Never meant to be human

Greetings, fellow creatures! I'm Robin (they/them), 22 y.o. Welcome to my blog! All requests are OPEN. Side blog: @ihaveadesiretoshitpost

[robin-the-enby]

Rules and fandoms

My requests are currently open! Here are some rules and fadoms I’m in (I might add them over time) My (updated) masterlist

First of all, fandoms and characters I write for:

Movies/shows/games:

Slashers - The boy, Scream 1, House of wax, Texas chainsaw massacre, Terrifier, Heretic (Billy Loomis, Stu Macher, Brahms Heelshire, the Sinclair brothers, Nubbins Sawyer, Chop Top Sawyer, Bubba Sawyer, Art the clown, Mr. Reed, maybe others)

Hellboy (Abe Sapien, maybe others)

Silence of the lambs, Hannibal (Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham, maybe others)

Mad Max 2015 (Nux, maybe others)

Hobbit/Lord of the rings (Thorin, Legolas, Dwalin, Bofur, Elrond, maybe others)

The Addams family (Gomez, Morticia, maybe others)

Detroit become human (Connor, Hank Anderson, Ralph, maybe others)

M*A*S*H (Benjamin "Hawkeye" Pierce, maybe others)

Hazbin hotel (Alastor, maybe others)

Guardians of the galaxy (Yondu, maybe others)

Dispatch (Robert Robertson III, Waterboy, Sonar, maybe others)

Now the rules:

Please read if and which requests are or aren't open, thank you <3

If I am uncomfortble with writing a request, I won't write it

mlm, wlw and other queer oriented requests are welcome (including polyamory)

I won't, however, write only character x character, or requests including your OCs (but I would love to hear about them <3)

reader will be written as gender neutral, unless asked otherwise

I can do anything - matchups, headcanons, imagines, actual oneshots, please specify what you want in your ask

Finishing requests takes me a lot of time (depending on the type of ask though of course), life gets in the way more often than not and I am prone to writer's block

Toxicity and hateful comments and asks will not be tolerated (but any constructive feedback is welcome)

I won't write yandere, sorry. On that note, I will try to not romanticise dark themes, but I love morally grey characters, so let's see how it goes

I'm ace and sex repulsed, full on smut is off the table (themes around sexuality and alluring to future sexual activity are fine though)

My inbox is always open for chatting, whether it's about my works, your troubles, OCs or characters from different fandoms!

[fanficwritinggirl]

Due to Weather - Dr Jack Abbott x F!Reader}

Snowed in after a conference, you and Jack Abbott are forced to share a hotel room, where one bed, a power outage, and months of unspoken tension make “professional courtesy” harder to believe.

Jack Abbott looked like he would rather be intubating someone in a supply closet during a power outage than standing in the ballroom of the Philadelphia Grand Hotel wearing a name badge.

That was your first thought. Your second thought was that he looked unfairly good for a man who had spent the last twenty minutes silently judging an entire conference hall.

He stood beside one of the tall cocktail tables near the back of the room, one hand wrapped around a paper cup of coffee he had not actually drunk from, his conference lanyard hanging crooked against the front of his dark sweater. He had taken off his blazer sometime between the trauma systems panel and the keynote address on "Innovative Compassion in High-Pressure Emergency Environments," which was a title Jack had heard once and immediately decided was a personal attack.

The ballroom was too warm. Too bright. Too full of physicians pretending they had never once eaten a vending machine granola bar over a trash can at three in the morning.

There were banners everywhere. There were sponsored pens. There was a man from Boston wearing a bow tie and explaining airway management like he had personally invented oxygen.

Jack had been quiet for most of it. Not polite quiet. Jack quiet. The kind of quiet that made residents straighten their backs and consultants reconsider their tone. The kind of quiet that looked harmless from across the room right up until someone said something stupid near it.

You had watched three people attempt to make small talk with him already. The first had asked what hospital he was representing. Jack had said, "UPMC Mercy." The second had asked if Pittsburgh had "much trauma volume."

Jack had stared at him for one full second too long before saying, "Enough." The third had smiled too brightly and said, "I always think emergency medicine is really about resilience."

Jack had said, "It's mostly about staffing." You had nearly choked on your coffee. Now he was standing beside you at the back of the room, radiating the particular kind of irritation that came from being professionally trapped.

"You know," you said, keeping your voice low as the speaker at the front of the ballroom advanced to another slide full of stock photos and bullet points, "some people enjoy conferences."

Jack did not look at you. "Those people need hobbies." "You're a doctor. You're at an emergency medicine conference. This is technically one of your hobbies." "No," he said. "This is Robby losing a bet and somehow making it my problem."

You turned your head, smiling into your coffee. "He made you come?" "He strongly suggested." "That sounds like Robby." "He used the phrase 'good for department visibility.'"

"Oh, no." Jack finally glanced at you. There was nothing overtly warm in his expression, exactly. Jack did not really do overt. His face was all sharp restraint and tired intelligence, mouth set like he was holding back three separate complaints and a legal disclaimer.

But his eyes shifted when they landed on you. Only slightly. Enough that you felt it. Enough that you hated that you felt it. "You laughing at my suffering?" he asked. "Yes."

"Good to know." "I'm enjoying your commitment to misery." "I commit to things." "You do," you said, before you could stop yourself. It came out softer than you meant it to.

Not flirtatious, not exactly. But too honest for a ballroom full of laminated schedules and sponsored tote bags. Jack looked at you for half a second longer than necessary.

There it was again. That pause. That tiny, dangerous bit of space that kept opening between you lately. At work, you could usually avoid it. The ED was useful that way. There was always something screaming, bleeding, crashing, coding, ringing, paging, demanding. There was always a monitor alarm or a consult call or someone yelling for a blanket warmer key.

There was no room for pauses in the ED. There was no time to notice that Jack brought you coffee when he made some for himself. No time to wonder why he always seemed to appear when a patient's family member started getting aggressive near your workstation.

No time to think about the way his voice changed when he said your name instead of your title. No time to think about his hand at your back when he moved behind you in a crowded trauma bay, not touching exactly, but close enough that you felt the heat of it through your scrubs.

No time for any of that. Here, unfortunately, there was nothing but time. Time and bad coffee. Time and Jack standing too close beside you because the back of the ballroom was crowded and neither of you had moved away.

On stage, the speaker clicked to the next slide. COMPASSION FATIGUE: RECOGNIZING THE WARNING SIGNS. Jack made a sound low in his throat. You looked over. "Don't." "I didn't say anything."

"You made a noise." "A clinical noise." "A judgmental noise." "Same system." You pressed your lips together to keep from smiling too obviously. The woman seated in front of you turned halfway in her chair and gave you both a tight look.

Jack stared back with no change in expression whatsoever. The woman turned around again. "You're going to get us kicked out," you whispered. "From this?" "That would be a shame."

"Would it?" You tried to look stern. "We are representing the hospital." "We're standing in the back drinking burnt coffee while a man named Brent tells a room full of emergency physicians to try mindfulness."

"His name is Brett." "I don't care." You lost the fight with your smile then. Jack saw it. Of course he saw it. Jack noticed everything he had no business noticing. His gaze flicked to your mouth, barely there and gone so quickly you could have convinced yourself you imagined it.

Except you had stopped giving yourself that much credit. You had been imagining things with Jack Abbott for months. Or maybe you had not been imagining them at all. That was the problem.

The speaker's microphone crackled. Somewhere near the middle of the room, someone coughed. Outside the tall ballroom windows, snow pressed thickly against the glass, turning the city beyond it into a blur of white and grey.

It had started that morning as a pretty dusting. The kind of snow people from conference registration desks called seasonal atmosphere. By lunch, it had become an inconvenience.

By three, it was an advisory. Now, at almost five in the evening, it was beginning to look like a problem. You checked your phone under the edge of the cocktail table. Three weather alerts. Two emails from the airline. One text from Dana.

DANA: Heard Philly's getting buried. Tell Abbott not to pick a fight with cardiology. You snorted. Jack's eyes shifted down. "What?" "Nothing." "You laughed." "Dana says hi."

"She does not." "She said to tell you not to pick a fight with cardiology." Jack's expression did not change. "Cardiology started it." "You haven't even seen cardiology today."

"That you know of." You sent Dana a quick reply. YOU: Too late. He's fighting the concept of conferences as a whole. Dana responded almost immediately. DANA: Sounds right. Bring him back alive. Or don't. I'm flexible.

You tucked your phone away, still smiling. Jack watched you do it. "What did she say?" "Nothing." "You're a bad liar." "You're nosy." "I'm observant." "You're nosy with a medical degree."

"That's the profession." That pulled another laugh out of you, quiet but real. Jack's mouth moved like he was trying very hard not to let his own expression change. He failed, just slightly.

It was not a smile, not by normal standards. But for Jack Abbott, it was practically fireworks. You looked away first. You had to. The thing about Jack was that he made stillness feel loud. You could handle him in motion. In the ED, with his hands gloved and his voice clipped and his body angled toward disaster, he made sense. He was built for crisis. He was decisive, sharp, controlled. He moved through chaos like he had made some private agreement with it years ago.

But stillness made him harder to manage. Stillness let you notice the tired lines at the corners of his eyes. The scarred steadiness of him. The careful way he shifted his weight after standing too long. The fact that his left hand had settled near his hip, thumb brushing absently over the edge of his pocket.

Stillness let you remember that under all that competence was a person who got tired. A person who hurt. A person who, for reasons you were trying very hard not to interrogate, had started keeping track of whether you ate during twelve-hour shifts.

You looked down into your coffee. It had gone cold. "You okay?" Jack asked. It was so quiet you almost missed it under the speaker's voice. You glanced up. "What?" He was not looking at the stage anymore.

"You went quiet." "I'm listening." "No, you're not." "You don't know that." "What was the last slide?" You opened your mouth. Closed it. Jack raised his eyebrows. You sighed. "Fine. I wasn't listening."

"Good choice." "I'm okay," you said, because you understood then that the question had not really been about the presentation. Jack held your gaze. There were days when that look irritated you. The steady, unblinking attention of it. Like he could read your pulse without touching your wrist. Like he saw whatever you were trying to tuck out of view and simply decided whether or not he was going to let you get away with it.

Today, it did not irritate you. Today, it made something behind your ribs go a little unsteady. "Long day," you added. His expression softened by a degree. For anyone else, it would have been nothing.

For Jack, it was practically a hand offered. "Yeah," he said. You both looked back toward the stage. The speaker had moved on to a case study about physician burnout that somehow included a clip-art image of a candle.

Jack stared at it. "You've got to be kidding me," he muttered. You coughed into your cup to cover the laugh. The woman in front of you turned around again. This time, she looked only at Jack.

Jack looked back. You gently touched his sleeve. It was instinctive. Barely a touch. Your fingers against the dark fabric at his forearm for one second, maybe less. "Behave," you murmured.

Jack's eyes dropped to where your hand had been. You pulled it back too quickly. Too obviously. Heat climbed up your neck, which was ridiculous. You worked in emergency medicine. You had held pressure on arterial bleeds. You had told surgeons where to stand. You had been vomited on by strangers and once had to explain to a grown man that shampoo bottles did not belong there, no matter what the internet said.

You should have been able to touch Jack Abbott's sleeve without forgetting how breathing worked. Jack said nothing. That was almost worse. The room clapped suddenly, polite and scattered. The session was ending.

Chairs scraped. People stood. Voices swelled all at once, filling the ballroom with that post-lecture noise of professional relief. Lanyards swung. Tote bags rustled. Someone near the doors started talking loudly about dinner reservations.

You stepped back from the cocktail table, grateful for the movement. "Well," you said, "that was very informative." Jack looked at you. You managed to keep a straight face for two seconds.

"Okay, no. It was terrible." "Thank you." "But we survived." He glanced toward the windows. The snow was falling harder now, fast and thick under the streetlights outside. It moved sideways in violent gusts, smearing white across the glass. People were beginning to cluster near the lobby entrance, phones out, faces lit with the blue glow of cancellation alerts.

Jack's jaw tightened. "What?" you asked. "Storm's worse." You followed his gaze. "It was supposed to slow down." "It didn't." "You secretly a meteorologist too?" "No. I have eyes."

You rolled yours, but you checked your phone again. Another airline email. Your stomach dropped. FLIGHT CANCELLED: PHILADELPHIA TO PITTSBURGH. "Oh," you said. Jack looked over immediately. "Cancelled?"

"Yeah." He did not ask to see your phone. He just read your face. His mouth flattened. You refreshed the app pointlessly, because apparently denial had a user interface. "All flights tonight?" he asked.

"Looks like mine, at least." You tapped through the airline page. "The app says earliest rebook is tomorrow afternoon, but that's assuming the airport opens properly." Jack pulled his own phone out.

He did not look surprised by whatever he found. "Mine's cancelled too." "Great." "Roads?" You opened the weather alert. The words hazardous travel, whiteout conditions, and avoid unnecessary trips were not especially comforting.

"Also great," you said. Jack slid his phone back into his pocket. "We stay another night." You looked toward the lobby, where a line was already forming at the front desk.

"Everyone is going to try to stay another night." "Then we get there before the orthopedic surgeons." You laughed despite yourself. Jack started walking.

You followed him out of the ballroom and into the broad hotel corridor. The conference had spilled everywhere now — doctors and nurses and vendors in branded fleeces, everyone talking too loudly over everyone else. The lights overhead were warm and expensive. The carpet was patterned in a way that made you suspect someone had been paid too much money to make beige feel important.

At the far end of the hall, the lobby opened wide and bright, all marble floors and high ceilings and enormous windows looking out onto a city disappearing under snow. The front desk line was already fifteen people deep.

Jack stopped. You nearly bumped into him. He glanced over his shoulder. "You checked out this morning?" "Yeah. My room was only booked through today because my flight was supposed to be tonight."

"Conference block?" "Full. I tried earlier when the delays started." His face shifted. Not much. But you saw the calculation begin. "No," you said immediately. "I haven't said anything."

"You're about to." "You don't know that." "I know your face." That made him pause. Something flickered in his eyes. Amusement, maybe. Or something warmer pretending to be amusement.

"You know my face?" "I know your about-to-be-stubborn face." "That's just my face." "No, your regular face is more quietly judgmental." He gave you a dry look. You smiled sweetly.

The line at the front desk moved one person forward and somehow became more chaotic. A woman in a navy pantsuit was telling the receptionist that she was a keynote speaker and therefore needed a room. A man behind her was arguing with someone on speakerphone. Near the windows, two residents were sitting on their suitcases, looking exhausted.

Jack's attention moved over the lobby once, quick and assessing. Then he looked back at you. "You can take my room." You crossed your arms. "There it is." "It's a room." "It's your room."

"You need one." "So do you." "I can figure it out." You gave him a look. He gave you one back. The trouble with Jack was that he did not posture. He did not make generous offers with softness around the edges. He did not say things to be gallant. He simply looked at a problem, decided on the cleanest solution, and expected everyone else to fall into line.

Which was irritating. Because sometimes the cleanest solution involved him being quietly self-sacrificial in a way that made you want to shake him. "You are not sleeping in the lobby," you said.

"Neither are you." "Jack." His name came out sharper than you intended. He noticed. Of course he noticed. His expression eased by a fraction, but his voice stayed even. "I'm not arguing about this in a hotel lobby."

"Then stop being wrong in one." His eyes narrowed. Not angry. Almost amused. Almost. "You always this difficult?" he asked. "With you? Yes." "Lucky me." "You bring it out in me."

Jack held your gaze for one beat too long. The noise of the lobby seemed to pull back for a second. Around you, people were still moving. Suitcases rolled over marble. Phones rang. The automatic doors slid open and let in a blast of cold air sharp enough to make someone curse.

But Jack was looking at you, and you were looking back, and there was that pause again. That impossible little pause. The one neither of you ever knew what to do with. Then the front desk clerk called, "Next guest, please," and the spell cracked.

Jack stepped toward the desk. You caught his sleeve again. This time, you did not pull away immediately. "Don't give up your room," you said, quieter now. His gaze dropped to your hand.

Then back to your face. "Don't sleep in a lobby," he said. "That's not an answer." "It is if you listen." You let go of his sleeve. He moved to the desk before you could argue again.

You stood beside him, close enough that your shoulders nearly touched, and watched as he gave his name to the exhausted-looking receptionist. "Abbott," he said. "I have a room for tonight. Need to extend it."

The receptionist typed quickly, her face already apologetic in the way customer service workers got when the computer was about to ruin someone's day. "I'm so sorry, Doctor Abbott. We're completely sold out for tomorrow night at this point. The storm has stranded most of the conference guests."

Jack's expression did not change. "Existing reservation," he said. "Room 1117." "I understand, sir. But all rooms are currently booked. If housekeeping confirms no-shows or cancellations, we can add you to the waitlist."

You leaned in slightly. "What about my reservation? I checked out this morning, but with the flight cancellations—" The receptionist looked at you with genuine sympathy. "I'm sorry. We don't have anything available."

Jack looked at her. "Anything." "I'm afraid not." "A cot?" "No cots left." "Conference room?" "Sir—" "Not for me," he said, impatient now. "For her." Your stomach did something stupid.

The receptionist glanced between the two of you. A tiny, knowing sort of understanding moved across her face. You hated her a little. "I'm sorry," she said again. "We really don't have a safe accommodation option outside of existing rooms. The city has issued travel warnings, so we're advising all guests not to leave the property unless absolutely necessary."

Jack went still. You could almost see him biting back a response. You touched his arm again, this time with warning. "Jack." His jaw worked once. Then he looked at the receptionist. "Keep the room under my name."

"Of course." "And if anything else opens, call up." "Yes, Doctor Abbott." He gave a short nod and stepped away from the desk. You followed him toward the edge of the lobby, away from the worst of the noise.

"No," you said. Jack turned. "You don't know what I'm going to say." "You're going to say I should take your room and you'll do something ridiculous like sleep sitting upright by the vending machines."

"I wasn't going to specify vending machines." "Jack." "What?" "No." He exhaled through his nose. Outside, the wind threw snow hard against the windows. Somewhere overhead, the lights flickered once, just enough for half the lobby to pause and look up.

When they steadied again, Jack's face had changed. Not softened. Settled. Like something in him had made a decision and locked the door behind it. "You're not going anywhere tonight," he said.

"Neither are you." "No." "No?" "No," he repeated. "We're not doing the noble idiot routine." You blinked. "That was directed at you, right?" His mouth twitched. Barely. "Both of us."

"Oh, progress." "We share the room." The words landed between you with the subtlety of a dropped instrument tray. You stared at him. Jack, infuriatingly, looked completely calm.

"We what?" "We share the room," he said again, like saying it plainly made it less insane. Your voice lowered. "Jack." "It has a lock. Heat. Bathroom. Presumably fewer orthopedic surgeons."

"That is not the issue." "It's a room." "It's your room." "You already said that." "With one bed?" He paused. And there. There it was. Not much. Not enough that anyone else would have caught it.

But you did. The tiny hitch in his expression. The one beat where practical Jack Abbott, the man who could handle blood and death and impossible decisions without blinking, appeared to remember that you were not simply a stranded colleague but a woman he had been standing too close to for months.

His eyes shifted away first. That almost never happened. "I'll take the chair," he said. "You will not." "I've slept in worse places." "I know," you said, softer before you could stop it. "That doesn't mean you should."

He looked back at you. The argument died a little in his face. Not completely. Jack was not built for surrender. But enough. The lobby carried on around you. People complained. Phones buzzed. The storm kept pressing itself against the glass like it wanted in.

You could feel the heat in your cheeks now. Not embarrassment exactly. Something worse. Awareness. Sharp and immediate. One room. One bed. Jack Abbott standing in front of you, close enough that you could see the dark flecks in his eyes, telling you in that maddeningly practical voice that he was not going to let you be unsafe tonight.

He cleared his throat. "It's not ideal." You let out a small laugh, mostly because if you did not laugh, you might say something dangerous. "No. I'd say it's a little past ideal."

"We're adults." "Are we?" His eyes narrowed. You lifted both hands. "Sorry. Tension response." "Clearly." "We work together." "I noticed." "People will talk." "People always talk."

"You hate when people talk." "I hate when people are stupid. Overlap, not causation." Despite everything, you smiled. He looked at your mouth again. This time, you were sure of it.

The smile faded. Jack looked away, jaw tightening like he had caught himself doing something he had not given himself permission to do. "Room's there," he said, his voice lower now. Rougher around the edges. "You can have the bed. I'll figure out the rest."

You should have said no again. You should have insisted on the lobby or found another stranded doctor to double up with or called Dana and let her laugh you through a nervous breakdown.

Instead, you looked outside. At the snow. At the city disappearing. At the people sitting on suitcases under expensive chandeliers, trying to pretend they were not scared of being stuck.

Then you looked back at Jack. He was tired. You could see it now, in the way he held himself. The conference chairs had been bad for him; standing through the reception had been worse. The cold would not help. Neither would an argument that lasted another twenty minutes because both of you were too stubborn to admit the obvious.

You sighed. "Only if you don't sleep in the chair." His brows drew together. "That's not—" "No," you said. "We are not doing the noble idiot routine. You said it. It applies."

Jack stared at you. You stared back. "I'm serious," you said. "So am I." "You always are." "Someone has to be." "You're impossible." "You keep saying that like it changes anything."

You looked at him for a long second. Then, because apparently the storm had knocked all common sense out of the sky along with the snow, you said, "Fine." Jack blinked once.

"Fine?" "Fine. We share the room." His face was very still. Very controlled. Too controlled. "But," you added quickly, "we are establishing rules." "Rules." "Yes." "For sleeping."

"For survival." His mouth twitched again. That almost-smile. The one that should not have had the power to make your chest feel too small. "Fine," he said. "Rule one: no chair."

He looked annoyed. You pointed at him. "No." "I didn't say anything." "You were thinking loudly." "Occupational hazard." "Rule two," you said, trying very hard not to think about the fact that you had apparently agreed to share a hotel room with Jack Abbott. "No being weird."

Jack looked at you. "You think I'm going to be weird?" "I think we're both going to be weird." "That's probably accurate." "And rule three…" You stopped. Because you had no idea what rule three was.

Do not look at me like that. Do not stand too close. Do not make this feel safer than it should. Do not be kind in that quiet, gruff way that makes me want things I have no business wanting.

Jack waited. You swallowed. "Rule three," you said, "we pretend this is normal." His gaze held yours. For a moment, neither of you moved. Then Jack gave one short nod. "Professional courtesy," he said.

You laughed. You could not help it. It came out softer than before, edged with nerves. "Is that what this is?" His expression was unreadable. The storm threw another gust of snow against the windows.

"Sure," he said. But he did not sound convinced. And God help you, neither were you. The elevator ride to the eleventh floor was silent. Not peaceful silent. Not comfortable silent.

The kind of silence that had bones in it. You stood on one side of the elevator with your overnight bag tucked against your hip and your coat still buttoned to your throat. Jack stood on the other side, his conference tote hanging off one shoulder, his gaze fixed on the glowing numbers above the doors like they had personally offended him.

Four. Five. Six. The elevator hummed upward. You watched his reflection in the polished metal doors because looking at the actual man felt like a risky decision. He looked tired now.

More tired than he had in the ballroom. There was a set to his jaw you had learned to read over months of working beside him. Pain, probably. Or irritation. With Jack, the two had a habit of presenting similarly unless you knew where to look.

His weight was shifted slightly more onto one side. Not dramatically. Jack did not do dramatically when it came to his own body. He was careful in a way that pretended not to be care. Precise. Controlled. Almost invisible about it.

But you knew. You had no right to know, maybe. But you did. "You're doing it again," Jack said. You looked away so quickly you nearly gave yourself whiplash. "Doing what?"

"Watching me in reflective surfaces." Heat crept up your neck. "I was not." "You were." "It's an elevator. Everything is reflective." "Convenient." "You're very suspicious for a man who just invited me to share his hotel room."

He turned his head then. Slowly. "That was not an invitation." You raised your eyebrows. His mouth flattened. "It was a logistical decision." "Ah." His eyes narrowed. "Don't."

"I didn't say anything." "You made a noise." "A clinical noise." "That's my line." "I'm borrowing it." "You need better material." "You need better coffee." "I know." That, somehow, eased the air between you.

Not by much. But enough that you could breathe again. The elevator climbed past eight. A family got on at nine, two exhausted parents and a little boy in dinosaur pyjamas clutching a stuffed bear by one ear. The mother gave you both a brief, tired smile. The father looked like he had spent the last hour on hold with an airline. The little boy looked at Jack's conference lanyard, then at his face, and immediately decided Jack was the most interesting person in the elevator.

Jack stared forward. The little boy stared harder. You bit the inside of your cheek. Jack's eyes flicked sideways. "What?" "Nothing." "You're laughing again." "I'm not." "You are internally laughing."

"Can you diagnose that?" "Yes." The little boy tugged on his mother's coat and whispered, much too loudly, "Is he a spy?" His mother's eyes went wide. "Elliot." Jack did not move.

You looked at the ceiling. The father closed his eyes like he wanted to disappear. The little boy kept staring. Jack turned his head just slightly and looked down at him.

"No," he said. Elliot blinked. "Are you sure?" "Yes." "Because you look like one." Jack considered that. Then said, "I get that a lot." You made a small, strangled sound.

The little boy nodded seriously, apparently satisfied. The elevator stopped at eleven. Jack stepped forward as the doors opened. You followed him out, barely keeping your laugh contained until the doors slid shut behind you.

Then you lost it. Not loud. Not enough to carry far down the hotel corridor. But enough that you had to press a hand to your mouth. Jack glanced at you. "Don't start." "He thought you were a spy."

"I heard." "You told him you get that a lot." "He was under stress." "He was six." "Children are often under stress." You laughed again, softer this time. Jack's expression shifted.

You almost missed it because it was small and gone quickly, but there was something there. Something like satisfaction. Not smugness. Not exactly amusement. More like he liked making you laugh and did not know what to do with that information.

That made you stop laughing. The corridor was quieter than the lobby, muffled by thick carpet and expensive wallpaper. The air smelled faintly of linen, citrus cleaner, and overheated radiators. Somewhere far down the hall, an ice machine rattled. Beyond the windows at the end of the corridor, snow blew hard against the glass.

Jack started walking. You followed half a step behind. For some reason, that felt worse than walking beside him. Maybe because it made you look at things you usually avoided looking at. The slope of his shoulders under the dark fabric of his sweater. The careful steadiness of his gait. The conference tote knocking against his side. The back of his neck where his hair sat slightly mussed from the collar of his coat.

This was ridiculous. You were an adult. A medical professional. A person who could calmly handle a dislocated shoulder, a combative drunk, and a cardiologist with an ego the size of Allegheny County.

You could walk down a hotel corridor behind Jack Abbott without constructing an entire emotional crisis out of it. Probably. Room 1117 was near the end of the hall. Of course it was.

Because apparently the universe had decided to commit to the bit. Jack stopped outside the door and pulled his key card from his pocket. Then he paused. You stopped beside him.

"What?" you asked. He did not look at you. "Last chance." "Last chance for what?" "To decide the lobby's better." You stared at him. Jack kept his gaze on the door like it was suddenly fascinating.

The awkwardness of the situation had finally caught up with him, you realised. Not because he regretted offering. Jack was too stubborn and too protective for that. But because he was aware of you.

Painfully aware. The same way you were aware of him. You were both standing in a hotel hallway with snow trapping you inside and a single room waiting beyond the door, and the months of not saying things had followed you upstairs like another piece of luggage.

You shifted your bag on your shoulder. "Do you want me to say the lobby's better?" His jaw tightened. "No." The answer came too fast. Too honest. You looked at him. He still did not look back.

"No," you said quietly. "I don't either." That made him turn. Only a little. Enough. His eyes met yours, and for one breath, the corridor felt narrower. You had said nothing shocking. Nothing romantic. Nothing that should have made his expression change.

But it did. It softened in the smallest possible way. Then the ice machine rattled again, brutally loud, and both of you looked away like teenagers caught holding hands behind the gym.

Jack cleared his throat and tapped the key card to the lock. The light flashed green. He pushed the door open. "After you," he said. You looked at him. "Professional courtesy?"

His mouth twitched. "Don't push your luck." You stepped into the room. And stopped. Because the hotel room was not bad. That was the problem. If it had been cramped or ugly or strange, you could have laughed. If the carpet had been stained or the heating had sounded like aircraft failure, you could have turned the whole thing into a joke.

But the room was warm. Quiet. Low-lit. The curtains were partly open, showing a wall of storm-dark sky and snow-lashed glass. A small desk sat near the window with a conference programme folded beside the lamp. Jack's suitcase was open on the luggage rack, clothes folded with a level of military precision that should not have surprised you and still somehow did. His coat hung over the back of the desk chair. A pair of boots sat neatly near the wall.

And the bed. The bed was large, white, neatly made, and extremely singular. One bed. One. Not two small beds pushed together. Not a fold-out couch. Not even an ottoman that could plausibly become a desperate sleeping surface.

Just one king-sized bed sitting in the middle of the room like an accusation. You heard Jack come in behind you. The door clicked shut. Neither of you said anything. The silence immediately became unhinged.

You stared at the bed. Jack stared at the bed. The bed, smugly, remained a bed. Finally, you said, "Well." Jack dropped his key card on the desk with unnecessary precision. "Don't."

"I didn't say anything." "You were about to." "I was only going to say it's… roomy." He looked at you. You looked back. "It is," you said. "It's a bed." "Yes, Jack. That's the issue."

"It's a large bed." "Again. Not helping." He exhaled through his nose and turned away, moving toward the thermostat near the door. "Heat's on." "Good." "You can take the bathroom first."

"Fine." "And the bed." You turned. "We already discussed this." "We discussed the room." "We discussed the noble idiot routine." "I'm not being noble." "You are physically incapable of not being noble in the most aggravating way possible."

Jack shot you a look over his shoulder. "That is not a sentence that makes sense." "It does to me." "That's concerning." "You are not sleeping in the chair." He glanced at the chair.

You did too. It was a perfectly nice hotel desk chair, upholstered in grey fabric, with curved wooden arms and absolutely no business being considered a sleeping arrangement by any person over the age of twelve.

Jack looked back at you. "I've slept sitting up before." "Yes," you said, "and now you are older and more breakable." His eyebrows lifted. You froze. "Not breakable," you corrected quickly. "That came out wrong."

"Did it?" "Yes." His face was unreadable, but there was a dry edge to his voice. "Older, then?" You closed your eyes briefly. "I am making this worse." "You are." "I meant your leg."

"I gathered." You opened your eyes. Jack's expression had changed again, but not in the way you feared. He did not look angry. Not offended. Maybe a little guarded, but that was Jack's baseline around any mention of his body that did not come from a medical chart.

You softened your voice. "I meant you've been on your feet all day. Conference chairs are awful. It's freezing outside. You're not sleeping upright because of me." The guard shifted.

Just slightly. His eyes flicked over your face like he was trying to find the trick in what you had said. There wasn't one. That seemed to be what unsettled him. "I'm fine," he said.

You sighed. "Of course you are." "I am." "You know, when you say that, it has started to sound less like a status update and more like a legal defence." Jack turned fully toward you.

"You keep notes?" "Mentally." "On me?" The question was dry. The look was not. You should have had an answer ready. Something sharp. Something easy. Something that would put the conversation safely back where it belonged.

Instead, you said, "Sometimes." Jack went still. The room held its breath around you. The heater clicked on with a low rush of air, warm and dry, but you felt cold suddenly in the centre of your chest.

Sometimes. What a stupid thing to admit. Except it was true. You kept notes on him.

The way he preferred bitter coffee but drank bad hospital coffee without complaint if it was hot enough. The way he always stood between you and agitated family members without making a show of it. The way he hated fussing but tolerated directness. The way his patience with interns was better when no one was watching. The way grief seemed to live near him but not always in him, like a room he knew how to pass without opening the door every time.

The way he noticed when everyone else missed something. The way he noticed you. Jack looked away first. "I'll take the floor," he said. "Oh my God." "What?" "You are impossible."

"It's carpeted." "That is not an argument." "It's a fact." "You are not sleeping on hotel carpet." "I've slept on worse floors." "Stop saying that like it helps." "It's true."

"It's depressing." His mouth twitched faintly. "You wanted honesty." "I wanted common sense." "You're asking a lot." "Apparently." You set your bag down by the dresser and slipped your coat off, mostly to have something to do with your hands. The room was too warm now after the cold of the lobby. Your skin felt prickly. Your mind was moving too fast.

One bed. Jack. Snowstorm. Professional courtesy. Very funny, universe. Tremendous work. No notes. Jack moved to the window and pulled the curtain back a few inches. Snow slammed across the glass in thick gusts. The city beyond was nearly gone, reduced to blurred lights and white movement. The roads below were barely visible. Cars crawled through slush with hazard lights flashing. At the corner, a traffic signal swung hard in the wind.

"That's bad," you said. "Yeah." His voice had changed. Less irritated. More serious. You stepped closer, stopping beside him with enough space between you to pretend you were being normal.

Outside, Philadelphia looked suspended. The usual movement of the city had slowed to something strange and fragile. Sirens flashed somewhere far off, red and blue diffused through snow. You thought of everyone stuck out in it — EMS crews, police, hospital staff trying to make shift change, patients trying to get home.

Your stomach tightened. Jack glanced at you. "Don't." You looked at him. "What?" "You're thinking about the ED." "You don't know that." "You get that look." "What look?" "The one where you start trying to personally take responsibility for weather patterns and systemic infrastructure failures."

You stared at him. "That is very specific." "You're very specific." The words landed quietly. No joke wrapped around them. You looked back out at the snow before your face could betray you.

"I just hate knowing people are stuck out there." "I know." That was the thing with Jack. Sometimes he could be blunt enough to bruise. And sometimes he said two words like they carried a hand under your elbow.

You folded your arms loosely, not because you were cold but because you needed to hold yourself together. "The Pitt will be slammed," you said. "Probably." "Dana's going to be running on spite and vending machine pretzels."

"Dana can run a hospital on spite and vending machine pretzels." That made you smile. "True." "Robby'll keep it moving." "Also true." "They don't need us tonight." You looked at him then.

Jack kept his eyes on the window. It occurred to you that maybe he had said it for both of you. "They don't," you agreed. A gust of wind hit the glass hard enough to rattle it.

The lights flickered. Once. Twice. Then steadied. You both looked up. "Comforting," you said. Jack let the curtain fall back into place. "Hotel'll have a generator." "Probably."

He gave you a look. You smiled faintly. "Sorry. I'll stop being reassuring." "That was you trying?" "Barely." He crossed to the desk and picked up the room service menu. "You eaten?"

The shift was so abrupt it took you a second to catch up. "What?" "Food," he said. "Have you had any since lunch?" "Yes." Jack looked at you. You looked back. "Define food," he said.

"That feels hostile." "It was a simple question." "I had half a muffin during the afternoon break." His eyes closed briefly. "Don't make that face." "I'm not making a face."

"You're making the doctor face." "I am a doctor." "You're making the disappointed attending face." "With cause." "It had blueberries." "It was conference food. It had the concept of blueberries."

You laughed, despite yourself. Jack picked up the phone. "Room service." "You don't have to—" "I'm ordering food." "I can order my own food." "Good. Then you can tell me what you want."

You opened your mouth. Closed it. He waited. You crossed your arms. "You are very bossy." "Yes." "No denial?" "I'm tired." That caught you off guard. It was small, the admission. Almost nothing.

But Jack did not give away small things without meaning to. Your expression softened before you could stop it. "Yeah," you said. "Me too." His eyes met yours. For a second, the argument fell away.

The bed was still there. The storm still existed. The whole strange shape of the night still waited around you. But so did the exhaustion. So did the fact that you had both been awake since before dawn, sitting through panels and making careful conversation and pretending, always pretending, that the invisible line between you was not getting thinner every day.

Jack looked away first, but gently this time. "What do you want?" he asked, lifting the phone. You glanced at the menu. "Grilled cheese." He paused. "What?" "Grilled cheese."

"They have salmon." "I don't trust conference hotel salmon during a weather emergency." "Sensible." "And fries." "Of course." "And whatever dessert looks least disappointing."

Jack's mouth tilted slightly. "There's chocolate cake." "Done." He nodded once and lifted the receiver. You watched him order with the same brusque efficiency he used when calling consults, except instead of demanding neurosurgery he was asking a very overwhelmed kitchen employee for grilled cheese, fries, black coffee, tea, and chocolate cake.

It should not have been attractive. It absolutely was. You turned away and busied yourself with your bag. You had packed badly. Not disastrously, but with the optimism of someone who thought she would be back in Pittsburgh by midnight. You had a spare blouse, a phone charger, toiletries, and a soft sleep shirt you had only thrown in because your last flight delay had taught you humility. No actual pyjama bottoms. No extra jumper. No thick socks.

Wonderful. Jack hung up the phone. "Forty-five minutes," he said. "Not bad." "Kitchen sounds like a war zone." "Poor them." He glanced toward your bag. "You need anything?"

You looked up too quickly. "What?" "Toiletries. Shirt. Charger." "Oh." You swallowed. "No. I'm okay." He watched you for half a beat. "You packed for one night." "So did you."

"I have clothes." "Congratulations." "You're doing the defensive thing." "You're doing the observant thing." "Occupational hazard," he said again. You looked down at your open bag.

It was not a big deal. That was what you told yourself. It was just clothes. Just a hotel room. Just a storm. Just Jack. You were so tired of the word just. "I have a shirt," you said. "No bottoms. I'll survive."

Jack did not react obviously. Which somehow made it more obvious that he was reacting. His gaze moved to the dresser. "I have sweats." "No." "They're clean." "That was not my concern."

"They have a drawstring." "Also not my concern." "You'd rather sleep in conference pants?" You looked down at your trousers. They were perfectly professional and deeply uncomfortable after a twelve-hour day.

"I hate that you're making sense." "Happens." "Rarely." Jack opened his suitcase and pulled out a neatly folded pair of dark sweatpants. He held them out without looking directly at you.

The gesture was so practical. So simple. So completely dangerous. You took them. Your fingers brushed his. Barely. Nothing. A nothing touch. Except Jack's hand stilled for a fraction of a second, and your pulse jumped like an idiot.

"Thank you," you said. His voice was rougher when he answered. "Professional courtesy." You glanced up. He was looking at you now. There was humour there, buried under exhaustion and restraint. But there was something else too. Something careful. Something that knew exactly how thin this joke was becoming.

You held the sweatpants against your chest. "Right," you said. "Professional courtesy." The bathroom was small and aggressively hotel-like, all marble counter, bright mirror, and towels folded into shapes no one needed. You changed quickly, keeping your sleep shirt on and tying the borrowed sweatpants as tightly as they would go.

They were too big. Of course they were. They sat low on your hips and pooled slightly at your ankles. They smelled faintly of laundry detergent and something cleaner underneath. Jack's suitcase, maybe. His soap. The same faint scent you sometimes caught when he leaned over a chart beside you.

You stared at yourself in the mirror. "Oh, this is bad," you whispered. Not bad because you looked bad. Bad because you looked comfortable. Bad because the pants were his.

Bad because you could already imagine walking out and seeing him notice. You pressed both hands to your face. "Get a grip." A knock came at the bathroom door. You jumped.

"You alive?" Jack asked from the other side. You opened the door too quickly. "Do not say it like that." He was standing a few feet back, one hand braced on the desk chair, his shoes off now, his sweater sleeves pushed to his forearms.

He looked at you. Then very pointedly looked away. It was possibly the least subtle thing he had ever done. Your stomach flipped. "They're too big," you said, because apparently you had chosen death.

"They have a drawstring," he said. "I used it." "Then they're functional." "Is everything functional to you?" "No." The answer came too quietly. You looked at him. He was still not looking at you.

The air changed. That was the only way you knew how to think of it. Changed like weather. You stood barefoot on hotel carpet in Jack Abbott's borrowed sweatpants, and he stood across from you in his shirtsleeves, and the room felt suddenly too small for the amount of not saying happening inside it.

Then someone knocked on the door. Both of you startled. Actually startled. Jack recovered first, because of course he did. "Room service," he said, like that was not obvious.

"Right." He crossed to the door. You sat on the edge of the bed without thinking, then immediately stood again because sitting on the bed felt insane. Jack opened the door and accepted the tray from a harried-looking employee who looked one room away from quitting the hospitality industry entirely. Jack thanked him, tipped him too much, and shut the door with his hip.

The smell of hot fries filled the room. You nearly groaned. Jack set the tray on the desk. "You look like you're about to propose to the food." "Don't judge me." "I'm not. It's the most enthusiasm you've shown all day."

"That's not true." "No?" You stepped closer to the tray and lifted the metal cover from the plate. Golden fries. Grilled cheese cut diagonally. A small bowl of tomato soup you had not ordered but immediately respected.

You looked at Jack. His expression was neutral. Too neutral. "You ordered soup." "It came with it." "Did it?" "Yes." "Jack." "What?" "You ordered soup." "It's cold out." You smiled.

He looked annoyed, but not enough. "Professional courtesy?" you asked. He pulled out the desk chair and sat down a little carefully. "Eat your sandwich." You did. You sat on the edge of the bed because there was nowhere else to sit, balancing the plate on your knees while Jack took the chair at the desk. It should have been awkward, but food helped. Food made it normal, or something adjacent to normal.

The storm raged outside. The room smelled like fries and coffee and radiator heat. Jack ate like a man who had forgotten hunger existed until food was placed in front of him. You pretended not to notice. He pretended not to notice you noticing.

The silence between you grew less sharp. You dipped a corner of grilled cheese into the soup and looked over at him. "So," you said, "besides Robby and department visibility, why did you really come?"

Jack did not answer immediately. He leaned back in the chair, coffee in hand, eyes on the window. "For the conference?" "No, Jack. For the ambience." His mouth twitched. "I was asked."

"You always do what you're asked?" "No." "Exactly." He took a sip of coffee and grimaced. "Bad?" "Hotel bad." "You ordered it." "I was desperate." "You could have had tea."

"I'm not eighty." "That is hurtful to tea." "Tea will recover." You smiled, but you did not let him off. "Why did you come?" Jack looked down into his coffee. For a moment, you thought he was going to dodge again.

Then he said, "Robby thought I should get out of Pittsburgh for two days." That was not what you expected. Your face softened. "Why?" Jack's thumb moved along the side of the paper cup.

"Because he's annoying." "Jack." He exhaled. Not quite a sigh. "He thinks I've been working too much." "You have." His eyes lifted. You held his gaze. "What?" you said. "You have."

"You're one to talk." "I didn't say I was innocent." "No. You just keep mental notes on me and forget to eat." You looked down, smiling despite yourself. "That sounded almost affectionate."

"Don't get excited." "Too late." Jack's eyes stayed on you. The smile thinned a little on your face, not because you stopped feeling it, but because suddenly feeling anything seemed dangerous again.

He looked away. "Robby wanted someone senior here," he said. "I had the time. You were already going." There. Quiet. Almost buried. But there. Your fingers tightened around your fork.

"You came because I was going?" Jack did not move. "I didn't say that." "You kind of did." "I said it was a factor." "A factor." "Yes." "In the logistical decision." He glanced at you, and there was that dry look again. The one that made your chest ache because it was almost easier than softness.

"You're enjoying this." "A little." "Dangerous habit." "Noted." You ate another fry to give yourself something to do. But your mind had snagged on it. You were already going.

Not a confession. Not even close. But with Jack, half the time the truth came wrapped in enough caution to survive impact. You wondered how many other almost-truths he had offered you over the months that you had been too careful to pick up.

Outside, thunder cracked. Not thunder, maybe. Something heavy and distant. A transformer. Ice shifting. A city noise made strange by snow. The lights flickered again. This time, they went out.

The room dropped into darkness. For one second, everything disappeared. You heard yourself inhale sharply. Then the emergency lighting kicked in, faint and amber from the hallway through the crack under the door. The city glow outside the window blurred through the curtains. The heater went silent.

"Jack?" "I'm here." His voice came immediately. Close enough that your panic had no time to grow teeth. Then your phone screen lit up where it sat on the bed beside you, buzzing with an alert.

WINTER STORM WARNING. SHELTER IN PLACE. You stared at it. "Well," you said, trying for lightness and not quite getting there. "That feels dramatic." Jack stood. You heard the chair shift, then the careful sound of his movement in the dark.

"Stay there." "I wasn't planning on sprinting." "Good." He moved across the room with a confidence that made something inside you ache. Even in near-dark, even in a strange hotel room, Jack was calm. Measured. One hand found the desk. Then the lamp. Then the wall.

A second later, his phone flashlight clicked on, casting sharp white light across the room. You blinked. He aimed it toward the floor, not your face. "Power's out," he said.

"Really? I thought they were setting the mood." His eyes flicked up. Even in the thin flashlight glow, you saw the look. "Joke response," you said. "Ignore me." "I usually try."

"No, you don't." "No," he said after a beat. "I don't." You looked at him. The darkness softened everything except the places it sharpened. His face was half-lit, half-shadowed, the lines of him drawn in silver and black. His sweater was gone now, you realised belatedly, leaving him in a dark T-shirt that made him look less like the attending who could silence a trauma bay and more like a man trapped in a room with you and all the things neither of you said.

He crossed to the dresser and opened a drawer. "What are you doing?" "Looking for extra blankets." "In the dark?" "I have a light." "You also have a habit of ignoring your own limits."

He stopped. Not for long. Just enough that you knew he had heard the thing beneath the words. Then he pulled open the lower drawer and found a folded blanket sealed in a plastic bag.

"Found one," he said. "Of course you did." He brought it over and handed it to you. You accepted it, fingers brushing his again. This time, neither of you moved away as quickly.

The room was colder without the heater already. Or maybe that was your imagination. Maybe you were just suddenly aware of every inch of space between you. Jack's hand was warm.

Steady. Scarred along the knuckles. You let go first. Barely. "We should call the front desk," you said. "They're aware." "Because of the power outage?" "Because half the hotel just started calling them."

"You're probably right." "I usually am." "Incredible how you say things like that and expect people to like you." His mouth moved. "Some people manage." Your breath caught.

Jack seemed to realise what he had said at the exact moment you did. His expression locked down. But not fast enough. You saw it. The flash of something unguarded. The room felt very quiet.

Too quiet. Then his phone buzzed in his hand, cutting through the moment with brutal efficiency. He looked down. "Generator's delayed," he read. "Hotel says emergency lights remain active, heat may be intermittent, guests advised to stay in rooms."

"Great." "Could be worse." "How?" "We could be in the lobby with orthopedic surgeons." You laughed. You really could not help it. The laugh came out tired and a little shaky, but it was real.

Jack looked at you for a second with that almost-soft expression again. Then he glanced at the bed. You followed his gaze. One bed. One extra blanket. No heat. Professional courtesy, your traitorous brain supplied.

You pulled the blanket against your chest. "So," you said carefully, "this got more complicated." Jack's jaw shifted. "Yeah." "We can still be adults." "Probably." "Probably?"

"I'm accounting for variables." "Such as?" He looked at you. In the phone light, his eyes were darker than usual. "You," he said. Your pulse jumped. Jack looked away almost immediately, like he had not meant it to come out like that.

But it had. And now it was in the room with you. You. Not the storm. Not the bed. Not the lack of heat. You. You swallowed. "I'm a variable?" "A persistent one." You should have laughed.

You almost did. But his voice had gone too quiet. Too honest. So you only said, "That sounds inconvenient." Jack's gaze returned to yours. "It is." The snow hit the window hard.

Neither of you moved. Then, somewhere down the hall, someone shouted, "Power's out on ten too!" and another voice yelled back something about flashlights, and the moment snapped before either of you could decide what to do with it.

Jack exhaled, low and controlled. "You should finish eating before the food gets cold." You blinked. Then laughed softly, because of course. Of course that was where he went.

Food. Practicality. A safe surface after stepping too close to the edge. "Right," you said. "Professional courtesy." He looked at you for one long second. Then he said, very dryly, "Don't make me regret naming it."

You sat back down on the edge of the bed with your plate and the extra blanket over your lap. Jack returned to the chair, phone flashlight propped against the lamp base so it lit the room in a strange upward glow.

You ate in semi-darkness while the storm pressed against the windows and the hotel groaned softly around you. And for a while, neither of you talked about the bed. Neither of you talked about variables.

Neither of you talked about the fact that the room was getting colder. But Jack took the blanket from the foot of the bed and draped it around your shoulders without asking.

And you let him. When his hand brushed the back of your neck, neither of you said anything at all. By the time you finished eating, the fries had gone soft, the grilled cheese had gone lukewarm, and the room had become noticeably colder.

Not freezing. Not dramatic. Just cold enough that the tips of your toes had started to curl against the hotel carpet. Cold enough that you had pulled the borrowed sweatpants lower over your ankles and tucked the extra blanket tighter around your shoulders. Cold enough that Jack had noticed, because Jack noticed everything, and was pretending he had not noticed in a way that meant he absolutely had.

The emergency light from the hallway bled under the door in a thin amber line. Jack's phone was still propped against the lamp base, flashlight angled at the ceiling so the whole room sat in a pale, strange glow. Shadows gathered in the corners. The window was a black mirror now, occasionally flashing white when the wind threw snow hard against the glass.

The hotel was quieter than it had been. Or maybe it only felt that way because the power outage had changed the sound of everything. No humming heater. No elevator chime. No faint television from the room next door. Just wind, the distant murmur of stranded guests in the hallway, and the occasional muffled thunk of something outside giving in to the storm.

Jack stacked the empty plates back on the room service tray with the kind of precision that suggested he could not quite tolerate mess when there were too many other things he could not control.

You watched him from the edge of the bed. "You know they have people for that." He did not look up. "For what?" "Stacking plates like you're preparing them for sterile processing."

"That would be a terrible use of sterile processing." "You understood my point." "Unfortunately." He set the cutlery on the plate, folded the napkin once, then stopped when he caught you watching.

"What?" "Nothing." "You keep saying that." "You keep asking." "You keep looking at me like you have commentary." "I always have commentary." "That's true." You smiled faintly.

The silence that followed was softer than the ones before. Less sharp, anyway. The food had helped. The ridiculousness had helped. The fact that you were both too tired to maintain full emotional defences had helped in a deeply inconvenient way.

Jack took the tray to the narrow table near the door, then checked his phone. "No update?" you asked. "Generator crew's working on it." "That sounds fake." "It does." "Do you think they're lying?"

"I think they're busy." "That was generous." "I have moments." "You hide them well." He glanced at you, dry. You tucked your feet under the blanket and tried not to shiver.

Failed. Jack saw it. Of course he did. His gaze dropped to the blanket around you, then to your bare feet, then back to your face. "You cold?" "No." "You're a bad liar." "I'm fine."

"That one's mine." "I'm borrowing it." "You use it worse." "You use it constantly." "With more conviction." "With more denial." His expression shifted. Not a flinch exactly. Jack was too practised for that. But something in him went still around the edges, like your words had touched a place you had not meant to press.

You regretted it immediately. "Sorry," you said, softer. "That wasn't—" "It's fine." "Jack." He turned toward the suitcase instead of looking at you. "You need socks." "I don't."

"You do." "I'm not taking your socks." "Why?" "Because there are lines." "There's a line at socks?" "Yes." "But not at sweatpants." You looked down at yourself. The borrowed sweatpants were still much too big, bunched slightly at your waist where you had tied the drawstring tight enough to survive a storm. You hated that they were comfortable. You hated more that you had stopped noticing they were not yours.

"That was an emergency." "So is hypothermia." "I am not hypothermic." "You're shivering." "I'm dramatically chilly." "Clinical distinction?" "Emotional distinction." Jack opened his suitcase.

You sighed. "Jack." He pulled out a pair of thick dark socks and held them out. You stared at them. He stared back. The socks hung between you like the dumbest possible symbol of intimacy.

"You're very bossy," you said again. "You're very cold." "I could put my shoes back on." "You're not wearing shoes in bed." The sentence landed. Both of you heard it. Both of you froze.

In bed. Not the bed. Not that bed. In bed. The words sat in the dim room, far too casual and far too specific. Jack's jaw tightened. You took the socks mostly so neither of you had to keep looking at each other across the space between you.

"Thank you," you said. His fingers brushed yours as you took them. A small touch. Accidental. Still, your hand warmed like his skin had left a mark. Jack stepped back too quickly and turned toward the window.

You pulled the socks on under the blanket, trying to do it with dignity. It was impossible. The blanket slipped off one shoulder. The sweatpants rode up. You nearly kicked the nightstand with your heel.

Jack did not turn around. Which meant he was very deliberately not turning around. Somehow that made it worse. "There," you said when you were done. "Feet saved. Crisis averted."

"Good." His voice was rougher than before. You looked at the back of him. He stood near the window with one hand braced against the frame, shoulders slightly bowed. The phone light made a dark outline of him against the curtains. Without the hotel noise, without the conference, without the ED, he seemed more human in a way that made your chest ache.

Still Jack. But less armoured. You wondered if anyone else at The Pitt had ever seen him like this — barefoot in a hotel room, tired around the edges, quietly trying to make sure another person was warm without making it a scene.

Probably not. The thought did something strange to you. "Are you cold?" you asked. "No." "Bad liar." He did not look over. "I'm fine." "Worse liar." His mouth moved, barely visible in profile.

"Probably." That answer felt too honest. You watched him for another moment, then looked away before he could catch you looking again. The hotel groaned softly around you.

Somewhere down the hall, a child laughed. A woman shushed him. A door opened, then closed. The storm kept pressing at the windows, steady and relentless. You reached for your phone on the bed and checked the time.

8:47 p.m. It felt much later. You had been awake since four-thirty that morning, because the first flight out of Pittsburgh had seemed like a good idea when you booked it. It had not seemed like a good idea when your alarm went off in the dark. It had seemed actively hostile by the time Jack appeared at the airport gate with black coffee, a conference folder, and the expression of a man who had already decided the day was guilty until proven otherwise.

You had laughed at him then too. He had handed you the coffee without comment. You had not asked how he knew your order. That was the thing with Jack. He gave things in ways that made asking feel impossible.

He would notice. Adjust. Provide. Protect. Then act like anyone would have done the same. Anyone would not have. That was the problem. You scrolled through your notifications. Dana had texted again.

DANA: You alive? You smiled. Jack, still near the window, said, "Dana?" You looked up. "How did you know?" "She asks that when she wants reassurance but refuses to phrase it emotionally."

"That is… uncomfortably accurate." "What'd she say?" "You alive?" Jack huffed softly. It was almost a laugh. "See?" You typed back. YOU: Alive. Snowed in. Power out. Abbott still hasn't killed anyone.

Dana's reply came fast. DANA: Yet. DANA: Where are you staying? Your thumb hovered over the keyboard. Ah. There it was. The simple question with the deeply complicated answer.

You glanced at Jack. He had turned from the window and was watching you now. Not suspicious. Aware. Always aware. "Dana asked where I'm staying," you said. Jack's expression went carefully blank.

"What are you going to tell her?" You looked down at the phone. That was an excellent question. The truth was simple. You were in his room because the hotel was full and the city was shut down and neither of you had any better options.

The truth was also impossible. Because Dana would understand the logistics. Dana understood emergencies. Dana understood bad weather and full hotels and professional adults making practical decisions.

Dana would also absolutely hear the silence between the words. Dana had eyes. Worse, she had instincts. Even worse, she liked you. You typed. YOU: Hotel. It's chaos here. Everyone stranded.

Not a lie. A strategic omission. Jack watched you send it. "She'll know," he said. "Probably." "You omitted relevant details." "I learned from doctors." "That's charting, not lying."

"Overlap, not causation." His eyes narrowed slightly, but there was something warm under it. "You're getting too much use out of my lines." "You should write better ones."

"I'll workshop it." Dana's next text buzzed through. DANA: You dodged that question so hard I felt the wind from Pittsburgh. You pressed your lips together. Jack saw your face.

"What?" "She knows." "I said that." You set the phone face down on the bed. "I'm ignoring her." "Sensible." "I can practically hear her eyebrows." "Dana has loud eyebrows."

"She really does." You both smiled. The room went quiet again. This silence was different. It was domestic in the strangest, most dangerous way. You were sitting on his bed in his sweatpants and socks, ignoring a text from Dana while Jack stood by the window in his T-shirt, and for one awful second you could imagine this without the storm. Without the conference. Without the emergency explanation.

A room. Food containers. Shared warmth. Jack looking at you like you were something he had learned the shape of without meaning to. The thought was so clear it startled you.

You stood abruptly. "I should brush my teeth." Jack blinked. Then gave one short nod. "Okay." "Then we should probably…" You gestured vaguely toward the bed, immediately regretted it, and turned the gesture into pointing at your bag. "Sleep. Eventually. Because we're exhausted. And adults. Professional adults."

His mouth twitched. "Professional adults brush their teeth?" "They do." "Good to know." You grabbed your toiletries and escaped into the bathroom. The mirror was bright only because of your phone flashlight propped against the soap dish. Without the overhead lights, your reflection looked softer and stranger. Tired eyes. Messy hair. Jack's sweatpants. Jack's socks.

You brushed your teeth with too much focus. Then you stood there for a moment with your hands braced on the sink. This was fine. Fine was a word doing heroic work tonight.

You had shared tighter spaces with coworkers before. Ambulance bays. Trauma rooms. Supply closets during disaster drills. Once, a hospital break room with six people, one working microwave, and a smell you all silently agreed not to identify.

This was not different because of square footage. It was different because of Jack. Because every quiet thing he did felt louder in the dark. Because he had remembered food. Socks. Blankets. The fact that you got anxious when you thought too long about the ED functioning without you.

Because he had said, You were already going. Because he had called you a variable. Because when the power went out, your first instinct had been to say his name, and his first instinct had been to answer before you could be scared.

You rinsed your mouth, dried your face, and stared at your reflection. "Normal," you whispered. "We are being normal." When you opened the bathroom door, Jack was sitting on the edge of the bed.

Not in it. On it. His prosthetic was off. You stopped before you could stop yourself. It was not the first time you had seen him without it. Not exactly. The ED had a way of stealing privacy from everyone eventually, and Jack was not secretive in the way people assumed. He was matter-of-fact about the reality of his body when he had to be.

But this was different. This was not clinical. This was not a glance through a curtain gap or a practical adjustment after a brutal shift. This was Jack in the low light of a hotel room, one leg extended slightly, his liner set aside with careful precision, his hand resting near his thigh. His posture was composed, but there was something in the stillness of him that made you understand, immediately and painfully, that he had not expected you to come out just then.

His head lifted. His expression closed. Fast. Too fast. "Sorry," you said softly. You did not know what you were apologising for. Walking out. Seeing. Making him feel seen. All of it.

Jack looked away first. "It's fine." There it was again. The legal defence. You stayed where you were by the bathroom door, toiletries in hand. For once, you did not tease him.

You did not say he was a bad liar. You did not try to make the room easier by making a joke. Instead, you said, "I can give you a minute." His jaw shifted. He looked at you then, and there was something in his eyes you could not read.

Not embarrassment, exactly. Not shame, though something close enough to make your chest hurt. Wariness, maybe. A man used to people either looking too long or looking away too fast.

You did neither. At least, you tried not to. "You don't have to," he said. His voice was low. Rough. You nodded once and crossed to your bag, setting your toiletries inside with deliberate calm. Not ignoring him. Not staring. Just letting the moment exist without making it bigger.

Jack watched you for a second. You could feel it. Then he reached for the compression sleeve beside him and adjusted it with efficient, practised movements. You turned toward the window and gave him privacy without leaving.

The snow was still falling hard. The glass had frosted slightly at the corners, feathered white around the dark. The city lights outside looked blurred and far away. Behind you, fabric shifted. Jack moved carefully. The bed creaked once.

"You can turn around," he said. You did. He had pulled the blanket over his lap, sitting upright now, back against the headboard. The bedside lamp was useless without power, but his phone flashlight on the nightstand lit the lower half of the room. His face was half in shadow.

"You okay?" you asked. Then immediately wanted to kick yourself. Jack's eyebrows lifted. "I mean—" You stopped, exhaled. "Sorry. Stupid question." "Not stupid." "You hate that question."

"I hate most questions." "True." His mouth twitched faintly. The tension eased by a millimetre. You sat carefully on the opposite side of the bed, leaving as much space as possible between you. The mattress dipped under your weight, and both of you noticed.

How could you not? One bed. One room. No power. The space between you suddenly felt measured in inches and bad decisions. Jack reached for his own toiletries. "Bathroom's yours?"

"I'm done." He nodded and shifted to stand. You looked away before he could need you to. It was instinct. Respect. Maybe both. But before he moved, he paused. "You don't have to do that."

You looked back. "What?" "Look away like I'll break." The words were quiet. Flat, almost. But something under them hurt. You swallowed. "I'm not looking away because I think you'll break."

Jack held your gaze. "Then why?" You thought about lying. You were both good at it, in your own ways. Little lies. Necessary ones. The kind that kept rooms functioning. I'm fine.

It doesn't hurt. I don't care. This is professional courtesy. But the storm had narrowed the world to this room, and the lights were out, and Jack had given you socks like it meant nothing when it meant everything, and you were so tired of talking around the truth.

"Because I don't want to make something private feel less private," you said. He went still. You could hear the wind dragging snow across the window. Then Jack looked down.

For a long moment, he said nothing. When he spoke, his voice was quieter. "That's considerate." You tried to smile. "Don't sound so surprised." "I'm not." "You are a little."

"I'm used to people being curious." That landed hard. You kept your voice gentle. "I'm curious about you, Jack. Not about that." His eyes lifted. Oh. The room seemed to stop.

You realised what you had said a second too late. Not about that. About you. There was no good way to pull it back. No joke quick enough. No professional framing strong enough to cover it.

Jack looked at you like you had put a hand directly over a bruise. You opened your mouth. Nothing came out. Then he looked away, and the moment passed. Or he let it pass. You were not sure which.

"I'll be quick," he said. He stood, carefully, and you kept your gaze on your hands this time. Not because he had asked, not because you thought he needed saving from being seen, but because the room already had too much honesty in it and you were not sure either of you could survive another piece.

The bathroom door closed. You exhaled slowly. Your phone buzzed against the blanket. Dana again. You turned it over. DANA: You are absolutely not telling me something. DANA: Fine. Don't die. DANA: Also Abbott better not be pretending he doesn't need sleep. He does.

You smiled despite yourself. Dana was the human equivalent of a locked medication cabinet and a warning label. She saw more than people wanted her to see, kept what mattered safe, and made sure you knew when you were being stupid.

You typed back. YOU: He is being managed. You stared at it. Then deleted it. Absolutely not. You tried again. YOU: We're both going to sleep soon. Power's still out. Dana replied.

DANA: Both? You closed your eyes. Of course. Of course she caught that. Before you could decide how to answer, the bathroom door opened. You dropped your phone face down like a teenager hiding contraband.

Jack paused in the doorway. "That subtle?" "Shut up." "Dana?" "No." "Liar." "Fine. Yes." "What did she say?" "Nothing." He gave you a look. You sighed. "She noticed I said both."

Jack's expression did something complicated. "Ah." "Exactly." He moved back to his side of the bed with his toothbrush and toothpaste in hand, then set them on the nightstand. The room was colder now, enough that goosebumps had lifted along your arms where the blanket had slipped.

Jack noticed. He pulled the top blanket down on his side. The bed suddenly became a real object again. Not a prop. Not a joke. A place where both of you were expected to sleep.

You stood. Too quickly. "I can sleep on top of the covers." "No." "Jack." "It's cold." "I know." "So don't be stupid." You looked at him. "Did you just call me stupid?" "I told you not to be."

"Fine distinction." "Important one." You crossed your arms. He leaned back against the headboard and looked up at you with tired, unamused patience. "We are not doing this for another hour," he said.

"Doing what?" "Pretending either of us is sleeping anywhere but the bed." The bluntness of it sent heat straight up your neck. Jack noticed that too. His gaze flicked away, but his mouth tightened like he regretted nothing.

"You could phrase things less aggressively," you muttered. "I could." "You won't." "No." You stared at him. He stared back. Then, because exhaustion was apparently making you brave, or reckless, or possibly both, you said, "Fine. But the pillow stays in the middle."

Jack looked at the row of pillows stacked against the headboard. "One pillow?" "One pillow." "As a border?" "As a diplomatic boundary." "That's not what pillows are for."

"It is tonight." He considered this. Then reached for one of the pillows and placed it lengthwise down the centre of the bed with dead-serious precision. You watched him.

The absurdity hit first. Then the tenderness. Jack Abbott, attending physician, military veteran, professional misery enthusiast, was sitting in a powerless hotel room during a snowstorm creating a pillow wall because you had asked him to.

Your chest did that stupid, aching thing again. "There," he said. "You made it very official." "It's a terrible wall." "It's symbolic." "It's structurally unsound." "Most emotional boundaries are."

He looked at you. You looked back. For a moment, neither of you smiled. Then Jack's mouth twitched. You laughed quietly and climbed under the covers before you could think about it too much.

The sheets were cold at first, crisp against your legs. You slid carefully onto your side, keeping the pillow between you. Jack stayed sitting up for another moment, phone in hand, probably checking alerts. Or pretending to. You suspected he was giving you time to settle before he moved.

The thought made you ache in a way you did not know how to name. Finally, he set his phone on the nightstand with the flashlight still aimed upward and lowered himself under the blankets.

The mattress shifted. The world narrowed. You were lying in bed with Jack Abbott. There was a pillow between you. There were several inches of careful space. There were covers pulled up to your shoulders, socks on your feet, snow at the window, and a storm blocking every exit the two of you had spent months pretending you needed.

"This is normal," you said into the darkness. Jack turned his head slightly. "Is it?" "No." "Then why say it?" "Manifestation." "That doesn't work." "Evidence?" "This." A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

Jack's eyes were on the ceiling, but his expression had softened. The flashlight glow caught the line of his jaw, the tired slope of his mouth, the lashes casting faint shadows beneath his eyes. He looked exhausted now. Not just annoyed. Not just inconvenienced. Truly worn down.

Something in you quieted. "You should sleep," you said. "So should you." "I will." "Good." "You too." "That was implied." "Was it?" "Yes." You smiled into the dim. For a while, neither of you spoke.

The hotel settled around you. The storm battered the window. Somewhere distant, a door opened and closed. Your phone buzzed once more, but you ignored it. The cold made the bed feel smaller than it was. Or maybe awareness did that. You could feel the heat of him on the other side of the pillow. Not touching. Not even close enough, really.

Still, you knew exactly where he was. Every breath. Every subtle shift. Every careful movement made by a man trying not to make this harder for either of you. "You asleep?" Jack asked eventually.

"No." "Why?" "Because you asked me if I was asleep." He huffed softly. You smiled. A long pause. Then he said, "Your flight tomorrow. What time?" "Rebooked for two-thirty. Assuming the airport doesn't stay closed."

"Mine's three." "Good." "Good?" You stared at the pillow boundary between you, barely visible in the dark. "Means I'm not leaving you stranded here alone with all the orthopedic surgeons."

"You'd make that sacrifice?" "I'm heroic." "You forgot to eat today." "I contain multitudes." "Mostly bad decisions." "That's rich coming from you." He was quiet for a beat.

Then said, "Fair." The honesty of that made your smile fade. You turned onto your back carefully. "Can I ask you something?" Jack did not answer right away. His gaze stayed on the ceiling.

"That depends." "On what?" "Whether you're about to ask something I don't want to answer." "I don't know if you'll want to answer it." "Then probably no." "Jack." He sighed.

"Ask." You hesitated. The question had been sitting in you since dinner, since you were already going, maybe even before that. Since the airport coffee. Since the way he always turned up near you without making a thing of it.

"Why do you do that?" His head turned slightly. "Do what?" "Take care of people and pretend you're not." His face went unreadable. You rushed on before you could lose courage.

"The coffee. The food. The socks. The room. At work too. You act like it's all logistics, but it isn't always." Jack looked back at the ceiling. The silence stretched. You almost apologised.

Then he said, "It's easier if people don't make it a thing." Your chest softened. "Why?" His jaw moved once. "Because then they expect you to talk about it." The answer was so Jack that it almost hurt.

You turned your face toward him. In the low glow, he looked carved out of restraint. "You don't always have to talk about it." His eyes shifted to yours. "No?" "No." "What do I have to do?"

The question was quiet. Too quiet. You were not sure he meant it the way it sounded. You answered anyway. "Let someone notice." Jack did not move. Something passed over his face — guarded, tired, almost unbearably vulnerable before he buried it.

"I let people notice plenty." "Charting irregularities don't count." His mouth twitched, but it faded quickly. "People notice what they want," he said. "That's not true."

"It's often true." You studied him across the ridiculous pillow. "Then let me notice." The words came out before you could stop them. Soft. Plain. Terrifying. Jack looked at you.

Fully now. The room seemed to contract around his silence. You felt your heartbeat in your throat. Outside, the storm kept going. Snow against glass. Wind at the windows. The city hidden. The hotel powerless. Everything ordinary stripped away until there was only this: you and Jack, inches apart, pretending a pillow could hold back months of almosts.

Jack's voice, when it came, was rough. "You already do." You could not breathe for a second. He looked away first. But the damage was done. The truth was there between you, small and live and glowing.

You did not know what to do with it. So you did nothing. Maybe that was the only thing either of you could manage. You lay there in the dark, his words moving through you like warmth.

You already do. For a while, neither of you spoke again. Eventually, exhaustion began to pull at you. The edges of the room blurred. The storm became a dull, steady rush. Your body, traitorous and tired, stopped caring about awkwardness and started caring only about heat.

The bed was cold where you were not touching anything. Your feet were warm in Jack's socks, but your shoulders were not. You curled slightly on your side, facing the pillow wall, tugging the blanket higher.

Jack shifted on the other side. "You cold?" "No." He made a low sound. You did not even open your eyes. "I know. Bad liar." "Terrible." "I'm fine." "Mine." "I know." The mattress dipped as he adjusted, and the blanket shifted over you, tucked more securely near your shoulder. Not intrusive. Not too much.

Just enough. His hand brushed your upper arm through the fabric. You opened your eyes. Jack's hand withdrew immediately. "Sorry." "It's okay." "I was just—" "I know." His face was close now.

Closer than before because you had both shifted toward the middle without noticing. The pillow was still between you, crushed slightly under the weight of your shoulders.

The flashlight had dimmed as his phone battery dropped, turning the room softer. Jack's eyes were dark in the low light. You should have moved back. You did not. Neither did he.

"You should sleep," he said again. His voice had changed. Low. Careful. Like he was speaking near a wound. "So should you." "I'm trying." "Are you?" "No." The honesty made something in your chest go still.

Jack closed his eyes briefly, like he regretted it. You watched him. Then, because you were too tired to be wise, you whispered, "Me neither." He opened his eyes. There it was again.

The pause. The dangerous pause. His gaze moved over your face, not quickly this time. Not hidden. He looked at you like he was memorising the cost of wanting something. Your fingers rested near the pillow between you.

His hand lay on the blanket on the other side. Not touching. Almost. Almost had become a language between you. Jack swallowed. "We shouldn't," he said. You had not asked what.

You both knew. "No," you whispered. But you did not move. The room held very still. Then the hallway erupted with noise. A door slammed somewhere. Someone laughed too loudly. A man cursed about the emergency lights. The spell shattered so abruptly you almost flinched.

Jack looked away. You let out a breath you had not realised you were holding. The pillow wall suddenly looked absurd again. Useful, maybe. Merciful. You turned onto your back, staring at the dark ceiling.

"Orthopedic surgeons," you murmured. Jack was quiet for half a second. Then he huffed a laugh. A real one. Small. Exhausted. But real. It loosened something in the room. You smiled.

The two of you lay there in the dark while the hotel settled again and the storm carried on, pretending nothing had almost happened. Eventually, your eyes grew heavy. Your body warmed under the blankets. The borrowed socks were soft against your feet. The bed no longer felt quite as cold. Jack's breathing evened out beside you, slow and controlled, though not quite sleep.

You drifted in and out. At some point, the pillow between you shifted. You were too tired to know who moved first. Maybe you curled toward the warmth. Maybe Jack turned in his sleep.

Maybe the bed dipped and the pillow slid down between your knees and neither of you woke enough to correct it. The room had grown colder. The blankets had tangled. The storm was loud.

You came halfway awake to the feeling of warmth against your forehead. A steady body near yours. An arm, heavy but careful, resting around your waist. For one hazy second, your mind did not understand.

Then you felt Jack's breath against your hair. You should have startled. You should have pulled away. Instead, half-asleep and freezing, you made a small sound and shifted closer.

The arm around you tightened. Not much. Just enough. Jack murmured something you could not make out. His hand settled flat against your back, warm through the borrowed shirt. His body curved around yours with a kind of unconscious care that made no room for embarrassment because neither of you was awake enough to choose it.

The pillow boundary was gone. The diplomatic border had failed. You tucked your face against his chest. He was warm. So warm. The storm battered the window, but under the blankets, in the dark, the world narrowed to the steady rise and fall of him.

Jack's chin brushed your hair. His hand rested between your shoulder blades. You fell asleep like that. Not deciding. Not confessing. Not crossing any line either of you could name while conscious.

Just cold and exhausted and drawn, somehow, to the safest heat in the room. Outside, snow buried the city. Inside, Jack held you like he had been doing it for years. Jack woke before the power came back on.

For a few seconds, he did not move. That was habit. Old habit. Useful habit. The kind of stillness that came before assessment. Before pain caught up. Before memory sorted itself into place. Before the body told the truth the mind had not agreed to yet.

Dark room. Hotel. Storm. Philadelphia. Conference. You. That last one arrived slower. Not because he had forgotten. Because his mind seemed determined to give him one merciful second before handing over the evidence.

Warmth against his chest. Soft breath through the fabric of his T-shirt. A hand curled loosely near his ribs. Your knee tucked between his. His arm around you. Jack stared at the ceiling.

The phone flashlight had died sometime during the night. The only light came from the window now, weak and blue-grey through the curtains, the city beyond still blurred by snow. The power was still out, or the room would have been humming. Instead, the silence was deep and cold around the edges, broken only by wind and the steady sound of your breathing.

You were asleep. Against him. Not beside him. Not near him. Against him. Your cheek rested over his heart like you had chosen the exact place designed to ruin him. Jack did not move.

He should have. That was the first reasonable thought. The second reasonable thought was that if he moved, you would wake up embarrassed, and then he would have to watch you apologise for something that had been as much his fault as yours.

The third reasonable thought was that he had no idea how the hell the pillow had ended up near the bottom of the bed. He looked down slowly. The diplomatic boundary, as you had called it, had collapsed sometime in the night. One end of the pillow was wedged between the blankets near his shin, completely useless. The other had vanished under the duvet.

Structurally unsound, he thought. And then, despite himself, almost smiled. Almost. His hand was spread against your back. He became aware of that next. Not gripping. Not possessive. Just there. Warm through the cotton of your sleep shirt. His thumb had found the small space beneath your shoulder blade and rested there like it belonged.

It did not belong there. That was the problem. Or one of them. Jack should have moved his hand. Instead, he let himself feel the weight of it for one more second. One more second, he told himself, was not a crime.

You shifted in your sleep. Jack went completely still. Your fingers tightened faintly against his shirt, and your face turned a little closer into his chest. A small sound left you, half breath and half protest against the cold room.

His arm responded before he could stop it. It tightened by a fraction. Your body settled. Jack closed his eyes. Idiot. The word had no force behind it. He had been called worse by better men and disagreed less.

Because this was stupid. Not the storm. Not the hotel room. Not even the bed, in itself. Those had been logistics. Bad logistics, but logistics. This was something else. This was waking up with you tucked against him and feeling, for one unguarded awful moment, not alarmed but relieved.

Relieved. Like some part of him had been waiting for the world to arrange itself like this. Like he had slept better with your breath against his shirt than he had any right to.

That was the dangerous thing. Not desire. Desire was simple enough to recognise and avoid. Jack had been avoiding wanting you for months with the grim discipline of a man disarming a device he refused to admit was live.

But this— This quiet. This ease. This body-deep reluctance to leave. That was what frightened him. Your breathing changed. He heard it before you moved. A slight catch. A deeper inhale. The soft, muddled shift of someone beginning to surface.

Jack opened his eyes. He still did not move. There was no good version of this. If he pulled away now, you would wake to rejection. If he stayed, you would wake to everything.

You stirred again. Your hand slid a little against his shirt. Then stopped. Your body went still. Jack held his breath. He felt the exact moment you woke properly. Your fingers curled.

Your cheek lifted a fraction. For a second, neither of you did anything. Then your eyes opened against the dim grey of his chest. You blinked. Once. Twice. Jack watched your face change.

Sleep-soft confusion. Recognition. Horror. Not horror of him, he thought. Not that. Horror of the situation. Of your hand on him. Of your leg tangled with his. Of his arm around you like he had made some claim in his sleep that he had not had the courage to make awake.

You lifted your head very slowly. Your eyes met his. Your hair was mussed on one side. Your face was warm from sleep. There was a faint line from his shirt pressed into your cheek.

Jack's chest tightened with such abrupt force that it bordered on pain. "Morning," he said. It came out low. Too rough. Your mouth parted. Nothing came out for a second. Then, because apparently you were both determined to survive by saying the least helpful things possible, you whispered, "Hi."

Neither of you moved. His arm was still around you. Your hand was still on his chest. The room was still cold. The snow kept hitting the window in softer gusts now, less violent than the night before but steady. The world outside had gone pale and quiet, buried under white.

Your eyes dropped to where his arm lay across your back. Jack became very aware of his hand again. He loosened it at once. "Sorry." The word left him before he could stop it.

Your gaze snapped back to his face. "No," you said quickly. "No, I'm— I'm sorry. I must have—" "We both moved." You stopped. Jack watched that land. You looked down between you, where the blankets were tangled around your legs, where the pillow boundary had failed catastrophically, where all the evidence suggested neither of you had been an innocent bystander.

"Oh," you said. Jack's mouth twitched faintly. It was not exactly funny. Except it was a little funny. You saw the almost-smile and exhaled a small, embarrassed laugh. "The wall failed," you murmured.

"Poor construction." "I blame the contractor." "You approved the design." "I was under duress." "You were under a blanket." "That too." The tiny rhythm of banter returned like a match struck in the cold.

It did not fix the intimacy. It made it worse, actually. Because neither of you had moved away. Not properly. Jack's arm had loosened, but his hand had not left your back. Your hand had shifted lower against his ribs, but it had not disappeared. Your knee was still pressed against his thigh beneath the covers.

You both knew. You both pretended not to know for one more second. Then you said, softer, "Are you okay?" Jack looked at you. He could have answered the usual way. He almost did.

The word sat ready. Fine. A shield. A reflex. An old door that knew how to close itself. But your face was close to his, and your voice had none of the clinical edge people usually carried when they asked him that. You were not asking about pain only. You were not asking whether he needed help. You were not asking because you had seen something and wanted reassurance that it had not disturbed you.

You were asking because you had woken in his arms and still wanted to know if he was alright. Jack looked away. "Yeah." A beat. Then, because the room had apparently stripped him of common sense, he added, "Better than expected."

Your expression changed. Slowly. Carefully. Like you did not want to frighten the admission by looking at it too quickly. "Yeah?" you asked. Jack should have corrected course.

He did not. "Yeah." Your fingers relaxed against his shirt. The movement was tiny. He felt it everywhere. "I'm okay too," you said, though he had not asked aloud yet. He looked back at you.

"You sure?" You nodded. Your cheek was still marked from his shirt. It made you look younger somehow, more vulnerable, and he hated that the sight of it did something warm and unreasonable to him.

"I'm sure." The words settled. No one moved. The morning had made the room visible in pieces. The room service tray near the door. His suitcase open on the rack. Your bag on the floor with a sleeve hanging out. The dead phone on the nightstand. The useless lamp. The curtains breathing faintly whenever the wind found a seam at the window.

And the bed. The two of you in it. Too close to pretend it meant nothing. Not close enough, a terrible part of him thought. Jack shifted his gaze to the ceiling. "You're probably cold."

You blinked. Then laughed, the sound soft against him. "That's where we're going?" "It's relevant." "Is it?" "The power's still out." "Ah. Logistics." "Yes." "Professional courtesy?"

He looked down at you. The joke had been easier last night. Now it sounded like a challenge. His hand, still traitorous, rested against your back. Your body was warm where it touched his.

He could feel your heart beating. "No," he said. The word left quietly. Barely more than breath. But it changed everything. Your smile faded. Not in a bad way. In the way a person goes still when a door opens somewhere they thought was locked.

"No?" you asked. Jack swallowed. The smart thing would be to move. Sit up. Reach for his phone. Check the flight status. Talk about snowplows and airport delays and work schedules and the thousands of ordinary facts that could bury this one extraordinary one.

He was good at ordinary facts. He was good at burying things. But you were looking at him, and for once, the cost of silence seemed heavier than the cost of speech. "No," he said again.

You looked at him for a long moment. Then your hand flattened gently against his chest. Not pulling him closer. Not pushing away. Just there. "Okay," you whispered. Jack had no idea what that meant.

He had no idea if you meant okay, I understand or okay, stop or okay, me too. He had no idea how a single word could make him want to lean in and run at the same time. His voice came out rougher than he wanted.

"You should know better." Your eyebrows drew together. "Than what?" He looked at you. "Than to get involved with me." The words were blunt because bluntness was easier than fear.

There. Said. Ugly thing on the table. Except there was no table. Just a cold hotel room, a failed pillow wall, and your hand over the centre of his chest. Your expression shifted.

Not hurt. Not quite. Angry, maybe. Softly. The way you got angry with patients who apologised for needing help. "Jack." He looked away. "I'm serious." "I know you are." "You work with me."

"I noticed." His mouth tightened despite himself. "You know what I mean." "I do." Your voice stayed quiet. "But I also know I'm not a child, and I don't need you to make decisions for me because you've decided you're complicated."

His eyes came back to yours. That hit somewhere precise. You knew it too. He saw it in the way your face softened after the words landed, like you had not meant them to bruise but were not taking them back either.

"You are," you said. "Complicated. So am I. So is everyone who works where we work and keeps showing up anyway." "That's not the same." "No," you agreed. "It isn't." The honesty of that did more damage than reassurance would have.

You did not pretend he was easy. You did not pretend there was no grief in him, no damage, no history that stood in rooms before he did. You did not smooth him down into someone more convenient. You did not make him harmless.

You just stayed. "You deserve someone who—" he began. "No." Jack stopped. Your voice had sharpened. Not loud. Not harsh. Just firm enough to cut through the sentence before he could use it against both of you.

"No?" "No," you said. "You don't get to do that." His brows drew together. You pushed yourself up a little, enough that your faces were no longer so close, though your hand still rested lightly on him.

"You don't get to decide what I deserve if the only reason you're doing it is because you're scared I might choose you anyway." Jack went utterly still. Outside, the wind dragged snow across the glass in a long hiss.

Your own face changed then, as if you had surprised yourself. But you did not look away. Brave, Jack thought suddenly. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just there, under the borrowed sleep shirt and the oversized sweatpants and the line from his shirt on your cheek.

Braver than him, maybe. Often. His throat worked. "That's not—" he started. You waited. He stopped. Because it was. Of course it was. The room was quiet. You sighed softly, not with impatience. With tiredness. With tenderness. With something that made him feel more exposed than anger would have.

"I'm not asking you for everything right now," you said. "I'm not asking you to have some perfect answer in a hotel room with no power after six hours of sleep and terrible conference food."

"Good," he said, because he was still himself. "That would be unreasonable." A smile broke over your face before you could stop it. Small. Affectionate. Devastating. "There he is."

His chest tightened again. You said it like you had been waiting for him under all the fear. Like the deflection was not all of him, but it was a familiar enough piece to love.

Love. No. Not going there. Not yet. Jack looked at your hand on his chest. Your fingers shifted as if you had only just realised you were still touching him. You began to pull away.

He caught your wrist. Gently. Not enough to hold you if you wanted to go. Just enough to make you pause. You looked at him. Jack stared at the place where his fingers circled your wrist.

Your pulse tapped against his thumb. Fast. Not fear, he thought. Or not only fear. His voice was low when he spoke. "I'm not good at this." Your face softened again. "I know."

That might have offended someone else. For Jack, it felt like relief. "I mean it," he said. "I know." "I'll make it harder than it needs to be." "Probably." His eyes flicked up.

You shrugged a little. "What? You will." A faint laugh moved through him before he could stop it. You smiled, and the whole room changed around it. "But I'm not exactly known for choosing the easy thing," you said.

"No?" "No." "That seems like a character flaw." "You would know." His thumb moved once, unconsciously, over the inside of your wrist. You looked down at the movement. So did he.

The banter faded. The air shifted again. Jack let go of your wrist. But slowly. Very slowly. Your hand did not retreat this time. It lowered to the blanket between you, close to his.

The space from last night returned. Almost. A language, you had made it into. A habit. Jack was tired of almost. That was the problem. He had been tired of it for a while.

He had just called it professionalism. Timing. Caution. Decency. Self-preservation. He had dressed fear up in enough adult words that it could pass through most rooms unchallenged.

But here, in the low morning light, with your hair mussed and your body still warm from his and your eyes not letting him disappear inside his own excuses, it looked exactly like what it was.

Fear. And wanting. Both. Your phone buzzed. Neither of you moved. It buzzed again. You closed your eyes. "Dana," Jack said. "Probably." "Persistent." "You respect that." "I do."

The phone buzzed a third time. You groaned softly and reached toward the nightstand, nearly overbalancing because the blankets were tangled around your legs. Jack's hand moved to your waist automatically, steadying you.

You froze. So did he. His palm was warm through the shirt. Your eyes met. The phone stopped buzzing. Neither of you said anything. His hand stayed where it was. You were close again.

Not accidentally this time. Not entirely. Jack could see the hesitation in your face. Not doubt. Not regret. Just awareness. The same line both of you had been walking for months, suddenly under your bare feet.

He should have let go. He did not. Your gaze dropped to his mouth. It was so quick he might have missed it if he had not been looking for some reason not to be the only one losing the fight.

His breath changed. You noticed. Of course you did. "Jack," you whispered. He had heard his name in every possible context. Shouted across trauma bays. Snapped in frustration. Called over noise. Written on charts. Spoken by patients, colleagues, strangers, people dying, people grieving, people angry enough to spit.

He had never heard it like that. Soft. Terrified. Wanting. It reached somewhere he had not fortified well enough. He lifted his hand from your waist slowly, giving you time to stop him. Giving himself time to stop.

Neither of you did. His fingers brushed your jaw. Barely. A question more than a touch. Your eyes fluttered, then held his. He leaned in. Not all the way. Just enough. Enough that your breath warmed his mouth. Enough that the whole room seemed to vanish except for the inch between you. Enough that if either of you moved, there would be no pretending this was about weather or beds or professional courtesy.

Your phone rang. Loudly. You both jerked back. The sound tore through the room with the violence of an overhead page. Your phone skittered slightly on the nightstand as it vibrated.

Dana's name lit the screen. For one second, you and Jack stared at it. Then Jack closed his eyes. You made a sound that was half laugh, half despair. "I'm going to kill her," you whispered.

"No, you're not." "I might." "You like her." "That's the only thing saving her." The phone kept ringing. You grabbed it, cheeks flushed, and answered with the tone of someone clinging to the last scraps of dignity.

"Dana." Jack lay back against the pillows and looked at the ceiling like it had personally wronged him. You avoided looking at him. Mostly. "What? Yes, I'm alive. No, the power's still out." You paused. "No, I'm not in the lobby."

Jack's eyes closed harder. You sat up a little straighter, dragging the blanket with you. "No, I found somewhere safe." Another pause. "Dana." Jack turned his head slightly.

Even in the dim light, you could see the amusement beginning to break through his exasperation. Your face warmed further. "Because I'm an adult and I don't have to give you my full lodging itinerary." You listened, then looked briefly skyward. "Yes, I ate. Yes, actual food. No, not just coffee."

Jack mouthed, barely. You glared at him. He looked almost pleased with himself. "I am ignoring that," you said into the phone, though you were not entirely sure whether you meant Dana or Jack. "How's the ED?"

The shift was instant. Jack saw it. Felt it, almost. The way your face changed. The softness tucked away. The clinical focus returning. Concern sharpening your posture even though you were sitting in his bed in his clothes with your hair a mess.

You listened for nearly a minute. The room changed with you. Jack watched quietly. "They got extra staff in?" you asked. "Good. Is Robby there? Of course he is." You smiled faintly. "Tell him Abbott hasn't caused an interstate incident yet."

Jack gave you a look. You ignored it. "No, don't tell him the rest." A beat. "There is no rest." Jack's eyebrows rose. You covered your eyes with one hand. "Dana." Your voice dropped. "I'm hanging up now."

Whatever Dana said made your mouth fall open. Jack could not hear it, but he could guess the flavour. You pointed at the phone like she could see you. "That is harassment."

A pause. "Love you too." You hung up. The room went quiet. You set the phone down very carefully. Jack waited. You did not look at him. "She knows," he said. You nodded once. "She knows something."

"What did she say?" "No." "That bad?" "She said…" You stopped, pressing your lips together. Jack watched your restraint with growing interest. "She said?" You turned to him, face hot. "She said if I'm with you, she hopes you're being less emotionally constipated than usual."

Jack blinked. Once. Then looked away. You waited. His shoulders moved. Just slightly. Then again. "Oh my God," you said. "Are you laughing?" "No." "You are." "I'm not." "You absolutely are."

He pressed his fingers to his brow. It was contained. Barely audible. But it was there — a low, reluctant laugh that seemed dragged out of him against his will. The sight of it did something catastrophic to you.

Jack Abbott laughing in a dark hotel room under a snowstorm because Dana had called him emotionally constipated. Your heart did not stand a chance. "It's not funny," he said.

"It's very funny." "She's insubordinate." "She's charge." "That explains the confidence." You laughed then too, and the room warmed a little around the sound. It helped. It saved you, maybe.

Or delayed the inevitable. Jack's laughter faded first, but not completely. There was still something loose around his mouth when he looked back at you. For a second, it was easy to imagine waking up like this again. Not in a hotel. Not because of a storm. Just morning. His voice. Your phone. Someone from work interrupting with unnecessary accuracy. Jack pretending to be annoyed while secretly pleased you had people who checked on you.

The thought must have shown on your face because his expression softened. Not much. Enough. "ED's okay?" he asked. You nodded. "Busy. Not catastrophic. Roads are bad, but night shift got stuck, day shift came in early, everyone's annoyed but functioning."

"Normal disaster mode." "Pretty much." "Good." "Robby told Dana to tell you that if you're bored, you can review the conference notes and send him bullet points." Jack's expression went dead flat.

You grinned. "He did not." "No." "Good." "He did say, apparently, that you should not pick fights with anyone from cardiology while stranded." "Cardiology keeps coming up."

"You have a reputation." "I have standards." "Same system?" "Same system." The quiet settled again, gentler this time. You were sitting up now, blanket around your shoulders, and Jack was still half-reclined beside you. The accidental closeness had been disrupted, but not erased. If anything, the interruption had made the unfinished thing between you brighter.

You both knew what had almost happened before the phone rang. Neither of you could unknow it. Jack looked at your phone, then at the dead lamp. "We should check flights."

"Probably." Neither of you moved. A beat passed. Then another. You turned your head toward him. "Jack." He looked at you. There was caution in his face again, but not the closed kind. More like a man standing at the edge of a room he had avoided for years, listening for whether it was safe to step inside.

You swallowed. "We don't have to pretend nothing almost happened." His jaw flexed. "No." "No, we don't?" "No," he said. "We don't." The answer was steady. Your pulse was not.

"Okay." "Okay." It would have been easier if one of you had looked away. Neither of you did. Jack's hand rested on the blanket near your knee. Yours rested beside it, fingers curled in the fabric.

Close. Almost. Again. This time, you moved. Only a little. Your fingers brushed his. Jack looked down. You waited. His hand turned beneath yours. Slowly. Palm up. An offering.

Not dramatic. Not polished. Not the kind of gesture that belonged in speeches or films. Just Jack, quiet and tired and scared enough to be careful, letting you decide if you wanted to take what he could give right now.

You slid your hand into his. His fingers closed around yours. Warm. Firm. Real. Something in your chest unknotted so abruptly it almost hurt. Jack kept looking at your joined hands like he was studying an X-ray for a fracture line.

Then he said, "This is a bad idea." You squeezed his hand once. "Probably." His eyes lifted. You smiled faintly. "You're not the only one allowed to make bad decisions." "That's not reassuring."

"It wasn't meant to be." "You could try." "I could." "You won't." "No." A faint almost-smile tugged at his mouth. The shape of it was so familiar now it made you ache. "What happens when we get home?" you asked.

There. The real question. Not the storm. Not the bed. Not the almost-kiss. Home. The Pitt. The ED. Dana's loud eyebrows. Robby's knowing looks. Long shifts. Short breaks. Professional distance. Charts and traumas and grief and the kind of fatigue that made honest things hard to hold.

Jack's fingers tightened around yours. Not much. Enough. "I don't know," he said. The answer should have disappointed you. It did not. Because he did not pull away. Because he did not say nothing.

Because Jack Abbott admitting uncertainty while holding your hand felt more intimate than any clean promise would have. You nodded. "Okay." "That enough?" "For this minute?"

His eyes stayed on yours. "Yes." You looked down at your joined hands. "For this minute, yeah." Jack let out a slow breath. Then, after a long moment, he said, "When we get home, I'd like to take you to dinner."

You looked up so fast you nearly hurt your neck. "What?" His face shifted, some of the vulnerability closing under dry irritation. "You heard me." "I did. I'm just checking for carbon monoxide."

"The power's out, not the ventilation." "Could be subtle." "It's not carbon monoxide." "It might be concussion. Did you hit your head?" "You're making this difficult." "I'm panicking."

"That's obvious." You laughed, breathless and ridiculous and on the edge of something much softer. Jack's eyes warmed. There. No hiding it this time. Not entirely. "Dinner," he repeated.

Your smile settled. "Like a date?" His thumb moved once against yours. "Yes." One word. No flourish. No professional courtesy. Just yes. Your heart went very quiet. Then very loud.

"When we get home," you said. "When we get home." "And not at the hospital cafeteria." His eyebrows lifted. "You have standards." "I do." "Good." "Somewhere with actual food."

"Fine." "And no orthopedic surgeons." "That may be harder to guarantee." You smiled. He did too. Barely. Perfectly. The room hummed suddenly. You both looked up. The heater clicked.

The lamp beside the bed flickered once, then turned on, flooding the room with warm yellow light. The power was back. For some reason, neither of you moved for several seconds.

The return of normal things felt rude. The lamp. The heater. The faint buzz from the mini fridge. The hotel room snapping back into itself as if it had not spent the night holding you both outside of ordinary life.

Then your phone began charging again and immediately buzzed with a flood of notifications. Jack looked at it. "You're popular." "I'm monitored." "Accurate." The heat began to push through the room slowly. The window stayed pale and snow-blurred, but the worst of the storm seemed to have softened. Somewhere beyond the walls, the hotel came alive again — pipes shifting, voices rising, the distant chime of an elevator finding power.

The spell should have broken. Maybe it did. Maybe that was why you noticed, suddenly, that you were still holding Jack's hand. Maybe that was why Jack noticed too. Neither of you let go.

Not immediately. Then, carefully, like he did not want you to mistake the movement for regret, Jack released your hand and reached for his phone. "Flights," he said. "Right."

"Need to know if we're stuck another day." "Imagine." His eyes flicked to yours. You held his gaze. The joke did not quite land as a joke. A flush climbed your neck. Jack looked back at his phone.

His mouth twitched. "Airport's delayed," he said after a moment. "Cancelled?" "Not yet." You checked your own phone. It took a second to load, then the airline app opened with the kind of cheerful incompetence only travel software could manage.

"My flight's still showing delayed." "Mine too." "So we might get home." "Might." You sat there with him, both of you looking down at your screens and pretending the ordinary task was enough to steady the room.

It helped. A little. Then a notification from Dana appeared at the top of your phone. DANA: If he asks you to dinner, say yes. If he doesn't, tell him I'm disappointed but not surprised.

You stared at it. Jack glanced sideways. "What?" "Nothing." "Dana again?" "No." "Liar." You turned the phone screen down against the blanket. "She's invasive." "She's usually right."

You looked at him. Jack's eyes were on his phone, but his expression had gone deliberately neutral. A smile crept across your face. "She is, actually." He looked up then.

The warmth between you changed shape. Not less. Just steadier. A little less accidental. A little more chosen. You tucked the blanket around yourself and leaned back against the headboard, suddenly aware of how tired you still were. The night had not been restful, exactly, even if it had been something close. Your body felt warm now in the returning heat, heavy with interrupted sleep and emotional whiplash.

Jack noticed. Of course. "Sleep another hour," he said. You blinked. "What?" "Flights aren't going anywhere yet. Checkout's delayed because of the outage. Sleep." "You too?"

"I'm awake." "That is not an answer." "It was adjacent to one." You gave him a look. He sighed. "Fine." "Fine?" "I'll sleep." "Good." "But if you steal the blanket—" "I will."

His mouth twitched. "You admit it?" "I contain multitudes." "Mostly theft." "Mostly survival." He set his phone down and reached to turn off the lamp. Then he paused. The room was warm-lit now, no longer hidden in emergency glow. Morning had made everything more visible. More real.

He looked at the bed. Then at you. The pillow wall was still at the bottom of the mattress, defeated and crumpled beyond repair. You followed his gaze. A laugh threatened, but your throat felt too tight for it.

"Do we rebuild the border?" you asked. Jack looked at the pillow. Then at you. "No," he said. Soft. Certain. Your breath caught. He did not touch you. He did not make it bigger than that.

He just turned off the lamp, easing the room back into dim morning, and settled under the covers beside you. Not as far away as before. Not pressed close either. Just there.

Close enough that if either of you shifted in sleep, you might find each other again. Close enough that pretending would require more effort than honesty. You lay on your side facing him.

Jack lay on his back, eyes on the ceiling. For a minute, neither of you spoke. Then you said, very softly, "Dinner when we get home." His eyes closed. "Yes." "Not professional courtesy."

His mouth moved. "No." You smiled into the quiet. Outside, the snow kept falling. Inside, under the returning heat and the tired morning hush, Jack reached beneath the blanket and found your hand again.

This time, neither of you called it an accident.

[robin-the-enby]

Hi could I please request Radar O’Riley x male reader it doesn’t have to be anything intricate (: if you accept this request then I thank you in advance (:

General headcanons

Pairing: Radar O'Riley x m!reader

Warnings: definitely inaccurate military descriptions, time accurate homophobia, Frank being a douchebag (what else is new tho)

A/N: I have nothing to say for myself. But I suppose late is better than never, right? Okay, I'll shut up now. Hope you enjoy!

The last thing one thinks about when getting drafted to a war happening on the other side of the globe, freshly eighteen no less, is romance. But life has a crazy way of surprising us, doesn't it?

Walter was never one to stand out. He wasn't big or strong, he wasn't particularly social or quick witted. A simple man, from a simple family. He realised pretty early on that his best chances lied in laying low and not sticking out too much.

And that has done him wonders in the 4077 unit! The administrative work he did for Colonel Blake ensured him a fairly comfortable position, one where he didn't need to go through the gruelling, and frankly traumatising, hours in the makeshift operating room and post-op. He'd gladly leave that to the professionals.

While Radar was a simple man, with simple likes, dreams and needs, he was dedicated to his work. As much as someone forcefully drafted into a war they don't want anything to do with can be, that is. And damn if he wasn't good at it.

That's why he wouldn't even notice you, if you didn't start hanging around him.

You were pretty new to the 4077 unit. You were transferred as a security officer, ensuring the people in camp, both patients and staff alike, were safe from potential attacks from the enemy, as well as making sure the supplies and equipment wouldn't get stolen for the black market or get generally tampered with.

Walter was like a breath of fresh air in the tragedy that is war. If there was one thing everybody in the camp could agree on, it was that. And when you learned about the origin of his nickname? It was only natural you were curious about the guy.

Radar didn't remember exactly when you approached him first. Of course he somewhat knew who you were, he was the one handling your transfer papers, besides Henry, who was the one who signed them barely even looking at what he was actually signing.

It just sort of became a routine, that whenever you were about to make your rounds, you'd find him first and ask him what he thought the weather was gonna be like that day.

At first, he was more than a little confused, and you could tell by the slight scrunching of his brows, and the way his lips tightened into a straight line, before he even told you that his "ability" didn't work like that.

To which you could only laugh softly, already finding this guy so endearing. "Let's put it to the test then, eh?" you'd tease him with a smile.

Once this exact conversation has repeated a few times, Walter learned to accept it. And, after a shockingly short time, you were able to see another side of his predictive quirk.

At first, he just stopped waiting for you to ask him about what the weather was going to be like. As soon as you were by his side, he said what came to his mind in that moment. Like he knew what you were going to ask even before he did. But then, it was as if he started sensing your very presence. No matter where you found him, before you could fully approach him, Walter would turn around and shoot out his weather prediction.

He could be in the mess tent, fully engrossed in conversation with Hawkeye and Trapper, or some of the nurses, and he would stop mid sentence, whip around and tell you "Partially cloudy, no wind today." To some, it would seem creepy, but not to you. Something inside your chest warmed at the thought of him getting so tuned into your presence that he'd recognise it without even having to see you.

The others, especially the surgeons, would sometimes poke fun at him for this, telling him that you've got him trained almost as well as Henry does. Of course you'd do your best to inconspicuously stand up for him, usually with a joke along the lines of him having his priorities set right, or that whatever they were talking about previously probably just wasn't that interesting.

Slowly, you two started to spend more time together. Obviously, you couldn't quite keep him company while he worked, but if you were making your rounds and Radar just happened to be free (and not tangled up in another one of Hawkeye's messes), he would join you for a bit.

You would talk about anything and everything. First it was just about your job, what exactly was the point of the route you were currently taking, how many rounds you'd make that day and how long it would take. But soon enough, the topics would get more personal. Discussions about your likes and dislikes, what music you both liked, what movies you enjoyed, favorite colours and animals. Those talks then turned to sharing childhood memories, both good ones and bad ones, and discussions about your family. You loved hearing about his mother, Edna, and from the way Walter spoke about her, it was clear he held her in high regards.

It was clear that you liked spending time with each other. For the first time in a really long while, Walter felt like he could actually be himself around someone, without the fear of being judged or ridiculed. And you? Well, seeing him happy made you happy. Besides, there was so much more to Radar than everyone gave him credit for. He was game for anything, as long as it wasn't too dangerous, highly illegal or totally immoral. He could be surprisingly sneaky and he didn't even have to try that hard. And the sass on that man was unlike anything you've ever heard. He wasn't mean or snarky often, and when he was, it was always quiet, muttered solely for himself, and then for you as well. But you swore his side remarks could rival Hawkeye's, even if nobody believed you.

The real change in your quickly blossoming...friendship...came around the time of the aniversay of the day you first met him. You'd rather get blown up in the mine field than admit you were keeping track of that though.

It wasn't a very pleasant day, the skies were seemingly dumping all of the water on planet Earth right on top of the 4077 unit, from the moment you woke up. Not to mention the weather made the front lines even more dangerous, so when the second round of choppers could be heard in the distance, no one was surprised.

But it didn't change the fact that the heavier-than-usual workload and crappy weather didn't do much to boost the morale in the camp. Everyone was soaked through to the bone, tired and rightfully grumpy. And Radar was no exception.

But when you pulled him aside after all the chaos of the day was over and you could finally attempt to relax, he didn't complain, only wordlessly following you to your tent, his eyes sparkling with curiosity behind those cute specs of his.

Before you opened the door to your tent, you told him to close his eyes. He followed your word without hesitation and you would lie if you said his complete trust in you didn't make your cheeks grow warm. Grabbing his hand softly, and ignoring the subtle shudder that ran through him, you finally lead him into your tent and towards your bed, so that he wouldn't trip over the mess made by your bunk mates.

When you told him he could open his eyes again, Radar simply blinked owlishly at the small wooden cage on top of your sheets. It was turned facing away from you both, so it didn't look like much, but before you could encourage him to check it out further, the wooden structure wheeked.

Both of you jumped at the sudden sound, Radar more so than you, only because you already knew what exactly was in the cage, but after the shock faded, which only took a second, he cautiously stepped closer to your cot. Slowly, like he couldn't believe his own eyes, he turned the cage around. You were pretty sure he stopped breathing the moment his hands touched it.

When he finally managed to peer inside, the gasp he let out made you giddy like a kid receiving their first valentine. Even though in this case, the roles were reversed. Inside the structure was a small, short haired guiney pig. The simplest kind, with brown fur and some white tufts here and there and beautiful dark beady eyes.

Radar has told you of his love for animals, especially rodents, pretty early on during your many long talks and this little girl seemed like the perfect thing to cheer him up and keep his mind off the machinery of death and destruction, of which you were all a part.

Still not saying a word, Walter slowly sat down on your cot, his hands opening the latch of the cage and pulling the small, warm body of the piggy in his arms. You shifted your weight from one foot to the other, nervously scratching the back of your neck. "Sorry if this is sudden, and I know taking care of a live animal on top of all your work is a big responsibility, so, if you think it'd be too much for you-" "I'm gonna name her Molly."

So deep in your rambling, you didn't catch the large smile spreading over the Radar's face, his eyes now full of absolute wonder and love for the small creature already happily purring in his lap.

Seeing him so happy meant more to you than you thought. Sure, you traded your army issued winter boots for the little piggy, but you would gladly put on more pairs of socks and tough it out if it meant you could keep seeing him this way.

The first thing Walter set out to do after that was making Molly a bigger cage. Which allowed you to see yet another side of your...dear friend, that no one really noticed.

When he invited you to help him set the cage up, your brain needed a second to figure out how he got the materials he needed so fast. Seeing the clear confusion that overtook your features, he quickly provided you with an explanation "The wood is mostly scrap pieces I bought off some of the locals and made a deal with one of the drivers for the wire mesh top." You could only chuckle at his innovativeness.

After that, you expected he'd need your help with actually putting the cage together. But Radar proved you wrong once again. "Why'd you invite me here if you didn't actually need any help?" you hummed from where you were lounging on his cot, your eyes tracing the way his muscles moved and constricted under his skin, as he hammered the different pieces of wood together.

Walter briefly paused in his work, his breath only a fraction heavier than normal. "Well...you know...in case I needed help." If your eyes weren't already so zeroed in on him, you'd miss the way his cheeks flushed slightly. Ultimately, you decided to let it go.

It didn't take long for you to confess after that, although the situation was a bit...messy. Radar had been raised christian and while he didn't outright reject you, it was obvious he needed to sort things out within himself first, which you totally understood.

That's how the first person who found out about your budding relationship became father Mulcahy. Walter took him aside one day, the priest immediatelly noticing the bags under his eyes, and told him he needed to talk to him, if he was free that is. "Son, there is clearly something weighing on your soul and my sole duty here is to help you all through such hardships."

Father Mulcahy took the young man to his makeshift chapel and sat with his eyes closed and hands clasped together, taking in everything Radar was telling him. He couldn't help but spill it all - his feelings, his fears, his believes and the inner turmoil the situation was causing him.

Once he was done, he was trembling with anxiety, his, and your, fate depending on the reaction of the man beside him. But father Mulcahy, after mulling over his response quietly, turned to face the young Corporal and with a steady warm hand on his shoulder and a deep, and equally as warm, look into his very soul, only said "War is a terrible thing, it destroys everything that is godly. To find someone you can truly love in such a hostile place is a beautiful thing. And there is nothing more holy than love." Walter hadn't cried like that since he was a boy.

From then on, the two of you grew even closer than before. Of course, you had to be careful while out in the open, but there were things you could do that would look like a close-knit friendship to the unasuming eye. You often spent meal times together, either sitting across from each other in the mess tent, or outside, leaning against each other, if the weather was nice enough.

Safe to say that not all eyes were unasuming. So, naturally, the next people that basically forced the admission of your relationship out of you were none other than Benjamin Hawkeye Pierce and his partner in crime, Trapper.

Radar liked to partake in the occassional game of poker every now and then and while you weren't much of a gambler, you liked to tag along with him, enjoying the banter in your small group. Poker nights were one of the few good things in this place and you learned to cherish all of them deeply.

Tonight, the game has gone on exceptionally long though. So much so that you couldn't help the yawn that slipped out of your mouth, covered by your hand. And then the way your eyelids grew heavier and heavier. And lastly the way your body slumped against Walter's, as if being pulled into him by an invisible force. Your boyfriend only adjusted the way he was sitting slightly, so you'd both be as comfortable as possible.

The air was suddenly quiet around the small table. But not tense in the way Radar was still a bit scared of, when you showed each other any form of affection while not alone. "Listen, Radar..." Hawkeye started, and for the first time, Radar could see even the silver tongue of the camp, searching for the right words "...are you...a friend of Dorothy?" the surgeon asked quietly, but the young man couldn't sense any sort of negative conotation to it. Even though he didn't really know what it was.

"I knew a Dorothy in highschool. I wouldn't say we were friends though, she never liked me much.." Radar pondered aloud and Trapper snickered. "No, Radar, we're asking because..." Trapper tried to explain as he gestured between the two of you. Radar tilted his head "What does 'this' have to do with some Dorothy?" he asked, growing more confused by the second.

"Radar, are you gay?" Hawkeye finally adressed the elephant in the room, having quickly grown tired of the way they were all dancing around the topic for the last few minutes. Walter could only suck in a sharp breath. He didn't think about labels, he only just came to terms with his feelings for you and the word still had negative meaning in his mind.

"Great, you should really learn how to make people feel comfortable when they're not in a hospital bed." Trapper chided his bunkmate, before turning back to the young man across the table "It's completely okay if you are, we just..." "Didn't know you swung that way." Hawkeye chimed in. "Yeah...I didn't either..." Walter muttered, shuffling his cards slowly.

It was a good thing Frank wasn't there at the moment, as Hawkeye pointed out after some time. "If there's someone you need to look out for, it's him and Hot Lips." As if those two were ones to talk about innapropriate relationships...

But you two were always careful when it came to the more tender moments between you. Not only were you taking things really slowly, for both Walter's sake and yours, but you left those moments for the 'privacy' of your respective tents. Unfortunately, one day Major Frank Burns decided knocking was below him when it came to his subordinates.

He barged into Radar's tent that evening like a hurricane, and his eyes landed on an otherwise candid sight - you, dozing off after a late set of rounds, your head resting on your boyfriend's thigh while he read, the hand not holding his book resting on your shoulder, his thumb absentmindedly swiping over it every now and then.

You both quickly jumped away from each other, but by that point Frank was already all up in your faces, screaming almost incoherently about the sight of you both cuddling. You couldn't make much of his berating and threats, but one word stood out to the both of you. Fraternisation.

Frank stomped his way through the camp, straight to Henry's office, where the man was just finishing the last bits of paperwork. Upon seeing his most annoying major, Henry only sighed, wishing he could be literally anywhere else in that moment. "What is it, Frank?"

"So this is how you run this camp, huh? Are you even aware of what your soldiers are doing when you're not looking??" he barked out, adrenaline still running strong through his veins. "Well, I hope they're having fun..." Henry muttered, having no clue what Frank was getting at.

"Your secretary is fraternizing with one of the security officers! I saw them snuggling in his tent!" the major revealed, his tone dripping with disbelief. "Well, if you didn't want to see that, then you should've knocked." Henry shrugged, but before he could turn back to the last paper that awaited his signature, Frank continued in his tirade. "It is completely inappropriate! They- they were entangled like only a man and woman should be! You need to report them immediately-"

The Colonel brought the palms of his hands on the table in a dull but mighty slap "I've had just enough of your whining!" he snapped back, Frank's mouth shutting with a clack of his teeth, taken aback "I'll tell you what's innapropriate! Your little rendezvous with Margaret all over the camp! If you think nobody's noticed what goes on between you two, then you're not only completely oblivious, but stupid as well. At least those two have the decency to keep their business inside of their respective tents! If there's anyone I should be reporting, it would be you."

Frank stood in place for a moment, his mouth opening and closing, like he was searching for a rebuttal, but when he found none, he turned on his heel and sped out of Henry's office.

The Colonel sighed again, signed the last paper that needed his attention and chuckled quietly "Well, at least that's two less distractions for our lovely nurses..."

[ingystark]

sleeping with boyfriend!billy butcher

tags: fluff, sfw, cuddling

note: only the boys ff i’ll ever post probably just because i love billy sm

You hate arguing with William. It pains you a lot and takes away a lot of energies from you. You love him more than you’ve ever loved anyone in your life. However, his personality is a lot to handle. He’s stubborn and more than often you disagree on things. But you can’t leave him. You would never.

You don’t lock the door of the room, expecting him to come lay in bed next to you nevertheless of the fight you just had. And it surprise you how early he arrives. He tosses the covers aside and takes his place on his side, his heavy weight deforming the matress. You can perceive his stare on your back. You say nothing, pretending to be asleep.

You’re about to drift off when you feel Billy shifting closer. His breath brushes your neck. His naked arm travels around your waist and he slowly pulls you closer. You accept his embrace. You know he physically can’t sleep without at least one limb touching your skin.

His dark beard is coarse against your skin when Billy places a kiss behind you. His arm is resting heavily on your body. The grip he has on you strenghtens. When he keeps kissing your neck and shoulders, you instantly forget what was the fight about.

You turn around and Billy snuggles immediately his head against your chest. You inhale his wooden, mossy aftershave that still lingers on him, mixed with a smell of sweat, since he had not bothered taking a shower for the whole day. You can’t complain, you adore his natural smell even when he’s not fresh clean.

You hug him tightly, allowing him to position closer, his strong body pressed against your softer one. You put one leg up his hip, drawing him even more towards you, not wanting him to let go. Your hand finds his fluffy black hair and absentmindedly plays with it.

Whatever he wants, whatever he needs, you are there for him. He’s just a broken puppy, he requires patience and cuddles. You love that he allows himself to be vulnerable only with you, that he shows his softer side with no restraint or ulterior motives.

You listen to his low snoring as he falls asleep in your arms.

The morning after, you watch his back raising and lowering while William lays in his stomach and his cheek is sinking on the pillow, one of his arms hugging it. He looks so innocent and gentle. You avoid the risk of waking him up and hold back from extending an arm to touch him. He must be really tired and deserves some more sleep.

You love seeing him so relaxed, even if for so little time. The day is long for you both to apologize for the stupid fight you had the day before, and you already forgot what was the argument about.



[opulentpeony]

His Lovely Obsession

Pairing: Titus Danforth x Reader 

Summary: Your life took a complete turn the moment you made one single decision: to help a billionaire with something so trivial that only a psychopath like him would mistake it for love. 

Titus has found a lovely new obsession to focus all his energy on now and you're unsure how you're going to make it out of this unscathed… 

Word Count: 20.3k

A/N: I had this itch to write a slow burn, grumpy x sunshine fic with a splash of angst, yearning and fucked up manipulative behavior so this is what I cooked up.

I will note, you call him "sir" and he really likes it! Because I like it! Whoops!

For a full list of warnings, you can check out the fic on my AO3. Though this one is quite mild compared to my other fics so you can go in blind if you want to! 

Oh, and of course, there will be porn! Hope it's a fun read ♡ 

You let out a little yawn in the elevator after you drop off your thirtieth delivery for the day. Usually you don't do this many, but the fine dining restaurant you normally work at cut your hours so you've been needing to work on the apps to make ends meet. 

You've been up since the crack of dawn and now the sun has set. You're ready to go back to bed.

Your eyes shift to the man in the elevator with you. He definitely is dressed like he is meant to be here. It is a luxury high rise that has both a hotel and residences. You just dropped off food for some rich asshole who barely tipped. You wonder if he is one of those rich assholes. 

You glance downwards and notice that there's a tiny tear in his dress pants. He looks like he's dressed to go to some fancy event. He probably shouldn't have a noticeable tear like that. People in his world would spot it. 

So, you tap him on the shoulder, saying, “excuse me, sir.” 

Titus Danforth turns to glare at you. Here we go again, he thinks to himself. You must know him from somewhere. Though, he doesn't know many people who wear cheap, wholesale clothing that is likely made of plastics. 

You must want his money, then. 

But you point to the hem of his dress pants and ask, “do you want me to fix that for you? There's a snag. You must've caught it on something.”

You pull out a small sewing kit from your bag, which you have since sometimes you have to mend your work clothes on the fly. It helps your coworkers too, since fine dining requires a certain level of pristine. 

He blinks at you, surprised. It's such a tiny tear that he wouldn't have noticed it if you hadn't said anything. 

But his father would've definitely scolded him if he saw it. 

There's no time to go back to his apartment and change. He needs to get to this fundraising gala right away. He spent a little too long fucking the help. 

Titus looks up at the floor count. He knows there's a private floor that only certain members in the building have access to. He goes to scan his keycard and hits the thirteenth floor. 

“We'll get out here and you can do it.” He shouldn't be accepting some stranger's help so he definitely can't be seen taking it.

For all he knows, you snagged his pants and this is some kind of ploy to get a pay out from him.

But he doesn't think that's it. 

You must just be a good samaritan because the moment he sits down at one of the plush benches by the elevator, you are on your knees in front of him, sifting through the threads you have to find the one that matches his pants the best before you start sewing it back up. 

Titus likes the look of you on your knees. You're very pretty. Much prettier than the maid he has been fucking. 

You're so focused on mending his pants that you don't notice the way he's staring at you, like he could swallow you up with just his gaze. 

You make a little small talk, completely oblivious to the desire in his eyes, “are you heading somewhere fun?” 

“I wouldn't call being stuck in a room full of boring rich people fun.” He tells you and his heart pounds a little faster when you giggle. 

That's a real laugh. Titus is used to hearing the dry, fake ones people give him, in a meager attempt to show him interest. You're genuinely amused. 

“I totally get you.” You say back, still chuckling under your breath. “That's how I feel every time I go to work.”

“Do you usually deliver food to this building?” Titus doesn't know why he's asking. He shouldn't care. You're just a delivery girl. 

But then you shake your head, your words intriguing him, “I usually serve at Opulence but they cut my hours recently. They hired this TikTok influencer and she's been driving in business so they've been giving her most of my shifts. I just deliver when I need to get by.” 

“Opulence? The place that makes the cabrito asado?” Titus has eaten there a few times. His father loves that dish, since it's an herb-crusted, slow-roasted young goat on a bed of microgreens. 

“Yeah, that's it! Though, I've never had it.” The restaurant owner doesn't provide free meals and the chefs are super stingy with their ingredients, since they're so expensive. Even the nice ones won't let any of you have a taste, besides that one influencer girl. She got to try everything to post about on her social media. 

You're trying not to be envious but…you definitely wish you could do something like that. You can't afford the equipment, however. She has the latest phone model. Two of them actually, one for work and one for personal use. You're still using the phone you got on a deal a few years ago. 

“You haven't eaten anything at the restaurant you serve at?” 

You shake your head. “I can't afford anything on that menu. I can barely afford my rent as is—ah, shit, sorry, I keep complaining. Ignore me. You don't want to listen to some stranger yap.” 

You do the final tie to secure the thread and cut the remaining with your compact scissors. You brush your hand over the fabric one last time then show him.

“Does it look good to you?” 

Titus is impressed. It doesn't even look like there was a tear to begin with. “Have you done this a lot?”

“Oh, all the time! The owner is very particular about how they want us to look at all times. Even the littlest of snags will get you sent home and most of us can't afford—shit, sorry, I need to stop doing that! Bad habit…” You catch yourself before you complain about money again. You're sure a man like him doesn't even think about money. 

Titus definitely doesn't. The idea of not being able to afford anything is a bit ridiculous to him. He could buy the world if he wanted to.

He could buy you the world if you wanted him to. 

What a strange thought. 

Why did that pop into his head? 

Maybe because you get up and ask for nothing in return for helping him.

“All good?” You gesture to the elevator buttons. “Ready to go?” 

“I should pay you for the help.” What the fuck is he saying? He has never offered to give anyone money before. At least not like this. He has offered money to people to get the fuck out of his way. Or to get something he wants. 

Is that what this is? Is he doing this because he wants you?

You wave him off. “This cost nothing. Just a smile.” 

You flash him a happy grin and he…can't help but smile back. Especially when you beam at him so brightly, like pure sunshine. 

“I love ending my day by making someone smile.” You nudge him playfully as the elevator doors open then step inside. 

Titus doesn't know what to make of that. Being touched so casually normally repulses him. But with you, he wishes you'd stay close to him. 

“When do you work next? Maybe I can tip you then.” Again, he doesn't understand why he's saying any of this. The words just spill out. 

“Hmmm.” You don't have your schedule yet. You should be getting it tomorrow, since it'll be the start of the week. “I won't know yet. If you want, you can call in and ask when I'm working. I just need to tell them your name so they know I'm okay with you knowing my schedule.” 

Technically, it's not a good idea to let a customer know exactly when a server will be on shift. But since it is a fine dining restaurant, if a wealthy customer does want a specific server, the server just has to make note of the customers they don't mind sharing their schedule with. 

“You don't know my name?” That's shocking to Titus. He is one of the wealthiest men on the planet. 

“Oh shit, are you like super famous or something?” You scratch your head, trying to parse out who he could be. “My bad…I work so much that I barely have time to keep up with anything.”

“Titus.” He tells you. “Titus Danforth. And you are?” 

You tell him your name and then give him another beautiful smile. “I will definitely look you up later so that if you do come into the restaurant, I will for sure know who you are, I promise!” 

The elevator doors open so you head out first then turn around and wave goodbye to him. 

“See you later, Titus!” You say his name so sweetly that…

He'll think about his name leaving your lips any time someone says his name from then on. Like when he's fucking that maid of his the next day and she's screaming his name and he's wondering what his name would sound like on your lips if you were bent over in front of him. 

That might be the only reason he's able to finish today. He's been struggling this whole time to stay hard. His mind is so consumed by thoughts of you that he can't seem to cum unless he imagines it's you. 

This can't be healthy. Though, he has never been mentally healthy before. 

“I need you to get the fuck out.” He tells his maid the moment he pulls the condom off. “I don't want to see you again.” 

“Titus—” She gasps when he wraps his hand around her throat, stopping her from speaking another word.

“I don't want to hear my name come out of your mouth ever again. Now, get the fuck out.” He tosses her towards the door. “You're fired.” 

She scoffs and then heads out. He knows she'll likely sue him but he has the footage to prove it was all consensual. His lawyers will guarantee that he wins the case. 

Titus grabs his phone, searching up the number for your restaurant. He debates calling. 

Should he see you? 

Why does he want to see you? 

You're just some pretty girl who helped him out with a little thing. You definitely have looked him up. Your entire opinion of him has likely morphed once you realize how rich and powerful he is. You wouldn't want him for him. You probably want him for his money now that you know. And he definitely shouldn't want you. 

But he calls anyway. 

“This is Opulence, how can I help you?” The voice is so familiar. That's because it's your voice. You ended up being called in to fill for the hostess today. 

“I'm looking to inquire about a server's schedule. How do I go about doing that?” Titus doesn't realize it's you until he tells you your name. 

And you giggle that beautiful giggle that he is growing too fond of. “Oh my goodness, is this Titus? How are you! I didn't think you'd call in so soon. I haven't even looked you up yet. I was so tired after working that I—shit, sorry, I'm doing it again…babbling on and on.” 

“It's alright. I don't mind.” What the fuck? Of course he minds. He hates it when people blab on and on. 

Why is he acting like you're special? 

Maybe because you are, when you tell him all cutely, “aw, you're so sweet. I knew I'd like you. I'll have to sneak you something good when you come in. I'm serving this Saturday if you want to stop by!”

“You aren't working all week?” Today is Sunday. Is your next shift really Saturday?

“Ah, yeah. It's okay. I'll be alright. Saturdays are typically good days so I should make a decent amount!” You are wildly optimistic, despite the struggle to make ends meet. “Should I book you a reservation or do you want to just pop in? I'll try to leave a table standing for you if you want!” 

“You would do that?” 

“Of course! How about I do that and if you show up, you show up! If not, the restaurant will live with one less table to serve. They make plenty of money as is.” 

Titus doesn't get you at all. You don't know who he is but you're giving him the five star treatment regardless. 

Would you do this for anyone?

He doesn't like thinking that you would. That he isn't special in any way. That you're only doing this because you're just a nice person in general. 

He wants you to only be nice to him. He wants to monopolize your attention. 

“When do you get off work?” He asks. 

“I close on Saturday, so last reservation is at 9:30PM.” It goes completely over your head that he's asking when you're done with work. Other people would take that as a flirtation. You're too innocent to think of it as anything but a simple question. 

“Then book me a table at 9:30PM.” He decides that's when he'll see you, so he has the chance to see you after work too.

Even though Titus is unsure if that's a good idea. 

“Alright! Just you or are you bringing someone special?” You're only asking because you need to know how many people to put down on the reservation.

But Titus thinks you're asking because you want to know if he's single. “Just me. I don't have anyone special.” 

“Well then, we definitely should fix that.” You say to him, chuckling. “You're way too handsome to not have someone to spoil. I can ask around to see if any of my regulars are single. They're all around your age, super rich too! I can play matchmaker for you.” 

He doesn't want anyone special. He just wants you. But you aren't even putting yourself on the menu. You don't even consider yourself someone he would be interested in. Probably because you're so much younger than him and in a completely different tax bracket… 

“Do you have anyone special?” The question leaves his lips and he regrets asking. It's too forward.

But again, you're totally oblivious to it, since you're so used to customers asking you all sorts of personal questions. You don't see it as anything out of the ordinary. “Oh no. I've never even dated anyone before. Too busy working, you know!” 

Titus should not be happy to hear that but he is. He is very happy to know that you've never dated anyone before. Because that means there's a chance you've never been with anyone ever before. 

And now he's invested in you. 

His lovely new obsession. 

“Maybe we can change that. I'll see you on Saturday.” He says, smirking into the phone. 

You don't notice anything strange in his wording and just say back, “see you then, Titus!”

You hang up the work phone and go back to prepping the restaurant to be open. The hostess always comes in early in case people call in to make same day reservations, so you're glad you came in and caught Titus's call. You really need to look him up. 

You make plans to do so when you get home but then you get a notice from your landlord saying that you have a week to move out since their kid flunked out of college and needs the room back.

There goes your cheap rent… 

You then spend the rest of the week stuffing everything you can into your car and throwing out everything else. Thankfully the room was furnished so you didn't have any furniture to pack but…now everything you own is in your car. 

You've been calling different listings for places to live but no place at the same price point as your old place stays available for long enough. By the time Saturday rolls around, you're still unhoused and living out of your car. 

You have to buy a gym membership so you can shower and get ready for work. There's no way you can show up looking like you've been sleeping upright for the last few days. 

You feel like shit but you still put on your best smile when you get to work. You could use the tips for your deposit. 

But tonight, no one seems to want to tip you, specifically. 

You didn't realize they booked you with that influencer girl, so most tables are requesting her. Which is totally fine, it makes sense that people would want to come to see someone they follow online. 

You have a handful of regulars who tip you alright so you know you'll make it through this shift with some money in your pocket. Less than you'd hope, but enough to be okay. 

That's about to change real quick. 

Because the owner of the restaurant comes and grabs you, yanking you off the floor to ask you, “what the hell is Titus Danforth doing here?” 

“Oh, he's here already?” You look at your watch. It's fifteen minutes before his reservation. You didn't realize he was an early bird or you would've had his table ready sooner. 

“What do you mean “oh, he's here already"? You knew he was coming in?” 

“Yeah. I booked his reservation.” 

“You booked…” The owner looks like they're about to throw a fit. “Why didn't you tell me you booked a reservation for Titus Danforth? The books only had his initials!”

“That's…what we always do?” You're not supposed to put full names down, in case someone hacks in and sees an A-list celebrity has a reservation and then tries to come in at the same time. 

“Do you not know who he is?” 

You shake your head. You have been so busy all week that you haven't gotten to looking him up just yet. He must be a big deal if the owner is going nuts over him being here. 

“He is one of the wealthiest men on the fucking planet and you reserved him a standard table.” The owner pinches their brow. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Excuse me?” You didn't realize part of your job description was to research every wealthy person on the planet in case they show up here. Nor did you realize that being verbally abused over and over was suddenly an okay practice to do. “Look, I'm sorry, but—”

“Get the fuck out of my restaurant.” They point to the staff room, which has the private entrance/exit so customers don't see you leaving or entering the building. “Get your shit and go. Thankfully we have an actually competent server to help Titus Danforth tonight. We don't need you anymore.”

You can't believe this. You're seriously getting fired because you didn't know who Titus is. This is actually ridiculous.

“You know I just got evicted, right?” You had told them when it happened, in hopes you'd get more hours. 

“I don't give a fuck about your sob story. Just get out of my fucking restaurant now.” The owner shoves past you to go to the front of the house, presumably to talk to Titus. 

You let out a sigh. You did want to see him. You brought him something you figured might make him smile.

So when you spot your now-ex coworker, the influencer, in the staff room on her break, you open your locker and grab it, giving it to her.

“Hey, you're going to serve a Titus Danforth in a bit. Could you give this to him for me? I wanted to give it to him myself but I just got fired so I got to go.” 

“Oh shit. Is it because of Titus? Did he cuss you out or something?” Her words strike you as strange. 

“No…? Does he do that?” She would know, since she's all over that online drama stuff. 

“Oh yeah, all the fucking time. He gets people fired wherever he goes, like even over the tiniest little thing. I heard he's a fucking prick.” She takes your gift for Titus, looking at it. “Are you sure you want to give him something? Are you a fan of his? I know some billionaires have fans but I wouldn't pick him as my choice…”

“Just give it to him, please. Tell him it's from me and that I'm sorry I couldn't be here.”

“Alright.” She tucks it into her apron. “Good luck. Sorry you got fired.”

You shrug and wave goodbye as she heads out onto the floor. It does suck that you got fired but life happens. 

What can you do about it but move on? 

Titus can't seem to move on, though. 

He hasn't spotted you at all since he got to the restaurant. He came early in hopes of just watching you work for a little prior to you serving him. He expected to see you.

But the person serving him isn't you.

The owner personally apologizes to him for not booking him a private booth but managed to get one situated for him, despite it being a busy Saturday night. Titus couldn't care less where he sat. He's here to see you and that's it. 

But you aren't the one serving him for some reason. 

So he asks the server where you are and she tells him, “I'm so sorry, Mr. Danforth. She was let go because she didn't know who you were and booked you at a standard table. The owner never wants their VIPs to ever be booked at a standard table. She should've known better.” 

Titus scoffs. “What the fuck? I wouldn't even be here if it wasn't for her. I have come here maybe twice with my father. He's the VIP. I'm just a regular customer. She booked me correctly.”

“You're a Danforth, sir.” Titus does not like the sound of the word sir coming out of anyone's mouth but yours. 

“Where is she?” Titus looks around. “Did she leave already?”

“Yes, I think so. She probably finished packing up her stuff and left. She did tell me to give you this, though. And to tell you that she's sorry she couldn't be here.” The server hands him a little box. 

He opens it. It's…a small sewing kit. The same one like you had in your bag. 

With a cute note attached saying: For any future repairs ♡

You had planned to tell Titus that you'd show him a few different ways to sew up a snag, to go with the gift, but you can't now obviously. You probably will never see him again. 

You put all your work stuff with the rest of your things in your car, sighing. You didn't think you'd be off so early, so now you have to figure out where to park. Most places aren't free to park until 10PM so you could wait in your work parking lot until then but you don't really want to stick around a place that fired you… 

But then, you look up at the sky and decide it's okay to stay for a little. You'll miss working here. It's just a few miles out of the city, in a beautiful part where plenty of wealthy people live, with barely any light pollution. 

There's so many stars out tonight. 

You sit up on the hood of your car, staring up at the night sky from this vantage point one last time. You're so engrossed by the sight of the stars that you don't notice a figure walking up to you until a shadow engulfs you.

You turn your head to see… “Titus?” 

How did he find the employee parking lot? 

It's quite an uphill trek from the restaurant, which is on purpose since the restaurant valet would prefer to not have any “ugly” cars parked in that lot.

Titus just stares at you, at how pretty you look in the light of the stars and the moon. How they seem to add an extra sparkle in your eyes. How he is so grateful he caught up to you before you left. 

There was no way he was going to wait any longer to see you again. 

He wasn't going to let some fucking stupid restaurant owner get in his way. 

“I heard you got fired.” He says to you, noticing how cleaned up you look in your work attire compared to the casual clothes from before. “I didn't end up staying since you weren't there.” 

“Aw, you should've at least enjoyed the food.” You feel bad he just left. 

“Did you like working at that restaurant?” He asks because he just bought it and if you wanted to, you come back to work there. He won't tell you he bought it, of course, but he would get you your job back. 

But it doesn't seem like you want to, from the way you shrug. “It was nice while it lasted. Maybe this is the universe telling me I need to be somewhere else.” 

“What do you mean?” 

You pat the hood of your car, inviting him to sit with you. He would never normally do this. Especially on an old car like yours. But he does, for some reason. 

For you. To be next to you. 

Titus sits beside you in his designer clothes and you giggle, pulling your knees up to your chest, leaning your head against them as you look at him. “We really are from two different worlds, aren't we?” 

“Are you going to move?” He noticed all your things packed in your car. 

“I don't know.” You look back up at the stars. “I don't have a place to stay right now. I don't have a job. I don't have anything besides what I got right here.” 

Again, he just stares at you. But this time, it's because he has never met anyone like you before. He has met people who are desperate, who would do anything to get out of whatever hole they dug themselves into. 

But, despite whatever life has thrown at you, you don't show any signs of that same desperation.

You actually seem content to just look at the stars in the sky, basking in the moonlight, enjoying the moment, ignoring the reality of your situation for a second. 

“Do you like stargazing?” You turn your head towards Titus again. 

“I don't really look up.” 

You chuckle at that. “I guess when you're one of the richest men on the planet, you only look down, right?”

“So you looked me up?” Titus figured you would eventually. 

But you shake your head. “I didn't have any time to. Had to pack all my stuff into my car this week since I got evicted. I just heard that from the owner. Sorry, bad joke.” 

“What else did you hear about me then?” He wants to know what you know. 

“My ex-coworker said you're a fucking prick.” You reply, followed by another cute laugh. “I wonder what you must've done to give the internet that impression.” 

“You don't think I'm a prick?” He would understand if you did. He is a fucking prick. The worst of the worst. 

But you don't judge people based on the words of others. Maybe that is naive of you but you like to believe most people are good people. Though you have no clue who you're sitting next to right now… 

“Do you want me to think you're a prick?” You nudge him playfully like you had before. “I can do that if you want.” 

“How can you be so…normal around me? After learning who I am?” Titus hasn't noticed any change in your behavior. 

You're acting exactly like you had when you first met him. 

“Am I supposed to act a certain way around a man with money?” You tilt your head at him, feigning befuddlement. “Should I get on my hands and knees and beg you for a crumb of your wealth, sir?”

Yes. Titus wants to say but then you laugh, obviously having said what you said as a joke, so he bites his tongue. But it's hard not to imagine you on your hands and knees, with his cock buried inside of you from behind, moaning beneath him. 

He needs to figure out how to curb his desire for you. This is getting out of hand. 

Especially when you nudge him again and point at the sky. “Look, or you'll miss it!”

Titus looks up and a shooting star blazes across the sky, drawing a line of light for just a moment before disappearing. 

“Did you wish for anything?” You ask him, still displaying that brilliant smile he's growing to love. 

“No. Did you?” Titus doesn't make wishes. He can get whatever he wants. 

Except you and your free spirit. “I wished for a sign from the universe to tell me where to go next.” 

You're like a pretty bird, ready to soar towards your next adventure. You never stay in one place for too long. 

Titus won't have that. He needs to cage you. To keep you. 

So, he says to you, “do you want to work for me?” 

You raise an eyebrow at him. “Doing what? Do you own a restaurant I can serve at?”

He literally owns the place that fired you but…he won't tell you that now. 

Instead, he tells you, “I recently fired my personal assistant so I'm looking for a new one. You'd get your own room in my apartment and you can buy food and other necessities on my card.” 

“What does a personal assistant for Titus Danforth do?” You lean your head against your knees, looking up at him. “Am I writing emails all day or…?” 

“Just whatever I need help getting done for the day.” Like getting off. He really wants to get off. He hasn't cum since he fired that maid. He wants to cum inside of you.

Maybe even without a condom.  

You don't seem to notice the lust in his gaze at all. Probably because no one has ever looked at you like that before. 

“You should get someone with actual personal assistant experience.” You definitely aren't the right fit. You've mainly worked in restaurants, minus that singular stint you did at a retail store in your teens. “Also, you definitely shouldn't hire someone you've only known for like an hour.” 

You chuckle, the sound so intoxicating to him. Little do you know, you have been on his mind every second of every day since the moment you left his sight. He tried his best not to let his mind wander to you but it always did. 

“I was following your lead. The universe brought you to me when I needed a personal assistant and the universe brought me to you when you needed a job. Is that not a sign?” He manipulates your wish and uses it against you. 

“I guess you're right.” You tap your finger against your lips, which makes Titus stare very closely at them, wishing he could kiss you. “But still, you barely know me.” 

“You barely know me.” He counters and that makes you laugh again. 

“Touché!” You lean against him a little as you giggle then move away. “Alright, why not! If I'm horrible, you can always fire me. I heard you're very good at it.”

Titus will never get used to the casual touches you do. You are so relaxed around him. You should be more guarded. 

You have no idea what he has in store for you now that he has you in his grasp…

You don't get what Titus's last personal assistant must have done to get fired. This has got to be the easiest job you've ever had. And the benefits are incredible! 

Titus gave you a super nice car, completely paid off, since he doesn't want his personal assistant to be driving something dingy. You have all brand new, designer clothes in your closet that fit you perfectly and match your style. He apparently had people come over once you moved your things in to sift through your closet and figure out what you would like so that you had clothes to wear when you went out with him. 

You go out with Titus a lot. Mostly to restaurants he's scoping out, thinking of buying or investing in. You and him eat and drink and laugh and chat so much that you're shocked this is even considered work. 

Your paycheck is also enormous too and he even helped you set up a high yield savings account at the bank his family runs with a very good rate. 

You're making more money now than you have your entire life. 

You don't have anything to use it on, either. Titus pays for everything, always. You try to pay sometimes, for groceries or for household goods, but then he just adds the money to your paycheck when you do, effectively zeroing it back out. You get that he is obscenely wealthy but you don't want him to always have to pay. 

“It's an insult when you try to pay for me.” Titus tells you as he drives the two of you from the airport to a resort on the tropical island he's thinking of investing in. 

“This rental car cost like a tenth of my check. You could've let me pay for it.” You pout at him and he shakes his head at you. 

“A tenth of your check is not even a penny to me.” He will not have you spending any money when he has plenty. 

“Oh, I'm sorry, I forgot I'm in the presence of an almost trillionaire. My apologies, sir.” You exaggerate a bow then giggle. 

It has been months since Titus hired you to be his “personal assistant” and he still hasn't touched you. He has no idea how he is keeping it together, especially when you laugh so beautifully like that all the time and jokingly call him sir. 

You are so playful and so cute that he just wants to eat you up. 

But you are horribly oblivious to any and all of his advances. 

You two go out to eat and you think it's just work. You two stay in a hotel suite together and you think it's just work. You two go on vacations together and you really, truly, seriously think this is just a work excursion. 

That is totally why Titus paid for the all inclusive resort package for the two of you that includes a private pool attached to the room. 

Though this time, he made sure there was only one bed. The last few times, the hotels and resorts you've been to have had other rooms available to swap to, so you and Titus have never had to sleep in the same bed. 

That changes today. He booked out all of the available rooms to ensure you had to sleep in the same bed as him. You can't avoid him now. 

“Are you sure this is okay?” You stare at the king sized bed in the very nice room. “I can sleep on the floor. Or the tub. I've done that before when I've crashed at people's places.” 

“I'm not letting you sleep in a tub.” The idea makes him grimace. 

“I'm surprised there isn't like a couch or something.” You would assume a fancy resort like this would have more furniture in the room but there's really only the bed and the desk and you can't sleep in a desk chair for a week. 

Titus made sure there was no alternate sleeping places. They took the couch out and rearranged the furniture to make it look like this is what the room should look like. And Titus told you that you shouldn't ever look up anywhere you and him go since he wants you to experience it blind to get the best feel for the place. You listen because he's your boss. 

Now you're going to be sharing a bed with your boss… 

“There really weren't any other rooms?” It's a huge resort. Though, it does look like there's some kind of convention going on. 

It's packed on the island right now!

“Is the idea of sleeping with me that horrible?” Titus tries to be playful with this question but there's a bite to his tone he can't hide. 

You, again, are oblivious to it. “No, not at all. I just feel bad because you probably don't want to sleep with me.” 

“I don't mind.” He wants to desperately. 

“Hopefully I'm not a weird sleeper.” 

“You've never slept with someone before?” He finally has a chance to casually ask this question. 

“I've shared a bed with friends on trips and stuff like that to save money.” Again, it goes over your head that he's not referring to real sleeping. “They've never complained but like what if I kick you in my sleep? I would feel so bad!”

“That should be the least of your worries.” You'll be lucky if you have the opportunity to actually sleep. 

“I know. If you don't think it's a big deal, then I shouldn't worry about it.” You appreciate that he's looking out for you.

Titus has no idea how you got to your age and you're so fucking oblivious to the fact that he wants to pin you down on this bed and fuck the brains out of you. 

Maybe it's because you don't see him as a man. You only see him as your boss. You haven't put it together in your mind that he should be someone you should be careful around. 

But you aren't careful at all. 

You casually touch his arm when you're walking past him so you don't accidentally bump into him on the way to the closet to unpack your things. You place your hands on him to straighten out his clothes without warning. You nuzzle your cheek against his shoulder then flash him a big smile whenever you feel like bothering him with an ask of something kind.

Like, “can we get smoothie bowls? Please!”

“Please what?” He pokes your nose and you laugh, knowing what he's looking for. 

“Please, sir. Can we get smoothie bowls?” You bat your eyelashes at him, like you always do.

It takes everything in his soul not to grab you and kiss you. He opts to clench his fist tight and gives you an even tighter lipped smile in response.

“Sure.” His heart races at how happy you look.

“Great, I'm starving and that place looked so good.” 

It's one of the restaurants in the resort. A cute hut that makes smoothie bowls. It should be included in the resort package, though Titus wouldn't care how much it cost regardless. 

As long as he gets to see you all giddy to eat a colorful bowl of fruit layered on top of a smoothie, he would pay anything. 

“You know, you haven't called Pepper back.” You manage Titus's personal cellphone and his father recently sent him a bunch of potential matches for marriage. 

Titus went out with one of them as a formality but hated being there. It meant he wasn't with you that day and he hates not being with you. Everyone else in his world is dull and power-hungry. 

You're a breath of fresh air.

Except when you push him away from you. “She seemed really nice. She sent the yummiest fruit basket to the apartment. I was just thinking about it since these fruits are just as yummy.” 

Titus digs his spoon into the smoothie bowl the two of you are sharing because he didn't want to get his own and you offered to share yours with him so he could try it. The fruits are good, in season, ripe, sweet. Like how he imagines you must taste. 

“You do realize if I get married, you'd be out of a job.” Titus is harsher with his words than he intends but he can't hide his annoyance that you don't view him as someone of interest. You never look flustered around him.

Not even when he pulls you towards him by wrapping his arms around your waist so that someone doesn't bump into you as they run by. His hands linger at your sides. You don't seem startled at all that he's touching you.

“Oh my goodness, that person almost rammed into me!” You catch your breath, your heart racing. “Thanks, Titus.” 

You pat him gently on the chest, then look up at his face. He almost flinches when you reach up and cup his jaw with your hand. He almost expects you to lean up and kiss him.

But instead, you wipe a bit of smoothie off the corner of his lip and then proceed to lick it off your thumb. “You had a little drip. Can't have you walking around with—”

Titus can't stand it anymore and just kisses you. His arms hook you in closer to him, locking you to his chest, before his lips crash down onto yours. 

You don't know what's going on.

You've never been kissed before. 

Is this a kiss? Why is Titus kissing you? 

His lips are so soft against yours. You don't know what to do. 

Should you kiss him back? But he's your boss… 

A weird feeling pangs in your chest. The one you've been avoiding. Ignoring, because you figured it was just silly to imagine that he likes you. 

Now that you're getting some proof that he does, maybe even just physically, you're suddenly afraid that everything is going to change. And you don't want things to change. You liked how everything was. 

“Titus…” You breathe out against his lips when he finally lets you swallow air again. 

You don't have any words to say. You can't form the sentence you want to speak aloud. Because you should tell him not to do that again. That he's your boss and you're his assistant. 

But instead, you ask him, “is this why you fired your last assistant?”

Your words catch him by surprise. He wasn't expecting you to ask that of all things right after he kissed you for the first time. 

“What are you talking about?” His head is all over the place, his heart pounding in his chest. He wants to kiss you again but you're looking at him with such devastation in your eyes. And he can't help but like the look of it. 

Because is this not that same envy you had for that influencer? 

“Did your last assistant…let you kiss them? Was that in their job description…” Your stomach is doing somersaults and you feel nauseous from the fear that everything is going to change forever. “Because I-I don't know if I can do that if it is.” 

“You don't want to kiss me?” Fury causes Titus to dig his nails further into his fist, his palm bleeding. 

There was always a chance you didn't like him. That your sweetness was just a facade. 

Is that what you're showing him now? That you weren't the genuinely aloof, adorable girl he wants so badly to fuck up? 

You glance down at his fist, at the blood dripping from it. “Titus, your hand!” 

He watches as you grab a hold of his hand, opening his fist up, seeing the way his nails had dug into his palm.

“Oh no, shit, I knew we should've gotten manicures before we flew here.” 

The edges of his nails are all sharp since it's been a while. You were planning on booking one of the resorts’ manicurists to come to the room. You should've thought of this sooner. 

You quickly grab some napkins and apply pressure to the cut. “Are you okay? Does it hurt?”

“I just kissed you and you give more of a fuck about my hand?” He yanks his hand out of your hold. “Are you fucking serious?” 

Your throat is closing up. This reminds you of when the owner of the restaurant yelled at you. Only this time, it's Titus. And seeing him angry with you scares you to the point where you can't control the tears that are blurring your vision.

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry.” You try to find some words to say but none of them will come out. You're so nervous all of a sudden.

Titus has never seen you like this before. Flustered, scared, anxious, delicious. He wants more of this side of you. The one that you've been hiding under that confident mask of yours. 

The girl underneath who wants nothing more than to be spoiled rotten. 

Without letting you say anything else, Titus scoops you up into his arms, carrying you back to the room. You cling onto him, shocked that he's carrying you so easily. 

Though, should you be shocked? 

You have seen him practically naked before, wearing only his boxers around the apartment. You know he works out because he has a gym set up. You have watched him exercise before. 

But for some reason, the thought of him without any clothes on is making your heart flip flop on your chest. You've never felt whatever feeling is stirring inside of you. 

Is this…lust? 

Titus opens the door to the room and then proceeds to toss you onto the bed. You scramble to sit up, backing up until your back is against the headboard. He climbs onto the bed like a predator stalking its prey until he has you trapped beneath him. 

Your heart is going to leap out of your chest at this point. You've never seen Titus look so…hungry before. Like he wants to devour you whole. 

“I don't care to wait anymore.” He tells you, looking you up and down like he's planning out how to feast on you. “I don't care if you scream. I don't care if you fight back. I fucking don't care anymore. I'm done waiting for you.” 

“Wait, wait, Titus—” You can't stop him from kissing you, his lips sealing over yours, stealing your breath away when he slips his tongue into your mouth. The warmth of it mixing with yours makes you dizzy. 

You didn't realize kissing could feel so…hot. You taste the smoothie bowl, that sweet fruit flavor on his tongue. You like it a lot. You like kissing him a lot. 

That's why you have to stop him. You can't be doing this. He can't be doing this. He's about to marry someone else. His father will make sure of that. And then you'll just have been some blip in his memory. 

That's all you'll be.

And you don't want that.

You want to be able to remember your time with Titus fondly. 

“Please, Titus, let me talk.” You beg against his lips. 

“I'm not going to stop so don't waste your breath.” He goes to kiss down your jaw, to the column of your neck, placing a bite right in the center that stings and shoots a tingle down to your core, something you've never felt before. 

“I don't want you to stop.” Your words flip a switch in his head and he lifts up from your neck to look at you, confused. 

That wasn't what he was expecting. Nor was he expecting the tears that are welling up in your eyes. They aren't from fear. 

They're…from sadness. 

Longing to be specific. 

Yearning, more like it. 

“But you need to know if we do this, you're going to break my heart.” You go to wipe the tears that spill from your eyes with your hands. “So if you want to do this, we can. But it will hurt me more than you will ever know.”

“Why?” He doesn't understand. 

How can he break your heart when he doesn't even have it yet? 

You cup his face, pulling him up towards you so you can lay your forehead against his, before you tell him, “because I know I'm just one of many people you've done this with. You like me now, sure, but there's no guarantee that'll last. And you can't promise me it will. I won't believe you. But…”

You let out a sigh, before you lean in and press a kiss on his lips. He's so stunned to feel you kiss him.

He's even more stunned when you tell him, “I don't mind if you break my heart. I just want you to be aware that you will.” 

You give him a soft smile, like you always do, and it burns a hole in his chest. 

“You aren't one of many.” He knows that to be a fact. He has never wanted to spend time with anyone like he has with you. 

“Then tell me about the person before me. Did you kiss them too?” You know the answer from the look on his face but you want him to say it. 

“I didn't have a personal assistant before you.” That's the honest truth.

But you know it's not the full truth. “Who did you have before me?”

“She was just a maid.” 

“Will I be “just a personal assistant” one day?” Your words make him ache in ways he never thought possible. 

“No.” He shakes his head. He doesn't want you to just be a personal assistant to him. 

He wants you.

“Did you break her heart?” 

“We just fucked. That's it. I didn't feel anything for her.” The words slip from his lips and you catch them.

“You feel something for me?” So this isn't just physical. What is it then? 

“You have to understand.” Titus won't hold himself back anymore. “You are never going to be able to leave me. I would rather kill you than let anyone else have you.” 

“Then kill me.” You pull his hands up to wrap around your throat, wanting him to squeeze. “Because I'd rather die than know one day, you'll leave me for someone else. For another pretty girl who caught your eye. I'd rather die than witness someone else having you after I've gotten a taste.”

“Then why did you push me towards Pepper?”

“That was before I knew you felt the same way about me that I do about you.” 

You can't help yourself. You lean in and kiss him again, just so you can remember the feeling of his lips on yours before you die. Those soft lips. How you yearn to feel them all over your skin. 

But the moment you do, your heart will surely shatter. 

“I don't want anyone else but you.” He says so clearly that you almost believe him. 

“Maybe for right now.” You brush your nose against his, that playfulness still shining through even in your despair. “But you should be honest with yourself. You don't want a relationship with me. I know you don't.” 

You don't know how to explain it. But you're sure Titus doesn't want you to be his girlfriend. Or his wife. 

He just wants you to be his. 

And you can do that. 

You can be his. 

But it will hurt you tremendously in the process. 

Is he willing to do that to you? 

Titus moves his hands off of your neck and then gets up from the bed, straightening himself out. Then, he goes to the phone at the desk, dialing the front desk. 

“I need another room.” He says to the receptionist, who is fully aware of all the rooms he has booked. “Either one that connects or a suite with two bedrooms. Just pick one and send the keycards here.” 

“Right away, Mr. Danforth.” They hang up and before you have time to process what's happening, there's a knock on the door.

Titus grabs the new keycards and goes to pack your things up back into your suitcase and then he does his own. You're sitting there, stunned. 

Because you realize he wanted to sleep next to you. That's why he booked this room in particular. There were rooms available. But he wanted to share a bed with you, so he convinced you there weren't.

And now, he doesn't anymore. 

Because hurting you is something he can't do, for some reason. 

He liked seeing you shy and flustered but hurt…that didn't spark what he thought it would inside of him. What it usually does inside of him. 

When he gathers everything, he tells you, “come on, let's go to our new rooms.”

“Titus…” You're speechless for once. You normally have a quip of some kind but…you don't right now. 

“You're right. I don't know what I was thinking. You can't mean anything to me and I would be a fucking idiot to think you could. I was just thinking with my cock. It won't happen again.” Titus gestures for you to take your bags. “Now come on, we have a resort to check out. Let's get to work.” 

And that's all it is. 

Work. 

Because that's all it will ever be, right?

“A little birdie told me something interesting.” Ursula smiles that wicked grin of hers at Titus, while they're having brunch at the Danforth Resort together. “You haven't fucked your personal assistant yet. It's been over a year. I find that impressive, Titus.” 

“Who the fuck would tell you something like that?” He rolls his eyes at her. 

She's telling the truth, though. He hasn't fucked you. He hasn't even kissed you since that time. 

“Your housekeepers will do anything for a little extra cash.” She only had to add a bit more to their checks to get them to spill the details about you and Titus. “From what I hear, your personal assistant is more like a roommate you pay. And you don't even fuck her. That's just weird.” 

“It's weird that you give a fuck about who I'm fucking.” 

Ursula shrugs. “I give more of a fuck that you've been acting like an asshole because you're all pent up. Just go fuck one of the people you have on speed dial and get it over with already.”

“Okay, I will.” He leaves the table then, done with this brunch.

But he doesn't go to one of the many fuckbuddies he has.

He just goes straight home to you. 

Because he doesn't want to fuck anyone. 

It's like there's something wrong with him. If he isn't thinking about you, he can't get hard. His body won't let him fuck anyone else. 

But maybe that's his heart getting in the way. 

You and him have found that rhythm from before again, albeit with a slight change. You do get flustered whenever he touches you now. And you don't touch him as casually as you used to anymore. He likes that you're finally seeing him as a man. But he hates that you no longer feel relaxed around him. 

You apologize a lot more now. You aren't as playful because you're nervous you'll say something you shouldn't. 

It's killing him inside. 

Especially on days like today, where you seem like you're back to the way you were before, smiling at him when he gets home, “welcome back! How was brunch?” 

“Horrible.” He pulls off his dress shirt, tossing it into the hamper. 

You hand him one of the softer shirts he wears at home and he slips it on. He catches the way your eyes linger on his body for a second before you shake your head, like you're trying to shake away the thoughts you were having. 

You distract yourself by asking, “did you bring me that pastry?”

“Fuck, I forgot.” He was in a rush to leave. 

Usually when he goes to brunch with Ursula at the Danforth Resort, you would beg him to get this one pastry for you since it's a specialty dessert there. He always got it for you, so he could watch you happily devour it. 

“Oh it's okay!” You wave him off. “No big deal. I will just dream about it until next time.” 

“We can go right now.” 

You look at him like he's gone crazy. “You just drove back. It's alright. I don't mind waiting.” 

Waiting. Titus hates that fucking word. 

He hates waiting. He hates it so much. He hates that he has to wait and wait and wait until everything falls into place so that he can have even the slightest chance of being with you. Of making you his, forever. 

You seem content to wait but he doesn't know for how long. 

He knows you've been looking for another job.

He knows you've been talking with other men. 

Sure, they're "just friends” of yours but…he can't stand it. 

He can't take another day of waiting for you to be his.

He needs this to work. 

Titus cannot live without you. 

So, he waits for everything to align exactly the way he needs it to. 

Then, he will make you his. 

But plans never do go the way he thinks.

Because you've caught the eye of a certain member of the High Council. 

“Ignacio?” You see him at one of the events Titus brings you to and he comes rushing up to you, giving you a big hug. 

Something that makes Titus's jaw tighten. 

“Now where have you been, mi cielito?” He swings you around, making you giggle. “I have missed having you serve me. Opulence has declined since you left.” 

“I got fired.” You tell him as he sets you down. 

“They fired you? But doesn't Titus—” 

When Ignacio meets Titus's deadly glare, he doesn't say another word. 

Instead, he clears his throat and goes, “well, regardless, they were sorely mistaken in choosing to let you go.”

“If I knew you'd be here, I would've brought you something.” You used to bring him cute little charms for his guns. 

“What are you doing here? I heard Titus had a personal assistant but I had no idea it would be you. How did you two meet?” 

“It's a funny story.” You say with that soft giggle of yours. 

Titus is learning right now that you show that side of yourself to others. Not just him. Ignacio seems well versed in how precious you can be, his eyes roaming your body. He must like how gorgeous you look in the designer dress Titus picked out for you for this event. 

“Would you like a drink? I'd love to hear about it.” As much as Ignacio wouldn't want to light any fury in Titus, he has missed the chats you two used to have so he is willing to risk it. 

Titus opens his mouth to answer for you but then you go, “oh sure! Titus, you don't mind right? I'll be right back!”

Of course he minds. Of course he fucking minds. You're not supposed to want to spend time with anyone except for him. 

And yet you're choosing Ignacio? Over him? 

He can't stop you from walking away. He can't stop you from smiling at Ignacio as you hook your arm in his, doing that affectionate cheek rub against his shoulder, making Ignacio pinch your nose in response. You laugh so beautifully as the two of you chat about something Titus is too far away to hear.

Ignacio touches you so casually, like the two of you have a deeper relationship. But you told Titus you never dated before. 

But you never told him if you ever fucked someone before. 

From the way Ignacio is holding your hip with one hand and his drink in the other, Titus can't help but imagine that you aren't the innocent girl he thought you were. Especially when you smile all bashfully before placing your hand against Ignacio's chest, using your finger to draw little circles over where his heart is. 

“I think your boss wants me dead.” Ignacio whispers to you. “You shouldn't glance over there. You'll see quite the death glare.” 

“He won't do anything to you, don't worry.” You know Titus won't. 

“I heard a rumor about you.” He has been meaning to ask, since now he knows you're Titus's personal assistant. “You haven't slept with him. Is that true?” 

“Is that…surprising?” 

Ignacio shrugs. “He is quite fond of the help, from what I hear. Fond of firing them too, when he's done with them.”

That you are well aware of. You've seen it before. Titus fired all of his housekeeping staff recently and hired brand new ones, who only come when you and him aren't at the apartment at all. You still don't know why he did that but you don't ask. It isn't your place to. 

“If you need a job, I have many places you can work. Just give me a call anytime.” Ignacio puts his hand out and you give him your phone, letting him add his personal number to it. “I should let you go back to your boss now. Adiós, mi cielito.” 

Ignacio kisses you on the temple before heading over to say hello to another set of patrons at the event. You make your way back to Titus, who has maintained his glare this whole time.

The question he asks you when you're back by his side startles you. “Have you fucked him?”

“What?” You raise an eyebrow at Titus, shocked he'd ask you something like that. 

“I said, have you fucked Ignacio?” His tone grows harsher. “Answer me.”

“I have not fucked anyone.” You scoff, setting your drink down. You haven't even taken a sip and now you definitely don't want to. 

Because you know the moment your inhibitions drop, you'll say something you really don't want to. 

But then Titus goes, “I bet you want to fuck him.” 

And you can't hold it in anymore. “Why do you care? I'm just the help. Though apparently you always fuck the help so maybe I'm not even that to you.” 

You have never snapped at Titus like this before. That's why he has no idea what to say. He didn't think you had it in you to feel any kind of jealousy. You normally are so chill, even when he talks to other people. 

Have you been harboring envy this whole time? 

You hate to admit that. You hate when your mind trails to the fact that he has been with other people and that he will be with other people after you. That you aren't anything but this weird pastime of his for right now. 

But that ends today. 

You can't keep doing this.

You can't keep pretending like you can stay by his side and nothing has changed. 

“I'm going to work for Ignacio.” You tell him straight up, even though you haven't formally agreed to anything. “So, you can go and hire some other person and fuck them because I do not want to be here when you inevitably do. I'm leaving to pack my things.” 

But he doesn't let you leave. Not without him.

Titus grabs you by the arm and drags you out to the underground parking lot, where he has his car parked for the event. 

“Let go of me!” You tug at him but he won't budge. “Titus!”

“Shut the fuck up!” He yells right in your face and you're so taken back that you can't speak. He has never yelled at you like that before. 

It makes your heart race in ways you've never felt before. 

He opens the backseat of his car and tosses you inside. Then, he gets in and shuts the door behind him, climbing on top of you. 

You should've guessed what would happen next but you're still shocked when his lips come crashing down onto yours as his hands slide up your legs, hiking up your skirt. You gasp against his lips when he rips off your underwear, tossing it aside.

“Wait, wait—” Your pleas are silenced by his lips, his tongue slipping into your mouth to hold it hostage. You can't breathe. You're getting lightheaded. 

It only gets worse when you feel his thumb trail down your bare pussy, a feeling you've never felt before. You squirm, shoving at him, trying to close your legs but he has your thighs pinned down with his knees. 

You're trapped beneath him. 

You're at his mercy. 

You can't let him do this. 

You'll never be able to leave if you do. 

You pull his face off of you and he snarls like a rabid animal in response but you have to get your words out, “please don't do this. You don't want this. You don't want me. You know you don't.”

He lets out the most menacing laugh you've ever heard before he responds, “that's where you're wrong. All I have ever wanted was you. All I want is to do this with you. How dare you try to leave me. Don't fucking try to stop me now because you're never getting away from me.” 

“For how long, though?” Your words freeze him in place. “Titus, I don't want to do this if you're just going to fuck someone else later. Let me go, please.” 

“What will it take for you to believe that I only want you?” Because he can't let you go. He can't.

You're everything to him. 

He'd rather die than ever let you go. 

What will it take, though? 

Horrible, sinful, ugly things cross your mind. Thoughts of you caging him as much as he wants to cage you. 

You both falling into the trap that is one another. 

“Stop right now and wait until I'm ready.” You lean up, pressing your forehead against his. “Because I will be ready. But I don't want our first time together to be in a car after a fight. Please, sir.” 

You're playing dirty, pulling that out now. But it satisfies Titus enough to nod. 

“I want to kiss and touch you whenever I want.” That is his only ask as part of this deal. “I will wait to fuck you as long as you promise you won't go.”

“Okay.” You press a kiss against his lips, one that he immediately leans into, savoring. You smile then breathe out, your warm breath like heaven on his lips, “I'm not going anywhere. I promise, sir.” 

“No talking to other men. No looking for other jobs. You sleep in my bed from now on. You aren't allowed to think of leaving me.” He nips at your bottom lip, his teeth sinking in hard enough to make it bleed. “Got it?”

You lick your lips, tasting the iron, then you lean in, biting his lip until he bleeds, before you kiss him, mixing yours with his. Then, you tell him with a little brush of your nose against his, “as long as you do the same. You're mine, Titus.” 

He lets out that dark chuckle of his, the one that he has been keeping in, the sinister laugh that is flooding his system with the darkness he has been dying to let out. 

“I am going to fuck you up.” His devilish grin sends such a thrill through you. 

“Only me, okay?” You don't want him to look at anyone else like this. 

“Only you. You're my obsession.” His gaze trails down the length of your body and he groans at the sight of your pussy, his cock wanting to sink inside of you right now. 

Titus settles for burying his face between your legs. You try to push him away, “Titus! What are you—”

“Keep your voice down.” He instructs, his hot breath tickling your clit. “Unless you want people to know I'm eating you out in my car right now.” 

“Can't we wait until we're home?” Your words make him smile. 

So, you consider his apartment home. 

He likes that a lot. 

“I'm done waiting.” He says right as he drags the length of his tongue along your folds, making your whole body shudder. His hand slides down to knead his cock through his pants, which is getting terribly hard at the sight of you trembling from his touch. “You taste exactly how I thought you would.” 

“I've never done this before.” You're scared. It feels so intense, his tongue swirling around your clit, the stimulation shooting sparks straight to your core. 

Tension is building inside of you, coiling in your lower stomach, threatening to burst. 

“You've never cum before?” Titus grip his cock harder when you nod in response. 

He will have to lock you up in the apartment from now on. 

Because if you have never tasted pleasure before, if he is your first everything, how is he supposed to ever let you out of his sight? 

He needs to corrupt you. He needs you begging for him to make you cum once you've grown addicted to it. 

But first, he needs to show you how good it feels. 

“Put your hands in my hair.” He commands and you listen, lacing your fingers through his curls. “Now listen carefully. Whenever I do something you like, you tug or I won't know, okay?” 

“I don't want to hurt you.” You let out in a quiet little murmur that he finds so precious. 

Because he wants to fuck you up even more now. 

His sweet little innocent girl. 

“That's not how you answer me.” He takes a bite out of your thigh as punishment, making you yelp from the sudden sting. “Do it right. Are you going to pull my hair when you feel good? 

“Yes, sir.” You immediately tug when he dives back in, thrusting his tongue deep inside of you. You've never felt anything like this before. “Oh my—”

You can't breathe when his hand slides between your legs, his thumb swiping over your clit as his tongue ravishes your insides. You're pulling so hard on his hair, holding him there, the pleasure building so quickly that you're feeling like you're going to explode. 

“Wait, wait, Titus, I'm going to—” You squirm when his fingers start playing with your clit, which is getting firmer from his touch, easier for him to rub methodically. 

The tip of his tongue presses up against that spot right beneath your clit inside of you, teasing it back and forth, and your body gushes. 

You bite down on your lip as hard as possible when your orgasm crashes through you, flooding every inch of your skin with an unfamiliar heat. It's like your core has been set ablaze, warmth pooling between your legs that Titus is lapping up with his tongue. 

“Good job.” He praises you, seeing how hard you came for your first time. “You even squirted a little.”

“Sorry.” You feel so embarrassed. 

“I hate it when you say sorry.” Titus leans back in, sealing his lips around your clit then starts sucking on it, pulling a scream from your lips at the sudden jolt of pleasure. 

“Titus! Stop, I just came, you can't—” You cum again before you can get any more words out, your vision going blurry. 

“Your clit is throbbing.” He flicks it with his tongue, your body convulsing in response. “That was your punishment for saying sorry. All I want to hear is “thank you for making me cum, sir”.” 

He waits for you to say it. Your heart is pounding so hard in your ears right now that you're unsure if you heard him correctly. 

But you say it perfectly, “thank you for making me cum, sir.” 

“Good girl.” He pulls you towards him, kissing you, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. He pokes your nose with his before telling you, “now we're going to go home and I'm going to do that again. Got it?” 

“Yes, sir.” You nod. Then, you don't stop yourself from giving him a peck on the lips. 

And Titus knows, in that moment, that he wants to see this look on your face everyday.

With that heat in your gaze that will only ever be for him.

The drive home is unbelievably uncomfortable because you're so wet between your legs and every bump in the road tortures your swollen clit. Not having any underwear on makes it way worse. 

Then there's the traffic. So much traffic. 

It's going to take forever to get home.

Titus glances over at you and he can't help the smile that forms when he sees you squirming. He really likes seeing you all hot and bothered. 

That's why he decides to have a little more fun. So he turns to you and says, “hold up your skirt.” 

“What?” You don't know if you heard him right. 

“I said hold up your skirt. Do it now.” 

“Titus…” You glance around. 

You know the windows of the car are tinted but you both are stuck in bumper to bumper traffic right now. There's cars on all sides of you. Someone is bound to see your bare pussy if they happen to look in. 

“I'll punish you with something worse if you don't listen.” He makes his threat and you swallow. You're unsure if you can handle another one of his punishments… 

“Okay, okay.” You grab the hem of your dress with both hands and lift it past your hips. 

“Have you ever touched yourself before?” He asks, his eyes darting between the highway and your pussy, one hand still on the wheel, the other hand unzipping his pants. His cock is going to burst out if he doesn't give it some relief soon. 

You confess. “Not really. I've never really been interested in sex until…now.” 

If Titus could pull over right here and fuck you, he would. You gulp when he turns to look at you, his gaze more intense than you've ever seen it. 

“Why don't you try right now?” He pulls his cock out of his pants and you see it for the first time. 

Technically, you have seen the outline of his cock many times before, since Titus likes to, on occasion, walk around in just his boxer briefs at the apartment. There was one day that you saw the tip of his cock peeking out but you tore your eyes away before they lingered too long. 

Now, your eyes are locked on it, on the way his large hand barely wraps around it as he strokes it up and down. Your mind is going fuzzy at the thought that he's this hard because of you. That his cock is leaking pre-cum because of you. That he's touching himself to the sight of you touching yourself, your fingers teasing your clit like he had earlier. 

“Dip your fingers inside of your pussy then rub your clit. It'll feel better.” He instructs.

You do as he says, gathering some of your slick onto the pads of your fingers and sliding back up to your clit. You let out a moan when you start to swirl those methodical circles like Titus had. It does feel much better. 

“Thank you, sir.” You tell him and he groans in response, gripping his cock harder. His other hand is gripping the steering wheel so hard that you can see the whites of his knuckles. 

“Cum with me.” He's getting close. 

And he cums when you reply, “yes, sir.” 

His release hits the dashboard and the steering wheel. He hasn't cum that hard in months. He could cum again from the sight of his leather seats slick with your release. He wishes he was between your legs instead of stuck in traffic right now. 

You quickly open the glove box, pulling out the car wipes you keep in there, since you occasionally clean Titus's car as one of your work tasks. You quickly clean up for him. 

Then, when you're done, you look down at his throbbing cock and Titus catches you licking your lips. 

Before he can say anything, you ask him, “can I clean you up?” 

“What if someone sees?” He says playfully, smirking. 

You feel a rush of heat spread through you. You don't know what you would do if someone saw you with him in your mouth while he's driving. But you definitely want to do it. 

“It's okay.” You decide you don't care because, “you wouldn't let them live if they saw.”

Titus lets out that sinister laugh of his, amused by your words. “I always knew you were a smart girl.” 

You unbuckles your seatbelt and proceed to bend over until your face is right above his cock. 

“Come closer.” He urges you to get on your knees on the seat, pulling your body closer to him. Then, you jolt when his hand slides down the length of your back, pulling up your dress until your ass is exposed. Then, he sinks two fingers into your pussy from this angle without warning.

“Wait, Titus—” Now, if anyone looks through the passenger side window, they have a clear view of him fingering you.

“It's okay.” He smiles mischievously. “I'll kill anyone who dares to look, remember? Just focus on cleaning me up.” 

You turn your attention back to his cock, which is surprisingly still hard. You don't know what to do, especially when his fingers are thrusting inside of you, spreading you open in ways you didn't know possible. They're terribly distracting, pushing you closer and closer to your next orgasm. 

You drag your tongue along the tip of his cock, licking up any leftover cum that's still leaking out. He rewards you by curling his fingers inside of you, making your hips buck. 

“Put me in your mouth and I'll make you cum real hard.” He teases that spot inside of you, your body trembling in response. 

You wrap your lips around the tip of his cock then sink down, letting him fill your mouth. You can't fit him all the way in. You barely make it halfway. But that's enough for him to reward you. 

“Suck and lick me clean while you cum.” He then starts to move his fingers side to side rapidly, sending you into a frenzy from the sudden roughness. 

You cum uncontrollably, drenching your legs as you suck his cock, your tongue swirling around while you do. You moan with your full mouth when Titus pops his fingers out of you. You pull off of him and help settle him back inside his pants.

“Come here and kiss me.” He gestures for you to kiss him, since he needs to focus on the road still.

You press a kiss against his lips then sit back down, buckling in again. Then you turn to look at him, watching him lick his wet fingers clean. That makes heat pool at core again. 

“Did that feel good?” He has both hands on the wheel again, now that the bumper to bumper traffic has stopped. 

“Yes, sir.” You say bashfully, your cheeks growing warm. 

You've never felt anything like this before. But you want to do it again. The pleasure is incredible. The thrill is addictive. 

But a strange pain pricks you inside. 

You try to ignore it but it picks at you the entire rest of the ride home. 

Titus is so eager to kiss you the moment the two of you are home alone but when he goes to do so, you do not seem to match his energy. You kiss him back, sure, but not with the passion he had hoped. 

“What's wrong?” He cups your face with his hands, feeling how fast your pulse is. 

“I don't know.” You can't quite put words to what's bothering you. 

Maybe you're just overwhelmed. So much has happened. It's going to take a while to adjust to the new rhythm of things. 

But you have a feeling that isn't what's lingering in your heart. 

“Titus.” You say his name when your eyes meet his. 

He likes the sound of his name from your lips, but not when you sound so sad. It makes him feel something in the pit of his stomach he'd like not to feel. 

“Have you done that with anyone before?” You know then what is tainting your heart.

It is that ugly envy again. The fear that you are just another one of his playthings. Or worse, a hole for him to fuck and throw away. 

At least before, you were like a companion. Like a glorified pet. You didn't mind that because you knew no one else had ever been that for him before. 

This, whatever relationship you are in now, is something else entirely and you are afraid you've just fallen into a position that can be filled by anyone. 

You yearn to feel special but you don't know if Titus wants to make you feel special. 

You're about to learn the truth. 

When he picks you up and carries you into his bedroom, tossing you onto his bed. His sheets smell like him. Like the expensive soap in his shower and the cologne he likes to wear. It makes your heart ache. 

Like his words do, “do you think I'd do that for anyone?”

Your throat is so dry all of a sudden. Swallowing your saliva brings no relief. You're so choked up from the fear. 

You just mumble out, “I don't know.” 

“I have never waited to fuck anyone in my life.” He climbs over you, trapping you beneath him. “If you were just a hole to me, I would've sunk my cock into you on your first day.”

“Then what am I to you?” You ask even though you know he can't give you an answer. 

How can he? Titus could never marry you. Not with the kind of fucked up family he has. 

So, what are you to him? 

“Does it matter?” He doesn't want to put a label on this. 

“I don't know.” You don't like answering like that but it's the truth. You don't know if or why it matters to you. 

“You're mine. I'm yours. Isn't that enough?” He owns you and you own him. Mutual destruction. 

“What if…” You whisper the next part because the nerves make your stomach twist, “I get greedy?” 

“How greedy?” Titus likes this. This sudden turn. 

At first, he was worried you'd try to run from this again and shove him away. But right now, you are pulling him in and not wanting to let him go. 

“Have you…ever had a baby with anyone?” You ask because you're unsure. He could have children out there he has no clue about. 

The chuckle that leaks from his lips sends shivers down your spine. “Are you planning to baby trap me?” 

“You asked me how greedy…so I told you.” You may not be able to be his in any kind of official capacity but being the mother of his only child would put you on a pedestal that you can never be removed from. 

“I've never fucked anyone without protection.” He refuses to stick his cock into anyone raw. There's too much risk. 

There's no risk with you, his beautiful virgin who has never had anyone but him touch you. 

“Are you going to wear a condom with me?” His answer to this question will tell you everything you need to know. 

“The moment I get to sink my cock into your pussy, it's going in raw.” He smiles at how your expression shifts from that worry to delight. “Would you like that?” 

“Yes, sir.” You pull him in for a kiss, sealing your words. “I would like that very much.” 

“How much longer are you going to make me wait?” He's already raring to go again right now, his cock aching to be buried inside of you. 

It's your turn to chuckle, letting him hear that laugh that is like music to his ears. “I didn't realize Mister Almost Trillionaire can't keep it in his pants. You want to fuck me that bad?” 

“Desperately.” He finally allows himself to admit out loud. 

“I don't want it to hurt.” You heard the first time always hurts. 

“It won't.” Titus will prepare you well. 

“Then, whenever you want, we can.” You press a little kiss on his cheek. “Just not tonight.” 

He huffs out an annoyed breath. “What the fuck? Such a tease.” 

“I want to sleep with you tonight. Just sleep. Tomorrow, we can do whatever you want. But tonight, I want to just lay and cuddle. Is that okay, sir?” You bat your eyelashes at him and he lets out a laugh in response. 

“You know just how to push me.” He picks you back up into his arms. “You're getting in the shower with me. We're going to cuddle naked.”

“I'm okay with that.” You nuzzle your face into the crook of his neck, breathing in his nice cologne. “As long as we get to cuddle. I've always wanted to cuddle.” 

“Is that the greed spilling out?” He asks as he opens the door to his lavish bathroom. 

“Can I be more greedy?” You rub your cheek against his shoulder like you used to once he sets you back on your feet. “Please, sir?” 

“What do you want?” He should not let you influence him so easily but it's hard when you're acting so cute. 

“A hug.” You open your arms, since you and Titus have never hugged before. 

He doesn't even think he has ever hugged anyone. Not like actually. He doesn't like casual touching after all. You've never tried to hug him.

But you want to now. 

Titus steps forward, wrapping his arms around you and you smile all giddy, rubbing your face against his chest as you squeeze him with your arms. His heart is racing in his chest. He didn't know it was possible to find someone so adorable before. 

“Now pick me up.” You beam a big smile at him as you wrap your arms around his neck. “Come on, please!” 

He glares at you. You are getting bold. But he listens, picking you up by your thighs, wrapping your legs around his waist. You giggle so beautifully, laying your head against his shoulder. 

“I've always wanted to do this.” You pepper his neck with kisses before trailing up to his lips, giving him a little affectionate peck there. “Thank you, Titus.” 

Oh, he's fucked. He's actually so fucked. Because he thought he would be the one fucking you up. 

But here you are, being the brightest ball of sunshine he has ever experienced, melting his icy soul with a warmth he has never ever thought possible. 

He might just fall in love with you…

Much to your surprise, Titus does not fuck you the next day. Actually, he doesn't even touch you, at least not sexually. He grabs a hold of your hand to tug you towards him for a hug. He kisses you. He cuddles you in bed or on the couch. But nothing more than that. 

You don't ask why. You like these more intimate moments. But it's making it harder and harder not to fall in love with him. 

You know it's silly, though, to think you could ever be his love. Everyone around Titus believes he's incapable of love. 

Do you believe that? 

You're…unsure about that. 

If anything, you think he is very capable of love but he would never admit it. He would never tell anyone that he has all your favorite things memorized. He would never let anyone find out that he knows everything there is to know about you, like what makes you laugh or how much he loves your laugh. 

Or how much he loves you. 

He loves you. 

He does. 

He realizes that on the private jet ride to another resort, this time tucked away in the mountains, with a private hot spring in each of the luxury cabins. 

You're going over the itinerary you put together, since you're very excited to go on a little vacation now that you and Titus are being more affectionate. Since it's in a more secluded place with little to no reception, he feels safe about just being himself. It's a resort meant for relaxation and restoration so no phone use allowed anyways. 

And he knows he loves you because he's excited to spend quality time focused solely on you. 

Because that must be what love is, right? 

To want someone all the time, to want to be with them all the time. 

“What are you most excited about, Titus?” You ask him once you finish reading off your list. 

He can't really tell you that he's excited to fuck you every night this week until you're unable to walk so he just says, “it'll be nice to soak in the hot spring.” 

You giggle, nodding in agreement. “Me too. I like that it's private so we can cuddle out in the open.” 

Or fuck. He really needs to fuck you. 

He can't wait any longer. 

Titus hasn't touched you since that day. He doesn't really know why. He just figured he wanted to enjoy being affectionate with you for a bit. The kisses, the hugs, the cuddling, they all have been better than he thought. He never realizes it could be like this with someone. He feels so at ease around you. You make it easy to be himself.

You aren't afraid of his darker tendencies at all. You don't mind that he glares at the concierge for staring at you for a little too long. You aren't repulsed by his need to keep you close to him now that he is allowed to keep an arm around you at all times. 

You quite enjoy being the object of his obsession. You have never felt so special before. 

You wish this could last forever. 

So, you have a little gift for Titus. One that took a lot of maneuvering to hide from him, since he hasn't let you out of his sight for very long these last few days. 

You aren't sure when you want to give it to him but when the two of you step into the beautiful hotel room, you decide the sooner the better. You want to see him wear it right away. 

“Titus, I have something for you.” You open your suitcase and pull out a flat velvet box you had been hiding from him. 

He stares at it, not knowing how the hell you managed to buy something without him knowing. You are a sneaky girl, aren't you? 

“What the fuck? Who did you bribe to buy that for you?” That must've been it.

“I'm not telling!” You knew he'd think that. “Just open it!” 

You hand him the box and he scoffs. He can't believe you got him a gift. He should've gotten you something. He definitely will now. He can't have you get the last laugh. 

But he hears your beautiful giggle when he opens it and shock colors his features. 

Inside the box is a necklace delicately woven with thick black thread. In the center is a cute note attached that says: to the threads that bind us ♡

Then, you show him the matching necklace you're wearing around your neck. 

And he has never kissed you so quickly before. 

You smile against his lips, saying in between kisses, “I assume you like it.” 

“Did you make this?” You must've. That's the only way you could've snuck it by him.

You nod. “It's a super high quality thread, waterproof, last longing, the works. You saw me order it. You probably thought it was just for my sewing stuff.” 

Titus definitely remembers you ordering it but he assumed it was just a restock of whatever threads you already had. He had no clue you were making something in secret. 

“Sneaky.” He chuckles, and he finds it strange how authentic it is. 

He hasn't laughed like that in a long time. Without fear of being seen as weak. It's a real, deep from the soul kind of laugh. One of happiness. 

Maybe that's why the words leave his lips, “I love you.” 

Because maybe, deep down, he wants to sabotage this. He wants you to rip out his heart and stomp on it so that he can never trust anyone ever again enough to show weakness. Because that would make him a Danforth. 

But you blink back tears of joy and say to him, “I love you too, Titus.” 

And in that moment, he realizes he isn't a Danforth. 

He's just Titus. 

And Titus is in love with you. 

“I want to marry you.” His words catch you by surprise. 

“What?” You never thought he'd ever say that. “Your father would…” 

“I know.” He knows it's not possible, but not for the reasons you think. 

Titus loves you too much to subject you to the trials of what it means to become a part of his family. The dirty, dark, fucked up secret he's keeping. The one he will tell you about one day, but not today. 

Today, he wants to tell you, “I just wanted you to know that I want to. And I hope that's enough.” 

You smile that lovely smile that has his heart racing. “More than enough. I want to marry you too.” 

You untie the necklace and Titus holds still while you secure the knot around his neck. The two of you may never wear rings, but you will always be bound together. 

“Now, can I please fuck you?” Titus cannot hold back anymore. 

You giggle and then playfully say, “what would you do if I said no?” 

“I might just pin you down and take you anyways.” It's a real threat because he is done with waiting. 

“Can you wait just a little longer?” You bat your eyelashes at him, making him groan. “Just until we've unpacked and soaked in the hot spring once. Then, I'm all yours. But I know if we dive right in, we're not leaving that bed and I'd like to enjoy the amenities a bit before the love of my life fucks me silly.” 

“The love of your life.” Titus grabs you and kisses you right then and there, the hunger in his kisses very apparent. “How the fuck do you expect me to keep it together?” 

“I don't know, sir.” You giggle, brushing your nose against his cutely. “I guess you just have to figure it out.” 

He growls, low, angry, menacingly. “You're on thin ice, love.” 

“I can't wait to fall in then.” You say with a big smile before pulling him in for another kiss that he instantly melts into. 

Titus hates that you take your sweet ass time unpacking. He knows you're doing it on purpose too. Like you're just sitting there, sorting your toiletries. You've never done that before. 

He knows you're just doing it to stall because you like riling him up. You will grow to regret testing him like this. 

But he is patient. He is waiting so patiently because he knows the moment you're in bed with him, his cock is not leaving your pussy for the next week. 

Maybe the next month.

Maybe the next year. 

He could reserve this place for that long if he wanted to.

Maybe he will. Why not? 

He's one of the richest men in the world.

He can spend his money however he wants. 

“Are you coming in or not?” You call out to Titus, who is obviously lost in his own thoughts. You know you've teased him to the breaking point now. 

Which is why you pull off all your clothes while he's watching before getting into the hot spring. 

Titus practically rips his clothes off to join you and you laugh so hard when he grabs you and pulls you onto his lap the moment he gets into the water. He is desperate to touch your skin to his skin like this, his cock throbbing against your lower stomach. 

“I could fuck you right now.” He whispers into your ear before nipping at your earlobe. “You're making it very difficult not to.” 

“You promised me you would make sure it wouldn't hurt.” You don't want him to rush this. 

“It won't hurt.” He's going to make you cum plenty before his cock does. 

You hug him and then say into the crook of his neck, “I am a little scared…”

And, for some reason, Titus holds onto you a little tighter when you say that. 

“What are you scared of?” He starts rubbing small circles on your back, trying to comfort you.

He has never comforted someone before. But he wants to for you. 

“You might be too big.” You feel a little flustered saying that out loud. “Like, are you really going to fit?” 

He groans then slaps your ass, making you shriek. “You scared the fuck out of me! That's what you're worried about?” 

“It's a valid worry.” You squint at him. “Have you ever taken a cock that big?” 

“I never take it.” He says with a smirk and you chuckle then smack his chest.

“See! You don't get it. It's intimidating…” You glance downwards, highly aware of how deep his cock would go inside of you when it does. 

“It will be fine.” He leans in, kissing you on the cheek. “I promise, love.”

“I trust you, sir.” You lay your head back on his shoulder. 

“You'll end up enjoying how big I am.” He'll get you to crave being filled up with his cock.

“I hope so.” Your words make his cock twitch. “It felt really good to cum. I bet it'll be even better to cum together.”

“You're killing me.” He grunts against your skin, digging his teeth into your shoulder because he needs some kind of relief. “I want to fuck you so badly.” 

“Hopefully it's worth the wait.” You are a tad bit worried about being boring in bed. You're sure Titus has preferences you can't quite live up to yet. 

“You are worth the wait.” Titus pulls you in closer, kissing you softly. It's the softest kiss he has ever done. So gentle, so sweet. “I don't want to be anywhere but right here with you.” 

“Who knew you were such a romantic?” You giggle, hugging him tighter. “I love you so much, Titus.” 

Now, he is officially done waiting. 

Titus lifts you up by your thighs, wrapping your legs around his waist as he hauls the two of you out of the hot spring and back inside. He doesn't care how dripping wet he is. 

He just needs you sprawled out on the bed in front of him as soon as possible. 

He drops you onto the bed, climbing on top of you. You look up at him, and he knows that look in your eye is full of love. 

“You have no fucking clue how much I've wanted you under me like this.” Titus stares down at your naked body beneath him, reveling in the sight of how shy and flustered you are. “You're so pretty.” 

“Have you always been a flirt?” You giggle and he starts plastering your body with kisses, trying to draw more of that lovely sound from you. “That tickles!”

“Have you always been this cute?” His words warm your heart so much. 

“I love you like this.” You tell him, seeing how relaxed he looks, the tension gone from his features. You brush your fingertips along his jaw until you cup his face. “Can we stay like this forever?” 

Titus nods, pressing a kiss into your palm to seal his promise. Then, he starts to kiss down the length of your arm, until he reaches your shoulder. From there, he trails lower, to your chest. You bite back a sound when he drags his tongue over each of your nipples, which have perked up already. 

“I've been waiting to do that and this.” He says before he takes one of them between his teeth, nibbling just enough to send shivers all over you. “Feel good?”

You nod. “Yes, sir.” 

“It'll feel better with my fingers inside of you.” He nudges you to lay on your side, facing him. He spreads your legs, his hand slipping between them, groaning when he feels how wet you are for him already. “Is this for me?” 

“Only for you, sir.” You wrap your arms around his neck, lacing your fingers into his hair, tugging it when he slowly thrusts a finger inside of you. That encourages him to add another, spreading you wide, helping you adjust to the size. 

He latches back onto your breasts, playing with your sensitive nipples, swirling around the hard peaks as his fingers curl inside of you, looking for just the right spot to thrust against. You tug his hair when he finds it and moan when he starts to tease it, making you grind your hips against his hand. 

“You better do that on my cock.” Titus is barely keeping it together. He wants to be inside of you already. But he promised he wouldn't let it hurt. 

So, he needs to make you cum a few times. 

You're getting close to your first orgasm already, the dual stimulation inching you closer and closer. Then, when Titus starts to palm your clit, you let go completely, letting the first wave of pleasure take over you.

He keeps his fingers buried inside of you, but starts to kiss down the length of your body. You know what's about to happen next, your hands still in his hair, ready to tug when his lips seal over your clit. 

The burst of pleasure distracts you from him adding in another finger, the pressure building inside of you. You're clamping down on his fingers so hard. He wishes it was his cock instead. But he needs you to loosen up a bit more. You won't be able to take him if you're this tight. 

“Relax, love.” His hand rests on your lower stomach, rubbing it gently. “You can take it. Just breathe. Focus on your clit.” 

Easy for him to say. He isn't the one being pried open. But you close your eyes, tuning your attention to the softness of his tongue and the warmth of his hand on your skin. He eases his fingers deeper inside of you, until he's brushing up against a spot so deep, you start to squirm, tugging at his hair. 

“Right here?” He curls his fingers and you squirt in response, finally loosening up, gasping for air. 

That was more intense than the last orgasm. And Titus is tempted to tease you more, to thrust his fingers relentlessly right there, to see you convulsing and screaming. But then he sees that adorably flustered look on your face. He wants to enjoy that a little bit longer. 

“Now imagine the tip of my cock grinding right here.” He pushes against that spot again, making your lower body shake so much that he has to hold you still with his other hand pinning you down by your stomach. “You'll be cumming like crazy.” 

“I don't know if I can handle that.” You feel like you could pass out right now. 

“You can. You will. Just enjoy it.” Titus starts to thrust his fingers in and out at a slow pace, letting you get used to the motion. 

It feels better than you thought it would, the friction growing more and more intoxicating. You're going to burst at the seams again the moment he curls his fingers. He knows you will. 

So, he doesn't. And you don't know how to react to the edging. You've never experienced it before, to be taken so close to the edge but then not all the way. He slows before you can cum then once you've rested enough, picks back up until you're close again. 

“Titus, please.” You want to cum, your hips desperately grinding against his fingers but he won't let you. 

“Ask properly.” He finally lets out that sadistic smile he has been dying to let free. 

He loves seeing you like this. Your skin hot, your breaths heavy, your pussy aching to cum. 

“Please make me cum, sir.” You plead exactly the way you figure he'd want you to. 

And Titus rewards you well. 

Maybe a little too well. 

You're screaming his name when his fingers starts to fuck you without any care for how hard you're cumming on them. You try to pull away from him, to run from the sudden onslaught of pleasure but he's holding you steady, not letting you go. 

Instead, Titus leans down, his lips sealing over your clit again, and when he lightly sucks on it, you're seeing stars in your vision, the orgasms compounding exponentially. 

You don't know if you ever stop cumming. You definitely have soaked the sheets, along with his face. He licks it up happily, like it's his reward for making you cum so much. 

You feel a little empty when he pulls his fingers out of you. You feel even more empty when he gets up from bed. 

“Where are you going?” You try not to sound too sad but you can't control it. 

“Just grabbing some water.” He cracks open one of the water bottles the place provides and brings it back to you, climbing back into bed. “I wasn't going to leave you.” 

You didn't think he was but it definitely feels strange, coming down from the high of an orgasm. It's like it sinks all your other feelings down too. 

“Come here, love.” He sits up in bed, patting his lap. 

You straddle his lap, taking the water bottle he hands you and sipping it. You definitely needed to quench your thirst. Titus wraps his arms around you, pulling you right up against his chest. 

Then, he goes, “help me with the water. My hands are full.”

You chuckle, finding this a little silly but you lift the water bottle to his lips and help him drink. You set the empty bottle aside so you can wrap your arms around his neck, laying your head against his chest, just hugging him for a bit. 

He rubs your back, trying to soothe any worries you may have had. Thoughts you shouldn't be having cross your mind and he catches the light sigh you breathe into his skin. 

“We don't have to have sex tonight.” Titus might actually fucking die if he has to wait any longer but he doesn't want you to be scared. 

He wants you to fully enjoy it with him. 

But can you, when you keep thinking about…

“Does it bother you that I'm inexperienced?” A part of you is afraid that taking things so slow is a burden. It is, but that's not because of you. That's only because Titus wants to fuck you so badly that taking things slow is killing him. 

But he's okay with the slow death. 

Because he knows the pay off will be well worth it. “I like that you are.” 

“Really?” You don't think Titus would lie to you. At least not right now. 

“I like knowing that I'm going to be the only person who ever gets to touch you.” You truly are his in that sense. 

“I wish I could say the same about you.” You feel selfish saying that, but you let it out anyways. “I feel strange when I think about you touching other people like you have to me.” 

“I haven't touched them like I have with you.” That's the truth. 

“What do you mean?” You can't imagine that's right. 

“Do you really think I'd go down on just anyone?” 

“Well…yeah…” 

He glares at you. “And here I thought you didn't judge me.” 

“I'm not judging you! I just figured you must like doing it since you're so good at it.” He had to learn from somewhere, right? 

“You think I'm good at it?” He pulls you in closer. “Did I make you feel good?” 

“Obviously.” You are not going to stroke his ego any more than this. “That's why I feel like…if you made someone else feel like that too, I…” 

“If they came on my cock, then they came on my cock. I wasn't fucking them to make them cum. I was fucking them to make myself cum.” Which is fucked up to say out loud but Titus is fucked up and you know that so there's no point in pretending he isn't. “But with you, I want to make you cum. A lot. Especially with my cock.” 

“So, that was all for me? You've never done that with anyone else before?” You hate asking but you want the confirmation. 

“You're the only one I've ever wanted to touch. You're the only one I've held naked.” 

“What?” That surprises you. 

“I despise being touched, especially skin on skin.” His words seem a bit ridiculous considering the fact that you're naked, pressed up against him right now while he's completely naked too. “But I like touching you. Only you, love.” 

“Is it bad that I like that?” You want things that are for you and you only. 

“Is it bad that I really wanted to make you beg to cum?” He refers to earlier.

“Yes.” You take a bite out of his neck as punishment for that. “That was mean.” 

“You liked it.” He smirks, pulling you in for a kiss. 

You smile against his lips. You can't help it. You love kissing Titus so you deepen the kiss, your tongue tangling with his, enjoying his lips on yours for a bit longer. 

He lays you onto your back, never breaking the kiss as he settles himself between your legs. You can feel his cock throbbing against your stomach. 

“We don't have to.” He breathes out onto your lips. “If you're scared.” 

You look down, contemplating how daunting the thought of fitting him inside of you will ultimately be. But you want to have sex with him. You want to feel that close with him. 

But you need him to promise first. “The moment you fuck me, you aren't allowed to fuck anyone else ever again. I'll kill you if you do.”

“My sunshine has a dark side.” He likes this version of you. The possessive you. 

“You're a bad influence.” You say with a big smile. 

“Definitely.” He nods firmly. “Because if you even think about fucking anyone else, you're never leaving my bed.”

“I like being in your bed.” You confess. These last few days sleeping beside him have been so wonderful. “Can I stay there forever anyways?” 

“You don't have to ask. You're obligated to because there won't be a day that goes by where I'm not going to be fucking you.” Titus has waited long enough. 

From this moment forward, your pussy will keep his cock warm forever. 

And you can't wait anymore either. “Then I'm ready.” 

You expect to feel Titus's cock but he slips three fingers back inside of you, just to make sure. You wriggle a bit when he thrusts them in deep again and before you can say another word about how he's curling them, his lips press against yours. 

You've never cum while kissing him before, the rush making you all lightheaded from the breathlessness. His fingers don't stop moving, fucking you through your orgasm, making another one build all too quickly. But he pulls out before you can cum again. 

And this time, he lines up his cock, the tip of it pushing against your entrance. 

“Now you're ready.” He says with a smile against your lips. “Deep breath for me, love.”

You listen, taking in a deep breath as he sinks the tip of his cock inside of you. Titus lays his forehead against yours, groaning at the feeling of how warm and wet you are wrapped up around him. He isn't even fully inside of you yet but he knows there's nowhere else he wants to be from now on. 

You were expecting some pain but it's mostly that pressure that Titus has familiarized you with using his fingers. He helps keep your mind off the increasing pressure with his lips on yours and his hands cupping your breasts, his thumbs rolling over your nipples as he sinks another inch of himself inside of you. You tug at his hair, wanting him to keep going, basking in the grin he gives you in response. 

He's about halfway seated inside of you when he pulls off your lips to say, “I'm going to start moving now. You know what to do if something feels good.”

“Yes, sir.” You nudge him playfully with your nose and he nips at it with his teeth, his cock throbbing inside of you at your words. “I love you.” 

“I love you too.” Titus is so madly in love with you. 

Because that's the only reason he's going so slow. If he had his way, he'd be pounding into you, forcing your pussy to take him instead of easing it into things. One day, he'll have his fun. 

But today, he'll make love. He has always, secretly, wanted to fall in love. Maybe that's why when the opportunity presented itself, it wasn't difficult for him to dive right into you. 

You're everything he isn't. The light in his darkness. 

The love of his life, looking so beautiful as he slowly starts to move, finding a rhythm that adds a bit more of himself inside of you with each thrust. You tug at his hair when the tip of his cock teases the swallower spot closer to your entrance, so he makes sure to spend some time there before thrusting as far in as he can go. 

“I'm going to cum if you keep doing that.” Your words don't dissuade him. 

Actually, it encourages him to pull his cock completely out of you, the sudden pop pushing you over the edge, your orgasm overwhelming you instantly. He likes the sight of your body shivering all over from the pleasure. He likes it even better knowing it's because of his cock. 

He goes to sink back in but you shake your head, saying, “wait, wait, I need a second.” 

“No, you don't.” He knows you're just afraid to cum again so soon. 

You are, because you cum the moment he thrusts back inside and then pulls completely out again, wetness pooling between your legs. That makes it much easier for Titus to slide back inside all the way, filling you deeper than he has before. 

“I'm right here.” He presses down against your lower stomach, kneading where your womb is, the tip of his cock pushing right up against it. “How does it feel?” 

“Too good.” You admit, feeling so shy at how easily he's making you unravel. “I'm going to cum again if you move.” 

“You're very sensitive.” He's happy you are. He's going to drown you in pleasure. 

“It's because of you, sir.” You pull him down to kiss you then you place a kiss against his cheek with such much affection. “Thank you for waiting for me.” 

“You're going to make me cum if you keep acting so cute, love.” He peppers your face with lovely kisses, making you giggle. 

“Cum with me?” You really want him to. 

“Always.” He wants to cum feeling you clenching tightly around him from your orgasm. 

So, he slides his hands down, grabbing a hold of your hips, and then starts to finally fuck you. You're not expecting to feel so much but his cock is rubbing up against every inch of your pussy with every stroke. It's going to be hard to hold your orgasm. 

He feels the same. Now that he's wrapped so perfectly inside of you, he's getting close. He'll have to pace himself better next time. 

But for right now, he is content to cum if it means you will too. 

Your whole body tenses when he starts thrusting into you a bit faster, the sound of him slamming his cock inside of you filling the air. You tug him down so you can crash your lips against his, wanting to be kissing him when you both cum. His tongue slips inside your mouth, stealing your breath away, making you dizzy from how good everything feels all together. 

You cum the moment warmth spills inside of you, unfamiliar but so very nice. Because you know Titus has never done this before. 

And he desperately wants to do it again. 

“Can I flip you over?” He asks, his cock still hard and throbbing inside of you. 

“Don't you need a break?” You figured at his age, also being a man, don't they need time between?

“I need this. I need you. Please, love.” He just wants to pound you into the next oblivion. 

You nod, letting him slip out of you before you flip over, getting on your hands and knees. Titus kisses a line down your spine, the sight of you like this better than when he would fantasize about it.

“My beautiful love.” He groans seeing the sight of your swollen pussy from him fucking you. “I'm going to fuck you up now. I'm not stopping, no matter what.” 

Your toes curl at the thrill that sparks through you. “Go ahead, sir. I'm all yours.”

He growls, unable to keep the animalistic side of him any longer. “You are all mine. The very object of my obsession. I'm going to enjoy this.” 

Your eyes roll into the back of your head when he thrusts into you from this angle, fitting so much more of himself than before. You're cumming already, your legs growing weak from the shivers. He smacks your ass, adding to the shakes. 

“You won't last long if you cum that easily.” He makes it very difficult not to cum, though. 

Titus doesn't ease you in this time. He pulls completely out of you then rams the entire length of his cock deep inside of you. Over and over, until you're squirting on his cock with every forceful thrust. You're digging your nails into the sheets, leaning your upper body down against the soft pillows to cushion how hard he's fucking you all of a sudden. 

“Titus, it's too much, I can't—” He answers your pleads by sliding his hand between your legs and rubbing your clit with the same intensity as he's fucking you, pulling gasp after gasp from your lips. 

You're going to pass out from the orgasms, your mind going hazing from the constant release. 

“You're going to kill me.” You can't possibly keep cumming like this. You'll lose your mind if you do. “You need to stop—”

“It's okay, love. You can take it.” He feels you drench his fingertips when he says that, still abusing your clit. “Just let it happen. Cum your brains out.” 

You opt then to just bite the pillow beneath you, muffling your screams as he pounds into you ruthlessly, his fingers rubbing your swollen clit raw. The pleasure is endless, sweeping over you in intense waves. 

There's nothing in your mind except for Titus. He's consumed you completely. You call out his name as you cum again and again. 

This is everything he has been dreaming about. You, lost in the euphoria, giving into him. You'll never leave him now that you've had a taste of what he can do for you. 

“I love you.” He loops on repeat as his thrusts get quicker, his orgasm inching closer. 

Your words in response are completely incoherent, just cute little mumbles. You're so far gone, which pulls the most evil laugh out of Titus. 

You're an absolute mess by the time he finally cums inside of you, your body unable to hold yourself up anymore. He pulls out of you, letting you collapse onto your side and then he plops down behind you, wrapping his arms around you, spooning you. He places warm kisses along your shoulder blades, rubbing your lower belly as you come down from your intense high. You moan a little when his fingers press in, making you well aware of how full you are inside. 

“Maybe we should get you some birth control.” He says, nipping at your earlobe. “I want to enjoy fucking you a bit longer before I put a baby inside of you.” 

“I have the arm implant.” Your words make him still. 

“What?” 

You chuckle, flipping over to look at him, “you didn't think I'd let you fuck me that raw the first time, did you?”

“You sneaky little girl.” He takes a bite out of your neck in protest, marking you quite obviously. “How dare you hide that from me.”

“I didn't hide it. I just…omitted the truth?” You smirk, showing him that you aren't just a bundle of sunshine. 

You trapped him just as much as he trapped you.

Truly his equal, in every way. 

“You know I'm going to have to punish you for that, love.” He will have to think up something good. Maybe tying you down and edging you until you're crying and begging to be fucked. 

“I look forward to it, sir.” You say with a big smile before pulling him in for a kiss. Then, you breathe out with all the warmth in your afterglow, “I love you, Titus.” 

“You're lucky I love you, or I would be very fucking pissed right now.” He can't believe you hid that from him. 

“Mmm, maybe I like you angry.” You nuzzle his nose with yours. “You're never angry with me. It's a nice change of pace.”

He glares at you. “You might be the only person in the world who wants to piss me off.” 

“And you love it!” You wrap your arms around him, hugging him. 

“Yes. I do love it.” He lets out a sigh of defeat, smiling as he hugs you back, loving that the two of you can cuddle like this. 

He has truly met his match. 

Because you're as obsessed with him as he is with you. 

A/N: Are y’all impressed at my willpower? I wanted to challenge myself and not have them fuck right away and oh my goodness was that a challenge! I love writing smut so much (so of course I had to still add lots of naughty smut haha) but I was craving a lovey dovey, cutesy, fucked up slow burn after my last fic so I hope you all enjoyed this read! ♡ 

[sodaccant]

jonathan sims x ready since there is literally NO new stuff about him and i lover him

just pure fluff, mentions of nudity but no smut (yes im sticking to canon asexual jon), sharing a shower, established relationship, reader is afab (aka breast is said) but no pronouns are mentioned, might not be 100% percent accurate jon but i'll try my best

The scent of dish soap seems to fill the small space of the apartment.

Though it's overshadowed by the scented candle you lit up not too long ago.

Gardenia.

It's new, you'd just bought it on your last shopping trip.

And it's easy to say you've been putting it to work.

Though it's better than not using it at all, right?

You'd been so caught up in washing the dishes that you hadn't even noticed the front door opening, or the shuffle of footsteps getting closer and closer, until--

A familiar pair of arms wraps around your waist.

Oh.

You can't help the faint shiver that rushes down your spine as the smell of paper and ink surrounds you.

"No hello?"

The tease in your tone is faint but the smile that stretches across your face is plain as the eye can see.

All you get is a grunt in reply and a face buried into the crook of your shoulder.

His breath is warm, brushing against the skin that lays bare beneath the collar of your nightshirt.

"Take a shower with me."

The words are faint, a mere murmur against your skin, but they give you pause.

Not that it's an unreasonable request.

Of course not.

You just didn't expect him to say it so early into the night.

Your hands pause their ministrations, letting the water and soap drip from your fingertips.

"Are you asking me or telling me?"

If you didn't know any better, you'd say you felt his lips curl into a small smile.

"Telling you. But I was being polite about it."

A quiet, but half-hearted, scoff pushes its way past your lips as you tilt your head to the side, inadvertently exposing more of your throat to him.

Which he accepts eagerly.

You can feel the way his lips, chapped and warm, brush against the bare skin.

Bastard.

"Oh, because that makes it so much better."

His arms tighten around your waist before he nods.

"Yes, it does."

And then he's tugging you towards the bathroom.

An exasperated sigh pushes its way past your lips, but you follow him nonetheless.

You always do.

You can't help playing it up.

And he knows it.

The bathroom light cuts on and nearly blinds you.

Shit.

You really need to quit working around the house in low light.

He looks almost...eager...as he makes his way around the bathroom.

Which is...strange.

He's usually tired after work.

But you guess you can't complain.

Amusement flashes within your eyes before you make your way over towards him, grabbing his hand and tugging him towards you.

And once he's facing you, he stares.

His eyes shift over your face like he's taking you in for the first time.

He's doing it on purpose.

A low, almost absentminded, hum pushes its way past your lips before you reach up, wrapping your arms around his neck.

And his arms take their place around your waist.

Like they're meant to be there.

Which...you guess they are.

"You're being suspiciously eager about this. Just trying to get me out of my clothes, huh?"

The corners of his lips twitch up into a small smile before he leans down, pressing his forehead against your own.

"Yes. You've caught me. My plan has been foiled, blast."

A quiet laugh pushes its way past your lips before you lean up and press a kiss to his lips.

And like clockwork, he melts into you.

The tension in his shoulders seems to fade, the lines of his face soften, and the tight grip he had around your waist loosens.

The kiss is soft and quick.

But it seems to do the job.

He pulls away with a quiet sigh, letting his nose trace the curve of your cheek.

"Will you take a shower with me?"

His voice is low, almost a murmur in the quiet of the room.

But it does its job.

The shiver that rushes down your spine is familiar.

Like clockwork.

Damnit.

You're such a hypocrite.

Your head tilts to the side as you pretend to ponder on it, your fingers idly twirling a stray strand of his hair.

"Hm...I suppose I could...grace you with my presence."

His eyes roll at your words, but the grin on his face is amused.

He seems to hesitate for a moment before pulling away from you and walking over to the shower.

"Ah yes, I forgot how benevolent you are to a mere peasant like me."

A quiet laugh pushes its way past your lips as you shrug off your clothes.

They fall to the floor with a thump.

And there you stand.

Laid bare in the quiet of the bathroom.

Goosebumps erupt across your skin as the chill of the air settles in.

And he's soon to follow, after the shower's been tuned to his liking.

As often as he stares at you, you can't help staring just as much.

If not more.

Your eyes travel over the lines of his body.

Not in a sexual way.

More of an appreciating gaze.

He's handsome.

As much as he tries to deny it.

The sound of him clearing his throat draws you away from your thoughts.

His face is smug.

God.

You don't know if you want to hit him or kiss it right off.

Probably the latter.

You'd always been soft for him.

As much as you hate, (though you don't actually hate it), to admit.

The corners of your lips twitch and curl, stretching into a small grin before you step forward, crossing through the showers threshold.

An appreciative sigh pushes its way past your lips as soon as the warm water hits your bare skin.

Soon, you feel his presence behind you and his arms wrap around your bare waist.

For a moment, neither of you say anything.

His arms shift around your waist, fingers tracing a slow trail up your stomach, his hand grazing the underside of your breast, before sliding back down.

And his lips press slow kisses along the slope of your throat.

"I missed you."

You pause, letting the water bear down on your skin, before leaning back into him, your bare back pressing into the lines of his chest.

"You say that every time."

"And I mean it every time."

Damn him and his quick responses.

"I missed you too."

You can practically feel the smug air radiating off of him as he stands behind you.

But he doesn't say anything, simply turns you around so your fronts are pressed together.

His fingers twitch against your waist before he leans down, trailing kisses down your throat and chest, stopping just before he reaches the curve of your breast.

And for a moment, he simply rests there, listening to the faint beating of your heart like it's his favorite melody.

Which.

Maybe it is.

You feel his breath hitch before he shifts, bringing his face mere inches from your own.

"I love you."

He says it with such conviction, such finality, that it gives you pause.

You, almost, hate the flush that comes to your cheeks.

God.

You're not some highschool kid anymore.

What the hell is wrong with you???

A low hum pushes its way past your lips before you reach up, cradling his jaw in your hand.

"I love you too."

[robin-the-enby]

This makes my asexual soul very happy

[velvetsammy]

r u mine?

part 1 part 2

summary ⋮ you and butcher have to come to figure out what you are after your last awkward encounter, interrupted by hughie.

req by ⋮ @reginaphalangelobster

word count ⋮ 2,266

warnings ⋮ wont make much sense without pt1, profanity, almost definitely ooc, kissing, very slightly suggestive but like BARELY

notes ⋮ would be willing to write pt3 if anyone was interested…? not sure what else i could write abt them however SO! my inbox is open

The next day didn’t fix anything. If anything, it made it worse in the way normal routines always did when something changed and nobody acknowledged it out loud.

Hughie was quieter around you, like he was trying not to bring up what he saw. MM and Frenchie were blissfully unaware of what had transpired.

Butcher acted exactly the same as always. Which would have been fine, if it actually felt the same. It didn’t; because now, you noticed everything.

The way he looked at you a fraction longer before speaking. The way he waited half a beat too long before responding when you said something. The way he stood way too close in rooms that didn’t require it.

Not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for you to. That was the problem. It was driving you insane.

. . .

“You’re quiet,” Hughie said eventually, glancing at you like he was trying to gauge your mood.

“I’m always quiet,” you answered automatically. “You should be quiet.”

“I’m gonna ignore that, because you’re clearly in a bad mood,” Hughie murmured. “But no, more than usual.”

“I’m fine,” you grumbled.

You weren’t even sure if you were lying about that. Either way, Hughie didn’t push it for once, and thank god for that.

You felt Butcher’s gaze burning through the back of your neck from across the room. As always. You didn’t look.

. . .

It started small.

Not a moment, or a conversation. Just closer proximity than usual.

Butcher going into the kitchen while you were already there, standing a little too close to the counter while you were leaning against it, and just making any excuse to be close to you.

It was a little bit endearing, you had to admit. Obnoxious, yes, but that was for your own reasons.

One night, it was just the two of you in the safehouse kitchen. You were leaning against the counter, not doing anything important, just holding a glass you weren’t even drinking from to look somewhat occupied.

Butcher came in without announcing himself as always. He didn’t speak immediately, and neither did you, but your eyes locked. His mouth opened like he wanted to say something. Then it closed.

“Why are you just standin’ out here?” Butcher furrowed his eyebrows, speaking in his dumb (more like stupidly attractive) British accent.

You glanced at him briefly, then back to your cup, staring at the liquid like it held the secrets of the universe. “Nothin’ better to do.”

“Mm.” He nodded once, then murmured under his breath. “…Liar.”

You heard that. You looked at him properly now. He was leaning against the opposite side of the counter. “I don’t lie,” you said.

“Oh, yeah, riiiight,” he drawled. “No, you just don’t talk to me at all.”

You grimaced. That hit closer to home than you wanted it to. “You always this bitchy, or is it just me?”

“Just you.” He said immediately, tone dryer than the Sahara desert. It was supposed to be a joke, you thought, but it didn’t really feel like one.

The room went impossibly silent after that. You shifted slightly, setting the glass down on the counter beside you.

“You’re still thinking about it, aren’t ya’?” Butcher remarked suddenly. You didn’t ask what he meant by that, because you already knew.

You swallowed a little harder than you intended to. “No.”

He gave a small, almost unimpressed sound, then clicked his tongue against his teeth and gave a drawn out nod. “Yeah, you are.”

“I’m really not.” You shook your head once, resting your elbows on the counter behind you.

“You are, love.” He repeated, much quieter this time, eyebrows furrowed. It didn’t even seem like he was arguing anymore, just telling you what you already knew but didn’t want to admit.

“You’re not exactly subtle either, then.” You glanced at him, then quickly tore your eyes away.

Butcher shrugged slightly. “I never said I was. I’m not trying to be.”

That was the thing. He wasn’t pretending. Only you were. That made you feel some sort of way that you didn’t wanna think too much about.

A few seconds passed where neither of you moved an inch, and the silence didn’t feel empty anymore, but loaded. You shifted your weight slightly, arms folding because it gave you something to do with your hands.

“You’re being weird,” you muttered.

Butcher looked at you with a furrowed brow, “How so?”

“I dunno’, it’s like… you’re waiting for me to do something.”

He let out a short, quiet huff that almost counted as an exasperated laugh. “Yeah, that’s because I am.”

You looked at him, then away quickly. That was starting to feel like a pattern when it came to Butcher.

“This is stupid,” you mumbled under your breath.

“…What is?” He asked, eyes narrow.

“This.” You gestured vaguely between the two of you like that explained it. In all honesty, you didn’t know how to explain what was going on between you two lately.

Butcher didn’t answer for a long moment, but when he did, you could’ve sworn his voice was lower than usual. “Doesn’t feel stupid.”

You stared at him for a second too long, and you hated that you didn’t immediately have something sharp to throw back. Instead, your voice came out softer than you’d intended.

“It kind of is.” Even you didn’t sound all that convinced.

Butcher let out a sharp breath through his nose, almost like he was amused, but there was no real humor in it.

You shifted slightly, like you were going to break away from the counter, but your feet didn’t follow through.

Butcher noticed. His eyes tracked the movement like it mattered to him way more than it should’ve. “You always fuckin’ do this.”

“Do what?” You scrunched up your face, voice much quieter now.

“Y’try to run off whenever things actually get serious.”

That was a little too accurate. You frowned faintly. “It’s not—“ You stopped before you could finish your sentence, because even saying it out loud didn’t feel convincing anymore.

Butcher didn’t fill the silence right away. He watched you for a moment, like he was waiting to see if you’d pick the sentence back up. You didn’t.

Instead, you shifted your weight slightly, arms crossing over your chest like that could rebuild some distance between you and the conversation.

“You always talk like you’ve got me all figured out,” you muttered.

“I do. I pay attention.” He said.

That made your stomach flip. You glanced at him. “…Yeah?”

He nodded once, small and certain. “Yeah.”

His confirmation made something in your expression tighten. Not quite irritation, but something else.

“Stop that,” he murmured after a beat.

“Stop what?”

“Acting like nothings there when it clearly is.” It was so straightforward that your eyes widened slightly.

Your jaw clenched. “I don’t know what you think you’re seeing.” — that was a lie. You absolutely did, because you saw it too, no matter how much you liked pretending you didn’t.

Butcher tilted his head, shooting you an unimpressed look. “You do.”

You let out a slow breath through your nose, trying to reset yourself. “I don’t- I don’t know what you’re getting at. I don’t know what you want.”

The silence after you said that stretched for a long time. You could feel his eyes on you even as you stared at the kitchen floor.

Butcher finally spoke, almost hesitant for once. “I’m not asking for much ‘ere.”

You exhaled shakily, still not looking up at him. You couldn’t. “Thats not an answer.”

“It is.”

You frowned, “No, it isn’t.”

Then he shifted; just a small movement, but enough that you registered he was closer to you than he had been before.

You finally looked up. Big mistake. He was watching you intently, those dark eyes locked on your face in a way that made your throat feel tighter.

“I don’t know what you think you’re doin’,” you muttered.

“I’m not thinkin’,” he said.

You blinked. “What?”

His gaze didn’t shift. “I’m tellin’ you, love.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again, like your brain had briefly forgotten how to form a response. God, that pet name in his dumb accent got you every time.

“That’s—“ you started, then stopped.

Butcher’s expression barely changed, but his voice dropped slightly when he spoke again. “You asked what I want.”

Your fingers curled lightly against your palm subconsciously. “I didn’t mean…-“

“I think you did.” His gaze dropped to your lips, then back up, so quickly that if you’d blinked, you would’ve missed it.

For a second, neither of you moved. The air between you felt heavy with all things unsaid. He was looking at you in a way that you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

“I want you, he spoke finally. “That’s what I’m getting at.”

The way he said it was so simple, laid out like it had always been obvious and he was tired of circling around it.

Your breath hitched ever so slightly, and you stared at him, at a loss for words. You supposed, maybe, part of you had wondered. But for him to outright say it? That did something to you.

“You’re—“ you started, then stopped again, shaking your head faintly as if to reset your thoughts. “Thats not—“

You didn’t finish. Butcher took a hesitant step forward. You swallowed hard.

“You gonna keep talkin’ yourself out of it?” He asked quietly. Your eyes flicked up to his again. This time, you didn’t answer immediately.

“…You’re impossible,” you murmured, but it came out quieter than anything you’d said before. Your eyes darted all around as if you weren’t sure where was acceptable to look.

“Yeah,” he said. “Think you’ve mentioned that.”

He took another step closer. He was close enough now that if you reached out, you could pull him in easily. You wondered if he would let you.

You swallowed. “This is a really bad idea.”

“Most of our ideas are really bad.” He huffed in a way that could’ve passed for a soft laugh in almost any other situation.

Your eyes flickered down to his lips for a split second. When you looked back up, you could’ve sworn he was closer than he had been before. He didn’t do anything.

You didn’t give yourself the time to think too hard about it before your hand caught the fabric of his shirt and pulled the two of you together.

It took him a moment to process, but once he did, his hand moved up to grab your waist. The kiss wasn’t didn’t feel as sudden as it was. In fact, it barely even felt like the first time. He let out a low groan against your mouth, like he’d been starved for this. His beard scratched against your jaw, causing a pleasant burn.

Your hand stayed clutched in his shirt, partly because you worried your legs would collapse if you let go, and partly because you didn’t know where else to put it.

The kiss deepened naturally, and you didn’t pull away until the two of you absolutely needed to breathe.

You stayed close, too close to pretend nothing had happened. Just enough to breathe. You were hyperaware of every place your bodies touched, and of every place that they didn’t.

“…Fuck,” you muttered quietly, more to yourself than him.

Butcher let out a low breath that almost counted as a laugh. “Yeah?” he paused, then spoke quieter, “That’s what I wanted.”

You exhaled shakily through your nose. “You’re unbelievable.”

Butcher didn’t move away, not even a little. You were still close enough that if you moved forward a tad, your noses would brush. “I keep hearin’ that.”

You huffed out a quiet chuckle. You let go of his shirt, noticing you had still been white-knuckling it.

“You.. you didn’t have to—“ you started, then stopped, cutting yourself off before you could land on a sentence that sounded like you regretted it. Because you didn’t. You hated that you didn’t, but it was the truth.

Butcher tilted his head, eyebrows furrowed into a deep crease. “Didn’t hafta what?”

You looked at him for a second, then away. “…That.” You finished vaguely. “Any of it.”

Butcher didn’t answer straight away, looking a little dumbfounded. He watched you for a moment, like he was deciding how honest to be now that there was no point in pretending anymore.

“I wanted to.”

The simplicity of his answer made your chest tighten again, frustratingly so. You felt your face flush.

“Okay, okay,” you muttered, “so.. what now, then?” You weren’t entirely sure you were ready for the answer, but you needed to know what this meant.

Butcher studied you for a long moment.

“Now,” he started, “you stop pretendin’ you didn’t just kiss me,” a pause. Then softer. “And I’ll stop pretendin’ I wasn’t waitin’ for it.”

You huffed a quiet breath, lips quirking up into a little, almost imperceptible smile.

“You’re the worst,” you mumbled, because that was apparently the only thing your brain trusted you to say right now.

Butcher’s expression softened slightly, and his large, calloused hand came up to cup your jaw. You felt like the breath got punched out of you at that.

“Takes one to know one,” he gave you a shit eating grin, the first one he’d given you in what felt like forever. And then, he leaned in and kissed you again, more certain this time. The closest thing to a promise that you’d ever get from Billy Butcher.

[velvetsammy]

do i wanna know?

part 1 part 2

summary ⋮ you treat everyone coldly, play jokes at their expense— except butcher, who thinks this means you hate him.

req by ⋮ @reginaphalangelobster

word count ⋮ 4,736

warnings ⋮ mentions of injury, language, probably ooc, blood mentioned, hughie is a cockblock, might not make sense. format will look weird on anything that isn't a phone!!

The first thing you learned about working with Butcher was that he didn’t ask questions he didn’t think he already had the answer to.

The second was that he didn’t like you.

Not openly. Not in any way that was prominent enough for the others to notice. He still let you stay, still handed you jobs, still trusted you with things he wouldn’t trust most people with.

But there was something there. You noticed it the same way you noticed everything else. Small details that nobody else paid any mind to. The way his gaze always lingered on you half a second longer than it did on anyone else, the way his tone shifted slightly when he spoke to you. Not harsh, but cautious. Like he was waiting for you to do something. You never did.

. . .

“You even listenin’?”

You blinked, dragging your attention back to the room. Hughie was looking at you expectantly from across the table.

“Mm. Not really,” you admitted.

Frenchie snorted into his drink. MM sighed like he’d expected nothing less from you.

Hughie frowned, “I was asking if you think it’s a good idea.”

You leaned back in your chair, balancing it on two legs. “It’s your plan, right?”

“…Yeah?”

“Then no.”

Frenchie let out a loud laugh, “Ah. Brutal.”

“I’m serious,” Hughie said, glancing between you and the others. “At least tell me why.”

You tilted your head, studying him for a moment as if deciding whether he was worth the effort of an explanation.

“It’s sloppy,” you said finally. “Too many variables you’re not accounting for.”

“Oh yeah? Such as?”

You opened your mouth to respond, and shut it just as quickly. Your eyes caught a glimpse of Butcher from across the table. He was watching you, which in itself was not unusual. What was unusual was the way he didn’t interrupt.

“Doesn’t matter.” You murmured, dropping your chair back down to four legs. “You’ll figure it out when it backfires.”

Hughie groaned. “Not helpful.”

“Wasn’t trying to be.”

“Yeah, we noticed.” MM chimed in dryly.

“Go on.” Butcher raised his eyebrows expectantly at you.

You looked at him, eyebrows furrowed. “Go on… what?”

“Hughie’s plan. If there’s a problem with it, we need to fix it.”

“There’s always a problem with the plan,” you muttered.

“Would help to know what it is, ay?”

You exhaled slowly through your nose. God, he was persistent.

“…You’re coming in too loud,” you said finally, tearing your eyes away from Butcher and instead flicking them to Hughie. “You assume they won’t be ready for you, but they will be. You always assume that.”

Butcher’s eyes were still on you. Hughie blinked once. Twice. “Okay… so what, we go quieter?”

“You go smarter,” you corrected him. “Different entry point. Less predictable timing.”

MM nodded slightly towards Hughie. “They’ve got a point.”

Hughie looked semi-relieved. “Okay. Yeah, that- actually helps. Thanks.”

You shrugged like it didn’t matter.

Across the table, Butcher didn’t say anything, but you could feel it again— that shift. That attention settling, sharper now.

. . .

Later, the safehouse was quieter. MM had turned in. Hughie wasn’t far behind. Frenchie lingered the longest, but even he eventually disappeared down the hall, muttering to himself quietly.

You stayed. Not for any reason in particular, just not quite tired yet. The sink was full. You decided to deal with it because no one else would.

Over the sound of running water, you didn’t hear him come in. “Didn’t take ya’ for the tidy type.”

You didn’t turn to look at him. You considered saying something more, but settled on: “I’m not.”

“Coulda fooled me.” A glass clinked as you set it aside. You reached for another. Butcher leaned against the counter, close enough that you were aware of it. He continued, “You do that a lot.”

You didn’t want to deal with this right now. “Do what?”

“Hold back. You wanted to say something just then, didn’t ya’?”

You stilled at that, just for a moment. Then you continued scrubbing the plate in your hands. “Dunno what you’re talking about.”

“Course ya’ don’t.”

You huffed, “You always this chatty, or am I just special?”

“Bit of both.”

You turned the water off, drying your hands slowly before facing him. “What do you want?”

“Answer to a question.”

“Okay. Ask someone else.”

“Nah.”

You rolled your eyes. “What, then?”

He watched you for a second, almost as if he was weighing something in his mind. “Why don’t ya’ ever have a go at me?”

You didn’t react. Not outwardly, at least. “Maybe I don’t feel like it.”

“Yeah,” he said, “Don’t buy that.”

“Not my problem.”

“Oh, I think it might be.”

You grabbed a hand towel, folding it with more precision than it needed.

“Everyone else gets it,” Butcher continued, “Little comments. Smart remarks. You don’t miss much.”

“Perceptive.”

“But not me.”

You set the towel down. “Maybe you’re just not that interesting.”

“Yeah, right.”

You could just turn in. Walk away and go to bed. You could end it in two seconds. Instead, you found yourself lingering.

“…You think I don’t like you.” You said. It wasn’t a question.

Butcher didn’t respond for a moment.

“Wouldn’t be a stretch,” he said eventually.

You looked at him. “Well, you’re wrong.”

He studied you, something quieter settling within his expression. “Alright. So what’s it then?”

You held his gaze. Then dropped it. “Nothing.”

“Don’t look like nothin’.”

“It is.”

“Right.” There was something in the way he said it. Not dismissive, not mocking either. Just unconvinced. You hated that even more.

“Drop it,” you muttered.

“Not yet.”

You exhaled sharply, stepping past him to put a little more distance between the two of you. You felt yourself growing frustrated.

“I don’t see why you care, really,” you shot at him.

That stopped him. Just for a second. “Maybe I don’t like not knowin’ things.”

“Yeah,” you almost chuckled. “That sounds like you.”

Silence stretched throughout the safehouse kitchen. Not uncomfortable, just there.

“…You should get some sleep,” you said finally, like that was the point of the conversation.

He gave a short nod. “You too.”

You turned toward the hallway at that, taking a few steps before stopping. You didn’t look back. “It’s not that I don’t have anything to say.”

Behind you, you heard him shift. “No?”

You shook your head. “I just don’t say it.”

“And why’s that?”

“Go to sleep, Butcher.”

. . .

The next few days didn’t change anything. Plans were made, plans went wrong. People argued, cleaned up the mess, did it all again. The usual cycle.

You slipped into it the way you always did. Observant. Helpful when it mattered. Snarky when it didn’t. If anything, you made a point to be exactly the same.

. . .

The safehouse TV was always too loud. Not unbearably loud, but just enough to be irritating. Some late-night news segment droned on about Vought damage control, the anchor's voice smooth and clear.

Hughie sat cross-legged on the floor, laptop balanced in front of him, pausing and rewinding the same clip over and over again.

“…there,” he said, pointing at the screen. “Did you see that?”

“No,” you replied from the couch without looking up. “And I don’t want to.”

Frenchie leaned over the back of his chair, squinting. “Ah– yes, yes. Rewind. There is something strange with the timing.”

“I am rewinding,” Hughie said, already doing it again.

You sighed, dragging your gaze up to the TV. “You’ve been watching the same five seconds for ten minutes.”

“Because it matters!”

“It doesn’t.”

“It does- look!” He paused the clip again, pointing. “That guy in the background- he disappears between cuts.”

MM frowned slightly, now intrigued. He stepped closer. “Could be a bad edit.”

“Or it’s not,” Hughie insisted, “What if they cut something out?”

You tilted your head, actually paying attention now. On screen, a crowd shot outside Vought Tower. Reporters. Security. Civilians.

Hughie played it once. Twice. A third time.

“…again,” you said.

He did. Your eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

“Wait. Slow it down.”

Frenchie snapped his fingers. “Ah, yes. Slow motion.”

Hughie adjusted the playback, dragging it frame by frame. There. A man near the barricade blurred, then wasn’t there at all.

MM straightened. “Thats not editing.”

“No,” you admitted quietly, “it’s not.”

Hughie looked between you two, suddenly a lot more serious. “So what– A supe?”

“Looks like it,” MM muttered.

Frenchie’s grin faded into something sharper. “A fast one.”

Silence settled, the weight of their discovery shifting the room. Nobody said anything for a long moment.

“Alright.” Butcher’s voice cut in from behind you, “Play it again.”

You didn’t look at him. Hughie obeyed immediately, replaying the footage.

Butcher moved closer, stopping just behind where you were sitting on the couch. He watched the clip once, then twice.

“…You see it?” Hughie asked.

“Yeah.”

“Thats- bad, right?” Hughie pressed.

“Usually is when people start disappearin’, eh?”

You huffed quietly, “How insightful.”

Frenchie snickered under his breath. Butcher didn’t react. Your eyes flickered up briefly chance a look at him. He was still watching the screen.

. . .

The next hour was quieter.

Hughie pulled up more footage- different angles, different broadcasts. Frenchie cross-checked timestamps. MM paced, piecing together patterns.

You stayed on the couch, legs stretched out, watching everything without looking like you were doing very much at all.

“Alright,” MM said finally, “If this isn’t a one-off, we’re looking at repeat appearances. Same area.”

“Yeah,” Hughie nodded, typing faster now. “There’s three more clips from the same day.”

Frenchie leaned in. “Show me.”

You spoke before Hughie could; “Second one’s useless.”

He paused, glancing back at you. “What?”

“The angles wrong,” You said. “It’s too crowded. If it is the same supe, you won’t be able to see it clearly.”

Hughie blinked. “You didn’t even look at it.”

You shrugged slightly. “I didn’t need to.”

Butcher’s gaze shifted then. You could feel it. “You got a better one?” He asked.

You didn’t look at him, just pointed lazily at Hughie’s screen. “Third tab. Bottom clip.”

Hughie frowned but clicked it anyway. The footage loaded- a shaky phone video this time, less polished than the other clips.

“Play it,” you said. He did.

A crowd. Sirens in the distance. Then- that same flicker from the other videos. Hughie froze the frame, staring. “…Oh.”

Frenchie let out a low whistle. “Magnifique.”

MM nodded once. “Thats our guy.”

You leaned back again like it hadn’t taken any effort.

“How’d you know?” Hughie asked.

You glanced at him. “Pattern.”

“That’s not a real answer.”

“Too bad. It’s the only one you’re getting.”

Frenchie laughed softly. “Ah, they keep their secrets.”

“Or they just don’t feel like explainin’.” Butcher chimed in. Your eyes flickered to him. He was already looking at you.

You looked away first. You muttered, “Same thing.”

. . .

You built a plan from there, though it was the kind that relied more on timing and instinct than anything solid. Not ideal, but good enough.

. . .

The mission itself was already messy before it even started. Crowds always made things worse, too many variables you couldn’t control, and this one was no different.

“Stay sharp,” MM said over comms.

“Yeah, yeah,” you muttered, eyes scanning.

Nothing for a moment. Then, suddenly, “There,” blurted Hughie.

You caught it a second later. Not movement exactly. More like a disruption, but something nonetheless.

You shifted direction immediately. “Moving east.”

“On it,” Butcher replied.

You tracked it again. There, then gone, then there. Faster than anything you could follow clearly.

You cut through the crowd, slipping between people without thinking, eyes locked on where it would be, not where it was.

Then, it veered. Wrong direction. You adjusted. Butcher wasn’t where he was supposed to be.

Your chest tightened just slightly. You hesitated. Half a second. Long enough to double back instead of push forward. By the time you caught sight of him again, he was already moving, exactly where he needed to be.

Of course he was. You forced your focus forward again. “Targets shifting,” you said, voice even.

Like nothing had happened.

. . .

The safehouse felt louder when you got back. Not actually louder, you supposed, just tighter. The leftover adrenaline hadn’t settled yet, and it sat in the room, sharp and restless.

Hughie was pacing, replaying the whole thing out loud like it might make more sense that way.

“I’m just saying, if that thing had doubled back- like, actually doubled back- we wouldn’t have even saw it coming.”

“We saw it.” You said.

“Barely.”

“Still counts.”

Frenchie laughed under his breath. “Optimism.”

MM shook his head. “We just adjust next time.”

“You mean if there’s a next time,” Hughie muttered.

“There’s always a next time.” You added. You didn’t have anything else to say. You listened in instead.

“You were off position.”

Slowly, you looked up. Butcher stood near the doorway, arms crossed, eyes fixed on you like he hadn’t even been listening to anyone else.

“What?”

“Second pass,” he went on, tone even. “You weren’t where you were meant to be.”

Hughie glanced between you two, confused. “Wait, what?”

“I handled it.” You replied.

“Didn’t say you didn’t.”

“Then what’s the issue?”

“That you weren’t in position.”

You scoffed, looking away. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Am I wrong?”

You didn’t answer. You knew you weren’t where you were supposed to be. You weren’t going to explain your reasoning to him.

“…Next time I’ll bring a map, just for you.” You muttered. Frenchie snorted.

Hughie looked uncomfortable, but he didn’t say anything. Butcher didn’t react.

“Next time,” he said, “How bout’ ya’ just stick to the plan, yeah?”

You pushed yourself upright, already done with the conversation. “Yeah. Sure.”

You walked out before it could go any further.

. . .

You didn’t notice the cut right away. It wasn’t deep, just a thin slice on the flesh of your arm, probably from brushing against something in the crowd. It took a while for the sting to register.

By the time it did, you were sitting on the floor by the couch, absentmindedly cleaning your knife, attention somewhere else entirely.

A drop of blood hit your hand. You paused, lifting your arm and inspecting it. “Oh.”

“Y’gonna do somethin’ about that, or just let it drip everywhere?”

You looked up. Butcher stood a few feet away, watching you.

“It’s fine.” You murmured.

“Yeah,” he replied, “sure looks it.”

You went back to cleaning your knife. “It’s not that bad.”

A beat passed.

“Sit still, will ya’?”

You raised an eyebrow, “Is that an order?”

“Take it however ya’ like.”

You watched him for a second. He stepped closer, a small med kit already in his hand. You hadn’t even seen him grab it. When he crouched in front of you, the space between you shrank in a way you couldn’t help but notice.

“Give me your arm.” He reached out.

You did. His grip was steady as he pushed your sleeve back just enough to see the cut, fingers warm against your skin in a way that felt distracting.

“Not bad, huh?” Butcher muttered under his breath, examining the cut.

“Told you.”

“You’re an awful liar, love.”

You huffed quietly but refrained from arguing with him.

Up close like this, there was less distance to hide behind. You could see the small shifts in his expression, the way his attention didn’t waver.

He cleaned the wound carefully, movements precise like he’d done this hundreds of times before.

“You hesitated.” He remarked after a moment. “Why?”

You exhaled slowly, “You’re really not letting that go.”

“Answer the question.”

You watched his hands work at your wound. Steady. “You weren’t where I expected you to be.”

He didn’t look up. “So?”

“So I adjusted.”

“By goin’ off plan?”

“Yes.”

His tone softened. “Why?”

Your jaw tightened. What were you supposed to say? Because you thought he might’ve been in trouble? Because you didn’t like not knowing where he was?

“Didn’t feel like cleaning up your mess,” was what you settled on.

He didn’t say anything to that, just finished wrapping the bandage around your forearm, tying it neatly.

His hands lingered for half a second longer than they needed to. Then he let go. “..Right.”

You pulled your arm back, flexing your fingers slightly. “See?” You muttered, “still alive.”

“Miracle.” Butcher deadpanned.

Your mouth twitched upwards. You pushed yourself to your feet, brushing past him- closer than necessary, just enough that your shoulder almost caught his.

“Try not to get lost next time,” you murmured.

“Try not to wander off then,” he replied.

You paused. Just for a second. You were close enough that if either of you moved-

Yeah. You stepped away first, “we’ll see.”

. . .

“Alright. We’re not doing that again,” MM said, arms crossed as he looked across the table. “Last time nearly got Hughie flattened.”

“Nearly,” you corrected from where you sat at the table, swinging one foot idly. “Important distinction.”

Hughie shot you a look. “You’re very comforting, you know that?”

“I try.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Correct!”

Frenchie laughed, leaning back in his chair. “Ah, the honesty. It is refreshing.”

“It’s brutal,” Hughie muttered.”

MM sighed. “Focus.”

You tilted your head slightly, watching as he laid out the next approach, adjusting positions, timing, entry points. Cleaner than last time.

“…and no one goes off plan,” he added.

Your gaze shifted, just briefly. Butcher was already looking at you. Of course he was.

“Stay on plan, yadda yadda, I got it.” You murmured, pointedly not looking at Butcher.

. . .

It happened in pieces after that. He started showing up next to you without making a thing out of it.

Leaning against the same wall, standing just off of your shoulder during briefings. Taking the spot across from you instead of anywhere else, even if there were easier options.

It didn’t mean anything.

. . .

“Hey,” Hughie snapped his fingers in front of your face. “Earth to you.”

You blinked, dragging your focus back. “What?”

“You’ve been staring at the same spot for like five minutes.”

“I’ve been thinking."

“About?”

You paused. “…Things.”

“Thats not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting. Deal.”

Hughie squinted at you. “You’re so weird.”

“Yep.”

Frenchie leaned in, amused. “More so than usual, I think.”

You rolled your eyes, pushing yourself off of the chair. “You’re all very obsessed with me. It’s concerning.”

“Hard not to be,” Hughie said, “you’re acting off.”

“I’m acting exactly the same.”

“Mm,” MM hummed, unconvinced.

You didn’t like that. You turned away before they could keep going. Across the room, Butcher was watching, and you knew it. You always knew it.

. . .

The next mission went better. Still not perfect, still unpredictable, but better. You stuck to the plan, mostly.

“Left,” Butcher’s voice came through your earpiece.

“I see it,” you replied, already moving. This time you didn’t hesitate.

You managed to make a swift exit. Less chaos. No one nearly dying. An improvement.

. . .

Back at the safehouse, the mood was much lighter.

Hughie was talking again, excited this time instead of panicked. “I’m just saying, that went way smoother.”

“Don’t jinx it,” MM said.

“I’m not jinxing it, I’m appreciating it.”

You leaned back against the wall, arms crossed. “Try not to sound too proud of yourself.”

Hughie scoffed, “Oh, come on- you can admit it was good.”

“It was acceptable.”

“That's basically a compliment coming from you.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

Hughie laughed anyway. It shifted into something easy. Familiar. You almost let yourself relax.

“Better.”

Your attention snapped to Butcher, who stood a few feet away, looking at you. Not the group. You.

You frowned slightly. “What?”

“That,” he said, nodding vaguely, “You stickin’ to the plan.”

You blinked. That was new. You shifted your weight slightly. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

“Wasn’t.”

“You were.”

A faint twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Maybe a little.”

You huffed quietly. You hated the way your chest tightened at the recognition from him. You pushed off the wall and walked past him, shoulder bumping his.

. . .

It was late when it happened. Later than usual, the safehouse was mostly quiet, lights dim, the kind of stillness that only settled when everyone else had gone to sleep.

You were at the table, picking apart a piece of equipment that didn’t actually need fixing. Anything to keep your hands busy.

“Y’ever sit still?”

You didn’t look up. “I am.”

“Barely.”

You smirked faintly. “You keeping track?”

“Someone ought to.”

You glanced up then. He was closer than he needed to be. You went back to what you were doing.

“I thought you’d be asleep,” You muttered, focused on the equipment in your hands.

“Not tired.” Butcher paused. “Y’did good today.”

Your hands stilled. “…Don’t start.”

“Wasn’t startin’ anything.”

“Sure you weren’t.”

“I mean it.”

You exhaled slowly, setting the object of your focus down. “You always this persistent?”

“When I need to be.”

You huffed quietly, shaking your head. “Yeah,” you said. “I’ve noticed.”

You became very aware of just how close he was standing. Of the way he hadn’t moved. Of the way you hadn’t told him to.

“Are you gonna keep hovering, or is there a point to this?” you asked, finally.

“Depends,” he replied.

“On what?”

“If you’re gonna bolt the second I say somethin’ ya’ don’t like.”

You glanced at him. “I don’t bolt.”

“You do.”

Usually, one of you would have up and left by this point. You noticed after a moment, that you were both still there.

“…You’re quiet,” you said, glancing at him.

“Coulda’ sworn you liked it that way.”

Your gaze held his for a second longer than it should have. “Not when you’re hovering.”

A faint shift of his shoulders. “You ain’t told me to move.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Your fingers curled slightly against the edge of the table. “Didn’t think I had to.”

“Seems like you do.” There was something in the way he said it. Not quite teasing, but almost.

You exhaled slowly, turning your head to break the tense eye contact. “You always this difficult?”

“Only with you.” You had a feeling that landed differently than he’d intended it to.

“…Lucky me,” You murmured.

“Could be.”

Silence settled between you, but it didn’t feel empty. More like something was sitting there, waiting to be acknowledged.

“You keep watching me,” you said.

“I know.” No hesitation.

“Why?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you, steady, like he was trying to decide how much to say.

“Tryin’ to figure you out,” he said, finally.

Your gaze dropped for a second, to where his hand rested against the table near yours. “You’re wasting your time.”

“Don’t think so, love.”

You hated the way the nickname made your chest tighten.

“You’re annoying,” you muttered, but it came out softer than usual, lacking its usual edge.

“Been told.”

You got up from the table, taking a step away. He followed. Not enough to crowd you, but enough that the distance between you stayed the same.

“..Don’t,” you said quietly.

“Don’t what?”

You hesitated. “..That.”

He tilted his head slightly, watching you. “You’re gonna have to be more specific.”

“You keep-“ you stopped, exhaled, tried again. “You don’t back off.”

“Don’t want to.”

“…Why?”

“Because ya’ don’t let anyone get close. Not really.”

Your throat felt tight. “Thats not your problem.”

“Seems like it might be.”

You shook your head, taking another step back. “You’re reading into things.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

He took a slow step forward, just enough to close the gap again. “Then prove it.”

Your brows furrowed, “What? How?”

“Treat me like the others.”

You let out a quiet, disbelieving breath. “Thats what this is about.”

It should’ve been an easy request. You knew how to do that. You did it all the time. You opened your mouth, and nothing came out.

“…No.” You said quietly.

His brow lifted slightly. “No?”

You shook your head.

“And why not?”

“I just don’t want to, okay? Drop it.”

“Alright. For now.”

“For now.”

Silence settled again. You didn’t leave, and neither did he. For a moment, it felt as if either of you moved even an inch closer, something would happen.

You stepped back first. “…Get some sleep, Billy.”

“Yeah.”

You turned before he could say anything else, but you could still feel his eyes on you long after you were gone.

. . .

It started the same way it always did lately: too quiet, too dark; the safehouse settled, and everyone else inside was asleep.

You were at the counter, leaning forward slightly, turning your knife over in your hand more out of habit than thought.

You heard him come in. Didn’t look up.

“D’ya ever get bored of that?” Butcher asked.

“No,” you answered. “Do you ever get bored of asking stupid questions?”

“Not when I get an answer.”

You exhaled faintly, the smallest hint of a smirk pulling at your mouth. “Then you’re easily entertained.”

“Maybe so.”

You glanced up. He was already watching you. Your eyes held his for a second longer than necessary before you looked back down, flipping the knife once, catching it clean.

“You’re staring again,” you murmured.

“Yeah.”

Your fingers tightened around the handle of the knife before you set it down on the counter beside you.

“Still tryin’ to figure you out,” he shrugged.

You scoffed, but there wasn’t much bite to it. “You won’t.”

He stepped closer. You didn’t back away. “You’re doing that thing again.”

“Which thing?”

“Not backing off.”

“As I’ve said, don’t want to.”

Your breath hitched. “You should.”

“Why?”

Because you don’t trust yourself. Because this is already too much.

You don’t say any of that. You started, “because…”

You stopped. Because he was right there now. Close enough that the space between you was barely space anymore.

Your back was pressed fully against the counter. His hand came up beside you, bracing against the surface, close enough that your arm brushed his for half a second. You felt it.

“…Move,” you said, softer this time.

“Don’t sound like you mean it.”

Your breath faltered. You looked at him, and for once there was nothing easy to hide behind. Your gaze dropped, just for a second, down to his mouth and back up.

He noticed. Of course he did. His own gaze followed deliberately. “Go on,” he said quietly.

Your chest tightened. “What?”

“You were gonna say somethin’.”

“I wasn’t.”

He leaned in. Slow, careful, like he was giving you time to stop it. You didn’t.

Your breath caught as the distance between you shrunk, your body going completely still, fingers curling against the counter as your focus narrowed to just this.

Just him, the way his hand shifted slightly closer, not touching, but enough to feel.

Your voice barely worked. “…You should stop.”

“D’ya want me to?”

You swallowed. Your gaze dropped again, slower this time. You leaned forward, just a fraction, just enough that your breath brushed against his, that the space between you became almost nothing.

Your lips parted. His did too.

The door slammed open. “Hey-“

You jerked back instantly, like the moment snapped clean in half, breath sharp in your lungs.

Hughie froze in the doorway, eyes wide. “Oh- shit- I didn’t-“

You turned away immediately, hand bracing against the counter as you tried to steady yourself, voice sharper than you intended. “Knock.”

“I- yeah- sorry- I didn’t know-“

“Out.”

“Right. Yep. Going.”

The door shut just as fast as it had opened. Silence rushed back in, heavy and loud. You exhaled slowly, trying to shake off the fact that you hadn’t stopped it. You didn’t even try.

For a second, neither of you moved. He was still there. Still close, still watching you. “…Don’t,” you said quietly.

“Don’t what?”

“You know what.”

A pause. “Yeah,” he said, voice rougher now.

You pushed off the counter first, putting some space between you before it could happen again. It seemed to always happen that way.

You didn’t look back as you walked out, because if you did, you weren’t sure you would’ve stopped it the second time either.

[avalyneros]

Reverse Rescue

The Stupidest Rescue Mission in Human History

Billy Butcher never meant to get attached to you.

That was important. Very important, according to Billy himself, who had spent years constructing emotional walls so thick they practically deserved government funding. People got close, people died, and Billy had enough ghosts already. Enough regrets. Enough names sitting in the corners of his mind waiting to ambush him during sleepless nights. So when you appeared in his life, ordinary in every possible way, he had initially categorized you under temporary inconvenience. You worked at the tiny convenience shop three blocks from one of the Boys’ rotating safehouses. That was it. Nothing dramatic. Nothing cinematic. You sold coffee that was objectively terrible and somehow remembered everyone’s orders after two visits. Billy came in once because Hughie insisted they needed snacks. Then twice because MM forgot batteries. Then somehow six times in one week because apparently every emergency on earth now required Billy Butcher to purchase chewing gum and aspirin at ridiculous hours of the night.

He’d denied liking you immediately.

Vehemently.

Violently.

To Hughie, mostly.

“She smiled at you,” Hughie had said once.

Billy nearly choked.

“She smiled because it’s her job.”

“She gave you free coffee.”

“Because she made the wrong order.”

“She wrote a smiley face on your cup.”

“Means absolutely nothing.”

Frenchie had looked up slowly from cleaning a weapon and grinned. MM had outright turned around to hide laughter. Billy had reacted with the level of offense usually reserved for war crimes. Because no. Absolutely not. He wasn’t attached. He simply happened to know your work schedule. And the name of your cat. And that you hated thunderstorms but loved old horror movies. And yes, maybe he walked slightly slower leaving the store because you talked with your hands when excited and sometimes forgot what story you were telling halfway through. Entirely irrelevant information.

Completely meaningless.

Unfortunately, Billy Butcher had a very specific problem: whenever he cared about something, he immediately started pretending the opposite with the commitment of a man legally obligated to lie. So naturally, the more he cared, the more unbearable he became. He complained if you worked late. Complained if you walked home alone. Complained if you skipped meals. Complained if you looked tired. Every concern arrived wrapped in irritation because apparently God himself would freeze over before Billy Butcher admitted worry in plain language.

You figured it out anyway.

Not fully.

Not the depth of it.

But enough.

Enough to realize Billy always stood slightly closer when strangers looked at you too long. Enough to realize he remembered things he pretended not to hear. Enough to realize underneath all the sarcasm and insults sat someone deeply, profoundly terrible at being cared for.

Which was why the phone call felt wrong immediately.

Very wrong.

Because Billy never called.

Ever.

Texts occasionally.

Grunts frequently.

Actual phone calls? No.

So when his number flashed across your screen at almost midnight, unease settled into your stomach before you even answered.

You picked up immediately.

“Billy?”

Silence.

Not complete silence.

Breathing.

Then movement.

Then—

“…wrong bloody—”

A sharp noise.

Something crashing.

Voices.

Not Billy’s.

Then the line disconnected.

You stared.

For several seconds you simply stared.

Maybe normal people would have waited.

Maybe normal people would have called back.

Maybe normal people would have decided there was probably a logical explanation.

You, unfortunately, had spent enough time around Billy Butcher to know one important thing:

Logical explanations rarely happened around Billy Butcher.

You called again.

Nothing.

Again.

Nothing.

Again.

Voicemail.

By the fourth attempt your chest had gone cold.

By the sixth you grabbed your keys.

By the eighth you were already outside.

You didn’t know where you were going.

That part was important.

Because unlike action movies and spy thrillers and literally every sane rescue operation in existence, you had absolutely no qualifications for this. None. You weren’t trained. You weren’t armed. You didn’t know combat. You’d never held a gun in your life. The closest thing to field experience you possessed involved yelling at teenagers stealing candy bars from the shop.

But Billy’s last few words kept replaying in your head.

Not words.

Tone.

Sharp.

Interrupted.

Wrong.

And somewhere beneath panic a thought kept repeating itself:

Something happened.

So you did the only thing you could think of.

You called Hughie.

Hughie answered on the third ring sounding half asleep.

“…hello?”

“Hughie, where’s Billy?”

Silence.

Then:

“…what?”

“Where is he?”

Longer silence.

The horrible kind.

The kind where people suddenly stop breathing normally.

“…why?”

Your stomach dropped.

Immediately.

Instantly.

Because suddenly you knew.

Not details.

Not specifics.

Just certainty.

Something happened.

Something had gone very, very wrong.

“Hughie.”

Silence.

Then quietly:

“…we lost contact three hours ago.”

Three hours.

Three.

You stared straight ahead.

Your hand tightened around the phone.

Three hours.

And nobody called.

Nobody told you.

Nobody—

No.

No no no.

Because suddenly anger arrived right alongside fear.

“Where.”

“Listen—”

“WHERE.”

Silence.

Then an address.

Abandoned industrial district.

Warehouse sector.

Middle of nowhere.

Hughie sounded panicked immediately afterward.

“Wait—wait, don’t—”

Too late.

You’d already hung up.

—

The warehouse looked exactly like every terrible decision in human history.

Dark.

Huge.

Half-abandoned.

Surrounded by chain-link fencing and rust.

Rain had started somewhere during the drive over. Not heavy rain. The miserable cold kind that soaked into clothes and skin and made everything feel slightly unreal.

You sat in your car staring at the building.

Then stared harder.

Then looked down at yourself.

No weapon.

No plan.

No combat skills.

No backup.

No idea what you were doing.

Excellent.

Fantastic.

Perfect.

You got out anyway.

Because fear did strange things to people.

Strange, irrational things.

And somewhere between Billy’s unanswered phone and Hughie’s silence and your own growing panic, common sense had quietly packed a bag and left.

The side entrance wasn’t locked.

Which honestly felt insulting.

You slipped inside.

Dark hallway.

Concrete floors.

Voices somewhere ahead.

You moved slowly.

Very slowly.

Heart beating hard enough to make breathing difficult.

And then—

“…seriously?”

You froze.

Billy.

Billy’s voice.

Angry.

Alive.

You followed the sound.

Down another corridor.

Past storage rooms.

Until finally—

You stopped.

Because through a cracked doorway you saw him.

Tied to a chair.

Bruised.

Bleeding.

Looking furious enough to personally fight God.

Three men stood nearby.

Armed.

Large.

Very armed.

Very, very large.

You stared.

Long silence.

Because objectively speaking, this was a terrible situation.

And then one of them spoke.

“Still not talking?”

Billy spit blood onto the floor.

“Not to idiots.”

Right.

Okay.

You looked around wildly.

No weapon.

Nothing useful.

Then your eyes landed on shelves nearby.

Cleaning supplies.

Boxes.

Tools.

And—

A fire alarm.

You stared.

Then stared harder.

Absolutely not.

No.

This was stupid.

Horribly stupid.

Catastrophically stupid.

You grabbed the fire axe.

—

Later Billy would insist the rescue itself looked completely insane.

According to him, one second there was interrogation and shouting.

The next second alarms exploded through the building.

Red lights started flashing.

Sprinklers activated overhead.

Absolute chaos.

Everyone turned.

And then—

You appeared.

Not dramatically.

Not cool.

Not action-hero style.

You slipped.

Actually slipped.

Nearly fell.

Recovered.

Then ran directly into the room holding a fire axe with both hands and what Billy later described as the expression of a deeply distressed raccoon.

Silence.

Total silence.

One of the men blinked.

“…what?”

You looked around.

Saw Billy.

Saw blood.

Saw restraints.

And then pointed the axe.

With complete confidence.

“LET HIM GO.”

Silence.

Long silence.

Billy stared.

The kidnappers stared.

You stared.

One man actually looked confused.

“…who are you?”

You looked equally confused.

“…none of your business?”

Billy kept staring.

Because there you were.

Standing in the middle of an armed hostage situation.

Drenched.

Terrified.

Holding an axe incorrectly.

Very incorrectly.

Like unbelievably incorrectly.

Billy felt genuine horror crawl into his body.

Not because of himself.

Because of you.

Because what the hell were you doing here?

One man laughed.

Actually laughed.

Billy immediately started shouting.

“NO.”

Everyone looked at him.

Billy looked directly at you.

Directly.

Eyes wide.

Absolutely horrified.

“What are you DOING?”

You looked offended.

“What does it LOOK like?!”

One guy reached for his weapon.

You panicked.

Swung the axe.

Missed entirely.

Hit a pipe.

The pipe exploded.

Steam blasted directly into the room.

People started yelling.

Someone slipped.

Another guy crashed into shelving.

Absolute chaos.

Absolute complete disaster.

And somehow—

somehow—

during all of it—

Billy ended up free.

To this day neither of you fully understood how.

—

By the time the Boys arrived twenty minutes later, Billy was outside sitting on the curb in the rain looking like he’d personally aged ten years.

You sat beside him.

Silent.

Soaked.

Bruised.

Long pause.

Longer pause.

Then:

“…that was stupid.”

You stared.

“What?”

Billy turned.

Actually turned.

Looked at you.

There was blood on his face.

Rain dripping from his hair.

And genuine fury sitting behind his eyes.

Not irritation.

Not sarcasm.

Fear.

Raw fear.

“That was stupid.”

You blinked.

“What do you mean stupid?!”

Billy looked genuinely offended.

“Guns.”

He pointed aggressively.

“Multiple guns.”

Pointed harder.

“You had an AXE.”

“…I saved you.”

“THAT ISN’T THE POINT.”

You stared.

Billy stared back.

Rain fell.

Silence stretched.

Then very quietly:

“…you came.”

Billy stopped.

Just stopped.

Because your voice had changed.

Smaller.

Softer.

You looked down.

Hands folded.

“I thought something happened.”

Pause.

“I thought maybe…”

Long silence.

“…I was scared.”

Billy looked away immediately.

Immediately.

Because suddenly something painful twisted beneath his ribs.

Something awful.

Because you looked shaken.

Actually shaken.

And realization hit all at once.

You came.

No powers.

No training.

No backup.

No guarantees.

You came anyway.

For him.

Billy swallowed hard.

Looked straight ahead.

Then muttered roughly:

“…never do that again.”

Silence.

You stared.

“…you’re welcome?”

And somewhere beside you Billy closed his eyes.

Because the worst part—

the absolute worst bloody part—

was that he already knew if things were reversed…

He would’ve done exactly the same thing.

[castielscaplan]

Keep Comin' Back

Summary: you keep knocking on his door. He keeps being goddamn shirtless. [WC 2.3K] [Ao3]

Warnings: flirting, shirtless billy, cocky billy (well, duh), teasing

@prettybubblesintheair87 did you order a shirtless Billy? Because I got your order hot, fresh, and ready to roll.

Shirtless Men Series

It starts as an accident. That’s the thing you’ll tell yourself later—over and over again—like it somehow makes this whole situation less humiliating. Because the truth? You really didn’t mean to walk in.

You barely even knocked. Just a quick rap against the doorframe before pushing it open, already halfway into your sentence—

“Hey, have you seen—”

And then you stop. Completely. Butcher. In his room. Standing with his back half-turned toward you, digging through a duffel bag like a man on a mission. Shirtless. Your brain goes blank. Not slow. Not buffering. Just gone. Short circuits. Broad shoulders. Scars scattered like stories you don’t get to hear. Muscles shifting under skin like he doesn’t even realize what he looks like. Or worse like he does.

“Door’s not just for decoration, love.” His voice snaps you back so fast it almost hurts.

You jerk, eyes darting anywhere but him. “I knocked!”

“Didn’t wait.” He turns then. Slowly. And that oh my FUCK, that’s worse. Because now it’s not just seeing him, it’s him seeing you seeing him.

That crooked smirk spreads like he’s been handed a gift. “…bit early in the day to be starin’, ain’t it?”

Heat floods your face. “I wasn’t staring.”

“Course you weren’t,” he hums, completely unconvinced. He doesn’t move to grab a shirt. Doesn’t even pretend to. Instead, he leans casually against the table, arms folding like he’s settling in for a show. “Go on then,” he adds. “What d’you need?”

You forget. Actually forget. “…what?”

“What. Do. You. Need?” he repeats, slower this time, eyes sharp with amusement.

Right. Right. Focus. “I—uh—I was looking for—” you gesture vaguely, brain scrambling, “—a file. Frenchie said you had it.”

“Mm.” He pushes off the table, walking past you. Too close. Way too close.

You can feel the heat of him, the faint scent of smoke and something darker, something that sticks. He doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t need to.

“Next time,” he says quietly as he passes, voice brushing your ear, “might wanna keep your eyes up here.”

You don’t turn around. You can’t. Because if you do, you’re not sure you’ll look away.

You tell yourself it won’t happen again. You’re smarter than that. More careful. Which is why the second time you see him half naked is somehow worse.

You knock. You wait. You even call out, “Butcher?”

“Yeah, come in.”

Clear invitation. Safe. You open the door. And immediately regret every life choice that led you here. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed this time. Still shirtless. Hair damp like he just got out of the shower, a towel draped lazily around his neck. Water still clings to his skin, trailing down in slow lines that your eyes absolutely should not be following— But they are. Oh, for fuck's sake, they are.

“…you do this on purpose?”

The words slip out before you can stop them.

He looks up. Grins. “Do what?”

You gesture at him, vaguely furious. “This!”

He glances down at himself like he’s just now noticing. “Oh,” he says, deadpan. “Forgot my shirt.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Swear on it.”

You give him a look.

He leans back slightly, bracing his hands behind him, completely relaxed under your scrutiny. “Funny though,” he adds, eyes flicking over your face, “you keep showin’ up for it.”

Your stomach flips. “That’s not— I knock!”

“And I answer.”

“That’s not the same as—” you stop, exasperated. “You could put a shirt on!”

He tilts his head, considering. “Could,” he agrees. Doesn’t move. Silence stretches.

Your heartbeat gets louder. And louder.

Then—

“You done lookin’?”

Your eyes snap up to his.

He’s watching you. Really watching you now. Not just teasing. Not just joking. Something sharper underneath.

You swallow. “I wasn’t—”

“Right,” he cuts in softly. “Still not starin’.”

There’s a beat. Then he reaches for a shirt beside him. Pulls it on. Slow. Deliberate. Never breaking eye contact. “…happy now?” he asks.

You should be. You’re not.

After that, you start avoiding him. At least—you try to. Butcher makes that difficult. He’s always around. Always close. Always watching just a little too close, like he’s waiting for something. For you.

There’s the third time. You don’t knock. You should. You know you should. But you don’t. You push the door open cautiously, peeking in. “…Butcher?”

Silence. You step inside. Empty. Relief washes over you so fast it almost makes you laugh.

“Right,” you mutter to yourself. “Finally—”

“Miss me, did ya?”

You jump. Actually jump, spinning around— And there he is. Behind the door. Shirtless. Again.Of course. Your hand flies to your chest. “Are you serious?!”

He looks entirely too pleased with himself. “Bit jumpy today.”

“You were hiding!”

“Wasn’t hidin’,” he shrugs. “Just standin’.”

“Behind the door.”

“Details.”

You stare at him. He stares back. And something shifts. Because this time— You don’t look away. Not immediately. Not at all, really. Your eyes flicker over him but you don’t flinch. Don’t scramble. Don’t pretend. You just… stand there.

And he notices. Of course he notices.

That smirk falters. Just a fraction. “…well,” he says slowly, “that’s new.”

Your arms cross over your chest, more for something to do than anything else. “What?”

“No running off,” he says, studying you now. “No excuses.”

You shrug, trying for casual and landing somewhere dangerously close to bold. “Maybe I got used to it.”

His eyes narrow slightly. Not angry. Interested. “Yeah?” he murmurs.

You nod. Big mistake. Because he steps closer. Slow. Measured. Like he’s testing something. And you don’t move. Your heart is pounding so loud you’re sure he can hear it. But you don't move. You stand there.

“Used to it,” he repeats, voice lower now. “Or just enjoy it?”

Your breath catches. You should joke. Deflect. Do literally anything other than what you do next. “…maybe I do.”

Silence. Heavy. Charged.

His gaze sharpens, something darker flickering underneath the usual cocky amusement. “Careful,” he says quietly. “That sounds a lot like an invitation.”

Your pulse stutters. “Maybe it is.”

The words hang between you.

You don’t even recognize yourself right now. But you don’t take them back.

For a second— A long second— He just looks at you.

Then he huffs out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Bloody hell,” he mutters. And suddenly he’s right there. Close enough that you have to tilt your head up slightly to meet his eyes. Close enough that the air feels thinner. “Been wonderin’ how long it’d take,” he says.

“For what?”

“For you to stop pretendin’.”

Your stomach flips. “You’re very sure of yourself.”

“Always am.”

“Cocky.”

“Gets results.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real bite to it. Not now. Not when he’s this close. Not when you can feel the heat of him again, stronger this time, intentional.

“Still think you’re not impressed?” he asks, quieter now.

Your throat feels dry. “…didn’t say that.”

“Didn’t deny it either.”

His hand lifts—Just slightly. Like he’s going to touch you. But he doesn’t. Lets it fall. And somehow that’s worse. “Next time,” he says instead, stepping back just enough to break the tension—just enough to make you notice the absence, “try not to take so long to admit it.”

Your breath comes back all at once. “…next time?”

That smirk returns. Slow. Dangerous. “Oh, there’ll be a next time,” he says easily, reaching for a shirt and finally—finally—pulling it on. But his eyes never leave yours. “Wouldn’t want to disappoint my favorite audience.”

And then— Just like that— He walks past you. Leaving you standing there, heart racing, thoughts a mess, one very clear realization settling in: You’re definitely going to walk in on him again. And next time? It won’t be an accident.

You last exactly two days. Two. That’s how long you manage to avoid him after… whatever that was. You throw yourself into anything else—helping Frenchie, reorganizing supplies, even willingly sitting through one of Hughie’s rambling explanations just to stay occupied.

Anything to not think about the way Butcher looked at you. The way he stepped closer. The way you didn’t move. Didn’t want to. It’s embarrassing, honestly. You’re better than this. Smarter. More in control. So yeah—two days.

Then you’re standing outside his door again. You don’t even remember walking there. Just suddenly… there. Staring at the wood like it personally offended you. “This is stupid,” you mutter under your breath. You should leave. Turn around. Make literally any good decision.

Instead you knock. Once. Soft. There’s a beat of silence. “Door’s open.” Of course it is. Your hand hesitates on the handle for half a second. Then you push it open. And step inside.

He’s not shirtless. That’s the first thing you notice. And weirdly? That’s disappointing. He’s leaning back in the chair, boots kicked up on the table, shirt on (tragic), sleeves rolled, watching you like he knew you’d show up. Which he probably did. “Thought you were avoidin’ me,” he says casually.

You shut the door behind you. “I wasn’t—”

“Mm.” That sound again. That I don’t believe you for a second sound.

You cross your arms. “I’ve been busy.”

“Sure you have.”

God, he’s annoying.

You take a step further into the room. “You always this full of yourself?”

“Only when I’m right.” He tilts his head slightly, studying you. “Miss me?”

Your stomach flips. You hate that it does. “No.” Too quick. Too sharp.

His smirk widens. “Liar.”

You open your mouth to argue.

“Door.”

You blink. “What?”

“Lock it.”

Your brain stutters. “…why?”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “Because I said so.”

That should annoy you. It does annoy you. But something else curls underneath it—something warmer, heavier, pulling at your instincts in a way you don’t fully understand. “You don’t get to just—”

“Either lock it,” he cuts in, voice dropping slightly, “or leave.”

Silence. A challenge.

Your pulse kicks up. You turn. Slowly. Reach back. And lock the door. The click echoes louder than it should.

When you turn back,. He’s already standing. Closer than before. Not too close. But closer. And watching you like he’s finally got what he wanted. “Good girl,” he says quietly.

Your heart is racing now. “Happy?” you ask, trying to sound unimpressed.

“Getting there.”

He takes a step toward you. You hold your ground. Barely. “Y’know,” he continues, circling slightly—not touching, just there, “most people knock, get what they need, and leave.”

“I do that.”

“You wander in, stare at me like I’m somethin’ on display, then pretend you don’t like what you see.”

Your breath catches. “I don’t—”

“Don’t lie.” Soft. Firm.

Your back hits the table before you even realize you’ve been stepping back. He notices. Of course he does.

A flicker of something satisfied crosses his face. “Been real patient with you,” he says, voice lower now. “Thought I’d let you come to it on your own.”

You swallow. “Come to what?”

His eyes drop—briefly—to your lips. Then back up. “To this.” And then he’s there. Close enough that there’s no space left to pretend. Your breath stutters. “Still gonna tell me you’re not impressed?” he murmurs.

Your voice comes out quieter than you expect. “…no.”

“Yeah,” he hums. “Didn’t think so.”

His hand comes up again. This time it doens't stop. His fingers brush your jaw, light at first, like he’s testing if you’ll pull away. You don’t. You can’t. That small touch sends something electric down your spine. “Been watchin’ you,” he admits, almost lazily. “Every time you walk in. Every time you try not to look.”

Your grip tightens on the edge of the table. “That supposed to make me feel better?”

“Not really.” Honest. Of course it is.

His thumb shifts slightly against your skin, tilting your chin just enough. “Supposed to make you stop pretendin’ you don’t want this.”

Your heart is pounding so hard it almost hurts. “And if I don’t?” you whisper.

A beat.

“Then I let you walk out that door,” he says. No hesitation. No bluff. “But,” he adds, leaning in just enough that you can feel his breath now, “you won’t.”

Your breath hitches. “…you’re very sure.”

“Always am.” There’s that cocky edge again.

But underneath it, Something steady. Certain. Waiting. And God help you— He’s right. Because you don’t move. Don’t push him away. Don’t make a joke. Don’t break the moment. You just look at him.

And that’s all he needs. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “That’s what I thought.”

Then he closes the distance.

The kiss isn’t soft. It’s not rushed either. It’s deliberate. Controlled. Like everything he does. His hand shifts from your jaw to the back of your neck, firm enough to keep you there, not enough to trap you.

Giving you the choice.

You make it. Your hands find his shirt—gripping, pulling him closer—and that’s when something in him snaps. The control cracks. Just a little. The kiss deepens, rougher now, more intent, like he’s done waiting, done pretending this isn’t exactly what he’s wanted.

What you’ve both wanted.

Your back presses harder against the table as he crowds closer, heat everywhere, overwhelming, impossible to ignore.

“See?” he mutters against your mouth, breath uneven now. “Knew you’d come around.”

You should argue. You don’t. Because right now? He’s right. And you hate that you like it.

When you finally pull back, your breathing is a mess. So is his—just slightly. His forehead rests briefly against yours, a rare pause in all that sharp confidence. “…took you long enough,” he murmurs.

You let out a shaky breath. “You’re unbelievable.”

A faint smirk tugs at his mouth. “Yeah,” he says. “But you keep comin’ back.”

Your heart stutters again. And this time? You don’t deny it.

[reginaphalangelobster]

Bloody Hell

☁︎ Paring: Billy Butcher x Fem!Reader

☁︎ Summary: When Billy comes home, he finds you curled up in bed hating your existence, and he knows just how to comfort you.

☁︎ Warnings: swearing, comfort, mild suggestiveness, possibly ooc Butcher, he's sweet

☁︎ Word Count: 700

☁︎ Rating: Mature/15+

꧁ Read my rules and send a request! ꧂

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Butcher came home from a few days away, fighting and bleeding and just wanting to fall into bed with you, the usual.

Every time he came home, you met him with a bright smile and tight hug that he'd pretend not to love nearly as much as he did. But not today.

He called out to you, no answer, panicking immediately. You always answered, an unspoken rule between the two of you, no matter how bad the fight or fuck up, you always made sure the other was okay.

Fuck.

He knew those fucking supes were dirty, but he never thought they'd find you here, mind racing with what they could've done to you.

He felt his heart drop to the floor when he saw bloody sheets soaking in the sink. There was no reason for them to be there, or for one of those fuckers to half-ass cleaning up afterwards, but maybe it was to mess with his head, it was sure as fuck working.

He ran to the bedroom, finding you curled up in bed, facing the wall, not even turning back to look at him. He called again as he rushed to your side, still no answer.

He flipped you over, limp enough to roll easily. The second you blinked up at him he heard his heart beat again, thinking it had stopped completely.

"Billy?" You murmured, groggy - from sleep.

"Fuck Sweetheart" He yanked you up into his arms, sitting up against him "Y'scared the shit outta me, you okay?"

"Jus' feeling like shit" You grumbled, arms weakly squeezing around him, happily leaning on him for support.

"But you're alright?" He pulled back, hand cupping your cheek, tilting your head to meet his gaze properly "No one hurt you?"

"Just my fucking uterus"

He stopped for a minute, letting everything click.

"Fuck, girl" He sighed, resting his forehead against yours with his heavy exhale, relieved to know the blood wasn't from anything properly bad, irreversible bad.

"Aww" You cooed, still too tired to really say much "Y'worried 'bout me?"

"Always" He smirked, laying you back down on the bed "Need anything, luv?"

You shook your head slightly "Already on drugs, baby"

He huffed out a laugh, leaving the room, though you wished he wouldn't.

He came back in a second, holding a bottle of water and your favourite chocolate bar, you were sure you'd demolished all of the chocolate in the house already.

"M'hidden supplies" He answered the question you were yet to ask "Always keep spares for ya"

You grinned "C'mere Gorgeous"

"You talkin' to me or the chocolate bar?"

"You'll never know"

He smirked, slipping off his coat, climbing under the covers with you.

He pulled you closer, but you kept yourself back a bit. He wasn't sure if it was pain or something else, you always loved throwing a leg over his waist in bed, keeping him as close as possible, but now your legs were practically glued together.

He tapped your knee lightly, signalling you to spread 'em, as he had so eloquently put it once.

You didn't move, subconsciously curling in on yourself.

He moved close, lips brushing your ear "Doesn't bother me luv, get as comfy as y'like"

You grinned, looping your arms around his neck and shoulders, bringing yourself close once again.

His hand slipped down, smoothing over your lower stomach, thumb brushing soothingly, his other hand mimicked the motions along your spine as you found your spot, always yours.

"Y're all torn up 'nside, hm? Hurtin'?"

All you could do was nod as he tucked your head against his chest, keeping you safe. He pressed his body against yours, knowing how much heat helped, him being your own human furnace.

"'s gonna be okay, little thing, just gotta push though, know you can"

He stayed there for as long as you needed, hands roaming, warming up your arms when they slipped out of the blanket, keeping you perfectly cozy as you slept. He purposefully stayed up for a while, making sure you were okay before settling into sleep himself, all stress and worries of the past few days melted away when he had his pretty girl to take care of.

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[reginaphalangelobster]

Hello, Goodbye and Love

★ Stars: Billy Butcher x GN!Reader

★ Plot: A dumbass Hawaiian shirt manages to change things between you and Butcher, but by how much?

★ Run Time: 2.2k

★ Rating: Mature/15+

★ Warnings: swearing, comfortish, comedy, fluff, mentions of torture, damaged reader, descriptions of blood and gore, angst, denial of feelings, hiding feelings, possible part 2

★ Commentary: Very special thanks to @mythandmemories for your help with this!!

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Some fuckwit ripped Butcher a new one, well, a new hole in his shirt at least. A bit of skin with it. Eh, more than a bit.

He came to your apartment, close by, he said, though it would have been just as easy for him to go home, yours just felt more like one.

You took him in, telling him he was an idiot for getting hurt and tracking blood in on your carpet. It wasn't exactly nice to begin with, but you just got blood stains out of it, you didn't want to clean up more.

You pushed him back to lean against your kitchen counter as you got your first aid kit out, swiping away the blood dripping and slowly drying by his eye.

Yours found the large rip straight through a hibiscus over his heart, another on his arm.

"Gotta take this off" You muttered, trying to calm the slight tremble of your fingers as you undid the buttons, too much blood this time.

"Whatever ya have'ta-" He sucked in a breath through his teeth when you peeled the material away, already stuck to the open wound.

"Sorry" You looked back up from the soaked shirt to his eyes, how dim they were, he really was hurt.

"'s fine. Just- hurry up, would ya?"

You nodded, swiping cotton pads over his chest, using far too many, soaked red too quickly.

You stitched him up as fast as you could, still keeping the stitches even-ish. He watched you as you did, how focused you were, the clenched line of your jaw every time he flinched or took a breath in a bit harder. You kept your eyes on the cut, his ripped apart skin, showing deeper than you'd like to see. You cleaned up around the stitches once again, placing a clean, white patch over the area.

"There" You said, voice coming out shakier than you thought it would "Good as new, kinda"

"Thanks, love" The sincerity in his voice bled through the gruffness.

Your eyes found his again, all broken and a little wet.

"Well" You started "You'd better rest up before you bust those stitches killing some other dumbass"

"Right, yeah" He pulled back, taking his coat as he made his way to the door, your hand finding his wrist.

"Where do you think you're going? You're one of the dumbasses, need you somewhere I can keep an eye on you" You smiled just a little, the one you kept reserved for very few people, Butcher recently included.

He stopped for a moment, he wasn't used to this, someone caring. And not just about what he could do for them, but about him. It was a nice change, he hoped.

He took a step closer, his answer there, and you led him over to your couch, slightly pushing him down to sit. He never let anyone push him around, that was for sure, but he didn't mind as much when it came from you, like this.

"Wait here" You disappeared into your room.

Butcher looked around, he hadn't been to your place many times, and when he had, it was always very brief. He saw your favourite jumper thrown on the back of a chair. It was either your favourite or the only one you owned, based on the amount of times he'd seen you in it. Remembering each of them.

Then there was that pen, it was a dumb pen, sparkly, covered in glitter, a fluffy little topper at the end of it. He picked it up from your coffee table, thumb brushing over the synthetic crap at it's end.

"I see you've met Henry" You appeared by his side and he looked up at you incredulously.

"Henry? Really, Pet?"

"Hey, it was the first name I thought of, I was five"

"Yeah?"

"Mhm. Went to a fair when I was a kid, won that stupid thing" You smiled as you said it, reminscent "Last real good day I remember, then it all went to shit"

"Know the feeling" He muttered, still staring at the pen.

"C'mon then sour puss" You changed the subject, too many emotions starting to happen "Sit up"

"What're you, m'nan?"

"I would hope not, just sit up"

He did as you said, hiding the pain as he did. You slipped a button up shirt around his shoulders, helping each of his arms into it.

"Figured this'd be a bit up your alley"

He looked down, noticing the Hawaiian flower pattern spread across the blue shirt.

"You just had one of these lyin' 'round?"

"No. Two"

He huffed out a breath through his nose, the closest you'd get to a laugh.

"Didn't think you'd like this shit"

"So what you're saying is…" You plopped down beside him, smoothing the shirt down his front carefully "You think about me"

More than he'd care to admit.

"Don't flatter yr'self, Sunshine" He huffed, somewhat lighthearted.

"Hey, I almost burned 'em all when I met you. Then you started to grow on me, like those ugly ass shirts"

He cocked a brow "Thought you said you liked 'em before you met me"

"I did, I was talking about yours"

"Wha''s wrong with mine?" He almost sounded a little offended, it was kinda cute.

"Mine have a style, yours are more…divorced dad"

"Oi-!"

"It coulda been worse. Used to think it was divorced dad with a bit of a beer belly, but tonight you proved me wrong"

"That mean y'like what y'see?"

"Maybe" You shrugged, a slight smirk playing across your lips.

A comfortable little silence fell between you before Butcher spoke up again.

"So what'cha do here of a night?"

"Well tonight's my night off but I'm usually swingin' on a pole somewhere"

"Really?"

"No you fuckwit" You laughed, he just barely joined you "I dunno, not much I guess. This guy Steve's out back, but he's not a regular, he just pissed me off"

"Out back where?"

"Oh, my torture room, want the grand tour?"

"Sounds lovely"

He tried to push up off the couch but you could see him struggling. You placed a hand on his shoulder, stopping him, surprised he didn't fight you on it.

"One sec" You passed by, into the kitchen, returning a moment later by throwing a bag at his face.

"Thanks" He replied dryly, glancing down at the bag of chips.

You handed him a beer, sitting back down, a little closer now "You're welcome"

You handed him the TV remote, kicking your feet up on the coffee table.

"Anything good on?" He asked.

"Fuck no, when is there ever?"

He let out a breath, flicking through the channels. You don't know how you ended up on a Spanish soap opera, but it was just shit enough to be half funny. Between Maria's affair and Rodrigo's evil twin Viktor, you noticed the blue material of your shirt on Butcher starting to turn a dirty purple, right over his heart.

"Sit still y'bastard" You muttered, his eyebrows raising slightly, the fuck did he do now? "You're gettin' blood all over my shirt"

You grabbed another four by four, opening the first few buttons of the shirt to replace the blood soaked cotton. Well, they were half undone already, but you certainly weren't complaining.

He was almost glad he bled through, taking that short moment to feel taken care of, by you.

"There" You patted it ever so lightly, yawning when you sat back "Wake me up when it needs changing again"

You settled back into your seat, shuffling closer to him, resting your cheek against his not torn in half shoulder.

He stilled for a moment, not some dorky, high-school-kid freeze, just, still. No one had really done that, at least, not in a damn long time. And he liked it, that slight pull in chest, feeling needed.

Neither of you spoke of the night for weeks but being around him felt a little different. He stood just a touch closer, his eyes flicked to you more often than before, he was less angry. Not happy and sunshine and roses, but a little less on edge all the time.

Until that fateful, unforeseen, unavoidable day. A damn dramatic day it seemed.

Butcher had his back turned when you walked into the office so he didn't see you, but he always knew when you were around.

You kept to yourself, doing as you would normally do when he turned and his eyes locked onto you immediately. More onto your shirt really, that same one you gave him, a slightly murky stain on one side of your chest. It was small, almost invisible, but Butcher knew better. He saw the way his faded blood clung to the material, brownish red, not ready to go yet.

He was sick, really, because he liked it. He liked having that part of himself on you, touching you. His claim, even if you were the only ones who knew about it. He liked seeing you so casual about it too, like it was normal, maybe it could be.

You liked it too of course. It felt like you were keeping him close, a little part of him coming with you wherever you went. And you were happy to feel like you were his, after all, you had been for a long time, he just hadn't noticed.

That began it all, when he started to come around more.

He'd turn up after random fights, some for his cause, some just because of dickheads at bars, either way, he'd always come to you to get patched up at the end of it all. He even started picking fights he wouldn't normally get into, the masochistic son of a bitch.

Sometimes you wondered why he seemed to get into more fights lately, until it became clear. You didn't like seeing him hurt, but more often than not it was just a few cuts and bruises. It got to the point where you started to develop favourites. Split lips were the best, you'd wipe away the blood, swipe a little cream over his lips, lingering a little longer than you had to, and press ice against it. He could hold it himself, sure, but you both preferred it like this.

He came over one night and you were dead tired, a little beat up yourself - Steve got out - and while you were bandaging up his bloodied and broken knuckles, you traced around each cut carefully, fingertips mapping out the pain, his own and what he caused. Once you covered his hand, you smoothed the cotton out, watching the red already begin to seep through, and pressed a kiss to it. Just soft and simple, sealing the bandage onto where it sat.

He muttered a quiet but sincere "Thanks, love" before collecting his coat and heading out the door, fuck emotions.

When you saw him the next day, you both kept your distance, stealing your forbidden glances when you thought no one's eyes were on you.

You were kicking yourself for it, you thought you might have screwed up the first good, kinda odd, thing you'd had in years. But as you let your thoughts spiral for the next week, regrets building, Butcher turned up at your door once again, knuckles beaten just the same as before, and he didn't have to tell you he wanted to repeat the other night.

You started to talk when you patched him up too, both of you, surprisingly. Mostly random shit. The dog you almost got when you were a kid, your favourite shows, shit like that. But sometimes it'd get different, more. Butcher would say things, low and rough and so so quiet, only for your ears. Things he never told anyone before, things he never thought he could tell anyone, but you were so much more than anyone.

He started reaching out more too, throwing an arm around you if he hadn't dislocated his shoulder that day, sometimes a hand on your knee, little things that really made you feel like you were his, even if you considered yourself as that months ago.

He didn't want to draw attention to whatever the fuck it was that you two were doing around the others, but there were small changes. He sat next to you at any opportunity he got, not being too obvious about it.

He could even tell when you were nervous, despite how well you usually kept it hidden, Butcher could always see through. He'd put his hand on your knee under tables, sometimes even holding your own hand if he felt game enough, he just didn't want to go too far and have you pull away completely.

It took him far too long to realise, but he couldn't keep ignoring it. He was asking for this really, spending all that damn time around you, of course he'd fall in love with you.

You were no better, you fell for him forever ago, though only recently did you come to the conclusion of love, it made sense, the way you felt with him, finally safe, comfortable.

Very few people, quite possibly no one but you, could say they felt comfortable in the presence of Billy the Butcher, let alone that he returned the feeling.

That was just for you.

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[rarware]

new frame of view

• you get a trim. robert notices. because of course he does. • tags - domestic fluff, slice of life, established relationship, robert being smitten, no physical descriptors for reader (let me know if i can improve on that) wc - 1.3k

masterlist

my steam for writing is already dwindling and i am fighting tooth & nail to keep going. at the very least, there's a small spike in motivation after every finished work, so i'll use it to work on some others i've got cooking. this is much shorter than i thought, and i'm a little embarrassed that THIS took so long to get out, but take it nonetheless.

also, yes. this was spurred on by the fact i cut my own hair and needed a little reassurance. because i'm sickly over this man.

anyway, enough overexplaining. enjoy whatever this is.

“—I told him, ‘look, if things don’t change soon, I’ll be forced to make decisions I don’t want to make and neither of us will walk away happy.’–”

Robert narrates around a mouthful of food, waving his fork idly over his plate as he speaks.

“–and then he got all mad at me: the one person actually trying to keep him employed. Started yelling at me and then immediately tried to intimidate me when he got back to the office.”

You only reach for your wine glass with a single-note hum, fighting the smile that wants to perch on your lips as you watch his animated eyebrows ride out the waves of his emotions.

“Like, am I crazy? Am I the crazy one for making sure that he's able to clock in everyday?”

They scrunch as he shakes his head, free hand splayed in dismay.

“The only other option is to straight up fire him, and as much as I feel like he’s been more deserving of it as of late, he’s still incredibly valuable and a good asset to the team; if it’s a problem that can be fixed, I’d rather fix it, y’know? It feels like we’re backsliding on progress and I have no fucking clue why.”

You take a small sip before gently setting the glass back into its waiting spot, taking up your fork once more to twirl strands of fettuccine through the tines, tone pleasantly light but idle.

“Mm. He sounds… not-at-all stressful to work with.”

You grin a little when he mutters under his breath—yeah. So not stressful. Honestly? Even detoxing. It’s like I age backwards when I talk to him; maybe Chase should start handling his bullshit instead. Fuck.

Robert takes a moment of pause to hurriedly chew the rest of his food and chase it down with a sip of his own wine. He meets your amused gaze over the rim of his glass and exhales softly through his nose.

His tongue makes quick work of any leftover sticky red residue on his lip, then he’s sucking his teeth briefly before sighing a bit fuller this time.

Jaw softening, shoulders easing—his shift-gear clunking down a few notches.

“Sorry, I don’t–”

Another breath releases as he leans back in his chair a bit with his eyes dropped to his plate, hand scratching at the back of his head sheepishly.

“–I don’t mean to come home and immediately start complaining. Something draining happened at the office; fish meet water. I haven’t even asked—”

You raise your fork to your mouth, blowing gently before your lips part to take the bite. Your eyes had raised as well, moving from your plate & fork up to Robert’s face at the blaring sound of his sudden silence.

You find him staring at you.

You don’t mean to brag when you say, but Robert often stares at you. It doesn’t matter where you are in the room—or what you happen to be doing—you will always feel his gaze throughout the day.

Honey-gooey, candied sweet glances, often accompanied by a smitten smile that you’re pretty sure he means to be stealthy about.

You still don’t have the heart to tell him otherwise.

What’s intriguing, though, is how he’s looking at you right now.

The curve of his lashes are widened just a fraction, eyebrows knitted like he’s reading something that doesn’t make a lick of sense and still trying to understand regardless. His lips are barely parted, a physical indicator of his normally sharp brain buffering.

You only get to admire the rich brown of his eyes, unable to get lost in them as you usually do because he’s not meeting your eyes. They’re angled just the slightest bit up.

Your forehead?

You start to raise your free hand, pause, and then continue to give a fleeting brush of fingertips to your hairline with a questioning sound.

“…what’s—?”

“You got a haircut.” Robert blurts, tone barely concealing enamored awe as he puts his fork down lightly—supposedly aiming for his plate and still almost missing. His focus is entirely elsewhere.

Your lids shutter like biological camera lenses, your own pasta wrapped utensil lowering a bit as you register his obvious deduction.

That smile from before bypasses your defenses easily, a bit tempered by a budding bashfulness under his gaze. One of your shoulders lift & falls in a quick shrug, and your gaze drops to your plate in sync.

“Ah. Astute observation. Yeah, no,” you mumble around your grin, mindlessly pushing about some noodles on your plate, “not a haircut. Just a trim. I shouldn’t be allowed around scissors. Got tired of the usual, y’know?”

More silence.

Another prompt to take a glance up.

Robert’s still staring but his own smile has doubled. His eyes are darting around your face and hair like he’s seeing you for the first time again—like he’s updating a mental catalogue with a reverently devoted quickness, as if any potential for outdated information is an outrage.

Unable to fight against the creeping warmth building in your chest, you turn your head toward the general direction of the living room just to try to escape yourself—Beef’s lost in his own world going to town on the new toy you had gotten him a couple days ago; there’s clutter on the coffee table that you’ll tidy up after dinner is cleaned up; the glass of the balcony door is partially covered by the curtains half drawn to let the last of the fleeting daylight in.

“I dunno how to cut hair, obviously,” you continue in a quietly nervous admission, “I know I should’ve probably booked an appointment somewhere, it’s just hard to trust others with scissors so close to my head, I guess.”

“It looks good!” he leans forward a bit, trying to catch your gaze again, “Great, even. Fantastic. I mean, even without it, but it definitely adds to. A really good bonus. Hell, maybe even a raise.”

“Goof,” you snort, shaking your head before taking up your fork again.

“I mean it,” he insists, before mumbling under his breath in astonishment, “shit, how did I not notice?”

“It’s not a big deal. I didn’t even take off more than an inch. It’s okay.”

“I literally look at you every single day—I want to look at you every single day. So I can catch changes like this. I want to see every version of you possible.”

cl-nk

Your fork finds rest on your plate now, food forgotten as you finally look at him again.

His expression is so earnestly sweet—so sickeningly soft and all for you. That warmth ramps up, skipping a few levels to fill your face now.

Your deflections are weaker and weaker.

“You.” you inhale slowly, “Are such a sap.”

“Sticky as charged.”

He laughs at the ankle assault he earns from under the table, absolutely in love with the way your nose wrinkles at him.

You reach from your wine glass again, grumbling into the rim before you sip. Magnetized, you find yourself meeting his eyes. Again.

His arm moves—elbow planted on the tabletop, chin nestled into his palm, spine slouching into the support as he sighs slowly. Whipped in his entirety.

“Hey,” his voice is quieter, private even in a space only you two inhabit, volume drifting lower and lower as he takes you in, “you look amazing, really. Frames your face nicely. Brings focus to your… eyes…”

“Eat. Your food.”

“Busy.” he grins.

“…thank you.”

You try to resume eating, food colder than before. 

He makes no move to pick up his fork yet. If anything, the loving light in his eye brightens as he simply watches you eat.

You want to tell him, teasingly, that he needs to fix his staring problem.

You don’t.

You won’t.

You never want him to stop looking at you the way he does, ever. 

[writerstruggle]

i don't know what canon is. just tumblr and ao3 ❤️

[writerstruggle]

me whenever something happens

[holy-minseok]

... FOR THE WRITERS <3

Not all of the people reading your x reader fics have white skin

Just a gentle reminder before you write characteristics that assume whiteness and exclude your black/indigenous/poc supporters-specifically in 'x reader' works.

I love and appreciate writers, but this is a recurring avoidable issue (going on for decades now).

"your dusky pink nipples" "your face turned just as red as his" "he could see the blush on your face" “your cheeks furiously blushed” “your ears burn bright red” “The look in your reddened face” “your knuckles white with effort” “bruised purple against your light skin”

Describing the physical feeling instead of the visual change helps include your readers while also elevating your writing IMO.

Anyone can say "Your cheeks turned red with embarrassment" or "Your face flushed" but wouldn't you rather say "A burning heat rushed across your face, from your neck to the tip of your nose, prickling right underneath the surface. You look anywhere but him, hoping your newfound interest in the buildings ceiling tiles will ease the fire tightening beneath your skin" And instead of the other character pointing out that the readers face is red, they can point out the obvious flustered facial expression/body language.

If you want your reader insert to have white/fairskin, then just label them white!reader or put the mention in the warnings/summary.

↪I have reached out to writers I favored/supported before and sometimes I have been met with severe hostility and defensiveness. I often wonder if people are doing this purposefully or for some reason think only white people read their fanfics (?)-if that's the case then be upfront and label your reader inserts as white!reader or something PLEASE. It’s gotten to the point where I feel like black women and other POC aren’t wanted or considered in these fandoms because it comes off like that in your writing. If you need a different motivation, just know you're missing out on more interactions, reblogs, and a bigger reader base. I don’t know why white is the default for so many writers in unspecified x reader/reader insert fics-the people on your blog following, reading, and supporting you aren’t all white and fair-skinned.

I am not talking about OC fics or fics where race/skintone is x specified in summary or warnings. This is specifically about unspecified "x reader" where whiteness is assumed as the default

Put in the comments good replacements for writers to use!

[1ov3lynn]

OP is so right!! I genuinely feel so sucky when I’m reading an x reader fic and I have to start mentally changing things in my head so I can convince myself I’m included. I get if writers write for themselves but then you should say it’s a self insert or even based on you. I’m in so many fandoms, some were male dominated, some were woman dominated, some were poc dominated, but they both have a habit of not even considering black women in the equation.

And being defensive or hostile about bringing up this problem doesn’t fix anything. You look just as sucky saying “it’s not for you, it’s for me!!” As you did writing a fic that excludes poc.

[lunarayletters]

You love me, but.

Summary: You perfected your happy mask, and fooled everyone but yourself. You were everyone’s favourite nurse during the night shift. Always laughing, always smiling — you radiated positive energy. Or so they thought. Everyone had secrets, and so did you. But no one had to know, right? Until you one day, found yourself in the lap of your attending. Drunk and in love, you made a bad, bad decision. 

angst, vulnerability, anger, romantic tragedy, heartbreak

Word count: 9k

Trigger warnings: self harm, blood, medical settings, accidents, swear words, mature content, sad ending

Notes: had this idea in my mind for a few days, sad Abbot fic sorry!

You enjoyed this life, you truly did. You were somewhat happy, you loved your friends, you enjoyed listening to music, you worked a wonderful job, you dated a few guys, had a carefree sex life. But deep down, you knew you weren’t good enough. You knew that you had been living a lie, so whenever your mind whispered the truth, you cut deep — a silent, painful, lonely reminder of your daily struggle. 

People were truly oblivious to your struggles. Of course, they didn’t know unless they saw scars. So how did you go around having sex? Simple. Most horny men didn’t notice. Even if they did, you’d lie and the blood flow was mainly pooling in their erection and not their mind. Or so you convinced yourself. 

You went out with some of PTMC staff one weekend, had one too many and everyone got talking about their sex lives. 

“I’m just saying, the sex doesn’t stop or slow down after you get married” Langdon shrugged “But after a few kids it slows down because you just can’t afford to have anymore.”

“Oh man the newborn phase is exhausting, sex is the last thing on my mind right now” Donnie added. “Shoot what time is it? Gotta go”

Everyone laughed. He was sleep deprived, worked a full time job and yet somehow still managed to keep a social life. 

“What about you?” Robby asked looking at you. “You’re young and single”

“I do like to have fun, lots of it” you said confidently “but not just with anyone”

“Oh yeah?” McCkay said “where do you find these guys?”

"Stupid dating apps, I know, but it's not just about the sex. It's the fun of dating… dressing up, meeting someone new, learning about them. Plus, they pay for dinner," you joked. "But I enjoy it. It's exciting.”

You noticed Abbot was looking at you from the other side of the table, as if to say, I’d like to try. You’d drawn a boundary when it came to dating colleagues — you thought it’d be too messy, too much drama and you just wanted to have fun. But this look was different. It was admiration, it was teasing. 

You were good at reading people, giving them a reaction too but this… this you weren’t too sure about. You were pretty friendly with Abbot but not too close. You kept strict professional boundaries at work, with the occasional joke or tease to lift everyone's spirits.

Another tactic to trick them all. But as time passed, it stopped being a tactic. That was you — truly you. Funny, charismatic, energetic. Yet all it took was one small inconvenience and you harmed yourself again. It never took much to get sucked back into the darkness.

“What about you?” You asked Robby. 

“Oh I’m…single. Free if you’d say” he let out a nervous chuckle “but I’m hoping I’d get some action during my sabbatical”

“I’ll help you find one now, give me five” you winked, getting up, walking over to the bar to get another drink. 

A guy came up to you as you sat on the bar waiting for your drink, with a big smirk on his face, as if to say let’s get some action. You made a face at him then looked away. Yes you had your fun and yes you were open to dating, but also you didn’t do many one night stands. 

“He’s been eyeing you since you got here” 

You looked over your shoulder and Abbot was sitting next to you. 

“Do you swing both ways, Dr Abbot?”

“Excuse me?” he frowned. 

“It’s a joke…” you smiled “you’ve been watching him, watching me so I wondered if you fancied him that’s all.” You noticed how he got a bit flustered, lips pinching together, posture shifting. It was cute. “Anyways how’s your night going?” You attempted to change the conversation. 

“I’m having fun — it’s always a good time when we get to do this. I don’t think we can get away with coming to the bar after our shift, unlike these guys”

“I mean we could… but we’d get funny looks” you teased.

He smiled. “Have you found Robby a woman yet?”

“Is it just women he’s into or….?”

Abbot shrugged. “He likes… people. However they come”

“Hmmm that makes it so difficult but yet so easy. I’ll find him someone before his sabbatical, don’t you worry” you gave him another smile and took a sip of your drink “maybe then we might get him to stay. Are you feeling alright about him leaving?”

He let out a nervous chuckle “uhhh I guess so? He’s… become very secretive. Not saying much”

“You’re worried about him”

“Of course. But guys, they don’t talk about their feelings” he was gripping his glass too tight.

“Then maybe… you can show him the different ways he can open up to you. It doesn’t need to be in just words”

“And how do I do that?”

“How the hell do I know? I’m not a therapist and I’m drunk” you giggled “but hey, just go tell him you love him and all will be good”

You shifted off the barstool, about to head back to your table, but Abbot's hand on your knee stopped you. You frowned, unsure where he was leading with this.

“How drunk are you?” He asked softly.

You puffed out your cheeks “drunk enough to not care, sober enough to not be stupid. Why?”

“Just… making sure you are alright” he said quietly, hand still on your knee. 

He had never done this before, so why… now? His warm hand on your body gave you immediate goosebumps. He was the fit doctor that everyone drooled over him. He was the one you maybe, possible, fantasised about but knew he was off limit. He was here, hand on knee… it was more than a check in to see if you were alright. 

You sat back on the barstool and shifted towards him. “One thing about me, Dr Abbot, is I am straightforwards. I notice things, I understand certain gestures and I read body language extremely well”

He seemed flustered again —  you had read his body language extremely well. 

“You are drunk enough to want to have fun, but sober enough for your attending voice to pop in your mind, reminding you not to do anything you will regret. Us, all of us, talking about sex life might… have got you thinking”

He bit his bottom lip and so you reached over to his hand. He quickly took yours in his and nodded, never breaking eye contact. 

“I don’t do one night stands” you said firmly “I do dating, I have fun, I go out for dinners. I dress up, and get to know the person. I sometimes may be open to the idea of a one night stand, I don’t see anything wrong with that. Women are somewhat judged for having fun but men don’t receive the same treatment. Your turn to say something” despite the alcohol, you were still confident in your words.

“I want you…” he said quietly. You felt your heartbeat rise with every word he said “…but you’re wrong about one thing. It’s not the talk about sex life that got me thinking, or the alcohol making me want to do anything. You’ve occupied my mind for sometime.” 

How have you missed the signs? You were pretty good at reading people. “I’ve always kept things professional with you, never once did I hint at anything”

“And I’ve done the same thing” 

You nodded

“But you don’t need to flirt with me, for me to feel something for you”

What?

“You radiate happiness, and… positivity. You are so incredibly loved by everyone. And that is so heartwarming to see.” He smiled — a kind, genuine smile, the kind where wrinkles slightly creased around his eyes “and I have wanted you for some time”

You had fooled him too. But you wanted him too, also for some time. Maybe you could bend the rules, but not fully break them.

“I am flattered really, and I also… feel the same way. But I draw the line at dating colleagues, let alone an attending”

“Why not?"

“It gets messy” you shrugged “also I don’t want anything serious” 

You didn’t see anyone in this life, with you. 

“Doesn’t have to be anything serious”

Goddamn it. You wanted to blame the alcohol on you next decision, but in fact you would have done this sober. 

“I have rules” you said

“And I am all ears”

“We have fun, maybe we date. But nothing turns serious”

“Done, what’s next?”

“I usually like to know more about the person I date but, in this instance, I don’t want to. If we’re just going to have fun, then you don’t need to know more. Can you do that?”

You felt him hesitate. Maybe it was the age gap or how he did things, but you felt him wanting to say but I’d like to know you more. You heard a rather forced “done”

“I don’t do condoms” you said confidently and he choked on his beer, letting out a loud cough “But you need to get tested”

“Already am” he added quietly “Do you want to see the results?”

“Nope, I trust you.” You felt yourself get more turned on by him with every second. You also realised you were still holding his hand. 

“Anymore?” He asked teasingly. 

“Not at the moment” you finally broke into a smile. You were about to get Abbot, and all of Abbot. 

“Mine or yours?” He said softly. 

“I was thinking like the back room or—“

His eyes widened with panic. 

“Jesus I’m only kidding. How about we get out of here and see where we end up?”

You went back to the table and came up with a quick excuse to leave. Abbot said he was too — an excuse about making sure you got home safe. This whole situationship felt too formal, but it could do with you not following your usual… rules. You started to doubt this, and yourself, as you walked outside the bar. “Dr Abbot I—“ you cleared your throat “are we crazy?”

“If you’re having doubts we can call it an evening” he quickly said. “But there’s beauty in crazy, you know”

He hailed down a taxi and opened the door for you. The whole handsome act and his wise words weren’t working in your favour. You didn’t need to doubt yourself again because as you got in the taxi, the tension finally broke, Abbot’s hands found you, lips too, and you were instantly lost in wonderland. 

—

Your hangxiety didn’t help the next day, as you woke up in your bed, Abbot next to you. Fuck. Your mind screamed. You didn’t regret it, but you couldn’t help but worry. It was fun, having him all night. You fooled around, took it in… stages. Just to keep the tension going. Also you needed him to not see your scars. You knew what to do: lights stayed off, hands stayed away from certain places, a big t-shirt stayed on, covering certain areas on your body. It was all tactical. And as predicted, when it came to anything intimate, men's brains got too attached to their cocks.

You got out of bed and freshened up, leaving Abbot in your bed. He was laying flat on his chest, arms spread wide. The sun reflecting on his hair made it look so perfect. He was gentle, too gentle in fact. Constantly checking in, making sure you were taken care of. 

You put on the coffee machine and found some bread and butter to help soak up any remnants of alcohol. You drank a lot of water — hopped it would help with the hangxiety and also prayed that Abbot would leave soon so you can go back to bed. 

“Morning” he said approaching the kitchen, voice rough, not fully awaken yet. 

“Good morning, you look like you slept well” you gave him a big smile. 

“Your bed is so comfy, whats the secret?”

“A fluffy duvet and a pretty woman. That usually fixes men’s problems” you winked. “Breakfast?”

“Oh I should go” he cleared his throat, he seemed nervous, again. “Need to sort out somethings before tonight’s shift”

“Sure, yeah me too.” You took a sip of your coffee and looked at him again. Seeing him this flustered turned you on. “Did you have fun last night?”

“I had a great time” he smiled and approached you “I would like to do it again sometime”

“Me too” you whispered.

He leaned in and gave you a kiss — a long slow kiss. “But not today, save some for other days” you whispered between kisses.

“I agree but it’s gonna be hard”

“I know, I know” another hungry whisper. You would have taken him here, now.

You managed to break away from him despite wanting all of him. He had a quick cup of coffee and headed out the door. No amount of water, food, or pills helped with your anxiety. It had nothing to do with what happened with Abbot, you’d convinced yourself he was another guy in your dating life. Your anxiety, the quiet whisper of that fucked up voice in your head, that was always there. Always whispering, bad terrible things. 

Not even a few hours after Abbot had left, it whispered telling you that you didn’t deserve this type of intimacy. You shook the whisper out of your head and occupied yourself with anything and everything until your shift started. 

You put on your happy, bubbly mask and headed out of the door.

To your surprise, Abbot had kept things professional. You didn’t know what to expect from him but he was incredibly casual. He did break into one or two smirks, and your mind may have reminded you of  an image of your thighs wrapped around his head but you quickly shook it out of your mind.

Few shifts had passed by and Abbot didn’t mention anymore of this fun and you felt slightly relieved. But also slightly unfulfilled, still wanting more. 

— 

What’s your favourite restaurant? A text message from Abbot popped up on your phone.

I don’t have one. I think it’s unfair on all the other restaurants. You couldn’t help but smile. 

That makes it… difficult. If I was to take you out to dinner where would you like to go?

I prefer Netflix and Chill.

I’m not following, sorry

You laughed. Another joke he didn’t get.

I’ll let you choose, surprise me.

With you both working nights, it made things slightly more difficult. Your days off rarely matched up, so your only options was morning dates.  He had chosen a beautiful breakfast location. The date went well — you tried not to open up too much, given that one of your rules was just to have fun. And he didn’t too. He respected what you’d asked of him. The date was followed by more fun, back at your apartment. 

“Hey Abbot?” You managed to say between kisses.

“Tell me sweetheart”

“I forgot about another rule” you mumbled “I don’t tend to go… fully naked”

“Clothed sex?”

“Mhmmm” you moaned as he kissed your neck.

“That's fine by mine” you mumbled against your skin “whatever makes you comfortable”

You didn’t do this with anyone else, but you couldn’t have him question your scars. Especially not in the daylight. Luckily for you, this time was another round of fooling, and no sex. And as weeks passed, you and Abbot’s fooling became a regular occurrence. It certainly moved on to casual sex but you never let your guard down, once. 

— 

The voice had now appeared again, telling you how fucked up this was. You didn’t believe it, of course you didn’t. You blamed society for putting so much pressure on women and their bodies. You were allowed to have fun and enjoy yourself. Regardless of who with. But the darkness was always there, no matter how much you tried to fight it off. 

“Are you all ready for an exciting shift?” You said bright and sure of yourself. 

“Girl how do you have so much energy?” Ellis asked

“It’s seeing your beautiful face” you said teasingly “and it helps that I like my job”

“I need your therapist’s number” she joked before walking away.

You always tried to be as positive as you could around people. You thought it would help them, maybe help yourself.  You spotted Abbot around the corner “Dr Abbot” you nodded.

“Hey” he said quietly “how’s your night going? Anyone giving you trouble?”

“Nope, good as always. Everyone’s on their best behaviour” you winked and walked away. You turned back just slightly, and caught him checking you out. So much for keeping things professional. 

You heard the trauma call and spotted Ellis waving you to join her. You rushed over gloving up — a male was brought in. Agitated, confused, possibly too drunk.

Abbot also joined in, giving Ellis a hand. You tried to start an IV line but he was too fidgety and wouldn’t stay still.

Abbot and Ellis tried to hold him down and he asked you to give an intramuscular injection to relax him. You rushed over and grabbed the meds but the lid was stuck. You tried to pop it off but it wouldn’t budge.

“Take your fucking time!” Abbot snapped sarcastically as he pinned the patient down. The patient was now screaming and kicking. Your eyes met Ellis’ — she gave you a look of that was rude. 

“I’m trying the lid is stuck. Shit” 

“Try another one” Parker said out breath

“There’s no more in the drawer, I’ll go get another one” you said quickly, but Abbot was already beside you, snatching the vial from your hand. "Give it here," he said, sharp and rude.

You helped Ellis pin the patient down but he managed to let out a kick which landed straight on your scar and you felt it slice open. You swallowed back the pain and pinned him down even more. Abbot took over the injection and done it successfully. You assisted on the patient, feeling the tension between Ellis and Abbot. His rudeness and attitude was unprofessional; it was mainly Ellis giving him dirty looks. Once the patient was stable they left you to it, to clear up the mess. 

Abbot’s voice kept replaying in your mind — his rudeness, the way his voice sharpened without a second thought. You hated yourself for feeling this emotional over something so small. 

You looked around and made sure no one saw you, before you grabbed a few things from the trolley and rushed off to the toilet. The scar has opened up and bled through your scrubs, but luckily your jacket covered them spot. 

You wiped your tears away, bandaged yourself up and walked out of the door, like nothing had just happened. You knew that staying clear out of anyones way would spike suspicion. But alas, you were the best actor the Pitt has ever seen, so you pretended that Abbot’s sharp words weren’t digging into your chest. 

“I heard a patient kicked you” Lena said as you approached her. 

“Oh it was fine, it was nothing” you gave her a big smile “could’ve been much worse”

“You sure about that?” She raised an eyebrow.

“When have I ever lied to you?” You said confidently with a big smile and skipped all the way back to triage and carried now with your night until you finally had to face Abbot, who was in the staff room as you walked in.

“Dr Abbot” you said softly as you walked in, giving him a smile.

“I’m sorry about before I—“

“Please don’t sweat it” another smile, but yet another stab in the chest “it was stressful and you didn’t mean to” you quickly poured the coffee into your cup.

“So we’re good?”

“We’ve always been good. It’s gonna take a lot more than that to upset me” another calculated smile, another calculated step. “See you later”

You certainly were not okay because the build up of emotions caught up with you the second you got home, sobs and cries and Abbot’s words circling your mind. You hated yourself for feeling this way. Yes he was rude and snapped, but that was life, and that was what happened when people were stressed. He indeed texted you later that morning with another apology. You didn’t need him to apologise — you didn’t want him texting you at all. This fun is turning into something you might not be able to control.

— 

“You know it’s been months since we started doing this” Abbot murmured into your ears as he laid behind you “and I still find it just as exciting as day one”

“Must be my charm” you said softly “and I’m also just really good in bed”

He pulled you closer to his chest “that you are, you do like to keep me on my toes”

He kissed your neck then your shoulder. You were wary of his hands moving around too much so you quickly turned around you face him. You whispered softly “oh yeah, how so?”

“I would…like to try maybe unclothed sex at one point. As much as I love this dress, I’d like to rip it off of you right now” he mumbled against your skin.

You felt your throat starting to tighten, the mix of emotions, the battle in your mind... also it didn’t help that you were turned on. You stuttered at first but then said “I’ll think about it”

You went back to kissing him, hoping he’d forget all about it. But no, he was in the mood to talk.

“Can I at least know more about you?”

His words made you stop, immediately pulling back. “Baby I thought we agreed we’re not doing that.”

“I know, I know but I was hoping you’d change your mind”

You sighed. “What is it you know about me?”

“You’re smart and beautiful, you work really hard. You’re like the happiest person on shift, if not ever.”

You felt your throat get tighter, just a small tiny bit. 

“And that’s all you need to know, isn’t it?” You shifted yourself over to him and tried to kiss him some more but he pulled back. 

“Jack if… if you’re expecting more than I’m sorry but…”

“I like you, you know I do” he sounded hurt. “But I would like to get to know you more. Maybe move on, somehow”

What the fuck?

“I’m sorry Jack but that’s not what I want”

A lie. Another terrible lie. You were so attached to him. All the months of fooling around, you found yourself thinking about him more and more. But you’d convinced yourself if you knew less about him, you didn’t have the chance to feel something for him. But it was too damn late.

“I said I enjoy dating, going out with guys but I never want anything serious. I thought I made that very clear” you sat up and leaned across the headboard “If you think you want more then I’m not the person for this”

“But why not sweetheart? We have fun, we got along so well. Would it be so terrible to—“

“Jack, please” you cut in “that’s not what I want”

He sighed in defeat. “Okay, okay, sorry I brought it up”

You acted like nothing was wrong. “No stress, honestly it’s fine but I think maybe we should —“

“I’m gonna go” he cut in “I think it’s best if we talk about this another day”

He quickly got up, put on his prosthetic and got dressed. He said goodbye, no kiss, no hug, nothing and rushed out the door.

You were lucky you were in your apartment and not his, because the stabbing chest pains were back and the little voice in your heard was now screaming. It told you how unloved you were, and how this was all your fault. 

—

You caught up with the nurse’s on the dayshift drama — you always got the best gossip from Perla and Princess. But unfortunately this time there was nothing eventful. Abbot was back at work after a few days off, and you hand’t seen him or spoken with him since he last left your apartment. You were somewhat relieved that he gave you two days to collect yourself, two days of cries and self hatred, but another two days of no one suspecting a thing. 

Lena called you over and said you were needed to assist in trauma 1. MVC with multiple injuries — Abbot and Henderson were working on a young teenage boy and you got asked to take over with CPR, while they tried different procedures to try and bring him back. 

With each compression, you felt his ribs under your fingers. With each compression, you noticed Abbot’s eyes between you and him. At some point during compressions, you envied the dead. The little voice now was whispering again, but you tried to focus again on the boy. 

“—I said stop” 

Someone’s touch snapped you back to reality. You looked over and Henderson was motioning for you to stop. You registered that Abbot was calling it. Abbot’s eyes were full of anger as he stared at you. You mumbled sorry and stepped off the bed. 

“Time of death 1:45am” Abbot called it before taking his bloody gloves off — still staring at you, not blinking or breaking eye contact. 

“You alright?” Henderson asked and you stared at him. You’d realised you blanked out during the code. You didn’t remember anyone talking to you. Your mind raced for a second then immediately stopped as you said “Yes, sorry Dr Henderson that was a difficult one” you cleared your throat “are you okay? That must have been tough”

He nodded gently “I’ll inform the family” and gave you a quick tap on the arm. 

You looked over at Abbot who looked angry and upset. You nodded and started cleaning up the room when he said sharply “when I say stop, you stop. Got it?”

Another stab in the chest. Another painful reminder that you were a nobody.

“Of course I’m sorry. That was unprofessional of me, won’t happen again” you gave him a small, but forced smile. 

He murmured “good” and walked out of the room. 

You spent some time with the boy, cleaned him up and prepared him to be seen by his family. You took a minute of silence, just you, on your own, standing in a pool of blood and wished him good luck on his next adventure. You prayed he no longer felt pain, and is met with open arms from someone caring wherever he went to next. 

The family walked in, and as anyone expected, the room filled with screams and cries and terrors, and so you left them to it. You’d lost many patients before, some much harder than this one. You were upset, of course you were, but you were also numb.

“Have you seen Dr Henderson?” You asked one of the nurses. 

“Break room, I think”

You nodded and went to find him. You wanted to check in, on him and in fact Abbot too, to make sure they were both alright. It was never easy calling time of death, something you never did, and never will. 

“Hey, just checking in on you both” you said quietly as you walked in, finding Abbot and Henderson looking defeated. “You good? Need anything?”

Abbot frowned at you and Henderson gently said “you were there too… it’s not just us that need a minute. Why don’t you take five?”

“I don’t need to take five, Dr Henderson. Not the first time I’ve lost a patient and won’t be the last. I’ll make you both a hot drink?” You said casually as you turned around to face the coffee machine.

“How are you so fucking chill right now?” Your head turned around to Abbot’s rude voice. Even Henderson shot him a look of what the fuck?

“Sorry do you want me to cry? Because that’s not gonna happen” You said quietly.

He shook his head and stormed out of the room.

“Don’t take it personality he—“ Henderson said but you cut in. 

“It’s fine, really. That was stressful for both of you”

You were everyone’s punching bag, the little voice whispered. 

“You don’t need to make me a drink, just go take five okay?” He said gently.

You nodded okay and walked out. You weren’t going to let Abbot make you cry, no. You saw the light turn on in the on-call room so you followed your instinct and walked in. 

“Dr Abbot?” You said softly, you always spoke like this. Despite the heartache and the sadness, you were too kind to everyone. 

“Are you serious right now?” He snapped rudely “How are you so calm? So kind? So fucking quiet after what just happened and what I said!”

“I know you don’t mean any harm and I just wanted to make sure you were doing okay”

He was breathing rapidly and was fidgeting with his hands. 

“I’m not upset really, it’s fine” you said quietly “I will leave you to it, but if you need to talk I’m here”

“How are you not angry?” He had now stopped pacing and faced you. 

“I don’t get angry…shit things happen, people get angry, people die. But I don’t get angry” you shrugged. 

You didn’t get angry here, but at home… it was a different story. 

“I’m gonna go” you pointed at the door but wouldn’t let you walk away no — he grabbed you and pulled you onto him and kissed you. And you let him. Despite your heartache and his words lingering in your mind, you let him kiss you until you felt him calm down a bit. 

“Is that better?” You pulled back with a small smile 

“I’m sorry” he muttered “I’m an asshole”

“It’s okay..” You brushed your hand on his face. You couldn’t hurt his feelings no, just yours. “I’ve gotta get back out there” you gave his arm a squeeze and walked calmly out of the door.

You swore you’d never cause harm to any patient at work— that was an oath you took. But the oath never mentioned anything about harming yourself. You sat in the cubicle, not sure for how long. You wiped your tears and your blood, washed your face and put on another one of your happy, calm and collected faces. You occupied yourself with patients until it was time to go home. 

You couldn’t figure out what Abbot’s issue was. He had a terrible way of showing that he liked you. You also realised how much you cared for him too — despite his outburst and his attitude, you found yourself enjoying your dates, having him around -- the intimacy with him. It was all too good, too perfect until it wasn’t.

Things became tricky with Abbot after wanting to know more. 

You pushed back at every date.

He pushed for more. Wanted to know more. Wanted to know the real you. 

You found yourself falling for him so with only a few words you said we’re done. 

—

All hands were on deck in the trauma room and you knew the more bodies in the room, the more chaotic it was about to get. The patient was agitated — of course he was. They all were at this time of night. Alcohol brought out the worst in people; drugs made it worse. Trauma made it much worse. And once fear took hold of someone who was high, drunk, and mentally ill, it became chaos.

Maybe it was the rush of the paramedics, maybe it was Abbot barking orders left and right at you and Mateo, or maybe it was you. But somehow, before you could register it among the noise, the patient was kicking and shouting, a gurney plunged toward you, throwing you against the wall. Everyone reacted quickly, yourself included. It wasn't the first time you'd been hurt at work; everyone had something happen at least once. But the gurney hit your fresh cut, and your other cuts, sitting just around your hip bone.

“I’m fine! I’m fine” you quickly said as you got up “I’m good, I promise”

None of the doctors could attend to you, and you didn’t want them to. The pain in your hip was agonising but you brushed it off. “what do you need me to do next?” You asked, trying to catch your breath. 

Henderson barked an order, then Abbot did, and time passed without anyone speaking of what happened until the patient was stable and moved upstairs. You acted like nothing had happened, like you weren’t injured. The little voice whispered maybe you deserved this. 

You felt the tension leave the room the second the patient was moved away. 

“Right you..” Abbot barked “…need to get checked out”

“I’m good I promise” you said as you helped clean the mess.

“You’re not good — you had a gurney slam you against the wall”

“Dr Abbot I said I’m fine. If I wasn’t, I would’ve said something” you dropped your shoulder down in defeat. 

“You need to get checked out” he barked rudely again, in front of everyone. 

“Dr Abbot I said I was fine! Just drop it already!” Your patience has simply ran out. This, this was the first time you had snapped in front of your colleagues. 

“Then why are you bleeding all over the ER floors?”

Everyone's heads snapped in your direction. Your scrubs, around your hips, down your left leg, were covered in blood. Then it registered. The smell. The warm blood pooling, dripping down to your foot. You felt the walls closing in. The embarrassment, the trauma, all catching up at once. Heat crept up your neck.

“I’ll go take a look, thank you for telling me” you said quietly as you walked out and rushed into an empty room. You grabbed the supplies trolley and frantically looked for anything that would quickly help stop the bleed. Your mind was also scanning for answers, for the questions about to arise. You quickly put some dressings in your pockets, along with some skin closures.

Abbot knocked on the door then walked in.

“Dr Abbot, I’m fine. I don’t need to be looked at” you said quickly. The shaking of your hands was about to give you away. 

No one had ever took care of you and you weren’t about to let anyone start now.  

“Can you pleas leave?” You turned your back to him.

He was quiet, too quiet. Was he worried? Angry? 

You had years of training to not let your tears betray you, so you didn’t cry no. You were calm and collected, always. Except the shaking of your hand — that was something you could never control. 

“I’m taking a look at you” he said firmly.

“And I said, no, so you either leave or I do”

“I’m not leaving until I’ve stopped the bleeding. Stop being stubborn”

You slammed the drawer shut and tried to walk away but his firm hand was around your arm. Your patience snapped, again. “Get your hands off me or I swear to God—“ your voice was loud, too loud. 

“Jack” His grip loosened once he’d heard Robby’s voice from behind. 

Robby walked into a situation in which a superior, was holding someone, a nurse, a bit too tightly. He didn't seem too impressed.

You said a quick hello to Robby and rushed over to the locker, grabbed your bag and ran home. There were no major injuries, apart from bruises and open wounds which you managed to dress and stop the bleed. Nothing you hadn’t been through before. 

You laid on the sofa, bag of frozen peas over your hip and ate your leftover food from the day before. A knock on the door interrupted your dark thoughts. You looked at the time and you weren’t expecting anyone. 

You opened the door to find Abbot outside your doors. He didn’t wait to be invited in, no. He just stormed in past you. 

“If you’re here to yell then I’m not in the mood” you said quietly as you followed him in. 

“Sit down” he barked.

“If you’re into BDSM or whatever, again, I’m not in the mood” a small joke to lighten up the mood but no, that didn’t work because he looked even more angry. 

“I’m here to take a look at you, so sit down and let me do my checks”

“And I said no” you said casually as you sat back on the sofa and slapped the bag of frozen peas over your hip. “Wanna watch a movie?”

He rubbed his face with his hands and let out a frustrated groan. 

“Just sit down Jack, don’t apologise and don’t yell. Have some food” Another causal tactic, to calm yourself down. And him.

He sat down and you could feel the tension practically radiate off of him. 

“I promise you I’m fine. I’ve done all my checks, I had a small cut and a bruise. That’s it”

“So why won’t you let me take a look at you?”

"Because, Jack, you haven't asked nicely. You've been so rude to me, in front of everyone, more than once — then you go and kiss me, then you shout at me a few days later. If you actually asked nicely, maybe I would have let you."

You paused. “And I don’t want to hear an apology, that’s not what I’m after.”

“How can I make this better?”

“You can’t. I’m not expecting anything in return okay? You’re stressed — too stressed most days. But you take it out in a… difficult way on me, more than anyone else.”

“You ended things”

“That’s why you’re angry?”

“I’m angry because you got hurt. And yes I’m angry because you ended things”

He asked quieter now. He looked guilty, which the little voice in your mind whispered this was all your fault. You felt your stomach twist. You wondered if you should have let him in. If you could just be honest with him, tell him everything. But no, that would be stupid. 

“I ended things because you wanted more. I wanted fun. If you just want casual sex then I’m all yours but you don’t get to question me or my life”

“I’ve missed you” voice still upset, angry, raw. 

This was your chance, another tactic to make him forget about this. You reached over to him and pulled him towards you. You’d missed him too, wanted him and needed him after everything that had happened. This was also your chance to not worry about taking off all your clothes because you had a perfectly good excuse on why you had a bandage. You had the perfect excuse for him to stop asking questions.  

He didn’t hesitate to get on top of you, clearly just as hungry as you were. Again, horny men only thought of themselves. You didn’t let go of each other as you rushed over to the bedroom. You took the initiative this time to take off your clothing. He, of course, looked at your hip and you guided his eyes back to you, fully naked in front of him. 

Jack shoved you onto the bed and climbed over you. There was nothing gentle about it. He pushed your legs apart and thrust in hard, making you moan sharply. You both moved like you were trying to fuck the fight away. You kissed him like you were starving. He fucked you like he was trying to remind you who you came to when things got bad. His hand gripped your hip, fingers digging in. In the middle of a particularly rough thrust, the large bandage caught on his palm and tore clean off.

Jack froze. 

His eyes dropped to your exposed skin. The scars were now fully visible — all out in the open.

He pulled out slowly, sitting back “…What the fuck is this?” His voice was low and rough. 

He stared at the scars like they physically hurt him to look at. The bandage was soaked in blood. 

“…Are you serious?” His voice was hurt “You’ve been cutting yourself and just… hid it from me?”

You reached for him but he caught your wrist gently, stopping you. You felt your tears betray you — Jack had never seen you cry. In fact he’d never see you this upset. Despite all the ups and downs at work, everyone had their moment but not you. Not the happy, wonderful, smiley you. 

He looked betrayed, defeated, hurt, angry. Even more than before. “You lied to me.” He looked back up at your face, chest still rising and falling fast. 

You pulled your legs closer together, suddenly feeling too exposed. “I didn’t have to tell you anything, Jack. We’re friends with benefits,  I’m not your responsibility. This…” you gestured at the scars, “…is mine. It has nothing to do with you.”

“It has everything to do with me when I’m the one fucking you. When I’m the one who’s been in your bed for months.” His voice cracked slightly. 

Another stab in the heart. 

“You think I can just pretend I didn’t see that? That I can keep sleeping with you like everything’s fine while you’re hurting yourself and hiding it?”

A deep, painful stab. 

“Well I did end things” you said quietly. 

He got off the bed and put his clothes back on. “You fooled me, and everyone else” he was now yelling again. 

“I didn’t fool anyone Jack. At work, that is the real me”

“Bullshit! That scar is fresh. That scar was done today! What so you just pretend to be happy? Pretended to be happy with me?” 

“Get out” you spat out “Get the fuck out Jack”

“No I’m not leaving” he shook his head “not until we talk. Are you happy? Are you depressed? Why do you do this to yourself?”

“I have nothing to say to you, nothing to tell you. This is me. The real me. I never once lied to you because I never once told you anything about me. You don’t need to know anything, that was the agreement!” 

You got out of bed too and pulled on your t-shirt, breathing just as heavy as him. Your face was red, hair messy, tears you couldn't stop.

Jack saw a whole new side to you. A completely, polar opposite side to the person he knew. 

He looked at you, jaw shut tightly. He straightened up his posture as if to say I’m not leaving.

“I’m not asking you again, leave, please” your voice was now shaking. 

“And I said to you, I am not leaving until you tell me everything”

“You’re gonna be here a while so make yourself comfortable” you replied sarcastically.

Jack stared at you. “Why did you lie to me?

“I didn’t. I never lied to you Jack!”

“That’s bullshit” His voice rose even higher, raw with hurt “You acted like you were the happiest person alive. Always smiling, always cracking jokes, always the one telling everyone else to lighten up. You had me, you had everyone, completely fooled. I actually thought you were okay. I thought I was lucky to have someone so… together.”

“And the whole time you were carving yourself up and hiding it like it was nothing. You looked me in the eye and lied. Multiple times.” His voice cracked. “I feel like such an idiot. I let myself care about you. I let myself think this was something real, even if we never labeled it.”

The room felt smaller. You hated the way your throat tightened.

“And that is your fault for believing any of this. Not mine. I said to you I want to have fun and be carefree. From the moment you put your hands on me, that was the agreement. So maybe you’re angry with yourself Jack, for breaking the agreement. I do things my way.”

“Your way?” He stopped pacing and looked at you, eyes glassy with anger and pain. “Your way is pretending to be sunshine and rainbows while you bleed in secret? And I’m supposed to be fine with that because we’re just fucking?”

You had nothing to say back to that. 

Jack swallowed hard, jaw clenched. “I can’t do this anymore. Not like this. Every time I touch you now, I’m gonna wonder what else you’re hiding. Every time you smile at me, I’m gonna wonder if it’s real or if you’re just performing again.”

“That’s fine by me” you said quietly. 

The hurt in his eyes cut deeper than any shout could.

“Congratulations for the world’s best performance. But I’m done being part of the act.”

Jack turned and walked out.

— 

Despite hitting your lowest, you somehow managed to get dressed and go to work. One day after the other. You took it step by step. A cut by cut. Whisper by whisper. 

Jack became avoidant at work.

Snappy.

Distant.

An asshole. 

But you never him tear down your mask, ever. 

— 

“Morning Dr Robby” you said as you saw him approach the hub. “Be prepared it’s going to be a wild one” you joked.

He didn’t return the humour. Something about him felt off.

“You… okay there?”

“I should be the one asking you” he replied quietly.

“Why? Has something happened and no one told me?” You joked but again, his expression didn’t change. 

You dropped your shoulders and sighed. “I’m just gonna… go somewhere else”

“He told me” he said sharply “everything” 

“Okay” you shook you head. Was he expecting a reaction? “I expect you’re not going to tell everyone?”

He didn’t respond. What you hadn’t seen was Abbot now walking towards you from behind, listening to the entire conversation. 

“Okay, you can tell whomever you want — shout it from the roof if you want to” you said calmly “that’s your decision to make. But if you do, it’s simple, I’ll pack my bags and go. Nothing is holding me back here” you gave him a small smile. “And it’s not a threat, please don’t take it as one. It’s simple enough: if you or Jack can’t keep a secret, that is fine by me. You won’t hurt me or upset me.”

“You only hurt yourself” Robby spat out. He looked hurt, like you fooled him too.

You let out a sarcastic laugh then quietly said “You don’t even wear your fucking helmet riding that bike Robby don’t you dare lecture me right now. And Abbot hangs around SWAT for fun, waiting to be shot at. You two are ones to talk.” You grabbed your things and quickly rushed out the door.

— 

Robby: I’m sorry about earlier today. 

You sighed as you saw the text message come through. 

I’m not after an apology, but thank you anyways.

Robby: are you still going to come to the concert?

No, I already asked someone else to have the ticket. 

Robby: please come, maybe you and Jack can talk.

What’s up with you two not taking no for an answer? Also I already gave my ticket to someone else. 

Robby: I’ve got a spare one. 

You didn’t respond, didn't want to.

Robby: just come and you’ll see. See you at 7 — I got you a spare ticket. 

You had been looking forwards to the concert for a long time. You felt guilt, every single day since last speaking with Jack. The voice whispered telling you you’d messed up and hurt everyone. Maybe this was your chance to make amends. 

You picked yourself up, got dressed and headed out the door to meet everyone. Luckily it was just Robby waiting outside for you.

It was awkward, the tension was obvious. You said things, hurtful things to him and although you didn’t mean it, you still said it anyways.

You headed to the bar first. For a while, it was just you and Robby. That felt strange, you didn’t usually hang out one-on-one. It was awkward at first, but eventually you started talking, laughing even, pretending for a little while that nothing had happened. Eventually, you found everyone else in the pit. The crowd was alive, everyone pressed together, shouting and dancing. You moved through it, talking to people, avoiding Abbot, drinking with everyone else.

He hurt you, he certainly did but you hurt him more. You wanted to forget him — forget about all of this. You walked back inside to the bar which luckily for you was quiet. Robby had already beat you to it; he gestured one more when he saw you.

“Did you talk to him?” He asked

“No, Robby I didn’t. Let’s not do this please? There’s nothing to say. We had fun, he was a great fuck actually — but that is what it’ll ever be. “

“So you’re telling me you don’t have feelings for him?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think. We set rules and boundaries and he felt betrayed because he broke the rules that we agreed on.”

“You’re wrong.”

“How am I wrong! Are you sure he told you everything?” 

“He didn’t feel betrayed because of what you hid. He was hurt because he fell in love with someone who wasn’t who he thought she was."

“What did you say?” Your heart started racing “did you just say he loves me?”

Robby nodded. “Why do you think he’s so hurt? Go find him before you two do something you both will regret.”

You needed to find him. You wanted to tell him you loved him too and how sorry you were. Before it was too late. 

You nodded at Robby and rushed back inside. You were suddenly aware of the loud music and the flashing lights. You tried to look for him —  he wasn’t here. You texted Robby asking where Jack was. 

Robby: outside 

You sprinted across the venue heading for the doors, and you saw him about to leave. 

“You love me?” You spat out, trying to catch your breath.

He looked at you first then back at the exit doors.

“Oh my God you fell for me?” Your voice cracked “That wasn’t just fun for you?

He shook his head slowly “It was never just fun for me”

“You… you knew it was going to be anything serious. You set yourself up for failure Jack!” 

“No, I didn’t. I chose to love you but you lied”

"I didn’t! Jack, I didn’t lie to you!” Your voice broke as you tried to steady your breathing, suddenly aware of the sweat sliding down your back. “We’re going round in circles here. Do you still love me? All of me?”

He didn’t respond.

“Oh my God" You said quietly, it all clicked. You felt the colour drain from your body “You love me, but.”

Jack frowned “What?”

“You love me… but.”

Your voice trembled as you stepped closer. “You love me but you can’t have me. You love me but not this way. You love me but not my scars” you wanted to hold back tears but you didn’t bother. Not anymore. “You either love me or you don’t. You take me however I come, you don’t get to pick or choose.” You were now sobbing. “But you…. You love me but. You’re too much of a coward to admit it”

You sniffed back tears and he just stood there, watching you break. 

“I promised myself I will be alone, in this life. Me and my thoughts. Then you come along. You make me fall for you, you fucked with my head. All your gestures and your kindness, you played me too”

You let out a bitter, broken laugh through the tears.

“The saddest people are indeed the happiest ones on the outside, Jack. But there’s a reason we do that.” Your next words were coming out whether you wanted them to or not “We hide because of people like you. You love me but not the broken version of me”

“I didn’t know there was a broken version of you until recently” he said quietly 

“And when you found you, y—your reaction was to yell, Jack!”

“I felt betrayed”

“And how do you think I feel now? Your head was spinning and you were too tired for this “I’ll save you the trouble Jack. It was nice knowing you”

You charged through the doors, Jack trying to catch up with you. 

You turned around to face him, one more time. You knew this would be the last time you saw these beautiful eyes.

“I love you, Jack. Not buts. I hope you find whatever you are looking for”

He didn’t say a word.

You wanted him to respond, to tell you he loved you too with no buts.

The whispers now was screaming at you to run, so you did. But it didn’t tell you to check for traffic before running out into the road.