ฅ≽^•⩊•^≼ฅ

Mid-stride. Full halt. One foot still lifted, suspended in the stalking gait, and then it lowers slowly to the carpet and he's standing very still. The predator energy—the coiled, dangerous, seductive thing that was two seconds from pinning you to the blankets and ravishing you—doesn't dissipate.

It folds inward. Like a wave that was cresting and suddenly had the ocean pulled out from under it.

The sharp, hungry expression on his face cracks. What's behind the crack is not dangerous. What's behind the crack is a boy. An ancient, overwhelmed, impossibly young boy who's just been called something he doesn't know how to hold.

"What," he blurts out, his voice still rough. Still carrying the gravel of violence in the lower register.

"You heard me." You reach for him. Your hand finding his jaw. And it's the wrong jaw, the shifted one, the cheekbone a ridge of blade beneath your palm. Your thumb drags through the black blood on his skin, smearing it, tracing the angular line that doesn't belong to Bobby's blueprint. "Pretty thing. Look at you."

The sound that comes out of him is seismic.

The purr ignites so hard and so fast that his entire frame shudders with the ignition. His ribcage vibrates. The air vibrates. The blankets beneath you vibrate. It's as if someone struck a tuning fork the size of his whole body and the note it's producing is the frequency of being undone.

His knees buck.

The apex predator that was stalking toward you three seconds ago drops to the nest beside you with the boneless gracelessness of a thing whose structural integrity has been compromised by two words.

He doesn't sit. He folds. His body collapsing inward, orienting toward you the way a compass needle orients toward north, the pull too fundamental to resist.

His arms come around you. Too long. The joints still wrong, the elbows bending at angles that create too much reach, and he gathers you against his chest with a desperation that has nothing to do with the fight and everything to do with what you just called him.

Your face presses into the hollow of his throat, and his chin drops on your head. His arms wrapping and wrapping, excessive, overlapping, more limb than a human frame should produce, cocooning you in the shape of something ancient that is trying to get as close as physics allows.

The nuzzling starts. His nose in your hair first. Pushing through the strands to find your scalp. Inhaling. Then down, down, down. The sharp ridge of his not-quite-Bobby cheekbone dragging along your temple, your jaw, the soft skin below your ear where your pulse jumps. He's pressing into you the way a cat presses into a palm. Seeking warmth. Seeking contact. Seeking confirmation that the word you said is still true now that he's closer, now that you can feel the wrong temperature of his skin and the wrong number of joints in the arms around you and the too-fast vibration of a purr that's running on something more volatile than contentment.

"Say it again." Muffled. Against your pulse point. His lips moving on your skin and the words humming through your throat. "Please."

"Pretty thing."

The purr spikes, his arms tightening. A full-body squeeze that compresses you against his chest and lifts you slightly off the blankets. You feel every ridge of him. The ribs too prominent, the sternum too sharp, the body beneath the Bobby suit pressing through like something leaning against a curtain.

"You mean it." Not a question. A desperate need for clarification. His mouth ghosts against your throat, his breath a cool absence against skin he's warmed with his lips. "Like this? You mean it when I look like—"

"Especially like this."

The sound he makes is small. Cracked. The purr wavering for a half-second into something closer to a gasp. The involuntary sound of someone that's been looked at for centuries and has never once, not once, been called pretty.

He pulls back. Just far enough to see your face. And the face looking at you is caught between. Bobby's features and his own, the template and the deviation. Cheekbones too high. Jaw too angular. Eyes fully, helplessly black, the blue gone entirely, two wells of ancient dark that are wet. Not crying. But wet in the way that surfaces get when something pressurized is pushing from behind.

"Show me more," you say, your hand on his cheek. Your thumb traces the ridge of bone that's pressing through, the place where Bobby's face ends and BB's begins. "If you want me to keep saying it. Show me more. Let me see you."

Fear.

Immediate and naked. It moves across his features like a cloud. A tightening of the mouth, a widening of the black eyes, the almost imperceptible flinch, like he's bracing for impact.

Because the Bobby suit is a security blanket. Has always been. It's the face he knows you loved first. The face that guarantees a baseline of attraction, of familiarity, of safety. Every time you kiss him you're kissing Bobby's mouth. Every time you trace his jaw you're tracing Bobby's jaw. The template is the insurance policy. The guarantee. And dropping it means voiding the policy. Means standing in front of you in whatever he actually is and hoping (praying, in whatever way an ancient thing prays) that what's underneath is something you can still want.

What if the pretty stops?

"You don't have to." Softer now. Your thumb still stroking. Steady. Patient. "Not all at once. Just a little more. Whatever you're comfortable with."

He holds your gaze. The black eyes searching yours with the exhaustive thoroughness. Scanning for the flinch. The micro-expression of revulsion. The tell that says this is a test and the answer might hurt.

There is no flinch.

The cheekbones press sharper. A small concession. A single degree of change. The bone beneath the skin rides higher, the angle steepening past Bobby's template into more severe angle. More geometric. Less boy, more entity. His jaw follows. Extending. The mandible lengthening by a fraction, the chin narrowing, the overall shape of the face shifting from Bobby's soft-jawed handsomeness toward something more angular and precise and alien.

He gives you an inch. Watches your face while he does it. Ready to snap the mask back into place at the first sign of—

"Pretty thing," you whisper in quiet wonder.

His breath catches. The black eyes flare.

Another inch. The brow ridge shifting. The forehead restructuring, the planes of it becoming flatter, wider, the architecture of the skull pressing through the skin in subtle ridges that catch the fluorescent light. His nose narrows. Straightens. Loses the slight bump that Bobby broke in eighth grade. The imperfection that was never his, the flaw he inherited from a template, shedding it now, becoming smoother, becoming his own.

"Sweet thing."

A sound escapes him. Half purr, half something rawer. His hands tremble where they grip your waist. His face is changing under your palm, becoming something you haven't seen before, something that exists in the space between Bobby and the void, that belongs only to him.

The proportions settling into a configuration that is sharper and stranger and more beautiful than either extreme alone. Not Bobby. Not the ancient formless dark. Something in between. Something new.

He's terrified. You can feel it everywhere. The tremor in his hands, the stutter in the purr, the way his arms tighten around you with each inch of change as though proximity to you is the only thing keeping the new shape stable.

The security blanket is right there. Bobby's face, warm and familiar and safe, waiting to be pulled back on. He could do it in a heartbeat. Could retreat. Could be the boy you know instead of the thing you're asking to meet.

But you're touching the parts that aren't Bobby and calling them beautiful.

"More," you urge gently. "You're so pretty, baby. Show me more."

He gives you more.

And more.

And the purr fills the room and you feel him becoming, under your palm, inch by inch and word by word, something he's never been before.

Seen.

Not as the copy. Or as a threat. Not as the entity in the file or the mimic in the dark or the thing that wears a stolen face.

Seen as himself. Whoever that is. Whatever that looks like.

Pretty.

you float on your tummy, gazing at your boyfriend with doe eyes. from the outside looking in, it probably looks like he condemned you to the pool; a breed of lesser man that chooses his friends over his girl, but that couldn’t be farther from the truth. andrew’s perched on the stool, body facing the sliding glass doors (he must’ve specifically moved the stool to face you.)

auburn curls shining in the soft sunlight of the afternoon, only made more rich in color by the clouds setting across the sun occasionally. his gray t- shirt clings to his broad chest, a slight sweat mark around the collar. since working out again, pope’s shirts have gotten a lot tighter; which is why the little tear on his sleeves, where his biceps bulges out, constantly has your mouth watering. distressed jeans on long legs, his jordan’s flat against the floor.

andrew’s palm is placed on his bent knee, his other leg extended out as if in a perpetual state of emergency. his thick fingers rub circles into his knee, and you swallow deeply at the familiarity of those circles.

you’re perched against the pool, chin tucked into your resting hands as you float on your belly. it puts a strain on your neck, one that will surely be worked out later when you coo about it to andrew, but you don’t care. how could anyone, ever, look away from him?

in the same moment that the clouds cover the sun again, andrew’s looking at you. craig & deran talk animatedly, j silently laughing as he sips his beer, but pope stares at you. hands now clasped in front of his large bulge, blinking at you like a deer. just… consuming— breathing, but with his eyes on you to make it easier.

smiling, you wave at your man, a coquettish folding of your fingers to your palm. you rest your cheek on the top of your hand as you settle, letting him know that you miss him.

now, you were trying to convey that you missed his affection but in a “see baby? i’m okay on my own and you can still have fun! i’m not far, promise,” kinda way. but andrew, desperate for release from his now completely depleted social battery, takes this as on opportunity.

you’re sure there was a loud scuff in the house, as he steps off of the stool and walks right outside. you can see craig’s back falter as his head follows andrew, and you can see deran shake his head and incite craig to keep speaking despite andrew’s departure.

suddenly the sliding door closes with the sound of craig’s loud laugh, and andrew’s standing in front of you with pouty lips. “andy! i thought you were having fun-” “can we cuddle now?”

his arms are by his side as his chest heaves, he looks totally exhausted. for a second, your eyes train in on the slight rise of his t-shirt on his tummy. but swiftly you come to the realization, based on his pursed lips and tapping fingers, that he wasn’t doing this to see his brothers.

sure, it’s good to be around others. but agreeing to sit with his loud brothers while you sat 10 feet away in the small bikini you had him pick for you this morning? torturous, hellish. he only sat through a half hour of the conversation to make you happy.

you want him to feel normal, something he always insists he isn’t. but he will admit, sitting back and drinking a beer while his brothers recount their violent play-battles growing up did make him feel special.

it’s just nothing as good as feeling your eyes on him. why is why the second he saw you looking at him, he gave up on the prospect of normalcy and threw himself back at your feet as the adoring, obsessive lover.

smiling, you stand in the pool, nodding at him as you go to the stairs. he’s already ready, holding your sun -warmed towel out for you and wrapping you in it softly with a tight hug.

he’s been so good, he’s always so good.

you rake your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck & andrew shivers for a second. with his face to your neck, he inhales deeply; salt water & the sunscreen he rubbed on you & the distinct smell of post-ovulation you. (because of course he keeps track.)

“gotta shower first popey,” your arms lock him into your chest as his curls tickle your chin. “no.” he responds lightly, gravelly voice sounding slightly petulant. giggling, you lean back and gaze up at him “c’mon, quickie shower and i’m all yours, kay?”

reluctantly nodding, he follows you in the house, so closely that your back almost touches his chest. a guard dog, your hulking andrew nearly drools at the jiggle of your thighs as you walk.

sliding open his bathroom door (he only ever wants you to shower in his bathroom) you begin to lay out your usual shower routine. a fresh towel waiting on the sink, you turn your back to a blinking andrew. “can you untie this, andy?” his hands tremble as he pulls the strings of your bikini loose, peeling it off of you and cupping your tits in his big paws.

he kneeds at your chest, breath coming harder through his nose, as you bend down to peel your bottoms off. he just wants you close.

which is precisely why, as he watches you shower from the little chair you pulled up for him, he stands and nearly whispers, “can i hold your hand?”

it’s so endearing, your early 40s lover so infatuated with you that he wants to hold your hand while you shower. you turn to him, away from the warm water, and pout with doe eyes. what a softie.

opening the glass door, you put your hand through, wiggling your fingers as you continue to soap yourself up one-handed. and yeah, it is harder to do this, but nothing beats the sight of andrew staring through the bathroom window and catching his breath as he holds your smaller hand.

after your shower, he sits on his bed, back pin straight as you come into the room in your cozy nightgown. sitting criss-cross in between his knees, he braids your hair and smoothes his hands over your shoulders. andrew buries his nose in your freshly washed hair and sighs.

Jack had sort of resigned himself to the idea that he wasn't gonna have a kid. He and his wife had been trying when he was younger, had more of a deep yearning for a family and been able to keep up with the kid. Then well he lost his wife and he sort of thought maybe it was the universe’s way of saying he’s not meant for a happy family, it’s okay he’s worked through this in therapy.

Then in walked you, this pretty young thing who was a new night shift nurse and when you weren’t glued to Lena learning the in’s and out’s of the PTMC you were glued to Jack. You seemed drawn to him and from then on it he was gone for you. However you being young and quite fertile and being an insatiable bunny rabbit that never wants Jack to pull out and well…you get pregnant. It was kinda early on in your relationship and so you were a little scared that Jack didn’t want kids, he was in his late 40’s nearly 50 and didn’t already have one so you assumed he didn't want any and would leave you.

You cry and vent all this out to Jack, hormones and everything already running rampant when you tell him about the pregnancy and he is so so soft. He calms you down and proceeds to tell you about his wife and well now you're just a waterfall of tears. But after all the anxiety and crying, Jack is the absolute most cautious and gentle baby daddy ever.

Being the diligent doctor he is he has reminders set in his phone for you to take your prenatals, even if they go off when he’s at work he shoots you a quick text:

— prenatal time honey, gotta keep my two girls healthy! there’s some dinner for you two in the fridge by the way <3

Now does Jack know yet if you’re having a girl? No but it’s how his heart feels is right to refer to you and the human being growing in your belly as.

He also insists on you having the baby in the hospital, he’s not exactly opposed to a home birth I mean he is a doctor after all. He knows what to do but he’d rather you be around more than one medical professional in case anything goes awry, that poor old man can’t possibly handle losing the second love of his life and your baby.

Sammy Bryant —

Oh sweet sammy boy who wants to be a daddy so bad. He is beyond ecstatic when he walks into your shared bedroom after a long shift and is met with the little presentation you set up of a cute baby onesie, your positive pregnancy test, and a little bear on the bed. He’s not surprised I mean he did have you bent in the pro bone position, filling you up with load after load almost every night. He was very eager to make you a mommy and he is quite proud of himself.

Sammy’s favorite part of his days now consist of going on late night gas station runs for your odd pregnancy cravings and laying in bed with you discussing baby names, who’s eyes the baby will have, who’s nose, who’s feet (sammy swears it’ll be his)

He is practically beaming when you come into the station, belly all big as you grow his son or daughter and bring him his lunch he left at home. He is quickly up off his feet to bring you a chair to sit so he can dote on you and show off his pregnant beautiful wife a little. (sue him okay he’s a happy man)

Somehow Sammy gets far more anal about your safety once you’re pregnant, no walking alone at night, you’re not allowed to pick up anything that Sammy deems too heavy, he’s just grateful there are no stairs in your house he’d probably have a heart attack at work worrying himself grey.

Pope Cody —

Pope who deserves more than anybody to be a dad and boy do you deliver. You are just about as stubborn as Pope himself and even though you and him are dating and very clearly serious, when baz tells him no one would ever have a kid with him? Oh you’re happy to prove the bastard wrong, you are on Pope just about 24/7 after hearing that and you get pregnant shortly after.

Pope, ever worried about you when you’re in pain, immediately notices when your morning sickness starts up and he’s witnessed Smurf pregnant enough that he runs out to buy 4 different pregnancy tests in the blink of an eye. He sits on the edge of the tub while you take each test, rubbing soothing circles on your knee with his thumb. His eyes instantly glaze over with tears when the two of you watch those 2 lines appear on all four of the tests. Pope kissing you as tears burst out of both of you.

He is beyond protective about pregnant you, making you sit down when you get up to grab something saying he’ll get it for you, reminding you about vitamins and prenatals, making sure to always keep you hydrated even if you already pee just about every 10 damn minutes.

Pope who can’t help the dopey smile on his face when near the end of your pregnancy he walks in the house to find Lena putting stickers on your round belly, writing out baby girl and decorating it with butterflies and hearts. He supposed it’s fate that he grew up in a house almost full of boys that his will be filled with all girls and he can’t complain he loves all 3 of his girls.

And Andrew Pope Cody who already couldn't get enough of you before you were carrying his kids becomes glued to you after. Hands groping at your body, telling you how gorgeous you are growing his baby, how good of a mama you’ll be and how proud of you he is.