carsyn™️

You should’ve told him to give this a name back then — whatever this thing was between you — because at least then you’d have a name for the feeling searing in your chest just now, as you’re forced to watch Robby flirt with Noelle on the other side of the workstation.

You’re examining the chart glowing from the iPad in your hands, trying hard to ignore the ache in your lower back and the fact that you haven’t eaten since six that morning, when the sound of Robby’s sudden laughter graces your ears — finding you despite the buzzing chatter of the crowded E.R. 

You glance up automatically and find him leaning against the counter, with the sleeves of his undershirt pushed up to his elbows and his stethoscope looped lazily around his neck, towering several inches over Noelle.

“You’re getting less grumpy in your old age, Robinavitch,” the older woman quips beneath a quiet smile and the faint flush coating her caramel-colored cheeks. She arches a manicured brow in his direction, dark eyes glimmering beneath long lashes. “Something been improving your mood lately? Or some-one?”

Your palms go clammy around the tablet in your hand. You never wanted anyone to find out that you were dating your attending, but god, your heart stops beating just to hear your name fall from his lips.

Robby laughs instead, a sharp exhale from his nose. 

“You always think you know everything,” he says with a shake of his head, though you can still hear the smile in his voice when he tells her, “I’m not sure your new boyfriend up in ortho would like you asking about my love life, Hastings…”

“Oh, I stopped seeing him ages ago,” Noelle scoffs. “He kept calling himself an alpha male unironically, and I— couldn’t take it anymore.”

Robby physically recoils. “Jeez… And here I thought your taste in men improved after me.”

Their laughter entwines and lingers in the air for several lingering moments. It’s more familiar than flirtatious, but your stomach twists with a sick feeling anyway. Because Noelle was, to put it simply, everything you weren’t. She was effortlessly gorgeous and carried all that confidence in her matching pant suits and pulled-back curls. She was much closer to Robby’s age, too, and their lengthy history is one you know you couldn’t compete with if you tried.

You feel a little like a child as you watch them talk in hushed voices. You flare with all the embarrassment of one, too, when Robby’s eyes lock suddenly with yours.

You turn away a beat too late, just in time to catch the look that flashes suddenly across his weathered features — as if he’d somehow been caught. You pretend not to notice, or otherwise care, when he dismisses himself from Noelle and closes the distance between you. He towers over you the same way he had with her, smelling like a mixture of his cologne and your bed sheets.

“Hey…” he says, all casual, stuffing his hands into his scrub pockets and nodding to the tablet in your hands. “You get that CBC back on Central Eight?”

“Yep,” you deadpan, still without looking at him. 

He flinches slightly when you shove the chart suddenly at his chest with a less-than-gentle hand. His brows lower in confusion when you turn on your heel and walk away a second later, with considerably more ire than you had that morning. (‘Cause you’d been complaining about some mild insomnia for a while now, so Robby fucked you to sleep the night before. He figured you’d be in a better mood today accordingly. But alas.)

“So I take it you’re not helping with this endoscopy?” he calls after you, pulling his glasses from his shirt pocket for a better view of the screen in his hand.

“Nope,” you call back, already halfway down the hall — not as his resident, but as a woman halfway scorned.

Whitaker’s eyes dart back and forth like he’s watching a tennis match — between you, Robby, and the bloodied head wound he’s watching you stitch up with practiced hands. There’s a heavy tension he can feel simmering in the air, snatching all the remaining oxygen out of the room. Even from where he stands behind you, peering over Trinity’s shoulder, he feels hardly shielded from the building stress.

“Call ortho for a consult for me, will ya?” Robby asks you, or rather politely commands, without looking away from the chart in his hands.

You, similarly, don’t glance up from your sutures as you tell him, “You have a pair of free hands, don’t you, Dr. Robby?”

The man’s eyes dart to you in an instant, peering at you over the top of the glasses sitting low on his broad nose. His dark brown gaze glimmers with a mixture of amusement and shock as a faint smile flickers beneath his beard.

“Excuse me?”

“I’ll do it!” Whitaker blurts, half-strangled by the tension, as he rushes for the red phone across the room. It’s quite telling, the younger boy finds, that he’d rather suffer a call with Park the Shark than watch this lover’s quarrel unfold.

Robby squints as he takes a slow step towards you. His eyes flit from your deadpan face, to your gloved hands, to the balding head of the unconscious patient you stitch up. 

“Have you eaten today?” he wonders aloud.

“Are you gonna ask if I need a nap next to?” you scoff. “I’m not a child.”

“Well, you’re kinda acting like one,” Robby says within a breathless chuckle. “So do you wanna maybe dial the attitude back a notch?”

“Sorry, Dr. Robby,” you say flatly, tying off the final stitch with sharp, methodical movements. “I’ll remember to stroke your ego next time—  Maybe then you won’t accuse me of being a bitch.”

“I wasn’t—”

A laugh sputters suddenly from Santos’ mouth before she can help it. She hides it behind her fist when Robby glares at her and pretends to cough instead.

The tension between the two of you doesn’t snap until around the tenth hour of the shift, when you’re hiding from the chaos of the E.D. with the excuse of fetching more supplies from the walk-in closet. Robby enters like a dark cloud, mixing with your own storm, and threatening to create a most fatal concoction when he corners you against the shelf. (You hadn’t stopped moving for about four straight hours, to be fair — this was his only real chance of getting you alone.)

“What the hell is your problem today?” the older man says in lieu of a greeting.

You huff and roll your eyes, shoving at a pack of saline flushes a little harder than necessary when they threaten to fall from the shelf and on top of you. Robby watches with narrowed eyes and a pair of weathered hands splayed on his hip. 

“Did I do something to you? ‘Cause you’ve been acting crazy all day—”

You slam the cabinet door shut with a resounding clang, so hard it refuses to latch,before spinning on your heels to face the man behind you. The glare you give him almost makes him flinch before he swallows down the instinct to.

“Crazy?” you echo through a tense jaw. “You flirt with Noelle all day, right in front of me, and now you’re calling me crazy?”

Robby blinks owlishly back at you for several long moments. 

You almost think you see a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth beneath his mustache, before a chuckle sputters suddenly from his lips. You flinch at the intensity of his laughter, and at the distant mania glimmering in his dark eyes.

“Oh, my god—”

“Don’t laugh!” you exclaim, face burning under the weight of your embarrassment.

“—That’s what this is about?”

“Yes! It is. Because I thought I was enough for you.”

His weathered features soften with a heavy sigh, though traces of his amusement still remain — equal parts fond and exhausted. 

“Oh, c’mon… You know this wasn’t supposed to be anything serious,” Robby croons gently, taking slow steps towards you. “That was the agreement, right? Casual. So we could avoid all… This.”

You peer up at the man from beneath your lashes when he plants himself in front of you. You try not to melt when you catch a whiff of his dizzying cologne. “This?” you echo.

“Yeah… You know, all the… jealousy and the— arguments,” he huffs with a lazy shrug and crosses his pale arms over his chest. “I’ve been through this before, kid. Trust me. This is… This is what’s best.”

Your chest sears with a mixture of red-hot anger and ice-cold jealousy. Your jaw tightens at how detached he sounds, how rational, as if he were discussing policies instead of real actual feelings. (If he was even capable of those). You want him to feel this, too — this awful, wretched jealousy clawing at your ribs from the inside out. 

You fold your arms tightly across your chest, forcing your voice into a deadpan as hurt simmers somewhere beneath the words. “So I can see whoever I want?” you ask him.

Robby’s expression flickers slightly, almost imperceptibly. His adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he swallows, but his dark gaze never once wavers from yours. 

“Of course, you can,” he tells you, though his taut voice threatens to betray him. “We’re casual. That was the deal.”

“Okay,” you nod once and turn away from him again, giving him very little to play off of as he tries and fails to call your bluff. 

Robby’s forced to stare at the back of you while you pull a large pack of lap pads from the shelf. His brows knit in confusion when you spin back around to face him, mostly back to normal again, with a ghost of a polite smile dancing the edges of your mouth.

“Run these to Trauma 1 for me, will ya? Dr. Al-Hashimi needs ‘em for a trauma patient coming in.”

You press the package to Robby’s chest before he can answer and walk past him for the exit before he can blink.

Three days after the fact, you’re sitting in a crowded bar a block away from the PTMC, drowning your post-shift sorrows in half-priced beers. 

In those three days, you haven’t seen Robby once outside of work. There were no more stolen kisses in empty elevators, no more lingering touches in stairwells, no more “come over” texts sent in the dead of night. And Robby thought it was strange, because the two of you weren’t even fighting anymore — not technically, anyway — and yet you were more distant now than ever.

“Question,” the man murmured casually from the other side of the desk while you finished up your charting at the monitor. “Is it me you’re avoiding or just my apartment?”

“What?” you scoffed, still typing. “I’ve just been— busy, Robby.”

“Hm…” he sighed, less than convinced.

You didn’t spare him a second glance — not then and not when you took Santos’ offer of happy hour and Friday night karaoke. The girl herself returns now to the cracked pleather booth in the corner of the dingy bar, where you sit with Mel and Whitaker, after butchering another Alanis Morrissette song. 

Her chest heaves with panted breaths under her black tank top, pale skin sticky with a thin layer of alcohol-induced sweat.

“Okay, what’s with the long faces over here?” Trinity jokes as she steals a room-temperature fry off your plate, talking through the mouthful. “I know you and Robby are fighting or whatever, but I just gave the performance of a lifetime up there.”

You slurp nosily at the remnants of your fruity drink and nearly choke on it at the accusation. “What?” you cough with the thin straw still in your mouth. “We aren’t— fighting. What are you talking about?”

“Oh, please,” Trinity scoffs and reaches for her beer. “You’re both been acting like a couple of… divorced parents at soccer practice.”

“Okay, I don’t even know what that means—”

“Playing nice in front of everyone as not to evoke suspicion, which inevitably turns the obvious tension between you from angry to sexually charged,” Mel rambles matter-of-factly. Her blonde hair sways around her jaw as she nods, left slightly crimped from her undone braid.

Your eyes flit to Whitaker then, who nods much more solemnly in agreement.

Your face burns red-hot in response. “Well— we’re not even, like, together or anything, so…”

“Mhm…” Santos hums with a knowing look that makes you shift uncomfortably in the booth. She takes another quick swig from the amber bottle in her hand before her gaze zeroes in on an unfortunate Whitaker. “C’mon, Huckleberry. You’re up.”

His light eyes widen, glassy with exhaustion and alcohol alike. “I’m… Up?”

“Yeah. You’re doing karaoke with me. Let’s go,” Trinity says as she slides once more off the weathered vinyl. She frowns when she rises and finds the boy still sitting in place. “Let’s go, I said! We gotta get back in line before the spots fill up—”

Whitaker scrambles to follow the girl towards the stage despite his better judgment. You use that as an excuse to get another drink, tugging the skirt of your dress further down your thighs as you go. You weave through the crowd of strangers and coworkers alike until you reach the sticky wooden counter. 

You lean your elbows against it and flash the bartender a kinda smile. “Can I get another aperol spritz, please?”

“Put that on my tab,” a familiar voice says from beside you.

Your head whips to find Jack sitting there, one chair down and nursing a sweaty amber bottle of cheap beer in his pale hand. He looks more relaxed now than you think you’ve ever seen him — camo pants baggy around his legs, black t-shirt untucked from the belt, warm around the edges from the alcohol.

You feel very suddenly overdressed in your form-fitting velveteen number and cross your arms over your chest to hide beneath the loose cardigan you wear over top of it. “Oh, you don’t have to do that—”

“I insist,” the older man smiles. “You deserve it after that canthotomy you did today. You were a real trooper.”

The bartender slides a cocktail glass across the wooden surface over to you. The orange liquid threatens to slosh over the thin rim. You give him a polite grin in return. “Thank you,” you tell the man, then grow considerably shier when you turn back to the attending sitting a stool down from you. “Thanks, Dr. Abbot.”

“Jack,” the older man corrects before bringing the lip of his bottle back up to his mouth.

“Jack,” you echo softly.

The man shifts on the hard stool, keeping his prosthetic limb stretched slightly ahead of him beneath the bar. A not quite silence settles between you then, filled by the buzzing bar all around you. Your eyes cut to the stage on the far side of the room, where Santos belts the lyrics to “You Oughta Know” and Whitaker stumbles over himself to get the foreign words out. 

“I think Shen is looking for a karaoke partner,” you quip, nodding your head towards the doctor standing by the stage and flipping through the binder of song choices there.

The dim overhead lighting turns Jack’s silver curls a softer golden shade when he turns his head to follow your gaze. He grimaces instantly at the thought. “Yeah, absolutely not.”

“Why?” you laugh softly, with the thin straw dancing against your mouth. “You scared?”

“Yes,” the man answers without a second thought. “And I’ve been shot at before— Today, even— And somehow karaoke still feels more terrifying.”

Your eyes squint in his direction, glittering with something foreign. “That’s a little dramatic, don’t ya think?”

“Eh. Maybe a little.”

You scoff and slide into the bar stool beside him. “You don’t strike me as someone who embarrasses easily, Dr. Abbot.”

“That’s because you only know me at work,” he quips halfway into his beer, before licking the amber sheen from his mouth. “Where I am equal parts competent and mysterious.”

“Mysterious?” you repeat skeptically.

“Mm,” Jack nods with narrowed eyes and a faint smile twitching the corner of his lip. “Very tortured, you know? Very brooding.”

“Ah, yes…” you sigh with alcohol glittering on your lips like gloss. “The very brooding, tortured doctor who makes dinosaur noises to win over scared children in pedes.”

Jack pauses mid-sip, pale eyes narrowing. “Well, this is new…” he hums.

Your stomach flips at the way he’s looking at you. Heat crawls instantly up your neck. You feel very suddenly suffocated by the heavy cardigan on your shoulders. “…What is?”

“I don’t know,” he answers with a lazy shrug, though his heavy eyes dart once down your form and up again. You don’t realize, until then, that this is his first time seeing you in anything other than your dark black scrubs. “You… Flirting with me.”

You exhale a breathy laugh, if only to dispel the anxiety clawing at your chest. “Flirting? Is that what this is?” 

“Hey— You’re the one who called me mysterious.”

“Actually, I was clarifying if you thought you were mysterious.”

“Still counts.”

“Does it?” you squint.

Jack smirks behind the lip of the beer bottle against his mouth. His adam’s apple bobs with a short sip before he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “You know… For a while there, I thought you hated me… Considering you never talked to me unless you had to.”

“You work nights, Jack— I don’t talk to you because I see you for, maybe, twenty minutes out of my day,” you scoff, and don’t realize you’ve called him by his first name until his eyes glimmer with amusement. You turn away with a shake of your head as your face burns, bringing the straw back up to your mouth. “Though, I’d be lying if I said it didn’t consider it…”

“Oh, really?” Jack hums with raised brows. “What’s the verdict now, then, huh?”

You let your gaze drag over him deliberately as you ponder the question, biting at the straw between your teeth. You scan over his toned biceps, his lean stomach caged beneath his form-fitting tee, and his spread thighs that make your head spin, before meeting his eyes once more. 

“Now,” you hum sweetly, “I think I’m starting to understand the appeal…”

Jack stares at you for a long moment before he lets out a low, disbelieving laugh. The lamplight shines in his greying curls as he shakes his head. “Yeah? And how does Robby feel about that?”

Your eyes harden in an instant.

Jack raises a free hand in surrender. “Hey, I’m just sayin’— He looks like he wants to put his fist through a wall any time another attending talks to you for more than thirty seconds.”

Your chest tightens unexpectedly. You swallow hard to fight the strangling feeling — of Robby, and of his laughter in the supply closet — as you shrug a lazy shoulder in response. You don’t bother to lift your cardigan when it slips softly down your arm.

“It’s casual,” you tell him.

Jack studies you for a long moment. The corner of his mouth curls into a slow half-smile, and you feel your heart stuttering behind your ribcage. 

“Casual, huh?” he hums and brings his bottle back up to his mouth. “Interesting…”

Morning arrives slowly through the veiled curtains of the quiet bedroom, where pale golden light cuts softly over hardwood floors and rumpled sheets. You rouse gradually, cocooned beneath strangely heavy blankets that smell differently from your own back home — like unfamiliar detergent, cedarwood, and musky cologne. 

For a blissful wink of a moment, you don’t remember where you are. Not until you stretch your tired limbs and brush a scruffy leg with your foot, anyway.

Your breath catches. Your heavy eyes snap open. Your body prickles with heat as flashes from the night before return to you at once — of the walk home from the bar, of Jack’s laugh against your throat, of his stubble scraping your skin, of the teasing murmur in his velvety voice as he told you to cum for him.

Your thighs clench together at the memory, while a lingering ache pulses pleasantly low in the pit of your stomach.

You lift your head from the pillow and inhale sharply through your nose as your eyes scan the foreign bedroom, which you had been too busy to do the night before. 

There’s an expensive-looking record player in one corner, sat beside a crate of well-loved vinyls. There’s a bookshelf lining the far wall — cluttered with medical textbooks, old paperbacks, and framed photos from his military days. His camo bag, etched with his name, slouches by the entrance, and over the foot of the bed, you can see his prosthetic limb lying beside your shoes.

Other than that, it’s strikingly empty, with very little decoration on the wall or bedside tables. It makes sense, you figure, for a man who is working far more than he isn’t.

Your head turns in the opposite direction to find Jack sleeping soundly just beside you. The gentle rays of morning light brush over the canvas of his bare back, turning his freckles there a deeper shade of golden brown. He’s got one arm shoved beneath the pillow he folds into his cheek and the other lying loose across the mattress — from where your waist must’ve been before you slithered out from underneath it.

Your chest pinches at the sight of him. With pride, maybe, at having conquered him. And with a pang of white-hot guilt that twists when your mind inevitably drifts to Robby.

You slide out of bed, careful not to let the mattress give too much beneath your weight. You grimace when the fabric of your t-shirt twists uncomfortably around your form, only to find that you’re wearing Jack’s shirt, which had seemingly been given to you at some point last night. It falls over your thighs when you stand, bare feet padding as you gather your discarded clothes.

You bend down to drag your underwear back up your thighs and wince when your head throbs from last night’s cheap cocktails. With your dress and knit cardigan balled in your arm, you toe your shoes back on. Your breath hitches when the mattress shifts with a soft creak.

Jack squints when he raises his wild head. His mouth twitches when he finds you at the foot of the mattress. “Y’know…” he rasps, voice rough with sleep. “I’m at least grateful you’re not robbing me before sneaking out. That’s very courteous of you.”

“I’m not sneaking,” you scoff. “I just… didn’t want to wake you.”

The man inhales sharply as he twists onto his back, charcoal sheets tangling around his waist. You force yourself to look away from his lean stomach and the red claw marks you left on his scruffy chest when he stretches his toned arms above his head. 

“That’s sweet,” he says with a wince. “But unfortunately, I wake up if somebody breathes wrong in the next room.”

You exhale a soft laugh. 

Jack’s eyes soften around the edges at the sound of it. “You workin’  today?”

“Yep, in about…” Your eyes flit to the alarm clock on his nightstand. “Half an hour.”

“Brutal,” he scoffs.

“You’re fault.”

“Don’t say that like you didn’t have a good time,” he teases with narrowed eyes, then softens slightly when you turn away. You fumble with the stubborn back of your shoe, and his chest twists at your silence. “Do you… Do you regret it?”

“No,” you answer instantly.

“Good,” he hums, relaxing visibly once more into the sheets. “Me neither.”

Your stomach blooms with warmth. You shift awkwardly on your feet before him, even still. “So, uh… What— What now?”

“Well, feel free to use my shower, if you want—”

“I’m serious, Jack,” you insist gently, then add, more sheepishly. “But I will be using your shower, actually, thank you…”

Jack inhales deeply, considering. “Well,” he starts carefully, “I like you. Obviously.”

Your pulse rushes like a teenage girl.

“But,” he continues, as relief and disappointment tangle in your chest all at once. “I also know that neither of us is in the right spot for a relationship right now…”

“So… Casual?” you offer lightly, mouth lifted in a tired smile.

“Casual,” Jack agrees with a firm nod and glassy eyes.

You wear the night before all over, despite your desperate attempts to hide it.

Robby notices it the moment he sees you — how relaxed you are, how happy you seem to be. Whatever had been plaguing you before is now long gone, and that alone should be enough to comfort him. But still, he can’t shake the feeling that someone had gotten rid of all the aching for you — fucked it out of you the way only he could.

“You’re in a good mood today,” he observes while signing off on the chart you’d given him.

“Am I?” you hum.

“Yeah,” he nods, clicking his pen with his thumb. He glances at you over the top of his glasses before averting his gaze once more. “What’d you get up to last night, huh?”

“Nothing,” you shrug. “Other than watching Santos butcher Alanis Morrissette’s discography at karaoke… Maybe I just slept well.”

“You usually only do that at my place.”

Your brows furrow when he passes the clipboard back to you. “I’m sorry— Are you accusing me of something, Dr. Robby?”

His mouth opens to respond — to tell you that he can smell the foreign body wash on your skin, far muskier than the delicate sweet-vanilla he’s used to. But the automatic doors across the station swish open and shut before he can. 

Jack enters with his camo pack slung over his shoulder and brings a cool evening breeze in with him. Robby can’t help but notice how your eyes find each other’s almost instantly, clicking like magnets and lingering together like there’s a secret that only the two of you know about. His stomach swirls with jealousy.

“Look alive, degenerates,” Jack announces in lieu of a greeting, then quiets slightly when he reaches your side. “What’d I miss?”

“I was just briefing Robby on last night at karaoke,” you answer with a polite smile. “And how I will never be able to listen to Alanis Morissette after Santos’ crimes last night—”

“Fuuuck you,” Trinity drags out from the desk beside you, still sluggish from the long day and the hangover that won’t seem to leave her.

“Don’t drag me into this,” Jack quips. “I took an oath as a physician to do no harm.”

You exhale a quiet laugh. The man’s eyes soften around the edges, as though pleased at having earned the sound, before walking off towards the locker room. He leaves a trail of musky cedarwood as he goes, and Robby’s heart drops when he finally places the scent — the one he’s been smelling on you all day. 

The realization hit him like a truck.

His expression darkens instantly when he turns back to you.

“Supply closet,” he mutters lowly as he walks past you. “Now.”

Your stomach drops at his tone. He takes all the remaining breath from your lungs with him as he goes. Your chest stings accordingly — with a surge of pride at his jealousy, and with a pang of distant regret at his hurt. You follow behind him down the long hallway to the supply closet like a scolded child. He barely waits for the door to click shut behind him before rounding on you.

“You slept with him?” he shouts, eyes wide and wild.

You cross your arms tight over your chest, with your head tilted inquisitively to your shoulder. “Aren’t you the one who said I could see whoever I want?”

“Yeah, I meant random assholes at the bar,” he snaps. “Not my best fucking friend!”

An incredulous laugh sputters from your lips. “Oh, so now we have rules? What happened to just being casual, huh? If you can flirt with your coworkers, why can’t I?”

Robby’s dark eyes narrow as he takes a slow step towards you. You catch a faint upward flicker of his mouth as he asks, “So that’s why you did it, huh? You just wanted to piss me off?”

Your anger spikes instantly. You feel it prickling red-hot beneath your scrubs. Because he’s an arrogant asshole, maybe, or maybe because a distant part of you knows that he’s right.

“No, actually,” you tell him anyway. “Because not everything’s about you, Robby. I did it because Jack wanted me. Because he didn’t treat me like I was just another one of his dirty secrets—”

“Yeah, alright,” Robby scoffs a breathy laugh and turns away, running a pale hand through his chopped brown hair.

“Because being with him made me feel good—”

“I said alright!” 

“Aw, what’s wrong, Robby?” you coo, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Does it bother you that somebody else wanted me?”

Robby exhales another one of his stupid laughs.

Your chest swells with a burning feeling that makes you feel like crying. “Why is it so hard to admit that you care about me?”

“I care about you! Of course, I fucking care about you!” he exclaims, red in the face. “Because I’ve spent months trying not to screw this up.”

“Oh, please,” you roll your eyes. “Says the man who practically shoved me into someone else’s bed.”

“Oh, don’t do that,” Robby squints.

“Do what?”

“Act like this is what I wanted—”

The words die in his throat when the silver knob to the closet door clicks suddenly behind him. The hinges open with a quiet squeak a second later. Your heads whip in sync to find Santos in the threshold, rubbing at her tired eyes as she steps into the room. She doesn’t realize the two of you are in there until the door shuts behind her again. 

Her wide eyes dart back and forth between the two of you for a moment. “…Why does it feel like I just walked into a hostage situation?” she quips in a monotone.

“Now you know how I felt last night,” you joke back weakly.

She flips you off and walks further inside. Neither of you says a word as she retrieves a case of saline flushes and four-by-fours from the shelves. The plastic crinkles loudly in the silence. 

“Please. Feel free to continue,” Santos deadpans as she leaves. “I definitely won’t be listening with my ear pressed against the door.”

The entrance shuts behind her with a dull click that sounds much louder in the quiet. You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding as Robby pinches his nose between his thumb and forefinger. When he lifts his head against, his eyes zero in on you. 

“We’ll finish this when we get home,” he tells you, firmly.

“Can’t tonight,” you shrug, lying through your teeth. “I have plans.”

“Yeah, not anymore, you don’t.”

Your stomach does a back flip at his words, at his very sudden act of dominance that makes you feel like melting into a puddle at his feet. And judging by the newfound glint in Robby’s dark eyes, he notices it, too.

You couldn’t hide from him if you tried.

Baby Daddy

“Mr Cody?” One of the young nurses approached Pope as he sat abnormally upright on the bench adjacent to the delivery room.

His brow was still sweaty and his fists tightly gripping the scrunched up tissues he had swiped to keep his hands busy whilst you went through the most life changing pain one could experience mere meters away from him in another room.

After the birth, you had been taken away, apparently for stitches. The thought alone plagued Pope’s mind and made him sick with fear that the worst outcome had occurred. It was here, almost two hours later, that Pope had remained, like a loyal doberman guarding the room his wife and baby rested in.

Immediately Pope stood up, his abruptness startling the nurse a little, but she raised her hands to reassure him as he began a slew of frantic questions.

“How is she? Is she okay? Is the baby okay? Are the stitches done? What was she needing them for? Can I see them both?”

“Mom is fine, and so is baby. Your wife experienced a second degree tear and required stitches. They’re dissolvable and will take a few weeks to heal, but otherwise both Mom and baby are fit and well.” The nurse said “Would you like to come and say hello?”

The question halted everything in Pope. To see his baby, the little life you and him made together, for 9 months shielded and nurtured within your body, now here.

“Mr Cody?” The nurse uttered gently, catching Pope as he began to drift off into his own panicked thoughts.

“M’ready” He muttered, his sweaty hands balling up into nervous fists at either side of his jeans.

The nurse then turned and opened the door before gesturing for Pope to head inside. He didn’t look at her, but he did mutter a small thanks before stepping past her and into the room.

As soon as he saw you, and the tiny blue blanket in your arms, he froze. He had dreamed of this, of a family, of you carrying and having his baby. Of being a father to a child that was going to know how loved and safe they were.

Part of his brain tried to deny this moment, that he was dreaming all of it including you. The twisted part of him that made him feel deserving of anguish was trying to deny him the reality of this beautiful sight.

But then…it all melted away when you looked up and smiled at Pope, tired and weary, yet content. You had safely given birth to your baby, and he was with you, in your arms, and now your husband was there. Your little family gathered in one tiny room at 6am.

“Hey” you whispered, unable to bring your voice higher in case you woke up the little one cradled in your arms.

Pope approached you both, slow and careful, his eyes moving from you to the baby. A hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he moved to your bed side, peering over a little to try and see inside the blankets.

“Hey…look who’s here” you whispered down into the bundle, your fingers gently reaching to peel back a portion of the fluffy blue blanket.

Pope immediately felt his heart tighten as he looked over the baby, everything was small, pink fuzzy skin that was wrinkled a little still from nine months of comfort, but perfect. The most perfect little thing he had ever seen. And he had part of it in creating such perfection.

“This is your Daddy” Pope heard you whisper to the sleeping baby, pressing your lips to his tiny forehead before looking up at Pope.

Pope wrung his hands nervously, but couldn’t help himself as he reached up and curled over more of the blanket to look at his son’s face. He felt a swell in his heart as he looked at the tiny person, safely in your arms, cushioned into your chest and surrounded by warmth and love.

“He’s…he’s perfect” Pope breathed, almost in disbelief that someone like him was able to co create something so beautiful.

You allowed Pope to well up, his spare hand coming up to wipe away his tears as his chin quivered. With your hands occupied, you resorted to nudging your head to silently tell Pope to come closer so you could kiss.

Pope reached to cup your cheek as he pressed his lips to you, pulling back to half laugh in astonishment as quietly as he could and half choke a sob. He’d never allow anyone to see him this way, only you. You were the only one who could make him feel this good, this proud, this free of any restraint or punishment for feeling anything other than the darkness his family bred him to embrace.

Pope rested his forehead against yours, blinking his tears and pecking your mouth, imploring you to feel how much he loved you, and how badly he missed not being able to help your during the delivery.

“I love you, so much” He finally breathed.

You smiled at him, and kissed him briefly before returning the sentiment.

“I love you too” You said, eyes moving from your husband and back to the baby as he wriggled a little in his sleep. “He’s gonna look like you by the way” You smiled an amused grin.

“You don’t know that” Pope smirked and shook his head as he wiped his eyes dry.

“Oh no?” You said, looking up at Pope as he perched on the bed beside you. “Look here” you said, and carefully lifted up the baby’s sleep hat.

Under the hat, atop of your son’s head, was sparse and faint little red hairs. Just like his daddy. Pope felt his heart ache in the best possible way at the sight of his son so clearly sporting something that linked to him. Pope frowned a little when he caught a glimpse of congealed blood atop of the baby’s head.

“It’s just a little blood from the afterbirth, it will come off during his first bath” You answered Pope’s silent concern.

“His skin is so…delicate” Pope said, tracing the side of his index finger against the baby’s cheek as he continued to snooze.

“You should hold him” you uttered, not caring to ask, you wanted Pope to hold your child, to feel him, to have this moment.

Pope visibly hesitated, but you rested a hand on your husband’s thigh and softly caressed him.

“You won’t hurt him Andy” You smiled softly, looking deeply into Pope’s hazel eyes to reassure him.

Pope looked from you, then to the baby, before swallowing thickly and moving to shrug off his jacket. He folded it neatly and placed it at the foot of your bed before standing stiffly beside you.

“Mind his head, and just make sure to support his neck” you softly guided Pope as he reached his strong hands down to help you transfer the baby from you and into his own arms.

The minute you let go, and Pope held the light weight of the babe fully in his strong arms, Pope fell completely in love. His instincts kicked in to keep the baby close to his chest, to cradle him securely whilst he continued to sleep. He softly rocked back and forth, bouncing at the knees just so.

“Hey lil guy” Pope whispered, his eyes roaming over his son’s sleeping features. His impossibly small nose, tiny rosy lips, cheeks round and full.

Pope continued to lazily rock the baby, and at one point turned to look at you, but paused as he saw you already resting your head into your pillow, exhaustion bearing down on you, eyes closed over.

“Baby?” Pope softly spoke, he knew you were fine, safe and all clear, but still it didnt stop his imagination from getting the best of him.

He had nightmares of losing you to childbirth, of being alone in the world with a baby, or worse…being left with nothing.

“Hmm?” You said, peeling your eyes open to look at Pope with a slight smile.

“Sorry, I just…I-“

“C’mere” you smiled and reached out, beckoning for Pope to join you, sensing his worry.

He was reluctant for a moment more, but when you waved him over, Pope couldn’t resist being glued to your side. Despite being overjoyed that you were delivering his baby, he was wracked with separation anxiety, and the impending fear of losing you. Now, being apart from you was not an option, he was with you now until the end of time.

“Shit” you winced as you scooted to the side to give Pope room on the bed.

“You okay!?” Pope panicked, his voice a harsh whisper as he looked you over.

“M’still a little…tender” you breathed through the discomfort, but patted the space you had made beside you.

“Maybe I should leave you be and-“

“Andy” you hummed, reaching up to hold your husband’s arm. “Please…sit next to me…that’s what I want the most right now.” You pleaded quietly, looking at him with glassy eyes.

Pope was a goner, he couldnt resist you, not like this. The indomitable need to protect you, to be with you, it overtook him something awful, and so he dutifully maneuvered onto the bed whilst carefully holding the baby securely in his arms.

Pope, now sat on the bed with you, and his baby boy cradled into his arms. You leaned into your husband, immediately relaxing in knowing that he was there, and if you were to drift off, both yourself and your baby would be safe under Pope’s careful watch.

“I love you” Pope whispered and leaned over to press his mouth to your hairline, tasting the faint sweat on your warm skin. He made a mental note to go to the store and stock up on cleaning products and body care for you to scrub away the hospital from you skin. He also made a note to google when you were allowed a bath with stitches so he could buy you things for a long hot soak to ease your body.

“I love you too” You sighed, eyes lingering on Popes thumb as it gently smoothed back and forth across your baby’s soft cheek.

“I don’t understand. Aren’t we going to your house?” you asked.

“Yes.”

“A house you live in with your mother?”

“Also yes.”

“Is she home?”

“Probably!”

“But I can’t meet her?”

“Fuck no!”

You stared back at your boyfriend who looked like he might throw up at any second. His fingers drummed against the steering wheel. A blaring horn behind you made you nearly jump out of your skin, and when you looked in the rearview there was a line of cars held up behind you. Right. Because Adrian had stopped in the middle of a busy road. Adrian, however, suddenly no longer seemed to be in a rush to get home.

You put your hand on his forearm. “Ade, you gotta drive.”

“Okay,” he managed, voice a ragged whisper. He pried his foot off the gas and then proceeded to drive a blazing 25mph the entire rest of the way. You waited until the Seabring was parked on a cute, tree-lined neighborhood street to speak again.

“I’m not going to lie, I’m a little offended you don’t want me to meet your mom,” you said finally. Adrian laughed, doubling over so sharply you were afraid he was going to smack his face on the steering wheel.

“She’s the one who should be offended. She’s a total fucking bitch and I don’t want you to meet her because I don’t want her to, like, get her stupidness all over you.”

“Babe…” you breathed. “Respectfully, what the fuck?”

Adrian raked his hands over his face. “You don’t get it.”

“Okay. You’re right. I don’t think I get it,” you agreed. You laid a hand on his arm. “But, clearly it’s stressing you out. So, decision made, easy peasy!”

Adrian peeked at you from behind his hands. “Yeah?”

“Yeah! Although…” you hesitated to ask because you could only imagine you weren’t going to like the answer. “How are we going to get in without your mom finding out?”

“You’re lucky I love you,” you grumbled, wiggling in his grasp. “Your hand is so far up my ass I’m starting to feel like a puppet.”

“Just let go of the window sill!” Adrian hissed. “I’ve got you, I’m not going to let you fall.”

You groaned and finally relented, knowing for a fact that Adrian did not have you. But the boy was going to have to learn his lesson the hard way, you supposed. The two of you fell into a tangled heap, your elbow landing squarely in his ribs, his knee striking against your hip in a surge of pain, your forehead colliding with his chin.

“Ow fuck – ow, ow, fucking hell, Adrian,” you grumbled, trying to gain any sort of leverage, but your hands were sinking into some sort of fabric over and over again on either side of Adrian while he tried to get his hands in between you, making sure you weren’t injured.

“Sorry! Sorry, are you okay? Are you alright? Speak so I know you’re not concussed!” Adrian said, scrambling. You rolled your eyes and batted his hand away.

“I’m fine,” you grumbled. “That is not how you check for a concussion, by the way.”

“What…what is this?” you asked. Whatever it was groaned under your weight as you struggled to your knees. “Is this a futon? Why do you have a futon in your basement?”

You climbed off of him with a bit of difficulty before you turned your attention towards the rest of the basement. “What the f – ”

Adrian clapped a hand over your mouth from behind. He was blazingly warm against your back, his other arm wrapped tightly around your waist like he was afraid you were going to run. You swayed slightly in his arms as you regained steady footing, your balance entirely thrown off by his sudden seizure of you. You nipped at his palm gently and he let you go. You turned to find his wide eyes focused on his slightly wet palm.

“Care to explain the drugs, Adrian?” you asked, this time managing to keep a lid on your volume.

He simply shrugged. “What do you mean? Where else would I put it?”

“Where did this all come from?” you asked, turning to look at it all again – pallets of drugs (was that fucking cocaine?) and what had to be millions of dollars, carefully banded and stacked in various places. You reached out to run your hand across the money but Adrian batted your hand away.

“That’s blood money, don’t touch it!”

“Where did all this come from, Adrian?”

“What, you think I’d just leave drugs and cash at crime scenes where anyone could take it? Like corrupt fucking police? Absolutely not,” he asserted, crossing his arms over his chest. “Can’t believe you think I should let the cops have all this.”

“I never said that, Adrian!” you exclaimed. “First and foremost, fuck the police – ”

“Fuck the police,” Adrian agreed with a thoughtful nod. 

“Secondly! I just can’t believe you never told me about this! I thought that we tell each other everything? I mean, you told me you were Vigilante on our first date.”

“Second date.”

“Adrian, we’ve been over this, having sex after a first date does not count as a second date.”

“Agree to disagree.” He crossed his arms over his chest and frowned. “And it’s not my fault your pussy is like my personal truth serum.”

“Adrian…”

His face contorted. “What, is that a weird thing to say?”

“It’s not really a normal thing…” 

“Whatever,” he pouted. “You don’t get it.”

“Come on, Ade, you were so excited to show me your basement. So give me the grand tour.”

“Fine,” he huffed. He crossed to a workbench and gestured at it vaguely. “These are my power tools. Over there is my wall of chemicals. Tour concluded.”

“Adrian,” you groaned.

“What?” he snipped. “You wanted the tour – there it is!”

“I cannot believe you made me shimmy through a window for that.”

“Yeah, well, sorry it’s disappointing.” It was said in a way in which you knew he was not sorry at all. He was being petulant. 

“It’s not disappointing, it's just…a lot for me to take in. I’m very interested in it!”

“Uh huh,” Adrian mumbled, mindlessly thumbing through what appeared to be a box full of pocket knives?

Well, you could be petulant too.

“Fine!” you proclaimed, hands on your hips. Adrian rolled his eyes and you bit back a grin before climbing up onto the futon. 

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going back out the window,” you explained with a nonchalant glance over your shoulder at him. He was looking up at you with those big eyes of his and you almost caved instantly. It would be so easy to climb down, wrap your arms around him, kiss the grumpiness right off of his handsome face. But you liked teasing him so much more. 

So you stretched up, desperately trying to hook your fingers into the windowsill that was just out of reach.

“You’re not going to be able to reach that,” Adrian said matter-of-factly.

“Watch me,” you countered, wedging your tongue between your teeth as you tried to will yourself taller out of pure spite. 

“Do you think you’re magically going to get taller or…?” Adrian asked like he could read your goddamn mind.

“Be quiet, Adrian, I’m concentrating,” you snipped back. You rolled up onto your tiptoes but the physics of standing on a soft surface made that change negligible. You dropped your arms down with a huff and jumped off the futon.

“Okay, I’m using the door!” 

“What?” Adrian gasped, lunging for you as you feinted towards the basement door. You laughed in delight as he grabbed you by the waist and yanked you backwards onto the futon, pinning you beneath him.

“Oh no! You caught me!” you wheezed out, all the air knocked out of your lungs.

Adrian’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Were you really going to go out the door?”

“Well, well, look at the situation we find ourselves in,” you commented drily, ignoring the question, batting your eyelashes at Adrian. 

“If you don’t answer my questions just know I know a lot of really effective torture techniques,” Adrian said lowly, a familiar hunger already creeping into his expression. You ran your fingers through his curls, dragging your nails against his scalp. “Are you trying to distract me?” 

“Me? Never,” you murmured. He shivered against you and you gave his hair a testing pull. His mouth dropped open slightly and you took the opportunity to sweep your tongue across his lower lip. He whimpered into your mouth as his hips rolled against yours instinctively. 

“Someone’s eager,” you assessed, grasping at his shirt and trying to untuck it from his jeans. “What did it, the puppet thing? Threatening to torture me? Tackling me onto your weird sex futon?”

“It is not a weird sex futon! Just a regular futon!” Adrian laughed against your neck and then winced. “Stop making me laugh, I can feel it in my dick.”

You hooked a leg over his hip. “Then maybe you ought to do something with that dick of yours.”

“I really want to have sex with you right now,” Adrian began.

“Why do I feel like there’s a but coming – ”

“Butts can’t come,” Adrian snickered. Then he shook his head like a hapless puppy, his curls tossing about. God he was such a dork sometimes. But he was your dork. “Though, I do sometimes feel like I could come just by looking at yours.”

You narrowed your gaze at him despite how adorably stupid he was being. “Just say it, Adrian. Why can’t we have sex right now?”

“The thing is…you’re kind of loud?” Adrian said with a wince. Then his eyebrows lifted. “And I love that about you. I love how loud you are. I love thinking about how if we lived in Metropolis Superman for sure would have heard us having sex and he’d be so fucking jealous. Thinking about it right now actually is making me, uh, a little hard – ”

“Adrian!”

“I’m just being honest!” he huffed. You decided not to comment on exactly who was the loud one in the relationship because you knew he would take it as a challenge and you liked hearing all the little pathetic sounds he’d make. He pushed his glasses up his nose only for them to slide right back down again as he looked down at you. “My mom cannot hear us.”

You nodded slightly. “I understand that that might be embarrassing for you. We don’t have to.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be embarrassed!” he said, eyes wide. “I just don’t want her to know you’re here. Because if she hears us then she’ll ask who you are, and then she’ll want to know how we met and if we want snacks and if you’re staying for dinner and it’s a whole fucking thing.”

“Ade, that sounds very normal.” You propped yourself up slightly on your elbows. You hooked a finger into the collar of his rugby shirt. “What if I promise to be quieter than a church mouse?”

“What does that mean? I don’t really have a reference point for how quiet that is?” he replied, his tone tinged with the beginnings of a classic Adrian spiral. “On a scale of like 1 to 10 where 1 is – ”

You interrupted him with a kiss, your tongue wasting no time dipping into his already open mouth. He came alive, wriggling against you, hands grabbing hold of your biceps, grip tight, muscles taut and somewhere between pushing you away and pulling you even closer.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he murmured against your lips. 

“It’s just an expression, love,” you replied, leaning up to kiss the tip of his nose. Then you narrowed your gaze slightly, squinting to study the color of his eyes up so close. In the dark basement his pupils threatened to swallow the dark green whole. Well, the darkness and your hand that had slipped below the waist of his jeans probably had something to do with it too. 

“How about if I get too loud then you just put your hand here,” you instructed, bringing his hand over your mouth and pressing it firmly. 

“Okay,” Adrian said, practically drooling. “I think I can do that.”

“Well then, problem solved!”

You were working to shimmy his jeans down slightly when he grabbed you by the wrist. 

“I wanna go down on you,” he breathed.

You kissed the corner of his mouth. “Okay. We can do both things…unless you’re in a rush for some reason?”

“It’s just that if you keep touching my dick like that I’m going to come in my pants, and I really want to put it in you,” he said, practically a whisper. There was absolutely zero reason for that sentence to be as hot as it was.

“Why is it that you seem like you’re begging every single time even though we’ve had sex a lot, Adrian,” you teased gently, brushing a stray curl out of his face. 

“What if you change your mind, hm?” Adrian asked, dipping his head so you could scratch your fingers across his scalp. “What if one day you wake up and you’re like, oh gosh, I never want to have sex with that weirdo ever again?”

“First of all, being a weirdo is strangely part of your charm,” you replied, pausing to kiss his forehead. “Second of all, I do think you’ve ruined me for life. You dick game is incomprehensibly good and you’ve literally made me go temporarily blind with your head between my legs. I don’t want to have sex with anyone but you.”

“Not even Peacemaker? Because I really couldn’t blame you if you did want to have sex with him. Trust me, I get it, he’s kind of a perfect human man,” Adrian insisted like he was rationalizing in an argument he was having with only himself. His lips pursed. “Although he is kind of all hard edges so having sex with him is kinda sharp which you might not like.”

You were already reaching between the two of you to undo your button-down shirt. 

“Not even Peacemaker,” you affirmed. Adrian seemed to wrestle against his own grin, both pleased as punch that you didn’t want to have sex with anyone but him, and also a bit insulted that you didn’t want to have sex with his favorite person in the world. 

Tugging your shirt open, you guided his hands up to the front clasp of your bra and used his fingers to flick it open. Whatever logic war was raging in his brain was struck silent by the sight of your breasts. Maybe it was an unfair hand to play, but you wanted your boyfriend to stop thinking about his best friend and start thinking a little more about fucking you senseless. 

He wasted no time taking each of your nipples into his mouth in turn, because, as always, he insisted it was only fair for them both to get the same amount of attention. Though you’d never asked, you were fairly certain Adrian had been the type of kid to make sure each toy got the same amount of playtime so that no one toy felt left out.

He swapped his mouth for his hand on your chest and kissed his way down the rest of your body. He deftly yanked your pants and underwear down, kissing the inside of your knees as he peeled them the rest of the way off your body. In his eagerness to get down between your legs he scooted down the futon, his boot kicked one of the metal shelves behind him. The whole unit swayed slightly, the metal ringing out in a resonant sound. 

“Adrian?” A woman’s voice called from upstairs. You froze, but Adrian wasn’t deterred. “Are you down there, sweetie?”

Adrian’s mouth was decidedly preoccupied between your legs so he didn’t answer – it was a good thing, because it probably would have involved some absolutely blatant response about the fact that he was, in fact, down there. You pushed at his head but he only looked up at you with a hungry glint in his eyes as he dragged his tongue through your folds, painfully slowly. You hissed in response and he moved his hips slightly against the futon, settling in for a hearty meal. When Adrian ate you out it was almost always multiple courses, a real fine dining experience. 

He hadn’t even put his fingers in you yet – just used one hand to spread you open wider for him while the other still played with your breasts, alternating between them, pinching and palming and scratching. His face was pressed so firmly between your legs, his tongue so deep into you you wondered if he was trying to eat his way to your heart. 

“Jesus, Adrian!” you whispered, your heel kicking at his hip, trying to get him to ease up a little. But he was hyper focused, like he was speedrunning his way to your orgasm. He moved, wrapping his arms around your thighs, pinning your hips down as they tried to wriggle away from him for just a little reprieve. 

You heard footsteps on the stairs and you dug your heels into the futon, trying to pry yourself loose from his perfect, stupid fucking mouth. Instead, he traced his teeth over your sensitive clit and you came hard suddenly. You clapped your own hand over your mouth and Adrian batted it away. You managed to stay quiet, the only sound your own ragged breath in the quiet of the basement and the wet, obscene noise of Adrian’s mouth against you.

Except Adrian continued his ministrations between your legs, letting up with his mouth only to look up at you and grin while he slowly slid two fingers into you. He had that calculated look in his eye again and you knew he was studying you. He liked knowing exactly how each movement, each touch affected you. He crooked his fingers inside you, watching closely as you bit down hard on your lower lip in a desperate bid to stay quiet.

He was doing it on purpose. He wanted an excuse. 

You hated giving him what he wanted so easily when he was being a menace but you could taste your own blood on your tongue and he used his other hand to rub at your clit while he kissed your hip bone. A noise squeaked out past your lips and Adrian’s grin grew into a full fledged smile, the kind where you could see all his teeth. The kind that was both predatory and full of genuine delight. 

He moved his fingers faster, pushed deeper, bit hard at your hip, bruising the skin. You fumbled for his head but you could barely see straight. You managed to pull a fistfull of hair but it only made him giggle before he lapped at your cunt and made you come undone all over again. 

“Adrian!” you hissed through the rheumy film of your orgasm. Adrian pulled his fingers free and popped them straight into his mouth and pure, wet want flooded your own. 

“Adrian?” There was a knock at the basement door. You clapped your hands over your burning face but Adrian just seemed annoyed.

“Fuck off, mom!” he called, sliding his way up your body to bite at the sensitive spot below your ear. He loosely pressed his hand over your lips and you weren’t sure if you were grateful or pissed. When the friction of his jeans between your legs almost made you sob against his hand, you settled on grateful. 

“Do you have a friend in there with you?” his mom asked. “Should I make some snacks?”

“Jesus fucking – no, mom!” he whined, even as he rolled his hips against you. He grabbed at your breast with his free hand again and you bit his hand in retaliation. 

“Ow!” 

“Are you okay, honey? Please tell me you’re not giving yourself stitches in there again!” his mom continued. She seemed kind of sweet – what the hell was Adrian’s deal?

“Your mom seems nice,” you managed, free of his hand. 

“Stop getting ideas, I can see you getting an idea right now!” Adrian protested, pinning your hands above your head and silencing your mouth with a kiss.

“Adrian, hon, who are you talking to? Is that…is that a girl in there?” His mother’s voice noticeably ascended the scale in pitch and Adrian swallowed your laugh, your shoulders shaking silently. 

“I’m talking to my bros in the Fortnite lobby, Jesus fucking Christ! Can you hop off my dick for like five seconds, please?” Adrian shouted back, pulling away from your mouth, making you unacceptably hungry. When he returned to you, you bit his lip in recompense. He hissed but surged forward anyway, his tongue deep in your mouth. 

“Okay, Addy, you just let me know if you need anything! Just holler! I’ll be upstairs!”

You waited for the sound of footsteps retreating back up the stairs to pull back.

“So, I’m one of the bros now?” you taunted.

“Well, you’re better than one of the bros. You’re like…you’re my best bro. A bro for life. But, like, in a romantic way, a romantic bro,” he explained. You nodded like that made sense. Because, strangely, it did.

“So…Addy?” 

“Please don’t – ”

“It’s kinda cute!”

“No, it makes me sound like a fucking infant. And I’m not an infant. I’m a grown man.”

You giggled. “Yeah, I haven’t forgotten, Ade. As a matter of fact…”

Your hand slid in between you, grasping at him through his pants. He was, unsurprisingly, already completely hard. He hissed through his teeth and then wrangled himself out of his rugby shirt, treating you to a spectacular view of his chest. A thin sheen of sweat covered him in a way that made him look unfairly hot – like the centerfold in a magazine of hot nerds. You ran your hand up from the waist of his pants to the small, pale trail of hair just above and let your fingertips press firmly into the skin of his stomach. His gaze narrowed at you.

“Flip over,” he whispered, voice husky.

“Make me,” you whispered back. Adrian blinked back at you for just a moment before he slipped his hands around your waist and tossed you onto your stomach like it was no effort at all. He reached up and stripped you of the button down and the bra that still clung to your shoulders. His fingertips bit into the swell of your ass but then he paused.

“Sorry, was that okay?” he asked, sounding breathless in a nervous way. You looked back at him and offered a calm smile.

“That was perfect,” you assured him. “You’re perfect.”

“Okay, because if you want to fuck some other way that’s totally okay too, I just thought – ”

“Oh no, not you fucking me while I’m laying on my stomach! Whatever will I do!” you drawled sarcastically as you started to twist in his arms, bringing the back of your hand up to your forehead like some scandalized, vaguely transatlantic woman. Then you paused and blinked at him. “That was sarcasm by the way.”

“Uh, duh, I totally knew that because you love when I fuck you like that! It’s like one of your favorite things. Remember that time we prone-boned and you like totally ruined your sheets?”

“Oh my god, Adrian,” you whined, your hands flying up to cover your increasingly red face. 

“What! It’s just a statement of fact. And a statement of hotness.”

You finished flipping onto your stomach if only to bury your burning face in the futon. Adrian’s hand ran along your damp inner thigh for a moment before he nudged your leg up slightly, and pulled your hips up and flush against his. 

“Oh shit,” he mumbled, and not in the good way. You lifted your head to look at him over your shoulder.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know if I have a condom?”

“You have a fucking arsenal down here but not a single condom?”

“Well, it’s not like I’ve ever had a girl down here before!”

“Aw, is that your roundabout way of saying I’m special?” you asked, batting your eyelashes. But Adrian was too preoccupied scrounging around for a condom. He was so cute doing it you were loathe to tell him all he had to do was open your purse. The man was desperate for it and you were willing to torment him just a little bit – he would be handsomely rewarded for it in the end. 

“Hey Ade?”

“Hold on, I’m sure there’s one here somewhere!” He yanked another drawer open, violently rattling whatever was inside. He slammed a cabinet open to no avail. You started to feel bad, even if you were getting a great view of his impressive physical form in the process. 

“Adrian!” you called, louder this time to get through to him over the small ruckus he was making, but hopefully still quiet enough to not rouse his mother’s suspicions again. Finally, he turned and looked at you dangling a condom from your fingertips. 

“You’re fucking perfect,” he said breathlessly. “No, seriously, I wish I could paint you Titanic-style right now exactly like this.”

Adrian was on top of you again in the blink of an eye, teeth tearing at the foil of the condom and spitting it aside. You watched over your shoulder as he realized he still needed to take his pants off and was trying to figure out balancing the opened condom while he did that. You giggled and held out your hand for him to rest the condom on your palm. 

He tripped up off the couch, halfway out of his pants before he was even fully upright. He hopped on one foot as he desperately tried to free his other from the leg of his jeans, and you were treated to an increasingly silly whispered string of curses. 

When he was finally free he paused, putting his hands on his hips, his chest rising and falling quickly. 

You giggled. “Are you winded?”

“No!” Adrian said, full volume. Your eyes flicked to the ceiling of the basement, but Adrian’s mom seemed to have gotten the memo. “This is…I’m doing breathing exercises, actually. Gotta loosen up my diaphragm for optimal airflow so I can have so much sex with you.”

“Get over here, you absolute goober,” you replied with a beckoning crook of your finger. Adrian stooped beside you to retrieve the condom you were still holding and pressed a quick peck to your lips, upturned in an amused smile.

He settled back between your legs, kneeling on the futon as he rolled the condom on and you waited patiently with your chin in your hands. The feeling of his warm fingers back between your legs surprised you, dragging through your folds, gathering slick before sliding his hand over the condom. 

“Are you good? Are you comfy?” Adrian asked as he grabbed hold of your hips and angled them slightly upward. He positioned himself at your entrance, dragging the tip through your folds, but waited for your approval. You quietly hissed at the sensation.

“Please, Adrian,” you managed. That was approval enough for him – he wasn’t in one of his taunting moods, determined to draw it out forever to the point of insufferability. No, Adrian was borderline efficient. It was a mood he sometimes got into – careful, precise, skilled. He pushed in, a long, slow stretch of flesh, the warm weight of Adrian partially against your back, keeping you pressed into the futon. A hand groped at the flesh of your hip and he gently guided you into the position he needed.

And that made your eyes water, the perfect depth, the perfect speed, the perfect amount of pressure – a gasp dragged from your lips at the angle. Adrian knew what made you tick. You’d witnessed the man disassemble and reassemble a gun with alarming speed on more than one occasion, and he knew how to disassemble you just as easily. 

It took no time at all for pressure and warmth to mount between your legs. 

“Put your hand over my mouth,” you panted.

“What?”

“I don’t think that I can keep being quiet,” you said, voice ragged. As if attempting to prove you wrong, Adrian buried himself, deep and slow, and a yelp came from your lips before you could stop yourself. 

“Right. Okay,” Adrian said in the kind of voice that sounded like he was processing a direct order. You tilted your head up slightly and Adrian dutifully cupped one hand over your mouth.

“Oh shit,” he managed. His fingers flexed against your skin as he thrust into you again, angling your hips ever so slightly once more, perfecting the position. Your needy hand slid under your body and Adrian groaned as your fingers touched at where your bodies were joined, fingers parting around the slick base of his cock for one taunting drag before retreating to your clit. Adrian’s pace faltered and you grinned into his hand. You nipped at his palm again but he stayed firmly in place and instead responded by draping himself further over your back, his weight pressing you further into the futon and your own eager fingers. 

You were close, close, closer as his fingers bit into your skin and you rubbed desperate circles at the apex of your thighs. You clenched around him and Adrian whined. 

“That’s not fair,” he hummed into your hair. He slowed for a frustrating moment and then his mouth was at your ear. “Can I try something?”

A million things raced through your mind – an electric series of possibilities, some of which perhaps bordered on terrifying. But you trusted Adrian. You loved him. Fucking you was a science at which he was studiously determined to excel. So, you nodded. And Adrian draped the full weight of himself on you, carefully, gently. And then he wrapped his other hand over your eyes, casting you into total darkness. 

“I’ve got you,” he said, his voice low in his chest against your back, words that sounded equally like reassurance and threat. A loving adage and a declaration of total possession. Your body responded unconsciously, pushing back against his thrusting hips, terribly wanting. “I want you to come, just for me, okay?”

You made a noise, something wrenched from deep within, muffled expertly by Adrian’s capable hands. He dragged his tongue along the side of your neck and then his teeth nipped the skin. A jolt of pleasure ran down your spine. You weren’t sure how much longer you could hold out when Adrian was dragging himself in and out of you with a studied speed, burying deep every time, hitting that perfect spot. 

“’m close, are you…close,” Adrian slurred before biting at your jaw, his words barely coherent. 

“Mhm,” you spoke into his hand, sure you were probably drooling. You didn’t care. Adrian nudged your knee ever so slightly with his own, spreading you open just a bit more. But it was enough. In the total darkness of Adrian’s embrace, you crashed over the edge, a shout muffled into his hand. You breathed quickly through your nose, finding it significantly harder to catch your breath and Adrian chased you into bliss only a second later, a curse hissed through his clenched teeth, certainly too loud. His hand released your mouth as his forehead fell into the curve of your shoulder. His sweaty hair tickled at your chin and you turned, still blind, to clumsily press a kiss to his temple. 

“Well, that was new,” you remarked, still trying to catch your breath. In the darkness beneath Adrian’s hand, the edges of your vision sparked.

“Was it okay? Did you like it?”

“It was more than okay, babe,” you murmured assurance. That was Adrian – aiming to please, even when it came to dabbling in something like minor sensory deprivation.

After a long moment, his hand fell from your eyes to the futon with an audible thump and he slipped out of you, laying half on top of you and half wedged beside you on the futon.

“I feel like I don’t have any bones anymore,” he muttered. “You stole them. You’re a bone thief.”

“I’ll keep your bones safe in my bone collection. Promise,” you laughed breathlessly. He perked up slightly, lifting his head so he could look at your face. 

“Yeah?” he asked, eyes wide with puppydog-esque devotion.

“Yeah. You’ve got centerpiece level bones. Real main attraction stuff.”

He brushed your hair from your face, and then wiped your cheeks free of tears, thumb grazing across your lower lip, collecting any errant spit. He popped his thumb into his mouth and you recoiled.

“Adrian, gross!”

“Sorry I just want part of you in me,” he replied like you were the one being unreasonable.

You smirked at him and shifted so that you could slip on top of him, straddling his narrow waist. “Maybe it’s time we revisit that conversation about peg – ”

“Adrian?” 

Adrian’s mother’s voice came from directly outside the door. You clamped your mouth shut, looking down at Adrian with wide eyes. 

“What, mom?” he called back, rolling his eyes, his head falling back onto the futon. 

“Do you and your girlfriend want to come upstairs for dinner? I made a baked mac ‘n cheese with the breadcrumb topping you like so much!” 

“Girlfriend?” he scoffed, voice traitorously too high. “What girlfriend? You’re so crazy, I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Oh, sweetie, Mrs. Peterson from across the street called and she said she saw you sneaking in through the basement window with a very pretty young lady!”

You had to laugh. There was simply no other choice. Adrian groaned and draped his arm over his face, treating you to a wonderful (very biteable) view of his bicep. “Fuck, I knew I always hated Mrs. Peterson. No trustworthy person has that many chihuahuas.”

When Adrian didn’t respond one way or the other to the evidence presented, his mother called out again, “Does the pretty young lady like mac ‘n cheese?”

You grinned down at Adrian who appeared to be going through the five stages of grief in quick succession. Luckily for him it was going to take a lot more than an overbearing mother to scare you off. If you could survive the Vigilante of it all, you could survive anything. You leaned down, bit Adrian’s bicep and then kissed his swollen lips before he could protest.

“The pretty young lady loves mac n’ cheese!” you called back.

Brett Richards

The idea of roughhousing with Brett came from way too many hours scrolling through TikTok and way too many hours of staring at his biceps and wishing he'd put one of them around your neck. However, you'd also grown up with brothers, and the itch to just tackle someone was getting too much to ignore for long.

You knew Brett could take it; he had carried men twice his side before over his shoulder. He could definitely handle you pushing him around with hopes he'd give it back.

Your chance came two days later. Brett, the un-expecting victim, was lazily watching a football game on the TV while simultaneously running a hand up and down your stretched out legs. Your back pressed into the harder part of the couch arm wrest.

Brett had been so focus that the first time the tip of your foot dug into his side, he didn't even flinch, eyes unwavering from the screen. But when you did it again, and then a third time, and then a fourth, his eyes flickered over to where you were currently acting innocent, phone in front of your face.

On your fifth try, Brett's hand gripped around your ankle firmly enough to halt your action.

"You gonna quit it?" he muttered.

"Quit what?" you asked, finally looking over your device. "I'm not doing anything."

His hazel eyes narrowed, but he stayed silent before letting go of your ankle.

You waited a few moments before your toes found that plush spot at his ribs again. Brett's hand shot out again, catching your ankle more firmly. He shifted until he was more turned toward you.

"Do you want to change your answer, sweetheart?"

You shook your head, eyes alight with mischief. "Nope. Cause I'm not doing anything. You're feeling things, old man."

"Old man?" Brett echoed. "You're playing with fire, kid."

"Good thing you're a fire captain, Pee Paw."

That did it. One moment you were still against the couch, and the next Brett had yanked hard enough on your foot that your butt slid across the couch. Yet, years of training had you twisting and rolling off the couch in attempts to get away. A loud giggle left your lips when Brett's hand let go of you, giving you the perfect opportunity to scramble across the rug.

However, what you didn't expect was for Brett to follow right behind you. He leapt off the couch, arms winding around your waist, body weight coming crashing down on you enough that a rather loud oomf pushed from deep in your chest.

Brett fought the grin on his face as you struggled in his grasp. For a moment, he thought he might have gone too far, but the squirms and squeals and laughs that followed had him holding onto you tighter.

You only froze when his lips grazed across your ear.

"This Pee Paw took you down in five seconds, sweetheart." His breath was hot across the side of your face. "Thought you might have done better, but by the way you were squirming under me, I think that you wanted this."

You raised your chin, back of your head pressing into his shoulder. "This went better in my head."

He pressed a chaste kiss to your temple and hummed. "I'm sure it did. Now, are you going to behave and watch the game with me, or do I need to teach you a lesson?"

His voice had dipped into that timber that always brought a shudder to your body. You tried shifting one more time, plotting that if you got an inch you could get away, but Brett was one step ahead. He ground his hips into the back of yours, right arm slithering from your waist to rest around your neck. The breathy moan he pulled out of you had him devilishly grinning.

"Lesson it is."

Jack Abbot

You should have known better to mess with Jack on his first day off in weeks.

But you were antsy, wanting, and struck with the bug to do something.

Now, you were rarely a brat for him, always wanting to please especially since his job was already filled with people who just didn't listen. However, that didn't mean you had the urges to act out. Most of the time it was all harmless fun, harmless teasing that ended well for the both of you. Other times, when Jack was more prepared, you pushed his buttons and danced on the line.

Today though, you erred on the side of caution, already planning not to take things too far.

You were sitting up against the headboard while Jack was sprawled across his side, tummy down and face smooshed into his pillow. You already knew he was awake, his breathing had told you that much.

"What the fuck," you whispered, eyes pretending to trail the screen of your phone. "Huh?"

Jack moved his hand to rest on the top of your thigh. "What?" he sleepily murmured, the word muffled slightly.

Blatantly, you ignored him, choosing instead to mutter something else. "There's seriously no way."

From the corner of your eye, you noticed that he had finally opened his eyes. The hazel hues were still glossed over with sleep as he looked up at you. His fingers squeezed the budge of skin.

"What?" he repeated, voice a bit more awake than the first time.

You waved him off. "Nothing."

That earned you a scoff. "You're acting like it's not nothing. Lemme see."

Your following silence irked him, you could tell. Jack used one hand to push him up so that he could lie on his side and craned his neck slightly as to possibly see what was getting you so "worked up."

Yet, the moment you caught him, you pulled your phone to your chest, the screen going dark.

Jack raised an eyebrow. "What are you hiding?"

"I told you it's nothing," you snarked with a roll of your eyes.

Strike One.

He didn't believe that one bit. He pushed himself up a bit more, torso bent to the point he was already semi-hovering over your side. His free hand reached out to grab the device, but you were quicker, and the phone was jerked out of his reach.

Strike Two.

His head tilted. "Baby, I paid for that phone. Give it here."

"Nope," you responded, lightly popping the p at the end.

"I'm not playing around."

"Fuck off."

Strike Three.

In an instant, Jack was over you with his left knee pressing into the meat of your thigh while his left forearm pressed into your upper chest. You tried your best to keep the phone out of his reach, but he easily wrangled it out of your fingers with one hand.

When Jack finally opened yours phone, his face morphed from annoyance to confusion when he saw that no tabs had actually been opened. He looked past the screen and noticed the small smirk you had splashed across your face and the rapid rise and fall of your chest below his arm. You watched a lightbulb go off in his head.

You were enjoying this.

"Aw, did my baby want attention?" he mocked, lips pushing into a pout and eyes glossing with something unreadable. "Is that's why you're being a brat?"

Jack threw the phone haphazardly behind him, and you winced at the sound it made when it hit the floor. His head then dipped to the point that not even an inch separated yours and his face.

"Well, even if you didn't want it, now you have it." He licked a hot stripe up the side of your neck. "But I don't know if you'll like the outcome."

Grant Reilly

Grant and you had your places in his house. The kitchen was and always would remain his while your office-turned-home library quickly became your small paradise. However, there were times that you ventured into the kitchen for a small snack whenever you got hungry.

You couldn't help but eye the high-grade kitchen appliances as you walked toward the fridge. Each one had been perfectly curated by Grant throughout the years. You knew better than to touch any of it, but when the fridge failed to give you a snack, and the ingredients for cookies just happened to be stocked, you quickly broke rule number one.

No using the kitchen unless Grant was present.

That rule had been instated the moment you accidentally almost set fire to the whole house. But honestly, how were you supposed to know olive oil didn't have the correct "heat tolerance" while avocado oil did.

But the cookies were calling, and suddenly, you were elbow deep in flour and butter and sugar. You knew Grant would be coming home soon from the store, but cookies took time, effort, and love, and you wanted these done before he got home.

Which is why your stomach dropped down to your toes at the sound of the front door unlocking.

"Honey! I'm home!" Grant sang as he stepped through the threshold. When you failed to answer, his brows pinched tightly. "Honey!"

His footsteps echoed, each one sending a wave of worry through you. Your body froze with your hands all covered in batter when he paused right as he walked into the place between the entryway and the kitchen. You swallowed thickly when his eyes widened with shock.

"I can explain," you said.

He crossed his arms, shoulder coming to rest against the wall. "Can you?"

You bit your lip. "The fridge was empty."

"No it's not. Try again."

"There weren't any snacks."

"Nuh-uh."

You winced. "There weren't any snacks that I wanted?"

Grant sighed loudly, pushing off the wall to stalk toward you. Feeling like a prey animal, you took a small step backward. Yet, he kept going until your back pressed against the chill metal of the fridge. He was slowly getting closer, and with nowhere else to go, you darted fast to th right with a squeal.

But Grant was faster.

In one liquid motion, his arm caught your middle, pulled you to his chest with your feet kicking in the air.

"Grant!" you yelled. "Put me down!"

"Nuh-uh," he replied, already walking back over to the kitchen counter where your mess seemed to be the worst. "We have rules for a reason, honey."

You stayed airborne until he pressed you up against the counter, the marble digging into your pelvis, your feet swinging between his legs. Grant pushed his chest into your back, effectively folding you down until your cheek was resting against the cold stone. His large hand gently held you down by your hair.

"And," he continued, "you deliberately disobeyed them, yes?"

"I just wanted cookies," you whined, but a firm slap to your butt had you jolting into silence.

"I don't care if you just wanted cookies," he said right into your ear. "So, what you're going to do is start counting, and then maybe I'll let you finish making your snack."

Andrew "Pope" Cody

Your eyes raked across Andrew's large freckled arms each time they extended in order for his fist to dive deep into the punching bag.

His biceps bulged with each hit, and the grunts that followed had your thighs pressing together as you stretched out on the pool chair.

The sun was at a high UV, and summer in Oceanside was just beginning. Needing to at least get a start on your tan, you had quietly asked Andrew if you could come over to Smurf's to make good use of their pool. It had only taken a small pout and soft whine from your lips before he was agreeing, but only if he could be outside with you while you slowly cooked under the bright rays.

However, you thought that Andrew would take the hint that you wanted him next to you, also suntanning. But a few moment after getting you settled, he waltzed right over to the punching bag and started the rhythmic workout, leaving you alone and now pent up from all his noises.

You needed him over by you.

A thought quickly took over before you could think of anything else. Your feet swung over the side of the chair while your hands pushed you up into a vertical position. Your movement made the chair squeak, and Andrew's attention quickly shifted from the bag and over to your direction. .

"Where you going?" he gruffed when you stood.

Your brows picked. "I'm getting in the pool?" you said like he should have known. "I'm hot."

He almost glared at you. "Put on more sunscreen and wait before you do."

"No. I want to get in the pool now."

Andrew turned fully towards you. "You've been sitting there for almost an hour and a half. You need more sunscreen or you're going to burn. Put it on."

"I'll be fine," you reassured. "It's going to turn into a nice tan."

That didn't settle him one bit. He all but ripped the gloves off. "The risk of skin cancer rises if you don't use proper sun protection. So, put the fucking sunscreen on or—"

"Or what, Andy?" you shot back, crossing your arms. "You going to make me?"

His left eye twitched at your attitude.

Fine.

He could play this game.

Instead of answering, he started to stalk towards you with heat in his eyes. You didn't shy under his advantage, knowing that whatever he was going to do wouldn't end with you hurting. But what you didn't expect was for him to walk right past you, wrap his arms around your middle, lift you up, and place you back belly down on the chair.

"What are you doing?" you questioned, arms pushing you back up, only for Andrew to push you right back down.

Without care for the weight limit of the chair, he swung a leg over your hips and quite literally sat on your backside, meaty thighs caging you in.

You stayed put, and Andrew quickly popped the cap of your sunscreen. The scent of coconut filled his nose as he lathered the cream between his palms. Once they were white-coated, he leaned over and massaged it into your shoulders.

The need for him was gone in an instant while his fingers pressed into your soft skin. He was going to get you sunscreened up if it was the last thing he did. Yet, he didn't expect the moan that pushed through your lips once his reached your lower back. He cocked his head at the noise.

"You like this, hm?" he asked softly while his palms grabbed at your ass. "Getting all hot and bothered? It's just sunscreen."

You squeaked when he squeezed hard, and it was absolute music to his ears.

Once your back was completely done, Andrew stood just enough to flip you over before he was settling back down. He knew his swim shorts did little to hide what your noises had done to him, but getting you covered and safe was more important.

He squirted more sunscreen on his hands and went back to work. Yet, you seemed to grow louder under his mitigations, especially when his hands lingered on the sides of your breasts next to the small bikini that did little for his imagination.

"Andy," you whimpered with an upward thrust of your hips. "Want you."

Andrew leaned forward, chest pressing against yours, and smirked. He scanned your face, as though committing your pitiful and wanting expression to memory, before straightening and standing. He stepped over the chair and started to walk back to the punching bag.

"Thirty minutes!"

Titus Danforth

The words on the page blurred the longer you stared at them.

Fifteen minutes ago, you'd been blissfully reading in a small corner of Titus's study, legs bent underneath you while you sat in a sage green glider. The chair had been a present, something Titus bought to give you a place in his life. You'd sat through numerous calls and even a few meetings while patiently waiting for him to finish up.

Today, you had thought he'd be out longer; you'd seen a special block for a game of golf for the afternoon. But just as you'd turned to page 179, the doors opened to reveal a rather agitated-looking Titus with his phone pressed against his ear and face nearly red with frustration.

"No, I'm not talking about the Latvian exchange, I'm talking about the Columbian one, you insolent fool," he raged into the device.

Normally, you could have blocked him out and kept reading. Yet, every time you tried to go back to the characters, Titus's voice would cut through like a hunting knife.

"You should have known the fucking difference."

"This is why we didn't choose to go with the first contract, because obviously you can't do anything fucking right you piece of shit."

"I'm not asking you; I'm telling you that I needed the papers on my desk by tomorrow."

Normally, Titus would have thrown you an apologetic glance for the shouting, but as he continued on, he didn't even give you once look.

And somehow this irked you greatly to the point that you slammed your book closed and haphazardly threw it onto the side table with a thunk.

The noise finally caught Titus's attention, and his hazel eyes ripped from his desk and over to your corner. You sat back, arms crossing, waiting for him to mouth a sorry or roll his eyes at the voice on the phone. But all he did was look back down without a second glance.

That had you rising from the glider, and your heals clicked with every step you took over to his desk. Your hands splayed across the dark wood, nails scratching lighting against the grain. When he didn't even look at you, you continued on and around the desk.

"Absolutely not!" Titus shouted. "I'm a Danforth for fuck's sake and—" he paused at the feeling of your hands on his shoulders.

Yet, instead of being grateful for an opportunity to just hang up, he shrugged his shoulders up harshly in an attempt to get you to remove your hands.

A simmer of your own irritation bubbled beneath your skin. You were his wife, damn it, and you would not have your husband brushing off your advances. So, you did what any sane woman would do next: you put your hands back on his shoulders and slowly ran them down his chest.

This time, Titus actually stuttered out his next sentence. "N-no, that-that's not what I w-want."

He reached out and gripped one of your wrists; a silent quit it hanging between you. But you kept on going, palms running the length of his torso, and chest lowering the farther your hands went down to the point your chest dangled above his shoulders.

He glared up at you, phone still next to his ear. "Do you even know who you're talking to? Our name is on the fucking building—oh." He quickly covered the deep moan with a cough when you squeezed between his legs.

Your breath was hot against the unoccupied side of his face. You only stopped when his hand grabbed both your wrists and held them a few inches away from his body.

"We'll have to continue discussing this later," he finally said. "I have something to deal with."

Titus hung up the phone without an answer from the line and placed it screen down on the desk. His chest was now heaving with left over anger and something hotter.

"You have ten seconds before I catch you, little dove."

When your hands were free, you took off running. But even you should have known that Titus Danforth would never play by the rules. Not even five seconds later, he was bursting from his chair and taking heavy thuds after you. He gained on what little ground you'd been able to find in a matter of moments.

Titus said nothing when he caught you, not even taking the time to carry you to his bedroom. He swiftly pinned you to one of the walls, both your hands trapped in only one of his.

"You know I don't like it when you interrupt me, little dove," he panted into your ear. "You should have just stayed put in your chair, because now, I need something to take my frustration out on, and you've just volunteered yourself."

Charlie Reid

"Deputy Chief?" you asked with a small knock on Charlie's open office door. "Can I ask you a quick question?"

Charlie's hazel eyes behind the black frames lifted from the report in his hand to you almost bashfully standing in the doorway. He waved one hand in a come-forward motion. "Sure. Just close the door behind you, sweetheart."

You swiftly walked through the threshold, the door clicking shut behind you.

The bullpen behind the door had been long emptied with each detective and officer leaving after a long day. However, you'd accidentally had fallen behind with a report and found yourself staying after hours to get it done. Yet, right as you were about to complete it, something wrong had jumped out at you, hence the reason you were now sitting across from your deputy chief.

Charlie could tell that you were already nervous in his presence, and it almost made him smile at how mousy you looked with your bottom lip caught between your teeth and your fingers fidgeting with the edge of the paper you held and the light blush dancing across your face, probably a result from the pet name he let slip.

Your eyes were wide as you stared at him, brain running a million miles an hour, trying to come up with a respectful way to ask your question. You guessed Charlie must have picked up on your hesitation, because in the next moment, he took off his glasses and placed his own report down.

"What can I do for you, sweetheart?"

"Um," you began. "I know it's late, b-but I was trying to finish this report, and something isn't adding up?"

The way you ending on an uplift like a question had something wicked stirring in Charlie's gut.

"Oh? Want me to take a look?" he offered, hand already outstretched.

You nodded and gave him the paper while you talked about what exactly was wrong. "Well, you see, the report states that the victim in this shooting was killed as a result of a .40 S&W."

Charlie nodded along. "I see that. What's the issue here then?"

You sucked in a deep breath. "Sir. I was one of the first ones on sight, and the injury looked more like a 9mm; probably a semi-automatic, exactly what our department uses."

Again, that awful, tight feeling clenched in Charlie's gut. Not because you were wrong; quite the opposite. He had personally paid one of his men to take out the victim you were discussing. Charlie personally ripped him a new one and taken him out of the equation when he realized he'd used his personal state-issued weapon.

Charlie thought he'd covered everything. Yet, here you were with a report that could damn his entire operation. He had to do something.

He placed the report down. "Great catch, sweetheart," he muttered, eyes boring into yours.

"Really?" you squeaked out.

Charlie smirked. "Really. This could have been missed; and that would have been detrimental to our crew here."

He pushed back from his desk, leather chair shifting as he stood up. His leather shoes clicked against the tile until he stopped right in front of your chair, body casting a towering shadow across your face. His hands rose slightly to grip onto the armrests, and his face lowered until it was just a few inches away from your face.

Charlie reveled in the slight hitch of your breath at the sudden closeness.

"Here's what we're going to do, sweetheart," he started, tongue running across his lips. "I'm going to finish up your report for you. You're going to go home, relax, sleep the night away, and when you come back tomorrow, you're not going to speak to anyone about this little error. This stays between me and you." He sent you a small wink. "It'll be our little secret, yeah?"

His words should have set off alarms in your mind, but the sheer closeness had you spinning to the point that all you could manage was a nod. Charlie clicked his tongue, and his right hand trailed up until it rested right against your neck.

"I need your words, sweetheart," he whispered. "Tell your chief exactly how you're going to be a good girl who knows how to follow my commands."

Terry McCandless

Blinding blue and red lights that danced with the distinct wail of a police car had you huffing and putting on your hazards.

The car behind you had nothing familiar to the cop cars that flew down the highways, so it must have either belonged to an undercover or a detective. You truly hoped for the latter since you knew most of them through your boyfriend.

Once your car was safely off the empty road, you placed your hands on the steering wheel. A wave of guilt rushed over you, but it also tangled with one of annoyance; you were barely going over the speed limit, and yet this one guy decided to pull you over.

Your finger tapped rhythmically against the wheel while you waited, mentally going over where exactly your license and registration was in your purse. You were so focused on not messing that part up that the two knocks against your window had you jumping with a small squeal. Your window quickly rolled down, and the face grinning back at you had you sighing in relief.

"Terry, thank God it's you," you puffed. "But why the hell are you pulling me over?"

Terry just kept grinning. "License and registration, ma'am," he sang with that southern salt.

Your brows pinched. "You're seriously doing this? You're not even a patrol officer."

"Ma'am if you're not going to comply, I'm going to need you to step out of the vehicle," he replied with a shrug, his hand resting against the place his gun sat.

"You've got to be kidding me," you shot back.

"Fraid not, ma'am." He reached through your window and unlocked your car before yanking the driver's door open. "I'm going to need you to get out."

You crossed your arms, refusing to move. "Fuck you, Terry."

Terry watched for a moment with a cocked eyebrow before he sighed. "If this is how you want to be."

He leaned in over you and unbuckled your seatbelt. His hand tightly gripped your upper arm and yanked hard, your body slipping from the seat in no time. The South Carolina sun beat down on the two of you as Terry maneuvered you until he had you pressed against the hood of your car.

"This would have been much easier if you complied, ma'am'," he muttered.

"What's next? You gonna read me my rights?" you spat with a hollow chuckle.

Your eyes widened when the cold feeling of metal tightened around your wrists and the sound of cuffs sliding into its teeth filled the air.

"Terry!" you sputtered. "What are you doing?"

He hushed you gently. "All you had to do was listen. Now, spread your legs."

In another act of defiance, you failed to follow his words. He sighed even loudly and kicked at your feet until they were spread to his likeness. You tried to lift off the car, but his large hand just pushed you right back down.

Following order, Terry started patting at your shoulders, hands trailing down in smaller pats at your sides. "Am I going to find any weapons on you?"

You rolled your eyes. "You're the one with the weapon, or are you just that excited to see me?"

"Quiet!" he ordered. "I've had enough of you mouthing off." His left hand went back up and swiftly covered the entirety of your mouth while his right hand dipped below the waistband of your pants. "Seems like I'm not the only one excited to see me, ma'am. Now hold still; I'm trying to find your license and registration."

Sammy Bryant

"Do suspects normally get caught? Or do they sometimes manage to outrun you?" you asked between bites of dinner.

The thought had been boiling in your curiosity since you happened to see Sammy running down the street, chasing who you could only guess to be a local gang member once you spotted the multiple tattoos. Sammy had actually managed to tackle the guy down to the concrete before swiftly cuffing him. However, from the multiple stories he's told you, sometimes the suspects trip or get caught by a partner in a car; none of them ended with the suspect getting away though. You wondered if it never happened or if Sammy was too embarrassed to admit it.

But now that it had been almost a week since that takedown, you couldn't keep the question in any longer. So, you decided to spring it on him during spaghetti night.

Sammy paused with a full fork hovering right in front of his mouth. "What brought this on, baby?"

"I saw you tackle that guy in front of Walgreens last week. Made me wonder."

He put the bite into his mouth. "I mean . . . sure, some of them do. Ben's had lots."

"Have you ever lost someone?" you quizzed with a smile.

Sammy shook his head. "No. Cause that's embarrassing."

You hummed, and the table went back to being quiet. Sammy's fork scraped across his plate for the last bite, his hazel eyes looking across at you.

"I know that face," he muttered.

"I don't have a face," you argued. "There's no face."

Sammy smirked. "You totally have a face. Common. Just tell me what you're thinking."

You cocked your head. "I think I could do it."

"Do what?"

"Outrun you."

That earned a disbelieving laugh. "Sure, baby."

Your fork clinked against your plate as you set it down. "Listen; with all your gear holding you back, I feel like I have a good shot. You know I did track in high school."

"Still doesn't mean you can outrun me, baby." He paused before adding, "But you could always try."

So, that's how you found yourself outside with Sammy, in all his police gear glory, standing behind you waiting for you to dash down the street.

"Do I get a head start?" you asked while stretching.

"Sure, baby. Three seconds."

You didn't even wait for him to count down for you to go before you were dashing, feet eating the concrete. Mentally, you counted down to three, but the sound of Sammy's gear clinking behind you had you pushing to go faster.

Your legs pumped and burned the longer you managed to keep pace, but as the end of the street came into view, you could tell that Sammy was gaining. However, not wanting the fun to end, you quickly changed direction right as he was about to reach you, and you took off back toward the house.

"Fuck!" you heard Sammy curse, to which you responded with a loud laugh.

The house quickly came back into view, and you slowed, thinking that Sammy was further back. But the moment your feet his the start of the walkway up towards the door, you were lifted off the ground with a firm chest against your back.

"Caught ya!" Sammy grunted.

Your chest heaved under his arms as he carried you up the porch, foot kicking the door in.

"Almost had you," you panted.

"Keep telling yourself that," he responded, still not letting you down.

The cool of your bedroom blasted against your face, and the next thing you knew you were thrown down onto the bed with Sammy climbing over you. His thick hands gripped your wrists and pulled them behind your back, pinning you in place against the comforter you picked out months ago.

"Sammy," you whined over the click of his cuffs. "Lemme go."

"Nuh-uh," he tutted. "I caught you. Think it's only fair I get to have a reward for it."

being on the jackass crew was about as challenging as it sounded. you had to travel for work often and deal with stunts that made you nauseous and visibly cringe. however, it had its own perks. it allowed you to continue your passion in filming, and you were surrounded by people who made you laugh. the whole crew was like its own little family. there was also johnny.

johnny was like his own perk by itself. when you first joined, you never expected the relationship that would bloom between the two of you. you really only took the job because you went to high school with chris, and he practically begged you to come work on the crew. you figured that it would get you a good head start in the film industry, and hopefully give you some credibility in the future, so you finally accepted. in an instant, you and johnny were joined at the hip. whether on or off camera, where one went, the other was quickly trailing behind.

he was sitting on a lawn chair, a cold beer in hand, watching as bam and ryan rode around in shopping carts and ran over shit. even though it was technically your day off, you were still watching them perform all the stunts. you could always be found on set, even if they didn’t have anything for you to do. when johnny let out one of his loud laughs, it made you turn your head towards his direction. after almost a year of working with him, his laugh still created butterflies in your belly. you moved over to where he was sitting, and ruffled his hair to get his attention. without even looking up, he already knew that it was you, just by your touch. you always greeted him the same way. he turned his head up towards you, shooting you with his million dollar smile. “hey, darling. what’re you doing here? thought you had the day off?” he asked, with a hint of surprise.

you shrugged in response. “just wanted to watch you guys. not like i got anything better to do you. why? happy to see me?” you asked with a smirk. he stood up from the chair, his over six foot frame blocking the sun as he nearly towered over you. “‘m always happy to see you, you know that,” he replied, before pulling you into a hug. ever the sweet talker, you thought to yourself. your arms wrapped around his shoulders, while his wrapped around your waist. he then pulled you up and swung you around. you let out a spew of giggles, that steve-o noticed.

“man, look at this,” steve-o whispered to chris, tapping him on the shoulder. turning his attention away from bam and ryan, chris’s gaze followed to where steve-o was pointing. to really no surprise, there was you and johnny, talking each other’s asses off and laughing. by this point, johnny had already set you down, but one of his hands still lingered on your waist. “bro, they should just fucking kiss at this point,” he said. steve-o hummed in agreement, and instantly thought of a good idea when he noticed a camera laying abandoned in the grass. he kneeled down and grabbed it, quickly turning it on to capture the moment. “look at these damn lovebirds,” he mumbled, only loud enough for the camera to hear.

a few days pass by, and you’re now filming johnny as he introduces the stunt he’s about to do. “hi, i’m johnny knoxville, and today, i will have my good friend steve-o test out self defense weapons on me. and i also have the beautiful y/n as my camerawoman.” he winks at you with his dashing smile, and you laugh from behind the camera. “yeah, yeah, whatever. get on with it, johnny,” you said, shaking your head to hopefully hide the blush blooming on your face. to the side, steve-o was fake gagging while keeled over. you whipped the camera over to capture him. “get a load of this asshole.” you weren't really annoyed with your friend. if anything, you were a bit glad that it took the attention away from you and your obvious flusteredness from johnny’s compliment. as the stunt progresses, johnny is now rolling around on the ground and holding his stomach as he groans in pain. and maybe it’s been your time on jackass, or maybe it’s the fact that steve-o is cackling next to you, but you can’t help but laugh a little at his pain. yours and steve-o’s laughter combined seems to be contagious, because johnny quickly begins to laugh alongside the two of you. you lean down and hold out your hand to help him up, and he grabs it as you yank him to a standing position. he sways a bit from the two stun guns he just previously endured, so you hold his wrist to keep him stable. “how do you feel?” you ask from behind the camera. he just shakes his head and rolls his eyes. “i think ol’ steve-o is rubbing off on you. you’re becoming as bad as him, laughing at my pain.”

steve-o fake pouts and makes a kiss face towards johnny. “aw, you need me to kiss you better?” he leans in, but johnny playfully pushes him back. “oh, right, my bad. forgot you only wanted y/n to do that,” he retorts, before sticking his tongue out. steve-o’s comment makes you whip your head to look between the two of them, softly whispering ‘huh?’ you can see johnny’s feathers were a bit ruffled by his friend exposing his small (huge) crush on you, but tries to play it off. “you better watch it man, before i spray bear mace in your eye.” safe to say he does later on in the segment.

the tension between the two of you later comes to a halt when johnny and bam are riding on a golf cart, running into old statues and things like that at an abandoned golf course. the segment was going well so far. sure, you were out of breath a little bit from having to keep up with them, but you weren’t afraid of a little cardio. that was, until, they hit a ditch, which caused the whole cart to flip over. immediately you hurried over to them, your camera being sent to damnation when you carelessly threw it. if you weren’t so worried about johnny and bam, you would’ve cursed yourself.

part of the crew was checking in on bam, while you were solely focused on johnny. you knelt down and carefully held his head, gently moving it side to side to look for any injuries. warm blood trickled down your hand and forearm. fuck, definitely a concussion. “hey, johnny, you okay?” you asked softly.

he hazily smiled up at you, blinking rapidly from the sun shining behind you. “goddamn, darlin’... look at you. like an angel,” he slurred, his eyes slipping shut. you patted the side of his face to keep him awake. “don’t do that, you gotta stay awake, yeah? we gotta get you to the hospital.”

he just nodded, and limply moved his head to rest against yours. his eyes fluttered at your gentle touch as you pushed back his short strands of hair that stuck to his sweat ridden forehead. “love ya so much, you know that…?”

“yeah, i know you do, johnny. i love you too,” you replied. you figured it was just the concussion talking, and that he didn’t really mean it.

“no, sweetheart. ‘m serious. like, i love love you. so much. you're so sweet, and funny, and so fucking pretty. i think i loved ya ever since chris brought you on set…” he rambled on and on until his lips pressed against yours.

the kiss was about as good as you think it could be with a concussed man, but it was the best one in your life because it was with him. his lips were slightly chapped, but you didn’t care. not when his hand came up to cradle the back of your head. or when you could feel him smile against your lips as he let out a content hum. you pull back to breathe, and his lips instantly chase after yours. you shake your head ‘no’, and just lean your forehead against his.

“this whole concussion thing wasn’t a plan for you to kiss me was it?” you playfully ask. “nah, darling, this was just a plus,” he replied, rubbing his thumb against your cheek.