Part 1 Part 1.5 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 4.5 Part 5
Summary Scenes from the nine months of growing your family with Titus <3 Settling to the idea of motherhood, and Titus frantically preparing in the only way he knows how- just spending money.
W.C. 8K
Tags Just being pregnant in general, depictions of violence, blood, kind of gross decapitation (not described, just referenced), light smut, fingering and kissing, birth but not graphic bc who am i to be writing about that, Titus being emotionally constipated but doing what he can
Author's Note This was such a labor of love and I really really hope yall like it!! Like I said, this is going to be the last chapter for a minute. I'm not done with the series!!! But I've been consistently putting out chapters every week, and I have a bunch of life stuff happening thats going to keep me from doing that next week, and possibly the week after. Enjoy!!
xoxo
It’s dark. Just a few candles along the walls and soft moonlight guiding your way. You don’t even know what time it is. You didn’t check. But you would know this path completely blindfolded. You’re committed to making as little noise as possible, taking light steps and feeling your way around the corners, taking the stairs one at a time.
You finally make it, and it feels like you’ve been holding your breath for half the walk. But no one knows you’re here, you made sure. You only have one thing on your mind, and you won’t give up until you have it.
You feel exhausted, swinging the door open and blindly grabbing, the stark light blinding your tired eyes.
It’s not until you sit down, exhausted just from the walk to get here, that you start to relax. The thoughts in your mind are finally slowing down. You feel insane, like a junkie looking for their fix. Which is not far off.
Do it.
Go for it.
You need it.
And you gave in.
“A little late for dessert, isn’t it?” one of the low lights of the kitchen flick on, and Titus steps into view, his hair mused and his eyes tired. Both of you recoil slightly at the light, eyes squinting and readjusting.
Your eyes snap up to him, fingers curling around the spoon and pint of ice cream in front of you. It’s not shame that you feel, or even embarrassment. More just irritation that your body can pull you around like this. Like you aren’t in control anymore.
“Didn’t mean to wake you,” you say.
Titus comes around and wraps his arms around you from behind, fingers spread wide over your belly. You’re showing now, the small bump starting to protrude from your sleep shirt.
“You didn’t wake me. I just always seem to know when you get up. The bed feels lighter, colder,” he says, burying his face in the crook of your neck.
You pause, spoon halfway to your lips and cast him a sidelong glance.
“Lighter? Are you calling me-”
“Don’t read into that,” he cuts you off.
You dig into the ice cream and hold the spoon up to Titus over your shoulder, who gladly takes your offering.
“You should have woken me up, though,” Titus sighs, settling in the chair next to you. “I would have brought it to you.”
“Couldn’t sleep. Wanted to take a walk,” you shovel another bite of ice cream into your mouth. Only now, the craving has subsided, and you feel like you’ll throw up if you take another bite. “Besides, you always look so peaceful when you’re sleeping.”
“Because no one is pissing me off in my dreams,” he says flatly.
Titus has been extra attentive to you during pregnancy. If that was even possible. It’s not just that he’s hired extra staff to make sure you’re waited on hand and foot (he has), he’s also completely glued to your side.
It’s understandable. This new part of you, this new part of your family, is so fragile. Titus would probably kill everyone in the vicinity if anything happened to either you or the baby. And he doesn’t trust anyone to look out for you more than he trusts himself.
So the extra help, the maid assigned to you every waking minute, the special nutritionist in charge of preparing your meals, the on call doctors- none of that is meant to replace Titus’s shadow behind you, just one step away at all times, or his hand permanently attached to the small of your back.
“Ugh,” you groan, putting the lid back on and leaning back.
“You finished?” Titus asks.
“Yeah,” you pout.
“Come on, let’s get you back to bed,” Titus puts the ice cream back into the freezer.
You hold your arms up in the air, and Titus moves under them, letting you hold onto his shoulders while he slips his arms around you. One supporting your back and one under your legs. You tuck your face into his shoulder as he picks you up gently and without struggle.
“Not too heavy to be carried,” you mutter.
“You’re not going to let that go, are you?” Titus shakes his head.
“Nope,” you pop the last syllable, keeping the smile to yourself.
When Titus settles you back in bed, he makes sure that there are no less than four pillows under you, all individually fluffed. He drapes the blankets over you, and when you whine that it’s too hot, he moves them off.
It’s surprisingly tender. He’s just so scared of doing something wrong. Of messing up. Of losing either of you. Both of you. Even though he says he knows how strong you are, that you aren’t so fragile, he can’t shake it.
Titus lays down behind you, keeping a respectable distance. You feel too cold now.
You grab a hold of his arm and drape it over you, forcing Titus to scoot closer. He rests his hand over your belly, securing you next to him. All the pillows in the world, and it’s still Titus’s warmth, his heartbeat against your back, that comforts you more.
“Holy shit,” you gasp.
“What,” Titus shoots up, frantic. “What is it, what's wrong?”
“Did you feel that?” you look back at him.
“Feel what?”
You roll over onto your back and take Titus’s hand, pressing against your stomach.
“I felt- I think-” you close your eyes and try to send a silent message to the baby. Please, do it again. Please, let him feel how strong and healthy you are.
Titus’s eyes are wild with concern and anticipation. He stares down at you, waiting. His concerned face and sharp jaw illuminated only by the moonlight from the window. Still so pretty. Even when he’s trying not to panic.
“Say something,” you whisper.
“What am I supposed to say?” He looks bewildered.
“Anything,” you nudge him. “They need to hear your voice.”
Titus looks unsure as he leans in closer to you, hand still splayed over your belly. This part is foreign to Titus. The theatrics of parenthood. Doing things that you know make no sense in the moment, but will mean everything later on.
He takes a deep breath and leans in close, eyes flashing up to you for a reassuring nod.
“Tell your mother,” he murmurs, lips just inches from your skin, “that she needs to get some sleep, and to stop disappearing for ice cream.”
There’s a pause. A bated breath. And then you feel it. The smallest kick. A little jostle and bump.
“Was that…” Titus breathes.
“They’re kicking,” you smile, pressing your hand to Titus’s cheek. “And saying to let me have all the ice cream I want.”
“Of course they did,” Titus leans forward and presses a kiss to your belly.
You’re not completely sure, maybe it’s a trick of the moonlight or your hormones making you hallucinate. But it looks like Titus is getting a little weepy. You both settle back into bed, you lying on your back, and Titus is now almost completely curled around you. His face nuzzled against the side of your neck, arm slung over your belly. Not willing to miss another kick. Another moment.
~~~
Five months into pregnancy, and Titus is all over the place. One minute he’s ordering five different baby carriers and throwing them off the balcony (to test their durability), and the next he’s making you try an endless list of different teas that he’s had flown in from all over the world (this one is supposed to help with nausea. And this one is supposed to support a healthy immune system. And this one-)
You would be irritated, but he’s taking care of literally everything for you. You’ve hardly had to lift a finger. This pregnancy is going extremely smoothly so far, and it’s because Titus is being so overbearing. Not that he’s the one doing everything- Titus doesn’t even fully take care of himself. But he’s overseeing your day to day, ensuring that you are left wanting for nothing.
There was no way Titus was letting you walk around in stretchy denim and frumpy sundresses. He reached out to your favorite designers to have maternity garments handmade for you. The softest, most luxurious fabrics drape dramatically over your growing belly.
You love it. Wearing clothes closer to your regular wardrobe makes you feel more human. Less like a bloated whale.
Even going to your doctor's appointments, you feel put together.
It’s a sunny day, and you’re taking brunch out on the patio of your favorite date night restaurant. Titus has sent your food back twice already, insisting that the eggs in your eggs benedict aren’t cooked properly. You finally just changed your order to sourdough avocado toast, to ease his mind and finally get something in your stomach.
There’s people everywhere, enjoying one of the first non-miserable summer days in weeks. You can’t help but look at each person and wonder. Make up stories in your mind. Who were their parents? What did they go through? Are they a good person for it? Do they still speak to their mom?
The envelope is sitting on the table between you.
The envelope.
Really, you’re trying not to look at it.
“We should at least put it away if we aren’t going to discuss it,” Titus gestures to the envelope.
You chew on your bottom lip. “I mean, what is it going to change? We are still going to need to get a crib. What does it matter if it’s pink or blue?”
“I thought you wanted the room to be burgundy?” Titus asks, poking at his own food.
“Besides the point,” you reply.
Titus looks at you, then down at the envelope. You just came back from another doctor’s appointment, and when the doctor asked if you wanted to know the gender…
You clammed up. You couldn’t answer. Did you want to know? And did you want to know in the middle of the doctor’s office? Is that the memory you wanted to look back on? So, Titus had the doctor write it down. We can open it when we are ready, he said.
You chew on your bottom lip, mulling it over. Unsure if you’re ready.
“If you don’t want to know,” Titus reaches for the envelope.
You slap your hand down before Titus can even touch it. He looks up at you, arm still extended.
“What if it’s not what you want?” you ask.
“You don’t know what I want,” Titus says.
“Trust me, I know what you want,” you reply.
“You’re stalling,” Titus says, pointing his fork at you. “You know it doesn’t matter to me. We are going to find out eventually. Either now or in a few months.”
“Right,” you nod. “Let’s just get it over with.”
You pull the envelope in your hands and set it where the both of you can see it. Titus gives you a reassuring nod, and you reach inside to slide the cardstock out.
Girl.
Girl?
Girl.
“We’re having a girl,” you smile.
You didn’t think it would mean that much to you. But your heart blooms.
Titus’s face is still for a moment. You can see the gears turning in his head. Finally he smiles, his shoulders settling. “A girl,” he says softly. He blinks a few times, like he’s getting used to how that feels. How it sounds coming out of his mouth.
“You’re going to be outnumbered, Danforth,” you smile at him, nearly unable to bite back your laugh.
Titus pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to hide his obvious happiness.
“I can’t be outnumbered in my own house,” he grumbles.
“Oh this is going to be so fun,” you reach for his hands and tug on them lightly. Titus rises from his seat and leans in to kiss you. You hold his face for a moment, feeling the warmth of his lips wash away any lingering anxieties.
“Glad that’s settled,” Titus says, snapping the envelope closed. “We have preparations to make for the baby shower.
“What is the point of having a shower?” you drop your head back. “I thought those were to make other people buy things for you. I don’t need any of them financing this baby, we will be fine.”
“It’s not about the gifts. It’s about making a statement,” Titus says, sitting in front of you again.
“A statement,” you echo. “Like ‘Hey everyone, look at my wife. She’s glowing and will be pushing a watermelon out of her vagina in a few months.’”
Titus stills and looks at you, lips quirked in a half smile.
“You know, people are always telling me to watch my mouth. How does no one believe that you’re just as bad?” he says.
“You love my mouth,” you narrow your eyes, lips curling into a smirk.
“Don’t I.”
~~~
The baby shower is more of a baby rainstorm.
It’s huge, making your seasonal galas look like children’s parties. It looks like it was thrown by Mr. Gatsby himself. The normal string quartet has been replaced by a full orchestra in the main hall. The dining room is overflowing with your current food fixations, a 4-tiered cake, and floral arrangements made up of your favorite flowers. As soon as the sun went down, fireworks exploded across the sky.
As much as it was a celebration of baby Danforth, Titus made sure that you were written all over it. A celebration of you, too.
Young servers dressed in ornate costumes hand out champagne. Of which you are not allowed to partake, as much as you’d love to take the edge off.
Give it to the satanic cult not to miss an opportunity for a night of indulgence.
It’s overwhelming. In every sense of the word. You stand at the railing of the second floor balcony, taking it all in. Titus approaches you from behind, sliding his hands around your belly and lifting ever so slightly. You sigh and relax into his grip.
“This is not a baby shower,” you mutter. “Baby showers have suburban moms and party games.”
“I’m pretty sure there’s a poker game happening in the garden,” Titus says.
You smile and roll your eyes.
“Relax, my love. This is supposed to be celebratory,” he says into your ear.
“I know,” you nod.
“Then why do you look so unhappy? Is it the ice sculpture? I can have them melt it back down and use it to water the plants.” Titus moves next to you.
“No,” you shake your head, smiling solemnly. Your hand drifts to the heart pendant around your neck.
“Oh,” Titus sighs.
“I wish she could be here. See this. See us,” you rub one hand over your stomach. “Meet you.”
Titus takes your hand and squeezes it reassuringly. It’s difficult. Becoming a mother without your mother. Titus can check a lot of boxes in this experience, but he can’t fill that void. More than anything you wish you could ask her every small question that pops into your head. Is the timing right for this milestone? Should I be walking more or less?
What if I can’t do it?
It’s been on your mind ever since you started showing. The moment this pregnancy became real and unavoidable.
“Not that she would have liked you,” you say, voice twisting up and bottom lip quivering. “But I think she would have understood you, eventually.”
“Okay, hey,” Titus takes your face in his hands, tilting your head back to keep the tears from falling. He consoles you, shushing you in a very loving way. “If you mess up your makeup right now you’ll just get even more upset later.”
“You’re right,” you blink, still weepy but keeping the tears at bay. For now. “I’m sorry I said that my mom wouldn’t like you. You had a mom. She probably liked you. That was so mean!” You’re whining now, it’s a little pathetic.
Titus takes it in stride. His mouth twitches in an almost smile as he brings your face back down to him. “I’m honestly amazed every single day that you like me.”
“I do. A lot. I love you,” you almost start to cry again.
“Okay, I think we need to go do something else,” Titus takes your hand.
“Wait,” you pull back, “give me a kiss, please.”
Titus draws near to you, standing over you with that imposing presence that makes other people feel unease, but makes you feel safe. His eyes devour you, taking in every detail of your hair, your dress, your face. He curls a finger under your chin, tilting your head up and presses a single, loving kiss to your lips. It stills your breathing enough to steady it, your heart pounding for a different reason now.
“Ready?” he asks, still just inches away from you. His voice is low and runs right through you.
“If you kiss me like that again,” your lips graze against his, “I may drag you in the other direction.”
Titus closes his eyes for a moment, collecting himself. “Please, hold onto that thought. Remember that you said that.”
You smile, and take a breath. “I’m ready.”
Titus takes you by the hand and leads you through the party, supporting you the entire way. All eyes are on you. It’s not the first time, and probably won’t be the last. You seem to have a knack for drawing attention to yourself when it comes to Mr. Le Bail and his followers.
You feel like an over inflated balloon, and your feet are starting to riot against your nonsensible shoe choices. But Titus won’t leave your side, and supports half your weight the entire night. Which is both calming and extremely helpful when extended family members try to help themselves to your stomach.
“Don’t touch her,” Titus says flatly every time someone tries to press their palm to your belly, asking if you feel any kicks.
For the most part, the regular wealthy people are overjoyed. Pitching (terrible) family names and asking about (offering unsolicited advice on) birthing plans and providing (hideous) ideas for color schemes for the nursery.
It’s easy to be excited about new life when you aren’t worried about how you’re going to take care of the thing. How you’ll pay the hospital bills. How you’ll pay for the right school. How to make sure your child is properly fed every day. Money can do that. Your money will do that.
It’s a reassurance you won’t take for granted.
It’s the satanic cult members that look at you weird. Which is saying a lot, since they wear robes and slaughter goats under a full moon. But yeah, you’re the odd duck with a pregnant belly.
One of them actually deigns to approach you.
George Cassidy is head of one of the lower families in the pyramid. Not a high council family, but one of the oldest in the organization, and that bears weight. You’ve met him in passing a few times before, and there was hardly a fond word exchanged.
“Good to see the Danforth line is continuing,” he says to Titus. Only Titus.
He looks down at your stomach, top lip curling slightly. Barely. Just enough for you to register the disdain.
“We are very grateful to Mr. Le Bail for this gift,” Titus says, sliding a hand to the small of your back. He pulls you closer, just barely pressed to his side, almost as a way to force you into George’s view. As if the man wasn’t pointedly ignoring you.
“Well, one can only hope that this child will be brought up correctly,” he says.
Titus’s fingers curl slightly at your back.
“You doubt our abilities as parents?” Titius says.
“No, I have complete faith in you.” George looks directly at Titus, leaving no room for you to think he’s possibly including you.
“If you have something to say, Cassidy,” Titus’s jaw is rigid, and there’s a small vein popping in his neck, “I would rather you come out and say it.”
“I find it amusing that the leader of the high council would procreate with someone so,” George’s eyes give you a once over, “poorly bred. It’s not just me who thinks so.”
Which explains the strange looks you’ve been getting all night. They think that you won’t be able to raise a good, satanic child. You’re not sure if you should be offended or proud. But the reasoning behind it is still ugly and elitist, and makes your cheeks burn.
“Because your parents clearly did an upstanding job with you,” you retort. “Tell me, how much success has the Cassidy Real Estate Firm had in the last five years?”
George opens his mouth to speak, annoyance slowly changing to ire in his eyes.
“You’ll choose your next words wisely,” Titus’s face twists into something ugly.
“Why, what will you do? Kill me? Like you do with all of your other little petty squabbles?” He sighs and brushes Titus off. “Please Danforth, your brutality bores me.”
“If you value your position,” Titus spits, “or your life, you will apologize to my wife. Now.”
George glares down at you. You don’t waver, staring right back. This is a power struggle you want no part in. The only thing you can do is keep your hand on your stomach, rubbing your thumb back and forth gently, self soothing.
“I apologize if you feel I am mistaken,” he finally says, “I guess we’ll see how you perform when the time comes.”
George turns on his heels and leaves, disappearing into the crowd.
“I want that man’s head on a platter,” Titus seethes as he walks away.
You step in front of Titus, cutting off his line of sight, and bring your hands to his face.
“Look at me,” you whisper. “Come back to me.”
He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t look you in the eye. His gaze and attention are locked on George Cassidy disappearing into the crowd.
“I’m fine,” you take his hand and place it over your belly. “We’re fine. Let him go.”
You apply gentle pressure to his hand, letting him feel how your baby moves. The small squirming, the little kicks. Titus’s breathing evens out. He presses his other hand to your stomach, taking a deep breath.
“That guy is a dick,” you mutter.
Titus just nods, nostrils flaring as he takes a deep breath and brings his focus back to you.
“I’m going to get some cake,” you say, tugging on his sleeve. “You can either come with me or stay back here pouting and brooding.”
“I’ll come for cake,” he mumbles softly.
The shower ends the moment you start yawning and getting that glassy, weary look in your eye, blinking slowly and smiling softly. It’s not even late by Danforth party standards, just midnight. The music stops. The lights turn on. Titus sends everyone out, and the party ends in the blink of an eye.
You get ready for bed, donning a soft satin silk night gown that drapes heavily over you, bows at the front and on your sleeves. Titus is standing at his dresser, unbuttoning the last of his shirt. His eyes catch you and soften immediately.
It’s hard to resist. You press your hands to his abdomen, feeling as Titus’s muscles tighten under your touch.
“Thank you for tonight,” you mutter, pressing a kiss to his chest.
Titus lets out a breath, almost groaning at the feeling of your lips on him. Another kiss, and another, slowly working up to his collarbone. You take your time with him.
“You have nothing to thank me for,” his voice is low and gravelly.
“Okay,” you look at him from under your lashes. “Then I guess I’ll just…”
You start to lean away, a teasing smile on your face. But Titus reaches out and grabs your wrist gently. Just enough to keep you still. Keep you near.
“No,” he breathes.
Titus brings you back to him. You push his button up over his shoulders, letting the fabric fall to the floor. Your fingers glide over his shoulders, his strong triceps. He bends down and kisses you gently.
You let out a soft sigh, melting into his touch, your tongue swiping against his lips. The kiss deepens, and Titius’s hands on your hips bring you as close as your belly will allow.
“You shouldn’t be standing for this,” he teases, kissing the corner of your mouth, and just under your jaw.
“Take me to bed, then,” you smile.
By the time you settle in together, Titus has his head on your belly, idly rubbing his hand back and forth over the satin of your night gown.
“Have you thought of any more names?” you ask.
“You don’t like my name suggestions,” Titus snorts.
“I’m hoping that eventually I’ll ask you and you’ll start giving me normal ideas,” you say, raking your fingers through his hair.
“Allegra is a good, family name,” Titus says.
“And also the name of an allergy medication,” you counter. “Just, try again. We’ll agree on something eventually.”
Titus sighs and thinks for a moment. Your fingers single out one curl by his face, toying with it gently.
“What about Violet?” you ask.
Titus thinks for a moment, while you continue playing with his silver curls. “That’s nice,” Titus agrees. “Violet Danforth.”
“That’s the first name we’ve both liked,” you point out.
“Then that must be it.”
“We’ll see,” you say.
~~~
Titus calls a council meeting the next week. It’s not out of the ordinary for them to be called out of the blue, but you know something is up with this one. Titus was gone all morning, into the early afternoon. Normally, if he’s disappearing, he at least tells you where he’s going.
But this time he didn’t. And when you ask about it, he says he will tell you later.
As usual, you attend the meeting. Seated at Titus’s side in front of all the most important families of the Order of Le Bail. The attendees spare you a few lingering glances, but nothing that suggests the level of disdain that George obviously has for you. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe there’s not some secret distrust of you at Titus’s side.
“Now, to conclude. I have something to ask of everyone,” Titus casts you an affectionate glance, hand gently squeezing your thigh under the table. You have no idea what he’s about to do, or say. This wasn’t on the agenda.
“As you all know, Mrs. Danforth is expecting,” he presses a kiss to the back of your hand before rising from his seat. All eyes are on you, and you return each and every gaze. “It’s been brought to my attention that, for some reason, not everyone is happy about this joyful news.”
There are some nervous glances exchanged. You pay attention to those who now refuse to look you in the eye. Those whose guilt is now written on their faces.
“Some people, even, think that my wife is not- what was the wording?” Titus brings his hands down on one member’s shoulders, squeezing them. The man goes rigid under Titus’s touch. “Ah, ‘good stock’ I believe was the exact phrasing.”
You blanch and settle in your chair slightly, trying not to let any of the embarrassment show. Titus clearly did some more digging, and found more rumors that you aren’t privy to. The words being thrown in your face makes you want to crawl into a hole and never see the light of day. But Titus has taught you better. These people are on your property.
Besides, you weren’t about to let any cultists make you feel bad for attending public school.
“Does anyone share this sentiment? Anyone have anything to say?” Titus addresses the room, taking more meandering steps from council member to council member. “Please, this is a safe space. I want to hear your thoughts.”
No one speaks. The silence stretches out long with little more than strained glances and a slight nod here or a worried expression. Each person silently daring another to break the ice. Be the one to say the nasty thing they’re all thinking.
“I think,” a voice rings out at the end of the table. “There was just some concern that the child would not be brought up in accordance with society rules, Titus. Given your wife’s background.”
It’s Reggie. Small, annoying, Napoleon complex Reggie. The one who makes eyes at you while his wife drowns her sorrows in tequila in the corner of every society gathering.
Titus curls his lips in a humorless smile and nods his head. “I understand. Thank you, Reginald, for sharing that.”
In one motion, with no hesitation or second glance, Titus pulls a dagger from his sleeve and slams it onto the table, trapping Reggie’s hand to the mahogany. Reggie lets out a short, startled scream as blood pools between his knuckles. The entire table seems to lean away from Reggie, eyes wide as they process what the fuck just happened.
“Does anyone else have any concerns? About my family or otherwise?” Titus addresses the room. His demeanor is calm, nonchalant.
No one speaks. There’s just the sound of Reggie’s whimpers as he tries to free himself from the table. But Titus has never been lacking in brute strength, and the knife is wedged deep into the table through Reggie’s hand.
Satisfaction races through your heart. Maybe now Reggie will think twice before approaching you. And think even harder before thinking you’re just some passing obsession for Titus. Someone replaceable.
Titus nods to the staff standing guard at the door. One of them slips out for a moment, before coming back in with a silver platter, covered with a silver cloche.
“If any one of you had half the sense you claim to have,” Titus’s voice grows in volume and stature. “You will remember who is in charge here. Who Mr. Le Bail has trusted with his power. That honor lies with me,” his eyes snap to you, a small smile pulling at his mouth, “and my wife.”
You look down at the platter, and your heart lurches. It’s coming together in your mind. There’s a stench filling the room, and it’s not the piss in Reggie’s pants.
“My wife who, many of you have forgotten, has been through a great deal to sit by my side. If any one of you wishes to challenge that honor,” Titus lifts the cloche. “You will be sacrificed to the greater good.”
There’s a wave of shocked gasps and silent gagging. Hands brought to noses, dry heaves and coughs to clear the air. Your breath catches in your throat as the stench of decay slowly spreads through the room.
Titus did what he set out to do. George Cassidy’s head is on a platter.
You should be horrified. You should want to throw up at the sight. Well, you are feeling nauseous, but that started before the meeting.
All you see right now in Titus is a man that would go to the ends of the earth to defend you and your family. And that’s all you need.
“If no one has any other thoughts, I believe this meeting is adjourned,” Titus smiles. No one moves, frozen with fear and the inability to tear their eyes away from the spectacle.
“Get. Out.” Titus grits.
Everyone rises to leave all at once, with a member of staff having to remove the dagger to release Reggie. He cradles his wounded hand to his chest, the piss stain on the front of his pants trailing down his leg.
Once the room has been cleared, Titus replaces the cloche on the platter.
“Rejoin George’s head with the rest of his body,” he nods to the staff. “And clean Reginald’s fucking blood from the table. I don’t want it to stain.”
He returns to your side and presses a kiss to the top of your head.
“Subtle,” you look up at him.
“I was making a point,” Titus shrugs.
Titus takes you by the hand and helps you rise to your feet, hands supporting you all the way up.
“I thought you couldn’t kill other members of council families?” you ask.
“Yeah, but the Cassidy line doesn’t have a seat on the council. Besides,” Titus shrugs, “I didn’t kill him.”
You look at him flatly, one eyebrow raised.
“He ran into my dagger. A few times,” Titus says very casually.
You press your forehead into his shoulder, eyes closed and a slight smile on your lips.
“Come on,” Titus pulls you along. “That meeting was fucking boring.”
“Hail satan,” you mutter.
~~~
Lavender, chamomile, ginger.
Titus read online somewhere that those were the best essential oils for easing nausea and aching muscles. Whatever drives him, you don’t care, because it culminates in a very nice, very hot bath.
Steam rises from your bare bodies in the warm water, your hair clipped up to the back of your head and Titus holding onto you from behind. His body is your anchor, your tether, as usual. It’s quiet in the en suite bathroom, most of the estate has cleared out for the night, aside from the staff that live on site.
He’d been out on errands all day. Managing the resort, taking business meetings, meeting prospective business partners. You were driven down town to do some shopping for the nursery, and met up with a few of your friends for lunch, and picked up some plants for the garden.
You had really taken to spending more time outside in your pregnancy. It felt fitting. Sustaining new life while you were creating it. But you knew it was only a matter of time before your body would start rejecting all of the bending and digging. And based on how your muscles feel, that time has come.
These are your favorite moments with Titus. Dim, quiet, and alone with him. No one asking for signatures or approvals, and no one fussing over you and if you’d taken your vitamins. Just you two, without the dramatics of your life together.
Your belly bobs up and down in the water, the water easing your weighted and achy muscles. You can’t stop staring at it, touching it, running your fingers over it. Six months in, and you’re still not used to it.
“What are you thinking?” Titus presses a kiss to the top of your head.
“I feel like an alien,” you say, finger tracing your belly button. “Like, I know this is my body, but it doesn’t feel like my body. Almost like this is attached to someone else.”
“If it helps, I know this is your body,” his hands move through the water and gently coddle your breasts.
You lean back against his chest.
“You still like me? Like this?” you ask. It’s an innocent question. At least it was when you first thought of it. Now that you’ve said it out loud, it feels loaded. It feels like you don’t want to know the answer.
Titus stills behind you. He sighs, presses a kiss to your shoulder.
“How could I not?” His hands skate down your swollen stomach, to your hips, and the side of your ass.
Your hands press against the backs of his, lacing your pruny fingers together. Tears prick the corners of your eyes. You don’t even know exactly why you’re tearing up. You aren’t upset, and you know Titus wouldn’t lie to you. But it’s hitting something vulnerable inside you, shaking something loose. Suddenly your heart feels crushed.
“You are so beautiful, you don’t even realize it. You are perfect. Always have been and always will be,” his lips move right outside your ear, pressing a gentle kiss there.
You sigh, tilting your head to let his mouth travel further down your neck.
“Tell me you believe me,” he mutters.
“I believe you,” you say softly, voice wavering just a fraction.
“Now say it like you mean it,” he smiles against your shoulder.
You just nod your head, hoping that Titus can’t see how emotional this conversation is making you. Because the last thing you want to do is talk about it.
Titus maneuvers you a little higher in his lap, the warm water sloshing gently around you.
“What are you doing,” you mutter.
Titus’s hands spread over your thighs, moving slowly between your legs.
“Someone needs to be reminded,” Titus grunts, settling you. His fingers trace your cunt, “just how badly I want her. Always.”
You lean your head back on Titus’s shoulder, a silent gasp escaping you when his thick fingers finally slip inside you.
“Ti,” you whimper, trying not to squirm too much.
Titus brings his other hand over your sensitive breasts, twisting your nipples between two fingers. It makes you moan louder than you intend.
“That’s it,” Titus coos in your ear. “Relax, my love.”
He nibbles on your shoulder, sucking a bruise at the base of your neck and dragging his tongue over the skin to soothe it. You slide a wet hand back, tangling it in Titus’s hair at the back of his head to keep him close.
“You are so sexy,” Titus mutters in your ear, “I’ve never met anyone as strong as you.”
He’s knuckle deep with two fingers curling inside you, his palm pressing gently against your clit. It’s just enough friction to build that pressure in your core.
The tears are spilling over your cheeks now, all of the complicated emotions colliding in this moment. As they slide down your cheek and hang from your jaw, Titus gently tilts your head and kisses them away, his tongue sliding gently against your cheek.
“I can’t stop thinking about how I did this to you,” he mumbles in your ear. “I put this baby inside you. And you carry her so well. Fuck.”
“Titus,” you breathe, “I’m close. Please.”
His thumb presses against your clit, the pressure of it in the water duller than usual, but still there. Still enough. Titus holds your breasts in his other hand, gently massaging it as he whispers in your ear.
“Such a good mommy,” Titus mutters. “We’ll have to make another one soon after.”
Your toes curl and you cry out, legs quivering as you come on Titus’s fingers.
“So perfect,” Titus whispers. He pulls your chin towards him, and kisses you, stealing what little breath you have left.
~~~
The final few weeks of pregnancy are more languid. You couldn’t be stressed and frantic, even if you wanted to be. The nursery is set up. All of the supplies are ordered. Titus has already lined up a live-in nanny to arrive the moment your daughter is born. It’s all taken care of.
If anything, it almost freaks you out how little there is left to take care of. You feel like the other shoe is going to drop at some point, and you’ll wake up to realize that the baby is here, and you’re not nearly as prepared as you should be.
For some reason, you thought that your birthing story would be insane. A tall tale on par with the story of how you ended up married to Titus Danforth. Drama and tension and heartache. That’s what you’ve been mentally preparing for. You were subconsciously steeling yourself for heartache.
But everything was planned for. A home birth, and a team of experts at the ready. A single phone call is all that’s needed to bring them to your side.
You were sitting out in the garden, reading and catching a few chilly breaths of November air, when you felt it. Titus hated that you insisted on going outside as the New England fall turned darker and colder. But the chilly air was the only thing that made you feel better when your body started to ache, and your head was pounding.
Lately, you’d just been letting him argue with the wall while you put your coat on to get some fresh air.
Your daughter had kept you up most of the night with her acrobatics. It’s not like you blamed her. So near her due date, she was getting antsy, too.
Your attendants were scattered around the garden, pretending to tend to the dead plants and sweep up fallen leaves, when you knew they were just hovering. It was the balance between Titus not wanting you to be alone, and you needing to be alone.
It’s moments like these that you’re almost annoyed that he’s right.
Not that you would ever tell him that.
It felt like a sudden rush, a relieving of pressure.
You inhale deeply, closing your eyes to listen to your body. Listen to your daughter. Figure out if this is really it. You calmly close your book and set it on the iron table.
“Claire,” you tilt your head to the side.
When you move to rise to your feet, she’s on you immediately, hands flying everywhere to support you in any way possible. Elaine, an older attendant, comes rushing to your side to help.
“Yes, mistress?” she says, her bright eyes searching your face.
“Please locate my husband,” you say, trying to keep your breath as even as possible.
“He’s- he’s in his study, I don’t think- we’re not supposed to-” Claire rambles, clearly nervous about disobeying either of the Danforths.
“I understand,” you nod. “Tell him it’s time, and I’m sure he’ll forgive you for the intrusion.”
Claire’s eyes nearly pop from her head as she notices.
Your water has broken.
“Elaine,” you turn to the sweet attendant still at your side. “Please take me to the room we’ve prepared in the west wing of the house.
“Of course, ma’am,” she nods. “Please, take your time. The last thing I need is you stumbling on a loose paver.”
You smile and lean into her hold. It’s people like Elaine that make you feel less anxious in moments like this.
Titus bursts through the doors of the room, face flush from running to be with you. Claire scurries in behind him.
You’re not in any excruciating pain- at the moment- so you look at him with a serene expression.
“Hi,” you say, smiling at him.
He’s by your side in just a few long strides. “Where is the doctor?”
“On the way,” you nod. “Elaine has called her in.”
Titus’s hands flex at his sides. You look down. He’s shaking. Just a little.
You reach out and take his hands in yours, resting them over your belly.
“Everything is going to be fine. You’ve taken good care of us up until this point, okay? We’re going to be fine.” Titus has spent the last nine months fretting over you. Making sure you were eating, you weren't overexerting yourself, and that you were as prepared as possible to nurture this life.
He made it so that you felt strong enough to do this.
Titus takes a breath and nods.
Then, a contraction rips through you. Titus’s hands, which are unfortunately still held in yours, are crushed by your grip as you cry out in pain.
“Fuck!” you scream. It feels like you’re being cleaved in two.
“What! What is going on!” Titus blinks, alarmed by not only your scream, but your grip strength.
“Contraction,” the doctor says, rushing through the door with her team. “How far apart are they?”
“4 minutes,” Elaine says next to you.
Titus’s eyes flicker up to her.
“I’ve been timing them,” she shrugs.
“Thank you,” Titus nods stiffly.
You try to breathe through it, but the pressure on your low back is killing you.
“That’s good, Mrs. Danforth,” the doctor says. “You’re almost there.”
“They fucking suck,” you grit through your teeth.
Once it’s time to start pushing, Titus is hovering at a distance. He’s pacing, eyes bounce back and forth between the team of doctors. Arm crossing and uncrossing. He’s monitoring them, making sure none of them dares to make a mistake.
He’s doing what he knows how to do best. And, more than likely, doesn’t trust himself to be right at your side. Not when he might say the wrong thing. Instead, he tries to monitor and protect. But that’s not what you need right now.
“Titus,” you whine, the pain mounting. You’re already exhausted.
Your tone alone is enough to make him rush to your side.
“What is it? Is something wrong?” he pushes your hair, damp with sweat, away from your face.
“I can’t do this by myself,” your face twists.
Titus blinks, trying to understand what to do, who to be for you.
He takes your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles. “I’m right here, darling. I promise.”
It’s somehow the longest and quickest thing you’ve ever experienced. One minute, you feel like you’re going to pass out from the pressure. The next, you hear a shrill cry rip through the room. And you feel lighter.
Titus blanches, holding a hand to his mouth.
“What?” you pant, exhausted. “Is she okay? Titus.”
Titus leans over you, kissing your forehead. “You did amazingly.”
The doctors whisk her away, checking her and making your heart sink with every passing second. It’s agony, the waiting. Titus starts pacing again, checking over shoulders and coming back every so often to smooth his hands over your hair, soothing you as much as he’s capable of.
The doctor approaches you and Titus with a small blanket-wrapped bundle.
“Congratulations,” she nods, settling your daughter in your arms. “She’s extremely healthy and strong.”
“Just like her mother,” Titus whispers. You almost miss it, he says it so quietly, it’s almost just for himself.
“Oh,” you sigh, sweaty and blissful. “Hi there.”
Her scrunched up, bright red face and big eyes look up at you, taking it all in. You, high on adrenaline and joy (and pain medications), and Titus, flexing his hands at his sides.
Titus falls apart. Not openly. Not dramatically. But you can see the tears well in his eyes, and his bottom lip quivering.
“Titus,” you whisper. “Look at her.”
“Yeah,” he wipes his eyes and blinks, “she’s beautiful.”
You look up at him, your vision still a little cloudy.
“She looks like an alien,” you beam.
“Okay,” Titus breathes out a laugh. “A beautiful alien.”
You drop a finger onto her face, feeling her tiny soft cheeks. Her tiny lips. Her tiny everything.
“Titus,” you look up at him, “I changed my mind on the name. She just doesn’t look like a Violet.”
“Okay,” Titus nods.
“What do you think of Odette?”
You shift her in your arms towards Titus, who accepts her hesitantly. He holds your daughter like she’s a bomb, careful and on edge, and at a slight distance from his body.
But the longer he holds her, the closer she becomes, until he has her pressed against his body. He looks down at her with such pure love. A tear slides down his face. Vulnerable. Terrified. In love.
“Odette Danforth,” he says, trying the name on. “It’s perfect.”
summary: as an omega and holder of one of the high seats of mr. le bail's council, you find yourself wanting a mate to grow your family and powerful status. when you invoke a special "mating clause," you pray the alpha of your dreams, Titus Danforth, will find you first.
tags: alpha!titus danforth x omega!reader, alpha/beta/omega au, slight spoilers for the ron2 movie but nothing major outside the trailer clips, possessive titus, canon typical violence, murder, mature themes that go with the alpha/beta/omega universe including: scenting, knotting, biting, mating, breeding kink (additional tags: fem!masterbation, oral!fem!receiving, hard sex, piv-unprotected sex), afab reader, 18+ NSFW MDNI
notes: another one of @oxalaia-quilombensis and i's joint fanfics! absolutely anything she touches, she brings the level of smuttiness and taste that I would be unable to do myself :) MY TAG LIST IS CLOSED BUT MY REQUESTS ARE OPEN, please enjoy!
word count: 10.8k
The swell of your estate held the powers of the world.
Your larger-than-needed study had been transformed from your desk and small seating area to a resemblance of a half-circle, chairs all facing the small, elevated space near the back. One chair sat on the upper lip, and you were all but draped in between its two armrests. Your spine pressed straight against the chair, your leg crossed over the other, and your hands gently folded at your lap. You gazed around the room as your fellow high families mingled together, loudly discussing business as though this were an ordinary meeting.
In the past two months, the council had met only once, the result of Grace Le Domas winning her game and wiping out her entire family. Due to that, she’d invoked a difference clause than the one you were currently waiting to announce. By dawn after that particular meeting, she and her sister had been killed, and the Danforths had been reinstated as head of the high families, gaining the seat back mere hours after it had been taken away. You had not been in attendance, but you’d seen the way Titus Danforth forced Grace out of hiding only to kill her first and then her sister. His acts of dominance throughout the hunt had impressed you, another reason why you’d specifically asked for his attendance.
When he’d walked through the door, your insides sang at the waft of his papery-money and patchouli scent that screamed alpha in a way that had your stomach flipping and core pooling. With his salt-and-pepper curls and thick stature, his presence alone seemed to command the room, even if you were technically the one with power. You watched as he tried not to smirk every time someone glanced at the Le Bail sigil ring on his finger.
While the rest of the families, the ones lucky enough to be promoted after the demise of the Wilkinsons, the Rajans, the Wans, and the El Caidos, vied for information as to why you’d gathered them in the first place, Titus seemed to not care. He drank from a whiskey glass and failed to join any boisterous conversations. Although, he did make it a point to catch your gaze every few minutes, his hazel eyes meeting yours in a stare that only ended when you looked away each time.
You slunked into your chair, and your fingers tapped rhythmically against the other. To get your meeting started, you only needed one more person to make it official, and you knew he was ever one for dramatics.
A sudden three knocks on the study door had your eyes chasing the sound towards the back of the room in time to see the Lawyer walk through, only followed by a shorter woman who carried the large, ancient black book that was always present during any meeting. As he walked, he caught the eyes and flared nostrils of those in attendance. Unlike everyone who presented with a second gender, gaining a special scent unique to their person, the Lawyer held no scent nor seemed to have the specifics of a second gender.
His burning blue eyes met yours, and the corners of his lip stretched into a smile. He did not acknowledge anyone else in the room as he walked past, a rude gesture to some, but the Lawyer was notorious for carrying out the will of Le Bail without stopping. And today, you were a part of that will. He stopped within a foot of where you sat and outstretched a hand for you to take.
His fingers curled around yours warmly as he spoke. “Mr. Le Bail remains to be very happy with you.”
“All thanks to his good fortune and blessing upon me,” you said, the words familiar on your tongue, your honeycomb and orange scent blooming at the praise.
You’d been in Mr. Le Bail’s circle of high standing for years. His blessing had been bestowed after your first hunt, the one that ended with you, an omega, standing in the middle of a blood bath of alphas and betas. You’d won your hunt against the odds towering over you. And you hadn’t cowered, hadn’t rolled over and offered your body as a means of survival. You’d taken lives, and Mr. Le Bail acknowledged your commitment to his cause.
You became untouchable.
Suddenly, hunts weren’t an obligation to join; they were a choice, and for the most part, you chose to stay out of them. Besides, you made sure to stick to the quota of sacrifices written in your personal contract, something not available to the rest of the families. You’d been leading as head of the Du Pont family for five years after your father, mother, and older brother died, their bodies bursting into a red, gooey mess. Their sentence had been given after you’d turned them in for a break of contact. Your lack of hesitation and allegiance to your benefactor over your family made Mr. Le Bail very pleased.
To show his gratitude, he’d given you a personal clause for when or if you ever wanted to replace your family members.
For a few years, you waited, wanting to build something for yourself, because at the end of the day, alphas, especially males, always found ways to disappoint you. Each one you thought might be a contender turned out to be someone you’d rather ask Mr. Le Bail to wipe off the face of the earth than ever think of giving him a bond. However, the first time you had the pleasure of setting your eyes on Titus Danforth, you had the feeling that he could be yours one day. His attitude and petulance made room for him to grow, and you knew that he’d be a fine alpha once he got out from under his father’s thumb. After winning back the high seat, his twin alpha-sister, Ursula, had taken more of the business side while Titus continued to have an affinity for hunts and smaller jobs that dealt with the darker parts of his family’s contract. When you’d been introduced during a smaller gathering, you swore Mr. Le Bail gave deep approval of him with just a touch of your hands.
Suddenly, your want to build your family and empire had Titus Danforth at its center. You wanted him in your nest; you wanted to wear his mark on your neck; you wanted to carry and give him his heirs. Upon those deep-rooted desires, you contacted the Lawyer, asking that he trigger a meeting of the high counsel as more of a complementary act.
The Lawyer let go of your hand and turned around to face the room. “Thank you all for being here on such short notice,” his voice carried loud enough that everyone quieted down to listen. “Since we have some . . . newer families, and this is the first gathering since you all have been promoted within the circle, I will introduce myself and then the others. I am the sole attorney for Mr. Le Bail and the Le Bail organization, which is led by a council made up of the heads of six families: the Danforths, the Bellinis, the De la Vegases, the Kassels, the Frasers, and Miss Du Pont.”
Everyone’s eyes turned towards you, and you simply smiled.
“The reason you all are here is because Miss Du Pont has decided to invoke a clause of her own.”
“Is she allowed to do that?” the head of the Bellini family questioned with a sneer. “I thought that contracts were only triggered by death or Mr. Le Bail himself.” His eyes trailed down your body with disgust. “Especially since she’s an omega.”
The Lawyer stared at him boredly and clicked his tongue against his teeth. “You’d be better off knowing to hold your tongue, or, if you must, use the proper respect when addressing Miss Du Pont.”
Near Mr. Bellini, Titus scoffed loudly before taking a sip at his glass. “Are you a fucking idiot?”
“Excuse me?” Mr. Bellini questioned, head whipping toward the other alpha.
Titus gestured up towards you. “Do you even know what Du Pont stands for?” He hummed contemplatively. “Probably not since you’ve already painted yourself as an imbecile, so let me spell it out for you. It’s French for of the bridge, and that omega you’re staring at happens to be part of the bridge right to Mr. Le Bail. So I’d think twice about speaking your mind around her when she’s more than capable of cutting out your tongue and feeding it to you.”
You rolled your shoulders to ease the building tension that formed while Titus basically defended you and sang your praises. From the corner of your eye, you could see that the Lawyer was also less miffed about being interrupted than he would have been if it hadn’t been Titus who’d done it. You understood that since Titus took the high seat, he’d been in talks with the Lawyer about certain things, and maybe the two of them had grown to share a mutual respect for the other.
The Lawyer huffed loudly, drawing attention back to him. “As I was saying, Miss Du Point asked me to call this meeting of the High Council out of courtesy to announce that she has, as is her right by Mr. Le Bail, invoked her mating clause.”
At his word, the alphas sucked in a large breath as they now looked at you with eyes filled with hunger and want. You, on the other hand, were only concerned with one hazel set. To your liking, they were set right on you, swimming with hunger but twinged with something deeper. Your hips shifted to release any heated pressure you could find.
“As per her clause given directly from Mr. Le Bail in an attest to his blessing upon her, Miss Du Pont has chosen seven eligible alphas between the ages of twenty-five and fifty from the higher and middle families of the inner circles.” The Lawyer snapped, and his helper brought over the book. He flipped through the pages and stopped near the back. “I will read the rules out loud before announcing the names.”
He held the book out to read, and it seemed as though everyone was at the edge of their seats.
“While the mating clause is active, a hunt from sundown to sunrise will be held on the Du Point estate. During this particular hunt, the alphas of Miss Du Point’s choosing will compete against each other to show their worth and status. They will be given permission to hurt, maim, or even kill the other alphas if the situation sees fit. Alphas are not permitted to use any alpha commands while hunting.”
“And who will we be hunting?” you heard one of the sons from the De la Vegas family ask.
The Lawyer went to reply, but you beat him to it, only offering a one-worded answer.
“Me.”
A pin drop would have boomed in the silence that followed. In his seat, Titus straightened slightly, and his eyes never wavered from your figure.
“Yes,” the Lawyer confirmed, “the alphas will be hunting Miss Du Pont. But I shall add that if any harm comes to her, Mr. Le Bail will be most . . . unhappy.” He scanned the room to get his point across. “Moving on, the alpha who finds Miss Du Pont by sunrise will be chosen as the winner. However, if she is not found, she also reserves the right to pick an alpha of her choosing.”
He glanced over at you, needing to get your approval to continue. You nodded slightly.
“To aid in the hunt and encourage a match between Miss Du Pont and an alpha, she will take a heat-inducer before the hunt starts. And the seven chosen alphas will be given a rut-inducer as well.”
A few rumbles began to fill the air as scents deepened with lust; Titus, however, continued to stay silent.
“Now that the rules of the hunt have been read, I will now announce the alphas chosen to participate.” He handed the book back to his helper and took your list from her other hand. “From the lower families, who have already been sent an invitation, we have Arthur Howard, Enrico De Borja, Sima Yoa, Charles Orsini, Rhodes Ashford, and Byron Coventry.”
“That’s six?” Mr. Bellini pointed out.
“Glad you’re capable of fucking counting,” Titus shot back, but his grin was unmistakable behind his glass.
The Lawyer also fought back a grin, but he hid it better than Titus.
“And for the one alpha chosen from the high family . . .”
You watched as most of the sons and even some of the fathers sat up a bit straighter. It was almost laughable the way they believed themselves to be eligible for your hunt, especially since all of the fathers already had a mate and family. No one seemed to catch onto that there was only one alpha in their midst who held the power of the world in a single ring on his thick finger.
“Titus Danforth.”
Like the cocky son of a bitch he was, Titus held up his glass towards you in a grateful manner, but the way his scent overpowered the rest told you that he was more intrigued and interested than his appearance allowed. Around him, though, the rest of the families stood in an uproar; one even had the notion to start stalking towards your seat, but he stopped right at the edge the moment you felt a burst of flame from behind you, the light of his outline illuminating your skin.
The Lawyer pocketed the list and clapped his hands, bringing the room back to order. “This is the will of Mr. Le Bail. If you have any qualms, you are always welcome to bring them directly to him.”
A few of the alphas looked downright terrified. Titus continued to look smug.
“This meeting is adjourned,” the Lawyer announced, holding out a hand for you to take again.
You quietly slipped your hand in his and rose from your seat. Once the alphas looked calm enough to pass by, the Lawyer led you through their throngs. You avoided eye contact with each of them, and their gazes filled with growing resentment and lust did little to throw you off. Yet, when you dared to look in Titus’ direction, his eyes sent a shiver down your spine. You could feel his eyes on you even when you left the room. You let go of the Lawyer’s hand once the door shut behind you, leaving enough time for you to be gone once the families began to vacate the premises.
"Would you excuse me for one moment?” you asked.
“Of course. I’ll be in the lobby, and we can go over the final details over dinner,” he responded, already heading in the direction of the front door. He’d been over enough times to know his way around.
You turned to the left and made your way to the small, hallway bathroom. Once the door locked with a click, you leaned your head against the grain, allowing yourself to breathe in normal air without the conflicting scents in the room. While your chest slightly heaved, you slowly dipped your fingers below the waist of your pants. Instantly, you were met with a wetness you knew you’d had since Titus entered the study.
Before your father was sent to hell, you would have been disgusted to have such a reaction to an alpha, let alone just his scent. That was something your father had instilled in you, a reflection of his resentment in having an omega offspring. Your first heat had been spent alone and in pain, and your father only said that it would build character to show that you could never be weak.
But oh, did Titus Danforth make you pathetic.
Your bottom lip crushed between your teeth as you gently circled your enlarged clit, the swipes gliding easily with your slick. You didn’t know if the alphas had left, but the need to relieve pressure had you not caring. A small moan-turned-whine ripped through your vocal cords, and your unoccupied hand slapped across your mouth to muffle the sounds. Your thighs tightened around your hand, and you bent over when you dipped a finger into your core. The added digit had your stomach tightening and your fingers speeding up. You tried your best to stay quiet, but as you reached your climax, a true whine slipped through the slots of your fingers, inner muscles contracting steadily around your finger.
You were left panting against the door, knowing you’d taken far too long for a normal bathroom break. Quickly, you tried to compose yourself, patting down your shirt and wiping some of the dripping slick on a random towel you tossed to the floor. The only evidence were your pruned fingers and slightly sickeningly sweet scent.
With a shaky breath, you unlocked the door and stepped back out into the hall. However, you didn’t even make it two steps before you ran into something solid enough that you jolted off balance. Twin hands clamped down on your upper arms and held you steady, and one small sniff told you exactly which alpha had caught you after a moment of self-pleasure.
“Titus,” you breathed as you looked up into his hazel hues.
If he hadn’t smelled you through the door, you were sure he had now by the way his nostrils flared with each breath he took.
Instead of answering, Titus continued to stare down at you until his gaze caught onto your raised hands that hand planted firmly on his chest after he caught you. His right hand released your arm in favor of grabbing the hand that, moments ago, had been stuck down your pants. He brought it up to his face before leaning in, nose trailing up each finger, chest puffing out in deep inhales of your scent.
If he were any other alpha, you would have wrenched out of his grasp and slapped him across the face. But this was Titus, the alpha you’d been dreaming of only to wake up in a puddle and heat at your core, the alpha you wanted to build something with.
Titus surprised you even further when his tongue darted out and kitten-licked at your fingerprints, the hot muscle contracting around your skin in languid motions. He never broke eye contact through his ministrations of cleaning you up. Once you were sure all remnants of slick had been lapped up by his tongue, he pulled away. By now, his scent was overpowering, but all it did was send another rush of need and want for him through your body.
You thought he might kiss you with the way his face suddenly leaned in towards yours, but he stopped inches away from your lips, hot breath fanning over the tip of your nose. His hazel eyes were blown, and you were sure yours reflected his as well. If Mr. Le Bail hadn’t graciously given you the contract, you would have offered for him to take you there and then against the walls of your home.
But you had to follow the rules, play the game. And Titus knew too.
His mouth parted slightly. “I just want you to know,” he whispered, tone promise-filled, “it’s going to be me, omega, . . . who gets you.”
Your jaw tipped up to the point your lips could have almost touched, and you smiled. “I look forward to it, alpha.”
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Titus felt insatiable.
It had only been a week since he’d had a taste of you, and the memory of your slick burned at the back of his throat every time he recounted the scene with a hand wrapped around his cock under the cover of night.
He never knew how addicting an omega could be. All the women he’s ever been with were betas; he didn’t possess the patience to deal with the neediness of the fairer secondary sex or even with alphas for that matter—his own need for control made bedding the latter an exhausting affair. But now he was different, now he craved to have you again, drinking your scent and slick straight from the source.
That specific brand-new craving washed over his body in waves as he stood with the rest of the lower families. The simmering heat of an upcoming rut due to the pill he’d swallowed almost thirty minutes ago, per the hunt’s rules, made his desires for you almost uncontainable, especially with how it warred with his disgust for the rest of the half-paked alpha pups that littered your study. But he knew he’d be able to act on both feelings as soon as they were all set free into your land. Then, he’d be able to make his disdain for these boys known in a much more visceral way.
But he couldn’t help but think you’d done this on purpose, choosing to put him, an experienced alpha well in his prime, right in the middle of six alphas who probably didn’t know where to stick their knots. Easily, he’d be able to take each and every one of them down if the situation called for it, and he prayed that it would. His teeth itched with the want to sink them into deep jugulars and feel the slick of blood along his gums. His eyes grazed across the small crowd, and an unpleasant feeling crept up his throat when he couldn’t find you. Obviously, he knew you were probably preparing and wouldn’t even put yourself in the middle of this flock while pre-heat settled into your body.
Smart girl.
He took another sip from his drink, the alcohol giving him a pleasant buzz to wash out the growing scent of pre-rut stink from the others. One in particular, however, had him almost gagging from it: Byron Coventry and his scent of wet leaves and sour apple. He was one of the most pathetic excuses an alpha Titus had ever come across. He wanted to break his little neck every time Byron opened his mouth, vulgar fantasies about you spewing from his teeth. But Titus kept himself in check; he was better than the rest, and he had nothing to prove. He knew he was the perfect mate for you, would even bet that Mr. Le Bail was also in contempt.
He blessed whoever was listening when he spotted the Lawyer slowly making his way to the front of the study, the same place he’d been a week ago as he announced your clause to the rest of the high families.
“Attention please,” he announced, effectively quieting the room once again. “The sun will dip below the horizon in approximately ten minutes. Miss Du Pont has been given those moments as a head start. Please take this time to prepare yourselves and whatever you have brought.” He steeled his blue eyes. “And just remember, if Miss Du Pont is harmed in any way . . . well . . . let’s just say you won’t see tomorrow. I know you all are very familiar with how Mr. Le Bail punishes those who break his rules.”
The small crowd of seven scattered soon after, Titus going directly for his war hammer he stowed in the corner upon his arrival. Its heavy metal was a comforting weight in his palm. With it, he had never lost a hunt. He twirled it once before resting it over his shoulder.
“What are you going to do with that old man? Knock her unconscious?” Bryon called out while shoving his guns into their holsters at his waist. “I’ll tell you that omegas are much sweeter when they’re awake to squirm a bit, especially when they get to fight back. Makes it all worth it when you get to just take them.”
Titus rolled his eyes and scoffed. “This is going to go right through your skull.” His voice carried an assuredness that sent a visible shock and shiver through Byron. He stepped away and placed his glass back down onto the bar.
The next seven minutes were tortuous, By now, every breath Titus took singed his nose as the overwhelming reek of rut permeated the air. Every so often, small growls would slip through clenched teeth, and Titus wondered if someone would explode into a violent frenzy before the hunt could even begin until the Lawyer reappeared at the entrance to the study this time. “The alphas will be let out one at a time, starting with the youngest and so on.”
“The old man is going to fall behind,” Byron jeered with a snort.
The Lawyer squared his shoulders. “Mr. Coventry, I can assure you that Mr. Danforth is more than capable. Do note that he also has never lost a hunt in the thirty plus years that he’s been a part of Mr. Le Bail’s circle. Not only that, but he also holds the highest seat of the council.”
Titus stood a bit straighter, and the rest went silent as they lined up. Titus stood directly behind Byron, even though there was a twenty-year gap between them. He lowered his head toward the younger alpha’s ear.
“If you even think of taking her by force, I will hunt you down well after all of this is over and personally escort you to the gates of hell myself.”
He straightened as though nothing had happened, but the tell-tale whiff of fear further curdling Byron’s repulsive, aroused rotten scenet had Titus smirking.
Just as Titus was the last to be left in the study, the Lawyer held out an outstretched hand, stopping him mid-step, to which Titus cocked a questioning eyebrow. Without saying anything, the Lawyer withdrew something tightly wound from his pocket and gave it to Titus.
“A small gift, if you will,” the Lawyer stated with a wink. “Miss Du Pont sends her regards.” He stepped aside from the door and let Titus through.
The handful of fabric Titus kept in his palm taunted him to unravel it as he walked. Before he could venture too far into the open grassy field that led to the forest licking the edge of your estate (much like his own), he paused, set down his war hammer, and brushed his thumbs over the fabric to straighten it out. His mouth went dry when he realized what he was holding. Another brush of his thumb came back wet, and Titus brought the digit to his mouth and sucked, the sweetness of your slick latching onto his tastebuds.
He’d already been half-hard before under the effects of the inducer, but the smallest taste of you had his cock fully swelling and throbbing in his pants.
You’d given him your underwear, and the thought of you running around with your cunt bare under whatever you were wearing had him pushing the fabric into his back pants pocket and stalking through the field with a fire under his steps. Tall grass flattened underneath his black hunting boots. Once the softer ground turned into hard dirt covered in leaves and twigs, he slowed his steps, taking deep breaths as he walked further. At the entrance, an onslaught of honeycomb and orange made him dizzy but also impressed. In attempts to throw the alphas off, you’d wiped slick across the bark of random trees in different directions.
His chest finally rumbled at the thought of such a skilled omega, one that would be on par with his alpha.
Not knowing where to start, he continued to step into the trees, their crowns shadowing him from the moonlight. He could smell a few alphas on his path, but they either dimmed or stopped abruptly. A few sticks snapped, and his head would whip in that direction, nose flaring to pick up any scents, but he knew you were too smart to be wandering around. By now, you probably had already found a place to hide, somewhere only you knew since this was your land. Instead of having the upper hand, the ball was in your court.
Titus set out to find running water, a stream perhaps. Fresh water meant you could cross and mask your scent in the ever-changing bank, the mud helping to mask footprints. His ears picked up the sound of a trickle to the right, and he turned in the opposite direction. You would have also known that alphas would first go for the water, the oldest trick in the hunting book. If you were any normal prey, he would have had you in minutes. But you were practically his equal, the two of you holding some type of the highest blessings from Mr. Le Bail.
By three hours in, Titus hadn’t found so much a trace of you, and he was starting to believe that you would be the one to last the entire twelve hours until sunrise. However, a small chirp from a couple yards in front of him had him pausing, war hammer poised in his hands. Another twig snapped, and he caught his first voice of the night.
Only, instead of belonging to you, it belonged to someone entirely different, someone Titus had been keeping in mind to silence his bloodlust.
“Come out, come out, omega,” Byron sang too loudly into the quiet atmosphere. “I know you’re close. That cute little noise you gave out—” He chuckled deeply. “Means your body is just begging for me.”
Titus ground his teeth, and his jaw clenched tightly. His fingers gripped around the war hammer’s shaft to the point of white knuckles. He kept his steps soft, eyeing where sticks lay in his path, careful to step over them.
“You smell so fucking sweet; I bet you’re just waiting to roll over and present. You’re going to feel so good around my dick. My knot’s been begging for sweet pussy for so long, and to think, the next one is going to belong to Mr. Le Bail’s pet.”
Much to Titus’ horror, another soft chirp sounded at the same audible tone as Byron’s voice, meaning you and he were too close for Titus to be comfortable with. In any other circumstance, Titus would leave you to it; he’d seen the way you took down each and every alpha and beta in your hunt while barely looking like you’d broken a sweat. But this was entirely different. You were under the effects of a deepening preheat, something you’d gone into willing to find out which alpha would fight to keep you safe. And Titus would rather cut off his hands than let an alpha like Byron Coventry lay his eyes on you like this, let alone a singular finger.
Thankfully, the man seemed to enjoy hearing himself rather than looking out for his safety, giving Titus the perfect cover to get in closer. Your thick scent grew sweeter the more he walked, and he wondered how long Byron would be able to control himself with the heavy pheromones of a fertile omega swimming in the air. Even Titus could feel his own self control waning.
Byron gave off a low growl, and he continued stalking through the forest like a child having a tantrum. “Fucking show yourself. If you’re waiting for that old man, I’ll tell you now that you’ll be so disappointed with an alpha like him. I bet he couldn’t even get it up, much less pop a knot.” His torso twisted desperately. “I bet Mr. Le Bail is disappointed with you. He took pity on a sad, family-less omega. It’s a shame really that you’ll lose his favor the moment you mate with someone. You can’t be his if you belong to someone else, and baby, you’ll belong to me.”
Like a whistle, a whine cut through the air like a knife, and Titus knew he had to act now. He threw caution to the wind and leaped out into the small clearing where the moonlight reached through the leaves. He’d been successful in getting an ambush on Byron, the younger alpha’s knees crumpling as Titus’ greater weight tackled him to the ground.
Titus was met with a hard hand against his jaw, but he was faster. He wrenched the hand off and pinned the wrist down into the dirt. While Byron desperately tried to claw for his guns, the ones currently in the holster Titus ripped away from his belt and threw it behind him. Without looking away from Byron’s now terrified face, Titus leaned over and grabbed his war hammer, the sharp, pointed end facing the side of the younger alpha’s head, right above his ear near his temple. By the time Titus pinned him fully, his scent had deepened from papery-money and patchouli to a full forest singeing with fire. He leaned over and straddled Byron’s chest, knees digging into his arms to keep him still while holding Byron’s face toward the side, cheek down into the forest floor.
“I did warn you,” Titus whispered, “that I’d put this right through your skull.”
He didn’t even wait for a reply before brutally shoving the sharp end straight through Byron’s head, the tip cracking bone and giving way through brain matter like a hot knife through butter. Titus didn’t relent until the point came out the other side. Blood instantly spurted, thick drops hitting Titus’ chin and cheeks and neck. He closed his eyes and listened fully to the way Byron squirmed in the last attempts of his body fighting back, his soul not knowing that his brain had just been decimated. His huffs of anguish and small jolts were a full symphony to Titus’ ears. He kept a firm grip until Byron’s life force oozed out completely just like his blood and brain had. Once he was sure the alpha would never rise again, Titus pushed up from the ground, spine straightening as he went quiet, only his panting remained the only sound in the air. He grabbed onto the war hammer shaft and yanked the pointed end out, Byron’s body following before slipping back down to the earth.
Titus knew he was dead, but that didn’t stop him from swinging his weapon over his shoulder and bringing the mallet end back down. Byron’s face gave way under the force, the rest of his skull and skin splattering across the ground. Titus straightened as he stood to his full height, ears alert to catch the smallest noise from where you hid.
“Come on, omega,” he whispered. “Tell me where you are.”
He was gifted with another chirp directly in front of him. When he looked over, he met your wide but pleased gaze, the bottom of your face hidden by a tree that gave way into a divot in the earth. He wouldn’t be surprised if you had a nest of some sort, but his curiosity would need to be pushed aside for now. Even from where he stood, he could tell that you were beginning to fade into the beginning stages of your heat.
Without waiting, Titus rushed over, and you gave him yet another chirp in return at his eagerness. His senses swam when he finally halted in front of you, dropping down to his knees to be at your eye level.
You whimpered loudly when his scent finally hit your nose, finding key hints of a metallic twang you knew well to be blood. You’d heard the short-lived dual between him and Byron, and Titus would personally be rewarded for taking him out. And now that you had him on his knees in front of you, you weren’t going to let him go like you had to last week after he’d found you in the hall.
“Titus,” you whimpered.
He shuffled on his knees until he slightly hovered over you but still kept his distance. Unlike most, Titus had read the clause and understood that even if he had found you, you still held the ability to refuse his advances. It would hurt him, yes, and he’d have to lock himself away to ride out his rut, but if you did, he’d stay to make sure no other alpha found you before dawn.
He waited for you to say something, but all you did was chuff and hook your ankles into his strong forearms, thighs contracting as you began to pull him inward.
“If you don’t do something,” you hissed, “I will get myself off and make you watch.”
Titus responded with a warning growl that had your head tilting back to bare your neck once the sound met your ears. He took a hold of your ankles and secured them around his hips.
“No need to get so nippy,” he scoffed. “I’ll give you what you want, but you need to say please. Manners are important after all.”
You echoed his scoff, making sure to push it to a louder degree. “I bet you’ve never said fucking please once in your life.”
He tsked while his hands busied at the dirtied hem of the dress you wore. “You’ll be surprised to know that I have, in fact, said please on multiple occasions.” He looked up into your eyes. “Let me hear you say it.” He paused with a deadly smirk. “Please.”
Saliva pooled around your tongue, and you quickly swallowed it down. “Please.”
“Good girl,” he muttered before fully lifting your dress to display your bare lower half. He didn’t even attempt to hold back the groan building in his throat at the sight of your moonlit, glistening heat.
Without the added layer, your scent was so thick Titus could taste it on his tongue.
“You’ve been like this since your headstart.” He didn’t pose it as a question since your slick-soaked underwear were still stuffed in his back pocket. “Just sitting here, waiting for an alpha to come find you and—”
“Waiting for you,” you interrupted, not once flushing in embarrassment at your confession. “There was never going to be a different alpha, Titus. It was always going to be you no matter what.”
Titus set the hem of your dress to drape across your lap, and in the next breath, he leaned forward until his mouth met yours in a searing kiss. There was no time for lazy motions since your heat was building with every moment, so Titus impatiently mouthed wetly at your lips. Your hands planted themselves on both of his cheeks while he bent so low you didn’t have any other choice but to slowly lean back against the earth. His size towered over you, and he could easily kill you right then and here; the thought had your hips bucking wildly into his, and you moaned loudly against his teeth. He ripped back at the feeling, saliva dripping from his mouth.
“Fuck,” he hissed, “I need to taste you.”
A high-pitched whine flew from your lips as he leaned back in to mouth and suck at your scent gland. He didn’t dare break the skin, knowing your bed lay waiting back at the estate to grow a bond, but he did allow himself to lick hotly across it.
“T-Titus—fuck—please, I-I need—”
He nipped carefully at the skin next to the gland. “I know what you need.”
His right hand glided across your hip and over your thigh to dip near your core. The first brush of his fingertips against your outer folds had you keening. In return, Titus rumbled, the two of you communicating at the deepest instinct possible. He slowly dragged his fingers through your slick until they pressed into the hardened bud of nerves that sent lightning ripping up your spine. In a gentle yet firm circular motion, he fiddled with your clit, drawing out more moans from the depths of your lungs.
“Titus!” you screamed out into the forest.
“There she is,” he muttered, lips moving downwards, hips folding to allow him to get his face near your core. Before going any further, he took the largest inhale possible and moaned deeply. He had half a mind to run his chin and cheek through your slick, wanting to get your scent embedded into his pores.
But that was something for a different time.
Now, he needed to finally taste you right from the source.
His tongue peaked out from his lips and dragged upward from your fluttering hole to your clit, the pressure making your back arch beautifully. He drank and drank and drank your slick like a dehydrated man in a never-ending desert. Each swipe had his mouth full of the scented and sweetened lubrication that your body pumped out in preparation for you to take a knot—his knot.
Just the thought had him groaning, and the vibrations almost sent you over the edge. You needed to hold onto something, and your fingers quickly found his curls and yanked at his roots. The sting seemed to spur him on, so you pulled harder, keeping his face buried between your thighs.
“Titus,” you panted heavily. “I need—fingers—oh, fuck, finger, please!”
“So polite,” he spoke into you with a smirk and raised eyebrow. “I knew you could do it.”
He gave you exactly what you wanted in the form of his thick pointer finger slipping into your innermost parts. If he were an inexperienced alpha, he probably would have cum from imagining your oh-so tight muscles contracting around his cock.
The additional pressure and finger thicker and longer than your own had you catapulting towards your climax.
“So fucking tight,” he grated, finger thrusting in and out in wet squelches. “How am I even going to fit my knot into here?”
“Titus, I’m close; I’m—” you squealed. “Alpha!”
Without warning, Titus thrust in and curled both his pointer and middle fingers against that soft spot deep inside and sucked hard on your clit simultaneously. You had no warning. You howled with a dropped jaw as you came, eyes rolling back deeply into your skull. Your back arched completely off the ground, but Titus pressed you back down with a large hand splayed across your lower belly. He kept up his thrusting but softened his licks into savored movements as you came down from the high. He only stopped when you pushed a hand against his forehead, a silent signal that you needed a minute. With a wet pop, he pulled his fingers out of you and brought them to his lips. He shoved both of them in his mouth while maintaining eye contact with you, your slick permanently etching into his tongue.
Once done, he leaned back over you for another wet, opened-mouthed kiss. Shoving his tongue into your mouth, he fed you the lingering taste of your sweet, honey-like arousal. His other hand cupped your cheek, holding you in place against him. Your skin felt scorching and feverish against his fingertips, and it dawned on him that the orgasm he just gave you hadn’t been enough to hold off your heat. No, instead, it’d been the spark to light the inferno within your belly.
And now he was here, cock straining against his pants and body being consumed by a rapidly approaching rut with an unmated omega seconds away from a full blown heat beneath him. He swiftly yanked the hem of your dress back down before gathering you into his arms. With cracking knees, he staggered off the ground into a standing position.
You whined confusingly at the sudden change in position, completely out of it due to your overtaking heat, and he gently hushed you with a soft rumble of his chest.
“I need to get you back,” he growled, taking a large step in the direction of your estate. His hands held you tightly against him. “Need to fuck you; need to knot you; need to have you baring my mark by sunrise.”
His words added fuel to the already burning fire in your core, and you couldn’t help the anticipating whimper that followed. Because the moment Titus got you back to your room, to your nest, all cards were off the table and he was free to take you as he pleased, to take you as his mate.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
You curled further into Titus as he practically kicked down the door to your master bedroom.
Getting back to the estate had been thankfully uneventful. Either the Lawyer knew enough to send the rest of the alphas packing, or the utter stench of Titus’ possessiveness that infected your scent had them backing away without a second thought.
Whatever it was though gave you and him a clear path with Titus stopping at nothing until he got you where he wanted. He had carried you the entire way, but after he closed the door behind him with his foot, he set you down.
“Strip and get in your nest,” he uttered, making sure no trace of alpha command seeped his timber.
You obeyed without thinking, instincts taking completely over the longer you drank in his scent. The dress ripped off in one try, leaving you completely bare. Goosebumps raised across your flushed skin. Your bedroom had been prepared, much cooler than normal, to combat your elevated temperature while you went through the highs and lows of your heat. The cooled air pebbled your nipples into stiff peaks as you walked over to your nest, knees hitting the soft blankets while you crawled into the middle.
Behind you, Titus locked the door and double checked for any weaknesses, instincts roaring at him to keep you protected, keep you all to himself. Under no circumstance would he allow anyone—alpha, beta, or even omega—to interrupt the two of you. After making sure the lock would hold, he turned back around to the sight of you outstretched across the sheets looking straight out of his most dirty dreams, right hand already swirling around your clit, fingers barely dipping into your hole with legs spread wide while your left hand pinched and grabbed at your breasts.
Titus began peeling off his muddy and bloodied clothes as he walked closer. He kept his boxers on even if he knew they’d be off in moments because he needed you to want this, to want him, and more importantly, to beg for it. Even if his alpha screamed at him to take, take, take, he wouldn’t dare enter your nest without permission. He stood next to the bed near your torso, watching and waiting for you to let him in.
Through lidded eyes, you looked over and mewled, “Alpha, please. Need you in here with me.”
That’s all he needed to scramble through the blankets of your nest.
Titus immediately took his place over you, slotting his hips between your legs and beginning to grind against you. Your thighs parted wide for him automatically and wrapped around his waist.
While Titus focused on covering your neck in as many marks as he could at the moment, your fumbling hands reached for his length, eager to get what you’d been truly craving. A whine, high pitched and pathetic, left your lips when your way was blocked by his underwear. The material was already soaked through, covered in the tantalizing scent of your slick mixing with his precum.
“C’mon, darling,” Titus’s low voice rumbled through you where his lips were pressed to your neck, right over your scent gland. You longed for his teeth to sink in, and your incisors itched to leave your own mark on his neck. You wanted to be his and you wanted him to be yours. “Tell me what you want.”
“Titus!”
“Mmm,” he hummed, his cock throbbing at how you so deliciously said his name. He was still mouthing over your scent gland but being careful to keep his teeth to himself. “Use your words.”
Your mind was growing fuzzy, the burning heat that left you aching for him was starting to hurt. You were so empty. If he didn’t hurry this up, you’d have to take matters into your own hands, and you knew in your frenzied state, you’d be unable to satisfy either of you.
“You, need you,” you were pawing at the fabric that kept you from what you really wanted.
“And what do you need from me?”
“For you,” the frustration and neediness you were feeling sharpened your senses for just a moment. Your hand squeezed around his length through his briefs. “To claim me.”
Titus groaned at the pressure and the aggression sharpening your scent. He loved to see you deadly and dangerous, a beautiful juxtaposition to your omegan sweetness.
“I will claim you-”
“Now,” you squeezed harder, your voice dropping into a growl. “Don’t be a fucking pussy. I thought you were a big, strong alpha. Maybe I should have found someone else to get the job done.”
“Shut up,” Titus’s hand closed over your neck, fingers digging into the sides.
Your lips opened, dying to egg him on, but no words came out. The sheer force of his command had rendered you speechless. Your eyes rolled back in pleasure. Yes. This was what you needed. You wanted your alpha – and he was yours, there was no doubt about it – to take what he needed from you. He was the most powerful man in the world, an alpha who made other men tremble in their boots, and you wanted to see him become a slave to his baser instincts, with no choice but to indulge in everything you had to offer him. You wanted him to take it, to make you his.
“Oh, so that’s what you wanted, huh?” Titus laughed as your clarity faded away, your eyes glazing over and your chest heaving with every gasping breath. “You want me to command you? To take control? To make every decision since your empty little brain is too dumb to do anything except beg for my knot?”
Though your paralyzed vocal chords wouldn’t let you make a sound beyond a pathetic whine, your lips moved, pleading inaudibly.
Yes, yes Titus, please.
His hips jerked forward, rutting into your hand. “You want me to fuck you until you cry while you just take it like the good omega you are?”
Titus’s order was wearing off, allowing a squeak that vaguely resembled a ‘yes’ to fill the minimal space between your bodies. His chest rumbled as he hummed in delight. The fingers wrapped around your neck loosened and lifted as Titus backed away from you. He settled on his knees between your spread thighs, knocking your hand away from where you were halfheartedly trying to stroke his cock. Under normal circumstances, Titus would have scoffed and berated you for such a pisspoor attempt at pleasing him, but with his rut looming on the horizon, the clumsy squeezing was working him up much more than he’d like to admit.
He carefully pried your hands away from him, holding them tight. Head tilting, he took a moment to look over your body. You were flushed and panting, staring up at him with desperate eyes and a hungry expression. Your nipples were hard and your breasts heaved with every breath. His eyes trailed down, taking in the softness of your abdomen, the flare of your hips, and the perfectly soft, bare skin between your legs, baring your cunt to his hungry eyes. He’d have to hide your razors in the future, but for now he was grateful to see every inch of you. You made the perfect picture of a needy omega in the throws of heat.
Letting go of your hands, he slid his own over your thighs. His mouth watered at the silky smoothness of your skin beneath his palms. He wanted to trace every inch of you with his tongue, but right now there were more pressing matters.
“Get on your hands and knees,” he patted the outside of your thigh.
“No,” your ability to speak was returning. “Titus, like this-”
“Get on your hands and knees,” he let the power seep into his words as he shuffled back on his knees. “And I will give you everything you desire.”
You were unable to resist the order, and your body was turning over before you could protest. Even though you’d chosen the blankets specifically for their softness and comfort, the fabric grated against your skin, shooting unpleasant sparks through each of your nerves. Nothing felt as good as his skin on yours.
“Please,” you whimpered. You settled into position, shaking arms struggling to hold up your body. The emptiness in your cunt was terribly painful now at this point.
“Present.”
You let out a loud and obscene moan as Titus forced you into position without lifting a finger. The arch in your back deepened, hips tilting and thighs spreading wide to give Titus the perfect view of where you needed him the most. Your arms gave out, your face pressing into the blankets against your will, but god did it feel good. Despite the contortion and the strain it should have caused your muscles, it felt so good, like this was how you should always be. Like any other placement of your limbs was unnatural and wrong.
He knew that the combination of your heat, his commands, and the eroticism of the situation the two of you found yourselves in were the driving forces behind your obedience, but it still stroked his ego. A beautiful omega, a powerful woman in your own right, bending over for him and begging for his touch. It was addictive. Titus knew he’d crave this everyday for the rest of his life and, after he claimed you, he’d be able to have it.
“So good for me, omega,” his hands cradled your ass. You whined at the touch, trying to push back into his touch, but he tutted at you. “Stay still, darling.”
“Titus,” you turned your head so your cheek pressed against the mattress. Titus’s command to present meant that you were unable to lift your head up, but you still tried your best to look over your shoulder at him. “Please, it hurts!”
“Shh, ok,” his knees nudged your thighs open wider as he took his position behind you. The throbbing tip of his cock parted your folds, stroking through them from top to bottom. You mewled, but the hand on your ass kept you from trying to push back. “You want me to claim you as mine?”
“Yes!” Your fingers tangled in the sheets.
“You want to wear my mark?” Titus’s hand moved, tracing your spine to curl around the back of your neck. His thumb swiped over the swollen gland there. “Right here?”
“Yes!” Every point of contact between your bodies burned.
“And you want me to put my heir right here?” His hand glided down over your back and around to your stomach until it stopped just over your mound, pressing into the skin.
“Yes, Alpha, please!”
His words were whipping you up into a frenzy, your muscles twitching as you held your position. You needed him more than you needed air.
“You want me to mount you and fuck you and fill you up until you can’t think about anything but my cock?”
“Yes, yes, Titus-”
“Then take it.”
Titus thrust forward, sinking in until his hips met your ass. The entire length of his cock buried inside your cunt, barely inflated knot included.
Your eyes rolled back into your head, mouth falling open as your legs shook. Finally having that empty ache soothed was enough to push you over the edge. You came, your shaking legs spreading even wider to accommodate his body pressed behind yours. You were too far gone for words now, mewling and drooling as your eyelids fluttered. A pleasant buzzing filled your ears, almost drowning out Titus’s groans at your tightening and spasming walls.
“God, fuck,” he panted. His hips jerked forward involuntarily, pressing against your cervix and forcing a sob of pleasure from your throat.
He had taken the edge off, but it wasn’t enough. It wouldn’t be enough until the entire world could see his mark on your neck and his child growing in your stomach.
Titus had the presence of mind to give you a moment to adjust. He thought he was showing you some kindness before he lost all of his self control as his rut took over, but that was the last thing you needed. His hands had found their place on your hips, holding you steady, but he could feel you trying to push back against him.
“Greedy little thing,” Titus withdrew, slowly dragging his hard length along your walls until only his head remained tucked within your core. He slammed back in, your body jolting forward from the force of his thrust. “I tried to be nice, but you just want it so bad, huh?”
Titus’s body folded over yours. His chest slotted against your back, pressing you further into the sheets and pinning you down. The change in angle had you gasping. He was rutting deep into you as he growled and groaned. It felt blissful to have him piston in and out of you while his body covered yours.
“S’this what you want?” One of his hands tangled in your hair, pulling your head back and to the side to bare your neck to him. He nosed over the skin, his warm breath ghosting over your scent gland sent shivers down your spine.
You let out a garbled moan that might have been a yes. His teeth scraped over the gland and you tightened around him again, walls trying to suck him deeper.
Titus chuckled, his other hand moved up to slide two of his fingers between your lips. They closed around them immediately, your tongue sliding between them, stroking along them like you longed to do with his cock.
“Silly little baby,” Titus’s tone was mocking, but he was breathing nearly as hard as you were. “Just needed something in your mouth.”
His teeth clamped down on your shoulder, inches away from where you longed to feel his fangs pierce your skin. Even if it wasn’t a true claiming bite, the pain was still blissful, mingling with the extreme pleasure of his unceasing thrusting into your cunt to throw you over the edge once again.
“Yes,” he didn’t slow down, even as you cried out around his fingers and your nails ripped through the sheets as you scrambled for something to tether you to reality. You held on, the sound of the fabric tearing joining your desperate noises and the obscene, wet pops of his rapidly swelling knot being forced in and out of your entrance. Through your rhythmic clenching, it was almost painful to be stretched so wide, but you needed to feel it grow even bigger. “Cum on my cock. Just like that.”
Despite his hard and fast thrusts taking the edge off your heat, the emptiness within you was growing more and more demanding. You needed his knot so badly.
“Knot!” The plea clawed its way out of your throat, muffled and barely coherent around his fingers. “Knot, please Alpha!”
“Don’t you know better than to speak with your mouth full?” Titus growled into your ear. The low vibrations of his cruel words rumbled through his body into yours.
“Please, please, please,” you were crying, fat tears rolling down your cheeks to mix with the drool leaking out around his fingers, until he pulled them out. You were finally able to speak, but the only words you could force out were some jumbled variations of please and Alpha!
“Yeah?” He was getting close. The knot at his base growing more and more every second as he worked himself up to the edge. “You need your alpha’s knot?”
“Yes!” You tried to reach back to grab at him, but Titus’s hands caught yours, holding them together in between your bodies. He was bigger and stronger than you and you were unable to free yourself. “Please! Please, please, please, please.”
“I’ll give you what you need,” he was breathing hard, thrusting even harder into you as his knot grew. “Be a good omega and cum on my knot. C’mon, you can do it.”
With one final thrust, he bottomed out. His knot swelled to its maximum size, locking him deep inside you. Titus’s teeth sank into your scent gland. His canines broke the skin, a swell of your sweet blood coating his tongue and gums, and both of you came together instantly. You could feel the bond snapping into place while his cock twitched and emptied deep into your cunt.
Titus’s groans were muffled into your flesh, but your moans flowed freely, intertwined with pleasured purrs that rumbled through your chest. Your body jerked and thrashed beneath his as the sheer amount of ecstasy blazing through your bloodstream rendered you nearly mindless. Through the bond, you could feel his pleasure, too, as it solidified, your minds and souls linking. It only worked to drive your own orgasm into overdrive.
You sobbed his name, squeezing hard around his knot. Every throb of his cock spilled more and more of his release into you, until you felt too full. Titus’s cock was big on its own, but with his knot the size of your fist filling you up as well, all of the cum he was still pouring into was stretching your body beyond the limits you’d thought possible.
He still hadn’t let go of your neck, but he’d released your hands, and they flopped to the mattress. Your strength was sapped, all of your energy going to the involuntary milking of your inner walls clenching tightly around his knot.
“A-alpha,” you whimpered. “Too–too full!”
“Oh, fuck,” Titus’s teeth finally withdrew from your gland when his hand traveled down to settle over your stomach. The skin of your normally flat stomach was slightly distended, a combination of his cock, his knot, and the obscene amount of cum he’d pumped into you. He groaned, and you whimpered in response when his cock jerked and another, new wave of his spend spurted out. “Fuck, omega, you’re so full of me. Such a good omega for taking it all. You’re going to give me a pup in no time.”
A wave of tremors washed over you. Your knees slipped against the blankets that were slick with sweat.
“Let’s get comfortable,” Titus gently maneuvered your locked together bodies until the two of you were laying back to chest. He curled around you, making sure to avoid tugging on his knot. “We’ll be here for a while longer, darling.”
Lying down took the pressure off your muscles, allowing you to fully relax and enjoy the comfort of your new mate’s embrace. Despite the discomfort you still felt—especially as his release still trickled into you—you couldn’t help the contented purrs that continued to rumble through your chest.
“Oh, my sweet girl,” the sound reverberated through your body into his, echoing through your bones and lighting up the most base instincts in Titus. He longed to make you purr like this for him every day for the rest of his life. “My pretty little mate.”
He leaned back enough to eye his mark. It was red and angry and the perfect shape of his teeth, but it was his—you were his. After a lifetime of waiting for a mate, and after a week of waiting to claim you, there was no doubt that he’d be yours for life. His tongue darted out and lapped hotly across your raised skin, drawing a pleased hiss from behind your teeth.
“Mine,” you happily sighed. “My alpha.”
The two of you lied there, basking in the warmth of your shared bodies, hands wrapped around each other and clinging to wherever you could reach. However, it didn’t take long for the quelled, white-hot neediness to grow and simmer back under your skin. Even before Titus’s knot had gone down, your hips began rocking against him, shooting a fresh wave of pleasure through you both, the feeling much more intense than it had at the beginning. The bond was to thank for that.
“Easy,” Titus grumbled. “Knot’s not gone yet.”
“Don’t care,” you gasped when it notched firmly at your hole, allowing a small glop of his and your mixed essence to spill, aiding in the short back and forth thrusts you were trying to pull out of him. “Need you again; need it to take.”
Titus laughed lowly, already in the process of rolling you back over to hover over your spine. “Oh, it’ll take, omega. By dawn, you will be carrying our heir.” His hips jerked, and he pushed his cock back in, his knot disappearing from view into your cunt. “I’ll make sure of it.”
𐙚 . pairing ⎯⎯ crown's spy!lando norris x noble!fem reader.
𐙚 . summary ⎯⎯ when lando's future with the woman he loves is jeopardized by his decisions, he will be forced to do everything possible to win her heart back.
𐙚 . warnings ⎯⎯ fluff. drama. pining. angst with a happy ending (yay). suggestive content but completely sfw. this is heavily inspired by pride and prejudice btw. you need to read the first part to understand this one.
𐙚 . word count ⎯⎯ 9k
𐙚 . author's note ⎯⎯ @discopantsinpanic @fuckingsimp4azriel @desperatekingdomofalara @antrenna this is for you guys even tho is absolute trash. 💗
"Straighten up, Charlotte, you are slumping terribly," you whispered through gritted teeth to your younger sister.
The ballroom remained just as stifling even after a year of having vanished from high society. The principal difference from last time was that now, you not only had to contend with the sweltering heat of a crowded room, but you also had to hold your head high beneath the lingering gazes of practically the entire English gentry.
Charlotte’s debut had been flawless, considering the predicament in which your family now found itself. Or rather, what was left of it.
Following your father’s imprisonment on charges of high treason, you were left with nothing. The Crown had seized the property held in his name, forcing your mother to hastily seek shelter with one of her brothers. His standing was by no means as affluent as yours had once been, but as things stood, none of you were in any position to utter a single complaint.
Your mother had been fiercely proud about adhering to the plans laid out from the very beginning, even if you had failed to marry within the allotted time; Charlotte would make her debut right after you, and Mary would follow the next year upon coming of age. Now you had to share the season's activities with your younger sister and pray to whichever gods existed that she would not suffer the same fate as you.
Of Anthony, you knew nothing. He had vanished a little under a year ago, toward the end of the previous social season. Just as the gossip columns had gloated, he had dissolved into the summer wind without a word of warning, leaving you with your heart in pieces and your family in ruin.
Not only had he destroyed your reputation, but you had also hoped that, upon marrying, he would be gracious enough to allow your family to reside on the same estate where you lived, rescuing them from destitution. Yet you learned with great sorrow a week after the initial turmoil that his disappearance had not been due to pressing, honorable matters.
Anthony Wesbury had simply abandoned you.
"I am standing straight," Charlotte whispered back urgently. "I cannot breathe in this dreadful corset—how do you bear it?"
"You could breathe far better if you stood properly," you hissed back in a whisper.
Your mother stood just a few paces away, likely attempting to reconstruct a respectable reputation for her daughters. You adored her; the way she stood resolute before the masses for the sake of securing a future for her children was admirable, and you could only hope to measure up to her strength—if you were ever permitted to marry after the whole ordeal with Anthony.
Your chest still heavy with grief every time his memory crossed your mind.
"Would you care for a bit of sparkling wine? It will relax you," you whispered to Charlotte. She seemed to notice your slightly softened demeanor and nodded.
"Please."
You rested a reassuring hand upon her shoulder before weaving your way through the crowd, signaling your brief departure. You needed to locate a servant carrying refreshments to ease your sister’s frayed nerves.
You had not received a single proposal of marriage. It was only to be expected. At the very least, Charlotte had a gentleman or two casting admiring glances her way. It was a true relief.
"My lady," a voice called out, drawing your attention. Turning around, you found one of the chaperones standing tall before you with a polite smile. "Sir Norris requests your presence."
Sir Norris. The host of the ball, whom you had not yet had the pleasure of meeting. You furrowed your brow slightly. Why would he wish to see you specifically? And in private?
"Follow me, if you please."
Yet curiosity had always been your greatest flaw.
You followed the man in silence, gliding through the crowd into the foyer, where he guided you down a quiet, deserted corridor. He opened the door to a private chamber and gestured for you to step inside with a slight bow.
What met your eyes inside made your blood run cold.
There stood Anthony Wesbury himself, dressed in his customary fine attire. You felt your heart sink into your stomach. Every impulse within you urged you to lunge at him—to strike him, kick him, scream, weep, and then kiss him.
You were only snapped out of your daze by the sound of the door closing behind you.
"My lady," he greeted softly, bowing. He wore no smile; his expression was entirely grave. A light stubble had grown over his jaw, making him look unfairly handsome.
And you loathed yourself for still finding him handsome.
"What is the meaning of this?" you demanded, your voice utterly devoid of emotion, though you were certain the expression of horror on your face spoke far louder than any words could.
You had anticipated any number of ways for the evening to end, except this. Except finding yourself face-to-face with your former fiancé.
"My apologies," Anthony replied simply, eliciting a bitter, amused huff from you.
"How ought I to address you, Sir?" you asked with guarded coldness. "I was informed that Sir Norris required my presence."
"[Name]..." he began gently before letting out a sigh.
"It is at least a relief to know you are alive rather than lying dead in a ditch," you said, unable to bite your tongue any longer. "Which was precisely the impression your disappearance gave me last year."
"I regret leaving in such a manner," Anthony said carefully. "However, I had reasons... sound reasons."
"And would you care to explain those reasons?" you interrupted, holding your chin high. "I believe a former near-fiancée deserves to know. It is the least she is owed."
You watched him nod slowly and cast his gaze downward for a few seconds, undoubtedly bracing himself to speak the truth.
"My name is not Anthony Wesbury," your chest hollowed with anguish, yet you maintained your composure. "It is Lando Norris. And I am no viscount of any estate; I serve as a spy for the Crown."
His words left you utterly paralyzed for several seconds as you struggled to process what you had just heard.
"I beg your pardon?" You blinked, staring at Anthony—or Lando?—with a furrowed brow and eyes brimming with tears. Had it all been a lie?
"I was forced to conceal my identity to protect the integrity of the mission I was assigned," Lando explained hastily upon seeing the look on your face. "And I assure you, that is the only thing upon which I have deceived you, my lady."
"The only thing?" you repeated, your voice trembling. "Can you truly swear that your intentions toward me were genuine?"
You watched him hesitate for a fraction of a second and let out a humorless laugh, turning your face away to hide the stray tear that escaped your eye. You could not endure this. Not now, not after all this time. You were not prepared to see him again. You were not certain you ever would be.
"Your father was accused of high treason against the Crown," Lando said softly. "That was my doing."
You whipped your head back toward him, utterly stunned.
"Not only have you ruined my reputation, but you have also managed to leave my family in complete destitution," you gasped, breathless with indignation.
"[Name]," Lando called out sternly. "Your father was discovered using his fleet to forge illicit agreements with enemies of the Crown. He played both sides to elevate his financial standing, and there is no offense more severe. I uncovered the evidence within his library—"
"So you used me," you whispered, your voice shaking. Just when you thought nothing could further shatter your perception of him.
You watched him cross the room in two swift strides and carefully cup your face with both hands. His hands were broad, completely framing your cheeks, and you only allowed it because you had not reacted in time—and because you were weak. You were utterly weak for this man.
"I assure you that was never the case. I did not intend to fall in love with you," he murmured.
"How dare you speak of love?" you asked, deeply offended, in a trembling whisper.
"It is the truth." Lando gave you that look. That specific look. When his eyes grew soft, taking in every detail of your face, his pupils dilating from the sheer proximity. "That is why I returned. To offer you a solution. To repair the consequences of my actions."
"With all due respect, Sir," you snuffled softly. "I doubt you possess anything capable of repairing my family's ruin."
"Marry me," he cut in gently, sounding almost earnest. "Marry me as we agreed a year ago. Allow me to provide for your family. I shall place your mother and sisters on a fine estate and sustain them for the rest of their lives, if only you grant me your hand."
You let out a shaky breath, your mind reeling. This man had placed your father behind bars, condemned him under the highest crime in the land, destroyed your reputation, and plunged your family into misery. He had abandoned you when you needed him most, fashioning a false identity simply to gain access to your world.
And yet here he stood, offering a remedy. He was before you, offering apologies—the very man you had dreamed of for countless agonizing nights since his departure.
"Allow me to mend what I broke," Lando urged quietly. "And permit me to prove to you that I speak the truth. That I have been devoted to you since the moment I first saw you conversing with those dull gentlemen. That no other lady evokes such devotion in me as you do."
You furrowed your brow, quietly pulling your face away from his reach, forcing his hands to drop with a troubled, anxious expression.
"With all due respect, Sir, I no longer know who you are," you said, taking a step back.
"But you do," Lando persisted. "Only my name has changed. Everything else I ever shared with you remains true. All of it."
You shook your head, wiping away your tears.
"I can understand your sense of honor and your duty to the Crown. But it cost my father his freedom and robbed my family of their happiness and stability," you whispered, placing distance between the two of you once and for all, knowing you could not trust yourself with him so close. "Your actions speak far louder regarding where your allegiance lies. And I respect that," you nodded softly. "So I ask that you please stay away from me."
"[Name]—" Lando attempted to reach out, but you recoiled from his touch and fled the room immediately, leaving him behind in the dark.
That night, following the ball, sleep evaded you entirely. Nor did it come the nights that followed.
Your thoughts returned relentlessly to the same man—the one you had sworn you no longer desired. His offer refused to leave your mind; you became a mere shadow of your former self, your gaze distant during breakfast, barely present as you chaperoned Charlotte to various functions and assemblies, though you spent most of your days sequestered in your uncle’s estate tending to Mary.
Now more than ever, the scrutinizing eyes of society repulsed you, especially considering how easily your own gaze strayed, searching the crowd for the familiar silhouette of a certain gentleman.
Over the following week, you etched his true name into your mind. Lando Norris. You reminded yourself over and over that Anthony Wesbury did not exist—that the man you had once longed to marry was nothing more than a polished facade concealing an empty core. Who was Lando Norris? What did he do with his life when he was not adopting false identities across London to capture criminals?
Was the family he so fondly spoke of even real? His younger sisters, his elder brother. His parents. You wondered how much of what he had told you had contained any truth at all.
You also wondered whether you would have acted differently had you noticed his true intentions sooner. If you had connected the dots, if you had taken more notice of his uncanny ability to vanish so swiftly into a crowd, or how he casually lost his way inside your own home on both occasions he had been invited. Of course! It had all been a charade. But would you truly have done anything differently?
"What weighs so heavily upon your mind, my child?" You were abruptly roused from your reverie by your mother’s voice.
You looked dreadful, with dark circles beneath your eyes from the lack of rest and unkempt hair. Your eyes felt heavy and burned, a mere side effect of your sleepless nights.
"It is nothing," you chose to reply.
You did not wish to burden your mother. What would she do if she knew of Lando? She would undoubtedly be horrified, and she already had enough to bear managing household duties at your uncle's estate and navigating high society whenever Charlotte had an engagement.
It was high time you handled matters as an adult.
"You have slept very little," she said softly, caressing your cheek.
"I have found it difficult to sleep this past week," you admitted in an equally low voice, offering a slight shrug.
"I shall brew you some chamomile tea after dinner to help you rest," your mother offered. You nodded, forcing what you hoped resembled a smile.
Your uncle chose that precise moment to step into the main parlor. Both you and your mother rose from your seats; your uncle offered you a slight look of disdain owing to your unkempt appearance, though he said nothing. Instead, he simply extended a letter to your mother. It was already opened, sealed with red wax, and addressed to your mother by her full name.
"A letter?" She took it into her hands, unfolding the parchment to read its contents.
You watched her in silence, taking in the sudden look of astonishment on her face.
"What is it?" you broke the silence, unable to help yourself as you stepped closer.
"It is an invitation," your mother said in a trembling voice, "to a meeting to discuss a financial matter concerning Charlotte and Mary’s future."
You furrowed your brow.
"What does that mean?"
You took a seat in a corner of the drawing room, one leg carefully crossed over the other, an unread book resting idly on your lap. Your mother entered, followed by your uncle and a gentleman you did not know in the slightest, carrying a dark briefcase of expensive leather.
The reply arrived the following day after lunch. Your mother and uncle had sent a letter back, eager for the meeting to take place as soon as possible. You begged your mother to be part of it—wanting to finally understand firsthand what was happening financially—and your request was granted.
"Sir Vance, ma'am. I appreciate you receiving me on such short notice. I am aware that your family’s circumstances have been complex... to put it respectfully." The man took a seat on the sofa and placed the briefcase beside him.
"Let us get straight to the point, sir. You must understand we have no time to waste, least of all for debt collectors." Your uncle, ever so charming, cut him off swiftly.
"I assure you my intentions are not to collect."
You sat up straight in your chair while your mother clutched her handkerchief as the man opened his briefcase.
"I am aware that your position does not allow for a lawyer. That is why my firm has drafted these documents with the utmost clarity, so they require no expert interpretation," the man stated frankly, arranging the papers.
That was the moment you decided to intervene, standing up from the armchair to step forward.
"You will forgive me, but an attorney showing up with clandestine papers is the first sign of a scam. On whose behalf are you presenting yourself, Sir?" you demanded.
"[Name]," your mother said sternly.
The man blinked upon seeing you before his expression relaxed, as though he recognized you.
"Distrust is only natural in your position," he said carefully. "However, the law forbids me from disclosing the identity of my client." You frowned upon hearing this.
"And what law would that be?" you inquired.
"The law of trusts." Your mother covered her mouth, and you wished to ask what that meant without appearing foolish.
"A trust? No one gives anything away without a motive. On whose behalf do you come?" your uncle asked, far more aggressively.
"My client is a man of great standing. In the past, he incurred a profound debt of gratitude and business with your late father—an obligation he was never able to settle during his lifetime," he said with a touch of regret. "My client has no wish to meddle in matters of the Crown. Nevertheless, his conscience will not permit him to allow the consequences of those events to fall upon the ladies of this house. Therefore, he has established an irrevocable trust in favor of the two younger sisters."
"How much money are we talking about?" Your uncle stepped forward.
"The fund consists of an annuity of four hundred pounds per year."
You heard your mother sob at the man's words. You, on the other hand, were stunned—doubtless just as your uncle was, considering neither of the three spoke.
"It will be issued in the lady's name," the gentleman gestured respectfully toward your mother, "in order to cover the maintenance and wardrobe expenses of her recently debuted eldest daughter, as well as to serve for the court presentation of the younger daughter when the time comes," he spoke softly. "Upon the marriage of each sister, a sum of five thousand pounds will be released for each as a dowry."
"This is ridiculous," you said then. "Five thousand pounds is a fortune, not merely a debt of gratitude. What is this gentleman demanding from us in return?"
"The only legal requirement is Mr. Vance’s signature as head of the household, and your mother’s as a witness. With that, neither the benefactor himself nor the Crown will be able to withdraw a single penny from said account. From that moment on, the money belongs to your sisters."
"It is perfectly legal, niece," your uncle interrupted, the astonishment and conviction in his voice suddenly making you realize this was no scam after all. "Your father must have done many favors in the past."
"Oh, my daughters..." your mother sobbed from the sofa, and you hurried to place a hand on her shoulder to try to soothe her.
You could feel the relief in her sighs, in the way she tried to stop crying.
Four hundred pounds was a rather generous sum just for your sisters' debut; it was enough so your uncle would no longer be in misery trying to feed four extra mouths that his annual income could not afford. Even you felt a surge of relief.
Still, the timing of it all left you deeply suspicious. Why now? you asked yourself silently while your mother and uncle signed the necessary documents.
"I have been authorized to deliver an advance of fifty pounds in Bank of England notes for this week's urgent expenses," the man pulled a thick envelope from his briefcase and handed it to your mother alongside a set of papers. "The remainder of the quarterly allowance will be available at the main branch this Friday, provided you present a copy of the contract."
The following weeks felt like a breath of fresh air. The atmosphere in your uncle's small estate had changed drastically; you had even noticed how his demeanor toward you all was different now. You couldn’t blame him—after all, your mother had put him in a tight spot when she urgently sent him that letter after their previous home had been seized and confiscated over matters of the Crown.
Not only had she shown up at his door with little warning, but you had also eaten his food and depended on his money for nearly a year. You could understand that someone in his position would only relax upon knowing he would no longer have to manage details like his nieces' clothes and expenses, beyond putting food on their plates and a roof over their heads.
It seemed to you that your mother had begun to glow differently as well, returning to her cheerful, lighter disposition and regaining her confidence in crowded ballrooms. Charlotte was delighted with her new collection of dresses, and Mary was more than thrilled about the upcoming season and the new art supplies your mother had bought her as a gift.
"Mary, would you mind opening the window a little?" your mother asked, lounging on the sofa while fanning her face.
She was lying down, one leg resting over the armrest, the summer heat leaving a sheen of sweat on her face. Charlotte was embroidering in the small armchair while Mary practiced on your aunt's pianoforte. You were sitting on a small chair by the bookcase, reading silently, simply passing the time the four of you together.
Mary let go of the piano to stand up and open the window. As a slight breeze of warm air drifted in, everyone heard her gasp in surprise. Looking over at her was instinctual, but she remained standing by the window in silence, an unreadable expression on her face.
"What is it?" your mother asked, stopping her fanning.
"What did you see?" Charlotte managed to ask just as everyone realized Mary wasn't answering.
"Sir Wesbury..." she stammered with a strange smile, while Charlotte got up to look out the window beside her.
It was as though the room suddenly turned ice-cold. Your mother bolted up from the sofa.
"What?"
The movement caused you to snap your book shut instantly, without the time or presence of mind to memorize the page you were on. You stood up from your chair at the exact moment one of your uncle’s servants entered the room with a small bow.
"Sir Lando Norris." You felt your stomach churn, feeling as though you might throw up your lunch.
Nothing in you was prepared for the moment he walked through the door, nor had you been given enough time to make an escape. You could hear the expectant silence in the room; both your sisters and your mother were stunned with surprise. After all, standing before you was not only your former fiancé after a year of silence, but he had also had the audacity to introduce himself by another name.
His real name.
And he looked so handsome and broken at the same time. The corners of his eyes were red, his expression tired and solemn, almost ashamed.
"Ladies," he bowed his head, followed by a chorus of delayed curtsies from your family. Sir Norris looked nervous. "I beg you to forgive my informal arrival, given the pressing matters of our past," he looked down, nervously handling an old piece of paper in his hands. "But I felt compelled to deliver something that belongs to you."
"Sir Wesbury—" your mother began, only to be harshly cut off by you.
"Norris," you said, the high pitch of your voice drawing the attention of everyone present, slicing through the air like paper. "The gentleman’s name is Lando Norris, Mother. Sir Anthony Wesbury does not exist."
Lando lowered his gaze with a bashful smile before looking at your mother, his cheeks flushing slightly.
"The lady is quite right," he said carefully. "I apologize for my eagerness; it prevented me from introducing myself properly. My name is Lando Norris, and I hold in my hands the deed to your late husband’s house."
The air rushed out of your lungs all at once, and you were certain your mother and sisters were just as confused, if not more so. You looked at them; your mother was barely breathing as she stared at Lando as if he were a ghost. Mary and Charlotte remained frozen by the window, unable to move.
"I deemed it appropriate to return it to you," Lando continued softly.
"Did you also deem it appropriate to lie to my face and my family's?" you interrupted, the words tumbling out so quickly they nearly choked you. The heavy silence that settled over the room was intoxicating. You looked at your mother. "Mother, this man was behind Father's imprisonment."
"A job," Lando interjected, taking a step forward, "that had to be carried out, if I may add. However, I was not involved in deciding his fate, madame. My sole task was to investigate."
You let out a quiet breath. This man had to have immense nerve to show up at your home once more as if nothing had happened. He had to be... desperate.
Your mother was completely silent, unable to speak, while your sisters simply looked between the two of you as though watching a phantom.
"If you will grant me my honesty, I can assure you with all my heart that what I feel for your daughter was never untrue," Lando’s voice did not waver as he spoke. "Which is why... by way of an apology, I strove to recover the deeds to your former home."
You scoffed, looking away to hide the urge to cry. He always had to complicate everything; he always had to make it harder. Why couldn't Lando Norris just disappear, just as he had in the beginning?
"The house is yours if you wish to return to it," Lando spoke quietly, "and you may keep everything you had from the start. The deeds are in your name."
Your mother pressed a hand to her chest before carefully sitting back down on the sofa. You knew how deeply this affected her; she had lost her husband and her reputation, forced to live with her brother and abandon everything that had once been hers.
And here was Lando, offering her a solution, just as he had done with you the last time you saw him a few weeks ago. You watched him glance down for a few seconds, hesitating before continuing.
"In return, I would like..." he cleared his throat, "...to resume my courtship of your eldest daughter."
"No," you said immediately, automatically.
"[Name]," Lando tried, using that stupid tone of voice that always managed to break your resolve. He looked exhausted, on the verge of collapsing, even.
It was so hard to stay firm in your decision when he stood before you in such an unusually fragile state. When you first met him, he was so flirtatious and confident, and now he was reduced to half the man he used to be.
But this was your family. It was your father who had been condemned to death because of Lando; it was your reputation that had been questioned, abandoned before the engagement. Not his.
"I said no," you repeated more sternly before grabbing your things and leaving the room.
You didn't look back, not even when your mother called after you.
You didn't want to keep looking at Lando's face; you didn't want him to keep doing things to win back your affection.
Because deep down, you knew it was working.
By the time you returned, it was your mother who was losing hers. Lando was nowhere to be found.
You took a long walk around your uncle's lands until it began to darken. You knew it had been a bad idea to leave your mother and sisters entirely alone with Lando, but you needed to think. As if that wasn't what you had been doing for the past few weeks already. You spent so much time inside your own head that you felt if you processed one more thing, you would lose your mind.
"Don't you ever disappear like that again! I was worried about you; it's late," she said, a hand over her chest.
You brushed past her to head upstairs toward the bedchamber you shared with your two sisters. You said nothing, and neither did she. Even Mary and Charlotte left the room as soon as you arrived and threw yourself face down into the pillows.
There was a huge part of you that wanted to ask, wanted to know what had happened while you were away, wanted to know what your mother and sisters thought about it all. However, the part that wanted nothing to do with Lando weighed heavier, even if it was smaller than the rest.
"If you keep overthinking, you'll give yourself a migraine." You pulled your gaze from the wall to look at your mother, leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed.
For a moment, you had thought she was angry—perhaps over the whole business with Lando, or the fact that you had fled and left her to deal with a man who wasn't her responsibility, only to return hours later with your dress caked in mud and your hair a ruined mess.
But her voice was gentle. She looked at you as if she understood what you were going through, and you allowed her to sit on the edge of the bed while you turned over onto your stomach to stare at the ceiling.
"I can't stop thinking," you confessed in a whisper.
"What are you thinking about?" she questioned, and you let out a breathless chuckle, as if it weren't obvious.
"About Sir Norris," you sighed. Your mother said nothing for several seconds.
"Why didn't you let me know sooner that he had returned?" she asked carefully. "All that he had done."
You turned to look at her and shrugged.
"I suppose I didn't want you to have to deal with it." You frowned, unsure if that was the real reason you hadn't told her. "Sir Norris was my fiancé... I suppose I felt it was something I ought to face alone."
"The matter of Sir Norris is larger than you," your mother said softly. "You shouldn't bear that weight. Not alone, at least. You are still young, and you are still my daughter. You are under my care."
"But I shouldn't be," you sighed, looking away. "I should be under the care of my husband... had I made better choices. Had I wished to marry some other tedious lord or viscount of somewhere." You turned on your stomach once more, restless, hiding your face in your arms.
Your mother formed a faint, amused smile upon hearing you.
"But that is not what you want."
You raised your head to look at her, half-hidden, and it took you a few seconds to come out with the truth.
"No," you sighed again.
"You love him," your mother blurted out suddenly, and you rolled your eyes.
"Love is... a word that evokes far too strong a feeling," you said, evading the point.
You heard her huff with amusement.
"Very well," she conceded with a nod. "But at least you like him."
You pressed your lips together, lowering your gaze back to the embroidered details of the bed cover. You didn't answer; you didn't want to admit aloud what had been your greatest fear and the reason you had been in constant turmoil ever since Lando reappeared.
It would have been so much easier had you felt nothing for the man, or perhaps if he hadn't been so attractive and so charming. If he hadn't been precisely your type. Rejecting him would have taken far less effort; you would have moved on.
"Do you know how difficult it is to actually like your future husband?"
"Lando Norris is not my future husband," you answered almost instantly.
Your mother looked at you sternly for a few moments.
"But he was. And you liked him then, and you still like him now," she insisted, and you sighed, nodding. "I never liked your father."
You swallowed hard, feeling a small ache begin to hollow out your chest. That was... something you had suspected for a very long time. Your parents had always been cordial with one another, but you were no fool to think that in the society you lived in, a woman had the luxury of always choosing her partner. Most of the time, parents or wealth were factors that carried far more weight than true love—or even basic attraction.
Even so, hearing your mother openly state that even after years of marriage she had never learned to like your father was... difficult. Never as difficult as living through it, of course.
"I am not so sure he liked me very much either," your mother let out a soft laugh. It sounded sad to you, but even if you searched her face, she didn't look on the verge of tears. It was a reality she had accepted long ago. "We both thought we would grow accustomed to it as the years passed. But the only thing that kept us together was you girls."
You swallowed again, trying to push down the knot forming in your throat, your breathing turning uneven from the urge to cry right then.
You watched your mother hesitate for a few seconds before she looked you straight in the face.
"I have never wanted any of you to settle for a merely cordial marriage," she said softly. "I would not want your fate to be like Caroline's."
The memory of your eldest sister was painful and relieving all at once. Caroline had disappeared shortly after her wedding. Your mother had grown increasingly frantic as the months passed without receiving a word or a visit from her. Nearly seven months went by before she deigned to write back. It was short, concise. She rejoiced in her good standing, her happiness, and her health, but mentioned it was impossible for her to visit her family as she was far too busy with household duties.
Shortly after, you discovered it had been her husband writing the few letters you ever received.
"I do not want you to accept just any gentleman simply because he is not Lando," your mother shook her head gently, her brow furrowed. "I want you to accept Lando if that is what your heart truly desires."
"I don't know if it's what I truly desire," you lied half-heartedly, sitting up a bit so you could speak properly. "He lied to my face, Mother. He was planning things behind my back, used me coldly to get what he needed, and then left."
"And now he has returned," she replied. "And he is giving back everything he took from us because he wants us to be happy."
"Everything except my father," you said almost immediately. Your mother's face relaxed, looking at you with a touch of sternness.
"Do let me know when a man manages to find the cure for death," she teased softly, and you rolled your eyes.
"You know that's not what I mean," you muttered, hiding back in your arms.
"Your father made poor choices, [Name]," your mother said firmly yet gently. "If we ended up where we are, it is because of his actions, not those of any other gentleman."
"Are you truly defending him?" You raised your head again, frowning at her.
"Are you truly defending him?" she returned the question with raised eyebrows. "If we put them on equal footing, your father also lied to my face and used me to get what he wanted. He lied to you too; he lied to this family. And his actions condemned him to death."
You pressed your lips together as you listened, because you hadn't stopped to think about everything your mother had endured. You hadn't paused to ask her how she felt about the whole affair with your father; you had simply assumed she was... shattered.
"I do not want you deciding for me how I ought to feel," she murmured affectionately. "I learned to care for your father, but he always loved money more than his family. It was always enough for him that you girls married noblemen who could match the wealth he put over your heads."
"I am sorry," you muttered, before your mother reached out and tenderly stroked your cheek.
"It is quite all right if you do not wish to give Lando another chance. I am certain there will be some other brilliant gentleman whom you like just as much, if not more," she said. "But I also do not want you to feel shame for truly caring for him. If you wish to marry him, your reputation will be restored, and you will be with a man who moved heaven and earth to return to your mother the property that was rightfully hers."
You smiled faintly upon hearing her. That more or less summarized how things had settled regarding Lando on her end and with the rest of your family.
"So... will we return to London?" you asked.
"We will return to London," she confirmed. "Of course I desire the comfort of my own home. I detest living with my brother and spending his money."
You nodded, biting your lip softly.
"And what do I do if I don't know what to do?" you murmured.
"First, be honest with yourself," your mother said firmly. "Do you want him?"
You sighed, and it took you a few moments to say it out loud.
"I want him," you finally managed to say. "And I hate that I like him so much—that he has... everything I ever thought I wanted."
The expression on your mother's face softened with sympathy, and she ran her fingers through your messy, untamed hair.
"And I also hate what he did."
"That is entirely valid," your mother agreed with a nod, continuing to smooth your hair. "You and I both know it is no small thing."
You nodded as well.
"I was so hopeful about marrying him," you said in a thread of a voice, full of sorrow. "And now I feel as though, once again, I don't know who he is."
Your mother nodded in silence, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.
"You can get to know him again," she whispered, "and then decide whether he is worth it or not."
You nodded quietly, resting your cheek on your hands as you weighed your options.
"Though you will have to wait a bit for that. Sir Norris informed us he would be departing early tomorrow morning back to London."
"Oh," slipped from your lips unintentionally, a tinge of disappointment in your voice. "But we are returning to London as well."
"Not tomorrow, however," your mother said with a serious face. "We must pack our belongings once more and restock the house."
"Yes. You are right, I am sorry." You hid your face in your arms once more.
At least you would have enough time to think about how to speak to Lando again. Your mother looked at you with warmth and leaned in to kiss your forehead.
"Try to get some sleep, and stop torturing that little head of yours," she said before leaving your room.
Unlike the frantic manner in which you had left in the first place, you realized there was no real hurry to return this time. You were the only one rushing, eager to move time forward as quickly as possible so you could visit Lando and talk. It seemed that with each passing day, you felt a growing sense of urgency, even though you hadn't even wanted to see him at first.
The only thing you hadn't counted on was that moving back would take so long. It took nearly two whole weeks to settle back into the house.
The truth was, your mother had opened your eyes just enough for you to realize that you had to take action before it was too late—before Lando grew tired of persisting or waiting. And you realized with horror how deeply it terrified you to think he might have left Croydon because he had given up on you.
Not only had the journey been long and tedious, but your mother also kept you occupied for days, helping restock the house, scrubbing every corner, organizing the kitchen, rearranging the furniture, and helping cook at least two meals a day. Given the state of her reputation and finances, hiring servants again was out of the question, but that mattered least of all. Even in times like these, something as mundane as cleaning or cooking made you feel closer to your sisters than when you were fitting dresses and squabbling over them.
By the time you finally found a moment of free time, you remembered that the only place you knew of Lando was where he had been staying while still using the name Anthony Wesbury. Yet no matter how many letters you drafted and sent, you received nothing in return. Not a single letter, nor a visit.
As the weeks dragged on, you sank deeper and deeper into gloom. Paper began to grow scarce, you went out less frequently to balls and social gatherings, and it seemed as though the name Lando Norris had simply vanished into thin air. Once again, as usual.
"Please come with me today," Charlotte insisted yet again, throwing herself onto your bed with dramatic flair.
"I don't much feel like going out today, Charlotte," you said softly, playing with the quill between your fingers as you stared at the blank sheet on your small, makeshift desk.
"Mother is insufferable, all the balls are far more entertaining with you there, and you know Mary cannot attend yet," she continued. "Perhaps Sir Norris will be there."
"You have no way of knowing that," you said listlessly.
"It's Almack's. Everyone will be there, and Mother says attending is strategic for our reputation," your sister said, fiddling with the fabric of your bedspread.
"Your reputation is fine. If I go, I shall probably ruin everything."
"Which is precisely why you ought to go," she urged again, her voice growing increasingly desperate. "Besides, I tell you, you will have a chance to speak with Sir Norris if he shows up."
"We haven't seen him in months," you murmured, "and you truly believe he will go to just any ball simply because I am present?"
"You must at least try," Charlotte murmured back, finally rising from the bed to approach you. "If it becomes well known that you are attending balls and events once more, there is still a chance he might crawl out from under his rock as well."
You sighed, allowing her arms to encircle you, and rested your head against her shoulder. You truly had no desire to endure a ball at that moment; it was difficult to feign a calm, pleasant demeanor when you felt as though you were slowly rotting away inside. Day after day, you were consumed by the thought that you had arrived too late, that you had delayed making the decision you ought to have made long ago.
Yet, even though you eventually agreed to go that time, Lando did not appear at the ball. Nor at the next, or the one after that. It mattered not that you attended the most prestigious operas or the liveliest dances of the season—once more, there was no sign of him anywhere.
And it was a tragedy, for with each occasion you tried harder with your attire, driven by the mere possibility of running into him again.
You were likely at your seventh consecutive ball of the month when you felt yourself on the verge of collapsing once more.
"Are you all right?" Charlotte took your arm, looking at you with concern. Lately, that was the only look your sister ever gave you.
You surely looked the way you felt: eyes red and glistening with unshed tears, your brow tired and faintly furrowed. It was as though your own ghost from a year ago had returned—that version of you mired in depression, a hollow shell of who you used to be, forced to show up merely to keep up appearances. The version of you that only Lando Norris could evoke.
"Yes," you managed to reply. The music was a bit too loud for your liking, and even its cheerful rhythm failed to lift your spirits. "I think I shall step outside for some fresh air," you announced with a sigh.
Charlotte frowned, but gave a brief nod.
"I'll join you in a moment," she noted, her face still wearing its now familiar look of worry.
It wasn't that you wanted to worry your family on purpose; it was simply hard to envision a future without Lando. Not only out of longing and desire, but also at the thought that his might have been the last proposal of marriage you would ever receive.
The night air was crisp as you stepped outside the venue, allowing a few tears to slip past at the weight of it all and the thread of your thoughts. You wiped them away with your gloved hands and began walking through the small garden in silence. There were not many people about—only a couple here and there, or small groups of gentlemen smoking pipes as they conversed.
You lost yourself in a slow stroll around the gardens, your fingers idly playing with the fabric of your gloves. The wind chilled your collarbones and the neckline of your dress, but at that moment, anything was better than being inside, where judgmental gazes fell upon you and the air felt so thick you began to sweat. Every sip of sparkling wine was merely another reason for people to whisper behind your back, and every misstep was coldly criticized. You hadn't even been able to dance with a single gentleman all evening, and you had already spent three consecutive hours in the same shoes, standing in the same dead spot in the room.
You kept walking in silence until the steady murmur of distant chatter faded away completely, leading you to a gazebo with a perfect view of the small lake outside the property. You sighed as you looked out at the calm water and the reflection of the moon, leaning your arms against one of its supporting pillars.
"Do you mind some company?" You startled in place, spinning around quickly toward the voice.
That all-too-familiar voice—slightly raspy and melodious.
"I didn't mean to frighten you, forgive me." Lando carefully extended a hand in apology as he slowly climbed the steps of the gazebo.
You could tell he was treading carefully around you, as though fearing that at any moment you might scream at him to go away. Perhaps Charlotte was right all along...
"You," you said, suddenly breathless. "You returned," you barely managed to utter.
It was a pity, considering how many times you had rehearsed what you would say in this man's presence, only to completely forget every single word the moment you shared the same space. Lando looked at you with a touch of sorrow; he looked only slightly more rested. His hair remained unruly, and there were dark circles under his eyes, you were sure of it.
"I had matters of great importance that required my attention," he said carefully.
"It is always matters of great importance that require your attention," you shot back immediately, turning your back to him once more. Out of the corner of your eye, you watched him step up beside you with practiced ease.
"My sister," he began, catching your attention, "came to visit my parents' house and was taken ill in bed after giving birth to her first child."
"Oh," you stammered awkwardly. "I am so sorry. How is she?"
"Better," Lando nodded. "The birth caught us all by surprise, but her baby is just as healthy as she is now. We couldn't leave her side; my mother refuses to let the servants care for her grandson." You smiled fondly upon hearing this.
"It brings me relief to know she is well," you said gently, unsure of what else to say.
And it seemed Lando didn't know what else to say either, as both of you fell into a slightly awkward silence, side by side, taking in the view from the gazebo.
It took you a few seconds to gather the courage to speak.
"I hoped to see you sooner," you admitted, your heart hammering against your throat.
Lando seemed surprised by your words; he surely hadn't expected you to want to see him after everything.
"Did you?" He tilted his head slightly to look at you.
"I had no way of contacting you," you turned to look at him directly, a faint grimace on your face. "The place where I knew you were staying was vacant."
Lando turned his gaze away with a wry look.
"A residence under the Crown's name, lent for specific and important circumstances" a subtle way of saying the house was not his and that he had only used it for his mission.
You nodded, hesitating for a few seconds as you lowered your eyes to your dress.
"We moved back to London," you said carefully. "Thanks to you." You hated yourself a little for taking so long to say what you actually meant to say.
It was just that no matter if you had rehearsed it a thousand times, this man's imposing presence set your nerves on edge.
"You don't have to thank—"
"I do," you interrupted immediately. "And I should like to apologize as well. I have been nothing short of insolent toward you... I wish to acknowledge that we got off on the wrong foot," you pressed your lips together, "and I would like to reconsider our position."
Lando closed his mouth—which had remained slightly parted in surprise at your words—and stared at you in silence, waiting for you to finish, for he could tell from your posture just how much you had kept bottled up inside.
"I know you previously expressed your desire to resume the courtship. Is that still true?" you asked in a low, almost timid voice.
You could feel your ears burning and your face flush red. Lando lowered his gaze for a few seconds before reaching out and taking one of your hands in his. Then, beneath your feverish and startled gaze, he dropped to one knee.
"If you would permit it, right here and now I would express my fervent desire to be your husband." He took your breath away.
"None of that," you said instead, fully aware of Lando's pained expression. But before he could rise again in embarrassment, you added, "I believe there is still much we need to learn about each other." You held his hands tighter in yours. "I cannot promise to easily forget our shared past... but I can promise to try and get to know the real Lando Norris. Without any false identities between us."
You watched him nod; he looked broken. Exquisitely broken, even. There was nothing but surrender in his gaze, and an affection so profound it made your knees weak.
"Then I can promise never to lie to you again," he said.
"That would be quite fitting." You heard him let out a soft laugh that made you smile. Then he turned serious once more.
"All these months without you have been pure torment." Lando leaned in, kissing your gloved knuckles. You could even feel the stubble of a few days' growth prickling through the thin fabric. It was exquisite. "I beg of you to put an end to my misery."
You swallowed hard, blinking softly.
"Stand up, Sir," you murmured, watching him do exactly that. He didn't hesitate for a second before returning to his feet.
He was barely a head taller than you, but still noticeably taller.
You were unable to let go of his hands—or more precisely, he was unable to let go of yours as you cupped his face. His warmth continued to envelop you, even as you stood on tiptoe to kiss him. His mouth tasted of sparkling wine and hints of strawberries from the banquet, and he kissed you back like a man desperate and starved, like an addict who had been forced to stay away from his obsession for far too long.
"You are fortunate that my family approves of you," you growled against his mouth, and you felt him smile against you before pressing a chaste kiss to your lips.
"Was it Charlotte?" he asked.
"My mother."
"Even better," he smiled broadly, wrapping both arms around your waist and helping you turn as you clung to his neck. "It will make it easier to ask for your hand now that it's just her."
That made you turn instantly serious, and Lando consequently did the same, stopping and wiping the smile from his face.
"Too soon?"
"Far too soon. Do not make jokes about that again." You saw him make a bashful grimace.
"I am sorry."
"Behave yourself," you continued scolding him.
"I make no promises," he murmured against your mouth before kissing you once more.
Neither of you cared if there were other pairs of eyes watching.
Summary: After leaving your boyfriend some little notes of love in his lunchbox, you became very famous throughout the night shift. But you didn't know this until you had to step into the ER trying to give Jack his forgotten lunchbox.
Disclaimer: English is not my first language, so I apologize if there are any spelling or grammatical errors.
Thanks to the anon who requested a part 2 for Little Notes of Love and illuminated my brain because this little fic wasn't meant to have a part 2.
Hope you guys love it just as much as the first part.
(Sorry that this took me more time than I planned to 🙃)
The ER wasn't a place you liked. Really, you didn't enjoy being at a hospital. Ironic, since your boyfriend is an ER doctor. There is nothing specific for you to dislike about the place, it's just a hospital, and no one really likes being there. But this time, you drove voluntarily to the place all because Jack forgot his lunchbox, and your concern about the rare times your boyfriend gets to eat at his job is more important than your dislike for the hospital.
You don't really know where to get in. You're not a patient, and you're afraid that the lady at the desk would not let you in, so even if you're a little embarrassed, you get in through the ambulance bay. Your plan is not to stay too long and to bother people as little as possible. It's a very busy place, and you don't want to get in anyone's way.
You stand near the place where a desk is (the nurse station), trying to find Jack through all the people moving from one side to another so quickly that you could get dizzy.
Someone taps your shoulder, making you turn around.
“Ma’am, is everything okay? You should go through the desk at the front door.”
She said calmly with tired eyes, but she still gave you a small smile. By Jack's description, you think it's Dr. Ellis.
You smile at her, letting out a relieved sigh.
“I’m not a patient, I'm fine,” you assure her. You lift the gray lunchbox in your hand, and by the expression she makes, you think she recognizes it. “I’m looking for my boyfriend, he's an attending here,” you explain to her.
“So you are the mysterious Lady Notes, huh?” she said, smiling widely, her eyes suddenly bright with interest.
Your cheeks burn because you never thought that Jack would show them the notes, or that they would see them.
“Guess I am,” you said, telling her your actual name, but something tells you that you're stuck with Lady Notes.
“I’m Dr. Parker Ellis,” she introduced herself by shaking your hand. “Follow me.”
You do. She guides you through the nurse station toward a nurse who looks like she is in charge, and by the look she gives you above her reading glasses and Jack's description, you think she's Lena. By her side, there is a tall man who looks completely relaxed and not even bothered by the rush of the ED.
“Look who finally visited us,” Parker said, too excited.
You stay a few steps behind, a little embarrassed by the attention the three of them give you, and again, they seem to recognize you the moment they see the gray lunchbox in your hands.
Lena gives you a full smile, looking really excited, while Shen just says:
“You are Mysterious Lady Notes?” he asked, taking a sip from his Dunkin' coffee, looking as surprised as he could.
Lena gave him a look that made him shrug.
“You are beautiful, hon,” she said, walking toward you. “I’m Lena, the charge nurse from the night shift.” She smiles at you, and you give her your best smile as you introduce yourself to her.
“I don't want to disturb you or anyone. Jack forgot his lunchbox, so I thought I'd stop by and give it to him,” you explain.
“You don't disturb anyone. We all have been waiting to meet the woman who has softened Abbott.”
And you can clearly see that because of how excited the three of them seem at your presence, and their reactions attract more people.
“I thought Jack was having hallucinations when he said he would take five minutes to eat the lunch his girlfriend made for him,” Shen told you from where he was standing a few steps back from Lena. He had been talking about something with Parker before. “I’m Dr. Shen.”
You tell your name again, giggling at his comment.
You told yourself it was going to be a quick visit: give Jack his lunchbox, a kiss, and then head back to your apartment to sleep. But twenty minutes later, you have said your name more times than in your entire life, introducing yourself to anyone who tells you, “You're the mysterious Lady Notes.” You get to know Nurse Mateo, Dr. Henderson, the student Nazly, Nurse Vivi, and you think that by that point, you have met everyone who works there.
“What is happening here?” a well-known voice cut through the crowd surrounding the nurse station.
Jack stood there waiting for an explanation when his eyes met yours, and realization quickly hit him.
“Okay, you guys, stop overwhelming my missus.” He walked toward you, placing himself by your side and resting one of his hands on your lower back as usual.
“I don't think you get to call her missus if you haven't married her yet,” Mateo said playfully, pointing to your bare ring finger.
Jack looks at the nurse, narrowing his eyes, and points at him.
“Careful, or you'll spend the rest of the night with the bad cases,” he warns while the rest of the people laugh.
“He’s right, Abbott. I have no idea how you haven't put a ring on that finger already,” Parker says, raising both eyebrows.
If your cheeks were warm before, now your face was burning hot. All the eyes were on the two of you, and everyone was supporting Ellis and Mateo's thoughts.
“Okay, okay, all of you, leave them alone. Go back to your jobs. There are sick people who need you all,” Lena commands with a tone of voice that actually scares you, and it is a warning for everyone because they all say goodbye to you and go back to work as soon as they can.
Jack guides you to an empty room. Your face is hot, but the wide smile is something nobody could get rid of no matter what they said.
“So I'm the mysterious Lady Notes,” you said, giggling.
He looks at you in that intense way that only he is able to do, that hazel gaze that makes your legs tremble like jelly and your heart race so hard that you can hear it in your ears.
He huffed, rolling his eyes at your words.
“They insisted on calling you that until they knew you,” he mumbled, trying to look irritated but failing because of the smile growing on his face.
His hands go instinctively to your waist, and your arms settle around his neck. There is not an inch separating the two of you. You brush your nose against his, which finally makes him give you that crooked smile you love so much.
Jack didn't wait. He kissed you, not caring that anyone could walk in and catch you.
“You forgot your lunchbox,” you said through the kiss.
He breaks the kiss but rests his forehead against yours.
“And you brought it to me instead of going to sleep when you have to work early,” he whispered in disbelief.
“Your shift is long. You need to eat, and I don't trust the vending machine,” you said as if it wasn't a point of comparison, and just imagining him eating something from the vending machine felt like a betrayal.
He shakes his head and lets out a little laugh.
“I love you.” He leaves a kiss on your temple and another on your cheek.
“I love you too,” you respond, leaving a short kiss on his lips.
You wanted to stay a little longer, but you saw that the ER was full and that you had already attracted too much attention and distracted several people. You didn't want to take up too much of the chief attending's time.
“I’ll see you in the morning.” You leave the lunchbox in his hands and another kiss on his lips. “Eat something,” you said, pointing at him with your index finger like a threat.
He just smiles at you.
“I will. See you in the morning.” He watches you disappear through the door.
He's quick to open the lunchbox, finding just what he wanted: a little Post-it note. It was white, and written on it was:
“Lovely grumpy doctor, if you ever forget your lunchbox again, you will be temporarily banned from these masterpieces that I put my heart into.
(I’m being very serious, please don't forget to eat like you forgot your lunchbox.)
Should I be worried about memory problems? They are very common at your age.
Your beautiful girlfriend ;)”
He lets out a laugh, shaking his head.
That one was going to his locker.
Jack keeps the Post-it in his scrub pocket after reading it a few more times before Parker finds him and tells him that they have an incoming trauma. She also tries to see what the note says, but he makes sure to hide it from her view.
It was just for him.
After the trauma and doing some rounds, he finally has time to sit and do some charts. But peace was something that never happened in the ER, and definitely after your visit, he would know no peace for a while.
“What?” he asked Lena, who was looking at him above her reading glasses.
She gives him a look that Jack completely ignores.
“What are you waiting for?” she said as if it were obvious. “She deserves that damn rock on her finger.” It was more of an order than a suggestion.
Jack goes back to his chart, but the last thing he was thinking about was the patient. He would be lying if he said he hadn't thought about it, but it had only been a year and a half since the two of you started officially dating. He didn't want to scare you. Even though you didn't seem bothered by the comments his co-workers made, maybe you thought they were just kidding and trying to bother him.
There was nothing that he would like more than to call you his wife, Mrs. Abbott, seeing you stop signing your notes with “girlfriend” and replacing it with “your wife,” the title you deserve because there was nothing in that life that would make Jack let you go.
You were stuck with him for the rest of your life. What better way than to make it official?
Since your visit to the ER, your discomfort with the hospital has faded, and you have visited more often, dropping Jack off and picking him up, always making a little entrance to say hello and gossip a little with Lena, Ellis, and Shen.
Now you make sure to pack Jack more food than before and tell him specifically which bowls are for each nightcrawler: the dark blue one for Mateo, the red one for Parker, the green one for Shen, and so on with the rest of the crew.
He complains, telling you that you are spoiling them. But deep inside, he loves how you worry about all of them, so he gives them all the bowls, threatening that if they don't return them empty at the end of their shift, they will be stuck at triage for an entire week.
But something that keeps staying on his mind, and that everyone keeps telling him, even Dana and Robby, is about the ring that is missing from your finger.
It doesn't sound like a rushed step if everyone keeps telling him that he's been taking a long time.
I have to admit I was smiling like an idiot while writing this 😽
someone in monaco is driving around your dream car — a porsche 911 gt3 rs. you are determined to find out who the driver is.
note: inspired by max fewtrell being obsessed with lando's porsche. set vaguely during the 2026 season. this is my first attempt at smut so go easy on me 🙏 inde as the fc bc i havent been able to stop thinking abt her after watching obsession LOL. please check the warnings on this one and i hope you guys enjoy :3
word count: 3.4k warnings : smut (18+ mdni), oral (m receiving), semi public sex (parking garage and a public road), car sex, messy reader, cheating (kind of—lines are a little blurry. reader isn't afraid to be a homewrecker, you've been warned.) magui (if you're a fan of her maybe skip this one), swearing
fc: inde navarrette
･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･
view story replies:
user: GIRL LMAOOOO
user: oh you’re gonna be insufferable about this fucking car aren’t you
↳yourusername: YESSIR
user: please you’re so embarrassing 😭😭
↳yourusername: leave me alone unless ur gonna tell me who drives that damn car
↳user: MOVE ON
↳yourusername: DIE
↳user: omg my fav actress told me to die
↳user: #cancelled
↳yourusername: STOP IT
view story replies:
user: what are you even doing in monaco?? filming something?
↳yourusername: staying with my cousin and her bf for the summer 🫶
user: there ain’t shit to do in monaco go somewhere else
↳yourusername: lowkey ur right bro this place sucks
kikagomes: Pierre wants to go to this car meetup thing tonight if you want to come with us.
↳yourusername: SAY LESSS
user: you’re so pretty please don’t move to monaco for tax evasion
↳yourusername: lmaooo i’m crying
↳yourusername: just visiting <3
yourusername just posted
liked by kikagomes, and others
yourusername: some guy said my nissan skyline gtr was ugly? my baby? he’s lucky i don’t have a gun.
view all comments:
user: this caption is taking me out lmfao do you not have a pr team?
⤷yourusername: they can’t control me
user: omg yn you’re so pretty- KIKA GOMES???
user: hold on you know kika??
⤷yourusername: we are related
user: im crying how do you know kika but you dont know who drives the porsche youre obsessed with
⤷yourusername: wdym?? are u saying kika knows who drives it??
⤷user: why don’t you ask her or pierre LOLLL
kikagomes: ❤️🏎️
—
lando answers your call only seconds after it starts to ring. you’re met with the man who you’ve only seen through the windshield of his porsche. he’s smiling, though he looks a little bit confused.
“so uh-” lando speaks first, leaning closer to the camera to get a better look at you. “you are real.”
“very real,” you smile. “disappointed?”
“Nah, pleasantly surprised maybe.”
you blush at his words, tucking a fallen piece of hair behind your ear. the two of you stare at each other for a few moments, taking the other in. your initial interest in lando was due to his car, but you’re happy the man is so attractive. it’s definitely a bonus. you stay on facetime with lando for a bit, getting to know one another. he’s not subtle with his flirting, but you like it.
“soooo, i passed your test?” you question him.
“maybe” he smirks at you, “think i’ll have to take you out to make sure.”
“give me a place and time and i’ll be there.”
“deal.”
—
view story replies:
lando: Damn🔥
↳lando: Pretty girl
↳lando: Cant wait 2 see you tonight
↳yourusername: you want me so bad lol
↳lando: True.
yourusername just posted
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yourusername: i won btw
view all comments:
user: liked by LANDO???
user: what’s going on…
user: don’t be shy, tell us who the man is 🎤
user: Something isn’t adding up 🤔
—
lando gets out of the car as you approach, walking around to the passenger side and opening the door. he greets you with a kiss on the cheek, placing a hand on the small of your back as you slip into the sleek lamborgini urus. he closes the door behind you and makes his way back around to the driver’s side door. lando starts the car and begins driving, placing his hand on your thigh while he focuses on the road. you can’t help but stare at him, his side profile draws you in. the slope of his nose and sharp jaw distracting you from the music playing quietly on the radio.
he catches on to your staring, his lips twitching into a smirk. lando squeezes your thigh, turning to look at you as the car pulls to a stop at a red light.
“you should take a picture, baby. it’ll last longer.”
“it’s a nice view, sue me.” you laugh, finally looking away from him. “keep your eyes on the road, mister.”
“yes ma’am.” he slides his hand higher up your leg, giving it another squeeze and turns his eyes back to the street, revving the engine and speeding off.
the drive is over quickly, monaco isn’t very big after all. lando pulls into the underground parking lot. you marvel at all the cars you see, keeping your eyes peeled for the dark green paint job you couldn’t stop thinking about.
he stops the car and drives into a spot between a stunning deep blue lamborghini miura and the mclaren spider he’d driven the other night. you should have known a f1 driver would have a beautiful car collection, you look around in awe.
lando hops out of the urus, coming to open the door for you again.
“c’mon pretty girl, i’ll show you around.” he grabs your hand, gently pulling you out of the car.
lando guides you through the garage, showcasing his expansive collection of cars. you’re unsurprised to see a number of mclarens, but the rosso corsa ferrari f40 has your jaw dropping. you never thought you’d see this car in person, though it does appear on many of your pinterest boards.
your attention is drawn away from the ferrari as the two of you approach the end of the garage and you see the car that put you in this situation. the dark green carbon fibre almost sparkles in the bright fluorescent lights of the parking garage. you slide your hand across the side of the porsche, the white and black interior calling to you. you’ve never wanted to drive a car so badly, you’re basically frothing at the mouth over it.
lando laughs, coming up behind you and gripping your waist with both hands. “seems like you’re more interested in this car than you are me.” he rests his chin on your shoulder, pouting as he joins you in admiring the car. “is this your favorite?”
“yep.” you smile, leaning back into his hold. “what’s a girl gotta do to take her for a joy ride?”
you turn your head toward him, bringing your face closer to his, and giving him your best puppy dog eyes.
“sorry love, we’re not there yet.” he apologizes, letting go of your waist and turning you around so you’re face to face. “i showed you my cars, now how about my reward?”
he pushes you up against the porsche, holding your jaw with one hand and your waist with the other. gripping your jaw, he pulls your face closer, staring at your mouth. you smile and lean in, pressing your hands against his chest. lando kisses you hard and full of want, tilting your head up for a better angle.
you grip his shirt in your hands, biting his lip as you pull away from the kiss. you push him away from you, switching your positions so that he’s the one leaning against the dark green exterior.
you kiss him again and he slides a hand into your hair and breaks away from your mouth, gently guiding you onto your knees. you kneel in front of lando, looking up at him through your eyelashes as you rest your hands at the waistband of his jeans.
“let me fulfill my end of our deal.” you say, popping the button on his pants and slowly unzipping them. “what was it you said before? it’s all about give and take?”
lando lets out a breathless laugh, using his hands to keep your hair pulled away from your face. “i’ll take whatever you want to give me, baby.”
you slide his jeans down onto the ground, sliding your hands up his thighs. you mouth at his cock through his calvin klein boxers. he’s hard, throbbing beneath the fabric, a wet spot already forming.
“fuck.” lando sighs, his hands in your hair gripping tighter. “don’t tease.”
“so demanding.” you smirk, looking up at him. you slip your fingers into the elastic of his boxers, tugging them down his legs. “let me take my time.”
his cock springs free, slapping against his stomach. he’s bigger than you expected and you lick your lips, eager to taste him. you stroke him a few times before taking him into your mouth, teasing his tip with your tongue. lando groans from above you, swearing and his hips jerking.
“shit.”
you pull back, taking a breath, and licking a stripe up his cock. you gather your saliva in your mouth, spitting on the head to make your strokes smoother. you bob your head, taking him deeper into your mouth. your nose brushes the soft hairs at the base of his cock and you take a deep breath, taking in his scent, his taste. you pull off of him again, using your hand to stroke his shaft. you look up at lando and see that his eyes are closed, his mouth open.
“you like that?” you ask, leaning forward to circle his sensitive head with your tongue. you smirk when he lets out a whine at your teasing.
“yes, fuck. it’s so good.” lando moans, finally looking at you again. “don’t stop.”
he removes one of his hands from your hair, reaching down to guide his cock into your mouth again. with his other hand, he pushes your head down, forcing you to take him deeper. you moan around his cock, your eyes tearing up.
“is this okay?”
you hum around him in agreement, covering his hand with your own, directing him to keep going.
“you’re so good.” the sounds lando lets out are music to your ears, moaning and whining. he’s more vocal than anyone you’ve been with before. you’re glad the two of you are in a private parking garage, because the man refuses to keep quiet. not that you’re complaining.
you let lando set the pace, guiding your head up and down his cock. you can tell he’s getting close when he holds you against his pelvis, feeling him tense up.
“you gonna be a good girl and swallow for me?”
you nod as best as you can with his cock in your mouth and his hands holding your head in place. he groans and his hips jerk when he releases into your mouth. you take everything he gives you, swallowing around him. you pull off of him, breathless and he finally releases your hair. you look up at the man, his cheeks flushed and eyes hazy.
“holy shit.” lando breathes out, looking down at you. “i think i just lost some braincells.”
you giggle, wiping your lips as you stand up. your knees ache from the harsh pavement but you relish in the pain.
“did you have any in the first place?”
“funny.” he rolls his eyes, bending down to pull his boxes and pants back on. “c’mon, let’s go inside. i’m not done with you yet.”
—
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liked by lando, maxfewtrell, and others
yourusername: this is how you deal with a shit race
view all comments:
lando: I won this time
⤷yourusername: if u call pocketing half the balls while i wasn’t looking “winning” then yeah you did
user: damn lando takes a year to even acknowledge magui and here he is only a few months into being with yn interacting with her publicly lmao
user: they’re so cute together i’ll kms if they ever break up
user: lando let her drive ur damn porsche
⤷yourusername: what they said
user: he’s had the shittiest time bro throw the whole season away atp 😭😭
view story replies:
user: i just know ur mad af sitting in that passenger seat
↳yourusername: you got me
user: do you think he picks you up in the porsche specifically to irritate you?
↳yourusername: yes
—
lando drives you through the winding roads above monaco, the windows are down and music plays low on the radio. the view of the coast is breathtaking from up here, the yachts in the riviera are only white specks dotting the vast blue of the sea. lando hums along to the music, his hand in its favorite place on your thigh. your eyes are drawn away from the view as you notice lando bringing the car to a stop, pulling to the side of the road. you turn to look at him, confused.
“is something wrong?”
he ignores you, getting out of the car and coming around to open your door.
“c’mon baby, it’s your turn.” he helps you out of the car, placing his hands on your waist once you’re standing in front of him.
“really?” you squint at him in suspicion. “this isn’t a prank?”
he laughs at you, squeezing your hips. “no baby, it’s for real. you’ve earned it.”
you beam at him, reaching up and grabbing his face. “i love you.” it might be a little soon to say those words but you know they’re true.
“more than the car?” he asks, pouting at you.
“i wouldn’t go that far.” you can tell he’s about to argue with your words, so you kiss him instead. he smiles against your lips, pulling you closer. his hands on your waist slip under your top, sliding up your back and sides. you pull away from the kiss quickly, too eager to get behind the wheel of the porsche. he lets you go, taking your seat on the passenger side.
“you have no clue how long i’ve been wanting to do this.” you say, giddy with excitement.
“no way, really?” his voice is full of sarcasm. “i had no idea.”
“shut up.” you reply, revving the engine and speeding down the road. lando wasn’t ready for you to go from 0 to 100 and the man slams back against the seat.
“jesus, woman. slow down.” he grips the seatbelt, bracing himself. “i’m regretting this.”
you just laugh maniacally in response and whip the car around a hairpin. you cheer, feeling exhilarated as the wind blows your hair all over the place. “i love this fucking car!”
lando lets you drive his car for a while and you’re grateful for it. you don’t think you’ll ever get tired of this feeling. this porsche has ruined you for all other cars, nothing else will compare. you hope lando knows now that he’s let you drive it once, you have no plans to stop.
he directs you to pull over to a quiet, private spot of road. you listen to him, stopping the car and cutting the engine. you rest your head against the seat behind you, a bright grin on your face. your cheeks hurt from it and you giggle to yourself. you turn your head to see lando smiling at you, taking in your happiness.
“thank you, lando.” you reach out, grabbing his hand. “seriously.”
“you’re welcome, baby.” he squeezes your hand and pulls it up to his mouth, placing a kiss there. “did you have fun?”
“sooo much fun,” you reply, letting go of his hand and moving to take the seat belt off. lando does the same, but you stop him before he can open the car door to switch seats. you maneuver yourself over the middle console and take a seat in his lap. you straddle him and he rests his hands on your ass giving one cheek a little slap.
“what are you doing, hmm?” he leans back, looking up at you.
you reach a hand up into his hair, brushing it through his curls and he leans into your touch. “i think i better show you how much i appreciate this.”
“yeah?” he whispers, his cheeks beginning to flush.
“yeah.” you respond, pressing yourself closer and grinding against him. he’s already hard in his sweats, groaning as you rub on him.
lando moves one of his hands between you, slipping up your skirt and inside your panties. the fabric is damp from your wetness and he groans when he feels how slick you are.
“is this all from me, baby?” he rubs his fingers between your folds, rubbing tight circles on your clit.
“y-yeah” you moan when one of his fingers slips inside you. “you and the car.” you giggle, leaning down to kiss him.
he pulls back from you, a bewildered look on his face. “driving my car has you this wet?”
“i told you i fucking love this car.”
“you’re insane, woman.”
“you like it.” you remove his hand from your panties, sitting back and managing to take them fully off without too much difficulty. lando watches you shove your hands in his waistband and lifts his hips to make pulling down his sweatpants easier. he’s not wearing underwear, how unsurprising.
freed from his pants, his hard cock stands at attention, red and leaking. you spit into your hand and give it a few good strokes. he moans and pushes your hand aside, gripping himself and rubbing his cock between your folds, paying special attention to your clit. you whine at his teasing, annoyed.
“get on with it, lan,” you moan. “need you inside me.”
“yeah, you need my cock?” he continues the teasing, “should i give you what you want?”
“p-please” you pout at him. “want you to fill me up.”
“okay, baby. since you’ve been so good for me.” he lifts you up finally slipping his cock inside you. you moan at the stretch of him, no longer feeling empty. he gives you time to adjust to his size, pressing his face into your neck and breathing deeply. “ready?”
you nod your head and lift up onto your knees before going back down. he grips your hips and guides your movement. his fingers dig into your sides, sure to leave bruises. lando leans back, looking down at where the two of you meet, watching you take his cock.
he groans as you grind down onto him, lifting his hips to match your rhythm. you whimper when he moves a hand back to your clit, rubbing with his thumb. you clench around him and he swears. the car is filled with the sounds of your heavy breathing and his grunts. the stimulation to your clit has you seeing stars and you can feel him twitch inside you.
“lan-lando, will you come inside me?” you manage to ask between moans, “p-please, baby”
“fuck” lando groans at your question holding your hips and grinding up against you. “you want me to fill up this pretty pussy?”
“please, please, please.” you moan, clenching tighter around his cock. you’re so close and he’s right there with you.
the windows of the car are fogging over and you pant against lando’s mouth as you bounce on his cock. he grunts when you squeeze around him, continuing to rub your clit. “c’mon baby, come for me and then i’ll give you what you want.”
his words have you coming around his cock and he holds you down while you shake from your release. he lifts you up and down a few more times before he’s grunting and coming inside you. you moan as you feel his cum fill you up. you fall forward, leaning against him and catch your breath. you can feel him dripping out of you, his cock not enough to keep his cum inside.
lando runs his hands through your hair, petting your head. you lean back and flinch when you move, still sensitive with him inside you. you lift off of him and his seed drips out of you, his cock glistening from both of your releases. you lean into him, pressing your mouth against his and he kisses you back, rubbing his hands up and down your back.
“can i drive us home?” you ask when you end the kiss, giving him puppy dog eyes.
“sure baby, whatever you want.”
—
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liked by kikagomes, lando, and others
yourusername: i hope he doesn’t think i’m giving the keys back to this car
view all comments:
user: he finally let you drive it? omg
user: now lando is the passenger princess 👸🏻
⤷yourusername: he looks so pretty in the passenger seat 🤭 right where he belongs!
maxfewtrell: Can we share custody of it?
⤷yourusername: as if
user: dreams really do come true
lando: Baby i know you love it but thats my car
⤷yourusername: did yall hear something?
⤷user: lando just buy her one and then all ur problems will be solved!
⤷yourusername: you got the right idea over here
⤷lando: I think that might be my only option atp
it's summer when lando norris moves in opposite you. you remember because it'd been 35 degrees celcius that day, you'd already been pissed, and he'd knocked on your door and had the nerve to stare at your tits.
ever since then, you haven't been able to get rid of him. he teases you in the hallway, calls you pet names, brings girls home at two in the morning.
you don't like lando norris. but it doesn't erase the fact that he's right across the hall, and he likes you.
includes — fem!reader, cocky, arrogant, obsessed lando norris, neighbours, unrealistic/inaccurate f1 calender, bad first impressions, slowish burn, pining, tension, eventual smut, p in v, LOTS of flirting, nicknames (baby, gorgeous, etc.), max fewtrell + pietra pilao appearances, misunderstandings, lando's incredibly bad at expressing his feelings, mild angst, alcohol usage
radio check — first post in about a millenia but it's finally here!! i seriously had so much fun writing this one, thank you guys so much for waiting <3
word count — 15k
MONACO IS STUPIDLY HOT IN SUMMER.
It’s the one thing you’d quickly learnt after moving here years ago, after realising your French lessons from high school would not help you at all.
You’re in a halter neck, strings tied around the back of your neck, shorts stopping just before midthigh. You’d never wear it out in public of course, considering it’d probably make the nearest Monegasque auntie faint, but you were safe in your apartment, where the only other apartment opposite you was empty.
The TV in your living room is playing some soap opera, background noise as you try figure out how the new blender you bought works in the kitchen. The buttons are all in French, incredibly unhelpful considering the fact this was supposed to be one of your first steps to ‘self-improvement’.
“Eat healthy,” one of your friends had told you a couple days ago. “Or drink healthy. Helps with stress.”
She’d downed a shot of vodka a second later, so you weren’t sure why you’d taken her up on her advice.
Maybe it’s because you were getting desperate. Moving to Monaco was supposed to unlock new opportunities, especially considering the fact you’d scored a contract with one of top modeling agencies in Europe. Your family and friends thought you were doing well—if your Ferrari sitting downstairs in the underground car park wasn’t indication enough, and in financial terms, sure.
But you were stressed, loosing any kind of love you had for your career, and currently really wanted to figure out how to work this stupid, overpriced blender.
A fresh wave of mediterranean air breezes in through the open window. You frown, blindly reaching across the kitchen counter for the instructions again as if it’ll magically appear in english. It won’t. You know it won’t, but the same desperate delusion that’s taken over your life makes you reach for it anyway.
Your gaze is still on the blender, hand blindly searching through the mess on the marble countertop. The lid, perched dangerously close to the edge, makes contact with your arm, tumbling to the herringbone floor with a loud clatter.
“Fuck me,” you mutter, running your hands through your hair. The TV is still playing—you think the lead has just confessed her love to the love interest, her voice high and whiney and dramatic. Hastily, you switch it onto the next channel, a news outlet with monotone speech and dull colouring.
“I think the word for it is burnt out.”
That’s what your agent, Emilie, had told you over the phone a couple days ago. You wanted to scoff at it now—throw the stupid remote on the floor too as a petty release for your frustration.
Burnt out. You wouldn’t be burnt out if the entire universe seemed completely set on your demise.
Just as you’re about to snatch the lid back up from the ground, a sharp knock pierces through your apartment. You rise halfway, gaze snapping to the door, motionless like you’re trying to figure out if this is your mind playing tricks on you.
A minute later, there’s another knock, a little louder, one you do when you don’t think anyone is home.
Immediately, you drop everything else in your hands, ecstatic at the excuse to leave the blender behind and shove it away in the back of your cupboard.
You smooth out your shorts, trying to make them look a reasonable length, fiddling with the strap of your top. Probably another delivery guy, you think, delivering yet another impulsive purchase you’d made to make yourself feel better.
You swing the door open.
Fuck.
“Hey.”
There’s a man standing there, someone who isn’t in the typical delivery guy getup like you’re expecting. He looks your age, relaxed, familiar. Familiar in the way you knowyou’ve seen him somewhere, maybe passing by on the street, on an advertisement, maybe. He looked like he could model too.
You tilt your head, leaning against the doorframe.
Yeah, he could definitely fucking model.
“Need something?” you ask, and your voice comes out harsh, still not over the shitty day you’re having. It doesn’t click in your head that he’s a new face, standing on your apartment floor that only has one other, unoccupied, apartment on it.
“No—yeah,” he blinks, and you let your gaze stray, surveying his plain, white shirt, the grey joggers. “Was just saying hi.”
You look up at his face again. He’s got tan skin, brunette, curly hair, a small scar on the bridge of his nose.
He looks really fucking good, but you’re too annoyed to care.
“Why?” you ask, frowning. You see him give you a once over too, eyes dragging up from your thighs, all the way up to your face again. “Bit creepy, no?”
“I was just—” he moves aside, and that’s when it clicks. You see the luggage, the open apartment door with boxes strewn about inside. “We’re neighbours now. There’s only two apartments on every floor. Probably going to see a lot of each other.”
Some of the annoyance simmers, realisation taking its place.
“Oh,” you say, and he smiles. “Right.”
“Lando,” he says, offering his hand. “Norris. Lando Norris.”
“Have we met?” you ask, shaking his hand. “I know you from somewhere.”
“Probably work.”
“What do you do?”
“Cars,” he shrugs, and you shift on the spot, head tilting. “I work with cars.”
It's a vague answer. Everyone you asked in Monaco 'worked with cars'. It's how you managed to get your Ferrari in the first place.
You watch his gaze stray again. You watch it stray to your chest.
“I—”
“Are you staring at my fucking tits?”
He freezes, eyes snapping back up to your face.
“Well—”
“Seriously?”
“They’re right there.”
“What?!”
“How do you expect me not look? You’re hot, and you’re in shorts and a freakin’—”
“Have some decency!” you say, already moving to walk back inside your apartment. “Jesus.”
“No, wait,” he catches your wrist, pulling you back. “C’mon. I’m sorry. What’s your name?”
“I’m not telling you. Not after that.”
“Then what do you want me to call you?” you tug out of his hold, and he grins, like this is the funniest thing in the world. “Baby? Gorgeous? Prettiest girl I’ve ever—”
You slam the door shut.
He doesn't don’t retreat for a good few seconds, though you hear a low laugh before he does. It’s silent after that. Silent enough you could pretend that some ignorant, asshole hasn’t just moved in opposite you.
You glance at the TV, face flushed red, hands slack at your sides.
“On the topic of sport—Mclaren move up in the constructor standings with another win from their golden boy, Lando Norris.”
There’s a faint ringing in your ears, a mix of horror and disbelief.
You’ve got to be fucking kidding.
That’s where you know him from. Lando Norris. A fucking Formula 1 driver, who’s picture you’ve probably passed countless times on the street. You hear him now, in an interview, that same laugh filling your apartment.
“I mean, that’s life. Almost costed me a win but I guess I'm just that good.”
You look at the TV, the door behind you, at the blender lid that’s still on the ground, and decide your life really couldn’t get worse than this.
The next time you run into Lando is in the elevator, at 12 in the morning.
You’re in heels, a short minidress, head buzzing with alcohol from a post-shoot dinner. The strap around the back of your ankle digs into your skin, the minidress keeps falling and you’re so tired you’re half-inclined to let it.
The elevator doors open with a quiet ding.
Lando’s leaned against the wall, phone in hand when you walk in. You see him see you. You see his gaze drag over the hem of your dress, your sides, then back up to your face. He’s in jeans and a plain hoodie. You look like polar opposites.
Heat prickles at the back of your neck as you stop next to him, pointedly staring straight ahead.
“Hey,” he says, and you hear the smug grin in his voice. “How are you?”
“Good,” you answer, short, sinking further back against the wall. “You?”
“You’re not angry anymore?”
“At you? Yes. I am.”
“For what? Staring at your tits?” he crosses his arms, frowning. “I said I was sorry. It won’t happen again.”
“I don’t give a shit.”
He laughs again, the slight rasp in his voice sending something fluttering down your stomach.
“Where’d you go?” he asks, and you glance at the elevator panel. You and him lived on the 17th floor, one you’d specifically chosen because of the gorgeous view. You were regretting it now though, more every second as you feel his gaze burning into your skin. “You look good.”
“Just out,” you choose to ignore the compliment. “Why do you care?”
“I’m curious.”
“Why are you out this late? Don’t you have some kind of strict, training regime to stick to?”
His eyebrows raise in a way that makes you want to take back the words.
“So you know who I am.”
“Hard not to. Monaco loves cars.”
“And what do you think?”
“About what?”
“Living next to a Formula 1 driver. A good Formula 1 driver. A hot one.”
“Shut up,” you mutter, adjusting your purse on your shoulder. “You’re not that good.”
“Yeah? Who won the last race?”
“How would I know?”
“Don’t lie to me, babe,” he grins, hand tapping against the metal railing around the elevator. “You’re a bad liar.”
You hate the way the nickname makes your skin prickle, the way it makes heat crawl up your neck. Like he senses it, he moves closer.
“You never told me your name. What else am I supposed to call you?” he says, amused. “No, that’s a lie. I asked the girl down at reception.”
“You what?” you frown, turning to look up at him. “Surely that’s got to be illegal or something.”
“Not when you promise her an autograph,” he shrugs. “Easy work.”
“You’re a prick.”
“Am I?”
The doors open with a quiet ding, and you rush to walk out, heels clicking on the marble flooring beneath you.
“But seriously, where’d you go?”
“I said out,” you fumble for your keys. “Dinner.”
“You’ve been drinking,” he observes, leaning against the wall. “Are you drunk?”
“Get inside your apartment, Norris,” you say, sliding your key into the lock. “I’m sure you’ve got better things to do.”
“Mm,” he hums. “No.”
You look up at him again, just before you open your door.
He’s smiling. Of course he’s fucking smiling. He smells like cologne, probably that Ralph Lauren one—you passed his advertisement on the way home for it. You’ve been noticing him everywhere now. Advertisements, posters, his last win replaying on screens.
“Fine,” he says, pushing off of the wall, moving to his own door. “Night, gorgeous.”
You scoff out a laugh, turning the key and slipping into your apartment.
The door shuts, sending one last draft of cold air and cologne past. You don’t listen to him go this time. You drop your bag on the kitchen counter, kicking off your heels in the living room, before falling straight onto the couch in exhaustion.
The silence aches. You stare up at the ceiling, gaze tracing the ornate plaster moulded in the edges. The aperol from an hour ago is dull, barley buzzing anymore.
You hate silence. It’s one of those things you career had conditioned—the fast paced model environment since your teenage years. There was always the click of a camera, the shouting of a director, the house music that for some reason seemed mandatory for every shoot you went to.
Silence was uncomfortable.
You shift your head to look at the door again, barely visible above the back of the couch.
Maybe that was why coming home had always felt bittersweet. You’d finally get some rest at the cost of pure silence. Now though, Lando had moved in—loud, insufferable, Lando, and for some reason, it felt like something pivotal. Something incredibly major.
“Morning.”
You’ve dragged yourself through another night of endless doomscrolling, of fixed routine. Sun seeps into your apartment building’s hall, the silver numbers on your door glinting.
You pause for a beat at the door, still not quite released from the grasp of sleep, staring ahead of you.
Lando’s shirtless.
His tan skin is bare, toned, disappearing beneath the prominent lines peeking above his joggers. Like usual, he’s got a protein shake in one hand, looking completely refreshed like he’s been up for hours already.
“Sleep well?” he asks, watching you chuck something into the rubbish chute near both of your doors. “Looks like it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” you ask, dusting off your hands. You glance over at him, eyes narrowing. “Why are you even out here? Do you just listen and wait for me?”
“I’m not that obsessed,” he smiles, taking a sip of his drink. “Do you wish I was?”
“No.”
“Shame.”
You look past, at his open apartment door. It looks well furnished for the short amount of time he’d spent living there. You catch a glimpse of marble countertops like your own, a pictureframe off to one side of a Formula 1 car, clothes lazily thrown over the back of the couch. Cleaner than you expected for a cocky, millionaire-status athlete.
“Wanna come in?” he opens the door wider, voice teasing. “I see you staring.”
“I’d rather drink acid.”
“Liar,” he calls when you turn away again. “You know what we should do? Go out or something. Get to know each other."
“Why would I ever do that?”
“I’ll give you an autograph.”
“That doesn’t work on me,” you glare. “Go bribe the receptionist downstairs.”
“I’m not offering because you’re hot, sexy, and gorgeous,” he says, making you stop at the threshold of your door. “I’m asking because you’re my neighbour. I don’t plan to move anytime soon and I don’t think you do either.”
“Are you calling me hot, sexy, and gorgeous?”
“You are,” he says, then he smirks. “And I can say that without looking at your tits. I’m a changed man.”
The laugh that comes out of you is real. Slightly startled. Lando smiles wider at that, his hand mindlessly sliding up to rub at his shoulderblades.
“I can’t,” you say, and his smile falters slightly. “I’ve got work.”
“Work?” he frowns, like he’d forgotten it existed. “Right. What do you do?”
“That’s personal.”
“Oh c’mon,” he says, dragging out the syllables. “That’s unfair. You know what I do.”
“Everyone in the world knows what you do, Norris.”
“So?” he steps closer, hand falling back to his side. “I’ll guess. Surely it’s something big if you can afford an apartment like this.”
“I’m not telling you.”
“Finance? Daddy’s money?”
You scoff, leaning against your doorframe.
“Modeling.”
“Oh?” he says. “Go figure.”
He cocks his head, taking another sip of his protein shake and glancing over you like he’s observing, “You’re probably the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. Makes sense you model.”
You’ve gotten the compliment thousands of times before. It sounds no different coming from him, and yet you’re instinctively standing straighter, thank you on the tip of your tongue.
Lando shifts too, tongue poking at the side of his cheek, a slow grin taking over his features.
You’d found yourself watching his interviews last night. He’s got a tendency to smile when things he says anything remotely personal. To laugh, scoff, redirect the conversation into something comedic. It makes you think it isn’t just a one-liner. Maybe he really does think you’re the prettiest girl he’s ever seen.
But you know better than that.
He opens his mouth, about to say something you know will be incredibly idiotic.
“Are you being serious? Or do you just want to have sex with me?”
Lando blinks, mouth closing, words dying in his throat.
“Well—you can’t—” he lets out an exasperated noise. “Obviously I want to have sex with you. But I swear I’m—”
“Unbelievable.”
“Baby, c’mon.”
“I’m going to be late.”
You turn away, and he lets out a heavy, dramatic sigh.
“When will you admit you like me?” he calls, hand gripping your door to keep it open. You’ve got one hand on the door handle, giving it an experimental nudge. It doesn’t move an inch.
“Lando.”
He grins, slowly letting go. “Have a good day, gorgeous.”
You smile back, saccharine, before slamming the door shut in his face.
It’s been three days.
Three days of Lando accidentally showing up in the hallway whenever you do. Three days of his teasing, his faux pleading to make you like him. You hear him at four in the morning, that low voice of his followed by someone else. A girl.
You weren’t jealous. Why would you be? You were more so annoyed at the fact it’d been four in the morning, and they weren’t exactly being quiet. She was nowhere to be seen the morning after, but he’d been there. In his doorway, shirtless, with a protein bar in his hand and a half-assed apology about the noise.
The elevator opens and you sigh, making your way down the hallway. Your clothes feel like they’re sticking to your skin, the leftover photoshoot makeup on your face is uncomfortable.
Fucking Monaco heat.
Lando, thankfully, is nowhere to be seen for once.
You glance in your bag as you walk, sifting through for your keys. The bag—your first ever designer you’d bought with your own money, is full of items that have no business accompanying you to a photoshoot. There’s a sim card from France, an empty box of matches, a forgotten hotel room keycard from your last stay in Italy. More evidence that your life is currently a complete and utter mess.
Your fingers close around your keys just as you make it to your door. There’s no welcome mat outside, just plain, boring marble. You’d never bothered, considering the fact that it’d just been you coming home and you’d felt weird greeting occasional hookups with a fucking welcome sign at the door.
You slide your key into the lock, turning it, hand instinctively already heading in the direction of the light switch. You’re a creature of habit. Of routine. Of the belief that there’s not a mat outside the door, but you’re heel catches on something there anyway.
“What the fuck?” you mutter, glancing down at the marble floor. It’s not a doormat. It’s a thick, glossy magazine, a note on the top and a paperclip marking a specific page.
You snatch it up, the shiny cover smooth against your fingertips.
You snort, plucking the note off of the cover.
Lando Norris — Formula 1’s sweetheart?
He’s smiling in the picture, trophy clutched against him, champagne in his free hand. His race suit is half off, tugged down to show the black fireproofs below clinging to his skin. He looks smug, egotistical, like he’s saying I’m better than you even though the camera is looking over him.
You look at every inch of the cover, studying it, gaze greedy though your fingers are already sliding between the pages to the one he’d marked.
Finally, you flick it open. Another podium picture takes up the entire page. It’s softer. His head is tilted back in pure relief, the smile on his face relaxed, eyes shut.
You skim-read the article beside it. The words compassionate and caring making a few appearances, followed by ‘what’s not to like?’. It talks about his rookie year, his home race win, the generic career-oriented stuff, but there’s a specific section towards the end that catches your eye.
“How do you handle relationships when you’re living such a public life?”
“First off,” Lando laughs, looking away. “I have to admit I don’t think I’m too good at relationships in the first place. I’m much better at driving a car at 300 kilometres an hour than replying a text—a weakness of mine, actually.”
He looks flustered to admit it, a slip in the usual playful person we see out in the paddock.
I ask, “Then what’s your ideal type in a person? Someone equally as bad at replying to text messages?”
Again, he laughs, “Sure. I guess. Probably someone who can even put up with me in the first place. Someone who doesn’t just let me get away with everything all the time. Maybe bullies me a little. Also ideally someone who doesn’t know the first thing about racing—I wanna come home and not talk about freakin’ cars all the time, you know? ”
“I see. And, I apologise if this is intrusive, have you found that person?”
He smiles, leans back in his cushioned chair. It’s more of a smirk.
“No. Not yet. I—”
You stop there, at the end of the page, itching to flip over and finish the section. Instead, your gaze snags on the picture again. It’s perfect, really. His smile, the expression on his face. Probably would’ve fooled you if you didn’t know him.
“Asshole,” you mutter, shoving the magazine in your bag and hastily stepping into your apartment. You throw it onto the coffee table in the living room, tucked away like all your other problems. It doesn’t make a reappearance until a few hours later, when you’re in the kitchen, attempting to make one of those ‘nutritious, protein-filled’ meals off of social media that’s probably a sham.
Your phone buzzes on the countertop. Mindlessly, you swipe it off the surface, lazily throwing in more pepper into the pot on the stove. It wasn’t like you were too focused on cooking anyway. There was a 90% chance you’d give up and order takeout.
Unknown number —
like the gift?
You slam the pepper back onto the counter before you've even read the last word.
You —
why the fuck do you have my number?
Unknown number —
guess
jfc that girl at the reception is incredibly easy to convince
should really learn her name
The pot hisses, spitting boiling hot water against your arm, throwing a tantrum you’re not paying attention to it. You curse and turn it off all together.
You —
i need to file something against her
what’d you bargain this time?
Unknown number —
another autograph
and a picture this time
You —
you’re insane
strangely obsessed
Norris —
but did you like the gift?
thought it was a really good article if i’m being honest
i look fuckin mint
You —
sure
Norris —
don’t tell me i didn’t look hot
did you stare at it?
for how long?
You —
two seconds max
Norris —
haha
still a bad liar babe
are you home?
You —
might be
why do you care?
Norris —
just curious
fewtrell and his gf just landed in monaco
i’m waiting in the airport rn
You aren’t sure why he’s telling you that. It seemed too personal, like an update you’d tell your friend for no reason at all.
You —
right
are they staying with you?
Norris —
for a week
gonna stream
you should watch
You —
i’m busy
Norris —
boooo
fine
You chew the inside of your cheek, liking the message, before putting your phone face down on the counter.
He gets home an hour later. You hear another British accent, suitcases against marble, a feminine voice before it disappears into the apartment. Lando laughs, loud, making a joke with a very audible shut up in response.
It makes you glance up from the couch at the door. There are boxes of takeout scattered on the coffee table in front of you, half eaten and waiting to be packed into the fridge. A bottle of wine is leaned against your side. Your laptop is open with a new campaign proposal, something to do with a Euro Summer, all prestigious exclusivity.
Your gaze strays again to the hardwood coffee table, the magazine sitting there among the mess of takeout.
Lando Norris — Formula 1’s sweetheart?
His perfect face, that trophy in his hand, the glint of pure happiness in his eyes.
You blame that smile when you open up Twitch on your laptop, half an hour later. You blame the wine, the stress that isn’t making you rational. You blame Lando Norris’ frustrating likeability.
He’s already live when you search his name.
As soon as you click onto it, his voice fills your living room. You can see his apartment clearer now, his office by the looks of it. He’s got helmets lined up on one of the shelves, racing sim behind him, trophies scattered here and there like he doesn’t know whether to display them or not. ‘Fewtrell’ is sitting beside him, whispering something that makes Lando let out a loud laugh you think you can hear through the walls of your apartment.
It sinks in then.
You’re watching Lando Norris live, when he’s quite literally right next to you.
“Is this a new setup?” Lando reads from the chat, leaning back into his chair. He smiles, and it isn’t the smile from the magazine. It’s the one he uses in the interviews. “Yes. Yes it is. Moved recently.”
“That’s why it looks so much cleaner,” his friend cuts in. “Cause you haven’t even fully unpacked yet.”
“Fuck you,” Lando scoffs, nudging him in the side. “I’ve unpacked plenty. Everyone tell Max to shut up.”
You mindlessly click onto your phone, the live still playing on your laptop.
Norris —
gonna stream
you should watch
Your fingers ghost over the keyboard.
You —
its been a week since you moved in
should really unpack
He leans back in his chair, stretching his arms up, a silver of tan skin revealed beneath his hoodie before he snatches up his phone. You watch as he reads the message, eyes flickering to stare straight at the camera, before he starts typing.
Your phone buzzes again.
Norris —
knew you weren’t busy
how long have you been watching?
“What’re you smiling about?” Max asks, and Lando shrugs, muttering ‘mind your business’.
You —
barely a minute
don’t get cocky
Norris —
never
could come over yknow
i should introduce everyone to my gorgeously sexy stunning model neighbour
You glance at the live again. He’s smiling wider now, turned to the side like he’s hiding his phone.
“Lando, mate, can you focus?”
“I am focused.”
“No, you’re texting your freakin’ girlfriend or whatever.”
“I don’t have a girlfriend.”
“Sure looks like it.”
Lando scoffs, quickly typing something else before sliding his phone into his pocket.
Norris —
girlfriend, huh?
Your fingers clench around your phone, heart slamming against your ribs.
“You’re washed,” Max says, and you slowly glance to the screen. “So fucking washed.”
“I haven’t played this in like, a year,” Lando answers, dragging his chair closer to the table. He glances at the camera, smiling. It’s triumphant, like he knows you’re sitting there, flushed pink, unable to come up with a reply.
You slam your laptop shut, his voice cutting off mid sentence. The wine bottle beside you tilts, almost falls, until the world decides you’ve been through too much today and lets it perch on the edge instead.
“Fuck,” you say, and it comes out breathy and dry, barely making a sound. There’s a muffled shout from his apartment, a bark of laughter. Clearly, he wasn’t affected as you were.
The thought makes the heat sink into your chest. It makes you snatch up the bottle of wine, turn on the TV to drown out the noise, and throw your phone somewhere else. Somewhere far out of reach.
Everything goes quiet two hours later. You hear his apartment door open, footsteps, the rubbish chute opening and closing, a pause just as he passes by your door.
His door slams shut. Yours doesn't open. Your agent texts you about another project, and you hate how you’re disappointed by the fact it isn’t him.
It’s nine-thirty in the morning, you’ve got a campaign to shoot in an hour and a half, and you’re sitting at a table across from Lando Norris for fucking breakfast.
He’s in jeans, a loose, button up shirt, the top few undone to show perfect tan skin. There are sunglasses resting on the top of his head, colorful fan-made bracelets stacked on one wrist, pink Richard Mille on the other. He cocks his head as he flicks through the menu, tongue darting out every now and then to lick his lips.
He looks unbelievably good.
You shift on your chair, rustic iron scraping on the brick, outdoor flooring. Port Hercule sits right nearby—you see yachts pulling out of the dock already, a sign of Monte Carlo waking up. There’s french chatter, the occasional rumble of a sports car.
You’ve been pretending to look through the menu for the last five minutes. You know what you want already: the usual iced coffee and light meal you get before every shoot, but still pretend nonetheless.
“You’re staring.”
His voice still has the rasp of sleep at the end of it, and when you focus on his face again, he isn’t even looking at you.
“How would you know that?”
“I can sense it,” he says, letting the menu fall back onto the table with a quiet thud. He grins, cocky like he always is, “You know I look good.”
You snort, settling back into your chair.
Egotistical, arrogant, idiotic.
Those three words you’ve been repeating to yourself are fading by the minute.
“You look hot. What shoot do you have to be at today?”
“Some campaign,” you sigh, also setting aside the menu. “Clothing thing.”
“I could probably get you into some F1 promo.”
“And end up in the same magazine you were in? I think not.”
His smile widens, and he leans forward.
“Did you keep it?”
“Keep what?”
“The magazine. With my face on the cover.”
You bite the inside of your cheek to keep any blush from creeping onto your face. The magazine is still sitting where you left it on the coffee table, like an accusation, like something so pointed that you don’t want to address.
“You kept it.”
“Would be a waste of money if I threw it out,” you lie. “And it matches the colour scheme of my apartment anyway.”
“When am I ever going to see your apartment?”
“Never.”
“You’ve seen mine.”
“I’ve seen the door and the hallway.”
“And the office,” he adds, eyes glinting with amusement. “Remember?”
You clear your throat, glancing over at the port. He laughs, his chair scraping back as he settles into it again.
“I’m not trying to tease you. This is supposed to be a fresh start, remember?”
“Is it?”
“I’m trying,” his face turns serious when you look back at him. “I’m formally apologizing for staring at your tits the day we met. It’ll never happen again. Unless you let me.”
You suddenly understand why people let Lando get away with being him. You’ve seen his interviews online—the ones post-race where he’s cocky, high off a win, grinning with sweat glistening down his neck. You’ve seen how he says the most arrogant lines, makes inappropriate jokes, and no one ever seems to reprimand him for it.
He picks up the menu again, only to thumb at the corner of the card, still staring at you.
“Can we start over?” he asks. “Properly. Disregard everything you know about me—pretend I met you yesterday and asked you out.”
A small smile tugs at your lips, “Was this your plan? To lure me out under the ruse of an apology, then turn it into a date midway?”
He grins, and you laugh despite yourself, reaching for your glass again.
Maybe if you’d met him earlier—maybe if he’d knocked on your door a mere ten minutes before he did, things would play out different. Maybe he would’ve actually complimented you and asked you out normally. You weren’t sure if Lando Norris was capable of asking a girl out politely, but just for now, you were choosing to believe he could.
“So,” you set down your glass, looking at him. “Lando, was it?”
The look on his face is nothing short of delight, and he leans forward, forearms braced on the table.
“Right,” he answers. “Lando Norris.”
“And what do you do for work?”
“I drive cars.”
You smile, “What kind?”
“Formula 1 cars.”
The waiter comes back around with your food. Lando leans back, eyes still on you, relaxed like he’s just taking you in. You don’t snap at him this time. You let him stare like you’d let someone you were dating, you let him appreciate the fact that you’d even agreed to come out with him in the first place.
The rest of your ‘date’ goes by quickly. He’s likeable. You’d learnt that a while ago, but just refused to let yourself believe it. You find out he’s leading the championship, that Max is his best friend from childhood, that he thinks you’re the hottest person he’s ever laid eyes on.
“I could drop you off, if you wanted.”
You don’t even realise you’ve been scraping your fork at nothing for the past ten minutes, subconsciously dragging out the conversation. His own plate is empty too, and his arms are crossed, another smile on his face.
“To my shoot?”
“Yeah,” he answers, glancing further behind you at his car. It’s obnoxious. A McLaren P1, jet-black, the number plate a combination of LN and a bunch of fours. It screams ‘this car belongs to Lando Norris’, and the amount of stares it had gotten as he’d driven past only proved that further.
“It’s only a ten minute walk.”
“You’re in heels.”
“Barely.”
He frowns, like he’s genuinely offended, “I’m not letting you walk in heels. What kind of date would I be?”
“You’re saying you’re one of those guys who’d carry me if my feet got sore?”
“Of course,” he reaches for his glass of water, glancing over it at you. “You don’t believe I’d be a good boyfriend?”
You raise your eyebrows at him, “I never mentioned anything about boyfriends.”
“Still,” he sets the glass down again. “You don’t think I would?”
You’ve, reluctantly, been stalking his past relationships. You know the last two have been Portugese—both models, both the kind of gorgeous that seemed gifted by Aphrodite herself, and every single break-up addressment had said the same thing: praise and the stereotypical “we just want different things”. He seemed like a good boyfriend, but you weren’t sure if that was the PR talking or not.
“I don’t know,” you answer, truthful. “I’d give you about a six out of ten for offering to drop me off.”
He lets out a laugh, laced with surprise, “A six out of ten?”
“Point-five if you walk me in too.”
“Seriously?”
“No,” you scoff. “I’m kidding. You don’t need to drop me off.”
He sighs, heavily, and you hear the scrape of his chair before you register him moving to stand.
“What’s the address?”
“Lando,” you start, but he reaches out a hand, holding it in the space between you.
We’re still on a date, he seems to silently say, keep pretending you like me.
You haven’t been pretending. Not for the past hour. You feel like you should tell him—reassure him maybe, but then he’d tease you about it for the next month.
“Knew you’d cave,” he says when you let him help you stand. His hand trails to your waist, voice smooth in your ear. “You know, I think we’d be good together.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” you say as he guides you past the various tables, briefly stopping at the front counter to tap his card. “This is a one time thing.”
His grip tightens, thumb grazing the skin of your waist.
“Sure,” he says.
There’s a feeling in your gut that this’ll be far from a one time thing. You know that he knows it too.
Lando’s halfway through your Instagram feed when there’s a sharp bang on his door.
He pauses, thumb hovering over a picture from about two years ago, dragging his attention to hallway. He’s leaned against his kitchen counter shirtless, cereal half-eaten next to him. Max and Pietra had left for their early flight an hour or two ago. His own empty luggage he’s meant to be packing for the next few races lays strewn around his living room.
It’s silent. Slowly, he glances back at his phone.
There’s another bang, louder, someone knocking impatiently, then—
“Lando! Open the fucking door!”
Ah, fuck.
He drops his phone on the counter, stretching as he makes his way to the hallway.
“Morning,” he says when he swings open the door. He leans against the doorframe, smiling, trying to blink away the sleep from his eyes. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
You glare at him, phone in one hand, hair slightly messy like you’d just gotten up too.
“What the fuck is this?”
He glances at your phone, at the picture sitting there.
It’s the two of you, his hand around your waist, you glancing up with your eyes slightly wide. It looks strangely intimate, actually. Lando saw it about twenty minutes ago on his own Instagram feed.
“Was hoping you wouldn’t see that,” he admits, taking your phone and swiping through the rest of the pictures. There’s more of the two of you at the cafe, some in his car, photographed perfectly so the angle makes it look like you’re closer than you are. “If it makes you feel better, I had no clue.”
“No, that doesn’t make me feel better.”
He grins, handing it back and turning to walk inside his apartment. The door is left open like an invitation, and you follow him, glaring.
“Lando.”
“It’ll blow off within a couple of days,” he answers, returning to the kitchen counter. He picks up the spoon from his bowl of cereal. “I promise. Don’t stress your pretty little head about it.”
“I’m not stressed. I’m pissed. You—”
“Isn’t it your job to be photographed?”
“Not while I’m having breakfast with an athlete.”
“A hot athlete.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
He huffs out a laugh, muffled by the spoon in his mouth. Your anger wears off a little when you tear your attention off of him.
It’s the first time you’ve ever been in his apartment, you realise.
It looks the same as yours—the same layout, marble countertops, herringbone flooring. It’s messier though, more photographs on the walls, trinkets he’d presumably gotten from fans. His apartment looks more lived in than yours, though he’s only been here for a couple weeks. It smells like him too—cologne, linen, a hint burnt toast like he’d failed at cooking breakfast this morning.
“Where are you going?” you ask when you catch sight of the suitcases. “Moving again?”
“You wish,” he says, still eating his cereal. “Nah. Race this week.”
“You’re gone for a week?”
“Three. Triple-header and I’ll be in London for conveniency. Closer to MTC.”
You don’t understand a word he’s saying, apart from the fact he’s gone for three weeks. Three.
“Oh,” you manage, and he stops, spoon pausing in his bowl. “Right.”
“Gonna miss me?”
Probably.
The thought isn’t as startling as you thought it’d be. You’d gotten used to him recently—relied on him in fact, to fill the silence you’d dealt with every time you came home. You wouldn’t tell him that though, of course.
“No,” you say, and he smiles like he sees right through you. He pats the countertop, and you move without realising, pulling back the stool opposite him. “Might have some peace and quiet for a little.”
“You’re gonna miss me.”
You don’t agree or deny it this time. He finishes off his cereal, chucking his dishes in the sink before facing you again. You try ignore the fact that the sight of his back muscles moving sends a flush of pink crawling up your neck.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” you ask. “Yesterday. That you were leaving.“
“Didn’t think you’d care that much,” he shrugs, resting his forearms on the counter. “Plus it’s only three weeks. You’ve lived without me for, what? Few years?”
You don’t answer, and he stands up straighter, head tilting.
“I’m only gone for a little bit.”
“I know.”
“You seem—” he stops, eyebrows furrowing. “You seem like you actually care.”
“Do you think I hate you?”
“Sure looks like it.”
“I don’t,” you say. “Hate you. I don’t love you, that’s for sure, but I don’t hate you.”
His head is still tilted at you, fingers mindlessly tapping on the marble countertop.
“Will you watch?”
You blink up at him. He chews at the inside of his cheek, fingers still tapping, restless.
“Do you want me to watch?”
“Yes,” he answers immediately. “Yeah. Obviously.”
His voice is softer than usual—careful, like he’s holding something in. You want to answer him, make a sharp comment that’ll ease the tension. Instead, you stay quiet, leaning forward the slightest inch without even meaning to. His gaze flickers to your neck, the thin strap of your top, stopping at where the counter blocks off the rest of you.
“You look good.”
A smile tugs at the corners of your mouth.
“I just woke up.”
“I know.”
“You weren’t waiting in the hall this morning.”
“It isn’t eight-thirty yet.”
The time you’re usually out in the hallway. Even you didn’t know that about yourself.
“I should go.”
“Stay.”
“I’ve got work.”
You push back your chair, and he’s instantly moving, trailing after you.
“Not even for another few minutes?”
“I’m already off schedule.”
You pass by a framed picture of a car—his Formula 1 car. There’s a shelf next to it, one full of what looks like a bunch of magazines and decorative pieces. There are photos too, polaroids of his friends, a girl that you don’t recognize.
He catches your wrist just as you continue past it, almost at the threshold of the front door.
“Is there some kind of limit on how much you let yourself near me everyday?”
“An hour. Max.”
“It’s barely been ten minutes.”
“More time for later, then.”
His grip tightens, and you swear you feel his thumb graze over your skin.
“My flight is in two hours.”
He looks desperate now, his voice still soft, reasoning.
“More time for when you get back, then,” you say, glancing at his hand. “In three weeks.”
Again, his thumb traces over your wrist. You swallow, an attempt at regaining any sense of rationality. His cologne is intoxicating now, and when you look up at him, his hand trails to your waist instead.
“You’re in my apartment,” he says, more to himself. “Jesus.”
“I know that.”
“Do you always look this good?”
You’ve learnt to stop expecting him to stay on a single thought. It’s like he says whatever crosses his mind first, without a care in the world about an answer.
His other hand settles at the small of your back, tugging you close. You can feel the heat radiating off of him—the tension, the intensity of him standing there.
“Lando.”
He hums in response, somehow not focused yet entirely fixated on you.
You make the mistake of glancing away—glancing down, at his bare torso. At the defined lines disappearing beneath his joggers. When you look up again, a single thought runs through your head.
You want to kiss him.
You want to know how his skin feels, how he tastes, if his stupid, cocky exterior followed into his sex life. He lets his gaze roam too, and you know the same exact thoughts are circulating in his head.
Just at you move closer the slightest inch, he lets go.
“I think I’ll miss you,” he says, arrogance returning in full force. You’re still breathless, lips parted, heart pounding in your chest, but he’s already smirking, hands sliding into his pockets. “You and your gorgeous face.”
It’s silent for a few beats. He raises his eyebrows, standing there in all his infuriating glory, like he hasn’t just baited you into almost kissing him.
You can’t fucking believe him.
“Fuck you.”
“I’ll dedicate a win to you.”
You turn away, wrenching open his front door and storming out of his apartment. He follows, leisurely, stopping at the doorframe.
“Promise you’ll watch?”
“Go fuck yourself.”
You slam your door shut, letting it ring in the hallway. It’s the last time you see him in a month.
Dates before hook-ups had never really been your thing.
Some people liked it—the whole package, being wined and dined before ultimately back to a hotel just to fuck. You liked getting it over and done with as quick as possible.
It sounded sad, and only after your friend from home had told you so, you’d decided to trythe entire process for once instead.
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re beautiful?”
You glance down at the man beneath you.
He’s got dark hair, dark features, the typical Monegasque, billionaire look. You think his name starts with an M.
“Sometimes,” you smile, hands trailing up his chest. You resist the urge to look at your bedroom door, at the wall like you can see the apartment right across your own. You’d sat through an entire, boring dinner for this moment. You refused to let yourself get distracted.
It’s been three weeks since Lando left for his races in Europe.
You’ve settled back into normalcy. Routine. No one bothers you every morning in the hall, no one nags you with questions in the elevator. Your phone remains silent—your entire apartment floor remains silent.
It’s weird.
Theoretically, it shouldn’t be weird. It should be the opposite of weird. You should be relieved, actually. Instead, you’ve been filling his absence with hookups, with the same impulsive purchases prior to him moving in, with races playing on your stupidly large TV.
He’d won in the Netherlands. You’d wanted to text him then—to tell him you’d watched, that you were so happy you’d spilt a glass of wine as he’d crossed the checkered flag. But you hadn’t, and your last messages were still from when you’d scheduled that breakfast together a month ago.
You don’t realise your gaze has already strayed away from the man in your bed. He’s been talking this entire time, more compliments, probably.
“Hello?”
You snap your head back to him, blinking. He’s got an irritated look on his face, and he sits up, making you fall onto the bed beside him.
“Am I too boring for you?”
“What?”
“Clearly, I am, considering the fact a fucking wall holds your attention better.”
He stands, snatching up his discarded clothing around your bedroom. You sigh, heavily, watching him from your bed. You’re still in lingerie, a pale blue lace set, dainty, and something you probably shouldn't be wasting on a random hookup.
“I knew you were entitled. An entitled, spoiled brat with an apartment she probably doesn’t even pay for herself.”
The man is still talking, and you roll your eyes, sliding off the bed when he walks out of your bedroom.
“You’re wasting an entire night, by the way,” you say, following him to the door. It wasn’t like you wanted to have sex with him anymore, but you did want an orgasm. You could probably shut your eyes and pretend it was someone else, and that was enough for you.
“I don’t care,” he says, and you stop at your front door, watching him tug on his shoes. “You’re a bitch.”
You don’t answer that, stepping aside to let him pass.
“Spoiled fucking—” he mutters something else in French, shaking his head as he continues down the hall. You watch him, resting your head against your doorframe, still in your lingerie.
“Night,” you call, and just before he can press the button for the elevator, the doors open.
You freeze, blood turning cold.
Fuck.
Lando steps out of the elevator as the man steps in, suitcase and bag dragged next to him, hood thrown over his head like he’d just gotten off a flight.
“Already called someone to replace me?” your hookup says, and you shut your eyes, sighing again. You want to die. You want to sink into the wall and disappear. “Real fucking classy.”
“Shut up and go home,” you answer, and the elevator doors close.
The hallway goes silent.
You open your eyes again, and Lando is by his own apartment door, barely a meter away from you.
“Hi,” he says, and his voice makes something inside of you flutter. One hand is around the handle of his suitcase, the other slack by his side. He looks exhausted. You think there might be circles beneath his eyes.
“Hi,” you answer, suddenly too aware that you’re still in fucking lingerie. “You’re back.”
“I’m back.”
“And, um—” you gesture in his general direction. “Yeah.”
“Who was that?”
You wince, looking away again.
“No one.”
“Didn’t seem to like you very much.”
“I know. I zoned out when we were about to have sex.”
Lando laughs, and it’s raspy, tired—hot.
“Do you wear that for every hookup you have?” he asks. “Or did you know I was coming home tonight?”
“I’m not wearing this for you,” you scoff, fixing the strap of your bra. “Do you wish I was?”
“Obviously.”
“Five minutes in and you’re already flirting.”
“Negative,” he says. “You’re in a fucking lace set.”
A cold draft of air flits past, and you mindlessly wrap your arms around you. He tracks the movement, jaw flexing.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Would you be jealous if I said yes?”
He releases his hold on his suitcase, stepping closer to you.
This is what you’re used to now—what you’ve been missing for the past three months.
You know what you probably look like. The flush from earlier hasn’t exactly worn off yet, your hair is probably messy from hands tangling themselves in them, you’re in lace that you know makes you look good.
Lando smiles. It’s one of his cocky, smug, smiles.
“Congratulations on your win,” you say, but it comes out breathier than you meant it to, softer. “And second place. Twice.”
His smile falters a little.
“You watched.”
“You asked me to watch.”
“I know—I just—” he stops, glances at the strap of your bra, then turns away back to his suitcase. “Fuck.”
“What’s wrong?”
When he turns back around, he’s got a shirt in his hands.
“Can’t focus when you’re dressed like that,” he admits, handing it to you. “Not that I don’t like it. Just wanna have a proper chat.”
It’s his Mclaren jersey, four clear on the back, black and orange. You thumb over the material for a second, before shrugging it on.
Lando jaw flexes when you look at him again.
“Suits you.”
“I knew you’d say that.”
He scoffs, head tilting towards his apartment.
“When did you land in Monaco?” you say, following him inside. “Couldn’t you have texted me?”
“We haven’t texted for a month, gorgeous.”
“I know, I just—” his door shuts behind you, leaving you still flushed, standing in the hall of his apartment. He throws his keys on the wooden console table by the door, lazily resting his suitcase against the wall. “Give me a heads up or something. So I don’t have a fucking hookup when you get back.”
He pauses, glancing back at you.
“You missed me,” he smiles. “Didn’t you?”
“I—”
“I missed you too.”
He moves closer, and it gives you a rush of familiarity. The blush on your neck must’ve spread to your face, because he lets out a soft laugh, hands settling on your waist.
“I thought about you a lot. On the plane home, on the podium,” one hand slides beneath his jersey, resting on your skin. “In my hotel at night.”
You try not to focus on his face too much. Ultimately, it doesn’t work, and you find yourself studying it instead. He looks exhausted, shoulders tense, his voice lower than usual.
“What’d you think about?” you ask, but the words sound distant in your own head. “Coming home and tormenting me again?”
“I thought about your pretty face,” he corrects. “The way you looked in my apartment before I left.”
“When you baited me?”
He smiles, palm warm on your waist, “I never baited you.”
“Sure felt like it.”
You’re still mad at him for it. Mad that he hadn’t finished what he’d started.
“Did you want me to kiss you then leave you for a month?” He says. “Would you have rather fucked and then lived through a month in silence?”
“We wouldn’t have fucked.”
He laughs at that. It’s short and incredulous, so insufferably sure in himself it makes you want to slap him.
“Don’t kid yourself, baby.”
“Fuck you.”
“Is that your natural response whenever I know you’re lying?”
“It’s my response when you’re being arrogant,” you answer. “You can’t just start something and not—”
“You think I don’t want to finish this?” he says, still amused. “I want to kiss you more than anything—I’ve wanted to kiss you the second you opened the door two months ago. I want to fuck you and have you wear that set for me. Not some shitty fucking hookup you don’t even know the name of.”
You throat is dry, heart stuttering in your chest at the words. Heat spreads through you, through your thighs, still bare but covered by his jersey.
“Then why don’t you?” you ask, and it comes out softer than you intended. “Instead of waiting when you know it’ll happen?”
“You deserve better than that,” he answers, and one of his hands move to your face instead, fixing your hair behind your ear. “You deserve to be obsessed over. Not to be taken out to dinner once just for the part that comes after.”
He pulls away, both hand sliding into his pockets. You take a step back, just to breathe, tearing your gaze away. His apartment looks untouched from a month ago,
When you finally have the courage to look at him again, he’s smirking.
“I missed you,” he repeats. “I missed you a lot.”
Your fingers curl at your sides.
“Congratulations on your win,” you end up on, reaching for the door. “Goodnight.”
He doesn’t stop you. He stands there, relaxed in his ownapartment, gaze flickering to your thighs knowingly.
“Goodnight, gorgeous.”
Lando hates being mature.
He hates making actual, rational decisions, ones that make him wait instead of giving things to him instantly. For example: not fucking kissing you when he’d had the chance. Twice.
He winces every time he thinks about it, sighs when he passes by the entry of his apartment. The image of you in his jersey, the pale blue set beneath it, continues to randomly flash in his head. Tormenting him. Except it feels less like torment and more like unshakable regret.
The stack of magazines in his living room seem to stare at him everytime he brushes past. Most are ones of himself, things he plans on planting outside your apartment with stupid notes attached.
The other half of the stack is magazines you’d sent him, back when everything had been fine. Magazines with you on the cover, so, incredibly gorgeous that he’d always stopped in his tracks when he’d picked them up. One of them is of Oscar. His teammate. Your own hand written note still attached: the better mclaren driver x, and he remembered immediately knocking on your door and playing hurt about it.
It was a joke. He knew it was a joke, but it didn’t stop the flare of jealousy that’d sparked inside of him anyway.
His gaze strays from the stack, to the white box on the table next to it.
It’s lingerie. Lacy, light pink, gorgeous, inside an equally as delicate box. It’d probably be even prettier on you—the whole reason he’d bought the damn thing anyway. It sits there like a shadow, like a guilty secret, waiting for the right moment he can give it to you and play it off like another fucking joke when you both knew it wasn’t.
He wants you. Badly. And yet he was holding himself back for some Godforsaken reason.
He hasn’t seen or spoken to you for the past two weeks. The rhythm the two of you had settled into feels tense, throwing every possible interaction out of sync.
It feels like you’re avoiding him—it probably feels like he’s avoiding you. He’s not. He, for once in his life, just doesn’t know what to do or say.
It doesn’t help that another week later, you’re not even in Monaco.
He hears you leave, the sound of suitcases on marble, unfamiliar voices and laughter. Another two hours and, like some deranged, obsessed admirer, he finds out through your friend’s Instagram stories that you’re on a private jet halfway to Mykonos, Greece.
When he drags himself through the rest of the day, through to the next morning, you’ve posted in a nightclub that he’s been to before. He studies the picture, the group you’re with, the men specifically. One of them is looking at you, but your eyes are closed, smiling, too caught up dancing with your friends to notice. Lando can’t tell if the man is staring at you in a casual, passing glance way, or a I wanna have sex with you way.
As soon as the thought crosses his mind, he tosses his phone out of reach, and decides he really needs to keep himself distracted for the rest of the time you aren’t here.
He does. Well, he tries.
He focuses on the upcoming triple header. He focuses on fulfilling every single one of Jon’s insane, training requests. He lets himself scroll on Instagram for a maximum of ten minutes everyday, as if he owes it to himself.
You post from clubs, from hotels, from yachts. Your skin glows, you look more carefree than he’s ever seen you. He’s never been so mesmerized in his life.
It’s five days into your absence when you post the picture he’d subconsciously been waiting for.
You’re leaned against a man.
Lando’s fingers hover over the picture, hood pulled over his head, sitting on one of the benches of his gym. There’s a drink in your hand—champagne, and you’re leaning back, the man’s arms draped over your shoulders. The coastline of Mykonos beautiful in the background, the kind of picture that unintentionally makes you feel inferior. The kind of picture he’d sometimes post, albeit without holding a girl against him.
He shuts his phone, shoving it into his bag, restarting his reps with a newfound sense of determination to get you out of his head.
You get back a week later There’s no laughter or conversation this time. Just your suitcase, your keys, the quiet shutting of your apartment door.
His heart is instantly slamming in his chest again, and yet for another excruciating seven days, he doesn’t see you.
“Fuck,” he mutters, tilting his head back against his couch.
He feels like shit.
For the entirety of this past month, he's felt like shit. He knows he should just knock—just talk to you, but he's gone so long without that he thinks he doesn't know how.
His apartment is awfully quiet for ten o’clock at night, silent apart from his nagging thoughts of regret.
He wants you to be the girl he’s spotted with in headlines. The girl people speculate about, instead of some random model he’d danced with at a club in Ibiza. He wants you with him on yachts, on planes, standing in parc ferme after a win. He’s wanted you since he’d stared at your fucking tits almost half a year ago.
It’s then that he realises he needs to do something. Something that doesn’t consist of sulking about you, thinking about you, or frankly, anything to do with you. Maybe an evening run, or a session on his sim. Maybe he could call up Max despite it probably being about two in the morning over in London.
Or, maybe, he could just knock on your door, kiss you, and see what happened from there.
He glances at the white box on the coffee table, the magazines beside it.
The media had always called him blessed. Mclaren’s golden boy. Incredibly, miraculously lucky. As he finally stands, slipping out of his apartment, he thinks it might be true.
Jimmy’z is as loud as it always is.
He’d called up Carlos, asking what he was doing and where he was, and it’d led him here. To the most exclusive club in Monte Carlo. It smelt like alcohol, like intoxicating perfume, the music pulsing so loud in his head he can’t think.
“What’s got you so worked up?” Carlos asks him at the bar, waiting for their drinks. “Surely can’t be the championship. You’re leading by a mile.”
“No—it’s not,” Lando answers, staring ahead of him. “Something else. Personal.”
“When’s the last time you had sex?”
He winces, glancing over, “Seriously?”
“Two months, then.”
“Fuck you.”
Carlos laughs, taking their shots from the bartender and sliding one across to Lando. He downs it instantly, savouring the burn in his throat and praying it’s enough to ease his tension.
“How about—” Carlos’s hands are on his shoulder, steering him to look in the direction of a girl. “Her. Blonde on your left.”
“I’m not doing this, Carlos.”
“No?” he surveys the crowd, before steering him again. “Her?”
Lando freezes. Carlos, too busy with his ongoing bit of listing random women, doesn’t notice.
You’re standing there, in a dress that glints beneath the strobing lights, drink in your hand, a carefree smile on your face as you talk to a group of your friends.
Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuck—
Lando’s heartbeat is so loud in his ears it drowns out the music.
You look beautiful.
It's the first time he's seen you in almost a month, but that's all that's running through his head.
He can see the way you’re talking, using your hands, more animated than he’s ever seen you before. Just as he can even choose to tear his gaze away, for both your sakes, someone’s approaching you.
He’s tall, blonde, frame nudging past people with the clear goal of getting to you. When he does, you blink, smiling and shaking his hand.
It’s nothing like the first time you and Lando met. It plays out perfect—the man makes you laugh, complimenting you by the looks of it, and you’re already pulling your phone out of your purse.
Something sparks deep inside of him. Jealousy. A pang of something possessive when he knows it isn't fair. Still, he’s moving, cutting Carlos off mid sentence.
“Where are y—”
“I’ll be back.”
He reaches you in under twenty seconds, managing to catch the ends of your conversation.
“Did you want another drink?”
“Yeah, that’d be—”
The man steps aside just as Lando stops in front of you. He watches your attention shift, watches the recognition flash across your features.
“Lando?”
The man blinks, head snapping towards him. You’re frozen on the spot, gaze darting between the two of them.
“Sorry, man,” he says, and Lando straightens. “Kinda busy h—”
“Leave.”
The command comes out short. Rude, but Lando can’t bring himself to care.
“I’m sorry?”
“Leave,” he repeats, and you’re silent, hands lowering to your sides. “Now.”
“Excuse m—”
“Get the fuck out,” he says, stepping closer. You tense, but stay quiet. “Do I have to make you?”
The man scoffs, muttering something and disappearing into the crowd.
It leaves you and Lando silent again.
“What the fuck are you—”
“Not here,” he says, grabbing your wrist to lead you out the back. “Fuck.”
You stumble outside, glass still in one hand, a glare on your face. The heavy door slams shut, and Lando releases his hold.
“What the fuck was that?”
“I dont—”
“What gives you the fucking right?” you say, voice raising. “You think you can dictate who I talk to just because we live opposite each other?!"
“No, fuck, baby—”
“You’re a fucking dick, Norris.”
“I know.”
“You’re arrogant, cocky, egotistical—” you shove him, and he doesn’t resist, staggering back. “You ignore me for a month and this is the first thing you fucking do?!”
He winces, rubbing his shoulder. You’re breathless, face flushed pink, looking at him with disdain.
“I wasn’t ignoring you.”
“Fuck you.”
“I wasn’t,” he repeats, moving closer. You step back, and he doesn't try again. “I was just—I didn’t know what to—”
“Is this a game to you? Am I a game? Are you testing to see how long you can keep me waiting for and how long I’ll keep letting it happen?”
He shakes his head, and you lean against the wall, exhaling.
“Were you…” he starts, and you look at him. “Planning on fucking him? And the guy in Greece—”
“You’re unbelievable."
“Were you?”
“Would it matter?”
“Yes. A lot.”
“Tell me why.”
Because I’m in love with you.
“Because you’re out of his league.”
“Lando,” you laugh, disbelieving. “Don’t fucking lie.”
“Were you hoping I’d say something else?” he grins, then immediately curses himself. What the fuck was he doing? “That I’d say because I want to fuck you?”
“Don’t you?”
His smile falters.
“What?”
“We’re unfinished, remember?” you say. “What happened to wanting to kiss me? To fuck me more than anything? No, I wasn’t planning on have sex with him, or anyone, but God I sh—”
He’s moving before you even finish the last word, hands fitting around your waist, lips crashing against yours with six months worth of want. Of need. One hand slides up from your waist to your jaw, the other sliding beneath your dress, warm on your skin.
You smell so good, like vanilla and lip gloss and champagne. Like everything he’s ever been searching for. It’s overwhelming. Filling his head until all he can think about is your lips, your tongue against his. He feels you chasing him back—nails digging into his shoulder, head tilting, lips parting so easily for him.
It’s better than any other kiss he’s had in his life.
“Fuck,” he gasps. “I’m sorry.”
You let out something between a whine and a moan, quiet, probably accidental. He feels your hands tangle in his hair, the warmth of your body as you arch against him. Impulsive, his hand trails down again, skimming beneath the waistband of your panties. You whimper then, hand catching his wrist to keep it still.
“Lan—” you start, eyes shutting as his lips trail down to your jaw, teeth grazing beneath your ear. You find his lips again, and there’s a sense of desperation, urgency. “I—fuck. Just—”
He abruptly pulls away, breathless, stumbling.
You stay still, face flushed pink, dress, creased from his roaming hands. He knows he probably looks the same, maybe worse. It’s silent, apart from the sound of ragged breathing and muffled bass from the club.
“Fuck. Sorry,” he says, running his hands through his hair. “I…”
Your eyes are wide and startled, watching as he presses his fingers to his mouth, lowers them, then covers his face.
“Lando—”
“I’ve got a triple header this week,” he bursts out. “U.S, Mexico, Brazil. I leave tomorrow morning.”
You’re still panting, motionless, processing the words.
His heart is racing, fingers clenching and unclenching by his sides. Before you get to even open your mouth, he reaches for you again. You’re not even surprised, kissing him back with the same exact intensity. It feels different from the first two. It feels like another promise, one that he knows he’ll keep, one that says when I get back, you and me are real.
“I'm not waiting for you any longer.”
“I know,” he mutters, thumb grazing against your cheek. “I know that. I promise.”
He steps back again, and you’re already moving to your apartment door, pausing just as you turn the door handle. You aren’t smiling at him. Your lips are parted, blush dusted across your skin. When he forces himself away, you stop him.
“Lando.”
“Yeah?”
You smile then—pefect, fucking angelic, and he almost reaches for you again.
“I missed you.”
Fuck.
You’re not sure when you realised you might be in love with Lando Norris.
As far as you remembered, he’d always been the same. He’d run into you in the hall every morning, in the elevator, on the way in and out of the building. He’d make the same shitty jokes, flirt in the most arrogant way possible, slide his hand around your waist when you’d sift through your mailbox.
It’s hard to tell, because Lando is so, undeniably, him.
You don’t know whether a shitty pick up line means something else. You don’t know if the small graze of his thumb on your skin is accidental or pointed. He calls you gorgeous, baby, a smile on his face that seems all too knowing, then you open your phone the next day to an article titled ‘Lando Norris spotted with model in Ibiza’.
You think you might’ve realised after that night in his apartment. It’d sat at the back of your mind like a shadow, a constant reminder that the two of you were ‘unfinished’. Whatever the hell that meant.
Or maybe it’d been the silence that came after, the month of tension, of absence that’d felt like torture. You’d hated it so much you’d left for Greece in hopes you’d return home to normalcy.
Mykono’s had been dreamlike. The coastline was gorgeous, you’d spent your days on yachts and nights in clubs. You’d met a guy called Elias—Greek perfection, and that had been it. You’d only met him. You hadn’t gotten his number, had sex, gone any deeper than knowing his name and age and the name of his dog.
All you could think about was home. Of your apartment and Lando, right across from it. You thought about his shitty pick up lines, his touch, the magazines always tossed outside your door. You thought about him, staring at the sea like you could see Monaco, and when you’d arrived home, he hadn’t been there waiting.
Naturally, you’d done the only thing you knew how whenever your life was thrown into disarray. You’d gone to Jimmy’z, with the sole purpose of getting wasted, but the universe, as you’d established almost six months ago when he’d moved in, absolutely hated you and you’d run into him anyway.
You remember being so, unbelievably frustrated. Frustrated at the sheer audacity of him, the shitty greeting after a month of pure silence.
But then he’d kissed you. You still couldn’t get the feeling out of your head—his hands on your waist, sliding up the planes of your stomach, your jaw, slipping down briefly to dip at the waistband of your panties.
Then he’d fucking left. Again. Without another word. Leaving only another promise and a white box outside your door.
It’s been five days since the kiss. Four since he'd left, leaving another promise in his wake. Four since you’d opened that perfectly wrapped box he'd left outside your door.
Lingerie. Light pink, dainty, lingerie.
You were sure you were reading into it too much. This was Lando, after all. Someone who jumped at the opportunity to make things amusing when they got too personal—but the thought of it. The thought of him seeing the set and thinking of you.
You tear your gaze away from the box, over to the screen instead, the Grand Prix in Austin on lap 55. Lando’s leading, like you’ve discovered he usually is. When he crosses the line in first, you’re not even looking. Your gaze has slid over to the box again.
It’s then you decide you’re going to something completely and utterly stupid.
You —
[ 1 image attached ]
congrats on the win
A wave of regret washes over you the moment you hit send.
The picture stares back at you on your phone: you, on your fucking knees on the plush, duvet of your bed, the pink lace flush against your skin. It’s a good picture. A really good picture, and yet you want to throw your phone off the balcony despite it.
He doesn’t answer for ten minutes. An hour. Two.
You swipe onto the messages again, debating whether to delete everything and block his contact, curled up in bed with the set still on, when—
Lando —
fuck
fuckfuckfuck what the fuck
baby
baby what the fuck
The torrent of messages makes you sit up, thighs pressing together, blush already making its way up your neck.
Lando —
no you can’t do this
not while i’m away for another two weeks
i’ll book a flight back to monaco right now i’m not even fucking joking
You —
be patient norris
Lando —
are you still wearing it??
You shift slightly, debating on whether to send him another picture.
You —
[ 1 image attached ]
Lando —
oh fuck
you’re gonna kill me
You —
what took you so long to answer earlier?
Lando —
post race celebration debrief whatever the hell
knew i should’ve checked my phone sooner
You —
where are you?
Lando —
hotel
im meant to go out with everyone in twenty minutes
fuck
You can imagine him in his room, his face tinted crimson. You can imagine his voice, picture his touch you so badly craved.
Your phone lights up again.
Lando —
if i win all three of my races
you wear that set for me when i get home
Your fingers clench around your phone.
You —
deal
Then you slide your phone onto your bedside table, silent, like it’ll soothe your racing heart.
The day of the Brazil Grand Prix, two weeks later, you’re curled up on the couch, anxiously biting the pad of your thumb as you watch. You’d found yourself watching the recent races with more attention than any other. Probably because of the looming shadow of the deal you’d made with him, growing closer with every lap he spent in P1. He’d won Mexico last week with a 25 second gap, Austin with 10, but this one was different. It held more weight.
The commentator raises his voice, saying words that have no meaning to you, until—
“Lando Norris wins the Brazilian Grand Prix!”
You can’t breathe. Your body rushes with adrenaline, with anticipation, heart thundering against your ribs.
An hour later, you get the text.
Lando —
i’ll be back on monday
The day Lando Norris had moved in across the hall, you knew your life would change.
Did you think it’d change this much? No. But you knew it’d change, and the revelation gave you a sense of unexplainable comfort.
He gets home on Monday, eight pm. You’d spent the entire day pacing, then attempting to be productive, then pacing again. The lingerie had stared at you from its spot on your chair, accusationally, waiting for the moment you reached for it again.
You hear him walk into his apartment. You count the minutes until he comes out again, until he knocks.
Lando’s already smiling when you open the door.
He’s in joggers, a cotton tee, backwards cap. He looks how he usually would on a regular day. One where he didn’t have a very blatant deal to have sex with you.
“Hi,” he says, and it comes out quiet. “Miss me?”
You drag your gaze up to his face, taking a step closer. It’s silent for a few seconds, weighted silence, before you give in.
“Yeah,” you breathe, and he’s already moving, hands on your hips to press you against him.
He kisses you soft.
You sink into him, lips against his, letting him guide you. His tongue licks into your mouth—not desperate like the first time, but slow. Savouring. The surface of your door is cold against your back, and you blindly reach for the handle, turning it and sending the two of you stumbling inside.
He doesn’t comment on the interior, the stack of magazines, the box still on the couch. He just keeps kissing you, hands roaming idly, beneath your shirt and brushing against the lace of your bra.
“Oh, fuck,” he breathes when he feels it, pulling away to catch his breath. “You wore it.”
“That was the deal, wasn’t it?”
He groans, muttering, “you’re killing me, baby”, hand sliding to your jaw.
Your hands reach up to his hair when he leans again, tossing his cap off to the side, tangling in the soft curls. A helpless moan escapes you when his hips move against yours. You can feel how hard he is, the pent up frustration and longing. You wonder if he’s been like this since Brazil, since his flight, and the thought sends heat pooling at your core.
“Bedroom,” you say between kisses, though you make no move to stop. “On the left.”
You don’t register the length between the door and your room. You don’t register him nudging you onto your bed either, only the warmth of him on top of you, his hand tugging your shirt off.
He pulls away again, just to take you in. His gaze surveys every inch of you, roaming freely, turning you inside out though he hasn’t said a word. He looks dishevelled—awestruck, his chest rising and falling in ragged breaths.
“You’re—” he blinks, like he can’t believe he’s even here. “Gorgeous. So fucking gorgeous—”
“Off,” you say, and your voice sounds so far away. You lean forward, pulling at his shirt. “Take it off.”
He immediately shrugs it off, and you scramble to tug your own shorts off too, about to reach for his joggers until he does it for you. You let yourself be greedy, taking in the sight of his tan skin, the curve of his muscles, the lines that disappear beneath his boxers.
“Please,” you say, quiet. You don’t know what you’re saying please for. It might be please kiss me, please fuck me, please don’t keep me waiting any longer. Probably a combination of all three. “Lando.”
His palm skims up your thighs, tugging you effortlessly closer. You can see how hard he is now—the prominent outline of him against his boxers. It makes you clench around nothing, fingers curling in your bedsheets.
“What do you want?” he asks, and you whine, his fingers toying with the waistband of your panties. “Tell me.”
“I want you.”
“Where?”
Everywhere, you want to say, thighs pressing together when he tugs the lace down. His hands push them apart again with a small murmur of stay still for me, and you think you might come right then and there.
“Lando,” you whine when he moves away, sliding up the planes of your back to the clasp of your bra. “Just touch me. Anywhere. Fuck me.”
He laughs then, low, his touch so gentle and only adding to your desperation.
“You’re beautiful,” he says, then he’s back to your thighs, tracing idly. His fingers—finally, graze over your clit, and you immediately arch into him. “So wet and I’ve barely touched you.”
He circles it, featherlight, making you gasp. His fingers move quicker at the noise, slipping down to your folds.
“Is this what you’ve been thinking about?” he asks, leaning down to trail kisses at your jaw. “These past three weeks—past few months?”
His finger slides inside of you, barely, but it makes you moan, hips jerking in an attempt to pull him in deeper.
“I know you have, baby,” he says, slowly pulling out, just to fuck in deeper. “Fuck.”
He moves swifter, thumb pressing against your clit, slipping in a second finger. It feels overwhelming already—too much, and yet you want even more. He curls his fingers perfectly, like he’s already learnt you. You already feel so full, his thick fingers quickening when he feels you tense.
“Lan,” you say, and he groans at the name. “Please—”
You come abruptly, hard, body trembling. He fucks you through it, murmuring praise in your ear, even as tears spring at your eyes in overstimulation.
You whimper when he slowly pulls his fingers out again. Wordlessly, he taps the side of your cheek, and you open your mouth instinctively.
“Jesus,” he rasps when you take his fingers into your mouth. You open your eyes to look up at him, eyelashes fluttering, and he looks devastated. Utterly ruined at the sight of you. “You’re perfect.”
You keep your eyes on him, still slightly shaking, licking over his fingers and tasting yourself on your tongue.
His next movements are a blur. You watch him tug his boxers down, cock hard and leaking. It’s big. So fucking big and all it does it make you impatient. He grins when you try move closer, stopping you halfway.
“Relax for me,” he says, and you’re falling back onto the mattress, head hitting the plush pillows. He reaches over, grabs a condom from God knows where, rolling it on and settling between your thighs. Your eyes are wide, lips parted, but you relax, letting him guide you exactly where he wants. “That’s it, baby.”
He nudges against you, gentle, and you both tense.
“Breathe,” he says, but it comes out strained, like he’s holding himself back. He pushes in, slow, stopping at just the tip. “Fuck. Oh, fuck.”
You whimper, hands fisting in the sheets, head tilting back when he eases in deeper.
“You okay?” he asks, stopping to brush your hair out of your face. “You look—insane. So fucking unreal.”
“I’m fine,” you gasp, one hand moving to tangle in his hair. He leans forward, kissing you, reassuring. “Move. Please move.”
His hands settle on your waist when he slides all the way in, and you both groan at the feeling. You turn your head to bury it in the pillows, but he immediately tilts it back towards him.
“Let me hear you,” he murmurs, starting to thrust in and out. “It’s just us. C’mon, gorgeous.”
You moan at that, and he pushes in harder, deeper, hitting all the right spots inside you.
You can hear his ragged breathing, your own name on his lips. He sets a rhythm, steady, the bed frame knocking against the wall with every moment. Your hands move to his shoulders, nails digging into his back, and he groans, thrusts turning rougher.
“You take me so well, baby,” he says, and he sounds breathless, hoarse. “So fucking well.”
“I can’t—” you clench around him, overstimulated. “Lan—I can’t—”
“You can,” he breathes, sinking impossible deeper, filling you perfectly. “Come for me. I know you can.”
It feels so good, like heaven, like the world really only consisted of the two of you. He moves your leg higher, and you let him, pliant, overwhelmed with pleasure. You’re sure your nails have left scratches, deep marks, but it only seems to encourage him more.
“Feels good, huh?” he says, and he’s grinning. You roll your hips against his in response, and the flash of confidence shatters, turning into something that sounds like a whine. “You’re so good—you’re so fucking good to me.”
He ghosts his lips over your neck, and you turn your head to kiss him. It’s messy, hungry, his tongue against yours and his cock relentless inside you.
The second time you come feels euphoric—dizzying, knocking all the air out of your lungs. All you can think about is Lando, his name, his touch, the months of craving of him all for this exact moment.
He shudders a second later, hips stuttering, grip bruising on your skin.
“Fuck,” he groans when he comes, panting. He thrusts in again, rhythm faltering, his face pressed against your neck. “Fuck—I think I’m in love with you.”
Then he collapses, gasping, flushed a pretty shade of pink. You lay there, chest rising and falling, eyes half lidded, not yet processing his words.
You’re not sure how long you stay there, trying to regain your breath. You whine quietly at him pulling out, barely sensing him moving to toss out the condom.
“Everything okay?” he asks, quietly. You’re too spent to answer, so you move towards him, letting him press kisses on your forehead, your neck, down your shoulder.
He looks completely wrecked, hair tousled and messy. When he turns away again to presumably find tissues, you see the marks on his back, the indents of your nails. You’re sure you don’t look much better, but you know if you asked he’d say you were the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
I think I’m in love with you.
“Lando,” you say, softly. He blinks, glancing back at you, concern in his eyes. “Did you meant that?”
He cocks his head, like he’s trying to figure out what you mean. You see when it clicks, when the blush deepens into crimson.
“Yeah,” he says, and you sit up, flinching at the ache in your muscles. “I mean—I think so. You’re all I ever think about. Ever since I moved in.”
You study his face, the expression on it. He’s studying you back, looking for a reaction, a response in your eyes.
“I think I might be in love with you too,” you answer, and his shoulders physically relax. He falls back onto the bed, on top of you, face burying in your neck. “Even though you’re a cocky, arrogant, piece of shit.”
“Thanks,” he mutters. “I try.”
You laugh and feel him smile into your skin.
“Stay tonight,” you tell him, gently running your fingers through his hair. “If you want.”
“If I want,” he repeats, grinning. “Right.”
You scoff, settling back into the pillows. He kisses you, muttering something about finding a towel, and you let him go.
You wonder if all those months ago, if you’d opened the door to him in a better mood, if he hadn’t fucking stared at your tits, you would’ve had this sooner. Maybe you would’ve kissed him the first time you’d had the chance to, maybe you would’ve said yes to every single date he’d asked you on, and almost 10 months of wait would turn into one.
But it didn’t matter now. It didn’t matter because now, you finally had him.
It’s summer in Monaco, three months later, and there’s a magazine outside your apartment door.
The glossy cover is smooth on your fingertips, there’s a note stuck to the front, and a paperclip marks a specific page. You smile, leaning against the doorframe, plucking the note off and staring at the cover.
It’s you.
Well, not just you. It’s the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix, it’s Lando in his race suit, it’s the two of you kissing after he’d just won the championship.
You’re crying—you remembered crying, but hadn’t realised how obvious it’d actually been. There are tears streaks trailing down your face, his hand is resting on your jaw to tilt your face towards him.
Lando Norris — An Interview with Formula 1’s newest World Champion
Though the championship has been the center of attention for Lando Norris, it isn’t the only thing people have been talking about. We sat the British F1 driver down almost a year ago with the question: How do you handle relationships when you’re living such a public life?
Back then, he’d responded with his usual, boyish charm—claiming he thinks he’s ‘much better at driving a car at 300 kilometres an hour than replying a text’. But now, after the events of his championship-winning Grand Prix, it seems as though that wasn’t entirely true.
“You said in a previous interview you wanted someone who can put up with you—who doesn’t let you get away with everything. You also said you hadn’t found them yet. What about now?”
We ask Lando, fresh off his championship win and the reveal of his girlfriend.
“Now? Yeah. I’ve found her.”
“And is she ticking all your boxes?”
“Every single one. She puts up with me—she has since we met a year ago, actually. She doesn’t know a thing about Formula 1. She’s hot, sexy, and gorgeous—ticks all my boxes.”
“And how did you meet?”
Lando smiles at the question, blushing.
“I mean—fuck, I wish I could say we met somewhere romantic, but no, it was quite the opposite,” his smile grows. “No further comment.”
“Alright. Final question: Any messages for her? For anyone?”
“No. She’ll get a message when she reads this interview anyway.”
You close the magazine, glancing at the note he’d attached on top.
𐙚 . pairing ⎯⎯ crown's spy!lando norris x noble!fem reader.
𐙚 . summary ⎯⎯ when lando is ordered to find the royal traitor who has been selling crown secrets to enemy forces, he expects every possible outcome—except falling in love with the eldest daughter of the very man he is hunting. he ought to be focused on putting the duke behind bars; yet, a mere flutter of her eyelashes is all it takes to leave lando completely disarmed.
𐙚 . warnings ⎯⎯ fluff. drama. pining. angst with a happy ending (yay). suggestive content but completely sfw. lando is addressed with another name through this part of the fic (anthony) but you will understand at the end!! this is heavily inspired by pride and prejudice btw. part one of two.
𐙚 . word count ⎯⎯ 10k
𐙚 . author's note ⎯⎯ i decided to fix some parts of the fic and make it two parts instead of one. this way it will make more sense. @discopantsinpanic girl you got me working HARD for your approval LMAO.
The ballroom smelled faintly of sweat mixed with bubbly and an excess of men’s cologne. Perhaps it was due to your lack of interest, but you felt trapped in the single most boring conversation in existence—even considering that you used to attend the occasional meeting with your father regarding the naval fleets. Standing before you were two handsome nobles attempting to entertain you with a conversation about the rise in the wheat market over the past few weeks. It had even crossed your mind that discussing political decisions sounded far more amusing than anything these lords had to say.
You wished your sisters had been there to keep you entertained, but considering the eldest was already married and utterly forgotten, and your two younger sisters were not yet old enough to make their debut, it was entirely impossible.
Your own debut had been grueling. You had never worn a corset so tight for so long; you were certain the skin covering your ribs had been left bruised after the evening. But it had been completely worth it—thanks to that, you had incredible proposals and dashing gentlemen competing for your hand.
Pity none of them had been blessed with a lively, charming personality.
"If we allow foreign wheat to flood our shores, what will become of the landowners' honor?"
"An unimaginable tragedy, no doubt, Lord Danbury," you sighed, trying not to sound as flat as you felt. "I cannot imagine a cruel destiny for the nation than slightly cheaper bread for the common people."
Lord Danbury blinked, trying to decipher whether the comment was a display of refined knowledge or simply lethal sarcasm. He seemed to decide it was the former, for he offered a smug smile.
"I see the Duke has instructed you quite well in matters of true importance. I can only imagine a lady of your stature understands the weight of property."
You inhaled deeply, limiting yourself to just that, though all you wanted to do was sigh out loud from sheer boredom right in their faces.
"Believe me, my lord," you smiled, fluttering your feather fan to cool off the suffocating wave of tedium, "the weight of your properties is practically the only thing I have heard about since the evening began."
You glanced away for just a moment, indulging in the view of other prominent young lords. You wondered if any of them were even half as amusing as they were handsome, but assumed, looking back at Lord Danbury, that it was practically impossible.
Lord Harrington beside him, sadly, was no better. He was a brainless, cheap copy who spent his time nodding along and smiling every time you made even the slightest eye contact with him.
Your dance card at your wrist lay completely blank—an embarrassment considering how passionate you were about dancing, and a vile demonstration that your father had only introduced you to the most boring lords in the entire court.
You were beginning to calculate how much it would cost you to feign a swoon to escape the conversation when a shadow was cast over the three of you, forcing your attention back to the present. The sight of a third lord momentarily stole the air from your lungs—not only from surprise, but also from sheer cheekiness; a gentleman could not present himself before a lady without an intermediary to introduce them.
"My lords, I apologize for interrupting such an important and profound conversation about the price of wheat, but I fear I must kidnap the lady," he said, his tone warm and terribly amused.
"Kidnap me, sir...?" You placed a hand on your chest and instinctively accepted the glass of bubbly he was offering you with a smile.
This man was barely a head taller than you—not particularly tall, but infuriatingly attractive. He had skin that could only be sun-kissed, flawlessly styled, shiny curls, and emerald-blue eyes with enviable lashes. He took your breath away for a second time in a matter of moments.
"Wesbury. Anthony Wesbury, at your service," he grinned, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he did, which you found to be the most wonderful thing. "May I?"
You looked down to where his finger was pointing. Your dance card, completely empty.
You puffed out your chest and extended your arm, allowing Anthony to write his name himself. You blushed furiously when you saw him hesitate and exhale a soft laugh before writing on the completely blank page. When he looked back up to meet your eyes, you had to resume fanning yourself with your feather fan, as the room was starting to feel suffocating all over again.
"It would be a true tragedy to ruin such exquisite music by choosing to remain among the stagnant crowd," his smile was directed at both lords, neither of whom had managed to offer you a single dance. "Will you grant me this dance, or would you prefer to keep hearing about the price of wheat?"
"You are dangerously impertinent, sir," you said, before placing the completely empty glass of bubbly onto a passing servant's tray and accepting Anthony's hand. "But you are quite right. The music is far too exquisite to be wasted."
You tried not to react when Anthony led you straight to the center of the dance floor, pulling you close in a swift movement with an arm around your waist. His hand was warm, large, and somewhat calloused, but it covered yours with ease, instantly giving you a sense of protection—even if you did not know this man at all.
You looked around, trying to see if anyone else was watching you dance. But both Lord Danbury and Lord Harrington were already nowhere to be seen.
"Is something troubling you, my lady?" Anthony asked to bring you back, which worked, as you looked back at him, a bit distracted. "Don't tell me you are thinking about something as banal as wheat again."
"Not at all, sir," you replied, following his steps. You were surprised by the ease with which he moved you across the floor to the rhythm of the orchestra. "I was simply looking for my aunt."
"Are you worried about being seen with me?" he inquired with a hint of mockery so subtle you almost missed it, were it not for the stupidly handsome grin on his face.
"I could expect nothing less after such insolence on your part, sir," you shot back, slightly on the defensive.
"On the contrary," he said with conviction as he spun you in place, "I highlight informality as the finest way to truly know a lady."
"Unheard of," you murmured between your teeth to hide the silly smile that threatened to make your cheeks ache.
"I fear that were it not for my lack of formality, you would not be interested," he answered carefully. "Or could you claim you wouldn't have found me to be just another boring lord from some boring estate had I approached with a chaperone?"
You allowed yourself a smile before replying, "I fear I cannot refute that."
You had to admit it: Anthony Wesbury was refreshing in an atmosphere as suffocating as a social and political ball. Your father had abandoned you to attend to other matters with the very first men who spoke to you, and your mother, seeing you occupied, had simply decided to stay out of it to let you socialize. You would have preferred your mother hovering over you, leading the conversation, over being left with two such dull men.
"Admit it," Anthony smirked, leaning in to whisper with a smile, "you were expecting another stiff-footed lord to step on your dress."
You let out a chuckle, knowing that Anthony actually moved remarkably well. There was a lightness to his steps that could only stem from confidence.
And what a thrilling thing confidence was in an attractive man.
"And instead, you are standing before the finest dancer in all of London." You raised an eyebrow at that, huffing with amusement.
"I admit your ego is as inflated as the dome of the royal house," you countered, earning a laugh from Sir Wesbury. "Though I must admit, my lord, you are quite light on your feet."
"Only that?" he asked, exaggerating his disappointment to make you smile. "Then I can only pray that merit works to earn me a proper compliment during our next dance."
"Next dance?" you inquired, feeling a blush creep up again.
"You couldn't have thought we would have such a disappointing end," Anthony spun you around once more, and you realized with horror that the waltz was drawing to a close. "When the most fun comes after the first."
"You must speak from experience," you said, narrowing your eyes with a smile.
"Do not be flustered, my lady," Anthony tilted his head to the side with grace. "I am just as much a newcomer to society as you are."
When the waltz finally ended, you stepped back from Anthony, your breathing slightly hurried. He bowed in your presence before disappearing into the crowd with the promise of your second dance.
Except Lord Wesbury did not show up for the rest of the night. And you did not accept any other dance for the remainder of the evening.
The following morning began as a total trial.
Perhaps it was the fact that it was your first social season, or perhaps you had drunk a bit too much sparkling wine—never enough to embarrass yourself publicly in a room full of people, of course—but you had woken up with a piercing headache. It didn't help that your two younger sisters attacked the moment the first rays of sunlight appeared. It was far too early, and you had returned far too late the night before, to endure a punishment of such magnitude.
"Did you meet many gentlemen?"
"Did you dance with any of them?"
"What did I tell you about bothering me so early in the morning?" you grunted, trying to press your face deeper into the pillow.
Mary, the youngest of your sisters, bounced onto the edge of your bed, making it tremble and squeak slightly under her weight.
"Did you?" she inquired, leaning over to catch a glimpse of your face.
"Did you drink?" Charlotte asked now.
You sighed before forcing yourself to sit up. Your head throbbed, and you rubbed your eye, still bearing traces of the makeup from the night before since you had collapsed straight into bed and forgotten to wash your face. When you were finally able to open your eyes without dying in the attempt, their faces were filled with eager anticipation for your answer.
"I met a few gentlemen. They were all boring, really—you aren't missing out on anything," you answered, raising your eyebrows.
Charlotte huffed.
"Was at least one of them handsome?"
You looked away, recalling Anthony's face and his gorgeous emerald-blue eyes.
"Most of them," you answered instead, looking back at them.
"How many did you dance with?" Mary leaned forward on the bed, curious. You exhaled, bracing yourself for your response.
"Only one."
They burst into loud squeals and giggles before firing off a barrage of questions. Was he handsome? How tall was he? Was he funny? Did he dance well? You allowed them to ask every single question simply because they seemed so genuinely excited and intrigued.
"Is there any chance you’ll see him again today at Hyde Park?" Charlotte smiled.
Hyde Park was the most famous Royal Park in London. When there were no tea parties or organized gatherings, the elite would spend most of their time parading in their carriages to see and be seen, allowing high society ladies to be presented to interested gentlemen. You had been there a couple of times, and you remembered perfectly that your father had been invited to a garden party that very afternoon, to which he intended to bring you.
Whether you might cross paths with Anthony was a complete mystery. Besides, even if he were to attend, what were the odds he would actually speak to you again? After all, he had been perfectly clear the night before by failing to claim his promised second dance with you. You hadn't even seen him leave—no carriage, no chaperone.
It was as if he had simply vanished into the morning breeze.
"I don't know, Charlotte," you replied simply, looking away with a sigh. "I could only hope so."
Anthony Wesbury was not someone you wished to think about at this precise moment, nor did you want to grant him the satisfaction of occupying your thoughts—even if there was no way he could know. You preferred a thousand times over to worry about far more pressing matters, such as the garden party your father was invited to that afternoon, where you, of course, were also expected.
That was precisely the exhausting part of the social season: having absolutely no time to rest from so much interaction. The situation only worsened when you considered the significant role your father played in political affairs; after all, he owned the largest merchant fleet network at present and worked hand in hand with the Crown—one of the reasons he had been formally created a Duke. Your father’s high standing demanded that you attend every social event and live up to the status.
After luncheon, you found yourself obligated to prepare for the tea party with the help of your two younger sisters. They were far more excited than you were, which offered a bit of relief.
It was well known that debuting each sister separately rarely fostered sisterly harmony, but thankfully, that had never managed to divide your family—with the exception of your eldest sister, who had been married for two years and didn’t even visit or invite them to her new home. It wasn't an obligation, of course, but you would have at least expected a little more warmth from the person who had helped raise you.
"You should wear the green one," Mary said, wrapping her arms gently around you and resting her chin on your shoulder to inspect the two dresses laid across your bed.
"It’s the color that flatters you most," Charlotte agreed with a nod.
The dress in question was an olive-green satin, plain save for the embroidered gold and white detailing. It featured puffed sleeves and an extra layer of sheer abaca fabric across the bust.
"Besides, it matches Sir Wesbury's eyes," you rolled your eyes at Mary’s teasing remark. Of course they would seize every subtle opportunity to bring up any detail you might have mentioned about him that morning.
You ended up choosing the green dress anyway. Your mother helped braid your hair while you applied a touch of makeup, and you left the house at precisely four o’clock in the afternoon.
"Hold your parasol firmly," your mother instructed, handing it to you in a hurried tone. "The wind might catch your dress, so you must be careful." She peered out the carriage window.
There was a heavy breeze under a dreadful summer sun.
"And keep your face and arms properly covered," she reminded you with a decisive tone. "Do not let the direct sun touch your skin."
You let out a silent sigh before offering a smile and a nod. The remainder of the journey passed in silence, and as the carriages pulled up after a long drive along Serpentine Road, you wanted nothing more than to step out. You were tired; the headache had subsided into a dull, annoying pressure between your brows, the sun was at its most suffocating point in the sky, and the breeze was hardly enough to offer relief—neither to you nor to any of the other ladies.
The first thing you noticed upon stepping out of the carriage were the long tables laden with refreshments. Pastries and sandwiches abounded, alongside steaming teapots, fine porcelain cups, cutlery, and sugar bowls placed at intervals. Your mother introduced you to a group of young ladies near your age who were chatting pleasantly around a small table. You caught sight of the gentlemen down by the lake, practicing archery while another group of ladies watched attentively.
You remained where you were, simply listening to the conversation without offering much input.
"One must admit the afternoon is turning out to be exceptionally pleasant. I feared this heat would melt the cream on the desserts, but the shade of these willows is truly a blessing," one of them remarked—you seemed to recall she was Miss Barrington, a young woman a few years your senior.
"A very timely blessing indeed. We were fortunate enough to secure the finest spot in the park," another lady’s mother chimed in.
The conversation soon shifted to the flavor of the pastries and the delicate care required in baking them, but you were already far too distracted by the scenery to pay close attention. Lately, everything felt so trivial that any conversation with your sisters was far more entertaining than upholding etiquette, yet you hadn't managed to make a single friend so far.
It was difficult, considering that most first impressions carried enough weight to keep everyone merely distantly polite toward one another.
"[Name], my dear, come here for a moment," you tore your gaze away from the lake to look back at your mother, who was approaching slowly alongside another gentleman.
It took you a few seconds to recognize Anthony.
His face and skin looked different in the sunlight; he appeared even more sun-kissed than you remembered. His eyes stood out strikingly against his attire, which was a pale, perfectly tailored blue. You forced yourself to press your lips together to keep your jaw from dropping as you bridged the remaining distance between you.
"The Viscount Ravenscroft was courteous enough to request an introduction. Sir Wesbury, allow me to present my daughter, Miss [Name]," you curtsied swiftly with a bend of your knees, biting the inside of your cheek.
"It is a privilege to finally meet you, Miss [LastName]," his smile made you grit your teeth slightly before offering a polite, false smile of your own.
"The honor is mine, Sir Wesbury," you bowed your head slightly, subtly twirling your parasol. You were just about to open your mouth to say something when Anthony cut in.
"Mrs. [LastName]," Anthony turned to your mother with a perfectly respectable smile, "the day is splendid. Would you grant me the honor of escorting your daughter to see the lake overlook?"
"Oh," your mother smiled, delighted, making no effort to hide her interest. "Of course. I shall follow just behind you."
Anthony offered a small bow and looked at you, gesturing with his hand to invite you to walk beside him. You moistened your lips, adjusted your parasol, and kept pace right beside him. Soon, you both reached the edge of the lake, embarking on a slow, relaxing stroll—technically alone.
"Did you not intend to mention earlier that you were the Viscount Ravenscroft?" you asked, glancing over your shoulder at your mother, who was a few paces behind, taking in the details of the park.
"Would it have offered me any sort of advantage had you known beforehand?" he asked in return, with his signature smirk, leaning slightly in your direction.
"I beg your pardon? An advantage?"
"In the pursuit of your hand," Anthony explained softly, his voice gentle. You looked away to hide your flush.
"There is no such thing, sir," you whispered.
"Then allow me to express my delight," Anthony smiled, "in knowing that I am the only one."
You swallowed hard. His interest was no longer something you could ignore. You had never been courted so directly—in truth, you had never been courted at all—and the sensation was exquisite. Knowing that someone like Anthony, with his poise and standing, was interested in you brought an indescribable joy. Your stomach fluttered pleasantly every time he smiled with such confidence.
"A clever move," you managed to say, "presenting yourself to my mother as though you hadn't bypassed proper protocol last night." Bringing up the previous evening felt strange, considering he was still walking beside you with the promise of a dance he had never delivered. To say you were still a bit offended would be an understatement.
"I hope it is enough to demonstrate my intention to do things properly," he turned to look at you as you walked side by side, his hands clasped behind his back, your own hands clutching the parasol to shield your shoulders from the sun.
"You are halfway there, Sir," you said, matching his action and turning to meet his gaze for a brief moment. "But you still owe me a dance for last night."
"Regarding last night," Anthony stopped abruptly, forcing you to do the same and turn to face him. His hand hovered, uncertain whether he ought to touch you, while his face betrayed how deeply he wished to do so. "I must offer my most sincere apologies. Urgent matters of utmost importance compelled me to leave early. But I want you to know that I have not forgotten, and I still hope to grant you every dance you desire at the upcoming balls."
You felt the air leave your lungs as he finally reached out to take your hand delicately, leaning down to press a kiss to your silk-gloved knuckles. His lashes fluttered as he looked up at you.
"Apology accepted, sir," you murmured. "I expect you to keep your promise."
"Believe me, my lady. I have never broken a promise."
On the Monday of the following week, the gossip erupted in your home the moment you rose. Charlotte already held the newspaper—which encompassed all the news of the preceding week—and was reading it aloud with an almost exhausting effervescence. You took a seat across from her and poured a little warm milk into a glass.
"We regret to inform that Mr. Davenport was compelled to depart precipitously for the continent on this morning's tide..." she read, her eyes flitting in haste across the front page, her voice dwindling to a hushed murmur.
Her sudden silence was troubling, prompting Mary, beside her, to lean over her shoulder to read. You blinked a few times, glancing first at your father, then at your mother.
"What is it, Charlotte, my dear?" your mother inquired.
"This column is about us," she said, her brow furrowed.
"What does it say? Read it aloud," she requested with a complacent smile.
"Disturbing rumors are indeed circulating regarding the fortune and future of the House of the Duke of Bristol"—you hid behind your glass as you watched your mother's smile begin to wither; your father lowered his own paper to pay heed—"it is whispered in the tea rooms that the distinguished Duke has spent an unusually prolonged amount of time with his bankers in the city—"
"Enough," your father cut her off in a frigid tone, and you saw Charlotte lower the paper, tense.
"What a vile and unnecessary accusation," your mother chimed in, her eyes fluttering with nervousness and restrained anger. "How are we to respond to such a rumor?" She turned back to your father, who uttered a humorless chuckle.
"How are we to respond?" he repeated. "A mere rumor, lacking both weight and truth."
"It is your daughter's future that hangs in the balance with such slanders"—your father's gaze fell upon you, and you decided to set down your half-full glass of milk to look at them both—"your daughters'" she corrected, looking at the three of you this time. "Do you truly believe any gentleman will hold interest in them if all of society suddenly begins to lend truth to such rumors?"
"And what do you suggest?" he inquired, giving a slight, barely perceptible shrug of his shoulders.
"We must host a ball." Your two sisters sat up straight with smiles upon hearing your mother's decisive voice. "We cannot allow the integrity of our family to be insulted. Send letters this instant to all the noble families in the city."
Your mother puffed her chest with pride, and your father had no choice but to comply. He knew better than to simply refuse when she was set in such a mood.
Said and done, the date of the ball arrived two days later, and your home had been a tempest of chaos in anticipation of the event. Your sisters were beside themselves, obsessing over dresses; they even dragged you to Mayfair to purchase ribbons of the finest cloth, forcing you to sit and offer opinions while they tried on all manner of attire. You remained patient with them, for you knew this was the closest they would come to being in society for the time being, and how dearly they craved it.
You wondered if they would be just as weary and bored when their own turn arrived.
The havoc reigning in the kitchen and the main drawing room was no better than that within your bedchambers. Servant staff were shifting furniture to clear space, while cooks arranged pastries and delicacies across the tables. Men perched atop footstools to adorn the parlor drapes, and women scrubbed the floors.
It became painfully clear to you that attending balls was far more delightful than hosting them. Judging by the demeanor of both your parents, you assumed they had arrived at the very same conclusion.
"Is your Sir Wesbury invited to the ball?" Charlotte twirled in place to lift the skirt of her gown. Dusk was only just beginning to fall, yet your sisters had betrayed their eager anticipation by dressing far in advance.
"I saw to it that an invitation was sent to his estate," you offered with a gentle smile, only to be met by the gleeful squeals of your sisters. You could do little else but blush under the weight of such sudden scrutiny.
You had learned a great deal about Anthony during your promenade through Hyde Park, and you were utterly enchanted. He hailed from a family as large as your own, with two younger sisters and an elder brother who was already happily wed. He was twenty-six, born in Bristol, and you knew he had completed his studies at Oxford—a man deeply devoted to, and dearly cherished by, his family. You knew his sisters' names, and he knew those of yours. Moreover, he was undeniably charming and full of wit—or so he seemed to you, at least. Perhaps it was simply that he always knew precisely what to say to draw a reaction from you.
"I can hardly wait to meet him and pass judgment on your good taste," Mary remarked with a subtle smile as Charlotte braided her hair.
"I wager he is quite handsome," Charlotte chimed in, using that sly tone that signaled they were both attempting to coax more details from you.
Even though you had already disclosed almost everything.
"He is," you confirmed once more, beginning to brush your hair.
"Do you suppose he will speak with our father soon?" You raised your head to look at Charlotte, who had suddenly grown far more solemn, her question posed with careful hesitation.
A mere fortnight had passed since you first met Anthony, yet it was time enough to know his character; you had heard tales of ladies whose betrothals were sealed in even less time. Not to mention that he was attentive enough to frequent the very same gatherings and society affairs as you, whether by invitation or sheer fortune. If you were invited to a tea party, he was among the guests. If you attended the opera, he serendipitously occupied a box at the exact same performance. He had invited you to stroll beside the St. James's pond, to go boating, and had even invited you to paint together.
Anthony was the most attentive gentleman you knew.
"I do not rule out the possibility," you replied evasively, unwilling to tread upon uncertain ground.
"He would be a fool not to," Mary said, sensing your hesitation, which brought a soft smile to your lips.
All three of you were dressed and ready shortly before the guests began to arrive. Soon, the grand hall of your home and its spacious corridors were teeming with the finest high society—dresses of every hue, confections and dainties of every flavor, accompanied by the uplifting strains of fine music.
You were attempting to keep your sisters from depleting the pastry table too early when someone pinched the back of your arm. Surprised, you turned hastily, only to encounter a grinning Anthony. You cast a cautious glance about the room.
"Daring as ever, Sir," you murmured by way of greeting, curtsying before him.
"You know me well," he smiled, before casting his eyes upon your two sisters.
Both had promptly dropped their pastries to bestow their undivided attention, wearing smiles that were anything but demurely polite.
"Sir Wesbury. Allow me to introduce my two sisters, Charlotte and Mary," you offered, gesturing gently toward them. "Sisters, this is Sir Anthony Wesbury."
Charlotte's cheeks were flushed from her effort to suppress a playful laugh. "It is an absolute pleasure, Lord Wesbury. We have heard your name spoken with such frequency that I feel as though I have known you all my life."
"Charlotte," you cautioned under your breath through a smiling mask.
"I trust the accounts were favorable, and that my introduction meets your expectations," Anthony replied smoothly, though his playful smirk did not escape your notice.
Astonishing. Simply splendid.
"Oh, utterly glowing!" Mary interjected merrily. "My sister has endlessly praised your lightness of foot and your ease in conversation." This statement visibly filled Anthony with pride, making him practically puff his chest.
"You stand before the finest dancer in all of London," he boasted, offering a sweeping little bow.
"Oh, is that so?" Charlotte teased.
"Prove it," Mary chimed in, her tone bright and full of playful anticipation. She giggled softly as Anthony extended a hand, which she delightfully accepted.
You watched them glide toward the dance floor, though not before Anthony sent a fleeting glance and a respectful bow your way—his subtle manner of reassuring you that it was a mere gesture of courtesy. You were not troubled in the least; it was difficult to be, even if Anthony was naturally charismatic, flirtatious, and all smiles.
You remained off to the side with Charlotte, watching them dance. Mary chuckled on occasion or glanced your way before replying to something Anthony had said.
"I cannot fault your good taste," your sister beside you remarked, lightly clapping her hands to the rhythm of the music.
"Do you approve?" you asked, turning your gaze toward her.
"I wish you could marry tomorrow," she teased half-jokingly. "He is truly charismatic and handsome. And he looks upon you as though there were not a single lady in the room whose attention was more worth possessing than yours."
You turned your eyes away, feeling the tips of your ears begin to warm. Perhaps it was true. Anthony did not look upon your sister in the same manner; there was a polite enough measure of interest, but no spark, no sign of that coy little smirk he always bestowed upon you, nor the way his eyes came to rest when beholding you, his pupils dilating ever so slightly.
And you could not have been more utterly enchanted by the fact.
Charlotte and you watched them dance and laugh in soft intervals until the music drew to a close. You saw them exchange a few parting words before going their separate ways; Mary strolled back in your direction, while Anthony turned and dissolved into the crowd. Your sister must have caught the flicker of confusion on your face, for the very first thing she said upon reaching your side was:
"Fear not. Sir Wesbury wished to step away to the washroom."
"Oh," you nodded, a smile gracing your lips. "And how was the dance?"
"Exquisite," Mary beamed broadly. "Sir Wesbury is terribly amusing; he knows precisely what to say to make a lady laugh beyond proper decorum."
"Now I feel somewhat at a disadvantage," Charlotte teased, making you laugh as you rested a reassuring hand upon her shoulder.
"You shall have your moment; allow Sir Wesbury to return from the washroom first."
Yet he began to take far too long, and your curiosity began to prick at you as you cast subtle glances in every direction, searching for him. Could he have lost his way to the washroom? To be sure, your home was quite grand, with washrooms on both the ground and second floors, but five minutes stretched into ten, and before you knew it, you were informing your sisters that you would go in search of him.
You skirted the perimeter of the ballroom first before stepping out to search the corridors leading to the washrooms. Nothing.
Could he have fled? No. That was impossible, was it? There would be no reason for him to desire flight so early in the evening.
The hall was teeming with guests, making it difficult to reach the foyer, but once you broke free, you cast a quick glance up the staircase before stepping toward the garden. You reasoned it was entirely understandable for him to crave a breath of fresh air after dancing in such a crowded, stifling room. Yet Anthony was not in the garden either, nor in any corner within the estate.
You were beginning to feel uneasy in your own skin when you stepped back inside—and then, at last, you spotted him descending the foyer stairs. Upon seeing you, he offered a smile tainted with mild embarrassment, assuming he must have noticed your brow furrowed in perplexity.
"I lost my way searching for the washroom; one of the servants directed me upstairs," you exhaled a soft laugh of pure relief as he descended the final steps of the staircase to join you. "You possess a vast estate."
"How strange, the ground floor is abundant with washrooms," you noted, puzzled, but shrugged it off. It was a ball, after all; the hall was crowded, and many guests were bound to seek the washrooms.
"They must have been occupied," Anthony offered with a slight shrug of his shoulders, extending his hand to you. "A dance, my lady?" Naturally, you accepted.
Anthony fulfilled his promise of granting you a second dance; however, he first bestowed upon your sister Charlotte her first. Even your mother was delighted with Sir Wesbury, observing them from a discreet distance as she conversed with the chaperones of other young ladies—no doubt striking agreements or merely exchanging gossip while granting the three of you sufficient space. Even so, she possessed the eyes of a hawk, and it was rare for her gaze to stray far from the four of you.
Your first dance of the evening had been with Anthony, before he danced with Charlotte and another gentleman introduced by your mother requested the pleasure of a dance. The conversation with Sir Ashford proved a welcome enough distraction to keep you from dwelling on the rigid feet that had undeniably stepped on your shoes more than once; he was politely agreeable, yet a dreadful dancer, and comparing him to another brilliant gentleman was entirely beyond your control.
"I have been pondering a great deal these past few days," Anthony murmured as he turned you in place, before returning his hand to hold your waist with precise firmness. It was your second dance of the night with him.
"I see," you replied. "Would you care to share your thoughts with me, Sir?"
Anthony continued to move to the rhythm, and judging by his expression and his silence, he was carefully measuring his words.
"It is common knowledge that I shall inherit the Ravenscroft estate, given that my brother is set to inherit Sidmouth," he began, earning a subtle nod from you as you listened with rapt attention despite the music and the turns of the dance. "And it is one of my greatest desires to take such fine company with me when the time comes to return after the end of the season."
You inhaled deeply, your chest rising beneath the subtle neckline of your dress.
"I have heard that the county of Cheshire is breathtaking beneath the autumn light," you offered carefully. "I doubt anyone could refuse the honor of admiring it."
Anthony's expression softened; you watched as his eyes danced between yours, looking at you with intense devotion. He drew a breath before speaking with a tender smile.
"If you will permit me the audacity... would I have your approval if I were to request an audience with your father in the coming week?" You felt a long sigh escape you, born of pure relief.
You wanted to kiss him. Never had you felt such an overwhelming urge to kiss anyone—not even the most gallantly attentive gentlemen of other ballrooms in seasons past—as much as you wished to kiss Anthony in that very moment.
"My father always receives gentlemen with great esteem, Sir Wesbury. I know he would not deny you a conversation in his study when the day comes."
"Most kind of him," Anthony murmured with a sigh of relief, bringing forth a laugh from the very depths of your chest.
The happiness you felt was surely shown in your face, but you couldn't even care less.
The momentous day arrived more slowly than you would have liked.
Perhaps it was your anxiety, and the fact that as soon as Monday arrived, you waited with bated breath—seated on the sofa in front of the grand window while embroidering—for Sir Wesbury's promised arrival. But Anthony did not appear until Wednesday, making Monday and Tuesday a complete ordeal during which you forced yourself to stay occupied with other chores. You organized the ribbons in your mother's bureau at least twice and helped the cooks bake a cake out of sheer boredom.
It was during the morning calls, right after Wednesday's breakfast, that he finally appeared. Mary was the first to spot him approaching the estate grounds and ran inside in such a hurry that she nearly tripped over the steps on her way back.
"It is Sir Wesbury! He is coming this way!" she squealed with a wide smile.
Charlotte looked at you instantly, and your mother rose in haste, quickly gathering all the things she had scattered across the small table.
"Quickly, hide the ribbons," she ordered, compelling the three of you to tidy the space you were sharing.
"Who?" your father asked, lowering his newspaper to look at the three of you with a furrowed brow of pure confusion. He was always the last to find out about anything, so nothing surprised you anymore.
"Mr. Wesbury," your mother said in a rushed tone, stuffing all the ribbons into a bunched-up mess inside their respective cabinet. It pained you to recall the hours you had spent organizing them by color just two days prior. "The gentleman who has been courting your daughter."
"Ah," he said simply, before returning to his newspaper. You swallowed hard at his lack of interest, but you had no time to dwell on it as a servant stepped into the room.
"Mr. Anthony Wesbury, Viscount Ravenscroft," he announced before bowing and departing precisely the way he came.
Your sisters quickly seated themselves on the small armchairs before Anthony entered, forcing themselves to appear modest and unbothered. He wore a gentle smile on his face, but you could spot the subtle tension in his shoulders, betraying his nervousness.
"My ladies," he bowed in your presence.
"Sir Wesbury," your mother greeted him with an impeccable smile. "To what do we owe the honor of your visit?" she asked, appearing practically nonchalant.
Anthony swallowed before speaking.
"If his Lordship permits, I should like to speak with Mr. [LastName] for a few moments in private in his study. There is a matter of utmost importance I wish to submit for his consideration," he said, bowing his head slightly in a gesture of respect.
Your father's newspaper rustled in the small parlor. You did not allow yourself to look at him directly, but you heard him rise from his chair.
"This way, if you please. Join me in the library." You exhaled a shaky breath of held air.
Anthony bowed to the four women in the room, and you watched him pass by your side before disappearing alongside your father into his small private study. You wished you had possessed the opportunity to say something to him, perhaps even to give him a token of comfort, but you knew etiquette did not permit such things.
As soon as the door closed behind them, Charlotte rose hurriedly from her armchair to sit beside you and take your hand in a silent show of support. You could not utter a word; you simply remained frozen for a few seconds before returning to your embroidery—the only thing keeping you sane these past few days.
"Mary!" you heard your mother whisper urgently, turning around just in time to see her running toward the door to eavesdrop through it.
"Shhh..." she pressed, right before your mother forced her away from the door.
It took Anthony approximately half an hour to emerge from your father's study, by which time you were nothing short of a bundle of nerves. You had been embroidering aggressively, while Charlotte read beside you and Mary helped your mother properly arrange the ribbons they had tossed into the cabinet. The silence had been practically deafening; neither of the men in the study spoke loudly enough for any of you to hear, which proved agonizing for every woman in the room.
When you heard the door open once more, standing up was an automatic reaction. You watched the exact moment your father allowed Anthony out of the study. He looked... well, calm, almost relieved. When your eyes met, his features softened, granting you that signature smile that made you sigh inwardly.
"[Name], my dear. Come here for a moment," your father called out instead, stealing your attention from your future fiancé.
"Yes, Father." You left your embroidery on the armchair and passed Anthony to step into the study.
You could feel your heart hammering wildly against your chest as he closed the door behind you and walked over to sit in the chair on the other side of the desk.
"I assume you already know the reason for Sir Wesbury's visit," your father began. You exhaled quietly and murmured a soft "yes," allowing him to continue. "He has expressed a very sincere affection for you... He has come to request my consent to offer you his hand... if that is what you desire."
You could not help but let out a flustered, awkward chuckle.
"Oh, Father, there is nothing I desire more," you admitted softly, shyly. The expression on your father's face softened slightly upon hearing you. "All the other lords are so dull, and Anthony... he is so charismatic." You covered your mouth a little, trying and failing to hide the foolish smile on your face.
"It reassures me to know your interest is genuine," your father said carefully, nodding. "However, you must consider that his fortune stands at four thousand pounds a year... It is more modest than ours, and it will require sacrifices to which you are unaccustomed."
"Four thousand pounds a year is more than enough to live comfortably; I should need no more than that," you replied with complete conviction.
Your father nodded in silence, scratching the stubble on his chin as he seemed to ponder. Yet he said nothing more, merely continuing to nod.
"Consider it settled then," he said, sounding decisive. "I shall send a letter to the Archbishop to request a special marriage license. After that, we may discuss the details regarding the venue and the date."
You gasped before rushing forward to embrace him tightly. You and your father were not usually physically affectionate, but you were so happy that the fact could not matter less to you. You felt him return the hug gently, patting your arm before you pulled back with a radiant smile.
"Thank you."
"And do extend my invitation to Sir Wesbury for dinner this evening."
Dinner that evening proved to be more than a mere formality. Anthony was already waiting for you outside, engaging in casual conversation with your two sisters and your mother. When you extended your father's invitation, you were certain his eyes gleamed with something resembling excitement—though, at that moment, you did not know the true reason behind it. It would be the first time you officially shared a meal together.
Your intentions were clear as you attempted to invite him to stay for the remaining hours.
"I ought to return to the estate to prepare a few things first, and prepare myself as well," he declined your offer gently. "I should not wish to dine with my fiancée looking like this."
You wanted to tell him he looked quite handsome as he was, but you did not wish to make him feel obligated to stay if he had other matters to attend to first. Thus, you escorted him to the door and watched him leave the property.
"How does it feel to have secured one of London's most eligible bachelors?" your mother whispered behind you as she watched him depart.
When you turned, she smiled softly; you could see the sheer weight of the social season lifting from her shoulders. You knew full well that one of a mother's primary concerns with four daughters was securing them a good future and a good husband. You felt a wave of pride knowing you had managed to captivate such a fine gentleman, endowed with a respectable fortune and a personality as buoyant as Anthony's. It was not as though ladies of the era enjoyed the luxury of marrying purely for love, so you felt immensely grateful that your best option had been, quite literally, the best choice available.
Your mother affectionately tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.
"I shall style your hair for dinner," she decided then, before pressing a kiss to your forehead and stepping inside.
The remainder of your day before dinner was spent studying and practicing. Before luncheon, you dedicated a solid hour to the pianoforte while Mary learned to embroider with your mother and Charlotte, as always, buried herself in a book. After luncheon, you spent hours painting in a small studio before Mary interrupted to showcase her progress in embroidery and request your assistance. It was not until around six in the evening that you began getting ready for dinner.
Generally, family dinners were informal affairs; you were not required to wear a corset, makeup, or a lavish gown. However, since your now-fiancé was invited, social etiquette dictated that you look, at the very least, presentable.
"Upon closer inspection, I believe Sir Wesbury's eyes are more blue than green," Charlotte said, sifting through your massive array of dresses, "like the color of the sea on a sunny day."
"You should wear a blue dress," Mary added.
"Why do you both always insist on matching my dresses to the color of his eyes?" you asked, sitting on the bed while your sisters took it upon themselves to decide for you.
"Because it is romantic," Mary replied, pushing past Charlotte to hold up a pale blue dress that looked nothing like the color of Anthony's eyes.
Not that it mattered, anyway. For that very reason, you ended up ignoring them both and choosing a pale pink dress with puffed sleeves, a square neckline, and pearl detailing across the bust.
When the clock struck precisely 8:03 PM, Anthony arrived at your father's estate for the second time, looking unfairly attractive.
"My lady," he greeted you, pressing a kiss to the knuckles of your hand with that dangerously seductive, near-arrogant charm that you had found appealing from the very start.
You felt relieved that the atmosphere did not feel awkward by the time food was served and everyone was seated. The room felt warm, the candelabras illuminated the fine tableware, and your mother obliged you to sit directly across from one another, as etiquette dictated that you could not sit side by side.
"It gives me great pleasure to speak on behalf of my wife and myself when I say that we could not be more delighted to have Sir Wesbury at our table—not merely as a guest, but as someone who will soon become part of this family," your father raised his wine glass, prompting everyone at the table to follow suit almost immediately.
"Why am I not allowed to drink wine as well?" Mary asked in a low voice beside you, causing you to lean in toward her to whisper back.
"You may drink wine when you are of age, Mary... Besides, it is not even that good," you murmured the last part softly enough for only her to hear.
"For a mother, it is a profound joy and relief to know her daughter will be in the hands of such an unimpeachable gentleman. It is an invaluable blessing," your mother built upon your father's words with a flushed smile, brought on both by the heat and the subtle effect of the sweet, fruity wine.
"Your words honor me deeply," Anthony replied, wearing an equally dazzling smile. "The trust you have placed in me by bestowing your daughter's hand is the greatest honor I have ever received."
You smiled as you looked at him, feeling your cheeks and ears warm under the attention.
"Your intentions are entirely mutual, Sir," you concluded almost shyly.
"A toast to that," your father declared from the head of the table, prompting everyone to drink from their respective glasses in unison.
Everyone managed to eat in silence for a few minutes, the only sound echoing through the room being the gentle clinking of cutlery against fine china.
"We have planned our customary afternoon stroll through Hyde Park tomorrow," your mother began once more with a perfectly flawless smile, after swallowing a generous bite of potato salad. "Now that intentions are official, I do hope you will join us in the carriage, Sir Wesbury."
You watched Anthony chew and swallow before he could reply.
"An absolute privilege," he nodded. "I have also taken the liberty of securing a box at the Drury Lane Theatre for next Friday. I trust you will all honor me with your presence at the performance."
"We should be delighted to accept, my lord," you replied as you carved a piece of tender meat on your plate. "They say this season's production is exceptional."
From that moment on, the conversation never ebbed. Your mother led most of it, flitting seamlessly from one topic to another: art, the shared interests you two enjoyed, the condition of the estate Anthony was set to inherit from his family, the wedding date, his family's health. There was not a single subject left untouched that evening.
By the time it was time for Anthony to depart, he made his way toward the door with a somewhat unsteady gait. He took his leave of your entire family, and your mother granted you permission to escort your fiancé to the entrance to say your goodbyes.
"It has been, without a doubt, a most delightful evening," Anthony said with a sigh, his cheeks flushed from the abundance of wine—it even seemed to you that his speech was slightly slurred. "To know that we shall soon share my home..."
"The tenderness with which you speak of our future brings me peace," you murmured, feeling your heart swell with emotion.
You watched him raise a hand in your direction.
"May I?" You felt your heart hammer against your chest.
You offered him yours and watched him lean in to kiss your knuckles, but you were swifter and bolder, leaning in at the exact same moment to catch his lips with yours. It was a chaste touch, and the sheer surprise of it caused you both to pull back immediately. Anthony stared at you with his lips parted and his brow furrowed in pure bewilderment.
Yet, there was not a trace of rejection in his eyes.
"We are not supposed to... Etiquette does not—"
"When have you and I ever adhered to etiquette, Sir?" you countered softly, a touch shyly.
Anthony relaxed at that, letting out an amused huff.
"You are entirely correct," he said, though he made no move to kiss you again, and you did not attempt it a second time.
"Until tomorrow, Sir Wesbury." You gently disengaged your joined hands with a smile, watching him bow with a warm, flushed grin.
"Until tomorrow, my Lady. Sweet dreams."
And with that, Anthony departed.
The following morning dawned overcast, despite it being the height of summer. Perhaps that should have served as an omen.
The previous night's dinner felt like a fever dream amidst the quiet routine of breakfast. The table was unusually serene and still. Charlotte sipped a cup of steaming black tea, buried in her customary reading, entirely silent. Mary appeared somewhat restless, though that was hardly unusual for her; after all, she was the most energetic of the four of you.
Your mother was spreading butter over a piece of toast when you all heard it.
Horses.
Everyone seemed to straighten up at once, attempting to peer through the grand window. Visitors were a frequent occurrence at the estate at such an hour; after all, your father was an influential duke who maintained ties with a vast fleet and numerous merchants most of the time. It was precisely what had allowed you and your sisters to grow up within such elevated social standing.
Yet your father looked utterly bewildered. You watched him glance up from his newspaper, as he always did, from the far end of the table.
"Merchants?" your mother inquired.
"I have reason to doubt it," your father said cautiously. "All accounts are up to date, and I have signed no new contracts."
You and your sisters exchanged glances before looking back toward one of the windows. Mary, as ever, was the only one to rise from the table to look directly over the windowsill. The rest of you remained seated.
"There are many gentlemen..." Mary whispered, just seconds before a group of smartly dressed men entered unannounced—an intrusion that caught your family entirely off guard.
The expression on your father's face hardened; your mother's lower lip quivered for a brief second.
"A very good morning, my Lord, my Lady," all the men halted at the dining room doorway, though only one of them spoke. "I extend my sincere apologies for interrupting your breakfast so early in the morning."
"My Lord... I attempted to explain to them that it is no hour for receiving visitors," one of the maidservants stammered near the door, before your father dismissed her with a wave of his hand.
She departed hastily, ignoring the badged officers.
"I act under direct orders from the Privy Council and the Secretary of State for the Home Department," the man reached into his coat and produced a thick parchment, sealed with red wax. "In the name of His Majesty King George III and by the authority of the Prince Regent, you are hereby placed under arrest for the crime of high treason against the Crown and conspiracy with foreign powers."
You jolted in your seat as the loud crash of a glass pitcher shattering against the tiled floor echoed all the way from the kitchen into the dining room. The silence was so deafening from the shock that you could hear the hushed, frantic whispers and, after a few seconds, the sweeping up of scattered glass.
"What sort of outrage is this?" your father demanded. Your mother stared at him with her mouth half-open, her eyes wide with terror.
Neither of your sisters dared move a single finger, and neither did you.
"The warrant authorizes the immediate seizure of the property, the confiscation of all papers, correspondence, and journals, and your transport without delay," the man said imperturbably, before rolling the parchment back up. "I must ask you to surrender your sword, Sir."
"How monstrous," your mother said in a trembling voice, looking deeply offended. "What kind of cruel joke—"
"Helena," your father cut her off, shaking his head silently before rising quietly from the table and surrendering himself to the officer.
"Your carriage awaits at the main entrance."
Your mother sprang to her feet, following your father and the officer as they escorted him outside, demanding answers all the while. You could hear her trembling voice as she wept hysterically. Charlotte sat with her head bowed, while Mary seemed to cling to the window ledge as if she had seen a ghost.
Not a single one of you uttered a word while the officers entered to search your mother's library. The table remained uncomfortably silent until your mother returned; her eyes were red and swollen, and her lower lip quivered just like her voice when she spoke directly to you.
"You will write a letter to Sir Wesbury this instant," she commanded harshly. "We shall bring the marriage forward as quickly as possible."
Yet no matter how many letters you sent, Sir Anthony Wesbury had vanished into London's sweltering summer air, leaving you utterly ruined.
Dear readers of The Morning Chronicle, hold tight to your teacups, for Mayfair’s high society is trembling to its very foundations.
What promised to be a serene, sunny morning has instead collapsed into the most thunderous scandal of the season.
The Duke of Bristol himself has been stripped of his untouchable mantle. The whisper echoing through the corridors of "treason against the Crown" has ceased to be mere conjecture and turned into a stark, cold reality. The scene was worthy of the grandest theatrical drama: the King’s officers presented themselves at the Duke’s monumental residence, disrupting his parlors. Before the stunned gazes of the household staff, they read the royal arrest warrants in a firm, unyielding voice.
The distinguished Duke was escorted into a somber black carriage that whisked him away straight into the shadows of the Tower, leaving the true disaster behind the mansion’s closed doors: a devastated Duchess and her three young daughters, reduced in a matter of hours to absolute uncertainty. The family now finds itself adrift in a sea of debts and crown investigations. The question hanging in the Mayfair air is as cruel as it is inevitable: how will they ever survive this?
The vilest blow, however, falls upon one of his eldest daughters. The poor young lady must not only bear the heavy stain of a father imprisoned for treason, but also the cowardice of her supposed suitor. That distinguished gentleman—already regarded as her near-fiancé—had absent himself from the ballroom for days, and today, upon confirmation of the tragedy, the man has simply vanished into thin air.
How convenient it proves for some to lose both memory and affection at the exact moment a fortune vanishes!
The young lady’s reputation has been entirely ruined, and high society will not hesitate to turn its back on her. In our beloved Regency, a father accused of treason is a tragedy, but being left stranded by your fiancé before the eyes of the entire world is a social sentence from which one rarely recovers.
I shall keep my ears tuned to the passing carriages and incoming letters. In the meantime, dear ladies and gentlemen, remember to hold firm to your crowns... one never knows when the ground beneath your feet might give way.
Summary: Titus makes sure all of your needs are taken care of, just not the one that matters most to you. When you finally get your way, he ensures you know just who’s in charge
Warnings: 18+ smut - this gets rowdy i’m so sorry I don’t want to spoil anything
Word count: 11k
Titus Danforth does not have erectile dysfunction.
He considers himself an amorous lover, giving, selfless. He just has… niche interests. What he’s trying to say, is that he liked you enough to not try to scare you off during your first shared instances of intimacy.
So he finds himself rightfully taken aback when, over breakfast, you ask him if he struggles with erectile dysfunction.
Truth be told, it spoils his appetite.
When he asks you where on earth you got that idea, you frowned, tight-lipped. Like you were pondering what to say without hurting his feelings. As if you could hurt his feelings.
“It’s just that…”
“C’mon bunny. You can’t hurt my feelings.”
“We’ve been dating four months, and we haven’t had sex.” He watches you cringe inwardly on yourself, as though willing your body to disappear.
The statement surprises him, because as far as he was concerned, the two of you had been having sex. Objectively great sex. For months.
“We had sex last night,” Titus counters. He watches you process his words. A crease between your neatly manicured brows, pouty full lips, world-wary eyes flitting around in confusion.
“Titus…”
“Baby…” he echoes your tone back at you.
“Last night, I masturbated, and you watched from a chair in the corner of the room occasionally providing commentary. That’s not sex.”
“Then what, pray tell, was it?”
“Touching myself with the ghost of a Victorian stranger in the room?” He laughs, but it’s abrupt and not at all at your words.
“You want to have sex, sweetheart?” He finally asks.
“Please, Titus,” you beg.
He nods, digging the tips of his fingers into your thigh hard enough to bruise.
“Alright, we can have sex.”
“Right now?” You ask, perking up at the prospect of finally getting his cock inside you.
“Tonight, baby. Have some decorum,” he chuckles crudely. You’re too wrapped up in your own excitement to catch the way his eyes have darkened about three shades closer to black.
You thought that illuminated beneath the warm, dim glow of the lamp set on the table beside him, that Titus Danforth was beautiful. Dangerously so.
The shadows dancing across his sharp features created the illusion of an edge, of a darkness simmering just below the surface of his piercing hazel eyes. They were trained viciously on you, commanding only the utmost devotion, a claiming of the soul.
The thought might have been frightening to you a couple of months ago, that one man could demand so much from you with just a gaze. But that was then, and this was now.
Titus’s claim over you was an unspoken thing, a creature with no mouth, but fatal claws. It snuck up on you swiftly in the middle of the night; like soldiers emerging from the trojan horse with nothing save for bloodlust and a primal urge to conquer.
It was lavish gifts with no price tags, the expectation that dates were paid for (he spent a long time training this out of you), that the apartment you lived in was paid for. Christ, he even got you to quit your job, feigned deep offence that you thought for even a second that he couldn’t very easily take care of you.
And there’s the rub.
Because now, your very existence was tied to the strings of his generosity, and his wallet.
You didn’t have much time to think this over though, because he was gesturing vaguely for you to begin, the other hand cradling his cheek as though a bored spectator awaiting their evening’s entertainment.
You leaned the curve of your spine against the plush headboard, the thick support hopefully hiding the tremble currently terrorising your limbs. You weren’t nervous, exactly. It was more trepidation, anticipation.
You’d spent countless nights with your legs spread for Titus, getting yourself off while he watched. It felt almost like prostitution, like you were a camgirl cumming for tips - but there was no camera, just him watching, waiting, assessing you like prey. You couldn’t even know for certain if this was pleasurable for him, didn’t know if his cock throbbed beneath the confines of his pants while you whined his name and begged for him to fuck you just once, please.
Untying the knot of your dress at the base of your neck, you glance at Titus, hoping your expression reads as sultry and ravishing, rather than other unmitigated waters - something like constipated or gassy, annoyed.
When your tits drop, no longer bound by the dress, Titus’s line of sight drops from your eyes to your chest, the ghost of a smile breaking through the corner of his mouth. “Gorgeous,” he comments.
Feeling emboldened by his reaction, you gather spit from underneath your tongue and hold up a hand to your mouth, then stare intently at him as drool the saliva onto the tips of your fingers.
He leans forward a smidge, barely millimetres. If you hadn’t been watching him as closely as you were, you would have missed it.
You lower the spit soaked hand to your chest, and lave it over one nipple, pinching the softened bud till it peaked between your fingers. Once you feel the thread of pleasure connecting your nipple to your cunt pull taut like a guitar string, you drag your fingers to your other breast, repeat the process all over again.
“S’it feel good?” Titus asks, voice hoarse. The evidence of your affect on him causes pride to spread outward from your chest all the way to the tips of your toes. It’s all inexplicable warmth and soft summer smiles, melted ice cream dripping between your toes on the boardwalk.
You nod, rutting your hips against the bed softly while you play with your tits.
“Can’t hear you, bunny. S’it feel good?” Titus asks again.
“It’d feel better if you were the one touching me,” you retort, pleasure making you brave. Titus thought it was cute that you got like this, no holds barred and mouthy while your fingers stroked your flesh, cunt leaking with your slick. You’d soon know better, he would see to that.
“Oh yeah, s’that right, baby?” He coos, leaning almost all the way forward now, elbows resting on his knees.
“Y-yeah,” you stuttered weakly, head feeling a little more soupy than you’d care to admit.
“We’ll see if you deserve it, huh? Get that pretty dress off, bunny. I wanna see your pussy.” Titus leans back, having restored order over the situation.
The bratty behaviour was only a decoy, really, a way for you to deflect how close you are to submitting fully to him. He wonders what would happen if you ever stopped being a mouthy little thing. If you were sweet and pliant in his hold from the get go, rather than pushing back to allow yourself the breathing space. Would he enjoy it even more? Would you?
He watches you shuck your dress off hastily, throwing it with impressive force across the room and watching as it lands atop the lamp. His lamp. When his eyes redirect to your face, the small smirk that curves at the corner of your mouth is distinctly proud, triumphant, and he finds his answer. No, he thinks he enjoys this side of you too much to want it to go away.
“No panties… someone was expecting to get lucky tonight, weren’t they?”
In lieu of replying, you trace a confident finger lewdly through the petals of your labia, gathering the cream that’s accumulated from your hole and dragging it up to wet your clit. You exhale softly at the sensation, your hips jerking in tandem.
“I’m still hoping to get lucky,” you sigh wistfully, tipping your head back against the headboard.
“Oh yeah? Your old man not taking good enough care of you?” Titus mocks, you whine back in protest.
“Take such good care of me,” you whimper, pushing in a finger.
“So what’s the problem?” Titus asks, fighting the urge to stick his hand in his pants and fist his cock.
“Want you to take care of me like this too,” you whine, curling your finger inside your cunt like you’ve got something to prove.
Titus doesn’t reply. He doesn’t need to, already knows he’s given up on this little game and is simply waiting for you to crack; waiting for you to offer up something more of yourself, maybe, so he can take more than he has to give.
“Add another finger,” he instructs, breath ragged.
You do as he says wordlessly, moaning unabashedly at the stretch. It’s still not enough.
“Want you, want you, hnnng,” you repeat the phrase like a mantra, like a prayer. You repeat the two words over and over like salvation.
At the sound of a belt buckle, your eyes flutter open in alert. You look over at Titus, and almost cry in relief, because you had heard correctly. He’s got his belt and pants undone, briefs pulled down just enough to reveal his cock.
You mewl at the sight, mouth watering and hips writhing against nothing. “Please.”
Titus looks at you smugly, taps the thick length against his palm. The sound echoes filthily in the room, only spurring you on. “Please what, baby?”
“Fuck me, please fuck me, daddy,” you cry, too far gone to care, too far gone to realise the power you’ve just handed Titus on a silver platter.
He exhales hard, like the air’s been forced from his lungs.
“Say it again.”
“Wha—?” You ask dumbly.
“Y’want me to fuck you, say it again,” Titus says with impressive restraint. Though he lets you think he’s in charge, he knows that’s not the truth - that he’d follow you to the ends of the earth, would get on bended knee to claim you as his forever, or just as surely disappear from your life if that was what you wanted. Apropos of how he really feels.
“Please fuck me, daddy,” you beg wantonly.
One second he’s sitting in the corner of the room, fisting his cock languidly, the next he’s standing at the edge of the bed, inches from finally giving you what you want.
“Daddy’s gonna give you whatever you want, bunny. But you gotta cum first, okay?” You nod eagerly, thrusting your fingers inside you with renewed fervour.
Titus has a firm hand clasped around your ankle, holding you open so he can watch, but he quickly becomes restless. He’s just so enamoured by you, this sweet little thing in his bed, doing everything you tell him to simply because he said so, and because you want to please him. It’s a heady feeling, having this much sway over a person.
It’s what he tells himself anyway, that he’s doing this for you, not for him, when he climbs onto the bed, urges your legs apart by his broad shoulders until he’s face to… face… with your pussy. Face to… lips. No.
His breathing picks up pace at the sight of your sopping cunt, because it’s finally in front of him, not metres away from his isle of self-imposed exile. He swats your hand away and you grumble at the loss of your fingers inside you. “Wanna see her, stop being a brat.”
He coos at the way your hole flutters around nothing, your cheeks flush with searing heat at the attention he’s finally giving you.
“She’s almost as pretty as you are, huh princess?” He asks softly, his tone almost fuzzy in its enamoured fondness. The way one reserves for speaking exclusively to babies or small animals.
“You think so?” You ask. He shushes you.
“I was talking to her, not you, bunny,” he says exasperatedly, as though you should have known he was talking to your reproductive organ, and not you.
He cajoles you by placing your legs on his shoulders. “Let’s go, bunny, wanna watch you cum.”
You roll your eyes. “You talking to me or her?”
Titus smirks. “You jealous?”
“No.” The smirk grows even more.
“Baby, you don’t need to be jealous of your pussy. M’just a fan of how you have another set of lips that don’t talk back.”
You huff angrily. He pouts mockingly. When you make no move to continue touching yourself, he sighs. You look away, trying to settle your gaze on anything that isn’t him.
He pointedly exhales his hot breath straight on your cunt and you wail, two hands falling to the greying curls on his head.
“Touch yourself.”
You nod now, and press the pads of your fingers to your clit, rubbing circles around the sensitive nub. You exhale shakily, but the sensation isn’t enough anymore, not when Titus is so close now, not with his hot breath fanning over your swollen folds.
“You promised,” you whine.
“I did, didn’t I? Am I being mean, baby?” Titus asks.
You nod at him, eyes teary and red-rimmed.
He hums as if in thought, and then hooks his pinky finger into your hole.
You bite down on your lip hard enough to draw blood, having the older man’s touch finally inside you is dizzying. “I’m— I’m gonna—“ you stutter.
“Gonna cum just from having my pinky inside you? That’s so pathetic, bunny,” Titus tuts in faux disappointment.
“Why’d you do that?” You ask, panting laboured breaths like you’re not embarrassingly close to cumming. He was right, it is pathetic that you’re free-falling over having his thick pinky hooked lazily into your pussy like a tepid, false promise he probably doesn’t intend to keep.
“M’pinky promising, honey,” Titus huffs a laugh.
“So annoying,” you grumble, fingers picking up pace on your ruddy clit.
Titus keeps his pinky inside you as you fuck yourself, adding one of your fingers to the mix while you assault your poor clit.
You’re shaking terribly, your hips rutting against his finger and yours. He knows you’re close, can feel it in the clench of your walls and the way you’ve stopped talking.
“Gonna— m’gonna—“ you whine.
Ever the team player, Titus spits onto your cunt, and you tumble over the edge, headlong into a blinding orgasm. Your nerves are shot, suspended somewhere between heaven and hell as your brain short circuits, whiting out your vision while your back arches off the bed as though possessed.
He watches you rapt, riding out the waves of aftershocks that wrack your body with tortuous pleasure, your pussy pushes out his finger and he mourns the loss, the warmth, the closeness.
“Holy shit,” you finally say, after what feels like an eternity.
“You’re magnetic,” Titus adds uselessly. You huff at him, he makes it up to you by flattening his tongue and licking your cunt from hole to clit. The touch punches the air from your lungs.
He cleans you up with his tongue attentively, almost clinically, and then pats your thigh like he’s wishing you a job well done.
He pulls you into his arms, kisses the top of your head. “Did so good, bunny.”
You yawn. “When are you gonna fuck me?”
“Not tonight, sweetheart. You’re exhausted.”
“But you promised,” another yawn leaves you. You can’t believe your body is betraying you at a time like this, choosing his side over yours, no less.
“And I intend to keep that promise, but you need to rest.”
You fall asleep almost immediately, failing miserably at the old adage about never going to bed angry.
When you wake, it’s to steady threads of sunlight streaming through Titus’s blackout curtains. You wince at the brightness of it all, eyelids flitting restlessly at the onslaught from peaceful dark.
You peer down at the weight covering your entire midsection, bury a hand in the soft curls on the offender’s head, teasing soft shapes along the scalp. Titus grunts sleepily, hikes a leg over yours so that he’s fully cradling you now - head nuzzled into your chest, arm possessively slung over your waist, and now the leg. It made you feel cared for, claimed and cherished, like a well loved teddy bear, or some other play thing.
You dig your nails into his scalp, tugging his hair at the root. He hisses, hips rutting against your thigh in surprise.
“G’morning, sleepyhead,” you coo softly.
He groans dejectedly. “No.”
“No?” You repeat.
He nips the soft tissue of your breast, your breath hitches at the sharp sting. “No.”
You pull his head from where he’s nestled - now contentedly sucking love bites all over your chest - until he’s face to face with you. “You’re behaving like a child, y’know that?”
The left corner of his mouth curves deliciously at your taunt, and despite yourself, you smile. You’d always thought he was devastatingly handsome when he was at his most mischievous. “S’not what you were saying last night, if I recall correctly,” he lilts.
You hum as though trying to recollect the events from the night before. “Wasn’t it? I’m having a hard time remembering.”
Titus huffs, flips the two of you over so you’re on your back, holds your hands above your head with only one of his.
“Ah… it’s starting to come back to me now…” you sigh wistfully.
“Maybe this will jog your memory. Oh please, daddy, fuck me with your huge cock, daddy,” he pitches his voice about three octaves above yours mockingly.
“I did not say that, Titus,” you retort.
“Oh, you didn’t? I must be imagining things,” Titus shakes his head faux-solemnly, hand still gripping your wrists.
“It’s common in men of your age group to become forgetful,” you supply unhelpfully.
Titus pinches your nipple hard enough to draw a sharp yelp from you. “Funny.”
You course-correct the conversation with all the finesse of a baby deer. “Now might be a bad time to point this out, but you promised to fuck me last night, and this morning I’m still markedly un-fucked.”
Titus loosens his grip from your wrists, trails his fingers down the expanse of your arm until he finds purchase around your throat. Your eyes dilate in response.
“Isn’t this fun for you, sweetheart? The thrill of the chase, the suspense building higher till it feels like the bough will burst, the constant rush of just falling short; of not being able to jump off the deep end just yet?” His eyes explore yours for any sign of understanding.
You whimper under the intense scrutiny of his gaze. His fingers close tighten around your throat, restricting your air supply. Your eyes roll back in response, but you offer up no verbal confirmation. He scoffs lightly. “It’s not, is it?”
You shake your head, eyes wide. “No, it is, I just—“
Titus cuts you off abruptly by climbing off the bed and walking out. The door clicks shut behind him, leaving you in the suffocating silence of words unspoken.
He doesn’t return. You wait five minutes, and then ten. Ten turns to twenty, and by then half an hour comes and goes in a flash.
Your tear ducts are waterlogged when you finally reach for your phone, opening your friends group chat and calling an emergency brunch.
“He what?”
You laugh miserably into your glass.
“I don’t know where he went, or what he’s doing. I didn’t even see him when I left this morning,” you explain, champagne sloshing around in your glass as your hand moves animatedly.
“And this is all because he still won’t fuck you, right?” Your friend asks, tone dripping with commiseration.
“Yes,” you whine, not caring how pathetic you sound.
“Has he said why he won’t? I feel like he’s just old and can’t get it up. He’s trying to distract you with these mind games and making you feel like the pervert so you don’t leave his geriatric ass.”
“No, it’s not that, his dick was rock hard last night. You should’ve been there, it was insane,” you muse wistfully.
“I want no part in your sick sex life, but I appreciate the offer,” they huff out a laugh, you giggle wetly.
“So what do I do? I don’t know how much longer I can hold out,” you whinge.
“Play his game, but play it better. Give him no other option but to fuck you till you can’t remember the past four months without him rocking your shit,” your friend explains like the answer was elementary, like you should’ve seen it glaringly with neon lights and flashing arrows.
“What would I do without you?” You cradle your cheek with your hand adoringly.
“Grow your hymen back, I guess.” The four of you drunkenly cackle, drawing the attention of other patrons.
You’re in the uber home when you notice the onslaught of notifications from Titus.
7 missed calls, multiple texts. You exhale what feels like relief off the tip of your tongue.
Baby, where’d you go?
Where are you?
Baby?
Stop ignoring me.
I went looking for you and you’re nowhere on the property…
What the fuck
Sweetheart?
Call me when you get this.
The last text’s time-stamped from about 3 minutes ago. You tap on his contact to call, when the phone starts ringing again, you answer and bring the phone to your ear.
“Hiiiii, Ti,” you slur, giggling down your end of the call.
“Bunny, I’ve been— wait, are you drunk?” Titus asks, tone laced with concern.
“Mhm, y’made me so sad this morning. Had brunch with m’friends, they say hi by the way.”
He blanches a little at your confession. “Baby, where are you? I’m coming to get you.”
“M’already coming home, in the uber,” you reply drily.
“You ubered? Sweetheart, we have drivers for that,” Titus reprimands you gently.
“Didn’t want your drivers, or your money, can do it myself,” you huff, exasperated.
“Get home to me safely, okay?” Titus pleads, feeling like he’s losing an uphill battle with you.
“Uh-huh.” You hang up abruptly, leaving your boyfriend beside himself.
Titus is standing at the front door when you stumble from the uber, watching the ungraceful entrance unfold like a train-wreck.
In spite of your drunkenness, and the sharp way you’d spoken to him on the phone, he still feels a prang of… something, unfurl in his chest at the sight of you; because you came home, because he missed you and he’s sorry for the way he acted. He just needs to tell you that, so everything can get back on track.
You glare miserably at him as you traipse up the stairs, taking two steps per stair, not trusting that you won’t fall on your face if you otherwise took them normally - maybe some part of you also didn’t trust that Titus would catch you if you did happen to fall.
As though sensing your inner turmoil, Titus leaves his post from the doorway and moves fast to steady you, a firm hand wrapping around your elbow. “You doing okay, my love?” He asks, brows furrowed at the state of you.
“M’fine, why’d you come to help me?” You grumble, feeling the wobble in your gait not dissimilarly to sea legs.
“Always wanna help you, sweetheart. What are you talking about?”
He leads you inside now, his arm around your waist, hand gripping the flesh of your hip like it’s grounding him to the present moment.
“So you wanna help me but you don’t wanna fuck me? Figures,” you argue, voice slurred and messy.
Titus huffs a soft laugh.
“Let’s get you to bed, sweetheart,” he offers.
“Yeah I bet you’d like that, you freak,” you bite.
He’s lifted you off your feet and into his arms before you even notice, let alone have time to argue.
He murmurs into your ear, “the only one in a rush to get the other into bed is you, bunny. Watch your tone, yeah?”
Your cheeks flush even pinker, your eyes well with unshed tears. “M’Sorry, daddy. I’ll be good, promise.”
Titus brushes the stray hairs off your face. “Course you are, bunny. I’m going to see to that myself.”
You sputter and sob wetly into his shoulder until you fall asleep in his arms. He tuts adoringly, finally places you into his bed.
He turns to leave, to allow you the rest you clearly need, but he’s stopped by you pawing at his wrist. “Stay, please. Please stay with me.”
He folds instantly. You crawl into his lap on the bed, and fall asleep chest to chest, his steady heart rate slowing your own, your thighs caging him in so he’s trapped.
When you wake again, the sun is starting to set behind the clouds, yellows and oranges and pinks giving way to blues and purples and all-encompassing black.
Titus must have moved while you were asleep, because he’s no longer trapped underneath your body. The lamp flickers on, illuminating the shadows of the man you were just thinking of.
“G’morning, sleepyhead,” he lilts.
“Mmm,” you hum, your throat parched and dry.
“How’re you feeling?”
“Thirsty,” you reply. Titus hums in response.
“I’ve got something for you to drink.” You perk up instantly, moving from lying to sitting attentively.
“Thought you might like the sound of that,” he notes smugly.
“C’mere, bunny. Hop to daddy.”
You crawl off the bed in a rush to make your way to Titus. Once you’re standing on two feet, he stops you.
“Nuh-uh, crawl,” he commands.
You crouch to the floor, feeling disconnected from shame, the emotion flickering somewhere in a box you’ve hidden deep within the recesses of your mind, and crawl to your boyfriend on all fours.
“That’s it, such a good bunny, huh?” He praises.
You cross the floor in seconds, and kneel expectantly before him.
He pets your head earnestly.
“Y’know, I got so horny while you were sleeping,” he starts, the corner of his mouth curving in delight as your eyes glaze over.
“But I couldn’t wake you, y’know? You looked so peaceful. So, I had to take care of myself.” You whimper, devastated, at what he’s just told you.
“Rolled you off me, shoved my hand in my pants, and fisted my cock until I came all over my briefs. And it was so fucking messy, bunny, y’should’ve seen it. Know what I did?” You shook your head, biting your lip hard enough to draw blood.
“Had to take my pants and messy briefs off, clean off my cock, and then put my pants back on. But I thought to myself, why waste a perfectly good load, when my girl’s gonna be so thirsty when she wakes up?” You look at him, waiting.
He pulls the sodden underwear from his pocket, the material soaked through with his cum, and looks at you.
“Open your mouth, bunny.” You follow his orders, and are rewarded with the taste of jizz on your tongue. You moan wholeheartedly.
You lap at the ropes of cum on his underwear with your tongue, savouring the undeniable taste of him. He watches you, eyes glinting with something like delight while you take to being gagged with his soiled underwear like a fucking champ, like you were made for it. It’s sickening what it does to him.
“Come here, bunny. Hump my fuckin’ boot while you gag on my underwear like a good little girl.”
You murmur something that gets lost in translation as it leaves your mouth and enters his eardrums, but it doesn’t really matter because you’re already sliding forward until your tummy hits the lace of his boot.
“That feel okay, bun?” He asks, you hum back at him, wriggling your butt around his boot as you attempt to find the right angle.
He lifts his foot, nestling the boot right between your folds and against your clit. You choke out a whimper beneath the gag. “That’s it right there, huh baby? Just needed your daddy to fix it for you,” he says, the tone swaddling you in warmth.
You rock your hips against his boot, once, twice, then you pause - the friction isn’t right. Titus watches this all unfold and removes his foot from under you.
You argue uselessly at the loss of contact. Titus shushes you. “I’m making it better, gimme a second.”
He spits on the boot with rather little fanfare, your jaw slackens at the drool pooling on the pristine leather. “Go on, get to it.”
You perch yourself back on his boot, and he lifts his foot again, eager enough to not want to waste any more time. The added lubricant on the boot is filthy, has your soaked through panties sliding over the boot as you rock your hips back and forth.
You exhale through your nose as your clit catches on a row of laces, but you’re undeterred, you pick up your pace, focusing on the throb of your clit against Titus’s spit slick boot and the depths of his eyes as he drinks in his fill of you.
“M’gonna—“ you manage to enunciate through the gag. The musky, salty flavour of his cum invades all your senses, trickling down till all you know is his taste and the feel of his boot, ungiving and unmoving to your writhing flesh.
Above you, Titus hisses. You look up from where you’d fixated on his kneecap and the thick bulk of muscle just above it. He’s pulled his cock from his pants at some point, you can’t be sure when, but he’s not letting himself fuck into his fist just yet. His eyes watch you, waiting, imploring you to do something, while he circles his leaky tip with the pad of his thumb and forefinger.
You moan wantonly at the sight of him, so undone and affected by you, so different from his usual masquerade at put-togetherness. He nods at you fervently, like he’s begging you to give in.
You lift your hand to his thigh hesitantly, he jolts at the contact but quickly settles. You trace your fingers slowly up the expanse of his thick thigh, pausing occasionally to gauge his reaction, waiting for him to stop you. But it never comes.
He’s slack-jawed, can only offer dumb, eager nods. If you thought you were unmoored by this whole encounter, you knew that Titus was ten times more affected.
When your fingers finally graze his shaft, he crashes back to reality all at once, slaps your hand away. Outraged, you spit out the gag.
“Wha—“ you start, but are interrupted by Titus surging forward so he’s encroaching on your space. He cups your chin harshly, squashes your cheeks together.
“Did I say you could spit your gag out? Or stop humping my boot?” He asks.
“No, but—“
“No, I asked you a question,” he cuts you off again.
“No, you didn’t,” you answer.
“That’s right. So what gave you the impression that you could do it then?”
Your eyes divert from his piercing stare. “You slapped my hand away, was just trying to make you feel good,” you murmur.
“I never said you could touch,” Titus rebuffs.
“You nodded!”
Titus laughs meanly. “Nodding is not verbal consent, bunny. You should know that.”
Your head drops, you don’t want him to see how crestfallen you probably look right now.
Titus pinches your chin again, lifts your head so you can look at him again.
“This must be so hard for you, baby,” he coos.
You roll your eyes dejectedly. “You want me to fuck you, sweetheart?”
You look away from him again, not meeting his eyes. He places his thumb at your bottom lip, tugs at the flesh softly until you suck the digit into your mouth. “Attagirl.”
“Bet you wish it was my cock, huh?” He asks smugly, though the way you’re suckling his thumb, hollowing your cheeks as you lave your tongue over the pad of it, has him also wishing it was his cock.
He pulls you off of his thumb by tugging your head back with a firm hand. You look up at him, eyes glassy, fully supplicant at his feet.
“Alright, fuck it,” he announces.
“Open up for me,” he adds. You drop your jaw obediently and mewl when he finally slaps his tip on your tongue, the weight of it making you dizzy.
“Look at you, cock drunk and it’s not even fucking inside you yet.” He pushes his tip past your lips and groans.
You push your head down, trying to get more of him in your mouth, but he holds you at the scruff of your neck, clicks his teeth at you.
“Eager, are we?”
You groan frustratedly, suckling on his tip.
“Yeah, that’s exactly what I thought,” he replies to your babbling. You pull back just enough to speak.
“Fuck my throat or I’m leaving.”
You dare him to fight you on it. To exert control over you. He simply balks.
“Oh,” is all he can manage before he’s pushing his cock into your mouth, not stopping till it hit the back of your throat. You gag at the fullness.
Titus ignores you pushing and hitting his thigh. You want him to fuck your throat, that’s what he’s going to do.
He sets a brutal pace, thrusting his long girthy cock in and out of your mouth. Tears flow freely down your cheeks, you rut helplessly against his boot, chasing your own release while he builds his in your throat.
“Shit, this is what you wanted, right? Wanted your big, mean daddy to fuck your throat?”
You babble around his cock, soaking his boot with your slick while pleasure glitters up and down your spine, curling your toes. The persistent shlick of his cock as he fucks the walls of your throat echoes around the room, hammers its way between your ears till it makes a home in the darkest corner of your brain, the sound so filthy it only brings you closer to orgasm.
You hollow out your cheeks in an effort not to gag, catching Titus off guard. His clenched fingers tug tighter on the root of your skull and he honest to god whimpers.
“Can’t just do that to me, baby. Fuck, I almost came,” he exhales.
You hollow your cheeks again, flick your tongue against the underside of his shaft. He pitches forward with a garbled yell, bent over you while his thrusts turn short and fast. “Gonna cum.”
He’s leaned over far enough that he can grab your ass from this angle, you shout in surprise when he gifts you with a swift smack.
“C’mon, bunny. Hump my fuckin’ boot, know you can do better that.” He cups the soft plush of your ass in his hand and moves, sets the pace for you to rock your cunt against him.
It’s so much.
He’s evil enough that the rock of your hips matches the thrust of his, taking and giving at twin tempos. You’re brainless in his clutches, a mewling, whining play thing for him to fuck as he wishes, while also letting you use him as a vessel for your own pleasure. It’s all you ever wanted.
Your orgasm surges through you at the realisation, breaks you open and throws you off the cliff violently. You cry out, throat seizing tightly enough that it triggers Titus’s own orgasm, he blabbers praise and whines into your hair as he buries his load in your throat, tacky spend trickling over your tongue like silk.
You tremble in his arms, the aftershocks coursing through your veins and searing your nerves till nothing remained.
Titus drops to his knees, grunting softly as his old bones betray him. He gently tucks your hair behind your ear.
“You’re wonderful, bunny. D’you know that? So perfect and wonderful.” His eyes are glassy as he sings your praise, tone shaky - you attribute it to him still reeling from his orgasm, he knows the truth. A four letter word starting with L knocking him in the teeth.
“Thank you for doing that with me,” you murmur softly, purposely meeting his gaze. Something in him cracks, and he struggles to hold back the sentence he’s dying to say. Three words. Eight letters.
But it’s too soon, so he merely says course, baby, anytime.
“Christ, made a fuckin’ mess of my boot, honey,” he lilts.
You tilt your head at him, assessing, but he can gather where your head is at based on the way your eyes glint with mischief. “Sorry, daddy, I’ll clean it up.”
His cock twitches in interest as you slide off his boot and arch forward, ass pitched in the air while you drop your head to his boot, tongue flattening to lick your juices off the leather.
He’s fucking winded, to tell you the truth.
You find new ways to surprise him every day.
After you lick the boot clean, you right yourself on your knees, grin up at him sweetly, your slick coating your cheeks.
He leans forward and kisses you messily, hands cradling the side of your head and your hip. You sigh dreamily into his mouth as he licks the cream from your cheeks, fucks it back into your mouth with his tongue.
When he pulls back, a string of saliva connects the two of you and you giggle at it.
“You’re so sweet, baby. Guess I just needed to fuck it back into you, huh?”
His eyes glint playfully at you, you respond by licking the tip of his nose and leaving him on the floor. “Good luck getting back up, old man! Those knees aren’t what they used to be.”
He feels like maybe you’re joking, like any second you’ll come back into the room and help him up. Not that he needs it, he’s more than capable of getting himself off the floor, it just takes him a second. But then he hears the shower turn on, and the shower door open and shut. By the time you start humming, he can imagine you washing your hair, a smug smile perched on your soft lips.
Guess I deserve that. He peels himself off the floor with as much dignity as he can handle, and saunters over the bathroom, leaving behind items of clothing as he goes. He’ll pick it up later, or you will, or the maid will. He’s not really fussed about it.
You squeal as he enters the shower behind you, whinging at him to give you some privacy. From outside the door, the sound is soon muffled, fizzled out, as though covered beneath a hand, and then evolves into shameless cries of pleasure.
The shower leaves you covered in more bodily fluids than you entered with, and you resolve that maybe a second shower will solve the problem. With Titus in the picture, and four months of edging now bursting forth from captivity between you two, that was not an option.
He’s got a lot to catch up on.
“Y’know, I was thinking…” You punctuate your sentence by tracing the rim of your wine glass with the tip of your forefinger.
“This can’t be good,” Titus quips.
“You don’t even know what I was going to say,” you bemoan him, he smiles at you in jest.
“No, but I know you, and you thinking has almost always been to my detriment.” Titus takes down a bite of steak in premature triumph, savouring the win before the game’s even begun its fourth quarter. Idiot.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said about the hunt, the chase, and whatnot before you stormed out of the house…” You tepidly throw out the hook, feigning humility, you wait for Titus to take the bait.
“Oh yeah?” He asks hesitantly, careful not to give too much away.
“Mhm.”
“What about it?” He questions further. Got him.
“Well, I figured we could make a little game out of it, just the two of us,” you muse, sugar sweet and innocent enough for him to want to sink his claws into you.
“What are the rules?” His silverware lays abandoned on his dinner plate, his hands white-knuckling the edge of the table. He feels like a dog who’s heard all its favourite words, can only hope he’s hiding it well enough that you don’t scent his excitement.
The small tug of your mouth tells him all he needs to know.
“If I catch you, you have to fuck me,” you explain. Titus perks up in a way you can’t help but be endeared by. His posture straightens, his pupils have dilated, he’s futilely battening down the hatches on the world’s strongest grin. His excitement rolls off of him in waves, it’s fucking contagious.
“Yeah?” He asks, voice straining.
“Yeah, baby.”
He’s at your side in a second, perched against the table. He pushes your dinner plate away, the action reeks of attention-seeking, an insistent and needy look at me, I’m the real main course, please, m’right here.
You’re smug as you take him in, eyeing him up and down hungrily. He’s suddenly bashful at the attention, is fighting the good fight to keep it under control.
“You know, I’m typically the hunter, not the hunted,” Titus notes.
“Yeah, well, I’m in charge this time, champ,” you quip lightly, clapping his bicep firmly.
He tilts his head at you, eyes narrowing to the claiming grip you have on his bicep. “Okay.”
“Okay?” You ask.
“Yeah, but don’t call me champ,” he scoffs.
“I’ll call you whatever I want, sweetness.”
You press your lips to his disarmingly. He’s immediately pliant under your touch, gooey and soft-limbed as you lick into his mouth, digging your fingers hard enough to bruise into the bulk of his bicep and his lower back, just shy of the top of his ass.
He cups your jaw and whimpers into the searing kiss, you freeze. He’s panicking as you huff a laugh into the shared space between your mouths.
“Did you just whimper?” You ask, lips touching his with every syllable uttered.
You pull back when he doesn’t answer, he lets out a frustrated whine as you do, cheeks flushed pink.
“S’okay if you did, I just don’t know if I’ve heard you make that sound before,” you assure him.
He nods quickly. “Sorry.”
You kiss him chastely. “Don’t be, baby. Did such a good job letting me take care of you.”
He buries his head in the crook of your neck so you can’t see him flustered. Ever one to read a room, you acquiesce, allow him a brief respite, play with his curls attentively. He murmurs something into your shoulder.
“What was that?”
He groans, tilts his head so his mouth’s not plastered to your throat. “I said, this is so embarrassing.”
“What is?”
“This. Don’t know why m’being so needy, m’sorry, bunny.” You squeeze his thigh reassuringly.
“You just need someone to take care of you for a bit, honey. Lemme take care of you, okay?” You don’t mean to tell him what he needs, you just know - intimately - what he’s experiencing, and you’re more than capable of doing that for him. You want to help.
You wait for him to meet your gaze, he stalls, having suddenly become very comfortable breathing in the sweet scent of your skin, content even - not at all hiding from you.
You tap his thigh and he retreats, rights himself on the table. He peers down at you, assessing. Finding no judgment, only adoration, he nods.
“Thank you,” he mumbles.
“Would tonight be too soon?” Titus takes longer than necessary to answer your question, it honestly borders on taking the piss. He scratches his chin ponderingly, furrows his brow in concentration.
When you scoff and unfold your legs as though about to stand, Titus utters a conclusive No.
“I’ll meet you outside in 15, no weapons,” you point an accusing finger at him, he raises his hands in mock innocence, albeit glassy-eyed and a little knock-kneed.
He watches as you leave the dining room, hips swaying exaggeratedly solely for his entertainment. “15 minutes!” You call, before slamming the door shut behind you.
Titus isn’t exactly sure what he was expecting when you proposed a hunt. No weapons, obviously, maybe nothing at all? Can-do attitudes and a team spirit?
He knows for certain that he wasn’t expecting the full kit and caboodle, a table laid out with all the paraphernalia you’d anticipated either of you would need - and you in hunting gear, looking particularly pleased with yourself.
“Am I going to die tonight?” Titus asks, his voice tinged in disbelief.
“What would be my weapon of choice be exactly - the flashlight, the condoms, lube?” You fold your arms.
“Oh, I don’t know, the rope maybe?” Titus retorts.
Okay, maybe you had forgotten about the rope.
“Think I’ll get my own docuseries on Netflix?” You ask, brows raising teasingly.
“I’m pretty sure the lawyers would have it buried before it left pre-production.”
You pout, “you’re no fun.”
Titus looks over the table again, you watch him in earnest. “Swiss army knives? Kinky,” he lilts.
“For the rope,” you supply. He looks at you, a curt brow raised, jaw slack.
“You don’t say!” He quips snarkily. You roll your eyes.
He turns back around, showing you his taut back muscles. As the line of his spine straightens, a bloodhound having caught a scent, you sigh, wondering what he’s stumbled across now.
He unceremoniously flings the box of condoms to the furthest corner of the room, you laugh. “Won’t be needing those.”
“Is that right?” You ask.
“What can I say, m’feeling plucky tonight.”
“You mean lucky?”
“Said what I said,” he tells you, leaving no room for doubt.
“I’m calling time.” Titus backs away from the table, hands raised.
You turn and exit the room, he follows after you like a stray puppy. You lean against the pillar outside, watching as he arrives immediately after you, hands behind his back. “What’d you grab, honey?”
He’s sheepish as he empties out his pockets, showing off his armada of approximately fucking zilch, nada, absolutely nothing.
“Gave you all that time and you grabbed nothing?” You tut softly.
“You’re very distracting,” he bemoans.
“I guess the experience is more authentic this way,” you sigh wistfully, reaching for something at your back.
Titus stands at full alert, eyes wide as he tries to make of what you’ve got hiding back there. He freezes when you reveal a handgun.
“Now… sweetheart…” He starts, feeling very much like he’s negotiating with a terrorist. His hands raised calmly in a defensive stance, attempting to fawn.
“Stand down, Danforth. This is just to… I don’t fucking know, commence the hunt? Is that what y’all call it?” You fuss with the barrel, clicking the safety off.
He sighs in relief, wipes away the beading sweat at his hairline. “This is very immersive.”
“Ten.” You start counting down, but avoid eye contact with Titus, looking instead toward your boot laces.
“Nine.”
“Eight.” Titus internally maps out the grounds, trying to pinpoint a hiding spot.
“Seven.” He can’t fucking think with you counting down the seconds like this is life or death. He’s never been on this end of the stick before. It’s fucking bullshit, he thinks.
“Baby—“ he interjects, like maybe if he plays his cards right, he can take you inside and pretend none of this ever happened if he can flick his tongue just right.
“Too late, six,” you reply monotonously.
“Five.”
Fuck. Titus leans forward, sprint ready.
“Four.”
“Three.”
“Two.”
You raise the gun in the air and shoot.
“What happened to fucking one?” Titus yells.
“You have seven minutes! That’s it!” You yell after him, watching gleefully as he disappears into the darkness.
Seven minutes fly by.
You barely had time to check your phone after running the checks on your buggy before the alarm was going off. All things considered, you felt like you were handling this a little too well. It’s not like hunting your rich boyfriend through his family compound for sex reasons was a certifiable skill, one you can put on your résumé and send in for job applications.
Maybe Titus was rubbing off on you after all. Well… yes, but in more ways than one.
You kickstart the engine, and veer off the golf course in the direction of the woods.
Titus’s legs carried him all the way through to the furthest corner of the woods. If he knew you as well as he thought he did, then there’s no way in hell you’d come looking for him here. It was easy money.
He doesn’t even bother finding a hiding place, because he’s so sure you wouldn’t come looking for him here.
It’s not that he doesn’t wanna fuck, there’s literally nothing else he wants to do, despite past behaviour maybe indicating otherwise. He’s just got a mean competitive streak - doesn’t like losing, not even if it’s you, not even if it’s for sex. He refuses to go down like that.
He lays down on the collapsed trunk of a tree, waiting for day to break. He’s not cocky enough to think he might steal a couple of winks of sleep while he waits.
A light shines through the thicket of trees, you on your buggy, he presumes, but you go straight past him. His heart rate picks up at you being so close. Sucker, he thinks to himself.
Ahead, you pull the buggy off to the side and kill the engine, prepared to make the rest of the trip on foot. You’d spotted a fallen tree as you drove past, back toward the property line. It’s exactly the kind of bullshit hiding spot Titus would be drawn to, thinking you wouldn’t go looking for him there.
You retrace the journey from memory in the complete dark, not being able to use your torch now, lest you reveal yourself to Titus.
You bank right a few hundred feet from the tree, giving yourself the opportunity to sneak up on him from behind. At the sound of obnoxious whistling, you stop. “This motherfucker,” you mutter quietly.
Deciding that he’s close enough to be within earshot, you rid yourself of your boots, you’re not going to sneak up on him if he had heard you clomping around minutes ago and had the wherewithal to run.
You’re not a big fan of your socked feet being exposed to the forest floor, but you’re made of tougher stuff than Titus apparently gives you credit for, so you persevere.
At this point, you aren’t even sure you’re walking in the right direction, when the tree comes into view. Titus is lying on top of the fucking thing, eyes closed with his fingers tapping his belly, still humming some stupid show-tune you’re sure you’ll remember once he’s underneath you.
Knowing you’ll regret this later, you drop to all fours, and crawl the rest of the way to the tree trunk. While the extra limbs might give you away volume wise, you don’t want to be within his line of sight if he were to open his eyes.
He’s literally right in front of you now, and somehow still hasn’t heard you. You stand silently, not allowing yourself a reprieve to stare down at him like you want to.
You raise your dirty hand, silently beg that he’ll forgive you for doing this, and clamp your hand down on his mouth.
His eyes shoot open, darting around until they land on his gagged mouth, and then on you, peering down at him with a soft smile on your face. The one you typically reserve for him on much kinder occasions.
“I win,” you tell him, smile transforming into something cockier.
He nips the flesh of your palm with his teeth. Your smile doesn’t falter, you simply slide your hand from his mouth until it’s wrapped firmly around his neck, careful fingers placing pressure on the sides of this throat.
His eyes dilate in response, breaths coming in heavy pants. “Come claim your prize then,” he quips gruffly.
You hum noncommittally. “Right here?”
“You got anywhere else in mind?” Titus asks, breathless.
You look around as though you have countless options, not just tree number one, number seven, and number 83. “Over there,” you point to a thick oak about ten metres away.
“Kinda far, no?” You tap his thigh.
“I think you’ll make it.” He hops off the tree just in time for you to make a run for it.
He darts behind you, picking up speed to come at you from the side. Just before you reach the tree, he grapples you and forces your back against it. The collision knocks the wind from your lungs.
You bite your lip at him. “Been waiting to do that all night, handsome?”
“Like you wouldn’t believe,” he groans, leaning forward to nip and suck at the column of your throat.
You curl deceptively light fingers into his hair, digging into the roots and tugging his head back forcefully. He whines, desperate.
“None of that, you’re like a little puppy,” you reprimand.
“Feel like one,” he notes uselessly. You huff a soft laugh.
“Yeah?” You ask, laughter lilting your voice. He nods quickly, eyes staring into yours, pleading.
You turn in his grasp, pressing the line of your ass right against his rigid cock. “So fuck me like it then.”
He’s unbuckling his belt and shucking his pants down when he drops a shaky “don’t have to tell me twice.”
You follow suit, listening to him pant into the base of your skull while he gets himself hard enough to fuck you. “Need a hand?” You offer.
“No,” he throws back defiantly.
You turn around in his hold anyway, batter your eyelashes at him demurely. “No?”
Titus’s cock swells in his fist at the sight of you. “Can do it myself,” he falters, avoiding direct eye contact.
You pinch his chin, force him to look at you. He bites his lip pitifully, perpetually fuzzy from the way you’ve so casually taken to dominating him. Your duality’s fucking intoxicating.
“Titus,” you scold him. He mewls at the tone.
“I know you’re very capable, okay? That’s not what this is. Now be a good boy and let me take care of you.” He almost passes out as you drool a line of spit onto the tip of his fat, swollen cock, flicking your wrist as you spread the mix of your spit and his pre over his tip and shaft - trying to lube him up enough to fuck you, you silently curse him for not having the foresight to take the lube with him.
“Feels… fucking good,” Titus grunts, helplessly thrusting into your hand.
“You wanna fuck me in doggy, puppy? Or missionary?” Your eyes glint mischievously. Titus couldn’t help but notice the way the light of your eyes caught on moonlight, illuminating like you were some lunar goddess sent solely for him.
“Both.”
“And m’not a puppy.” You giggle softly.
“Oh yeah? Then why do you act like one?”
“Do not,” Titus bites. You pinch his cheek with a placating aww, the action is pure malicious intent dressed up as doting affection. It sends shivers down his spine, makes precum dribble heavily from his tip.
“Okay, tough guy,” you reply.
You turn around again, lining your hole up with his cock, and tilt your hips back, filling yourself until he’s at the hilt. You exhale, winded.
“Holy shit.”
You keep him inside you for a minute, unmoving. He thinks you’re being cruel, you’re just trying to get accustomed to being so fucking full.
“Need— need you to—“ Titus stammers.
You shush him. “Just need a second, baby.”
“Oh.” Though you can’t see him, you know he’s smiling, super fucking pleased that you’re so affected by his size.
Not to be one-upped, you clench the walls of your cunt around his cock. He shouts in surprise, thrusts even further into you somehow. You whimper pathetically, not un-noticing of the bulge in your tummy.
“It’s so deep, honey. Can feel you in my fuckin’ guts,” you tell him as you reach for his hand and place it gently against the bulge of his cock inside your belly.
He pushes down on the bulge and gives an aborted thrust, you fall forward, barely avoiding smacking your head against the tree trunk.
Instead, you meet flesh, a soft palm, one you’d spent hours familiarising yourself with. You know, my grandma always used to say soft hands meant you’d never done a hard days work in your life, you told him, tracing shapes into the peachy, unblemished skin. He’d wrenched his hand from yours, faux-pissed but definitely mildly offended. I work, he’d told you, disbelieving. You were grateful for the soft landing now.
“Careful, bunny, can’t have you unconscious now,” he chides.
You scoff. “Okay, m’ready.”
Needing no further warning, he pulls out till only his tip’s inside you, and thrusts forward, spearing you on the first couple inches his cock. “Ju—just like that, baby,” you coo, the short and sharp thrusts hitting the ache between your thighs just right.
He groans, presses in another couple inches. He’s barely halfway, but you’re already keeling over at the length. He knows you can take more, you took him balls deep a couple minutes ago to prove a point - played your cards too fucking early.
“Take it, bunny, know you’re good for it,” he hisses.
“Y’don’t know shit. Take what I fucking give you like a good puppy, huh?” You clench your cunt around him to punctuate your sentence, cutting off his smart mouth like punishment.
He whimpers. “Thank you.”
You reach back and grip his hip. “Lemme set the pace.”
He nods emphatically. “Okay, just— please, move.”
You huff and lower yourself against the tree, creating a better angle and arching your back further. You must elongate your spine further because the movement draws out breathless pants from Titus. “S’perfect right there.”
You steady your hand on the trunk, keep your other hand locked on Titus’s hip, and fuck yourself on his cock. His hands find purchase on the dips at your spine, digs his fingers into the soft flesh. “Feels so good, baby, like you were made for me,” he praises.
You preen under his praise, your hole flutters around his cock in response, swallowing as much of his length as she can. “Y’like when I bounce this ass on you, baby? You gonna cum for me?”
Titus chokes on a moan, his body seemingly content to betray him in more ways than one because his hips jerk against the rhythmic pace you’ve set fucking back on him. “Thought so,” you note cockily.
“You tellin’ me this doesn’t feel as good for you, as it does for me?” Titus asks, barely concealing his hurt.
Your thrusts stop. He groans dejectedly, waits for anything, something. You slip forward, feigning nonchalance as his dick falls from your hole. ET phone home.
You turn to face Titus. “Lift me up?”
He picks you up with ease, rests your back gently against the tree as though he hadn’t tackled you into it moments ago. You trace the shape of his face gently - his hairline down to the apple of his cheeks, his jaw, his lips, up to his hairline again and down the bridge of his nose.
“What was that for?” He asks gruffly.
“Just admiring how pretty you are,” you tell him.
He scoffs. “M’not pretty.”
“Handsome, then. Beautiful,” you concur.
“You don’t need to grease me up, sweetheart, I’m already fucking you.”
You hum. “Seems to me like you’re arguing with me while your dick goes soft, actually.”
Titus’s gaze drops to his dick, fully erect. “I am not— oh, you were fucking with me,” he says flatly.
You take his dick in your hand again. “Want you to cum inside me, honey. Think you can manage?”
His eyes light up. “Really?”
“Really. Limited time offer, subject to change,” you stifle a laugh.
“M’ignoring that, for Christ’ sake,” he murmurs, fists his dick a couple times to ensure he’s still hard enough to fuck, and then pushes in and in and in.
“Feels like a home run everytime, huh?” He asks, more to himself than you.
“I’ve never watched an NFL game before,” you reply shakily; his cock nestled snugly between the walls of your cunt like he belongs there is admittedly throwing you, gives you a myriad of ideas - dangerous ones.
“I’m ignoring that because I feel like it’s going to kill my boner.” His grip on you lifts you higher, spreads your legs a little further. His hips shift in tandem with yours, allowing him a deeper angle.
He rocks his hips forward and you wail, head dropping into his shoulder. “That’s the finisher, yeah?”
He kisses the top of your head, spears his hips into yours in long, languid thrusts. “Need— faster,” you tell him, words muffled by his skin’s hold on your lips.
“I can do faster for you,” Titus nods, holding you tighter against the tree as he thunders his hips, hammering his cock into your pussy.
“Fuck!” You cry. He huffs a satisfied laugh, keeps his brutal pace.
You throw your head back, feeling your core simmering, tipping near to the point of boiling over. “Gonna— fuck— gonna make me cum, baby. Doing so good f’me,” you pant, words pouring out into the night like stardust.
Titus kisses you desperately, tongues clashing and teeth licking against each other hard enough to ache. He slides a hand from around your waist to your pudgy, swollen clit and gives the poor thing some attention. You cry out in relief, overstimulation maybe, he can’t tell which, only that the noises you gift him spur him on even more.
Your legs tremble uncontrollably in his grasp now, the clit rubbing has your nerves working overtime to bring you release. “Shit, need you to cum with me, Titus. Are you close? Need me to do anything for you, baby?”
He whines, his thrusts hiccup at your question. “Can you— can you tell me you love me?” He asks pathetically.
You falter. He catches your expression, and his face falls.
“Even if you don’t mean it, s’okay. It doesn’t matter, forget I said anything.” His eyes are glassy, even more pretty when lit by the moon, though he won’t look you in the eye.
His hand drops from your clit, goes to rest back on your waist to set you down, feeling like the moment is clearly dead.
You wrap your smaller hand around his wrist, bring it to your mouth. He watches, confused, as you suck his fingers between your teeth, licking your slick off the pads of his fingers individually, then suckling and kissing and laving your tongue over them in a way that feels like devotion. Maybe you just like the taste of your cum, Titus can’t really say right now - doesn’t feel very sure of anything.
You guide his hand back to your clit, moving his stiff fingers against the engorged nub until he unfreezes enough to do it himself. Your hand returns to his face, cups his cheek.
“Titus Danforth, I love you terribly. I love you in a way that feels non-conducive to breathing, to eating, to sleeping. I watch you while you sleep and think that I couldn’t feel close enough to you unless I burrowed my way into your skin and lived out the rest of my days there. Do you understand me? I love you, and I’m sorry if I haven’t shown you that every day that we spend together.”
Fat globs of tears streak down your poor boyfriend’s cheeks, he hiccups these awful sobs before he buries his face into your lips, smushing his against yours gracelessly, like he’s trying to transfuse himself to you. His thrusts are messy as he fucks into you. “Can you say it again?” He asks against your lips.
“I love you,” you repeat, your cheeks wet with his tears.
He groans loudly. Your eyes widen in surprise as you feel him fill your cunt, burying his load inside you. “Ti—“
“No.”
He thrusts faster and harder into you, his fingers pinch your clit like he’s on a mission. “Waitwaitwaitwait.”
“No, cum on my cock like you fuckin’ love me,” Titus commands, and you do.
Searing pleasure burns from your core, explodes in your spine like fireworks. His touch is merciless, coaxing you through your orgasm while you jerk and convulse in his arms.
You drop against the tree trunk, spent.
“Holy shit,” you say in unison.
You both giggle, content to stay in this bubble forever, pressing chaste kisses as a reminder, a promise to keep forever, a declaration of… well, love.
“Do you wanna go to a diner?” Titus asks, breaking the calm silence.
“You’re sooo old. You sweet on me or somethin, Danforth? Gonna buy me a milkshake?” You quip, a smirk curling at the corner of your mouth.
“Would you prefer I act like guys your age? Oh, I came, I’m going to sleep now, can you see yourself out?” At his oafy impression of almost of all your exes, you snort.
“Are those my two options? Diner dash with grandpa or avoidant 20-something year old?” You ask brashly.
He squeezes the plush of your ass possessively. “You don’t get any options, bunny. You’re fuckin’ mine forever.” You smile, dazed.
“I’m suddenly craving waffles.”
“Sounds good, we can just swipe your pussy for the syrup,” Titus lilts. You groan, disgusted, and push him away from you so you can pull your pants back up.
“I hate you.”
“Noooo you love me, you said it yourself.”
“I miss when you had erectile dysfunction, all this sex’s got you on some bullshit.”
Titus whips around. “I never had erectile dysfunction!” You bite your lip to keep from laughing.
pairing: Jack Abbot x surgeon!f reader
summary: when Jack arrives in the ER in his SWAT uniform, he is surprised to see a new surgeon. and right away, he takes a liking to your brazen tone and notices your skills. he finds you intriguing. except, you hate everything about his hobby, and you aren’t afraid to let him know.
warnings: ACAB! her attitude gives enemies-to-lovers vibes, but Jack is mostly flabbergasted; mentions of a shootout, deaths and guilt; some hurt/comfort (while he’s shirtless...), PLOT TWIST. also, I added one slur (to indicate that the character is racist, not because I would ever use that word irl). P.S. please don’t get offended on Jack’s behalf. he’s fictional, he can take it. / words: 7K / author’s note: guys, I know no one asked for this... but it came to me in a dream. it was also fuled by the rage I feel daily bc I have to work with men. and yes, I love it when Jack is touch-starved and yearning ♡ READ ON AO3 / MASTERLIST
Sweat tastes like salt, and gunshots smell like fireworks, and the loud sounds still echo in his head. Jack takes deep, measured breaths. The car shakes as it takes a turn, but he is staying calm. Collected. He keeps his hand on the bag valve and presses rhythmically to force more air into Hiro’s lungs. His gaze is focused on the deep wound on his neck, the bandages soaked through.
Blood is just blood.
Wet, warm, staining the skin with crimson.
The splatters of it dried up on his hands and vest. It’s been a while since he had to treat an injury this bad. Out in the field, under active fire, with the adrenaline blazing through his bloodstream. Except, that feeling he once loved and chased has recently become less thrilling. More unnerving. And underneath the layers of the synthetic fibers and his years-old restraint, a heaviness has settled in his chest. Jack knows it’s not about the bleeding — at least, not the one he did manage to stop.
Because as they ride through the tunnel, the light flickers — from bright to dull fluorescent one — and Hiro’s face is momentarily replaced by someone else’s.
Someone way younger, in his twenties, his eyes widened in horror, his mouth opening to push the panicked words out. His teeth are colored red —
Then Jack blinks. The sunlight floods the car again.
“How are we doing back there, doc?” Levington asks him from the driver’s seat.
“Those damn beaners got him good. But your guys will patch him up, right? 'Cause I’m supposed to be one of his groomsmen, and let me tell you, those tux rentals ain’t cheap —”
“Lev, can you just shut the fuck up and step on it?” a gruff voice interrupts.
“Got it, Sarge!”
The engine roars.
The weight in Abbot’s chest sinks deeper. But he is nothing if not pro at pushing his emotions down. So he does just that.
They ride straight to the ambulance bay, and two paramedics help them transfer Hiro on a gurney. The numbness in Jack’s wrist gives way to tingling as he moves his hand a little; he keeps his fingers clasped around the bag. He keeps his calm. Pretending that he doesn’t feel the pain stinging his shoulder blade, a deep graze where the bullet missed him.
And there’s some relief in coming into the ER, a safe space with the well-known faces — Robby’s the first to greet him, already on alert.
“Intubated neck wound, sats not great,” Jack explains, his hands moving on autopilot — one pressing on the bag, the other checking Hiro’s pulse. “You got a trauma room open?”
“Trauma 1,” Robby nods, helping to move the gurney in the right direction. “What’s the story?”
“Officer Hiro, high-velocity GSW. Warehouse robbery gone sideways,” Jack lists, avoiding further details.
Because if he says more, he’ll have to deal with questions he has yet to find the answers to. Because he’s used to making clean cuts, having a clear conscience, taking a clear course of action. But the truth is messy. And he doesn’t have time for that.
Instead, Abbot takes notice of Hiro’s barely moving chest, just as they roll the gurney in, Santos and Perlah already in the room.
Trinity’s gaze flits between two men in uniform, not with dismay but with her usual curiosity. With the excitement some might consider odd. Jack doesn’t. He also wonders when was the last time his job made him excited. He can’t remember. Definitely not today.
“Did you do this intubation?” Santos takes the bag from him.
“Under active fire, yeah. I go in with the team in case there’s an injury,” Jack tells her casually, a pair of scissors already in his hands, the metal blades hastily cutting through the bandages.
“That’s badass,” Trinity notes with a small grin, her eyes bright with amusement.
Jack only shrugs. His face expression stays unfazed. Behind it, there’s a roaring concern: with how much air he’s been pumping into Hiro’s lungs, they should inflate way more. They should make his chest rise and fall, a steady breath-like pattern. A vital pattern.
The monitor goes off.
“Sats down to 85,” Robby warns.
A respiratory failure means that they have to act fast. It also means that he missed something. And getting confirmation hurts Jack way more than being shot at.
“Shit, his trachea’s transected,” he grunts as he removes the dirty bandages, “I didn’t notice.”
“So if we intubate again, it will come straight out the wound,” Trinity guesses from behind his shoulder.
“Bingo. Need another plan,” he takes the plastic tube out of Hiro’s mouth, and she promptly puts the mask on him, with the same bag attached to it.
It’s the same working principle: her fingers squeeze the bag, the air goes in. And Jack helplessly watches as it leaks through the neck wound, blood bubbling at the edges.
The beeping doesn’t stop.
Robby shakes his head. “Sats down to 83.”
“He’s not moving any air,” Jack mumbles, “Can’t send him up like this.”
Robby catches his gaze, hums, thinks it over. “How about a neonatal mask?”
“A neonatal?” Santos sounds confused. “But how can it —”
“Put it to his neck,” Jack realizes. “Seals the wound, allows the air to go where it’s supposed to.”
Trinity nods. Then runs up to the supply cabinet, and just a tiny bit of her excitement does rub off on him. Jack lets out a breath, sweat beading on his brow; his heart is still restless with worry. Seconds drag out while he waits, and the neonatal mask actually works — sats climb up to 98, the oxygen finally filling up the lungs. But Abbot knows it’s not a permanent solution.
Robby knows, too. He steps back to give a call to the OR.
Jack figures out a way to keep his hands busy in the meantime: a syringe with a needle and two ampules he asks Perhal for — lidocaine for numbing and epi to reduce the bleeding. He carefully works around the wound, peppering it with injections, as Trinity checks up the lungs.
“Good lung sliding, no pneumo,” she reads the monitor.
This is good news. They are unfortunately followed by Robby hanging up the phone with a loud sigh.
“The OR is packed, they can take him in 20 minutes at best.”
“Wish I could say I am surprised,” Jack huffs, feigning a tone that will not give away how much he hates it — wait, and uncertainly, and feeling like he’s failing someone. “It’s always on this day when people collectively decide to lose a few of their limbs.”
“More like a few of their brain cells,” Perlah mutters, earning a laugh from Santos.
“Think he can hang in there for 20 more minutes?” Robby asks.
“I don’t want to sit and wait,” Jack counters and puts the syringe away. “Any suggestions?”
“Mine would be to sit and wait.”
“That’s just lazy, man.”
“Well, sorry I’m not a wellspring of ideas, some of us been working since 6 a.m.”
They aren’t seriously bickering — it’s just a way to keep Jack’s mind distracted, an impromptu grounding technique. Robby’s aware, so he plays along. Jack welcomes it.
“What do you think I’ve been doing? Does this camo make it look like I returned from a vacation?”
“I’m starting to think you just enjoy watching people shoot at each other.”
“Says the guy whose definition of fun is riding a bike without the damn helmet.”
“Which only happened once, meanwhile you continuously —”
The door swings open, putting their conversation to a halt.
And then a smile stretches Robby’s lips as his eyes land on someone else.
“Do you ever take breaks?”
“Do you?” you quip and hastily throw on a gown. “Cause you aren’t leading by example, that’s for sure.”
Jack instantly turns to the sound. He doesn’t recognize your voice — confident, brazen even — nor your hair color. He only glimpses your profile before you put a mask on, your movements quick, honed. Not hesitating once. He’s yet to learn your name, but your dark scrubs give him a hint: you’re a surgeon.
The one Robby already seems acquainted with. He keeps his gaze on you while you reach for the gloves.
“And why is it always you who comes down to us?”
“That is a weird way of saying thank you.”
“I just don’t want our promising new hire to burn out too fast. And I am seeing some troubling signs.”
“What you are seeing is eight hours of sleep paired with a healthy dose of caffeine. Not that you’d know what it looks like,” you scoff at Robby, mirth in your voice. “Also, promising? What a compliment.”
“We’ve only been working together for two weeks, I can’t go soft on you. Or people will start talking,” Robby steps back to let you take his place, like he is used to it. Like there is a rhythm you two have learned to fall into.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” you tell him bluntly, but your attention is on Hiro — you quickly look over his bloodied chest and wounded neck, a slight furrow between your brows. “The neonatal mask was a good call.”
Then finally, you spare Jack a glance.
Your eyes catch on his uniform for a perceptible few seconds, then dart up to his face. And Jack involuntarily, immediately tenses. Because it feels like he is staring down the barrel of a gun, and your gaze is loaded. Like there are words you want to fire at him, a shot that will be deadly.
His heartbeat stutters.
But you don’t say a thing.
You silently look back at Hiro. And suddenly, a thought comes to Jack’s mind: something about you is incredibly familiar.
Robby stands right behind you, oblivious to any tension and still smiling. “You aren’t gonna let me win, will you? Emery warned me —”
“You bring her up so often, I’m starting to suspect you have a crush, Robinavich,” — you throw a look at Trinity, “Santos, help me cut down a 6-0 ET tube,” — then, back at Robby, “Sorry to break it to you, but you are not her type.”
“Is it the beard?”
“Among other things,” you chuckle.
Jack really wants to interfere with your banter — it feels like things are slipping out of his control: no one is asking for his opinion or his help, although it’s his friend who is about to bleed out on the table.
But you’re a natural at multitasking.
You talk while your sharp gaze does the inspection, while you draw up a plan. You tell Trinity where to cut the tube and ask for clamps, your fingers pulling up the mask from Hiro’s neck, your gloves already covered in his blood.
“The problem must be in my erratic working schedule,” Robby muses teasingly, watching you work.
Your eyebrows flicker up at his remark. Behind your mask, there’s an expression that Abbot guesses is a smirk. “No, I’d say it’s more about your pathological refusal to commit to a serious relationship and instead fucking around and calling it casual. Which does sound funny coming from a man in his fifties,” you deadpan.
Perlah gives Robby a pointed look, not hiding that she does agree with you. Santos is trying very hard (and failing) to hold back a laugh. And unexpectedly, despite his whirlpool of emotions that are far from funny, Jack feels his mouth smiling too.
You keep your focus on the wound and add nonchalantly: “Please tell me you haven’t been casual with anyone in this room.”
Robby is blushing — profusely, from his ears to his cheeks. “You overestimate my charm.”
“I’m yet to find any. But somehow that doesn’t stop so many other women,” you tsk. Then mercifully grant him some reprieve. “His sats will tank, he’s in need of an airway. Trinity, come help me with the tube.”
“Allow me,” the words come out before Jack can rationalize them, his body leaning slightly toward yours across the table.
Like he is following a pull.
You don’t object. But now that he is standing closer, Jack catches how your eyes dart to the side, your brows pinched together. Almost as if you fight the urge to look at him again, to say something.
But for the second time, you don’t.
And even though Abbot is not inclined to think about it too hard — of how he looks and how he carries himself, and what effect it might have on people — he cannot help but wonder if your discomfort comes from that. Maybe you also feel the pull, maybe you’re trying to be professional about it.
He doesn’t mind the quiet. It drapes over you two as you work in accidental tandem: Santos gives Jack the tube, and he waits patiently for you to find the distal trachea. He checks the monitors. Although he’s drawn to keep his eyes on you. As much as Abbot is still worried, he is also undeniably intrigued.
His tension slowly eases —
Until the door creaks open, and Levington clumsily pushes half of his body in. The holster on his hip bumps against the wall, the handle of the gun making a dull sound.
“How’s it going, guys? This one didn’t kick the bucket yet?”
Jack doesn’t want to get distracted — or worse, to distract you. Not when you’re concentrated on the task, the metal shanks bloody and gleaming as you rotate them, trying to grip the windpipe and leave everything intact. Abbot looks up at Robby.
Robby first looks at you.
He then loses his smile and the amiability he usually uses around patients. Which is weird. He turns to Levington.
“It’s better if you wait outside, and we’ll update you once he’s out of surgery,” Robby says dryly. His voice drops slightly when he adds, “Should be more careful with the gun.”
“The safety’s on,” Levington brushes off, then chuckles. “Wouldn’t want to shoot myself in the leg and end up on the table too.”
“Weapons of any kind aren’t allowed in the ER,” you say without looking at him, way louder than Robby.
And there’s a stark change in your tone — it’s lacking playfulness, it is completely void of any warmth, each word spoken so firmly that you sound almost... Angry. Jack catches on to that.
Levington doesn’t.
“Oh, I’m a big boy, I can handle —”
“Wasn’t exactly a suggestion,” you cut him off. “You aren’t allowed in here, period. Go flash your gun some place else. Am I being clear?”
For just a second, you do look at him, a brief turn of your masked face in his direction.
And Levington — six feet tall, almost two hundred pounds of chiseled muscles and blissful ignorance — flinches under your stare. He throws both hands up.
“S-sorry, already leaving,” he stutters and backs out of the room.
The sats drop down to 91.
“I got it,” you say in the same second.
Jack’s part is easier: he only needs to place the tube in. Gently, securely. His face inches closer to yours, his gaze grazing the high points of your cheeks, the lines of your throat. You surely can feel him staring, but you don’t move away. Eventually, he does.
“I’m in. Balloon up.”
The chestpiece of Robby’s stethoscope glides over Hiro’s chest. The number on the monitor is climbing up. Everyone shares a sigh of relief.
“Good breath sounds,” Robby confirms, a corner of his mouth curling. “Not bad, you guys.”
But when Jack tries meeting your gaze, you don’t give him the satisfaction, your face not softened one bit. Nor is your voice when you say coolly:
“Good thing that whoever shot him couldn’t aim for shit.”
That scratches off some of Jack’s pretense. Most of his nonchalance. Because you masterfully fish out not only the trachea, but also the damned memories he has been trying to suppress.
The rows of corridors, the piles of packaged and hastily abandoned goods. Shadows that move across the floor, hide behind structured rows of shelves. Hushed conversations. Hectic decisions. They are on the run.
Hiro’s voice booming.
“Kid, you don’t even know how to use that thing! Just put your weapon down!”
Shots fired — intentional, precise, hitting the targets as expected. But one is sudden, accidental, the bullets ricocheting off the metal with bright tiny sparks.
Hiro gets hit.
His hand clasped weakly over his neck, red pouring through his fingers until Jack can apply more pressure. Until they rush him out of the building.
There are two dead bodies left behind.
The third one is still fighting against the imminent demise. Convulsing limbs and bloodied teeth and scared eyes — looking straight at Jack.
Robby’s palm on his shoulder brings him back.
“— don’t have to stay for this,” he repeats, “We can take it from here.”
He sounds more cautious, like he can finally feel that something’s off. But he can’t figure out what exactly. Robby steps to where you’re standing.
“I’ll sew the trachea to the skin. Can’t let you do all the work around here.”
You don’t argue. But your gloved hand brushes Hiro’s half-naked body, your fingers moving to his side. You pull away the piece of his torn t-shirt. There is a spot beneath his ribs — big, blooming violet.
“Missed a bruise. Left upper quadrant.”
Santos picks the ultrasound transducer. “Wasn’t he wearing body armor?”
“High-velocity projectile doesn’t have to penetrate to damage,” Jack notes.
He stays to help Robby with suturing. You take the transducer from Trinity, maneuvering your body and your hand to move around Abbot so you can get an image while still keeping your distance.
And this doesn’t feel like you are fighting an attraction to him, no. It comes off as avoidance. Dislike even.
But why?
“No fluid in the suprasplenic space. Looks like a subcapsular hematoma of his spleen,” you say, ignoring Jack’s existence as if your arm isn’t bumping into his.
“So he needs an abdominal CT,” Santos suggests.
“CT angio of the neck first. Then CT chest, abdomen, pelvis.”
“Geez, I wonder what the other guy looks like,” Trinity mumbles.
Abbot pretends he didn’t hear the question. But now that he’s the one ignoring something obvious, you glance at him. He feels it — your gaze comes with the safety off. And he remembers that he also has a gun. The chances that you haven’t noticed aren’t very high. Which may be what’s been bothering you.
“How did that even happen?” Santos wonders, and this one time Jack wishes she could be less curious. Trinity adds, a tad bit awkward. “I mean, if it’s not a top secret.”
Since everyone is staring at him, he can’t help but talk.
“Some guys naively thought today was the day to rob a goods warehouse. Didn’t think about how long it would take to load the appliances,” Jack explains half-heartedly. “They panicked when the SWAT rolled in. All hell broke loose.”
“His recovery will also feel like hell,” Perlah nods toward Hiro with a small, sympathetic frown.
“Good thing someone else didn’t catch a bullet,” Robby remarks, both disapproving and concerned, his gaze fixed on the wound.
Out of the corner of his eye, Jack notices you move away. As if you aren’t very interested in this discussion. But Perlah is — she squints at Jack, and there’s more confusion than disapproval in her words:
“Why’d you volunteer for something like that?”
You snap your gloves off, one then the other; then your mask.
“My therapist said I needed a hobby,” Abbot says.
It’s an excuse packed as a joke, but both work poorly — there is a glaring proof of how unsafe the job is, with Jack’s hands still on Hiro’s wounded neck. Proof that it isn’t just a fun, carefree pastime.
Because there’s no enjoyment in watching someone die.
And Jack has seen too many deaths already. He doesn’t know how long he can keep pushing it all down, deeper, until he will start cracking at the seams. So he has made it into a habit to talk his way out of situations he struggles to process.
“I mean, they just need someone to help them if things go south,” he continues, seemingly unruffled. “It’s a high-risk job. These guys put their life on the line.”
There is a sound — a huff mixed with a laugh, not airy and mirthful but instead cold and sharp. The sound comes from you.
“Do they really?”
His head snaps in your direction, and there’s no hiding how flabbergasted he is by your tone. You give him no chance to recover.
“You mean the men in military-style tactical gear who usually show up armed to the teeth? In teams, with vests, shields and helmets? Which, by the way, they get paid really well for. So how high is the risk exactly?” You glance at Hiro. “At least this one came in one piece. How many were brought in body bags today thanks to you?”
The room goes silent.
Jack’s face grows hot. And only now, belatedly, he realizes: for you, there is no pull. The only urge you’re fighting is to tear him to shreds.
Correction: you aren’t fighting it.
“Shit happens,” Abbot tries to argue. “You point a gun at a police officer, and they’re allowed to engage.”
“Are they allowed to negotiate first? Or do you usually prefer to skip that part? Sorry, my bad — not you, your team buddies.”
The truth is, he’s not really involved in the decision-making. He stays back and he follows orders, and there is no time to question them. He does sometimes, though. It has been happening more often.
You stare him down like you can read his thoughts.
“Are you allowed to help the other guys? Like, if some criminal is bleeding out on the pavement. Or does the Hippocratic Oath apply only to the upstanding citizens with a clean record and high morals?”
His heart pounds, no doubt fueled by adrenaline that’s triggering the body’s “fight or flight” response. Jack’s always been a fighter, he has learned to be — he went from jumping into fights at school to jumping out of helicopters straight into war zones. But none of that experience can help him.
His vest, his self-restraint, his wit are suddenly all useless against you.
“There are priorities of life. Civilians first, then the acting officers,” Jack forces out, because it feels unbearable not to fight back or at least try to. “The criminals come —”
“Aren’t they innocent until proven guilty? Pointing a gun at someone isn’t against the law.”
“Shooting at people is.”
“Undoubtedly, yes. Shouldn’t they be prosecuted for that?”
“Undoubtedly,” Jack echoes, not wryly but warily, like he’s afraid to walk into a trap. He does.
“Would be hard to do that when they are dead,” you note swiftly, your voice level, but your gaze is burning. Always on him. It makes Jack’s grit falter, so when you change topics, he is caught off guard.
“Where’s that warehouse you mentioned?”
Robby is finishing the stitches, his brown eyes glancing between you two with ever-growing apprehension. Perlah and Trinity are gazing at you like they just got front row tickets to some drama show. Jack doesn’t find any of this entertaining.
“I’m not sure I can disclose that information.”
You let out a hum. Dismissive. Like that’s exactly what you expect from him, like your expectations of him aren’t very high.
“Since he didn’t bleed out, and your hand didn’t fall off from pumping air into his lungs, it can’t be too far. The warehouse in Millvale sounds about right.”
Abbot’s jaw clenches. Your mouth twitches, as if you’re about to sneer.
“Isn’t that the one owned by Amazon? I’m sure one of the world’s richest men is ugly crying over a few boxes of packaged goods someone tried to steal from him.”
There’s so much tension in Jack’s face, he is about to start grinding his teeth.
“I don’t think we should let people steal whatever shit they want.”
“And I do not encourage stealing,” you retort, easily grinding on his nerves, “I’m saying you should take guilty people to court. Not kill them on the spot.”
“You ever heard about self-defence?”
“You ever tried not shooting people in the head?”
“I don’t shoot anyone. Or give orders to.”
“But you work for the men who do. Kinda sounds like you don’t have a problem with it.”
An irritated deep sigh burns his throat, but Abbot holds it back. So you push on.
“I’m not judging,” but it sounds like you are. “The job probably pays well. Wouldn’t hurt to get an extra check in this economy.” He doesn’t buy into you being conciliatory. You prove him right when you add. “I heard that ICE is hiring.”
There’s an immediate shift in the air. The silence deafening, all eyes on Jack again, as if he has to actually prove that he’d never consider that job offering.
“Since you’re so fond of law enforcement —”
“I’m not gonna join fucking ICE,” Jack hisses as he fully turns to you.
Your words send redness creeping across his cheeks, the color of both embarrassment and indignation. You turn a blind eye to his feelings.
“Oh, you have a moral compass? Would you look at that.”
The guilt is back, and now it takes the shape of a dumbbell, the weight so heavy, it’s threatening to crush his chest. At least, that’s what it feels like. His voice comes out a little strangled.
“You seem to like rushing to judgment.”
“I was merely asking. ICE loves recruiting cops.”
It’s in this moment when Robby tries to interfere. He walks closer, his eyes moving from Jack to you and back. “Guys, maybe you should —”
“They will recruit any uneducated douchbag, it has nothing to do with what the SWAT does,” Abbot insists.
“The unit of the public institution that is responsible for quarter of a million civilian injuries a year? I think my judgment is just fine,” you say, adamant in your aversion. “Those are the same guys who do forced-entry raids and treat human rights like a suggestion they are free to ignore.”
“They don’t —”
But Abbot finds himself unable to finish that sentence. We wants to say they aren’t like that, except he actually can’t be certain. He and Hiro did form a surprisingly tight friendship, but Jack has never cared to hang out with the rest. He has a schedule and a full-time job, he gets tired faster, he sometimes feels too old to get their jokes.
He’s getting irritated at how effortlessly you can sniff out his hesitation.
“You don’t know that for sure.”
“But you don’t know it either, do you?” you challenge.
For him, it takes a lot of effort — to push back his emotions, to stop himself from bluntly asking Did something happen to make you so uncompromising? There is a lot of sense in what you’re saying. But Jack sticks to his own version of truth.
“From my experience, many of them are not bad people.”
It backfires. As quickly as if he stepped on another mine. You tell him, ruthlessly straightforward:
“From my experience, half of them choose that job to flaunt their power, the other half just love cosplaying their old army days because they are adrenaline junkies who can’t be left alone with their thoughts.”
Your words land like a punch into his sternum. Because you read him like you’ve got a PhD in Jack Abbot’s supposedly complex internal turmoil. He exhales sharply. Takes a breath and bristles.
“Are you a therapist now too?”
“Am I wrong? Sorry, did it hit too close to home?”
“Guys!” Robby barks out, and that does shut you both up.
You and Jack look at him, and he glances intently at the table. At Hiro, who you two almost forgot about. You only now notice that he’s starting to wake up, his eyelids fluttering as his head moves slightly to the side.
Abbot is sombre and distrustful — he doesn’t want any of your prejudice to hit Hiro, who’s in no shape to argue or to even speak. He watches you with narrowed eyes. You briefly check — the fluids Hiro is hooked up to, his stitched-up neck. And you don’t look at Jack at all.
“Welcome back to consciousness,” you keep your voice down — and you’re believably polite. Perfectly amiable. “You may feel some discomfort in your throat, there is a tube placed there to help you breathe. It’s temporary, and we will take it out during surgery. It won’t take long, and you won’t feel a thing. You may want to stay out of karaoke for a while, though.”
Hiro’s lips curve up a little at the corners.
Jack’s guilt could take half of the room. The floor. (The building?)
He makes his face look less sour as he walks closer. It helps that he is genuinely happy to see Hiro doing better. (Most importantly, not dead.)
Jack pats him on the shoulder, although the touch barely lands. “You’re gonna be okay, Hiro. You’re in good hands.”
Your argument (or was it a fight?) has momentarily gone from sizzling to smoldering. Robby moves to stand between you, a self-proclaimed referee.
“What’s the plan?”
“The Radiology first. Head and Neck will have an OR ready with thoracic standing by,” you explain.
“How soon can they take him?”
“We’re still backed up with Westbridge patients, but I can speed things up. Let’s start with CT.”
“Can I ride up with you?” Trinity asks, never apologetic for her ambitions.
And you must like it, because you give her a half-smile as you nod. “The more the merrier.”
It stings Jack’s pride a little how easily you get along with people. With anyone but him.
He helps to transfer Hiro on a gurney, and you two stand shoulder to shoulder for a moment. You only level him with a glare. Your eyes unreadable, your body moving out of the room like you wish to never share it with Abbot.
The space’s left empty, save for him and Robby.
“What the hell was that?” Jack says under his breath, eyes still glued to the place where you were standing.
“That was our new surgeon,” Robby informs him casually, his tone suggesting you and him work pretty well together. “She likes to come down between the surgeries to check up on the critical cases, see if she can help. No idea when she manages to actually take breaks, but I’m not complaining.”
Jack watches as Robby pulls down his gown, feeling his emotions simmer, his cheeks still warm. “That’s not what I’m asking.”
Robby sends him a glance, then lets out a long exhale.
“Wish I could give you an answer,” although he doesn’t sound too bothered by the lack of it. “Last week, a couple of cops brought in one of theirs, tried to stick by while he was on the table. And she almost dragged them out of the ER with her own hands,” Robby takes off his gloves and tosses them into the trash can. “To be fair, their buddy did shoot himself in the thigh, and they all reeked of beer. So she didn’t seem totally unreasonable, and I didn’t want to push her. Maybe she’s anti-gun, maybe something happened to her? Hell if I know. It’s none of my business unless it affects her job. And it doesn’t. You saw it too.”
Jack can’t argue with that.
He also can’t stop thinking about it — your voice laced with aversion, your words biting, your eyes never shying away from his. You. He doesn’t know how to stop thinking about you.
Robby must see in his face — or maybe he just knows him well enough to guess. He asks Jack quietly:
“She did get under your skin, huh?”
Jack’s mouth is set into a straight line. He cannot master a reply, and Robby knows better than to force one out. He briefly closes his eyes, bringing his hand up to rub his neck.
“Listen, I’m as clueless as you are. But if you want to get some inside scoop, maybe try asking—”
“Dr Robby?” Mel peeks into the room. “Sorry, we’ve got a trauma incoming. A 12-year-old kid, a firecracker exploded in his hand.”
“Not again,” Robby grumbles. “Anyone ever thought of banning those fucking firecrackers? I think we should.”
“Start a petition, I’ll sign it,” Dana chuckles as she walks by.
Robby relents and steps toward the door, his hand landing on Jack’s shoulder to give it a supportive squeeze. Unknowingly, he touches his wound, and Abbot barely manages to hold back a groan.
This time, the pain in his back lingers.
And when he’s left alone, in the room that smells like blood and antiseptics, what lingers on his mind is the thought of you.
Jack looks for an empty exam room so he can quickly change and clean the wound. He doesn’t want to ask for help, knowing how busy this day’s been, which also serves as an excuse for him to stay for a few hours.
He tells himself it has nothing to do with you. It sounds like a lie.
Jack tiredly removes his sweat-stained long-sleeve, wincing when the material drags over his bruised shoulder blade. He takes the holster off, makes sure the gun is safely placed inside, then slowly pulls up his t-shirt. He barely has time to take it off when he hears quick footsteps approaching.
“Mr Diaz?” Samira calls out, loud and excited. The door clicks open. “Mr Diaz, I have a surprise for you,” she yanks the curtain to the side. Her eyes widen a little at the sight of Abbot, her tone quickly dulled to apologetic. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Jack says, a bit self-conscious, hands fumbling with the t-shirt.
Mohan pays him no mind, looking around the room. “Have you seen my patient? Orlando.”
He shakes his head. “This room was empty.”
She curses under her breath, and her face crumbles into an expression of unease that’s borderline on panic. Her eyes wander back to the hall, unsure, until they stop on someone Jack can’t see.
“Have you seen Mr Diaz?”
“The diabetic? He’s up in the med-surg. They’re gonna put him on an insulin protocol and monitor him for a couple of days.”
Jack’s fingers clutch the t-shirt tighter at the sound of your voice. He takes a step back and almost stumbles when he sees you. There’s a short pause while Samira’s scrambling for words.
“Wait, are you— Are you sure? He refused to get admitted, I barely could talk him into staying here, in the ER.”
“Yeah, it looked like he wasn’t gonna stay for long, because I caught him on the stairs in his hospital gown,” you say, a small chuckle tucked in after the last two words. “He seemed very agitated and definitely not in the best shape to leave. So I called for a psych consult.”
“Oh. I didn’t think about that,” Samira sighs, shaking her head, no doubt already taking all the blame. “I should’ve thought about that, I didn’t even— Thank you so much.”
Remarkably, as you approach her, your demeanour changes — your voice goes softer, and so does your gaze; your palm caresses her shoulder in a soothing manner.
“That’s not on you. Today’s been pretty rough, and you have to juggle dozens of cases. You can’t think of every single thing,” and you wait until Samira looks at you, until she breathes out with somewhat of a relief. “Besides, I wasn’t the one to persuade him, it’s all Kiara.”
“Guess I need to thank her too,” Samira mumbles, a bit bashful, way more hopeful.
You nudge her in the direction of the elevators, a hint of a smile on your lips — sincere and friendly, something Jack wishes he could get from you. Your gaze follows Samira as she walks away. You add:
“Maybe grab a snack on your way up. I’m pretty sure I haven’t seen you sit down once since the morning.”
Mohan is out of Jack’s sight, but she does something to make your almost-smile turn into a wide one, your eyes crinkling at the corners as you laugh. Jack has to sit down. He’s quick to memorize it — joy on your face, the sound of your laugh, your whole stance relaxed, if only for a couple of seconds.
He doesn’t wait for the inevitable change that will come once you see him.
Abbot averts his gaze and reaches for the medkit to take out everything he needs — alcohol wipes and cotton swabs, a tub of Vaseline, gauze pads and band-aids. It is an easy process. And yet, all he can think about is that he didn’t hear you leave. That the door is open.
And even now, after you argued, after you glared at him, after you made it evidently clear how much you hate his principles and choices, the pull is still there. So he glances up.
To find that you’re already looking at him.
Your face unsmiling and emotionless, no softness in your voice when you say:
“You are Hiro’s emergency contact.”
Jack nods and holds your gaze for a long moment. Then looks away, picking a cotton swab to scoop up a globe of Vaseline with it. He’s definitely skipping a few steps. His heart skips — not just one beat, but a couple — as you confidently move into the room.
“He doesn’t want his fiancée to freak out if something happens,” he explains, trying to focus on his wound. “So usually it’s one of us. I’m his pick for the summer since I’m not going on vacation any time soon,” Jack cannot reach his shoulder blade, and each attempt makes him feel more annoyed. Clumsy. He puts the cotton swab down, shifting in place under your stare. And yet, he’s stalling.
“He’s doing alright up there?”
“Neck angio is negative. A small splenic injury, but no free fluid in the abdomen. He’s getting prepped for the surgery,” you tell him flatly.
Nothing in your voice or face suggests you find his company enjoyable. So Jack’s expecting you to turn and go away.
You don’t.
Your gaze sweeps over his body, from his shoulders and chest down to his hands. You suddenly step to the wall to grab a pair of gloves. Before he even thinks to ask what you’re doing, you move closer and take the cotton swab from him.
Then your fingers graze the raw skin on his back.
Jack goes rigid all over.
You don’t ask questions, silently examining his wound. And Abbot doesn’t expect you to be particularly gentle with him. He almost wishes that you won’t be. If you are rough, then your presence will be something he just needs to tolerate. Sit here and wait for you to get it over with.
That’s not what happens.
Because despite your sharp voice and unfriendly attitude, your hands are warm. He feels it even through your gloves, he’s startled by that feeling: you touch him — and goosebumps rise up on his back. You must notice, it would be hard not to. But you don’t comment on it.
You work fast, as you always do: you use a wipe soaked in alcohol to clear the wound, pressing it firmly in a patting motion over the graze. You ditch the cotton swab, choosing to apply the Vaseline with your gloved finger, spreading it carefully in a thin layer. And every time you come in contact with his skin, his body’s drawn to lean into your touch. A treacherous, unfathomable yearning. Of course, Jack stops himself. He’s sitting with his hands crossed over his chest, mentally counting seconds, hoping his torture will be over soon.
Hoping you’ll stay for longer.
Hoping he’ll somehow manage to erase this moment from his memory. And already knowing that he won’t.
You cover his graze with a gauze pad and put four band-aids at the corners of the fabric to secure it in place. You smooth it out with your thumbs —
and then you’re done.
Then comes the part where Jack searches for the right thing to say. His arms still locked together, his heartbeat erratic, just as his thoughts are. He only manages two quiet words:
“Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.”
And there’s no stalling on your part because you promptly step away, the gloves off, the shield of your indifference already up.
“I mean that. Don’t bring this up ever, it was just a one-and-done,” you tell him, and now you do turn away, and he isn’t audacious enough to reach for you. But as you’re about to leave, you stop. “And it’s three, by the way.”
His shoulder doesn’t hurt, but something in his chest does. It claws its way out, spills into his arteries and veins, and fills him down to his bones: guilt. Jack knows what you’re about to tell him.
Still, he asks:
“Three what?”
“Three dead bodies,” and when it’s just the two of you, you are less feisty, and you mostly sound tired. Not of your job, he thinks; no, it must be something else — personal, painful, haunting. But you look at him with the same heavy gaze. “They were diverted here from Westbridge. Two were in their mid-thirties, GSWs in head and chest. Probably died fast. The third one was seventeen. Two bullets in his lungs, one in his spleen, one in his arm. Isn’t that too much? He wasn’t a rapist or a murderer, he was just a kid. There should be hope for someone like him. Rehabilitation, reintegration into society, a second chance,” you yourself don’t seem hopeful as you give him the explanation. “Instead, he had to lie there and wait for the blood to fill his lungs while choking on it. But hey, your friend? He will be fine. He was wearing a vest,” and this is so much worse — when you address him not with anger but with disappointment. “As were you.”
You don’t wait for him to come up with a reply, and Abbot watches you walk out into the hall.
His guilt stays.
He sits with it, puts clothes over it, gets on his feet and carries it around as he goes back to the nurse station. He picks a chart, but he’s having a hard time focusing on names and numbers. The noise of the ER is muted while he’s deep in thought.
It’s not a hobby, and there’s rarely any enjoyment in it, and everyone (his therapist included) has found ways to tell him that they do not approve. So why does he keep doing it?
Should he keep doing it?
Someone is walking up to him — Jack catches movement out of the corner of his eye.
“Hi there,” Emery leans on the table, hands in her pockets. “Met the new surgeon?”
Jack barely registers the question, not really in the mood for talking. “Yeah.”
“This is the part where you’re supposed to tell me that I’m the more talented one,” she smirks and tilts her head a little, trying to catch his gaze. Despite it being evident that his attention is elsewhere, she continues. “Okay, talent runs in the family would be a nice second option.”
It takes Jack a second to understand what she just said. And that does make him turn his head to look at her. “What family?”
“She didn’t tell you? I saw you two talking, so I assumed you knew.”
Walsh stares back at him, one of her brows raised, like she is waiting for a punch line. But Jack’s face is a canvas of indeniable confusion. Slowly, a smile tugs at her lips, a little bit amused — and very satisfied that she’s the one to tell him:
“She’s my half-sister.”
He lets her words sink in. And then it hits him — the familiarity he noticed came from you and Emery having the same eyes. The same eye shape and, most importantly, the same gaze — direct, intense and unapologetic. That made him feel like he owed you an apology, but he is yet to figure out what for.
“Wow, Jack Abbot rendered speechless, that’s a new one. What, did she leave that good of a first impression?” Emery chuckles.
That is one way to put it.
Jack is not sure how to tell her that you made him reevaluate the choices he was dead set on. The ones he kept making for months. But he can’t have this conversation with her now, here, when he’s in disarray and operating on barely five hours of sleep.
He manages a smirk. “Maybe talent does run in your family. Hard for me to tell when I’ve barely worked with you.”
“Memory loss is one of the symptoms of senility, you know,” she pats his arm with a mocking sympathy but with no offence. “I’ll make sure to make our every interaction memorable for you from now on.”
There’s a glint in her eyes, not threatening but invigorating, and that’s what Jack has always liked about her: even if their methods clash, even when they argue (which happens often), Emery never holds a grudge.
“Can’t wait for it, Dr. Walsh,” Jack grins.
She flips him off on her way to the elevator.
His phone vibrates.
Jack pulls it out of his pocket and looks down at the pop-up on the screen.
Levington:
You still up for next Friday? We’re placing bets, mine’s on some gang shit. Haven’t gotten one of those in a while, seems sus.
The same question starts flashing through his mind, like a red light at a crossroad. Should he keep doing this?
Hiro will still be in recovery, and he’s the only one Jack usually hangs out with. Except, no one takes on that job to hang out, and all the common reasons don’t resonate with Jack: he isn’t on it for the money, he doesn’t go out on calls to render justice, his morals have become quite flexible over the years. They’ve got enough time to find another medic for the task. And he really should find himself a better hobby.
So Abbot bites the bullet and types a short reply.
Sorry, something came up, I have to pass on this one. I’ll text Sarge.
He turns on silent mode and puts the phone away.
It comes to him way easier than he’d imagined. The harder task will be to not give in when he’s alone in his apartment, when he’s got day-offs and not too many friends to spend them with, when he’ll have to dissect his logic for his therapist.
The hardest will be trying to talk to you.
If not for giving an apology, then just to offer you an explanation. It feels important to let you know he isn’t who you think he is, to get a chance to make things right. To get a chance to be in your proximity for any reason, really.
Because deep down, he grows infatuated with that jarring contrast — your words harsh, but your fingers gentle.
Your voice cold, but your touch warming his whole body up.
And somehow, he craves both.
✧ soooo is this anything? would anyone want a part 2?
the idea behind the fic was to explore how a person’s views can change with time and/or under some dire circumstances. but also what it’s like to fall for someone who’s done things in the past you don’t agree with. I think it would be interesting to find out why Abbot joined the army and how it affected him, but also why he decided to help the SWAT team. because I have a sneaking suspicion that the show will not answer any of these questions... aaanyways, I didn’t want to write a super long oneshot, I think it’d work best as a three-parter, so this is the first one. sorry there’s no smut, I know that’s what everyone cares about these days. I spent almost a week debating if I should even post this fic. but it’s been on my mind for a while, and I just want to move on lol but thank you to the few people who will read this <3 (also, to clarify — yes, reader does have her reasons to hate cops. but the statistics I mentioned are very much real).
✧ dividers by @/pixopix and @/cafekitsune;
⏩ PREV FIC / ⏩ MASTERLIST
✧ English isn’t my first language, so feel free to message me if you spot any mistakes. reblogs and comments are very appreciated!
Follow Up to:
The Loophole: Dark Wedding
A Solstice Sacrifice
The Debut
Little Bite One: Spend. His. Money.
Mating Rituals
Little Bite Two: The Nightmare
A Danforth Wedding Tradition
Little Bite Three: The Twins, 2000
Little Bite Four: White Feather Hawk Tail Deer Hunter
Summary: Titus takes you on a private Babymoon to his family's England estate, the place where the Danforth's first met Mr. Le Bail. But in the dark corners awaits an old foe ready to get what they think they're owed.
Tags: age gap, pregnancy talk (not explicit but i know not everyone is into that), graphic violence, attempted murder/threats on reader's life, Priscilla gets her own warning lol, murder!, so much blood!, stabbing!, sex in the woods!, choking!, sex covered in blood (again lol), slapping, rough sex, daddy kink!, subby titus, and then kinda dommy titus lol, mommy stuff mentioned but explicit, mentions of other sexual situations, non-con voyerism idk how to describe it but priscilla is a creep who watches...., so i guess also stalking, idk!, fluff!!!!, HAPPY ENDING!!!
A/N: guys this is the FINAL PART!!!!!!! :((((((( but it's been such a fun journey, i love all of y'all for coming with me!!!!! Now let's kill Priscilla lol that's not really a spoiler y'all know it needed to happen ;) almost 19K words...
AO3 Link if that's your preference.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Priscilla Cavendish is not used to being rejected.
Her family, though not members of the High Council, has been given a relatively privileged life thanks to the gifts of Mr. Le Bail, and she has spent her whole existence reaping those benefits.
She got every car, horse, designer dress, and vacation her heart desired. She wanted to go to a prestigious school? Her parents bought a library and she never had to fill out application. She wanted to be head Cheerleader? No other girl would dare challenge her anyway. Boys and Men? She’s tall and gorgeous and thin and rich, why would anyone ever say no to her?
They didn’t. That’s the thing. She got everything and everyone she ever wanted.
Titus Danforth was not an exception. For many years, he was not an exception. Sure, there were times where even she got tired and bored of his bratty behavior, times where they’d break up and she’d find some other toy to play with, but she was always able to grab his attention again.
This last break up was a little more...definitive than others, sure. Annoyed at his lack of commitment, as she usually was, Priscilla decided to try her luck with Ignacio El Caido instead.
He was a widower who lived the fast life, and was on the High Council as well, so she figured he’d be an easy mark. They hooked up a few times, he bragged to Titus about it, but instead of awakening any sort of jealousy in the man, Titus Danforth simply laughed and wished them both good luck.
Needless to say Priscilla was livid. He didn’t care at all. She’d spent so much time trying to get her hand on the Danforth name, and he only ever saw her as a hobby. The things she did for him too, sexually. She lived up to almost every weird appetite of his, in ways she knows his other flings would never dare to, and still he threw her out.
And then came you.
First, you encroach on Francensca’s territory by stealing Alex Le Domas, and you don’t even have the decency to die during Hide and Seek. Then, you fucking steal Titus Danforth right out of bachelor life because? What? You’re young and pretty and in a desperate spot?
Priscilla will never understand what he sees in you. Sure, you suffer from some similar mental psychopathy that he does, but you’re...you’re an outsider. Mr. Le Bail tried to kill you twice.
Maybe you’re some sort of witch and you’ve cast a spell over Titus. Whatever you are, she will never accept that you’ve won. In her mind, you haven’t.
This is just a pause. Time to recover after hours of plastic surgery to prevent scarring from where you’d smashed her face with glass, like some deranged gremlin. She’s waited patiently, face bandaged until her beauty returned, holed up in her family’s old country estate in England.
She read that article about Felicity and Fitz’s deaths, anger rippling through her chest. A drunk driving accident? Sure. She knows what happens after a Danforth wedding. Priscilla just knows you’re the reason she’s lost another ally in that family.
And now you’re with child. A halfway unworthy spawn of a girl with no important name, no important family, will one day rule this world?
No. Not if she can help it.
Not when she finds out the two of you will be coming right to her.
+
+
+
They call it a Babymoon.
From what you’ve read, most people save it for a month before the baby is due, but of course Titus Danforth has to go above and beyond for you.
After all, you are carrying the next set of Danforth Twins.
So, at only just under four months along, he whisks you away on the private jet to the family’s oldest home in the countryside of England. The little castle where everything began.
You told him he didn’t need to take you on any trips yet, he’d already given you enough gifts to celebrate your pregnancy. From an entire new yet-to-be-released designer maternity wardrobe, to an in-house personal chef to specially make all of your meals, to a revamped 1960 pink Cadillac, Titus has not been stingy on spoiling you.
Your morning sickness has mostly subsided, so the travel wasn’t so bad. You have a little soreness, but so far everything is going easy. Titus doted on you the whole ride over, giving you orgasms and kisses to your little bump.
“Sorry to interrupt, sir, but we will be making our descent in just under an hour,” the captain’s voice said over the intercom.
You sat up from where you’d been laying on Titus’s lap, a pout graces your face as you look at the door, like you’d be able to frown at the pilot through it. At least this jet had a private bedroom for you to enjoy your flight at all.
“Darn, it was just about to get good,” you sigh, “Well, good again.”
Titus looks up at you with a smirk. “He said an hour, Baby, that’s plenty of time to go one more round.”
“Hmmm, I guess we should enjoy our free time while we can,” you purred, laying your body back down over his, grinding your hips down into his lap. Titus’s hands fly to your ass, grabing you hard and moving you at a slow pace. “Once they arrive, we might be too busy for each other for a while.”
“I’ll never be too busy for you, Little Lamb,” Titus grunts, breath coming out in short huffs, cock already stirring again. “We’ll hire a nanny just to look after them whenever I need to fuck the shit out of you. You know, so we’re not disturbed.”
You snort. “That’s ridiculous,” you say as you giggle into your next kiss.
“You’re right, we’ll make Ursula do it,” Titus says, flipping you over onto your back. His hand slides down to your tummy, then past your bump to pull at the bottom of your dress.
You shiver as his thick fingers press to the skin on your inner thigh, and you grab onto his shoulders to steady yourself, eyes closing and mouth dropping open. Your voice is breathless and higher when you continue teasing him. “You wouldn’t let them be left with some stranger, anyway.”
“Fuck no,” Titus grunts, teeth grazing your neck.
He wasn’t raised by nannies, not really. Violet and Chester paid for the best tutors and coaches that money could buy, but the Danforth children were never left to learn their important life lessons from random European women.
Not until Violet died, but by ten years old they didn’t need to be watched all the time, and were old enough for boarding school. So that’s what Chester did. He sent them off to school, and when they were home he made sure to be the one instilling his believes and life lessons in them, no matter how cold those lessons were.
“Of course not,” your voice breaks into a whine when you feel his fingers at your folds, and your legs spread for him. “They’re going to be all yours,” your voice is light, “just like me,” and you nudge him into a kiss.
His breath is swallowed into your moans, as his fingers enter you slowly, thumb rubbing circles on your clit. Titus’s warm body ruts against yours, cock rubbing deliciously against your thigh. “Yeah, Baby, ‘d do anything for you, for all of you.”
“Hmm, I know,” you sigh, rolling your hips down onto his fingers, the wet squelch sending a rush of pleasure up your spine. “You’ll be such a good Daddy.”
Suddenly, Titus lets out a low, stuttered groan, and his movements stop as his eyes roll back. “Shit, Baby.”
You feel a patch of wetness against your thigh and your eyes go wide with a shocked smile. “Did you just...”
Titus doesn’t even have it in him to be embarrassed. “Okay, you can’t ever call me that in front of other people.” His fingers are still inside you, and he flexes them in that way that drives you crazy. “Gimmie a minute, Baby.”
You start to giggle, laying kisses to his cheek. “Or what, Daddy?”
“Fuck,” Titus groans, dick twitching slowly back to life in his pants. “Keep going like that and I’ll be able to fuck you again real soon...”
When he’s finally able to get it up again, he lasts all of two minutes inside you. After the first “Fuck me so good, Daddy,” he’s a goner.
+
The Danforth Castle, which has been in Titus’s family for centuries, sits along a river, hidden away in a vast wood, in Suffolk England. The area is remote and quiet, but almost never empty, various members of the Danforth family staying in its expansive halls throughout the year. There’s also live-in staff, of course, some grounds keepers, and minor security.
None of the family are going to be staying there right now, however, and the staff has been briefed already on staying hidden. Titus wants you to have your privacy, with absolutely no stress from nosy family.
The halls of the castle are made of old dark grey stone, which have been finished and refinished over the decades to accommodate updating technology, electricity, and all that. They’re lined with old paintings, family portraits, weapons, taxidermy animal heads, and statues of armor. You feel like you’re on some movie set about Tudor era England.
There’s a cold air that passes around you, not eerie but rather an echo of how old the building is. Your feet make a clacking sound that bounces off the stone as you’re led into a great foyer, brightly lit by tall stained-glass windows that arch all the way up to the ceiling.
You’re not looking at Titus as he watches with a proud smirk the way your eyes go wide and your mouth drops open. A row of butlers whisk passed you with your bags, and three maids wait at the bottom of a winding staircase with warm smiles.
They’re the ones who’ve been here the longest, the ones who have watched Titus grow up, the ones who have been at the mercy of his brutish ways and attitude many times, and the ones who were relieved when they heard he fell in love with someone who apparently tamed him. Of course, you haven’t really tamed anything, just given him something to channel all obsession into, a reason to be just a little nicer.
“Master Titus, it’s so lovely to have you back here,” one of the maids, and older woman with short white hair greets. She smiles at you, bowing her head just slightly. “And you must be Mrs. Danforth, it’s wonderful to finally meet the new Mistress, I’m Winnie, the head of the house.” Her eyes fall to your belly, where your bump is a just barely visible swell under your dress. “You are simply glowing.”
“Thank you, Winnie, it’s so nice to meet you,” you say, shaking her hand.
She introduces you to the other maids, and then leads you two up the stairs to the Master Suite. It hasn’t been stayed in by any other members of the family since Chester’s last visit, but now it is rightfully yours.
Again, a movie set comes to mind. Where your old fashioned Estate in Rhode Island looks like a classic americana turn of the century mansion, the Master Suite of this Castle looks like something Queen Elizabeth would live in.
Winnie and the other maids roll in a cart and pour you some fresh tea, something to settle your stomach and calm the babies after the flight, and then leave the two of you to decompress.
Titus helps you out of your coat, and you let out a relieved groan as you flop down on your back on the bed. You stare up at the ceiling, arms outstretched on the satin sheets, as you breathe in the scent of old wood.
“So...” you say, propping yourself up on your elbows to look at your husband. “Just how haunted is this place?”
Titus snorts, shrugging off his own jacket to leave himself in just a white button up, and he starts to roll up the sleeves as he approaches the bed. “Pretty fucking haunted, but I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen any ghosts.”
“But you’ve heard them?” you ask, scooting over to make room for him to lay at your side.
His hand goes to your stomach, fingers softly spreading out. “Oh sure, all kinds of creaks in the floorboards and wind moaning through the walls. Winnie used to bust me sneaking around at night trying to catch a specter.”
You let out a small giggle. “I can picture it. Little baby Titus with crooked teeth and mischievous eyes, hiding in all the dark corners...you probably just scared the staff half to death.”
“Hmm, well, I was just practicing,” he says. “You know for later when I’d have to hunt down and kill all these people who try to get into our family.”
Or, even better, the ones he now hunts down to sacrifice for each season. The Spring Equinox hunt had been especially riveting, since the chosen sacrifice was the Priest who’d told Felicity your business about the mating ritual. Titus had taken immense pleasure from breaking each bone in his body before bringing him to the Black Temple for the sacrifice. He even cut out the man’s tongue and burned it in the fire.
Titus shifts down the bed, lowering himself so he can kiss your stomach. One of your hands immediately goes to his hair, twisting your fingers into his soft, silver curls. “You know,” he starts, “This is where it all began for my family. It wasn’t always a castle, though, it started as a small cottage. It’s said Mr. Le Bail walked out of the darkness of the woods, while our ancestor was hunting down a bear or a wolf or something, and he asked if he could join in on the fun.”
You haven’t actually heard this story before, even though you assumed Mr. Le Bail had been a patron of the family for a very long time.
“They caught the creature together, killed it, slit its throat and all that, and Mr. Le Bail had such a fun time, that he offered The Deal. Our family would sell their souls to him, play his games when needed, and he would give them all the riches and the power in the world. They didn’t have much, so they agreed. Built this up, expanded into High Society and all that, and here we are.
The part of the woods they met in is still marked off, my great grandfather or whatever had some stone memorial made for it.”
“I want to see,” you say.
Titus smirks as he presses his lips to your belly again. “Of course you do, and you should. Mr. Le Bail’s favorite should get to see where it all began.”
You squirm a little at the comment. There had been a short time where you didn’t think Mr. Le Bail cared anymore about the one person who outsmarted his games twice. But then you remember how his hands had been on you, how his eyes had seared into yours from where they appeared in flames, how soft his lips were when he kissed your face...Titus has no idea just how favored you are.
“Tomorrow, will you take me on a tour of the grounds then?”
“I don’t want to tire you out, you shouldn’t be on your feet for too lo—”
“Titus,” you whine. “I’m not that far along, I’m still perfectly mobile. At least take me to the memorial, or I’ll just run out there and take myself.”
His body freezes up, hand tensing where it lays on your stomach. “Little Lamb...I’ll take you, but you need to promise me you’ll be good, don’t exert yourself.”
“Oh, okay,” you say, rolling your eyes. “So it’s okay to exert myself on the jet while you make me come like, ten times in a row, but I can’t just go on a nice walk in the woods anymore? How does that make sense?”
“Are you saying you didn’t like that?” He asks slyly, shifting his touch down your belly, to the hem of your dress.
Your breath catches and your eyes widen just slightly, legs subtly spreading on instinct. “N-no...”
“No? You didn’t like it?” he asks, as his body moves again, settling comfortably between your legs, hands more boldly pushing at your dress. “So, I should stop?”
“I-I,” you stutter, sucking in a deep breath when you feel him grab your thighs hard, and pull them apart even more. You can barely make a sound as he lowers himself down, nosing along the hem of your panties, humming into the fabric. “No, no don’t stop, please—ahh!”
A high-pitched whine cracks through your words as he kisses along your already soaked panties, licking his tongue over them to suck up what juices he can. “That’s what I thought.”
Titus pushes your dress up passed your stomach, pulls your panties down over your legs, and goes to town. He licks and kisses and moans into your dripping pussy like a man starved. You try to hold in your sounds, not wanting to scare this household staff on your first day, but it’s hard when he knows just what you need, knows how to make you feel so good your brain goes fuzzy.
You’re late for dinner.
+
You can’t sleep.
All that jetlag and Titus keeping you up for the flight has your mind completely alive in the middle of the night.
So naturally you beg Titus to take you on that tour of the grounds right now under the stars. You’re both so used to being out in the dark anyway.
The forests of the English countryside are so much different than back home. Maybe it’s because the spirits that fill them are so much more ancient, the trees have witnessed the violent actions of man for so much longer. You feel like they all have eyes watching you as Titus leads you through the dark path, his hand laced in yours. They loom over you, blocking out most of the stars in the sky, the light of the moon cascading down in clear rays through their deep branches.
The path he takes you down is written with old cobble stone, lined with a stone wall about three feet tall. It twists and turns deep into the wood, the same path Titus’s ancestor had taken the day he met Mr. Le Bail. Every turn is a surprise, winding deeper and deeper, until the orange light of the Danforth castle is just a small fleck when you turn back to it. For the first time in a long time, you feel unsettled in the wilderness.
But still...
A familiar chill runs through your bones. Shadows dance in the corners of your mind that you feel like you’ve seen before. Even the sounds of animals, from owls to distant howls of wolves, sound like you’ve met them at some point already.
The path ends, and Titus walks behind you, a hand on your lower back to lead you into the trees, and he takes you a few feet into a clearing.
Your heart nearly stops as you take it in. There’s a circle of trees around a small boulder and a tree stump. You know you’ve been here before, and yet it’s impossible to be true.
“That is where they met,” your husband’s gravelly voice rumbles close to your ear, lips caressing your skin.
He points to the boulder, where a small message has been etched onto a gold plate. There’s a small goat carved into the metal, at the center of a pentagram. A Latin phrase lines the top, one that translates to Loyalty Through the Fires, and below that a message in English:
THE MEETING PLACE OF A TRUE GOD TO MEN, THE BEGINNING OF A BEAUTIFUL FRIENDSHIP. SWORN THROUGH BLOOD. FOR ALL BRANCHES OF THE TREE.
You don’t remember this being here last time. You don’t know why you should remember it at all.
“This is where it all began,” Titus continues. His head rests on your shoulder, unaware of the nerves that have overtaken your body. “Two men meet in the woods, and now I stand here with you, someone I wished for, my perfect equal...” his hands slide over your sides until they rest on your belly. “Mother of my children, the next leaders of our family line.”
You hum softly, eyes closing as you let your body fall into his, the cold of the night can’t reach you here in his arms. You’re about to say something about the weird feeling, but Titus continues speaking.
“I’m so glad I could take you here while it’s just us,” he mumbles, kissing the low end of your neck. “It’s so isolated out here, nobody to bother us, nobody to stick their nose in our business.”
A soft laugh escapes your lips. Anyone else, any other circumstance, and it would sound like he’s brought you here to kill you.
“How far is the closest neighbor, anyway?” you ask, eyes open again and scanning what you can through the dark tree line.
Titus shrugs. “About five miles up north are the Whitmore’s, they’ve got a nice little hunting ground and cabin. East is the water, when you finally hit that there is a small fishing village. Ten miles west is the Pembroke Mansion, they’ve been here almost as long as we have, but they’re not in the organization. And then south is—"
Titus stops suddenly, body tensing as he backs up from you, and you hear him swear under his breath. Your arms cross over your torso as you turn around, suspicious frown on your face. “What’s wrong?”
“Shit,” Titus lets out a long sigh, running a nervous hand through his hair. He looks up at you with uncharacteristically worried eyes, lip bit between his teeth. “Okay, don’t be mad at me.”
“Why would I be mad?” You ask slowly, keeping your voice even.
“Well...” Titus groans. “Listen, Baby, it’s no big deal, their property is miles away and the woods are very dense here...”
“But...?”
“But...” he exhales, grabbing your hands and squeezing them tightly. “Well, six miles south of here is the old Cavendish estate. That family acquired it in the mid-nineteen hundreds from some down on his luck lord or whatever. I’ve probably only been there a handful of times, years ago.”
“Okay?” You say, pursing your lips. “Cavendish?”
“As in...Priscilla Cavendish.”
You immediately drop his hands with an angry gasp, backing up a foot as you laugh incredulously. Your hands come to your face, ignoring Titus’s repeats of your name as you continue to back away from him. “Oh, you have got to be kidding me.”
Titus’s voice is tight and desperate as he approaches you, “Baby, it’s not a big deal—"
“Not a big deal?” You spit. “Your ex, who hates me, who tried to hook up with you and steal you back in our house, who was friends with your piece of garbage cousin, lives right next to your family estate, and you think that’s not a big deal?”
“She doesn’t live there, her family owns it. She may not even be at the estate,” Titus says.
“The last we heard, she was in Europe! I doubt her family owns as many houses as yours does!” You groan and look up from your hands, hormones causing a well of tears to bubble behind your eyes. A chill surges through you as you finally realize why this place looks familiar, and you cover your mouth as your gaze darts around the trees. “Oh my god, this is just like my dream, my nightmare. Th-this is where she...where you.”
Titus quickly gathers you into his arms at the look of fear on your face, “No, no that wasn’t real, Little Lamb, nothing is going to happen to us.”
One of your hands flies down to your stomach, and you think if it weren’t for the twins you’d already be sprinting the six miles to the Cavendish estate to finish this once and for all. “Y-you don’t know that. If she’s there, and she finds out we’re here...she’s going to do something, I just know it. W-we can’t stay! We have to go home, we—"
“Stop, stop it!” Titus hushes, placing his hands on your cheeks and forcing you to look up at him. “We are not going anywhere. I am not going to let anything happen to you.” His hand joins yours on your tummy, pressing down comfortingly. “None of you. I’ll call in extra security, and we’ll send someone to the estate in the morning to see if she’s there.”
“And if she is?”
Titus lets out a long, frustrated sigh. “Then...then we’ll go to London instead, to the Townhome in Westminster. I’m not letting her ruin our trip.”
“Titus, I don’t know if I can stand being in the same country as her.”
He chuckles, kissing your hair. “Well, I can call Ursula and see what we can do about getting her kicked out, but that still might take a day.”
“Titus, that’s not funny.”
“Yes, I wasn’t joking.”
Of course he wasn’t joking, you should have known they’d have influence in all world governments. “Let’s just...let’s just wait until we know if she’s there.”
“Alright,” Titus says, tightening his grip around you. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, I wasn’t thinking...I was too excited to bring you here.”
“I know,” you sigh. You stand up on your tip toes to kiss his cheek, and you let him capture your lips instead.
There’s no way your jetlag is going to be solved now, and as you make it back to your room and lay down in the bed, Titus’s arms are wrapped around you as your eyes stay wide open, staring at the wood ceiling.
+
Outside the Cavendish Estate is a gravel horseshoe-shaped drive, surrounded by a line of prickly pink rose bushes. A black sedan drives up to the house, observed by the doorman, who is smoking a cigarette.
He’s completely unmoved by the large security agent who exits the passenger side sporting a very large machine gun strapped to his chest.
The doorman throws his cigarette to the ground, stomping it out under his boot. “Can I help you, sir?”
The security agent looks past the doorman and up to the windows of the estate instead, surveilling what he can through the dark glass. There’s no movement inside, from what he can see. “Are there any members of the Cavendish family staying at the estate currently?”
“I don’t think I have to answer that,” the doorman snorts. “Who’s asking?”
“Titus Danforth.”
The doorman’s eyes go a little wide, but he keeps his same dry tone. “No. We are not expecting any family until after the summer season is over. I believe most of them are at the Hamptons.”
“Is Priscilla Cavendish currently staying at the estate?” The security agent asks.
The doorman sighs. “No. Like I said, no members of the family are expected until after summer. You are welcome to come check the home and the grounds, if you feel the need.”
“We do, actually.” The agent looks over at his shoulder and nods to the other guys in the sedan. Three more men and big guns join him at the door. “Lead the way.”
The doorman takes them inside, leading them men all through the house, stopping at every corner for them to point their guns around in case of an ambush. He takes them upstairs, opens the doors to every bedroom, bathroom, closet. Takes them to the lower level where the wine cellar is, into the food storage, the regular storage. Takes them through the kitchen and out the backdoor, where the small garden waits. He waits while they follow the treeline and check in the small shed. Nothing.
He shoos away any maids, cooks, groundskeepers (of which there are very few) that comes across them. Every single one of them is ID checked, in case Priscilla is trying to get away with a disguise. But they’re all just the servants.
When every single inch of the estate has been checked over, the security agents join the doorman at the front of the house once again.
“Like I said, the Cavendish family is in the Hamptons,” the doorman says, pulling out another cigarette. “Can I do anything else for you boys?”
The head agent gives the doorman a stern look, before shaking his head and leading the group back to the sedan.
The doorman watches, craning his neck to make sure the car gets all the way up past the gate, before putting out this cigarette and running back into the estate. He heads to the small library, and pulls out one of the sconces from the wall, releasing a secret opening behind a set of bookshelves.
“Miss Cavendish, they’re gone,” he calls into the dark room.
Priscilla emerges with a wicked smile on her face. She pets at the man’s cheek, long perfectly manicured nails scratch softly at his skin. “Thank you, my darling. You’ve done a very good job for me.”
+
“So, she’s not here?” you ask.
You’re sitting at the end of a long dining table, poking at your breakfast and morning tea, as Titus receives the report from your security.
“Correct, we searched the whole grounds, and then had our guys in the states follow up in the Hamptons. It appears her whole family is at their beach house. There is no photo evidence of her being there, but that is on parr with her behavior since, um, well last year.”
Titus and you share a smirk. Yes, she’s been in hiding from the public for several months, ever since you busted her face up.
“We have no reason to believe she is in this country.”
“Thank you,” you say quietly, sipping from your tea with a little more energy.
“Get me pictures, however you can, just in case,” Titus instructs, before waving them out so you can have your privacy again. “See, Little Lamb, I told you there is nothing to worry about.”
“Fine, but you still should have told me about her house before bringing me all the way to a foreign country. You’re gonna have to do something big to make it up to me.”
Titus licks his lips, hand reaching for your thigh under the table. “Think I can come up with some equitable solutions.”
Before you can respond, your phone goes off from where it sits on the table. You hold up a finger to silence him when your husband’s mouth drops open to protest, as you pick it up to check the text.
“Do not answer a text from my sister while I’m trying to fuck you,” Titus says, staring at you with bewildered, annoyed blinks.
“It’s Ursula updating me on the babies’ suite. She said the painting should be done by the time we get home, so we won’t have to worry about fumes or anything. Isn’t that nice?”
“I guess,” Titus mumbles.
You shoot him a stern look before sending a thank you in reply. As a gift to you and Titus, Ursula is having an entire portion of your wing of the house torn out and rebuilt to the ultimate nursery for the twins. You told her what you wanted theming and coloring wise, but you’re letting the end result be a complete surprise from her.
“Maybe we should go down to London to do some shopping for the suite ourselves, you know? Ursula is going to have most of it covered but we could find some little stuffed animals or decorations we like,” you say, putting your phone down and running a hand into Titus’s hair, soothing the annoyance out of him.
His lips twitch and he smiles, gently grabbing your hand to kiss your palm. “How about this weekend? We’ll look for gifts for the babies...go to the designers’ show rooms and get something nice for yourself...but just one night, okay? The point of this trip is to keep you to myself.”
“You always keep me to yourself,” you joke. It’s not that true, anymore. You’ve made a couple friends in the organization, you’re much more social than you used to be, but also you’d be the last to complain about being tucked away in the giant Danforth Estate with only Titus’s attention. “What plans did you have for us here, anyway?”
“Well, we have horse stables, you can still ride if we take it slow,” he licks his lips and you roll your eyes at the double entendre. He wraps his foot around the leg of your chair and jerks it towards him, pulling you closer. “We can get in the pool, send the staff away to do some skinny dipping...or I can just take you skeet shooting or something boring like that.”
You burst into a fit of giggles. “Skeet shooting? Seriously? I thought that was something rich people only did on like TV shows.”
“Yes well, I think you know real rich people do all that kind of shit. Father used to make us do it as part of training.”
“Of course he did,” you say with a frown.
Titus stares at you, lips pressed together in a stressed line. “What?”
He’s told you about his father. Emotionally distant for most of his life, raised him and Ursula to be ruthless killers, everything you know about Chester Danforth makes him sound like a monster. “Your father...I don’t understand him. I don’t understand how you can...”
“Love him?” Titus asks, voice quiet. His expression is pulled in, brow furrowed and eyes worried, looking so young like he always does when he’s stressed. “It’s complicated, but he wasn’t so bad. We aren’t like normal families, we couldn’t be. He needed me and Ursula to be ready for this part of our life. The part where he’d be gone and we would take over the High Seat. And I wish he...” Titus’s voice trails off, eyes growing distant. He wishes his father would have seen him more, would have treated him equally to Ursula, prepared him and trusted him in the same way. “He was my father and I loved him. It’s too late to care about everything else.”
You crinkle your nose, running a hand softly over your husband’s cheek. “I’m sure it must have been terrible, having to kill him.”
“It had to be done,” Titus says. “He was old and weak. And if we’d let him fight for the High Seat, he would have just died anyway. And you...fuck, Little Lamb, who knows what would have happened to you, to me?” Titus reaches a hand onto your belly. “Everything happened the way it was supposed to.”
You give him a small smile, placing your hand over his. “Still, I don’t want to raise them like how you were. I don’t mind the training and all that, I want them to be fighters, I want them to know how to survive. But I’m going to love them for whoever they turn out to be.”
“We will,” Titus insists. “I want to be a better father than mine. I want our children to know for sure that they’re loved, just as much as I love you.”
Your smile grows brighter as you bring his hand to your lips and kiss his palm, before sliding out of your seat to stand above him. “So, skeet shooting?”
“You really want to try it?” Titus asks with a smirk.
You shrug, “Sure, it always looked fun in the movies. Besides, I think I’m a pretty good shot already, you’re going to have very stiff competition.”
+
The day passes slowly, sun bright in the sky, birds singing, creatures running through the trees around the two of you. Titus showed you how to shoot, but his teaching was wasted considering you’d been forced to have plenty of practice in your past hunts. He did his best to hide his frustration at losing to you.
After the skeet shooting, the two of you relaxed poolside, enjoying tea under the sun and just sitting in each other’s company. Ursula called to video chat before dinner, taking the two of you on a virtual tour of the work in progress on the nursery suite. You sat by and giggled as Titus and Ursula argued over one of the babies being named after her.
“Should we just name them Titus and Ursula two? Both of them? That’s incredibly stupid.”
“No, just name the girl Ursula, the boy doesn’t need to be named after you.”
“They’re my children! Not yours! Your name shouldn’t come in at all!”
“I’m going to be their favorite aunt—"
“You will be their only aunt!”
This went on for some time, and you giggled at them the whole time, until finally you broke it up by reminding them that you actually get the biggest say, and you haven’t even begun narrowing name options down.
Dinner was held in the dining room, just like at home the two of you sat together at the end of the table, catching each other up on gossip, making plans for the next couple days. Instead of an after dinner cigar, Titus has done what he’s had to do the last couple months and have an after dinner glass of whiskey, while he waits for you to finish your night time routine.
But also like he has the last couple months, he gets impatient and lures you out of the bathroom with sweet words from his smooth voice, gets you on the bed so he can worship you the way he knows you deserve.
And after a couple of orgasms, you’d fallen asleep almost instantly, left Titus with the task of carefully cleaning you up, dressing you, and tucking you into bed. He fell asleep not long after with you in his arms, the smell of your freshly cleaned hair seeping into his nose.
Which is why his heart nearly stopped when he woke up at about 3 AM, cold and arms empty, you nowhere in sight. “Baby? Where did you go?”
His calls cannot reach you as your feet carry you away. In your mind, you’re wandering into the woods, sun shining above you, morning doves cooing in your ears.
Your dream has you following Titus’s voice in the opposite direction, down the hill, across a stream, and slowly in and out of a winding path. You think he’s just up ahead, but every time you make a turn, it’s like you’ve just barely missed him. His teasing laughter comes from the trees, and you just sigh as you call back to him.
“Titus! You’re not being fair!” You say as your feet start to hurt. You’re wearing your flowy white nightgown, which is now stained green at the bottom from the grass.
Beams of sunlight part through the trees, guiding your way as you continue to chase your husband’s voice. You stumble down a hill, just barely keeping your balance once you reach the end, and you spot another clearing just up ahead. The sound of his laughter is closer now, as the trees seem to part for you to enter.
You hear Titus call your name, over and over, both in the distance and right in your ears. Your face scrunches in confusion at the different levels, but as you enter the clearing, you see him only feet away. Your hands reach up as though to embrace him...
When suddenly he’s right in front of you, yelling your name right in your face, and your whole body jolts. In an instant, light changes to dark, the smile on your husband’s face turns to a concerned frown, the beautiful trees morph into dark, painted walls, and the warmth of the sun dulls into the chill of night.
Your head hurts and your eyes feel strained as you blink them, Titus’s hands gripping hard at your arms as he shakes you awake.
“Little Lamb? What are you doing?” He asks, voice filled to the brim with worry, eyes darting all around your body.
Your mouth drops open and you shiver, vision adjusting to the dark as your head shakes. You look down at your bare feet, your completely clean white nightgown. “I-I don’t...where am I?”
“You’re downstairs, my love, almost out the back door,” Titus says slowly, looking over his shoulder at the grand wood door that leads to the back garden.
“H-How did I get here?” You ask, voice shaking as you begin to hyperventilate.
“You were sleepwalking,” Titus concludes. He doesn’t miss the stress and worry on your face, and pulls you into his chest, arms wrapping tight around you as you press your face into his warmth. “You’ve never done that before, have you?”
“I-I don’t think so...” you whisper, eyes wide as you look at the back door. Something inside tells you that your real destination lies far beyond it. “I was dreaming that I was following you into the woods.”
“Like your nightmare?”
“No...no it wasn’t like that at all,” you say, pulling back just enough to look up at him. “It was day time, and you were laughing, and nothing bad happened, but you were leading me somewhere...I think.”
You watch as his face twists through confusion and worry, studying your face and your words. He’s never encountered anything like this, not from you anyway. Maybe mother experienced something like it when she was pregnant with him and Ursula? Did she ever tell him a story like this? Did Ursula? He can’t think of anything. He can’t remember reading anything about it either, not in any book about any ritual or family member.
“M-maybe...maybe because we’re far from home. We’re in a sacred place for the family and Mr. Le Bail...” his voice trails off. Why would Mr. Le Bail try to trick you into going anywhere with Titus, especially when you carry the heirs to the High Seat?
“Yeah...maybe...” you say, though you sound just as unsure. “It wasn’t a bad dream. I-It must be some weird side effect or something.”
“Right,” Titus sighs. Neither of you are confident in your conclusions. But he kisses your cheek and scoops you up into his arms to carry you back up the stairs, your own wrap around his neck tightly. “Let’s just get back to bed, Little Lamb. I’ll lock the door in case it happens again.”
“Okay,” you respond, voice small, as you keep your eyes on that back door the whole trip up the stairs.
Titus tucks you back in bed, arms tighter around you this time. He stays awake to listen to your breaths even out until he knows you’re back asleep, and then he remains awake for the rest of the night.
+
Mere meters into the woods, far enough that she won’t be seen from the home or security, but not so far that she cannot cast her control, Priscilla huffs out her frustration through gritted teeth.
The white smoke of the totem she lit fades away, as the time limit for the hex runs out. You were so close to the door. She almost had you.
Her jaw clicks as she throws the totem to the ground and stomps it under her foot, before burying it under a large stone.
She knows there are no protections over the home, but Titus being able to wake you from the Hex Sleep was an unforeseen obstacle. He must really love you after all.
No matter, she thinks to herself, I’ll just have to try a stronger spell next time.
+
After another nervous and quiet morning breakfast, Titus and you try to shake out of the looming dark thoughts from your sleep walking by taking the horses out.
The Danforth’s have a long history of breeding horses in England, and have even worked with the former Queen on creating prize winning racers. There is a branch of cousins who specialize in it, and spend the most time at this family home out of the year to take care of the horses, but of course a few are especially raised for Titus and Ursula to ride.
The twins’ horses are, naturally, two twin black stallions, with white hair on their ankles and tails, named Azazel and Nyx. The only difference between them is the little white star shaped spot in the middle of Azazel’s forehead, which is why Titus had chosen him.
Now, Azazel comes with a mate. For some time, the trainers say about a year, he has refused to breed with any other horse but a beautiful grey and red mare named Lilith.
And Lilith took to you so quickly.
You’d taken one look into her eyes and you could have sworn there was understanding looking back. She’d let you pet a hand down her hair without any hesitation, and when you climbed onto her saddle, she stood extra still to give you no trouble.
“Do they have any foals yet?” You ask the trainer on hand.
“Not yet, but she’s in month eight right now, so you’ll both have to treat each other gently.”
You give Titus a bright smile as he mounts Azazel, and leans over to give your cheek a kiss. At the same time, you watch as the horses lean their own faces towards each other, nuzzling at each other’s necks.
“They’re precious,” you coo, patting Lilith’s side.
“She’s perfect for you,” Titus says. “When the babies are here, we’ll come back so you can really ride her around the land. I hear she’s a real spitfire.”
“Is that horse trainer code for pain in the ass?” You ask with a smirk.
Titus winks, then snaps his reins to direct his horse out of the stable. He keeps the pace slow as he leads you and Lilith through the forest path, until you hit a clearing to a long field over some hills. It’s a bright day, warm but not too hot, clouds covering most of the sun, and the grounds look extra green. Titus’s silver hair shines as the sun reflects in it, and you can’t stop thinking about how beautiful he truly is.
You two ride all the way into the small town, where Titus pays for you to have full privacy in a little pub for lunch. It’s dark and old and the food is amazing, and the owners leave you two in a corner to your own devices until you decide you’re ready to go.
This happens all the time, Titus and you renting out an entire space for just the two of you, part of the perks of being the richest and most powerful family. The magazines and tabloids have tried to follow you, tried to get some sort of scoop on the most elusive Blue Blooded, Old Money family in America, but Titus buys his way into full privacy.
Times like now it feels more romantic and overprotective.
You ride the horses back the same way, as the sun begins to set in the sky, turning everything orange and pink and picturesque. Any worries you have about ex-girlfriends and sleepwalking completely leave your minds.
Before dinner, you video chat with Penelope, who has been going a little overboard with buying baby presents. She shows you every single designer outfit she’s already collected, from newborn to toddler.
That night when it’s finally time to sleep, Titus locks the door again, and holds you tight again, but he falls asleep a few hours later when it’s clear you won’t be trying to go anywhere again.
The sleepwalking doesn’t come back for the next couple days, actually. And Titus accepts that maybe it was just a weird one-time thing. He has the security around the estate reduced so your privacy can return...mostly so he can go back to fucking you by the pool or in the woods without having to worry about the security agents as an unwanted audience.
+
The trip goes by without any other weird incidences for you.
A doctor comes by to check in before your weekend excursion to London, and everything with the babies is perfectly healthy. Titus makes him do extra tests on you, but everything appears to be normal, so his anxieties finally settle.
The flat in London is just as beautiful as the country home, if less private, but you imagine none of the neighbors are going to argue with Titus Danforth of all people over his wife being too loud in the throws of wild sex at midnight.
He takes you to designers’ show rooms during the day, and you buy a whole wardrobe for the babies, as well as maternity clothes for yourself. You even make Titus pick out things for himself, and he’s so adorably annoyed when it’s you who treats him like a doll to dress up for once.
But secretly you know he loves to be doted on. He loves that he has your attention constantly, loves when you go to fix his hair or his suit jacket, in ways that when Ursula used to do it made him feel like a child, from you it makes him feel loved. From you it’s not about having to put on a show or not embarrass the family, but rather because you want him to look his best for you.
The same way you love to look your best for him. The same way you love to sneak into a high-end lingerie store while he’s finalizing a new car purchase, just so you can pick out some sets to show off to him later that night.
And oh boy, he loves the surprise from you after your shower, when you come into the bedroom in nothing but a silk robe, which is promptly dropped to the floor to reveal a gorgeous red lacy set. Titus’s mouth waters at the sight of heart-shaped cut outs around your breasts, and a matching heart over your already dripping pussy.
His heart feels like it’s beating out of his chest when you climb onto his lap, rounded tummy pressed to his, and you push him down roughly on his back.
Your voice is low and sultry when you start to whisper about how protective he is, how safe he makes you feel, how he takes such good care of you, and you bite the shell of his ear. Your hand reaches between your bodies to rub at his bulge, and he moans as he kisses your neck, grabs your jaw to keep you still to look right into your eyes. But you slap his hand away before slapping his cheek, and you grab his jaw instead.
Your fingers carefully free his cock from his boxers, as your wet tongue licks up the side of his face, and you moan in his ear, “Lay back, Daddy.”
A full body shiver climbs through Titus as he moans and his eyes roll back, cock twitching fully to life in your hand. He does what he’s told, laying back on the bed, eyes still intensely on yours the whole time. Your start to inch of his body, and his eyes widen with sheer excitement as he realizes your destination.
“Fuck, yeah baby, gonna sit on my face?” Titus says, hands flying up to your thighs. He licks his lips, tilting his chin. “C’mon, Little Lamb, use me.”
You whimper at the first feeling of his tongue on you, at the hungry groan your husband lets out as you ride his face.
By the time you’ve come twice on him, and Titus is able to take back control to bring your cunt down on his cock instead, you’re pretty sure the neighbors had to have put noise canceling headphones on. There’s no way they’d be able to sleep through all the cries of pleasure he brings out of you.
+
Getting back from London, in a different car than what you’d left in, feels like coming back home for you. Already your mind and body have adapted to ownership of places you’re barely familiar with that hold the name of your husband’s family.
It’s nice coming back to the quiet, and for the next week, things continue on peacefully. Titus teaches you how to use every old weapon in the family’s arsenal, you take the horses out a few more times, you spend peaceful afternoons around the pool to escape the hot sun, and you indulge on everything you could possibly want from food to jewels to insatiable sex with your incredibly hot husband.
It’s just the break from everything you’d needed. Back home, you’re still working with Ursula, still tending to Violet’s garden, still keeping up with responsibilities. But here on this quiet hideaway, Titus treats you like the princess he always refers to you as.
The fact that the staff of this house are good about actually leaving you two alone, and there is no chance of interruption from Ursula has been incredibly freeing for both of you.
Back at home, Titus never lets you skinny dip. His whole hang up about people seeing his wife’s naked body gets in the way.
But here...there really are no prying eyes, so he doesn’t put up a fight when you throw your bikini top at him. He’s trying to read the paper poolside, and it gets completely ruined by your wet suit. Titus isn’t exactly mad though, when he sees your tits, already growing from the babies, wet and welcoming, nipples peaked, as you wade towards him in the water.
“Come on, Ti, get in here with me,” you call with a pout. “It’s too hot to stay out there all by yourself.”
He looks like a giddy teenager as he tosses his paper aside and climbs down into the water with a toothy smile. “Aww, my baby, you don’t have to beg.”
You watch him closely as he climbs in, sun shining on his freckled body. You bite your lip and you feel a warm tightening between your legs, as your eyes follow a line of scars down Titus’s torso. He’s so...thick. Everywhere. All that muscle. You’ve seen his body a million times by now, but something about having him in the sunlight just accentuates every piece of it.
His body is strong, hard, a wall of warmth when he’s got you under him, or up against a wall, or a tree...wherever he can get you. His body is littered with grey scars from hunts and fights over the years, and fresher ones from you, especially your nails and teeth. His body is...decorated with sprinklings of grey hairs, but that’s the only indication of his age, with the way he takes care of himself he manages to have the body of a much younger man.
You float up on your back and swim backwards away from him, and Titus follows you through the cooling water, all the way until he has you backed into a corner. The water splashes around you when he grabs you hard by the hips and pulls you into him, and you giggle into the kiss he lays on you.
Your hands reach between your bodies and under the water, where you make quick work of undoing the tie on his swim trunks, swallowing the vibrations of his moan into your mouth.
“So fuckin’ needy, Little Lamb,” Titus chuckles, lips tracing down from your mouth to your neck.
“We gotta enjoy it while we can,” you whine, tossing his trunks out of the pool. You feel his cock under the water, already half hard, and you wrap your hand around him, giving it a few tugs. “You just look so good, want you all the time, Daddy.”
“You got me whenever you want, Baby,” Titus groans, tongue licking into your mouth as his hips buck into your hand.
He reaches down and rips your bottoms off, letting them float away as he hoists you onto his lap. Your legs wrap around him as your kiss deepens. Titus’s fingers dip between your folds, and you whimper as he starts to rub circles on your clit. Titus wraps an arm around your back, using it to cushion your body against the side of the pool, as your hips start to roll down against his fingers.
You pull back from the kiss with a gasp, mouth dropped open as stuttered breaths escape your lips. You look into Titus’s eyes, met with his usual determined hunger, the look at sends excited shivers surging up your spine. Water circles around you from the movement of Titus’s arm, and your eyes fall to the rippling muscle of his bicep, before rolling back in your head.
“Ti, oh god, Titus I’m—” you gasp, heat pooling in your belly.
“Yeah, yeah, Baby, come on,” Titus goads you on, leaning down to bite at your neck, heat of his body encasing you.
Your legs shake and your hips buck as white sears your vision and you cry out his name, splashing water around as you come on his fingers. “Titus! Fuck, oh god, thank you, oh fuck—" pleasure ripples through you, but you’re not done yet, your legs tighten around Titus’s waist. “Fuck me, fuck me, please, Titus!”
“Fuck, gonna fuck you hard, Baby, don’t know how long I’m gonna last,” Titus grunts, jerking his cock under the water, rubbing the tip up and down your folds.
“Don’t care, want you inside me now,” you plead, eyes opening wide, wet at the corners with tears. “Just fuck me, Daddy.”
“Christ,” Titus swears, shoving his cock in you in one go, before grabbing onto the edge of the pool for leverage. “Definitely not gonna last, so fuckin’ tight, baby, so perfect for me, always.”
Water splashes all around you and out of the pool as Titus fucks you, no thought and all haste. Neither of you are interested in this moment in dragging this out, lost in the spontaneity and heat of the afternoon. No matter how long, every time you and Titus fuck it reassures and reinstates the love and connection between you. It’s spiritual, and beautiful, and fills your heart with pure love.
You can’t stop the rambling of Titus’s name over and over through your whines and whimpers, which grow louder and louder with each thrust of Titus’s hips. He moves fast but deep, fucking into you hard, cock kissing your cervix. He lifts you more against the side of the pool, just enough to get his mouth on your tits, and he whines from somewhere deep in his throat as his lips wrap around one of your nipples.
Your head is thrown back and you wrap and hand into his damp hair, breathy moans escaping your lips as he fucks you. The sunlight glistens on your wet skin, birds fly overhead, but the only thing you can feel is your husband all over you.
And you feel so free.
You’re distracted enough, isolated enough, that neither you nor Titus notice the pair of dark, rageful eyes staring at you from beyond the trees.
She’s getting sick of catching you two like this. Her stomach is in envious knots at the sight of his hands on you, his lips and tongue leaving marks on your body, your cries of pleasure from his touch. If there was one thing she could always count on with Titus Danforth, it was to be the best fuck of her life.
The fact that she’s been out here long enough to watch this little tryst from the start, from the moment your slutty, pathetic, attention seeking, gold digging hands threw your top at him, to now as you scream like some overzealous porn star, only tells Priscilla one thing;
Titus sent away the security, and you two are finally vulnerable enough.
Enjoy that sense of security while you can, she thinks with a terrible smirk on her face, as she slips into the darkness of the forest.
+
The moon is full, big and orange in the sky. The stars twinkle around it like little fairy lights. There’s barely a cloud in sight.
You and Titus are sleeping soundly in bed after a romantic, candlelit dinner and then about an hour of fucking on the dining table and the floor and the stairs on your way back up.
You only have two more days on this babymoon before it’s time to go home, and Titus doesn’t plan on wasting any second of them. As soon as you’re home it’s back to working and running the world, and Ursula pushing her way into baby prep, and you won’t be only his anymore.
These couple weeks of just the two of you have been paradise.
The door to the bedroom has been unlocked for the last couple nights. Titus believed the sleepwalking really wasn’t going to happen again. There was no reason for it to happen in the first place.
You have been sleeping soundly, especially tonight, tiny breaths on Titus’s neck lulling him into his own peaceful slumber.
In your dreams, you’re tending to the garden at home, watering the flowers and digging up weeds, rearranging the pots in the greenhouse so your carnivorous babies can get equal sunlight. You’re wearing a red sundress, that rides up to the top of your thighs, and gives a peek of your cheeks when you bend down or reach up high.
There’s a cool breeze around you as you carry supplies from one end of the garden to the other, and you smile as you spot Titus waiting for you up ahead.
“Going to actually help me, or just enjoy the view?” You playfully ask.
Titus answers with a smirk, but there’s something...uncanny in his smile. From far away, it almost looks too wide, too toothy, and you can’t see his eyes behind the shades on his face, but you can tell that the smile isn’t reaching them from the lack of crinkles.
“How about you take a break a join me over here? Got a surprise for you, Little Lamb.”
You’re pretty sure you answer verbally but your mouth feels like it’s full of marbles, and the words come out in a gurgle. The smile on Titus’s face doesn’t fade at all, hands reaching out to beckon you to him.
“Come on, my Baby, this way.”
Your feet carry you before your mind catches up to the action, and before you know it, you’re placing your hands in his. With a gentle tug, Titus guides you down the path and into the woods. You try to pull him closer, to take his sunglasses off and look in his eyes, to kiss him, but he moves like smoke wisping out of your grasp.
“Where are we going?” Your voice comes back again, but it sounds distant even from your own lips.
“Somewhere special,” is his only response, voice warped.
It causes your smile to fall just slightly, and you hesitate before stepping into the woods. There’s a darkness just beyond the first line of greenery, shadows fading to black nothingness, and all your movement stops.
Your head starts to hurt, and your neck twitches, as a buzz starts to form in your ears. “W-wait.”
“Come on, no need to be afraid, Little Lamb. You don’t ever need to be afraid again.”
His voice is syrupy, low and gravely like usual, but something is just off about it. You try to back up, the tiniest bit of motion away from him, but he yanks you forward.
With a gasp, you shove Titus away, and you stumble back as he disappears into the darkness of the trees. “N-no, this isn’t right. Y-you're not—”
“Not what?” Titus’s voice appears right in your ear, breath hot on your skin and it sends a shiver up your spine. You feel hands wrap around your waist, strong, tight, but still wrong in some way. Where Titus normally grabs you tight to connect to you, to make you feel him and his weight, these hands are trapping you, caging you. “It’s alright, Little Lamb, I’m right here.”
But something in the way his voice warps sets off all alarms in your brain, and you turn with a fist raised, but as you take a swing your hand meets nothing but air. Your feet catch on the ground and you trip in your effort to run away, landing hard on the ground.
The impact jolts you, and suddenly you’re surrounded by darkness and cold. The light daytime breeze replaced by the wind chill of night, owls hooting and crickets chirping in the sky.
Your home garden path is replaced by the forest path Titus had led you down the other day, the one that leads to the place his ancestor first met Mr. Le Bail. Your eyes adjust to the lack of light as your chest heaves, breaths coming out hard, sweat forming on your brow in your panic.
“Wh-what the fuck?” you gasp, head darting around in every direction to try to figure out how you got here.
It must be the sleepwalking.
But the doctor said it wouldn’t come up again...Titus said you hadn’t even tried to leave the bed since that night.
Titus had left the door unlocked.
You look down at your body, white nightgown glowing under the moonlight, feet bare and already a little cut up from rocks and sticks that you’d stepped on during your journey. Your hand instinctively flies to your stomach at the sound of a twig snapping behind you, and you whip your head around in its direction.
“Who’s there? What the fuck is going on?” You shout, voice cracking frantically, disoriented.
Another crack echoes from your side, and you turn to it, breathing deep to stop yourself from hyperventilating. Then another from the right, from behind you, all around, and you turn to each of them, twisting your body around, biting your lip to keep in any panicked sound you might make, heart racing so fast you think it might burst right from your chest.
“Show yourself!” You scream into the void of trees.
Everything goes silent for a few moments, until the sudden sound of cold, hollow laughter emerges from behind you.
You feel the blood drain from your face as a sick knot twists from your stomach and painfully up through your throat. You know that laughter.
“Good god, little girl, enough of the fuss,” Priscilla’s icy, reedy voice says through her laughter.
You quickly turn around, backing up as you swallow that knot and replace any hint of fear with anger. “You have got to be kidding me. You’re not supposed to be here!”
She’s wearing a white gown similar to yours, her long black hair slightly disheveled, black rings under her eyes. There is just the slightest hint of scarring on her cheek from your last encounter. Her smile is crooked and wild, the loss of her sanity shining through it.
“Hmm, no?” Priscilla mocks. “Why? Because the servants who have loyally worked for my family for decades said I wasn’t? Because they showed your idiotic security an empty house? I mean, they certainly showed them most of the house, but these old mansions have so many hidden passageways, it’s very easy to get confused and miss things.”
You suck in a breath, eyes widening just slightly. When you get back to Titus, you’ll have to tell him to add that head of security to the list of future sacrifices.
“Doesn’t matter, I was being nice before when I fucked up just your face last time,” you spit, fist clenching at your side. “Come any closer and I’ll make good on my promise to fucking kill you, I swear—"
A flicker of light at Priscilla’s side catches your eye, derailing your train of thought. Her smile only widens, sharp teeth glowing pearly white, as she lifts a long knife with a bejeweled handle up.
In an instant, Priscilla catches up to you, pressing the sharp point of the blade into your chest. “Did you think I’d lure you out here without being prepared for you? You’re a fucking savage monster who caught me off guard last time, but you’re not the only one who can fight.”
“L-lure me?”
Priscilla laughs again, loud and maniacal, shooting dread up your spine.
“Darling, you live in a world of Satan worshipping and rituals, and you never considered other dark magic might be out there? Sleepwalking hexes are so easy to put together.”
She twists the knife as she steps closer, not pressing hard enough to break your skin, but it doesn’t stop the bile from forming in your throat. You know the Danforth’s have all kinds of ritual books and grimoires in their collections, and you curse yourself for not looking further into them before.
She’s got you cornered, but you’ll be further damned if you let Priscilla sense your fear.
“Doesn’t matter, Titus will notice I’m gone any minute, and he’ll—”
“Come save you?” Priscilla says, cutting you off. She grabs you by the shoulder, dipping the knife down to your stomach as her boney hand digs into your skin. The knife is pressed right to the middle of your bump, and you flash back to that nightmare, to Priscilla plunging it into your womb, and you freeze. “That’s what I’m counting on, little girl.”
+
The sudden sound of his phone ringing lurches Titus out of his slumber and the very first thing he notices is that you are missing.
His arm reaches out to your side of the bed, frantically feeling around but coming up with nothing, and his body sits upright in an instant.
He shakes himself out of his confusion, rubbing sleep from his eyes as his phone continues to ring from the bedside table.
Unknown number.
“Hello?” Titus grumbles, voice raw from waking up.
“Ti?”
“Baby?” All feelings of sleep drain completely from him, and the hot, liquid feeling of dread seeping up his throat replaces it. “Baby, what’s going on? Where are you?”
“I-I’m at the place... Le Bail’s clearing.”
He’s already on his feet, throwing on his sweatpants and white undershirt, “What are you doing out there, sweet girl?”
His voice is far too gentle, far too even, but the hair standing up on the back of his neck, and the bumps overtaking his body tell him something is deeply, terribly wrong, and he has to remain calm.
Titus rushes to the duffle bag he’s kept on the other end of the room, one hand pressing the phone to his ear, while the other rummages through. He grabs his gun, shoving it in the back of his pants, and a long, serrated hunting knife.
“S-sleepwalking again—”
“Fuck’s sake, you’re taking forever! Tell him to get his sorry ass out here!”
Titus freezes, face going pale. He’d know that frigid voice anywhere, been on the receiving end of that ire many times. “Is that?”
“Yes,” you cut off quickly, a shake in your voice.
He swallows. She must be threatening you for you to sound so scared. His girl doesn’t scare easy, not at all actually. “Did she hurt you? The babies?”
“We’re okay for now. But you need to meet us here—"
“Fucking hell, give me that,” there’s a rustling on the other end of the phone, and Titus winces when he hears the sound of something thudding against skin, and your soft groan of pain. “Titus, Darling, we need to talk, now, or I’m going to carve your little bastard spawn from your whore’s belly and feed them all to the wolves.”
“Priscilla if you lay a hand on her—"
“Already have, idiot. Her pretty face just took a nice hit, not nearly close to what the little monster did to me, of course.”
“Priscilla, I swear on all the fires of hell, if anything else happens to her, I’m going to make you regret it.”
“Promise?” She mocks. “Don’t take too long, I’ve got a newly sharpened blade just begging to rip into Mrs. Danforth’s skin. Ta ta!”
Titus yells through the clicking of the phone. He grips the knife tight in his hand as he darts down the stairs, not bothering with socks or shoes.
His heart pounds as he runs into the dark of the night, the black void of the trees. He hasn’t felt this helpless since the night of your hunt, when he desperately chased after your path of carnage throughout the resort grounds. Just like then, all his thoughts are consumed by his need to get to you, to protect you.
+
Your hand cradles your cheek, a slight bruise already forming from where Priscilla had punched you when she snatched the phone. You still look at her with a dark scowl. “He’s not coming unarmed, you know.”
Priscilla clicks her tongue and traces the knife up and down your belly. “I don’t care. I’ve got the advantage no matter what, little girl,” she says as she slinks around your body, keeping the blade pressed against you. Her cold hand wraps around the back of your neck, as she secures her position behind you, and she yanks your neck back. “Just feel lucky I’d rather he watch while I gut you, or you and those things growing inside you would already be food for rats.”
Your breath hitches, but it’s not panic that runs through your veins. No, the adrenaline of a fight is surging through you, fusing with your blood cells as your mind races for a way out of her grip. You’re not some helpless thing, and you will not let this pathetic hag outsmart you.
If it weren’t for the babies, you’d already be risking a piece of your body against her blade. It wouldn’t be the first time you endured the highest pain, and you doubt she’d be anywhere worse than the Le Domas’s. But your hand stays firmly on your belly, where you can feel the softest fluttering under your skin.
You take in a deep breath, anything to keep your heartbeat even, so they don’t feel the danger you’ve walked them into. You can only hope Titus gets here soon to give Priscilla a good distraction.
+
Titus’s heart is racing, hot and big, thumping so hard in his chest it feels like it’s going to burst right out. His feet sting from the cuts he gets running over rocks and sticks, but he stamps down the feeling, not allowing himself to register it. The only pain that matters is the sting in his heart, the sick bile that burns his throat, as he runs to you.
His vision is in a tunnel, zeroed in on the path he’s walked hundreds of times in his life, the one that goes to where all of this began for his family. The place that used to bring him so much proud and truly connect him to his family’s power, now feels like a distant grave, haunting and heavy as he gets closer.
A beam of light shines down from where it reflects off the moon, and just ahead Titus can see the clearing, like a twisted version of his recurring childhood dream. Your laughter isn’t waiting for him beyond the trees, just dead silence.
He slows down his steps and raises his gun, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He takes smooth, methodical steps as he approaches, readying himself for anything he could find.
The first thing he sees is you, beautiful in your white gown under the moonlight, fingers tapping your tummy, almost angelic in the way you glow. The light catches through the fabric, and he can see your bare body underneath, wishing more than anything this was just a romantic moment for the two of you. But there is a fire in your eyes, a caged smolder as your lip is bitten between your teeth, face scrunched in anger and frustration.
You’re holding back, Titus knows, because his girl would never back down from a fight so easily.
Priscilla is behind you, hand around your neck and knife firmly pressed to your stomach, using your body as a human shield. Titus swallows a lump as the two of you make eye contact, your brows raising just slightly in relief that he’s here.
“Oh, Titus, so nice of you to join us,” Priscilla says, licking her lips. “I was beginning to think you finally came to your senses and realized the little thing was too much trouble.”
You scoff. “You haven’t begun to see trouble—"
“Shut it!” Priscilla hisses, squeezing down on your neck. “You stupid—"
“Hey!” Titus barks, clicking the safety off his gun. “Enough! Priscilla you’ve gone too fucking far, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Something in her face cracks, every muscle twitching at once, and Titus has never seen her like this. She’s completely deranged, gone completely mad, and when she speaks it's with an uneasy whine. “I’m taking what should be mine! You were supposed to be mine!”
Titus keeps his gun up, and his eyes quickly dart to you as you both share a look of understanding. There isn’t going to be any reasoning with her. Your body starts to buzz, the need inside to tear apart begins to wake up, that gnawing voice in your mind that wants to kill starts to sing. But the knife is still at your belly, and even though you can’t actually read his mind, you know Titus wants you to wait until he can open an opportunity for you to attack.
“You’re doing all this for my attention? To get me back?” Titus asks, voice softer than he’d ever thought possible. At least, he’s never spoken this softly for anyone but you.
“Yes,” she whines again, nails digging into your throat, but she’s not blocking your airway. “I-I’m sorry, Titus, I should have never let you go. Nobody is more perfect for me than you, and I was made for you. I always did everything you wanted, Ti, you remember? The amount of times I let you mutilate and defile my body, and I always wanted more, always gave in to your appetites.”
You watch as your husband’s jaw clicks, and your lips quiver into a frown. You know those appetites well, you’ve fed into them so many times, and craved them for your own body. You know he’d certainly tried to unleash his most sadistic fantasies completely on her, but he’d told you he could tell she wasn’t as into it. Not the way you are, his perfect, sick match.
“I can do all of that again, whatever you want. You want to tie me up in the ropes? You want to hit me with a paddle until I bleed? Choke me?” her voice drops in a tone more desperately seductive with each suggestion. “I’ll pet your hair while you suck on my tits and call me mommy. Or I’ll let you fuck me in the ass and call you Daddy, whatever. I just want you back. I want that life back!”
“And you thought this was the way?” Titus asks, doing his best to put on an air of pity to disguise the disgust he feels at her words. Sure, there was a time where her promising all of those things would have made him putty in her hands, but not anymore. Not when he has you.
You wish you could laugh at how easily she’s falling for his act.
“O-of course,” Priscilla sniffs, hands starting to shake. Her grip on you loosens subtly, and you know your chance to break away is coming soon. “I-I know you, Titus. I know your soul. I know what you need. You want someone who could be worthy of Mr. Le Bail? Someone who would do what needs to be done? That was always me.”
“Cill,” Titus coos, taking a step toward her. He pauses, then continues when she doesn’t try to back away this time. He looks to you for a moment, a pain flashing in his eyes at what he has to do, and your chest burns seeing him be gentle with someone else, especially her. “I know that. I know all of that.”
Priscilla gasps, lip wobbling as she pouts, “Th-then why...why are you bothering with her?”
Titus clicks his tongue, stepping into both your spaces. The hand that’s not on his gun subtly brushes your stomach, a movement so small Priscilla doesn’t catch it. She stands up straighter, looking up at Titus with wide eyes as he stands right in front of you.
“You know how I like to play my games, Cill,” Titus says. “Are you going to tell me you really forgot how I love to torture the mind just as much as the body? Look at you, look at how badly you want me, what lows you’ve stooped to, to get me.”
His face is so close, but his attention is all on her behind you, as he raises his gun and holds the barrel of it right to your head. A tear runs down her cheek as she sobs, “You’re so cruel to let it go on this long.”
“I know, Sweetheart, but it’s time to finish this, don‘t you think?” Titus whispers, and for just a split second, you can see a flash of revulsion in his eyes, before he dips his face down and presses a kiss to her lips.
She finally drops her hold on your neck.
At the same time, he carefully brings your hand to his pocket, where you feel the hard metal handle of his knife. That’s your signal.
You scream as you swing at her, and Titus drops his gun to back away with his hands up, smirking as he watches you nail her right in the face. Priscilla cries out in pain and lifts her knife to try to cut you in any way that she can, but you manage to dodge it in time, kicking the knife from her hand.
The force of it knocks her further to the ground, and you jam the heel of your foot onto her hand for good measure, crushing the bones with a delicious crunch.
“Ahh! You fucking bitch!” Priscilla screams in agony, broken hand clutched close to her chest.
She tries to go for the knife again, but you kick it away from her, turning to grab Titus’s from his pocket instead. She tries to get up in the one moment you take your eyes off her, but you’re back in time to hit the hilt of the knife onto her forehead, jamming it onto her skull several times while she falls to the ground, moaning and crying.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?” You spit down at her, grabbing her by the shoulders to yank her body off the ground.
“I deserve the life you’re living! I put all that fucking time in! You just walk in some broke, no-name, no-life, pathetic loser orphan, and think you get to be handed it?” Priscilla cries, the tears mixing with blood as they trail down her cheeks, and a huge gash oozes from her forehead. “Titus, baby, please, look at what she’s doing. She’s a fucking animal. You can’t bring children into the world with someone like—"
“SHUT UP!” You scream at her, punching her in the face, breaking her nose. The metallic smell of the blood has you licking your lips. “Do you know what I’ve done to earn my place? How many people I’ve killed?”
She tries to look behind you, to plead with Titus again, but he only stares hungrily at you. She knows that look, the ravenous, desperate starvation he would get when he had her tied up and seconds away from defiling her body in ways she’d only let someone of Titus Danforth’s status perform.
The things she let him do, only to lose out on all the power in the world to you.
And now he looks at you like that, the hunger coming from anticipation of violent acts you’re going to perform.
Still, she tries. “Titus!”
Desperation drips from her cries, but when he finally looks at her again, it’s with an emptiness of feeling. His eyes are indifferent to her, like she’s some object in the way of his goal. Like she’s a rotten fruit he has to waste time throwing in the trash. He wipes the taste of her from his lips with the back of his hand.
You’re tired of her looking at him like she has any entitlement to his soul. You own that soul, signed in blood.
You grab her by the jaw and force her to look at you, nails digging into her skin until it breaks, and the blood stains under your nails. “I told you, if you ever tried to destroy my family again, I would fucking kill you.”
Her eyes go wide, and she opens her mouth like she’s about to say something, as if there were any more arguments she could make that would actually convince you to spare her life.
All the wind is knocked out of her when you plunge Titus’s knife into her chest. A bright splatter of red flies through the air as you rip it from her, and her mouth drops open in a shocked, silent scream.
Time freezes, for just a moment. You stare into her terrified eyes, your heart beating so loud it’s the only sound in your ears, and you feel your body fill with a sick sense of strength. That fiery need to act, to attack until your limbs give out takes over. You felt it the first time you’d smashed Mrs. Le Domas’s head in with that stupid game box.
Senses flood back into real time, and you enter a trance as you raise the knife and lower it into her again.
You stab her over and over, eyes never leaving hers, blood flying all over your white nightgown, your face. You can feel the muscles of your cheeks twist and contort into a smile, and you hear yourself start to laugh, as the light fades from Priscilla.
Her body falls to the ground, lifeless and pale from loss of blood, the sound it makes it heavy as it lands. There’s probably about a hundred stab wounds from her chest to her lower belly, and this time you didn’t black out. You felt and saw every single one of them.
Behind you, Titus is absolutely rocked. His mouth is dropped open from heaving breaths, eyes blacked out, hands sweaty and twitching from the need to touch, to grab.
His eyes trail down from you to Priscilla’s body. Her eyes are blank, mouth opened in a scream, but completely baren. Her soul has already been ripped to hell, and he wonders if Mr. Le Bail smiled when he took it.
Titus remembers a moment they had very early in their...entanglement. He wasn’t sure at the time what they were, nor what he truly wanted from her, and he’d asked if she could love someone like him.
Priscilla had laughed.
“People like us don’t have any use for love.”
That was when he’d cut off any chance of trying to feel something for her. Their time became transactional almost, because she was one of the very few who could scratch an itch with him and come back for more. He knew why she would, he knew it was because she thought one day she’d sit next to him at the top of the world.
How wrong she was.
He looks back at you, the woman who loves him. The woman who is bringing his children into the world.
The woman who gives it to him just as good as he gives it to her.
Yes, Titus has great use for love.
You’re covered in blood, drenched in it so much that most of your white gown is stained pink. And you’re fuming, chest rising and falling quickly with deep, loud breaths, eyes looking wide and angry and wild.
Without a second thought, Titus practically floats over to you, caught in your trance as he takes you in his arms and kisses you.
You drop the knife and wrap yourself around him, whining into the kiss, eyes closed desperately tight. Priscilla’s blood coats Titus’s skin as you run your hands all around him, clawing your way to ripping his shirt off, so you can scratch down his chest.
He tastes that same blood on your lips in your kiss, and he resists the urge to lick up your face, clean you with his tongue. His lips trace down your neck, biting and moaning, reclaiming your skin, as you push your body flush up against his warmth, as though you could fuse to him. His cock is hard against your tummy and it sends an aroused thrill right to your core.
“Oh, my terrible little Lamb, my baby,” Titus whimpers pitifully, as he yanks down the straps of your nightgown, freeing your blood covered breasts. Your nipples are peaked from the cold air, and he looks at you with wide eyes, mouth dropped open and drooling from his need to latch onto them. “Such a fucking monster, so strong and so fucking sexy. Need you so bad, wanna fuck you hard.”
He tears down the dress the rest of the way, and it pools at your feet to reveal the rest of your naked body into the moonlight. Titus licks his lips at the sight of the glistening between your legs, the act of the kill has you dripping.
Before he can get his mouth where he really wants it, you grab onto his jaw hard, enough that your fingernails leave crescent shaped indents in his freckled skin. You force his face back, make him look at you, and he yields his control as you slap him on the cheek, the crack echoes loud through the night.
“You want to fuck me, Daddy?” You sneer at him meanly, grabbing his face again.
He nods his head and whimpers again, dick twitching in his pants. “Yes, baby, want to so bad.”
“Show me,” you say, voice low, seductive, pulling him closer to you. Your hands snakes around to the back of his neck, and you bring him in for another violent, biting kiss. It’s messy and wet and you don’t know who’s more desperately needy in their moans, but Titus dips his tongue into your mouth and you suck the mixture of blood from it willingly. Your grip moves to his shoulders and you push him back with both hands, eyes blown dark and wild. “Get on your knees.”
Titus smiles wide, white teeth shining like blood covered fangs as he drops to the ground, arms out and ready for your instruction. You think about the things Priscilla had offered to him, the ways she’d let him use her. All you think about is how you’ve done each of those, not just for his pleasure to appease him, but because they are all things that make you feel worshipped.
That’s all you want right now, a reminder that he is obsessed with you above all else, even the devil himself.
“I hated seeing you kiss her,” you say, pouting as your hand grazes down his cheek. “I know you had to, but you need to show me how you love me. Show me how you worship me.”
Titus already knows the way to show you, as he grabs you by the back of your legs and brings your body to him, kissing along the small swell of your belly. His fingers dip between your legs, and he moans at feeling of your slick seeping around his fingers. He takes a moment to rub the tips of those fingers along seam of your pussy, before dipping them between to slide into your entrance.
You moan, high and sudden at the way the fill you, so thick, and your mouth drops open. He’s looking up at you, eyes sparkling from the stars in them, lips pressed to your belly, fucking you slowly.
“I’ll worship you, my love,” Titus whispers, nuzzling his cheek to your skin. He lifts one of your thighs over his shoulder, and you grip into his silver curls for balance. “As long as I get to fuck you, but I already worship you for all time.”
"Make me come on your tongue the way I like,” you whine, “and you can fuck me as hard as you wish, any way you want. Be good for me, Daddy.”
And with a hungry grunt he’s on you. His fingers start to fuck into you hard and fast, curling up to that spot that drives you crazy, as his tongue dips between your lips to lick circles around your clit.
His moans are ravenous and low, vibrating into your pussy as he eats like a man starved. Eyes closed and lost in it, drowning in your juices as he works little whines and mewls from your lips. He uses all his strength to hold you up, as your balance starts to falter, while your head falls back and you roll your hips into his mouth, chasing that growing feeling of pleasure that pools in your belly.
“Fuck, oh fuck, that’s it Titus,” you moan, mouth dropped open, breath coming out in little catches. “Yeah, Daddy, just like that.”
Your legs start to wobble and your moans quickly shift into high pitched whines, chest rising and falling. Your fingers press harder into his hair, keeping him against you as he alternates between sucking on your clit, and rubbing with his thumb so his tongue can dip inside your pussy to drink you up like nectar.
His hand that grips your thigh is already leaving bruises, stained from Priscilla’s blood that covers both your bodies. He holds you tight to keep you up when there’s a turn in your breathing, and you let out a loud cry of his name into the night.
“Fuck, fuck, just like that, good boy,” you moan, as your pussy clenches around his fingers, and gush down his hand.
You quickly lose your balance, and collapse down onto his lap, legs on either side of him, where he easily catches you into another kiss. Your heart races, hands grabbing his cheeks, and you lick your slick from his mouth, the mixture with blood sweet on your tongue.
Below, you can feel Titus’s cock hard, twitching and aching to be buried inside your tight cunt. He’s holding you so hard by the hips, subtly moving you back and forth on his lap as the two of you make out on the cold ground.
“Baby, little lamb, so fucking good for me, all fucking mine,” he grunts into your mouth, voice cracking on almost every word from how desperate he’s grown. “Lemme fuck you, please.”
“Yeah, Ti, were so good for me, fuck me like you want.”
His muscles ripple as he quickly maneuvers you onto your back in the dirt, while he holds your wrists down with one hand. He doesn’t bother taking his pants off all the way, just shoves them down enough to get his cock out.
You scream out as he guides himself into your warm cunt into one hard thrust, smiling as he starts to fuck you roughly, no frills. He throws one of your legs over his shoulder as the other wraps around his waist, thrusting his hips in and out of you at a brutal pace.
He’s holding your wrists down above your head with both hands now, looking down at you with a dark, voracious intensity. “Look how deep you take me, Little Lamb. Pretty pussy just made to be ruined by me.”
“Yeah, Daddy,” you moan, fingers clawing at the ground below where they’re trapped. Your back arches up to him, and you can feel where the nature has scratched you up.
Titus lets out a long groan, eyes shutting as he tries to hold back from coming too soon, “Fuck, baby, c-can’t call me that, want this to last, shit. Doin’ so good for me.”
You smirk, but you hold to his request, also not wanting the moment to end too soon. It’s been so long since you’ve really been able to unleash on each other, and even now you can feel him holding back for the sake of the babies.
Still, the snarling and the growling and the moaning the mixes with the slap of his skin against you, the screams you release, and you know you must sound like animals.
Titus finally lets go of your wrists and you tug him down into a kiss, tugging hard at his curls as your pussy clenches around him. His hands are everywhere now, painting even more of your body in blood and bruises, covering you in his touch, erasing any sense of someone else on your skin.
"All mine, all fucking mine,” Titus repeats, whining frantically like he’s trying to remind himself more than you. He can’t shake the feeling of almost losing you again. His need to claim and to feel you, to keep you close and tangible, to make sure you both know that you’re still here, you’re always his.
His head dips down to your chest and he bites at your tits, sucking on your pert nipples, moaning and whimpering around them, while you beg him to fuck you harder.
“Say it, Little Lamb, say you’re mine,” Titus begs pathetically, sitting up to look at you.
You whine at the loss of his heat, and you bite your lip as your eyes go wide, nails scratching hard down his chest. You cover the angry marks from earlier with fresh lines, and roll your hips down into him, pussy pulsing from need.
Titus grabs you by the neck, stilling your movements in an instant as his own slow down. He fucks into you with slower, harder thrusts, cock hitting deep, and forcing the air from your lungs. “Tell me, Little Lamb. You already know I worship you. You know my soul is owned by you, nobody else, my sweet girl.”
His hand squeezes down for a second, and your head goes a little hazy as you smile. You hope his handprint is able to stay till the morning.
When he releases, you gasp for breath and choke, but your eyes are filled with a wild joy as you whimper, “’m all yours, Titus. My soul is yours, my body is yours, it’s all for you. Please, come inside me, fill this pussy, it’s all for you.”
“Shit,” his eyes roll back and he goes back to his rough pace, body collapsing on yours again. He can feel it building, that ball of pleasure that starts in his heart and climbs down, and he kisses you through it. “That’s it, Little Lamb, that’s right. My girl, come for me, my good girl.”
He brings a hand between your legs and rubs your clit, cock twitching inside you, body begging for release.
An entire night’s worth of adrenaline hits you all at once, white hot pleasure sparks through every nerve ending, and you let out a scream of his name again, back arching up into him, so you can feel his entire being consume you all over.
“Titus! Fuck!” your pussy clenches down hard, gushing around him as you come again.
You’re alive, truly alive, no matter what anyone has tried to do to you, tonight or all the nights before, and you feel it all the most right now, with your husband’s cock deep inside.
And Titus feels it too, biting down on your neck and crying, tears falling as his cock releases inside you. “Shit, baby, god you feel so fucking good.”
Both of you shake through it, coming down slowly as pleasure runs through both of your veins, energy passing between each other. Titus’s hand wanders down from your breast to your stomach, where his fingers spread possessively on the bump. You both take in deep breaths, as your hand joins on top of his, thumb running circles on his skin.
You kiss his cheek, drinking up the tears that fall. “Oh, my love, I’m still here.”
“Could have lost you, I’m a fucking idiot,” Titus mumbles, voice shaking like he’s a second away from sobbing. “Don’t know what I’d do with out you in this world. Can hardly remember who I was before.”
“I know,” you say, because you understand. Too often you have felt exactly the same. “But you haven’t lost me. You came for me, for us.”
You press down on his hand to make your point, and you feel his gasp on your neck when your tummy flutters under his touch. His babies, all three of you, are right where they are meant to be, here with him.
You lay together quietly for a few more minutes, your hands petting through his hair to calm him, his fingers tracing shapes on your tummy, until the bodily fluids that have covered both of you finally start to feel foul. Titus pulls out slowly, licking his lips at the sight of him leaking out of your cunt, one of his favorites to watch for as long as he can.
But quickly you tell him to get you into a bath, and who is he to argue with you after all he’s put you through?
He doesn’t bother to try to redress you, the dress will have to be burned anywhere, so he just stands up and scoops you up into his arms. He holds you like a new bride as you wrap your arms around his neck and kiss his cheek, before he begins to make the trek back through the woods toward the estate.
For just a moment, you turn back, looking at the place where his family’s legacy began, and where yours could have ended. Well, if that bitch had been just a little smarter.
Priscilla’s body lies cold, vacant eyes staring off into space in your direction, and you scrunch your nose in disgust at the sight of her.
“What do we do with that?” You ask, tapping on Titus’s shoulder.
You feel him shrug as he carries you up the path. “Leave it. The wolves will consume her, and our people will clean up what’s left in the morning.”
You plant a satisfied kiss to his cheek, finally relaxing in his arms. “So, do you think there will be any other family members or ex-girlfriends that will try to kill me, or are we finally done with all that shit?”
Titus snorts. “Baby, you know there’s always going to be family to contend with, but I promise she’s the only psycho ex I have. Not that you couldn’t handle them anyway.”
“You’re hiding them so you get to watch me kill them again, aren’t you?” you ask with a suspicious frown, eyes squinted.”
“Ha!” Titus laughs, shaking his head. “Little Lamb, I promise I would not let you get into the this situation again, no matter how fucking hot it is when you kill someone for me.”
You roll your eyes, but nuzzle closer to his neck anyway. “Seriously Ti, I thought I was done fighting. We’re about to have children, I can’t go through this again.”
And a sick, guilty coil forms in Titus’s stomach. “I know, and I know I promised you wouldn’t have to fight again, but I mean it this time. You’ve really proven yourself enough. No more games to play.”
There’s an air on hurt and pain in his voice that makes you believe him. You know he doesn’t actually want to see you in danger, no matter how much you can handle it. You’re the gift brought to Titus Danforth by Mr. Le Bail, the Devil himself. You’re something just as precious as you are dangerous.
A monster whose heart was designed to match his.
+
+
+
Four Years Later.
The sun is shining down on the garden, warm and orange from the afternoon, while butterflies flutter around the new blooms. A soft breeze whisps through the grass, creating a gentle shaking sound from the blades. It’s a perfectly peaceful, quiet day.
At least, it would be quiet if it weren’t for the pair of screaming, laughing toddlers running through the grounds while their father chases them.
“Ahhhh! Daddy no!” a little voice screeches happily into the air, as she attempts to escape the strong arms of Titus scooping her up and tossing her into the air.
“Gotcha!” Titus shouts back, cackling wildly.
It’s quickly followed by the sound of high-pitched laughter, and you lower the book you’ve been reading to find your husband twirling your daughter around in the air, as she giggles so hard her face turns pink. Her red hair, pulled into pigtail braids that curl at the end, is starting to come undone, and you’re pretty sure you can see little twigs and leaves stuck in the strands.
“What are you doing?” You ask with an amused shake of your head.
“Daddy chased us through the bushes!” Your boy piped up as he runs up to Titus with a big smile, tugging on his pants leg.
“Mhm, even though we have a very important and fancy lunch to go to in an hour?” You ask, but it's more of a very stern reminder statement.
Titus cringes, looking at the mess he made of his daughter’s hair, and he carefully puts her back on the ground. He kneels down with her to straighten out her little navy dress, gives her a kiss on the cheek, then sends her over to you to get fixed up.
She walks over with her head hung low, arms behind her back, and apologetic pout as she climbs into your lap. “Sorry, Mommy, but It's all Daddy’s fault.”
Titus makes a soft, offended sound that you ignore, and you give her a soft smile as you start to pick the nature out of her hair. “Oh, I don’t doubt that, Daddy is very naughty.”
“Hm,” Titus scoffs again, but when you make eye contact he simply smirks, as though to point out you’ve never complained about his naughtiness before. “Yes, because you’re always on your best behavior. Should I remind you about two weeks ago when you got them to play that prank on me during a work call?”
You smirk at the memory of dressing the twins up in creepy masks you found in the attack, and having them run at Titus with fake knives. In your defense, he’d been working nonstop, and nothing you were doing could distract him from it, so sadly, yes, you did have to use the kids. Ultimately, he found it to be completely hilarious, even if he spanked your ass raw that night in revenge.
Dahlia Violet and Prescott Chester Danforth were born just after midnight, the morning of Halloween. It was dark and stormy, lightning striking through the sky when you gave birth in one of the lavish baths of the Danforth Estate. Absolutely the perfectly way to bring your twins into the world.
They both came out crying, with striking red hair and big eyes, and both instantly calmed as soon as they were passed into their father’s arms. You’ll never forget the look on Titus’s face, the awe and wonder that someone like him could make two tiny things so beautiful. He’d been filled with the instant love he hadn’t felt since the first moment he saw you.
Even with time passing, his love for them hasn’t changed. Many a critic in your lives, the people who always misunderstand Titus, have said that his interest in all of this would pass. Titus Danforth can never be held down by a family, he’s too wild.
They simply don’t get it. They may know he has a monstrous side, but they do not know his heart.
You see his heart as Prescot reaches his hands up with a small, face-scrunching frown, and Titus pulls him up into his arms. Your boy has always been the more quiet one, not sensitive, but smart and inquisitive, always watching and studying any situation. He knows how to express anything he feels, very directly, and Titus has joked that he’s just like you and Ursula.
“You shouldn’t make Mommy mad,” Prescott says, pressing his little face into Titus’ cheek.
“Yeah?” Titus asks with a soft laugh. “Why’s that?”
Prescot shrugs. “Because she’s in charge.”
You snort at the same time that Titus lets out a raucous laugh and kisses his son’s cheek. “Smart boy, but what about me? You want to make me mad?”
“Daddy, you’re never mad!” Prescott proclaims.
Again, you can’t stop the snort that comes out, and you bite your lip to not laugh any louder.
Titus shakes his head at you as he walks over to the little patio area, and he sets Prescott down carefully in one of the seats. He straightens out the boy’s blazer jacket, and tips his face up to look at him. “I’m never mad at Mommy, or Dolly, and I am never mad at you, sweet boy. No matter what. Unless we get so messy we’re late to Mommy’s lunch.”
“You’re also going to make us late to stay with Auntie Ursula!” Dahlia whines.
Where Prescott stops at being calm and collected, Dahlia takes after her father, a little girl of action. She’s always buzzing to do things, to find new adventures, and to get into trouble. Spending a long weekend away in the city with just Ursula is exactly the kind of adventure she’s been needing.
“That excited to get away from us, Dolly?” Titus asks with a faux pout. “My little princess trying to escape the castle.”
“Auntie Ursula said her house is on top of the world!” Dahlia exclaims, clapping her little hands together. “But I’ll still miss you, Daddy!”
As soon as you release her hair, she hops off the seat and runs over to snatch her brother away from Titus, and you both smile as you watch them run, shouting something about racing to the town car.
Your heart has never been so full.
Titus comes over to help you up, and you pull him in for a quick kiss, enjoying the brief moment where the twins won’t interrupt you. You pull away to rub the lipstick from him, and his crinkly eyes never leave yours. He’s only gotten more handsome with age, still in that same shape you met him, still covered in freckles, with the same silver hair, only a hint of age from the last few years you’ve known him.
“Excited for a weekend all to ourselves?” he asks, wrapping your arm around his to walk you to the car. “Not that I won’t miss them.”
“No of course, I’m going to miss them every second,” you say. Still out of earshot of the twins, you stand up on your tip toes to whisper into Titus’s ear, licking the shell and tugging on the lobe, “You'll have to come up with some pretty big distractions for me.”
He cocks his brow at you and smirks. “Little Lamb, you have no idea what you’re in for.”
Before you can tease each other more over the promise of your first child free weekend in so long, the anticipation of being able to dabble in your old ways of running through the woods like animals heat, Titus is off to scoop the twins up again.
He gives you a sly wink over his shoulder, shouting, “Love you, my baby!”
“Yeah, yeah, love you too,” you say with an amused shake of your head. And you can’t help but smile as you watch the three of them together, still a little in disbelief that this is your life.
Off in the distance, in the shadows of the tree line, your eyes catch sight of the shadow of a man. He smiles at you and gives you a nod, before disappearing with a whisp of leaves in the breeze.
For a moment you pause, then still looking at where you could have sworn he just stood, you smile, and nod back.
FIN.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
A/N 2: again, thank you to everyone who has been reading this series!!! i have had sooooo much fun with Titus, and I'm glad you all have too ! PLEASE comment and REBLOG!!! reblogs do more than likes!!!
Summary: Continuing the family bloodline is important to the Danforth family and all members of the council, you included. You’re willing to do anything to see that happen, including enlisting the help of Satan himself.
Author’s Note: He’s so terrible and yet I want him so bad.
Warnings/tags: 18+ MDNI, fem! reader, no description of reader, no use of y/n, AU: Grace and Faith are dead and Ursula and Titus lived, established relationship, weddings, reader has fertility issues, pressure to get pregnant (not from Titus), theistic satanism, ovulation, sex rituals, unprotected p in v, dirty talk, pet names/terms used: love, baby, good girl, not beta read, 2.8k words
It has been six months since Grace MacCaullay and her sister were killed at the hands of Titus Danforth for the High Seat of the Council. Six months since Ursula Danforth was hospitalized after her brother attempted to kill her as well. Six months since Titus, the new leader of the world itself, came home to you and proposed. It's been six months since you said yes.
Titus is nothing short of an enigma with a short fuse. Ursula had learned that the hard way after thinking that she could keep her own brother on a leash like an obedient dog. You have never attempted to do what she did because unlike Ursula you know the type of man Titus is. While she talks down to him you meet him where he's at. While she tries to rein him in you let go of his straps completely. It earns you his respect and his love. It earns you a peek under the veil to see the soft side that so desperately wants to come out of the seams.
Three months after the proposal is your wedding and it's everything you have dreamed of. The only thing that could have brought you down is someone raining on your parade during yours and Titus's big day. And Ursula does exactly that.
"I hope you're prepared for what you signed up for," she says.
She had offered to dance with you, claiming she wanted to bond with her newfound sister-in-law. She holds your hand while the other is placed on your shoulder. The two of you sway around slowly as your eyes drift to your husband who is talking to one of his groomsmen.
"I wouldn't have married him if I didn't," you say with a smile that has 'bite me, bitch' plastered all over it.
You and Ursula don't get along. You never had since you first met her. When the council had accepted your father into their ranks you immediately felt hostility coming from her. She would fake niceties one minute and make snide comments directed at you the next. And when Titus began to show interest in you it only seemed to get worse. You don't understand it but you don't ponder on it either. Her emotions were her problem, not yours. No matter how much she tries to take it all out on you.
"When we first met, I didn't like you," she says.
"And that's changed?" you ask.
"No, I still don't like you. But I'm worried about you," she says.
You scrunch your face, confused by her statement.
"You're not going to be able to give him all he wants. And he'll leave you. And then he'll be my problem again. So I guess I'm more worried about myself now that I think of it," she continues.
"He's the High Seat of the council. What more could he want?" you questioned.
"Children. And your father has a big mouth and let it slip that your doctor thinks you might be in—"
"That's none of your fucking business," you say as you let go of her hand, taking a step back.
"Sorry. Did I strike a nerve? Your dad just mentioned something about an ex-boyfriend and fertility treatments and I just assumed," she trails off.
You scoff and walk away, taking a moment for yourself.
That was three months ago.
And despite your efforts, you still have yet to become pregnant. Your doctor swears you're not barren but you were starting to wonder if she was wrong. Or if you need another opinion.
Titus has briefly mentioned wanting children but he never pushes for it. But it doesn't really matter. You know that there was nothing more important to the Danforth family than keeping the High Seat and the remaining members continuing the family bloodline. Your family is the same way. Obsessed with passing down the family name and their fortunes, just like everyone else on the council. You knew before long the topic was going to come up, if not by Titus then by your own family. The pressure was on.
You have done just about everything you can possibly think of to increase your chances of getting pregnant before nearly giving up. That is until you find the most interesting book tucked away in the Danforth library.
It's a hefty book with a thick, black leather cover on it. When you open it your eyes go wide.
"No fucking way."
The next week is spent preparing. While Titus takes care of council business you study the pages you've found and take the next few days to collect everything you need.
When Friday rolls around and Titus comes home to the Danforth mansion he finds you in your shared bedroom, standing atop sigils in a large salt circle with nothing more on than your red satin robe.
"Hello, love," you greet him.
He chuckles as he looks you up and down.
"Hi, what are you doing, baby?" he asks.
He takes his overcoat off as you step over the circle and walk over to him. He pecks a kiss on your head before you speak.
"Preparing a ritual," you say simply.
His eyes flicker between you and the salt circle on the floor.
"There are no planned rituals for over a month," he says.
"I know. This isn't council business. It's our business," you say.
"Meaning?" he asks.
You pull him towards the edge of the bed, urging him to sit down next to you.
"We both want children. And it's expected of us by both our families so that the High Seat stays in our possession for as long as possible. But…I can't get pregnant," you say.
There's a moment of silence between the two of you before Titus places his hand on your thigh.
"Did your doctor say this?" he asks.
"No, they claim I can get pregnant but I've tried everything it feels like. So I wanted to try this." You reach for the book on the nightstand and hold it out to him before flipping to the pages you found.
He begins to skim the pages, looking over the old text and elaborate charts and drawings.
"This is risky. Even for us," he mumbles as he flips a page.
"Oh, I know."
"We could become Antichrist parents," he jokes.
He closes the book and sets it back down on the nightstand.
"Is that a no?" you question.
Titus unbuttons a bit of his shirt absentmindedly as he looks around, taking note of the candles you have strategically placed throughout the room.
"It's not," he says.
You shift on the bed, drawing your knees up as you lean in closer to him. Your thumb gently rubs at the top of his hand as you speak.
"Would it help convince you if I said I'm ovulating and just smelling your cologne right now has me ready to pounce," you say quietly.
He smirks before leaning in closer to you as well, meeting your lips with his.
"I didn't need convincing. But that definitely would've worked," he says before kissing you again.
Before Titus can push you down in the bed you pull away, breaking the kiss.
"Not here, over there," you say, pointing at the circle.
He takes your hand into his and leads you to the circle. You both step over the salt onto the sigils painted on the floor.
"I know you like being in charge," you kiss at Titus's neck, "but let me lead us this time."
"Yes, ma'am," he chuckles.
You reach towards his shirt, unbuttoning it all the way before slipping it off his shoulders. He lets the fabric slide down before tossing the shirt on the floor past the circle.
Titus watches you as you take your fingers down his chest before they trail down to his belt. Your fingers hook around the leather as you undo it and unzip his pants. That all too familiar smirk is plastered across his face as you begin to push his pants down.
"How long have you been planning this?" he asks.
You hum to yourself as he steps out of his pants and shoes, leaving him in only his boxers.
"About a week," you reply as your eyes drift down to his pelvis. There is a growing imprint of his cock underneath the black fabric.
"I'm impressed you kept this from me for that long," he says.
"I wanted to surprise you."
You hook your fingers around his waistband and pull them down, freeing his cock from the confines of the fabric. It flops a bit at the motion, standing out once the boxers are fully pulled down. You can't help but stare, taking in the finer details of your husband's cock. It's slightly curved with a thick vein running down the length of it. The head is flushed and pink and when Titus flexes his muscles his cock moves with him, reacting to the pull of his body.
"Like what you see?" he asks.
"Always," you say.
You then take his hands and move them to the front of your robe, urging him to untie it. The satin slips off your body easily, revealing your nude figure underneath. On your lower abdomen are a few sigils that you had drawn carefully earlier before he had arrived.
"Well, look at that. You really have this all planned through, don't you?" he says, running his thumb across the markings.
"I do. Now sit in the middle," you instruct him as you bend down, swiping up your robe and tossing it out of the circle.
You step out momentarily and grab a knife you had set aside earlier along with a bottle of lavender oil.
"It's important that once we start, you listen to me, okay?" you ask, stepping into the circle and sitting down in front of him.
"Yeah, of course," he nods.
You set the knife to your side and open up the bottle of lavender oil, pouring a generous amount into your hand. Leaning forward, you begin to apply it to your husband's skin, rubbing it in as you do so.
"Usually it's candles that we put the oil on but we're using our bodies as our altars for this. I've already prepared my own body but I don't think it'll hurt to do the same to you," you explain.
Your fingers massage the oil into his chest and he hums as you move down his abdomen, breathing in the calming scent as you do so.
"Okay, all set," you say.
"What about the knife?" Titus asks.
"We don't use that yet," you say.
You move onto his lap, straddling him as you wrap your arms around his broad shoulders. He kisses you gently as he grips at your waist, pulling you into his chest.
"Climaxing is crucial to the process," you say as you reach down between the two of you, finding his cock and lining it up with your entrance.
"Has that ever been a problem before?" Titus asks. He pulls you down, pushing the length of his cock into you.
"Fuck…no, it hasn't. I'm just explaining—"
A moan rips from you as Titus bucks his hips upwards. Your jaw goes slack as he does it again.
"Just wondering," he says, smiling at your reaction.
You begin to rock your hips against his, grinding against him. Every drag of your body works his cock deeper into you.
"That's it, baby. Take what you need," he says.
Titus's hand slides down, grabbing at your ass as you move against him. His other hand slides around your body, feeling the soft flesh of your thigh and moving up your belly before settling at your breast. His thumb and pointer finger pinch at the hardening nipple, rolling it against the digits before he leans his head down and takes it in his mouth.
You moan as his tongue gently swirls around the skin, occasionally sucking it between his lips. One of your hands moves from his neck to his back, dragging your nails against him which results in another bucking of his hips.
"Oh my god," you groan.
Titus pulls off of your nipple with a pop before moving up your chest and to your neck. He begins to leave a trail of kisses, pecking and licking at the skin. When your hips begin to move at a faster pace he bites down near your collarbone, drawing a whine from you.
His free hand moves between the two of you, letting his fingers slide through your folds, feeling where he has you split open before moving back up to your clit.
"So wet already and we've barely gotten started," he states, pulling his fingers out to observe the string of your arousal that connects from one finger to the other. He slides his hand back down and begins to draw little circles with his thumb. "Have you been like this all day?"
"Part of the instructions suggests masturbation—fuck—beforehand," you reply in between moans.
"Is that what you've been up to all day?" he thrusts his hips upwards once more, "Touching your pussy and waiting on me to come home?"
You nod your head, too focused on the pleasure building up in you to respond.
"How many times have you came around your fingers today wishing it was me?" he asks.
You grip his shoulders, using him as leverage. His fingers pick up speed, keeping a steady rhythm as you bounce on his cock.
"Three. Three times," you finally say.
"Hmm, I'm impressed. Let's make it four times," he says,
Titus wraps his arms around you, squeezing you tight and lying back within the circle, taking you with him. He holds you against his chest as he spreads your legs out before bending his knees and thrusting upwards into you.
"Oh, fuck!" you moan as you lay your head against his chest.
You can hear the sound of your cunt squelch around him as he fucks into you, driving his cock into you at a quick pace.
The head of his cock slides against the spongy part inside your walls with every thrust, making you damn near see stars. He groans as he slides in and out of you, feeling your wetness drip down his cock while he buries himself into you.
"Titus, say your…enns," you say breathlessly, drooling against his chest.
"Fuck, baby. You're giving me an impossible task. Can't do that and focus on your pussy at the same time," he groans.
"Please, it's for the ritual. Please, do it for me," you whine as he rolls his hips into yours, making all your nerves fire off at once. "Please. Before I cum."
He presses his hand against your back and the other against the nape of your neck, keeping you pressed against him as he begins to chant. At first, it's quiet as he tries to focus on the words but soon he repeats them between groans.
"Tasa reme laris Satan. Ave Satanas," he repeats himself over and over in your ear.
Something about it sets you off. You feel your arousal pool in your groin and you just snap, letting go as your orgasm hits you like a freight train.
"That's it, baby. That's it. Good fucking girl," he coos in your ear.
He keeps thrusting, chasing his own release as your walls tighten and clench around him. You moan against his chest as tears well up in your eyes. The head of his cock presses against your cervix at this angle and every time he pumps his cock into you it sends a jolt of pleasure through you. You can feel it in your belly, in your spine, through your soaked cunt. And it's nearly too much to handle.
"Titus…" you whine as his grip tightens.
His cock twitches inside of you and a few more thrusts have him falling over the edge.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he groans through gritted teeth as he cums inside you.
He goes to move you but you stop him.
"Stay like this," you say. Your hand reaches for the knife beside the two of you, grabbing it and bringing it between the two of you.
You sigh as you sit up, staying on his cock and keeping his cum plugged inside you.
"Gimme," you mumble, motioning for his hand.
He doesn't hesitate. This was normal for the two of you. You can't count the number of times blood was spilled around you.
You take the knife and slice against his palm, following the line of a scar already on his hand. You then do the same to yourself, opening up the same spot you've cut hundreds of times over your lifetime.
You set the knife aside and press your hands together, letting the blood drip down your wrist and onto Titus's chest.
"I love you," you say, looking down at him.
"I love you too."
You lean down and plant a soft kiss against his lips.
Summary You were the bride. The one being chased. You would do anything to stop running. Stop being hunted. Titus accepted your marriage proposal. Now it's time to take your place.
or
An alternate ending to the movie, where you don't immediately kill Titus, and try to make peace with your new life at his side.
W.C. 13.3k (bruh)
Tags Angst, smut, Dubcon (in the sense of like Stockholm syndrome and slight coercion), enemies to lovers, slow burn, mentions of blood and violence, attempted SA, implied murder, Titus being douchey, cuck if you squint, oral sex (f and m receiving), unprotected sex, breeding kink, dom Titus, the goat pit is mentioned but no one gets thrown in
Author's Note The whole prospect of a marriage to Titus was kinda giving me Persephone and Hades vibes, I think, and I hope I communicated that well. Like I said, I apparently can't just write smut, I have to build emotional depth (sue me). I almost feel like I could continue on with their relationship after this point, it would be so interesting to explore.
Slightly ooc because let’s be honest, Titus probably wouldn’t wait.
xoxo
"I do."
As soon as you said the words. The pit in your stomach calcified into something heavier. You were almost trembling too much to put the ring on.
Titus was overjoyed. As much as someone like him could be. And of course he was. With his twin dead, and you legally linked to him, he was on top of the world. Literally. There was no one in his way. Titus told you the moment the hunt started, that it would be he who got you. And he was right.
Blood was drawn from the goat. Sacrifices made. And you were pushed aside in the revelry. You didn't want to enjoy any of it. Not that you could have. You were an afterthought, swept away in the crowd of cultists and freaks, standing along the fringes by yourself while they all drank and celebrated.
Titus didn't spare you a second glance when you left for your room. He had what he wanted. And you knew that your nightmare was just beginning.
You’re in your room when there’s a knock on the door. You tighten the silk robe around your waist and answer, nearly shaking too much to hold the door handle.
"Hello Mrs. Danforth," a man in a white button up nods pleasantly at you. "I have been sent to tend to you."
"Ah- what do you mean?" you ask as he makes his way into your room, opening up the bag that he carried with him. Your mind reeled with the possibilities. Tend to you? Take care of you? Is he here to kill you?
As he unpacks his tools, you realize very quickly that they’re just medical supplies. Gauze, alcohol pads, needle and thread.
The man looks at you, and gestures to the bed. "Please, relax Mrs. Danforth. This won’t take but a moment."
The name still feels foreign to your ears. Mrs. Danforth. Your new title. It’s going to take a while to be able to wear that completely, without it feeling like a mask.
They had done some basic patchwork before the wedding. Bandages and gauze. Barely holding you together at the seams. Enough to make you presentable for the ceremony, that’s it.
But this is real medical care. You needed it. Every stitch, every swipe of a wound made you bite your tongue, holding back screams. But at least you’re being tended to, and you can only hope that you never have to endure this kind of pain again.
When he’s done, you stay laid out on the bed. He packs up his medical kit, collecting the bloodied rags and wiping away the surfaces, leaving no trace.
"Who-who sent you?" you ask.
"Mr. Danforth," he smiles at you. He said it so calmly, as if the answer was obvious.
He’s out of the room without another word.
You’re finally alone. Tears well in the corners of your eyes. Tears that you didn’t even realize you were holding in all night. Dawn breaks through the curtains, thin streaks of light fighting their way into the room. A new day, a new beginning. The start of the rest of your life.
You let out a shaky breath and sit up in the bed, running a hand through your hair. You extend your left hand in front of you, catching the light on your wedding ring.
You hear Ursula's voice in your ears.
I tried looking for the goodness in him. I found nothing.
We can control him, together.
Maybe she was right, there is no goodness in Titus. But maybe she was also right, that he could be- well, not controlled- but gently steered in the right direction.
Hades and Persephone. Death and his wife. Two sides of the same tarnished coin.
The door opens. No knock, of course not. He owns everything, including you, and he’s entitled to whatever he pleases. Whoever he pleases.
You rise to your feet immediately, wincing at the sudden movement and trying to bite back the discomfort.
"I see you're looking better. All stitched up?" Titus grasps his hands in front him. He looks pleased with himself.
"Yes," you say, giving no emotion away.
He twists the rings on his hand- both the wedding band and the family heirloom- and steps closer to you.
You flinch slightly, taking a half step back. It’s more reflex than anything, conditioned by multiple nights of being chased and hunted. Those hands, one ones innocently twisting at his wedding band, were around your neck not too long ago.
Titus notices. He takes a beat and nods. "I owe you my gratitude," he says.
There is something strange behind his eyes. The feral bloodlust from last night has faded into something almost human. "I obviously didn't know about the loophole," he continues. "Rather convenient."
"Yeah, convenient," you deadpan. "For you."
"We both win, right? You're still alive. I have what is rightfully mine." His fingers linger on the council ring. His priority.
"Are you here to consummate the marriage?" you spit, venom laced in your words.
"No," Titus shakes his head.
You allow yourself a breath of relief. A small victory in a night of horrors.
"When I have my way with you,” he mutters, voice low, “you'll be asking for it. Begging for more. And I won't touch you until then. You have my word."
The small victory was short-lived, obviously. This is a challenge. To see how long you can last.
"Then you'll be waiting for a very, very long time," your voice is even, though you’re almost visibly trembling.
"We'll see about that," he nods. Not a threat, just a fact.
There's something in the air between you two. Heavy, and almost tempting.
Without another word, he leaves you in your room to sleep by yourself. You let out the breath you were holding, and collapse onto the bed. Every cell in your body is begging for rest.
And you have your first full night’s sleep since before your first wedding.
When you wake, the sun is strong and high in the sky. It must be mid day by now. You have no idea how long you slept, but you feel like you’ve been hit by a train.
There’s a knock at your door. Who knows how long they’ve been waiting for you to gain consciousness.
"Come in," you grumble. You dig the heels of your hands into your eyes until you see white spots, trying to wake up fully.
A very perky young woman opens the door, stepping in with a stack of clothes.
“Mr. Danforth would like you to come down for a meal before you depart,” she says, her tone much too light and airy for the setting.
“Depart?” you ask, yawning. Just the simple act causes you to wince, your body still aching and sore. “Where are we going?”
“Home,” she smiles.
It’s unsettling, how pleasant everyone here is. Don’t they know what just happened? What you’ve been through?
Titus clearly has terrible taste in clothing. You realize this when you put on the clothes he has chosen for you. Just bleak, drab, business casual. You wince a little when buttoning the pants, your stitches crying out for sympathy.
When you go downstairs, Titus is nowhere to be seen. You’re quietly grateful for the opportunity to eat in peace. Again, your first full meal since your first wedding. You don’t realize how weak you’d become until your belly is full again and your senses are renewed.
A dark escalade pulls up to the front, and you are ushered out the door. Titus is standing outside, talking with the driver. He spares you a sideways glance before climbing into the back seat. You sit next to him, staring out the window the entire time.
“I’ll have your belongings brought to the house,” Titus says as the car peels away, still not looking directly at you.
“I don’t have many,” you say.
Which is true. The clothes in your dresser. Your favorite books. And the necklace that your mother left you before she died. You were cursing yourself for not bringing it with you. But then, how could you have known that a weekend wedding getaway would morph into this?
Otherwise, there wasn’t much to want.
“Somehow, that doesn’t shock me.” Titus replies.
You glance at him sideways, and his smug attitude makes you seethe. After everything you’ve been through this week, you should feel relieved that you’re still alive. And yet, you’re chained to this man.
You won’t feel any relief until you’re free from him.
The house in Newport is not a house. It’s a sprawling estate, of course. Inherited by Titus after his father’s death, the house’s upkeep is its own operation. There’s more people working on the property than were on staff at your last job. Every need is taken care of, so that the Danforths don’t have to lift a finger.
Titus has probably never had to work for anything in his life. And now, you’re going to make him work for your favor.
“Someone will show you to your room,” Titus says as the front doors open for you. Again, never lifting a finger, these Danforths.
“What am I supposed to do here all day?” you ask, looking up at the foyer with curiosity. It’s grand and heavily decorated, paintings and lavish accents touching every corner of the space.
“I don’t care,” Titus replies, voice flat, already walking down one of the hallways.
“I’m just supposed to stay locked up in here?” you call after him, tone incredulous.
Titus stops dead. He turns on his heels and stalks back to you.
Your chest tightens, the image of Titus running after you replaying in your head.
“Upset with the lodgings, darling?” he says, voice low. “Remember, a golden cage is far more preferable to a goat pit.”
You chew on the inside of your cheek, trying to settle the emotions building in your chest.
“Now,” Titus continues. “Anything you should desire can be taken care of. Want to try horseback riding? Go to the stables. Want to rot your fucking brain all day? The theater room is on the first floor. Go online shopping. Do whatever you want. I don’t. Fucking. Care.” The last sentence is emphasised, his eyes boring into yours.
“Whatever I want,” you reply, eyes narrow, “except leave.”
Titus relaxes slightly, a smile forming that doesn’t reach the rest of his face. “Now you’re getting it. I knew you had some sense.”
He wraps a firm hand around the back of your neck. Your breath stills and eyes widen, just barely, worried that something in him snapped. That volatile temper of his has decided to just kill you right there.
But he brings you closer and presses a kiss to the top of your head.
Without another word, you watch him walk away. This time, keeping your mouth shut.
It occurs to you that he could, actually, kill you at any time. Decide you’re not worth the trouble anymore. All of this would have been for nothing if you still end up dead by the end of it. And then Titus will have gotten everything he wanted, like he always has.
It’s time to make yourself more valuable.
-
The forest on the edge of the property is secluded, just like you want it. You needed somewhere to practice without the prying eyes of the staff. You line up the shot, taking a deep breath. Almost ready, when you hear a branch snap behind you.
Your arms fall to your sides, head turning to the sound. The tightness in your chest does not ease when you see Titus walk towards you. The only thing keeping you calm is that this time, you’re armed. Just in case.
“When they told me you were out here,” Titus stops just a few feet from you, “I thought I misheard.”
“Nope,” you say, turning your attention back to your practice.
“Of all of the hobbies you could have chosen, and I do mean all of them,” he walks closer, stepping around a fallen branch, “should I be worried that this is what you picked?”
You take a deep breath, fingers light on the blade. You bring the knife behind your head, other arm outstretched in front of you, finding your target. After steadying yourself, you launch the knife. It sinks into the tree. Not into the target, but also not on the forest floor. You take the victory.
“I don’t know,” you turn to him, wiping your hands on your pants. “Should you be?”
“What’s the matter, nothing good on the television?” he asks.
“Don’t you have some small children to bring to tears or something?” you reply.
“Where did you even get the knives?”
You walk by Titus, jutting your chin out. “Like you said, I can get anything I want here.”
After collecting the knives from the bark, you find your starting point again, with every intention of practicing as if Titus isn’t standing there, watching you.
“You’re choking it,” Titus says.
You glare at him. “Excuse me?”
“The blade.” Titus approaches you and takes your wrist in his hand, turning it over in his grip. You have the knife in your grasp, fingers gently wrapped around the base of the blade. He gently slides the blade down, so that your fingers are resting at the tip.
“You have more leverage this way,” he says, voice low.
Without explaining further, Titus moves his hands to your hips. You still, just barely, breath hitching in your throat. Based on the way his eyebrow lifts, and the corner of his mouth twitches, Titus notices.
He gently positions you, moving your hips so that you are facing him straight on, perpendicular to your target. You wait for his hands to fall away, but they linger just a little bit longer. You can feel his fingers twitch lightly against your hips.
“You will push through with this back leg,” he taps your thigh.
You watch his hands, eyes narrow.
“Now,” he murmurs. The hairs on the back of your neck stand. “Try again.”
Titus brings his hands behind his back and takes a few steps back. He nods, waiting for you to make your move.
You don’t hide the disdain in your face, but square up anyway. Blade behind your head, other hand out towards your target. One deep breath in, and out, and let the knife fly.
It lands right on the target. Not the center, but closer than you’ve been all afternoon.
Titus flashes you a smug grin. “Good,” he nods, and you hate the way the word runs through you. “Maybe now you’ll be able to hit a sleeping elephant.”
“Fuck you,” you spit, readying your next blade.
You throw again, remembering what Titus said, and hit closer to the center of the target. Titus’s smug grin permeates your periphery. You roll your eyes.
“Alright, time to come inside,” Titus extends a hand.
“I’m not a dog,” you spit.
“No, and you’re not a child either. You’re going to come with me. Now.” His tone is flat, and his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. Unsettling as always.
You collect your knives and walk by Titus, leaving his extended hand hanging in the air.
Titus directs you to your bedroom, keeping a respectable distance as you make your way through the halls. Even after moving to your permanent residence, he doesn’t have you to sleep in the same bed as him. Chivalrous, maybe. More likely, though, his clear disdain for you would ruin his sound sleep.
When you open the door, you realize why he brought you back in.
Your belongings have been delivered. Four boxes, stacked neatly on the floor, with your name printed on the front. Your entire life, reduced to this. You would be ashamed, but you worked for everything in those boxes. It’s all yours.
“Your apartment has been paid off. Furniture sold, and personal effects packed,” Titus walks in behind you. “I’m not sure how you managed to live in such a tiny hovel, though,” he adds, nearly under his breath.
You glare at him, unamused.
“Anyway,” Titus clears his throat, “Let me know if anything is missing.”
“Okay,” you approach the boxes, gently kneeling on the ground to open them.
Old concert shirts, a few pictures, and some well loved novels. You pick up your worn and very annotated copy of The Portrait of Dorian Gray, grateful that it made the trip.
You move to the second box. Then the third. And the fourth. Your movements become more haphazard with each box, hope fading fast. You check the excess packing material, thinking it must be hidden somewhere. Not missing, though. It can’t be.
“It’s not here,” you mutter. Not wanting to believe it, you rifle through the boxes again.
“What is it?” Titus asks, stepping up behind you.
“My necklace. The- the heart pendant. It’s not here,” your voice is rising.
Titus looks at your possessions with near disgust. “I can buy you another necklace-”
“No,” you cut him off, tone harsh. You turn to him and try to decide how much you’re willing to share with Titus. “It was my mother’s.”
For the first time, something softens behind Titus’s eyes. You almost don’t notice it, but there is definitely something different in his expression. Something like empathy, if that’s even possible for him.
“I- I understand,” he nods, tone noticeably softer. “I’ll send someone out to see if it was missed.”
You sit on your bed, arms wrapped around your stomach. “She was a single mom, and tried to give me the world. It was the only thing of value she had to her name. When she died-” your voice catches in your throat. You look up at Titus. His hands are heavy at his sides, clearly not sure what to do at this moment.
“When she died,” you continue, “it was the only thing I had left of her.”
There’s a heavy silence, a lengthy pause. You retreat into yourself, any bravado you had cut short. Any quips you may have for Titus die on your tongue.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Titus nods and folds his hands behind his back.
He leaves you alone in your room, your whole life reduced to four measly boxes and a broken heart.
-
Titus decides to throw a dinner party. He says it’s to honor the new marriage, and to celebrate the Danforths remaining at the high seat of the council. But this is clearly just a way for the wealthy to live in their wealth. Spending money just to spend. Luxury for luxury’s sake.
Your outfit was chosen by him, of course. You half expected it to be some tacky, gaudy display of horrendous opulence. It’s not like he has proven to have exceptional taste.
But the dress is surprisingly lovely. Lush, deep blood red fabric hugs every curve from your breasts to your hips, then drips down to the floor. Off the shoulder straps leave your collar bone exposed. With minimal beading, it’s much more subdued than you would have expected from him. Not that his wardrobe is particularly flashy, but these events have a way of bringing the tackiness out of people.
The maids finish preparing, leaving you at the vanity, staring at yourself in the mirror. You look beautiful. And you can feel your will starting to erode. You hate how much you like this gown on you. You hate how perfectly your hair is pinned. You hate how your skin is glowing, how well this life fits on you, like the ring on your finger.
Titus enters the room without knocking. The vest he’s wearing has an ornate pattern on it, blood red, matching your gown.
“You look beautiful,” he says.
“Way to compliment yourself,” you roll your eyes, “since you’re the one that picked this out.”
“The dress is nice,” Titus says, standing behind you now, hands behind his back. “You look beautiful. Now, close your eyes.”
“Why,” you glare at him through the mirror.
“Just do it,” he squints at you, patience thinning.
You stare at him for a moment, but he’s unmoving. Finally, you relent.
“You aren’t particularly trusting,” Titus says, voice low. “Then again, neither am I.”
“I wonder why,” you mutter, eyes still closed.
You feel a chain drop down around your neck, and his fingers clasp it behind you. You can only imagine what kind of garish jewels Titus has picked out for you. Without waiting for him to release you, your eyes open, and your gaze falls immediately on the necklace.
Your mother’s necklace.
A thin, gold chain and heart pendant, etched with an ornate design. Simple, but beautiful. You thought you’d never see it again.
Tears well in your eyes. You blink them away quickly, careful not to ruin your makeup, or let on how moved you are by this gesture.
“How-” you start, but you bite your tongue.
“The servant who collected your things tried to pawn it. Idiot. He has been killed for his treachery." Titus says those words so plainly, and even smiles at you. Like taking a life is as mundane as taking out the trash.
Your painted fingers move to the pendant, touching it gently, making sure this is real. There is a pang of guilt at the thought of someone dying for this. But you think about what you would have done just to get it back, and suddenly your disdain doesn’t feel as strong.
You look at Titus through the mirror. “Thank you.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, but the rest of his face remains unchanged. Something flashes behind his eyes. Not smugness, but maybe pride.
“Our guests will be arriving soon. Be sure you are in the foyer to receive them.”
And he leaves as quickly as he entered.
Dinner is a chore, to say the least. These people, having no real lives or ambitions, have no personalities and no interesting things to say. They comment on the state of the world- which, seeing how far removed they are from it, leads to very shallow discussion.
You remain silent, picking at the courses set in front of you. Any appetite you had vanished the moment you were seated and were forced into such mindless discussion.
Titus sits at the head of the table, and you at the other end. Every so often, he steals glances at you, and the necklace. But he otherwise does not acknowledge you or your presence at the table.
Somewhere near the end of the meal, you feel something nudge your leg.
The cousin seated next to you, Jonathan or something, catches your attention. What you thought was a mistake proves to be very intentional when he drops his hand under the table, resting right on your thigh. His gaze is heavy, daring you to make a sound.
“Titus lucked out with you, didn’t he?” Jonathan’s voice is low, lost in the many conversations happening around the table.
Your entire body goes stiff, unable to decide on what to do. Nothing in your brain materializes on your tongue, and for once, you are stunned into silence. The sheer audacity required to hit on you at a dinner party in your own house, when your psychotic husband is on the other end of the table.
“That is not a good idea.” Your words are weak, but it’s all you can think to say.
Jonathan gives your leg a rough squeeze. “Titus is all talk. We both know he’s not man enough to do what needs to be done,” his eyes drag over you, lingering over your chest and the deep breaths you’re taking.
You look down the table at Titus, who doesn’t seem to have noticed. He’s locked in a conversation about who knows what. Oblivious to the disrespect happening right under his nose.
Jonathan removes his hand and settles back in his chair, continuing on as though nothing happened. Your breath finally returns to you. Stupidly, you think that is the end of it.
When the dinner party winds down, and the men gather in the drawing room for scotch and cigars, you excuse yourself.
“I’m going to bed,” you murmur in Titus’s ear before slipping away. He gives a silent nod in understanding.
In your room, you start by taking down your hair and removing your accessories. Your fingers once again linger on the necklace. Your heart squeezes in your chest, thinking of your mother, what she gave up for you. And how much you wish she was here to guide you. The necklace stays on.
There’s a knock on the door. Instantly, you know it’s not Titus.
He doesn’t knock.
“Come in,” you say, thinking it’s one of the maids sent to help you undress.
The door creaks open, and Jonathan saunters in. He’s holding two glasses of wine in his hand.
“I figure we pick up where we left off, what say you?” He sets the glasses down on a nearby table.
“I say you should leave,” you say, backing away slowly.
Jonathan loosens the tie around his neck.
“You’re a woman with needs,” he says, stepping closer. It doesn’t take many strides for him to cross the room. “I’m sure you understand that a man has needs as well.”
His gaze appraises you again, dragging over your figure and practically licking his lips.
“He will kill you,” you spit.
“He won’t,” Jonathan shakes his head. “Because you won’t say anything, will you?”
Your back finds the wall, trapping you. Jonathan reaches out and tucks some hair behind your ear. “Pretty little wife,” he murmurs. “Pretty little trophy.”
Jonathan bends down and plants a kiss to your collar bone. Testing, to see how you’ll react. He looks up at you, searching for signs of betrayal.
“Don’t,” you say, voice small. Your hands find his shoulders, and you start to push back.
When you do, fury flashes in Jonathan’s eyes. This is no longer a game. At least, no longer a fun one. He captures your wrists in one hand and pins your arms above your head.
“You’re going to take this like a good little whore,” he spits.
His other hand palms your breast roughly.
“I’ll scream,” you bite.
“I’m family,” Jonathan’s eyes are dark, “you’re just some gold-digging slut. We’ll see what happens. Who is believed.”
“Jonathan,” a voice cuts through the air. Angry, uneasy.
Never in your life have you been relieved to hear it. Until now.
Jonathan goes still. He releases you from his grip, and smooths the fabric of his shirt before turning.
“I was wondering where you went off to. Only to find you groping my wife.” The words are venomous.
“Titus,” Jonathan nods. “Your wife has quite the insatiable appetite, doesn’t she?”
Jonathan’s voice is light, almost jovial. But there’s a tremble in it, and you can see the panic in his eyes. He clearly wasn’t expecting to actually have to answer for this. “She asked me up here,” Jonathan continues, stepping closer to Titus.
Titus’s eyes move from Jonathan to you, looking for something, anything, to validate what Jonathan is saying. A quiet anger simmers below the surface, ready to explode with any excuse.
With everything you have gathered about the Danforths, specifically about Titus, you know what will happen if you out Jonathan and his true motives. His fate will be sealed. And right now, you couldn’t care less about him or his life. You give a near imperceptible shake of your head that Titus understands immediately.
“Come with me,” he says to Jonathan, turning on his heels and moving quickly from your room.
Jonathan turns to you, flashing a smile as he walks away. But the smile doesn’t reach his eyes, and you know that he can feel how the air shifted.
The door closes. You hear hushed voices for just a moment, before the loud bang of a gunshot cuts through the air.
A heavy thud, then nothing.
Titus enters the room again. You see Jonathan’s legs on the ground on the other side of the door, his lifeless body already worthless, dead weight. The blood splatter blends in with the color of Titus’s vest, but you still see small specs around his collar and on his neck. The gun is still firm in his grasp.
“Blood is not easy to wash from silk,” he nods to you. “And it’s easier to clean the floors than an entire room, anyhow.” The way he says it so calmly, so rationally, shocks you more than the killing itself.
At this point, after all you’ve been through, the violence should be second nature to you. There have been many sleepless nights spent reliving the lives you’ve taken. Their faces, bloodied and screaming, calling out to you. Asking why. But it was self defence. It was all in the name of survival. That’s what you say to their decaying bodies in your nightmares, at least.
As horrifying as it is, you hope that you never one day grow numb to these careless acts of violence.
You haven’t moved away from the wall yet, but your pulse has noticeably steadied. Titus sets the gun down on the table next to the glasses of wine and makes his way to you.
“You should know,” Titus says, “I will always protect what is mine.”
You take a deep, steadying breath.
“And like it your not,” his voice drops low, “you are mine.”
Titus reaches out for you. This is the first time that you don’t flinch. The first time that Titus has reached for you, and your first thought is not of the possible and very likely damage he could inflict upon you. And has.
There is no ire in his words. You slide your hand in his.
“Are you hurt?” he asks, pulling you to the center of the room.
You don’t argue as Titus turns you away from him. His hands drag from your hips, to your waist, up to your shoulders.
“No,” you say, voice thin.
“Good,” he says.
His fingers find the top button of your dress, undoing it quickly. Your body stills.
One of his hands lingers on your waist, while the other drags the zipper down your back. Slow and controlled. Your breathing shallows.
Titus leans in, pressing a kiss to the base of your neck, then your bare shoulder. He pushes the straps of your gown down, the fabric giving way easily under his touch. The satin slips down your body, pooling at your feet.
You’re left standing in front of him in your undergarments. Compared to the fear coursing through you when Jonathan touched you, this is different. You aren’t afraid, not of Titus. Not now. This feeling is harder to name. It’s almost curiosity. Almost.
Titus’s hands grip your bare hips. The touch shoots up your spine. It’s not bruising, but firm. He’s reminding you that he can, and will, do what he pleases. His mouth moves up your neck again. You don’t realize how long it’s been since anyone has really touched you until now. Not your ex-fiance, not anyone.
Your body leans back to him without you realizing it, your back meeting his chest.
One of Titus’s hands moves slowly from your hip to the front of your panties. Just resting, not moving between your legs yet. Titus sets his chin on your shoulder, looking down at how your body reacts to him. Your breath catches in your throat.
“Feeling needy, are we?” Titus’s voice is low and gravelly right at the shell of your ear.
“N-no.” You don’t even believe yourself when you whisper it.
“Don’t lie to me, darling,” his fingers toy with the lacy seam.
As much as you can feel the heat growing between your legs, you can’t get the context of this situation out of your head. What almost happened just 10 minutes ago, the dead body outside your bedroom door. The hands on you, and what else they have done to you.
“I’m-not-” you breathe.
Suddenly, Titus pulls away. You almost fall backwards, jolting back to yourself.
You turn to him, your face burning.
He can’t meet your eye as he smooths the front of his vest. You can’t quite read his face, but he looks almost disturbed, embarrassed.
“Good night,” he gives you a curt nod.
You watch him walk out, dazed. You have no idea what just happened, and you’ve stopped breathing entirely.
As soon as the door shuts, you drop to your knees, overwhelmed with conflicting emotions. Your hand presses to your chest, heart clenching, pulse racing. Everything from this evening collides in your brain.
Jonathan’s leering, greedy gaze. The way Titus looked at you, angry, protective. How vulnerable he looked when he left. How your body eagerly accepted his touch. It’s all too much.
There’s no sleeping soundly tonight.
Hours spent tossing and turning, you finally give up. Anxiety fills you all over again. Every sound, every creak in this god forsaken house, sounds like someone entering your room. You sit up, sleep deprivation pulling at your sanity. There’s no way you’ll get any rest like this. Feeling alone and unsafe.
There is one room that you know no one will enter.
Until now, neither have you.
You pad down the dimly lit hall, a few lights guiding your way.
A large painting of the late Chester Danforth watches you walk by. His face is somber, stoic. You pause for a moment, feeling uneasy under his gaze. Titus’s eyes have the same look when he’s focused. You shake off the eerie similarities and push on.
You hold your palms to the heavy wood of Titus’s bedroom door, pressing your ear to try to hear any movement inside. All you hear is the racing pulse in your ears.
Trying to be as quiet as possible, you push the door open, just enough for you to slip through.
You see Titus’s sleeping figure illuminated by the moonlight. He’s on his back, one arm resting on his chest, and one arm splayed out next to him. You approach slowly and quietly, just in case he’s a light sleeper.
It’s almost strange, seeing him like this. Completely disarmed. There’s a softness in his features that you haven’t been able to appreciate, what with his personality ruining it. You want to lean in and memorize him like this. The sharpness of his jaw, the slight curve of his nose, his long lashes.
Titus’s chest rises and falls steadily, clearly in deep sleep. You move quietly to the other side of the bed and slip under the covers, head resting over his outstretched arm.
For a few moments, you just watch Titus sleep. Like this, you can pretend. You can pretend that he’s not who he is, and that you married into a normal life. That Titus is a loving husband. That you are not constantly unnerved by him and confused by his motivations.
It lulls you to sleep.
Morning light streaming through the gap in the curtains wakes you softly. It takes you a moment for you to remember yourself and your surroundings. Everything comes back to you when you see Titus’s arm wrapped around your waist, holding you flush to his chest. His face is pressed against your hair.
Annoyingly, this was probably the best night’s sleep you’ve had these last few weeks, which pains you to admit.
One minute. You allow yourself one minute like this. To feel Titus’s arm around you and again, pretend this is normal. You want to melt into his embrace, and forget what he’s done.
But you don’t want to risk him waking up like this, with his arms wrapped around you. There’s no way you would willingly give him that satisfaction.
You hold your breath and try to slip out from his grasp without waking him, almost tripping trying to contort yourself in such a way that makes as little noise as possible. When you straighten yourself out, Titus appears to still be sleeping. Thankfully.
You quietly sneak to his door and pull it open without another glance.
“Sleep well?” his groggy, deep voice calls out to you.
You press your forehead to the door and curse quietly to yourself. When you turn around, Titus has one arm tucked behind his head, eyes on you. His mouth curves into a smug grin.
“Don’t.” The word is a curt warning.
“Come back to bed, darling,” his voice is dripping with condescension.
You remember why all of that softness from last night was not real. The fact that you were able to pretend this was remotely normal was not real. It was all in your head. You will never have a normal life with Titus, not as long as he is who he is.
Face hot, you leave without another word.
-
“Pernilla,” you look up from your book, “where is Titus?”
“The guest room in the west wing,” she nods. Her eyes shift back and forth, and she looks uncharacteristically nervous.
“Okay,” you say, dragging out the end of the word. “Why is he in there?”
She doesn’t answer right away.
“You know what,” you hold a hand up. “Don’t worry about it.”
It takes you a second to even figure out where the west wing is- this house is far too big for normal people- and find the guest room.
You lean your head to the door and are immediately confused. All you hear is the sounds of sex. Whines, moans, and the animalistic grunts that can only come from your dear husband.
The door creaks when you open it, and falls heavily shut behind you.
“Darling!” Titus smiles when he sees you.
The girl, whoever she is, is bent over in front of him. Her hands are tied behind her back with thick satin bindings, face twisted in pain or pleasure, you're not sure. Then again, the line between them is thin, anyway.
Titus is thrusting into her at a dizzying pace, surely chasing his own release, not worried about the girl in front of him. His bare chest is glistening with sweat, biceps pronounced as he grabs the bindings of the girl in front of him, hauling her up and pressing her back to his chest.
“She’s pretty, isn’t she?” Titus asks, looking at you with amusement. He drags his tongue up her neck, gathering the sweat. She whimpers, leaning her head back to his shoulder.
Titus forces her face forward towards you. “Meet my wife,” he says into her ear.
“Are you trying to make me jealous?” You ask, crossing your arms. “That would suggest I want you in the first place.”
You can’t help your gaze from falling down to the girl’s poor pussy, where Titus moves in and out. It’s the first time you’ve seen him. All of him. You swallow hard, trying to keep your face flat.
“You expect all of us to take a vow of celibacy, just because you have?” he smirks. “Sit down,” Titus nods to the chaise across the room, “if you want to watch.”
The girl in front of him starts whining again. Titus covers her mouth with a firm grip. “Shut your fucking mouth,” he growls.
You narrow your eyes. This was a no-win scenario. Leaving would imply that he got to you somehow. He could stay in here, fucking this girl in peace. Staying and watching would mean he could put on a show, and you would be subjected to whatever happened next. Or, worse, let him think you were turned on by this display. You wish you never walked in.
Arms still crossed, you walk towards the bed. Titus’s hips stutter slightly, clearly confused by this course of action. You grab the girl’s face with one hand, bringing her gaze to you.
“Does that feel good?” you ask.
“Mhmm,” she whimpers.
“Did he let you come?” you push the hair out of her face.
“N-no,” she whines.
Titus looks down at you, smile faltering.
With your eyes locked on Titus, you drag two fingers into your mouth, and press them against her exposed clit. She lets out a loud yelp.
“Wha-what are you doing?” Titus groans, feeling the effects of your actions on his cock.
“Come on, come for me, let go,” you coo at the girl, caressing her clit as Titus continues to move inside.
His pace has slowed, too busy watching you.
You’re not sure how long he has been using this poor girl’s cunt, but it doesn’t take long for her to reach her peak.
“I’m coming,” she whimpers. “Oh my god.”
You help her ride through it, watching Titus’s face as she squeezes him. He drops her down onto the bed face first, his face twisted.
“What’s the matter?” you smirk. “You gonna come now, too?”
He looks at you, breathless, as it dawns on him. He can stop now, stave off the climax he’s right on the edge of, or find his release, and end this charade.
“Bitch,” he mutters, moving inside the girl again.
“Your bitch,” you spit.
Titus is so sensitive at this point, that it takes three more thrusts for him to finish off inside the poor girl.
“Show’s over,” you shrug, turning to leave. “And make sure you clean her up before you send her away. Please.”
-
Two can play at this game.
Not that you want to hire an escort to fuck. Titus would clearly enjoy that.
In true Titus fashion, you saunter into the study, unannounced. In your clothes. Not the ones Titus bought for you. The ones he turned his nose down at when they were delivered in boxes.
Soft, dainty panties and a flowy nightgown that is far too short to be considered PG. It was your go-to sleeping outfit when you were trying to seduce your now dead ex-husband. Worked every time.
Titus's eyes rake over you, not even trying to hide his leering.
"Comfortable?" he asks, taking a sip of his whiskey.
"Very," you smile. You lie on the couch on your stomach, your ass almost completely out, and feet waving lazily in the air. You flip open a magazine, and try to pretend like it’s the most interesting thing you’ve read in the last two months.
Titus clears his throat and moves the paperwork in front of him to the side of the desk. He leans back in his chair and just…watches you.
You continue leafing through the pages, feigning ignorance. The quiet is unsettling, though. Every so often, you steal a glance at Titus, to find that sure enough, he’s still just watching.
Deciding to take it up a notch, you roll over onto your back. Your legs drape over the backrest of the couch, and the soft satin falls even further, exposing the entirety of your legs. Very little skin is left covered.
Titus clears his throat.
“You have something to say to me?” you ask, not looking up from the page.
“Just that you are incredibly predictable,” Titus drawls.
One of your legs falls to the edge of the couch, completely exposing your panties. “What’s the matter, dear? Can’t stand to look at what you can’t have?”
Titus rises from his desk and moves towards you. The magazine falls from your grip. He just stares down at you at first, almost appraising you. When he reaches down, you think he may break his word, you think he may have snapped. He may take you right here on the couch.
But he grips the front of your panties, dragging the fabric firmly between the folds of your pussy, rubbing right against your clit.
Your jaw drops in a surprised, silent moan, eyes wide.
“You think you can tempt me?” he says, his voice low and gravelly. His eyes aren’t crazed. Intense, yes, but otherwise Titus is surprisingly calm. His grip on your panties tightens, increasing the friction on your clit.
A low whimper escapes you before you can stop it.
“That’s not-”
“You’ll have to try harder, my dear,” he says, finally letting go. The fabric hits your skin with a sharp snap.
You yelp. Against your better judgement, and the soul still thriving in your heart, you are ashamed to admit how wet you are.
“Satan knows I want you,” he caresses the side of your face.
You have to will your eyelashes not to flutter, and your heart to stop beating so fast.
“But like I said,” Titus’s gaze is heavy, eyes boring into yours, “when I have you, you’ll be begging for me.”
You swallow hard, trying to get a fucking grip. This should not be turning you on, and yet.
And yet.
-
“What the fuck is going on in here?” Titus storms into the kitchen. The arguing, he ignored. It was when he heard your voice cut through the hall that Titus knew he needed to see what the hell was the matter.
He finds you standing there, thoroughly chastised by his tone.
“They won’t let me cook,” you cross your arms.
The cooks look at Titus, eyes wide, not knowing what to do.
Titus takes a beat, closing his eyes for a moment, like he’s trying to calm himself.
“Leave,” his voice booms through the kitchen.
They vacate without another word. The entire kitchen leaves, a fury of kitchen clogs scurrying out of the room.
“Of course they listen to you,” you mutter.
“They would listen to you,” Titus says, moving closer to you, “if you didn’t ask them for things that directly contradict me. Now, what is this about?”
“I wanted to make dinner,” you shrug. “They wouldn’t let me, kept offering to do it for me.”
“Really?” Titus’s eyebrows raise. “An entire team of expertly trained chefs, and you think you can cook better than them?”
“It’s not about better,” you snap.
“Fucking ridiculous,” he scoffs.
“Like you would even understand,” your voice rises.
“I don’t!” his matches.
“I need some agency, Titus!” You’re yelling now. The only person (alive) to dare raise their voice at Titus Danforth. “I don’t understand how you live like this. I need to know that I can still do something for myself. That I can still take care of myself.”
“You don’t need to take care of yourself,” he hisses.
“It’s not a matter of need, darling,” you spit out the pet name. “You obviously don’t get it. I’m sure Titus Danforth can’t even make a fucking grilled cheese!”
He narrows his eyes at that. You think you may have angered him, struck a nerve, but you don’t care. At this point, more than two months in, Titus has proven that he won’t lift a finger to you with the intent of causing pain. At least, not anymore.
“Sit,” he points to the stool in the corner.
“Titus, I’m not-”
“Sit. Down.” He hisses. “I won’t say it again.”
You settle down on the stool, arms still crossed.
Titus takes a moment to orient himself before searching around the kitchen. He opens and closes multiple cabinets, not finding what he’s looking for.
“This is painful,” you groan.
“Shut up.”
“You don’t even know where anything is in here,” you roll your eyes.
He finally finds a skillet, and glares at you pointedly.
“Congrats,” you scoff.
He sets the pan on the burner and pilfers for everything else. Butter, sliced bread, cheese.
“Cheddar, gouda, or havarti?” he asks over his shoulder, looking at the offerings in the fridge.
“Cheddar and gouda,” you reply.
“Of course,” he mutters.
You watch as he builds the sandwich, the actions clearly foreign to him. Nearly tearing a hole in the bread as he spreads the butter, and cursing to himself when he realizes that he let the pan get too hot. You watch as the man who walks with his head high, all the confidence in the world, stumbles through the kitchen. For you.
“My mother was a lot like you,” he says without removing his attention from the skillet. “She married into the family. What she wanted was security, what she got was my father.”
He flips the sandwich, wincing slightly when he sees how dark this side is. You listen to him silently. “In the end, she wouldn’t let this life consume her. Until it ended her. And my father saw her as weak for it.”
When Titus turns the sandwich out onto a plate, the second side is much lighter than the first. He seems pleased with himself, sliding the plate down the counter to you.
“It’s a little well done,” you grumble.
“Satan help me,” he sighs, eyes cast towards the ceiling, flexing his hands at his sides.
You take the plate in your hands, looking down at it, and back up to Titus. “So what you’re telling me is that your humanity died with your mother? That’s it? You are the way you are because she was the light? And then your daddy put it out?”
“What I’m saying,” he grits his teeth. “Is that the world is not black and white. We are all good. We are all evil. You have to be the strongest in the room. You have know how to play the game.”
“I’m tired of your fucking games,” you take the plate and storm out of the kitchen.
“And by the way,” you pivot back for the last word. Apparently, you can’t help yourself. You raise the plate. “This is still not what I wanted. The grilled cheese was a joke. I was going to make myself a chicken quesadilla. So. Thanks for that. You proved that you can burn bread and that you don’t listen.”
Titus just blinks at you. “Incredible.”
-
This cat and mouse is exhausting. You don’t know how much longer you can do this, how much longer you can keep being the petulant, defiant bride.
One day, Titus is surely going to snap. He seems on edge as it is. When he gave you his word, he probably didn’t think you’d last as long as you have- three months now. The teasing and taunting from both of you has gotten to be pathetic and draining.
Some days, you can almost feel your humanity eroding. Being locked away in the gilded cage, seeing no one, caring for nothing. It has a way of steeling you to the outside world and its problems in a way you swore wouldn’t happen.
But then, you’ll catch a glimpse of a story on the news. Or Titus will take you with him to the resort for a day of meetings. Being around people again, it reinvigorates you, grounds you, reminds you that there is something outside of the Newport walls.
“We should come out here more often,” you look at him over your sunglasses.
“Why, are you bored at the house?” he drawls.
You just stare at him.
“Don’t look at me like that.”
You sit out by the pool of the penthouse suite at the Danforth Casino and Resort, while Titus paces back and forth on the phone. Every so often, his voice raises at whoever is on the other line. Eventually, you try to tune him out and lean your head back on the lounge chair.
“You have a short temper,” you say when you feel his shadow cast over you, eyes still closed. “You should consider therapy.”
“I’m in therapy. It’s called a cigar club, very effective,” he responds. “I need to take care of some business down at the casino.”
You wave him off. “Okay,” you say, uncaring.
You expect him to stalk off, like he always does. But instead, he bends down and presses a rough kiss to your head. You wave him off.
“I’ll be back shortly.”
You mumble a response.
As the time passes, you get bored fast. After an hour, you decide you’ve had enough. With the entirety of this resort at your fingertips, Titus thinks you’re going to stay locked up in this room?
Laughable.
You pull a sundress over your swimsuit, slide into some sandals, and take the elevator down.
There’s people everywhere. You wander the lobby, watching the uber wealthy fret over luggage and take pictures by the front entrance. You wonder, if they knew of the blood spilled in order to keep this thing afloat, would they still come? Still make their reservations, host their bachelorette parties? Or would they turn their heads, somber for a while, mumbling about thoughts and prayers, and still come back for more?
You move on, knowing the answer.
You see the cinnamon sugar curls of your dear husband, his back to you, talking to someone you’ve never met. They’re standing in the doorway of the casino, having a heated discussion. You try to stay on the fridges, watching without looming, but it doesn’t last long.
The man sees you, and immediately his demeanor changes, lightening up to something worthy of a show.
“Ah, the wife,” his face lights up dramatically at the sight of you. You try not to roll your eyes at the address.
Titus’s head snaps in your direction. The heat behind his eyes fades, brows knitting together into something akin to concern. You step closer, plastering on a smile of your own.
“Mrs. Danforth, lovely to make your acquaintance.” The man bows his head and kisses the back of your hand. It’s not exactly inappropriate, but it still confuses the hell out of you.
“Likewise,” you reply, still unsure of what to make of him.
“I’m Jones, your husband’s favorite business partner.” Jones flashes a mouth full of tacky veneers.
“Remains up for debate,” Titus deadpans.
“I hear you hold the humanity of our man Titus, here,” he grabs Titus by the shoulders, shaking him a little.
Titus clearly does not like that.
“Wha- what do you mean?” you ask, your gaze flickering between them.
“Enough-” Titus starts.
“Apparently,” Jones continues, “Titus has been making all kinds of changes with his new seat. And people seem to credit all of it to his marriage to you.”
In an instant, his smile is no longer joyful. Jones drags his gaze down your body, sizing you up, deciding what to make of you.
Titus’s jaw clenches. He opens his mouth to say something, but stops when you drape your arms over his shoulder. He brings a hand to your waist as you press your body to his side.
“Well, if you know anything about my husband,” you say, “you know that he doesn’t do anything on anyone’s behalf. Afterall-”
You look Titus dead in the eye, your noses almost touching.
“He’s not a man that can be controlled.”
Titus’s jaw works again, eyes refusing to lift from yours.
“Right,” Jones nods. “Of course.”
“Go away, Jones,” Titus grits, still not looking away from you.
Jones lingers for a moment longer.
“Now,” Titus raises his eyebrows and flicks his wrist in annoyance.
As soon as Jones is gone, you remove your hands from Titus. But he keeps his grip securely around your waist.
“I thought I told you to stay upstairs,” he mutters.
“You didn’t, darling,” you smile.
“It should go without saying at this point.”
A hand firmly at the small of your back, he leads you back to the elevator. You grumble under your breath the entire way.
“What was that about, anyway?” You ask as soon as the elevator doors close.
“Don’t speak to me right now,” he says without looking at you, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose.
“It’s a long ride to the top,” you say, “plenty of time.”
“Do you ever stop talking?” Titus snaps.
You narrow your eyes at him. “No.”
Titus moves quickly. His hand wrapped around your jaw, not hard but forceful, pushing you against the shiny, opulent wall of the elevator. Your eyes widen.
“I have been very patient with you,” he spits. “Any other slut would have been bent over my knee a hundred times already. And still, you push me.”
“Titus,” your voice is thin. It’s the only word you can get out.
He’s completely pressed against you, and you feel every muscle and hard outline of his body.
“You think you’re better than me, don’t you? Higher, holier, cleaner” he continues, “but I’ve seen what those pretty hands are capable of. The violence, the destruction. You were one of us before I put the ring on your finger. Before our blood mingled on the page.”
You want to argue, but Titus is right. Whether or not it was self defense, you still did those things. You still hurt people. And lived to not regret it at all.
“You want me to tell you that I want you? Huh?” Titus’s pupils are completely blown, voice harried. “You want me to tell you that when I fucked that girl, I pretended she was you? What difference would it make?”
“Titus,” you croak again. You bring your hands up around his biceps. The action is small, but it does something to him. At the very least, it snaps him out of it. He presses his lips together, and with a frustrated growl, Titus releases you from his grip.
Your breath comes back to you all at once.
“Do not mistake my restraint for anything other than that,” he spits.
The elevator dings, and the doors slide open to the penthouse. Titus storms out without another glance at you.
You’ve completely lost it. There’s no other explanation for what you are feeling. This man has chased you, threatened you, and tried to kill you- multiple times. He’s made you fear for your life.
But now, when you watch him pace the length of the patio from the other side of the sliding glass door, you twist the ring around your finger. You think about the serenity of his sleeping form. The way he protected you from his own family. The lengths he went to for the one thing in your life you held dear. Even that stupid, nearly burned grilled cheese.
Ursula was wrong when she said there was no goodness in him. She just wasn’t looking in the right places.
Titus has won. Again. It doesn't bring you any joy. But what's worse is knowing you are trapped either way. And you are so tired of fighting, of pushing, of making your life harder. Wouldn’t it just be easier to acquiesce? To give in to the part of yourself that isn’t repulsed by any of this?
And really, how bad can selling your soul really be? In the grand scheme of things?
The sun dips down below the horizon. Room service has brought up your meal, and you sit in silence with Titus.
The sound of cutlery hitting against the plates is interrupted by Titus’s deep breath. Your attention snaps to him immediately.
“I…” he starts
You look up at him from behind your glass. The sip of wine turns into a full gulp.
“I dismantled a terrorist organization in the Middle East.”
You set your glass down, nodding, trying to absorb this information.
“That’s what Jones was referring to. He had an arms deal with them that is now…void.”
Titus does not look proud or pleased. You try to catch his gaze, but he won’t look at you directly.
“Why are you telling me this?” you ask carefully.
“You asked,” he says.
After a beat of silence, you continue. “You don’t have to do anything on my behalf.”
“I don’t.” Titus finally looks at you, his words heavy. “It’s hard to invigorate economic growth when those people are being slaughtered, so.”
Titus shrugs. He isn’t eating anymore, silverware set down on his plate.
“Of course,” you nod.
You don’t know what to make of this information. Would Titus have always made that decision? Was Jones right, are you somehow swaying him? It’s something you’ll probably never know.
Titus still won’t sleep in the same room as you. Now you realize, it’s not disdain, it’s temptation. The best way for him to ensure that he keeps his hands to himself is to make sure there is a physical wall between you.
It’s late, but you can’t stop thinking. The time you spend undressing, your thoughts are with Titus. Trying to figure out how you feel, how to move forward. What the right choice is in this impossible situation. Sleep isn’t even an option right now.
You tighten the robe around your waist, wringing the straps in your hands. Your body and mind are at war with each other, fighting over control. But really, the choice is simple. Keep fighting, keep resisting, or take your place. Accept your fate. Make this system work in your favor.
And you’ve come too far to remain a prisoner.
Your knuckles hit the door lightly, almost sheepishly. It’s like you’re giving yourself an out if he doesn’t hear.
“Come in,” Titus’s voice calls from the other side.
You slip in quietly, shutting the door behind you.
Titus’s hungry eyes watch as you cross the room. He’s standing by the fireplace, stance wide, top buttons of his shirt open. The dim lighting of the room and low fire highlight his features, the ones you came to appreciate in the moonlight.
You twist the tie of your robe again, trying to steady your heartbeat.
“What is it?” TItus asks, crossing his arms.
You don’t say anything for a moment, just looking around the room. The entire Newport house, and even the lodge, have Danforth written all over them. Old, ancient money, collections that would put a museum to shame. But this is the first time you are surrounded by Titus’s things. What he holds with value.
“I thought maybe we could sleep in the same bed tonight,” you say, meandering towards his desk. Titus’s eyes track your movements, but he doesn’t stop you.
“You thought?” Titus narrows his eyes at you.
You gently push a stack of books aside, fanning them out to read the covers. Most of them are ancient-looking notebooks, or books on finance. But one catches your eye.
The Portrait of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde. The same edition as your very well-loved copy. He’s been reading it, you can see the tabs and dog ears as evidence.
“Yes,” you whisper, gaze meeting his.
When you finally approach Titus, he drops his arms to his sides. You reach for his shirt, carefully undoing the rest of the buttons. The fabric falls open, exposing the lightly freckled skin that you’ve only seen once before. Titus watches your face as your eyes drop to his chest.
You raise your hands towards him.
Titus grabs your wrists. Your breath catches in surprise, but not fear.
“Don’t toy with me.” His voice is a low warning.
“I’m not,” you reply. You are not trembling, you are not confused. There is not an ounce of mischief in your actions. Not this time.
He releases his grip, and you bring your hands to his shoulders, gently pushing his shirt down over his shoulders to the ground. You don’t hide your appraising stare. His broad chest, his strong arms. Every move is slow and deliberate. You’re taking your time, and Titus is taking you in.
"Say it," he says, still not raising his voice.
You chew on your bottom lip.
“I need to hear you say it,” his voice is still strong, but laced with less venom. Almost desperate. Almost.
"Titus," you look him in the eye, "I want you. Please.”
Titus’s eyes- though already dark- cloud over with something forceful. He clamps his hands around your waist, pulling you closer to him. His eyes move between yours and your lips, like he’s trying to make his mind up. Decide if you mean it, or if this is just a trick.
He takes you for your word.
His mouth presses against yours. Just like on your wedding night. Forceful, eager. Only this time, you kiss him back. Your mouth opens for him, taking his tongue against yours. This is the first time he’s kissed you since the wedding night. And that was completely one sided.
This time, you whimper into his mouth, and it spurs him forward.
It’s not sloppy. Titus is many things, but not sloppy. He’s eager, ready to take what he believes is his.
And as of now, you are. Completely.
He grabs at the tie of your robe, undoing it and letting the soft fabric fall, leaving you in your delicate lingerie. Your exposed skin prickles in the cold air. It’s not the first time Titus has seen you like this. But it’s the first time he’s been able to drink you in, knowing that it’s all for him.
“On your knees,” his voice is gruff, catching his breath.
The command runs through you.
You lower yourself to the floor, looking up at him through your lashes. Titus’s breath comes out heavy as he loosens the buttons at his waist. His eyes don’t leave yours as he pushes the waistbands down, discarding both his pants and underwear at the same time.
Your eyes widen slightly at the sight of him, hard and ready. You think back to when you saw him fucking the escort. That was different. Now, you’re seeing him fully, right in front of you. Embarrassingly, your mouth waters a little.
When you think he’s going to come closer, Titus actually steps away from you. He looks smug as he settles back into an arm chair by the fireplace.
He watches you, a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.
“Come here,” he waves.
Heat rises in your cheeks. You know what he wants. After a deep breath, you move to your hands and knees, and slowly crawl to him. He watches you cross the room, hungry and waiting. You push your face against his knee, resting your head on his leg.
“Good girl,” he smiles. The praise courses through you. You should be embarrassed. This should be upsetting to you. But for some reason, your panties are completely soaked.
Titus looks down. “You know what to do.”
You swallow once, bracing yourself. When you reach for him, and wrap your fingers around his length, Titus’s inhale sharpens. His smile falls fast. It makes you remember that he had been waiting for this, too. Even if he wasn’t completely without sex in the meantime.
With your mouth wide, you look up at Titus and drag your tongue up his length, gathering the salty precum at the tip, watching for his reaction.
Titus’s mouth opens slightly, feeling your tongue against him. He reaches one hand behind your head, threading his fingers through your hair, and holds you steady.
“Come on,” he says, “take it.”
You open your mouth as wide as you can, and he pushes your head down. One of your hands rests on his thigh, and when you take him as far back as your throat will allow, you squeeze gently. It’s involuntary, like a muscle reaction.
And he stops.
Titus’s eyes close for a moment, feeling your wet mouth tight around him. “That’s it,” he groans.
You gag slightly, and after a moment, Titus lets you up for air. Saliva drips from your lips onto his lap. He lets you take a moment before pushing your mouth back around him.
It’s equal parts strength and trust. Titus pushes you down further and further each time, only stopping when your fingers curl gently at his thigh.
Eventually, Titus releases his grip, giving you autonomy. You don’t relent, bobbing your head up and down, hand stroking the length your mouth doesn’t reach. Titus’s fingers grip the arm of the chair, growing more and more restless the longer you work him.
“Enough,” he says. His voice is strong, but he’s slightly breathless. You try not to get too smug, knowing that you can elicit this reaction from him.
“Enough?” you ask, resting your cheek on his thigh again.
He motions for you to stand, and you slowly rise to your feet.
He rises along with you, capturing your mouth with his again. His hands grasp as much of you as possible. It’s a frenzied kind of contact. After months of depriving him, Titus finally has you. And he can’t stop touching you.
“You drive me fucking crazy, you know that?” he mutters into your mouth.
You reach behind you for the clasps at your bra.
“No,” he grips your arms and pulls away, “I want to do it.”
“Okay,” you roll your eyes, just a little, and drop your hands, letting Titus reach behind you.
His eyes don’t move from yours until the fabric falls away, exposing more of you. He takes you in, and can’t help himself from reaching up and palming your breast, catching a hard nipple between his thumb and forefinger.
You hiss, the sensation shooting through you.
“Sensitive?” he asks, dipping his mouth down to your chest.
You gasp and thread your fingers in his hair, holding him close. Titus holds you, hands splayed out on your waist and ass.
“Please,” you whimper, running your hands down his arms.
“Please what?” he mutters, standing over you again.
“Please,” you breathe, “I need you inside me.”
Titus smiles, the tone of your voice clearly exciting him.
He kisses you, pushing you towards the bed. When the backs of your legs hit the mattress, you collapse onto your back.
“Let me see her,” he mutters, pushing your legs open. He presses his mouth to your panties, dragging his tongue over the wet spot that’s formed.
“Don’t make it weird,” you writhe under him.
“What’s the matter?” Titus looks at you from between your thighs. “Embarassed?”
“No,” bite back, but you feel heat rush your cheeks.
Titus pulls at the straps of your underwear, tugging the fabric down your legs.
He starts on your thighs, biting down on your skin, soothing the marks with his tongue. He pushes your legs up, knees towards your stomach to get a better angle. You are completely open and exposed to him, everything on display.
“Fuck,” he hisses, licking his lips before kissing the skin just around your cunt.
“Titus,” you whine.
“Look at how wet you are,” he mutters against you. “Who is all this for?”
You whimper, desire clouding your thought processing power. His tongue slides quickly over your folds, just tasting you for now.
“Say it,” he grunts.
“For you,” you gasp, back arching off the mattress. “It’s for you, Titus.”
“That’s right,” he growls. Two fingers slide over your pussy, teasing, before slipping in easily. “Mine.”
Your jaw drops at the sudden thrust.
“Oh shit,” you hiss.
“I can’t believe this is what you’ve been hiding,” TItus says, slipping a third finger into you.
You can’t think of anything remotely intelligent to say. The combination of Titus’s mouth on your clit, drinking you in, and his fingers sliding in and out, brings you to the edge faster than you wanted. It has been months, after all.
“Titus, I’m so close,” you bring your hand down into his hair, pushing your hips closer to his mouth, chasing the release.
“No,” he pulls away. “Not yet.”
You let out a frustrated groan. “What the fuck?”
“The only way you get to come,” he stands upright, looking down at your desperate form, “is wrapped around my cock.”
You stare daggers, but open your legs for him anyway, as he slowly fists himself, moving closer.
Titus bends over you, a glint in his eye. He presses a firm kiss to your lips again, tongue sliding against yours. He swallows your gasp when you feel his tip graze over your pussy, teasing you.
“Titus,” you moan.
“What, darling?” he drops his mouth to your jaw, trailing wet kisses to your neck.
You buck your hips slightly, seeking out any kind of friction you can get.
“Words,” Titus growls, nose brushing yours. “Tell me what you want.”
You kiss him, taking his bottom lip in your teeth as you pull away. “Enough with the teasing. Fuck. Me,” your eyes narrow.
“That’s more like it,” Titus smiles.
“I told you,” he says, lining himself up with your entrance, “when I take you, you would beg for it.”
Any smart quips die in your throat when he suddenly thrusts inside of you. You take him all the way in all at once, pushing you to your limit.
“Fuck,” Titus grunts. “Look at that. You take me so well.”
“Titus,” you breathe, voice wavering. “It’s too much. I can’t.”
“Yes, you can,” he says, holding your legs up over his shoulders. “You’re going to be a good girl and take it.”
He starts moving, and your vision immediately starts fading at the edges. You’re completely overwhelmed, voice already ragged.
“You feel so good,” Titus says, pressing his face to your leg. He kisses your calf as he slowly pulls out before pushing all the way back in.
Titus watches your face, watches for the moment that your whines change from pain to pleasure. Only then does he start to pick up the pace.
“Talk to me, darling,” he pants. “I want to hear you.”
“You’re splitting me apart,” you moan.
“You want me to stop?” his mouth curls up into a sly grin.
“No.” The word slips out quickly. Too quickly.
Titus presses a smug smile to your leg.
“Don’t,” you snap, but the word is not as threatening as you want it to be.
Titus moves his hand down between your legs, pressing gentle circles over your sensitive clit.
Your hands find purchase on the sheets, gripping them so tightly you almost cramp. It’s impossible to keep your body still, arching and writhing under him.
The climax you were so cruelly denied just moments ago builds back up in your belly.
“Please,” you look up at Titus. This is as close as you will let yourself get to literally begging him.
“How could I deny that face,” Titus smiles down at you. The mischievous glint is gone, his eyes only focused on your and your breath.
Broken, desperate sounds claw their way from your throat as you finally feel the euphoric release you were chasing. The orgasm washes over your entire body, all the way down to your toes.
Titus feels it, too. His jaw goes slack and his hips stutter, feeling your walls squeeze around him.
“Fuck, sweetheart,” he moans, fucking you through it.
“You need- ugh- Titus please,” you press your hands on his hips, completely over-stimulated and overwhelmed.
He pulls out of you, but not without a sly grin plastered over his face.
“Too much for you?” Titus bends over you and kisses your neck.
“Don’t,” you groan. But your legs wrap around his hips, holding him close.
“I think I’ll say whatever I please,” he kisses you hungrily. “After all this time, I’m going to enjoy this.”
You drag your nails down his freckled back, pulling small noises from Titus.
“We need to set some rules,” you whisper into his ear.
Titus pulls away, propping himself up over you.
“Excuse me?” He raises an eyebrow.
You grip Titus’s shoulders and push him, rolling the both of you over until you’re straddling him. Based on his expression, Titus is surprised, but not upset.
With the new position, and your senses finally coming back to you, you smile down to Titus.
“I want to sit in on council meetings,” you say, rubbing your cunt over Titus’s dick.
“That’s not-”
“I will.” You cut him off, leaving no room for an argument. “You don’t have to include me in every discussion, but I will be there.”
Titus rests his hands on your hips, helping you hold yourself up on shaky legs.
With Titus’s dick in your grip, you try to sink down on him, only able to take a few inches at first.
“That’s it,” Titus mutters, squeezing your leg reassuringly.
Unable to control your whimpers, you lower yourself further and further.
With one final push, you arch your back over Titus, taking him all inside of you. He brings a hand up to your breast bone, dragging all the way down your stomach before gripping your hips.
You move above him, slowly and intentionally. The fervor of moments ago has melted into something almost religious. Two bodies becoming one, meeting each other where they are.
“I will not be your pet.”
Titus just moans, looking up at you with those pathetic eyes. For a split second, you see his bravado drop. He looks completely at your mercy as you ride him. Your hips move back and forth, grinding against him.
“I will not be your trophy. I will not be your silent arm candy. I am your wife, and you will treat me as such.” You lean forward, gripping his shoulders for stability.
“Yes,” is all Titus manages. His voice is beginning to thin, the same pleasure in you finding its hold on him.
“And in return,” you bite your lip, letting yourself feel this without shame or embarrassment. “I will truly be your partner. Completely. Body and mind.”
Titus’s eyes flash dark, the aggression taking hold again. “Yes.”
He looks up at you, licking his lips, moving his hands to grip your ass. His hips buck upwards, picking up your slow, deliberate pace. It catches you off guard, your grip tightening on his shoulders and leaving small half moons under your nails.
You lean forward over him even more, allowing him to control the pace. You are almost completely overwhelmed by pleasure, feeling him hit that spot deep inside you that makes you squirm.
“Titus,” you moan right into his ear. “I’m gonna come again.”
Titus brings a heavy hand down onto your ass, pulling a yelp from you.
“Yeah?” Titus grunts. “Greedy, greedy girl. Gonna come on my cock again?”
“Mhmm,” you nod your head, eyes closed.
“Go ahead,” Titus brings his hand down again, squeezing your ass roughly. “I’m going to fill that greedy cunt. Claim you once and for all as mine. Forever.”
When you fully collapse on top of him, face buried in the crook of his neck, Titus presses a kiss to your shoulder before sucking a bruise to your skin. The feeling of his teeth grazing you, leaving little marks, pushes you over the edge.
You come again, hard, with his name on your lips.
The second you clench around him, crying out for him, Titus loses himself inside you. He buries himself deep, not letting up until he’s sure he’s completely spent.
Your body is almost completely useless, just dead weight on top of Titus. He presses another kiss to your shoulder before carefully rolling you off him, pulling out of you slowly.
You lay on your back, trying to regain control of your breath, watching Titus sit up against the headboard. You reach your hand out, gently dragging your fingertips against his leg. He takes your hand in his, interlocking your fingers and pressing a kiss to your knuckles.
“Is this what love is supposed to feel like?” he asks.
The question catches you completely off guard. You blink, trying to understand.
“This is the closest we are going to get,” you say, curling your body around him.
“I love you,” Titus says, pressing a kiss to your lips.
Something foreign blooms inside of you. It can’t be love. You have felt love before. For your mother, your friends, and your ex-fiance- before he tried to kill you, obviously.
This thing with Titus is different. Everything that has led up to this moment compiles together into something like attachment. Your souls are linked forever. When you look at him, you just feel like he’s a part of you.
The woman you were a few months ago is no more. She’s had to adapt to her surroundings.
“I-” you start, resting your head on his shoulder. “I love you, too.”
Now :( I'm :( thinking :( of :( soft :( dad :( Titus :(((
➻ pairing: Titus Danforth x wife!Reader
➻ summary: no one expected Titus to be such a good dad- his wasn’t the greatest and the man hardly smiles or talks. But looks were definitely deceiving.
➻ warnings: 18+ MDNI, pregnancy, giving birth, mentions of child abuse, traumatic birth, c-section, p in v sex, breeding kink, pregnancy kink
➻ author’s note: yall have no idea how much i love the idea of Titus being just a good fucking dad. “He’s the greatest guy around!” “What about the murders?” “WHAT MURDERS?!”
Titus Danforth who married you because his father forced him to- needed good breeding stock for an heir to the Danforth family. You were quiet, meaning you didn’t argue or question them pretty, meaning your children would look pleasing to the eye smart, meaning your kids would at least have good foundation in that as well and came from a good family.
Titus Danforth who got you pregnant with ease- near smirking to himself when you said you felt sick and that you were late only a few months after getting married.
Titus Danforth who didn’t speak much but would press against the softness of your belly with a warm, heavy hand while you slept- thumb stroking along the small swell that barely started to make it’s appearance known to the world. Who would imagine how much better a father he’d be to his children- not as harsh as his father who would beat the words from his mouth when he refused to speak. Who did the same to his mother- and she inevitably disappeared.
Titus Danforth who never let you lift a fucking finger- catering to your every need while you were pregnant and even after the fact. Whatever insane craving you had, no matter the time- was made for you. 3 am concoctions of sweets and meat and something green or something spicy- he fucking spoon fed you while in bed, hand on your belly and a soft smile on your face. He helped you in the lavish tub where he washed your hair and massaged your feet or shoulders- kissing you as often as he could.
Titus Danforth who was so fucking proud when you both heard three little heart beats when your very expensive and private family doctor came for your check up- watching the smallest little blips on the monitor move when you laughed so hard you fucking cried. Who has started sleeping on your chest or near your stomach- arm protectively around you to keep you safe and near him.
Titus Danforth who has never felt fear. Who has never truly been afraid. Until you feel pains in the middle of the night- 27 weeks and way too early. Waking up covered in blood- shaking and scared but Titus remains stoic, every doctor available to you is flown in immediately. Who swallows hard and smiles at you- pressing his forehead against yours to calm your breathing and let you know that it’ll be okay. It has to be.
Titus Danforth who almost breaks the surgeon’s neck when he tells him that he may have to either choose between you or his children- or he may have to consider leaving a child or two up to fate. Who had his hands wrapped around the man’s throat so tight that he blacked out after hearing the words- “either they all make it- or you take their place” harshly rasped in his ear.
Titus Danforth who holds your hand- makes sure you’re safe the entire time they operate on you to deliver your babies. Head pressed against yours and sighing softly in relief every time there’s a weak cry echoing throughout the operating room- three babies, thirty toes, thirty fingers, soft wisps of barely there ginger hair on three heads. Two girls, one boy.
Titus Danforth whose arms are big enough to carry all three of his children- the best pediatricians in the world coming around the clock to check on their progress while you rest in bed. Who brings your babies into bed with you both once they’re strong enough to be free from their medical confines. Who is fucking enamored with his children. Who can spend hours looking at them and find something new to love.
Titus Danforth whose children have his hair and the tiniest indent of a dimple. But your daughters? The twins have your eyes, soft and beautiful and the color of his dreams. His son may be the spitting image of his father but he has your smile- gentle and kind and reminds Titus of a summer breeze. Who all have his freckles and you spend your nights feeding them and counting the little constellations across their noses.
Titus Danforth who thanks you for his children- who never stops fucking thanking you. Who buys you an island and names it after you as a gift for his children. Who kisses your c-section scar- you can count on it being touched or kissed at least once anytime you both are fucking. Who runs his fingers over your scar, stretch marks, softer parts of your body and feels his cock grow because he thinks about more kids.
Titus Danforth who doesn’t push his son the way his father pushed him- who never hurts his children purposely to set a point. Who brings his gaggle of identical children wherever he goes- walking the estate and showing them the exotic animals on the land. Who hasn’t learned to say ‘no’ and probably never will- because they have your eyes and smile and he’s reminded why he loves you every time.
Titus Danforth who doesn’t have favorites. All three of his children get the same amount of love and attention from him. His older twin daughter takes after he aunt and has an affinity with hunting- the best eye out of the bunch and can take down a man twice her size with ease. His younger twin daughter has a way either people- disarming smile and gentle disposition where she can put people at ease- charming them before having her siblings take over. His youngest, his only son, reminds him of you- softer and a little quieter but spends his time reading books as much as he reads people, can pick the weaknesses out of others quick enough before sending in his sisters.
Titus Danforth who will follow his children around- scary blacked out figure that watches over his children while they shop or walk around the cities you visit. Who carries your bags when you shop and will do the same for your kids. Who doesn’t come home after a long trip away on family business without a gift for all four of you. A new crossbow for your oldest, your middle child got the computer she’s been wanting, and your youngest got a book of mythology that he’s been interested in lately.
Titus Danforth who hates uneven numbers. And figured one more baby wouldn’t hurt- right? Rasped in your ear about how fucking good you looked when you were heavy with his babies- how he’ll fill you up so good just- “one more my love? you’ll look so pretty with another child of ours.”
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