wherefore art thou

cw: 1600s au, dark!ghost, reader described as curvier/plus-sized, graphic depictions of war + violence + murder, possessive!ghost, war-criminal!ghost, inaccurate historical settings probably, unprotected piv, cumplay, breeding kink, size kink, simon "my wife can do no wrong" riley, pregnancy, references to childbirth (18+)

There is a beast that sleeps at the foot of your bed. In the shape of a man, it is curled up there, calloused fingers wrapped around one soft ankle and split lips kissing the bone there gently. It purrs as it slumbers, paws that look like hands sliding up your bare legs until your knees fall open, and it can slither between the warmth of plushy thighs.

It eats as if it hasn’t had a proper meal in days—and perhaps it hasn’t. A curling tongue that prods between your sopping cunt, deft fingers thumbing back the hood of your clit so it can widen its jaw and suck the supple thing into its gaping, drooling mouth. When you whine, the beast laughs, and it sounds an awful lot like your husband.

It feels like him, too, when it slips inside. The thing is hot to the touch—when your hands slide around its shoulders and down its spine, you think you recognize the striations along its skin. Pulpy, protruding scars, puffs of torn-apart skin, firm, thick muscle and fat that barely gives when you press your fingers into it. When it kisses you, you keen, knees hiking up and back arching as you try to follow it with eager rolls of your hips. It’s so heavy, so warm, locking you in with big arms as it fucks you into the silk sheets of your bed. You pant into its mouth, feeling the growl deep within its chest, and you lean your head back and cry in hopes that it won’t stop feeding your greedy pussy with what it wants—something thick and wet and stuck inside of you.

“Simon—”

“‘ello, wife—” He pants, mouth curling into a sick smile. His teeth look sharper from this angle, and he puts a hand under your arse and tilts your hips so the tip of his cock curves right into your cervix. You cry, scratching down his back, and he nudges your chin up so he can kiss you again, tongue mingling with yours as you try your best to just take it, take it, take it—

“Insatiable beast,” you pant against his lips. He’s pressing his hips against yours, chest heaving as he tries to come down from a back-numbing kind of pleasure. He knows as soon as he pulls out, it’ll pool underneath you, globs of himself, of you, messy and nasty because that’s just how things are between you. You blink up at him after he lights the candelabra on your nightstand, and in the flickering of its low light, you see him well for the first night in months.

His hair is freshly cut. Blonde hair cut close to his head, how he prefers it, making it easy to focus on his dark eyes and blonde lashes. He has new wounds—his arm bleeds where a bandage has come loose, and you notice new notches and cuts starting to heal along his chest. His eyes sweep over your face before it follows the line of your jaw. You moan a little when his hands cup your breasts, thumbing over the tender skin there before they drop to your tummy. He sucks on his teeth, a big smile coming over his face, and his hands slide down to smooth over the skin there—round, smooth, waiting.

“‘n ‘ello to my boy,” Simon murmurs. “Missed me, did ya?”

“He must’ve,” you whisper, putting your hand over his on your stomach. “Makes me sick every morning…”

“Mmmm…” Simon tsks, shaking his head. “I’m here now, love. He won’t bother you any longer.”

“You’re so certain of that?”

“A boy needs his father. ‘n hurting his beautiful mum…” Simon picks you up from under your hips, manhandling you gently to get you onto your knees. “...I won’t allow tha’.” You giggle into your pillow, getting up onto your elbows. Simon puts his hands on either side of your thighs, parting them, and he groans as he watches a dribble of cum fall onto the bed underneath you. He leans forward, sliding his tongue along the seam of your cunt, and you push back against his face, whining.

“Simon—ohhh—”

“Taste so good,” Simon rasps, and you squeak when he smacks a hand across the soft skin of your arse. You mewl, wiggling your hips, and Simon laughs. “Gonna keep you like this. Olways. Fat…” Simon cups your belly, where his son rests comfortably underneath the skin. “...Beautiful…Warm…” He prods your folds with his tongue, kissing you there, sliding his tongue around, slurping when you drip a little too much and making a wet, smacking sound with his mouth. “‘s just like I told you, innit? Saw it…saw you…” He kisses beside your thighs, up the curve of your back. “Do you believe me now, dear wife? Tha’ wot I see is as true as you are?”

As the months pass, Simon has become more irrational. You know that part of it is your doing. When Simon is in your bed, with nothing but moonlight illuminating your faces, you whisper in his ear about the things that can come to be.

Simon does not always seem interested. He has never been someone that cared for wealth or land or title. Simon was born into the lowest class—a drunken father, a terrified mother, a brother who could not overcome the weight that was settled onto his shoulders before he was strong enough to carry it. Simon was alone since he was small, and he made his way into the king’s guard because there was nowhere else for him to go. Everything he has earned, he earned because he was simply too good at killing.

The only prize Simon has ever asked for is you.

So when you tell him about pretty jewels and grand estates and shiny gold, Simon barely blinks an eye. He pets your face and sweeps his eyes over you and waits until you stop talking so he can slip his tongue into your mouth and put you onto your knees. Simon gets so easily distracted by you—he can’t look at you for too long before he wants to get his hands on you. There is nothing better than the woman that sleeps in his bed. Your breasts, plushy thighs, warm middle, it’s everything Simon fights to come home to. Now more than ever—there’s half of him growing inside of you, and he practically drools as you roam the halls of your home.

You received a plentiful amount of gifts when you told Simon for the first time. You hadn’t bled in two months, and you were confident writing to him that you had good news. A few weeks later, there was a trunk full of goods waiting for you in the entrance hall. Dresses, silks, lace, jewels, gold. Expensive paints, interesting books, little trinkets from faraway places—and at the bottom of the trunk, a pair of little black boots and a letter penned by Simon.

To my dearest wife, Nothing lifts the spirits as much as hearing from you. I spend long days staring out at nothing but wasted land, and I find myself at times unable to find moments of reprieve. Your letter found me seemingly when I needed it most. This campaign won’t last much longer. Renewed vigor is in me now that you have told me of what waits for me. My beautiful wife, and my son. Simon

He has insisted since that first letter that your baby is a boy. You wondered early on if Simon would be one of those men that detested girls—that having one would spoil his bloodline or weaken his family line. Simon was insistent that was not the reason.

“My firstborn will be a boy. Tha’s oll I know, love.”

He says girls will follow. He’s seen them—with your hair and your nose, his eyes and his dry sense of humor. He told you that they will be beautiful, just like you are, and it is in these visions that you plant the seed of your want in him.

The fire is warm in the sitting room. It crackles, helping keep away the autumn air outside. You’re sitting in Simon’s lap, curled on top of his thigh as he catches up on some finished ledgers from the previous month he was away. There’s a blanket over you to keep your legs covered, but it’s just under your waist, letting your belly show under your dress. Simon has his free hand cupped under the curve, holding you there protectively. There’s an unfinished blanket in your hands that you are sewing, in a navy blue color with white accents.

“Do you think our baby will be big?” You ask softly, leaning back into Simon’s chest. He hums, his thumb rubbing over your belly, and he kisses your cheek gently.

“If he’s anythin’ like me, love…he certainly might be.”

“And what about our girls?” You smile, looking up at Simon from over your shoulder. He smiles back at you, scarred lips stretching.

“They’ll be perfect, just as you are,” Simon mutters, his eyes on your lips. “All elegant. Too intelligent for their own good. Strong. Stubborn…”

You giggle, fluttering your lashes at him, and Simon smooths his hand over your belly again, rubbing it gently. He fixates on it often, and you can do nothing but oblige him. He keeps you fed, warm, and off your feet, and ever since he came back home, he keeps his head between your thighs and mouth on your cunt. He says it’s good for the baby, to feel good, and you certainly won’t complain.

“They’ll be such daddy’s girls,” you whisper, touching his jaw. “Your little princesses.”

“Mmm…”

“In all but name, I suppose,” you add softly. An odd expressions flashes over Simon’s face. He frowns a little, meeting your eyes, and you shrug. “Just…you know. They won’t…actually be princesses.”

“No, I suppose they won’t be.”

“A shame,” you cup his jaw and give him a warm kiss. “You’d make such fine ones…Your Grace.”

It is easy to water the roots after that. Once they have a hold between his ribs, you feed it as much as you can. The children are the beginning—you call them his little prince, his princesses, you tell them they are worthy of so much more, that they deserve everything you could give them. Not even born yet, and you instill in him what it means to be their father.

That you must give them the best life possible. That you must do what is necessary so that they have whatever they want, whatever they need. That you must do better than those that came before you, because you both came from nothing, and you have earned this kind of life to live.

Because we bled and we cried. Because we were beaten and berated and ignored, so are we not owed some kind of reparations?

His men come after. Simon spends long campaigns in foreign lands at his king’s bidding. He spends that time with the king’s army, taking them across the water, across land, over mountains just to conquer the places that John Price deems should be his. They do this with aggression and precision, and they do it with Simon at their stead, and you know they are vital to getting what it is that you want.

A man can only influence those that will listen.

You invite them over with grand feasts. With not much to spend your newfound wealth on, you decide often to treat Simon’s men to many nights of good food, good wine, and good women. His men are pigs; they eat with open mouths and fuck with dirty bodies, but they are what protect John’s realm and follow his orders, so you appease them anyways. These are the same men that nearly tore your skirts to shreds just to have you once, and now they eat at your table.

When you look upon them, you never show your distaste. You simply fill their cups with more wine and ask if there is anything more they need from you.

Simon’s second-in-command is sweet on you. He’s got the loveliest blue eyes and a quirky accent, but the thing that makes him stand out the most is the soot he draws across his face and the shaved sides of his head that emphasize his dark curls. Simon tells you he is of the North—a place of great cliffs and cold waters and decadent history. He wears holly pinned to his armor as a homage to his homeland, and when you presented him a small coin purse made of plaid fabrics and asked the band to play him a special song, you had him.

He waits on you, hand and foot. When Simon is not around, you feel him in the background. When their men get too close, and Simon doesn't see, it's Johnny that puts a blade against their backs and tells them one more step will mean they lose their legs. Johnny may be from somewhere else, but he is made of the same things that Simon is made of—Johnny is a dog with no owner, and your fingers under his collar only make him salivate. He wants, just like anyone; always searching, never found.

Simon’s men loved their duchess—what would they not do for the woman that fed them, clothed them, attended to them? When you gave the gold that hung from your very ears to the soldier with a sick child to pay for treatments, how could they think any less of you?

You are the woman that married a man with many faces, all of them presumed ugly and detestable. They think you a saint for always putting Simon in a good mood, and for that alone, they’d kiss the cobblestone that you walked on. There is no wrong that you could ever do. You remember their names and their favorite meals and what songs to sing when they sit in your halls, and they recognize the callous you still have in your hands as a sign of the working past you still haven’t let go of. Humble beginnings. A sweet woman. If they knew you wished their death blowing out birthday candles, they’d never believe it. Not the duchess. Not Simon’s wife.

The lady is innocent.

“Johnny, wait!” You waddle outside just as Simon and his men are mounting their horses. You wave to your husband, who nods at you, and then you come up to Johnny’s horse with a small pack in your hands. “Here. One of my maids is…from the Isles. She packed you some things.”

“Fer me, Yer Grace?” Johnny laughs. His cheeks are rosy, and not just from the cold, and he side-eyes your husband nervously before deciding it would be rude to not take the bag from you. He stuffs it into a pack on his horse before giving you a short bow of his head, and you smile before resting your hand over your belly to kiss your husband goodbye. You stand on your toes and press your lips to his helmet. “Say thank ye to the duchess fer her kindness, lads.”

A round of thank yous follow Johnny’s command, and you pet Simon’s horse gently as he fixes his pack to the back, a bedroll and satchel of supplies you readied for him. His stallion is so great and large—onyx with dark eyes, so much taller than you that you are always craning your neck to stroke his nose. He has lovely dark hair, and his mane has been carefully brushed out overnight. You reach into your pocket for a piece of fruit for him, and you giggle when his horse nuzzles into your neck as you feed him his snack.

“You spoil ‘im, love,” Simon mutters, and you sigh, feeling him at your back as you give his horse another piece of fruit.

“He deserves it,” you say softly. “He brings you home to me.” You look up at him. “To us.”

“Tha’ he does.”

Simon is the final obstacle to conquer. Not to sweeten his mind to royal children or fatten up his men—no. You have to convince Simon that climbing this particular ladder is worth what comes after, because doing so will not go quietly. Simon does not do things or make decisions unless they are backed by tactical advantage. It is why he is still alive and why he always wins what he is after. There must be some strategic advantage, some gain, that will be good enough that it will be worth the blood he spills to reach the top.

Simon Riley is a descendant of vikings. His men whisper it amongst themselves often, and when you watch him sleep at night, it is not a difficult thing to believe. His sheer strength. His large stature. The darkness of his eyes, the width of his palms, the way that warfare and killing and conquering are so innate and instinctual that it must be woven into his very being, in his blood, in his bones, passed down from generations of warriors that he must have had as ancestors.

Simon was born for this. Simon was born for more. Simon was born to take and to take and to take—the same way he took you, the same way he simply saw what he wanted and made it his, this is his purpose.

Blood will spill. If not his own, then someone else’s—someone’s that will matter. There will be anger, and there will be dissonance, so it needs to be a decision made in good timing. Taking matters this way will lead to political strafes—it needs to be at a moment where Simon can easily sway them back to contentment. His men will be frightened—he must do this at a time where he has something to offer them in return. The balance must be kept, as all things in history are done. When someone takes too much, it is given back in some way. When someone is too generous, they are taken advantage of, betrayed or left behind. Chaos, anger, and pain—these are the things that will work in Simon’s favor.

He has already lost so much and built himself back up; but Simon’s cup is not yet full.

You do not see Simon again until the celebration of the queen’s birthday.

All noble people have been asked to come stay at the palace. You follow in your carriage behind a long line of other carriages up the grand path to the royal estate. When you peek your head out of the carriage window, you see Johnny trotting alongside, catching your eye and giving you a small nod before he picks up the pace a little. He’s been riding alongside you for the three-day trip to the palace—it would be quicker for Simon to meet you here, but he had planned for a small group of his men to accompany you on the journey.

You brighten as soon as you see him. Simon is there just beyond the gates, waiting on his horse as he watches the line of carriages come in. You suspect he must be surveilling them, watching for something awry. You wave when you catch his eye, and though he does not move from his post, you giggle when he winks at you as you pass.

There’s decorations everywhere. As soon as you walk into the entrance hall, you’re greeted by arches of red and white roses. There’s candles lit everywhere, greenery across all the walls. You clutch your fur coat to your chest as you look around in awe. It’s so grand and beautiful, and there’s red and gold banners flying across all the halls. The palace has been bathed in the celebration of your queen, extravagant and elegant, but you wonder briefly how much coin it took to make it so.

England's people starve; but there's somehow money for a grand party.

You tried to dress for the occasion. Your dressmakers sent you off with a trunk full of new gowns, and you wear one now. Puffy sleeves have been seen all throughout court, and you wear them now. Heavy navy blue velvet, with trims along the sleeves that reveal the silver under-fabric of your dress. Everything is held together with your skirts just pinned above your belly, with a silver chain belt high around your waist. Your skirt glitters with small, handsewn pearls and gems, and you wear a pin of Simon’s motif on your chest. The skull eyes are adorned with black diamonds, and you touch it absentmindedly for comfort.

“You came!”

There’s an excited squeal that sounds from down the hall. Guests are filing in, being escorted to their rooms, and you notice them all stopping to bow as bright, red fabric flies past them. All you see is a mess of bouncy, ginger curls as you’re engulfed in a big, warm hug. You stumble backwards a little, squeaking, but she keeps you steady as she pulls back to look at you.

“Your Majesty,” you breathe, and she cups your cheeks and shakes her head.

“It’s my birthday, and I command you not to call me that anymore, you must call me Victoria,” she laughs. She looks down as your chambermaid takes your coat, and she gasps when she sees the small bump poking out from under your skirt. “Oh, look at you! You look so beautiful. Can I feel?”

You smile shyly and nod, and she touches your belly with gentle hands. She sighs deeply, shaking her head, and she meets your eyes with a bigger smile than before. She is so genuine, it nearly makes you sick. For all the airheadedness you associated with her, she is kind. When you served her, she always made sure you slept in a warm bed and ate enough food and had enough funds to go to the markets with her. She may be rich and royal and impressionable, but there are glimpses of a soft heart; it's a shame she has no spine to let it show.

“I was hoping you’d come sooner, but…” She shakes her head again, “I’m sorry John keeps your husband away. I…I would try to speak to him, but I fear it won’t do you any good. He never listens to me.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. You will never understand her.

“I’ll ask Simon if we can stay a few more days,” you tell her. You don't tell her that you don't have to ask; you don't tell her that if you just asked him, he would make arrangements to make it happen. “After everyone’s gone. I miss the desserts from here. My cooks don’t make jam the way yours do, I miss the way Thomas does it.”

“Thomas?” Victoria looks confused.

“Your pastry cook,” you remind her. “His name is Thomas.”

Her royal blood shows. Her face contorts, as if learning the name of her cooks is something extremely irrelevant and unimportant. You're reminded of your differences.

“Right.” She takes your hand. “Come! I need you to help me pick accessories for tonight, and my ladies never do it right.”

Her birthday always calls for a grand celebration, but this one is packed full of festivities. This year, there is a week-long itinerary of events just in Victoria’s honor. Games, feasts, dances, so many parties. You don’t know why, not even the king celebrates his birthday this way, but you suspect John had done something, and now he is vying for her favor.

For Victoria, you suppose many parties and lots of diamonds will do it.

You help her dress, even though it’s improper for a lady of your station to do it. She tells you that as you stand behind her and delicately tie her corset, but you shake your head anyways, shooing the maids that surround you as you pull deftly and tie solid, perfect bows.

“It makes me feel useful,” you tell her softly, shrugging. “I am not allowed to do much of anything these days.”

“You’re growing a future duke, that’s more work than either of our husbands will do in their lifetime,” Victoria laughs, and you laugh with her. Her dress is utter magic. Intricately patterned red fabric layered over many skirts. Grand sleeves of gold and red, a train of a skirt that stretches far. The trim of her dress is lacy with gems, and you suspect all the pins and buttons and snaps of her dress are proper gold. You put a hand on your belly and step back as one of her maids fits her headpiece on, with a short trailing veil of red tulle. You smile at her. “Well, what do you think?”

“Beautiful as always,” you tell her, and you mean it. She takes a few moments to look at herself in the mirror before she dismisses her staff except for you. You swallow, finding a plush chair to sit in and taking a seat as she stands there, still looking at herself. “Is something the matter?”

Victoria smooths a hand down the front of her dress, shrugging. She stares longingly at her middle, cupping her hands in the way that you often do now. A phantom belly, one she aches for, but her hands fall flat against her dress, all give.

“Please don’t take this the wrong way, because I am very happy you’re here, but…” She sniffles a little. “I thought I’d have a babe by now, too. I am so happy you are, I am, I just…” She bites her lip. “Do you think something is wrong with me?”

“What?” You breathe. “No! Of course not!”

“Then why…” She blinks at you. “Why am I not with child, too?”

You stand up slowly, making your way over to her so you can take her hands in yours. You squeeze them gently, shaking your head. The doubt that plagues her mind had to have been planted their by a man. You can't imagine what her staff must say. What John's men must whisper. The blame will always be on the less-valued body, and next to John, Victoria's worth is simply replaceable. If she ever died, he would marry another.

“May I speak plainly?” You ask. She nods, looking down at her feet. “Well…hmm…perhaps when you lie with John, you could try…a different position. Or…” You face warms as you talk, but you just lower your voice. “Or keep your position for longer. Even after…” You laugh, trying not to be awkward, but the topic is not usually for conversation. You've only ever spoken of these things with Simon.

“After what?” Victoria asks. You blink up at her, confused.

“After he…” You bite your lip, “you know…finishes.”

“Oh,” Victoria laughs. “No, he always goes before that.”

“Oh, Victoria…” You breathe, squeezing her hands again. “Come sit.”

The party is lively when you make it to the grand hall. You’re in a new dress, a more embellished one, and your headpiece has a dark veil that covers your eyes, stopping just above your nose. You are seated just beside the queen, with her husband’s chair empty on her other side. She sits quietly, looking the picture of elegance, but every time you look at her, her face is sullen, and her smile never reaches her eyes.

The music is bright, and the food is lovely. There is a long table filled with fruits, desserts, and meats. Golden roast chicken, fire-roasted lamb and beef and pork, little cakes and tarts filled with jams.

You have no appetite until you see your husband.

He follows your king into the room, standing tall, thick, iron helmet over his head as he surveys the room. His sword drags heavy along the floor, making a scraping sound that rings even over the loud music playing. You don’t focus too much on the dark specks that shine over his armor or what they might be. Instead, all you see is big and terrible and horrifying, and you smile to yourself as you cup under your growing belly and admire him from afar. You are ashamed you were ever afraid of this man.

He’d kill anything to get to where you are now if he sensed some kind of danger. You do not think too long about the fact that it is John Price that stands between you now. He looks handsome; beard combed, trousers fastened, blouse casually unbuttoned. He is all man, John Price, but his presence and his attractiveness never made you look twice. You know of what lies beneath John Price—or rather, what doesn't. John Price is hollow inside. There is nothing there but façade.

Victoria helps you stand when you grab the table to greet the king. As John nears the table, he holds his hand out to you, gesturing you to sit again, and you do, leaning back against the chair as you breathe through a warm spike of back pain.

“Your Grace,” John greets you with a small smile. “You’re glowing.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” you say softly. “It’s nice to be back here.”

“We’re glad to have you, aren’t we, love?” He turns to his wife. She shifts in her chair, clenching her jaw. She finally looks at him, ire in those lovely green eyes.

“I wish she had never left,” Victoria says finally. “She’s always honest with me.”

A large shadow falls over the table. Your smile comes back, big and giggly, and Simon bows to your queen before turning to look at you. He moves to round the table, his gait heavy and sounding, and then you feel him at the back of your chair.

“Your face,” you hear him say. His voice is low, tone gravelly and laced with concerned. “Y’r in pain.”

“Just my back,” you say lowly, shaking your head. “It’s nothing.”

“He misses me.”

“I do, Simon,” you whisper, finally looking up and over your shoulder. His armor shifts as he bends his neck to look down at you better from under his helmet. “I miss you.”

His arm comes around and cups under your jaw. The metal of his armor freezes your skin, but you close your eyes anyway. It bites, this kind of touch, but you know this is love. The edge of his armor cuts, too, but it does not make you bleed. Simon couldn’t hurt you—even if he tried.

“We should get ya t’bed,” Simon mutters. “You’ve been on y’r feet too long.”

“No,” you shake your head. “Just a little longer. Please.”

“Not much,” Simon insists. “It’s been a long day f’r ya. Need to sleep.”

“It’s okay,” you tell him, taking his hand in yours. Your palm is engulfed by his, the armor making him seem twice as large. It’s warm now from your touch. “I’ll tell you when I’m ready. Will you sit with me? I haven’t seen you in so long. Please.”

He takes the seat from beside you and falls into it. It creaks under his weight, and you keep his hand in your lap. You smile when he fixes that deadly stare on you again, and you put both hands over his in your lap and keep him close.

“I read another book,” you tell him. “French military strategy. It was fascinating.”

“Was it?” Simon hums. “I didn’t know they had one in English.”

“They don’t,” you tell him. “Had to brush up on my French, but it was worth it. Oh, can I tell you about it, Simon?”

“Let me ‘ear it, sweet’eart,” Simon murmurs. “‘m listenin’.”

After a few minutes, you’ve moved from your chair to his lap. You’re still talking animatedly, using your hands, and Simon’s helmet is tilted at an angle so he can listen and speak to you better. One big hand is where it should be—cupping your swollen belly and securing you from behind. Victoria watches, nearly shaking in her seat. Simon’s entire face is covered, and yet, she already knows her own husband has never looked at her that way. He doesn’t crane his neck to listen to her talk. He doesn’t hold her close that way, not even in private, and he’s never made her feel like the only woman in his whole world.

Their union was political and beneficiary, as most marriages are. Her father, a lord with much land in foreign places—her dowry included a large gold reserve that still keeps their pockets heavy to this day. John needed money to recuperate after his father’s death. For Victoria, John Price was a king—his name meant reputation, royalty, recognition, and no family of fortune would pass that up, even when their country was beginning to be bled dry of its resources. A king is a king, royal blood is royal blood. They did not marry because they would love each other, they were married for fame and fortune.

Victoria might be innocent and naïve, but she is not stupid. Victoria is a romantic. Simon bled for you. Simon won for you. Simon fought to have your hand; he has always wanted you, and now he has you, and he still works to keep you. As John takes his seat beside her, she feels tears at the back of her eyes. She will never live the life she envisioned for herself as a girl. She will never have a story like the ones she used to read about in books or hear from her maid at bedtime. She will never be able to look at her husband without some form of doubt.

John won’t even give her a baby to keep her company. She felt so lucky to marry him—handsome, gallant, endearing. Now, all she sees is half of a man. The crown he wears must bear heavy, because his shoulders are slumped, and he looks sad. She does not know what the fuck he has to be sad about. Money, land, titles, authority, is it never enough for men like this?

She looks over to where you and Simon sit. Your forehead pressed to the side of his helmet. His arm curled around you protectively. The music hurts her ears. The food tastes bland. She wishes it was not her birthday.

“I wonder what it’s like to be loved that way,” Victoria says, absentmindedly. John follows her gaze to where Simon is helping you back to your feet. He sniffs, running a hand over his beard.

“Something you’d like to say to me, dear?” He asks her lowly.

“Fuck off,” she whispers, standing and tossing her napkin aside. “I’m retiring to bed.”

John doesn’t follow her. She knew he wouldn’t, but she cries in her chambers about it anyways.

A house built on precarious foundations is not one that is built to withstand. You think of this as you walk the halls in the morning, Simon’s hand in yours as you breathe in the cold air. Winter is fast approaching, and you see a bit of snowfall that likely won’t stick already clouding the outside world. You slow your pace as you approach the south-facing walls, the farthest away from the guest quarters, when you know you are alone, just with Simon.

“I have a confession to make, Simon,” you tell him. You put your hands on the edge of the balcony you look out of, sighing as you stare out at the dying orchards outside. It makes the roses all over the palace seem all the more magnificent. Inaccessible.

“Not a priest,” Simon grunts, shaking his head. “Y’r my wife. Y’can tell me anythin’.”

“Without repercussion?” You laugh, but it is without humor. There is nothing funny about what you have been doing behind his back, without his knowledge, without his guidance, without his advice. You are Simon’s confidant, but he is not yours, and you wonder how upset he will be once he knows the secret you have been keeping from him under the guise of security—and power.

“Woteva mess y’ve made, I’ll clean it up,” Simon kisses his teeth. “Tell me wot y’ve done.”

You turn to look at him from over your shoulder. He stands at attention, arms at his back, and you fold your gloved hands in front of you, over your belly. There is no need to protect yourself from him—it is true that no matter what you’ve done, he will not hate you. A morbid thought you suddenly have, but there could be a trunk full of dead children in your closet, and he will create some horridly wonderful excuse to explain your misfortune.

“A terrible thing, Simon,” you whisper. Your eyes water a little. “And I don’t know…” You bite your lip. “It’s a terrible thing, and I don’t feel bad about doing it, and I can’t bring myself to feel bad. It’s a selfish thing. I’m selfish.”

“Tell me now wot y’ve done,” Simon repeats. “Won’t be upset. Just tell me. I’ll fix it.”

You don’t know how to explain what it is you’ve done. You haven’t really done anything yet, but there are people you have whispered to for far too long, and now they cannot possibly ignore you any longer. Anger, frustration, jealousy, real ire—when placed in vulnerable hands during times of great peril, you can wind up a mechanism that will spiral out of control.

That is your moment. That is your window of opportunity. That is the plane between what exists now and what you really want, and you will need to angle Simon’s head in just a way so that he sees exactly what you see. Bend him to your height. Force him to a knee. Pull back the skin he thinks he wears to show him what he really is inside—royal and deserving and full of red blood. Everyone bleeds the same color, no matter their status or class or what they carry in their coin purse. Simon has never been one for politics or grandeur; you will make him one. You will make it matter because it is you that says it.

“I’ve set something in motion,” you say. “I can’t stop it now. I…I’ve been doing it behind your back, Simon, a-and I’m sorry—” Your lip wobbles. “You will hate me.”

“Are ya speakin’ of the throne that’s right down the hall tha’s mine f’r the takin’, love?”

Your breath catches. Your heart falls straight into the acid bath of your stomach. You pull your coat around your shoulders a little tighter, shaking your head. He narrows his eyes at you under his helmet, and a few tears slip and roll down your cheeks. Under his scrutiny, you feel smaller.

“Y-You’ve known?” You whisper. “A-All this time?”

“Y’think I wouldn’t spot a coup in the makin’ from this close?” Simon chuckles. “Got half a mind to be offended, my dear wife. Hmm…” He walks towards you, his hands coming up, and you flutter your lashes up at him as he cups your jaw in two big hands. The sour in your stomach settles. Your insides calm. Your lips part, and you stare up at a beast that will tuck you away in their den later. “Y’were indeed made t’be mine. You are…” He hums, a deep growl that rattles your insides. “...bloody evil.”

Johnny’s gifts. Your children’s praises.

“S-Simon—”

The French military strategies you so adore—

“‘s my blood inside of you—” Simon whispers. “My son, he makes you hungry, as I knew he would, but this is…” He cups the back of your head and presses the front of his helmet to your face, so firmly, you feel it imprinting on your skin. “...you are mine. In ways even I could not have predicted.”

You blink up at him, wet eyes shining like stars. You put your shaking hands on either side of his helmet, and with his dark eyes on yours, you feel stripped bare and so naked. He sees you in ways no one else ever has. He knows you in ways even you do not know. You are so in tune, in a manner that terrifies you and comforts you all the same. There are things at play now that will change the courses of history, but with Simon at your back, you are so far from afraid. There is nothing in this entire world that could hurt you, not with him so close, so fucking close.

You are unbound. Simon pries the manacles off of you with nothing but brute strength. His trust washes over you, absolving you of every secret that you thought you were keeping from him that felt like marital sin. Simon knew—has known, knows. He let you keep this from him, this quiet lie, this diabolical plan, because only someone like him could ever think to do something so heinous. There are many thrones up for grabs and many places he could have called himself king, but you chose the very land he was born on. The dirt that’s always been under his feet. The walls he built with his very hands. The food he eats that he has watched grow right outside of his window—you chose the very place that owes him the most for the sweat, the blood, the skin he has marred and dug out just to keep from succumbing to someone else.

Simon built this place. Simon put it back together after it had fallen apart, scattered across realms that never thought someone like Ghost would return for it. John wanted to pay for it on Simon’s back; but crowns come at great cost, and John is in debt.

You have swayed his army. You have pulled the veil down that he kept over his wife. You have stolen things from him that will be impossible to get back, and as you watch the red and gold banners flap in the winter air, you wonder how much better these walls would look if they were your navy blue. There is a red that may still color the stone, but you’re afraid it will be much less wanted there.

Tonight, it is a private celebration for the queen. Only the most noble of invitees, and although you normally might not be included on this particular list, Victoria asked for you, and John allowed Simon to be a guest, not guard. You are dressed for the occasion—a large dress, a multiple of layered skirts. The collar of your dress is lined with delicate white fox fur, and there are no pearls in your dress this time. Only diamonds, black and peppered, and your headpiece covers your eyes again, leaving only your mouth uncovered. The fabric of your headpiece cascades down your back, covering your hair, and Simon smooths his gloved finger over your exposed bottom lip as he straightens out the veil.

“You get more beautiful everyday,” Simon mutters as you pick up one of his heavy pauldrons. You smile as you fasten his armor, He’s so handsome, and you love putting the bulk back on him. He carries it so easily—several stones worth of iron and chainmail that never weighs him down. He moves so swiftly, so deadly. There are rags in the washing room at this moment with some unfortunate’s blood on them, rags you dirtied just a few nights ago when you cleaned him off before bed. As you put it back on him, you feel like you’re putting back on his true self. “Like a flower.”

“Come off it,” you giggle, draping his cloak around his shoulders to fit into their place. It hangs across his back, and you straighten it out until the skull insignia is visible. Then, you take the grand blue sash that is laid across the bed and fit it across his chest. You pin it in place and fix the pins and medals there. “Look at you. So official.”

“It’s decoration,” Simon grumbles, rolling out his shoulders. “Like I’m some sort of bloody present. Ridiculous.”

“I agree,” you coo, putting your palms against his chest. “I prefer you dirtied from the mud outside, like the dog you are.”

“Careful, love. I’ll bite.”

“Won’t you, Simon?” You whisper, touching your nose to his. “Bite me?”

The kiss you share is wet and languid. Your tongue slides over his, and when he cups the back of your neck, you lower your hands to cup where he’s hard and wanting. Throbbing even.

“It’s been too long, Your Grace,” you whisper between kisses. “Please…”

“Bloody hell.”

You squeak with delight when he picks you up from under your thighs. You laugh as he sits you on the nearest surface, a side table full of trinkets and books and knickknacks that Simon tosses onto the floor. You drop a hand to gather up your skirts, and you moan softly when Simon’s big hands smooth up your thighs and spread them apart for him.

He always hurts to take at first. No matter how much prep, no matter how many orgasms, no matter how long Simon has spent with his mouth fixed to your cunt, you always feel like you’re taking him for the very first time. You lick into his mouth when he slides in, already wet and leaking, and you break your kiss to groan when you feel him snug inside of you.

“Good for the baby,” Simon whispers against your lips, and you lift your knees to take him deeper.

“You’re good for the baby,” you gasp, your head falling back as Simon drags his hips in a slow grind. Your cunt squeezes him in, velvet and warm and dribbling around his cock as it suckles on what it was starved of for too long. Flowering, blossoming, opening up even though it’s already full of him and given him what he wants. Simon thinks the sex only gets better—you are wetter, tighter, softer than ever before, and as your belly grows, so does his hunger, and yours with it.

He is a greedy monster. Bloodthirsty, harrowing. Simon must have been dropped on his head as a babe to have a mind so terrible, but then again, what is your excuse? For being horrible? Terrible? A reaper in training with soft skin, why is it that you have fallen angel syndrome when you’ve never touched anything so black in your life?

Simon is the dark. Simon is what soots the fingers and wets the blade. Simon is what carves into stone and erodes great canyons and splinters the wood, bit by bit. His shoulders are not just for showing great strength—he creates the path he needs to follow, whether or not it yet exists in front of him. Your word is truth, and Simon makes it real, and you never should have doubted the thing that’s been most honest since the day you married.

Love. Raw and unfiltered between you, a waterfall that cannot be broken, not by stone nor dam nor whatever is rigid enough to try. This love is not careful. It is not sweet. It is not romantic. It is everything that his men are afraid of, and everything that his king will learn is a reckoning years in the making.

When you were just girls, your queen loved to hear the story of the Old Sultan. A dog, without teeth and mar, who overheard he would be expended just the next day despite his years of servitude because he was no longer able to do as he once did in his youth. Without teeth, he had no bite, and without bite, he served no more purpose. He was a burden—a burden that required soft food and a warm place to sleep, but he could not pay for it any longer.

So, the dog struck up a ruse. To steal his master’s babe, to watch a befriended wolf take it away, and to show he was still useful by bringing the babe back; and even when the wolf called in his favor, the Old Sultan refused to betray his master. It is a tale of sheer and true loyalty. You always hated the dog for needing to prove himself over and over again. Victoria always loved the dog because everything he did, he did because he loved so much.

Would she compare your Simon to this dog? Big and terrible and too heavy for his own good—not useful anymore, not enough? Even if she did, she might think Simon loyal enough to not betray his king. The ultimate betrayal, the most awful truth, surely, the king’s right hand would never dare to do such a thing.

When Simon comes inside of you, you are reminded that Simon is not old, nor is he past his prime. Simon has only just begun his reign.

It will be glorious.

Victoria is always the picture of elegance, but she looks much more like a queen now that she despises her husband. Her head is held so high. Her shoulders are square and back. Her eyes are dull and wanting, and when she smiles, it is only to save face, and not because she means it. Her dress is structured silk, that is pleated over her corset, and she looks magnificent and ethereal. Her veil is longer than her skirt train, and she is dripping in golden jewelry.

John drinks and barely speaks. Simon sits at his side, a similar golden cup in his hand, and he drinks and makes conversation lowly with his king. Your queen is receiving gifts, seated as guests come, bow, and present her with little trinkets and wonderful jewels and titles of wonderful plots of land. She coos and gasps at everything presented to her, and she even tries to show John some of her gifts, but he just smiles absentmindedly and waves his hand.

When the meal is over, guests shuffle back to their rooms. There is a full day tomorrow, an entire winter festival planned where there will be games, food, prizes, and more celebrating. When the candles are burning down to the last fo their wax, it is just you and Simon, your queen and your king, and a few lingering guards. The music has quieted, but a lone few musicians still play light music.

“What a marvelous amount of gifts, Your Majesty,” you say softly. You put your hands over your belly, smiling at her, and she cranes her neck to look at you before looking back at the gifts on the table.

“Yes,” Victoria agrees. “Beautiful. Aren’t they, John?”

“Quite beautiful, my love,” John nods. “We’ll need to find a place for everything, won’t we?”

“You know an awful lot about where things must go, John, don’t you?”

Your eyes flicker to Simon. He meets your eyes, and he gives you just the slightest shake of his head. You spread your hands across your belly protectively, shifting in your seat. Opportunity presents itself in the most mysterious of ways. The air tastes good. There is something in it.

John takes a deep breath, turning to look at Simon for just a moment before settling his eyes on his wife. He folds his hands together and leans against the table, clicking his tongue.

“You’re always in a sour mood when our duchess comes to visit, y’know tha’, love?”

You turn your head enough for John to be in your line of sight. You suck in a soft breath, but the air is stale and ugly. Victoria grabs her wine glass and pushes it over, letting the red liquid spill over her presents as she grunts angrily at her husband.

“You hate all of my friends!” She whines. “Do you know how…h-how alienating it is to be your queen? No one wants to tell me the truth, t-they just…spoon feed me compliments that taste like lies. How could you be so cruel, John?”

“Cruel?” John laughs. “I gave them their titles, I don’t need to be anything other than what I am, and that is a king. I don’t hate the duchess—”

“You’re a terrible liar, Your Majesty,” you say softly. Simon tights one hand into a fists, looking up towards the ceiling for a moment. He hears it in your voice, what you don't say out loud. “It was difficult to hear it before, but I hear it now. Very clearly.”

“You need to learn your place, Your Grace,” John murmurs. “Or have you forgotten where that is?”

“Careful, my king,” you warn him. “Sounds…an awful lot like a threat.”

“Can we just be civil?” Victoria sniffles, wiping at her face. She pouts, shaking her head. “I don’t want any fighting on my birthday.”

“We do not fight with anyone, I am king, and you are queen, and our subjects do as we say,” John reminds her. “That is all. The day you forget that—”

“John, just stop it!” Victoria snaps. She slams her hands on the table in front of her, making the dishes rattle, and you stiffen at the way her entire face twists with anger.

“What is it about her that makes you so fucking irate?!” John spits back, standing. His chair clatters as it falls behind him, and Victoria winces. You don’t flinch, and neither does Simon. Simon swirls the wine around in his cup, kissing his teeth behind him as he watches carefully. John is walking a fine line, and Simon will allow it, just until he crosses over it. “What is it that she says to you that makes you so fucking difficult?!”

“The truth,” you answer for her. “I tell her the truth, and it bothers you so to say it to her, and I can’t imagine why.” John’s eyes are no longer blue—so dark, they are to scare you, but there is nothing to be afraid of. “Who is it that you visit when you are not with her, Your Majesty? What bastard children do you hide?”

The sound of a blade unsheathing is all too familiar for you. You barely blink when you feel the sharp tip of it against your jaw. You knew you would strike something deep within him, but you are in fact surprised at his reaction. You didn't expect something so reckless.

Something so utterly stupid.

“No! J-John, what are you doing?! Get a-away from her! Oh, please—!”

Simon is still seated. He leans back, relaxed, hands splayed wide across his thighs as his king holds a blade against his wife’s throat. You purse your lips, shaking your head as much as you can.

“It’s alright, Your Majesty, he won’t do anything,” you tell Victoria. She has tears coming down her face, and her hands are shaking as she watches in horror. “If I die, he goes with me. That I’m sure of.”

“I am your king,” John mutters. “You have committed treason. You have betrayed your king and your queen, of the highest offense, and I condemn you, do you know what tha’ fucking means?”

“John, p-please!” Victoria cries. “Please, please—I’m sorry—just let her go! Please, don’t do this—she’s with child, for God’s sake!”

“All the more reason she should’ve been more careful opening her mouth.”

The music has stopped. The room is so cold and so silent, but you keep yourself from shivering. You steel your hands, and with Simon’s eyes on you, you know not to move.

“Y’ve had y’r fun, You Majesty,” Simon speaks up finally. “Lower tha’. It’s been a long time since you’ve seen blood, my king, and if the first bit of it you see is my wife’s, I’ll cut off the hand tha’ does it.”

“Threatening your king, now?”

“I’ll do a lot worse if ya don’t do as I tell ya.”

Victoria meets your eyes. She’s a wreck—shaking, shivering, sputtering tears as she reaches out for you. You hold her gaze, shaking your head, and she stands on wobbly legs as she moves back until Simon is in front of her. She hides behind his chair, in shambles, and she whimpers when the hall doors bang open and a regiment of soldiers come inside.

Johnny is there, leading them. He looks so bewildered. Like a knife has cut through his gut, his eyes shine with wetness. Before him stands the moment of truth—does he keep the oath he swore his life upon, or does he honor the dirt he bled on with his men?

Simon makes the decision for him. He stands, hands at his sides, and Johnny takes one last look at you before he decides. His sweet duchess—perfect princess. Humble. Kind. You always remind him of home. You touch him, and you see him, and you remember his name.

“Put down the knife.” Johnny’s voice finds itself. It shakes, just enough, and his king looks horrified.

“What’s the meaning of this?” John breathes. “What the fuck are you lot looking at? Seize them!”

“Put it down, Yer Majesty,” Johnny mutters. “We won’t ask again.”

You blink up when you feel the knife leave your throat. It nicks the skin anyway, and you feel a slow drop of blood trace the line of your throat and settle down the neckline of your dress. You watch as John tosses the knife onto the table, slumping into his chair. Simon takes slow, deliberate steps towards you, and you finally breathe out the breath you’ve been holding when you feel his hand on the back of your head.

“Johnny.” Simon’s voice is low and commanding. “Take my wife back to her room. Gather her things. She’s leaving.”

“Simon—”

He shakes his head, and you quiet. He helps you stand, supporting your back, and when you round the table, Johnny takes your hand to help you down a few steps.

“What’s happening?” Victoria whines. She’s sitting on the floor now, hugging the wall, and she shakes as the guards come close to her. You know that fear. You remember it.

“Don’t touch her,” you tell them, stopping in your tracks. She may be rich and spoiled and dumb at times, but she protected you when she didn’t have to. You could at least preserve her dignity, for whatever it is worth. “Take her back to her chambers, and leave her be.”

“Do as she says,” Simon snaps, and the guards start moving again. “Don’t make her repeat herself, bloody fuckin’ hell.”

Victoria is inconsolable. Screaming, crying, kicking, sputtering John’s name, who doesn’t so much as look at her. When her crown falls off of her head and clatters to the floor, no one picks it up for her. They drag her out, despite her protests, and she takes the noise with her. You share one last look with Simon before Johnny guides the doors shut, and all he does is nod your way before the lock sounds.

The air only thickens when they are alone. Hot, like iron, rusting like it, too. It burns to breathe it in, and John doesn't know where he is. He doesn't recognize this place.

“There is a horizon that men do not see,” Simon murmurs. “I don’t know why we cannot, but tha’ doesn’t matter.” He spins the dagger between his fingers, the pointed tip piercing the tip of his index finger enough to draw blood, even under his glove. “She sees it; and who am I to refuse what she’s promised me, John?”

There is no convincing Simon. Even if John doesn’t believe himself, even if you are lying, there is no convincing a man who has put his faith in the hands of a woman like you—you can tell him the grass is purple, and he will not step outside to confirm. You can tell him the sun has never been orange, and his memories will shift and skew until yes, dear wife, you’re right—it has always been black, hasn’t it? There is no fighting Simon on the matters of his wife; you carry his son inside of you. John thinks, disappointingly, that even if you were not pregnant, Simon would still not deny you this request. Your word is gospel. Your want is Creed. Your need is salvation. Your joy is redemption.

“You cannot be serious, Simon,” John tries. “Listen to yourself! When have we ever listened to anyone but each other?”

“Perhaps if you paid any attention to the wife you’ve forgotten, you would have seen this coming,” Simon tells him. “If she was anything but a warm vessel for a child you won’t give her, she might have been able to tell you about somethin’ you were blind to. Y’r ignorance has killed you, John. Y’r neglect is the knife in y’r back.”

Your mistake was giving me what I wanted. I asked for her—you gave her to me.

“Simon, do not do this.”

“Don’t beg, John,” Simon kisses his teeth, shaking his head. He twirls the dagger between his fingers, and it glistens as it spins until the handle is in his palm. “It’s beneath you.”

“You are beneath me!” John slams his fist against the table. His voice shakes; Simon has never heard John so afraid. Even the men who have died beside him in battle don't sound this afraid, even when their insides are spilling out of their chainmail. John doesn't know what it is to be afraid. Everything he has ever fought for has never been earned. “You answer to me! I am your king! You’ve forgotten yourself, Simon, but don’t forget where you fuckin’ came from. You were nothing when I found you, and despite everything I have given you, you are still the dog that you always have been. I’ve let you do as you please for far too long, but now you need to stand down and be a fuckin’ good one!”

John knows he’s made a mistake as soon as it slips out. Simon is a dog—one that he’s neglected, because that is what kings do. They have subjects, subordinates, and not friends. They have allies and advisors, not confidants, not family. John has put distance between everyone. Not just his men, but his wife, too, and Simon understands that this means he must die for it. John does not command his men—Simon does. John does not appreciate his wife—she stands alone. John does not incite loyalty—he has ostracized himself, the son of a usurper, the king that took good people for granted, the king that wanted land and money to make up for everything his father had pissed away. He climbed the ladder alone, and he will die on it alone. There will be no one to catch him, even if they are there to watch it. They will watch him fall and gladly bury him.

He is not your dog anymore—he’s mine.

That is what you said, isn’t it? Blasphemy—that is why John must die.

Simon does not come home in a rush. You are sitting by the window in the drawing room, watching as his horse trots calmly up the road. He rides alone, black stallion huffing as it carries your beast of a husband towards the stables. You cannot see his face, but you can read his body language. Shoulders hunched, gloved hands curled into tight fists along the reigns. He is stiff and closed-off even from a distance, and like he knows you are watching, he tilts his head up, and your eyes meet.

Simon pulls on the reigns enough that his horse stops. The great tail flicks as it bends its head to chomp a little on a bale of hay on the side of the path, and Simon takes a few moments to look at you before he kicks his foot and his horse gets moving again.

You waddle downstairs to the stables to meet him. You have a thick shawl over your shoulders to keep you warm, and when you emerge in the doorway, Simon is just leaving his horse with the staff waiting for him there. Simon exchanges a few words with him before he turns to greet you.

“Too cold,” Simon says, nodding his head at you. “Inside.”

“Simon—”

“Inside.”

You wait in the kitchen. One of the maids is getting you a glass of warm milk when Simon comes in. His armor has been shed, and you feel sick when you see the front of his shirt speckled with red. When he nods at the maid, she leaves in a hurry after passing you the warm cup.

“What happened?”

You jump a little as he drops to his knees. He presses his face into your stomach, cheek resting over the small bump there. You widen your knees to hold him closer, cradling his head against you as you bend to rest your cheek against the top of his head.

“It’s okay, Simon,” you say softly. “Whatever happened…I forgive you. It’s going to be alright.”

I forgive you.

It is enough. Simon does not pray in chapels. Simon does not receive blessings from the church nor does he anoint himself with something as trivial as water. There is no power in some man’s hand hovering over some entity, but there is power in the papers that say you belong to him, in the wedding band you wear that symbolizes the boundless, endless sanctity of your marriage, there is power in the hands that you have smoothing over his head and absolving him of this sin. It is not a sin in Simon’s eyes—there is nothing immoral about doing what is best for his kin.

There is nothing immoral about loving your wife—even it if means doing what others could not. What others would not. The unthinkable. The unfathomable. The inevitable. He did what needed to be done, and you forgive him.

"You could have sent for me," you tell him. You've followed him into the bathing room, where there is a tub that Simon now sits in. The bath water is hot, and you thank the maid that finishes pouring the last bucket of water into it. When you are alone, Simon does not meet your eyes. You raise the sponge to his head, and he turns away from you. You lower your hand, pursing your lips. "You covered it in your rage. You did not want me to see it."

His eyes say it all, and you clench your jaw.

"You forget that I know you, Simon," you murmur. "You forget that I was once afraid of you because of the things that I know." You sit up and cup his cheeks, forcing him to look at you. "I have seen you carry decapitated heads on your back. I have stood in those very halls and watched you…watched you do the most awful things. There is nothing about you that would—"

"There is something you must learn about these things," Simon interrupts you gently. Your lip trembles, and the water sloshes as he takes your hands in his and squeezes them. "About men…and the things we do for wot we love." He shakes his head. "There is somethin' wretched in me, love. Something…no' right. It bleeds in me—" You close your eyes as his arm leaves the water, wetting your nightgown as he cups under your belly and feels where another heart beats. "—and now it bleeds in you. Forgive me for wanting to…keep you from it. Just this once."

"Simon…"

"I've always known it. Even when I knew tha' you were wot it was I was missing, I took you—don't you remember?" He asks you through his teeth. "I killed battalions ta prove my worth. So when I asked for your hand, there would be no uncertainty. I have…I have put head on spikes just to come home to you quicker. I have killed my own king to do your bidding, don't you know wot tha' means for me?" Simon tangles his fingers in your hair, and there are tears in your eyes. "My loyalty lies with no one. I have no friend nor foe. My heart lies in your hands—" He jostles you as he presses his forehead to yours. "—and if you crushed it, I would still be grateful tha' you had it at all."

His kiss is bruising. His teeth clack against your own, and you bite down on his lip, keeping him near. He growls at the feeling, mouth opening wide, and when your tongues meet, you climb into the bath to meet him closer.

Simon gains clarity—that's what his new title does to him. When they hand him a crown, Simon all but sneers at it—nearly spits on it until you whisper in your ear that such behavior is unbecoming of a monarch.

He refuses any kind of coronation. The only difference in the changing of hands is that the banners that hang are colored navy blue—the red flies no longer.

The estate looks abandoned. It's frozen in time, from weeks ago—there are still dead roses lining the walls, candles that have melted into their sconces. The banners that used to hang are crumpled on the floor, and when you pass the grand hall, you try not to stare too long at the staff throwing buckets of water onto the stone floor.

You try not to linger on the fact that the water runs pink.

Victoria is wearing black, as if there is something for her to mourn. She sits in the library, on the floor by the south-facing windows. It's snowing steadily now, sticking in powdery mounds, and when you see her face illuminated by the clouded sunlight, she looks pale and worn. There is no color in her face, and her eyes are dark, barely green. Her hair has barely been brushed, perhaps just a comb ran through it, and she is void of any jewelry. It's so odd to see her this way—so plain. Your belly is much bigger now, prominent under your dress, and you have to take a breath to sit. You knew Simon would make a big baby, but the weight you carry is starting to become increasingly more difficult to handle.

"They tell me you won't eat," you say softly, smoothing your hands down your stomach. Victoria doesn't move. Her head lays on her arms as she stares out at the snow, and you pity the tear that falls down her face. "You have to eat."

"In a matter of weeks, I've lost my husband, my title, and my friend. I don't have an appetite."

You were told she has been only quiet. In the weeks since her birthday, she stays in her room, and she does little else. You were surprised she wasn't angrier, more filled with rage, but she just seems disappointed. She might be sad that her husband is gone, but you think it's more of something else; the life she thought she always wanted died, too, and she doesn't see purpose anymore.

"It wasn't personal, Victoria. None of it was."

"Please don't lecture me. Please."

Her voice breaks, and you look down at where your belly pokes out under your skirt. Perhaps your first act as queen will be one of mercy.

Generosity.

"I came to see you because I…have a proposition for you," you explain gently. "If you'll listen to it."

She finally turns her head enough so she can look at you, and her lip trembles.

"Are you making me go?" She asks.

"No," you shake your head. "I need…someone that I can trust. And there's…" You swallow. "There's someone I need you to marry."

"Who would want me?" She whines. "There's nothing to want from me anymore. I'm not a queen, and I lied with another man. N-No one will want me."

You smile, gentle pity. "Trust me, Victoria. This one wants you," you laugh gently. You remember those blue eyes when you asked it of him. That smile. "I promise."

She moves her hands into her lap, and she slumps against the wall. You take a deep breath before joining her on the floor, and she takes your hands in hers to help you sit next to her. Victoria turns her head to look at you, and you look at her, and as she continues to cry, you reach up to wipe her face gently.

"Do you hate me?" She asks.

"No," you breathe. "Of course not. I never have." Your hands go back to your belly, and one of hers follows, and when her palm touches your skirt, your son kicks. Her eyes widen, and she lets out a laugh through her tears, putting both hands on you as she feels his feet. You make a face at the feeling, your insides feeling sore. "Do you hate me?"

Victoria shakes her head.

"No," she whispers. "I couldn't hate you for…what men do."

Would she hate you if she knew the actions of men were because of you? Would she hate you if she knew that yes—a man drew the sword—but it was me that gave the order?

Simon is not just your executioner; he's your shield. The world will give him the credit and the ire. No one will ever think to look at who stands beside him. You think Simon knows this. Your sins and your lies, they will never really be your own. They will always be his. He will take your wins, yes—but he will also take the blame. That's the way he would prefer it.

That's the way he will make it to be.

It is spring when your son is born. The snow is just starting to melt, just barely, when you hear him cry for the very first time. The ache you feel in your chest when he is in your arms is like nothing you have ever felt. You have sweat cascading down your back, along your forehead, and your midwife's hands are covered in a layer of blood and fluid; there by her side is your husband.

It isn't standard for men aside from physicians to be here, but you begged him to stay, and he came willingly. He was not afraid of any of it. Not the blood, not the screaming, not the panic. He thought, disturbingly, that it was not unlike a battlefield, and when you collapse against his chest holding his son, he thinks you must be the strongest person he knows. You endure such pain. You accept it willingly. Unlike men that wet themselves the moment a sword is in front of them, you face the discomfort and the ache head-on, and you do not turn away when it pushes back on you. He closes his eyes when he hears his son wail, and his lips find your forehead when he hears your own cries.

"Look wot you did," Simon whispers, holding you closer. "Look wot you made."

You are told that your baby is one of the largest the midwife has ever seen. You are sore for weeks, but there is so much joy, it's hard to think about it too hard. Your title and your wealth afford you nannies and night nurses and wet nurses, but you refuse them all—you can't fall asleep without being able to see your son's chest rising and falling, and the thought of someone else answering his cries for help is unbearable.

The sight you love the most now is of Simon holding him. The way he cradles your baby in one arm, the way your son is tucked into the space there and curls up, protected and safe, makes your entire body warm. There is nowhere better than the space between Simon's arms, and your son already knows that, and he is only weeks old. He has his father's eyes. His father's nose. All of his wisdom, you know it already, and all of his vigor and strength.

Simon tells you that he has your cunning. That it will make him a great king.

It is strange to think of yourself in your past life. The girl that used to hide. That did nothing but bow her head and ask how she could serve, serve better. You remember kneeling beside your queen, cowering behind her many skirts, watching as John's knight tossed bags leaking with old blood onto the stone floor and caused a roar of cheering and thrown mead. You think of yourself, barely peeking around her, making eye-contact with that beast from under his helmet. You knew he always watched you. You knew he noticed you. For all of your invisibility, Simon constantly made you feel as if he was putting you on a pedestal, and you hated it. You rejected it. You wanted the floor to open up and swallow you into it, and you wanted everything to be just a little quieter, a little darker.

You were blind. You were naïve. You saw the storm just ahead and not the beautiful horizon just behind it.

You are watching your son waddle around the library when Simon comes to find you. He has just begun to walk, and now he can't stand not being on his feet. He squeals and laughs when he sees his father come into the room, and you can't help the smile that blooms over your face. Your son adores his father. As Simon comes near, your son raises his arms, bouncing on his chubby little legs, whining until his father picks him up from under his arms and tosses him into the air to make him laugh.

"Taking a break from your difficult duties, my husband?" You ask. He hoists your son up on his hip, pulling something out of the bag at his side and presenting it to your baby. You roll your eyes with a laugh when you see what it is—an egg tart, one of your son's favorites, who reaches for it with his little hands to bring it to his mouth. Almost immediately, he's covered in pastry crumbs. "Simon, you spoil him."

"He's a growing boy. Needs his food."

"Uh huh. Don't you have meetings to be at?"

"'s olright. Johnny's there."

"I thought they were still honeymoon-ing."

Simon snorts, shaking his head, "they're back. Definitely…still honeymoon-ing. Bloody mutt can't keep still anymore."

You think of Victoria and her infectious smile. Her fluttering lashes the day after her wedding, and the flushed cheeks whenever she looked at Johnny. What a good distraction for her—morbidly, you think of how she can even say the same name when she lies with her new husband, if she so wanted to.

He sets your son down, who quickly waddles towards where his wooden toys sit on the carpet. Your eyes go lidded when you feel Simon come closer, his hand along the nape of your neck. He tilts your head up to look at him, and then he takes a knee so he can draw you closer. He lifts the front of his mask, and you whine when he kisses you softly.

"I can't keep still anymore, either."

"Simon…" You sigh, licking your lips. "Careful. There's a baby in here."

"Right," he smirks. "Think we can make another?"

Your face grows so hot. There's butterflies in your belly. You open your mouth, and he kisses you again. He tastes so good. He tastes warm. He tastes like victory. Everything you have ever really wanted is yours because you let a stray in and gave it a name.

Where are the places you might go? What are the crowns you might take? What waits for you across the ocean now that the storm has passed, and there is nothing but calm waters ahead?

John would liken Simon's leash to a noose, the one you hold, the one you have wrapped so tightly around your hand. It is your second skin.

Your husband has an insatiable appetite. Such a big man he is; he towers over you, so much so that you must tip your head back always to look up at him. You had to make many arrangements in your house to accommodate his hunger–a pantry stocked full of eggs and less fabric for your skirts.

Your house isn’t like others. Neither you nor Ghost have ever lived in luxury. When he showed you your home for the first time, you had shaken your head–you didn’t believe that such a large place was supposed to be yours, and even now, sometimes you feel like a stranger, out of place when the maids ask you what you want for supper or where you’d like to take your afternoon tea. You don’t like the fuss, the asking, the women that curtsy when you come near, concentrated over the creases in your skirts or the loose thread of your sleeve or the wispy hairs that fall out of your braids. You are told all the time that you must behave like a duchess, that you must poise yourself with your new title and your new money, and you must do the things that duchesses do–but no one says the same to your husband.

He is still allowed to sleep in the barracks. Lick the blood off his gauntlets. Polish his sword in the dirt. He’s still allowed to be everything that you cannot be anymore, he still lives the life he had before.

He still kills; and he is still very, very good at it.

Your queen told you in a letter that the king is very pleased. Ever since your union, Ghost has been quite the conqueror. Bloodthirsty and very determined, your husband has been taking his men across the water. He is not any less impressive off land. Not even the pirates have tried to negotiate; they bend the knee or taste the salt water. You breathe shakily when you read your queen’s letters—her praise for your husband’s conquests, how blessed your family will be and how valuable you are to the crown, how grateful she is that Ghost is no longer a fiend in court but rather a little more polite and a little quieter.

All for your sake. Ghost’s name is now your own, and he refuses to embarrass you now that you have it.

You won’t lie; the bodies that Ghost has stacked since you’ve been wed do not scare you. He’s doing it for you. He has never said it out loud, never told you so, but you know it. He wants to show you what kind man that he is, what kind of soldier—you know he’s trying to prove himself worthy. If he killed a thousand men to have you, how many will he slaughter to keep you?

He sends you letters of his own. Not many, but he does send letters, and while Ghost seems to be ineloquent and entirely too brutish, he has quite the voice when he writes.

To my wife,

The sun falls quicker here. I’d like to come home. Tell me of your day, and I will tell you of mine. There were a fleet of ships that came to meet us at dawn. When we sank three, they begged for us to spare the rest.

I have you to think about now. So I burned them.

Simon

A poet, your beloved.

He signs his real name in his letters. Your eyes skim over most of it–you don’t even blink when he tells you what he does to them. Sometimes he writes in great detail about the screams of a hundred souls, the way burning flesh smells, the taste of dirt in a new place when you know it is finally yours. He doesn’t like having secrets. He tells you all his thoughts, even if they might scare you, because you are his wife, and he has discovered quite quickly that you have been cut from the same cloth.

Even when he is home, and he tells you these things all over again, he can’t help the way his cock hardens when you merely blink and ask him if he has added any scars to his collection.

Ravenous, naughty little duchess, and you are all his. He knows he picked well–he knows, he knows he wasn’t wrong when he saw you across the throne room hiding behind his queen, he knows now that he was right about what he saw in your eyes.

You do hate when he’s away. You’re not used to the maids helping you dress, and you secretly abhor the help. That is why when you hear the shuffle of your house early in the morning, your heart thuds in your chest knowing he’s home.

The staff get antsy when Simon is around. He is very good at keeping an estate for someone that has never had to or ever been taught to, but he leaves the responsibilities with you and only you every time he goes. He doesn’t trust anyone else to do it, and every time he comes back, he makes you sit on one big thigh as he teaches you something new that you need to remember for when he goes away. He demands much of those he employs, and they are eager to please him. Whether it is because they respect him or are afraid of him, you aren’t sure.

Perhaps it’s both.

You sit up as the bedroom door opens. You smile, big and wide and sleepy as he steps into the room. He shuts the door with his boot, slipping his hood off, and you sigh as he grips the clasp of his mask and unhooks it. He tosses it onto the floor, bare-faced, and as he makes his way towards the bed, he sheds the rest of his clothes until he’s completely naked.

You cannot stop yourself from the shaky breath you take. He is all muscle and fat, strong and entirely too scary, but it’s hard to focus on what he really is when he stands before you like this. He has fat thighs, big shoulders, carved muscle of intense labor around his middle and along his biceps. He has large hands with calloused palms and split knuckles, and your eyes meet his own as he comes closer. He’s so gorgeous, even with a face like that. He has a long scar that stretches from one brow to his lower jaw, another that cuts his nose and splits his lip, but those eyes are dark and lovely, and you can’t help the warmth that comes over you when he catches you staring at him, closer, right to his cock that hangs heavy between his legs.

Just as he begins to lower himself onto the bed, you hold out a hand, giggling.

“Simon, if you think you are getting into this bed without a proper bath, you’re mistaken!” You laugh, and he raises a brow.

“Mmm…” He smacks his lips together. “Tha’ right, my lady?” He clicks his tongue. “This is my bed. ’s oll mine. Every blanket…every pillow…” He grips your ankle from under the covers and yanks you towards him. “And every part of you.”

You giggle again, shaking your head, “Please, Simon!” You push him away with your toes. “They only changed the sheets yesterday. You’ll dirty them…” You flutter your lashes. “Will you bathe if I join you?”

He grins wide, licking over his teeth.

“Can’t refuse an offer like tha’.”

You hold out your hand for him, and he takes it gently. You watch as he brings your knuckles towards his mouth, and you bite back a smile when he decides to kiss each one, slow. He tugs finally, pulling you up, and you wrap your arms around his neck as he hoists you up into his arms. You would worry about your weight normally, but Simon holds you so easily, barely even a grunt as he wraps your legs around his middle. You don’t waste another second, cupping his cheeks in your hands and kissing him softly.

It’s never just a kiss with Simon. He slides one of his hands up your back, into your hair, and you whine as he tips your head back just enough to slip his tongue into your mouth. Simon doesn’t just kiss, he consumes. What he did to get back to you, the things he endured, the places he has seen and the bodies he has buried and burned and scattered across the places he now calls country, it’s always to get back to this place.

To you.

“How’s my boy?” He asks when you pull away. He carries you to another room, to where the tub sits, and he rings a bell by the door to call the maids in. You snatch a robe off a hook and cover him with it as he sits with you, but all he does is put a few fingers under your chin and make you look at him again. “Oi. Asked ya question, luv.”

Your lip wobbles a little, and you look away.

“I…”  You wait until the maids have gone to fetch hot water to tell him. “I bled while you were gone. I…”  You smooth your hands over the robe, distracting yourself. “I’m…I’m sorry, Simon.”

You close your eyes as he leans close, resting his forehead against yours, and you shake a little as he lets out a warm breath against your lips. He moves a warm hand over your soft stomach, cupping you there, and you lean your head back a little at the tender touch.

“It will happen,” he says finally, and your mouth opens to respond, but he sticks his thumb between your lips to shut you up. He doesn’t want to hear you blame yourself. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s his, for not being here with you, for not be able to take care of you. You give in, suckling on the salt of him, and he grits his teeth as he watches you. “I know. Seen it in m’dreams.”

Simon has dreams. Lots of dreams, but he tells you that they are not dreams, they are glimpses into something that has already happened. When you asked if he was some kind of seer, the kind that the king used to have at parties, Simon doesn’t laugh.

He says the dreams are why he knows he won’t die. Why he is never afraid, because he knows somewhere behind his eyes what’s to come even if he didn’t see the entire painting of it. It is why he knew he would marry you; it is why he paid you so much attention, why he knew he would win his battles, why he always knows whose blood it is in his mouth because he has tasted their death before and relishes in the knowing of it all, in the certainty.

It’s never I think, it is always I know, and Simon is nothing if he is not the most honest man that you know.

So if he says you will have his babe, it is as good as truth. As green as the grass grows beneath his feet, as blue as his sky, and as red as the blood that is caked underneath his nails.

When the tub is filled with water, you let Simon sink into it first. You kneel beside it, picking up a glass of oil, pouring it into your palms before sinking your hands into his hair. It’s gotten longer since he left, in need of a cut, but you smile when he leans his head back into your shoulder. You can feel his content as he relaxes into you, and you admire his physique as you use the warm water and scrub the mud and grime off of him.

“I missed you, husband,” you whisper, and he only lets you massage his hair for a few more moments before he grips you by the wrist and tugs you forward, right into the bath. “Simon!” you laugh, “my night dress—oh!—it’s ruined!”

“Too far away,” he mutters, practically ripping the silk off of you as he tosses it besides the bath. “Mmm…” He cups your breasts with two big hands, smoothing his thumbs over your nipples, and you whine a little as he pulls at them just enough to make them stiffen. “Y’should be naked when I come home,” he says lowly. “I’ll soil y’r bloody gown next time, m’lady.”

You giggle, and he smiles. A real smile. As real as he’ll ever give anyone, maybe the only one that anyone has ever even seen. He has never shown his face in court, and while it angers the women and irks the men, you revel in the fact that all of this is only for you.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

You kiss him softly. The water sloshes, warm and inviting, and sometimes you forget your life used to be anything but joy. A year ago, you would not believe that you would be here, titled, wealthy, in a stone room lit by candles bathing with a blood hungry ghost.

A year ago, you trembled whenever he looked at you. You cowered when you heard his footsteps. What a stupid little girl you had been. What a fool. She had no idea what she could have, the kinds of things she could hold in her hand.

Real power wasn’t being able to command a room with your words. Real power was being able to say anything and have it be believed as truth. Real power was making someone look in one direction and have them see what you see, even if what you see isn’t real.

He lays you down in your bed afterward and eats. Your wet hair soaks the sheets, but you can’t seem to be really bothered as he fits your legs over his shoulders and bends you at the waist, his mouth suctioned to your clit as he eats you slowly. One of his hands is spread out over your tummy, the other you can hear making a squelch as he fists his own cock. It’s slow and methodical, and he slides his tongue between your folds firm, catching what dribbles from you on the tip of his tongue before he swallows it and leans in for more.

He has eaten you in nearly every room in your house. Frightened the cooks tossing you onto the dining table, given a servant a scare as he ducked under your skirts in the library, had the gardeners fleeing as he dropped you onto the grass near the lake and disappeared with a frenzy to eat your cunt during sunrise. It’s maddening, the kind of need that Simon requires, but it’s hard to refuse when you feel so warm and bubbly and happy after he’s finished. A pampered princess you are, never lifting a finger, only awake long enough when he’s home to eat until you’re full and cum until you fall asleep again.

Maybe that’s why you’re not pregnant yet. Simon likes to be here, between your thighs, mouth fixed on your wet pussy until he’s practically exhausted himself with a sore jaw and lax tongue.

He kisses you sloppy after. Licking into your mouth, practically spitting onto your tongue, wanting you to taste—tastes so good, luvvie, don’t ya see, yeah?—wanting you to know why he’s so eager to be on his knees all the time.

You sniffle, a little dizzy, shaking your head.

“’s not what I really want,” is all you whimper, and he nods, because he knows, he always knows.

“I know, luv. I know wot ya really need.”

“I must be broken,” you sob, cradling his face in your hands, and he shakes his head.

“Not broken,” Simon assures you. He speaks so surely that it’s hard not to believe him. “It wasn’t time.”

“You can’t see the future, Simon! You don’t know!” You cry, and he snarls a little, shaking his head again.

“You listen t’me,” he growls. You shake a little as he grabs your face with one hand, fixing your jaw under his grip as he holds onto you firmly. “Wot I say goes. Y’r my wife, so listen t’me, and listen t’me good. Y’r not broken. Not time. Say it back t’me.”

Your lip trembles, and he rattles your head a little.

“Say it,” he snaps, and you hiccup.

“It’s not time,” you whisper, and he plants a fat kiss onto your tear-soaked lips.

“Just need my cock, luv,” he murmurs. “Tha’s oll. Just need me t’fuck it outta ya.”

You nod, pressing your face to his, and he tuts, reaching down and spreading your legs wide to accommodate him between them as he lays over you.

“’s oll y’need,” he repeats, and you nod again.

You have to take another bath in the same morning; and this time, you weren’t able to walk there.

You like when Simon is home because it’s quiet. The only one that dotes on you here is Simon. The maids do not dress you or do your hair or moisturize your skin. It’s always Simon.

You smile at him in the mirror as you sit at your vanity. He has a brush in one hand, and he’s using it delicately to detangle your hair how you like. His hands are practiced and gentle, and when he finishes, he leans over you as he starts to part your hair to braid it. He did not have sisters, but his mother had him always do her hair after she lost the use of her hands with age. You don’t know where his mother is, but you assume she is not here anymore, because he never invites you to meet her.

He oils your skin. He slips the robe off of you, revealing your damp skin from the bath, and he slathers oil in his hands before using it to soften your skin. He takes his time, smoothing those big hands over your shoulders, down your back, along your arms. You tilt your head back when he warms your breasts, squeezing and fondling your tits. He murmurs in your ear the entire time, and he has to fuck you with his fingers to quiet you when he stops because just his hands on your tits has you wet all over again.

He dresses you, too. Helps you slip into your undergarments, fastens the cage for your skirts over your hips. He ties them skillfully, and after he layers your skirts over the farthingale, he gets you into your corset. It’s intimate as he does this. Even with your wide skirt, he comes closer, over your shoulder, and he tugs at the laces at your back, pulling it tight with firm grunts. You sigh when he buries his face into the crook of your neck, his hand skimming over your breasts as they sit nice and perky between stiff fabric and whalebone.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Fuck, unnerving…the way ya look…”

You close your eyes, “S-Simon, please…I’m already dressed…”

He chuckles, “I know. I know.”

But when he has to leave again, you nearly come with him. You fasten his armor for him, help him slip each piece of leather on and click every piece of metal into place. You tie his cloak and slip his mask on, and you try and duck your head when you flip his hood up, but he catches you, tilting your chin up.

He huffs when he sees your face. Tears sliding down your cheeks, lips wet with them, eyes all glassy and red. He draws you up onto your toes, pressing his mouth to yours through the mask, and you hold onto him tightly, digging your nails into his chest armor and threatening to not let go.

“I want to go.“

“No.”

“Simon, let me go,” You gasp, begging, gripping his hood in firm fists and not caring that his armor is cutting into your front. “Let me go with you, I can’t do this anymore, I want to go, I can do it.”

You aren’t sure if Simon underestimates you. You think it’s more that he does not want you to see him in a place where he is most true. Where he wears the least of a disguise. He does not know he wears it the least with you, and that you have already seen his blood and how it curdles under his skin. You like it that way. You like him angry…and mean…and terrible. You like him when his sword is dirty and his armor needs polishing and his mind thinks of nothing else besides war. He should know this by now. He should know that you see him and see what he is even more than his king, more than his men.

He couldn’t scare you, even if he tried.

“War is not where women go,” Simon snaps. His tone is harsh, even for you, and you stiffen when he grips you by the jaw and rattles your head a little. “Especially not one like you, my love. War would eat ya, eat ya fuckin’ whole. Look at ya…” He huffs, deep, sliding that gloved hand down your throat to slip it beneath the neckline of your dress and fondle your breast with a firm grip. “Beautiful. Meant for my lips…for these dresses…meant to be held in my hands, not bleed from stray arrows, because tha’ is surely the least of wot they would do t’ya if they knew ya were my wife. Now ya will wipe these tears, ‘n see me off, and then ya will come back inside like a good girl, ‘n you will wait for me here until I come back.”

Your bottom lip trembles, and you scowl up at him. Not indifference, but frustration, and Simon doesn’t think it suits you.

“I’m sick of waiting for you, Simon,” you spit. “It’s all I ever do, wait. Wait for you to come back, alive or dead, I never know. And don’t say you do this for country, that is a lie.” You shove him backwards, but he barely budges when your hands touch his chest, a rigid wall that does not give. “You do it because you like it. You’re a bloodthirsty dog, and all you do is bend to our king’s will.”

A lie, but you tell it anyways, because you want something, and he will not give it to you.

“That is my duty.”

“Your duty is to me,” you snap. “Kings come and go, but I will not.” Simon stills. He glares down at you from behind his mask, and perhaps this might terrify his men, but that you are not. You are his wife, and you are protected by that title alone. The only man to ever lay a hand on you would not live to see another second, himself included. “Now you will let me join you, or so help me God, Simon, I will not be here when you return.”

You do not expect the full-bellied laugh that leaves him. His armor shakes with him, and you grind your teeth, narrowing your eyes. He uses his thumb to force his mask up, and then he cups the back of your head and draws you in for a sloppy kiss. You resist at first, but when he feeds you his tongue, you melt. You kiss him back, letting him draw you closer, and you sigh as he tangles his fingers into your hair and cradles you with those big hands.

There is nothing more to say. Simon neither confirms nor denies, but you taste it in his mouth, his devotion. Not wrong, not right, but just so–he has many responsibilities, but you are the only one that will remain the same. One day, his king will die, and he will serve another, but the space you have made beside him will never change. Even when you die, because he knows you will go before him, there will never be someone else to fill it. You and you only, the woman he found and made his, the one he demanded lest he kill his own country for it, it will always be you. Soft and sweet, you are, but the Lord knew Simon could only have one woman, and he made it be you; the one spitfire enough to defy her own king because she trusted his love enough for it.

Would you commit treason to save his life? Would you watch a king die if it meant your beloved lived? 

Would he?

He thinks about what you have said when he takes his fleet across the water. He runs his tongue over his teeth behind his mask, breathing deep when he thinks about your proclamations of duty. Of change. Of what remains when other things move, of the kind of life that waits for him when he comes and goes with a king’s order. He thinks about how easily he is taken away from you, and he knows there is truth in what you feel. It is not really Simon that sacrifices, it is what he leaves behind, and that is you.

It’s never angered him before. He had accepted the fact, as early as your wedding day, that he would leave and come back, then leave again. It has always been the way of his life, come desire or not, so it bothers him that of all the things that surprised him in his life, it would be missing someone that shocked him the most.

Missing his wife. Missing the serene perfection of one woman, and the perfect place between her soft thighs. Every day that he finds himself between them is the best day of his life, he reckons, so now he feels bitter about staring at a freezing ocean amongst his men because he will go weeks without her.

Her. Her. Her.

He is bitter, yes, until he is not.

It comes in a letter from a messenger on horseback. They have been stationed in a foreign land for weeks now, watching slowly as the stone walls of a castle at their front crumples day after day from the stones filled with powder that ignite what is wood and break what is rock. The letter is sealed with wax, with the motif of a snake. It is given directly to Simon, whose name is scribbled in the letter, and when he reads it, he tastes ichor and smoke.

So the great phantom has come to seal my fate. I am not in the business of letting what is mine be taken. Even if you have brought your all, it won’t be taken from me.

I heard you have a beautiful new wife. I heard you paid for her in blood.

I shall do the same. I will hang your sword above our marriage bed.

Ghost is not someone that bends to the threats from foe he cannot look in the eye. Words are so empty. It is nothing like when he stands just a few meters apart from them, eyes fixed against one another, as they decide whether today they want to live or they want to die. The letter means nothing, but he’s surprised by the heat that bubbles under his ribs at the mention of his bride. He meant it when he said you were not meant for war, and that meant in this regard, too–nobody was allowed to talk about you, not like this, not ever.

When his king orders him home, Ghost crumples the note and tosses it into embers. He watches it burn, and then he orders his men to set to flame the ground around the stone walls.

So men like him can be goaded, it seems. His resolve is not as strong as he thought.

The weeks make you anxious. All you do is sit and collect dues and tell the maids which dress you want to wear and which you do not. It is peaceful and boring, and you wish Simon was here to make your days more exciting, but he is not.

His letters are the only things that keep you occupied, truly. He writes to you about war and loneliness, and you write to him about the mundane of domesticity and the ache he leaves behind. Sometimes, his letters come folded with pressed flowers he finds along the way, and you start to collect them, putting them away in small boxes or using them as bookmarks as you go through Simon’s library.

He has many books. His most loved books are those of war, of history, and you smooth your fingers over the pages he has dogeared and find comfort in reading the same words that he once did. You learn, as well. While in your studies as a girl, they made you learn arithmetic and the flowery bits of history and art, here in Simon’s house, you learn of strategy and weaponry and military tactic. Sometimes you disagree, and you write about these disagreements to Simon, and he writes back, pleased with your observations. He told you once that if you were a man, he would want you in that tent with him, beside him, deciding on which formations to take and when to strike. You responded saying that you could be that for him anyway. What did your sex have anything to do with whether you were right or wrong?

Simon agreed.

But I would never invite you here, dear wife. You have to understand that.

When your queen asks for your audience for dinner, you oblige easily; finally, you have something to do rather than add up numbers or sign a document on Simon’s behalf or read another fucking book.

You don’t want to wear all the costume your maids insist on, but you appease them after they repeatedly explain to you what your title means. With a drawn face, you let them tie your corset and layer your skirts, and you watch in the mirror as they braid your hair and drape large, obnoxious jewels over you. You grimace at the tiara they fit into your hair, and your elderly handmaid pinches your cheeks and tells you to put on a fair countenance, Your Grace, lest you make the Duke look ungrateful.

You bite your tongue from snapping at her. She should know that Simon would say nothing about your countenance; all he would do is fix whatever was bothering you until you smiled again.

You arrive early enough to have tea. Your queen is so excited to see you; she gushes when you meet her in the throne room, pulling you up from your curtsy so she can hug you tight, squealing. When you try to address her with a curt “Your Majesty,” she shakes her head, pressing her hands to your cheeks and giggling, “No need for formalities now. Call me Victoria.”

You hide your displeasure with a small smile. Now that you are no longer her lady-in-waiting, she allows you her name. Is it because she sees you more as equals, or because now you’re allowed to be somewhat of friends?

You must be some kind of friend. She sizes you up like you are one. She wears England’s colors this afternoon. A fire red dress adorned with gold accents, a dragon pin holding her shawl. She wears magnificent red and gold jewelry, but she’s looking at your dress, and you can see the slight twitch of her eye. You are wearing French lace, and she doesn’t like it. Or maybe she doesn’t like the color, the accents of navy blue and silver that you wear.

The skull motif that is woven into your tiara and printed on your coat and sewn into your dress. Does it insult her? That all your life, you wore nothing but browns and beiges and grays, were invisible to her, and now you represent your house, visit her as your guest, and bear an honorable name?

You were no one when you served her. Just a girl, no close family, no friends, just a distant uncle who gave you to the crown that hoped you could be of service. That was to be your duty for all your life–to serve the king’s wife until she wanted you no more or until she was gone. To cater to her every need and every wish, no matter the time of day or night.

Now you sit across her, more noble. Refined. Wearing a dress she despises, perhaps because she likes it more than her own.

Over tea, she gossips about the other ladies she has visit. You’ve heard this before, but you’ve never been included in the conversation. She talks to you, and she wants to hear your opinion, and you find yourself uneasy as you try to think of what to say. She is your queen, and you want her to like you. When you worked for her, you earned her favor by always warming up her jewels before she put them on, by making sure she had her tea ready in the morning at her bedside, by always holding the fan she so loved for when she inevitably had a hot flash. Now, as her friend, you weren’t exactly sure what to do. You suck in a soft breath and look at her, and then you purse your lips.

You think it best to agree with her. To be on her side. You might not be her direct servant any longer, but you still must fall under her favor. A queen’s favor can be just as powerful, especially if she occasionally has the ear of her husband.

“Well, that’s not very kind of her,” you say finally, and she laughs.

“No! She’s such a prude. I think her husband doesn’t sleep in her bed enough, if you know what I mean,” she winks at you. You giggle at that. “Speaking of husbands–” She pops another cake in her mouth. “How is yours?”

You reach up and tug at your necklace a bit, smiling nervously.

“Oh, uh…” You clear your throat, “He’s doing very well. I hear his latest campaign is quite the success. His majesty is very smart, heading for the east that way, I’m sure they will be victorious soon enough.”

Victoria smiles at the thought of her husband. His intelligence. She always used to talk to you about how many hours he worked, how she hated when he was away, how she wished he was home more so he could give her a son because she was so, so lonely.

“Wise words from the duchess, aye, my love?”

You jump a bit at the low voice from behind, and when you turn, you gasp, immediately standing and falling into a delicate curtsy. John Price waves his hand, coming further into the room, shaking his head.

“It’s alright,” he tells you. “Please, sit. You’re here as my guest.”

You stand and lift your head, trying to relax. You take a seat, smiling nervously, and Victoria smiles giddily at her husband. When he bends to kiss her cheek, she fawns, reaching for his hand and squeezing it before taking another piece of tart and eating it. John hums before motioning for one of the staff to fill your cup again with tea. He eyes you curiously, taking in your appearance. You sit up at that, performatively brushing off over the skull pattern on your corset. John runs his tongue over his teeth, smoothing a big palm down his wife’s long coils of hair.

“Since you’re here, I’d like a word, if that’s alright,” John says to you. His tone carries a little more authority now, and Victoria sighs, whining a little.

“John, please, she’s my friend. Can’t it wait–”

“That wasn’t a question, Victoria,” John bites. Her face falls a little. She swallows and tucks her hands into her lap. You’re reminded as you look at the slight wobble of her lip that there is no one truly above John Price, not even her. You keep your face neutral, but if you were invisible, you’d pity her.

What a shame her husband sees her as less than. How embarrassing. Your Simon would never. Your Simon waits until you finish speaking before speaking himself. Your husband kneels to take off your shoes, your husband tears your skirts to get a taste of you, your husband used his teeth to sever a man’s throat just to have your hand.

What did John Price do to get his wife? Who did John Price kill to have her hand? How many bruises did he earn around his knees on their wedding night from eating her out? As many as Simon, whose knees were black and blue by morning?

No, you suppose not. How unfortunate. How pathetic.

Victoria picks up her skirt and stands, pasting a big smile on her face. It doesn’t reach her eyes, and you can see the way her hands shake a little as she scurries off. She scowls as soon as she turns away from John, clearly annoyed.

“I’ll go check on dinner,” she says, but it is soft and unenthusiastic.

When she goes, the room falls quiet. At the nod of John’s head, the staff leave, and you keep still in your seat as John sits across from you, picking up one of the cakes in front of him and breaking off a piece to busy himself. He keeps his eyes on his task of cutting up the cake in small pieces, focused on his hands and how they work. You watch him carefully, steeling yourself.

You anticipate a conversation between man and woman, not a king and his lesser.

“Simon’s been away for some time. I bet that’s difficult for you.”

You straighten your posture, realizing what this conversation will be. By his tone, John seems to think you a bored, stupid housewife, perhaps. Uneducated. A woman, no thoughts in her head. You let your face relax, and you fold your hands in your lap. Maybe now is the time John should learn who you are and who you are not.

What you have become and what you no longer are.

“I do just fine, Your Majesty,” you say finally. You pick up a spoon and drop a cube of sugar into your tea, and you stir, picking it up to take a long sip. John is curious by your content. You have a quick tongue. “I could say the same to you, couldn’t I?”

John laughs. He narrows his eyes a bit at your clever response, taking a large bite of the cake and running a cloth over his beard. His eyes sparkle a little.

“So you know.”

“Know what, Your Majesty?”

“You know I gave Simon orders. And you know he didn’t listen to me.”

You purse your lips, but he sees the shine in your eyes. The lack of surprise. His face twitches a bit, and you shake your head. You blink slow, and it irks him to see you so calm. He is your king, and Simon answers to him, and you are his wife, so you must answer, too.

“I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”

“I could have your husband’s head cut off for treason for that, you’re aware, aren’t you?”

You tilt your head to the side. What an odd thing for John to say. What an odd thing for John to contemplate, since it would never come to pass. “Don’t be daft, my king. You wouldn’t want to do that.”

John slams his fist on the table, making the plates and cups rattle with his frustration, but you do not even flinch. You blink, stone-faced, and it makes his nostrils flare. He recognizes that glare, he knows it well. He has seen it before, stared it down many times in rooms just like this. Only now, he is not fighting for land, he fights for control of the one man that he has always been able to rely on. Simon has followed him into battles outnumbered by a thousand men, and only now he ignores an order? Only now he chooses something different?

“Now, let’s be civil, Your Majesty,” you say softly. You smile at him, leaning your head in your hand. “Is there something that you need from me? I have a feeling you might have encouraged this dinner just so you could see me in passing, so why don’t you just ask me what you wanted to ask me?”

John lets out a deep breath, leaning his elbows on the table, lowering his voice. He leans towards you, and you admire how blue his eyes are. John is quite a handsome king, but he does not captivate you. It has been a long time since John has tasted blood, and he lacks the edge that you crave dearly.

“I need him back here, is what I need,” John murmurs.

“My king, I couldn’t get him back here any more than you could, even if I wanted to.”

“Now who’s being daft?”

You scoff, leaning back in your chair. John is not a stupid man. He created a beast of a man, and he is trying not to poke it too hard. You shift, brushing down your skirts, and you let out a low breath.

“Why did he refuse?” You ask finally.

“What?”

“Why does he ignore your order to come back?” You ask again. “I can’t think of a lot of reasons why he would stay. So why did he ignore you?”

John clicks his tongue, smoothing a few of his fingers over his beard. He averts his eyes, looking out the tall windows, frowning a little at the grim weather. The weather is always grim here, but it irks him at the moment, makes him scowl a little harder.

“I was…informed that there was some sort of letter,” John explains. “Some threat.”

“I don’t follow. He gets lots of threats. And terrible letters.”

“Was about you this time, Your Grace.”

You close your eyes at that, shaking your head. Simon would never be so foolish as to be baited by baseless threats. He barely bats an eye when someone even in front of him draws his sword. He is so comforted by his ability to win, by his dreams and his visions that have not yet happened.

“That’s absurd,” you breathe. “Simon wouldn’t…”

John chuckles, but there is no humor there. “Wouldn’t he?”

“I still don’t understand what you expect me to do,” you roll your eyes, looking away. “Simon is…he’s not…he doesn’t listen. It’s why he’s good at this, isn’t it? He doesn’t really take orders, he’s…I…”

John has never complained before about the way Simon chooses to lead. Oftentimes, it is an order ignored that has made it so that he delivered another crown at John’s feet. Simon asks for forgiveness, not permission, and John has barely batted at eye at it. He sees Simon as some kind of distant son, but this refusal bothers him so?

John leans forward. “You need to understand something here, Simon is a rabid dog,” he spits. “And sometimes I let him off his lead, but this isn’t like anything I’ve had to deal with. I need you to call him back here.” He scoots closer. “England needs you to call him back here. To me.”

You narrow your eyes a little. England needs you to call him back? What kind of sick sense of patriotism is he trying to instill in you? John is stupider than he looks, to think a woman like you would show loyalty to country. You are loyal to your husband, and nothing else, because what has king and country ever really done for a woman like you except for dispose of you?

You wear Simon’s colors, not John’s, and you will wear them to your deathbed.

“If I do this for you, my king, then you owe me,” you whisper. He laughs again, no humor, and he picks up a goblet and fills it to the brim with wine. He drinks half before slamming it down onto the table, spilling it over his hand.

“Kings do not owe their subjects.”

“Quite right, Your Majesty,” you agree, picking up your napkin and dropping it onto the table. You stand, giving him a polite curtsy. “But I am not doing this as your subject.”

“Everything you do is as my subject.”

“You put your entire right to the throne on the back of one man,” you say softly. You are not accusing him, you’re reminding him of a truth. “Simon is why…he’s why your counsel still listens to you. He’s why your people are free from famine, why…why your taxes get paid on time, why your kingdom is still standing, no thanks to your father who wasted this place’s fortune on women and liquor.” You shake your head. “You have an eye for conquest, Your Majesty, but you lack the execution of any plan you conjure.”

You are not wrong, and John knows this, and it’s why he hasn’t spoken up yet or interrupted you. The man before, his own father, was a drunkard who spent all their money. He drank himself into the grave, and the only reason John stands before you now is because of Simon. A man who he fought beside, who he commanded, who once John’s duty became reality took up the mantle and finished what his father never could.

John would be in the next history book you read because of Simon, and it’s Simon’s name that will never be written. They do not bestow legacy to men who serve other men.

“Where…Where did you learn to speak to men this way?” John scoffs. “I am your king.”

You must have hit a soft spot. John is defensive now, and men only deflect and insult when they are cornered with the truth. They don’t like being held in front of a mirror.

“You are king because my husband made it so,” you correct him gently. “And Simon is a loyal dog, and that is good for your sake, because if he had any desire for your seat, it would be his.” You come closer, your heels sounding, and John glares down at you; but you glare right back because you are protected by your name and what you can do with it. John knows this, and it angers him, but he seems to have difficulty facing the truths of his own making. “But he is not your dog anymore. He’s mine.”

Your pen on paper is aggressive. You can tell because the splotches of ink are deep, bleeding black sinking into white as you put angry word to parchment. Not even a fortnight later, you are playing cards with Victoria, and you see Simon’s silhouette standing in the doorway, hood shadowing his masked face as he observes. When you look over your shoulder where John sits, and you meet his eyes, he looks away from you with a grim understanding.

Simon answers your call. Always.

At dinner, John is in better spirits. He drinks with a big smile, eats more than one plate, and he picks Victoria up by the waist to make her dance with him when he asks for the music to be played louder. Simon sits, fidgety, gloved hands moving in and out of fists as he watches you cut into your food and eat it with a blank face. He huffs beside you, his armor stiffening as he sits up straight, and you let your fork clatter onto your plate as you turn to glare at him.

“You were thinking with your cock, Simon,” you spit. “That is how men like you get killed.”

“You ‘ave no idea how men like me get killed because there are no men like me,” Simon growls. You roll your eyes, standing, and he grips your wrist angrily, tugging you close until you fall into his lap. You sigh, shaking your head, putting your hands on his broad shoulders and making him look at you.

“Maybe,” you whisper. “But I’m not wrong. It is how you’ll lose. You know better than that, Simon. To fight someone because they taunted you in a letter, it’s playing the fool.” You cup his cheeks, keeping his eyes on yours. “You don’t need me to tell you that, and yet here we are.”

He breathes slow, closing his eyes for just a moment. He thinks he came for this, just a little. For clarity. Reason. It comes from you in waves, and it’s comforting to hear. It is something he knew, and yet it only makes sense now that you have said it.

“I know,” Simon mutters. “I know. Y’r right. I’m sorry, luv.”

You ask him to apologize when he undresses you. You ask him to apologize again when he sinks into a hot bath with you. You ask him a third time when he is in your bed, a heavy weight between your thighs as he licks and sucks at the soft skin of your tummy. He begs, lowly, let me ‘ave it, and you will, but he has to say he’s sorry again.

“‘m sorry,” he breathes, sucking on your inner thigh, and you close your thighs around his head, forcing his mouth against your cunt.

“Again, Simon,” you whisper. “I wanna hear it again.”

“‘m sorry,” he slides a rough tongue between your folds, breathing shakily when he tastes the oil that he smoothed over your skin only moments ago. You taste so good, you smell so lovely, coming off of you like fumes blinding his senses so that nothing else but you makes any sense at all. When you open your eyes, you think about where you are, and you nearly come thinking about what you have wrapped around your finger.

Not even your king tells your husband what to do. Not even your king commands his men, they won’t listen, he’s not who they turn to when things go belly-up, it’s your husband, and your husband answers to you.

You weren’t sure about it until today. Seeing him when you asked him to come, it flooded you with something that hurt. You could tell from even so far away that Simon was salivating under that mask. You knew the only thing separating his mouth from your cunt were the other people around him (and they were not privy to seeing you naked).

It is such a thing to observe. John needed a lead on Simon when he was his dog. You need no such mechanism. Simon never strays, not with you. He sits proper when you ask, and he speaks when spoken to. He tears at unwanted flesh, and he comes when you call.

John cannot give him all that he desires. Perhaps he thought what Simon truly wanted was fame and fortune. Legacy. But like most things men do, John does not observe. He takes in only what is right in front of him, and he makes assumptions. Simon is not like other men. Fame and fortune do not matter. He does not care about legacy. What matters to Simon is what he can hold in his hands. The ground under his feet. The steel in his hand. The woman underneath him, spreading her legs, inviting him in.

You love Simon. You love Simon more than anything in the entire world, but it would be a lie to say that you are not at some advantage here. Simon is all-consuming. He is the pinnacle of duty and honor and everything that a man is supposed to be, but Simon is also weak. There is something that he wanted more than anything in the world, and now that he has it, he will do anything to keep it, and that makes him vulnerable. Subject to all kinds of new things. Revenge. Retaliation. Pain.

Manipulation.

Maybe you should feel bad about it. Maybe you should feel guilty, but it’s hard to feel anything like it when there’s a big bear of a man between your thighs slobbering on your pussy like dessert. It’s hard to feel anything but bliss when he’s tracing the letters of his name into your cunt and making you see stars and fucking you into the silk sheets like it’s the last time he’ll ever have you.

It is men who govern your world, and if this is how you must move in it, then so be it. You will not feel bad. You will not be sorry for doing what anyone else would do. John thought he could keep his hand there, muzzle his mutt, but you like him this way, and you’re certain John doesn’t fuck the way you do.

He’s mine.

It isn’t John that commands an army, it’s you; or maybe your cunt, but that belongs to you, too, so it is you, isn’t it? You’re the one that lets him inside, that whispers in his ear, that tells him things you know he wants to hear to make things move in your favor, so it’s you, right?

Not John. Not Victoria. Not their counsel. You. They have stepped on you your entire life. They have made you small and inferior and sad for all of your existence, and they gave you something feral knowing it could eat you alive, and now you are the hand that feeds, and they are forgetting that if they bite too hard, you have something that will surely bite harder.

A collar would suit him, you think. He would look so pretty. He already is, the terrible beast, prettiest thing you’ve ever seen (the necklace your drape over him does just fine, a pendant with his motif that you hope reminds him of you). You don’t care if people would say his face is quite ugly. It is, very much so, but you never see him this way. Whenever that mask falls, your stomach flips. He takes your breath away. His intensity, his raw form of love, the look on his face–there is nothing else in the entire world that will love you the way he loves you.

“You came back for me?” You ask. You have a leg tangled between his, and his fingers are between your thighs, a shadow of a smirk on his face as he feels the mixture of your cum and his. He grunts a little, and you tilt your head to look up at him, your chin on his chest.

“‘f course,” Simon mutters, and you kiss his chest gently, keeping your eyes on his.

“But not for John.”

He turns his head, looking down at you more intently, and he scoffs. You know it’s true, but you want to hear it, anyways. You want to hear Simon admit, unknowingly, that you are the tether.

“John is afraid, and I don’t listen to ‘im when he’s afraid. Makes bad choices.”

It’s almost adorable that this is what Simon tells himself. That he comes back for his own sake, and not for yours, even though they are one and the same, intertwined and inseparable.

“Simon,” you say softly, and he sighs, his eyes closing briefly when you kiss him gently. “You have to listen to your king when he asks you to come back. Making a…rash decision about war strategy is one thing, but…” You cup his cheek gently. “Make things easier for me, husband. If he asks you to come back, you come back.”

This time, at least. Just this time.

Simon snarls a bit, but you swallow it when you kiss him. You maneuver yourself over him, straddling his hips, and he grunts as you sink down on him. He swells hard again very quickly, releasing a deep breath as you give a slow roll of your hips.

“Make things easy for me, my love,” you whisper, and he leans his head back, putting two big hands on your ass and moving you with ease. “Appease your king, yes? For me?”

“Can’t say no when y’r pussy squeezes me like tha’, sweet’eart,” Simon groans, and you giggle, planting your hands on his chest and starting to move a little faster. You lean your head back, your mouth falling open, and you gasp when you sink down completely, your ass touching his thick thighs as you tighten around him. “Fuckin’ Christ–”

“I hate when you go,” you whine, digging your nails into his chest. He hisses, planting his feet on the bed, and he fucks up into you with a renewed fervor. “Hate when you’re not here, Simon, I-I miss you, miss this–”

“Nghh…fuck, I know,” Simon pants. “Can feel it. Feel you.” You squeal when he grips you by the waist and turns you over. He makes it seem so easy, tossing your weight underneath him, and your arms circle around his neck as you draw him closer, hanging onto him. “Y’r so fuckin’ pretty…”

“Simon–”

He kisses to devour. His jaw hinges wide to kiss you sloppy, breathing in the moans that you can’t contain. Simon always fucks so well, stretching your thighs as wide as they will accommodate so he can make room for the goliath of himself that he is. He suffocates, in a good way, and his cock never fails to stretch you for all that you are worth. Simon holds your jaw in place as he grinds into you, relishing in the wet smack of his hips against yours. The fat of you satisfies him. It makes him growl with delight when he grabs onto wide hips, your fat arse, the body that you hold that tells him you are fed and warm and content. It draws his grin wider, and it makes him drool thinking about having you again and again and again, until you beg him for reprieve and his heir sits in your womb.

Simon fucks for sport. He wants to see how stupid he can make you. He wants to know how long you’ll cry for, how fat he can make your tears. He wants to know how loud you will cry, how many times he can make you cum before you’re incoherent, he wants to know the extent to which he can use you that you will still be awake enough to say his name just one more time. Simon is not satisfied until he pushes your limits.

It is what a Riley does. They endure, and they eat, and they consume, and they take pleasure in the all-encompassing indulgement of things they have never been allowed to have. You are a woman, so he knows this will come easy for you. So often, he knows, women are not allowed to indulge at all, so he wants you to. He wants you to cry and moan and eat, and he wants you to do it bearing his name so that no one will ever tell you no.

Simon says no to kings, and they placate, or they die. His wife will be offered the same respect, and he’ll stand behind her with a sword to make it law. When you bear his children, he will expect the same of them–to give their mother utter devotion, lest they answer to his hand. There is no one above you, not God, not country, and certainly not blood. They will know what their father did to have you, and they will spill the same amount of blood to keep it that way. They will do it for you, and then they will do it for their own lovers, and if they don’t have the same sentiments, that love is not true, and Simon will not give his blessing.

Everything else is trivial. He knows this, understands it, because history repeats itself. It is cyclical, and you are right. Kings come and go. Sons die to other sons, fathers make bad decisions, and crowns are passed to bastards and back again, until lineage is merely spectacle and power changes hands often enough to lose generational merit. There is one thing that remains, and it is what you do while you are on earth, while you are standing on the ground you were born on. Even faiths change; when men find it suitable, they change the rules, and then you worship a different God, so Simon sees no point in staying loyal to any of it.

Instead, he is true to what he knows. To what he can see and what he can feel. With John, he remembers being a young man, fighting alongside him. He follows John, to an extent, because he knows what it is like to share blood with him on a muddy hill and take an arrow for him.

With you, time stands still. He saw you in a room, and he had to have you, and he brought nations to ruin to make certain no one would bat an eye when he asked for your hand. He saw you in a dream, too–he saw you laying in his bed of furs, wearing nothing but a tiara of his making, wet between the thighs because that is how it’s meant to be. He recognized you when he saw you that first time, and he doesn’t know how, but saying no to you, really saying no, will change that vision, and he couldn’t bear that.

Your voice echoes. You’re moaning, overstimulated, but he doesn’t stop. The hair around his cock rubs your clit too many times, and when you come around him, you’re a shaking, withering thing, back bowed and nipples pebbled. Your toes curl as you cry from the starry-eyed, hot pleasure, but he keeps moving, chasing something in the distance that he can taste, so close.

Yes, Simon ignored his king. Yes, Simon did not ignore you. Yes, Simon admits, he came when you called, and he doesn’t feel bad about it, he doesn’t care how it seems. He would do it again if he had the chance. John could give him the same answer as you in every timeline, but he will only move if the command comes from you, and yes, Simon knows it makes him a liability, but crowns come with costs, and this is the one John must pay.

Simon will fight any of John’s enemies, but he won’t fight fate. He won’t fight what has already been seen, and he won’t fight what he already knows will happen.

With Simon’s cock in your mouth, you can make him deliver on promises. Sucking on the girth of him, you can make him an honest man. Taking inside of your mouth what you can swallow, you can make Simon do your bidding, and it is a hard lesson that John learns.

“Do this for me,” you slobber against the underside of his cock, and Simon relents.

“Make me happy,” you say, swirling your fingers against your puffy pussy, and Simon kneels with an open mouth.

“Just this once,” you whisper with his cum on your tongue, and Simon seals his choice with his hands on your tits and the taste of himself in his mouth.

When you make eyes with John across the low lights of the throne room, he can’t help the way he admires you. You stand beside Simon, looking the essence of nobility and reverence in another intricate silver and blue dress. The train of your skirt glitters with delicate jewels hand sewn into the fabric, and the headpiece you wear adorns a skull insignia. Your corset has been tied just right, thanks to Simon’s hand, and your own fingers are clasped between his. Your corset and jewels are of exquisite detail–one of the newest designs from Paris, structured and elegant and accentuating every curve of soft skin.

You glow in the room. His wife must be wearing a dress just as expensive, probably more, and yet his eyes (and everyone else’s) cannot help but follow you. Your own eyes won’t leave Simon; you flutter your lashes whenever he looks down at you, big smile on your face, and even when there are people curtsying and bowing to you and giving Simon their gratitude between bites of cake and glugs of wine, your attention never really strays. 

John feels inadequate in his own fortress; suddenly, red and gold sicken him, and England tastes sour in his mouth.

In a few generations, John’s house will likely fall. He will make heirs that will fail him, he knows this. In a few centuries, his family will not sit in the same place, but a Riley will remain right where they are supposed to be. Banners of blue and silver will always fly. If Simon does not make sure of that, then you will.

It’s what happens when you force women like you to their knees. When they grow up invisible, always in the shadows, forgotten and sold to the next man who will pay a higher price, it’s what you learned to do. It’s all you’ve ever known, to make the best out of something terrible.

Simon is the same, in that sense. You understand him in a way his king will never be able to. Simon has nothing, and neither do you, and Simon was stepped on and berated and tortured to the point of no return. It is why blood does not scare him and why death doesn’t come knocking. Time will be the only thing capable of killing him, and everyone that stands up to him learns that when they eat his blade.

In the quiet of the evening, Simon undresses you. He sits behind you on the bed, fingers pinching the bows at your back and unraveling them. He traces your corset, thumb circling over the skull pattern of the belt around the small of your waist, and he tastes something warm in his mouth at the sight of it. You look so beautiful–more beautiful than he’s ever seen you maybe, decorated in his colors and wearing his motif and sitting so pretty.

“You wanna know something…funny?” You ask quietly. Simon finds the ties of your skirts and starts to undo them. He grunts in reply; he might sound standoffish, but you know he’s listening. “John…John made it…he makes it seem like you don’t really listen to him. He implied that…in the face of adversity, you might only listen to me.” You put your hands on the front of your corset to keep it from falling. “Isn’t that funny?”

“Wot’s so funny?”

You swallow, looking down. Your hands fidget, and you take a closer look at the ring you wear, the delicate gold band he gave you not so long ago.

“I…”

“Mmm…might be right, innit?” Simon snickers after a moment. You feel him stand, and you look over your shoulder as he peels his mask off and grins down at you. He tilts his head to the side, and you smile back at him a little. “Do anythin’ for ya. Disobeying a king…” Simon cackles, tearing your corset off, tossing it onto the floor as he walks you backwards. “Ignoring one…” He shrugs, “Oll in a day, love.”

“He can hang you for it,” you whisper. “Cut off your head. Cut off mine.”

Simon lays you back on the bed, spreading you out, climbing over you. You blink up at him, and he leans down, pressing his forehead to yours.

“I would ‘ave seen it. I would know.”

He would have seen it in a dream. It would have come to him in a reflection in a pool of blood on the battlefield. It would have come to him, the voices in his head, he would have heard them amongst screaming, or perhaps in the void that he finds his mind in when he’s between your plush thighs.

You can’t help the smile that graces your face when Simon kisses the curve where your jaw meets your neck. It is fun, you suppose. Fun to control the tides that set the courses of history. It is fun and almost unbelievable that a king bends to the will of one man’s wife just because it solidifies his name.

You wrap your hand around the twine that dangles from Simon’s neck. It twirls around your fingers, easy, solid. Simon’s eyes are dark, and they are yours, and when you smile, so does he, because this is where you are meant to be, forever and always.

“What if I want more?” You ask. Simon hums, low from within his chest, and you run your tongue over your teeth. “Did you see that in your dreams, Simon? Hmm? Do you know what I’m asking for? What it is that I really want?”

Simon smiles. A dark one, with teeth, and you know he hears it. What more means for a duke and his duchess. What more means when you have all the money you could ever want, all the land you could ever need.

What more means when you have climbed your way to the top and still desire more. More, more, more. There are not many steps left to climb. There are not many places left to take, not much more of the world that can really be yours, but Simon looks ravenous, and Simon looks hungry, and if you fuck him now, you’ll have him right where you want him.

When you tug on what hangs around his neck, Simon bends. Simon follows.

The problem was that you had finally reached a point in your life where you weren't looking for anyone.

It had taken years to get there.

Years of confusing attention with affection. Years of convincing yourself that if you were patient enough, understanding enough, accommodating enough, eventually someone would become the person they kept promising they could be. Somewhere along the way, you had developed a habit of falling in love with potential instead of reality. You would meet a man, notice one or two good qualities, and then spend months filling in the blanks yourself. You'd build entire relationships around who somebody might become rather than who they actually were.

It was exhausting.

Eventually, after enough disappointment, enough nights spent staring at your ceiling, wondering why effort never seemed to be reciprocated, something shifted.

You stopped romanticizing people who gave you the bare minimum.

You stopped applauding men for doing things that should have been expected in the first place.

You stopped mistaking inconsistency for mystery and emotional unavailability for depth.

Most importantly, you learned how to walk away.

You discovered that being alone wasn't nearly as frightening as being with somebody who made you feel lonely. And once you'd learned that lesson, really learned it, your standards began to change.

Working as a social worker in the emergency department probably accelerated that transformation. Every day you sat with families experiencing the worst moments of their lives. You helped parents process devastating diagnoses. You comforted spouses after traumatic accidents. You watched people discover, over and over again, what truly mattered when everything else was stripped away.

It gave you perspective.

After spending twelve hours helping a family navigate a life-altering crisis, listening to some twenty-eight-year-old man explain that he "wasn't ready for labels" felt almost laughable.

Your dating history suddenly looked absurd when viewed through that lens.

There had been the self-proclaimed entrepreneur whose business seemed to consist entirely of talking about starting a business. The musician who forgot your birthday and then somehow managed to make you feel guilty for being upset about it. The man who spent six months deciding whether he wanted a relationship, as though you were a job offer sitting in his inbox waiting for approval.

Six months.

You could still remember sitting across from him at dinner, listening to him stumble through another vague explanation about timing and uncertainty and needing space, and feeling something inside you finally click into place.

Not heartbreak.

Clarity.

Because for the first time you realized that someone who truly wanted you would not require six months to determine whether you were worth choosing.

You left that relationship with surprisingly little sadness.

Mostly because by then you understood something you hadn't before.

Every mistake contained information. Every disappointment taught you something. Every failed relationship clarified what you actually needed.

Past mistakes weren't failures, they were data.

And the data had led you here.

To a place where your expectations were no longer negotiable.

Nothing unreasonable. Nothing impossible.

You wanted someone who communicated honestly. Someone who worked hard. Someone who respected women. Someone emotionally mature enough to express what they wanted instead of expecting you to decipher it through mixed signals and half-hearted text messages. Someone capable of making a decision without treating commitment like a hostage negotiation.

The bar, in your opinion, remained embarrassingly low.

You weren't asking for perfection or a fairytale. You were asking for competence. Consistency. Effort.

Which was why the universe's timing felt particularly cruel.

Because roughly three months after making a dramatic declaration to your friends that you were done prioritizing men, done settling, done chasing people who weren't sure about you, Jack quietly walked into your life and proceeded to embody nearly every expectation you'd spent years developing.

And somehow that felt significantly more dangerous than all the wrong men combined.

The first thing you noticed about Jack wasn't his face, or his job title, or even the fact that half the emergency department seemed to adore him.

It was that he remembered things.

Not the big things people were expected to remember. Not birthdays posted on Facebook or major life announcements that everyone in the department had heard about. It was the small things. The things most people acknowledged in conversation and then immediately forgot the moment they walked away.

You first noticed it on an ordinary Tuesday afternoon.

The department had been relatively calm for once, which in emergency medicine usually meant disaster was quietly building somewhere. You'd been walking beside Jack toward radiology after helping arrange temporary housing resources for a patient. The conversation had been casual, the kind that happened when two people spent enough time crossing paths at work. Somewhere between discussing a difficult discharge and complaining about hospital coffee, you'd mentioned that your younger brother was graduating from nursing school that weekend.

Jack had smiled.

"That's a huge accomplishment."

Then a trauma page had gone off overhead, he'd been pulled away, and you'd assumed that was the end of it.

Three weeks passed.

Three weeks filled with twelve-hour shifts, ambulance arrivals, difficult family meetings, social work consults, endless documentation, and the particular kind of exhaustion that came from working in an emergency department. You forgot the conversation entirely.

Jack apparently didn't.

You were carrying a chart toward the nurses' station when he passed you in the hallway.

He slowed slightly.

"Hey."

"Hey."

"How'd the graduation go?"

You stopped walking.

Not because of the question itself, because it took you several seconds to understand what graduation he was talking about.

"What?"

"Your brother." Jack looked mildly confused by your confusion. "The fact that he graduated from nursing school?"

For a moment you simply stared at him.

Three weeks.

It had been three weeks. Three weeks and dozens, maybe hundreds, of patients. Endless consults. New admissions. New traumas. New crises. An entire emergency department's worth of information had passed through both of your brains since then. And yet somehow he'd remembered a single passing comment you'd made while walking down a hallway.

"You remembered that?"

Jack's forehead creased slightly. "Yeah?"

The answer came so naturally that it almost made you laugh. There was no pride in it, no expectation that he should be praised for paying attention. No awareness that he'd done anything unusual at all. As if listening when people spoke was simply normal. As if remembering details about someone mattered because that person mattered.

The realization caught you more off guard than it should have. Because the truth was, your surprise said far more about your past than it did about Jack.

You thought about the men you'd dated before. The ones who needed reminders for conversations they'd had the day before. The ones who forgot important events, forgot stories you'd told them, forgot preferences, forgot plans. Men who claimed they cared about you but somehow never seemed curious enough to remember the details that made you who you were. You remembered one ex who'd forgotten your birthday. Another who repeatedly mixed up your brother and cousin despite meeting both of them. One particularly impressive candidate had even asked what your undergraduate degree was after nearly four months of dating.

At the time, you'd laughed those things off. Made excuses. Told yourself they were busy, distracted, bad with details. But standing in the middle of a hospital hallway while Jack looked at you as though remembering your brother's graduation was the most ordinary thing in the world, those excuses suddenly felt a lot less convincing.

Because maybe caring looked like this.

Maybe it wasn't grand gestures or dramatic declarations. Maybe it was paying attention. Maybe it was listening closely enough that information stayed with you, remembering things simply because someone had taken the time to tell you.

You eventually answered his question and told him the graduation had gone well. You even showed him a picture your mother had insisted on taking, one where your brother looked deeply uncomfortable in his cap and gown. Jack smiled, asked a few questions, congratulated him through you, and then got called away to evaluate a patient before the conversation could continue. The interaction lasted less than two minutes. By the end of your shift, you should have forgotten about it.

Instead, you found yourself thinking about it on the drive home. Then again while brushing your teeth. Then again a few days later when you spotted him across the department, calmly talking a nervous patient through a procedure. It wasn't a grand romantic moment. There was no music, no revelation, no sudden realization that you were falling for him. It was smaller than that. Quieter. More dangerous.

Because for the first time in a very long time, someone had shown you what genuine attention looked like. And once you'd noticed it, you couldn't stop seeing it everywhere.

The emergency department had descended into chaos the moment the alert came through. Mass casualty incident. School bus versus commercial truck. Multiple patients inbound. You still remembered the way the atmosphere shifted in seconds, as if someone had flipped a switch. One moment people were finishing notes, grabbing coffee, discussing discharge plans. The next, every available trauma bay was being prepared, stretchers lined up, supplies restocked, and teams assembled. The department moved with a kind of organized urgency that only came from experience. Physicians pulled on trauma gowns while nurses prepared medications and respiratory therapists checked ventilators. Overhead pages echoed through the halls. Ambulance arrival times were shouted across rooms. Whiteboards filled with names faster than anyone could process them. Thirty-seven patients arrived over the course of the evening. Multiple critical injuries. The kind of shift where hours disappeared without notice and everyone operated almost entirely on instinct.

You spent most of the night with one family. Their son was sixteen years old, a quiet kid with braces who had been sitting near the front of the bus when it rolled. The trauma team identified a pelvic fracture almost immediately, and later imaging revealed internal bleeding that required urgent intervention. While physicians worked in the trauma bay, your role was with the people waiting outside. The mother had started crying before the ambulance doors even closed. The father somehow seemed worse. At least the mother's fear had somewhere to go.

The father's stayed trapped inside him, building pressure behind every breath. His hands shook every time someone in scrubs walked through the doors. He stood up whenever footsteps approached and sat down again when they passed by. Over and over, he asked the same questions because panic made it impossible to hold onto answers. Was his son awake? Had he said anything? Was he going to be okay? What exactly did internal bleeding mean? You explained what you could. You tracked down updates. You translated medical terminology into language terrified parents could understand. You brought cups of water they barely touched and sat beside them through every agonizing stretch of waiting. Over the years, you had learned that waiting was often the cruelest part. Pain had something concrete to focus on. Fear could be addressed. But uncertainty lingered. It settled into people and hollowed them out from the inside.

By the time their son was stabilized and transferred to the ICU, nearly two hours had passed. The mother squeezed your hand before she left. The father looked at you like he wanted to say something important but couldn't quite find the words. Then they followed the transport team upstairs, and suddenly the adrenaline that had been carrying you all evening vanished. Your feet hurt. Your shoulders ached. The headache you'd been ignoring since noon had settled somewhere behind your eyes and started pounding. You couldn't remember the last time you'd sat down. You couldn't remember the last time you'd eaten either. Breakfast felt like it had happened days ago. At some point you'd grabbed coffee. Maybe twice. Maybe three times. The details blurred together beneath the weight of the shift.

You slipped into the staff lounge hoping for five uninterrupted minutes before the next crisis found you. The room was quiet for the first time all night. No monitors. No overhead announcements. No crying families. No trauma alerts. Jack sat alone at one of the tables finishing documentation. His trauma gown was gone, wearing only his black srubs. Reading glasses rested low on his nose as he typed. A half-empty coffee sat beside his laptop. He looked exhausted.

You had barely stepped into the room when something slid across the table toward you.

A granola bar.

You stared at it.

Then at him.

Jack didn't even look up.

"You haven't eaten."

For a moment your brain struggled to catch up.

"What?"

"I saw you skip lunch."

His fingers never stopped moving across the keyboard.

"Eat."

Your eyes dropped back to the granola bar. It was completely ordinary. Yet something about it made your chest tighten unexpectedly.

"You got me food?"

That finally earned you a glance. Jack looked up just long enough to give you a mildly unimpressed expression.

"You look like you're running entirely on caffeine and wishful thinking."

A beat passed.

"Which isn't sustainable."

A laugh escaped before you could stop it. A real laugh. The first one you'd managed all night. Something softened in his expression when he heard it. Not quite a smile, but close.

You sat down across from him and opened the wrapper. The sound crinkled loudly in the otherwise silent room.

"You've been observing my dietary habits now?"

"Someone has to."

"You say that like I'm a child."

"Well you’re a social worker, kid. We wouldn’t survive with you guys. So yeah, I’m observing."

You opened your mouth to argue and immediately closed it again because he was, unfortunately, correct. Jack returned to his charting, and the conversation could have ended there. Probably should have. But as you sat there eating the granola bar, something kept nagging at you.

"How did you even notice?"

He looked up again.

"Notice what?"

"That I hadn't eaten."

The question seemed to genuinely confuse him.

"You always eat lunch."

You blinked. "What?"

"You usually disappear around one, and come back around one thirty."

He shrugged as if the answer were self-explanatory.

"Today you didn't."

Something shifted quietly inside your chest, because he wasn't talking about one day.

To know that, he had been paying attention for weeks. Maybe months. Not in a deliberate way. Not in an intrusive way. Just enough to notice patterns. Enough to notice your absence from one. Enough to realize something was off. And somehow that affected you far more than it should have. You'd dated men who couldn't remember your favorite food. Men who forgot important conversations, forgot birthdays, forgot promises they had made themselves. Yet here was Jack remembering something as insignificant as the fact that you usually took lunch around one o'clock.

Not because he wanted credit.

Not because he was trying to impress you.

Not because he expected anything in return.

Simply because he cared.

As the silence settled between you again, you found yourself watching him over the edge of the granola bar wrapper. The tiredness beneath his eyes. The slight slump in his shoulders. The concentration on his face as he finished documentation after one of the hardest shifts either of you had worked in months. He was exhausted too. He had spent the evening intubating patients, coordinating trauma care, delivering updates, and making impossible decisions under impossible pressure. Yet somewhere amid all that chaos, he'd noticed that you hadn't eaten. He'd noticed. He'd remembered. And he'd acted.

No grand gesture.

Just a granola bar quietly pushed across a table.

A simple act of care.

And for reasons you couldn't fully explain, it felt more intimate than every expensive dinner, every bouquet of flowers, and every romantic gesture you'd ever received. Because those things had often been done to impress you. This had simply been done because you needed it.

"You like him."

Santos' voice appeared beside you during one of those rare moments when the emergency department wasn't actively falling apart. You were halfway through documenting a consult and attempting to drink a coffee that had long since gone cold when Santos delivered the statement so casually that it took a moment for your brain to catch up.

"Excuse me?"

She didn't even look up from her computer.

"You like him."

You stared at her.

"Who?"

That finally earned you a glance. Santos turned slowly, giving you the kind of look normally reserved for people who had just asked whether the sky was blue.

"Abbot."

You nearly inhaled your coffee.

"Come again?"

"It's so obvious it's actually starting to piss me off."

A laugh escaped her as she turned back toward her charting, while you sat there feeling personally attacked.

"I don't have a crush on him."

"Sure."

"I don't."

"Okay."

"Santos."

"What?"

"I do not have a crush on Jack."

The grin spreading across her face immediately told you this argument was already lost.

"You absolutely do. "You get weird when he walks by."

"I do not get weird."

"You do."

"I don't."

Santos raised an eyebrow.

You groaned and rubbed a hand over your face.

"Don't you have patients?"

"Don't change the subject."

"I'm not changing the subject."

"You are."

You pointed at her dramatically.

"Is this what you do all day? Stare at your coworkers instead of charting?"

"Partially."

At least she was honest.

Unfortunately, before you could continue arguing, movement across the department caught your attention. Your eyes found Jack automatically, and the triumphant noise Santos made beside you was immediate.

"There."

"Oh, shut up."

"There!"

Across the emergency department, Jack stood beside Robby reviewing imaging results on a computer screen. The CT images glowed against the monitor while the two physicians discussed findings. You couldn't hear the conversation from where you stood, but you could recognize the expression on Jack's face. Focused. Attentive. Completely engaged. His arms were crossed as he listened to Robby explain something, occasionally leaning forward to point out a detail on the scan before the conversation continued. There was absolutely nothing romantic about the scene. It was two doctors discussing a patient. That's all it was.

And yet you found yourself watching.

Not because he was handsome.

Although he was.

Not because he was charming.

Although he could be.

It was something far more annoying than that.

Because every day you watched him be good at what he did.

Not perfect.

Good.

There was a difference.

You'd seen him struggle too.

Medicine was full of mistakes, uncertainty, and moments where nobody had the right answer. Every physician encountered them eventually. The difference was how Jack responded when they happened. You'd seen him ask questions without embarrassment. Consult specialists when he wasn't sure. Accept feedback from colleagues without becoming defensive. Admit when someone else's idea was better than his own.

A few weeks earlier, Javadi had suggested a diagnosis he hadn't initially considered. You still remembered standing nearby while she carefully explained her reasoning, clearly nervous about disagreeing with an attending. Jack had listened. Really listened. Then he'd thanked her when additional testing proved she was right.

Such a small moment and ordinary moment. And yet, it had stayed with you.

Because you'd spent years dating men whose egos were so fragile that being corrected felt like a personal attack. Men who treated every disagreement like a competition they had to win. Men who would rather be wrong than admit someone else might know more.

Jack never seemed threatened by not knowing everything.

In fact, the more competent he was, the more comfortable he seemed admitting what he didn't know.

And somehow that made him even more competent.

That was the problem.

Attraction built on looks was manageable. Attraction built on charm eventually faded. But attraction built on respect was dangerous because it rooted itself deeper. It wasn't about chemistry or butterflies or fantasy. It was built on observation. On evidence. On watching somebody reveal who they were over and over again until you couldn't deny what you saw.

You respected him.

You respected the way he treated people.

You respected the way he worked.

You respected the way he showed up, day after day, even when the job was difficult and exhausting and thankless. You respected the fact that he never acted like caring was beneath him. You watched him mentor residents, advocate for vulnerable patients, comfort grieving families, and choose kindness over convenience again and again. Not because anyone was watching. Not because he wanted recognition. Simply because that was who he was.

And somewhere along the way, without your permission, he had become the standard.

Not perfection. Not potential. Not promises. Effort. Consistency. Character. All the things you'd spent years searching for in men who only ever seemed to offer excuses instead.

Santos was still staring at you when you finally dragged your attention away from the other side of the department.

"You done staring?"

You immediately looked anywhere but Jack.

"I wasn't staring."

"You were."

"I hate you."

"No, you don't."

A comfortable silence settled between you before Santos leaned slightly closer. "For what it's worth?"

You sighed. "What?"

Her gaze flickered toward Jack before returning to you. This time, when she spoke, there was no teasing in her voice.

"I get it."

Your chest tightened unexpectedly. Not because she was making fun of you, but because she wasn't. For once, Santos sounded completely sincere.

"He makes people feel safe."

The words settled somewhere deep inside you because they were true. You looked back across the department. Jack was still standing beside Robby, still discussing scans, still completely unaware of the conversation happening about him. Completely unaware that somewhere along the way he'd become the measuring stick against which every other man was now being compared.

And maybe that was the most frustrating part of all.

The realization happened at a bar.

Which was ironic, considering bars were exactly the sort of place you'd spent the last year insisting your future husband would never be found.

Not because you thought there was anything wrong with meeting people at bars. You'd simply reached a point in your life where you no longer believed meaningful relationships appeared because you were looking for them.

The emergency department's New Year's gathering was nothing particularly special. Just a local bar rented out for the evening, cheap decorations still hanging from Christmas, music playing slightly too loud through old speakers, and a collection of healthcare workers desperately trying to remember they were human beings outside the hospital. For one night nobody was discussing lab values, trauma activations, consults, or difficult patients. Nobody was running toward alarms. Nobody was delivering bad news.

People were simply existing.

Laughing.

Drinking.

Living.

You stood at the bar with a vodka cranberry in hand, watching your coworkers scatter across the room. Mel and Santos were butchering a karaoke song with enough confidence to make up for their complete lack of talent. Mohan and Javadi had somehow ended up in a corner gossiping about Mateo. Robby was engaged in what looked like an unnecessarily passionate debate about football with Shen. The room buzzed with the easy familiarity that developed when people spent their days surviving chaos together.

You had entered the new year single. But more importantly, you'd entered it happy. Not pretending to be happy. Not telling yourself you were happy.

Actually happy.

You weren't wondering who might text tomorrow morning. You weren't looking around the room hoping someone would notice you. You weren't mentally calculating whether this year would finally be the year you met somebody. For the first time in your adult life, your happiness wasn't being held hostage by your relationship status.

You had already chosen yourself.

And once you did that, everything else began feeling different.

"Vodka cranberry."

Jack's voice appeared beside you before you noticed him approach.

You glanced over.

"What about it?"

He nodded toward your drink.

"You always order vodka cranberries."

A laugh escaped before you could stop it. "Are you keeping a file on me?"

"Maybe."

The corner of his mouth lifted slightly.

"I like knowing things."

"Yeah, I've noticed that."

The exchange was simple. Easy. The kind of conversation that had somehow become normal between the two of you over the past several months. You hadn't noticed when that happened. At some point the awkwardness disappeared. Conversations stopped feeling intentional and started feeling natural. You found yourself seeking him out without realizing it. Found yourself looking for him during difficult shifts. Found yourself collecting stories to tell him later.

Dangerous.

Very dangerous.

For a few moments neither of you spoke. Jack leaned one shoulder against the bar, his attention drifting briefly across the room before settling back on you.

"You seem happy."

The comment caught you off guard—not because of the words themselves, but because of the way he said them. Most people would have asked if you were happy. Jack stated it like an observation. Like he'd noticed.

You looked over at him. "So do you."

"No."

The small smile on his face faded slightly.

"I'm serious."

Something about his tone made you pause. You studied him for a moment. Really studied him. The soft lighting of the bar. The tiredness that still lingered beneath his eyes after another year in emergency medicine. The way he watched people when they spoke, as though they were worth listening to. And then you realized he wasn't asking a casual question. He genuinely wanted to know.

"Yeah," you admitted quietly. The answer came easier than expected. "I am."

For a moment neither of you spoke. Then something shifted in his expression. Small. Subtle. But unmistakable. Relief. Not satisfaction. Not pride. Relief, like he'd been hoping that would be your answer. Like your happiness mattered to him independent of anything he might gain from it.

"Good."

The word came quietly. Sincerely.

"You deserve that. It suits you."

Your chest tightened unexpectedly. Not because it sounded romantic—it didn't. That was what made it so dangerous. Jack had never flirted with you the way other men had. Never treated conversations like transactions. Never acted as though kindness earned him something in return. He never made you feel like a prize to be won or a challenge to be conquered. There was no game underneath his attention. No hidden agenda. No constant pressure to define things before they naturally became something.

He simply saw you. The real you. Not the version trying to impress people. Not the version performing confidence. Not the version who always had the right answer. Just you.

And somehow that felt more intimate than all the grand romantic gestures you'd spent years convincing yourself were meaningful.

You thought about every relationship you'd had before. The men who wanted to be needed. The men who liked the idea of you. The men who loved being chosen more than they loved actually knowing you. How often you'd felt as though your worth depended on being wanted.

Jack had never made you feel that way.

Standing there in a crowded bar on New Year's Eve, surrounded by music and laughter and coworkers singing off-key in the background, the realization settled quietly into your chest. The reason you liked Jack wasn't because he made you feel chosen. It was because, somehow, he made you feel seen.

And after years of confusing those two things, you finally understood the difference.

Several weeks later, after a shift that had somehow managed to be both exhausting and uneventful, you found yourself standing on the hospital roof with Jack. The city stretched beneath you, Pittsburgh glowing against the darkness, thousands of lights scattered across the hillsides and reflected in the rivers below. The wind was stronger than usual, tugging loose strands of hair across your face and making the fabric of your jacket flutter around your arms.

Jack stood beside you, close enough that you could hear him breathing when the wind quieted, but not touching. He never seemed to force closeness. Never crowded your space. Never inserted himself where he wasn't invited. There was simply a comfortable ease between the two of you now, built slowly over months of shared shifts, late-night conversations, and stolen moments between emergencies. The silence wasn't awkward. It never was. With Jack, silence felt less like an absence of conversation and more like another form of it.

For several moments neither of you spoke. You watched headlights move across one of the bridges in the distance, tiny streams of light weaving through the city. Eventually, the thought escaped before you could stop it.

"You know," you said, your voice almost getting carried away by the wind, "I used to have terrible taste in men."

Jack laughed immediately.

"Past tense?"

You smiled. "Definitely."

"What changed?"

The question should have been simple. Instead, it made you pause. Because the answer wasn't one thing. It wasn't a single heartbreak or one defining relationship. It was years. Years of disappointment and lessons you hadn't wanted to learn. Years of convincing yourself to stay when you should have left. Years of making excuses for people who never seemed willing to make the same effort for you.

You leaned your elbows against the railing and looked out at the city. "Honestly?"

"Yeah."

You exhaled slowly. "I stopped making excuses."

Beside you, Jack stayed quiet, listening the way he always did. Not waiting for his turn to speak. Not trying to solve anything. Just listening.

"I used to fall in love with potential."

The confession felt embarrassingly honest, but somehow easier to admit with him than it would've been with anyone else.

Jack nodded. "I think a lot of people do."

"Yeah, well." A small laugh escaped you. "Turns out that's a terrible strategy."

His smile widened. "Very terrible."

"I'd meet someone and immediately start imagining who they could become. I'd see one good quality and build an entire future around it. I'd convince myself that eventually they'd communicate better. Eventually they'd grow up. Eventually they'd be ready. Eventually they'd become the person I needed them to be."

You shook your head, laughing softly at yourself. "It sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud."

"It doesn't."

"It should."

Jack glanced toward you, his expression thoughtful rather than amused. "It sounds hopeful."

The answer caught you off guard. Most people would've called it naïve. Or foolish. Or desperate. You'd certainly called yourself all three at different points in your life. Hopeful felt different. Kinder. More generous. More accurate somehow. You stared back out at the city lights scattered across the darkness and found yourself being honest in a way that had become strangely easy with him.

"I overlooked a lot of things," you admitted quietly. "I ignored red flags because I wanted things to work. I convinced myself that if someone cared enough, they'd eventually become who they were supposed to be. I'd meet someone and immediately start imagining who they could become instead of paying attention to who they actually were. I thought loving somebody enough could somehow bridge the gap between reality and potential."

The wind swept across the rooftop again, lifting strands of your hair across your face.

"What do you look for now?" he asked after a moment.

The question made you smile because, for the first time in your life, you actually had an answer. Not the answer you would've given at twenty-two when chemistry felt more important than compatibility. Not the answer you'd have given when you were still measuring your worth by whether someone chose you. The real answer.

"Consistency."

Jack nodded slightly.

"Kindness."

You thought for another second.

"Emotional intelligence."

Then, completely serious, you added,

"A guy with a real job."

The laugh that burst out of him was so unexpected that you immediately started laughing too.

"A real job?"

"I'm serious."

"No, I know you are. That's what makes it funny."

You pointed at him.

"Do not underestimate how low the bar can be."

His shoulders shook with laughter.

"I stand corrected."

"I've dated men who described unemployment as a spiritual journey."

"What?"

"I'm not joking."

"C'mon, kid, that is not a real sentence."

"It is, trust me."

By then you were both laughing, the sound carried away by the wind and swallowed by the city below. The conversation should have felt ridiculous. Like gossip. Like complaining about exes. Instead it felt strangely freeing. Because for years you'd treated your standards like something embarrassing. Something that needed justification. Something that made you difficult or demanding. Somewhere along the way you'd absorbed the idea that wanting consistency, effort, communication, and emotional maturity was somehow asking for too much. Standing there now, laughing with Jack beneath the Pittsburgh skyline, it suddenly felt absurd that you'd ever believed that. Those weren't impossible standards. They weren't extraordinary. They were the natural result of finally valuing yourself enough to stop accepting less.

When the laughter eventually faded, a comfortable silence settled between you again. The city continued glowing beneath the darkness. A helicopter crossed the distant skyline. Somewhere below, another ambulance was probably pulling into the emergency bay while another shift began. You turned toward Jack and discovered he was already looking at you.

Not intensely.

Not romantically.

Just honestly.

Jack wasn't attractive because he met your expectations. Plenty of people met your expectations on paper. Plenty of people could say the right things. Plenty of people could check boxes. Jack was different because he had expectations too. For himself. For his career. For the way he treated people. For the kind of life he wanted to build.

You had never once gotten the impression that he was waiting for someone else to save him from himself. He wasn't drifting through life hoping a relationship would magically provide purpose. He wasn't looking for a woman to fill an emptiness he refused to address on his own. He already had a full life. A demanding career. Meaningful friendships. Purpose. Ambition. Values. A strong sense of who he was and who he wanted to become. And because of that, his kindness never felt needy. His attention never felt possessive. His interest never felt desperate.

It felt intentional.

Steady.

Healthy.

The realization settled quietly into your chest.

Every relationship you'd had before seemed to revolve around potential. Around waiting. Around promises of who somebody might become one day if you just loved them enough, supported them enough, stayed long enough. You'd spent years investing in future versions of people who never actually arrived.

Jack wasn't potential.

He wasn't a project.

He wasn't a possibility.

He was already there.

Already doing the work.

Already growing.

Already becoming.

And maybe that was what made room for something real.

Not two people searching for someone to complete them.

Just two people who had already built lives they were proud of and, somewhere along the way, discovered they genuinely liked standing beside each other in them.

For the first time in a long time, the future didn't feel like something you had to force into existence. It felt like something you could simply let happen.

And standing beside Jack on that rooftop, with the wind tangling your hair and the city glowing below, you realized that might be the healthiest thing you'd ever felt.

The first kiss happened months later.

Not because either of you were playing games. Not because there was confusion about what existed between you. And definitely not because one of you was waiting for the other to make the first move. If anything, the opposite was true. By that point, there was very little uncertainty left between the two of you. The feelings had settled slowly, steadily, over months of shared shifts, rooftop conversations, coffee runs, trauma activations, and stolen moments in hospital hallways. It wasn't the kind of connection that arrived all at once. It was built piece by piece, conversation by conversation, until one day you realized Jack had become the person you looked for first when you walked into a room.

You knew the sound of his laugh.

You knew how he took his coffee.

You knew which patients stayed with him long after his shifts ended.

You knew the tiny crease that appeared between his eyebrows when he was concentrating.

You knew how he listened.

And somehow, without either of you noticing exactly when it happened, friendship had become something deeper.

The shift that night had been brutal. Too many patients. Not enough beds. Multiple traumas. A pediatric code that left the entire department quieter afterward. By three in the morning, exhaustion hung over everyone like a physical weight. The parking lot outside the hospital was mostly empty, illuminated by scattered streetlights. Spring had settled heavily over Pittsburgh, the air warm even at that hour and carrying the faint sounds of distant traffic.

As usual, Jack walked you to your car. At some point it had become routine. Neither of you remembered exactly when it started—maybe after a particularly difficult shift, maybe after a late-night safety concern, or maybe because he simply wanted a few extra minutes with you. Whatever the reason, neither of you questioned it anymore.

You walked side by side through the parking lot, your conversation fading naturally as you approached your car. Neither of you seemed particularly eager to say goodnight. That had become another pattern lately. Conversations stretching longer than necessary. Lingering. Finding reasons for one more minute together.

When you finally reached your car and turned toward him, you immediately noticed something different.

Jack looked nervous. Not obviously, but enough that you recognized it.

The realization startled you because nervous wasn't a word you often associated with Jack. You'd seen him lead trauma teams through impossible situations, make life-or-death decisions under pressure, and calmly deliver devastating news to families. Yet somehow standing in a mostly empty parking lot seemed to unsettle him more than any trauma activation ever had. The thought was unexpectedly adorable.

"Can I ask you something?" he said.

The corner of your mouth lifted automatically.

"You just did, big guy."

His eyes rolled immediately, a familiar gesture that somehow managed to make your chest warm every single time. You smiled. Then he smiled too.

And there it was.

That look.

The one you'd spent months trying not to think too much about. The one that always seemed to appear during quiet moments when neither of you were distracted by work or patients or responsibilities. The one that made your stomach flip despite your best efforts.

For a moment neither of you spoke. The warm night air settled around you, carrying the distant sounds of traffic through the city.

Jack looked at you like he was making a decision.

Then finally he said, "Can I kiss you?"

Just like that.

No games. No confusion. No carefully crafted ambiguity. No inching closer and hoping you'd somehow read his mind. No forcing you to analyze every interaction afterward with your friends. No making you carry the emotional burden of figuring out where you stood.

Just honesty.

Direct. Simple. Certain.

The question hung between you, and suddenly it felt like time slowed. Because it wasn't really about the kiss. Not entirely. It was about everything the question represented: respect, communication, intentionality, choice.

You looked at him and, for one brief moment, every relationship that had come before felt impossibly far away. The men who weren't sure. The men who wanted you, but never enough. The men who expected you to do all the emotional labor while they sat comfortably in uncertainty. The men who treated commitment like a threat and vulnerability like a weakness. The men who left you constantly wondering where you stood because they themselves never seemed willing to stand anywhere.

For years you'd viewed those experiences as failures. Evidence that something was wrong with you. Evidence that you were choosing poorly or expecting too much. But standing in front of Jack, you understood something you hadn't before.

None of it had been wasted.

Those relationships had taught you what inconsistency felt like so you could recognize consistency when it arrived. They had taught you what emotional unavailability looked like so you could appreciate emotional maturity. They had taught you what effort wasn't so you could recognize real effort when it finally appeared.

Because all of it had led you here. To someone who listened. Someone who paid attention. Someone who remembered things. Someone who showed up. Someone emotionally mature enough to know what he wanted and secure enough to say it out loud.

Your smile widened before you could stop it.

"Yeah."

The answer came easily. Without hesitation. Without fear. Without overthinking. Because for the first time in your life, saying yes didn't feel like taking a risk.

It felt like trusting something that had already proven itself.

Jack smiled then. A real smile. Warm. Relieved. Certain. And somehow seeing that expression affected you almost as much as the question itself. Like he wasn't taking your answer for granted. Like he understood exactly what it meant. Like he knew this wasn't just a kiss. It was months of friendship, trust, consistency, and care finally being acknowledged for what it had become.

Slowly, he stepped closer. Not enough to overwhelm you. Not enough to presume. Just enough. Still giving you room. Still giving you time to change your mind if you wanted to.

You noticed the tiredness lingering beneath his eyes from the shift. The faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. The way his gaze flickered briefly toward your lips before returning to your eyes, as though even now he wanted to make sure you were certain.

Then his hand lifted.

Gentle. Careful.

He brushed a strand of windblown hair behind your ear.

The gesture was so small, so simple, and somehow it made your heart ache. Because that was Jack. Not grand gestures. Not performances. Not declarations made for an audience. Just small moments of thoughtfulness repeated over and over until they became something extraordinary.

When he finally kissed you, it wasn't rushed. It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't the kind of kiss movies spent two hours building toward before swelling music played in the background. It was better because it felt real. Warm and patient and certain. Familiar somehow, despite being entirely new. Like coming home after a very long day. Like finally setting down something heavy you'd been carrying for too long. Like exhaling after holding your breath for months without realizing it.

When you eventually pulled apart, neither of you moved very far. Jack's forehead nearly brushed yours, both of you smiling, both of you slightly overwhelmed, neither of you in any hurry to leave.

Standing there beneath the hospital lights, with the city sleeping around you and Jack looking at you like you were something precious, you realized something. For years you'd been told that having standards would leave you lonely. That expectations were unrealistic. That wanting more meant asking for too much.

But the opposite had turned out to be true.

Having expectations hadn't prevented love.

It had protected you until the right person arrived.

Because these days, you had expectations.

And for the first time in your life, someone hadn't just met them.

He'd exceeded them.

~*~He's my white feather hawk tail deer hunter~*~ 

The Winter Solstice family banquet, known to the public as the Danforth Family Christmas celebration, is in full swing at the newly opened West Coast Lodge. 

Titus is standing in a circle with Elton and some of the male cousins, glass of champagne in one hand, cigar rested between his fingers in the other. 

You’re watching from across the room, eyes raking up and down his body as you pretend to pay attention to the conversation with Penelope and Ursula.  

You bite your lip. He looks damn good, already in all black clothes and boots, waiting for the time of the solstice hunt. The only things missing are his long, black leather coat and gloves, which you’d bought him as a birthday present. You’ll be in a similar ensemble later, looking like the ultimate power couple. 

~*~I know you wish you had a man like him, it's such a bummer~*~ 

Titus starts to laugh at something Elton says, and he lifts his cigar to his mouth, biting it with his teeth as he takes puff. You suck in a breath, eyes widening just slightly.  

He glances over, flicking his gaze up and down your body. When he catches you staring, his smile changes to that one he only makes for you, the one filled with hunger and admiration. 

He’s so handsome. Even with the lines on his face, you see the ghost of the young man he used to be. The one with crooked teeth and auburn hair from the pictures scattered in gold frames around the estate. 

His eyes flicker as you continue to stare, silently checking in, and you return with a small nod, a shy smile behind your glass.  

The clock sounds off for half hour to midnight, and the family begins to buzz, partially from excitement over the night’s upcoming events, partially from nerves and disgust at the barbaric behavior of it all. They’re used to the killing of innocents, the sacrificing of goats, the rituals, the bloody weddings, all of it, but for some Danforth's, they sit on high horses, as though they are above the idea of hunting a man down. 

The ones participating in the hunt are all happy to hunt down and get revenge on a man who stole money from them. 

You and Titus are happy to satisfy the monsters that live in your souls, together. 

~*~When I met him, like an arrow,   like a bird in the heart, like a sparrow~*~ 

Security has the man dropped somewhere in the deep woods, as Ursula lines everyone up at the entrance of the lodge, those just watching wait at the top of the stairs, murmuring as they look down from the balcony. 

An array of weapons has been allowed, as long as nobody goes for the kill in the field, as they will still need to kill him in the Black Temple. 

You’ve changed into your own black out that, the two of you decked in leather, with matching black handguns and Titus’s warhammer strapped to his back, looking positively deadly. Titus has his arm around your waist as you wait for midnight to strike and the hunt to begin. 

Your heart beats loud and warm in your chest from the feeling of everyone’s attention on you, but you only have eyes for Titus. He’s staring out into the dark wilderness, eyes intense and dark, features hardened like stone. 

You sigh. He’s so beautiful.  

The way his expression is molded into his brow reminds you of the first time you ever saw him. Scared and tired and strapped to that damn chair, Titus looking at you with sadness, but with a hunger like no other. You know you’d felt that sting in your heart back then.  

The monster had stirred seeing him, not fully awake, but called out of a long slumber. 

~*~We're a match, he's just in my bone marrow~*~ 

At the chime of midnight, Ursula sets off her old revolver, and the hunt is on. 

Titus smiles down at you as he tugs you along to a path he’d scouted earlier, where he’s hidden a black ATV. There’s no cheating in a hunt you two made the rules for. 

His strong hands grip your sides, warm and burning into you as he lifts you into the seat, mumbling into your ear, “Ready, Little Lamb?” 

“Of course,” you say with a wink, leaning down to kiss his cheek. 

You can’t stop yourself from linking your arm with his as he drives, laughing as you pass angry cousins who shout at you as you drive by.  

He gets you in the lead, stopping at the end of the path so you can start the search in the woods. You don’t know how he’s so sure where to go, maybe he was cheating about the location, but when he tells you to run ahead, you don’t care. 

The light of the moon shines down as he watches you go, heart thumping, all the blood in his body going south. The joy on your face, the complete lack of inhibitions, the snap of your neck in the direction of any distant sound.  

You look like an excited puppy. 

~*~Positively voodoo, everything that you do  Did you know exactly how magical you are?~*~ 

Almost an hour goes by, the two of you aren’t in any rush tonight. Titus can’t stop pulling you in to kiss you. Each time you two round a corner to find an animal running rather than your human prey, he doesn’t let you feel the disappointment. 

He just grabs you and pushes you up against the nearest tree, moaning as he shoves his tongue down your throat, writhing against your body. He swallows your giggles and moans, reveling in the fact that you’re just having so much fun. 

Neither of you feel the winter chill that bites at your cheeks, which are more red from the constant heated kisses, rather than the cold air. 

~*~Whoopsie-daisy, yoo-hoo, I imagine you do  Know how absolutely wonderful that you are~*~ 

When you finally catch up to your prey, crying and begging, covered in scratches and bruises from running in the dark woods, Titus lets him run a few more feet before taking a shot at him. 

Even under the thick jacket, you can see the way the muscles in his arms flex when he raises the gun. You can see the vein in his neck expand and jump, and your teeth click with a need to bite down. 

You lick your lips when Titus pulls the trigger. You hear the man’s painful moans, but all you can see as your eyes darken, is your husband's cocky smirk. His lips part, giving you a small peak at his sharp canines, and you push yourself into his side. 

Your lips meet his cheek, rough with stubble from the passing day. He turns to kiss you, but only for a moment. “Job’s not done, my baby.” 

The man is bleeding from just above his stomach, but still trying to get away. His screams and cries echo through the air, and you can hear cousins and whoever answer to alert each other. 

You scoff as you watch him. Those approaching voices are not coming to help. 

Cold metal is pushed into your hands, and excitement fills you as you look up at Titus. He gives you a nod and you wrap your fingers around the handle of the warhammer. 

He gives your ass a light slap to send you over to the man. 

“P-please, I didn’t mean anything by it!” His voice is cracked and pathetic, snot and tears falling down his cheeks. 

~*~Everyone knows I had some trouble, but it's been three summers  I know it's strange to see me cooking for my husband~*~ 

“You stole from us,” Titus says, spitting at him in disgust. “That vineyard wasn’t even the Danforth’s originally, it belonged to her first husband’s family,” he continues, pointing to you. “Which means really it was hers. You stole from my wife. You should feel lucky we’re not allowed to kill you yet. Go on, Baby, teach him a lesson.” 

You raise the warhammer, ignoring his please, as that all familiar stinging heat fills your body. The adrenaline powered in your veins by the demon that thirsts for blood, that wants to hurt, to keep hurting until there is nothing left of the victim takes over. 

The crunch of his bones would probably make some of the more sensitive Danforth cousins back there feel sick. But it’s music to you. The hammer comes down again and again, destroying his legs as he screams and cries until his throat is so raw no sound can come out. 

Titus only stops you when the man passes out. 

“That’s my girl.” 

You drop the weapon and let yourself be swept into his arms, meeting his lips in that biting kiss your bodies crave from each other. 

The sounds of your moans are only drowned out by the other Danforth’s emerging from the woods, frustrated and slightly terrified. They stare at the scene in awe, taking in the image of the two of you wrapped in each other’s arms, a man bloody and dying at your feet. 

Any doubt they could have had about what the fuck is up with you two is completely erased. 

~*~I love my daddy, of course we're still together~*~ 

Titus makes the others drag the man back for you, as the legend of the first ever Danforth Winter Solstice Hunt is created, pushed out to other Le Bail organization members through quick texts and calls. 

They all had suspicions about you, the girl who wins the games. 

After the sacrifice is complete, Titus takes you back to the suite he built just for you. 

His heart is full when you present his chain and pendant to him, the gold sitting perfectly against his pale, freckled skin.  

With no gift to give to you, he strips down your black clothes, peeling each layer off like precious wrapping, lips trailing over your skin.  

You’re not as gentle with his clothes, cunt left soaking for hours. You don’t need a gift from him, you only ever need Titus. 

But he makes you lay back as his tongue enters you. He drinks you up, moaning at his favorite taste. He stays there until your legs are shaking and you’re crying so sweetly he has to let go. 

Even then, Titus can’t help but enjoy his feast for just a little longer. He never counts how many times he makes you come, tonight is no different. The only thing that stops him is the sound of your voice growing distant, the fact that your legs have given up all fight, and you twitch uncontrollably. 

When your eyes shut almost entirely, lips letting out little babbles of his name and thank you and I love you, Titus fucks into you.  

He’s nice enough to make it fast, grabbing your face hard to keep you conscious as he kisses you and fucks you into the bed. He’d been humping the bed while he ate you out, edging himself.  

Just when he knows he’s about to lose you again, he gives your cheek a light slap, then rubs circles onto your clit. Diamond like tears fall from your eyes, it hurts, but the kind of pain you’d die to feel over and over again. 

You come one last time, a scream ripping from you as pleasure overtakes all your sense. 

Titus is right behind, emptying himself inside, just the way he knows you want. 

When you come to, his eyes are still on you, still looking at you with that deep hunger. You can tell he’s already doing the math on how long he’d have to wait to ruin you again.  

~*~Whoopsie-daisy, yoo-hoo, yelling, "I love you"  Out to my white feather hawk tail deer hunter~*~ 

cw: mature language and content, suggestive language and content, graphic depictions of violence, smut, unprotected piv, cumplay, oral, simon is not a good or nice person (except to reader), reader also maybe isn't a good person who knows, reader has hair long enough to hold, curvy/plus-sized!reader, size difference, size kink, military inaccuracies, 18+

There is a special place in hell for men like Michael.

You can see her through the window by the door. Her big eyes are looking at where you are, paws against the glass. Her mouth opens, and she scratches at the window, and your bottom lip trembles as you set your hand down where she touches.

You could care less about the things you left inside. Your clothes, your bags, your shoes, even your fucking computer can stay behind, but not her. Your tabby cat is inside, sitting by the window, and Michael changed the fucking locks.

You bang on the door for an hour. You leave, come back, keep banging, but no one ever answers. You've never felt this desperate or uneasy, but every time you come back and see her by the window, you nearly lose all of your composure. It isn't fair. She doesn't belong to him. He can take years from you, take your money, take your sanity, but he won't take her. You'll come back every single day. You'll become a nuisance. You'll never let him relax. Until he gives her back to you, he will never know peace.

A single day passes before you decide it's time to take drastic measures.

The nearest military base is situated a good distance away, but not so far that you won't drive to its neighboring city. There's a small main road with a few local shops, including a few restaurants, a bookstore, a coffee shop, and the crown jewel—a pub.

It's just after supper time when you ring the bell above the door walking inside. On a Friday evening, it's lively, packed close with warmth and tall pints and plastic baskets full of chips and greasy fingerfoods.

There's a lot of military around here. You can tell by their haircuts and the way they chug their glasses; but you aren't looking for baby-faced rookies with too much pent-up aggression. You're looking for the meanest guy in the room, and that means someone with scars and someone who goes cloudy behind the eyes when you ask him how he's gotten back from where he's been.

That man is sitting at the far booth with his back to the wall. A place where he can have an eye on the rest of the room at all times. Big, gloved hand wrapped around a sweating glass, gaze focused on the foam of his beer as he pretends to listen to whatever the red-cheeked man across from him is laughing about.

You ask the bartender what they're drinking and order another round, picking up each glass and making your way towards their table. You'd be nervous if you weren't so determined. You stand awkwardly beside the table before his friend notices you there.

"Tha' fer us, bonnie?"

He juts his chin out at the drinks you're holding, and you set them down with a nervous smile.

"Yeah," you look between them. You fixate on the big guy, who barely squints at you over his drink, and you bite your lip. "I was hoping you had room for one more."

His friend cackles, "aye. Always fer a pretty face."

"Cute," you swallow. "But…I wasn't really talking to you."

The bigger one sits up at that. He leans back in the booth, rolling out his shoulders, and you hop up onto the seat next to him. His friend seems to get the message, picking up his new drink and tipping it towards you before taking a long drink of it and going to find a warm spot at the bar.

"Lookin' for advice or a fuck?"

"Neither," you say softly. "You're big, yeah? Are people…generally afraid of you?"

He laughs, and when he wipes at his masked face, you see a glimpse of a tattoo sleeve that adorns his massive left arm.

"Suppose."

"Great. How much for you to be my bodyguard for a few hours?"

He kisses his teeth under the mask, and then he turns his head to look down at you. His eyes are half-lidded, the skin looking a little greasy under the eye-black smudged there, but he's so calm and collected and amused. You've amused him; you're entertaining him. It's the most interesting thing that's happened to him all week, and you hope you're keeping his attention.

"Wot's tha' include?"

"It's gonna be illegal," you mumble, biting your bottom lip. "Just a little bit."

"Tha's my specialty, love."

"Not murder," you clarify, and he just shrugs. "Just…a little breaking and entering. Maybe some intimidation."

"'s Friday night, swee'eart, at least offer me somethin' fun."

"This isn't funny," you suck in a shaky breath. "It's…" You look down at the sticky pub table, swallowing again. You dig your nails into your own legs to keep your composure. "I need to get something back. Something that belongs to me. So it's not really…it's not really stealing."

A pregnant silence falls between you. You fail to keep the tears at your lash line back, and you quickly use the back of your hand to wipe your face gently. You think about your cat scratching for you on the other side of the window. You think about her sweet face; you think about Michael forgetting to feed her in the mornings as he usually did, and how he never changed the water filter in time even when you asked him to.

"'m Simon."

The low timbered voice breaks you out of your inner spiral. You look up at him again, and when you meet his eyes, you're finally able to let out a breath of relief. You don't know why, but there's something extremely soothing about sitting next to him. About being in his vicinity. He's so large and takes up so much space, but it's warm there, and he's not as mean as his outer layer might suggest. He's calm, and the way he presents himself tells you that it is not by luck that he's still sitting beside you.

You tell him your name, and his gloved hand touches under your chin.

"Olright, love. Lead the way."

Every time you have ever come back to this apartment, you have met the closed door with dread. A little fear. You feel none of that; not with the apparition at your back. You knock on the window beside the door, and like always, she appears. She meows on the other side, her eyes wet as she scratches and sniffs. You look over your shoulder at Simon who tilts his head to the side.

"This wot he stole?"

You look back at her on the other side of the window, shrugging.

"No," you say softly. "But it's all that matters."

The jiggling of metal brings your attention back to him. Simon is at the door, a multi-tool in one hand, and he's focused intently on working the doorknob until you hear the sound of a lock turn and then the door opens. The chain on the door jangles just as Simon opens it slightly, and you watch with rapt attention as he sticks his arm inside for just a few seconds, and then he swings the door open wide.

You push past him, reaching for the cat. She meows loudly, coming right to you, and you coo as you bend and pick her up from the floor. Loud purrs and sweet chirps follow as you hug her to your chest. You pet her little head, turning towards the living room. You used to keep her carrier behind the couch, and you find it as you go searching for it, exactly where you left it. You slip her inside and zip it up.

"What the fuck is this?"

You freeze, standing up straight and turning. You're caught, definitely—you knew he must have been home by the fact that the chain was latched, but you tried the nice way. You weren't going to get your cat back by being patient, not anymore.

"I'm just getting her, I'll…I was just leaving."

"Fuck no, you broke into my flat."

"Our flat," you snap back, putting the straps of the carrier over your shoulder. "And I'm leaving."

Michael looks like he's going to take a step towards you, but then he notices the dark shape in the corner of the room. He frowns a little, squinting.

"Who the bloody hell is that?"

You turn just in time to see Simon take a small step forward. The sudden movement seems to terrify Michael; he scrambles backwards into the kitchen counter, making the plates behind him fall off the counter and shatter onto the ground. He nearly trips over himself trying to get distance, and Simon seems to think it's very funny. He laughs, chest heaving, and he looks down at you as he gets closer.

"Flopping like a fuckin' fish, he is, in'he?"

Michael looks around frantically before he finds a pair of prongs. His hand shakes as he holds the pointy end towards Simon, spitting at him.

"Get the fuck out of my flat! T-The both of you!"

Simon's reaction tells you that maybe he has a few wires crossed in his head. He steps forward instead of away, laughing still, and you watch warily as he tilts his head to the side and nods his head towards Michael.

"Go on, then, mate," Simon taunts. "Try it."

Like a fool, Michael obliges. You flinch when Michael swings, but Simon tilts his body at just the right moment to dodge. He smacks Michael's arm, but he tries again—and like playing footie with a child, the weapon is now in Simon's hand, and then oh—

Michael's screaming as it pierces through his open palm.

He bleeds a lot less than you thought he might. Sadly, also, his blood is as red as yours. You thought he might be a little less pathetic at a moment like this. It is a gift, however, to see him bursting into tears as Simon grips the collar of his shirt and leans over him.

"Lot like you like to take things that aren't yers, tha' right?" Simon spits. "Like to punish and intimidate and fuckin' take, even if ya aren't owed."

"Please—please just get out, take her, fuckin' please!"

"Oi, wot's all this?" Simon snorts. "Now yer pissin' where you stand cause it got too real, eh? Got wot was comin' ta you? Reckon it's not like you thought. Reckon you thought she'd come hat in hand, beggin' for wot she deserves, but you wouldn't know good cunt even if it sat on yer face, yeah?"

"Please…"

"Simon—" You try, but he tsks, shaking his head.

"Nah, love, he's gonna learn," Simon murmurs. "Have you learned?"

"Yes," Michael squeaks, and you're not longer staring at the blood dripping on the hardwood, you're oogling at the giant man standing in what once was your kitchen that's starting to look more delicious by the second.

"Good," Simon breathes. "I know where ya lay yer head, mate. Know where ta come back if things aren't quiet on her end. You'd do well to remember tha'."

He releases Michael with a shove; Michael sinks to the floor, hands trembling, and Simon makes his way towards you to put a hand to your back and turn you around towards the front door.

"Need anythin' else?" Simon asks. You're too speechless to say anything, so all you do is shake your head. You clutch the carrier closer; she meows from inside the bag, and Simon nods his head towards outside so that you start moving. The door shuts behind you both, and then you're being led to his truck, ushered into the passenger seat, precious cargo on your lap as you breathe a huge sigh of relief.

The drive is quiet, but a comfortable quiet. You don't realize until a few streets over that you're smiling; a big, sparkling grin that's taking over your face, and when Simon rolls his truck to a stop at a red light, you lean over the center console and give his masked cheek a big, wet kiss of gratitude.

"Got a death wish or somethin'?" Simon turns to look at you, glaring from under the mask. It's so hard to be scared of him. He just put the fear of God into your terrible ex-boyfriend so you could get your precious cat back; he scared him shitless—literally—and he did it looking this good.

"Is that what a kiss gets me?" You ask. You slide your hand down his bicep, swallowing the drool when you feel just how solid and beefy he is under that hoodie. He fills it out too well. He must be so fucking handsome under that mask; there's no way he wears it for anonymity, he must be so hot, he wears it so he doesn't have to swat away all the boys and girls when they usually buzz around him like moths to light—

Maybe death is really this sweet. This good. Your cat is snoozing, safe and sound, in your bedroom with a full belly. The lights are on low; soft orange glows from well-placed lamps, giving the entire living room a warm feeling. There's a man on your couch with his belt unbuckled, mask halfway up his face as he pants because his cock is in your mouth, and he tastes like sweet, sweet victory.

"Ahh—fuck."

You nuzzle your nose up the length. He's so hard; you don't think a man has ever been this hard for you. He's leaking so pretty, dribbles down the length that you catch with the tip of your tongue, forcing him to hiss and spit and bite his knuckles. He keeps his hips still, but his hand around your hip squeezes the flesh there nice and tight, borderline bruising when you suck his tip a little too softly. You lick a stripe around the head before leaning back up towards him, and his hand around your hip curls against the back of your neck as you share a messy, wet kiss.

You twist your wrist, pumping his cock with a gentle glide of your palm, and he grits his teeth between kisses, touching his forehead to yours.

"Oll tha' for a cat, yeah?"

It is true. You did do it for her. But you did it for you, too.

"Not just the cat," you whisper, smoothing your thumb along the tip. He kisses you again, slower this time, and you groan into his mouth as you squeeze your thighs together. "Look at you…"

"Fuck—" Simon grunts, and his other hand finds the base of his cock, squeezing hard, and you giggle as he scrunches his nose. "Don't say shit like tha'."

You can't with his mouth on your cunt. He's laying flat on his back on the couch, legs too long to fit. Boots against your blanket, you'll whine to him about it later, but now both thighs are on either side of his head, and he's slurping with a hot tongue. You cup both sides of his head, dragging your hips, and while normally you'd think twice about dropping your weight on someone like this, the ease at which he hoisted you up his chest tells you Simon's a big, big boy—and he can handle whatever you give him.

"Gonna let me handle things from now on," Simon murmurs. He kisses the inside of your thigh, and you yelp when he smacks one side of your ass. He's waiting for an answer, and you took too long to give one.

"Y-Yeah," you breathe, leaning your head back. You feel yourself dripping between the legs, flooding his mouth, but he curls his tongue all the same. Uses two thumbs now as he hooks his arms around your thighs to pull the wet, sensitive skin back so he can drink what he's owed. He said he takes payment like this, getting his fill; he says he's never really satisfied until there's cum in his mouth and some in your cunt, and he's not gonna leave your flat before becoming familiar with those two, mutually non-exclusive events.

"Yeah, y'r pretty, olright," Simon laughs, but there's no more humor when he bounces you on his cock. Oh, he hurts a little. He told you he might, but then you're really there, knees on either side of him as you clutch onto the meat of his shoulders and hope to God he doesn't let you go. "Told you tha' you'd feel it, didn't I?"

"Yeah," you whisper, cupping that face of his, half-revealed to you, and you rub your thumbs down his scarred cheeks. Gorgeous, even with eyes that dead inside. "'s big."

"Don't—" He snarls, holding down your hips, shaking his head. "Wot did I say about sayin' shit like tha', eh?"

Life has spoiled you. Life is too good. Life is your pet curled up between your pillows and warm beneath the blankets, and life is fucking the sanity out of big, pudgy military men with blood under their fingernails and their breath stuck in their throat. You've rendered Simon to nothing but grunts and sputters. He's focused on keep the rhythm, arms clasped around your middle as he fucks up into you and pants into your neck. You reach for the back of the couch, digging your nails in, and all you can do is cry and take it as he keeps bringing you back down again and again and again.

The kiss you share is starved. You're so hungry, your hand slipping under the mask to cup the back of his head, and he draws your hips down and holds you there as he licks into your mouth and relishes in the pulsing of your cunt. This is what he fights for, maybe.

Not the glory. Not for the good of others. Not for Price and his self-guided moral compass, not for Laswell and her targets, not for revenge, not for blood, not to save the world. It's so he can come back here onto home soil and fuck a gorgeous girl without ever being interrupted by the sound of anything but her.

Her. You. Whatever she is, what you are, what you will eventually be—it manifests itself in the very room he's in, and he's got it between his teeth, and he won't be letting go for anything.

Nothing at all.

He's smoking a cigarette by the open window as she makes tea. He smiles, just barely, with teeth a little yellow when he sees you burn your hand a little as you pour the water into a misshapen mug.

"Olright?" He asks. The mugs shake a little as you bring them back into the room, precarious as you overfilled the mugs. He takes one from you and takes a long sip, flicking the cigarette out as he watches you get settled. You set your mug down on the coffee table, leaning forward to give him that same sweet, wet kiss on his cheek.

"Never better."

Belly full. Eyes bright. You are nothing like the woman that propositioned him just a few hours ago. A monotone, piss-drink evening, and then a scared, desperate girl asking him if he was willing to do something a little off the books.

Fucking finally. The world was just starting to get a little too dull.

It's the middle of the night when he hears the creak of a door. The sound of a little bell. You're laid out on your side, having just fallen asleep. The movie on the telly still plays, but Simon has turned the volume down. The light flickering from the screen is enough that he sees the cat trot into the room, eyes searching for you and seeing the two of you settled there.

She comes over slowly, sniffing the toes of Simon's boots, and then she closes her eyes as she rubs her face against his leg. Low purring, headbutts, and then she's putting a paw to his boot and looking up at him with the same big, wet eyes her mother has. Simon reaches down, scratching under her chin, and then she's curling up on his lap, little head next to yours as he leans back and takes it in. The sight for sore eyes. The thing that makes his medals and his stripes and all the money in the world look worthless—cheap.

He remembers the dress first. God, that dress. The dark fabric had clung to your figure, hugging every curve, and he'd spent the entire evening irritated with himself for noticing at all. 

He remembers the way the dip of your waist had fit beneath his palm when he'd guided you behind him, the startling softness of you, the instinctive way you'd moved closer when the man started getting aggressive. The tiny stutter in your breathing as he'd told the asshole to ‘fuck off and stop bothering his girl’ in a gruff voice, the way you'd looked up at him with those wide eyes, somewhere between embarrassed and grateful, as though he had done something remarkable when all he'd really done was the bare minimum.

Worst of all, he hates that he remembers the warmth of your body as he pinned you against the wall of the men's bathroom, mouths hovering over each other, not kissing, but breathing in wine-tinted lips. 

God, the way your warm walls stretched around his fingers, your clit under his thumb, still made him achingly hard. Jerking off in the shower had been futile ever since that night, ever since he felt your soft fingers around his cock, your moans spilling into his mouth. And your soft whines when he called you a good girl, fuck. He’s hard, again, in the middle of reading through the PHD proposals sent his way. He sighs, pulling his cock out his pants. 

It was becoming ridiculous. Which is precisely why he is looking forward to the start of semester.

But the universe has a fucked up way of derailing his plans. By the time he arrives at the lecture hall the next morning, coffee balanced in one hand and laptop tucked beneath his arm, he's almost managed to convince himself that the entire thing was behind him.

Then he walks through the door. The lecture hall blurs into meaningless shapes and colours, and in the centre of it sits you. 

The girl he couldn’t take out of his brain for the past seven days. 

Jack forces his legs forward, somehow making it to the front of the room without visibly embarrassing himself. He places his coffee on the desk. Sets down his laptop. Connects the HDMI cable twice because he misses the port the first time. His fingers feel too clammy, his pulse too fast. 

Jack opens his mouth to introduce himself.  

"My name is-"

But the words die there. Because he makes the mistake of looking back at you, again. 

Those same eyes he'd spent an entire week trying to unsuccessfully forget are fixed directly on his, wide with disbelief.

For a fraction of a second his mind goes entirely blank. Then your eyebrows lift. Just slightly.

And he realises with a jolt of horror that you've noticed the way his words catch. Jesus Christ.

He clears his throat and looks away, pretending to adjust something on his laptop despite the fact that absolutely nothing needs adjusting, acutely aware of the warmth crawling up the back of his neck, and onto his cheeks. It's ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. 

He's a respected academic pushing fifty years old, not some nervous graduate tutor fumbling his way through his first class.

"My name is Dr Jack Abbot," he says again, his voice steadier this time, lower too, the words settling more naturally now that he's managed to regain some semblance of control. "I'm the lead lecturer for the sociology department.”

His eyes catch yours. 

“It'll be my greatest pleasure to work with all of you this semester."

You’re this close to fucking shitting your pants. 

The sexy old man that had fucked the shit out of you with his fingers, while you could barely wrap your hands around his girthy cock in the corner of a dingy bathroom, was your professor. He was in front of you speaking in a voice too gravelly for his own good, and donned in what you’d deem an outfit way too slutty. 

Tweed blazer that somehow actually showed how broad he was, how fat and juicy his biceps were. A soft wool polo underneath that stretched around his fat pecs. 

And those brown pants, for fucks sake, those pants should be an abobination. You could see the bulge of his dick, the print, as he moved around the room. 

What’s worse though? His fat fucking fingers. As he gesticulates while talking about the content, which you don’t give a fuck about, all you can think about is how they felt inside of you, curling up to reach that sweet spot, and making you come faster and harder than your vibrator. 

As the flashbacks of him pounding into you fade, and you focus, you see something black and shiny glinting as it catches the overhead lights. You blink. Adorning one of those delicious fingers, is a ring. Fuck. It’s a wedding ring. 

You stare at it for a second too long before immediately snapping your gaze back to your laptop. Heat floods your face. You rack your brain trying to remember whether he'd been wearing it that night. You don't think so, you're almost certain he wasn't. Yeah, he definitely didn’t have it on that night in the bar, you would’ve felt it against your pussy, that fucking slut. 

You clench your jaw and look away, typing away to start making notes. You’d hooked up with an older married geratric. Yeah, maybe you should just drop out. Hurl yourself off the chair and out the door and withdraw from your course and fade into the abyss and die in a hole.

But what's worse is the way your cunt is clenching around nothing at the thought of this older man fucking you with his fingers while he had a wife at home- no, stop. How deeply unfeminist of you. You cunt. 

Yet still, when you look up and accidentally make eye contact with Jack Abbot, it feels like a punch to the vagina. 

By the time the lecture ends, Jack has spent nearly two hours forcing himself not to look at you. It has been a miserable failure. Not an obvious one, nobody in the room would have noticed. Years of teaching and having to discreetly catch students on their phones have made him an expert at disguising where his attention is actually resting. 

But every time his gaze swept across the theatre, every time a student asked a question, every time laughter rippled through the room, some part of him remained acutely aware of where you were sitting.

Which is precisely why, as students begin packing their bags and filtering towards the exits, he decides to do something incredibly stupid.

He tells himself it isn't stupid. He tells himself it's necessary. Professional, even.

After all, the two of you know each other in some capacity. There was the bar, there was what occurred inside of that bar, that lapse in judgement. There is now the unfortunate reality that you are one of his students. A conversation needs to happen. Boundaries need to be established, expectations clarified.

At least that's the excuse he gives himself. The truth is considerably less flattering. The truth is that he wants an excuse to speak to you.

He calls out your name. The words leave his mouth before he can reconsider them.

You freeze halfway through sliding your laptop into your bag. For a second you look almost startled that he's addressed you directly. Then your eyes meet his, startled. 

"Could you stay for a moment?"

Several students glance between the two of you before continuing out the door. Jack immediately regrets saying it publicly. Excellent start, Abbot.

By the time the last student leaves, you're making your way slowly towards the front of the room, one loop of your backpack slung on your shoulder.

As you slow to a stop in front of him, his eyes map your face. Your wide eyes, your slightly messy hair, the shape of your lips- Stop. Jesus Christ. 

He forcibly redirects his gaze towards his laptop on the podium. Professional. Remember, professional.

"You wanted to see me?" you ask softly.

Jack clears his throat.

"Right. Yes."

Very articulate. 

"I just thought it would be best if we acknowledged..." He gestures vaguely between the two of you. "The situation."

You blink.

"The situation?"

"The fact that we've met before."

"Oh."

You glance down at the strap of your bag, fingers tightening around it.

"Yeah. I noticed."

The dry response catches him completely off guard. A smile threatens at the corner of his mouth.

"Um, sorry, Dr Abbot," you add quickly, stumbling over the words. "I didn't mean to make things weird."

Jack immediately shakes his head.

"No, it's okay. You're good."

Dr Abbot. Dr Abbot. His brain plays your lips wrapping around his name again and again, perhaps in more precarious positions. He rubs his neck, looking away, willing for his cock to stop fucking stiffening. 

"I just wanted to clarify," he starts carefully, "I'd appreciate it if what happened stayed private."

Your eyes immediately narrow, apparently offended.

"Dr Abbot, I'm not stupid."

His eyebrows lift at your sudden confidence. He puts his hands out in front of him in defence. 

"I wasn't suggesting-"

"No, I know," you interrupt. Then your eyes widen, immediately looking mortified for interrupting him. "Sorry. I just mean... I'm not exactly planning on standing up in tutorials and announcing that I fu- I met my professor in a bar."

Jack closes his mouth. Fair point. And suddenly he becomes aware of how ridiculous he sounds.

You aren't the problem here. You haven't done anything. If anything, you're handling this better than he is. This sort of “casualness” is probably the usual for someone as beautiful as you, as young and brilliant.

"Right," he says finally.

A silence settles between you as he continues staring you down. 

You shift your weight awkwardly beneath his gaze, looking everywhere except directly at him now, and suddenly he's struck by how young you seem standing there. 

Then, before he can stop himself, in some hope to keep you standing there in front of him, he hears himself say, "If you ever need help with coursework, though, my office hours are listed on the syllabus."

The second the words leave his mouth, he knows they weren't necessary. Your eyes flicker up to his face in shock, before immediately dropping back down again. Interesting.

For someone who'd managed to argue with him thirty seconds ago, you seem remarkably incapable of holding eye contact for more than a few moments.

Then you nod, still staring at the floor. 

"Okay."

"Okay. Yeah, good."

Another silence. Neither of you moves, seems entirely unsure on how to end the conversation. Eventually you shift your bag higher up, and take a small step backwards.

"I should go."

"Yes, thank you for staying back."

You hesitate for a second, then whisper as you turn and walk away from him. 

“Goodbye, Dr Abbot.”

Jack stares at your ass through your jeans as you depart, he can’t help it. You sick, sick old man, Abbot.

The second you're gone, he drops his head down, groans, rubs a hand over his scruff. 

That conversation was supposed to make things better, supposed to reassure him that whatever happened at that bar was firmly in the past.

Instead, all it has accomplished is proving that being around you is a nightmare.  

It's been four weeks since that conversation and you cannot get him out of your head. Every time you enter those lectures where he stands in the front of the room with another blazer, another pair of form fitting pants, twice a week, you leave with a pool of slick. 

You refuse to acknowledge the way he looked at you when you let your attitude slip, his furrowed brows, hazel eyes narrowing. He looked… mad almost. Like he wanted to tame you. Of course you're being delusional, he has a wife for fucks sake. 

And weeks of observing him has made you realise that he has an immense proclivity for eye contact, with everyone. Basically, you’re not special. 

And, so your avoidant ass refuses to take him up on that offer to see him at his office. You’re doing well academically, you presume, in all your subjects. Which is not surprising given it's the only thing you’ve got going for you, being an antisocial chud, but these days, rather than studying, a lot of your time is spent replaying that night in the bar. The sense of comfort you felt pinned against the wall by him, the way he’d protected you against that creep. Nobody had done that for you before. 

God you sound fucking pathetic. 

And specifically, his suggestive line of “my office hours are listed on the syllabus” reverberates around your skull, like the start of those Wattpad stories you used to read as a teen. And so, you and your vibrator have the time of your life at all odd hours of the day, imagining him and you in those situations. 

In hindsight, being overtaken by lust to distract from your crippling loneliness was a poor decision to make, that much you clock when you receive one of your midterms back today. With a big fat fucking 60% written on the front. In Dr Abbot’s class at that too. 

Humiliation takes over you, cheeks warm as he walks by to return the paper, refusing to look at him but feeling his gaze on your face. 

Around you, students are already discussing their marks, complaining about feedback, celebrating distinctions, debating whether certain deductions were fair, while you're busy boring holes into the godforsaken paper with your eyes as though sheer hatred might cause it to burst into flames.

As someone who quite literally had nothing going on for them other than academic success, it's a stab to the heart to realise you’ve fallen off in any capacity. For your wretched brain, one poor mark isn't just a mark, it's indicative of you falling behind, lacking in the one thing that defines you. 

Academics have always been your thing, the one area of your life you've been able to control through sheer stubbornness and hard work, the one thing you've quietly built your entire sense of self around. You aren't particularly outgoing. You don't have a huge social circle. You don't possess some secret hidden talent waiting to be discovered.

And now a bright red sixty is staring back at you from the top of the page like a personal attack.

The feedback only makes it worse.

Critical analysis underdeveloped.

Needs greater engagement with course material.

More depth required.

Each comment feels less like academic criticism and more like somebody taking a hammer to your ribcage.

Especially because you've spent the last month thinking about fuckass Jack Abbot far more than you've spent thinking about sociology. You've replayed conversations that lasted less than five minutes. Analysed glances that probably meant absolutely nothing, and constructed entire fictional narratives from harmless comments that any reasonable person would've forgotten weeks ago.

Meanwhile half your readings have been sitting untouched in a browser tab.

You stare down at the paper again, jaw tightening.

Perhaps this is the universe intervening. Perhaps this is your sign to get a grip. Perhaps this is your sign to finally take him up on that offer he'd made four weeks ago.

Not because you're harbouring some pathetic crush. Absolutely not. 

Purely for academic reasons. You need to know what went wrong and you need to know how to fix it before your anxiety makes this into something worse and you have another one of your depressive episodes. 

And if that means sitting in Dr Jack Abbot's office while he explains why your argument was underdeveloped and your analysis lacked depth, then so be it.

The thought alone makes your stomach perform an alarming little flip, which is deeply unfortunate.

Because that's probably another sign that you're not thinking nearly enough about sociology.

After stalking the stupid university website you’ve discovered that Dr Jack Abbot apparently remains on campus until after five o'clock most evenings, like some sort of psycho freak. 

Doesn’t he have a wife to go home to? Surely no sane person voluntarily spends that much time at a university.

Still, at 5:17 PM, you're standing outside his office clutching your assignment paper so tightly it's beginning to crumple around the edges.

You knock on the door and hear his gruff voice let out a “come in”. You walk in.  

Fuck your life. 

His blazer is off, sleeves of his beige shirt rolled up to show veiny forearms, as he types away on his laptop. 

“Oh it's you. Hello sweetheart.” He winces at the slip of the pet name. 

“Sorry Miss-” he pauses. “Um, just have a seat, please.”

You hope to God that he can't hear the beating of your heart as you step in, closing the door shut behind you, avoiding eye contact as you sit on the seat opposite him. 

You set your paper on his desk and mumble.

“I just wanted to review the feedback I got on this.”

“Yeah of course, what’d you want to ask?”

You hesitate, his soft tone suddenly making you want to spill everything. 

"I just..." You stare at the desk. "I thought I'd done better than this. So I wanted more clarity on all the comments you made."

He nods and picks up the paper, starts reading through it, then squints. 

He sighs.

“Wait, let me get my readers on.”

You sneak a glance up. 

Oh fuck. 

He puts his readers on. Some fucking high prescription glasses that enunciate the size of his stupid hazel boba eyes and delicious eye wrinkles. 

Yeah, pussy exploded. 

You look back down on the table, and inhale to calm your heart. 

When Jack finally finishes, he sets the paper on the desk. 

"You know," he says carefully, tapping one section of the essay, "the reason this stood out to me wasn't because the writing is bad."

Your eyes lift despite yourself. He slides the paper slightly closer.

"It's actually the opposite."

“What?"

"The writing is strong, and your arguments are quite clear. You've obviously got the ability."

The knot in your chest loosens slightly. Only slightly.

"But?" you whisper.

His mouth twitches.

"But I don't think you pushed yourself."

Jack studies your expression for a moment before leaning back slightly in his chair.

"You understand the material," he continues. "I don't have concerns about that. What I'm seeing is somebody who's engaging with the content at a surface level when they're capable of going much deeper.”

Right, so you’re failing. You ridden with lust, and doing god knows what in hopes to distract yourself from the sheer loneliness and mundanity of your life and now you can’t even understand the content the way you want to understand it and-

“Hey sweetheart, are you feelin’ okay?” 

You look up at him in confusion and realise your breaths are heavy, uneven. Your hands are trembling slightly where they're resting on your lap. 

Fuck, the beginnings of a panic attack. 

“I’m so sorry Dr Abbot, I just- I’ve never done poorly in a test really, and so this is all so…” your voice cracks. “I don't even know what I’m saying I just-”

He gets up and walks over to you as you break off, letting out a shaky laugh that sounds suspiciously close to a sob.

He leans against his desk, in front of you, bending to reach your eyes.  

“Hey, it's okay angel, breathe for me.”  

He inhales. 

“Look, follow my breathing.”

You try to, but it comes out stuttered.

"Fuck, I'm sorry."

"Nothin’ to apologise for, sweetheart, just keep trying. C’mon, take a deep breath in, and out."

He holds your hand and brings it to his chest. You feel his heart beat steadily under your palm. He exaggerates his breathing to help you.

“In, and out, just like that.”

It seems nice to just let go. To have someone else take over your brain, follow their instructions and shut the noise, the anxieties and the worries. 

Once your breathing slows, he moves your hand away from his chest. 

“You breathin’ better now?”

You nod slowly, still feeling shaky, still mortified by the fact that you've just had what can only be described as a minor psychological collapse in your professor's office.

“I’m so, so sorry you saw me like that Dr Abbot, I didn’t mean to-”

“Hey, it’s okay, sweet girl.”

He pauses, seems occupied gathering his thoughts.

You busy yourself staring at the floor. Then he exhales softly through his nose and settles back against the edge of his desk.

"After my wife passed away, I used to get them all the time."

The words are so unexpected that your head lifts immediately.

Jack's gaze remains fixed somewhere over your shoulder rather than directly on you, his expression thoughtful. 

"My therapist taught me a few tricks," he says with a small shrug. "Matching breathing patterns was one of them."

Your heart races again, for different reasons this time. The ring, the fucking black ring. He’s a widower. You don’t know whether to laugh or scream at the fact that he’s not married, and you aren’t a homewrecker. But then you feel real fucking horrible for different reasons, youre brain sabotaging again. 

“I’m sorry about your wife. I’m sorry if that reminded you of back then, or whenever it happened I don’t know, I don't want to assume-”

“Shh, take a deep breath for me. You’re good, sweetheart. 

 He brings a palm to your cheek, engulfing it.  

“Yeah? It’s okay. Don’t worry ‘bout it. It was a long time ago.”

You breathe in slowly for the fucking hundredth time that night, calming down.  

“You feelin’ better now?” He asks gently.

You nod, biting your tongue to stop from apologising again. 

“Yes, thank you.”

It slips out before he can stop it. 

“Good girl.”

Your thighs instinctively clench, and you see him stiffen as he notices.  You both stare at each other, feeling tension coil in the air between you. A moment passes. 

“I could help you, you know.”

You blink, confused. 

He rubs your cheek gently, eyes boring into yours. His expression is blank, neutral. 

“I could help you relax, get out of your brain for a little.”

He pauses.

“Like that night in the bar. You liked that, didn't you? Somebody taking control.”

Your breath hitches, and you mumble a “yes.”

“Louder, sweetheart. If we’re gonna do this, you need to speak clearly.”

His voice is stern, gravelly. And your brain is calm for the first time in weeks, since that night. The validation you crave so desperately, the sense of comfort that would help with escaping your brain, perhaps it is held in the palm of Jack Abbot’s hands. 

Slowly, you nod. 

“Yes Dr Abbot, I’d like you to help me.”

He smirks, the edges of lips pulling up. 

“Atta girl. C’mon then, get up for me.”

You follow his lead, mind hazy as he holds your hands and guides you to his chair. 

“I’m gonna sit, then you're gonna sit right here, on my lap. And then I’ll help you, yeah?”

You nod again. 

“Words, sweetheart.”

“Yes, Dr Abbot.”

He smiles, proudly. Your brain turns to mush again, pussy fluttering.

He’s so handsome.  

Pulling you onto his lap sideways, your legs draping over his thighs, he caresses your hair. Fuck, it feels so good. You nuzzle your head into his neck, whimpering softly as he coos, "such a good girl, my smart girl, yeah? smartest in the whole damn class.”  

Then he brings his fat fingers to your skirt, tracing circles on yout thighs near the hem. Inching close, but never slipping under. 

“Please, please Dr Abbot, touch me.”

“Yeah, you want me to touch that little pussy? Want me to make you feel good? So you can rest your pretty brain?” 

He taps your head. 

You whine ‘yes, yes please sir.’ 

You feel his cock jerk up under you. He groans.  

“Fuckin’ hell, sweetheart. Say that again.”

“Please, Sir, please touch me.”

“Whatever you want, pretty girl.”  

Then he finally flips your skirt up, and starts rubbing slowly over your panties. On your lips, your folds, through your soaked underwear. You wrap your arms around his neck, begging him, please. 

He brings a finger to your clit, mutters lowly, “right here sweetheart?” and you nod, whining. 

He rubs gentle circles on your clit, your slick helping his finger move smoothly even over your panties. Buries his face in your hair as he continues rubbing. He breathily exhales, as if simply your pleasure was turning him on . 

“That’s it, just let go sweetheart. Let me take care of you, yeah?”

“Fuck- right there.”

You buck up in his hold. 

And he stops, a hand splaying over your thighs to stop you from squirming.

“Fuckin’ stop that, or this is going to be over a lot quicker thank you’d like.” 

You feel the hardness of his cock under you, prodding below your ass. Your brain is mush, the words slipping by themself.  

You nod tucking your head in his neck, “Yeah, yeah sir I’ll stop, please- fuck. Please keep going.” 

“That’s my good girl.” 

And he starts rubbing over your clit again, kissing down your cheeks, down your neck, murmuring “yeah? yeah” as he inhaled your musk.

You whimper, arching your neck as you get closer to your release, feeling it build up low in your stomach the faster his circles get.  

“Fuck I’m going to come! Pl- please let me come sir.”

“Yeah? Is my good girl gonna come? You gonna come for Dr Abbot?” He groans, low and husky. 

And fuck, that gets you. You close your eyes as your orgasm hits you, pleasure washing over. 

You mutter whimpers of his name as you come, squirming as much as he lets you, clenching your thighs in his palm.

In the haze of your orgasm, you hear him, moaning. He jerks up, moaning in your ear, face pressed against your hair, babbling.  

“Fuck- sweetheart, did so good for me, fucking coming all over my fingers, fuck!”

The last word comes out as something resembling a whine. His hips buck up once, twice, before you feel warmth spreading under you. 

Did he just… orgasm?

Both of you pant harshly, him into your hair, forehead pressed against your head. And you look down, seeing your soaking panties, his hands splayed over your thighs. A smile overtakes your face, god, you felt alive. 

And he came. In his pants. God, you love old men. But as a giggle bubbles up in your throat, he stiffens. 

You see his hands leave you, and before you can even process what's happening, he's gently but firmly moving you off his lap, tugging your skirt back into place. 

"Fuck."

The curse leaves him under his breath, as he immediately turns away in his chair, one hand dragging through his curls.

You stand there, still dazed as he refuses to look at you. 

“Fuck, um. You should leave and I- I think-”

The words die halfway through. You watch him struggle to find them.

“Yeah, you should leave,” he awkwardly mutters as he covers the wet patch on his pants. You're still breathing heavily, and furrow your brows. 

What the fuck?

You’re so utterly mortified. Still in the post orgasmic haze, standing there feeling horribly exposed, your brain sluggish and foggy and vulnerable.

And through that stupid fog you pick your bag up from the seat, smooth out your skirt. Avoiding eye contact, you wobble out of the room, tears pooling in your eyes. 

Fuck old men. You hate old men.

After hours of sobbing into your pillow, and spiralling about how people will use you for your body, and nobody will be able to save you, and you’re going to die alone, you reached a conclusion. Probably a delusional conclusion, but a conclusion nonetheless.

He was embarrassed, that’s all. The man had simply come in his pants. Which, admittedly, would be humiliating for anyone. You’re so young and sexy that he was embarrassed he came in his pants. He definitely still wants you. 

The thought soothed you enough to stop crying, enough to prevent you from throwing yourself dramatically into the nearest body of water.

It's when you’re holed up in your dorm room, buried under the blankets reading a fic, when your spiral begins again. 

Because you get a text from an unknown number. 

Hi. I wanted to apologise for yesterday.   That was incredibly impolite of me, I got way in over my head.

Then two minutes later. 

And I wanted to check in.  Are you feeling better?

Chat, what if you fucking killed yourself? 

The perfect grammar and punctuation made your stomach churn in lust. The way you could hear him grumble that out in his husky voice, gravelly warmth beneath every syllable. 

Stop.

Objectively speaking, this man had sent you into an emotional crisis less than twenty-four hours ago. He basically kicked you out after giving you another toe curling orgasm. 

And yet somehow all it takes is three perfectly punctuated texts and you're smiling into your pillow like an idiot. Whatever, stay nonchalant. 

So you ignore his apology and reply to the latter half. 

Hey, i’m okay thanks 

Wow, look at you go. 

His reply is almost immediate.

Good.  Good girl. 

You take a deep breath in, pull your blanket over your head. Fuck. Fuck this stupid old man and his ability to make your pussy throb with two words. 

You genuinely have no clue what to reply, stupid. Stupid woman who can’t even formulate a reply and be flirtatious. 

You type something.

Delete it.

Type something else.

Delete that too.

Your chest develops a familiar buzzing anxiety. This, by the way, is exactly why maintaining relationships has always felt so difficult. Everyone else seems to possess some innate understanding of social interaction that you're missing entirely. 

What are you supposed to say?

Thanks for checking on me after kicking me out?

Sorry for crying in your office?

Please stop being unexpectedly kind after making me come so hard because it's making this significantly harder?

After two minutes of spiralling, or five, or ten, you don’t even fucking know at this point, your phone buzzes again.  

Can I see you?  Please.

Your breath stutters. 

yeah sure When do your classes finish today? At 3pm Okay. I’ll meet you at Sapphos.

Fuck, you hate how he doesn’t ask you. Just makes a statement, tells you what to do. You hate how that turns you on, and even worse, how good it feels to not have to make decisions for yourself, for once. 

But also, that cafe was off campus. Realistically, should you be potentially jeopardising your academic career with this emotionally unavailable older man, who will definitely be using you for your body if this continues? No, but are you lonely and so fucking bored with the stangancy of your life? Well, yes. 

And so unfortunately, rational thought has never stood much of a chance against loneliness. Against the quiet ache that follows you home every evening, and the possibility of spending a few hours with somebody who sees you.

So your dumbass agrees. 

Okay ! i’ll see u soon  See you soon, sweetheart. 

Sweetheart. Yeah, you're actually gonna kill yourself. 

Sitting and staring out the window of some cafe he randomly picked, Jack doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing. He doesn't know how many times a man can call something a lapse in judgement before it stops being a ‘lapse’ and starts becoming a conscious choice.

He got in way over his head after making you come on his lap, spiralling. Yes, it was the sheer humiliation of coming in his pants (which was a nightmare to clean off, by the way) but also, there was the humiliation of losing control of himself after years of carefully maintaining it, the mortifying reality of having to go home and sit alone with the consequences of it all.  

What was worse was somewhere along the way you'd managed to reach inside him and pull loose something from his heart he'd thought had calcified years ago, something he'd buried beneath research papers, lecture halls, and the endless routines he'd constructed around himself after his wife died.

And he knows, he knows, you deserve someone better. He was a widow for Christ's sake, probably three decades or somewhere very close to that, older than you. And you’re young. Thoughtful. Young enough that your entire life still seems stretched out in front of you. Even your anxieties, the things that weigh you down, feel temporary in a way his never will. 

You still have time to become whoever you're meant to be.

Jack feels as though he's already become whoever he's going to be.

He thinks about the way you looked during your panic attack, how hard you'd been trying to keep it together even as everything was falling apart. He thinks about how quickly you apologised for taking up space, for having feelings, for being overwhelmed.

And he didn't pity you, God, no. It wasn't that. He understood it. The loneliness. The exhaustion. The feeling that if you stopped holding yourself together for even a second, everything might collapse.

But he also saw the way your brain shut down, the way you trusted him. It made something ache inside his chest, a warm ache, the sort that spread through his ribs and settled somewhere dangerously close to hope. 

And hope was precisely the problem. Because he couldn't give you anything. Not with the grief and sense of routine buried in him before his teaching, in the chasm of his heart, since his time in the godforsaken military where half his limb was gone. 

He can't offer you anything but his fingers, or his mouth, between your legs, and you deserve someone better than that. 

But if that was the only way he’d be able to get you out of his head, then so be it. 

And so despite all of that, despite every logical argument he could construct, despite every fucking university regulation he was violating right now, his eyes keep drifting towards the café entrance every few seconds.

Jack exhales heavily and rubs a hand across his jaw.

And then you enter. Looking around with an adorably confused look before you spot him, and dare he say, your eyes light up. 

Abbot, no. 

But the words slip out as you reach him. 

“Hey sweetheart.”

“Hi Dr Abbot.”

You sit opposite him, glancing up at him briefly before staring back down at the table. He hates how endearing he finds it, how he wants to reach across the sticky table and pull your jaw, hold it, and force you to look at him. He wants to see your eyes glaze over the way they did the day prior. 

He chooses instead to slide the menu across to you, and once you order, he leans back. 

“Did you have a nice morning?”

He withholds a wince at the awkwardness. 

“Um, yes. Classes were okay. Thank you?”

The end of the sentence rises almost into a question, as though you're unsure whether that's the correct answer, and something about it makes his chest tighten.

“Good, that’s good.”

Then an awkward pause. Jack sits there like a complete fucking idiot.

For Christ's sake he’d called you here. And now that you're sitting in front of him, he can't seem to form a coherent sentence.

Get your shit together, Abbot. 

"Look," he begins, rubbing a hand across his jaw. "I wanted to apologise for yesterday."

Your eyes finally lift from the table.

“It was wrong of me to let you go like that. Quite frankly I don’t even have an excuse I just…”

He trails off, looking behind you out the window for a second. What exactly is he supposed to say?

That the sight of you crying made me feel physically sick? That for one terrifying second I’d felt something dangerously close to happiness sitting in that office with you? That after years of carefully maintaining the same dull routine I’d somehow started structuring entire days around whether I’d see you?

None of those seem particularly appropriate, too intense. 

"See, no man my age enjoys being reminded that he's still capable of behaving like a teenager."

That makes you smirk a little. His heart warms. 

“You mean, you.. coming in your pants?”

Jack groans softly and drags a hand down his face.

“I didn't want to put it so crudely, but well... yes."

"I thought so."

You giggle. And the sound catches him off guard enough that he finds himself smiling despite the mortification currently trying to consume him.

"To be honest," you continue, "I think I understood once I calmed down."

His shoulders loosen slightly.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

You shrug.

"But I'm not going to lie, it didn't feel very good. You kicking me out like that."

The honesty makes him wince.

"And that's exactly why I wanted to apologise, sweetheart." His gaze settles on you properly. Giving you a look that he hoped was earnest. "That was real shitty of me. I’m truly very sorry.”

You look at him for a few moments in silence, mapping his face. Then once seemingly finding what you were looking for, you reply. 

“Apology accepted.” 

The waitress arrives then, setting down your coffee, some monstrosity involving whipped cream and probably enough sugar to send him into cardiac arrest.

Jack eyes it suspiciously, humorously. 

"What?" you question. 

"That isn't coffee."

"It literally is."

"Sweetheart, that looks like it barely has any caffeine."

You let out a giggle, again. God, you’ve got to fucking stop that if you want his heart to survive.  

"It has espresso."

"Buried beneath, what? Three inches of whipped cream."

"Whatever, you’re just old and grumpy."

You grin. The grin grows wider when he continues staring at the drink with visible disappointment.

For some reason that finally breaks whatever lingering awkwardness remains between the two of you. The conversation begins flowing after that.

He makes a witty remark, you giggle. And you manage to make him laugh as well, coming out of your shell. 

Then the conversation shifts to that night at the bar. 

“Yeah so if he wasn't that buff and scary, I wouldn't even have called you over. I would've told him to suck my strap and choke.”

Jack nearly chokes on his coffee, coughing violently. You immediately burst into soft laughter. He wipes his lips with a napkin, grinning.

"Sweetheart."

"What?"

"Please give me some warning before you say things like that."

Your grin grows, eyes sparkling. 

"Why?"

"Because I'm fifty."

That seems to make your eyes widen imperceptibly, and you look down towards the coffee you ordered, chugging it. 

Interesting. 

Neither of you acknowledge the elephant in the room, instead you continue talking, skirting around the edges. Circling the obvious without ever touching it.

And eventually your drinks are empty. People around you start leaving.

Yet neither of you seems particularly eager to end the conversation.

Jack glances at his watch. Then back at you. He really, really shouldn't. But he wants to give you a way out. While still offering you a choice. 

"I don't have any classes after tomorrow's lecture."

The words leave his mouth casually.

Your eyes flicker up.

"Oh."

A pause.

"I could come see you."

"In my office?"

You immediately look embarrassed.

"Only if that's okay."

God. There it is again, that instinct you have to ask permission for existing.

"Sweetheart."

Your eyes lift.

"It's okay."

The relief that flashes across your face is so immediate it almost hurts to look at.

"Okay."

"Okay."

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

When the bill eventually arrives, he picks it up before you can.

"Dr Abbot-"

"No."

"I can pay for myself."

"I know."

"Then-"

"I know, I know you’re a self sufficient woman. You’re brilliant. But let me. I’ll pay for it."

Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. Jack watches the entire internal battle play across your face.

Then you nod softly, muttering an “okay, thank you”. 

Jack's heart clenches again. Genuinely fuck his life. 

So you think you’ve somehow ended up in a situationship or whatever the fuck with your fifty year old professor. 

Over the course of the past five weeks, you show up in his office after the lectures, and even a few times throughout the week, and he sets you on his lap, or on his desk while he laps at your cunt. 

Occasionally, he lets you pull out his cock and suck it. Sometimes under his desk, riding his boot as he's grading papers, God, his fucking whimpers when he comes. 

Unsurprisingly, he also does help you with understanding the content and doing your assignments. Has his own unique methods of doing so. 

Jack had you sitting on his lap, back to his chest, completely clothed while you were naked, bare. 

He hooked his face on your shoulder, whispering filth in your ears, telling you to “focus” as he rubbed slow circles over your pussy. Smearing the slick oozing out your cunt over your folds, avoiding your clit. 

You whined and tried to clench your thighs, whispering against his stubbled cheek. 

“Please, pl- touch me, Dr Abbot.” 

But he'd splayed one wide palm, tightly, over your thigh.

“No. Type out the rest of the essay, c’mon. Then you can come, pretty girl,” he’d muttered in a low voice. 

And once you did, he'd shoved his fat fingers inside of you, thrusting fast, the other hand alternating between your neck and your nipples, pinching, squeezing.  

You’d squirted that day, for the first time, creating a mess of his pants, some landing on his desk. 

He’d made you lick it off. 

Surprisingly, however, you hadn’t kissed, not even once. Nor had you fucked, in the penetrative sense. 

The latter you’re grateful for, because you were a virgin. It was too humiliating of a thought to ever bring up in your twenties now, but thankfully he never brings it up either. You suspect he knows though, from the little details you've unveiled to him over the course of the past few weeks. 

Talking about your feelings has always been.. difficult. The words choke up and clog the back of your throat when you go to speak. Entire relationships - well, lack of relationships - have been built around your inability to say what you need. 

But it's easy, sometimes, with Jack. When your brain shuts off in a post orgasmic haze, and you sit in other's company, his hand resting in your hair, or his head buried in your chest, the words bubble out of you. 

Snippets of memories of your family that you left behind, of the few friends back home, the lack of romance. When you stop speaking halfway through a sentence because you've forgotten how to explain yourself, he simply waits.

Surely he's put two and two together.  

And you think he has some avoidant issues of his own, the old fuck. 

He'll spend forty minutes analysing a political institution and somehow avoid answering a direct question about his own feelings.

Yet occasionally things slip through the cracks.

A memory about his wife. An offhand comment about the military that lingers in your mind long after he's moved on to another topic.

You'd had a lengthy conversation one day about that, your radical opinions spilling out before you could stop them, about systemic exploitation and imperialism, about how much you despised the military as an institution. You’d accuse institutions of manipulating vulnerable people; He agreed more than you'd expected him to. Told you about his journey of basically being forced into it to help his family, about the machinery of poverty and patriotism that pushed kids toward enlistment before they were old enough to understand what they were signing away.

He takes your ideas seriously, but he also looks genuinely delighted when you disagree with him.

And god, that’s what you were starting to like most about him. The intellect. Yes he has a girthy cock that would probably annihilate you in the best way when (if) the time came, and incredible arms, and his fat pecs. But his brain. Wow. 

Intelligence has always been your love language, whether you've admitted it or not. And Jack speaks it fluently. There’s a sense of strange intimacy and letting others hear your thoughts and opinions. And the ability to be able to talk and have someone just listen, or banter with you – it was rare. Especially for someone as reclusive as you. 

Unfortunately, you're also smart enough to recognise reality. Whatever this is, it isn't heading anywhere permanent. Because Jack never talks about the future, never makes promises, or gives any indication that he's looking for something lasting.

And honestly? You aren't sure he can. Not after everything he's lost, not with the gap of decades between you. So you tell yourself you're enjoying things exactly as they are. You tell yourself that spending time with him is enough.

And for now, maybe it is.

The problem is that every time he looks at you like you've said something brilliant, every time he remembers some tiny detail about your life, every time his face softens when you walk into a room – this lie gets a little harder to believe.

Five weeks. Jack’s ‘brief’ lapse in judgement has lasted five fucking weeks. 

Every time he sees you enter the lecture, you exchange a secret look, your eyes fluttering, him blushing. He feels like he’s twenty again. It's exhilarating. 

But the ‘ethical dilemma’ of it all sat permanently in the back of his mind, festering like an untreated wound.

He knows that every time he let himself enjoy your company, every time he answered one of your messages, every time he found himself smiling at something you'd said hours after the conversation had ended, he was stepping further into territory he had absolutely no business occupying.

The way you trusted him, allowing him to lick into your cunt or set you on his lap and caress you, felt nice. It felt real fucking good to be wanted and desired in some capacity, especially after being touch starved for nearly a decade since his wife. 

And seeing you under him sucking his cock, fuck.

“Dr Abbot….” you whined in a teasing tone, laced with humour. 

He groaned, placing his forehead on your back from where you sat on his lap. You definitely wanted something. 

“What?” he huffed out.

Still facing your laptop, you breathed out your next words. 

“When are you going to let me suck your cock?”

He jolted, hips thrusting up.

“Jesus Christ sweetheart, warn a guy.”

You said his name again, more firmly. 

“Stop dodging the question.”

He paused. 

“This whole… us. It's about you, about helping you relax so you can focus on studying. It’s not about me or my pleasure or-”

“Jack.” 

He lifted his head from your back, stilling. You’d never said his first name before. 

“What if doing it would give me pleasure, hm? What then?”

He stayed silent. 

You twisted in his lap, neck twisting to face him. 

“I want to taste you, please.”

Widening your eyes, and pouting, you all but begged him. Brought a hand to his stubbled cheek.  

“Please, Dr Abbot. Let me do it.” 

He sighed. Jack Abbot was a weak, pathetic man when it came to you.  

“Fine,” he grumbled. 

“Get off, c’mon.”

Yeah, it was worth it for the blinding smile you gave him, kissing his cheek.  

He gently lifted you off his lap, and pulled his chair back to give you some room. 

Jack nodded, glancing down pointedly. 

“If you want it, you gotta do it yourself.”

You kneeled immediately, settling yourself in the gap between his desk, between his open thighs. 

Unbuckling his belt, staring at his bulge with those doe eyes the entire time, you slowly pulled his cock out. 

It was hard, leaking, tip red and aching. Your soft hands wrapping around his dick made a drop of precum roll down. He moaned, a low sound emanating from deep in his chest. 

You slowly twisted your hand up and down his cock, fingers barely stretching around. 

Jack couldn’t wait. He gripped your hair, not too hard, but enough to lift your head up to face him. 

“You gonna put your mouth on it or do I need to shove it in?”

You smirked, you vixen. 

“Shove it in, I dare you.”

He groaned, muttering “you fuckin’ brat” as he pushed your hands off his cock.

“Open up, sweetheart.”

You did, tongue lolling out. A drop of drool dripped onto his thighs, and he moaned under his breath. 

He couldn’t wait any longer. Gripping his cock, he fed it into your mouth. Inch by inch. 

Until you gagged. 

Feeling your soft throat close around him, he couldn't help but groan your name.

“Fuckin’ hell.”

Your hands came up to stroke whatever didn't fit in - which truth be told, was more than half his cock, but it's okay, he'd train you eventually. 

“Can I help you, sweetheart? Teach you how to take your professor's cock down your throat?”

You nodded quickly, moaning, his cock still in your mouth. 

Then he guided you through it, holding your head as you sucked him. Muttered praises, filth, to guide you.

“Just like that, sweetheart”.

“Yeah, grip it harder”.

“Suck the tip, just like that.” 

And right before he came, he ripped you off him and wrapped a hand around himself. He whimpered as jerked off furiously over you, until drops of his pearly cum splattered over your tongue. 

He had never come that hard in his life. 

Panting harshly, he patted your head. 

“Swallow.”

Other than the sex, there were also the days where you'd walk into his office and start talking about some article you'd read, your entire face lighting up with excitement, and everything in him would melt. He’d pull you onto his lap, or set you in front of him, on his desk, and let you talk, feeling the softness of your thighs under his palm as he traced small circles. It was nice to let someone in, fill the void and the silence in his life. 

There wasn’t a label on what you two were, if you even were anything. 

While at first he’d thought it was common for you to be used to this sort of ‘causalness’ or a friends-with-benefit type situation (or whatever the fuck somebody born two generations after him would call it), he'd come to realise you were actually the opposite. Not that he’d have any issue with either. 

But from the scattered stories you'd told him about your past, the way you spoke about relationships, and the cautious vulnerability that appeared whenever the subject drifted too close to ‘feelings’, he'd begun piecing together a picture of someone who felt things deeply and trusted people slowly.

He could calculate you were likely a virgin. And so he never pressurised you, never made the first move to initiate sex, kept his cock to himself, waiting for you. No matter how much he wanted to feel the tightness of your pussy around him. 

However, his patience is wearing thin, growing precarious with every instance of you bringing another small thing that wedges itself beneath his ribs and refuses to leave. 

Now he's left with the deeply inconvenient problem of wanting things he really shouldn’t want. Not just a warm body near him, but wanting your company, your attention. He wants those afternoons in his office where you do nothing but talk to last a little longer.

All of this wanting, this yearning, is quite frankly, far more than he has any right to want.

Which is exactly why today is proving so unbearable.

He often feels a pit of something bitter bubble in his chest when you interact with someone other than him. Not that it happens frequently - you're quite reserved. But not today. Today, specifically, you seem to be chatting up a boy. 

When he enters the lecture this morning, you aren’t sitting alone like usual, but instead, there’s some boy next to you. Some boy your age. Dressed in some sort of hideous baggy outfit that hangs off his lanky frame. Is that fashion now? God that fucking punk. 

Why was he sitting next to you? Distracting you? 

As he sets up his laptop on the podium, seething under his breath, he hears a giggle. Your breathy giggle, the one he thought only came out with him. 

His jaw tightens. The lecture hasn't even started, for Christ's sake.

Jack spends the next five minutes attempting to focus on setting up his stupid slides while simultaneously becoming aware of every interaction occurring in your vicinity.

Looking up, he realises it's a grave mistake. Because now you're touching. Touching that punk’s arm. 

Fuck. 

Something ugly immediately twists in Jack's stomach, his brows furrowing. Anger bubbles up in his chest.

But he can’t do anything but continue on, beginning his lecture, as if he isn’t seething with jealousy. 

Halfway through the lecture, he catches himself directing a question towards your side of the room and immediately wants to launch himself into the sun.

Because you answer, of course, brilliantly as usual. But the boy next to you looks at you with stars in his eyes.

Yeah, Jack wants him expelled.

After a torturous two hours, students begin filing out of the room. Normally, this is the part where he'd catch your eye, maybe exchange some silent look that promised you'd be appearing in his office within the next ten minutes.

Instead, you're still standing beside that boy. And the little prick is making you laugh now. Then you reach out and lightly smack his arm, again.

Jack immediately decides prison might be worth it. 

He shoves his laptop into his satchel with considerably more force than necessary, and effectively storms out of the room without giving you a second glance. 

If you wanted to fuck about with some kid your age, then fine, Jack was not going to stop you. 

By the time he reaches his office he's practically fuming, throwing his bag onto his desk and immediately hating himself for it.

Because what exactly are you guilty of?

Making a friend? Talking to somebody?

The answer is nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

Yet that doesn't stop the ugly feeling sitting beneath his ribs. Yeah, he’s going to commit a fucking crime tonight. 

Jack Abbot has managed to elicit yet another strange emotion in you.  You're staring at the doorway he'd just disappeared through, confused as fuck. 

He'd packed up and left so quickly you'd barely had time to process it, when usually, you walk to his office together. 

Once James - the man you were talking to - leaves with your Instagram to “organise a study session”, a strange sinking feeling begins to settle in your stomach.

You gather your things slowly, trying not to overthink it but failing spectacularly.

The thing is, you had actually been excited, embarrassingly excited. Somehow, after weeks of mostly keeping to yourself, after spending the majority of your university experience drifting between classes and then disappearing home, you'd accidentally made a friend today randomly. For the first time somebody actually came and fucking sat next you and talked to you. 

And the first person you'd wanted to tell was Jack. Which was probably concerning. You know how ridiculous it is that every interesting thing that happens in your day somehow circles back to him.

You'd actually spent the last ten minutes of class thinking about it, thinking about walking into his office and saying, "I made a friend today." And hearing whatever sarcastic response he'd inevitably come up with as he pulled you into his lap. Maybe teasing you about finally socialising - a topic he often teased you about -  or maybe pretending to be shocked.

Instead he'd practically fled the room.

By the time you reach his office, the excitement has mostly dissolved into uncertainty, and a sick, sick feeling. Your brain convinces you he hates you, he’s sick of you. The affair with the pretty young thing is over. 

Your hand hovers over the door, then knocks.

A gruff voice immediately answers.

"Come in."

You push the door open, and there he is standing beside his desk.

His jaw is clenched, his shoulders rigid.

And suddenly you're no longer excited to tell him anything. Instead you're left standing there wondering what exactly you did wrong.

He stalks up to you, and shuts the door behind you with enough force to make you jump. For a moment he simply stands there, broad chest rising and falling, staring at you as though he's trying to decide whether to throttle you or kiss you.

“Who the fuck was that boy?”

You’re confused. 

“Who?”

“Don't play games with me, sweetheart.”

“James?” you ask, tilting your head. “Oh he’s just a… friend I made. We decided to share notes for the course.”

His jaw visibly tenses.

“The fuck you mean you ‘share notes’?” He exaggerates the last two words, mocking the phrase in a deliberately high-pitched voice. “Don’t I give you enough notes to go off? I'm not teachin’ you well enough, so now you gotta go to some punk to share notes?

“Jack, it’s not like that, I just-”

“Dr Abbot.” He interrupts.

The correction slices straight through you.

“What?”

He walks up closer to you, until your back hits the door and you’re pinned against it. He tilts his head down to peer at you. 

“It’s Dr Abbot when you’re in my office, sweetheart,” His voice drops lower. “I’m still your professor.” 

You scoff at that, hurt. It’s not hot to you, no. In that moment your brain forces you to think about how every moment you've spent together has happened in this room, only in this room. And maybe that's all there is, and maybe that's all there ever was. You convince you that you guys can’t exist out of this space, this dynamic that exists between the two of you. 

Can he just not have a civil conversation? Why is pretending to act jealous? If he wanted to fuck you he could just ask. 

You swallow hard.

“Right,” you say lowly. “My professor.”

The words taste bitter.

“The one who only seems to want me when we're in here.”

His brows furrow immediately.

“That's not what-”

“No, it’s okay. Let me finish. The one who shoves his face between my thighs when he feels lonely to cure whatever fucked up grief he keeps bottled up inside of him. The one who refuses to see me outside the four walls of this godforsaken office-”

“Enough.”

You see something that resembles hurt flash across his face, his brows creasing. The lines around his eyes deepen.

“Is that really what you think of me?” He whispers, staring at you.

You twitch uncomfortably under him, looking at the floor, confidence evaporating now that you've actually said out loud what you’ve been spiralling over ever since this began.

“I just...” Your voice cracks slightly. “Look, you don't have to act possessive, okay? Whatever we have this- this thing. I know it doesn’t mean much to you.”

Jack immediately opens his mouth, but you keep rambling.

“Which is fine. Seriously. I'm okay with that.” Your hands shake slightly at your sides. “But just don’t give me false hope. I’m happy with you being my professor, or my dom, or whatever the fuck. And I like that you help me study and talk and get out of my head and feel good, but there’s no need to act like you- like you care. I can't handle feeling like you care one minute and then being reminded none of this is real the next.” 

You're panting hard by the end of your rant, still refusing to look at him. 

“Sweetheart, look at me.”

You shake your head, tears of frustration welling up at letting yourself be seen like this, vulnerable. You promised yourself you wouldn’t ever tell him. Stupid. 

Sex, that’s easy. It’s the meshing of two bodies, it’s clinical - you orgasm, your brain feels hazy and good while he drives you there. But this, talking, about feelings of all things, fuck. You can’t let anyone see you like that. Because then, they get sick of you, and then they leave. 

“C’mon, look at me,” he pleads.

You wipe your eyes, about to tell him to move back so you can leave, but then he says your name. Softly. Not sweetheart. Not pretty girl. But your actual name.

“Please.”

You look up then, tears pooling in your eyes. And your breath catches.

Because Jack looks devastated. His eyes are red around the edges, and his mouth is pulled into a frown. 

His hand rises slowly, cupping your cheek. He gently swipes a thumb under your eye. 

“Hey, I need you to know - this is real. To me.”

His voice cracks.

“I’m not using you as some sort of placeholder or whatever self sabotaging bullshit you’ve created in your head okay?”

Then he inhales deeply. 

“You've become the best part of my day. I wake up and mentally map my days around you. Hearing you talk loosens the constant ache I feel.”

Jack closes his eyes briefly.

Then opens them again. His hand tightens against your cheek.

“Sweetheart, I love you.”

You still. 

Your lip quivers as you stare at him. 

You bring your own hand up to cup his, and look up through your lashes. 

The words get stuck in your throat. God. He loves you. Somebody loves you. Somebody saw through rot and the cage around your heart, and said he fucking loves you.

“I do. Too. That thing,” you wince at your awkwardness. “I just, I want to say it but I-"

“Hey pretty girl, it’s okay.”

Jack smiles sadly. He leans his forehead down to yours.

“I do,” you whisper desperately. “I do. I just-”

“Shh.”

His mouth nearly presses against you as he whispers again.

“I love you. And I’ll wait however long you need me to say it back, okay?”

Your breath shudders as he says that, a sob catching in your throat. Because for the first time in a very long time, nobody leaves. 

Your eyes squeeze shut. Tears roll down your cheek, overwhelmed.

You barely register them before you feel Jack’s lips against your skin, kissing your tears. He mutters soft, ‘I love you’s as he presses kisses all over your face, cradling it. He presses one last one on your forehead before he tucks you into him. 

Your cheek rests on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

You wrap your arms around his waist. And you genuinely think you can control it, for about ten seconds at most, then you sob. Uncontrollably, for the first time in years in front of another human. 

Because God. You have spent so much of your life believing that love was something you had to earn, something you had to perform correctly for your family, the people around you, to accept you. Something that disappeared the second you became too much, too emotional, too difficult, too needy.

But he stayed. And he saw you. 

You stand there, wrapped in each other's embrace until the tears slow. Jack gently wipes your cheeks with both hands.

“Sorry for making you cry, princess,” he pouts, lip jutting out exaggerately. 

A watery laugh leaves you at that, and you cup his cheek. Jack immediately leans into your palm.

Jack watches you with an expression so openly adoring it nearly steals the breath from your lungs. As though he's still struggling to believe you're real.

Your thumb traces the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, mapped with years lived longer than you.

Then your hand drifts lower, brushing against the silver-grey scruff along his jaw, littered with specks of auburn, and you rub it gently, feeling the coarseness between your fingertips.

That was it, was it not? The stark difference between you, the thing that made all this so exhilarating. 

Jack had lived a life that existed before you. And somehow, impossibly, it had still found its way to yours. As though he's spent years wandering through darkness and has suddenly found something worth staying for.

And perhaps, you realise, so have you.

That’s when you know.

“I’m ready,” you breathe out.

Jack's eyes widen, his hand coming to hold yours where it rests on his jaw.

“Are you sure? I don’t want you to feel pressured into it.”

“Jack. I’m sure. I want this, I want you.”

He shudders, exhaling hard, bringing his face down to yours.

“Yeah?” He whispers against your lips, brushing them.

“Yeah.” 

Then his lips slam down onto yours, for the first time. 

And God, its everything you fucking imagined. 

His mouth presses against yours and soft whimpers escape the both of you. There’s a certain desperation in the way his mouth moves against yours, in the way your tongues immediately find each other. 

After a few brutal minutes of grinding against each other, moaning, Jack succumbs. He lifts you into his hands, your thighs wrapping around his waist, as he carries you to his desk and sets you on it.

Mouth still pressed against yours, he rips your shirt off, pulls your jeans and panties off, shoving them to the floor. 

He whines as you detach your lips from his to pull his blazer off. Looking up at him, naked on his desk, you unbutton his shirt. Trail your fingers down the dusting of salt and pepper chest hair, down, over his pecs, slightly raking your nails over his nipples.

“Fuck yeah, use your nails on my chest,” he grunts out as he unzips his pants.

You moan, pressing against him harder.

“I can’t wait any longer, fuck. Please, sweetheart, let me fuck you.”

You nod.

“I’m ready, Dr Abbot.”

He groans mutters ‘you fucking minx’ as he pulls his pants and boxers down, standing bare in front of you.

His cock hits his soft stomach, curving to the left, precum coating the tip, the way you love. 

You glance down at his prosthetic. 

“You sure you want to do this here, Jack? We can go on the sofa if you want.”

He looks at you with so much adoration, a soft smile gracing his face.

“No sweetheart, I'll keep it on for now. Wanna fuck you on my desk. ”

Then he pinches your nipples as he leans in. 

“And I still need to fuck the brat out of you.”

You whine.

“What are you waiting for then?”

He brings a hand down your stomach, fingers pressing up against you. 

“Gonna finger you a little bit, yeah? Get you ready for your professor's cock, s’not gonna fit in this tight pussy otherwise.”

A whimper escapes you at his crude words, god can this old man dirty talk.  

He slowly slips two fingers inside of you, thrusting, then three once you’re ready. Circles your clit softly, the way he’s learnt after many nights on this same desk. 

Whispers filth against your lips, kissing you, desperate now that he knows what your lips taste like after many weeks. 

Once you come, he finally presses his cock against you. Rubs the tip over your folds, coating it in your slick. 

“Yeah? You ready sweetheart?”

You nod, whisper a soft ‘please’ against his lips. 

Then he pushes his tip into you. And oh fuck. He’s just so fucking thick. 

He immediately brings a hand up to hold his base to stave off his orgasm, puts his head on your shoulder. Breathing harshly. 

It hurts a little but you want more, you crave the feeling of him pressed up against you. So you buck your hips. 

“Please, Jack, fuck. Put it in,” you whine. 

“Oh- oh shit. Fucking stop that.”

He lays a hand flat on your thigh. Breathes deeply. 

“I’m trying not to blow my load here, sweetheart, gimme a sec.”

You giggle softly, pleased. Having this old man at your mercy, your dreams come true. 

“Take your time, old man.”

He stills at that, grips your waist harshly. 

Looks up at you, his eyes darkening. 

“Fuck you,” he snarls. 

Then he presses into you, inch by inch, until all of him is buried inside. His thighs shake with the effort of not coming, and you breathe deeply through the pinch of pain. 

“Fuck princess, so tight for me, my good fucking girl,” he babbles in your ear. 

You whimper against him, waiting for the pain to subside. 

Then you nod. And he begins thrusting, slowly. And it's so fucking euphoric, the feeling of sex. It makes sense why they call orgasms ‘a little death’ in French, because god, you know your body will leave your soul once he starts properly fucking you. 

With every deep thrust of his cock into you, his grey pubes brush against your clit. You both moan softly. He grips your waist, shoving faster, harder. 

“Only man that’s ever gonna be in this pussy yeah? Yeah?”

You’re half gone drooling against his neck, letting out high pitched whines. 

“Nod for me, c’mon. I haven’t fucked the brains outta you yet.” 

Jack grips your hair tight, pulling your head away from where it was buried against his neck. 

You nod, slurring your words.

“Yeah Dr Abbot, s’only your pussy.”

“That’s it, good fucking girl.”

Then he starts thrusting, faster. Your hands rest on his shoulders, his face buried in your neck. His body slamming into yours is so hard it makes the table squeak under you. 

When he brings a hand to your clit, you whimper loudly. He covers your mouth with his palm, and stops immediately. 

“Quiet, you don’t want anyone to hear right?” 

He roughly pants, trailing a line of kisses up your neck. 

“Don’t want them to know your professor’s fucking you, right?”

You shake your head, words muffled under his palm. 

“I’ll be quiet please, fuck please!” 

He starts thrusting against faster, the table shaking. You toss your head back in pleasure, his cock reaching a spot deep inside you. He stares at you, at your face twisted in pleasure, the way your tits bounce as he thrusts into you. 

“Yeah that is it, baby, good fucking girl.”

God it feels so good, and you’re there, you're nearly there, egged on by his rough groans and whimpers in your ear. You bring a hand down to your clit, starting to rub it to reach your orgasm but he shoves it off. Pushes you onto the table, your back hitting the desk. 

“That’s my job sweetheart. This pussy is mine.”

Then he hovers over you, eyes boring into yours as he fucks you harder, rubbing circles on your clit. The pleasure is so, so overwhelming and you close your eyes. 

He pulls your head towards him, gripping your jaw. 

“C’mon, look at me sweetheart.”

You open your eyes, moaning. 

“Say it,” he grunts. “Say you’re mine. Say it.”

“Fuck- Dr Abbot, I’m yours.”

He moans gutturally then pushes his lips onto yours again. You both moan into each other's mouths, sloppily kissing as you build towards your peak.  

“Fuck yeah sweetheart, just like that- good girl, so fucking tight.”

He continues to mutter filth against you while all you can do is softly moan. Your brain is mush, filled with thoughts of him, jackjackjack. 

You clench tightly around him when he bites your bottom lip.

“C’mon tell me how good you feel,” he pants, nearing his own orgasm. 

“Fuck, Daddy, feels so good.”

His hips buck once, harshly, then he stills. 

“What’d you just call me?”

Your eyes come into focus. The fog clearing a bit. 

You stammer, “Um nothing, sir, I was just-”

“No. Repeat it.”

He trails a hand to your neck, squeezing gently once, then more harshly

“What did you call me?”

“Daddy,” you whisper out.

He pouts mockingly. 

“Yeah? Daddy makin’ you feel good, baby? That’s why you're grippin’ this cock so tight, right?”

And then he starts thrusting, harder than before. 

“Just. Let. Daddy. Take Care. Of. You,” He harshly thrusts between each word, one hand covering your mouth as your moans get louder. 

Then you feel your orgasm approaching, the flutter building up again, clenching around him. 

He looks into your eyes, only a thin ring of hazel left, his pupils so dilated.

“You gonna come for your Daddy? Yeah?” 

You nod, whining, then you bite his palm. Hard. 

His hips stutter and you feel the warmth of his spend pooling in your cunt. He whimpers and babbles your name as he comes, “fuck, fuck I love you. I love you so fucking much.”

You moan at his words. But you still have to come. 

“Jack please, please keep going.” 

He groans gutterly as his cock begins to soften, overstimulated but he continues thrusting jerkily. 

He grips your chin in his palm. 

“Fuckin’ come for me. Now,” he grunts out, pinching your clit roughly.

And then it happens. You write, moaning under his hands as the coil of pleasure snaps, closing your eyes. 

He whimpers soft praises and coos of “I love you, did so good for me” as his cock spurts out more cum, twitching.

You pant against each other's mouths for a few long moments, his scruff tickling your chin, his forehead resting against yours, both of you trying and failing to steady your breathing.

“Fuckin’ hell, sweetheart,” he murmurs, a breathless laugh escaping him. “That live up to your expectations?”

You laugh softly nodding. 

“Mhm.”

He leans his head back to look at you properly once he’s cooled down, and holds your face in his palms. 

After a few long seconds of just staring, something grave passed over his face.

“Don’t think I got a lot of years left, sweetheart.”

Your brows immediately furrow.

“Jack-”

He presses a finger to your lips when you go to interrupt, shushing you. 

“Let me speak.”

You sigh, but nod. 

“I've spent most of my life thinkin' there'd only ever be one great love for me,” he says quietly, his thumb brushing beneath your eye. “And after I lost her, I figured that was it. Figured whatever part of me knew how to belong to somebody had gone with her.”

Your breath stutters. 

“Then you came along. In that fucking bar, wearing that tiny dress, asking me to help you. ”

A watery laugh escapes you.

“And whatever years I have left, I wanna spend them with you. I wanna hear every thought that gets trapped in that head of yours. I wanna know what articles you're reading, what you're writing, what you're dreamin’ about at three in the morning.”

He pauses. 

“I wanna be the person you come home to.”

Your breath catches.

“As your other. If you’d want.” 

You breathe out, seeing his face dimly lit by the lamp in his office. Mapping out his wrinkles near his eyes, the silver threaded in his slight beard and his soft smile. And suddenly it comes spilling out of you before anxiety can stop it.

“I love you.”

Jack stills completely. His eyes pool with tears. 

“Yeah?” He whispers, half surprised, half in awe.  

You nod, leaning up and brushing your nose against his.

“And I’d love to be yours.”

Relief washes over his face so intensely it almost hurts to witness. His eyes glisten as he kisses you softly, a slow, reverent press of his lips against yours for a few quiet moments.

Then he moves back to start cleaning up, cock still inside you. 

As he leans up, his back cracks, loudly. 

You both still. Before you burst out laughing. 

“You’re so fucking old… yeah you’re not making it very long, I can’t lie.”

He groans dramatically, rolling his eyes to the ceiling.   

“Fuck you, shut up.”

You bite your lip. His gaze travels there.  

“Make me, Dr Abbot,” you say, exaggerating a whimper, only half serious.

His eyes darken, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle jumps beneath the skin. Yet despite the stern look he's trying to give you, a pink flush begins creeping across his cheeks, spreading over the tops of them and disappearing beneath the scruff along his jaw.

“Yeah sweetheart, about that… I’m not gonna be able to get it up for a while.”

You break, laughing harder as he laments. He’s so fucking old. 

Once you calm down, he slowly pulls his cock out of you, both of you moaning, you at the loss of the fullness, him at your shared cum oozing out. 

“But my mouth still works,” he smirks. 

Your breath hitches as he plugs you with his fingers to stop more of your cum from spilling out. Leans in close, and whispers. 

“My leg’s killing me, sweetheart,” he begins, breath fanning over your face. “But I'm going to lie on that sofa right there. And you're gonna ride my face till you come. Again. And again.”

You whimper softly against his mouth. 

“Okay.”

“Okay, who, pretty girl?” “Okay, Daddy.”

He grins. 

“Good girl.”

omg hi u made it ! guys when i tell you this is so personal to me, from the dialgoue to the experimental (?) writing style. i need this man to be my father figure SO FUCKING BAD i have had such a week.

There was something … off about the Codys.

For one, they owed you fucking money.

Secondly, they were just…different. They didn't trust easily. They were known for stealing, lying, screwing people over. But they were also immensely private. That part you understood.

Most packs kept their closed doors, kept to their old grudges, their places at the table no outsider was ever going to sit. But the Codys were different even then. Their house always felt locked up tight, even when the gates were open, even when they'd throw huge summer parties.

And ever since two years ago when your father had introduced you, the Codys never gave in. You thought it was because your dad was an asshole, plain and simple. Because he was. And he'd gotten killed because of it.

But there was something else too. Something more curious. They often kept people out like it wasn’t only money they were protecting, careful and uneasy of any outsiders that sniffed too close.

Usually, you understood. But today, it pissed you off.

Because whatever rotten blood pact they had between them as a family, as a pack—it didn't mean they got to keep your cut of the money.

It was why, even though your body was screaming in a noxious, thrumming pain and your pulse was pounding through your head, and your gums felt itchy even as you chewed your wad of bubble gum, and your skin was too warm, and your thighs pressed together tightly in the driver’s seat—you were heading to the house anyway.

The gum had long become tough between your teeth, sugar and artificial strawberry turned flat, but you kept chewing because your jaw needed something to do or else the chattering of your teeth would drive you crazy.

Your cycle thrashed behind your ribcage, a wet and burning omega begging for something or someone , but still early enough where your head was on your shoulders and you could push it down.

Your back felt sweaty against the driver's seat of the Jeep, and you could feel the humiliating slick gathering, could feel the awful little pulse of it between your legs. Every part of your body seemed desperate to make that your problem instead of the dead-father, missing-money, Cody-family problem you were trying very hard to focus on.

But still, you were determined to get to the house.

Because fuck 'em. That's why.

Your dad had given them a job, had found the armored truck, had even gotten the head of security to sign off early for his son's birthday, leaving the coast completely clear for them to take it without being seen.

But he died. On the job.

So technically, the money was yours now.

Next of kin— all that.

The streets up from The Strand were always annoying, which only made your ire grow— flames licking up from your belly into your chest, fueling you as the pad of your foot stepped harder on the gas pedal of your open Jeep. The cooler air did help, if only a little. The breeze off the ocean cut through the hot early summer sun and cooled the sweat at your temples for one brief second before your body burned through it again.

Your Jeep took every climb and sharp turn easily, though it jostled you so hard it sometimes forced a moan from your throat. You did your best to bite the sound off behind your teeth as your thighs clamped together and the worn seam of your shorts dragged exactly where you needed it to—no, no you did not need. You did not. Though, at one point, stopped at a red light with one hand tight on the wheel and the other pressed hard against your lower stomach, you did have half a mind to shove your hand down your shorts right there just to take the edge off.

But you couldn’t. You weren’t quite at that point of humiliation yet, though the fact that there was a yet at all made your mouth twist around the wad of gum. You'd deal with it later. With your toys and your medication just like every other year of this hell.

Eventually you were pulling up to the wide gated house with your brows pulled together and a deep frown.

The gate opened for you without much question.

Huh. Wonder if they were expecting you.

Good. Maybe then they'd have your money ready and waiting, too.

You pulled the car into the driveway, only one Cody there waiting for you—the youngest, J. Smurf's grandson who'd had a lot to say about the family business ever since she passed away. Rest in hell, the mad woman.

You studied him long before cutting the engine completely. His tee shirt stuck to him from sweat and early summer heat, brows set, that usual glare typical of his face, though today it had your teeth clenching around your gum.

"Could smell you from a block away." J called as you hopped out of the seat, "what do you want?"

The dig only made your lip curl up, your teeth bared before you could stop yourself. Josh Cody was a beta, which surprised you, to say the least. Smurf made it her mission to raise alpha men, though you were never sure if it made any difference. Nature versus nurture, who could be sure. She’d barely known him most of his life, and maybe that was why he’d ended up almost normal. He had a normal designation, no biological need for territory or scent or reproduction. No physical need for it like the rest. His body would stay his own.

"Nice to see you too." you snarked. "Haven't seen you around much."

"Yeah, well" he said flatly. "Dead grandma, and all."

You clicked your teeth, "Aw, you seem really cut up about it."

The two of you glared at one another for a long moment. The sun was beating against your face now, your own scent climbing up around you in a way you could almost taste, sweet and cloying and too much. It made you want to crawl out of your skin, made you want to show your teeth at this asshole. Worse, it made you want hands on you so badly that your stomach cramped with it, and then the shame of that made your anger snap back into place even harder.

"Listen, I'm just here to collect my dad's cut. That's it. Then I'll be out of your—"

But then, the back gate was opening, and two of the Cody sons came walking out.

Oh, fuck.

You suddenly realized how much of a mistake this was. Coming here right before your cycle. J was probably right, you thought—that you stunk to high hell—your belly twisting on itself in instinctual glee while your brain still had enough hold on you to know that it was fear too. Three grown alphas lived here, two unmated. Their bodies coming toward you with the sun at their backs making your omega hindbrain—stupid little traitor that she was— lift its head and whine.

J's glare flitted around as they all formed a sort of half circle around you.

Craig came out first, tall and loose-limbed, his hair messy, his chest bare, tattoos showing against his skin. His smell invaded you, uninvited, unmated— smokey with the grain of beer, a heady press of alpha that made your nose want to scrunch.

Deran was beside him in a faded tank, his thick blond mustache pulling down around his mouth, shoulders already lifted with irritation. He smelled like salt water, malt and liquor cutting through the clean surf of him.

"It was my dad's job." you said, trying to force the ire in your voice as your heart began to pound harder in your ears, looking back at J, "and because you jackasses got him killed, the cut goes to me. His daughter."

"Your dad was an idiot who got himself killed." Deran cut in with a hard glare.

"Yeah, Deran?" you snapped, looking over to him. You only half saw Craig and J fidget in your periphery as you stepped into the mated alpha's space, "I think that maybe it's that mommy isn't here anymore to tell you how to actually do a job. Maybe you really are all brawn, no brain after all."

You heard snarls coming from around you, the men bristling at your sharp tongue as their rough, low voices scraped over air. It made you jump, it made your stupid omega brain want to keen and show your belly, but you refused even as sweat began to bead your brow. You needed to get your money and get the hell out of here as your heat blazed in your belly and down between your legs where slick was beginning to pool.

“We don’t owe you shit.” Craig growled from beside you. But you didn’t even hear him. Deran was glaring down at you, his shoulders shaking, his entire body vibrating with fury.

As he was the only one mated to his omega, Adrian, he posed less of a threat. Maybe that's why you pushed it even harder.

“What’s the problem, D?” you said, ignoring Craig. “Being the baby brother make it easy for the others to stand up for you?"

"You should go."

You heard his voice from your right, enough to make you look over to him as he walked up from the garage. Pope—Andrew. Dark, curly hair, broad shoulders under a black t-shirt. That tense way he carried himself. Not pissed like Deran, but ready. He smelled like rain and gunmetal, like fresh air through an open truck window with the leather seats warmed by the sun. But underneath all of that was salt and sweat and a mouthwatering alpha scent. You pulled it greedily into your lungs before you caught yourself.

On his neck were three nearly healed slash marks, as if an animal had fought him. His eyes—his pretty hazel eyes—were on you, his head tilted, pupils blown a little wider than normal.

You swallowed thickly before speaking again, hoping your voice would still sound steady.

"I think I'm owed some money, Andrew."

"God, you omegas really are so fucking stupid." Deran's laughed, and when you looked back at him, he had a mocking smile twitching his beard, "You come waltzing up here, just a little bitch in heat—"

The slap of your palm meeting his face cracked loudly between you.

Everyone was silent.

But Deran—

His eyes were changing almost immediately, blue blowing out wide—his body no longer only vibrating, but shuddering violently. His shoulders rose into his neck, his eyes focused on you with a newfound fury as his lips peeled back from his teeth. For a second, you thought it was just anger, that he was holding himself from hitting you back.

Then his jaw popped. A wet, terrible crack sounded under the skin, and Deran sucked in a breath that seemed too large for his chest.

“Fuck—” J muttered from behind you, and you felt his hand on the cup of your shoulder, pulling you away.

“Here we go—” Craig said with an eye roll that did nothing to hide the way his body had gone tense, “Deran, c’mon, chill, man—don’t be stupid—”

Pope was in front of Deran in an instant, pushing him back.

All the anger, the ire, the attitude you’d just had was fading quickly.

Because Deran was…was changing.

Pope barked over his shoulder, "Get her outta here, J!"

The youngest's hands came up to both of your shoulders now, pulling you back, but you wouldn’t budge. You watched as Pope pushed his brother through the back gates, the bones in Deran’s face shifting under his skin, his body curling up on itself but still getting bigger and bigger. Large, heavy huffs of breath that didn’t sound like him or his voice were heaving from him as his eyes stayed locked on you.

His hands hit the ground first, fingers spread against the concrete, and then the fingers were wrong too—stretching into dark claws that scraped against the patio with a sound that made your teeth hurt. His tank tore across the back. The muscles along his spine jumped in hard ridges beneath his skin, and then fur began to push through, thick and yellowed auburn, spreading over his shoulders and down his arms.

You shoved out of J’s hold as the back gate nearly swung shut, and you pushed through it. Call it instinct, call it the thanatos death drive, call it the worst timing in the world for your body to mistake danger for want—but you had to see.

Deran Cody was no longer between his brother's arms.

Instead, there was a creature. Sand blonde and thick coated with long snout with teeth that dripped with saliva as he snarled. But even as he watched you, you recognized the blue of his eyes. But he was terrifying. He looked close enough to a wolf and yet wrong enough that every other part of you went cold. The fur along his spine stood high. His lips dragged back over teeth that looked made for cracking bone. His ears were pinned flat to his skull, and every breath came out of him in a thick, wet huff that stirred the loose leaves near the pool drain.

He was beginning to thrash around, pushing at his brothers with a heavy shoulder. Enough to knock them off balance. The moment Craig’s head hit the concrete of the poolside, his body started to vibrate too.

“Craaaiiigggg—” Pope called out in warning. He glanced back at the gate, his brows narrowing at you. “You have a death wish, omega? Get. Out!”

His last words hit you differently. One moment, you were staring at Deran's figure as it began to lope towards you, but then as you heard Pope's voice go low and heavy, your eyes found him, your body trying to answer before your brain could. Your knees went soft, your feet beginning to move out towards the driveway again, but—but you couldn't.

Because Deran was already lunging for you.

And behind him, Craig's body was rearranging itself into a black mass of inky fur with bright, terrifying blue eyes to match. His back bowed and his jaw opened on a shout that broke apart into a snarl. Black fur burst over his arms and chest, glossy under the beating sun, and his hands slapped against the concrete, claws skidding before they caught. He was snarling and his back was arched like a cats as he fully morphed into the wolf— longer than Deran, darker, his ribs moving hard beneath all that fur.

You barely noticed sandy blonde wolf's jaw around your ankle before you were being pulled to the ground, dragged against the concrete hard enough to scrape against your back. Your arms flew out, pushing against him as he hauled on top of you, snapping at you. Though your blood surged with fear, there was something worse, too. Something old as time and instinct. That traitorous omega sung for him to take you like this. She loved the chase, the fight of it, even if you were scared for your life.

Your thighs opened instead of kicking him away, heat twisting low and stupid while your brain screamed at you to move, to fight, to get out from under him. He was mated. Adrian’s. That should have meant something to the dumb animal part of you, but it didn’t. It only knew alpha. It only knew the heat of his body, even if he was trying to eat you alive.

The shame of that burned almost as badly as the concrete against your skin.

Because the fever burned worse now, your heat in full effect, making you weaker and unable to hold him back. You cried out as your mind began to slip, the rubber band between who you were and whatever lived inside your body stretching thin. The panic and pain got tangled very quickly with want—slick gathering hotter and thicker between your thighs, humiliation only making it worse as the concrete bit into your skin and saliva dripped from his mouth.

You still forced your fingers to dig into his neck just to keep those gleaming teeth from the sensitive flesh of your face, your nails sinking into the thick ruff at his throat while your heel scraped against the ground, trying to find leverage, trying to remember how to kick.

But then, a wash of mottled gray and brown shoved Deran off of you, knocking him sideways so hard it felt like a train being derailed. You sucked in a breath so fast, leaning up, one hand flying to your chest while the other stayed braced on the concrete beneath you.

In front of you was the most insane thing you think you'd ever seen before.

Wolves, fighting with their teeth, a mess of fur and snarls.

Three True Alphas.

It was a rarity, an abomination.

A fairytale.

Everyone knew the stories—before designations and medical forms and dating apps and certifications. True Alphas—the wolf. The most base, most pure animal version of your kind. Something that had been hunted down in the beginning, tested on, killed, regulated. Too dangerous, too hungry, too close to animal for laws to control. So they became bedtime stories, then horror stories, then nothing at all. An extinct bloodline cut out of the world.

And yet…there were three here, now. In front of you.

Deran and Pope were still snapping at one another by the pool, the eldest on top, seemingly winning against the younger, more brutish alpha. Deran fought with fury, all teeth and shoulder and claws scraping hard against the concrete, but Pope knew how to fight. He drove Deran down with his weight, jaws locked around the thick fur at his neck until Deran cried out and bit at Pope’s legs, twisting under him with a violence that made your stomach turn.

You couldn’t watch.

But your eyes wouldn't look away, either.

No wonder you hadn’t been able to hold off your heat. Even now, your brain was turning molten, your core burning hot as arousal gathered steady between your thighs—you remembered the stories. That True Alphas had something innate inside of them, something old and animal, something omegas were made to answer whether they wanted to or not. And to have three of them around you at once, to have one so close in his truest form only moments before, on top of you with his teeth bared and his breath hot against your skin—it had shoved you into full-blown heat so fast you had no time to stop it.

Your stomach began to churn on itself, cramps threading your blood tight and your veins constricting. You had to leave, you had to go home, that last shred of humanity said. Go home to your toys and your medication. You thought of the cold tile floor of your bathroom. Your perfectly made bed with the pillows just right.

The pain was becoming unbearable in your stomach, your vision pulsing black at the edges. You closed your eyes, squeezing them shut through another bad wave of cramping.

When your eyes opened again to the smell of salt and old beer, you saw Craig standing over you, black fur and blue eyes, his body blocking out a hard slice of sun. Pope and Deran were still by the pool, panting heavily as Pope held Deran under him, thick growls still eminating from both of them. But Craig was pawing closer and closer, his claws clicking against the patio, his nose lifting. Licking his jaws. Black nose twitching and inhaling greedily.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

You keened, though nerves flushed a new wave of unease through you. He was so big, so long and lean and terrifying, all black fur and sharp angles and bright blue eyes fixed too tightly on you. His smell wasn’t right though. Too salty, too stale, old beer and smoke caught under the alpha of him, clinging to the top of your mouth wrong.

Your body still noticed him because your body was stupid now, because alpha was alpha when the heat got bad enough, but you had half a mind to know he wasn't for you.

“C-Craig—” you croaked, shaking your head, holding your hand out to try and make him stop in his path. You backed up until your shoulder blades hit the splintering wall of the makeshift bar beside the pool. “No, Craig—”

His head dipped, understanding, though he slowly brought his nose to your open palm, wet and rubbery as he breathed in deeply. His tongue, like sandpaper, licked at your hand. You sighed in relief, even as your belly cramped harder in need. Your head fell back against the bar, neck baring, eyes fluttering shut as he licked at your hand again, between your fingers, his teeth grazing the tip of your forefinger in a careful little nip. It felt so good, just the smallest touch of wet tongue, even if just for the moment.

Your core tightened, hips twitching, searching for more, your back arching a little as his coarse tongue licked carefully at the sensitive web of skin between each finger. You couldn't help the little helpless moans that fell from your lips, and Craig’s tongue pressed heavier with each sound, dragging slower over your palm, between your fingers, across the tender inside of your wrist. But when you mewled and keened, it wasn't for Craig. Or Deran. Or even for J—who stood at the back door, watching.

"An—Andy, please—"

Craig's teeth bit down hard suddenly on the meat of your palm.

You yelped, pulling your hand away, eyes flying open. Your skin felt too hot, your vision bleary and wet at the edges as your feet scrambled against the patio, trying to push yourself farther from the wolf in front of you. His eyes had gone harder now, bright blue and fixed on you, the skin over his muzzle wrinkling into a little snarl from the way you must’ve moaned his older brother’s name.

And soon you heard the crack of a thick growl coming from beside him.

The mottled gray wolf was coming back over to you, his head low, shoulders rolling under all that gray-brown fur. His snarl tore through the air at the same time Craig’s did when he noticed him, both sounds ripping over the pool deck, but neither of them lunged. They only stood there with teeth bared and breathing hard while the space between them and you seemed to shrink.

Across the pool deck, you saw the autumn blonde wolf limping away, Deran, tossing hard glares over his shoulder as he went.

You dropped your hand, your body trembling where you sat. A molten heap of nothing now, only want and need and burning. Your brain felt like mush as you looked at the two wolves, both still showing their teeth, until Pope moved forward and crowded your space, standing across your legs.

His fur of his belly tickled the tops of your knees, and you brought your face into his shoulder without thought, inhaling deeply. Yes, yes. He smelled so good. Gunpowder and rain, leather and sweat, and something you hadn’t noticed before, something clean in the thick of his fur. Almost like… pine. You inhaled so deeply it stuttered in your chest, your stomach pulling tight, your legs heavy beneath you. Your body was so strung out with need that the smell of him felt like the first thing that made sense, and you whined against his fur as the vibration of his growl faded under your cheek.

He turned his head toward you, letting you stay buried in his shoulder, his nose pressing carefully at your leg.

“I’m sorry,” you whined, your fingers curling into the fur at his side. “I didn’t mean—for all this—Andrew, I feel—you feel so warm, I—”

He was moving before you could finish, pushing his head under your arm to lift you up. Your arm looped around his oversized body, fingers digging into the thick fur over his shoulder blades as he helped you through the yard and toward the house. You heard the back gate clink shut behind you, the other two alphas slinking off across the pool deck. As you passed J’s hardened glare, you could barely make out his form through your hooded eyes, but Pope growled softly at him anyway, low and annoyed.

He guided you through until you were in the furthest corner of the house, your steps uneven beside the click-clacking of his claws as you made your way into his bedroom.

You blearily took in your surroundings: there was no laundry on the floor, no open drawers, nothing left out of place except a watch on the nightstand and a pocketknife set beside it, both placed perfectly straight. The room was dim, blinds half shut, every bit of it perfectly done. The bed had been made tight before you were shoved onto it, blanket pulled flat, pillows stacked square against the headboard.

But it smelled so good—like him. You rubbed your face into the pillow as he let you walk to the bed, and there was that pine smell— his detergent, then, you realized—mixing with the intoxicating scent of rain and leather again.

Your stomach cramped as the worst of your heat rolled through you, arms wrapping around your middle as you cried out.

You could vaguely hear Pope whining somewhere in the room—a low, thick sound that began to morph more human, breaking and heaving until it was a man’s breath, a man’s pain. When you opened your eyes again, he was there. Just Pope. Two-legged and naked as the day he was born, crouched on the floor by the door with his hands braced against the hardwood.

Scratches cut across his chest and arms, new claw marks fresh on his neck where Deran had caught him, red and raised beside the older scars you had seen before. Sweat ran down his temples, his shoulders shook. His freckled back arched over the floor as another wave of the turn moved through him, muscles jumping beneath his skin, bones threatening in pops and shifts.

He groaned through his teeth, head bowed, as if trying to hold onto this form with everything he had.

“D-don’t be scared,” he managed to whisper, though his voice was so rough, it was merely a scrape of sound. “I’m not gonna—” He sucked in a breath, eyes squeezing shut. “You can stay here until—until it passes, or until you can call somebody. I’m not gonna touch you. I’m not gonna—fuck, no, no, no—”

His back arched harder, bones rippling under his skin, and for one terrible second his jaw looked wrong—his shoulders rising, hands blanched into fists the floor. He cried out again as you watched his claws beginning to protrude from his knuckles.

But then he dragged in another breath through his nose, shuddered all over, and forced himself back down. Human, even if only barely. His eyes stayed fixed on the floor in front of him.

“Andrew,” you cried, your voice cracking, “I need you—”

You cut yourself off with another whine, your knees were pulling tight to your chest, teeth biting into your own arm as another wave of crippling, cramping pain pulled through you. You hated this part. Usually you prepared. Medication first, toys charged, towels and blankets laid out around the cold tile of your bathroom. You usually made sure to have your water and herbal elixir by the tub, phone plugged in on the counter playing something soothing. You had a whole system for surviving what your body did to you every cycle.

But now you were in an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar room, with a True Alpha on the floor trying very hard not to turn back into the wolf at the sound of your voice begging for him.

And fuck, your body sang for him like nothing you had ever felt before. A deeper heat than you'd ever felt, something ancient and searing opening in you. It moved through your belly and down your legs, slick coating your thighs, staining your shorts. Your mind was slipping from you, you knew that well now, hardly your own, lost in pain—but mostly into need and want. So, so much want.

Every now and then you'd feel the chill of the fever as your skin went clammy and hot again, each breath dragging more of that rich scent from him into your lungs.

“Please,” you whimpered, fingers twisting in your own shirt. “Please, it hurts.”

"Don't—" Pope croaked from the floor. "I won't do that to you."

“I neeeeeeed it,” you cried, rocking yourself against the mattress. “Please, I promise, I promise I want you. I’ve always wanted you.”

Tears began pouring down your cheeks—from the pain, the want, the need to make him understand. You writhed in his sheets, body twisting toward him because he was right there, almost close enough to touch, close enough to smell, and still not close enough to stop the awful cramping pull inside you.

Why wouldn't he come to you? The little, desperate omega in you wondered. Had you done something wrong?

Yes, you thought. All wrong, all teeth and nasty temper.

You remembered the driveway, the way you’d snapped at them, teeth bared, shoulders squared, all that ugly anger spilling out of you before you could stop it. You shouldn’t have come in so mean. You shouldn’t have slapped Deran. Maybe that's why Pope didn't want you, after all. Because what kind of omega were you? Not the normal, sweet, docile little things that put on their doe eyes for their alpha. You'd never been that kind of person, never wanted to beg a man for anything, least of all a stupid, ego driven, territorial alpha.

But that wasn't Pope. You knew that. You'd known it for a very, very long time. So, you tried. Tried to be docile now, knew the one way to get under the animal's skin.

"Please, alpha—"

"Stop—" he growled.

"Please, please, alpha—"

"No." it was a deep growl, as if he'd finally caught his breath, using that low, heavy voice that only his kind were privileged to have.

“Yes,” you retorted, voice breaking into a whine. “I swear, Pope. I promise I’ve wanted you. I came here today hoping you would be here—Andy, I swear it.”

His head snapped up to you.

Oh, oh his eyes were so pretty. His full attention on you felt like being bathed in a pretty sunlight, those hazel eyes, those pretty dark curls. You softened only a little, eager, opening your body a little.

You nodded fervently, tears dripping down your temple and onto the pillowcase beneath. “I swear it. My dad—he was an alcoholic, an asshole. He only got you that job because he thought he could steal from you. I hated him. Hated him, Andy. But I knew…I knew you might still be here. So I came over, pretending I wanted the money. But I knew my heat was coming. I knew it was close, and I still came. I’m so sorry—”

He was next to the bed so fast, you gasped.

His hand came to the crown of your head, pushing back the sweaty hair there. The touch was so careful, but it felt so good, your breath shakily exhaling from you.

“You’re okay,” he said roughly. “You’re okay, don’t be sorry."

God, his touch was like a salve. Just his hand in your hair made your eyes flutter, made the pain in your belly loosen for one breath before it came back worse.

Pope swallowed, watching you now with something pained and soft in his face.

“This was a dumb idea,” he murmured, his thumb dragging over your hairline. “Coming over here when you knew better. Didn’t you know better, little omega?”

You nodded again, silent, your eyes searching his face. So many scratches. Fresh red marks along his neck, his shoulder, his ribs. Marks that were there because of you, because of the mess your body had pulled all of them into.

"You smell so good, Andy—"

“We can't do this today,” he said, voice still low. “You're in heat, you'll say anything."

You shook your head quickly, reaching for him, your hand going to his neck before either of you could think better of it. He hissed when your fingers slipped into the curls at his nape, your wrist turning just right so that the soft gland there pressed against the one behind his ear. You hadn’t meant to do it. You only wanted to touch him so badly.

But the contact made you moan anyway, your scent and his folding together between you.

His head fell back on his neck, mouth parting at the feeling, his chest pulling in one deep breath after another. “Fuck,” he breathed.

You keened at the sound, whining for him, trying to use your hold on him to drag him closer. He came willingly, but not all the way. Not enough. His mouth stayed open as he breathed you in from your jaw, down the column of your exposed throat, to your shoulder, and then back up to the tender, spongy gland behind your ear. "You smell so good too."

Your eyes went wide when his tongue dipped out to lick at the mark there, the moan you made slipping out of you obscene and helpless. Your legs opened before you could stop them, docile suddenly, open, wanting, your body begging for him in a way that would have made your whole face burn if you weren't so deep into heat.

You heard him whispering, "Yeah…yeah…" he inhaled, exhaled, licking lightly as your scent flooded the room even stronger, "That's it, good omega."

His voice was warping between man and other, his breath deepening.

"Andy, please, it hurts."

He growled a little, his name on your lips just enough to push him over the edge. You could smell how strong his rut was hitting now, with you in his own bed, legs open and slick shining along your bare skin.

“If you want to keep any of these clothes,” he said, voice rough, “take them off. Now.”

You squirmed where you sat, hands feeling heavy, the air thick around you as you tried to move. Your body felt slow and clumsy with need, every thought narrowed down to him, his mouth, his hands, the heat of him hovering so close and still not close enough.

“Tell me it’s not just this,” he panted, his voice catching back into himself for a moment. “Tell me you want me. Not just because of this.”

“Andy, I’ve wanted you for so, so long,” you whined, trying and failing to push down your shorts with one hand, the other still hooked around his neck. He pulled back so he was looking down at your face. His eyes were blown black, barely any hazel to be seen. For a moment, he was as scary as he was as the wolf—intimidating, serious, the gleam of animal in his gaze.

"Tell me." he ordered.

While you still squirmed, his hand came down to cover yours, stopping your movement entirely. You whined and thrashed a little, impatient. But all he had to do was 'tsk his tongue against his teeth and you laid still.

"Back when—" you inhaled, trying to get your mind to form words, coherent memories, but your heat was so strong now that all you cared about was the fact he was here, and he was very naked, and he was looking at you. Looking at you like that. "Andyyyy pleaseeee…"

“Be a good girl and tell me, omega.”

You pouted, breathing hard through your nose. “When I met J—”

“—That was two years ago.” he said, brows furrowed a little.

You nodded quickly.

“I think about you every time,” you admitted, voice breaking around the words. “Every time I’m stuck dealing with this —this bullshit by myself. M-my toys, when I have to do it alone—”

His face shifted. “You don’t have anyone to help?” he asked, and there was something so genuinely concerned in his voice that it made your chest hurt through the fever.

You shook your head.

His expression softened, the hard animal edge easing back just enough for Pope to look like Pope again. “Okay,” he said, quieter. “Okay, I understand.”

“S’been so long,” you whispered, fingers curling weakly against his neck. “All I do is think about you.”

"Okay," he repeated, "I'm gonna help, it's okay,"

Your heart soared at his words, your legs falling wider, your neck craning to give him access before you could think to be embarrassed. You were helpless to the instinct of your kind now, making yourself soft and open and desperate for him. But you were desperate. You were deep in the haze of want, too far gone to care how needy you looked in his bed, how quickly you answered the smallest kindness from his mouth.

“Ohhh, please,” you breathed, fingers tightening in his hair. “Please, please, please.”

He leaned down then, and though you thought you were feverish before, the first press of his lips nearly broke you. Heat blazed between you like kindled fire. It was not gentle in the way you expected. It was careful, yes, because he was Pope and because he was still fighting himself with every breath, but it was eager too. His chapped mouth pushed against yours, hot and a little clumsy at first, and both of you moaned into the contact.

His shoulders, tense for so long, dropped with one heavy exhale. His breath fanned over your face as the hand holding yours rose to your jaw, fingers spreading to keep you close.

You opened your mouth easily when his tongue pressed forward, and whatever restraint had been left between you began to fray. Your hands pulled at him, his mouth moved harder over yours. He was still kneeling at the side of the bed, but then he shifted, pressing into the mattress, his weight dipping as he hovered over your open body.

He finally pushed your shorts down for you, panties following after, ruined and wet against your skin. He didn't take his mouth from yours until he had to, until your shirt caught at your neck and he pulled back only to drag it over your head. You suddenly realized you could feel him. Hot, pulsing, thick against your thigh, making you undulate where you laid.

"Oh, oh, Andrew—I need, I need it now."

"Sh, sh, sh," he cooed, still kissing you.

You whined and mewled for him, your hands eager now, too eager, needing more of him than his mouth and his weight and the hot press of his skin.

You reached between the two of you, and the growl that came from his throat had your lips detaching from his, your neck craning to the side before you could think better of it. Submission, easy, immediate and instinctual—your body offering it up at the first scary sound from him.

But he felt so good in your hand. Smooth and hot, pulsing against your palm, velvet soft skin over all the thick weight of his cock. Your hand moved up and down gently at first, almost reverent despite the fever, until your fingers brushed something fuller at the base, thicker skin beginning to swell there.

"Is that—?" you whispered.

He nodded, kissing your face like he couldn’t make himself stop, his mouth dragging over your cheek, your temple, the corner of your lips while he hissed and sighed and moaned at your touch. “My knot.”

"Oh," you murmured, blearily blinking.

His face pushed yours to the side, stubble scraping against your skin as he kissed your shoulder and down your neck. You felt the sound he made before you heard it, a low, vibrating groan pressed into your throat as your hand tightened and your wrist twisted, tugging him closer.

“I—” he tried, breath breaking. “I have to tell you—I might—ohhhh, fuck—”

You swept your thumb over the tip of him, thick beads of arousal coating the head, and your whole body clenched at the feel of it. You wanted a taste. You wanted him in your mouth, inside you, against you, anywhere he would let you have him. Anything. You would do anything right now.

“Listen,” he snapped, a rough growl tearing through the word as he pulled his face away from your neck.

You paused, startled, your hand still wrapped around him.

His face changed immediately. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, both hands coming to your hair as he leaned fully over you, his thumbs pressing carefully at your scalp. “I’m sorry, little one. Don’t be scared. I didn’t mean to—shit, I’m trying to tell you something.”

You nodded quickly, eyes wet, both of you burning hot where your skin touched.

“You need to know,” he said, forcing each word out slowly. “If I lose it, if my rut gets too strong, I might change back. I don’t want to. I’m holding it —him—down, but I could—”

“Okay,” you whispered, barely listening as you guided him lower, finally bringing him against the slick folds of your aching cunt.

Your eyes nearly rolled back from the pressure alone, from the hot drag of him through all that gathered slick. He sighed into a long groan, his hips jerking, pressing harder, before he caught himself, one hand tightening in your hair while the other braced beside your head.

“You don’t understand,” he gritted through his teeth. "I could hurt you—"

“It’s okay, Andy,” you breathed, trying to soothe him even as your hips lifted against him, grinding your hips against him, lathering his cock with your arousal. “It’s okay. You don’t scare me.”

He paused, eyes searching yours, hazel swallowed up entirely by the black of rut. His hand moved through your hair again, harder now, almost restless.

"Okay." he finally whispered, kissing you once again.

At first, it was all tongue and hunger in your mouth, the sounds he made almost too much to hear when your body was already wound so tight. You sang for him too, squirming beneath him, needing and needy, your hands catching at his shoulders, his neck, anywhere you could hold. You whined and shifted as his kisses moved from your mouth to your jaw, down your neck, licking into the dips of your throat and clavicle.

He kissed your breasts, giving each one a moment of attention before going lower. His mouth dragged down the soft rise of your belly, warm against your skin, then lower still until his breath fanned over your mound. You gasped when his lips touched the top of your hip, already about to whine over the loss of his body against yours.

But then your brain suddenly went white hot as his tongue flattened over your cunt and licked a long stripe from entrance to clit. Your back bowed in on itself, an arch so clean off the bed, your fingers catching for any relief. One in his hair, one on the bed. You moaned loudly, your hips undulating for more. His hands came up quickly, around your thighs, holding you down and open as he did nothing but eat.

The sounds he made filled your ears—rough, animal growls, whimpering moans, the obscene sounds of his tongue against your slick pussy. Slurping, licking, huffing breaths against you like he needed it too. It was too much. Your hips tightened, spine tingling, and it wasn’t long before your jaw opened, unhinging to let out a yelp of pleasure as your orgasm crested and broke.

It wasn't enough, but it brought small relief. You felt your body clench down around the need for more, your breath hissing through your teeth as he continued to lick through your orgasm. His tongue had been the gentle press of something human at first—warm, careful and gentle—but then it dragged rougher, closer to sandpaper, and your whole body jolted beneath him until it returned to the human softness.

He held onto your firmly, and you only just saw the prick of blood on your thighs where his claws were starting to protrude again. When you looked down at him, his brows were threaded so tight, his form not quite turned but the signs were there—his claws, his teeth sharpening when they nibbled on your clit.

When he rose from between your legs, panting, his hands were greedy as they pawed roughly at you, "How was that, sweet little omega? Feel better, hm?"

You thrashed and shook your head because yes, and no, and not enough. But you let him manhandle you until you were on your belly, your ass lifted a little, pushing back into him before he even had to ask.

"Mmmm…" he hummed, his face buring into the back of your head, inhaling, "Fuck, you're so good. What a good girl. Tasted so fucking good."

His hand dragged down your spine, stopping at your hip, holding you still while he breathed hard behind you. You could feel him close, hot and heavy against your skin, his body shaking with the effort of waiting.

“Gonna let me take you, baby?”

“Yes, alpha,” you murmured, voice thick and warbled.

He hummed, content, his hands rough on you, squeezing until you whined into the pillow. But you didn't want him to stop, you hoped he'd never stop. He felt so warm, his smell enveloping you as he laid across your back.

"Down." he ordered. His voice was so thick now, that human and not-so-human growl sitting behind every syllable, and it made you shiver all the way down. You listened. Of course you listened, blood thrumming hard with the feeling of the tip of his cock right at your entrance, gliding through the slick there.

You laid fully down on the bed, wiggling beneath him, trying to push back, but he laid down over you, face into your neck, lips at your ear. His breath hot and thick around the shell as he said, "Settle down."

Instinct had you whining, your eyes rolling, desperately pushing your hips back and then—

And then you were nothing.

His cock pushed into you, and your brain went flat line. Your cunt, so wet and wanting, let him in without fuss, your body opening around him like it had been waiting for exactly this. The stretch, the warmth of his thick cock. Your toys never felt like this. They never made you feel this full, this fevered, this sick relief in your hips and stomach and spine. They never made your body go quiet for one stunned second, all that pain finally given something to hold onto.

"Ohhhhhh, Andy—" you moaned, eyes rolling back.

"Yeah," he breathed, and you could hear how his teeth bared around the word, the vibrating groan that followed as he pushed completely into you, hips meeting yours, balls resting gently against your clit.

He wrapped his arms around you tightly, pulling you into him until you weren't entirely sure where you started and he began. Your chin rested in the crook of his arm, head turned just enough to feel his breath in your ear, to hear the rough scrape of him changing between man and animal as he began fucking you in earnest.

His moans in your ear were no less obscene, no less desperate, than the rhythm of his hips jolting you into the mattress while his mouth stayed at your neck, open and panting. The bed creaked under you, his and your moans harmonizing with the slap of skin that filled the room.

“Good girl,” he whimpered. “Good girl, take my cock. Doing so good, little omega. Fuck.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” you moaned, because you had no other words.

Your brain was slack, your mouth parted, drool pooling a little onto his arm where he held you tight. He made a low and pleased sound, his arm tightening under your chin so you could feel the tendon and his muscles flex with every thrust.

"Gonna take such good care of you," he promised through a groan, "Mine, mine now. All mine."

Your heart sang for him, your ass pushing back harder into his lap.

"Yes, Andy, please, please—"

He was whispering into your ear, words broken by his breath, by his teeth, by the animal pressing closer under his skin as he completely gave into his rut. My little pussy. My omega. Gonna keep you. Mine, mine, mine. Each one sank into you worse than the last, until your body answered all of them, slick coating him and you and the bed, your hips jerking back to meet every hard swing of his.

You cried out sharply when his angle changed, his cock pushing deeper, striking something that made your hands claw at the sheets. The headboard knocked into the wall with loud slams of wood.

You felt his teeth press at the back of your neck, the wet heat of his mouth right over the gland behind your ear.

“Oh, please,” you cried, one hand reaching back for his hair. “Please bite me—”

"Sh, sh—no—" he growled, only pressing the flat front of his teeth to the gland instead. Your blood still sang for it as you kicked your feet with petulance. The need to be taken, mated, kept, moved through you so fast it made your throat close. You wanted the bite. You wanted the hurt. You wanted whatever came after it.

“Please!" you sobbed.

“Shut up, little omega,” he growled, voice thick against your neck. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

You whined and kicked your feet even as he fucked you harder, his hips swinging in a desperate rhythm now, rougher with every breath. His fingers dug into your skin where he held you, and you felt the sharp prick of claws again that were not quite the stubby human nails anymore.

“You’re gonna take my knot just like you take my cock,” he said, the words pressed right into your ear. “Like a good girl. Do you understand?”

You nodded against his arm, sobbing around the movement.

“Say it.”

“I understand,” you cried. “I understand, alpha.”

“Mine,” he grunted. “Mine, mine, mine.”

“Yours, Andrew. Yours, I promise—please, please take me. Knot me.”

As his moans grew louder, you suddenly realized the shaking of the bed wasn’t only from the saw of his hips, or the stutter of your own heart in your ribs.

Pope was trembling all over.

Heat blazed off his skin worse now, his body burning against your back. His teeth were still bared along your neck, but sharper this time, the points catching when he dragged his mouth over your gland. His tongue dipped out, rougher than before, no longer the soft press of something fully human, and the scrape of it made you gasp so hard your whole body went limp around him, fully giving in.

You gasped as you heard his breath thicken and change, huffed through a mouth that did not feel shaped the same. His arm around you tightened, restricting your air so that you saw sparks in your eyes, his voice deep and not completely his own as he said, one last time: "Mine."

He came with one hard thrust, so rough it had you pushed deep into the mattress, and you felt too many things at once.

His cock swelled deep inside you, the pressure blooming as his knot caught and locked, stretching you around him until your mouth fell open in a silent cry. Warm ropes of spend filled you, one pulse after another, and your body seized around it, cunt clenching hard as your own pleasure tore through you all over again.

And then something wet pressed against your ear.

Your eyes went wide, spine locking as his breath huffed over the side of your face. His jaw was wrong around your neck, longer, rougher, the shape of him changing where he stayed folded over you. Your slackened brain keened for it anyway. Your body knew him. Man or wolf or whatever terrible place between, it knew him.

A wet, rough press of a nose to your ear. And a snout latching around your neck.

The bite came harder than you were expecting, different from what the other omegas had told you about. They told you it was as simple as teeth to the side of the neck, pain for a few seconds, then warmth, then the bond settling into place.

But this was not that.

This—this was entirely different. You were like a pup in the maw of his jaw, held down, taken, given everything. Held by the same teeth that could have torn through skin if he forgot himself for even one second. His jaw locked around your neck entirely, teeth on both sides, tongue licking long stripes as the gland burst for him.

He growled around your neck, panting hot against your skin as he came down from the high of his orgasm, each sound rolling through you from the bite to the knot locked deep inside. You felt, but couldn't see, the half change. Claws and teeth and snout, but not completely changed.

Pheromones, hormones, scent and sound and heat all burst white behind your eyes as his teeth sank in, flooding every part of you at once. You cried out, pulsing around his cock where he was locked inside you, your hand fisting in his hair as the bite burned and soothed in the same breath.

His deep, baritone growls rolled through your back, through your ribs, through the place where his body held yours pinned and full. They soothed you into stillness better than any words could have. You thought you could feel what he was saying anyway, even as the wolf.

Don’t be scared. Take what I give. Don’t be scared. You’re home now. You’re right where you belong.

It wasn’t until a little while later that Pope’s body was completely his own again. He had talked you through one more orgasm around his knot— voice rough at your ear, promising it would feel good, that it would help, and it did. It took over you slower that time, pulling the pain loose by inches until you were half asleep beneath him, cheek pressed into the sheets while he coaxed and cooed, telling you he knew best, telling you to breathe, telling you he had you.

By the time he pulled his spent, went cock from you, you barely had the strength to whine. He soothed you through that too, one hand spread over your hip, mouth moving along your shoulder in soft, messy kisses until the empty ache settled into something quieter.

Your breaths were even and in sync, chests rising and falling together. Your spine felt embedded in his chest where he stayed over you, his weight warm across your back, his mouth never stopping its little kisses and licks after the intensity of the True Bite. The sharpest part of it had passed, but the mark still throbbed under your skin, hot and alive with every beat of your pulse.

Your blood felt like it went through you, through him, and back to you. A circuit. A loop, always flowing. Your scents had mixed beyond telling now, salt and sweat and sex lingering in the sheets, rain and gunmetal pressed into your skin, your own heat softened just for now.

When his knot finally settled, he still didn’t move far. He only laid beside you instead of on top, pulling you in close as your body crawled toward him.

He took you again, like that. Side by side, facing him, your leg hitched over his hip and his hands holding you close. This time, it was slower. His rut was more controlled, though just as hungry, and face to face it felt even more intimate. More impossible to hide from. You could see every flicker of the change moving through him when his restraint broke—the dark pull of his eyes, the sharpening of his teeth, the way his breath came rough through a mouth that did not always stay shaped like a man’s.

But it didn’t scare you. You hadn’t lied about that.

The wolf was there, right behind his face, but so was Pope. Andrew. With his same careful hands, his certainty in the way he knew he could take care of you. And this time, you soothed him through it, your hands petting at his face gently when his muscles jumped, your fingers tracing over the long snout and through his curls. Even when his body changed, even when the shape of him moved closer to the stories than anything human, your omega brain did not see the thing from childhood warnings anymore. It saw him. Your alpha. Yours.

The second time he knotted you, there in his lap, your face buried in his neck, you breathed him in until your lungs ached with it. Pheromones, sweat, heat, the deep pull of the bond still settling between you. His hands clenched at the flesh of your backside, his body trembling beneath yours, and you turned your mouth to the gland behind his ear.

Your teeth were flat and nothing like his, but still—when you bit down hard, Pope froze beneath you.

His mouth parted in shock as his head tilted back. A whimper slipped through him that felt like it wrapped itself around your heart, constricting.

And then, as his head dropped forward, you felt change take this time, his body shifting under your hands, under your thighs, until your mouth was full of fur and your fingers were buried in the thick ruff at his neck.

When you opened your eyes, he was the wolf.

A Rorschach of gray and brown and shadow, massive beside you, warm enough to steam the air between your bodies. Not quite like the wolves in zoos. Not quite like the monsters from the stories, either. His head was too broad, his shoulders too heavy, his eyes too knowing when they found yours. He whined low in his chest, almost the same sound you had made for him, and you answered without meaning to.

The two of you stayed tangled there, breathing hard, the bond pulsing between your marks. There was no place else for you, nor for him. Not ever.

You tried on the first outfit because it used to work. That was the problem with it. The fabric was familiar in your hands. Soft from too many washes, worn in at the seams, something you had reached for a dozen times before without thinking. It had been safe once. Easy. The kind of thing you could put on, glance in the mirror, and leave the house without negotiating with yourself first. Now, standing in front of your bedroom mirror after a full shift at PTMC, you looked at yourself and felt your stomach drop.

It didn’t fit the way you remembered.

Not badly, maybe. Not in a way anyone else would look at and immediately understand why your throat tightened or why your hands went cold at your sides.

But you knew.

You knew because you lived in your body. You knew the way it had changed. You knew the places that felt softer now, the places that pressed differently against fabric, the places your eyes went first, no matter how hard you tried to look somewhere else. You turned slightly, then wished you hadn’t.

“Nope,” you whispered.

You peeled the outfit off before you could think about it too long and tossed it onto the bed. The second one made your arms feel too visible. The third pulled wrong at your middle. The fourth was black, because black was supposed to be merciful, but all it did was make you feel like you were trying too hard to disappear. By the time your phone buzzed on the dresser, your bed was covered in clothes, and your chest felt tight with the kind of panic that seemed ridiculous until you were standing inside it. You glanced at the screen.

Jack: Awake.

Despite everything, your mouth twitched. A second message appeared.

Jack: That feels generous. Conscious.

Jack worked nights, which meant his day had started sometime around late afternoon, after a few hours of sleep and the kind of silence most people only associated with illness or grief. He had been asleep while you finished your shift, while you drove home, while you stood in front of your closet and tried to become someone who could go out for drinks. You sat on the edge of the bed, half-dressed and exhausted in a way sleep would not fix.

You: Congratulations.

Jack: Thank you. It was difficult.

That pulled a small breath of laughter out of you. Not enough, but something.

Jack: Shower. Coffee. Then I’ll head out.

You looked down at the pile of clothes on the bed. Then back at the mirror. For half a second, you thought about canceling. It would be easy. Too easy. You could say you were tired. You could say work drained you. You could say you had a headache, which wasn’t technically a lie, because your whole body felt like one by now. You could crawl into bed in old sweatpants, turn the lights off, and not have to be looked at by anyone. Not by your friends. Not by strangers.

Not by Jack.

Another text came through.

Jack: You still going?

Your thumb hovered over the screen. You looked back at the mirror. The woman staring back at you looked tired and uncertain and wrong in a way you didn’t know how to explain without sounding cruel. You hated that. You hated that your first instinct was cruelty. You hated that your body had become something you monitored instead of lived in. You hated that getting dressed for drinks with people who loved you had turned into standing half-naked in your bedroom trying to figure out which version of yourself would be the least embarrassing to bring outside. You swallowed hard and typed back. 

You: Yeah. I’ll meet you there.

Jack answered almost immediately. 

Jack: Save me a seat?

Your throat tightened for no reason.

You: Always.

Jack: Good.

A beat passed.

Jack: I like knowing where to find you.

You stopped, just for a second. The words sat there on the screen, simple and easy, and Jack in that quiet way he had. Not overly sweet. Not theatrical. Just sincere enough to find the places in you that were already bruised. I like knowing where to find you. You looked at yourself in the mirror again.

Your eyes went first to your stomach. Then your hips. Then the roundness of your face. Then the way your body took up space in the cardigan you had pulled on like a shield. The sweetness did not land where it was supposed to. It should have made you warm. It should have made you smile. It should have made you feel wanted, or at least remembered. Instead, it made your chest ache. Because Jack loved you. Jack wanted you. Jack touched you like he meant it. And lately, all you could think about when he did was whether he noticed.

Whether his hands felt the difference.

Whether he remembered the way your body used to be before it changed into something you could barely stand to look at.

You locked your phone and set it facedown. “No,” you told yourself quietly.

You were not doing this. Not tonight. You were not going to stand here and ruin the whole night before it even started. You were not going to make Jack’s kindness into something painful. You were not going to text Santos and cancel. You were not going to let one mirror decide whether you deserved to exist in public. You grabbed the fifth outfit. Jeans that fit, technically. A top that didn’t cling too much, if you adjusted it right. A cardigan you could keep on if you needed something between your body and the room. You got dressed slowly. The jeans buttoned, but you hated how aware you were of them. The waistband sat against your skin like a reminder. You tugged the top down, then hated yourself for tugging. You pulled the cardigan over your shoulders and faced the mirror again.

It was fine.

That was the word you landed on. Not beautiful. Beautiful felt too ambitious. Beautiful felt like something that belonged to a version of you who did not have to stand in front of a mirror and bargain with her own reflection. Fine, you could manage. Fine could leave the house. Fine could sit at a table. Fine could laugh at Robby’s dry comments and let Santos steal fries and listen to Dana talk about whatever chaos had happened on shift after you left.

Fine could wait for Jack.

You leaned closer to the mirror and fixed your earrings with fingers that were only a little unsteady. Then you stopped at the doorway. One more look. You hated that you needed it. You hated that you took it anyway. The mirror gave you nothing new. Same body. Same outfit. Same sharp, sinking disappointment. You adjusted the cardigan again, then forced your hand to drop.

Fine. Fine was enough.

You turned off the bedroom light before you could change your mind and left the apartment.

By the time you got to the bar, Santos had already claimed a booth near the back. You spotted her first because she was waving one hand over her head as if trying to direct aircraft into the room. Dana sat beside her, leaned back with a drink in her hand, while Mel was angled toward Robby, both of them listening to him tell some story with the grim resignation of a man who knew he was funny and hated that people kept finding out.

Santos saw you and lit up. “There she is,” Santos called.

You smiled before you could think too hard about whether anyone was looking at you.

“Hi,” you said, sliding into the empty space beside her.

Santos immediately bumped her shoulder into yours. “I was two minutes away from sending a search party.”

“I was changing,” you said.

Dana looked over the rim of her glass. “That sounds ominous.”

“It was,” you said lightly.

Mel’s expression softened just enough that you had to look away. She was too good at catching the things people tried to fold into jokes.

Santos leaned toward you. “You want a drink?”

“In a minute,” you said.

Robby glanced toward the door. “Abbot coming?”

“Once he finishes rejoining the living,” you said.

Dana smiled. “Night shift really does make people dramatic.”

Robby shook his head. “It’s Jack. He was dramatic before the sleep deprivation.”

You huffed a laugh, and for a second, it was easy. Not perfect. Not comfortable all the way down. But easier. The bar was loud enough to blur the edges of your thoughts. Warm light, sticky tables, music from somewhere overhead, people pressed close enough that no one had the space to stare too long. Santos was talking with her hands. Dana was telling Mel about a family member who had tried to bribe her with banana bread. Robby was pretending not to enjoy himself and failing. You could do this. You could sit here. You could keep your cardigan on. You could let your body be present without making it the center of the room.

Fine. Fine was working. Mostly.

Santos leaned closer under the noise. “You okay?”

You looked at her quickly. “Yeah.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“I’m fine,” you said, because that was better. Cleaner. It would be more convincing if you said it before she asked again.

Santos didn’t push. 

That was when Kyle slid into the empty chair at the end of the table. He was one of the X-ray techs, the kind of coworker everyone knew well enough to say hi to and not well enough to invite into anything intimate. He worked with half the ED, flirted with anything that answered him, and had a talent for talking like every room had been waiting for his commentary.

“Look at this,” Kyle said, already holding up his phone. “Found some ancient PTMC lore.”

Robby’s eyes cut toward him. “Why do I already hate this?”

Kyle turned the screen toward the table. It was an old photo from a night out a year or so before. Dana and Santos were in it, both holding drinks. Robby was in the background, looking irritated about being photographed. You were near the edge of the frame, laughing at something off-camera, one hand raised as if you were trying to block the picture but had failed. Your stomach dropped before anyone said anything. You remembered that night. You remembered that outfit. You remembered not thinking about your body every five seconds.

“Oh my god,” Santos said, leaning in. “That was after the power outage shift.”

Dana laughed. “I forgot about that night.”

You tried to smile back. Tried.

Kyle looked from the photo to you. Then he grinned.

“Damn,” Kyle said, loud enough for the table to hear. “Jack’s been feeding you good, huh?”

The noise of the bar did not stop. That was the worst part. Music kept playing. Glasses kept clinking. Someone laughed too loudly near the dartboards. The world kept moving like Kyle had not just reached across the table and put his hand around your throat.

But the table went quiet.

Not dramatically. Not all at once.

Just enough.

Santos stopped reaching for her drink. Dana’s smile fell. Robby looked at Kyle without blinking. Mel’s eyes moved to you, careful and quick. No one laughed.

Kyle’s grin faltered. “What?” he asked, glancing around the table. Kyle shifted in his chair. “I was joking.”

Robby’s expression did not change. “Yeah. Don’t.”

Santos stared at Kyle. “Seriously, man?”

Kyle looked uncomfortable now, his phone lowering an inch. “Okay, Jesus. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

You were already smiling. You could feel it happening, the automatic shape of it. Too quick. Too bright. A social reflex your body performed before the rest of you could catch up.

“No, it’s fine,” you said.

The laugh came next. Small. Wrong. Not even close to real. Everyone looked at you then, and somehow that was worse.

Jack’s been feeding you good, huh?

The words landed again, even though Kyle had stopped talking.

You waved one hand like you could clear the whole thing out of the air. “Seriously, it’s fine.”

Santos said your name quietly.

Your smile stretched harder. “I’m just gonna use the bathroom.”

Mel shifted like she might stand. “Do you want me to—”

“No, I’m good,” you said quickly. “I’ll be right back.”

Your voice sounded strange. Thin. Like it belonged to someone standing farther away. Robby’s eyes were still on Kyle. Dana looked like she wanted to say something else. Santos looked like she already knew you were lying. You could not stay there another second. Not with Kyle’s phone still in his hand. Not with the old photo still glowing on the screen. Not with everyone trying so hard not to look at your body that you could feel them thinking about it. Not with Jack’s name hanging in the air like that.

Jack’s been feeding you good, huh?

You turned before anyone could touch you. Behind you, Kyle cleared his throat.

“Anyway,” Kyle said awkwardly. “I’m gonna grab another drink.”

No one answered him. No one made room for him to recover the joke. No one gave him a way back in. You did not turn around to see him leave.

The walk to the bathroom felt too long and too short at the same time. Your body moved on instinct, through the noise, past the bar, down the narrow hallway where the light turned colder and less forgiving. You made it inside. Locked the single bathroom door. Then you saw yourself in the mirror. For a second, all you did was stare.

Your cardigan. Your top. Your face. Your body under fabric that had been fine ten minutes ago and now felt like evidence.

Your breathing went shallow.

Jack’s been feeding you good, huh?

The words came back in Kyle’s voice. Casual. Grinning.

Like he had not ruined anything.

Your hand flew to your mouth.

The first sob tore out of you before you could stop it. It did not sound like crying at first. It sounded like something breaking. Something deep and ugly ripping itself loose from your lungs, too sharp to swallow back down, too big to hide behind your hand. Your knees weakened. You turned away from the mirror, but it didn’t help. You could still feel yourself. The waistband of your jeans. The cling of your shirt. The heat in your face. The body you had brought into the room, and could not set down, no matter how badly you wanted to.

Another sob came, harder than the first. It bent you forward. It hurt.

God, it hurt.

Not like embarrassment. Not like a bad comment. Not like the quick sting of someone saying something thoughtless.

It hurt like grief.

Like your heart had cracked somewhere no one could see, and your body was trying to force the sound of it out through your chest. Someone knocked. You froze.

“Hey,” Mel said through the door, softer than you expected. “It’s me.”

You pressed your hand harder against your mouth and tried to breathe quietly. 

“I’m fine,” you said.

There was a pause.

“No, you’re not,” Mel said gently.

The gentleness in her voice made it worse.

Your breath hitched once, then again.

“Mel, please,” you whispered.

“I’m not coming in,” she promised. “I just need you to talk to me.”

“I can’t,” you whispered.

Your chest tightened around the words. You tried to breathe in, but the air would not go all the way down. It caught somewhere high and sharp, turning thin before it reached your lungs. You pressed your palm to your sternum like you could force your body to remember how to do this one simple thing.

In. Out. In.

It would not work.

The mirror was still there. Even with your back to it, it was still there.

“I can’t breathe,” you said, and the words came out broken.

Mel’s voice changed immediately. Not louder. Steadier.

“Okay,” she said through the door. “Okay, listen to me. You’re safe. You’re in the bathroom. The door is locked. I’m right outside.”

You shook your head even though she couldn’t see you. “I can’t go back out there,” you said.

“You don’t have to,” Mel said.

“I can’t have everyone look at me,” you said.

“I know,” Mel replied.

Your breath shuddered hard. “I can’t—” You pressed your hand over your mouth again, but another sob forced its way through. “I can’t.”

“I know,” Mel said again, and this time her voice cracked at the edges. “I know. Just breathe with me, okay?”

You squeezed your eyes shut. She inhaled slowly on the other side of the door, loud enough for you to hear. “In,” she said.

You tried. It scraped.

“Good,” Mel said anyway. “Out.”

Your exhale broke in the middle.

“That’s okay,” she said. “Again.”

You followed her voice because there was nothing else to hold onto.

In. Out. Again. Again.

The panic did not leave. Not really. It only loosened enough for you to speak.

“Please don’t make it a thing,” you whispered.

Mel was quiet for a moment.

“Okay,” she said carefully. “I won’t make it a thing.”

Another pause passed.

“But I’m not going to pretend it was nothing,” Mel added.

Your face crumpled again. A fresh sound broke out of you, smaller this time but no less awful. You pressed your knuckles to your mouth, trying to hold yourself together by force. Your phone lit up in your hand.

Jack: Heading out soon.

Your chest folded in on itself. “Oh god,” you whispered.

Mel shifted on the other side of the door. “What?”

“It’s Jack,” you said.

Silence. You stared at his name until it blurred.

“He’s on his way,” you said, your voice breaking. “What do I tell him?”

Mel did not answer too quickly. You loved her for that. Hated it too.

“You don’t have to tell him anything yet,” she said. “Not if you don’t want to.”

Your breath hitched.

“He’s going to get here, and I’m not going to be there,” you said.

“I know,” Mel said.

“He’s going to ask where I am,” you said.

“I know,” She repeated.

You squeezed your eyes shut so hard it hurt. The thought of Jack walking in, looking for you, hearing what happened, seeing everyone know that you were the girl who got humiliated and cried in the bathroom—

No. No, no, no.

You could not survive that. “Tell Jack I got sick,” you said.

Mel was quiet.

“Tell him I went home,” you said, swallowing against the lump in your throat. Your fingers tightened around your phone. “Tell Jack,” you said.

Mel exhaled, and it sounded like it cost her something.

“Okay,” She said.

“Please,” you whispered.

“I will,” Mel promised. “But text me when you’re in the car.”

“I will,” you said.

“And when you get home,” she added.

“I will,” you said.

“I mean it,” Mel said.

Your mouth trembled. “I know.”

For another few seconds, neither of you moved.

“I’m going to step back,” Mel said quietly. “When you’re ready, open the door. Just me, okay?”

You nodded, even though she couldn’t see. It took another minute before you could make yourself move. When you unlocked the bathroom door, Mel stood in the hallway with her arms folded tightly over her chest, eyes sharp and wet. Her face softened the second she saw you. You looked down before she could say anything.

 “I’m okay,” you said.

“No,” she said gently. “But you’re leaving.”

You nodded once.

Mel stepped closer slowly, giving you every chance to move away. When you didn’t, she lifted both hands and cupped your face with a tenderness that almost undid you all over again. Her thumbs rested lightly near your cheeks, nowhere near the tears, like she was afraid to wipe them away without permission.

“Look at me,” Mel said.

You forced your eyes up.

Her expression was fierce and heartbroken.

“You didn’t deserve that,” she said. “Not one word of it.”

Your face crumpled.

Mel held you there lightly, not trapping you, just keeping you from disappearing for one second longer.

“Okay?” Mel asked.

You nodded because you could not speak. 

Mel’s jaw tightened.

“Good,” she said.

Then she let go and stepped back, shielding you from the view of the main bar without making it obvious.

“I’ll cover,” Mel said.

Your throat burned. “Thank you,” you said.

“Text me,” she said.

“I will,” you said.

You left through the side door before anyone else could see you. Outside, the air was cool enough to make your wet face sting. You got into the Uber, gave the driver your address, and stared out the window as the bar slipped away behind you. The lights smeared across the glass.

Jack’s been feeding you good, huh?

You shut your eyes.

It was worse in the quiet. At the bar, the words had somewhere to go. Noise. Music. Other voices. Here, they had nothing to bounce off but you. Your phone buzzed again.

Jack: On my way. Save me a seat?

You stared at the message until the words blurred. Then you turned the screen facedown in your lap and cried the whole way home.

Mel stayed in the hallway until she heard the side door close behind you. Then she took one breath, wiped under one eye with the heel of her hand, and walked back to the booth. No one was laughing when she got there. The whole table had gone stiff and quiet, the kind of quiet that made the bar around them sound even louder.

Robby noticed her first. “Where is she?” Robby asked, sitting forward.

Mel slid into the booth, phone gripped tightly in one hand. “She went home.”

Dana’s face fell. “Alone?”

“She called an Uber,” Mel said.

Santo’s mouth tightened. “Is she okay?”

Mel looked at her. No one said anything for a second.

“No,” Mel said, shaking her head once.

Dana rubbed a hand over her mouth. “God.”

Robby looked toward the bar, where Kyle had disappeared into the crowd. “He gone?”

Dana glanced that way. “I think so.”

Santos’s jaw tightened. “Good.”

Mel looked toward the hallway. “She laughed.”

Santos nodded, jaw tight. “I know.”

“She laughed like it didn’t hurt,” Mel said quietly.

Robby looked down at the table. “Yeah,” Robby said.

That was all he said; somehow, that made it worse.

Mel’s phone buzzed. Everyone went still. She looked down.

You: In the Uber.

“She’s in the car,” Mel said, closing her eyes for half a second.

Dana exhaled. Another text came through.

You: Please tell him I got sick. Please don’t make it a thing.

Mel stared at the message.

“What?” Santos asked, watching Mel’s face.

“She wants me to tell Jack she got sick,” Mel said.

Dana’s expression crumpled. “Oh, honey.”

Robby looked toward the entrance. “Jack’s on his way?”

Mel nodded. 

“He’s going to know,” Robby said.

“I know,” Mel said.

She looked down at the message again, then typed back.

Mel: Text me when you’re home.

Your reply came quickly.

You: I will.

The table stayed quiet after that. Not peaceful. Just quiet. The minutes stretched. Dana kept her arms crossed over her chest. Santos stared into her drink. Robby watched the door, his face set hard. Mel kept checking her phone every few seconds. When it buzzed again, she nearly dropped it.

You: Home.

“She’s home,” Mel said, letting out a breath.

Dana nodded, eyes glossy. “Good.”

Mel started typing back when the door opened. Jack stepped inside with his jacket in one hand, hair still a little damp from the shower, his body carrying the quiet tiredness of someone who should probably still be asleep. He looked for you first. His eyes moved over the room, found the booth, found Robby, Dana, Mel, and Santos. Then your empty chair. Jack stopped. The change in him was small, but everyone at the table felt it. He crossed to them slowly.

“Where is she?” Jack asked.

Mel’s fingers tightened around her phone. “She went home.”

Jack’s face shifted immediately. “What? Why?”

Mel swallowed. “She got sick.”

Jack looked at her for half a second. “She got sick?” Jack asked.

Mel nodded once. “Yeah.”

His concern came fast, clean, and immediate. “Is she okay? What happened?”

No one answered quickly enough. That was the problem. Dana looked down. Santos’s mouth tightened. Robby’s jaw flexed. Mel looked at her phone.

Jack went still. His eyes moved from one face to the next.

“What really happened?” Jack asked.

“Jack,” Dana said softly.

His gaze cut to her. “What happened?”

Robby leaned back slightly, jaw tight. “Kyle made a comment.”

Jack’s expression changed.

“What kind of comment?” Jack asked.

Dana did not answer. Mel looked away.

Jack’s voice dropped. “About what?”

No one said anything. His face hardened by degrees.

“About her?” Jack asked.

Santos swallowed.

“About her body,” Santos said.

Jack did not move. For one second, he looked like he had not understood the words. Then his jaw shifted.

“What comment?” Jack asked.

Santos looked pained.

Jack’s eyes stayed on her. “Santos.”

She hated repeating it. Hated every word. But Jack needed to know.

“Kyle said, ‘Damn, Jack’s been feeding you good, huh?’” Santos said.

Jack stared at her. For one second, there was nothing on his face.

Then—

“What the fuck?” Jack said, low and stunned.

Dana flinched. Jack looked around the table like he needed someone to tell him he had heard wrong. No one did.

“Are you fucking serious?” Jack asked, voice sharpening.

Mel nodded once.

 Jack’s hand flexed at his side. The anger was immediate. Red-hot. Barely contained.

“Where is he?” Jack asked.

Robby’s voice stayed even. “He left.”

Jack’s jaw worked.

Robby watched him carefully. “He knew it didn’t land.”

Jack let out a humorless breath. “Good for him.”

For a second, no one spoke.

Mel watched him, careful and worried. “She asked me to tell you she got sick.”

Jack’s face shifted. The anger did not go away. It folded inward.

“She was crying so hard she could barely breathe,” Mel said quietly.

Jack closed his eyes for half a second. When he opened them, he looked more hurt than angry.

“She shouldn’t be alone,” Jack said.

“No,” Mel said. “She shouldn’t.”

Jack looked down at his phone and started typing.

Robby’s voice stayed low. “Take a minute before you go over there.”

Jack did not look up from his phone. “I’m texting her first.”

That made Mel’s face soften slightly.

Jack typed for another few seconds, then stared down at the message before sending it.

Jack: I know what happened. 

He paused, typed again.

Jack: I’m sorry he said that to you.

Jack stopped, jaw tight, then typed again.

Jack: I want to come over.

Another pause.

Jack: You don’t have to talk about it. You don’t have to explain anything.  

Then he typed what he wanted to say the most right now. 

Jack: I just don’t want you alone right now.

Jack sent the messages and waited. The whole table stayed silent. A few seconds later, his phone lit up. Jack read it.

“What did she say?” Robby asked.

Jack swallowed.

“She said she doesn’t know,” Jack said.

Mel exhaled.

“That’s not no,” Mel said.

Jack looked at her for one long second. Then he put on his jacket and turned toward the door.

“Abbot,” Mel said.

He stopped.

Mel hesitated, then said, “Be careful with her.”

Jack looked back. His face was still angry. Still hurt. But his voice was steady when he answered.

“I will,” Jack said.

Then he left.

You made it home because your body knew how to do that, apparently.

Even when the rest of you had gone somewhere unreachable, you got out of the Uber. You thanked the driver because manners lived somewhere deeper than humiliation. You walked up the stairs to your apartment with your purse clutched too tightly in one hand and your phone in the other. Your fingers shook when you unlocked the door.

Inside, everything was exactly how you had left it.

The lamp by the couch was still on. Your work shoes were still kicked near the entryway from when you had come home after your shift. The clothes you had rejected before leaving were still scattered across your bed like evidence of a trial you had already lost. The apartment was quiet. Too quiet. You closed the door behind you and locked it. For a second, you just stood there. Then you pulled out your phone and typed.

You: Home.

You stared at the message until the letters stopped swimming.

Her reply came almost immediately.

Mel: Okay. Thank you for telling me.

Another bubble appeared.

Mel: Do you want me to call you?

Your throat tightened. You could still hear her through the bathroom door. You didn’t deserve that. You squeezed your eyes shut and typed with one thumb.

You: No. I’m okay.

A lie. A big one. The kind people told when they had already taken up too much space. You locked your phone and dropped it onto the couch. You needed to change. That was the only thought your brain could hold onto. You needed to get out of the clothes. Out of the cardigan. Out of the top. Out of the jeans with the waistband that felt like it had been pressing Kyle’s words into your skin the entire ride home.

You made it to your bedroom. Then you saw the mirror. You stopped so suddenly, your breath caught. There you were.

Still.

That was the first terrible thing your brain understood.

You had left the bar. You had left the table. You had left Kyle’s stupid, careless mouth and the old photo glowing on his phone. You had left the bathroom with Mel standing guard in the hallway. You had left through the side door before anyone else could look at you.

And you were still there.

Your body had come home with you.

The thought hit wrong.

Hard.

Your breath went thin.

“No,” you whispered, but there was no one there to hear it.

The mirror did not care.

It gave you back everything you did not want to see. The cardigan you had chosen because it hid enough. The top you had tugged down so many times it had lost its shape. The jeans that technically fit.

Jack’s been feeding you good, huh?

Your face, blotchy from crying.

Your body, under all of it. Your body, still yours. Your hand went to your stomach before you could stop it, and the second you realized what you were doing, you yanked it away like you had touched something hot.

A sound broke out of you.

Small at first.

Then not.

It ripped up from somewhere deep in your chest, rough and ugly and too big for your throat. You bent forward with it, one hand braced on the edge of the dresser, the other pressed over your mouth like you could force the sound back in.

You couldn’t.

Another sob came. Harder. It tore through you until your ribs ached. This was not crying the way people cried in movies. This was not pretty. This was not a tear sliding quietly down your cheek while you stared out a window. This was your body trying to throw pain out of itself and failing because the pain lived there, too. You dragged in a breath. It did not go far enough. You tried again. It caught high in your chest, sharp and useless.

“No, no, no,” you whispered.

The room tilted slightly. You sat down hard on the edge of the bed, but sitting did not help. Nothing helped. Not the distance from the bar. Not the locked door. Not the quiet. Not being alone. Especially not being alone. Because alone meant there was nothing between you and the thought. The awful thought. The one that came so fast it scared you.

Not that you wanted to hurt yourself.

Not that.

Never that.

But for one breathless, horrifying second, if someone had offered you a way to crawl out of your own body and leave it behind on the bedroom floor, you thought you might have taken it. Not because you wanted pain. Because you wanted the pain to stop.

Because you wanted silence.

Because you wanted one second where you did not have to feel the waistband against your skin, or the shape of yourself under your clothes, or the memory of everyone seeing what you had been trying so hard to hide.

The realization terrified you. Your hands curled into fists against your thighs.

“I can’t,” you said, and your voice cracked down the middle. “I can’t do this.”

You wanted out. Not out of the clothes. Not out of the room.

Out.

Out of being aware of yourself. Out of the softness. Out of the shape. Out of the body that had followed you home because it was yours, and there was nowhere you could put it down. Your breathing broke again. Short. Too fast. You pressed both palms to your chest, trying to hold yourself together from the outside.

In. Out.

You could hear Mel saying it through the bathroom door.

In. Out.

But Mel was not here now.

No one was.

Your phone buzzed. You flinched. For a few seconds, you could not make yourself move. The phone buzzed again. Then again. Jack. You knew it before you picked it up. Your legs felt weak when you crossed the room. You grabbed the phone off the couch and saw his name.

Jack: I know what happened.

Your throat closed. The room went still around you.

Jack: I’m sorry he said that to you.

You covered your mouth.

Jack’s been feeding you good, huh?

The thought landed right on top of his name, and that made it worse.

Another message appeared.

Jack: I want to come over.

The tears blurred the screen.

Jack: You don’t have to talk about it. You don’t have to explain anything.

A final message came through.

Jack: I just don’t want you alone right now.

The sob that followed was quieter. Somehow worse. You sank onto the couch, phone clutched in both hands. You wanted him.

God, you wanted him.

You wanted his voice. His hands. The solid warmth of him. You wanted to put your face against his chest and disappear there. You wanted him to make the room smaller, quieter, less full of mirrors. But you did not want him to see you. Not like this. Not swollen-eyed and panicked. Not in the clothes that suddenly felt contaminated. Not in the body that had become the whole problem. Not when you were half-convinced he would walk in, notice exactly what Kyle had noticed, and be too kind to say it.

Your thumb hovered over the keyboard. You almost typed, Don’t.

Then you imagined him reading it. You imagined him stopping wherever he was. Sitting in his car, maybe. Or standing outside the bar with his jacket in his hand. You imagined him doing exactly what you asked because he was Jack, because he would never force his way in where you had told him not to be. And the thought of him leaving you alone with this hurt worse than the thought of him seeing you. You deleted the word. Typed something else.

You: I don’t know.

You stared at it. It was the only honest thing you had. You sent it before you could change your mind. For a minute, nothing happened. Then:

Jack: Okay.

Your breath caught.

Jack: I’m coming over.

Another message appeared.

Jack: I won’t use my key. I’ll knock. You don’t have to open the door if you don’t want to.

You pressed the phone to your chest and cried again. Not as hard this time. Not because it hurt less. Because there was no energy left for the sharper kind. 

You got up before he could arrive and forced yourself back into the bedroom. The mirror was still there. You turned it toward the wall. It was childish, maybe. Dramatic. Useless. 

You did it anyway.

Then you stripped out of the cardigan, the top, the jeans. You did not look down. You did not look at the marks the waistband had left on your skin. You did not let your eyes catch on anything long enough to become cruel again. You pulled on the biggest sweatshirt you owned and a pair of soft pajama pants. You washed your face in the bathroom sink. The water ran cold over your fingers. You patted at your skin with a towel, but your eyes were still red. Your mouth still looked unsteady. Your whole face looked like it belonged to someone who had been crying too hard to pretend otherwise. You turned the bathroom light off.

You sat on the edge of your bed. Then stood. Then sat again.

You checked your phone. No new messages.

Your apartment felt too small and too open at the same time. You wrapped both arms around yourself and tried to breathe.

By the time the knock came, you had gone numb in a way that felt almost worse than panic. Three soft taps. Not impatient. Not loud. You froze. A second passed. Then his voice came through the door.

“It’s me,” Jack said.

Your eyes closed. You walked to the door but did not open it.

“You know,” you said.

Jack was quiet for a second on the other side.

“Yes,” Jack said.

Your breath shook. “I didn’t want you to.”

“I know,” Jack said.

You pressed your forehead lightly against the door. The wood was cool against your skin.

“I’m not coming in unless you open the door,” Jack said.

Your face crumpled. A beat passed.

“But I’m not leaving yet,” Jack added, softer.

That was the thing that did it.

Not you’re beautiful.

Not it’s okay.

Not, please let me fix this.

Just that.

He was not leaving yet.

You unlocked the door with shaking fingers and opened it. Jack stood in the hallway, still in the clothes he must have put on for the bar. Jacket over one arm. Hair damp. Face tired from sleep and sharpened by worry. He looked at you. You felt yourself close around the look, bracing for it.

Jack’s been feeding you good, huh?

But Jack did not let his eyes drop. He kept them on your face. Only your face.

“Are you safe?” Jack asked.

The question went through you so gently that it hurt. You nodded once. Jack’s jaw tightened, but his voice stayed calm.

“Are you hurt?” Jack asked.

You laughed, but it broke before it became anything real.

“No,” you said, voice cracking. “Just humiliated.”

Something moved across his face. Not anger. Not first. Pain. Jack looked at you like he had found you bleeding somewhere no one else could see. Then he nodded once, slowly.

“Okay,” Jack said.

You stepped back. He came in. Jack stepped inside, and you immediately wished you had not opened the door. Not because you did not want him there. 

Because you did.

That was the problem.

Wanting him there meant he could see you. It meant he could look at your face and know you had been crying. It meant he could look around your apartment and see the clothes still thrown across your bed, the mirror turned toward the wall, the whole ugly aftermath of something you had tried to make small.

You shut the door behind him and folded your arms across your stomach.

Jack noticed. He did not say anything about it. He set his jacket over the back of the couch, then looked at you again. His hands stayed at his sides.

“You didn’t have to come,” you said.

“I know,” Jack said.

Your throat tightened. “I told Mel not to make it a thing.”

“She didn’t,” Jack said.

You let out a short, humorless laugh. “You’re here.”

Jack’s face stayed calm, but his eyes did not. “Because you said you didn’t know.”

You looked away. “That wasn’t yes.”

“I know,” Jack said.

For some reason, that made your eyes burn again. Jack took one small step closer, then stopped when your shoulders tightened. You hated that he saw it. You hated that he stopped. You hated that you were grateful he stopped.

“I’m sorry,” you said.

Jack shook his head once. “No.”

“Jack—” you started.

Your face crumpled around his name. You turned away fast, pressing one hand over your mouth.

“It was stupid,” you said.

“It wasn’t,” Jack said.

“It was a joke,” you said.

“It wasn’t funny,” Jack said.

“I know that,” you snapped, then immediately felt worse. “I know. I’m not saying it was funny. I just—”

Jack stayed quiet.

You wiped at your cheek with the heel of your hand. “I shouldn’t have reacted like that.”

“Like what?” Jack asked.

You gestured vaguely at yourself. The sweatshirt. Your red eyes. The apartment. The fact that he was standing there because you had fallen apart over one comment.

“Like this,” you said.

Jack’s voice stayed low. “You didn’t overreact.”

Your chin trembled. You hated how sure he sounded. You hated that he was not making it smaller. You hated that part of you wanted him to make it smaller, because if he did, maybe you could pretend you had not been crying so hard you could barely breathe.

You already knew Mel had told him.

You already knew he knew.

There was no avoiding it now.

“I didn’t want you to know,” you said.

“I know,” Jack said.

“I didn’t want you to hear that,” you said.

“I know,” Jack said.

“Especially not—” you started, then stopped because you could not even say it.

Especially not with your name in it. Especially not because of you. Especially not because what he said sounded like something everyone had already thought. Jack waited. He did not push. You dropped your hands and looked at the floor.

“It was true,” you said.

Jack’s jaw moved once. “You feel like it’s true,” Jack said carefully.

You laughed, but it came out wet and awful. “Don’t do that.”

Jack looked at you. “Do what?”

“Make it softer,” you said, your voice shaking. “Don’t do the nice doctor thing and make it sound less bad than it is. I looked in the mirror, Jack. I saw exactly what he was talking about.”

Jack’s expression changed. Not shock. Pain. You kept going because if you stopped, you would lose your nerve.

“I see it every day,” you said. “I know my body changed. I know I gained weight. I know I look different. I know clothes don’t fit the same, and I know people notice, and I know you probably notice too.”

Jack said your name quietly.

“No,” you said, shaking your head. “Please just let me say it.”

He went quiet again.

You swallowed hard.

“I hate it,” you said. “I hate my body.”

The words dropped between you. There was no taking them back. You expected him to correct you. You expected him to say don’t say that, or no, you don’t, or you’re beautiful, or any of the things people said because they did not know what else to do with that kind of ugliness. Jack did not. He just looked at you, and his voice was quiet when he answered.

“I know,” Jack said.

Your eyes snapped to his. That was worse somehow.

Kinder, maybe.

But worse.

A sob caught in your throat, and you pressed your fist against your mouth.

“I can’t get away from it,” you said.

Jack’s face tightened.

You shook your head, crying harder now. “I left the bar. I left the bathroom. I came home. I took the clothes off, and it’s still here.”

Your hand moved toward your stomach, then stopped halfway there.

“I’m still in it,” you said.

Jack did not move.

“I can’t get away from myself,” you said, and the words came out so broken you almost did not recognize your own voice.

Jack’s eyes closed for half a second. When he opened them, he looked wrecked.

“Not the same way,” Jack said carefully.

You looked at him through blurry eyes. “What?”

“I don’t know what this feels like for you,” Jack said. “Not exactly.”

You wiped your cheek, breathing unevenly.

Jack looked down for a second, then back at you.

“But I know what it’s like to wake up in a body you didn’t choose and have nowhere else to go,” Jack said.

You went still. Jack did not say it like a speech. He did not make it big. He said it as if it were something he had carried for a long time and did not bring out often.

“After my leg, I stopped looking at myself all at once,” Jack said. “I’d look in pieces. Face. Shoulder. Hands. Anything but the part that made me feel like I wasn’t who I used to be.”

Your throat ached.

Jack’s hand flexed once at his side.

“People tried to be kind,” Jack said. “Most of them were. But it didn’t always help. Sometimes it made it worse.”

“Why?” you whispered.

“Because they wanted me to feel better before I could,” Jack said. “And I couldn’t.”

You looked away. Your chest hurt. “Did it get better?” you asked.

Jack was quiet for a moment. “Some days,” Jack said.

You looked back at him.

“Some days I still hate it,” Jack said, his voice dropping.

The honesty knocked something loose in you. Not relief. Not exactly. But something like permission. You sat down on the edge of the couch because your legs no longer felt steady. Jack stayed where he was until you looked at him. Only then did he move closer. He sat on the coffee table across from you instead of beside you, close enough to be there but not close enough to crowd.

For a minute, neither of you said anything.

Then Jack spoke carefully. “I knew something was wrong,” he said.

Your eyes dropped to your hands.

“I didn’t know what,” Jack said. “Not fully.”

You picked at the sleeve of your sweatshirt.

Jack watched your hands for a second, then looked back at your face.

“You stopped letting me touch you the same way,” Jack said.

The shame came back hot. “I’m sorry,” you said.

“No,” Jack said.

“You noticed,” you said.

“Yes,” Jack said.

Your eyes filled again. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like I didn’t want you.”

Jack’s expression softened. “This isn’t about what I felt.”

“But it is,” you said. “A little. It has to be.”

He did not argue. You looked down, voice dropping until it barely came out.

“I still want you,” you said.

Jack went very still. You hated saying it. Hated how exposed it made you feel. But it was true.

“I still want you,” you said again, and your voice cracked. “That’s the worst part. I want you. So much, but then you touch me, and all I can think about is what you’re seeing.”

Jack’s been feeding you good, huh?

You wrapped your arms tighter around yourself.

“I’m scared to be naked in front of you,” you whispered.

Jack inhaled slowly. Not because he was angry. Because it hurt him, you could see it.

“Okay,” Jack said.

You flinched. “That’s all?”

“No,” Jack said. “That’s where I’m starting.”

You stared at him.

“I’m glad you told me,” Jack said, his voice low and steady.

You shook your head. “It’s humiliating.”

“It’s vulnerable,” Jack said. “That’s not the same thing.”

You let out a shaky breath and looked away. “I hate that you know.”

“I know,” Jack said.

“I hate that I’m like this,” you said.

Jack leaned forward slightly. “You are not something to apologize for.”

Your eyes burned. “You don’t know how it feels.”

“No,” Jack said. “Not the way you do.”

That should have made you angry. It didn’t. It was better than him pretending he understood everything.

Jack’s gaze stayed on your face. “I want you.”

Your breath hitched.

“I need you to know that,” Jack continued. “But I don’t want sex to feel like something you have to survive.”

You closed your eyes.

The words hurt.

They also went somewhere deep.

“I don’t want you counting the seconds until it’s over because you’re scared I’ll be disappointed if you stop,” Jack said carefully.

A tear slipped down your cheek.

“I don’t want you naked and terrified,” Jack said.

You pressed both hands over your face. Jack stopped talking. For a while, all he did was sit there while you cried. Not loudly this time. Just exhausted. When you finally lowered your hands, your voice was small.

“I miss it,” you said.

Jack’s eyebrows pulled together.

“I miss wanting you without thinking about myself,” you said.

Jack looked down. For a second, you thought you had said too much. Then he nodded.

“Then we start there,” Jack said.

You wiped at your face. “Where?”

“With wanting not having to become anything tonight,” Jack said.

You stared at him. Jack’s mouth tightened, but his voice stayed gentle.

“You can want me and not be ready for me to touch you,” Jack said. “Both can be true.”

Your chin trembled.

“You can want to be close and still be scared,” Jack said.

You looked down at your hands.

“You can stop me before I touch you,” Jack continued. “You can stop me after. You can change your mind. You can keep every light off. You can keep every piece of clothing on. You can say no to me for as long as you need, and I am still going to want you.”

You let out a broken sound.

Jack’s eyes softened.

“I’m not waiting for some other version of you,” Jack said.

You shook your head, crying again. “Don’t.”

He stopped. Not offended. Just listening.

You swallowed hard. “Please don’t tell me I’m beautiful right now.”

Jack’s face shifted. “Okay,” Jack said.

Your breath shook. “Okay?”

“Okay,” Jack said again. “I won’t.”

That made you cry harder because he listened. Because he did not try to force the word into you like medicine. Because part of you had wanted him to say it anyway, and another part of you knew you would not have believed him if he did.

Jack waited until you could breathe again. Then his voice changed. Not louder. Firmer.

“You don’t have to believe me when I say you’re beautiful,” Jack said. “Not tonight. Not when you’re hurting like this. I know better than to ask that from you right now.”

You looked at him. His eyes were steady on yours.

“But I need you to hear me on this one,” Jack said.

Your throat tightened. “Jack—”

“My name attached to that joke kills me,” Jack said.

Your face crumpled. Jack’s jaw flexed.

“Because he doesn’t get to use me like that,” Jack said. “He doesn’t get to take the way I love you and turn it into something cruel.”

You looked away, but his voice stayed with you.

“Feeding you, taking care of you, knowing what you like, making sure you eat after a shift — that has never been evidence against you,” Jack said.

You covered your mouth.

“And it has never, not once, been something I was ashamed of,” Jack said.

You cried then. Hard. Jack did not move closer. Not yet. He let you have the space to fall apart.

“It was true,” you said.

“I know it feels that way,” Jack said.

“It felt like everyone saw it,” you said.

“I know,” Jack said.

“Like you saw it too,” you said.

Jack’s answer came slowly. “I see you,” Jack said. “But not like that.”

You looked at him through tears.

He leaned forward, forearms on his thighs, hands open between you.

“I can sit with you while you hate the mirror tonight,” Jack said. “I can hate that you feel it and still not ask you to pretend you don’t.”

Your breathing hitched.

“But I am not letting him put my name on your shame,” Jack said.

The room went quiet after that. Not peaceful. Not fixed. Just quiet. You stared at him, exhausted and hurting and too full of everything to answer. Jack did not ask you to. He just stayed where he was, hands open, waiting for you to decide what came next. For a long time, neither of you moved. Jack stayed on the coffee table, close enough that you could reach him if you wanted to, far enough away that you did not have to. His hands stayed open between you. Empty. Waiting. It made your chest hurt.

He was giving you the choice.

You wiped at your face with your sleeve, then looked down at your lap.

“I still hate it,” you said.

“I know,” Jack said quietly.

Your throat tightened. “I don’t know how to stop.”

“You don’t have to figure that out tonight,” Jack said.

You let out a small, broken breath. “That doesn’t make it better.”

“No,” Jack said. “It doesn’t.”

You looked at him then. There was no argument on his face. No disappointment. No hidden expectation that you would turn the corner now because he had said the right things. He was just there. You hated that you still hurt. You hated that his gentleness did not erase it. You hated that part of you had wanted it to.

“I don’t feel better,” you whispered.

Jack nodded once. “Okay.”

You blinked at him. “Okay?”

“Okay,” Jack said again. “You don’t have to feel better for me to stay.”

Your mouth trembled.

Jack’s voice softened. “Can I sit next to you?”

You stared at him for a second, then nodded. He moved slowly, giving you time to change your mind. The couch dipped beside you, but he left space between your bodies. Not much. Enough that you could breathe. Enough that you could decide. You looked at his hand, where it rested on his thigh. Strong. Still. Familiar.

You wanted him to touch you.

You were scared of him touching you.

Both things lived in your chest at the same time, pushing against each other until it hurt.

Jack did not reach for you. He only sat there, quiet and patient.

“I don’t know how to do this,” you said, your voice small.

Jack turned his head toward you. “Do what?”

“Let you hold me without thinking about it,” you said.

His face shifted, but he did not look away.

“Then we don’t make it complicated,” Jack said. “We do what feels safe.”

You swallowed. “I don’t know what feels safe.”

“That’s okay,” Jack said.

“It doesn’t feel okay,” you said.

“I know,” Jack said.

You looked at him, frustrated and exhausted and close to crying again. “You keep saying that.”

Jack’s mouth tightened slightly. “Because I mean it.”

That undid you more than it should have. A tear slipped down your cheek. Then another.

Jack watched your face, his own pained and careful.

“Can I touch your hand?” Jack asked.

You looked down. His hand had not moved. He was asking before he even reached.

You nodded.

Jack held his hand out, palm up, and let you be the one to close the distance. You put your hand in his. His fingers curled around yours slowly. Not tight. Not claiming.

Just there.

The warmth of him made something in your chest buckle. You leaned forward before you could talk yourself out of it, forehead dropping toward his shoulder. Jack caught the movement, but he did not grab you. He only shifted enough to meet you, his other hand hovering for half a second near your arm.

“Is this okay?” Jack asked.

You nodded against him. “Yes,” you said, breath shaking.

Only then did his hand settle against your upper back. Not your waist. Not your stomach. Nowhere that made you feel measured. Just between your shoulder blades, warm through the sweatshirt, moving once in a slow, careful stroke. Up. Down.

Your breath caught.

Jack stopped immediately.

“I’m okay,” you said quickly.

His hand stayed still. “You don’t have to be.”

You squeezed your eyes shut. “I want you to keep doing that.”

Jack’s hand moved again. Slow. Steady. Up. Down.

You let your forehead rest more heavily against him. For a while, that was all there was. His hand on your back. Your fingers tangled with his. The quiet of your apartment. The sound of your own uneven breathing, trying to find something less painful. You were still aware of your body.

You hated that.

Even tucked against him, even with your face hidden, you could still feel the shape of yourself. The softness. The places you wished you could forget. The body under the sweatshirt. The body under his hand. A sob pushed up your throat again, smaller this time.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

Jack’s hand paused. “Don’t.”

You pressed your eyes tighter shut. “I keep thinking about it.”

“I know,” Jack said.

“I don’t mean to,” you whispered.

“I know,” Jack said.

His hand resumed its slow path along your back. Up. Down. Again.

You tried to breathe with it. It was easier than breathing alone. 

After a minute, Jack shifted slightly. You stiffened before you could stop yourself. He noticed immediately.

“Just getting more comfortable,” Jack said. “That’s all.”

You nodded, embarrassed. Jack waited until your shoulders eased before moving again. He leaned back into the couch and adjusted slowly, giving you room to follow or pull away. You followed. Not all at once. First, your shoulder against his chest. Then your cheek. Then the rest of you, carefully, like any sudden movement might make you remember too much.

Jack let you find the position. 

When your head finally settled against his chest, his hand came up slowly. You saw it from the corner of your eye and tensed. He stopped.

“Hair?” Jack asked.

Your throat closed. You nodded once. His palm settled lightly against the back of your head. Not holding you down. Not trapping you there. Just steady. His fingers brushed into your hair, careful and slow, smoothing it back from your face. The touch was so gentle it almost made you angry.

Not because it hurt.

Because it didn’t.

Because after a night of feeling like your body was a problem, there was this one simple place where touch asked nothing of you.

Jack’s thumb moved once near your temple.

You exhaled. It shook the whole way out.

“There,” Jack murmured.

You closed your eyes against his shirt. His chest rose and fell beneath your cheek. Slow. Even. Something you could follow without looking at yourself. His hand moved through your hair again. Then his other hand returned to your back. Not low. Not searching. Just your upper back, your shoulders, the place where your body had been holding everything too tightly for too long.

Places that did not ask you to be beautiful.

Places that only asked you to breathe.

You did.

Not well at first.

Your breath caught. Broke. Started over.

Jack did not comment. He did not tell you to calm down. He did not tell you it was okay. He did not ask if you believed him now. He did not ask whether you felt better.

He just held you.

Your body fought it at first. It stayed braced, like it did not trust softness. Like, even comfort was something it needed to prepare for.

Jack’s hand kept moving. Slow. Up and down your back. Through your hair. Over your shoulder. Back again.

Eventually, your fingers unclenched in the fabric of his shirt. Your jaw loosened. Your shoulders dropped by a fraction. Then another. 

It was not peace.

Not exactly.

It was exhaustion finding somewhere safe to land.

Jack pressed his mouth once to the top of your head. The kiss was barely there.

“You don’t have to do anything,” Jack said.

You swallowed.

“You don’t have to make me feel better,” Jack continued. “You don’t have to be okay. You don’t have to turn this into something hopeful before you’re ready.”

Your eyes burned again. “I don’t know when I’ll be ready.”

“Okay,” Jack said.

You let out a watery laugh against his chest. “You can’t just say okay to everything.”

“I can try,” Jack said.

That pulled another small sound from you. Not quite a laugh. Not quite crying. Jack’s hand brushed your hair back again. You listened to his heartbeat. It was steady. You hated your body less when you were listening to his. Not because the hate was gone.

It wasn’t.

But because, for a few seconds at a time, there was something else to notice. His breathing. His hand. The cotton of his shirt under your cheek. The warmth of his chest. The fact that he was still there. You shifted carefully, curling closer without thinking. Jack’s arm tightened by a fraction, then loosened again immediately, like he remembered to give you an exit even in the middle of holding you.

That made your throat ache.

“You can hold me,” you whispered.

His hand stilled in your hair. You felt the breath he took. Then his arm came around you more fully, careful and sure. Still high on your back. Still safe. He held your head lightly against his chest, his fingers threading through your hair again, and you let yourself sink into him by degrees.

One breath. Then another. Then another.

The mirror was still turned toward the wall in your bedroom. The clothes were still on the floor. Kyle had still said it. Everyone had still heard. Your body was still your body. You still did not know how to love it. But Jack was warm around you. Jack was not asking you to.

“I love you,” you said.

The words came out quietly, almost by accident. Jack’s hand stopped. For one terrible second, you thought you had said the wrong thing. Then his mouth pressed to your hair again, firmer this time.

“I love you too,” Jack said.

Your face crumpled against his chest.

“I love you,” Jack said, his voice rough.

You nodded because you heard him. You did not yet fully know how to believe all the things underneath it. But you heard him. 

And for tonight, that was enough.

His hand moved through your hair again.

Your breath followed his.

Slowly.

Unevenly.

Still hurting.

Still here.

The big ones, the important ones, sure. He remembered them all too well, even through the haze of pain and fatigue that often hung thickly around their reception. 

But there were too many to account for. To remember the particulars of each slash and burn and gunshot wound was a losing battle. He’d long since given up on keeping track of them. Little lines on the sides of his fingers, stretchmarks on the backs of his biceps, winged fans of a burn on the side of his thigh, a pale line along the point of his elbow that he might as well have been born with.

There were ones from further back, too. Scars that time and pain had eroded the precision of the memory, but not the feeling. Cigarette burns on his forearms, a necklace of animal teeth on his side, a craggy line across his hip, accompanied by the shadowy memory of hand reaching for him, and not being quick enough to duck out of the way. 

They all meshed together into the hard patchwork of scar and muscle his body had wrought itself into.

Almost none of them could be helped, out of his control, out of his hands.

They were a catalogue of his life, a story traced on his skin.

Stamped, more like. Branded. 

Survived. 

And soulmates shared scars. 

Their hurt was his; his hurt was theirs. Literally or metaphorically, he wasn’t quite sure. Simon had so many, spent so much time in pain, it was impossible to know if any of them didn’t belong to him originally.  

He didn’t like the thought of someone sharing his scars, having felt what he did. Possessive of them and the pain in a strange way. 

It’s ironic, then, that he should be able to find his soulmate more easily than the average unmarred person, and wanted to do nothing of the sort. Simon dismissed the whole thing as drivel a long time ago, anyway. If they did exist, if they weren’t just incredibly rare instances of luck, Simon was sure that he hadn’t been afforded one. 

There was guilt, too, settled somewhere deep inside him, that someone had to endure it alongside him. It was easier to believe he’d been left out of the whole thing. 

Better he was alone. 

The likelihood of finding that person was slim. It almost never happened. Eight or so billion people swanning around the planet would do that. A one in eight billion chance. 

A grand, cosmic joke. The unfairness of it drove some people crazy, drove them to do insane things to increase a probability that couldn’t be altered—to know that person probably existed somewhere and yet know that they would probably never run across them.

A trend of self harm cropped up online every few years, healed over self inflected wounds posted in forums of people seeking their other, fated, half. The presumption being that they were being desperately searched for in turn.  

Idiotic. Determined. Fallibly human.

And taboo. Most saw it as circumventing fate. 

Violently frantic for the thing Ghost had been unwillingly given. A way to find them, or, at least, easily identify them. And he never would. 

But, sometimes, he wondered. 

He tried to picture the imprint of a person somewhere out in the world wearing his wounds, suffering his losses. The thought would circle his brainstem in an unrelenting loop, a bright fish whispering around the perimeter of its bowl before it dissipated in lieu of something more pressing. 

It was always there, though, waiting to be grappled with again. 

He always came up blank. Nothing but a shadow in his mind where a person should be. Fitting, typical.  

It was a cruelty he couldn’t imagine, somehow. Someone being fatefully, inescapably afflicted with him. 

Simon didn’t want a soulmate anyway, and he was sure, if they existed, that they didn’t want him either. 

If there was someone out there, someone wandering around with his scars on their skin, he was certain they hated him already. 

He didn’t particularly believe in fate; life had taught him not to. He believed in himself, his capabilities, planning and contingencies. And Simon didn’t relish the thought of something he couldn’t control, someone holding the other end of his corded, deformed soul, like a leash they could tighten and use to yank him to his knees. Compromised, vulnerable. 

It wouldn’t happen; the margin for discovery was so small it was practically nonexistent. 

He blamed Soap, then, for tempting fate.

Ghost listened to Johnny yammer on, the sound of his voice louder than usual in the rattling dark belly of the transport plane home. The glow of green light, the roar of engines, the jangle of gear. 

It was an irritating, and sometimes endearing, quirk of Johnny’s that he couldn’t stop talking in the post-op cortisol and adrenaline drop, his words a smeared haze of jumbled thoughts spoken aloud for hours afterward.

The notion of a soulmate was at the front of Soap’s mind, not for the first time. He’d always seemed to enjoy the idea of it, and find some comfort in it, particularly after a close call. There was someone waiting for him, somewhere, after all, it couldn’t all come to nothing yet.   

Simon glanced out the window, watched the sea below morph into land. 

A yellow network of light winked below, a sea of reverse stars swimming in the black.

“Lucky that way, Lt,” Johnny declared with finality, finally winding down, sounding exhausted. “Findin’ ‘em will be easier.” 

Ghost glanced over, the first time in nearly an hour that he’d acknowledged the conversation beyond a hum and a nod. “What do you mean?” 

Soap gestured to his scarred chin, then his temple. “Know ‘em straight away, wouldn’t I?”  

Simon’s own thoughts spoken out loud; his hopes to never see his own scars reflected back at him turned on its head. 

Johnny made it sound like a good thing, instead of the nightmare it was. 

No, he thought for the nth time in his life, not that, not for him. 

But he’d always had an extraordinary knack for beating the odds. 

.

.

.

The base was a constant flurry of activity, a relentlessly buzzing hive of people. There were very few places that skirted away from the general chaos of life on a military base, but Simon had catalogued them all—the field behind the barracks when drills were not being run, the concrete service walkways beneath the base, crowded with spiderwebs and dust, the cool, sterile medical wing, and, the orderly administration offices. 

Each place had caveats. 

The service walkways were the most reliably quiet, but Simon hated being underground, hated the claustrophobia of it, like some part of him would always be clawing at black earth, and so usually avoided it. 

Soap had found him smoking behind the barracks once and now regularly joined Simon there. 

The medical wing could be crowded and frenzied, depending on the day. 

The administration offices were practically serene in comparison. Neat file folders, tidy desks, windows that let in the watery, gray English sun. Square offices with their doors propped open, conference rooms bathed in the light of glowing intel reports, data convergences, and map overlays, uniform gray walls and floors. 

The admin wing only occasionally spasmed into restless activity if an emergency op was underway or about to be, and if that happened, Ghost was usually already swept up in it himself, probably already long gone. 

A spare office stuffed away at the end of the hall with the name plate removed technically belonged to him. A mostly unused space he sometimes finished reports in but, more often than not, sat empty. 

He preferred to haunt the corridors, observe the more peaceful, inner workings of the military, breathing in the quiet air for five minutes at a time. It gave his perpetually over taxed nervous system, his forever-in-fight-or-flight-mode body, to relax, if even it was only an increment or two. The lightning was softer, the constant bark of orders and drills, the snap of gunfire, the general loudness of the rest of the place, was muted and far away.

Simon knew of all of the staff and their precuilarities—names, ages, birthdates, minor feuds among each other, immediate family members, previous posts, favorite foods, habits, complaints about the building’s irregular temperatures and the pervasive scent of diesel. It wasn’t information he necessarily collected on purpose. Gleaned over years of half heard conversations, glimpses of photos on desks. They, like the medical staff, didn’t often change, not like the revolving door of soldiers and operators. 

It was a regular, routine, quiet place. 

So it would be difficult for even the most oblivious person not to notice when the familiar order of the place was interrupted. 

Soft, dandelion light flooded the hall from a doorway that had always before been shut tight.

The scent of an unfamiliar perfume lingered in the hall in a feathery streak, oakmoss and lavender. It settled hard in his lungs, made his footsteps slow slightly, caution prickling at the back of his neck. 

The click of ceramic being sat on wood, the soft shuffle of files, tapping of computer keys emanated from within the now open office. The faintest notes of bubblegum pop floated by, at odds with the chill, still air. 

Inside, you were hidden behind two massive computer monitors, the very top of a pair of lilac headphones just visible over the rim. Plants in colorful painted terracotta pots lined the window to your left absorbing what they could of pale winter light, a thick blanket was thrown over the back of a chair in the corner, a jumble of bright, hand crocheted squares. A brass floor lamp with a circular shade sat behind your desk and drooped forward like the antenna of a giant radio, or a bug, casting a delicate halo of light around you like a protective ward. 

There was something. . .lambent that emanated around the room, that had nothing to do with the ridiculous lamp. 

Simon hovered in the doorway, in the shadow of the dim hall, just to get a glimpse of your face. Start a mental file on you, begin his careful catalog. Something to match the color and light to. 

It was a surprise to you both, then, when you glanced up and caught him at it. 

You stood hastily, headphones sliding down your neck when the cord jerked taut, the tinny sound of pop echoing loudly from them until you slammed your fingers down onto the keyboard and silence descended abruptly. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t see you there. Can I help you with something?” 

Simon could only stare at you, a curl of dread snaking its way between his ribs. 

Johnny was right, then, he would know his own scars anywhere. 

He would know his own face anywhere. 

He would, apparently, know you anywhere. 

Your face was a faded mapping of his own, the same scarring traced with a lighter hand. The same crack over your lips, a line drawn across your cheek, a faded check through your brow, the bridge of your nose bisected, the outline of webbed burn scars crosshatched at the edge of your jaw and shoulder. A jagged, thick line crossed your throat. 

Despite his legacy marring your face, you were pretty. Beautiful, even, with curious, cautious eyes, one side of your mouth pulled up into a half grin that tugged at the line across your cheek and somehow didn’t ruin the brightness of it. 

You were watching him watch you with a tentative gaze, brows drawing slowly together the longer he stood there staring at you, breathing around the newly minted cavern under his lungs. 

His eyes met yours again, and as soon as the realization settled in, something clicked violently into place inside his chest, like a missing rib bone had suddenly slotted into the cage around his heart. 

Pain bloomed hot and tight across his chest, so acute he covered his side, expecting to find a knife inexplicably lodged there. He grunted mutely. The discomfort receded as quickly as it had come, leaving behind a vast hollow just beneath his breast bone. Cavernous, lurching, undone. 

The hollow hardened into a solid brick of pain. 

Nausea swept into the back of his throat. 

“Are you okay?” 

He was frozen in the direct line of fire. Your eyes swept over him, fingers curling around a folder on the edge of your desk which you thumbed nervously. You began to lift your other hand, an aborted half movement toward your face that you dropped at the last second. But you didn’t avert your gaze. You looked past the mask, past him, and into his eyes. 

You saw him. 

Simon was not to be seen.

Ghost didn’t get caught, didn’t freeze. 

Didn’t feel like an animal trapped in a cage, pinned and weak and panicked. 

Not anymore. 

He was a ghost, a shadow, a silent—

The silence unspooled, thin and fragile as unraveling lace. 

Your smile widened, a slow, confident thing that stretched across your face crookedly, pulled at your scarred skin as you tilted your head. It was, maybe, the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. 

“Sir?”

Amusement threaded your voice; a laugh curled like a sleeping animal in your throat. 

Instead of answering, he faded back into the hall.

As he retreated an uncertain realization prodded at the back of his mind. One wonderful contingency. 

You had not felt the shift, the world turning horribly on its axis, the pain that radiated hot as a wildfire. 

You hadn’t recognized what he was. 

And he was going to keep it that way. 

.

.

.

It felt like there was a hook in his chest, slipped right between his ribs, a constant painful tearing that landed him again and again outside your office door. Like he was a fish on a line, and you held the reel in your fist, totally oblivious to it. 

He didn’t love you, that’s not how the soulmate bond worked. You were tied together, for some reason, though that reason remained to be seen. Resentment was all he felt, a burning desire to chew his leg out of this trap, to grip the line that bound you and run a knife through it. 

Better yet, through you. 

Sever the tie as cleanly as a blade through an artery. 

One sure way to free himself was your death. 

It was unusual, but it happened—headlines of a soulmate killing their pair because they couldn’t tolerate the connection. It was taboo, considering how rare the bond was. The link suffocated them, instead of comforting them. 

Simon understood the urge.

He thought of your office, the way your back was angled half toward the door, how easily he could slip in and slice your throat open. He had seen and done worse, but the thought of you lying in a pool of blood, let alone at his hands, was so abhorrent and wrong that he doubled over as an acute, sharp pain pinched between his ribs, like someone wriggling their fingers between the bars to claw at his insides. 

Which irritated him. Things like that didn’t bother him, not anymore. At the very least, he was better at handling discomfort than this. 

It did start him thinking about someone else doing it, though. Slipping quietly into your office and nudging a knife between your ribs, pressing a silenced pistol against your temple, Ghost left to find your cold corpse. 

It was wrong. 

He could feel your life wrapped around his fingers, tangled in little ribbons around his wrists. A pulsing, glowing, bright thing.  

The resentment doubled because he should not care. He didn’t know you, trust you; your death should mean nothing. You should mean nothing.  

Still, he found himself walking the administration wing again the following day, even though the sun was out and it’d be nice to sit behind the barracks and smoke and listen to Johnny rattle on about something or the other when he inevitably showed up. 

Your door was open again, gold light spilling into the corridor, the low flutter of too loud music in your headphones accompanying it. 

Simon would never admit it to himself, but he also needed to know that he could remain hidden from you. The shock of your eyes finding his still hadn’t left him. It had never happened before—not on an op, not about the base, not out among civilians. He blended in, he remained invisible, but you saw him, sensed him, and he needed to know if that was something he had to adjust to. Planning was survival, and you were an unknown factor he needed a method for handling.  

Simon stepped close to your door, out of the beam of light. 

Your office was bathed in soft, cream light but not from your antenna bug lamp. 

Your back was fully turned toward the door, face tilted into the scarce winter sun streaming in the window as you leaned back in your chair. Your eyes were closed, headphones over your ears as he suspected they were. 

Fuuucking hell. 

Couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, back toward the entry point of the room. 

Your life hung there, trusting, fragile as spun crystal. 

He waited, but you didn’t turn, didn’t seem to know he was there. Something in his shoulders uncoiled, tension slowly replaced with an odd sense of calm. The pain in his chest eased for the first time in twenty-four hours, fading to a tender ache. 

Your lunch, half eaten, laid abandoned on your desk. The blanket that had been on the chair in the corner was swaddled around your shoulders. 

You yawned, eyes still closed. 

He waited for you to sense him, glance up, but you seemed unaware of him. He wouldn’t admit it then, but he half hoped you would. 

Ghost backed away, left you to your peace. 

The weight in his chest intensified again.