#crossposted

An alarm sounds, quickly rousing you from the eerie dream. A white digital alarm clocks sits on the bedside table now next to the glass of water. It is playing a soft beeping sound, like a school bell. You click the button on top of the machine and shut off the alarm. It displays the time: 8:30. Moments later the lock on the door clicks and the man- Dick walks in clutching a wooden tray.

“Morning honey.” He chirrups, your mouth downturns at that. ‘Honey’? That’s awfully… cuddly. “Morning.” Is your mumbled response while your thumb swipes at the dewy corners of your mouth ridding it of sleep residue.

“I made breakfast for you. It’s toast, fruit, orange juice and a pancake, I know you don’t like eggs, so don’t worry it’s egg free.” On top of the tray sits three plates. Alongside them; a glass filled with orange juice, a butter knife and a silicone fork, similar to the one you used last night. All the foods he had just listed sit divided on one of the three plates. You sit up against the headboard of the bed as he places the tray on your nightstand, cutting the pancake up into bitesize pieces, a giddy smile stretching across his face tautly.

You smile, thinly, “thank you, Dick. Uh, really, but, um…” your heart lodges in the back of your throat as you wring your wrists. “But I’m okay, really. I can… go get my own food.” His eyebrows pinch together as though you just propositioned something preposterous to him. He stands up properly again, placing his hands on his hips and looking down at you like some unruly child begging for sweets.

“Mm. I know, but I think you’re better off having breakfast here, wouldn't you agree?” A protest dies in your throat. Your body is still too weak and your vision still bleary from sleep- you're in no mood to be combatant. He nudges the tray towards you; you lift it up and place it on your blanketed thighs. The toast is plain white bread with melted butter slathered across it, the pancake now cut up has a nodule of butter in the centre and a drizzle of maple syrup across the anthill like mound and the fruits on the third plate consist of an array of thinly sliced strawberries, kiwi and mango.

The clearly well put together spread of food would normally have a thin line of drool pouring from the corner of your mouth from the smell of it alone, looking at it now with Dick staring at you unabashedly... it makes your mouth dry and hands tremble, your appetite shrivel and wither.

He continues to stand over the edge of the bed, looming. “Dick, look, really, I truly do appreciate this, but I can’t accept. Thank you for caring for me while I was unconscious- really. It was a very kind thing to do, but I simply feel too… too wrought with guilt to truly appreciate any more generosity you throw toward me.” You look to Dick, smiling, your lips pulling thin over your teeth.

Dick is silent, tensely so. You can’t ascertain his look. His eyes squint, his teeth grit and then he stands up abruptly, walks two paces before turning around at the foot of your bed, his fists clenched tight, his face stern and tight. “Eat the food, (Y/N).” He nearly snaps. The order works, like a worker drone following orders from above you pick up the silicone fork and pierce a piece of the pancake he cut up, place it in your arid mouth and chew.

His face melts into a friendlier easy-going expression, the one you have noticed he tries to adorn the most often. He walks back to the side of the bed, pulls up the stool and sits on it, his whole body completely focusing on watching you eat. His eyes large and wonder filled,

The pancake is okay, it is not the best you have certainly ever had, it is clearly box mix bought from a bodega and still quite doughy in the centre. The maple syrup you can at least determine is definitely the real deal. This guy must have at least a little disposable income to be able to purchase high quality maple syrup. “Is it good?” He interjects abruptly.

You nod, a grimace which you hope appears as a smile spreads across your face wearily, “it’s quite delicious, thank you Dick.” You tell him placing down the fork and reaching for the glass of orange juice, the condensation of the glass causing it to sweat bullets. You take a sip, it is very good orange juice, tastes like the organic stuff you occasionally get to drink at work when there’s a surplus.

“I’m glad you like it.” He smiles at you, like the rest of his face his teeth are all in a straight line and glistening, intimidatingly perfect. You know you've seen this man’s face before, You simply cannot place it. He is easily handsome enough to be a model. His hair is thick and inky black, it falls in a perfect shaggy cut, he is tall, clearly well-toned and has good bone structure. Normally seeing a man like him would cause you to double take and remark to yourself silently. You smile again, weakly.

While you trudge through the meal Dick continues to talk, you don’t really listen instead choosing to feign interest as you poke and prod at your food, offering him hums of agreement every so often to his lively chittering. You eat a few mouthfuls of toast, three slices of kiwi, one of mango and all the strawberry before your stomach roils and you push the food away. “Thank you, Dick, for the food. I’m done now.” You stop him mid-sentence and pass him back the tray. He clicks his tongue observing the tray before nodding.

“Good job on eating your food. You ate more than what I was expecting you to.” He pets the top of your head, stroking down to the base of your neck. Your skin prickles and crawls as though it is teeming with a colony of ants trying to burrow beneath your skin. “I’m going to go wash up, I’ll be back soon and then we can talk, okay? You probably have some questions, don't you?” He murmurs into the crown of your head and although it was faint, you felt the brush of his nose against your hair and the soft sounds of him sniffing.

Although he does not explain it explicitly, you know what he’s inferring. “Do not move. Stay”. Dick stands up straight again, almost begrudgingly in his mannerism, his hand comes back up too. He gives you one last look infused with a lovers warmth before he leaves the bedroom, closing the door. A hand lifts to your mouth as bile tickles at the back of your throat. Shudders run up and down your back while your hands find mainstay on your scalp and pull your hair tightly.

You throw the blanket off of yourself, you skin too hot to still be covered by the downy, suffocating material. You remove the pillow from behind you and throw it at the wall. You flatten your back against the headboard and swiftly bring your knees to your face, pressing your forehead to your kneecaps. Your stomach drops, turns, flips and bubbles. Your thoughts are a jumbled mess, every time a train of thought begins it’s quickly derailed by a larger, more ominous train ploughing through it.

Your blood runs freezing cold, “I know you don’t like eggs.” How would he know that? How would he know you detest those awful things? The smell of them alone is enough to make you queasy for days, you would always cover your nose and mouth whenever a friend or family member would eat them. This is most certainly not information you remember telling him of. You wrack your brain, trying to find any plausible reasoning behind his knowledge of your loathing for eggs.

You shake that thought away. It was impossible you rarely posted and you would remember if you had chatted with someone like Dick through DMs. Maybe he was friends with a coworker? Maybe he was at a staff end of year party? Yvonne ran in high social circles because her brother is a model- maybe that is how Dick met you. You do remember mentioning your aversion to eggs to at least one other coworker as there was a large, foul-smelling bowl of egg salad at the last end of year party.

No matter how hard you think and try to reflect upon your memories of any place or time you could have met Dick, the only thing that you come to a conclusion to is that you simply haven't. He looks familiar but not in an 'I know you personally way'. More in an 'I saw you in an underwear commercial kind of way'. Without a shadow of doubt in your mind you have never ever met this man.

You run a hand up and down your neck, trying to soothe your overwhelming feelings of dread. You squeeze your eyes tight together, looking up at the closed door. Your mind screams two things at you.

The urge to stay and do as Dick silently ordered is strong. Glancing at the electric alarm on your bedside table it tells you another thing as it ticks to 10:03. With a nod to yourself you grit your teeth with newfound resolve. You can’t miss another shift.

You place one socked foot on the floor next to the other as you slowly pad over to the door. You twist it and it’s unlocked. You push it open; it thankfully does not squeak or protest at the action. Peering out into the apartment laid out before you in the soft morning light you spot Dick standing at the kitchen sink humming to himself. The water running, plumes of steam from the hot water rising into the exhaust fan above.

He doesn’t say anything as you take two cautious steps out, then a third before a breath hitches in your throat. You can't leave your phone here. You bite your cheek in annoyance. Your phone is still in the bedroom tucked inside of a pillowcase. You quickly retrace your steps, this time with a slight careful confidence as Dick continues humming to himself and scrubbing at a pan with a steel wool pad. You rummage through the pillowcase until your phone drops onto the bed, you place it in your bra, making sure it's secure.

The sound of running water and the whirring exhaust do not stop; he’s still standing there cleaning dishes and humming to himself. You get slightly braver with your next steps, stopping abruptly once you're out of his sight behind a jutted out wall. Why am I sneaking around his apartment like a wanton thief? You think with a sense of incredulousness. Dick sneezes, causing you to nearly flinch. You continue quietly skulking towards the door.

You pass by an open door, what must be his bedroom and then the main bathroom. You try to pay them no heed in your mission to reach the front door. You quietly walk around another corridor until it guides you left and there it sits- the front door to the apartment. A shoe rack sits to the right and a coat rack to the left. Your turquoise raincoat sits on the coat rack and your Converse sit on the bottom row of the shoe rack, next to Dick's shoes you realise with chagrin. Glancing behind you and straining your ears you listen out for any signs of him. The water is still running and the exhaust continues to whir.

You quickly fall to your hands and knees, grabbing your shoes. Your raincoat is not worth taking with you, you don’t even bother attempting to tie your shoes, your hands shaking too hard and too clammy to do any fine motor action skill with any semblance of confidence. With your feet jutted into your trainers haphazardly and laces undone, you reach for the door handle. Your hand fiddles around it, twisting it from side to side- it’s locked. Your heart drops from your chest and falls miserably to the ground below. You look around, eyes flitting to try and figure out how to unlock it.

“(Y/N) what are you doing out of bed?” Your body seizes up, you turn around slowly and there he stands. His arms crossed over his chest, face flat with annoyance as he leans leisurely against a wall, “please, you shouldn’t be up at the moment. You have sustained a serious head injury, you need rest, believe me I know." He chuckles to himself before shaking his head.

"Take of your shoes and go back to bed, now.” He commands, using the same stern voice from last night. You stand there numbly. Your mouth opening and closing like a flailing fish about to be gutted on a tinny. Fingers twitching in a want to do something.

“I’m not going to ask you again, shoes off, back to bed, now.” Dick reaffirms, his voice going from stern to sternly frustrated. “I can’t.” You tell him, your hands crossing over your chest tightly like a fleshy chest-plate. He shows no reaction to your cowardly defiance. “I have work at 11:30, I’m working the lunch and dinner shift- you said I was asleep for two days, that means it’s Saturday. I woke up yesterday which was Friday. I have work and I’ve already missed at least two other shifts. Please, Dick.” Your voice sounds sickeningly pleading.

“I appreciate what you have done for me, truly from the bottom of my heart I appreciate it, but please, unlock the door and let me leave.” He’s silent for a moment, his face studying mine, he looks almost hurt by your want to leave. You can tell your eyes are as big as dinner plates as anxious tears sit at your waterline, your bottom lip wobbling at poorly hidden stress.

Dick sighs after a moment of charged silence, clearly frustrated at your request. He stands up from the wall, his eyes narrowing to slits as he looks down his nose toward you. “Bed. Now. I will not ask a fourth time.” You look to the ground, anger bubbling in your chest, the pressure building up against your skin like a pot pressing against its lid as water boils beneath it. You grit your teeth and spitefully kick off your trainers.

“Put your shoes back where they were, please.” Dick asks, far more gently than the bed command. This truly feels like adding insult to injury- salt being rubbed in your open gaping wound as you pick up the shoes and place them back on the rack. You look to Dick on your way back to the bedroom and it truly reaffirms your situation as you pass by him.

He’s big, but his size is most certainly not oppressing, he does not dwarf you by any means necessary. His body is clearly well toned and lithe, reminiscent of an Olympic gymnast. He has strong legs and well-toned arms. His stature is not what scares you, but his face. His eyes are trained solely on you, as though you were a criminal encroaching upon his space. His face is neutral, if anything somewhat pleased looking. He looks predatory, like an orca circling around a marooned leopard seal as it awaits its death on a broken shard of ice sheet.

You feel his eyes burning holes into the back of your head as you make hurried haste to the bedroom. You go to close the door behind you, “don’t. Leave it open, we need to talk soon.” He explains, the slightly playful lilt in his voice makes you feel scorned. You sit on the edge of the bed; your feet planted firmly on the ground as tears wobble their way down your face.

You hear him resume humming and scrubbing the dishes. You lay back down on the bed and curse at yourself. How stupid am I? You think with hatred. I should have stood my ground and demanded to leave, maybe then he would have let me. You drag your hands down your face and stifle a cry.

I should have remained steadfast; I am definitely going to be fired at this rate and the only person I can blame is myself. The bitterness of your thoughts coat your tongue, making your face scrunch up in self-loathing.

Five minutes of pathetic self-pitying pass as you continue to paw miserably at your face. You hear the sound of running water stop, the gurgle of water going down the drain replacing it and the exhaust fan being switched off. You sit up straight on the bed, like a rod has replaced your spine hurriedly swiping away the last of your tears with your sleeve. Dick appears a few seconds later, his face going from somewhat steely, like he was ready to lecture you but it quickly melts into an expression of concern.

“Oh, honey. Are you upset because I yelled at you?” He croons, stepping into the room tentatively, he has clearly observed the redness of you eyes and puffiness of your cheeks. He kneels before you gently placing himself between your legs. He grips your hand and cups his cheek with it, nearly nuzzling into it. “Oh, I didn’t mean to get mad, I just wanted you to listen.” He sighs, more talking to himself than you. He kisses the palm your hand and places his forehead to where he has done so. A wretched scream dies in your mouth, your eye twitching.

You resist the urge to yank your hand away and put it beneath scalding water. He murmurs something you cannot hear over the cacophonous sounds of disgust in your head. He relinquishes your hand, choosing to gaze up at you instead. Your hand falls numbly to your side. You wipe the kiss off onto the blanket, trying your damned hardest to conceal your quickly growing disgust. You look to your hand, where you had just wiped off the kiss and glare, silently hoping you can burn a hole through the skin he just invisibly marred.

He gets up and sits next to you on the bed, the mattress dipping beneath him as he adjusts himself. “How are you feeling?” He gently probes, brushing back a piece of hair that falls back into place, his eyes are soft and questioning. You do not look at him, keeping your face forward and your eyes trained at the wall in front of you.

“Anxious I’m going to lose my job.” You respond. You keep criticisms of his treatment toward you safely tucked away somewhere he cannot see them, because you are still stuck here with him. Dick exhales through his nose, his face sad, almost pout-like as he rubs what he thinks is a comforting hand up and down your back.

“Oh, (Y/N)…” he quietly laments, “don’t worry about your job, okay? I have it taken care of. It’s going to be alright. Does that make you feel any better?” He responds tentatively, as though each word is imbued with a kiss. You want to shake your head.

No, what you truly want to do is break every finger in his hand and arm for touching you and talking to you like… like he knows you- like he has earned the right to touch you so intimately.

“Yes, it does.” You lie through your teeth, the action itself burning your tongue and throat with an unnameable affliction. He places his face against your head, his nose nuzzling into your hair. You can feel an ear-to-ear grin being pressed into your scalp. “You have some questions, don’t you? I know you do. This is why I wanted you to stay earlier, so we can just… have a talk, answer some questions- clear the air a little.” He whispers into your ear, his hot, saccharine breath making the skin feel as though it's melting.

He gently grips a lock of hair, rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger, "you can ask me three questions. How does that sound? Any three questions and I have to answer them honestly. Will that make you feel better?" Too stunned to speak at his closeness all you do is nod numbly and bite your tongue between your front teeth.

Your silence ushers in an awkward atmosphere, to you at least. “Why did you bring me here?” Is the first question you ask. Dick, continuing to nuzzle against you, stops suddenly at your query. “What do you mean?” He removes his nose from your hair and looks to you, his eyes blinking curiously as though you just asked a silly question. You swallow a lump in your throat and clench your hands together. “Why am I here, Dick, in your apartment? Are you a doctor? If you helped me from my fall at the station, why didn’t you take me to a hospital?”

His eyebrows pucker, the skin between them pinching together before he sits up, almost scooting away from you. “Well,” he lightly chuckles, “I’m not a doctor, but I am first aide certified, I spent a lot of my childhood- and adulthood in and out of the ER. My uh, my grandfather. He’s a doctor… of sorts, so I picked up a little from him.” The vagueness of his response makes your belly flicker with anger before you quickly quell it. You need to stay calm.

“You still didn’t answer my question.” You explain, thumb and forefinger rubbing against each other in anxiety as you go from looking straight to looking pointedly at him. He grimaces and turns from you to look at the wall. “You’re here because you need help.” He finally explains. The response is not the clear, cut and concise answer you were hoping for, instead it has opened thousands more doors of confusion.

“What do you mean by that- that I need help?” You push, a moment of braveness cutting through the shroud of trepidation. He chuckles, although dryly. “You’ll understand in time.” He smiles at you, patting your thigh gently. You open your mouth to retort, to bite, to say or do anything but it quickly dies, falls back down your throat and then burns in the acidity of your stomach.

He gets braver, his nose nestles itself once again in your hair before he wraps arm around your waist, pulling you into his side. “You feel warm.” He observes. “Do you feel sick?” He places his palm to your clammy forehead, you do not feel feverish in the slightest. “No.” Is your tense response. He frowns but does not push it any further. He shrugs after.

He removes his nose from your hair instead choosing to nestle it in the space where your shoulder meets your neck. The arm he was using to rub up and down your back stops, instead choosing to wrap around your waist as the other hand comes up and locks itself in your hair, caressing it slowly.

You and Dick sit in silence for what feels like an eternity, his hand gently carding through your hair as he breathes in and out slowly. “How did you know I didn’t like eggs?” Is your second question. Dick hums, his eyes fluttering shut, as though he were deep in contemplation. “I know lots of things about you.” He concludes.

The way he skirts around questions- especially after he said he wanted to “clear the air” makes you feel incredulous. Spoken down to- utterly indignant. Not wanting to completely give up on the line of questioning that may help you understand this situation a little more you continue, “lots of things? Like what?” He sighs, his chest heaving up and down. It’s not a negative sigh nor a frustrated one- more thoughtful than anything, as though he were sorting through an array of information

“Well, you don’t like eggs first and foremost,” he snickers, jostling you a little in the side hug as though he’s trying to incite you to laugh alongside him. “Your full name is (Y/N) (L/N). I know you attended GSU on a scholarship but dropped out for reasons I’m still not quite clear on, you’re not a Gothamite- it’s unfortunately a little too obvious by the way,” he chuckles again, “you worked at ‘The Blue Rooster Bistro’ ever since you dropped out, you lived in the Bowery, you went out to eat at least once a week at Chinese restaurant across from your apartment block, ever since you dropped out of GSU you’ve lost contact with all of your Gotham friends and home ones too, you’ve avoided your mother’s calls for what- four years? You came to Gotham when you were 20, turning 21 and now you’re 25 turning 26. I honestly know more, I just don’t want to bore you.” He murmurs the last part into your skin, his breath creates sticky condensation on your skin, making it feel as though it's bubbling and burning from a chemical burn.

His smile feels like it’s melting your skin off. You want to scream and run and hide far, far away never to be found again by anyone. This man, who you have never so much as even met knows details about you even you have not kept track of, or more to the point wanted to keep track of. His nose prods up the column of your neck, savouring the feeling of your skin. Your body tenses up.

“Are you okay?” He whispers into your skin, his hot breath fanning over it, you choke back yet another scream, chest growing impossibly tighter, your vision becoming spottier and spottier with every passing touch. You want to kick him in the nuts and shove him off of you, stomp on his neck and ram the door down and run until the bottoms of your feet are slick with your own blood. Instead, you take in a steeling breath and nod.

“Yes.” You whisper, “I’m okay.” You lick your lips, before asking your final question, “who are you?” He removes himself from the crook of your neck, looking to you with a flat mouth and eyebrows pressed down. “I already said that, I’m Dick.” You clench your hand he cannot see into a fist to hide your irritation at his what feels like coy confusion, “you know so much about me, it’s only fair I learn a little about you too, isn’t it?” You say, a weak smile perking up on your face, a weak attempt to goad him into divulging you.

He hums and continues to observe your face, he brushes the backs of his knuckles against your cheek so softly it's practically a ghosts touch. “I’m Dick. Dick Grayson, well, it’s legally Richard Grayson but nobody calls me Richard.” He admits, sheepishly. Your world comes to a screeching standstill. Dick Grayson. That is why he looked so familiar, so model like. Because he has worked as a model before, although sparingly and years and years ago when he was 18 or 19, you were still in high school. You had those Calvin Klein clippings. He’s 27 or 28 if memory serves correct. He’s one of Bruce Wayne’s many adopted sons- or ward or some other weird rich people bullshit title like that.

He looks almost shy after admitting this fact. “I can tell by your face you recognise me now.” A light pink blush dusts across his face- he looks like a blushing kid confessing to the girl he likes. He sits up from his position of nuzzling your neck and stroking your hair to sit next to you, creating a small space between you, almost as though he's the one that needs space. His blush has deepened to a vermillion as he nervously scratches the back of his neck- he's embarrassed. Plain as day.

"Gosh, I was kinda hoping you wouldn't know who I am." He admits, propping himself up by planting his hands behind him keeping him upright. You don't say anything, your thoughts simply too horrified at this revelation about Dick.

This man has billionaire ties, he has money, he has powerful connections. If he wanted to he could make you disappear off the face of the Earth and there is nothing you can do about it, people like him- like his adoptive father run it. You're trapped. So long as he has this money- this power over you, you're trapped, effectively missing. with the kind of money he has- Wayne money, they could stage your death if Dick wanted it. Your blood curdles.

He wraps his arms around your waist from behind, placing his chin on your shoulder. Vomit rises and burns your mouth with reflux. He kisses your hair softly, testing.

You don't react. You can't afford to react. You have to be smart.

That bastard left you already. How the fuck could he? in your wedding dress that left nothing to the imagination. in this empty penthouse, which overlooks the city, that was already decorated to his liking. You hated it all.

You hated the mountain of gifts and the letters, the food that was on the kitchen island, and the way you fucking ached for him. This boy made your little virgin heart go thump thump thump while his went numb numb numb.

You decided to stop sulking around like a puppy beaten to the curb and actually change out of your wedding dress. It took you a while to find your way to the bedroom. You’ve already moved all your clothes here, so you wonder what else Timothy would need.

The man’s just probably making excuses to not be near you. You practically tear the dress off of you, throwing it on the ground while picking out the comfiest of pajamas. What the fuck happened to your pajamas?

Did that bitch of a mother of yours replace them all with lingerie? Jeez... You shake your head as you decide to pick the one that covers up the most, which is to your knees, dark red, and lacy.

As you walk back to the living room, you hear your phone ring— it’s him. No, not Timothy, that unsaved number. You immediately pick up, “Where are you?” “Yeah, change of plans… come to REDACTED.”

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

Could the night get any better? The fucker surprised you with a baggie of coke. Oh, how generous… said it was a wedding gift. Now you're smoking cigars and doing lines of coke while watching your own wedding on the news.

You have no idea how many times they're going to play it, but they might as well; you look fucking gorgeous, and the entire city should know. The coke hits you harder than you ever thought it would; it’s better than when you weren’t sober. At least it’ll make up for the fact you don’t have a honeymoon—

Actually, you're not really sure if you don’t have one; it’s safer to assume the worst when it comes to Timothy. Before you could even react, you hear the door unlock and open, “Sister-in-law!” An unfamiliar voice shouts.

You immediately duck down and lick the Coke off the table, hiding the little bag under the couch. You grab a throw blanket to cover yourself from him. You slowly emerge and see who it is: Dick, with a concerned face that's full of confusion.

“You okay?” “I’m fine… I just would appreciate it if you knocked next time.” You hazily say as you chuckle awkwardly. He nods as he walks in, setting a basket down on the kitchen island. “Right… Bruce said we shouldn’t give you this at the wedding, and Tim said he didn’t want to see it anymore.”

You nod after him as you eye the basket, trying to avoid eye contact and not show your dilated pupils. “It smells…” “I’ll open the window!” You get up from the floor and, against all odds, open an enormous window. “You should… leave,” you say as the blanket falls off of you, revealing your lingerie.

“Right. Okay. Timothy will be here tomorrow.” “I know,” you reply doubtfully. Are you trying to convince yourself or him?

You try your best to recover from your headache from almost being caught by your brother-in-law.

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

It’s best to just open your presents instead of doing lines of coke. You bend down and reach for the little bag, throwing it in the trash; you doubt he’d check it.

You walk over to the kitchen and grab the basket, removing the black plastic wrap that prevented you from seeing what it holds. As you unwrap it, your eyes widen. Is this what your in-laws think you and Timothy need?

Not one, not two… but three different types of condoms: RealFeel, Mutual Climax, and Bubblegum. “Bubblegum exists…?” you mutter under your breath as you set it aside.

Your fingers wrap around a bottle, more Durex... this time it’s lube? You're embarrassed and flustered to be even holding this; at least it isn't something crazy and just original.

You see something else that you wonder why it hasn’t caught your eye sooner: a huge bottle of wine. You smile softly as you kiss the bottle and put it in the fridge.

You check the rest of the basket, and it’s nothing interesting, just flower petals and heartfelt notes from each of the family members. You’ll read them if you can’t sleep.

You open the rest of the gifts, and all of them are just as corny as the next, from lingerie to more wine to teddy bears to flowers and self-care kits. Oh, and don't get yourself started on the amount of his-and-hers items.

His and hers cups, his and hers robes, his and hers slippers—the list goes on and on; the words don't even look right anymore.

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

You lie down on the couch as the news plays in the background; you just want to sit, to be alone. Well, you are alone, but you don’t feel like it. You were already reaching for your phone on the table before a random unknown number started to flood your messages. How did they even get your personal number?

You check the messages, and it’s a video of a security camera recording. Your heart drops as soon as you see the message, “Is this your husband?” followed by a series of laughing emojis. Your finger hovers over the play button.

You finally click it, and the date reads ‘4/5/25’… the day before your wedding. The night before your wedding, you were sure this wasn’t good. The video starts with an empty alleyway, dim streetlights, trash everywhere, and a door.

Soon two people emerge from the door; as the door opened, it was filled with music and flashing lights. You assume it was a club or a bar. They’re walking or shoving themselves out of the door; their mouths are clashed against each other, digging at each other.

like they’re dying and only the cure is each other. It makes you sick, and you almost click off, and then you see it. That's Timothy. You don’t even recognize the girl; you think it’s just some random bitch from the club.

You turn your phone off and throw it on the table. Sure, he hated you, but that’s no excuse to fucking cheat on you! It was the day before your wedding, not even an entire day, maybe 15 or 10 hours before? Your wedding was early in the morning and only ended in the afternoon.

You have no idea what you're going to fucking do.

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

You slept early; you were staring at the ceiling and kept reaching for the empty space next to you. The feeling is so familiar, so why does it all of a sudden feel so foreign? You wake up early and take a cold shower to freshen your mind up.

Have breakfast with the news playing in the background; you still haven’t turned it off or changed the channel from the night before. Your stomach had a pit in it, a black hole. You have no idea what you're going to say to him.

You're so… tired. It aches. It hurts. It’s excruciating. Your head tilts towards the island you're sitting at; the marble feels so cool on your hot forehead. Such a relief.

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

You suddenly hear the doorknob shake, you hear keys jingling, you sit up straight and look at the clock, 8 pm? This is what pain does to a person. Your heavy eyelids can barely keep open. It’s Tim. Suddenly awake and alert, you are.

“Where have you been?” You immediately break the silence as you cross your arms, standing in front of him. “Listen… I've had a rough day.” “Really? Rough day, wow, I could imagine.” “What’s your problem?” He snaps; it didn’t take much. You get on his nerves, even without speaking.

“I’m your husband; you’re supposed to be nice to me. Yet as soon as I come in, you start yelling.” He flails his arms around, his words only agitating you more. “I know what you’ve been doing! “What have i been doing?” “You’ve been messing around.”

His eyebrows immediately furrow, his gaze hardens, unwelcoming, more than before. “One night before our wedding, really? How cliché.” You shrug, tilting your head to the right to mock him a little, to belittle him.

“So what if I did?” He started to close in on you, his footsteps louder, your heartbeats faster, your skin hotter. “So what? You have no loyalty!” “Shut up.” “What—?” “I said shut up!” He says it like an order this time. He grabs you by your chin, squeezing your cheeks, shaking you left to right.

Your eyes quake; from one eye to the next you look, back and forth you go. He breathes heavily, and just as you were about to say something, his lips clash with yours, taking you in as if you were a part of him that he lost.

You try to push him away, but his hand finds yours first, holding both of your hands with his one as the other holds your hair in a bunch, so aggressive towards you.

You try to pull away, but your body refuses to; you need this as much as he does, maybe even more. You whimper under his touch; he forces you to walk backwards, pushing you onto the couch that cried aloud at your combined weight.

His eyes narrow at you, angry you even had the audacity to question him. How could you even speak to him like that?

He slowly takes off his belt, discarding it somewhere over the couch, lowering his boxers and pants down in one.

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He lifts your lingerie up, and you let him. He takes off your underwear, the slick making it stick. He shakes his head as he chuckles to himself, “You’re pathetic,” he mutters under his breath.

He slowly slid it inside of you; the pace he was going at was so excruciatingly slow, to taunt you. Your walls immediately welcomed him in and clenched around him. your mouth forming into an O shape.

He leaned down as he started to go a little deeper inside, deep but not deep enough to reach the hymen. You could hear his breathing; it was so steady and calm while you were so out of breath without doing anything.

He sucked on your jawline, practically biting, and his right hand moved to your chest, finding your right breast and coddling it through the fabric.

He sucked once more as he bottomed out completely at once, sighing with pleasure while you were damn near screaming, It broke? Just like that?

He thrust faster and faster, his breath never once hitched. He groaned as you played with his hair, and his left hand left your breast and held you by your wrist. “Don’t touch.” This wasn’t just him talking; it was an order.

He thrust faster and deeper as a ‘punishment.’ You whimper, groan, and moan. He was so bored of all of it. “Virgins are the worst,” he muttered as he rolled his eyes. He left your jaw alone as he lifted his head to silently judge you with his narrowed eyes.

He pulled out, not even letting you reach your high or letting himself cum. You don’t even process your own words; your mouth moves on its own: “What?” “What?” he says in a mocking tone. He puts his hands under your armpits, picking you up and making you stand straight. He sits in your place, and his eyes point towards in between his knees.

“Get down,” he ordered, fully expecting you to obey, and obey you do. Your knees hit the harsh, cold floors, his cock is straight as an arrow, and you just stare at it dumbfounded. “Do you know what to do?” You snap out of it, nodding uncontrollably.

Your right hand grips around all his 7½ hard inches, and your mouth opens as you slowly bring yourself to it, your tongue reaching out to lick the salty pre-cum beaded at the tip. Tracing his every vein with your tongue before licking him from base to tip, he groans with a clearly annoyed look on his face before he grabs a fistful of your hair and shoves your head down, forcing you to take him full.

You practically choke and suffocate with your throat trying to accommodate his size, and your eyes start to water. “Don’t cry on me, baby.” He spits out, You don’t know whether he’s mocking you or actually telling you not to.

He guides you up and down, bopping your head on his manhood, not taking you into consideration while chasing his own high. He’s close; meanwhile, you’re close to death with the lack of air. He sucked in a sharp breath before letting ropes of white untie in your mouth. He kept himself in the warmth of your lips, forcing you to swallow every bit of him.

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He lifts you off his cock, making a pop sound as he does, discarding you on the floor as if you were just a fleshlight. His breaths were slow and steady while you were huffing and puffing for air, acting as if he meant to suffocate you. “Don’t be dramatic,” he says.

He gets up from the couch and starts to look for his boxers and pants. He finds them and puts them on, not forgetting his belt. He's so… normal? You just sit on the floor naked, trying to comprehend what had just happened.