Fanfic addict

the clipped bite in his tone ebbed whenever you floated into the room, like his bullheadedness suddenly became something gentler. you were so thought-provoking to a man accustomed to straight answers and military-grade obedience.

you questioned him at every turn, all while invading his personal bubble like it was completely normal.

no one ever questioned him before. no one ever touched him before.

it was small actions he began to notice. the way your cheek would subtly brush the back of his shoulder as you squeezed by him, like a cat greeting its human. or how you always squished up against him whenever you two were indulging in a particularly interesting consult.

you always followed attentively whenever he beckoned, angled diagonally so that your hand could grab the back of his scrub top whenever the hallways got too crowded.

these were intentional ministrations, he noted, things that you had grown to enact absentmindedly.

to a normal person, they'd call something like this affection, but brendon park is far too emotionally constipated for anything of the sort.

and so, instead of acknowledging the quiet fondness you displayed for him, brendon acted like it never happened. his face remained steely even when you leaned your chin on his shoulder while evaluating a shattered femur, even when you grabbed at his scrubs like the little remora you were. he was outwardly indifferent to your touch, never ever reciprocated it.

but he couldn't keep that facade up forever, and he realized that very quickly in the midst of performing an easy arthroplasty with you.

it's a total knee replacement, something routine for a man like park. however, he's allowing you to do most of the dirty work this time.

he's looming as he stands some feet behind you, hands tucked behind his back with his shoulders squared. he's assessing not just your work, but your ability to remain in control. you pass with flying colors per usual, much to his dismay.

"is this lookin' good?" you chirp, which breaks him from his moody stupor. you're looking back at him with silent wonder, a scalpel poised in your delicate grip. the deep concaves of his mind fleet to a brief scenario where your fingers struggle to wrap around his bicep as it flexes.

what the fuck. he shakes his head.

he hums, leaning forward to peer over your shoulder. the work is neat and tidy so far; everything is in place to ensure a bright recovery for the patient—

and then he inhales.

and then he smells you.

it's something citrusy and sweet, like a fresh mango dusted with granulated sugar. and then he catches something warm beneath it, earthy like morning dew on the leaves of a willow tree.

it was otherworldly to a man so accustomed to saline and hand sanitizer burning his nose—a nose that was insanely acute and actually somewhat sensitive. his pupils dilate, even under the harsh lighting, like a shark picking up on a drop of blood in the open ocean.

he exhales sharply. it's a punched out noise that hollows his lungs and makes him recoil from his position and straighten his back. you're looking at him still, but now your brows are pinched because he's never made a sound like that.

and he's suddenly mortified because everyone else in the OR is also looking at him the same way.

he clears his throat, nodding his head.

"looks .. promising." he groused, staring down at the flayed leg on the table as if it were now way more interesting than the heavenly smell of his little remora.

you simply nodded back, a slow motion, before you proceeded.

your focus is admirable, unlike park's throughout the rest of the surgery, because now all he can think about is the way you smell.

and how he can't quell the carnal part of him that wants more of it, needs more of it.

and he is slowly succumbing to a horrific fact: stonewalling your affections was not sustainable for a man as starved as brendon.

OUGH i want this to be a little slowburn slice-of-life thing between them but i also want them to make out passionately RIGHT NOW.

❗️if anyone has any other ways i can make their tension (aka brendon being an inept freak) worse please go put some requests in my inbox🙏🙏i want what the people want.......

the simple answer: he has no idea what to do with you. but he wouldn't admit that in a million years, so he just acts like he can tolerate the rainbows and unicorns that follow you around.

he brings them down with him on a consult in the ED, some construction worker with a severed hand that had high hopes of reattachment.

everyone puts on their best military-grade facade, even garcia's back straightens noticeably because park is just that much of a dick to everyone.

and here comes reader, practically buzzing with excitement as they trail right on brendon's heels. it really throws everyone for a loop because you're so close to him, and you're the one asking all the questions to robby—who seems so chuffed by all of this—and he answers happily.

park unwraps the hand and you're right there with him, cheek squished against his meaty bicep with eyes glimmering bright with wonder. you're grinning with delight and clapping your hands when brendon green-lights the reattachment.

and then you're both gone, park the shark being tailed by a little intern bristling with anticipation.

everyone is fucking gobsmacked because, what the fuck? since when was anyone under park's supervision happy to be there?

it wasn't uncommon to see park followed by a brood of his residents. the usual joke was that they were his shark pups, his offspring that he molded into annoyingly good surgeons.

but that doesn't apply to you. you're nothing like him, yet you learn from him all the same. your relationship is almost symbiotic, in a way, where you thrive on the challenges he throws at you and he secretly feeds off of the warmth you radiate.

and the correlation smacks garcia square in the face after crossing paths with the two about five ED consults later.

you are his remora. you clean up the mess of his apathy and he feeds you the fruit of his knowledge.

and that's what she starts calling you—that's what everyone starts calling you.

and brendon? he starts to call you the stupid name too.

but to him, it's possessive. it is a name that claims you as his own, not as offspring, but as something far more important that he doesn't want to name.

"i'll write a recommendation letter for you," he says one quiet afternoon when you're both munching on leftovers in the breakroom.

you're confused, he can tell by the apparent tilt of your head.

"when you complete your residency. i'll recommend you for an attending position here."

"... that is disgustingly generous for a guy like you."

"i won't work without my remora."

stay tuned for season 48 episode 7 when they finally kiss and hold hands🙂🙂🙂

It didn’t take much to convince her. She’d been getting bored with you, anyway. You suppose you should just be happy that Deran got to you first, that you didn’t die with a needle in your arm like so many other girls before you who had “lost their touch.”

You never questioned why her rotation of women was so quick, why their employment was so short-lived. But you all knew. Smurf didn’t make mistakes; she didn’t leave behind messes, and she had no room in her life for other women. Especially not when it came to her sons. 

Her fragile hold over Deran is already tumultuous, though. She knows it's not you that poses a threat to that tether. It’s the fact that her emotionally fucking her sons’ heads when they were kids didn’t stick with him. His pendulum swings the other way. 

It always brings a little smile to your face in those rare moments you catch him and Adrian together. Just one instance where Smurf hadn’t gotten what she wanted. You’re sure that's why she never bothers coming by the bar. She doesn’t like the reminder of her failure. 

And you certainly appreciate having one aspect of your life free from that woman. 

Letting out a low sigh, you bend down and grab a rag to wipe down the bar. The little bell above the door chimes as someone walks in. “We’re closing,” you call out. Bootsteps still come closer, and you frown, glancing over your shoulder. “I said– oh.”

Pope pauses for a moment, surveying you. “Deran’s in the back,” you tell him, offering a strained smile. 

“Thanks,” he mutters, rounding the bar and making his way through the kitchen to the back office. You continue with your closing duties, gnawing your lip as you think. 

You’re not scared of Pope, not really. You know what he’s capable of, but it’s Smurf that calls the shots. It’s always her that you have to look out for. The old lady’s a lot smarter than people want to give her credit for. 

You never knew why she didn’t let you have Pope. You’re certain you would have enjoyed it. There’s something about that intense look in his eyes– emotions so shadowed over, his gaze is almost empty. 

But Smurf never offered you up, always kept you hidden away. She knows how easy it is for you to get attached; maybe that’s why. You always struggled separating the act and the paycheck. 

In the back of the bar, you can hear Deran and Pope’s voices growing louder. Your head shoots up as the kitchen door swings open, banging off the wall. Pope storms through, jaw clenched as he stalks past you, muttering something to himself. 

You tilt your head as you consider him. The broad line of his shoulders, the strength of his body you can make out even under his loose shirt. He lets out a short huff, storming out of the bar. Yeah, you could definitely see yourself getting attached to that one in all the wrong ways. 

Deran comes out of the kitchen, and you jump, ripping your eyes away from the door. “Don’t let any more of my family come through,” he barks out. 

“You guys fight?”

He shoots you a sharp look that has you biting back a smile. “What the fuck do you think?”

“You know I don’t like your family, anyway,” you defend, scrubbing at a stubborn stain on the counter. Deran goes quiet, and you roll your eyes, glancing back over at him. He’s giving you a knowing look that has you huffing. 

“I don’t like most of your family,” you amend. Throwing his hands up, he shakes his head, storming back to his office. You glance back at the door, almost wishing Pope would walk through again. He’s certainly more intriguing than the other Codys. 

Parties at Smurf’s place only have two directions they can go. High and low. High, of course, is when she brings out the good stuff, and everyone’s floating two feet above their bodies. Head lost somewhere in the clouds of smoke. Low is when some asshole, usually one of her sons, gets too drunk and starts a fight. 

It seems to be going high, this time, a good sign for you, considering you want nothing more than to relax tonight. Deran had been kind enough to get you a job at his bar. A handout, honestly, considering how much he already helps you out with. Turns out, the opening week of a new bar is hell on your back. 

You’re lounging back on one of Smurf’s pool chairs, lazily smoking a blunt Deran had handed you, as some girls flock around him. You’re certain they’re aware he doesn’t swing that way, but he's the tamer boy of the Codys. They probably just hope he might cut them a deal on whatever little baggies Smurf has him handing out. 

You don’t blame the girls. You’d rather take something from Deran than his brother Craig. You wouldn’t trust Craig as far as you can throw him. Especially not with that sleazy grin he always shoots you. 

A shadow falls over you, and the low tittering of the women goes quiet. You frown, lifting your sunglasses and glancing over at them. But the throng of women have scattered. Glancing up, you let out a little laugh, finding the reason standing over you. 

Pope has emerged from the house, arms crossed as he hovers at your side. You doubt he even realizes you’re beside him, or the effect he’s had on the partygoers. Honestly, you appreciate his presence for the quiet it provides. He’s got a good dampener effect on the rowdy parties that go on around here. 

“Having fun?” you try, not expecting much back from him. He glances down at you, brows raising. He probably just realized you’re there. 

“No,” he tells you bluntly, eyes narrowing on the blunt in your hand. You tap the tip of it, shaking some ash off by his feet. He lets out a little sigh that almost makes you feel bad for teasing him. 

“Really? You seem like the life of the party.” You shift higher up on the chair, back bowing slightly as you try to get comfortable. His gaze lingers on the top of your bikini before he looks away. His shoulders stiffen, arms tightening as he glares out at the rest of the party. 

“You’re too easy,” you mutter, flicking your glasses down and closing your eyes. 

The skin of his hand is rough, but his touch is barely there as he snatches the blunt from between your fingers. Your eyes shoot open as he gives you a sharp look. “Don’t fall asleep with this in your hand. You’ll burn the chair,” Pope quietly chides. 

You snort as he storms off, tossing the blunt into the trash as he goes. You wonder if he knows how often your stare lingers on him. How easy it is for you to seek him out in every room you walk into. You doubt it. And you really doubt he’d ever want used goods, as Craig so often calls you. 

You sink back into the chair, trying to get comfortable again. 

The universe seems to be flipping you one giant middle finger today. 

“Comfortable?” a rasping voice asks. 

You suck in a deep breath, mentally prepping yourself. “Yep,” you grit out, flicking your sunglasses up and offering a smile to Smurf. You’re certain it comes off more as a grimace than anything else. 

She offers something sickly sweet in return. It’s meant to come off as motherly or nurturing in some way. It does nothing more than set your nerves on edge. You don’t know why she tries any of her tricks with you. You know her intimately and have already seen past her many masks to the bitch below. 

She hums, laughing slightly to herself as she perches on the chair beside you. “Talking to Pope?”

“No,” you answer quickly. God forbid she think you’re trying to steal one of her precious boys out from under her. 

“Really?” She hums, sucking her teeth as she surveys the rest of the party. “Looked like you were the only girl who could stand being near him.”

You consider your response, wondering what constitutes her thinking you’re a threat. “He’s not so bad,” you finally settle on. 

Smurf says nothing for a while, and you begin to worry you’ve messed up. She knows that you're Deran’s friend. And, in no way, are you a threat to her already fragile claim over him. But Pope’s different than the others; she’s much more unpredictable when it comes to keeping her guard dog close. 

“Pope’s been having a hard time lately,” she finally tells you. “His mind isn’t where I need it to be.” 

Is it ever? You just nod, not voicing your skepticism aloud. 

“You know how it works with him. Usually, the girls I send in help soothe those fragile nerves.” Smurf lets out a low chuckle and shakes her head. 

You tense up, muscles locking as you suck in a fragile breath. Yeah, you know how it works with him. You know all about the girls she sends to him. But there’s no reason for her to be bringing any of this up to you. Not now. 

“Pope…” she lets out a low breath, shrugging. “Pope’s different, you know that.” Everyone knows that. “It doesn’t work for him when he knows the girls are being paid.”

You hum, lips pursed tight as you struggle to think of a way out of this. “Interesting,” you whisper. 

Smurf lets out a little laugh, shooting you a sharp smirk. “Interesting,” she mocks, her tone cruel in its intentions. “You know what I want, don’t you, kid?”

You suck your teeth, arms winding tight around your stomach. You feel too exposed now. Body on display just like she wants. “I don’t do that anymore,” you bite out, forcing some sort of strength into your voice. 

“Please,” Smurf barks out a laugh, sitting back up and leaning in toward you. You can’t find the strength to meet her eye. But her stare is branding into your skin. “I know women like you. You’ll do anything if the price is right. Besides… don’t forget what I know about you.”

For a moment, the world goes quiet. There’s no party, no throng of people getting high and drunk in front of you. It’s just you, small as you’ve ever been, and Smurf. With that god damn smirk on her face, always one step ahead of everyone else. 

“You said you were done with me,” you whisper, tears clawing at the edge of your voice. 

Smurf shakes her head. “No, I said I was done for now. And now, I need you again. I’ll even be nice and pay you, sweetheart. Four hundred a session, not hourly.”

Your eyes fall shut, nails digging into your arms as you realize you have no choice. You can keep fighting her, but all that’ll do is take away your pay. You’ll be forced to do what she wants, and you won’t even make anything off it. “What am I doing?”

“Just… entertainment.” She reaches forward, touch cold as she slides the falling strap of your top up. “And Pope doesn’t know about our little arrangement.”

It’s Smurf. You don’t have a choice. Not with the dirt she’s got on you. At the very least, it’s Pope, not someone like Craig or Baz she’s asking you to sell yourself out for. 

“Okay,” you whisper, eyes watering as you stare down at your lap. 

Smurf gets up and pats your head. “Good girl,” she mutters, laughing as she walks away. One day… She’ll be dead. Buried somewhere six feet deep, and you’ll be there. 

Dancing on her fucking grave. 

You let yourself in with the key Smurf had given you. Just like she used to, she sent you a time to show up. Normally, that was accompanied by a name and place. But you already knew who she wanted you to take care of. And since they’d sold his house, there was only one place for him to be. 

Heading into the kitchen, you drop your purse on one of the chairs. There’s a low murmur in the living room, something playing softly on the TV. Sucking in a sharp breath, you fix your shirt and adjust your hair. 

It’s not typical of you to be nervous before one of these appointments. But you haven’t done this in a long time. And you already know none of your old tricks are going to work here. Pope isn’t anything like the clients Smurf used to toss you to. 

They had been looking for something carnal. Something quick that they could wrench pleasure from and then toss aside. Pope’s already a hundred times different from them just for not wanting his girls to be paid to be with him. 

There’s another factor you’re worried about. At least, when Smurf pays the girls, Pope knows they’re coming. He knows what’s coming and how he’s expected to perform. He’s not been briefed for you, and you’re barely ready for him. You’re not sure you want to know what it would feel like to be rejected by him if this goes wrong. 

Rolling back your shoulders, you force yourself to move. Rounding the corner into the living room, you stop short. “Oh.” The plan was to feign surprise, pretend you had been looking for someone else. But you don’t really have to feign anything right now. Not with Pope sitting on the couch in nothing but his boxers, watching… a bird documentary?

Clearing your throat, you blink a few times, trying to recover from the sight of him being half-naked. He seems just as taken aback, clearly expecting to have the house to himself today. His brows furrow as he watches you, hand twitching on his lap. 

“Sorry. Is Deran here?”

“No,” his voice cracks slightly as he shifts against the cushions. You feel a little bad. You don’t think you’re making him nervous, but he certainly isn’t confident. “He’s at the bar,” he explains, jaw clenching. 

“Oh,” you wave your hand and step into the living room. “My mistake,” you dismiss airily, shrugging. “Mind if I wait for him here? He shouldn’t be long.” Pope doesn’t say much or invite you closer. But you move forward anyway, not like you have much choice here. He drags a pillow over his lap as you take a seat beside him.

You’re decent enough to give him a few inches of space between you both, though you doubt that helps much. 

You can’t confidently say that Pope is nervous. But he certainly seems affected right now. Your eyes narrow on the way his leg bounces slightly, the wrinkles at the hem of his boxers. Smurf left, the house is empty, and he’s been on edge lately. Maybe he’d been expecting one of Smurf’s girls. 

He was right, in a way. But he didn’t get to know that. 

Your skirt hitches as you tuck your legs under yourself. You shuffle for a moment, trying to get comfortable and “accidentally” slipping too close to Pope. He jerks away from your touch, not hastily, but carefully. You catch a sidelong look from him before he redirects his attention to the TV. 

It’s easy to tell, just from the tautness of his shoulders, that he’s not hearing a damn word Attenborough is saying. 

You settle back against the cushions and let out a little sigh, thighs flexing as you slip just a bit closer to him. It’s harder with Pope. You can’t get this started the way you would with old clients. They had been expecting you, and in turn, they’d been expecting a quick release. 

Smurf made it clear that Pope isn’t allowed to know a damn thing about this arrangement. You’re terrified of what she would do if you messed this up in the first session. 

You’ll have to ease him into this. 

Sadly, that means suffering through an hour of a documentary that has you biting your tongue to keep from passing out from boredom. You spend the time creeping ever closer to Pope. Letting your thigh accidentally brush against his and pulling back quickly. Watching the sharp intake of breath in his chest from the contact. 

Having your fingers graze the back of his hand as you stretch. You watch these little reactions flash across his face, making you wish you had a better understanding of his body language. You keep up this little game until he stops flinching from your touch and starts leaning into it instead. 

You move closer, thigh brushing his leg, arm nearly pressed to his. He doesn’t move, just sinks a little deeper into the sofa. Your arm stretches along the cushions as you let out a low sigh. 

“Pope?” you mutter, voice low as you lean in closer toward him. 

“What are you doing?” He tilts his head toward you, eyes narrowed, a little quirk to his lips as his gaze drops to your mouth. 

You’re slightly taken aback and resist the urge to pull away. “What do you mean?” you whisper, trying not to break the tentative bubble around you. He doesn’t answer, just watches you, eyes running along your form as you stretch closer. “I mean, I thought I was being kind of obvious.”

When he doesn’t say anything, you let out a breathy laugh. “I like you, Pope. But you know… I just can’t tell with you.”

He grabs the remote, turning off the documentary before tilting his body toward you. The pillow shifts slightly off his lap and you inch closer. “Can’t tell what?”

“Well…” the arm draped behind him shifts, and you let your fingers brush against the nape of his neck, teasing into his hair. “I’m usually much better at reading people. But I just don’t know with you. Do you like me, Pope?”

His voice is rough as he speaks, and you don’t miss the way his gaze drops to your lips. “Why do you care?”

You let out a little laugh, “I just said–”

His hand comes up, taking your wrist in his grasp. It’s not rough, but you can’t slip away. Your eyes widen slightly as you back up. “Did Smurf put you up to this?” His expression hardens; whatever reaction you might have been eliciting out of him is gone. 

“What?” Your lips part as you shake your head. You let your eyes go wide with surprise, faux hurt, leaving them open until a little bit of water builds at the edges of your lashes. “No, I just–” You cut yourself off, putting on a proper show as you try to move away from him. “I’m sorry, this was so stupid,” your voice cracks around the words. 

Maybe you’re laying it on a little thick. But Pope is sharp, sharper than you’re comfortable with. He couldn’t have caught onto you that quick… could he? 

Maybe you’ve lost your touch. 

“I’ll just leave.” You get on your knees, trying to pull away. His hand tightens imperceptibly around your wrist, and you lift your eyes, meeting his gaze once more. “Pope?” you whisper, leaning just a little closer to him. 

He lifts off the cushions slightly, and you almost smile. You’ve still got it.

Tilting your head, you let your lips brush against his. Just barely, at first, hesitant like you really are nervous. And maybe, you are, just a bit. He pulls back for a moment, eyes darting along your face, gauging your honesty. 

After a moment, he tilts his head, nose brushing yours as he presses his lips to yours. There’s more force behind the kiss than you’d like. His body is stiff beneath you as you slide your leg over his lap, straddling him. There’s too much teeth in the kiss; it’s aggressive in a way that reminds you of your old clients.

But there’s something else that’s off. It’s like he’s simply not used to this. To something that hasn’t been paid for and wasn’t premeditated. His hands hover over you, uncertain. 

You let your palms drag along his broad shoulders, cupping his neck as you pull back. He stares up at you, lips parted and expression vulnerable in a way that makes guilt itch in your throat. 

He’s used to fucking and being done with it. He doesn’t understand intimacy like a man his age should. That’s no fault of his own, not really. 

“Slow,” you whisper down at him, waiting until he nods to kiss him again. His hands drop to your hips, squeezing once before settling there. You do your best to guide him into something soft, slow in a way that lets him follow your lead. He’s a quick learner, pulling you closer to him as he finds his own footing. 

You get more comfortable, settling in his lap as you kiss him. Something begins to press up between your thighs, his boxers growing tight as you let your fingers tangle in his curls. His hips buck, and you let out a little gasp at the bold move. His tongue darts across the seam of your lips, and you tilt your head, letting him deepen the kiss. 

His arms shift, wrapping tighter around your back as he tugs you closer. Your knee slips along the cushions, bumping into the remote. You both jump apart as a loud infomercial suddenly comes alive on the TV. “Shit,” you mutter, laughing as your forehead falls against his. 

He lets out a rough sigh as your thumb lightly traces his bottom lip. Pulling back, he leans further into your touch, following you. He’s staring up at you, waiting for… something. 

“Maybe we should take this to the bedroom,” you suggest quietly. The magic words, apparently, as he gets up from the couch. His arms are thick, secure around you as he carries you over to his bedroom. 

You lean down, pressing soft kisses to his jaw, trailing down his neck as he walks. You’re easing him into the idea of you. But you’re also trying to placate yourself. It’s a poor attempt to calm the racing beast in your chest. 

Your heart has been pounding against your ribs for the past few minutes. You know, in his own way, he’s not really a client. Certainly not like any you’ve ever done business with before. But your last experience…

Well, it had been your last for a reason. 

It’s hard to forget the kind of pain you’ve gone through, shoved into similar situations like this before. Always at the hand of the same woman. But it doesn’t have to be like that again. Not with Pope. 

He kicks the door shut behind him, turning and pressing you up against it. Your nails bite into his shoulders as he presses his nose to the crook of your jaw. He rests there a moment before slowly making his way back to your lips, just waiting. His shallow breaths fan across your face as you move forward, just enough to finally connect with him. 

Rough hands flex around your thighs before he turns you around, walking you both back to the bed. Your legs slip from around his waist as he lays you down. Your hand trails up into his curls, tugging as his touch skates down your body. Pulling at the zipper of your skirt. You break apart, just long enough for you to peel your shirt off. 

His fingers drag up along your bare skin. Goosebumps break out at the soft touch as he pulls back enough to get a good look at you. You would laugh if it weren’t for that look in his eye, slightly panicked and overwhelmed. 

You’d made the choice to forgo a bra, knowing what you were getting up to today. His attention is unmoving on your breasts, and you let out a little huff. “I don’t bite,” you tease, taking his hands in yours and guiding them up to your chest. “Usually.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, barely even moves. His gaze drags back up to yours, and you give him a little nod. Slowly, he cups your breasts, cold hands making you shiver. It’s been a lot longer than you’d ever tell anyone since you’ve been intimate. 

But… you’re liking this with Pope. For once, you’re not at the mercy of someone else. If anything, it feels like you’re holding the power here. His pleasure is only given if you will it. It’s certainly a feeling you could get used to. 

Your hands drag up his arms, resisting the urge to squeeze those thick biceps, and you draw him back down into another kiss. He’s already learning, softer with his approach, less aggressive. His palms skate down your body until he’s squeezing your waist. You try to pull him closer, legs closing around his hips, and his hands fall to the sheets. 

They flex at your sides as his body tenses. Pulling back, he won’t meet your eye, and you frown at the way his jaw clenches. There’s something sharp in his gaze that has your breath stuttering. You’ve seen the look before. In exes who knew what you used to be. 

That niggling question of whether you were clean? If you were still seeing your ‘clients’? You can’t blame him for thinking it, especially knowing his inclination toward cleanliness. But the hurt never lessens. That slight edge of rejection never gets any smoother. 

“We don’t have to do anything,” you whisper, slowly releasing him. He says nothing, and you sit up on your elbows. “Pope,” you tell him, voice firm. “We don’t have to do this.”

“You want to,” he mutters, finally meeting your eye. Your lips purse as you fight back the ache in your chest. You know that look too. The sudden fear that if you don’t give this person what they want… they’ll leave too. 

You reach up, cupping his cheek, and he falls into the touch easily. “Come on,” you urge, moving up the bed and pulling the sheets back. 

He hesitates, hovering over you and still wondering if he should just do what you want. You pat the spot beside you, and he finally crawls under the sheets. You settle into the pillows, opening your arms to him. 

Pope watches you for a moment, eyes narrowed, before slowly sinking into your touch. Your hand settles in his curls as his head falls against your chest. It doesn’t take him much longer to melt completely against you, not as you play with his hair, nearly falling asleep yourself. 

It’s comforting, in an odd way. Being pressed into the sheets by someone’s weight– but, for the first time in a while, they’re not expecting anything else from you. It’s a man you actually want. Not one that’s paid to own you for a few hours. 

You lean back, drawing him closer as the sun sets through the window. 

Pope is long gone by the time the sun rises again. Letting out a low sigh, you get out of bed, pretending you don’t miss the warmth he’d provided. Your skin is more chilled than you care to admit as you get dressed. 

It’s not as if you’d expected him to stay. Smurf always has him out running errands for her or doing the odd jobs no one else will. For someone who wants her attack dog close, she sure hates having him in the house with her. 

As you slip out of his room, the rest of the house is quiet, save for some clinking coming from the kitchen. Walking in, you grab your purse off the counter. There’s an extra weight that hadn’t been there the night before. 

Smurf stands by the kitchen island, stirring her coffee with that smirk you’d love to carve off her face. “Fun night?”

Sucking your teeth, you straighten your skirt and nod. “It was nice,” you grit out. 

She shakes her head and nods at your purse. Looking inside, you see a thick wad of cash rolled up and tossed carelessly inside. “Good girl,” she mutters, brushing past you. She gives your ass a little pat as she heads toward the pool. 

You bite back something venomous, nails digging into the soft skin of your palms as you take in a fortifying breath. It’s not worth it. 

You storm toward the front door. The anger inside you begins to dull as you start heading back home. You feel dirty. It’s the first time you’ve left a job of hers without someone else's fluids drying between your thighs. Or new bruises on your body. 

Still, you feel cheaper than you have in a long time. 

You want to convince yourself that you needed to do this to survive. You can’t survive off the shitty tips you make at Deran’s bar. And she could ruin your life with the knowledge she holds over you. 

That doesn’t stop you from feeling like scum. 

You’ve gotten better at noticing him before he makes himself known. It’s his stare, you think. It’s so heavy, so intent, it’s almost impossible to miss the weight of it on your back. His gaze is still something predatory to you– not that you don’t enjoy it. But you know better than to think of it as something empty, or compare it to the blind hunger of a shark, like you used to. 

Lifting your head, you offer Pope a small smile as he stalks into the bar. There’s not really another word you can think of for that unique stride of his. 

He brushes brusquely past the customers who are leaving. It doesn’t take long for people to simply make room for him. It's incredibly impressive– and attractive– how he can take control of a room without ever saying anything. Maybe people are just scared of his general energy, but it works. 

He sits at the corner of the bar closest to you. “What can I get ya?” You toss your towel over your shoulder as you make your way toward him. 

Pope fishes out his wallet, tossing too much cash on the counter. “Just a beer,” he tells you, turning to survey the rest of the people here. 

He’s leaning against the bar, but his posture still remains stiff. His eyes never stop watching everyone around him, looking out for possible threats. It’s hard to tell if that’s a result of his time in prison or just a skill inherent to the Codys. 

His mannerisms make you think of a man who should hate eye contact. But talking to him is intense enough to make you short of breath, sometimes. He never takes his eyes off of you, as if he’s one slip up away from being stabbed in the back. You wonder who the last person he trusted was. His sister, probably. 

The longer you meet his eye, the more you see, the worse it gets. Those little flecks of emotion hidden among the hazel, it’s too much for a man who's meant to keep his cards close to his chest. You look away first, reaching for his cash and counting out his change. 

“Keep it,” he dismisses when you try to hand it back to him. 

Your eyes narrow, but you can’t afford to argue. Pocketing the cash, you nod, going to retrieve his beer. “Deran isn’t here,” you let him know, placing the bottle in front of him. 

He wipes at the condensation before fetching a napkin, slipping it under the bottle. “Did you want to leave a message for him?” you ask. 

Pope looks up from the beer and shakes his head. “No,” he tells you. “I didn’t come here to see Deran.”

A smile pulls at your lips despite yourself. “No?” you hum, pretending to wipe down the bar so he can’t catch that look in your eyes. The one that will give away too much, too soon. “Just came here for the shitty beer?”

“Exactly,” he mutters, taking a deep swig. Your eyes narrow as he plays along, a slight laugh huffing out of you. His idea of humor is so dry that it almost circles right back to not even being a joke anymore. 

Shaking your head, you move down the bar to top off some drinks. He lingers in that corner, nursing the beer. He owns that section of the bar, even as business picks up and more people shuffle in. They don’t take the stools on either side of him. 

There are these burdens, like shadows, ever present around him. It’s not something everyone can see, but they can feel the energy that radiates off him. That sort of ‘stay away’ warning that you’ve never been particularly good at following. 

It’s rare for you to get through a shift without at least one shitty pick-up line or a drunken slap on your ass. But, with Pope’s stare burning over your shoulder, you have a pretty good night. 

It’s interesting how quick he was to give in to your whims. How fast he now seeks out your company. You wonder: without Smurf’s prodding, would you have been able to lure him in like you had last night? Would he have given in to you the same way?

All this time you could have had him. But you’ve never been particularly good at taking what you want. 

Pope remains in his seat the rest of the night. It takes a herculean effort not to simply close the bar early, knowing what's waiting for you after your shift. His stare is heavy with intent. Still, you control yourself, letting the anticipation drag out for him too. 

“We’re closing,” you tell him, going around the bar and collecting the last of the beer bottles. Pope straighens up and slides from his stool. 

“I’ll wait,” he tells you simply. You linger by the kitchen door before shaking your head with a scoff. You carry the recycling to the back, and when you come back, he’s wiping down tables with the cleaning solution from behind the bar. You don’t object, getting your closing tasks done in half the time with him. 

“You know,” you start, as you count out the cash in the register. “If you wanted to spend time with me, you could have just asked.” He goes still where he’s standing. You offer him a wry grin. “I like being around you.”

He’s quiet for a moment before letting out a low huff. “Most people don’t.”

Your hands freeze as you shoot him a severe look. “Most people are idiots,” you tell him sharply. The corners of his lips twitch, and you sigh. Walking the envelope of cash to the back, you leave it in the safe under Deran’s desk. Out front, Pope waits for you by the door. 

Grabbing your purse from the bar, you catch up with him. He holds the door open for you as you step outside. “So,” you hum. “Your place or mine?”

Pope tenses up beside you as you lock up. “What?” he asks as you turn to face him. His eyes dart down to your lips and you grin. He’s not as subtle as he thinks. 

“Are we going to your place or mine?” you ask again, leaning against the door with your arms crossed. 

You almost expect him to back out or change his mind. He knows who you are, what you were. You haven’t forgotten that moment of hesitation from the other night. You’d be honestly surprised if he wanted anything to do with you. 

“Yours,” he tells you, voice so sure it takes you aback. 

“Alright,” you mutter, slipping past him with a surprised smile. 

Pope drives you to Deran’s place. You live in the apartment above his and Adrian’s home. A fact that you now realize you’ve never shared with Pope. But it’s not like you’ve ever had a reason to invite him over before. 

You lead him up the stairs, his hand in yours as you let him inside. He toes off his boots as you toss your purse on the entryway table. “Want a tour?” you ask, raising your brows. He nods, and you squeeze your hand around his, guiding him through the tiny apartment. 

It’s a decent enough place for somewhere that doesn’t charge rent. You’ve got your own little kitchenette and a depressingly small shower. It’s honestly not all that interesting. Lacking all of the personal touches that make a place home. You’ve learned to live small. 

You lead Pope past everything and take him straight to your bedroom. “Not much of a tour,” he tells you, rough voice teasing. 

You narrow your eyes at him. “Are you really complaining?” You step closer, pressing your chest to his as you wind your arms around his neck. He shakes his head and you push up, lips just brushing against his. “Are you sure you don’t want a better tour?”

He cuts off your teasing with a kiss. For a moment, it’s too harsh. But then he’s remembering what you’d shown him. He backs off, grip loosening around your waist, his touch softening. You take his hands in yours, dragging them down your body and directing him to the button of your pants. He makes quick work of it, helping you out of them.

You’re pushed up against the doorway, his rough palms squeezing your hips while you work on the buckles of his belt. The second you’ve got it undone, he’s kicking off his jeans, pulling away from you to rip off his jacket. Your hands drag down his torso, greedy as your fingers find the hem of his shirt. Lifting it, you eagerly palm the soft muscles of his stomach. 

Pope shudders beneath your touch, and you grin, leaning up to press a quick kiss to his lips. He searches for more, but you dart out of his reach, whipping off your shirt and flitting toward your bed. You beckon him forward with a small crook of your finger, and he follows obediently. 

You turn down your sheets, crawling onto your bed and waiting for him to do the same. He climbs over you, lips pressing against yours before drifting along your jaw, moving down your neck. He kneels before you, touch greedy as he palms your thighs. 

It feels like he’s teasing you as he moves lower between your legs. His eyes never leave yours. Your breath hitches at the intensity of his gaze. His fingers play with the band of your underwear before he slowly moves back up your body. 

You let out a soft breath, almost relieved he hadn’t traveled farther. You’re not sure how much of him you can handle at once. It’s been so long since you’ve let yourself be open with someone like this. And even now, you’re hiding things from him. 

You can only take so much at once. 

“Can we do what we did last night?” he whispers, tone hesitant. As if you would say no to that. 

You just nod, reaching up and letting your hand scratch through his curls. You sink back into the pillows, and he follows you. He seems more sure of himself as he sinks into your chest, arms winding around your torso as you both get settled. 

This seems to be becoming a tradition of sorts. You hold him until his breath settles and he falls asleep. Rolling over, you curl tighter around him, letting out a low, sated breath. 

The bed is cold when you wake up. There’s a dip where his body used to be, but he’s gone. Rolling over, you scrub a hand down your face, suddenly aware of how naked you are. Uncomfortable at the AC nipping at your bare skin, you tug the sheets up. 

Glancing over at your nightstand, you see a notification lighting up your phone. A part of you hopes it's Pope. But your heart sinks when you realize it’s a notification from Smurf. A wire transfer of $400 and a little ‘good girl’ memo, just so you don’t forget whose in charge. 

With a low huff, you sink back into your pillows, stomach twisting. How could Smurf possibly know what happened last night? Did Pope tell her? Had Smurf sent Pope to you?

You hadn’t gone home with him last night with a paycheck on your mind. You’d just wanted to be around him. 

Glancing back at your phone, you realize you finally have enough money to go grocery shopping for the first time in a while. 

No going back now. 

You have a tendency to follow Deran along wherever he leads you. Usually, you’re bored and looking for something interesting to occupy your time with. Most of the time, though, you have this feeling of obligation to him. For helping you more than he ever had to or even should have. 

Ultimately, that habit puts you right back at Smurf’s place. No matter how hard he tries–how hard any of them try–they always find their way back to her. There’s something magnetic about her that pulls the boys right into her orbit, even if they know they should have left years ago. 

Deran lounges by the pool while you get some water out of the fridge. You survey the area outside. The party is smaller this time. Likely thrown so Smurf could do business with someone, though you never have much clue what she gets up to. 

The sliding glass door opens, and you straighten up. The devil herself walks through, that familiar smirk on her face. “What’re you doing in here, baby?”

“Just getting something to drink,” you answer, moving out of her way as she gets some food she’d made out of the fridge. “I wanted to talk to you, actually.”

“Oh,” she hums, brows lifting as she motions you on. 

You lick your lips, swallowing roughly. It’s hard to string the right words together. To find that magical combination that will keep you looking like prey in her eyes, rather than another competitor. “You don’t–” Huffing, you start over, forcing yourself to meet her eyes.

“You don’t have to keep paying me.” 

She shakes her head, feigning cluelessness and your nails bite into the plastic of your water bottle. “For Pope. I don’t mind keeping him entertained for you, but I don’t want you to keep paying me.”

“Now,” she chuckles, leaning against the counter. “Why would I stop? It’s not like you’re dating him, sweetheart. You’re just doing me a favor.”

Because it's wrong. Because every goddamn person in his life is using him in some way. And you can’t let yourself be someone like that to him. 

“Right, well, I don’t need to be paid for it.”

Smurf smiles, tilting her head as she swaggers up to you. She drapes her arm around your waist, leading you outside. “C’mon, I want you to meet someone.” You want to dig your heels into the floor and stop her, but you don’t have a choice. 

She leads you over to a balding man in an ill-fitting Speedo. There are already three girls surrounding him, each in skimpy bikinis with eager smiles. But that doesn’t stop him from turning his lecherous gaze onto you when Smurf brings you over. 

“Honey, this is Robert. We’re working out some business right now. But I thought I’d introduce him to the girls.” She sets her chin on your shoulder, lips brushing your ear. “Do I need to introduce you to him, too?”

You jerk out of her grip, stomach turning as you take in the other man. “I’ll take the money,” you hiss out, meeting her eye with a sharp glare. 

“That’s what I thought,” she grins. “Go on, enjoy the party,” she urges you along, and you run off to find Deran. You can hear that man objecting behind you. His arms are already full of beautiful women, but he’s still a greedy pig. 

Your throat tightens with nausea as you throw yourself down on the pool chair beside Deran. Why would you have ever thought that would work?

If Smurf stopped paying you, that would be like admitting defeat. She’d be accepting that Pope actually has someone stable in his life. Someone who wants to be with him and around him. It would be admitting that she made a mistake. She had given you permission to enter his life and had given him access to the affection and care she weaponizes against him. 

It’d be like his leash was switching hands. And she couldn’t have you cutting him free; of course she couldn’t. 

You can’t believe you were stupid enough to think she’d conceded so easily. 

“Everything okay?” You jump, the sound of Deran’s voice catching you off guard. 

You force a smile onto your face, shoving down your discomfort. “Yeah, of course.” You motion toward Robert and redirect the conversation. “So, what’s she got planned this time?”

“Fuck if I know,” Deran scoffs. He takes a hit from the blunt in his hand. “She doesn’t tell me shit until she wants something,” he mutters, smoke billowing out of his mouth. 

You hum, but you’re barely paying attention now. Something else has begun to occupy your thoughts. Well, someone else. Glancing over your shoulder, you see him. 

Pope is lingering. That feels like an ill-fitting word for him. Lurking, brooding, stalking, those all fit him much better. Lingering seems so meek for him. Still, you can’t deny, that’s exactly what he’s doing. 

He’s standing just at the perimeter of your space. Not approaching, just quiet in the corner of your vision. As if you might wave him away if he gets too close or takes up too much space. 

It’s a silly worry, but you can see it clearly on his face as his gaze keeps darting back to you. He crosses his arms, pretending to be watching the rowdy partygoers. A smile pulls at your lips; you can’t judge him. You used to struggle keeping your eyes off of him, it’s easier now that you don’t have to pretend. 

Deran lets out a rough sigh, and you force your attention back to him. “What?” you chuckle at the aggrieved look on his face. 

He nods toward his brother. “What do you think? He’s weird but never this fucking weird.”

“Watch it,” you scold, shooting him a playful glare as you toss a sidelong glance at Pope. He’s only a few feet away; you’re sure he can hear his brother being a dick. It’s funny, though, how he acts like he hasn’t been waiting to talk to you since the moment you showed up. 

“Have you guys fucked yet?”

You jump, head whipping back toward your friend. “Jesus, Deran, you make me sound like some sort of whore.” He shoots you a look that makes you laugh. “A lady doesn’t kiss and tell.”

“Oh, are you a lady now?”

“Thin ice,” you warn, shaking your head at him. He holds up his hands, but that shit-eating grin doesn’t leave his face. 

It’s dark by the time Deran passes out on the pool chair. The party has grown louder, and more people have shown up after sunset. You groan as you stand, shooting Deran an amused look as you leave him. He lets out a particularly loud snore as you brush past. 

You glance around the pool for your shadow. He hasn’t gone far. Just retreated into a quieter corner, eyes never leaving you as you approach. “It’s getting pretty rowdy out here,” you whisper conspiratorially as you move to stand beside him. 

He nods, eyeing the party before his gaze inevitably drifts back to you. “Are you not cold in that thing?” He nods toward your bikini, and you scoff. 

You place your hands on his bicep and prop your chin on his shoulder. “Maybe. Do you wanna help warm me up?” 

He swallows thickly, jaw clenching as he watches you. For a moment, you think you’ve finally got him. Then he looks away, rolling out his shoulders so you’re forced to let go. The rejection stings as you back up. “Don’t you have business to attend?”

Your brows furrow as you frown. “What?”

Pope just nods over toward the man Smurf had threatened you with earlier. You let out a disbelieving sigh, a stiff smile on your face as you shake your head. “Seriously?” you demand. Pope says nothing. “I’m not fucking him if that’s what you’re getting at.”

Before he can say anything else, you continue. “And I don’t do your mother’s business anymore. But you can go ahead and say what you’re thinking, Pope. I’m just another whore, right?”

Shaking your head, you move away from him and back toward the house. Somewhere inside, you know that this is irrational. Smurf is paying you. Not just that, but Pope is now your business. He wouldn’t be, if you had one fucking iota of control over your own life. 

But you’re certainly not leading him on with this idea that you’re exclusive just to be fucking someone else behind his back. It hurts that he would think that lowly of you. That after the time you’ve spent together, you’re still nothing more than a prostitute looking for a quick buck. 

You hear footsteps rushing up behind you before someone’s taking your wrist in their hand. Whipping around, you see Pope. He says nothing, just starts pulling you through the party. People part for him; they always do. 

“What are you doing?” you hiss, not making much of an effort to break free. 

He leads you to his bedroom, letting the door close behind him. You can see it, as the sounds of the party fade, his shoulders lose that stressed hunch. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, staring down at the ground, unable to meet your eye. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

Crossing your arms, you shrug. “Whatever. I can’t exactly blame you for not wanting to be with me.”

His head lifts, and he frowns. “That’s not what I meant. I just–” he cuts himself off with a sharp breath. His shoulders roll back as he takes a step closer to you. “I want to be with you. But I don’t share.” 

It took him a second to find the right word before settling on share. You doubt there’s a word succinct enough to say he doesn’t like his women sleeping with other men for cash. “I can’t stand it when you’re around other men. I just–” his eyes are wide with this slightly panicked look, as if he’s afraid of saying the wrong thing. Of pissing you off and having you run, again. 

You surge forward, dragging him down into a kiss. You like this more than you should. That little bit of insecurity in his voice. The slight possessiveness as his hands squeeze around your waist. It’s nice to be wanted rather than scorned for situations far out of your control. 

Your back is pushed gently against his door, and his hands cup your cheeks. Your hands drop to his wrists, flexing around them as he pushes you higher up the door. His thigh slots between your legs as you throw your arms around his shoulders, desperate for some leverage. His leg flexes, and your hips grind down, a soft gasp escaping you as his grip flexes around your waist. 

This is different. More rushed than what you’ve done with him before. There’s intent behind this kiss, especially behind the way his palms drift. He cups your ass, lifting you until your legs are wrapping around his hips. He shuffles you higher up his body, dragging you away from the door. 

Your hands find their way into his hair, grip tightening around his curls, trying to anchor yourself in whatever way you can manage. He lets out a low groan that makes nerves spark beneath your skin. “Pope, what’s gotten into you?” 

You let out a low sigh as he bends, placing you carefully on the bed. He surveys you for a moment, jaw flexing as he debates answering. He doesn’t say anything, just tugs his shirt off, arms and stomach flexing as he does. You reach for the string of your bikini top, tugging it loose. 

You let it sit on your chest, beckoning him closer and guiding one of his hands to the thin fabric. His lips drag down your neck, calloused palm eagerly ripping away your top. He tosses it somewhere behind him, and you sink back onto the bed, letting him take the lead. 

He hasn’t seemed confident in initiating much with you; you don’t want to discourage him now. 

His rough palms travel down your body, lingering at the band of your bottoms. When his wide eyes meet yours, you give him a little nod. He pulls, slowly, until the flimsy fabric dangles  from one ankle, then he settles back over you. 

His fingers skate across your stomach, touch barely there, but just enough to leave goosebumps in his wake. His lips marks a slow, intentional path down your body. He lingers at your chest, careful as he slowly mouths at your breast. 

His eyes dart between yours, like he’s waiting for you to scold him, push him away. You thread your fingers through his hair, nodding. You’re afraid of saying anything, of spooking him out of the moment. 

He sucks once and you tug at his hair, letting out a low whimper as his free hand tweaks your other nipple. “Pope,” you gasp out, spine arching into his touch. 

It’s so faint, so hesitant, you can’t stand how much of a tease he is. His eyes close as his hand wanders, searching. He wants to know how much you want him. Wants to feel it. 

Slowly, he parts from you; you have to stop yourself from reaching for him. His mouth descends until  he’s lingering  between your thighs. You spread your legs wider, making room for his broad shoulders. 

Just like everything else he’s done tonight, he’s tentative at first. A shallow dip of his tongue has you holding back a groan of frustration. You’re not trying to rush him; you want this to be good for him. To feel real. 

But it’s hard. You’ve wanted him for so long, and he’s right there, kneeling between your thighs, and there’s nothing you can do but be at his mercy. 

You tighten your grip around his hair, inching your hips ever closer to his mouth. His large arms wrap around your legs, keeping your back pressed flush to the bed. The corded muscles of his shoulders flex as he finally leans forward. You’re struck by the sight of his thick body pinning you down, the sudden urge to sink your teeth into him overwhelming. 

Instead, you tilt your head back, resisting the need. Your heart thumps fast, anticipation pushing you closer toward the steep edge of desperation. 

Something is flickering inside you, smoldering. A small flame sparked alive by the heat of his breath, catching like wildfire when you finally feel his mouth on you. He doesn’t hold back, ravenous as his hands flex around your thighs. 

A rumbling groan tears from deep within his chest, low and desperate with every swipe of his tongue. The vibrations leave you keening; your hips twitch, but his heavy arms keep you in place. He pulls away, ignoring your wanton mewl.  His hand pinches at your thigh and you look up. The second your hazy eyes meet his, he’s dipping back down. 

You could swear there’s a smile on his lips as his tongue thrusts into you, mouth greedy as he devours you. 

You wonder what he’s like with the women Smurf hires. 

You shouldn’t be thinking about her, not right now. 

But… does he take what he wants? Shove into them and take them until he finds release? Or is he tender with them, too? Reaching hopelessly for some sort of connection, one they’ll give him right up until the cash is in hand. 

You don’t want to be that; you want this. Want him. Want that desperate edge in his eye as he eats you like all he’s ever felt is hunger. Your hand tightens in his hair, a broken moan crawls up your throat as something inside you burns. The heat pools low, spreading to your every limb. Your muscles jump and contract as you squirm beneath his iron grip. 

The jerk of your hips, the sounds that splinter then shatter the moment they touch your lips, the closeness you demand with your fingers threaded through his curls— it all seems to spur him on. He buries his face deeper, tongue relentless as he burrows inside you, and the only thought your mind can conjure is Pope Cody. 

“F-Fuck— Oh, God,” you let out a sharp gasp. Losing all manner of control, you begin to writhe, grinding down on him until the fire burns so hot, it becomes cold. Pleasure crests over your body in waves, leaving you shivering. Your legs twitch, thighs practically closing around his head as his fingers dig into you, ten crescent moons carved into your skin. He doesn’t stop until you tug weakly at his hair. 

He’s panting slightly as he finally lets you go. When he pulls back, loosening his grip, your slick shimmers on his chin, though he doesn’t seem to care. His eyes are dark and dazed, but no less intense, as he watches you struggle to catch your breath. 

Following your gentle pull, he crawls up your body, letting his lips mark a trail as he goes. His rough hands knead and soothe your spasming muscles. 

You drag him into a lazy kiss, palms smoothing down his back as you wrap your legs around his waist. His length sits heavy in his boxers, you can feel it pressing against your hip, the wetness that grows as he flinches away from the pressure. 

Carefully, you push at his shoulders until he’s sitting on the bed. You follow once he’s settled, sliding into his lap.“You don’t have to,” he murmurs, hands hovering over your hips. Like he’s waiting for permission to touch you, despite the scent of you still on his breath or the messy sheen that’s drying on his chin.  

“I want to,” you promise, cupping his cheek and luring him into another soft kiss. Slowly, but surely, his palms find solace on your hips, and he nods into the affection. You rise on shaky legs and help him work his boxers down. 

He notices the slight quiver in your hands and guides them to rest on his shoulders as he lines himself up. You let out a shuddering sigh, lowering yourself onto him. Your breath catches as he fills you completely. He groans when you take a moment to adjust and it’s dizzying. All you want is to hear more. You want to know every pretty sound he can make, so you push him back, your hands sliding down to his chest as you lift your hips. 

It’s tentative and barely anything, you’re still slightly weak from before, but you can feel the anticipation tightening his grip into something almost painful. His fingers flex, like he’s trying to remind himself of control. 

“There we go,” you whisper, more to yourself as you find a steady rhythm. You peer down at him, noticing the clench of his jaw, the white knuckles of his hand. He won’t look at you. His gaze is far-out and set on the languid roll of your hips.

You let your nose trail along his flushed cheek as you wander lower,  pressing an open-mouthed kiss to his jaw. Your lips brush his ear, teeth just barely grazing. “You can touch me, Pope,” you promise. You settle back on his thighs, taking his heavy hands and dragging them to your breasts. “I’m all yours,” you whisper, enjoying the way his jaw loosens, wide eyes finding your own. “Only yours,” you swear.

That severe look softens as you slowly begin to circle your hips again, setting a steady pace. You let go of his hands, falling forward onto his chest as you brace yourself. Pleasure begins mounting again, the feeling of him inside you overwhelming as you pulse around him. 

Your body trembles as you begin to lose your rhythm, walls still fluttering from the feeling of his tongue. You’re too sensitive for this. It’s been so long since you’ve genuinely been with someone without performing that you’ve almost forgotten the right moves. 

Hesitantly, his hips buck, and you choke on your breath, sliding until your lips are pressed against his once more. Your hands drag up his chest, stroking his cheek as he winds his arms around your back. You set the pace, decide the rhythm, but his hips move in time, taking only as much control as you allow him. 

“There you go, just like that,” you pant, breathless as your stomach tightens. The encouragement seems to spur him on, his thrusts speeding up slightly. 

You pull back, biting your lip as you stare down at him. “God, that f-feels good.” His eyes light up, glimmering in a way you haven’t seen before. There’s a low, rumbling sound you quickly realize is coming from him, but it soon fractures into something softer, needier. “You’re doing so good,” you whisper, observing him intently. 

Your jaw drops open when you hear his voice, weak and wanton, stretching thin around a single word, over and over: “Yeah, y-yeah, yeah.” You gasp as he ruts up into you, reaching deeper than before. His movements are rushed, his brows furrowed; you can practically see his control fraying like old twine.  

He hits that spot inside you that has your vision going blurry and your nails biting into his chest as you cling to him. Your moans grow pitchy, drowning out his soft noises. Your attempt at keeping pace falls apart as you curl into him, your eyes shut so tight you begin to see spots whizzing around in the darkness. 

Despite the way you tighten and convulse around him, he keeps moving. Your spine arches, frozen and bowed in his unyielding grip. A drop of sweat rolls down his temple as his hips buck wildly. He’s speaking, you notice, muttering so quietly, your hazy mind can’t latch onto a single word. The only thing you can hear is the tide of raw desperation that rushes through and hollows out his tone. Then, his muscles pull taut; he holds you as close as he physically can, whining brokenly when he can’t drag you any closer. 

Chest-to-chest, you feel the heat of his breath rush over your face as his hips jerk, losing all coordination. Warmth. All you feel is his warmth as his head burrows into the crook of your neck and his length flexes helplessly inside you. 

With his heart thumping rapidly against yours, your fingers carding through his damp curls, you realize you broke your own rule. You hadn’t even thought about using a condom, let alone asking him to pull out. You wanted him. All of him. And now you have it. So you let him soften inside you as he carefully moves you under the sheets. 

You relish the ache in your body, succumb to the exhaustion in your bones. You’re pulled from a dreamless sleep when you feel the wet warmth of a washcloth between your thighs.

After a few moments, the bed dips beside you. Your hand wanders blindly, brow furrowing as you pat at the empty space. You don’t say a word as you grab his wrist, dragging him into your arms, closing the gap between you. He huffs softly—maybe a laugh, maybe a begrudging complaint, you’re not sure. It’s merely a rasp of breath, but it hitches, like it’s caught on something in his throat the second your fingers start to soothe the angry red marks on his freckled skin. Like a vow of surrender, he presses a kiss beneath your jaw, and you sigh. “Thank you,” he mutters, speaking the words into your skin, and you can only hum, pulling him closer. 

Your laughter wakes him up, echoing from the kitchen and just barely reaching his room. It’s a light sound, without the baggage that he’s grown so familiar with. Frowning, he scrubs his hand down his face and sits up. 

Sun spills in through the windows, marking the spot you’d been lying in the night before. His hand runs across the sheets. It’s cold enough that he knows you’ve been gone for a while. It’s an uncomfortable feeling that settles in his chest at the realization. 

It’s probably a sensation you’ve grown familiar with, considering how often he leaves you alone in bed. He hates that every time you’ve woken up and seen the indentation where his body was, he’s left you with this. But staying would be admitting to an attachment that’s dangerous for both of you. 

He throws the sheets back, getting up and dressing quickly. He’s interested in whatever's got you laughing so hard this early in the morning. When he steps out of his room, he shouldn’t be surprised to find his brother sitting with you. 

You and Deran are seated at the kitchen island, cereal shared between you as you laugh at something Deran’s said. His brother has that bored look on his face, unaware of how rare the sight of you smiling like that is. 

Pope’s never elicited a reaction like that from you. The thought makes something sharp and ugly curl in his gut. He grimaces, shaking his head. It’s not like he’s ever said anything worth laughing at. 

Humor’s never been his talent. Most people don’t recognize his attempts; they just stare at him with that look in their eyes. Like they’ve been waiting for him to leave since he walked up. 

You’ve never looked at him like that. 

Pope storms up to the kitchen, and your laughter slowly fades. Something in his chest tightens at that. Your eyes widen at the look on his face, and he sucks in a sharp breath. He snatches up the milk and shakes it at Deran. “Why don’t you learn how to put things back?” he snaps, glaring at his brother. 

Deran shoots him an offended look. The moment’s broken by your laughter. It’s the light kind of sound that usually only his brother earns. Your eyes narrow, and you give Pope a funny look. 

“Did someone wake up on the wrong side of the bed?” you tease. Pope lets out a huff, shaking his head as he puts the milk away. 

“Yeah, with you on the right side,” Deran mutters. Pope glances over his shoulder, whatever he was going to say gone as he realizes you’re dressed in nothing but his shirt. 

You kick Deran under the counter and scoff. “Fuck off,” laughter still lingers in your voice. Pope can appreciate the sight of you like this. Happy, uninhibited. Usually, when you’re over at the house, you always look like you’re one good scare away from running out the door. The work of Smurf, he’s sure. 

He wants to think he contributed to your mood in some way. But he’s never been good at improving moods, just learned not to make them worse. He likes the thought of one day being the reason you have a smile on your face, but he knows it’ll probably never happen. There’s a reason he’s got a poor track record with dating. 

You jump up from your seat, dropping your bowl in the sink. When Pope moves to put it in the dishwasher, you intercept. You throw your arms around his shoulders with a small smile. “Morning, you grump,” you tease, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. 

His hands hover over your waist, nearly returning the hug, but you’re already moving away. It’s so simple with you, isn’t it? Holding and knowing how to be held. It’s not such a foreign idea to you as it is to Pope. 

He wants to be comfortable with it, with you. But it’s hard to get rid of that feeling, like he’s ready to strip off his skin anytime you touch him so softly. Rougher is easier; it’s familiar. This just doesn’t make sense to him. That you’re around him willingly, that Smurf isn’t just paying you off to keep his head on straight. 

Pope’s still not sure how much he trusts this whole arrangement with you. He knows what you said, about not working, about only being with him. But he’d seen how Smurf had taken you aside last night, that terrified look in your eyes when you’d run off. 

A part of him is worried about what he’ll find if he digs much deeper than the surface. 

Deran lets out a disgusted sigh at the affection and moves outside. He leaves his bowl at the counter for someone else to clean. Pope glares at his brother’s back as you jump onto the kitchen counter beside him. You steal his attention easily. 

Pope could certainly get used to this feeling of someone being so eager to be the center of his attention. 

“What do you want to do today?” you ask, a lazy smile on your face. He knows he's greedy when he wishes he could keep that smile just for himself. To have you in a way no one else does, not even Deran. 

A part of him resents his brother for getting to you first. For being your friend first and making that unofficial claim on your time and presence. 

“You wanted to go to the boardwalk,” he reminds you, even though the idea sets his teeth on edge. He’d hate to be out in the sun surrounded by rowdy tourists and louder locals. But he knows you’ve been wanting to go, and you’ve been doing too many things he’s wanted to do.

Besides, he wants to hear you laugh again. Or get a real, genuine smile out of you. Not that teasing look that's ever-present on your face. 

“Seriously?” you scoff, tilting your head. “Don’t you hate that kind of thing?”

Yes. Pope just shrugs, focusing on cleaning up the mess Deran left behind, hoping you don’t notice the stiff posture of his shoulders or tight look on his face. “How about,” you slip off the counter and sidle up behind him, hand resting lightly on his back. 

“We catch a movie? It’s too hot to be outside, anyway.”

The weather’s perfect for a day out on the boardwalk. But he knows you’re lying for his sake. He should make the sacrifice to make you happy. But it’s surprising how easily you’ll switch your plans to accommodate him. It’s hard to say no to that. 

“Yeah, alright,” he agrees. You smile, turning off the sink and taking his hand in yours. You offer Deran an absentminded wave as you lead Pope outside. He relishes the eye roll his brother sends you. 

Maybe you’d had plans with Deran today. It didn’t really matter, though, because you’d chosen Pope. He’s almost tempted to gloat, but you’re still dragging him along behind you. 

Pope helps you up into his truck. Your phone lights up, and you glance down at it, the smile on your face fading. It looks like a notification that someone’s sent you money, but you’re closing the door before he can get a good look at it. 

He gets inside and watches you carefully. You bite at the skin around your thumb, leg bouncing as you type something out on your phone. His mind shouldn’t immediately go to the thought that it's a client paying you. 

You’d told him last night there wasn’t anyone else. And he knows Deran does his best to keep you away from all that, now. 

His knuckles go white around the steering wheel as he backs out of the driveway. 

Pope has no claim to you; he knows that. Even after all the time you’ve spent together, you still aren’t technically anything. But that doesn’t chase away the barbed feeling of possessiveness in his chest. He told you he doesn’t share, and he meant that. 

He can’t stand the idea of someone else being with you the way he had been last night. It makes something hot burn up in his stomach. The corners of his vision go dark as he glances over at you. 

“Everything alright?” you ask, frowning at him. 

He just nods, sucking in a sharp breath as he turns back to the road. You haven’t given him a reason not to trust you. 

The bell above the door rings out, and you already know who it is without looking. Pope takes his usual seat at the bar, and you grab him a beer. Just like he has the past few weeks, he’ll wait out the last hour of your shift with you and drive you home. You’ll turn on a movie, and Deran will still complain he can hear what you’re getting up to with his brother tomorrow morning. 

You smile at the thought, leaning against the bar as Pope watches you. “No plans tonight?”

He shrugs, taking a swig of his beer. “Smurf wanted me home for dinner.” He purses his lips, glaring down at the bar. “I don’t want to deal with that tonight,” he mutters, meeting your eye again. 

“I feel so special,” you tease, forcing the smile to stay on your face. 

But your heart is racing, adrenaline spiking in your blood. You do actually feel special that he would choose you over Smurf. But it’s worrying. You’ve never been a threat to her before, not really. 

All bets are off when it comes to Pope. She’s so terrified of what he could do if he stopped idealizing her in his head. If you begin posing a threat to her position with him, she won’t hesitate to take you out. 

Trying to distract yourself, you go back to topping off drinks and wiping down spills. You head into the kitchen to fetch a customer’s food. By the time you come back, there’s someone else waiting by the bar. 

It’s a tall man in a pressed suit with the posture of someone who holds themself in high esteem. Cop, you figure. Spend enough time with the Codys or working the jobs you used to, and you get good at sniffing them out. This one’s probably a detective based on that expensive watch he’s wearing. 

He’s eyeing Pope warily, probably well aware of his place in the Cody family. You’re sure they’re a hot topic at the station. “What can I get you?” you ask, walking back behind the bar.

A fool’s hope that he’s here for a shitty beer. He’s not even sitting down. Probably afraid to get a stain on his pants from Deran’s secondhand stools. The detective offers a smarmy grin and says your name. You hum, nodding. 

“I was wondering if you’ve seen this man?” He digs around in the inside of his blazer and pulls out a picture, sliding it across the bar. You bite your lip, innately aware of the stare burning into the side of your head. It takes all your self-control not to look over at Pope. 

Your stomach drops so violently that you worry you might throw up as you stare down at the picture. You recognize that face. Green eyes framed by wrinkles from a life filled with laughter. Blonde hair that had been going gray the last time you’d seen him. Tears line your eyes as you stare down at the image. 

You suck in a sharp breath, blinking a few times before looking back up at the detective. “Can’t say I have,” you tell him, plastering on a smile. “Should I be looking out for him? Did he do something?” You play the “concerned citizen” role well, but not well enough. 

He’d caught you off guard, sent you stumbling from that reminder of the past. 

The detective sucks his teeth, smile tightening at the edges as he shakes his head. “That won’t be necessary. His name is Joseph Barker. He was murdered three years ago. The case has been closed, but some new evidence recently came to light that has us reopening it.”

“Oh,” you hum, eyes wide with naivety. “I’m sorry, sir, I’ve never seen him before.”

The detective pulls out his wallet, takes out a business card, and places it down. “I want you to keep that,” he tells you, nodding to the picture. “And call me if anything… jogs your memory.” His eyes cut toward Pope before he swiftly leaves the bar. 

You let out a low breath and lean against the counter, head falling between your shoulders. “What was that?” Pope asks, breaking through the quiet. 

You lick your lips, picking up the card and picture. “Nothing,” you mutter, throwing them both in the trash. You turn around to Pope with a tight smile on your face. Shrugging haplessly, you just tell him, “I have no idea who that is. Ever heard of him?”

Pope stares at you for a long while. Long enough to make your skin crawl with the paranoia that he sees right through your long list of lies. Finally, he shakes his head. “No. I haven’t.”

“Weird,” you mutter, voice cracking around the word. You have to turn away from him. Scrubbing a hand down your face, you suck in a deep breath, willing yourself to get it together. His stare feels like a judgment weighing heavily on you for the rest of your shift. 

Pope’s mind is usually filled with a dozen different thoughts. What Smurf wants from him, worrying about his brother’s fucking something up, reminders of past failures. Lately, the new addition to that has been you. He normally likes his thoughts of you. They break through the rest of the noise and give him a chance to breathe. 

But his mind is jumbled up around how you’ve been acting. You’re barely ever looking away from your phone. Teeth always tearing through the skin of your nail beds until they bleed, uncaring as you frantically message someone on the other side of the screen. 

You’re jumpy and less touchy with him than you typically are. He has a hard enough time initiating with you, but you’ve been making it even worse by flinching at anything and everything. 

He was worried before; it’s only gotten worse since that detective stopped by the bar. You’ve withdrawn into yourself completely. You’re always quiet, with this look in your eyes that tells him you’re somewhere else completely. 

His worry is a poor excuse for what he’s doing right now. But there’s no one around to judge him but himself, and he’s never had particularly strong morals when it comes to protecting those he cares about.

Pope’s been following you all day. Trailing behind you in his truck, watching you run your errands and flit about town. You’ve never noticed him, not once. Which is worrying enough. He’s not been particularly subtle. Almost hoping that you’ll catch him so he can just confront you. 

He’s parked across the street from the gas station you’re at. Arm propped on his window as he watches you run inside. A sleek black car pulls up and parks beside yours. Pope frowns, shifting in his seat to get a better look as the detective from before gets out of the car. 

Detective Benson— he found out the name after he’d fished the man’s business card from the trash. He did a bit of digging into him. He typically handles the more Wall Street cases. Helps businessmen cover up their illicit affairs and bad investments. It makes sense that he’s got this Joseph guy's case. But Pope can’t figure out the connection back to you. 

He sits up as you come out of the gas station, reading your receipt and unaware of your surroundings. Benson walks up to you, cutting you off before you can get in your car. Pope can’t hear anything that’s being said, but he can see the shock on your face. How quickly it morphs into fear as you look around for an escape. 

You were lying to him. 

He knew that at the bar. You’d looked like you were on the verge of tears after the detective left. And he’s not blind. Pope knows you’d recognized the picture Benson had given you. But you weren’t willing to open up to him. 

You look flustered as Benson starts talking to you, holding up your hands and shaking your head. You try to escape back to your car, but he stops you, stepping in front of you and grabbing your shoulders. 

Pope shifts in his seat. He doesn’t appreciate just how comfortable this cop is getting with you. His hand is on the door handle, almost tempted to head out and help you. But you already look calmer, head hanging down as you nod. Benson backs off, pulling out his card again and handing it to you. 

You take it without objecting, lifting your head to watch as the detective drives off. Pope can see you thinking, your foot tapping as you stare down at the card. He’s willing you to turn around and throw it away. To just forget about the cop. 

Instead, you pinch your nose, shaking your head as you put the card in your purse and climb back into your car. 

Pope’s seen enough. He sucks in a sharp breath, white-knuckling the steering wheel as he pulls out and away. The information he needs, he isn’t going to get from you. 

He drives back to Smurf’s place. And he knows that he should have just come to her to begin with. But he’s cagey about you. She knows he’s spending his nights somewhere else now. Somewhere away from her. 

He hasn’t told her about you. Going to her, asking about this Joseph guy, he knows it’s going to point right back to you. But you’re not talking to him, and he doesn’t know what else to do. 

Pope lets out a rough sigh, scrubbing his hand down his face as he parks. He’s trying to think of anywhere else he could go. Anyone else he could talk to so he can figure out what your connection to a dead man is. But he knows what you used to do for his mother, who you were. She knows. He’s sure of it. 

He slams his truck door closed, storming up the front steps. He can hear her in the kitchen, making dinner. He’d forgotten she’d called a family dinner tonight. The last goddamn place he wants to be is surrounded by his family while he’s dealing with this shit with you. 

“Hey, baby,” she calls, glancing over her shoulder with a sharp smile. “Where you been?”

Pope leans against the counter, jaw flexing as he shakes his head. “Nowhere,” he mutters. She narrows her eyes but doesn’t question him further. “Do you know a Joseph Barker?”

Smurf frowns, tilting her head as she thinks. “Yeah,” she smiles at him and nods. “Yeah, I do.” She says your name, and the way her smile sharpens has his chest tightening. “He was her favorite. Something happened between them. Haven’t heard from him in years.”

Smurf shrugs with a helpless smile, but he knows she hasn’t been helpless a goddamn day in her life. “Not my business to tell, baby. Now, help me set the table.”

He takes the plates she hands him instinctively, going to arrange the table just like she asked. Her words ring through his head. Your favorite. He hadn’t realized escorts had favorite clients, but he guesses it makes sense. 

Doesn’t matter that the man’s been dead three years; something ugly and sharp still burns hot through his chest. He slams the plates down harder than necessary, thinking about you having a favorite anything. 

You’ve done everything she asked. 

And you did your job too damn well. That’s why she’s punishing you. It has to be. She wanted you to entertain Pope, keep him occupied, and stop him from spiraling. You did just what she asked. 

You entertained him, cared for him, provided him with the sort of affection she saves up until he’s desperate for any form of contact. Until he’s practically broken. You’ve done your best to stop him from breaking, and that’s exactly why she’s doing this now. 

Smurf is bringing ghosts back, sending the cops on your trail so you remember just why you’re so afraid of her. It’s what she has on you that has kept you so compliant for years. 

You were only meant to entertain Pope. Not become something to him that has him skipping family dinners and ignoring Smurf’s calls. You’ve created this gap between her and him that has her trying to scare you into submission now. You’re so certain she’s the reason “new evidence came to light” on Joseph’s case.

But you have no idea what you’re supposed to do. There’s nowhere you can run, not now. You’ve never been particularly good at covering your trail. She’s the one who’d taken care of everything. Sworn that it was over and done with. 

You pace your living room, biting at your lip and trying not to break down. What the fuck are you going to do now?

Someone knocks on your front door, and you nearly scream. Clutching your racing chest, you turn toward it, debating not answering. Maybe it’s that detective again. Coming by with more questions. 

He’d got you at the gas station today. Tricked you into admitting that you knew Joseph. He got in your head with all that soft bullshit about wanting to help you—– you just had to be honest with him. You’re fragile, and you’re fucking stupid, slipping up like that. 

“It’s me,” Pope calls from the other side. You can’t tell if it's relief or panic that has your stomach swooping. 

“One sec,” you call, voice cracking. Grimacing, you rush up to the door, opening it up for him. “Hey, thought you had a family dinner tonight?” Your smile is tight at the edges, crumbling under the weight of your panic. 

You know your eyes are wide, expression bordering on desperate. You just don’t know if you’re desperate for him to stay or leave. In some strange way, he terrifies you. He sees so easily through all your lies and defenses. He knows something is wrong with you, but he hasn’t probed. And that’s what's scary. 

Because if he hasn’t felt like digging deeper, then what does he already know?

“Left early,” he tells you, stepping inside. Your forehead falls to the door, and you suck in a trembling breath as you try to get your shit together. 

With a quiet exhale, you turn around. His back is to you as he takes in the mess of your living room. A result of your earlier breakdown this morning. “Did you need something—”

“Whose Joseph Barker?” His voice is rough, eyes sharp as he turns to face you. Your nails bite into your palms as your mouth opens. But nothing comes out. You flounder, back pressed to the door as you shake your head helplessly. 

Pope huffs, crossing his arms as he glares at you. He’s not easing up in the slightest. “I talked to Smurf. I know he used to be one of your clients. You lied to me.”

“I—” your voice cracks, and you feel your chest heave as you drag in a breath. “I had to,” you mutter, pinching your eyes shut as you fight back tears. “Please, Pope, I don’t want to do this right now.”

“Too bad,” he snaps, voice making you jump. 

Why is he here?

Did she send him?

“You lied to me. I want to know why.” He stalks closer, and you dart away from the door, trying to put as much space between you as you can. Your eyes flit over his body, the way he pauses as he watches you run. His hands— loose at his sides. 

You would be able to tell, wouldn’t you? If he was going to hurt you. You want to think you would know. But it’s Pope… As much as you think you mean something to him, you will never be Smurf. 

“I couldn’t tell you the truth, Pope, okay? I still can’t.” You want him to leave. But you’re too afraid to say that. Your hand shakes at your side as you watch the way he blocks your door. He’s probably not even doing it on purpose, but it feels like the goddamn walls are closing in on you. 

He looks away from you, lips pursing as he sucks in a sharp breath. “Smurf told me he was one of your clients. That something happened—”

“God,” you scoff, cutting him off. “Are you really gonna trust a goddamn thing that woman says?”

His eyes flit back to you, and he shakes his head. “How am I supposed to know what to believe?” There is something so painfully broken open on his face. The sort of pain that’s only caused when someone you care about lies to you. And you’d done that. Repeatedly, you’ve lied to him about everything in your relationship. 

Your head drops as you rub your hand down your face. You can’t look into those hurt eyes of his for another second, or he’s going to break you open completely. “Okay,” you whisper, voice breaking around the word. 

He takes a step closer, but you can’t handle the proximity. Not while it feels like your ribs are seizing around your lungs. You shake your head, backing up and pacing away from him. “I knew him, okay? He was my client, you’re right.”

Pope watches as you pace, brows drawn in. Something guarded falls over his face. “She said he was your favorite.”

You pause, eyes lifting back to his. He can’t seriously be jealous of a dead man. “Yeah,” you scoff. “He was my favorite. That doesn’t mean a whole lot in my line of work. He didn’t hurt me, alright?” Not at first, anyway. “And I appreciated that.” Something flickers in his eyes, anger on your behalf that you’re not interested in. 

You look away from him, throat tightening as you try to find the right words to explain what happened. How it all went wrong. He takes a step closer, and your eyes dart warily to him. “Tell me,” his voice is softer now, a pleading edge to it. 

Sighing, you take a seat on your couch. He hovers beside you, waiting until you motion him over. He leaves some space between you, eyes intent on your face. “He was the first client Smurf ever assigned me to.” 

Licking your lips, you shake your head. “And the reason I needed Deran to get me out. It was… good, at first. I was still new, still fresh to the game. It was harder for me to remember that being with him was a paycheck. He made me laugh, and he never made me feel bad about who— about what I was.”

You finally look up; Pope hasn’t taken his eyes off you. His arm is draped over the couch behind you, his hand placed in his lap. But he’s tilted toward you, resisting the urge to touch you like you know he wants to. To try to ground you the way you do for him. 

“I killed him, Pope. What do you want me to say?”

You wait for it. The flicker in his eyes, the shock, maybe a little fear—though, you doubt he’s afraid of you. Something that registers just how despicable a creature you are. He tilts his head, “Is that it?”

You let out a sharp scoff, staring at him in disbelief. “Is that it?” You jump off the couch, whirling around on him. He remains seated, staring up at you with pensive eyes that make you so angry for some reason. “Pope, I thought I loved him, and then I fucking killed him. What do you mean, is that it?”

“Why?” He prods. 

“Why?” You let out take in a deep breath and forcing yourself to calm down. “Does that even matter?”

“Yeah,” he shoots you a sharp look, finally getting to his feet. “It matters. Tell me why.”

You can’t quite meet his eyes, staring down at your hands. It’s jarring, thinking about that night. You’ve done your very best to forget as much of it as you can. He finally reaches out, taking your hands in his own and stopping you from picking at any more of your skin. A little bit of blood blooms around the edges of your nail, and you grimace. 

“He wanted to play a game. I said I didn’t like it, but he insisted. And… He wouldn’t stop when I told him to. I got scared, really scared for the first time since I’d been with him. I forgot that he was paying for my time, that I really didn’t deserve a say. I grabbed whatever I could reach, a fucking pillow of all things, and I hit him.”

You clench your eyes shut as you think of it. “It caught him off guard, and he fell over. Knocked his head on the edge of the nightstand. I just watched as he spasmed on the floor, as blood started pooling under him. I didn’t know what to do, so I…”

You suck in a sharp breath, your confession a whisper. “I ran.”

What you don’t tell him is how you called Smurf, told her what happened. She’d told you to leave the key to the room under the motel’s mat. That she’d take care of it. You never knew what she did with the body. But you’d been so panicked, you didn’t question why she wanted to deal with it herself. Why didn’t she just tell you to deal with it? 

You still don’t know what it is she has over you. An admission of where you were that night? Pictures of you and him together? Or maybe, just your DNA on the body. Whatever it is, it’s had you on a tight leash, tethered to her for the past three years. And if Pope knows about that, you’re afraid of how deep he’ll dig into your relationship with him. Of what he’ll find out if he goes looking. 

“Do you think someone can be forgiven?” You ask, looking up at him. “For hurting someone they love?”

To your surprise, his eyes water slightly as he stares down at your hands. “Pope?” you question, dipping down to try and catch his eye. He blinks a few times and sniffles, looking away from you. “What happened?” you ask softly. 

He shakes his head. “Nothing,” he tells you. 

Your eyes narrow as you glare at him. “You think I don’t know that look? What happened?”

He sucks in a shaky breath and purses his lips, finally meeting your eye. “I don’t think I can be forgiven,” his voice cracks around the words, and you tug him closer, dragging him down into a hug. 

He presses his cheek to your shoulder, arms tight around you as his shoulders shudder. “I killed Cath,” he mutters, voice muffled against your skin. Your eyes fly wide, and you struggle not to tense up beneath his touch. 

“Smurf had told me she was talking to the cops, and I— I killed her. I hurt her,” his voice is breaking down, and you can feel your heart pounding against your chest. You hold him tighter against you, a shield so he can’t pull back and see the terror in your eyes. 

You’ve always been afraid of what he’s capable of under Smurf’s command. But in some—ridiculously stupid—way, you’d thought there were exceptions to how far he would go for her. You should have known better. 

Pope never stood a chance against that woman. She’s had her nails dug in since he was a baby, promoting the idea that there was no room in his life for any other woman but her. You thought love, real love, would stop that, but you were wrong. 

He cries as you hold him, and you grimace. Would he do the same to you if she told him to?

This was a reach for normalcy, you’re sure. 

Things between you and Pope have been off ever since you told him about Joseph and he told you about Cath. The pair of you are practically perfect for each other: always hurting the people you love. 

Things with him feel more intense now. Like you’ve shared these secrets, and there’s no going back. You’re both stuck with each other. You wouldn’t mind it if you just didn’t know about Cath. More specifically, if you didn’t know that he had been in love with Cath when he killed her.

You don’t judge him for it, not in the way you should. You’ve seen how Smurf gets into her sons’ heads; you see how she used to hurt Deran with her expectations of him. 

But he knew how to break away from her, at least marginally. Pope never got that chance. At each and every opportunity for a positive influence in his life, she cut it off. Even if that meant being the reason her own daughter was dead. 

To try and settle yourselves from the tension and the perception shattering reveals… he’s taken you out to dinner. It’s a nice restaurant; you’ll give him that. Nicer than where you typically go. The menu isn’t cheap laminated plastic, and your elbows don’t stick to the table. 

You’re surrounded by happy couples. They’ve either got rings on their fingers, or that content look in their eye that they’ve found the right person to spend their life with. The place is perfect on paper. 

But you aren’t. 

You’re unsettled, scared, and incapable of sitting with your back to the door because you’re so afraid of who could come up behind you. Smurf has gotten into your head with all the investigation bullshit she’s been throwing at you. As much as you want to enjoy this with Pope, you can’t. 

You’re too busy thinking about whether or not she’s fuming that he’s not at home right now. Is tonight the night she turns you in? Or tells him to hurt you?

Sucking in a sharp breath, you force yourself to focus on the menu. You can feel Pope’s stare burning into you, but you can’t find the energy to meet his eye. 

“Do you like it?” He suddenly asks, probably about the restaurant. 

You force a stiff smile on your face and nod. “It’s nice,” you mutter, unable to come up with anything better. His expression tightens, and he narrows his eyes at you. “Really, Pope,” you let out a stiff laugh. “You did good.”

That’s not enough to make him feel better, but he accepts it, at least. The waitress comes up, and you don’t even know what you order, just blindly saying whatever Pope did. The table is quiet as you eat. You’re one of the only couples in the place not whispering to each other or getting lost in each other’s eyes. 

He doesn’t prod, which you appreciate. After dinner, you take his hand and lead him down from the restaurant to the beach outside. You sit down on the sand, enjoying the way the moon’s light reflects off the waves. 

He settles beside you, arm pressed to yours, and watches the water wash across the sand. “Can I ask you something?” You rest your chin on your knees, turning toward him. 

“What?” He doesn’t take his eyes off the water. 

You think of something Deran had once told you, about Pope being a nickname. “What’s your name?”

Pope lets out a little laugh, turning toward you. “You don’t know?”

You click your tongue with a disappointed sigh. “I thought it was Pope for a while, honestly.” 

He leans in close, tone almost teasing. “Why’re you asking now?”

“Because I want to know you, not…” Not the man Smurf made you into. “Humor me?”

The slight smile he’d had slips from his face as he turns back toward the waves. “Andrew,” he admits, his voice soft with what sounds like vulnerability. Something guarded falls over his face, and you look away. 

“Andrew,” you whisper, testing it out. He turns toward you, and you can tell he likes how it sounds on your tongue. “So… Where the hell did Pope come from?”

That earns a laugh from him. You grin, turning to catch his eye as he looks over at you. His smile fades slightly as his lips twitch, shoulders hunching up. “When I was younger, I started going to church. I didn’t really know what to do with myself, and I figured if anyone could help, it would be God.”

He sniffles and looks away from you, gaze distant as he stares out at the ocean. “I got close to one of the priests at the church. Smurf and Baz found out. They made me use that connection to rob the place.” His voice cracks slightly as he continues, but his expression remains guarded. He doesn’t want you to think it still affects him. 

“He tried to stop us, and I beat him with a fucking bible,” he scoffs and shakes his head. “They’d always called me Pope. For being… different. It just stuck after that.” 

Bile burns in your throat as you watch him, but he won’t look at you, not now. After everything he’s told you, does he really think that’s what's going to scare you off? It just makes you hate Smurf more. 

You wish you could have known him when he was younger. That you could have helped him in any way. But he never really stood a chance. 

“I like Andrew better,” you whisper, leaning your head on his shoulder. He doesn’t say anything, just presses his head to yours, taking in a deep breath as his body goes lax under you. 

You can’t keep this up much longer. 

Pope wakes up to a message from you, asking to talk. His chest tightens as he takes in a short breath. He hasn’t had a lot of normal relationships, but even he knows that’s never a good sign. 

Pocketing his phone, he pinches his eyes shut, shaking off the feeling and heading into the kitchen. Smurf stands by the oven, flipping pancakes. “Breakfast is almost ready, baby,” his lip curls at the pet name. 

He’s not particularly interested in spending the morning with her. It’s been harder to stomach being around her after he learned about what you’d done to Joseph. There are these questions bursting at the seams of his lips. 

The type of questions that would only lead to trouble for you and him. 

Smurf turns from the stove and offers him a saccharine smile. She says your name, catching him off guard. He turns toward her with narrowed eyes, and that smile grows cruel. “Have you seen her around lately, baby?”

He clears his throat, shaking his head as he reaches out to straighten the plates she’d put out. “Why?”

Smurf lets out a little laugh and shrugs, plating some fruit and pancakes, passing it off to him like he’s a child incapable of getting himself his own food. There’s such a confusing divide between how she treats him and what she expects from him. Infantilizing him while demanding perfection. 

“I, uh, I got a business associate I’d like her to meet.” She offers a conspiratorial wink that makes his stomach sour. “He’d have some fun with her,” she mutters. She glances up through her lashes at him, just waiting for him to take the bait. 

Pope’s hands tighten around the edge of the counter as he glares down at his plate. “Is she still working for you?” he asks, voice strained. 

Smurf tilts her head with an obviously forced look of confusion. “Didn’t she tell you? I’m sorry, baby, I thought you knew.” 

Pope knows better, at this point, than to blindly believe her. Smurf does this with anyone he starts to get too close to. He’d like to believe he’s been subtle about you, good at keeping you behind closed doors. But she knows. She always knows. 

And she always finds a way to make him start to doubt. To make him start questioning what he thought was real. He doesn’t want that to happen with you. Not like it did with Cath. Not like…

Not like Julia. 

“I’m not hungry,” he tells her, voice strained with barely restrained anger as he storms out of the house. Her smirk bores into his back as he goes. 

You weren’t still working with her; you’d told him that. And after finding out what happened with Joseph, he doubts that you would ever willingly go back to that life. You don’t need to, either. You have him now; if you were struggling, he’d take care of it. Take care of you. 

He gets into his truck, knee bouncing as he stares out the windshield. After debating for a moment, he pulls out his phone. He swipes to the location app he’d installed, the same one he’d added to your phone when you’d been in the bathroom the other night. 

Your icon pops up… driving right toward some scummy motel off the highway. 

His chest seizes as he stares down at the address. Smurf’s words echo through his head. He knows she’s lying, that she’s just trying to get under his skin. But that doesn’t stop the images that start barraging his thoughts. 

Thinking of… someone else getting to touch you, to be with you. 

You choosing someone else… 

Something white-hot and furious floods him, has him peeling out of the driveway before he can really think about what he’s about to do. 

He follows the app’s directions toward you, not stopping until he’s parked at the far entrance of the motel. It doesn’t take him long to spot you. You’re still in your car, biting your nail as you stare down at your phone. 

Your eyes are frenzied in a way he’s never seen before on you. Everything about you seems off-kilter. This is a new low for you, he hasn’t ever seen you get to this point before. Not even when you were telling him about Joseph. You must be scared, then. You must know that this is wrong. 

And, still, he watches as you get out of the car, sucking in a deep breath before turning toward the stairs. Pope sits there. He should be getting out of the truck, dragging you back to your car, and demanding to know what you think you’re doing. 

But he doesn’t, because he’s willing you to turn back around. To change your mind and drive off. You don’t. 

He’s practically cucking himself as he watches you knock on one of the doors. A man opens it, close in age to you, and relatively good-looking. Not the type that should be in a scuzzy place like this. 

Pope opens up his glove compartment, pulls out the gun inside, and tucks it in the waistband of his jeans. He has no thoughts as he throws open the truck door, no plan for what he’s going to say to you to explain his presence. He’s not going to tell you he’s been tracking you. Clearly, you’re hiding things from him, too. 

Just as he gets out, the motel door closes. You move inside and stand in front of the open window. He waits a moment, but you take a seat at the table. The man sits across from you. Neither of you makes a move toward the bed. Instead, you seem to be talking amicably with him. 

Maybe this is another one of your “favorites.”

The thought leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. 

The man you’re with slips something across the table to you. You grimace, glancing around. You seem to just be noticing the open curtains. Jumping up, you’re quick to pull them closed. Pope can just barely make out your silhouette behind them. 

He glances down at his watch with a sigh. You get two minutes, and then he’s coming in. Pope leans against his truck, eyes trained on the scummy door. The waiting is agonizing. Two minutes shouldn’t feel this long to him. 

You might not be meeting a client right now, but it’s clear that you’re still hiding something from him. He thought that after he’d told you about Cath, that would be it. You would realize you don’t have to hide anything from him anymore. He’d given you information that could end him if you wanted to. 

Checking his watch, he starts toward the stairs just as the door opens. “Shit,” he hisses, ducking back behind his truck. You walk out of the room with a little wave to the other man. You don’t look disheveled; your clothes don’t look like they’ve been put back in a rush. He lets out a sigh, but relief doesn’t lessen the pressure of his chest as he takes in the large yellow envelope in your hand.

Your head lifts, brows furrowing as you look around the parking lot. Pope ducks and moves behind his truck. He waits before popping his head back out. You’re already getting back into your car. 

He keeps his gaze intent on you as he pulls out his phone, dialing your number. He sees through your window as you jump, glancing down at your phone with a grimace. After too long hesitating, you answer. 

“Hey,” you offer awkwardly. He almost wants to smile at the way you shake your head at yourself. 

“Where are you?” He asks, getting into his truck as you start your car. 

He hears the way you swallow, fingers bouncing against your steering wheel as you sigh. “Grocery store, why?”

Why is it so easy for you to lie to him?

His jaw tenses as he works to control the tone of his voice. “You said you wanted to talk,” he grits out. 

“Uh, yeah. Not on the phone, it’s kind of a lot.” Your head falls back onto your seat as you let out a heavy breath. “Are you free tonight?”

“Yeah,” he mutters. “I’ll see you later.” He hangs up before you can respond, tossing his phone into the other seat. You frown down at your phone for a second before pulling out of the parking lot. He starts his truck, intent on following you when someone messages him. 

His fingers drum against the steering wheel, staring after you, before he finally picks his phone back up. Smurf’s name is the last thing he wants to see. 

Come home. 

Now. 

Of course, she doesn’t tell him why. She calls, he comes. That’s just how it works. That’s just how it always works. 

Pope throws his phone back and turns in the opposite direction you went. Right back to Smurf, ever the obedient son. 

“I was in the middle of something,” he calls out as he storms into the house. He’s expecting Smurf as he heads into the kitchen. But J standing beside her is disconcerting. Especially that look he’s got on his normally stoic face. 

J meets Pope’s eyes, and he swears there’s an apology in them. The oddity of it tames some of the anger broiling inside him. 

“You’re going to want to hear this,” Smurf tells him, lacking that normal saccharine tone she lays on too thick. 

Pope freezes, eyes darting between the pair before slowly nodding. Smurf lets out a low sigh, though he truly doubts this is hurting her as much as she’s pretending. Slowly, she slides a piece of paper over to him. He’s annoyed by the drama of it all and glares over at J before flipping it. 

His nails dig into the counter as he looks down at a picture of you. You’re standing in front of the police station, hand on Detective Benson’s arm as he stares down at you. It certainly looks damning. 

“Are you following her?” He grits out, eyes flitting up to meet Smurf’s. 

Her expression hardens as she scoffs. She glances over to J, but he looks less than enthused about involving himself. “You’ve had bad taste in women before, but this is a new low, baby.” Pope shakes his head, passing the picture back to her. 

“You know why they’re looking into her. That doesn’t mean anything.” It feels petulant to argue about this with her. He always feels so childish butting up against her because she is so good at making everything he says small. 

“Michael, one of my old associates and one of her former clients, was arrested today. Someone sent in an anonymous tip about his more illicit business practices. His warehouse got raided. And I’m supposed to think it’s a coincidence your girlfriend just happens to be talking to cops, right now?”

“It wasn’t—”

“I’ve been keeping an eye on her,” J interrupts. “She’s been around the cops, man. A lot for someone who seems so scared of them.”

Pope leans against the counter, letting out a low groan as his shoulders hunch over. He shakes his head. “No. It’s not like that.” But he doesn’t even know if that’s true. He doesn’t know if he can trust you not to hurt him. Not to hurt his family. 

You’re desperate, and you’re feeling cornered. People have done worse for lower stakes than avoiding a murder charge. 

“Why wouldn’t you come to me?” He asks Smurf, eyes cutting over harshly to J. A warning to keep his mouth shut if he doesn’t want it shut for him. 

Smurf takes a step closer, and Pope backs up, watching her warily. She tilts her head with a sympathetic sigh. “Has she not told you, baby?”

He sucks his teeth, shaking his head. “Told me what?”

Smurf makes a disparaging noise that sets his teeth on edge. “I’ve been paying her to keep you company.” His chest tightens, and he jerks back, wishing J weren’t here right now. It’s bad enough Smurf is saying this to him; he doesn’t need a goddamn audience. 

He wants to object; he knows that's not true, and she just keeps going. “She’s not your girlfriend, baby. She’s just another whore who will do anything for the right price. And now, she’s someone we need to take care of. I’m worried about you, Pope. You knew she was talking to the cops, and you didn’t come to me?”

Pope has nothing to defend himself with. He doesn’t even want to. He just stands there, lungs tightening with pain as he tries to catch his breath. She was paying you to be with him. 

Was anything with you real?

“Are you still with us?” Smurf asks, tone biting. 

“What?” Pope croaks out, ignoring the way his eyes have begun to burn. 

“You knew that someone close to you— close to me was going to the cops. And you didn’t say anything. Are you going to let this girl, a nobody, hurt your family? You’re going to let her get away with this?” 

Smurf and J both stare at him with these expressions of betrayal. It’s muted in J. The kid holds everything so close to his chest; it’s the exact opposite of how Julia had been. And Smurf… she’ll say anything, do anything to make him hurt. Because for once, he’d been paying someone else more attention. Giving you more priority. 

But you’d just been another one of her girls. Playing the long game to keep him docile. 

“I’ll take care of it,” he whispers. 

Smurf glances over at J before leaning in close to Pope. “Just like Cath, baby,” she mutters, and something inside him snaps. 

He lets himself in with the copy he’d made of your key. It’s better if he doesn’t give you a chance to prepare. There’s a shuffling in your room, the sound of frantic footsteps as you rush from one side of the room to the next. 

Pope slowly makes his way through the apartment as he takes in the wreck you’ve made of it. Drawers opened and emptied. Random pieces of paper scattered throughout, sheets and blankets tossed around the living room. It looks like someone came through and raided everything. 

He walks into your room and watches you rip out all the clothes from your closet. You turn away from it and catch sight of him standing in front of your door. “Jesus!” You shout, jumping back, clothes falling to the floor. 

Letting out a laugh, your eyes widen and dart toward your bed. He follows your gaze, sees a suitcase open on the floor. That yellow envelope you’d gotten from the motel right on top. He looks back at you as you rush over and kick it to the side. 

“I thought you’d call first,” you deflect, giving him a flustered smile. It’s strained, shadowed by the panic in your eyes. When he doesn’t say anything, the smile falls. “Did I leave the door unlocked?”

Pope takes another step into the room, and you eye him warily, but you don’t back away as he expects. You move closer, face creased with concern. He doesn’t know if you’re worried for him or about him. He thought he knew you, thought he could read you. 

You loved proving him wrong, apparently. 

His hands flex at his sides, the gun in his waistband a heavy weight on his back. He doesn’t know why he brought it. Probably because Smurf was watching him, expecting it. Pope knows he could never look in your eyes and pull the trigger, even with how much you’ve lied to him. He’s too weak. 

Too pathetic. 

“Have you been talking to the cops?”

Your brows furrow, and you nod. Easy admittance makes him doubt you. Everything you’ve done up to this point makes him doubt you. “Yeah, I’ve been trying to get that detective off my ass.”

“Have you taken on other clients?” He demands, not letting you have a chance to tie your story together. 

“No,” you take a step forward, but the look on his face has you stopping short. “Andrew, why are you asking me that? You know you’re the only person I’m seeing.”

“Your only client,” he corrects, watching as your face falls, panic blanketing your features. “Smurf told me. Did you think I wouldn’t find out?” He demands, stalking toward you. To your credit, you don’t back down. 

Your eyes crinkle like you want to cry, but you don’t run away. “You’re lying to me. Again!” He snaps, voice rough as he sucks in a shaky breath. 

You bite your lip, swallowing thickly as you shake your head. “Please, I am begging you to listen to me. I love you, Andrew,” he jerks away from you as you reach for him. But you don’t stop, rushing forward and taking his face in your hands. He could fight you, but he lets you redirect his gaze back to yours. 

“I didn’t have a choice,” your voice cracks as you grimace. “Smurf, she would have made me take on more clients if I didn’t take the money. She—” you bite your lip, and your voice softens into something painful. “She knows about Joseph, okay? She took care of the body. She’s the one sending the cops after me.”

His hands come up to cover yours, and you smile, but then he’s pulling away from you. Eyes narrowing as pain seizes his chest. “You lied about that, too?”

“No, I— Fuck,” you groan, dragging your hands down your face. 

“How am I supposed to trust anything you say? I’ve followed you,” Pope admits. There’s no shame in him as you look at him in surprise. “I saw you at the motel today. Who were you meeting with if that wasn’t a client?”

“I can explain that,” you rush out, breathless as you turn toward your suitcase. You grab the yellow envelope, your hands fumbling as you pour the contents out on your bed. There’s a stack of cash, some cards, and two passports that scatter across your comforter. You pick up two of the cards and turn back to him. 

“Smurf isn’t just idly threatening me with this Joseph thing, alright? So I’ve been meeting up with old friends and contacts. Trying to put together enough to get out of here.” He looks at you with hurt in his eyes. 

You were running… 

He shouldn’t be surprised. 

“But,” you hold the cards out to him. “I’ve been waiting for you.” Glancing down, he sees they’re new IDs; one of them has his picture on it. “I thought we could go together,” you rush out, a manic smile on your face as you nod. 

“You weren’t going to leave me?”

You suck in a sharp breath and shake your head. “No, I swear. I know I haven’t given you a good reason to trust me, but I wouldn’t do that to you. Andrew, please, just look at me.”

He grits his teeth, finally meeting your eyes. A few tears run down your cheeks as you wait for him to say something. But he doesn’t know what he could say to you. He remembers when Smurf sent him after Cath. 

She’d told him that she’d been talking to the cops. That she was putting the family in danger. And he had done what she’d wanted. He’d killed Cath, the woman he was in love with. He can’t—

It makes him sick to think of pushing you down on the bed, to put a pillow over your face as he’d done to her. His hands twitch at his sides as you reach up, cupping his cheek. “I love you, Andrew. And you don’t have to believe me, okay? But I wouldn’t leave you, not without telling you first.”

There have been a lot of women in his life who have said they’d loved him. He used to believe Smurf when she said it, until it started to feel empty. Until it became something that hurt him. He’d believed Julia, and then he’d left her. Cath had never meant it. 

But you do. 

“I can’t,” he mutters, pushing away from you and shaking his head, dragging his hands through his hair. “No, I can’t.”

“Andrew, please.” He wishes you wouldn’t call him that. It’s too soft, too good for what he deserves. “What’s wrong?” Pope looks back over at you, that glint in your eye. You can’t be scared, can you? He wouldn’t hurt you. 

You reach out to him, and he falls into you easily, cheek pressed to your shoulder as he tries to get his breath under control. “I need to tell you something,” you whisper. 

“Don’t,” he mutters, turning, pressing his head into the nape of your neck. His arms squeeze tight around you, trying to keep himself grounded in your touch. Your arms drape low around his back, and he feels your fingers graze the handle of the gun in his waistband. 

He can feel the way your body tenses under him, breath stalling in your throat. The gun isn’t for you. Why did he bring it?

“I’m pregnant.” 

It’s his turn to go still. You hold your breath as he slowly pulls away, eyes watery as he glares at you. “Are you lying?” he chokes out, unable to take any more deceit from you. 

You shake your head, pulling away and running off to your bathroom. He’s left right where he’s standing, stunned and in disbelief. You can’t be. Can you?

It’s not as though either of you has ever been particularly picky about using protection. And he hadn’t ever bothered asking if you were taking anything. His stomach twists itself into knots as you walk back toward him. You hold something out, and suddenly he’s staring down at a positive pregnancy test. 

“Oh,” Pope lets out a rough breath, doubling over as he tries to get his head under control. There’s too much racing through it. Too many different commands urging for his attention. He drops to his knees, unable to meet your eye. 

“Andrew,” you whisper, taking a step closer and running your hand over his hair. His head falls onto your stomach, hands finding their way to your hips as he shakes his head. 

He can feel you trembling beneath his touch, breath shaking as you cup the back of his head. “Please,” you beg, “don’t do what Smurf wants you to.”

His head shoots up, but you’re not looking at him. Your face is pointed toward the ceiling like you’re trying not to cry. Getting to his feet, he cups your cheeks, forcing you to look at him. 

He knows what Smurf wants, what’s expected of him. You’re a threat. A threat to her. To the family, just for knowing what they do. He has failed so many people he loves, but he’s never failed her. 

Pope can’t do to you what he did to Cath…

To Julia. 

His head drops, forehead pressing to yours. You let your weight rest on him, taking in shaking breaths while his eyes drop to the new IDs on the bed. “I won’t,” he swears. 

You’re on a hotel bed, expression bored as you watch Andrew. He’s sitting at the table, knee bouncing slightly as he reads through a magazine he picked up at the grocery store. It’s clearly marketed toward women with its swooping, pink font. But the pregnant woman on the front, the 50 tips for an easier pregnancy! has completely stolen his attention. 

There’s a bottle of prenatal vitamins by his elbow, and the dingy hotel fridge has been stocked with food for the past few weeks. He’s settling into this lifestyle a lot faster than you are. You miss your apartment above Deran’s place. You miss your shower and your bed. 

But Andrew had told you it was too risky to stay there. So he’d taken your suitcase and brought you to a decent hotel with “luxury” accommodations. You’re financing the stay for now. Just while he works on compiling savings in an account not attached to Smurf’s name. 

Your phone was trashed. A burner shoved in your hand instead. You hadn’t even gotten a chance to say anything to Deran. Andrew thought it was too much of a risk. 

“Are you feeling sick?” he suddenly asks, looking up from the magazine, brows pinched. 

“Huh?” you mutter, turning away from the crappy soap you’d put on TV. 

He gets up from the table and moves to sit beside you on the bed. He’s closer than he typically would be, eyes roving your face like it’ll give him the answers he’s looking for. “Do you feel sick at all?”

You glance down at the page of the magazine he’s on, catch the words “morning sickness blues,” and grin. “I’m fine.” You promise, taking his hand in yours. He squeezes your palm, moving closer. “I don’t think I’m far enough along yet to be worrying about that.”

You actually don’t know how far along you are, period. Amongst the worry of running from the cops, escaping Andrew’s mother, and the general hell your life has turned into… 

You haven’t made the time for a gyno appointment. You’re sure that if Andrew weren’t so worried about Smurf discovering you, he would have already dragged you to one. 

Letting go of his hand, you get up to go to the bathroom. You can feel his eyes on you the entire five feet it takes you to get there. You’re quick to push the door closed, back pressed against it as you suck in a deep breath. 

He’s doing his best, you know that. Every day, he tells you that this is all temporary. He just needs time. Time to make a plan for you both. Time to get the proper amount of funds for your escape. 

Time, time, time

There doesn’t seem to be enough of it lately. Each day grows shorter, the walls shrink around you, and it’s harder to catch your breath. He’s settling well, his toothbrush beside yours on the sink, spare clothes folded in the dresser. 

He’s adapted to this like he could live in this hotel forever with you. Always keeps your shoes by the door, complains when you move them, and he trips on them. Keeps food stocked in the room and bought sheets that are actually comfortable to sleep in. As if this is just the home you’re going to share with him now. 

But you’re cracking around the edges. Every day that you don’t have a deadline for when you get to leave pushes you one step closer to the edge. He says it’s temporary, but it’s getting harder to believe him. 

Scrubbing your hands down your face, you move toward the sink, splashing cold water over your cheeks. He’s been fussier since he learned you're pregnant. He always looks like he thinks you’re going to keel over. As if being pregnant makes you this new, breakable thing. It’s slightly aggravating, but you understand where he’s coming from. 

Stepping out of the bathroom, you find he’s right where you left him. Posture stiff as he continues flipping through that ridiculous magazine. You walk over, snatching it quickly from his lap and dropping it on the nightstand. “You know all of this is bullshit, right?” you tease. 

He only narrows his eyes at you, arms crossed as he huffs. “You should try reading some of it.”

You crawl into bed beside him, scoffing. “Are you calling me a bad pregnant lady?”

“No,” he mutters, immediately making room for you beside him. Even how he holds you at night is different, now. You’re not just you to him anymore. Suddenly, you’re carrying his child, too, even if you’re not showing. 

You settle with your back to his chest, his arms wrapping securely around your front. He sleeps on the side closest to the door. Always still slightly awake, just in case. 

Your hand drifts down, taking a hold of his and letting out a soft sigh. He shifts, pressing himself closer. “How much longer do you think we’ll be here?” you whisper, afraid to break the peaceful quiet. 

“Until I can get some things together.”

He’d said that last week, but you don’t have the energy to deal with that right now. Instead, you roll over, wrapping your arms around him as you let out a tired sigh. His arms tighten around you, cheek pressed to your head as you let the droning sounds of the TV put you to sleep. 

“What’s that?”

Andrew looks up from the groceries he’d been unloading. He shakes his head, and you point to the box on the table. “Cereal,” he tells you bluntly. 

“Yeah, some weird whole grain shit,” you sigh as you pick up the box. It proudly promotes whole grains, fiber in every bite, and absolutely no added sugar. Eating the box would taste better. 

Andrew stalks over with a sigh, taking the box from your hands. “It’s healthy. You need to eat more fiber.”

You shoot him an affronted glare. “You’re a doctor, now?”

He straightens up from the groceries with an aggrieved sigh. “Diet is important.” The stern look he shoots you goes unappreciated. 

“I resent that,” you pick up the cereal and shake it at him,  “and I resent this.” He shakes his head, undeterred by your complaints, as he continues to display all the healthy options he picked up today. You’re really starting to miss sugar. 

You wonder what he would think if he knew you went down to the hotel lobby and loaded up on soda and junk while he was out. 

Moving toward the dresser, you’re digging around for a pair of socks when you notice something plastic rattling around. “What…” Moving aside some of Andrew’s pants, you see a pacifier and baby bottle hidden beneath his clothes. 

Unable to stop yourself from smiling, you pull them both out and turn toward him. “A little early for this, isn’t it?”

He straightens up, glancing over at you. His jaw tenses as he lets out a rough sigh. “They were on sale.” He tells you bluntly, striding over and taking them from you. You can’t help but snort as he carefully places them back in the drawer. 

“Anything else you’re hiding in there?”

He pauses, and you don’t really expect him to answer. But then he opens the top drawer and moves aside some shirts. Beneath are three parenting books. Each with stupider names than the last. “Wow,” you whistle. “You’re making me look bad.”

He’s quiet for a moment before frowning. “I don’t want to mess this up.”

Your chest tightens as you look him over, that slightly unsure tilt to his lips. “You won’t,” you tell him, squeezing his arm and offering a soft smile. He just nods; you’re not sure he actually believes you. Clearing your throat, you try to break up the tense moment. “Besides, you’re definitely taking this a lot more seriously than I am.”

The look he gives you is tired. You’re just pointing out what he’s already been nagging you about. “You’re pregnant.” As if you need reminding. 

With nothing to do in this tiny room, you walk over to the bed, throwing yourself on it and grabbing the remote. The magazine from the other night is still on the nightstand. You glance over at it, thinking about the baby bottle and whatever else he’s bought in the dresser. 

“You know, that said not to start buying anything until after the first trimester,” you tell him, nodding toward the magazine. “When the risk of a miscar—”

“I know what it said,” he interrupts, glancing over at you. “It was just… It was on sale,” he mutters, not meeting your eye. His shoulders hunch as he reorganizes the pantry area he’d created. 

Guilt sours in your stomach, and you shift uncomfortably on the bed. “Sorry, I wasn’t trying to…” the words won’t come. He looks too uncomfortable for you to keep prodding at what you’re sure is one of his biggest worries right now. That anything might happen to you or the baby.

Your hand rests over your stomach, lips curling as you glance down at your complete absence of a bump. “It doesn’t feel real,” you muse. “I guess that’s why I’m not taking it more seriously.”

Andrew pauses what he’s doing, glancing over his shoulder at you. “I just keep thinking about when we’re going to get out of here.” He looks down at that, and you sigh. “Soon,” you mutter, before he can feed you the same empty promise he has been. 

“Look,” he gets to his feet, but his phone starts ringing on the table. You can see his name from where you’re sitting. Deran lights up the screen, and your stomach sinks with guilt. You wonder if he’s worried about you or if he just thinks you’re another unfortunate soul who slipped through the cracks. Andrew glances between you and his phone before picking it up and walking out of the room. You can hear him answer just as the door closes. 

Grabbing the TV remote, you spend a few minutes channel surfing before settling on an old sitcom. By the time you’re done, he’s coming back. He lets out a short sigh, jaw flexing as he tosses his phone on the table. 

“What was that?” you ask, motioning him over. He follows obediently, settling beside you on the bed. His back is stiffer than normal, shoulders tense as he stares blankly ahead at the TV. “Andrew?” you murmur, reaching up to run your hand through his hair. 

Andrew sinks easily into the touch, finally looking over at you. “Deran says he and Craig have a job. One Smurf’s not involved in.” Your heart rate picks up, and you try not to let your excitement show too much. “Could be enough,” he mutters, looking down at his hands. He doesn’t seem convinced. 

“That’s good,” you remind him, keeping your voice soft. He just nods, not seeming like he’s truly present with you. With a sigh, you tug on his shoulder slightly. He moves easily, sinking further onto the bed as he lowers his head on your lap. His hand comes up to wrap around your thigh, more grounding than possessive in his intent. 

You let your hand smooth over his curls as you sink back into the pillows. “This is good,” you remind him, ignoring the worry that tightens your gut when he says nothing in return. He just settles closer to you, and you have to let yourself be content with what you have.  

Waking up alone has become foreign to you. Andrew doesn’t like leaving without you waking up first. Which, you’re sure bugs him on the days you’re particularly slow getting out of bed. Today, the spot beside you is cold; the shape of his body is still indented on the sheets. 

It takes you a moment to remember the job he’d told you about with his brothers. He didn’t have time to wait for you today. You throw back the sheets and let out a low groan, rubbing your back as pain shoots up your spine. 

God, you miss your bed. 

These hotel slabs were just making you stiffer every day. Glancing over at the table, you see he’s quite pointedly left out the fibrous cereal for you. Scoffing, you slip on your shoes and run down to the lobby. 

They have a little store full of grab-and-go snacks. With your warden out today, you grab all the junk you can carry and take it back up to the room. There’s really nothing you can do to pass the time besides turn on the TV and stuff your face with as much processed sugar as you can handle. 

You just have to make sure to hide the wrappers before he gets back. 

You make sure to keep an eye on the clock all day. There’s never a guarantee how long a job will take. That’s dependent on the materials they need, the plans they lay out, and whether or not the job requires patience rather than rushing in for a quick cash grab. 

Andrew hadn’t deigned to share any of the details with you, so you're left in the dark. 

You toss away the wrapper to a honey bun—that may have been expired—and feel your eyes begin to burn from staring at the same screen for so long. There's a sharp pain in your stomach, and you let out a groan, doubling over as you press down on the ache. 

Spitefully consuming a bunch of processed junk might have been really stupid. 

Grimacing, you get up and head to the bathroom. There’s another sharp pinch, and you let out a low gasp, grimacing as a cold pain shoots through your body. “Jesus,” you hiss out. 

Approaching the toilet, you pull your pants down and pause. It’s hard to tell; your underwear is a dark blue. But…

Yeah, just there is a little bit of blood. 

Your stomach swoops as you jerk your pants back up and rush toward the bed. You rip the magazine off the nightstand and flip through until you find the pregnancy section. 

It takes a few minutes of scanning, your foot tapping restlessly as you do, before you find what you’re looking for. “Spotting is completely normal in your first trimester!”

Letting out a low breath of relief, you almost laugh at yourself. You wish you could, but then you see that little asterisk next to the sentence, and your eyes drop to the bottom of the page. 

*You should always consult your doctor if spotting is accompanied by any sharp pain or abdominal discomfort. 

The magazine slips from your hands as you grab your phone off the bed. A million thoughts race through your head before everything just comes to a stop. All you can think about is that stupid superstition of not buying anything until the second trimester. Because what if… 

What if you lose it?

A cold panic spikes through your blood; it chills you down to your toes. And it’s not even for you; it’s hardly for this baby. Because this still doesn’t feel real to you. It’s not something you’ve gotten to know or love. But suddenly it's something you could lose. 

And it’s Andrew you’re thinking about. His face as you tell him you lost the baby. 

Shaking the thoughts away, you dial his number on the burner he gave you and wait. It rings for a minute before you hang up and try again. Your foot taps impatiently against the floor; another sharp pain digs its nails into your stomach and rips. 

Letting out a groan, you clutch your gut, kneeling on the floor while you dial him again. Halfway through, you finally remember that he’s not going to answer. Not while he’s on a job. 

That’s probably why he’d been acting so off last night. He can’t afford any distractions during a job. Meaning no phone and no you. You bet he was thinking of a situation just like this one. Where you need him, and he can’t get to you. 

“Fuck,” you hiss. You throw your phone on the bed and turn toward the hotel’s landline. You jam your fingers into the numberpad, calling the front desk. It doesn’t take long to connect, but you can barely get the words out through the pain you’re struggling to breathe through. 

You ask them to order you a cab and force yourself off the bed. It’s a herculean effort to get downstairs and in the lobby. From there, it’s kind of a blur. It’s not until you’re in the waiting room at the hospital that you realize you left your phone in the hotel. 

“Shit,” you hiss, head falling back against the wall. 

“How are we feeling today?” 

You look up from your hands and glare over at the doctor who walks in. It’s rude, the look on your face. But how the fuck does he think you’re feeling?

“Not great,” you snap, eyes narrowing. He offers a polite smile and sits down on his little chair. He picks up a clipboard one of the nurses had left behind and scans over it, muttering to himself. 

“Um,” you clear your throat, trying to catch his attention. “Am I… okay?” 

It’s hard to get yourself to say the word miscarriage out loud, as if you’re going to manifest it into being somehow. Pursing your lips, you wait for him to respond. He holds one finger up with an impatient huff, and you scoff. 

With a sigh, he places the clipboard down and offers you a placating smile. “Good news is, everything’s a-okay with the baby!” 

“Thank god,” you mutter, curling into yourself as you let out a shaky breath. There’s another sharp pinch of pain in your stomach, but you ignore it for now. You’re not sure you would have been able to look Andrew in the eye and tell him–

You don’t have to worry about that now. 

Rubbing your eyes, you shake your head and look over at the doctor. “What’s wrong with me, then?”

He rubs his chin and considers you. “Pregnancy is always stressful, but would you say there’s anything that’s been making things harder for you?” You don’t even get to answer before he barrels on. “Is the father in the picture?”

“Yes,” you tell him, more defensive than you should be. Maybe because Andrew seems to care more about this kid than you do. When you can get out of that damn hotel room, that’s when you’ll let yourself believe this is real. 

“And, yeah, I would say I’m more stressed than normal.” Having your former pimp and the cops after you really isn’t great for your blood pressure. 

He purses his lips, “Spotting is normal in the first trimester. And I think you might be suffering a bit of indigestion, hence the stomach pain. But I want to be careful. I’m going to have you stay here overnight so we can monitor you.”

Panic spikes through you. As much as you hate the hotel room, being out in the open after spending so many nights sequestered inside is worrying. There’s no reason for Smurf to ever show up here, but paranoia isn’t logical. 

“Is that absolutely necessary?”

“For the safety of you and your child, yes,” he tells you, that jovial tone leaving him as he gives you a stern stare. 

Letting out a rough sigh, you nod. “Alright. But is there a phone I could use? I need to call someone.”

He nods, getting up and holding the door for you. “There’s a payphone in the hall. I’ll have a nurse come and get you when a room opens up.”

You rush past him, heading toward the payphone. Rifling through your pockets, you manage to find enough change and push it into the slot. Picking up the phone, you bite your lip, trying to remember the number to Andrew’s burner. 

With a grimace, you type it in and pray you’re right. It rings for a while before you’re connected to his voicemail. “Hey, it’s me, um… I’m at the hospital, the baby–” the phone beeps before the line goes dead. 

“What the hell?” you mutter, trying to see if you have any more change. Fuck. You didn’t even get to tell him everything was fine. You let out a loud groan, leaning forward and letting your head thunk against the wall. 

He’s going to have a goddamn heart attack.  

Pope stands around a table with J and his brothers. There’s stacks and stacks of cash in front of them. More than J had even predicted. “Alright,” J has a smile on his face, relieved his plan actually worked out. It’s still odd to see the kid look anything but solemn. 

This newfound desire of his to start leading jobs, making plans, puts him on edge. There’s something off about it all. He’s been too busy with you to give that problem the attention it deserves. Something to be worried about later. 

“We’re taking a cut now,” J tells them, picking up a stack of cash and throwing it at Pope, then Deran and Craig. “I’m going to take the rest and…” he trails off, eyes cutting toward Craig. The one who could really screw this up for them all if he gets in the right mood. “I’ll take care of it,” he mutters. 

Pope counts through the cash quickly. A couple thousand, probably. It doesn’t feel like enough. Not if he wants to be able to find you both a place to stay, finance both of you completely starting new. And then he’ll need extra for the baby’s stuff in a few months. 

“I need more than this,” Pope tells J. 

Deran’s brows furrow as he shoots his brother a strange look. He says nothing, though. Instead, he nods, “I do too. I need to redo the kitchen at the bar.” He holds up the cash and shakes his head. “This isn’t going to cover it.”

J’s eyes narrow into slits, but he can’t object as his brothers start eagerly taking more money. When Pope’s satisfied with the amount, he nods at the kid. “Alright,” J snaps, stopping Craig from pocketing any more. “That’s enough.” he shoots Deran an aggrieved look. “Will that be enough?”

Deran cuts his eyes toward Pope before looking back at the kid. “Yeah, should be,” he tells him. J lets out a heavy sigh and starts bagging up the rest of the money. Pope takes his own cut and moves away from the table, pulling out his phone. He powers it back on as Deran moves toward him. 

“Hey,” Deran greets, eyeing him warily. Pope barely lifts his eyes to greet him. It’s only when Deran says your name that he catches Pope’s attention. He keeps his face carefully neutral. “I was wondering if you’ve seen her around? She just left the apartment a wreck a few weeks ago, and I haven’t seen her since.”

Pope’s about to answer that he cut you off once Smurf told him what you were doing for her. But his phone’s back on and the notifications he missed are popping up. His heart drops as he sees the missed calls from you. 

He walks away from Deran immediately, already heading toward his truck. Deran calls his name, but he isn’t listening. He tries dialing your number, but it just rings through until going to voicemail. Pick up, he thinks, gut twisting as he gets in his truck. 

He scrolls through the missed calls and sees an unknown number. Frowning, he clicks on the voicemail. “Hey, it’s me.”

His head falls against the steering wheel as he sucks in a deep breath. You sound fine, thank god. 

But then, you just have to keep talking. “Um… I’m at the hospital, the baby–”

Pope’s head whips up as the voicemail ends. His fingers are frantic as he replays the message. But there’s nothing more. Whatever you used to call him just cut out. His hands tighten around the steering wheel until he can hear the leather creak. 

He throws his phone in the seat and peels out of the driveway. It’s a blur as he drives to the hospital. There are so many thoughts swirling through his head, drowning out anything else, that he can barely breathe. 

He hadn’t wanted to go on the job today. He knew that he needed to. That this is more than enough for the two of you to get out of town and get somewhere safe. But he shouldn’t have left you alone. He knew that, and he still did it. 

He’s just incapable, isn’t he?

Incapable of becoming attached to anyone, of caring for anyone, without hurting them. 

He’d done everything right. He’d kept you safe and hidden. He found those prenatals at the store that the books all said were good for the baby. Smurf, for once, doesn’t know one of his secrets. And he still managed to fuck it up. 

Pope has to force himself to slow down as he pulls into the hospital parking lot. He doesn’t want to hear you finish your sentence when he sees you. Doesn’t want to know that superstition in the magazine is followed for a reason. 

At the very least, he can hold onto the fact that you sounded okay. You were still good. But he wouldn’t blame you if he was the last face you wanted to see right now. 

Striding into the hospital, he beelines straight for the front desk. The nurse behind the counter offers him a soft smile. “Can I help you?”

He gives her your name, “She called me from here earlier.” His nails bite into speckled linoleum as she types your name into the computer. “Is she okay?” he demands, unable to stop himself. 

Her eyes barely lift from her screen. “Give me a moment, sir.”

“I just need to know if she’s okay,” he repeats, trying to keep his voice steady. He’s been impatient before. When CPS first took Lena, he couldn’t cope. Had lost his shit at the office and had to rely on Smurf just to see her again. 

He can’t do that again. He can’t keep messing this up with you. 

The nurse offers a strained smile. “I understand, sir, but I don’t have that information right now. What’s your relationship to the patient?”

His mouth opens before he goes quiet. “Um,” he glares down at the floor. What are you? “She’s carrying my baby,” he settles on, nothing else fitting right next to the idea of you. 

The nurse nods, typing something before letting out a sigh. “Alright, looks like she should be okay for visitors. Just log in here, and you should be good to go back. It’ll be the third door on the left.”

Pope just scribbles on the paper she passes him, taking the visitor’s pass and racing off through the door to his left. He’s counting under his breath until he’s in front of the third door. It’s closed, and the blinds have been shut against any prying eyes. 

He sucks in a shaky breath, bracing himself for whatever he’s going to find on the other side. He’s never been lucky before. Baz always told him no one would ever want a baby with him. He had a point. Pope’s not… right. He’s not good for anyone, especially not for himself. Why would his luck suddenly change with you?

He has no other choice but to push the door open. 

Reruns of some old show are playing on the TV on the wall. And you—

You’re sitting on the bed with your legs folded, eagerly eating a pudding cup as you watch the show. Your head lifts as the door opens, a smile flitting across your face as you see him. It drops at whatever expression he’s wearing right now. 

“Hey,” you greet softly. “Stop lurking,” you tease, but it’s weak as your brows crease with worry. 

He takes one step inside, letting the door fall closed behind him. He can’t find the right words or the right questions. The magic words that will get you to tell him if everything’s okay. “Are you…” He trails off, coming to your side, hands flexing out toward you. He stops himself, checking over you, trying to find anything that’s visibly wrong. 

The possibilities of what could have happened to land you here are overwhelming in their intensity. Too many at once to possibly try and verbalize it. 

“I’m fine,” you tell him, reaching out and lacing your fingers through his. You tug his arm until he’s sitting on the bed beside you. You put the pudding on your nightstand and take his other hand, pressing it to your stomach. “Everything is fine.”

The relief is so staggering he feels ill. You let out a quiet laugh as his eyes fall shut; he feels like he can breathe for the first time since he left this morning. “C’mere,” you mutter, tugging him forward until his cheek is pressed to your shoulder and he’s squeezing his arms around you. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, and he shakes his head, fingers flexing in the thin fabric of your hospital gown. “That stupid payphone cut me off. I wasn’t trying to scare you.”

“I wasn’t–”

“Whoops! Don’t mean to interrupt.” Pope jerks back as the door to your room opens. You let out an annoyed huff, keeping your hand in his as he turns to see a doctor walking in. “The father, I presume?”

“What happened?” He demands, something about the doctor’s tone rubbing him the wrong way. 

“Well, I think a lot of the pain was caused by indigestion.” Pope frowns, glancing over at you, but you won’t meet his eye. “However, in your blood work I noticed a high level of cortisol and your blood pressure isn’t where I’d like it to be.”

Pope just stares at the man, waiting for him to continue. The doctor lets out an aggrieved sigh, but it's you he gives a sharp look. “You’re too stressed. Especially this early in the pregnancy.” Your hand tightens around Pope as you shift uncomfortably in the bed. “Some lifestyle changes will need to be made.” His eyes dart to Pope before he shakes his head. “I’ll leave you two to talk.”

The door closes behind him, and you take in a heavy breath. Pope can’t think of anything to say, eyes cast down at the blanket. It’s his fault that you’re so stressed, that you’re even here. He knows that. He promised to get you out of that hotel room weeks ago. But he’s been stalling, selfish as he enjoys this time with you just to himself. No outside interference, no one to take away your attention. 

He got you here. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. It’s not enough, but he doesn’t know what else he can say. 

He waits for it, for you to take his hand, to tell him it's okay. You’ve done it so many times before. You’re so indulgent, so forgiving; he doesn’t deserve to expect it. But, God, he wants you to just tell him it's not his fault. 

“I can’t live like this anymore,” you tell him, and he can’t find it in himself to turn around and face the truth. Not right now. “Andrew,” you call, “look at me.” 

His hands dig into the blanket as he looks up at you. There’s nothing soft on your face, now. You seem severe; the circles beneath your eyes are darker than ever. You’re worn down in a way he hasn’t seen before. 

“I can fix this,” he promises, and if you didn’t believe him, he wouldn’t blame you. He’s so good at fixing problems for his family. At being the one they call to clean up their messes. But he’s always been horrible at fixing his own. 

Your eyes flit down, and you nod. Silence permeates the air between you. He hates it, but he doesn’t know how to fill it.  

The door to your room opens, and you know who it is before he walks in. Andrew hasn’t really left your side tonight. Despite your many assurances that you really are okay and you’ll be able to leave tomorrow. 

Luck was on your side, though. He stepped out to use the bathroom, and you had enough time to call someone. He’ll probably be back before Deran has a chance to leave, but it’ll be too late by then. And the both of you need Deran’s help. 

“Good to know you’re alive,” Deran tells you, voice flat as his eyes narrow on you. 

You grimace, “I’m sorry, Deran, really.”

His eyes fall shut as he pinches at his nose. He stands at the end of your bed, refusing to come closer. Shrugging, he shoves his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. “It was Smurf, wasn’t it?”

Your eyes fall to your lap, and you nod. “Why didn’t you just come to me in the first place?” he asks, taking a step closer. 

“It wasn’t that simple,” you mutter, looking up at him. His brows are pinched in concern. Deran’s done a lot for you since you’ve known him. He’s certainly been more selfless than his family ever expected him to be. 

You know you’ve been shitty, hiding everything from him. But it already feels like you’re wrecking Andrew’s life. You didn’t feel like you could drag Deran down with you both. Not when he had worked so hard to help you clean your life up. But you don’t have any other choice now. 

“Alright,” he shakes his head with a scoff. “Then make it simple. You move out, I don’t hear from you for weeks, and suddenly you call me up to tell me you’re in the hospital. You gotta give me something, here.”

You let out a bitter laugh, “How’s this?” He shakes his head, waiting. You force the words out, “I’m pregnant.” 

Deran’s face falls; he takes a staggered step toward you as the door opens behind him. His head whips around as Andrew walks through. Andrew’s expression goes tight when he sees someone else standing next to you. 

“There’s the dad,” you offer weakly, trying for a joke and failing miserably.

Andrew closes the door behind him, eyes narrowed on his brother. “Why is he here?” He demands, looking at you. You can tell he’s holding his temper back. But it’s been on a short leash, already. You don’t want to risk making things worse. 

“He can help–”

“You knew where she was?” Deran demands, taking an angry step forward. Andrew doesn’t back down, expression twitching as he straightens up. “I asked you, man.”

Cody anger is volatile. It’s quick to spark and worse to quell. You can see it, swelling between them. Deran doesn’t take much to get going, he reaches out, shoving Andrew back. You grimace as Andrew grapples with him, trying to get him to stop before you’re all kicked out of the hospital. 

“Deran!” You snap, eyes darting toward the windows and praying no one looks inside. 

“You lied to me,” he shouts at Andrew, face growing red. 

“I couldn’t tell you,” Andrew barks back. 

Desperately glancing around the room for anything to stop them, your eyes land on the empty pudding cup. You snatch it up and throw it at the back of Deran’s head. He flinches at the impact, head whipping around to face you. 

“Enough! Jesus fuck, Deran, I’m in the hospital because I’m too stressed. This isn’t why I wanted you here!”

Andrew still has a hold on him. Deran glances between the pair of you, expression turning embarrassed. He shoves his brother’s arms off of him and reaches up, trying to smooth back the hair that's fallen in his eyes. 

“Then what the fuck do you want from me?” 

At the same time, Andrew asks, “Why is he here?”

They both shoot each other severe looks that have you grimacing. It would have worked out a hell of a lot better if Andrew had just stayed in the bathroom. You scrub your hands down your face and let out a rough exhale, shoulders hunching. 

“We’re staying in a hotel right now. But I can’t keep living like that,” Andrew says your name, but you stop him with a look. “Look where I’m at right now, Andrew. Can you honestly say that the way we’re living is healthy for me?”

You purse your lips. You know this is dirty; you’re using one of his deepest fears against him. And it’s awful; you’re a horrible person. But you’re human, and you physically cannot take another day living like a fugitive on the run. “Is it healthy for the baby?”

His hands go lax at his sides, eyes widening imperceptibly as he stares at you. Whatever argument he had ready is killed by your cutting words. You suck your teeth, shoving down the guilt burning in your throat. 

“So that’s what you want?” Deran asks, staring over at you with this strange look in his eyes. “Another place to stay?”

“I know that I shouldn’t ask you for anything–”

“No,” he cuts you off, shaking his head. “You shouldn’t.” You bite your lip, sucking in a sharp breath. He rolls his eyes, glaring up at the ceiling. “But…” he lets out a sardonic laugh as he turns toward you. “I actually have a place.”

“Smurf,” he continues, “gave us properties.” he motions between himself and Andrew. Your brows turn in as you turn to him. Because he’d never told you about any sort of property. 

He can’t meet your eye, hand balling into a fist as he glares at the floor. “I couldn’t use any of them for you. She would have looked,” he doesn’t seem very defensive. And you’re sure he believes that excuse. But you’re stupid if you think he wasn’t also attracted to the idea of being so close to you, of having you all to himself. 

“Yeah, well she won’t go looking through any of mine,” Deran tells him. He turns back to you, “There’s a house by the beach you can stay in.” You want to get up and thank him, to hug him for the first time in weeks. But his expression is reserved as he moves toward the door. “I gotta go. Call me tomorrow, and we’ll figure it out.”

The door slams behind him, blinds rattling from the force. He’s still angry, then. You suppose you can’t blame him. Not with the way you just disappeared. Sighing, you lean forward, head falling into your hands. 

Andrew comes up beside you. “I would have taken care of it.”

“Would you?” you scoff, glancing over at him. You don’t mean it maliciously, but it’s been weeks. And he’s apparently had ‘property’ this whole time. Andrew was working off his own schedule, and that just wasn’t good enough for you.  

The house is a slightly run-down bungalow by the beach. But it’s good. Anything is in comparison to that hotel room. It’s woefully empty of any furniture or anything to actually make a house a home. You can work on that, though. 

Slowly, over the course of a few monthss—long enough for your stomach to start to swell—you begin collecting everything for the place. The couch that Deran was going to get rid of makes its way to you. Your dining table is something you found at an estate sale, oddly enough. 

Bits and pieces make their way to you. Some old, some new. But it’s a start. A start to something that belongs solely to you and Andrew. Smurf had sold his house when he was arrested. It left him with nowhere to go but back to her. 

The bungalow is a few hours outside of Oceanside. Which makes it a commute for Andrew anytime she calls him back home to deal with family business. You know she must be growing suspicious by now. Especially because Deran stops by a lot. 

Where could both of her sons be disappearing to?

You don’t know what Andrew is telling her to keep her off his back, or if he’s even trying. You try not to think about it a lot. The pregnancy has begun to feel real to you. Your stomach is swelling with life; you’re outside of her control. Worries about her serve only to make you more stressed than you need to be. 

So, you linger in ignorant bliss. Andrew lets you, though you can see his worries about the future eating away at him. There’s only so much you can do for a man who refuses to cut the last tether to the most agonizing aspect of his life. 

His mother. 

“The appointment is at two, right?” 

Andrew nods; he’s busy putting together the bedframe you just bought while you go through the notes from your last visit with the gynecologist. He’d missed it, Smurf calling him home for some job. A bad time to miss it, too, considering the doctor said she was worried you were showing early signs of gestational hypertension. 

It’s not anything life-threatening, but you know he’d been bothered that he wasn’t there when you heard the news. He’s insisting on attending this one. You don’t mind the company, that’s for sure. When the doctor asks what prenatals you’re taking and what your diet looks like, a lot of that knowledge lies with Andrew. He’ll have a better time processing and planning around the information than you will. 

His phone rings, breaking up the quiet of the moment. You glance up from your computer with interest. His entire demeanor changes as he looks at the name. It doesn’t take much guessing to know who it is. 

The way his shoulders hunch up, his lips pursing as he lets out a heavy sigh. “Smurf?” you ask.

He just nods; he gets up, moving out toward the porch as he answers. You glance toward the window, trying to decide whether or not you want to listen in. You sigh before deciding against it. He’ll tell you about it if he needs to. 

You continue looking through the notes from your last visit, making sure you didn’t forget to tell Andrew anything. The door slams closed as he comes back in, making you jump. Your brows furrow as you look over at him. He’s glaring down at the floor, phone tucked back in his pocket. 

You hesitate on saying anything.  “That was fast,” you land on.

“She wants my help on a job,” he tells you. Letting out a rough sigh, his shoulders sink as he looks up. “Today.”

“Ah,” you click your tongue. She seems to have a psychic link to him. Always knowing the worst time to steal him away from you. Looking back at the computer, you bite back whatever venom you want to spew. Instead, you try to keep your voice calm as you ask, “Are you going?”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, and you don’t want to look over. You don’t want him to see the hurt on your face that you even have to ask that question. Guilt shouldn’t be what makes him stay. He should just want to. 

A soft touch lands on your shoulder and you sigh, sinking back into him. “I’m going with you,” he tells you, firm on the decision. 

“Thank you,” you mutter, reaching up to squeeze his hand as he goes back to putting the bed together. “Did she say what the job was?”

Andrew considers for a moment before shaking his head. “She said she’d be coming along on this one. Said it was important.”

Something gnawing stirs up in your stomach. You frown as you consider him. God, you can’t believe you’re about to ask this. “Are you sure you shouldn’t go?”

He pauses from where he was picking up his tools. You get a sidelong look as his voice quiets. “Do you not want me coming?”

Of course that’s how he took it; you feel like an idiot. “No, I’m sorry I didn’t mean it like that. I just…” You have a bad feeling about Smurf. But you have no evidence and no reason to voice aloud your doubt. “Of course I want you there, Andrew.”

He looks over you, eyes narrowing as he stares into your eyes, checking for any dishonesty. Slowly, he nods and resumes his task. You try to do the same, but your focus is anywhere but on your notes. 

You’d had Andrew’s hand in a death grip your entire appointment. You couldn’t tell him why or even explain to the doctor this sudden panic that’s come over you. She’s worried about it, telling you it’s important you lessen the stress in your life as much as possible to avoid any complications. 

If only it were that easy. But you hardly understood your worries before you were pregnant. It only got that much harder after. 

Luckily, everything looked fine with the baby. She couldn’t get a good look at it through the ultrasound, and she forgot her “readers” at home. So, instead, you have to wait a while longer while she runs a blood test to determine the gender of the baby. 

You don’t really care either way. But you think Andrew would make a good dad to a little girl. 

“You don’t want to do the whole gender reveal thing, do you?” You ask on the drive home. 

Andrew glances over at you and shrugs, hand flexing around the steering wheel. “I don’t know. Might not be so bad.”

Your eyes narrow. “Really? You want one of those stupid confetti things staining our backyard pink or blue?”

He lets out a scoff, smiling slightly as he looks over at you. “How ‘bout a cake?” he offers, and you think he might just be messing with you. 

“Considering the strict diet you’ve got me on, I’ll take a cake.” He huffs a little at the dig but doesn’t seem to mind too much when you grin over at him. You stretch, hand resting on the center console. He reaches down, taking it in his own as he pulls onto your street. 

You frown, sitting up when you see another car in your driveway. “Who’s that?” you wonder aloud. 

Andrew’s hand tightens around your own as he slows down. He comes to a stop in front of the house, letting out a low breath of relief when you both see it’s just Deran. But he doesn’t look good. He’s pacing on the porch, hands shoved in his pockets, and his face is strangely red. 

“Wait here,” Andrew mutters, getting out of the truck and stalking up the driveway. You let out an irritated huff, watching as he approaches his brother. Deran’s head whips up as he gets closer, and he stops his pacing completely. 

That unsettled feeling from before returns tenfold as you shift uncomfortably in your seat. You can’t hear what's being said, but you can see the way Deran’s face shifts from that usually untouchable look to something scarily vulnerable. Andrew runs up the steps to the porch, and Deran stops him, grabbing his shoulder and taking in a deep breath. 

You tilt yourself closer to the window, as if you might be able to hear something. Deran finally says whatever news it is he had to be in person to deliver. Your brows furrow as you watch it all play out on Andrew’s face. 

He tilts his head before shaking it, saying something. You can’t make out what he says, but you can hear his voice rise, see him shove Deran back as he continues to shake his head. His hands come up to his head, cupping it. 

You can’t take watching this anymore. Getting out of the truck, you make your way up the driveway just as Andrew sinks onto the porch steps. His head falls between his knees, shoulders beginning to shake. You run up to him, falling beside him. Deran stands behind you both, gaze vacant as he watches his brother. 

“What’s going on?” you snap at Deran, hands cupping Andrew’s cheeks. You try to get him to look at you, but he collapses into you instead. You let out a sharp gasp as his head falls in your lap, hands gripping desperately at your dress. You can feel him shaking, the sharp breaths he’s struggling to get in. 

“Deran!” You snap, hands desperately running over Andrew, trying anything to get him to calm down. 

Deran finally looks at you, but he doesn’t see you. “Smurf is dead.”

The fridge is open again. 

It’s happened over the past week. You’ll walk through the house, and there will be these little things that are wrong. The fridge is open because he forgot he was going to make dinner. The light to the hallway has been on all day because he never remembered to turn it off. There are dirty plates put away in the cabinets because he’d zoned out, unloaded a dirty dishwasher without even blinking. 

You walk over and close the fridge, letting your head fall against the cool metal with a shaky exhale. This is getting bad. You knew he wouldn’t be well immediately following his mother’s death. Who would?

But this is different than being lost in grief. He’s losing chunks of the day, leaving the house and not knowing where he’s going. You caught him standing in front of the nursery with a drill in his hand. He stood there for about ten minutes before you asked what he was doing. 

He didn’t remember. 

Moving away from the kitchen, you check your watch. He’s been gone for two hours already. You hadn’t wanted to let him leave the house on his own. He was meant to take you grocery shopping with him. But you had to run to the bathroom, and he just left. 

You move into your bedroom, intent on putting away some clothes. You’re trying to tidy the place up a bit before he gets back, so he doesn’t have to worry about it. 

Picking up a pile of clothes, you trudge into the closet. It’s stuffed full right now and barely organized. With an annoyed huff, you drop the clothes on the ground and reach for some shirts on an overstuffed bar. You tug at them a bit, grunting until the hangers finally come off. 

Something tumbles from the shelf above; it pops you perfectly in the toe before tumbling off into the shadows of the closet. “Ow,” you grumble, forgetting the clothes as you get on your knees. Your hands swipe across the closet floor, blindly groping until you feel your fingers brush against what fell. 

Pulling it out, you pause. This is…

This is one of the baby bottles he bought. “What the hell?” you mutter, looking up at the shelf it fell from. Getting to your feet, you rush off and drag the stepstool into the closet. Climbing up, you get a good look at the shelf. 

The parenting books, pacifiers, everything he bought too early has been shoved up here. Pulling it all out, you lay it out on the bed. Why the hell would he hide all this?

Sure, you noticed there was less baby stuff around the house. But you thought that was because he was putting it all away in the nursery. You haven’t been there in a while. The scattered parts of the crib he never built are too much of a tripping hazard. 

You never would have thought he was hiding it all away. 

Rubbing your head, you let out a low groan. You rack your brain, but you can’t find a reason he would do this. And with the state he’s in, you doubt Andrew even understands what he’s doing. 

The front door opens, and you run out of the bedroom. Andrew stands in the doorway, his head lifts, eyes still carrying that sad look they’ve had the past few days. “Andrew,” you whisper. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks, head lifting as he surveys you with narrowed eyes. But you’re not the problem here.

You purse your lips, struggling to maintain a kind smile. “Where are the groceries?”

His brows furrow as he shakes his head. “What?”

You let out a rough sigh, pinching your nose as you shake your head. “Never mind,” you tell him. Instead, you walk over to him, taking his hand in yours. He lets you lead him to the couch and sit him down. 

“What are you doing?” He asks, looking slightly dazed as he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. 

“Nothing, just, maybe rest for a little while, alright?” You want to help him; you do. But he’s mourning. And you can’t relate to that pain. Smurf made your life hell. The only good she ever did anyone was giving birth to Deran and Andrew. You wanted to fucking leap for joy when you heard she was dead. 

But Andrew’s steadily devolving into a state that you don’t know how to get him out of. You doubt he’ll be himself for a long time. But this is different. This is wrong. Pulling out your phone, you call the only person you can think of. 

Pope is sitting on one of the rocking chairs on the porch. You’d deposited him there, the burden that’s only serving to make your life more difficult. He wonders if you’re watching him through the window to make sure he’s not going to wander off. He feels like he’s falling apart. 

And maybe he is. Pope’s not sure anyone would call hearing their dead mother’s voice stable. But he does hear her. And he sees her everywhere too. A phantom that he just can’t let go of. 

He hears a car pull up the driveway and frowns, lifting his head. They park and throw the door open. Deran stands there a minute, just watching Pope, before slowly making his way up the porch steps. 

Deran lets out a low groan as he sits in the chair beside Pope. His chest heaves as he exhales and rubs his hands down his face. Pope watches him warily, wondering why he bothered coming. 

Deran looks over at him and laughs. It’s not genuine. It’s bitter and filled with the same sort of reluctant grief plaguing Pope. “You look like shit, man,” he tells him. 

Pope scoffs, but he can’t disagree. He’s hardly keeping his head on straight right now. “What do you want?” he asks, wishing for some quiet for once. Away from all the noise in his head. 

“What do you think?” Deran huffs. He motions inside. “She called me,” he says your name, and Pope grimaces. You must really think he’s just a mess. 

Deran goes quiet for a moment, picking at a thread on his jeans. “How have you been doing?” He asks, his tone losing its abrasive quality this time around. 

“How do you think?” Pope scoffs, looking over at him. And something inside him breaks, seeing his little brother who is holding it together so much better than he is. “I keep seeing her man,” his voice cracks around the confession, and he looks away. “I’m— I’m fucking hearing her in the back of my head. Reminding me—”

Pope shakes his head, dragging his hand down his face as he tries to take in a steady breath. “Reminding me of how much I fucked up. I wasn’t there,” he admits. “I wasn’t there, and she’s dead.”

Deran stays quiet, just watching Pope. There’s nothing he could say that would absolve him of this guilt. He doesn’t deserve it. Not when this is all he’s done his entire life. He was put on a leash for a reason. Because every time he ever tried to break out of that control, the only thing he’s ever done is hurt someone. 

Something about the quiet softens something in him. “I hid all the baby stuff,” he admits. 

Deran lets out a confused noise and looks up. “What?” he asks, shaking his head. “Why?

Pope shrugs, looking down at the chair and digging his nail into a scratch. He picks at it, watching the wood splinter. “I can’t mess this up,” he admits, voice rough as he blinks away the burning in his eyes. “I hear Smurf. I hear Baz. And they’re both just telling me how much I fucked up. And I can hear Baz telling me that no one would ever want a kid with me. Because he was right,” he lets out a bitter sound, taking in a shaky breath. 

“She doesn’t want a kid with me. She just got stuck with me.”

Deran takes in a sharp breath and shakes his head. He laughs, but it's hollow. “Baz was wrong about a lot of things,” he says. He reaches over and takes his shoulder. Pope grimaces, but he doesn’t move away, looking over at Deran. 

“But Baz was always wrong about you, man.” He squeezes Pope’s shoulder before letting go. “Smurf fucked us all up. But,” Deran whistles and shakes his head. “She really did a number on you. Still, if any of us could actually give a kid a chance of survivin’ all the shit we went through…”

Deran offers a strained smile, “It’d be you.”

Pope can’t honestly say he believes him. Believe this is anything other than an attempt to bring him back from the edge. But he wants to. He wants to so badly think that he’s capable of doing something good. 

Neither of them says anything else, sitting in the quiet with one another. 

A while later, Deran gets up. He doesn’t say much, just that he has to head home. Pope nods, watching as Deran walks down the porch. The door opens behind him, the swell of your stomach clear in his peripheral. You call out a goodbye to his brother, walking toward him. He reaches up, hands brushing against your stomach as his head falls against you. You reach up, nails dragging through his curls. 

You’re real. You’re here. Not a voice in his head reminding him that everything falls apart under his touch. 

You kneel, pressing your forehead to his. Your lips brush against the corner of his mouth before you pull away. He holds onto your hand until you’re walking back into the house, and his hand falls back by his side. Deran pulls out of the driveway; he stops at the end for a moment before driving off. 

Pope gets to his feet; he follows the only noise in the house until he’s standing in front of the nursery. You’re kneeling in front of the disassembled crib. Without looking up, you silently hold out the instruction booklet. He walks forward, taking it from you and kneeling at your side. 

Your eyes dart to him for a moment. “It’s a girl,” you tell him. 

His stomach swoops as he looks over at you. You offer a small smile. “The doctor called this morning. I thought you would want to know.”

You reach over and take his hand in your own, lacing your fingers together. He leans over, pressing his forehead to the side of your head. You turn, lips brushing against his as you pull him into your embrace. He sinks easily, the world going quiet around him as you hold him. His hand falls from your side to the swell of your stomach. 

For now, there’s only one voice. 

Baz was always wrong about you. 

Going on a reluctant search was never necessary to begin with, though, because there you were all along... From the very beginning, ahead of his filing for legal separation.

Before Sammy made you a happy little housewife, you'd been a waitress at a local diner, which he soon began to frequent after every shift, in an attempt to unwind and decompress before going home to a wife he resented.

You were a balm to his ragged nerves. Always sweet and sociable, and willing to lend an ear to listen to his woes when he actually had the energy to speak.

It gutted him that you were working ten hour shifts—and on sneakers that were being held together with naught more than duct tape, at that (he always felt guilty anytime he left you less than a $30 tip, even if all he ordered that evening was a glass of ice water). Meanwhile, Tammi was at home getting high with a damn teenager who stole something he stretched himself so fucking thin over to provide her with in the first place.

He should've known photography was going to be another whim just because she was bored.

At that, instead of being thankful, she instead reminded him of how he wasn't enough—or doing enough—when she harped on and on over the phone about wanting to move into a house he could never dream of affording while he was just trying to do his goddamn job.

Pushing it all down, his anger manifested in other ways before long.

It made him seethe watching other men put their hands on you when you came by to refill their coffee, or bring them their ordered meals because they somehow felt entitled to you.

When he started pulling his badge to get them to back the fuck off, or leave altogether, is when he knew that he was absolutely whipped.

Whenever Sammy would try to flirt, though, your eyes would always drift to that bothersome gold band that he desperately wanted to flush down the toilet and forget about entirely.

He was fucking terrified of losing you.

So, he filed and risked half of everything—his savings, pension, personal property, and financial assets—just for a chance at having something better by your side before the day finally came where you either disappeared from the diner's outdated interior in search of more favorable prospects elsewhere, or you slipped through his fingers altogether while another man put a wedding ring on one of yours.

No more does Sammy come through the front door and toe off his black rubber boots before you suddenly appear before him. Pressing yourself affectionately to his chest, you wind your arms tightly around his neck and grant him a soft peck on the lips.

"Welcome home," you whisper. Running your fingers through his soft auburn curls, you rest your forehead gently against his. "How was your day?"

Snaking his arms around your waist, your husband gives you a careful squeeze while a contented smile crawls its way across his lips and feeling of uncontainable warmth fills his heart. "Better now."

Sliding a heavy palm over your swollen belly, the corner of Sammy's lips twitches when your little one kicks excitedly.

"He missed his daddy as much as I did," you murmur.

Falling back a step, you tug Sammy past your two's cozily decorated living room. "Go ahead and take a hot shower. Dinner's just about ready."

He smooths a hand down the back of your head. "Did you—"

"Grocery list is all checked off," you remark with a confident nod. "And the gentleman at the auto store even changed my wiper's for me."

He frowns slightly. "I could've done that, baby."

You pad into the kitchen. "Think it's just something they do," you state with a shrug. "One less thing for you to worry about."

Squeezing your backside, you squeak quietly while Sammy chuckles and heads back to the bathroom to wash up.

It's always the little things that she would've never even dreamed of considering which repeatedly confirms that he made such a great fucking choice in his second spouse. Like a carefully folded pile of clothes waiting on the edge of the bed for him to change into after bathing.

Happy wife, happy life indeed.

While Sammy is all too happy to be chowing down on a heaping plate of steaming hot wings, and sipping from a cold bottle of beer in-between hearty bites after suffering through a grueling day amongst the crime-riddled streets of LA, he's acutely aware of how quiet you are tonight.

Maybe the grocery shopping should've waited until he could make a trip out this weekend instead. You already do so much. What, with cooking and cleaning and growing his baby in your womb...

Tacking on a trip to Sam's Club was a task that should've been placed on his calendar, he thinks, not on yours that's already so full.

When it came to Tammi, what he wanted mattered little, if at all. But he fears with you—since you never tell him no—that you somehow feel obligated to meet his every demand because he's the breadwinner in the relationship.

You even went so far as to encourage him to sign a prenup incase he "decided he made a huge mistake" and "wanted to undo it with no financial fallout."

Sammy refused to allow papers to be put between you, though. Not a single one.

No way in hell, because he was sure this time.

He just hopes that you don't feel...trapped.

Are you happy? Do you feel safe, loved, protected, and appreciated? Worshipped?

He nudges your socked foot beneath the round wooden dining table you're both seated at, and smiles when you look at him. "You okay, baby?"

You nod and nibble on a piece of chopped celery that's drenched in ranch. "Just tired."

Sam's well of worry deepens.

"Alright," Sammy groans while dragging you into his lap now that you're both in bed. "You gonna finally tell me what's been on your mind all evening?"

Your eyes flit to his and he immediately takes note of the look of hesitation he finds within.

Curling your fingers against the warm, freckled skin of his bare chest, you worry your lower lip between your teeth.

"Is it...somethin' I did?" he questions warily. "Are you—"

"No," you state softly while cupping his stubbled cheek tenderly in your hand. "It was something that happened at the store. I planned to tell you. I just... Wanted you to be fully settled in for the night before I did."

Gripping either of your hips, he leans back against the fluffed pillow behind him. "I'm all ears, angel."

"So..." you begin while resting a hand over his shoulder. "I was done shopping and went into the baby aisle to browse for a bit before I checked out. And..." you sigh exhaustedly. "Tammi was there."

He sits up the least bit straighter.

"Nothing happened, though," you swiftly reassure. "Apart from a verbal confrontation."

"Tell me," he insists.

"I felt like I was being stared at. Turned out I was right when I looked over my shoulder. There was a moment of recognition, which she commented on: Good, you know who I am," you relay in a snide voice meant to mimic her own. "I told her that I've seen photos. When she saw that I was pregnant, she sort of flew off the handle. Started screaming that I was a whore who stole her husband from her and destroyed her life. That I was a homewrecker, a slut..."

You shake your head while blinking back unbidden tears.

"Thankfully, an employee was nearby. He broke it up and threatened to call security on her if she didn't leave. Her being forced out of the store when she wasn't done shopping only set her off further. She was yelling the whole way out the door."

He squeezes his eyes shut to force down a broiling torrent of pent-up rage. "I'm so sorry, honey." Opening his eyes again, Sammy cups your shoulder—adjusting the strap of your nightgown where it's slipped down your arm. "Why didn't you call me?"

"I had food to get home and put away. If I did, I knew you would've come running." You chew your cheek. "Or you would've made things worse by having it out with her in the parking lot."

"This bitch..." he murmurs. "Sometimes I feel like no matter what I do, I'll never be rid of her."

"I wanted to tell her that it wasn't what she thought. That you and I never had an affair, but—"

"Not entirely true," he interrupts. "No, we never screwed before my marriage was dissolved, but there was definitely emotions being exchanged."

You rest a hand atop your belly. You've tried to give her grace; understanding in her numerous issues. But you think you've finally reached the end of your rope with it all.

No wonder he was so eager to have you instead after all the bull she put him through. She nearly made a monster out of a good man, but you've done your wifely duty and healed his troubled heart.

"Cunt," you whisper.

Sammy barks a laugh and leans forward. "I'm sorry, did my perfect little do-gooder wife just say what I think she did?" he inquires with an amused, toothy grin.

You study him from beneath hooded lids while smirking salaciously. "She never deserved you," you continue. "I'm the better woman."

Now it all comes out, he thinks with satisfaction.

"Yes you are," he rumbles while cupping your ass cheeks in both his hands and kneading the plump skin. "In every way."

"Mhm," you hum while slowly nodding. "Actually know how to keep house," you add. "I have dinner on the table every night, and I spend your hard-earned money wisely. Except for when you spoil me," you murmur with a shrug while grinding down against his semi-erect cock. "I do whatever you tell me to like a good girl."

"Shit," Sammy rasps while throwing his head back.

"I'm thankful for the home you've provided, and all the nice things you give me," you continue while leaning forward and trailing soft kisses along his chin. "I'm so lucky to have such a good man who gave me his last name. Who put his baby inside me where it belongs."

His cock stirs against your thinly-clothed pussy.

"Let me help you relax after such a long, hard day," you mutter while tugging off your nightgown.

Lying on your back in the middle of the bed, Sammy is resting back on his haunches while continually sliding his swollen, twitching cock between your shimmering lips.

Gripping the velvety shaft firmly in your fist, you plant a wet kiss atop the oozing mushroom tip before circling it lazily with your drooling tongue.

"Fuck, such a good girl for me," he utters.

You open wide, and Sammy eases his erection into the back of your throat. Cradling the base of your scalp in his palm, he rocks his hips and moans when you eagerly swallow what he gives you, just like always.

"You're right," he whispers while gazing down at you with unabashed adoration. "Better in every fuckin' way."

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. 

A flicker of something annoyance, maybe crossed his features before being masked again. "I see. The residual irritation from our last interaction is impacting your appetite."

You put your fork down with a soft click. "I'm not irritated, Dr. Gideon. I'm a professional. I'm here because you requested my presence."

"Indeed," he said, his gaze intense. "Which brings me to a point of data that requires clarification. In my analysis of our arrangement, I've identified a significant anomaly. You have never requested an internship at Rhodes Hill."

The question hung in the air, an insult wrapped in the guise of intellectual curiosity. The warmth you'd felt shopping with your siblings evaporated, replaced by a cold, sharp anger.

You leaned forward, your voice dropping to a low, dangerous hiss. "An internship? You think the only reason I'm with you is to climb some corporate ladder? That I'm just waiting for you to hand me a career?"

He blinked, genuinely taken aback. "It would be the most logical progression. Your skills are being wasted at The Daily Grind."

"My skills are my own," you shot back, your voice trembling with suppressed rage. "I've always been able to push forward on my own. I've fought for everything I have. I'm not used to this," you gestured vaguely at the opulent restaurant, at him, "being able to just... rely on someone. And maybe I like my job. Maybe I like having something in my life that isn't connected to you."

You took a shaky breath, the words pouring out of you now. "And what you did at my work? Showing up and talking to me like I'm a broken piece of equipment in front of my friends, in front of your own employees? That is not okay. You don't get to do that. You don't get to humiliate me and then act like it's just a 'protocol review.'"

You expected him to retreat, to put up his wall of cold, clinical logic. Instead, you saw something new. A crack in the facade. He looked... lost. The arrogance in his golden eyes was replaced by a raw, unsettling vulnerability that was more disarming than any anger.

"I... see," he said, his voice quiet, almost hesitant. "My analysis was... incomplete. I am... new at this. Human interaction. The intricacies of social contracts. They are not variables I have had much experience with."

You stared at him, your anger faltering. "What are you talking about?"

His gaze dropped to his chest, a subconscious gesture that drew your eyes to the faint, silver glint of the neck stitch you now knew so well. "The parasite. The Nemesis-γ. I implanted it in my chest."

Your eyes widened. "You... what? Why?"

"It was a necessary risk," he said, his voice flat, as if discussing a lab rat. "Prolonged exposure to the T-Virus has... consequences. 'Raccoon City Syndrome.' The parasite was the only way to survive. To achieve Spencer's vision. It grants me superhuman strength, heightened durability, a prolonged life." He paused, his voice dropping even lower. "But it costs me things. Basic emotional cues. The ability to... connect."

You looked at him at his unnerving stillness, the way he seemed to observe the world with an almost alien detachment. And a small, ridiculous thought popped into your head. "That explains your height," you said, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

A slow, genuine smile spread across his face. It was the first real smile you had ever seen from him, and it transformed him. It wasn't mocking or cold. It was... human. It made his golden eyes crinkle at the corners, made him look younger, less like a gothic lord and more like a man.

"I was tall before the parasite," he said, his voice laced with a dry, unexpected humor.

The tension in the room dissipated, replaced by a fragile, tentative curiosity. You found yourself smiling back, a real smile this time. "Good to know."

You took a sip of wine, the courage it gave you warming you from the inside out. "Can I ask you something?" you asked, your voice softer now.

He nodded, his gaze steady.

"That night," you began, your heart starting to beat a little faster. "In my apartment. When you... when you almost kissed me. Why did you stop?"

The smile faded from his face, replaced by a look of profound seriousness. He was quiet for a long moment, the jazz trio's mournful saxophone filling the silence.

"Because," he finally said, his voice a low, hesitant rumble. "You asked to know me. And in that moment, I was terrified that there was nothing there to know."

You stared at him, the raw honesty of his confession hanging in the air between you. The jazz trio seemed to fade into the background, the murmuring of the other guests dissolving into meaningless static. All you could see was the man in front of you, the man who held your father's fate in his hands, admitting he was afraid of his own emptiness.

"What do you mean, there's nothing there to know?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper. "That's... insane. You're Victor Gideon. You run an entire hospital, a research facility that's on the verge of... I don't even know what. You're brilliant. You've built an empire."

He let out a short, humorless laugh, a sound that was more like a sigh. "An empire of steel and glass. A collection of assets and data points. That's not a person. That's a resume." He looked away, his gaze fixed on the flickering candle in the center of the table. "But... there was... there is more."

His voice was hesitant, as if he were navigating a foreign landscape, one he hadn't explored in years. "My mother," he began, his voice quiet. "Her name was Elena. She was... everything I am not, in many ways. She was a surgeon. One of the best. She came from a long line of searchers, of scientists and doctors. It was in her blood. But she was also... warm. Caring. She held the hearts she operated on with a reverence I've never been able to replicate."

He paused, his golden eyes seeming to look through you, into a past you couldn't see. "She was always pushing herself, wanting to better her craft, to save one more person. I looked up to her. She was the sun."

A shadow crossed his face. "And then there was my father. He came from a working-class, blue-collar family. He saw my mother's world as... pretentious. Weak. And he saw me as an extension of that weakness."

His voice grew colder, more detached, as if he were reading from a case file. "My intellect manifested early. By the time I was five, I was reading medical journals. By ten, I was correcting my father's simple arithmetic. It was not a source of pride for him. It was a threat. Everything I did to impress him winning science fairs, acing every exam, composing symphonies in my head it was never good enough. It was just more evidence that I was not his son. That I was hers."

He took a slow sip of wine, his hand perfectly steady, but you could see a tension in his jaw, a subtle clenching. "My mother, she would encourage me. She would take my complex theories and show me how they could be applied, how they could heal. She was the one who gave me a lab when I was twelve. 'The world is a puzzle, Victor,' she would say. 'And you have the gift to see the pieces.'"

His gaze became distant, his presence in the room seeming to flicker. He was here, but he was also somewhere else, in a memory that was clearly painful. "My father... he was not kind to her. He saw her passion as a neglect of her 'duties.' He saw her intelligence as an affront to his authority. The arguments... they were a constant in our house. A low, simmering violence. He never hit her, not where it would show. But he broke things. He broke her spirit, piece by piece."

A strange stillness came over him. His face went blank, his eyes losing focus, as if he were watching a scene play out on a screen only he could see. He was dissociating, his mind retreating from the emotional weight of the memory, even as he continued to speak.

"I remember one night," he said, his voice flat, monotone. "He threw a glass. It shattered against the wall. My mother didn't flinch. She just knelt down and started to pick up the pieces, her hands bleeding. I tried to help her, but she told me to go to my room. To study. She said... she said my mind was a weapon, and I couldn't let him dull it. That my science was my escape."

He blinked, slowly, as if coming back from a long journey. He looked down at his hands, at the long, pale fingers that had performed miracles of science. "I threw myself into my work after she was gone. It was the only thing that made sense. The only thing that didn't hurt. I thought if I could just solve every problem, cure every disease, unlock every secret of the universe... I could somehow bring her back. Or maybe, I could finally be the son my father wanted. The strong one. The unfeeling one."

He looked up at you, and for the first time, you saw it. The ghost of the little boy who just wanted his father to be proud, the shadow of the son who watched his mother's light dim. The parasite hadn't made him empty. It had just fortified the walls he had built around the emptiness that was already there.

"So, you see," he concluded, his voice barely audible. "There's not much to know. Just a collection of failed attempts to connect with people who are no longer here."

The silence that followed his confession was profound. It wasn't the heavy, oppressive silence of before, but a fragile, sacred space. You looked at him this brilliant, broken man who had built a fortress of logic around a little boy's pain and the last of your own walls crumbled into dust.

"That's not nothing," you said, your voice soft but clear, cutting through his self-deprecation. "That's everything."

He looked up, his golden eyes searching yours, a flicker of confusion in their depths. "It's just data. A history of failures."

"No," you said, shaking your head slowly. "It's a reason. It's the reason you are the way you are. But it's not all there is."

You took a breath, the words feeling both terrifying and necessary. "I'm here."

He just stared at you, not understanding.

"I'm right here," you repeated, a little stronger this time. "And I'm listening. You're not alone in this."

You saw his defenses begin to rise, the familiar mask of cold indifference sliding back into place. You couldn't let him retreat. Not now. You had to meet his vulnerability with your own.

"You know it’s... it's been hard," you began, your voice trembling slightly. "Since my mom died. And then my dad got sick." You looked down at your hands, clasped in your lap. "I had to grow up so fast. One day I was worrying about prom and passing my driver's test, and the next I was worrying about oxygen tanks and whether my little brother had clean clothes for school."

You felt a tear slide down your cheek, and you angrily wiped it away. "I see people my age on Instagram, posting about spring break and college parties, and I feel... this ache. I missed out on all of it. The milestones. The stupid, carefree moments you're supposed to have. I had to become the adult when I was still just a kid."

You looked up at him, your gaze unwavering. "And it's hard. God, it's so hard sometimes, knowing that everything rests on you. That their entire world, their happiness, their safety, it all depends on you not breaking. The pressure is... crushing."

You let out a shaky breath, the confession lifting a weight you hadn't even realized you were carrying. "But I do it," you said, your voice filled with a fierce, unwavering love. "I do it because I love them. I love my family so much. They are my entire world. And I wouldn't trade them for anything. Not for all the money in the world. Not for a 'normal' life."

You looked at Victor, really looked at him. "So don't you dare sit there and tell me there's nothing to know. Don't you dare tell me your story doesn't matter. We're both just trying to survive. We're both just trying to protect the people we love, even if it means breaking ourselves in the process."

Victor was completely still. He was looking at you not as an asset, not as a subject, but as a mirror. He saw the same fierce love in your eyes that he had seen in his mother's. He saw the same crushing weight of responsibility that had defined his entire life. For the first time, he wasn't analyzing data. He was feeling. And it was overwhelming.

He reached across the table, his movements slow, hesitant. His fingers brushed against yours, a touch so light it was almost nonexistent. But it was electric. It was real.

"I... I don't know how to..." he started, his voice rough with an emotion he couldn't name.

"You don't have to," you said, your voice soft. "You just have to let me in."

He didn't pull his hand away. He just looked at you, his golden eyes filled with a terrifying, beautiful vulnerability. And in that moment, in the warm glow of a restaurant you never wanted to visit, you knew that everything had changed.

The air between you had shifted. The charged silence was no longer a void but a space filled with unspoken understanding. Victor's fingers, still resting near yours on the table, were a point of intense, focused heat. He hadn't pulled away, and that single fact felt more significant than any grand declaration.

You took a slow breath, the scent of the Bordeaux and the faint, clean smell of him filling your senses. The walls had come down, just a crack, and you found yourself wanting to see what was behind them. Really see him.

"Victor," you said, your voice soft, testing the new intimacy of his first name. He looked up, his golden eyes locking onto yours, the raw vulnerability from moments before now carefully banked, but not extinguished. "What do you like to do?"

He blinked, a flicker of genuine confusion crossing his features. "Do?"

"Yeah," you said, a small, encouraging smile touching your lips. "When you're not... saving the world or running a hospital or fixing espresso machines. What do you do for fun?"

The question seemed to short-circuit him. He opened his mouth, then closed it. His brow furrowed slightly as he accessed a mental database you couldn't see. It was as if you'd asked him to solve an equation in a language he didn't speak.

"I..." he started, his voice hesitant. "I read."

"What do you read?"

"Medical journals," he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Genomic research papers. Historical texts on surgical techniques."

You laughed, a soft, genuine sound that made the corners of his eyes crinkle in confusion. "Okay, that's work. What about... not work? What do you do that's just for you?"

He stared at you, and you could see the gears turning, searching for an answer that didn't exist in his neatly ordered world. "I... don't know," he finally admitted, the words quiet and heavy with a sudden, stark realization. "I've never... considered it."

The admission was so honest, so utterly heartbreaking, it made your chest ache. This man, who could unravel the secrets of human DNA, had never taken the time to discover his own simple pleasures.

"Okay," you said, leaning forward slightly, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Let's find out. I'll start. I like... old movies. The black and white ones. I like the way the rain sounds on my window at night. And I love the feeling of putting on a pair of socks straight out of the dryer."

You saw a ghost of a smile on his lips, a flicker of amusement in his golden eyes. "Thermal comfort. A logical preference."

"It's more than that," you insisted gently. "It's a small, perfect moment in a day that's usually... not perfect. What about you? What's a small, perfect moment for you, Dr. Gideon?"

He was quiet for a long time, his gaze distant. He was thinking, really thinking, not just processing. You watched him, mesmerized by the subtle shifts in his expression, the way the candlelight caught in his hair.

"The moment of discovery," he finally said, his voice low and thoughtful. "When all the data aligns, and a hypothesis is proven true. The world... clicks into place. For a second, everything makes sense. It's... quiet."

You nodded, understanding. "That's your version of warm socks, then."

A real, genuine smile touched his lips this time, transforming his face. "I suppose it is."

He looked at you then, his gaze intense, unwavering. The air grew thick, charged with a new kind of energy. The emotional intimacy of the conversation had shifted, coalescing into something else, something magnetic and undeniable. He slowly, deliberately, turned his hand over on the table, his palm facing up. An invitation.

Your heart hammered against your ribs. You knew this was the precipice. You could take his hand, and you would cross a line from which there was no return. You could step back, retreat to the safety of the professional arrangement.

But you didn't want to be safe anymore.

You slowly placed your hand in his. His fingers were cool, but his grip was firm, sure. He laced his fingers through yours, a simple, possessive gesture that sent a jolt of electricity straight through you. He raised your joined hands to his lips, his eyes never leaving yours, and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your knuckles. It was chaste, but it was the most intimate thing you had ever experienced.

"I should get you home," he said, his voice a low, rough rumble that vibrated through your entire being.

You nodded, unable to speak. He released your hand, the sudden coolness a stark contrast to the warmth that had bloomed in your chest. He signaled for the check, his movements once again economical and precise, but you could see a new tension in his shoulders, a coiled energy that hadn't been there before.

The ride home was silent, but it was a different kind of silence. It was filled with the weight of what had been said, the promise of what had almost happened. You could feel his gaze on you in the dark, a palpable weight that made your skin tingle.

When the sedan pulled up to your building, he got out with you. He walked you to your door, his presence a solid, comforting shadow in the dimly lit hallway.

"Thank you," you said, your voice barely a whisper as you fumbled for your keys.

"For what?"

"For dinner," you said. "And for... telling me."

He didn't answer. He just stood there, watching you, his golden eyes dark and intense. He was so close you could feel the warmth radiating from him, could see the faint pulse beating in his throat. You wanted him to kiss you. You wanted it with a desperation that scared you.

He leaned in slightly, his gaze dropping to your lips. The world narrowed to this small space, this breathless moment. Your heart hammered in your chest, a frantic, hopeful drumbeat.

And then he stopped.

He straightened up, a flicker of something conflict, restraint in his eyes. "Goodnight, (y/n)," he said, his voice tight.

You stood there, your key in the lock, your body thrumming with a tension that had nowhere to go. He was leaving. He was pulling back.

"Goodnight, Victor," you whispered.

NOT TOTALLY PROOFREAD (BETA READ) .ᐟ

A/N: Mainly wrote this just to get my feelings out there. Some OOC probably. Just take that as part of my headcannon. ✧ദ്ദി( ˶^ᗜ^˶ )

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗

A/N: May just turn this into a full Cecil X Reader or Cecil X OC

A/N: BTW, partially inspired by Wrench by Tortillaspecter on Ao3

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ Let’s set the stage for who you are. You work for the GDA as a super agent (you have powers but don’t work as a hero). Mainly as a personal “shadow” to Cecil. You handle more stealth and rescue missions. Gathering entail, taking out powerful targets from the shadows, all that fun jazz. 

▶︎‖ •၊၊||၊|။||||။၊|။•

If you’re interested in a power set—Your powers are supernatural stealth, intangibility, invisibility, shadow mimicry, short-distance teleportation, and the basic enhanced physiology (you know, such as strength, endurance, stamina, . . . flexibility, ehem, all that stuff).

▶︎‖ •၊၊||၊|။||||။၊|။•

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ You got taken into the GDA from the streets. Just a homeless nobody using their powers to survive. Reports of your powers caught their attention. After a thorough interrogation you were dubbed an acceptable candidate.

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ You went through various test on your body and grueling training. Eventually you were allowed a field run. On this field run you caught Cecil’s attention. He began to personally look after your training. He saw your potential while handling a monster attack in a city.  

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ Your feelings for Cecil developed just four years into your partner ship. It was after you injured yourself while training. Of course he reprimanded you for acting reckless. But then, he sighed and gave you a bit of a pep talk. He knows you’re pushing yourself because you failed to rescue someone because you couldn’t reach them in time. 

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ Cecil tells you about the origin of his scar. How he kept it to remind him of his failure. Cecil tells you not to let this failure destroy you. Let it become a motivator, a strength. To study and learn from the mistakes you made. He knows you understand your powers better than this. He then tells you to rest up and to never try that again. You really appreciated how he opened up to you. It left you yearning to know him more.

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ You spent several years as Cecil’s shadow. Always lurking behind his back. You spent a lot of time alone with him. In those several years you became close to Cecil. It wasn’t intentional of course. You are supposed to be able to trust each other to an extent. But, this “closeness” started to morph into something more. 

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ Eventually after a bit of drinking after work this complicated partnership turns into a situationship. You initiated the first kiss. It was hungry, lustful, somewhat sloppy. Cecil was surprised but when you tried to pull away to apologize he pulled you closer. He started to kiss back with vigorous passion and want.

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ After your little “tour” around his office. You also took a “tour” of his bedroom after a quick teleport. The morning after you both would have a talk. It was complicated, sort of awkward. Eventually a set of rules would be placed on how this “relationship” will move forward.

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ The rules were simple. This wasn’t a romantic relationship. Hell, Cecil wished he could fire you or get rid of you. But, since he’s had a taste of you he can’t bring himself to get rid of you yet. He wants things to remain professional. No romantic gestures or special treatment. There will be no dates or anything like that. You will have a code to contact each other to meet up and have a “private meeting”.

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ You both lack the back bone and or emotional intelligence to confront your true feelings for each other. You just accepted the intimate closeness you now shared behind closed doors. Free to share your vulnerabilities. Cecil was content with the tranquility of his mind while at your side.

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ Sure, you had a few concerns when entering this fling. The age gap (late 20s to mid 30s for you, Cecil, in his 60s). . . Also the boss and employee dynamic (And maybe that mentor and mentee dynamic).

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ Your little entanglement with Cecil goes on for three years. Your hookups started off at shady hotels and motels. Eventually you would find yourself at his home more often. And, you would often just keep each other company rather than just accompanying the bed together. For example, you would share music taste quite often. He would be entertained by your passionate lip syncing.

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ In this false sense of bliss you would begin to believe Cecil might actually return your feelings. The talks you shared were the most vulnerable you’ve ever been with someone. Cecil hinted that he felt the same way. Just spending time with him at his place was enough to brighten your whole week. You also got to enjoy the pet names he calls you.

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ But, this whole fantasy would blow up when you fell pregnant. After looking at your fifth positive pregnancy test, of course you panicked. Your job is extremely dangerous. How could you possibly raise a child in this field of work? You weren’t too far along so there was a bit of time to decide on what to do.

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ The first step you took was to hide it. Cecil keeps a close eye on you as one of his closets subordinates. You had to use your powers to steal some pregnancy test. You try going on as if everything is normal until an incident occurs. (You either faint while aiding the GoTG or You faint while training). By the time you wake up in the med bay you got a very pissed off Cecil to deal with. 

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ An argument is had. Lots of yelling. Certain words are thrown around. Mainly by Cecil. You were called a liability, compromised, a hindrance. He called your situationship “A lapse in judgment” and “Just stress relief”. When you argued that he had been honest with you he just laughed. Gullible is what he called you. Cecil’s stare was icy. He chastised you for hiding this condition and putting yourself in danger.

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ When all went silent. The two of you had a stare off. Both searching for something in the others eyes that they refused to reveal. With a sigh, Cecil stepped back. He then gave you the choice to take a paid leave while you dealt with the situation. Abortion, adoption, or just keeping it. He just wanted no involvement as a parent. In that entire “conversation” he only referred to you as Agent (L/N). He was already distancing himself from you.

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ Cecil then leaves to go back to work. You are left devastated but do your best to remain stone faced. Once you’re cleared from the med bay you pack up your desk and take your leave (you deny the pay). After that you say your farewells to a select few coworkers (excluding Cecil) then head home.

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ To give yourself some peace of mind (and maybe wanting to get back at Cecil a bit) you remove your tracker implant. Then you proceed to get rid of  any other ways Cecil had of tracking you for a short period of time. In that time span of him trying to reestablish a connection you move away. 

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ Since you’re a highly trained government agent (with super powers) and a mastery in stealth, it was easy for you to gain a new identity and appearance. Especially when it came to moving to a cozy small town.

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ You would spend a happily boring three months in this town. Your pregnancy was progressing at a healthy manner. You had the chance to learn your baby’s gender but you decided against it for now. A part of you wanted Cecil to be there. To see what his reaction might be. You snap out of your thoughts and hurry home.

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ In the quiet of your home you often find yourself daydreaming. Mainly about the father of your little one. Concern for his safety still plagued you. There was no way he would risk getting another “shadow”. Can’t risk a repeat situation. As if, you know you left a lasting impression on the director. You can rest happily knowing that.

Somebody needed to do a psychology study on powered individuals and how it relates to their kinks. Because as much as you've looked around for any correlation, for any hint that what you feel is normal… you haven't found anything.

Obviously, you've found plenty articles and forums on kinks and yes, you know it's normal to have them. So long as it's safe and everyone consents, no kink is wrong or bad.

That doesn't mean you stop feeling weird about it though, because how can you ever begin to explain this… urge to be pushed down and taken? How can you ever date someone and tell them that you want to be held down and hurt, to pretend to be powerless as they take and take and take what they want from you? Especially if they know your superhero identity? It just wouldn't work.

They'd think you were weird. And you do feel weird for it, left in silence wondering if the others feel this way, if other heroes have ever wanted to be the weak victim in the bedroom, wanted to know what it was like to be overpowered and out of control without actually not having control.

Every time you get close to asking, something stops you. An emergency. A sudden moment of anxiety. The words catching in your throat.

Always something that prevented you from finding out if you were truly normal or just another freak in this fucked up universe.

You don't feel like a freak at the moment, though.

Lying in bed, eyes shut, room bathed in darkness; it's easy to pretend like this. Hand slipping into your shorts and stroking, rubbing yourself while imagining every taboo scenario your mind can come up with to get yourself off.

Your breathing picks up a little, otherwise you're silent, overly aware of the other occupants of the house. The more you came into your powers, the more your senses grew. And the more they grew, the more aware you became of yourself.

You couldn't imagine your brother's horror when his get stronger and he realises you and dad had probably heard him a couple of times. Something to tease him about if he ever truly pissed you off.

That aside, you're quiet, focusing on yourself, senses piqued, picking up on the distant sounds of the house and others in the neighbourhood. There's a rustling a few yards down, and a car honking in the distance, and…

There's this faint buzzing sound. It kind of reminds you of a light-bulb or a refrigerator, actually. And you've only noticed it recently, not long after your dad was attacked, in fact.

Sometimes, you like to listen to it and pretend it's like the internal buzzing of a camera, that somebody is watching you, microphone picking up on the soft shlicks and your breath hitching on the rare occasion.

It's hot. Makes you feel hazy, out of control. Weak.

The thought once again makes you cum.

Not long after getting your powers, you began to work for the GDA.

It wasn't long into your new superhero career that you began to grow bored with beating up the same villains who alwaysbroke out of prison after you put them there. Maybe it was the growing frustration coupled with teenage hormones, or maybe your morals had always been wonky, but after a certain point, you stopped pulling your punches, started hitting harder and leaving the villains so injured they were forced to stay in prison longer.

But, as always, they inevitably broke out again and the cycle repeated, though at that point they began to avoid you, choosing to run and hide rather than fight you.

… it shouldn't have been a surprise when your reputation tanked, whispers filling the streets and comment sections under clips of you full of fear and worries you were going to go villain.

Your dad told you to ignore them, that what you were doing was fine, okay, even. That somebody had to say enough was enough and fix things permanently.

You'd only been fifteen at the time, already having the power to play judge, jury, and executioner. It hadn't seemed right to you, even with the anger and frustration you became intimately familiar with.

Your dad had just ruffled your hair, a comforting weight on your head.

“We're Viltrumites, sweetie. We're the only ones who can decide what's right or wrong.”

Despite the reassuring words, the doubt lingered, the worry you might go too far. Or… no. Not the worry you'd go too far, but that you'd hurt someone who didn't deserve it. It was one thing to kill a murderer, it was another to kill someone who was only a criminal out of necessity. You didn't want to be that person.

That's where the GDA came in.

Even then Cecil had kept a close eye on you, seeing your power and your wavering morals and seeing the warning signs ahead of time. So, like he always did with potential problems, he stepped in.

Your dad would've told him to fuck off. Your mom would've warned you to never trust him. Mark… your baby brother probably would've said to listen to your parents.

Yet when Cecil Stedman appeared before your blood soaked form, a pile of flesh that was once a body beneath you, he stared you straight in the eye and offered you a hand.

“You look rough, kid. Come on, let's get you cleaned up.”

There he was, a completely ordinary man, weak and vulnerable, alone with a rabid beast. Yet despite the blood dripping from your hands and teeth, this weak human man had gently laid a hand on your shoulder and took you away.

You'd never felt so grounded, so… so…

It felt a lot like your dad, actually. Not familiar or comforting, no, but just as powerful, just as guiding, as controlling.

It felt like if you tried to lash out, he'd grab you by the scruff and go no, bad girl, and would hold you there until you stopped and listened.

It did something for you. The knowledge that Cecil would guide you, that he wouldn't let you become a monster…

Yeah, you liked that a lot.

Back then it had been normal, of course. Platonic, a hero-handler bond. Just listen to the voice in your ear and you don't have to worry about hurting someone with a baby at home, someone who's being forced to do these things.

Listen to Cecil and you can go home with a lighter conscience.

It had been normal.

And then you turned twenty and something in your brain clicked when you realised just how much power Cecil had over you.

You, a super powered hero. You, a Viltrumite hybrid. You, who can redirect meteors and blast through mountains with ease.

And yet one scruff on the back of your neck or a warning glare made you back down. Made you listen to Cecil like some well trained dog.

Yeah, you were totally normal about this. So normal in fact that after you started exploring your weird over-powering/force kink, you had to bat thoughts of Cecil away while you got off because otherwise you wouldn't be able to look him in the eye for a while.

Which you didn't want. He had such beautiful eyes– wait, no—

Once again, you wish there was a study done on this sort of stuff. Not your kinks this time, but on if it's normal for heroes to be so… hmm, submissive towards their handlers. So smitten.

You couldn't help it. Not when Cecil kept you in check, when he knew just what to do to help you. Nor did it help that you found him attractive, his competence and maturity and confidence all making you starry-eyed whenever you saw him in action.

You wanted that. You wanted that all the time. Not just on the field, but at home, too. Wanted Cecil to instruct you on how to do tasks you were still figuring out, wanted him to order you around on the days your mind was empty yet buzzing, leaving you frozen and unable to do anything because you just couldn't think.

You wanted Cecil to grab you by the scruff and to push you down. You wanted him to hold you down with his abysmal strength and force you to take it. You wanted him to use you not just as a weapon, but as a piece of warm meat as well, to empty all his stress and frustration into you until you were dripping with it.

You wanted to be crushed under his dress shoes and feel lesser than a pathetic human past his prime.

(… someone also needed to do a study about Viltrumites and their adoration for humans. Y'know. Someday.)

But how could you tell him that? You couldn't. You were too scared to. Just in case he rejected you, looked at you differently. You didn't– you couldn't risk it. Not with him. Not in case he put distance between you, if he handed you off to another GDA official, someone less able to keep you grounded and controlled.

Not that you'd allow him to. You only wanted Cecil. Nobody else. If necessary you'd force–

There it was again. That word. That urge to do what you wanted, fuck the consequences.

Killing, hurting, taking what you wanted, it was all the same in the end, no? Especially when you were too strong to be contained. And you know this. Cecil knows this. That's the whole reason why you have the Director of the GDA himself as your personal handler, both because he couldn't trust anyone else to be in charge of such a deadly asset and because you didn't trust or judge anyone else capable of keeping you in check.

And it just– it goes in circles. Round and round and round as you lie in bed or stand in the shower, eyes heavy and mind hazy as you want– want to be beneath him, want to be taken by him, want to be forced by him– and yet know you can't, can't risk it, can't ruin it, can't even begin to make yourself even imagine telling him because it's so shameful, so embarrassing, and so you–

You just–

The electrical buzz. A prickle on your skin. The tension in the air as it feels like the GDA is keeping a much, much closer eye on your dad, your family.

You lay in bed, naked, and pretend you're being watched, pretend somewhere in this room, Cecil has a camera watching you and can see the way your plump lips part around your fingers, stroking through your folds and making yourself blossom open for him as you touch yourself, quiet despite the need to moan and scream and beg as you thrash under someone you trust enough to play weak with.

You pretend even as you start to wonder if they really are watching you. It would be such an invasion of privacy if they were, you'd feel ashamed, dirty, if anyone at the GDA saw you like this…

Right?

Right. You would. Definitely.

You ignore the faint bit of hope in your heart, dumb thing stuttering at the thought that Cecil might be watching.

You also ignore the fact that you cum faster now, harder, with the almost guaranteed fact you might be being watched.

Afterwards, you blink slowly, cleaning your fingers off and turning onto your side, nuzzling your pillow. You listen for anything as you fall asleep, and you swear you hear a faint shift in that ambient buzzing.

Far away, sitting in a dark office, a man shuddered, cock jerking in his fist as he stared at the screen with heavy-lidded eyes.

Stroking himself slowly, milking the last of his pleasure, Cecil breathed a heavy sigh, grabbing a tissue to clean up. He did so quietly, waiting to feel some shame, but… well. He'd done worse than spy on a hero under his care masturbating.

Much worse.

So he didn't feel too bad about it– it's not like anyone would ever know– as he tidied up, zipping his pants back up, still staring at the screen where you were now asleep on your side, leg hitched up just-so that Cecil could see the sticky shine on your cunt, plump lips pressed together and covered in a fine layer of fluff.

You had a pretty pussy, he couldn't help but think. Really pretty. 

“Too pretty for me,” he muttered with a sigh, exiting the camera feed and standing up to head to bed himself. He needed to get whatever rest he could.

At least his nightly sessions with you tired him out plenty, so it wasn't long after his head hit the pillow that he was falling asleep.

Your head felt hazy.

Not surprising, since you haven't slept in days, too busy helping in Chicago.

With your brother still in a coma and your mom staying by his side, you decided to get out and actually do something. You just couldn't sit around and twiddle your thumbs, knowing the world was still reeling, that people were still suffering from what your dad did.

Your head felt empty, thoughts slow and foggy; your body was filled with a restless energy, leg bouncing as you sat, watching Mark's heart monitor with unseeing eyes.

Cecil had entered, said some words. Then–

Long fingers and a warm, rough palm grip and press into your neck; Cecil holds you by the scruff and grounds you, pulling you back down to earth immediately.

“Go on, kid.” He'd said, giving you a gentle squeeze; you revelled in it, quickly soaking up as much of this touch as you could before he pulls away. “Get some air. Do something.”

“Will you… be here?”

The question is far too telling, you feel. Vulnerable and hopeful. Despite the situation and the amount of stress he's under and the amount of work he must have to do, you're still asking him to be the voice in your ear, to hold your hand and guide you.

Pathetic. Yet you need it. Especially now, after… after everything.

Cecil gives you a look, not a particular long one, but one heavy with something. You can't help but stare at the bags under his eyes.

Oh, Cecil…

Finally, he sighs.

“Yeah,” he looks away. Drops his hand. “I'll be here, kid.”

Maybe he needed a bit of normalcy too, in the face of such a great betrayal from someone you both trusted.

The aftermath of Omni-Man’s betrayal changes things, especially for the people closest to him.

After seeing the sheer destruction your father caused with so little trouble, your fears about your own abilities resurge.

I could do the same, you think as you clear rubble. I could do all this and more. Right now if I wanted to.

And who would stop you? Mark was comatose, most of the heroes capable of stopping you dead…

It would be so, so easy.

And that scares you. It scares you so bad that the carefully applied walls you've put up begin to crumble, begin to fracture with every day that passes and you help clean up more and more dead bodies.

You look at them, at their faces if they still have them, and try to keep yourself grounded, keep your heart open and feel sympathy and empathy.

Yet it is so hard to keep doing it. Emotionally exhausted, you start to feel nothing as you gently place a child's corpse among the rest. And when you realise that, horror strikes you, cold and sudden and you just– you—

“Please– please, I just–”

“Kid, what's–?”

“Cecil, please, I-I just– I can't–”

“Kid, breathe! Now tell me what's wrong, what do you need?”

You gasp, inhaling deep, sucking in lungfuls of air scented with his cologne as you look up into his eyes, pretending you don't feel the way his heart is racing as you grip onto his jacket, pretend you don't notice you're scaring the shit out of him right now (no no no, never him, he can't be scared of you– you'll help him stop being scared of you) after you barged into his office and latched onto him with just enough strength to snap bones with ease.

“You.”

Cecil's eyebrows jump at your harried, desperate tone.

“I need you.”

Cecil had always known you had an attachment to him.

Some would say it was an unhealthy attachment. Cecil would say better unhealthy than nonexistent. Because at least this way he had the second strongest person on earth on a leash.

Well. The strongest now that Nolan had left.

It was normal, really. Superpowered individuals always ended up clinging to their handlers one way or another. He just had to look at the GDA’s records to see the proof.

Sometimes the attachments, the relationships between powered individual and handler, were platonic, familial, friendly. Other times they became romantic, sexual. Just another way to keep such powerful beings human, another tool to keep them doing their job and saving lives.

Cecil wasn't going to lie, he somewhat expected this to happen at some point. Though he expected it to happen much later. He was so much older than you after all, but with recent events…

Well, he couldn't blame you if you suddenly gained some daddy issues, now could he?

So yeah, he'd expected this to happen one of these days.

He just hadn't realised you'd always felt this way towards him.

A mistake on his part. In hindsight, it was obvious that you'd had a thing for him for a while now. Something to look for in old footage later. For now, though–

“Kid…”

“Cecil, please. I just– just hurt me. Hold me down. I-I need it.”

He'd sighed, stared down at your knelt form, hands in his pockets like this was just another moment between you and not like you were begging him to force himself on you.

(Like he'd said before though, he'd done worse.

Much, much worse.

So what was a little game of pretend?)

“… fine.”

The pressure was exquisite.

Heavy, on the edge of painful, cold, even. The heel of Cecil's dress shoe dug into your skull for a moment as he shifted his weight, then the toes were digging into your temple, pressing down, crushing your head into his carpet with all the force he could muster.

Which wasn't a lot. But that was fine. You were happy to pretend you were powerless, happy to set all your strength and invulnerability aside for something you've been aching for.

A hum catches your attention, and your eyes flutter, struggling to open as the pressure on your skull increases, brain squeezed pleasantly. For anyone else it would be painful. For you, it felt like a hug.

Looking up, you were blinded by the ceiling lights for a moment before your eyes adjusted, able to see him and not just his silhouette. Cecil stared down at you with all the coldness he usually reserved for others, one hand in his pocket while the other gripped a gun. You were familiar with the design, had it tested against you before. It tended to sting.

The thought of him using it against you right now had you dripping.

“Look at you… who would've thought.” He says, tone heavy as he pressed harder again before lifting his foot. Before you could rise up, he stomped down onto your back, forcing the air out of your lungs as his expensive shoe pressed between your shoulder blades. “I shouldn't be surprised though. Not really. Heroes always do weird shit in the bedroom.”

Well, that answered that question.

“Though I'll admit, I never expected this from you.” His foot dragged down your back, leather digging into your spine. “I honestly would've thought you'd like to dominate your partners, being a Viltrumite and all.”

Your mind feels blissfully empty, cheek squished against the carpet as your body lays pliant on the ground.

You hum quietly. “Don't wanna.” You murmur, words slurred as you drift off somewhere else, feeling so, so pleasantlyweak. “Could hurt someone.”

You can feel his eyes stare into the side of your head. A shiver goes down your spine.

“You're something else, kid. Honestly, it's a good thing.” He says, faux casual, right before shoving the front of his shoe right into your cunt, grinding the toe of it along your split.

You might scream from the shock of it, jolted out of that soothing headspace from the sudden ache of something hard and rough spreading your lips open and digging into your hole before roughly dragging down and pressing into your clit.

There's nothing nice about this, nothing pleasurable. And yet it sends sparks of heat through your body anyway, making your hips stutter, unsure of wherever to push back or away.

Cecil takes the decision off of your hands by grinding his foot harder against you.

Whining, you gasp when his hand suddenly grabs your hair, wrenching your head back and making your spine arch uncomfortably. Sparks of pain litter along your skull, small bursts that zap across your brain and make that need inside you purr with delight.

“The way you are… it's good.” Cecil assures you in that drawling, cold tone of his, conflicting with the praise of the words he says as he wraps your hair around his wrist. He tugs, pulls, tests what you can take and listening to your startled whimpers with hidden delight.

Sue him, but having such a powerful being literally under his foot… it did things for him. 

“Really.” He continues, rubbing the hard sole of his dress shoe against the plump mound of your pussy through your suit, the shape clinging and showing off your cameltoe. “After what your father did… we need all the assurances we can get that you won't turn out the same way.”

His honesty was appreciated even as it chilled you; you'd hoped you'd already proven yourself to him over the years.

“And you grinding your foot against my vagina does that how exactly?”

Your snark earns you a rough tug on your hair, one that bends your neck back enough for you to meet his cool glare.

“For one, it shows you don't have that fucking holier-than-thou attitude.” He snaps, getting into character. Or maybe he was actually snapping, letting out all his frustrations with you.

Good. You wanted it to be as real as possible.

“And secondly, it lets me know that if I ever have to take you down, it'll be much easier and cheaper than when we tried to take down Nolan.”

His foot pulls back and you yelp as he yanks you to your feet by your hair. Still gripping it tight, Cecil shoves you towards his desk, slamming you down against it.

Funny how if you'd used your own strength, the thing would've shattered.

“After all–” he grunts, yanking down your pants and underwear, baring your ass to him, “–all I'll have to do is take you over my fuckin’ knee.”

His hand snaps down and cracks against your ass before you can even register what's happened.

You tense up, taken by surprise, but once the pain registers and warmth blossoms against your cheek, you relax, going limp.

Seeing the way you immediately give in, Cecil exhales softly, amused.

“See? A good, submissive girl. You only need a strong hand to settle you.” He crooned, stroking your cheek before slapping it again. “That's all you've ever needed, huh? Someone to bend you over and fuck the attitude out of you? Hmm?”

His palm cracks against your other cheek twice, giving no break between strikes and making you tense up and shudder.

“Hell, sweetheart, you should've told me sooner. I would've made sure you were too docile to ever lose control.” He rubs your ass, squeezes the soft flesh before slapping again, watching it ripple with interest. “No more worries about hurting anyone. I would've had you well-trained, breaking you in until the mere thought of disobeying caused you pain.”

Skin hot, you press your face harder against the cool wood underneath you, sucking in shaky breaths. Your backside stings while your cunt throbs, leaking and clenching around nothing. And his words…

The thought of being Cecil's attack dog, being used by him however he wanted…

God.

Behind you, Cecil takes off his belt.

You can hear it, the metal clasp jingling and the muffled swoop of leather being pulled free. Your eyes widen as your heartbeat speeds up.

There's no warning. Not even a muttered “Prepare yourself”.

One moment everything is fine. And the next–

A sharp crack splits the air as his belt strikes across your ass, making you scream out and jolt.

“Cecil!”

“Shhh, shhh, that wasn't so bad, was it?” His words lack any care, cold and cruel. You almost don't like it. “Come on, I've seen you take worse than a bit of leather to the ass. You can handle it.”

And handle it you did.

With each sharp strike to your backside, you whimpered and yelped, sniffling as tears welled up in your eyes, mind emptying with each strike.

Your ass burned, sore and hot. Your inner thighs however were shiny, cunt dripping and making a mess.

You were limp on his desk by now, laying there as you absently stared at random knickknacks on his shelves.

In the distance, you hear his belt hit the ground, muffled by the carpet.

“Still with me, kid?”

His hand is warm from exertion as he cups your cheek, guiding you to look at him.

You blink softly, like a cat, feeling… something. Content, maybe. You feel… you feel perfectly beaten, if that was even a thing.

“Words, sweetheart. You want more or do you want to stop?”

At least he didn't ask if he went too far. Now that would've been insulting if he had.

“Hmm. I… I wanna…” You think for a moment, brows knitting together as you went over past fantasies. Slowly, your eyes lowered to his slacks, seeing the bulge there. “Can… can you force me to suck you off? Please?”

Something in his face softens, and with another sigh, Cecil pets your head.

“Course.” He mutters, the moment between you two soft and almost sweet. It lasts for a few more seconds, Cecil allowing you to recuperate, to push up and stand before he grabs the gun from earlier and presses it to your temple.

“Now, on your knees.”

You can't stop yourself from grinning even if you tried.

Hot and heavy on your tongue, Cecil's cock has a funny taste to it.

Fleshy, musky like sweat, but also something vaguely… sharp-sweet-bitter. Like chemicals.

You love it.

Bobbing your head as the gun presses between your eyes, you suck and slurp, eagerness making up for inexperience as you look up at him, unable to hide your heart-eyes even if you tried.

Cecil just panted, biting his knuckles and trying to keep up the act you asked for, but fuck him it had been forever since he'd last gotten a blowjob so he was really struggling to keep cool here.

“Fuck, that's it…”

“Such a good girl…”

“Might have to make you do this more… order you in here and keep you under my desk when you're not needed elsewhere.”

Each word hit you where you needed it most, clit hard and pulsing, begging for relief at this point. It even would've accepted the shoe again, anything to relieve the pressure.

You sucked on his cock and pulled back to swirl your tongue around his tip like a bright red lollipop. Then you'd move lower, lathering his sack with messy kisses that made him wish you wore lipstick. The image alone would've gave him enough material to jerk off to for weeks.

All the while you worshipped him, the gun remained against your head, an empty threat that had your heart skipping a beat regardless every time you felt or looked at it.

For so long you'd been weak, mortal. A gun had just been another thing in the world capable of killing you with ease. Just because you'd gotten your powers doesn't mean that fear had completely gone away. On an irrational level, it remained, giving you a dirty thrill every time Cecil ‘threatened’ you with it.

You wouldn't mind being fucked by one someday. Maybe record it and send it to Cecil? Or was that too much for your new arrangement? You'd ask later. For now though…

“Kid–” Cecil stopped you, yanking your head back. “Stop. Anymore and I'm gonna cum. And I'm too old to go multiple rounds.” He warns, cheeks flushed as he catches his breath, cock still twitching in your face.

You eye it hungrily but listen, remaining knelt between his legs like the submissive creature he was turning you into little by little.

Once he's not at risk of painting your face in white, Cecil speaks.

“So, what now?” He asks, setting the gun aside, practically a prop for all it could actually do to you. “Any ideas, kid?”

You frown, hands curling into fists as you try to ignore the pulsing between your legs.

“I… I dunno. I've never done any of this before.” You admit, making Cecil pause before sighing into his hand as he rubs his face.

“Of course you're a– fuckin’ forgot–” he cleared his throat, eyeing you before pulling you up with a hand around your throat. You come willingly, relaxing into his hold.

You'd kicked your pants off earlier, so as you straddled his lap, his cock was pressing against your puffy lips, tip smacking against your folds as you two adjusted, shivering at the contact.

You looked down, then up, meeting Cecil's gaze. You looked so cute like this, innocent, like you weren't incredibly dangerous and an apparent freak in the sheets.

Fingers flexing, Cecil squeezed your neck, watching the way your eyes fluttered briefly.

Looking down at your puffy pussy, Cecil couldn't help but think it was even prettier in person. Gently, he ran his fingers through your split, seeing how soaked they get with your sticky arousal.

“Anything in particular you want me to do here?” He asks, voice low as he circles your clit, feeling your tremble from it. Damn, but you were needy. Your poor pussy had been so neglected that just this had you ready to tip over the edge. “Because otherwise I'm just going to ‘force’ myself on you like you asked.”

You rapidly nod.

“That's it? You just want–? Okay,” he exhaled softly, almost amused at the pleading look you were giving him. Despite what they were doing and what you wanted, you were still so fucking cute.

Pushing his chair back, Cecil shoved you off his lap roughly, still gripping your neck, though now it was more of a choke. He felt you swallow as he stood, towering over you before he lifted you up (thank God for your powers otherwise this whole thing would've been impossible) and shoving you back down on his desk.

You writhed like a bug stuck on its back, eyes wide as he squeezed your throat while he began fingering you roughly, fast paced to prepare this tight little hole for his cock.

You choked a bit, gripping his wrist and pulling weakly at it, feet kicking wildly but nowhere near him.

“Calm down.” He snapped, landing a swift smack to your already puffy cunt, making you jolt. You stop squirming, allowing him to shove your legs up and out of the way. “Good girl. Now hold yourself open.”

You listened, gripping the back of your knees, looking up at him with faux nervousness as he scissored his fingers within you, hole swallowing them up and clenching hungrily.

“Jesus, kid,” he muttered, pulling them out– barely– and grasping his cock, “you're going to fucking choke me, aren't you?”

“You're the one with his hand around my neck, sir.” You murmur innocently, earning another squeeze for it; you go back to pretending you don't want this, whining as he tries pushing in, his veins bulging as he grips your neck tighter for leverage before finally, he pops in.

Your thighs tremble at the sensation while Cecil just gasps, taking a moment to breathe because… Christ on a stick, you're tight. Viltrumite muscles are all super strong apparently.

Staring down at you, Cecil loses himself for a moment, simply drinking in this pretty view he's going to be seeing a lot more of now. Shit, for once his luck was looking up. At least one good thing was happening after everything, even if it was mostly good for him.

As Cecil's hips slot against your ass, you let out a slow breath, dazed as you stare up at the ceiling.

You feel so… full. Full and stretched and warm. Yet your mind is blissfully quiet. You don't have to think or worry, no point in fighting– Cecil has already won, after all. His grip around your neck is firm, grounding; it let you know without a doubt that if you ever lost control or tried to hurt anyone, he'd be there to scruff you and crush you underfoot again, pressure on your skull until everything went quiet and all you could feel was him.

You'd never doubted he was perfect for you. Not even once.

You just hadn't dared to hope.

Pulling back, Cecil feels himself shudder as your walls try to hold onto him, to pull him back in. He couldn't recall the last time he'd actually slept with anyone, so it was a challenge not to blow his load then and there.

But once he regained control of himself? Once Cecil was sure he wasn't going to blow his load like a virgin? He snapped back into you and began to thrust.

Slow and steady at first, hips rolling forward to grind his tip against your g-spot with every plunge, then faster as he found a good rhythm that had your head falling back and eyes half-lidded, gaze distant and unseeing as you clenched around his cock and soaked his table with more arousal than he thought possible to produce.

Another part of your Viltrumite biology?

Regardless, it wasn't something he was going to complain about– much. His desk was probably going to smell like pussy for a while though.

All the while Cecil fucked into you, his hand remained around your throat like a brand, almost managing to bruise you. Each time his fingers flexed and adjusted their grip, you'd flutter around him, a sound warbling in your throat.

Considering the amount of teasing you'd received, it didn't take long for you to cum. Cecil felt it, cock gripped like a vice as your walls rippled around him, pulsing with heat and liquid as you jolted under him, mouth opening in a silent scream.

Cecil took a calculated risk and slapped you. Light, not able you harm even if he put his all into it.

A small gush of squirt escaped you.

“Fucking hell, kid, you really do like it rough.” He gruffly said, focusing on his breathing and pace, jaw clenching as he felt his balls tighten and draw up. “Next time you need this, tell me, and I'll prepare some bondage for you. Bet you'd like being tied up and incapable, yeah?”

You whimpered, legs encircling his hips.

“Yeah.” He nodded, hunching over you, thrusting just that bit faster to reach his finish. “Don't worry, kid, I'll handle everything. You just keep being good, and I'll give you what you need.”

His ragged words were cut off by a groan, and Cecil fell on top of you, forehead sweaty and pressing against your shoulder, holding onto you as he came. Thick ropes filled you, each pump stuffing you with (thankfully) unviable sperm.

Once done, he began catching his breath, turning his head so he wasn't panting directly in your ear. He also released his hold on your neck, shaking his hand out.

“Christ, I think that was more painful for me.” He muttered, slowly pushing up. “You alright?”

You just blinked slowly, an affectionate look on your face as you gazed at him, body limp and radiating satisfaction.

Huffing in amusement, Cecil slumped back into his chair, simply taking a moment to calm down, his old heart giving him its complaints.

When you sat up some time later, you looked down, embarrassed.

“Thank you for doing this, Cecil.” You whispered, voice somewhat hoarse; he had no doubt it would be fixed in less than an hour. “I… I know it's weird–”

“Damn right it's weird. But so are most kinks. And believe me, kid, yours is on the lighter side of the spectrum.” He said, wiping himself clean before tucking himself back into his pants. “So don't kick yourself over it. You hardly heard me complaining or needing convincing.”

You gave him a shy look. “You… like pretending to force your partners?” You ask almost hopefully.

With a sigh, he stood again, gently stroking your hair back.

“Not quite. But I do cross the line most of the time.” He hesitated, then, “… I've been watching you. At night. While you were getting off.” He admitted quietly.

“… you watched me masturbate?”

“Mmm-hmm. And I, uh, joined in.” He awkwardly admitted, but you deserved to know he was just as, if not more, perverse than you.

You stared at him, then shuddered, lips pressing together as your eyes fluttered shut.

“Kid?”

“… I think I just came again.”

Jesus.

You cleared your throat. “Uh… anyway, that's hot and I fucking knew I was hearing something, but uh… feel free to keep watching.” You offered him a slightly less embarrassed smile. “I don't mind.”

Cecil just chuckled, partially in disbelief and partially in shock. You just kept surprising him, huh?

“Sure thing, sweetheart. Now… how about we go shower?” He suggested, feeling filthy.

“Yeah! Ooh, and if it's alright… can I tell you about some of my fantasies? For future reference, of course.” You ask, Cecil withholding a smile at your eagerness.

Would you ever stop being so adorable to him?

Victor's head tilted, his attention captured. The variable was unexpected.

"Who's that?" a younger nurse asked.

"The girl at the coffee shop. What's her name... (Y/N)," Maria replied. "I was asking her about school again. She lied to my face. Said everything was fine. But I saw the letter on the counter when I walked past. Final notice from the nursing program. She's going to have to drop out."

Victor remained perfectly still, his body a statue, but his mind was processing, filing, cross-referencing. He knew the coffee shop. It was an inefficient but necessary caffeine procurement point on his rare trips outside the center.

"And that's not the worst of it," Maria continued, her voice dropping. "Her dad's back in St. Jude's General. Pneumonia, on top of his COPD. He's been in and out for months. Can't afford a place like this, obviously. The bills are just piling up. She's trying to take care of her two younger siblings, too, since her mom passed. It's a damn shame. She's a good kid, just drowning."

The pieces clicked into place with a chilling, satisfying clarity. St. Jude's. A public hospital, a sinkhole of debt and subpar care. The contrast to his own facility was stark. It wasn't just a hypothetical solution anymore. It was a specific, tangible opportunity. The universe, in its chaotic, random way, had presented him with the perfect test subject for Zeno's theory. A person on the brink of systemic collapse, whose entire existence could be stabilized with a simple, targeted infusion of capital. The ultimate triage.

He turned away from the observation window, the frustration from moments ago replaced by a cold, sharp sense of purpose. This was no longer a distraction. This was a data point. An experiment to be conducted. If Zeno's theory was correct, acquiring this... asset... would eliminate the mental noise and restore his cognitive function to one hundred percent. It was a logical, necessary step. He would prove the hypothesis, and then he could discard it and return to his work with renewed focus.

The bell above the door at The Daily Grind jingled, a sound that usually signaled a trucker needing a refill or a nurse grabbing a quick caffeine fix. You didn't even look up from the sink where you were scrubbing at a stubborn coffee stain, the image of the latest bill from St. Jude's General Hospital burned into the back of your eyelids.

"Be with you in a sec," you called out, your voice weary.

"Take your time."

The voice that replied was nothing like you expected. It wasn't the gravelly tones of a trucker or the hurried speech of a nurse. It was low, calm, and imbued with an unnerving stillness. You froze, your hands submerged in the lukewarm, soapy water. That voice. You'd only heard it a few times, always giving clipped, precise orders. You turned slowly.

Standing by the counter, immaculate in a tailored black suit that seemed to absorb the dim light of the shop, was Dr. Victor Gideon. He wasn't wearing a lab coat, which made him seem even more imposing, like a panther that had shed its disguise. His yellow eyes, fixed on you with an unnerving, analytical intensity. He wasn't looking at you as a person he was looking at you as a specimen.

"Dr. Gideon," you stammered, quickly drying your hands on your apron and moving to the register. "I... I didn't recognize you out of your coat. What can I get for you? The usual black coffee?"

"No," he said, his gaze unwavering. "I am not here for coffee."

Your heart hammered against your ribs. This was wrong. This was terrifying. "Oh. Is... is everything okay at the center?"

"The center is operating within optimal parameters," he stated, as if reading from a report. He took a step closer, and the small space behind the counter suddenly felt claustrophobic. "I am here to make you a proposition."

The word hung in the air, cold and alien. "A... proposition?" you repeated, your mind racing. Was this a job offer? A multi-level marketing scam?

"I am aware of your financial situation," he continued, his voice dropping to a near monotone that was somehow more menacing than a shout. "Your father is at St. Jude's General. His treatment is not covered by his insurance, and his inability to work has resulted in significant debt. Your tuition for the upcoming semester is due in three weeks, a sum you are currently incapable of paying. Your siblings are dependent on your income. You are, to put it simply, on the verge of systemic collapse."

Every word was a precisely aimed dart, hitting the most vulnerable parts of your life. How could he possibly know all this? A cold dread washed over you, followed by a wave of humiliation. He saw you not as a person, but as a set of failing statistics.

"I... I don't know what you're talking about," you lied, your voice trembling.

"Don't," he said, a single, sharp word that cut through your denial. "It is inefficient and insults us both. I have a solution to your problems. All of them."

He slid a thick, cream colored envelope across the counter. It was heavy, expensive, and had no address. You stared at it, your hands refusing to move.

"In exchange," he continued, "you will provide a service. You will be available to me when I require. You will accompany me to certain functions. You will be... decorative. And you will be discreet. Your role is to be a pleasant, compliant presence. Nothing more."

Your blood ran cold. This was it. The moment your life turned into a bad movie. The stories Maria told you about him, the warnings from other staff, all of it flashed through your mind. He was a monster in a expensive suit.

"I... I can't," you whispered, finally finding your voice. "That's... I'm not..."

"The envelope contains a cashier's check for one hundred thousand dollars," he said, ignoring your protest completely. "Sufficient to settle your father's immediate hospital debt, clear your outstanding student loans, and secure your tuition for the remainder of your program. A second payment of equal value will be made at the beginning of next month. Consider it a retainer. For your services."

One hundred thousand dollars.

The number didn't even seem real. It was a joke. It was a fantasy. It was more money than your father had made in three years. It was a number that could erase the constant, gnawing fear that had been your companion for as long as you could remember. It could pay off the mountain of debt that was crushing your family, ensure your father got the care he needed, keep your siblings in their home, and allow you to finish the degree that was supposed to be your ticket out of all this. It was everything.

He saw the flicker of calculation in your eyes, the moment the desperate need warred with your self-respect. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched the corner of his lips.

"You are a nursing student," he said, his tone almost conversational now, as if discussing the weather. "You understand the concept of triage. You assess the situation, identify the greatest threat, and allocate resources to address it. Your greatest threat, right now, is financial collapse. I am offering the resources. The choice is simple biology, really. Survival."

He straightened his already perfect tie. "I will be here tomorrow at closing. I expect your decision. Do not disappoint me."

Cecil Stedman hates texting. Maybe it’s the old man in him, but he actually despises it. 

With a life as disorganized and chaotic as his own, he desires a conversation either through his earpiece or face-to-face. Those forms of communication are more efficient, in his mind. For good reason, too. When he’s talking to someone in person, Cecil can accurately dissect body language, facial expressions, tone of voice, the whole nine yards. Is using his earpiece perfect? No, it can only get him so far, but it’s still much better than having to squint at a small screen, struggling to get his scarred thumbs to cooperate long enough to type out coherent words. 

If somebody doesn’t have the urgency to pick up the phone and dial a number, or flip a goddamn switch on their high-level government owned headset, then the situation at hand must not be a drastic dilemma. At least, not one that Cecil thinks he has to concern himself with.

Does his rapid sense of urgency come off as rude, maybe even self-centered? Absolutely. These conversations can be used as weapons, according to Cecil. He doesn’t care about other people’s feelings. He doesn’t have the time to. His work at the GDA is business only. That’s all his life is built around now. Cecil barely survives the legal battles that come with managing superheroes. Not even legal fights, physical ones too. 

Texting is a nuisance to Cecil, plain and simple. 

So when you, the new superhero recruit, send him a text message at 2:00 AM on a Friday, Cecil flat out ignores it. 

Well, at first, anyway. 

He doesn’t even read the words when they pop up on his smartphone (one he really doesn’t care for, but it was purchased for him by the GDA, so he feels obligated to carry it around). 

It was actually a miracle he even saw the notification in the first place. The phone was faced up towards the ceiling, discarded on one of the desks in the control room. His eyes had been glued to monitors, actively picking apart videos of Invincible’s fight earlier that day, the older man’s thoughts consumed with worry that the boy might end up like his father. When the screen lights up and a familiar ringtone chirps, all he sees at first is your name. With that, he immediately glances away and goes back to staring at the machines that hum quietly in the near empty room. 

Ignoring your text was easy, but ignoring the way his stomach dropped was near impossible. 

Maybe the age gap is to explain why you’re one of those people glued to your devices. Cecil is much older, so he genuinely doesn’t get the hype. On the other hand, you clearly do. You bother him all the time with random shit, especially over text. Any boundaries that the director tried establishing in the first place were long gone. Actually, there were none to begin with. That might partially be Cecil’s fault, but he likes to shift the blame to you as often as possible…which is all the time. 

It’s more than your age, though. You don’t just do this for fun. It doesn’t help that you are practically all by yourself in this world. No known family, barely any friends. Even the other superheroes found it hard to hold conversation with you due to your lack of social skills. Which makes sense given how Cecil found you. What used to be home was the operating table that some fucked up scientist utilized to perform far too many tests on you. The same deranged experiments that resulted in your cat-like ears, tail, and claws. 

It was quite the sight to see you unconscious on the floor after the GDA busted the lab. Debris was scattered around your naked feet, brushes of dirt splayed across your barren arms. Any furry part of your body was covered in a layer of filth. Cecil wasn’t sure what the hell to make of you at first. He couldn’t deny the fact you looked fascinating, though. A specimen he was completely unfamiliar with. It’s not often that GDA directors come across hybrids. Even though the original mission was meant to collect data on whatever the hell this scientist was producing, there was much difficulty in trying to pry his eyes away from your limp form. Cecil Stedman had no idea he’d be taking home a goddamn pet.  

To make matters worse, Cecil was the first face you saw when you came out of your coma. The moment your eyes fluttered open and he met your timid gaze, Cecil knew he was fucked. Your face was already pretty enough, why the hell did you have to have beautiful eyes too? Seeing your worried expression under the bright lights, hearing the pathetic little whimpers that snuck past your lips, it only complicated things further for the old man. It was at this moment he realized that you weren’t like any of the others. No, not even close.

Despite being poked and prodded by multiple GDA personnel, he was the only person who didn’t treat you like livestock. You were never a science experiment to Cecil. He had faith in you, hopes for your future. 

What he didn’t know, at the time, was that those dreams of seeing you flourish into a successful superhero came with a price. One that left his heart skipping a beat each time you’d reach out to him. 

Cecil has genuinely lost count on how many times he’s told you to stop bothering him with these stupid texts. For one, he thinks they’re annoying. Another reason is that he doesn’t want you to rely on him for every little thing. He knows why you’re doing it; you’re alone. But, your life was never in any type of distress that was genuinely concerning; you just liked having someone to annoy. His reactions always make you laugh, so it was practically entertainment at this point, just something to motivate you to keep moving forward in this fucked up world. 

That being said, it was completely normal for you to ignore Cecil’s protests and send message after message. What was unusual, though, was the timing. 

Never in the last year had you sent him something this late in the night…or, early in the morning? Whatever, Cecil knew it was strange to begin with. That’s what made his stomach churn and mind consumed with irrational thoughts. 

The command room’s atmosphere is chilling; the cold air seeping through the man’s expensive suit makes his skin prickle with bumps. The occasional beep from a distant monitor brings him back to reality. Cecil had been enjoying the brief quiet of his workspace given there were barely any employees present. Now, there’s this uneasy feeling settling on his shoulders and traveling down his spine. Any attempt to relax was completely out the window. You occupied his mind instead.

He’d been here all day catching up on Invincible’s stats as of late. Essentially, Cecil wanted to ensure there wasn’t anything he was missing that might come back to bite him in the ass. He had dismissed a handful of employees to go enjoy a quick break elsewhere just to enjoy some silence. Being surrounded by people for hours on end, he thought he deserved it. 

But then his phone is dinging, then once more. Twice in a row it alerts Cecil that there’s someone else on the other end that is in dire need of his attention. 

Cecil walks away from the desk towards a holographic map to put distance between himself and the wretched smartphone. He hears it go off a third time as his fingers type away at a keyboard, opening a 3-D blueprint of Chicago. The glow emitting from the advanced technology could not hide the device resting in his peripheral. He couldn’t even focus on the casualty reports for more than ten seconds before he hears that goddamn smartphone go off for what he can only assume is the fourth or fifth time. What on earth did you want?

The older man contemplates his next decision once, twice, then a third time just for extra measure. While it might be imperative Cecil educates himself on the recent structural damages in the city, he finds himself silently admitting that curiosity of your current whereabouts was getting to the best of him.

He can’t believe how easily he caves into your obvious demands. Before he knows it, Cecil angrily grunts mumbled words under his breath as he returns to his previous spot at the desk. He reaches out and picks up the smartphone, unlocking it in an instant. Squinting in the dark room, he mutters the texts only loud enough for himself to hear. Then, Cecil’s heart drops within seconds.  

All the texts were begging him for help. In rapid succession, you continue to spam him with frantic, panicked pleas. There was an easy pattern to follow right away; you were injured.

“cecil, PLZ i need help. i dont know what to do!!!”

“i know u can see these. plzzz cecil :((( help!”

“it hurts so bad”

“i dont know how much longer i can take it”

In an instant, he’s pulling up your coordinates on the monitor. That fateful day when his team discovered you all alone and exhausted to the point of passing out, he instructed his men to put a chip in the back of your neck. The process was pretty routine for other heroes he works with. If you, God forbid, tried running away at some point, he’d be able to track the movements. Your body was in enough pain at that time, that the insertion didn’t even wake you from your coma. Eventually, you did end up finding out about what he had done…and paid no mind to it at all. Cecil was a bit thankful you weren’t so mad with him. Sometimes the superheroes gave him pushback; the older man appreciated how docile you could be.

Despite the messages clearly indicating some form of danger, your coordinates showed you were well rested in the comfort of your apartment. It’s a tiny little place downtown, hidden from the rest of the city, but it worked to meet your needs. Cecil would have preferred if you just stayed at GDA headquarters instead, but he knew that you needed privacy at the end of the day. That being said, only a handful of workers at the facility even knew of it, one of them being Cecil himself. There are a multitude of security measures on top of that to protect you from unknown dangers. One of which being that anyone who enters the premises that’s neither you or him, an alarm would be triggered and GDA personnel would be informed immediately.

A totally normal precaution he definitely does for all the other superheroes…

The first question that crossed his mind was, had you been compromised? Were you in the process of being kidnapped, or worse? Then again, if that had been the case, you would have definitely tried contacting him via earpiece; there’s no doubt about that. Even when you want to bother the shit out of Cecil with these goddamn texts, you knew well enough that actual emergencies meant urgent communication. 

Yet, here you are, spamming him instead. 

Cecil fights the urge to roll his eyes. 

For the next few seconds, Cecil opens a different tab and begins typing your full legal name in the search bar. The chip in your body not only keeps track of your approximate location, but it also acts as a sensor that transmits any strange spike in your otherwise normal health readings. The little box of text showed the latest update on your vitals. He cocks his head to the side, noticing how unusually all over the place they are. 

You’re on extreme alert, perhaps just as much as you are when sent out on a mission. What stuck out to the man was seeing the accelerated heart rate; 115 beats per minute. That particular number was something he usually saw spike this high during your workouts. Next, he’s furrowing his eyebrows at the sight of your temperature matching that of a low-grade fever. 

At this point, he’s growing more and more worried over your safety. 

“Sir? Is everything alright?” a familiar voice asks from behind the director. 

Cecil glances over his shoulder just long enough to see who was speaking to him, even though he already had a clue based on the voice. His sharp eyes observe the personal assistant standing only a few feet away, noticing how Donald’s arms were clutching a variety of thick portfolios. They’re filled with paperwork that Cecil will need to sign at some point tonight, but he can’t even comprehend taking time out of his schedule to do that right now. He’s entirely focused on you instead. 

The director ignores Donald and continues investigating the monitor. He’s scrolling through anything else he might have missed from your health report. The screen gives him the same concerning numbers that had been plastered on there a couple minutes prior, as if he was hoping they would somehow go away and cease to be his issue. Cecil keeps looking at the logged data nonetheless, trying to find a pattern of some sort that might hint what you’re dealing with. Meanwhile, Donald takes a careful step forward. He notices the name of the file a few seconds later, causing his eyes to widen ever so slightly underneath his sunglasses. He asks with a careful tone, “Is she in trouble? What’s her latest update?”

“I don’t know for sure. I feel like she’s just trying to annoy me,” Cecil explains, as though your pain was literally meant just to get on his nerves. 

Another chime from the phone dings. The atmosphere between both men freezes for only a second or two. Cecil angrily picks up the device again and scans the notification.

“i don’t know who else to talk to about this. can u plz call me?”

Donald’s eyes seem to burn in the back of Cecil’s head. He wonders aloud, “Do you want me to…do anything, sir?”

Cecil pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales slowly. The tension in his jaw is still there despite his feeble attempt to calm down. “Fuck if I know.”

It doesn’t seem as though Donald is concerned about you. The distress in his voice feigns more worry for his boss than anything else, as if he is more concerned about the way Cecil was reacting than your health and safety. But then, he makes a comment that might explain the peculiar behavior. 

“It could be something to do with her hybrid DNA, if you catch my drift, sir.”

Cecil did not catch the drift, actually. Because he’s an old man and needs these things explained outright. Obviously. 

He likes order. He likes routine. He likes knowing what’s wrong with his superheroes without having to guess. So he blurts out, “What are you saying, Donald?”

“Just call her. I’m sure she’ll explain,” Donald replies with a soft sigh. He walks away to give Cecil privacy, only to turn around once to drop the stack of portfolios on the desk.

Those damn papers need to be signed. He knows that. Cecil knows better. But he keeps looking between the assigned workload and the text he just received from you as though, maybe, he has better things to do. He’s genuinely surprised he’s contemplating putting off his duty as the GDA director just to help you. Then again, aren’t you considered part of the job, considering he’s your boss?

It doesn’t take long to weigh the options. Cecil dials your phone number a few seconds later, holding the device to his ear while shoving his other hand deep into his suit pocket. The moment you pick up, his heart skips a beat. 

“Oh, Cecil? Are you there? Thank God!” you express, gasping at the realization he was on the other line. 

“What’s going on? Are you hurt?” Cecil asks. He musters enough courage to sound as careless as possible. Deep down, he’s anxious as hell to get an update. 

“Well, yes and no? I don’t know how to explain this without it sounding…weird.”

Cecil raises an eyebrow, “Huh? Spit it out, kid. I don’t have all night.”

He notices your hesitation and grows annoyed, almost snapping at you again before you finally reply, “I-I think I started my heat.”

The anger dissipates, replaced by a different emotion; Cecil’s stunned.

His breath catches in his throat and he has to cough into his hand. The command room feels smaller, the air still, only the sound of his pulse throbbing in his ears. His mind races with possibilities as to what this can mean, how this affects your duties as a superhero. None of your workload matters now though. What matters is ensuring you’re safe, protected, and above all, going to survive. 

“So? You’re on suppressants, aren’t you?” Cecil quips back.

He hears you take a deep breath. The brief moments of silence already tell him the answer, but the truth digs deeper in his chest, like he’d just been stabbed with a knife. “No, I don’t. When I left the lab a month ago, I told them I didn’t want those pills because I thought I could handle it.”

“And?...”

“I don’t think I can handle it, Cecil. I’m freaking out,” you explain, almost to the point of whining. 

Cecil should have seen this coming. With all the experiments that fucking scientist performed on you, the director had been informed that it was possible that you would eventually experience some sort of heat cycle down the line. However, your hormones were already so all over the place, the GDA found it was best to suppress any of those risks of ovulation. So why the hell did you think you were enough of a big girl to take this on like a champ? Were you just trying to prove something to yourself?

Or, maybe, prove something to him. 

“Kid, what the hell do you want me to do? Get the lab to give you those suppressants-”

“Yes! Please! That might help!” you exclaim miserably. 

He sighs heavily, clutching the phone tighter than before. “You do realize that no one is in the lab right now, right? They’re all home or working on actual life-threatening problems. Did you not fucking see Invincible today? I have bigger fish to fry.”

He hates having to put you down like this, but Cecil needs you to understand the reality of the situation you’ve placed yourself in. The timing is horrible. 

You exhale through your nose and say, “Please, there has to be something! I’m-I’m in so much pain.”

Hearing you admit that breaks his heart. But Cecil can’t get emotionally involved. He refuses. 

“Take care of it like other people do.” 

There’s a pause on the other end. Then, you question him, “What do you mean? How do other people take care of this?”

“You know exactly what I mean. It’s on those reality shows you watch all the time. Just figure it out and please don’t bother me again with this. I have bigger problems on my plate.”

“Do you mean…oh. Oh. That’s what you mean?”

He ends the phone call and discards the phone on the desk, face flushed a deep red.

It’s over. The phone call is done. Quick, simple, easy. Definitely for the best. He doesn’t need to actually help you through this. You’re a big girl, you’ll figure it out.

Well, he hopes so anyway.

But, what if you got confused about what he meant? 

Shit, now he’s pacing back and forth, staring at his feet while that goddamn phone call plays on loop in his head. You sounded so weak and hurt in ways he could never imagine. The hybrid abilities came with both pros and cons. This is one of those situations where it was definitely a con. 

But you should have known better. You should have asked for those pills the GDA used on you while they briefly kept you in testing. Cecil chalks up this entire situation as a natural consequence. Nothing more, nothing less. You’d find a solution to your problem and be on with the rest of your night. 

Except, he keeps asking himself if you truly understood what he meant. Obviously you knew he meant just to masturbate, right? He couldn’t bring himself to say that out right. That would be so inappropriate to suggest to his employee. Therefore, he knew he had to dance around the idea instead. However, for a split second, Cecil’s heart drops at the theory that you might be going through with something else instead.

Should he…do something about it? Should Cecil call you again? Or should he…

An idea crosses his mind. 

He knows he shouldn’t. He knows it would be overstepping. 

Except…that’s the thing. There aren’t any lines to cross. There has always been a lack of explicit boundaries between either of you. Even when he’d tell you to stop bothering him, you kept up with it. You push and push, and he just lets you. If you’re allowed that kind of freedom with him, maybe he should be permitted to do the same.

The plan Cecil conjures up in his head isn’t the best, but how else would he know for sure one of his favorite superheroes was genuinely following his orders correctly? 

Perhaps, for just a quick second, he could view your search history. He knew your phone was also owned by the GDA. He’d be able to hack it no problem. 

All Cecil craves is to know what’s on your mind through the use of personal internet archives. It would give him an inkling as to what you might be doing this very moment, especially since he can’t see for himself what you’re up to. He briefly regrets not installing cameras in your living room…or bedroom, for that matter. 

The mere thought of invading your privacy in this way results in Cecil’s eyes narrowing at the computer screen. He exhales slowly, licking his lips slowly as he weighs the pros and cons.

Cecil isn’t usually this much of an overthinker. He’s the type of man who follows his gut instinct. When that might fail him, or at the very least cause him to double-check his options, he mentally reviews past experiences in his head and picks a previously similar choice that seemingly worked out well for the situation at hand. Cecil will forever aim to achieve an accurate result, even if the means of obtaining such are morally gray. 

He’s fucking dug into the depths of hell for some of the superheroes that work at the GDA. There was no part of their history left unturned by him and his team. Never before has he had to second-guess whether or not he should be looking up one’s search history. It’s not like there are any boundaries he can’t cross in the first place, right? There isn’t anything advising him to not do this.

Maybe Cecil tells himself that he’s just…curious about what you choose to do. That excuse falls thin just as quickly as it’s conjured up in his mind. Because then again, is he really being courteous in the first place when his mind has already pictured you in the different positions you might be in right now? One of which flashes across the front of his brain…

Cecil adjusts his tie once, then twice. 

Why does the thought of you all flustered in a mess of sheets have him acting like a damn teenage boy?

His hand hovers over the mouse on the desk. He’s practically twitching just thinking about what to do next. Cecil glances at the keyboard in front of him. It’s begging him to follow through with his plan. It’s for your safety, right? 

While the circumstances are slightly problematic, he ultimately decides on looking up your latest searches. He flies through all the necessary safeguards on the monitor, his fingers moving at a rapid pace. Right after logging into the appropriate system, Cecil purposely hunches over the screen to hide the evidence. Regardless of his pure intentions, Cecil has this strange voice in the back of his head suggesting that his subordinates would not exactly find what he’s doing to be a great choice. 

He ignores that little guilty twinge in his gut and continues typing away. After sorting through a mess of files, Cecil discovers what he had been searching for all along. The monitor’s bright, white light shines across the man’s scarred, pale face. The little pop-up window displays your search history in a neat order from oldest to most recent. 

Cecil’s eyes carefully scan what you had put into your search bar within the last five minutes. He’s thankful there’s even anything there to begin with, but he knew you better than most and figured you’d be glued to your phone.  

Upon reading the text on the screen, Cecil’s heart drops. Another chill runs up his spine at the realization of what you’re getting yourself into.

“bad hybrid heat solution”

“best ways to relieve heat pain”

“does sex help with heat”

“hook up apps”

“sneaky one night stands near me”

The warmth in his blue eyes evaporates, replaced by a cold stare. Cecil’s blood boils. 

He’s fucking livid. 

The director was under the impression you knew better than this. Gosh, he was convinced you were smart enough to see the obvious red flags that come with doing something so reckless. There’s so many reasons why it’s a horrible idea. You’re putting your safety at risk just for the sake of relieving some pain. 

Cecil’s head is throbbing at the thought of some complete stranger tending to your needs. He simply cannot let you go through with this.

Rarely does this man experience, let alone show, such raw emotion. A man with a chipped past like his own can’t display signs of weakness. But that’s what you are to the man; the reason he has the slightest loss of strength. Cecil hates that you are his kryptonite, because now all he sees is red. 

The sounds of the command room dull away, replaced by a ringing in his ear. 

Before he can process another thought, Cecil’s body is engulfed in energy and manipulated down to the cellular level. With your location at the front of his brain, his body rapidly reforms outside your apartment. He’s slightly disoriented when he comes out of it, and curses at himself for costing the GDA millions just because of his ridiculous emotions. Why did he feel so strongly about this to begin with? Regardless, there was no time for reflection. 

He comes face to face with your apartment door. Its brown, steel frame has various dents from past tenants. The number twenty-two sits under the peephole in a gold font. Cecil doesn’t even bother raising a hand to knock. He simply stands there in the barren hallway. The noise of the city outside these walls continues, but Cecil doesn’t pay any bother to them. His eyes are glued to the door as he impatiently waits. 

Maybe one minute passes, then another. He crosses his arms, leaning back against the wall opposite of the entrance. Suddenly, his ears perk up. He hears shuffling inside. There’s the sound of a zipper being pulled up, perhaps from a jacket or other article of clothing. Something heavy hits the ground, then there’s the sound of your feet stumbling around. 

When the door swings open, Cecil clocks your genuine surprise immediately. Your pretty eyes widen with fear, but he also catches the faintest blush dusted across your nose and cheeks. The baggy clothes cover any cat-like features, but he can see the way your cat-like ears twitch under the hoodie of your jacket. The air goes completely still for at least five seconds. Then, he finally gives you the only order appropriate for the situation. 

“Get your ass back inside, now.”

The world seems to stop moving at his words. Both bodies are completely still. Meanwhile, Cecil tries his best to ignore the rapid pulse in his ears. You remain quiet for a bit, apparently weighing how much trouble you’re likely already in. The GDA director doesn’t want to stand around and wait for you to figure it out though; you need to understand you’re already in deep shit. 

“Are you fucking deaf?” he asks, “I gave you a direct order, kid.”

He catches sight of a clear shudder running down your spine. The man’s request implies that this is a mere warning of what is to come, but it’ll get a whole lot worse if you don’t obey him. With a shaky inhale, you tentatively step backwards, attempting to shut the door in the process. 

Suddenly, with a loud bang, Cecil’s hand slams against it, making the door come to a complete halt right before the doorknob could click back into place with the frame. Your eyes widen, body jumping simultaneously. Completely unamused, he shoves himself into your private space without warning, closing it behind himself with another loud echo. 

He crosses his arms again, ignoring how much this space smells so strongly of you. There’s barely any lights on besides one in the kitchen around the corner. In the dark shadows, he juts his chin towards you and snaps, “Tell me exactly what you were about to do.”

“ I don’t know what you’re talking about-” you stammer, composure chipping away with each word. 

He cuts you off before you even have a chance to lie, because he knows that’s exactly what you’re about to do. “Shut and tell me. I already fucking know, I just want to hear you admit it to my face.”

The way he talks makes you freeze. You stay there, unmoving, taking in the underlying threat. Suddenly, anger takes over. With a displeased expression, you sneer, “You can’t be serious, Cecil. I’m in pain. Wh-What do you expect me to do?”

He quips back, “I expect you to act smarter. Going out at 2:00 AM for a one night stand with a stranger? You’re a goddamn superhero, you need to start acting like it. Getting in contact with an outsider, someone you don’t even know, to help you with your…your heat…it’s not-”

Cecil can’t bring himself to finish his harsh reprimand, because all of a sudden you’re bawling your eyes out. The tremble in your shoulders was a clear indication you wouldn’t be stopping anytime soon either. That alone makes his heart drop to his stomach. 

“I-I-” you sputter, crying rather forcefully. Each tear that streams down your cheeks is a reminder of the fact he has essentially cornered you into this position since he won’t let you find a solution in someone else. You wrap your arms around your body and look towards the ground, “I don’t know what to do anymore, I’m so scared and it hurts and…fuck, I don’t know!”

For a brief second, Cecil closes his eyes, as though seeing you fall apart in front of him was too much to bear. He only faintly feels bad for this predicament; just a smidge. 

He exhales and scratches the back of his head, awkwardly trying to figure out an appropriate way to go about this dilemma. He stares at you, gulping quietly as you continue to drown yourself in a burst of emotions. 

Cecil steps forward to close the gap. He lifts his hand and hesitates, then allows his fingers to curl themselves around your shoulder. You’re warm to the touch under all these layers of clothes. You stop your anguish and shoot him a confused look, sniffling away any remaining tears. 

He’s already decided what he’s going to tell you. 

It’s just that once he says it, there’s no going back. 

“Listen, you…you need to understand how dangerous it is to do something like that, okay? I can’t let you leave this apartment and risk your life,” he explains, absolutely sure that his argument is completely logical and not at all personal, “How about I try to get you something to help with the pain. You just have to promise me you’ll stay here, got it?”

Coddling a superhero after disobeying orders isn’t his usual motive. Cecil would rather someone shoot him in the head than be seen protecting you from what should have been natural consequences to your actions. You should be held responsible for any endeavors that clearly put your life on the line; for Christ’s sake, you’re an adult after all. 

But there goes that lack of boundaries again. 

You were different from the other superheroes he is in charge of. There was nothing that could change that truth.

“What can we do? I don’t have anything that can, well, you know,” you trail off, mind drifting to the throbbing discomfort in between your legs. 

Cecil has to force himself not to stare at the way you so obviously press your thighs together. Despite the strong willpower, there’s still a faint rush of blood somewhere it shouldn’t be. 

Goddamnit, he’s so fucked for this. 

But it would be cruel to leave you without at least offering some form of help. 

He tells you, “Go lay down, I’ll figure something out.”

The older man watches as you take in a great big breath. There is no immediate change in your appearance, given your eyelids are still so puffy and your breathing remains uneven, but it only takes a few more seconds til you meekly nod and step backwards. As you turn to walk towards your bedroom, Cecil notices your tail has snuck its way out of the baggy clothing. It appears limp, apparently tucking itself under your frame. He’s not sure he’s ever seen it so slack before. Usually, you’re swinging that thing around like it’s a toy. 

It’s only more of a confirmation of how under the weather you truly are. 

Cecil needs to help you, and fast. 

He waits until he hears you round the corner, and only then does he pinch himself on the wrist. The little nip at his weary skin tells him he definitely is in your apartment, helping you with your heat, finding a solution to your problem because how else would he be spending a Friday night. This isn’t a dream. Or is it? No, the thunderous pound in his chest from his accelerated heart rate was enough to convince him that he was not hallucinating this ordeal.

Cecil needs to act like this is normal. 

Because he’s sure that others in his position would do the same.

Right?

He’s just helping you, that’s it. So like a wild dog trying to pursue prey, he scouts your apartment for anything that could be of use. What exactly was he looking for? He didn’t even know himself, but Cecil figured that he would come across some item that would give him an idea. He likes to think he’s smart enough to come up with something on the spot like that. 

So when he finds absolutely no resources of value in your space, he begins to freak out. 

There aren’t any medications in your cabinets that would help with such specific symptoms. Actually, there’s a lack of any drugs in this place to begin with. He dives into drawers, underneath couch cushions, even behind furniture to try and find literally anything that might help, but he comes up dry. The only thing that he assumed might be of help was the hairbrush left on your bathroom counter. Its large handle could be of use in ways that Cecil really tries hard not to imagine, but then his mind wanders and he’s red in the face. 

He doesn’t want to give up. Especially on you. This is his mission right now and he’ll be damned if he fails. But before long, Cecil approaches your bedroom and knocks softly. He hears your frail voice telling him to enter and doesn’t waste another second. 

Standing in the doorway, he finds you sat upon your mattress. The blankets have been shoved to the furthest corner of the bed, sheets in a tangled heap. Only a couple pillows are left, as the rest had been discarded on the floor. Cecil notices rips in the fabric of the fitted sheet. They’re all in the shape of familiar claw marks he has seen during your missions time and time again. However, what makes his breath hitch is the little wet patch on your pants. 

It’s so obvious. You’re a goddamn mess.

Cecil has to physically mold himself to the fucking floor to not overreact. 

But then, he smells it. There’s a very specific, lingering aroma in your room that he can’t quite place at first. It’s musky, completely rich in a way that makes his spine tingle. The odor is overwhelming on levels Cecil swears is giving him sensory overload. 

Then, it clicks. 

It’s the scent of your arousal. Your desperation. Your heat.

At this point, he’s trying so hard not to inhale deeply and let himself get carried away. 

“Did you find anything?” you ask, eyelashes clumped together from your previous crying session. 

“Uh, n-no I didn’t,” Cecil explains, averting eye contact by staring at other parts of your room, “I already told you the lab won’t have your pills ready for a little while longer. We have bigger problems to deal with right now.”

“It’s fine, I get it,” you huff, pushing out your bottom lip.

That little pout was going to be the death of him. 

“You haven’t tried to, I don’t know, do it yourself?” Cecil asks, sparing a very quick glance in your direction only to look away again.

Without missing a beat, you wave your fingers in the air. Moonlight from the window makes your sharp claws glisten. “Does it look like I can?”

“Shit, sorry, I knew that,” Cecil’s eyebrows furrow together, momentarily forgetting how unnaturally long and edged your nails are, “you seriously don’t have anything to use to get yourself off? Nothing at all?”

“Cecil-” you begin, posture suddenly straightened at his implication.

“Kid, I know it’s fucked up for me to say this shit in the first place, but you put me in this position.”

Your cheeks flush a deep red. He wishes so badly he knew what on earth was going on in that head of yours. “So what should I do?”

Cecil pauses. Hair on the back of his neck raises as he realizes he simply does not have an answer for you. He sighs and drags a hand down his face, closing his eyes to think over what to tell you.

Then, he takes a step back. Not that he wants to, but because he thinks he has to. Maybe this is in your best favor, because what else is there to do anyway? 

“You’ll just have to deal with it. You got yourself into this mess, you can suck it up.”

The grimace on your face makes him wish he could take away all your suffering with a simple snap of his fingers. You look down at the heap of blankets and sheets at the edge of the bed, completely lost knowing the only person you thought could save you ended up leaving you high and dry. 

Cecil doesn’t wait for a response. What he told you makes him feel guilty enough. So with that, he simply edges away from the door and closes it behind himself, pausing a while to replay this entire situation in his mind. Those wide eyes stay at the front of his brain. He can’t get that look off his mind. But this is what’s for the best, right? 

He’s just about to walk away for good, maybe return to his duties back at the GDA, when suddenly he hears you cry again. Those deep, shallow breaths are loud as ever despite the bedroom door being completely closed. His morale cracks and he’s left almost grinding his teeth at the mere thought of you sitting so pathetically in there, all by yourself in agony. 

Fuck.

Seconds pass as impatience begins to grow heavy within his ribcage, weighing him down like an anchor, leaving him completely stuck in place right there in the middle of the hallway. 

He’s supposed to be the one who supports you, the managerial figure who protects you from conflict out in the field of superhero work. But right here in this small, downtown apartment, Cecil Stedman does not find himself battling with an alien or evil scientist; he’s experiencing an internal fight with his responsibilities as GDA director. Realistically, he should just evaporate out of here and leave you to find your own solution. 

But no, Cecil can’t do it. He can’t leave you like this. It would go against his role, his job, his ethics. He can’t even believe he was so annoyed with you less than an hour ago. Truthfully speaking, it was all a front. Cecil could never be mad at you, or so he likes to think. Perhaps after tonight he just might be. The way he’s acted in the past was to protect his image, a very purposeful act to convince himself that he didn’t care about you more than a boss should for their employee. 

But he does care for you. So much so that he wants to make you feel better as soon as humanly possible. 

It’s at this moment Cecil wishes he was a superhero himself, with a specific power that could get rid of this misfortune.

Then again…perhaps he doesn’t need to be a superhero for what you desire.

Once more tonight, an idea crosses his mind. It’s completely wrong, perhaps morally gray, but if he didn’t go through with his earlier idea, he would have never stopped you from hooking up with a stranger. So he thinks he has to be doing something right. 

Right as Cecil reopens the door, his heart jumps. You’re still obviously crying, but something else catches his eye sight; you’d discarded some layers of clothes, now only covered by pajama shorts and a thin t-shirt. You rest against the only pillow left and stare absentmindedly at the ceiling. Not only that, but your hand slows down from its previous motions against your clothed cunt. You’d attempted to get rid of your issue to no avail. Shooting him daggers, your voice trembles with obvious desperation. 

“The fuck do you want, Cecil?” you spit at him. 

He narrows his eyes at you, and only then do you go quiet. He continues traveling towards the middle of your room with an intense stare. Even though he hadn’t spoken a word yet, it was like you could tell his sudden impatience and annoyance had since disappeared. This makes you sit up straight and clutch the sheets. The sound of thread ripping underneath your claws makes his jaw tense up. 

“It’s really that bad, huh.” Cecil’s tone isn’t accusatory. It softens slightly. Still, your cat-like ears perk up at the change. 

With a quick sniffle, you reply, “Nothing I can do helps. It still hurts. I just want it to stop!”

Cecil is about to give you a snarky response when he catches sight of how bad your bottom lip tremors. Your voice wavers as the distress of the situation finally begins to catch up to both of you. This was serious, and there was only one resolution that Cecil could think of to make this gut-wrenching experience go away, even if it’s just momentarily. 

Cecil slowly approaches the side of your bed and sighs. While admiring your beauty in silence, he shakes his head and mutters something under his breath. 

Before he can think better of it, his hand ghosts over your cheek. His thumb wipes away at the tears that continue to fall. His slight tenderness is enough to send your heartrate skyrocketing, and he swears he sees you press your legs together a moment later. You place your own hand on top of his to anchor him in place. Never had he been so intimate with any of his superheroes, let alone you. But Cecil doesn’t give a shit how out of line this is. He continues to hover quietly. 

“...Cecil?” you whisper.

He can’t tell if it’s the tone of your voice, or the way you said his name like a prayer on your tongue, but Cecil suddenly grasps your hand and yanks you up from the mattress. You stand on wobbly legs and follow him. 

He guides you to your desk in the corner of the room. Before you can ask what he’s planning, he places both hands on your waist and lifts you to sit on the edge of the piece of furniture. A small squeak leaves your lips at the sudden movement. Then, he’s caging you in, moving both his hands on either side of you and pressing them deep into the wood. His expression is hard to define due to how low he bows his head. 

“Cecil?” you ask again. When you get no reply other than a deep inhale, your fingers poke his arm. “Can you at least look at me? I feel like I’ve done something wrong…”

Your soft tail comes up and wraps itself around his other arm, and only then does he finally look directly at you. 

His pupils have engulfed the blue of his eyes. His Adam's apple bobs in his throat as you tug on him, gently using your tail to pull him closer. He stumbles into you, moving to rest his forehead against your shoulder. The contact causes your breath to hitch and tail tighten around his limb. 

He practically mewls your name when he begins to say, “It’s nothing like that. It’s…fuck…”

His words begin husky and end barely at a whisper as he breathes in. He shudders at your sickeningly sweet scent, something he already wishes to never go another day without. Instead of flinching when your hands grab his back, he draws you in. As your claws pierce the material of his suit, he emits a sharp breath from the feeling of his skin being poked, grip growing tighter as a result of the sting. He would rather experience it than risk the chance of letting you go. 

It’s from that moment onward that Cecil seems to make his final decision. 

“Fuck it. Use me.”

Your eyebrows raise in response. 

“Use…you?”

He leans back, staring intently as his fingers leave the desk and clutch your knees. He spreads your legs apart and stares down at the obvious arousal coating your thighs. Cecil licks his bottom lip before resuming eye contact. The look on his face is almost unrecognizable, like he’s gone feral. 

“Use me,” Cecil murmurs your name in a sultry tone, “use my fingers.”

“What?! I-I can’t- fuck, this is wrong-” you begin to explain but the reasoning falls short the moment his hand comes in contact with the curve of your sensitive pussy. The gasp you release makes him nearly groan and he’d barely done anything yet. 

“C’mon, kid, use me. It’s the only way to make you feel better,” he mocks, fingers digging deeper into the shorts that cover your most vulnerable body part. He leans forward, lips hovering near your earlobe when he whispers, “Take these off, sweetheart.”

Without hesitation you follow his instructions, tail losing its grip around his arm at the same time your hands fly to your shorts to tug them down. The clothing is gone within seconds, but your shirt remains with two obvious mounds he knows damn well are your nipples poking through. Cecil doesn’t even bother assisting, he merely observes.

A slight flare of amusement lingers on his lips. There’s something indulgent in the way he watches you so carefully. It’s as though he anticipated you would act like this. 

"Eager," he says in a quiet, satisfied voice.

The pajama shorts, along with your soaked underwear, pool around your ankles. Your desperation is on full display now. Cecil spaces himself for only a couple seconds so that you can discard them on the floor. 

Heat rushes to your face and you let out a small whimper, “What? What’s funny?”

The man nearly combusts at how fast you spread yourself for him. He sees you properly now, and a knowing smile pulls at his lips.

You’re fucking beautiful. 

Cecil clicks his tongue, the weight of his gaze on your pussy makes you whine. He shushes you by settling between your legs. The moment his fingers graze the hot skin of your inner thigh, you groan softly under your breath. His other hand rests comfortably on your waist to anchor himself in place. He whispers in your ears once again, “Pretty funny this is the one time I asked you to do something and you actually listened. Didn’t have to repeat myself.”

You ignore the teasing and bite your lip, palms sliding up the front of his suit and locking themselves around his neck. If only slightly, you accidentally jerk your hips forward when he inches closer to the fat crease between your thigh and lower stomach. 

Cecil knows this is painful for you. Waiting longer than necessary would simply be inhuman of him. So with that, his middle finger toys with your wet lips, grazing your clit. The stickiness of your arousal immediately coats him. He presses a kiss to your shoulder the moment he pushes past your entrance and curls his slender digit inside your heat. It’s no surprise that your increased body temperature feels rather unnatural, but he knows he must be doing something right the moment he feels your legs quiver. 

All you can do is moan in response, hugging him tighter into your chest like your life depended on it. With a sharp inhale, you mewl, “Oohhhh, fuuuuck me-”

Cecil shuts you up the moment he’s slipping his finger in and out of your cunt at an agonizingly slow pace. There’s a brief pause in your words, then you’re moaning again and he swears he’s high off that sound alone. He can already feel your gummy walls tighten around him and he’s barely done anything yet. The glossy sheen that covers his hand triggers a large outline to form in the man’s trousers. 

“Was this what you needed, sweetheart?” Cecil jokes while smirking. He shoves a second finger inside without warning. The action makes you gasp and arch your back ever so slightly. 

“Please!” you cry out.

He picks up the pace and starts to stretch you, which only prompts you to dig your claws deeper into his shoulder blades. The roughness of his movements emits a pitiful cry from your pretty lips. The same ones Cecil wishes to kiss. His belt buckle knocks against the wooden desk as he absentmindedly thrusts towards your soaking heat. Fuck, he’s already getting carried away. But the feeling of your wet folds at his fingertips, the moans that echo off the walls, and how hard you cling to his frame makes him damn near dizzy. 

The director’s hand, the one not busy fucking your cunt, travels from your waist to your lower back. Once you notice the small change and look towards him, eyes blown out from nothing but pure lust, Cecil collides both your lips together in a messy, heated kiss. 

This action alone stirs the tight knot that had been forming deep in your belly. Your sudden orgasm washes over your body like a drug, a strong tingle starting in your spine and trickling all the way down to your toes. Your fluffy tail shoots upwards towards the ceiling, twisting and turning like it had no true destination. The near silent scream sent directly into his mouth, alongside the contraction around his digits, gives Cecil the confirmation that he had done exactly what he needed to do. 

But he was far from done with you. 

His jaw aches from how hard he devours you. You’re thrown off guard but continue to kiss him back nonetheless, cupping his face like he’s something delicate, careful not to scratch his scarred cheeks. The man curls both fingers inside you harshly, pushing against that spongy spot that makes you so, so sensitive. Still coming down from the first high, you practically yelp, “Cecil!”

He ignores the plea. Sure, it would be smarter to slow down, but he doesn’t care. He’s too far gone. All he can think about is making you come again just from his fingers alone. 

Cecil adjusts his hand so that his palm comes into direct contact with your clit, digging into the little nub while his digits rub that sweet spot repeatedly. Each little hair that grinds against his surface reminds him of how cute you really are even during such lewd activities. Before fingering you senseless, he made sure to stare eagerly at the trimmed strip of fuzz above your pussy. Somewhere deep down, Cecil had a feeling you kept yourself groomed in this way, like the good girl you are. 

He pulls away from your mouth, stumbling forward to grip the desk so he does not lose balance. Cecil stares into your eyes as he increases the speed. He hums in time with his thrusts. “You can do it, I know you can. One more time for me.”

“Fuck!”

Perhaps embarrassed from how easily he’s able to control you during such a vulnerable state, you shove your face into the crook of his neck, sniffling and crying from the intensity of your second orgasm. Just as the first time went, the impact makes your entire nervous system shake and you practically vibrate in his palm, tail brushing against his leg in the process. 

He eats all of it up. Every single second, because he’s not sure when the hell he’ll ever get to see something so beautiful again. 

Cecil slows his movements and takes a few seconds to play with your overly sensitive self, poking at the tender walls and listening to your whimpers. He’s so pleased with the mess he’s made of you. After letting you catch your breath, he slowly trails his soaked fingers out of your cunt and places his hand back down on the desk, just on the other side of your thigh. He leans in closer, lips hovering above your own. You continue to hold his face and look back at him like you were being treated exactly how you needed to be, like he had done something right.

He could close the gap. Right here, right now. Kiss you again and again like he was meant to, because at this point you feel so close to heaven that Cecil might be convinced the two of you were supposed to cross paths in life. Maybe he could stay here in this same spot for the rest of the night into the bleeding hours of dawn, fingering your sweet pussy and inhaling the scent of your arousal.

But then your hands leave his face.

And all of a sudden Cecil’s belt buckle comes undone. 

His eyes widened out of surprise. Straightening his back, his hands grab your wrists and halt you from being able to move further. You stare back at him out of surprise, and maybe even genuine confusion.

“What the hell are you doing?” he snarls, failing to nudge you away from his trousers. Your superhero strength definitely was not helping at this time.

“...you…don’t want to fuck me?” you ask with furrowed eyebrows and flattened ears. 

Cecil’s heart drops into his stomach much harder than any other time earlier this night. Both your bodies grow rigid, too overwhelmed to move. The old man’s heart hammers and there’s a temporary loss of focus for only a few seconds. 

How dare you speak so vulgarly to your superior…because, truly, it only makes him want to drill you. But then he’s reminded of how unethical that would actually be. 

“I’m not doing that,” Cecil begins to protest, tilting his head to meet your worried gaze, “I've already violated so many GDA rules. I’ve stepped out of line. You don’t need me to-”

“Yes I do, I need you so bad. I’ll just be in pain the rest of the night if you don’t help,” you plead, urgency laced in your voice. 

He lets out a small gasp at your words. That goddamn imaginary boundary, the one that never truly existed in the first place, had already been crossed, if one could even argue that. Cecil replays what he did tonight and realizes that he has tattered your work relationship to a degree that couldn’t be fixed. He’s fucked. Well, both of you are. 

What’s going to happen if the rest of the GDA finds out? How would the public react? Shit, how are Cecil’s superheroes going to treat him? They already hate his guts most days of the week. He’s never exactly been on their good side. If they catch wind he’s fucking the only superhero he’s been subconsciously doting on for the last year, they’ll freak out. 

However, something else overpowers these anxieties. All the outside commotion, those oddly specific sounds of this criminal-ridden city, have been nothing but white noise since Cecil appeared on the other side of your apartment door. He’s not sure he can recall the last time that has ever happened. You are like some sort of magic spell, drugging him into a cloudy psychosis where you do nothing but plague his thoughts. 

So when Cecil looks down at your hands, still resting on his belt buckle, and then glances at your puffy folds leaking that slick juice, his throat goes dry. 

Maybe you do need a thick cock afterall. More specifically, Cecil Stedman’s. Because it’s to help you with your heat, right? And what kind of director would he be if he left you to writhe in agony the rest of the night?

Cecil is completely stunned for a brief period of time. Then, he lets out a very slow breath and lets go of your hands to grip your bare thighs. As he speaks, his look is deadly serious. 

"You always act like a slut, or is it just for me?"

You smirk, tail swishing back and forth behind you. “Just for you.”

He nods towards his bulge, eyes shooting back up to meet your own. “Well, go on then.”

Your hands are pulling the belt off right away, operating at a speed nearly as quick as you did earlier when you were discarding your pants. Before you can even unzip the article of clothing, Cecil reaches for your thin shirt and pulls it over your arms and head, finally catching sight of the hard nipples that had been poking the fabric earlier. He cups your breasts, pinching your precious skin as you pull him in for another kiss using your tail. 

Cecil hears you purr under your breath in between each movement. The cold air in the room seeps through his boxers once his trousers finally begin to wiggle past his crotch. Cecil doesn’t separate from your mouth as he helps you with the burden of taking off his garments. He hooks his fingers around the waistband of his briefs and tugs them down above knees. 

His throbbing cock nearly smacks his lower stomach the moment it springs free. Cecil stops the assault on your lips to look at your face, admiring your reaction to how large his member appears. A little whimper sneaks past your lips at the sight. He swears he could replay that sound on loop forever and never get bored. 

Cecil’s thumb caresses your cheek, noting that you can’t tear your gaze away from his cock. “C’mon, sweetheart, this will help.”

Suddenly, his fingers are digging into your side and pulling you to the very edge of the desk. Your ass barely hangs over the side, but the discomfort doesn’t even matter because Cecil’s gripping his length and hovering over your pussy. The moment he glides his mushroom tip through your wet lips, though? 

Fuck. 

He is so, so fucking hard. 

You give the man a miserable moan, whining like you were some sort of wounded animal. Your legs wrap around his lower half so he can only move forward, which is exactly what you begin to beg for. He watches the way your tail wraps itself around his wrist as though to encourage him to work at a faster pace. 

“Yes, yes, yes, please put it in me,” you pout, completely in awe at how girthy Cecil is. You just know from the sight alone, he’d fill you up in all the right spaces. 

Cecil loves watching how you arch your back to his touch. He experimentally rolls his hips a few times, cursing to himself at how fucking wet you are. It oozes out nonstop, covering him in enough slick that he’s positive he could just slip it in now and have no problem. He slowly rubs his tip against your clit just to earn another whimper from you. He travels down your folds, stopping right at the hole that aches to be filled. He’s thankful for the little glimmer of moonlight that shines a perfect light on your pretty pussy. 

Actually, Cecil can’t believe this is still real and very much happening. His jaw twitches from restraint, trying to soak up this moment and prolong it for as long as possible. But then he hears you whine again and knows that at this point, he’s just being a dick. 

“Cecil, please fuck me, I can’t wait much longer,” you huff, extremely worried with how many seconds had passed since he started teasing you. 

“Fine, fine, whatever you say,” Cecil says sarcastically, mouth forming into the shape of an ‘o’ when he finally pushes inside. 

You cry out in surprise, eyes rolling to the back of your head as your cunt finally feels that satisfying stretch. Each inch that drives deeper into you causes you to forget to breathe momentarily, your fluffy ears fluttering at the top of your head from the overwhelming sensation. Cecil, on the other hand, actually stops breathing all together. 

Because how the hell are you this perfect?

You’re so snug around his member, taking him like a good girl. Cecil grunts and tightens the grip he’s resumed on your hips. He throws his head back once he’s completely inside you, relishing in the feeling. He exhales, “Fuck, you’re so tight.”

“Cecil,” you gasp, your inner walls contracting around him just from the compliment alone, “need you to move.”

While Cecil is used to being the one to give out commands, his heart skips a beat at the way you so eagerly ask him to fuck you. 

A low, possessive growl crawls up from the back of his throat and he finally gives you what you’d been craving all night. He draws his hips back and thrusts forward, over and over again. He’s so deep and both of you are a mess as a result. 

“Uh, uh, uh!” you moan in time with each blunt thrust. Your entire body shakes, causing various items discarded on the desk to fall to the floor. 

“Always knew you were a slut. Fucking knew it,” the older man groans, staring at how you take him so well. Cecil fucks you on his cock with the type of energy he didn’t know he still had within him. It was the kind of vigor he was sure was left behind in his younger years, seemingly alive now that he has you caged here on the desk with nowhere to go but to continue pushing against his long, thick shaft. 

The rhythm of his punishing strokes pushes air from your lungs. Your tail has since left his arm and now lazily sways side to side next to you, ears completely flattened while you practically drool. You cry out, “Hng- oh- holy fuck!”

Cecil can’t seem to stop. He keeps drilling into your pussy to the point he swears you’re dripping on the pile of clothes near his feet. Each time his cock splits you in two, it’s thorough, but messy. Harsh, but necessary. Everything he does is as desperate as you. 

Once Cecil somehow musters up enough energy to quicken his pace, you fall backwards onto the desk and groan loudly. The movements make your breasts bounce, causing Cecil’s cock to twitch. With the intensity increasing, it’s no surprise the two of you approach your orgasm fairly quickly, but he’d be damned if he didn’t get you to finish before himself. 

Cecil doesn’t stop moving. With a thin layer of sweat building on his forehead, one of his hands leaves your hip to rub your clit in constant circles. 

“Ah!” you yelp. Cecil’s finger expertly swivels around the bundles of nerves like he knew exactly what movements were going to make you melt like putty. Your head lulls to the side, eyes closed as you focus intently on the rhythm of his hips snapping against your own. Accidentally, you murmur, “so-so fucking big, holy shit.”

Cecil hears the comment anyway and it boosts his ego to a new level. He smirks and mutters back, “Yeah? Who knew you needed my cock to feel better.”

“Sh-Shut up, Cecil, please I’m so close!” you exclaim, looking back at him with the most fucked out face he’s ever seen on anyone. 

Cecil presses down harder on your clit, narrowing his eyes. He leans towards you, listening at how your breathing is beginning to grow more labored and uneven. He growls, “Come for me, sweetheart.”

The words trigger an explosion within you. Your walls tighten around Cecil’s cock, which was still rapidly ramming into you at an extraordinary speed. The orgasm tears a low scream from you, your entire body going limp on the desk from the sheer intensity of it all. He begins to pant, chasing his own high moments later. His hand leaves your clit to play with your breasts, squeezing the warm flesh. He praises you, “Yes, just like that. Fuck, you’re gonna make me come.”

“Hng, please, need it,” you beg, staring at him with flushed cheeks. 

Cecil is completely worn out, which doesn’t surprise him, so he quickly resorts to laying on top of your body, suit pressing against your hot and sweaty skin. His lips attach themselves to your neck, sucking like he was marking his property. He whispers, “So pretty like this. Could fuck you all night, you know. Just might have to.”

Your claws clutch his shoulders, puncturing the fabric. You gasp at the mere idea, pussy clamping around Cecil once again. He comes moments later, spilling into you and pumping you full of his seed. He knows he’ll regret doing that in the morning, or maybe even minutes after this, but right now he doesn't care. It seemed you didn’t either. You actually moan at the action, grinning at how the warm liquid seeps past his member and down your bottom. 

You faintly feel Cecil smile against your neck. 

You’re both quiet for a moment, panting ever so slightly. Cecil’s grip on your entire body finally eases. He pulls away and looks down at the mess he’s made; you, laid on the desk, red and full of him. Your eyes are droopy, either from drowsiness or lust, he wasn’t sure. Your hair is evidently knotted as well, a true sign of getting fucked nice and hard. 

Cecil momentarily worries he’s in worse shape, but before he can even take a glance in a mirror, he hears that all too familiar ring in his earpiece that work is summoning him. Now. 

Your heels clacked against the checkered-marble floor of the care center as you made your way to Victor’s office. You had spent a good portion of your shift scouring through files upon files and research notes, all on one specific young woman who had ties into all of… this. Whatever this was.

In your grasp was a rather thick manilla file folder. On the front, stamped in red ink was the bold word “CONFIDENTIAL”. You clutched it tight to your chest, like precious cargo. Well, you supposed it really was. If Victor needed anything, whatever reason he had was good enough to take the utmost precaution with your task.

You didn’t dare pry too deep into what he asked of you. You simply nodded and did what you were told. You were his assistant, and knowing just what he was capable of was enough to just smile and nod at his commands, and execute them flawlessly.

The clacking of your heels turned into soft clicks as the floor changed from the marble to herringbone patterned wood. You were close to his office now, you just needed to take the elevator to the third floor.

You didn’t expect tracking information on one person would take up half the day; but you didn’t expect this person to be woven so intricately into this web of connections. Curiosity gnawed at your mind. Who exactly was this woman? What importance could an FBI agent hold? Was she close to uncovering something? That had to be it, right?

You never mulled over a task Victor gave you, and the fact this was still on your mind had been bugging you. Why did you care so much?

Oh, right. You thought. Because you were jealous.

You sighed deeply as you pressed the up button on the elevator, stepping back as you waited.

You scoffed aloud to yourself, “Jealous… Ridiculous.”

But deep down, you were hurt; your heart ached, you were starved for his attention. For his touch. In truth, you had fancied Victor since you started working for him a few years ago. Though never so bold as to make a move or even playfully flirt with him. Your relationship was strictly professional, and clinical. Nothing more or less.

The Elevator softly dinged as the metal doors slid opened. You stepped inside, and pressed the third floor button.

Your thoughts resumed. Now solely focused on the giant Doctor you worked for. To anyone else he may be off-putting. His appearance uncanny, horrific, even. But to you? He was a sight worth drooling over. His height for one, was already enough to have you lusting over him. He easily stood a good two to three feet taller than you. His hands were large, and you so desperately wanted to feel them engulfing every part of you. You had often spent long, agonizing nights imaging what resided between his legs. The thought was plenty to get your juices flowing. The memories of your interactions; the stolen glances between the two of you, his soft and gentle tone he took with you, all of that coupled with your wild imagination had you over the edge in no time during your solo nights of self-pleasuring.

Your cheeks burned now, and your stomach fluttered with giddiness. You took a few deep breaths to regulate your erratic heart beat, and to hopefully calm down your mind.

The elevator doors opened quicker than you’d have liked and you stepped out, quickly making your way to Victor’s private office. You just had to hand the file over to him, and then you can go home. Easy enough. Get in, get out. You’ve done this a million times before.

So why were your legs shaking? Why was your heart hammering against your sternum?

You ignored all the feelings, and admittedly the red flags that popped up. You silenced the alarm bells ringing in your head and knocked on the thick wooden door, your fist shaking as you did so.

You chewed your quivering bottom lip as you waited for the ok to enter Victor’s office—or for him to open the door. You sucked in a shaky breath, trying—and failing miserably— to calm your nerves. You wished you had the courage to say something, anything, about your harbored feelings. Yet, you also wished he’d say something, even if it was to tell you off, to remind your of your place beneath him.

Oh God, how you wished you could be beneath him in the literal sense.

Christ! You scolded yourself mentally. What the hell has gotten into you? Why were you having these beyond inappropriate thoughts at work? You always were able to shelve them until you were by yourself in the comfort of your own home. But today? Today was really testing you.

The large door creaked open, and there he stood. Doctor Victor Gideon. He towered over you, having to crane your neck upwards to make eye contact. His head gear was on, his lenses obstructing his eyes from you.

“Ah, please, come in.” He gestured with his arm.

You quickly slinked past him, still clutching the file tightly against your chest. “I brought what you’ve asked for.”

“Ah, wonderful. Truly wonderful. I had no doubts.” He praised you.

You almost whined at his words.

“Well, may I?” He held out a large hand.

His tone was gentle. It was always gentle with you. It was no wonder you would bend to his every whim. You’d do anything he asked, and without question.

“Wha-OH! Yes,” you handed the file over, “sorry.”

Victor quickly thumbed through it. His gold teeth glinted, as his scarred lips stretched over them into a devious grin. “Perfect.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, eyes narrowing at the folder. Your nervousness was quickly replaced with a thick feeling of resentment for an unknown woman. You felt… ridiculous. It wasn’t like you and Victor had anything going. Yet, you still vied for his attention, and seeing him focus it all on someone else hurt.

You leaned back against his desk, crossing your arms over your chest. Victor was still reading as he made his way to his chair, and sat down. “This is her. The one we’ve been searching for…”

Hearing those words fall from his lips stung. Your brows furrowed, your face twisting in anger, "what's so important about her anyways?" Your tone dripped with malice.

Victor closed the file before turning to look at you, "She's the last piece of the puzzle. She's the key to everything."

You didn’t dare meet his gaze, mostly for fear of betraying yourself and crying on the spot. You kept you eyes glued to the floor, to hide the hurt on your face. But he sensed it. He always sensed the slightest shift in your mood. You never understood how he did it, and part of you didn’t want to find out. There were a lot of things about Victor, his work, and this Care Center that you swept under the rug. The less you know, the better. Or at least that’s what you’ve convinced yourself to believe.

Victor stood up now, and still you kept your eyes away from him. His black boots stopped just mere inches from the toes of your heels.

Victor's large, cold hand gently grasped your cheeks, turning your head towards him, "You'll see. All in due time."

Your brows furrowed, you stuck your lips out in a small pout. You knew you were being childish, but you couldn't hide your feelings for Victor much longer. You'd hope he would dismiss you so you could run home, and hide under your blankets all weekend.

Victor tutted at you, "my Dear, what troubles you?"

Your expression softened, your eyes watered. "I… I don't know, Doctor."

"You don't know?"

"I'm… well I'm not sure." You sighed.

"Hmm. You seemed fine—more than fine— when you sauntered into my office."

You looked away ashamed. You hoped he wouldn't connect the dots of your unspoken feelings for him, but you knew he would somehow. That's just how he was. He seemed to know and solve everything.

"Then you handed the file over, and"-Victor clicked his tongue behind his teeth-"Now look at you. What is it then? Your task is over, is it that you feel you're of no use to me now?"

"N-no. No that's not… the reason."

Victor adjusted his hold on you, his large hands now gently cradling your head. "Oh. So there is a reason? What is it then? Is it the files? Is it my work?"

You didn’t know how to answer. “I… don’t know.”

Victor gently brushed his thumbs along your cheeks, sending goosebumps over your flush. Your nerves lit up with electric waves with each touch he gave you. All of which shot straight down to your clit, bringing on a new rush of arousal.

Victor cocked his head almost immediately, as if he sensed it.

“Ah, might you be… jealous?”

“J-jealous? You-you think I’m jealous?”

“Are you… not? You seem to have calmed down a considerable amount once my focus turned to you.”

Your eyes widened as your brows raised. Your mouth opened yet you had no words of defense or denial. You’d quickly shut your mouth. Victor chuckled so low it could have been mistaken for a scoff.

“No? Not jealous? Then what would you call it?”

he was taunting you now Goddamnit.

"Fine! Fine, I'm jealous, ok? I'm jealous!” Your voice cracked as you raised it, “Is that what you wanted to hear!? I'm jealous of her getting your attention! I… I need to go…"

Victor erupted into laughter, "Oh, is that all? You want my attention. All you had to do was ask."

"Wha-what do you mean!?”

"You think I haven't noticed the way you look at me? I look at you the same way, you know."

"You… do? But I'm… just your assistant."

"No. No, no, no. You're more to me than that. I couldn't trust another like I do you. I was just being a gentleman, I was waiting for you to come to me." Victor slid a hand to grab your hip, shuffling a bit closer to you.

“So do enlighten me, what is it you want?”

You swallowed thickly, no sense in denying anything now, “I want… you. All of you. I crave it. I can’t stop thinking about you. I don’t know what’s come over me. All I know is I need you. In every way.”

“Ah.” Victor’s grip tightened a little more on your hip; just enough to send those same sparks through you, “Attention is one thing but… being… intimate, if I’m assuming correctly, is another thing entirely.”

You only nodded. Your hand went to his wrist, gently grasping the snake skin sleeve that covered it. “Please?” You were so close to having him, you couldn’t let him out of your grasp now. “Please.”

"you don't know what you're asking for."

"I-I do. Please? I want this—I want you—Victor."

Victor smiled at you. In your haze it seemed sweet, to any other, it was dangerous. Like a predator that finally caught his meal and was about to feast.

His cold lips quickly caught yours in a fervent kiss. One in which you happily accepted. You kissed him back, greedily. His tongue slithered into your mouth, exploring you.

Victor let up, “if you insist,” he moved to place chaste kisses along your jaw before moving down to your neck, “then my Dear, let me tear you apart"—His scarred lips continued to pepper your neck in soft kisses—"Then let me stitch you back together."

You moaned at his kisses, at his words, at the way his large hands gently held you. How could you say no to him?

"Please Victor-Doctor!-please, I'm all yours. Do as you will." Your hands gripped the sleeves of his snake skin trench coat.

"Ah, perfect. A beautiful, perfect specimen. And all for me."

"Of-ah!" You moaned at the way he sucked at the soft skin of your neck, "of course! Anything. I’ll do anything—be anything—for you.”

Victor smiled into your skin and hoisted you up onto his desk as if you weighed nothing. He wasted no time in claiming your mouth once more with his, allowing his hands to roam over every inch of you.

You moaned into him. Noises in which Victor greedily drank. He only spurred on your arousal by being gentle. But you didn’t want gentle. You wanted him to claim you, to rip you apart, to leave permanent reminds of who you were with.

You gripped the labels of his snake skin coat, hungrily kissing him, forcing your tongue into his mouth. Victor allowed it, and savored the taste. You were ravenous for him. You coaxed his tongue to your mouth, and when he granted it to you, you began to suck on it. Your lips closed around his forked tongue, the flat of your tongue working the underside of his.

You peered through your lashes up at his head gear, finally releasing his tongue with a slick slurp. “I can’t keep waiting, Doctor. I need you in me.”

Victor curled his lips into a snarl, “Be careful what you wish for, My Dear. Sometimes we bite off more than we can chew…”

You bucked your hips, your groin catching on his metal, double ouroboros belt buckle. You whined at the pressure it gave you. “I’m willing to accept whatever consequences come with this.”

You reached down to hike up your skirt, giving Victor an eyeful of your soaked underwear. Victor’s hands immediately went to your hips, his fingers gently tracing the lace of your panties.

And yet, he still made no move to claim you.

You swatted his hands away, hooking the waistband under your thumbs and slowly slid the fabric off your lower half. You kept your thighs pressed together, if Victor was going to be slow you would be too.

You kicked free from your underwear, knees still pressed tightly together. Now that your cunt was exposed, Victor could smell your heady arousal to the fullest extent. Your scent filled his olfactory receptors, his tongue flicked out just shy of his lips to get a better smell. You were sweet, tangy, and everything he knew he was missing.

“My… All for me?”

You pressed your lips together, trying to keep the smile off your lips, “Mhm. Wanna see?”

“May I?”

You nodded, and Victor pried your knees apart. Your cunt was so wet he could hear your folds part with a soft squelch. Your cunt was fully exposed to him now. Drenched in your silky grool, he watched as your cunt clenched around nothing, your clit twitched with need.

“Please Victor… I’m losing my mind.”

“Patience is a virtue, one that’s well rewarded.” Victor dropped to his knees, pulling your legs over his shoulders.

Your breath hitched in anticipation as you watched him press soft kisses to the plush flesh of your inner thighs. He ended each kiss with a tender bite. The higher he brought his lips, the more you ached with need.

After indulging himself in your skin, he finally moved to where you needed him most. He placed his chapped lips on your clit, giving a firm kiss. You groaned at the feeling of the pleasure coursing through you.

His grip on your thighs tightened as he brought your hips flush to his face. His tongue snaked out, collecting all that leaked from you. He slid up from your hole, flicking the forked end of his tongue over your clit, causing the nub to sting in a pleasant manner.

“Oh! Fuck!” You cried.

Victor only responded by dragging his tongue in between your folds, before teasing your hole. He licked up to your clit again, running his tongue back and forth over it.

Sweat began to bead along your forehead, as your stomach contracted. Pleasurable heat pooled in your lower abdomen, before burning white hot along the rest of your nerves.

“D-Doctor Vi—oh god!” You clenched your thighs. Your orgasm had approached and ripped through you faster than you expected, well, really, faster than you had ever experienced. Even when you fucked your self.

Victor’s tongue had entered you now, gliding against your walls, and sliding along the spot that had you seeing stars.

“I, I can’t! Please I can’t I’m too sensitive!”

Victor only shook his head ‘no’ and continued licking a path through you. Each pass of his tongue over your G-spot brought you closer and closer to a second orgasm.

“W-wait-wait! I’m gonna-ugh, fuck!” You tensed up, squeezing your eyes shut as you came again.

Satisfied, Victor stood from you, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “I told you. I’m going to tear you apart and stitch you back together. When I’m done with you, you’ll never know pleasure the same way again.”

Victor undid his belt know, unzipping his pants and freeing his erect cock from its fabric confines. Your eyes went wide at the sight. You knew he was big, but you didn’t expect between his legs to match.

His tip was thick, bulbous. His shaft was long, and girthy. It looked heavy resting in his hands. He gave a few tugs along the length, catching the precum from his tip and slicking himself up.

“There’s no way you’re fitting inside me…”

“I think I’ve warmed you up. It’ll be a stretch, yes, but a desirable one I think you’ll find.” He stepped closer to you, slapping his cock against your pussy.

The lewd tapping noises were deafening in your ringing ears. You couldn’t help but tense up at every slap of his dick. “Go… go slow, ok?”

“Of course. I’d hate to ruin you our first time.”

The tip of his cock caught your entrance, and you flinched. You held a bated breath as you waited for him to enter you. His tip was flush with your entrance now, and with one, smooth rock of his hips, his cock plunged into you.

You yelped as your walls split open around him, desperately trying to accommodate his thickness. Your mouth hung open in a silent scream, your hands clenched the edge of the desk.

“Perfect. You’re doing remarkably well.”

With a gutteral moan you responded, “God! Oh fuck, it’s too much!”

Victor pushed on despite your protests, each inch had you beyond full. It was a delicious stretch, a pleasurable pain that had you weeping arousal. With one final push, Victor had managed to sheath himself balls deep inside you.

You looked at Victor, with tear-filled eyes. You saw his golden teeth biting his lower lip. His chest heaved, his grip on your hips became bruising. Your cunt clenched and Victor drew in a hiss.

“Patience, we don’t… want to end this quite yet, do we?” Victor steadied himself in you.

You shook your head no, laying yourself down on the desk, waiting for Victor to finally start fucking you.

Victor’s hands slid up to your waist, and to answer your silent prayers, began to thrust his hips. His cock slid halfway out of you, before he was flush with your hips once more. You were already close to your third orgasm.

“You… can go… faster.” You breathlessly encouraged him.

“If I do-“

“-please! I’m so close! I want you to come too, I want to come around your cock. Please?”

Who was he to deny such a sweet thing like you?

Victor picked up the pace, being careful not to brutalize you in the process. He’d save that for the next time. He had so many things he wanted to experiment with you. God he hoped for a next time. And a time after that.

The sounds of skin and slick, and mixed moans filled the office, the smell of sweat, sex, and something chemically sweet permeated the air. Victor gave a few more pumps, each had his tip battering your cervix, before his final thrust. With him buried to the hilt inside of you, he came. His thick release flooding your cunt. The feeling of his cold spend filling you pushed you over the edge, your pussy clenching tight around his softening dick.

You were panting heavily now, your skin sweaty and your head fuzzy. Victor pulled himself from you with a shlick. His cum quickly gushed from your used cunt in a puddle of pearlescent liquid on the floor beneath you.

“From now on, I’d like for you to seek me out the next time you get… the urge.” Victor fixed himself back into his pants.

And how could you say no? Everyone was ruined for you now. No one had ever made you come consecutively like that before.

“I will.” You pulled your skirt down over your hips.

Victor grabbed the file off his desk, “Next time I’ll properly bed you. No hasty office romp.”

You ducked into a nearby room. The door was wooden, strong, hopefully. You ran back, ducking under a pile of boxes and medical equipment. Your hand comes up to cover your mouth, attempting to tamper the sound of your panicked breathing. The door swings open, you dare to peek your head out and it's that creature. It lumbers through the room, before stopping, and just standing. It just stands, and groans. Blood drips out of its mouth, an orange, almost yellow substance leaked out of one of its orifices, whichever one was unclear. It dripped down its body, pooling underneath it. 

You held your breath for a long, long time. Until you couldn't anymore. You took a tentative, slow breath, desperate to be as quiet as possible. But it didn't move, it just stood there, slightly bent at the hip, leaking blood. Hesitantly, you looked around for something to defend yourself with. There was a glass bottle, an IV, a potted plant, and.. Half of a pair of scissors. It was tapped to provide a steady handle. You took it in your hand, the blade juuust sharp enough to pierce the skin. If you were getting out of here alive you would have to fight for it.

Carefully, you crept up. It was zoned out, a low rumbling coming from its rotted mouth. You consider your options, before you decide on stabbing it in the head. In zombie movies you always gotta destroy the head, right?

You lifted your hand up, and sunk the scissors into the back of its head. The creature stills for a moment, before turning around, lunging at you. A shriek leaves your mouth as you fall to the floor. The creature is much heavier than you, pinning you to the ground.

“ oh shit-!! Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck get the hell off of me! “ Your voice is shrill as you scream, panic and dread mixing into your voice. You struggle as best you can, holding it by the forehead as you attempt not to get bitten but god it's not doing much. “ HELP-! Fuck someone please help mee.. “ your voice trails off into a sob of deep helplessness washes over you.

The pit in your stomach grows, you're doomed. This is how you die. You're going to get eaten alive by a zombie. It's going to devour you, tear out your organs, break your bones all while you're alive. You were supposed to go to Rhodes Hill to be helped, you were hoping to leave a new, healthy and happy person but no, this building is going to be your grave.

However, just as you were about to give up, bracing yourself the pain, the darkness, the weight if lifted off your chest, literally. You stay still for a few moments, maybe it just got up to get a better angle at your neck but.. no.

When you open your eyes the intense, blinding lights fill your vision. When your eyes finally adjust you find yourself to be okay, relatively unharmed. The zombie, or what was left of it was on the floor a few feet away from you. It looks like it had been decimated, ripped apart. Its head had been torn in half, its brains, now a pale yellowed ivory, leaked out of its skull. A large chunk of the zombie's flesh had been ripped away, now laying a few feet away from the corpse, but that doesn't bode well for you. Whatever killed it, it's in here with you. And then, like it's on cue..

“There you are, my dear. You’ve run rather far from your room,” the voice you hear is steady, calm and familiar. You look up to see the familiar visor of Dr Victor Gideon. 

He was the director of Rhodes Hill, and the entire reason you're even here. He personally had you transferred from another facility. He’d been your doctor for a few months now. He’d always been.. Offputting. He had some.. Condition, he told you. He was almost two meters tall, pale, almost purple skin, with a scar that runs down his mouth down his chest. He’d always been.. Kind, so you could never complain, especially after he’d saved you from that monster. Wait, was he the one who did that?

“ It's alright, you're in a state of shock, I won't ask you to speak, “ he says with that cold, disconnected tone. He gently sat you up, his visor whirring as it adjusted, cogs inside turning. “ But I do ask you to come with me, you don't want to be someone's lunch do you? “

Without thinking, you shook your head. You felt yourself dissociating, simply letting him stand you up, a hand coming to your lower back to lead you. 

“ Where are we.. “ you trail off, before looking around. “ We- we can't go through there.. That..thing that killed the nurse is still.. in there-” you start, but his soothing, deep voice shushes you, it's oddly reassuring. 

“ Don't worry, my dear. “ he says, and refuses to elaborate. When he takes you through the doors you see it. The nurse is on the ground, blood gushing out of her throat. The creature that had killed her was long gone, but a few zombies were feasting on her leftovers like dirty vultures. Panic overwhelms you as he leads you to it, but his grip on you doesn't waver.

As he approaches them, one of them stands up and without a thought he lifts his hand, wrapping his large fingers around its head and squeezing. It pops. Blooding splats on you and you cringe, almost vomiting. You wipe your face on your arms, trying not to gag. He lets out an amused huff, guiding you through the walls.

“ Doctor.. Whats.. What's happening.. “ Your voice comes out embarrassingly meek, barely above a whisper. He doesn't answer for a moment.

“ I will be getting you to safety, “ he says steadily. He brings you up a few flights of stairs, leading you into what seems to be his office. He gently leads you to sit on one of the couches, guiding you down with a strong push of his hand. 

The sofa under you was frustratingly comfortable. You were panicked, terrified, but you sunk into the cushions. He didn't move for a moment, just staring at you. Strangely enough, it made your cheeks warm. Were you blushing? Why were you blushing??

“ I have a car waiting for us,” he said as he swiftly made his way to one of the adjacent rooms, packing up a few items into a briefcase. After a moment he ushered you into the room.

“ What about the others- i.. I think I saw a few people in the west wing-? “ you stutter quietly, your voice grating against your hoarse throat. He hummed quietly. 

“ They are no use to me. “

He didn't elaborate. He never elaborated, but as cryptic as it was, it reassured you a bit. That meant that at least.. You were important enough to keep alive. Maybe.. Maybe he meant you were developing more with your treatment.. Making more progress? You knew, deep down, that that wasn't the reason, you could hear the sinister undertone to his voice.

After a moment you observed your surroundings. The room was painted a bold green, polished oak beams, cabinet doors, a marbled green table. The lamp in the corner gave the room a soft, yet warm glow. It was comfortable, for now at least. The Doctor himself was in his ordinary attire, a button up with his long snake skin coat on, visor polished to perfection. However, you do notice that he doesn't smell as.. unique as he usually does. He never smelled.. particularly good, but it was at least tolerable now. You felt out of place in such an ostentatious environment. Your outfit was a pale white blouse with a long white skirt, both slightly dirtied from prolonged use. Neither of them had been your first choice exactly, but it was cooler in the warmer months so, it wasn't that bad. Some patients wore straightjackets 24/7 so you couldn't exactly complain. 

“ Miss? “ you hear him ask, you must’ve zoned out. When you look back to him he has opened what appears to be a secret door, leading to a grey, much more sterile looking environment. His smile spread when you looked at him, his golden teeth shimmering in a mix of saliva and the warm light from the lamp. “ I do encourage you to keep up, lest you get left behind and I have to crush another skull. “ When he said that this sick, almost perverted smile spread across his face, teeth grinding together as he waited for you to follow. And follow you did.

You have to keep a good pace to keep up with him, his tall stature resulted in him being much, much faster than you. You didn't wanna think about how scared that made you, how easily he could crush you if he wanted too. He led you through the winding hallways through a door leading to the front of the care center. There was a black car pulled up to the front, he led you to it, He opened the back door for you, ushering you in quietly. You were shaking.

The car was warm, soft jazz music playing as you watched the doctor enter the passenger seat, closing the door as the vehicle rocks from his large frame. The driver is a man you don't recognize. The two discuss something you can't hear. The car starts driving, and not a moment passes until you're starting to nod off. Before you do though, you glance up into the rearview mirror and the last thing you see before you lose consciousness is his eyes. Victor's golden red eyes meet yours, his lips pull into a smile, that for some reason, reassures your mind as you fall asleep.

You woke up strapped down to a gurney, your hair hanging in front of your face, obscuring your vision. You feel warm, uncomfortably warm. When you eventually focus your eyes and get a grip on your surroundings you assess the room you're in. The room seems to be opulent, it smells warm, like eucalyptus and lavender. The walls are a deep stained wood, shiny with the seal. The room is lit with oil lamps, a few sconces decorate the walls. It's a bedroom, a large canopy bed with dark sheets and thick black curtains. 

“ Finally, you're awake. "The short, steady voice of the doctor flowed into your ears, into the mush of your brain. You look up to him, who was standing only a few feet to your side, you could barely make him out in your peripherals. 

“ Doctor Gideon? “ you ask shakily, your voice barely above a whisper. He chuckles heartily, as if he thinks what you just said was the funniest thing he's ever heard.

“ Please dear, just Victor. Formalities aren't needed between the two of us. “ he says like he's asserting something. He's Victor to you, no more doctor, but Victor. You nervously dart your tongue out to wet your lips.

“ Why am I tied up? “ you ask carefully. He steps into your vision, his face flat, unmoving. He gently approaches you, and without explaining anything he just trails a hand down your face, caressing oh so gently.

“ Have I ever told you you've always been my favorite patient? “ he asks, blatantly ignoring your question. You can hear the visor whir as it zooms in on your face, like he's studying you. At a loss for words, you simply shook your head, he simply hummed. “ My dear, you’ve always been my favorite. Your purpose is true. “

You paused as he said that, your purpose? What was your purpose? Why is he unable to elaborate on literally anything he says??

He chuckled to himself, gently leaning into your space. He was cold, you noticed. Extremely cold. When his skin touched yours it left you shivering. His hand came up to hold your face, one of his hands could engulf your entire jaw, his thumb caressing your bottom lip oh so gently.

“ You see my dear, you are perfect. “ he asserts. Before you can question, or object, he quickly continues. “ I can do almost everything. There is little I need from the outside world but you, you have the one thing I need. “ he says, before boldly reaching his hand down to your cunt. You shriek, when did you get naked?? He lets this loud, boisterous laugh ring through the room. “ Shhh don't be scared. I've done nothing but keep you safe, and I intend to do that for a long time. “

His middle finger slithered down, parting your folds gently, the cold metals of his rings sending tingles through you. You were oddly aroused, you could feel yourself soaking his hand. What the hell was happening? Why did you enjoy this? A finger rubbed at your entrance, never daring to dip in, while his thumb tenderly rolled your clit.

“ Everything about you is pure perfection. You're the perfect age, young, but mature enough to healthily deliver. Your body contains a healthy balance between estrogen and testosterone, you intake a healthy amount of Vitamin C & Vitamin B-Complex, all of these aiding in fertility levels. “ he stops after a moment, “ I've had my nurses track your menstruation cycle. Hence why I had you taken off your birth control back in March, your body should be ready now. “ 

He says this casually, like this isn't some of the creepiest shit you've ever heard. He's been tracking you to figure out the optimal time to fuck you so you get pregnant? What the fuck? … if you are so worried creeped out by him, why does his hot and heavy gaze feel so good? You’d been a patient going in between psychiatric institutions for years now, no one's ever given enough of a shit about you to take care of you, much less to put this much time and effort into you, even if it were for his own good.

You had always been a bit flustered around him, as you were to any doctor. Any tall, strong man with deep voices and an intense clinical attitude scares you, it happens after facing so much medical abuse. So eventually you chalked it up to nerves, but you’d be lying if you said his attention doesn't feel good. He spoke to you with this genuine care you’ve never heard before. Maybe he's finally brave enough to speak this to you, maybe he's just being kind to the mother of his future child.

When you look back up to him you don't get a chance to speak as his lips collide with yours. You take a moment to consider your options, either resist, or enjoy it- embrace it even. Fuck when his forked tongue slid into your mouth you didnt even consider the former. You let yourself kiss him back, his lips are painfully chapped, they scratch and scrape against yours but it doesn't matter. He hums, pleased with your cooperation. He pulls away slowly, his tongue flickering against your lips.

“ Oh my dear. I've waited too long for you, “ he mused quietly, before he gave you a hug? It's awkward, his arms wrapping all the way around the gurney, then you realize he's untying you. You fall into his chest and he takes no time steadying you, making sure to look down at you, tilting his head ever so slowly. 

He led you to the bed, a hand on your back, controlling yet steady. He gently pushes you back, guiding you to lay down in front of him. He looks down at you, towering over you.

“ So small, so tiny. “ he says almost kindly, carding his big fingers through your hair, “ I'm glad you’ve come to your senses, darling. I’d hate to have to force you, “ He doesn't explicitly say what forcing you would entail, but you could figure it out pretty easily.

He gazed down at you, particularly at your breasts. You hear the visor whirr under the warm machinery, taking in the sight of. Without thinking, you lift up your hands, cupping his face in yours. Your hands looked tiny on his face, barely being the size of his cheek.

He pauses when your small hands cup his cheeks, your warmth sinking into his skin, a foreign feeling. The sound stills, and so does he. Hesitantly, you smooth your hands up against his scarred, flaky skin, tenderly brushing your thumbs up and down against his temples. With careful hands you lift the visor off of his face. As much as you’d love to fuck him with it on your sure there would be time for that late. A hand shoots up to stop you. He softly speaks your name. 

“ I do not suggest you do that, my dear you.. Wont like what you see, “ he warns, steady strong hands holding you in place, you shake your head.

“ You doubt my judgement? “

“ No, no not at all.. “ he says softly, his sweet, sexy voice rumbling through your body. “ But I weigh my options completely on facts. You won't like what you see. You.. are a sweet, pretty young girl, and I am no more attractive than the monster under your bed. “

Disagreeing, you shook your head. You didn't care about that, you never would. What he looked like didn't matter, not when he touched you so tenderly, not when he showed you love and care like you had never before. He had kept you safe from those monsters, you can still picture his gaze on you after he had practically ripped a zombie in half, and a rush of arousal ran through you now knowing his intentions retrospectively. He kept you safe so he could breed you.

“ Victor please.. I do not care what you look like. I want you to look me in the eyes while you make love to me. Please? For me? “ you do your best pleading eyes, your bottom lip sticking out a bit. Reluctantly letting go, his hands drop to your shoulders, running them up and down your neck, huge hands wrapping around it effortlessly, but he was ever so gentle.

The metal of his visor was artificially warm from the machinery inside of it, your hands shakily lift it off of his head.

His face is the same purplish pale color his skin is, his eyes are a sharp yellow, spotted with deep red. He's clearly an older man, with his hairline receding into his mangy hair, his skin wrinkled and cracked. He has a bigger nose, thick brows, a round face, with small red marks on his skin from where his visor sat. He wasn't unattractive; something deep inside you made you.. attracted to him. He was an old, perverted man who had you on your back.

He looked a bit embarrassed, his cold demeanor turning a bit flustered, he obviously not a fan of his own looks. But god you could help but be attracted to him. You tilted your face up and took the shot, pressing your lips against his again. He pauses, and stills. After a moment you pull away, your cheeks turning a deep pink. He was looking down at you, his eyes heated, needy.

He ducked down again, capturing your lips with his again. This time the kiss is wet, sloppy even. He's needy as he slithers his forked tongue into your mouth, allowing yours to press against his. His big hands creepy down to engulf your breasts, he pulled away to gaze down at them, fingers rubbing your nipples gently.

“ Perfection. "He states, “ You will be perfect, you're the next step to human evolution. Your body.. It's optimal in every way possible. “ he praises you clinically, “ One day your body will take to my seed, and you will become a lovely mother. These pretty breasts will feed our children. My dear it will be two of us against the world, “ 

His head dips down, tongue flickering out to brush against your nipple, it sends shockwaves through your body, soft muffled noises coming from him. He was enjoying this just as much as you were. Slimy, wet muscle swirled around your nipple as he engulfed it with his entire mouth, his chapped lips gently scratching the sensitive skin of your breast. Gently, he suckled, like mimicking a babe drinking from its mother. 

Big hands were placed at the side of your hips, rubbing a thumb up and down against your soft skin. He was so, so much bigger than you are. You can only imagine what's under his dress pants as he grinds his bulge against your thigh.

He pulls away from your chest, giving it a small kiss, muttering something inaudible, his fast words tripping over each other, interrupting himself with a flicker of his tongue.

When he returns to reality he tilts your head up. His eyes meet yours, and for a moment it's like the world slows to a stop. The only two things you can feel are your racing heart and throbbing pussy. His iris’ are a sharp yellow, pupils cut into slits, and the most captivating thing; his scleras were pitch black. You could see your own reflection in them, naked, sweating and panting. Holding his gaze feels almost overwhelming. The warmth seeping into your cheeks indicated you were blushing.

“ Forgive me, I am usually a patient man, but I can not wait for you anymore, “ he said, his voice dropping in octaves as he positioned himself almost laying on you. You wasted no time in stealing soft, sweet kisses from him, distracting him from his task at hand- taking his belt off.

When he finally unbuckles it he doesn't bother fully taking his dress pants off, he simply pulls them down. Too scared, or maybe too bashful to look down, you keep your eyes on him. His flaky, yet mesmerizing skin wrinkles as his eyes stay trained on your cunt. His skin almost glowed, it was dull, but his scars looked purple in certain lighting, he looked like his scars were simply cracks, and whatever had mutated him was slowly leaking its way out.

You’re pulled back into reality when you feel the head of his cock draggg down your slit. A gasp leaves your mouth without meaning too, drawing a deep chuckle from him. He slowly murmurs to you as he slowly pushes in.

When you feel him you finally gather the courage to look down. His cock is just as you had imagined (in which, yes you had imagined this before). It was big, bigger than a normal human’s would be, and it matches his skin tone, a bit darker around the head. You realized that the scar that ran down his chest actually didn't run down the middle of his cock as well, it stopped a few inches above it.

His hips gut forwards as he thrusts into you, immediately filling you up, before pausing for you. It feels like a sharp, throbbing pain, but also it was delicious. He barely gives you time to adjust as he fills you up, up, up.. 

When he finally bottoms out it's intense, for the both of you it seems. For you, it's pain and pleasure all at once. He rubbed up against you fucking perfectly, it was the best feeling you’ve evee felt. The pain edged you on, like aggressively scratching a bug itch; it hurts, and it won't feel good later, but at the moment it satisfies you fully. For him? You obviously cannot tell how he feels but his face at the moment is very expressive. His eyebrows are knit tight, his eyes closed tightly, biting his bottom lip oh so slightly. It was strange, you had never seen him so expressive before.

He pulls out once, and gently rocks his hips, pushing back deep into you. You moan, you cant help yourself, it feels so fucking good. He does it again, and again, and again and again, and he speeds up.

Hes properly fucking you now, you can feel the slow drag of his thick cock against your walls, your arousal had leaked, covering the inside of your thighs in a way that would usually make you cringe,  but right now you couldnt physically care. 

It felt heavenly, like something you’ve never experienced before. Sure you have had a handful of sexual experiences, but nothing like this. Nothing like him

Because it felt like more than sex. He had passion, pure passion, deranged passion. He's obsessed, delusional- but is it delusional when it's reciprocated? You hadn’t denied him, you had no right to criticize yourself, especially not when he was rearranging your insides.

“ God– Victor… oh god, “ you whimpered pathetically. You pretend you dont hear your own whimpers, too embarrassed to care as he fucked into you. He simply grunted in response, bending down to press his body against yours, pinning you down underneath him on the mattress. You couldn't escape now. Not that you wanted too. His skin is cold, eerily cold, it makes you shiver when he presses against you. 

“ My- oh my love- you must forgive me. I have not indulged in human pleasures of this sort in- hnng years.. I will not last much longer, “ he apologizes quietly groaning as he speeds up, using his thick fingers to rub soft little circles on your clit, trying his best to stay in rhythm as he fucks you. 

 “ dont- dont apologize to me Victor, im.. im sure i wont last long either-.. “ you sigh in pleasure. everytime he thrusts into you it's a warm pleasure that spills into you. And just like that, his thrusts speed up, erratic and uneven, and his thumb speeds up. He rubs and rubs and rubs and  it drives you crazy.

Your body feels like it's been struck by lightning as you cum, intense waves washing over you as you feel him follow suit. His cum is thick, and there's almost an uncomfortable amount. When he pulls out it slowly gushes out of you and you can feel yourself physically cringing.

Silence follows the both of you, neither of you speaking up besides from deep pants. He's the one to pull away, lifting his head to gaze down at where the two of you are still connected. His hand glides down your stomach, before using his middle finger to penetrate your folds, gathering his cum on his thick finger and pushing it back in. 

“ I've waited a long time for this, I'm not letting it go to waste. “ he asserts softly. His tone is gentler, and sweeter. A side you’ve never seen from the doctor before this strange incident. He slowly rolls you over so you're in the middle of the bed, head resting on the pillows. He silently cleans you up, wiping your sticky thighs down methodically.

“ Would you like some clothes to sleep in? “ he offered, and you realized that yeah you probably would. Your sweaty body pressed against his mattresses wasn't exactly the most comfortable feeling. He dressed you in panties and what looked to be an old undershirt of his, considering the size of it.

The room goes quiet as you can already feel yourself begin to nod off, your eyes closing without telling them too, and your head lolling back onto the pillow. 

After who knows how long you feel the bed dip, and a thin blanket is pulled over you. When you open your eyes you meet Victors. They're tired, but at the same time it's the most flattering look you’ve ever received. He looked happy, content even. He leaned in to kiss your lips gently.

“ Goodnight my love, we shall bathe you in the morning after breakfast. I'm sure we have many, many things to get done in the coming weeks so, I wish to get you acclimated to my home, “ he states as he moves closer to you. He's in a similar undershirt, and a pair of thick pants. “ I love you. “

That catches you off guard, but in a pleasant way. You tilt your head to look at him and snuggle closer, “ I love you too, Victor,”

“…..” he tilted his head, split tongue flicking out slightly to taste the air. He couldn’t help but grin as you shifted in Your sleep, his eyes locking onto the arch of Your back as you stretched before settling down again.

“Beautiful…” He rumbled, kneeling down to get a closer look. Each breath, each little twitch had him watching in open fascination.

Victor reached up to carefully brush some hair away from your face, a shudder running through him. You were so warm, so alive under his touch. The scent of you, the feeling…

He knelt down by Your bed, Still towering over you. He laughed softly, in awe. You were still asleep, still helpless, still unable to say no to him.

“I’ve missed you, my dear.” Victor cooed softly, pressing his nose against the crook of your neck. “It’s been so so long….” He shuddered as he huffed Your scent.

You squirmed and he grinned, a wicked curve of his lips pressed against your armpit.

“…d.. Dr. Gideon?” You rasped, attempting to sit up. He quickly pinned you back down, his giant hand wrapping around your throat.

“Shhhh…. Shhhh….” He smiled, not yet squeezing, but just… guiding you back down.

His gaze softened under the visor as he saw how quickly you submitted. You were his favorite, a star patient, such a good little pet.

“Don’t move…” he rasped, “I just need to give you a quick checkup…”

His hand moved down Your side, tugging up your sleep shirt. His hand rested on your tummy, kneading. Nice and soft…

When you don’t protest, don’t start crying and squirming like the others, it emboldens him. He gently pulls it up and off, leaning down to press his head against your chest.

Your heart is beating so fast…

“How cute….” He chuckled, his fingers ghosting past Your thighs. “You truly are such a precious thing, you know.. always so… reactive.”

You lifted your hips up, allowing him to tug down your sleep shorts past your thighs. “Mmm… Dr. Gideon…”

“Shhhh….” He pressed a gentle kiss to your cheek, chuckling as you blushed. “You’re eager, arent you?” He teased, his fingers teasing over Your entrance.

“My good little patient…” he grabbed your face, squishing your cheeks between his thick fingers. “Youre my favorite, sweetheart… I do hope you know that.”

He kissed you. His mouth tasted odd, but you let him lap at the inside of your mouth anyways. The feeling of his golden-covered teeth knocking against your own making you squirm.

His split tongue flicked against yours, drawing a strangled gasp as his fingers slowly curled against your entrance, slowly pushing in.

“-!!” You gasped and pulled back, a strangle little mewl leaving your lips. This earned a low, indulgent chuckle from the man above you.

He looked so smug, grinning down at you. Victor tilted his head, his pupils scanning over your face, drinking in every reaction as he spread you open.

“There we go…” he crooned, chuckling as you whine and squirm under him. “My darling… does that feel good?” He teased, forcing the pads of his fingers against your sweet spot.

You keened, eyes fluttering and hips bucking as he carefully worked you open. His fingers felt so big inside you.

Though… he was just a suffocating presence all by himself. Something about how the doctor carried himself, the way he commanded the room, commanded you.

It made it all too easy to just give in, to spread your legs wider as he loomed over you like some night terror given flesh.

“You’re… oh, my dear, how you haunt me.” He purred, pulling his fingers out and bringing them up to his mouth. You could only watch in flustered silence as he licked your essence off the thick digits, his split tongue curling around them. “I have missed you… missed your body..”

He slowly undid his belt, each clink of metal against metal making something inside you pulse and twist.

“You were only gone for a few days…” you couldnt help but tease, and you were rewarded with a deep, rumbling chuckle.

“And those days were torture…” His cock thwapped out as he pulled down his zipper, the thick shaft standing painfully erect.

It was big. Of course it was big. Just like the rest of him— a solid 9 inches, thicker than your wrist, the only reason you could take it was because he had trained you to.

The stretch of his cock entering you made you gasp.

“Shit-!!”

He held you down with ease, his hand spanning across your chest. “Shhh….” He smiled as he felt your thundering heartbeat. “It’s alright, my dear…. You’ve taken me before, you can take me again….”

He rolled his hips slowly, forcing a low, keening whimper from your lips. It felt like he was in your lungs, stirring up your guts.

Victor loomed over Your impaled form, his face mere inches from yours. He smelled like antiseptics and blood. It was a smell that haunted you, following your every waking moment.

Victor tilted your hips up, forcing his cock deeper. “Mmhh… fuck…” he nuzzled into your temple and inhaled. “You’re lovely… perfect… you’re going to stay with me forever, arent you?” He prompted sweetly, and you nodded.

“Y—- yes-! Yes, Dr. Gideon—!” You gasped, eyes fluttering as the head of his cock bullied against your sweet spot. “Nnn- g— never leaving you!” You babble helplessly, legs wrapping around his waist.

The growl he let out had your stomach twisting, a whining keen escaping you as you came. Victor was close behind, pinning you beneath his massive weight as his cock pulsed inside you, cum filling you up until your tummy swelled.