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Belle’s 3k follower extravaganza!!
ft. andrew 'pope' cody, 'robby' robinavitch, logan howlett, clark kent, peter parker, sammy bryant, poly!ghostface, & titus danforth
Overview: The Danforths like to play a little game with their new brides. They just didn’t know you were playing one of your own.
Mdni 18+ (relatively vanilla p in v, more so wanted to get a scene of mutual desperation/passion)
wc: 9.5k
He doesn’t remember you; you made sure of that. He doesn’t know what your old name used to be or who you were. He only sees what you want him to see. The perfect girlfriend, the doting fiancé. He doesn’t understand that this game you play is all too similar to his own.
The dress wasn’t your choice. Nor was the location or the food, nor the color scheme. None of this was what you had wanted. It was all for Titus’s family. That’s the price to be paid for marrying into generational wealth, you suppose. Traditions must be adhered to, and the eldest of the family must be obeyed.
His aging father had told you that this was non-negotiable. You had asked if signing a pre-nup might change his mind about your wedding. He had just laughed and told you divorce wasn’t an option with the Danforths.
You knew that going into this. The Danforths are no clean-cut American family. But it had still given you a moment’s pause. You love Titus more than you thought you would.
But the prospect of having to find alternate escapes from the family was worrying. Surely the man was just old, preaching outdated opinions about the sanctity of marriage. It’s not like anyone could truly stop you.
Ursula had asked why you were so bothered by it, anyway. Marriage happens because two people are delusional enough to think that they’ll be together forever. That had shut you up for a while. Sometimes, though, that conversation lingers in the back of your head.
Like now, as you’re donned in the dress a hundred other Danforth women before you have worn. A dress she might have worn.
You look through the arched windows of their manor at the venue below and see servants bustling about. There’s a knock on your door, and the maid behind you buttons the last bit of your dress before going to answer. You don’t have to turn to know who it is as she opens the door. It’s been nearly a day since Titus last spoke with you, and you’re sure he’s been going stir crazy.
“Leave us.”
“But, sir-”
“Do I really need to repeat myself?”
You finally turn, letting out a weary sigh as the poor girl flinches back. “Don’t scare her. You’re the one breaking tradition, after all.”
His shoulders visibly relax at the sound of your voice. The maid makes the wise decision to slip past him rather than argue further. You step down from the stool she’d had you on and eagerly rush toward him. He’s got even less patience than you, reaching forward and snagging your waist, dragging you into his chest.
You let out an airy laugh, hands wrapping around the lapels of his suit. “Missed me that much, hm?” He tenses up and you frown, glancing up at him. “What is it?”
Titus’s gaze is distant, eyes cloudy with something you can’t quite place. He finally looks down at you, face softening and lips turning up. “You’re going to do great tonight.”
Your brows furrow as you let out a confused laugh. “I hope so. I’m not really sure how I could screw up my own vows.” His lips purse, like he wants to correct you. But he stays quiet. “Is everything alright, sweetheart?”
“And what are you doing here?” You jump, head thumping into his chest as Ursula breaks up the tense moment. She lingers in the doorway, a pointed look directed at her brother.
Titus’s hands squeeze once around your waist before he backs off. “I’m not allowed to speak with my future wife?”
A smile slips unbidden onto your face. You’re still getting used to the thought of being the next Mrs. Danforth. Ursula’s gaze cuts to you, her shoulders tense as she takes in your giddy demeanor. “It’s against tradition.”
“Oh, I don’t believe in that silly stuff,” you tell her.
“Not your tradition, honey. It’s a Danforth thing. Titus.” Her voice is firm; there's no room for arguments. He gives you a lingering stare before following her out of the room.
Ursula isn’t the worst sister-in-law you could have. She’s cold and distant with you, but you prefer that to being overbearing and constantly accusing you of being a gold digger. As half his family likes to do. If you were in it for the money, there were plenty of easier rich men you could have gone after. You want something else from the Danforths. Loving Titus just happened to be a pleasant change in plans.
Ursula keeps pulling you aside. Asking if you’re completely sure you want to be with him. You know that if you told Titus about her constant questioning, he’d be beyond upset. Which is the only reason you’ve kept it to yourself. But you’d be lying if you said she wasn’t the reason you were so riddled with anxiety today. It’s not so much about marrying him as about forever being connected to his family.
Poor or rich, though, in-laws will always be a pain in the ass.
“I do.”
“I do.”
The entire wedding is a blur. From being led down the aisle to saying your vows. There’s only here and now. The heavy weight of the Danforth family ring on your left finger as you hold Titus’s hand. You think the priest says something about kissing the bride. But you’re not listening. The only thing you can focus on is your husband.
He’s got that wild look in his eyes, eager and ready to devour you. The priest barely finishes what he’s saying before Titus cups your cheeks and drags you into him. Your lips part in surprise against his as he kisses you in a way that pushes the boundaries of propriety. But as Titus's hand drops to cup the back of your neck, you’re sure you’re the only one worried about that.
Your arms wind around his neck, a quiet moan slipping from your lips as he kisses you with a fervent desire bordering on desperation. His ring is on your finger. You’ve officially taken his last name, and you can’t understand this anxiety coming off him. Surely he can’t lack that much faith in you.
“Titus,” you whisper, trying to get a breath in for a moment. He pauses, eyes cloudy as he stares down at you. “Save it for the honeymoon,” you laugh, but he doesn’t join you. His hands flex around you once, twice, before you’re letting out a short squeal as he lifts you off your feet. He does it with ease, hardly breaking a sweat as he marches you back down the aisle.
Ursula shoots him a knowing look, rolling her eyes as you pass by. You can’t help but laugh, holding tight to him as you glance over his shoulder. But the guests don’t look happy that the ceremony is over and it's time for the reception. They don’t seem particularly enthused about you joining the family, either. Instead, they stand, staring at you and whispering amongst themselves with hungry looks on their faces.
You swallow roughly, forcing your gaze off them. “Where are you taking me?” you demand, frowning as you realize he’s heading back inside the manor. The reception’s meant to take place in the main courtyard.
His eyes flit down to you before there’s a small smirk on his lips. “I want a moment alone with my wife. Is that so wrong?”
You struggle to subdue the smile on your face. “We have a reception to get to.” You’re not exactly eager to go back out there with his vicious family members. But they’re going to know exactly what the two of you are getting up to.
He scoffs, as if he heard your thoughts. “Don’t give a shit about them, alright, sweetheart. They’re having their fun. Let's have ours,” he says, setting you down in front of one of the many bedroom doors. Titus shoots you a wink, opening it and pressing his palm to your lower back, ushering you in.
You should resist; try to remake your first impression with his family. But… fuck ‘em. This isn’t the wedding you wanted. This isn’t the house you wanted. You’re going to let yourself have a little fun today.
You lace your fingers with his, dragging him inside after you. He barely pays enough attention to kick the door shut behind him. You let out a quiet giggle at his excitement, but it’s quickly cut off by him dragging you into another kiss. He always leaves you feeling wrecked. Like you’ve been hit with a sudden fervor, a passion ignites within you that no one else has ever brought forth.
Your hand wraps around his suit, struggling with the buttons as you drag it down his arms. He lets out a low chuckle at your own eagerness. You suppose you’re perfect for each other. Both so pathetic and desperate to be naked and within each other’s arms at all times.
His hands struggle with the complicated buttons on the back of your dress. A short gasp leaves you as he breaks away, whipping you around. He tries for a moment to preserve the dress, and then you hear a very loud rip as he tosses away the idea of preservation.
“Titus!” You scold, hands coming up to try to catch the dress before it falls to the floor. It’s pointless, though. The heirloom has been thoroughly destroyed. “You know they’re going to blame me for that,” you hiss.
Though when you glare over your shoulder at him, it’s hard to remember why you were mad. He’s got a cocky smirk on his face as he shrugs, shoving the dress down your body. “I’ll take care of it,” he swears, his voice husky with the promise of a dozen other things. The dress is the last thing on his mind.
Your lips tilt up, and you wind your arms around his neck once more. Rough hands skate down the backs of your thighs until he’s lifting you, leading you both back to the bed. You work eagerly on untucking his shirt, nails scratching greedily down his muscled chest. “How’d I get so lucky?” You wonder as he drops you down on the bed.
He offers you a sly grin, quickly undoing his belt as you help him push his pants down. “Think I’m supposed to be asking you that, Mrs. Danforth.”
“Mm,” you hum, “I’m not going to get used to the sound of that.”
He pauses, expression turning serious. “You will,” he swears, closer to a demand, really.
Your brows furrow, some of your excitement dimming as you cup his cheek. “Of course,” you mutter, frowning as he leans into your touch. He’s usually eager for affection, but something is off.
He doesn’t let you linger on the thought for long. He drags you down until your pelvis is flush with his and you can feel just how much your new name excites him. He reaches down to peel off your underwear, only to let out a low groan when he realizes you hadn’t bothered with any.
He shoots you a sharp look that you only grin at. “What? I thought it would be a nice surprise for the garter toss,” he lets out another groan, face falling into your neck as you laugh. It turns into a deep moan as his fingers skate across your center, your want quickly coating them.
That desperate urgency burning beneath his skin enthuses your own. Your hips jolt up impatiently, legs flexing around his hips as you let out an impatient groan. “Titus,” you whisper, lips skating across his jaw as he teases you. “Please.” You’ve barely finished the word before his touch disappears.
You’re tempted to complain before you catch him pushing down his boxers, movements quick and desperate as he works to free himself. You would tease him if you weren’t so riled up yourself. How tonight goes is a coin toss, no matter how hard you worked to prepare yourself. Who knows? They might need this dress in another few months for the next Mrs. Danforth.
The thought burns at you, bites beneath your skin, and sends white-hot rage boiling through your body. Another woman in this bed, with her legs wrapped around the man you were never supposed to want. Your nails dig into Titus’s back, earning a sharp hiss just as he inches himself inside you.
Something on your face must give away some of your inner turmoil. His brows turn in as his hand clasps the back of your neck, and he drags you into another desperate kiss. A keening whine passes between your lips as his free arm props your knee over his elbow, somehow burying himself deeper inside you.
“God,” you moan, finding it hard to catch your breath. “Don’t stop,” you whisper, your body thrumming with pleasure only he knows how to give.
He’s more intense than any man you’ve ever been with. Each time with him feels like a recoupling of your souls. But this is different.
His hand slips from the back of your neck, resting over the hollow of your throat as his thumb presses into your pulse. He’s pressing himself deeper inside you, as if he’s trying to merge you into one being. One soul that can’t be split. As endearing as such a desperate desire is, there’s a gnawing worry in the back of your mind.
He’s acting like this will be your last time together. As if this one moment is all he’ll have to remember you by. Your hands come up, clawing down his back at a particularly deep thrust. The moan it lurches from you only makes his grip tighten.
This is not the end.
You’re so distracted by the feeling of him over you, inside you, consuming you, that you can’t pay attention to your own worry. That fire is building, spreading; you don’t want to be put out. You want to ignite and burn with him.
Your pleasure crests as you let out a husky moan, legs tightening around his hips as you lazily meet each one of his thrusts. He loses his rhythm after a moment, lips lazing across your cheek and down your neck. Again, he lingers at your pulse, teeth digging slightly into the sensitive skin.
You jolt, back arching as the pain makes pleasure throb in your already sated core. His hips stutter before you can feel warmth spilling into you. That fire sparks, ignites, and then shudders as you both lie there, chests heaving.
Your fingers drag up his back, feeling him shiver at the light touch. They find their way into his hair, scratching through the loose curls. You can’t help but smile at the way he sinks into your touch, practically melting into you.
“We should stay here,” he whispers.
Your eyes narrow, hands stilling as you try to push him back. He’s stubborn, face pressed firmly into your neck a moment longer before obeying. “I was promised cake,” you mutter, smiling slightly.
He chuckles, knowing that you hadn’t even been able to choose that for your wedding. “How about this… You stay here with me, and I'll get you whatever cake you want tomorrow. The actual flavor you wanted.”
You really should go back out there. Actually attend the reception of your own wedding. But you doubt you’re capable of walking right now, much less entertaining polite conversation with his horrific family. “Deal,” you whisper, dragging him down into another kiss.
Something stirs between your legs, and you let out a low groan. “How is that even possible?”
“Look what you do to me, Mrs. Danforth,” he smirks, getting comfortable between your legs once more. You’d push him away if you didn’t like the sound of that name so much.
Your head is on Titus’s chest when you hear it, a strange bell tolling in the distance. Your body goes still, the noise reminding you of why you ever came back here.
“What’s that?” You play at confusion, bleary eyes opening as you turn toward the window. His hand tightens around your shoulder, breath stalling beneath your ear. “Titus?” You frown, glancing up at him.
He’s not looking at you, gaze drifting somewhere beyond you. There’s a knock at the door before you can press further. Titus’s eyes fall shut before he shifts you away, getting up to answer. Ursula stands in the doorway, backlit by the candelabra of the old estate. You frown, lifting the covers to obscure the thin nightgown you’re wearing.
“It’s time.” She glances toward Titus before taking a step inside.
“Time?” you ask, gaze darting between the twins. “Time for what? I’m pretty sure we already missed the reception,” you try to laugh, but it trails off at their grim expressions. Something inside you coils tight.
You’ve been waiting for this.
Ursula beckons you forward, but Titus steps up. Your brows turn in as you glance over at him. His expression is pinched. Bound by the oaths and secrets of his family, but his love for you is holding him back. You slowly get out of bed, waiting for him to do something, but he stands frozen between you and his sister.
“Titus?” you try, almost wondering if he really would break tradition.
He turns toward you, mouth opening, and something sharp on his face. “Enough,” Ursula butts in, eyes wide as she watches her brother. “There’s something I need to show you. It’s a tradition of sorts in our family,” she explains, but her gaze never wavers from her brother.
Your husband, who is caught between loyalty and devotion.
You squeeze his hand as you pass by, offering a confused smile. He buys into the act, a shaky breath leaving him as he steps back. “Is everything okay?” You ask, your voice pitched to sell the naivety they’re eager for.
“Ignore him; his nerves seem to be getting the best of him,” Ursula cuts in. Her smile is wide, too tight at the edges to be anything real. But you pretend, playing into the role they’ve come to expect from you. You follow her from Titus’s room.
You’re only a few steps away when you hear footsteps behind you. Glancing over your shoulder, you see the male members of Titus’s family storming into the room. They push him back from the doorway, slamming the door closed behind them so he can’t follow you and Ursula.
A part of you hopes he truly would have broken the rules for you. Not that they would ever let him go without some blood spilled.
“Wherever we’re going, I’m sure I’m not dressed for it,” you joke, motioning down at the white, silk nightgown that barely brushes your knees. Ursula hums, and you glance over at her. Her shoulders are tense, expression painfully pinched. If you didn’t know her any better, you’d almost think she was regretful. You’re not sure a Danforth is capable of remorse.
“You’ll be fine,” she tells you coolly. “I only wanted to show you something.” She leads you through the winding halls until you reach one covered in portraits.
People dressed in suits and wedding gowns decorate the paintings on the wall. Each expression is grim and haunted. “There is a tradition in our family. One we’ve held for hundreds of years. It’s an initiation of sorts into becoming a Danforth. The final test to prove your worth.”
“Oh? And suffering a wine-drunk aunt isn’t enough?” Ursula offers a pitying laugh but brushes past your comment. Dread and anticipation coil deeper the further you walk.
“Our family is a part of something special. We follow a man whom few others do, who has never led us wrong. Those who enter the family must also prove themselves to him. Some others who follow him like to simply play games with the brides.”
She stops in front of a portrait, and a woman with a gaunt and haunted face stares down at her. You recognize her from the pictures Titus so rarely shows you. Her mother had been gone for years before you’d ever stepped foot in this place.
“A few simply sacrifice their brides in the name of Le Bail.”
Your head whips towards her, attention ripped away from the painting. “Sacrifice?”
“None of that’s important.” She cuts you off, turning on her heel. Her expression is flat, but her eyes are narrowed into worried slits. “When the time comes, you need to run.”
“What-" You’re cut off as steps thud up behind you. An arm clamps its way around your throat before you can even turn. A sharp prick at the skin of your neck as cold liquid rushes through your veins, and you go limp in your attacker's arms.
You were eight the first time you set foot on the estate. A new job your mother had acquired, cleaning for the reclusive Danforths. You were nine by the time she’d fully charmed the eldest Danforth. And the wedding happened only a few days after your birthday.
There’s not much of the ceremony that you remember. You’d stood behind your mother on the altar. She hadn’t had any other friends to join her bridal party, and Chester Danforth hadn’t minded how close his new bride was to her daughter.
The twins had been sitting in the front row, each of them looking bored and eager to get the ceremony over with. You’d liked listening to the vows, not that you remember them anymore. You’d simply enjoyed the idea of a love so strong they were ready to bind themselves to each other for the rest of their lives.
You hadn’t yet discovered what divorce was. Better yet, you hardly knew what a betrayal was. After the reception, Chester and your mother led you and the twins up to the top floor of the estate.
“I want you kids to stay in here now; your new mother and I have some business to discuss.” Ursula had grimaced at Chester calling your mom her new one. But she’d said nothing, ever the perfect daughter. Titus had glared, but he rarely butted up.
Chester glared down at his children, disappointed in their lack of response. You had lingered awkwardly beside them, still such an outlier in their dynamic. “Titus, try to get to know your new sister.”
“She’s not my sister,” Titus had snapped, only a few years older than you. Chester was quick, too quick for any of you to stop him. His hand snapped out, striking Titus harshly across the cheek. Your mother flinched, eyes wide as she hung off the arm of her new husband. You’d tried to step forward, but she’d stopped you with a terrified look.
For a moment, the mask she’d been wearing slipped. You saw the fear in her eyes. For yourself or her, you’d never find out.
Titus went quiet, sulked to the back of the room as Chester set his eyes on you. You’d cowered, too afraid to meet his eye. With a satisfied hum, he’d taken your mother, and she’d left without a goodbye.
Ursula sank into an armchair, eyes fluttering closed. Titus simply crossed his arms, glaring through the window. It was only a few years' age difference between you all, but it was daunting nonetheless.
You’d sat on the carpet, too afraid to mess up their fancy couch and chairs. “When do I get to go home?” You’d asked, your voice quiet as you fiddled with a thread on your dress.
“This is your home,” Ursula had responded boredly.
“For now,” Titus snapped, glaring over at you. You gulped, refusing to meet his eye. You didn’t want this big place to be your home. You wanted to go back to the apartment and hide in your room. You didn’t like these people, and you didn’t like your new stepfather.
A bell tolled in the distance, and you jumped as laughter echoed through the halls. “What’s going on?”
“It’s a game the adults play,” Ursula told you, leafing through a book without actually reading anything. They’d left a dollhouse in the room for you to play with, but you were afraid of looking like a baby in front of the twins.
“Oh. Will I get to play?”
Ursula’s eyes shot up to meet yours, and you frowned at the concern in them. “I hope not.”
“I’m sure she’d do great,” Titus scoffed, throwing a mean glance your way. You were pretty sure that wasn’t actually a compliment.
It took another hour before you gave in and inched toward the dollhouse. You glanced over your shoulder, but neither of the twins was looking at you. Humming softly to yourself, you picked up the porcelain figures and danced them through the foyer of the ancient set.
A piercing scream echoed through the halls. It rattled through your bones and made tears burn in your eyes. You gasped, jumping up with a start. The doll slipped from your hands, cracking against the floor and shattering at your feet.
“What was that?”
Ursula’s brows raised, boredly glancing over at the door. She let out a heavy sigh but didn’t answer you. “Part of the game.” You jumped again as Titus’s voice echoed in your ear. Whipping around, you found him hovering just behind you, but his attention wasn’t focused on you. Rather, the porcelain doll was broken at your feet.
“Oh,” you let out a small gasp, dropping to your knees as you rushed to pick up the pieces. “I’m sorry,” you muttered, hissing when a shard slipped against your palm.
“Forget it,” he grunted, kneeling and offering you the handkerchief from his suit. You hesitated, hardly ever having gotten a nice word from him, let alone a peace offering. He waved it in your face, and you quickly took it.
“Thank you,” you whispered. He only stood up, going back to standing by the window. You pressed the handkerchief to your bleeding wound, grimacing as a stinging pain radiated through your palm.
A bell tolled off in the distance, and you frowned. Suddenly, the room’s door opened. Ursula shot up straight, eyes wide as she peered over at her father. He wore a grim expression that made her own face fall, her gaze going blank as she looked over at you.
Chester called your name, and you frowned. “Say goodbye to Titus and Ursula.” You didn’t want to. Something about his voice made your stomach twist. But you didn’t want him telling your mother you’d been bad.
Turning back to the twins, you offered a shaky smile. “Goodbye-”
Ursula didn’t so much as flinch, but Titus had grimaced, looking away as his father rushed up behind you and pressed a syringe to your neck. Neither had objected as he dragged you from the room and threw you into your new, lonely life, with only a small envelope of cash.
This is the second time in your life these fuckers have drugged you, and it’s starting to piss you off. You slowly lift your head, finding it heavy and aching. Your eyes blur and refocus as you struggle to take in your surroundings.
Mud and sticks press up against the sensitive flesh of your limbs. It takes a moment for you to realize they’ve dumped you in the forest bordering the estate. With a shaky sigh, you struggle onto your hands and knees. Sharp rocks bite into your hands as you push yourself up to stand on wobbling legs.
The blood rushes from your head, leaving you dizzy and stumbling as you try to rest against a tree. You’d never known how this works. Only got bits and pieces from drunken relatives with big mouths.
They aren’t supposed to tell you that your wedding night ends with your being hunted like a dog, of course. But they didn’t know that you were already aware of their little tradition. Of the long list of women who’d gone missing once they visited this haunted estate. You pieced together what you could from the stories they’d told without ever giving away too much.
Nowhere had you figured out that they drugged the women before they began slaughtering them. It seems unfair to expect a woman to prove she can survive a ruthless world when you begin by crippling her. But you doubt these people care for fairness if it comes at the expense of a good show.
You reach up, yanking leaves from your hair as you dig into the updo they’d done for you. Buried carefully is a slim, silver pin. You slide it free and, with unsteady hands, slip off the cap, revealing the sharpened blade within.
It’s barely larger than a letter opener. But you need whatever advantage you can get, and you were too afraid they would search you to try strapping on a knife.
Pushing away from the tree, something sharp stabs into the sole of your foot. Glancing down, you let out a weary sigh. It’s not enough that they drug you. They need to take your shoes too?
Do they even want you to survive? Or is this all one big joke to them?
Your chest clenches, thinking of Titus watching them do this to you. Watching them dump you in the woods to be shot at like a wild animal. Clenching your eyes shut, you shake your head. He chose his side; you knew this would happen.
It doesn’t matter where he is. You have one goal tonight, and it isn’t to survive. You want the blood you’re owed.
Steeling yourself for the pain, you make your way through the woods. You search out any landmarks or hints as to which side of the property they left you, but it’s too dark to see anything. The best you can do is keep your steps quiet and try to remain aware of your surroundings.
It takes a while more of walking before you hear them. Two loud-mouthed Danforth cousins complaining about their plans for later tonight. “How long do you think the hunt will take this time?”
“I don’t know,” one of them sighs. “Last time we got her in half an hour. I’m already getting fucking bored just standing out here.”
“I told you we should have started looking-”
His sentence ends in a choked gurgle as you sneak up behind him, slim blade slipping across his throat. The other man’s eyes widen as he chokes on his gasp, too shocked to reach for the gun strapped to his hip.
You grin as the body falls to the ground, bending down to pick up the shotgun he’d dropped. The other one finally reaches for his handgun, but you’re already standing up, double-barrel pointing right at his chest.
“Uh-uh,” you scold, motioning for him to put the gun down. He throws it into the leaves, and you let out an impatient huff. He whips his hands up in surrender, dropping to his knees before you can even tell him to.
“Where am I?” you demand, eyes flitting across the ground, trying to find the metal glint of a gun buried in the undergrowth. Asshole couldn’t have just handed it to you?
He grimaces and shakes his head. “I can’t say-”
The blast of the shotgun echoes through the trees, scaring a few owls from their branches. You would be worried about the noise if it weren’t for the much louder screeching in front of you. The cousin wriggles wildly on the ground, screaming and clutching his bleeding leg.
Just below his knee, his left leg is barely hanging on. The blast had been more potent than you’d expected, but it’s not like you needed him whole, just alive. “Now!” You demand, pushing closer.
“Okay!” he screams, bloody hands slipping across what’s left of his leg. “East courtyard! We’re in the East Courtyard! Please, I need-”
You ignore him, having finally spotted the gun he’d so carelessly tossed away. His cries of pain are silenced as you bury a bullet into his head. And one into the other man’s, just for good measure. Your eyes dart down to his boots, and a wicked idea runs through your head.
“You’re telling me she did this?” Ursula glares down at the bodies of Malcom and Brent. Two cousins whom Titus had cared nothing for. He hadn’t even known their names until some maid had rushed up to tell them their bodies had been found.
“Who else would have?” His aunt demands, tears streaming down her cheeks as she stares at her boy’s bodies.
“Nothing in the rules about killing family,” Titus reminds her, kneeling beside one of them. Malcolm or Brent, he doesn’t truly care.
Ursula shoots him a sharp look as their Aunt’s blubbering grows worse. He ignores her in favor of examining the wounds on the body. One bullet to the head- what the others assume he died from. But he knows that you were stripped of any weapons you might have held, anything that would have given you an advantage in the game.
It’s clear that you shot this one through the back of the head and the other straight to the face. He doesn’t know where you would have gotten the gun. His gaze narrows, and he finally sees the small slit against the throat.
The true cause of death.
You’d slit his throat with something and were trying to hide it. Why?
“I just don’t understand why she took their shoes?” His aunt cries, wiping her eyes vigorously. Titus’s eyes drop to the corpse’s bare feet, and he snorts.
“You took hers, didn’t you?” Both Ursula and his aunt shoot him sharp glares, but he’s in no mood to play at being nice tonight. He needs to find you before someone else does. No one would tell him where you’d been dropped off, likely anticipating what he was going to do. He’s been struggling to track you down since the game began.
“Titus,” Ursula mutters, nodding toward something in the dirt. He steps closer and sees fresh bootprints in the mud.
His aunt gasps and shoots forward. “That little bitch,” she hisses, pulling her gun from her hip and following your trail. Ursula follows behind her, but Titus hesitates. This is too easy. You’re too clever to have already stashed a weapon on you and killed two of his family to make such a simple mistake.
He knows it's a trap he’s walking into, but he follows his sister and aunt just so he might have a chance to see you.
The trail leads them all to a small clearing. Too much open space for him to feel comfortable. Ursula hesitates at the edge of the field, glancing around with a suspicious look. His aunt barrels forward, paying little mind to any danger around her.
“What the fuck?” She mutters, glancing down at the boots you’ve abandoned in the grass. Her head lifts just as a shot echoes through the trees. Titus’s head whips around, trying to find where you are. The bullet grazes his aunt’s throat, hitting just deep enough to nick her carotid, sending blood flying as she falls to her knees.
Her hands scramble along her throat, struggling to staunch the blood as she chokes on it. Ursula takes a foolish step forward, and then she falls to her knees. A loud groan rips from her chest as she clutches her right thigh. Right where you’ve just buried another bullet in her.
“Go get her!” She growls, slapping at Titus’s hand. He’s already moving, gaze locking onto a streak of movement further in the trees. He never knew you were such a good shot; it wasn’t information you’d offered up to him. Even on the rare occasion that he took you hunting, you always seemed to miss whatever animal you were aiming for. He had honestly been worried about how well you would be able to defend yourself tonight.
There seems to be more to you than you’d let on.
Your heart is pounding against your ribs, blood pumping painfully as you race through the woods. Boots too big for you slip up and down your ankles, only slowing you down as you try to outrace the predator hot on your tail.
You can’t hear him following behind you, his footsteps nearly silent as he tracks you down with ruthless efficiency. You should have shot him in that field. Ursula didn’t matter; you could take her down in hand-to-hand easily.
It should have been Titus you crippled. It should have been him you shot down, so he couldn’t come after you. If anyone could ruin your plans tonight, it’s him. But you were weak. You cowered at the thought of hurting him, and now he’s hunting you.
One moment of mercy- that’s all it takes.
A scream rips from you as something heavy barrels into your side. It’s cut off as your body slams against the ground, breath ripped from you in one violent yank as Titus straddles your hips. He clamps a hand around your mouth, eyes darting around the woods as you try to regain your bearings.
When he’s sure no one else is around, he slowly releases you, though he doesn’t allow you to stand. He keeps you pinned and completely at his mercy. His eyes are crazed as they assess you.
Futilely, you kick out, hands reaching up and scratching at any flesh you can find. You already know he won’t let you go, but you try anyway. “Enough,” he mutters, swatting your hands away like they’re nothing.
That must be all you are to him, for how quickly he turned against you. Nothing.
“Go on,” you goad, teeth bared as you glare up at him. “Do it.” This is a gamble, and one you want to be confident in but just can’t be. You don’t know how he would kill you or if he’s thought about it often.
A bullet would be quick. His hands wrapped around your throat would feel more personal, but it would hurt. Not just your death. But knowing he had loved you and could still look you in the eyes and slaughter you like an animal. This must have been how she felt when they’d killed her.
Something flashes across his face. Pained and disgusted as he stares down at you. You couldn’t have offended him. He’s the one pinning you down. He holds your life in his hands, not the other way around. But the way he’s looking at you, the gleam in his eyes, you’d never be able to guess the truth of the situation. His leash is in your hands. You should’ve known how to tug.
“Do what?” He snaps, eyes narrowed as his gaze roves over you. Still assessing, but now you can understand what for. He’s trying to see if someone else has gotten to you first. If you’re hurt in any way.
Maybe he really does care.
Or maybe he’s such a sadistic bastard that he wants to toy with you a bit first.
“Kill me,” you hiss out, hate and barbed hurt frothing at the corner of your lips. “That’s what this is all for, isn’t it?” You demand, throat closing as you choke back tears. This wasn’t meant to be so fast. You’d worked for years to get to this moment. And now…
You just pass all that work off and hand your life away because you were too weak to kill your husband when you had the chance.
“Did I mean anything to you?” You bite the words out, the truth too painful to realize as you stare up into his cold eyes.
Your mother had been here once. Pinned down by the man she was meant to spend the rest of her life with. Titus’s father had slaughtered her. Cut her down where she stood for the sake of tradition. You were a fool to think this was a fate you could escape.
His hands loosen around your wrist, face falling as he draws back. You wrench away from him, scrambling back from his hold as you surge to your feet. He remains where you left him, kneeling in the dirt as he stares up at you.
“You were going to let them kill me!” You accuse, biting back the disgust you feel looking down at him.
“No, never,” he bites out, gaze turning sharp. His hands reach out, linger in the air between you like he can’t decide if he should stay kneeling or pin you down again. “I was never going to let them hurt you.”
You hesitate for a moment, and you see how much it hurts him. Taking a step forward, his hands fly out, crumpling the ruined skirt of your nightgown in his palms. He drags himself forward, face buried in the silk as you let out a shuddering sigh.
“I was trying to protect you,” he insists. “But they wouldn’t tell me where you were. I didn’t even know if you were alive.”
Something in you snaps. The fight you’d been carrying disappears as you fall to your knees before him. He doesn’t let you feel the impact, touch greedy as he pulls you into his chest. You have no desire to escape him or his suffocating hold.
But that fire still burns for the man who started this all. The one who gave you a reason to get involved with the Danforths. And if you have to use Titus's warped sense of devotion to get to him, so be it.
“Why did you let them take me?” You whisper, hands cupping his cheeks. Your eyes narrow at how he sinks into your touch. How eager he is for forgiveness. Can you trust this devotion he holds for you over his loyalty to his own family? You’re not sure, but it's a gamble you’ll have to take.
The blood on your hands can’t be for nothing after how long you’ve waited.
“I,” his mouth opens and closes, but nothing comes out. No matter what, he doesn’t have a good enough excuse for his betrayal. Which works well in your favor.
You put a tremble in your voice; it's not hard to muster, but you lay it on as thick as you can. Your lips quiver as you stare up at him. Your voice is broken as you whisper, “Why’d you let them take me?”
Titus’s expression twitches; he flinches from the accusation. But there’s only so far he can run from the truth. “I was never going to let them hurt you,” he insists, gaze pleading.
“They already did,” you bite back, ripping your touch from him like he’s burned you.
They hadn’t. His ridiculous cousins hadn’t even gotten the chance to raise their weapons. He, however, doesn’t need to know that. What he needs to know is that you’re afraid, vulnerable. He has to want to protect you.
“I can fix this,” he insists, getting to his feet and trailing slowly behind you as you pace. “Let me help you. Let me keep you safe.”
You let out a sharp scoff, but there’s no true emotion behind it. This is all just another act, one part of a long play that’s meant to be coming to a close. “Why would I ever trust you, again?”
His hands reach out, snatching up your wrists as he whips you around to face him. It doesn’t hurt, but it's tight enough that you can’t slip free from him. Just as he opens his mouth to say something, or maybe declare his love again, voices echo through the forest. Your shoulders jolt as his gaze whips behind you both.
There’s a group coming toward you both. They’re stomping loudly through the underbrush, conversation vague and careless. They couldn’t care less if you hear them. They all just assume you’re easy prey. Even if you’ve already killed three of them. You’re almost tempted to take out your gun, show them what a true predator looks like.
But Titus’s hands are clamping around your shoulders, his expression severe as he surveys you. “If you keep heading north, you’ll reach the estate. I want you to go to the ballroom and wait for me.”
“What-“
“Wait for me,” he demands, his gaze already seeing that gnawing desire to run in your eyes. You glare at him, but he won’t budge.
“What are you going to do?”
Slowly, like it pains him to, he releases you. His hands slip off your shoulders, and he reaches behind his back. He untucks a gun from his belt and you frown. It wouldn’t have taken him much just to pull that on you. A part of you wants to hope that he really doesn't want you dead. But you can’t trust him and you certainly can't trust your own bleeding heart.
“There’s no rule against killing family,” is all he tells you as he backs away. You swallow roughly, slowly heading back through the trees. But you keep your eyes on where he disappeared and how easily he blended into the shadows.
Just as you begin to see lights flooding through the tree line, you hear it. Three gunshots and then a scream that rips through the night. You pause for a moment. Something wicked and warm fills your chest as you think of him hunting them down. For you.
Bursting through the forest, you find the mansion just as he’d instructed. You’re finally starting to gain a sense of where you are. Glancing over your shoulder, you check that no one’s following before running inside.
You have a decent enough idea where you are now. You run through the marble hall, stopping for a moment to shove off the too-large boots that you’d stolen. With a low sigh, you come to a stop before a grand staircase. There’s a door in front of you. Beyond it will be the ballroom. You can hide, cower as you wait for Titus to rescue you and get you through the rest of the night.
The thought is revolting to you. It’s easier, but you didn’t claw your way here just to give up right at the end. Your nails bite into your palms as you turn toward the stairs. You swore to yourself that the Danforth line will either be ended by or controlled by you. You won’t allow your sensitivity to hold you back anymore.
With a fortifying breath, you start up the stairs. You glance over your shoulder, ensuring no one’s followed behind you. Your heart stills, your body freezing as you hear the unmistakable sound of a hammer being drawn back. Swallowing roughly, you glance up. Just at the top of the stairs is one of Titus’s cousins.
Her hand trembles, gun shaking in her grip as she stares down at you with wide eyes. You’re about three steps away from her. Enough time for her to fire. You doubt she makes a good shot with the way the gun is shaking in her hand. But you don’t need to be a good shot when you’re this close. One bullet will be lethal.
You hold out your hands and she flinches, finger pressing loosely against the trigger. With a risky lunge, you leap forward, shoving her hands up just as she pulls the trigger. The shot rings out in your ear; it rattles through your brain and knocks you off balance as you try to shake off the ringing in your head. She lets out a noise of surprise, not hesitating as she leaps forward and shoves you back.
Your bare feet slip against the stairs, heart thudding against your chest as you feel the air rush up around you. Your stomach plummets as you’re knocked down the stairs. The first impact slams against your ribs, knocking the breath out of you as you go tumbling down the steps. You land on your side, your shoulder cracking beneath the weight of your body. Pain rips through you, slams up your spine and rips across your nerves as you struggle for breath.
Her footsteps pound above you, frantic and rushed as she aims her gun once more. Your face is smashed against the cold marble, lungs trembling as your eyes slam shut. The shot echoes through the foyer, rattles against your bones. But no more pain comes.
Risking one eye open, you peer up in time to see her head jerk back, her body dropping with a thud. Blood pools beneath her head and you let out a rattling breath. “Come on.” Calloused hands wrap around your arms, gentle as they stand you up.
“Titus,” you mutter, still delirious from the gunshots and pain. He stands behind you, the barrel of his gun still smoking at his side.
“What were you-“
You’re sure whatever he was about to say would turn you away from these stairs. Away from what you’ve worked so hard towards. But more voices echo through the halls. The gunshots were enough to draw the attention of anyone still in the estate. Titus’s head jerks in the direction of their voices and you use your one good arm to shove away from him.
They spot him as you rush up the stairs. They call out his name and gasp as they see the dead girl on the stairs. You clutch your limp arm to your chest, breath coming heavy and short. Your ribs are tight and aching. You’re certain you broke something falling. But you’re closer than you’ve ever been to having your revenge.
Swallowing down the pain, you race to the uppermost floor. To the room you know is housing the monster behind all your tormenting grief. You don’t knock or announce yourself, just throw the door open, teeth biting into your lip at the pain that shoots up your side.
The old man sits in his wheelchair, glaring out at the courtyard below from his window. He doesn’t even flinch as you barrel in. Just lets out a low sigh like you’re inconveniencing him just by existing.
You stand there, staring at the senior Danforth, gun held in your good hand. “Mr. Danforth,” you drawl, wrestling your breath back into shape as you let the door close behind you. “Do you remember me?”
He hums, head barely tilting over his shoulder. “I believe you just married my son. I’m honestly surprised you even made it this far.” He lets out a little huff. Probably mad that some cheap little orphan managed to marry his only male heir. To survive their twisted game this long.
”Do you remember her?” You ask, whispering your mother’s name as you draw the hammer of your gun back.
“Oh,” he finally turns his wheelchair toward you, a cruel sneer on his lips. “Lovely woman,” he mutters. “A shame she wasn’t strong enough to lead my family.”
Your eyes narrow, finger trembling around the trigger as you lift your arm. “She was plenty strong,” you hiss. “But how would she ever win when you drug her and drag her out into the woods? I’d hardly call that fair.”
He shrugs, steepling his fingers as he surveys you like you’re nothing more than a gnat flitting about his face. “Life isn’t fair.”
You point the gun at him, your eyes burning as you suck in a sharp breath. This is it. You end this here.
The door slams open behind you and you jump, gun dropping to your side. Titus crashes into the room, eyes crazed as he surveys you and his father. The smug look on Chester’s face falls as he rolls himself closer to his son.
“She tried to kill me, Titus. Finish the game, now!”
You back up as Titus stalks forward. Your heart sinks as he slowly reaches for the gun. Your grip goes lax around it as he backs you into a corner. Your spine hits the wall with a dull thud as you release a shuddering breath.
His hand grazes your waist, his other one taking the gun from you. “Do it,” you whisper. “Kill me.”
His eyes narrow and he shakes his head. Voice low, he asks, “Why would I do that?”
Your gaze dips to his father, but he’s watching you both with a peculiar expression. One you can’t read. “Because if you don’t kill me,” you bite out through clenched teeth. “Then I will kill your father.” You hesitate, biting your lip as the truth stumbles out. “For what he did to-“
“Your mother,” Titus finishes, almost looking amused.
“What?” You whisper.
At the same time, Titus’s father snaps, slamming his hand against the arm of his wheelchair. “Enough games, Titus. Be done with her!”
But your husband’s eyes don’t leave your own. He’s got you pressed up against the wall. His attention is solely focused on you as he offers a wayward grin. Something malicious lurks underneath it. “You think I don’t know who you are? Who your mother is?”
”How long have you known?” You whisper, eyes wide as they dart between him and his father.
“The whole time,” he answers, hand flexing around your waist. “I thought this was a game for you. I was waiting for you to make the first move.” His face dips forward, nose brushing against your jaw as his lips move softly against the sensitive skin. “You never did,” he wonders aloud, almost disappointed.
“Because I love you,” you insist, hand reaching up to cup his cheek. He lifts his head, forehead falling against yours. The cold barrel of the gun bites through your nightgown and you let out a low whimper.
“You or me?”
Your eyes flutter shut as you shake your head. “What?”
”Who pulls the trigger, sweetheart?”
Your eyes widen as you glance between him and his father. All this time, you’d been working toward this moment, always expecting it to be your last. Wasting your life to kill the man who’d murdered your mother and ruined what good was left inside you. You’d thought Titus to be a stepping stone, an obstacle in your path.
But this…
This is far sweeter than anything you could have dreamed up. It wouldn’t hurt the eldest Danforth at all to be killed by some nobody girl. But to have his heir in your hands, throwing away all loyalty to his father in exchange for a spot at your side… It was better than anything you could ask for.
“Please, Titus,” you whisper, eyes watery as you stare up at him. The hammer of the gun pulls back and you slowly release him. He steps away from you. The tears disappear as a smile pulls on your lips. You lean against the wall, broken and bloody, and watch as realization dawns on Chester Danforth’s face.
“Titus, what the hell are you doing? Throwing away your family for some whore-“ your shoulders jump to your ears as his head flips back, brains spraying along the walls. You knew it was coming, but still, Titus hadn’t even hesitated.
You look over at him, see the tight set of his jaw, the water lining his eyes. “Oh,” you croon, reaching for him. He turns, stalking toward you as a gasp rings out. You jolt forward, turning toward the door just as Ursula walks through.
Her hands tremble around her mouth, breath coming quick and pained as she takes in the dead body of her father. “What did you do?” She demands, voice cracking as she whips around on you. You don’t hesitate as you did earlier. Don’t let her get off easy with a shot to her leg.
You rip the gun from Titus’s hand and aim with your bad arm. This close, you don’t need great aim to knock her brain loose. Her body crumples to the floor as blood begins to pool around her body. The recoil knocks you back, and the gun clatters to the floor as you stumble back into the wall.
“Titus,” you whisper, stomach dropping as he stares at his dead sister. “I’m so sorry, Titus. She never would have let me live after that. I had to. For us-“
Your words are cut off as he grabs your arms, dragging you into his chest. You let out a gasp, but it’s swallowed by his lips as he kisses you. It’s fervent, violent and desperate as he shoves you against the wall, hands squeezing around your broken ribs.
You let out a pained whine, hands dragging up his shoulders and burying themselves in his hair. He groans into your open mouth as the bell rings out in the distance.
You’ve done it.
You’ve made it through the night. Now… The Danforth power, the riches, everything that makes them who they are. You hold it all in your hands. Their heir, their future- it's yours to command.
Overview: The Danforths like to play a little game with their new brides. They just didn’t know you were playing one of your own.
Mdni 18+ (relatively vanilla p in v, more so wanted to get a scene of mutual desperation/passion)
wc: 9.5k
He doesn’t remember you; you made sure of that. He doesn’t know what your old name used to be or who you were. He only sees what you want him to see. The perfect girlfriend, the doting fiancé. He doesn’t understand that this game you play is all too similar to his own.
The dress wasn’t your choice. Nor was the location or the food, nor the color scheme. None of this was what you had wanted. It was all for Titus’s family. That’s the price to be paid for marrying into generational wealth, you suppose. Traditions must be adhered to, and the eldest of the family must be obeyed.
His aging father had told you that this was non-negotiable. You had asked if signing a pre-nup might change his mind about your wedding. He had just laughed and told you divorce wasn’t an option with the Danforths.
You knew that going into this. The Danforths are no clean-cut American family. But it had still given you a moment’s pause. You love Titus more than you thought you would.
But the prospect of having to find alternate escapes from the family was worrying. Surely the man was just old, preaching outdated opinions about the sanctity of marriage. It’s not like anyone could truly stop you.
Ursula had asked why you were so bothered by it, anyway. Marriage happens because two people are delusional enough to think that they’ll be together forever. That had shut you up for a while. Sometimes, though, that conversation lingers in the back of your head.
Like now, as you’re donned in the dress a hundred other Danforth women before you have worn. A dress she might have worn.
You look through the arched windows of their manor at the venue below and see servants bustling about. There’s a knock on your door, and the maid behind you buttons the last bit of your dress before going to answer. You don’t have to turn to know who it is as she opens the door. It’s been nearly a day since Titus last spoke with you, and you’re sure he’s been going stir crazy.
“Leave us.”
“But, sir-”
“Do I really need to repeat myself?”
You finally turn, letting out a weary sigh as the poor girl flinches back. “Don’t scare her. You’re the one breaking tradition, after all.”
His shoulders visibly relax at the sound of your voice. The maid makes the wise decision to slip past him rather than argue further. You step down from the stool she’d had you on and eagerly rush toward him. He’s got even less patience than you, reaching forward and snagging your waist, dragging you into his chest.
You let out an airy laugh, hands wrapping around the lapels of his suit. “Missed me that much, hm?” He tenses up and you frown, glancing up at him. “What is it?”
Titus’s gaze is distant, eyes cloudy with something you can’t quite place. He finally looks down at you, face softening and lips turning up. “You’re going to do great tonight.”
Your brows furrow as you let out a confused laugh. “I hope so. I’m not really sure how I could screw up my own vows.” His lips purse, like he wants to correct you. But he stays quiet. “Is everything alright, sweetheart?”
“And what are you doing here?” You jump, head thumping into his chest as Ursula breaks up the tense moment. She lingers in the doorway, a pointed look directed at her brother.
Titus’s hands squeeze once around your waist before he backs off. “I’m not allowed to speak with my future wife?”
A smile slips unbidden onto your face. You’re still getting used to the thought of being the next Mrs. Danforth. Ursula’s gaze cuts to you, her shoulders tense as she takes in your giddy demeanor. “It’s against tradition.”
“Oh, I don’t believe in that silly stuff,” you tell her.
“Not your tradition, honey. It’s a Danforth thing. Titus.” Her voice is firm; there's no room for arguments. He gives you a lingering stare before following her out of the room.
Ursula isn’t the worst sister-in-law you could have. She’s cold and distant with you, but you prefer that to being overbearing and constantly accusing you of being a gold digger. As half his family likes to do. If you were in it for the money, there were plenty of easier rich men you could have gone after. You want something else from the Danforths. Loving Titus just happened to be a pleasant change in plans.
Ursula keeps pulling you aside. Asking if you’re completely sure you want to be with him. You know that if you told Titus about her constant questioning, he’d be beyond upset. Which is the only reason you’ve kept it to yourself. But you’d be lying if you said she wasn’t the reason you were so riddled with anxiety today. It’s not so much about marrying him as about forever being connected to his family.
Poor or rich, though, in-laws will always be a pain in the ass.
“I do.”
“I do.”
The entire wedding is a blur. From being led down the aisle to saying your vows. There’s only here and now. The heavy weight of the Danforth family ring on your left finger as you hold Titus’s hand. You think the priest says something about kissing the bride. But you’re not listening. The only thing you can focus on is your husband.
He’s got that wild look in his eyes, eager and ready to devour you. The priest barely finishes what he’s saying before Titus cups your cheeks and drags you into him. Your lips part in surprise against his as he kisses you in a way that pushes the boundaries of propriety. But as Titus's hand drops to cup the back of your neck, you’re sure you’re the only one worried about that.
Your arms wind around his neck, a quiet moan slipping from your lips as he kisses you with a fervent desire bordering on desperation. His ring is on your finger. You’ve officially taken his last name, and you can’t understand this anxiety coming off him. Surely he can’t lack that much faith in you.
“Titus,” you whisper, trying to get a breath in for a moment. He pauses, eyes cloudy as he stares down at you. “Save it for the honeymoon,” you laugh, but he doesn’t join you. His hands flex around you once, twice, before you’re letting out a short squeal as he lifts you off your feet. He does it with ease, hardly breaking a sweat as he marches you back down the aisle.
Ursula shoots him a knowing look, rolling her eyes as you pass by. You can’t help but laugh, holding tight to him as you glance over his shoulder. But the guests don’t look happy that the ceremony is over and it's time for the reception. They don’t seem particularly enthused about you joining the family, either. Instead, they stand, staring at you and whispering amongst themselves with hungry looks on their faces.
You swallow roughly, forcing your gaze off them. “Where are you taking me?” you demand, frowning as you realize he’s heading back inside the manor. The reception’s meant to take place in the main courtyard.
His eyes flit down to you before there’s a small smirk on his lips. “I want a moment alone with my wife. Is that so wrong?”
You struggle to subdue the smile on your face. “We have a reception to get to.” You’re not exactly eager to go back out there with his vicious family members. But they’re going to know exactly what the two of you are getting up to.
He scoffs, as if he heard your thoughts. “Don’t give a shit about them, alright, sweetheart. They’re having their fun. Let's have ours,” he says, setting you down in front of one of the many bedroom doors. Titus shoots you a wink, opening it and pressing his palm to your lower back, ushering you in.
You should resist; try to remake your first impression with his family. But… fuck ‘em. This isn’t the wedding you wanted. This isn’t the house you wanted. You’re going to let yourself have a little fun today.
You lace your fingers with his, dragging him inside after you. He barely pays enough attention to kick the door shut behind him. You let out a quiet giggle at his excitement, but it’s quickly cut off by him dragging you into another kiss. He always leaves you feeling wrecked. Like you’ve been hit with a sudden fervor, a passion ignites within you that no one else has ever brought forth.
Your hand wraps around his suit, struggling with the buttons as you drag it down his arms. He lets out a low chuckle at your own eagerness. You suppose you’re perfect for each other. Both so pathetic and desperate to be naked and within each other’s arms at all times.
His hands struggle with the complicated buttons on the back of your dress. A short gasp leaves you as he breaks away, whipping you around. He tries for a moment to preserve the dress, and then you hear a very loud rip as he tosses away the idea of preservation.
“Titus!” You scold, hands coming up to try to catch the dress before it falls to the floor. It’s pointless, though. The heirloom has been thoroughly destroyed. “You know they’re going to blame me for that,” you hiss.
Though when you glare over your shoulder at him, it’s hard to remember why you were mad. He’s got a cocky smirk on his face as he shrugs, shoving the dress down your body. “I’ll take care of it,” he swears, his voice husky with the promise of a dozen other things. The dress is the last thing on his mind.
Your lips tilt up, and you wind your arms around his neck once more. Rough hands skate down the backs of your thighs until he’s lifting you, leading you both back to the bed. You work eagerly on untucking his shirt, nails scratching greedily down his muscled chest. “How’d I get so lucky?” You wonder as he drops you down on the bed.
He offers you a sly grin, quickly undoing his belt as you help him push his pants down. “Think I’m supposed to be asking you that, Mrs. Danforth.”
“Mm,” you hum, “I’m not going to get used to the sound of that.”
He pauses, expression turning serious. “You will,” he swears, closer to a demand, really.
Your brows furrow, some of your excitement dimming as you cup his cheek. “Of course,” you mutter, frowning as he leans into your touch. He’s usually eager for affection, but something is off.
He doesn’t let you linger on the thought for long. He drags you down until your pelvis is flush with his and you can feel just how much your new name excites him. He reaches down to peel off your underwear, only to let out a low groan when he realizes you hadn’t bothered with any.
He shoots you a sharp look that you only grin at. “What? I thought it would be a nice surprise for the garter toss,” he lets out another groan, face falling into your neck as you laugh. It turns into a deep moan as his fingers skate across your center, your want quickly coating them.
That desperate urgency burning beneath his skin enthuses your own. Your hips jolt up impatiently, legs flexing around his hips as you let out an impatient groan. “Titus,” you whisper, lips skating across his jaw as he teases you. “Please.” You’ve barely finished the word before his touch disappears.
You’re tempted to complain before you catch him pushing down his boxers, movements quick and desperate as he works to free himself. You would tease him if you weren’t so riled up yourself. How tonight goes is a coin toss, no matter how hard you worked to prepare yourself. Who knows? They might need this dress in another few months for the next Mrs. Danforth.
The thought burns at you, bites beneath your skin, and sends white-hot rage boiling through your body. Another woman in this bed, with her legs wrapped around the man you were never supposed to want. Your nails dig into Titus’s back, earning a sharp hiss just as he inches himself inside you.
Something on your face must give away some of your inner turmoil. His brows turn in as his hand clasps the back of your neck, and he drags you into another desperate kiss. A keening whine passes between your lips as his free arm props your knee over his elbow, somehow burying himself deeper inside you.
“God,” you moan, finding it hard to catch your breath. “Don’t stop,” you whisper, your body thrumming with pleasure only he knows how to give.
He’s more intense than any man you’ve ever been with. Each time with him feels like a recoupling of your souls. But this is different.
His hand slips from the back of your neck, resting over the hollow of your throat as his thumb presses into your pulse. He’s pressing himself deeper inside you, as if he’s trying to merge you into one being. One soul that can’t be split. As endearing as such a desperate desire is, there’s a gnawing worry in the back of your mind.
He’s acting like this will be your last time together. As if this one moment is all he’ll have to remember you by. Your hands come up, clawing down his back at a particularly deep thrust. The moan it lurches from you only makes his grip tighten.
This is not the end.
You’re so distracted by the feeling of him over you, inside you, consuming you, that you can’t pay attention to your own worry. That fire is building, spreading; you don’t want to be put out. You want to ignite and burn with him.
Your pleasure crests as you let out a husky moan, legs tightening around his hips as you lazily meet each one of his thrusts. He loses his rhythm after a moment, lips lazing across your cheek and down your neck. Again, he lingers at your pulse, teeth digging slightly into the sensitive skin.
You jolt, back arching as the pain makes pleasure throb in your already sated core. His hips stutter before you can feel warmth spilling into you. That fire sparks, ignites, and then shudders as you both lie there, chests heaving.
Your fingers drag up his back, feeling him shiver at the light touch. They find their way into his hair, scratching through the loose curls. You can’t help but smile at the way he sinks into your touch, practically melting into you.
“We should stay here,” he whispers.
Your eyes narrow, hands stilling as you try to push him back. He’s stubborn, face pressed firmly into your neck a moment longer before obeying. “I was promised cake,” you mutter, smiling slightly.
He chuckles, knowing that you hadn’t even been able to choose that for your wedding. “How about this… You stay here with me, and I'll get you whatever cake you want tomorrow. The actual flavor you wanted.”
You really should go back out there. Actually attend the reception of your own wedding. But you doubt you’re capable of walking right now, much less entertaining polite conversation with his horrific family. “Deal,” you whisper, dragging him down into another kiss.
Something stirs between your legs, and you let out a low groan. “How is that even possible?”
“Look what you do to me, Mrs. Danforth,” he smirks, getting comfortable between your legs once more. You’d push him away if you didn’t like the sound of that name so much.
Your head is on Titus’s chest when you hear it, a strange bell tolling in the distance. Your body goes still, the noise reminding you of why you ever came back here.
“What’s that?” You play at confusion, bleary eyes opening as you turn toward the window. His hand tightens around your shoulder, breath stalling beneath your ear. “Titus?” You frown, glancing up at him.
He’s not looking at you, gaze drifting somewhere beyond you. There’s a knock at the door before you can press further. Titus’s eyes fall shut before he shifts you away, getting up to answer. Ursula stands in the doorway, backlit by the candelabra of the old estate. You frown, lifting the covers to obscure the thin nightgown you’re wearing.
“It’s time.” She glances toward Titus before taking a step inside.
“Time?” you ask, gaze darting between the twins. “Time for what? I’m pretty sure we already missed the reception,” you try to laugh, but it trails off at their grim expressions. Something inside you coils tight.
You’ve been waiting for this.
Ursula beckons you forward, but Titus steps up. Your brows turn in as you glance over at him. His expression is pinched. Bound by the oaths and secrets of his family, but his love for you is holding him back. You slowly get out of bed, waiting for him to do something, but he stands frozen between you and his sister.
“Titus?” you try, almost wondering if he really would break tradition.
He turns toward you, mouth opening, and something sharp on his face. “Enough,” Ursula butts in, eyes wide as she watches her brother. “There’s something I need to show you. It’s a tradition of sorts in our family,” she explains, but her gaze never wavers from her brother.
Your husband, who is caught between loyalty and devotion.
You squeeze his hand as you pass by, offering a confused smile. He buys into the act, a shaky breath leaving him as he steps back. “Is everything okay?” You ask, your voice pitched to sell the naivety they’re eager for.
“Ignore him; his nerves seem to be getting the best of him,” Ursula cuts in. Her smile is wide, too tight at the edges to be anything real. But you pretend, playing into the role they’ve come to expect from you. You follow her from Titus’s room.
You’re only a few steps away when you hear footsteps behind you. Glancing over your shoulder, you see the male members of Titus’s family storming into the room. They push him back from the doorway, slamming the door closed behind them so he can’t follow you and Ursula.
A part of you hopes he truly would have broken the rules for you. Not that they would ever let him go without some blood spilled.
“Wherever we’re going, I’m sure I’m not dressed for it,” you joke, motioning down at the white, silk nightgown that barely brushes your knees. Ursula hums, and you glance over at her. Her shoulders are tense, expression painfully pinched. If you didn’t know her any better, you’d almost think she was regretful. You’re not sure a Danforth is capable of remorse.
“You’ll be fine,” she tells you coolly. “I only wanted to show you something.” She leads you through the winding halls until you reach one covered in portraits.
People dressed in suits and wedding gowns decorate the paintings on the wall. Each expression is grim and haunted. “There is a tradition in our family. One we’ve held for hundreds of years. It’s an initiation of sorts into becoming a Danforth. The final test to prove your worth.”
“Oh? And suffering a wine-drunk aunt isn’t enough?” Ursula offers a pitying laugh but brushes past your comment. Dread and anticipation coil deeper the further you walk.
“Our family is a part of something special. We follow a man whom few others do, who has never led us wrong. Those who enter the family must also prove themselves to him. Some others who follow him like to simply play games with the brides.”
She stops in front of a portrait, and a woman with a gaunt and haunted face stares down at her. You recognize her from the pictures Titus so rarely shows you. Her mother had been gone for years before you’d ever stepped foot in this place.
“A few simply sacrifice their brides in the name of Le Bail.”
Your head whips towards her, attention ripped away from the painting. “Sacrifice?”
“None of that’s important.” She cuts you off, turning on her heel. Her expression is flat, but her eyes are narrowed into worried slits. “When the time comes, you need to run.”
“What-" You’re cut off as steps thud up behind you. An arm clamps its way around your throat before you can even turn. A sharp prick at the skin of your neck as cold liquid rushes through your veins, and you go limp in your attacker's arms.
You were eight the first time you set foot on the estate. A new job your mother had acquired, cleaning for the reclusive Danforths. You were nine by the time she’d fully charmed the eldest Danforth. And the wedding happened only a few days after your birthday.
There’s not much of the ceremony that you remember. You’d stood behind your mother on the altar. She hadn’t had any other friends to join her bridal party, and Chester Danforth hadn’t minded how close his new bride was to her daughter.
The twins had been sitting in the front row, each of them looking bored and eager to get the ceremony over with. You’d liked listening to the vows, not that you remember them anymore. You’d simply enjoyed the idea of a love so strong they were ready to bind themselves to each other for the rest of their lives.
You hadn’t yet discovered what divorce was. Better yet, you hardly knew what a betrayal was. After the reception, Chester and your mother led you and the twins up to the top floor of the estate.
“I want you kids to stay in here now; your new mother and I have some business to discuss.” Ursula had grimaced at Chester calling your mom her new one. But she’d said nothing, ever the perfect daughter. Titus had glared, but he rarely butted up.
Chester glared down at his children, disappointed in their lack of response. You had lingered awkwardly beside them, still such an outlier in their dynamic. “Titus, try to get to know your new sister.”
“She’s not my sister,” Titus had snapped, only a few years older than you. Chester was quick, too quick for any of you to stop him. His hand snapped out, striking Titus harshly across the cheek. Your mother flinched, eyes wide as she hung off the arm of her new husband. You’d tried to step forward, but she’d stopped you with a terrified look.
For a moment, the mask she’d been wearing slipped. You saw the fear in her eyes. For yourself or her, you’d never find out.
Titus went quiet, sulked to the back of the room as Chester set his eyes on you. You’d cowered, too afraid to meet his eye. With a satisfied hum, he’d taken your mother, and she’d left without a goodbye.
Ursula sank into an armchair, eyes fluttering closed. Titus simply crossed his arms, glaring through the window. It was only a few years' age difference between you all, but it was daunting nonetheless.
You’d sat on the carpet, too afraid to mess up their fancy couch and chairs. “When do I get to go home?” You’d asked, your voice quiet as you fiddled with a thread on your dress.
“This is your home,” Ursula had responded boredly.
“For now,” Titus snapped, glaring over at you. You gulped, refusing to meet his eye. You didn’t want this big place to be your home. You wanted to go back to the apartment and hide in your room. You didn’t like these people, and you didn’t like your new stepfather.
A bell tolled in the distance, and you jumped as laughter echoed through the halls. “What’s going on?”
“It’s a game the adults play,” Ursula told you, leafing through a book without actually reading anything. They’d left a dollhouse in the room for you to play with, but you were afraid of looking like a baby in front of the twins.
“Oh. Will I get to play?”
Ursula’s eyes shot up to meet yours, and you frowned at the concern in them. “I hope not.”
“I’m sure she’d do great,” Titus scoffed, throwing a mean glance your way. You were pretty sure that wasn’t actually a compliment.
It took another hour before you gave in and inched toward the dollhouse. You glanced over your shoulder, but neither of the twins was looking at you. Humming softly to yourself, you picked up the porcelain figures and danced them through the foyer of the ancient set.
A piercing scream echoed through the halls. It rattled through your bones and made tears burn in your eyes. You gasped, jumping up with a start. The doll slipped from your hands, cracking against the floor and shattering at your feet.
“What was that?”
Ursula’s brows raised, boredly glancing over at the door. She let out a heavy sigh but didn’t answer you. “Part of the game.” You jumped again as Titus’s voice echoed in your ear. Whipping around, you found him hovering just behind you, but his attention wasn’t focused on you. Rather, the porcelain doll was broken at your feet.
“Oh,” you let out a small gasp, dropping to your knees as you rushed to pick up the pieces. “I’m sorry,” you muttered, hissing when a shard slipped against your palm.
“Forget it,” he grunted, kneeling and offering you the handkerchief from his suit. You hesitated, hardly ever having gotten a nice word from him, let alone a peace offering. He waved it in your face, and you quickly took it.
“Thank you,” you whispered. He only stood up, going back to standing by the window. You pressed the handkerchief to your bleeding wound, grimacing as a stinging pain radiated through your palm.
A bell tolled off in the distance, and you frowned. Suddenly, the room’s door opened. Ursula shot up straight, eyes wide as she peered over at her father. He wore a grim expression that made her own face fall, her gaze going blank as she looked over at you.
Chester called your name, and you frowned. “Say goodbye to Titus and Ursula.” You didn’t want to. Something about his voice made your stomach twist. But you didn’t want him telling your mother you’d been bad.
Turning back to the twins, you offered a shaky smile. “Goodbye-”
Ursula didn’t so much as flinch, but Titus had grimaced, looking away as his father rushed up behind you and pressed a syringe to your neck. Neither had objected as he dragged you from the room and threw you into your new, lonely life, with only a small envelope of cash.
This is the second time in your life these fuckers have drugged you, and it’s starting to piss you off. You slowly lift your head, finding it heavy and aching. Your eyes blur and refocus as you struggle to take in your surroundings.
Mud and sticks press up against the sensitive flesh of your limbs. It takes a moment for you to realize they’ve dumped you in the forest bordering the estate. With a shaky sigh, you struggle onto your hands and knees. Sharp rocks bite into your hands as you push yourself up to stand on wobbling legs.
The blood rushes from your head, leaving you dizzy and stumbling as you try to rest against a tree. You’d never known how this works. Only got bits and pieces from drunken relatives with big mouths.
They aren’t supposed to tell you that your wedding night ends with your being hunted like a dog, of course. But they didn’t know that you were already aware of their little tradition. Of the long list of women who’d gone missing once they visited this haunted estate. You pieced together what you could from the stories they’d told without ever giving away too much.
Nowhere had you figured out that they drugged the women before they began slaughtering them. It seems unfair to expect a woman to prove she can survive a ruthless world when you begin by crippling her. But you doubt these people care for fairness if it comes at the expense of a good show.
You reach up, yanking leaves from your hair as you dig into the updo they’d done for you. Buried carefully is a slim, silver pin. You slide it free and, with unsteady hands, slip off the cap, revealing the sharpened blade within.
It’s barely larger than a letter opener. But you need whatever advantage you can get, and you were too afraid they would search you to try strapping on a knife.
Pushing away from the tree, something sharp stabs into the sole of your foot. Glancing down, you let out a weary sigh. It’s not enough that they drug you. They need to take your shoes too?
Do they even want you to survive? Or is this all one big joke to them?
Your chest clenches, thinking of Titus watching them do this to you. Watching them dump you in the woods to be shot at like a wild animal. Clenching your eyes shut, you shake your head. He chose his side; you knew this would happen.
It doesn’t matter where he is. You have one goal tonight, and it isn’t to survive. You want the blood you’re owed.
Steeling yourself for the pain, you make your way through the woods. You search out any landmarks or hints as to which side of the property they left you, but it’s too dark to see anything. The best you can do is keep your steps quiet and try to remain aware of your surroundings.
It takes a while more of walking before you hear them. Two loud-mouthed Danforth cousins complaining about their plans for later tonight. “How long do you think the hunt will take this time?”
“I don’t know,” one of them sighs. “Last time we got her in half an hour. I’m already getting fucking bored just standing out here.”
“I told you we should have started looking-”
His sentence ends in a choked gurgle as you sneak up behind him, slim blade slipping across his throat. The other man’s eyes widen as he chokes on his gasp, too shocked to reach for the gun strapped to his hip.
You grin as the body falls to the ground, bending down to pick up the shotgun he’d dropped. The other one finally reaches for his handgun, but you’re already standing up, double-barrel pointing right at his chest.
“Uh-uh,” you scold, motioning for him to put the gun down. He throws it into the leaves, and you let out an impatient huff. He whips his hands up in surrender, dropping to his knees before you can even tell him to.
“Where am I?” you demand, eyes flitting across the ground, trying to find the metal glint of a gun buried in the undergrowth. Asshole couldn’t have just handed it to you?
He grimaces and shakes his head. “I can’t say-”
The blast of the shotgun echoes through the trees, scaring a few owls from their branches. You would be worried about the noise if it weren’t for the much louder screeching in front of you. The cousin wriggles wildly on the ground, screaming and clutching his bleeding leg.
Just below his knee, his left leg is barely hanging on. The blast had been more potent than you’d expected, but it’s not like you needed him whole, just alive. “Now!” You demand, pushing closer.
“Okay!” he screams, bloody hands slipping across what’s left of his leg. “East courtyard! We’re in the East Courtyard! Please, I need-”
You ignore him, having finally spotted the gun he’d so carelessly tossed away. His cries of pain are silenced as you bury a bullet into his head. And one into the other man’s, just for good measure. Your eyes dart down to his boots, and a wicked idea runs through your head.
“You’re telling me she did this?” Ursula glares down at the bodies of Malcom and Brent. Two cousins whom Titus had cared nothing for. He hadn’t even known their names until some maid had rushed up to tell them their bodies had been found.
“Who else would have?” His aunt demands, tears streaming down her cheeks as she stares at her boy’s bodies.
“Nothing in the rules about killing family,” Titus reminds her, kneeling beside one of them. Malcolm or Brent, he doesn’t truly care.
Ursula shoots him a sharp look as their Aunt’s blubbering grows worse. He ignores her in favor of examining the wounds on the body. One bullet to the head- what the others assume he died from. But he knows that you were stripped of any weapons you might have held, anything that would have given you an advantage in the game.
It’s clear that you shot this one through the back of the head and the other straight to the face. He doesn’t know where you would have gotten the gun. His gaze narrows, and he finally sees the small slit against the throat.
The true cause of death.
You’d slit his throat with something and were trying to hide it. Why?
“I just don’t understand why she took their shoes?” His aunt cries, wiping her eyes vigorously. Titus’s eyes drop to the corpse’s bare feet, and he snorts.
“You took hers, didn’t you?” Both Ursula and his aunt shoot him sharp glares, but he’s in no mood to play at being nice tonight. He needs to find you before someone else does. No one would tell him where you’d been dropped off, likely anticipating what he was going to do. He’s been struggling to track you down since the game began.
“Titus,” Ursula mutters, nodding toward something in the dirt. He steps closer and sees fresh bootprints in the mud.
His aunt gasps and shoots forward. “That little bitch,” she hisses, pulling her gun from her hip and following your trail. Ursula follows behind her, but Titus hesitates. This is too easy. You’re too clever to have already stashed a weapon on you and killed two of his family to make such a simple mistake.
He knows it's a trap he’s walking into, but he follows his sister and aunt just so he might have a chance to see you.
The trail leads them all to a small clearing. Too much open space for him to feel comfortable. Ursula hesitates at the edge of the field, glancing around with a suspicious look. His aunt barrels forward, paying little mind to any danger around her.
“What the fuck?” She mutters, glancing down at the boots you’ve abandoned in the grass. Her head lifts just as a shot echoes through the trees. Titus’s head whips around, trying to find where you are. The bullet grazes his aunt’s throat, hitting just deep enough to nick her carotid, sending blood flying as she falls to her knees.
Her hands scramble along her throat, struggling to staunch the blood as she chokes on it. Ursula takes a foolish step forward, and then she falls to her knees. A loud groan rips from her chest as she clutches her right thigh. Right where you’ve just buried another bullet in her.
“Go get her!” She growls, slapping at Titus’s hand. He’s already moving, gaze locking onto a streak of movement further in the trees. He never knew you were such a good shot; it wasn’t information you’d offered up to him. Even on the rare occasion that he took you hunting, you always seemed to miss whatever animal you were aiming for. He had honestly been worried about how well you would be able to defend yourself tonight.
There seems to be more to you than you’d let on.
Your heart is pounding against your ribs, blood pumping painfully as you race through the woods. Boots too big for you slip up and down your ankles, only slowing you down as you try to outrace the predator hot on your tail.
You can’t hear him following behind you, his footsteps nearly silent as he tracks you down with ruthless efficiency. You should have shot him in that field. Ursula didn’t matter; you could take her down in hand-to-hand easily.
It should have been Titus you crippled. It should have been him you shot down, so he couldn’t come after you. If anyone could ruin your plans tonight, it’s him. But you were weak. You cowered at the thought of hurting him, and now he’s hunting you.
One moment of mercy- that’s all it takes.
A scream rips from you as something heavy barrels into your side. It’s cut off as your body slams against the ground, breath ripped from you in one violent yank as Titus straddles your hips. He clamps a hand around your mouth, eyes darting around the woods as you try to regain your bearings.
When he’s sure no one else is around, he slowly releases you, though he doesn’t allow you to stand. He keeps you pinned and completely at his mercy. His eyes are crazed as they assess you.
Futilely, you kick out, hands reaching up and scratching at any flesh you can find. You already know he won’t let you go, but you try anyway. “Enough,” he mutters, swatting your hands away like they’re nothing.
That must be all you are to him, for how quickly he turned against you. Nothing.
“Go on,” you goad, teeth bared as you glare up at him. “Do it.” This is a gamble, and one you want to be confident in but just can’t be. You don’t know how he would kill you or if he’s thought about it often.
A bullet would be quick. His hands wrapped around your throat would feel more personal, but it would hurt. Not just your death. But knowing he had loved you and could still look you in the eyes and slaughter you like an animal. This must have been how she felt when they’d killed her.
Something flashes across his face. Pained and disgusted as he stares down at you. You couldn’t have offended him. He’s the one pinning you down. He holds your life in his hands, not the other way around. But the way he’s looking at you, the gleam in his eyes, you’d never be able to guess the truth of the situation. His leash is in your hands. You should’ve known how to tug.
“Do what?” He snaps, eyes narrowed as his gaze roves over you. Still assessing, but now you can understand what for. He’s trying to see if someone else has gotten to you first. If you’re hurt in any way.
Maybe he really does care.
Or maybe he’s such a sadistic bastard that he wants to toy with you a bit first.
“Kill me,” you hiss out, hate and barbed hurt frothing at the corner of your lips. “That’s what this is all for, isn’t it?” You demand, throat closing as you choke back tears. This wasn’t meant to be so fast. You’d worked for years to get to this moment. And now…
You just pass all that work off and hand your life away because you were too weak to kill your husband when you had the chance.
“Did I mean anything to you?” You bite the words out, the truth too painful to realize as you stare up into his cold eyes.
Your mother had been here once. Pinned down by the man she was meant to spend the rest of her life with. Titus’s father had slaughtered her. Cut her down where she stood for the sake of tradition. You were a fool to think this was a fate you could escape.
His hands loosen around your wrist, face falling as he draws back. You wrench away from him, scrambling back from his hold as you surge to your feet. He remains where you left him, kneeling in the dirt as he stares up at you.
“You were going to let them kill me!” You accuse, biting back the disgust you feel looking down at him.
“No, never,” he bites out, gaze turning sharp. His hands reach out, linger in the air between you like he can’t decide if he should stay kneeling or pin you down again. “I was never going to let them hurt you.”
You hesitate for a moment, and you see how much it hurts him. Taking a step forward, his hands fly out, crumpling the ruined skirt of your nightgown in his palms. He drags himself forward, face buried in the silk as you let out a shuddering sigh.
“I was trying to protect you,” he insists. “But they wouldn’t tell me where you were. I didn’t even know if you were alive.”
Something in you snaps. The fight you’d been carrying disappears as you fall to your knees before him. He doesn’t let you feel the impact, touch greedy as he pulls you into his chest. You have no desire to escape him or his suffocating hold.
But that fire still burns for the man who started this all. The one who gave you a reason to get involved with the Danforths. And if you have to use Titus's warped sense of devotion to get to him, so be it.
“Why did you let them take me?” You whisper, hands cupping his cheeks. Your eyes narrow at how he sinks into your touch. How eager he is for forgiveness. Can you trust this devotion he holds for you over his loyalty to his own family? You’re not sure, but it's a gamble you’ll have to take.
The blood on your hands can’t be for nothing after how long you’ve waited.
“I,” his mouth opens and closes, but nothing comes out. No matter what, he doesn’t have a good enough excuse for his betrayal. Which works well in your favor.
You put a tremble in your voice; it's not hard to muster, but you lay it on as thick as you can. Your lips quiver as you stare up at him. Your voice is broken as you whisper, “Why’d you let them take me?”
Titus’s expression twitches; he flinches from the accusation. But there’s only so far he can run from the truth. “I was never going to let them hurt you,” he insists, gaze pleading.
“They already did,” you bite back, ripping your touch from him like he’s burned you.
They hadn’t. His ridiculous cousins hadn’t even gotten the chance to raise their weapons. He, however, doesn’t need to know that. What he needs to know is that you’re afraid, vulnerable. He has to want to protect you.
“I can fix this,” he insists, getting to his feet and trailing slowly behind you as you pace. “Let me help you. Let me keep you safe.”
You let out a sharp scoff, but there’s no true emotion behind it. This is all just another act, one part of a long play that’s meant to be coming to a close. “Why would I ever trust you, again?”
His hands reach out, snatching up your wrists as he whips you around to face him. It doesn’t hurt, but it's tight enough that you can’t slip free from him. Just as he opens his mouth to say something, or maybe declare his love again, voices echo through the forest. Your shoulders jolt as his gaze whips behind you both.
There’s a group coming toward you both. They’re stomping loudly through the underbrush, conversation vague and careless. They couldn’t care less if you hear them. They all just assume you’re easy prey. Even if you’ve already killed three of them. You’re almost tempted to take out your gun, show them what a true predator looks like.
But Titus’s hands are clamping around your shoulders, his expression severe as he surveys you. “If you keep heading north, you’ll reach the estate. I want you to go to the ballroom and wait for me.”
“What-“
“Wait for me,” he demands, his gaze already seeing that gnawing desire to run in your eyes. You glare at him, but he won’t budge.
“What are you going to do?”
Slowly, like it pains him to, he releases you. His hands slip off your shoulders, and he reaches behind his back. He untucks a gun from his belt and you frown. It wouldn’t have taken him much just to pull that on you. A part of you wants to hope that he really doesn't want you dead. But you can’t trust him and you certainly can't trust your own bleeding heart.
“There’s no rule against killing family,” is all he tells you as he backs away. You swallow roughly, slowly heading back through the trees. But you keep your eyes on where he disappeared and how easily he blended into the shadows.
Just as you begin to see lights flooding through the tree line, you hear it. Three gunshots and then a scream that rips through the night. You pause for a moment. Something wicked and warm fills your chest as you think of him hunting them down. For you.
Bursting through the forest, you find the mansion just as he’d instructed. You’re finally starting to gain a sense of where you are. Glancing over your shoulder, you check that no one’s following before running inside.
You have a decent enough idea where you are now. You run through the marble hall, stopping for a moment to shove off the too-large boots that you’d stolen. With a low sigh, you come to a stop before a grand staircase. There’s a door in front of you. Beyond it will be the ballroom. You can hide, cower as you wait for Titus to rescue you and get you through the rest of the night.
The thought is revolting to you. It’s easier, but you didn’t claw your way here just to give up right at the end. Your nails bite into your palms as you turn toward the stairs. You swore to yourself that the Danforth line will either be ended by or controlled by you. You won’t allow your sensitivity to hold you back anymore.
With a fortifying breath, you start up the stairs. You glance over your shoulder, ensuring no one’s followed behind you. Your heart stills, your body freezing as you hear the unmistakable sound of a hammer being drawn back. Swallowing roughly, you glance up. Just at the top of the stairs is one of Titus’s cousins.
Her hand trembles, gun shaking in her grip as she stares down at you with wide eyes. You’re about three steps away from her. Enough time for her to fire. You doubt she makes a good shot with the way the gun is shaking in her hand. But you don’t need to be a good shot when you’re this close. One bullet will be lethal.
You hold out your hands and she flinches, finger pressing loosely against the trigger. With a risky lunge, you leap forward, shoving her hands up just as she pulls the trigger. The shot rings out in your ear; it rattles through your brain and knocks you off balance as you try to shake off the ringing in your head. She lets out a noise of surprise, not hesitating as she leaps forward and shoves you back.
Your bare feet slip against the stairs, heart thudding against your chest as you feel the air rush up around you. Your stomach plummets as you’re knocked down the stairs. The first impact slams against your ribs, knocking the breath out of you as you go tumbling down the steps. You land on your side, your shoulder cracking beneath the weight of your body. Pain rips through you, slams up your spine and rips across your nerves as you struggle for breath.
Her footsteps pound above you, frantic and rushed as she aims her gun once more. Your face is smashed against the cold marble, lungs trembling as your eyes slam shut. The shot echoes through the foyer, rattles against your bones. But no more pain comes.
Risking one eye open, you peer up in time to see her head jerk back, her body dropping with a thud. Blood pools beneath her head and you let out a rattling breath. “Come on.” Calloused hands wrap around your arms, gentle as they stand you up.
“Titus,” you mutter, still delirious from the gunshots and pain. He stands behind you, the barrel of his gun still smoking at his side.
“What were you-“
You’re sure whatever he was about to say would turn you away from these stairs. Away from what you’ve worked so hard towards. But more voices echo through the halls. The gunshots were enough to draw the attention of anyone still in the estate. Titus’s head jerks in the direction of their voices and you use your one good arm to shove away from him.
They spot him as you rush up the stairs. They call out his name and gasp as they see the dead girl on the stairs. You clutch your limp arm to your chest, breath coming heavy and short. Your ribs are tight and aching. You’re certain you broke something falling. But you’re closer than you’ve ever been to having your revenge.
Swallowing down the pain, you race to the uppermost floor. To the room you know is housing the monster behind all your tormenting grief. You don’t knock or announce yourself, just throw the door open, teeth biting into your lip at the pain that shoots up your side.
The old man sits in his wheelchair, glaring out at the courtyard below from his window. He doesn’t even flinch as you barrel in. Just lets out a low sigh like you’re inconveniencing him just by existing.
You stand there, staring at the senior Danforth, gun held in your good hand. “Mr. Danforth,” you drawl, wrestling your breath back into shape as you let the door close behind you. “Do you remember me?”
He hums, head barely tilting over his shoulder. “I believe you just married my son. I’m honestly surprised you even made it this far.” He lets out a little huff. Probably mad that some cheap little orphan managed to marry his only male heir. To survive their twisted game this long.
”Do you remember her?” You ask, whispering your mother’s name as you draw the hammer of your gun back.
“Oh,” he finally turns his wheelchair toward you, a cruel sneer on his lips. “Lovely woman,” he mutters. “A shame she wasn’t strong enough to lead my family.”
Your eyes narrow, finger trembling around the trigger as you lift your arm. “She was plenty strong,” you hiss. “But how would she ever win when you drug her and drag her out into the woods? I’d hardly call that fair.”
He shrugs, steepling his fingers as he surveys you like you’re nothing more than a gnat flitting about his face. “Life isn’t fair.”
You point the gun at him, your eyes burning as you suck in a sharp breath. This is it. You end this here.
The door slams open behind you and you jump, gun dropping to your side. Titus crashes into the room, eyes crazed as he surveys you and his father. The smug look on Chester’s face falls as he rolls himself closer to his son.
“She tried to kill me, Titus. Finish the game, now!”
You back up as Titus stalks forward. Your heart sinks as he slowly reaches for the gun. Your grip goes lax around it as he backs you into a corner. Your spine hits the wall with a dull thud as you release a shuddering breath.
His hand grazes your waist, his other one taking the gun from you. “Do it,” you whisper. “Kill me.”
His eyes narrow and he shakes his head. Voice low, he asks, “Why would I do that?”
Your gaze dips to his father, but he’s watching you both with a peculiar expression. One you can’t read. “Because if you don’t kill me,” you bite out through clenched teeth. “Then I will kill your father.” You hesitate, biting your lip as the truth stumbles out. “For what he did to-“
“Your mother,” Titus finishes, almost looking amused.
“What?” You whisper.
At the same time, Titus’s father snaps, slamming his hand against the arm of his wheelchair. “Enough games, Titus. Be done with her!”
But your husband’s eyes don’t leave your own. He’s got you pressed up against the wall. His attention is solely focused on you as he offers a wayward grin. Something malicious lurks underneath it. “You think I don’t know who you are? Who your mother is?”
”How long have you known?” You whisper, eyes wide as they dart between him and his father.
“The whole time,” he answers, hand flexing around your waist. “I thought this was a game for you. I was waiting for you to make the first move.” His face dips forward, nose brushing against your jaw as his lips move softly against the sensitive skin. “You never did,” he wonders aloud, almost disappointed.
“Because I love you,” you insist, hand reaching up to cup his cheek. He lifts his head, forehead falling against yours. The cold barrel of the gun bites through your nightgown and you let out a low whimper.
“You or me?”
Your eyes flutter shut as you shake your head. “What?”
”Who pulls the trigger, sweetheart?”
Your eyes widen as you glance between him and his father. All this time, you’d been working toward this moment, always expecting it to be your last. Wasting your life to kill the man who’d murdered your mother and ruined what good was left inside you. You’d thought Titus to be a stepping stone, an obstacle in your path.
But this…
This is far sweeter than anything you could have dreamed up. It wouldn’t hurt the eldest Danforth at all to be killed by some nobody girl. But to have his heir in your hands, throwing away all loyalty to his father in exchange for a spot at your side… It was better than anything you could ask for.
“Please, Titus,” you whisper, eyes watery as you stare up at him. The hammer of the gun pulls back and you slowly release him. He steps away from you. The tears disappear as a smile pulls on your lips. You lean against the wall, broken and bloody, and watch as realization dawns on Chester Danforth’s face.
“Titus, what the hell are you doing? Throwing away your family for some whore-“ your shoulders jump to your ears as his head flips back, brains spraying along the walls. You knew it was coming, but still, Titus hadn’t even hesitated.
You look over at him, see the tight set of his jaw, the water lining his eyes. “Oh,” you croon, reaching for him. He turns, stalking toward you as a gasp rings out. You jolt forward, turning toward the door just as Ursula walks through.
Her hands tremble around her mouth, breath coming quick and pained as she takes in the dead body of her father. “What did you do?” She demands, voice cracking as she whips around on you. You don’t hesitate as you did earlier. Don’t let her get off easy with a shot to her leg.
You rip the gun from Titus’s hand and aim with your bad arm. This close, you don’t need great aim to knock her brain loose. Her body crumples to the floor as blood begins to pool around her body. The recoil knocks you back, and the gun clatters to the floor as you stumble back into the wall.
“Titus,” you whisper, stomach dropping as he stares at his dead sister. “I’m so sorry, Titus. She never would have let me live after that. I had to. For us-“
Your words are cut off as he grabs your arms, dragging you into his chest. You let out a gasp, but it’s swallowed by his lips as he kisses you. It’s fervent, violent and desperate as he shoves you against the wall, hands squeezing around your broken ribs.
You let out a pained whine, hands dragging up his shoulders and burying themselves in his hair. He groans into your open mouth as the bell rings out in the distance.
You’ve done it.
You’ve made it through the night. Now… The Danforth power, the riches, everything that makes them who they are. You hold it all in your hands. Their heir, their future- it's yours to command.
Goodbye / Means that you're losing me for life / Can't call it love then call it quits / Can't shoot me down then shoot the shit / Did you forget that it was you who said / Goodbye / So you don't get to be the one who cries / Can't have your cake and eat it too / By walking out that means you choose / Goodbye
Overview: You loved Andrew, even if that meant accepting he would always be in love with someone else. But things changed between you before he went to jail. You thought that maybe you finally meant something. Then you get the letter he'd meant to send to Cath and you have to accept that he never saw you as anything but an easy lay.
You left the Codys behind years ago. Now, Pope's at your door and you don't know what to do with the story he's telling you.
wc: 9.2K
the end of my extravaganza
The first time it happened, you were at Andrew’s house. Smurf had been pissed at the boys for a reason you can’t even remember. So they’d raided their brother’s house, used his pool, and thrown a party he hadn’t realized was happening until he got home with you.
You’d been out shopping with him all day. You were trying to help him find furniture to make his sterile house feel like a home.
You’d laughed when you saw his brothers abusing their privileges and smoking by his pool. It had cut off when you saw how still he’d gone at the mess they’d left. With a sigh, you took the shopping bags from his hands and walked into his living room.
“I hate when they do this,” he muttered, and you didn’t respond, knowing he wasn’t really talking to you. Just out loud so he could try to regulate himself before he got really angry.
When he stayed quiet too long, you looked up and found him standing by the island. Face pinched with as close to visible anger as you’d seen in a while.
“Smurf will forgive them soon,” you reassured. His eyes shot up to yours, and you offered a weak smile. “The novelty of raiding their big brother’s house will wear off.”
Andrew rolled his eyes, and you bit back a smile as he walked over to help you with the bags. “I think that couch you ordered will look really nice with the blankets you got,” you told him, cutting off the tags to throw them in the wash.
“You picked them,” he reminded you, eyes darting up to meet yours before looking away. You hummed to yourself, a proud smile on your face as you realized that your touch would always be a part of what he called home.
The peaceful bubble you’d surrounded yourself with shattered as his sliding glass door opened. “Oh.” Your shoulders tensed as you recognized the voice. “You’re home.” Cath offered a stilted smile to Andrew as he froze where he was standing.
You walked out of the laundry room and shot her a grin you hoped passed as friendly and not sick to your stomach. “We went shopping today. I’m trying to make this place look less like a psych ward.”
Cath’s eyes narrowed as you loaded Andrew’s new dishes into the dishwasher. He remained still beside you, fist clenched on the granite counter while he looked anywhere but at Cath.
“I didn’t realize you moved in,” she offered, something about her tone making you defensive. When you looked up, her brows were raised, a knowing look on her face that needled at your skin.
“She didn’t,” Andrew interjected before you could. Your jaw snapped shut with a click as Cath scoffed.
“I figured,” she muttered, cutting you a look that had you clenching your fists so you didn’t hit her.
The sliding door opened again and Craig lumbered in, brows raising when he saw the stand-off happening. He let out a low whistle, wet feet slapping across the floor as pool water dripped off him.
“What’s going on?” He chuckled, the shithead knowing exactly what was happening.
He took a drag from the blunt in his hand, grin widening when he saw how Andrew’s jaw clenched at the smoke billowing in his house. “Want some?” He offered, holding it out.
You took it before Andrew could, needing something to calm you down. “You know he’s a dick about this shit,” you snapped, taking a long drag.
It was cruel, you knew that. But nobody ever claimed hanging around the Cody men made someone less emotionally volatile.
You headed toward the door, stripping off your clothes. You’d learned a while ago that it was better to just keep a bathing suit on underneath if you were hanging out with Andrew that day. You usually ended up at the pool or the beach; there was little in between.
Craig chuckled behind you as you walked outside. “Yeah, he’s the dick,” he muttered. You forced yourself to ignore the dig and headed down to the pool. You threw yourself onto the chair closest to Deran. He tended to just leave you alone, and his typically miserable demeanor deterred others from approaching, as well.
Sucking in a sharp breath, you clenched your eyes shut and tried to pretend you were just tanning. Of course, Deran decided today was the day to test out being chatty. “How was the little shopping spree with Pope?”
Rolling your eyes, you tilted your head to look over at him. There was a knowing smirk on his face that had you tensing up. “Fine,” you grit out, hoping he might take the hint.
“You run into Cath?” He taunts, clearly knowing the answer. The Cody family skill seems to be pissing you off.
Flicking your sunglasses up, you shoot him a glare. “What’re you getting at, Deran?”
He shrugs and relaxes back on his chair. “That my brother’s a fucking idiot,” he shoots back, tone casual.
“Am I that obvious?”
The snort he lets out is an answer enough. With a small smile, you lean back on the chair and shake your head. “I don’t get it, man,” Deran continues; clearly, he’s taken something that’s loosened his tongue. He’s not typically cold toward you, but the pair of you aren’t exactly close.
“Get what?” you mutter, trying to relax the tenseness in your muscles.
“You hang around him all the time. Put up with all his weird shit. You even do fucking shopping trips together.” You peek an eye open and catch him shaking his head in disbelief. “Cath can’t even look him in the eye.” He scrubs a hand down his face. “I don’t know what goes on in his head.”
“I don’t think anyone does,” you scoff, biting back the burn rising in your throat.
“No, but you’ve come the closest.” You don’t think Deran understands just how much it hurts hearing him say all of this. It’s easy enough, lying to yourself and pretending you’re not obvious. That the reason Andrew doesn’t reciprocate is that you haven’t shown him how you feel.
But when Deran- hell, when even Craig picks up on your hints- you know it has nothing to do with how obvious you are and everything to do with the fact that you are simply not the woman he wants.
A minute later, a shadow descends over you. Frowning, you look up and see Andrew hovering, mouth pinched as he stares. Your nose wrinkles at the smell of Craig’s weed wafting off him.
“Did you smoke?”
He nods and you frown. “You don’t smoke,” you point out. Andrew takes the conversation as an invitation to perch at the end of your chair.
“Why not?” He shrugs and it only serves to confuse you further. He holds the blunt out to you. You suck your teeth, but it only takes a second for you to accept. Some ridiculous part of you thinks about how his lips had been wrapped around it only a second before as you take a puff.
That’s how it happened the first time. You’d been pissy about his infatuation with Cath. He’d probably been hurt by a comment you hadn’t meant. You got high off weed, and you’re sure Craig had laced it with something else. The next morning, your head felt fuzzy, and memories of the day before came back to you slowly.
It had taken you longer than you’d like to admit to realize there was an arm slung around your waist. Then, Andrew had woken up, both of you frozen as you realized what you’d done the night before.
“Holy shit,” you whispered, sheets pulled up around your naked chest as you stared down at your lap.
Andrew flexed his hands, eyes not meeting yours as he glared at his comforter. “I don’t remember,” he muttered.
You shook your head, “I don’t either,” but it was undeniable, considering that was your underwear thrown on his floor.
“We should try again.” Your head whipped up and you ignored how it made your vision swim. He held your gaze, face deadly serious. Your jaw dropped, lips parting as you struggled for words.
“What?” You squeaked out.
“We should try again,” he repeated, just as blunt as he was the first time around. “Neither of us remembers anything.” You don’t know why you almost said no. Almost denied what you’d wanted since the day you met him. But something seemed to think this wasn’t right.
Maybe you wanted it to be more romantic. Or for this to have happened after a date when you were actually sure he really cared about you as more than just a quick lay. But a part of you, deep down, knew that was likely to never happen. So you’d nodded, eyes closing as he dipped his head, lips meeting yours hesitantly.
It only took a slight tilt of your head, hands dropping the sheets from your chest as you moved toward him, for him to fully give in. His hands gripped your waist, tugging you onto his lap as you slung your arms over his shoulders. That’s how the first time you actually remember happened.
And then, it kept happening. Your friendship continued as it always had. You’d go out for lunch and dinner. Breakfast sometimes if you stayed the night.
The pair of you might go shopping for his new house or just to get away from his mother. Occasionally, it ended with sex. But that wasn’t always consistent.
It both hurt and was reassuring. On the one hand, you wished he would want you as much as you wanted him. Not just when he needed a moment of reprieve.
But, at the very least, that meant he didn’t just see you as some sex toy now. He still cared about you the same way he did before. You’re not sure if it made you happy or upset how little the sex changed your relationship with Andrew.
When it did happen, you’d pretend he wasn’t thinking about another woman. That it was just you in his mind, that he was okay, that it was you in his arms and not Cath. You could lie to yourself that it didn’t bother you. That you were okay with this as long as you had some piece of him.
It was never enough to stop the hurt from seeping through.
You remember one time, a few months after this new thing with Andrew started, Smurf invited you out. It was clear enough that Smurf didn’t like you. But she hadn’t minded as much when you were just an occasional presence in her house.
However, when you and Andrew got more physical, you were at her place a lot more than you had been before. The sex had changed little about your relationship except that you became clingier than you would have liked to be.
You started hanging around with him more, waiting for that little extra bit of attention he occasionally spared you. It was pathetic; you knew that, but you were hopeless when it came to Andrew. You always had been.
His arm was slung around you while you watched some brutal animal documentary on some beast called a Shoebill. You’d been cringing at the way it was staring down the lens of the camera when Smurf had walked in.
“Well,” she rasped, a tight smile on her face. “Isn’t this cute?”
Andrew’s arm had tensed around you as he drew you closer, eyes pointedly kept on the screen. Her glare narrowed as she walked down the steps to the living room. “You’ve been around a bit more, hun.”
You shifted uncomfortably under her stare, hand tightening in Andrew’s shirt as you shrugged, offering a half-hearted smile. “I guess so.”
Her head tilted and she kept walking until she was standing just right to block the TV. “Are you two finally dating?”
“No,” Andrew was quick to answer. You bit your lip, swallowing down the hurt as you tried to shift away. He didn’t seem to notice, his arm just as tight around you as he straightened up.
“We’re not dating,” he doubled down, and you resisted the urge to crawl away and hide in some dark corner.
Smurf hummed, clearly unconvinced. “‘Course not,” she reassured, her voice sickeningly sweet. Her attention drifted back to you.
You grit your teeth, pretending like you weren’t just the slightest bit afraid. Not necessarily of her, but of the hold you knew she had on Andrew. It wouldn’t take much for her to wrench the two of you apart.
“You have plans this Saturday, sweetie?”
You grew cold as Andrew withdrew his touch. He leaned forward, his glare steady on his mother, and you frowned. “Don't,” he warned, his lips a tense line of irritation.
Her gaze snapped to his, brows furrowing with consideration before she redirected her attention. “Well?”
“Uh,” you swallowed roughly and spared Andrew a glance before shaking your head. “No, no plans.”
“Perfect,” she hummed. “You can join Pope and me then.”
“Smurf,” he tried again, getting to his feet. You stared up at him in surprise. He didn’t typically butt heads with her like this.
“That’s enough, baby. Don’t be rude.” Smurf fixed him with a firm look before stalking back out of the room. Your brows furrowed as you waited for him to sit back down. Instead, he glared down at the coffee table, fists clenched at his sides.
“Andrew,” you tried, getting to your feet. You reached for his arm, but he jerked away.
“Let’s go,” he demanded, already heading to the front door. You followed after him, but he didn’t give you any more answers. Just drove you to his house.
He still seemed out of character when he took you to his bed that night. Strangely desperate, more handsy than usual. Like he was afraid you might slip away in the middle of the night, change your mind about the whole deal.
Like you ever would. The idea was laughable.
Andrew drove you on Saturday. To where, you couldn’t say. You got lost when paved roads turned to gravel, and it started to look like he was driving you out to some warehouse to be murdered in.
When he’d stopped on a random cemented piece of land with trucks and bikes scatteringly parked, you almost didn’t get out. But you trusted him. As much as you probably shouldn’t. So, you’d let him open your door, help you out of the car, and followed behind.
He didn’t speak. He hadn’t the whole morning. Just kept his eyes pointed anywhere but your face. Still, he seemed to linger more than normal. Hand staying wrapped around yours. Walking closer than he typically does.
The odd behavior, even from an already odd man, had you on edge. Smurf being behind this whole thing didn’t help soothe you at all. No, the closer you got to what sounded like loud, drunken cheering, the more your stomach soured.
“When are you going to tell me what we’re doing?”
Andrew paused, head dipping between his shoulders as he sucked in a sharp breath. You waited with bated breath, the prolonged silence making you antsy to just get the hell out of there. “I need you to-”
“There you are!” Smurf walked up, a malicious grin on her face. Her oversized sunglasses hid her eyes, but you still felt the ill intent in her gaze.
“Here I thought you weren’t going to show. I should’ve known better.” She reached forward and squeezed Andrew’s shoulder, drawing him away from you as she draped herself over him. Your nose wrinkled with poorly hidden disgust. “My baby boy doesn’t disappoint.”
You offered a weak chuckle to try to disguise the visceral hatred you felt toward the woman. It only got worse when you saw how Andrew couldn’t meet your eyes, unable to get out from under her touch.
It didn’t matter if it was a stranger, a friend, even her own daughter; Smurf didn’t play nice with other women. Desperate to be the only one in her boys’ lives. Whatever she had planned for you today was certain to be an attempt at kicking you out of Andrew’s.
Sucking in a sharp breath, you motioned for her to lead the way. You were determined not to let her win this time.
Andrew needed a win; you weren’t about to be another disappointment.
Though that conviction of yours weakened the closer you got to the cheering. It was gone by the time you realized what exactly she was having him do today. Inside a metal cage, two men were beating each other bloody, the people watching screaming insults as cash was traded between different hands.
“God dammit,” you muttered, ripping your gaze away at the sound of a wet crunch as one of the men dropped to the ground.
“Weak stomach?” Smurf taunted, shoving Pope forward before he could say anything to you. A burly man covered in tattoos jerked him forward by the neck, bending to whisper something in his ear.
You bit your lip and turned toward Smurf. She had seated herself in a foldable chair. It could have been confused for a throne with how comfortable she looked in it. “No,” you responded, refusing to let her twisted little games beat you out.
“You’ll have one by the end,” she promised, taking a swig from her flask as she turned her attention toward the cage match. Seeing as she hadn’t deigned to provide you a place to sit, you moved closer to the crowd. You weren’t keen on being so close to her, anyway. You’d rather be in the spray-zone of blood than have to stomach her company much longer.
Pope walked into the ring, knuckles wrapped and eyes boring only into his opponent. He didn’t look outside the cage, not to you, not to his mother. You supposed it was for the best that neither of you got in his head while he was beating another man to a pulp.
You closed your eyes for a moment, jumping as a bell rang and the small crowd started cheering. You kept them closed, right up until you heard the first sound of flesh breaking against flesh. With a rough swallow, you forced yourself to look as Andrew was shoved into the metal chain, ducking just before the other man’s fist connected with his face.
Taking a step back, you tried not to grimace as he spit blood onto the cage floor. You could do this for him. You could handle a little while of blood and violence, if only to make sure Smurf doesn’t get to enjoy the victory of chasing you away.
Nails biting into your palms, you forced yourself to be still. To not react to the blood and teeth that went flying. Or the way you could already see welts and bruises forming along Andrew’s ribs. You made your way through it, right up until the end of the match, when Andrew was standing over the other man, chest heaving and bare chest covered in marks that made you hurt for him.
Then, in your peripheral, you saw Smurf walking up to the man running the match. Her gaze met yours as she whispered something to him. Your heart dropped as you realized she wasn’t going to let this stop until you or Andrew tapped out.
Head whipping back to him, you felt yourself go light-headed as an even bigger man than the last walked in. He hardly waited for the bell to ring before he was swinging at Andrew. You watched as he dropped to the ground, shaking the ringing from his ears as he ducked away from another punch.
You didn’t want to give Smurf the satisfaction of seeing you run scared. But you also weren’t going to be the reason Andrew was beaten bloody just so she could prove a point. With the best terrified expression you could muster, you went running, ignoring the barb of fury as Smurf smirked, completely victorious. You didn’t stop until you reached Andrew’s truck.
Guilt twisted your stomach into knots. He might not have been looking at you, but it wouldn’t take long to realize you were gone. You knew him, knew that he would be quick to assume the worst. But that was better than having to watch him lie bloody in the cage.
With a sharp breath, you leaned against his truck, head tipped back as you waited for this to be over. It took about another half hour before you saw him approaching. His head was down, pace furious as he undid the wrap around his knuckles.
You jolted up, lips pinched as your stomach twisted. He stopped short when he finally saw you waiting, and you offered a tentative smile that probably read more like a grimace. His brows furrowed as he closed the distance between you. Hands flexing at his sides, you felt like he wanted to reach out; maybe you were projecting, but you took the leap anyway.
“How bad does it hurt?” You asked, taking his hand in yours and frowning at the split skin of his knuckles.
“I thought you left,” he muttered, stepping even closer.
You already knew he would expect the worst, but the lack of faith still hurt. “Smurf clearly wanted me gone. I figured she’d be done with it if she thought I ran scared.”
“But you didn’t.” He stared at you, eyes narrowed like he didn’t quite believe you.
“I didn’t,” you smiled softly. “Now, keys, I don’t trust that you don’t have a concussion.” He didn’t argue as he placed them in your palm, leaning into you when you reached up to press a kiss to the unmarred spot on his cheek. “Let's get you home,” you murmured, rounding the front of his truck.
The ride, like that morning, was quiet. You didn’t push, letting him stew until you pulled up his driveway. “Come on,” you motioned him inside, guiding him toward his bathroom so you could clean him up a bit.
He took a seat on the rim of his tub, eyes intent on tracking you as you dug around under the sink for the first-aid supplies. You spent so much time at his house that it was practically more familiar to you than your own place.
It was when you were kneeling down in front of him that he finally spoke. “I didn’t want you to see that,” he admitted, eyes glaring down at his bathmat. Your hand hovered over his cheek.
You dipped your head to meet his gaze and grinned. “Why? Because that second guy knocked you on your ass?” He let out a little huff and you figured that’s the closest to a laugh you’d get today. “I’m not scared of you, Andrew,” you promised, putting the alcohol swab to the side for a moment.
When he still wouldn’t meet your eye, you lifted your hand, careful of his cuts as you cupped his cheek. Gently, you tilted his face toward yours, imploring him to just listen to you, for once. His eyes darted between yours, expression tightening before it slowly softened. He nodded, letting his weight rest in your hand.
You stayed the night, slept beside him, his arms tight around you while you held him back. You didn’t have sex, but you think that was better than if you had. Andrew needed something gentle in his life. A relationship that gave without anything expected in return. You never had any problems being that for him.
“So,” you glanced around the restaurant, feeling more than a little out of place. “Why the change of plans?” You turned your attention back to Andrew, hoping you didn’t look as uncomfortable as you felt.
Tonight, you were supposed to have dinner at his place. Possibly convince him to watch the new horror movie that just came out so you wouldn’t have to suffer through it alone. Instead, he’d told you to wear something nice and dragged you to a restaurant so fancy there was a chandelier over your table.
It should be telling you don’t belong here if you think a chandelier is the epitome of class.
Nails drumming along the table, your eyes dart between the nicely dressed couples and waiters with better posture than your own. The Codys had money, sure, but that didn’t mean class. And you’d known Andrew before they’d made a name for themselves. This wasn’t your sort of place, and you knew it wasn’t Andrew’s.
“I thought you might like it,” Andrew answered, his voice low as he stared down at the menu. Your brows furrowed, but you decided not to push. He was clearly trying to make an effort. You didn’t want him to feel bad because the judgmental glares of the staff made you want to crawl out of your skin.
“Well,” you hummed, struggling for a kind word. “It’s nice,” you settled on lamely.
His brows rose and you let out a stiff chuckle. “You don’t like it.” You must have an even worse poker face than you thought.
Shrugging, you lean back in your seat. “It just doesn’t seem like your sort of place.”
Andrew frowns and you worry you might have offended him. “I thought you’d be sick of my sort of place.”
Scoffing, you shake your head. “Why would you think that?”
He lets out a hefty sigh, hand scrubbing along his jaw. “It’s just something Baz told me.” Well, his first mistake was ever taking advice from Baz. “When he and Cath started dating, he said she didn’t like just hanging out at the house all the time.”
Jaw tightening, you suck your teeth, forcing your face to remain kind. “I’m not Cath,” you remind him, though you’re sure you’re both bitter about that fact.
His eyes shoot up to meet yours, his frown deepening at the expression on your face. “I know that-”
“Then don’t try to treat me like her,” you cut in, your tone far more venomous than you’d meant. Andrew draws back, and you suck in a sharp breath. “I want to leave,” you tell him, tossing your napkin on the table and finding it difficult to meet his eyes. You don’t wait for him, getting to your feet and collecting your bag before you’d even had a chance to order.
Andrew hurries to follow behind you as you storm out of the restaurant. You know you’re too sensitive about these things. But one night with him- where you might even be able to pretend you’re on a date like a proper couple. Is that so much to ask for? Just a night without the reminder you’re barely even a second choice.
Deciding you need to calm down, you walk off the sidewalk of the restaurant and head down toward the beach. Andrew catches up to you quickly, hovering at your side, unsure what to say. You grab hold of his arm, leaning against him while you undo the straps of your heels.
“Let’s walk,” you mutter, caught off guard when he reaches over to take your shoes from you. Lifting the hem of your dress, you trudge through the sand. Andrew doesn’t shake off your hold, just lets you use him for balance.
It’s not uncommon that he allows you to be touchier with him than most people. But he’s not usually this tolerant. He already doesn’t like the feel of sand, the way it pools in his shoes and inevitably ends up trailing through his home.
Normally, he’d have gone stiff, trying to silently tell you to back off. But he’s leaning into you know, hand drifting along your waist as you listen to the soft crash of waves in the distance.
“I’m sorry.” He finally breaks the silence.
You bite your lip and shake your head. “I shouldn’t have just left like that. It was nice,” you reluctantly admit. He frowns down at you. With a huff, you clarify, “The restaurant idea was nice. It just wasn’t for me.” It was for the woman you actually want to be with.
Andrew just nods, gaze pensive as he stares off into the dark waters. “I wasn’t…”
“Hm?”
He shakes his head, hand tightening around your waist as he leads you back toward his home. “Never mind,” he mutters, brows furrowed as he stares down at the sand. You frown but decide it’s better not to push. You’ve already gotten your feelings hurt once tonight; no need to risk any more.
When you make it to his home, you almost debate asking for a ride home. You’re not hungry anymore; you don’t want to watch a stupid movie with him. He’s made it more than clear that all you are is a placeholder until he gets what he really wants. Now, all you want is to just be left alone.
“Come on,” he mutters, already opening the door before you muster the backbone to leave. You hover at the threshold and he pauses, turning back with a frown. “What’s wrong?”
You almost back up, almost leave. Instead, you shake your head. “Nothing, never mind. I’m just tired,” you whisper, following after him. The door closes and his hand finds its way to your back.
He turns you to face him, calloused hand drifting up to push back a strand of hair. You’ve been conditioned to lean in just as he starts to. To push closer as he wraps his arms around you and tugs you toward him.
You wrap your arm around his shoulders, head tilting as his lips brush softly against yours. Once, twice, you wait for the third pass, when he lets go of his reservations. Grips you tighter and pushes you toward his bedroom, hungry for something only you can give him.
But it never comes. He stays soft, hands drifting up and down your sides as he holds you by the door. You’re not complaining, enjoying the tender intimacy of the moment. He never changes pace, just takes his time, savors the moment. And you.
You could get used to feeling so desired by him as he slowly begins leading you back to his bedroom. It’s not that he’s never like this. Occasionally, you get moments of softness with him. But this is different, somehow. Like he really means it, and isn’t just giving you gentleness as a courtesy.
His hand works on the zipper of your dress, fingers dragging along your spine as you slip your arms from the sleeves. It falls down your body, and he lifts you, picking you up before it trips you. You tighten your legs around him, smiling when he drops you on his bed.
It’s different that night, the way he is with you. You could almost pretend he loves you just the same as you love him. Pretend that this wasn’t his own desperate need for connection with someone else. Allowing the illusion, just once, couldn’t hurt.
That was the last night you were together. You didn’t know- he didn’t tell you- about the bank job he and his family had planned for the next day. You couldn’t have known how badly it would’ve gone, that Andrew would end up taking the fall for Baz.
Because Baz has a family, Deran had explained afterward. Pope doesn’t have anyone.
He had you. Clearly, though, you didn’t count for anything in their eyes. You almost wonder if Baz had messed up on purpose. If he’d done this to get Andrew out of the way so he could take over. It wouldn’t surprise you, given how quick he was to take Andrew’s place as the eldest son.
What shocked you the most, though, was that Smurf just let him. Baz wasn’t even hers and she still let him slip into Andrew’s place. Like he’d never been there at all.
You weren’t allowed at the trial; you’re not even sure if you’d want to be there. But Smurf had made it abundantly clear that with Andrew gone, your place in her home would soon become nonexistent.
You still hung around, mainly with Deran. Purely for updates on Andrew. Try as you might, each attempt at reaching out seemed to go ignored or just not work out. You sent letters. A lot of letters. At least twice a month.
Sometimes, you couldn’t believe yourself. Andrew had been sentenced to six years. What? Were you just going to wait around for him that long? How much more pathetic could you possibly get?
A lot more, you thought to yourself, penning another letter for the third time that month.
Andrew,
I really don’t know if you’re getting any of these. I hope you are. Smurf had me taken off the visitors list, so I can’t come and see you now. I swear, I would if she didn’t hate me so much.
I’m sorry. Sorry I can’t see you. And sorry about how your family’s acting. They sold your house. I was going to try to buy it with the money you gave me, but Smurf figured out it was me and stopped the deal.
There’s no guarantee when they’ll let you go. But whenever you’re free, wherever I am, there’ll be a place for you. I’ll leave my key in the plant hanging by my door if you get there before me.
You continue on, talking about your life, struggling to decide whether or not you should ask about his. He’s in prison; you doubt there’s anything particularly exciting he’d like to share. If there was, surely he would have responded by now.
But he never did. For two years, you kept up your letters. Kept up hope that, despite the fact he wasn’t responding, some part of him still cares for you. Deran had told you no one else was getting any letters either. But you didn’t think they were sending any or reaching out, either.
It shouldn’t have been, but it was astounding just how little his brothers seemed to care about his absence. If anything, they seemed more at ease. Big brother wasn’t there to keep them in check anymore. Baz let them just run free, just as eager to be careless as they were.
For two years, you loved Andrew when everyone else seemed so content with forgetting him. And two years is exactly how long Smurf’s patience lasted before she finally grew sick of you. You weren’t a threat, not anymore, but that didn’t mean she liked you any more than she did before.
You were lounging at the pool with Deran, prattling on about your new boss while he smoked. She walked up with a cruel smirk on her lips. Which should have been your first sign to cut loose and run.
“Hey, sweetheart.” She pulled an envelope from the pocket of her jeans and you leapt up. Water dripped from your legs as you climbed the stairs of the pool. “I think this might be for you.”
You hastily dried your hands off on your towel, taking the letter from her with trembling hands. Two years, and he was finally letting you hear from him again. Smurf let out a little laugh, crossing her arms as you eagerly ripped open the envelope. Your second sign that you should have just ignored her.
It was a letter, but not to you. He didn’t say her name at first. But you caught on quick enough. Mainly, when he started telling her how jealous he was of Baz. How Baz wasn’t good enough for her. She could do so much better. He could treat her so much better. He wouldn’t play around with her; he would take care of her like she deserved.
Your throat tightened to the point it felt like you were being strangled the longer you read. Tears burned against your lashes, but you refused to let Smurf see them fall. You could barely stomach half of the letter- drawing the line at him declaring his love for Cath- before you were folding it back up.
“It’s not for me,” you whispered, your voice breaking around the words as Deran finally lifted his head. He frowned at the look on your face while Smurf stepped closer. She took the letter from your hands, cupping your shoulder as she leaned toward your ear.
“He didn't want anything except what’s between your legs. I don’t want you, and my family doesn’t. Leave, or I’m going to have to make you, honey.”
And you did, just like she ordered. But you didn’t just leave her house; that wasn’t enough for you. You had to leave every reminder of the Codys behind completely.
Deran helped you, just a little, by giving you some of the money Andrew had stashed away before he was arrested. You didn’t want to take it. How could you start fresh if he was funding your future?
But you didn’t have a choice. You were working a dead-end job and barely making minimum wage. So, reluctantly, you took the cash and moved a few hours out of Oceanside. A cute place, right by the beach.
It was a relatively small town, quaint and filled with retirees. The type of quiet you were desperate for. Smurf bought up your old place without you knowing. You’d just made a blind deal, desperate for more money and a quick way out.
Which meant she got the one letter Andrew ever bothered to send.
They’re letting me out on good behavior. I want to see you. She’d scoffed as she’d tossed it in her fireplace, smiling as she thought about getting her boy back. Without any distractions in the way. You’d been dealt with. Cath wouldn’t be so hard to get rid of.
Pope didn’t expect his family to be waiting outside the prison for him. He’d only told one person he was getting out. And he’d been hoping to see you, but he wasn’t surprised when you weren’t there. Just a little disappointed. He was sure there was a reason for it, it’s not like you’d miss something so big on purpose.
But you hadn’t been waiting for him at Smurf’s either. You’d already warned him they’d sold his home. But you didn’t tell him they’d given his room away to his twin sister’s kid. No one had even bothered to tell him Julia had died.
He sat in the living room, feeling more out of place than he ever had before. Cath couldn’t look at him. Baz seemed angry that he had even made it out. The kid, J, was just pissing him off more, a painful reminder of the sister he’d lost. Smurf seemed on edge, with tight smiles and cloying words, while she tried to keep him placated.
There was one person very clearly missing. Someone they were pointedly not bringing up. You were never a huge part of the Cody family, but you were important to him and they knew that. But you weren’t here. And your letters had stopped a year ago. He had never figured out why, but he’d held out hope for a long time that a guard would bring him one again.
He had never written back. There was never anything more to be said. He couldn’t talk about being shoved in solitary. Or the way the guards used to beat and humiliate him. That was never something he wanted you to know. It wasn't the way he wanted you to think of him.
So he had just greedily accepted your letters, your stories. But he never thought his silence would be enough to finally push you away.
Pope broke the tense silence of the living room. “Where is she?” He stared down at his hands, knees jumping beneath his arms as he tried to keep himself calm.
Smurf shook her head and he shot her a glare. She knew exactly who he was talking about. “Oh.” Smurf rolled her eyes, reaching over to stroke his hair. He tried not to grimace, hating the way it felt. The only person he wanted that from right now was you.
“Forget about her, baby. She ran out a while ago. Took some of our money with her,” her voice tightens, gaze cutting to Deran, who wouldn’t look his way. His eyes narrow at that, his shoulders tensing at the discomfort on his brother's face.
“Just another skank looking for a quick fix,” Smurf callously dismissed. As if you hadn’t been there since they’d rebranded him Pope. Like you weren’t the only constant in his life, the only person he could actually rely on.
He knew you. You weren’t an addict. You weren’t like Ren, hooked on Craig because they’d both shot each other up one too many times. You’d never cared about the money he might’ve given you. You've only ever dealt with his shit and his family for him.
Pope refused to believe that you’d just left. That you wouldn’t have sent a letter explaining your absence. Or at least have waited until he got out to say goodbye
But Pope gave Smurf what she wanted. He nodded, pretending you were just some chick he liked to fuck sometimes. He let her believe the lie until he finally got a minute alone.
He tried to check all your socials, but you’d deleted them. He went through friends of yours and checked their posts to see if you’d ever popped up in any of them. He paced his room and spoke softly to himself while he tried to figure out where the hell you could have gone. Why would you have left?
Smurf had a hand in it; he was sure of that. But you’d survived her for years. Why would you suddenly give up, now?
He checked all of the letters you’d sent him. But the return address remained the same right until the last one. Pope racked his mind for any places you mentioned wanting to visit, but none of them seemed feasible for you to simply disappear to.
When all other options had been exhausted, he went another route.
Deran
He cornered him by the pool, eyes narrowing at the way Deran refused to meet his stare. “Where is she?”
“What the fuck are you talking-“
Pope shoved him back and Deran let out a low hiss as his spine slammed against the corner of the bar. “Don’t play dumb, Deran. You know exactly who I’m fucking talking about.”
Deran shot Pope a harsh glare, rubbing his bruising back. “Look, man, I promised her I wouldn’t tell anyone.”
Pope tilted his head with a frown. “Even me?”
Deran scoffed and sneered. “You're kidding me? Especially you.”
What the fuck was that supposed to mean?
“Do you really want to do this?” Pope snapped, hands balling into fists at his side. He had a lot to work out. The majority of it was anger, most of that directed at his family. He wouldn’t mind making his little brother bleed if it got him what he wanted.
Deran seemed to realize that, too, disappointingly. “Fucks sake,” he huffed. It’s not like you and Deran were ever very close. Pope's not sure why you thought he would be a good choice to keep your secrets. Or why you were trying to keep secrets from him. But he could figure all that out when he saw you.
Because he would, now, as Deran wrote down your address and pressed the slip of paper into his palm.
You’d moved a few hours outside of Oceanside. Clearly desperate to get away. But that hadn’t been something Deran had been able to give a reason for. You kept a few things from him, it seemed.
The town was small, decent, and safe enough. It seemed to be full of retirees rather than anyone close to your age. He parked downtown, fiddling with the GPS on his phone while he tried to work out the best way to get to your place.
As luck would have it, he’d parked in front of the store you seem to frequent for groceries. Pope looked up just as you walked out of the store. His hand tightened around the steering wheel until the leather was creaking.
He’d imagined seeing you again a lot in prison. But the memory of you had begun to fade the longer he went without.
You seemed surreal as he watched you. Like something he dreamed up as you loaded your car with your bags. His hand dropped to the handle of his door. He wanted to jump out, hound you for an answer on why you left. Kiss you and take you right in the middle of the parking lot. He didn’t give a shit who saw; he just wanted you.
But he stopped himself. Kept himself locked in his car while he watched you. His chest was tight as you closed your trunk, hopping into your car and pulling out of your parking spot. Andrew started his truck back up, carefully, as he pulled up behind you.
He forced himself to stay back, to keep enough distance that you didn’t grow suspicious. He watched as you ran your errands. A stop by the general store where you picked up some tools. A few minutes in a boutique before you were walking out with empty hands. He watched it all, growing increasingly more frustrated that you seemed completely unaware someone was following you.
By the time you made it home, his patience was gone. He watched you head inside. Watched the lights flick on behind your curtains. How your silhouette moved through the house before you turned off the living room lights. You moved through the house, a light flicking off the closer you got to your bedroom. Andrew’s leg bounced as he watched the last one go off.
Then, he couldn’t hold himself back anymore. He jumped from his truck, storming up the steps of your porch. He pulled his pick from his pocket, using his body to block anyone’s view as he pushed it into your lock.
His hands paused, though, when he remembered one of the first letters you’d sent him. A promise of a place always waiting for him with you. His eyes darted around the porch, chest tightening when he saw a hanging plant in the corner.
He walked over, glancing over his shoulder as his hand dug through the dirt. He’d almost given up hope when he felt the smooth metal of a key beneath his fingers.
He couldn’t decide whether to be upset or relieved. It was stupid of you to grant such easy access to your home. At the very least, though, this meant you still had to feel something for him.
He slipped through your door quietly. Toeing off his boots, he took care not to step on any creaking wood as he made his way through the house.
The interior was what you would expect from a beach bungalow, nice enough. Even with the limited light streaming through the curtains, he still spotted touches of you. Little pieces of color that he had missed while he’d been gone.
He’s aware this is probably the wrong way to go about the reunion. But he can’t trust that you won’t just avoid him if he tries to approach you naturally. It’s not like you to just disappear without a warning. He couldn’t stand seeing your face as you told him to stay out of your life. He’d rather deal with that rejection in the dark, when he doesn’t have to see the hatred in your eyes.
At the end of the hall is your bedroom. The door is cracked open slightly. Pope carefully pushes through, taking care to make sure the whining hinges don’t preemptively announce him.
You don’t move, sprawled across your bed as a sound machine blasts at top volume, and half your face is obscured by an eye mask. He crosses his arms with a scoff. You have made it incredibly easy to break in.
Pope shakes his head and steps further inside until he’s hovering over you. His brow furrows, his expression softening as he relearns the slopes of your face. There’s a smile growing on his face when you suddenly shoot up in bed.
He jolts back as your head swivels wildly. Suddenly, you’re ripping off your mask. He grimaces at the shrill scream you let out, slipping across your bed until your body is thudding against the wood.
He tries to say your name, but you’re jumping back up, a metal bat now in your hands. At least you’re marginally prepared.
“It’s me,” he calls out.
“What?” You snap, reaching for your lamp. He squints against the sudden light as you shove your hair out of your eyes. “Andrew?” You gasp, the bat slipping from your fingers.
“Hey,” he offers. He waits for you to hug him, to yell at him, or maybe to scream at him to get the hell out of your life. But you don’t; you just stand there, jaw dropped. He whispers your name, and you jolt back to life, shaking your head.
“What- how are you-" You press a hand to your temple and stutter out nonsense. He rounds the bed, slowly taking your hands in his as he leads you to sit back down.
You suck in a sharp breath, hands tensing in his hold, but you don’t jerk away. You also won’t meet his eyes. “Why are you here, Andrew?” He hates that there’s no familiar warmth when you say his name.
“What do you mean?” Where else would he be?
“I mean,” you snap, finally meeting his eye. But it’s cold, the way you look at him. “Why are you here? In my house,” you grit out, eyes wide as you gesture toward your bedroom.
Pope rubs the back of his neck. This is a slightly better reaction than what he’d been preparing for. But he can’t tell if catching you off guard was the right call.
“I told you I was coming back.”
You narrow your eyes and shake your head. “When?” You huff.
Andrew frowns. “In my letter,” he’s sure he must’ve seen it before you moved. Or, at the very least, one of his family would’ve given it to you.
“Oh,” you scoff and jump to your feet. “No, I never got a letter from you, Andrew. Just one person did.” You smile as Andrew frowns, shaking his head helplessly. “Cath,” you elaborate, patience running thin.
“I never sent her a letter,” he insists, not having a goddamn idea what you’re talking about. He just wants you to sit down again. The way you’re eyeing that bat is disconcerting.
“Are you seriously trying to lie to me right now?” You demand, pacing in front of him.
He snaps your name and you freeze, forcing yourself to look at him. Pope stands, but you take a step back. It's hard to ignore how much that hurts.
“I never sent anyone any letters, alright? I- I couldn’t. I couldn’t talk about what was happening, so I never sent anything. But I told you I was coming back.”
A part of you softens. You’re still not happy, but you seem more inclined to believe him. “I’m sorry.” You shake your head. “I never got anything. When did you send it?”
“A few months ago.”
“No,” you bite your lip, glaring down at the floor. “I’d already moved. Smurf would’ve-“
You cut yourself off with a low hiss as you slump back into your bed. Pope hovers in front of you, unsure what to do now. “God, that fucking bitch. Goddamn control freak,” you snap.
Your eyes shoot up to his, “Did you ever, in your life, write Cath a letter?”
Pope grimaced, thinking about it. “Yeah, when we were kids.” You let out a bitter laugh, head falling into your hands. Hesitatingly, he took a seat beside you.
“Are you mad at me?”
Your head shoots up and you stare at him for a long time. Long enough for him to grow uncomfortable. “No,” you finally whisper and something inside of him finally relaxes. “No, I’m not mad at you.”
He reaches out, eager to finally hold you again, but you hold up your hand, jerking away. “But I can’t do this again. I’m so glad you’re out, I really am. But I can’t go back to being what we were.”
Pope shakes his head, drawing back into himself. “What we were?”
“You can’t just come back and expect me to be your fuck buddy again, Andrew.”
“That’s not what we were,” he snaps. How could you debase it like that? Just like Smurf had.
“You never called to anything else,” you scoff, brows drawing together with irritation. Were you always so volatile?
“I never called it anything.”
“Exactly,” you snap. “Andrew, I don’t know how else to make it clear. I wrote to you for two years, without ever getting anything back. I’ve been in love with you for so long. But you don’t get to come back into my life and offer nothing but sex. It’s not fair.”
His chest aches as you cut yourself off, your voice trembling. Is that what you’ve thought? All this time, you just thought that the way he treats you is how he’d ever treat anyone else?
“It was never just sex.” He pauses, completely unsure if he even has the words to properly convey how he feels about you. “I love you,” he admits, and your breath hitches painfully. “I thought you knew that. How could you not know?” It's embarrassing, the way his voice breaks.
“How would I?” You scoff, watery eyes lifting to meet his. “It’s not like we talk about our emotions a lot.”
Pope swallows roughly. This isn’t how he works. He can’t just spew off romantic words of undying love. He just isn’t good at that. Always better at showing others how he feels. Though clearly that isn’t working either.
“I love you,” he promises. “I’ve waited three years to see you. And when you weren’t at the house today, I thought…” he can’t finish. He’d had a hundred thoughts of the worst possible explanations for your absence. And each one had hurt worse than the last.
You let out a rough sigh, and Andrew waits for you to tell him to get out. He jolts when he feels your arm around him. You pull him closer and he seeks your warmth immediately, his head falling into the crook of your neck as he winds his arm around you.
You let out a small laugh, stroking his back as he sinks his weight against you. “I never stopped loving you,” you whisper. “I was pissed off for a while. But, infuriatingly, you’ve always stayed with me.” He pulls back and you nod. “Always,” you swear, frowning at the look in his eyes.
“Please,” he whispers, hardly even caring he’s this close to getting on his knees and begging. “Can I stay here tonight?”
You frown and shake your head. “Of course,” you lean down, lips soft as they press against his temple. “As long as you want.” He’s sure you have no idea just how long you're signing up for.
Or, maybe you were. You seem to have been waiting for this as long as he has. He’s not planning on giving you up anytime soon. Not again.
My 3K follower event is officially over! I want to thank everyone who left such kind comments, reblogs, and supported this little labor of love. It’s been so fun writing for all these new characters and seeing you all enjoy them. Funnily enough, I started this to celebrate my 3K followers and have ended with 4K 😭. Once I’ve settled into my new place, I might have to do another event. (I need another album soon Sabrina) love you all 🩷🩵
Goodbye / Means that you're losing me for life / Can't call it love then call it quits / Can't shoot me down then shoot the shit / Did you forget that it was you who said / Goodbye / So you don't get to be the one who cries / Can't have your cake and eat it too / By walking out that means you choose / Goodbye
Overview: You loved Andrew, even if that meant accepting he would always be in love with someone else. But things changed between you before he went to jail. You thought that maybe you finally meant something. Then you get the letter he'd meant to send to Cath and you have to accept that he never saw you as anything but an easy lay.
You left the Codys behind years ago. Now, Pope's at your door and you don't know what to do with the story he's telling you.
wc: 9.2K
the end of my extravaganza
The first time it happened, you were at Andrew’s house. Smurf had been pissed at the boys for a reason you can’t even remember. So they’d raided their brother’s house, used his pool, and thrown a party he hadn’t realized was happening until he got home with you.
You’d been out shopping with him all day. You were trying to help him find furniture to make his sterile house feel like a home.
You’d laughed when you saw his brothers abusing their privileges and smoking by his pool. It had cut off when you saw how still he’d gone at the mess they’d left. With a sigh, you took the shopping bags from his hands and walked into his living room.
“I hate when they do this,” he muttered, and you didn’t respond, knowing he wasn’t really talking to you. Just out loud so he could try to regulate himself before he got really angry.
When he stayed quiet too long, you looked up and found him standing by the island. Face pinched with as close to visible anger as you’d seen in a while.
“Smurf will forgive them soon,” you reassured. His eyes shot up to yours, and you offered a weak smile. “The novelty of raiding their big brother’s house will wear off.”
Andrew rolled his eyes, and you bit back a smile as he walked over to help you with the bags. “I think that couch you ordered will look really nice with the blankets you got,” you told him, cutting off the tags to throw them in the wash.
“You picked them,” he reminded you, eyes darting up to meet yours before looking away. You hummed to yourself, a proud smile on your face as you realized that your touch would always be a part of what he called home.
The peaceful bubble you’d surrounded yourself with shattered as his sliding glass door opened. “Oh.” Your shoulders tensed as you recognized the voice. “You’re home.” Cath offered a stilted smile to Andrew as he froze where he was standing.
You walked out of the laundry room and shot her a grin you hoped passed as friendly and not sick to your stomach. “We went shopping today. I’m trying to make this place look less like a psych ward.”
Cath’s eyes narrowed as you loaded Andrew’s new dishes into the dishwasher. He remained still beside you, fist clenched on the granite counter while he looked anywhere but at Cath.
“I didn’t realize you moved in,” she offered, something about her tone making you defensive. When you looked up, her brows were raised, a knowing look on her face that needled at your skin.
“She didn’t,” Andrew interjected before you could. Your jaw snapped shut with a click as Cath scoffed.
“I figured,” she muttered, cutting you a look that had you clenching your fists so you didn’t hit her.
The sliding door opened again and Craig lumbered in, brows raising when he saw the stand-off happening. He let out a low whistle, wet feet slapping across the floor as pool water dripped off him.
“What’s going on?” He chuckled, the shithead knowing exactly what was happening.
He took a drag from the blunt in his hand, grin widening when he saw how Andrew’s jaw clenched at the smoke billowing in his house. “Want some?” He offered, holding it out.
You took it before Andrew could, needing something to calm you down. “You know he’s a dick about this shit,” you snapped, taking a long drag.
It was cruel, you knew that. But nobody ever claimed hanging around the Cody men made someone less emotionally volatile.
You headed toward the door, stripping off your clothes. You’d learned a while ago that it was better to just keep a bathing suit on underneath if you were hanging out with Andrew that day. You usually ended up at the pool or the beach; there was little in between.
Craig chuckled behind you as you walked outside. “Yeah, he’s the dick,” he muttered. You forced yourself to ignore the dig and headed down to the pool. You threw yourself onto the chair closest to Deran. He tended to just leave you alone, and his typically miserable demeanor deterred others from approaching, as well.
Sucking in a sharp breath, you clenched your eyes shut and tried to pretend you were just tanning. Of course, Deran decided today was the day to test out being chatty. “How was the little shopping spree with Pope?”
Rolling your eyes, you tilted your head to look over at him. There was a knowing smirk on his face that had you tensing up. “Fine,” you grit out, hoping he might take the hint.
“You run into Cath?” He taunts, clearly knowing the answer. The Cody family skill seems to be pissing you off.
Flicking your sunglasses up, you shoot him a glare. “What’re you getting at, Deran?”
He shrugs and relaxes back on his chair. “That my brother’s a fucking idiot,” he shoots back, tone casual.
“Am I that obvious?”
The snort he lets out is an answer enough. With a small smile, you lean back on the chair and shake your head. “I don’t get it, man,” Deran continues; clearly, he’s taken something that’s loosened his tongue. He’s not typically cold toward you, but the pair of you aren’t exactly close.
“Get what?” you mutter, trying to relax the tenseness in your muscles.
“You hang around him all the time. Put up with all his weird shit. You even do fucking shopping trips together.” You peek an eye open and catch him shaking his head in disbelief. “Cath can’t even look him in the eye.” He scrubs a hand down his face. “I don’t know what goes on in his head.”
“I don’t think anyone does,” you scoff, biting back the burn rising in your throat.
“No, but you’ve come the closest.” You don’t think Deran understands just how much it hurts hearing him say all of this. It’s easy enough, lying to yourself and pretending you’re not obvious. That the reason Andrew doesn’t reciprocate is that you haven’t shown him how you feel.
But when Deran- hell, when even Craig picks up on your hints- you know it has nothing to do with how obvious you are and everything to do with the fact that you are simply not the woman he wants.
A minute later, a shadow descends over you. Frowning, you look up and see Andrew hovering, mouth pinched as he stares. Your nose wrinkles at the smell of Craig’s weed wafting off him.
“Did you smoke?”
He nods and you frown. “You don’t smoke,” you point out. Andrew takes the conversation as an invitation to perch at the end of your chair.
“Why not?” He shrugs and it only serves to confuse you further. He holds the blunt out to you. You suck your teeth, but it only takes a second for you to accept. Some ridiculous part of you thinks about how his lips had been wrapped around it only a second before as you take a puff.
That’s how it happened the first time. You’d been pissy about his infatuation with Cath. He’d probably been hurt by a comment you hadn’t meant. You got high off weed, and you’re sure Craig had laced it with something else. The next morning, your head felt fuzzy, and memories of the day before came back to you slowly.
It had taken you longer than you’d like to admit to realize there was an arm slung around your waist. Then, Andrew had woken up, both of you frozen as you realized what you’d done the night before.
“Holy shit,” you whispered, sheets pulled up around your naked chest as you stared down at your lap.
Andrew flexed his hands, eyes not meeting yours as he glared at his comforter. “I don’t remember,” he muttered.
You shook your head, “I don’t either,” but it was undeniable, considering that was your underwear thrown on his floor.
“We should try again.” Your head whipped up and you ignored how it made your vision swim. He held your gaze, face deadly serious. Your jaw dropped, lips parting as you struggled for words.
“What?” You squeaked out.
“We should try again,” he repeated, just as blunt as he was the first time around. “Neither of us remembers anything.” You don’t know why you almost said no. Almost denied what you’d wanted since the day you met him. But something seemed to think this wasn’t right.
Maybe you wanted it to be more romantic. Or for this to have happened after a date when you were actually sure he really cared about you as more than just a quick lay. But a part of you, deep down, knew that was likely to never happen. So you’d nodded, eyes closing as he dipped his head, lips meeting yours hesitantly.
It only took a slight tilt of your head, hands dropping the sheets from your chest as you moved toward him, for him to fully give in. His hands gripped your waist, tugging you onto his lap as you slung your arms over his shoulders. That’s how the first time you actually remember happened.
And then, it kept happening. Your friendship continued as it always had. You’d go out for lunch and dinner. Breakfast sometimes if you stayed the night.
The pair of you might go shopping for his new house or just to get away from his mother. Occasionally, it ended with sex. But that wasn’t always consistent.
It both hurt and was reassuring. On the one hand, you wished he would want you as much as you wanted him. Not just when he needed a moment of reprieve.
But, at the very least, that meant he didn’t just see you as some sex toy now. He still cared about you the same way he did before. You’re not sure if it made you happy or upset how little the sex changed your relationship with Andrew.
When it did happen, you’d pretend he wasn’t thinking about another woman. That it was just you in his mind, that he was okay, that it was you in his arms and not Cath. You could lie to yourself that it didn’t bother you. That you were okay with this as long as you had some piece of him.
It was never enough to stop the hurt from seeping through.
You remember one time, a few months after this new thing with Andrew started, Smurf invited you out. It was clear enough that Smurf didn’t like you. But she hadn’t minded as much when you were just an occasional presence in her house.
However, when you and Andrew got more physical, you were at her place a lot more than you had been before. The sex had changed little about your relationship except that you became clingier than you would have liked to be.
You started hanging around with him more, waiting for that little extra bit of attention he occasionally spared you. It was pathetic; you knew that, but you were hopeless when it came to Andrew. You always had been.
His arm was slung around you while you watched some brutal animal documentary on some beast called a Shoebill. You’d been cringing at the way it was staring down the lens of the camera when Smurf had walked in.
“Well,” she rasped, a tight smile on her face. “Isn’t this cute?”
Andrew’s arm had tensed around you as he drew you closer, eyes pointedly kept on the screen. Her glare narrowed as she walked down the steps to the living room. “You’ve been around a bit more, hun.”
You shifted uncomfortably under her stare, hand tightening in Andrew’s shirt as you shrugged, offering a half-hearted smile. “I guess so.”
Her head tilted and she kept walking until she was standing just right to block the TV. “Are you two finally dating?”
“No,” Andrew was quick to answer. You bit your lip, swallowing down the hurt as you tried to shift away. He didn’t seem to notice, his arm just as tight around you as he straightened up.
“We’re not dating,” he doubled down, and you resisted the urge to crawl away and hide in some dark corner.
Smurf hummed, clearly unconvinced. “‘Course not,” she reassured, her voice sickeningly sweet. Her attention drifted back to you.
You grit your teeth, pretending like you weren’t just the slightest bit afraid. Not necessarily of her, but of the hold you knew she had on Andrew. It wouldn’t take much for her to wrench the two of you apart.
“You have plans this Saturday, sweetie?”
You grew cold as Andrew withdrew his touch. He leaned forward, his glare steady on his mother, and you frowned. “Don't,” he warned, his lips a tense line of irritation.
Her gaze snapped to his, brows furrowing with consideration before she redirected her attention. “Well?”
“Uh,” you swallowed roughly and spared Andrew a glance before shaking your head. “No, no plans.”
“Perfect,” she hummed. “You can join Pope and me then.”
“Smurf,” he tried again, getting to his feet. You stared up at him in surprise. He didn’t typically butt heads with her like this.
“That’s enough, baby. Don’t be rude.” Smurf fixed him with a firm look before stalking back out of the room. Your brows furrowed as you waited for him to sit back down. Instead, he glared down at the coffee table, fists clenched at his sides.
“Andrew,” you tried, getting to your feet. You reached for his arm, but he jerked away.
“Let’s go,” he demanded, already heading to the front door. You followed after him, but he didn’t give you any more answers. Just drove you to his house.
He still seemed out of character when he took you to his bed that night. Strangely desperate, more handsy than usual. Like he was afraid you might slip away in the middle of the night, change your mind about the whole deal.
Like you ever would. The idea was laughable.
Andrew drove you on Saturday. To where, you couldn’t say. You got lost when paved roads turned to gravel, and it started to look like he was driving you out to some warehouse to be murdered in.
When he’d stopped on a random cemented piece of land with trucks and bikes scatteringly parked, you almost didn’t get out. But you trusted him. As much as you probably shouldn’t. So, you’d let him open your door, help you out of the car, and followed behind.
He didn’t speak. He hadn’t the whole morning. Just kept his eyes pointed anywhere but your face. Still, he seemed to linger more than normal. Hand staying wrapped around yours. Walking closer than he typically does.
The odd behavior, even from an already odd man, had you on edge. Smurf being behind this whole thing didn’t help soothe you at all. No, the closer you got to what sounded like loud, drunken cheering, the more your stomach soured.
“When are you going to tell me what we’re doing?”
Andrew paused, head dipping between his shoulders as he sucked in a sharp breath. You waited with bated breath, the prolonged silence making you antsy to just get the hell out of there. “I need you to-”
“There you are!” Smurf walked up, a malicious grin on her face. Her oversized sunglasses hid her eyes, but you still felt the ill intent in her gaze.
“Here I thought you weren’t going to show. I should’ve known better.” She reached forward and squeezed Andrew’s shoulder, drawing him away from you as she draped herself over him. Your nose wrinkled with poorly hidden disgust. “My baby boy doesn’t disappoint.”
You offered a weak chuckle to try to disguise the visceral hatred you felt toward the woman. It only got worse when you saw how Andrew couldn’t meet your eyes, unable to get out from under her touch.
It didn’t matter if it was a stranger, a friend, even her own daughter; Smurf didn’t play nice with other women. Desperate to be the only one in her boys’ lives. Whatever she had planned for you today was certain to be an attempt at kicking you out of Andrew’s.
Sucking in a sharp breath, you motioned for her to lead the way. You were determined not to let her win this time.
Andrew needed a win; you weren’t about to be another disappointment.
Though that conviction of yours weakened the closer you got to the cheering. It was gone by the time you realized what exactly she was having him do today. Inside a metal cage, two men were beating each other bloody, the people watching screaming insults as cash was traded between different hands.
“God dammit,” you muttered, ripping your gaze away at the sound of a wet crunch as one of the men dropped to the ground.
“Weak stomach?” Smurf taunted, shoving Pope forward before he could say anything to you. A burly man covered in tattoos jerked him forward by the neck, bending to whisper something in his ear.
You bit your lip and turned toward Smurf. She had seated herself in a foldable chair. It could have been confused for a throne with how comfortable she looked in it. “No,” you responded, refusing to let her twisted little games beat you out.
“You’ll have one by the end,” she promised, taking a swig from her flask as she turned her attention toward the cage match. Seeing as she hadn’t deigned to provide you a place to sit, you moved closer to the crowd. You weren’t keen on being so close to her, anyway. You’d rather be in the spray-zone of blood than have to stomach her company much longer.
Pope walked into the ring, knuckles wrapped and eyes boring only into his opponent. He didn’t look outside the cage, not to you, not to his mother. You supposed it was for the best that neither of you got in his head while he was beating another man to a pulp.
You closed your eyes for a moment, jumping as a bell rang and the small crowd started cheering. You kept them closed, right up until you heard the first sound of flesh breaking against flesh. With a rough swallow, you forced yourself to look as Andrew was shoved into the metal chain, ducking just before the other man’s fist connected with his face.
Taking a step back, you tried not to grimace as he spit blood onto the cage floor. You could do this for him. You could handle a little while of blood and violence, if only to make sure Smurf doesn’t get to enjoy the victory of chasing you away.
Nails biting into your palms, you forced yourself to be still. To not react to the blood and teeth that went flying. Or the way you could already see welts and bruises forming along Andrew’s ribs. You made your way through it, right up until the end of the match, when Andrew was standing over the other man, chest heaving and bare chest covered in marks that made you hurt for him.
Then, in your peripheral, you saw Smurf walking up to the man running the match. Her gaze met yours as she whispered something to him. Your heart dropped as you realized she wasn’t going to let this stop until you or Andrew tapped out.
Head whipping back to him, you felt yourself go light-headed as an even bigger man than the last walked in. He hardly waited for the bell to ring before he was swinging at Andrew. You watched as he dropped to the ground, shaking the ringing from his ears as he ducked away from another punch.
You didn’t want to give Smurf the satisfaction of seeing you run scared. But you also weren’t going to be the reason Andrew was beaten bloody just so she could prove a point. With the best terrified expression you could muster, you went running, ignoring the barb of fury as Smurf smirked, completely victorious. You didn’t stop until you reached Andrew’s truck.
Guilt twisted your stomach into knots. He might not have been looking at you, but it wouldn’t take long to realize you were gone. You knew him, knew that he would be quick to assume the worst. But that was better than having to watch him lie bloody in the cage.
With a sharp breath, you leaned against his truck, head tipped back as you waited for this to be over. It took about another half hour before you saw him approaching. His head was down, pace furious as he undid the wrap around his knuckles.
You jolted up, lips pinched as your stomach twisted. He stopped short when he finally saw you waiting, and you offered a tentative smile that probably read more like a grimace. His brows furrowed as he closed the distance between you. Hands flexing at his sides, you felt like he wanted to reach out; maybe you were projecting, but you took the leap anyway.
“How bad does it hurt?” You asked, taking his hand in yours and frowning at the split skin of his knuckles.
“I thought you left,” he muttered, stepping even closer.
You already knew he would expect the worst, but the lack of faith still hurt. “Smurf clearly wanted me gone. I figured she’d be done with it if she thought I ran scared.”
“But you didn’t.” He stared at you, eyes narrowed like he didn’t quite believe you.
“I didn’t,” you smiled softly. “Now, keys, I don’t trust that you don’t have a concussion.” He didn’t argue as he placed them in your palm, leaning into you when you reached up to press a kiss to the unmarred spot on his cheek. “Let's get you home,” you murmured, rounding the front of his truck.
The ride, like that morning, was quiet. You didn’t push, letting him stew until you pulled up his driveway. “Come on,” you motioned him inside, guiding him toward his bathroom so you could clean him up a bit.
He took a seat on the rim of his tub, eyes intent on tracking you as you dug around under the sink for the first-aid supplies. You spent so much time at his house that it was practically more familiar to you than your own place.
It was when you were kneeling down in front of him that he finally spoke. “I didn’t want you to see that,” he admitted, eyes glaring down at his bathmat. Your hand hovered over his cheek.
You dipped your head to meet his gaze and grinned. “Why? Because that second guy knocked you on your ass?” He let out a little huff and you figured that’s the closest to a laugh you’d get today. “I’m not scared of you, Andrew,” you promised, putting the alcohol swab to the side for a moment.
When he still wouldn’t meet your eye, you lifted your hand, careful of his cuts as you cupped his cheek. Gently, you tilted his face toward yours, imploring him to just listen to you, for once. His eyes darted between yours, expression tightening before it slowly softened. He nodded, letting his weight rest in your hand.
You stayed the night, slept beside him, his arms tight around you while you held him back. You didn’t have sex, but you think that was better than if you had. Andrew needed something gentle in his life. A relationship that gave without anything expected in return. You never had any problems being that for him.
“So,” you glanced around the restaurant, feeling more than a little out of place. “Why the change of plans?” You turned your attention back to Andrew, hoping you didn’t look as uncomfortable as you felt.
Tonight, you were supposed to have dinner at his place. Possibly convince him to watch the new horror movie that just came out so you wouldn’t have to suffer through it alone. Instead, he’d told you to wear something nice and dragged you to a restaurant so fancy there was a chandelier over your table.
It should be telling you don’t belong here if you think a chandelier is the epitome of class.
Nails drumming along the table, your eyes dart between the nicely dressed couples and waiters with better posture than your own. The Codys had money, sure, but that didn’t mean class. And you’d known Andrew before they’d made a name for themselves. This wasn’t your sort of place, and you knew it wasn’t Andrew’s.
“I thought you might like it,” Andrew answered, his voice low as he stared down at the menu. Your brows furrowed, but you decided not to push. He was clearly trying to make an effort. You didn’t want him to feel bad because the judgmental glares of the staff made you want to crawl out of your skin.
“Well,” you hummed, struggling for a kind word. “It’s nice,” you settled on lamely.
His brows rose and you let out a stiff chuckle. “You don’t like it.” You must have an even worse poker face than you thought.
Shrugging, you lean back in your seat. “It just doesn’t seem like your sort of place.”
Andrew frowns and you worry you might have offended him. “I thought you’d be sick of my sort of place.”
Scoffing, you shake your head. “Why would you think that?”
He lets out a hefty sigh, hand scrubbing along his jaw. “It’s just something Baz told me.” Well, his first mistake was ever taking advice from Baz. “When he and Cath started dating, he said she didn’t like just hanging out at the house all the time.”
Jaw tightening, you suck your teeth, forcing your face to remain kind. “I’m not Cath,” you remind him, though you’re sure you’re both bitter about that fact.
His eyes shoot up to meet yours, his frown deepening at the expression on your face. “I know that-”
“Then don’t try to treat me like her,” you cut in, your tone far more venomous than you’d meant. Andrew draws back, and you suck in a sharp breath. “I want to leave,” you tell him, tossing your napkin on the table and finding it difficult to meet his eyes. You don’t wait for him, getting to your feet and collecting your bag before you’d even had a chance to order.
Andrew hurries to follow behind you as you storm out of the restaurant. You know you’re too sensitive about these things. But one night with him- where you might even be able to pretend you’re on a date like a proper couple. Is that so much to ask for? Just a night without the reminder you’re barely even a second choice.
Deciding you need to calm down, you walk off the sidewalk of the restaurant and head down toward the beach. Andrew catches up to you quickly, hovering at your side, unsure what to say. You grab hold of his arm, leaning against him while you undo the straps of your heels.
“Let’s walk,” you mutter, caught off guard when he reaches over to take your shoes from you. Lifting the hem of your dress, you trudge through the sand. Andrew doesn’t shake off your hold, just lets you use him for balance.
It’s not uncommon that he allows you to be touchier with him than most people. But he’s not usually this tolerant. He already doesn’t like the feel of sand, the way it pools in his shoes and inevitably ends up trailing through his home.
Normally, he’d have gone stiff, trying to silently tell you to back off. But he’s leaning into you know, hand drifting along your waist as you listen to the soft crash of waves in the distance.
“I’m sorry.” He finally breaks the silence.
You bite your lip and shake your head. “I shouldn’t have just left like that. It was nice,” you reluctantly admit. He frowns down at you. With a huff, you clarify, “The restaurant idea was nice. It just wasn’t for me.” It was for the woman you actually want to be with.
Andrew just nods, gaze pensive as he stares off into the dark waters. “I wasn’t…”
“Hm?”
He shakes his head, hand tightening around your waist as he leads you back toward his home. “Never mind,” he mutters, brows furrowed as he stares down at the sand. You frown but decide it’s better not to push. You’ve already gotten your feelings hurt once tonight; no need to risk any more.
When you make it to his home, you almost debate asking for a ride home. You’re not hungry anymore; you don’t want to watch a stupid movie with him. He’s made it more than clear that all you are is a placeholder until he gets what he really wants. Now, all you want is to just be left alone.
“Come on,” he mutters, already opening the door before you muster the backbone to leave. You hover at the threshold and he pauses, turning back with a frown. “What’s wrong?”
You almost back up, almost leave. Instead, you shake your head. “Nothing, never mind. I’m just tired,” you whisper, following after him. The door closes and his hand finds its way to your back.
He turns you to face him, calloused hand drifting up to push back a strand of hair. You’ve been conditioned to lean in just as he starts to. To push closer as he wraps his arms around you and tugs you toward him.
You wrap your arm around his shoulders, head tilting as his lips brush softly against yours. Once, twice, you wait for the third pass, when he lets go of his reservations. Grips you tighter and pushes you toward his bedroom, hungry for something only you can give him.
But it never comes. He stays soft, hands drifting up and down your sides as he holds you by the door. You’re not complaining, enjoying the tender intimacy of the moment. He never changes pace, just takes his time, savors the moment. And you.
You could get used to feeling so desired by him as he slowly begins leading you back to his bedroom. It’s not that he’s never like this. Occasionally, you get moments of softness with him. But this is different, somehow. Like he really means it, and isn’t just giving you gentleness as a courtesy.
His hand works on the zipper of your dress, fingers dragging along your spine as you slip your arms from the sleeves. It falls down your body, and he lifts you, picking you up before it trips you. You tighten your legs around him, smiling when he drops you on his bed.
It’s different that night, the way he is with you. You could almost pretend he loves you just the same as you love him. Pretend that this wasn’t his own desperate need for connection with someone else. Allowing the illusion, just once, couldn’t hurt.
That was the last night you were together. You didn’t know- he didn’t tell you- about the bank job he and his family had planned for the next day. You couldn’t have known how badly it would’ve gone, that Andrew would end up taking the fall for Baz.
Because Baz has a family, Deran had explained afterward. Pope doesn’t have anyone.
He had you. Clearly, though, you didn’t count for anything in their eyes. You almost wonder if Baz had messed up on purpose. If he’d done this to get Andrew out of the way so he could take over. It wouldn’t surprise you, given how quick he was to take Andrew’s place as the eldest son.
What shocked you the most, though, was that Smurf just let him. Baz wasn’t even hers and she still let him slip into Andrew’s place. Like he’d never been there at all.
You weren’t allowed at the trial; you’re not even sure if you’d want to be there. But Smurf had made it abundantly clear that with Andrew gone, your place in her home would soon become nonexistent.
You still hung around, mainly with Deran. Purely for updates on Andrew. Try as you might, each attempt at reaching out seemed to go ignored or just not work out. You sent letters. A lot of letters. At least twice a month.
Sometimes, you couldn’t believe yourself. Andrew had been sentenced to six years. What? Were you just going to wait around for him that long? How much more pathetic could you possibly get?
A lot more, you thought to yourself, penning another letter for the third time that month.
Andrew,
I really don’t know if you’re getting any of these. I hope you are. Smurf had me taken off the visitors list, so I can’t come and see you now. I swear, I would if she didn’t hate me so much.
I’m sorry. Sorry I can’t see you. And sorry about how your family’s acting. They sold your house. I was going to try to buy it with the money you gave me, but Smurf figured out it was me and stopped the deal.
There’s no guarantee when they’ll let you go. But whenever you’re free, wherever I am, there’ll be a place for you. I’ll leave my key in the plant hanging by my door if you get there before me.
You continue on, talking about your life, struggling to decide whether or not you should ask about his. He’s in prison; you doubt there’s anything particularly exciting he’d like to share. If there was, surely he would have responded by now.
But he never did. For two years, you kept up your letters. Kept up hope that, despite the fact he wasn’t responding, some part of him still cares for you. Deran had told you no one else was getting any letters either. But you didn’t think they were sending any or reaching out, either.
It shouldn’t have been, but it was astounding just how little his brothers seemed to care about his absence. If anything, they seemed more at ease. Big brother wasn’t there to keep them in check anymore. Baz let them just run free, just as eager to be careless as they were.
For two years, you loved Andrew when everyone else seemed so content with forgetting him. And two years is exactly how long Smurf’s patience lasted before she finally grew sick of you. You weren’t a threat, not anymore, but that didn’t mean she liked you any more than she did before.
You were lounging at the pool with Deran, prattling on about your new boss while he smoked. She walked up with a cruel smirk on her lips. Which should have been your first sign to cut loose and run.
“Hey, sweetheart.” She pulled an envelope from the pocket of her jeans and you leapt up. Water dripped from your legs as you climbed the stairs of the pool. “I think this might be for you.”
You hastily dried your hands off on your towel, taking the letter from her with trembling hands. Two years, and he was finally letting you hear from him again. Smurf let out a little laugh, crossing her arms as you eagerly ripped open the envelope. Your second sign that you should have just ignored her.
It was a letter, but not to you. He didn’t say her name at first. But you caught on quick enough. Mainly, when he started telling her how jealous he was of Baz. How Baz wasn’t good enough for her. She could do so much better. He could treat her so much better. He wouldn’t play around with her; he would take care of her like she deserved.
Your throat tightened to the point it felt like you were being strangled the longer you read. Tears burned against your lashes, but you refused to let Smurf see them fall. You could barely stomach half of the letter- drawing the line at him declaring his love for Cath- before you were folding it back up.
“It’s not for me,” you whispered, your voice breaking around the words as Deran finally lifted his head. He frowned at the look on your face while Smurf stepped closer. She took the letter from your hands, cupping your shoulder as she leaned toward your ear.
“He didn't want anything except what’s between your legs. I don’t want you, and my family doesn’t. Leave, or I’m going to have to make you, honey.”
And you did, just like she ordered. But you didn’t just leave her house; that wasn’t enough for you. You had to leave every reminder of the Codys behind completely.
Deran helped you, just a little, by giving you some of the money Andrew had stashed away before he was arrested. You didn’t want to take it. How could you start fresh if he was funding your future?
But you didn’t have a choice. You were working a dead-end job and barely making minimum wage. So, reluctantly, you took the cash and moved a few hours out of Oceanside. A cute place, right by the beach.
It was a relatively small town, quaint and filled with retirees. The type of quiet you were desperate for. Smurf bought up your old place without you knowing. You’d just made a blind deal, desperate for more money and a quick way out.
Which meant she got the one letter Andrew ever bothered to send.
They’re letting me out on good behavior. I want to see you. She’d scoffed as she’d tossed it in her fireplace, smiling as she thought about getting her boy back. Without any distractions in the way. You’d been dealt with. Cath wouldn’t be so hard to get rid of.
Pope didn’t expect his family to be waiting outside the prison for him. He’d only told one person he was getting out. And he’d been hoping to see you, but he wasn’t surprised when you weren’t there. Just a little disappointed. He was sure there was a reason for it, it’s not like you’d miss something so big on purpose.
But you hadn’t been waiting for him at Smurf’s either. You’d already warned him they’d sold his home. But you didn’t tell him they’d given his room away to his twin sister’s kid. No one had even bothered to tell him Julia had died.
He sat in the living room, feeling more out of place than he ever had before. Cath couldn’t look at him. Baz seemed angry that he had even made it out. The kid, J, was just pissing him off more, a painful reminder of the sister he’d lost. Smurf seemed on edge, with tight smiles and cloying words, while she tried to keep him placated.
There was one person very clearly missing. Someone they were pointedly not bringing up. You were never a huge part of the Cody family, but you were important to him and they knew that. But you weren’t here. And your letters had stopped a year ago. He had never figured out why, but he’d held out hope for a long time that a guard would bring him one again.
He had never written back. There was never anything more to be said. He couldn’t talk about being shoved in solitary. Or the way the guards used to beat and humiliate him. That was never something he wanted you to know. It wasn't the way he wanted you to think of him.
So he had just greedily accepted your letters, your stories. But he never thought his silence would be enough to finally push you away.
Pope broke the tense silence of the living room. “Where is she?” He stared down at his hands, knees jumping beneath his arms as he tried to keep himself calm.
Smurf shook her head and he shot her a glare. She knew exactly who he was talking about. “Oh.” Smurf rolled her eyes, reaching over to stroke his hair. He tried not to grimace, hating the way it felt. The only person he wanted that from right now was you.
“Forget about her, baby. She ran out a while ago. Took some of our money with her,” her voice tightens, gaze cutting to Deran, who wouldn’t look his way. His eyes narrow at that, his shoulders tensing at the discomfort on his brother's face.
“Just another skank looking for a quick fix,” Smurf callously dismissed. As if you hadn’t been there since they’d rebranded him Pope. Like you weren’t the only constant in his life, the only person he could actually rely on.
He knew you. You weren’t an addict. You weren’t like Ren, hooked on Craig because they’d both shot each other up one too many times. You’d never cared about the money he might’ve given you. You've only ever dealt with his shit and his family for him.
Pope refused to believe that you’d just left. That you wouldn’t have sent a letter explaining your absence. Or at least have waited until he got out to say goodbye
But Pope gave Smurf what she wanted. He nodded, pretending you were just some chick he liked to fuck sometimes. He let her believe the lie until he finally got a minute alone.
He tried to check all your socials, but you’d deleted them. He went through friends of yours and checked their posts to see if you’d ever popped up in any of them. He paced his room and spoke softly to himself while he tried to figure out where the hell you could have gone. Why would you have left?
Smurf had a hand in it; he was sure of that. But you’d survived her for years. Why would you suddenly give up, now?
He checked all of the letters you’d sent him. But the return address remained the same right until the last one. Pope racked his mind for any places you mentioned wanting to visit, but none of them seemed feasible for you to simply disappear to.
When all other options had been exhausted, he went another route.
Deran
He cornered him by the pool, eyes narrowing at the way Deran refused to meet his stare. “Where is she?”
“What the fuck are you talking-“
Pope shoved him back and Deran let out a low hiss as his spine slammed against the corner of the bar. “Don’t play dumb, Deran. You know exactly who I’m fucking talking about.”
Deran shot Pope a harsh glare, rubbing his bruising back. “Look, man, I promised her I wouldn’t tell anyone.”
Pope tilted his head with a frown. “Even me?”
Deran scoffed and sneered. “You're kidding me? Especially you.”
What the fuck was that supposed to mean?
“Do you really want to do this?” Pope snapped, hands balling into fists at his side. He had a lot to work out. The majority of it was anger, most of that directed at his family. He wouldn’t mind making his little brother bleed if it got him what he wanted.
Deran seemed to realize that, too, disappointingly. “Fucks sake,” he huffed. It’s not like you and Deran were ever very close. Pope's not sure why you thought he would be a good choice to keep your secrets. Or why you were trying to keep secrets from him. But he could figure all that out when he saw you.
Because he would, now, as Deran wrote down your address and pressed the slip of paper into his palm.
You’d moved a few hours outside of Oceanside. Clearly desperate to get away. But that hadn’t been something Deran had been able to give a reason for. You kept a few things from him, it seemed.
The town was small, decent, and safe enough. It seemed to be full of retirees rather than anyone close to your age. He parked downtown, fiddling with the GPS on his phone while he tried to work out the best way to get to your place.
As luck would have it, he’d parked in front of the store you seem to frequent for groceries. Pope looked up just as you walked out of the store. His hand tightened around the steering wheel until the leather was creaking.
He’d imagined seeing you again a lot in prison. But the memory of you had begun to fade the longer he went without.
You seemed surreal as he watched you. Like something he dreamed up as you loaded your car with your bags. His hand dropped to the handle of his door. He wanted to jump out, hound you for an answer on why you left. Kiss you and take you right in the middle of the parking lot. He didn’t give a shit who saw; he just wanted you.
But he stopped himself. Kept himself locked in his car while he watched you. His chest was tight as you closed your trunk, hopping into your car and pulling out of your parking spot. Andrew started his truck back up, carefully, as he pulled up behind you.
He forced himself to stay back, to keep enough distance that you didn’t grow suspicious. He watched as you ran your errands. A stop by the general store where you picked up some tools. A few minutes in a boutique before you were walking out with empty hands. He watched it all, growing increasingly more frustrated that you seemed completely unaware someone was following you.
By the time you made it home, his patience was gone. He watched you head inside. Watched the lights flick on behind your curtains. How your silhouette moved through the house before you turned off the living room lights. You moved through the house, a light flicking off the closer you got to your bedroom. Andrew’s leg bounced as he watched the last one go off.
Then, he couldn’t hold himself back anymore. He jumped from his truck, storming up the steps of your porch. He pulled his pick from his pocket, using his body to block anyone’s view as he pushed it into your lock.
His hands paused, though, when he remembered one of the first letters you’d sent him. A promise of a place always waiting for him with you. His eyes darted around the porch, chest tightening when he saw a hanging plant in the corner.
He walked over, glancing over his shoulder as his hand dug through the dirt. He’d almost given up hope when he felt the smooth metal of a key beneath his fingers.
He couldn’t decide whether to be upset or relieved. It was stupid of you to grant such easy access to your home. At the very least, though, this meant you still had to feel something for him.
He slipped through your door quietly. Toeing off his boots, he took care not to step on any creaking wood as he made his way through the house.
The interior was what you would expect from a beach bungalow, nice enough. Even with the limited light streaming through the curtains, he still spotted touches of you. Little pieces of color that he had missed while he’d been gone.
He’s aware this is probably the wrong way to go about the reunion. But he can’t trust that you won’t just avoid him if he tries to approach you naturally. It’s not like you to just disappear without a warning. He couldn’t stand seeing your face as you told him to stay out of your life. He’d rather deal with that rejection in the dark, when he doesn’t have to see the hatred in your eyes.
At the end of the hall is your bedroom. The door is cracked open slightly. Pope carefully pushes through, taking care to make sure the whining hinges don’t preemptively announce him.
You don’t move, sprawled across your bed as a sound machine blasts at top volume, and half your face is obscured by an eye mask. He crosses his arms with a scoff. You have made it incredibly easy to break in.
Pope shakes his head and steps further inside until he’s hovering over you. His brow furrows, his expression softening as he relearns the slopes of your face. There’s a smile growing on his face when you suddenly shoot up in bed.
He jolts back as your head swivels wildly. Suddenly, you’re ripping off your mask. He grimaces at the shrill scream you let out, slipping across your bed until your body is thudding against the wood.
He tries to say your name, but you’re jumping back up, a metal bat now in your hands. At least you’re marginally prepared.
“It’s me,” he calls out.
“What?” You snap, reaching for your lamp. He squints against the sudden light as you shove your hair out of your eyes. “Andrew?” You gasp, the bat slipping from your fingers.
“Hey,” he offers. He waits for you to hug him, to yell at him, or maybe to scream at him to get the hell out of your life. But you don’t; you just stand there, jaw dropped. He whispers your name, and you jolt back to life, shaking your head.
“What- how are you-" You press a hand to your temple and stutter out nonsense. He rounds the bed, slowly taking your hands in his as he leads you to sit back down.
You suck in a sharp breath, hands tensing in his hold, but you don’t jerk away. You also won’t meet his eyes. “Why are you here, Andrew?” He hates that there’s no familiar warmth when you say his name.
“What do you mean?” Where else would he be?
“I mean,” you snap, finally meeting his eye. But it’s cold, the way you look at him. “Why are you here? In my house,” you grit out, eyes wide as you gesture toward your bedroom.
Pope rubs the back of his neck. This is a slightly better reaction than what he’d been preparing for. But he can’t tell if catching you off guard was the right call.
“I told you I was coming back.”
You narrow your eyes and shake your head. “When?” You huff.
Andrew frowns. “In my letter,” he’s sure he must’ve seen it before you moved. Or, at the very least, one of his family would’ve given it to you.
“Oh,” you scoff and jump to your feet. “No, I never got a letter from you, Andrew. Just one person did.” You smile as Andrew frowns, shaking his head helplessly. “Cath,” you elaborate, patience running thin.
“I never sent her a letter,” he insists, not having a goddamn idea what you’re talking about. He just wants you to sit down again. The way you’re eyeing that bat is disconcerting.
“Are you seriously trying to lie to me right now?” You demand, pacing in front of him.
He snaps your name and you freeze, forcing yourself to look at him. Pope stands, but you take a step back. It's hard to ignore how much that hurts.
“I never sent anyone any letters, alright? I- I couldn’t. I couldn’t talk about what was happening, so I never sent anything. But I told you I was coming back.”
A part of you softens. You’re still not happy, but you seem more inclined to believe him. “I’m sorry.” You shake your head. “I never got anything. When did you send it?”
“A few months ago.”
“No,” you bite your lip, glaring down at the floor. “I’d already moved. Smurf would’ve-“
You cut yourself off with a low hiss as you slump back into your bed. Pope hovers in front of you, unsure what to do now. “God, that fucking bitch. Goddamn control freak,” you snap.
Your eyes shoot up to his, “Did you ever, in your life, write Cath a letter?”
Pope grimaced, thinking about it. “Yeah, when we were kids.” You let out a bitter laugh, head falling into your hands. Hesitatingly, he took a seat beside you.
“Are you mad at me?”
Your head shoots up and you stare at him for a long time. Long enough for him to grow uncomfortable. “No,” you finally whisper and something inside of him finally relaxes. “No, I’m not mad at you.”
He reaches out, eager to finally hold you again, but you hold up your hand, jerking away. “But I can’t do this again. I’m so glad you’re out, I really am. But I can’t go back to being what we were.”
Pope shakes his head, drawing back into himself. “What we were?”
“You can’t just come back and expect me to be your fuck buddy again, Andrew.”
“That’s not what we were,” he snaps. How could you debase it like that? Just like Smurf had.
“You never called to anything else,” you scoff, brows drawing together with irritation. Were you always so volatile?
“I never called it anything.”
“Exactly,” you snap. “Andrew, I don’t know how else to make it clear. I wrote to you for two years, without ever getting anything back. I’ve been in love with you for so long. But you don’t get to come back into my life and offer nothing but sex. It’s not fair.”
His chest aches as you cut yourself off, your voice trembling. Is that what you’ve thought? All this time, you just thought that the way he treats you is how he’d ever treat anyone else?
“It was never just sex.” He pauses, completely unsure if he even has the words to properly convey how he feels about you. “I love you,” he admits, and your breath hitches painfully. “I thought you knew that. How could you not know?” It's embarrassing, the way his voice breaks.
“How would I?” You scoff, watery eyes lifting to meet his. “It’s not like we talk about our emotions a lot.”
Pope swallows roughly. This isn’t how he works. He can’t just spew off romantic words of undying love. He just isn’t good at that. Always better at showing others how he feels. Though clearly that isn’t working either.
“I love you,” he promises. “I’ve waited three years to see you. And when you weren’t at the house today, I thought…” he can’t finish. He’d had a hundred thoughts of the worst possible explanations for your absence. And each one had hurt worse than the last.
You let out a rough sigh, and Andrew waits for you to tell him to get out. He jolts when he feels your arm around him. You pull him closer and he seeks your warmth immediately, his head falling into the crook of your neck as he winds his arm around you.
You let out a small laugh, stroking his back as he sinks his weight against you. “I never stopped loving you,” you whisper. “I was pissed off for a while. But, infuriatingly, you’ve always stayed with me.” He pulls back and you nod. “Always,” you swear, frowning at the look in his eyes.
“Please,” he whispers, hardly even caring he’s this close to getting on his knees and begging. “Can I stay here tonight?”
You frown and shake your head. “Of course,” you lean down, lips soft as they press against his temple. “As long as you want.” He’s sure you have no idea just how long you're signing up for.
Or, maybe you were. You seem to have been waiting for this as long as he has. He’s not planning on giving you up anytime soon. Not again.
Well this is me but / if you have time / Do you want the house tour? / I could take you to the first, second, third floor
My house is on pretty girl avenue / My house was especially built for you / Some say it's a place where your dreams come true / My house / Could be your house too!
Overview: You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time, a tale as old as time. Just like the one where they tell you about pretty, naive, broke girls getting swept off their feet by the murdering, satanic-worshipping rich man stalking them.
Oh... Do they not tell that one?
a/n: wrote this before I watched the movie and worried he would be OOC but I just finished it and yes, he’s just as psychopathic and needy as I’d hoped
wc: 12.1K
more at: Belle’s 3K Extravaganza
All good things start with something memorable. Something that gets your blood racing and adrenaline pumping. You hadn’t thought catering an old man’s party would be so titillating, but looking down at this NDA, you have a feeling your night is about to take a strange turn.
“Just sign on the dotted line, please,” Bev tells you, pointed nail tapping boredly at the bottom of the paper. The pen hangs limply in your grip as your eyes dart from her to the form.
Bev was doing you a favor, letting you tag along with her catering company and earn some extra cash. Things had been tight lately, bad enough that you’re worried about making rent next month. Still, as desperate as you were, entering the lion’s den of the rich and anonymous with a hefty NDA under your belt seemed beyond stupid.
Your friend let out a huff, offering you a stern glare. “You’re not getting in that mansion without one.”
“What the hell are they gonna do in there? Eat us alive?”
If only you knew then what you know now.
“This is all of them?” Bev nods as she hands the richly dressed lawyer the thick stack of NDA’s. Your eyes narrow on your own, right on top with your messy signature.
Getting into the sprawling estate had been hell. The owners, some jagoffs by the name of Danforth, didn’t want the help being seen by their guests. The catering vans had to circle the mile-long driveway and backroads before Bev finally found the back entrance. And then, because of that tedious delay, you’d all had to rush the food into the mansion.
One of you accidentally dropped a tray of some French shit you couldn’t pronounce. That had cost Bev an extra half hour as the head of staff for the estate berated her. You could still see how red her cheeks had gotten while she tried not to cry.
You’ve barely been here an hour and already your hatred for the rich is deepening.
A stout woman in a classic maid’s outfit walks up and down the long line of Bev’s caterers. She holds herself with the severity and posture of a military man. You’re afraid that if a hair slips out of place, she’ll make you drop and give her twenty. She comes to a sudden stop in front of you and you instinctively straighten, spine groaning as you force it into a better posture than you’ve had in a year.
Her eyes narrow before she lets out a low huff. “Send ten out with the champagne,” she barks out an order and you hold your hand out instinctively for your tray. Bev gives the go-ahead to her assistants and they begin loading you all up with champagne worth more than your shitty apartment.
Before you can finally escape the kitchen, the older woman stops you. “Watch yourself,” she warns. Your brows furrow in confusion but she’s already walking away, tugging at another girl’s skirt until the hem sits right. That didn’t seem like a warning that meant ‘don’t get smart with the guests.’ It felt more like you should have left before you even set foot in this dreary mansion.
With no other choice, you shuffle in line with the others and follow the leader out the swinging kitchen door. The noise is immediate as you’re led into a large drawing room. Low chatter and rich laughter that makes your wallet quake. Women’s 4-carat diamond rings clink against champagne flutes, Rolexes flash as men sip their brandy. Each pass through the room makes you wish you had the skills to slip a ring or necklace off an unsuspecting socialite.
You’re forced to dismiss the thought as a man whistles, snapping his fingers and motioning you closer. Your eye twitches as you bite back something rude; instead, you force a polite smile on your face, making your way over. “Took you long enough,” he gripes, rolling his eyes.
You offer a short laugh and your smile tightens. “Did you need something, sir?” Your tray is empty, clearly tucked behind your back. Five extra seconds of patience and you would have been refilled. But you doubt anyone in this room has ever had to wait for something.
“Yes,” he stares at you as if you’d grown a second head. “Champagne,” he drawls in a tone that actively makes you wish for a gun.
You blink a few times, struggling to comprehend how someone could be so confidently stupid. “Apologies, sir, my tray’s empty. But the bar is just over there,” you point toward the bartender, who is quite literally five feet from the man.
His perfectly maintained eyebrows draw in at your audacity. “Good, you have eyes. Go get me some.”
Tomorrow, you would congratulate yourself on such phenomenal self-restraint. Tonight, however, you bite your lip hard enough to hurt and force yourself to go grab some champagne.
When you swipe the flute from the bar, it takes everything inside you not to spit in the bastard’s drink. “Here you are, sir,” you force a jovial tone to your voice. He rolls his eyes. Those thirty seconds you took must have felt like a lifetime to the poor thing.
He waves his hand in dismissal and you can’t help the astonished scoff that leaves you. Shaking your head, you’re about to turn away when you catch him fiddling with the ring on his pinky. You might as well already be gone for all the care he pays you as you linger behind him.
His ring pops open to reveal a compartment inside. You frown as he sprinkles powder from his ring into the drink. With a low sigh, he readjusts his tie and makes a beeline for the blonde in the center of the room.
The domineering presence that has commanded the party thus far. You’re quite certain she’s the one who hired Bev, with how easily she dismisses and beckons forth those around her, like an owner calling their dog to heel.
The man you’d just served sidles up to her, a smarmy grin on his face as he holds out the champagne. With a low sigh, you shake your head and rush forward. The rich might all behave like a bunch of well-dressed bottom feeders, but you’re not about to allow a woman to be roofied at her own party.
You jog up to the woman and reach out. She startles at your touch. There’s a man at her side you hadn’t noticed before. He’s on the shorter side, with salt-and-pepper curls and a tight jaw that looks like it's been itching to bite at someone all night. “You’re touching me,” she drawls and you jerk your hand back.
Her lips curl with disgust, as if you got your poor on her. Clearing your throat uncomfortably, you glance over at the man you just served. His eyes narrow, but you don’t think he even paid enough attention to you to remember your face.
“Excuse me, ma’am, but you’re not supposed to drink that.” You gesture toward the champagne and she pulls it back from you.
“Good help’s hard to find these days, isn’t it?” The man laughs, eyes narrowing at you as he tries to remember how he knows your face. Jesus, these people are inhuman.
“And why shouldn’t I drink my champagne in my home?” she demands, cutting her eyes to the man at her side. They both share a suspicious look that has you clamping up.
“Um, well-”
“Alright,” the man at her side finally steps forward, hands outstretched like he’s about to escort you out. You’d really rather not find out how these people dispose of ‘bad’ help.
“He put something in it,” you rush out, narrowly dodging her guard dog’s hands. They both pause and the blonde brings the drink to her nose. She takes a deep whiff while the blonde man across from her goes colorless.
She lets out a low chuckle and shakes her head. “Really, Brentley? Poison is a woman’s game; you should know better.”
Your eyes dart between the pair of them. She’s taking this a lot better than you would have. The shorter man redirects himself to the other man, ignoring you now. All three of them seem to have forgotten you were there. They began to act as if she were the one to make the discovery, icing you out of the conversation.
It’s a blessing, you think. She seemed ready to cut off your hands for getting poverty on her silk dress. Slowly, you back away from the trio. When you’re sure no one’s paying attention, you make a beeline for the kitchen. One attempted poisoning is more than enough excitement for the night.
Bev is surrounded by a cyclone of pans, cutlery, and splashing red sauces. Her white coat is absolutely covered in stains, and the stout woman from before is yelling at her for burning some hors d'oeuvres. You’re a horrible person for leaving her high and dry, but you need to get out of here before you discover something so bad that not even an NDA can shut you up.
You drop your tray by the kitchen door and rip off your apron, making a run for it before anyone can spot you. If Bev asks, you’ll tell her you got sick and had to leave. She probably won’t believe you, but you doubt she’s paying much attention to who’s missing right now.
Slipping outside, you tug out your phone. You’ll need to get an Uber out of here; the estate is over an hour out of the city. Like hell you’ll be able to make the walk in the heels they required you to wear.
Trying to open up Uber, you frown, no bars. Great, in this sprawling billion-dollar estate, they couldn’t shell out some extra cash for a cell phone tower or something. Grumbling, you lift your phone to the sky, trying to see if you can catch a signal. You don’t pay much attention to where you go, just walking until you get enough of a connection to call a ride.
After a few minutes, you find yourself outside of some strange shed. A bar comes to life and you let out a low noise of excitement, quickly ordering a ride. An odd noise to your right catches your attention and you shift your focus back to the shed.
It’s wet, this noise, squishing as someone lets out a low groan. Your nose wrinkles, disgust brewing hot in your stomach as you risk a step closer to the door. Through the wooden slats, you can make out the form of a hunched man. Another low grunt and he lifts his arm, the metallic shine of a butcher’s knife catching in the dim light. You clamp your hand over your mouth, swallowing back your gasp as he slams the knife down.
A painful squelch and then you hear the pitiful sound of an animal breathing its last breath. Are they preparing the meat for dinner now? You ask yourself. How odd, even for the rich.
Tilting your head, curiosity overrides sense as you press closer to the wood of the shed. The man straightens and you recognize the greying auburn curls from inside the estate. This had been the little guard dog standing next to that blonde woman you’d helped. He lets out a low grunt and wipes his hands on his apron, stepping to the side.
There’s no stopping the sharp gasp that rips through you. It wasn’t an animal he was butchering. No, it was the man who’d tried to poison the woman. His mangled body was crumpled on the floor, blood swirling down a drain in the center of the shed. His fingers twitched with the last bits of life as his body began to cool.
You stumbled back from the shed with burning eyes, stomach turning as you tripped over yourself.
“What are you doing out here?”
You whipped around with a gasp, barely stopping yourself from screaming. The blonde woman stood behind you, hands propped on her hips as she scrutinized your form. The shed door creaked open behind you and you went still, already feeling a predator's gaze boring into your back.
“I was looking for a signal,” you whisper, holding up your phone.
“Did you find it?” The man calls from behind you. You’re too terrified to turn. You can’t face a murderer, not with the body of his victim still cooling behind him.
“Yeah,” you squeak out, nails biting into your palm as your eyes desperately search for a way out of this.
The blonde’s head tilts and she offers a sharp smile. “You’re the maid that told me about Brentely.” Oh, of course, now they can remember a face.
“Mhm,” you hum, throat so tight you can hardly breathe.
Her eyes narrow for a split second before she waves you off. “Run along, little rabbit.” You hesitate and she tilts her head, almost daring you to disobey. It takes a second longer before you’re booking it back toward the main section of the estate.
“You’re just letting her leave?” The man hisses.
“I know what she looks like, now. Besides, she did sign an NDA,” she mutters, leading him back into the shed.
That should have been the end of it. After all, you did sign an NDA. And without much knowledge of the legal process, you just assume that you can’t tell another living soul what you witnessed. It’s not like you’re actively looking to snitch, either. The guy had clearly been a scumbag and those people were far more powerful than the justice system.
You’d looked them up after you’d gotten home. Trying to place where you’d seen them before. Titus and Ursula Danforth, the siblings who’d hired Bev. People who could bury you if you ever tried to report them. You knew you weren’t influential enough to pose a threat to them. And you know that they understood that, too.
So why the hell were you being followed?
Every night when you’d get home, a black town car would be parked outside your apartment. Too clean, too new, too rich for your neighborhood. You’d see it throughout the day as you went grocery shopping, as you applied for new jobs, everywhere. Those tinted windows prevented you from seeing just who was trailing you. But you knew who’d sent them.
You were nothing to the Danforths. An insignificant little bug who’d just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Why would they waste so much time on you?
It didn’t make sense, and thinking too long about it made it harder to muster up the courage to leave the house. So, you tried to forget about them. You tried to forget about the town car parked across the street as you ran into the hardware store. But it was difficult to pretend it was a normal day when you turned the aisle and saw Titus Danforth standing at the other end.
His hands were in his pockets as he observed the axes and picks with an upturned nose. Your eyes widened, and you caught yourself, trying to slowly back out of the aisle. But your stupid, cheap shoes squeaked against the linoleum, and his head snapped toward you.
Your entire body froze under his empty stare. Those eyes, sharp as a blade and completely void of any emotion. It felt like staring down a shark, and you’d just chummed the waters.
“You,” he muttered.
You could try to make a run for it. You’d probably beat him to the door. But then what after that? He keeps following you, keeps having you tailed and you spend every waking second looking over your shoulder? Your life was shit enough already; you couldn’t give him so much power over it.
“Mr. Danforth,” you greet. Titus felt too comfortable. Too familiar for the man stalking you.
His head tilted at that, eyes flitting over your form as he appraised you. You’re sure he found you wanting for something. You were so far below him on the social ladder that you don’t even think there’s a rung for you to hold onto.
He takes a step closer to you and it feels as if the air around you grows colder at his presence. You can’t bring yourself to meet him halfway, but you refuse to back down. Holding your ground, you eye him warily.
“Have you been following me?” It’s posed as a question, but you can both hear the accusation in your tone.
His eyes narrow, lips quirking slightly as he scoffs. “Do you think I have the time to follow everyone who sticks their nose in my business?”
“Clearly, you do.” It’s probably stupid to goad the man who could kill you right here and walk away scott free. But you’re not going to let him make you feel like you’re going crazy. “I don’t see any other reason you’d be somewhere like this,” you gesture toward the run-down store and his nose wrinkles. His disgust gives him away.
“My sister thought it wise to let you go. You helped her; that was her returning the favor.”
“And you don’t agree?” He doesn’t have to say anything; his presence is enough of an answer. You risk a step closer, ignoring how his stare makes your hair stand on end. “You’ve been watching me, you know I haven’t done anything to earn your suspicion. I know how to keep my mouth shut.”
“Do you?” He prods, your brows furrow at the dig.
“Sarcasm is a lot different than accusing someone of-” you stop yourself, biting your tongue before you blurt out what he’d done in the middle of the hardware store.
His brows pique, seeming disappointed you hadn’t just proved yourself wrong. “If you didn’t think you could trust me, why’d you let me go that night?”
A spark of emotion, just the slightest bit of anger on his face, before his calm facade slips back in place. “It wasn’t my choice,” he grits out. You draw back, eyes narrowing. So, his sister calls the shots then. You wonder if she’s aware her dog has sprung his leash.
“Look, I have enough to deal with without you making my life hell. Frankly, you’re not worth the fucking trouble it would take to report you. Just… let me be, please.”
He’s silent for a moment and you don’t know how to take that. When it gets to be too uncomfortable, you start to walk away. “You’re bold for someone who’d be so easy to erase.”
Tensing up, you risk a glance over your shoulder, but he’s already gone.
A few nights later, you find yourself standing outside a shitty bar. You’d spent the night making it up to Bev for ditching her by buying her cheap beer you could barely afford. Now, you’re staring down at what it would cost to order yourself a car.
Bev had taken off with some guy she’d picked up, leaving you stranded. You rock back on your heels, bare legs growing colder the longer you stay still. “Fuck,” you hiss, shoving your phone in your purse. You wrap your jacket tighter around yourself and turn to make the trek home.
It’s beyond stupid, walking home like this, buzzed and in skimpy bar clothes. But you don’t even have enough money in your bank to pay your water bill. Let alone afford a ride back to your apartment.
It doesn’t take long to feel it. Your hair stands on end, gooseflesh pricks at your skin painfully. Someone’s watching you. Just behind you, just out of sight, their eyes are stuck on your back. It’s futile to try to shake off the feeling. There’s no getting rid of base instinct. You risk a glance over your shoulder and find no shadows lurking under the street lamps.
That’s when you hear it. The sound of an engine starting. Bright headlights flood the street before you. Grimacing back from the light, you cup your hand over your eyes and glare at the car making such a scene. It shouldn’t surprise you to see the black town car, but you’re caught off guard nonetheless.
“What the fuck?” you mutter, watching as it rolls to a stop beside you. The back window rolls down, hair that’s growing too familiar to you becomes visible. Jesus, he’s not even driving. Of course, he’s got a damn chauffeur. Why wouldn’t he?
You should honestly be concerned about the man following you. The one you’d just seen murder someone, not even a week ago. But you’re just relieved it's him and not some other freak following you. Better the evil you know…
The door doesn’t open, he doesn’t say anything, and there’s no invitation offered to get in. You’re not sure if he just wanted to taunt you with the heat you can feel wafting from the window or what.
“Um, hi?” you mutter, still slightly buzzed.
He lets out a sharp sigh, and then the door swings open. You leap back before it can bash into your knees, cheap heels tilting threateningly beneath you. “I don’t-”
“Get in,” his voice is short and leaves no room for questioning. Besides, you are desperate to be out of the cold. There should be far more of a fight put up, but you get into the car and close the door behind you. The driver pulls away from the curb immediately, seemingly desperate to be out of this shady neighborhood.
You can’t exactly blame him. You hate when Bev drags you to this side of town. She always ends up ditching you by the end of the night.
Just to have something to do, you plant your purse firmly in your lap, fiddling with the straps. You can see Titus out of the corner of your eye. His jaw is tense, as usual, gaze is fixed pointedly ahead. You’re afraid to speak. As if one wrong word might trigger him to attack.
“Still following me, I see,” you mutter, fiddling with a string on your dress.
He sucks in a sharp breath, and you straighten, waiting for him to bite. “Did you drag your heels from the bottom of a bargain bin?”
Your eyes widen and your head snaps toward him. “Excuse me?” But he’s not done.
“And your dress is one thread away from being nothing more than a cheap scrap in a landfill.” Your lips part, but nothing comes out. You’re far too astonished by such a brutal callout of your accurately described bargain bin wardrobe. “So, why would you ever think it’s smart to walk through a neighborhood like that in shoes you can’t even run in?”
Rolling your eyes, you let out a sharp scoff. “Jesus, don’t try to white knight me after you’ve been stalking me for a week.” His gaze snaps toward you, and you shrug. “If it comes to it, I ditch the heels and run. I’ve been in tighter squeezes than a shady neighborhood and a cheap dress.”
Your answer seems to have pretty much the opposite effect of what you’d been hoping for as his nostrils flare and his shoulders stiffen. Thankfully, the driver’s pulling into your apartment complex. You’re about ready to throw open the door and roll out; you’ve escaped from worse dates with the same method before.
“Your neighborhood’s disgusting,” he snipes, sniffing.
You open the door and toss him a glare over your shoulder. “Then buy me a house, or stop following me,” you snap, slamming the door behind you. You almost wished he would actually shoot you. It’d be preferable to being followed by a domineering, judgmental shadow.
When you open the door the next morning, instead of the paper, there’s a thick envelope on the mat. Bending over, you pick it up, honestly surprised one of your neighbors hadn’t snatched it yet.
You’ve got one foot in your door and have barely opened the envelope before you're racing outside. You keep it tucked tight to your chest, heart racing as you storm down your stairs and to the town car parked expectantly outside.
Rushing up, you rap your knuckles on the window, slippered foot tapping impatiently against the pavement. Slowly, the window rolls down, revealing Titus’ chauffeur, but no sign of the man himself.
“Is he in there?” you demand, trying to get a look into the back seat.
“No, ma’am, not today.”
Your brows furrow as your gaze snaps back to him. “He makes you come out here without him?”
The driver nods sagely, “In case you ever decide to swallow your pride and ask for a ride.” A sharp scoff escapes you and he offers a saccharine smile. “His words, ma’am.”
“Upptiy asshole,” you grumble. You pull the envelope away from your chest and flash it at him. The thick stack of hundreds inside dangles just beneath his nose. “What is this?”
His brows raise as he glances between you and the cash. “Money, I believe.”
You shoot him an unimpressed glare. “Yes, I’m aware of what money is. I want to know why it’s at my door.”
“I believe for a better pair of shoes, ma’am.”
Your lips part as your gaze drops back to the cash. Jesus, even his gift was insulting. And how much did he think a pair of shoes cost? This was two months of rent in your hand, not to mention every one of your overdue bills.
“Yeah, well, it’s going to my water bill,” you grumble. “You can leave, I’m not going anywhere today. Nor am I ever taking his chauffeur.”
The older man simply smiles and shrugs. “I’ll be here if you need me, ma’am.” The window’s rolling back up before you can object. Thoroughly dismissed, you begin the awkward trek back up your stairs. What the hell does he even do in there all day?
And why is Titus torturing his poor chauffeur and making him wait out there when he’s not even here?
You shake your head and grumble quietly to yourself. You never should have gone to that damn mansion.
“Where’s Ralph?” Ursula stepped into Titus’ office with her typical demanding air. Having no care for what he’s been doing or the fact that he’s been trying to clean up her mess for the past week and a half.
“With the girl,” he mutters, leafing through the paperwork on his desk. Ursula shakes her head, expression blank. Titus lets out a heavy sigh, “Brentley,” he reminds her.
That had been a particularly satisfying kill. He’d been looking for ways to get rid of that pompous ass for a long time. And you’d just walked right up and handed it to him on your little silver tray.
Ursula’s eyes narrow before recognition sparks in them. “I still don’t understand why he isn’t here,” she huffs.
“Because I’m trying to make sure that your odd desire for mercy doesn’t go to the police.”
“Jesus, Titus, I want my driver back. Put her down if you have to.” Ursula throws her hands up with a huff and begins to storm out of his office. Titus pauses, imagines what it might be like to kill you. He’s unsure how he’d do it, now. You’re easy enough to get in a car. Maybe he’d drive you back to the estate, take you to the shed where he’d slaughtered Brentley.
He imagines that terror in your eyes would be quite the sight to see. That brief moment right before you scream and he plunges the knife in your chest. Titus’s hands tighten around his papers before he releases a short breath, dropping them back on his desk. Something stirs in his groin that makes him stretch out his legs.
“Unless,” Ursula’s voice calls from his door. Hadn’t she left yet? “Are you playing with your food, again?”
“What?” He snaps, having less patience for her than usual.
“That little server from the party…” she shrugs. “Having fun playing with her, Titus?” His jaw clenches, imagining the generous donation he’d left you this morning. Pocket money for him. He’s sure it’s life-changing for a poverty-stricken thing like you.
“Ugh,” Ursula groans in disappointment. “You always do this. Find a new toy to play with, something that will really get on father’s nerves. Then I’m cleaning up your mess. I don’t feel like having to scrape a maid off concrete again. If you’re going to play, make sure it doesn’t get in my way.”
With that, she finally leaves, the door slamming behind her. Titus stays where he is, jaw flexing as he settles his breath. She has no idea what she’s talking about. He’s never kept toys, never played with women. They played with him, and he had little care for women who thought he was something disposable.
He doubts you’d be like that. Desperate as you are, you still manage to have a bite. Still try to fight against him. There’s something in that desperation, that gritty will to survive, that’s a hundred times more interesting than any heiress he’s had dinner with in the past year.
He tilts his head, picturing the look on your face if he presented you with one of his penthouses. Disposable things, he occasionally visited. An entirely different life from your shitty little apartment complex. It’s difficult deciding what’s more enticing…
The light leaving your eyes, or being the reason it’s still there.
“Oh, fuck me,” you hiss, staring out the peephole and finding an annoyingly familiar face waiting. When is this rich boy going to let you get back to your life? Passionless and boring as that life is, it’s yours. And you’d like him out of it.
You suck in a sharp breath and throw the door open. Titus waits for you, hands folded behind his back, a suspicious tilt to his lips. “What?” you demand, eyeing him warily.
His eyes narrow before he holds out his hand. “Take a ride with me,” he tells you. There’s no space for ‘no’ with him. It’s not something he’s ever heard or will ever accept. Despite every instinct telling you not to, you take his hand.
You frown as he slips a key into your palm, dragging you out of your apartment. “Where’re we going?” you demand, stumbling as he storms off toward the stairs. He drags you along behind him, paying little mind to your questions or complaints.
“Somewhere more suitable to my tastes,” he offers airily.
It’s hard to say how you end up here. Sort of. You understand the steps easily enough. Titus stalked you, paid you, and then dumped you in a penthouse so he could stalk you in a neighborhood closer to his economic bracket.
But there’s this grey area between all that, where you can’t quite comprehend what your life has become. You watched him murder a man, saw him and his sister cover it up. You should hold the power; you have something on him.
Yet, he has this power over you. This sway that makes you agree to things you never would before.
On your last cent and struggling to keep a roof over your head, you still wouldn’t let yourself rely on a man. But now, you sleep in his penthouse. You wear clothes bought with his card. And, occasionally, he visits you. For the most part, he keeps to his mansion and socialites.
But when he’s looking for something interesting, for someone without an ulterior motive or fake personality, he comes to you. Eventually, the shininess of a new toy will wear off. You’ll dull around the edges after not having to fight to survive. The thing that’s strangely endeared him to you will be gone, and you’ll be left worse off than before.
Because now, you don’t have your own place to run back to.
You’re searching through job listings on the new laptop he gave you when the front door opens. “Shit,” you hiss, closing out the tabs and sliding the computer away just as he walks into the living room.
“What was that?” He demands, eyes already narrowed in suspicion.
“Porn,” you respond bluntly. His nostrils flare for a moment before his lips quirk. You offer a weak smile, feeling like a fool performing for nobles so far above her. Each moment with him, in the comfort of this grand place, you wonder when he’ll grow tired. When you won’t be funny enough to keep around anymore. When you’ll have to fight for scraps again.
He unbuttons his coat and you stand, already reaching for it. He lets out a rough sigh, collapsing on the couch as you go to hang it up. What are you to him? You find yourself asking that question more than you’re comfortable with.
When you return, he’s digging through your computer. You’re not stupid, though. You look for ways to escape him on incognito tabs. “Snoop much?” you tease, offering a tense smile.
He closes your laptop and tosses it onto the table. Your eyes widen at the blase attitude. You could never imagine treating your valuables as if they were so… replaceable.
“What did you do tonight?” He asks, rubbing his temple as he sinks into the cushions.
“I already told you,” you snark. He pops open an eye, and you shrug.
Replaceable. “Cooked some dinner, burnt it. Ordered Thai, instead.”
“I’m so sick of these fucking gatherings,” he grunts, eyes clenched shut as he shakes his head.
Replaceable.
He completely passes over what you’ve said, but you don’t really care. Taking a seat beside him, you’re not surprised when he grabs your waist, tugs you onto his lap. It’s routine when he visits, now.
A doll.
You run your fingers through his tight curls and he shudders at the gentle touch. Smiling slightly, you pull his head into your chest. He falls easily into you. Most days, he reminds you of one of those mutts used in dog-fighting rings.
He’s got sharp teeth and a worse bite, but he seems to just be looking for an iota of normalcy. Sadly, a life lived with a silver spoon in his mouth means he has no idea what normalcy is. It’s certainly not playing house with your stay-at-home sugar baby whenever you get tired of being rich.
Dolls break so easily.
His arms tighten around you and you suck in a deep breath, trying to settle yourself. “What’re all these meetings about, anyway?”
“Marriage,” he answers bluntly. Your fingers still in his hair, job applications sit in the back of your mind. He lifts his head with a frown. “What’s wrong?”
Dolls are replaceable.
Your smile tightens at the edges until it hurts. “Nothing,” you lie. “Don’t like any of the gorgeous heiresses they’ve presented you with?” you try to tease him. It comes out too strained. Too bitter to fit your role.
Titus catches on, like a shark sniffing out blood. He leans back on the couch and you stiffly follow him. “Worried?” he taunts, and the joy that flickers through his eyes fills you with a blinding hate. He knows.
You almost thought he was too stupid to understand what it means to struggle. To have to worry about where or when your next meal will come. But he knows what you fear, he knows how to use it against you and keep you docile. It’s fun for him, being so wholly in control of your life and your future.
I am replaceable.
“Not at all,” you shrug, dipping forward to press a kiss to the corner of his lips. “We both know I’m more fun than them.” You slip from his lap, smirking as you drag your hand along his shoulder, slowly making your way to the bedroom. It doesn’t take him long to follow once you’ve tugged his leash.
“Oh.” Ursula stands at the entrance of the penthouse. Her sunglasses are still on, lips curled as she takes you in. “I was looking for Titus,” she explains, brushing past you and making her way inside.
Your eyes narrow as the door shuts behind her. Why do you feel like she’s lying?
“Shouldn’t he be at your mansion?” You ask, heart skipping when you realize you’ve left your laptop open on the coffee table. You knew Titus wouldn’t be coming by anytime soon. You hadn’t thought to cover your tracks.
Of course, Ursula takes after her twin. She loops through the living room, arms crossed in judgment, before her attention’s snagged by the screen. She lifts her sunglasses and peers down at it.
If you pretend like it’s normal, maybe she won’t tell Titus.
“Big mansion,” she mutters in response to your earlier comment. “Must’ve missed him.”
Now you know she’s lying.
“Uh-huh,” you mutter, trailing after her. “Well, he’s not here.” Ursula ignores you, bending down and scrolling through your laptop. “Hey, do you mind-”
“Office administrator?” She questions, tongue rolling like a job title is a foreign language.
You roll your eyes, “I forget nepo babies don’t understand the idea of employment.”
She lets out a short scoff, offering you a bitter smile. “Careful,” she warns. “I don’t like you that much.”
You offer a sharp grin, but bite your tongue. You’re more scared of her than you are of Titus. She’s had him in her claws a lot longer than you. And you doubt you mean enough for him to protect you from her.
“Why are you looking at jobs?” She demands, eyes snagging on your half-packed suitcase. “Escaping, are we?”
You follow her gaze and shake your head. If only. “No, Titus wants to get away. Something about a property up in the mountains.”
“The Leedle Property?” She interrupts.
“I guess,” you mutter, eyes narrowing at how eagerly she jumps at the information. “Why?”
“And why are you applying to jobs if you’re not running away from my brother?” she asks, ignoring your question.
You bite your lip, wondering how much you should actually tell her. But it doesn’t seem like she’s leaving until she’s satisfied. “I’m not an idiot. Your brother likes collecting toys, but he enjoys breaking them more.” Her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t try to lie, doesn’t try to correct you.
“This can’t last forever,” you motion toward the penthouse. “I need something I can actually rely on. Myself.”
“Why not babytrap him?”
If you had a drink, you’d choke on it. “What?” you demand, voice rising in pitch.
Ursula shrugs. “Babytrap him, file false charges against him, stalk him. A few of the things the women in his life have tried to have a piece of my inheritance.”
“Crazy women,” you correct. “I’d rather work until I’m 90 before I babytrap a man. Especially your brother. No offense,” you quickly correct.
Her tongue laves across her teeth as she surveys you. A part of you shudders, wondering if this is the part where the rich people cannibalize the poor to taste poverty for the first time. “The Leedle Property, then? When’s this little getaway happening?”
She completely disregards your previous line of conversation. You’re not sure if you’re grateful or more unsettled. “This weekend,” you tell her.
“Hm,” she hums before nodding and making her way back to the door. “Make sure Titus doesn’t see those applications. I doubt he’d take kindly to his doll escaping her house.”
Your jaw clenches as the door slams shut behind her. You do not like that woman. Why the hell did she even come over?
Grumbling to yourself, you collect the rest of the clothes you plan on packing and shove them into your suitcase. No wonder Titus seems so eager to get away from his family. They’ve got the meanest bite of anyone you’ve had the displeasure of meeting.
Titus drives you up to the estate. You’d had to bite back a joke about him knowing how to drive when he’d come to pick you up. You doubt he’d appreciate mockery during one of the few times he actually does something for himself. Besides, he seems to be in a good mood, no need to ruin that with your mouth.
“Why the mountains?” you ask, breaking the silence for the first time during the drive.
Titus’s eyes drift over to you before focusing back on the road. “It’s quiet, peaceful.” He reaches over, hand squeezing your thigh. “No one around for miles.”
You snort and toss him an unimpressed look. “You could say that about any of your estates. How come we’re not relaxing on a beach with a drink in our hand?”
“Don’t complain,” he chides, hand squeezing in warning.
You shift uncomfortably, straightening in your seat. “Thank you,” you amend, “for bringing me.” He offers a hum but says nothing else. Your stomach twists as you worry you’ve just messed this trip up for yourself.
“Hey,” a cool touch on your chin and you’re tilting your head to meet his eye. “This will be nice,” he tells you. As if there is no greater authority than him. Like nothing could ever prove him wrong.
You yearn to move through the world with the kind of self-assured confidence a rich man has. As if the entire universe bends to his will and his alone. It must be nice, being so self-deluded.
“Yeah,” you agree, voice empty as you offer a shallow smile. When will you get tired of me?
You hear it, a sort of clock counting down before you’re left broken on a curb somewhere.
His hand lingers on you the rest of the ride, but you both remain quiet. Something heavy has settled between you. An amalgamation of your hesitation, his uncertainty about what to do with you. For an hour of the drive, you actually wonder if he’s just brought you out here to kill you.
But he could have easily killed you at the penthouse. He doesn’t seem the type to need a change of scenery. At least, that’s the best you could comfort yourself.
Eventually, he pulls up the long, winding driveway of a sprawling estate. “I thought you said this was a cabin,” you accuse, forehead practically pressed to the window.
Titus pauses, “It is.”
Your gaze drifts back to him and you scoff. “It’s the size of a McMansion.”
Titus shrugs, “It’s rustic.”
He gets out and you wait like you’re supposed to. It takes a second before he’s at your door, opening it and offering you a hand out. He leaves your luggage in the car. You wonder if he’ll get it later or if there are little servants here to do that for him.
“You know,” it's an effort to keep your jaw off the ground as you take in his second home. “I’m going to need a house tour, so I don’t get lost in here this week.”
Titus lets out a small huff of laughter, arm winding around your waist as he leads you up the front steps. “Don’t worry, I’ll show you all the hidden rooms.” He opens the front door as you shoot him a wide-eyed stare.
“Hidden rooms-”
“There you are!” A sharp voice interrupts you, cold and cruel. A blonde monster stands in the foyer. (Cabins definitely don’t have foyers, by the way. Something to be addressed later.) “I was starting to worry you would never show up, brother.”
Ursula stands holding a champagne flute, dressed to the nines, and you suddenly realize there are a dozen other well-dressed people all around her. Certainly better looking than your worn-down jeans and baggy sweater. They all sip their drinks and fiddle with their diamonds, gaze scrutinizing you.
You shudder, freezing in the doorway as you realize this is an ambush. Women your age and younger all stand in a circle to the right of the door. Each dressed better than the last. Not one of them pays attention to you; all eyes are on Titus.
“Ursula?” Titus grits out, eyes roaming the room with fury burning in them. “What are you doing?”
She walks forward and holds out her hand. Suddenly, you’re alone, Titus following after his sister as she leads him into an adjacent room. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what's happening. You’d let it slip to Ursula where your getaway was going to be, and she’d set this up.
An ambush of socialites and heiresses, far better suited for her brother than some scrappy little piece of trash like you. The women’s parents were all eyeing you with disgust. Unable to comprehend how you captured Titus’s attention when their daughters failed.
You wind your arms tight around yourself, taking a hesitant step back. Maybe you could just steal his car and make a run for it.
“Oh,” your back slams into someone’s chest and you falter. “I’m sorry,” you mutter, already turning around.
An older man with cold eyes glares down at you. Shivers rack up your spine, gooseflesh pinches at you. The Senior Danforth, you would bet everything. Those cold, emotionless eyes are just like his son’s.
“Sir,” you greet, taking another step back.
His eyes narrow, and he lets out a low huff of disappointment. “I don’t think I’ll ever understand my son.”
You offer an awkward chuckle, knowing you’re being insulted straight to your face. “Does any parent?”
“Are you being smart with me?”
“I-”
“Father,” a voice interrupts. You sink back in relief, practically hiding behind Titus as he comes up behind you. “Ursula’s just explained the mix-up.” His eyes dart over to you and you feel like you’re missing something crucial. “I wish you had told me your plan,” he grits out, clearly struggling to stay polite.
His father scoffs, not sparing you another glance. “Why? So you could run away with your little paramour?”
Your brows turn in, the way he says it makes it sound like a slur. You must be nothing to this man. Honestly, he looks at you and probably just sees a little roach to crush under his heel. Is this why Titus is with you? There’s clearly no love lost between him and his father. Maybe you’re his rebellion.
“Of course not,” Titus hisses. “You know how deeply I respect our traditions,” again, another sly look over at you. What the fuck were they talking about?
You glance over your shoulder and catch a few people just as they rip their stares away. Their voices remain hushed, too low for you to make out any hints of what might be happening. Slowly, you step back from Titus. He’s too absorbed by his father to pay much attention.
You make it all the way back to the car, thinking you’ve successfully escaped, before you hear footsteps rushing to catch up. “What are you doing?” Titus demands.
“What do you think?” You whip around with a scoff and he draws back. “I know what I am to you, Titus. I’m not something permanent or anyone worth a damn. But that doesn’t mean I have to stay here and be insulted while you cozy up with some heiress.”
“Is that what you think?” He asks, head tilting curiously.
“It’s what I know. And it’s not like you’ve proved me wrong.”
Titus smirks and that little quirk to his lips is infuriating. “And letting you stay rent-free at my penthouse doesn’t prove you wrong? Providing you with any creature comfort you might want or need doesn’t prove that?”
You lick your lips and let out a sharp sigh. “No. Because I know you, this is your game, Titus. So, just let me go home, alright?” You reach for the door handle, but it doesn’t budge. “Titus,” you grit out, yanking on the car door.
“You’re not leaving,” he tells you.
“Seriously, Titus, I don’t want to be here.” His lips flatten, and you draw back. For a moment, he almost looks sorry, and you think that’s more terrifying than any anger you’ve ever gotten from him. “What’s going-”
An arm wrapped around your back, a cloth pressed to your nose. One whiff of that sickly sweet scent and you were going limp.
Sharp, pungent, someone slips something under your nose strong enough to shock you back to life. You suck in a sharp gasp, more of the smell burning in your lungs. Your eyes open, but your vision remains dark. Something burns around your wrists, they’ve tied your hands behind your back.
“What’s- what’s happening?” Laughter to your left, chilling and shrill.
“Take it off,” you vaguely recognize the voice of Titus’s father as a mask is ripped from your eyes. The light floods into your vision and you grimace, head pounding from whatever they’d used to knock you out. When your eyes relax, you realize you’re in a basement of some sort. The walls are all dark brick, the floors a black tile that looks like it’d be easy to clean blood off of.
There’s a circle formed before you. The guests from upstairs are all staring at you now. Except the girls are dressed in white gowns and slips. While their parents all don black cloaks.
“Oh fuck me,” you hiss, looking down at yourself. You’ve been changed into a matching white dress with the rest of the women. “I knew you assholes sacrificed people," you snap, glaring through the crowd. You’re searching for one man, but they’ve all got these terrifying goat skull masks on.
Still, you think you recognize that haunting look in Titus’s eyes by now as your gaze stops on a man to your right.
“The eloquent language of the working class,” someone titters off to your left.
“Forgive the French,” you bite out. “But at the very least, we don’t fucking eat people.”
“Enough!” Your shoulders jump as Titus’s father descends the dais he’d been standing on. “No one is getting eaten or sacrificed. All this is… is an annual hunt.”
The way he says it makes you wish you were being ritually sacrificed. A maid strolls through the crowd, a covered cart in her hand that she pushes to the middle of the circle. You almost call out for help, but their employees are just as fucked as the rest of them.
“A hunt?” You whisper, eyes being ripped to the side by one of the women in a white gown. Her glare is boring into you, malice and hatred bubbling over in frothing animosity. You’d never even said one word to her, and she looks ready to rip your throat out and eat your heart.
“As our guest to this tradition,” the Senior Danforth offers a chilling grin. “I allow you the first pick.”
“We had a deal-” A man steps forth to object, but Titus’s father holds up his hand, silencing him without even looking away from you. Swallowing thickly, you step forward, hands still bound behind your back with rope. The Senior Danforth rips the sheet off the cart with a gusto better suited for a magician. Two servants appear behind you and roughly cut the rope away.
Beneath are a dozen different weapons. Glocks, shotguns, hunting knives, throwing stars, even a bow and arrows. “Oh, we’re actually hunting?” You offer him a confused stare. If only one fucking person in this room would give it to you straight rather than playing at these confusing mind games.
“Not game,” someone answers and you go still. Titus, that’s his voice. His father shoots him a reproachful glare and your former paramour goes quiet.
“When an eldest son is viable for marriage and deigns to choose outside of his… circle. A hunt is ordered by the families of the poor girls jilted. The last one standing earns his hand.”
“Marriage,” you tumble over your words. Reeling from figuring out you’re being hunted and that this is all for some man. “I’m not even his girlfriend. I mean, this is one big mistake. I don’t want to marry him at all!”
“Ouch,” someone laughs behind you.
“I’m afraid the hunt has already started,” Titus’s father motions behind him. On a marble slab behind the dais is a goat’s corpse, its throat slit and blood dribbling into an engraved sigil on the floor. “Unless you’re willing to forfeit?”
“Ye-”
“No!” A sharp voice interrupts. You turn and see Titus, his mask discarded as he stares past you at his father. “A forfeit is automatic disqualification.”
“Okay…”
“Death,” he snaps bluntly when you fail to pick up the hint.
“Fucker,” you hiss, glaring over at his father.
“Enough,” Titus steps back into place as his father motions him away. “Pick your weapon before I pick for you.”
This is fucking insane. They’re asking you to pick your weapon to murder other women. Half of whom look a decade younger than you. God, are you really about to murder child brides?
Someone laughs at your side and you glance over to see one of the young women whispering to her mother. Their eyes are sharp as they observe you, devoid of humor. You’re nothing to them. Not human, not prey, just an obstacle in their way.
Your eyes drift back to the cart. Your hand inches toward a revolver. You know how to shoot and you’ve got a decent aim. But you hesitate, there are eyes boring into the back of your head. Burning and urging you away from the revolver. Guns run out of bullets, but that hunting knife with the long, curved blade seems far more reliable.
Your hand wraps around the leather-bound handle. And Titus’s father hums. “Interesting,” he mutters. You pull back, the knife tucked to your chest as a maid directs you back into the circle. The other women step up, the majority going for bows or guns. Did you just get yourself killed?
When the last one has chosen, a girl barely older than twenty, the Senior Danforth claps his hands with a mirthful smile. “With each bell tolled, we are one step closer to a most beneficial union. Take them to their release points.”
Your arms are snatched up by two servants as they march you out of the basement. The majority of the women are split up, taken to different sections of the estate to lessen the chances of a quick, boring game. But while they’re directed outside, you’re led up the stairs to a bedroom. “What’re you doing?” You demand, eyes wide as the servants deposit you in the center of the room.
One of the maids giggles, pressing a finger to her lips as she runs from the room. “What?” You hiss, bewildered as you try to come to terms with everything that’s happened.
But life doesn't feel like letting you get comfortable in this new reality. “Make this quick, Titus, I don’t want to be accused of cheating.” Ursula’s voice, bored and cold as usual. Her steps are growing closer to this room.
You suck in a sharp breath, eyes darting around for somewhere to hide. There’s an old wooden wardrobe, just big enough for you to slip in. You rush toward it, throwing yourself inside just as the bedroom door creaks open.
Titus lets out a low groan and you press your eye to the crack of the wardrobe. “I told them to bring her here.”
“I told you we should have fired those two years ago, they’re fucking worthless.” Ursula has a revolver in her hands, similar to the one that you’d rejected. On Titus’s shoulder is what looks like a large hammer. The type you’d see at historical sites beside blacksmithing forges, not held casually.
“Where do you think they left her?” Titus glances around the room, his eyes hesitate over the wardrobe. You jump back from the crack in the door, clamping your hand over your mouth so he can’t hear you breathe.
“Who knows? Let’s just make this quick,” Ursula checks her revolver, loading in bullets before sending Titus a sharp smirk.
“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” he sighs, following her out of the room. You wait until the bedroom door closes to slip out of the wardrobe. Your heart is slamming against your ribs, blood thrumming with adrenaline as you let out a shaky breath.
It’s not like you and Titus were some grand love story. Your relationship lies within transactional boundaries. And you’ve known…. You knew! That this would always end badly for you. Titus likes to break his toys; you just hadn’t thought he would go so far as to drag you into a fucking satanic cult.
Your throat clenches tight as your chest quakes; it’s hard to get your breath as reality slowly dawns on you. The knife is clutched so tightly in your chest, one trip and you’ll end up offing yourself. Slowly, you creep toward the bedroom door.
Maybe you’d be better off hiding in here. Your hand hovers over the doorknob as you think of something Titus had said to you. “I’ll give you a tour of the hidden rooms.”
Your eyes track over every crevice of the room you’re standing in. There are at least three spots you see that might be a secret door or hidden passageway. Nowhere is safe.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you’re throwing open the bedroom door and peeking into the hall. The stupid dress they’d put you in trips up your feet as you step outside. The door closes softly behind you as you kneel, taking your knife and cutting into the hem.
“There you are.”
Your head snaps up, blood draining from your face as you see Ursula standing at the end of the hall. “Titus,” she calls, eyes alight with the joy of the hunt.
You step from the tattered remains of your gossamer skirt, bare feet tripping along the waxed marble. Titus turns the corner, that hammer still on his shoulder. “There you are,” his lips quirk and Ursula cocks her revolver. You take a step back and Titus’s eyes narrow. “Don’t,” he warns.
But you’re already turning, feet slapping against the floor as you make a run for it. You can hear them curse behind you, Ursula’s annoyed sigh as you turn the corner.
You come to a short stop, body freezing as you see another woman in a white slip. She’s apparently ditched the dress, same as you. Her eyes widen as they land on you, lighting up with a challenge. “No, no, no, wait!” You let out a shrill scream as she lifts her gun, shooting wildly.
“Jesus,” you drop to the ground, hands covering your head as a vase shatters behind you.
“Shit,” she whines, stomping her foot as she goes to reload.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” You snap, surging to your feet and storming toward her. Your hand lashes out, sending the gun clattering to the floor. She lunges for you, hands outstretched toward your neck. On instinct, your hands fly out. Both of them.
The knife you’d forgotten about plunges into her gut and she lets out a rattling groan. “Oh, oh no,” you whisper, eyes bugging out as blood begins to pool down your arm. “Oh I didn’t mean it,” you whisper, lowering yourself as her body goes limp in your arms. Slowly, you let her drop to the floor, the knife making a schlick noise as it slips from her stomach.
“What did I do?” Tears are welling in your eyes. It doesn’t matter that she was actively trying to kill you. Or that she would have gotten you first if you hadn’t been faster. You just killed someone. Just took a life like it was nothing.
“I wasn’t sure you had it in you.” With a gasp, you leap to your feet. Titus stands behind you, head tilted as he takes in the dead body. “Congratulations.” Barely a moment later, you hear it, the bell tolling somewhere off in the distance. Your eyes drop to the dead body at your feet.
“How do they know?” Titus smirks and you have a feeling you won’t be made privy to family secrets unless you survive the night.
He opens his mouth, but the bell tolls once more, and then again. Two more girls, dead. “Only eight left,” he grins. He takes a step closer, and you stumble back, knife pointed at his chest.
He glances between you and the knife with astonished surprise. “What are you gonna do with that?” His voice is low, disarmingly calm as he holds out his hand. The knife trembles in your grip, faltering slightly as he takes your wrist in his hand.
A sharp breath rips from you as he tugs you into his chest. The knife picks against his shirt, tearing at a thread, but you bend your wrist. Stopping yourself before you really hurt him. He tuts, disappointed by such a weak display of mercy. “You’re not going to make it much longer if you can’t go in for the kill.”
“I don’t want to,” you whisper, biting your tongue so the tears in your eyes don’t spill over. His gaze tracks the way your lashes flutter, a cruel smirk pulling at his lips.
“Do you want to live?”
You’re silent for a moment, the blood of that woman cooling on your hand. His thumb sweeps through it, admiring how it paints your skin. “Yes,” you finally choke out. As selfish as it is, you want to live. And if that means killing a few spoiled heiresses before they get you...
You’ve survived tighter squeezes in worse dresses.
“Good,” he practically coos, his voice a low purr, lulling you into this false sense of security where he isn’t the same man who’d gotten you in this situation to begin with. “Because I don’t want any of these other women. I want you, which means you need to live.” This cadence of his voice is the same tone he uses when he coaxes you into his bed.
He likes this.
You shouldn’t be surprised. You met the man because you caught him murdering someone. Still, there’s a dead body cooling at your feet and you can feel the weight of his want pressing into your hip.
“Why did you do this?” You hiss out, finally asking the question that’s haunted you since the game began. “Why-“ your voice breaks and you clamp your mouth shut. You can’t let him see you cry. He’d like it too much.
His hand comes up, gently cupping your cheek as he pulls you impossibly closer. “Wasn’t the plan,” he mutters, eyes stuck to your lips. “My family thought it was about time I settled down. They wanted to make sure I chose the right woman.”
“They don’t want me, Titus.” And until a few minutes ago, you hadn’t thought he wanted you either.
His eyes narrow as his grip on you tightens. It doesn’t hurt, but it feels like you’re one bad move away from making him bite. “I don’t care what they want. I want you. Which means you’re getting through this, alive. I’m not calling another woman Mrs. Danforth, do you understand me?”
Even if you didn’t want to survive… even if you weren’t already the type of person who claws and scratches and doesn’t care who she hurts to keep living, you wouldn’t have a choice. He’s not giving you an option; he’s threatening you. Making sure you’ve got it through your thick skull that, no matter what, there is no escaping him.
“What do I do?” You whisper, lips nearly brushing his with how close he stands. He sucks in a deep breath before slowly releasing you. It’s an effort not to stumble over the corpse as you put some space between the two of you.
“Stay hidden,” he instructs. “I’ll take care of the others.”
Your brows furrow as you fiddle with the torn edge of your dress. “Won’t that count as cheating?”
“It will.” Your shoulders jump to your ears as Ursula’s voice echoes down the hallway. You turn to see her striding toward you. There’s blood splattered against her silk blouse and an angry red welt on her cheek. “But if you think the others aren’t out here sniping the competition, you’re not as smart as I gave you credit for.”
Another toll of the bell in the distance. The numbers are dwindling faster than expected. “As for what you should do,” her brows raise and she offers you a cruel smile. “Run, rabbit, before someone else finds you.”
You want to ask them where the hell you’re meant to go, but footsteps are approaching from the other end of the hall. Titus spares you one last look before heading toward them, dragging his hammer from his shoulder. You swallow roughly, giving the dead woman one last look before you take off at a run.
You’d thought the best place to hide would be in plain sight. Skulking around the estate while everyone searched for the girls outside seemed smart. Until the rain came, it began washing everyone inside, hunters and prey alike. One girl had found you hiding near the kitchen as she came back in from the storm.
It was only because the floor beneath her was soaking wet that you managed to get a good shove in. Just enough to have her slip and knock her head against the tile. After that, what happened feels like a blur. You know she’s dead, that her blood coats the front of your dress. The bell had tolled, but you don’t remember it.
It seems wrong, not remembering your own kill. Like you’re not honoring her death properly. But she’d had a shotgun pointed at your chest, so it’s a little harder to find any sympathy. Unfortunately, her screaming had drawn attention to you.
You had to run out of the estate, into the pouring rain and raging winds. It battered your body, turned your white dress sheer as you tried to find cover in the woods bordering the estate. You briefly considered trying to find the road, but you doubt you’d have much luck in these conditions.
The bell tolls in the distance. If you’re keeping count right, that means there are only two other girls. You grimace, chin tucked to your chest as the rain howls around you. Your hair is soaked, stuck to your cheeks as you try to wipe the water from your eyes. You have no idea where the sudden storm came from, but you can hardly see a foot in front of you.
If the other women find you before you find them, you’re screwed. You won’t even have the time to be scared before they pounce. Shivering, you shove your hair off your face and push away from the tree you’d been resting on.
You try to keep low to the ground, using the underbrush as cover as you skulk through the forest. Somehow, through the sound of your own footsteps and the rain hitting the foliage, you manage to make out strange noises. It reminds you of the night you first met Titus, the last time you’d tasted normalcy.
It was the same noise the man he’d killed made right as he died. Peering around the tree you’re cowering behind, you see her. The last woman, shoulders heaving as she stands over the body of another. You flinch as the bell tolls and huddle down as she slowly surveys the area around her.
Recognition flares in your mind, and you feel your chest tighten. This is the same woman who’d looked ready to rip you apart in the estate. Of course, the most vicious bitch had to be the last one standing.
The only advantage you have right now is that she doesn’t know where you are. Knife in hand, you slowly creep your way out from behind the tree. Her back stays turned toward you, head tilting as she tries to get a better view through the rain.
You hold your breath, not making a noise. Not even as you lunge at her, arms wrapping around her neck as you both hurtle toward the forest floor. She lets out a low grunt, growling as you sit on top of her, struggling to pin her flailing limbs down.
One well-thrown elbow and you’re rolling off her, curling into yourself as you try to catch your breath. She’d managed to catch you right in the diaphragm. The impact gives her just enough time to right herself. Both of your dresses are stained with mud and blood. And as the rain continues to pour, you only grow filthier.
Nails tear through skin, hands slip and drag along wet flesh as you grapple on the floor. Your knife is kicked away, and her gun is buried somewhere in the dirt. You’re left with nothing but physical strength and pure terror.
She gets her hand tangled in your hair and uses the leverage to slam your head into the ground. Your vision goes dark as your ears ring, pain throbbing through your skull. You lash out violently, nails catching her cheek. You dig in, dragging down until you feel her flesh building beneath your nails.
She lets out a gasping cry of pain, batting your hand away. She manages to turn you over, with a tight grip, she’s quick to find your neck. Your legs kick violently beneath her, hips bucking as you quickly lose your breath.
She’s pinning you down, lips pulled back around sharp teeth in a growl. Her hands are wrapped around your throat, squeezing the life from your lungs. And, still, you have an advantage over her.
You’re used to living off scraps, used to having to fight for what you want. You didn’t grow up with everything handed to you on a silver platter. She never had to fight to live or to get what she wanted. That desperate drive to keep going and never stop isn’t anywhere in her. She just wants to win. Just wants another trophy on her mantle.
Your legs slowly stop kicking as your hand gropes blindly through the mud. Your vision is beginning to go, the world greying at the edges as your nails catch on something sharp. She doesn’t pay you any mind, grinning as she digs her thumbs into the hollow of your throat.
Blindly, you grab the rock and throw it into the side of her temple. She lets out an odd noise, grip loosening as she tilts to the side. You don’t waste time catching your breath. Lunging forward, you knock her onto her back and raise the rock high above your head. Her eyes widen as you bring it down against her skull.
There’s a sick crack and then her eyes are shutting. But the bell still hasn’t tolled. You bring your hand down again and again and again. Until the crack turns into a soft squish and there’s blood weeping from the mangled mess that used to be her face. You don’t stop until that bell rings, until you get to feel the finality of the night in your bones.
Your hand hovers above your head, the bell tolls through the night air. Slowly, the rock tumbles from your grasp as you struggle to your feet. The rain eases up, harsh battering becoming a gentle mist as the clouds above you part.
Your hair hangs in matted tangles around your face, your entire body is covered in mud and blood. The dress you wear is in tatters, thin straps barely clinging to your shoulders. Heavy boots snap against the branches behind you.
You hardly even flinch, just briefly glancing over your shoulder. All those from the basement have returned, black cloaks on and skull masks donned. You hear them whispering, betting with one another about which of their daughter’s survived the night.
Scraping your hand across your cheek, you attempt to rid yourself of some of the grime coating your skin. It barely puts a dent in it. With a sigh, you resign yourself to your fate, slowly turning.
You can tell from the gasps rippling through the crowd that they’d already forgotten about you. You were never a threat to them, just the inciting incident to get their daughters into the right family.
A part of you almost wants to taunt them. To ask what good their deal with the devil did? Because you’re still alive and their daughter’s aren’t. But you’re too tired and too beaten to do anything but keep standing.
The Senior Danforth stands at the front, hands tucked behind his back. “Interesting,” he muses, eyes narrowing.
First.
“I knew you were scrappy, but this is something else,” Ursula chuckles at her father’s side, admiring the mangled corpse at your feet.
Second.
Titus steps from the crowd, followed by a man in an elaborate cloak with a veil over his head. “You all know the deal,” he calls to the others. He holds a hand out to you and you stare down at it.
He could be third, he could be last, but maybe you’ll keep him around.
“What?” you croak, throat destroyed from what that woman had done to you.
“Your prize,” Ursula drawls. Oh, right, the whole reason for this fucking hunt. Marrying Titus, being a Danforth, signing away your soul.
“And if I say no?”
“You’d be forfeiting,” Titus tells you, a quirk to his lips. He already knows your answer. You didn’t make it this far just to give up now. You didn’t claw your way back from hell just to throw it all away at the end.
Slowly, you take his hand in yours. The satanic priest beside him steps toward the corpse of the last woman. He dips his thumb into what's left of her skull and approaches you both. The warmth of her blood dribbles down your forehead as the priest etches a sigil into your skin. He doesn’t do the same for Titus.
Your mind loses focus as he begins to speak. The vows you make certainly aren’t those of holy matrimony, but you can hardly pay attention. You think about how with Titus on your arm, his leash will be passed hands.
Ursula, you’re sure, will try to get cozy with you. Make sure her guard dog never strays too far. It shouldn’t be hard to get Titus to turn on her. Family has so little meaning to these monsters. But first, you’ll want him to take out the patron of the family. The smug bastard who’d dragged you into this hell simply because he couldn’t stand his son dating someone so… cheap.
Then, you’ll go after the others. All the soulless bastards who sent their daughters to die and didn’t bat an eye. If you have to marry into this, bring children into this world, then you’re going to make sure there’s no competition left for them to fight.
“I do,” Titus echoes the priest’s words and stares expectantly at you.
Thunder rolls in the sky behind you. “I do,” you whisper. Lightning flashes and for a moment, there are horns curling above Titus’s head. They’re gone as quick as they came, then he’s tugging you into a harsh kiss, another’s blood smearing between your lips as your unholy union’s sealed.
This is your world now, and you’re not some trampy little paramour anymore. You’re Mrs. Danforth. And you’re going to make every one of these fuckers pay for ever letting you grasp the power you’d fought for your entire life.
𝘏𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘛𝘰𝘶𝘳
𝘚𝘢𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘢 𝘊𝘢𝘳𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳 ♥︎
⇄ ◁◁ I I ▷▷ ↻
⁰² ⁰⁸ ━━━━━━━━━●━ ⁰⁰ ²⁵
💿 Some say it's a place where your dreams come true 💿
Well this is me but / if you have time / Do you want the house tour? / I could take you to the first, second, third floor
My house is on pretty girl avenue / My house was especially built for you / Some say it's a place where your dreams come true / My house / Could be your house too!
Overview: You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time, a tale as old as time. Just like the one where they tell you about pretty, naive, broke girls getting swept off their feet by the murdering, satanic-worshipping rich man stalking them.
Oh... Do they not tell that one?
a/n: wrote this before I watched the movie and worried he would be OOC but I just finished it and yes, he’s just as psychopathic and needy as I’d hoped
wc: 12.1K
more at: Belle’s 3K Extravaganza
All good things start with something memorable. Something that gets your blood racing and adrenaline pumping. You hadn’t thought catering an old man’s party would be so titillating, but looking down at this NDA, you have a feeling your night is about to take a strange turn.
“Just sign on the dotted line, please,” Bev tells you, pointed nail tapping boredly at the bottom of the paper. The pen hangs limply in your grip as your eyes dart from her to the form.
Bev was doing you a favor, letting you tag along with her catering company and earn some extra cash. Things had been tight lately, bad enough that you’re worried about making rent next month. Still, as desperate as you were, entering the lion’s den of the rich and anonymous with a hefty NDA under your belt seemed beyond stupid.
Your friend let out a huff, offering you a stern glare. “You’re not getting in that mansion without one.”
“What the hell are they gonna do in there? Eat us alive?”
If only you knew then what you know now.
“This is all of them?” Bev nods as she hands the richly dressed lawyer the thick stack of NDA’s. Your eyes narrow on your own, right on top with your messy signature.
Getting into the sprawling estate had been hell. The owners, some jagoffs by the name of Danforth, didn’t want the help being seen by their guests. The catering vans had to circle the mile-long driveway and backroads before Bev finally found the back entrance. And then, because of that tedious delay, you’d all had to rush the food into the mansion.
One of you accidentally dropped a tray of some French shit you couldn’t pronounce. That had cost Bev an extra half hour as the head of staff for the estate berated her. You could still see how red her cheeks had gotten while she tried not to cry.
You’ve barely been here an hour and already your hatred for the rich is deepening.
A stout woman in a classic maid’s outfit walks up and down the long line of Bev’s caterers. She holds herself with the severity and posture of a military man. You’re afraid that if a hair slips out of place, she’ll make you drop and give her twenty. She comes to a sudden stop in front of you and you instinctively straighten, spine groaning as you force it into a better posture than you’ve had in a year.
Her eyes narrow before she lets out a low huff. “Send ten out with the champagne,” she barks out an order and you hold your hand out instinctively for your tray. Bev gives the go-ahead to her assistants and they begin loading you all up with champagne worth more than your shitty apartment.
Before you can finally escape the kitchen, the older woman stops you. “Watch yourself,” she warns. Your brows furrow in confusion but she’s already walking away, tugging at another girl’s skirt until the hem sits right. That didn’t seem like a warning that meant ‘don’t get smart with the guests.’ It felt more like you should have left before you even set foot in this dreary mansion.
With no other choice, you shuffle in line with the others and follow the leader out the swinging kitchen door. The noise is immediate as you’re led into a large drawing room. Low chatter and rich laughter that makes your wallet quake. Women’s 4-carat diamond rings clink against champagne flutes, Rolexes flash as men sip their brandy. Each pass through the room makes you wish you had the skills to slip a ring or necklace off an unsuspecting socialite.
You’re forced to dismiss the thought as a man whistles, snapping his fingers and motioning you closer. Your eye twitches as you bite back something rude; instead, you force a polite smile on your face, making your way over. “Took you long enough,” he gripes, rolling his eyes.
You offer a short laugh and your smile tightens. “Did you need something, sir?” Your tray is empty, clearly tucked behind your back. Five extra seconds of patience and you would have been refilled. But you doubt anyone in this room has ever had to wait for something.
“Yes,” he stares at you as if you’d grown a second head. “Champagne,” he drawls in a tone that actively makes you wish for a gun.
You blink a few times, struggling to comprehend how someone could be so confidently stupid. “Apologies, sir, my tray’s empty. But the bar is just over there,” you point toward the bartender, who is quite literally five feet from the man.
His perfectly maintained eyebrows draw in at your audacity. “Good, you have eyes. Go get me some.”
Tomorrow, you would congratulate yourself on such phenomenal self-restraint. Tonight, however, you bite your lip hard enough to hurt and force yourself to go grab some champagne.
When you swipe the flute from the bar, it takes everything inside you not to spit in the bastard’s drink. “Here you are, sir,” you force a jovial tone to your voice. He rolls his eyes. Those thirty seconds you took must have felt like a lifetime to the poor thing.
He waves his hand in dismissal and you can’t help the astonished scoff that leaves you. Shaking your head, you’re about to turn away when you catch him fiddling with the ring on his pinky. You might as well already be gone for all the care he pays you as you linger behind him.
His ring pops open to reveal a compartment inside. You frown as he sprinkles powder from his ring into the drink. With a low sigh, he readjusts his tie and makes a beeline for the blonde in the center of the room.
The domineering presence that has commanded the party thus far. You’re quite certain she’s the one who hired Bev, with how easily she dismisses and beckons forth those around her, like an owner calling their dog to heel.
The man you’d just served sidles up to her, a smarmy grin on his face as he holds out the champagne. With a low sigh, you shake your head and rush forward. The rich might all behave like a bunch of well-dressed bottom feeders, but you’re not about to allow a woman to be roofied at her own party.
You jog up to the woman and reach out. She startles at your touch. There’s a man at her side you hadn’t noticed before. He’s on the shorter side, with salt-and-pepper curls and a tight jaw that looks like it's been itching to bite at someone all night. “You’re touching me,” she drawls and you jerk your hand back.
Her lips curl with disgust, as if you got your poor on her. Clearing your throat uncomfortably, you glance over at the man you just served. His eyes narrow, but you don’t think he even paid enough attention to you to remember your face.
“Excuse me, ma’am, but you’re not supposed to drink that.” You gesture toward the champagne and she pulls it back from you.
“Good help’s hard to find these days, isn’t it?” The man laughs, eyes narrowing at you as he tries to remember how he knows your face. Jesus, these people are inhuman.
“And why shouldn’t I drink my champagne in my home?” she demands, cutting her eyes to the man at her side. They both share a suspicious look that has you clamping up.
“Um, well-”
“Alright,” the man at her side finally steps forward, hands outstretched like he’s about to escort you out. You’d really rather not find out how these people dispose of ‘bad’ help.
“He put something in it,” you rush out, narrowly dodging her guard dog’s hands. They both pause and the blonde brings the drink to her nose. She takes a deep whiff while the blonde man across from her goes colorless.
She lets out a low chuckle and shakes her head. “Really, Brentley? Poison is a woman’s game; you should know better.”
Your eyes dart between the pair of them. She’s taking this a lot better than you would have. The shorter man redirects himself to the other man, ignoring you now. All three of them seem to have forgotten you were there. They began to act as if she were the one to make the discovery, icing you out of the conversation.
It’s a blessing, you think. She seemed ready to cut off your hands for getting poverty on her silk dress. Slowly, you back away from the trio. When you’re sure no one’s paying attention, you make a beeline for the kitchen. One attempted poisoning is more than enough excitement for the night.
Bev is surrounded by a cyclone of pans, cutlery, and splashing red sauces. Her white coat is absolutely covered in stains, and the stout woman from before is yelling at her for burning some hors d'oeuvres. You’re a horrible person for leaving her high and dry, but you need to get out of here before you discover something so bad that not even an NDA can shut you up.
You drop your tray by the kitchen door and rip off your apron, making a run for it before anyone can spot you. If Bev asks, you’ll tell her you got sick and had to leave. She probably won’t believe you, but you doubt she’s paying much attention to who’s missing right now.
Slipping outside, you tug out your phone. You’ll need to get an Uber out of here; the estate is over an hour out of the city. Like hell you’ll be able to make the walk in the heels they required you to wear.
Trying to open up Uber, you frown, no bars. Great, in this sprawling billion-dollar estate, they couldn’t shell out some extra cash for a cell phone tower or something. Grumbling, you lift your phone to the sky, trying to see if you can catch a signal. You don’t pay much attention to where you go, just walking until you get enough of a connection to call a ride.
After a few minutes, you find yourself outside of some strange shed. A bar comes to life and you let out a low noise of excitement, quickly ordering a ride. An odd noise to your right catches your attention and you shift your focus back to the shed.
It’s wet, this noise, squishing as someone lets out a low groan. Your nose wrinkles, disgust brewing hot in your stomach as you risk a step closer to the door. Through the wooden slats, you can make out the form of a hunched man. Another low grunt and he lifts his arm, the metallic shine of a butcher’s knife catching in the dim light. You clamp your hand over your mouth, swallowing back your gasp as he slams the knife down.
A painful squelch and then you hear the pitiful sound of an animal breathing its last breath. Are they preparing the meat for dinner now? You ask yourself. How odd, even for the rich.
Tilting your head, curiosity overrides sense as you press closer to the wood of the shed. The man straightens and you recognize the greying auburn curls from inside the estate. This had been the little guard dog standing next to that blonde woman you’d helped. He lets out a low grunt and wipes his hands on his apron, stepping to the side.
There’s no stopping the sharp gasp that rips through you. It wasn’t an animal he was butchering. No, it was the man who’d tried to poison the woman. His mangled body was crumpled on the floor, blood swirling down a drain in the center of the shed. His fingers twitched with the last bits of life as his body began to cool.
You stumbled back from the shed with burning eyes, stomach turning as you tripped over yourself.
“What are you doing out here?”
You whipped around with a gasp, barely stopping yourself from screaming. The blonde woman stood behind you, hands propped on her hips as she scrutinized your form. The shed door creaked open behind you and you went still, already feeling a predator's gaze boring into your back.
“I was looking for a signal,” you whisper, holding up your phone.
“Did you find it?” The man calls from behind you. You’re too terrified to turn. You can’t face a murderer, not with the body of his victim still cooling behind him.
“Yeah,” you squeak out, nails biting into your palm as your eyes desperately search for a way out of this.
The blonde’s head tilts and she offers a sharp smile. “You’re the maid that told me about Brentely.” Oh, of course, now they can remember a face.
“Mhm,” you hum, throat so tight you can hardly breathe.
Her eyes narrow for a split second before she waves you off. “Run along, little rabbit.” You hesitate and she tilts her head, almost daring you to disobey. It takes a second longer before you’re booking it back toward the main section of the estate.
“You’re just letting her leave?” The man hisses.
“I know what she looks like, now. Besides, she did sign an NDA,” she mutters, leading him back into the shed.
That should have been the end of it. After all, you did sign an NDA. And without much knowledge of the legal process, you just assume that you can’t tell another living soul what you witnessed. It’s not like you’re actively looking to snitch, either. The guy had clearly been a scumbag and those people were far more powerful than the justice system.
You’d looked them up after you’d gotten home. Trying to place where you’d seen them before. Titus and Ursula Danforth, the siblings who’d hired Bev. People who could bury you if you ever tried to report them. You knew you weren’t influential enough to pose a threat to them. And you know that they understood that, too.
So why the hell were you being followed?
Every night when you’d get home, a black town car would be parked outside your apartment. Too clean, too new, too rich for your neighborhood. You’d see it throughout the day as you went grocery shopping, as you applied for new jobs, everywhere. Those tinted windows prevented you from seeing just who was trailing you. But you knew who’d sent them.
You were nothing to the Danforths. An insignificant little bug who’d just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Why would they waste so much time on you?
It didn’t make sense, and thinking too long about it made it harder to muster up the courage to leave the house. So, you tried to forget about them. You tried to forget about the town car parked across the street as you ran into the hardware store. But it was difficult to pretend it was a normal day when you turned the aisle and saw Titus Danforth standing at the other end.
His hands were in his pockets as he observed the axes and picks with an upturned nose. Your eyes widened, and you caught yourself, trying to slowly back out of the aisle. But your stupid, cheap shoes squeaked against the linoleum, and his head snapped toward you.
Your entire body froze under his empty stare. Those eyes, sharp as a blade and completely void of any emotion. It felt like staring down a shark, and you’d just chummed the waters.
“You,” he muttered.
You could try to make a run for it. You’d probably beat him to the door. But then what after that? He keeps following you, keeps having you tailed and you spend every waking second looking over your shoulder? Your life was shit enough already; you couldn’t give him so much power over it.
“Mr. Danforth,” you greet. Titus felt too comfortable. Too familiar for the man stalking you.
His head tilted at that, eyes flitting over your form as he appraised you. You’re sure he found you wanting for something. You were so far below him on the social ladder that you don’t even think there’s a rung for you to hold onto.
He takes a step closer to you and it feels as if the air around you grows colder at his presence. You can’t bring yourself to meet him halfway, but you refuse to back down. Holding your ground, you eye him warily.
“Have you been following me?” It’s posed as a question, but you can both hear the accusation in your tone.
His eyes narrow, lips quirking slightly as he scoffs. “Do you think I have the time to follow everyone who sticks their nose in my business?”
“Clearly, you do.” It’s probably stupid to goad the man who could kill you right here and walk away scott free. But you’re not going to let him make you feel like you’re going crazy. “I don’t see any other reason you’d be somewhere like this,” you gesture toward the run-down store and his nose wrinkles. His disgust gives him away.
“My sister thought it wise to let you go. You helped her; that was her returning the favor.”
“And you don’t agree?” He doesn’t have to say anything; his presence is enough of an answer. You risk a step closer, ignoring how his stare makes your hair stand on end. “You’ve been watching me, you know I haven’t done anything to earn your suspicion. I know how to keep my mouth shut.”
“Do you?” He prods, your brows furrow at the dig.
“Sarcasm is a lot different than accusing someone of-” you stop yourself, biting your tongue before you blurt out what he’d done in the middle of the hardware store.
His brows pique, seeming disappointed you hadn’t just proved yourself wrong. “If you didn’t think you could trust me, why’d you let me go that night?”
A spark of emotion, just the slightest bit of anger on his face, before his calm facade slips back in place. “It wasn’t my choice,” he grits out. You draw back, eyes narrowing. So, his sister calls the shots then. You wonder if she’s aware her dog has sprung his leash.
“Look, I have enough to deal with without you making my life hell. Frankly, you’re not worth the fucking trouble it would take to report you. Just… let me be, please.”
He’s silent for a moment and you don’t know how to take that. When it gets to be too uncomfortable, you start to walk away. “You’re bold for someone who’d be so easy to erase.”
Tensing up, you risk a glance over your shoulder, but he’s already gone.
A few nights later, you find yourself standing outside a shitty bar. You’d spent the night making it up to Bev for ditching her by buying her cheap beer you could barely afford. Now, you’re staring down at what it would cost to order yourself a car.
Bev had taken off with some guy she’d picked up, leaving you stranded. You rock back on your heels, bare legs growing colder the longer you stay still. “Fuck,” you hiss, shoving your phone in your purse. You wrap your jacket tighter around yourself and turn to make the trek home.
It’s beyond stupid, walking home like this, buzzed and in skimpy bar clothes. But you don’t even have enough money in your bank to pay your water bill. Let alone afford a ride back to your apartment.
It doesn’t take long to feel it. Your hair stands on end, gooseflesh pricks at your skin painfully. Someone’s watching you. Just behind you, just out of sight, their eyes are stuck on your back. It’s futile to try to shake off the feeling. There’s no getting rid of base instinct. You risk a glance over your shoulder and find no shadows lurking under the street lamps.
That’s when you hear it. The sound of an engine starting. Bright headlights flood the street before you. Grimacing back from the light, you cup your hand over your eyes and glare at the car making such a scene. It shouldn’t surprise you to see the black town car, but you’re caught off guard nonetheless.
“What the fuck?” you mutter, watching as it rolls to a stop beside you. The back window rolls down, hair that’s growing too familiar to you becomes visible. Jesus, he’s not even driving. Of course, he’s got a damn chauffeur. Why wouldn’t he?
You should honestly be concerned about the man following you. The one you’d just seen murder someone, not even a week ago. But you’re just relieved it's him and not some other freak following you. Better the evil you know…
The door doesn’t open, he doesn’t say anything, and there’s no invitation offered to get in. You’re not sure if he just wanted to taunt you with the heat you can feel wafting from the window or what.
“Um, hi?” you mutter, still slightly buzzed.
He lets out a sharp sigh, and then the door swings open. You leap back before it can bash into your knees, cheap heels tilting threateningly beneath you. “I don’t-”
“Get in,” his voice is short and leaves no room for questioning. Besides, you are desperate to be out of the cold. There should be far more of a fight put up, but you get into the car and close the door behind you. The driver pulls away from the curb immediately, seemingly desperate to be out of this shady neighborhood.
You can’t exactly blame him. You hate when Bev drags you to this side of town. She always ends up ditching you by the end of the night.
Just to have something to do, you plant your purse firmly in your lap, fiddling with the straps. You can see Titus out of the corner of your eye. His jaw is tense, as usual, gaze is fixed pointedly ahead. You’re afraid to speak. As if one wrong word might trigger him to attack.
“Still following me, I see,” you mutter, fiddling with a string on your dress.
He sucks in a sharp breath, and you straighten, waiting for him to bite. “Did you drag your heels from the bottom of a bargain bin?”
Your eyes widen and your head snaps toward him. “Excuse me?” But he’s not done.
“And your dress is one thread away from being nothing more than a cheap scrap in a landfill.” Your lips part, but nothing comes out. You’re far too astonished by such a brutal callout of your accurately described bargain bin wardrobe. “So, why would you ever think it’s smart to walk through a neighborhood like that in shoes you can’t even run in?”
Rolling your eyes, you let out a sharp scoff. “Jesus, don’t try to white knight me after you’ve been stalking me for a week.” His gaze snaps toward you, and you shrug. “If it comes to it, I ditch the heels and run. I’ve been in tighter squeezes than a shady neighborhood and a cheap dress.”
Your answer seems to have pretty much the opposite effect of what you’d been hoping for as his nostrils flare and his shoulders stiffen. Thankfully, the driver’s pulling into your apartment complex. You’re about ready to throw open the door and roll out; you’ve escaped from worse dates with the same method before.
“Your neighborhood’s disgusting,” he snipes, sniffing.
You open the door and toss him a glare over your shoulder. “Then buy me a house, or stop following me,” you snap, slamming the door behind you. You almost wished he would actually shoot you. It’d be preferable to being followed by a domineering, judgmental shadow.
When you open the door the next morning, instead of the paper, there’s a thick envelope on the mat. Bending over, you pick it up, honestly surprised one of your neighbors hadn’t snatched it yet.
You’ve got one foot in your door and have barely opened the envelope before you're racing outside. You keep it tucked tight to your chest, heart racing as you storm down your stairs and to the town car parked expectantly outside.
Rushing up, you rap your knuckles on the window, slippered foot tapping impatiently against the pavement. Slowly, the window rolls down, revealing Titus’ chauffeur, but no sign of the man himself.
“Is he in there?” you demand, trying to get a look into the back seat.
“No, ma’am, not today.”
Your brows furrow as your gaze snaps back to him. “He makes you come out here without him?”
The driver nods sagely, “In case you ever decide to swallow your pride and ask for a ride.” A sharp scoff escapes you and he offers a saccharine smile. “His words, ma’am.”
“Upptiy asshole,” you grumble. You pull the envelope away from your chest and flash it at him. The thick stack of hundreds inside dangles just beneath his nose. “What is this?”
His brows raise as he glances between you and the cash. “Money, I believe.”
You shoot him an unimpressed glare. “Yes, I’m aware of what money is. I want to know why it’s at my door.”
“I believe for a better pair of shoes, ma’am.”
Your lips part as your gaze drops back to the cash. Jesus, even his gift was insulting. And how much did he think a pair of shoes cost? This was two months of rent in your hand, not to mention every one of your overdue bills.
“Yeah, well, it’s going to my water bill,” you grumble. “You can leave, I’m not going anywhere today. Nor am I ever taking his chauffeur.”
The older man simply smiles and shrugs. “I’ll be here if you need me, ma’am.” The window’s rolling back up before you can object. Thoroughly dismissed, you begin the awkward trek back up your stairs. What the hell does he even do in there all day?
And why is Titus torturing his poor chauffeur and making him wait out there when he’s not even here?
You shake your head and grumble quietly to yourself. You never should have gone to that damn mansion.
“Where’s Ralph?” Ursula stepped into Titus’ office with her typical demanding air. Having no care for what he’s been doing or the fact that he’s been trying to clean up her mess for the past week and a half.
“With the girl,” he mutters, leafing through the paperwork on his desk. Ursula shakes her head, expression blank. Titus lets out a heavy sigh, “Brentley,” he reminds her.
That had been a particularly satisfying kill. He’d been looking for ways to get rid of that pompous ass for a long time. And you’d just walked right up and handed it to him on your little silver tray.
Ursula’s eyes narrow before recognition sparks in them. “I still don’t understand why he isn’t here,” she huffs.
“Because I’m trying to make sure that your odd desire for mercy doesn’t go to the police.”
“Jesus, Titus, I want my driver back. Put her down if you have to.” Ursula throws her hands up with a huff and begins to storm out of his office. Titus pauses, imagines what it might be like to kill you. He’s unsure how he’d do it, now. You’re easy enough to get in a car. Maybe he’d drive you back to the estate, take you to the shed where he’d slaughtered Brentley.
He imagines that terror in your eyes would be quite the sight to see. That brief moment right before you scream and he plunges the knife in your chest. Titus’s hands tighten around his papers before he releases a short breath, dropping them back on his desk. Something stirs in his groin that makes him stretch out his legs.
“Unless,” Ursula’s voice calls from his door. Hadn’t she left yet? “Are you playing with your food, again?”
“What?” He snaps, having less patience for her than usual.
“That little server from the party…” she shrugs. “Having fun playing with her, Titus?” His jaw clenches, imagining the generous donation he’d left you this morning. Pocket money for him. He’s sure it’s life-changing for a poverty-stricken thing like you.
“Ugh,” Ursula groans in disappointment. “You always do this. Find a new toy to play with, something that will really get on father’s nerves. Then I’m cleaning up your mess. I don’t feel like having to scrape a maid off concrete again. If you’re going to play, make sure it doesn’t get in my way.”
With that, she finally leaves, the door slamming behind her. Titus stays where he is, jaw flexing as he settles his breath. She has no idea what she’s talking about. He’s never kept toys, never played with women. They played with him, and he had little care for women who thought he was something disposable.
He doubts you’d be like that. Desperate as you are, you still manage to have a bite. Still try to fight against him. There’s something in that desperation, that gritty will to survive, that’s a hundred times more interesting than any heiress he’s had dinner with in the past year.
He tilts his head, picturing the look on your face if he presented you with one of his penthouses. Disposable things, he occasionally visited. An entirely different life from your shitty little apartment complex. It’s difficult deciding what’s more enticing…
The light leaving your eyes, or being the reason it’s still there.
“Oh, fuck me,” you hiss, staring out the peephole and finding an annoyingly familiar face waiting. When is this rich boy going to let you get back to your life? Passionless and boring as that life is, it’s yours. And you’d like him out of it.
You suck in a sharp breath and throw the door open. Titus waits for you, hands folded behind his back, a suspicious tilt to his lips. “What?” you demand, eyeing him warily.
His eyes narrow before he holds out his hand. “Take a ride with me,” he tells you. There’s no space for ‘no’ with him. It’s not something he’s ever heard or will ever accept. Despite every instinct telling you not to, you take his hand.
You frown as he slips a key into your palm, dragging you out of your apartment. “Where’re we going?” you demand, stumbling as he storms off toward the stairs. He drags you along behind him, paying little mind to your questions or complaints.
“Somewhere more suitable to my tastes,” he offers airily.
It’s hard to say how you end up here. Sort of. You understand the steps easily enough. Titus stalked you, paid you, and then dumped you in a penthouse so he could stalk you in a neighborhood closer to his economic bracket.
But there’s this grey area between all that, where you can’t quite comprehend what your life has become. You watched him murder a man, saw him and his sister cover it up. You should hold the power; you have something on him.
Yet, he has this power over you. This sway that makes you agree to things you never would before.
On your last cent and struggling to keep a roof over your head, you still wouldn’t let yourself rely on a man. But now, you sleep in his penthouse. You wear clothes bought with his card. And, occasionally, he visits you. For the most part, he keeps to his mansion and socialites.
But when he’s looking for something interesting, for someone without an ulterior motive or fake personality, he comes to you. Eventually, the shininess of a new toy will wear off. You’ll dull around the edges after not having to fight to survive. The thing that’s strangely endeared him to you will be gone, and you’ll be left worse off than before.
Because now, you don’t have your own place to run back to.
You’re searching through job listings on the new laptop he gave you when the front door opens. “Shit,” you hiss, closing out the tabs and sliding the computer away just as he walks into the living room.
“What was that?” He demands, eyes already narrowed in suspicion.
“Porn,” you respond bluntly. His nostrils flare for a moment before his lips quirk. You offer a weak smile, feeling like a fool performing for nobles so far above her. Each moment with him, in the comfort of this grand place, you wonder when he’ll grow tired. When you won’t be funny enough to keep around anymore. When you’ll have to fight for scraps again.
He unbuttons his coat and you stand, already reaching for it. He lets out a rough sigh, collapsing on the couch as you go to hang it up. What are you to him? You find yourself asking that question more than you’re comfortable with.
When you return, he’s digging through your computer. You’re not stupid, though. You look for ways to escape him on incognito tabs. “Snoop much?” you tease, offering a tense smile.
He closes your laptop and tosses it onto the table. Your eyes widen at the blase attitude. You could never imagine treating your valuables as if they were so… replaceable.
“What did you do tonight?” He asks, rubbing his temple as he sinks into the cushions.
“I already told you,” you snark. He pops open an eye, and you shrug.
Replaceable. “Cooked some dinner, burnt it. Ordered Thai, instead.”
“I’m so sick of these fucking gatherings,” he grunts, eyes clenched shut as he shakes his head.
Replaceable.
He completely passes over what you’ve said, but you don’t really care. Taking a seat beside him, you’re not surprised when he grabs your waist, tugs you onto his lap. It’s routine when he visits, now.
A doll.
You run your fingers through his tight curls and he shudders at the gentle touch. Smiling slightly, you pull his head into your chest. He falls easily into you. Most days, he reminds you of one of those mutts used in dog-fighting rings.
He’s got sharp teeth and a worse bite, but he seems to just be looking for an iota of normalcy. Sadly, a life lived with a silver spoon in his mouth means he has no idea what normalcy is. It’s certainly not playing house with your stay-at-home sugar baby whenever you get tired of being rich.
Dolls break so easily.
His arms tighten around you and you suck in a deep breath, trying to settle yourself. “What’re all these meetings about, anyway?”
“Marriage,” he answers bluntly. Your fingers still in his hair, job applications sit in the back of your mind. He lifts his head with a frown. “What’s wrong?”
Dolls are replaceable.
Your smile tightens at the edges until it hurts. “Nothing,” you lie. “Don’t like any of the gorgeous heiresses they’ve presented you with?” you try to tease him. It comes out too strained. Too bitter to fit your role.
Titus catches on, like a shark sniffing out blood. He leans back on the couch and you stiffly follow him. “Worried?” he taunts, and the joy that flickers through his eyes fills you with a blinding hate. He knows.
You almost thought he was too stupid to understand what it means to struggle. To have to worry about where or when your next meal will come. But he knows what you fear, he knows how to use it against you and keep you docile. It’s fun for him, being so wholly in control of your life and your future.
I am replaceable.
“Not at all,” you shrug, dipping forward to press a kiss to the corner of his lips. “We both know I’m more fun than them.” You slip from his lap, smirking as you drag your hand along his shoulder, slowly making your way to the bedroom. It doesn’t take him long to follow once you’ve tugged his leash.
“Oh.” Ursula stands at the entrance of the penthouse. Her sunglasses are still on, lips curled as she takes you in. “I was looking for Titus,” she explains, brushing past you and making her way inside.
Your eyes narrow as the door shuts behind her. Why do you feel like she’s lying?
“Shouldn’t he be at your mansion?” You ask, heart skipping when you realize you’ve left your laptop open on the coffee table. You knew Titus wouldn’t be coming by anytime soon. You hadn’t thought to cover your tracks.
Of course, Ursula takes after her twin. She loops through the living room, arms crossed in judgment, before her attention’s snagged by the screen. She lifts her sunglasses and peers down at it.
If you pretend like it’s normal, maybe she won’t tell Titus.
“Big mansion,” she mutters in response to your earlier comment. “Must’ve missed him.”
Now you know she’s lying.
“Uh-huh,” you mutter, trailing after her. “Well, he’s not here.” Ursula ignores you, bending down and scrolling through your laptop. “Hey, do you mind-”
“Office administrator?” She questions, tongue rolling like a job title is a foreign language.
You roll your eyes, “I forget nepo babies don’t understand the idea of employment.”
She lets out a short scoff, offering you a bitter smile. “Careful,” she warns. “I don’t like you that much.”
You offer a sharp grin, but bite your tongue. You’re more scared of her than you are of Titus. She’s had him in her claws a lot longer than you. And you doubt you mean enough for him to protect you from her.
“Why are you looking at jobs?” She demands, eyes snagging on your half-packed suitcase. “Escaping, are we?”
You follow her gaze and shake your head. If only. “No, Titus wants to get away. Something about a property up in the mountains.”
“The Leedle Property?” She interrupts.
“I guess,” you mutter, eyes narrowing at how eagerly she jumps at the information. “Why?”
“And why are you applying to jobs if you’re not running away from my brother?” she asks, ignoring your question.
You bite your lip, wondering how much you should actually tell her. But it doesn’t seem like she’s leaving until she’s satisfied. “I’m not an idiot. Your brother likes collecting toys, but he enjoys breaking them more.” Her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t try to lie, doesn’t try to correct you.
“This can’t last forever,” you motion toward the penthouse. “I need something I can actually rely on. Myself.”
“Why not babytrap him?”
If you had a drink, you’d choke on it. “What?” you demand, voice rising in pitch.
Ursula shrugs. “Babytrap him, file false charges against him, stalk him. A few of the things the women in his life have tried to have a piece of my inheritance.”
“Crazy women,” you correct. “I’d rather work until I’m 90 before I babytrap a man. Especially your brother. No offense,” you quickly correct.
Her tongue laves across her teeth as she surveys you. A part of you shudders, wondering if this is the part where the rich people cannibalize the poor to taste poverty for the first time. “The Leedle Property, then? When’s this little getaway happening?”
She completely disregards your previous line of conversation. You’re not sure if you’re grateful or more unsettled. “This weekend,” you tell her.
“Hm,” she hums before nodding and making her way back to the door. “Make sure Titus doesn’t see those applications. I doubt he’d take kindly to his doll escaping her house.”
Your jaw clenches as the door slams shut behind her. You do not like that woman. Why the hell did she even come over?
Grumbling to yourself, you collect the rest of the clothes you plan on packing and shove them into your suitcase. No wonder Titus seems so eager to get away from his family. They’ve got the meanest bite of anyone you’ve had the displeasure of meeting.
Titus drives you up to the estate. You’d had to bite back a joke about him knowing how to drive when he’d come to pick you up. You doubt he’d appreciate mockery during one of the few times he actually does something for himself. Besides, he seems to be in a good mood, no need to ruin that with your mouth.
“Why the mountains?” you ask, breaking the silence for the first time during the drive.
Titus’s eyes drift over to you before focusing back on the road. “It’s quiet, peaceful.” He reaches over, hand squeezing your thigh. “No one around for miles.”
You snort and toss him an unimpressed look. “You could say that about any of your estates. How come we’re not relaxing on a beach with a drink in our hand?”
“Don’t complain,” he chides, hand squeezing in warning.
You shift uncomfortably, straightening in your seat. “Thank you,” you amend, “for bringing me.” He offers a hum but says nothing else. Your stomach twists as you worry you’ve just messed this trip up for yourself.
“Hey,” a cool touch on your chin and you’re tilting your head to meet his eye. “This will be nice,” he tells you. As if there is no greater authority than him. Like nothing could ever prove him wrong.
You yearn to move through the world with the kind of self-assured confidence a rich man has. As if the entire universe bends to his will and his alone. It must be nice, being so self-deluded.
“Yeah,” you agree, voice empty as you offer a shallow smile. When will you get tired of me?
You hear it, a sort of clock counting down before you’re left broken on a curb somewhere.
His hand lingers on you the rest of the ride, but you both remain quiet. Something heavy has settled between you. An amalgamation of your hesitation, his uncertainty about what to do with you. For an hour of the drive, you actually wonder if he’s just brought you out here to kill you.
But he could have easily killed you at the penthouse. He doesn’t seem the type to need a change of scenery. At least, that’s the best you could comfort yourself.
Eventually, he pulls up the long, winding driveway of a sprawling estate. “I thought you said this was a cabin,” you accuse, forehead practically pressed to the window.
Titus pauses, “It is.”
Your gaze drifts back to him and you scoff. “It’s the size of a McMansion.”
Titus shrugs, “It’s rustic.”
He gets out and you wait like you’re supposed to. It takes a second before he’s at your door, opening it and offering you a hand out. He leaves your luggage in the car. You wonder if he’ll get it later or if there are little servants here to do that for him.
“You know,” it's an effort to keep your jaw off the ground as you take in his second home. “I’m going to need a house tour, so I don’t get lost in here this week.”
Titus lets out a small huff of laughter, arm winding around your waist as he leads you up the front steps. “Don’t worry, I’ll show you all the hidden rooms.” He opens the front door as you shoot him a wide-eyed stare.
“Hidden rooms-”
“There you are!” A sharp voice interrupts you, cold and cruel. A blonde monster stands in the foyer. (Cabins definitely don’t have foyers, by the way. Something to be addressed later.) “I was starting to worry you would never show up, brother.”
Ursula stands holding a champagne flute, dressed to the nines, and you suddenly realize there are a dozen other well-dressed people all around her. Certainly better looking than your worn-down jeans and baggy sweater. They all sip their drinks and fiddle with their diamonds, gaze scrutinizing you.
You shudder, freezing in the doorway as you realize this is an ambush. Women your age and younger all stand in a circle to the right of the door. Each dressed better than the last. Not one of them pays attention to you; all eyes are on Titus.
“Ursula?” Titus grits out, eyes roaming the room with fury burning in them. “What are you doing?”
She walks forward and holds out her hand. Suddenly, you’re alone, Titus following after his sister as she leads him into an adjacent room. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what's happening. You’d let it slip to Ursula where your getaway was going to be, and she’d set this up.
An ambush of socialites and heiresses, far better suited for her brother than some scrappy little piece of trash like you. The women’s parents were all eyeing you with disgust. Unable to comprehend how you captured Titus’s attention when their daughters failed.
You wind your arms tight around yourself, taking a hesitant step back. Maybe you could just steal his car and make a run for it.
“Oh,” your back slams into someone’s chest and you falter. “I’m sorry,” you mutter, already turning around.
An older man with cold eyes glares down at you. Shivers rack up your spine, gooseflesh pinches at you. The Senior Danforth, you would bet everything. Those cold, emotionless eyes are just like his son’s.
“Sir,” you greet, taking another step back.
His eyes narrow, and he lets out a low huff of disappointment. “I don’t think I’ll ever understand my son.”
You offer an awkward chuckle, knowing you’re being insulted straight to your face. “Does any parent?”
“Are you being smart with me?”
“I-”
“Father,” a voice interrupts. You sink back in relief, practically hiding behind Titus as he comes up behind you. “Ursula’s just explained the mix-up.” His eyes dart over to you and you feel like you’re missing something crucial. “I wish you had told me your plan,” he grits out, clearly struggling to stay polite.
His father scoffs, not sparing you another glance. “Why? So you could run away with your little paramour?”
Your brows turn in, the way he says it makes it sound like a slur. You must be nothing to this man. Honestly, he looks at you and probably just sees a little roach to crush under his heel. Is this why Titus is with you? There’s clearly no love lost between him and his father. Maybe you’re his rebellion.
“Of course not,” Titus hisses. “You know how deeply I respect our traditions,” again, another sly look over at you. What the fuck were they talking about?
You glance over your shoulder and catch a few people just as they rip their stares away. Their voices remain hushed, too low for you to make out any hints of what might be happening. Slowly, you step back from Titus. He’s too absorbed by his father to pay much attention.
You make it all the way back to the car, thinking you’ve successfully escaped, before you hear footsteps rushing to catch up. “What are you doing?” Titus demands.
“What do you think?” You whip around with a scoff and he draws back. “I know what I am to you, Titus. I’m not something permanent or anyone worth a damn. But that doesn’t mean I have to stay here and be insulted while you cozy up with some heiress.”
“Is that what you think?” He asks, head tilting curiously.
“It’s what I know. And it’s not like you’ve proved me wrong.”
Titus smirks and that little quirk to his lips is infuriating. “And letting you stay rent-free at my penthouse doesn’t prove you wrong? Providing you with any creature comfort you might want or need doesn’t prove that?”
You lick your lips and let out a sharp sigh. “No. Because I know you, this is your game, Titus. So, just let me go home, alright?” You reach for the door handle, but it doesn’t budge. “Titus,” you grit out, yanking on the car door.
“You’re not leaving,” he tells you.
“Seriously, Titus, I don’t want to be here.” His lips flatten, and you draw back. For a moment, he almost looks sorry, and you think that’s more terrifying than any anger you’ve ever gotten from him. “What’s going-”
An arm wrapped around your back, a cloth pressed to your nose. One whiff of that sickly sweet scent and you were going limp.
Sharp, pungent, someone slips something under your nose strong enough to shock you back to life. You suck in a sharp gasp, more of the smell burning in your lungs. Your eyes open, but your vision remains dark. Something burns around your wrists, they’ve tied your hands behind your back.
“What’s- what’s happening?” Laughter to your left, chilling and shrill.
“Take it off,” you vaguely recognize the voice of Titus’s father as a mask is ripped from your eyes. The light floods into your vision and you grimace, head pounding from whatever they’d used to knock you out. When your eyes relax, you realize you’re in a basement of some sort. The walls are all dark brick, the floors a black tile that looks like it’d be easy to clean blood off of.
There’s a circle formed before you. The guests from upstairs are all staring at you now. Except the girls are dressed in white gowns and slips. While their parents all don black cloaks.
“Oh fuck me,” you hiss, looking down at yourself. You’ve been changed into a matching white dress with the rest of the women. “I knew you assholes sacrificed people," you snap, glaring through the crowd. You’re searching for one man, but they’ve all got these terrifying goat skull masks on.
Still, you think you recognize that haunting look in Titus’s eyes by now as your gaze stops on a man to your right.
“The eloquent language of the working class,” someone titters off to your left.
“Forgive the French,” you bite out. “But at the very least, we don’t fucking eat people.”
“Enough!” Your shoulders jump as Titus’s father descends the dais he’d been standing on. “No one is getting eaten or sacrificed. All this is… is an annual hunt.”
The way he says it makes you wish you were being ritually sacrificed. A maid strolls through the crowd, a covered cart in her hand that she pushes to the middle of the circle. You almost call out for help, but their employees are just as fucked as the rest of them.
“A hunt?” You whisper, eyes being ripped to the side by one of the women in a white gown. Her glare is boring into you, malice and hatred bubbling over in frothing animosity. You’d never even said one word to her, and she looks ready to rip your throat out and eat your heart.
“As our guest to this tradition,” the Senior Danforth offers a chilling grin. “I allow you the first pick.”
“We had a deal-” A man steps forth to object, but Titus’s father holds up his hand, silencing him without even looking away from you. Swallowing thickly, you step forward, hands still bound behind your back with rope. The Senior Danforth rips the sheet off the cart with a gusto better suited for a magician. Two servants appear behind you and roughly cut the rope away.
Beneath are a dozen different weapons. Glocks, shotguns, hunting knives, throwing stars, even a bow and arrows. “Oh, we’re actually hunting?” You offer him a confused stare. If only one fucking person in this room would give it to you straight rather than playing at these confusing mind games.
“Not game,” someone answers and you go still. Titus, that’s his voice. His father shoots him a reproachful glare and your former paramour goes quiet.
“When an eldest son is viable for marriage and deigns to choose outside of his… circle. A hunt is ordered by the families of the poor girls jilted. The last one standing earns his hand.”
“Marriage,” you tumble over your words. Reeling from figuring out you’re being hunted and that this is all for some man. “I’m not even his girlfriend. I mean, this is one big mistake. I don’t want to marry him at all!”
“Ouch,” someone laughs behind you.
“I’m afraid the hunt has already started,” Titus’s father motions behind him. On a marble slab behind the dais is a goat’s corpse, its throat slit and blood dribbling into an engraved sigil on the floor. “Unless you’re willing to forfeit?”
“Ye-”
“No!” A sharp voice interrupts. You turn and see Titus, his mask discarded as he stares past you at his father. “A forfeit is automatic disqualification.”
“Okay…”
“Death,” he snaps bluntly when you fail to pick up the hint.
“Fucker,” you hiss, glaring over at his father.
“Enough,” Titus steps back into place as his father motions him away. “Pick your weapon before I pick for you.”
This is fucking insane. They’re asking you to pick your weapon to murder other women. Half of whom look a decade younger than you. God, are you really about to murder child brides?
Someone laughs at your side and you glance over to see one of the young women whispering to her mother. Their eyes are sharp as they observe you, devoid of humor. You’re nothing to them. Not human, not prey, just an obstacle in their way.
Your eyes drift back to the cart. Your hand inches toward a revolver. You know how to shoot and you’ve got a decent aim. But you hesitate, there are eyes boring into the back of your head. Burning and urging you away from the revolver. Guns run out of bullets, but that hunting knife with the long, curved blade seems far more reliable.
Your hand wraps around the leather-bound handle. And Titus’s father hums. “Interesting,” he mutters. You pull back, the knife tucked to your chest as a maid directs you back into the circle. The other women step up, the majority going for bows or guns. Did you just get yourself killed?
When the last one has chosen, a girl barely older than twenty, the Senior Danforth claps his hands with a mirthful smile. “With each bell tolled, we are one step closer to a most beneficial union. Take them to their release points.”
Your arms are snatched up by two servants as they march you out of the basement. The majority of the women are split up, taken to different sections of the estate to lessen the chances of a quick, boring game. But while they’re directed outside, you’re led up the stairs to a bedroom. “What’re you doing?” You demand, eyes wide as the servants deposit you in the center of the room.
One of the maids giggles, pressing a finger to her lips as she runs from the room. “What?” You hiss, bewildered as you try to come to terms with everything that’s happened.
But life doesn't feel like letting you get comfortable in this new reality. “Make this quick, Titus, I don’t want to be accused of cheating.” Ursula’s voice, bored and cold as usual. Her steps are growing closer to this room.
You suck in a sharp breath, eyes darting around for somewhere to hide. There’s an old wooden wardrobe, just big enough for you to slip in. You rush toward it, throwing yourself inside just as the bedroom door creaks open.
Titus lets out a low groan and you press your eye to the crack of the wardrobe. “I told them to bring her here.”
“I told you we should have fired those two years ago, they’re fucking worthless.” Ursula has a revolver in her hands, similar to the one that you’d rejected. On Titus’s shoulder is what looks like a large hammer. The type you’d see at historical sites beside blacksmithing forges, not held casually.
“Where do you think they left her?” Titus glances around the room, his eyes hesitate over the wardrobe. You jump back from the crack in the door, clamping your hand over your mouth so he can’t hear you breathe.
“Who knows? Let’s just make this quick,” Ursula checks her revolver, loading in bullets before sending Titus a sharp smirk.
“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” he sighs, following her out of the room. You wait until the bedroom door closes to slip out of the wardrobe. Your heart is slamming against your ribs, blood thrumming with adrenaline as you let out a shaky breath.
It’s not like you and Titus were some grand love story. Your relationship lies within transactional boundaries. And you’ve known…. You knew! That this would always end badly for you. Titus likes to break his toys; you just hadn’t thought he would go so far as to drag you into a fucking satanic cult.
Your throat clenches tight as your chest quakes; it’s hard to get your breath as reality slowly dawns on you. The knife is clutched so tightly in your chest, one trip and you’ll end up offing yourself. Slowly, you creep toward the bedroom door.
Maybe you’d be better off hiding in here. Your hand hovers over the doorknob as you think of something Titus had said to you. “I’ll give you a tour of the hidden rooms.”
Your eyes track over every crevice of the room you’re standing in. There are at least three spots you see that might be a secret door or hidden passageway. Nowhere is safe.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you’re throwing open the bedroom door and peeking into the hall. The stupid dress they’d put you in trips up your feet as you step outside. The door closes softly behind you as you kneel, taking your knife and cutting into the hem.
“There you are.”
Your head snaps up, blood draining from your face as you see Ursula standing at the end of the hall. “Titus,” she calls, eyes alight with the joy of the hunt.
You step from the tattered remains of your gossamer skirt, bare feet tripping along the waxed marble. Titus turns the corner, that hammer still on his shoulder. “There you are,” his lips quirk and Ursula cocks her revolver. You take a step back and Titus’s eyes narrow. “Don’t,” he warns.
But you’re already turning, feet slapping against the floor as you make a run for it. You can hear them curse behind you, Ursula’s annoyed sigh as you turn the corner.
You come to a short stop, body freezing as you see another woman in a white slip. She’s apparently ditched the dress, same as you. Her eyes widen as they land on you, lighting up with a challenge. “No, no, no, wait!” You let out a shrill scream as she lifts her gun, shooting wildly.
“Jesus,” you drop to the ground, hands covering your head as a vase shatters behind you.
“Shit,” she whines, stomping her foot as she goes to reload.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” You snap, surging to your feet and storming toward her. Your hand lashes out, sending the gun clattering to the floor. She lunges for you, hands outstretched toward your neck. On instinct, your hands fly out. Both of them.
The knife you’d forgotten about plunges into her gut and she lets out a rattling groan. “Oh, oh no,” you whisper, eyes bugging out as blood begins to pool down your arm. “Oh I didn’t mean it,” you whisper, lowering yourself as her body goes limp in your arms. Slowly, you let her drop to the floor, the knife making a schlick noise as it slips from her stomach.
“What did I do?” Tears are welling in your eyes. It doesn’t matter that she was actively trying to kill you. Or that she would have gotten you first if you hadn’t been faster. You just killed someone. Just took a life like it was nothing.
“I wasn’t sure you had it in you.” With a gasp, you leap to your feet. Titus stands behind you, head tilted as he takes in the dead body. “Congratulations.” Barely a moment later, you hear it, the bell tolling somewhere off in the distance. Your eyes drop to the dead body at your feet.
“How do they know?” Titus smirks and you have a feeling you won’t be made privy to family secrets unless you survive the night.
He opens his mouth, but the bell tolls once more, and then again. Two more girls, dead. “Only eight left,” he grins. He takes a step closer, and you stumble back, knife pointed at his chest.
He glances between you and the knife with astonished surprise. “What are you gonna do with that?” His voice is low, disarmingly calm as he holds out his hand. The knife trembles in your grip, faltering slightly as he takes your wrist in his hand.
A sharp breath rips from you as he tugs you into his chest. The knife picks against his shirt, tearing at a thread, but you bend your wrist. Stopping yourself before you really hurt him. He tuts, disappointed by such a weak display of mercy. “You’re not going to make it much longer if you can’t go in for the kill.”
“I don’t want to,” you whisper, biting your tongue so the tears in your eyes don’t spill over. His gaze tracks the way your lashes flutter, a cruel smirk pulling at his lips.
“Do you want to live?”
You’re silent for a moment, the blood of that woman cooling on your hand. His thumb sweeps through it, admiring how it paints your skin. “Yes,” you finally choke out. As selfish as it is, you want to live. And if that means killing a few spoiled heiresses before they get you...
You’ve survived tighter squeezes in worse dresses.
“Good,” he practically coos, his voice a low purr, lulling you into this false sense of security where he isn’t the same man who’d gotten you in this situation to begin with. “Because I don’t want any of these other women. I want you, which means you need to live.” This cadence of his voice is the same tone he uses when he coaxes you into his bed.
He likes this.
You shouldn’t be surprised. You met the man because you caught him murdering someone. Still, there’s a dead body cooling at your feet and you can feel the weight of his want pressing into your hip.
“Why did you do this?” You hiss out, finally asking the question that’s haunted you since the game began. “Why-“ your voice breaks and you clamp your mouth shut. You can’t let him see you cry. He’d like it too much.
His hand comes up, gently cupping your cheek as he pulls you impossibly closer. “Wasn’t the plan,” he mutters, eyes stuck to your lips. “My family thought it was about time I settled down. They wanted to make sure I chose the right woman.”
“They don’t want me, Titus.” And until a few minutes ago, you hadn’t thought he wanted you either.
His eyes narrow as his grip on you tightens. It doesn’t hurt, but it feels like you’re one bad move away from making him bite. “I don’t care what they want. I want you. Which means you’re getting through this, alive. I’m not calling another woman Mrs. Danforth, do you understand me?”
Even if you didn’t want to survive… even if you weren’t already the type of person who claws and scratches and doesn’t care who she hurts to keep living, you wouldn’t have a choice. He’s not giving you an option; he’s threatening you. Making sure you’ve got it through your thick skull that, no matter what, there is no escaping him.
“What do I do?” You whisper, lips nearly brushing his with how close he stands. He sucks in a deep breath before slowly releasing you. It’s an effort not to stumble over the corpse as you put some space between the two of you.
“Stay hidden,” he instructs. “I’ll take care of the others.”
Your brows furrow as you fiddle with the torn edge of your dress. “Won’t that count as cheating?”
“It will.” Your shoulders jump to your ears as Ursula’s voice echoes down the hallway. You turn to see her striding toward you. There’s blood splattered against her silk blouse and an angry red welt on her cheek. “But if you think the others aren’t out here sniping the competition, you’re not as smart as I gave you credit for.”
Another toll of the bell in the distance. The numbers are dwindling faster than expected. “As for what you should do,” her brows raise and she offers you a cruel smile. “Run, rabbit, before someone else finds you.”
You want to ask them where the hell you’re meant to go, but footsteps are approaching from the other end of the hall. Titus spares you one last look before heading toward them, dragging his hammer from his shoulder. You swallow roughly, giving the dead woman one last look before you take off at a run.
You’d thought the best place to hide would be in plain sight. Skulking around the estate while everyone searched for the girls outside seemed smart. Until the rain came, it began washing everyone inside, hunters and prey alike. One girl had found you hiding near the kitchen as she came back in from the storm.
It was only because the floor beneath her was soaking wet that you managed to get a good shove in. Just enough to have her slip and knock her head against the tile. After that, what happened feels like a blur. You know she’s dead, that her blood coats the front of your dress. The bell had tolled, but you don’t remember it.
It seems wrong, not remembering your own kill. Like you’re not honoring her death properly. But she’d had a shotgun pointed at your chest, so it’s a little harder to find any sympathy. Unfortunately, her screaming had drawn attention to you.
You had to run out of the estate, into the pouring rain and raging winds. It battered your body, turned your white dress sheer as you tried to find cover in the woods bordering the estate. You briefly considered trying to find the road, but you doubt you’d have much luck in these conditions.
The bell tolls in the distance. If you’re keeping count right, that means there are only two other girls. You grimace, chin tucked to your chest as the rain howls around you. Your hair is soaked, stuck to your cheeks as you try to wipe the water from your eyes. You have no idea where the sudden storm came from, but you can hardly see a foot in front of you.
If the other women find you before you find them, you’re screwed. You won’t even have the time to be scared before they pounce. Shivering, you shove your hair off your face and push away from the tree you’d been resting on.
You try to keep low to the ground, using the underbrush as cover as you skulk through the forest. Somehow, through the sound of your own footsteps and the rain hitting the foliage, you manage to make out strange noises. It reminds you of the night you first met Titus, the last time you’d tasted normalcy.
It was the same noise the man he’d killed made right as he died. Peering around the tree you’re cowering behind, you see her. The last woman, shoulders heaving as she stands over the body of another. You flinch as the bell tolls and huddle down as she slowly surveys the area around her.
Recognition flares in your mind, and you feel your chest tighten. This is the same woman who’d looked ready to rip you apart in the estate. Of course, the most vicious bitch had to be the last one standing.
The only advantage you have right now is that she doesn’t know where you are. Knife in hand, you slowly creep your way out from behind the tree. Her back stays turned toward you, head tilting as she tries to get a better view through the rain.
You hold your breath, not making a noise. Not even as you lunge at her, arms wrapping around her neck as you both hurtle toward the forest floor. She lets out a low grunt, growling as you sit on top of her, struggling to pin her flailing limbs down.
One well-thrown elbow and you’re rolling off her, curling into yourself as you try to catch your breath. She’d managed to catch you right in the diaphragm. The impact gives her just enough time to right herself. Both of your dresses are stained with mud and blood. And as the rain continues to pour, you only grow filthier.
Nails tear through skin, hands slip and drag along wet flesh as you grapple on the floor. Your knife is kicked away, and her gun is buried somewhere in the dirt. You’re left with nothing but physical strength and pure terror.
She gets her hand tangled in your hair and uses the leverage to slam your head into the ground. Your vision goes dark as your ears ring, pain throbbing through your skull. You lash out violently, nails catching her cheek. You dig in, dragging down until you feel her flesh building beneath your nails.
She lets out a gasping cry of pain, batting your hand away. She manages to turn you over, with a tight grip, she’s quick to find your neck. Your legs kick violently beneath her, hips bucking as you quickly lose your breath.
She’s pinning you down, lips pulled back around sharp teeth in a growl. Her hands are wrapped around your throat, squeezing the life from your lungs. And, still, you have an advantage over her.
You’re used to living off scraps, used to having to fight for what you want. You didn’t grow up with everything handed to you on a silver platter. She never had to fight to live or to get what she wanted. That desperate drive to keep going and never stop isn’t anywhere in her. She just wants to win. Just wants another trophy on her mantle.
Your legs slowly stop kicking as your hand gropes blindly through the mud. Your vision is beginning to go, the world greying at the edges as your nails catch on something sharp. She doesn’t pay you any mind, grinning as she digs her thumbs into the hollow of your throat.
Blindly, you grab the rock and throw it into the side of her temple. She lets out an odd noise, grip loosening as she tilts to the side. You don’t waste time catching your breath. Lunging forward, you knock her onto her back and raise the rock high above your head. Her eyes widen as you bring it down against her skull.
There’s a sick crack and then her eyes are shutting. But the bell still hasn’t tolled. You bring your hand down again and again and again. Until the crack turns into a soft squish and there’s blood weeping from the mangled mess that used to be her face. You don’t stop until that bell rings, until you get to feel the finality of the night in your bones.
Your hand hovers above your head, the bell tolls through the night air. Slowly, the rock tumbles from your grasp as you struggle to your feet. The rain eases up, harsh battering becoming a gentle mist as the clouds above you part.
Your hair hangs in matted tangles around your face, your entire body is covered in mud and blood. The dress you wear is in tatters, thin straps barely clinging to your shoulders. Heavy boots snap against the branches behind you.
You hardly even flinch, just briefly glancing over your shoulder. All those from the basement have returned, black cloaks on and skull masks donned. You hear them whispering, betting with one another about which of their daughter’s survived the night.
Scraping your hand across your cheek, you attempt to rid yourself of some of the grime coating your skin. It barely puts a dent in it. With a sigh, you resign yourself to your fate, slowly turning.
You can tell from the gasps rippling through the crowd that they’d already forgotten about you. You were never a threat to them, just the inciting incident to get their daughters into the right family.
A part of you almost wants to taunt them. To ask what good their deal with the devil did? Because you’re still alive and their daughter’s aren’t. But you’re too tired and too beaten to do anything but keep standing.
The Senior Danforth stands at the front, hands tucked behind his back. “Interesting,” he muses, eyes narrowing.
First.
“I knew you were scrappy, but this is something else,” Ursula chuckles at her father’s side, admiring the mangled corpse at your feet.
Second.
Titus steps from the crowd, followed by a man in an elaborate cloak with a veil over his head. “You all know the deal,” he calls to the others. He holds a hand out to you and you stare down at it.
He could be third, he could be last, but maybe you’ll keep him around.
“What?” you croak, throat destroyed from what that woman had done to you.
“Your prize,” Ursula drawls. Oh, right, the whole reason for this fucking hunt. Marrying Titus, being a Danforth, signing away your soul.
“And if I say no?”
“You’d be forfeiting,” Titus tells you, a quirk to his lips. He already knows your answer. You didn’t make it this far just to give up now. You didn’t claw your way back from hell just to throw it all away at the end.
Slowly, you take his hand in yours. The satanic priest beside him steps toward the corpse of the last woman. He dips his thumb into what's left of her skull and approaches you both. The warmth of her blood dribbles down your forehead as the priest etches a sigil into your skin. He doesn’t do the same for Titus.
Your mind loses focus as he begins to speak. The vows you make certainly aren’t those of holy matrimony, but you can hardly pay attention. You think about how with Titus on your arm, his leash will be passed hands.
Ursula, you’re sure, will try to get cozy with you. Make sure her guard dog never strays too far. It shouldn’t be hard to get Titus to turn on her. Family has so little meaning to these monsters. But first, you’ll want him to take out the patron of the family. The smug bastard who’d dragged you into this hell simply because he couldn’t stand his son dating someone so… cheap.
Then, you’ll go after the others. All the soulless bastards who sent their daughters to die and didn’t bat an eye. If you have to marry into this, bring children into this world, then you’re going to make sure there’s no competition left for them to fight.
“I do,” Titus echoes the priest’s words and stares expectantly at you.
Thunder rolls in the sky behind you. “I do,” you whisper. Lightning flashes and for a moment, there are horns curling above Titus’s head. They’re gone as quick as they came, then he’s tugging you into a harsh kiss, another’s blood smearing between your lips as your unholy union’s sealed.
This is your world now, and you’re not some trampy little paramour anymore. You’re Mrs. Danforth. And you’re going to make every one of these fuckers pay for ever letting you grasp the power you’d fought for your entire life.
𝘏𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘛𝘰𝘶𝘳
𝘚𝘢𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘢 𝘊𝘢𝘳𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳 ♥︎
⇄ ◁◁ I I ▷▷ ↻
⁰² ⁰⁸ ━━━━━━━━━●━ ⁰⁰ ²⁵
💿 Some say it's a place where your dreams come true 💿
I'm just drinking to call someone / Ain't nobody's safe when I'm a little bit drunk / Could be John or Larry / Gosh, who's to say? / Or the one that rhymes with "villain" / If I'm feeling that way
Overview: What you had thought was the healthiest relationship you had in years ended in tears and being ghosted. Which is impressive considering he's your damn attending. You see each other every day and he can hardly look at you.
That is, until Santos convinces you it's a good idea to go out and get tipsy. But brokenhearted + drunk = waking up in your ex's bed. How the hell are you getting out of this one?
a/n: I love this show so much more than I thought I would. (Haven’t gotten to S2 yet, no spoilers) and was shocked when I went for Robby rather than Jack considering how much I love Shawn Hatosy.
Though, I have noticed all fics for Robby seemed to revolve around near-illegal age gaps. I kept this pretty age neutral. Remember you can always go back to school, there’s no one specific age for a resident. So, for any older women out there who can’t relate to being a ditzy twenty-year-old with a fifty-year-old man, I hope this works for you.
wc: 5.3K
more at: Belle’s 3K Extravaganza
“You really should come out with us,” Santos insists for the nth time this shift. You’re hardly past noon, and she’s already been making plans with the other doctors to go out for drinks. You might've said yes if you didn’t know you were a horrible drunk after a breakup.
Though you’re not sure that you can count his side-chick texting you after finding your bra, a breakup. More so, a horrible loss of one of your favorite brassieres. You should have known better to leave a good piece of lingerie at a slut's house.
“Yeah, I don’t think that’s a good idea.” You pretend to be completely invested in the case on your tablet, but you know she doesn’t believe it for a second. Not with the way her eyes are boring into the side of your head.
With a huff, you finally force yourself to look up. Her face lights up and you shake your head. “I don’t feel like spending the whole night babysitting a drunk Whitaker and watching you and Garcia make aggressive do-me eyes at each other.”
Santos shrugs, “Alright, the do-me eyes are inevitable, but I can take care of Whitaker.”
You’re about to object again when a husky voice interrupts. “And what is so much more captivating than your patients?” Robby interjects. You don’t have to turn to know his eyes are narrowed, crow’s feet wrinkling in the most handsome way. You’re sure he’s even got his arms crossed like the slut he is.
Trinity offers a timid smile, though it’s hardly apologetic. “I’m trying to get her to loosen up for once and come out with me.”
“Which isn’t happening,” you interrupt with a sharp sigh. Risking a glance over your shoulder, you see Robby already staring at you. Swallowing down the lump of nausea in your throat, you force a semi-professional smile. One he doesn’t have the decency to return. Santos’s eyes dart between the pair of you, brows piquing with clear interest.
It’s not like you and Robby were ever known for subtlety. Dana and Jack had clocked the two of you the second you’d first started screwing around with each other. But that had been a long time ago. Long before he decided the best way to dump his resident was by ghosting her and having her temporarily shipped to the night shift.
You made it back on the day shift a few months ago, since then he’s made it his job to avoid any and all contact with you. Impressive considering you have to report literally everything you do to the man. Dana and Heather have gotten used to having to pass information to him on your behalf.
You’re honestly surprised he had the balls to even walk over here.
“Robby-” at the sharp look he shoots her, Trin corrects herself. “Dr. Robinavitch, would you please convince her to just have some fun for once?”
Turning to give him your full attention, you prop your tablet on your hip. Robby’s eyes flit to yours and you raise your brows expectantly. His gaze drops to the floor with an awkward laugh and the rage that floods through you is near blinding.
The asshole hadn’t even bothered with telling you why he’d ended one of the healthiest relationships of your adult life. Just dropped you like you hadn’t meant a thing to him. Six months of your life given to him, and now he’s fully reverted to a frat boy from college, never making it more than six weeks with whoever he decides to pick up next.
“You know what,” you drawl, before he can say anything more to piss you off. “I need a drink,” you tell Trinity, finally sparing Robby your glare. Her brows shoot up, face drawn in confusion, but she’s not going to argue. “Need to get the taste of my latest disappointment off my tongue.” You brush past Robby, heading toward room three, where your next patient is waiting.
You don’t make a habit of dating within the Pitt; you’ve learned from your past mistakes. And unlike Robby, you don’t wave new relationships in his face. He can figure out whether or not you were talking about him.
Based on the way his eyes track you the rest of your shift, you figure he probably hadn’t heard you’d gotten back into dating.
Your regret at agreeing to this is insurmountable as you sit in a sticky booth at the bar closest to the ED. Half the people here are first responders. Mainly paramedics, some firefighters, and then the residents.
Throughout your time in the medical field, you’ve learned that mixing with others in your field isn’t as convenient as one would hope. Cops almost always have a god/savior complex, which leads to one delusional narcissist. Firefighters are cool the majority of the time, though major adrenaline junkies. And paramedics, bless them, tend to be hot, but dumb as rocks.
Santos has been trying to get you to mingle, figuring drinking and fucking away your bad experience would be the best way to get your groove back. Which is easy enough for her to say as she’s snuggled up next to Garcia. Their fuck-me eyes have more chemistry than you and your ex ever had.
A few others are there, Whitaker, Samira, Langdon, sadly, and right behind him was Mel. She seemed way far out of her element, but you know her and Langdon have both been working on getting out of their comfort zones. Mel spends a night at a bar, and Langdon gets sensitivity training.
You’re pretty sure Jack had popped by an hour or so ago. But he never stays long, just gets a beer or two and then says good night. If you had been drunk enough, you might have gone over and said hi. Revenge screwing Robby’s best friend sounded mighty satisfying to your petty, tipsy mind. But Jack wasn't the type to stoop that low, unfortunately.
At this point in the night, so disappointed and so deep in your fruity drinks, Whitaker’s starting to look like a viable second option. His sad eyes and perpetually limp hair, something about it was almost appealing. Sadly for you, your type seemed to revolve around emotionally unavailable men. Specifically, the ones with grey in their beard.
“Hey,” Santos swats your shoulder. She’s got both Garcia and Whitaker’s arms thrown around her shoulders, which gets a little laugh out of you. “I’m gonna take them home. You want a ride?”
Shaking your head, you get to your feet and grab your purse. “No, I’ll just get an Uber.” She hesitates, clearly not liking the idea of leaving you alone.
“I’m a grown woman,” you assure her, helping readjust a slipping Whitaker before he crashes to the floor. “I’ll be alright," you swear. She spares you one last glance before nodding.
Opening your phone, you stare down at the Uber app. Still, there’s a sour taste on your tongue. You did technically come here to have some fun. All you’ve been doing is nursing your drinks and sulking in a corner. Slipping your phone back in your purse, you walk over to the bar.
Maybe a few more drinks will be enough to numb your mind and that horrible ache of rejection.
You didn’t have the chance to attempt any fun before your ex texted you.
Cuming ovr tonite?
Even drunk and bent over a bar top, you’re still disgusted. Not just by his poor excuse for grammar. But by the fact that you know he spelled coming like that on purpose.
You guess that the woman he’d been having sex with outside of your relationship had snitched on him to you, but hadn’t let him know you were now aware of each other’s existence.
There is some stuff you’d like to get back from him. But you don’t trust yourself not to do something stupid. So, you block him, possibly the most logical decision you’ve ever made drunk.
Which means, inevitably, one smart decision will most likely be outweighed by an incredibly stupid move later in the night.
It doesn’t feel like this funk you’re in has anything to do with being cheated on. It’s happened to you before, and it never stops hurting. But you hadn’t exactly invested emotionally in this relationship. He was just a half-decent lay to try and get over a man who’d ditched you like you hadn’t meant a thing.
It's sad that you regard your relationship with Robby as one of your healthiest. Especially considering how it ended and how distant he was even when you two were at your best. You suppose you simply have a low bar that Robby had just barely managed to raise during your time together.
You can’t even go to work without seeing him. And every time he so much as looks at you, you can see just how badly he wants to get away from you. Hardly a boost for your ego.
As your attention inevitably shifts to the wrong ex, the drinks start going down easier. Too many shots and too many fruity follow-ups have your temple pressed to a cool bar counter. And an unfortunate bartender cutting you off.
It being a weeknight, pretty much everyone’s cleared out by now. Were you sober, you would apologize for holding up her night and being so sloppy. But you’re not, and the best you can come up with is complimenting her blue hair and actively trying not to vomit on her.
“Christ alive, give me that,” she reaches over and snatches your phone from your hands, ignoring your protests. You glare at her before feeling your stomach turn and letting your head thunk back to the counter. “Password,” she demands. When you don’t answer, she lifts your chin and forces your face to look into the camera. The moment it's unlocked, your head is thumping down.
Robby leans back against stiff couch cushions and lets out a low groan. It’s telling how little he’s been home lately. There’s a thick layer of dust along his bookshelves. His furniture has gone stiff with disuse. It’s not exactly pleasant, coming home to a place decorated with a touch of each one of his exes.
Some paintings on the walls they’d suggested to make the place seem less sterile. Matching dishes in case he ever wanted to host something. Which he had laughed at when she’d mentioned it, but got the set nonetheless.
The most prominent touch is yours. He had been with you the longest when he’d first gotten the place. You’d made fun of him then, for getting an interior decorator who ‘lived in sepia tint’ as you’d said. Which had been fair, the place was disconcertingly brown and beige.
You’d brought color into his life, made the place feel more homely than he would have ever bothered with. The color seemed to leave when you did. It took him a while to realize it was just you that had brightened his life, not the blankets or throw pillows.
Now, he sat in a graveyard of failed relationships every time he had a day off. It was growing more and more unbearable to be surrounded by it all. Dana and Jack had both called him out on shirking the rare days off he got. But he couldn’t exactly explain to them both that his incompetence at relationships cost him the rare moment of peace.
His therapist said to trash it all and start over. Finding his own ‘touch’ might even change his outlook on life. Robby doubted that and he found it more difficult than he’d like to admit to actually try to give you back all your stuff. So, he lingered in a purgatory of past mistakes for no reason that he could decipher.
Scrubbing his hands down his face, he let out a rough sigh. He was debating taking a shower or just knocking out on the couch. His back wouldn’t thank him for it, but he didn’t feel like sleeping in a too-big bed tonight.
Before he could decide which self-imposed punishment to go with, his phone rang. Tossing his head back, he debated answering, but he figured he had to see who it was, at least. Fishing his phone from his pants, he frowned down at your name on his screen. He hadn’t changed the picture since you two had broken up. It was still the same poorly angled selfie he’d taken of you with your arms wrapped around his neck.
You never called, never texted; he hadn’t had to deal with the hurt of seeing you like that until now. He doesn’t really want to answer. Doesn’t want to hear your voice, hear you hang up, and then be stuck in the echoing silence of his house. Still, in six months, you haven’t reached out once. He can’t imagine you would unless it was important.
The thought spurred a little bit of worry as he swiped right. “Hey,” he muttered your name, brows furrowed.
“Hey,” the voice on the other end was rougher than your own and his eyes narrowed. “Is this, uh,” the person pulls away, voice slightly muffled. “What’d you say his name was? The contact just says asshole.”
Robby’s face falls as he lets out a scoff. In the background, he can hear your slurring voice. “Is this Rocky?” The other person, a bartender, he’d assume based on how you sound, asks.
“Robby,” he corrects, already getting to his feet.
“Yeah, probably what she was trying to say.”
“Can I talk to her? Where are you?” he asks, grabbing his keys from the bowl by the door.
“You could try, man,” the woman snorts. “I doubt you’d understand a word she’s saying. We’re down at Larry’s. I had to cut her off and I don’t like the idea of sending her off in a taxi. She said I should call you.”
Robby’s never been so grateful to a stranger. In most cases, he has complete faith that you can handle yourself. But he’s seen too many drunk, hurt women pass through his ED to risk anything. “I’ll be there in a few. Thank you.”
The lady lets out a sharp scoff, “No, thank you. I can’t listen to her cry anymore.” She hangs up before he can say anything else. Robby pauses outside his door, frowning down at the dark screen of his phone.
The bar’s dead when he walks in. He knows this is usually where residents and other first responders like to get after-work drinks. But it seems like you’ve even beaten out a cop's tolerance for depressingly shitty bars.
It’s empty enough that he spots you instantly. Though he’s sure he would have found you just as easily if the place were packed. The thought is more pathetic than he’d like to admit.
You lift your head from the bar, eyes squinting in his general direction. The frown on your face deepens the closer he gets. The bartender hovers beside you, nails drumming along the counter as she looks at something on her phone.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he mutters, grimacing at just how puffy your face is. No way you’re coming out of this without a killer migraine in the morning.
“Who the hell are you?” You snap and Robby’s eyes widen at the venom in your tone. Your eyes narrow further, the smudged mascara under your eyes painting an endearingly pathetic picture.
Robby does his best not to laugh at you, especially now that the bartender is paying attention. “It’s me,” he clarifies. “Robby.”
It takes a moment before your eyes widen, a big grin splitting across your face. He’s not sure what’s more surprising: how happy you look to see him or how quickly you fling your arms around him. Robby lets out a low grunt, quick to catch you as you practically melt into him.
The bartender raises her brows, letting out an amused huff. “I thought she hated you,” she mused.
“So did I,” Robby stares down at you with a furrowed brow, but he’s not just going to push you away. Not when you’re this drunk and hardly standing on your own.
“Here,” the woman hands him your phone and purse, which she’d had stashed behind the bar.
“Thank you,” he mutters, wrapping his arm around your waist to keep you upright. She waves him off, already turning around to start closing the bar. He’s grateful she was willing to stay with you; he’s not sure how much worse this night could’ve gone if she just kicked you out.
With her back turned, Robby digs through his pockets, pulling out his wallet to drop a decent enough tip in her jar. It’s the least he can do, but his movements are pretty hindered by the way you’re hanging off him.
Drunk or not, he really can’t comprehend that the same woman who can’t stand being in a room alone with him also looks the happiest he’s seen her in months right now.
“Alright, let’s get you home,” he mutters, walking you toward the door. You just hum, head falling into his chest as he leads you to his car. He’s careful as he deposits you inside, cupping the top of your head so you don’t bang it against the roof. You practically fall inside, curling into the seat as your eyes shut.
Robby lets out a little scoff as he rounds the front and gets in. It’s certainly not how he expected to spend his night off. He glances over to check on you and smiles slightly at the content look on your sleeping face. He’s not complaining, though.
Getting you up the stairs to his apartment had probably been a show for the neighbors. You’d forgotten who he was when you woke up, fighting as he tried to get you inside. He can appreciate your instinct for self-preservation, but he’s pretty sure you just got him put on a watchlist.
Yet, somehow, the moment he gets his door open, you’re walking through like you haven’t been missing from his place for half a year. Your steps are stumbling, but you still manage to make your way to the bathroom on your own.
He shakes his head and drops his keys in the bowl by the door. “Robby!” You shout. “Help,” he chuckles at the weak tone of your voice and follows you into the bathroom. You're slumped against the counter, eyes half closed as the sink runs next to you.
“What’s up, honey?”
“Makeup,” you grumble, struggling to keep your head up. Robby squats, knees creaking as he digs through his cabinets. As previously established, he’s horrible at getting rid of what reminds him of you. Including the makeup wipes you’d abandoned in his bathroom the last time you were here.
It’s like riding a bike, this routine with you. He’s taken care of you plenty of times before when you were even worse off than this. He knows if he scrubs too hard, your skin will be stinging tomorrow. Tilting your chin up, he’s as gentle as he can be as he helps you get rid of your ruined mascara and whatever else you’ve used tonight.
“Thank you,” you hum and he finds himself smiling. It’s all too easy to pretend nothing's changed and this is his every night. Being with you, taking care of you.
When your face seems clean enough to him- he’s never completely sure- he leads you toward his bedroom. He plans to just let you take the bed for the night, but your hand is wrapping around his wrist before he can leave.
“Stay,” you mutter, dragging him with a surprising amount of strength as you trudge toward his bed.
“I’m just going to sleep on the couch, sweetheart,” he tries to loosen your grip, but you shoot him a half-hearted glare.
“You’ve got a shit back,” you mumble. “Stay,” it’s not an offer this time, it’s a demand as you tug him onto the mattress behind you. He wants to be a gentleman, put up more of a fight until you just give up. But he’d be lying to himself if he said he didn’t miss this. Didn’t miss you.
He was fine at first, used to messy breakups and cutting things off before they got too real. But it’s been hell, and he already knows he’s a selfish man. What’s one more night of getting what he wants before it’s gone again tomorrow?
Robby lets out a contented sigh, settling against the pillows as you turn over and bury your face in his chest. He lets his arms wrap around you, enjoying the feeling while he can.
Your head is throbbing as you roll over, eyes vibrating with the regrets of last night as you let out a low groan. “Shit,” you hiss, burying your face in the pillow below you.
Wait… Shooting up and jolting an already bitch of a headache, you frown down at the bed. It’s familiar, but it is definitely not yours. “Oh, god,” you let out a terrified moan as you glance around the room. Your jeans are kicked to a corner, but your underwear is still on. Hopefully, that means you didn’t make the mistake you’ve been actively avoiding for six months.
Jumping to your feet, you swallow down bile as you stare at the familiar walls of Robby’s room. You’ve done some dumb things drunk. Some dumb people, honestly. But this takes the cake.
For once, you weren’t crawling back to an ex. You weren’t begging for a second chance or desperately searching for the reason you two didn’t work out. And now….
Now you’ve committed professional suicide.
If he knocked you to the night shift after ghosting you, what the hell is he going to do now?
“Shit, shit, shit,” you run through the room, grabbing your jeans, your…. Oh god, why is your bra on the floor! You are so fucked.
Snatching your purse from his dresser, you dig through to make sure your wallet and phone are inside. Tossing it over your shoulder, you throw open the door and jump into one leg of your jeans. You hop down his hallway, trying to get the other leg in as your brain reminds you of just how much you had to drink. It takes a Herculean effort not to just collapse to the floor and give up.
Shuffling into his living room, you come to a jolting stop, legs still barely in your pants. Robby sits on the couch, mug in hand and glasses perched low on his nose as he reads on his phone.
His head lifts, a smile flitting across his face at your sorry state. Your eyes widen and nausea bubbles up in your throat. “Morning, sweetheart.”
You jerk your pants the rest of the way up. “Oh, um,” your eyes dart to the door. Maybe you can make a run for it.
“Morning,” you force out. “So…” you offers sheepish smile, unsure how to even ask what’s prodding ruthlessly at your brain.
Robby lets out a low chuckle and gets to his feet. “Want some coffee?”
Not at all, you’d really like to find a ditch to go die in, actually. Yet, your traitorous body is nodding its head and he’s getting closer. It’s not your fault how easily you say yes to him. It’s his fault. And alcohol.
Never drinking again.
Robby keeps the smile on his face, eyes wrinkling at the corners in that way that used to drive you insane.
And still does.
His hand finds your lower back as he passes by. It takes everything in you not to jump at the contact. Casual touching cannot be a good sign after him ignoring you for so long.
Before you get a chance to really consider making a run for it, he’s already coming back. He’s got a mug in one hand, the other rests along your waist as he leads you to his couch. You’re hardly aware of what’s happening. By the time you realize you’re sitting beside him, the button of your jeans still undone.
Your nails drum along the mug and you still can’t meet his eye. “We didn’t have sex,” he announces, laughing at the way you jump at the admission.
Your face jerks to him. “Why am I here, then?”
Robby purses his lips and you have the horrible feeling he’s trying not to laugh at whatever he’s remembering from last night. “I got a call from the bartender when she cut you off. She didn’t want you in an Uber on your own.”
You let out a low whistle. You’re humiliated, obviously, but you’re eternally grateful to whatever saint put up with you last night. “She probably saved me an ED visit.” Robby hums in agreement as he takes a sip of his coffee. “I should have given her a bigger tip.”
“I did,” he offers, giving you a soft smile. Of course he did. You take a large swig of your coffee just so you don’t have to look at him too long.
“So,” your hand runs along your hair, not even wanting to think about what you look like right now. “Did I say… anything?”
Robby thinks for a minute before letting out a small huff. “You told me I have a shit back.”
A snort escapes you as you choke down coffee. “Oh,” you wipe off your mouth and offer him a grin. “Just the truth, then.”
“Hey,” he swats your knee and your body warms at the contact. It’s a feeling only he seems to evoke in you.
Guilt bubbles alongside the alcohol in your gut. You clutch your stomach as it burns, not meeting his eyes. “I’m sorry,” you force out.
He frowns, shaking his head, “For what?”
“For you having to come get me,” you lean forward, dropping your coffee on the table. “And for clearly screwing up your day off.”
“I don’t mind, sweetheart.” When you still won’t look at him, he reaches over, hand painfully gentle as he grasps your knee. “If you need help, I’m always there for you.”
“Yeah,” you glance over at him, hating the pain that twists your chest. If that were true, he wouldn’t have just stopped talking to you. He wouldn’t have ended your relationship without ever giving you a reason why. Or started to pretend like you never meant anything to him. You should say this to him. But the wound still feels too fresh, too raw.
Robby’s hand slips from your leg and he clears his throat. “If you don’t mind me asking,” you groan in mortification, already knowing where he’s going. Robby laughs as he leans back, arm spread along the back of the couch.
“What had you feeling like you needed to drink half the bar?”
You scowl, tucking yourself further into the corner of the couch. “It was not that much,” your pounding head and blurry vision would argue otherwise. “It’s just,” you let out an irritated sigh and shrug. “I was seeing someone.”
“Oh,” the smile slips from his face and his arm drops back into his lap.
“I found out he’d been cheating on me. Really, I was just more upset that I left my favorite bra at his place than anything else.” You can see him grimacing out of the corner of your eye and pretend not to notice.
“It wasn’t that serious,” you shouldn’t have to clarify, but you feel like you need to anyway. “He wasn’t really the reason I was drinking.”
His eyes lift to meet yours. You’re sure he knows the answer to his next question. “What was?”
You shrug and let out a hefty sigh. “Thinking about what a piece of shit he was made me think about you.” You realize a little too late how that sounds.
“Ouch,” Robby huffs.
“Not like that!” You swat his shoulder, laughing at the grin he shoots you. “It’s just, you’re probably the best relationship I’ve been in for a while.” You purse your lips, “I miss you,” you whisper, wishing you hadn’t said a damn thing.
Robby reaches over, his hand gently stroking your thigh as he leans in closer. “I miss you too.”
“Funny way of showing it,” you scoff, guilt stinging when he grimaces. “If you miss me, why would you end things the way you did?”
Robby sighs, taking his touch away and leaving you cold. He rubs his eyes. “I don’t have an excuse. I just wasn’t in a good place. I didn’t want to bring you down with me.”
You wish you could say that was a horrible excuse and storm out. But, with the things he’s seen, with the shit your job throws at you, sadly, it’s not surprising. “You could have talked to me, Robby.”
He shakes his head. “That’s the problem, I couldn’t. Jack pretty much dragged me to his therapist to get me to start talking. I just… I was starting to feel worse than I had in a long time and I couldn’t handle it if I ended up hurting you.”
You bite your lip and stare down at your hands. You’d thought being with Robby was one of the healthiest relationships of your life. That you were happy, that both of you were happy. “I should’ve noticed,” you mutter.
“It’s not your fault,” he assuages and you feel even worse. You’re not trying to make this about yourself. But if you were half as good a girlfriend as you claimed to be, you should’ve seen that your boyfriend was struggling. Or, at the very least, that something was wrong.
“How’s it going?” You redirect back to him, forcing yourself to meet his eyes.
He lets out an awkward chuckle, scratching the back of his neck. “Good doesn’t seem like the right word,” you offer a small huff of amusement. “But it’s better. I’m not heading up to the roof so much,” he tries for a self-deprecating laugh, but your heart is stuttering in your chest. You try your best not to let that show on your face, but it hurts.
“I don’t know how much this would mean to you, Robby. But I’m proud of you. Too many people in our line of work just let these things build up. They never ask for help and it always ends up costing them more than if they had just reached out.”
“That means a lot,” he whispers, reaching over to take your hand in his. You let him, turning your palm up so you can lace your fingers with him.
Nodding, you reach for your coffee and sip on it quietly. Neither of you is sure of the next move to make. When you're finished and there’s nothing left to distract yourself with, you force yourself to stand.
“I should head out,” you tell him, hardly meaning it. “Take a cold shower and clean up before my shift tonight.”
Robby nods, though he seems reluctant to let you go so quickly. He keeps his hand in yours even as he walks you to his door.
You stop just before the threshold, offering him a tentative smile. “If you ever feel ready for, I don’t know, anything, would you want to get a coffee sometime?”
The smile he gives you is so soft it makes you ache. He inches forward, pressing a kiss to your cheek. You lean into him, his lips just brushing the corner of your mouth.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “That sounds good.”
You clear your throat, forcing yourself to pull back with a tense smile. “Alright. I’ll see you at work, I guess.”
Robby chuckles at your sudden awkwardness. “I’ll see you,” he promises, opening the door for you. You spare him one lingering look before forcing yourself to leave.
And then, a few weeks later, on a rare day off, your phone is buzzing with a familiar tone you haven't heard in a while.
Ready for that coffee?
You grin down at your phone and let out a little laugh.
𝘎𝘰 𝘎𝘰 𝘑𝘶𝘪𝘤𝘦
𝘚𝘢𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘢 𝘊𝘢𝘳𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳 ♥︎
⇄ ◁◁ I I ▷▷ ↻
⁰² ⁰⁸ ━━━━━━━━━●━ ⁰⁰ ²⁵
💿 Ain't nobody's safe when I'm a little bit drunk 💿
I'm just drinking to call someone / Ain't nobody's safe when I'm a little bit drunk / Could be John or Larry / Gosh, who's to say? / Or the one that rhymes with "villain" / If I'm feeling that way
Overview: What you had thought was the healthiest relationship you had in years ended in tears and being ghosted. Which is impressive considering he's your damn attending. You see each other every day and he can hardly look at you.
That is, until Santos convinces you it's a good idea to go out and get tipsy. But brokenhearted + drunk = waking up in your ex's bed. How the hell are you getting out of this one?
a/n: I love this show so much more than I thought I would. (Haven’t gotten to S2 yet, no spoilers) and was shocked when I went for Robby rather than Jack considering how much I love Shawn Hatosy.
Though, I have noticed all fics for Robby seemed to revolve around near-illegal age gaps. I kept this pretty age neutral. Remember you can always go back to school, there’s no one specific age for a resident. So, for any older women out there who can’t relate to being a ditzy twenty-year-old with a fifty-year-old man, I hope this works for you.
wc: 5.3K
more at: Belle’s 3K Extravaganza
“You really should come out with us,” Santos insists for the nth time this shift. You’re hardly past noon, and she’s already been making plans with the other doctors to go out for drinks. You might've said yes if you didn’t know you were a horrible drunk after a breakup.
Though you’re not sure that you can count his side-chick texting you after finding your bra, a breakup. More so, a horrible loss of one of your favorite brassieres. You should have known better to leave a good piece of lingerie at a slut's house.
“Yeah, I don’t think that’s a good idea.” You pretend to be completely invested in the case on your tablet, but you know she doesn’t believe it for a second. Not with the way her eyes are boring into the side of your head.
With a huff, you finally force yourself to look up. Her face lights up and you shake your head. “I don’t feel like spending the whole night babysitting a drunk Whitaker and watching you and Garcia make aggressive do-me eyes at each other.”
Santos shrugs, “Alright, the do-me eyes are inevitable, but I can take care of Whitaker.”
You’re about to object again when a husky voice interrupts. “And what is so much more captivating than your patients?” Robby interjects. You don’t have to turn to know his eyes are narrowed, crow’s feet wrinkling in the most handsome way. You’re sure he’s even got his arms crossed like the slut he is.
Trinity offers a timid smile, though it’s hardly apologetic. “I’m trying to get her to loosen up for once and come out with me.”
“Which isn’t happening,” you interrupt with a sharp sigh. Risking a glance over your shoulder, you see Robby already staring at you. Swallowing down the lump of nausea in your throat, you force a semi-professional smile. One he doesn’t have the decency to return. Santos’s eyes dart between the pair of you, brows piquing with clear interest.
It’s not like you and Robby were ever known for subtlety. Dana and Jack had clocked the two of you the second you’d first started screwing around with each other. But that had been a long time ago. Long before he decided the best way to dump his resident was by ghosting her and having her temporarily shipped to the night shift.
You made it back on the day shift a few months ago, since then he’s made it his job to avoid any and all contact with you. Impressive considering you have to report literally everything you do to the man. Dana and Heather have gotten used to having to pass information to him on your behalf.
You’re honestly surprised he had the balls to even walk over here.
“Robby-” at the sharp look he shoots her, Trin corrects herself. “Dr. Robinavitch, would you please convince her to just have some fun for once?”
Turning to give him your full attention, you prop your tablet on your hip. Robby’s eyes flit to yours and you raise your brows expectantly. His gaze drops to the floor with an awkward laugh and the rage that floods through you is near blinding.
The asshole hadn’t even bothered with telling you why he’d ended one of the healthiest relationships of your adult life. Just dropped you like you hadn’t meant a thing to him. Six months of your life given to him, and now he’s fully reverted to a frat boy from college, never making it more than six weeks with whoever he decides to pick up next.
“You know what,” you drawl, before he can say anything more to piss you off. “I need a drink,” you tell Trinity, finally sparing Robby your glare. Her brows shoot up, face drawn in confusion, but she’s not going to argue. “Need to get the taste of my latest disappointment off my tongue.” You brush past Robby, heading toward room three, where your next patient is waiting.
You don’t make a habit of dating within the Pitt; you’ve learned from your past mistakes. And unlike Robby, you don’t wave new relationships in his face. He can figure out whether or not you were talking about him.
Based on the way his eyes track you the rest of your shift, you figure he probably hadn’t heard you’d gotten back into dating.
Your regret at agreeing to this is insurmountable as you sit in a sticky booth at the bar closest to the ED. Half the people here are first responders. Mainly paramedics, some firefighters, and then the residents.
Throughout your time in the medical field, you’ve learned that mixing with others in your field isn’t as convenient as one would hope. Cops almost always have a god/savior complex, which leads to one delusional narcissist. Firefighters are cool the majority of the time, though major adrenaline junkies. And paramedics, bless them, tend to be hot, but dumb as rocks.
Santos has been trying to get you to mingle, figuring drinking and fucking away your bad experience would be the best way to get your groove back. Which is easy enough for her to say as she’s snuggled up next to Garcia. Their fuck-me eyes have more chemistry than you and your ex ever had.
A few others are there, Whitaker, Samira, Langdon, sadly, and right behind him was Mel. She seemed way far out of her element, but you know her and Langdon have both been working on getting out of their comfort zones. Mel spends a night at a bar, and Langdon gets sensitivity training.
You’re pretty sure Jack had popped by an hour or so ago. But he never stays long, just gets a beer or two and then says good night. If you had been drunk enough, you might have gone over and said hi. Revenge screwing Robby’s best friend sounded mighty satisfying to your petty, tipsy mind. But Jack wasn't the type to stoop that low, unfortunately.
At this point in the night, so disappointed and so deep in your fruity drinks, Whitaker’s starting to look like a viable second option. His sad eyes and perpetually limp hair, something about it was almost appealing. Sadly for you, your type seemed to revolve around emotionally unavailable men. Specifically, the ones with grey in their beard.
“Hey,” Santos swats your shoulder. She’s got both Garcia and Whitaker’s arms thrown around her shoulders, which gets a little laugh out of you. “I’m gonna take them home. You want a ride?”
Shaking your head, you get to your feet and grab your purse. “No, I’ll just get an Uber.” She hesitates, clearly not liking the idea of leaving you alone.
“I’m a grown woman,” you assure her, helping readjust a slipping Whitaker before he crashes to the floor. “I’ll be alright," you swear. She spares you one last glance before nodding.
Opening your phone, you stare down at the Uber app. Still, there’s a sour taste on your tongue. You did technically come here to have some fun. All you’ve been doing is nursing your drinks and sulking in a corner. Slipping your phone back in your purse, you walk over to the bar.
Maybe a few more drinks will be enough to numb your mind and that horrible ache of rejection.
You didn’t have the chance to attempt any fun before your ex texted you.
Cuming ovr tonite?
Even drunk and bent over a bar top, you’re still disgusted. Not just by his poor excuse for grammar. But by the fact that you know he spelled coming like that on purpose.
You guess that the woman he’d been having sex with outside of your relationship had snitched on him to you, but hadn’t let him know you were now aware of each other’s existence.
There is some stuff you’d like to get back from him. But you don’t trust yourself not to do something stupid. So, you block him, possibly the most logical decision you’ve ever made drunk.
Which means, inevitably, one smart decision will most likely be outweighed by an incredibly stupid move later in the night.
It doesn’t feel like this funk you’re in has anything to do with being cheated on. It’s happened to you before, and it never stops hurting. But you hadn’t exactly invested emotionally in this relationship. He was just a half-decent lay to try and get over a man who’d ditched you like you hadn’t meant a thing.
It's sad that you regard your relationship with Robby as one of your healthiest. Especially considering how it ended and how distant he was even when you two were at your best. You suppose you simply have a low bar that Robby had just barely managed to raise during your time together.
You can’t even go to work without seeing him. And every time he so much as looks at you, you can see just how badly he wants to get away from you. Hardly a boost for your ego.
As your attention inevitably shifts to the wrong ex, the drinks start going down easier. Too many shots and too many fruity follow-ups have your temple pressed to a cool bar counter. And an unfortunate bartender cutting you off.
It being a weeknight, pretty much everyone’s cleared out by now. Were you sober, you would apologize for holding up her night and being so sloppy. But you’re not, and the best you can come up with is complimenting her blue hair and actively trying not to vomit on her.
“Christ alive, give me that,” she reaches over and snatches your phone from your hands, ignoring your protests. You glare at her before feeling your stomach turn and letting your head thunk back to the counter. “Password,” she demands. When you don’t answer, she lifts your chin and forces your face to look into the camera. The moment it's unlocked, your head is thumping down.
Robby leans back against stiff couch cushions and lets out a low groan. It’s telling how little he’s been home lately. There’s a thick layer of dust along his bookshelves. His furniture has gone stiff with disuse. It’s not exactly pleasant, coming home to a place decorated with a touch of each one of his exes.
Some paintings on the walls they’d suggested to make the place seem less sterile. Matching dishes in case he ever wanted to host something. Which he had laughed at when she’d mentioned it, but got the set nonetheless.
The most prominent touch is yours. He had been with you the longest when he’d first gotten the place. You’d made fun of him then, for getting an interior decorator who ‘lived in sepia tint’ as you’d said. Which had been fair, the place was disconcertingly brown and beige.
You’d brought color into his life, made the place feel more homely than he would have ever bothered with. The color seemed to leave when you did. It took him a while to realize it was just you that had brightened his life, not the blankets or throw pillows.
Now, he sat in a graveyard of failed relationships every time he had a day off. It was growing more and more unbearable to be surrounded by it all. Dana and Jack had both called him out on shirking the rare days off he got. But he couldn’t exactly explain to them both that his incompetence at relationships cost him the rare moment of peace.
His therapist said to trash it all and start over. Finding his own ‘touch’ might even change his outlook on life. Robby doubted that and he found it more difficult than he’d like to admit to actually try to give you back all your stuff. So, he lingered in a purgatory of past mistakes for no reason that he could decipher.
Scrubbing his hands down his face, he let out a rough sigh. He was debating taking a shower or just knocking out on the couch. His back wouldn’t thank him for it, but he didn’t feel like sleeping in a too-big bed tonight.
Before he could decide which self-imposed punishment to go with, his phone rang. Tossing his head back, he debated answering, but he figured he had to see who it was, at least. Fishing his phone from his pants, he frowned down at your name on his screen. He hadn’t changed the picture since you two had broken up. It was still the same poorly angled selfie he’d taken of you with your arms wrapped around his neck.
You never called, never texted; he hadn’t had to deal with the hurt of seeing you like that until now. He doesn’t really want to answer. Doesn’t want to hear your voice, hear you hang up, and then be stuck in the echoing silence of his house. Still, in six months, you haven’t reached out once. He can’t imagine you would unless it was important.
The thought spurred a little bit of worry as he swiped right. “Hey,” he muttered your name, brows furrowed.
“Hey,” the voice on the other end was rougher than your own and his eyes narrowed. “Is this, uh,” the person pulls away, voice slightly muffled. “What’d you say his name was? The contact just says asshole.”
Robby’s face falls as he lets out a scoff. In the background, he can hear your slurring voice. “Is this Rocky?” The other person, a bartender, he’d assume based on how you sound, asks.
“Robby,” he corrects, already getting to his feet.
“Yeah, probably what she was trying to say.”
“Can I talk to her? Where are you?” he asks, grabbing his keys from the bowl by the door.
“You could try, man,” the woman snorts. “I doubt you’d understand a word she’s saying. We’re down at Larry’s. I had to cut her off and I don’t like the idea of sending her off in a taxi. She said I should call you.”
Robby’s never been so grateful to a stranger. In most cases, he has complete faith that you can handle yourself. But he’s seen too many drunk, hurt women pass through his ED to risk anything. “I’ll be there in a few. Thank you.”
The lady lets out a sharp scoff, “No, thank you. I can’t listen to her cry anymore.” She hangs up before he can say anything else. Robby pauses outside his door, frowning down at the dark screen of his phone.
The bar’s dead when he walks in. He knows this is usually where residents and other first responders like to get after-work drinks. But it seems like you’ve even beaten out a cop's tolerance for depressingly shitty bars.
It’s empty enough that he spots you instantly. Though he’s sure he would have found you just as easily if the place were packed. The thought is more pathetic than he’d like to admit.
You lift your head from the bar, eyes squinting in his general direction. The frown on your face deepens the closer he gets. The bartender hovers beside you, nails drumming along the counter as she looks at something on her phone.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he mutters, grimacing at just how puffy your face is. No way you’re coming out of this without a killer migraine in the morning.
“Who the hell are you?” You snap and Robby’s eyes widen at the venom in your tone. Your eyes narrow further, the smudged mascara under your eyes painting an endearingly pathetic picture.
Robby does his best not to laugh at you, especially now that the bartender is paying attention. “It’s me,” he clarifies. “Robby.”
It takes a moment before your eyes widen, a big grin splitting across your face. He’s not sure what’s more surprising: how happy you look to see him or how quickly you fling your arms around him. Robby lets out a low grunt, quick to catch you as you practically melt into him.
The bartender raises her brows, letting out an amused huff. “I thought she hated you,” she mused.
“So did I,” Robby stares down at you with a furrowed brow, but he’s not just going to push you away. Not when you’re this drunk and hardly standing on your own.
“Here,” the woman hands him your phone and purse, which she’d had stashed behind the bar.
“Thank you,” he mutters, wrapping his arm around your waist to keep you upright. She waves him off, already turning around to start closing the bar. He’s grateful she was willing to stay with you; he’s not sure how much worse this night could’ve gone if she just kicked you out.
With her back turned, Robby digs through his pockets, pulling out his wallet to drop a decent enough tip in her jar. It’s the least he can do, but his movements are pretty hindered by the way you’re hanging off him.
Drunk or not, he really can’t comprehend that the same woman who can’t stand being in a room alone with him also looks the happiest he’s seen her in months right now.
“Alright, let’s get you home,” he mutters, walking you toward the door. You just hum, head falling into his chest as he leads you to his car. He’s careful as he deposits you inside, cupping the top of your head so you don’t bang it against the roof. You practically fall inside, curling into the seat as your eyes shut.
Robby lets out a little scoff as he rounds the front and gets in. It’s certainly not how he expected to spend his night off. He glances over to check on you and smiles slightly at the content look on your sleeping face. He’s not complaining, though.
Getting you up the stairs to his apartment had probably been a show for the neighbors. You’d forgotten who he was when you woke up, fighting as he tried to get you inside. He can appreciate your instinct for self-preservation, but he’s pretty sure you just got him put on a watchlist.
Yet, somehow, the moment he gets his door open, you’re walking through like you haven’t been missing from his place for half a year. Your steps are stumbling, but you still manage to make your way to the bathroom on your own.
He shakes his head and drops his keys in the bowl by the door. “Robby!” You shout. “Help,” he chuckles at the weak tone of your voice and follows you into the bathroom. You're slumped against the counter, eyes half closed as the sink runs next to you.
“What’s up, honey?”
“Makeup,” you grumble, struggling to keep your head up. Robby squats, knees creaking as he digs through his cabinets. As previously established, he’s horrible at getting rid of what reminds him of you. Including the makeup wipes you’d abandoned in his bathroom the last time you were here.
It’s like riding a bike, this routine with you. He’s taken care of you plenty of times before when you were even worse off than this. He knows if he scrubs too hard, your skin will be stinging tomorrow. Tilting your chin up, he’s as gentle as he can be as he helps you get rid of your ruined mascara and whatever else you’ve used tonight.
“Thank you,” you hum and he finds himself smiling. It’s all too easy to pretend nothing's changed and this is his every night. Being with you, taking care of you.
When your face seems clean enough to him- he’s never completely sure- he leads you toward his bedroom. He plans to just let you take the bed for the night, but your hand is wrapping around his wrist before he can leave.
“Stay,” you mutter, dragging him with a surprising amount of strength as you trudge toward his bed.
“I’m just going to sleep on the couch, sweetheart,” he tries to loosen your grip, but you shoot him a half-hearted glare.
“You’ve got a shit back,” you mumble. “Stay,” it’s not an offer this time, it’s a demand as you tug him onto the mattress behind you. He wants to be a gentleman, put up more of a fight until you just give up. But he’d be lying to himself if he said he didn’t miss this. Didn’t miss you.
He was fine at first, used to messy breakups and cutting things off before they got too real. But it’s been hell, and he already knows he’s a selfish man. What’s one more night of getting what he wants before it’s gone again tomorrow?
Robby lets out a contented sigh, settling against the pillows as you turn over and bury your face in his chest. He lets his arms wrap around you, enjoying the feeling while he can.
Your head is throbbing as you roll over, eyes vibrating with the regrets of last night as you let out a low groan. “Shit,” you hiss, burying your face in the pillow below you.
Wait… Shooting up and jolting an already bitch of a headache, you frown down at the bed. It’s familiar, but it is definitely not yours. “Oh, god,” you let out a terrified moan as you glance around the room. Your jeans are kicked to a corner, but your underwear is still on. Hopefully, that means you didn’t make the mistake you’ve been actively avoiding for six months.
Jumping to your feet, you swallow down bile as you stare at the familiar walls of Robby’s room. You’ve done some dumb things drunk. Some dumb people, honestly. But this takes the cake.
For once, you weren’t crawling back to an ex. You weren’t begging for a second chance or desperately searching for the reason you two didn’t work out. And now….
Now you’ve committed professional suicide.
If he knocked you to the night shift after ghosting you, what the hell is he going to do now?
“Shit, shit, shit,” you run through the room, grabbing your jeans, your…. Oh god, why is your bra on the floor! You are so fucked.
Snatching your purse from his dresser, you dig through to make sure your wallet and phone are inside. Tossing it over your shoulder, you throw open the door and jump into one leg of your jeans. You hop down his hallway, trying to get the other leg in as your brain reminds you of just how much you had to drink. It takes a Herculean effort not to just collapse to the floor and give up.
Shuffling into his living room, you come to a jolting stop, legs still barely in your pants. Robby sits on the couch, mug in hand and glasses perched low on his nose as he reads on his phone.
His head lifts, a smile flitting across his face at your sorry state. Your eyes widen and nausea bubbles up in your throat. “Morning, sweetheart.”
You jerk your pants the rest of the way up. “Oh, um,” your eyes dart to the door. Maybe you can make a run for it.
“Morning,” you force out. “So…” you offers sheepish smile, unsure how to even ask what’s prodding ruthlessly at your brain.
Robby lets out a low chuckle and gets to his feet. “Want some coffee?”
Not at all, you’d really like to find a ditch to go die in, actually. Yet, your traitorous body is nodding its head and he’s getting closer. It’s not your fault how easily you say yes to him. It’s his fault. And alcohol.
Never drinking again.
Robby keeps the smile on his face, eyes wrinkling at the corners in that way that used to drive you insane.
And still does.
His hand finds your lower back as he passes by. It takes everything in you not to jump at the contact. Casual touching cannot be a good sign after him ignoring you for so long.
Before you get a chance to really consider making a run for it, he’s already coming back. He’s got a mug in one hand, the other rests along your waist as he leads you to his couch. You’re hardly aware of what’s happening. By the time you realize you’re sitting beside him, the button of your jeans still undone.
Your nails drum along the mug and you still can’t meet his eye. “We didn’t have sex,” he announces, laughing at the way you jump at the admission.
Your face jerks to him. “Why am I here, then?”
Robby purses his lips and you have the horrible feeling he’s trying not to laugh at whatever he’s remembering from last night. “I got a call from the bartender when she cut you off. She didn’t want you in an Uber on your own.”
You let out a low whistle. You’re humiliated, obviously, but you’re eternally grateful to whatever saint put up with you last night. “She probably saved me an ED visit.” Robby hums in agreement as he takes a sip of his coffee. “I should have given her a bigger tip.”
“I did,” he offers, giving you a soft smile. Of course he did. You take a large swig of your coffee just so you don’t have to look at him too long.
“So,” your hand runs along your hair, not even wanting to think about what you look like right now. “Did I say… anything?”
Robby thinks for a minute before letting out a small huff. “You told me I have a shit back.”
A snort escapes you as you choke down coffee. “Oh,” you wipe off your mouth and offer him a grin. “Just the truth, then.”
“Hey,” he swats your knee and your body warms at the contact. It’s a feeling only he seems to evoke in you.
Guilt bubbles alongside the alcohol in your gut. You clutch your stomach as it burns, not meeting his eyes. “I’m sorry,” you force out.
He frowns, shaking his head, “For what?”
“For you having to come get me,” you lean forward, dropping your coffee on the table. “And for clearly screwing up your day off.”
“I don’t mind, sweetheart.” When you still won’t look at him, he reaches over, hand painfully gentle as he grasps your knee. “If you need help, I’m always there for you.”
“Yeah,” you glance over at him, hating the pain that twists your chest. If that were true, he wouldn’t have just stopped talking to you. He wouldn’t have ended your relationship without ever giving you a reason why. Or started to pretend like you never meant anything to him. You should say this to him. But the wound still feels too fresh, too raw.
Robby’s hand slips from your leg and he clears his throat. “If you don’t mind me asking,” you groan in mortification, already knowing where he’s going. Robby laughs as he leans back, arm spread along the back of the couch.
“What had you feeling like you needed to drink half the bar?”
You scowl, tucking yourself further into the corner of the couch. “It was not that much,” your pounding head and blurry vision would argue otherwise. “It’s just,” you let out an irritated sigh and shrug. “I was seeing someone.”
“Oh,” the smile slips from his face and his arm drops back into his lap.
“I found out he’d been cheating on me. Really, I was just more upset that I left my favorite bra at his place than anything else.” You can see him grimacing out of the corner of your eye and pretend not to notice.
“It wasn’t that serious,” you shouldn’t have to clarify, but you feel like you need to anyway. “He wasn’t really the reason I was drinking.”
His eyes lift to meet yours. You’re sure he knows the answer to his next question. “What was?”
You shrug and let out a hefty sigh. “Thinking about what a piece of shit he was made me think about you.” You realize a little too late how that sounds.
“Ouch,” Robby huffs.
“Not like that!” You swat his shoulder, laughing at the grin he shoots you. “It’s just, you’re probably the best relationship I’ve been in for a while.” You purse your lips, “I miss you,” you whisper, wishing you hadn’t said a damn thing.
Robby reaches over, his hand gently stroking your thigh as he leans in closer. “I miss you too.”
“Funny way of showing it,” you scoff, guilt stinging when he grimaces. “If you miss me, why would you end things the way you did?”
Robby sighs, taking his touch away and leaving you cold. He rubs his eyes. “I don’t have an excuse. I just wasn’t in a good place. I didn’t want to bring you down with me.”
You wish you could say that was a horrible excuse and storm out. But, with the things he’s seen, with the shit your job throws at you, sadly, it’s not surprising. “You could have talked to me, Robby.”
He shakes his head. “That’s the problem, I couldn’t. Jack pretty much dragged me to his therapist to get me to start talking. I just… I was starting to feel worse than I had in a long time and I couldn’t handle it if I ended up hurting you.”
You bite your lip and stare down at your hands. You’d thought being with Robby was one of the healthiest relationships of your life. That you were happy, that both of you were happy. “I should’ve noticed,” you mutter.
“It’s not your fault,” he assuages and you feel even worse. You’re not trying to make this about yourself. But if you were half as good a girlfriend as you claimed to be, you should’ve seen that your boyfriend was struggling. Or, at the very least, that something was wrong.
“How’s it going?” You redirect back to him, forcing yourself to meet his eyes.
He lets out an awkward chuckle, scratching the back of his neck. “Good doesn’t seem like the right word,” you offer a small huff of amusement. “But it’s better. I’m not heading up to the roof so much,” he tries for a self-deprecating laugh, but your heart is stuttering in your chest. You try your best not to let that show on your face, but it hurts.
“I don’t know how much this would mean to you, Robby. But I’m proud of you. Too many people in our line of work just let these things build up. They never ask for help and it always ends up costing them more than if they had just reached out.”
“That means a lot,” he whispers, reaching over to take your hand in his. You let him, turning your palm up so you can lace your fingers with him.
Nodding, you reach for your coffee and sip on it quietly. Neither of you is sure of the next move to make. When you're finished and there’s nothing left to distract yourself with, you force yourself to stand.
“I should head out,” you tell him, hardly meaning it. “Take a cold shower and clean up before my shift tonight.”
Robby nods, though he seems reluctant to let you go so quickly. He keeps his hand in yours even as he walks you to his door.
You stop just before the threshold, offering him a tentative smile. “If you ever feel ready for, I don’t know, anything, would you want to get a coffee sometime?”
The smile he gives you is so soft it makes you ache. He inches forward, pressing a kiss to your cheek. You lean into him, his lips just brushing the corner of your mouth.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “That sounds good.”
You clear your throat, forcing yourself to pull back with a tense smile. “Alright. I’ll see you at work, I guess.”
Robby chuckles at your sudden awkwardness. “I’ll see you,” he promises, opening the door for you. You spare him one lingering look before forcing yourself to leave.
And then, a few weeks later, on a rare day off, your phone is buzzing with a familiar tone you haven't heard in a while.
Ready for that coffee?
You grin down at your phone and let out a little laugh.
𝘎𝘰 𝘎𝘰 𝘑𝘶𝘪𝘤𝘦
𝘚𝘢𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘢 𝘊𝘢𝘳𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳 ♥︎
⇄ ◁◁ I I ▷▷ ↻
⁰² ⁰⁸ ━━━━━━━━━●━ ⁰⁰ ²⁵
💿 Ain't nobody's safe when I'm a little bit drunk 💿
My friends walk in your direction / Said "Don't you know [...]?"
Huh / When did you get hot?
Overview: You've been the awkward friend forever. Always lingering in the background of Stu and Billy's lives, never quite fitting in with their other friends. But when their current girlfriends are tired of worrying about your relationship with their boyfriends, they offer you a makeover. You just hadn't thought it would have made Billy and Stu so angry.
Apparently, doing your makeup isn't very final girl behavior. Whatever that means...
a/n: absolutely playing into the “taking down her hair makes her hot” trope rn. Also, the reader has curly hair. For the sake of the plot. (and because I’m tired of not living my curly-haired truth)
Also, X2 Sid and Tatum are a bit OOC. I was in love with Tatum when I was younger, but for this, I need her to be a bit of a bitch. It’s for the plot people, I don’t make the rules
wc: 7.2K
more at: Belle’s 3k Extravaganza
You can already see Stu grinning as he watches you run up to the fountain. Billy's there waiting beside him, flipping through a book you doubt he has any interest in. Your chest heaves as you come to a stop, hands propped on your knees as you try to catch your breath.
Stu snorts, “What’d you run here?” he taunts, with that stupid voice he always uses.
“Shut up,” you grumble, dropping your bag to the ground and pulling out a folder. “Here,” you toss it at him. It slaps against his chest, and he lets out a little grunt, just barely catching it before it slips to the water.
He leafs through the papers inside, though you know he never actually bothers to proofread. Bored waiting for him to be done, you hold out your palm. He glances at it with a dumb look, "What?”
“Seriously,” you tilt your head and let out a scoff. “Do you think I’m doing this because I love you?”
Stu rolls his eyes and fishes his wallet from his pocket. You let out a triumphant hum as he slaps the cash in your palm. Trying to step back, you don't get very far before his wrist is snapping out, fingers wrapping around your arm as he tugs you back toward him. You stumble between his spread legs, shooting him an unamused look.
He only grins at your ire. “Come on,” he urges. “You love me, you can say it.”
You roll your eyes, but dip down to meet his stare. “All right. I love you, Stu.” His grin falls as you add, “Thank you for being my benevolent little rich boy.” Billy snorts and Stu shoots him a look. It’s enough of a distraction for you to slip from his hold and pick up your bag.
Good timing, too, considering Tatum’s walking up with Sid and Randy. Tatum’s certainly chiller compared to his other girlfriends. You get along with her more than you ever did with Casey. But you can’t imagine anyone would be happy to see their boyfriend all handsy with his best friend. Even if handsy seems to be Stu’s default state.
“Ooh, another illicit deal, I see,” Tatum makes herself cozy, dropping right into Stu’s lap. You force out a stiff laugh and make yourself look away.
You’re just friends with Stu, same as Billy. Have been since you were kids. To them, you’ll always just be the strange neighbor kid who never seemed to get out of that socially awkward phase.
But how you look in their eyes doesn’t change the fact that puberty hit you first. It doesn’t change that you haven’t been able to look at either of them as just friends since you discovered the difference between boys and girls.
However, based on their caliber of girlfriends, they couldn’t make it any clearer that there isn’t a chance in hell of anything ever happening.
“That’s seriously pathetic, Stu,” Sid teases. She can't hide the undercurrent of disapproval in her voice. “How long are you going to let her get you through school?”
Stu’s sharp eyes cut to yours and you feel heat bloom under your skin. “Well? How long are you gonna carry me?”
Scoffing, you move to take your place beside Randy. He immediately offers you some of his food, which you take just to have something to do with your hands.
“However long you keep paying, rich boy.”
Tatum and the others laugh a little, but you feel like you got the question wrong from the look Stu’s sending you. You’re not sure what you could have possibly said that he would have approved of. But you don’t think you’ll ever fully understand him or Billy.
You doubt anyone ever will.
Tatum turns her attention away from you, instead speaking across her boyfriend to discuss some gossip with Sid. It’s typical that you’re left out of the loop.
Something about you seems to scream that you’re above petty girlhood experiences. Given the chance, you'd have more dirt on the people at this school than they would ever know. People trip up around the quiet kids, always seeming to forget they're there until it's too late.
But, as much as Tatum and Sid are nice to you, you’re still an outlier. Someone they think belongs more to the boys. While the boys seem to think you’d do better with the girls. There’s no safe middle ground for you to stand on. You’re sure that if you didn’t show up for lunch tomorrow, the only thing that would change is who Stu pays for his homework.
Running a hand over your hair, you let out a tired sigh as you leaf through your book. “You know,” Tatum’s voice startles you from your stupor. You glance up to find her eyes narrowed on your hair. “That puffed-up look has been done to death.” She pops a grape in her mouth with a sharp grin. “It’s not the eighties anymore, sweetie.”
Your eyes widen, hands shooting to your hair. Stu snickers, slapping Tatum’s hip, “That’s catty, even for you, babe.”
“Seriously,” Sid admonishes, shooting you a sorry smile. Billy’s eyes dart between you and her, but he doesn’t say a thing in your defense. Swallowing roughly, your gaze drops to your shoes. Self-consciousness drowns you so quick, you just want to run to the bathroom and hide out the rest of the day.
“What?” Tatum snickers. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant she could use some touch-ups.”
Your throat burns as your eyes flick toward the grassy courtyard. You’d prefer anything to facing them right now. Crying in front of the Stu and Billy is worse than chumming the waters before going diving.
“Christ, you’re the worst sometimes,” but Sid can’t hide the smile in her voice. She calls your name and you suck in a sharp breath before looking at her. “She’s sleeping over at mine tonight. Why don’t you come?”
“So you can give me some touch-ups?” you snap. Randy snickers at the perceived cat-fight, and you punch him in the arm.
“Innocent bystander,” he grimaces, shooting you a glare. You give him a sharp smile and shrug.
“Yeah,” Tatum agrees. “I think it’d do you some good to hang out with someone other than these bozos.” She doesn’t fail to include her boyfriend in the insult. Stu’s face drops behind her as he looks to Billy.
“Me?” he mouths, and Billy just glares at him.
“They’re totally holding you back, babe,” she pops another grape in her mouth and shrugs. “Your choice.”
“I can’t believe you let her talk to you like that,” Stu snickers, shoveling popcorn in his mouth as he sprawls across the loveseat.
You shift uncomfortably in your seat, clutching the throw pillow closer to your chest. “What the hell was I supposed to say?”
Billy glances over his shoulder at you, his legs kicked over the arm of the seat across from Stu. “Maybe don’t roll over and let her treat you like a doormat.”
You roll your eyes and pick up a piece of popcorn. Tossing it, it bounces off of Stu’s nose while you lean back on the couch. “She’s your girlfriend, you could have said something.” Stu watches the popcorn fall to his mom’s new, ridiculously expensive rug and snorts.
“Yeah right, like I’m gonna get in the middle of a cat-fight.”
“Oh yeah,” Billy rolls his eyes as he flips through the channels. “I’m sure that’s your nightmare.”
Stu laughs and tosses a handful of candy at Billy. Clearly incensed by your idea of trashing his mother’s pristine living room. “Shut up, man.”
You drown out their bickering, more than used to it, as food begins to fly across the room. Reaching up, you fiddle with a strand of combed-out hair. “Do you think she was right?”
They pause, eyes darting back to you. They share a look that you don’t understand and it only worsens your mood. “What? That we’re holding you back?” Billy questions, voice tight with something dangerous.
“No,” you snip, tossing your pillow at him. He deflects it with an irritated look, narrowed eyes meeting yours. “That I’m a mess.”
“She didn’t say that,” Stu objects, a cruel tilt to his lips. “Just that you need some touch-ups.” Billy chuckles and Stu joins him. The pair turns back to the TV and that’s that. You’re dismissed.
Frowning, you get to your feet and grab your bag. “Where’re you going?” Billy asks, not even turning around.
“I’m gonna head home,” you tell them, something souring your stomach the longer you’re in their presence.
“We haven’t even gotten to the movie, yet,” Stu whines. You ignore him, rushing toward his front door and throwing it open. With your back turned, you miss the harsh look the boys share. The type that would have had you turning around and sitting right back down on the couch.
Heading through the door, you think over Tatum’s harsh words. Cruel, but maybe necessary. Checking your watch, you figure it’s not midnight yet, surely Sid’s invite must still stand.
Sid’s surprised as she opens her front door. “Oh,” she offers a polite smile as she greets you.
Tatum pops up behind her, an impressed grin on her face. “Didn’t think you were going to show. Isn’t this your movie night?”
You sigh, fingers flexing around your bag. “Yeah. But you had a point. Your delivery sucked. But you had a point.” Tatum mushes Sid to the side and beckons you into the house.
“I know I did,” she’s far too proud of herself as she leads you over to the couch. Sid hovers behind you both, clearly not expecting you and unsure what to do with herself.
Tatum seems far more comfortable as she takes your bag from you. “I had hope you’d see sense,” she croons, dropping onto the cushion beside you.
Your shoulders tense and you try not to grimace at how enthused she is at making you over. You hadn’t thought you were that bad. Clearly, she disagreed. Tatum rifles through some magazines before dropping one in your lap.
“I have plans for you." It sounds more like a threat as you stare down at the glammed out model in the magazine.
An hour later, Tatum’s coiling freshly washed strands of your hair around her fingers while Sid sits in front of you, brushing eyeshadow across your lids. “You really don’t look bad,” she reassures. “But, it’s confidence that sells a look.”
“If a little mascara gives you some confidence, who knows?” Tatum shrugs as she spirals more hair around her finger. “Maybe you’ll finally get a boyfriend.”
The longer this little "sleepover" has gone on, the more you’ve felt they had ulterior motives. Sure, slumber parties in chick flicks always look fun. Pillow fights, makeup sessions, and gossiping with one another. But that hasn’t been happening. The girls seem strangely tense.
You’re pretty sure they’re hoping this makeover session will finally get you your own guy, so they can stop worrying about your relationship with their boyfriends. You hadn’t taken Sid as the insecure type, apparently you were wrong.
Still, this was nicer than some of the exes Billy and Stu had acquired. At least they were helping you out. Rather than starting rumors that you slept around with the teachers.
Thank you, Casey Becker.
You hadn’t exactly been sorry when you’d heard what the town’s new killer had done to her and her asshole boyfriend.
Billy and Stu had called you twisted when you’d said that, but you’d seen the way they smiled. You wouldn’t be friends with them if there wasn’t something a little off-kilter about you.
“Someone should have taught you how to do this a while ago,” Tatum mutters, talking about the hair you’d hardly ever put much thought into. You had been taught how to deal with it, but it was never your top priority. Typically, you braided it and just lived in it for a while.
Something about the way she says it reminds you of what she’d casually dropped at lunch. “What did you mean when you said Billy and Stu are holding me back?” Sid’s brush pauses on your cheek and Tatum’s hands still. You don’t have to look to know they’re sharing a silent conversation.
“It’s just something guys do,” Sid dismisses.
Your eyes narrow and she offers a tense smile. “Tatum?” You prod, knowing she doesn’t care about softening her words.
She lets out a little sigh and drops your hair. “Guys like having awkward girl friends. When they get dumped or go through a slump, she’s someone they can fall back on.”
“Like,” you pause, heart stuttering. “For sex?” Sid snorts at your blunt delivery and Tatum shrugs.
“Yeah, pretty much. They think if a girl’s lonely enough, she’ll sleep with anyone. It’s just a good way to keep a backup.”
“And you think that’s what they do with me?”
Sid’s eyes dart up to meet yours and you know she feels bad you’re having this conversation at all. “Sometimes. Sometimes they just like having someone around to make them feel better about themselves.”
Your heart drops to your feet and you don’t want to believe her. But something about what she says makes sense. Every time you complain about your clothes, hair, or anything too shallow or girly, the guys blow you off. They say stuff about not thinking you were into that vapid stuff.
Any chances you’ve had at a date, they’ll tell you shit about the guy you would never have guessed. Horrible things that make you uncomfortable and sick to your stomach. Half the time, you think they’re making it up, but you choose not to take the risk.
Every chance they get, they keep you all to themselves. And like an idiot, you’d just always thought that was because they wanted you the way you want them. Of course, Sid and Tatum would know better than you. They’re dating the boys after all. And it’s not so far out of character to assume Stu and Billy would be so malicious.
“Oh,” your stomach flips on itself and you blink watery eyes down at your hands. “Thanks for telling me,” you whisper. Tatum and Sid share a look over your shoulder. You see the guilt on Sid’s face, but you miss the wink Tatum sends her.
You follow what Sid and Tatum had taught you the night before, you don’t know which one you mess up worse, your hair or the makeup. You’ve missed first period by the time you finally make it out of the house. Meaning you manage to skirt around Billy and Stu right up until lunch.
Honestly, after what Sid and Tatum told you, no part of you actually wants to see them. But your boss at the video store is cutting your hours and you really need the cash Stu will give you for writing up his world civ essay.
Sucking in a sharp breath, you give yourself a little pep talk before forcing yourself to walk over to the fountain. Everyone’s there already, Sid and Tatum sprawled across their boyfriends. Meanwhile, Randy’s up and speaking with flailing arms. Like the court jester performing for the popular royals. It’s sickening what a cliche your friends have become when that’s what they’ve always made fun of.
“Watch the hands, Meeks,” you call out, nearly catching a slap to the face as he rants passionately about some horror flick you’ve never heard of.
He lets out a huff before turning to face you. Whatever argument he had dies on his tongue as he jerks back. You swallow roughly, hand reaching subconsciously toward your hair as he nearly pushes his nose against yours.
“Randy,” you whisper, mushing his face away. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
His thumb reaches up, swiping for your cheek, and you just manage to slap his hand back. “Is that glitter?” He questions, positively dumbfounded.
“It’s blush,” you snap, pushing him back. “Would you get out of here, you weirdo?” Shaking your head, you rifle through your backpack until you find the folder for Stu.
You try not to look at him as you walk up, chest tightening at the dead silence you’re now surrounded by. Stu grabs the folder, but his hand snakes up, grabbing at your wrist before you can back up.
“Huh,” he pulls you down, eyes roaming across your face. You glance at Tatum and she gives you an encouraging smile. “It is glitter.”
“Eyeshadow, doofus,” she swats his arm. “You did a good job,” she reassures you.
“Made me late for school,” you mutter, skin warming the longer Stu stares.
“Why?” Billy asks, before anyone can say anything else. Stu releases you at the sound of his voice and you stumble back.
“I don’t know,” forcing yourself to meet his eyes, you startle at the coldness staring back at you. “Maybe I wanted to look pretty.”
Stu snorts and cuts you a sharp look. “You didn’t need to do drag to look pretty,” he mocks. Your hand shoots up to your face. You hadn’t even done close to as much as Sid and Tatum had taught you.
“Stu,” Tatum snaps, shooting him a harsh look.
He lets out a chuckle and jerks back, “What?” He glances over at you, but the smile on his face isn’t genuine. “I was joking. It looks fine, dude.”
For some reason, you find yourself looking over at Billy. His jaw is tensed, eyes glaring down at the ground. He seems to feel your stare, gaze snapping up to meet yours. Biting your tongue, you swallow the burn in the back of your throat. “It looks good,” he finally admits, hardly sounding like he wants to compliment you.
You purse your lips and nod, barely wanting to be around them for another second. Clearly, the girls were right about their theory. “Really good,” Randy adds on, a goofy look on his face. You let out a sharp laugh and roll your eyes at him.
“I know it’s not your thing,” Tatum starts, sucking on her lollipop with a proud smile. “But you should come to Stu’s party tonight.”
You grimace and begin to shake your head. “Seriously,” Sid encourages. “You’ll have fun, for once.”
“What are you two planning, you little vixen?” Stu taunts, fingers pinching at Tatum’s sides. Your eyes narrow at the way he speaks through gritted teeth, voice tight.
Swallowing bile at Billy and Stu’s reactions, you straighten up, forcing your voice to be strong. “Even if I wanted to, I can’t.” The girls shoot you odd looks and you shrug as you pluck your bag from the ground. “I’m covering for Randy at the store.”
Randy’s head shoots up, eyes glazed over with confusion. “You are?”
“God,” you roll your eyes. “Remind me how many times they’ve fired your ass.” With a smug grin, he holds up five fingers and winks.
“What a shame,” Stu clicks his tongue and he doesn’t even bother sounding disappointed. “We’ll miss you reminding everyone of curfew.”
Hurt tightens your chest as you let out a sharp scoff. “Fuck off, Macher.”
His nose wrinkles and he presses his hand to his chest. “Ouch,” he hisses.
Billy reaches over and swats his arm, clearly telling him to knock it off. But you know that look on Stu’s face. He’s pissed, about what, you never have a clue.
Deciding to spare yourself any more embarrassment, you turn around and head back to the school. You didn’t want to go to his stupid party. But it would’ve been nice if they had wanted you there. If they could have just shown you something, that meant what the girls told you was bullshit.
“How many times do I have to tell you to alphabetize by genre?” Your boss, Jason, tosses Halloween at you and storms off. The VHS smacks you square in the chest and you let out a sharp scoff. The fuck does that even mean?
“Seriously,” you jump as someone’s pointy chin digs into your shoulder. “How many times does he have to tell you,” Stu bemoans, stealing the tape from your hand. You cast your eyes back and catch his grin as he backs off from you.
“Don’t you have a party to be planning?” You snap, not bothering to keep the venom from your tone.
“Someone jealous she didn’t get an invite?” Billy comes up on the other side of you, sharp eyes alight with a rare teasing glint.
It’s like being circled by hyenas with the pair of them. They always corner their prey, backing them up until there’s nowhere to run. Currently, it’s keeping you locked in the horror section as they block both ends.
“No,” you cut your eyes to Stu, irritation only growing worse at his stupid grin. “But you didn’t have to be such a dick today,” you tell him, snatching the tape back so you can shelf it.
“Oh,” he croons, catching your wrist and tugging you back into his chest. “I think I hurt her feelings,” he mocks, pouting at Billy.
Billy raises his brows, leaning on the shelves as he shrugs. “Did he?”
“Is there a particular reason you guys are being such assholes to me, or are you just bored?” Billy’s eyes narrow as he offers a sharp smirk.
Stu lets his chin rest in the crook of your neck, ignoring how you try to wiggle out of his hold. “Is there a reason you decided to do this?” He asks, tugging at one of your curls. “I liked the whole puffed-out dandelion look.”
“Ugh,” a disgusted groan slips out as you elbow him in the side. His breath whooshes out of him and his arms finally loosen. “Why do you have such a hard-on about whether or not I style my hair?”
“You never cared before.” Billy frowns, eyeing you up and down. “All the best final girls don't give a shit about that stuff.”
Your eyes fall into slits as a bewildered scoff leaves you. “What geeky language are you even speaking?”
Stu barks out a sharp laugh, leaning forward until he's back in your field of view. “Says you,” he taunts.
Your head falls to the side as you shoot him an unimpressed glare. “Do you guys need something? Jason already hates me. I don’t feel like having you two getting me fired.”
“Jason?” Billy questions. “The asshole that was bitching about genres?”
“That’s the one,” you hum, turning back to your cart and the piles of tapes you have to deal with.
“Dude seems like he needs to get laid,” Stu points out, eyes tracking Jason as he paces through the store. Yelling at the first person he sees over some made-up bullshit.
“Yeah, he probably does. But I doubt anyone’s that desperate.”
“No,” he taunts, and your hackles raise at his tone. “Not even you?”
You slam the tape down harder than you mean to. The noise echoes through the store, the shelves rattling beneath Stu and Billy’s careless bodies. Stu’s brows raise with poorly concealed excitement. “Get something or get the fuck out,” you hiss at him.
Taking hold of your cart, you shove past him before he can think of anything else smart to say. Insulting others seems to be the only time he’s capable of coming up with any wit of his own.
Of course, that means you get to be on the receiving end nine times out of ten. You make a good target for them, apparently.
Billy swats Stu’s arm, shoving him back and trailing after you. Stu lets out a snotty huff, randomly grabbing one of the tapes from the shelves as Billy falls into your check-out line.
“He’s a moron,” he excuses.
“And a jackass,” you snap, barely lifting your gaze to meet his. “Did you pick something?” Billy reaches behind himself, slapping Stu in the chest and making the other boy toss Prom Night on the counter.
You ignore how Stu’s gaze bores into the side of your head, scanning the VHS and looking over the blocky green letters on your screen. “You owe ten bucks for an overdue movie,” you tell him.
“Ten bucks?” he scoffs, “What movie?”
Tilting your head, you scoff, he’s such a cliche. “Basic Instinct, got a little crush on Sharon Stone, Stuart?”
Stu’s nose wrinkles as he glares at you. “Stuart?” he huffs, “You sound like my mother.” Pushing Billy out of the way, he props his elbows on the counter, chin resting in his palms. “Can’t you do your best friend a favor?”
You drop down to his level, matching his posture with a saccharine smile. “Why would I do that?” You tease, voice pitched with faux innocence.
Stu’s got a genuine grin on his face as you play along; it takes everything in you not to return it. “What are you doing?” The moment’s broken as you jump back, Jason’s harsh voice ruining the fun.
Sucking in a sharp breath, you turn back to the monitor and pretend to type some nonsense into the system. “Nothing, just checking them out.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet,” your head whips up at the insinuation, but he barely spares you any attention. He turns toward the boys with a sneer, “Just because you're friends with her, doesn’t mean you don’t have to pay like everyone else. Have the movie back by tomorrow, or you’re banned.”
“Jason-” you object.
“You’re already on thin ice,” he snaps, pointing his fat finger in your face. You resist the urge to snap your teeth at him. “Don’t push me,” he warns, as if he were scary at all beyond you not having a paycheck next week.
Stu watches him walk away with furrowed brows and a sneer. “God, what a prick.”
“Yeah,” you mutter, “you’re telling me.” Feeling ever so slightly vindictive, you clear the charge from Stu’s account and toss him his tape. “Keep the movie, he’s an ass.”
Stu cares little for the other people waiting in line as he reaches across the counter and cups your cheeks. You let out a little squeak as he drags you closer, planting an obnoxiously loud kiss on your cheek.
“What are friends for?” He mocks, pushing back from you.
“Ugh,” you wipe at your face and glare at him.
“See you,” Billy says as he shakes his head, yanking up Stu’s sleeve and dragging him away before he can make an even bigger scene.
You watch them leave with a disbelieving laugh. Stu could be a dick, but at least he was fun. Unlike other people, Jason, who got off on making everyone as miserable as them. Despite your general disinterest in drunk crowds of teenagers, you’d rather be at Stu’s party than deal with him the rest of the night.
You, however, didn’t receive an invite. So, you turn back to your cart of tapes and force yourself to go back to restocking.
Around midnight, you finish closing up the registers and pick up a cleaning rag and some spray. You hum to yourself as you move to the windows, beginning to wipe them down.
Jason is hiding in the back. Shirking all his responsibilities on you as you close up tonight. Meaning you probably won’t be getting home until one at the earliest.
Muttering to yourself, you work on scrubbing out a particularly tough stain. Whatever it is clings to the fabric of your rag, each wipe seeming to spread it more. With a huff, you lean down to spray some more cleaner when a dark shape moves in the corner of your eye.
Frowning, you straighten back up. The window before you is fogged with whatever ruined the glass. Tilting your head past it, you find a screaming white mask staring back at you.
“Fuck,” you jump back with a gasp, rag slipping from your hand. The figure stares, head tilting slowly as he surveys you. You can only stare for a minute, heart trapped in your throat as your chest stutters. Visceral panic fills you, spikes through your blood until you feel lightheaded.
He takes a step forward and your body jolts back to life. Stumbling over yourself, you rush to the door, flipping the lock before he can get any closer.
Of course, you knew all about the Woodsboro killer. Casey Becker's murder was worse than even Sid’s mom. But it still seemed so far disconnected from you that you hadn’t really thought about it.
After all, why the hell would anyone want to kill you? You never did anything.
But he’s staring right at you now. Beneath that ridiculous mask are the eyes of a killer. And they're set on you.
Too afraid to take your eyes off him, you stumble back until your hip is smashing into the corner of the counter. A pained hiss slips past your lips as your hand gropes blindly for the phone. He almost seems amused as he watches you, relaxed and at ease as his head follows your clumsy movements.
Finally managing to wrap your hand around the landline, you hastily press it to your ear. The monotonous ringing on the other end is possibly one of the worst sounds you’ve ever heard.
The phone slips from your hand, cracking against the floor as you stare at him. His head tilts and he shakes it slowly, mocking you.
“Jason?” You shout, forcing your eyes off the killer in front of you. With a sharp breath, you push off from the counter and run to the back. The door to Jason’s office is cracked, light spilling out from within.
You shove through, eyes burning as you fight back your panic. “Jason, we have to call-"
Your voice trails off into nothing as you take in the scene before you. His fan buzzes in the corner of the office, a droning noise amongst a scene straight from a crappy slasher movie.
Blood drips from the open gash of his throat. It trails down his arms, pooling along his fingers until it splashes against the floor. The noise echoes through the quiet space as your breath trembles. You trip over yourself as you back out of the office, stomach clenching painfully the longer you look into the open flesh of his throat. His eyes have rolled back, hidden beneath his eyelids, as his body goes cold.
“Oh,” you let out a revolted moan. “God,” you clap your hand over your mouth, tripping as you run from the room.
He had already been in here. Somehow, that psycho killed your boss. Then, for some reason, he decided to wait around for you to notice him outside. He’d been smart enough to cut the phone line. Why is he playing with you now?
Racing back to the front, you find him right where you left him. Just outside the front door, head still tilted with amusement. “What the….”
He taps his knife against the window. Tap, tap, tap, slowly, he lifts his head, straightening up as he nods behind you. Just barely, you managed to turn in time to see the knife slashing toward you.
With a shrill scream, you dive to the side, terror filling you as you realize there are two of them. They don’t give you long to dwell on that. The second one dives for you while the one outside works on breaking the glass door.
Kicking your leg out, you manage to catch the one in front of you in the shin. He lets out a raspy groan, muffled by the mask, as he falls forward. Your hands grope along the floor, desperate for any sort of weapon. The best you have is a VHS. You don’t let that stop you from smacking the sharp corner into the temple of the man next to you. His hand flies up to his head, another pathetic groan leaving him.
You scramble to your feet just as the sound of glass shattering echoes through the store. A brick skips across the carpet, stopping just before your shoes. With a shaky breath, you look over to find the second man stepping slowly through the empty doorway.
His gaze flicks to yours and you let out a small whimper as the other one begins getting to his feet. “Shit,” you hiss, not sparing them another glance as you rush to the back. You can hear their footsteps quick behind you, just barely managing to slip into Jason’s office as they catch up.
You slam the door shut, body jolting roughly as they try to barrel through. With a groan, you shove your shoulder forward, shoes squeaking against linoleum as you force the door the rest of the way closed.
Panic-slick palms slip against the handle until you’re finally turning the lock. The door rattles violently as you step away, their bodies thudding against the wood as they try and batter their way through.
You don't waste any time, whipping around toward Jason’s computer and dialing into the modem. You work around your boss’s dead body, eyes burning at the smell of death and copper that floods his office. Your fingers fly across the keyboard, quick to connect to emergency services. You just manage to send your address when the door flies open behind you.
A scream rips from your throat as you jump around the desk. They both stand in the doorway, shoulders heaving as their muffled breaths fill the air. Your hands tremble at your sides as they split away from one another. The tallest lingers by the desk, the shorter one hovers in the doorway. They’ve cornered you, left you nowhere to run.
You back up as much as you can, wincing as your back connects with Jason’s metal filing cabinets. The shorter one lunges first. Your hand wraps around the handle of one of the cabinets and you wrench it forward, jumping back as it slams into the ground.
You manage to catch him off guard as he jerks back. You leap over the fallen cabinet and shove past him. A gloved hand wraps around your elbow, roughly shoving you forward.
Right into the tip of his blade.
A low moan escapes you, heart beating furiously against your chest as blood begins to weep from your stomach. Your eyes flutter shut at the sharp burst of pain. Fire lights up along your nerves.
When he begins to pull away, trying for another hit, you shove him back with all the strength you have left. He stumbles with a grunt, tripping over the cabinet and crashing into the other one.
You press your hands against your stomach, running from Jason’s office, and leaping through the shattered front door. You can only hear the crunch of your shoes against the broken glass. You can’t spare any attention to what might be following behind.
You don’t let yourself stop, pushing forward even as your lungs tighten until it hurts worse to breathe than it did to be stabbed. By the time your legs finally give out, lights are speeding down the road toward you. Doors slam and familiar voices call your name as you crash against the pavement, blood pooling from your hands and onto the asphalt below.
“I’m not the one who thought we should test her.”
Consciousness is slow to come back to you. Distantly, you can hear familiar hushed voices. “Well, I’m not the one who tried to fucking gut her.”
You hear what sounds like a slap and then a harsh, “Shut the fuck up!”
Your mind is fuzzy, dulled by the edges of pain and sleeping too long. You can hardly recognize the voices, let alone understand what they’re saying.
“You’re lucky she’s still alive.”
There’s a brief pause and then a low chuckle that makes shivers run up your spine. “What the hell were you going to do if she wasn’t?”
A strange sound slips from your lips, a groan, maybe. It’s hard to tell as your eyes adjust to the sterile lights of the hospital room.
Immediately, there’s a weight sat beside you, large hands covering your own. You blink slowly, forcing your eyes to focus as you take in your surroundings. “Stu?” You mutter, voice wrecked as your gaze dips from his concerned face to Billy’s stoic one.
Your head tilts, nose wrinkling as you notice they’re both wearing hospital gowns. Stu even has an IV hooked to his arm.
“What’s going on?” You try to straighten up, but your arms buckle out from under you. Stu reaches forward, gentle for once, as he helps you sit up.
Slowly, Billy makes his way to your side, perching just beside you, mirroring Stu. “How do you feel?” He asks, dodging your question.
You blink, struggling to take inventory of yourself. “Uh,” you shrug, frowning at the pain burning through your stomach. “Weird.”
“That’s the meds. They’ve got us on the same shit.” Stu lets go of your hands to lift his gown, showing a large, red-tinted bandage along his side.
“Jesus,” you reach out, fingers just brushing the edge. “What the hell happened to you two?”
“Sid’s dad,” Billy cuts in. Your head whips around to him so fast you’re surprised it doesn’t pop off. He offers a sardonic smirk as your jaw drops.
“Sorry, what?”
“Yeah, apparently the dude lost it,” Stu cuts in, eyes wide with something you don’t like. “Freaked out and just went on a bloody spree. He got us last night.” Billy reaches over and swats Stu’s arm. He lets out a little huff, “He got Tatum, too.”
“Stu-“
“And Sid.” Billy cuts you off before you can even start to console. Your eyes clench shut before shooting back open. This is way too much to be processing when you’ve just woken up from a drug-induced coma.
Your lips part, condolences ready on your tongue. But neither of them seems especially desperate for that. Stu’s got your hands in his, eyes watching every micro expression of yours like it's the most interesting thing in the world. Billy seems distant. Expected when your girlfriend is murdered by her father. But this is different, somehow.
There’s something he doesn’t want you to see.
“I,” your mind races with a hundred different thoughts before settling on one. “I don’t get it. Why'd he come after me?”
Stu scoffs, “Why'd he murder his daughter? Nothing about this will ever make sense.”
“Yeah, but-"
“We should let the doctor know you're awake.” Billy gets to his feet, cutting you off again. Stu lingers for a moment before reluctantly releasing your hands. Your eyes dart between them, not eager to just be left on your own again.
“We’ll stop by later,” Stu promises, the wheels of his IV drip squeaking as they both shuffle from your room. Your hand drifts to your stomach, mind growing consumed with the throbbing pain. Something isn’t right.
When you’re well enough that your meds can be cut back, you go off on your own to find the boys. You’re sick of being alone in your room. Terrified that every time you look through your window, that screaming mask will be staring back at you.
Sid’s dad is dead. Dewey and the others had reassured you a hundred times. But that didn't mean that Ghistface was dead. You saw him.
Saw them.
It wasn’t just one man behind the slaughter. But you hadn’t told Dewey that. Hadn’t told the sheriff. Not even the nosy ass reporter that kept sneaking her way past security.
No part of you had been able to reason away why you kept that information to yourself. There was no plausible excuse to protect the men who tried to kill you. Still, you can’t help but feel that if murder really had been their plan, you wouldn’t have gotten away that night.
Shuffling through the hospital halls, you keep an arm wrapped tight around your wound as you make your way to Stu’s room.
He seems miserably bored as he flips through channels on his TV. His face lights up when he sees you in the doorway. You chuckle as he tosses his remote away. Beckoning you closer as he pulls back his sheets.
Carefully, you help yourself into his bed, letting out a pained sigh as you try to get comfortable. “Where’s Billy?”
Stu shrugs, “I don’t know, probably using the bathroom. The meds they’ve got us on have me pissing like crazy.”
You let out a little snort and swat his arm. “You’re disgusting.”
Stu catches your hand in his, lacing your fingers together. His eyes bore into the scratchy hospital blanket, stare pensive. You think about offering to bring him something more comfortable when he speaks.
“Do you even like horror movies?”
Your brows furrow. Out of anything he could have said, that was probably the last thing you were expecting. “What?” You let out a disbelieving chuckle and he shrugs.
“We always force you through them on movie night. But I don’t think you’ve ever said you like them.”
You frown, picking at the threads of his fraying blanket. “I don’t know, what’s it matter?”
“Humor me,” he insists, tone unsettling. Looking back up, you nearly pull away. The vacant look in his eyes is disturbing.
“No,” you whisper, feeling like you’re telling him something you shouldn’t. “I don’t like them.”
“Why do you watch them?” He pushes, sitting up until his nose is nearly brushing yours. You would pull back if it didn’t feel like his stare had frozen you to the spot.
“I feel like if I don’t, you guys won’t want to hang out with me anymore.”
“Why would you think that?”
“Why are you asking me all this?” You whisper, eyes burning the longer Stu stares into them. He stays still for a moment, gaze running across yours. With a sharp bark of laughter, he falls back onto his pillows. You jump at the sudden movement and finally realize just how hard your heart is pounding against your ribs. His face cringes with pain as he tugs at his stitches.
“Wanna know my favorite trope?” He brushes past your question, armed with another series of his own. Fingers flexing under his tight grip, you try not to grimace. He doesn’t wait for you to answer.
“The final girl,” he whispers, waving one hand as if it’s some big reveal. “She never goes out. Never parties. Doesn’t care what she looks like,” his grip tightens infinitesimally around yours.
You want to tell him it hurts, but you can’t force the words from your tightened throat. “Always manages to outsmart the killers. She's always so perfect. Except,” he holds up one scolding finger with a sharp grin. “When she helps assholes like me cheat on his homework.”
You jerk back, flesh stinging like you’ve been burned. Stu lets you go, smile creeping ever wider. “What the hell are you saying?” You demand, voice cracking as you get to your feet.
“What’s the matter?” He asks, barely concealing his excitement as you back out of the room. “It’s just a joke,” he needles.
Your back slams into something firm and your breath catches in your throat. “I don’t think we ever asked,” Stu taunts with a chuckle.
Tilting your face back, you see Billy standing behind you, eyes dark and cold as they bore into yours.
My friends walk in your direction / Said "Don't you know [...]?"
Huh / When did you get hot?
Overview: You've been the awkward friend forever. Always lingering in the background of Stu and Billy's lives, never quite fitting in with their other friends. But when their current girlfriends are tired of worrying about your relationship with their boyfriends, they offer you a makeover. You just hadn't thought it would have made Billy and Stu so angry.
Apparently, doing your makeup isn't very final girl behavior. Whatever that means...
a/n: absolutely playing into the “taking down her hair makes her hot” trope rn. Also, the reader has curly hair. For the sake of the plot. (and because I’m tired of not living my curly-haired truth)
Also, X2 Sid and Tatum are a bit OOC. I was in love with Tatum when I was younger, but for this, I need her to be a bit of a bitch. It’s for the plot people, I don’t make the rules
wc: 7.2K
more at: Belle’s 3k Extravaganza
You can already see Stu grinning as he watches you run up to the fountain. Billy's there waiting beside him, flipping through a book you doubt he has any interest in. Your chest heaves as you come to a stop, hands propped on your knees as you try to catch your breath.
Stu snorts, “What’d you run here?” he taunts, with that stupid voice he always uses.
“Shut up,” you grumble, dropping your bag to the ground and pulling out a folder. “Here,” you toss it at him. It slaps against his chest, and he lets out a little grunt, just barely catching it before it slips to the water.
He leafs through the papers inside, though you know he never actually bothers to proofread. Bored waiting for him to be done, you hold out your palm. He glances at it with a dumb look, "What?”
“Seriously,” you tilt your head and let out a scoff. “Do you think I’m doing this because I love you?”
Stu rolls his eyes and fishes his wallet from his pocket. You let out a triumphant hum as he slaps the cash in your palm. Trying to step back, you don't get very far before his wrist is snapping out, fingers wrapping around your arm as he tugs you back toward him. You stumble between his spread legs, shooting him an unamused look.
He only grins at your ire. “Come on,” he urges. “You love me, you can say it.”
You roll your eyes, but dip down to meet his stare. “All right. I love you, Stu.” His grin falls as you add, “Thank you for being my benevolent little rich boy.” Billy snorts and Stu shoots him a look. It’s enough of a distraction for you to slip from his hold and pick up your bag.
Good timing, too, considering Tatum’s walking up with Sid and Randy. Tatum’s certainly chiller compared to his other girlfriends. You get along with her more than you ever did with Casey. But you can’t imagine anyone would be happy to see their boyfriend all handsy with his best friend. Even if handsy seems to be Stu’s default state.
“Ooh, another illicit deal, I see,” Tatum makes herself cozy, dropping right into Stu’s lap. You force out a stiff laugh and make yourself look away.
You’re just friends with Stu, same as Billy. Have been since you were kids. To them, you’ll always just be the strange neighbor kid who never seemed to get out of that socially awkward phase.
But how you look in their eyes doesn’t change the fact that puberty hit you first. It doesn’t change that you haven’t been able to look at either of them as just friends since you discovered the difference between boys and girls.
However, based on their caliber of girlfriends, they couldn’t make it any clearer that there isn’t a chance in hell of anything ever happening.
“That’s seriously pathetic, Stu,” Sid teases. She can't hide the undercurrent of disapproval in her voice. “How long are you going to let her get you through school?”
Stu’s sharp eyes cut to yours and you feel heat bloom under your skin. “Well? How long are you gonna carry me?”
Scoffing, you move to take your place beside Randy. He immediately offers you some of his food, which you take just to have something to do with your hands.
“However long you keep paying, rich boy.”
Tatum and the others laugh a little, but you feel like you got the question wrong from the look Stu’s sending you. You’re not sure what you could have possibly said that he would have approved of. But you don’t think you’ll ever fully understand him or Billy.
You doubt anyone ever will.
Tatum turns her attention away from you, instead speaking across her boyfriend to discuss some gossip with Sid. It’s typical that you’re left out of the loop.
Something about you seems to scream that you’re above petty girlhood experiences. Given the chance, you'd have more dirt on the people at this school than they would ever know. People trip up around the quiet kids, always seeming to forget they're there until it's too late.
But, as much as Tatum and Sid are nice to you, you’re still an outlier. Someone they think belongs more to the boys. While the boys seem to think you’d do better with the girls. There’s no safe middle ground for you to stand on. You’re sure that if you didn’t show up for lunch tomorrow, the only thing that would change is who Stu pays for his homework.
Running a hand over your hair, you let out a tired sigh as you leaf through your book. “You know,” Tatum’s voice startles you from your stupor. You glance up to find her eyes narrowed on your hair. “That puffed-up look has been done to death.” She pops a grape in her mouth with a sharp grin. “It’s not the eighties anymore, sweetie.”
Your eyes widen, hands shooting to your hair. Stu snickers, slapping Tatum’s hip, “That’s catty, even for you, babe.”
“Seriously,” Sid admonishes, shooting you a sorry smile. Billy’s eyes dart between you and her, but he doesn’t say a thing in your defense. Swallowing roughly, your gaze drops to your shoes. Self-consciousness drowns you so quick, you just want to run to the bathroom and hide out the rest of the day.
“What?” Tatum snickers. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant she could use some touch-ups.”
Your throat burns as your eyes flick toward the grassy courtyard. You’d prefer anything to facing them right now. Crying in front of the Stu and Billy is worse than chumming the waters before going diving.
“Christ, you’re the worst sometimes,” but Sid can’t hide the smile in her voice. She calls your name and you suck in a sharp breath before looking at her. “She’s sleeping over at mine tonight. Why don’t you come?”
“So you can give me some touch-ups?” you snap. Randy snickers at the perceived cat-fight, and you punch him in the arm.
“Innocent bystander,” he grimaces, shooting you a glare. You give him a sharp smile and shrug.
“Yeah,” Tatum agrees. “I think it’d do you some good to hang out with someone other than these bozos.” She doesn’t fail to include her boyfriend in the insult. Stu’s face drops behind her as he looks to Billy.
“Me?” he mouths, and Billy just glares at him.
“They’re totally holding you back, babe,” she pops another grape in her mouth and shrugs. “Your choice.”
“I can’t believe you let her talk to you like that,” Stu snickers, shoveling popcorn in his mouth as he sprawls across the loveseat.
You shift uncomfortably in your seat, clutching the throw pillow closer to your chest. “What the hell was I supposed to say?”
Billy glances over his shoulder at you, his legs kicked over the arm of the seat across from Stu. “Maybe don’t roll over and let her treat you like a doormat.”
You roll your eyes and pick up a piece of popcorn. Tossing it, it bounces off of Stu’s nose while you lean back on the couch. “She’s your girlfriend, you could have said something.” Stu watches the popcorn fall to his mom’s new, ridiculously expensive rug and snorts.
“Yeah right, like I’m gonna get in the middle of a cat-fight.”
“Oh yeah,” Billy rolls his eyes as he flips through the channels. “I’m sure that’s your nightmare.”
Stu laughs and tosses a handful of candy at Billy. Clearly incensed by your idea of trashing his mother’s pristine living room. “Shut up, man.”
You drown out their bickering, more than used to it, as food begins to fly across the room. Reaching up, you fiddle with a strand of combed-out hair. “Do you think she was right?”
They pause, eyes darting back to you. They share a look that you don’t understand and it only worsens your mood. “What? That we’re holding you back?” Billy questions, voice tight with something dangerous.
“No,” you snip, tossing your pillow at him. He deflects it with an irritated look, narrowed eyes meeting yours. “That I’m a mess.”
“She didn’t say that,” Stu objects, a cruel tilt to his lips. “Just that you need some touch-ups.” Billy chuckles and Stu joins him. The pair turns back to the TV and that’s that. You’re dismissed.
Frowning, you get to your feet and grab your bag. “Where’re you going?” Billy asks, not even turning around.
“I’m gonna head home,” you tell them, something souring your stomach the longer you’re in their presence.
“We haven’t even gotten to the movie, yet,” Stu whines. You ignore him, rushing toward his front door and throwing it open. With your back turned, you miss the harsh look the boys share. The type that would have had you turning around and sitting right back down on the couch.
Heading through the door, you think over Tatum’s harsh words. Cruel, but maybe necessary. Checking your watch, you figure it’s not midnight yet, surely Sid’s invite must still stand.
Sid’s surprised as she opens her front door. “Oh,” she offers a polite smile as she greets you.
Tatum pops up behind her, an impressed grin on her face. “Didn’t think you were going to show. Isn’t this your movie night?”
You sigh, fingers flexing around your bag. “Yeah. But you had a point. Your delivery sucked. But you had a point.” Tatum mushes Sid to the side and beckons you into the house.
“I know I did,” she’s far too proud of herself as she leads you over to the couch. Sid hovers behind you both, clearly not expecting you and unsure what to do with herself.
Tatum seems far more comfortable as she takes your bag from you. “I had hope you’d see sense,” she croons, dropping onto the cushion beside you.
Your shoulders tense and you try not to grimace at how enthused she is at making you over. You hadn’t thought you were that bad. Clearly, she disagreed. Tatum rifles through some magazines before dropping one in your lap.
“I have plans for you." It sounds more like a threat as you stare down at the glammed out model in the magazine.
An hour later, Tatum’s coiling freshly washed strands of your hair around her fingers while Sid sits in front of you, brushing eyeshadow across your lids. “You really don’t look bad,” she reassures. “But, it’s confidence that sells a look.”
“If a little mascara gives you some confidence, who knows?” Tatum shrugs as she spirals more hair around her finger. “Maybe you’ll finally get a boyfriend.”
The longer this little "sleepover" has gone on, the more you’ve felt they had ulterior motives. Sure, slumber parties in chick flicks always look fun. Pillow fights, makeup sessions, and gossiping with one another. But that hasn’t been happening. The girls seem strangely tense.
You’re pretty sure they’re hoping this makeover session will finally get you your own guy, so they can stop worrying about your relationship with their boyfriends. You hadn’t taken Sid as the insecure type, apparently you were wrong.
Still, this was nicer than some of the exes Billy and Stu had acquired. At least they were helping you out. Rather than starting rumors that you slept around with the teachers.
Thank you, Casey Becker.
You hadn’t exactly been sorry when you’d heard what the town’s new killer had done to her and her asshole boyfriend.
Billy and Stu had called you twisted when you’d said that, but you’d seen the way they smiled. You wouldn’t be friends with them if there wasn’t something a little off-kilter about you.
“Someone should have taught you how to do this a while ago,” Tatum mutters, talking about the hair you’d hardly ever put much thought into. You had been taught how to deal with it, but it was never your top priority. Typically, you braided it and just lived in it for a while.
Something about the way she says it reminds you of what she’d casually dropped at lunch. “What did you mean when you said Billy and Stu are holding me back?” Sid’s brush pauses on your cheek and Tatum’s hands still. You don’t have to look to know they’re sharing a silent conversation.
“It’s just something guys do,” Sid dismisses.
Your eyes narrow and she offers a tense smile. “Tatum?” You prod, knowing she doesn’t care about softening her words.
She lets out a little sigh and drops your hair. “Guys like having awkward girl friends. When they get dumped or go through a slump, she’s someone they can fall back on.”
“Like,” you pause, heart stuttering. “For sex?” Sid snorts at your blunt delivery and Tatum shrugs.
“Yeah, pretty much. They think if a girl’s lonely enough, she’ll sleep with anyone. It’s just a good way to keep a backup.”
“And you think that’s what they do with me?”
Sid’s eyes dart up to meet yours and you know she feels bad you’re having this conversation at all. “Sometimes. Sometimes they just like having someone around to make them feel better about themselves.”
Your heart drops to your feet and you don’t want to believe her. But something about what she says makes sense. Every time you complain about your clothes, hair, or anything too shallow or girly, the guys blow you off. They say stuff about not thinking you were into that vapid stuff.
Any chances you’ve had at a date, they’ll tell you shit about the guy you would never have guessed. Horrible things that make you uncomfortable and sick to your stomach. Half the time, you think they’re making it up, but you choose not to take the risk.
Every chance they get, they keep you all to themselves. And like an idiot, you’d just always thought that was because they wanted you the way you want them. Of course, Sid and Tatum would know better than you. They’re dating the boys after all. And it’s not so far out of character to assume Stu and Billy would be so malicious.
“Oh,” your stomach flips on itself and you blink watery eyes down at your hands. “Thanks for telling me,” you whisper. Tatum and Sid share a look over your shoulder. You see the guilt on Sid’s face, but you miss the wink Tatum sends her.
You follow what Sid and Tatum had taught you the night before, you don’t know which one you mess up worse, your hair or the makeup. You’ve missed first period by the time you finally make it out of the house. Meaning you manage to skirt around Billy and Stu right up until lunch.
Honestly, after what Sid and Tatum told you, no part of you actually wants to see them. But your boss at the video store is cutting your hours and you really need the cash Stu will give you for writing up his world civ essay.
Sucking in a sharp breath, you give yourself a little pep talk before forcing yourself to walk over to the fountain. Everyone’s there already, Sid and Tatum sprawled across their boyfriends. Meanwhile, Randy’s up and speaking with flailing arms. Like the court jester performing for the popular royals. It’s sickening what a cliche your friends have become when that’s what they’ve always made fun of.
“Watch the hands, Meeks,” you call out, nearly catching a slap to the face as he rants passionately about some horror flick you’ve never heard of.
He lets out a huff before turning to face you. Whatever argument he had dies on his tongue as he jerks back. You swallow roughly, hand reaching subconsciously toward your hair as he nearly pushes his nose against yours.
“Randy,” you whisper, mushing his face away. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
His thumb reaches up, swiping for your cheek, and you just manage to slap his hand back. “Is that glitter?” He questions, positively dumbfounded.
“It’s blush,” you snap, pushing him back. “Would you get out of here, you weirdo?” Shaking your head, you rifle through your backpack until you find the folder for Stu.
You try not to look at him as you walk up, chest tightening at the dead silence you’re now surrounded by. Stu grabs the folder, but his hand snakes up, grabbing at your wrist before you can back up.
“Huh,” he pulls you down, eyes roaming across your face. You glance at Tatum and she gives you an encouraging smile. “It is glitter.”
“Eyeshadow, doofus,” she swats his arm. “You did a good job,” she reassures you.
“Made me late for school,” you mutter, skin warming the longer Stu stares.
“Why?” Billy asks, before anyone can say anything else. Stu releases you at the sound of his voice and you stumble back.
“I don’t know,” forcing yourself to meet his eyes, you startle at the coldness staring back at you. “Maybe I wanted to look pretty.”
Stu snorts and cuts you a sharp look. “You didn’t need to do drag to look pretty,” he mocks. Your hand shoots up to your face. You hadn’t even done close to as much as Sid and Tatum had taught you.
“Stu,” Tatum snaps, shooting him a harsh look.
He lets out a chuckle and jerks back, “What?” He glances over at you, but the smile on his face isn’t genuine. “I was joking. It looks fine, dude.”
For some reason, you find yourself looking over at Billy. His jaw is tensed, eyes glaring down at the ground. He seems to feel your stare, gaze snapping up to meet yours. Biting your tongue, you swallow the burn in the back of your throat. “It looks good,” he finally admits, hardly sounding like he wants to compliment you.
You purse your lips and nod, barely wanting to be around them for another second. Clearly, the girls were right about their theory. “Really good,” Randy adds on, a goofy look on his face. You let out a sharp laugh and roll your eyes at him.
“I know it’s not your thing,” Tatum starts, sucking on her lollipop with a proud smile. “But you should come to Stu’s party tonight.”
You grimace and begin to shake your head. “Seriously,” Sid encourages. “You’ll have fun, for once.”
“What are you two planning, you little vixen?” Stu taunts, fingers pinching at Tatum’s sides. Your eyes narrow at the way he speaks through gritted teeth, voice tight.
Swallowing bile at Billy and Stu’s reactions, you straighten up, forcing your voice to be strong. “Even if I wanted to, I can’t.” The girls shoot you odd looks and you shrug as you pluck your bag from the ground. “I’m covering for Randy at the store.”
Randy’s head shoots up, eyes glazed over with confusion. “You are?”
“God,” you roll your eyes. “Remind me how many times they’ve fired your ass.” With a smug grin, he holds up five fingers and winks.
“What a shame,” Stu clicks his tongue and he doesn’t even bother sounding disappointed. “We’ll miss you reminding everyone of curfew.”
Hurt tightens your chest as you let out a sharp scoff. “Fuck off, Macher.”
His nose wrinkles and he presses his hand to his chest. “Ouch,” he hisses.
Billy reaches over and swats his arm, clearly telling him to knock it off. But you know that look on Stu’s face. He’s pissed, about what, you never have a clue.
Deciding to spare yourself any more embarrassment, you turn around and head back to the school. You didn’t want to go to his stupid party. But it would’ve been nice if they had wanted you there. If they could have just shown you something, that meant what the girls told you was bullshit.
“How many times do I have to tell you to alphabetize by genre?” Your boss, Jason, tosses Halloween at you and storms off. The VHS smacks you square in the chest and you let out a sharp scoff. The fuck does that even mean?
“Seriously,” you jump as someone’s pointy chin digs into your shoulder. “How many times does he have to tell you,” Stu bemoans, stealing the tape from your hand. You cast your eyes back and catch his grin as he backs off from you.
“Don’t you have a party to be planning?” You snap, not bothering to keep the venom from your tone.
“Someone jealous she didn’t get an invite?” Billy comes up on the other side of you, sharp eyes alight with a rare teasing glint.
It’s like being circled by hyenas with the pair of them. They always corner their prey, backing them up until there’s nowhere to run. Currently, it’s keeping you locked in the horror section as they block both ends.
“No,” you cut your eyes to Stu, irritation only growing worse at his stupid grin. “But you didn’t have to be such a dick today,” you tell him, snatching the tape back so you can shelf it.
“Oh,” he croons, catching your wrist and tugging you back into his chest. “I think I hurt her feelings,” he mocks, pouting at Billy.
Billy raises his brows, leaning on the shelves as he shrugs. “Did he?”
“Is there a particular reason you guys are being such assholes to me, or are you just bored?” Billy’s eyes narrow as he offers a sharp smirk.
Stu lets his chin rest in the crook of your neck, ignoring how you try to wiggle out of his hold. “Is there a reason you decided to do this?” He asks, tugging at one of your curls. “I liked the whole puffed-out dandelion look.”
“Ugh,” a disgusted groan slips out as you elbow him in the side. His breath whooshes out of him and his arms finally loosen. “Why do you have such a hard-on about whether or not I style my hair?”
“You never cared before.” Billy frowns, eyeing you up and down. “All the best final girls don't give a shit about that stuff.”
Your eyes fall into slits as a bewildered scoff leaves you. “What geeky language are you even speaking?”
Stu barks out a sharp laugh, leaning forward until he's back in your field of view. “Says you,” he taunts.
Your head falls to the side as you shoot him an unimpressed glare. “Do you guys need something? Jason already hates me. I don’t feel like having you two getting me fired.”
“Jason?” Billy questions. “The asshole that was bitching about genres?”
“That’s the one,” you hum, turning back to your cart and the piles of tapes you have to deal with.
“Dude seems like he needs to get laid,” Stu points out, eyes tracking Jason as he paces through the store. Yelling at the first person he sees over some made-up bullshit.
“Yeah, he probably does. But I doubt anyone’s that desperate.”
“No,” he taunts, and your hackles raise at his tone. “Not even you?”
You slam the tape down harder than you mean to. The noise echoes through the store, the shelves rattling beneath Stu and Billy’s careless bodies. Stu’s brows raise with poorly concealed excitement. “Get something or get the fuck out,” you hiss at him.
Taking hold of your cart, you shove past him before he can think of anything else smart to say. Insulting others seems to be the only time he’s capable of coming up with any wit of his own.
Of course, that means you get to be on the receiving end nine times out of ten. You make a good target for them, apparently.
Billy swats Stu’s arm, shoving him back and trailing after you. Stu lets out a snotty huff, randomly grabbing one of the tapes from the shelves as Billy falls into your check-out line.
“He’s a moron,” he excuses.
“And a jackass,” you snap, barely lifting your gaze to meet his. “Did you pick something?” Billy reaches behind himself, slapping Stu in the chest and making the other boy toss Prom Night on the counter.
You ignore how Stu’s gaze bores into the side of your head, scanning the VHS and looking over the blocky green letters on your screen. “You owe ten bucks for an overdue movie,” you tell him.
“Ten bucks?” he scoffs, “What movie?”
Tilting your head, you scoff, he’s such a cliche. “Basic Instinct, got a little crush on Sharon Stone, Stuart?”
Stu’s nose wrinkles as he glares at you. “Stuart?” he huffs, “You sound like my mother.” Pushing Billy out of the way, he props his elbows on the counter, chin resting in his palms. “Can’t you do your best friend a favor?”
You drop down to his level, matching his posture with a saccharine smile. “Why would I do that?” You tease, voice pitched with faux innocence.
Stu’s got a genuine grin on his face as you play along; it takes everything in you not to return it. “What are you doing?” The moment’s broken as you jump back, Jason’s harsh voice ruining the fun.
Sucking in a sharp breath, you turn back to the monitor and pretend to type some nonsense into the system. “Nothing, just checking them out.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet,” your head whips up at the insinuation, but he barely spares you any attention. He turns toward the boys with a sneer, “Just because you're friends with her, doesn’t mean you don’t have to pay like everyone else. Have the movie back by tomorrow, or you’re banned.”
“Jason-” you object.
“You’re already on thin ice,” he snaps, pointing his fat finger in your face. You resist the urge to snap your teeth at him. “Don’t push me,” he warns, as if he were scary at all beyond you not having a paycheck next week.
Stu watches him walk away with furrowed brows and a sneer. “God, what a prick.”
“Yeah,” you mutter, “you’re telling me.” Feeling ever so slightly vindictive, you clear the charge from Stu’s account and toss him his tape. “Keep the movie, he’s an ass.”
Stu cares little for the other people waiting in line as he reaches across the counter and cups your cheeks. You let out a little squeak as he drags you closer, planting an obnoxiously loud kiss on your cheek.
“What are friends for?” He mocks, pushing back from you.
“Ugh,” you wipe at your face and glare at him.
“See you,” Billy says as he shakes his head, yanking up Stu’s sleeve and dragging him away before he can make an even bigger scene.
You watch them leave with a disbelieving laugh. Stu could be a dick, but at least he was fun. Unlike other people, Jason, who got off on making everyone as miserable as them. Despite your general disinterest in drunk crowds of teenagers, you’d rather be at Stu’s party than deal with him the rest of the night.
You, however, didn’t receive an invite. So, you turn back to your cart of tapes and force yourself to go back to restocking.
Around midnight, you finish closing up the registers and pick up a cleaning rag and some spray. You hum to yourself as you move to the windows, beginning to wipe them down.
Jason is hiding in the back. Shirking all his responsibilities on you as you close up tonight. Meaning you probably won’t be getting home until one at the earliest.
Muttering to yourself, you work on scrubbing out a particularly tough stain. Whatever it is clings to the fabric of your rag, each wipe seeming to spread it more. With a huff, you lean down to spray some more cleaner when a dark shape moves in the corner of your eye.
Frowning, you straighten back up. The window before you is fogged with whatever ruined the glass. Tilting your head past it, you find a screaming white mask staring back at you.
“Fuck,” you jump back with a gasp, rag slipping from your hand. The figure stares, head tilting slowly as he surveys you. You can only stare for a minute, heart trapped in your throat as your chest stutters. Visceral panic fills you, spikes through your blood until you feel lightheaded.
He takes a step forward and your body jolts back to life. Stumbling over yourself, you rush to the door, flipping the lock before he can get any closer.
Of course, you knew all about the Woodsboro killer. Casey Becker's murder was worse than even Sid’s mom. But it still seemed so far disconnected from you that you hadn’t really thought about it.
After all, why the hell would anyone want to kill you? You never did anything.
But he’s staring right at you now. Beneath that ridiculous mask are the eyes of a killer. And they're set on you.
Too afraid to take your eyes off him, you stumble back until your hip is smashing into the corner of the counter. A pained hiss slips past your lips as your hand gropes blindly for the phone. He almost seems amused as he watches you, relaxed and at ease as his head follows your clumsy movements.
Finally managing to wrap your hand around the landline, you hastily press it to your ear. The monotonous ringing on the other end is possibly one of the worst sounds you’ve ever heard.
The phone slips from your hand, cracking against the floor as you stare at him. His head tilts and he shakes it slowly, mocking you.
“Jason?” You shout, forcing your eyes off the killer in front of you. With a sharp breath, you push off from the counter and run to the back. The door to Jason’s office is cracked, light spilling out from within.
You shove through, eyes burning as you fight back your panic. “Jason, we have to call-"
Your voice trails off into nothing as you take in the scene before you. His fan buzzes in the corner of the office, a droning noise amongst a scene straight from a crappy slasher movie.
Blood drips from the open gash of his throat. It trails down his arms, pooling along his fingers until it splashes against the floor. The noise echoes through the quiet space as your breath trembles. You trip over yourself as you back out of the office, stomach clenching painfully the longer you look into the open flesh of his throat. His eyes have rolled back, hidden beneath his eyelids, as his body goes cold.
“Oh,” you let out a revolted moan. “God,” you clap your hand over your mouth, tripping as you run from the room.
He had already been in here. Somehow, that psycho killed your boss. Then, for some reason, he decided to wait around for you to notice him outside. He’d been smart enough to cut the phone line. Why is he playing with you now?
Racing back to the front, you find him right where you left him. Just outside the front door, head still tilted with amusement. “What the….”
He taps his knife against the window. Tap, tap, tap, slowly, he lifts his head, straightening up as he nods behind you. Just barely, you managed to turn in time to see the knife slashing toward you.
With a shrill scream, you dive to the side, terror filling you as you realize there are two of them. They don’t give you long to dwell on that. The second one dives for you while the one outside works on breaking the glass door.
Kicking your leg out, you manage to catch the one in front of you in the shin. He lets out a raspy groan, muffled by the mask, as he falls forward. Your hands grope along the floor, desperate for any sort of weapon. The best you have is a VHS. You don’t let that stop you from smacking the sharp corner into the temple of the man next to you. His hand flies up to his head, another pathetic groan leaving him.
You scramble to your feet just as the sound of glass shattering echoes through the store. A brick skips across the carpet, stopping just before your shoes. With a shaky breath, you look over to find the second man stepping slowly through the empty doorway.
His gaze flicks to yours and you let out a small whimper as the other one begins getting to his feet. “Shit,” you hiss, not sparing them another glance as you rush to the back. You can hear their footsteps quick behind you, just barely managing to slip into Jason’s office as they catch up.
You slam the door shut, body jolting roughly as they try to barrel through. With a groan, you shove your shoulder forward, shoes squeaking against linoleum as you force the door the rest of the way closed.
Panic-slick palms slip against the handle until you’re finally turning the lock. The door rattles violently as you step away, their bodies thudding against the wood as they try and batter their way through.
You don't waste any time, whipping around toward Jason’s computer and dialing into the modem. You work around your boss’s dead body, eyes burning at the smell of death and copper that floods his office. Your fingers fly across the keyboard, quick to connect to emergency services. You just manage to send your address when the door flies open behind you.
A scream rips from your throat as you jump around the desk. They both stand in the doorway, shoulders heaving as their muffled breaths fill the air. Your hands tremble at your sides as they split away from one another. The tallest lingers by the desk, the shorter one hovers in the doorway. They’ve cornered you, left you nowhere to run.
You back up as much as you can, wincing as your back connects with Jason’s metal filing cabinets. The shorter one lunges first. Your hand wraps around the handle of one of the cabinets and you wrench it forward, jumping back as it slams into the ground.
You manage to catch him off guard as he jerks back. You leap over the fallen cabinet and shove past him. A gloved hand wraps around your elbow, roughly shoving you forward.
Right into the tip of his blade.
A low moan escapes you, heart beating furiously against your chest as blood begins to weep from your stomach. Your eyes flutter shut at the sharp burst of pain. Fire lights up along your nerves.
When he begins to pull away, trying for another hit, you shove him back with all the strength you have left. He stumbles with a grunt, tripping over the cabinet and crashing into the other one.
You press your hands against your stomach, running from Jason’s office, and leaping through the shattered front door. You can only hear the crunch of your shoes against the broken glass. You can’t spare any attention to what might be following behind.
You don’t let yourself stop, pushing forward even as your lungs tighten until it hurts worse to breathe than it did to be stabbed. By the time your legs finally give out, lights are speeding down the road toward you. Doors slam and familiar voices call your name as you crash against the pavement, blood pooling from your hands and onto the asphalt below.
“I’m not the one who thought we should test her.”
Consciousness is slow to come back to you. Distantly, you can hear familiar hushed voices. “Well, I’m not the one who tried to fucking gut her.”
You hear what sounds like a slap and then a harsh, “Shut the fuck up!”
Your mind is fuzzy, dulled by the edges of pain and sleeping too long. You can hardly recognize the voices, let alone understand what they’re saying.
“You’re lucky she’s still alive.”
There’s a brief pause and then a low chuckle that makes shivers run up your spine. “What the hell were you going to do if she wasn’t?”
A strange sound slips from your lips, a groan, maybe. It’s hard to tell as your eyes adjust to the sterile lights of the hospital room.
Immediately, there’s a weight sat beside you, large hands covering your own. You blink slowly, forcing your eyes to focus as you take in your surroundings. “Stu?” You mutter, voice wrecked as your gaze dips from his concerned face to Billy’s stoic one.
Your head tilts, nose wrinkling as you notice they’re both wearing hospital gowns. Stu even has an IV hooked to his arm.
“What’s going on?” You try to straighten up, but your arms buckle out from under you. Stu reaches forward, gentle for once, as he helps you sit up.
Slowly, Billy makes his way to your side, perching just beside you, mirroring Stu. “How do you feel?” He asks, dodging your question.
You blink, struggling to take inventory of yourself. “Uh,” you shrug, frowning at the pain burning through your stomach. “Weird.”
“That’s the meds. They’ve got us on the same shit.” Stu lets go of your hands to lift his gown, showing a large, red-tinted bandage along his side.
“Jesus,” you reach out, fingers just brushing the edge. “What the hell happened to you two?”
“Sid’s dad,” Billy cuts in. Your head whips around to him so fast you’re surprised it doesn’t pop off. He offers a sardonic smirk as your jaw drops.
“Sorry, what?”
“Yeah, apparently the dude lost it,” Stu cuts in, eyes wide with something you don’t like. “Freaked out and just went on a bloody spree. He got us last night.” Billy reaches over and swats Stu’s arm. He lets out a little huff, “He got Tatum, too.”
“Stu-“
“And Sid.” Billy cuts you off before you can even start to console. Your eyes clench shut before shooting back open. This is way too much to be processing when you’ve just woken up from a drug-induced coma.
Your lips part, condolences ready on your tongue. But neither of them seems especially desperate for that. Stu’s got your hands in his, eyes watching every micro expression of yours like it's the most interesting thing in the world. Billy seems distant. Expected when your girlfriend is murdered by her father. But this is different, somehow.
There’s something he doesn’t want you to see.
“I,” your mind races with a hundred different thoughts before settling on one. “I don’t get it. Why'd he come after me?”
Stu scoffs, “Why'd he murder his daughter? Nothing about this will ever make sense.”
“Yeah, but-"
“We should let the doctor know you're awake.” Billy gets to his feet, cutting you off again. Stu lingers for a moment before reluctantly releasing your hands. Your eyes dart between them, not eager to just be left on your own again.
“We’ll stop by later,” Stu promises, the wheels of his IV drip squeaking as they both shuffle from your room. Your hand drifts to your stomach, mind growing consumed with the throbbing pain. Something isn’t right.
When you’re well enough that your meds can be cut back, you go off on your own to find the boys. You’re sick of being alone in your room. Terrified that every time you look through your window, that screaming mask will be staring back at you.
Sid’s dad is dead. Dewey and the others had reassured you a hundred times. But that didn't mean that Ghistface was dead. You saw him.
Saw them.
It wasn’t just one man behind the slaughter. But you hadn’t told Dewey that. Hadn’t told the sheriff. Not even the nosy ass reporter that kept sneaking her way past security.
No part of you had been able to reason away why you kept that information to yourself. There was no plausible excuse to protect the men who tried to kill you. Still, you can’t help but feel that if murder really had been their plan, you wouldn’t have gotten away that night.
Shuffling through the hospital halls, you keep an arm wrapped tight around your wound as you make your way to Stu’s room.
He seems miserably bored as he flips through channels on his TV. His face lights up when he sees you in the doorway. You chuckle as he tosses his remote away. Beckoning you closer as he pulls back his sheets.
Carefully, you help yourself into his bed, letting out a pained sigh as you try to get comfortable. “Where’s Billy?”
Stu shrugs, “I don’t know, probably using the bathroom. The meds they’ve got us on have me pissing like crazy.”
You let out a little snort and swat his arm. “You’re disgusting.”
Stu catches your hand in his, lacing your fingers together. His eyes bore into the scratchy hospital blanket, stare pensive. You think about offering to bring him something more comfortable when he speaks.
“Do you even like horror movies?”
Your brows furrow. Out of anything he could have said, that was probably the last thing you were expecting. “What?” You let out a disbelieving chuckle and he shrugs.
“We always force you through them on movie night. But I don’t think you’ve ever said you like them.”
You frown, picking at the threads of his fraying blanket. “I don’t know, what’s it matter?”
“Humor me,” he insists, tone unsettling. Looking back up, you nearly pull away. The vacant look in his eyes is disturbing.
“No,” you whisper, feeling like you’re telling him something you shouldn’t. “I don’t like them.”
“Why do you watch them?” He pushes, sitting up until his nose is nearly brushing yours. You would pull back if it didn’t feel like his stare had frozen you to the spot.
“I feel like if I don’t, you guys won’t want to hang out with me anymore.”
“Why would you think that?”
“Why are you asking me all this?” You whisper, eyes burning the longer Stu stares into them. He stays still for a moment, gaze running across yours. With a sharp bark of laughter, he falls back onto his pillows. You jump at the sudden movement and finally realize just how hard your heart is pounding against your ribs. His face cringes with pain as he tugs at his stitches.
“Wanna know my favorite trope?” He brushes past your question, armed with another series of his own. Fingers flexing under his tight grip, you try not to grimace. He doesn’t wait for you to answer.
“The final girl,” he whispers, waving one hand as if it’s some big reveal. “She never goes out. Never parties. Doesn’t care what she looks like,” his grip tightens infinitesimally around yours.
You want to tell him it hurts, but you can’t force the words from your tightened throat. “Always manages to outsmart the killers. She's always so perfect. Except,” he holds up one scolding finger with a sharp grin. “When she helps assholes like me cheat on his homework.”
You jerk back, flesh stinging like you’ve been burned. Stu lets you go, smile creeping ever wider. “What the hell are you saying?” You demand, voice cracking as you get to your feet.
“What’s the matter?” He asks, barely concealing his excitement as you back out of the room. “It’s just a joke,” he needles.
Your back slams into something firm and your breath catches in your throat. “I don’t think we ever asked,” Stu taunts with a chuckle.
Tilting your face back, you see Billy standing behind you, eyes dark and cold as they bore into yours.
I think this schedule could be very nice / Call up the boys and crack a Miller Light / Watch the fight / Us girls are fun but stressful / Am I right? / And you got a right hand anyway
Overview: You knew it was a risk, dating a cop and all, but Sammy is different. Or, he was, at least. He was probably the best boyfriend you've ever had, the only one you ever saw yourself getting serious with. But then, he had to go and make buddy-buddy with the assholes in his department. Now your sweet boyfriend is gone and you're left picking up the pieces.
a/n: I actually got pissed at myself rereading this because she let him off way too easily at the end. So it's been revamped and, in my opinion, I think she gives him a proper amount of hell (Also, note the lyrics of this song, it’s going to be following those slightly misogynistic points for the first section of the plot)
more at: Belle’s 3k Extravaganza
wc: 12.7k
By no means are you the type of woman to throw on an apron and go all June Cleaver for a man. However, Sammy seems to be the exception to your rule. The first time you surprised him with dinner, there had been such earnest gratefulness in his eyes that you couldn’t help yourself. Every time you think of how stressed he gets at work, how much hell he receives on patrol, you just get the urge to take care of him.
It’s bad enough you’re spreading it for a cop, now you can add traitor to feminism on the list. Who can blame a girl, though, when he’s got biceps like those? Every time you see him, you just want to sink your teeth in him. Mark your territory for any doe-eyed woman that tries to flirt her way out of a ticket.
Most of your time is spent at his place so you can cook for him like you are tonight. Usually, while you wait for the food to finish, you find yourself cleaning up a little. The way he practically drops to his knees every time you take care of him has your sixth sense going off.
You know it’s coming soon, him asking you to move in with him. Your female spidey-senses are primed to go off the second you find a man ready to commit. It is such a rare trait nowadays.
It would be smart to say yes to him; you practically live with him already. But something is holding you back. No matter how much you care about him (maybe even love him), there is this gnawing thought that’s been plaguing you. Everything's been going good.
Perfect, even.
You’re crazy about each other, your fights are always resolved quickly, and he does anything he can to make you happy. But things are too easy, too conflict-free. Something bad is coming, you just know it.
The lock clicks on the door, and you find yourself smiling, already untying your apron. Turning the heat down on the stove, you turn in time to see Sammy walking in. His face lights up as he sees you.
He drops into your embrace the second you open your arms. You laugh a little, shifting your hips so his holster isn’t digging into you. He mutters into your neck how much he missed you, and you feel the rest of your carefully enforced independence shrink away.
It’s inevitable. You’ve gone full housewife.
“How was work?” You ask, dragging your hand through his hair as he pulls back. He shrugs you off, and you sigh, realizing this is going to be a man-no-talk-about-feelings night. He huffs and tosses his jacket on the kitchen island.
Your gaze narrows, and you click your tongue once. Sammy’s eyes widen before he picks it up, moving it to the entryway closet. Where it belongs.
“Good boy,” you murmur, smirking when you see the color that grows on his cheeks.
He comes up behind you, arm winding around your waist. You glance down at his thick forearm and physically hold back the urge to dig your teeth into him. “God, sweetheart, this looks amazing,” he lets out a breathy exhale as he watches you finish up dinner. You grin, making him a plate as he lets go and takes a seat at the island.
“Beer?” You ask, already getting it for him. I’m a traitor to my people, you think as you hand your man a cold one to go with the steak dinner you’d cooked. You’re making yourself your own plate when you catch him frowning at the stove.
“What’s wrong?” He finally looks over at you and raises his brows. “I thought you liked this,” you tell him, nodding toward the food.
He lets out a scoff and gives you an incredulous look. “‘Course I do, are you kidding? I love anything you cook.”
You fight back your smile at such simple praise. “Alright, why do you look like someone pissed in your beer, then?”
His face screws up and you can’t help but laugh. Almost sheepish, he rubs the back of his neck, no longer meeting your eyes. “Got a couple guys from the station coming over.”
Shrugging, you finally take a bite of your dinner. Compliments to the chef, you think smugly. “What’s the big deal? Ben comes over all the time.”
Sammy moves his food around his plate and you glare down at the action. “They might be a little hungry.”
You let out an astonished scoff and he shrinks back with that boyish grin on his face that makes it nearly impossible for you to be mad. “Jeez, what am I, Sammy? Your girlfriend or maid? You know I don’t cook for any man.”
He glances down at his plate and then back at you with a pointed look. Rolling your eyes, you wave him off. “This is a rare exception because we have such amazing chemistry in bed. I swear, if you were an inch smaller down there, you’d be nuking stouffers.”
Sammy lets out a small huff of laughter that makes the constant tight feeling in your chest ease ever so slightly. “Glad to know what I’m worth. I’ll just order a pizza.”
“Shut up,” you tell him, already digging around in the fridge for some food to make his friends. You cut open a pack of kielbasa and toss it in a pan, your dinner going forgotten on the counter. Pointing a spatula at Sammy you warn him, “Don’t get used to this.”
He laughs at the sharp look on your face, his smile dropping when you pinch your lips, openly glaring at him. “Of course, sweetheart.”
You turn back to the stove with a weak sigh. “I’m only doing this because you’ve got that pathetic kicked puppy look on your face.” Quietly, he makes his way up to you, arms once again tugging you into his firm chest.
“I promise,” he mutters into your neck, pressing a soft kiss there that has your stomach flooding with warmth. “I’ll make this up to you with my amazing bed chem,” he mocks. You laugh but it trails off as you melt further into him, an ache between your legs getting stronger the longer he kisses you.
“You play dirty,” you mutter, and he smiles against your skin, knowing exactly what he’s doing.
The guys he invites over seem nice enough. They’re loud, brash, and a little abrasive in the way your dad’s old friends used to be. Nothing you can’t handle or don’t expect from a group of off-duty cops.
Though, your skin does crawl when you set the food out in the living room and you realize just the type of men you’re currently serving. Never ever again, you swear to yourself. There’s a knock at the door and you go to open it.
A little piece of you relaxes when you look through the peephole and find Ben waiting on the other side. He smiles as you tug open the door. “Hey,” you greet, already pulling him into a hug. He presses a brief kiss to your temple and wraps his arm around your shoulder, pulling you back into the apartment. “You have no idea how relieved I am to see you,” you tell him.
“Yeah?” He lets out a low whistle as he takes in the disaster area that is Sammy’s kitchen. “When’d you have time for all this?” He chuckles, plucking some of your leftover steak and popping it in his mouth.
“When I skipped dinner,” you grumble, ignoring the concerned look he shoots you. “It’s just a one time thing,” you tell him. “Sammy’s seemed a little off lately, I figured he needed an easy night.”
“Yeah,” Ben walks up to you, hand once again finding your shoulder. “I’ve noticed that, too. Was getting a little worried.”
Any further conversation is interrupted as someone shouts, “Beer!” from the living room. You shoot Ben an astonished look that he only laughs at.
“Hey, sweetheart,” Sammy trails off, eyes narrowing at Ben’s completely platonic touch on your arm. He walks over and swats his grip away, tugging you back into his chest.
You let out a short chuckle at the amused look on Ben’s face. “I’ve been designated the beer wench,” you tell Sammy. He scowls, brows furrowing as he scoffs.
“I’ll take care of it.” He reaches over for the dinner you’d abandoned and places it firmly in your hands. “Finish eating, sweetheart.” He doesn’t leave any room for argument, redirecting you to a seat as he points at Ben. “You’re with me, come on.” Ben shoots you one last grin before he helps Sammy carry the beer into the living room.
The living room gets louder the longer they stay. For the most part, you manage to ignore it, flipping through your book as you pick at your dinner.
“We need more dip!” Your brows furrow and you look up with a scoff. There’s no way they think you’re actually going to bring them any. Right?
Shaking your head, you settle back into your seat and resume reading. “Dip!”
“Fuck me,” you mutter, shoulders tense as you work to ignore the assholes in Sammy’s living room.
It’s not much longer until Sammy’s walking into the kitchen. His brows raise when he spots you at the table. You give him a tense smile that’s met with a confused frown. “I thought you were in my room.”
You shake your head, “Nope. Been in here the whole time.”
Sammy glances between you and the living room with a cute little furrow between his brows. “Can you hear us in there?”
“Oh yeah,” you scoff. “Loud and clear.” Your point is almost instantly proven by a loud round of jeering laughter that makes your skin shrink back.
“Oh, well,” he hums, digging through the fridge to grab the dip. “How come you didn’t bring this?” He asks, holding up the container.
Your eyes narrow sharply. “Maybe because it’s not the fifties and they’re grown men who can walk their asses into the kitchen themselves. Besides, you’re the only one I’m sleeping with, you’re the only one who gets to ask for it.”
A grin breaks out on his face as he walks over to you. You lean forward, chin tilting as his hand slides around your shoulder to cup the back of your neck. “I’ll get them under control,” he promises, pressing a lingering kiss against your lips.
You just nod, head tilting as you admire his ass as he makes his way back into the living room. With a heavy sigh, you force yourself out of your chair and start cleaning up the disastrous array of dishes.
Your hands are pruny and dried out by the time you’re done. So, with the most reluctant gait, you force yourself out into the living room to fetch your favorite lotion. A football game is playing on the TV at an obscene volume, but they seem to be ignoring it in favor of whatever card game they’ve got going on.
Ben shoots you a small smile as he catches you creeping around the perimeter of the living room. Just as you’re about to sneak out, he calls your name, cutting through the buzz of chatter. “Gonna join us?”
His smug grin is met with a stare that promises death. “Oh, sure,” you grit out, wishing you could choke him out. Sammy waves you over and you perch on the edge of the couch’s armrest. “You winning?” You ask, glancing over his cards and finding yourself completely lost on whatever game it is they’re playing.
One of his buddies lets out a loud laugh and Sammy’s cheeks go red. You’ll take that as a no. The guy reaches over, slapping Sammy’s shoulder. “Hey, who knows, maybe your little lady can be a good luck charm.”
“Don’t love that,” you whisper to Sammy as he takes you by the waist and pulls you onto his lap.
“What,” he teases, “you don’t like being my little lady?”
You slap at his shoulder and he just laughs. You make yourself comfortable, head resting in the curve of his neck as you watch a few more rounds of this odd game play out. It doesn’t seem that anyone’s particularly good at it. Every turn ends with someone muttering something obscene under their breath.
When your brain has reached its threshold for drunken cheers, you turn your lips toward Sammy’s ear. “I’m going to bed,” you tell him. Already struggling to keep your eyes open.
He peers over at you, eyes a little wide. “You’re staying the night?”
You pull back, slightly offended by his tone. “Don’t I always?”
Something shifts on his face, this fleeting emotion that he doesn’t let you get a decent read on. “Yeah, yeah,” his tone is too light, so casual you don’t believe it. “I just don’t want us being loud and keeping you up.”
You just shake your head and press a firm kiss to his cheek. “You know I sleep through anything.” Balancing slightly on his shoulder, you push yourself up to your feet.
“Calling it quits?” Ben asks, looking just as bored as you are. You just offer him a tired smile and move to head to Sammy’s bedroom.
“Hey, sweetheart, you mind clearing some of this away so we can use the table?” Turning, you’re shocked to find one of Sammy’s buddy’s addressing you. Although, you’re not sure how you can be certain considering he doesn’t even look at you when he’s speaking, eyes too focused on his cards.
“Excuse me?” You mutter, so taken aback you forget to tell him off.
“You’re a doll,” he dismisses, swiping one of the other men’s cards. Stunned by the audacity and such blatant dismissal, you actually find yourself doing what he asks. It feels wrong as you bend down and scoop up the plates. You practically made them a feast, the least these assholes could do is help you clean up.
With a low huff and a pointed glare at Sammy, you take the dishes into the kitchen. You don’t even want to clean them. You’ve already spent half an hour doing that tonight. But the idea of all this food being dried on the ceramic tomorrow disturbs you just enough to grab the sponge.
Ben walks in from the living room, a couple of plates and glasses in his hands. He drops them by the sink and you send him a grateful smile. “Thought you were going to bed,” he muses, digging around in the fridge for another beer.
A little bit of shame curls in your stomach as you clean up after the men in Sammy’s apartment. “Yeah,” you shrug. “I just don’t want to worry about this in the morning.”
He lets out a snort which snags a laugh from you. “Why would you worry? This ain’t even your place.”
Your hands still, soap and soggy crumbs dripping beneath your fingers as you hesitate to meet his eyes. “Well,” you force a cheeky smile and shrug. “Not yet, at least.” God, how pathetic are you?
He holds his hands up, surrendering even though you can see there’s more he wants to say. You watch him as he heads back into the living room and drop the dishes in the sink. You’re done for the night, you’ve done far more than you even wanted to. Sucking in a sharp breath you dry your hands and try to head back to bed.
A quick, “Beer!” has you pausing at the threshold of the kitchen. It pains you, but you’re already in here and you don’t feel like looking petty in front of Sammy’s friends. Grumbling under your breath about men and getting off their fat asses, you pluck a beer from the fridge and plop it in the first outstretched palm you see.
The man chuckles while Ben shoots you a surprised look. “Nice, Sammy. You’ve got her well-trained. Must’ve learned from the first marraige.” Your jaw actually drops as you stare at the balding man addressing your boyfriend.
Another one pipes up, his laughter making your skin crawl. “Everyone knows the first is just a starter. It’s not until, at least, the third that you actually land a decent broad.”
You suck your teeth, staring pointedly at Sammy while you wait for him to pipe up. When he doesn’t, a low chuckle leaves you. “Hear that, baby? You got one more after me.”
Sammy finally meets your eye, just barely. His head ducks down as he shrugs. “They don’t mean it like that.” You let out an astounded gasp, looking around for anyone to support you on just how insanely backwards this whole conversation is. But the only one who will meet your eye is Ben and his stupid face just says “I told you so.”
“Right, okay.” You finally make your way into Sammy’s bedroom, just to grab your bag and turn your happy ass right around. “I’m going home, Sammy,” you call over your shoulder.
“Wait- What?”
You hear Ben let out a little laugh while you grab your coat from the hook. “Hope you’re ready to get reacquainted with your right hand, man.” His tone is malicious.
It’s strange, going to your own place after work. Not immediately starting on dinner. It’s a slight wake-up call that you’re committing too much of your time to a man who hasn’t even asked you to move in yet.
Still, that doesn’t make you miss the smile he always greets you with any less. Tossing your coat on the back of your couch, you head into your kitchen. Your cabinets are hardly stalked, the majority of your meals taking place at Sammy’s apartment. Meaning your dinner tonight is going to be expired ramen and some saltines.
You’ve had worse.
Your phone rings just as you toss the ramen in the microwave. Glaring down at the screen you watch Sammy’s picture light up. Crossing your arms, you lean back on the counter and wait for it to stop. He immediately calls back and you decide to let him stew a bit. You allow three ignored calls before you finally pick up on the fourth.
“Hey, sweetheart, where are you?” He’s doing a horrible job at masking the stress in his voice and it almost makes you smile.
“I’m at my place. Where else would I be?” You turn to the microwave, watching as the water bubbles and froths over the lid of your ramen cup. Grimacing, you redirect your attention to Sammy. More importantly, the leftovers you know he has and you really want to dig into.
“With me,” he supplies, laughter light and uneasy.
You hum a little and shake your head. “I don’t know. Is this because you miss me? Or is it just because I’m so well trained?” You make zero effort to hide the venom in your tone. He should know he screwed up. He should have also already figured out that he was going to be put on a week-long sex probation after last night.
Sammy lets out a low groan and you can picture the way he probably slides his hand across his jaw, eyes clenching shut. “I’m really sorry about that, honey. I swear, I told them off the second you left. I just got drunk and…”
“And… acted like the sort of jackasses I’ve already spent a lifetime dumping?” You supply for him.
He lets out another low laugh and you hate how you find yourself smiling at the sound. “Exactly. So, would you come over? Let me make it up to you?”
You let out a sharp breath, eyeing your boiling dinner with disdain. “You’re lucky I don’t have anything to eat over here.”
You let yourself in with the key Sammy gave you. Not an invitation to move in, just an easier way for you to get in before him and have dinner ready. Maybe his friends were right, he does have you trained.
Shaking away the disturbing thought, you narrow your eyes as Sammy walks out of the kitchen. He gives you that familiar smile of his you love and it takes every iota of self control not to return it.
He frowns when you don’t reciprocate. “Really, sweetheart?”
“What?” You take your coat off, kicking the door closed behind you.
Sammy shoots you a flat look, palm finding a spot on your lower back as he guides you into the kitchen. “Is this how we’re playing it tonight? You want to be passive-aggressive?”
You scoff, some of your anger easing as you realize he’s made dinner, tonight. “I actually just prefer aggressive-aggressive, you should be happy I’m being passive.” Sammy just laughs and presses a firm kiss to your temple.
“You’re impossible, you know that?” You hum, watching as he grabs two plates and drops them on the dining table. You follow him, moving to take a seat when his hands snake out and take a hold of your waist.
“What’re you-” There’s no stopping the laugh that bubbles out of you as he tugs you onto his lap. And that knowing smile he sends you means he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. “Yeah, I’m the impossible one,” you scowl, but it’s defeated by the smile tugging at your lips.
He reaches up, brushing some hair over your shoulder as he shifts you in his lap. He’s got a better view of your face now, his expression softening into something sincere. “I really am sorry about last night, hun. There’s no excuse.”
You bite your lip, arm lifting to wind over his shoulders. Inside, you’re still fuming, raging at him for not even attempting to defend you, just letting those guys speak to you like you were some maid. But you’ve spent years being the “cool” girlfriend, always letting shit slide so that guys don’t get tired of you after a month.
So, instead of doubling down, you lean down and kiss him. “It’s fine, Sammy,” you tell him.
Unfortunately, the cool girl syndrome has and always will be a chronic blight on your life.
“We, uh, have a schedule, now,” he tells you. His eyes drop from your face, fiddling with a stray thread on your sweater, instead.
You swat his hand away before he ruins the hem. “What do you mean?”
“Every Thursday night,” he tells you, head resting against your shoulder as you pick at the food he made. “There shouldn't be any more surprise drop-ins for you.”
You let out a huff that he tenses at. As much as you want to object, you’ve been on the receiving end of one of his rants when he was first divorcing Tammi. She had never wanted to go to his office functions. Never wanted to meet any of his cop buddies. She was always so neurotic and steadfast in being as separated from his work as she could be.
You didn’t want to do that. You weren’t looking to be the girl that shit on her man hanging out with his friends just because you don’t like them (cool girl strikes again). You don’t want his friends to be right, you don’t want to just be the stepping stone while he looks for the third wife.
“Alright,” you acquiesce and he perks up. That stupid, crooked grin almost makes it worth it. “But that bar-wench shit isn’t ever happening again,” you warn him, tone icy as you pull him back by his hair, forcing him to meet your eyes.
Sammy nods eagerly, “I know, baby. We’re just gonna order pizzas from now on, you won’t have to do a damn thing.” Your gaze narrows into something sharp and he offers a timid smile. “And for the rest of tonight, I’m at your beck and call, promise.”
Slowly, you loosen your grip on his hair, running your fingers through the curls. And the way he preens when you call him a “Good boy” almost makes you think his friends won’t be a problem.
There’s a game on the TV, soccer or football, you don’t know. Sammy’s got it turned down low so you can focus on your book. He’d dropped onto the couch an hour ago and hasn’t found the energy to move since.
Peering over the edge of your book you watch as he pulls your legs into his lap, eyes never leaving the TV. A little smile curls on your lips as his hands idly stroke over your skin. He doesn’t even look like he’s aware he’s awake and he still needs his hands on you.
You hide behind your book as your smile grows. Asshole, making you all flustered over something so small.
Really, though, it’s not your fault that all your exes were pieces of crap. That now your standards are so low you think a man respecting your “no” is a sign of saintliness.
Just as you settle back into your book, Sammy’s door slams open, loud footsteps sounding through the entryway. Your heart jumps to your throat, legs jolting as you try and get a look over the couch. Sammy’s hands tighten around your legs, stopping you from bolting. Despite the way you can feel your heartbeat in your abdomen and are about to soil yourself, Sammy looks utterly unbothered.
“Where you at, man?”
“Shit,” you hiss at the unnecessarily loud voice coming from the door. Grabbing your phone you check the date and, sure enough, it's Thursday. Like an idiot you’ve already forgotten that he and his buddies are now on a strict schedule. You’ve been getting good at staying away or making yourself unavailable during his Thursday night games. Not tonight, though.
The bald cop, Tony, you think his name is, makes his way to the living room. He eyes you and Sammy, cackling when he sees your legs in Sammy’s lap. “Shit, man,” he slaps Sammy’s shoulder. “She’s got you whipped.”
It’s almost subtle, the way Sammy brushes you off, reaching up to greet the man with one of those bro hugs. But you know him too well, you’ve gotten too good at recognizing the slight flush on his face is embarrassment. As if showing your girlfriend affection is something to be ashamed of.
No wonder they’re all divorced.
Curling completely into yourself, you watch Sammy jump up, heading into the kitchen to greet the rest of his friends streaming in. At the very least they’ve decided the dining table is a better place to play than the living room. That way you don’t have to sneak past them when you try to head into Sammy’s room.
With something venomous burning inside you, you pick up your book again. You’ll just ignore them, read, and go about your night like they aren’t a newfound plague on your peace. As they all settle, it grows increasingly difficult to try and drown them out.
They’re filling the apartment with expletives and insults straight from the eighties, clearly none of them are any good at whatever they’re playing. You’re not even sure why they get together. You’ve never witnessed one successful game.
Through the tin of rowdy men, you manage to make out a knock on the front door. You can’t imagine it’s anyone from this group, they prefer just busting through like the Kool-Aid man.
Sitting up, you tilt your head, trying to hear if anyone’s moving toward it. Another knock and then Sammy’s shouting, “Babe, can you get that?”
“Babe?” You scoff, nose wrinkling as you push off the couch. Sure, you’ll get the door he’s five feet from. You send him a glare he doesn’t bother acknowledging as you throw open the door.
Ben’s waiting on the other side with an easy grin. He’s balancing an obscene amount of pizza boxes as you pull him inside. “Glad you’re here,” you tell him, taking half of the stack from him.
“Thank you,” he mutters, trailing after you into the kitchen. Without even thinking, you’re grabbing plates, already pulling out slices for the others.
Ben gives you an odd look, leaning against the island, head tilted as he watches you. “You’re turning domestic.” His tone is teasing, but it’s not friendly. It seems like a warning.
Swallowing thickly, you shrug, too embarrassed to meet his eyes. “It’s not that big of a deal.” You pause, finally looking up at him and he offers you a knowing smirk. “Right?” You whisper, suddenly unsure of yourself.
“Sure,” he grins, taking some of the plates for you. “Whatever you say.”
“You’re such an ass,” you hiss, following him into the dining room. His shoulders shake a little as he laughs and you roll your eyes. Sammy gives Ben a brief greeting, smiling up at you when you pass him his plate.
You toss Tony’s plate on the table with barely enough control to not have the glass shatter. Just as you begin to walk off, his arm snaps out, hand wrenching your wrist back. “Ow,” you curse, frowning down at the tight grip.
“How about a beer, sweetheart?” He doesn’t even look at you.
You’re just about to tell him off when Sammy’s voice cuts through the chatter. “How about you keep your hands to yourself, Johnson?” The rest of the guys go quiet, looking up from their cards with nosy intrigue. Sammy’s just staring at Tony, and you swear you’ve never seen him so angry.
You’ve heard him yell before, sometimes into the phone, a lot of the times when he’s ranted to you. But this was a lot colder than what you’ve experienced. Too calm to be safe. Slowly, Tony’s disgusting, clammy hand releases your arm.
Sammy doesn't look away, cards splayed carelessly on the table as he leans forward. “You touch her again and we’re gonna have a problem. Got it?”
God, that’s hot.
Tony cows under Sammy’s glare. He shrugs, picking up his cards and muttering how he didn’t mean anything by it. You just scoff, glaring down at the bald bastard. Then, just as you’re thinking about dragging Sammy into the bedroom for being so commanding, he laughs.
Your lips part in astonishment, Ben’s head snaps to him with a furrowed brow. Sammy reaches over the table and slaps Tony’s shoulder. “Ah, come on, man. I’m fuckin’ with you. No big deal.” The other men let out stilted laughter, trying to get over the sudden tension.
Sammy looks over at you, “Right, babe?”
No, it’s a big fucking deal. If I feel those clammy palms one more time, I’ll cut off his fat fingers and serve them to you all on the next game night.
And stop fucking calling me that!
“Whatever,” you mutter, eyes narrowing at him as you swallow every venomous word down. Your dignity burns as it tries to crawl its way back up your throat. But, you force it down, making yourself turn around before you say something you regret.
But, then, Tony chuckles. “Well, the beer, sweetheart?”
That fraying thread of self-control unwinds just a little more as you turn around to glare down at Tony. “You got legs, don’t you? Go get your own fucking beer.”
One of the other guys pipes up, snickering at you like you’re just a little dog yapping at them. “You on the rag or something? Just bring us another round.”
At this point, you don’t even look to Sammy for help. You already know he’s not going to do jack shit. He’s clearly too much of a pussy to snap back at guys with seniority over him. “Pigs,” you mutter, not caring if they hear as you storm off to the bedroom.
The door to Sammy’s room is closed in a poor attempt to block out the noise that’s starting to give you a migraine. You can still hear them, laughing and making fun of each other like they didn’t just humiliate you. Like they didn’t just drag your sweetheart of a boyfriend to the dark side.
You glare down at your phone, an article about that jackass Tony glaring back up at you. You’ve seen multiple bodycam videos, smaller articles, all about this asshole who uses excessive force and has been involved in multiple internal affairs investigations. Sammy might have a shorter temper than most, but he’s not corrupt and he doesn’t just casually hang out with pieces of shit like this. He definitely doesn’t play about someone putting their hands on you. There’s something about this whole situation that seems wrong. You just haven’t figured out what, yet.
The door slowly creaks open and you look up with a scowl. Sammy never checks on you when these guys are over. So, it’s not much of a surprise when you see Ben poking his head inside. “Hey,” he offers a tentative smile.
You sit up, patting the spot on the bed by the footboard. “What’s up?” You ask, anger simmering down slightly as he drops himself beside you.
“So,” he flexes his hands, gaze darting to the door before landing on you again.
You give him a shaky smile. “What’s up, Ben? You’re acting weird.” You tilt your head and shrug. “Weirder than usual.”
He lets out a low laugh, nudging you with his elbow. “Shut up.” For the first time since game nights began, there’s a genuine smile on your face. “What do you think of Sammy’s new buddies?” He nods toward the dining room and you scoff. Whatever face you make clearly says everything you haven’t because he sucks his teeth and nods.
“Yeah, I’m not much of a fan, either.”
“What the hell is going on? I’ve never even heard half their names before and suddenly they’re infesting our apartment.” Ben’s brows perk at the slip up and you shake your head, brushing it off.
He rubs the back of his neck, shifting further up the bed. “I don’t know, there was a change in the shift rotation, we’ve been seeing a lot more of them lately. I can’t believe he’s actually getting along with the assholes.”
“Yeah,” you laugh, but it does nothing to mask the hurt in your voice. “How the hell do you think I feel?” He looks over at you, expression softening at the pain on your face. Carefully, he wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you in for a brief hug.
He seems hesitant to even touch you, probably out of respect for Sammy. But you’ll take whatever comfort you can get, as small as it may be.
Just as you rest your head on him, the bedroom door creaks open completely. Sammy walks in, brows furrowed and a scowl on his face as he takes in the both of you. “Was wondering where you went,” he mutters, glaring at the arm Ben has around you.
Ben lets out an awkward sigh, slowly letting you go. You almost complain, but you don’t feel like dealing with any more machismo drama tonight.
“What’s going on?” Sammy asks, closing the door behind him as he steps into the room. He stands in front of you both, arms crossed in that way that usually makes you want to bite him. But your attraction to him tonight has been severely and utterly depleted.
“We were just discussing the impeccable manners of our guests,” you joke, trailing off when he doesn’t even crack a smile.
“My guests,” he corrects, tone painfully sharp.
“Right, well,” you stutter, completely unsure of yourself. You’ve had too manny slip ups tonight. You’ve allowed yourself far too many moments of delusion thinking that Sammy might actually take the relationship a step further.
Ben jumps in, a scowl on his face as he gets to his feet. “You’re acting like she doesn’t practically live with you, man. Cleaning the place and-”
“Butt out,” Sammy snaps, taking a step closer to Ben. You can feel it brewing, the tension that always seems to linger between them. They’re one pissing contest away from just beating each other bloody.
“Hey, you know,” you get up and stretch with a dramatic yawn. “I’m pretty tired, think I might go to sleep.” Sammy’s eyes dart toward yours before he takes the hint, scoffing as he storms out of the room.
Ben shoots you one last look before he follows after him. In the wake of their absence, something like shame seems to fill you. Your relationship is deteriorating right before your eyes, slipping through your fingers. It feels like you’re just letting it happen. Should you be doing something more?
Is this just a phase he needs to go through?
He did skip the whole bachelor pad thing after his divorce, pretty much already ready to date you. Maybe some part of him never got to expel that chauvinistic resentment of Tammi and he’s doing it now. Not that it makes it any better.
Turning off the lamp, you lay down over the comforter and force your eyes to close.
Barely a few hours later, you can feel the bed dipping behind you. Sammy’s arms wind around your waist, careful as they pull you into his chest. He’s trying not to wake you, completely unaware that you’ve been up the past few hours debating the future of your relationship.
There's a part of you that thinks you've figured out why he's acting like this, why he would ever possibly hang around these clowns. But it's not good enough to excuse how he's been behaving.
“They gone?” You grumble, holding stubbornly to your pillow so you don’t give in and turn around to hug him.
“Yeah,” he hums, the noise vibrating against your back. He pulls you closer, lips slowly trailing along your neck, hands dipping to the waistband of your shorts. Your eyes narrow and you bite back a scoff. He can’t seriously think he’s going to get lucky tonight?
“Just need to clean up,” he tells you, hands pausing their descent. The silence between you is loud, it takes a moment before you catch his meaning.
“When the hell did I turn into your maid?” He stiffens behind you, arms tightening around you. “Not my guests,” you spit out, “not my fucking problem.”
“Oh, baby,” he rolls you over and you hold tight to the pillow. He frowns down at it as it pushes him back from you. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he promises, attempting to tug the pillow from your hands.
You kick out at his ankle and glare. “What did you mean it like? And what was all that with Tony? You’re just going to pretend like it wasn’t a big deal?”
With a low grunt, he wrenches the pillow from your hands. You scowl as he pulls you into him. “I’m really sorry, honey,” he whispers, brushing some hair off your cheek. “That was just…” You raise your brows, so fascinated with whatever BS excuse he’s got this time.
Sammy just sighs, forehead falling against your own as he gives up entirely. “Pathetic,” you whisper. “You’ve got nothing?” Your finger digs into his side and he lets out a low laugh.
“No, nothing.”
“Well then-”
“‘Cept this,” he cuts you off, lips finding yours as he rolls over, taking you with him and settling you comfortably on his lap. You can’t help the little moan that slips out, hips Pavlov’d into immediately moving against his.
His hands drift down, palms finding your ass as he pulls you tighter against him. “You do not play fair,” you mutter against his lips. He just lets out another laugh, thrusting up into you and shocking another moan from you.
“Never said I did,” he teases, hands already reaching for the hem of your shirt. With a defeated sigh, you relent, sitting up and peeling off your top. His hands trail up your body, rough callouses ticking the sensitive skin as he cups your breasts.
You fist his shirt in your hands, dragging him up to meet your lips. “Off,” you demand, tugging at his t-shirt. Sammy’s quick to oblige, soft muscles of his abdomen flexing as he tears it off. What little patience he has snaps as you finally take off your bra. You can't help the laugh that tears out of you when he grabs your waist and flips you over, pressing you into the pillows.
His lips carve a path down your body, skin igniting under every touch as he hooks his fingers into the band of your shorts. “Let me make it up to you?” He asks, shoulders already parting your thighs.
You consider it, he does look handsome between your legs like that. But there’s a barbed hurt in your chest, and humiliation from earlier tonight that makes your tongue knot.
Mouth souring, you shake your head and pull back. “No,” his face falls and you can’t help the cruel laugh that slips from you. You tug him up by his chin and offer a sharp smile. “No sex until you get your little buddies under control.” His jaw drops before his head is falling to the crook of your neck.
“You don’t play fair,” he grumbles, and you can feel just how unfair you’re being by how tight his boxers are.
“Never said I did,” you hum, pressing a kiss to his temple and rolling over. Sammy follows, arms winding around your waist as he mutters to himself.
He can clean his apartment by himself. He can cook his own meals and talk shop with his friends as much as he wants. But he does not get to disrespect you and think everything’s going to be fine and dandy.
You’ll just have to discuss this with him when you’re both not pent up and disappointed.
Your head is resting on his lap, his hands idly stroking along your spine when he laughs. You peer up, curious as you try and catch a glance at his phone. “What is it?”
“Come here,” he pulls on your arm and you sit up, curling into his side. “Just some stupid shit from the guys.” He offers you his phone and you take it, stomach already burning with anticipation. Please just be Ben being a sweet dumbass and not something horrible.
T > Rookie lost it on me today
J > That one’s got a stick up her ass
T > I swear to God I can’t even get through a goddamn conversation without her calling me a Pig.
Your stomach knots itself completely as you glance over at Sammy. He’s already turned his attention to the TV, completely unaware of your internal meltdown. Then, the kicker, Sammy, replying to J’s message.
Pretty sure it’s just a tampon
It’s immediately followed by one of those morons sending a gif of Miss Piggy losing it.
Not only did your man just make a goddamn period joke, they dragged Miss Piggy into this. How the fuck dare they?
You toss Sammy’s phone onto his lap and he lets out a slight groan as it nails his groin. “What,” he trails off at the look on your face. “Oh, come on, sweetheart. It’s not that big a deal.”
Crossing your arms, you put as much space between the two of you as you physically can. “You really think that’s funny?” Sammy rolls his eyes, turning back to the TV and ignoring you. “Fuck that,” you hiss, reaching over and turning it off.
Sammy’s glare is sharp and for the first time he looks like he has no interest in you. That look on his face is just flat, empty as he waits for you to get your rant over with so he can go back to his game.
“So, you agree with that shit?” You demand, heart pumping a little too fast.
Sammy’s head sinks back into the couch cushions with a heavy sigh. “No, come on, leave it alone. It’s just a joke.” Tears sting your eyes as you're reminded of every failed relationship. Every moment you were dismissed or appeased so they could just go back to whatever they want, not giving a damn about how you feel.
“Seriously, Sammy. When I’m upset and just happen to be on my period, do you just dismiss how I’m feeling? Pretend to give a shit so you don’t have to deal with me? When I’m upset do you just think I’m being ridiculous?”
You’re honestly not trying to start a fight. But you’d grown up around the type of men who knew blaming it on your cycle was the best way to shut you up. The most effective way to invalidate your feelings and make you feel so small. You need to know if the man you care so much about has secretly been that sort of man this whole time.
Sammy scrubs his hand down his face and lets out an incredulous laugh. “This is different,” he defends, staring at you like you’re overreacting.
And maybe you are, maybe you aren’t. At this point, it doesn’t matter, because there is no excuse for just how much he’s changed over a few weeks. “How is it different?”
Sammy just shakes his head. He gives you a flat look and scoffs, turning the TV back on. You purse your lips, biting your tongue so the tears don’t spill. “I don't like your new friends.” He either doesn’t notice how choked up you sound or doesn’t care.
“Good thing you’re not my mom,” he mutters.
“No,” you stand up and he sighs. “Just your live-in maid.” Sammy lets out another tired sigh, head sinking into his hand as you collect your things.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m going home, Sammy. “ And as the door slams behind you, he doesn’t try to stop you.
As you head to his apartment, making sure it's not a Thursday, you have to build yourself up. Give yourself a dozen pep talks before you manage to crawl up the stairs.
You’re going to sit down. You’re going to have a conversation. After a copious amount of research on his new friends, you've come to your own conclusion. This has to be some sort of undercover shit he's doing for internal affairs to try and bust these asssholes. But that doesn't change the fact that prolonged exposure to their behaviors has shifted who he is as a person. Changed him into a man you want nothing to do with.
He should have given you a heads up. Told you to stay clear for a few weeks while he works on this. Anything other than throwing you into this deep-end blind.
By the end of the night you’re either going to be single, again, or have the man you care about back.
Tonight, you knock instead of using your key, just needing another minute before you face him. When the door opens, you’re caught off guard by the wide smile on his face. “Oh, thank god.” He reaches out, arms wrapping around your waist as he tugs you into him.
“Uh, hi,” you smile, taken aback by the sudden surge of affection. You barely have a moment to hug him before he’s pulling back.
“Guys are coming over tonight,” he tells you, and your heart drops to your ass as the door closes behind you. “Think you could whip something up for us, baby? I didn’t have time to call the pizza place.”
You’re stunned, absolutely gobsmacked by his audacity as he pulls you into the kitchen. While you’re frozen, jaw permanently dropped, he pulls off your coat and positions you in front of the stove. He even goes so far as to tie on your apron for you.
“I thought you guys meet on Thursdays?” You mutter absentmindedly, blindly pulling ingredients out of the fridge.
“Had a change of plans today,” he presses a kiss to your cheek, and then he’s gone. A minute later you hear his shower start up. You stare down at the stove for a long time before you finally move.
You whip up a feast for him, a last meal if you will. Because you don’t need a conversation anymore. You know exactly how this night is going to end. Might as well give him something decent to eat while you dump him.
The guys start to flood in while he’s still in the shower. They don’t take their shoes off, tracking mud across the linoleum, something Sammy can look forward to cleaning up on his own. They don’t greet you, acknowledge your existence, just grab a beer and carry on.
Feeling numb, you dig through the fridge, finding an expired carton of milk that smells nauseatingly like sulfur. You pour it into your pan, expression flat as the clumps begin to slough out.
The door opens again, you can hear the person taking their shoes off and know who it is before he walks in. “Need any help?”
You don’t turn to face Ben, just toss a handful of vegetables into the pan. “Don’t eat the dip,” you warn him.
“Uh,” he lets out an awkward chuckle. You turn, eyes narrowed as you shake your head. “Well, shit, alright. You got Visine in there or something?”
“Might as well,” you shrug. Slowly, eyes a little wide, he backs out of the kitchen. You just swallow down another wave of fiery rage as you brew up a crime against cooking. But, it will absolutely give them diarrhea for the next week, so you’ll pardon yourself this one time.
Your anger and hurt just builds and festers with every call for beer. Every shouting bought of laughter that makes your shoulders jump and your head throb. By the time Sammy makes it out of the shower, your mind has been entirely made up. Humiliation has gone cold and turned your blood to ice as you stand in his kitchen.
No part of you melts or swoons when he comes up to you with wet curls and presses a kiss to your cheek. His hands hover over your waist, brows furrowing when you don’t turn to reciprocate. You quietly plate his food, giving him an extra serving of dip, and pass it off to him.
“Hey,” he puts the plate on the counter, voice low and soft. “What’s wrong?” He tries to get you to look at him but you stay stubbornly rooted in place, idly pushing the food around in the pan.
“Were you ever going to ask me to move in with you?”
He goes stiff, backing up with a frown that somehow breaches your walls and makes your chest ache. Never been good with rejection, you remind yourself, poorly attempting to build those walls back up. “It’s a little soon, don’t you think?”
You can’t look at him. The second you do, you know you’re just going to cry. You finally thought you were good enough for someone. That someone actually liked you, flaws and all. But, like every other relationship you’ve had, you were just deluding yourself.
Sucking your teeth, you just nod. “Are we okay?” He asks, taking the food and backing up.
“Fine,” you tell him, turning to bring the rest of the snacks to the dining room. Sammy takes his seat, still looking worried as you set everything up. Ben reaches for the dip and you swat his hand, his eyes widen slightly as he remembers your warning and he backs off.
The last plate you set down is with barely any care. You’re angry and hurt, about to leave the one relationship you really thought would last. So, a little sauce splatters on the guys shirts. Not enough to do permanent damage, but enough to have them bitching.
“Damn it!”
“What’re you blind?”
Smiling, you straighten up and let out a sharp laugh. “Alright, I’m done.”
Sammy frowns, hand tightening around his fork. “With the food?” Oh, and that poor pathetic ounce of hope in his voice makes something in you burn.
The TV is blasting behind you and it’s just another noise adding to the pain in your head. You pick up the remote, shutting it off for a moment of peace. Immediately, the grown men in front of you boo, one even tosses a napkin at you, hand reaching for the remote.
And you just… snap.
“Shut up. Shut the fuck up! Jesus Christ, I am so sick of this, of all of you.” They go quiet as you slam the remote on the table, plates trembling. “You are grown men, you want a beer, then you go get it your goddamn selves. And before any one of you fuckers says some shit about me being on my period… I want it to be very clear that I have never been dryer in my life than I am looking at you pathetic excuses for men.”
Sammy stands as you undo your apron, tearing it off and tossing it at him. But you’re not done, it’s just pouring out- everything you didn’t say. Everything you held back for a man who never really wanted you.
“God, you wonder why the female rookies don’t like you people! It’s because everytime she performs better than you, everytime she calls you on your shit, you undermine her and blame it on the ‘rag.’ You’re just pathetic little men who can’t handle a woman who is secure in her job because it reminds you of just how small you are.”
Your face is hot, chest heaving as you stand there, staring at them all. You’re sure they’ve seen this meltdown before. During their divorce proceedings, watching as their marriage fell apart or their daughters stopped talking to them. But, for once, they are blessedly silent and you feel like you can actually breathe again.
There’s laughter and you look up to find Ben leaning back with a grin. He surveys the other’s faces and lets out a low whistle. You’re almost tempted to laugh with him.
Then, Sammy reaches for you, hand hesitant as it lands on your shoulder. “Sweetheart-”
“No,” you snap, voice quieter now. He flinches as you slap his hand away, hazel eyes wide and shining with hurt. “I am done with you, Sammy. Alright?”
“What?” His eyes dart to the others and he takes a desperate step closer to you. But you just shove him back. “Hun, let’s talk about this.”
“No, no I’m done doing that. So, uh, enjoy cracking a beer with the boys without the drama of your untrained woman. You’ve got a right hand, what the fuck else do you need me for?” You grab your purse and shake your head.
Sammy chases after you but you’re not letting him weasel his way out of this again. You’d made a promise to yourself. You’re leaving single tonight, he’s had far too many chances to get his act together.
Just as you’re running into the parking lot, you hear footsteps racing toward you. You whip around, watery glare turning confused when you see Ben catching up with you. “Hey,” he calls out your name and you let out a tired sigh as you stop.
“Look,” he darts in front of you, slightly out of breath. “As entertaining to watch as that was, what’s happening… It’s not what you think.”
“I know,” you interrupt him.
His mouth droops before snapping shut again. “Huh?”
“It’s got to do with an investigation, right?” Slowly, he nods, infuriatingly surprised by you connecting the dots. “Yeah, I figured that out a while ago, Ben. But he didn’t give me any warning before he turned into this Don Draper wannabe. He didn’t prep me or just keep me out of this. This all being a part of something bigger doesn’t change or excuse how humiliated he made me feel.”
Ben wants to say more, you can see it on his face. His arm lifts before falling limply to his side. With a sigh, he runs his hand over his face and offers you a sorry smile. “Do you need a ride home?” He asks softly.
“No, but I appreciate it.” He nods, and you blink, eyes burning as you stare down at the pavement. Hesitantly, his hand lands on your shoulder, softly squeezing before he backs up.
“Take care of yourself.”
You hum, throat too tight for words and wait for him to go back into the building before you let the tears fall.
When you wake up the next morning, your eyes are crusted from crying too much and your head is throbbing from, again, crying a ridiculous amount. Blindly, you grope around your nightstand until you find your phone.
It shouldn’t be a shock that Sammy’s reached out, but the amount of missed calls on your screen is a number you didn’t think you could ever reach.
He’s also blown your messages up. The majority of them promising to explain his behavior. Asking you to call him. Give him one more chance (he’s had plenty). And then there are ones where you can tell he’s starting to get pissed off that you’re just ignoring him.
Serves him right.
Your thumb twitches against the call back button. Almost wanting to hear how he’s going to explain this away. But you force yourself to put the phone down. You swore to yourself, no more cool girl BS. You’re not going to just let him treat you how he did and get away with it.
So, as difficult as it is, you mute his notifications. You don’t have it in your heart to block him, not yet. But you can at least spare yourself the misery of watching his picture light up your screen every ten minutes.
Occasionally, though, throughout the week you have a moment of weakness. You’ll check to see just how much more he’s reached out and then listen to a few voicemails. They all relatively sound the same:
“Please, sweetheart call me back” and then you’ll hear Ben in the background “Man, this is pathetic” Sammy will tell him to shut it and, again, plead for you to just give him a minute of your time.
When you start to feel really lonely, when your bed is just too cold and too big, you almost do it. You’re so close to just calling him so you can hear something other than the quiet of your apartment. This space that has become foreign to you because Sammy’s place was becoming home. And then, you’re reminded of how he treated you, what he took from you both by not just giving you a heads up on the investigation. And you put your phone down, hurt and angry all over again.
By weeks end, your friends call you out to go to a club with them. They don’t know you broke up with Sammy, they think you’re still the perfect couple. Which leads to a night filled with painful, barbed reminders of how alone you are now, while your friends bemoan how perfect and sweet your relationship is.
You should have told them the truth before you went out with them. But they’ve witnessed so many messy breakups from you. They’d probably just blame you. If you can’t keep a decent guy like Sammy than it has to be you whose the problem.
So, after a long night of playing the designated driver (because you’re the only one happy and dating someone, in theory) and being reminded of how amazing your relationship used to be… You’re already in a foul mood when a passing cop decides it’ll be funny to get a handful of your ass.
Not just a slap or a quick squeeze, either. This man puts both palms, cups your cheeks, and nearly lifts you in the air he squeezes so tight. And you, completely ignoring his badge, treat him how you would any other creep.
You deck him.
Suddenly your face is pressing against the hood of a patrol car. Your friends are shouting “We’re recording this, babe!” And you’re being cuffed and thrown into the back of their car.
But, hey, at least your friends recorded it.
“Whoa!” Ben is the first one to see you as you’re pulled into the station. You’d consider yourself lucky if seeing him didn’t mean Sammy was around somewhere.
“What the hell are you doing?” He snaps at your arresting officer while the piece of shit jerks your arm out of socket.
“She assaulted an officer,” his partner pipes up. Your gaze goes to the deep black bruise ringing his eye and you grin.
“All right,” you huff. “Like he didn’t assault me first.”
Ben’s eyes dart between the both of you, his jaw clenching when he sees the marks on your arm from your rough detainment. “What happened?” He asks you, holding up a hand when the cop tries to talk.
“I was out with some friends and this asshole thought he could just stick his hand up my dress.”
“Didn’t take much,” that bitch smirks. “Look at the length of that thing-”
“Hey!” Ben snaps and it catches the attention of some of the others milling around. “That’s enough. Now let her go.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
Ben pushes the guy away, taking his key and working off one of your cuffs. “This is Sammy’s girl, you’re lucky I’m the one that found you, not him.”
The guys eyes widen and he backs off with a huffy sigh. “Shit, I’m sorry.”
“Oh,” your stomach rolls with disgust. “But if it were any other woman, you’d still somehow make yourself the victim? I see I only hold value when there’s a man attached to my name.”
“Alright,” Ben puts his hand on your back, turning you before you provoke another fist fight. “I’m sorry about that.”
He sits you down at his desk and watches you carefully. “I should file a lawsuit,” it’s an empty threat but you seriously considered it on the ride over.
Ben snorts, eyeing you up and down carefully. “How’ve you been doing?”
“Fine,” you shrug. “About as well as anyone is after a breakup.”
Ben leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, a seriously concerned look on his fac. “He’s falling apart.”
“Ben…”
“Seriously, and not just because you poisoned him with spoiled dip,” that brings a small smile to your face. Ben returns it for a moment before his face settles into something more serious. “I don’t know how much more I can take. He’s snapping at any little thing. He won’t stop bitching at me. I’m losing my mind.”
“Look,” you rub your wrist and look away. “Am I being booked or not? I want to go home.”
Ben sighs and scrubs a hand down his face. “You’re not getting booked.”
“Thank you,” and before you can even get up, he’s grabbing the loose handcuff and snapping it to his desk. Your eyes widen, stomach sinking as you tug futilely at it. “Ben,” you hiss. “What the fuck?”
“I’m sorry,” he shrugs off his jacket, laying it over your lap so your dress doesn’t ride all the way up. “But I can’t take this anymore.”
Your jaw drops as he walks off and you know exactly where he’s going. “Traitor!” You shout at his back, he gives you a sarcastic thumbs up that almost make you wish you had a gun.
You’re sitting there for about ten minutes before Sammy’s rushing up. Most of the guys in here know you, but the few that don’t keep asking how much a night will cost. You’re starting to think it might be time to retire this dress.
“Hey,” your name rushes from him in one panicked breath. “What’s happening? Why are you cuffed?”
You suck your teeth and give him a sharp smile. “Your partner decided to play Cupid.” Sammy’s brows furrow, his hands already working on taking the cuffs off.
“Yeah, but why are you here?” He asks, thumbs brushing over the split skin of your knuckles. You jerk your hand back before his soft touch weakens your resolve. Sammy frowns and you can’t make yourself meet the hurt look in his eyes.
“Some asshole grabbed a handful outside The Strip tonight.”
“What the hell were you doing over there?” His tone is far too sharp for a man you’ve already broken up with. Eyes narrowed, your face snaps to his.
“Tone,” you snap. Sammy’s jaw clenches but he backs off a little. “I was out with some friends. Still, being near that place doesn’t just give guys an excuse to grope me.”
Sammy takes a hold of your arm, pulling you away from Ben’s desk and leading you toward an empty room. “I’m not saying it does. I just thought I’ve told you a lot about staying away from there. You know how many half-naked girls we’ve had to pull from their alley?”
“Jesus,” you huff, pulling your arm away as he closes the door. “I got it. I was trying to go home, anyway.”
“Why-” Sammy stops himself, taking a deep breath as color grows on his cheeks. You wait for another lecture but he seems to love proving you wrong. “Why haven’t you called me back?”
Your jaw slacks, an unintelligible garble of words stuttering its way free. “Seriously?” You land on, voice pitched with anger. Sammy’s eyes widen, glancing through the windows of the room to make sure no one’s paying attention. Taking in a deep breath, you force yourself to keep your voice mellow.
You really don’t need to be arrested tonight. Again.
“Sammy, that’s why you dragged me in here? Not because a cop copped a feel?” His expression falls flat at your poor excuse for a joke. Fuck me, then, God forbid you try and ease the tension.
“Obviously I’m upset about that, sweetheart. But it’s not your fault and it’s not you I’m going to be telling off for it. I’ll deal with him later.” You’re sure that means Sammy’s going to beat the guy half to death and Ben will have to clean up the mess.
“Right now, I want to know why you’re just pretending I don’t exist. Like we haven’t been dating for six months.”
Your feet are aching from the obnoxiously tall heels you took out tonight. Not bothering to look at him, you take a seat at one of the desks and peel them off, letting out a low sigh of relief. Sammy just watches with his arms crossed, clearly at the end of his thread.
“Look, babe, I don’t know what you’re not getting about me being done with you, but we’re through. No sex. No calls. No texts. This is what happens when people break up, Sammy.”
Sammy lets out a stressed sigh, lips pulling down as he drags his hand through his hair. “You don’t understand. I had to act like an ass, baby, I’m-”
“Working on an investigation?” You finish, giving him an unimpressed glare. “Yeah, Sammy. I’m not a moron, I figured out why you were acting like a chauvinistic pig all of a sudden. The problem here isn’t that, it’s the lack of communication that led to me being completely humiliated.”
His arms drop to his sides and he just stares, mind spinning as he struggles to figure out a way out of this. Spoiler, there isn’t one.
“I don’t- What do you want me to do, hm? What can I do to make this better?”
You’re ready to dismiss him when you catch an officer’s eye through the window of the room. They’re all out there, his buddies, the asshole that arrested you. Watching and trying to pretend like this isn’t the most interesting thing that’s happened tonight.
Slowly, you drag your gaze back to Sammy, a cruel smile pulling on your lips. “Beg.”
He stills, eyeing you warily. “What?” His tone is incredulous, slightly taken off gaurd.
You shrug, “You really want me back?”
“You know I do.”
“Aright, beg.” You tilt your head, wondering if he’s actually capable of swallowing down his pride.
Slowly, Sammy takes another step closer. “Please, sweet-”
“Hm, no,” you click your tongue, shaking your head in disappointment. “Do this properly, Sammy. On your knees.” His jaw clenches and it's audible how he swallows. Sammy turns toward the blinds and you sigh. “Blinds open. Unless you’re just full of it?”
“You know I’m not,” he grits out, cheeks flushing as a few officers fail to hide their peeping. You almost think he’s going to give up. Before you can scold him for taking too long, he’s dropping to his knees in front of you.
Your eyes widen imperceptibly and it’s an effort not to give away your shock. Sammy’s hands skate over the smooth skin of your legs, squeezing around your calves. “I fucked up, honey, I know that. I will do anything I can to make up for it, just, please, give me another chance.”
It’s a power rush, having such a domineering man on his knees in front of you. That boost to your ego is almost enough to make you cave. But you know Sammy, he can certainly do better than this. He just hates the idea of any of his men seeing it.
Pursing your lips, you lightly kick your leg out. “Put my heels on for me.” He huffs, clearly upset by the lack of response, but he listens anyway. Getting to your feet, Sammy follows, expression expectant.
You pat his shoulder in that condescending way men always do to you. “That was cute, hun. But I’m not changing my mind. You want to fix this, you’re going to have to work a little harder than that.”
Sammy doesn’t object, just scratches at his jaw and lets out a disbelieving sigh. You give him a sharp smile before you make your way to the door. “You're unbelievable,” he calls after you. You shrug, not bothering to look back as you make your way out of the station.
A week after your “arrest,” you’re flipping through channels when a familiar face catches your eye. Tony, the crapbag that Sammy had around, has been arrested. As well as a bunch of other game-night regulars. Extortion, violation of civil rights, spoliation, and a list as long as your arm that just keeps on going. Truly, they are the epitome of scumbags.
You can understand why Sammy was so bent on getting them put away. Even if it came at the risk of your relationship. As much as that makes him a good cop and an honorable man, it doesn’t make him a better boyfriend.
Still, you find your hand inching toward your phone, finger hovering over his contact. You bite your lip, debating the risks when someone knocks on your door. Frowning, you toss your phone on the couch and get up to take a look through the peephole.
It’s like he’s got a sensor for when you’re feeling weak.
Sammy stands on the other side, hands shoved in his pockets as he rocks back on his heels. You step back with a huff and glance down at yourself. Taking an extra minute to hike up your shorts and adjust your boobs, you throw the door open.
“Can I help you, officer?”
He scoffs, lips pulled in an endeared grin. “Still mad, I take it?”
You pause, taking inventory of emotions. The sting of humiliation has eased slightly since you practically put him on a leash at the station. And you do genuinely understand the motivations behind his behavior, you just wished he hadn’t executed it all so stupidly.
“No, I’m not angry, Sammy. I just wish you a happy life of erectile dysfunction and involuntary abstinence.” Pulling back, you go to close the door when he slips his boot inside. Glaring up at him, you frown. “Got a warrant?”
“Enough,” he scolds, pushing the door open. You stumble back with an affronted noise. “You’re not breaking up with me.”
If it were any of your other exes, you’d probably be terrified right now. But he’s not being malicious or threatening to stalk you or take out your family if you don’t unblock him. Instead, there’s almost a slight thrill coming to life in you.
“What?” You scoff.
“I’m not agreeing to this,” he says simply, eyeing your skimpy pajamas with an appreciative gleam in his eye.
You scoff and cross your arms,“That’s not how this works, Sammy.”
He shrugs, “Tough.” When he takes another step closer, you’re almost tempted to run, to drag this out a little longer. But his arms are already winding around your waist and he’s heaving you over his shoulder before you even get a chance to blink.
“Uh, Sammy,” you grasp at his shirt as he marches through your apartment. “What the hell are you doing, you neanderthal?”
“I’m going to make it up to you,” you lift your head and peer around him to see he’s walking you straight into your room. Oh, that’s how he’s going to play this. “Then,” you let out a shocked laugh as he drops you on your bed.
His grin widens at the sound as he grabs your ankles, pulling you even closer to him. “I’m going to ask you to move in with me.”
Your heart races as your expression falls. Your gaze darts to his eyes, trying to figure out if he means this or if this is just a last ditch effort to get you back. “What?” You shake your head, but he doesn’t let you pull away. “Sammy, do you really mean this?”
“‘Course I do, sweetheart,” he brushes a strand of hair off your cheek and leans down to kiss you. Your arms wind around his shoulders off muscle memory.
But you force yourself to pull back, noses brushing as you take a good long look at him. “I’m not playing housewife anymore,” you threaten.
He lets out a little laugh and nods. “I’m gonna take care of you, honey. Don’t you worry.”
And god help you, you actually believe him, but it still doesn’t feel right. “No,” you whisper. Sammy draws back, brows knit in hurt as he shakes his head. “No,” you scramble back from him, arms wrapping around your stomach as you shake your head.
“This isn’t how it’s going to work anymore. You don’t get to fix our problems with sex. Or just decide the course of our relationship. You fucked up, you made me feel like shit. For the first time, I felt safe with someone, and you just took that from me.”
Sammy’s face falls and he takes a seat on the edge of your bed. His head falls into his hands as he lets out a broken sigh. “I’m so sorry,” you believe him. There’s shame, disgust with himself in his voice, but that doesn’t fix this.
“I’ll move in with you, Sammy,” you promise, and his head lifts. “But not anytime soon. I think… I don’t think I’ve been honest about who I am. I’m so used to putting on a show, to trying to keep someone’s attention, I haven’t been myself. I want you to be with the real me. To actually see me, not this glamorized version of myself perfectly made for your gaze.”
“Honey,” he reaches over, taking your hands in his. “Of course I see you. You’re not as good actor as you think,” you let out a watery laugh while he rubs his thumbs across the back of your hands. “But I’m a patient man.”
You shoot him a look and he offers you that boyish smile you love. “I can be patrient,” he swears.
Nodding, you lean forward, brushing your lips against his. “Okay,” you whisper.
“Okay?” he questions, not quite believing you. You smile and let your head drop to the crook of his neck.
“But if you ever treat me like that again… Not even Ben will be able to find your body.”
Sammy lets out a little chuckle, it cuts off as you pinch his side. “Trust me, I believe you.” You lace your fingers with his and let out a small sigh. A fresh start might be the best thing for both of you. The both of you could do with learning to be independent outside of your relationship. And he really needs to know what you look like not being the cool girl before he makes such a big promise as being with you for real.
You’re not planning on making it easy on him. But you have an odd suspicion he might be into that. And anyways, how were you ever expected to say no to a man with arms like these?
Man Child - You're the Codys' new neighbor. You seem boring enough, not much of a threat. But Smurf and Baz are interested in that cushy new job at the bank you'd told them about.
So they send in Pope, hoping to get some decent information out of you. And he knows the rules, don't fall for the marks. But you make it impossible to stick to that rule and Smurf sees that as a threat. She sees you as a threat.
wc: 17.0k
Goodbye - You loved Andrew, even if that meant accepting he would always be in love with someone else. But things changed between you before he went to jail. You thought that maybe you finally meant something. Then you get the letter he'd meant to send to Cath and you have to accept that he never saw you as anything but an easy lay.
You left the Codys behind years ago. Now, Pope's at your door and you don't know what to do with the story he's telling you.
wc: 9.2k
ׂ╰┈➤ Sammy Bryant
Nobody’s Son - You've been his partner for years, but one fight with his wife and he's willing to throw it all away just for a brief night of relief. Now, your life is ruined and you don't want to ever see him again. But the death of your friend brings you back together and suddenly, you're backed into a corner you don't know how to escape from. (Basic knowledge of the show Southland is helpful but not necessary as this follows some plot points).
wc: 20.7K
warning: dark thoughts toward self and unborn baby, allusions to abortion but not explicitly mentioned
Never Getting Laid - You knew it was a risk, dating a cop and all, but Sammy is different. Or, he was, at least. He was probably the best boyfriend you've ever had, the only one you ever saw yourself getting serious with. But then, he had to go and make buddy-buddy with the assholes in his department. Now your sweet boyfriend is gone and you're left picking up the pieces.
wc: 12.7k
ׂ╰┈➤ Titus Danforth
House Tour - You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time, a tale as old as time. Just like the one where they tell you about pretty, naive, broke girls getting swept off their feet by the murdering, Satan-worshipping rich man stalking them.
Oh... Do they not tell that one?
wc: 12.1K
Fire in My Heart - The Danforths like to play a little game with their new brides. They just didn’t know you were playing one of your own.
Mdni 18+ (relatively vanilla p in v, more so wanted to get a scene of mutual desperation/passion)
I think this schedule could be very nice / Call up the boys and crack a Miller Light / Watch the fight / Us girls are fun but stressful / Am I right? / And you got a right hand anyway
Overview: You knew it was a risk, dating a cop and all, but Sammy is different. Or, he was, at least. He was probably the best boyfriend you've ever had, the only one you ever saw yourself getting serious with. But then, he had to go and make buddy-buddy with the assholes in his department. Now your sweet boyfriend is gone and you're left picking up the pieces.
a/n: I actually got pissed at myself rereading this because she let him off way too easily at the end. So it's been revamped and, in my opinion, I think she gives him a proper amount of hell (Also, note the lyrics of this song, it’s going to be following those slightly misogynistic points for the first section of the plot)
more at: Belle’s 3k Extravaganza
wc: 12.7k
By no means are you the type of woman to throw on an apron and go all June Cleaver for a man. However, Sammy seems to be the exception to your rule. The first time you surprised him with dinner, there had been such earnest gratefulness in his eyes that you couldn’t help yourself. Every time you think of how stressed he gets at work, how much hell he receives on patrol, you just get the urge to take care of him.
It’s bad enough you’re spreading it for a cop, now you can add traitor to feminism on the list. Who can blame a girl, though, when he’s got biceps like those? Every time you see him, you just want to sink your teeth in him. Mark your territory for any doe-eyed woman that tries to flirt her way out of a ticket.
Most of your time is spent at his place so you can cook for him like you are tonight. Usually, while you wait for the food to finish, you find yourself cleaning up a little. The way he practically drops to his knees every time you take care of him has your sixth sense going off.
You know it’s coming soon, him asking you to move in with him. Your female spidey-senses are primed to go off the second you find a man ready to commit. It is such a rare trait nowadays.
It would be smart to say yes to him; you practically live with him already. But something is holding you back. No matter how much you care about him (maybe even love him), there is this gnawing thought that’s been plaguing you. Everything's been going good.
Perfect, even.
You’re crazy about each other, your fights are always resolved quickly, and he does anything he can to make you happy. But things are too easy, too conflict-free. Something bad is coming, you just know it.
The lock clicks on the door, and you find yourself smiling, already untying your apron. Turning the heat down on the stove, you turn in time to see Sammy walking in. His face lights up as he sees you.
He drops into your embrace the second you open your arms. You laugh a little, shifting your hips so his holster isn’t digging into you. He mutters into your neck how much he missed you, and you feel the rest of your carefully enforced independence shrink away.
It’s inevitable. You’ve gone full housewife.
“How was work?” You ask, dragging your hand through his hair as he pulls back. He shrugs you off, and you sigh, realizing this is going to be a man-no-talk-about-feelings night. He huffs and tosses his jacket on the kitchen island.
Your gaze narrows, and you click your tongue once. Sammy’s eyes widen before he picks it up, moving it to the entryway closet. Where it belongs.
“Good boy,” you murmur, smirking when you see the color that grows on his cheeks.
He comes up behind you, arm winding around your waist. You glance down at his thick forearm and physically hold back the urge to dig your teeth into him. “God, sweetheart, this looks amazing,” he lets out a breathy exhale as he watches you finish up dinner. You grin, making him a plate as he lets go and takes a seat at the island.
“Beer?” You ask, already getting it for him. I’m a traitor to my people, you think as you hand your man a cold one to go with the steak dinner you’d cooked. You’re making yourself your own plate when you catch him frowning at the stove.
“What’s wrong?” He finally looks over at you and raises his brows. “I thought you liked this,” you tell him, nodding toward the food.
He lets out a scoff and gives you an incredulous look. “‘Course I do, are you kidding? I love anything you cook.”
You fight back your smile at such simple praise. “Alright, why do you look like someone pissed in your beer, then?”
His face screws up and you can’t help but laugh. Almost sheepish, he rubs the back of his neck, no longer meeting your eyes. “Got a couple guys from the station coming over.”
Shrugging, you finally take a bite of your dinner. Compliments to the chef, you think smugly. “What’s the big deal? Ben comes over all the time.”
Sammy moves his food around his plate and you glare down at the action. “They might be a little hungry.”
You let out an astonished scoff and he shrinks back with that boyish grin on his face that makes it nearly impossible for you to be mad. “Jeez, what am I, Sammy? Your girlfriend or maid? You know I don’t cook for any man.”
He glances down at his plate and then back at you with a pointed look. Rolling your eyes, you wave him off. “This is a rare exception because we have such amazing chemistry in bed. I swear, if you were an inch smaller down there, you’d be nuking stouffers.”
Sammy lets out a small huff of laughter that makes the constant tight feeling in your chest ease ever so slightly. “Glad to know what I’m worth. I’ll just order a pizza.”
“Shut up,” you tell him, already digging around in the fridge for some food to make his friends. You cut open a pack of kielbasa and toss it in a pan, your dinner going forgotten on the counter. Pointing a spatula at Sammy you warn him, “Don’t get used to this.”
He laughs at the sharp look on your face, his smile dropping when you pinch your lips, openly glaring at him. “Of course, sweetheart.”
You turn back to the stove with a weak sigh. “I’m only doing this because you’ve got that pathetic kicked puppy look on your face.” Quietly, he makes his way up to you, arms once again tugging you into his firm chest.
“I promise,” he mutters into your neck, pressing a soft kiss there that has your stomach flooding with warmth. “I’ll make this up to you with my amazing bed chem,” he mocks. You laugh but it trails off as you melt further into him, an ache between your legs getting stronger the longer he kisses you.
“You play dirty,” you mutter, and he smiles against your skin, knowing exactly what he’s doing.
The guys he invites over seem nice enough. They’re loud, brash, and a little abrasive in the way your dad’s old friends used to be. Nothing you can’t handle or don’t expect from a group of off-duty cops.
Though, your skin does crawl when you set the food out in the living room and you realize just the type of men you’re currently serving. Never ever again, you swear to yourself. There’s a knock at the door and you go to open it.
A little piece of you relaxes when you look through the peephole and find Ben waiting on the other side. He smiles as you tug open the door. “Hey,” you greet, already pulling him into a hug. He presses a brief kiss to your temple and wraps his arm around your shoulder, pulling you back into the apartment. “You have no idea how relieved I am to see you,” you tell him.
“Yeah?” He lets out a low whistle as he takes in the disaster area that is Sammy’s kitchen. “When’d you have time for all this?” He chuckles, plucking some of your leftover steak and popping it in his mouth.
“When I skipped dinner,” you grumble, ignoring the concerned look he shoots you. “It’s just a one time thing,” you tell him. “Sammy’s seemed a little off lately, I figured he needed an easy night.”
“Yeah,” Ben walks up to you, hand once again finding your shoulder. “I’ve noticed that, too. Was getting a little worried.”
Any further conversation is interrupted as someone shouts, “Beer!” from the living room. You shoot Ben an astonished look that he only laughs at.
“Hey, sweetheart,” Sammy trails off, eyes narrowing at Ben’s completely platonic touch on your arm. He walks over and swats his grip away, tugging you back into his chest.
You let out a short chuckle at the amused look on Ben’s face. “I’ve been designated the beer wench,” you tell Sammy. He scowls, brows furrowing as he scoffs.
“I’ll take care of it.” He reaches over for the dinner you’d abandoned and places it firmly in your hands. “Finish eating, sweetheart.” He doesn’t leave any room for argument, redirecting you to a seat as he points at Ben. “You’re with me, come on.” Ben shoots you one last grin before he helps Sammy carry the beer into the living room.
The living room gets louder the longer they stay. For the most part, you manage to ignore it, flipping through your book as you pick at your dinner.
“We need more dip!” Your brows furrow and you look up with a scoff. There’s no way they think you’re actually going to bring them any. Right?
Shaking your head, you settle back into your seat and resume reading. “Dip!”
“Fuck me,” you mutter, shoulders tense as you work to ignore the assholes in Sammy’s living room.
It’s not much longer until Sammy’s walking into the kitchen. His brows raise when he spots you at the table. You give him a tense smile that’s met with a confused frown. “I thought you were in my room.”
You shake your head, “Nope. Been in here the whole time.”
Sammy glances between you and the living room with a cute little furrow between his brows. “Can you hear us in there?”
“Oh yeah,” you scoff. “Loud and clear.” Your point is almost instantly proven by a loud round of jeering laughter that makes your skin shrink back.
“Oh, well,” he hums, digging through the fridge to grab the dip. “How come you didn’t bring this?” He asks, holding up the container.
Your eyes narrow sharply. “Maybe because it’s not the fifties and they’re grown men who can walk their asses into the kitchen themselves. Besides, you’re the only one I’m sleeping with, you’re the only one who gets to ask for it.”
A grin breaks out on his face as he walks over to you. You lean forward, chin tilting as his hand slides around your shoulder to cup the back of your neck. “I’ll get them under control,” he promises, pressing a lingering kiss against your lips.
You just nod, head tilting as you admire his ass as he makes his way back into the living room. With a heavy sigh, you force yourself out of your chair and start cleaning up the disastrous array of dishes.
Your hands are pruny and dried out by the time you’re done. So, with the most reluctant gait, you force yourself out into the living room to fetch your favorite lotion. A football game is playing on the TV at an obscene volume, but they seem to be ignoring it in favor of whatever card game they’ve got going on.
Ben shoots you a small smile as he catches you creeping around the perimeter of the living room. Just as you’re about to sneak out, he calls your name, cutting through the buzz of chatter. “Gonna join us?”
His smug grin is met with a stare that promises death. “Oh, sure,” you grit out, wishing you could choke him out. Sammy waves you over and you perch on the edge of the couch’s armrest. “You winning?” You ask, glancing over his cards and finding yourself completely lost on whatever game it is they’re playing.
One of his buddies lets out a loud laugh and Sammy’s cheeks go red. You’ll take that as a no. The guy reaches over, slapping Sammy’s shoulder. “Hey, who knows, maybe your little lady can be a good luck charm.”
“Don’t love that,” you whisper to Sammy as he takes you by the waist and pulls you onto his lap.
“What,” he teases, “you don’t like being my little lady?”
You slap at his shoulder and he just laughs. You make yourself comfortable, head resting in the curve of his neck as you watch a few more rounds of this odd game play out. It doesn’t seem that anyone’s particularly good at it. Every turn ends with someone muttering something obscene under their breath.
When your brain has reached its threshold for drunken cheers, you turn your lips toward Sammy’s ear. “I’m going to bed,” you tell him. Already struggling to keep your eyes open.
He peers over at you, eyes a little wide. “You’re staying the night?”
You pull back, slightly offended by his tone. “Don’t I always?”
Something shifts on his face, this fleeting emotion that he doesn’t let you get a decent read on. “Yeah, yeah,” his tone is too light, so casual you don’t believe it. “I just don’t want us being loud and keeping you up.”
You just shake your head and press a firm kiss to his cheek. “You know I sleep through anything.” Balancing slightly on his shoulder, you push yourself up to your feet.
“Calling it quits?” Ben asks, looking just as bored as you are. You just offer him a tired smile and move to head to Sammy’s bedroom.
“Hey, sweetheart, you mind clearing some of this away so we can use the table?” Turning, you’re shocked to find one of Sammy’s buddy’s addressing you. Although, you’re not sure how you can be certain considering he doesn’t even look at you when he’s speaking, eyes too focused on his cards.
“Excuse me?” You mutter, so taken aback you forget to tell him off.
“You’re a doll,” he dismisses, swiping one of the other men’s cards. Stunned by the audacity and such blatant dismissal, you actually find yourself doing what he asks. It feels wrong as you bend down and scoop up the plates. You practically made them a feast, the least these assholes could do is help you clean up.
With a low huff and a pointed glare at Sammy, you take the dishes into the kitchen. You don’t even want to clean them. You’ve already spent half an hour doing that tonight. But the idea of all this food being dried on the ceramic tomorrow disturbs you just enough to grab the sponge.
Ben walks in from the living room, a couple of plates and glasses in his hands. He drops them by the sink and you send him a grateful smile. “Thought you were going to bed,” he muses, digging around in the fridge for another beer.
A little bit of shame curls in your stomach as you clean up after the men in Sammy’s apartment. “Yeah,” you shrug. “I just don’t want to worry about this in the morning.”
He lets out a snort which snags a laugh from you. “Why would you worry? This ain’t even your place.”
Your hands still, soap and soggy crumbs dripping beneath your fingers as you hesitate to meet his eyes. “Well,” you force a cheeky smile and shrug. “Not yet, at least.” God, how pathetic are you?
He holds his hands up, surrendering even though you can see there’s more he wants to say. You watch him as he heads back into the living room and drop the dishes in the sink. You’re done for the night, you’ve done far more than you even wanted to. Sucking in a sharp breath you dry your hands and try to head back to bed.
A quick, “Beer!” has you pausing at the threshold of the kitchen. It pains you, but you’re already in here and you don’t feel like looking petty in front of Sammy’s friends. Grumbling under your breath about men and getting off their fat asses, you pluck a beer from the fridge and plop it in the first outstretched palm you see.
The man chuckles while Ben shoots you a surprised look. “Nice, Sammy. You’ve got her well-trained. Must’ve learned from the first marraige.” Your jaw actually drops as you stare at the balding man addressing your boyfriend.
Another one pipes up, his laughter making your skin crawl. “Everyone knows the first is just a starter. It’s not until, at least, the third that you actually land a decent broad.”
You suck your teeth, staring pointedly at Sammy while you wait for him to pipe up. When he doesn’t, a low chuckle leaves you. “Hear that, baby? You got one more after me.”
Sammy finally meets your eye, just barely. His head ducks down as he shrugs. “They don’t mean it like that.” You let out an astounded gasp, looking around for anyone to support you on just how insanely backwards this whole conversation is. But the only one who will meet your eye is Ben and his stupid face just says “I told you so.”
“Right, okay.” You finally make your way into Sammy’s bedroom, just to grab your bag and turn your happy ass right around. “I’m going home, Sammy,” you call over your shoulder.
“Wait- What?”
You hear Ben let out a little laugh while you grab your coat from the hook. “Hope you’re ready to get reacquainted with your right hand, man.” His tone is malicious.
It’s strange, going to your own place after work. Not immediately starting on dinner. It’s a slight wake-up call that you’re committing too much of your time to a man who hasn’t even asked you to move in yet.
Still, that doesn’t make you miss the smile he always greets you with any less. Tossing your coat on the back of your couch, you head into your kitchen. Your cabinets are hardly stalked, the majority of your meals taking place at Sammy’s apartment. Meaning your dinner tonight is going to be expired ramen and some saltines.
You’ve had worse.
Your phone rings just as you toss the ramen in the microwave. Glaring down at the screen you watch Sammy’s picture light up. Crossing your arms, you lean back on the counter and wait for it to stop. He immediately calls back and you decide to let him stew a bit. You allow three ignored calls before you finally pick up on the fourth.
“Hey, sweetheart, where are you?” He’s doing a horrible job at masking the stress in his voice and it almost makes you smile.
“I’m at my place. Where else would I be?” You turn to the microwave, watching as the water bubbles and froths over the lid of your ramen cup. Grimacing, you redirect your attention to Sammy. More importantly, the leftovers you know he has and you really want to dig into.
“With me,” he supplies, laughter light and uneasy.
You hum a little and shake your head. “I don’t know. Is this because you miss me? Or is it just because I’m so well trained?” You make zero effort to hide the venom in your tone. He should know he screwed up. He should have also already figured out that he was going to be put on a week-long sex probation after last night.
Sammy lets out a low groan and you can picture the way he probably slides his hand across his jaw, eyes clenching shut. “I’m really sorry about that, honey. I swear, I told them off the second you left. I just got drunk and…”
“And… acted like the sort of jackasses I’ve already spent a lifetime dumping?” You supply for him.
He lets out another low laugh and you hate how you find yourself smiling at the sound. “Exactly. So, would you come over? Let me make it up to you?”
You let out a sharp breath, eyeing your boiling dinner with disdain. “You’re lucky I don’t have anything to eat over here.”
You let yourself in with the key Sammy gave you. Not an invitation to move in, just an easier way for you to get in before him and have dinner ready. Maybe his friends were right, he does have you trained.
Shaking away the disturbing thought, you narrow your eyes as Sammy walks out of the kitchen. He gives you that familiar smile of his you love and it takes every iota of self control not to return it.
He frowns when you don’t reciprocate. “Really, sweetheart?”
“What?” You take your coat off, kicking the door closed behind you.
Sammy shoots you a flat look, palm finding a spot on your lower back as he guides you into the kitchen. “Is this how we’re playing it tonight? You want to be passive-aggressive?”
You scoff, some of your anger easing as you realize he’s made dinner, tonight. “I actually just prefer aggressive-aggressive, you should be happy I’m being passive.” Sammy just laughs and presses a firm kiss to your temple.
“You’re impossible, you know that?” You hum, watching as he grabs two plates and drops them on the dining table. You follow him, moving to take a seat when his hands snake out and take a hold of your waist.
“What’re you-” There’s no stopping the laugh that bubbles out of you as he tugs you onto his lap. And that knowing smile he sends you means he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. “Yeah, I’m the impossible one,” you scowl, but it’s defeated by the smile tugging at your lips.
He reaches up, brushing some hair over your shoulder as he shifts you in his lap. He’s got a better view of your face now, his expression softening into something sincere. “I really am sorry about last night, hun. There’s no excuse.”
You bite your lip, arm lifting to wind over his shoulders. Inside, you’re still fuming, raging at him for not even attempting to defend you, just letting those guys speak to you like you were some maid. But you’ve spent years being the “cool” girlfriend, always letting shit slide so that guys don’t get tired of you after a month.
So, instead of doubling down, you lean down and kiss him. “It’s fine, Sammy,” you tell him.
Unfortunately, the cool girl syndrome has and always will be a chronic blight on your life.
“We, uh, have a schedule, now,” he tells you. His eyes drop from your face, fiddling with a stray thread on your sweater, instead.
You swat his hand away before he ruins the hem. “What do you mean?”
“Every Thursday night,” he tells you, head resting against your shoulder as you pick at the food he made. “There shouldn't be any more surprise drop-ins for you.”
You let out a huff that he tenses at. As much as you want to object, you’ve been on the receiving end of one of his rants when he was first divorcing Tammi. She had never wanted to go to his office functions. Never wanted to meet any of his cop buddies. She was always so neurotic and steadfast in being as separated from his work as she could be.
You didn’t want to do that. You weren’t looking to be the girl that shit on her man hanging out with his friends just because you don’t like them (cool girl strikes again). You don’t want his friends to be right, you don’t want to just be the stepping stone while he looks for the third wife.
“Alright,” you acquiesce and he perks up. That stupid, crooked grin almost makes it worth it. “But that bar-wench shit isn’t ever happening again,” you warn him, tone icy as you pull him back by his hair, forcing him to meet your eyes.
Sammy nods eagerly, “I know, baby. We’re just gonna order pizzas from now on, you won’t have to do a damn thing.” Your gaze narrows into something sharp and he offers a timid smile. “And for the rest of tonight, I’m at your beck and call, promise.”
Slowly, you loosen your grip on his hair, running your fingers through the curls. And the way he preens when you call him a “Good boy” almost makes you think his friends won’t be a problem.
There’s a game on the TV, soccer or football, you don’t know. Sammy’s got it turned down low so you can focus on your book. He’d dropped onto the couch an hour ago and hasn’t found the energy to move since.
Peering over the edge of your book you watch as he pulls your legs into his lap, eyes never leaving the TV. A little smile curls on your lips as his hands idly stroke over your skin. He doesn’t even look like he’s aware he’s awake and he still needs his hands on you.
You hide behind your book as your smile grows. Asshole, making you all flustered over something so small.
Really, though, it’s not your fault that all your exes were pieces of crap. That now your standards are so low you think a man respecting your “no” is a sign of saintliness.
Just as you settle back into your book, Sammy’s door slams open, loud footsteps sounding through the entryway. Your heart jumps to your throat, legs jolting as you try and get a look over the couch. Sammy’s hands tighten around your legs, stopping you from bolting. Despite the way you can feel your heartbeat in your abdomen and are about to soil yourself, Sammy looks utterly unbothered.
“Where you at, man?”
“Shit,” you hiss at the unnecessarily loud voice coming from the door. Grabbing your phone you check the date and, sure enough, it's Thursday. Like an idiot you’ve already forgotten that he and his buddies are now on a strict schedule. You’ve been getting good at staying away or making yourself unavailable during his Thursday night games. Not tonight, though.
The bald cop, Tony, you think his name is, makes his way to the living room. He eyes you and Sammy, cackling when he sees your legs in Sammy’s lap. “Shit, man,” he slaps Sammy’s shoulder. “She’s got you whipped.”
It’s almost subtle, the way Sammy brushes you off, reaching up to greet the man with one of those bro hugs. But you know him too well, you’ve gotten too good at recognizing the slight flush on his face is embarrassment. As if showing your girlfriend affection is something to be ashamed of.
No wonder they’re all divorced.
Curling completely into yourself, you watch Sammy jump up, heading into the kitchen to greet the rest of his friends streaming in. At the very least they’ve decided the dining table is a better place to play than the living room. That way you don’t have to sneak past them when you try to head into Sammy’s room.
With something venomous burning inside you, you pick up your book again. You’ll just ignore them, read, and go about your night like they aren’t a newfound plague on your peace. As they all settle, it grows increasingly difficult to try and drown them out.
They’re filling the apartment with expletives and insults straight from the eighties, clearly none of them are any good at whatever they’re playing. You’re not even sure why they get together. You’ve never witnessed one successful game.
Through the tin of rowdy men, you manage to make out a knock on the front door. You can’t imagine it’s anyone from this group, they prefer just busting through like the Kool-Aid man.
Sitting up, you tilt your head, trying to hear if anyone’s moving toward it. Another knock and then Sammy’s shouting, “Babe, can you get that?”
“Babe?” You scoff, nose wrinkling as you push off the couch. Sure, you’ll get the door he’s five feet from. You send him a glare he doesn’t bother acknowledging as you throw open the door.
Ben’s waiting on the other side with an easy grin. He’s balancing an obscene amount of pizza boxes as you pull him inside. “Glad you’re here,” you tell him, taking half of the stack from him.
“Thank you,” he mutters, trailing after you into the kitchen. Without even thinking, you’re grabbing plates, already pulling out slices for the others.
Ben gives you an odd look, leaning against the island, head tilted as he watches you. “You’re turning domestic.” His tone is teasing, but it’s not friendly. It seems like a warning.
Swallowing thickly, you shrug, too embarrassed to meet his eyes. “It’s not that big of a deal.” You pause, finally looking up at him and he offers you a knowing smirk. “Right?” You whisper, suddenly unsure of yourself.
“Sure,” he grins, taking some of the plates for you. “Whatever you say.”
“You’re such an ass,” you hiss, following him into the dining room. His shoulders shake a little as he laughs and you roll your eyes. Sammy gives Ben a brief greeting, smiling up at you when you pass him his plate.
You toss Tony’s plate on the table with barely enough control to not have the glass shatter. Just as you begin to walk off, his arm snaps out, hand wrenching your wrist back. “Ow,” you curse, frowning down at the tight grip.
“How about a beer, sweetheart?” He doesn’t even look at you.
You’re just about to tell him off when Sammy’s voice cuts through the chatter. “How about you keep your hands to yourself, Johnson?” The rest of the guys go quiet, looking up from their cards with nosy intrigue. Sammy’s just staring at Tony, and you swear you’ve never seen him so angry.
You’ve heard him yell before, sometimes into the phone, a lot of the times when he’s ranted to you. But this was a lot colder than what you’ve experienced. Too calm to be safe. Slowly, Tony’s disgusting, clammy hand releases your arm.
Sammy doesn't look away, cards splayed carelessly on the table as he leans forward. “You touch her again and we’re gonna have a problem. Got it?”
God, that’s hot.
Tony cows under Sammy’s glare. He shrugs, picking up his cards and muttering how he didn’t mean anything by it. You just scoff, glaring down at the bald bastard. Then, just as you’re thinking about dragging Sammy into the bedroom for being so commanding, he laughs.
Your lips part in astonishment, Ben’s head snaps to him with a furrowed brow. Sammy reaches over the table and slaps Tony’s shoulder. “Ah, come on, man. I’m fuckin’ with you. No big deal.” The other men let out stilted laughter, trying to get over the sudden tension.
Sammy looks over at you, “Right, babe?”
No, it’s a big fucking deal. If I feel those clammy palms one more time, I’ll cut off his fat fingers and serve them to you all on the next game night.
And stop fucking calling me that!
“Whatever,” you mutter, eyes narrowing at him as you swallow every venomous word down. Your dignity burns as it tries to crawl its way back up your throat. But, you force it down, making yourself turn around before you say something you regret.
But, then, Tony chuckles. “Well, the beer, sweetheart?”
That fraying thread of self-control unwinds just a little more as you turn around to glare down at Tony. “You got legs, don’t you? Go get your own fucking beer.”
One of the other guys pipes up, snickering at you like you’re just a little dog yapping at them. “You on the rag or something? Just bring us another round.”
At this point, you don’t even look to Sammy for help. You already know he’s not going to do jack shit. He’s clearly too much of a pussy to snap back at guys with seniority over him. “Pigs,” you mutter, not caring if they hear as you storm off to the bedroom.
The door to Sammy’s room is closed in a poor attempt to block out the noise that’s starting to give you a migraine. You can still hear them, laughing and making fun of each other like they didn’t just humiliate you. Like they didn’t just drag your sweetheart of a boyfriend to the dark side.
You glare down at your phone, an article about that jackass Tony glaring back up at you. You’ve seen multiple bodycam videos, smaller articles, all about this asshole who uses excessive force and has been involved in multiple internal affairs investigations. Sammy might have a shorter temper than most, but he’s not corrupt and he doesn’t just casually hang out with pieces of shit like this. He definitely doesn’t play about someone putting their hands on you. There’s something about this whole situation that seems wrong. You just haven’t figured out what, yet.
The door slowly creaks open and you look up with a scowl. Sammy never checks on you when these guys are over. So, it’s not much of a surprise when you see Ben poking his head inside. “Hey,” he offers a tentative smile.
You sit up, patting the spot on the bed by the footboard. “What’s up?” You ask, anger simmering down slightly as he drops himself beside you.
“So,” he flexes his hands, gaze darting to the door before landing on you again.
You give him a shaky smile. “What’s up, Ben? You’re acting weird.” You tilt your head and shrug. “Weirder than usual.”
He lets out a low laugh, nudging you with his elbow. “Shut up.” For the first time since game nights began, there’s a genuine smile on your face. “What do you think of Sammy’s new buddies?” He nods toward the dining room and you scoff. Whatever face you make clearly says everything you haven’t because he sucks his teeth and nods.
“Yeah, I’m not much of a fan, either.”
“What the hell is going on? I’ve never even heard half their names before and suddenly they’re infesting our apartment.” Ben’s brows perk at the slip up and you shake your head, brushing it off.
He rubs the back of his neck, shifting further up the bed. “I don’t know, there was a change in the shift rotation, we’ve been seeing a lot more of them lately. I can’t believe he’s actually getting along with the assholes.”
“Yeah,” you laugh, but it does nothing to mask the hurt in your voice. “How the hell do you think I feel?” He looks over at you, expression softening at the pain on your face. Carefully, he wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you in for a brief hug.
He seems hesitant to even touch you, probably out of respect for Sammy. But you’ll take whatever comfort you can get, as small as it may be.
Just as you rest your head on him, the bedroom door creaks open completely. Sammy walks in, brows furrowed and a scowl on his face as he takes in the both of you. “Was wondering where you went,” he mutters, glaring at the arm Ben has around you.
Ben lets out an awkward sigh, slowly letting you go. You almost complain, but you don’t feel like dealing with any more machismo drama tonight.
“What’s going on?” Sammy asks, closing the door behind him as he steps into the room. He stands in front of you both, arms crossed in that way that usually makes you want to bite him. But your attraction to him tonight has been severely and utterly depleted.
“We were just discussing the impeccable manners of our guests,” you joke, trailing off when he doesn’t even crack a smile.
“My guests,” he corrects, tone painfully sharp.
“Right, well,” you stutter, completely unsure of yourself. You’ve had too manny slip ups tonight. You’ve allowed yourself far too many moments of delusion thinking that Sammy might actually take the relationship a step further.
Ben jumps in, a scowl on his face as he gets to his feet. “You’re acting like she doesn’t practically live with you, man. Cleaning the place and-”
“Butt out,” Sammy snaps, taking a step closer to Ben. You can feel it brewing, the tension that always seems to linger between them. They’re one pissing contest away from just beating each other bloody.
“Hey, you know,” you get up and stretch with a dramatic yawn. “I’m pretty tired, think I might go to sleep.” Sammy’s eyes dart toward yours before he takes the hint, scoffing as he storms out of the room.
Ben shoots you one last look before he follows after him. In the wake of their absence, something like shame seems to fill you. Your relationship is deteriorating right before your eyes, slipping through your fingers. It feels like you’re just letting it happen. Should you be doing something more?
Is this just a phase he needs to go through?
He did skip the whole bachelor pad thing after his divorce, pretty much already ready to date you. Maybe some part of him never got to expel that chauvinistic resentment of Tammi and he’s doing it now. Not that it makes it any better.
Turning off the lamp, you lay down over the comforter and force your eyes to close.
Barely a few hours later, you can feel the bed dipping behind you. Sammy’s arms wind around your waist, careful as they pull you into his chest. He’s trying not to wake you, completely unaware that you’ve been up the past few hours debating the future of your relationship.
There's a part of you that thinks you've figured out why he's acting like this, why he would ever possibly hang around these clowns. But it's not good enough to excuse how he's been behaving.
“They gone?” You grumble, holding stubbornly to your pillow so you don’t give in and turn around to hug him.
“Yeah,” he hums, the noise vibrating against your back. He pulls you closer, lips slowly trailing along your neck, hands dipping to the waistband of your shorts. Your eyes narrow and you bite back a scoff. He can’t seriously think he’s going to get lucky tonight?
“Just need to clean up,” he tells you, hands pausing their descent. The silence between you is loud, it takes a moment before you catch his meaning.
“When the hell did I turn into your maid?” He stiffens behind you, arms tightening around you. “Not my guests,” you spit out, “not my fucking problem.”
“Oh, baby,” he rolls you over and you hold tight to the pillow. He frowns down at it as it pushes him back from you. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he promises, attempting to tug the pillow from your hands.
You kick out at his ankle and glare. “What did you mean it like? And what was all that with Tony? You’re just going to pretend like it wasn’t a big deal?”
With a low grunt, he wrenches the pillow from your hands. You scowl as he pulls you into him. “I’m really sorry, honey,” he whispers, brushing some hair off your cheek. “That was just…” You raise your brows, so fascinated with whatever BS excuse he’s got this time.
Sammy just sighs, forehead falling against your own as he gives up entirely. “Pathetic,” you whisper. “You’ve got nothing?” Your finger digs into his side and he lets out a low laugh.
“No, nothing.”
“Well then-”
“‘Cept this,” he cuts you off, lips finding yours as he rolls over, taking you with him and settling you comfortably on his lap. You can’t help the little moan that slips out, hips Pavlov’d into immediately moving against his.
His hands drift down, palms finding your ass as he pulls you tighter against him. “You do not play fair,” you mutter against his lips. He just lets out another laugh, thrusting up into you and shocking another moan from you.
“Never said I did,” he teases, hands already reaching for the hem of your shirt. With a defeated sigh, you relent, sitting up and peeling off your top. His hands trail up your body, rough callouses ticking the sensitive skin as he cups your breasts.
You fist his shirt in your hands, dragging him up to meet your lips. “Off,” you demand, tugging at his t-shirt. Sammy’s quick to oblige, soft muscles of his abdomen flexing as he tears it off. What little patience he has snaps as you finally take off your bra. You can't help the laugh that tears out of you when he grabs your waist and flips you over, pressing you into the pillows.
His lips carve a path down your body, skin igniting under every touch as he hooks his fingers into the band of your shorts. “Let me make it up to you?” He asks, shoulders already parting your thighs.
You consider it, he does look handsome between your legs like that. But there’s a barbed hurt in your chest, and humiliation from earlier tonight that makes your tongue knot.
Mouth souring, you shake your head and pull back. “No,” his face falls and you can’t help the cruel laugh that slips from you. You tug him up by his chin and offer a sharp smile. “No sex until you get your little buddies under control.” His jaw drops before his head is falling to the crook of your neck.
“You don’t play fair,” he grumbles, and you can feel just how unfair you’re being by how tight his boxers are.
“Never said I did,” you hum, pressing a kiss to his temple and rolling over. Sammy follows, arms winding around your waist as he mutters to himself.
He can clean his apartment by himself. He can cook his own meals and talk shop with his friends as much as he wants. But he does not get to disrespect you and think everything’s going to be fine and dandy.
You’ll just have to discuss this with him when you’re both not pent up and disappointed.
Your head is resting on his lap, his hands idly stroking along your spine when he laughs. You peer up, curious as you try and catch a glance at his phone. “What is it?”
“Come here,” he pulls on your arm and you sit up, curling into his side. “Just some stupid shit from the guys.” He offers you his phone and you take it, stomach already burning with anticipation. Please just be Ben being a sweet dumbass and not something horrible.
T > Rookie lost it on me today
J > That one’s got a stick up her ass
T > I swear to God I can’t even get through a goddamn conversation without her calling me a Pig.
Your stomach knots itself completely as you glance over at Sammy. He’s already turned his attention to the TV, completely unaware of your internal meltdown. Then, the kicker, Sammy, replying to J’s message.
Pretty sure it’s just a tampon
It’s immediately followed by one of those morons sending a gif of Miss Piggy losing it.
Not only did your man just make a goddamn period joke, they dragged Miss Piggy into this. How the fuck dare they?
You toss Sammy’s phone onto his lap and he lets out a slight groan as it nails his groin. “What,” he trails off at the look on your face. “Oh, come on, sweetheart. It’s not that big a deal.”
Crossing your arms, you put as much space between the two of you as you physically can. “You really think that’s funny?” Sammy rolls his eyes, turning back to the TV and ignoring you. “Fuck that,” you hiss, reaching over and turning it off.
Sammy’s glare is sharp and for the first time he looks like he has no interest in you. That look on his face is just flat, empty as he waits for you to get your rant over with so he can go back to his game.
“So, you agree with that shit?” You demand, heart pumping a little too fast.
Sammy’s head sinks back into the couch cushions with a heavy sigh. “No, come on, leave it alone. It’s just a joke.” Tears sting your eyes as you're reminded of every failed relationship. Every moment you were dismissed or appeased so they could just go back to whatever they want, not giving a damn about how you feel.
“Seriously, Sammy. When I’m upset and just happen to be on my period, do you just dismiss how I’m feeling? Pretend to give a shit so you don’t have to deal with me? When I’m upset do you just think I’m being ridiculous?”
You’re honestly not trying to start a fight. But you’d grown up around the type of men who knew blaming it on your cycle was the best way to shut you up. The most effective way to invalidate your feelings and make you feel so small. You need to know if the man you care so much about has secretly been that sort of man this whole time.
Sammy scrubs his hand down his face and lets out an incredulous laugh. “This is different,” he defends, staring at you like you’re overreacting.
And maybe you are, maybe you aren’t. At this point, it doesn’t matter, because there is no excuse for just how much he’s changed over a few weeks. “How is it different?”
Sammy just shakes his head. He gives you a flat look and scoffs, turning the TV back on. You purse your lips, biting your tongue so the tears don’t spill. “I don't like your new friends.” He either doesn’t notice how choked up you sound or doesn’t care.
“Good thing you’re not my mom,” he mutters.
“No,” you stand up and he sighs. “Just your live-in maid.” Sammy lets out another tired sigh, head sinking into his hand as you collect your things.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m going home, Sammy. “ And as the door slams behind you, he doesn’t try to stop you.
As you head to his apartment, making sure it's not a Thursday, you have to build yourself up. Give yourself a dozen pep talks before you manage to crawl up the stairs.
You’re going to sit down. You’re going to have a conversation. After a copious amount of research on his new friends, you've come to your own conclusion. This has to be some sort of undercover shit he's doing for internal affairs to try and bust these asssholes. But that doesn't change the fact that prolonged exposure to their behaviors has shifted who he is as a person. Changed him into a man you want nothing to do with.
He should have given you a heads up. Told you to stay clear for a few weeks while he works on this. Anything other than throwing you into this deep-end blind.
By the end of the night you’re either going to be single, again, or have the man you care about back.
Tonight, you knock instead of using your key, just needing another minute before you face him. When the door opens, you’re caught off guard by the wide smile on his face. “Oh, thank god.” He reaches out, arms wrapping around your waist as he tugs you into him.
“Uh, hi,” you smile, taken aback by the sudden surge of affection. You barely have a moment to hug him before he’s pulling back.
“Guys are coming over tonight,” he tells you, and your heart drops to your ass as the door closes behind you. “Think you could whip something up for us, baby? I didn’t have time to call the pizza place.”
You’re stunned, absolutely gobsmacked by his audacity as he pulls you into the kitchen. While you’re frozen, jaw permanently dropped, he pulls off your coat and positions you in front of the stove. He even goes so far as to tie on your apron for you.
“I thought you guys meet on Thursdays?” You mutter absentmindedly, blindly pulling ingredients out of the fridge.
“Had a change of plans today,” he presses a kiss to your cheek, and then he’s gone. A minute later you hear his shower start up. You stare down at the stove for a long time before you finally move.
You whip up a feast for him, a last meal if you will. Because you don’t need a conversation anymore. You know exactly how this night is going to end. Might as well give him something decent to eat while you dump him.
The guys start to flood in while he’s still in the shower. They don’t take their shoes off, tracking mud across the linoleum, something Sammy can look forward to cleaning up on his own. They don’t greet you, acknowledge your existence, just grab a beer and carry on.
Feeling numb, you dig through the fridge, finding an expired carton of milk that smells nauseatingly like sulfur. You pour it into your pan, expression flat as the clumps begin to slough out.
The door opens again, you can hear the person taking their shoes off and know who it is before he walks in. “Need any help?”
You don’t turn to face Ben, just toss a handful of vegetables into the pan. “Don’t eat the dip,” you warn him.
“Uh,” he lets out an awkward chuckle. You turn, eyes narrowed as you shake your head. “Well, shit, alright. You got Visine in there or something?”
“Might as well,” you shrug. Slowly, eyes a little wide, he backs out of the kitchen. You just swallow down another wave of fiery rage as you brew up a crime against cooking. But, it will absolutely give them diarrhea for the next week, so you’ll pardon yourself this one time.
Your anger and hurt just builds and festers with every call for beer. Every shouting bought of laughter that makes your shoulders jump and your head throb. By the time Sammy makes it out of the shower, your mind has been entirely made up. Humiliation has gone cold and turned your blood to ice as you stand in his kitchen.
No part of you melts or swoons when he comes up to you with wet curls and presses a kiss to your cheek. His hands hover over your waist, brows furrowing when you don’t turn to reciprocate. You quietly plate his food, giving him an extra serving of dip, and pass it off to him.
“Hey,” he puts the plate on the counter, voice low and soft. “What’s wrong?” He tries to get you to look at him but you stay stubbornly rooted in place, idly pushing the food around in the pan.
“Were you ever going to ask me to move in with you?”
He goes stiff, backing up with a frown that somehow breaches your walls and makes your chest ache. Never been good with rejection, you remind yourself, poorly attempting to build those walls back up. “It’s a little soon, don’t you think?”
You can’t look at him. The second you do, you know you’re just going to cry. You finally thought you were good enough for someone. That someone actually liked you, flaws and all. But, like every other relationship you’ve had, you were just deluding yourself.
Sucking your teeth, you just nod. “Are we okay?” He asks, taking the food and backing up.
“Fine,” you tell him, turning to bring the rest of the snacks to the dining room. Sammy takes his seat, still looking worried as you set everything up. Ben reaches for the dip and you swat his hand, his eyes widen slightly as he remembers your warning and he backs off.
The last plate you set down is with barely any care. You’re angry and hurt, about to leave the one relationship you really thought would last. So, a little sauce splatters on the guys shirts. Not enough to do permanent damage, but enough to have them bitching.
“Damn it!”
“What’re you blind?”
Smiling, you straighten up and let out a sharp laugh. “Alright, I’m done.”
Sammy frowns, hand tightening around his fork. “With the food?” Oh, and that poor pathetic ounce of hope in his voice makes something in you burn.
The TV is blasting behind you and it’s just another noise adding to the pain in your head. You pick up the remote, shutting it off for a moment of peace. Immediately, the grown men in front of you boo, one even tosses a napkin at you, hand reaching for the remote.
And you just… snap.
“Shut up. Shut the fuck up! Jesus Christ, I am so sick of this, of all of you.” They go quiet as you slam the remote on the table, plates trembling. “You are grown men, you want a beer, then you go get it your goddamn selves. And before any one of you fuckers says some shit about me being on my period… I want it to be very clear that I have never been dryer in my life than I am looking at you pathetic excuses for men.”
Sammy stands as you undo your apron, tearing it off and tossing it at him. But you’re not done, it’s just pouring out- everything you didn’t say. Everything you held back for a man who never really wanted you.
“God, you wonder why the female rookies don’t like you people! It’s because everytime she performs better than you, everytime she calls you on your shit, you undermine her and blame it on the ‘rag.’ You’re just pathetic little men who can’t handle a woman who is secure in her job because it reminds you of just how small you are.”
Your face is hot, chest heaving as you stand there, staring at them all. You’re sure they’ve seen this meltdown before. During their divorce proceedings, watching as their marriage fell apart or their daughters stopped talking to them. But, for once, they are blessedly silent and you feel like you can actually breathe again.
There’s laughter and you look up to find Ben leaning back with a grin. He surveys the other’s faces and lets out a low whistle. You’re almost tempted to laugh with him.
Then, Sammy reaches for you, hand hesitant as it lands on your shoulder. “Sweetheart-”
“No,” you snap, voice quieter now. He flinches as you slap his hand away, hazel eyes wide and shining with hurt. “I am done with you, Sammy. Alright?”
“What?” His eyes dart to the others and he takes a desperate step closer to you. But you just shove him back. “Hun, let’s talk about this.”
“No, no I’m done doing that. So, uh, enjoy cracking a beer with the boys without the drama of your untrained woman. You’ve got a right hand, what the fuck else do you need me for?” You grab your purse and shake your head.
Sammy chases after you but you’re not letting him weasel his way out of this again. You’d made a promise to yourself. You’re leaving single tonight, he’s had far too many chances to get his act together.
Just as you’re running into the parking lot, you hear footsteps racing toward you. You whip around, watery glare turning confused when you see Ben catching up with you. “Hey,” he calls out your name and you let out a tired sigh as you stop.
“Look,” he darts in front of you, slightly out of breath. “As entertaining to watch as that was, what’s happening… It’s not what you think.”
“I know,” you interrupt him.
His mouth droops before snapping shut again. “Huh?”
“It’s got to do with an investigation, right?” Slowly, he nods, infuriatingly surprised by you connecting the dots. “Yeah, I figured that out a while ago, Ben. But he didn’t give me any warning before he turned into this Don Draper wannabe. He didn’t prep me or just keep me out of this. This all being a part of something bigger doesn’t change or excuse how humiliated he made me feel.”
Ben wants to say more, you can see it on his face. His arm lifts before falling limply to his side. With a sigh, he runs his hand over his face and offers you a sorry smile. “Do you need a ride home?” He asks softly.
“No, but I appreciate it.” He nods, and you blink, eyes burning as you stare down at the pavement. Hesitantly, his hand lands on your shoulder, softly squeezing before he backs up.
“Take care of yourself.”
You hum, throat too tight for words and wait for him to go back into the building before you let the tears fall.
When you wake up the next morning, your eyes are crusted from crying too much and your head is throbbing from, again, crying a ridiculous amount. Blindly, you grope around your nightstand until you find your phone.
It shouldn’t be a shock that Sammy’s reached out, but the amount of missed calls on your screen is a number you didn’t think you could ever reach.
He’s also blown your messages up. The majority of them promising to explain his behavior. Asking you to call him. Give him one more chance (he’s had plenty). And then there are ones where you can tell he’s starting to get pissed off that you’re just ignoring him.
Serves him right.
Your thumb twitches against the call back button. Almost wanting to hear how he’s going to explain this away. But you force yourself to put the phone down. You swore to yourself, no more cool girl BS. You’re not going to just let him treat you how he did and get away with it.
So, as difficult as it is, you mute his notifications. You don’t have it in your heart to block him, not yet. But you can at least spare yourself the misery of watching his picture light up your screen every ten minutes.
Occasionally, though, throughout the week you have a moment of weakness. You’ll check to see just how much more he’s reached out and then listen to a few voicemails. They all relatively sound the same:
“Please, sweetheart call me back” and then you’ll hear Ben in the background “Man, this is pathetic” Sammy will tell him to shut it and, again, plead for you to just give him a minute of your time.
When you start to feel really lonely, when your bed is just too cold and too big, you almost do it. You’re so close to just calling him so you can hear something other than the quiet of your apartment. This space that has become foreign to you because Sammy’s place was becoming home. And then, you’re reminded of how he treated you, what he took from you both by not just giving you a heads up on the investigation. And you put your phone down, hurt and angry all over again.
By weeks end, your friends call you out to go to a club with them. They don’t know you broke up with Sammy, they think you’re still the perfect couple. Which leads to a night filled with painful, barbed reminders of how alone you are now, while your friends bemoan how perfect and sweet your relationship is.
You should have told them the truth before you went out with them. But they’ve witnessed so many messy breakups from you. They’d probably just blame you. If you can’t keep a decent guy like Sammy than it has to be you whose the problem.
So, after a long night of playing the designated driver (because you’re the only one happy and dating someone, in theory) and being reminded of how amazing your relationship used to be… You’re already in a foul mood when a passing cop decides it’ll be funny to get a handful of your ass.
Not just a slap or a quick squeeze, either. This man puts both palms, cups your cheeks, and nearly lifts you in the air he squeezes so tight. And you, completely ignoring his badge, treat him how you would any other creep.
You deck him.
Suddenly your face is pressing against the hood of a patrol car. Your friends are shouting “We’re recording this, babe!” And you’re being cuffed and thrown into the back of their car.
But, hey, at least your friends recorded it.
“Whoa!” Ben is the first one to see you as you’re pulled into the station. You’d consider yourself lucky if seeing him didn’t mean Sammy was around somewhere.
“What the hell are you doing?” He snaps at your arresting officer while the piece of shit jerks your arm out of socket.
“She assaulted an officer,” his partner pipes up. Your gaze goes to the deep black bruise ringing his eye and you grin.
“All right,” you huff. “Like he didn’t assault me first.”
Ben’s eyes dart between the both of you, his jaw clenching when he sees the marks on your arm from your rough detainment. “What happened?” He asks you, holding up a hand when the cop tries to talk.
“I was out with some friends and this asshole thought he could just stick his hand up my dress.”
“Didn’t take much,” that bitch smirks. “Look at the length of that thing-”
“Hey!” Ben snaps and it catches the attention of some of the others milling around. “That’s enough. Now let her go.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
Ben pushes the guy away, taking his key and working off one of your cuffs. “This is Sammy’s girl, you’re lucky I’m the one that found you, not him.”
The guys eyes widen and he backs off with a huffy sigh. “Shit, I’m sorry.”
“Oh,” your stomach rolls with disgust. “But if it were any other woman, you’d still somehow make yourself the victim? I see I only hold value when there’s a man attached to my name.”
“Alright,” Ben puts his hand on your back, turning you before you provoke another fist fight. “I’m sorry about that.”
He sits you down at his desk and watches you carefully. “I should file a lawsuit,” it’s an empty threat but you seriously considered it on the ride over.
Ben snorts, eyeing you up and down carefully. “How’ve you been doing?”
“Fine,” you shrug. “About as well as anyone is after a breakup.”
Ben leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, a seriously concerned look on his fac. “He’s falling apart.”
“Ben…”
“Seriously, and not just because you poisoned him with spoiled dip,” that brings a small smile to your face. Ben returns it for a moment before his face settles into something more serious. “I don’t know how much more I can take. He’s snapping at any little thing. He won’t stop bitching at me. I’m losing my mind.”
“Look,” you rub your wrist and look away. “Am I being booked or not? I want to go home.”
Ben sighs and scrubs a hand down his face. “You’re not getting booked.”
“Thank you,” and before you can even get up, he’s grabbing the loose handcuff and snapping it to his desk. Your eyes widen, stomach sinking as you tug futilely at it. “Ben,” you hiss. “What the fuck?”
“I’m sorry,” he shrugs off his jacket, laying it over your lap so your dress doesn’t ride all the way up. “But I can’t take this anymore.”
Your jaw drops as he walks off and you know exactly where he’s going. “Traitor!” You shout at his back, he gives you a sarcastic thumbs up that almost make you wish you had a gun.
You’re sitting there for about ten minutes before Sammy’s rushing up. Most of the guys in here know you, but the few that don’t keep asking how much a night will cost. You’re starting to think it might be time to retire this dress.
“Hey,” your name rushes from him in one panicked breath. “What’s happening? Why are you cuffed?”
You suck your teeth and give him a sharp smile. “Your partner decided to play Cupid.” Sammy’s brows furrow, his hands already working on taking the cuffs off.
“Yeah, but why are you here?” He asks, thumbs brushing over the split skin of your knuckles. You jerk your hand back before his soft touch weakens your resolve. Sammy frowns and you can’t make yourself meet the hurt look in his eyes.
“Some asshole grabbed a handful outside The Strip tonight.”
“What the hell were you doing over there?” His tone is far too sharp for a man you’ve already broken up with. Eyes narrowed, your face snaps to his.
“Tone,” you snap. Sammy’s jaw clenches but he backs off a little. “I was out with some friends. Still, being near that place doesn’t just give guys an excuse to grope me.”
Sammy takes a hold of your arm, pulling you away from Ben’s desk and leading you toward an empty room. “I’m not saying it does. I just thought I’ve told you a lot about staying away from there. You know how many half-naked girls we’ve had to pull from their alley?”
“Jesus,” you huff, pulling your arm away as he closes the door. “I got it. I was trying to go home, anyway.”
“Why-” Sammy stops himself, taking a deep breath as color grows on his cheeks. You wait for another lecture but he seems to love proving you wrong. “Why haven’t you called me back?”
Your jaw slacks, an unintelligible garble of words stuttering its way free. “Seriously?” You land on, voice pitched with anger. Sammy’s eyes widen, glancing through the windows of the room to make sure no one’s paying attention. Taking in a deep breath, you force yourself to keep your voice mellow.
You really don’t need to be arrested tonight. Again.
“Sammy, that’s why you dragged me in here? Not because a cop copped a feel?” His expression falls flat at your poor excuse for a joke. Fuck me, then, God forbid you try and ease the tension.
“Obviously I’m upset about that, sweetheart. But it’s not your fault and it’s not you I’m going to be telling off for it. I’ll deal with him later.” You’re sure that means Sammy’s going to beat the guy half to death and Ben will have to clean up the mess.
“Right now, I want to know why you’re just pretending I don’t exist. Like we haven’t been dating for six months.”
Your feet are aching from the obnoxiously tall heels you took out tonight. Not bothering to look at him, you take a seat at one of the desks and peel them off, letting out a low sigh of relief. Sammy just watches with his arms crossed, clearly at the end of his thread.
“Look, babe, I don’t know what you’re not getting about me being done with you, but we’re through. No sex. No calls. No texts. This is what happens when people break up, Sammy.”
Sammy lets out a stressed sigh, lips pulling down as he drags his hand through his hair. “You don’t understand. I had to act like an ass, baby, I’m-”
“Working on an investigation?” You finish, giving him an unimpressed glare. “Yeah, Sammy. I’m not a moron, I figured out why you were acting like a chauvinistic pig all of a sudden. The problem here isn’t that, it’s the lack of communication that led to me being completely humiliated.”
His arms drop to his sides and he just stares, mind spinning as he struggles to figure out a way out of this. Spoiler, there isn’t one.
“I don’t- What do you want me to do, hm? What can I do to make this better?”
You’re ready to dismiss him when you catch an officer’s eye through the window of the room. They’re all out there, his buddies, the asshole that arrested you. Watching and trying to pretend like this isn’t the most interesting thing that’s happened tonight.
Slowly, you drag your gaze back to Sammy, a cruel smile pulling on your lips. “Beg.”
He stills, eyeing you warily. “What?” His tone is incredulous, slightly taken off gaurd.
You shrug, “You really want me back?”
“You know I do.”
“Aright, beg.” You tilt your head, wondering if he’s actually capable of swallowing down his pride.
Slowly, Sammy takes another step closer. “Please, sweet-”
“Hm, no,” you click your tongue, shaking your head in disappointment. “Do this properly, Sammy. On your knees.” His jaw clenches and it's audible how he swallows. Sammy turns toward the blinds and you sigh. “Blinds open. Unless you’re just full of it?”
“You know I’m not,” he grits out, cheeks flushing as a few officers fail to hide their peeping. You almost think he’s going to give up. Before you can scold him for taking too long, he’s dropping to his knees in front of you.
Your eyes widen imperceptibly and it’s an effort not to give away your shock. Sammy’s hands skate over the smooth skin of your legs, squeezing around your calves. “I fucked up, honey, I know that. I will do anything I can to make up for it, just, please, give me another chance.”
It’s a power rush, having such a domineering man on his knees in front of you. That boost to your ego is almost enough to make you cave. But you know Sammy, he can certainly do better than this. He just hates the idea of any of his men seeing it.
Pursing your lips, you lightly kick your leg out. “Put my heels on for me.” He huffs, clearly upset by the lack of response, but he listens anyway. Getting to your feet, Sammy follows, expression expectant.
You pat his shoulder in that condescending way men always do to you. “That was cute, hun. But I’m not changing my mind. You want to fix this, you’re going to have to work a little harder than that.”
Sammy doesn’t object, just scratches at his jaw and lets out a disbelieving sigh. You give him a sharp smile before you make your way to the door. “You're unbelievable,” he calls after you. You shrug, not bothering to look back as you make your way out of the station.
A week after your “arrest,” you’re flipping through channels when a familiar face catches your eye. Tony, the crapbag that Sammy had around, has been arrested. As well as a bunch of other game-night regulars. Extortion, violation of civil rights, spoliation, and a list as long as your arm that just keeps on going. Truly, they are the epitome of scumbags.
You can understand why Sammy was so bent on getting them put away. Even if it came at the risk of your relationship. As much as that makes him a good cop and an honorable man, it doesn’t make him a better boyfriend.
Still, you find your hand inching toward your phone, finger hovering over his contact. You bite your lip, debating the risks when someone knocks on your door. Frowning, you toss your phone on the couch and get up to take a look through the peephole.
It’s like he’s got a sensor for when you’re feeling weak.
Sammy stands on the other side, hands shoved in his pockets as he rocks back on his heels. You step back with a huff and glance down at yourself. Taking an extra minute to hike up your shorts and adjust your boobs, you throw the door open.
“Can I help you, officer?”
He scoffs, lips pulled in an endeared grin. “Still mad, I take it?”
You pause, taking inventory of emotions. The sting of humiliation has eased slightly since you practically put him on a leash at the station. And you do genuinely understand the motivations behind his behavior, you just wished he hadn’t executed it all so stupidly.
“No, I’m not angry, Sammy. I just wish you a happy life of erectile dysfunction and involuntary abstinence.” Pulling back, you go to close the door when he slips his boot inside. Glaring up at him, you frown. “Got a warrant?”
“Enough,” he scolds, pushing the door open. You stumble back with an affronted noise. “You’re not breaking up with me.”
If it were any of your other exes, you’d probably be terrified right now. But he’s not being malicious or threatening to stalk you or take out your family if you don’t unblock him. Instead, there’s almost a slight thrill coming to life in you.
“What?” You scoff.
“I’m not agreeing to this,” he says simply, eyeing your skimpy pajamas with an appreciative gleam in his eye.
You scoff and cross your arms,“That’s not how this works, Sammy.”
He shrugs, “Tough.” When he takes another step closer, you’re almost tempted to run, to drag this out a little longer. But his arms are already winding around your waist and he’s heaving you over his shoulder before you even get a chance to blink.
“Uh, Sammy,” you grasp at his shirt as he marches through your apartment. “What the hell are you doing, you neanderthal?”
“I’m going to make it up to you,” you lift your head and peer around him to see he’s walking you straight into your room. Oh, that’s how he’s going to play this. “Then,” you let out a shocked laugh as he drops you on your bed.
His grin widens at the sound as he grabs your ankles, pulling you even closer to him. “I’m going to ask you to move in with me.”
Your heart races as your expression falls. Your gaze darts to his eyes, trying to figure out if he means this or if this is just a last ditch effort to get you back. “What?” You shake your head, but he doesn’t let you pull away. “Sammy, do you really mean this?”
“‘Course I do, sweetheart,” he brushes a strand of hair off your cheek and leans down to kiss you. Your arms wind around his shoulders off muscle memory.
But you force yourself to pull back, noses brushing as you take a good long look at him. “I’m not playing housewife anymore,” you threaten.
He lets out a little laugh and nods. “I’m gonna take care of you, honey. Don’t you worry.”
And god help you, you actually believe him, but it still doesn’t feel right. “No,” you whisper. Sammy draws back, brows knit in hurt as he shakes his head. “No,” you scramble back from him, arms wrapping around your stomach as you shake your head.
“This isn’t how it’s going to work anymore. You don’t get to fix our problems with sex. Or just decide the course of our relationship. You fucked up, you made me feel like shit. For the first time, I felt safe with someone, and you just took that from me.”
Sammy’s face falls and he takes a seat on the edge of your bed. His head falls into his hands as he lets out a broken sigh. “I’m so sorry,” you believe him. There’s shame, disgust with himself in his voice, but that doesn’t fix this.
“I’ll move in with you, Sammy,” you promise, and his head lifts. “But not anytime soon. I think… I don’t think I’ve been honest about who I am. I’m so used to putting on a show, to trying to keep someone’s attention, I haven’t been myself. I want you to be with the real me. To actually see me, not this glamorized version of myself perfectly made for your gaze.”
“Honey,” he reaches over, taking your hands in his. “Of course I see you. You’re not as good actor as you think,” you let out a watery laugh while he rubs his thumbs across the back of your hands. “But I’m a patient man.”
You shoot him a look and he offers you that boyish smile you love. “I can be patrient,” he swears.
Nodding, you lean forward, brushing your lips against his. “Okay,” you whisper.
“Okay?” he questions, not quite believing you. You smile and let your head drop to the crook of his neck.
“But if you ever treat me like that again… Not even Ben will be able to find your body.”
Sammy lets out a little chuckle, it cuts off as you pinch his side. “Trust me, I believe you.” You lace your fingers with his and let out a small sigh. A fresh start might be the best thing for both of you. The both of you could do with learning to be independent outside of your relationship. And he really needs to know what you look like not being the cool girl before he makes such a big promise as being with you for real.
You’re not planning on making it easy on him. But you have an odd suspicion he might be into that. And anyways, how were you ever expected to say no to a man with arms like these?
I think it's time we took a break / So I can grow emotionally / That's what he said to me
All my friends in love and I'm the one / They call for a third wheeling / Probably should have guessed / He's like the rest / So fine and so deceiving
Overview: You've been his partner for years, but one fight with his wife and he's willing to throw it all away just for a brief night of relief. Now, your life is ruined and you don't want to ever see him again. But the death of your friend brings you back together and suddenly, you're backed into a corner you don't know how to escape from. (Basic knowledge of the show Southland is helpful but not necessary as this follows some plot points).
a/n: my twist on the pregnancy trope which basically means the majority of this is angst and not so much focused on being pregnant. This is more about the psychological toll it takes on a on a woman unprepared. Idk I tried to avoid the pitfalls of this trope that piss me off, like a baby doesn't magically fix everything ever. Hope you enjoy!
wc: 20.7K
warning: dark thoughts toward self and unborn baby, allusions to abortion but not explicitly mentioned
Find more at: Belle’s 3k Extravaganza
“-and I promise,” you drone out the rest of Dewey’s BS. He claims it’s a retirement party, but you give it three months tops before he’s crawling back. You bet his wife will leave him, he’ll drink worse than he already does, and all of a sudden he’ll need a job again.
You tilt your head to the left, lips parted and then stop yourself. Nate and Sammy aren’t beside you like they usually are. There’s no one to bitch to because they’re both with their wives. Letting out a tired sigh, you lean back in your chair and try not to pass out.
Usually, you guys go to these functions together. You talk shit about the cops you don’t like and make bets on who’s going to have the biggest fuck up of the month. But Dewey’s party is being held in some crappy back alley bar with tiny tables. Meaning you’re shamefully outed as being single while they hold their wives hands.
Although, glancing over your shoulder, you’re pretty sure Tammi would rather break Sammy’s hand before she held it. She’s not even saying anything and you can already tell that he’ll be sleeping on the couch tonight.
With a low groan, you slip out of your chair and head outside. Leaning back against the wall, you light up a cigarette and try to pretend you're actually content with the direction your life is heading.
Sure, being a detective means more pay and better hours. But it also means that you’re not out in the field as much. You don’t see action anymore. Not really. Plus, you have to sit in a station with a bunch of assholes and listen to them talk shop.
They’ve gotten so used to you being around they seem to have forgotten that you’re a woman. Always talking shit about their wives or what rookie’s ass is getting fatter. It’s nasueating and, yet, here you are. Same old thing day in and out.
Letting out a shaky breath, you watch the smoke billow in front of your face before drifting into the night. The door to the bar slams open and you jump, peering around your hidden alcove.
Tammi and Sammy both walk out, you can’t hear what's being said, but Tammi looks hysterical. Then again, she always looks like that. At some point in her life she learned that tears get men to shut up or sit down and you’d respect the hustle if you didn’t despise her.
That has nothing to do with your unresolved feelings for Bryant, either. She has made it clear quite loudly that she thinks you’re all a bunch of pigs. Sometimes you agree, but she’s given you too much shit about riding in the same car as her husband for you to ever admit that out loud.
Sammy walks to their car, waving Tammi off as he pops the trunk open. That retired k9, Richter, that Sammy got jumps out and an older guy walks over to take his leash. Tammi tries to hold on, but Sammy forces her to let go and then she’s running back into the bar crying.
You put your cigarette out, tossing it into a trash can while you make your way over to him. “Sammy!”
He pauses, shooting you an easy grin as you move to lean against the trunk of his SUV. Sammy walks over, joining you, shoulder nearly brushing yours. “You’re really getting rid of him?” You ask, nodding toward the truck Richter’s now sitting in.
Sammy looks down, shoes scuffing against the pavement. “Yeah.” He checks over his shoulder before turning back to you, voice lowered. “Tammi’s been smoking weed. Richter caught a whiff of it and went nuts. I just can’t risk anything happening.”
Your brows furrow as you let out an incredulous scoff. “Aren’t you guys trying for a baby?”
Sammy nods, rolling his eyes as his head thunks against his car. “We are.”
“So…, why the hell is she smoking?”
“Well, apparently, I stress her out and her prenatals are making her nauseous.” he throws his hands up and you can’t help but laugh at his expense.
“Well, everyone knows marujana’s the best prenatal there is.”
He smirks, nudging you with his elbow. “Shut it.” You smile at him, heat flushing through you. With a sigh, you catch yourself and force your eyes to the pavement rather than him and his crooked smile.
The silence lingers, neither of you ready to head back inside and listen to more of Dewey’s shit. After a while Sammy lets out one of those long sighs that just sound pathetic.
“What’s up?” You ask, nudging him.
Sammy rubs the back of his neck, eyes stubbornly pointed down. “I’m not,” he shakes his head, finally meeting your gaze. “I don’t even know if I want a baby with her. I mean, it’s not like we’re happy. And I can’t get through a damn sentence without her crying and shutting down.”
“Well, speaking from experience…” His brows lift with interest and you offer a sardonic smile. “Kid ain’t gonna fix it. Trust me. All that’s going to happen is it’ll get caught in the crossfire.”
“Yeah?” His voice is soft and you realize you’ve never really told him any of this before.
Sucking your teeth, you wish you’d taken another shot before coming out here. “My parents thought a baby might fix their problems. But I was colicky and just made ‘em hate each other more. Then, when I got older, I was always in the middle, forced to pick a side.”
Your voice trails off, throat closing as you force yourself to stop sharing so much. Sure, you like Sammy, too much, but you’re still a cop. You don’t like giving away anything that someone might use against you.
Sammy sucks in a sharp breath. “We’re practically separated, you know?”
Your head whips up and there should be guilt at how excited you feel, but you can’t find any. “What?”
“Yeah. She hasn’t let me in the house in a while.”
A shock of anger bursts through your chest on his behalf. He’s the one paying their damn mortgage, why should he have to leave? “Where the hell are you staying?”
“Oh,” he shrugs, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “This crappy little motel near castaic.”
“Nah, that’s bullshit. You shouldn't have to pay for a shitty mattress.” You smile at him, poking his side and he grins. “Why don’t you take my shitty couch. For free,” you add.
He shakes his head, waving you off. “I don’t want to intrude.”
“Shut up,” you snap, already pulling out your car keys. “Let’s go,” and you don’t give him any choice but to obey.
You park the car and let out a low whistle, taking in the, frankly, terrifying motel. “Shit, man. You weren’t lying.”
He chuckles, opening his door and shaking his head. “I might have undersold it.”
“I’m saying,” you mutter, slightly hesitant to even get out of the car. This looks like a place you’d get called down to check out a missing woman’s body. Not any place you should be within twenty feet of. But you want to help Sammy out, so you suck it up and follow him.
The motel room is moderately less dismal. He’s trashed it a bit but you can’t imagine it was ever truly clean to begin with. “So,” you watch as he picks up his bag, tossing clothes inside. “Seperated, huh?”
You clench your eyes shut, you couldn’t have made your eagerness any more obvious. You sound practically giddy. Might as well skip around the room while you’re at it.
Sammy straightens, laughing slightly as he takes a step toward you. “Yep.”
Gnawing your lip, your pulse tightens in your chest. Now or never. “Sammy, I’ve always-”
Sammy doesn’t give you a chance to finish. His hand is already cupping the back of your head, body being shoved against the motel wall as his lips press against yours. You let out a sharp gasp, hands flying to his shoulders as you slump against him.
His knee nudges between your own, sliding your legs apart until you’re practically sitting on his thigh. “Oh my god,” you mutter, finally catching your breath as he drags his lips across your jaw.
It takes a moment for you to realize his fingers are already working on the buttons of your blouse. Your head is swimming, heart racing as you attempt to process what exactly you’re doing right now. He’s married, separated sure, but married.
He nips at your neck and your hands are already undoing his belt. Guilt, shame, dignity, it’s all tossed to the floor. They land right beside your shirt.
“Need this,” he groans into your skin and your hips grind down against the firm muscle of his thigh. “Need you,” he admits and you think your brain is dripping out between your legs, because why the hell aren’t you stopping him?
“Yeah?” You ask, breathless as you shove him back toward the bed.
He nods, hands greedy as he cups your ass and drags you into him. “I can’t keep working with you. Seeing you every day, not knowing what you feel like. You’re driving me crazy.”
You kiss him to shut him up, heart thudding against your ribs far too much for him to rile you up further. His knees hit the mattress and suddenly you’re landing in his lap, jerking his jeans down as he lifts his hips.
“Protection?” You mutter, laughing as he struggles with the clasp of your bra.
Sammy shakes his head and you reach back to help him out. “Finally,” he mutters, tugging your bra off and tossing it to the depths of the room.
“I’m clean,” you tell him and then he’s flipping you over, hands pinning your wrists to the bed.
“Tammi hasn’t let me near her in months,” he promises.
You wrench a hand free, drag your fingers through his curls and jerk his head toward you. “Don’t talk about her when you’re about to be inside me,” you whisper, dragging him down for another kiss. He groans against your mouth, grabbing your hips and tugging you down the bed to meet him halfway.
The shrill ringing of two phones wakes you both up. Sammy groans as he lifts his arm from your waist. You squint through the sunlight beaming through the blinds and force yourself up. It takes a minute for you to find your jeans in the mess of clothes from last night.
You snatch them up, digging through the pockets until you’ve got your phone. Of course, it’s Sal with another case. “Damn,” you look over your shoulder and he’s wearing the same disappointed expression as you. “So much for a day off,” you tease.
Sammy shakes his head, already tugging his clothes back on. “Need a ride?” You ask, redressing yourself. It’s not uncommon for you to repeat an outfit once or twice, hopefully no one pays too much attention.
“Yeah,” he rubs the back of his neck. You frown, head titling as you note the stubborn way he won’t meet your eyes. “Yeah, that’d be great, thanks.”
You hum, slightly disconcerted as you go wait for him out in the car. When he joins you, he’s quiet. Slightly unusual for a man whose voice you can hear halfway across town. But you don’t mention it, figuring he’s probably just struggling to understand how he’s supposed to treat you now.
Admittedly, you’re struggling with that a bit yourself. You wished you’d had any time at all to talk this morning. Last night he said some things that…
Well, the implications of always wanting to feel you makes you think that the feelings might be a little mutual. Something in your gut, though, is warning you away from that. Call it the instincts of a detective or a woman, doesn’t matter. He proves you right at the end of your shift.
He’s avoided you all day and you just manage to catch him as he’s walking out of the station. “Sammy,” you race after him. He pauses at the edge of the steps, but he doesn’t turn to face you. “Hey,” you reach for his shoulder and he jerks back, finally meeting your eye.
The flat look on his face has you straightening, your own expression turning painfully neutral. “Figured we might need to talk,” you tell him, doing everything you can to keep your voice emotionless.
You know it’s coming, you have since this morning. But it still knocks the wind out of you. “Tammi called me at lunch,” you purse your lips, eyes dropping to the ground. “She asked me to come back home. She wants to try, for real this time.”
You let out a cold laugh, nodding as you finally meet his eyes. His expression has softened slightly, guilt bleeding through. “Thought you guys were sepreated.”
“Practically separated,” he snaps, so defensive it makes your head spin. “We hadn’t discussed anything concrete.”
You scoff, biting your tongue as tears burn in your eyes. He takes a step forward but you shake your head, jerking back. “No, no this is on me. I can’t believe that I fucking fell for that.”
He says your name, soft and placating but you just shoot him a glare. “Fuck off, Sammy. We’re friends, man. And, what, you just tossed that away because your wife wasn’t giving you any? You want an easy lay? You go to a street corner, you don’t, literally, fuck over one of your friends.”
Sammy doesn’t even try to defend himself. He shoves his hands in his pockets, eyes growing wet in a way that pisses you off. “Fuck off to your wife.” He looks up, lips pursed like he wants to stop you, but you’re already walking away.
You turn, licking your lips as you glare at him. “I pray that any kid you have doesn’t have to suffer through you two being immature assholes. I mean, you can’t even talk to her, Sammy. How the hell are you gonna raise a baby with her?”
When Sammy moves forward, mouth open like he could say anything to fix this, you get in your car. You keep your eyes on him in the rearview as you drive off. He looks pathetic, with those sad eyes and little frown that you want to slap off his face.
You get it (not really) he needed a release. But he just risked years of friendship and having each other’s backs in the field for one night. Do you truly just mean nothing to him?
A month later, you stare down at your period tracker with a frown. Two weeks late. “Huh,” you mutter, pocketing your phone and ignoring it. Sure, you’ve been steady since college, but this could just be some stress-induced one-off. Your best friend of over ten years suddenly going ghost mode will do that to you.
Your eyes flit up to Sammy and you swear if looks could kill he would be dead fifty times over. He lifts his head, face paling at the glare you’re shooting him. Like the little coward he is, he goes back to the paperwork you know he finished ten minutes ago.
He can’t even look at you, anymore. Pathetic, you think and some petty part of you thinks of calling up Tammi and telling her what happened. But that comes from an evil place deep down inside of you that you know you’re supposed to ignore.
With a huff, you grab your bag and storm past his desk, clocking out for the night. And just like every night, you can feel his stare on the back of your head as you leave. Still, he’s too much of a coward to do anything but look.
You stop by a drive-through on your way home, ordering an egg sandwich so you can stuff your face quick and pass out. But as you pull the bag into your car, your stomach begins to turn.
“Oh god,” you groan, pinching your nose and wondering if they’d given you spoiled eggs. You try and take a bite, just to see but the taste makes you gag. You’ve never been a huge fan of eggs but this is pretty extreme.
“Huh,” you say again, frowning as you dump the sandwich.
It’s when the period tracker hits week three of being late that you start to panic a bit. “That’s normal, right?” You mutter to yourself, gnawing on your nails as you try and relax on your day off. But with the way your chest is starting to tighten you don’t think that’ll be happening anytime soon.
Grabbing your keys, you force yourself off your couch and drive to the run-down convenience store nearby. You swallow roughly, sunglasses on as you head into the pharmacy aisle.
You know no one from work is going to spot you. They all live in those clean, lame neighborhoods like castaic. They wouldn’t be caught dead in some run-down, crime-heavy neighborhood like yours.
Still, though, you can’t help the way you glance over your shoulder every other minute, thinking Nate or Sammy’s gonna pop out.
You wander down the long selection of pads until you’re staring at pregnancy tests. “I’m fine,” you tell yourself. “Definitely not pregnant.”
Still, you end up walking out with five tests in your bag.
Then, you find yourself sitting on your bathroom floor as you read the last one. Taking a good long look at the two clear lines. “Fuck me,” you groan, head thumping back against the wall as you toss this one in the trash.
Three of them read as negative and two of them are positive.
Which is how you end up at your OBGYN, fingers twiddling anxiously as you wait for the results to come back. The door pops open and you perk up.
“Alright, let’s see what we’ve got here.” Your stare is intense and probably slightly terrifying as you watch her read her paper. She hums under her breath, taking a seat on her stupid little chair, spinning slightly.
One more second of making you wait and you will be discharging your gun-
“Congratulations,” she beams. “You’re pregnant.”
Your jaw drops and you begin to feel a little lightheaded. But she’s still smiling like she didn’t just give you the worst news of your life.
Okay, you have been shot before, right in the femur. And you were told as a child, in quite explicit detail, how your cat got squished under your mom’s rear tire.
That has to count as worse news, right?
No, you think, slamming your purse down on your desk. Nate jumps, shooting you a wary look that you don’t concern yourself with. Fluffy’s passing was not worse news than learning you are carrying Sammy Bryant’s offspring inside you.
That short, red-headed, freckled bastard knocked you up. First try! He’s been with Tammi since high school, that’s over a decade of trying to get her pregannt. All of a sudden he’s got strong swimmers?
You turn in your chair, hands steepled over your stomach as you stare at him. He goes stiff the second your eyes land on him, sensing the hatred you’re trying to burn into the side of his face. Asshole, you think, can’t even look at me.
Yes, life has been feeling stagnant lately. You were sick of all the “You on the rag?” jokes and the guy’s ridiculous complaints about their third wives. But you did not want change to come in the form of a fetus planted in you by a man who can’t even make eye contact with you.
Nate looks up from his paperwork, doing a slight double-take when he catches the look on your face. He rolls over in his chair, frowning. “Everything good?”
“Fine,” you snap, catching some of the other’s attention. Nate’s eyes widen as he raises his hands, backing off.
You have to tell him. Sammy needs to know what’s going on before you head to the clinic and take care of this mess you’ve gotten yourself into.
You are planning on putting the majority of the blame on him, but you really should have told him to pull out. Or, at the very least, gotten a Plan B before work.
“Sammy,” you call out. His eyes flick up before dropping right back down to his papers. “Samuel,” you snap, not caring that some of the other detectives are staring.
He purses his lips, huffing slightly as he finally undertakes the horrendous task of meeting your eye. “Did you need something, detective?”
You let out a sharp noise that has Nate poorly trying to hide a laugh. “Oh, okay. That’s how you’re playing this?” Maybe, when you’re already pissed off and emotional, you shouldn’t drop this bomb in the middle of the office. But you need it over and done with so you can just take care of it.
Still, before you can consider the HR ramifications, Sal’s walking in with a case. He drops the file on your desk and you purse your lips, angrily shaking your head at Sammy. He just lets out a little breath of relief.
Which is immediately sucked out of him as Sal says, “Nate, Sammy, I want you to go with her. Check this out. One of your CI’s might know something.”
“Oh,” you purr, snatching up the file as you stand. “I can’t wait.” Sammy’s head drops and you give him an extra firm pat on the back as you pass him.
However, as much as you would love to give him hell, you always keep your personal business away from work. Messy emotions and the urge to put a gun to your partner's testicles can lead to released suspects and the wrong people in cuffs.
You force yourself to wait until lunch to ambush him. Watching him carefully as Sammy carries his tray of food to the table. He sets it beside Nate, dropping onto the bench next to him as if he hasn’t sat beside you almost everyday since you’ve known each other.
You wipe your mouth off, eyes honed on him. He senses it, too, shifting around like a little weasel.
“Sammy,” you try making your voice soft, kind. Lull him into a false sense of security.
His brows shoot up and he briefly looks at you. “Yeah?”
“I need to talk to-”
“Oh,” he holds up a finger and checks his phone. “Sorry, it’s Tammi, gotta take this.” You scoff, chest caving as you watch him run off.
You glance over at Nate who’s got a tired look on his face. “Was she actually calling him?”
He shakes his head, disappointed in his partner. “Nope.”
“‘Course not,” you snap, appetite gone as you toss your taco down.
For the rest of the day, you ride along with them, pretending the case file is the most interesting thing in the world. They take you to their informant, let you talk to her for a little while, and then you all get back in the car.
There’s no more meal breaks or stops where you might be able to finally just toss the information at Sammy. Soon enough, it’s dark and Nate’s dropping you all off at the station so you can get your cars.
Nate waves as he drives off but your attention is fully focused on the man attempting to speedwalk away from you. “That’s it,” you mutter. You don’t call his name, don’t warn him, just chase him down like you would a suspect.
When you plant yourslf in front of him he lets out a surprised noise that would make you laugh in any other context. “Enough,” you snap, shoving at him when he tries to get around you.
“Sammy, I really need to talk to you. Please,” you feel like a damn beggar and it just makes you angrier. He’s the one that should be groveling. He’s the one that did this to you, to both of you.
“Tammi’s pregnant,” Sammy rushes out before you can continue. Your jaw drops, eyes widening as you stare at him.
“What?” You hiss and Sammy just nods. As if he didn’t just completely destroy your plans. Like he didn’t just drop a bomb on you that makes your chest ache and eyes water.
Eyes clenched shut, you try and suck in a calming breath, but it only makes you feel more panicked. You can’t tell him.
You can’t tell Sammy you’re pregnant when he just figured out his wife is.
He crosses his arms, expression guarded. “What did you need to say?”
He is such a prick. The only reason he blurted that out is because he thought you were running over to beg him for another round in bed. Shame burns in your stomach as you swallow down the venomous words crawling up your throat. You’ll tell him another day when you’re not itching to have a gun in your hand.
Through gritted teeth, you force out the words, “No hard feelings.”
Sammy’s face falls and you would laugh if you weren’t actively fighting back tears. “Wait-” he shakes his head, arms slowly falling back to his sides. “What?”
“Yeah, no hard feelings, right?” And then the words keep coming, the lies spinning themselves. Because, on your end, there are most definitely some bitter feelings. “Look, we’ve been friends for years, Sammy. I don’t want one stupid mistake to ruin that. I just… I want my friend back, alright?”
Sammy’s brows pinch together as he narrows his eyes. As if he doesn’t believe you. You expect him to go storming off, stonewall you some more. Instead, he’s throwing an arm around your shoulders and dragging you into a hug.
You let out an affronted noise and your hands hover over his back, entirely unsure of what to do with yourself. Part of you wants to shove him off, to tell him you didn’t mean any of that and hope every time he pees from now until etertniy it burns.
But there is that desperate part of you that has held a flame for him for so long. It’s begging you to just give in. Enjoy his kindness while you can.
He’s pulling away before you can make your decision. “No hard feelings,” he promises. Sammy lingers for a moment, offering a tentative smile before he pats your shoulder and walks past you, heading to his car. Going to drive home to his pregnant wife.
When you manage to slump into your own car, you glare down at your stomach. You will tell him another time, you swear. And then you’ll get it taken care of.
You can feel them staring and it is driving you nuts. Sure, five tacos might be a lot, but you’re getting these cravings that are kicking your damn ass. Nate watches as you scarf down your fourth with something like awe and disgust in his eyes.
“Jesus,” he lets out a low whistle. “You hungry?” He snarks.
You roll your eyes, shooting him a sharp glare. “Shut the fuck up, Nate,” you snap around a mouthful of tacos and fries.
Sammy lets out an astonished laugh. “Goddamn,” he grins but it’s Nate you’re watching. He’s got the look of someone who just solved a case and you do not appreciate it being pointed at you.
Sammy’s phone rings and you finally look away from Nate. “Dammit,” he shakes his head. “I have to take this.”
“Take it somewhere else,” you immediately tell him. He frowns and you just shake your head. “Dude, if I have to listen to you bitch at Tammi or her european lover again-”
Sammy holds his hands up, “Alright, damn.” He takes his phone and ambles further into the park. You still somehow manage to hear it and it drives you nuts. For two months it’s just been Tammi this and Tammi that. First, she's pregnant, then she's leaving him for her photography instructor. Now, the kid might not even be his, who fucking knows? You’re going to shoot the next person that says her name within a two mile radius of you.
“So,” Nate crosses his arms, observing you. Your skin crawls as you push your food away. “You been craving anything lately?”
“What?” Your eyes snap to his and he grins.
“Mariella always used to crave, uh… what was it,” he closes his eyes as he thinks. “Oh! Pickles and peanut butter. It was nasty. So, I’ll take the taco truck, but you been craving anything else?”
You glance down at your hands which have been busy rummaging in your purse, seeking out the chocolate bar you were sure you had stashed in there. “Um,” you pull your hands back and shake your head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Nate rolls his eyes, lips falling flat as he scoffs. “Please, I’ve been through this three times. You’ve quit smoking, you’re scarfing down junk like it’s a sport. And, you have this look in your eye like you’re a second away from popping a cap in Sammy.”
You let out a small sigh, sinking onto the table as you scrub your hands over your cheeks. “God dammit, Nate. Couldn’t you just be a worse detective?”
He laughs and pats you on the back. “No luck on that.” Nate tilts his head, surveying your body carefully. You shift a little, tugging at your shirt even though the bump isn’t showing, yet.
“Is he the dad?” Neither of you have to look to know he’s talking about the dumbass currently arguing with his ex-wife’s mistress.
Eyes dropping to your lap, you shrug, feeling like a child caught in a lie. You’ve done well so far keeping this to yourself. But Nate’s always had a keener eye than Sammy. At least when it comes to women. You should have seen this coming.
“Yeah,” your voice cracks slightly and you hate yourself for it. “He is.”
Nate reaches over, placing his hand on your shoulder and squeezing. “Have you told him?”
Your head whips up, anger shoving through the tears. “Are you kidding me? He lied to me, made it seem like he and Tammi were over and then got me in bed. He doesn’t want me and he doesn’t want this kid, either.”
Nate gets that expression you only ever seen when he’s scolding his kids. “That is not true-”
“Alright,” Sammy’s enbittered voice interrupts Nate and you couldn’t be more grateful for it. He storms back to the bench, cheeks ruddy from all his yelling. “I’m back.”
“Great,” you jump to your feet. “Let’s get out of here.” Nate shoots you a sharp look that has shame curling tight inside you. But you don’t acknowledge him, just brush past them both as you rush to the car.
Nate remained the only one aware of your little problem. Right up until the day those bastards murdered him.
You stand in your dress blues, Mariella sobbing into your shoulder as Nate’s casket is lowered into the ground. Beside you, Sammy stands holding Petey’s hand, tears streaming silently down his face.
There’s a wicked part of you that wishes it was you dropping to the ground. Nate has a family, kids, people to cry at his grave. You don’t, not really. And you had been right next to Nate, it easily could have been you they targeted. But, no, Sammy got his ass whooped and you got dragged into the crowd, stabbed right in the gut.
And somehow, the kid survived and Nate didn’t.
It just doesn’t seem right.
In a few months you’re going to be nothing more than burden to the people around you. You’re going to have a kid you don’t even know if you want and it probably won’t have it’s dad around. Those assholes could have done everyone a favor and turned the pipe on the second person beside Nate.
Mariella releases you and moves away from the grave. Her shoulders shake, cries so loud it hurts your chest. Everyone begins to disperse or follow her to offer their condolences. You rip your cap off and take a seat at the base of the tree beside Nate’s grave.
You haven’t cried yet. The shrink told you it was a normal response. But you’re not so sure about that. Even Sammy cried. You should have too. There’s just something about you now that is numb.
You want to go back to three months ago and just take that night back.
You want to go back to when Nate was driving you all home. You want to have stopped him and dragged his ass back in the car. Told him to let it go because it was just a beer bottle tossed at the car. But you hadn’t. Every mistake sits with you. They burrow themselves under your skin until you can’t even feel them anymore.
Sammy walks over to you, dropping on the ground beside you. Quickly, you tug at your uniform, trying to hide the slight expansion of your stomach. You’ve gotten lucky so far, the baby barely showing. You know you’ll probably blow up soon, but you’re praying you’re one of those women who just never looks the part until month nine.
“I can’t,” Sammy wipes his eyes. He rests his arms on his knees, heads falling between them. His body shakes as he cries and you take in a sharp breath. You can’t just sit here and watch him fall apart.
Reaching over, you wrap your arms around his shoulders. He doesn’t waste a second, turning his face into your neck and crying as you hold him. You run your fingers over his hair.
“I know,” you whisper, squeezing him closer as you stare at Nate’s grave.
Sammy still doesn’t know. Nate had been giving you shit about it the day before he’d been killed. Something like guilt curdles in your stomach. Nate should have been around when you finally told Sammy.
He should have been standing there with an ‘I-told-you-so’ look that would make you want to slap him. But he’s gone and Sammy’s living in his widow’s home and you still can’t tell him.
You like to stop by Mariella’s house. You help her with the kids when you can, cooking, cleaning. Just whatever she needs. But Sammy’s doing a hell of a lot more than you are. Almost too much with the way Petey’s gotten attached to him.
He follows Sammy around constantly. Slides him into that slot where his dad should be. And Sammy doesn’t fit, no one ever will, but you’re worried the kid will get too attached. Sammy’s going to have a baby soon.
Whether or not Tammi’s is legitimate, you’ve got a backup waiting for him. He’s not going to be around for these kids forever.
You shake your head, taking your eyes away from the window. Away from the sight of Sammy roughhousing in the yard with the kids.
Instead, you turn back to Mariella, watching as she works on dinner. “What do you need help with?” You ask.
She turns to you, mouth opening and then snapping shut. Her eyes drop to the sweatshirt you're wearing. Entirely too large and heavy for an LA summer. You clear your throat, tugging at the collar.
“Mariella?”
“What’s wrong?” She asks, rather than giving you a task. You so desperately need something to keep your hands busy right now.
“Nothing-” She shoots you a sharp look before you can even finish the sentence. You offer a sheepish smile and shake your head. “You don’t need to hear about my issues, Mari.”
She rolls her eyes. “Don’t treat me like glass, please. I need something, anything, to distract me.”
You snort, “So, what, you’re exploiting my messy life?”
Mariella offers a smile, “Exactly.”
“Alright,” you move toward her and nudge her away from the stove. You make sure your back is to the window, and, in the process, fail to see Petey walking back in for a break and water.
You lift up the sweatshirt, showing her the five month belly that’s finally starting to show.
For the most part, the universe has decided to show you a little mercy. You haven’t experienced much changes on your body except the occasional ache or pain. You’ve only had to go up two pant sizes so far, and have managed to get away with wearing looser blouses to work.
Now, though, it seems like the baby’s deciding it’s ready to make its grand entrance.
Her eyes go comically wide, hands pressing against her mouth as she stifles a gasp.
You laugh at your own expense, taking one for the team as you let her focus on your issues rather than her own. “You wanna hear the worst of it?”
“I don’t know,” she offers a shaky laugh, eyes still trained on your stomach as you drop the sweatshirt.
You glance over your shoulder, making sure he’s still outside. “It’s Sammy’s,” you whisper. Her jaw actually drops and it’s enough to have you laughing at her. She shakes off the shock and lets out a disbelieving squeak.
“How?”
“Well, when two people love each other very much-” You yelp as she swats you with her towel. “Hey, that’s assault agianst a pregnant woman,” you warn and she just rolls her eyes.
“Come on,” she urges, leaning against the counter with an expectant look.
“We hooked up once a few months ago. I thought he and Tammi were pretty much over, but he told me they were going to give it another try the next day.”
In rapid succession, she lets out a string of curses in both spanish and english that have your ears burning. “Bastard,” she finally settles on as you watch her with wide eyes. “And you haven’t told him?”
You snort and shake your head. “How could I? I mean, he just straight up lied to me to get me in bed. Then, makes it clear he wants nothing to do with me. And Tammi got pregnant and he thought the baby might not be his…” You trail off, realizing just how Degrassi your life has become.
Hand resting on your stomach, you lean back against the counter. “I almost took it to the clinic,” it being the baby because you still really haven’t accepted this new reality. Mariella’s face quikly shifts into something carefully neutral and you try not to laugh.
“By the time I got there, I guess I’d just hit the cutoff mark. I had wanted to tell him beforehand but he was pretending I didn’t exist for a while. I keep having this recurring dream of giving it up. But I can’t stand the idea of putting my own child into the foster system.”
Your face sinks into your hands as you let out a pitiful noise. “Is there ever a good time to tell a man you’re carrying his illegitimate child?”
She snorts, slapping your arm. “It’s not a telenovela. You’re not carrying his illegitimate baby. You’re just his second baby mama.”
“Screw you,” you laugh, but it sounds hollow even to your ears. “Sammy’s been so volatile lately. He’s not processing anything and I just, I don’t want to tell him when he’s one bad day away from snapping.”
Mariella clicks her tongue, reaching out and dragging you into a hug. “I’m sorry,” she mutters, and pulls back slightly, brushing your hair away. “But I know you’ve always wanted a family.”
“Yeah,” you scoff. “A family. A mom, a dad, not just me. I mean, how am I supposed to do this on my own. Especially with my job?”
“You, of all people, are capable of figuring this out. Sweetheart, once you’re holding that baby in your arms, you’ll be glad you didn’t make it to the clinic.”
Your face screws up, not believing her. Plenty of the women you’ve known have led happier lives after going to the clinic. It’s not the same for everyone, you don’t think you’re going to be so lucky.
“What clinic?” The both of you go stiff, Mariella’s hands tightening around your shoulder as nausea rises in your throat. Sammy remains oblivious, wandering into the kitchen and grabbing a bottle of water.
“Uh,” Mariella lets out a nervous laugh. “I was talking about myself, you know. I asked her for some company to the OBGYN, but there are just certain things friends don’t need to see.”
“Yeah,” you laugh, the sound frantic and slightly broken. “That’s totally it,” your face screws up and Mariella shoots you a sharp look.
Sammy’s brows pinch, lips pursing in displeasure as he glances between the both of you. “Okay,” he drawls, clearly not believing a word of it. You just shrug, subconsciously adjusting your sweatshirt.
“Aren’t you hot in that thing?” He asks, eyeing it warily.
“No,” you snap. “No, I’m cold, actually,” you lie your ass off, you’ve already sweat through your undershirt. You rush out of the kitchen, heading to the front door to call the kids in for dinner. Anything to get away from Sammy’s scrutinizing glare.
The dining table is silent, even the little ones keep quiet. Your brain is pulsating with each scrape of cutlery against ceramic. The kids keep looking at the adults, eyes darting rapidly between you all. They sense it, somehow, the tension.
Sammy’s not aware of the source, but he’s been wary since your spaz attack in the kitchen. Mariella’s not helping anything, either. She keeps sending you the same look Nate always used to. It seems to say ‘Grow a pair and just tell him, already.’ But you’ve put it off for so long, you can’t possibly imagine just dropping the bomb at dinner.
“What does illegitimate mean?”
Your knife screeches against the plate as you freeze. The adult's heads snap toward Petey who just pushes around his vegetables.
Sammy laughs a little, but it trails off at the stricken look on your face. Mariella curses under her breath. “I told you to stop listening to our conversations, Petey.”
Petey just shrugs and Sammy’s eyes dart between you and Mariella. “Where’d you hear that, buddy?” His voice is deceptively calm.
Petey points at you and you feel your dinner coming up. “She said she had an illegitimate baby. What’s that mean?”
Your fork clatters against the plate as your head drops into your hands. Sammy whispers your name but you can’t meet his eye. “God damn, kid,” you lift your head with a watery laugh. “You’d make a great PI, I’ll give you that.”
Sammy calls your name again and you shoot out of your chair. “I am so sorry,” Mariella whispers but you can’t meet her eye. You just rush out of the house, biting your tongue so you don’t throw up all over yourself.
Sammy’s right on your heels, door slamming behind him as he easily catches up to you. You don’t like admitting it, but this damn kid has really been slowing you down. “Hey,” he grabs your arm, pulling you back toward him.
Slightly out of breath, you give up, eyes stubbornly pointed to the ground. “Are you pregnant?” He snaps. You nod your head and he scoffs, releasing your arm like it’s burned him. “Dammit,” he mutters your name and you shrink back. “I’m your partner,” he snaps, “I need to know about this. Were you ever going to tell me?”
Your head shoots up with a frown, “Yes.” But he clearly doesn’t believe you and you barely believe yourself.
“I mean,” he drags his hands through his hair, scoffing in astonishment. “Who’s the dad?”
Your jaw drops as you finally, really look at him. “Jesus, Sammy. How much do you think I sleep around?” His brows pinch together and you stare at him expectantly.
“Wait,” he stutters, shaking his head. “Me?” He points to himself and you would laugh if you felt any less emotionally volatile. “But, I mean, that was months ago.”
“Uh huh,” you drawl, crossed arms resting on your lightly distended stomach. Sammy’s eyes are drawn to them, narrowed like he might be able to see through the sweatshirt.
“Months?” He snaps. “And you didn’t tell me?”
You throw your hands up and let out an astonished guffaw. Yes, guffaw, that’s how stunned you are by his absolutely wild audacity. “There was no good time to tell you that I’m carrying around your freaking kid,” you hiss.
Sammy jerks back and takes a large step away from you. A lot of thoughts seem to be hitting him at once and you worry his brain won’t be able to handle the sudden influx of use.
“Is that what Mariella was talking about earlier? You were going to the clinic?” Okay, you really did not need him to connect that dot.
You rub your temple, eyes clenching shut as you shut out how betrayed he sounds. He has no right acting like you hurt him when he’s the one that did this by lying to you.
“Yeah, alright? I was going to tell you and then take care of it. But by the time I made it in, it was too late.”
“You were going to take my child from me?” He demands, and you glance around, making sure no neighbors can hear the soap-level drama your life has become.
“Fuck you,” you grit out, shoving him back from you. “You didn’t even know about it until ten minutes ago. And you already have a kid, Sammy! With your wife. You know, the one you told me you were leaving when you got me knocked up.”
Sammy flinches back and something inside of you feels slightly vindicated. “What did you expect me to do? I mean, you made it abundantly clear you didn’t want me. You made it seem like that night meant nothing to you. And then I find out that Tammi is pregnant with your kid and I know that the last thing you want is another baby with some chick you don’t even like.”
“Hey,” Sammy snaps and you jut your chin out, just begging for a reason to slap him. “I do like you, alright?”
You groan and shake your head, “Yeah, alright. You like me, but you don’t have the decency to respect over a decade of friendship. You didn’t even give me the courtesy of being honest with me, Sammy. Just lied your way right into my pants.”
Sammy’s head drops and you look away, eyes catching Mariella’s from where she’s watching you both through the kitchen window. Her hands are slowly drying a plate, body tilted so she can try and hear you.
You scoff and look back at him. “Look, there was just never a good time.” You actively soften your voice, not needing a noise complaint called on you. “But everything happened with Tammi and then-”
You bite down on your tongue, forcing yourself to keep Nate’s name out of the conversation. It’s just more pain that neither of you needs right now. “You’re in a bad place, Sammy. You don’t need me adding to that.”
He sucks in a sharp breath, hands pushing against his eyes as he actively keeps his temper in check. Honestly, he’s doing a lot better than you had expected. You’ve been waiting for him to kick over Mariella’s trashcan or storm off.
“How far along?”
Huffing, you lift your shirt for him to get a better look. “About five or so months. I think I’m getting close to the end of the second trimester.”
Sammy’s eyes bore into your stomach, hands twitching at his sides as if he wants to touch you. You drop your shirt quickly, stepping back from him. The hurt look in his eyes almost makes you feel bad. Almost.
“I haven’t even noticed,” he whispers.
You shrug, arms wrapping around your stomach as you rock back on your heels. “I honestly wasn’t even really showing until about a week or so ago.”
“I-” He steps forward, hands outstretched. You jerk back, shooting him a sharp glare and tilting your body away from him. He has lost any privileges he once had to affections or hugs. You don’t have the patience or willingness to offer him any more kindness than a honest conversation.
He lets out a watery laugh, eyes shining under Mariella’s porch light. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Yeah,” you scoff. “Join the club.” For a second he smiles and you return it, but it falters and falls too quickly to be real.
“What are you going to do?”
You suck your teeth and shrug. “I thought about giving it up.” His head snaps up and you hold your hands out. “Relax, I’m not gonna let my kid get tossed to foster care. I’m keeping her, I just don’t know-”
“Her?” He asks, eyes wide as you realize you accidentally let it slip.
“Uh, yeah, I thought about doing that gender reveal thing. Like, just get myself a cupcake or something. But it seems stupid to do that alone so I asked my doctor. Found out last week.”
He makes a noise like it pains him to think of you eating a pink cupcake all alone in your dingy apartment. You can’t blame him, you paint a pretty pathetic picture right now.
“Do you have an ultrasound, or-” He swallows roughly, cutting himself off.
You nod your head, pulling out your phone and passing it to him. He stares down at the picture, eyes wide and gleaming at the blurry little form of your daughter.
God, you haven’t actually referred to the baby as anything other than it or the kid. ‘Your daughter’ suddenly makes it feel too real.
His knuckles go white around your phone as he shakes his head. “You can’t stay in that neighborhood anymore,” he tells you.
Your head snaps up, you most definitely misheard him. “Excuse me?”
He doesn’t even look at you, just stares down at the picture. “You can’t.”
“Alright,” you roll your eyes and wave him off. “Screw you, Sammy. Give me my phone back.”
You reach for it and he jerks it out of reach, holding it above your head. If it didn’t hurt to get on the tips of your toes, you would totally grab it. But your feet are freaking killing you right now. And he smirks like he knows it.
“Think of how many GSW’s we’ve been called in for. Right by your apartment building, too. You should have moved years ago. Do you really think it’s safe to raise a kid there?”
“Of course not. But what am I supposed to do? It’s impossible finding a two-bedroom place that I can actually afford, now. Let alone after I take the pay cut for maternity leave and buy all the supplies for the baby.”
“What have you bought?” He asks, missing your point entirely.
You shrug, “Nothing. I haven’t really processed this.”
“Not even a crib,” he demands.
You bristle, finally giving up the fight for your phone.“No, asshole,” you snap. “Not even a crib. I’ve got four months before I have to worry about it.”
He makes a pained noise and you fight back a laugh. “I mean, your other baby mama’s got two guys looking after her. I don’t have anyone but me, alright. It’s kind of hard figuring this out alone.”
Sammy’s arm finally drops, your phone hanging by his side as he watches you. “You didn’t have to be alone.”
You roll your eyes, give me a break. “You didn’t want me, Sammy. Why would I think you’d want my kid?”
“Our kid,” he corrects and you’re sure he isn’t aware just how close you are to slapping that indignant look off his face.
“Look, you’re stretched thin enough as is. I don’t like making myself a burden.”
“You’re not,” Sammy’s head lolls back and he lets out an aggrieved groan. “You are not a burden,” he tells you firmly. “We’ve got a day off tomorrow, right?”
You nod and he claps his hands together with a definitive sigh. “We’ll look at new places.”
“Okay,” you shrug. “That doesn’t magically make me able to afford them.”
“No, but we can,” he says motioning between you both. “We can live together, split the rent so we can afford it.”
Your face falls, eyes narrowing as you shake your head. “And then what? We have two nurseries? One for mine and one for Tammi’s?”
You absolutely do not mean any of that. No way in hell are you letting your life get entangled with that woman. But he’s just nodding his head like this is a good idea.
“What?” You snap, slapping his shoulder. “No, Sammy!”
“You offered me your couch!” He argues.
“Five months ago! Before you put a baby in me,” you remind him, shaking your head with a glare.
Sammy finally hands you back your phone and returns the evil look tenfold. “This is not up for discussion.”
“Yeah, alright,” you wave him off, not taking him seriously for a second. With an irritated groan, you storm off to your car and pointedly ignore him as you pull out.
If only he could have done that five months ago.
Three firm knocks on your door have you shooting out of bed. You let out a low groan, glaring at the door while you clutch your stomach. You haven’t had horrific morning sickness, yet, but sudden movements seem to be testing your guts limits. Another knock and it’s like the police are about to bust through your apartment.
Grumbling to yourself, you throw the door open and glare. “What the hell?”
Sammy stands there, sunglasses on and two cups of coffee in his hand. “Why aren’t you ready?”
Your eyes turn into slits as you let out a strangled groan. “I didn’t think you were being serious about this,” you snap.
“Yeah, well, I am.” He shoves the cup into your hand and you take a sip, letting him inside.
“Ugh,” you stick your tongue out, glaring down at the coffee. “This tastes nasty.”
“Decaf,” Sammy tells you, glancing around your apartment with a disgusted glare. You can’t blame him. Objectively, it’s an absolutely horrible place for a baby to grow up in. You’re about 90% sure that there’s mold growing behind the walls of your shower and there is definitely asbestos.
But, your landlord gives you a major discount on rent as long as you turn a blind eye to some of his more unethical business practices.
“This is so not fair. Tammi gets to smoke weed and I’m stuck with this,” you slam the cup down and pick up some jeans to change into. Sammy shoots you a sharp glare and you wave him off, grabbing one of the few maternity shirts you own and tugging it on.
His eyes are immediately drawn to your stomach. It’s the first time in a while that you’ve been around him in anything other than loose clothes. You can’t exactly blame him for the shock on his face. It’s like you just got pregnant overnight to him.
Well, you guess that’s actually exactly how he feels.
“Alright,” you pick the coffee up and motion him outside.
Hesitating, you let out a tired sigh. “Are we really doing this?” You ask, peering over your shoulder as you lock the door.
“Yes,” Sammy tells you firmly. He places a hand on your lower back, eyes darting around the neighborhood as he shakes his head in disappointment.
“Should’ve gotten you out of here a long time ago,” he mutters, more to himself than you.
You just roll your eyes at him, grunting a little as you lower yourself into his car. He hovers over you, offering you a hand that you swat away. You’re just a little slower than normal, not helpless.
Sammy’s face screws up at how stubborn you are and he closes the door with far more force than necessary. You let out a sharp breath, wincing at a cramp in your side as he gets in.
“You alright?” He asks, brows pinched as he takes in your grimace.
“Yeah, just tweaked my back.”
“Doing what?” He asks, voice low in a way that sends goosebumps up your arm.
You don’t meet his eye, picking at a thread on your jeans, instead. “Uh, just, taking down a suspect last week.”
“Jesus,” he hisses, pulling out of your apartment complex. “You should be on desk duty,” he tells you sharply.
You reach over and punch his arm, smiling when he winces. “You get me put on desk duty, Sammy, and I’m going to shoot you.”
He dismisses you with a glare and you let out another irritated huff.
For the entire day, he drags you through every decent neighborhood he can find. You vehemently veto any places in castaic, however, which kills him. But you cannot live in that boring ass suburbia desert, it will drive you insane.
By the end of it all, your feet feel like lead weights. Every place you guys have been to, you’ve hated. Some were no-go’s because of a strict HOA. Others because modern architecture seems to mean sucking the soul out of every room in the home.
At the last townhouse, in an older but relatively safe neighborhood, you are thoroughly pissed off. Pieces of you that you didn’t know existed are aching and you are starving. Despite the fact that he got you food an hour ago.
“This is it,” you snap at him, finally taking his offered hand as he eases you out of the car.
“Yeah, yeah,” he brushes you off, leading you up the porch where a realtor’s waiting for you. Her overly enthusiastic smile makes you want to slap her and you would dismiss that as hormones if you weren’t a person prone to pettiness far before the baby.
“Well, look at you two! What a gorgeous couple!”
Sammy offers a weak smile and you slap his hand away from you. “Not a couple,” you grit out. “Can we get this over with, please?”
“Oh,” her face falls and she clears her throat uncomfortably. “Of course, come in, please.”
You leave Sammy to listen to her spiel while you explore the house. It’s older than the ones he’s been looking at. The kitchen is a little less modern but you prefer that to all the beige you’ve suffered through on the tours today. You like the wooden cabinets and colorfully tiled floors. You imagine a baby would too.
Humming, you check out the rooms downstairs. There are two of them, across the hall from one another. Peering in, you can already see where the cribs might go.
It’s not ideal having the kid’s rooms downstairs, but the master bedroom is right at the top of the stairs. Worst case scenario, you could get to them in under thirty seconds. Besides, you’ll have them in bassinets by your bed for the first few months.
The longer you wander around, the more you find yourself liking the place. In each room you can already imagine how you and Sammy would decorate, how the babies play areas would look. And then you catch yourself, realizing that you’re imagining Tammi’s baby actually being a part of this.
You’ve never been in such a messy situation before. You’re not sure what the rules are on taking care of another woman’s baby. You know that Sammy will have split custody with her. But you’ve yet to figure out how much she wants you involved with him.
Sighing, you shake your head and walk down the stairs. An issue for another day.
Sammy peers up at you, “Well?”
You glance down at the eager relator and scowl. “It’s perfect,” you reluctantly admit. She gives a smug grin and pulls out some paperwork for Sammy to look over.
Not even two weeks later, he’s got you forcefully removed from your old neighborhood and living in the townhouse with him. While you work on furnishing the nurseries and figuring out the complexities of your sudden proximity, he sleeps on an air mattress in the baby’s room.
You feel a little guilty each morning when he wakes up and there’s a clear limp to his walk because the blow-up is kiling him. You’ve yet to broach the topic, but when the baby gets here, it would probably just be better if he shared the bed with you.
This morning, you’re drinking orange juice while he sips tiredly on a mug of coffee. You flip through the newspaper, eyes lingering on an ad for a second too long. “What is it?” He asks.
You slide the paper toward him, finger tapping against the ad. “50% off at,” you sigh at the name and purse your lips. “Cuddle Couture.”
Sammy snorts into his coffee and you grin. “What the hell is that?”
“A baby store, dumbass. Probably a good place to finally pick out a crib.”
“Alright,” he checks his watch and nods. “We have a few hours before I have to head in. Want to go check it out?”
You shrug, “Might as well, right?” He taps the table once before he’s getting to his feet, a low groan escaping him as he rubs his lower back. You feel a little sympathy for him but also the slightest bit of vindication. Because if he wants to complain about back pain, he should try carrying his giant freaking baby for six months.
You lean against the cart, watching as Sammy’s eyes rove over all of the frilly little onesies. “Hey, what about this?” He picks out one that’s soft pink with teddy bear print. Something in your chest twists as you imagine your baby in it.
“Adorable,” you tell him. He tosses it in the cart as you kneel down in front of a onesie clearly aimed at boys. It’s darker blue with a police badge patched on the shoulder. “What the hell are they putting kids in these days?”
As much as you don’t like it, you’re sure Sammy would. “Hey,” he looks over and you toss it at him. His brow furrows as he looks down at it. “For the other one,” you tease, meaning Tammi’s soon-to-be son.
His face softens as he gives you a disbelieving smile. “You’re thinking about him?”
You jerk back a little, reaching for the cart as you shrug. “I mean, I don’t know. He’s gonna be at our house, isn’t he? He should have some clothes, that’s all,” you dismiss, suddenly eager for the conversation to be done.
Sammy grabs a few more sets of clothes, ones for each new stage of growth. You notice him putting in some for the girl, some for the boy, a few that would work well for both and find yourself smiling for some strange reason. Maybe it’s just because of how happy he looks going through all of the different supplies.
“Did, uh,” you clear your throat and offer a stiff smile. “Did Tammi let you shop with her for anything?”
Sammy’s hands freeze on a book he’d picked up. He shrugs. “She let me pick out the paint for the nursery, but, she took her boyfriend to get the crib and stuff.” Your lips purse, a sting in your eyes as you take in his pathetically sad face.
Dammit, you glare down at your stomach, this kid’s turning you soft.
“Well, congrats, now you get to pick out two.” He huffs out a little laugh as your tilt your head toward some odd looking machine on a shelf. Vaguely, you think you know what it is, but it seems like something better for milking a cow than anything human.
“What the hell is this?” You mutter, picking the box up.
“That,” you jump, heart racing as a worker pops up beside you. “Is the best breast pump on the market.”
You narrow your eyes at her as she smiles eagerly at you. “It looks like it’s a torture device,” you say, pointing to the clamps that are, apparently, supposed to go on your nipple. Clamps.
“That’s not the best,” Sammy suddenly interjects, moving to stand next to you. He takes the box from your hands and places it back on the shelf. You let out an astonished laugh when the woman picks it back up with a forced smile.
“Actually, sir, it is. It’s one of our most purchased products.”
“Doesn’t make it good,” he snips.
“All due respect, but this is quite literally my job. I think I would know.”
You hold up a hand before he can continue arguing with her. “Job or not, I don’t want my boobs clamped. It’s gonna be pain enough if my kid figures out how to bite.” You turn with a sigh, heading toward the foldable play pens.
You start talking, asking for his opinions. It takes a second to realize he hadn’t followed you. With a groan, you walk back toward him and find him still arguing with the over eager sales lady.
Pushing the cart back to him, you catch the tail end of their argument. “Look, lady, I’m having two kids. I’ve put some research into this. I don’t care what your job is.”
The woman huffs and puts the box back on the shelf. “Congragulations on the twins, ma’am,” she tells you curtly.
You raise your brows and shake your head. “Oh, I’m only having one. His other baby mama’s having the second one.” The poor lady’s face goes pale and Sammy glares at you. You snicker as she rushes to get away from you both.
“What?” You sigh at the look on his face.
“You’re enjoying this too much.” He frowns, nudging your side as you walk toward the cribs.
“Yeah, well, cut me some slack. I’m bullying for two, now.” The grin on Sammy’s face forces one onto yours and you look away from him before he can spot it. You’re not supposed to be enjoying this with him. But you are.
You’re enjoying it far too much.
Your foot taps impatiently against the linoleum as you wait for Sammy to walk in. He beelines straight to Sal and you hope he can feel your glare boring into the back of his head.
“I’m on rotation today. Why did Johnson and Walters get my case?”
“Oh,” you snap before Sal can answer. They both turn to you and you hold up your hand as you lift yourself from your chair. It takes longer than you’d like, but pregnancy is really starting to catch up to you.
With a low breath you stomp toward him. “Because you got me benched and you’re my partner, now, you ass.”
Sammy’s eyes narrow on you before they drop to your stomach. Specifically the profesional looking maternity shirt you bought this past weekend. It seems to be odd for both of you, having your stomach on display like this at work. You’d gotten some confused looks from everyone considering none of them had a clue you were pregnant.
You feel way too exposed and you hate it.
“What is she talking about?” Sammy finally tears his eyes from yours and looks at Sal.
Sal just holds up his hands. “I don’t know what you want me to do, Sammy. You told me about her… condition and it’s not like I can just have you both investigating some gangbangers shooting each other up. It’s too high risk.”
“Condition?” You scoff. “I’m pregnant, Sal, just say it. And don’t talk like I’m not standing right here,” you snap with complete disregard to the fact the he’s your boss.
Sal’s expression goes flat as he lets out a long-suffering sigh. You shove Sammy’s shoulder and he grimaces. “I told you that if you snitched I would shoot you, Sammy. Don’t think I won’t. You just earned us both two months of desk work. Do you think I’m incapable of doing my job now?”
Sammy crosses his arms and glowers. “You can’t even run anymore,” he hisses your name.
You hate when he’s right. “Why the hell would I let you out into the field carrying-”
Your eyes widen minutely and you shake your head. Sammy bites his lip, glancing down at Sal who’s pretending he’s not listening to every word. Both of you agreed that it was better not to let people know Sammy’s the dad. It would be an HR nightmare and you know how these guys talk about women. You can’t have them all looking at you like you're something to be passed around the station like some badge bunny.
“I won’t let my partner out in the field when she’s seven months pregnant,” he corrects.
“Ugh,” you throw your hands up and storm back to your desk, lowering yourself slowly into your chair. “I hate when you’re right,” you sneer. Sammy rolls his eyes at you and tosses himself in his chair with an irritated groan.
It only takes three hours for Sal to finally break. He’d been forced to listen to you and Sammy bitch at each other since you arrived and he couldn’t take it anymore. “Alright,” he snaps, interrupting you both bickering about what to get for lunch.
Your brows dip as you turn toward him. He runs his hands down his face and shakes his head. “I cannot listen to you two for one more minute. We just got a call about a body, you guys can go check it out.”
Sammy goes to interject, but you toss your pen at him before he screws you both over. He jerks back, shooting you an offended look. “Thank you, so much,” you rush out, already getting to your feet.
Sammy glares over at Sal who just holds up his hands. “It’s low-risk. I just need you both out of here for a few hours.” Sammy lets out a huffy sigh and follows you out of the station.
You stretch your arms out, grimacing as your back throbs. Sammy rushes down the stairs to catch up with you. Doesn’t take him long considering you’re going a snail’s pace. “Happy with yourself?” He asks.
You grin over your shoulder at him. “Incredibly.” Your smile slips slightly when you catch the harsh look on his face. It’s not necessarily directed at you, but he’s staring down at your stomach and you know how worried he is.
“Hey,” you nudge his side as he walks you to the car. “Why don’t we just get some lunch, drive around for a bit. We can let Lydia deal with the body. I just want to get away from my desk.”
He frowns, head tilting because he really doesn’t believe you. “Really? You’re just going to give in?”
You roll your eyes with a fond smile. “I know how dangerous our job is, Sammy. I’m not so selfish as to risk something happening to the baby. Besides, my feet are throbbing right now and I immediately regretted the idea of having to walk through a scene.”
Sammy lets out a laugh and shakes his head, helping you into the car. “You’re a ridiculous person,” he admonishes.
You just shrug. “Then you should pray our daughter doesn’t take after me.”
“You kidding me? I want her to be just like you.” He closes the door and you stare down at your lap, biting back tears as if he hadn’t just said something so sweet your chest hurts.
Damn hormones, you curse, absolutely lying to yourself because, deep down, you know it’s just him that makes you feel like this.
“I’m home!” Sammy calls out, door shutting behind him. His brows turn down as he glances around the living room. At this point, he usually just finds you laying on the couch, complaining about swollen feet.
“In here,” you call back and he follows your voice to the nursery. His lips part in astonishment as he finds you surrounded by an assembled crib and changing table. You, however, are laying flat on the ground, face absolutely defeated as you wave weakly at him.
“What is going on?” He asks, already settling beside you, helping you sit up. “I told you not to worry about any of this.”
You shrug, fiddling with the paintbrush in your hands. His heart stutters for a moment, terrified that you actually tried painting without him. But the walls are still bare and the can is unopened on top of a tarp. At the very least, you knew when to stop.
“I just needed to stop thinking. I like building this kind of stuff, anyway, calms me down.” Tears begin to line your eyes and his hands hover over you as he panics. You’ve always been slightly volatile but he is completely unsure how to act around you now. Never sure what’s going to set you off or have you smiling at him.
“But I couldn’t paint,” you swallow thickly and wipe at your cheeks. “Paint fumes are bad for the baby.”
He hums, nodding as he slowly takes the paintbrush from your hands. It feels disconcertingly like disarming a suspect. “Yeah, sweetheart. But you know I’m going to do it for you. Why are you so upset?”
Your face crumples and he winces as your head falls into your hands. Your shoulders begin to shake as you cry into your palms and he just sits there, hands hovering but not touching. Sometimes you want a hug, a lot of the times you’re snapping at him to back off.
Deciding to risk it, he wraps his arm around your shoulders. You slump into him immediately and something inside him warms. “You need to paint the nursery for Tammi’s baby. This is my baby, my daughter.”
Sammy stiffens, forehead falling against yours as he sucks in a sharp breath. He knows that this whole mess is his fault and he hates how much it’s bugging you. But, god damn, you make it hard not to lose it sometimes.
“I’m her father,” he reassures, pulling back and cupping your cheeks. “Which means I take care of her and you,” he wipes your tears away and your eyes flutter shut.
“But you don’t want us, Sammy. All we are is a mistake. An obligation,” you sob, sinking further into him.
“Hey!” You jerk back, eyes reddened and wide. It’s the first time he’s really snapped at you in a while but he just can’t take it anymore. “Don’t put shit in my mouth that I haven’t said.”
Your eyes narrow and you pull back from him, swatting his hands away. His jaw clenches, cheeks flushing as he actively bites back his temper. “But you said it,” you’re snapping now, pissed off and struggling as you try to get to your feet. He almost helps you but he thinks it might better if you’re grounded so this doesn’t turn into a real fight.
Giving up, you drop back to the ground. “When you slept with me,” you whisper. “You said that it was-” You clear your throat and wipe tiredly at your cheeks. “It wasn’t anything.”
Sammy rubs his eyes. He’s had a long shift and a worse day. He just wanted to come home, find you on the couch waiting for him, and have a quiet night with you. But you always have to be such a pain in his ass. So goddamn stubborn it hurts.
“I made a mistake, alright?” You glare as he raises his voice and he settles down with a long exhale. “I meant everything I said to you that night. I wanted you- I want you. I’ve been so damn happy since you told me you were pregnant. But you just won’t let me be happy with you.”
Your lips tremble and he worries he’s just kickstarted another round of waterworks. You don’t use your tears against him like Tammi used to. No, you cry the whole time you’re shouting at him and then continue to as he tries to talk you down. You never use it to get him to leave you alone and he loves you for it, but right now he just needs you calm for once.
Before you can lay into him or sob, your face is screwing up in pain. “Oh,” you flinch, hand going to your stomach.
“What is it?” He rushes out. You’re only seven months along. Water doesn’t break that early. Right?
You laugh a little and finally smile at him. “Relax,” you mutter, reaching out and taking his palm in yours. He frowns as you settle it under the curve of your stomach. A second later he feels it, sees it even through your tight shirt. The baby kicking against his palm.
“Damn,” you hiss. “Kidney shot.”
Sammy laughs and moves both hands to feel. It’s something Tammi won’t allow him. Sure, he’s the father, but as far as she concerned that doesn’t matter until the baby’s out. Getting to experience this with you of all people was more than he could have ever asked for.
He glances up at the soft look on your face, the sweet way you run your hand along your stomach. A far cry from the woman who cussed the baby out everytime you felt her boxing with your bladder.
Sammy slips his hand into yours, smiling when he sees the surprise on your face. “Even if you’re not in love with me,” it physically pains him to say that. “We’re still friends. We’ve always taken care of each other. That is not going to stop now.”
Your eyes water again and he shakes his head, leaning forward to press a brief kiss to your forehead. That only makes you sniffle and he forces himself to stand before he really makes you cry again.
And you, you just sit there, watching as he rolls up his sleeves and opens the paint can. He’s painting the nursery, tonight, because you wanted to so bad. Despite the fact that you know he had a bad day.
What he said finally settles in you and your throat tightens. He only said that you weren’t in love with him. Sammy didn’t say anything about himself.
You’re sitting on the couch one night, feet elevated because your ankles are killing you today, when Sammy comes out of the nursery. He’s got something that looks like a walkman in his hands and he’s beelining straight for you.
You would sit up if it didn’t take so much effort. “What’s that?” You ask, reaching out for it. Sammy dodges your hands and you scowl. He lets out a little laugh, gently sitting you up so he can take the seat beside you.
“Tammi gave me this book, forced me to read it so I would know how to properly coparent.” You hum, head tilting as you watch him press a button on something that is most definitely a walkman. But the headphones stretch far more than any you’ve ever seen.
“It said that classical music is supposed to be good for the baby’s development.”
“Seriously?” You mutter, watching him put the headphones over your stomach. You snort at how ridiclous it looks. “So I probably shouldn’t have been listening to freak on a leash on the way to work.”
He nudges your side and you smile. “Be serious,” he mutters, ignoring the grin on his own face.
“I am,” you insist, but he doesn’t believe you for a second. His hand lingers on your stomach, face soft when the baby kicks. You grumble, shifting uncomfortably as she settles her giant head comfortably against your liver.
Sammy wraps his arm around your shoulder, helping you rest your head on his lap so you can try and get comfortable again. His hand smooths gently over your hair and you smile, mind drifting back to the ridiculous reality show you’d been watching.
Vaguely, you can hear a little bit of the classical music seeping out from the headphones. Ridiculous, you think, trying not to laugh. Who would’ve thought he’d be the one freaking out over the parenting books?
You lay your palm on his thigh and he takes it in his immediately, sinking further into the cushions behind him. It’s quiet for a while. Peaceful in a way you haven’t experienced in years. It’s nice, especially after such a horrid shift.
You’d done paperwork for nine hours, sitting on the same flattened chair, getting up to pee every other minute. You’ve been wondering if you could somehow go on maternity leave early, but the thought of just sitting around the house bugs you. Work seems to be the only thing you know how to fill your time with.
“I’m going back on patrol.” Sammy’s voice cuts through the peace and immediately sends your heart into overdrive. You try and sit up, but his arm is heavy around your waist. He isn’t holding you because he wants to, he’s subduing you so you can’t tear him a new one.
“What the fuck, Sammy?” You hiss, tilting your head so you can get a decent look on his face. He offers you a sorry smile that makes you want to dig your elbow into his groin.
“I just,” he cuts himself off, eyes darting back to the TV even though he’s not watching it. “There was a boot that got shot today. He was barely six months in and he got shot by the same asshole that was there when they killed Nate.”
Your eyes flutter close as you rub at your brow. “Sammy,” you mutter, heart aching for him.
“I just feel like I might be able to make a difference. I need to do something that feels like I’m making this a better place for my kids.”
You shake your head, biting your tongue so you don’t start a fight that you know will just end with you pissed and him unchanged in his decision. “You’re unbelievable, Bryant.”
He smiles down at you. “In a good way or a bad way?”
“I’ll decide when I’m not furious,” you bite out. You turn your face away from him, forcing yourself to look at the TV as you bite back tears. You don’t care about the pay cut he’s going to get. Or that his hours will probably be completely irregular now. You just hate the idea of him being back on the street, out in the open driving around in a black and white target.
He lifts your hand, pressing a gentle kiss to the knuckles as you swallow past the lump in your throat. You can’t lose him like you both lost Nate.
“What is that?” You call from the doorway of the house. Sammy’s pulled into the driveway with a truck you’ve never seen and a mangled mess of metal poles in the back. Stepping down the stairs, you rub at the ache in your lower back and tilt your head as you try and figure out what it is.
“The people that bought Nate’s house didn’t want the slide. They told me I could take it.”
You raise your brows as you watch him struggle to drag it from the bed of the truck. “Yeah, uh huh, did they tell you how to put it back together?” Sammy pauses and offers you a weak smile.
“It can’t be that hard,” he shrugs.
You shake your head, rolling your eyes as you walk back into the house. You can still hear him grunting in the driveway, struggling to even unload the thing. Picking up your phone, you call Ben.
You haven’t met him yet, but you’d demanded Sammy give you his partner’s number in case of an emergency. This wasn’t necessarily an emergency, but it is finally an excuse to meet him. Maybe interrogate him a bit to make sure Sammy’s in good hands.
“Sherman,” he says in lieu of hello.
“Hi this is Sammy’s…” you trail off. You’re certainly not introducing yourself as his damn baby mama. “Roommate,” you settle on slowly, even if that doesn’t feel right either.
He lets out a small laugh and says your name. “Yeah, Sammy’s told me about his roommate. Is something wrong?”
“Uh,” you walk to the front door and watch as Sammy drags the poles to the backyard with bright red cheeks. “Not really. It’s just, Sammy’s trying to build this thing for the baby. It’s not really a one-man job. Would you mind coming over for a minute?”
He’s quiet for a while and you figure he’s probably going to just hang up. But then he’s letting out a long and weary sigh. “I need to drive to castaic?”
“Oh,” you snort. “Hell no, you think I’m letting him move me over there?” You give him your new address and Ben lets out a relieved laugh.
“Yeah, give me half an hour.”
You hang up just as Sammy walks in. His eyes narrow on your phone and you offer him a wide smile. “Who was that?”
“Who was what?” You ask innocently, tucking your phone into your pocket.
“I don’t need any help,” he insists. You just nod and pat his back as he goes to drag more pieces out of the truck. And, then, almost half an hour on the dot, Ben is pulling up. Sammy rolls his eyes as he sees him.
He glares over at where you’re sitting on the porch steps and you grin. “You haven’t even gotten it all out of the car, Sammy. You need help.”
Ben jogs up the driveway and waves at you. “Nice to meet you,” he offers.
“I would stand up but once I’m down it takes a while to get back up.”
He shakes his head, “Don’t worry about it.” He turns to Sammy who’s still looking pissy at you. “Can’t even build a slide, huh?”
Sammy rolls his eyes and motions Ben forward. “Just hurry up and don’t scratch the truck. This thing’s a loan.” You leave them to it while you slowly get to your feet. It’s coming up on the halfway mark for month eight. While you did relatively well through the first and second trimester you have started to seriously slow down.
Your ribs are getting kicked at, organs squished as a concerningly large baby takes up space in your body. Every morning is a different ache and you have found that your usually small threshold for idiocy has become nonexistent. You’re snapping at anyone and anything.
Sammy had walked in on you cussing the crib out one day because you’d stubbed your toe. And then you were snapping at him for laughing.
You hobble back into the house as you roll your shoulders, trying to get rid of the everpresent strain in your neck. In the kitchen, you make them some lemonade and a small snack. A reward for a job well done if they actually manage to figure it out.
But, an hour later, you head out to the back porch and find that the slide is still not built and now they’re bickering with each other on what part goes where. You sigh, rolling your eyes as you walk down the steps.
The grass is cold against your bare feet and you frown. You swear to god you’d put on shoes. Then again, you seem to be forgetting everything nowadays. “Hey,” you call out, laughing at their flushed cheeks.
“Go lay down, sweetheart,” Sammy tells you, clearly at the end of his rope. You ignore him and he lets out a long suffering groan. Tilting your head you kick at one of the poles.
“That goes with the red piece,” you tell them.
“No it doesn’t,” Ben tells you.
“Sammy I can’t bend down which means that you’re both spared from me shoving that thing up your asses. But be a dear and slot it into the red piece, please.” Sammy shoots Ben a look like you aren’t actively staring at his face. The ‘bitches-be-crazy’ ‘tude really makes you wish you could bend over.
Giving you a patronizing smirk, Sammy picks up the pole and the little red triangle. “I told you, honey-” He’s cut off as it slides into place with a distinct click. Both Ben and Sammy stare at you with wide eyes.
“I like building things,” you tell them. “And I’m good at it. I don’t know why men can’t just shut up and listen sometimes.” You kick at another pole and motion for Ben to pick it up.
In an hour, you’ve got the damn thing built and you’re sitting on the couch, eating the food you made for them, congratulating yourself on a job well done.
Ben sits in the armchair across from you, nursing the beer Sammy had passed him. “You know, I thought Sammy was being dramatic when he told me about you.” Your eyes narrow and Sammy shakes his head subtly. But Ben keeps on going. “I get it now, man.”
“Get what?” You snap, glaring at them both.
Ben just snickers, taking another swig from his beer. “Nothing, sweetheart, ignore him.” Sammy waves him off and you sink back into the couch with a cold glare.
“You two are so lucky I can’t get up.”
“I know,” Ben snorts and then he’s dodging the slipper you kicked off at him.
You know that Sammy’s out on patrol right now. He probably won’t answer his phone, at least not for another hour. But you’re currently sitting on the stairs with a puddle steadily growing around you. And you really don’t want to have to get an uber to the hospital.
Taking the risk, you call him. “What?” He snaps and your eyes go wide as you scoff.
“I know you did not just take that tone with me,” you hiss, grimacing as a sharp pain stabs through your stomach. It’s like period cramps on fucking steroids.
Sammy says your name in a questioning tone and you let out a strained hum. “What’s going on?”
“Everything alright?” You hear Ben in the background and let out a shaky sigh. There’s no way he’s going to be able to come get you.
“Um, my water broke.” You glance down at the wooden stairs and frown. “Everywhere.”
“Wait, what?” You can hear his tires screeching as he slams on his brakes and then Ben cussing him out. “I’m on my way.”
“No, no, it’s fine.” You grab the railing and try to stand up but another cramp hits and you’re plopping back down. “I can probably get an Uber, you’re at work and-”
“Sweetheart, I need you to shut up, please.”
“Yeah, fair enough,” you concede, resting your head on the step behind you. “I’m scared, Sammy,” you whisper and hear him let out a rough sigh. “I don’t want to push her out. She’s huge! She’s got your big ass head,” you snap.
Ben laughs in the background and you’re sure you hear the sound of Sammy hitting him. “It is not that big, honey.”
“I’m sorry, did we see the same ultrasound? I’m gonna be pushing out a watermelon, here, Sammy.”
He goes quiet and you frown, really needing him to distract you again. Then you hear doors slamming outside and suddenly the front door’s getting busted open like its SWAT on the other side. You flinch back, almost laughing when you see the panicked look on Sammy’s face.
He makes his way toward you, but his foot slips through the puddle and he nearly busts his ass. “Yeah, I told you it went everywhere.” Slowly, with your hand gripping the rail, you scoot down one step at a time. Sammy takes your hands, helping you to your feet.
“Are you okay? Does anything hurt?” He asks, eyes roving over you.
“Yeah,” you deadpan. “It feels like I’ve got a bowling ball pushing out of me, Sammy.” He scowls and turns you around to find Ben waiting outside the door. He offers you a smile that looks more like a grimace.
“Help her get in the car,” Sammy instructs. Ben nods, taking your hand and easing you down the stairs. You don’t make it to the car before another cramp is digging its claws into your uterus.
“Ooh, I’m looking forward to that epidural,” you mutter. “Finally gonna get to try the good drugs,” you grunt as you lower yourself into the car.
“Not going natural?” Ben asks, foot tapping impatiently as he waits for Sammy to come back outside.
“I’m a cop, Ben. This is my one chance to get as close to high as I can be.” He snorts and then Sammy’s walking out of the house, carrying the bag you’d packed forever ago for the hospital. He slides it onto the floor beside you and offers you a tentative smile that you can only return with a grimace.
Ben drops you both off at the hospital, returning to the station to explain where Sammy’s disappeared to. It takes you a few hours longer than you’d prefer to get you dilated enough to push.
They had you doing all sorts of things to get this party going. Bouncing on a medicine ball, one of the nurses even tried to get you to do some squats and lunges with her. But you’d given up almost instantly, back nearly going out as you crawled back onto the hospital bed.
Finally, your daughter decided to make an appearance and then you were pushing. You don’t remember some of it. You just know that it wasn’t as horrifying as the movies make it seem. You didn’t scream like you were getting murdered or bleed everywhere.
You might have soiled yourself, the nurses lied to you if you did, which you deeply appreciate. And then, your baby is in your arms.
People always tell you about how instantly they fall in love with the little bundle of joy in their arms. And as elated as you are, as peaceful as it is to finally hold her, you still find yourself frowning.
“She’s beautiful,” the nurse tells you, offering you a kind smile.
“She’s wrinkly,” you correct, nose scrunching at her pruned face. Sammy snorts, trying to hold back his laughter as the nurse scowls. “She’s gonna get cuter, right?” You ask, eyes darting between her and your daughter that’s glaring like an angry old man.
“Give it a few hours,” another nurse tells you. “And be happy she didn’t come out with a cone head.”
Your eyes widen, arms tightening around her. “That was a possibility?” Sammy runs his hand over his hair as the majority of the nurses leave. “Did you know that?” You ask him, staring down at your daughter and smiling as she gets a death grip on your finger.
“Yeah, I knew. I just didn’t think you needed that in your head.”
“Good call,” you lower your voice as her eyes slip shut and scoot marginally over in the bed. “Come here,” you tell him, patting the spot beside you. He takes a seat, smile so wide it makes your chest ache to look at. “Here, take our wrinkly baby,” you tease, grinning at the way he laughs.
You sink further into the bed, expression soft and tired as you watch him smile down at your daughter. She looks so small in his arms it’s terrifying. How are you supposed to take care of this tiny little thing?
Your eyes flutter shut and you rub your brow. With everything settling, what little energy you had has seeped out of you. Sammy glances up at you, taking your hand as you try to fight off sleep.
One of the nurses walks over to you both, smile kind as she gestures to your baby. “If you’d like, we can take her to the nursery. Let the both of you get some rest.”
Immediately, you’re trying to lift yourself up. Sammy presses his hand gently to your shoulder. “We’ll be keeping her in here, thank you.” You slump back in relief and smile at him, squeezing his hand.
“Alright, be honest. Did you watch?”
He lifts his brows and you nod toward your legs. “Yeah,” he huffs. “I watched.”
“And, were the guys all right? Have you been put off sex forever?” You tease, sitting up slightly to get a better look at your daughter.
Sammy shakes his head. “They’re all idiots. I haven’t been put off sex forever.” For some reason, you feel a little bit of relief at that. Not that it matters considering you’ve only had sex with him once and he’s holding the product in his arms right now. You doubt he wants any more with you.
“Just a few months,” he adds, smile teasing.
“Jerk,” you roll your eyes and swat his arm. He chuckles and moves closer to you, lowering his arms so you can rub her chunky leg with your thumb. She did come out with a big head, like you’d told him she would.
“We’ve gotta name her,” you mutter.
Sammy grins and the malicious glint in his eyes have your alarms going off. “You know, me and Tammi said it would be Rachel if it was a girl-”
The remaining nurses all look up, eyes narrowing as they stare over at you two. He just smirks, far too proud of himself. “Fuck off,” you hiss.
Sammy lets out a scandalized noise, covering the baby’s ears. “Language,” he admonishes.
You laugh, mind still a little foggy. “If you sign Rachel on the birth certificate, the next time I’m in the station, it’ll be in cuffs.”
She starts to fuss and you hold out your arms. Sammy passes her to you carefully, reaching over to help you sit up as you undo the top of your gown. He glances away as you press her to your chest.
“I’ve always wanted to name my girl Alexandria.”
Sammy goes quiet, brows furrowing before he looks at you with a scowl. “Like that library?”
Heat flushes through you and you shrug. “I mean, kind of, yeah.”
“You know you’re a nerd, right?”
You roll your eyes and he smiles as you settle back on the bed. “Shut up.”
It’s barely even a month later that Sammy’s in the hospital again. You’re holding Alex when you get the text, a picture of a wrinkly baby who’s pissed off face looks just like Sammy’s.
You put your phone down, glancing down at your sleeping daughter and feel panic settle slowly in your gut. You don’t know what this means for the both of you. Sammy’s known Tammi since high school, been with her longer than you’ve even known him. And they’d been trying for their baby for years. Now, he’s got it, how much will he still want you and Alex?
You stand slowly, placing Alex down in her crib as you slump back into the rocking chair. Your nails drum restlessly against the arm as you stare at her, now, adorable face. Once she de-pruned she was pretty freaking cute. You have about a thousand pictures of her on your phone but you know Sammy’s got even more.
You rub tiredly at your eyes and let out a weary sigh. You should get up, take a shower, try and clean up a bit. But your body is dead weight and you can’t find the energy to care about anything except your baby.
Sammy almost calls out to you once he gets home. But the last time he’d done that, he’d woken Alex up and you'd barely talked to him the rest of the night. Quietly, he drops his bag by the door and makes his way toward the nursery.
You’re slumped in the rocking chair, mouth open as you snore. Sammy bites his lip so he doesn’t laugh and walks toward the crib. He peers over, smiling at Alex’s sleeping face. But then she lets out a low whine and his eyes are wide as he jumps back. He does not need to be the reason she wakes up early, again. He thinks you might actually kill him this time.
Sammy kneels in front of you and gently nudges you. You shoot up, eyes wide as you scan the room. “Alex,” you mumble, one eye still closed as you check out the crib.
It’s a practice in self control to not laugh. “She’s fine,” he tells you, taking your hands in his. You blink slowly as you take him in. He almost feels bad for waking you up, but he knows your neck will hurt if you stay here.
You rub your cheeks and nod. He stands up, gently guiding you out of the chair. “I should clean,” you mutter and Sammy rolls his eyes, nudging you toward the stairs.
“I’ll take care of it,” he promises. You nod, eyes shut as you blindly make your way into the bedroom. Alex is a great sleeper, usually goes right through the night without waking you both up too many times.
But you are absolutely wired, as if someone’s going to break in and steal her at any given moment. He gets it, knows that instinct is typical for people in your line of work. At this point, though, the baby’s sleeping better than you.
Sammy just needs you to get at least one full nights sleep so your brain is functioning again. Gentle but firm, he guides you onto the bed, ignoring your mumbled protests as he lifts your legs and drags the blanket over you.
“Where’s Nate?” You mutter, eyes completely closed at this point.
Sammy sits beside you, brushing some hair off your cheek as he smiles. “He’s with Tammi.”
You let out a low hum, pushing yourself closer to him. “Are you still going to want us, now?”
Sammy’s hand freezes as his gaze drops to you. His chest tightens with panic, but you’re already sleeping. Face content like you didn’t just drop a bomb on him. What the hell is that supposed to mean?
You wake up to Sammy’s arm slung around your waist, keeping you pinned to his chest. Glaring at the sun, you sigh and try to wiggle closer to him. It’s become normal, waking up like this. You hated him sleeping on that air mattress downstairs and just getting stiffer every day.
Just a little while before Alex was born, you’d told him to start sleeping in the master bedroom with you.
Basically, you’re married without any of the benefits.
You look up, tracing the slopes of his face with your eyes. You have to enjoy him like this while you can. Peaceful, content, quiet.
Sammy turns over, burying his head deeper into the pillow as he wraps both arms around you. Something inside your chest squeezes until it’s hard to breathe. This is horrible, it hurts so bad and you hate it.
You’re pretty sure you’re in love with him.
There had always been something between you two. A tension you thought was sexual, a long-term friendship fueled from times at the academy and adrenaline-rush moments where you saved each other’s asses. But it had never felt quite like this.
You weren’t constantly aching back then. This feels all wrong.
You hate that you love the father of your daughter because you are so sure he doesn’t love you. At least, not in the way you need.
Sammy groans, head slipping from the pillow and dropping to your shoulder. You force a light laugh, reaching up to run your hands through his hair. Slowly, he lifts his head, smiling at you in a way that makes you want to mush his face away because he cannot keep making you hurt like this.
“How’d you sleep?” He mutters, voice still thick with exhaustion. You smile a little, it only widens when he reaches up and brushes some hair out of your eye.
“Like a rock,” you glance over his shoulder to see he moved Alex’s bassinet over to his side. Sighing, you slump back onto the bed. “I didn’t hear her wake up last night.”
Sammy just nods, hand idly moving up and down your side as he settles so he can get a better look at you. “Yeah, I took care of her. You needed a decent night’s sleep.”
Foolishly, you’d convinced yourself that once you had your baby, the hormones just went away. But, no, you’re still as sensitive as ever. Something as simple as him saying you needed sleep has your eyes welling up as you bite your lip to stop yourself from crying.
“I’m sorry,” you croak out.
His eyes grow comically large and you would laugh if you weren’t so afraid of the tears spilling. “What’s wrong?" He sits up, pulling you with him and you bury your face in his neck.
“God,” you groan, fisting his shirt in your hands as you shake your head. “I think I love you.”
Sammy’s body goes deathly still and its enough to finally push the tears over the edge. You try to pull back, but he just tightens his arms around you. “Why are you sorry?” He asks, allowing you to move back just enough to meet his eyes.
There’s something about his expression that has your crying abating, just a little. “You love Alex and you care about me. But you don’t love me.”
Sammy rolls his eyes and you would take offense if you weren’t so busy being sad. He cups your face, smushing your cheeks together slightly as he glowers. “Stop assuming, it makes an ass out of both of us.”
“What-”
He pulls you closer and you stiffen as he presses his lips to yours. It’s nothing like it was the first time. He’s not pushing you against a wall, kissing you like the only thing he’s thinking about is ripping your clothes off. No, this is sweet, gentle. The kind of kiss that people who’ve been married for years and never fell out of love share.
You sink into him, your tears sliding between your lips and tainting the kiss with salt. He doesn’t seem to care, arms dropping to your waist as he tugs you onto his lap. Sammy pulls back and you have to stop yourself from whining, missing the feel of him immediately.
“I do love you,” he promises, pressing his forehead to yours. “I loved you a long time before Alex was in the picture.” You start to shake your head and he lets out a sigh. “You don’t have to believe me now, but it’s true.”
You can’t find the words to smooth over this. To just pretend you never said anything at all. You want so desperately to believe him, but he’s lied to get what he wants from you before. Still, as you let yourself sink completely into him, you allow yourself that little bit of hope.
“All right,” you let out a groan as you lift Nate into your arms. You don’t know what the hell Tammi is feeding him at her house, but god damn the kid’s heavy. “Come on, little man,” the name isn’t fitting at all but you can’t help yourself.
You head into Alex’s nursery and glance between the two. “I got this,” you mutter, balancing precariously as you reach into the crib. You slip your arm under her back and slot her on your hip.
Alex’s head falls to your shoulder and Nate mimics her, smiling as he reaches for her hand. You jerk your head back, not willing to let your hair get caught in another tug-of-war match.
Their hands tangle together as you walk outside. And suddenly you’ve got two babies laughing on either side of you and it’s enough to make you want to cry. How the hell can one noise be so precious?
You let out a sharp breath. Freaking kids, they just make you soft.
“All set?” You call out to Sammy. He’s still bent over in the backseat, grunting as he secures the extra carseat.
Nate reaches up and pats your cheek. You turn your face to smile at him and then you’re getting punched in the nose with all the insane baby strength he’s got.
“Oh, christ,” you mutter, jerking your face back. You really should have seen that coming. Both of them seem to be realizing that they have hands, which means all they want to do is wave them around and see how much damage they can do. It would have been great if they figured that out one at a time, but nope, they’re beating the crap out of you as a team.
At least they get along.
“Sammy,” you groan. Alex’s got a hold of your hair and she’s tugging with all she’s got. You’d correct her if your arms weren’t stuffed full of babies. “Can you hurry up, please? I’m gonna look like a DV case before we make it to the barbecue.”
He finally pulls out of the car, a proud smile on his face. You raise your brows and he gestures toward the backseat. “Come on, check it out,” he urges.
With a fond smile, you walk over and then immediately feel your heart drop to your ass. “Jesus, Sammy, tell me you have not been driving around with them like that?”
He shrugs and glances at the carseats. “What’s the big deal?”
“What’s the-” You cut yourself off, lowering your voice before you scare the kids. “The big deal,” you hiss, kicking at his shin. He jumps back with a grimace. “Is that you have the seats facing forward!”
“So?”
Your mouth drops and you let out a strangled noise. “So! If you slam on your breaks, who goes flying through the windshield? I swear to god, I’m going to call Ben. He did that carseat seminar at the center, maybe he can tell you how to do it.”
Sammy rolls his eyes and crosses his arms. “Don’t call, Ben.”
“I am not putting my babies into the car like that!” You only realize your slip up because of how his entire expression shifts. Your tongue knots in your throat and you clench your eyes shut.
“Crap, I meant-”
“Did you just say Nate is yours?” He asks, taking a step forward. You click your tongue, hating that you can’t read the look on his face. It’s soft, certainly, but you can’t tell if that’s because he’s about to kindly tell you never do that again.
“I didn’t, I mean, okay, I did.” You let out a loud huff. “I’m sorry, Sammy.”
He shakes his head, hands wrapping around your waist while he tugs you into him. You’re both careful of the babies, his arms securing all three of you. “Don’t apologize,” he pleads, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.
You don’t have words, throat suddenly choked as your eyes burn. Instead you nod, letting your head fall into the crook of his neck. And you hate to ruin the sweet moment, but you meant what you said.
“If you don’t fix those seats,” you whisper, “I’m going to neuter you in your sleep tonight.” Sammy barks out a laugh, startling Alex. She flinches back, face screwing up as she decides whether or not she wants to make this a thing.
Sammy’s slipping her out of your arms before she can decide, bouncing her lightly to get a smile back on her face. A grin splits your lips and you are helpless, incapable of stopping it. Glancing down at Nate, you find him watching his sister enviously.
With a happy chuckle, you take him in your arms, bouncing him a little and just smiling wider when he lets out a delighted laugh. You miss the way Sammy watches you. The look in his eyes that would tell you everything you want to know.
“So, how’s it going with baby mama number two?” Ben’s got a smug smirk on his face that Sammy wouldn’t mind punching off.
“Shut the hell up,” he tells him, shaking his head. They’re both leaning against the patrol car, watching detectives circle the dead body they’d found. “Good,” Sammy admits after a minute.
Ben turns to him with a raised brow. “Yeah?” Sammy nods, resiting the urge to smile just because he’s talking about you. Fuck, Ben’s right, he’s whipped. “How’s Tammi handling you having another woman watch her baby?”
Sammy crosses his arms and shrugs. “We talked about it, she doesn’t mind considering she’s got that european bastard with her. Besides, she’s met Alex a few times, everyone gets along.”
Ben hums and glances back at the scene. “One big, dysfunctional family.”
Sammy chuckles and nudges Ben away with his elbow. “Hey, whatever man, it’s working.”
Ben clicks his tongue, glancing down at his shoes and Sammy narrows his eyes. He’s building up to something, he can feel it. “Have you thought about asking her, yet?”
Sammy pinches the bridge of his nose and groans. He knows exactly what Ben’s talking about. The little box that’s been sitting in Sammy’s bag for a few months now. Before Alex was even born.
“Yeah, man, it’s all I think about. But she’s just going to think I’m asking her because it’s convenient or something.” Ben frowns and Sammy shrugs. “She refuses to believe that I actually have feelings for her.”
“Women,” Ben mutters and Sammy can’t help but agree with the exhaustion in his voice. If only you guys didn’t have to make things so complicated. He loves you. You love him. You’ve got a kid together. He doesn’t understand what key component you’re missing but it’s starting to make him crazy.
“How about you?” Sammy asks. “You find a badge bunny you wanna settle down with, yet?”
Ben laughs and shakes his head. “Hell no. I’ll live the domestic life vicariously through you.” Sammy scoffs, grinning at the fear in Ben’s eyes at the thought of finally going monogamous.
“Protect and serve, indeed.” Sammy’s brows turn in as he whips around. You’re stepping out of your car, shamelessly ogling the pair of them. “How you doin’ boys?”
Ben lets out a little laugh, grinning at you while he watches Sammy slowly process the situation. You walk up to them, hand brushing against Sammy’s arm in greeting.
“What’re you doing here?” Ben groans under his breath, backing off as Sammy completely bypasses a hello. He’s tried to help him for months, but he seems stubbornly resistant to learning how to speak to women.
You frown, slightly taken aback. “I’ve got an informant that could help these guys out. Sal told me to come down, check it out, see if anything looks familiar.” Slowly, you cross your arms, sucking your teeth while you glare at Sammy. “Problem?”
Ben’s eyes drop to his shoes as he says a silent prayer that Sammy not be an ass. “Where the hell is Alex? And Nate? You were supposed to be watching both of them,” he snaps. Ben lets out a low groan, you’re going to kill his partner and he’ll be stuck with some ass like Dewey.
You let out a sharp scoff, stepping back from them. “Tammi took them both for the day. And it’s nice to see you, too by the way.” Ben knows he should walk away, but it’s just too damn entertaining.
“Tammi?” Sammy demands, like that’s not the woman he was married to since high school.
“Yes,” you drawl, lifting your sunglasses and looking at him like you’re trying to see if he sustained brain damage on shift. “I take care of Nate all the time. And she said she doesn’t mind doing the same for Alex. Besides, we found a daycare we both like so the kids can go there soon.”
“A daycare?”
Ben rubs his brows, slipping on his sunglasses so you guys can’t see him watching Sammy dig himself a deeper hole.
“Just for the off-chance that everyone’s working and no one can watch the kids.”
“Don’t you think it’s a little early to be leaving them alone?”
Your jaw drops, eyes flitting to Ben. He pointedly looks away, whistling as he stares up at the bottom of the overpass you’re all parked by. You huff and he knows that’ll bite him in the ass sometime soon.
“What’re you trying to say, Sammy? Because I had the department stop paying me just so I could go on maternity leave longer. I mean, do you know how many strings Sal pulled so they wouldn’t just fire me? You know how badly I’ve wanted to start working again.”
Sammy shrugs, tone far too abrasive. “I don’t know, I feel like you’ve already got a full-time job.” Ben’s head whips up, wearing the same astonished expression as you. Sammy purses his lips, catching his mistake and being too stubborn to backtrack.
“Oh,” you draw the word out, voice dropping an octave. Apparently, you’ve already got the mom voice figured out. “Uh uh, you do not try and pull that domineering, women belong at home bullshit with me. I hear you saying something like that, again, and you can just go ahead and take your shit to Ben’s house.”
“Hey-”
Sammy speaks over Ben’s objections. “I didn’t mean-”
You hold up your hand, turning around and walking toward the detectives. Ben finally lets out the laughter he’s been holding in. “Jesus,” he shakes his head. “You’re hopeless, man.”
Sammy groans, raking his hands through his hair as he swats Ben’s arm. “What the hell am I supposed to do? She just freaked me out, I thought she was starting work tomorrow.”
Ben shrugs, leaning against the patrol car. “Next time, start with hello before you berate her parenting.”
“Shut up, man, you know that’s not how I meant it.”
“Yeah, I know. She doesn’t,” Ben points out. Christ, did Sammy hit his head? He’s being an even bigger idiot than usual. Sammy lets out a sharp breath before he’s pushing off the patrol car and heading toward you.
You spot him coming and turn in the other direction. Ben laughs as Sammy jogs to catch up to you, snagging your arm and turning you around. He reaches for his coffee and takes a long sip. You two don’t seem to realize just how entertaining you are to the people at the station.
By now, everyone knows that Sammy is Alex’s dad. They know that Tammi is Nate’s mom. Ben had expected the majority of them to point the blame at you. But Sammy seems completely unaware of how much slut-shaming is going around the station about him.
He’s turned into the office joke and Ben, horrible as it is, laps it up. Sammy was an ass when they first partnered up. Calling him too soft and claiming going by the book made him look bad to the older guys. He’s grateful you’re in his life to give Sammy the hell that he can’t.
“Oh, no, come on.” Ben clicks his tongue in disappointment as you smile at Sammy, letting him squeeze your hips and press a kiss to the corner of your mouth. He was hoping you would hold out longer, make Sammy squirm the rest of his shift. Sammy deserves to get shoved in the doghouse a little longer.
But, he’s walking back up to Ben with a smug grin and he knows it’s not happening. Ben raises his brows expectantly as Sammy stands beside him once more. “Back in the bed,” he holds his hand out.
Ben shakes his head with a scoff and gives him a high-five and pats him on the shouler. “Just listen to me, man. You’re never going to get anywhere with her if you’re…”
“Myself?” Sammy asks.
Ben nods, “Yeah, exactly.” He ducks away from the punch Sammy throws at him.
“Let’s go to bed, yeah,” you whisper to Alex, rocking her softly as you head toward the nursery. You pause when you hear the low murmur of Sammy’s voice. Turning to the left instead of the right, you find him sitting in the rocking chair, reading softly to Nate.
You bite your lip, holding back a smile as you watch him. Nate’s head is smushed against his shoulder, chubby cheeks looking even cuter than usual. You’re going to turn around when Alex lets out a soft little noise.
Sammy’s head perks up and he smiles as he spots you. “Watching me now?” He whispers, careful of the two sleeping babies. You huff out a laugh and walk toward him. You stop in front of the rocking chair, hand idly rubbing up and down Alex’s back.
“Can you blame me? You two are adorable.”
Sammy rolls his eyes and uses his free arm to wrap around your hips. “I am not adorable.” You hum, giving in as he tugs you down onto his lap. He shifts Nate higher up his body and you chuckle as the little boy’s face screws up in irritaiton.
“What’re you reading?” You ask, titling your head to get a better look at the book. He holds it up, revealing an old comic with a sheepish smile. “Of course,” you laugh.
“Let me see,” you reach out and find yourself beaming. “Hey, this was my favorite in middle school.”
Nate chuckles, hand slipping up your waist. “I know, that’s why I got it.” Glancing back at him, you find it growing more difficult to breathe. God, that gleam in his eye, the unabashed affection, you almost believe he really does love you.
“You know,” you readjust Nate’s onesie and grin. “This is going to be a lot harder when they get bigger. Can’t just have us in your arms all the time,” you chide softly.
Sammy rolls his eyes, pulling you closer so he can get a better look at Alex’s smushed face. “Why do you think I work out, huh?” You shake your head as he presses a kiss to your temple.
His head tilts, resting against yours as you close your eyes. “I meant what I told you,” he says. Your heart stutters as you nod your head. “Really,” he insists.
Your eyes drift down to your daughter and you’re still surprised by how much of him you see in her. “I know,” you whisper. “I, uh,” you let out a little laugh as you pull back from him. “I was cleaning the kitchen, your bag got in my way…”
You don’t have to finish the sentence for Sammy to go stiff and his eyes get big and terrified. “I found it,” you tell him and he already knows you’re talking about that little box he’s kept hidden from you for months.
His eyes fall shut as he slumps against the rocking chair. Nate fusses and his hand comes up to pat his back, the move subconscious and so endearing. “Now, unless you have some secret third baby mama out there,” Sammy pinches your side and you try not to laugh too loud. “I think that’s meant for me.”
Sammy lets out a long sigh, rubbing his eyes. “Yeah, it’s meant for you.” He looks up at you expectantly but you just pull Alex away from your shoulder, resting her on your thighs.
“I’ve been thinking lately, maybe we should move their cribs in here together. Turn the second room into a playroom or something.” Sammy’s brows turn in, struggling to understand your point. “I, uh, I’ve held on to things from the past for too long, you know. I don’t want the kids separated just because I thought you didn’t want me when I was pregnant.”
Sammy frowns, sitting up. “What’re you saying?”
“I’m saying… I want to be a family,” you raise your brows, glancing at him knowingly. But he still looks shellshocked, lips parted as he straes at you. “I’m saying yes numb nuts,” you lean down, kissing him softly.
“I love you,” he whispers.
“Yeah, I know,” you grin at the little frustrated noise that escapes him.
Everything to get you here was messy, not at all like you’d always hoped your relationship would turn out. But you could make this work. This odd, twisted and messy family dynamic. It can be perfect for all of you.
What does the journey matter when you’ve got what you always wanted right here?
A sudden thought occurs as he grins smugly up at you.
I think it's time we took a break / So I can grow emotionally / That's what he said to me
All my friends in love and I'm the one / They call for a third wheeling / Probably should have guessed / He's like the rest / So fine and so deceiving
Overview: You've been his partner for years, but one fight with his wife and he's willing to throw it all away just for a brief night of relief. Now, your life is ruined and you don't want to ever see him again. But the death of your friend brings you back together and suddenly, you're backed into a corner you don't know how to escape from. (Basic knowledge of the show Southland is helpful but not necessary as this follows some plot points).
a/n: my twist on the pregnancy trope which basically means the majority of this is angst and not so much focused on being pregnant. This is more about the psychological toll it takes on a on a woman unprepared. Idk I tried to avoid the pitfalls of this trope that piss me off, like a baby doesn't magically fix everything ever. Hope you enjoy!
wc: 20.7K
warning: dark thoughts toward self and unborn baby, allusions to abortion but not explicitly mentioned
Find more at: Belle’s 3k Extravaganza
“-and I promise,” you drone out the rest of Dewey’s BS. He claims it’s a retirement party, but you give it three months tops before he’s crawling back. You bet his wife will leave him, he’ll drink worse than he already does, and all of a sudden he’ll need a job again.
You tilt your head to the left, lips parted and then stop yourself. Nate and Sammy aren’t beside you like they usually are. There’s no one to bitch to because they’re both with their wives. Letting out a tired sigh, you lean back in your chair and try not to pass out.
Usually, you guys go to these functions together. You talk shit about the cops you don’t like and make bets on who’s going to have the biggest fuck up of the month. But Dewey’s party is being held in some crappy back alley bar with tiny tables. Meaning you’re shamefully outed as being single while they hold their wives hands.
Although, glancing over your shoulder, you’re pretty sure Tammi would rather break Sammy’s hand before she held it. She’s not even saying anything and you can already tell that he’ll be sleeping on the couch tonight.
With a low groan, you slip out of your chair and head outside. Leaning back against the wall, you light up a cigarette and try to pretend you're actually content with the direction your life is heading.
Sure, being a detective means more pay and better hours. But it also means that you’re not out in the field as much. You don’t see action anymore. Not really. Plus, you have to sit in a station with a bunch of assholes and listen to them talk shop.
They’ve gotten so used to you being around they seem to have forgotten that you’re a woman. Always talking shit about their wives or what rookie’s ass is getting fatter. It’s nasueating and, yet, here you are. Same old thing day in and out.
Letting out a shaky breath, you watch the smoke billow in front of your face before drifting into the night. The door to the bar slams open and you jump, peering around your hidden alcove.
Tammi and Sammy both walk out, you can’t hear what's being said, but Tammi looks hysterical. Then again, she always looks like that. At some point in her life she learned that tears get men to shut up or sit down and you’d respect the hustle if you didn’t despise her.
That has nothing to do with your unresolved feelings for Bryant, either. She has made it clear quite loudly that she thinks you’re all a bunch of pigs. Sometimes you agree, but she’s given you too much shit about riding in the same car as her husband for you to ever admit that out loud.
Sammy walks to their car, waving Tammi off as he pops the trunk open. That retired k9, Richter, that Sammy got jumps out and an older guy walks over to take his leash. Tammi tries to hold on, but Sammy forces her to let go and then she’s running back into the bar crying.
You put your cigarette out, tossing it into a trash can while you make your way over to him. “Sammy!”
He pauses, shooting you an easy grin as you move to lean against the trunk of his SUV. Sammy walks over, joining you, shoulder nearly brushing yours. “You’re really getting rid of him?” You ask, nodding toward the truck Richter’s now sitting in.
Sammy looks down, shoes scuffing against the pavement. “Yeah.” He checks over his shoulder before turning back to you, voice lowered. “Tammi’s been smoking weed. Richter caught a whiff of it and went nuts. I just can’t risk anything happening.”
Your brows furrow as you let out an incredulous scoff. “Aren’t you guys trying for a baby?”
Sammy nods, rolling his eyes as his head thunks against his car. “We are.”
“So…, why the hell is she smoking?”
“Well, apparently, I stress her out and her prenatals are making her nauseous.” he throws his hands up and you can’t help but laugh at his expense.
“Well, everyone knows marujana’s the best prenatal there is.”
He smirks, nudging you with his elbow. “Shut it.” You smile at him, heat flushing through you. With a sigh, you catch yourself and force your eyes to the pavement rather than him and his crooked smile.
The silence lingers, neither of you ready to head back inside and listen to more of Dewey’s shit. After a while Sammy lets out one of those long sighs that just sound pathetic.
“What’s up?” You ask, nudging him.
Sammy rubs the back of his neck, eyes stubbornly pointed down. “I’m not,” he shakes his head, finally meeting your gaze. “I don’t even know if I want a baby with her. I mean, it’s not like we’re happy. And I can’t get through a damn sentence without her crying and shutting down.”
“Well, speaking from experience…” His brows lift with interest and you offer a sardonic smile. “Kid ain’t gonna fix it. Trust me. All that’s going to happen is it’ll get caught in the crossfire.”
“Yeah?” His voice is soft and you realize you’ve never really told him any of this before.
Sucking your teeth, you wish you’d taken another shot before coming out here. “My parents thought a baby might fix their problems. But I was colicky and just made ‘em hate each other more. Then, when I got older, I was always in the middle, forced to pick a side.”
Your voice trails off, throat closing as you force yourself to stop sharing so much. Sure, you like Sammy, too much, but you’re still a cop. You don’t like giving away anything that someone might use against you.
Sammy sucks in a sharp breath. “We’re practically separated, you know?”
Your head whips up and there should be guilt at how excited you feel, but you can’t find any. “What?”
“Yeah. She hasn’t let me in the house in a while.”
A shock of anger bursts through your chest on his behalf. He’s the one paying their damn mortgage, why should he have to leave? “Where the hell are you staying?”
“Oh,” he shrugs, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “This crappy little motel near castaic.”
“Nah, that’s bullshit. You shouldn't have to pay for a shitty mattress.” You smile at him, poking his side and he grins. “Why don’t you take my shitty couch. For free,” you add.
He shakes his head, waving you off. “I don’t want to intrude.”
“Shut up,” you snap, already pulling out your car keys. “Let’s go,” and you don’t give him any choice but to obey.
You park the car and let out a low whistle, taking in the, frankly, terrifying motel. “Shit, man. You weren’t lying.”
He chuckles, opening his door and shaking his head. “I might have undersold it.”
“I’m saying,” you mutter, slightly hesitant to even get out of the car. This looks like a place you’d get called down to check out a missing woman’s body. Not any place you should be within twenty feet of. But you want to help Sammy out, so you suck it up and follow him.
The motel room is moderately less dismal. He’s trashed it a bit but you can’t imagine it was ever truly clean to begin with. “So,” you watch as he picks up his bag, tossing clothes inside. “Seperated, huh?”
You clench your eyes shut, you couldn’t have made your eagerness any more obvious. You sound practically giddy. Might as well skip around the room while you’re at it.
Sammy straightens, laughing slightly as he takes a step toward you. “Yep.”
Gnawing your lip, your pulse tightens in your chest. Now or never. “Sammy, I’ve always-”
Sammy doesn’t give you a chance to finish. His hand is already cupping the back of your head, body being shoved against the motel wall as his lips press against yours. You let out a sharp gasp, hands flying to his shoulders as you slump against him.
His knee nudges between your own, sliding your legs apart until you’re practically sitting on his thigh. “Oh my god,” you mutter, finally catching your breath as he drags his lips across your jaw.
It takes a moment for you to realize his fingers are already working on the buttons of your blouse. Your head is swimming, heart racing as you attempt to process what exactly you’re doing right now. He’s married, separated sure, but married.
He nips at your neck and your hands are already undoing his belt. Guilt, shame, dignity, it’s all tossed to the floor. They land right beside your shirt.
“Need this,” he groans into your skin and your hips grind down against the firm muscle of his thigh. “Need you,” he admits and you think your brain is dripping out between your legs, because why the hell aren’t you stopping him?
“Yeah?” You ask, breathless as you shove him back toward the bed.
He nods, hands greedy as he cups your ass and drags you into him. “I can’t keep working with you. Seeing you every day, not knowing what you feel like. You’re driving me crazy.”
You kiss him to shut him up, heart thudding against your ribs far too much for him to rile you up further. His knees hit the mattress and suddenly you’re landing in his lap, jerking his jeans down as he lifts his hips.
“Protection?” You mutter, laughing as he struggles with the clasp of your bra.
Sammy shakes his head and you reach back to help him out. “Finally,” he mutters, tugging your bra off and tossing it to the depths of the room.
“I’m clean,” you tell him and then he’s flipping you over, hands pinning your wrists to the bed.
“Tammi hasn’t let me near her in months,” he promises.
You wrench a hand free, drag your fingers through his curls and jerk his head toward you. “Don’t talk about her when you’re about to be inside me,” you whisper, dragging him down for another kiss. He groans against your mouth, grabbing your hips and tugging you down the bed to meet him halfway.
The shrill ringing of two phones wakes you both up. Sammy groans as he lifts his arm from your waist. You squint through the sunlight beaming through the blinds and force yourself up. It takes a minute for you to find your jeans in the mess of clothes from last night.
You snatch them up, digging through the pockets until you’ve got your phone. Of course, it’s Sal with another case. “Damn,” you look over your shoulder and he’s wearing the same disappointed expression as you. “So much for a day off,” you tease.
Sammy shakes his head, already tugging his clothes back on. “Need a ride?” You ask, redressing yourself. It’s not uncommon for you to repeat an outfit once or twice, hopefully no one pays too much attention.
“Yeah,” he rubs the back of his neck. You frown, head titling as you note the stubborn way he won’t meet your eyes. “Yeah, that’d be great, thanks.”
You hum, slightly disconcerted as you go wait for him out in the car. When he joins you, he’s quiet. Slightly unusual for a man whose voice you can hear halfway across town. But you don’t mention it, figuring he’s probably just struggling to understand how he’s supposed to treat you now.
Admittedly, you’re struggling with that a bit yourself. You wished you’d had any time at all to talk this morning. Last night he said some things that…
Well, the implications of always wanting to feel you makes you think that the feelings might be a little mutual. Something in your gut, though, is warning you away from that. Call it the instincts of a detective or a woman, doesn’t matter. He proves you right at the end of your shift.
He’s avoided you all day and you just manage to catch him as he’s walking out of the station. “Sammy,” you race after him. He pauses at the edge of the steps, but he doesn’t turn to face you. “Hey,” you reach for his shoulder and he jerks back, finally meeting your eye.
The flat look on his face has you straightening, your own expression turning painfully neutral. “Figured we might need to talk,” you tell him, doing everything you can to keep your voice emotionless.
You know it’s coming, you have since this morning. But it still knocks the wind out of you. “Tammi called me at lunch,” you purse your lips, eyes dropping to the ground. “She asked me to come back home. She wants to try, for real this time.”
You let out a cold laugh, nodding as you finally meet his eyes. His expression has softened slightly, guilt bleeding through. “Thought you guys were sepreated.”
“Practically separated,” he snaps, so defensive it makes your head spin. “We hadn’t discussed anything concrete.”
You scoff, biting your tongue as tears burn in your eyes. He takes a step forward but you shake your head, jerking back. “No, no this is on me. I can’t believe that I fucking fell for that.”
He says your name, soft and placating but you just shoot him a glare. “Fuck off, Sammy. We’re friends, man. And, what, you just tossed that away because your wife wasn’t giving you any? You want an easy lay? You go to a street corner, you don’t, literally, fuck over one of your friends.”
Sammy doesn’t even try to defend himself. He shoves his hands in his pockets, eyes growing wet in a way that pisses you off. “Fuck off to your wife.” He looks up, lips pursed like he wants to stop you, but you’re already walking away.
You turn, licking your lips as you glare at him. “I pray that any kid you have doesn’t have to suffer through you two being immature assholes. I mean, you can’t even talk to her, Sammy. How the hell are you gonna raise a baby with her?”
When Sammy moves forward, mouth open like he could say anything to fix this, you get in your car. You keep your eyes on him in the rearview as you drive off. He looks pathetic, with those sad eyes and little frown that you want to slap off his face.
You get it (not really) he needed a release. But he just risked years of friendship and having each other’s backs in the field for one night. Do you truly just mean nothing to him?
A month later, you stare down at your period tracker with a frown. Two weeks late. “Huh,” you mutter, pocketing your phone and ignoring it. Sure, you’ve been steady since college, but this could just be some stress-induced one-off. Your best friend of over ten years suddenly going ghost mode will do that to you.
Your eyes flit up to Sammy and you swear if looks could kill he would be dead fifty times over. He lifts his head, face paling at the glare you’re shooting him. Like the little coward he is, he goes back to the paperwork you know he finished ten minutes ago.
He can’t even look at you, anymore. Pathetic, you think and some petty part of you thinks of calling up Tammi and telling her what happened. But that comes from an evil place deep down inside of you that you know you’re supposed to ignore.
With a huff, you grab your bag and storm past his desk, clocking out for the night. And just like every night, you can feel his stare on the back of your head as you leave. Still, he’s too much of a coward to do anything but look.
You stop by a drive-through on your way home, ordering an egg sandwich so you can stuff your face quick and pass out. But as you pull the bag into your car, your stomach begins to turn.
“Oh god,” you groan, pinching your nose and wondering if they’d given you spoiled eggs. You try and take a bite, just to see but the taste makes you gag. You’ve never been a huge fan of eggs but this is pretty extreme.
“Huh,” you say again, frowning as you dump the sandwich.
It’s when the period tracker hits week three of being late that you start to panic a bit. “That’s normal, right?” You mutter to yourself, gnawing on your nails as you try and relax on your day off. But with the way your chest is starting to tighten you don’t think that’ll be happening anytime soon.
Grabbing your keys, you force yourself off your couch and drive to the run-down convenience store nearby. You swallow roughly, sunglasses on as you head into the pharmacy aisle.
You know no one from work is going to spot you. They all live in those clean, lame neighborhoods like castaic. They wouldn’t be caught dead in some run-down, crime-heavy neighborhood like yours.
Still, though, you can’t help the way you glance over your shoulder every other minute, thinking Nate or Sammy’s gonna pop out.
You wander down the long selection of pads until you’re staring at pregnancy tests. “I’m fine,” you tell yourself. “Definitely not pregnant.”
Still, you end up walking out with five tests in your bag.
Then, you find yourself sitting on your bathroom floor as you read the last one. Taking a good long look at the two clear lines. “Fuck me,” you groan, head thumping back against the wall as you toss this one in the trash.
Three of them read as negative and two of them are positive.
Which is how you end up at your OBGYN, fingers twiddling anxiously as you wait for the results to come back. The door pops open and you perk up.
“Alright, let’s see what we’ve got here.” Your stare is intense and probably slightly terrifying as you watch her read her paper. She hums under her breath, taking a seat on her stupid little chair, spinning slightly.
One more second of making you wait and you will be discharging your gun-
“Congratulations,” she beams. “You’re pregnant.”
Your jaw drops and you begin to feel a little lightheaded. But she’s still smiling like she didn’t just give you the worst news of your life.
Okay, you have been shot before, right in the femur. And you were told as a child, in quite explicit detail, how your cat got squished under your mom’s rear tire.
That has to count as worse news, right?
No, you think, slamming your purse down on your desk. Nate jumps, shooting you a wary look that you don’t concern yourself with. Fluffy’s passing was not worse news than learning you are carrying Sammy Bryant’s offspring inside you.
That short, red-headed, freckled bastard knocked you up. First try! He’s been with Tammi since high school, that’s over a decade of trying to get her pregannt. All of a sudden he’s got strong swimmers?
You turn in your chair, hands steepled over your stomach as you stare at him. He goes stiff the second your eyes land on him, sensing the hatred you’re trying to burn into the side of his face. Asshole, you think, can’t even look at me.
Yes, life has been feeling stagnant lately. You were sick of all the “You on the rag?” jokes and the guy’s ridiculous complaints about their third wives. But you did not want change to come in the form of a fetus planted in you by a man who can’t even make eye contact with you.
Nate looks up from his paperwork, doing a slight double-take when he catches the look on your face. He rolls over in his chair, frowning. “Everything good?”
“Fine,” you snap, catching some of the other’s attention. Nate’s eyes widen as he raises his hands, backing off.
You have to tell him. Sammy needs to know what’s going on before you head to the clinic and take care of this mess you’ve gotten yourself into.
You are planning on putting the majority of the blame on him, but you really should have told him to pull out. Or, at the very least, gotten a Plan B before work.
“Sammy,” you call out. His eyes flick up before dropping right back down to his papers. “Samuel,” you snap, not caring that some of the other detectives are staring.
He purses his lips, huffing slightly as he finally undertakes the horrendous task of meeting your eye. “Did you need something, detective?”
You let out a sharp noise that has Nate poorly trying to hide a laugh. “Oh, okay. That’s how you’re playing this?” Maybe, when you’re already pissed off and emotional, you shouldn’t drop this bomb in the middle of the office. But you need it over and done with so you can just take care of it.
Still, before you can consider the HR ramifications, Sal’s walking in with a case. He drops the file on your desk and you purse your lips, angrily shaking your head at Sammy. He just lets out a little breath of relief.
Which is immediately sucked out of him as Sal says, “Nate, Sammy, I want you to go with her. Check this out. One of your CI’s might know something.”
“Oh,” you purr, snatching up the file as you stand. “I can’t wait.” Sammy’s head drops and you give him an extra firm pat on the back as you pass him.
However, as much as you would love to give him hell, you always keep your personal business away from work. Messy emotions and the urge to put a gun to your partner's testicles can lead to released suspects and the wrong people in cuffs.
You force yourself to wait until lunch to ambush him. Watching him carefully as Sammy carries his tray of food to the table. He sets it beside Nate, dropping onto the bench next to him as if he hasn’t sat beside you almost everyday since you’ve known each other.
You wipe your mouth off, eyes honed on him. He senses it, too, shifting around like a little weasel.
“Sammy,” you try making your voice soft, kind. Lull him into a false sense of security.
His brows shoot up and he briefly looks at you. “Yeah?”
“I need to talk to-”
“Oh,” he holds up a finger and checks his phone. “Sorry, it’s Tammi, gotta take this.” You scoff, chest caving as you watch him run off.
You glance over at Nate who’s got a tired look on his face. “Was she actually calling him?”
He shakes his head, disappointed in his partner. “Nope.”
“‘Course not,” you snap, appetite gone as you toss your taco down.
For the rest of the day, you ride along with them, pretending the case file is the most interesting thing in the world. They take you to their informant, let you talk to her for a little while, and then you all get back in the car.
There’s no more meal breaks or stops where you might be able to finally just toss the information at Sammy. Soon enough, it’s dark and Nate’s dropping you all off at the station so you can get your cars.
Nate waves as he drives off but your attention is fully focused on the man attempting to speedwalk away from you. “That’s it,” you mutter. You don’t call his name, don’t warn him, just chase him down like you would a suspect.
When you plant yourslf in front of him he lets out a surprised noise that would make you laugh in any other context. “Enough,” you snap, shoving at him when he tries to get around you.
“Sammy, I really need to talk to you. Please,” you feel like a damn beggar and it just makes you angrier. He’s the one that should be groveling. He’s the one that did this to you, to both of you.
“Tammi’s pregnant,” Sammy rushes out before you can continue. Your jaw drops, eyes widening as you stare at him.
“What?” You hiss and Sammy just nods. As if he didn’t just completely destroy your plans. Like he didn’t just drop a bomb on you that makes your chest ache and eyes water.
Eyes clenched shut, you try and suck in a calming breath, but it only makes you feel more panicked. You can’t tell him.
You can’t tell Sammy you’re pregnant when he just figured out his wife is.
He crosses his arms, expression guarded. “What did you need to say?”
He is such a prick. The only reason he blurted that out is because he thought you were running over to beg him for another round in bed. Shame burns in your stomach as you swallow down the venomous words crawling up your throat. You’ll tell him another day when you’re not itching to have a gun in your hand.
Through gritted teeth, you force out the words, “No hard feelings.”
Sammy’s face falls and you would laugh if you weren’t actively fighting back tears. “Wait-” he shakes his head, arms slowly falling back to his sides. “What?”
“Yeah, no hard feelings, right?” And then the words keep coming, the lies spinning themselves. Because, on your end, there are most definitely some bitter feelings. “Look, we’ve been friends for years, Sammy. I don’t want one stupid mistake to ruin that. I just… I want my friend back, alright?”
Sammy’s brows pinch together as he narrows his eyes. As if he doesn’t believe you. You expect him to go storming off, stonewall you some more. Instead, he’s throwing an arm around your shoulders and dragging you into a hug.
You let out an affronted noise and your hands hover over his back, entirely unsure of what to do with yourself. Part of you wants to shove him off, to tell him you didn’t mean any of that and hope every time he pees from now until etertniy it burns.
But there is that desperate part of you that has held a flame for him for so long. It’s begging you to just give in. Enjoy his kindness while you can.
He’s pulling away before you can make your decision. “No hard feelings,” he promises. Sammy lingers for a moment, offering a tentative smile before he pats your shoulder and walks past you, heading to his car. Going to drive home to his pregnant wife.
When you manage to slump into your own car, you glare down at your stomach. You will tell him another time, you swear. And then you’ll get it taken care of.
You can feel them staring and it is driving you nuts. Sure, five tacos might be a lot, but you’re getting these cravings that are kicking your damn ass. Nate watches as you scarf down your fourth with something like awe and disgust in his eyes.
“Jesus,” he lets out a low whistle. “You hungry?” He snarks.
You roll your eyes, shooting him a sharp glare. “Shut the fuck up, Nate,” you snap around a mouthful of tacos and fries.
Sammy lets out an astonished laugh. “Goddamn,” he grins but it’s Nate you’re watching. He’s got the look of someone who just solved a case and you do not appreciate it being pointed at you.
Sammy’s phone rings and you finally look away from Nate. “Dammit,” he shakes his head. “I have to take this.”
“Take it somewhere else,” you immediately tell him. He frowns and you just shake your head. “Dude, if I have to listen to you bitch at Tammi or her european lover again-”
Sammy holds his hands up, “Alright, damn.” He takes his phone and ambles further into the park. You still somehow manage to hear it and it drives you nuts. For two months it’s just been Tammi this and Tammi that. First, she's pregnant, then she's leaving him for her photography instructor. Now, the kid might not even be his, who fucking knows? You’re going to shoot the next person that says her name within a two mile radius of you.
“So,” Nate crosses his arms, observing you. Your skin crawls as you push your food away. “You been craving anything lately?”
“What?” Your eyes snap to his and he grins.
“Mariella always used to crave, uh… what was it,” he closes his eyes as he thinks. “Oh! Pickles and peanut butter. It was nasty. So, I’ll take the taco truck, but you been craving anything else?”
You glance down at your hands which have been busy rummaging in your purse, seeking out the chocolate bar you were sure you had stashed in there. “Um,” you pull your hands back and shake your head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Nate rolls his eyes, lips falling flat as he scoffs. “Please, I’ve been through this three times. You’ve quit smoking, you’re scarfing down junk like it’s a sport. And, you have this look in your eye like you’re a second away from popping a cap in Sammy.”
You let out a small sigh, sinking onto the table as you scrub your hands over your cheeks. “God dammit, Nate. Couldn’t you just be a worse detective?”
He laughs and pats you on the back. “No luck on that.” Nate tilts his head, surveying your body carefully. You shift a little, tugging at your shirt even though the bump isn’t showing, yet.
“Is he the dad?” Neither of you have to look to know he’s talking about the dumbass currently arguing with his ex-wife’s mistress.
Eyes dropping to your lap, you shrug, feeling like a child caught in a lie. You’ve done well so far keeping this to yourself. But Nate’s always had a keener eye than Sammy. At least when it comes to women. You should have seen this coming.
“Yeah,” your voice cracks slightly and you hate yourself for it. “He is.”
Nate reaches over, placing his hand on your shoulder and squeezing. “Have you told him?”
Your head whips up, anger shoving through the tears. “Are you kidding me? He lied to me, made it seem like he and Tammi were over and then got me in bed. He doesn’t want me and he doesn’t want this kid, either.”
Nate gets that expression you only ever seen when he’s scolding his kids. “That is not true-”
“Alright,” Sammy’s enbittered voice interrupts Nate and you couldn’t be more grateful for it. He storms back to the bench, cheeks ruddy from all his yelling. “I’m back.”
“Great,” you jump to your feet. “Let’s get out of here.” Nate shoots you a sharp look that has shame curling tight inside you. But you don’t acknowledge him, just brush past them both as you rush to the car.
Nate remained the only one aware of your little problem. Right up until the day those bastards murdered him.
You stand in your dress blues, Mariella sobbing into your shoulder as Nate’s casket is lowered into the ground. Beside you, Sammy stands holding Petey’s hand, tears streaming silently down his face.
There’s a wicked part of you that wishes it was you dropping to the ground. Nate has a family, kids, people to cry at his grave. You don’t, not really. And you had been right next to Nate, it easily could have been you they targeted. But, no, Sammy got his ass whooped and you got dragged into the crowd, stabbed right in the gut.
And somehow, the kid survived and Nate didn’t.
It just doesn’t seem right.
In a few months you’re going to be nothing more than burden to the people around you. You’re going to have a kid you don’t even know if you want and it probably won’t have it’s dad around. Those assholes could have done everyone a favor and turned the pipe on the second person beside Nate.
Mariella releases you and moves away from the grave. Her shoulders shake, cries so loud it hurts your chest. Everyone begins to disperse or follow her to offer their condolences. You rip your cap off and take a seat at the base of the tree beside Nate’s grave.
You haven’t cried yet. The shrink told you it was a normal response. But you’re not so sure about that. Even Sammy cried. You should have too. There’s just something about you now that is numb.
You want to go back to three months ago and just take that night back.
You want to go back to when Nate was driving you all home. You want to have stopped him and dragged his ass back in the car. Told him to let it go because it was just a beer bottle tossed at the car. But you hadn’t. Every mistake sits with you. They burrow themselves under your skin until you can’t even feel them anymore.
Sammy walks over to you, dropping on the ground beside you. Quickly, you tug at your uniform, trying to hide the slight expansion of your stomach. You’ve gotten lucky so far, the baby barely showing. You know you’ll probably blow up soon, but you’re praying you’re one of those women who just never looks the part until month nine.
“I can’t,” Sammy wipes his eyes. He rests his arms on his knees, heads falling between them. His body shakes as he cries and you take in a sharp breath. You can’t just sit here and watch him fall apart.
Reaching over, you wrap your arms around his shoulders. He doesn’t waste a second, turning his face into your neck and crying as you hold him. You run your fingers over his hair.
“I know,” you whisper, squeezing him closer as you stare at Nate’s grave.
Sammy still doesn’t know. Nate had been giving you shit about it the day before he’d been killed. Something like guilt curdles in your stomach. Nate should have been around when you finally told Sammy.
He should have been standing there with an ‘I-told-you-so’ look that would make you want to slap him. But he’s gone and Sammy’s living in his widow’s home and you still can’t tell him.
You like to stop by Mariella’s house. You help her with the kids when you can, cooking, cleaning. Just whatever she needs. But Sammy’s doing a hell of a lot more than you are. Almost too much with the way Petey’s gotten attached to him.
He follows Sammy around constantly. Slides him into that slot where his dad should be. And Sammy doesn’t fit, no one ever will, but you’re worried the kid will get too attached. Sammy’s going to have a baby soon.
Whether or not Tammi’s is legitimate, you’ve got a backup waiting for him. He’s not going to be around for these kids forever.
You shake your head, taking your eyes away from the window. Away from the sight of Sammy roughhousing in the yard with the kids.
Instead, you turn back to Mariella, watching as she works on dinner. “What do you need help with?” You ask.
She turns to you, mouth opening and then snapping shut. Her eyes drop to the sweatshirt you're wearing. Entirely too large and heavy for an LA summer. You clear your throat, tugging at the collar.
“Mariella?”
“What’s wrong?” She asks, rather than giving you a task. You so desperately need something to keep your hands busy right now.
“Nothing-” She shoots you a sharp look before you can even finish the sentence. You offer a sheepish smile and shake your head. “You don’t need to hear about my issues, Mari.”
She rolls her eyes. “Don’t treat me like glass, please. I need something, anything, to distract me.”
You snort, “So, what, you’re exploiting my messy life?”
Mariella offers a smile, “Exactly.”
“Alright,” you move toward her and nudge her away from the stove. You make sure your back is to the window, and, in the process, fail to see Petey walking back in for a break and water.
You lift up the sweatshirt, showing her the five month belly that’s finally starting to show.
For the most part, the universe has decided to show you a little mercy. You haven’t experienced much changes on your body except the occasional ache or pain. You’ve only had to go up two pant sizes so far, and have managed to get away with wearing looser blouses to work.
Now, though, it seems like the baby’s deciding it’s ready to make its grand entrance.
Her eyes go comically wide, hands pressing against her mouth as she stifles a gasp.
You laugh at your own expense, taking one for the team as you let her focus on your issues rather than her own. “You wanna hear the worst of it?”
“I don’t know,” she offers a shaky laugh, eyes still trained on your stomach as you drop the sweatshirt.
You glance over your shoulder, making sure he’s still outside. “It’s Sammy’s,” you whisper. Her jaw actually drops and it’s enough to have you laughing at her. She shakes off the shock and lets out a disbelieving squeak.
“How?”
“Well, when two people love each other very much-” You yelp as she swats you with her towel. “Hey, that’s assault agianst a pregnant woman,” you warn and she just rolls her eyes.
“Come on,” she urges, leaning against the counter with an expectant look.
“We hooked up once a few months ago. I thought he and Tammi were pretty much over, but he told me they were going to give it another try the next day.”
In rapid succession, she lets out a string of curses in both spanish and english that have your ears burning. “Bastard,” she finally settles on as you watch her with wide eyes. “And you haven’t told him?”
You snort and shake your head. “How could I? I mean, he just straight up lied to me to get me in bed. Then, makes it clear he wants nothing to do with me. And Tammi got pregnant and he thought the baby might not be his…” You trail off, realizing just how Degrassi your life has become.
Hand resting on your stomach, you lean back against the counter. “I almost took it to the clinic,” it being the baby because you still really haven’t accepted this new reality. Mariella’s face quikly shifts into something carefully neutral and you try not to laugh.
“By the time I got there, I guess I’d just hit the cutoff mark. I had wanted to tell him beforehand but he was pretending I didn’t exist for a while. I keep having this recurring dream of giving it up. But I can’t stand the idea of putting my own child into the foster system.”
Your face sinks into your hands as you let out a pitiful noise. “Is there ever a good time to tell a man you’re carrying his illegitimate child?”
She snorts, slapping your arm. “It’s not a telenovela. You’re not carrying his illegitimate baby. You’re just his second baby mama.”
“Screw you,” you laugh, but it sounds hollow even to your ears. “Sammy’s been so volatile lately. He’s not processing anything and I just, I don’t want to tell him when he’s one bad day away from snapping.”
Mariella clicks her tongue, reaching out and dragging you into a hug. “I’m sorry,” she mutters, and pulls back slightly, brushing your hair away. “But I know you’ve always wanted a family.”
“Yeah,” you scoff. “A family. A mom, a dad, not just me. I mean, how am I supposed to do this on my own. Especially with my job?”
“You, of all people, are capable of figuring this out. Sweetheart, once you’re holding that baby in your arms, you’ll be glad you didn’t make it to the clinic.”
Your face screws up, not believing her. Plenty of the women you’ve known have led happier lives after going to the clinic. It’s not the same for everyone, you don’t think you’re going to be so lucky.
“What clinic?” The both of you go stiff, Mariella’s hands tightening around your shoulder as nausea rises in your throat. Sammy remains oblivious, wandering into the kitchen and grabbing a bottle of water.
“Uh,” Mariella lets out a nervous laugh. “I was talking about myself, you know. I asked her for some company to the OBGYN, but there are just certain things friends don’t need to see.”
“Yeah,” you laugh, the sound frantic and slightly broken. “That’s totally it,” your face screws up and Mariella shoots you a sharp look.
Sammy’s brows pinch, lips pursing in displeasure as he glances between the both of you. “Okay,” he drawls, clearly not believing a word of it. You just shrug, subconsciously adjusting your sweatshirt.
“Aren’t you hot in that thing?” He asks, eyeing it warily.
“No,” you snap. “No, I’m cold, actually,” you lie your ass off, you’ve already sweat through your undershirt. You rush out of the kitchen, heading to the front door to call the kids in for dinner. Anything to get away from Sammy’s scrutinizing glare.
The dining table is silent, even the little ones keep quiet. Your brain is pulsating with each scrape of cutlery against ceramic. The kids keep looking at the adults, eyes darting rapidly between you all. They sense it, somehow, the tension.
Sammy’s not aware of the source, but he’s been wary since your spaz attack in the kitchen. Mariella’s not helping anything, either. She keeps sending you the same look Nate always used to. It seems to say ‘Grow a pair and just tell him, already.’ But you’ve put it off for so long, you can’t possibly imagine just dropping the bomb at dinner.
“What does illegitimate mean?”
Your knife screeches against the plate as you freeze. The adult's heads snap toward Petey who just pushes around his vegetables.
Sammy laughs a little, but it trails off at the stricken look on your face. Mariella curses under her breath. “I told you to stop listening to our conversations, Petey.”
Petey just shrugs and Sammy’s eyes dart between you and Mariella. “Where’d you hear that, buddy?” His voice is deceptively calm.
Petey points at you and you feel your dinner coming up. “She said she had an illegitimate baby. What’s that mean?”
Your fork clatters against the plate as your head drops into your hands. Sammy whispers your name but you can’t meet his eye. “God damn, kid,” you lift your head with a watery laugh. “You’d make a great PI, I’ll give you that.”
Sammy calls your name again and you shoot out of your chair. “I am so sorry,” Mariella whispers but you can’t meet her eye. You just rush out of the house, biting your tongue so you don’t throw up all over yourself.
Sammy’s right on your heels, door slamming behind him as he easily catches up to you. You don’t like admitting it, but this damn kid has really been slowing you down. “Hey,” he grabs your arm, pulling you back toward him.
Slightly out of breath, you give up, eyes stubbornly pointed to the ground. “Are you pregnant?” He snaps. You nod your head and he scoffs, releasing your arm like it’s burned him. “Dammit,” he mutters your name and you shrink back. “I’m your partner,” he snaps, “I need to know about this. Were you ever going to tell me?”
Your head shoots up with a frown, “Yes.” But he clearly doesn’t believe you and you barely believe yourself.
“I mean,” he drags his hands through his hair, scoffing in astonishment. “Who’s the dad?”
Your jaw drops as you finally, really look at him. “Jesus, Sammy. How much do you think I sleep around?” His brows pinch together and you stare at him expectantly.
“Wait,” he stutters, shaking his head. “Me?” He points to himself and you would laugh if you felt any less emotionally volatile. “But, I mean, that was months ago.”
“Uh huh,” you drawl, crossed arms resting on your lightly distended stomach. Sammy’s eyes are drawn to them, narrowed like he might be able to see through the sweatshirt.
“Months?” He snaps. “And you didn’t tell me?”
You throw your hands up and let out an astonished guffaw. Yes, guffaw, that’s how stunned you are by his absolutely wild audacity. “There was no good time to tell you that I’m carrying around your freaking kid,” you hiss.
Sammy jerks back and takes a large step away from you. A lot of thoughts seem to be hitting him at once and you worry his brain won’t be able to handle the sudden influx of use.
“Is that what Mariella was talking about earlier? You were going to the clinic?” Okay, you really did not need him to connect that dot.
You rub your temple, eyes clenching shut as you shut out how betrayed he sounds. He has no right acting like you hurt him when he’s the one that did this by lying to you.
“Yeah, alright? I was going to tell you and then take care of it. But by the time I made it in, it was too late.”
“You were going to take my child from me?” He demands, and you glance around, making sure no neighbors can hear the soap-level drama your life has become.
“Fuck you,” you grit out, shoving him back from you. “You didn’t even know about it until ten minutes ago. And you already have a kid, Sammy! With your wife. You know, the one you told me you were leaving when you got me knocked up.”
Sammy flinches back and something inside of you feels slightly vindicated. “What did you expect me to do? I mean, you made it abundantly clear you didn’t want me. You made it seem like that night meant nothing to you. And then I find out that Tammi is pregnant with your kid and I know that the last thing you want is another baby with some chick you don’t even like.”
“Hey,” Sammy snaps and you jut your chin out, just begging for a reason to slap him. “I do like you, alright?”
You groan and shake your head, “Yeah, alright. You like me, but you don’t have the decency to respect over a decade of friendship. You didn’t even give me the courtesy of being honest with me, Sammy. Just lied your way right into my pants.”
Sammy’s head drops and you look away, eyes catching Mariella’s from where she’s watching you both through the kitchen window. Her hands are slowly drying a plate, body tilted so she can try and hear you.
You scoff and look back at him. “Look, there was just never a good time.” You actively soften your voice, not needing a noise complaint called on you. “But everything happened with Tammi and then-”
You bite down on your tongue, forcing yourself to keep Nate’s name out of the conversation. It’s just more pain that neither of you needs right now. “You’re in a bad place, Sammy. You don’t need me adding to that.”
He sucks in a sharp breath, hands pushing against his eyes as he actively keeps his temper in check. Honestly, he’s doing a lot better than you had expected. You’ve been waiting for him to kick over Mariella’s trashcan or storm off.
“How far along?”
Huffing, you lift your shirt for him to get a better look. “About five or so months. I think I’m getting close to the end of the second trimester.”
Sammy’s eyes bore into your stomach, hands twitching at his sides as if he wants to touch you. You drop your shirt quickly, stepping back from him. The hurt look in his eyes almost makes you feel bad. Almost.
“I haven’t even noticed,” he whispers.
You shrug, arms wrapping around your stomach as you rock back on your heels. “I honestly wasn’t even really showing until about a week or so ago.”
“I-” He steps forward, hands outstretched. You jerk back, shooting him a sharp glare and tilting your body away from him. He has lost any privileges he once had to affections or hugs. You don’t have the patience or willingness to offer him any more kindness than a honest conversation.
He lets out a watery laugh, eyes shining under Mariella’s porch light. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Yeah,” you scoff. “Join the club.” For a second he smiles and you return it, but it falters and falls too quickly to be real.
“What are you going to do?”
You suck your teeth and shrug. “I thought about giving it up.” His head snaps up and you hold your hands out. “Relax, I’m not gonna let my kid get tossed to foster care. I’m keeping her, I just don’t know-”
“Her?” He asks, eyes wide as you realize you accidentally let it slip.
“Uh, yeah, I thought about doing that gender reveal thing. Like, just get myself a cupcake or something. But it seems stupid to do that alone so I asked my doctor. Found out last week.”
He makes a noise like it pains him to think of you eating a pink cupcake all alone in your dingy apartment. You can’t blame him, you paint a pretty pathetic picture right now.
“Do you have an ultrasound, or-” He swallows roughly, cutting himself off.
You nod your head, pulling out your phone and passing it to him. He stares down at the picture, eyes wide and gleaming at the blurry little form of your daughter.
God, you haven’t actually referred to the baby as anything other than it or the kid. ‘Your daughter’ suddenly makes it feel too real.
His knuckles go white around your phone as he shakes his head. “You can’t stay in that neighborhood anymore,” he tells you.
Your head snaps up, you most definitely misheard him. “Excuse me?”
He doesn’t even look at you, just stares down at the picture. “You can’t.”
“Alright,” you roll your eyes and wave him off. “Screw you, Sammy. Give me my phone back.”
You reach for it and he jerks it out of reach, holding it above your head. If it didn’t hurt to get on the tips of your toes, you would totally grab it. But your feet are freaking killing you right now. And he smirks like he knows it.
“Think of how many GSW’s we’ve been called in for. Right by your apartment building, too. You should have moved years ago. Do you really think it’s safe to raise a kid there?”
“Of course not. But what am I supposed to do? It’s impossible finding a two-bedroom place that I can actually afford, now. Let alone after I take the pay cut for maternity leave and buy all the supplies for the baby.”
“What have you bought?” He asks, missing your point entirely.
You shrug, “Nothing. I haven’t really processed this.”
“Not even a crib,” he demands.
You bristle, finally giving up the fight for your phone.“No, asshole,” you snap. “Not even a crib. I’ve got four months before I have to worry about it.”
He makes a pained noise and you fight back a laugh. “I mean, your other baby mama’s got two guys looking after her. I don’t have anyone but me, alright. It’s kind of hard figuring this out alone.”
Sammy’s arm finally drops, your phone hanging by his side as he watches you. “You didn’t have to be alone.”
You roll your eyes, give me a break. “You didn’t want me, Sammy. Why would I think you’d want my kid?”
“Our kid,” he corrects and you’re sure he isn’t aware just how close you are to slapping that indignant look off his face.
“Look, you’re stretched thin enough as is. I don’t like making myself a burden.”
“You’re not,” Sammy’s head lolls back and he lets out an aggrieved groan. “You are not a burden,” he tells you firmly. “We’ve got a day off tomorrow, right?”
You nod and he claps his hands together with a definitive sigh. “We’ll look at new places.”
“Okay,” you shrug. “That doesn’t magically make me able to afford them.”
“No, but we can,” he says motioning between you both. “We can live together, split the rent so we can afford it.”
Your face falls, eyes narrowing as you shake your head. “And then what? We have two nurseries? One for mine and one for Tammi’s?”
You absolutely do not mean any of that. No way in hell are you letting your life get entangled with that woman. But he’s just nodding his head like this is a good idea.
“What?” You snap, slapping his shoulder. “No, Sammy!”
“You offered me your couch!” He argues.
“Five months ago! Before you put a baby in me,” you remind him, shaking your head with a glare.
Sammy finally hands you back your phone and returns the evil look tenfold. “This is not up for discussion.”
“Yeah, alright,” you wave him off, not taking him seriously for a second. With an irritated groan, you storm off to your car and pointedly ignore him as you pull out.
If only he could have done that five months ago.
Three firm knocks on your door have you shooting out of bed. You let out a low groan, glaring at the door while you clutch your stomach. You haven’t had horrific morning sickness, yet, but sudden movements seem to be testing your guts limits. Another knock and it’s like the police are about to bust through your apartment.
Grumbling to yourself, you throw the door open and glare. “What the hell?”
Sammy stands there, sunglasses on and two cups of coffee in his hand. “Why aren’t you ready?”
Your eyes turn into slits as you let out a strangled groan. “I didn’t think you were being serious about this,” you snap.
“Yeah, well, I am.” He shoves the cup into your hand and you take a sip, letting him inside.
“Ugh,” you stick your tongue out, glaring down at the coffee. “This tastes nasty.”
“Decaf,” Sammy tells you, glancing around your apartment with a disgusted glare. You can’t blame him. Objectively, it’s an absolutely horrible place for a baby to grow up in. You’re about 90% sure that there’s mold growing behind the walls of your shower and there is definitely asbestos.
But, your landlord gives you a major discount on rent as long as you turn a blind eye to some of his more unethical business practices.
“This is so not fair. Tammi gets to smoke weed and I’m stuck with this,” you slam the cup down and pick up some jeans to change into. Sammy shoots you a sharp glare and you wave him off, grabbing one of the few maternity shirts you own and tugging it on.
His eyes are immediately drawn to your stomach. It’s the first time in a while that you’ve been around him in anything other than loose clothes. You can’t exactly blame him for the shock on his face. It’s like you just got pregnant overnight to him.
Well, you guess that’s actually exactly how he feels.
“Alright,” you pick the coffee up and motion him outside.
Hesitating, you let out a tired sigh. “Are we really doing this?” You ask, peering over your shoulder as you lock the door.
“Yes,” Sammy tells you firmly. He places a hand on your lower back, eyes darting around the neighborhood as he shakes his head in disappointment.
“Should’ve gotten you out of here a long time ago,” he mutters, more to himself than you.
You just roll your eyes at him, grunting a little as you lower yourself into his car. He hovers over you, offering you a hand that you swat away. You’re just a little slower than normal, not helpless.
Sammy’s face screws up at how stubborn you are and he closes the door with far more force than necessary. You let out a sharp breath, wincing at a cramp in your side as he gets in.
“You alright?” He asks, brows pinched as he takes in your grimace.
“Yeah, just tweaked my back.”
“Doing what?” He asks, voice low in a way that sends goosebumps up your arm.
You don’t meet his eye, picking at a thread on your jeans, instead. “Uh, just, taking down a suspect last week.”
“Jesus,” he hisses, pulling out of your apartment complex. “You should be on desk duty,” he tells you sharply.
You reach over and punch his arm, smiling when he winces. “You get me put on desk duty, Sammy, and I’m going to shoot you.”
He dismisses you with a glare and you let out another irritated huff.
For the entire day, he drags you through every decent neighborhood he can find. You vehemently veto any places in castaic, however, which kills him. But you cannot live in that boring ass suburbia desert, it will drive you insane.
By the end of it all, your feet feel like lead weights. Every place you guys have been to, you’ve hated. Some were no-go’s because of a strict HOA. Others because modern architecture seems to mean sucking the soul out of every room in the home.
At the last townhouse, in an older but relatively safe neighborhood, you are thoroughly pissed off. Pieces of you that you didn’t know existed are aching and you are starving. Despite the fact that he got you food an hour ago.
“This is it,” you snap at him, finally taking his offered hand as he eases you out of the car.
“Yeah, yeah,” he brushes you off, leading you up the porch where a realtor’s waiting for you. Her overly enthusiastic smile makes you want to slap her and you would dismiss that as hormones if you weren’t a person prone to pettiness far before the baby.
“Well, look at you two! What a gorgeous couple!”
Sammy offers a weak smile and you slap his hand away from you. “Not a couple,” you grit out. “Can we get this over with, please?”
“Oh,” her face falls and she clears her throat uncomfortably. “Of course, come in, please.”
You leave Sammy to listen to her spiel while you explore the house. It’s older than the ones he’s been looking at. The kitchen is a little less modern but you prefer that to all the beige you’ve suffered through on the tours today. You like the wooden cabinets and colorfully tiled floors. You imagine a baby would too.
Humming, you check out the rooms downstairs. There are two of them, across the hall from one another. Peering in, you can already see where the cribs might go.
It’s not ideal having the kid’s rooms downstairs, but the master bedroom is right at the top of the stairs. Worst case scenario, you could get to them in under thirty seconds. Besides, you’ll have them in bassinets by your bed for the first few months.
The longer you wander around, the more you find yourself liking the place. In each room you can already imagine how you and Sammy would decorate, how the babies play areas would look. And then you catch yourself, realizing that you’re imagining Tammi’s baby actually being a part of this.
You’ve never been in such a messy situation before. You’re not sure what the rules are on taking care of another woman’s baby. You know that Sammy will have split custody with her. But you’ve yet to figure out how much she wants you involved with him.
Sighing, you shake your head and walk down the stairs. An issue for another day.
Sammy peers up at you, “Well?”
You glance down at the eager relator and scowl. “It’s perfect,” you reluctantly admit. She gives a smug grin and pulls out some paperwork for Sammy to look over.
Not even two weeks later, he’s got you forcefully removed from your old neighborhood and living in the townhouse with him. While you work on furnishing the nurseries and figuring out the complexities of your sudden proximity, he sleeps on an air mattress in the baby’s room.
You feel a little guilty each morning when he wakes up and there’s a clear limp to his walk because the blow-up is kiling him. You’ve yet to broach the topic, but when the baby gets here, it would probably just be better if he shared the bed with you.
This morning, you’re drinking orange juice while he sips tiredly on a mug of coffee. You flip through the newspaper, eyes lingering on an ad for a second too long. “What is it?” He asks.
You slide the paper toward him, finger tapping against the ad. “50% off at,” you sigh at the name and purse your lips. “Cuddle Couture.”
Sammy snorts into his coffee and you grin. “What the hell is that?”
“A baby store, dumbass. Probably a good place to finally pick out a crib.”
“Alright,” he checks his watch and nods. “We have a few hours before I have to head in. Want to go check it out?”
You shrug, “Might as well, right?” He taps the table once before he’s getting to his feet, a low groan escaping him as he rubs his lower back. You feel a little sympathy for him but also the slightest bit of vindication. Because if he wants to complain about back pain, he should try carrying his giant freaking baby for six months.
You lean against the cart, watching as Sammy’s eyes rove over all of the frilly little onesies. “Hey, what about this?” He picks out one that’s soft pink with teddy bear print. Something in your chest twists as you imagine your baby in it.
“Adorable,” you tell him. He tosses it in the cart as you kneel down in front of a onesie clearly aimed at boys. It’s darker blue with a police badge patched on the shoulder. “What the hell are they putting kids in these days?”
As much as you don’t like it, you’re sure Sammy would. “Hey,” he looks over and you toss it at him. His brow furrows as he looks down at it. “For the other one,” you tease, meaning Tammi’s soon-to-be son.
His face softens as he gives you a disbelieving smile. “You’re thinking about him?”
You jerk back a little, reaching for the cart as you shrug. “I mean, I don’t know. He’s gonna be at our house, isn’t he? He should have some clothes, that’s all,” you dismiss, suddenly eager for the conversation to be done.
Sammy grabs a few more sets of clothes, ones for each new stage of growth. You notice him putting in some for the girl, some for the boy, a few that would work well for both and find yourself smiling for some strange reason. Maybe it’s just because of how happy he looks going through all of the different supplies.
“Did, uh,” you clear your throat and offer a stiff smile. “Did Tammi let you shop with her for anything?”
Sammy’s hands freeze on a book he’d picked up. He shrugs. “She let me pick out the paint for the nursery, but, she took her boyfriend to get the crib and stuff.” Your lips purse, a sting in your eyes as you take in his pathetically sad face.
Dammit, you glare down at your stomach, this kid’s turning you soft.
“Well, congrats, now you get to pick out two.” He huffs out a little laugh as your tilt your head toward some odd looking machine on a shelf. Vaguely, you think you know what it is, but it seems like something better for milking a cow than anything human.
“What the hell is this?” You mutter, picking the box up.
“That,” you jump, heart racing as a worker pops up beside you. “Is the best breast pump on the market.”
You narrow your eyes at her as she smiles eagerly at you. “It looks like it’s a torture device,” you say, pointing to the clamps that are, apparently, supposed to go on your nipple. Clamps.
“That’s not the best,” Sammy suddenly interjects, moving to stand next to you. He takes the box from your hands and places it back on the shelf. You let out an astonished laugh when the woman picks it back up with a forced smile.
“Actually, sir, it is. It’s one of our most purchased products.”
“Doesn’t make it good,” he snips.
“All due respect, but this is quite literally my job. I think I would know.”
You hold up a hand before he can continue arguing with her. “Job or not, I don’t want my boobs clamped. It’s gonna be pain enough if my kid figures out how to bite.” You turn with a sigh, heading toward the foldable play pens.
You start talking, asking for his opinions. It takes a second to realize he hadn’t followed you. With a groan, you walk back toward him and find him still arguing with the over eager sales lady.
Pushing the cart back to him, you catch the tail end of their argument. “Look, lady, I’m having two kids. I’ve put some research into this. I don’t care what your job is.”
The woman huffs and puts the box back on the shelf. “Congragulations on the twins, ma’am,” she tells you curtly.
You raise your brows and shake your head. “Oh, I’m only having one. His other baby mama’s having the second one.” The poor lady’s face goes pale and Sammy glares at you. You snicker as she rushes to get away from you both.
“What?” You sigh at the look on his face.
“You’re enjoying this too much.” He frowns, nudging your side as you walk toward the cribs.
“Yeah, well, cut me some slack. I’m bullying for two, now.” The grin on Sammy’s face forces one onto yours and you look away from him before he can spot it. You’re not supposed to be enjoying this with him. But you are.
You’re enjoying it far too much.
Your foot taps impatiently against the linoleum as you wait for Sammy to walk in. He beelines straight to Sal and you hope he can feel your glare boring into the back of his head.
“I’m on rotation today. Why did Johnson and Walters get my case?”
“Oh,” you snap before Sal can answer. They both turn to you and you hold up your hand as you lift yourself from your chair. It takes longer than you’d like, but pregnancy is really starting to catch up to you.
With a low breath you stomp toward him. “Because you got me benched and you’re my partner, now, you ass.”
Sammy’s eyes narrow on you before they drop to your stomach. Specifically the profesional looking maternity shirt you bought this past weekend. It seems to be odd for both of you, having your stomach on display like this at work. You’d gotten some confused looks from everyone considering none of them had a clue you were pregnant.
You feel way too exposed and you hate it.
“What is she talking about?” Sammy finally tears his eyes from yours and looks at Sal.
Sal just holds up his hands. “I don’t know what you want me to do, Sammy. You told me about her… condition and it’s not like I can just have you both investigating some gangbangers shooting each other up. It’s too high risk.”
“Condition?” You scoff. “I’m pregnant, Sal, just say it. And don’t talk like I’m not standing right here,” you snap with complete disregard to the fact the he’s your boss.
Sal’s expression goes flat as he lets out a long-suffering sigh. You shove Sammy’s shoulder and he grimaces. “I told you that if you snitched I would shoot you, Sammy. Don’t think I won’t. You just earned us both two months of desk work. Do you think I’m incapable of doing my job now?”
Sammy crosses his arms and glowers. “You can’t even run anymore,” he hisses your name.
You hate when he’s right. “Why the hell would I let you out into the field carrying-”
Your eyes widen minutely and you shake your head. Sammy bites his lip, glancing down at Sal who’s pretending he’s not listening to every word. Both of you agreed that it was better not to let people know Sammy’s the dad. It would be an HR nightmare and you know how these guys talk about women. You can’t have them all looking at you like you're something to be passed around the station like some badge bunny.
“I won’t let my partner out in the field when she’s seven months pregnant,” he corrects.
“Ugh,” you throw your hands up and storm back to your desk, lowering yourself slowly into your chair. “I hate when you’re right,” you sneer. Sammy rolls his eyes at you and tosses himself in his chair with an irritated groan.
It only takes three hours for Sal to finally break. He’d been forced to listen to you and Sammy bitch at each other since you arrived and he couldn’t take it anymore. “Alright,” he snaps, interrupting you both bickering about what to get for lunch.
Your brows dip as you turn toward him. He runs his hands down his face and shakes his head. “I cannot listen to you two for one more minute. We just got a call about a body, you guys can go check it out.”
Sammy goes to interject, but you toss your pen at him before he screws you both over. He jerks back, shooting you an offended look. “Thank you, so much,” you rush out, already getting to your feet.
Sammy glares over at Sal who just holds up his hands. “It’s low-risk. I just need you both out of here for a few hours.” Sammy lets out a huffy sigh and follows you out of the station.
You stretch your arms out, grimacing as your back throbs. Sammy rushes down the stairs to catch up with you. Doesn’t take him long considering you’re going a snail’s pace. “Happy with yourself?” He asks.
You grin over your shoulder at him. “Incredibly.” Your smile slips slightly when you catch the harsh look on his face. It’s not necessarily directed at you, but he’s staring down at your stomach and you know how worried he is.
“Hey,” you nudge his side as he walks you to the car. “Why don’t we just get some lunch, drive around for a bit. We can let Lydia deal with the body. I just want to get away from my desk.”
He frowns, head tilting because he really doesn’t believe you. “Really? You’re just going to give in?”
You roll your eyes with a fond smile. “I know how dangerous our job is, Sammy. I’m not so selfish as to risk something happening to the baby. Besides, my feet are throbbing right now and I immediately regretted the idea of having to walk through a scene.”
Sammy lets out a laugh and shakes his head, helping you into the car. “You’re a ridiculous person,” he admonishes.
You just shrug. “Then you should pray our daughter doesn’t take after me.”
“You kidding me? I want her to be just like you.” He closes the door and you stare down at your lap, biting back tears as if he hadn’t just said something so sweet your chest hurts.
Damn hormones, you curse, absolutely lying to yourself because, deep down, you know it’s just him that makes you feel like this.
“I’m home!” Sammy calls out, door shutting behind him. His brows turn down as he glances around the living room. At this point, he usually just finds you laying on the couch, complaining about swollen feet.
“In here,” you call back and he follows your voice to the nursery. His lips part in astonishment as he finds you surrounded by an assembled crib and changing table. You, however, are laying flat on the ground, face absolutely defeated as you wave weakly at him.
“What is going on?” He asks, already settling beside you, helping you sit up. “I told you not to worry about any of this.”
You shrug, fiddling with the paintbrush in your hands. His heart stutters for a moment, terrified that you actually tried painting without him. But the walls are still bare and the can is unopened on top of a tarp. At the very least, you knew when to stop.
“I just needed to stop thinking. I like building this kind of stuff, anyway, calms me down.” Tears begin to line your eyes and his hands hover over you as he panics. You’ve always been slightly volatile but he is completely unsure how to act around you now. Never sure what’s going to set you off or have you smiling at him.
“But I couldn’t paint,” you swallow thickly and wipe at your cheeks. “Paint fumes are bad for the baby.”
He hums, nodding as he slowly takes the paintbrush from your hands. It feels disconcertingly like disarming a suspect. “Yeah, sweetheart. But you know I’m going to do it for you. Why are you so upset?”
Your face crumples and he winces as your head falls into your hands. Your shoulders begin to shake as you cry into your palms and he just sits there, hands hovering but not touching. Sometimes you want a hug, a lot of the times you’re snapping at him to back off.
Deciding to risk it, he wraps his arm around your shoulders. You slump into him immediately and something inside him warms. “You need to paint the nursery for Tammi’s baby. This is my baby, my daughter.”
Sammy stiffens, forehead falling against yours as he sucks in a sharp breath. He knows that this whole mess is his fault and he hates how much it’s bugging you. But, god damn, you make it hard not to lose it sometimes.
“I’m her father,” he reassures, pulling back and cupping your cheeks. “Which means I take care of her and you,” he wipes your tears away and your eyes flutter shut.
“But you don’t want us, Sammy. All we are is a mistake. An obligation,” you sob, sinking further into him.
“Hey!” You jerk back, eyes reddened and wide. It’s the first time he’s really snapped at you in a while but he just can’t take it anymore. “Don’t put shit in my mouth that I haven’t said.”
Your eyes narrow and you pull back from him, swatting his hands away. His jaw clenches, cheeks flushing as he actively bites back his temper. “But you said it,” you’re snapping now, pissed off and struggling as you try to get to your feet. He almost helps you but he thinks it might better if you’re grounded so this doesn’t turn into a real fight.
Giving up, you drop back to the ground. “When you slept with me,” you whisper. “You said that it was-” You clear your throat and wipe tiredly at your cheeks. “It wasn’t anything.”
Sammy rubs his eyes. He’s had a long shift and a worse day. He just wanted to come home, find you on the couch waiting for him, and have a quiet night with you. But you always have to be such a pain in his ass. So goddamn stubborn it hurts.
“I made a mistake, alright?” You glare as he raises his voice and he settles down with a long exhale. “I meant everything I said to you that night. I wanted you- I want you. I’ve been so damn happy since you told me you were pregnant. But you just won’t let me be happy with you.”
Your lips tremble and he worries he’s just kickstarted another round of waterworks. You don’t use your tears against him like Tammi used to. No, you cry the whole time you’re shouting at him and then continue to as he tries to talk you down. You never use it to get him to leave you alone and he loves you for it, but right now he just needs you calm for once.
Before you can lay into him or sob, your face is screwing up in pain. “Oh,” you flinch, hand going to your stomach.
“What is it?” He rushes out. You’re only seven months along. Water doesn’t break that early. Right?
You laugh a little and finally smile at him. “Relax,” you mutter, reaching out and taking his palm in yours. He frowns as you settle it under the curve of your stomach. A second later he feels it, sees it even through your tight shirt. The baby kicking against his palm.
“Damn,” you hiss. “Kidney shot.”
Sammy laughs and moves both hands to feel. It’s something Tammi won’t allow him. Sure, he’s the father, but as far as she concerned that doesn’t matter until the baby’s out. Getting to experience this with you of all people was more than he could have ever asked for.
He glances up at the soft look on your face, the sweet way you run your hand along your stomach. A far cry from the woman who cussed the baby out everytime you felt her boxing with your bladder.
Sammy slips his hand into yours, smiling when he sees the surprise on your face. “Even if you’re not in love with me,” it physically pains him to say that. “We’re still friends. We’ve always taken care of each other. That is not going to stop now.”
Your eyes water again and he shakes his head, leaning forward to press a brief kiss to your forehead. That only makes you sniffle and he forces himself to stand before he really makes you cry again.
And you, you just sit there, watching as he rolls up his sleeves and opens the paint can. He’s painting the nursery, tonight, because you wanted to so bad. Despite the fact that you know he had a bad day.
What he said finally settles in you and your throat tightens. He only said that you weren’t in love with him. Sammy didn’t say anything about himself.
You’re sitting on the couch one night, feet elevated because your ankles are killing you today, when Sammy comes out of the nursery. He’s got something that looks like a walkman in his hands and he’s beelining straight for you.
You would sit up if it didn’t take so much effort. “What’s that?” You ask, reaching out for it. Sammy dodges your hands and you scowl. He lets out a little laugh, gently sitting you up so he can take the seat beside you.
“Tammi gave me this book, forced me to read it so I would know how to properly coparent.” You hum, head tilting as you watch him press a button on something that is most definitely a walkman. But the headphones stretch far more than any you’ve ever seen.
“It said that classical music is supposed to be good for the baby’s development.”
“Seriously?” You mutter, watching him put the headphones over your stomach. You snort at how ridiclous it looks. “So I probably shouldn’t have been listening to freak on a leash on the way to work.”
He nudges your side and you smile. “Be serious,” he mutters, ignoring the grin on his own face.
“I am,” you insist, but he doesn’t believe you for a second. His hand lingers on your stomach, face soft when the baby kicks. You grumble, shifting uncomfortably as she settles her giant head comfortably against your liver.
Sammy wraps his arm around your shoulder, helping you rest your head on his lap so you can try and get comfortable again. His hand smooths gently over your hair and you smile, mind drifting back to the ridiculous reality show you’d been watching.
Vaguely, you can hear a little bit of the classical music seeping out from the headphones. Ridiculous, you think, trying not to laugh. Who would’ve thought he’d be the one freaking out over the parenting books?
You lay your palm on his thigh and he takes it in his immediately, sinking further into the cushions behind him. It’s quiet for a while. Peaceful in a way you haven’t experienced in years. It’s nice, especially after such a horrid shift.
You’d done paperwork for nine hours, sitting on the same flattened chair, getting up to pee every other minute. You’ve been wondering if you could somehow go on maternity leave early, but the thought of just sitting around the house bugs you. Work seems to be the only thing you know how to fill your time with.
“I’m going back on patrol.” Sammy’s voice cuts through the peace and immediately sends your heart into overdrive. You try and sit up, but his arm is heavy around your waist. He isn’t holding you because he wants to, he’s subduing you so you can’t tear him a new one.
“What the fuck, Sammy?” You hiss, tilting your head so you can get a decent look on his face. He offers you a sorry smile that makes you want to dig your elbow into his groin.
“I just,” he cuts himself off, eyes darting back to the TV even though he’s not watching it. “There was a boot that got shot today. He was barely six months in and he got shot by the same asshole that was there when they killed Nate.”
Your eyes flutter close as you rub at your brow. “Sammy,” you mutter, heart aching for him.
“I just feel like I might be able to make a difference. I need to do something that feels like I’m making this a better place for my kids.”
You shake your head, biting your tongue so you don’t start a fight that you know will just end with you pissed and him unchanged in his decision. “You’re unbelievable, Bryant.”
He smiles down at you. “In a good way or a bad way?”
“I’ll decide when I’m not furious,” you bite out. You turn your face away from him, forcing yourself to look at the TV as you bite back tears. You don’t care about the pay cut he’s going to get. Or that his hours will probably be completely irregular now. You just hate the idea of him being back on the street, out in the open driving around in a black and white target.
He lifts your hand, pressing a gentle kiss to the knuckles as you swallow past the lump in your throat. You can’t lose him like you both lost Nate.
“What is that?” You call from the doorway of the house. Sammy’s pulled into the driveway with a truck you’ve never seen and a mangled mess of metal poles in the back. Stepping down the stairs, you rub at the ache in your lower back and tilt your head as you try and figure out what it is.
“The people that bought Nate’s house didn’t want the slide. They told me I could take it.”
You raise your brows as you watch him struggle to drag it from the bed of the truck. “Yeah, uh huh, did they tell you how to put it back together?” Sammy pauses and offers you a weak smile.
“It can’t be that hard,” he shrugs.
You shake your head, rolling your eyes as you walk back into the house. You can still hear him grunting in the driveway, struggling to even unload the thing. Picking up your phone, you call Ben.
You haven’t met him yet, but you’d demanded Sammy give you his partner’s number in case of an emergency. This wasn’t necessarily an emergency, but it is finally an excuse to meet him. Maybe interrogate him a bit to make sure Sammy’s in good hands.
“Sherman,” he says in lieu of hello.
“Hi this is Sammy’s…” you trail off. You’re certainly not introducing yourself as his damn baby mama. “Roommate,” you settle on slowly, even if that doesn’t feel right either.
He lets out a small laugh and says your name. “Yeah, Sammy’s told me about his roommate. Is something wrong?”
“Uh,” you walk to the front door and watch as Sammy drags the poles to the backyard with bright red cheeks. “Not really. It’s just, Sammy’s trying to build this thing for the baby. It’s not really a one-man job. Would you mind coming over for a minute?”
He’s quiet for a while and you figure he’s probably going to just hang up. But then he’s letting out a long and weary sigh. “I need to drive to castaic?”
“Oh,” you snort. “Hell no, you think I’m letting him move me over there?” You give him your new address and Ben lets out a relieved laugh.
“Yeah, give me half an hour.”
You hang up just as Sammy walks in. His eyes narrow on your phone and you offer him a wide smile. “Who was that?”
“Who was what?” You ask innocently, tucking your phone into your pocket.
“I don’t need any help,” he insists. You just nod and pat his back as he goes to drag more pieces out of the truck. And, then, almost half an hour on the dot, Ben is pulling up. Sammy rolls his eyes as he sees him.
He glares over at where you’re sitting on the porch steps and you grin. “You haven’t even gotten it all out of the car, Sammy. You need help.”
Ben jogs up the driveway and waves at you. “Nice to meet you,” he offers.
“I would stand up but once I’m down it takes a while to get back up.”
He shakes his head, “Don’t worry about it.” He turns to Sammy who’s still looking pissy at you. “Can’t even build a slide, huh?”
Sammy rolls his eyes and motions Ben forward. “Just hurry up and don’t scratch the truck. This thing’s a loan.” You leave them to it while you slowly get to your feet. It’s coming up on the halfway mark for month eight. While you did relatively well through the first and second trimester you have started to seriously slow down.
Your ribs are getting kicked at, organs squished as a concerningly large baby takes up space in your body. Every morning is a different ache and you have found that your usually small threshold for idiocy has become nonexistent. You’re snapping at anyone and anything.
Sammy had walked in on you cussing the crib out one day because you’d stubbed your toe. And then you were snapping at him for laughing.
You hobble back into the house as you roll your shoulders, trying to get rid of the everpresent strain in your neck. In the kitchen, you make them some lemonade and a small snack. A reward for a job well done if they actually manage to figure it out.
But, an hour later, you head out to the back porch and find that the slide is still not built and now they’re bickering with each other on what part goes where. You sigh, rolling your eyes as you walk down the steps.
The grass is cold against your bare feet and you frown. You swear to god you’d put on shoes. Then again, you seem to be forgetting everything nowadays. “Hey,” you call out, laughing at their flushed cheeks.
“Go lay down, sweetheart,” Sammy tells you, clearly at the end of his rope. You ignore him and he lets out a long suffering groan. Tilting your head you kick at one of the poles.
“That goes with the red piece,” you tell them.
“No it doesn’t,” Ben tells you.
“Sammy I can’t bend down which means that you’re both spared from me shoving that thing up your asses. But be a dear and slot it into the red piece, please.” Sammy shoots Ben a look like you aren’t actively staring at his face. The ‘bitches-be-crazy’ ‘tude really makes you wish you could bend over.
Giving you a patronizing smirk, Sammy picks up the pole and the little red triangle. “I told you, honey-” He’s cut off as it slides into place with a distinct click. Both Ben and Sammy stare at you with wide eyes.
“I like building things,” you tell them. “And I’m good at it. I don’t know why men can’t just shut up and listen sometimes.” You kick at another pole and motion for Ben to pick it up.
In an hour, you’ve got the damn thing built and you’re sitting on the couch, eating the food you made for them, congratulating yourself on a job well done.
Ben sits in the armchair across from you, nursing the beer Sammy had passed him. “You know, I thought Sammy was being dramatic when he told me about you.” Your eyes narrow and Sammy shakes his head subtly. But Ben keeps on going. “I get it now, man.”
“Get what?” You snap, glaring at them both.
Ben just snickers, taking another swig from his beer. “Nothing, sweetheart, ignore him.” Sammy waves him off and you sink back into the couch with a cold glare.
“You two are so lucky I can’t get up.”
“I know,” Ben snorts and then he’s dodging the slipper you kicked off at him.
You know that Sammy’s out on patrol right now. He probably won’t answer his phone, at least not for another hour. But you’re currently sitting on the stairs with a puddle steadily growing around you. And you really don’t want to have to get an uber to the hospital.
Taking the risk, you call him. “What?” He snaps and your eyes go wide as you scoff.
“I know you did not just take that tone with me,” you hiss, grimacing as a sharp pain stabs through your stomach. It’s like period cramps on fucking steroids.
Sammy says your name in a questioning tone and you let out a strained hum. “What’s going on?”
“Everything alright?” You hear Ben in the background and let out a shaky sigh. There’s no way he’s going to be able to come get you.
“Um, my water broke.” You glance down at the wooden stairs and frown. “Everywhere.”
“Wait, what?” You can hear his tires screeching as he slams on his brakes and then Ben cussing him out. “I’m on my way.”
“No, no, it’s fine.” You grab the railing and try to stand up but another cramp hits and you’re plopping back down. “I can probably get an Uber, you’re at work and-”
“Sweetheart, I need you to shut up, please.”
“Yeah, fair enough,” you concede, resting your head on the step behind you. “I’m scared, Sammy,” you whisper and hear him let out a rough sigh. “I don’t want to push her out. She’s huge! She’s got your big ass head,” you snap.
Ben laughs in the background and you’re sure you hear the sound of Sammy hitting him. “It is not that big, honey.”
“I’m sorry, did we see the same ultrasound? I’m gonna be pushing out a watermelon, here, Sammy.”
He goes quiet and you frown, really needing him to distract you again. Then you hear doors slamming outside and suddenly the front door’s getting busted open like its SWAT on the other side. You flinch back, almost laughing when you see the panicked look on Sammy’s face.
He makes his way toward you, but his foot slips through the puddle and he nearly busts his ass. “Yeah, I told you it went everywhere.” Slowly, with your hand gripping the rail, you scoot down one step at a time. Sammy takes your hands, helping you to your feet.
“Are you okay? Does anything hurt?” He asks, eyes roving over you.
“Yeah,” you deadpan. “It feels like I’ve got a bowling ball pushing out of me, Sammy.” He scowls and turns you around to find Ben waiting outside the door. He offers you a smile that looks more like a grimace.
“Help her get in the car,” Sammy instructs. Ben nods, taking your hand and easing you down the stairs. You don’t make it to the car before another cramp is digging its claws into your uterus.
“Ooh, I’m looking forward to that epidural,” you mutter. “Finally gonna get to try the good drugs,” you grunt as you lower yourself into the car.
“Not going natural?” Ben asks, foot tapping impatiently as he waits for Sammy to come back outside.
“I’m a cop, Ben. This is my one chance to get as close to high as I can be.” He snorts and then Sammy’s walking out of the house, carrying the bag you’d packed forever ago for the hospital. He slides it onto the floor beside you and offers you a tentative smile that you can only return with a grimace.
Ben drops you both off at the hospital, returning to the station to explain where Sammy’s disappeared to. It takes you a few hours longer than you’d prefer to get you dilated enough to push.
They had you doing all sorts of things to get this party going. Bouncing on a medicine ball, one of the nurses even tried to get you to do some squats and lunges with her. But you’d given up almost instantly, back nearly going out as you crawled back onto the hospital bed.
Finally, your daughter decided to make an appearance and then you were pushing. You don’t remember some of it. You just know that it wasn’t as horrifying as the movies make it seem. You didn’t scream like you were getting murdered or bleed everywhere.
You might have soiled yourself, the nurses lied to you if you did, which you deeply appreciate. And then, your baby is in your arms.
People always tell you about how instantly they fall in love with the little bundle of joy in their arms. And as elated as you are, as peaceful as it is to finally hold her, you still find yourself frowning.
“She’s beautiful,” the nurse tells you, offering you a kind smile.
“She’s wrinkly,” you correct, nose scrunching at her pruned face. Sammy snorts, trying to hold back his laughter as the nurse scowls. “She’s gonna get cuter, right?” You ask, eyes darting between her and your daughter that’s glaring like an angry old man.
“Give it a few hours,” another nurse tells you. “And be happy she didn’t come out with a cone head.”
Your eyes widen, arms tightening around her. “That was a possibility?” Sammy runs his hand over his hair as the majority of the nurses leave. “Did you know that?” You ask him, staring down at your daughter and smiling as she gets a death grip on your finger.
“Yeah, I knew. I just didn’t think you needed that in your head.”
“Good call,” you lower your voice as her eyes slip shut and scoot marginally over in the bed. “Come here,” you tell him, patting the spot beside you. He takes a seat, smile so wide it makes your chest ache to look at. “Here, take our wrinkly baby,” you tease, grinning at the way he laughs.
You sink further into the bed, expression soft and tired as you watch him smile down at your daughter. She looks so small in his arms it’s terrifying. How are you supposed to take care of this tiny little thing?
Your eyes flutter shut and you rub your brow. With everything settling, what little energy you had has seeped out of you. Sammy glances up at you, taking your hand as you try to fight off sleep.
One of the nurses walks over to you both, smile kind as she gestures to your baby. “If you’d like, we can take her to the nursery. Let the both of you get some rest.”
Immediately, you’re trying to lift yourself up. Sammy presses his hand gently to your shoulder. “We’ll be keeping her in here, thank you.” You slump back in relief and smile at him, squeezing his hand.
“Alright, be honest. Did you watch?”
He lifts his brows and you nod toward your legs. “Yeah,” he huffs. “I watched.”
“And, were the guys all right? Have you been put off sex forever?” You tease, sitting up slightly to get a better look at your daughter.
Sammy shakes his head. “They’re all idiots. I haven’t been put off sex forever.” For some reason, you feel a little bit of relief at that. Not that it matters considering you’ve only had sex with him once and he’s holding the product in his arms right now. You doubt he wants any more with you.
“Just a few months,” he adds, smile teasing.
“Jerk,” you roll your eyes and swat his arm. He chuckles and moves closer to you, lowering his arms so you can rub her chunky leg with your thumb. She did come out with a big head, like you’d told him she would.
“We’ve gotta name her,” you mutter.
Sammy grins and the malicious glint in his eyes have your alarms going off. “You know, me and Tammi said it would be Rachel if it was a girl-”
The remaining nurses all look up, eyes narrowing as they stare over at you two. He just smirks, far too proud of himself. “Fuck off,” you hiss.
Sammy lets out a scandalized noise, covering the baby’s ears. “Language,” he admonishes.
You laugh, mind still a little foggy. “If you sign Rachel on the birth certificate, the next time I’m in the station, it’ll be in cuffs.”
She starts to fuss and you hold out your arms. Sammy passes her to you carefully, reaching over to help you sit up as you undo the top of your gown. He glances away as you press her to your chest.
“I’ve always wanted to name my girl Alexandria.”
Sammy goes quiet, brows furrowing before he looks at you with a scowl. “Like that library?”
Heat flushes through you and you shrug. “I mean, kind of, yeah.”
“You know you’re a nerd, right?”
You roll your eyes and he smiles as you settle back on the bed. “Shut up.”
It’s barely even a month later that Sammy’s in the hospital again. You’re holding Alex when you get the text, a picture of a wrinkly baby who’s pissed off face looks just like Sammy’s.
You put your phone down, glancing down at your sleeping daughter and feel panic settle slowly in your gut. You don’t know what this means for the both of you. Sammy’s known Tammi since high school, been with her longer than you’ve even known him. And they’d been trying for their baby for years. Now, he’s got it, how much will he still want you and Alex?
You stand slowly, placing Alex down in her crib as you slump back into the rocking chair. Your nails drum restlessly against the arm as you stare at her, now, adorable face. Once she de-pruned she was pretty freaking cute. You have about a thousand pictures of her on your phone but you know Sammy’s got even more.
You rub tiredly at your eyes and let out a weary sigh. You should get up, take a shower, try and clean up a bit. But your body is dead weight and you can’t find the energy to care about anything except your baby.
Sammy almost calls out to you once he gets home. But the last time he’d done that, he’d woken Alex up and you'd barely talked to him the rest of the night. Quietly, he drops his bag by the door and makes his way toward the nursery.
You’re slumped in the rocking chair, mouth open as you snore. Sammy bites his lip so he doesn’t laugh and walks toward the crib. He peers over, smiling at Alex’s sleeping face. But then she lets out a low whine and his eyes are wide as he jumps back. He does not need to be the reason she wakes up early, again. He thinks you might actually kill him this time.
Sammy kneels in front of you and gently nudges you. You shoot up, eyes wide as you scan the room. “Alex,” you mumble, one eye still closed as you check out the crib.
It’s a practice in self control to not laugh. “She’s fine,” he tells you, taking your hands in his. You blink slowly as you take him in. He almost feels bad for waking you up, but he knows your neck will hurt if you stay here.
You rub your cheeks and nod. He stands up, gently guiding you out of the chair. “I should clean,” you mutter and Sammy rolls his eyes, nudging you toward the stairs.
“I’ll take care of it,” he promises. You nod, eyes shut as you blindly make your way into the bedroom. Alex is a great sleeper, usually goes right through the night without waking you both up too many times.
But you are absolutely wired, as if someone’s going to break in and steal her at any given moment. He gets it, knows that instinct is typical for people in your line of work. At this point, though, the baby’s sleeping better than you.
Sammy just needs you to get at least one full nights sleep so your brain is functioning again. Gentle but firm, he guides you onto the bed, ignoring your mumbled protests as he lifts your legs and drags the blanket over you.
“Where’s Nate?” You mutter, eyes completely closed at this point.
Sammy sits beside you, brushing some hair off your cheek as he smiles. “He’s with Tammi.”
You let out a low hum, pushing yourself closer to him. “Are you still going to want us, now?”
Sammy’s hand freezes as his gaze drops to you. His chest tightens with panic, but you’re already sleeping. Face content like you didn’t just drop a bomb on him. What the hell is that supposed to mean?
You wake up to Sammy’s arm slung around your waist, keeping you pinned to his chest. Glaring at the sun, you sigh and try to wiggle closer to him. It’s become normal, waking up like this. You hated him sleeping on that air mattress downstairs and just getting stiffer every day.
Just a little while before Alex was born, you’d told him to start sleeping in the master bedroom with you.
Basically, you’re married without any of the benefits.
You look up, tracing the slopes of his face with your eyes. You have to enjoy him like this while you can. Peaceful, content, quiet.
Sammy turns over, burying his head deeper into the pillow as he wraps both arms around you. Something inside your chest squeezes until it’s hard to breathe. This is horrible, it hurts so bad and you hate it.
You’re pretty sure you’re in love with him.
There had always been something between you two. A tension you thought was sexual, a long-term friendship fueled from times at the academy and adrenaline-rush moments where you saved each other’s asses. But it had never felt quite like this.
You weren’t constantly aching back then. This feels all wrong.
You hate that you love the father of your daughter because you are so sure he doesn’t love you. At least, not in the way you need.
Sammy groans, head slipping from the pillow and dropping to your shoulder. You force a light laugh, reaching up to run your hands through his hair. Slowly, he lifts his head, smiling at you in a way that makes you want to mush his face away because he cannot keep making you hurt like this.
“How’d you sleep?” He mutters, voice still thick with exhaustion. You smile a little, it only widens when he reaches up and brushes some hair out of your eye.
“Like a rock,” you glance over his shoulder to see he moved Alex’s bassinet over to his side. Sighing, you slump back onto the bed. “I didn’t hear her wake up last night.”
Sammy just nods, hand idly moving up and down your side as he settles so he can get a better look at you. “Yeah, I took care of her. You needed a decent night’s sleep.”
Foolishly, you’d convinced yourself that once you had your baby, the hormones just went away. But, no, you’re still as sensitive as ever. Something as simple as him saying you needed sleep has your eyes welling up as you bite your lip to stop yourself from crying.
“I’m sorry,” you croak out.
His eyes grow comically large and you would laugh if you weren’t so afraid of the tears spilling. “What’s wrong?" He sits up, pulling you with him and you bury your face in his neck.
“God,” you groan, fisting his shirt in your hands as you shake your head. “I think I love you.”
Sammy’s body goes deathly still and its enough to finally push the tears over the edge. You try to pull back, but he just tightens his arms around you. “Why are you sorry?” He asks, allowing you to move back just enough to meet his eyes.
There’s something about his expression that has your crying abating, just a little. “You love Alex and you care about me. But you don’t love me.”
Sammy rolls his eyes and you would take offense if you weren’t so busy being sad. He cups your face, smushing your cheeks together slightly as he glowers. “Stop assuming, it makes an ass out of both of us.”
“What-”
He pulls you closer and you stiffen as he presses his lips to yours. It’s nothing like it was the first time. He’s not pushing you against a wall, kissing you like the only thing he’s thinking about is ripping your clothes off. No, this is sweet, gentle. The kind of kiss that people who’ve been married for years and never fell out of love share.
You sink into him, your tears sliding between your lips and tainting the kiss with salt. He doesn’t seem to care, arms dropping to your waist as he tugs you onto his lap. Sammy pulls back and you have to stop yourself from whining, missing the feel of him immediately.
“I do love you,” he promises, pressing his forehead to yours. “I loved you a long time before Alex was in the picture.” You start to shake your head and he lets out a sigh. “You don’t have to believe me now, but it’s true.”
You can’t find the words to smooth over this. To just pretend you never said anything at all. You want so desperately to believe him, but he’s lied to get what he wants from you before. Still, as you let yourself sink completely into him, you allow yourself that little bit of hope.
“All right,” you let out a groan as you lift Nate into your arms. You don’t know what the hell Tammi is feeding him at her house, but god damn the kid’s heavy. “Come on, little man,” the name isn’t fitting at all but you can’t help yourself.
You head into Alex’s nursery and glance between the two. “I got this,” you mutter, balancing precariously as you reach into the crib. You slip your arm under her back and slot her on your hip.
Alex’s head falls to your shoulder and Nate mimics her, smiling as he reaches for her hand. You jerk your head back, not willing to let your hair get caught in another tug-of-war match.
Their hands tangle together as you walk outside. And suddenly you’ve got two babies laughing on either side of you and it’s enough to make you want to cry. How the hell can one noise be so precious?
You let out a sharp breath. Freaking kids, they just make you soft.
“All set?” You call out to Sammy. He’s still bent over in the backseat, grunting as he secures the extra carseat.
Nate reaches up and pats your cheek. You turn your face to smile at him and then you’re getting punched in the nose with all the insane baby strength he’s got.
“Oh, christ,” you mutter, jerking your face back. You really should have seen that coming. Both of them seem to be realizing that they have hands, which means all they want to do is wave them around and see how much damage they can do. It would have been great if they figured that out one at a time, but nope, they’re beating the crap out of you as a team.
At least they get along.
“Sammy,” you groan. Alex’s got a hold of your hair and she’s tugging with all she’s got. You’d correct her if your arms weren’t stuffed full of babies. “Can you hurry up, please? I’m gonna look like a DV case before we make it to the barbecue.”
He finally pulls out of the car, a proud smile on his face. You raise your brows and he gestures toward the backseat. “Come on, check it out,” he urges.
With a fond smile, you walk over and then immediately feel your heart drop to your ass. “Jesus, Sammy, tell me you have not been driving around with them like that?”
He shrugs and glances at the carseats. “What’s the big deal?”
“What’s the-” You cut yourself off, lowering your voice before you scare the kids. “The big deal,” you hiss, kicking at his shin. He jumps back with a grimace. “Is that you have the seats facing forward!”
“So?”
Your mouth drops and you let out a strangled noise. “So! If you slam on your breaks, who goes flying through the windshield? I swear to god, I’m going to call Ben. He did that carseat seminar at the center, maybe he can tell you how to do it.”
Sammy rolls his eyes and crosses his arms. “Don’t call, Ben.”
“I am not putting my babies into the car like that!” You only realize your slip up because of how his entire expression shifts. Your tongue knots in your throat and you clench your eyes shut.
“Crap, I meant-”
“Did you just say Nate is yours?” He asks, taking a step forward. You click your tongue, hating that you can’t read the look on his face. It’s soft, certainly, but you can’t tell if that’s because he’s about to kindly tell you never do that again.
“I didn’t, I mean, okay, I did.” You let out a loud huff. “I’m sorry, Sammy.”
He shakes his head, hands wrapping around your waist while he tugs you into him. You’re both careful of the babies, his arms securing all three of you. “Don’t apologize,” he pleads, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.
You don’t have words, throat suddenly choked as your eyes burn. Instead you nod, letting your head fall into the crook of his neck. And you hate to ruin the sweet moment, but you meant what you said.
“If you don’t fix those seats,” you whisper, “I’m going to neuter you in your sleep tonight.” Sammy barks out a laugh, startling Alex. She flinches back, face screwing up as she decides whether or not she wants to make this a thing.
Sammy’s slipping her out of your arms before she can decide, bouncing her lightly to get a smile back on her face. A grin splits your lips and you are helpless, incapable of stopping it. Glancing down at Nate, you find him watching his sister enviously.
With a happy chuckle, you take him in your arms, bouncing him a little and just smiling wider when he lets out a delighted laugh. You miss the way Sammy watches you. The look in his eyes that would tell you everything you want to know.
“So, how’s it going with baby mama number two?” Ben’s got a smug smirk on his face that Sammy wouldn’t mind punching off.
“Shut the hell up,” he tells him, shaking his head. They’re both leaning against the patrol car, watching detectives circle the dead body they’d found. “Good,” Sammy admits after a minute.
Ben turns to him with a raised brow. “Yeah?” Sammy nods, resiting the urge to smile just because he’s talking about you. Fuck, Ben’s right, he’s whipped. “How’s Tammi handling you having another woman watch her baby?”
Sammy crosses his arms and shrugs. “We talked about it, she doesn’t mind considering she’s got that european bastard with her. Besides, she’s met Alex a few times, everyone gets along.”
Ben hums and glances back at the scene. “One big, dysfunctional family.”
Sammy chuckles and nudges Ben away with his elbow. “Hey, whatever man, it’s working.”
Ben clicks his tongue, glancing down at his shoes and Sammy narrows his eyes. He’s building up to something, he can feel it. “Have you thought about asking her, yet?”
Sammy pinches the bridge of his nose and groans. He knows exactly what Ben’s talking about. The little box that’s been sitting in Sammy’s bag for a few months now. Before Alex was even born.
“Yeah, man, it’s all I think about. But she’s just going to think I’m asking her because it’s convenient or something.” Ben frowns and Sammy shrugs. “She refuses to believe that I actually have feelings for her.”
“Women,” Ben mutters and Sammy can’t help but agree with the exhaustion in his voice. If only you guys didn’t have to make things so complicated. He loves you. You love him. You’ve got a kid together. He doesn’t understand what key component you’re missing but it’s starting to make him crazy.
“How about you?” Sammy asks. “You find a badge bunny you wanna settle down with, yet?”
Ben laughs and shakes his head. “Hell no. I’ll live the domestic life vicariously through you.” Sammy scoffs, grinning at the fear in Ben’s eyes at the thought of finally going monogamous.
“Protect and serve, indeed.” Sammy’s brows turn in as he whips around. You’re stepping out of your car, shamelessly ogling the pair of them. “How you doin’ boys?”
Ben lets out a little laugh, grinning at you while he watches Sammy slowly process the situation. You walk up to them, hand brushing against Sammy’s arm in greeting.
“What’re you doing here?” Ben groans under his breath, backing off as Sammy completely bypasses a hello. He’s tried to help him for months, but he seems stubbornly resistant to learning how to speak to women.
You frown, slightly taken aback. “I’ve got an informant that could help these guys out. Sal told me to come down, check it out, see if anything looks familiar.” Slowly, you cross your arms, sucking your teeth while you glare at Sammy. “Problem?”
Ben’s eyes drop to his shoes as he says a silent prayer that Sammy not be an ass. “Where the hell is Alex? And Nate? You were supposed to be watching both of them,” he snaps. Ben lets out a low groan, you’re going to kill his partner and he’ll be stuck with some ass like Dewey.
You let out a sharp scoff, stepping back from them. “Tammi took them both for the day. And it’s nice to see you, too by the way.” Ben knows he should walk away, but it’s just too damn entertaining.
“Tammi?” Sammy demands, like that’s not the woman he was married to since high school.
“Yes,” you drawl, lifting your sunglasses and looking at him like you’re trying to see if he sustained brain damage on shift. “I take care of Nate all the time. And she said she doesn’t mind doing the same for Alex. Besides, we found a daycare we both like so the kids can go there soon.”
“A daycare?”
Ben rubs his brows, slipping on his sunglasses so you guys can’t see him watching Sammy dig himself a deeper hole.
“Just for the off-chance that everyone’s working and no one can watch the kids.”
“Don’t you think it’s a little early to be leaving them alone?”
Your jaw drops, eyes flitting to Ben. He pointedly looks away, whistling as he stares up at the bottom of the overpass you’re all parked by. You huff and he knows that’ll bite him in the ass sometime soon.
“What’re you trying to say, Sammy? Because I had the department stop paying me just so I could go on maternity leave longer. I mean, do you know how many strings Sal pulled so they wouldn’t just fire me? You know how badly I’ve wanted to start working again.”
Sammy shrugs, tone far too abrasive. “I don’t know, I feel like you’ve already got a full-time job.” Ben’s head whips up, wearing the same astonished expression as you. Sammy purses his lips, catching his mistake and being too stubborn to backtrack.
“Oh,” you draw the word out, voice dropping an octave. Apparently, you’ve already got the mom voice figured out. “Uh uh, you do not try and pull that domineering, women belong at home bullshit with me. I hear you saying something like that, again, and you can just go ahead and take your shit to Ben’s house.”
“Hey-”
Sammy speaks over Ben’s objections. “I didn’t mean-”
You hold up your hand, turning around and walking toward the detectives. Ben finally lets out the laughter he’s been holding in. “Jesus,” he shakes his head. “You’re hopeless, man.”
Sammy groans, raking his hands through his hair as he swats Ben’s arm. “What the hell am I supposed to do? She just freaked me out, I thought she was starting work tomorrow.”
Ben shrugs, leaning against the patrol car. “Next time, start with hello before you berate her parenting.”
“Shut up, man, you know that’s not how I meant it.”
“Yeah, I know. She doesn’t,” Ben points out. Christ, did Sammy hit his head? He’s being an even bigger idiot than usual. Sammy lets out a sharp breath before he’s pushing off the patrol car and heading toward you.
You spot him coming and turn in the other direction. Ben laughs as Sammy jogs to catch up to you, snagging your arm and turning you around. He reaches for his coffee and takes a long sip. You two don’t seem to realize just how entertaining you are to the people at the station.
By now, everyone knows that Sammy is Alex’s dad. They know that Tammi is Nate’s mom. Ben had expected the majority of them to point the blame at you. But Sammy seems completely unaware of how much slut-shaming is going around the station about him.
He’s turned into the office joke and Ben, horrible as it is, laps it up. Sammy was an ass when they first partnered up. Calling him too soft and claiming going by the book made him look bad to the older guys. He’s grateful you’re in his life to give Sammy the hell that he can’t.
“Oh, no, come on.” Ben clicks his tongue in disappointment as you smile at Sammy, letting him squeeze your hips and press a kiss to the corner of your mouth. He was hoping you would hold out longer, make Sammy squirm the rest of his shift. Sammy deserves to get shoved in the doghouse a little longer.
But, he’s walking back up to Ben with a smug grin and he knows it’s not happening. Ben raises his brows expectantly as Sammy stands beside him once more. “Back in the bed,” he holds his hand out.
Ben shakes his head with a scoff and gives him a high-five and pats him on the shouler. “Just listen to me, man. You’re never going to get anywhere with her if you’re…”
“Myself?” Sammy asks.
Ben nods, “Yeah, exactly.” He ducks away from the punch Sammy throws at him.
“Let’s go to bed, yeah,” you whisper to Alex, rocking her softly as you head toward the nursery. You pause when you hear the low murmur of Sammy’s voice. Turning to the left instead of the right, you find him sitting in the rocking chair, reading softly to Nate.
You bite your lip, holding back a smile as you watch him. Nate’s head is smushed against his shoulder, chubby cheeks looking even cuter than usual. You’re going to turn around when Alex lets out a soft little noise.
Sammy’s head perks up and he smiles as he spots you. “Watching me now?” He whispers, careful of the two sleeping babies. You huff out a laugh and walk toward him. You stop in front of the rocking chair, hand idly rubbing up and down Alex’s back.
“Can you blame me? You two are adorable.”
Sammy rolls his eyes and uses his free arm to wrap around your hips. “I am not adorable.” You hum, giving in as he tugs you down onto his lap. He shifts Nate higher up his body and you chuckle as the little boy’s face screws up in irritaiton.
“What’re you reading?” You ask, titling your head to get a better look at the book. He holds it up, revealing an old comic with a sheepish smile. “Of course,” you laugh.
“Let me see,” you reach out and find yourself beaming. “Hey, this was my favorite in middle school.”
Nate chuckles, hand slipping up your waist. “I know, that’s why I got it.” Glancing back at him, you find it growing more difficult to breathe. God, that gleam in his eye, the unabashed affection, you almost believe he really does love you.
“You know,” you readjust Nate’s onesie and grin. “This is going to be a lot harder when they get bigger. Can’t just have us in your arms all the time,” you chide softly.
Sammy rolls his eyes, pulling you closer so he can get a better look at Alex’s smushed face. “Why do you think I work out, huh?” You shake your head as he presses a kiss to your temple.
His head tilts, resting against yours as you close your eyes. “I meant what I told you,” he says. Your heart stutters as you nod your head. “Really,” he insists.
Your eyes drift down to your daughter and you’re still surprised by how much of him you see in her. “I know,” you whisper. “I, uh,” you let out a little laugh as you pull back from him. “I was cleaning the kitchen, your bag got in my way…”
You don’t have to finish the sentence for Sammy to go stiff and his eyes get big and terrified. “I found it,” you tell him and he already knows you’re talking about that little box he’s kept hidden from you for months.
His eyes fall shut as he slumps against the rocking chair. Nate fusses and his hand comes up to pat his back, the move subconscious and so endearing. “Now, unless you have some secret third baby mama out there,” Sammy pinches your side and you try not to laugh too loud. “I think that’s meant for me.”
Sammy lets out a long sigh, rubbing his eyes. “Yeah, it’s meant for you.” He looks up at you expectantly but you just pull Alex away from your shoulder, resting her on your thighs.
“I’ve been thinking lately, maybe we should move their cribs in here together. Turn the second room into a playroom or something.” Sammy’s brows turn in, struggling to understand your point. “I, uh, I’ve held on to things from the past for too long, you know. I don’t want the kids separated just because I thought you didn’t want me when I was pregnant.”
Sammy frowns, sitting up. “What’re you saying?”
“I’m saying… I want to be a family,” you raise your brows, glancing at him knowingly. But he still looks shellshocked, lips parted as he straes at you. “I’m saying yes numb nuts,” you lean down, kissing him softly.
“I love you,” he whispers.
“Yeah, I know,” you grin at the little frustrated noise that escapes him.
Everything to get you here was messy, not at all like you’d always hoped your relationship would turn out. But you could make this work. This odd, twisted and messy family dynamic. It can be perfect for all of you.
What does the journey matter when you’ve got what you always wanted right here?
A sudden thought occurs as he grins smugly up at you.
Bullshit repeats itself / Is that how the saying goes? / Been here a thousand times / Selective memory though
You say we're drifting apart / I said "yeah I fucking know" / Big deal we've been here before and we'll be here tomorrow
Overview: A headass couple: people acting in a "slightly delusional, somewhat cheesy bubble," oblivious to how cringy or ridiculous they appear to others.
For some reason, you'd thought yourself to be the untouchable exception to the rule that all relationships eventually hit a rough patch. Peter and you were perfect, best friends first, and then dating. There wasn't a better match than the two of you. Except, of course, until there was. Your perfect image is shattered as you realize he's hiding more from you than you'll ever know. After a rough breakup, only one person seems able to cheer you up. A certain webbed viglinate. But, wait... why does his voice sound so familiar?
a/n: There will be the occasional ridiculous name/reference; if you catch them, they're all real (including Jumbo’s Clowns)
wc: 10.0K
They say that the best foundation for a relationship is built on friendship. And you used to believe that. When you first met Peter, it was like coming together with a missing piece of yourself. Even before the romance, the dates, the sex. When it was nothing more than something wonderfully platonic, you thought everyone was right.
But you were delusional. Your head had been too far up your ass to realize the truth of your relationship. You weren’t soulmates. You weren’t any more special than anyone else dating their best friend.
You would think, though, that being friends with someone for years would build enough respect for them not to blatantly mistreat you. To not lie to your face when they hide where they are at night. Sure, maybe other couples who didn’t know each other lied. But not you and Peter.
That’s what you thought, at least. Shows what you know.
Two Months Earlier
“Hi,” Peter rushes into your apartment, breathless and flustered as always. You get a firm kiss to the cheek before he disappears into your bedroom.
Laughing slightly, you peer around the corner and try to get a glimpse of him. “Everything okay, Petey?”
You get a slight hum of acknowledgment before he goes back to what sounds like rustling through papers. Shaking your head, you bring the popcorn bowl over to the couch and wait for him to reemerge.
It doesn’t take longer than a few minutes until he’s strolling back toward you, a slightly cocky pep to his step. You narrow your eyes at him but fail miserably at holding back a grin. “Whatcha up to, Parker?”
“Who, me?” He shrugs, playing dumb as he jumps over the back of the couch, landing on the cushion beside you. You spot something folded in his hand before he tries to hide it.
With little warning, you lunge forward, reaching for his hand. “Hey!” He jumps back, unable to hold in his laughter. “That’s cheating, you know?”
You don’t acknowledge him, grunting in frustration as he holds his hand further and further away from you. “Alright, well, what happened to no secrets?” You push, slightly embarrassed at how breathless you sound.
“Oh, wow,” his hand comes up, cupping your jaw as he pulls your face closer to his. “That’s playing dirty,” he whispers. You can’t subdue your smile, inching closer until your noses are brushing.
“You like it when I play dirty.” Peter’s eyes widen, a visible flush on his face as your lips just barely brush together. The whisper of a kiss. He was so focused on that, he failed to notice you ripping the paper from his hands.
He groans as you lean back on the couch with a triumphant grin. “You’re too easy, Parker,” you tease.
He props his chin on your knee, “Only for you.”
“Oh God, you are so cheesy.” He opens his mouth, a stupid grin on his face. You pinch his lips together and laugh, “Don’t say it again. For the sake of our relationship, please.”
You release him and he presses a quick kiss to your hand before leaning back. “Well,” he nods toward the paper in your hand. “Don’t you want to see what you’ve won?”
Excitement bubbles inside you as you unfold the small piece of paper. The print’s slightly smudged from your wrestling match, but when you bring it closer, you can’t help the sharp gasp that escapes you.
“Peter!” He’s smiling widely, posture relaxed and completely smug as you gush. “I can’t believe you managed to get tickets.”
“One of the guys in my lab knows someone at the museum. He owed me a favor,” he shrugs it off like it’s not a big deal. Like he didn’t just get you into one of the most exclusive exhibitions in Queens.
He lets out a slight grunt when you toss yourself at him, arms wrapping like a vice around the back of his neck. You can feel the exhale of a laugh as he buries his head in the crook of your shoulder, arms quick to wrap around your waist.
“Thank you,” you whisper, pulling back slightly to get a proper look at him. He keeps his grip firm, reluctant to let you get much further.
“You know I’d do anything for you,” he tells you and he has all the conviction of a man who really believes it.
“That’s a big promise,” you smile. “Sure you can keep it?”
“‘Course I can.” When you lean in to kiss him this time, you make sure it's real. Not the whisper of a touch, but something deeper as he pulls you into his lap completely. You don’t think you’ll ever get over how wonderful it is to be loved by Peter Parker.
“Christ,” you blow into your gloved hands and hope some of the warmth bounces back to your face. You knew it was going to be cold today, but you hadn’t thought it would be a problem. Peter had said he was going to meet you outside the museum, but it’s already been fifteen minutes and you’re losing feeling in your nose.
He does have a mind going 100MPH most days. Usually, you like to give him a leeway on timing. But it’s absolutely freezing today and snowflakes have just started falling. If you were with your boyfriend, this would be like a scene out of a romcom.
Instead, it’s about to be a nature documentary on wild stood-up girlfriends freezing in Queens tundra.
Pulling out your phone again, you bite the thumb of your glove and tug it off. You’ve sent Peter about twenty messages, none of which have even so much as gotten a ‘read.’ You try calling him this time, tucking the phone between your shoulder and ear as you hurriedly tug your glove back on.
“Hey, this is Peter, you know what to do.”
You roll your eyes at his voicemail. “It’s your girlfriend, Pete. But, I swear, if you make me wait any longer in this damn snow, I’m going to be your ex.”
“Good thing you don’t have to wait.” With a squeak, you whip around to find Peter standing behind you. You slap his shoulder and he bounces back with a laugh. The tip of his nose has been nipped red by the cold and his cheeks aren’t much better.
“You’re lucky I like you,” you snap.
“Extremely,” he agrees, not an ounce of sarcasm in his voice. It softens you slightly. When you can feel your fingers again, you’ll consider forgiving him. He throws his arm over your shoulder, struggling slightly with the scarf triple-wrapped around you.
Glancing down to hang up the call, you see a little news notification pop up.
Spider-Man & Molten Man Spotted in Times Square
“What’re you looking at?”
You shake your head, tucking your phone away. “Nothing.”
You send him a smile that he returns eagerly. He passes the staff your tickets and opens the door for you as you step into the museum. You’d like for the first thing you appreciate to be the gorgeous mural on the wall in front of you. But you are far more interested in the blast of heat coming from the vents above.
“Oh, thank God,” you grumble, blocking the door as you greedily soak up all the warmth you can.
“Come on, bug,” Peter laughs, tugging you along so the line of people can get by. “We’ll get you an overpriced coffee at the cafe.”
“You’re paying,” you tell him sternly. “I still can’t feel my nose.”
“Deal.” Peter doesn’t hesitate, just leans down and presses a quick kiss to the tip of your nose. It’s the type of thing you used to see others do in public and gag.
You’d think about how you would never be one of those touchy-feely couples. Peter makes it feel so natural, though. As if you’ve been together all your life and this is just another one of your daily routines.
The giddy smile on your face is wide and can’t even be hidden behind your scarf as you lean into him. He chuckles as he pulls you closer, taking you toward the cafe. “What do you want to see first?”
“I read online that they’ve got a bunch of Monets by the south entrance, we’ll go there and then circle back to the front.”
“You’ve had this planned since you saw the tickets, haven’t you?”
You laugh and shake your head. “Since I read about the exhibit. Remind me to thank you again when we get home.”
Peter glances down, brows raised with a cheeky look on his face. You snort and push his face away. “What? I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face did,” you tease. Peter laughs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head as you get in line for a coffee. You don’t even feel like you need it anymore. You’ve been warmed inside-out just by Peter’s presence.
God, when did I become such a cliche?
9:50
where the hell are you
they keep talking about distillation columns and thermo-something
you know I don’t understand nerd
Checking the time on your phone for the nth time, you feel your leg begin to bounce. Something uncomfortable has tied itself around your stomach, squeezing until you can’t stand one more sip of your beer.
Peter’s labmates celebrate around you. They keep jostling each other’s shoulders, talking in technobabble. You have never felt as stupid as you did when Marcy asked you what your thoughts were on a plug flow reactor. Whatever the hell that is.
You’d just said, “Oh, yeah, they’re great.” She’d smiled and slowly backed away, eagerly jumping into the next conversation.
It’s not that they’re not nice people, but this clearly isn’t where you’re meant to be. Not without Peter, at least. You’d promised to come thinking, oh, you know, that your damn boyfriend would be here.
10:30
Peter
Please
I feel so stupid
Nausea is thick in your throat as you hunch over the bar. Peter’s friends have all moved to a table, but you didn’t feel like following. It’s not like they were talking to you anyway. They didn’t know how and you didn’t either.
“This is so stupid,” you mutter, dragging your hand down your face. You push away your empty beer and find yourself drawn to the TV, looking for any sort of distraction.
It’s the news and, of course, Spider-Man’s swinging around the city again. His suit is bright against the night sky, and there’s an odd shape on his head that’s catching the snow. Leaning forward slightly, you snort when you see he’s wearing a red beanie.
“Of course, New York gets the weirdo for a hero,” you mutter. You grimace as you watch Spider-Man get punched down by a man who looks like he’s made himself a megazord. Pulling back the sleeve of your blouse, you sigh at the time.
There’s a tight pinch in your chest as you slide off the barstool.
11:02
I’m going home
You debate saying anything else but decide not to. Tugging on your winter attire, you stop by the others’ table and bid them all goodnight. They’re nice enough to say bye, but you’re pretty sure they thought you had already left.
The wind pushes against the bar’s door as you make your way outside. Snowflakes are quick to whip at your cheeks, landing in your lashes and melting into your scarf. You pull the scarf tighter and trudge forward.
The cold isn’t bothering you any more than your absentee boyfriend is. You’ve always been gracious with Peter about being late. It’s a chronic sickness for him at this point and you’ve been around it the majority of your life.
But it feels different now that you’re dating. Waiting outside an arcade or a restaurant for a friend isn’t a big deal. But when you’re sitting on your own at a table in a crowded restaurant, that’s absolute humiliation.
He’s been dropping the ball a lot more lately and that hurts. But he hasn’t given you any other reason to worry about the state of your relationship. So, despite the sting, you’ve resolved to just swallow down the embarrassment and keep on going.
You hear a small thud behind you and your hand instinctively goes to your purse. Swallowing thickly, you keep walking, hoping it’s nothing more than your paranoia. Then you hear the crunch of snow behind you, the clear footsteps matching your pace. Your hand wraps around the mace Pete bought you and you whip around on them.
To your absolute horror, Peter’s standing behind you. He throws his hands up and lets out a nervous laugh. “Okay, an hour late is really bad, but please don’t mace me.”
You tilt your head and give him a flat look. “Two hours, actually.”
His face screws up and you cross your arms. “Sweetheart, I am so sorry.”
You shake your head and turn back around. “Forget it, Pete. Just go celebrate with your friends.”
Peter jogs to catch up with you and darts in front of you, a frown on his face. “Wait, no, come on. Why don’t you head in with me?”
You let out what can only be described as a guffaw and push past him. “And suffer through more questions about plug flow-whatever’s? Pass.”
“Plug flow reactors?”
You glare at him over your shoulder and he fails horribly at hiding the amused look on his face. “Trying to speak nerd with them was humiliating, Peter.” His face softens at that and he reaches forward to pull you closer.
Out of pure stubbornness, you should resist. But standing outside in the cold is making you desperate for Peter’s insane body heat. “Come inside, just for a little while,” he brushes a hair off your cheek and smiles softly. “I swear, I’ll teach you all our science jargon.”
You roll your eyes, but he knows he’s won when you sink into him. “You’re way too persuasive,” you snap. Peter does his best to lace your mittened hands together as he turns you back toward the bar.
“Yeah, but you love me.”
“Unfortunately,” you glare at him, but your smile gives you away.
For once in your relationship, you’re the one running late. Something you know Peter is about to take far too much joy in. He’s already sent about fifteen texts. The majority of them bemoan being all alone and then asking if this is how you always feel. Those were followed by an influx of apologies.
You’re not thinking about the texts, though, as you jog down the street. You spot Peter waiting outside the diner, leaning against the wall. He’s got his phone in his hands, fingers moving rapidly across the screen.
Sure enough, you can hear your phone ding with yet another passive-aggressive text. “Would you quit it?” You demand, completely out of breath, as you stop in front of him.
He tosses his head back dramatically and groans. “God, finally. I thought you were just going to leave me out here to freeze.”
“Would serve you right,” your brows furrow. “When’d you get this?” You flick the edge of the red beanie shoved over his hair.
Peter shrugs and readjusts it. “I dunno, I’ve had it forever.” You frown, biting your lip as you think. You swear to god you know it from somewhere, but you must’ve just seen Peter in it before and forgot.
He holds the door of the diner open for you and lets out a relieved breath as you both step into the warmth. You would feel bad for him if he hadn’t done this to you five times within two weeks.
“How come you wanted to…” The go to this place so bad trails off into a laugh. You should have known when he kept badgering you about coming here.
Plastered floor to ceiling are comic book characters, clips from the stories, and various forms of memorabilia. You’re absolutely surrounded by a hundred different fandoms, and you’re honestly surprised Peter hasn’t had a heart attack yet.
“I really should have seen this coming.”
Peter laughs and leads you over to an empty table. A busty woman with a purple leotard stares you down from where she’s painted on the wall. You give Peter a flat look and he flushes.
“I mean… the name is Strips.”
“Oh, seriously, Parker. Why would my mind immediately go to comics? I was worried you were taking me to a strip club or something.”
Peter wrinkled his nose and frowned. “That’s way too on the nose. I’d take you somewhere classy like Jumbo’s Clown Room.”
Your lips part and you just shake your head. “I don’t want to know if that’s a real place. And if it is, I don’t want to know how you found out about it.”
“Blame Flash,” he mutters as a waitress comes over with a coffee pot.
You smile and thank her as she walks away. “Oh, I don’t think I’ve gotten a chance to tell you about this, yet.” Peter perks with interest and a wide smile blooms on your face. “You know how I was trying forever to be Professor Beeter’s TA. The position never opened but,” you trail off slightly as the people behind you start getting loud.
“Oh my god, he is wrecking this place!” Frowning, you glance over your shoulder and take a look at what they’re watching. Someone’s phone is propped in the middle of the table and you see yet another ridiculous villain punching through the Chrysler building.
Rolling your eyes, you settle back in your seat. “What was I saying?”
“Um,” Peter’s leg bounces under the table and his gaze shoots toward the door. “I’m not sure.”
You frown, watching him warily as he grows more antsy. “Oh, it’s about Professor Beeter. He offered me a-”
“Sweetheart,” he interrupts you and jumps to his feet. “I’m so sorry, but I just remembered I promised I would help May today.” He presses a kiss to the top of your head.
“What? Peter! You wanted to come here!” He’s already running out the door. You watch, astounded, as he races past the window like hell’s nipping at his heels. You sink back into your seat with a stunned expression and your heart aching.
Clearing your throat, you look up to find your waitress giving you a pitying look. She offers you a sympathetic smile that only makes you sick to your stomach. Grabbing your bag and coat, you jump out of the booth, rushing outside.
What the hell is going on with him? You think, glaring down the street where Peter had gone. Pinching the bridge of your nose, you swallow down a lump in your throat and decide to just head back home.
After his abrupt exit, you haven’t heard from Peter all day. You’ve sent him a few texts, checking in on him and asking about May, but you only got one answer before he went AWOL.
You:
Everything good with May?
Petey:
Yeah
Her pilot was out had to make sure she had heat
After that, you’ve gotten nothing from him. Also, as far as you’re aware, May doesn’t use gas for heat. Peter hooked her up with better appliances forever ago.
It’s as you’re dialing May’s number that you have to try and convince yourself you haven’t gone total psycho girlfriend. It’s perfectly normal to want to check on your boyfriend. Especially after how he was acting today. The line only rings a few times before she picks up.
“Hello?”
“Hey, May.”
She says your name and you practically hear the smile in your voice. “Hey, sweetie. How are you?”
“Fine,” you answer quickly. “I just wanted to be see how Pete’s doing?”
She’s silent for a moment too long. She clears her throat and you frown at the pitch of her voice. “Oh, yeah, Pete’s fine. I’d let him talk to you, but he’s busy right now.”
You hum, fingers twisting your hoodie (Peter’s hoodie) strings as your stomach ties itself into a knot. “Right. Uh, what’d he say he was helping you with, again?”
“Cleaning out the gutters. Apparently, it can be a fire hazard or something, I’m not sure.”
Your body goes cold while something venomous rushes up your throat. “Okay,” you can barely hear your own voice. “I’ll let you go, then.” You hang up before she can respond, phone slipping from your hand and clattering to the ground.
“Oh, my god,” you let out a panicked whisper, smoothing your hands over your hair as you try to think of a reasonable explanation. But there are no anniversaries, no birthdays, nothing special coming up that he might be lying about for a surprise.
You’re honestly more shocked that May would lie to you. Growing up, she’d always seemed like the type of woman to protect a girl from sleaze-bag boyfriends.
So maybe that means Pete isn’t doing anything bad. Maybe she’s covering for him for a good reason.
So, why can't you think of one damn reason May would lie to you?
You don’t want to start spiraling for no reason. People lie, not just boyfriends, and not always for insidious reasons. Plucking your phone off the floor, you call Gwen. She’s usually good at pulling you out of your head when you start getting bad.
The phone rings a few times before she finally answers. “Hey, what’s up?”
You frown and cross your arms across your stomach, trying to keep the nausea down. “Why do you sound so out of breath?”
“What?” She clears her throat but that only makes her sound worse. “No, I’m not. Did you need something?”
“Uh,” slightly taken aback by her tone, you struggle to find the right words.
“Gwen!” Your heart beats ruthlessly against your ribs as your entire body stills.
“Is that Peter?” You know it is. You could pick his voice out of a crowd if you were blindfolded.
Gwen lets out a tense hum. “Yeah, it is. Uh, he was helping me with some chem stuff. So, I gotta go. Call me later, yeah?”
She’s hanging up before you can say anything else. Your hands are trembling as you set your phone on the table. Squeezing your throat to try and keep the lump back, you shake your head.
There’s a reasonable explanation for everything. Right?
The nausea’s still coiled tight around you by the time Peter gets to your apartment. Your eyes are staring blankly at the wall, the only light coming from your window. You’re not sure how long you’ve been lying there. Trying and failing to sleep as you consider all the reasons Peter might have lied to you.
Why he would be with Gwen instead of you.
You hear him padding through the hall and shut your eyes, tugging the blanket slightly over your head.
“Bug?” He calls softly. He’s quiet as he approaches the bed. He brushes a hair off your cheek and leans down to press a kiss to your temple. “You awake?”
Part of you wants to tell the truth. She wants to spring up and start laying into him, demanding to know why he lied. And the other half, she’s a coward. So, you stay curled into a ball, eyes closed, and pretending like you’re not falling apart.
Peter lets out a low groan as he settles in your bed behind you. It takes everything in you not to jerk away when he wraps his arm around your stomach, pulling you into his chest. The last thing you want right now is to have him touching you. But saying that requires being awake.
And that’s more painful than a sleepless night.
Peter wakes up slowly, his body aching after last night. He’s not sure who decided a “living robot” was a good idea. But his ribs are paying the price.
Stretching, he ignores the twinge of pain along his side. His arm gropes blindly along the sheets, searching for you, for your warmth. When his fingers brush against the wall, he reluctantly opens his eyes.
He frowns when he realizes you’re not in bed beside him. Turning toward the rest of the apartment, he doesn’t hear you. You’re not in the shower or humming in the kitchen.
With something cold settling inside him, he gets out of bed. “Sweetheart?” He calls out, hoping to hear you answer. It’s Saturday, and while it’s never been something you’ve both spoken aloud, traditionally, you spend all day in bed together. Just crashing from stressful weeks and overloaded uni schedules.
“Bug?” He tries again, wandering through your apartment. He already knows, deep down, that you’re not in here. But he doesn’t want to accept it. He’s barely had any time for you this week and he was really looking forward to just being lazy with you all day.
In the kitchen, pinned to your fridge, he finds a pink note with his name on it.
Prof. Beeter asked me to come in. Someone messed up last week’s research log
Should be home for lunch <3
The only thing stopping him from spiraling is the little heart at the bottom of the note. He knows it’s silly, but he’s slightly worried that you’re mad at him. He can’t explain where the feelings are coming from, but it's gnawing along the back of his mind.
Peter glances at the clock and groans. It’s only 9, and lunch to you is usually 2 O’Clock. He’s not sure if he’s patient enough to last that long. Peter glances at the note again and leaves it on the counter to go get dressed.
He had Professor Beeter last semester and they got along pretty well. He’s sure the older man wouldn’t mind Peter bugging you for a little while.
Still heavy with the feeling that he’s done something wrong, Peter brought along your favorite sweet treat from the cafe on campus. Hopefully, that will soothe his worries and give you a boost for the day. He knows you look forward to Saturdays just as much as he does.
Peter’s heading toward the lecture hall when his brain finally catches up with the rest of your note. What research were you talking about? You hadn’t told him you were a part of any projects.
He’s always yapping to you about his labs. He figured you would do the same. Maybe it’s new, he thinks.
Pushing open the door, he spots you immediately. You’re at a desk, papers and books piling all around you. There are three other people with you, each of whom he has a vague recollection of.
“I mean, I don’t even know how we’re supposed to salvage this.” Your voice sounds strained, completely pulled taut. Peter frowns, wishing he could just take your problems and shoulder them for you.
“It’ll be okay,” one of the girls assures you.
You finally lift your head from your hands. “Twelve pages with zero references, we’re going to be at this all damn day.” Peter draws back slightly, suddenly wondering if this is such a good idea.
He knows how testy you can get about school. Especially major projects. Sometimes just leaving you alone seems to work better than smothering. But, then, before he can back out, one of the girls, he thinks her name’s Mila, catches sight of him.
“Peter?” She calls out. Your eyes instantly snap to him. If he thought you were angry at him before, he does not feel any better now. Your gaze is sharp, lips in a flat line, and there’s absolutely nothing on your face except perpetual irritation.
“What’re you doing here?” You snap and your voice is way sharper than he was expecting. Holding his hands up slightly, he approaches slowly. He doesn’t want to treat his girlfriend like a stray dog, but you look ready to go for someone’s jugular.
“I thought you might want something to eat. Figured you didn’t have any time before you left to get something.”
Mila and the other girl both aw over him and it gives him the briefest amount of hope. But then you’re shoving out of your chair and storming toward him. Peter swallows roughly as you approach. He almost wishes he were fighting that living-fire guy right now.
You snatch his sleeve in your hand and drag him back toward the door. “Peter, why are you here?” You demand, voice lowered so the others can't hear.
He frowns and shrugs helplessly. “It’s Saturday, we always spend Saturday together.”
You cross your arms, a sharp, derisive look on your face. Okay, definitely mad. “Oh, so you can remember dates now? What’s next? Are you going to show up on time for once?”
“Hey,” he objects, hoping to lighten the mood. “I was on time yesterday.”
Your eyes narrow and something on your face goes blank. He can’t place it exactly, but it’s like there’s a wall where he can usually read you so well. “Yeah, doesn’t count if you ditch me ten minutes later, babe.”
The venom in your voice makes him take a step back. He looks down, knowing you’re right. But he doesn’t want you any more mad than you are, instead of addressing it, he nods toward your desk.
“What’s going on here?”
“We’re working on the dementia research project with Professor Beeter.”
Peter wants to light up, to hug you, and congratulate you for finally getting an in with the professor you’ve been trying to work with since last year. But you deliver him the news so flatly he feels like you’d only get more mad.
“You didn’t tell me about that,” he says instead. Which is very clearly the wrong answer, by the way you back off with a sharp scoff.
“I’m not sure when I would have, Peter. I got placed two weeks ago and I haven’t seen you for more than an hour since then. Besides, when I tried to tell you yesterday, you fucking bolted to May’s.” You pause, and your lips curl up into something cruel. “Or was it Gwen’s place? Sorry, I can’t remember which lie you bullshited your way through.”
Peter feels his heart drop to his feet. It’s like a film goes over his eyes as his mind scrambles for any explanation that isn’t ‘I was busy beating up a robot with a weird, creepy human brain in it.’ Because he’s pretty sure that would be grounds enough for you to dump him right now.
You really don’t give him a chance, either way. You snatch the bag from his hand and the smile drops from your face. “Thanks for the visit. You can go now.” You turn back toward your teammates without another look at him. “Hungry?” You call out to Mila.
She gives a hesitant nod and you toss Peter’s pastry at her. “Dig in.” Even when you sit down, you don’t look up from your books. Not even a twitch as he opens the door.
Peter walks out, still slightly numb from the whole… argument? Did that even count as an argument? Or was that just you finally calling him out?
You’ve let him get away with a lot and maybe he took advantage of that, but he’s worried you might have the wrong idea. He doesn’t know why you would bring up Gwen, but the tone of your voice was so accusatory that he feels sick to his stomach.
Yes, he was at her house last night. But that’s because he needed to be stitched up. She’s known about Spider-Man since high school. It was either bleed out or have her use her beginner's sewing kit.
Peter lets out a shaky breath and runs his hands through his hair restlessly. You’ve both gotten into worse fights before. It’s not like you were a perfect couple. Surely, you could find a way to get over this. He just needs a half-decent excuse for his lying.
Peter perks up as he hears you step into the apartment. He glances at the clock and grimaces. You’re going to be pissed that you had to stay there until 6, fixing someone else’s screwup. When you round the corner and see him, he hears you let out one of the most exhausted noises he’s ever heard from you.
“Peter,” he finally turns to meet your eye. “Why are you here?”
His chest clenches as he forces a smile. “I figured you would be hungry.”
You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Are you ever at your own place?”
Ouch. “I just wanted to make you dinner. I’ll be out of your hair as soon as it’s done, bug.”
You shrug off your jacket and take a seat at the kitchen island. Peter takes your silence as agreement and goes back to stirring the pasta. When you speak again, his ears practically touch his shoulders. This dreadful feeling in his stomach has just been mounting all day. He feels ready to vibrate out of his own skin.
“Peter, where were you last night? I want the truth.”
Peter’s hand clenches around the spoon and he keeps his back to you. “Went over to May’s to help around the house and then I saw Gwen.”
You let out a loud scoff and your hands slap against the counter. “Did you all get your stories straight? Am I hearing the right lie, now?”
Peter drops the spoon and turns to face you. He expects anger, maybe sadness. But you’re not giving him anything. You’re just… cold and Peter hates it. He’s seen you use that look before. It’s always been directed at people you don’t care about. You don’t hate them, you don’t love them, you just… don’t care. He doesn’t want to be someone you don’t care about. He can’t be.
“Look me in the eye,” you command. “Tell me the truth.”
Peter takes in a steadying breath, doing his best not to make it obvious. “Sweetheart, I swear, I went to help May with the heat and the gutters. Gwen called and she needed my help on her chemistry project. I’m sorry that I got home late-”
“I can’t,” you clear your throat and the way your voice cracks makes his heart ache. “I can’t believe that you’re just going to stand there and lie to me.”
He shakes his head and takes a desperate step forward. “No, bug, I’m-”
You hold your hand up and his jaw snaps shut. “You’ve talked Peter, now it’s my turn. I have put up with a lot from you. If anyone treated me the way you do, you know what you would tell me?”
He opens his mouth and you shoot him a look that makes him shrink into himself. “Do not answer that, I am still talking. You would tell me to cut them out. If someone doesn’t respect my time, my dates, if they lie straight to my fucking face, then that’s not someone who deserves to be in my life. You are never on time, if you even show up at all.”
He wants to object, he really does, but he knows you’re right. Still, you must sense his apprehension. “Scroll through our texts from the past two months. It’s just a block of me asking where you are and telling you how stupid I feel. Then you show up, make everything better, and I just let you get away with it. Because I have known and loved you for so long, I let you disrespect me. I can handle missing dates, I can handle not being on time, always being at my place and never letting me over at yours. But I can’t do this, I can’t just swallow down you lying straight to my face. Getting your aunt and my best friend involved in this is sick, Pete. What do you expect me to think when Gwen’s lying about why you’re at her place?”
“No, sweetheart,” he finally speaks, rushing toward you, voice breaking on something desperate. He reaches for you, but you jerk back and he swears something cracks open inside him. “I would never.”
“Yeah,” you whisper. “Why would I ever believe you?”
Peter flounders. He tries to think of anything. Anything that isn’t a lie and isn’t the truth about who he is. But his mind is blank. The panic flooding through him is overriding anything that might get you back, might get you in his arms again.
You suck your teeth and give him a jerky nod. “Why do I feel like I’m losing you?” He whispers, afraid that if he speaks any louder, he might actually cry.
“I think this has been happening for a long time, Peter. It’s just your first time realizing it.”
No, no, he can’t handle that. He can’t handle knowing that this awful, barbed feeling ripping through him is how he’s made you feel for so long. But he can’t just spill his guts and tell you everything.
Right after Gwen had discovered him, it was like the bad guys had a missile lock on her. She kept getting thrown into danger, nearly dying, because of him. He can’t be the reason you get hurt. He can’t live with that.
But he’s hurting you either way and for once, he can’t think of a way to make this all smooth over.
You take in a sharp breath and turn away from him. You walk to the stove, turning off the burner as the food begins to smoke. “I think you should go, Peter.”
“Bug,” but he doesn’t have anything to say and you still won’t look at him. He just wants you to look at him. He feels as if you did, if you saw how sorry he was, something here might be fixed.
“I’m going to take a shower. When I’m done, I expect you to be gone.” You toss the pot in the sink and head down the hall, not another word spared for him. And Peter…
He just spirals. Every mistake, every time he showed up late, just pummels into him as he realizes this is all his fault.
You turned off your phone yesterday. The missed calls and texts from Peter were bordering on obnoxious and you couldn’t take it anymore. Even Gwen kept trying to call you. Kept texting you that it’s not what you think.
But did they ever offer any other explanation?
No, they fucking didn’t.
So, not only did you lose your boyfriend, the man you’ve been in love with as long as you’ve known him. You also lost your best friend.
Best. Week. Ever.
Sick of being sad in your bed, you decide to go be sad outside. Maybe just grab a pint of ice cream from the bodega and lock yourself inside your apartment for the rest of your life. That sounds like a decent plan.
Leaving your phone, you grab your keys and some cash. It’s still cold outside, though the snow has calmed down a little bit. It soaks through your tennis shoes, now, seeps along the hem of your sweatpants. No part of you can be bothered to care about that as you trudge toward the shop.
It’s unusually quiet as you walk inside. Usually it’s a lot busier this time of night. Maybe the universe decided to give you a break.
Digging through the freezer section, you frown when you don’t see your favorite flavor. You turn toward the shop owner, Al, who has gotten used to you coming down here the past few days. “You guys don’t have any more Turtlesaurus Rex?”
Al’s silent and you frown, finally turning to fully face him. A man in a black jacket lingers by the counter, hands stuffed deep in his pockets. Al gives you a tense smile, and your brows furrow as dread picks at you.
“All out. Maurie down the street might have some.” There’s something about how wide his eyes are that’s making you think you probably should have brought your phone. Especially because you definitely just saw the handle of a gun in that man’s jacket and you really need to call the cops. (Even though they probably won’t do anything.)
“Yeah, I’ll go check over there.”
“Have a good night.”
You try not to sound stiff as you return the sentiment. But you’ve barely made it to the door when you hear the distinct sound of a hammer being pulled back.
“You think I’m stupid?” What a wonderful time this would be for a freak in red and blue spandex to show up.
You turn slowly and shake your head, absolutely zero idea how to defuse this.
“I think the lady’s just being polite. Personally, I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone encapsulate the term ‘mouth-breather’ so well.”
Your eyes widen, and you whip around to see Spider-Man standing at the entrance of the bodega. What the fuck is your life?
“Hey, jackass,” you hiss, and his head whips toward you. “Who’s he pointing the gun at?”
Spider-Man shrugs, “What gun?” You barely have a second to blink before a thick white string is twhip-ing past you and jerking the gun out of the man’s hands.
“Smartass,” you mutter under your breath.
“I think you mean, ‘thank you, Spider-Man for saving my life,’” you shoot him a flat look and walk out of the bodega. Maybe it’s time to just accept that you’re not meant to be in the outside world. You’re better off cocooned in your bed.
There are no robbers there. No cheating boyfriends and conniving best friends.
About a minute later, you hear rapid footsteps approaching. “I don’t have a purse, phone, or wallet.”
“Wow, great mugger-deterrent. I totally don’t want to rob you now.”
You plant your feet in the snow and hear Spider-Man let out a sharp breath as he skids around you. “I thought you were the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. Not the quippy, neighborhood pervert who follows girls around at night.”
Spider-Man lets out a noise that can only be described as a guffaw. “I’m making sure you get home safely. Since clearly you don’t care. I mean, who walks around this late at night without mace at least?”
“Me,” you tell him flatly.
“Pretty girls shouldn’t be walking around here on their own.”
Your lips curl and you gag as you continue toward your apartment. “Okay, first of all, totally not helping with your creep angle.” He groans and you almost laugh at the defeated sound. “Also, I’m fresh off a break-up, so keep the compliments to yourself.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Spider-Man quickly jumps in front of you and you frown as he blocks your way. “Breakup,” his voice is pitched so high, you swear it almost sounds familiar. “You broke up with someone?”
“Uh… yeah.”
“R-really?” He tries to lean against a lamppost, slips, and then straightens awkwardly like he meant to do that. “Because you know sometimes people think that it’s just a break and not a breakup, you know? Big difference. Are you sure this isn’t just a break?”
He’s talking so rapidly you can barely understand him. It doesn’t help that he’s got that mask on, so you can’t try to catch the words on his lips to decipher them. You think you might have gotten half of that word-vomit.
“Well, I’m the one who did it. I feel like I should know.”
“Does he?” He holds up his hands, quick to correct himself. “Or she? Spider-Man doesn’t judge.”
“Oh, good to know, he’s a pervert, but at least he’s an ally.” You push past him. “Look, if he doesn’t know, then he’s a lot stupider than I gave him credit for.”
You hear a low, “Ouch,” behind you and figure you might be being a tad harsh about Peter. But what the hell would Spider-Man care?
“You know,” Spider-Man continues after you.
Jesus, he’s like a damn dog.
“I’ve always believed that everyone deserves a second chance.”
You glare over at him and swear you see the eyes of his mask turn down. You’ve never seen a mask emote before; it’s incredibly bizarre. “Do they deserve a second chance after sleeping with your best friend?”
Spider-Man shrugs, throwing his hands in the air. “Do you have evidence that it happened, though?”
“Dude,” you snap. “What do you care? And what other evidence would I need besides the fact that he wouldn’t tell me the truth? If there was nothing to hide, why would he continue to hide shit?”
You hear his inhale of breath and shake your head, holding your hands up. “No, you know what, no. Alright? I didn’t get my Turtlesaurus Rex and I am not going to listen to some weirdo in a unitard give me relationship advice.”
“Unitard?” He scoffs. “I’m not a weirdo.”
“Oh, yeah?” You call over your shoulder. “Then stop following me home!” It takes a few minutes to believe he’s actually gone and you can finally breathe again. What weird ass fever dream was your life turning into?
You sit on the ledge of your roof’s building, a blanket wrapped around your shoulders. You’re scrolling through all the texts Peter’s sent you in the last three hours. There are at least fifty of them. But it’s the one at the end that really catches your eye.
Is this really it? Are we done? Bug-
You stop reading at the nickname and put your phone down. Reluctantly, Spider-Man’s words from the other night pop into your head. Some people think it's a break, not a breakup.
How could Peter not have gotten the message by now?
“Fancy meeting you here.”
You let out a screech and jolt forward. Arms winding wildly as you try to regain your balance. The city tilts below you until something’s latched onto the back of your shirt and you’re suddenly being pulled into a firm chest.
“Why would you sit on the edge?” Again, his voice gets an impressively shrill pitch.
Shoving away from him, you whip around and slap his shoulder. “Why would you scare someone sitting on the edge?”
You can hear his sharp intake of breath before his argument fizzles out. “That’s what I thought Spider-Boy-”
“Man.”
“Whatever.” You walk back to the edge and rewrap yourself in your blanket. With a pointed glare over your shoulder, you hop right back on your perch. Spider-Man lets out a world-weary sigh before he jumps up beside you.
“You know,” he drawls. “Most people say thank you when a superhero saves you.”
“Oh,” you laugh. “Is that what you are, now? A superhero?”
“Dude. What is your problem?” His voice goes so flat, all humor sucked out of it, that, for some weird reason, it’s the first thing he’s said to get a real laugh out of you. He seems just as confused as you are if the way he tosses his hands up means anything.
“I cannot figure you out.”
You shake your head and brush a stray curl from your eyes. “It’s not you, Bugboy-”
“Rude.”
“It’s life,” you spread your palms out, gesturing to the sprawling city across from you. “Just broke up with the love of my life. Lost my bestie. The research project I’ve been trying to join for a year is falling apart at the seams. Oh, and I almost got shot yesterday.”
You point your face to the sky and let out a dramatic sigh. “God hates me.”
There’s a light nudge on your arm and you look over to see that Spider-Man’s moved closer to you. “God doesn’t hate you.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. Because I didn’t let you get shot. I’d say that’s pretty damn lucky.” You snort and from the mask, you think he’s… pleased? It’s really hard to tell.
“I guess that’s fair.”
Spider-Man lets out a satisfied hum as he turns to the city. “You gotta stop being so hard on yourself, bug.”
Your entire body goes still. Your eyes widen as they stare down at your lap, adrenaline rushing through your blood as you turn toward Spider-Man. “What’d you say?” You ask, voice so low you’re surprised he even registers it.
He shrugs, “I said to stop being so hard on yourself.”
“No, you called me something. What’d you call me?”
“Bug,” Spider-Man drawls and you swear you’re going crazy because that voice is painfully familiar. “You called me Bugboy, I thought it would be fair.”
It’s too hard to distinguish whether this swooping feeling in your stomach is relief or disappointment. And you hate yourself for not knowing which one you want it to be.
“Right,” you scoff and rub your eyes. “I’m going crazy, now.”
Spider-Man lets out a long sigh as he watches you. “You kind of seem like you’re having a mental breakdown. Maybe, I don’t know, get off the edge of the very tall building.”
“Oh, don’t tell me Bugboy’s got a crush.”
Your lips curl at his scoff. “You’re impossible.”
Feeling only slightly guilty for the hell you’ve given him, you slip off the edge and get your feet planted firmly on the ground. “Better?”
He surveys you suspiciously before nodding. You pick your phone up off the ledge and, for some reason, are compelled to open up the texts with Peter. You should have guessed how nosey Spider-Man was going to be about it.
“That the ex?”
You shoot him a flat look as he kicks his legs over the ledge. “Yeah. That’s the ex.”
“So, what are you going to tell him?” He motions toward the last text. “Break or breakup?” Your mind snags on how Peter called you bug and Spider-Man’s weird slip-up before you force yourself to dispel the thoughts.
“Breakup. I guess I should have made it more clear.” Your fingers hover over the keyboard before you shoot Spider-Man a look. His back has gone weirdly tense and you frown. “Hey, you’re a guy. How’s the nicest way to tell him it’s done.”
“Don’t.” His voice is clipped, almost angry. “He’ll get the hint. Trust me.”
Your brows furrow as you eye him warily. “Are you okay?”
“Gotta go. Superhero business, you know?” You shrug, but he doesn’t seem to care. He’s already leaping off the ledge, thwip-ing his way to the building across from yours.
“Weirdo,” you scoff.
You figured that after Spider-Man’s abrupt departure on the roof, that would be the end of it. But, no, it’s only gotten worse for you. He’s everywhere now. He’s somehow more consistent than your ex ever was.
Walking home from late research sections, look who wants to be a walking buddy.
Heading to the bodega for a midnight snack, somehow, Spider-Man had the same idea.
Your life is now a Sunday comic strip in the paper. It’s like there’s some sadistic artist out there exploiting your misery for humor. It’s not just him, either. It’s the month. In all your drama with Peter, you’d failed to keep up with the dates.
Now, freshly single for the first time in a couple of years, you sit alone preparing yourself for the next week. Valentine’s Day is Saturday, which means suffering through pink streamers all over campus and girls walking around with gift baskets lovingly curated by their boyfriends.
“I don’t like how often I find you on this ledge.”
You spare a glance over your shoulder and smile. “I don’t like that you still haven’t learned not to scare me.”
“Touche,” Spider-Man breathes out, taking quick strides toward you. “You seem tense. Feel like sharing? I’m a great listener.”
“Nothing big, just Valentine’s Day. I’ve had a boyfriend for so long I forgot how bitter and annoying it is for single people.”
“Tell me about it,” he sighs.
“Really? The Spider-Man is single?”
“I appreciate the surprise in your voice, no matter how forced it is.” You let out a wry chuckle and you swear you can hear a smile in his laugh.
“Probably a good thing, though. I can’t imagine any girlfriend would be happy with the amount of time you spend on this ledge with me.”
“No,” he agrees, “probably not.” The next noise he lets out is soft, tired in the kind of way that resonates with you. For the most part, your interactions are shallow. There’s banter, stupid quips, and then he’s off. You don’t usually hear something so real from him.
“Freshly single?” You ask. His head whips toward you and you shrug. “I recognize the misery of your sigh. It resonates within my withered heart.”
Spider-Man swats your shoulder lightly and you grin. “Yeah, it’s fresh. I still don’t think I’ve accepted it.”
You prop your chin in your hand and smile at him. “What level of not accepted are we talking here? Stalking? Or just crying over Instagram posts?”
Spider-Man goes quiet and you pull back. He recognizes the suspicion on your face and waves his hands. “No, no, no, this doesn’t count as stalking. Not really. I mean, it’s consensual?”
He sounds more unsure of himself at the end than you did. “Let's just not talk about that,” you offer. “I don’t think I want to know what your idea of consensual stalking is.” Spider-Man snorts and you shake your head.
A billboard across from you catches your eye. It’s Gwen’s favorite band, an announcement that they’ll be coming through soon. There’s a sharp ache in your chest when you remember you can’t just text her about stuff like that anymore.
“Gwen would love that,” you say, almost without thinking.
But what’s worse is when the man beside you doesn’t think either. “Oh, yeah, she would.”
Consensual
Stalking
Oh. My. God.
Your entire body stiffens as you turn to Spider-Man/maybe your ex-boyfriend. He doesn’t seem to realize his slip-up and that just makes you freeze up. You don’t know what to do. You can’t just blindly accuse him of being Peter. If you start hinting at secret identities, he might stop talking to you.
Loathe as you are to admit it, you’ve begun to enjoy his company. The main reason being he reminded you of how it was with Peter before you guys started dating.
Oh, Jesus, you’re gonna throw up off the ledge of your building. When the pavement below seems to swim up to you, it’s time to slip off the ledge. Slowly, fighting off the vertigo of your discovery, you drop back to safety.
Spider-Man watches you, head tilted in question. “Um, I have to go.” You search for an excuse, but none comes. “Yeah, I have to go.”
“Oh,” he seems taken aback, but doesn’t comment. “Alright. I’ll see you later?”
You let out a noise between a hum and a squeal as you rush back into your apartment building. Your mind is racing while you scramble through the door of your apartment. Like a detective, you flit through different memories, red string connecting each one as you start to line up Peter’s disappearances with Spider-Man's greatest hits.
Every missed date, every time he showed up late, it was all right there. But you never thought to connect it because… Well, why would you? Peter is Peter. He’s not a superhero. He definitely doesn’t have webs. Please, don’t let him have webs.
Scrambling for your phone, you dial the first number you can think of. It’s barely ringing before it’s getting picked up. “Gwen,” your voice is incredibly shaky as you try to calm yourself down. “I’m going to ask you something and if you don’t tell me the truth, we’re never talking again.”
Spider-Man/Peter Parker/ex-boyfriend-
No, no, too many titles. Peter has not been around in the past week. Not as his alter ego, and not at his lectures. Unfortunately, a lot of your schedule seems to intersect and the majority of your day is spent hiding in a hoodie and trying not to make eye contact.
But there hasn’t been any of that at all this week.
Maybe Gwen told him you know. He’s probably losing his mind right now.
But, no, she swore she wouldn’t and you know she’s not going to risk hurting your friendship again. Though you did profusely apologize for ever thinking that she could do that to you. And then she berated you about thinking she would ever be attracted to Peter.
Which… Ouch.
It’s Saturday, which used to mean days spent with him. Instead, it now means watching people get all mushy on Valentine’s Day. That used to be you, disgustingly in love, kissing way more than you should in public.
Now, you watch it all on the subway with that same old glare you used to have before Peter. You’re thinking about him a lot more than you want to. Especially given that he’s supposed to be an ex.
After your long speech on respect and boundaries and honesty, you should be completely over him. But it sort of makes sense now. Especially after Gwen told you what happened to her when she found out about him.
Peter wanted to protect you. You can understand that. But it doesn’t just erase all of the pain you felt while you were in the dark. You let out a low groan, ignoring the people around you as you walk home. You just keep going in circles over and over again.
The streets around you begin to thin out the closer to home you get. You’re still so deep in thought, you don’t notice the man dangling in front of you until your forehead is smacking into his.
“Ow,” you hiss, pressing your palm to the bruise that’s probably already forming. Backing up, Spider-Man, Peter, is dangling from the small overpass, upside down, as he waits for you.
“Dude,” you drawl. “How long have you just been hanging out here?”
He shrugs, “An hour, maybe.” Only in Queens would people pass by a dangling man in spandex and not question a thing.
One of his hands is tucked behind his back, and the other is holding onto his webbing. “Here,” he says. “I’ve got something for you.”
He untucks his free hand and passes you a bright pink, smothered in glitter, Valentine's Day card. You can hear his proud smile as he asks, “Be my Valentine?”
Narrowing your eyes at him, you shake your head with a low laugh. This is the dork you fell in love with. The boy you swore you would follow anywhere. It’s not his fault he’s such an idiot, not really.
Something soothes the ever permanent ache in your heart as you imagine the smile he’s probably got plastered on face. God, you bet he’s so proud of himself for this silly little Valentine.
A deep longing echoes through you and you reach up, going for the edge of his mask, when he reels back. “What’re you-”
“Relax, Parker,” you whisper. He goes completely still and you take hold of the mask.
“Did Gwen tell you?”
“You did, dumbass. You know, you’re really bad at the whole secret identity thing when it comes to consensually stalking your ex.” He lets out a low groan as you peel down his mask, just enough for his lips to be visible.
Pulling back, you take his face in your hands and smile. “Do you want me as your Valentine, or not?”
“What do you think, bug?” With a soft laugh, you lean forward and press your lips to his. It takes a second to get the angle right, what with his chin brushing your nose and all. But you don’t need perfect, you just need him.
Pulling back, he’s got a goofy grin on his face and you smirk. “Parker?” He hums as you fix his mask. “If you ever lie to me again, I’ll cut a hole in the crotch of your unitard. Or, worse second option, I’ll tell Jonah Jameson where you live. Got it?”
He goes still and you raise a brow. “You’re not joking?” You shake your head, expression flat. “Yeah, I got it, sweetheart.”
Smiling, you press a kiss to his cheek and step back. “Be home by six,” you tell him. “And bring some takeout.” You walk around him as he swings himself back up to the top of the overpass.
“I love you!” He calls after you.
“I know you do, Bugboy!”
𝘞𝘦 𝘈𝘭𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘉𝘳𝘰𝘬𝘦 𝘜𝘱 𝘈𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘓𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘕𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵
𝘚𝘢𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘢 𝘊𝘢𝘳𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳 ♥︎
⇄ ◁◁ I I ▷▷ ↻
⁰² ⁰⁸ ━━━━━━━━━●━ ⁰⁰ ²⁵
💿 We've been here before and we'll be here tomorrow 💿
a/n: this was meant to be angstier but, well, I started writing him in the Spider-Man “voice” and folded like a wet paper towel
