xoxoloverb

It had stopped occuring to you that it might be a bad idea the first time around precisely two minutes before he sank to his knees and buried his face between your thighs.

A one time thing, he'd said after. A one time thing, you had stubbornly agreed, even if he had made you cum so hard you'd almost forgotten your own name. Not his, though. No, you'd had no trouble at all remembering his name as you'd moaned it into his ear.

Yes, you were both adults, but it broke half a dozen rules. There was the morality issue besides the hierarchy that was in place for a reason.

And sure, you'd originally planned to agree to that.

Except now, you're sitting in his lap in the back seat of his truck, sucking on his tongue and moaning into his mouth as his hands grab the plush curves of your ass, pulling you back and forth against the sizeable bulge in his cargo pants.

Your own shorts are somewhere in the footwell of the truck, along with your bamboo cotton underwear.

The upside of that is that you're pretty sure you're leaving a wet patch of your slick over his navy blue cargo pants.

That, and you can feel everything. Can feel his cock - which you know firsthand is thick and just the right length and perfect - throbbing against you.

"Please-" you beg, hands sliding down his chest, over the slight softness to his abdomen that covers muscle; you know that, remembered that, from the one and only time you were close to him without his shirt on.

You remember vividly how his muscles feel under your hands, soft and worshipful, because Brett Richards may be your Battalion Chief, but he's also a work of fucking art.

"I thought you said it was a one time thing?" Brett hums, which you think is pretty fucking funny coming from him, considering he's planting wet, open mouthed kisses down your throat, helping you get his belt undone.

"Mm, you actually said that first, Chief," you counter, and he groans softly against your skin.

You file that reaction away for later; it's not necessarily a surprise that he's into it, the little reminder of the power imbalance between you.

The gentle clink of his belt buckle coming undone, the zip of his pants hastily being tugged down, prevents any further commentary.

He wraps his hand around his thick, pulsing cock, frees it from the almost painful constraints of his pants and underwear.

God, he has such a pretty cock; you tell him as much as he rests his free hand on your hip, guides you closer so he can line the fat head of his cock up with your drooling cunt.

He notches just the tip, just enough to tease you, to make you both inhale sharply, lets you ultimately decide when and how you sink down onto him.

You choose immediately, impaling your tight walls with his thick length, head tilted back and moaning shamelessly at the feeling of him.

Brett drags the pad of his thumb across your kissed plump lips, eyes slightly glazed over as your pussy constricts around him, adjusting to his size.

"Another one time thing?" You query, deliberately cheeky, teasing.

He has the air of a brat tamer, and you'll be damned if you don't test that theory.

"Mm," he responds, doesn't take your bait, instead smoothly rolls his hips up, getting deep inside you and making you mewl.

You're so wet that your slick drips down the length of his shaft, over his balls. Brett doesn't remember the last time anyone got this wet for him.

He's been with people since his wife passed, and they've always been enthusiastic and consenting participants, but you... You're something else.

You cling to him as you grind against him, the coarse greying curls at the base of his cock stimulating your clit and only adding to your slick.

He's just enjoying that when you tug his shirt up over his head, gently rake your nails up and down his chest, making him purr.

You remembered that he liked that; that surprises him a little, but the surprise doesn't stop him from rutting up into you, feeding your greedy, sopping cunt every single inch of his cock until you're mewling, the windows of his truck all fogged up from the desperate, heavy breaths leaving both of you.

"Oh fuck, yes, oh my god, fuck me, please!"

You moan and plead and there's a small part of him that feels like he's doing something perverted; he's higher in the chain of command than you, he's older than you, even if it isn't by much; he shouldn't be entertaining even the thought of this, let alone acting on it.

But the fact is, you feel too good wrapped around his cock, held in his arms, running your fingers through his soft, messy curls and whimpering as he fucks you.

He isn't rough; you ride him and he rolls his hips up to meet you, steady, deep, controlled.

You feel safe with him, safe enough to just let go. To just focus on the sensations and the pleasure as you bounce on his cock.

So maybe it's a bad idea, given the circumstances, but it's the furthest thing from your mind as he works you up to your release. His thrusts are becoming erratic, and you know, instinctively, that the moment you let go, he will too.

"Mmnn, o-ohhhh, oh~"

The moans fall from your parted lips, uncontrolled, breathy and high pitched as he gets you right to the edge, has you tumbling over it with a series of heavy thrusts and thick groans into your ear.

His warm, strong arms wrap around you, holding you close as he fucks you through it, grunting softly on each impact of his hips against your ass as your cunt tightens around him, milking his cock and sending him over the edge, too.

You whimper, still in the throes of your own release, as you feel the hot stickiness of his spend fill you, grind down against him and whine as your clit gets rubbed deliciously, prolonging your orgasm.

Slowly, slowly, you both come down, his arms around you and yours looped around his neck.

Breathing heavily, panting, sighing, before finally laughing softly, looking at each other in vague amusement.

"A one time thing, huh?" You laugh, look at his mess of just-fucked curls where you've run your fingers through them, the slight flush to his freckled cheeks.

You're so fucked, and not just literally.

Brett must be thinking the same thing, because he cups your face in one hand, drags his thumb gently across your cheek.

"Come home with me instead?" He suggests, and you smile, lean in to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

"Mm, that sounds nice."

Sleeping with your interim Battalion Chief? Maybe not the best idea.

But starting something real together? Yeah. That might work.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Reader is rather fond of Brett Richard's hands. Brett has strong hands and he works with them quite a bit whether its maintaining the engines of one of the firetrucks at station 42, literally putting out fires and wielding axes, or simply digging in the garden at home the man uses his hands. He has some calluses despite how much thick working hands cream he might use. Reader appreciates that he's a man who works with his hands. She likes how his hands feel in hers strong but gentle. She loves how they feel against her body. They caress her like she's something to be cherished.

She loves his thighs and his broad chest. The man is in great shape for someone who has just crossed over into his fifties. He's got a fit form given it's a necessity in his career. He's got to keep up with guys half his age and carry the strength to break down burning walls with axes and carry victims from burning buildings. The man is strong enough to lift her and does it often enough that she's learned to expect it. She likes resting her head against his broad chest when relaxing and she loves being carried to the bedroom by him or lifted up onto any available surface if he's too impatient to make it to the bedroom.

Brett likes her ass...he wouldn't claim that he's more of an ass man or a breast man or a leg man, but there's something lovely about her backside especially in one of those cute little cotton panties she insists aren't meant to be sexy at all. He can still remember how her face flushed the first time they made love and he came face to face with her panty covered bottom spotting the cute cherry printed panties. He's sold on her ass by that point. He enjoys playfully smacking it and don't get him started on how her backside looks when she wears those little denim shorts when they work side by side in the garden.

He's quite enamored with her lips; how they look in that lovely pink lip stain she sometimes wears on date night, how they look wrapped around a straw when he buys her one of those iced oat milk lattes she loves, how they look wrapped around things much thicker than a straw... He likes how they feel against his neck and his own lips. They're so soft and kiss him so delicately. He sometimes catches himself staring at her lips far too often enough that she's noticed and maybe reapplies her lipstick or chapstick more often than she needs to.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Brett is a tiny bit paranoid about cumming in Reader. He's an older man and isn't 100 percent sure he's wanting to risk have another kid at his age...of course later once he realizes that Reader wants kids he lets go of that fear knowing he'd do anything to make her happy. Reader reassures him that nothing would make her happier than having his kid. She couldn't picture having a child with anyone but him.

The first few times she convinces him that they can go without a condom he'll admit he pulls out and cums on her belly or her backside...he likes it far more than he expected. Reader does soothe his anxieties over finding release inside of her. She figures out how to get him out of his head enough and reassures him that she's on the pill and if somehow by some very slim chance the pill fails then having his kid wouldn't be the worst thing on the planet for her.

Brett has to admit that he does like the sight of his cock pistoning in and out of her with a white ring of her around the base of him. He knows its a sign he's making her feel good, him the fifty year old widower with baggage that has kept him bouncing from town to town from station to station not comfortable enough to remain in one spot for too long. She's chosen him; the young sweet lovely schoolteacher who is so far out of his league its not even funny chose him. She not only chose him but she desires him and the evidence is right there on his dick.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Brett fantasizes about fucking Reader in some pretty interesting places. His garden is one of the places he imagines taking her. He can picture the warmth of the sun shining down on their bare skin, the sweat and mix of garden soil covering their skin, the scratchy feel of the ground below them, the smell of flowers and tomatoes mixed with the scent of their coupling.

He also maybe imagines fucking her in several places in station 42; in the firetruck, in one of the bunks, over the counter in the station kitchen.

He wouldn't really risk taking their bedroom activities to any of those locations of course. Garden sex would lead to a public indecency charge and fucking at the station would ruin his career, The fantasies though are still quite enjoyable.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Brett is a widower and has a grown daughter...so obviously he's not inexperienced. His wife and he married young meeting at work. She was his mentor though she was not that much older than him...he worshiped his late wife though. He was loyal to her and losing her almost destroyed him in the process.

He never thought he'd fall in love again. He thought that it would just be wrong...loving again after his late wife. So, Reader took him by surprise. He feels like an immature schoolboy when it comes to Reader...which he almost feels is fitting...the phrase 'hot for teacher' rolls through his head.

He's shocked by how easy it feels to fall for Reader. She is so lovely; his sweet elementary school teacher neighbor who he meets soon after she moves in right Nextdoor to him. He speaks to her the first time when she brings some of his mail over to him it accidentally winding up in her mail box. The next meeting comes when he's helping her bring a massive bag of gardening soil into her place. He sees her struggling to drag it out of the trunk of her little blue Toyota Carrolla and can't ignore the need to help. They talk about gardening and when he spots cat food sitting by her back door she admits she's been feeding the neighborhood stray cats and so has he..."I knew they were getting fatter" she exclaims and he's gone for her.

They meet again when station 42 comes to Reader's school for a school assembly on fire safety. Brett realizes that his cute neighbor is a first grade teacher at the very school he's giving that assembly at.

When Reader brings cards made by her first grade class thanking station 42 for the assembly along with muffins baked by hers the crew at station 42 realizes their new chief is smitten and maybe encourage him to make a move...not for the hope of getting more baked goods of course.

Brett asks her for coffee and the rest is history.

Their first time is nerve wracking and he allows himself to be vulnerable with Reader surprised that she feels as vulnerable due to her own reasons.

He's dumbfounded to find out Reader is not only divorced but that her ex husband is such a prick. Her past experience with her ex hasn't left her with warm fuzzy feelings about sex. The man cheated on her enough that she admits that he eventually lost interest in sex with her. Brett thinks the guy has to be a moron. He had Reader at home and he sought it out somewhere else.

Reader's ex did a number on her self esteem so she's not the most confident the first time Brett and she sleep together.

She's had a few boyfriends before marrying her ex but she's not really dated after her divorce. She fears her experience or lack thereof his not exactly something her older boyfriend wants to put up with.

Brett is worried that he's out of practice given he's not been intimate with anyone since his late wife. Reader is worried that her ex husband was right that she's not desirable.

Her first time with Brett is filled with a ton of reassurance on both ends and the acceptance that perfection isn't necessary. Sex can be clumsy and it's okay to laugh. They're surprised by how easy it is to laugh. It is different from what they expected but it's different in the best way possible.

Brett definitely shows Reader she is desirable and Reader shows him he's not as rusty as he feared in the bedroom.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

As boring as it might sound both are rather fond of missionary. They like the closeness of the position. It allows them to make eye contact and press their lips to one another's. Brett likes being pressed so close to her like this, her arms caressing his back and his ass. He likes it when she wraps her legs around his hips and tilts her hips back letting him get a deeper angle. Reader likes how safe she feels caged under Brett's body. She likes the weight of him over her.

Brett does love reverse cowgirl...any excuse to admire her ass and spank it when he's feeling a little more demanding in the bedroom.

Brett will never say no to Reader riding him out. His favorite way to to go about it is sitting up, his back resting against the headboard, while Reader straddles his hips and bounces on him. He likes the closeness of it keeping his hands on her hips encouraging each roll of her hips and each bounce. He loves watching her face from this angle seeing her lust drunk on him. He loves glacing down and seeing her tits bounce. He really loves encouraging her to reach down between them and play with her clit while she rides him.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

The first time they have sex Brett gets a little lost in his head; worried about displeasing her. Reader manages to get him to snap out of it and pulls him out of his head. It's the apologetic giggle that leaves her when she yanks his hair harder than she means to when he's going down on her. The laugh gets him and he's laughing too before he knows it. The laughter comes when he admits he's sure if she keeps saying his name like that he won't last and she exclaims that he should have thought about that before he fucked her this good.

After that it becomes easier to approach sex with a little more humor. Though Brett has a dry sense of humor it's there and Reader seems to appreciate it.

They seem to realize that sex should be fun, if it wasn't fun people wouldn't enjoy it so much. Even if their coupling manages to be filled with soft I love yous and gentle caresses there's also giggles at awkward movements and the realization that one of the cats keeps scratching at the door or has clearly knocked something off a shelf in the living room.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Brett will be the first to admit he's not the most groomed guy on planet earth. He's just never put too much thought into it. It's not like he's abnormally hairy but he does have hair though its far more silver than he's happy to admit.

He maybe tries to manscape a little after Reader's and his first time not entirely sure she'll appreciate too much of a jungle down there when she blows him.

Reader frets a bit over the fact that she's not fully waxed downstairs. Her ex husband treated like a nonnegotiable expectation and once it was clear that he was straying from the marriage she began to refuse to get waxed in retaliation.

After he divorce she's managed to avoid waxes and has just kept things neat.

She's almost convinced that Brett will be exactly like every guy she's dated and act as though body hair on a woman is some unforgivable sin, but Brett proves he's actually a grown ass adult about it and doesn't seem to show even an ounce of disgust over her bush the first time they're intimate.

The one time she decides to try waxing he's staring at her bare center asking her why she did it quick to point out that he's fine if she did it for her own personal preference but he misses the 'puff'

He's pretty fast to reassure her that he is fine with pubic hair the one time she dares to question it. He's going down on her and he's fast to reassure her concerns over the "mess' down there by remarking that he doesn't see any messes he just sees a pussy that he's dying to eat out.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Brett is a romantic. He's old school when it comes to dating; opening doors, buying flowers, pulling out chairs for Reader. That romance extends to their bedroom.

He knows Reader's ex didn't treat her the way she deserved and he is determined to show her how she should have been treated all this time. He's all about worshipping kisses, soft touches, and praise.

He tends to be kind of in awe of her to be honest. He's teased she is out of his league and he believes it. She's young and sweet and could probably land a much younger guy with less baggage. She's chosen him though and Brett wants to make sure she never regrets it.

So, he's going above and beyond in the bedroom making sure Reader feels adored and satisfied. He's all about making sure she feels protected and loved.

She's just as prone to wanting to make him feel loved. She knows how meaningful it was for him, trusting her enough to fall in love with her after losing his wife. She is well aware he sees falling for her as something kind of scary for him...letting go of control and letting himself fall in love, allowing himself to feel excited about falling in love without fearing he's somehow betraying his late wife.

When his estranged daughter feels comfortable enough to reach out to him Reader is there to support him and soothe his anxieties about rebuilding his relationship with Rose Richards.

When Rose so happily accepts Reader's place in Brett's life it makes him all the more adoring of Reader and makes both Reader and he all the more determined to show one another love and acceptance.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Brett was alone of a while after his late wife. He found release by his own hand when the need arose.

Meeting Reader changed that, why seek out pleasure in his own hand when she is there? Of course he still has to seek out his own self pleasure when they're forced to be apart for any reason.

It's not his favorite thing on the planet but he's got a few dirty photos of Reader on his phone to help him out.

Reader won't ever admit it but the handsome Fire chief next door was a main character in her own self pleasure fantasies pretty quickly after they met. How could he not be?

Even after they become a couple Brett is the main drive towards any self release.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Reader has maybe asked Brett to fuck her wearing one of his t-shirts that proudly states Cal Fire on it...she maybe gets off on the whole "firefighter" thing...she likes a man in uniform so sue her. She knows that asking him to fuck her in the full firefighter get up is unreasonable, so this is as close as they’re getting.

Brett has a praise kink...something about Reader telling him how handsome he is and how sexy he is makes him preen. He knows he's older than her and the age difference is obvious to observers. So, hearing that she finds him to be hot is reassuring and makes him feel sexy even with his crows feet and his silver hairs.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Brett always exclaims he's too damn old to get too creative with locations. Despite that he has pulled off to some remote wooded area and gotten down and dirty with Reader in the backseat of his SUV. He gets a thrill out of steaming up the windows and fumbling around in a cramped backseat like a couple of overeager teenagers. It makes him feel younger than he's felt in years.

After they move in together they make it a point to 'christen' every room in their house. Brett didn't buy his girlfriend later wife a nice little house not to fuck her in every single room of that house. He's going to eat Reader out on the kitchen floor. He's going to take her from behind bent over his desk in his office. He's going to have her ride him on the sofa.

He debates building a greenhouse so he can make that whole fucking Reader in the garden fantasy become a reality.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

We've already established Reader like's that Brett works with his hands. So, she gets hot and bothered seeing him dig in the garden or seeing him change the oil in his car. When they move into a place with a fireplace she's also quite enamored by the sight of watching him chop firewood.

He builds up a sweat with hard work and Reader makes him build up more of a sweat by showing him how much she likes all that hard work.

Brett gets easily worked up by Reader. He loves watching her spread lotion along her skin each night. The sweet vanilla scented lotion smells all the more heavenly against her skin.

He loves watching Reader bake and has been known to stare a little too longingly when she licks batter from a spoon. He's maybe once or twice asked to have a taste...if she lets him taste it against dripped against her breasts.

Reader takes up yoga and Brett is delighted. He gets to see her ass in leggings and watch her bend into some pretty lovely positions. Her new exercise routine is made all the more intense when Brett can't take it any more and pulls those leggings down so he can eat her out and turn downward dog into doggystyle.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Given Reader's ex husband's affairs, Reader can't ever imagine bringing a third into the bedroom. It is a hard no though Brett has never requested something along those lines nor would he ever...man has a jealous streak a mile wide. So, he's not wanting any company in their bedroom.

Brett can't do the 'daddy' thing....he has a daughter who grew up calling him "daddy" he can't see that word as being even remotely sexual.

Ageplay is a no...Brett might get off on Reader being a younger woman who is into him, but he is skeeved out by purposely playing into any notion that he's a dirty old man and she's a young naive thing.

Reader won't do the teacher student role-play....no way no how. She's a freaking teacher and can't see her profession as being sexual.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Brett doesn't just eat, Brett feasts. He is an eater 100%. Reader admits she didn't exactly cum when her ex did it, and she's pretty sure she can't cum from it. Brett proves her wrong and she so orgasms hard from it more than once. The man is not letting up after just one.

Reader is surprised she loves going down on him. She feels powerful and adored when she takes him down her throat. She loves the way he stares at her during it; like he's in awe of her, like he worships her. She has to work towards taking him deep and she's proud when she manages to get her gag reflex under control enough to manage to take him down to the hilt. Brett is in awe when Reader swallows his release. He isn't expecting it and the kiss he presses to her lips shows her just how much he loves it.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

It depends on the mood. Brett prefers slow and sensual. He adores Reader. She not only gave him a second shot at love but gave him a shot in general. He wants to make her feel as worshiped as she is by him.

He's willing to get a little rough with her with her encouragement or if he's been away from her for too long, too many late nights at the station, too many nights fighting forest fires. If he gets pent up he's making it rough and dirty and is relieved she's just as keen for it.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

They love a good quickie, Brett has been known to talk into a morning quickie before she has to leave for work. They love a quick session to work out stress. Sometimes a quickie is all they have time for.

It's not their preference but they won't turn a quickie down. They have an active sex life so quickies tend to happen often if their schedules get packed.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Brett fights fires for a living; the man takes risks every day. He is protective enough of Reader to not push it too far when it comes to sex. He's never going to try to 'convince' her of something if she seems uncertain. He takes her consent with the upmost seriousness. He knows guys like her ex seem to think that "no" or "I'm not sure" means "convince me". Brett isn't a thing like her ex.

He is game for whatever she's willing to give him. The car sex is a pretty frequent occurrence. Date nights often end with a pull over to a remote alleyway or empty parking lot and fooling around in the backseat as immature and silly as it feels.

They try new positions trusting one another to give anything a shot at least once within reason.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Brett is getting older and he resents his body for aging and impacting his stamina and his refractory period.

He's always paranoid that Reader will wake up one day and realize she could find a younger guy who might be able to go for more rounds quicker and can last longer than him.

Much to his relief she doesn't blink twice when he needs a break and she admits she finds the fact that he cums quicker than he'd prefer to be flattering.

She reminds him that sex doesn't have to be a marathon and she's patient enough to wait and work with him. Their partners in this relationship after all.

Reader has a high sex drive but she's always reassuring that Brett can satisfy her just fine.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Reader owns sex toys. She's a grown divorced woman and this is the 2020s. She doesn't have a massive collection but she has a few toys.

She isn't ashamed when Brett finds them and breathes a sigh of relief that he doesn't treat the toys like some sort of competition.

He gets that they exist to get her off when he's not available.

He's maybe been known to ask her about them during a few late night phone sex conversations when he's stuck up at the station.

The wand is a favorite of is especially when she shows it can be used on the underside of his cock.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Brett teases and he knows just what he's doing, the dick. He's not shy about the lingering touches in public and the grabs to her backside. He's handsy on date nights and nights out at the bar with the station where Reader is invited to tag along.

He's getting it back in return ten fold from Reader. She can play his game too wearing those jeans he likes and brushing her hand teasingly along his thigh when they're sitting at the bar.

They enjoy the tease and it always builds up to a fun way to end their evening.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Brett is loud an unashamed; grunts, actual full on whimpers, and dirty talk about how good she feels and reminders to keep her eyes on him. He is not a silent lover.

Much to his delight Reader proves to be just as loud. She's a talker and will babble mindlessly over how good he is. His name has never sounded better than it does on her lips.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Brett encourages Reader to buy lingerie. The only time she ever bought lingerie was for her ex husband when she still had the foolish hope of repairing their relationship and he was brutal about it. He criticized her choice pointing out cellulite on the backs of her thighs and commented she should have found something to hold her tits up more.

Brett is irate when Reader recalls his story, both pissed at her ex husband and angry on her behalf. He's all the more distressed when he realizes she maybe internalized those messages about her body.

So, Brett talks her into taking his card and going to a nice boutique to buy herself anything she wants so he can show her the reaction her in lingerie deserves.

She is terrified but knows she trusts Brett enough to face the fear.

She settles on a sweet pink sheer babydoll and a matching thong and Brett stares at her like she's an angel sent to him.

He shows her that her ex husband was an idiot and didn't appreciate the gift of her body. Brett so appreciates it.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Big-dick energy which matches what he's packing okay. Brett is thick enough that Reader frets a little over it and he has to reassure her that he's going to make it work without any discomfort on her end.

He's average length but the thickness of him...

He's blessed downstairs and Reader reaps the benefit.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Brett worships Reader, okay. The man is a simp for her though you'd have to explain exactly what that means to the old man.

He might be getting older but that doesn't impact how much he wants Reader. He might not be able to go as many rounds as he would have been able to go as a younger man, but he's creative enough to find plenty of ways to get her off.

He's devoted to her and he yearns for her.

Luckily for him she yearns for him. He's a hot mature firefighter, of course she's yearning.

The man is the best lover she's ever had and she can't get enough of him. He's her everything and she's just thankful he was brave enough to let her love him after the loss he's experienced.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Brett tries to hold out and stay up...he really truly does. He works such a physically demanding draining job though. That combined with feeling so loved and satisfied making love to Reader equals him being the first to knock out after sex.

He'll be mid pillow talk and the man is snoring...he denies he snores but he so does...Reader does a little too okay, so it's fair.

Reader finds it sweet that he tries so valiantly to fight sleep even if he always fails.

So.  

You’re not pregnant. It’s totally fine. It doesn’t bother you at all. 

It doesn’t bother you so much that you ask Titus to make appointments for both of you with the best fertility doctor in the world, just to be sure there’s nothing wrong with you. 

It doesn’t bother you when that doctor makes a house-call, runs a million and one tests, and comes to the conclusion that both of you are perfectly healthy. This is just one of those things. Of course, she doesn’t know that you two performed an ancient ritual that has worked hundreds of times to create an heir for countless families, thanks to the dark magic of the literal Devil.  

It doesn’t bother you to think about how Le Bail had his hands on you, how he looked at you from the fire and...for some reason felt he shouldn’t give you an heir. 

It doesn’t bother you so much that you haven’t had sex with Titus in...well it’s been about three weeks. It feels like a year. 

At first, you retreat from him. You push yourself into your work with the Foundation, you disappear into your garden and your conservatory, you end up in bed next to him each night, smiling and talking about your days but distant the moment he puts his hands on you. 

It doesn’t really hit you how long you’ve been in this slump, until Titus is getting ready to leave on his final trip to the West Coast Lodge construction, the last one he needs to do before the site is officially ready to be opened. The one he was supposed to take with you. 

“It’s a whole week, Baby,” Titus says as you help him pack his bags, teeth gritted, hands clenched, whole body tense the way it has been since the night you realized the ritual had failed, since you’d woken up screaming from a nightmare you still haven’t told him about. “You don’t have to be there the whole time, but I want you there this weekend.” 

“Well I...” your voice fades as you feel his arms wrap around you from behind, like waking you out of a trance. He doesn’t need to vocalize the part where if you don’t go on the trip, it will push your ‘break’ from sex to a month. “I’m just not sure...that I’m ready.” 

Titus lets out a long, impatient sigh. He's been worse with his attitude lately, never directed at you of course, he turns his brattiness and petulance to anyone else he can, but you know it’s because of lack of connection to you. “Baby, you can’t keep punishing yourself like this.” 

“I’m not punishing myself, Titus.” 

“Whatever it is you’re doing in your mind that’s making you stay away from me, it feels like a punishment.” He turns you around, holding your hands in place at your side. “I want to fuck you.” 

You roll your eyes. “Fucks sake Ti—” 

But Titus cuts you off with a hand to your jaw. He makes you look at him, at how hungry he is. “Enough, Little Lamb. You’re keeping yourself from me. You’re the one making yourself unhappy. So, the ritual hasn’t worked yet—" 

“It didn’t work—" 

“It hasn’t worked yet. That doesn’t mean we did anything wrong. It doesn’t mean I don’t want you just as much as I have since the moment I first laid eyes on you. Why are you punishing yourself?” 

Your lip starts to wobble, and your eyes grow sparkling with tears, chest tightening. “I feel like a fucking failure. Why would...why do you still want me?” 

“Baby,” Titus sighs, mournful furrow in his brow. “I love you. I’m fucking obsessed with you. I don’t just want to fuck you to make a baby, I want to fuck you because every time I look at you, I see the one person in the world who’s just as much as monstrous animal on the inside, and I want to fall to my knees and worship you. Before you, sex was a hobby, just something I did for fun, to fill an urge, not something to bring me closer to another soul. I fucking miss you, you’re so far from me.” 

Your heart breaks at the cracking of his voice, the way his volume rises to almost a broken yell in his desperation. His eyes are wide, and as you look in them you can see a lifetime of loneliness, the handsome boy who everyone was too afraid of to truly get close to, unless they were trying to use his family’s power in some way. The boy who scared his own twin sister at times, now has finally found the one person who not only never fears him, but embraces and craves his terrifying nature. 

Your existence had been lonely so much before him, too. 

“I’m sorry,” you finally whisper, brushing your hands up his chest, digging your fingers in so he can really feel your presence with him. “You’re right, I was so fixated on this but...I miss you too.” 

“Then come with me like we planned, the jet will wait for you to pack your things,” Titus urges, voice sounding so youthful, hopeful. 

“Well I...” you want to throw it all to the wind and say yes, of course you’ll come with him now, but you’d thrown yourself into work during your slump, you can’t just leave Ursula hanging so last minute now. “Urse and I are planning the Foundation’s Halloween Benefit, and we just sent out RSVP’s for the Family’s Winter Solstice Banquet...I do need to work.” 

You feel his hands tighten their grip on you again, a flash of annoyance on Titus’s features, which quickly fades to acceptance. “Alright. Finish your work, I guess it will make it easier to focus on mine out there...but then Friday, come to me, Little Lamb. Let me show you what I built for you.” Then, leaning down to nip at your ear, kiss at the sensitive skin right below it, Titus whispers, “I can’t christen it all by myself.” 

You bite your lip, color comes back to your face as you feel the skip in his heartbeat right under your hands. Like waking from another horrible dream. The lingering anticipation of whatever Titus has planned for you, makes you feel like yourself again. 

+ 

“Three weeks?” Ursula yells, falling into a fit of laughter so big she almost knocks her food off her desk. 

“Hey! Not so loud!” You snap, looking over your shoulder through the glass walls of her office. 

You’re having lunch in her office between your duties for the Foundation, a habit you’ve gotten into since she moved you into the corporate offices a couple months ago. You have your own office, of course, but it’s so much more fun to eat with Ursula, she has all the gossip. 

It’s less fun when your sex life is the topic. 

“I’m sorry, ha, I'm so sorry,” Ursula waves her hand, pulling herself together from her giggles. “I mean, that explains why there’s been less servants on my side of the Estate lately. You know when you two get going they all run to the East Wing to get some peace and quiet?” 

“Oh my god,” you whine, covering your face with your hands to try to hide your embarrassment. “I really don’t want to talk about this with you.” 

“Yeah, I don’t want to hear about your weirdo sex life either, but you brought it up,” Ursula says, shaking her head and clicking her teeth. 

Actually, you tried very hard not to bring it up, but she asked why you were so down and wouldn’t stop pushing and pushing until you told her about the ritual. And how it didn’t work. 

“Okay well...sorry for that, I guess,” you roll your eyes. It’s hard to actually be sorry for having really great sex with your hot husband, not matter how disruptive it is to the household. “But I just...I don’t understand. I thought Le Bail liked me. I’ve seen him twice.” 

Technically three times but you don’t think Ursula wants to hear about Le Bail making an appearance during the sex ritual. 

“You won two of his games, of course he likes you. Probably more than he likes me and Titus,” Ursula says nonchalantly. 

“Then why...” your voice trails off sadly. 

“It’s not a guarantee that you’ll conceive a child, it’s a request,” Ursula says with a shrug. “The ritual didn’t work the first time our parents tried it as well. They waited a whole year to try it again, and that’s when Titus and I were conceived.” 

“Really?” You ask, voice laced with disbelief. 

Titus hadn’t mentioned that part. He made it seem like it was so easy, like him and Ursula were some gifts easily bestowed upon Chester and Violet Danforth being such great rulers in the High Seat. Maybe that’s why he’s not as worried about this... 

“I wish he told me that,” you mumble, taking a big bite of your sandwich.  

“Well that’s Titus for you, all action and no thought,” Ursula says, eyes flicking up and down at you. You were his biggest no thought action so far, not that Ursula is mad, she loves you very much. 

“How did you find out about you and Titus?” 

“One of our aunts told me, she was very close to Mother,” Ursula explains. “They figured Le Bail felt they weren’t ready yet, maybe that’s what’s happening to you. I mean...you guys have only been married for a few months. Mr. Le Bail probably just wants you to like, chill. Have some more fun. You’re not even out of the honeymoon phase.” 

You let out a light laugh, shaking your head. “When you put it like that...I sound a little crazy.” 

“You joined Satan’s literal organization, so you are crazy,” Ursula says with a smirk. “But you need to take it down a few notches, alright? Adapt to our way of living a little, and then you can add more little Danforth's to the mix.” 

“Right, thank you,” you say sincerely. She has no idea how much better just her words have made you feel.  

“Speaking of honeymoon phases,” Ursula starts, face dropping into an annoyed frown. “I assume you and Titus received the notification of Felicity’s wedding?” 

“Oh, yes he mentioned something about that, don’t we have to host it? As the High Seat branch of the family?” You ask. You’re pretty sure this means you’re going to get to see a Danforth Wedding duel, and you really, really hope it’s Titus’s card that’s pulled. 

“Yup,” Ursula sighs, pursing her lips. “Did he tell you about Felicity at all? And me?” 

“No,” you say, carefully studying her face. She’s looking down at her glass, jaw tight, something like an angry fire forming in her eyes. “He said I should ask you about her.” 

That makes her eyes snap up to you, with a look that almost makes you afraid to cross her. “Well, let’s just say this isn’t her first marriage.” Then in a lower mumble. “Attempt at a marriage, anyway.” 

Your brows raise with curiosity. “Urse...you can’t just leave me hanging. I told you something deeply personal.” 

“Yeah a sex thing about my twin brother.” 

“Okay, fair. How about this, when we met, you tried to kill me multiple times.” 

Her mouth drops open in a scoff. “Okay, I had to do that.” 

“Hmmm, okay that’s also a good point,” you bite down on your lip, looking at Ursula with squinted eyes. “Okay, how about this? Your power hungry, psychopathic, murder and violence loving brother loves me so much, he’s actually so busy trying to make me happy that he’s agreed to share the High Seat of ruling the entire world with you.” 

Ursula opens her mouth to retort, but can’t find a good enough argument against that. “Fuck, that’s a good point.” 

“Yes,” you exclaim in victory. “Tell me, tell me, tell me, tell me, tell me—" 

“Alright!” Ursula cuts you off with a deep sigh. “Okay. Felicity is one of our cousins, obviously, just a few years younger than Titus and I. And she has terrible taste in men, slimy losers who want to marry into our family for connections and all those gifts from Le Bail. Well, her parents don’t usually approve of her marrying anyone, because they’re all awful, except for her first marriage. He was...” her face falls. “He was different.” 

There’s a moment of silence hanging in the air, as you watch the emotions play out over Ursula’s face, and you realize this is something deeper for her. “Who was he?” 

“He was my first love. My high school sweetheart.” Her voice is too calm, too controlled. She’s looking down at her food, poking at the salad with her fork, staring down at the way the prongs of the fork pokes holes in the leaves. “We...we were together for a long time, and I loved him very much, but I made it clear I did not want to be married. Ever. We could live a life together, do whatever we wanted, be successful, but I didn’t want to marry him. I didn’t want to risk him having to duel Titus, or worse at that time, my father. I told him everything about us, Mr. Le Bail, the marriage game, and I thought he understood why he could never officially be in the family. 

But then...well, during the fall after we graduated from college, he proposed to me during Thanksgiving dinner.” Ursula lets out a long breath through her nose at the memory of him standing up, in front of almost all of her family and his, and got on one knee as he pulled out this gorgeous emerald and silver rose cut ring. Everyone in that room had cheered, except for Ursula, Titus, and Chester. Titus looked like he wanted to kill the guy, which...  

“Well anyway, it was ugly. I ran out of the room and we fought, and then he finally let me know that I was being selfish trying to keep all of my family’s gifts from him. Turns out he really wanted in on all the Danforth and Le Bail deal-with-the-devil fortune after all. But I just...I knew if he had to duel then he would die and I tried to tell him that, but he wouldn’t accept it. He accused me of not thinking he was good enough. Didn’t really leave me much choice, and I was thoroughly disgusted by him, so I broke up with him.” 

“Oh Urse...I’m so sorry,” you say, reaching out your hand to hers. The frown on her face jumps into shock momentarily when you touch her, but her body quickly deflates into relaxation at your warmth. It’s a level of intimacy she’s not used to. 

“Thank you,” she replies sincerely. “I got over it, you know, but then...I found out he’d started seeing Felicity as soon as she turned eighteen. Two years after I broke up with him, we got the invitation to their wedding.” 

“Let me guess, he did the ritual and pulled Titus’s card?” 

“Oh yeah,” she says with a small laugh. “Felicity was so smug about that whole day, pretending she was so sorry and things just worked out the way they were meant to blah blah blah, she really thought Le Bail would let her have him. The duel can go all night if needed, but Titus had him hog tied and beaten to a pulp in under twenty minutes. I think it’s the record for the whole family.” 

Damn, you really want to see that. Thank god this family started recording all of these the moment video cameras were invented. 

“Felicity threw such a fucking hissy fit over it, we didn’t have to see her at family events for like a decade,” Ursula says with a smug smile. “I can only imagine what kind of dreg of society she’s convinced her parents to let her attempt to push into the family this time.” 

“She sounds like a cunt,” you say bluntly. 

Ursula nearly chokes on her drink in her fit of laughter. “Yes, oh my god she’s the worst. Listen we have like a million cousins, and half of them are annoying as fuck, but Felicity...she’s always been jealous of me. She basically wants to be me. I was so angry about it for so long, but I guess it’s a good thing she does shit like this. Makes me look even better. Got rid of a terrible man from my life for once and for all.” 

You watch as the sadness leaves her face entirely. She looks so much like Titus right now, the way she can mask any hint of pain behind a smug demeanor, behind the knowledge that she’s more powerful than pain itself. You’ve spent so much time with both of them, together and separate, and without meaning to, you’ve studied their dynamic. They annoy each other, poke at each other, she babies him, he brushes her off like a bratty child, but...there is love there. They’re twins, brought into this world together. “Titus killed him for you.” 

“Hm,” Ursula muses, clicking her tongue. “Le Bail had him killed for me, Titus made sure it hurt.” 

And the way she says it, sounds like that’s more important than the act of killing in itself.  

“So, is that why you never got married? You didn’t want to send them to die?” 

Ursula shrugs. “That’s how it was with him, I really thought I loved him. But...I already knew I was going to have to share my power with Titus one day, I’ll be damned if I have some man walk in and think he can take a piece of it too. Besides, I sort of realized I’d rather be independent. I have several lovers, and none of them expect anything more from me. The second they do, they get dropped. And if they don’t like that...well let’s just say there’s been a few of our seasonal guys that have been exes of mine that demanded just a little too much.” 

Her tone is so casual it actually almost shocks you. You’re so used to Titus being the openly cruel and violence loving one, you forgot that Ursula has been raised to be just as vicious. She’s so much better at hiding it. 

“Wish Titus would have done that with Priscilla,” you mumble. 

Ursula bursts out in laughter again, eyes flicking up and down your form with an amused smile that reminds you so much of the one you constantly get from her brother. “Unfortunately I think Titus kind of likes watching people get pathetically needy over him, and when he makes them leave he doesn’t really think twice. That man dumped Priscilla last year for the last time and wasn’t ever going to look back.” 

There’s a beat where you two share a look, both thinking about the memory of putting her in her place back at the gala. Ursula had laughed harder than you’d ever seen when you told her everything that happened that night, from Priscilla catching you and Titus in the conservatory, to you bashing her face into glass. 

“You know,” Ursula starts. “My brother stayed a bachelor all this time because he honestly never thought he’d find someone who understood him. Even Priscilla, for all her nastiness, always talked about how if they married, she expected him to settle down with the Danforth traditions. No more, hunting, and fighting, and certainly none of that gross stuff I know you two are into.” 

“Really?” You ask but a big part of you already knows she’s telling the truth. You feel it swirling inside your heart, the spirit of something that calls to the demonic force that was born in Titus Danforth. It was always going to live restlessly inside him, unsatisfied, unhappy, until you came along. 

“Oh yes, don’t let him know I said this, but I think my brother has always been a bit of a romantic. Just, his form of romance is a very specific acquired taste. He never let himself search for it until you were put in our path.” 

The sincerity in her words only highlights what she really wants you to hear. You are the key to her brother’s happiness, just like she said the night you all met. Just as he is the key to yours. 

Why are you sitting here moping with her, when you should be truly happy across the country with Titus? 

+ 

The jet got you to Washington in the middle of the day on Thursday. You didn’t tell Titus to expect you a while 24 hours earlier than originally anticipated. 

No, it is way more fun to show up, tell the workers to take you to Titus Danforth’s quarters, not say a word on threat of death (which they know is literal), and then leave a trail of your clothes for him to the bedroom. 

The text you’d sent him about how nice the room is, how soft and comfortable the bed is, while he was trying to finish a meeting had been unexpected but pleasant. He certainly was able to stay professional and continue on with finishing up his work. 

And then about an hour later you sent a picture of you laid out on the bed with your fingers teasing the entrance of your soaking pussy and he was very much forced to call it a day. 

The black panties you left on the doorknob were very quickly stuffed in his pants pocket for safe keeping. 

“So good to have you back, Baby,” Titus moans into your mouth, fingers replacing yours inside you, as he braces himself for your first pleasurably sleepless night in a month. 

+ 

Over time, you and Titus find your way back to each other, just like you had been since the start, hot and heavy and obsessed, magnets pushed together by all the world’s forces.  

The West Coast Lodge has its grand opening just in time for the Holidays, when you and the Danforth Twins host the family’s annual Winter Solstice ritual. This year, however, there was an added bonus of participating in a ceremonial hunt for the family’s sacrifice. Most of the extended branches of family were too put together in their fanciest clothes to want to partake, but a party of about twenty, including you and Titus, took to the woods around the Lodge to hunt down the victim. 

The sacrifice was some guy who tried skimming off the Danforth’s profits from their new vineyard. The one they acquired after the untimely demise of the Le Domas family. Since it is technically your vineyard, Titus took it as even more of a personal offense, to the point you were surprised the man even made it to the Solstice. 

Naturally, you and Titus caught him first, kissing over his dying body after Titus let you smash the guy’s legs to bits with his Warhammer. This is also after Titus shot him just below the spleen. You’d found it very amusing how he’d still tried to run away. 

Almost the entire family, the branches you had yet to meet, got a very clear lesson on just who you were. Many were terrified the twins managed to snatch up someone so similar to them. A few were happy Titus now has someone to focus all of his infamous psychopathic tendencies on. 

Not everyone was there, however. The most notable absence was Felicity. According to one of her sisters, a quiet, mousy girl closer to your age than Ursula’s, she was spending the holidays with her fiancé in Australia, borrowing one of the Danforth villas all for herself. Ursula had half a mind to call their property manager to have her kicked out, but you convinced her to let it go for now. 

After the family festivities, you and Titus retired to the Master Suite where you gave him a small present. He’d thought it was hilarious that you gave him a Christmas present, but was stunned when he’d opened the tiny box to reveal a gold pentagram pendant hanging from a gold chain. It’s intricately hand carved with the face of a goat in the middle, and tiny little rubies. 

He loved it so much and since he didn’t have anything for you, he returned the favor by going down on you for an hour. You came so many times you lost count and basically passed out. 

Time went on, you and Titus spent New Years in Granada at the cottage you purchased, breaking in every surface just like he’d promised, neither of you caring if it resulted in a baby or not. You were determined not to worry about that anymore, to enjoy the time and love between you and Titus just as you are.  

Between all the sex and holidays and working, Titus also gets you in with his trainers, because if Felicity’s new husband pulls whatever card gets assigned to you, he wants to make sure you can truly beat him. You argued that you won two whole hunts without any training, but he wouldn’t hear it. 

Secretly you think he just wanted an excuse to watch you shoot a gun or wield a sword and daggers, or even better, roll around and dominate an expert fighter in nothing but a sports bra and tiny shorts. 

He liked it even better when you practiced on him. 

+ 

February 14th. 

Ursula found it incredibly cheesy and lame and tacky that Felicity would choose Valentine’s Day for her wedding, and if it were anyone else you might have defended the decision.  

The West Coast Lodge, that Titus had built in your honor, designed to embody everything that reminded him of you, is dolled up in pink and white, like a cheap candy dream. You liked pink and white, Titus had bought you entire sets of knives and hand-crafted pistols in those colors, but something about seeing so much of it in ribbons and banners and gaudy flowers of all kinds leave a sick taste in your mouth. 

At the rehearsal dinner, Felicity had tried to argue with Titus about staying in the Master Suite, since it was to be her wedding night after all, but he threatened to shut the whole thing down and send them to a sleezy chapel in Vegas instead. Nobody but you and him were allowed to ever stay in that suite, not even Ursula. Granted, he made sure his sister had her own personal quarters in the Lodge as well. 

Felicity mostly ignored you, beyond an overly polite introduction, and venomous, sharp eyes directed at Ursula. She kind of looked like Ursula too, full lips, round eyes, long blonde hair, but there’s this sense of alertness in the way Felicity holds herself, like she’s trying to force her way onto a pedestal that Ursula was born into. Like she’s aware that nobody in any room that Ursula is in would look at her twice. 

Maybe that’s why she stole Ursula’s boyfriend all those years ago, or rather placed herself into Ursula’s role with him. The Danforth name is the most powerful in the world, but not being born to Chester means you are still a lesser person, especially in the eyes of Le Bail. 

You’re pretty sure you catch Felicity trying to flirt with Ursula’s date when nobody is watching. Graham, a concert pianist who has been one of Ursula’s many steady lovers over the years, made eye contact with you from across the room, rolling his to show how he could see right through her act. 

The ceremony takes place in the afternoon in a Chapel next to a mass garden that Titus had filled with your favorite breeds of flower. The Lawyer is there to officiate, with his usual too cheerful smile.  

His speech is much different to the vows you’d had to make with Titus in the Black Temple, a show for the guests attending who had no idea about Le Bail, and the fact that the Danforth’s aren’t just the richest family in the world, but in fact the ones who pull every string. 

He is happy to see you, even gives you a wink as you take your seat in the front row. 

The ceremony is quick, to the point, Felicity’s Fiancé, now Husband, Fitz Harrison, gives some overly syrupy dribble about finding the love of his life and belonging in her world, blah blah blah. Many of the guests ooooh and ahhh over it, but you see right through his words. The implication that he is meant to be part of the Danforth family’s deal with Le Bail. 

You start to see what Ursula and Titus say about her. 

The early evening reception goes by in an almost monotonous blur. Sure, plenty of guests have a good time, many are dancing and drinking, you even take to the floor to dance with Titus, but mostly you are waiting around until the guests have all gone, and the only thing left to do with the family is the duel. 

Much of the reception goes along the same lines as your time at your first Gala, with people you’ve never met and never heard of coming up to essentially pay tribute to the wife of Titus Danforth. There are significantly less openly rude people this time, the rumors of just how you’d put Priscilla in her place having spread under the breaths of almost everyone in high society. 

“I hear the wife is a total psycho.” 

“No, please, she’s nice. Nicer than Ursula, anyway.” 

“Not what I heard at all! You know at the double or nothing, she caused the entire El Caido line to be exterminated, when she could have just gotten away with killing the father and running off with Titus.” 

“She was fighting for her life, I hardly think that’s fair.” 

“I’ve seen the footage, the girl is an animal. Three high families gone completely because of her. Those poor Le Domas’s...” 

“That’s on Alex. You know, I heard he didn’t even tell her about any of the contracts. It’s not her fault she had to survive.” 

“Well she survived like an animal. No wonder Titus liked her so much, he’s just as bad. There’s something seriously wrong with that girl.” 

You overhear some of the cousins, who think they’ve found a hiding spot off in the corner, out of earshot of any other guests. They have yet to notice you standing off to the side, as you wait for a refill on your drink. Maybe you should be insulted, but their petty comments just make you smirk, quietly chuckle to yourself.  

“Didn’t you see what she did to Priscilla? Poor thing. That girl is a monster, she could snap at any one of us.” 

Okay, yeah that pisses you off. If Priscilla is telling everyone what happened between you two, it seems she left out the part where she tried to fuck another woman’s husband. 

You’re about to turn and set them straight, when Penelope appears at your side and sweeps you away, having heard their little annoying chirping as well. 

“She was invited to this, you know,” Penelope says, in her usual blatantly excited to gossip tone. “It’s probably not a surprise, but Priscilla and Felicity are actually pretty good friends.” 

You smirk at her from behind your wine glass. “Oh? Why ever would she stay home then?” 

“Several little birds have told me that Priscilla is banned from any and all Danforth owned properties, probably from risk of death.” 

You almost choke on your wine in your effort to hold in your laughter. “So where is she?” 

“My aunt said she’s somewhere in Europe recovering from reconstructive surgery, but I also heard they can’t erase the entire scar.” 

“Good, it will be a nice reminder for her not to try to fuck things that aren’t hers,” you say with a shrug. 

“Ha!” Penelope lets out a loud giggle, covering her mouth and turning away from the faces that turn to the two of you. “You guys are so fucking crazy, I love it.” 

Your giggling together dies down as you’re joined back by your husbands, Titus wrapping his arm around your waist as he flicks back the sleeve of his dress shirt, peaking at his watch. He lets out an impatient huff, jaw tight and lips pursed. You think he looks adorable. 

“Relax, dear Brother,” Ursula cautions, sauntering up next to you, small glass of whiskey in her hand, she’s gripping it so tight her knuckles have gone white. “The sun is almost down, this shit show is on its final minutes.” 

“Well it needs to hurry the fuck up, I’m ready to get this over with,” Titus snaps, hand tightening on your side. “Also, the cake was dry. Felicity and this fucking guy leech off our money and they can’t even get a decently made cake?” 

“Is that why you’re going to take pleasure in...whatever you’re going to do later?” Penelope asks, sly smile on her face. She won’t be allowed to watch, as she’s not in the family, but she’s very familiar with the Wedding Rituals of Mr. Le Bail.  

Titus snorts. “It will be one of the reasons, that’s for sure. If it’s even me, maybe this time Le Bail will let Ursula do the honors of ruining Felicity’s fun." 

“It would have been more fun if I got to do it the first time,” Ursula mumbles, before glancing at you. “Maybe Mrs. Danforth will get to do her first one.” 

You look up at Titus excitedly, as he smiles down at you sweetly. He licks his lips before giving you a small kiss on the cheek. “Now that I would enjoy very much.” 

You’re about to say something to agree, when a cheerful, sing-songy voice cuts in. “So sorry to interrupt, Ms. Danforth, Mr. Danforth,” The Lawyer says as he walks up, looking at you with a more intense smile as he finishes, “Mrs. Danforth. I will need Titus to escort me to the Black Temple, as the architect of this...opulent resort, he will need to assist me in preparing for tonight’s final event.” 

Holding in his frustrated sigh, Titus isn’t interested in being parted from you for too long tonight, as per usual, your husband reluctantly lets go of your body, gritting his teeth. “Of course, happy to show you the way.” 

“Lovely to see you again, by the way, Mrs. Danforth. You seem to be assimilating to the High Seat quite well.” Then, in a lower voice, The Lawyer leans in to tell you, “Mr. Le Bail is very pleased.” 

And even though a small, horrible voice in your head tells you not to believe him, your heart still swells with warmth, nerves racing. “Th-thank you.”  

 You give Titus a quick kiss as you let him go, and the Lawyer gives you a wink as he turns. 

“Fuck, that tiny little man is so creepy,” a grating voice with a valley girl-like accent says in a disgusted tone behind you.  

Your face falls into a frown, and you look to your side to find Ursula scowling. She sucks in a silent breath through her nose, covering her annoyance with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, and stiffly turns around. “Felicity, my goodness you really make the loveliest bride.” 

“Even better than the first time wouldn’t you say,” Felicity hums, her eyes sharp like a viper, satisfied bragging in her tone. 

You don’t miss the way Ursula tenses. “Well, hopefully tonight goes better for your new man.” 

The grin that has been sitting firmly on Felicity’s face for two days faulters for just a moment, before her eyes widen in her effort to keep control on her expression. “Fitz is much more suited to Le Bail’s lifestyle, believe me. He already runs successful businesses all around the world, multi-millionaire even without any deals.” 

“Oh,” Ursula says mockingly. “My gosh, that’s so impressive.” 

She lets the part where the Danforth’s are billionaires who could buy and dissolve any of his businesses just for shits and giggles stay unspoken. 

“Hm,” Felicity hums, choosing to ignore the obvious sarcasm in Ursula’s words. Finally, her attention turns to you. 

Her eyes rake up and down your body, studying you, calculating the perfect thing to say to someone who has been given everything she has ever wanted for her life. In her mind, you’ve had it easy. You just had to marry Titus and you were handed everything the highest seats in the family get. She doesn’t even consider the violence you had to endure in such a short time to get here. You’re a bug that belongs under her boot. 

“Lovely dress,” She says, though there’s no kindness in her voice. 

You look down at the lilac colored dress that Titus had picked out for you. It has layers of sheer fabric on the skirt, and a corseted bodice that hugs your waist and pushes your breasts up. He also picked out the white pearls that sit in three layers on your neck. You know you look beautiful, and it must kill her. 

“Thank you,” you say, glancing down at her own dress. White and basic but covered in Swarovski crystals to make it look more expensive. It’s probably a ten thousand dollar dress, but it could have been bought at Macy’s for $150. 

“So sorry I haven’t had the chance to properly welcome you into the family, I simply was too busy this year with my own engagement to attend all the Danforth events. Congratulations on winning over my cousin, Titus can be a hard man to please, and I know so many of the women who have tried.” 

She’s trying so hard to push you, but it’s not anything you haven’t already heard from the other jealous girls of High Society.  

“I’ve been welcomed plenty, trust me. Ursula is teaching me everything I need to know.”  

“Oh, I’m sure,” Felicity grins, toothy but no emotion in her eyes. “I’m surprised, though, Ursula was never one to take someone under her wing, even her own family.” 

The look she shoots at Ursula would be lethal if given to anyone else, but it’s only met by an exasperated laugh from your sister-in-law. “Oh you have got to be joking me—" 

“Urse!” Graham’s voice interrupts as he walks up from the side, holding two very full champagne flutes in his hands. The sound of his voice instantly calms the fight brewing inside Ursula. “The Governor and his wife are asking for you, they want to say goodbye for the evening.” 

“Wonderful,” Ursula grits, snatching one of the flutes and downing its contents in one gulp, before glaring back at Felicity. “I’ll see you soon.” 

Felicity just rolls her eyes as they walk away, then turns her attention back to you. “I see she hasn’t changed at all, still the snotty, self-centered brat she’s always been.” 

“Funny, she says the same things about you,” Penelope scoffs. 

“Relax, Pen, what’s a little playful insulting amongst family?” Felicity says, eyes still firmly scanning up and down you. “Speaking of which, I think I'd like to spend a little time getting to know my new cousin, if you don’t mind.” 

But she doesn’t leave much of a choice when she grabs you by the elbow and snatches you away. You turn back to Penelope with a pleading look in your eyes, but she just sighs and throws her hands up in defeat as you’re dragged across the hall. 

“You know, I’m sure those two have filled your little head with all sorts of horrible things about me,” she starts, patronizing. “And I’m not going to deny any of it, but you’re new here, so I’ll give you my own lesson in what it means to be a Danforth.” 

“I can’t imagine I have anything useful to learn from you,” You spit, shaking your arm out of her grip. You could walk away, go off to find Titus or join Ursula and Graham, maybe even run back to Penelope or Elton, any of the allies you have in the room, but something in you tells you to stay. The little monster inside is curious about just what Felicity’s game here is. 

She scoffs. “How about the perspective of someone from outside the main branch of the family? You got fucking lucky joining them, you know? I just happened to be born from the wrong Danforth brother and because of that, I’m cursed to a lifetime of second best. 

What did Ursula tell you about my first husband? Hm? That she loved him and was so disappointed when he wanted nothing more than what every single person in this room would want? A piece of the power over the whole world? Oh, how awful of him!” 

You look around as you stand in the middle of this room filled with old money blue bloods, new age elite, and various members of government, world movers. How many of them are part of Le Bail’s organization? How many of them would kill to be? It’s something so secretive that you may never know every single family that is a part of it. And...you sit at the very top of it. By complete happenstance. 

If you hadn’t pushed Alex Le Domas to marry you, this would never be your life at all. A twinge of pain begins to stab like a needle at your heart, as you realize whatever Felicity has to say about you could be right. 

“I don’t care what the twins have said to you, I loved that man, and I had to watch Titus bash his skull in on what was supposed to be the happiest day of my life.” 

You can only imagine the glee on your husband’s face as he did. “Are you really throwing a bitch fit thirty years later, because of something everyone who marries into the family is at risk of?” 

Her face contorts, jaw locking and twitchy as her emotions move from fiery anger to a calm that barely contains it. “Everyone but you, right?” 

You hold in any response you can think of. You don’t owe her an explanation, she already knows everything you had to do to join the family. Nobody who has ever married into the Danforth’s has had to kill as many people as you have. 

“I wouldn’t look so smug about your little kill record, or Titus’s, by the way,” Felicity sneers. “Fine, I want what the twins have, I want that high seat. And yes, we’re allowed to kill family members, but there’s only one time where killing that family member guarantees you the High Seat.” 

Your face hardens, cold anxiety shooting up your spine. “What the fuck are you talking about?” 

“You and the twins didn’t think I’d get married to someone who could be so easily defeated by one of you again, did you?” Felicity says with a patronizing laugh. “Fitz is a world class athlete. Golden gloves boxer, Olympic medalist power lifter, trained in archery, javelin, sharpshooting, you get the picture. You’ve seen him, he’s twice the size of you and Ursula, and younger than Titus, more fresh. No matter which one of you he duels, he will crush your bones into dust. And I will get that High Seat. Then whichever two of you are leftover, I’ll have fed to the dogs.” 

“You fucking cunt—" you hiss as you raise your hand, caught between wanting to deck her in the jaw or strangle her in front of all these people. 

She steps back with a wicked smile. “Ah, ah, ah, you can’t do anything to me until after the duel. Hasn’t Titus told you any of our rules?” 

You freeze, stilling the movement of your hand with every ounce of self-control that you have. Eyes from all around start to hone in on you, the small scuffle between you and Felicity bringing in attention from various guests.  

She doesn’t seem to care as she continues to taunt you. “Hm, I can see why Titus likes you so much, you’re a feisty one. And I would have thought Le Bail would like you too, but from what I hear, you might have fallen out of his favor.” 

“Wh-what the fuck does that mean?” You scowl at her.  

“Well, it’s my understanding that you and Titus tried a little ritual recently,” Felicity sneers, stepping into your space, looking down at you. “And it looks to me like it didn’t exactly work, hm?” 

You gasp, eyes widening with horror, lip shaking. You look around the room, at the eyes on you, unsure if they can hear your conversation, but a horrifying voice screaming at you that they can. They know, they all know you’re a failure. 

“H-how did you...” but you can’t force yourself to finish the question. 

“How did I find out? Ha,” she laughs, shrugging. “You need special materials for that ritual, and there’s only so many people you can get them from. Fitz and I...we want to make an heir of our own. I’m getting a little...” she purses her lips tightly, “...older, so we are going to ask Le Bail for his blessing and, well, the Dark Priest we went to mentioned he just filled a similar order for the heads of the Family. But, well, you don’t look pregnant to me.” 

You want to scream. You want to shove her on the ground and beat her to death with the closest blunt object. You want to rip her hair out and shove it down her throat. But you stay still. You let our deep breaths, doing your best to not let her see just how much she’s getting to you. But you’re failing at that too. 

“Fitz and I will be trying it on that lovely alter table in the black temple, as soon as he’s killed...well, whichever one of you who’s card he pulls but fuck,” Felicity licks her lips. “I really hope it’s yours.” 

“Felicity!” Titus’s gruff, booming voice breaks through the noise of guests, music, and her vile words. She jumps slightly, eyes snapping up over your shoulder to where your husband and the Lawyer approach. When you turn to look, you see his dark eyes narrowed, with an intense hatred you don’t think you’ve ever seen before. “When it comes to speaking about Mr. Le Bail, or my personal business, you better hold your tongue around outsiders,” he spits, putting a protective arm around your waist, “or I will let Mrs. Danforth cut it out.” 

You look up at him with a smile, eyes twinkling under the light as all cold and anger melts away from your body. “Let?” 

Titus smirks down at you, as though to silently say, let me pretend I have a say. 

Behind you both, the Lawyer looks at Felicity with a stern frown, shaking his head. “Mrs. Harrison, Mr. Le Bail is very clear about how he feels about discussions of the organization in public places. If you continue, he will be...very upset.” 

The visible gulp in her throat, a sign of genuine fear, brings a sick delight to you.  

“O-of course, sir, it won’t happen again,” she assures him through gritted teeth. 

The Lawyer keeps his frown at her for just a moment longer, before instantly changing it to a much too perky smile. “Well, I believe things are winding down here anyway, shall we prepare for the rest of tonight’s events downstairs?” 

The three of you nod, and Titus sends out a message in the family text to alert the others that it is almost time, before guiding you gently out of the ballroom. You feel Felicity’s scheming eyes on you the whole way. 

+ 

The Black Temple in this Lodge is much grander than the one at home. Twice as big, in the shape of an oval, with black marble flooring and a pentagram shaped table at the center. The stairs descend down in a spiral around the room, framed by a black metal railing that’s been intricately twisted and carved to look like thorny vines.  

On the opposite end of the bottom of the stairs is a large fireplace, jutting out from the dark grey stone of the wall, in the shape of a screaming goat, the horns twisting symmetrically in curves along the wall. The eyes are dark onyx that shines in the light of the fire.  

In front of the table sits a small circular gate in the ground, the opening to the goat pit, which currently sits empty. 

Pyres line the walls, filling what should be a cold basement room with rich warmth. There are dark wood shelves lining the walls, filled with old spell books, crystals, candles, herbs, and all sorts of other materials needed for various rituals. 

It’s beautiful, every piece of it made specifically to what Titus thought you would love.  

As you enter the room, arm in arm with Titus, you notice a set of items sitting on one of the shelves. You recognize the heart candle for the mating ritual, and your throat starts to burn with bile that you swallow back down. 

Most of the family retire to their rooms in the hotel section of the lodge, but a few of the extended branches join you in the Temple. It’s not a requirement for every single Danforth to be there, but most enjoy being witness to the duels, the ones who are almost as cruel and sick in the head as Titus. 

You are soon joined in the center of the room by Ursula, Felicity, and Fitz, who gives you a twisted smirk. He drags his eyes up and down your body, licking his lips, like a predator planning his next meal.  You cringe and look away, holding on tighter to Titus’s arm. 

The Lawyer waits for everyone to gather around, Mr. Le Bail’s book carefully laid out on the alter table, open to a blank page, as he pulls a set of golden playing cards from his pocket. 

He looks up around the room with a giddy smile. “Well, everyone all set?” The room falls silent at his question, you suck in a nervous breath. “Excellent! We gather here today to honor a possible new edition to the Danforth Family, by performing the sacred tradition, the duel.  

For those who may be unfamiliar, I will go over the rules as agreed upon by Mr. Le Bail and William Danforth the third, the original signer of this illustrious family’s contract.” He looks at you, tilting his head as his lips close in a more friendly smile just for you. “A face card from this deck,” he holds up the golden cards, showing them to the room, “is assigned to one of the heads of the household, in this case, Ursula and Titus Danforth as they are twins and sharers of the High Seat, and Mrs. Danforth, as their equal. The spouse will draw a card, and if it is one assigned to a head of the house, that family member must participate in the duel. If they draw a numbered card, the Spouse is automatically entered into the family, per Mr. Le Bail’s wishes. 

The duelers are permitted to use any weapon at their disposal, from any era. They will begin at exactly midnight, and continue until the death of one of the duelers. After which, the sacrifice will be taken back down here to the alter, their blood emptied into the goat pit, along with their body, in offering to Mr. Le Bail. 

If the spouse is the winner of the duel, their branch of the family takes over as head of the household while the former head and other branches...” he pauses, smile faltering for just a moment as he watches your eyes widen, the memory of the total annihilation of the Le Domas’s flooding back to you. “Well. I’m sure you can all guess. As is the fate of the entire Danforth line, should neither dueler be successful in killing the other by sunrise.” 

Murmuring fills the room, and again you feel everyone’s eyes fall to you. They also remember what happened the nights of your first two weddings, the complete destruction of multiple High Council families. This time, however, it’s not judgement you read from their faces, but rather fear. So much death caused by such a little, young thing, and now she stands ruling their family with Titus. 

“Because of the realignments of the head of the Danforth family because of the passing of Chester Danforth, we will begin tonight’s ceremonies with a reassignment of the cards. Then, Mr. Fitz Harrison will draw to determine his fate, if he draws one of your cards, you will have half an hour to prepare before we must meet on the dueling grounds. Understood?” 

The main group of you all nod, and you watch as The Lawyer lays out the cards on the table, face side down.  

“Step forward each of you, and select your cards. These shall be your cards for any future marriage rituals, until the day another reassignment must be made.” 

You, Titus, and Ursula step up to draw your cards, each of you placing a hand down on one at the same time. After a count from The Lawyer, the three of you pick your cards up simultaneously. 

Ursula draws the Jack of Clubs, you draw the Queen of Diamonds, and Titus draws the King of Hearts. 

He chuckles when he sees Ursula’s card. “Demoted.” 

She rolls her eyes, elbowing him in the side. “It’s not a demotion.” 

“Hail Satan!” The Lawyer interrupts, sending the twins a warning with his eyes. “As Le Bail has wished, the cards are assigned. Mr. Harrison, please step forward to learn your fate.” 

Felicity makes a show of kissing him first, pulling him in by his cheeks and moaning into it, earning an annoyed groan from each of you. Fitz turns to the Lawyer with a cocky grin, as the cards are all put back and shuffled. The lawyer spreads them out on the alter table, in a gorgeous gold circle, then steps back to allow Fitz to make his pick. 

As he steps up, looking directly at you from across the alter table, there’s a wild, hungry look in Fitz’s eyes. You wonder what kind of things Felicity has told him about you three, why would he be singling you out? Because your fights are already family legend? Or because Titus took Felicity’s first spouse...so that debt can only be paid by Fitz taking his. 

Either way, his look makes your skin crawl. It reminds you of how the High Council families looked at you when fighting for the seat, the little lamb for their slaughter, the one obstacle between what they all had truly wanted. Everyone except Titus, who had looked at you with deeply immense sadness, because what he wanted was you. 

Fitz places his hand on one of the cards, keeping that same overly delighted smirk directed at you, until he flips his chosen card over. The smile shakes, so minutely that you almost miss it, as he picks up the card. 

The King of Hearts. 

An excited hum fills the room from the other family members, as Ursula and Titus chuckle, and Felicity lets out a frustrated whine. 

“Titus Danforth, Mr. Le Bail has tasked you with the duel. You have half an hour to prepare in any way that you need,” The Lawyer says, as he writes out a small contract for the duel on the blank page of the book.  

He takes Fitz’s hand and pricks his finger, directing the man to sign his blood, and as Titus does the same, he looks at Felicity with a grin filled with fake pity. “So sorry, dear cousin, you seem to have just the worst luck.” 

“That’s what you think, Titus,” she grunts, snatching her husband away as soon as she’s able to.  

It should bring you relief to know that Titus will be the one taking the field. He’s the most experienced with duels, after all. He’s the violent twin. He’s the one just as brutal as you are.  

But. 

Somewhere in the back of your mind, the image conjured up by your dreams, your nightmares, of him laying in the grass covered in his own blood, fills your every sense.  

+ 

The Master Suite is dark, with only the light of the moon shining through the windows, and the orange glow from the fireplace. Titus sits on the edge of the bed, securing the buckles of his black hunting gloves to his wrists. You stand against the door across from him, as you have been for the last twenty minutes, silently watching him prepare. 

On the way up to the room, Titus had tried to comfort you, to joke around and point out that you wanted to see him fight, but your anxiety prevented you from finding the humor in it. When you entered your quarters, you’d given him a big kiss, held on as tight as you could to his arms, his neck, his face, memorizing every piece you could with your touch. 

Now you lean against the door, taking in the look of your husband, scanning every inch with your eyes.  

“Think I’m going to break my duel record tonight, bet I could have him finished in under ten minutes,” Titus says, voice almost too casual for your current comfortability. “Sometimes I let them go on for fun, you know? I’ll let them run away and hide to build up the suspense, make it better for me when I finally get the kill, but I don’t think Fitz deserves that.” 

You don’t respond. The silence hums between you. Barely a breath escapes your lips. You don’t think it’s all that funny. 

He took off his tuxedo jacket, laid it carefully on the back of the vanity chair off to the side, but he’s kept on his white button up shirt and black dress pants. The chain you gave him glimmers in the light from the fireplace. Your eyes follow the path of it down his neck. 

Over his shoulders sits a black leather holster that holds two giant hunting knives that sit easily accessible on either side of his waist. His war hammer is strapped to his back, and he throws a bandolier around his shoulder as well, as he sits and loads an old family hunting rifle. 

You think he looks...well he looks fucking hot. First off. The way he carefully loads the rifle, clicking it into place and checking it over, the way his silver curls still sit perfectly styled, practically shining in the moonlight, the way he bites his bottom lip as he concentrates. It’s almost upsetting how sexy he is. 

“Little Lamb,” his voice breaks through the foggy silence of the room again, as he looks up at you. “Come here.” 

You glance at him with nerves you thought you’d left behind long ago. But you do as he asks, sliding into his lap, one hand around his shoulder, as the other pushes into his soft curls. His eyes flutter shut and he leans into your touch, smiling softly. You’ve done this a thousand times by now, calmed him by petting him, showing him an affection he hasn’t had since he was just a young boy. 

“Do you think you’re ready?” you ask, voice quiet. 

His eyes flash open, and he looks at you with a frown. “Baby, this is what I do. You have nothing to worry about.” 

“I’m not I just...Felicity was saying some things...” 

Titus snorts. “Yeah, I’m sure that bitch was saying lots of things to get in your head, but you shouldn’t—” 

“She’s doing the mating ritual.” You say bluntly. “You heard what she said—" 

“She’s not doing shit because that man is not making it off the grounds alive,” Titus says sternly. He gently pushes a stray strand of your hair back behind your ear, leather-covered thumb caressing the soft skin of your cheek. “I know you like to think it’s you, but I'm the strongest in this family. I’ve been waiting for a chance to really show you what I can do.” 

And that finally earns a little smile from you. “Well...when you put it that way...” 

“Mhm,” Titus hums with an amused grin. “I know you want to see me rip that man apart. I know I’m bringing all this, but I’ll do my best to strangle the life from him with my bare hands, I know that’s what you really want to see.” 

An excited shudder races up your spine, as you let out a shaky breath, heat blooming between your thighs. “Fuck, yeah, I really, really do.” 

“Course you do,” Titus chuckles, tightening his grip on you, fingers denting into your jaw, just on the edge of pain that you love. “I’ll make sure to give the cameras a good angle when I choke him out, but I don’t know actually...I could kill him like that, but wouldn’t it be more fun if he died bloody? Leave bits and pieces of him on the green for the grounds men to clean up.” 

Your body contracts at the thought, the image of Fitz spitting up his own blood in Titus’s hands. “Kill him however you want, just make it hurt.” 

“That’s my girl,” Titus grins, pulling you in for a kiss. 

You moan into it, slipping your tongue into his mouth and tasting the alcohol and cigar smoke leftover from tonight. Your teeth latch onto his top lip and you bite and pull hard, Titus whimpers as a cut is formed, and his blood drips into your mouth. You suck it in, eyes rolling back in your head from the taste that sends electric sparks deep into your body.  

You want him to feel it when he’s out there. You want him to touch it with his tongue while he fights to win the sacrifice, a physical reminder of who his blood belongs to. 

A soft alarm interrupts your kiss, much to both your annoyance. There’s only a couple minutes of prep time left, which means he has to make his way to the dueling ground. 

You slip off his lap to stand up, but Titus pulls you to him again, kissing the swell of your breast just above the line of your dress, before resting his head against your chest. He brings a hand up to your stomach, pressing his fingers into the soft fabric. “We can try again, you know. After I win, after I kill that motherfucker for you. Felicity was so nice to gather everything we need for it.” 

You suck in a breath, fingers finding the gold chain, and you gently pull it form under his shirt, twiddling with the pentagram nervously. “I-I’m not sure...” 

“It’s okay, sweet baby, you can decide during the duel and tell me after,” he says, standing up so he can tower over you, darkness filling his features. “Because I am coming back to you. I told you I would kill a hundred people for you, well I’d destroy this whole fucking world to be in your arms again. One pathetic man will never keep me from my Little Lamb.” 

+ 

The duelers are led out to the fields on the rear side of the Lodge, surrounded by hedges and tall trees, small bushes of flowers and soft lanterns lighting the paths. The first time you’d walked it with Titus, you thought it was so romantic, but now it stands as a field of death. 

The family members who wish to observe are taken to the club room, where a wall of various tv’s shows every single inch of the fields, in full high-definition color, with working microphones. A major improvement to past Danforth Wedding Duel viewings. 

You sit in the middle of the room, not trusting your feet to hold you up enough to stand like everyone else.  

Ursula brings you a short glass filled with their finest Danforth Whiskey, neat. Something to calm your nerves. 

+ 

“Gentlemen, please take your beginning stances,” The Lawyer’s voice booms over a loud speaker across the field.  

Titus and Fitz stare at each other from about 50 yards away, Titus pulling up his rifle, and Fitz placing his hands on two handguns in his waist holster. It’s practically silent, barely a brush of wind or sound from forest animals to distract Titus from the blood pumping in his veins, rushing through and heating his body. 

“The duel will begin in 3...2...—” The sound of a grand clock striking midnight rings throughout the club room and the field, and instantly after the first bell tolls comes the sound of a gunshot. 

Titus shoots a second time, swearing to himself, as Fitz dodges by rolling to the ground. Titus gets another shot off, and then loads another as he stomps across the field, teeth gritted as he watches Fitz roll towards the tree line. 

“Fuck,” Titus hisses, shooting again as he watches Fitz duck behind a tree, missing again. He was expecting a little bitch of a challenge, was hoping for it so he could really give you a show, but he didn’t expect Fitz to be so quick. Titus catches him leaning over to try to get a look out at him, and aims quickly before shooting again, splintering the tree but missing Fitz again. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.” 

+ 

“Fitz is so fast, he was on multiple Olympic track teams, you know? And All State in high school and college,” Felicity brags, earning interested hums from the other families in the room. She looks down at you with a pleased smirk, basking in positive attention for once.  

You want to scream. You want to throw the glass in your hand at her and slit her throat open with the shards. You want to get in her face and remind her that Titus is a monster. He’s killed dozens of men and women like Fitz. 

But you stay in your seat, downing the last drops of the whiskey as your eyes stay glued to the screens.  

Ursula gives a nod, and an attendant comes over to fill the glass again. 

+ 

As Titus goes to load his rifle for the third time, he hears a rustling from the trees, and looks up just in time to see Fitz raising his own guns at him. Titus drops to the ground before Fitz can get a shot off, pulling the rifle into his chest and rolling onto his front.  

He squeezes an eye closed and aims again, this time managing to hit one of Fitz’s guns out of his hand. 

“Ahh! Fuck!” Fitz shouts in pain, dropping the smashed gun to the ground. His hand burns, wrist stinging, and he quickly leans back behind the tree as he clenches that fist shut. His face breaks into an amused smile. “Good shot, old man!” 

“Not that much older...” Titus mumbles, loading another round into the rifle. He shoots towards Fitz’s tree again, more as a warning shot to keep him back than anything actually meant to maim. 

With Fitz still stunned, Titus takes the opportunity to jump up from the ground and run to the trees. He's not going to go right for the other man, he’s still got one good gun, and inside the forest it’s going to be harder to get a clear shot with his own gun, but he wants to get closer. He can do the most damage with his hands. 

He doesn’t bother to stay quiet as he moves through the trees, wants Fitz to know he’s coming, and when he circles enough to spot the man leaning up against the trunk, Titus raises his gun with a smirk. “Gotcha.” 

“Fuck,” Fitz swears, eyes wide as he ducks again, just in time for Titus’s shot to hit the spot on the tree right where his face had been a second ago. He yelps as he lands on his bruised wrist, but manages to still himself in time to get a couple shots off his other gun. 

One of which rips right past Titus’s arm, grazing the skin with a painful force that enough to knock him over. “Ahh!” Titus yells, dropping his rifle and grabbing at his arm, where a small cut bleeds through the white of his shirt. He pulls his hand back to stare at his own blood, eyes dark with anger. “Little punk.” 

There’s no time to sit a stew over it, because Fitz starts shooting again, and Titus twists his body behind another thick tree, chest heaving and jaw tight.  

The gun goes off until it’s out of bullets, and Fitz is swearing and throwing it to the side. 

+ 

“Ha! First blood spilled tonight is Titus!” Felicity giggles, the sound like nails on a chalkboard to you. “Perhaps my dear cousin has lost his touch.” 

You’re on your feet in half a second, without even thinking, eyes wild as you stare her down with barely contained rage. You want to scream that actually the first to spill Titus’s blood tonight was you. In a kiss, the only way it should be spilled, in an act of love. By the only one who deserves it. The one who owns his blood, his soul, his heart. You’re about to leap across the room to strangle her, when Ursula shoves you down by the shoulder. 

She leans down and whispers right into your ear. “You cannot touch her until the duel is over. Get it together.” 

With a deep breath, you close your eyes, and remained in your seat, fingers going white where they grip the glass. 

+ 

With no way of knowing what else Fitz has armed himself with, Titus uses the moments of near silence to take his chance, and break into a run towards the other man. He jumps over bushes and fallen branches, ignoring the leaves and little twigs that scratch at him as he runs, raising his rifle again.  

He shoots again once Fitz is in view, just barely missing the man’s shoulder, and then he’s on him. Titus grips the barrel end of his rifle, smashing it into Fitz’s cheek, a loud crack echoing from the breaking of the man’s nose. 

“FUCK!” Fitz yelps, ducking a grabbing his nose, his own blood pooling in his hand. He manages to dodge Titus’s next hit, grabbing the rifle and using all of his strength to keep Titus from hitting him with it again.  

They both groan from the exertion of fighting for control over the rifle, teeth gritted and voices rumbling. Fitz is able to win out, twisting the rifle in Titus’ hands, forcing him on his back on the ground, and Titus lets go. He quickly rolls away, as Fitz lets out a wild yell, throwing the useless rifle somewhere far off into the woods.  

“Nice try, old man—" 

Titus scoffs at the taunt again, spitting up at Fitz, the saliva staining his cheek. As he stands again, he reaches to his sides, hands gripping both of the large, serrated hunting knives.  

The light from the moon is bright as it shines through the trees, combined with the orange and yellow glow emitting from the Lodge. It’s enough for the high-tech cameras to catch all the action, but to Fitz’s human eyes, Titus’s silhouette comes through as a hulking figure, something monstrous. Something not human at all. 

Fitz blanches, eyes widening as he wipes the spit from his face and backs up. His hands shake as he reaches behind, swallowing a large lump in his throat. 

“Talk all the shit you want, one of us has won dozens of these duels, and the other is a fucking idiot who thinks a few little tricks are going to impress Le Bail.” Titus’s voice is low, gravelly, menacing. It almost sounds like two voices in one, the other growing from somewhere deep within the fires of his soul. 

+ 

You stand up, eyes wide as you walk closer to the TVs, with your free hand you press your finger on a screen with an overhead shot of your husband. Even from all the way out here, you can see his true form. The shadows make it seem like he’s walking through black smoke, the knives in his hands shine, and you wish more than anything that you could have a closer view.  

What you wouldn’t give to be standing alongside him, still allowing him to take the lead in the right, but able to see every detail of his power up close. 

Behind you, a few murmurs reach your ears, Felicity snickering and goading them on. They’re all watching you in this trance, and they’re...laughing. Taunting you like they’d done during the reception. 

Your hand clenches, and you turn back to her, straightening your spine with your jaw clenched. “Your husband looks a little scared,” and your gaze moves to the other cousins that had dared to join her side for even just one small moment, “don’t you think?” 

Several faces fall from their smiles, terror growing in their places, as the cousins all look away, nodding to agree with you instead. 

+ 

Fitz backs up with that same wide-eyed expression, injured hand held up in the air, not in surrender but rather to keep some sort of barrier between them, while the other remains behind his back. His back hits the trunk of a massive tree, thick and winding and old, and he sucks in a breath. 

“Enjoy your final moments kid, I know I will,” Titus smirks, stopping only a meter away from the man, holding one of his knives up in line with his face. 

He slashes the knife, Fitz yelps and ducks, and Titus slashes again, managing a deep cut on the man’s arm as he tries to get away. But before Titus can strike again, Fitz pulls the weapon he’d had hidden behind his back, an antique crossbow. 

“Or I’ll enjoy yours, fucking bastard!” Fitz yells, carelessly shooting his first arrow. 

It swipes past Titus’s face, sharp point just barely grazing his cheek, a line of red staining his freckled skin as he hisses. His eyes narrow as he wipes the blood with the back of his fist, keeping his knife raised as a shield against the next arrow flying towards him. 

He breaks into a run in a circle around Fitz’s body, avoiding the barrage of arrows that follow in quick succession.  

Once behind Fitz, Titus launches into him, slashing his bad arm with the knife again, cutting deep, and blood splatters onto both Titus and the ground. 

Fitz screams in pain, but he gets upright again, running in the opposite direction. Titus throws one of the knives this time, nailing Fitz right in the leg, and the cut is deep as Fitz reaches down to yank it out.  

“Get back here and fight me like a fucking man, you pathetic little child,” Titus screams as he chases after him. Fitz disappears into the dark of the trees and Titus stops short, chest heaving as his breaths come out ragged, a tiny smile on his lips. A little droplet of blood trickles down his cheek from the little cut, but he can barely feel the pain from it now. “Where the fuck are you?” 

+ 

Anger boils from somewhere deep in your belly at the sight of your husband’s blood trailing down his beautiful face. You have half a mind to turn around and take it out on Felicity, who has gone back to postering about her man. 

But everything else about Titus is so fucking erotic to you. The power he displays, the lack of fear, the hunger that had flashed in his eyes when he’d spilled Fitz’s blood. Your body heats up, eyes growing black, and you bite your lip to keep from moaning. 

+ 

Titus stays low as he moves through the trees, eyes scanning the shadows to find any sign of Fitz hiding from him. He really thought this was going to be a harder fight. 

A soft crack sounds from behind Titus, and he snaps his body around to chase it, grunting and growling, like a feral wolf zeroing in on its prey.  

Another arrow zooms by, and Titus knows he’s close by the sound of the crossbow clicking coming to his ears. He runs through a row of trees and into a clearing, where Fitz is crouched on is good knee, teeth gritted as he does his best to keep his strength up and shoot off a few more arrows. He yells a cry like a falling warrior as he presses the trigger over and over again, until finally he runs out of amo. 

Before he gets a chance to reload, Titus throws his other knife, and it lands smack into the mouth of the crossbow, rendering it useless. Fitz swears, loud and broken and desperate, as he throws the crossbow as hard as he can at Titus. 

It hits him roughly on the shoulder, a few splinters of wood cuts into his skin through the thin dress shirt, but Titus isn’t deterred.  

He has one weapon left, but he’s saving it. 

Fitz clearly came unprepared, as he scrambles to his feet and runs at Titus full force, no more weapons for him to choose from on his person. At the last second, Fitz throws a handful of rocks at Titus’s face, who squeezes his eyes shut for only a millisecond to avoid being blinded. 

But’s just enough time for Fitz, Titus grunting from the pain, and then Fitz is on him. 

+ 

You gasp as you watch Fitz tackle your husband to the ground, and their hands meet in the air, Titus pushing up and Fitz trying to break free from his grip to punch him. 

“There we go,” Felicity says delightfully, smacking her lips. “Titus really is out of practice, this is where my Fitz really shines. I’m going to enjoy this very much.” 

You rear around again, and again Ursula stops you, stepping between your body and Felicity’s. “Ignore her. This is where Titus shines too.” 

+ 

Titus is able to launch Fitz back off his body, and both men race to their feet, raising their fists. 

It’s Titus who makes the first move, swinging a hard punch to Fitz’s left, then following it with an uppercut when the first attempt is dodged, nailing him in the jaw.  

Fitz yells, then starts swinging wildly. Both men exchange blows, and punch to the cheek, to the nose, both bruising spitting out their own blood, but neither really getting the upper hand. 

Again, Fitz launches into Titus, yelling through the pain of Titus punch him over the shoulder as he uses all his strength to force the man into the closest tree. Titus’s back hits it with a heavy thud, and his head snaps back, smacking against the trunk as well, sending him reeling. 

Finally, for the first real time tonight, Fitz gets the upper hand in the fight. He knees Titus in stomach, doubling him over, and he spits blood down at the man with a triumphant grin. He grabs Titus by the hair, yanking his neck back, slamming his face into the tree, the wood cutting more little lines into his skin. 

+ 

“No,” you whisper, raising a hand to your lips. It’s not supposed to be like this. The cut you gave Titus is still the biggest bruise left there on his lip, but the sight of his blood spilled by someone else gives you flashbacks to that sleepless night. 

Behind you, Felicity giggles. “Yes.” 

+ 

Fitz tosses Titus on the ground, kicking him in the stomach as hard as he can while he’s down. “This is who I was supposed to worry about? Huh?” 

“Fuck you,” Titus coughs, choking blood up from his throat, still dizzy from the hits to his head.  

“Pathetic old man,” Fitz growls. He grabs Titus by the neck, one hand wrapped tight around it and he rears the man up, bringing them face to face again. “All this for your cunt sister? And that whore wife of yours...thinks she’s one of us? What could you possibly know what to do with a pretty young thing like that, anyway? From what we heard, you couldn’t even knock her up. Useless.” 

And that... that breaks Titus out of his daze real quick. Words against him and Ursula are an annoyance at best, but you? No sleazy piece of shit, lower than dirt human will raise their tongue against you and expect to live. Titus’s heart starts pumping double time, and he sucks in deep breaths, hands clenching into white knuckled fists at his sides. 

“Maybe before we’ve drained you, I’ll ask Le Bail if I can keep her for myself. As soon as I win, I’ll make it a command that I can have as many wives as I please,” Fitz says with a low, menacing laugh. “Already got Felicity so I can have the power, I’ll take your sister, and your little bride. Show her what it’s like to have a real man.” 

The moment of taunting laughter from Fitz is all Titus needs to make his move. He punches hard down on the knife wound on Fitz’s leg, grabbing it and squeezing, as the man’s scream rips through the night, and he lets go of Titus’s neck. 

Cracking the exhaustion out of his neck, Titus slowly stands tall, towering over Fitz’s pitiful body, and he reaches over his shoulder to pull out his final weapon.  

The Warhammer comes down hard on Fitz’s already injured leg, smashing the bone to bits and breaking it entirely. The man’s strangled cry is music to Titus’s ears, and he licks his lips.  

The hunger grows in his belly, the scent of blood and bones floods his senses. Titus’s body starts to vibrate, the sickly sweet adrenaline coursing through his veins causing a smile to break out on his face. The shadows and moonlight create an image, to both Fitz and you watching through the screen, of an angel of death. 

+ 

“Shit!” Felicity screams, throwing a glass on the ground from her own bratty frustration, the fragments shatter across the floor. “It’s not fair!” 

Her snooty, bragging smile had left the moment Fitz started talking about taking you as a wife. She knew not only did he mean it, but that saying it to Titus would mean his end.  

You had twisted with disgust in your throat, but it’s reformed into something completely different now. You watch as Titus raises his warhammer, and slams it directly into Fitz’s ribs, and the crunch of bones is so loud you can hear it through the camera’s microphone.  

Your eyes go wide in an eager smile, saliva forming under your tongue. Your thighs clench and you know you’ve soaked through your panties already. 

+ 

The sound of bones breaking echoes through the trees, as Titus jams the warhammer into Fitz’s spine, most likely snapping it in two.  

Titus lets out a thrilled laugh as he watches Fitz crumble in front of him, and he drops the weapon to the ground. There’s still a little bit of life left in the man, but Titus will snuff that out soon. 

He rips his leather gloves off with his teeth, pocketing them before wrapping both hands around Fitz’s neck. There’s no fight left in Fitz’s fading eyes, as Titus squeezes his throat, crushing the veins under his hands. He wants to feel the life fade from Fitz without a barrier. Small, choked out breathes escape the man’s lips, eyes and skin turning red from the blood vesicles popping, tongue lolling out to the side. 

“You’re a worm of a man and I am a fucking god,” Titus groans, voice deep, dark. “You’re never gonna get these hands on my wife. Or yours ever again.” Then Titus brings his lips right to Fitz’s ear, hissing as he declares, “I’ll see you in hell, when I come to rule it.” 

His hands press down on the man’s throat until he hears a distinct crunch, and all the light leaves his eyes, as a final breath is caught between the bones. 

His body falls to the ground with a heavy thud. 

+ 

Felicity lets out a roaring scream, falling to the ground in a fit of tears. 

You bring your whiskey back up to your lips with a satisfied, needy smile. 

+ 

After a few moments of staring down at Fitz’s spent body, blinking as he takes in the pathetic form of his latest victim.  

Then, without much more thought, Titus picks up his warhammer again, fingers tapping the handle before wrapping around it tight. He knows there’s a camera hidden in the tree right across from him, and somewhere in the clubroom where you’ve been forced to wait, you’d have the perfect view of him. You saw every part of it. You heard the vile things this piece of meat had to say about you. 

He raises the warhammer above his head, and lets out an animalistic yell as he brings it down on Fitz’s head, smashing his skull to bits. The blood splatters up on him, staining his white shirt with beautiful red splotches, and smattering over his face in an arching pattern. 

Titus looks right down the camera, as though piercing right through to your eyes, and he licks his lips.  

+ 

The glass presses into your bottom lip as your mouth is dropped open, eyes wide and hungry, staring at how your husband eviscerated Fitz’s skull with his warhammer. 

“You’re drooling,” Ursula slyly whispers, smirking. 

“Yup,” is all you can say, attention never leaving the screen. You want to get this part over with. You stare at the screen at Titus, covered in blood, looking like a demonic king. His muscles ripple through the lines of his shirt, and you want to get your hands on him more than anything. You want to scratch down his chest, leave red marks with your nails, spill his blood onto your hands, and then you want to clean him off with your tongue. 

Ursula giggles, “Gross.” 

She glances over at Felicity, who is sobbing hysterically, hand covering her mouth as she watches in horror, as for the second time in her life, Titus Danforth has killed her husband. “You are fucking monsters, all of you!” 

Ursula starts to take a step to her, but you beat her to it, finally dropping the glass and forcing her to move back until she hits a wall. “You’re pathetic for ever thinking you and that piece of garbage could take our place. We have the High Seat, not because Titus and Ursula were lucky to have been born to the right branch of the family, and not because I got lucky being thrown at them like a fucking sacrificial lamb. We have it because we are the strongest and the most vicious. Le Bail doesn’t settle for anything less. You are a lesser being.” 

Felicity’s mouth opens and closes a few times, but no words of response seem to come. Her hands clench at her sides, fingernails like claws that look ready to pounce. And as much as she’s allowed to do it, she knows very clearly now that it’s a fight she will lose. 

“Now, now Danforths,” The Lawyer’s chipper voice breaks through the tension. His smile reaches wide to his ears and all the way into his teeth, toothy like a cat. “We must retire to the Black Temple and complete the rituals. Mr. Le Bail does not want to be kept waiting.” 

The room begins to clear out, with Felicity running out first, wiping the tears from her eyes, sobbing and calling for her mother. The others look at you, eyes full of fear and reverence, and you just know they finally get it. Not only are you one of them, you’re the best of them. 

“If only Titus got to see that,” Ursula whispers to you with a wink. “Come on,” she says, wrapping her arm in yours, and guiding you out of the room. 

You give her a smile, but your mind is elsewhere. It races with images of the fight, memories of every night you’ve spent with Titus, the feeling of how your power has grown within your own body, thanks to yourself, yes, but through him. Your mind is made up. 

+ 

By the time you enter the Black Temple, it’s already filled with about fifty other Danforth family members, the ones who wanted to be there for the final part of the ritual.  

Titus stands in the middle of the room, Fitz’s dead body laying on the ground with a trail of dark red blood from where Titus had dragged him into the room. He hasn’t bothered to clean any of the blood off his face or arms, he knows this is how you’ll want to see him, the spoils of his fight. 

And your breath is taken away as you emerge at the top of the stairs, giddy and buzzing and relieved, and so fucking turned you feel aggressive. You want to scream at everyone to leave so you can rip Titus’s blood covered clothes from his body and take his cock in your mouth or you pussy or wherever he wants you, however he wants you. 

You run down the steps, Danforths parting left and right to stay out of your path, and you leap into his arms. Not a care is given to the blood that now stains your lilac gown, as you catch him in a deep kiss, tongue licking into his mouth, teeth biting down on the mark you’d given him, as you both whine into it.  

You give no thought to your audience, as you glide your fingers into his soft hair, sweaty and wild from his duel. He smells like the woods, the blood, his own natural musk, and you just want to get your tongue all over him. You want to kiss the cuts on his cheek and arm, the bruises on his body that someone else put on him, replace every single one with a mark of love from you.  

This is how he felt the night you got married, and had traced over every war wound you’d received.  

A cough comes from behind you, not impatient, just the Lawyer trying to move things along. Ursula appears at your sides, giving Titus a soft pat on the back. 

Titus carefully lets you down, but keeps you close in his arms as the Lawyer goes through the steps of the ritual. He leads the room in a few chants, a few Hail Satans, and he pulls out the ceremonial knife, handing it to Titus. 

With a devious smile directly to Felicity, who stands angrily staring the three of you with her jaw clenched, Titus drags what’s left of Fitz over to the open goat pit. He holds the body just over the mouth of the pit, yanking the neck back so it’s exposed, and as The Lawyer reads the last of the rites, Titus slits the skin of its neck, and fountains of blood pours into the pit. 

The room breaks into a chant of HAIL SATAN! And the fires of the wall sconces, candles, and grand fireplace grow to greater heights. 

The last drops of blood are drained from the body, and Titus kicks it into the pit, then raises his knife in a triumphant pose, as cheers break out through the room.  

Your eyes shine as you take in the scene, the entire family giving praise and thanks to a successful duel. The whole reason they’re all still standing here and not blown to bits of bloody goo, is because Titus won. That is who the three of you are to the Danforth clan. It’s more than just head of a family or a kings and queens. 

Your heart thumps deep in your chest, and you wrap a dainty hand around Titus’s hard bicep, bringing his attention back to you. And he can see it in the rise of your chest, the look of sheer hungry fire in your eyes. You need him.  

“Mr. Danforth, congratulations on another successful duel, Mr. Le Bail is very proud, you of course have his approval again,” The Lawyer says, as you both turn back to him. His eyes meet yours again. “Both of you.” 

You suck in a breath, gaze moving to the set of shelves just beyond him, to the heart candle and ritual materials that Felicity had gathered. “Titus,” you sigh, tugging on his bloody sleeve, looking up him with a pleading expression. “Titus...I can’t wait any longer.” 

A puzzled frown settles on your husband’s face for just a moment, until he realizes what you mean, and the excitement blooms as heat in his chest. “You sure, Little Lamb?” 

You nod, then look over at Felicity, who stares pitifully down into the pit. “Just one more thing, and then...” 

As though reading your mind, Titus cuts you off with a kiss, placing the family knife in your hand. 

“Everyone OUT!” Titus shouts, hand tracing up your back, thumb rubbing impatiently on your skin. 

“Not you, Felicity,” you snap, as she tries to leave through the crowds of family members. A few stray eyes remain on the group of you, but they all know better than to try to stop what will inevitably happen next. 

Ursula is the one who blocks her path, twisted smile on her face. She understand what the two of you had planned, but she’s the one who’s been waiting decades for it. “Sorry, did you think you would be walking away from this?” 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Felicity spits. Mascara has run down her face, her lipstick is smudged where she’d rubbed it around while crying, and her hair sits out in wild strings.  

She’s never looked worse. Ursula is so happy. But she waits until the other witnesses from the family have left you all alone. “Those things you were saying to my dear sister-in-law today about her and Titus, and me even? In fact, the shit you’ve been saying about me for years? You’re done getting away with it. You are the weakest, most pathetic, branch of the family tree, and we are done trying to nourish you.” 

“I wanted to cut you off years ago, after your first marriage, actually,” Titus says with a shrug. “But this guy today? Wow. You really know how to pick ‘em. You weren’t even good enough for him alone, you heard what he said about taking my wife and my sister? That thing didn’t even like you that much.” 

You giggle as you watch the red hot anger seep into her expression. Titus gives you a small pat on the back, encouraging you to step forward. That feeling deep inside, that voice that goads you on, reminds you how good it feels to split someone’s skin, to take a life, it is screaming at you. It fills your veins with electric venom, and you look to The Lawyer for quick approval. 

He smirks and you and bows his head. 

“We’re allowed to kill family members.” 

The last thing you see before pure red and white fills your vision is the look of horror on Felicity’s face, the last thing you hear is her blood curdling scream echoing through the temple. You black out completely, and when you come to, Felicity’s body lays at your feet, twenty stab wounds covering her, red blood staining her wedding dress and your own, the knife clangs to the ground. 

The feeling of Titus’s hand on your back brings you back. “Wonderful, my little lamb, I’m so proud of you.” 

Ursula kicks Felicity’s body into the pit with her husband’s, and then brushes her hands clean. “Well, that was our best wedding since...well yours I guess. Mr. Lawyer, shall we? I think the happy couple needs some alone time.” 

She reaches out a hand and The Lawyer takes it, assisting her in exiting up the stairs. Ursula throws you one more wink, before shutting the grand doors behind her, leaving the two of you alone. 

There’s only one second of quiet, one humming pause in the room filled with thick tension, before Titus is on you. 

His mouth crashes into yours and his hands grab all over, digging into the fabric of your dress, mixing the blood stains from Fitz and Felicity. Titus pulls down on your dress until it pools at your feet, and you’re surprised he didn’t just rip it to shreds.  

You’re about to make a joke about it, when Titus lifts you and carries you over to the alter table, biting down on your neck. He whimpers at the taste of blood on your skin, and places you down gently. You moan at the feeling of his warm, hard body against yours. 

It’s all frantic, the way you grab at each other, the way you kiss and bite all over, the way your hands push at the leather holster on his shoulders. You shove it to the ground with a clunk, then grab at his blood-stained white shirt, the force of which pulls apart the buttons.  

With a whimper, Titus lets you rip the shirt open and scratch down his chest, as your lips move to kiss over each little cut left by the trees on his cheek.  

Mournfully, Titus pushes back, just by a foot, to get a better view of you. Both your chests are heaving, rising and falling from the rapid breaths you both release, the same rapid beating of your hearts, but he can’t take his eyes off the white lingerie set, lacy and soft, that you put on just for him. 

“You look like an angel,” he says breathlessly, eyes full of awe. 

Even if you weren’t covered in little splotches of blood, you’d still find the comparison to be hilariously ironic, in a place like this. You reach out, fingers wrapping around the pendant you gave him, and you tug him forward with the chain, pulling his warmth back into you. Your tongue licks at the cut you’d left on his lip.  

“Titus, stay with me,” your voice is low, velvety. You link your free hand with his, spread your legs just slightly, and bring the hand between them. “When I was watching you out there...fuck. It was everything I wanted, everything I thought you’d be. You’re so fucking strong, so fucking terrifying, my big powerful man.” 

“Yeah?” A wicked, toothy smile breaks on your husband’s face, eyes wild. “I look like a monster?” You’re nodding before he even finishes asking. He flattens two fingers against the thin layer of lace that covers your slit, soaked through completely. “That monster is all yours. I told you I would kill for you, my love. They could make me fight a gauntlet of a hundred fucking useless vipers like that thing, and I’d destroy them all for you.” 

“I know,” you moan. “I loved it. Everyone in that room could see it, they all knew what I wanted to do you, to thank you...to reward you.” 

“You don’t need—" 

“Shh,” you let go of his hand, press those fingers to his lips instead. A shudder runs through you when he reacts by rubbing his fingers up and down your pussy, and your hips buck into him, voice cracking when you continue. “Titus, I want to try again. It’s all I could think about watching you. I wanted you so bad, I was ready to rip my clothes off and run through those woods completely naked so you could fuck me next to his body, I didn’t care who was watching.” 

“Fuck,” Titus’s voice shakes, and his eyes roll back, body contracting even closer to yours. 

“I’m ready to try again, you were right,” you whimper, yanking harder on his chain to pull his attention back to you. “She brought everything here for us. We gave Mr. Le Bail two sacrifices, showed him why we’re the strongest, the most worthy of holding his high seat,” your face falls down into a pout, “and I want you to fuck me, like how you killed your prey, here in the temple you built for me.” 

And Titus hears it in your voice but there’s something else in it. Something rumbling and shadowy under the words, something reverberating in your voice. Something pulls him into a trance, mind zeroed in on only you. 

“Yes, Little Lamb, let’s make an heir.” 

It’s cold when Titus rips himself from your body, running quickly to the shelf to grab the materials, and you rush to grab the knife from the ground. You hear Titus mumbling out the spells as he draws a messy pentagram with chalk in the center of the table. There’s no careful placement of materials tonight, no ceremony about it, Mr. Le Bail will have to forgive you. 

Titus’s fingers shake as he lights a match to set the heart candle ablaze. When everything is set, as good as it’s going to get tonight, he pulls you into a deep kiss, ripping the bralette from your body. He just can’t stop himself from leaning down and wrapping his lips around one of your nipples, as your back arches into his touch. 

You tear the rest of his shirt off, careful not to irritate the cut on his arm from the fight. His mouth doesn’t leave, moaning and whimpering as he sucks the hardened nub into his mouth. One of your hands slides into his hair, scratching at his scalp, holding him to you for just a little longer. 

He finally lets go and snatches the knife from you, quickly pricking both of your fingers, kissing you as he draws the symbols on your bodies; a pentagram on his chest and one over your womb. 

You reach down to unbuckle his belt, and you’re about to wrestle him out of his pants, when the memory of a sick thought from earlier shows back up in your mind.  

“Titus, c-could you, um,” you bite your lip, almost too excited to even say it. 

“What, Baby? Whatever you want, you can have.” 

“Can you wear the gloves?” 

A devious smirk cracks onto Titus’s face, and he stands up straighter, looking down at you curiously. There’s no argument when he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the black leather gloves he’d dawned earlier, eyes never leaving your aroused face as he carefully slips them back on. Titus leans over you until your body hits the edge of the alter table, and your back arches on it. His hands land flat on the table on either side of you, strong, muscled arms bracketing your body, trapping you. 

“You want me to fuck you with these on? Oh, Baby,” He laughs, cruel and teasing, and so fucking turned on. “What me to bruise you with these on? Hm?” He grabs your face and you moan at the feeling of the rough leather on your jaw, eyes shutting from the pleasure. “Want me to treat you like a piece of meat? Like some thing I’m hunting in the forest? Can I spank you with these on too? Hm? Bet it’ll be so much easier to mark you up with leather rather than just my hands. That what you want?” 

“Yes,” you whine, grabbing at his forearms, not to move him, but rather because you already feel your legs going weak, and you need the anchor. “Please, Titus.” 

He does what you want, rears back his hand to give a slap on the cheek. It's lighter than what he’d normally do, but you still react beautifully to it. You let out a quick squeak, eyes going wide but dark, wanting, and your body pulses from the impact. 

“Fuck, look at you,” Titus moans, and he suddenly turns you around, pushing your front onto the table. “So needy for it,” he says, voice quiet, mostly to himself, and full of admiration. Somehow, a small part of him still can’t believe someone like you exists, just for him. He drops to his knees behind you, and tugs your panties down your legs, wrapping them around his wrist for safe keeping. “So needy for me.” 

He slaps your ass, and the leather creates such a delicious sting on your skin. You hiss and he spanks you again, then gives one of your cheeks a quick bite as he stands back up. That makes you gasp and squeak again, and you look over your shoulder at him, eyes wet and pleading.  

You don’t get a chance to beg before he’s spanking you in that same spot again, and as the skin heats, you just know a deep mark is already starting to form. You whimper as he hits you again and again, pussy leaking as you writhe into his touch. 

His hand comes down for the umpteenth time, you haven’t bothered to keep count, and then it grabs your ass, squeezing where he’s left a handprint on you.  

Then, digging his fingers in hard, Titus starts to rake his hand up to waist, and with both he leaves a deep trail on your skin with the gloves. The leather drags and leaves goosebumps as he slides up your sides, over your tummy, up to your chest to grope your breasts, and then back around to your back, up your shoulders, until they stop on the back of your neck. 

With a grunt, Titus, shoves you back down on the alter table, face pressed to the cool, onyx stone. His voice comes out low and scratchy, but with a steely resolve as he continues the ritual, “With thy assistance, may the seed grow in your wisdom and your strength.” 

Your fingers are flat on the alter table, and you feel him move quickly behind you, the sound of his buckle clinking open echoes through the room, reaching your ears like a melody. When Titus presses against you again, you shudder at the feeling of his dress pants on your thighs.  

He didn’t bother to take them off, he can’t wait any longer. He kicks your legs open more for him, and grabs you hard by the waist with one hand, while the other grips his cock. He rubs the head into your dripping entrance, biting his lip at the view of it glistening, overflowing for him. 

“With me, Baby,” Titus grunts, pushing the head of his dick inside you. 

You’re both breathless as he shoves his cock in all the way, chanting together, “Shemhamforash.” 

Titus whines at the feeling of your tight, hot pussy taking him in, practically whimpering as he follows up with, “Hail Satan.” 

He doesn’t give you a single moment to breathe before he’s pulling out and quickly driving back in, hips meeting your ass with a delicious slap. He’s spent the last ten months memorizing every little thing that drives you crazy, and he proves it every time he’s inside you.  

“Nobody could ever fill you like this,” Titus grunts, setting a brutal pace, as a hand slides up the ridges of your spine until it twists in your hair. He yanks you back hard, ripping a surprised yelp from you, then swats at your ass again. “Hmm? Who were you fucking made for?” 

“YouYouYouYouYou, Titus,” your voice breaks, cracking deliciously as you chant his name, already so taken apart by him.  

“That’s right, fucking made for me,” He shouts, voice cracking beautifully into a whimper, like he’s desperate to not only remind you, but any force or spirit that could be listening. “You’re mine, my fucking wife, and this is my soaked pussy, and I’m going to fuck you full of my fucking seed.” 

He’s fucking you hard enough to make it hurt, to make bruise, so you’ll feel it for weeks, just the way he knows you love. The way that always got you through when he had to leave you for business. The way that no other woman who’s ever taken him as been able to handle. None of them, no matter how rough he may have gotten, have ever had the true full force of Titus Danforth, but you’ve craved it since you’d met him. 

“Please, Titus, want it so fucking bad,” you mewl. “’m all yours.” 

Any other night, any other context, you’d be slapping him and shoving him back and showing him just how much he belongs to you too, but the ritual requires submission, and fuck it just feels so good to not have to think too much. 

But he already knows what you want to hear, and he’s always happy to show that he knows too. “’nd I’m yours, sweet lamb, body and soul. My sick little monster, I’ll give you everything in this world that you want.” He lets your hair go and you drop to the alter, as both his hands grip hard at your hips as he leans over your back, chain tickling your skin. “Money, homes, my cock, my love, a baby, you’ll have it all.” 

Adrenaline pumps through your veins in thunderous echoes, mouth dropped open as cries release freely. You must look like animals, like a pair of demonic mates fucking covered in blood, moaning and grunting in perfect harmony.  

Your eyes glaze over, only the feeling of his hard cock fucking hard into you, his fingers digging into your skin, his grunts like a drum beat, can break through the jolts of pleasure that ripple through you. 

Titus heaves in deep breath after breath, as his gravely, scratchy voice continues on with the latin parts of the ritual, drawing in the powers of the devil to fill you. The room grows hot as fires grown around you form every sconce and candle and the fireplaces. It’s as you remember from the first time you’d tried it, a new presence entering your space. Your cheek presses to the alter table as you look directly into the fire across from you. 

Even in your trance, your brain a fuzzy cloud consumed only by thoughts of Titus, eyes hypnotized by the flames dancing in front of them, you see something in the fireplace. 

There are eyes staring back at you. Eyes you’ve now seen a few times, and a crooked, fanged smile in the flames. This time you don’t stare in awe at him, no, your wide eyes are filled with determination. This time you beg him. 

“Please, please, please,” your voice is whiny and desperate, raw from screaming. “I want it so bad, I need it. Please,” your voice raises, both in volume and tone, and you wonder if Titus even registers your pleas are not for him. “Please, give us an heir.” 

Behind you, Titus only moans louder, hips hitting into you harder, hands gripping down on you harder, the pendant you gave him bounces against your back. He pulls you up to his chest, one hand wrapping around to hold you there by your tummy, the other glides up to grope at your breast, pinching your nipple between his middle and pointer finger. 

In front of you, Le Bail’s smile grows with the flames, as you feel the blood of your victims begin to shimmer and heat on your skin. This time, you feel a hand wrap around your throat and force you to look upwards.  

You can’t see him, there’s no face in flames looking back, but, as tears slip from the outer corners of your eyes, running in cold tracks down the side of your face, you hear a deep, velvety voice in your mind, “Ask me again.” 

“Please,” you choke out. “Give us an heir.” 

The hold releases and you feel something soft like lips kiss the center of your forehead. You hear laughter and crackling, like little sparklers going off all around you, and then the presence is gone. 

Titus is moaning in your ear, and he licks up one of your tears, lips staying at your temple. The movement of his body into yours hasn’t stopped or slowed down at all, as though he wasn’t aware anyone else was here with you. His hand takes its own place on your neck, forcing you back to look at him instead, finding your eyes distant. “You with me, Little Lamb?” 

“Yes,” you moan, touching your own hand to his, putting enough force to let him know you want him to squeeze down. 

He does so, face twitching into pure admiration, and he cuts off the supply of air and blood to you for a few seconds before releasing, taking in your heaving breaths with a kiss.  

Finally, his rhythm becomes erratic. He shoves you back onto the alter and reaches his hand between your legs. The feeling of thick leather rubbing circles onto your clit sends charges of pleasure up your spine. Your cunt flutters, legs shaking as a peak builds in your stomach, and your breath comes out high and breathy as Titus takes you closer and closer to the edge. 

“With me, baby, with me,” he whimpers, “Come with me while I fill you, sweet girl, fuck, come with me.” 

“Yes, yes, Ti, I-I,” you stutter, words trapped in your throat, and with one particularly hard slam into your cervix, you scream out your husband’s name, begging him to fill you, as your pussy clamps down tight on his cock, and you come with a loud cry. “Titus, fuck!” 

He swears, thrusting into you only a second later one last time, coming deep inside with a moan of your name, body convulsing as he fills you to the brim. “Oh, baby, my sweet lamb, shit, that’s it, took me so well, always take me like a good fucking girl.” 

The fires around you reach their great heights, and a rush of hot air bursts around you, before the lights drop back down again. 

You twitch and whine as you feel him empty in you, warmth filling you as your spent body deflates, and the two of you whisper in unison, “Hail Satan.” 

Your fingers curl up softly, tapping the table as though you’re trying to wake some life in you. Titus kisses up and down your spine, the back of your neck, your shoulders, as he removes the leather gloves and drops them to the ground. 

His bare hands soothe your arms and sides. The touch of his fingers makes you shiver, goosebumps form in their paths, and you wish you could just stay like this all night. You want to keep him inside you, warm his cock until he’s able to go again, maybe let you ride him on the table this time, not for the ritual, just because you want to. 

But you don’t have all night. Titus knows this as he pulls out, turns you so you’re facing him but leaning against the table. You start to let out a whine in protest when you feel him leak from you, a spike of anxiety over wasting it pierces your heart. He can feel that energy from you, and he shoves the come back inside with two fingers. 

The feeling is so good and so right you almost beg him to make you come again like this. 

“Hold on, baby,” his voice is soft, cutting through the needy madness in your mind. You bite your lip as you watch curiously while he unwraps your panties from his wrist with his teeth. Titus drops to his knees, looking up at you with a soft smile. “Lift your feet for me.” 

He peppers soft kisses on your knees as he slips your panties back on, lips trailing your legs, and he pulls his fingers out once they’re all the way in place. He kisses your lower stomach, right over your womb, humming his only silent plea to Mr. Le Bail, as you run your fingers through his sweaty, silver curls. 

“I know it worked this time,” he says softly. 

Just the smallest bit of fear remains in you. His lips meet the place on your tummy where, in your nightmare, Priscilla had pushed the knife in.  

But you shake that doubt out of yourself. Titus is looking up at you with that boyish wonder, that grin that makes him look so young, despite the crows feet around his sparkling eyes.  

“I think so too.” 

Your gaze trails around his body, over each of the freckles that stand out darker than others, the bruises and scratches, little leaking blood droplets from his injuries, and the blood left by his victim from the fight tonight. He must have felt some pain, right? It was a hard fight for a bit there, and Fitz got some blows in, so Titus...he must have been pushing down any pain, for you. 

Your place your hands on his cheeks and pull him until you’re the one looking up again. You kiss his jaw, trail your lips to his, and you both sigh into it.  

“Ti,” you say, rubbing circles on the little cuts on his cheek. “You always take such good care of me. Tonight, will you let me take care of you?” 

He looks unsure. “I was very rough with you—" 

“You won a duel to the death,” You interrupt, voice just as stern as the look you give him. “Now I’m not asking. You’re going to let me take care of you.” 

He purses his lips petulantly, pressing down any argument he’d very much like to make. “Fine.” 

You smile brightly, “Good. Better enjoy it while I’m feeling generous, you know. Because if it took, then for the next few months you’re going to be doing everything for me. Right, Daddy?” 

You’re pretty sure you feel his dick twitch where it’s pressing up against your thigh, and you smirk. 

“Down boy,” you whisper, pressing another kiss to his cheek. “Let’s get you cleaned up, and then we can talk about a round two in our suite. You know, just in case.” 

“Fuck, I love you,” Titus sighs, wrapping you in his strong arms and lifting you while you giggle. This is the you he was missing, sweet and playful and a little mean. And all his, most importantly. His little Lamb, his monster. 

+ 

DANFORTH COUPLE EXPECTING  

Mr. and Mrs. Danforth made an official pregnancy announcement, PEOPLE has confirmed. 

This is the first child for Titus Danforth, only son of late billionaire businessman and political lobbyist Chest Danforth, who passed a little over year ago. 

Mrs. Danforth is said to be in her first trimester, and everyone in the vast Danforth family has been extremely supportive of the couple. Ursula Danforth made a statement congratulating the couple on their “wonderful gift” on her Instagram and is said to be looking forward to transitioning to her new role of Aunt and most likely God Mother. 

The announcement comes as a light in a time of healing for the Danforth family, following the tragic death of the couple’s cousin Felicity and her new husband Fitz. The newlyweds had sadly passed the night of their wedding after crashing their vehicle off a bridge in what police suspect to be an incident of drinking and driving. Their bodies have not yet been recovered. 

“We are brought together as a family in the form of new life after a great loss.” Ursula Danforth concluded in her Instagram post. 

The couple are expecting this fall and are said to be very thrilled. 

⊹ ⊹

You drive in straight after work on Thursday, and show up at the house when it’s full dark out and you let yourself in. The light to your mom and Robby’s room is still on, but you slip into your own room and frown when you look in your dresser drawer for pajamas

The sweater from sports in high school, the holiday pj pants your mom had gotten you in college as a joke– all gone. You shrug and just strip down to your underwear and call that a tomorrow problem so you can just knock the fuck out after a long day.

In the morning, the closet is bare, too– the t-shirts you’d accumulated in college for random clubs and the knee-length cargo shorts you’d gotten from goodwill have disappeared. All that’s left is the daisy dukes that show your whole ass that your mother hates and lacy bras that are a size too small and the ribbed tank tops that cling to every curve.

You get dressed in that anyways and head downstairs, lured by the scent of pancakes. You pout when you go downstairs to find Robby in the kitchen in a bathrobe. He at least looks comfy.

“What’s wrong, kiddo?” He asks when he glances over his shoulder and sees your face.

“Most of my clothes are gone.”

He looks up like he’s thinking hard. “I think your mom might have cleaned some out to donate? Sorry, I should have double checked.”

He watches you carefully as you move around the house that morning– bending down to refill the dog’s water dish, which gives him a straight view of your cleavage in that top– and then again to to pick up his bone to throw it, which shows your ass cheeks that are practically hanging out of the ripped denim.

He curses under his breath when he gets the call that he has to go in– not surprising, given the holiday, but still– and you offer him a hug when he comes out of his room dressed in scrubs.

“Thanks, sweetie,” he says, and wraps his arms around you tighter than he ought to for just a polite good-bye. Honestly, you might have just forgotten that your mother isn’t here and that you’re not obligated to do this, but he’ll take it.

You’re asleep– in your underwear again, since it’s not like the skimpy shorts will do much of anything– by the time he gets home. Your door is cracked open so that the dog can come in and out if he wants, and he figures that it won’t do any harm the push the door open just a little further to get a glimpse of you in the sliver of light from the hallway.

Robby doesn’t see your eyes open just a little, he’s too wrapped up in looking at the rest of you and trying not to groan aloud.

⊹ ⊹

The next day you’re up first, and you return the favor of cooking, so you turn and smile at him when he comes in bleary-eyed in his robe again. 

“Good shift?” You ask, and pretend not to notice how his eyes sweep down you and realize that today you’d forgone the too-tight bra. You’d skipped any bra. In the cropped, undersized concert t-shirt he can see your nipples right through the fabric.

He nods, not trusting his voice for a second. “Slammed, but fine enough. I’m on call again, though. Sorry if I’m not very exciting company.”

You turn back to the eggs you were cooking. “I was here to relax, really. And nobody else in town is here, so I’m getting plenty of that done.”

After breakfast, he offers to clean up so you’re about to head out to the couch to read a book with the dog curled on your lap, but you turn back to say one last thing.

“I’m glad I came,” you tell him. “You’re still good company.”

Honestly, it’s the most time the two of you have ever spent alone, so he just watches you walk off without really knowing how to answer you. At least it’s a nice view, your shorts riding up again.

He doesn’t have to go to work, thankfully, so you have a quiet day together in a way that drives him mad. It’s a hell of his own making, but he wonders if he made the right choice when it seems like you are actively showing off. 

The two of you pick a movie to watch, and then you keep getting up, shuffling past him between the couch and the coffee table so that you don’t bother the dog where he’s sleeping on the other side.

You wince when the movie is over, and say that you must have slept wrong, and you ask if he knows how to make a muscle chill out. Robby tries to say massage calmly, nonchalantly, but you then sit closer to him and turn your back so that he can help you out.

When that’s done, and you sigh like a giant weight is off your chest, he shoves himself to his feet and heads off to his room.

That night, he thinks it’s over, and he vows to put your clothes back once you’re gone and not try this again, when you knock on his door.

“Come in,” he calls.

You walk in wearing an oversized t-shirt from your college– one that he knows he hadn’t left for you, and not something you could have just bought when you’d left for a little while in the afternoon.

“I’ll be heading out in the morning,” you say, and wait to see if he’ll say anything. You could have been wearing this the whole time, and he’s definitely figuring that out. 

He nods. “Drive safe, then.”

You pout again and step into the room. “Not gonna call my outfit pretty? You really ought to learn how to flirt.” Even with both of your outfits, he’d never commented on them. It had driven you up the wall, that he would stare but wouldn’t say anything.

If he wasn’t going to make a move, then you will.

“I… thought you didn’t bring anything.”

“No, you said I shouldn’t. But I packed. I just saw your game and you know what?” You walk closer to him, and it’s a victory that he takes off his readers and sets his book aside as you do. That you’re so mesmerizing that he is going to watch you now, especially since you’re practically giving him permission.

“What, kiddo?” Robby asks. Doesn’t even deny that he’d been playing some game.

“Michael Robinavitch.”

The way you pronounced his full name was a warning in and of itself, cold and heavy enough to slice through the ambient noise of the ER. You saw the exact second he heard you; his broad shoulders visibly flinched before he even turned around.

He stood from the rolling chair in the middle of the central hub, a stack of patient charts clutched in one hand.

“Don’t you dare walk away from me.” Second warning.

The effect was instantaneous. Everyone within a five-foot radius suddenly found an urgent reason to be elsewhere. Next to him, Donnie blew a sharp, low whistle. “Good luck, boss.” He tapped Robby’s shoulder with a sympathetic grin, moving away from the blast zone.

Robby dropped back into his chair with a heavy sigh, turning your way with creased brows and an expression that was entirely too innocent. “What did I do now?”

You marched straight into his space, stopping at the front of his chair and leaning your hip against the high edge of the nurses' station desk. Your arms crossed tightly over your chest, creating a physical barrier between you.

Around you, the ER kept moving in its usual frantic rhythm. Monitors beeped, a trauma page echoed overhead, and nurses and doctors walked a little slower as they passed the hub, trying—and failing miserably—to pretend they weren’t hanging on every word.

“I ask myself that every single day. What did Michael do now?” You were fuming. The heat of it was crawling up your neck, your heart thumping against your ribs like a trapped bird. “Is there a nurse shortage I haven’t heard about?”

He shrugged, leaning back and resting his interlaced fingers on his stomach, his brows creasing in practiced disinterest.

“Or why are you trying to get into our kids' teachers' pants?”

“What?” 

“Why the hell is Mila’s teacher asking me about the status of our marriage?” You spat the words, leaning down slightly into his space.

His eyes narrowed, a sudden sharpness cutting through his casual facade. “Is this a male or a female teacher?”

“Female, Michael. A very beautiful, very young female teacher.” Your voice might as well have been dripping with poison.

Robby’s lips twitched, a dangerous spark of amusement lighting up his eyes. “I—I don’t know? Maybe she wants to ask you out.” He teased, shifting his weight forward on the chair.

“I am not joking.” You swallowed hard, trying to force the rising panic and anger back down, desperate to regain some semblance of professionalism in the middle of your work place. “She asked me this morning if we were still married, because apparently, Mila’s dad has been aggressively flirting with her.”

Robby snapped upright, his boots hitting the linoleum floor with a loud thud as he stood. “I did not!”

“Listen, I don’t care who you sleep with, Robby, but keep your one-night stands away from our children.” The accusation tasted bitter. You turned sharply on your heel to walk away but his hand shot out. His fingers wrapped firmly around your elbow, stopping your tracks.

Your body jerked back into its previous position, but you didn't have time to recover your footing before he closed the distance. In a flash, he bracketed you against the desk, planting one heavy palm on the countertop on either side of your hips.

“Keep your voice down.” The order was delivered in a gravelly undertone meant for your ears alone.

Because of the sudden closeness and the sheer difference in your heights, you were forced to tilt your chin up, your eyes locking onto his. You could smell the sharp tang of hospital coffee and his familiar cologne.

He shrugged slightly, though his gaze didn't waver. “I might have teased her a little so she wouldn’t sign Mila a tardy.”

“Why was Mila late in the first place?” you counterattacked automatically, your hands coming up to press against his chest to keep him from crowding you further.

He leaned his face even closer, a shadow of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “Because you know I never speed with the kids in the car.”

You shoved him. Your hands laid flat against the solid plane of his chest, pushing with enough force to make him back up just enough so his elbows fully extended. But he didn't lift his hands. You were still completely trapped within his little bicep jail, the warmth of his body radiating over yours.

“Don’t do that, okay? Mila doesn’t need help with her grades, and we certainly don’t need the discount.”

“Wouldn’t hurt either,” he murmured, his eyes dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back up.

“Michael, I mean it. How would you feel if I started flirting with their pediatrician?” You tried to keep your tone even and level, masking the absolute urge to rip his handsome face off.

Robby didn’t even blink. “I’d apply for the job.”

You scoffed. An honest-to-God, breathless scoff of disbelief. “Michael,” you whined, the anger melting into pure exasperation. “I’m trying to be serious here. Don’t do that. Please.”

The playful defiance finally softened, and a genuine, warm smile broke across his face. “I didn’t, okay? I swear.” His head leaned slightly sideways, watching your expression soften. “Come on, sweetheart, how much of a jerk do you think I am?”

When he saw the sharp, pointed way your eyebrows rose in response, he quickly cut in. “Don’t answer that.”

A reluctant smile mirrored his own on your lips. “You’ve been warned, Robinavitch.”

He finally lifted his hands from the counter behind you, taking a step back and setting you free. The sudden rush of the ER's air-conditioning felt freezing against your skin, and against your better judgment, you instantly missed the heavy warmth of his chest.

“Warning received, boss.” He sent you a slow, deliberate wink.

Straightening your scrub top, you turned and began walking out of the central hub, heading down the main corridor.

“No more flirting ever again, anywhere, I promise!” he called out, his voice laced with amusement.

You kept walking, not slowing your pace. “Play in your own league, Michael!” you shouted over your shoulder.

“My league divorced me!” he yelled back across the chaotic department.

The first time you meet Aaron Hotchner, you’re ready to hightail it out of the room. Your transfer to the Behavioural Analysis Unit was something done out of necessity—you’d spent a long time in private practice before deciding to branch out and were lucky enough to score an opening with the FBI.

Hotchner was…a lot. Of what? You weren’t entirely sure. You’d been made aware he had a reputation for being a hardass and somehow also one of the best team leaders in the FBI.

He was calm, confident and at times abrasive, but you wouldn’t have gotten to this point if you were unable to work under pressure. He had been strict and clear in his expectations of your role on the team; you were new and had to fight to prove yourself.

“I look forward to working with you Agent.” He had remarked, barely looking up from his pile of papers as he dismissed you from the meeting. If you were any less professional, you would have scoffed but all you did was offer a tight smile and nod.

“I do too, have a good day further Agent Hotchner.”

And that was that.

˖⋆࿐໋₊ ☆

The BAU was a learn as you go workplace and you quickly figured out it was also a seemingly do as I say, not as I do environment. If you had a dollar for every time you witnessed one of your coworkers pull some kind of self-sacrificing bullshit—you’re fairly sure you’d never have to work ever again.

You would be lying if you said it didn’t bring some sort of spark back into your life, despite the dead bodies and sadistic murderers—you had found that missing puzzle peace.

The team sat on the plane back from one of their most recent cases, half-asleep on the red eye whilst you had your laptop out, typing away at your report so you’d be able to sleep as soon as you got back.

“You should sleep.” Hotch’s voice startles you despite being barely above a soft murmur. He’s watching you over a case file whilst sitting across from you.

You snort, “Yeah, no chance.”

Hotch frowns, “You having a hard time sleeping?” His tone is concerned and it brings a stiffness to your shoulders. You shouldn’t have said that. You’re completely capable of doing your job and it’s not like you’re the only one on this plane who has a hard time closing their eyes at night and not picturing every other gruesome thing they’ve encountered.

“No,” you smile tightly, shuffling your laptop closer to you as you squint at the screen. “I’m fine.”

Hotch stares at you for a second, as if he’s deciding whether or not to call you out on the blatant lie but instead heaves a sigh, slumping into his own seat.

“You shouldn’t squint like that—it will hurt your eyes.” He reprimands lightly and this time you can’t help the amused raise of your brow as you meet his dark gaze.

“God, you’re old.” You snort, immediately trying to muffle your laugh when his expression turns perplexed.

“Old?” he mutters in disbelief.

“Sorry,” you giggle, slapping a hand over your mouth as you watch him shake his head in fond amusement.

“You’re trouble for a man’s ego.” He points at you with a wry smile on his face as you flush.

You shrug, “Gotta keep em’ humble.”

Hotch flashes his teeth as he grins softly. Silence grows between the two of you as you continue to work on your own respective tasks.

As you continue to write your report, nibbling on your bottom lip you are seemingly unaware of the soft looks Hotch sends you in between his own reading.

˖⋆࿐໋₊ ☆

Your relationship with Hotch is complicated. There are times where you’ll catch him staring at you from his office, small smile on his face or there’s times where he inconspicuously accommodates you more than he would someone else.

He’s just being nice is what you tell yourself, because any other option would be ludicrous to even consider. Though there are moments that make you start to question whether those options might be reality.

You’re on a case in Pittsburgh, somewhere near the hospital you used to work at before transferring to the BAU and it’s just your luck that one of your key witnesses is currently being held in the ED.

You’re more than happy to accompany Hotch to the ED to try and get something useful out of the guy and you really struggle at schooling your face of excitement of seeing any of your past colleagues.

It doesn’t slip passed Hotch’s notice who quirks a curious brow at you from the driver’s seat, “You’re quite eager to be meeting a witness.” He remarks dryly but there’s no hiding the humor in his expression.

You grow shy, nibbling on your bottom lip and drawing his attention to your action. “I used to work in the psychology department at PTMC.” You admit softly, wringing your hands in front of you.

Hotch hums interestedly, it’s not often in their line of work that Agents are transferred into the FBI from outside of the academy. He’s willing to take any chance to know the parts of you he’s been yet to discover and visiting your work is what brings him hope that this might just push you both closer together.

You haven’t been outwardly dismissive of his advancements, but he would be lying if he said it wasn’t killing him inside that you weren’t as forthcoming. Sure, it had been a while since he’d had to whip out his flirting tactics—his first and last relationship being well his late wife.

But you were so enigmatic that he just couldn’t help but want to be near you, he’d been making every effort to impress. Well, at least he thought he had, if your blatant obliviousness to his affection wasn’t sign enough.

Hotch had found himself gritting his teeth one too many times after he’d been blatantly flirting with you only for you to respond in your sweetest smile yet most professional tone.

He knew it wasn’t right, that he had no business crushing on his subordinate but Lord help him if you weren’t the only woman who had made him feel things he didn’t think himself capable of.

When Hotch parks the car, you practically launch yourself out of the vehicle to speedwalk your way into the entrance. You’re fast enough that Hotch has to jog a little to catch up to you with a breathy chuckle before matching your strides.

“So, you can run in those heels,” he teases softly, his arm coming back to rest on the curve of your back to guide you to the entrance.

You lift your hand to swat at his chest half-heartedly with a playful scowl that diminishes the moment you step into the bustling ER, the both of you adopting your composed manner of professionalism despite your simultaneous twitching lips.

˖⋆࿐໋₊ ☆

You’re met by a blonde nurse whose smile is as wide as can be when she catches sight of you, her southern drawl echoing as she crosses the room, “Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes sunshine? Who knew we’d be seeing your face again!” she remarks happily, wrapping her arms around you in a motherly hug.

“Dana, I missed you.” You say softly, hugging her back before throwing a sheepish expression to Hotch who shrugs.

“And who’s this with you?” Dana sizes up Hotch, staring him down something fierce and he feels himself paling a little.

“Uh—” you chuckle nervously. “This is Agent Hotchner, he’s um—he’s my boss.” You say.

Dana turns to you, quirking a brow that makes you roll your eyes fondly. “We’re here on a case, Pittsburgh PD should have called ahead, we’re here to interview a James Harlow? He was in—”

“MVA, Yeah Robby’s got him down in South 12, you remember where that is don’t you? He’s gonna be real excited to see you.” Dana drawls teasingly.

Hotch expects you to laugh and wave off the statement, but he’s surprised to see you fluster, your shoulders hiking up towards your ears as you shove Dana softly.

“Stop,” you chastise her through a whine and Hotch feels like a rock had lodged itself in between his heart and ribcage. Who the hell is this guy?

He has no right to be jealous, the two of you aren’t…anything. You’re both colleagues, he’s your superior but Hotch feels his gut clenching and palms sweating all the same.

He coughs, clearing his throat which draws your attention back to him. You have the decency to look embarrassed but without further mention of it you say a hasty goodbye to an amused Dana who looks like she’s sizing him up and drag the both of you to what he assumes is South 12.

˖⋆࿐໋₊ ☆

When the curtain is drawn away, you both are met with the sight of your witness and what Hotch assumes is “Robby” explaining his blood test results to.

“Uh,” your witness mutters awkwardly, gaze switching between yourself and the man behind you. You suppose you must look quite intimidating in your formal wear and FBI badged plastered to your lapels, but you school your expression into something that you hope resembles comfort.

“Sunshine.” Robby remarks surprise as you muster a shy smile and an awkward wave while Hotch behinds you clenches his jaw.

Fuck. Granted, Hotch could’ve rationalised his jealousy if the guy were your age (no he couldn’t have) but Robby must be his age if not older. He’s all crows’ feet and greying hair that Hotch can’t help but measure himself up against.

He hates this. Never once has something so personal jeopardised his ability to maintain professionalism yet you have a way to test all of his boundaries. He hates how Robby is looking at you—like you’re some kind of miracle that he never thought he’d have the chance to see again.

It’s how Hotch looks at you. He knows that look, he wears that look every day with a feeling of pride because up until now—he had no reason to doubt that it was a matter of when not if you returned his affection.

Now? Now he feels the urge to drag you out of this ED and make you promise to never look at another man ever again. But he can’t, so he doesn’t.

“I uh—we’re here to interview Mr. Harlow. We’re with the BAU—we just have a couple of questions about what you saw today,” you murmur reassuringly to the wary man whilst glancing back at Robby.

Hotch’s firm voice startles you slightly when he moves from behind you to stand next to you, effectively acting as a barrier between you and Robby, “We need you to go over anything you can remember from this morning.”

Robby’s gaze turns amused when he notices Hotch’s posturing, snorting to himself as he shuffles out of the room, “I’ll leave you to it.”

You nod meekly, opening your mouth to start the cognitive interview before Robby’s voice interrupts you, “Dinner later Sunshine? Would be good to catch up.” He offers, an easy smile in his place.

Your heart warms, as much as you’ve enjoyed your time at the BAU, the day shift were the first people who made you feel like you were part of a community.

“Yeah,” you offer easily. “I’m working a case right now, but I’d like that. Maybe you could invite the rest—”

“Agent, we’re in the middle of something.” Hotch spits out, his eyes ablaze as he stares you down.

You shrink into yourself, not noticing Robby’s frown at your demeanour though he leaves after you give him a reassuring smile. You give your full attention back to your witness and proceed with the interview.

˖⋆࿐໋₊ ☆

You somehow feel like you’ve done something wrong despite the interview being a complete success. You walk out of the room with the feeling that Hotch is…mad at you? Frustrated?

You’re not entirely sure, only that he speaks to you in one word responses if he’s not supplied a grunt of some kind. It gets worse when you confirm your plans with Robby as you walk out, offering for Hotch to go on without you when you notice other Pittsburgh PD officers also  in the ED.

“It’ll give me some time to ask him a couple more questions and you can go over what we already know with the rest of the team, I’m sure the officers won’t mind.” You reassure him.

Hotch fights the growl that wants to burst out of his throat. He minds. He minds that Robby’s been waiting not so patiently to get you wrapped around his dirty little fingers, for you to decide that maybe you don’t want Hotch and instead want to trade up to some fucking ER Doctor.

“No, we came together. I’ll drive you back.” His answer is curt and your confusion doubles. What is his problem?

“But I—”

“Sunshine, my truck’s sitting outside if you’d rather drive that. I don’t mind coming and getting’ it from you later before dinner.”  Robby offers, interrupting your conversation Hotch thinks bitterly.

Of course he drives a truck, and of course he’d offer for you to take it. Any excuse in the book to get to see you again huh? Well Hotch can deal with that.

“That won’t be necessary, we have everything that we need to form a working profile and time is really of the essence here. We need to go. Now.” He orders, leaving no room for misinterpretation as he grabs your arm despite the gasp you let out, sparks shooting up your arm as your dragged out the parking lot.

“What? Hotch—” you squeak out, trying to tug your arm from his hold as he pulls you into the car, lifting you by your hips and plopping you into the passenger seat. You squawk in protest squirming as he adjusts your legs slightly and closes the door, jogging to the driver’s seat and getting in with a scowl still planted on his face.

˖⋆࿐໋₊ ☆

You’ve been silent and matching Hotch’s scowl the entire drive back to the precinct, “This is kidnapping you know.” You remark sarcastically, folding your arms over your chest..

Hotch blows out a frustrated breath, “We had to leave, we didn’t have time for you be chummy with your friends.” He growls out, hands tightening on the wheel until he’s white knuckling it.

“Yeah sure, blame me when you’re the one with a stick up your ass.” He hears you mutter to yourself, forcing his resolve to break.

“That’s it.” He snarls, pulling off onto the shoulder of the road. There are barely any cars on this stretch of road, but it still brings a gasp to your lips at the jerky movement.

“What is wrong with you!” you hiss out, clutching at your seatbelt and the handle of the door as your eyes grow wide in panic.

“You’re being a brat.” Hotch growls out, his gaze dark and heavy as his chest heaves up and down in frustration. Your gaze drops to his chest, your mouth growing parched as you shake yourself out of your stupor.

“I’m a brat?” You say incredulously, “I’m a brat when you’re the one who nearly got us into an accident because you were too busy having a temper tantrum over what the fuck ever?”

Hotch’s jaw clicks from how hard he’s clenching it, his glare focused on you, “Well I wouldn’t have been so on edge if you weren’t distracted while on the job.”

If it’s even possible, your scowl deepens, as you unbuckle your seatbelt thrusting your pointer finger into Hotch’s chest with vehemence, “Don’t you dare insinuate that I can’t do my job, I told you I could’ve gotten a ride with a different officer. Hell, even Robby offered—”

“Don’t fucking say him name.” Hotch threatens.

You falter, expression turning into bewilderment, “You’ve got a problem with Robby? You just met him how—”

“Because he was hitting on you!” Hotch bursts out, running his hand over his jaw as he blows out a frustrated breath as he chuckles without humor.

“Huh? Robby? He wouldn’t—”

“Oh, trust me,” Hotch taunts, “He would and he did. I had a front row seat to that entire segment.”

You frown looking as puzzled as ever, “That’s why you were angry? Why does it matter what Robby thinks, it doesn’t impact the case—”

“Fuck, you’re irritating.” Hotch grounds out, launching himself over the counsel and swallowing your annoyed sound with his lips. He kisses you fiercely, his chapped lips borderline bruising your own as he prods at your lips with his tongue, seeking entrance.

He muffles your whimpers with his drawn out groan as he licks into your mouth, his hand coming up to cup your face, angling you to deepen the kiss as he threads his fingers through your hair.

Your hands come up shakily to clench around his t-shirt as you whine into his mouth, lazily licking into his mouth like you’re trying to play catch up with him.

When he draws himself away, you follow his lips unconsciously—your own puckered with a whine as he takes in your dazed expression. He licks his lips watching you, already half hard in his pants from the taste of you.

“I was jealous.” He admits, his voice low. He’s still looking at you, watching for any change in your expression.

Your eyes widen, “Why?” you mumble aloud.

Hotch scoffs a laugh, “Because I like you? Because I wished that I had worked up the nerve to ask you out before that hotshot doctor did? Because I was too much of a wuss because I was scared you’d say no? you take your pick.” He says, smiling without humour.

You frown, your hand hesitantly lifting to cup Hotch’s cheek. You nibble on your bottom lip, drawing a groan from Hotch’s chest.

“I—I like you too.” You admit shyly, your expression growing abashed as you avoid eye contact with him.

“Look at me.” He demands firmly, his hand cupping your chin to force you to meet his gaze.

“I’m sorry I lashed out at you, that was unfair of me.” He says softly. You shrug, rubbing your thumb up and down his cheek.

“S’okay, I know you didn’t mean it.” You mumble.

Hotch shakes his head, “No.” he states firmly, “I didn’t mean it but that doesn’t make it right, you don’t deserve to be treated like that. I’m sorry.” He insists.

You smile softly, “Forgiven, you can be so emotional sometimes.” You tease softly.

Hotch can’t help but roll his eyes, “You mean it though? you—you like me?” he asks hoarsely.

You grow shy, nodding softly. “Say it again.” He demands petulantly.

You snort, “What will I get if I do?” you taunt.

Hotch’s expression grows devilish, “Anything you want.” He mutters darkly, gazing at you with heat in his eyes. His dick twitches inside of his pants as he has to fight the urge to thrust up into empty space.

Your pupils dilate, “I like you.” You say breathily and Aaron’s smirk grows wider.

“That right?” He taunts softly, his hand dropping to your thigh and slowly moving upwards.

You shudder softly, your thighs slipping open as you gaze grows heavier. “Is this okay?” Aaron checks in with you.

You nod softly, your own hand coming to rest of his shoulder as you feel him run his index finger over the inseam of your tailored pants.

A sharp gasp escapes you, “Fuck.” Aaron mutters as he watches you squirm.

“Take off your pants.” He orders and you scramble to pull your pants and underwear off in quick succession.

Aaron’s breathing grows heavier as he catches sight of your wet cunt, glistening from its moisture as you spread your legs shyly.

His groan is loud in the car as he runs his thumb over your sticky entrance, pausing to press indecently over your hole softly before running it back up and down through your wetness.

You whimper, grabbing hold of his bicep as you make half-hearted thrusts against his thumb, clenching down emptily on the tip of his thumb each time he teasingly enters your cunt.

“I—oh.” You gasp, feeling Hotch’s thumb start to rub circles on your clit mixed with your wetness. You feel yourself start to leak between your thighs, grinding your hips up into Hotch’s thumb.

“Does that feel good?” he grunts, using his other hand to circle your entrance with his index finger, slipping it in as he rubs your clit and watching in fascination as your pussy swallows his finger whole, clenching down so tightly on him that he can’t help but imagine how tight you’d be on his dick.

“Hotch, I—" you whine as he thrusts his finger in and out, curling it slowly to brush against that soft spongy area inside of you that turns your legs into jelly.

“Aaron,” he orders you. “You call me Aaron while I make you feel good.”

You nod nonsensically, barely even listening as your focus is on the feeling of Hotch’s fingers in you. “Another—want, oh my god, another.” You beg him, leaking all over his fingers as you thrust harder, seeking more friction.

Hotch adds his middle finger easily enough, drawing out a guttural moan from you as you feel yourself climbing closer to the edge. You can feel every callous and groove on Hotch’s fingers and it makes you even wetter.

God you want his fingers inside of you forever, stretching you out and making you cum. “I can’t, close—” you mumble softly, throwing your head back as you clench your hand down on Aaron’s shoulder—you expression scrunching in pleasure.

“Yeah?” Aaron coos, “Cum on my fingers baby—that’s a good girl, cum for me.” He growls, fucking his fingers into your harder as you hurtle towards the finish line.

Your cunt clenching down harshly as you walls spasm around his fingers, your vision whiting out from pure pleasure as Hotch milks you for your orgasm until you’re left twitching and spent on the seat.

“Good girl.” He mumbles softly, laying a soft kiss on your forehead before taking his fingers out of you, bringing them to his own mouth, and sucking as his own eyes roll back into his head.

You’re about to offer to suck him off when you’ve recovered when you notice the wet patch that blooms over his crotch.

“My head is in a bad place…but I'm having such a good time”

The engine on the motorcycle revved as the speed increased. Michael Robinavitch had been on the open road for three weeks now and hadn't looked back once. His helmet was strapped behind him. He didn't need it right now. There hadn't been much traffic or bugs.

Right now he didn't want to think about The Pitt. He didn't want to think about the people he left behind. He didn't want to think about Jack's words. He knew Jack was worried. Hell, he was worried. He knew he wasn't acting right. But that was future him’s problem. Right now, Robby just wanted to focus on the drive.

He came upon a seedy looking bar on the edge of some small town on a back road in South Dakota. Seemed like a fair place to stop. He didn't need The Pitt right now. He needed whatever this place had to offer. Whoever this place had to offer.

Why not? What did he have to lose right now?

Walking into the bar he saw you. He knew that whatever happened happened. He wasn't the least bit worried. He didn't even know if he stood a chance.

You kicked him out right after you climaxed. You would roughly shove his face in your aching core, guiding his head exactly where you wanted even if he couldn't breathe. His aftercare kisses would be dodged and instead he would be met with you tossing his clothes to him.

But it didn't stop there.

You said no to dates. Your phone was always facing down. You weren't a huge fan of PDA. He was a hidden part of your life.

He was being treated how he treated the women before you.

And he didn't like it.

Robby had tried figuring you out with each attempt he made to get closer to you. He didn't get very far each time. You weren't unhappy, he knew that. In fact, you had a very fulfilling life. You had a master's degree, earned 6 figures, had plenty friends. The list went on and on with how well you were doing for yourself.

"Keep staring at her ass any longer and someone is going to report you for being a perv," Jack spoke, knocking Robby from his thoughts.

"I'm not looking at her ass," Robby sneered as he took off his glasses. "Besides, I can look if I want."

Robby did have a right to look. Park could go to hell, he could stare at your ass if he wanted to. Robby was the last one to sleep with you. HE was the last one to be in your bed. The ball was in his court.

Jack wanted to roll his eyes at how pathetic his friend had became over you. You had taken over Robby's world completely. Jack hadn't ever seen Robby so stupid—suicidal for sure but not stupid.

"Can you please get your head out of her ass and come back to earth?" Jack commented. "Swear you're so far up there that I can see you coming out of her mouth when she talks."

In any other situation he would have found his remark hilarious. But now since he was the one on the receiving end, he found it irritating.

"I am not up her ass all the time," Robby scoffed.

The corner of Jack's lip quirked upwards, no longer bothering to hide its smirk anymore. "Yeah because when you're not up there, Park is."

The joke rubbed Robby the wrong way. That's what he hated the most about your arrangement, whenever he wasn't around, there was an opportunity for Park to come right back.

"That's not funny."

Jack rolled his eyes this time as he shook his head. "You're losing your mind over this girl for no reason. I guarantee you that she sleeps soundly at night while you lose your mind over her."

"At least she's getting some good sleep."

At first, Jack thought that Robby was kidding. That he was finally making a joke out of this horrible dating situation. But when there was no smile nor laugh attached at the end of his sentence, he was utterly disgusted.

"You're kidding me, right?" Jack asked as he placed his hand on his shoulder. "She can't be that good in bed that you're losing your mind over her."

"It's not just about her being good in bed," Robby replied.

Robby would much rather die than tell Jack about how you were in bed. For the first time, his lips were sealed shut. It wasn't common for Robby to talk about his sexual escapades but he would make a comment here or there.

Robby didn't want Jack to imagine what you were like in bed. He didn't want to implant that image into the folds of his brain. He saw the way Jack looked at you at times. Robby knew Jack wouldn't admit it but he found you attractive.

It wasn't just about you being good in bed. Despite the nature of the relationship between the two of you, there was familiarity. It was a different kind of familiarity given you were younger than him but he felt comfortable. He didn't feel like there was a massive weight against his chest. He was able to talk freely without feeling that stupid lump build up in his throat. 

"I just don't get why she keeps going back to him," Robby added as he rubbed his face. 

Jack shrugged his shoulders, unable to give him a definite answer. It was no surprise that Park had a tight grip on you. If someone wanted your attention, they had to strike when he wasn't looking.

Robby had managed to take you away from his arms just for a little bit. It was a blissful time for him. He loved your attention and he loved your affection. He was like an eager puppy, always wanting more. 

But so did Park.

And so did many other guys around you. You were free to choose your pick of the litter. 

"I don't know……maybe it's because they've been with each other for three years so he knows her pretty well," Jack sighed.

Oh yeah, three years. 

The two of you had been together or involved for three damn years. Three damn years of getting to know you. Getting to know where you were the most sensitive. Getting to hear your laugh in the morning before work. Hearing the fact from someone else felt like rubbing alcohol on a freshly raw wound.

"I don't know why I bother talking to you sometimes," Robby muttered with annoyance.

"But it's true," Jack said with a shrug of his shoulders. "Or maybe because he's just a huge wallet for her given the whole surgeon thing…….or maybe he puts her in her feminine energy or whatever bullshit kids say nowadays."

Robby scoffed. Feminine energy. Of course he put you in your feminine energy. "Please if anything she's putting me into my feminine energy. We do everything a normal couple does in a normal relationship and then she'll tell me that she doesn't want anything serious."

Jack nodded as he looked at you. Who knew you were that kind of woman. It was a little impressive you had a 50 something year old man by the balls so easily. Jack was more impressed by the fact that you didn't get attached. Most women did though he couldn't blame them. He would get attached too if a girl was treating him like a boyfriend. 

You could feel the gazes of the two men behind your back. With a small turn of your head, you waved at the both of them with an innocent smile on your face. Robby didn't waste anytime in acknowledging you, discarding the discussion between the two men right away. 

"That girl is a goddamn succubus and you're letting her suck the life out of you," Jack remarked. "It's a miracle you still have your balls." 

Robby shook his head at Jack, a silent dismissal of the remark. "She's an angel……with a pair of horns but an angel nonetheless."

Jack shook his head as a small puff of fake laughter left his lips. "Dude, you have to learn how to make yourself less available to her. I thought that being emotionally unavailable was your whole spiel."

"I would make myself less available to her," Jack added. "Or at the very least, say no to her from time to time. Hell, I'll say no to her for you."

Robby sighed. He found it hard to say no to you. No matter how ridiculous the request was, if it placed a smile on your face then it was worth it. "I like spending time with her. Why mess that up?"

"I think the two of you need some time apart. Seriously, the sabbatical will really help you," Jack said to him. "You are still going on your sabbatical, right?"

Robby nodded to Jack's question with no hesitation. "Yeah."

But was he?

If Robby left, he knew it was the perfect window for Park to come right back into your life again. Park was no exception to your little rule, even he had to win back your affection despite you being the one that walked away.

Robby's gaze was in pursuit of your body once again. He couldn't wrap his head around how you could toy with him. He wasn't your personal puppet. He was a man. He was the one that was supposed to have the upper hand. 

Maybe this was the universe telling him to throw in the towel. To just give up and find someone else to take up his time. Or maybe it was the universe trying to tell him to not give up. To find a way to get through that cold demeanor of yours.

Robby never knew when to quit.

Though he was good at telling other people when to quit.

Sometimes, a little too good.

"At least wait for me to be in the elevator to start talking shit about me, Jackie." 

The two older men turned their heads around and saw you standing behind them. In unison, they turned around so they could lean their back's on the counter. 

"How I miss the sweet shrill of your annoying voice," Jack retorted. "Not." 

Your lips jutted out in a fake pout as you pretended to wipe a tear off your cheek. "Awww boo! Here I thought that you and I were the best of friends." 

"Keep on dreaming," he muttered. 

A smirk appeared on your lips as you looked into his already tired eyes. "You know, for someone who claims to not like me, you spend a lot of time talking about me." 

Jack's eyebrows raised at your comment. Touche. 

"You know how there's incantations to keep demons away from your house—" 

"Alright," Robby interjected with a laugh as he stood slightly in front of you, shielding you away from Jack. "Why don't you let me take over so I can finish my shift." 

Jack didn't hesitate in taking the iPad that was laying besides him and walking away to the nearest room. Robby didn't need him to tell him to back off. Jack knew when to walk away, it was all about strategy. 

You sent a small wave to Jack as he walked away before you turned your attention to Robby. "Grumpy cat, isn't he?" 

Robby shrugged his shoulders. "It's just Abbot being Abbot." 

A look of suspicion flashed on your face as you looked at Jack's figure walking away. "Yeah….sure lets go with that." 

You knew Jack wasn't too much of a fan of the relationship you and Robby had. Jack liked you on your own. He just didn't like how stupid and neurotic you made his friend. Robby already had enough on his plate, you certainly didn't need to add onto it. 

Or so he claimed. 

What you didn't appreciate was his snarky little comments towards you. They started shortly after you began your hookup situation with Robby, seemingly getting worse with each week you. It was as if he wanted to separate the two of you.

There was no motive you could pin point to. 

"I don't appreciate your friend calling me a demon," you added with a pointed look. "But what I don't appreciate even more is you letting him." 

Robby immediately went to defend himself. He placed his hands in the air, silently pleading for a truce. "I didn't let him call you a demon—I told him you were an angel." 

"An angel with horns." 

Robby placed his hands on your shoulders, his hands massaging the tense muscles. "Oh come on, you know it was a joke, baby. You're still the purest angel in my eyes." 

"Oh wow. Yay me. I cannot believe how lucky I am to have this compliment bestowed on me," you dryly said. 

"Aw come on," Robby cooed as his fingers went to softly pinch your chin. "You know he's just doing it to get under your skin." 

"Sure, lets go with that too," you said with a slight mocking tone in your voice. "Can we just go fix the EKG machine so we can go?" 

"Or we could just leave it for someone else to do and we can go back to my place," Robby offered. "And finish where we left off this morning."

You smiled at his offer from amusement. The two of you had been unpleasantly interrupted early in the morning when the Robby was called in for work. You normally had time to swing by for a quickie before your shift. But once Robby was called in, he didn't have the same liberty as you to take his sweet time. 

"It's just an EKG machine, it'll take less than 10 minutes," you answered as you began to walk towards the dark and empty room of West 14. A room no one had been in since a patient had practically destroyed the walls. 

Robby sighed in defeat but followed you anyways. Technically his shift had already ended but he sure didn't mind putting in some overtime. He couldn't risk you being all by yourself. 

It wasn't a surprise how easily equipment in the ED got destroyed. There was always so much chaos going around. Nurses, doctors, medical assistants and anyone else in the room ran the risk of accidentally breaking a machine. 

You've certainly broken a few. 

"I thought this one was still relatively new," you murmured as you untangled the leads. 

Robby took the leads away from your hands, untangling them himself. "Yeah, I don't know. One of the residents told me it wasn't working in the morning." 

You shrugged your shoulders as you looked at the EKG machine. It looked intact. It still turned on. You didn't see anything wrong with it. 

"It looks fine. It turns on and everything. Maybe they didn't put the leads on right." 

"And have them potentially miss a heart attack? Oh, don't tell me that," Robby said as he looked at you, his hands working to continue untangling. "I'm going to ignore what you said and pretend that it's broken." 

You raised your hands as you shrugged your shoulders. "You can't be everywhere all at once to check everyone's work. Just saying." 

"No," Robby answered as he shook his head. "I know my residents. They wouldn't misplace a lead." 

You hummed in acknowledgment. There was a chance that Robby was right, there could have been something wrong with the machine. Technology had a funny way of behaving. 

"Well, let's try it out," you said as you shrugged off your jacket, exposing yourself to the unforgiving cold room. "I'll place the leads and see if it's really the machine or just misplacement." 

Robby nodded along. Instead of letting you out on the leads yourself, he took the task from your hands. Robby guided you onto the hard hospital bed, making sure your back was supported by the pillows behind your back. His cold hands went underneath your top, causing goosebumps to arise upon your skin. 

"They're cold!" You yelped as you yanked his hands out from your shirt. 

Robby lowly chuckled at your little whine. He didn't waste time in bringing his hands together, rubbing them to warm them up. "Sorry, sweetheart." 

After his hands were finally warmed up, his hands dove straight to your top. He smirked once he noticed you didn't have a bra on. "No bra? I should have known." Unable to resist, he allowed his fingers to skim the underside of your breast with the false pretense making sure the leads were on correctly. 

You turned your head to look screen, looking at the output. "Everything looks normal." 

Robby hummed in acknowledgement. "Yeah…..is your heart rate normally this low? It's at 58." 

"Well I am just kind of sitting here so…." 

"No, sweetheart," Robby hummed as his fingers went to check your pulse. "I think that's a little low. I think its reading wrong." 

As Robby went to adjust the leads once again, his fingertips skimmed your hardened nipple, making the EKG spike. 

Robby nearly missed it. Nearly. 

"Oh?" Robby said in a low timbre. "Was that what I think it was?" 

Normally, Robby couldn't tell when you were aroused. You often jumped on top of him and pulled his pants down whenever you felt like getting lucky. He could never hear your breath hitch or feel your skin warm up whenever he attempted to erotically caress you. 

Robby decided to push his luck again. His fingers deliberately skimmed against your breast again, this time his fingers pinching the bud. Though you didn't make a sound, the EKG revealed what you had been hiding this entire time. 

His touch makes your heart race. 

"It's a normal body reaction," you huffed. "Don't be so full of yourself." 

Robby's eyes didn't peel away from the screen. He seemingly had ignored your words as his fingers slowly traveled their way downwards. He watched as the screen showed your heart rate increasing. 

It wasn't a weakness to let Robby know what he did to you. It was more of a weakness of where you liked to be touched and what made your heart race. You knew that once Robby held that kind of power, he would abuse it. 

"Okay, we know it works now. You can take these off now," you said as you attempted to take off the leads. 

You were met with Robby's hands on your chest, roughly shoving you back down on the bed. "I didn't say you could get up." 

Your eyes widened at the rough action. You had gotten so used to taking the reigns. The simple action of him pushing you back like nothing made your heart race even faster. 

"You liked that? You like me being rough with you?" Robby whispered as his left hand went for the buttons of your jeans. "I spent so much time being gentle with you when all you needed me was push you around." 

He found your first weakness. You loved it whenever a man was rough. There had been too many times where you wished Robby could stuff your face in a pillow while he relentlessly pounded into your aching pussy. 

But that was a fantasy for later. Not one to be fulfilled while they both of you were still clocked in. 

"Someone could come in," you warned despite you lifting your hips to help him get your pants down. 

"No one is going to come in," Robby soothed. "Everyone is too busy working. Just be quiet." 

You nodded your head as you watched his hand disappear underneath your black lacy underwear. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head as his ran a finger through your sopping folds. 

"Don't tease me, we don't have the time," you added as you lifted your hips once again. 

"I'm making the time today," Robby replied as he continued his ministrations. "Gotta see what makes your heart race since you won't tell me what does." 

You bit onto your knuckles to contain the noises that were threatening to spill from your mouth. It wasn't your fault you were sensitive. Or how the rough pads of his fingers created a delicious friction against your swollen clit. 

"Look," Robby said as he nodded over to the screen of the EKG. "Notice how your heart races." 

Your head lolled backwards to watch the screen once again. Your vision was blurry from working a 12 hour shift and you could barely make out what was happening. But there it was, the damn machine showing your erratic heartbeat. 

"See that spike when I only use one finger against your clit? Look what happens when I use two." 

Your mouth opened in a silent moan at the added friction. The added finger made your pleasure climb instantly, just as instantly as your heart picked up. You enjoyed the added sensation for a few seconds before he replaced his index and middle finger with his thumb. 

"Now look at what happens when I do this." 

Your eyes screwed shut and a high pitched whine filled the room as he slipped his two thick, warm fingers into your pussy. Robby pumped his fingers against your velvety walls without hesitation, setting a decent pace. It wasn't too fast but it had you grinding against his palm. 

"Fuck, Robby," you moaned. "Hmmm….that feels good." 

"I know," Robby smugly said. "I can see that." 

The lewd sounds of his fingers pumping in and out of your wet cunt soon filled the room. It was a miracle that no one was hearing the two of you—or mostly just you. You tried to contain your moans but Robby was making it impossible. 

The man found his cheat sheet and he was using it to his advantage. 

"You're close, aren't you?" Robby asked. "I can feel you squeezing the hell out of my fingers." 

You nodded your head, unable to form any words. All you could do was keep grinding on his hand as he kept his agonizing pace. You were getting lost in the sensations and the thrill of being caught. You were right on the edge, the god awful titillating edge that seemed like it was going on forever. 

"I need…..fuck…..I need more," you whimpered. "I need more." 

"More? What more could you want?" Robby asked with a laugh. "You're going to take what I give you." 

"But—" 

"No," Robby said in a stern voice as he lowered his head towards yours. "You're going to come on my two fingers because that's all you're going to get tonight. Either come, or don't." 

A potential orgasm denial? From Robby? 

That was a first. 

You had been so used to getting your way that it felt foreign for Robby to be stern. Maybe you had to pull out the infamous puppy eyes again. That should make him fold. 

"No, no, no, no, put those puppy eyes away," Robby immediately shut down as his other hand went to grip your cheeks. "I'm serious. Either focus and come or don't." 

"Robby—" 

"Focus," Robby interjected. "Come on, sweetheart. I know you're close, I can feel it. Breathe in and breathe out." 

You nodded your head as you followed his directions. You took in a big deep breath in and even a bigger deep breath out. 

"Yeah, there you go, just like that," Robby praised. "Again." 

You followed his command without hesitation. It was working. You could feel your orgasm approaching faster and faster. The lighting hot heat was shooting up and down your legs, a telltale sign that you were close. 

"You've been doing so good," Robby praised again. "Just a little more and you'll feel so so good." 

It took a matter of seconds for your orgasm to take over your body. Your thighs clamped shut around his wrist as your pussy fluttered against his fingers. Robby gradually slowed his pace to keep you from overstimulating. The last thing he needed was for you to ruin the hospital sheets. He preferred you to gush all over his sheets. 

"Open your mouth," Robby instructed. 

You tilted your head in confusion. "Open my mouth? For wh—" 

Robby stuffed his fingers, still glistened with your essence, into your mouth. Your eyes were as wide as they physically could go at the sudden ministration. This was certainly new. 

"Lick them clean." 

You hesitated for a quick second before you swirled your tongue around his digits, making them clean. He took his fingers out of your mouth with a loud pop. He didn't say anything else as he helped you pull your jeans back on. 

“Your family’s in town?”

You’re at the nurses station, tucked into a corner with your head in your hands while Shen, of course, drinks what has to be his third Dunkin coffee of the day. Where he’s getting them is one of the world’s strangest unsolved mysteries. 

You can’t see his face, on account of the heels of your hands being pressed into your eyes so hard stars are bursting and swirling behind your eyelids, but you can hear the grimace in his tone. 

“Yeah. I moved out here to get away from them, but they decided to host the annual family dinner circuit here in Pittsburgh instead. My mom always complains about how it’s such a huge imposition to have the entire family fly out, but I never asked to do it and offered to just fly to them on multiple occasions. Apparently, my work schedule is too hard to work around.”

“Dinner circuit?”

You wave a hand. “It’s actually a lunch circuit now, since I work nights. Basically, for every single day that they’re here everybody has to attend a lunch, no matter what. Most of the time they’re at different restaurants, but sometimes my mom demands to have them at my place.”

“Yikes,” The attending says, sipping on the last bits of his coffee, “And the whole successful doctor thing doesn’t work on them? It got my parents off my back.”

You shake your head. “I’m the only doctor in the family, but they thought I should’ve been a hospitalist or go into general surgery.”

The sound of ice being shaken in a plastic cup rings in your ears. “There’s money in emergency medicine. Eventually.” 

“There’s money in all medicine eventually,” You groan, lifting your head and leaning against the wall, blinking dazedly up at the flickering fluorescent lights. “I’m sure if I'd picked general surgery they would’ve found a problem with that too.”

“So your fucked, basically.”

Your eyes slip shut again. “Yep. Anything short of showing up with a rich boyfriend and a promise of grandkids on the way won’t get my mom off my back.”

Shen clasps you on the shoulder. “Best of luck with that. You’re the only intern the night shift has got, so we’d rather you don’t off yourself via poisoned wine.” 

“I wouldn’t do poison. I’d choke on bread so they’d have to live with the guilt of not being able to save me.”

“Jesus fuck, man. I mean, clearly, they suck, but that’s brutal.”

You shrug. “Not as brutal as my mom not coming to my med school graduation.”

He gapes. “What reason could she have possibly had for not showing up?”

“I told her at dinner the night before that I was going into emergency medicine.”

“That’s…” Shen trails off, flabbergasted, “…Wow. Now I'm worried you’re going to kill one of them.”

“Way too much effort. They aren’t worth the jail time.”

The attending tosses his now empty coffee in a nearby trash can. “Well, if you snap and kill them all in a fit of extremely valid rage, please don’t call me. I can’t afford to be implicated.”

“You saying I can’t hide a body myself?”

“I’m saying I can’t hide a body.”

“Who’s hiding bodies?” Jack says, sidling up to the two of you with a tablet and a chart open in his hand. 

Shen jams a thumb in your direction. “She’s killing her parents later today.” 

You roll your eyes. “I’m not. Honestly, so long as I agree with whatever my mom says and don’t bring up any trigger topics, I’ll be fine.”

Jack snorts. “You’re describing being held hostage by someone mentally unstable.”

“Dr. Intern?” Ellis interrupts, using the stupid nickname Santos picked for you when she found out you’re the only PGY1 on the night shift, “There’s a woman in the lobby here to see you. Says she’s your mom.”

Your stomach drops to your feet and your heart seizes in your chest. “It’s six in the morning. Oh my god. Oh my god.”

Someone behind you says “Holy shit,” but you’re already gone. As you’re speed walking you whip out your phone, checking the dates of their flights that you’d only had a chance to skim and— fuck. They got in an hour ago. Why the fuck would she stop here? At the PTMC?

You practically slam the doors open and make eye contact with your mom across the crowded lobby. 

“Mom?” 

“There you are sweetie. I was trying to explain that there’s nothing wrong with me and I was here to see you, but they wouldn’t let me. Something about a security issue?”

“It’s not safe. We’ve had incidents in the past—“

She waves a hand, dismissing you. “I’m your mother. Honestly, I wouldn’t have had to come down here if you’d just respond to my texts.” 

“I’ve told you mom, I’m really busy here and I don’t get very much time to look at my phone—“

“Your brothers take the time out of their busy schedules to text me back,” She sighs, then continues on, “Did you get time off this week for dinner?”

You frown. “I thought we were having lunch.”

“Well, I figured since we’re all making it easier for your work schedule to come to you, you could manage to take a few days off for your family. But if we need to make an extra effort—“

“It’s fine, mom,” You tell her with a gritted-toothed smile, “I can make something work. Can you just send me the dates again?”

“It’s this Friday and Saturday.”

Before you can even open your mouth to respond, a large, warm hand settles on your shoulder. Accompanied by the hand is a steadying one on your lower back, a familiar, rich scent and a low voice. 

“Can I help you, ma’am?” 

Jack. 

Jack fucking Abbot. 

Hottest man in the ED. Probably in the world.

Your mom blinks, clearly caught off guard, before regaining her judgy senses and narrowing her eyes at him. 

“I’m trying to have a conversation with my daughter. Don’t tell me you’re security.”

You know for a fact that Jack has his stethoscope around his neck and his keycard in his scrub pocket that says ‘DOCTOR’ on it, so your mom’s just being bitchy. Figures. 

Jack’s hand in your shoulder gives you a tiny, reassuring squeeze before he speaks. 

“I’m Dr. Abbot,” He sticks out a hand for her to shake, the one that was on your shoulder, “I’m an attending here at the ED.”

And my boss, you mentally add. Your mom probably hears it anyway. 

“You work with my daughter?”

“Yes ma’am. She’s the most promising intern we have here on the night shift.”

Your lips twitch at his words. He’s joking. Testing your mother— you’re the only PGY1 on the night shift. If your mom remembers that, she’ll pick up on his joke. 

She doesn’t. She purses her lips for a moment before giving him one of her big, fake smiles. 

“Well that’s good to hear. We’re very proud of her.”

Proud of the money I send home, maybe. 

“If you’ll excuse us, I need her working on patients.”

“Oh yes, of course,” Your mom gushes, clearly already charmed by Jack. He has that effect on people. “I didn’t realize she was so important and busy here.“

You would if you’d ever let me talk about work before interrupting me and telling me what I should be doing better. 

Jack’s thumb makes tiny sweeping motions on your lower back, little tingling motions that distract you enough to unclench your jaw and relax your shoulders. 

“I’ll text you as soon as I can, okay mom?”

Your mom sweeps you into a hug, a rare show of affection. Putting on a show for Jack, more than likely. 

“No rush. Whenever you get the chance, sweetheart.”

Jack gives her a parting nod, but you wait until your mom’s turned around and walking out of the lobby before allowing Jack to steer you back inside. 

The second the doors close behind you and you’re enveloped in the sounds and smells of the heart of the PTMC, you shut your eyes and release a long exhale. 

“I,” You start, “Am so sorry. I never thought she’d show up here, I got the flight times mixed up—“

“Hey,” Jack’s voice is low and steady, a much needed anchor. He uses the hand still on your lower back to turn you towards him, “None of that was your fault. We deal with patients like that every day. It is not your job to keep your mother in line.”

“I know. I know. Still, I’m sorry. She can be… difficult.”

He snorts. “Understatement of the year. But seriously. Don’t worry about it. If I didn’t want to get involved with her, I wouldn’t have swooped in there.”

You huff a laugh. “My hero. I’m pretty sure if you’d introduced yourself as my boyfriend she would’ve had an aneurysm. Or a heart attack.”

“Are those desired outcomes?”

“Mostly.”

He slides his hands into his pockets and leans against the opposite wall. “Might be worth a shot, then.”

It’s a very well kept secret that you’ve harbored an embarrassing, ‘think about him while you’re falling asleep at night’ crush on Jack. 

So naturally, your response is to laugh. Loudly. And semi-awkwardly. Because he has to be joking. Obviously.

“Yeah, right,” You say, looking down at your feet because eye-contact has never been your forte and Jack’s gaze is too intense, “Could even take you to dinner with me. Maybe my dad would have a heart attack too. Really just wipe out the whole family.”

“You could.”

“Wipe out my entire family?”

“Take me to dinner with you.”

Jack’s body is relaxed and his tone is even. Not light and humor-filled. There’s no mischievous uptick to the corner of his lips. He looks like he’s serious. 

“Are you joking?”

He can’t really be serious. He’s probably just fucking with you. He wouldn’t actually—

“No.”

You run a hand over your hair. “Yeah, sure, laugh it up, haha—“

“I’ll go to dinner with you. As your boyfriend.”

What. The. Fuck. 

“No.” You gape, incredulous. 

“No?” He raises an eyebrow. 

“No, I mean— fuck. Dr. Abbot—“

“Jack.” 

You purse your lips. “Jack. You can’t just… pretend to be my boyfriend at a family lunch.”

“Why not?”

“Why not?” You sputter, “For one, we hardly know each other—“

“You’ve been working here for three months. We’re hardly strangers.”

“You’re my boss, your way older than me, you’re—“ You cut yourself off before you can say something embarrassing like ‘you’re ridiculously fucking hot and I haven’t washed my socks in months’, “It wouldn’t even be believable. How would we even have met?”

“In the ED, obviously.”

“How long have we been together?”

“Month and a half.”

“Why are we even dating?”

“Because you’re a beautiful and intelligent woman, not to mention a good doctor.”

Your mouth goes dry, and your stomach does an entire gymnastics routine. 

“Have you… thought about this?” 

He makes a noncommittal hum, tilts his head back a bit. “Would it work?”

“Are you rich?” 

There’s that devilish, pants dropping smile. 

“I’m a senior attending on night shifts in an emergency department. I’m comfortable.”

You worry your lip between your teeth. “I still can’t… I appreciate the offer, but I can’t subject you to my family. No one else should have to suffer through these lunches and dinners.”

“But you do?”

“They’re my family.” 

Jack doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t move off the wall and walk away either. Distantly, you really hope a patient isn’t coding somewhere. 

You sigh. “Why would you even offer, anyway?” 

“You need help, and I’m in a position to give it. Plus life has been kind of boring recently. My therapist told me to pick a new hobby that doesn’t involve people dying or getting shot at.”

“So you thought spending an evening being subjected to backhanded questions, comments, and not very subtle micro-aggressions was a good substitute?”

“Beats drinking beer in the park.”

You can’t say yes. It’s crazy. One, it would make your crush a million times worse and you might never recover on that fact alone, and two, when this inevitably blows up in your face, your family will never let you live it down and bring it up in literally every conversation for the rest of your life. 

On the other hand, if it works, it will work. Your mom would probably get off your back for a while. You wouldn’t be a complete and total disappointment. If it works, it would be a much needed win. 

“So. We’ve been dating for a month and a half?”

Jack nods, another smile playing at his lips. “I asked you out, of course.”

“Flowers?”

“Naturally.”

“You pay?” 

“For every meal.”

“What’s my favorite color?”

“Navy blue. Mine?” 

You roll your eyes. “Black. What are we going to tell my mom when she pokes at the age gap?”

Someone rushes by, pager beeping, and you both wordlessly start moseying towards your respective patients. 

“Will she really be that upset about it?”

“Probably not, but she’ll definitely ask about it. My dad will probably be angry, but he’s easier to placate than my mom is.”

Jack hums thoughtfully. “When’s the lunch today?”

“Twelve-thirty, at that Italian place that has that mussel dish.”

“How about this,” He starts, apparently not needing anymore clarification on the location, “Lets focus on finishing our shifts right now. Then go home, get some sleep, and I’ll pick you up at eleven so you can pick my brain for every detail that you want to make this work. Deal?”

Last chance to back out. Say hell no, this is a crazy idea, why would you even volunteer for it, I changed my mind. 

“Deal.”

—

Holy fucking shit. Jack Abbot is your boyfriend. 

Fake boyfriend. But for the next few hours, he’s as good as yours. Kind of.

In a way. 

You’re standing in front of your bathroom mirror, dressed in the outfit you picked out for the stupid lunch when your mom texted you the plane ticket details a month ago.

Neither your makeup nor your hair are cooperating and you really need them to because you have to be perfect, so you need your mascara and stop clumping and your hair to stop laying like that and you just don’t want to fucking go. 

Before frustration induced tears can ruin your half-done makeup, a knock sounds at the door. 

You rush through your apartment, nearly cracking your skull open on the corner of the couch when you trip over a stray shoe.

Shit, he’s here and you’re not ready, god he’s going to be so upset you have to make him wait it’s so rude—

“Hi!” You swing open the door and plaster what you hope is a cute-frazzled smile and not a panicked one. It’s a thin line between the two, “I’m almost ready, I’m so sorry, you can come in and sit down wherever, I promise I won’t take too long to finish up. Sorry.”

You turn, unable to bear the anger or frustration on his face and dart away (an old method— hiding and disappearing is much better for everyone in the long run) but a hand encircles your wrist before you can successfully escape. 

“Woah, easy girl. Nobody’s mad at you. We have time, remember?”

Your smile is definitely coming across as panicked. 

Your nails wander and find a hangnail to pick at while you talk. “I know, but that was so we’d have time to plan and it’s rude to make you wait and I really need time to plan, but I can’t get my makeup to look right—“

Jack nudges you into the house and you cut yourself off with another apology. Right. Cause he’s just standing in the hallway and you’re rambling on like someone deranged. God. Why can’t your brain just work? Get into gear? Actually function properly?

“First of all,” Jack starts, gently steering you towards your couch, “You look beautiful.”

Why does he have to say these things? Has he no care for what he’s doing to your heart? Is he unaware that Simone Biles would be impressed with the flip routine your stomach is currently doing? 

He places a throw pillow in your hands which were previously clenched in your lap. It’s your favorite throw pillow, actually, because the texture is very soothing. You squeeze it and rub your fingers across the grain. 

“Secondly, we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. I can go home and go to bed and if you want, I’ll never bring it up again. Not even to Robby.”

You crack a wobbly smile. “Not even to Nurse Evans?”

“She’d probably guess on her own, but I would never confirm her suspicions.” 

You tuck your feet under your legs, shrinking into the corner of your couch. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to. I already texted my mom to add a person to the reservation, and if I show up without a plus one there’ll be hell to pay.”

“You could swap me with someone else?”

“Do you think I would have agreed to let my boss be my fake boyfriend if I had someone else to bring?”

“Touché.” 

The corner thread of your throw pillow has begun unraveling, and your wandering fingers pull and tug at it erratically. 

“I’m sorry. I’m not usually this neurotic, I swear. My family brings out the worst in me.”

“I ain’t judging, sweetheart,” Jack soothes, “Besides. We’re ER doctors. We’re all a little neurotic.”

Steadfastly avoiding his gaze (again, just a little too knowing, like he can see every insecurity you’re trying to hide) you stand on shaky legs and rush to the bathroom. 

“I’ll just. Finish up. Sorry again.”

“I’m gonna start a tally of unnecessary sorry’s. You’re gonna owe me an hour of overtime for each one.”

Oddly enough, getting ready (the rest of the way) feels much more manageable and much less difficult with Jack nearby. He doesn’t critique how long it takes you, the fact that you change earrings three times, or tell you that you look good enough and should just go. 

He just hangs out in your living room, on the couch, practically oozing calm and nonchalance. The foolish, romance-starved part of you wants to cancel on your mom and spend the rest of the day curled up next to him on the couch, like a cat. Lazily dozing while Jack watches TV or something sounds like a much better way to spend your time after work than experiencing all five stages of grief over the course of one lunch. Repeatedly. 

Finally ready, and with your sanity intact thanks to Jack, you pause by the kitchen and debate the merits of taking a shot to loosen your nerves. Unfortunately, your mom would undoubtedly somehow smell the alcohol on you and no doubt chew you out for a minimum of twenty minutes. Heaven forbid you make the event bearable.

Ever the kind host, you peek your head around the kitchen wall. “Do you want a shot, Jack?”

“You’re aware that I’m fifty?”

Right. That's probably an unhinged question.

“Just thought I’d offer,” You say, meekly tucking the bottle back under the shelf, slightly embarrassed, “Sometimes alcohol is the only way I can survive these things.”

He’s leaned up against the couch, hands in his pockets when you exit the kitchen. “It was very considerate, thank you. But I think the days of vodka and tequila shots are behind me. I’m more of a whiskey man, anyways.”

“I’ll keep that in mind when we end up at a bar afterwards to drink away memories of the lunch.”

Jack raises an eyebrow. “You act like we’re going to be hung, drawn, and quartered after showing up.”

You worry your bottom lip between your teeth. “Sorry. I just don’t want you to be unprepared, because they’re not always bad but when they’re bad they’re bad, you know? And I just don’t want to scare you off, and ruin the day you could be spending sleeping, and I really am thankful, by the way, I just don’t—“

“Do you always ramble when you’re worried?” Jack interrupts, tilting his head to the side.

“Um. No? I don’t know. I try not to. But like I said. My family brings out the worst in me.”

He searches your face for a moment, then taps the underside of your chin with a crooked finger, raising it slightly. 

“We got this, okay? I’m not easy to scare. Combat med vet, remember? Plus, if it really gets that bad, I’ll fake a call from the hospital. Say there was some horrible accident and we’re being called in.”

“Won’t my mom get wise when she never hears it on the news?”

Jack shrugs. “It’s the city. Something horrible is always happening here.”

He holds the front door open for you when you’ve got your shoes on and purse ready, but as you’re sliding past him, he leans down, the angle of his jaw almost brushing the side of your neck, and breathes in deeply. 

“You smell good.” 

Fuck the gymnastics routine. Your stomach is going for Olympic Gold. 

“Oh,” You exhale, a shiver running up your spine and a pleasant tingling sparking where your skin barely brushed his, “Uh— Thanks. Vanilla and spice. I like layering scents.”

“It’s nice. Suits you.” 

You manage to squeak out another awkward “Thanks” before hastily locking the door, hoping he can’t tell just how flustered he keeps making you. Judging by the smile playing at his lips, your hopes are in vain. 

The car ride to the restaurant is longer than it should be, on account of Pittsburgh traffic, but the time goes by quickly as you pepper Jack with questions to prepare for the million and one that your mother will no doubt ask. 

(“What should I say if she asks if we’ve slept together?”

“Do you really, honestly, truly think your mother is going to bring up the topic of sex at the table, in a nice restaurant, with your entire family present?”

“Fair point.”)

By the time you arrive, you’ve picked and torn every single hangnail and loose cuticle around your fingers down to raw flesh and tiny dots of blood. Jack parks the car (parallel parks easily in one go, no repositioning needed, in downtown Pittsburgh. It’s one of the hottest things you’ve ever seen in your life) a good distance away from the restaurant, so that your family wouldn’t be able to see you if you decided to flee to his car to escape them. 

At least, that’s what he says. 

“I want you to hang onto the car keys, okay? If they get too much, you can sneak out through the kitchen and go to the car. I’ll meet you there.”

You can’t help but smile at his efforts. “And what will you be doing while I’m sneaking out?”

“Singing your praises, of course.”

Exhaustion from the shift you worked in what seems like a lifetime ago lines your limbs, but as you step out of the car (through the door Jack insists on opening for you “In case they’re still watching,”) and loop your arm through Jack’s, you feel… almost capable. 

The lunch is going to suck. That’s a given. But Jack assured you he’s seen worse (“Probably done worse, sweetheart,”) and will not leave the lunch in a fit of rage and cause a scene. His arm is firm and solid —and fucking huge, how are his biceps that big— under your arm, and his presence is steadying. 

As you cross the street and begin your final walk towards the building, he un-loops his arm from yours, but after you make a questioning noise in your throat, worried you’d be completely untethered (how pathetic to already be this reliant on a man, but there’s no time to unpack that now) but instead he wraps his arm around your waist instead, drawing you to his side and effectively grounding you to his body. 

The entire left side of your body lights up at the contact, and if this were your apartment, it would be very difficult to refrain from climbing him like a tree or doing something equally embarrassing, like plastering yourself to his side and begging him to never stop touching you. 

You’ve almost managed to come off unaffected, but then he leans down, lips almost brushing your ear, and whispers: 

“You’ve got this, baby. And if you don’t, I do.”

Forget your family. Jack Abbot is going to be the death of you. 

When you walk into the restaurant, hyper-aware of Jack’s grip on your body (your delusional mind has you thinking how… possessive the hand almost feels, if you ignore the fact that this is all fake) your family is waiting in the foyer, talking amongst themselves. 

Your mother immediately zeroes in on you. “Honey, we’ve talked about you being on time to these things. You can’t be late to important family—“

You watch in real time as your mother’s gaze finally flicks to Jack, and the shades of recognition, shock, almost disgust, and confusion before settling back into forced pleasantness. 

Your father, however, looks downright murderous. Looks like the age gap isn’t going down too well. 

If Jack is at all nervous or put off by the several stares and outright glares from your family, he does not show it. He exudes cool confidence, the same unflappable energy he has during chaotic night shifts. The same calm that makes him so alluring to you in the first place. 

He sticks out his hand for your mother to shake, a mirror of earlier that day in the PTMC lobby. 

“I believe we’ve met before, but I’ll introduce myself again. I’m Dr. Jack Abbot.”

Your mother shakes his hand, but looks between the two of you like you’ve just spilled wine on her Persian rug that she can’t afford in the first place. 

“You’re my daughter’s plus one?”

Jack nods. “Her boyfriend, yes.”

Your brother’s gape. Your dad’s glare intensifies. You want to kiss Jack. 

“Honey,” Your mother says, gaze darting to you, “You didn’t say—“

“I didn’t want you to meet him at the hospital,” You tell her, hoping the lie doesn’t come across as too rehearsed, since you did rehearse it several times with Jack in the car on the way over, “The lobby of the hospital isn’t the best place to introduce people. And we really did have patients to get back to.”

Your mother purses her lips. “Why the last minute addition? If you’d told me that he was coming before today, it would’ve been easier to make the reservation.”

Jack is quicker to respond than you. “That’s my fault, actually. I didn’t think I was going to be able to come, what with my shifts as a senior attending, but when we met in the lobby I understood how important it was to make the time.”

You have to try hard not to smile at Jack’s not-so-subtle flex. Senior attending. 

“Yes, well. My daughter doesn’t always stress the importance of these things.” 

Jack’s grip on your waist tightens ever-so-slightly at the backhanded remark, and your mother’s gaze darts to the point of contact. But your father jerks his head towards the tables before she can say anything. “I’m starving.”

Everyone files in behind him, with you and Jack at the back of the line. Again, he leans down to whisper to you. 

“How’d I do?”

You elbow him in the side. “We’ll discuss your performance after this is over.”

“Looking forward to it.” 

The hostess leads everyone over to a large table near a window (your mother is particularly about seating) and everyone finds a seat. One of your brothers, either as a test or just to be a shit (your money’s on the latter) slides into the open seat next to you before Jack can. 

To his credit, Jack doesn’t cause a scene, but he doesn’t back down either. He just stares at your idiot brother for awhile before finally asking: 

“Do you really wanna do this right now?”

Your brother must sense that Jack Abbot is not a man to be fucked with (just a man you want to fuck), and scurries to his own seat, tail between his legs. 

Once everyone is seated and the food is ordered (you don’t bother ordering anything other than the salad; Jack orders the most expensive thing on their menu. He’s never seemed like one to care for finery and expensive Italian restaurants where you practically have to order in Italian, but again, his unfazed demeanor makes him fit in anywhere) your family immediately begins peppering him with questions. Questions you knew they’d ask and appropriately prepared him for. 

“So. Dr. Abbot—”

“Just Jack is fine.”

“—How long have the two of you been dating?”

“A month and a half.”

“Why’d you start dating?”

You take a generous gulp of your wine. 

“Because your daughter is an incredible woman and an even better doctor.”

“Do you think she’s pretty?” One of your brothers chimes in. 

Jack takes it in stride, despite that not being a question you prepared. “I’d have to be blind and stupid if I didn’t.”

You feel hot from the tips of your ears down to your toes. 

That’s going in the mental folder. 

“Have you always wanted to be a doctor?”

“Pretty much. Took a bit of a detour as a combat medic first, though.”

“Why’d you leave?” 

“Honorably discharged after I lost my right leg. Below the knee amputation.”

You drain the rest of your glass and inconspicuously motion to the waiter for more wine. 

The table is silent for the customary length of time after someone drops the “got a limb chopped off” bomb. Your family is clearly mildly uncomfortable, but Jack just keeps sipping his drink, his free hand drifting down and brushing the side of your thigh.

Your dad clears his throat. Here we go. Home stretch. Final questions before we’re in the clear. 

“Mr. Abbot—“

“Either Doctor or Jack works.” 

Ooo. There was some bite in that one. 

Your Dad frowns. He does not like to be interrupted or corrected. You’ve been on the receiving end of far too many hour long lectures (read: berating and borderline verbal abuse) to know better. 

But Jack isn’t his daughter. Jack is pretty much his equal. Actually, the fact that Jack not only served but is now a doctor places him above your father, by social conventions. 

This no doubt infuriates your father. He’s always hated it when he couldn’t tear somebody down to his level. A true coward. 

“Jack,” Your dad continues, a trademarked forced smile to save face, “You’re a smart man, yeah? Haven’t you ever considered the age difference between the two of you might be a little much?” 

Yikes. Questioning Jack’s competency is not the way to go. Jack is very competent. And smart. And capable. It’s really hot. 

Your fake-boyfriend just reaches over and grasps your hand, over the table, and looks at you with such devotion in his eyes that you forget how to breathe. 

“War doesn’t really lend to longevity. I’ve learned to hold on tight to things I care about.” 

For a moment, it doesn’t feel fake. There’s raw, punched emotion in his voice, and his thumb rubs your hand gently. Like he really does care that much. Like he wants to hold on. 

But then your brother fake-gags and your fake boyfriend looks away with that, he’s passed the tests, and the conversation moves onto to different topics. Jack laughs at all the right moments, doesn’t bring up any argument-starting topics, doesn’t rise to bait when it’s thrown his way. 

He’s perfect. 

Eventually lunch is drawn to a polite close. You have one last glass of wine while Jack settles the bill. Himself. With one card. He doesn’t even look. 

Your mom sends a smirk your way after he waves off your father’s attempt at splitting the bill or offering to pay. It’s probably the third time she’s actually looked at you for the entire duration of the lunch, but since it’s positive, you’ll let it slide. 

Pretty soon bags are grabbed, hands are shook, and Jack’s hand magically finds its way back to your lower back and you’re being (very gently) escorted out of the restaurant and to the car. 

“Wow,” You breathe as you slide into the passenger seat of his car. “I think that’s the smoothest a lunch with my family has ever gone in my entire life. You’re really good at this.”

Jack doesn’t respond though. Doesn’t make any kind of noise that he heard you. His hands are nearly white knuckled on the steering wheel and he’s staring straight ahead. 

“Jack?” 

“They didn’t even talk to you.”

You blink. 

“What?”

“Your family never tried to include you in the conversation. Didn’t even ask you any questions.”

You snort. “Trust me, it’s better that way.”

He hasn’t started the car yet, just keeps staring off into the middle ground. He can’t be old enough to start doing a thousand yard stare already, right?

“You ordered a salad.” He says, a very prominent frown on his lips. 

“So? It wasn’t too expensive, was it? I swear, if I knew you were gonna pay for the whole bill I would’ve looked at something cheaper, I don’t know why salads are so expensive—“

“Please don’t apologize for ordering a salad,” Jack says, voice pained, “Especially because I know you hate salads.”

Oh. 

“How do you know that?”

“I overheard you talking to Dr. King that time you two were discussing the merits of Olive Garden. You said the salad there was the only kind you like, because of the dressing and the pepperoncinis.”

Your cheeks heat. “I never said I hated all salads. I said I like that one in particular.”

“You hardly ate anything during lunch.”

“My family tends to have that effect on my appetite.”

Jack does not look placated. He doesn’t take the out that your little joke provides. Doesn't so much as huff. He looks upset. Distressed. 

Something about what he said goes ding! in your mind.

“…Mel and I had that conversation like, last month. You seriously remembered that?” 

He frowns harder, like the answer to your partly rhetorical question should be obvious.

(It’s not. Why would he remember that conversation? Why would he care at all?)

“Of course I remember.” 

There isn’t much to say after that. You’re not really sure what in particular has upset Jack, what possibly blunder or error you’ve made to incur him going completely monosyllabic and frowny. Ever eager to appease, you refrain from any attempts to cajole him, make conversation, breathe too loudly, or make any kind of indication that you’re still present. 

The tension in the car is thick and uncomfortable. It prickles at your skin and the hairs on the back of your neck, but the only thing you dare to do is scroll through Pinterest, only looking at the safest, basic boards in case Jack glances over (he doesn’t.)

But then he does glance over. He just doesn’t look at your phone. 

Jack just keeps looking at you. 

He’ll look over, eyes darting over your face like he’s looking for something, and then he’ll look away. Over and over for almost the entire course of the drive. He only stops when you accidentally time your staring (monitoring) of him wrong and make eye contact. 

He parks by your place (he once again sexily parallel parks with ease) and then puts the car in park. And then he starts talking. 

“You’re so much more than them.” 

Jack has the heat on, but the air in the car suddenly feels cold. 

“What?”

“Your family,” Jack clarifies, like that was the confusing part “Your parents. I hated watching you… disappear like that. You deserve better than that. You are better than that.” 

You try to swallow, almost choking on the sudden lump in your throat. 

“Listen,” You start, unaware of how to even begin processing what he said, let alone formulating the best response because your brain is just flashing abort! Abort! Abort! in big neon letters,, “Thank you for today. I really appreciate it. But if this is all just too much, I can handle things from here. Really. I can say that someone called out and you had to cover shifts—“

“No.”

Jack says it with such vehemence, bordering on vitriol, that it startles you, and you flinch backwards ever so slightly. 

An old habit. 

Something flashes across his face —gone before you can decipher it— and he noticeably forces himself calmer.  

“I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I let you go alone again. Ever.” 

Your brain starts short-circuiting at his words. “I really can’t ask you to—“

“It’s a good thing you’re not asking me then.” 

“Jack—“

“Please.”

You’re stunned silent at the rawness in his tone— the pain. 

He said please. He said it like he was begging. He is begging. 

“I don’t know how you do it,” He continues, jaw working, “I can see it on you, plain as day. How you hate what they do, how it makes you hurt. But you keep going.”

You shrug uselessly. “Is there another option?” 

Jack reaches out for you, then falters, like he thought better. A tiny part of you wishes he’d followed through; bridged the yawning gap between the two of you that’s made up of the center console in his car, a couple decades, and your own unwillingness to try at vulnerability. 

“I’ll walk you to your door.” 

The walk to your door is a stark contrast to the walk to the restaurant. There’s no mischief on his face now, only a mask of stony distress. 

At the doorway to your apartment building, you pause. It seems customary. Appropriate. Necessary.

Really, you just want to look at Jack some more. Try to puzzle out why the lunch that felt like it went so well made him so upset. Where you’re getting signals wrong and crossing wires. Why success to you is failure to him. 

(As an ED resident, you’ve seen child abuse cases. You’ve seen foster care children littered with cigarette burns and criss-crossing scars of broken bottles and the corners of coffee tables and haunted eyes.  

You know your family isn’t great. But there aren’t any cigarette burns or glass scars or eyes that track fast movement.)

You have this burning inclination to apologize to Jack. Logically, you know you haven’t done something wrong, but you feel like you have because he’s upset so maybe you can make it better? 

“You have that look on your face.”

You frown. “What look?” 

“The ‘I’m gonna apologize for something stupid’ look.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“You were thinking about it,” Jack ducks down, catches your eyes, “Hey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.” 

“It’s freaky when you do that.”

“Do what?”

“You always know what I’m thinking.”

Jack just huffs; shoves his hands in his pockets. 

Emboldened by his reassurance, you ask: “Why are you upset?” 

“Because your family treats you like shit, and I want to fix it, but I can’t.” 

“Oh.” 

It’s not that bad. It can’t be that bad. You’ve seen bad. This isn’t it. It’s hard, but it’s not bad. 

He stays quiet, seemingly sensing the inner turmoil his words have sparked. That, or he really is that good at reading you. 

Jack nods towards your door. “We can talk later. Get some sleep. We both have shifts tonight.”

Right. Yeah. All of these events roughly occurred over the course of six hours. Time makes sense. 

Despite the fact that you are exhausted and desperately need to sleep if you have any chance of surviving your –quickly approaching– shift, you linger. 

“How am I supposed to repay you for all of this?” 

The question that’s been burning a hole in your pocket since he said I’ll do it. 

He just shakes his head. Like it’s simple. Easy. “This isn’t something I want repayment for. Now go. You’re no good to me as a zombie.” 

“I’ll just have some of Shen’s Dunkin.”

“He doesn’t share that shit. Besides, he’s off tomorrow.”

“Maybe I‘ll—“

“Sleep,” He points at your door, “Now.” 

You smile at his insistence. He’s sort of like cold coffee with sugar. Seems all bitter but then you get a bit of that sweet crunch, so it balances out. He balances out. 

Sometimes it feels like he balances you out. 

“Goodnight.”

He gives you a little smile of his own. 

“Goodnight.”

—

Jack Abbot does not take his own advice. Mostly because he knows if he doesn’t talk about what happened during that lunch from hell, he’s going to do something that will end in him being thrown in prison and having his medical license revoked. More importantly, if that happens, he won’t be around to take care of you. 

So instead he collapses on his couch, works his prosthetic off to give his stump a needed break, and dials the number at the top of his favorites in his contact list. 

“This really isn’t a good time—“

“Robby,” Jack starts, “They didn’t even fucking talk to her.” 

“Jesus, okay. Whitaker! Cover for me a sec, will you? I gotta deal with this.”

“They just…” Jack continues, genuinely at a loss for words. His vocabulary feels woefully unequipped to relay the depth of anger he feels about the events of the lunch, “…Ignored her. They talked over her, didn’t ask her questions, hardly ever let her finish speaking when she did finally get a chance to speak, and threw jabs at her constantly. It was fucking awful.“

The background noise quiets over the phone, and Jack knows Robby’s moved to either the break room or an empty patient room. 

“She fight back at all?”

“No. Just… grinned and beared it. It was fuckin’ unsettling, man. I’ve seen her yell back at rude patients, watched her stand her ground to EMT’s who think they know better. It was like she hollowed herself out to sit at that table.” 

“Christ.”

“She flinched away from me. Afterwards, in the car, when I raised my voice on accident.”

“Fuck. Do you think—“

“I don’t know. Maybe when she was younger. They don’t live in state, so if they are, she’s safe.” 

Jack scrubs a hand down his face. “God. I don’t know what to do, Robby. It doesn’t seem like she’s got… anybody. She didn’t even understand why I was upset. She doesn’t get why that would be upsetting.” 

“She’s friends with Mel and Santos, right?” 

“And Whitaker by extension, yeah. But those are recent friends. I’ve never heard her mention anybody from back home. No boyfriend or best friend or anything. She’s just been doing everything on her own.”

Jack can picture Robby nodding. “We’ve done our fair share of that.”

“Yeah, and look where that got us. I can’t just leave her here. Fuck, it was like watching someone kick a puppy, over and over.” 

“That bad?” 

“Yeah.” 

The line goes silent for a bit, both men stewing on the subject at hand. 

“She’s always had these habits. I thought they were just personality quirks, you know. I mean, we’re all fucked up, but watching it happen…”

“It’s different.” 

“You could say that,” Jack sighs, “She soaks up praise like a fucking sponge. She looks surprised every time I do something nice for her. And she keeps trying to make me happy.”

“You lost me on that last one.” 

“It doesn’t… She’s not doing it to make me happy, exactly. She just does everything she can to keep me from getting mad.” 

“Is there a difference?”

“There is. Eager to please versus eager to appease.”

“Are you sure you want to get involved?”

“Bit late for that.”

“You could pull back.”

“Fuck no, I can’t. Then I’d be kicking the puppy.”

“She is a grown woman.”

“Who happens to look like a kicked puppy.”

He scrubs a hand down his face, groaning into the microphone. 

“You finally realize how ridiculous you sound?”

Jack grunts. “I’m not giving you the satisfaction of answering that.”

The line crackles with the staticky sound of Robby chuckling. “That’s an answer in it of itself, and you know that.” 

He lets the line go quiet again, briefly debating just hanging up. 

“I don’t know, Robby. It’s just…”

“Worse than you expected?”

“Yeah.”

“Come on. You knew that was a possibility. Has it put you off, at all?”

“Fuck no.”

“Exactly. Now please, go to bed so I can get back to saving lives? Whitaker is covering for me and he’s only gone through two pairs of scrubs so far today. I’m not a betting man, but if I were, I’d bet money that he’s moved onto his third during this conversation.” 

“I save lives too.”

“You won’t save any if you fall asleep on the drive over and die.”

“I would never fall asleep behind the wheel.”

“That’s what they all say.” 

Jack really does hang up after that, plugging his phone in and rushing through everything he needs to do before bed. 

But even as exhaustion pulls his body down into deep, dreamless sleep, he can’t stop thinking about that hollow look on your face. And he knows, even half-asleep, that he won’t be able to let it go.

—

The next night at work is weird, because nothing has changed, except now you know what the inside of Jack’s car looks like and how his voice sounded when he begged you to let him help. 

It’s jarring, to say the least. Unsteadying and mildly world-rocking if you’re being honest. 

But gossip travels fast within the walls of the PTMC, so by the time night shift is halfway over, you’re convinced you’ve heard every variation in existence of the same two questions: 

“Did you and Jack go on a date yesterday?” 

And: 

“What’s Jack like on a date?” 

The answer to the first question is complicated and embarrassing, so you don’t answer it or any of it’s variants. The answer to the second question is not complicated but it does, however, stir some very complicated feelings, so you refrain from answering that one too. You just try to refrain from thinking about or seeing him in general.

You’re not avoiding Jack, per se. Just keeping busy. With other stuff. That’s conveniently nowhere near him. 

Ellis keeps shooting you entirely too knowing looks, Mckay, who’s pulling a double, pats your shoulder and tells you she’s there if you want to talk, Shen is absent as Jack said he would be, and Jack himself is acting like nothing happened and everything is normal and he’s never been to your apartment smelled your perfume. 

(“…I like layering scents.”

“It’s nice. Suits you.”)

It’s all too much.

Hence the avoiding.

You try to curb your own ridiculousness for the sake of your patients, but it’s oddly difficult. You’ve always been amazing at compartmentalizing. If your family gave you any kind of skill, it’s the ability to shove your feelings in a box, and then shove that box in a corner of your mind you won’t access consciously until you end up on public transportation with your headphones. You should be more than capable of gathering up all the loose feelings labeled ‘For: Jack Abbot’ and tucking them all nice and neat in that little box and then shove it in a dark mental corner. 

But you can’t. And along with the flurry of Jack Abbot causing a hurricane in your head, there’s a lesser storm that is the result of your family. More specifically, how they look to Jack. 

All roads lead back to Rome. Or, in your case, to Jack. 

You catch yourself during every spare moment or menial task that doesn’t require 100% of your brain power analyzing every interaction he had with them. Everything they said, everything they did, and how Jack would’ve taken it. And why. Because clearly, the act of dealing with them isn’t the problem. The ease and finesse in which he did so crosses that off the list. So it’s something else. 

It’s how they treat you. 

You understand, logically, that it would be upsetting, from his point of view. If you were in his place, you’d also probably be upset too. 

But this feels different. Jack’s reaction is different. Jack is different. 

It’s just never really been something that anyone should be upset over. Your family are who they are. Not great, but not truly bad either. You deal with them sparingly. You don’t even live in the same state anymore. It’s not a big deal. 

“Why are you hiding from me in a supply closet?” 

You whirl around, a box of gloves clutched in your hands.

“I’m not hiding from you.”

Jack crosses his arms and leans against the doorway. “This is the third time you’ve been here in two hours.”

“So? I just want to be… on top of things. I’m a productive person.” 

“You are,” He amends, “But all of your productivity tonight has been pretty strictly nowhere near me. Funny how that works.”

You sigh, placing the gloves back on the rack. “Things are just… weird, okay? I don’t know how you’re being so normal about all this?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Normal how?”

“You seemed pretty upset yesterday. You’re acting like nothing’s changed, but–”

“Nothing has changed.”

Your fingers wander and find a loose piece of skin on the edge of your cuticle, and you begin absent-mindedly picking at it. 

You can’t exactly disagree with him, right here, in the supply closet at the hospital. But you can’t quite bring yourself to agree either– because whether he acknowledges it or not, things have changed. Seeing him outside the hospital, perfectly placating your family into one of the most peaceful get-togethers you’ve had in years isn't just nothing. 

It’s everything. And you, for one, can’t just pretend that it didn’t happen. 

“Hey,” He calls your name softly, “What’s on your mind? What’s bugging you?” 

“Nothing.”

He snorts, pushing off the doorframe and shutting the door behind him, so it’s just the two of you alone. “Liar.”

He doesn’t probe any further, just leans against the now closed door with his hands in his pockets, eyes flitting over you like they’re looking for an answer. An answer you’re too hesitant to give. 

“I’m just worried.” 

“You? Worried? No.” 

You cut him a glare, “There’s a very real chance that this could all go horribly awry, you know.”

“Sure,” Jack dips his head, “But that’s not what you’re really worried about.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Because that doesn’t address the fact that you’re avoiding me.”

You sigh, scrubbing a hand across your face. 

“Why do you care?” 

The question that’s been nagging at you since the beginning. The little itch in the back of your mind that you just can’t seem to get rid of. The puzzle you can’t figure out; the tune you can’t place. 

You’re a logic driven person. You like knowing how things works– why they work. Why things do the things they do. 

You like having the why. Having the why makes the world make sense. 

Nothing about Jack Abbot makes sense. 

“Why do I care about what?”

“This,” You gesture vaguely to the air, “Me. I don’t buy that you just didn’t have anything better to do or whatever it was you said. People don’t just… do that. You’re really ruining your life for an entire week for what? So I'm a little less uncomfortable? Me? At the end of the day, we’re just coworkers. I know how important your down time is for you, so I just don’t get why you’re so okay with being miserable just for my sake. I’m not that important. These stupid lunches aren’t that important.” 

It’s a stupid confession. Much too vulnerable for a supply closet and a man you’re harboring feelings for. 

He doesn’t respond right away. Hums, stares at his shoes for a bit. Re-adjusts so his prosthetic isn’t taking so much weight. 

“You are important. You’re important to me, to this hospital, to your patients. And for the record, I am not ‘ruining my week.’ If it was that easy for my week to be ruined, I never would have become a doctor, let alone joined the military.”

“But why?” 

“Jesus, you watched a lot of the science channel growing up, didn’t you?” 

You snort. “Guilty as charged.” 

Now it’s his turn to sigh. 

“You… seem to have this misguided belief that caring is reciprocal in nature.”

You frown. “It is.” 

“It isn’t. At least it shouldn’t be, but I don’t think anyone ever told you that.” 

You scoff. “So this is about my family.” 

He shrugs. “Amongst other things.”

“They’re not that bad.”

“They are.” 

“Other people have it worse.”

“It’s not a competition.” 

You resist the urge to throw your hands in the air. “Why is this such a big deal to you?” 

“Because it’s a big deal to you.” 

The air gets quiet and tense. Like the supply closet and all the medical supplies in it are holding their breath. If they were alive, if they were holding their breath, you’re convinced they’d all be looking at you. 

It’s Jack who speaks first though. 

“I can see it. You do everything yourself, get back up even when it’s hard. You look out for other people more than you look out for yourself. You’re selfless and kind and I don’t think very many people give that back to you.” 

A reflexive smile pulls at your lips, a habit you never quite managed to kick after years of people telling you ‘smile, look grateful, stop looking so upset, there’s nothing to cry about.’ It feels awkward and clunky on your mouth but you don’t know what else to do. There’s no pre-written protocol for something like this.

“I still don’t really get it.” You murmur, more to yourself than to Jack.

Jack sends you a light grin. “We’ll work on it.” 

“We will?” 

“Sure,” He shrugs, “Already started anyways.” 

“If you’re sure.” 

“I’m sure,” He opens the door, “Now get back out there. And bring the gloves too.”

You roll your eyes but comply, snagging the box off the shelf where you’d left it and following him out. 

The rest of your shift passes much smoother than before, even with the routine influx of patients as the time inches closer to morning. Jack doesn’t hover, but doesn’t pull the disappearing act that you (totally fairly) pulled on him either. He truly seems unfazed. Like it really, actually doesn’t bother him. 

Well. Correction. It does bother him, but not because it’s something he’s doing for you, the part that bothers him (apparently) is how all of this affects you. All this caring makes you feel like a deer in the headlights.

You recall something he said that night. Something that had made you shiver– something that hit the nail right on the head. 

“Hey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.” 

He always seems to know exactly what to say to you. How to act, what to do, what specific worry you’re feeling and the best course of action to soothe it. It’s great but it’s also difficult, because there’s a part of you that wants to let him keep doing it, but then there’s the part of you that bristles every time and wants to snap that you’re completely capable of doing things yourself. 

That probably wouldn’t even work. He’d just say something infuriating and sexy, like “I know, but I want to do this for you.” 

He would. He totally would. 

The thought is equal parts haunting and reassuring. 

(And maybe, also, a little, kind of really sweet?)

–

The next two lunches go great. Jack is still freakishly incredible at charming your family. And, with his help, you actually manage to hold a (mostly) civil conversation with your parents for the first time in… years. 

The lunches are fine, but the part you’ve started looking forward to is the before and after. Before, Jack comes to pick you up, and sometimes he comes early and helps prepare (which mostly involves him either talking you off the ledge, pouring a shot or two, or assuring you that your makeup and outfit look great. Not fine, great) or just to hang out. The hanging out part is nice, because he never comes with any sort of expectation. He’ll sit on your couch and scroll through his phone and entertain all the inane chatter you like to get out of your system beforehand but never had an outlet for before. 

The after is even more fun. You run through the highlights of the night and hate on all the annoying things your family said to you. This usually also involves stopping somewhere for food (only for you, Jack’s never hungry because he eats t=at the restaurants but you’re never allowed to order anything that isn’t a salad) and then the two fo you fight over who pays. You always insist since you’re the only one actually eating any of the food, but then Jack usually takes your card, puts it in his pocket, and uses his own. 

It’s as frustrating as it is hot. 

But for the most part, the lunches and your shifts at work have actually been pretty good– as good as night shifts in a trauma center can be, anyway. Jack’s presence is… steadying, even when he’s not physically there. He’s always present in some way– whether it’s little reminders he leaves at your favorite spot for charting (he only uses blue sticky notes) or a real lunch left for you in the breakroom fridge (you weren’t previously aware he actually knew how to cook, or that he knew how picky you are when it comes to what you’ll actually eat for lunch and how often you get too busy to properly make something.) Sometimes he’s there in your head; in little things he’s told or taught you that you remember in the moment. 

It’s nice. To have someone be around. Someone you can relax with, joke with– someone who hasn’t looked down on you for the the way you turned out. 

You were pretty ready to declare smooth sailing ahead, but then on the third lunch your mother shows up and is decidedly not in a good mood and the seas turn choppy and the boat smashes into the rocks below. 

At least, two peach bellinis in, that’s what it feels like. 

“Honestly,” Your mother puffs, “I don’t understand why making some simple appetizers could take so long. This is why I hate going to restaurants during lunch hours, the staff just gets so lazy. The menu is always better at dinner anyways.” 

You ignore the thinly veiled dig and instead choose to quietly drain the rest of your third peach bellini. They taste like juice and take a much needed edge (or two) of the evening. Lunch. What-fucking-ever. 

Jack, ever aware of the best way to survive these functions (somehow) whilst keeping his sanity, remains silent as your mom huffs and puffs, seeming to understand that trying to placate her when she gets in these moods is a fruitless endeavor that only leads  to your mom getting more upset and everyone else more annoyed. 

You, made slightly optimistic by the wonderful powers of alcohol, attempt to put her in a better mood. 

“I have the next three days off, mom. We’ll be able to do dinners instead.”

Your mother, however, only scoffs. “That’s no good to anyone now. We’ve already spent half this week dealing with poor restaurant service. I mean, no respectable job would have such a ridiculous schedule." 

“I’m a doctor, mom. It doesn’t get more respectable than that.” 

Jack nudges your leg with his, either a silent laugh, show of support, or quiet question of your sanity. Maybe all three. 

Another bellini appears in front of you, this one heavier on the alcohol than the last. Your server is getting a giant tip when this is all over. 

“You work in the emergency department, dear. That’s hardly stable, and stable is respectable,” Jack clears his throat, and your mother at least has the manners to look mildly sheepish, “No offense, Jack.” 

He smiles thinly. “None taken.” 

Conversation from there is stilted at best with even your brothers tip-toeing around your mother. No one wants to be the subject of a nitpicking lecture, even when the version she gives them is a slap on the wrist compared to what you endure. 

So you keep drinking your bellini’s and they keep coming. After your fourth, you think you should maybe slow down a little, but then your dad starts grilling Jack about his life (again) and you decide that alcohol is, in fact, necessary. 

“Have you ever been in a serious relationship before, Jack?” 

That one almost makes you ask the server for a shot of vodka, straight. That’s a question you ask a nineteen year-old pimple-faced boy, not a fucking fifty year old man. 

“I have, yes. But, like most things in life, they were learning experiences. I’ve moved on.” 

Your dad snorts, then gestures to you. “You could teach her a thing or two about moving on.” 

Your blood runs cold. 

Jack sets his glass down. “And what do you mean by that?”

It’s your mother who answers. Because one vulture circling your soon-to-be carcass wasn’t enough. 

“I’m surprised she hasn’t told you. It was all she ever talked about for years. She’s had exactly one boyfriend before you– what was his name honey?”

“Christopher,” You answer hollowly, stomach churning. 

Your dad snaps his fingers. “That’s it. It took ages for her to get her first boyfriend. We were fairly convinced it would never happen, but then one day she came home with Christopher. Whole family wanted to throw a party– finally found someone to put up with all that attitude!”

Your family laughs, but Jack doesn’t. 

“Where’s the funny part, in all this?”

Your mother clears her throat, just a tad awkward. “When she broke up with him it was awful. She refused to leave her room for works, cried all the time. Honestly, I would have understood if he had broken up with her, but it was all her decision.” 

Your dad nods in agreement. “We had to have a sit-down conversation with her about decisions and consequences before she finally stopped crying and hiding in her room. Christopher was such a nice boy, we hated to see him go.”

Jack opens his mouth, poised to fire something back and defend you, but you beat him to the punch. 

“He cheated on me with my best friend.” 

At that, your mother frowns. “That’s not what Christopher said. You were in your teen angst era, remember? Always picking fights? He told your brother that you were so distant with him he didn’t know you were still together.” 

“I wasn’t distant, I was really busy. I was studying for the MCAT. He knew that. He knew how important medical school was to me.” 

Your brother rolls his eyes. “Med school was all you talked about. It’s not like you were putting out.”

Your mother snaps her fingers once. “That is inappropriate talk for public. You know better.” 

“Come on, mom. It’s true. Everyone knows–”

“Sorry to interrupt,” Jack says, not at all sounding sorry, “But the hospital just texted. There’s an emergency, and we’re needed, so we have to go.” 

Jack does not wait for your mother or father to excuse him. He just stands, offering you his hand. It turns out that you need it, because there is, apparently, such a thing as too many peach bellinis. Your mom sends you a pointed glare as you stumble once, after which you make a concerted effort to look more sober. 

Neither you nor Jack bother saying proper goodbyes. Once he grabs your jacket and purse (and your vision stops swimming so much and you’re sure you can walk in a convincing approximation of a straight line) you’re both gone. You pass your server on the way out, who is slipped a very generous cash tip for the excellent bellini service. 

By the time you get to the car, you realize that you’re about to have to save patient lives and you are very, extremely, drunk. There is no way you are capable of doing any life-saving at the moment. 

“Jack,” You mumble, fumbling with your seatbelt, “I think I’m too drunk to go in. Did they say how serious the emergency was? Can I just get a banana bag?” 

“There is no emergency,” He says calmly, batting your hands away and buckling you in properly, “I made it up. I figured you’d be okay with ducking out of there.” 

“Oh. That was nice of you.” 

He clicks you in and gives you a wry grin. “Told you I would handle things.”

You nod, the movement exaggerated and lopsided. “I hate it when they bring up Christpher. They always take his side. Like, is there ever a situation where it’s okay to cheat on a girl with her best friend? I was studying for the MCAT. I didn’t even wallow or break up with him when I found out. I waited until after I took the exam so I didn’t fuck up my score.” 

“That’s my girl.” 

“Christopher was an asshole. He was a real dickhead. The whole situation sucked. I lost the only two people who I thought cared about me at the same time. My family acted like I was the fucking anti-christ for being upset about it, too. It was fucking terrible. I’m so glad I don’t live with them anymore. I mean, I still love them, and I care about them, cause they’re my family, but everything is just so much easier when they’re not around.” 

“You’re allowed to hate them, you know.” 

“I know,” You say, fiddling with a hangnail. “I know I probably should.” 

You sigh, tilting your head back against the headrest. “I always keep holding out hope, you know? That one day they’ll apologize, figure their shit out, care about me in a way that matters. I know it’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid.” 

You frown. “It’s not? It kinda seems stupid. You’d think by now I would know better.” 

“No,” Jack eases the car out of the parking space, “We’re biologically wired to love our families. It’s the reason why they can fuck you up so bad. Your brain can’t compute why the people who are supposed to love you above all else just… don’t. Not in any of the right ways.” 

You blow air through your lips. “I think my parents fucked me up. I was so happy when I matched into the Pitt, because it was so far away. But then I got out here it just kind of hit me, all at once, that I was alone. My best friend was gone, my ex boyfriend sucked, and I was too busy in med school taking care of myself and my family to make any friends.”

Shit, that sounds so whiny. “But it turns out it wasn’t so bad. Now I've got Mell, and Santos, and I’m pretty sure I’m friends with Shen too. Mckay is nice too. I like her. She’s cool.” 

Jack huffs something that could be a laugh, and you turn to study him; the angles of his face awash in the glow of the red light you’re currently stopped at. From here, you can see the tiny bits of tension he carries in his face— a slight pinch in his brow, the tiniest downturn of his lips. It’s the only evidence that he’s not as unaffected by your family as he pretends to be.

Then the light turns green, and his face isn’t illuminated the same. 

“And what about me?” 

Oh. Well. That’s a loaded question.

The alcohol emboldens you to answer honestly. “I don’t know what to think about you.” 

“Oh really?” 

“Mmm. Nope.” 

“How come?” 

"You're so–” You gesture vaguely, “Confusing. I can’t figure you out. For a while there, I was pretty sure you hated me, but then you offered to help me with this and you keep saying you care so I think I’m wrong.” 

“You think you’re wrong?”

“Still can’t figure you out.” 

“And how can I show you that I mean it?” 

That’s. Hmm.

“I don’t know. I think what you’re doing is working,” You pause, debating the pros and cons of continuing to just say whatever the fuck you want before deciding you’re too tired to care, “It helps that you’re really hot.” 

His lips twitch. “Oh, does it now?” 

“Mhm. You’ve got this whole… capable thing about you. It’s hot. Competency is in.”

“If you say so.” 

“I do say so. I feel like if I had a problem I could call you or something and you would fix it. You’re so…”

“Competent?” 

“That’s the word.”

If he’s at all irritated, annoyed, or otherwise put off by your stupid rambling, he didn’t show it. 

“You should call me whenever you have a problem. Chances are, I can fix it.” 

“Are you like Bob the Builder?”

“I’m a doctor, so no.” 

“You’re kind of like Bob the Builder.” 

“Whatever you say,” He pauses at an empty intersection before continuing on, “Before I start heading towards your place, do you want to stop by mine? You didn’t even get to eat your salad, and I have leftovers. You can say no.”

“Are you gonna be mad at me if I say no?” 

“No.” 

‘Then yes.” 

“You sure? I wasn’t lying.” 

“I know. But I like your cooking.”

You spend the drive to Jack’s continuing to ramble about nothing and everything, to which he entertains with a seemingly endless amount of patience. The only time he interrupts is to hand you a bottle of Gatorade he procured from his back seat. Apparently, he bought a few to keep in his car after the first lunch. “For any alcohol excursions.” 

It’s freaky how prepared he is for every situation. 

When you arrive, he unbuckles your seatbelt for you (unbuckling is just as difficult as buckling when you’ve had an unknown amount of peach bellinis) and helps you up the stairs to his apartment. 

His gigantic apartment. 

“Woah,” You mumble as you shuffle through the doorway, pulled along by your hand in Jacks, “I didn’t know they made apartments this size.” 

“Its not that big.” 

“I think, like, four of my apartments could fit in here. Your living room is the size of my entire place.” 

You stumble once, heel catching on the little rug on the entry way, and he’s immediately motioning for you to sit on the little bench by the door and pats his thigh once. You clumsily raise your leg, barely managing to land your foot on the general area he gestures to. He pulls the first shoe off, then repeats with the second with an air of total calm. Like this is normal and he does this all the time for you. Like you regularly find yourself drunk in his apartment.

You decide to unpack the moment when you’re sober. 

“One, it’s not that big, and two, that’s what you get for renting a studio apartment.”

“Like you could afford better when you were an intern.” 

He snorts, leading you to his couch and gesturing for you to sit. “If you want to change clothes you can borrow some of mine.”

You chew on your lip. The outfits you choose to look nice for your mother are never exactly comfortable, and when else are you going to get the chance to privately live the scenario you fantasize about several times a week before falling asleep?

“Only if you don’t mind.” 

“I wouldn't have offered if I wasn’t. Stay there.” 

Jack’s only gone for a few minutes before he reappears with a dark grey sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants in a slightly lighter shade. The sweatshirt is oversized and looks well worn, but the sweatpants are suspiciously new, close to your size, and look eerily similar to a pair you changed into after a shift a few weeks ago.

He hands them to you. Neither of you mention the sweatpants. “You can change in the bathroom. Door locks from the inside. I’m gonna change too, and then I’ll heat up the food.” 

Jack shows you the bathroom (you don’t bother unpacking why exactly he felt the need to tell you that the door locks and from the inside, that’s for when you’re significantly more drunk than you are now and when you’re not in his fancy-ass apartment.) 

Because he’s a man and men take approximately three seconds to change, he’s already in the kitchen setting stuff on the counter by the time you emerge from the bathroom. His countertops are solid granite, because the apartment is clearly expensive and he’s a man. They’re an inky black color with  tiny flecks that sparkle when the light hits them just so. 

“What are you doing?” Jack asks when he turns from the fridge to find you tilting your head this way and that. 

“Looking at the sparkles.” 

“Oookay. Do you want me to heat up the vodka pasta or the chicken?”

“You made vodka pasta?” 

He shrugs. “You said you liked it.” 

You slide into a seat at the kitchen island, a flush creeping up your neck. “The pasta, please.” 

Suddenly exhausted now that you’re in soft, comfortable clothes that smell like Jack, you decide to just rest your head on your arms for a bit. And close your eyes. But you’re not going to fall asleep. You’re not. 

“Don’t fall asleep. You need to eat something first.” 

“M’ not fallin’ asleep.” 

“Mhm. Sure.” 

With great effort, you blink your eyes open and watch Jack while he heats up the pasta and prepares something else. A salad maybe?

“What’re’you’ making?”

“Just a little salad. In case the pasta is too heavy for you.” 

“Oh. How come?” 

“Because I don’t want you to throw up.” 

“I promise I won’t throw up on your furniture. I don’t usually throw up when I’m hungover.” 

“You drink often?” 

“No,” Your head lulls to the side, “I’m too busy. I’m actually not-so-secretly very boring. I don’t really like partying. I much prefer staying at home.” 

“Thought you went to that thing with King and Santos?” 

“Yeah, but that was ‘cause Trinity really wanted me to come and I felt bad and I didn’t want her to think I was a boring, uptight bitch.” 

“I see.” 

“Yeah. I kinda had fun, though. I wished you were there.”

“Really?” 

“Yeah,” You sigh, probably a hint too dreamily, “Makes me feel better when you’re around.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” 

He slides a little bowl with a light salad in it to you across the counter, and it's perfectly refreshing. Not at all heavy like the pasta ends up being. 

“Sorry I couldn’t finish it,” You say, forcing down a yawn and resisting the urge to burrow into your arms and go to sleep right there, “I feel bad that you went through the trouble of making it and heating it up.” 

“It wasn’t that much effort. Besides, now you can just eat it for lunch tomorrow instead. I’ll send it home with you.” 

“Mhm.” You hum, slowly inching your arms forward and down onto the counter, your head quickly following suit. 

Jack chuckles, and you can hear the light step of his feet as he rounds the corner of the island and nudges you in the arm. 

“Come on, sweetheart. You wanna get home to bed, don’t you?”

“No,” You shake your head, “I wanna sleep right here. It’s comfortable.”

“It won’t be when you wake up.”

You whine, curling away from him. 

He just puffs another little laugh. “You can either sleep in your bed, or my bed. You can’t sleep on the kitchen island.”

“Why not?” You finally lift your head, “And why is your bed an option?”

“One,” He lifts up one finger in front of your face and slowly drags it back and forth, “Because the kitchen island is not a bed. Two, I’m not letting you sleep on the couch.”

“Why? Is your couch uncomfortable?”

“No,” He says, shuffling back over to where the leftovers are and tucking all the food away in the proper places, “It’s just not right to make a woman sleep on the couch.”

“I like sleeping on couches.”

He shoots you a look over his shoulder, “I’m sure you do. But you’re still a little drunk, and my bed is closer to the bathroom than the couch is.” 

You prop your head on your hand. “Who said I’m even staying here tonight?”

Jack closes the fridge. “Do you want to? Because I don’t care either way. We both have tomorrow off.”

“It’d be weird to wake up here.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re my boss.”

“And I’m faking being your boyfriend so your parents get off your back. Pretty sure we’re past coworkers.” 

“What would we even do in the morning?” 

“Sleep.”

“I don’t want to kick you out of your bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.” 

“You’re my guest–” 

“You’re already doing so much for me,” You blurt, stomach clenching, “I– You know me. I can only handle so much. Let me do this one thing? Please?” 

Jack glowers for a bit, then sighs. 

“Only because you asked nicely and I believe in rewarding good behavior. And because I know my couch isn’t uncomfortable. I’ll help you make it up.” 

Jack’s apartment is surprisingly tidy for the fact that a man lives in it (Christopher’s room at his parent’s house always looked like shit) and he pulls down a couple options for bedding. You go with the plain black sheet and its matching thick, fluffy comforter. He insists on making up the couch himself (despite the fact that the alcohol has mostly worn off by now) and even sets up a glass of water, a liquid IV packet, and a bucket– “Just in case those bellini’s don’t love you back.” 

The sight of it all is almost too much. It’s just so much care. All of it. The fact that he’s helping out with you and your disaster of a family, the way that despite the horribleness of it all he hasn’t judged you at all for how you deal with them. He refuses to let you drive yourself, always pays for every lunch for your entire family and the little snacks you get afterwards. Listens to you rant and he makes you food and gets you blankets and–

“You okay there?” 

“Mhm,” You hum, “Just thinkin’.” 

He leaves you be for a moment, busies himself with fixing your pillows and and tugging the comforter into its proper place.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you turn, throwing your arms around Jack’s middle and burying your face in his chest. 

“Thank you,” You say, voice muffled by the fabric, “For doing all of this. Thank you for looking out for me.” 

Jack is still for a second, just long enough for you to second guess initiating physical contact –a line you were previously too scared to cross– but then his hands come up and it's so, immediately, remarkably over. Because you’re never ever going to draw that line again. You can never go back to your life without having this. Without having him. 

Jack’s hands are big and deliciously warm as they slide up, around your waist, lingering to rub a few circles on the mid of your back before moving on. One arm stays, tightening around your waist and drawing you closer while his other glides further up, up, up, his callused palms sliding over the knob at the very base of your neck before his hand settles around your nape, fingers just barely brushing the edge of your hairline. 

You barely manage to suppress a whine at how warm and incredible it feels to be fully enveloped by him. You never want him to let go. Goosebumps erupt everywhere he touches, little sparks of electricity lingering under your skin in his wake.

“I will always,” He presses the lightest of kisses to your temple, just a feathering of his lips, “Look out for you, baby. I’m always gonna be right here.”

His arms tighten around you, drawing you in— closer, closer, closer. Wrapped up in everything that is Jack you can’t help but sag, going completely boneless in his grip and allowing yourself to just bask in him. 

“You smell good.” You mumble into his shirt, completely lost in the moment. 

“Do I?”

“Yeah. Good. Like man.” 

He chuckles, the sound vibrating pleasantly against your cheek. “Thank you sweetheart.” 

“Why do you call me sweetheart?” 

“Because you’re a sweetheart.” 

“I am?” 

“Don’t play dumb now,” He pulls back a little, just enough to get a good look at you, fingers curling in the fine hair at your nape and tugging down, angling your chin up so you’re forced to look at him, “You know you are.” 

You shrug, eyes darting to the side, your cheeks flushing, “I don’t know. I was just making sure.” 

“Mhm.” He hums, tone almost mocking, fingers tightening around your hair just before the precipice of pain.

You stay like that for a few moments of charged silence. Jack’s eyes shamelessly rove over the planes of your face, mapping it out in his mind. He keeps his grip on your hair, not completely forcing eye contact but keeping your head firmly in place. 

It’s possessive. Bold. Probably too intimate for two people who (supposedly) are not actually dating

And you love it. 

Jack only lets his hand (and your head) drop when your jaw opens in a splitting yawn. 

“Okay,” He huffs, taking a step back, “Time for bed. Get going.” 

Embarrassment is the only thing keeping you from whining at the loss of contact and impending reality of sleeping on the couch alone. But you made your bed (figuratively) so now you have to lie in it. 

The couch does look comfortable. Especially since Jack put all the blankets together. 

He waits until you’ve crawled under the comforter to bid you goodnight, followed by a parting reminder to “Wake him up if you start aspirating on vomit.” It’s a very Jack thing to say. 

You’re out almost the second Jack turns the lights off. You fall into deep, blissful sleep, dreaming of that final moment in the living room, your eyes boring into each other. 

Except in the dream, you tilt your head up those last few inches, and kiss your fake boyfriend as hard as you can. 

–

Generally, the annual lecture event ends with a massive blow out argument. Something dramatic and filled with expletives, after which your mother will refuse to answer any texts or calls you send before finally telling you that’s she’s sorry if (always if) something she said offended you, but talking to you is just so hard sometimes so she doesn’t want to unless you’re ready to be more civil. By the time the two of you are on neutral terms again, it’s time for the next annual lunch circuit. 

You’re a mess of nerves in the hours before the last one. Like usual, your mom requested that the last dinner be held at your place. “So it can feel like a real family dinner.” While you know that there isn’t any saying no to your mother, you also know that there is no way you’re cramming your entire family in your tiny ass studio apartment. It happened once. It will not happen again. 

You originally asked Jack during a last minute shift you both got called in to cover if he would help you move some of the furniture at your place to accommodate them, and then he’d gotten this incredulous look on his face and then told you to tell your mom that you’re having dinner at his place. 

“Jack,” You’d gaped at him, “It’s fine. My apartment isn’t that small, and you don’t have to help move the furniture if you don’t want to. I can ask Dennis to give me a hand instead. I really don’t think you want to host my family.” 

“Sweetheart, it’s just logic. You’ve seen my place.”

“Okay. No need to rub it in.” 

He’d just rolled his eyes and pinned you with a firm look. “Come on. You know this is the best option. If your mom throws a fit, tell her I insisted and give her my number.” 

“Do you have a death wish?” You hiss, “That’s asking for torture.” 

Jack had just shrugged. “Would having it at my place be easier for you?” 

“...Yes?” 

“Then we’ll do it there. You’re off in a bit, right?” 

You’d nodded. 

He fishes something small and shiny out of his pocket and tosses it to you. “That’s my spare key. I’ll be here later than you, so just let yourself in if you want to get there earlier to start setting up. I’ll be home soon.” 

Robby shouted his name soon after and Jack was whisked away, leaving you standing in the middle of the ED, holding the fucking spare key to his apartment, gaping like a fish. 

The line between real and fake has become so blurred you’re not sure if it ever was there to begin with. 

He’s started calling you sweetheart more and more often– sometimes when no one's around. No familial audience to be persuaded into the romantic lie you’re selling. Is it still a lie if it doesn’t feel like one anymore?

The question and accompanying feeling follows you all day. All throughout your harried dinner preparation. Even now, with a solid hour until your family is supposed to start showing up, you can’t help but pace the length of Jack’s kitchen, heeled feet clicking on his floor. Jack himself is similarly dressed up, wearing a pair of dark jeans (“I’m not wearing slacks in my own home, and I’m not old enough to start wearing khakis with everything.”) and a black button down shirt with the first two buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He makes a very nice view and under other circumstances you might take the opportunity to climb him like a tree. But alas. Anxiety. 

“Take your shoes off if you’re going to pace. You’re gonna give yourself blisters.” 

You ignore him, chewing on an already stinging cuticle. 

“Things have been pretty good this far, right? Do you think she’s just waiting until the very end to bring up some secret thing that she’s upset about?”

Jack begins preparing the wine –your mother only likes red– for decanting. “I think if your mother were that upset about something she wouldn’t be able to hide it.” 

“True. But what if?”

“I’m not going to help you spiral.” 

“Why not?” You whine. 

He looks at you with a heavy glare and points to the shoe tray at the door. “Shoes. Off. You can put them back on when they get here.” 

You grumble under your breath the entire way but comply. Only because your feet were starting to hurt. 

When your family finally does arrive, it ends up being annoyingly anti-climactic. You spend the entire time on the edge of your seat (literally and figuratively) waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for conversation to turn sour, arguments to erupt, someone to choke on a piece of lettuce and die despite professional intervention. 

But the argument never starts, conversation remains what it usually is and becomes no worse (or better, unfortunately) and no one passes away due to unevenly chopped vegetables. 

The torture is over fairly quickly. Most everyone’s flight back home leaves early the next morning and your dad is paranoid about flight times. 

Pretty soon it’s all just… over. They leave, your mother bickering with your father on the way out about something that probably doesn’t matter, and then it’s just you and Jack and the entire scheme is just done. Finished. Just like that. 

There won't be anymore knee's brushing under the table, no more shared glances and pecks to the cheek when you make a joke that actually lands. No more excuses just to sit and watch him under the guise of playing the adoring girlfriend. No more late night milkshakes.

You'll just go back to being coworkers-- People who pretend not to know each other intimately. Jack probably won't struggle with it. But to you, right now, the idea of just not having him anymore seems like a another wound, right over top all the others.

You don't want him to become another person who used to know you.

You’ve been staring at the closed door for upwards of five full minutes, clenching and unclenching your fists when Jack comes up next to you. He hands you the same clothes you wore the last time you were there and jerks his head in the direction of the bathroom.  

“Why don’t you go and change, huh?”

Your lip wobbles a bit as you answer. “But I want to help you clean up.” 

“You can,” He soothes, “After you change.”

“But–”

“Hey,” He interrupts, “No. You’ve been stuck in those clothes for hours. Go change. I’ll wait for you.” 

Jack keeps his word. He’s leaned up against the kitchen island when you emerge, rubbing at your –now bare, having had the foresight to bring makeup wipes with you– face. 

He looks up when the door opens. “Better?” 

“Yeah. Thanks.” 

He just hums, heading back over to the kitchen table, stacking plates and cutlery. You follow in silence, and he thankfully doesn’t push for conversation. 

Cleaning up doesn’t take long enough. Jack has a fancy dishwasher (and probably doesn’t want to stay standing any more than he has to this late in the day) and there aren’t any leftovers to pack up. Your brothers are bottomless pits when it comes to free food. 

It can’t just be over like this. It can't.

When everything is finished and there isn't anything left to do, Jack wordlessly leads you to the couch and puts something quiet and calm on the TV. The white noise washes over you as you attempt to get comfortable, but the knowledge that it's all over proves to be an itch under your skin that you just can't seem to squash.

“So,” You say after the two of you are seated on opposite ends of the couch, “That’s it then.” 

“So it is.” 

“Guess I owe you big time, huh?” 

“I’ve already told you I don’t care about that.” 

“Right,” You look down at your lap, “Yeah. Sorry.” 

You lapse into silence. 

Jack sighs. “Sweetheart–”

“Was it fake to you?” You blurt, jiggling your knee, still staring at your lap, “Were you– did you mean it?”

It never felt fake. It never felt like pretending. 

It felt real.

It felt like, for the first time in your life, things could be easy.

Maybe easy isn't the right word. But it life sure as hell didn't feel as hard.

When you look up, uncomfortable in his silence and hoping there’s answers in his face, but instead of finding something like disappointment or irritation, he’s grinning. 

“What do you think?” 

“I don’t know.” 

He dips his head once. “Yes you do. You’re a smart girl, I think you can figure it out.” 

Your fingers are curled around the hem of his sweatshirt, white-knuckling the fabric as if to stabilize yourself. Like you’re liable to somehow float away if you don’t dig your heels into the couch and hold on tight. 

“What if I’m wrong?” 

“You won’t be.”

A scoff escapes your lips, “You can’t know for sure.” 

He taps his pointer finger on his leg in an unhurried rhythm. 

“You do.” 

Your stomach is rolling in a combination of leftover anxiety from the dinner that went better than it was supposed to and the weight of Jack’s gaze on you. 

“I think…” You pause, worry threatening to overwhelm you, and take a deep breath before continuing, “I think you might like me.” 

“You think,” He drawls, “I might.” 

“I don’t want to be wrong!” You cry. 

Jack huffs, throwing his head back in a good-natured sigh. 

“Come here.” 

You scoot further down the couch, sitting criss-cross right in front of him. This is not going the way you thought it would. You were almost certain you’d walk away shamed and embarrassed, forced to fake your death and flee the country out of the sheer humiliation of thinking your boss would actually have a crush on you. 

Jack does love to prove you wrong.

“Soo,” You start, still hesitant, “You do like me.” 

Jack props his head on his hand, his expression something you’re starting to recognize as fond. “Yes.”

“More than a little?” 

“Yes.” 

“And you weren’t faking anything. You were serious about the— You know.” 

“Use your words.” 

“The flirting.” You clarify, ears burning. 

“All correct,” He nods, “Though I would have said it differently.” 

You frown. “And how would you have put it?” 

“I would have said,” He reaches out, snagging your arm and tugging until you fall down onto his chest with a little oof, “That you have a hard time believing things that are good, so I had to audition for my role. Like old-fashioned courting.” 

You want to be offended, but unfortunately, it did work. 

You frown. 

Wait. 

“Have you known I liked you this whole time?” 

Jack snorts. “Overheard you talking to Whitaker about it during your second week.”

He’s known since the second week?

“Oh my god.” 

“Don’t worry, I didn’t tell anyone. Except Robby. He’s been hoping you would figure it out for awhile now.”

“Oh my god.”

“I thought it was cute,” He smoothes a hand over your hair, “You were so much more nervous back then. You’ve come a long way.” 

You shift uncomfortably at the praise, but Jack’s having none of it. He wraps his arms around you, holding you in place. 

“Can you take a compliment?” 

“No.” 

He re-positions under you, getting more comfortable. “We’ll try again later.” 

“Am I– Can I stay here tonight then?” 

“Of course,” he murmurs, “My one condition is that you’re not sleeping on the couch.”

“Fine,” You sigh, long and drawn out, “I suppose we can share.” 

“How kind of you to share my bed with me.” 

“I have been told I’m kind.” 

You both smile, and everything just feels so right and so perfect that you can't help but lean up, clearing the last few inches, and pressing a hesitant, gentle kiss to his lips. 

It’s just like your dream. 

Only this time, it’s real. And Jack is kissing you back. 

The voice acting starts because of a guest spot on Javadi’s podcast. It’s another hustle she’s running alongside the Tiktoks, trying to give the public a taste of what life is really like on the front lines. He ends up talking about the eccentricities of the night shift, how you have to be a special type of person to fall in with the night crawlers, to do the things that his team do in the dark.

It’s Jesse that approaches him about the comments in the aftermath. He thinks Javadi’s too embarrassed to which is why he ends up hunched over the nurse’s station studying the nurse’s phone as he scrolls through the litany of people describing how sexy his voice is, how they could listen to it for hours no matter what he’s saying.

“You know…” Jesse says his thumb hovering a pink icon on his phone with a ‘q’ in the centre. “There’s this thing I do that no one knows about, it’s kind of wild.”

“Wilder than getting shot at on a Friday night?” Jack asks him as the full screen for an app called Quinn flashes up. He’s still salty that he didn’t pass that last TEMS psych eval. Apparently, it wasn’t what his therapist meant when he told him he needed to get a hobby.

“It’s… a different type of wild.” Jesse’s teeth sink into his lower lip indecisively before pulling up a profile entitled ThatSilverFox. He hands Jack the phone, the doctor’s eyebrows furrowing into a frown as he studies the details.

ThatSilverFox – Purveyor of fantasies and dedicated to your pleasure.

Scripts written by Red Velvet.

Male - 50,987 listeners – 5,000,567 plays.

345 Audios:

Boys & Their Toys – My new toy has arrived and you like to watch. [M4F] [Exhibitionism] [Voyeurism] [Toys] [Vibrator] [Edging Myself]

Bad Romance – You’ve been a bad girl and I need to teach you a lesson. [M4F] [Bondage] [Spanking] [Degradation] [MDom] [Blindfold] [Red Room]

The Boss – The way you’re bending over that desk… it gives me a lot of bad ideas. [M4F] [Power Dynamics] [Boss x Employee] [Oral] [Praise] [Body Worship]

There’s more, hundreds more. All with different tags and kinks.

“Are you telling me that the entire time I’ve known you, you’ve been secretly recording audio porn…” Jack hisses under his breath as he continues to thumb through the profile. He has to hand it to Jesse, he’s versatile.

 “I started doing it to pay my way through nursing college and well, I got really fucking good at it.” Jesse says running a hand through his snare of gray curls. “One of my friends on the same course wanted to try her hand at script writing. She says it’s a great way to decompress after a pulling a shift at this hellhole.”

“This… Red Velvet… she works here too?” His gaze strays to a nurse that drifts past, his eyes narrowing as if trying to detect if they have a secret life as an erotic script writer.

“You’d be surprised by how many people in this place have worked in adult entertainment to make ends meet.” Jesse says with a seriousness Jack feels in the depths of his soul. They all know the story of Dennis Whitaker, homeless until Santos took him in, living on the 8th floor. “This is safe, inclusive, it gives us control and she’s right, it is a great way to decompress, something I think you’re struggling with after what happened with TEMS.”

Jack clears his throat, his palm scrubbing over the back of his neck as he takes in Jesse’s words. As much as he doesn’t want to admit it to himself, he spends most of his downtime in a state of hypervigilance, listening to the police scanner, bitter he isn’t one of those people rushing out to help. TEMS made him feel useful in a way he can’t explain to others who haven’t been a part of the services. That desire to deserve it’s been bred into him ever since his first tour and on his days off he finds himself lacking purpose.

“I mean I didn’t hate doing the podcast…” He says, shrugging his shoulders before gesturing at the phone that rests in the space between them. “But I’ve never done anything like that before, I wouldn’t know how.”

“Well…” Jesse drawls, his elbows coming to rest on the desk as the two of them bend their heads together conspiratorially. “I want to expand my brand a little, do a collaboration. Two guys, one girl kind of thing. The script Red Velvet has written is absolute fire, I just haven’t been able to find the right voice until…” He lets the rest of the sentence hang but Jack gets the drift.

“You think I’m the right voice?” Jack asserts, mulling this latest development over in his head.

Sex… it’s a fact of life. Something he’s very good at when he’s engaged in a relationship. And those kinks that were listed on Jesse’s profile, he’d participated in more than a few of them, the others… he wouldn’t mind exploring.

“I think you’ve got a great voice.” Jesse says earnestly before holding up his phone, shaking it from side to side. “And so do thousands of other people on the internet if Javadi’s podcast is anything to go by. I have studio set up at my place. We could do a few read throughs, you can get a feel for it, see if it’s your thing.”

“Alright.” It’s not like Jack has anything else to do when he’s not running the nightshift at PTMC, something like this, it might be a way to decompress, fill the time between shifts. “Send me the script and I’ll read it through.”

It’s an hour later his phone pings. He reaches into his pocket and see that Jesse was true to his word about sending the script the moment he got home.

Jesse Van Horn: File Attached.

Booked – A Red Velvet Original.

You get caught cheating and your professors must punish you any way they see fit. [MRoughDom] [MSoftDom] [Spanking] [Blowjobs] [Double Penetration] [Voyeurism] [Oral] [Overstimulation] [Pussy Slapping] [Fingering]  

His eyebrows raise as he studies the script. It’s clear which role he’s meant to fit into. He can hear Jesse’s voice as the Soft Dom, smoothing over his own Rough Dom hard edges.

Jesse Van Horn: What do you think?

Jack Abbot: I’m in.

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