

you ignore the revelation and nod, determined to get home and sleep before contemplating your crush on your coworker.

-

the night out comes two weeks later, a rare friday where most of your crew is off at the same time. it's you, collins, and mckay sipping on drinks in a small booth and watching the baby doctors fail epically at pool. "no, huckleberry, you have to angle it this way!" santos and whittaker fight over the proper way to hold a pool stick while javadi stands off to the side, observing the pool table like she's never seen one in her life. "five bucks says whittaker accidentally hits santos with the stick." you giggle under your breath, your second drink taking affect. the two women to your right laugh, too smart to take a likely bet. "i'm insulted you're taking advantage of us in a bet you know you'll win." collins snickers, clearly tipsy from her second martini. mckay mutters under her breath that even her kid can play pool better than these idiots. you collapse into a fit of giggles at that, pitching towards the open air on your left and clutching at the table to stay seated.

except, that air is taken up by a very solid torso.

your head hits a pleasant chest, and you sink in for a second before immediately remembering yourself and straightening. when you do, abbot is looking down at you with a smirk written on his features, one hand clutching a beer and the other propped above the booth. his bicep flexes beneath his long sleeve shirt, 'US VETERAN' embroidered near his heart.

"abbot."

"think you can call me jack, seeing as you're drunk and off duty, doc." you roll your eyes. you're just tipsy and having a good time with the same people you've seen so much death with. it's something like contentment, being surrounded by your coworkers and knowing there isn't any pressure in your existence. no lives to save, no charts to fill out, just music, alcohol, and entertainment. "i'm not drunk, jack." you emphasize the syllables of his name, tasting them for the first time on your tongue. to prove your point, you hop out of the booth and stand in front of him, perfectly in control of your body. "see?"

instead of answering, jack's eyes sweep up and down your body, lightning fast. you suddenly remember the low-cut shirt you're wearing paired with your favorite jeans that show off the contours of your body usually hidden by scrubs. his gaze stops on your cleavage, just for a millisecond, but the triumph of it sinks into your bones. you take in the cargo pants he wears that cling to the muscle of his thighs, a bit tighter than the ones he wears to work. it gives you the impression that he chose his outfit on purpose, and you suddenly wonder who he had in mind when he did.

"pool?" he nods to the empty table in the corner, clearing his throat and lifting his eyes above your face like he can't look there. you say your goodbyes to mckay and collins before leading the way, picking up two abandoned pool sticks as you walk. the empty table is on the other side of the bar, obscured by the case of alcohol in the middle. you're in your own world here, tucked away from coworkers and friends alike. "not to be a cliche, but i really don't know how to play pool." you admit, handing him a stick. your hands brush, electricity traveling down your veins before you pull away.

"you never learned at another bar?" he asks, producing a blue cube from nowhere and rubbing it against the tip of his stick. it's practically obscene, that thought, and you're temporarily mesmerized by how his hand veins flex as he move the cube back and forth. he finishes with his, and instead of taking your own stick out of your hands, he simply steps forward and into your space, cube in hand. you don't move as you watch his biceps contract with effort, a few inches from your face. only when he steps back do you remember the question he asked.

"i'm usually dancing on tables, not playing pool, old man." you supply, memories of screaming favorite songs with friends coming to mind. he grunts a chuckle, gathering the stray balls on the table with a triangle-looking thing until they're all together in the center of the table before setting it aside. "c'mere, brat." he commands. your body follows his order instantly, delivering you into his place at the end of the table until you're almost toe-to-toe. "hit the white one into the others." you frown at his lack of instruction, the stick in your hand feeling as unhelpful as a hammer in an ER. deciding to improvise, you place it on the table and try to recreate the hand placement you've seen in the movies. clearly, you don't do it well as abbot sighs, the air escaping his mouth and settling on your exposed skin. gooseflesh ripples across the back of your neck and you shiver at the feeling.

all of a sudden, there's pure heat behind you. capable fingers rearrange your own around the thin part of the stick, not a single excuse or ask for permission following. his hands are dusted with coarse hair, fine and not yet silver. each movement is another shock down your spine, trying to restrict your breathing so you don't bump into the little bit of space between your back and his front. your hold now resembles more of that on a scalpel than a fist, allowing you to push the stick forward and back to adjust it. "better?" he asks, words right next to your ear. you nod, shaken at his proximity and his own lack of reaction to it.

"this is your easiest shot of the game. take it."

you ignore any suspicions of a double entendre and push the stick until it clinks against the white ball. that one rolls forward, a bit slowly, until it knocks the other colors around. some don't escape the middle, and you sigh at the underestimation of force you had. one of the balls, a solid-colored purple one, rolls into the nearest corner of the table and dips down from sight. you squeal in success, sure that means something good. when you turn, you forget the stick in your hand, almost whacking him in the face.

"stand down, soldier. game's barely started." he says in a brusque tone, softening it with a half-cocked smile. you now realize how close your bodies are, one heaving breath enough to touch your chest to his own. you don't take it, but you don't step away either. "a ball went in! that's something good, right?" you ask, eager for more praise. his eyes flick to the ceiling, a deep inhale traveling into his lungs, before finally meeting yours. "yeah, sweetheart. good job."

sweetheart.

it nuzzles into the corners of your heart, settling on the floor and curling into itself. sweetheart. he doesn't comment on the slip of tongue, if it was one, simply watching and waiting with that iron stare of his. sweetheart. like melted chocolate and sugar spun whisps and fresh fruit, juicy on your tongue.

"teach me more?"

he teaches you about stripes versus solids with a hand hovering at your back. he points out angles and compares them to procedures with his knuckles brushing your own. he lets you cheer when you've hit the wrong ball in and protest when he hits three in one go. with each quip, you stand closer to him and try not to sink into the cedar scent of his cologne. you're a little more sober now, the alcohol haze receding, and you can track the firm but patient tone he uses to explain distance and force.

it's your last ball, a solid blue one that stares at you resolutely. jack already won, ages ago, but he ordered you to practice with all the ones you had left. you weren't going to leave his orbit if he didn't want you to, practically forgetting about your coworkers on the opposite end of the bar. you bend over the table, and despite you being secure with your stance, jack crowds your back, hands hovering over your wrists. "show me what you've got." he urges. the need to please him is a living thing under your skin as you put your every effort into the hitting the ball. your stick wobbles a bit but makes contact with the white ball, which knocks the blue one into the waiting net. job finished.

"i won!" you abandon the stick in favor of the doctor behind you, forcing him into a hug as you cheer. he mutters that you technically did not win, by any means, but wraps his hands around your waist anyway as yours encircle his neck. you've never felt so much of him at once; the corded muscles of his neck and his back coalescing into pure strength beneath you. you pull back, barely an inch, and for a second, he doesn't let you move. then he does, like you've imagined it, hands returning to his sides.

"jack..."

you trail off, unsure of how to address this thing between you. he has to have felt it, all this electricity with nowhere to go. jack abbot is fearless, so you've thought, until he takes a half step back. "i'm your attending." he reasons, though you've made no argument. you stay leaning against the pool table, needing him to be the one to come to you. "you're an attending, not mine. different shifts too." he shakes his head at the truth coming out of your mouth. "old man, remember?" he adds. you scoff at that, crossing your arms against your chest. the action pushes up your cleavage, and when his eyes dip for a second, you know you haven't lost him. "not that old. ten years apart, if you round." you won't plead. you won't debase yourself to earn his attentions, no matter how good his praise feels.

"i'm divorced, sweetheart. not exactly the best track record with relationships." he admits, a fact you'd already surmised by the faded tan on his left hand. "jumping to marriage already, jack?" your joke has the opposite of its intended effect as he stiffens at your words. "i'm too old to be casual." he reasons. "and i'm old enough to know what i want, but i won't beg, jack." you state, refusing to plead. it won't work if he doesn't want this as much as you, isn't willing to put aside skeletons in closets and just-

jack abbot takes a step forward and kisses you.

his hand cradles your skull, sinking into your hair and holding you in place. his other hand drops to your waist, tugging you further into his grip until you're not quite sure where you end and he begins. it's gentle but possessive as your breaths combine -- feels like you've done this before, the comfort of coming home safe and sound. you wrap your arms around his shoulders, tugging him further into you. finally, you can sink your fingers into his salt and pepper curls, their softness surprising you.

"there's a bathroom that locks back here." you surprise yourself by suggesting, a sudden need to make real all this yearning. in another life, your first time with him would be on a king mattress surrounded by candles and rose petals, but time is your enemy as a doctor. you know you've picked correctly when he doesn't second guess your suggestion, simply kissing your jaw before pulling you into the hallway off his right. tactical skills lead him into the all-gender bathroom, his hand wrapped in yours as he tugs you after in him. the lock clicks into place.

"c'mere." there's a surprisingly clean granite countertop he lifts you onto with quiet strength. deft fingers pull down the neckline of your shirt and the cup of your bra until his lips wrap around your nipple and suck. "fuck, jack." you whine as he rolls your other nipple between his fingers, the suddenness of it sending sparks to your core. you dip your hands back into his curls, nails scraping against his skull. you can't control how your hips buck into the air, need bubbling up and out of your skin. you've been wet this whole time, since he came up to you in the booth if you're being honest. you need him now.

"jack," you pull him off you, his lips red from lavishing your breasts. "another time. i need you." he swears at your urgency, unbuttoning your jeans and shoving them down to your ankles. your underwear is a lacy scrap of pink you picked out, hoping, and he whistles appreciatively. "this for me?" his thumb pets the wet spot on the front, trailing down as he presses down the length of your seam. he slips under the fabric, thumb finding your clit and rubbing in tight circles. "yes, yes, for you." you moan as he experiments, finding a pace you like. there's spit on your tits and your pussy is seeping over his fingers, belaying your desperation. despite that, there's an ache, an emptiness deep inside.

"please, jack." you ask. he hums, eyes locked on how your clit hardens under his thumb. "please, what?" he replies, calm and collected. "need your fingers." you plead. there's enough emotion in your voice to make him exhale a harsh breath before pulling his thumb away and hooking it around your underwear before pulling down. you open your knees wide, letting him get a look of your glistening pussy, needy for him. jack pushes in one thick finger, watching with rapt attention as one knuckle goes in, then two. his thumb finds your clit again and you're struck with how naked you feel in front of his clothed body.

one finger becomes two, crooking this way and that as he listens for your little sighs. you don't want to come like this, want to come on his cock even if the stretch hurts. you tug his belt loop until he steps forward between the cradle of your legs. that building crash of an impending orgasm is settling in your stomach and you lay a hand on his wrist, stopping him instantly. "shit, something hurt?" you shake your head, instead reaching for the top button of his cargos. "want your cock." you whisper, a little shameful of your desperation. he groans, helping you with the button and zipper until his pants drop, revealing black boxers. you run your palm against his hardness, smiling when he exhales loudly.

"take it out, baby." he orders, another petname rolling off his tongue. you follow his instructions, dipping your hand in and pulling out his cock. it's heavy in your hands, beads of white precum gathering at the tip. you guide him forward into your waiting pussy, stopping when he squeezes his hand on your knee. "i don't have a condom." he sighs. your heart flutters in your chest. "i'm clean and on birth control." you whisper. "i'm clean too." he grunts. this time it's him leaning forward until his tip taps against your clit before moving down to push against your weeping hole. you whine at the stretch as he pushes in, regretting the lack of prep you advocated for. his forehead lands against yours, his breaths coming out in pants. "so fucking tight." he mutters, straining as he controls his pace. you pant and attempt to relax, letting him slip further and further in until he's at the hilt.

"i'm close, jack." you admit, clit still fluttering from its earlier attention. "i am too." he kisses the side of your cheek before gathering you in his arms, tipping you back until your head hits the mirror. the angle allows for a wider stretch as he pulls out and pushes in again, the intrusion getting easier to take. jack experiments with small thrusts until your breathing evens out. once it does, his hips snap in controlled movements as he fucks you. that thumb rubs your clit again as praise drips from his lips, each sentence sending you closer and closer to orgasm.

such a good girl.

so good at taking it, baby.

just a little more, you can do it.

"feels like heaven, sweetheart." he growls, sucking at the skin of your neck. that's what sending you over the edge, crying into his arms with the satisfaction of praise. you're floating and still moving as he fucks you through it, cumming only when you're an inch from overstimulation. warmth fills your tummy and you look down to see cum slip out of your pussy, spilling over his cock. he slips out of you with a grunt, shushing your whines at the sudden emptiness. fingers fill you instantly, pushing cum back in until it won't stay anymore. he cleans you up with paper towels, kissing the insides of your thighs reverently to heal the sting. jack drags your panties up your legs, satisfied when you jump off the counter onto wobbly legs with his cum in your underwear. he tucks his cock back into his boxers and drags your jeans up your legs, zipping and buttoning them until you're covered back up. strong hands squeeze your jaw until your mouth opens for a wet kiss, practically debauched after what you've done.

"c'mon, sweetheart. still got two drink tickets left."

-

um

The first time you get your period at his house not only is he 

1. Prepared with anything you need (I like to think he’s got sisters who visit so he just keeps things stocked up. Big family Park the Shark my beloved) 

2. Harder than fucking diamond the moment you gently push him back and, uncharacteristically shyly, tell him you can’t do anything because of said period, and he gets to watch your pretty mouth drop open in surprise when he just shrugs and says “it’s never stopped me before.” 

Like… Bren what do you mean it’s never stopped you before???? Park blanks for a half second like “oh yeah, not everybody does that” and there’s no point in him being shy about it now so he just kisses you on the mouth, a smug little smirk on his face when he pulls away—

“I didn’t get called ‘the Shark’ in college for nothing, sweetheart” 

And holy fuck if that doesn’t stay in your brain for the next month. He’s put the thought it your mind now, he’ll assure you through this period that it really doesn’t bother him at all and maybe you don’t do anything about it at first, but he can see the interest growing as the days pass.

Maybe it takes a little bit of time, a little research on your end because hey, period sex is kinda out of your wheelhouse but it’s not like it's unheard of and you’re not entirely against it, just apprehensive, curious even. (As someone who’s done it, I was a lil nervous at first too and did a stupid amount of research to calm down about it lmao)

Eventually you broach the topic with him, maybe a little embarrassed because yeah it’s a natural bodily function but it’s still a lil taboo and even if Park has said he doesn’t gaf about a little blood you still need a little reassurance that he’s actually ok with it. And so you do, and he assures you that it’s fine, he’s ok with it— more than ok with it really, ever since the first time he’d mentioned it it’s all he can think about. He doesn’t tell you he’s been craving it since then, but you can see he’s eager, he’s practically vibrating with want. So maybe he drops a few “hints” here and there. It’ll help alleviate cramps, it’ll feel good because of the heightened sensitivity, it could help increase libido (not that the two of you need that), it's incredibly intimate, etc.

I think Park is a little bit of a boundary pusher in the bedroom, like things he can see you’re teetering on trying he’s gonna try and nudge you. He's not pushy, never bullying you into things, he's just…suggestive.

“We can try it, and if you hate it we won’t do it again.”

If you give him a firm no he’ll respect it, sure he’s a little bummed but it’s not gonna ruin his entire day. Brendon Park loves you and respects you, so he’d never force you into anything that is a hard no even if it’s something he likes.

However, if you say yes? Sweet love, say less because he’s already set aside everything you’d need for it just in case.

It’s a common headcanon that Brendon Park fucks, but this? This takes it to a whole new level. He’s got you spread out on his bed, a towel under your hips— oh did you think it’d be a dark towel? Not a chance. Park’s set out the bright white towels so that he can see the mess he’s gonna make with you. Ambient lighting, but not so dark he can't see anything because he wants to see everything.

He’ll get you nice and relaxed, Park’s a lover boy after all and at the end of the day he never wants you to be uncomfortable, especially with something he’s doing. He takes his time laid on top of you, letting you control how long your make out lasts, taking his time undressing you and only parting to pull your shirt over your head with his quickly following suit. You stop his hands from taking off your underwear just yet, still a little apprehensive, a little nervous, but that’s fine with him so he just kisses you again and lets you wrap your arms around his neck. He loves the feeling of your hands on his body but especially on his back, the way you trail them up the back of his neck to run your nails through the hair at the base of his scalp makes him shiver and lean more into you, a groan bubbling up from deep in his chest.

When you give him the ok to move elsewhere, his lips and teeth are everywhere. Trailing down your neck and chest leaving bites and newly forming bruises in his wake, some you can’t even see but you know you’ll feel for a while after he's done. 

He relishes in the noises you make when he gets his mouth on your already sensitive nipples, now more so that he’s given them a little attention. He sucks a bruise into your hip, leaves a bite on the inside of your thigh that makes you yelp, and just chuckles when your heel connects with his back as if to reprimand him.

We’ve established that I think Park’s got a scent kink and boy does this play into it. He looks up at you, raising his eyebrows as if to ask “this ok?”,  and only moves when you give him an affirmative for him to slide your underwear down your legs. 

It takes everything in him not to shove your soiled underwear against his nose and inhale like it’s a fucking drug— it is, in a way, because the moment the metallic scent of blood hits his nose he’s shaking, salivating, nearly panting like a dog when he throws your legs over his shoulders and— just once more looks back up at you to make sure you’re serious about this— and buries his face into your cunt the moment you give him the go ahead.

If you thought Brendon Park was a munch before, this was nothing in comparison.

He’s ravenous, eyes rolling back at the copper tang on his tongue as he eats you out like he’s been starving for it. And maybe he has been. It’s been years since someone’s let him do this to them.

Park’s bound to leave bruises from just how tightly he’s holding your thighs— now clamped around his ears like a vice with your nails digging into his scalp as you wail.

He’s groaning at the sounds you’re making, the sounds your sticky, wet cunt was making, and he gets a little lightheaded from how quickly all of the blood in his body makes a beeline south. He's still in his briefs and they're growing wetter by the second from the precum steadily leaking out with how desperately he's grinding against the bed, hips involuntarily searching for friction before he bullies a broad shoulder between your thighs forcing you to make room for him, gasping in a breath and sliding two fingers into your slick, messy heat curling them almost viciously just to hear that sound from before and you give it to him. 

Your body arches off the bed so suddenly it was as if you’d been struck by lightning, his one arm pressing down against your hips the only thing tethering you to the bed as you let out another high, pitchy wail.

Park can’t take his eyes off of you, fuck you’re stunning. You’ve got a hand latched onto his arm, digging your nails into his skin hard enough to draw blood, and your other covering your eyes as you pant and moan and chant his name like a fucking prayer, unable to squirm away with his strong arm over your hips.

Mentally Park is patting his younger self on the back for finding a place with above average sound proofing because had you been doing this at your apartment, your nosy neighbor would’ve called the cops the moment he got his mouth on you.

God he feels fucking drunk. Maybe it’s the lack of oxygen or maybe he really is drunk on your blood, either way he’s doing everything he knows you like to get you across the finish line.

Your hands find his hair again when you’re about to come, your breath quickening as you beg him not to stop, to keep going, to keep- keep- oh god Bren— Brendon!

He doesn’t stop, just eats you through it until your second orgasm is crashing into the aftershocks of the first making you shriek. You finally pull him away from you just as the third is ebbing into painful overstimulation territory, and make eye contact, his eyes half lidded but you can see his pupils are blown wide, the faintest hint of blue haloing them as he stares up at you from where he's still positioned between your legs and fuck if it isn’t erotic.

Half his face is covered in blood, it's smeared across his mouth and cheeks and a little ways up his nose, his sharp teeth glinting where the saliva on them catches the light as he heaves in ragged breaths, the parts of his face not covered by blood are still flushed red, his blush extending to his ears and down his neck where you know it's spread across his chest and shoulders— he looks as fucked out as you feel, and it’s so, so hot watching him fall apart from just how badly he wants you. He’s already tugging against your grip on his hair, eager to get his mouth back on you as if he can’t help but search out blood.

The sound Park makes when you pull him up by his hair to plant your lips on his is pathetic. It’s wanton and needy and he nearly comes on the spot when you lick into his mouth with a filthy moan at the taste of not only your wetness, but your own blood. Your faces slide against each other from the sheer amount of wetness on your skin. He moves over you, body nearly crushing you under his weight as his hips grind against the apex of your thighs but it's not quite the right spot— he's still got his briefs on and they're in his fucking way—

He didn't even notice your hands in his scramble to get his briefs off until you've got a hand around his shaft and he’s choking, gasping against your open mouth when you guide his cock to your folds. He bumps your clit making you jolt and mumbles out a quick “sorry, angel” before pushing in all the way.

God you’re slick and wet and so hot that the last of his self control snaps. Any other time he’d give you a second to adjust, a moment to breathe and get used to his size even after getting four fingers in you, but there’s blood in the water and he’s frenzied.

He holds you down by the backs of your thighs setting a relentless, punishing pace as he snaps his hips against yours, jackhammering like a virgin hellbent on sating his own selfish pleasure.

It’s electrifying and bordering on painful but it’s so so good— 

You can’t even manage moans anymore, just broken little whimpers as you grip the pillow underneath your head, your face wet with tears, the blood already drying around your mouth— you look so fucking filthy and he loves it. He loves you.

Park plants a hand next to your waist and hooks one of your legs over his shoulder to change the angle, grinding his cock into you at a slower pace to yank himself from the edge he'd been hurtling towards. Sure, you've come 3 times, but he can feel one more creeping up on you by the way your walls flutter around his length. You throw your head back in a wordless scream when his thumb rubs circles around your clit, aborted, broken little sounds escaping your exposed throat as you tremble violently, Park speeding up his thrusts just as you topple over the edge so he's right behind you.

His vision darkens at the edges, a high pitched ringing in his ears as his orgasm crashes into him like a freight train nearly knocking the wind out of him. For a man who's spent a good majority of his life in the gym, and spends a current majority of his time outside of work fucking you in just about every place you'll let him, it's a rare sight to see him genuinely out of breath.

The first sound to come back to him is your pitiful sniffles and your attempts to calm your own racing heart by taking in deep, shaky breaths. He moves the two of you onto your sides, his arms wrapped securely around your waist with yours around his shoulders, not an inch of space between the two of you. A shiver runs down his spine when he feels the faintest brush of your nails at the back of his head, he rubs a hand up and down your back as he presses his lips against your exposed shoulder. Park slowly makes his way up your neck and over your jaw, kissing the spot under your left eye where he always does before he kisses your lips. You're too tired to anything more and he's not about to start anything, just needing you close as you both come down from your highs.

Exhaustion weighs him down and he knows that the two of you should get up and in the shower because if you don't he'll hear it from the moment you wake up that you're still covered in dried blood, spit, and cum, and you'll make it his problem. (He's right where he wants to be)

Try as he may, Park still dozes off for just a moment, only coming to because you're kissing his face gently and slowly, your hand scratching over the back of his head and for a second he thinks you're crying again. He gets it, Park wasn't lying when he said it was intimate and he moves your head back to wipe your tears except you're not really crying anymore, instead you're chuckling quietly to yourself.

"What are you laughing at?" Brendon mumurs, his curious gaze sweeping over your face as you chuckled while tears dripped down your face. The headboard had been hitting the wall pretty hard but he was still sure that you hadn't bumped your head somehow, even if you bumped it against the headboard it was tufted leather on the side facing the bed so you shouldn't have gotten a head injury—

"So," you pause, your voice pulling him out of his slight spiral about a possible head injury, your pretty eyes roaming over his face and down to his chest where dried blood is smudged on the side of his neck and collarbone, your fingers gently brushing against some of it making it flake away before your eyes trail back up to meet his through your thick lashes, a teasing grin spreading across your lips as you lean your head onto the pillow he's half on. "Same time next month?"

He blinks, not fully registering what you've said until your teeth are digging into your lower lip in an attempt to hold back your giggles, a grin stretching across his face as he leans in to kiss you, swallowing down your giggles before pulling back and gently nudging your nose with his own.

"Yeah sweetheart, same time next month."

you make your way to the dresser near the foot of the bed, towel wrapped tight around you. you pause and look over your shoulder, trying to figure out if he was sleeping or just playing with you. 

a slight, soft smile curls on your face when you realise the perfect way to test it — saying his favourite words like many do with their dogs. 

"beer… peace and quiet… guns… pussy…" you list, leaving a considerable gap between each as you await a reaction in his face. a faint grin forms and you knew you had him. you step closer and closer, knees knocking at the foot of the bed as you stand over him. "was it the 'pussy' that got you? really?"

he brings his free arm up to join the one behind his head and nods. he holds it there, elevating his eyeline so as to get a full view of you — a clearer image of you slowly ridding your towel. 

it drops to the floor, fabric pooling in an off-crescent shape around your feet just moments before you step out of it. you bend a leg and place your knee on the edge of the bed, and then the other, each one supporting you. 

slow and controlled, you lean over, placing either hand on the mattress between his thighs. you itch one shoulder forward, head tilting with it as you keep your focus on him — eyes locked on his. his expression has shifted, a change so slight it could be missed. he focuses on you, gaze entranced as it flickers between that devilish curl in your smile and to that tempting darkening in your eyes. each of which something he feels himself involuntarily respond to.

your nipples hide behind the uppers of your arms, tits poking out into view in a way that has his cock twitch beneath his jeans. 

you crawl closer, hands planting and lifting from the sheets as you make your way between his thighs, movement most leisured. you pause and lower, head dipping. you press your lips between the slight gap, the one between his tank and belt, and kiss the exposed slither of skin. tongue running over the vein that leads down to his pubic bone. it's light and playful, but really it's a hint. 

you push up the bottom hem of his top a little, creating more of a gap. the tip of your nose skims his happy trail while you plant a small litter of kisses just north of where you placed the first, each one lengthening. you lift a hand out from under your own support and place it over the middle of his thigh, palm grazing his jeans as your rise it. you still in motion right at the very upper of his thigh and it's when you reach the outside edge of his crotch, that you pull your face away from his lower stomach. 

you peer upwards and meet his eyes, holding onto his intimidatingly eager gaze as you nudge your hand to the side — directing it over the slight chubbing under his jeans. you let the weight of your hand sit there, presence of your touch enough to warrant even more of a hint. 

adjusting yourself, you move up frank, though you keep your hand put exactly where it is. you itch up and up, closer and closer until you're near enough within the same breathing space. you tease him with a kiss, lips barely grazing his as you in turn slip your hand past the waistband of both his jeans and boxers. your fingers extend outwards as you push more of your hand inside, fingertips brushing past his pubes. 

he's firmed up nicely, cock responding to your very minimal touch — so much so that you fail to hide your smile that you grace against his lips with. you didn't think he'd have it in him for another round.

"think it's funny?" he husks, words low as he speaks them into your mouth. 

you skim the upper of his cock, fingers skirting around the base of him. you run a finger up the length of what you can reach within this restricted circumstance and give him a little smile, a small shrug accompanying it. 

"a bit."

"I don't," he mutters, clearly finding no amusement in being teased like this. he nods down, gesturing with his eyes to his jeans — to where your hand lays. "undo 'em."

you pull your hand out from beneath his jeans and boxers and peer back to look at what you're doing, keen on using your eyes if you're already going to be undoing him with one hand.

he tuts and brings an arm out from behind his head. he places his thumb one side of your chin, first two fingers on the other, and twists you back to face him — making you look him in the eye.

frank's grip drops from your chin and slides down the length of your throat, palm settling comfortably as he holds you in place. you begin to fiddle with his belt and jean buttons, struggling most definitely. with as much dexterity as you obtain, you finally unlock his belt with a singular hand and guide his cock out between the gap you've made. 

you bring your hand up between either of your faces and spit into the centre of it, right where your palm and fingers connect. carefully, without losing any, you reach back down to his dick and smear your spit all up the length of him — simultaneously lubing and working him up at the same time. 

frank's hold on your throat tightens as he brings you in, lips seemingly eager to meet your own. he keeps you in place, kisses devolving from something quick and rushed into something slow and slopping as you in turn begin to jerk him off. 

he retracts his other arm out from behind his head and places his now free hand on the side of your tit, fingers pawing and grabbing at your squishy flesh with as much as he can grab a hold of. 

the kisses reduce next to nothing and he pulls you away slightly, the absence of his tongue in your mouth a reminder to the twitching in your now stilled hand. 

you didn't have to ask for what you want when you were like this, frank would let you have it, take what you wanted without a question about it. you shimmy yourself from him and crawl backwards essentially. you situate yourself over his groin, bare cheeks of your ass planted over the tops of his covered thighs.

reaching down, you wrap either hand around his cock, one stacked on top of the other. lining up with the head of his cock, you spit down onto him — thick bead of saliva rippling off the tip of him and down to your hands. you rub it in, polishing your spit over the crown of him as you in turn lift yourself and align your pussy with him. 

you nudge the head of his dick at your cunt, tip tapping at your clit under your own control. holding him in place, you lower down onto him; sinking onto his cock. you're slow, motion leisured as you stuff him all inside you. 

you pause and take a breath, so full of his cock that your eyes flutter and lips part. you didn't need to prep yourself, you didn't need to touch yourself beforehand — this was all you needed, just his dick. you sit on him fully and place either hand on his chest for your own support, fingers spread wide across the beefiness. 

frank's knees bend behind you, each one raising so as to nudge your body forward. with your body taking his involuntary hint, you close the gap slightly, face no more than half a foots distance from his.

you adjust your support and place either hand flat on the pillow that's under his head, each one wobbly as you wind your hips — itching him out only to take him in again. frank's roughened hands glides down your sides, movement unrushed as he slides each into a firm, tight hold on your hips. 

he doesn't direct your winds, his grasp simply there for his own need. 

your nipples graze his chest as you begin to form a very slight and inconsistent rhythm, your grinding hips taking him over and over and over again. 

"take what you need, baby."

that was exactly what you needed.