life on mars right?

“Have you ever thought about swapping to the night shift?” Jack asks as you walk together to your next patient,

“Uhm… I don’t know. I’ve never really thought of it actually.” you’re unable to read Jack’s face as he pulls you to the side,

“You should really consider it, I think you’d be great on the team.” he says quietly, trying to keep the conversation between the two of you. your brows furrow in confusion at his sudden approach, sensing an ulterior motive behind,

“Look, he’s my best friend but I see the way he talks to you. I’m not trying to make up shit to excuse whatever's going on with him, but you know how he is. I just think maybe you need a break, a change in teams, y’know.” you flash Jack a sympathetic smile as he speaks,

“Doctor Abbot, I’m fine, really. I appreciate your concern though.” you say as you hold the tablet out to pass to him. he takes a deep breath as he takes it from you, letting you walk away to finish your handoffs. 

Jack wants to throw a lifeline to you. change your shifts without your permission, let you see what you’ve been missing out on firsthand and ask for forgiveness later. he doesn’t care about whether you might resent him for it or not, he just knows that you’re too ambitious, too smart and too keen to let it be diminished by the other attending.

as you type out your final chart of the day, Robby taps your shoulder, 

“Mind if we chat?” he says, tilting his head to indicate he wants to pull you aside. Dana stands nearby, watching carefully. her and Jack have talked about it numerous times and not even Dana can get through to you or Robby. though, neither of them really understand, and you know that they wouldn’t,

“I trust my residents, all of them. I trust that whatever undergrad program you’ve done has taught you the value of thorough charting and why we do it,” you nod as Robby starts, “So, I would love an explanation on why I see that your charts from earlier this morning are half done. They’re sloppy, disorganized and there are typos that could lead to wrong prescriptions.” he has that same slight condescending smile on his face that Dana recognizes even from afar. 

“I got caught up with helping on a peds case, then that overdose came in and then Langdon asked me to help in triage— I’m sorry —they’ll be fixed before I go.” you tell your attending with your head low. 

“They should be done properly after every single patient. I expect better from you, not excuses.” he says, arms crossed. you stare at the lines of the beige coloured floor, waiting for this to be over so you can get back to work. it goes quiet between the two of you and you miss seeing his eyes softening suddenly after scolding you, 

“Hey,” Robby says softly, grabbing your attention. when you look up, his expression is entirely different. he no longer looks at you as your attending but with a face pleading with desperation. it’s the kind of face only you get to see in private and no one else. 

“Same time tonight?” he says. If Jack was around, he’d argue that Robby sounds like he’s borderline begging,

“Of course.” you reply with the smallest of smiles. he nods, silently dismissing you from the room. Jack sighs as he watches you leave the room, quickly walking back to your station to continue your charts. Dana stands beside him, putting her hand on his back

“I tried talking to her again today. Still isn’t budging.” Jack says in disappointment

“Some people just don’t wanna be helped. You know that better than anyone.” Dana says sympathetically. Jack however strongly disagrees with her and is newly motivated by his need to prove Dana and Robby wrong about you. he might finally follow through with his idea of changing your shifts and begging for forgiveness later, for one week at least. 

your arrangement with Robby happened fast and out of nowhere. it started the way all messy, casual relationships do; at a bar, drunk, and with a little bit of playful flirting. 

you stared at the other residents scattered across the bar. some were in line for more drinks, some playing pool and others even dancing on a nonexistent dancefloor. you always like people watching and it was sweet to see them let loose after work. you sat quietly, and close beside Robby, knees brushing against one another every so often.

“So, have you applied to any fellowships for next year?” he starts as he takes a casual sip of his beer,

“I’m thinking of neurology right now and I know what you’re gonna say, it’s competitive, it’s for the best of the best and—” Robby cuts you off,

“I think it’s great, it’s perfect for you,” Robby looks at you smiling. No caveat, no sneaky comments, he stops with that. “You’re incredibly good at what you do in the ER, I think neuro would be very lucky to have you.” you smile at the praise from your attending, feeling yourself getting shyer by the second. 

“Thank you,” you say, trying to ignore the lustful way Robby looks at your lips, then back up to your eyes. maybe it’s the liquor but the words continue spilling out of you, “You’ve taught me a lot over the years and I don’t think ‘thank you’ will ever be enough. I never take anything you teach me for granted.”

Robby thinks of closing the distance between the two of you, kissing you right then and there in front of everyone and dealing with the consequences tomorrow. he’s so damn close to it but before he can make a move, you check the time on your phone, 

“Fuck, it’s late. I should head home.” you shuffle around to grab your bags and chug the last bit of your drink down. you know you might regret it later, but getting your money's worth from the last bit of alcohol outweighs the potential hangover or bad decisions you’ll make,

“Let me drive you.” Robby offers, desperate to keep you longer.

“Oh, no. Please, it’s okay!” you plead.

“I’ll drive you, it’s okay. I’ll sleep better tonight knowing you’re home safely.” Robby is already standing up from the booth with his hand reaching out to help you stand. neither of you say goodbye to the rest of the day shift and quickly slip out the bar doors.

the car ride was a comfortable kind of quiet. the radio played at a low volume, and you’d hum some bits of a song you heard one too many times. he parks his car outside your apartment building, leaving the engine running. Robby still wants to kiss you, but feared that he’d come off too strong or like he’d been expecting something if he turns the car off,

“Thank you, Doctor Robby, I really appreciate it.” you say turning to look at him. he smiles softly, acknowledging your thank you with a nod. he looks at your lips again, then back at your eyes, similar to what he did in the bar before leaning in slowly. you don’t stop him, if anything you lean in to meet him halfway over the center console. he kisses you softly and with hesitation, as if he’s testing to see if what he’s doing is okay. when you don’t pull away, he puts his hand on your cheek, pulling you closer and kissing you deeper and deeper. your lips taste like a mix of vodka and the cherry lipgloss he always sees you wear, tempting him constantly. he’s always wanted to taste it and now he’s dizzy with lust and only continues to kiss you harder and deeper. he can’t hold back any longer and pulls away for a second,

“Can I come upstairs?” he asks with his hand still on your cheek making small circles. you hesitate for a second before nodding. Robby shuts the engine off before the two of you head up to your apartment. 

in hindsight, you should have said no. you should have told him that what you two were doing violated pages worth of HR guidelines and that your medical career wasn’t worth putting on the line for him. but the way Robby praised you earlier that night, the mentorship he’s given you for years, confiding in him felt natural to you but it wasn’t necessarily love. 

you could argue that you wanted him just as bad but in a different way. Robby was infatuated, desperate to feel your love, call you his and only his. on the other hand, you craved his validation, his leadership, his guidance. his desire for you to be wanted and needed by him was so strong, it made for a horrible combination. you, highly ambitious but docile, combined with his overbearing mentorship, your relationship or whatever you wanted to call it, was made to crash and burn. 

he towered over you, looking down at you as you stared up with big eyes, waiting for instructions. he always found that you were especially pretty to him like this; waiting for his instructions, only acting when he commanded. even in the bedroom, he naturally fell into a leadership role for you,

“So pretty.” he purred as he put his hand on your cheek again, leaning down to kiss you again. 

you never addressed your arrangement to each other but sleeping together became a routine most days after work. Robby only ever came over to your place, never his, and part of you is convinced that because of that, you have control over your arrangement; that you have the control to stop it whenever you want.

you laid in bed with your head on his bare chest, unable to rid your mind of the conversation you had with Jack that day. it replayed over and over in your head. maybe it was a ploy to poach you and have you join the night shift, or maybe he was genuinely concerned about the way Robby spoke to you. now that Jack mentioned it, you have noticed Robby has been a bit meaner to you than usual, and unfortunately it only made his rare praises more desirable,

“You were a little mean today.” you blurt out, not thinking your words through. there's a small moment of silence while Robby processes your sudden thought,

“You understand why I have to though, right?” Robby responds calmly. of course you know the answer. it was something he reiterated to you only ever in the privacy of your bedroom.

“I know.” 

“Say it.” there’s a tinge of Robby’s usual condescending tone. 

“You’re pushing me to do my best and you want me to be the best. Better than you.” your voice suddenly goes monotone, as if you’re reading from a memorized script.

“And?” he says with no change in tone. 

“And because it’s not fair to everyone else if you’re easy on me.” you say increasingly quieter.

“That’s right,” Robby says. the lack of an apology leaves you feeling empty and he can tell that’s exactly what you were looking for, 

“You know I started on your letter of recommendation for your fellowship next year,” your eyes look up at him with a sudden new sparkle, something he hasn’t seen in a while. it was close enough to an apology that was never coming, and you were taking what you could get.

𝜗ৎ 

the following week, you noticed a change in your schedule. for the first time during your residency, you were working nights. something about the change made you nervous; would Robby be upset? would it affect your letter of recommendation? you silently reminded yourself the schedule change is out of your control, but you can’t help but feel at fault for it. 

as you walk into PTMC, Jack and Shen stand together at the workstation,

“Here comes our newest Nightcrawler! How does it feel?” Doctor Shen says with a smile and his usual iced coffee in hand. 

“Really weird, I think it’s gonna take me a sec to adjust to the sleep schedule.” you say a bit on edge. even though you know everyone on the night shift, it still feels like you’re in unknown territory,

“I’m surprised you managed to almost avoid being on nights your entire residency,” John says as he passes you an energy drink, 

“As a welcome gift.” you smile as you take it, cracking it open before heading to your locker. 

as you put your things away, Robby approaches from behind, putting his hand on the small of your back to grab your attention. you turn to see him with slightly worried eyes, 

“So you’re working nights, huh?” he starts.

“I didn’t ask anyone to swap me to nights.” your defensiveness catches him off guard. 

“I know. And I know you’re smart, just don’t forget everything I’ve taught you,” he says, shaking his head slightly, 

“I would hate for this to affect your recommendation letter.” Robby feels ashamed to hold the letter above your head, but how else could he remind you where you belonged and who taught you everything you knew? Jack rounds the corner suddenly, seeing Robby speaking with you. there’s a notable shift in your energy from the way you were speaking with Shen minutes ago, 

“Hey,” Jack’s voice grabs both you and Robby’s attention, 

“Why don’t you catch up with Lena? We’re gonna huddle in a few minutes.” you scramble to lock everything away and head back towards the central area of the ER. Robby stays back, expecting Jack to confront him on the sudden shift in your energy,

“Did you ask to have her on nights?” Robby starts before Jack can say anything, 

“Because she was doing perfectly fine on the day shift.”

“She’s in her last year of her residency and hasn’t worked a single night shift. Don’t you think she should have an opportunity to see what it’s like?” Jack avoids his question but Robby already knows the answer. he’s too tired to fight, the day was already gruelling and exhausting enough on him,

“Just don’t go easy on her. She’s talented and she’s got a real shot at this neuro fellowship she wants for next year.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t fuck up your protégé.” Jack says with his sarcastic flair. though he fails to mention that he’s serious on planning to show you what proper leadership looks like to him. 

𝜗ৎ 

Robby leaves PTMC right as he hears the usual HOOAH! from the nightcrawlers. he thinks the way Jack leads them is too laid back and filled with too many opportunities to bend the rules. he silently prays it doesn’t rub off on you. months worth of progress he’s made with you would all go to waste. 

“Eric Lake, twenty nine years old, had a bottle hit over his head at a bar tonight. multiple lacerations on the skull, possible skull fracture. BP, one thirty over seventy, heart rate, one twenty.” the paramedics call out as they pull the gurney towards trauma two. you look up to see Jack waving you over towards the room. 

as you enter trauma two, Jack is already working to get a gown on you,

“You’re going to need to make an incision on his skull. Neuro is on their way but there's a larger piece of glass that’s too deep. If we don’t do it now, it might press into his frontal lobe.” Jack says calmly as he can sense your panic set in.

“Doctor Abbot, I don’t think it’s a good idea.” you say with a shaky voice.

“I’ll walk you through it,” he says decisively. you walk over and he passes you a scalpel,

“Deep breath, go slow and gentle.” you take a deep breath in and follow his instructions exactly. once you make the incision, Jack takes the scalpel from your hand and passes you a set of tweezers next. you carefully remove the piece of glass and it feels like you can finally breathe properly again,

“Atta girl, let’s get him up for a CT scan next.” Jack says as he moves to take his gown and gloves off. you feel your cheeks heat up at his praise, following the same motions as him and removing your disposable gear. 

there’s a noticeable difference in the way Jack walks you through traumas. Robby was much less gentle, he would have reminded you of your neuro fellowship application a dozen times before you got to making an incision. he would’ve probably scolded you for taking your time, whereas Jack was calm, he trusted you and in turn you trusted yourself. 

the rest of the shift goes by as smoothly as possible. by the last hour or so, you’ve managed to finish most of your charts with your shaky, over caffeinated hands,

“You got a second to talk?” Jack says as he passes by you, waiting for you to follow. anxiety begins bubbling in your stomach, it’s a usual routine for Robby to put your mistakes on blast but it never fails to make you uneasy. Jack pulls you aside in one of the empty trauma rooms,

“You did good today, really good. You should be proud of how you handled that head laceration,” Jack starts. you look up at him nervously waiting for whatever caveat he has. he can see the nervousness in your eyes and something about the way you look at him makes him feel a sense of pity, 

“Mind if I give you some advice? Nothing bad, I promise,” you nod at his request, 

“You’ve got all the answers in you. All the right ideas and you need to own them more. Your technique, your approach with patients, it’s all great, but you need to be more confident in yourself.” you nod again at his advice. you’ve got all the answers in you repeats in your head like a new mantra,

“Thank you, Doctor Abbot. I appreciate it.” Jack nods in acknowledgement. 

from afar, Robby watches as Jack and you leave the trauma bay. he turns to Lena who is already carefully examining his every move,

“How’d she do tonight?” Lena already knows who he’s referring to,

“She did perfectly fine without you, Robinavitch.” Robby laughs dryly in response to Lena, shaking his head. perfectly fine without him sounds like an exaggeration. he wants to ask you how your first night went; were you pushing yourself hard enough still? are you learning better things from Jack than what he could’ve taught you? did you miss him? the questions continue popping up as he watches the way you interact with the night shift attending from afar. 

𝜗ৎ 

the end of your first week on nights was merciless– a mass crowd crush at a concert forced some of the day shift to come back in early, including Robby,

“He’s experiencing hyperkalemia, let’s administer nebulized albuterol now please!” you call out. Jack watches close by, nodding in agreement with each order you make. as Jack passes you by he quickly says,

“You’re doing great, keep calling orders just like that.” Robby watches as your eyes squint slightly, indicating a smile coming from under your mask. Jack leaves the crowded trauma room and heads towards the ambulance bay, Robby is quick to follow, grabbing his arm as the automatic sliding doors open, 

“She should’ve seen those hyperkalemia symptoms earlier, she didn’t deserve that win.” Robby says in a low and firm tone. Jack stops to face the other attending fully,

“But she still ended up identifying it, and that man is alive because of that,” Jack defends you quickly. Robby stares back with a deadpan expression, 

“Just because she doesn’t do it the way you would, doesn’t mean she’s not capable, Robby. A win is a win, and I’m still her attending on shift.” Robby is taken aback by Jack’s response, leaving him to walk back to the ambulance bay. 

you watch the two interact from afar as your patient is pushed out of the trauma room. you can’t make out their exact exchange but can only assume it’s about the way you’ve handed trauma after trauma tonight. 

as Robby turns to head back inside the ER, your eyes briefly meet. neither of you have spoken since you started on nights, nor has he tried to come over. Robby’s eyes have a familiar softness to them as you look at each other. part of you is torn between feeling guilty about not seeing him, but the other half is relieved to have your space, even if its temporary. you quickly look away, tearing your gown off and heading out of the trauma room through the rear door. there are silent prayers in your head hoping he isn’t following after you. 

the ER finally slows as the majority of the crowd crush patients either rest or head up to surgery. Jack watches as you type quickly to get through each chart. he can sense your fear of falling behind and having to pick up another patient so he rolls his chair beside you, casually looking at his watch,

“Down to the last hour,” you smile at his comment, still typing relentlessly. it had felt like there was no end in sight to today and you didn’t want to stop until then. Jack puts his hand on your forearm, finally putting a stop to your typing, “I’m really noticing improvement in your confidence especially in your verbal orders. Keep it up.” for the first time all day, you feel your shoulders drop and body begin to relax,

“Thank you, I’m really trying.” you say as your turn your body towards him.

“And I see it.” Jack holds his eye contact with you as he tries to continue emphasizing his praise to you,

“If you want, we could go for breakfast to celebrate your first week on nights?” heat spreads across your face quickly before you start frantically nodding. he flashes a smile, unable to hide his overwhelming excitement. 

the way Jack looks at you and treats you feels different than what you’re used to. you feel like a deer in headlights whenever he compliments you and this time, it felt genuine, authentic, like there isn’t some trick behind his words. the walls you put up to protect yourself from getting hurt are slowly coming down around him and you’re fucking terrified. 

he doesn’t tell you where you’re going, except that he knows you’ll enjoy it. the car ride together is quiet, he doesn’t push for conversations nor do you. it’s comfortable, there’s no pressure to talk about work or anything else, it’s a mutual space to silently decompress. Jack pulls into the parking lot of a small breakfast diner, looking over at you as he pulls the keys from the ignition,

“You okay?” he says with raised eyebrows, waiting on confirmation. you nod and head in together. 

it’s your traditional breakfast diner, a time capsule stuck in the 60s with posters reminiscent of those times. the floors have the usual black and white checker print with contrasting bright red booth chairs and tables. Jack guides you to a seat as a server passes you both menus,

“Did you pick this place ‘cause it reminds you of when you were a teenager?” you tease. it’s the first time he’s heard you make a joke in a while and he doesn’t care it’s at the expense of his age,

“Yeah, and sometimes I like to go to those renaissance fairs to remind me of my childhood.” he replies, smirking. you let out a laugh and he’s willing to do or say anything to hear it again. 

you both place your orders and it’s quiet again. you stare out at the window, still trying to decipher what him and Robby were talking about earlier,

“What’s on your mind?” Jack says, grabbing your attention away from the passing cars on the road. you stare back at him in hesitation,

“Can I ask you something?” Jack lets out a hum, opening the floor to you,

“What were you and Robby talking about earlier? When we were dealing with the crowd crush.” Jack breathes in deeply, shifting in discomfort,

“We just disagree sometimes on how we approach things.”

“Approach… Me?” you ask, still hesitant to continue. 

“Yeah, sort of.” Jack answers. it goes quiet again between the two of you,

“I heard you’re applying for a neuro fellowship next year?” he says, trying to steer the conversation away from Robby. he knows he’s failed when you’re suddenly the one shifting uncomfortably,

“I’m trying, yeah.” 

“Good for you. You’re great at what you do, neuro would be very lucky to have you.” Word for word, Jack repeats the exact same thing Robby said when you first told him about your plans to apply. something about hearing it again from Jack instead makes it sting,

“Is Robby writing your letter of recommendation?”

“He’s trying to apparently. Not sure he’s happy with me being on nights though so I haven’t really heard much about it.” Jack hums at your response, not pushing further. 

“Y’know for a while, I thought about changing to something else. I don’t know, maybe I felt burnt out but I just didn’t feel like I was good enough for it anymore.” there’s another small pause, Jack knows you aren’t finished yet,

“But that kinda changed recently, after being on the night shift. It reminded me why I’m here and that I’m good at what I do.” you say, looking at Jack. he tries to keep a straight face, feeling his chest swell with pride.

“You’re more than welcome to stay on nights.” he replies. you might just take him up on that. 

𝜗ৎ 

Can I come see you tomorrow? Saw you’re off. 

your half awake eyes scan over the text from Robby again. it’s been a few weeks since you’ve started on the night shift and neither of you have really spoken to each other outside of the usual patient hand offs. it was too early (or too late now that you worked nights) to be thinking about Robby and what your relationship meant. 

when you enter PTMC that evening, Robby is quick to follow you to your locker,

“Didn’t know we were ignoring each other now.” he starts with a slight bitterness,

“I haven’t had a chance to respond to anyone, Robby.” you say as you struggle to clip your badge to your scrub. it’s a half truth, you’ve been tired from the sleep schedule change but he didn’t need to know that. 

“I get it, you’re busy, I just didn’t—” he stops mid sentence to gently grab your badge and clip it on you. your arms drop as a click noise confirms that he’s secured it, 

“I didn’t think you swapping to the night shift would mean I wouldn’t see you anymore.” he says a bit quieter. you’re not sure how to respond to him. it’s not that you didn’t want to see him, you just didn’t want to deal with all the criticism and baggage that came with seeing him. Robby can tell you’re at a loss for words,

“How about I come over tomorrow, cook some dinner for you and show you the first draft of the recommendation letter I wrote?” before you can respond, Parker rounds the corner,

“Hey, that patient with dementia from last night is here again. She’s asking for you.” your attention is brought back to reality suddenly, remembering the events of your previous shift,

“Right, Mrs. Williams, I remember her. I’ll be there in a second.” you start to walk back towards the ER but Robby is quick to stop you,

“Let me know, okay?” you nod, trying to hurry back. 

𝜗ৎ 

the rest of the night passes by quickly. it’s a friday night and you learned quickly that weekend night shifts mostly included stitching up frat guys or tending to bar hoppers who drank too much. 

by the time the morning rolls around, you’ve already forgotten about Robby asking to come over. you had been preoccupied with whatever assignment Jack was throwing your way and for some reason that night, he was insistent on putting you on as many as possible. 

“Can we talk?” Jack says, interrupting you mid-chart. you follow Jack to a vacant room and there’s suddenly a familiar anxiety in your stomach that never goes away when you’re singled out by either attendings. 

“Here,” Jack says as he pulls out an envelope and hands it to you, 

“Open it.” he steps back with his arms behind his back, watching you carefully open the PTMC branded envelope up, eyes quickly skimming across the paper inside,

“To whom it may concern,

… A fantastic fit for a neurology fellowship…

… Extremely detailed in her work, highly competent, all while approaching every case with kindness and empathy…

… Knows all the answers within herself…

… I highly recommend her… she would benefit the team greatly…

Signed,

Dr. Jack Abbot

Attending Physician, Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Centre”

“Whatever you choose to do, I just hope you get to stay in Pittsburgh.” Jack says with a quieter voice, filling the silence. you stare in awe at the letter,

“You didn’t have to.” you managed to get out,

“I wanted to. It’s the least I could do.” the ‘least he could do’ had possibly changed the trajectory of your medical career. 

you’re not sure what to do with yourself but your body naturally goes in to wrap your arms around Jack’s neck. he holds you close, putting his chin on your shoulders. the smell of your light perfume mixed with your skin consumes him. you pull away first, your hands still around his neck and his hands suddenly on your waist. 

neither of you have spoken but the longer you look at one another, you swear you can hear each other's thoughts.Jack just hopes he isn’t misreading anything as he slowly leans closer to your face kissing you hesitantly but softly. you don’t move, you don’t pull away, instead letting him pull away first,

“Jack, I don’t wanna mess this up.” you say in an almost whisper. it’s the first time you’ve called him by his first name and he wants to hear it again and again, 

“I know.” 

“And I need you to know I’m not doing all of this because you gave me that letter.”

“I know,” he reiterates again. “We can take it slow.” you look at him before awkwardly leaning up to give him a small kiss. Jack smiles,

“We can start with breakfast again?” 

outside in the ER, Robby walks in starting every shift the same way; staring at the portrait of Doctor Adamson. his need to continue his legacy and be half as good of a mentor is constantly consuming him and the portrait was a reminder of it. Dana walks in a few minutes later, standing next to Robby. 

“He woulda been proud of what you’ve done with the place.” Dana starts.

“Yeah, I don’t know about that.” Robby huffs shaking his head. 

“A bit of advice?” Robby looks over at Dana before reluctantly nodding.

“Some of the best mentors I’ve had are the ones who trust their mentees to make the right decisions. I know he did with you,” Dana says, motioning at the portrait. she leans in a bit closer, “It also helps when there are no feelings attached.” Dana leaves Robby with her thoughts and heads towards the nurses station. 

in the corner of his eye, you and Jack exit a room and Robby immediately notices the bright smile on your face. it looks out of place for someone who just worked a twelve almost thirteen hour shift. he watches you walk together and notices a bright white envelope in your hands that he can only assume is your letter of recommendation. the two attending’s eyes meet and Jack gives Robby a sly smile— a smile that reads you’re too late. Robby sighs as he looks back up at Adamson’s portrait for one more moment. Jack, on the other hand, has you both exactly where he wants; Robby feeling sorry for his mistakes and you on the night shift with him for the reminder of your residency.

And so, when the scent of fresh petrichor and chilled rain hits his nose, his nostrils twitch with the peril of lightning, the risk spurring hot in his mind. Immediately, Pope stalks down the poolside, lone and silent, to where you hang off the deep end’s ledge. Your legs flutter in tread, churning water in the depths below you. Curiously, your gaze connects with his, and before you can glean his intentions, Pope is bending down to scoop you from your swim. Knees pop, hands tucked beneath your arms, and in a heave, he tugs you out, sodden, and into his hold. You gasp, obdurant and surprised, squirming in his carry back to his lounge chair.

“andy! wha– what are you doing?”

Pope’s expression is flat, setting you down upon the ground to swaddle a towel around your shoulders. 

“Playtime’s over. Rain’s comin’.” He mutters, slinging the fabric down your arms and chest, sinuous and brisk, to leach up the pool water from your bikini. You stay still, arms crossing and stance firming in slight irritation while Pope dries you in reverence.

“so?” 

His mouth quirks at your loutish retort, a sharp exhale puffing out in an unspoken ‘really?’ His face cranes up to the slate-grey clouds, to the slow crowd of a storm in the distant ether, before he flicks back to your little glower.

“You’re not getting struck by lightning. Not on my watch.” 

“that doesn't even make any sense. you hardly ever let me out of your sight anyways.”

Pope taps your hip in an absentminded chide to your tone, before grunting up to stand at full height.

“Yeah. ‘Cause the second I do, you’re knee-deep in trouble.”

He’s immutable, unrelenting, even as you scoff and roll your eyes. He busies himself in sticking the towel over your hair to lap up remaining droplets. They flow in thick tributaries over your neck and back, before Pope absolves the liquid away from flesh, scrunching the towel over your head to soak it up. You pout at him until he’s content with your dampened hair, his hands curling through wet strands, trailing down to squeeze shoulders. 

“Lightning and pools. Bad mix. We’re goin’ inside”

You sigh, secured against his side as he holds you close, branded against his body with every step. Inside, you’re immediately hit with the rush of cool-whirled air conditioning, and your skin blooms with shivers from still-moist skin. Pope instantly takes notice, peeling you down the hall to embed you in his sheets instead.

The afternoon cascades away in a quiet succession – he strips you of deluged swimwear, seals you in a t-shirt of his own, and shelters you away in his bedroom.

From behind the glass patio doors, you watch as the incandescence of the sun is soon snuffed out by a veil of imminent rain. A storm was finally brewing in the atmosphere, in merging fronts that threatened to shear some of the heat away. Cumulonimbus clouds crested over beams, and heat lightning began its pulse in electric spurts, all impending a turbulent summer thunderstorm. 

Until the rainfall, however, the humidity would endure. The dampened haze of slickened aeration, thankfully, is entirely absolved by the billow of box fan, and the thick current of the crisp air conditioning. And, if not for the dark cotton duvet, blanketed around you like a sheath from the air, you would be goose-skinned, shaky, and perhaps accompanied by a runny nose. Luckily, Pope ran hot. His blood seems to be persistently warmed, boiling through flesh and seeping his heat.

His speckled biceps have remained twined around you for the last few hours, tight and soft, wedging you between his weight and the mattress below. His hands are pressed beneath your shirt, surrounding and palming your belly, adhered to your solar plexus in an effort to keep you pinned to him, even in unconsciousness. You both reside in that milky, dreamlike groove between sleep and wake; creamy and absent, lost in a light summer slumber. 

The rain hasn’t yet commenced its pour, but a thunderpeal rolls, onerous and juddering through the air. The reverberation of the bolt is roared and thick, and it’s enough to stir wakefulness, tainted by a quivering breath and a quick-beated heart. You tense, and Pope's fingers twitch in reaction. Your altered heart rate automatically oscillates through his own body and deteriorates the edges of late-afternoon daze. He curves his abdomen tighter around you, coiling and close, his hot breaths cooing in your ear. 

“Jus’ the storm,” He murmurs, half slurred with sleep and his usual sweet rasp. His hand rubs over your belly, tucking you closer to press a kiss on the side of your throat. 

“it startled me.” You admit with a whisper, arching your back to absorb more of his heat.

“S’ just showin’ off… It’s not gonna touch you.” Pope promises, squeezing your mid in soothe. The simple assurance makes you smile and prospers into an impulse to see his freckled cheeks, his smile-creased lines, and darkened auburn curls. 

Carefully, you render yourself from his pinion, turning on the sheets to face your loving partner. He grunts in response – any space between you two is displeasing, even if it’s in a microsecond of adjustment. You turn, arms wrapping over his shoulders, chest to chest, and chin raised to study his face. His lips are closed in that typical, stoic downturn. The green of his eyes is snubbed out by the lack of light, drained by the dark for only deep pools of honey and bark colored tones to remain.

Pope’s freckles color and augment further in the summer, blooming in those brown, peppering flecks you adore so much. Resplendent and rich, they chase up the sides of his face, mounted upon his cheekbones like a final varnish against the lines of his crows' feet. They crumple when his (no longer a rarity) smile commences over his features. He’s gorgeous, truly. In parted-mouth grins, bearing his overbite and joy, in his unembellished, unadorned nods or quiet responses, in his corneas, that carry a forest of moss and amber greenage. Even when the dreary descends upon him, when the swirl of gloom and dispondence of his past threatens to drown him in a vicious swell of overwhelm, when he cries in quivers, sobbing in response to reassurances, he is beautiful. 

You tell him in trying praise each day, just to receive a fierce, ramifying blush that washes out tanned cheeks, and an impassive muttered, “no,” in reply. To you, it’s an incontestable truth, woven into the myelin sheath of your mind, and impossible to melt away – he’s more than pretty, more than sweet, more than any positive adjective could ever describe him, that even perfect seems to be incommensurate.

Pope doesn’t perceive himself as any of that in the slightest; he just thinks of himself as yours. He’s opined his identity entwined to you, prided himself in your shared love; And well, he certainly believes that to be of something relative to perfection – immaculate and impeccable. You and him.

You don’t verbally disburse and deluge him in adulation, not right now. It’s spoken in how your fingers twist around sleepy curls, in how you blossom a smile while studying each blemish and curve of his face — like every line is marble and each blot is seeped in gold, kintsugi and glimmering, and all yours to cradle and revere upon.

A thick arm wraps around the curve of your abdomen; it’s a silent confession to will you closer, to absorb and bear you confined to him. His hand presses firmer against the small of your back, searing his palm to skin, as if he’s attempting to simmer the texture and sensation into his own cells, preserving your softness within nucleic memory, forever. 

Your free hand lifts and traces the speckled glow of brown constellations, his freckles, struck by the sun and leached beneath his layers of skin. 

“You’re staring.” 

His words are a rumble, soft and quiet, although his gaze has remained hinged upon your face just the same. It’s slightly specious; Pope himself is quite the ‘starer.’ It’s involuntary most of the time. When he’s gone astray; lost in thought, provoked by a sight, conjured due to an ill-fated memory. He used to leer in contemplation or in contrition. Now, he just finds himself looking at you. It's a concentration of adoration, charged and sustained between your entwined gaze.

“mhm.” You nod, both hands crawling and tangling against his scalp. Fresh air from the fan twines itself through his curls, dancing them against the sides of his face. Pope practically dissolves beneath you, his head dipping back towards the pillow, inches from your face as you hold him. His eyes flutter shut for a brief moment, puffing out a hot breath before his hook over your waist gripes shut, eliciting a gasp from your mouth. 

He tugs you under, your palms loosening from his soft brunette trusses, and there, he suspends himself above you. Chest to chest, Pope props himself up on the crux of his arms, enough to keep you trapped and tucked against the sheets. 

His face lurches into the curve of your throat, and he needily aspirates your scent – salt, vanilla, chlorine. His hips twitch against your thigh in a compulsory jump. It’s the wakefulness, the helplessness; the sight of his sweet girl, serried against him on this summer afternoon. Something striking and hot tugs in his gut, pulling pangs of want to his groin with the desire to be closer.

“I like you like this. Under me.” 

His face is still flush against your shoulder, as if attempting to blend himself into your skin. You smile against his temple, a single hand of yours slipping over his shoulders to stripe gently against his spine. 

“me too.”

You whisper back, eliciting Pope to release a bitten-back groan, rolling his cheek against your skin, and forcing out a hardly audible sound of, “Yeah.”

He attempts to slow his breaths. The biological process of exhaling air has twisted itself into an impossible feat — they’re quick aspirations, radiating down his throat all too fast. 

You’re sleep soft, warmed from his sheets, and seeping out your love for him, through every breath. Pope’s lungs expel your scent, his eyes are tethered to the side of your face. They trace down the line of your face: cheek, jaw, chin. Through supple flesh, he detects your heart's rhythm, a gentle drub in a notch of your throat, and for a moment — for this moment, that’s all there is for him.

Your pulse is his world, and Pope can’t subdue the pursuit of his pelvis, swiveling his body to notch up against you once more.

“Want you,” he manages to impose.

You nod, rubbing down his broad, sticky back, your touch growing more sensual as you speak a soft admittance. “yeah… i know. i can feel it, andy.” 

Pope groans, lips, slightly chapped from brutal sunrays and heat, brush against your collarbone, before his teeth stroke against a shoulder. “Yeah. Not my fault you're like this.”

Your palms trail to a halt at his tailbone, rubbing over the round indentures at the base of his spine, drawing tiny circles in the shallow divots curated through his muscle and bone.

“mm? like what?” 

A bicep of his tenses when he descends a hand down against your chest, teasing one of your nipples, taut and sensitive beneath the shroud of your shirt, thumbing over the areola. 

“Like my little baby. My kid.” He speaks, his eyes all dark honey-pooled, dipped with ardor, and pinned to your breasts.

His graze sprouts to slightly ambitious, a little rough, when he pinches a peak between his thumb and index finger, just to induce the further pebbling. The sharp ache induces a squeal beneath him, and your thighs jerk up in response, brushing the bulge of his cock through ink-black boxers. 

Your shrill reaction settles to a gasp at the stiffness, in the sudden heat of him settling into your flesh. Instinctively, you push your knee harder against the thick line of him, rocking the joint there to be a provision of relief. 

Unfortunately, this does not favor well; Pope’s not having it — not tonight. He’s not restricting himself to rubbing his swelled dick in the seam between your body and bed. Not when the feel of you has developed into fizz under the surface of his skin. Spright, and soon smoldering into thirsting ache, a need to be pressed between and inside his little girl. Surrounding and enveloped, sticky and soldered inside you. His only world.

Pope groans, before two palms clench; one, encompassing upon a thigh, while the other spans a hip to pivot his needy baby away from where he’s pulsating and prodding against fabric.

“Don’t. Don’t start actin’ up with me. Behave.” 

You nod automatically, lip quivering as his eyes peer to yours — he’s perceptive to your want and your current obedience. The heat of his palms transposes to where he’s clutched on you, and the pressure and insinuation of the weight shudders a rhythm of need into your sweet cunt. A seep of arousal slips from folds and into your undies. 

“I want words, kid. Gonna be good?” His voice is husked, heaved with the direct authority he applies to you when there’s even a semblance of misbehavior.

“i– i will… ‘m gonna be good.” You whimper out, reactionary to his tone and grip.

“Yeah? For who?”

Your body bubbles up with goose flesh, and you shiver, purely from knowing what Pope wants. He’s yours, and he adores the claim you both share upon one another; he needs that reassurance, the initiation of such unconditional intimacy.

“‘m gonna be good… for you, dad.”

Pope is forced to ram a moan back down his esophagus, grunting instead while using your lips to drown and thrust his want back down. His hips rut despite his instilled resistance, his length palpitating and inflamed with need, grinding into your thighs while his hands clamber to hike off your shirt.

His mouth is latched against yours, demanding and rough. The kiss is wanton in a match of wet saliva, hot tongue, and involuntary whimpers. The flame in your belly is alit, radiating in a sloppy pulse between your thighs. He’s imperious, enforcing, sucking on your lips enough to trick a whine from your throat. When Pope pulls away, the fabric of your top is suspended over your breasts, tucked beneath your chin.

His eyes roam your belly, the plush skin of your chest, and then his fat fingers hook beneath the waistband of panties. Your slickened, swelled pussy hits chilled air, and you still, canting them up once.

“Off.” Pope mutters, his jaw gesturing to what still veils your collarbone while he strips away the thin fabric over your knees. 

You let out a pitiful sound, eager with shaky hands, and struggling terribly to shed something as painfully simple as a shirt. Hands and arms get stuck, and you whine out until Pope assists; He peels off your top, tossing it to the other side of the bed. When the material is pulled away entirely, your eyes meet his own dark gaze.

“A real fuckin’ baby, huh? Need Daddy to do everything for you.” His lips twitch up into a near mock smile as he palms your already sticky, hot pussy. You don’t disagree, and it’s certainly evident with the way you gasp, laying your hips firmer to feel the meat of his hand rubbing gently over already squelching folds. 

“This what you wanted, kid? Hm?” Pope rasps, watching as lashes flutter and lips part. 

His fingers finally make contact then on your wet, puffed-out bud, circling your needy flesh to view your pussy throb and dribble out more arousal, just for him. “Tiny button loves my touch.” 

“ya…” You moan, prattish and soft, the sound carried by the cool aeration surrounding you both. “d– dada… oh–”

Pope’s breath hitches, his fingers stilling at your utterance. Dada – not Dad, not Daddy, but a babble, fissured between desperate breaths and dazed desire. Like you’re just his tiny slip of girl – his to love, cherish, cry, and make cum, over and over again. His arousal furls faster, a heavy heat already festering at the base of his cock.

“Fuck.” Pope breathes at your sweet whimper, unable to recede the small blush that’s breaching over his speckled cheeks. “Again. Need to hear it again, baby.”

The murmured demand is accompanied by a firm rub into your puckered little clit, more pressure in smaller circles, just so he can admire your fluttering hole, dripping and undulating on nothing. He knows just what he’s doing. He’s prepping you to cum before he even sinks himself inside. Getting you closer, closer, so when he plunges himself inside, your desperate, plush cunt will just instantly puddle up, slick and needy, to suckle him hard.

“mmh— dada… da—!” You moan when he dips two fingertips to press against your perineum, the tender, velvet-soft palpitation of your little pussy pulsing through and into Pope’s own hand. A second heartbeat, entirely coaxed, composed, for and due to him.

“That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? Dada touching you here?”

You nod, and two of his thick fingers finally nestle themselves in a languid push, inch by inch, into your sopping hole. Your delicate flesh spread around them, widening, your feeble hips slotting up for more pressure. His thumb squishes against your swelled clit, firming over your little bud to coax the stretch easier. Pope’s digits twist deeper into your wetness, fitting and propped right against the tingling, shuddering spot inside you. He pivots them up into your heat, watching you shake.

“Yeah? You need me to rub you good, baby? Make it all better for you? Make your little cunnie cum?”

You bob your head, eyes closed and mouth agape in pure pleasure. You’re weeping arousal out in hot, syrupy little runs, glistening against where pelvis meets thigh. He grinds his fingers in, stroking up, curling, pulling them out halfway just to thrust back in. 

You feel the flutter behind your navel, the familiar burn that curves itself into your pussy with the throb to orgasm. Pope can tell. He can always tell. The tremble in your belly, the stutter of your hips, the incessant whimpers that involuntarily trickle out from your lips – it's all an irrefutable confession, a blatant truth in your impending release. 

“Fuck–” Pope grunts, head hanging low while feeling your cunt commencing its harsh, clenching beat against his fingers. God, he just cannot wait to have his cock inside you – deep seated and rutting into the deepest parts of your body, sluiced up in your heat, squeezed tight within your warmth, before soaking his baby himself. He strokes the squishy, slick spot inside you faster, your whines louder and risen above the air conditioner’s soft hum. 

“Little pussy’s slopping all over my hand – gonna make a fuckin’ mess? Just ‘cause Dada’s touching you?” 

Unmuddled moans fall from your lips, your body tensing in a sharp jounce when your orgasm strikes through you, licking flames through the nerves of your clit, and spiking a burst of pleasure in your lower belly. Your cunt slips out your cum, creamy and hot, while Pope continues thrusting you through the extended moments of rapture. His dick prods at his boxers, cresting in a thick line through fabric while he subtly cants his pelvis against the material. His underwear is wet with his precum, his cockhead so swollen and nearly inflamed with want.

The fucking of his fingers finally slows, and his free hand rubs over your bare stomach. His brows furrow at your panting breaths, your softened whimpers, and pleasure-limped body.

“You okay?” He breathes gently.

Your eyes peep open to a sluggish squint, pursing your drooly lips as your cunt thuds in sensitivity against him.

“mm– mhm.” You hum, the very best you can manage through the blear of frisson. A lazy, sated smile curves on your lips, and Pope grants you one last deep curl before creeping his fingers out. His own lips twitch up in a reflective upturn as your sweetness makes its way into the cavern of his mouth. His tongue wraps around his own fingers, while his hazel eyes stare at your own, reveling in that spacey little look on your face. 

The scent of sex and the sweetness of petrichor clouds over his senses. There’s no sound but the torrential, quick pour outside, and your breathy, little whines. 

Pope’s free hand strokes up the distance of your abdomen – belly, to breast, to shoulder, before infirming on sheets to conclusively cage you in. As soon as his fingers depart from his hot mouth, he’s rushing to cheek, kissing you in eager presses. It’s a potent benediction. All his pure affection for his little baby, implanted in every press. You gasp quietly at the sensation, his lips sojourning down your face in too-sweet, unreservedly intimate caresses.

His mouth stays nearly pressed against yours as he speaks. “Daddy’s gonna get real close to you now. Okay?”

You’re too blissed out in pleasure to comprehend what he means, until the swollen crown of his cock meets tender, worked-up flesh. Pope groans above you, his palms curving over your hips – like the barest touch of his tip against sticky cunt is going to make him orgasm, and he can’t; He can’t just yet. He won’t allow himself to, not until he’s slotted in your heat, tummy to tummy, and rutting where he can spurt deep inside. You squeak below him when the first soft ring of slick muscle relents, his fat, mushroom bulbed tip squishing in. 

“a– andy…” You whimper, weakly lifting your arms, your limbs seemingly cement-filed and much too weighted, but still so desperate to cling with the discomfiting stretch. Your fingers involute in a meek display of grabby hands for his biceps. 

“Mmh– Fuck–!” Pope hisses through his teeth, eyes shut tight as his crows’ feet cut in deep creases. His balls are already cinching up, semen swirling and needy to spill, and your little squeeze on his arms, small and whining at the stretch, surely doesn’t assist him.

“Fuck, baby– too.. too tight.” He groans, his hips nudging his fat dick a few inches further into your little weeping pussy. Your slick, hot walls quiver with each slow roll. His pelvis curves in, circling precise grinds to feel each needy, tender pull of your cunt. 

Saliva gathers in the corner of your mouth, still parted and squeaking with each thrust. A tiny trickle of drool slips down your chin, bedewing skin and the pillow below you. Eyes glassy and half-lidded, faraway from the festering ache and pressure, Pope secerns that his sweet baby is already entirely fucked out. The look on your face pries out a grunted, unguarded moan, raw from his throat. His brawny figure plunges back, his eyes glued to the sight between limp thighs. He’s enamored by the view – the sticky gush of your cunt, wet with the threads of slick that cling to the jutting vanae of his cock. The flesh he can visibly see, inflamed and suckling the sensitive throb of him. His belly burns with his orgasm, the pleasure fluttering up through thick muscle, settling in the base of his spine. His hips rut forward before he can help it, shoving the fat length back into your sloppy little hole, plush and weeping in the adhesion of your bodies. He’s slotted himself deeper, dragging his cockhead into the overwrought, palpitating nerves that are rooted deep inside of you. 

“Mmnnh–! Fe– feel that, baby?” Pope raspily blithers, assaying his voice through each propel of his hips. 

“Yeah? My dick, right up in your sweet little pussy?”

Another tiny whine pummels through your throat when he fucks up into your glistening cunnie, his belly frictioning against your swelled-up little bud. 

“Dad’s real deep in there..” Pope nearly whines through little hiccuping breaths. “So– so deep in my baby.”

His rhythm mimics the sky outside. A pulse of hot electricity, buzzing between desperate flesh. His chest and arms perforce against you when a blaze of lightning gleams through the dim summer sky.

Lightning snaps a moment later, in a vociferation that makes you squeak. 

His pecs pull flush with your breasts, his lips kissing up your throat, all clingy with love. Your trembling clit receives more weight of his tummy, soft and rubbing over your bundle with every grind. 

Your body’s clench is always relentless. Suckling against the stiff nerves of his length, tensed on his thick cock, tiny walls trembling as if his kid is attempting to entrap him inside forever.

You’re close, and he is too.

“Does Dad feel good?” Pope mumbles through kisses.

You nod, and a little pleading noise is pulled out from your gut. Pope grunts in response, and his hand snakes down between your sticky bodies, pivoting his hips up and catching a sharper angle. Nitid fingers nudge to your clit, and a whine crests out from you with the touch. “Yeah, baby? Gonna let Dada feel that sloppy lil’ cunnie spill?” 

The words reverberate down through your belly, and your cunt hinges up in a tremoring ripple. Your vision blurs at the edges, your body and mind too fuzzy, except for the single focus of his cock, fucking you through your pleasure in messy, uncoordinated ruts. His baby, whining and gushing on him, in deep, suckling squeezes, strips away the remainder of Pope’s demeanor. 

The need in his gut burns too much, his balls hardening in the exigency to orgasm.

“Please–” Pope whimpers, panting his exhalations against your mouth. “Please, wan— want you to kiss Daddy. Want you to kiss me while I cum.” 

And oh, as soon as your lips meet his, your Dad just melts. The kiss is messy, eminently so with how his body jitters in release, with how his moans fall out before you can swallow them. Pope’s brows knit, eyes cinching when he accedes to biological demand. Thick, scorching spates, flood out of his cock’s slit, seeping into your aching cunt. He cums in harsh pulses, filling you deep – too deep, coating the inside of your pussy and cervix. Sweet, pleasured whimpers veil over each exhale of his, a whine for each heavy spurt that he deluges inside of you.

“I love you. My little baby.” Pope murmurs, his voice a little slurred, his face still nuzzling into the side of your neck. 

You respond back, your timbre soaked with affection and that sleepy, post sex haze, “i love you, dad.” 

You can feel him preen into your throat, his weight clung to yours, reliant and cuddling, softening inside you. This is the only place where Pope feels real. Like you’re the only place that’s safe for him.

Your words form like prayers, and each breath he feels at his temple, is like a promise. The only noise he comprehends is your voice amongst the rain, and he longs to just stay in your arms. It’s only your touch that seems to blur the past, tarnish the anguish, all in avidity to bloom something more. 

Here, with his sweet girl pinned under his body, all Pope can think of is how purely happy he is. During this summer rainfall, lying cozy in his sheets, he feels happiness — for you, for him, and for your shared future, soon to come.

The boy stammers, pales at the sight of the gigantic, tattooed man beside you, and takes maybe a full twenty seconds to stammer out his next words.

“I-I…are you her…”

“Oh yeah, I’m her husband. Fresh outta the psych ward and everything. Now beat it, before I smash your head against the table.”

The boy bolts like Craig set the booth on fire, and you glare up at him.

“I was on a date.”

Craig laughs, like you were genuinely joking. “Not exactly your type.”

“You don’t know what my type is.”

“Pretty sure I do. I shared a wall with your type for most of my life.”

You clench your jaw. “What do you want, Craig?”

He sits across from you, all friendly familiarity, and smiles. “I need your help.”

“I don’t do jobs anymore.”

He raises his eyebrow, and glances pointedly towards Ethan in the corner of the bar, trying to save face by ordering himself another drink.

“I told you, that was a date.”

“C’mon, don’t lie to me. You think I don’t know when you’re working an angle?”

You narrow your eyes a little. “Okay, fine. I don’t do jobs with the Codys anymore.”

Craig’s smile falls a little.

Burning rubber in your nose. Panic in your throat. The shriek of the tires drowned out by your own voice as you grab frantically at the wheel.

“Baz what the fuck are you doing? What are you doing? Turn around!”

Baz’s hand darts out, and he slams you back against the seat so hard your teeth knock together. “It’s too late.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? We can’t just leave him-“

“We have to. He was too late. You know the rules. It’s him or all of us.”

You’re frantic. Panicked. You even start to yank at your own car door, like you might jump out and run back to the bank on your own two feet, and Baz slams you backwards again.

When he makes it to the house, you punch him in the face before you even get out of the car. He takes it, head whipping to the side like he expected this reaction from you. When you get out, you punch him again. It takes both Craig and Deran to pull you away.

“He’s out of prison, you know.”

You take a sip of your drink. “Good for him.”

“He keeps asking about you.”

Yeah, bullshit. “I’ll bet he does.”

Craig sucks his teeth, and seems to decide to pick a different battle.

“So, it’s a good job. You barely have to do anything. We just need your help with-“

“I don’t do jobs with the Codys anymore, Craig. Also, I don’t know if you realize this, but using my ex as an incentive to help you isn’t really boosting my interest.” Ex. Your ex. It still feels so weird to think of him like that.

Because he’s just…Pope. Andrew Cody. The love of your life since you were a teenager. Even when you were together, ‘boyfriend’ felt like too simple of a word to describe what he was to you. It was too intense for such a lame title. Too full of a love so deep it bordered on obsession.

And then it was all over. Just like that.

Craig is making a face. You frown back at him. “What?”

“It’s my job, okay?” He runs a hand through his hair, flexes his fingers on his beer. “And it’s good. I’ve worked my ass off at planning it, and Baz is out, so I just…I need it to go well. And it will go well if you help.”

You grip your drink a little tighter. Fucking Craig. Fucking asshole with the terrible decision making skills and good heart. Fuck him for being your friend. For making you care about him. For giving you that look that’s making you feel like-

“Fuck. Fine.” God help you. “Fine. Fine. Okay. Fine.” He grins at you, and you glare back at him. “But I don’t want to see Pope.”

Now it’s Craig’s turn to give you a look. “About that…”

-

Your outfit is so fucking uncomfortable you want to die.

Okay, maybe it’s not the outfit. Maybe it’s the anxiety twisting in your stomach so intensely you think you might vomit in the driveway of the Cody house.

You’ve been here since he went to prison. Since you broke up. Not for long - you haven’t exactly been in the habit of hanging out by the pool or anything - but whether you’re here for a minute or an hour this damn driveway always whips the memory of that horrible day back into your mind more violently than a slap.

-

“Put me down. Put me the fuck down I’m gonna-“

“Jesus, relax!” Baz throws his hands up, angry and defensive and so very punchable right now. Deran’s got you locked against him, feet kicking in the air like you might be able to land a blow if you just try hard enough. “I had to go! He got held up or some shit, and if the cops caught us the whole family would have gone down.”

“You just fucking left him there! We could have-“

“We didn’t have a choice. I made a decision. I saved our asses. We knew this was a risk. It always is.”

“Fuck you.”

“Yeah, yeah. Fuck me.” Baz runs a hand through his hair, and you know he’s heartbroken too but you couldn’t give less of a shit right now. His nose is still bleeding from where you clocked him a minute ago. “Fuck me for making the hard decisions for this family.”

Rage rises up in your throat again, threatening to choke you as you kick harder. “Boo fucking hoo. You left him! You fucking left him and-“

“Calm down.” It’s Deran’s voice now. Deran, who sounds choked up and is still holding you locked in a vice grip. The sound of it makes you look up at Craig, whose eyes are shining with tears, and…

Your feet drop back to the pavement, the sound and sight of the boys’ pain deflating you almost alarmingly quickly, and you pat the arm around you in both comfort and reassurance.

“Okay.” You breathe, shaky, and Baz’s shoulders drop.

“Okay.” He repeats, and the sound of his voice makes you grit your teeth. “Now that we’re all calm, we need to figure out what to do.”

-

He’s in the yard.

Three years later, and he’s just… in the yard. Standing there. Staring at you. And what did you expect? That he would drag himself out of a grave? Appear before you in an explosion of fire and blood?

He looks at you. You look at him. He doesn’t move an inch.

He looks good. Just as beautiful as the day you lost him. You hate him for it.

“Hi.” His voice sounds even lower than it used to. He looks bigger. Like he worked out a lot in prison.

You raise your eyebrows. Something curls deep in your core at the sight of him. Three years later, and you still can’t look at this man without feeling a physical reaction. “Hi.”

-

“You’re bleeding.”

You reach up, swiping the back of your hand over your lip and frowning at the smear of red across your skin, illuminated by the moonlight reflecting off the pool.

“You’re not the only one who can get into fights.”

Andrew Cody looks at you, with those dark eyes that always seems to see through whatever lie you try to  tell him or even yourself, but you meet his gaze with the defiance of a teenage girl who really doesn’t want to talk about it.

“Are you…staying here again?” He asks, standing still from his spot beside the pool. You’re on a chair. Your face hurts. Your body aches. You nod.

“Smurf says I can crash for a few days.” In exchange for help, of course. Help with jobs. Connections. Money. You don’t mind. It’s better than being home, or hiding out on the beach again.

He still hasn’t moved. “Are you…gonna stay in Craig’s room? With him?”

You almost laugh out loud. Craig, big and rowdy and often immature even for a teenager, is closest to you in age. He might be your best friend. He definitely has a crush on you, and you’re almost positive that Smurf is angling for the two of you to get together.

“Why? Would that bother you?”

“Yes.”

You look up at him. He looks down at you. Slowly, almost unaware that you’re doing it, scoot over on your chair to make room, and he takes the invitation. Your heart hammers in your chest.

His hand comes up. Fingers brushing over a bruise on your cheek and eyebrows twitching with…

“Stop looking at me like that.”

He doesn’t. “Like what?”

“Like you want to kill someone for me.”

“I do.”

“I know.”

He’s close. His thumb is still brushing over your cheek, and his eyes fall to your lips. You think he might kiss you. You don’t think you’ve ever wanted anything more.

But this…this house, as chaotic and dangerous as it may be, is the only somewhat stable thing you have right now. The only safe place to go when things get too fucked up at home. When your petty criminal of a father takes things too far, or debt collectors come banging on the door. Smurf lets you stay here, and Smurf is always working an angle. You’ve told yourself a thousand times that, in exchange for this, you’ll go along with whatever plan she has for you.

This is not that plan.

And yet, as his face ducks closer to yours, fingers curling in your hair, you wonder what it would be like. To feel Pope’s lips against your own. To feel his body against yours as he lies you down right here on this pool chair. You think, despite his violent tendencies and episodes of something your uneducated mind can only call insanity, that he would be gentle with you. Like he always is. You don’t have much experience with boys, but you think he would make sure that you felt comfortable. He’d probably kiss you through any nervousness, whisper reassurances into your skin as he peels off your clothing, make you feel safe the whole time and-

His lips brush over your own, and you pull back.

“I’ve gotta…go inside.”

He searches your face, and you know that his observant eyes see the want there. Still, he nods, and stays where he is as you pull yourself to your feet.

-

“We should talk.”

You laugh, humorless, and push past him into the house. You don’t get far before you feel his hand on your arm, turning you towards him.

“Let go of me.”

He does, but he tilts his head and furrows his brow in that intense way he has. The familiar sight makes you ache. “We should talk.”

“I think the time for talking passed somewhere around three years ago, Andrew.” You grumble, and he fixes you with an expression so filled with helplessness and pain that you almost crumble right then and there.

You ignore him, and push your way into the house. Craig whistles at the sight of your too-tight dress and heels, and Deran greets you with a familiar smile.

As you start to plan, to prepare for the day ahead, you don’t turn around. You don’t look at Pope. His eyes don’t leave you the entire time, and it’s almost physically impossible to keep yourself from leaning back against him like you have a million times, over the course of a million similar meetings.

But you don’t look at him, and when it’s time to leave, you storm out of the house before he has a chance to catch your arm again.

The job. Focus on the job.

You can do this.

-

You lost your virginity to Craig Cody two weeks after you and Pope nearly kissed by the pool.

You don’t know why you did it. Well, you do. It’s what Smurf wants. It’s what Craig wants. It’s what you should want. You and Craig are well matched. You love him in whatever way you do. He’s your best friend. You know how to keep him in check when he acts like an idiot, and he knows how to make you laugh when the weight of everything feels like it’s going to fucking crush you.

So you had a couple of beers at a party. You grabbed his hand before he could get too wasted. Even for a teenager, he’s already fucking huge. Handsome, too. You know the other girls stare at him. You should feel proud that he follows you like a lost puppy the moment you start tugging him towards his room.

It was awkward. And messy. And nothing like the movies say it’s supposed to be like. You know he tried to make it…special, or whatever. He was gentle. He asked if you were okay between kisses as he laid you back on his unmade bed and helped you out of your clothes. When he pushed in, you’d gasped and clawed at his back, and he’d mumbled apologies into your neck and waited until you nodded that you were okay, but he still moved just a little too fast. A little too clumsily. It didn’t hurt too badly, and it wasn’t exactly unpleasant the whole time, but you didn’t feel fireworks or any of the overwhelming pleasure you thought you were supposed to.

When it was over, he’d kissed you, and you’d smiled up at him, and then he’d rolled over and pulled you into his chest and laughed.

“That was awesome.” He breathed, and you nodded. “You’re awesome. Was it…did you?”

“Yeah.” You think you did. There was a minute, somewhere towards the end, when it had felt pretty good. Not the explosion of pleasure you’ve always heard about, but that’s fine.

“Awesome.” He kissed your forehead, and sat up a little. “Wanna beer?”

You’d smiled, heart swelling with affection that should definitely feel more…romantic than it does. But it’s still affection. You still care about him a lot. Maybe this is supposed to be right. “Yeah.”

~

Pope Cody hasn’t looked at you in a week.

Smurf seems more than happy with you sleeping in Craig’s room. With him wrapping an arm around you when you all sit on the couch together. He’s even developed a habit of ducking down and pressing a kiss to your cheek when you’re standing in the kitchen, or before he does a backflip into the pool. It’s fun. You think you can get used to it.

You haven’t had sex again. He’s asked, almost every night, but you’ve always come up with some kind of excuse and he’s always responded with nothing harsher than a disappointed smile. And yet, you both stay up almost all night every night, talking and laughing and playing video games like you always have since the day he first brought you to this house. This family.

But Pope won’t look at you, and you can’t ignore it anymore.

Because he came home from a job with a black eye and bruised knuckles, and now he’s standing in the yard and Smurf’s chastising him for being reckless is still ringing in the air. He didn’t talk. He didn’t argue. He just stared at the pool and refused to look at her. At you.

And now you’re alone with him, and everyone has left to go regroup or party or whatever, and he still. Won’t. Look. At. You.

“Andrew.” You rarely use his real name. He tenses, but he doesn’t turn around.

“Look at me.”

He doesn’t. You snap.

“Why won’t you look at me?” You grab his arm, and turn him toward you, and he pulls it away.

“Stop it.”

“No.” You grab him again, and this time he catches your arm, fingers around your wrist in a vice grip that is firm but nowhere close to painful. His eyes remain on the pavement.

“You haven’t talked to me since I got with Craig.” You say, and his jaw clenches at your words. You can see his cold expression, now, if not his eyes. He’s older than you, but his face still holds the smooth roundness of youth. He’s just as handsome as always. Your heart stutters a little, like it’s supposed to with Craig.

When he still doesn’t answer, you shove at his chest. The sudden movement makes him release your wrist, but he doesn’t budge. “Fucking look at me! Why won’t you at least look at me? Are you seriously this pissed off because I hooked up with him? Stop being an asshole and tell me why you’re acting like this!”

“Because it should have been me!” He finally snaps, finally looks at you, and the sharpness of his voice paired with the intensity behind his dark eyes is enough to nearly make you stumble backwards. “It should have been me. You know it should have.”

He looks almost crazed, now, shoulders hunched and fists clenched and feet moving towards you until you take an instinctive step backwards. The movement doesn’t stop him. He still comes closer.

“You…you let him touch you. And kiss you. And do all of the things I’ve…” he trails off, and your breath freezes in your lungs, “the things I’ve wanted to do since I met you.” His eyes drop to your mouth, back up to your eyes, and he’s close. So close. “It should have been me.”

You don’t move back again. You can feel the warmth of his proximity in the chilly night air. Your voice is too quiet to your own ears. “That’s…not the plan.”

He’s not breathing regularly. His hands are still clenched at his sides. He looks you over, like he’s trying to fight it, before something finally breaks.

“Fuck the plan.” His voice is almost a growl, and you don’t have time to respond before his hand is on the back of your head and his mouth is against yours.

The world explodes.

His lips are warm and rough, demanding and desperate and sending fire through every vein and pore in your body. You choke on a whimper, surprising yourself with the sound, and Pope groans in response as his tongue sweeps its way into your mouth. Your hands fly up, curling in the fabric of his shirt before moving up to his hair like you don’t know how to touch all of him at once. His own hands move down, lips only leaving yours long enough for him to grab the backs of your thighs to lift you against him before he’s kissing you again.

You don’t even register that you’re moving, too caught up in the desperation and the feeling of something hot burning in your core. He presses you against a wall, trails his lips down your throat until you’re gasping for air, before he kisses you again and moves deeper into the empty house.

And then he’s lowering you back onto his bed, crisp sheets smooth against your back, and you barely let him pull away enough to crawl over you before you’re kissing him again with so much need that it’s almost embarrassing.

His rough palms are sliding up beneath your shirt, breath turning shaky at the feeling of your skin against his, and it feels so good you think you might die.

“Is this okay?” He whispers, lips against your cheek, and you nod.

“Please.” You don’t know what you’re begging for, but the sound of it makes him moan as he pulls your t-shirt over your head and trails his mouth down over your collarbone.

His own shirt comes next. You roll on top of him, and kiss and bite down his chest until he’s tangling his fingers in your hair and pulling your mouth back up to his, rolling you both once more until you’re on your back and your hands are fumbling with his belt, unpracticed and clumsy, until he shushes you gently and reaches down to help you with a lingering kiss to your cheek.

“Tell me if it’s too much.” He rasps after a while, and you can barely breathe enough to tell him that you will. You settle for a nod, and his rough palm slides over your stomach, up over your body until he’s cradling your cheek.

“I’ve got you.” He whispers, and the soft words are almost comical with how hard he’s trembling with restraint. With how dark his eyes are, how intense his touch feels. “Breathe. I’ve got you.”

You nod, and when you smile he smiles back, shy and nervous behind that starved expression, and that one look alone makes you feel like you’re floating.

It’s nothing like Craig. It isn’t like Pope is a whole lot more practiced, or some kind of sex god or anything, but every movement feels so much more…right. He slides his hand beneath your thigh, guiding it around his waist and watching your face as your bodies join together for the first time, and the noise that pulls its way out of your throat barely sounds human.

His breath comes on a shaky exhale, eyes never leaving yours as he searches your face for signs of pain or discomfort, and when he finally starts to move you feel something coiling so tightly in your stomach it almost hurts.

Every slow thrust, every reverent touch, tightens that coil. Every kiss. Every whispered word against your skin as his fingers catch your own and he presses your joined hands into the pillow above your head.

You reach the edge so quickly it shocks you, free hand clawing at his back as you bite down on his shoulder and fireworks explode behind your vision.

The feeling is so intense that, for a moment, you forget where you even are. You forget your own name. All you know, all you feel, is Pope moving with you. Whispering praise and promises of adoration against your lips and throat. When he follows you into oblivion, it’s with a breathless moan of your name.

After, he holds you like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever touched. He traces his hands over your skin. He follows the caresses with his lips. And, when you finally remember how to breathe again, you giggle.

He pulls back from your throat with a raised eyebrow, a smile curling on his own lips, and nuzzles his nose into your cheek. “What?”

“I didn’t…” you didn’t know it could feel that good. You didn’t know anything could feel that good. “I…wow.”

He really does smile, now. He tucks you closer to him, barely letting you go as he pulls you beneath the blankets with him and curls his body around yours. Protective. Possessive, even. “Yeah.” He murmurs, pressing his lips to the side of your head. “Wow.”

-

The future Mr. and Mrs. Franklin need to be convincing. Happy. Overwhelmingly in love.

Your heels click against the dock. It takes years of practice and training from Smurf to keep yourself from fidgeting in your expensive dress. Pope’s eyes are on you, burning holes into your head from behind his sunglasses.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“You know like what.”

“You look nice.”

“Shut up.”

The door to the yacht opens, and you don’t have time to keep the argument going. Pope slides his arm around you, you grin wide, and he tugs you almost too-tightly into his side.

“Welcome!” The woman on the other side of the door is smiling in that fake and familiar way that people do when they’re trying to get a whole lotta money from rich people. “Mr. and Mrs. Franklin, right?”

“Soon to be.” Pope says, all confidence and practiced casualness. He catches your hand in his, the expensive ring glittering obnoxiously on your finger, and raises the back of your hand to his lips. You giggle like an airhead, tilt your head onto his shoulder, and grin up at him.

“Adorable.” The woman says, too emphatically, and you don’t miss the way her eyes rake over your ‘fiance’. You shouldn’t care. This isn’t real. He’s not… yours anymore. And yet, it’s hard to shake off the surge of possessiveness that nearly has you yanking him down and pressing your lips to his.

When she turns to lead you both into the yacht, you try to pull your hand out of Pope’s. He doesn’t let you go. You turn to glare, and he offers you a small smile and a squeeze of his fingers through your own.

Fine.

-

“I’m sorry. He refuses to see you.”

“I…” you blink, shake your head, and tell yourself you heard the guard wrong. “What?”

“Believe it or not, even prisoners have a right to refuse visitation. He said he doesn’t want to see you.”

You blink again. “That’s…that’s not true. That can’t be true.”

“You can try again next week, but in my experience you’ll probably have the same reaction.”

-

You try again the next week. And the next. You stop sleeping. You stop eating. You wait for a phone call. An explanation. You go to Smurf. You go back to the prison.

Six weeks later, he finally fucking agrees to see you.

You nearly rip the phone off of the wall. He doesn’t look right in a prison uniform. He doesn’t look like he’s been sleeping. “What the fuck, Andrew?”

At your use of his name, his real name, you swear you can see something like relief flicker in his eyes, like the sound of your voice is a drug he’s been deprived of for over a month. You’re about to keep talking, or even press your hand against the glass like some lame fucking cliche, the sight of his face lifting something heavy off of your soul.

“Stop calling.” He says simply, and your heart drops to your feet.

“What?”

“Stop calling. Stop showing up here. Stop.”

“I…” what? This isn’t happening. He wouldn’t do this. “What? Pope, Andrew, I didn’t leave you.” That’s almost, almost incriminating. You know that. But it could also mean anything. You’re his girlfriend, after all. He’s in prison. You’ve been trying to see him. You haven’t left him. The last thing they’ll probably assume is that you’re talking about leaving him to be arrested after robbing that fucking bank.

“I know.” He says simply, and meets your eyes. “I don’t care. Leave. Stop coming here. I’m not going to come see you again.”

You don’t know what to say. You don’t know how to breathe anymore. This is so fucking wrong and it doesn’t make sense and-

He places the phone on the receiver, stands up, and leaves.

That’s the last time you see Andrew Cody for three years.

-

“And here we have the reception deck. As you can see, the view will be absolutely spectacular, especially when you’re out on the water…”

Four exits. Three cameras. One, two…

“I’m so sorry. Is there a bathroom I can use?” You ask brightly, from where you’re hanging off of Pope’s arm. “Or I’m sorry, the head, right? Like they say on boats.” An airheaded giggle, a practiced bat of your eyes.

The moment you’re around the corner, you whip out your phone and start taking notes and pictures. Exits. Entrance points. Doors to the lower deck where Craig can-

“We need to talk.”

You actually yelp, whirling around and stumbling on your heels before Pope’s arm shoots out to curve around your middle and keep you from falling over.

“What the fuck are you doing?” You hiss, wide eyes shooting back towards the hall. “Now? Let me go.”

“You won’t talk to me. I have to-“

“So you’re gonna fuck up the job? They could be here any second. You’re supposed to be distracting them.” He’s lost his fucking mind. Clearly, prison has warped his brain and made him an irrational asshole who-

The click of heels against the hardwood floor. A familiar, professional voice calling out your fake names with too much curiosity and suspicion.

“Fuck.” You whisper, and start scrambling to pull away and hide your phone. “Fuck.”

In one swift movement, Pope snatches the device out of your hand, slides it into his back pocket, presses you against the wall and slams his mouth to yours.

Like always, even after all of this time, the feeling of his lips against your own sends a jolt of electricity through your entire body.

He kisses you like he hasn’t thought about anything else in the last three years. His lips move hungrily against yours, one large hand coming up to tangle in your perfectly-done hair as his body envelops yours until you can’t think of anything else.

His tongue traces over your lip, and you open for him instinctively until he groans and changes the angle so he can kiss you more deeply and it feels so fucking good you might-

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…interrupt.” A bright, awkward voice breaks you out of your trance, and you gasp as you wrench your mouth away from Pope’s. He doesn’t even turn to the woman, thumb pressing into your cheek as he traces it over your skin like he’s trying to re-memorize the feeling.

It takes a lot more effort than you want to admit to clear your throat and plaster a flustered and embarrassed look on your face. To fall back into the ditzy, wealthy fiance facade. To keep yourself from ignoring her completely and kissing Pope again to chase that euphoric fucking feeling for as long as you can.

“Oh geez. I’m so embarrassed.” You reach up, and pinch Pope’s cheek just a little too hard with one manicured hand, feigning bright affection. “I just can’t keep my hands off of him, you know?”

“It’s so nice to see a couple so…in love.” A tight lipped, professional smile. Another glance at Pope that has irritating possessiveness curling in your chest again. You don’t have a right to feel that way. Not anymore. Not even after…whatever that was. “Would you two like to continue the tour?”

-

When Craig found out, he punched Pope in the face.

Pope punched him back.

When you lurched forward, prepared to jump between them and stop the bullshit macho display, Smurf had stuck her arm out and pushed you back.

“Let them fight. They need it.” She said, voice even, and kept her eyes on her two sons as they wrestled each other near the pool.

“This is bullshit. They-“

“You know,” she interrupts, still not looking at you. “When I took you in off the street, I wasn’t expecting you to stir up so much trouble.”

You freeze, heart stilling in your chest. She could send you back to your family. Your father. Being thrown out on the street would be bad enough on its own, but Smurf doesn’t work that way. If she wanted to really hurt you, she would.

“I didn’t mean to…stir up anything.”

She looks at you now, assessing. “I believe you.” She hums, and pulls her arm back. “Go break them up now, baby. See if you can fix your mess.”

-

“What the fuck was that?”

“A distraction.” Pope’s hands are on the steering wheel. His eyes are on the road.

“And before that? Cornering me in the hallway when I’m trying to gather fucking intel?”

He frowns. His fingers flex on the steering wheel. “It’s been three years.”

“And whose fucking fault is that?”

His brow furrows like he genuinely doesn’t understand why you would ask that. “The…U.S. prison system.”

“You know exactly what I mean. Don’t be a dick.”

“I’m not being a dick.”

“Pull the truck over.”

He does look at you, now, and you can see surprise in his eyes from where they’re visible over his shades. “No. Why?”

“I’m walking. Pull the truck over.”

He turns back to the road. One hand drops off the steering wheel, like it might come to rest on your thigh the same way it has in almost every car ride for years, before he catches himself and returns it to its original spot. “You can barely stand in those shoes.”

“So I’ll take them off. Pull over.”

“Just let me talk to you. Please.”

“No.”

His head drops back against the seat, jaw clenching in frustration, and you feel a surge of pride that you still seem to be the only person who can break through his little bubble of stoicism. Yeah, take that asshole. Be as exasperated as you want.

You don’t speak to him for the rest of the car ride.

-

Craig’s nose is bleeding. His feet are in the pool. He’s holding an ice pack to his eye.

“Do you hate me?” You ask, feeling almost childish for the question.

He laughs. Actually laughs, like you just said something ridiculous.

“Nah. Couldn’t if I tried, I think.”

You frown. “Then why did you…”

He shrugs, takes a sip of his beer, and smiles at you. “I mean, he did fuck my girlfriend. I’d be a little bitch if I just let him get away with that.”

“I’m not your girlfriend.”

“Well, not anymore.”

“I was never-“

“C’mon. I’ve got a shiner and a broken nose. Don’t hit my ego, too.”

You laugh, and shake your head. “You’re an idiot.”

He holds up his beer in a silent cheers, and there’s nothing but affection in his eyes as he takes a swig. No pining. No longing. Not even hurt or betrayal. Just…affection.

You smile at him, and your heart swells in that way you once tried to convince yourself was romantic attraction.

“I thought Smurf was gonna throw me out.”

He frowns now, and shakes his head. “She won’t. And if she does, Pope and I’ll just come with you.”

You smile again. You know it doesn’t reach your eyes. Craig leans over, and bumps your shoulder with his own.

“No matter what, that asshole’s not gonna hurt you again. You’re gonna be okay.”

“And if Pope ever fucks up, I’ll be here. I know I’m the best sex you’ve ever had, anyway.”

You snort. “Craig-“

“Ego, remember? Lemme have this.”

You poke him in the bruised ribs, and he hisses in pain before he laughs again.

You believe him.

-

When you get back to the house, you lurch out of the car before he can even reach for you. You stumble on your heels, kick them off of your feet in the yard, and storm into the house.

“Woah, hey there Hurricane Lady.” Craig’s grin falls the second he sees your face. “Shit. What happened?”

“Nothing. Here’s the phone. It’s got the pictures. Exits. All of that shit.” You want to snap that maybe Craig could have just done this himself, having gotten himself a job there, but you know that he doesn’t get access to the same places you just did. “I’m off the job.”

“What?”

“She’s not off the job.” Pope’s voice, from the door, makes you prickle.

“You don’t get to decide whether I’m on or off the job.” You whirl, and glare. “You don’t get to decide shit about me. Not anymore.”

“Jesus.” Deran blows out a breath, eyes on Pope. “You didn’t tell her, man?”

“Tell me what?”

“She won’t let me tell her.” Pope looks frustrated. Pained, even. Like he has any fucking right to be.

“Tell me what?!”

“Just tell her.”

“I’ve been trying-“

“Tell. Me. What?”

“He cut you off in prison because the cops were coming after you.” Craig says, and the words shut you up. “They were investigating your involvement. He had to cut ties so you didn’t incriminate yourself.”

Oh. Oh.

‘Pope. Andrew. I didn’t leave you.’

“Can I talk to you now?” Pope’s voice is low, and he’s doing the head-tilt thing, and you swear your lips are still tingling from his kiss.

You stare. He stares back. You open your mouth. Close it.

And then you walk into his room.

You don’t even need to turn around to know he’s following you. You hear Craig whistle the wedding march behind you, and you flip him off over your shoulder.

Pope’s old room is empty. The bed is made like it always was before.

“Beautiful. So beautiful. All mine…”

He whispers the words into the flushed skin of your neck, reverent and laced with gravel as his body moves against yours like it was made to. You gasp his name, and he groans as he moves faster.

Some party rages down the hall. The sounds of it are distant and inconsequential. All you can hear is his shallow breathing. His whispered promises of love between presses of his lips to any part of your skin he can reach. You love him so much it hurts and you’re going to-

You shake the memory off. Clear your throat. When you turn to him, he’s looking at the bed like he’s remembering something similar. Well, there are a lot of memories like that in this house. In the house the two of you shared later. In his truck. By the pool. In the pool. On the beach. At the-

Fuck.

“Talk. You wanted to talk, so talk.”

He watches you. You watch back, tense.

“They were looking for a reason to arrest you. The cops thought they might have identified you on that job a few months before. The one at the dispensary.”

You just keep staring at him. He shifts on his feet. “I couldn’t tell you. They were listening to everything. I figured…it was the only way to keep you out of prison.”

“Three years.”

Guilt flickers across his expression. Something like desperation follows. His fingers flex by his side. “I didn’t know when they stopped investigating you. Just when they stopped asking me questions.”

“Three. Years.”

“I missed you every day.” He moves closer, hesitant, like he’s trying to make sure you don’t bolt. “Every fucking minute. I thought about you all the time. It…it killed me, to walk away like that. I still think about the look on your face. I…” his jaw clenches, and he reaches towards you.

You should pull back. You should slap him, maybe. You know he would let you.

“You risked the job.” You try. Try to find something to cling to your anger. Your hurt. You missed him so much and all of that pain doesn’t just go away with one explanation.

“Fuck the job.” He whispers, hand sliding up over your cheek. “It’s been three years.”

And then he’s kissing you. Rough. Hungry. Desperate in a way that makes your knees threaten to give out because holy shit nothing has ever felt as good as Pope Cody’s skin against yours.

For a moment, you forget. You forget to be angry and hurt and painfully confused in favor of tangling your fingers in his curls and dragging him closer to you. He groans, the sound rough and borderline desperate, and his hands drop to your waist, lifting you clean off your bare feet to spin you both until he has you pinned against the wall.

His chest is pressed against yours. His hand is moving down to the hem of your dress, and you think you can feel his fingers shaking as they skate up over your skin and a shiver falls down your spine.

But it isn’t enough. This isn’t enough. It feels so good that it kills you to pull away. But his fingers are sliding up the inside of your thigh and if they reach their intended destination there won’t be anything in the world that will be able to stop you. To stop him, either, if how hungrily he’s kissing you now is any indication.

Because his kiss doesn’t make up for the hours you spent alone, in the house you once shared, staring at a phone that wouldn’t ring. How humiliating it felt to cry yourself to sleep with your mind filled to the brim with questions that you would never have answers to.

His mouth is gliding over your jaw, down over your throat, and his grip on your waist is so wonderfully tight and his fingers are so close to where you need him so badly it hurts and-

You shove him away, breathless and flushed and almost shaking with hunger, and his dark eyes have never looked so predatory.

“You…you can’t do that.” You whisper, and he looks like he’s about to do exactly that again at any moment. You hold up a hand, warding him off, and force yourself to steady your breathing. “No, you don’t get to do that. You don’t get to just show up again and kiss me like that.”

“I’m sorry.” He starts, expression filled with a genuine pain.

“You made me think, for three years, that you didn’t love me anymore.”

“I’m sorry.” He moves closer like it’s instinct, and you back up a little more into the wall, and he looks like he’s about to drop to his knees before you. “I’m so fucking sorry. I did it to protect you. I promise. I couldn’t think of any other way.”

You push past him, and walk out the door.

For once, he doesn’t follow.

-

“Where is she?”

You’re not here. You haven’t come since he got out. 

“She doesn’t really come around anymore, man.” Craig shrugs, like it’s casual, like your absence isn’t digging a hole into Pope’s soul even as he sits here by the pool and you should be here but you’re not and he fucking hates it. He should have apologized to you ten times over by now. You should be here with him.

“She comes around every now and then. Watches Lena. Grabs a beer with me on Tuesdays and surfs with us if we ask nicely.” Craig leans back, and Pope fights the urge to lean forward and beg for more information. “She doesn’t talk to Baz, though. I think the most I’ve seen them interact is her flipping him off or some shit.”

Yeah, sounds like you.

“So, you gonna talk to her?”

Yes. Of fucking course he is. He’ll be on his knees begging the second you’re in the room.

But you don’t come. You don’t show up at the house anymore. You changed your number, and he can’t call you. Despite what Craig said, it’s almost like you’ve made yourself into some kind of ghost, too far away for him to reach anymore.

When he was in prison, he would fantasize about the day he got out. In most of those fantasies, you were waiting for him at the house. In a good few of them, you weren’t wearing much clothing, but that part can be easily attributed to how long he went without seeing you.

Nevertheless, you were there. And he would take you into his arms, and you would smile and tell him you understood why he had to do what he did, and everything would be perfect.

But now, he has to track down your new house. On the beach, and not too far from his new place, but he doubts you know that.

He watches through your window and doesn’t even register that it might be a little fucked up of him. He makes sure you get home safe. Waits until he sees you climb into bed and flick off your lights, and often spends a good long while imagining all of the times he would be right there with you. How he would tuck you into his chest, and the two of you would have whispered conversations like you were still teenagers living in Smurf’s house and trying not to be overheard.

He doesn’t go to the door. It’s not the right time. Not yet. It isn’t like it has to be perfect, but… but it’s been three years. Three years of torture and an isolation that almost killed him. That may have killed a part of him, somewhere deep down where even he can’t reach. As badly as he wants to stand on your porch and beg and plead for you to understand, to love him again, he isn’t sure he would be able to handle you slamming a door in his face. He’s not sure he would be able to let you, and that thought alone almost frightens him more than anything else.

Not yet. The job. When Craig brings you in on the job, that’s when he’ll see you. Talk to you. Make you forgive him.

Just…not yet.

But that doesn’t mean he can’t keep an eye on you, until then.

-

The effort it took to get Ethan the Finance Bro to talk with you after Craig ruined it the first time is almost making this particular job too much of a pain in the ass.

It’s a little tricky to balance the work you have to put into the boat job with your own plans, but your own jobs are a little less complex than the ones enacted by the Cody boys. Less reward, sure, but it’s safer and easier. Find out a few things about Finance Bro Ethan’s rich dad, get access to an account or two, make a couple of unnoticeable transfers, and bing bang boom. You can afford rent and to fix your car, and maybe even a nice pair of shoes while you’re at it.

He’s jumpy. You have to smile a little more brightly at him, hold his hand across the table and bat your eyelashes as you insist that your friend from before is just terrible at making jokes, and he’s finally relaxing enough to-

His eyes trail up over your shoulder, and stop.

“Leave.” And that’s Pope’s low, furious voice. It is dripping with danger.

Ethan looks at you. Back at Pope. You smile, wide and sweet, and refuse to turn around. “Ignore him.”

“Do that, and I’ll cut your ears off.”

Son of a bitch.

“He’s joking.”

“Three.”

Ethan starts to scoot out of the booth.

“Don’t.” You say, jaw clenching and smile still forcefully bright.

“Two.”

And he’s gone. Just like that. Out the door and ruining your plans completely.

“Fucking Codys. Do you have any idea how hard it was to get him to talk to me again?”

“Who was that?”

“I had to bend over backwards to keep him from being terrified after Craig’s bullshit. This bra is so uncomfortable. You fucking-“

His hand comes down on the back of your chair, and he leans closer to you with a deadly and dark expression. You don’t flinch. You don’t even come close. In all the time you’ve known him, in all of his scariest moments, he’s never come anywhere close to harming you. The possibility simply doesn’t register in your mind. “Who was that?”

You look at him, deadpan. “My boyfriend.” It couldn’t be farther from the truth, but you may as well piss him off a little.

It works. His jaw clenches, and he leans a little closer. “I’m serious.”

Fine. You give up. “He was a mark. I’m on a job.”

“You’re already on a job.” Pope’s frown deepens, angry eyes moving up to the door again. “That guy was staring down the front of your shirt.”

“That’s kind of the point.” You glance down at your low cut top, at the aforementioned uncomfortable bra, and when Pope does the same you can see something twitch in his jaw. Feel his hand tighten imperceptibly on the booth behind you before he looks back up at your face.

“We’re leaving.”

“No, you’re leaving.” You correct, irritated, and move to turn away from him.

He catches you, turning you back towards him with a look so intense it makes your heart drop. “Come home with me.”

You pause, knocked off-kilter by his proximity and the desperation in his gaze. He looks…dangerous. Like a man in a desert who has been deprived of water for too long, and is starting to lose it enough to follow that water to a bar and ruin her weeks of work.

And yet, it’s annoyingly difficult to care. Not when it would be so easy to bring your hand up, curl your fingers in the soft curls on the back of his neck, and pull his lips down to yours. So, so easy, and yet…

You start to move back, and his hand catches your chin, thumb sliding over your jaw in that familiar and devoted way that always makes your toes curl a little. He saw it. He saw the hesitation. The want in your expression matching his own, and he’s too far gone to let it go.

“Come home with me.” He repeats, soft and close enough that his nose nearly brushes your temple. “We can do jobs together. Like we used to. You don’t have to…do this.”

You spent so long being a team. Being with him. Every job, every move, it was all with Pope and the Codys and while you can do these smaller jobs alone perfectly fine, you want…

Him. God, you want him. Not just sex, either. Though after three years and the way he’s standing so close you can feel the warmth radiating from him, you’re having a hard time not jumping his bones in the middle of this bar. You want to wake up with him in the mornings again. You want to watch him wash the dishes in that particular and concentrated way he has. You want to sit on the beach with him at night, and talk about everything and nothing until the sun peeks over the horizon.

His nose skates down your cheek. The noise of the bar fades away. Your eyes flutter closed as if of their own accord, head tilting to the side, and he makes a low noise as his fingers leave your face to move down your arm.

“I’m sorry.” He murmurs, lips pressing against the line of your jaw, and your next breath comes as a shaky exhale. His hand slides around the curve of your waist, and the angle of his body above yours is intoxicatingly overwhelming. He kisses your jaw again, a little higher, a little closer to your ear, and you melt. “I’ll apologize a thousand fuckin’ times, okay? Just come home with me. Let me show you how sorry I am.”

Your body relaxes beneath his, and you feel his mouth trailing over your skin like he couldn’t give less of a shit about the rest of the world around you. It’s so familiar. So nice. So warm and-

Goddammit.

“Stop.” You push on his chest, and he moves back with a genuinely pained expression. “Stop it, Pope. You just fucked up a month of work for me. I’m not going home with you.”

The look on his face would break your heart, if there was anything left of it to break.

You don’t say another word.

You just leave.

-

The girl sleeping on the couch is the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen.

Craig brought you here a few hours ago. Said something about you taking on three guys by the beach who were trying to rough him up over weed money. You hit the biggest one with a baseball bat. They knocked you out before Craig could take them down.

Smurf hadn’t said much when Craig walked in, eyes bright with lingering adrenaline as he’d placed you on the couch, but she’d seemed impressed when Craig had explained what happened. She’d told him to leave you on the couch for now, and to make sure you didn’t get any blood on her furniture. Your face is bruised. Your sneakers are dirty. You’re wearing a flannel that’s way too big and has holes in it.

“I think she’s been sleepin’ on the beach.” Craig says, brow furrowing a little as he looks down at you. You’re so still you could be dead. Pope wonders what color your eyes are, and then wonders why he wondered that.

“Junkie?” He asks, and resists the urge to brush the hair out of your eyes. Like Julia, maybe. Maybe you know her, wherever she might be right now. Maybe you already have that connection to him. Maybe…

Craig shakes his head. “Nah. Not a junkie. I dunno if she’s homeless, either. I just kinda see her around sometimes. She pickpockets tourists. Seems good at figuring out which ones are the L.A. douchebags.”

Pope frowns. Your face twitches a little, but you don’t wake.

“She’s hot.” His younger brother observes, and Pope’s frown deepens. “And badass. You shoulda seen her, dude. She went at them like a fuckin’ demon. She doesn’t even know me.”

You look so angelic, curled in on yourself on the couch with sand in your hair and dirt under your fingernails, that he finds it hard to believe.

Hard, but not impossible. Because there’s something about you, and the bruises on your face that look so much like the ones that often adorn his own, that screams…fighter. Survivor. Protector.

And he hasn’t even spoken to you yet, but there’s something else there. Something deep down and warm and intrinsic that he can’t exactly pinpoint but certainly can’t ignore.

His.

-

When you wake up, he’s watching you. He knows he probably shouldn’t be. He probably looks creepy, or whatever everyone says, but he can’t seem to pull his eyes away from the rise and fall of your breathing. The way your face twitches every now and then in sleep. The way your hair spills over the couch cushion. He wants to brush it away, but he’s afraid to wake you.

Your eyes flutter open. They’re beautiful.

And those beautiful eyes move dazedly around the room before they land on him, and widen. You bolt up, and hiss in pain as whatever injuries you sustained in that fight no doubt scream in protest.

You look at him. Look around. Look back at him.

Carefully, he passes you the baseball bat from his room. Craig said you had one before. You’re in a strange new place. It might make you feel safe.

You close your fingers around the handle, and watch him like a hawk as you pull it over to you.

“Where am I?” He likes the sound of your voice. Even cracked with sleep and shaky with nerves, it sounds as pretty as the rest of you.

“My house.” He says simply, cocking his head to the side. “Craig brought you here.”

Craig is passed out in his room down the hall. You took a while to wake up. You frown, and rub your head a little.

“Why did you do it?” The question leaves him before he can think, curiosity lying heavy in his chest. People in Oceanside don’t just help other people like that. Not when it could put them in the same state you ended up in.

“Three to one didn’t seem like fair odds.”

Pope takes this information, and holds it close to his heart. Keeps it there like a flame he’ll never let go out.

You sit in silence for a minute before he speaks again.

“Do you want a sandwich?”

You look up, surprised, and your lips quirk upwards just the smallest bit.

“Sure.”

-

The knocking is loud. Very loud. Angry, even.

When Pope opens the door, there you are.

Fuck, it’s like you don’t even know how beautiful you are. He’s always been surprised by that. Sure, you use your looks and pretty smiles to work people on jobs, but when that persona is lowered and you’re just…you, the sight of you could make him drop to his fucking knees.

“You fixed my door.”

He’s shirtless. It’s early. Your eyes drop down to his chest before they fly back up to his face, and he is two seconds away from yanking you into the house and taking you right here in the front hall.

Shit. Three years. Three long, long years of nothing but his hand and memories of you. He’s devolved into a fucking animal. All he can think about is ripping that t-shirt off of you. Of lifting you onto the table right here and dropping to his knees, hearing the noises he can pull from you when he buries his face between your-

“You fixed my door.” You repeat, angrier now, and he furrows his brow as he forces himself out of the fantasy.

“Yeah.”

“Pope, you don’t know where I live.”

His brow furrows a little more.

“Fine, I haven’t told you where I live.” Oh, that’s what you mean. Right.

“It was creaking.”

“How many times have you broken into my house?”

Seven. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Andrew.”

You should know better than to say his name. His real name. The sound of it shoots something molten through his veins, and his hand tightens on the doorframe.

“We’re broken up. You can’t break into my house.”

“We’re not broken up.” The fact comes easily. Simply. There’s no plea behind it. No question at all.

“We’re broken up. You broke up with me.”

“No, I didn’t. I said stop coming around. I didn’t break up with you.”

“Whatever you did, it was three years ago.”

“And you’re not in prison.” He wants to ask why you’re not getting it, but he knows that you do. Even if most wouldn’t, you know how he thinks. You’re just being deliberately obtuse because you’re angry. But he’ll spend the rest of his life apologizing to you, if that’s what you need. “I’m out. We still love each other.”

“You don’t know that I still love you.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Tell me you don’t.”

You open your mouth, like you just might try it, before closing it again and trying another tactic. He’s always found it…cute. The way you try to deflect your feelings like this. And he’ll never try to pretend that he doesn’t love how easily he can call you on it. There are two things in this world that Andrew Cody is absolutely confident in: jobs, and you.

“You fucked up my job.”

“You hate those jobs. They bore you.”

Your eyes narrow, and you’re gorgeous when you’re angry. “I don’t have a backup plan anymore. I need the boat job to go well.”

You’re stalling. You don’t want to leave. “It will.” He raises an eyebrow again. Your eyes drop back down to his bare chest, and it sends a thrill through him. “Want some breakfast?”

“No.” You’re still standing here, and he knows you too well to let you leave just yet. The tension crackling through the air, emanating from you and directing itself at him, is so fucking obvious it almost makes him grin.

“Coffee?”

You hesitate. Frown. “Fine.”

And with that word, you cross the threshold, and kiss him.

-

Your first job with the Cody family went well. Really well.

Smurf shocked all of them by inviting you in, building up her tests of your skills and your loyalty to the family until she suddenly just…made you a part of it. Sat you down at the family meeting with them and told you what your part in the job would be.

Baz protested. Deran was quiet. Craig, however, was thrilled. Pope is pretty sure his brother likes you a little too much, and he hates the way it makes jealousy and possessiveness curl black and vile in his throat. He hates the way Smurf seems to assess this. The way she watches you keep Craig in line and encourages the two of you to spend time together.

But you did well. Really well.

And then, after dinner, you disappeared.

Pope found you up the street, sitting on a small curve of beach and watching the moon like you were greeting an old friend. He’d hesitated to join you, like he might be interrupting, but…

“Hi.”

Shit. “Hi.”

“Wanna sit down?”

Yes. So fucking badly. He’d do anything in the world to just be close to you. “Do you want me to?”

“Yeah.”

He hesitates. You look back at him, illuminated by moonlight and so gorgeous it stops the breath in his lungs, and pat the sand beside you.

He sits, and you rest your head against his shoulder. Like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“Are you…okay?” Do you expect him to function correctly right now? Do you expect him to be able to string a thought together? You’re so warm. So soft. He doesn’t have experience with this kind of thing.

“Oh yeah.” You hum, fingers curling in the sand beneath you. “I mean, if you’re asking if I’m upset about you holding an unloaded gun to my head while I pretended to freak out, don’t worry. I’m fine.” You mean it. Smurf would be impressed.

He could cover your hand with his own, right now. You might even let him. You might let him curl his fingers around yours, and even flip your palm to rest it against his. Your soft skin against his rough callouses, pillowed by the sand beneath you…

“So what’s wrong?”

You hum, and he feels it vibrate through his shoulder. “I don’t know. Smurf, the job, everything just feels like it’s going too well.”

“Too well?”

“Things change. They hurt when they change. It’s too…good.” He starts to say something, though he isn’t sure what, before you continue. “That’s why I like coming out here, though. I like looking at the water. It’s why I slept on the beach when things got too shitty at home, you know?”

He turns his head, and it brings his face so close to yours that he almost chokes. You don’t even look up, just keep watching the waves crash on the beach as you continue.

“It sounds kinda cheesy, but the ocean is so…big. And no matter what’s going on with me, no matter how bad things seem, it makes it all feel smaller, you know? All that ocean, everything going on beneath the surface, and whatever bullshit’s happening to me just feels…inconsequential. More manageable, I guess.”

Oh God. Fuck. He loves you. He loves you so much.

His hand, knuckles still bruised from some fight he got into earlier this week and already so much bigger than your own, covers yours. You stop picking at the sand, but you don’t pull away.

“I’ll always be here.” He murmurs, some part of him terrified that you’ll jump away from him. He means it. He really does.

And you mean it too, when you turn your palm and slide your fingers through his, and murmur back. “Thank you.”

-

It’s a fucking whirlwind.

You don’t know what possessed you. What you were thinking. Just that you are magnetized to this man, and he’s standing there looking at you like he knows every thought in your head and like he loves you more than anything in the world and you can’t spend another second without his lips against your own.

He meets you just as hard, hand coming up to grip at the hair at the base of your skull as you walk him backwards into his house. You realize, vaguely, between the blur of lips and teeth and desperate hands, that you haven’t even seen the inside of it yet. Even now, it’s weird for there to be any aspect of Pope’s life that you don’t know about.

The tour, however, is going to have to wait. Because Pope has you pressed against the counter and you barely have time to gasp his name before he’s lifting you onto it, tugging your shirt up over your head and tossing it aside before ducking down to trail desperate kisses over your neck. You tangle your fingers in his hair, and pull his mouth back up to yours, biting down on his lip until he groans and reaches down to start tugging your pants over your hips.

“Bedroom.” You manage, somewhere between a choked moan and a drag of your nails down his muscled back that has him sinking his teeth into your throat.

“Three years.” He replies, the words a starved growl, as he rips your pants and underwear down over your legs. All you can do is nod your understanding and drag his mouth back to yours, hands leaving his face to reach down and tug his sweatpants over his hips.

He pulls back, just enough to press his lips to your ear, and you can’t help but whimper when he murmurs his next words.

“Tell me you want this.”

You curl your fingers in his hair, pull him closer to you, and barely manage to gasp out a soft confirmation of “I want this, Andrew” before he’s pushing into you and it is everything you’ve missed for too long and it feels so good you might fucking die.

You gasp, and hold him tighter, and he breathes a shaky exhale into the hollow of your throat as he goes very very still.

You make a soft noise, needing more, and he understands immediately because he knows every inch of you better than he knows himself.

“Three years.” He murmurs again, hoarse and apologetic as his hands grip the counter on either side of you. You realize what he means through the haze of lust, and a bubble of laughter tears its way out of your throat. The sudden movement makes him hiss, cursing softly against your throat as his hands fly up to grip your hips. You clamp your lips together in an attempt to stop your giggling, and when he pulls back to look at you he starts laughing too.

And then, still smiling, he kisses you slow and deep, and begins to move. The moment he does, all humor flies out the window, and you gasp as you lock your legs around his hips and scramble for purchase against his back.

It’s fast and desperate, like he really and truly can’t help it, and it is absolutely perfect. Fuck, it’s everything you have ever needed in your entire life and more. You cling to him, wrapped in his arms and burying your face in his neck to try to muffle cries that might wake the entire Strand. He doesn’t stop, but his grip tightens as he adjusts his movements to grind deeper, fingers tangling in your hair to pull your head back from his shoulder until you can feel his ragged breaths against the shell of you ear.

“Yeah?” He whispers, hoarse and smiling and already wrecked as the force of his movements makes stars explode behind your vision. Then, closer, his nose against your temple and his grip almost bruising on your skin. “Yeah?”

You just nod, and hold on for dear life as you fall over the edge with a cry of his name, and he follows right after you with a choked moan of yours.

For a moment, you both just try to catch your breath, wrapped in each other’s arms with your legs shaking and Pope’s shoulder warm against your forehead. He kisses the side of your head, soft and loving, and huffs a laugh into your hair as he pulls back to press his lips to yours.

“I missed you.” He whispers, and you’re smiling too.

And then, without warning, he hoists you into his arms and starts walking.

“Where are we going?” You ask, still laughing, still smiling, still blissed out beyond words.

He kisses your forehead, your cheek, and kicks a door open. “Bedroom.”

-

Once the initial violent desperation has faded, Pope takes his time with you. He works you apart piece by piece, like he’s relearning every inch of your skin. He kisses every new scar. Every familiar freckle. He makes you forget every word that isn’t his name, tells you he loves you until he’s hoarse with it, and you do the same to him. In the confines of his room, in this new house on the beach, you forget about every morsel of pain you’ve felt in the past. Every tear you’ve shed. Every lonely moment.

At some point, when he’s trailing slow kisses up the inside of your thigh and your fingers are tangled in his curls, you manage to come back to yourself for half a second.

“We’re not back together.” You murmur, and he looks up long enough to raise a dark eyebrow at you.

“We’re not.” You repeat, and he gives you another look, this time with both eyebrows, before nudging your thigh further aside. He doesn’t speak, and he doesn’t need to, because in the next five seconds you completely forget how to form coherent thought.

-

The sun is setting by the time you’re both too exhausted to continue. A few minutes ago, you broke apart long enough to make your way to the shower, where you’d lasted about five minutes before he’d slipped in behind you. You managed to hold back long enough to shampoo each other’s hair before lathering off had turned into kissing beneath the stream, which had turned into…well, into you pressed up against the wall, his chest against your back and his teeth buried in your shoulder as your fingers clawed against the tile and your vision turned white for the umpteenth time today.

Now, his fingers card through your still-damp hair, and you wonder vaguely if you’ll ever walk again.

“Holy shit. We haven’t done that since…” you trail off, brain as mushy as your muscles seem to be, and you feel Pope’s proud smile against your forehead.

“Three years and forty nine days.” He supplies, and you can’t hold back your giggle. “Day after the jewelry store job.”

“Right.” Christ, it really is a miracle that you survived three years apart when you used to go at each other like coked out bunny rabbits. “Forgot about that.”

“I didn’t.”

You swat at his chest, and he tucks you closer to him, tilting your chin up to press his lips to yours.

-

For the first time in three years, you wake up in Andrew Cody’s arms.

And he’s asleep. He’s soundly, completely asleep. He’s always been a light sleeper, but despite that there are certain circumstances that have been known to knock him out like a log.

He’s completely out now, arms wrapped tightly around you and deep breaths tickling the top of your head.

There was always so much chaos in your lives. So many things that could go wrong at any moment, so many risks taken every single day. There was Smurf’s manipulations, Craig’s irresponsibility, Deran’s tendency to disappear and worry everyone, Julia being gone, and Baz…well, Baz being a raging douche most of the time. All of it was always so much, but right here, right like this…this was always where you felt safest. All of the insanity would always be a million miles away, blocked out by the circle of Andrew Cody’s arms.

Which is probably why it feels like a physical stab to your chest when you carefully wiggle out of them.

He grunts, one arm reaching out as if searching for you, but he doesn’t wake.

You allow yourself one moment to stare at him. One long, aching moment. He’s so beautiful in the moonlight that he almost hurts to look at.

And then you slip on one of his tshirts, wiggle into your jeans, and disappear out the door.

You don’t bother pulling your shoes back on, letting the sand cushion your feet as you wander down the beach, and listening to the waves crash against the shore.

He’ll wake up soon, and he’ll find you. And when he does, he’ll pull you back into his arms and the two of you will sit on this beach like you used to. Watch the waves and the stars like you used to. You’ll talk, and he’ll apologize, and he isn’t very good with words but you’ll understand him and you’ll forgive him. Just like that.

You’re not ready for that.

So you pull out your phone, and dial the only other number you have on speed dial. The only number besides Pope Cody’s.

“Where the hell have you been?” Craig shouts into the phone, mirth lacing his voice even through the tinny speaker.

You glance down at Pope’s t-shirt. Plain white. Too big for you. Soft and draped over your body like a flag with his name on it.

Oh well. “You’re gonna give me a whole lotta shit for it.”

He laughs, and you hear a bottle clink somewhere on the other side of the phone. “So why’re you callin’ me?”

“Cause I’m crazy, I guess. Or an idiot.”

“Or both.”

You hum, and bend down to scoop some sand into your palm, letting it trickle between your fingers as it falls back to the earth. You’re confused, and still hurting, and your heart aches heavy in your chest. In moments like this, you’ve always wondered what it would be like to have one of those girl best friends in rom-coms. The kind who would split a bottle of wine with you on the couch and talk for hours about boys with you. That must be nice. You wonder if they really exist, somewhere where life is normal.

Well, you don’t have that. You have Craig Cody.

“I’ve gotta go off grid for a minute.” You say, and trail your eyes back towards Pope’s darkened house. You have minutes before that light flicks on, and you cave. “Wanna get drunk?”

Craig blows out a long breath, and you can almost see him raising his eyebrows and resting his elbows on his knees.

“Sure. Where are you?”

-

Pope hasn’t seen you in three days.

Deran is the one who called him, frustrated and concerned and grouching about you not being able to handle your liquor.

“It’s weird, dude. The balance is gone. She’s not talking him out of shit anymore. They’re just kinda ramping each other up.” He hears the clink of bottles. Shouting in the background. Maybe, somewhere, your laughter. “Whatever you did, come fix it. Because your girlfriend is doing body shots on my bar and I’m not about to get shut down because those two are acting like fucking idiots.”

“I didn’t do anything.” He’s already grabbing his keys. You fell asleep in his arms, for fucks sake. You spent the entire day letting him whisper apologies and promises of love into your skin. He thought you were good. It felt like everything was back to normal, and then you were just…gone.

Sure, there was a moment where you insisted you weren’t back together, but when that sentence is quickly drowned out by “Oh God oh God Andrew please don’t stop” it’s a little hard to let the words sink in.

He’d searched the beach for hours. Called your phone even when it became blatantly obvious that you’d turned it off. He went to Craig’s house, and his brother wasn’t there. You didn’t take your car when you disappeared. He’s been worried sick about you and now you’ve been on some kind of bender?

“You did something.” Deran doesn’t seem to be grasping the gravity of this situation. Everything was fine. Why are you still upset? “They haven’t done this kind of shit since you dumped her in prison.”

“I didn’t fucking dump her.” He needs to focus on not breaking too many traffic laws, but he senses a few irritated comments coming his way. Annoyed as Deran may be right now, he fucking adores you almost as much as Craig does, and Pope can hear genuine worry in his tone.

“You should probably look up the definition of dumping, dude. Telling her to fuck off and not talking to her for three years is pretty-“

“Just tell me if she’s okay.” The words come out harsh. A snap of anger in the quiet car.

“Just get here.” The phone clicks off, and Pope almost throws it out the window.

-

Everything is nice and fuzzy, and you’re having a very fun time.

You don’t have anywhere near Craig’s tolerance, nor his penchant for anything stronger than alcohol and weed, so this ‘bender’ hasn’t exactly consisted of you partying straight through like he has. In fact, it took until tonight for him to pull you off of his couch and tell you to stop wallowing and have fun.

And you had listened. Oh boy, had you listened.

You started at Craig’s house, letting him amp you up and remind you to get angry between shots of tequila.

“Holy shit, just say it. Say it already!” Craig stands, waving the shot in front of your face before shoving it forward. “Are you mad? Sad? C’mon, quit bein’ such a closed book! Who the fuck is that helping?”

“I’m angry!” You take the shot, down it, and sputter.

And then you smash the glass against the wall.

“There she is!” Craig shouts, enveloping you in a drunken hug, and you let the rage build in the safety of your friend’s arms as you start to giggle like a fucking lunatic.

“Gimme another.”

He whoops, lets you go, and grabs the bottle.

And then you went to the Cove, and drank margaritas and let Craig convince you to get angrier. Angry because Pope left you. Because it hurt so bad it felt like a piece of you had broken off, and angry because he showed back up and brought all of that pain with him and just expected it all to be better.

And eventually, you ended up in Deran’s bar, hammered and laughing and trying to remember why you were mad in the first place.

That is, until Pope Cody shows up.

You’ve seen him look scary before, with that furrowed brow and those shark eyes, but now he looks downright murderous.

That’s okay. You can be angry too. You are angry.

“We’re leaving.” He says, simply, wrapping an arm around you before you shove him off.

“Nuh uh.” You step back, and his frown deepens.

“Dude, lay off. She’s just blowin’ off some steam-“

“What the fuck are you doing, man?” Pope stands too close to Craig. Looks way too angry. He doesn’t get to be mad. He broke your heart. He left you alone.

“What’re you doing?” Craig, larger than Pope and already too drunk and coked out to think rationally, matches the furious energy. “You think you’re cool just walkin’ in here and making her go home?”

Something twinges in your drunken mind. Tells you to step in. To stop this.

But you’re too late.

“Maybe I’m sick and tired of pickin’ her up off the floor because you did some shit to make her bawl her fucking eyes out.” Craig shoves Pope. Hard. “Seriously man, what’s the fuckin’ matter with you? You think she deserves this shit?”

Pope punches him in the face.

You just stand there for a moment, drunk and shocked, and it takes a good moment of them brawling and shoving each other into the bar before you realize that you should get in the middle of this.

Someone, some guy who was flirting with you a while back, tries to grab you and pull you away. You slam your elbow into his face, and he releases you long enough for you to leap onto Craig’s back, yanking him away from Pope just in time to feel your back slam into the corner of the bar hard enough to make you lose your grip.

You fall back, feel something smash beneath you, and groan as a bolt of agony shoots through your body. Fuck. Fuck, that’s gonna leave a mark.

The fight stops. The bar goes quiet.

Hands pull you up, slurred apologies spilling past Craig’s lips in a panic as he sets you on your feet and looks down at you with a horrified expression. You’ve had worse, sure, but the bruise isn’t gonna be pretty and you know damn well he’s gonna feel guilty about it tomorrow.

You look up at him, reach up to pat his chest…

And puke on his shoes.

You hear him mumble a quiet “oh, fuck” before he’s shoved aside, and Pope is there. Pope, who is scooping you up into his arms without a word and carrying you out of the bar.

“Sorry.” You mumble, and he doesn’t respond, but he squeezes you a little more tightly to him and that feels like enough.

He places you down in the passenger seat of his truck, and presses his lips to your forehead before he moves to the drivers side.

You’re suddenly very, very exhausted. You thunk your head against the window, and close your eyes as the engine starts.

You feel Pope’s hand on your leg, warm and comforting and familiar.

It feels like home.

-

“Look who finally decided to come home.”

Your father’s voice is nails on a chalkboard. A skin-prickling, hatred inducing rasp that makes your entire body tense.

“This isn’t home.” You drop your keys on the counter. It’s not home. It never has been, but now that you have a real home the difference has never been more obvious to you.

You left your home tonight. Left the warmth of Andrew Cody’s arms. He hadn’t woken, as exhausted after the job as you were, but he’d hummed sleepily into your neck and tried to squeeze you closer as you’d wiggled your way out of his embrace.

Your father scoffs, and doesn’t look up from the TV. “You think that place is home? You whore yourself out to that psycho Cody and now you can’t give half a shit about the guy who raised ya?”

It’s your turn to scoff. You don’t answer. He keeps going.

“You think that crazy kid loves you? You think you’ll get to leave and run off into the sunset with him? The ticking time bomb ain’t gonna love you. None of ‘em are. I know Smurf. She’s keepin’ you around because that shithead prefers to fuck you over going berserk and killin’ everyone in the house. They don’t give a shit about you. They use you. S’all you’re good for, anyway.”

That hits you. Harder than it should.

No. No, he’s wrong. He’s an asshole, and he’s wrong. Andrew Cody loves you more than life itself. There’s no question there.

…Right? It’s not like you even know what love is, being raised by this of shit. And Pope’s love is…obsessive. You don’t mind it. You like it, actually. But-

No. Fucking no. You’re not letting him get in your head. You can’t.

Because there’s Craig. And Deran. And even Baz, sometimes. Smurf likes you, and she most certainly sees you as a pawn, but… but Craig is your best friend. Craig laughs at your jokes. Hugs you so tightly your ribs might crack sometimes. Stays up to talk to you for hours by the pool.

And Pope loves you so much that it consumes him. Even you can’t doubt that. The way he looks at you, the way he touches you, the way he kisses you like he’ll never be able to get enough. His shoulders relax when you enter the room. His smile is the brightest thing you’ve ever seen. You even wake up to him watching you sleep, sometimes, tracing his calloused fingers over your skin with his eyes half-open like he’s fighting sleep just so he can look at you a little longer.

And the last time your father took things too far, the last time you came back with bruises…

You’d spent an hour talking Pope down from coming over here. You’d spent longer convincing Craig and even Deran to stop fucking encouraging him to, to stop insisting that they’ll help him end this asshole.

That’s love.

And that gives you the strength, the courage, to move over to your father and lean one hand on the back of the couch, glaring daggers into his eyes.

“The only reason you’re still alive, is because of me.” It sounds like a fucking growl, so angry and unlike you. “Don’t forget that.”

Your father just smiles, like you’re wrong and he knows it. You want to punch him. You want to prove him wrong, and let Andrew kill him.

You walk out the door, instead.

-

He sits you on the edge of his bed, and it’s just like before. Like every time you’ve been drunk or even sick since you were kids. He kisses your cheek, asks if it’s okay, and when you nod he pulls your t-shirt up over your head, quickly replacing it with one of his own. Your pants go next, and then he tucks you beneath the blankets of his bed and brushes your hair from your face.

He hesitates to pull his own shirt off, wonders if you might be too drunk and upset to want him near you. You never have before, but he’s realizing pretty quickly that before is more removed from the present than he expected it to be. Three years in prison, daydreaming every day about coming home to you and explaining why he did that he did and having you forgive him right away was…well, a daydream. He may have been able to lose himself in the fantasy of your unconditional love and forgiveness for three years, but you were here. Alone. Wondering what you did wrong and missing him on a level completely separate from his. He didn’t experience any of the confusion. The lack of understanding. The pain that comes with that.

You reach out, and push the hem of his shirt up. He pulls it over his head, a slave to your needs and whims, and helps you unbuckle his pants until he’s sliding into bed beside you and pulling you into his arms.

“You’re mad at me.”

You tilt your head into his hand, and nod.

His heart breaks, eyes softening and hand smoothing over your cheek as he leans closer and presses his forehead against yours.

“Why?” He asks, a genuine desperate pain cracking the word as it leaves his throat. “I thought…I thought we were good.”

You make a soft noise, and lean against him a little more.

He whispers your name, presses a kiss to your cheek, and inhales deep, trying to memorize your scent.

“I’m not good at this. You always tell me.” Another kiss. Fingers curling in your hair. “Tell me what to do. Tell me how to make you stop hurting.”

You curl a little closer.

“You left me.” You finally whisper. “You promised you never would, and then you left. I worried about you for three years.”

He pulls you closer. Feels tears prickle in his eyes and guilt churn in his stomach.

“I went to the beach, and it didn’t feel better, because you weren’t there.” Your fingers curl against his chest, right over his breaking heart. “I thought you didn’t love me anymore. For three years.”

Fuck. “I’ll never stop loving you.” If he holds you any more tightly, it might hurt the bruise on your back. He’s gonna fucking kill Craig for that, accident or not. “Never.”

And then, quietly, almost a whisper as you drift off but just loud enough for him to hear it and almost die right there, “…I don’t know if I believe you, anymore…”

-

The boat job goes well. Really fucking well. Save for Marco cutting a woman’s fucking finger off, everything goes off without a hitch.

And you’re proud. Really fucking proud. Craig was always capable of this kind of thing if he just applied himself, and here you all are. Richer than before and still riding that all-too-familiar adrenaline high.

“Geez, Pope really did a number on you.” You reach up now, poking lightly at his black eye. He flinches, and huffs out a sheepish laugh. You saw this coming when you decided someone would have to beat Craig up, and Pope volunteered a little…emphatically. But still.

“Pretty sure he’s got some pent up anger.” He rubs the back of his neck, eyes scanning over you. “How’s your back?”

You cringe, and resist the urge to rub the still-bruised area. “It’s fine. The hangover was worse.”

Craig looks like he’s about to turn you around inspect the injury himself, but one glance over your shoulder to where Pope is no doubt glaring from across the bar is enough to make him cave with one last guilty look. He’s apologized maybe a hundred times for the mistake, and you’ve forgiven him every time. After all, he didn’t mean it, and you’ve definitely had worse. “Damn, how bad?”

Your head is pounding, and you just barely managed to make it into the bathroom before the rest of last night’s tequila expels itself from your stomach.

Not five seconds later, you feel a large hand curl in your hair, pulling it back into a makeshift ponytail while another palm rubs small circles on your back.

“Oh, the humanity.” You whimper, pulling back to lean against the wall. You flinch at the movement, and give Pope a miserable look. “Christ, did I get hit by a truck last night?”

“You broke up a bar fight.”

“Why the fuck would I do that?”

“It was…between me and Craig.”

You frown, and try to piece the fuzzy memories together. “Did you kill him?”

“No. He fell back against the bar with you on his back, so I’m going to.”

Ah, that’s where the pain is coming from. You look him over, shirtless and beautiful and achingly familiar, but…

“Have you slept?”

He frowns, and looks like he’s fighting the urge to reach for you. “No.”

Ugh. This is stupid. Bad idea. You should leave. You are not together anymore. You will not-

“Okay. My head hurts. You need to sleep. Back to bed, big guy.” You reach out, and make grabby hands at him, just like you’ve done a million times before. Every time you were hungover, every time you were sick, or even one time when you just twisted your ankle trying to dive into the pool.

His smile is so full of adoration and relief that it nearly makes you cry. He doesn’t hesitate, moving to scoop you into his arms with a soft grunt of “c’mere…”

He lays you down, and you pull him with you, tugging the covers around you both before tucking yourself into his chest and reaching up to scratch your nails lightly over his back in the way that’s always made him melt.

“I love you.” He murmurs, warm fingers brushing through your hair. “I’m sorry-“

“Shhh. Go to sleep.” You press your lips to his shoulder, and feel him shiver a little at the feeling. “Head hurts, and you need to sleep.”

He takes a moment to speak, but then he nuzzles his nose into your hair and drops his arms down to pull you closer to him. “Okay.”

“I’ve had worse.” You smile, and clink your beer against Craig’s. “Thanks, though. You did fucking amazing today.”

Your friend’s smile, despite the damage to his face, lights up the entire room. “Fuck yeah I did. You did, too.”

“Aw, shucks.” You grin, and it’s just like before. Just like when you were kids, riding the adrenaline high together and laughing your way through the car chases and the gunfights despite Pope and Baz and even Deran’s concern. You nudge him, and smile a little wider as you gesture towards the door. “Renn’s here.”

He turns, and the way his eyes light up makes your heart swell impossibly more. That, right there. That’s how you look at Pope. How he looks at you. That little spark behind his eyes is exactly what he’s always deserved.

“You two back together?”

“Nah. I mean, I dunno. Maybe. We’re…you know.”

You clink your beer against his, and meet his eyes. “Just don’t fuck it up again, okay? You’ll be fine. Don’t overthink.”

His eyes trail behind you, to where Pope is most certainly still watching you, and he raises a pointed eyebrow.

You scoff. “Shut up.”

-

That’s the problem with good things. They always end.

You’re at the bar, sitting beside Pope like you have after a thousand jobs, and despite your conviction to keep your heart safe you can’t help the way it melts when his hand covers yours, large fingers threading through your own.

“Do you wanna go home?”

You hum, and lean into his side despite yourself. It was a pretty big day, after all, and nothing sounds better than curling up in bed with him and sleeping until noon tomorrow.

You open your mouth to agree, feeling his thumb trace lightly over your knuckles, and-

Your phone dings. A specific ringtone. One that makes you feel like an anvil has been dropped into your stomach.

“I’ll be right back.” You murmur, and when Pope’s brow furrows you lean forward and press your lips to the corner of his mouth. Not quite a kiss, but close enough that his hand squeezes yours one last time. “Just gotta go to the bathroom, first.”

You leave before he can follow.

-

“You look like shit.” You greet the old man in the alley with a frown, crossing your arms and standing a good few feet back. He does. Your father, piece of shit that he is, has probably pissed off a debt collector or two again, judging by the bruises on his face and arms. You have no sympathy for the man who once left similar marks on you.

“Heard your psycho boyfriend is outta prison.” His retort makes you grit your teeth. “Still sluttin’ yourself out to the Codys?”

“What the fuck do you want this time?”

“Just an exchange. Heard about that boat robbery today.” Fuck. “Wouldn’t be too great for good ol’ Dope’s probation if someone were to put in an anonymous tip, would it?”

“Pope had nothing to do with that.”

Your father smiles, all stained teeth and greedy eyes. “Shouldn’t be a problem, then.”

“Fuck you.”

“How ‘bout we make a trade? I don’t gotta call nobody, and you help cover my debt.”

You want to kill him. You hate him so much it makes you feel sick. “Like I said, fuck you.”

You turn to walk inside, and the move is a mistake. Fingers close too-tightly on your wrist, and before you know it you’re being slammed against the alley wall with your arm twisted agonizingly tightly behind your back. You bite hard on the inside of your cheek to keep from crying out, and remind yourself to breathe through the pain.

“Thought I raised you better than that.” The fingers on your wrist feel like they’re going to snap it in half. You want to bite something back, preferably something poetically sarcastic, but you can’t let your voice betray the pain you’re in. All these years, and you hate that he can still hurt you. “You got three days, kid. Sure you can spend enough time on your knees to get the money out of the crazy one. Maybe the cokehead, too.”

He lets you go with a shove that makes your cheek scratch against the wall, and you turn to glare defiant daggers as he walks away.

-

“Where did you go?” Pope’s dark eyes are curious, almost innocent as he reaches up to pull you closer to him by your hips.

You move back a little, and his brow furrows with concern. “I need my cut.”

“Yeah. You’ll get it when we-“

“I need it now.”

He stands, and you step back when he looks you over, but you’re too late. He knows you too well.

His hands are on your waist, tugging you close to him, and his fingers fly up to the scrape on your cheek. Down to pull up your sleeve, exposing angry red marks in the shape of fingerprints.

“Where is he?” He asks, voice dripping with danger, and you try to pull away but he just grips you more firmly. His grip is gentle, and you know he would let you go in a second if you asked, but he’s not letting you run from this. “Is he here?”

“Not anymore.” His fingers are curling around your arm, pulling it up to inspect your wrist. His eyes are almost black, and his jaw is clenched so tightly you’re worried he might crack a damn tooth. “Hey, Andrew. Look at me.”

His eyes don’t leave the bruises on your arm. “I should have killed him.”

“Beating him half to death caused enough problems.” Piece of shit that he is, your father has one too many connections in Oceanside, and the damage control from when Pope snapped on him years ago nearly got all of you arrested or killed.

It’s been proven safer to just give him what he wants, and try to keep it as secretive as possible, lest Pope or even Craig try to pound him into the pavement again.

Speaking of which, Pope is still holding you too tightly. You reach up, and turn his face towards yours. “I’m fine. We’re fine. Let’s…” God, you’re supposed to keep up with this ‘not together anymore’ thing, but “can we just go home?”

He melts. His eyes soften, and his arms slide around you to pull you closer to him. You feel his cheek against the side of your head, his hand sliding gently up over your back, and you melt too.

“Yeah. Yeah, let’s go.”

-

Split lip. Black eye. Ringing ears.

God, everything hurts. That asshole really did a number on you this time.

Bruised if not cracked ribs. A slight limp from where your leg hit weird when you were tossed across the floor. An aching arm that was grabbed a little too hard.

“Holy shit.” Craig. Craig’s voice, as familiar as your own.

“I got hit.” You worked on this lie. Practiced it the whole limping walk down here. “…by a car.” As bad as it is this time, it might be the only thing that’s believable.

“You’re a shit liar.” Now you know that’s not true, but your friend is already by your side, holding you up and helping you walk into the house. “I’m gonna kill him.”

You’ve definitely got a black eye. Your lip is swollen and bleeding. It’s becoming more exhausting to take stock of your injuries than it would be to note what isn’t hurting.

“Don’t. Just…don’t.” You wince on a step, and when Craig huffs and tries to scoop you up you swat him off.

“Fuck that. You look like you’re about to keel the fuck over.” He frowns, concern lacing every one of his features. “You’re not going back there.”

“I hit him with a fuckin’ frying pan.” You mumble, knocking your head against his shoulder. “So I figure I’m not welcome back any time soon.”

“Smurf is gonna shit.” He mumbles, and leans you back against the kitchen counter to inspect your face. “Fuck, Pope is gonna blow a gasket, dude. How are you gonna explain this to him?”

“I don’t know.” You mumble, reaching up to push the hair out of your face. All you want to do right now is see him. To be held by him and to maybe even just lay down in his twin bed and feel him tuck you into his arms. You’ve been with him for a little over a year, now, and it still feels like you’ve been dating for a week. Like your relationship is just one never ending honeymoon phase. Even these last few days, helping your father out with his bullshit scam, you’ve missed him so much it’s almost concerning.

Fuck.

“Beer, please.” You mumble, and when Craig hands it to you you take a moment to rest the cool glass against your bruised cheek. “I don’t know. I’ll tell him I got in an accident.”

Craig’s answer is immediate, lifting your arm to show the bruises in the shape of fingerprints dented into your skin. “Yeah, real fuckin’ believable.”

You pull you arm back, panic rising in your throat. “Okay. I…give me a sweatshirt.”

“He’ll just take it off.”

“Fuck.” He’s right. You shouldn’t have come here. You should have hidden out on the beach for a few days like you used to, and waited for some of these injuries to fade. Fuck. “I’ve gotta go.”

“Fat fuckin’ chance.” Craig grabs you, more firmly than usual, and keeps you still against the counter. “You think I’m gonna let you walk outta this house while that asshole is still breathing? Look, I ain’t Pope, but I’m not gonna let you into a situation where you could-“

You sense him before you see him. You didn’t even hear the door open.

“Get. Away. From. Her.”

Shit.

“Shit.” Craig releases you, and takes three large steps back like he might be attacked by a mountain lion.

Pope is on you in a second, one large hand cradling your bruised face, and in a moment you can see in his eyes that he’s not entirely there. That line in him has snapped, like it has on those nights you’ve found him in the yard, distant and empty and staring at the moon. When you’ve pulled him from fights, and he took a minute to even remember your name. Took him longer to remember his own.

“Please.” You whisper, reaching up to slide your fingers through his hair and force him to look at you. “Please be okay about this.”

He doesn’t answer you. He just moves his hand over your face, looks at you with those murderous eyes, and presses his forehead against yours.

“Where is he?”

“Pope. Andrew. Please.” Your heart cracks on his name, and he grips you more tightly. “Please, just take me to bed.” You turn his face to yours, squeeze your eyes shut. “I just wanna go to bed.”

And he does.

One hour later, he leaves that bed. You don’t open your eyes. Keep your breathing slow and steady as you feel him kiss your forehead, then your cheek, sliding his fingers through your hair like pulling away from you is physically painful.

But he does, and you feel him stand. You hear him leave.

And you let him.

Two hours later, he walks through the door of Smurf’s house with blood on his knuckles and sweat on his brow.

You’re waiting for him in the hall.

You look down at his hand. Back up to his eyes.

“Is he dead?” Your voice is quiet. He doesn’t look guilty, but he doesn’t look away from you, either.

“No.”

You just nod, and move forward to slide your hand over his cheek. He leans helplessly closer to you.

“Next time you do that,” you murmur, guiding his lips down to your own as his swollen knuckles curl against the back of your borrowed shirt, tugging you closer to him, “take me with you.”

He releases a shuddering breath, and his kiss is so full of love and devotion that it buckles your knees.

-

A warehouse is a cheesy place to meet. The fact that the asshole brought backup makes it worse. Granted, you brought Pope, Craig, and Deran with you, but…well, they’re more here for emotional support. And because they wouldn’t let you come alone.

When you got home, you told Pope everything. The threats, the money you’ve sent him, the amount of time he’s still been able to keep you under his thumb despite how hard you’ve worked to break away…

To your surprise, he hadn’t snapped. He hadn’t stormed out of his house to find the old man. He’d…

He’d kissed you. He’d wrapped his arms around you, tilted your head back, and kissed you.

You make a muffled noise against his mouth, eyes flying open in surprise before fluttering shut as your body melts into the embrace before your mind can even catch up.

When you finally break for air, still confused but certainly unable to complain, you blink your eyes open again.

“What was that for?”

He just kisses you again. Slow. Warm. Wonderful. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here.” He whispers, lips moving down to your jaw. Your neck. “I’m sorry you had to be so fuckin’ brave on your own.”

“Andrew, I…” this is a much different reaction than you were expecting. You haven’t mentally prepared for it. Your mind is still on the defensive.

He shushes you. Pushes his hands up under your shirt to trace them over your skin. “I love you. You don’t wanna be together? That’s okay. We can do whatever you want.” He kisses the hollow of your throat, scrapes his teeth against the sensitive skin, and you make a soft noise in the back of your throat that has him tightening his grip on you. “I’m not going anywhere, and you’re not dealing with this alone.”

You’re not alone. He’s not going anywhere. Never again.

You believe him. You really, really believe him.

“Take off your clothes, please.”

He smiles against your collarbone, and trails his nose up your throat until his lips are hovering over your own. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.” You’re already tugging at his shirt, already pulling him down to kiss you, and he meets you with a hunger that feels like a satisfied craving. “I love you. I trust you.” The words are murmured between kisses, “now please take off your clothes.”

“Christ, it’s like you think you’re Tony Soprano or some shit.” You grumble, feeling surprisingly petulant despite the intensity of the situation. Your father has connections, sure, but you grew up with Smurf Cody. The comparison between the way he operates and what you’re used to is absolutely insane.

Your father is a drunk, and an asshole, and he thinks he’s tough shit. You happen to know what it looks like to actually know what you’re doing. Shocker, that you’re the one who makes the actual fucking money. Even less shocking that he makes most of his income leeching off of you.

Well, not anymore.

“I told you to come alone. You brought your fuckin’ guard dog.”

“Yeah, you’re one to talk.” You gesture to the man beside him, the wall of muscle holding the gun and glaring at you like this is a gangster movie and he genuinely believes himself to be the most badass character. “Did you give your Steroid Humunculus his pay already, or is he gonna be banging on your door in a week looking for it?” You’re guessing the latter, if past experience is anything to go by.

“Enough.” Your father snaps, like he has any authority at all. It makes you furious. “Tell the psycho to leave.”

“Call him a psycho one more time, and this time it won’t be him who beats you to a fucking pulp.”

“Are you threatening me, you little shit?”

“Like father, like daughter.”

“I should teach you a fuckin’ lesson-“ he starts toward you, only to back up when Pope steps forward. His jaw ticks, fury flashing in his eyes, and you hear the click of something loading in the cavernous room.

It all happens so fast.

In all the times this kind of thing has happened, all of the times he’s made threats, it’s always been diffused. He’s always held up a gun, maybe loaded it, and said some bullshit until money was tossed his way.

This time, he brought the wrong backup. And that backup panics.

The man raises the gun, and aims it at Pope.

You move before you think, jerking instinctively in front of him and pushing him back, already beginning to move towards the money to end this bullshit. They always point the gun. Always shout a threat. Always shut up when they see the money and-

And then the gun goes off.

-

You wake to an empty bed.

Your first instinct is to reach out to the space Pope usually occupies, hand sliding over the cool sheets like you might be able to pull him out of thin air. It’s not morning, and the house is silent. If there was some kind of emergency, he would have woken you.

Huh.

The mystery doesn’t stay a mystery for long. You shuffle into the yard, and there he is.

Naked. Staring at the moon.

He seemed fine last night. Well, as fine as Pope Cody can be. A little more quiet, maybe. A little clingier than usual, and that would be saying something, but fine.

“Hey, handsome.” You hum, casual and sleepy, and move to stand beside him. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t break his eyes from the night sky. “What are we looking at?”

“Everything.” He murmurs, absent, and you can already tell that he isn’t here. Isn’t entirely inside his own head. That’s alright. This isn’t the first time something like this has happened, and it probably won’t be the last. At least he’s not smashing anything with a hammer.

“Sounds like a lot.” You move to stand in front of him, lifting your hand to brush your fingers through the soft curls on the back of his neck and turn his gaze down to yours. “How ‘bout you just look at me instead?”

When his eyes meet your own, still hazy and distant, his breath catches in his lungs. His hand moves up, guiding yours so he can press his cheek into your palm like the touch is some sort of coveted blessing. You smile, soft and gentle, and bring up your other hand to mirror the first and cradle his other cheek.

“You’re an angel.” The words come out as a reverent whisper. He’s not trying to flatter you, not trying for pretty compliments, but rather stating a fact. Like he often does, when he’s in this state.

“Not quite.” You press your lips to the underside of his jaw, and you feel a shiver travel through his entire body. “But I appreciate the compliment.”

Large hands hover over your waist, and his eyes don’t leave you. “Can I…touch you?”

You nod, and bring his forehead down to rest against yours as his arms slide around you, tugging you against him as calloused fingers trail up beneath your sleep shirt, the touch just as familiar as the rest of him.

“Will you come to bed with me?” You ask softly, moving your own hands down to smooth over the skin of his chest. “I’m not an overly jealous person, but I’d prefer to keep this view for myself. Don’t wanna share with the neighbors.”

“I’ll do anything for you.”

“Tell me that again in the morning when I remind you to take your meds, okay?”

He follows you back inside, and allows you to pull him back into bed with you. Allows you to pull the covers up around you both as he envelops you in his arms, and trails his lips along your hairline as he whispers soft words against your skin. You can’t make them out, but you wonder from his tone if they might be some kind of prayer.

“I love you.” You murmur, and his arms tighten around you. “Every part of you. You know that?”

“I don’t deserve it.” He whispers, and you pull back to look at him.

“You do.” You kiss his nose. His cheek. “You really, really do.”

-

For a moment, you think a car might have backfired somewhere nearby.

It’s not like you don’t know what a gun sounds like. Fuck, with your childhood, you could recognize the sound faster than your own voice. And yet, in this moment, your mind can’t seem to keep up. Can’t seem to process exactly what just happened.

You feel like you got punched in the stomach. There’s an intense, knock-the-wind-out-of-you pressure, and then…

Your hand comes up to the point of that pressure, to the dull burn, and comes away red.

“Fuck.” Your father breathes, and then he starts shouting. “Fuck! You idiot! What the fuck did you do?!”

You’ve heard that voice before. When he’s lost an exceptionally lucrative bet. When a deal has gone wrong. That’s the tone of a man who is losing his meal ticket, not even close to the tone of a concerned father.

You didn’t even get to do your little speech. Your whole ‘fuck you, I owe you less than nothing and this is the last time you’re getting a cent from me’ speech. You were kind of looking forward to it.

Your whole body feels a little numb. When your knees finally give out, warm arms wrap around you before you can collapse.

“No. No no no no no!”

Now that…that isn’t concern either. It’s worse. So much worse. It’s the realest and most raw fear you’ve ever heard.

There’s too much blood. Fuck. So much blood. It’s spilling out between your fingers faster than should be possible. Vaguely, you remember when you were small, and the faucet broke at whatever house you and your dad were squatting in at the time. You were so scared of his ire, of him blaming you for the burst, that you’d tried to hold it together with your small hands until your entire body was soaked.

Andrew Cody is gathering you into his arms, lowering you to the ground, and the pain is starting to slice it’s way through the shock and it is absolutely fucking overwhelming.

“It’s okay. It’s okay. I’ve got you. You’re gonna be okay. Look at me. C’mon, y-you’ve gotta look at me.”

Your father is still yelling at the guy who shot you. Screaming about the money. Not about you. The sound is loud, cutting through the ringing in your ears, and Andrew’s arms tighten around you.

“Close your eyes.” The words are murmured by your ear. Soft and warm and gentle despite the chaos. When he speaks again, his voice is shaking. “Close your eyes, sweetheart. It’s gonna be okay.” He rarely calls you that. This must be bad.

When you do, you hear a gun fire, and the shouting stops.

Your eyes fly open, and you try to turn towards the sound of two bodies hitting the floor, but Pope is there before you can move, dropping a gun to the pavement and cradling your face in his hands.

“Don’t look at that. Look at me. Look at me, okay? You’re gonna be okay.”

He shouts for Craig. For Deran. Everything is still in a sharp, dizzy sort of focus.

-

“Holy shit. What happened?”

Craig is hunched over the toilet. There’s a bottle of tequila on the floor.

He turns his face towards you, hair messy and cheek resting against his arm. “Go away.”

“Nah.” You’re already sitting beside him, tugging his hair into a ponytail and tying it off.

“M’a fuckup.” He mumbles. “Jus’ a…drunk idiot. Deran said.”

You hum, and rub a soothing hand over his back. “Definitely acting like one.”

“See?” He tilts his head miserably back into his arm. “Even you say it.”

“Shut up. You know that’s not what I’m saying.” You move over to the bottle, and take a swig before throwing the rest into the trash. “Hey, look at me.”

He does. He looks like he might have been crying.

“You’re one of the smartest people I know, you know that?”

“You’re not funny.”

“I’m not lying.”

He looks at you now. Really, really looks at you. “You gotta stop seein’ the best in me.”

“Too late. You done puking?”

He grunts, and you reach down to help him stand with a significant amount of effort and bitching that he weighs a million pounds.

And you get him into bed, and even tuck him in, and before you leave to go back to Pope’s room he catches your wrist.

“I love you.”

You stop, and furrow your brow.

“Not in like, a weird way. M’not tryna fuck you or anything. I don’t even know how…” he frowns, and releases you to rub a hand over his face. “I dunno how to say it.”

Your heart swells, in that familiar way, and you laugh a little as you move over and sit on the edge of his bed. “I think you’re telling me I’m you’re best friend.”

“Well, obviously. S’more than that, though. You don’t…you don’t think I’m a fuckup. You actually like me.”

You think back to that kid on the beach, surrounded by three angry assholes and fully prepared to stand his fucking ground. The kid who you were knocked out defending. Who didn’t think twice before he brought you back to his home. To the only safe space he knew. Who brought you into his family.

Who loved you like you loved him, and wasn’t sure what it meant. Who assumed, as teenagers do, that it might be romantic. Who didn’t think twice when he realized that it wasn’t romantic, and still pushed his pride aside and kept on loving you. And even now, budding your own ways into adulthood together, he’s drunk and still trying to put into words that he loves you platonically.

“You have the biggest heart.” You say, honest and raw, and his hazy blue eyes fill with tears again. “Even if you can be an idiot sometimes.”

He swipes his hand over his eyes, and tries to hide a sniffle. He looks young like this. He’s only in his early twenties, sure, but he looks younger than that. Vulnerable in a way only you ever really get to see.

“Promise you won’t go anywhere.” He mumbles, like he’s nervous to say it.

He smells like puke, and he’s sweaty, but fuck it. You hug him, making sure to flop down on top of him a little so he groans miserably before he wraps a large arm around you to pat your back.

“Can’t get rid of me if you tried, jackass.”

-

Craig is freaking out. He’s in the back of the car, where Pope is still holding you, and he’s freaking out.

Oh, no. That won’t do, will it? You take care of them. You always do. You keep Craig level-headed, and you keep Andrew from freaking out. Or…or is it the other way around? It’s concerningly difficult to think. You feel like you’re floating.

“Almost there. Almost there. Don’t leave me, okay?” God, Andrew Cody’s voice is the best thing you’ve ever heard. You want to sink into it, but he’s shaking and you can hear tears in his voice and you’re supposed to fix that.

“Drive fucking faster!” Craig is pushing on your stomach too hard. It hurts. You wheeze, and he doesn’t let up. “Deran, the IV isn’t working. It’s not working, she’s too fuckin’ pale.”

He’s covered in blood. You can’t see Pope, but you think he is too. Everything is tainted a horrible shade of red, and it’s getting really hard to think.

“M’here.” You try, scratchy and raw. “M’here. You’re okay. Don’t…be a dumbass.”

“Fuck. Fuck, don’t die. Please don’t die. Look at me, okay? Look at me.” You try, but Pope is whispering near-nonsense into your hair and trembling so hard it’s almost starting to hurt more than the pressure on your stomach. Still, Craig brushes the hair from your face, and you can see tears tracking their way down his cheeks. “They’re all dead, okay? All those assholes are dead. You’re not going with them, you hear me? You’re not going with them.”

There’s shouting. There’s panic. It’s all fading. Pope’s lips are warm against your skin, and the sound of his voice is soothing and…

-

“I love you.”

The words are whispered into your hair, so soft that you almost don’t hear them through the haze of sleep. But you’re awake, now. He doesn’t know it, but you’re awake.

You blink, and feel his fingers trace slow, warm patterns over the bare skin of your back.

“I love you.” He whispers again, just as low and just as quiet.

You shift, and he goes very, very still.

“Hi.” You whisper, pulling back, and he looks fucking terrified.

“…Hi.”

“You just said you loved me.”

“I…thought you were sleeping.”

You reach up, and turn his face to yours. Feel soft curls between your fingers.

“How long have you been telling me you love me when I’m asleep?”

He’s silent. He doesn’t look away.

“Andrew?”

“…a while.”

You smile, and the way his eyes spark at the sight makes your heart melt. “I love you, too.”

His hand flies up almost too fast, cradling your cheek and brushing his thumb over your cheekbone as he stares into your eyes with an intensity that makes your blood tingle in your veins. “You do?”

“Yeah.” How could you not? How could he not know? “Of course I do.”

-

A sharp sting brings you back, this time. You think someone might have hit you.

“Fuck, thank God. You looked like…shit, okay. Pope, let her go. You’ve gotta let her go, man.”

“Where were you?” He’s whispering against your cheek, and he’s out of his mind. Shit, he’s really out of his mind. His arms are still around you, and he’s speaking like he used to when things got really bad. When whatever was in his mind snapped, and it would take you hours to bring him back to you. “Where did you go? Don’t go. Take me with you.”

Every instinct, every cell in your body, tells you to fight. To stay here. To be here with him. To make this better.

But you’re losing time, and he’s not letting you go.

“Don’t touch her.” Lips on your temple. Your cheek. Arms tight around you. “Don’t touch her. Don’t take her away.”

You try to speak, but convulse instead. The sight of it seems to trigger something, and Craig starts to yank you out of Pope’s arms in such a panicked rush that you whimper as another bolt of agony fires through you.

Andrew holds you tighter. Your mouth tastes like copper. You feel blood trickling past your lips.

“Fuck it. Fuck it. Deran, hold him down.” Craig says, and he’s still crying and you should fix that, before he reaches forward and slams Pope’s head against the window. The arms around you go limp as he loses consciousness, and then you’re being lifted out of the car.

“I got you. It’s okay.” You choke out a soft noise, grab at his arm, and he just tucks you closer to him. “Pope’s okay, too. Everything’s gonna be fine, yeah? Just…just don’t die. Please, please don’t die.”

You’re so tired. You want Andrew. If you’re going to drift into oblivion, he should be here. But…

-

When you open your eyes, it’s to a cracked ceiling and a heavy, distant pain in your stomach.

You feel the drugs in your system. Blurred and heavy and warm. Tijuana. They managed to get you to Tijuana. And you’re alive. Bullet wound in the gut and all, and you’re alive.

Andrew Cody is beside you, head resting on his hands like he may have been living up to his nickname and praying. When you stir, he does too, red-rimmed eyes blinking open and looking at you like you’re the only other person in the world. There is so much relief in his gaze that the sight makes you feel dizzy.

“Hi.” You murmur, hoarse, and reach up to tap gently at the side of his head. “Are you here?” You remember his mumbled words against your skin. The way he needed to be knocked out before he would let you go. He can go so far away, sometimes. But he looks like he’s here now. He looks like he’s your Andrew.

He nods, and catches your hand to press his lips to your palm. His breath shudders on a silent sob.

“I thought…I thought you were-“

“I think we should get married on the beach.” You cut him off with a gentle squeeze to his hand. “S’that okay?”

He looks at you, at your stomach, and back at your face like he’s trying to judge how full of painkillers you are. “You wanna get married?”

“Do you?”

“Yes.” There’s no hesitation. Not an ounce of it. “But you’re on-“

“I know. Still want to. I can ask you again when I’m off them, if you want.”

“I think you should.” He murmurs, but he’s smiling. It’s a small, hesitant thing. Like he was pretty sure, not too long ago, that he would never smile again. Like he’s already re-learning the expression.

“Mm.” You squeeze his hand, and lean your head back against the pillows. “You wanna marry me?”

“Since I first met you.”

“Softie.” You turn your head, and furrow your brow a little. “You never asked, though.”

“I planned it.” He admits, tracing his thumb over your knuckles. “Bought a ring.”

“When?”

“Five years ago.”

You raise your eyebrows, and say again, “you never asked.”

“Never found a perfect time.”

“Mm. Sorry for stealing your thunder then.”

He squeezes your hand, and brings it up to his lips so he can trail kisses over your knuckles. He looks back up at you after a moment, and his dark eyes are so beautiful. “I killed your father.”

Those four words should definitely make you feel something. Anything. Instead, you just feel a surge of love for the man before you. “Okay.”

“I’m glad I did it.”

“I know.”

And, like he just can’t help it anymore, he moves forward and presses his lips to yours. You kiss him back, and wrap your arms around his neck even as the movement makes you wince. Worth it.

“Can we get married now?” You ask, the words muffled by his lips, and he smiles down at you.

“When the drugs wear off.”

You frown, and shrug. “Okay. Can we go home?”

“When they say you can.”

Hm. “Can we have sex?”

He laughs. It’s a beautiful sound. “Go to sleep.”

“You’re no fun.”

“Promise I will be.” He kisses your cheek. “For the rest of your life.”

“I like where this is going.”

“I’ll never leave you again.”

“Keep talkin’, Cody.”

“When we get home, I’ll stock the fridge with that ice cream you like.”

“Take me now.”

The love in his eyes is so beautiful, so pure, so raw, that you know without a doubt that those eyes alone were worth living for. “Go to sleep.”

-

You and Pope rent a house in Tijuana for a while. There’s no need to go back to Oceanside. Not yet. Smurf doesn’t love it, but she doesn’t fight it. It wouldn’t be great optics, after all, for her son’s girlfriend to be recovering from a bullet wound while her father, whom Pope has nearly killed before, was recently found dead in a warehouse.

He fusses over you endlessly. He barely lets you stand on your own, even when you’re fully capable of doing so. You wake up to him watching you sleep more often than ever, and he barely spends more than a minute not touching you.

It’s nice. Really nice. Kind of like a honeymoon before the honeymoon. Just with less sex due to an annoying bullet wound, and a little more crankiness from you than usual due to both of the former issues.

But you stay up all night on the beach, talking until the sun rises and making out like teenagers. You try to make breakfast, burn it, and get to ogle him from your spot on the counter as he makes it for the both of you. You plan for the future, count down the days until your wound is healed, and just…enjoy being happy. No jobs, no strings, no stress.

A little over a month later, you wake him up by rolling on top of him, the familiar pain in your stomach reduced to much less than a dull ache.

His eyebrows raise before his eyes even open, a sleepy smile curling on his lips as his hand trails down your back and your lips move to press teasing kisses down his neck.

“Good morning.” You hum, and he seems more than happy to return the sentiment. “I officially think I’m healed enough for…strenuous activities.”

He makes a low noise, and kisses you slowly. Hungrily. You grin, triumphant and happy, and feel his hands come up to shift you on top of him, sitting himself up against the wall and-

And pulling back.

You actually whine, chasing his lips with your own, but he holds you firm with a smile so wide it’s almost silly.

“I have another idea.”

“It’s been over a month, Andrew. I challenge you to name one thing better than sex right now.”

His smile grows impossibly wider. He reaches into the pocket of his sweatpants, mischief sparking in his sleepy eyes like he was hoping you’d say something like that, and…

And pulls out a ring.

“Oh.” You breathe, eyes locked on the little diamond in his palm. It’s simple. Beautiful. Perfect.

“Bought a new one.” He says, hand coming up to brush your hair back from your face.

You grin. He grins back.

“You make a compelling argument.”

He kisses you, and you kiss him back.

Head in the fucking game, you tell yourself. Eyes on the target—you cannot fuck up in the middle of a procedure. Just because some guy can’t be bothered calling you back? People are literally dying in the walls of the hospital. You cannot afford to be so vapid that you’re more worried about unread text messages and zero call backs.

You refuse to fail anywhere else, hovering, anticipating the doctors’ needs before they verbalise it. This is what makes you valuable to the team. They’ve said it again and again—they need more nurses like you.

And especially in front of Jack. You admire him—respect him a lot. You never wanted to be a doctor, but you love working as a nurse. With him. Being useful to him and the night shift.

“Swap out with Tim in Trauma 1,” Jack says, eyes darting to you.

“You got it, boss.” You don’t even try to argue with what you think is his judgement call of getting you out of his way. Making you someone else’s problem.

The thing was, he noticed. Of course he fucking noticed. Nothing happened in the ED, to his staff, without his knowledge. It was his job as an attending to ensure he was on top of it.

He noticed it in your docile greeting, normally a little more upbeat. He noticed it in the questioning look that Parker shot him when you were quieter than usual, citing the fact that you were tired. When Shen picked up on your dour mood, offering some coffee that you flatly dismissed, telling him you weren’t in the mood. For coffee, or for him; you left it up to interpretation.

It was downright rude. Rude and you didn’t go together. It was why they liked having you on night shift.

It worries him. The not knowing. The questioning. The way everyone looks to him for answers and he can’t provide them. You’re usually the kind one, the one that’s happy to help. But today, there’s a cloud hanging over you. Something bogging you down.

“What’s going on?” Shen whispers, nodding his chin towards you. You’re at the desk in central, blankly staring at the screen more so than typing the notes you should be inputting.

“Don’t know,” Jack confesses, and he hates that he doesn’t know. So much for being the one that protects the hive. As much as he makes himself the reliable one that everyone, especially his night shift team, can depend on, someone always falls through the cracks. “Been weird all day.”

“There you are,” Lena says, walking up to lean against the desk. Hovering over you. “We need you in central 8. Patient barely speaks English. Wanna see if you know what language she knows?”

You shoot her a clearly unimpressed look. “Right, because I must speak every language under the sun,” you bite out.

Lena pauses, eyes narrowed at you. “Are you—?”

“Hey.” Jack steps in, frowning. Not that he thinks it’ll escalate into a fight, but he’d rather not entertain that possibility. Night shift was meant to be chill; have less personality clashes compared to day shifts. Less staff, as well, which was why it was essential everyone worked well within the team. “Lena asked for a favour.”

You look away from him, cowed. Chastised—again. “Central 8, yes sir.”

You scurry off to the patient in central 8—Indonesian, which happened to be a language that you taught yourself for the fun of it, years ago. This isn’t even the first time they’ve asked you to try and communicate with a patient in another language. Ridiculously, it’s the first time you’ve taken offence to it.

You and Princess have a bet on who could learn the most additional languages. It’s been a long 18 months since she and Perlah initiated the bet. You refuse to lose, and Princess is competitive. Between the two of you, you’ve got a conversational handle on a minimum of 15 languages right now. It’s circulated around the hospital like common knowledge at this point.

“Hey.” Lena follows you when you’re exiting the room. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to imply anything—”

“It’s okay,” you say, quick. You feel embarrassed by your earlier reaction. “Really. I’m sorry. I’m feeling really crabby today, and I took it out on you. I’m really sorry. You didn’t do anything wrong.” You’re absently massaging the back of your neck in a self-soothing fashion, and it’s the only reason she sees.

“Whoa,” Lena gasps. “Hey, did someone hurt you?” Ever the medical professional, she steps close, reaching.

Really, it’s on you. The bodily flinch before she makes contact with your shoulder. You both know she’s done it before—calming, gentle touches. Reassuring. Maternal. Her and Dana, mother henning the hospital when they step into the role of the respective shift’s charge nurse. You’ve always accepted those.

Except this time, your skin feels like it’s burning and itching at the same time.

She stares at you.

You feel frozen, heart thudding too fast in your chest. A dramatic reaction to a familiar touch. A mountain out of a mole hill.

“Hey—” Lena starts, softer. Like you’re a wounded animal in need of comfort.

“South 16’s opened.” Jack’s voice, clear and sharp.

You wince, pivoting to the side, where his eyes are on you. “I don’t need—”

“Get in there.” And his tone brooks no room for argument. “Now.”

With a sigh, you march yourself into south 16. Jack follows after a few minutes, no doubt gathering whatever supplies he thinks he needs. Door closed, curtain drawn.

You’re both silent, waiting for the other to cave. You’re perched on the edge of the bed. He’s standing by the door.

He breaks first. “You wanna tell me what’s going on?”

“Nothing’s going on.”

His jaw clenches. Takes a seat on the stool. Wheels it to the foot of the bed. “I need to see how bad it is,” he says, carefully. Like he’s actively choosing every word.

“Nothing’s bad. Nothing hurts.”

Which, apparently, is the wrong thing to say, based on the breath released between his teeth. Maybe the right thing would have been to deny any source of pain.

He says your name, eyes analytical as he studies you. Something in his face softens. Pushing the stool back. “Would you be more comfortable if I got Dr Ellis or Lena to do the examination?”

You frown. “What examination?” You look—really look, this time—at the supplies he brought in. One of them is a white cardboard box, Sexual Assault Evidence Kit printed in bold letters among other black ink. You’ve catalogued enough of them to know you’re not mistaking it for any other kit. Have done a few on patients as well.

“I’m not—this, this wasn’t—” You take in a breath. Eyes boring into Jack’s, trying to impart the determination of your next words. “It was consensual.”

It’s silent in the room, with the door closed. With neither of you speaking. Jack doesn’t move; you barely breathe.

“Are you sure?” he asks, finally.

“Yes.”

“Okay.” And just like that, the weighted worry drops. He’s still concerned, of course. As soon as Lena had asked if someone had hurt you, everything in his mind jumped to a horrifying conclusion. He’s glad their shared assumptions aren’t correct. In his relief, he’s forgotten about your other symptoms—the moody countenance. “Can I still check you over? For my peace of mind?”

“Sure,” you sigh out. Shuffling further on the bed, back turned towards him, shucking your scrub top, then turtleneck beneath it. You know where the worst of it is.

“Jesus, kid,” he hisses. With you turned away, you don’t see the way his jaw ticks, compelling his fingers to unfurl from taut fists. He forces his attention to remain on the bruises and red wounds, and not the black lines of intricate artwork sprawling further down your back. Accentuating the lines of your body.

You hear the snap of the disposable blue gloves.

“It looks worse than it is,” you say.

“Bruising looks like it’s at least a day old.” His voice is clipped. Tight. Overcorrecting professionalism into cold and distant.

They must be purpling by now, you assume. “It’s been—uh, since Saturday night.”

You feel the cool swab of antiseptic on the bruises; the bite marks, the scratches.

“You know,” Jack says, and you feel his warm breath fan across your bare skin. That, alone, makes you shiver. “Even if you changed your mind part way through, it’s still sexual assault.”

You shoot a look over your shoulder at him.

He attempts a poker face. Do not react.

“I didn’t change my mind,” you say, firm. You turn back to face the wall. Stare down at the bed beneath you. “It’s—” And maybe it’s easier to admit when you don’t have to look at him. “I wanted it to hurt. For him to be rough.”

Jack breathes in. Do not react. He’s a doctor. He’s also tended to previous partners like this before. His own wife, even. Clinical hands; he’s seen this before. He cannot treat this like a new thing, just because it’s you.

“Where’d you even find the guy?” He doesn’t know why he’s asking. To twist the knife lodged between the fourth and fifth ribs, maybe.

“On an app.”

“What? Just a random dating one?”

“No. It’s—you know, specifically for hook ups of the non-vanilla kind.”

“The what kind?”

Oh my God, he’s going to make you say it outloud. Gaze resolutely stuck on the creases of the white, sterile bedsheets. “The kinky kind.”

A pause. “They have those, now?”

You can almost hear the beginnings of a ‘back in my day’ spiel. And isn’t that a thought? Dr Jack Abbot searching for his own BDSM partners—in his youth, maybe. You don’t want to think about his exploits in his current era. You’re already topless in front of him. You cannot bare yourself to him any more than this.

“Yeah,” you chuckle, a little breathlessly. Get it together. You can’t get all giggly in front of your boss. “They do, grandpa.”

“Hey. Careful now,” he remarks, amused. Something loosens in his chest, allowing him to breathe easier. It’s probably the first time he’s heard you express something akin to a laugh during this shift. He doesn’t realise how much he missed that today; how much he needs it to carry him through.

The ED can be a harrowing place, but it’s a lot less dark with you by his side.

You hum, letting the silence relax you. It must be past 3 AM, you think. There’s always that patchy, tranquil moment after the sporadic rush between midnight and 3 AM.

“So what?” he asks. Cotton swab dabbing ointment onto the wounds. “Your date just fell asleep and forgot to take care of you?”

You let out a huff, humourless. Head dipped. Embarrassed, again. It flushes down your neck. “He left as soon as he was done.”

Jack goes deathly still. The swab hovers, pinched tightly between his fingers. “What?”

“He, uh—left,” you sniff. Do not fucking cry over this. “And I’m pretty sure I got ghosted too, because I’ve been trying to—um, call him. Or text him. Which sucks, because, I…” You suck in a breath. “We took our time. Went on three separate dates before Saturday. Dinner. Movie. Museum. Four fucking months of talking and he dipped as soon as he got his dick wet.”

Jack is uncharacteristically silent over your shoulder.

You shuffle around, facing him.

He’s frowning. Lips downturned. Eyes stormy. Lines of his body wound tight. An older man outraged by the woes of modern dating, you assume.

“It’s fine,” you say, because you feel the sudden need to mollify that anger. To appease him. You try to covertly rub your eyes to wipe the tears that have collected. “Honestly, I’ve always been a bit bad about handling rejection, but I’m working on it.” It explains your shitty mood since Saturday. The dull awareness after he left.

Jack blinks, jaw unlatching at your words. Stares at you. “Is that what you think this is?” he asks, hollowly. “You feel hurt because of a little rejection?”

You make an obviously face. “I’ll feel better by next shift.”

“How much research did you do?”

“I read a few articles; people’s blog posts. There aren’t any peer reviewed journals on this.”

“I know,” he huffs out. He remembers his own reading journey, all those years back. “Did you read anything about dropping? Sub drops?”

Your forehead creases in thought. It sounds vaguely familiar. “Maybe?”

Jack doesn’t say anything, waiting.

You stare. The confusion eventually smooths out. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh,” he echoes. “You’re in a sub drop.”

You have been, since Saturday. That’s—mortifying, you think. Your kinky extracurricular affairs brought forefront and centre to your attending because you weren’t a good judge of character.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. Something humiliating thickens your throat; wells tears into your eyes. They avert from him, dropping somewhere low. “Fuck, I’m—I’m sorry.”

“Hey, it’s—hey. Look at me,” Jack says.

You’re not listening.

“Fuck. Hey. Hey, quit spiralling. Listen to me.” Jack yanks the gloves off his hands.

This is disgusting. You’re disgusting. This was something that was supposed to remain within your bedroom walls, far, far away from the hospital. Instead, you brought it right to the night shift’s front porch.

A rough palm slotted against your cheek.

The effects are near instantaneous—a shuddering inhale, a trembling whine. Glassy eyes shedding tears as they slide close. Cheek nuzzled against callused flesh.

His hand tipping your face upwards. “Open your eyes.”

And you do.

Shiny, blinking. Unfocused, then landing on him. Something registers, clicks in your mind. “Please,” you whisper. You don’t know what you’re asking for.

But he does. Something bittersweet in this throat. “I know,” he rasps. He wants this. Fulfilment delivered on a silver platter. But not like this. Not from someone else’s abymal attempts.

He’d seen the way you brightened when he passed by with a compliment. A well timed ‘great work in there’, and your shy smile followed him. Like a sunflower chasing the sun. Maybe it’s his ego stinging, now. Maybe it’s something else; something tender, something primal.

“I’m sorry,” you sniffle.

Jack hushes you. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” If he could get his hands on the man that called himself your date, he wishes for once, he could take back the sworn oath to do no harm.

“I’m sorry,” you say again.

He manoeuvres himself onto the bed. Pulls you into his lap, chests aligned. His arms encircle your waist, avoiding the bruises decorating your upper back. Settling on top of the tattoos. “Breathe with me,” he instructs.

So you do.

In and out. In and out. Inhale, exhale. Again and again.

Just until the dizziness fades a little. Until you feel like you have a few fingers back on the ledge.

“I’m sending you home,” Jack says.

“I don’t want—”

“Do not,” he demands, tense, “argue with me.”

Your mouth clicks shut. Face buried into the crook of his neck and shoulder. “Sorry,” you whisper.

“You go home,” he says, “you get yourself cleaned up. Eat. Rest. I’ll come by and take care of you when I’m done here.”

You suck in a breath. “No—”

“What did I just say about—”

A noise of complaint in the back of your throat, hand wrapped around his bicep, squeezing. “Red,” you utter.

It jolts him. Admittedly, it’s been a while, but the colours are ingrained in him as much as the safewords that he used. This isn’t a scene, but you’re so far down that you can’t tell.

“What?” he asks, around the thudding in his chest. He overstepped, somewhere. He doesn’t know you like this, can’t anticipate your needs like he would in the ED.

“I can’t,” you tell him, quiet. Small. “You can’t.”

“I can’t what?”

“Take care of me.”

Jack inhales gravel. Pissed off. “Did he tell you that? Is that why he left you alone?”

“No,” you say.

“Then what is it?” One of his hands lift from your waist, guiding your face away from where you’re hiding. Thumb brushes across tear stained cheek. “Talk to me,” he murmurs.

You peer down at him, positioned higher only because you’re straddling his thighs. You swallow against this heavy thing in your chest.

How do you even admit that the sole reason you started researching BDSM in the first place, is due to the man in front of you? Due to the way he doled out praises in the ED, unlocking something within you? You imagined it was him, pinning you down, hands around your neck, teeth sinking into skin, telling you to be good for him.

“I can’t have you mean nothing,” you whisper, eventually.

Jack swallows past the lump suddenly in his throat. “What does that mean?” A burgeoning of hope. “Sweetheart, what does that mean?” And maybe that’s the cruelty in him, a manipulative side that fools him into thinking that if he calls you as such, you can remain tucked inside his heart. Can convince you to stay there.

“You’re everything,” is all you say. Maybe it’s enough.

“Everything,” he repeats.

“Yes.”

Jack’s hand is a gentle thing against your cheek. No pressure, no guidance. Just slight pressure tracking your movements as you nose against his jaw. Scrape your skin against stubble.

His hand slides to the back of your scalp. “And that means I can’t take care of you?”

“Yes,” you say.

“Why?”

“I…” You’re not selecting words. Just trying to find them through the fog. “Because it’s only for today. Until I feel better.”

“And you don’t want that.”

“No.”

“What do you want?”

“Everything,” you say again. And your lips land on his pulse point, You feel it thrum. “With you.”

He doesn’t know how much of this is the drop. How much of this is you. All he knows is that you wouldn’t admit any of this if you were in the right mind.

Fingers flex at the roots of your hair. He tugs you up to look at him.

Your hips buck on their own accord. You keen, thighs tightening around him. Teary eyed.

His other hand against your waist digs in. Stopping your movements. “Fuck,” he swears, hoarse. “Sorry.”

“Feels good,” you murmur, reassuring.

He can’t do this. Here. While you’re like this. He needs you up and out of sub drop before he can have this conversation with you. But you don’t want his help unless he can promise you everything. He can only hope he knows what that means.

“Please,” you utter.

“I know,” Jack soothes. His hand braced against your cheek again.

You lean forward, weight against him. Lips almost on his.

His fingers lead you away. “No,” he murmurs, sandpaper in his throat.

You let out a cracked whine. He doesn’t want to kiss you.

“No,” he says, sharp, like he can see what conclusion you’re reaching. “Not yet.” His lips against your forehead. “Not here.”

Jack doesn’t know how long it takes. He can’t spend the whole shift in there with you, as much as he wants to.

The contact helps. His touches, the soft susurration aimed into the soft flesh of your neck. At some point, you’re coherent enough to be functional. Turtleneck and scrub top on.

Jack tells you to go home. You do.

Lena meets Jack’s gaze. Worried. Questioning.

He shakes his head. It wasn’t what she initially thought, but he’s still concerned. Not completely out of the woods yet.

The final two hours of his shift stretch. All he can think of is you. By the time he sees Robby, he feels dead on his feet.

“You good, brother?” Robby claps him on the shoulder, frowning.

“Long story,” Jack says, scrubbing at his face.

“Yeah? You don’t got time?”

“I gotta head out. John can hand off.”

“Seriously?” Robby blinks, surprised.

Jack’s never passed on a hand off before. But he feels like Shen was probably more present, anyway. Less distracted.

“Robby, my guy,” Shen says.

Robby fixes the other attending with a deeply unimpressed look. “John.”

“See you,” Jack says.

“I better get the short version some time,” Robby says.

“Me too!” John adds.

“You don’t even know what we were talking about…”

Their voices trail away as Jack walks. No rooftop. No drinks in the park. Just over to your apartment, the address memorised from your staff profile. Probably a privacy concern, but Lena turned the other way when he said he wanted to check on you.

You’re asleep on the couch when he comes. You were cogent enough to text him your apartment number and a picture of your welcome mat, letting him know your key was under there.

Not the most secure hiding place, but by the time he arrived, it was still there.

The back of his hand pressed against your forehead, taking your temperature. Fingers brush through your hair.

You stir. “Dr Abbot?” Spoken softly, eyelids heavy.

“Hey, kiddo.” He shifts, handing you your water bottle you’ve left on the coffee table.

You sip from it, blinking yourself awake. Scrubbing at bleary eyes. “Are you wearing shoes?” you ask around a yawn.

Jack blinks, not having expected your question. He looks down at the shoes he’s wearing—one on his foot, the other on his prosthesis. “Yeah.”

“Shoes off,” you say. “There are guest slippers in the bottom cubby hole.”

“Bottom cubby hole,” he repeats. More so to remember, than mock you.

“Please,” you add.

He rumbles a laugh before he follows your instructions. He takes out the ointment from his backpack before depositing it near the coat rack at the door. He shuffles back towards you, now clad in the slippers. “Did you eat yet?”

You hum your confirmation. “I have leftovers in the fridge. And I showered. You can use the shower too. Towels are in the cupboard in my room.”

“Alright. When I’m done, I’m going to check your back again.”

“Okay.”

He lingers. “How are you feeling?”

“Better.”

“Feeling like yourself?”

You think. “I don’t know.”

“Okay. That’s okay.”

When he’s done, you’ve relocated to your bedroom. It’s a strange situation for him to be in, invited into your apartment and encouraged to explore the place himself. Complete trust in someone else’s life.

He finds you curled under the soft blanket you have spread over your king single bed. Sprawled out, sleeping in a prone position. He pops his prothesis off.

Ointment in hand, he gently tugs the blanket down. Sees you in sleep shorts, no shirt on. The consideration of making your back easily accessible isn’t lost on him. He touches up the ointment while you remain asleep. Fingers applying pressure, massaging tense muscles even though you’re not awake for it. He feels you relax under his touch.

“What am I going to do with you?” he wonders aloud.

And he stays there, next to you, until he too, falls asleep.

When you wake up, you kind of forget what happened. It feels like a blur—something you could write off as a dream if you didn’t have any reminders. And in this moment, you don’t. Tiredly stumbling to the bathroom, then to your bedroom, wrapped in a towel.

You’re, somehow, too out of it to hear the noises in the kitchen. Once you’re in comfortable loungewear, you take your reusable water bottle with you. The intention is to fill it, grab some snacks, then head back into your room. Maybe pop on a show. Let your brain turn off.

“Hey.”

You startle, almost dropping the bottle. Pivoting to see Dr Jack Abbot in front of your stove. Cooking—something. Eggs, you think. It’s one of the things you always stock up in the fridge.

Yesterday in the hospital was not a dream. It was real. Very real. And he came to check in on you in your apartment. And stayed over.

“Hey. I…” you start. Trail off.

“Forgot?” Amusement lifting the corner of his lips. Trying to hide it for your sake.

“No,” you say, quick. You both know it’s a lie. Lips pressed into a line, heading to the water dispenser attached to the fridge to fill up your bottle.

Jack grins when you’re no longer looking at him. “Eat first.” The toaster pops with two slices. He’s made himself at home, studying your kitchen. Pantry, fridge, cupboard, drawers. He’s memorising the layout. Two plates, eggs, toast, slices of ham. You, apparently, didn’t have bacon. He searched.

Sitting at the tiny thing you call a dining table, Jack waits for you to tuck into your food. Despite the fact that you’re more lucid, he can tell you’re still off. As he eats, you’re not. Pushing food around. Tearing off pieces of your toast to nibble at.

Since Saturday, he remembers. Wonders if you treated all your meals like this before coming into the Pitt. You must have been running on fumes. Wonders how many times you’ve done this; if this is your first time, or just the first time it’s gone wrong.

Jack clears both the plates away. His empty; yours mostly full. Half your toast gone. He decides to glad-wrap yours, putting it in the fridge. Cleans his own plate in the sink, washing his hands after.

“You didn’t have to… be here,” you say. To stay. To make you food.

“I said I’d take care of you,” he responds, evenly. Leaning against the sink. Eyes on you.

And you both remember what happened after. What you said. Not unless you could have everything.

You feel—embarrassed. You meant it, of course you meant it. A stupid torch you’ve carried for two years. The humiliating realisation that it wasn’t going away. You tried to put those feelings onto someone else, tried to go out, go on dates. You were young. And yet.

The sinking knowledge that this wasn’t just some kind of silly crush born of proximity and praises.

“It’s not your responsibility,” you state. “You’re not my—” Mouth snapping shut, self-editing.

Even if you don’t finish it, the tilt of his head, the challenging tick of his eyebrow says he heard it. Arms crossing over his chest.

You can’t help the way your eyes fixate on the stretch of the short sleeves of his t-shirt around tensed biceps.

“I’m not your what?” Jack asks.

You clear your throat, moving to stand up. To get away, even if for a second. Even if he’s trying to do you a favour by being here.

“Stay down.”

You almost do. The chair scrapes backwards, instead. “Fuck off, Abbot,” you snarl, standing fully.

Hostility rearing its head again. Like with Lena, except this time, you’re not restraining yourself at an attempt at professional conduct. You’re biting. Pushing.

Jack knows there’s probably a few ways he can take this. Can respond. “Don’t do this.”

Gone is the sweet thing he held in his lap yesterday. Instead, you’re aching, scared of rejection and lashing out because of it.

“Quit patronising me. You’re not my—anything. And I’m not yours.”

His teeth scrape together, jaw squeezing. Jack knows this game. Can read you like a book. He can’t fall for the bait; if his temper wins, he proves you right.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says, voice soft despite the urge to snap. He knows this is born of insecurity. One that was fed by some prick that abandoned you on Saturday. “I’m not like him—”

“Don’t,” you hiss out.

“—I’m not going to leave.”

It makes something ripple inside you. An age-old wound that tells you you’re unlovable. Something complicated passes over your face. You can’t decide if you want to believe him or squash it down. False hope.

Jack moves towards you. Three steps to close the distance between the sink and table.

Your eyes are wet, bright with tears. “Dr Abbot—”

“Jack,” he corrects. Chest twisting.

“Jack,” you say.

He nods, eyes darting between yours. Eye contact connoisseur. “Can you sit down?” He changes his approach. “Please?”

You do. Slipping into the dining chair. The backrest to your side. Legs facing him and not tucked under the table.

And Jack.

He sinks.

One of his knees makes contact with the floor. His other leg bent, foot on the ground. His hand resting on the flesh above your knee, balancing.

A tremulous breath releases from you. Shock. “What are you—?”

“You wanted everything,” Jack says. “Let me give you everything. Please.”

And hasn’t he been carrying a torch for you, too? Your first day with the night shift wasn’t anything special. It’s not that he was struck by you immediately—the consequences of being an attending physician, having a million things on his mind, and a hundred other things clamouring for his attention.

You were always quick. Responsive. Observant. At his elbow, two seconds before he asked, handing him everything he needed like you were a mind reader. It was fascinating, in a way.

He hadn’t even registered when the change happened. There was no adjustment period. One day you were that damn good nurse on his team, and the next day, he realised he couldn’t take his eyes off of you.

Watching, always watching, when you pushed the gurney from the ambulance bay into the trauma room; when you playfully saluted Parker after she asked for an IV on her patient; when you adopted that childish voice to say Nurse Lena, Nurse Bridget is being mean to me again, just to make them laugh after a tough patient; when Shen tried to get you to learn Mandarin but that was already in Princess’ arsenal, and the only rule established was no repeats.

As time went on, he noticed the way your tightly wound shoulders would relax at his words. The way your gaze lingered, like you wanted to ask for more. You never did, and he never pushed.

How could he? He was an attending. Much, much older than you. Had skeletons in his closet that he would rather shove down than let anyone sign up for.

Somewhere, he fell. Softly, then all at once.

You reach out, fingers drifting across his cheek. “Jack,” you whisper, an incredulous sound.

“Right here, sweetheart.” He cups your hand, angling his head to kiss your palm. Eyes never straying from yours.

Tears knocked loose. “I’m sorry,” you say, wet. Once again, ashamed of your behaviour.

“You did nothing wrong.” If he could spend the rest of his life reassuring you, he would. Maybe he can. Everything, after all.

“But I… yelled.”

Jack grins, wry. “I get yelled at all the time.” By patients. By admin. It’s no skin off his back.

“I said…” You inhale, wobbly. “I said I wasn’t yours.”

And there, that darkening of his eyes. Studious. Trained on nothing but you. “Are you?”

“I want to be.”

“So you are. Mine.”

You wet your lips. His eyes track the movement, unabashed. “And…” you say.

He waits, patient. Lets you find your words.

“You’re mine?”

“Yes. Yours,” he rasps. Kneeling before you, whatever else could he be?

“Get up. Please.” A murmured plea.

He does. It’s not a swift movement, but you’re past paying attention. You stand, slot your body against his. He’s meeting you halfway. Your palm splayed against his chest; his hand cupping your cheek.

A soft capture of your lips. Jack’s thumb sweeping, tugging lightly at the corner of your mouth. Fingers digging into the sharp of your jawbone tucked beneath your ear.

You let out a stuttering breath at the pressure, something fuzzy clouding your eyes. He slips his tongue inside your mouth. A welcomed weight against your tongue, a spit slicked slide.

A drawn out noise, broken into pants.

His hands gathered at your waist. Walking you backwards into the table. It grates against the linoleum floor, thudding into the wall. Neither of you pay it any heed. You’re perched on the table. He steps between your legs, hitching one thigh against his side.

“Please,” you gasp into the infinitesimal space between you, “I’ll be good.”

“I know,” Jack whispers. Something gentle and soft and so, so sweet tucked against him. Honeyed and viscous, coating his throat. Choking, unbidden tears in his eyes. “I’ll give you everything,” he promises.

Your arms hooked around his shoulders, lifting your core, angling up. Pressing the heat between your legs against his growing bulge.

“Fuck,” Jack groans. A palm laid against the surface of table, the other keeps a bruising grip on the flesh of your side. Stabilising himself. His face tucked to your neck, kissing a line against your throat. Buying himself time. “Fuck, you’re perfect,” he says.

“Jack.” A breathy moan, as his lips trail down. Hips rolling up against him. You reach, fingers scrabbling against the waistband of his pants.

“Uh uh.” Digits wrapping around your wrist, pressing your hands against the cold wood beneath you. “Hands on the table.”

“I want—” Despite your protesting words, your palms remain flat on the smooth surface. “I want to make you feel good.” To get on your knees for him, to feel the heavy weight of his cock in your mouth, the stinging strain in the corners of your lips as you struggle to fit him, an aching in your jaw. You know he’d be big enough for that.

“I know, sweetheart.” His lips on yours again, a reassuring kiss. The problem isn’t you—it never is. It’s the fact that he’d finish within minutes if you got your mouth around him. He’s strung tight, and he knows his refractory period isn’t as short as it used to be. The reality is he’s old.

“Please,” you whine.

“Hands on the table,” he reminds, despite the fact that you hadn’t moved. He lowers himself to the ground, eyes on you. Watching you watch him. Roughened fingers tugging your pants down. Lips pressed to the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. Kissing up further and further.

Air catches in your throat.

Jack leans forward, closes his mouth around your clothed core. Tongue finding the split between flesh.

You moan, breath hitching at his touch. Fingers twitch against the table. You want to bury them in his grey curls, but he told you to keep them where they are.

“Good,” he whispers, hot breath fanning across your skin. “You’ll be good, won’t you?”

“Yes,” you gasp.

Jack pulls down your underwear. Rests his cheek against the side of your thigh. Stubble scratching against overheated skin. “Look at you,” he says, reverent. “You’re so wet, baby.”

You whimper. Your hands inch further behind you. Angling your body. “Jack.”

“Yeah, sweetheart?” Fingers around your calf, hiking it over his shoulder. Every touch, searing.

“Please.”

“So sweet,” he purrs. And then his tongue, finally, finally glides into the drenched heat. He hums through the wrecked sound you make, licking up. A brief kiss to your clit before his lips seal around it. Tongue lands, tip of the muscle working up and down repeatedly, then around.

You—shatter. No other way to describe it. Your hands are still somewhere behind you, maybe numb at this point. Your leg still hooked over Jack’s shoulder, heel digging into the stretch of his back. Hips rolling upwards, into his face. “Jack,” you cry, heavy with relief and something fractured, all at once.

His eyes are dark, captivated by you, preoccupied with taking in every reaction, every movement. His tongue never ceases. Fingers collect the slick from your opening, using his thumb to rub it along his middle and fourth finger.

Whining aloud. Fingertips digging into unrelenting wood. You want to touch him. You try to enclose your legs around him.

Jack pushes his free hand against your thigh, the one that’s not on his shoulder. Keeping you open. Then he sucks, tongue flicking against your clit at the same time.

Your hips grind upwards. “Jack—”

He presses his middle finger into you. He doesn’t take his time. Pumps it once, twice.

“Jack, please, please—”

He draws his finger out. Pushes his ring finger inside at the same time. You feel the stretch with two fingers, wider than yours. Longer than yours.

Jack doesn’t mean to rush, but he feels so lightheaded with want. Knows his knees will probably complain tomorrow morning. He needs you to come, wants to hear you fall apart. Crooking his fingers towards your belly, feeling around the wet insides. Pads of his fingers massaging.

You feel it building in your core. Breaths escaping. “I’m—oh, fuck, I’m—please—”

You can feel him responding, fingers moving faster. Working you from inside. And he keeps the suction on your clit.

“Jack, please, I need—” Almost there but not quite. You feel right at the precipice, but you can’t tip over. Chasing it, though, the way you grind into his face. Onto his fingers. Hands splayed on the table, head tipped towards the ceiling. Every sound punched out of you.

He hums, a deep thing that sends vibrations through you.

“Talk to me, please, Jack, please I want to hear you.”

Jack shifts, mouth opening, tongue pressed flat against your clit. The hand pushing your thigh moves, fingers rubbing against the sensitive nerve. Still fucking you with the fingers inside.

“Yeah?” he asks, and his voice is frayed. “Need me to talk you through it?” There’s spit and you on his chin, glossing his lips. Tongue swipes across petals, swallowing like it’s nectar. Cheek resting against your upper thigh. Stubble scraping against skin.

You shudder. “Yes, yes please, Jack, please.”

“Yeah. Need me to tell you’ve been good, honey?” A kiss pressed to your leg. Your sensitive skin burning, itching every time he moves. The scratch of his shadow. His eyes are lava on you, even if you can’t see him.

“Just like at work, is that it? I tell you you’ve done a good job and you walk around the hospital all wet and pent up? Tell me, baby, do you come home and think of me when you get yourself off? Hear me in your head?”

The nail knocked on the head. The hole-in-one.

You can’t be surprised, and yet, somehow, you are, that he figured it out. You’re clenching around his fingers, tight. Gasping. You don’t even need to verbalise that you’re coming. He can feel it. Your hips bucking up, his elbows digging into the meat of your thighs to keep your legs apart.

Wordless litanies of moans. High pitched and wrecked. Jack pushes his fingers in further, letting you ride yourself through it. And he doesn’t stop his ministrations over your clit. “Jack,” you sob.

“There you go, baby. This is what you wanted, right?” Jaw clenching, hips stuttering against air. He’s so painfully hard. It could almost be concerning, how ready he is. “Fuck me, you’re beautiful.”

He stands, knees cracking, back sore. Yet, he keeps his fingers moving. Inside and outside. Your thigh slides off his shoulder. He positions himself between them, your legs drawing up at his sides. He leans down towards you, hissing something ragged when his cock makes contact with your thigh. “Come here,” he says.

You weep with relief, arms moving from behind you, wrapping around his shoulders. You meet his lips. The fingers inside stop moving, but press insistently on that spot. He keeps rubbing your clit, just to hear you moan, to feel the tremors of your body, to feel the way you contract around his fingers. Imagining that it’s his cock.

“Jack,” you heave. “Too—ah, too much—”

“No, baby,” he says, “I say when it’s too much.”

“Jack,” you whine. “Please. Please, I need you.”

Oh, the unfair games you’re playing, begging like that. He huffs impatience through his nose, jawline ticking. “I’m right here, sweetheart. Not going anywhere.”

And you feel it—the way you’re falling into the second orgasm. One of your hands gripping his bicep. Harder than necessary, maybe. Complaining. Retaliating. “Fuck, mmm, Jack, I’m—oh, I’m coming—”

Your back arches upwards into him. Hips grinding down between his fingers again. Fingers crooked inside you, rubbing against the soft spot. Fingers rubbing your clit. Sensitive.

He grunts, head falling onto your shoulder. Hears the pathetic little sounds that you don’t even realise you’re making.

Your head’s fuzzy, your ears dulled like you’re underwater. And yet, so aware of where he’s touching you. Every point of contact ignited, like he’s leaving a brand on this mortal vessel that was created to contain nothing but love for him.

“I know, baby, I know,” he hushes. And finally, his fingers still. Small mercies as he removes the hand from your clit. Not yet sliding his fingers out.

Jack kisses you. Your chest heaving, craving air. Trembling, clenching around the fingers still inside you. “Fuck,” he breathes out. “There you are.” Observing those glassy eyes. The lazy limbs that cling to him. Lips pressed to your temple.

You cup his erection through the fabric of his pants.

He hisses, jerking into your touch. “Fuck,” he swears.

You stroke him, feeling the length.

“You—shit—you gotta stop, sweetheart,” he says.

You make a questioning noise. You want to make him feel good.

“You really want our first time to be in the kitchen?”

You’re slow to gather your words. “Anywhere,” you slur out. Too much effort to talk. “Whatever… you want.”

Jack huffs out a chuckle. “Yeah,” he whispers, tender at your deference. He kisses you again, sliding his fingers out of you. He parts momentarily, eyes locked on yours as he brings his fingers into his mouth. Licking, fingers splitting, tongue moving down the space between slick digits.

Your hips twitch, a lazy movement that brings you flush against his body. Smearing your come and his spit against the fabric of his pants. He’s still fully clothed, you realise.

“Bed,” you croak, even though you told him it was his choice, just moments before.

Jack laughs, a gentle thing. Nose bumping against yours. Hands lifting you. Legs wrapped around his waist. “Get your bottle,” he says.

You blindly grab for it before he walks you towards your bedroom. Door closing behind him, even though there’s no one else here. He deposits you on the bed. Tells you to take a sip of water before placing it onto the nightstand.

You don’t move. You’re exactly where he left you on the bed when he turns back to you.

He sits on the edge of the mattress. “C’mere,” Jack says.

You shuffle towards him. He’s expecting you to crawl into his lap, maybe. What he doesn’t expect, is the way you slide off the bed to kneel by his feet.

His breath hitches in his throat. Fingers twitching, as your cheek rests against his thigh. Digits threading into your hair. You angle your face to look up at him, blinking. Slow.

“Hey,” he says, fraught with something delicate. Raw and soft.

You nuzzle against him. Head feeling stuffy. Floating. Sinking. Contradictory, yet somehow. True.

“What do you need?”

Nothing. Everything. Wordlessly, you feel at his leg, calf down. Almost like you’re palpating it. Onto the next leg. You unbuckle the prosthesis, hearing him hiss at the twist, at the unlatching. Pained or relief, you can’t tell. Pressing a kiss to the bend of his knee when you remove it, prosthesis intentionally placed aside. You want him comfortable.

You’re slotted back against his thigh, like you didn’t just change his world, like you didn’t just show him the kind of tenderness he never thought he’d deserve after losing the leg.

Jack breathes, unsteady and ragged, but you blink up at him like you’ve never been surer of anything in your life. Complete trust.

You inch forward, nosing closer towards his crotch. Mouthing a long, lingering kiss to his dick. Slow and muted through layers of clothes. Sucking, wetting fabric. An unspoken request.

Jack groans, hips jerking. Fingers reach out, cradling. Callused pads against your jaw, thumb sliding across your lips.

You part them.

His thumb slips in, access easily granted, applying pressure against your tongue. Gliding down. Molten eyes on yours. Your brain is hazy with static. Blissful. Half-lidded eyes. Moaning as you swallow around his digit.

Jack laughs. You feel the reverberations of it, rather than hear the sound. His thumb lets up, still inside your mouth, but no longer pressing down. You blink your eyes opened, questioning, protesting.

“I asked what you prefer, baby,” he rumbles, corners of his lips lifting. Revelling in the way you’re so lost, so dazed. “Do you want me in here?” Thumb circles your tongue. “Or in here?” His good foot shifts, tucked under where you’re kneeling. Front of his ankle catching just right on your bare clit.

A hitched whine, hips grinding down. Sticky heat on his skin.

“I can only do one, sweetheart. You’re killing me, here.” He’s so gone on you, it’s almost devastating. Man made soldier, thickened skin to take on the sins of the world. And his Achilles heel is a precious thing by his knee.

You lap at his thumb, tongue flexing along the grooves of his fingerprint. For a second, he thinks this is how you want him, but you move. An obscene, wet pop as you back away from his hand. You treat it as if it were his dick, licking, tongue against nail and skin, like it’s the leaking seam of his cock.

“Jesus,” Jack groans. You’re going to be the death of him. Completely and absolutely. No differential diagnoses required.

You rise into his lap, nothing shy or uncertain in the way you straddle him and grind yourself against his clothed erection. Lips against his, kissing like you need it to breathe. Need him to breathe. Maybe you do. A low and quiet buzz in your head.

Fingers bracing against your jaw, then lips travel down your neck. You’re still rolling your hips against him. It feels heavenly, the graze of fabric against your already sensitive clit.

Jack lets out a pained noise, shifting. One moment to the next, you went from being in his lap, to facing the ceiling, back against the soft blanket. You rise to your elbows, blinking, eyes moving to the foot of the bed.

He doesn’t make a show of taking off his clothes. It’s quick, the way he removes his shirt, pants, and briefs. He’s pretty sure that if you continued moving on top of him like that, he was just going to come in his pants like he’s in college again.

“You’re killing me,” he says again. He crawls towards you. Body on yours. Divests you quickly of your top.

The slide of his palm to one of your breasts. Cupping. Squeezing. “Been thinking about this since your first scrub change.” Fingernails pinching the tip of your nipple.

You cry out.

Lips over your other tip, a mimicry of the attention he paid to your clit. Licking. Tongue slathering. Then, teeth, biting.

You rut up against him, one leg hooking over his back. Feel the length of him against you. “Please,” you whine.

His hips stutter. “Fuck me,” he groans. Inhales, then lets it out heavily.

“Trying to.”

He laughs, then, a sound that’s disbelieving, even though he should have expected nothing less from you. You’ve been hanging around the night shift too much. A hand in your hair, tugging, born of your insolence. Stealing the sound you make with a kiss. Fucks his tongue into your mouth again.

You feel like you’re losing your mind with the need to feel him. The slide of him, the delicious drag of him against your walls. To clench around and feel his dick inside you. Instead, you’re still empty.

Gasping when you part for air. “Jack,” you plead. “Please, I want to feel you.”

Jack smacks a kiss to your cheek. “Where are your condoms?” He has some in his bag—was part of his prepared care kit alongside the ointment he brought. But he’s left that by the doorway, and he doesn’t want to leave this bed with you in it, wrapped around him.

A hand smoothing over his chest, up his shoulder, clasping around his nape. “No, we don’t need—”

“Uh uh, no,” he says. “Not today.”

“But I’m—”

“No.” Stern. Lifting up, leaning back. “If you don’t listen to me about this, we’re not doing this today.”

“Sorry,” you hiccup, the easiest acquiescence. “Sorry. Nightstand. Bottom drawer. Sorry.” Tears in your eyes. Gripping at his arm, then letting go, undeserving. “Don’t go. I’m sorry.”

Jack lets out an agonised noise. You both know that if you were more cognisant, you would agree with him, would want this too. But it doesn’t make it any less hard to say no when you’re like this. “I’m not mad,” he whispers, leaning in to kiss you again. Soft. Apologetic. The last thing he wants to do is to let you believe that he could up and leave you so easily. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Bottom drawer,” you say again.

Jack gets up, moving towards the nightstand to grab what he needs. The distance is close enough that one leg remains on the bed for balance. Tucked under rumpled towels, a box of condoms. And if he happens to see some toys, cuffs, other accessories you’ve clearly purchased for yourself, haphazardly hidden—oh, that’s something that he can use next time.

Packet torn, condom slipped on. Muffled groan at the relief of being touched, even if it’s just himself. Returning to the bed, to you. You’ve been watching him the whole time, eyes dragging over his skin, his body.

He doesn’t feel shy under your gaze. Exposed, though, is a different feeling.

“Can I go on top?” you ask.

He falters. He usually doesn’t. Usually surefooted. But this—you. You have a tendency to cleave apart his every defense. Every sure thing he knows about life. “You want to?”

“Yes,” you say. “Feels better.”

Tucked and saved somewhere safe. To keep and know about you. “Okay,” he says, and settles at the head of your bed, back against the wall. You draw close, slipping your pillow under his calf. Then you climb into his lap, a soft sigh releasing, like homecoming. Kissing him again, a silent addiction. His arms are warm and weighted around your middle. And he lets you take your time.

Once again, the slow rolling of your hips down to his. Your entrance flushed against the length of his dick. The torturous drag, up and down.

Jack grips your waist, lips against your collarbone. Harsh breaths of air. “Fucking Hell.”

And when you seem content to let it draw on like this, he bites at the flesh under your collarbone. Warning.

You downright mewl at the threat his teeth breaking through your skin. “Ah—mhm.”

“You gonna let me fuck you anytime soon?”

It takes a little to register that not only has he asked you a question, but you should probably respond as well. “If you want to,” is what you end up saying.

“If I want to.” Mocking, a dangerous scoff. He feels like he’s on fire. Lifting you, one hand around his cock, lining it up against your entrance. Tip catching between your folds.

And finally, you’re sinking down on him.

The hitched sounds coming from you, trapped in your throat. Arms hooked around his shoulders, keening into the side of his throat. The stretch of your walls making way for him. The soft insides, swallowing, welcoming. And it keeps going.

Your fingers digging into the corded muscles of his arm, his hands petting the sides of your stomach. Soothing. “You’re—you feel—oh—” Sinking further around his girth. Until you’re sure he’s completely inside you.

Jack lets out a low groan. “Fuck.” Breathes in deeply. Holds it. Then out.

You try to rise.

His arms immediately snap a tight brace around you, holding you in place. “Fuck. Give—give me a minute.”

“Jack—”

“You,” he grinds out, “have no idea how tight you feel. Just give me a minute, sweetheart.”

And of course, that involuntary spasm of your walls around his cock.

Jack swears. Forehead thuds against the space above your sternum. “Quit that.”

“Wasn’t on purpose.”

He notices the lack of apology. “Brat,” he says fondly, and kisses you again.

You don’t know how long you stay like that for. Lips and air. Arms refusing to budge around you. His cock inside you. You swear you feel him in your diaphragm. Your skin feels like fire. “Can I move?” you beg. “Jack, please, can I move? Please, I need—can we—I want to feel you—”

“Shhh, baby, it’s okay. I got you, honey. You’re okay.” A hand reaches up to wipe a thumb across your cheeks.

It comes away wet. You hadn’t realised you started crying.

“Please,” you sob.

His hips snap upwards.

Your next breath comes trapped between a moan and a cry.

Both arms wrapped around you again. An iron band. Then he fucks up into you.

“Oh,” you whimper. “Oh, fuck, ah, ah—thank you, thank you thank you—”

The noise Jack releases is inhuman. He keeps an unrelenting pace, punching out moans from you. He’s flooded by the need to feel you come around him. “Yeah, that’s it. You’re doing so well, honey. Taking what I give you.”

You’re meeting him halfway. Grinding down against him, desperately keening. You feel his hand slip between you, thumb against your clit. You white out. Pressure, more so than stimulating you. Fucking yourself onto his cock, then up against his thumb, making you chase what you need. “Please, more, more, please.”

“Yeah? You want more? You want to come again? You want to come with my dick inside you?”

“Yes, please, I need it. I need you, please.”

“Yeah, you do.” Unmoored, slightly. His thumb rubs circles on your clit. “Come on, baby, I wanna hear you.”

Your chin hooked over his shoulder, angling your lips towards his ear. Discarding every notion of shyness. Every sound, every cry, every thought about him; needing him, wanting him, released. The burgeoning that starts in your belly. The fiery licks of something wonderful.

Jack hears it in your gasping breath, feels it in the velvet walls convulsing around him. “There you go, sweetheart. Give me another one. Fuck, you’re so fucking perfect.” Tenderness in the way his lips press against your shoulder.

You whine. Close.

“Poor baby needs to hear my voice to come, is that it? So fucking obsessed with me. Be good and come for me, baby, let me hear you—fuck—there you go.”

Holding you in place, your hips riding through the orgasm that crashes into you. His thumb rubbing incessantly on your clit. He stops fucking his cock into you, but his hips still move. Rolling, grinding.

You’re outright crying, heaving in gasps of air. Overstimulated. His thumb never stops. Your walls spasming around him, again and again.

“I know, baby, I know. I’m almost there. Can we keep going until I’m done? Is that okay, baby?”

“Yes,” you sob. You’re so so gone. Floating. “Please. Use me.”

You’re flattened on the bed.

From one blink to the next, Jack had shifted up, pressing you onto the mattress. Legs around him. The pillow at his calf tucked under your hips. The angle slides him in deeper. “Fuck,” he grinds out, hoarse. “Fuck. You’re perfect. So fucking perfect, baby. So fucking good for me.”

“Yes, yes yes yes yes yesyes.” Litanies of yesses, completely overloaded with pleasure. With the feeling of him inside. Everywhere. The fingers digging into your thigh. Forehead shoved against your chest, somewhere above your heart.

Then, the broken groan. Low, ragged. “Fuck. Coming, baby, I’m coming.” His thumb back on your clit, circling once more. Fucking into you while your walls flutter around him.

You’re completely spent. Keening, whining, hiccupping.

He stops, eventually. Dragging his hand over your belly, stroking. Up your chest. Petting overheated skin. Then cups your face to kiss him.

You feel so faraway. Numb. On fire. Both.

He flips you both, somehow. Arms straining. You’re folded into his chest, his dick still inside you.

And he stays.

You’re too out of it to realise he’s reached over to the nightstand until the straw to your bottle is pressed against your lips.

“Drink,” he says.

You do. Eyes fluttering shut. Cheek against his chest.

“You did so good for me, baby,” Jack murmurs. “You were so perfect. You are perfect.”

His fingers trace the tattoo that sprawls along your back. You shiver, accidentally grinding against him again. You both hiss.

Tilting your head up, lips finding yours again. Kissing. Gentle. Soft.

“Love you,” you whisper.

Jack lets out a tremulous breath. Kisses you again. He’ll talk about this—say it back tomorrow after you’re coherent enough to remember. But for now, it’s just this sweet thing in his lap.

It was Friday afternoon and you were desperately, achingly horny. 

You’d tried your old faithful vibrator, which was doing the job fine, but you were desperate for some human connection. Your mind drifted through the mental rolodex of who you could call up for some casual fun. It was a short list, your demanding schedule not lending itself to a particularly vibrant social life. You’d only been on a handful of dates in the past year, most of which ended in disaster. 

Alex was out of the running because of his unfortunate odor problem. 

Sam was out due to a creepy doll collection he failed to disclose until you made your way to his apartment. 

And Daniel was out because, frankly, he was terrible at sex, which is kind of a sticking point for you right now. 

That left James, a guy you met on one of the apps and who was decent enough with his mouth that you’d seen him a handful of times. You didn’t hook up with him often, mostly because he was particular about your pubic hair. He preferred for it to be cleanly shaven, or at least heavily trimmed before he would consider going down on you. 

So despite the fact that he wasn’t much good at fucking, you tended to go back to him when you needed a release. Yes, your standards were abysmally low, but the truth of the matter was that residency didn’t really give you any time to get out and meet new, better hook-ups. So James it was. 

It had been a couple months since you’d hooked up, mostly due to this preference of his. Unfortunately, taking the time to take an ‘everything shower’ just to get your pussy eaten was a luxury that you were not often afforded due your residency schedule. 

But today you’d had the time, energy, and desire to get devoured, so you hopped in the shower to take care of everything. By the time you emerged your hair was double cleansed, you’d applied a hair mask, exfoliated, shaved your legs, applied moisturizer and body oil, and–most importantly–your pussy was cleanly shaven. 

You had a renewed pep in your step as you made your way over to your bed, ready to entice James. You maneuvered onto the bed and experimented with a few poses before landing on one that showed off your assets the best. You propped up your phone–timer set for 10 seconds–and you scrambled into position, perching back on your haunches and settling back on your feet, back arched a little uncomfortably. 

You heard the shutter of the camera going off and quickly extricated yourself from the uncomfortable position. Looking over the image, you were very impressed. 

The photo pictured your nude body from the chest down, beginning with the barest hint of the underside of your breasts showing, then the expanse of your stomach and curve of your hips. Lower, your fingers were on your pussy, parting your lips just enough to tease. It was a damn good nude, if you did say so yourself. James was lucky to receive it. 

It had been so long since you texted him that instead of scrolling through endless scam messages and bill reminders, you just typed in the first few letters of his name to pull up his contact. As soon as you typed ‘ja’ it popped up, and you quickly began composing your message. 

Gnawing at your thumbnail, you went back and forth on a few messages, trying to sound sexy, but playful. After five minutes of deliberation, you decided to just go with what you had. Honestly, it’s not like James was going to give it more than a second thought–if he wanted to fuck he wasn’t going to care about how sultry (or not) the message you sent him was.

You settled on: 

you: shaved just for you. want something sweet to eat? ;) 

You looked it over for a minute, nodding to yourself and hitting send before you could psych yourself out. 

What a mistake. 

Jack sat at the work station, mouth open and slackjawed, still staring at his phone screen. 

Not at the photo anymore–no, that had been quickly swiped away–but the image was still burned into his retinas, the after image projecting onto the back of his eyelids when he closed them. 

Why? 

Because three minutes ago he received a text message from one of the day shift residents. He was concerned, initially, because there was little reason for day shift residents to contact him as opposed to Robby. Which is why Jack opened the message as soon as he saw it come in, thinking it might be an emergency, especially because it was you. 

Instead, he was greeted with a sight he thought he’d never have the pleasure of seeing. 

You, stretched back on your heels, breasts barely visible, pussy on full display for him. Your fingers held you open, your folds glistening in the late summer light that was streaming in, your pretty little clit in the center, just begging to be sucked. It was, quite possibly, the prettiest pussy he’d ever seen. 

He couldn’t take his eyes off of the photo for a good 30 seconds, before the logical side of his brain kicked in and he remembered oh yeah, I’m at work and can’t be caught looking at my resident’s cunt. 

He wasn’t unfamiliar with you, even though you’d only worked a handful of shifts together. But he saw you every morning at handoff, and you two shared warm smiles and easy jokes, your sardonic wit matching his bar for bar. He knew you were smart, able to hold your own in a trauma, and compassionate and empathetic underneath it all. And he couldn’t ignore the fact that you were gorgeous either. 

And he would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought of you in this sort of light before, either. Jack Abbot was not a proud man–he could admit that on more than one occasion, he’d stood in his shower fisting his cock to the image of you on your knees for him. 

It was especially bad when you did something impressive at work. Like the time you went toe-to-toe with a surgeon about whether a patient really needed surgery when you insisted that all they needed was a pericardiocentesis, and to prove your theory, you stuck the needle into the pericardium and extracted the fluid despite surgery’s objections. A ballsy move, one that would have been deeply problematic if you were wrong, but paid off. He’d had to rub one out in the bathroom that day. He apparently has a thing for competency. 

“You’re gonna catch flies, Abbot,” Ellis said, walking out of an exam room, IPad tucked under her arm and smirk wide on her face. Jack shook himself out of his reverie, trying desperately not to think of your photo (but failing miserably). 

He cleared his throat, “Sorry, what’ve you got for me?” he asked, still a bit dazed. Ellis looked at him skeptically–there wasn’t much that threw Dr. Jack Abbot–but proceeded to present her case anyway. 

Once he approved her plan of treatment, Jack returned to his phone. He sat there for a long moment, contemplating what to do. You hadn’t said anything else, no frantic “I’m so sorry, that obviously wasn’t meant for you,” texts that explained the situation. Jack was positive it wasn’t intended for him, and he didn’t want to embarrass you more than you were sure to be. 

His thumbs hovered over the keyboard, dancing nervously as he typed out his reply.

You started getting ready after sending the text, anticipating that James would want to meet up tonight. You did your hair, applied a bit of light make up, and threw on a cute little sundress. 

It was about an hour later when you went to check your phone again, fully expecting to see a cheeky message from James inviting you over for some fun. 

What you saw made your stomach drop instead. You felt dizzy, nausea washing over you in roiling waves. The text thread you were looking at was addressed to Jack Abbot, not James. And staring back at you was your nude body, followed by a response from Dr. Abbot. 

Jack Abbot: I don’t think I’m the intended recipient for that photo. 

Jack Abbot: But for what it's worth, a real man would eat it even if you didn’t shave. Would prefer it, actually. 

Jack Abbot: Sorry, that was inappropriate. I’ve deleted this text thread, along with the photo. We can pretend this never happened. 

There’s no fucking way. Absolutely not. There is no possible way that you accidentally sent a nude photo of yourself to your fucking attending. Not just any attending either, but the one you'd had a big fat stupid crush on for the better part of a year. The one you’d spent endless nights fantasizing about with your fingers plunged deep into your cunt, whose visage you’d pictured hovering over you, fucking you hard and deep; the name you accidentally moaned when James was eating you out the last time you hooked up. 

Your mind refused to accept that this was reality, hoping against hope that this was some twisted fucking nightmare. 

Shame welled up inside you, your cheeks hot from embarrassment and tears pricking at the corner of your eyes, mortification settling in earnest now. In addition to being humiliating, you also felt like a fucking creep. From his perspective, you just sent him a completely unsolicited nude photo. 

Even more so, you hated that this probably killed any chance you had with him, even if that chance had been slim to none to begin with. 

You paced your bedroom, thumbnail chewed raw as you tried to do damage control. What does one even say after they accidentally send a nude to their boss? After far too much deliberation, you decided to keep it simple, apologize, and crawl into your bed for the remainder of your two days off. 

You: Dr. Abbot, I am so sorry about that!! I obviously didn’t mean to send that to you. 

You: I meant to send it to a James and must not have looked closely enough before I sent it. 

You: Thank you for deleting the photo, and I’m so sorry once again that you were subjected to seeing that. 

You threw your phone as far away from you as possible, recklessly disregarding its safety despite the fact that you most certainly could not afford to repair said phone if it was damaged, and flopped onto the bed, screaming into a pillow. Your throat was raw by the time you surfaced for air, your body limp and exhausted, mind shuffling through worst case scenarios. 

In the midst of your spiral, your brain drifted to the other part of his message: a real man would eat it even if you didn’t shave. That was, admittedly, inappropriate, but no more so than sending a nude to your superior, so you figured you were even. He probably just meant it to be supportive; to try and diffuse the awkward situation. 

But another part of you wondered if he meant something else. If he was signalling to you that he would eat it, bush or not. The thought was indulgent, if not utterly preposterous. He was an attending; you were a resident. There was no way he’d meant anything by it. But you couldn’t help thinking…  

Did he like the photo? Was he picturing you with a bush? Did he think about tasting you, about swirling his tongue around your clit or plunging it deep into you? 

A notification dinged, shaking you out of your daydream, and you contemplated whether or not you actually wanted to see what he said, if anything at all. Curiosity eventually won out, hands grappling for your phone and swiping open the notification. 

Jack Abbot: No worries. 👍 

It was a completely normal response, which almost made it worse. Part of you wished he would lash out, call you disgusting or a whore, at least you’d know what to do with that. Shame or disgust were easier to digest than nonchalance. 

You didn’t bother to send the photo to the correct person, your lust dampened, the fire doused with cold water, remnants pulverized to ash. Groaning, you burrowed into your bed with no intention of leaving for the next two days. 

You had no idea how you were going to face him Monday.

You woke up two days later and ran through your options. 

Flee the country and never return to Pittsburgh ever again (unrealistic, you’d devoted too much time to becoming a doctor, you weren’t giving up because of some catastrophically stupid mistake)

Arrive to work 20 minutes late, hopefully avoiding Jack Abbot by all costs (unlikely, the man worked more overtime than anyone except Robby. He was sure to still be there, and all you’d get was attendance point for your trouble) 

Be a mature adult, apologize, and forget this ever happened, like he suggested (undoubtedly the best choice, but could you really ever forget that your attending has seen your pussy? And, a far sicker thought, did you want him to forget?) 

Indecision weighed on you as you got ready, ultimately deciding on lucky number option 3. Your only saving grace was the fact that you were on day shift, and Abbot rarely worked days. The only interaction would be at handoff, and maybe if you could busied yourself enough getting a jump on patients, you could avoid him for as long as possible. 

That was your plan of action as you walked into chairs, head down as you scanned into the ED and approached the nurses station. You didn’t hear his voice, which was a good sign; typically, you could hear it as soon as you entered, steady barking out orders over the hum of the department. You took a deep breath, steeling yourself and thinking for the first time since you sent that photo that things might be okay. 

You spot Ellis at a work station, and beeline to her to get the handover started. 

“Hey Ellis, how’d the night go? Any weird and wild cases?” you ask, 

“Oh, you know, the usual,” she said, “foreign body extractions, a couple MIs, an insomniac who overdosed on benadryl and swore that the hat man was after him for money,” she laughed, shaking her head.

“To be fair, the hat man could be after him for money,” you said solemnly, face straight for a second before you burst out laughing. 

Handover continued smoothly, Ellis updating you on which patients needed labs or imaging and which needed to be discharged. You almost made it through unscathed, your body turning to make your way to North 5 when you heard his voice calling to Ellis. 

Your shoulders tensed–body betraying you by freezing in place–and he was next to you before you could scuttle away. Resting his forearms on the counter next to you, he continued talking to Ellis–about what, you couldn’t say, static filling your ears as you remembered what you’d done. 

“Morning, Doc,” he said, startling you out of your daze.  

“G-good morning, Dr. Abbot,” you stuttered, eyes glancing briefly at him before settling on his chin, unable to meet his eyes for more than a second. 

He looked annoyingly normal, showing no sign that anything unseemly had occurred between you. You chanced another look at his eyes, the hazel orbs showing no hint of amusement or belittlement. But there was a look of acknowledgement, a steady one that should have reassured you that everything was okay, that you weren’t a laughingstock. The same look he’d give you in a trauma when things went sideways through no fault of your own. 

And In any other situation, it would be reassuring. But right now, all it did was remind you that he’d seen your most sensitive parts, that he’d commented on the state of your pubic hair (or lack thereof). Heat bloomed in your cheeks, and your breath caught in your throat, eyes unable to breakaway from his gaze. 

When you did manage to look away, it was, traitorously, to look down at his lips. They looked so soft, and for a split second you imagined yourself leaning in, capturing his lips with yours and kissing him into oblivion. You snapped back to reality half a second too late, seeing the edge of Abbot’s mouth turn up in the barest hint of a smile. 

Clearing your throat, you quickly excused yourself to see a patient, all but running to the exam room. You managed to slow your breathing and compose yourself before you entered the room, squaring your shoulders and getting back to work. 

This was going to be a lot harder than you anticipated.

Jack was being honest when he told you he deleted the text thread with that photo in it, a fact he was coming to regret as he laid in bed post-shift, body tired but too wired to relax and fall asleep. He’d committed the photo to memory, though, losing himself in it as he dragged his hand up and down his cock, thinking about how soft you’d be, how sweet you’d taste, the sounds he’d pull from you as he fucked you with his tongue. He’d fallen into this routine an embarrassing amount of times since he received that photo, feeling like a pervy, dirty old man all the while, but doing nothing to stop himself either. 

His hand glided over his shaft once more, imagining that it was your warm, wet walls wrapped around him instead, and he was coming hard, painting his stomach with streaks of warm, wet goo. He sat there, breathing heavy, as a twitch of shame rolled over him. He shouldn’t be jerking it to the remembered image of a resident’s pussy, a woman at least 15 years younger than him, if not more. 

But it was harder than he’d thought it would be to put that photo behind him. It was all he could think about as soon as he saw you that first morning, the image looping in an endless projection in his mind. It was completely unprofessional, and frankly dishonest. He’d told you that you could both pretend it had never happened, but he wasn’t so sure that was possible anymore. 

And it was clear you hadn’t forgotten either. You were jumpy around him, the easy quips you used swap in the morning abandoned for stuttered greetings and awkward silences. He’d also caught you looking at his lips on more than one occasion and stealing glances at him when you thought he wasn’t paying attention. He wasn’t sure if it was true attraction, or just some morbid curiosity that was sparked by the unusual situation you two found yourselves in, but Jack wasn’t about to get his hopes up for the former. 

As difficult as it was to keep his head on straight after seeing that photo, the more troubling part was that he’d lost the 10 to 15 minutes he spent every morning talking to you, a small ritual he looked forward to every shift. He hadn’t realized how much those moments meant to him until they were gone. Even the worst nights were magically better when he was able to make you laugh at handoff, your smile making his chest swell with pride and head fuzzy with feelings he had no business feeling. 

Jack knew he had to do something to ease the tension, to get things back to normal. Or maybe a new normal, if he had anything to do with it.

The days passed in a similar fashion to that first day. Jack would greet you politely and attempt your typical banter, and you would awkwardly stutter out an adequate reply before making your escape as quickly as possible. You weren’t sure why you weren’t able to be a fucking adult and put it behind you, but you just couldn’t. Every time you thought you had the courage to revert back to your typical routine with Abbot, you chickened out almost immediately, bumbling your wall through some moronic excuse. 

To make matters worse, you couldn’t stop thinking about him. It was worse than it ever had been before; what used to be an errant thought that would arise only in the throes of pleasure were now occurring during the most mundane tasks. You thought about what his full, silver curls would look like buried between your thighs while you were doing laundry; what his mouth would feel like on your breasts, teeth pulling at the pebbled skin of your nipples while you cooked dinner; how he would fuck you–would it be soft and slow, or hard and punishing?–while you cleaned the bathroom. 

Your luck ran out about a month after the incident, as you were calling it. For the most part, you were able to keep your interactions with Abbot brief, albeit awkward. But today he was scheduled on day shift, covering for Al-Hashimi while she was home sick with her son. You’d only found out when you walked in, seeing his name on the board despite the fact that he was off last night. 

You felt a wave of nausea wash over you; how were you supposed to go a whole day avoiding him? You managed pretty well for the first half of your shift, presenting exclusively to Robby, which wasn’t all that different from your normal routine. You avoided the traumas Abbot was running, hiding in exam rooms under the guise of checking vitals or reviewing scans. It was working fairly well until midday, when you were unfortunately in the vicinity of the ambulance bay when paramedics burst through. 

“Santos, Mohan,” Abbot paused, eyes flitting over to where you stood before calling your name as well, “with me!” he said, already moving into the trauma room and gowning up. You reluctantly followed, slipping on your own trauma gown. He was behind you before you could secure your gown, fingers brushing against the nape of your neck as he tied the strings for you. It shouldn’t have sent a thrill down your spine, but it did. You stuttered out a thank you as you moved to assess the patient. 

The paramedic was halfway through the bullet when you arrived at the bedside, hands moving to transfer them from the stretcher to the bed. “– multiple lacerations, bruises to the face, chest, and abdomen. Possible tib-fib and facial fracture.” You looked down at the patient, a teenage boy who couldn’t have been older than 15. 

“BP’s low, 70 palp; pulse ox is 85,” Princess called out.  

You slid the chestpiece of your stethoscope over the patient's chest, listening to the lungs. Unfortunately, your brain went blank when Abbot sidled up next to you, arm pressed tight against yours in the cramped trauma room. 

“What do you think, Doc?” he asked, listening with his own stethoscope now. 

You blinked, brain lagging as you tried to compose yourself; to try and save this boy’s life. 

“Uh-um good breath sounds?” you said, a question more than an answer, though you were certain about the breath sounds. “Airway is patent, no tracheal deviation, no blood in the canal,” you finished, regaining a bit of confidence as you averted your gaze from his. 

“Good,” he said, hand grasping your elbow and moving you down to the end of the bed. “What do we need to order?”

Santos, blessedly, answered before you could embarrass yourself further, “C-spine, chest and head CT.” 

“BP is down to 60!” 

“Alright people! What are we dealing with?” Abbot called out, eyebrow quirked at you.

Every differential evaporated from your mind. “He’s bleeding from somewhere,” was all you could come up with, though that was obvious. Instead of dwelling on that, you turned your attention to the boy, your eyes examining his body, searching for the source of bleeding. With Samira’s help you flipped the boy over, desperate to find a stab wound or gash, but coming up empty. 

“Must be the belly,” Santos said.

“Alright, lavage kit please!” Abbot said, turning to you, “you ever done one of these?” 

You shook your head. 

“Well, today’s your lucky day, then,” he said, handing you an 11-blade.

Despite your best efforts, your hand shook as you pressed the blade against the skin. 

“I-I can’t,” you whispered, low enough that only he could hear. 

“You can,” he said, stepping behind you to steady your hand, guiding as you made the incision. He handed you the tubing next. “Make sure you’re into the peritoneum,” he whispered, lips right next to your ear. His hand was still on top of yours as you slid the tubing in, “I’m in, hook up the saline and extension tubing,” you said, breathing a sigh of relief.  

Your relief was short-lived. The results of the lavage came back–negative. “Shit, nothing. It’s not the belly,” you said, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. 

“What the fuck? Where the hell is this kid bleeding from?” Abbot cursed, pacing around the bed to see if anything was forgotten. “You check his back?” he asked. 

“Yes, nothing there. Maybe it’s a faulty blood pressure cuff?” you said, grasping at straws, but moving to flip the boy over and recheck his back again anyway. 

Abbot was next to you, eyes raking over systematically to find the source when suddenly Mohan pointed out a tiny mark on the boy’s lower right side, “What is that?” she asked. 

“That is a very small puncture wound. Probably an ice pick, if I had to guess,” Abbot answered.

Fuck. You should have caught that. You were standing right there, staring at the lower quadrant of the boy's back. You’d even seen the small mark, but dismissed it as a mole. You felt sick to your stomach, fear and shame welling up in you. You had never had a reaction like this in a trauma, not even on your first day as a med student. 

Garcia burst through the door just as Abbot was getting the patient ready to head up to the O.R. “Puncture wound, probably hit the kidney or renal artery,” he said, passing off the patient. She nodded, taking over from there. 

“Good pickup,” you congratulated Mohan weakly as you walked out of the trauma bay, hoping you could make it to the bathroom and wallow in self-pity for a few moments.

You heard him call your name shortly after you exited the trauma bay. Heart sinking, you turned to face him. “Yes, Dr. Abbot?” you asked, fidgeting with the hem of your scrub top. You weren’t sure you could handle being yelled at by him today. You’d never been one for tears at being reprimanded, but you could already feel the tell-tale prickling behind your eyes, and you were almost positive that the dam would burst at a harsh word from Abbot. 

“A word, please?” he asked, gesturing you to the stairwell, the only place with a semblance of privacy in the ED. You sullenly followed after him, bracing yourself for impact. 

You leaned back against the wall, fully expecting him to start yelling as soon as you were situated under the staircase, hidden well enough from passersby, but all you felt was a warm, heavy weight on your shoulder. 

“You have to settle down, okay?” he said, one hand planted firmly on your shoulder and the other grasping your chin between his fingers to direct your gaze to his. “Look, I know what you sent me was embarrassing, and we probably should’ve talked about it, but you can’t get this worked up over it when I’m on shift as your attending. It can’t affect your work, you're too good of a doctor to let something like this throw you,” he said earnestly, eyes sincere when you looked into them. 

You stood there, mouth opening and closing like a goldfish. Your mind still hadn’t fully caught up. “I… you didn’t bring me out here to yell at me?” you asked, voice coming out weaker than you intended it to. 

He shook his head, confused, “What? No, of course not. I barely noticed that puncture wound myself,” he said, alleviating your anxiety somewhat. 

“What I’m concerned about is how wound tight you are around me. I’m not saying you have to like me or anything, but you have to be comfortable working with me. You didn’t make an error in this trauma, but you could have. And I know it would eat you up if something like that happened,” he said, thumb gently sweeping over your chin. 

“I can’t let you jeopardize your education because you’re embarrassed about mistakenly sending me a revealing photo. It would kill me if you didn’t reach your full potential because of something like that, if I had any part of it,” he shook his head, a pained look on his face. 

Oh. You couldn’t breathe, your cheeks surely inflamed at this point. You were suddenly very aware of how close he’d gotten–and of his hand on your face. His fingers were warm against your face, skin rough, providing delicious friction as his hand repositioned, thumb stroking along your jaw as he subtly tilted your head back. He smelled like clean laundry and coffee, with a slight tang of antiseptic.

Your lips parted, ragged breaths falling from your lips. 

“Dr. Abbot–”

“Jack. Call me Jack,” he murmured, so close that you could feel the heat radiating from his body. If you tipped your head up just a fraction, it would close the distance between you; would bring your lips flush together. Your eyes fluttered shut at the thought. 

“Jack, I don’t know why I can’t stop thinking about that picture,” you admitted quietly. 

“Can I tell you a secret?” he asked, tongue darting out to wet his lips, “I can’t stop thinking about it, either.” 

“Really?” you looked up at him from under your eyelashes. 

He nodded, moving impossibly closer, lips ghosting against yours. He hesitated briefly, a look of doubt flashing across his face before his gaze steadied–a decision made; a line ready to be crossed. His grip tightened against your jaw, “I can’t stop thinking about you spreading that pretty little pussy open, or about the prick who wanted you to shave before he’d think about going down on you,” he said, shaking his head in disgust. 

“You know how many times I fucked my fist to the memory of that photo? How much I’ve thought about how you taste, what sounds you’d make when you cum?” he asked. 

A strangled moan escaped your lips at his words. You’d never seen this side of Jack Abbot before, and it was intoxicating. “I-i think about you when I touch myself too,” you whimpered, your admission seeming tame compared to his vulgar words, but you wanted him to know you were also going crazy over him; that this wasn’t one-sided.  

“Yeah, pretty girl? You think about me when you stuff that little cunt with your fingers? Wish it was my cock instead?” he asked, his other hand snaking down to your hip, fingers inching their way under your scrub top to caress the skin there. 

You nodded, the proximity and dirty talk stealing your breath and leaving you unable to form an intelligible sentence. 

“Did he eat your pussy, sugar? You got all dolled up for him, did he at least treat you right?” he asked, breath fanning over your lips, stubble just barely grazing your sensitive skin. 

You shook your head, dazed. “I didn’t send it to him,” you said, a little bashful, “was too embarrassed after I sent it to you.” 

He groaned, forehead falling against yours, “poor baby, put in all that effort and didn’t even get to cum, did you?” he asked, just the slightest bit condescending. 

You let out a pathetic whine, shaking your head ‘no’ at his question. Heat pooled deep in your belly and you felt your panties quickly dampening.  

He tsked, “we’ll have to rectify that,” he said, “You shave again? Or you let her grow back natural?” he asked.

You bit your lip, still a bit shy despite all the filthy words that he’d spoken in the last 5 minutes. “I’m au naturelle,” you whispered, a slight smirk tugging at your lips. 

“Good fucking girl,” he growled before his mouth was on yours. His lips moved against yours with a ferocity you’d never experienced before. There was nothing uncertain about the kiss, his lips firm as he devoured you, tongue licking into your mouth and sliding against yours deliciously. One of your hands slid up the side of his neck to play with the curls at his nape while the other fisted in the fabric of his scrub top. 

His spit tasted like the stale breakroom coffee and the spearmint of his gum, and you couldn’t get enough. You suckled at his tongue, trying to keep up with his relentless pace, but eventually let him take the reins and kiss you silly. 

You were both panting when you pulled away, a string of spit drawn taut between your lips before snapping. Jack held your head between his hands, thumbs brushing softly over the apples of your cheeks. 

“Talk with me. Tonight. Come have dinner or a drink with me, and we can talk about it all,” he said, a borderline pleading look on his face. 

You nodded, still a little dumb from the kiss. “Yeah, yeah, sure. Okay,” you said, slowly extricating your hand from his scrub top. 

He let you go with a final squeeze to your jaw, moving to re-enter the ED before you. 

You stood there a moment longer, wiping your lips to get rid of your combined saliva and to lessen the kiss bitten look you were sure you were sporting before getting back to work.

The rest of the shift was painfully slow, the hours passing by like molasses. You couldn’t stop thinking about the kiss, the way his lips molded against yours like it was their rightful place. You did make a concentrated effort not to let it impact your work, though. Jack was right about that; nothing could come between you and finishing your residency. 

It was just after 7:30 when you exited the hospital, and you immediately spotted Jack leaning against his truck waiting for you. You smiled as you approached him, nervous butterflies erupting in your stomach. Despite that breathtaking kiss, you still didn’t know where you stood. Was he just satisfying a sexual curiosity? Or was it possible that he also had feelings for you? 

He cleared his throat, “So I was thinking we could order something to my place and talk there. Unless you want to go somewhere else, to a restaurant or your place,” he rambled, nerves undercutting his typically confident energy. 

“Your place sounds good,” you nod, still a bit shy.

His hand was warm on the small of your back as he guided you to the passenger side, opening the door for you and helping you step up into the cab. The ride to his house was quiet, but not uncomfortably so. Some 90s alternative rock playlist hummed quietly in the background while you ordered pizza for the two of you–on his phone, with his card, he insisted. His hand rested lightly on your knee, the heat of his palm burning through the fabric of your scrubs.  

You arrived at a beautifully manicured house in a suburb far enough from the city to be peacefully quiet. It’s different from what you pictured, you realize as you walk in. You assumed that a man who worked as much as he did wouldn’t have the time or energy to put into making a house a home; you pictured a sterile kitchen and minimalist fixtures, white walls with abstract art. 

But it was homey. The walls were painted, photos scattered across them. The couch looked comfy, something picked out with intention, not the first option plucked from a furniture catalog. There were plants, beautiful, well taken care of ferns and pothos littered about. Warm light filtered through the kitchen, the island topped with butcher block and bracketed by two upholstered stools. 

“Do you want anything to drink? Water, wine, beer?” he asked, opening the fridge and grabbing a beer for himself. 

You focused your attention back on him, abandoning your pseudo-psychoanalysis of his house and drifting over to perch on a stool. “Wine would be nice,” you said, grateful for something to occupy your hands. He nods, pours you a modest glass of red–something French that probably costs ten times the amount of your shitty grocery store wine. 

The pizza arrives soon thereafter, and you sit down at the island to eat. Conversation is easy, and you feel more at ease with him now than you ever had before, a drastic 180 from this morning. You talk about your day, life, post-residency plans; he lets loose a few embarrassing stories from his own residency days, one featuring a very unfortunate Robby being pantsed by a 6 year old in the middle of the ED. Eventually, though, plates are cleared and glasses are downed, a natural lull falling over the conversation. 

“So,” he starts, head resting against his palm, arm propped up on the counter, “that photo…” He’s got that sly smirk on his face now, comfortable now to tease you about it. 

You groan, burying your head in your arms. He laughed, “you don’t have to explain yourself, but I am curious what series of events led to me receiving that photo,” he said… “a series of events for which I am very thankful for, by the way.”  

You turned, resting your head sideways on your arms, and started explaining all about James and his preferences, how he was your only real option for some skin-to-skin contact. Jack, for his part, listened quietly, offering little commentary until you finished your great tale. 

“So you’re telling me that this kid can’t even fuck you right, yet he demands you shave before he’ll go down on you?” he asks, a horrified look on his face. 

“Welcome to the joys of modern dating,” you joke, shooting him a halfhearted smile. 

He shook his head, “unacceptable,” he said before hooking his leg around your stool and pulling you closer. You gasp, steadying yourself with a hand on his thigh as you fight not to topple onto him completely. He was close now, one hand coming up to rest on the hollow of your neck while the other slid up your top, thumb strumming over your ribs. 

Jack didn’t hesitate this time. This kiss was different–no less searing, but a little more leisurely–like he wasn’t worried about scarcity anymore, confident that he had the time to take you apart and put you back together again before the night was over. His mouth was molten against yours, tongue delving deep in your mouth and swallowing up the steady stream of desperate whines escaping you. 

The hand on your neck coasted upward, tangling in your hair and angling your head back to deepen the kiss. Your hands slid under his shirt, groaning as they came to rest on his tummy. He was warm, the muscle firm under your hands as you lightly scraped your nails over his flesh. His chest rumbled under your touch, the hand in your hair tightening, the twinge of pain a welcome contrast to the overwhelming pleasure of his lips against yours. 

He barely broke the kiss to whisper into your mouth, “let me show you what its like to have a real man fuck you. Please, sugar,” he pulled away finally, resting his forehead against yours.

“Please fuck me, Jack,” you said, eyes hooded with lust. A moment later you were being scooped up from the stool and carried toward his bedroom. While Jack focused on not running into anything, you trailed open-mouthed kisses along the length of his neck, sucking the skin between your teeth before soothing it over with your tongue. You nipped gently at his adam’s apple, smiling when he yelped at the contact. 

“You’re trouble, you know that?” he chuckled before dropping you down onto his bed, your body bouncing slightly before settling. He stood between your legs, face cradled between his meaty hands. “I want you to listen to me, okay?” he asked, waiting for you to nod before continuing, “I want to do so many filthy, obscene things to you tonight; want to fuck you into oblivion as many times as you’ll let me, but I want you to know that if you want to stop, at any point, you just say the word and we’re done. No questions asked. Understand?” 

You nodded once more, but that was insufficient for Jack. “need you to use your big girl words, okay, pretty? Tell me you understand,” he said. 

“I understand, Jack. If I want to stop, I’ll tell you,” you replied seriously, even though you knew there was no chance you’d want to stop. 

“Good. Now, I want you to take off your scrubs, scoot up to the headboard, and get comfortable while I take care of my leg, okay?” 

You did as he bade you, left only in a pair of pink cotton panties and bra. You hadn’t planned on being in this situation, but you were glad they were a matching set at the very least. Settling against his pillows, you watched as he shucked his pants off, the sleek metal of his prosthesis glinting in the low lamplight. 

He sat down at the edge of the bed, fingers undoing the mechanism with practiced motions, twisting the appendage off and setting it to the side. The skin looked a little chapped, but not raw, which was a good sign. 

“Is there anything I could do to make things more comfortable for you?” you asked. You wanted to make sure he knew you weren’t put off by his leg, wanted to make sure he didn’t feel like he had to overcompensate because of it. 

“No, thank you, sugar. You’re doin’ plenty already,” he assured, turning around to face you. His eyes darkened as he took you in, his gaze hungrily raking over your newly exposed skin. He moved to hover over you, forearms braced next to your head as kisses you again, this time a sweet press of his lips against yours before he began trailing his mouth along your jaw and down your neck, laving hot kisses all across your neck and collarbone. 

A gasp punches out of you when he sucks harshly at the spot just below the ear, the spot that turns your insides to putty. He grins against you, focusing his attention there until you’re a writhing, moaning mess under him. A hand reaches behind you to make quick work of your bra clasp, the flimsy material soon thrown across the room, forgotten immediately. His hands are on you in a flash, thumbs teasing along the underside of your tits. 

Whining, you claw at his shirt, desperately wanting to feel his bare chest against your nipples, and he obliges, one-handedly throwing the thing off. The fine silver hair on his chest scrapes against you, your nails digging into his back as you pull him flush to you. Jack groans, hips involuntarily rutting against you, his hard cock a delicious pressure against your aching cunt. Your hips cant up, chasing the friction and grinding yourself against him. 

“Careful, you keep doin’ that and this’ll be over before it even starts,” Jack warns, nipping at your bottom lip before continuing his maddening descent, mouth exploring your breasts–conveniently ignoring your painfully hard nipples. “Jaaaack,” you whine, thrusting your chest upward. He takes the hint, lips suctioning against a nipple and using his tongue to flick the pebbled flesh. Your hand fists in his curls, holding him there as his hand moves to tug at your other nipple. When he decides he’s given enough attention to one nipple, he switches sides, giving the other the same treatment. By the time he moves on, your tits are sure to be sore and red tomorrow, but you could not care less about that right now. 

He kissed down your stomach, lips lingering at your navel before pulling back, eyes travelling down between your legs. “Fuck sweetheart, is all this just from me playin’ with your pretty tits?” he asked, eyes fixated on the wet spot on your panties. You whimper in response, mind too fuzzy to form words. His fingers skate over your waistband, your tummy contracting in anticipation. Ever so slowly, he drags your panties down your legs, discarding them over his shoulder as he settles between your legs.

His pupils were blown wide, utterly entranced by your pussy. The attention made you want to shrink in on yourself, your legs subconsciously moving to close, but his wide shoulders and firm grip on your thighs stopped you. “Fuck, sugar, this is what she looks like with some curls on ‘er? And you let some boy convince you she needed to be bald?” He shook his head, a genuinely pained look on his face. 

He moved to spread you open for him, thumbs stroking up and down your lips as he took you in. Without warning, he surged forward, pressing a chase kiss against your clit before sitting back and continuing to admire your pussy. You squealed, hips twitching forward in search of more friction, the brief contact making you dizzy with need. It was slightly embarrassing, being watched like this, but you were growing impossibly wetter anyway. 

Jack’s hands moved back to your thighs as you squirmed, grip tightening, fingers sinking into your soft flesh just enough to ache, and spread you further open. “Don’t hide from me, pretty girl,” he said, pressing hot kisses from your knee to your inner thigh, stopping right at the crease between your pussy and thigh, breath fanning over your puffy folds. Your clit was throbbing, your hips subtly shifting against nothing. 

“‘m gonna show you just how pretty this pussy is, not gonna stop until you feel it,” he said, looking directly into your eyes, “you okay with that?” 

No sooner had you nodded than he was on you. He didn’t waste any time, swiping the flat of his tongue through your folds from entrance to clit in one long stroke. His tongue was hot against your cunt, the muscle firm as it lapped hungrily at your folds, exploring every inch of you. He groaned, nuzzling his face deeper into your pussy. “Fuck, you taste better than I could have ever imagined,” he moaned, tongue dipping into your hole to collect the slick gathering there. 

He didn’t surface for air, mouth working against you relentlessly; like he’d been deprived of something vital that had been restored to him, and he wasn’t about to let it go again. It was primal, almost animalistic the way he licked, sucked, and nipped at your cunt. Your back arched almost painfully off the bed, hands fisted in the sheets and moans slipping from your lips unbidden. 

He alternated between circling your clit in tight little circles with the tip of his tongue, and suckling on it, lips wrapped snug around the bundle of nerves. Your body was hot, your legs trembling as the coil in your core wound tighter. One hand moved to grip his curls, the hair soft between your fingers as you tugged at it. He moaned into your pussy, the vibrations bringing you right to the edge.  

“Fuck, right there, Jack,” you gasped, “I’m so close, so–”

“Cum for me, sugar, let me taste you,” he said quickly, head bowing back down to suck your clit harshly, teeth grazing it just the littlest bit.  

And you did, white hot pleasure coursing through you, body contorting, legs squeezing his head between your thighs as you rode out your orgasm. You felt like a live wire, your nerves firing on all cylinders while Jack kept gentle pressure on your clit, drawing out your release as long as possible. Jack lapped up all your spend, not letting a drop go to waste. Boneless, you weakly pushed his head away, the overstimulation too much. 

He sat back a fraction, face dripping with your juices and his saliva. There was a gleam in his eye as his thumb replaced his mouth, rubbing soft circles against your clit. A high-pitched whine escaped you, your sensitive nub begging for reprieve. 

“You can give me another one, can’t you pretty girl?” he asked, voice brooking no argument. 

“I d-don’t–fuck–I don’t know,” you blabbered, the painful overstimulation quickly giving way to pleasure, your hips canting forward against his thumb. 

“I think you can,” he murmured, swiping a thick finger through your folds before sinking it in and curling lazily against that sweet spot on your front wall. “Fuck, Jack, feels so good,” you moaned, moving you hips in time with his finger.  Before you knew it he was adding another finger, a slight sting accompanying the stretch. All you could do was whimper, his fingers switching between slow and deep, and fast and hard strokes. 

Your second orgasm hit you without warning, pleasure reverberating through your body from the top of your head to the soles of your feet, your toes curling as you came harder than you ever had in your life. Jack’s fingers kept moving, wringing every last after shock from your body. You were panting now, trying to catch your breath but failing miserably. 

And yet, Jack’s fingers were still moving, scissoring you open now. It was too much, the sensations bordered more on pain than pleasure. “I can’t–can’t do a-another one like this,” you stuttered out.

Jack looked at you, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “Tell me you have the prettiest pussy,” he said, fingers slowing a fraction as he waited for you to answer, gaze leveled directly at you.  

You whined, face heating at the order, “J-Jack, please, just wanna cum on your cock,” you said, hoping it would break his resolve. 

“I’ll fuck you as soon as you say it, sugar. Say you have the prettiest pussy.” 

You squirmed, cheeks hot as you whimpered, “I can’t–I’m not–” was all you managed to get out before a sharp slap landed on your pussy. You gasped, the pain shocking but not unwelcome. 

“If you want to cum on my cock, you have to be a good girl,” he said, face severe as he continued curling his fingers against your sweet spot. “and good girls do what they’re told. So, I want you to say, ‘Jack, I have the prettiest, sweetest pussy’ okay? Can you do that for me, pretty girl?” he asked, thumb circling your clit. 

You huffed, trying to catch your breath. “Ja-aack, fuck, I-I have, hng, I have the p-prettiest, sweet–ah–sweetest pussy,” you stammered out. 

“Knew you could do it for me,” he praised, fingers leaving your cunt to pull off his boxers. His cock sprang out, curving slightly and resting against his abdomen. It stole the breath from your lungs–It was obnoxiously thick and decently lengthy, tip flushed red and leaking precum steadily. Your hand reached out to feel him, maybe jerk him off a little before he fucked you, but Jack stopped you, pinning  your wrist down on the bed. You whined, lip jutting out in a not-so-faux pout. 

“I’m trying not to cum in 5 seconds like a teenager, sugar, and if you put your soft hands on me right now I’m not gonna be able to last,” he said, reaching over to his bedside table to grab a condom. He stroked his cock a few times before rolling the condom on and lining himself up with your entrance, neither one of you interested in teasing anymore. 

He eased the tip in, your walls fluttering around him to accommodate his girth. Your legs spread open wider for him as he settled between your hips, pushing the rest of his length in slowly until he was flush against your hips, his pelvic bone rubbing your clit just right. The stretch was intense, your walls fluttering and clenching harshly at the intrusion. Your hips wiggled slightly, trying to get used to the twinge of pain from the sheer size of him. 

Jack hovered over you, one arm resting next to your head while the other gripped your hip tight. His face was twisted, almost painful looking. “You gotta relax for me, sugar, you’re gripping me like a fuckin’ vise,” he grit out, head falling into the crook of your neck, placing chaste kisses there, trying to loosen you up. You tried, willing your muscles to relax around him.  

A few moments passed before Jack was able to move, pulling out to the tip before thrusting back in harshly, setting a brutal pace. You moaned, Jack’s hips snapping hard against you, cock dragging through your walls exquisitely. You tried to keep up with his pace, your hips meeting each thrust, cunt greedily sucking him back in each time. 

Your back was arched, hair splayed out across the pillow as you took what Jack gave you. 

“So pretty for me, sweetheart,” he said, sitting back on his haunches, “my perfect little pussy.” He grabbed at your thighs, pushing them up toward your chest, knees nearly at your ears. The new angle forced him deeper than before, his thrusts fucking you into the mattress. You were entranced by the view of him fucking you, curls dripping and chest glistening with sweat as he pounded into your pussy. 

The room sounded obscene between the slapping skin, your combined moans, and your squelching cunt. Moans were falling from your lips at a near constant rate, and Jack was louder than you’d expected, throaty groans and grunts reverberating like music to your ears.

You’re honestly not sure you’ve ever come more than twice in a night, but it didn’t take as long as you thought for your third orgasm to build, the waves cresting fast. The only thing you could think about was Jack’s cock hammering into your pussy. 

“I think I’m gonna, gonna cum again,” you breathed, “don’t stop, Jack, pleasepleasepleasepleeeeeeease,” you keened.  

Jack’s hand found your jaw, tilting your face up to kiss him sloppily, “cum for me, baby, let me feel you milk my cock,” he said, thrusts growing more uncoordinated as he neared his orgasm. 

It only took a few more deep, punishing trusts before you were coming undone around his cock. You held eye contact with Jack as your orgasm washed over you, your mouth parted wide, tears gathering at the corners of your eyes at the overwhelming sensations. You felt so full, your walls pulsing mercilessly around him. 

Jack gripped your hips in both hands, his trusts faster and harder than before as he chased his release. “wanna feel you cum in me Jack,” you croaked, throat raw, hands reaching out to paw at any skin you could. 

Jack groaned, hips stuttering a few more times before thrusting deep into you once last time and cumming. He ground his hips into yours, milking every last drop from his cock. You felt the warmth of his cum through the condom, your cunt clenching again at the feeling, your mind already flashing forward to imagine him fucking you raw–you let about another garbled moan at the thought. 

Spent, Jack collapsed into you, cock softening inside your still pulsing cunt. His weight on top of you was comforting, grounding you back to earth. You were content to lay there, coming down and catching your breath. 

Eventually Jack rolled off of you, disposing of the condom and grabbing a few wet wipes from his nightstand to clean you both up. 

He pulled you against his side, big hand petting your hair, “You okay, sugar? Was that too much?” he asked, voice hoarse. 

“no, was so good, Jackie,” you mumbled, feeling floaty and sated. 

“Good,” he whispered, pressing soft kisses onto your hairline.  

You sat in comfortable silence for a while, head resting on his bare chest, his heartbeat a comforting thrum in your ear. One large hand ran up and down the smooth expanse of your back while the other held your hand against his chest, fingers intertwined together. 

“I hope you know this isn’t just a one time thing,” he said suddenly, his arm tightening its hold around you. 

“No?” you asked, trying to keep the hopeful edge out of your voice. 

“Uh-uh, you’re mine,” he says possessively, hand snaking down to cup your sensitive mound, “this is my pussy now.” 

You want to be offended, want to point out that you’re more than your cunt. But you know Jack knows that, and more than anything your head grows warm and fuzzy at the thought of being someone’s. Of being Jack’s. 

“Yeah, ‘s all yours, Jackie,” you mumble, falling asleep against the gentle rise and fall of his chest, happier than you’ve been in a long time.

Frank is great husband.

Not in the grand, movie-worthy gestures. Not because he remembers every anniversary without checking the calendar. Not because he buys expensive jewelry or plans elaborate date nights. Frank is great because he pays attention. He notices. He notices when your favorite cereal is getting low and replaces it before you realize it's gone. He notices when you've had a rough day before you even say hello, because your shoulders sit just a little tighter.

He notices when you haven't been sleeping, and somehow you always wake up to fresh coffee already brewing and your favorite blanket tucked around your feet. He notices when your shampoo changes.

When you get a haircut. When you've picked at your nails because you're anxious. When your smile isn't reaching your eyes. He notices everything. Which is exactly why, after six years of marriage, he got tired of pretending your period "snuck up on him."

Because according to you— "You've got one week every month where you act shocked I'm bleeding."

So… Frank fixed the problem.

It started innocently enough.

He downloaded one of those period tracking apps. Not for himself— For you.

At first, it was purely practical. He'd quietly glance at the calendar every few days.

Three days before your period? Your favorite chocolate would mysteriously appear in the pantry. The expensive dark chocolate you always refused to buy because "it's ridiculously overpriced."

The heating pad would already be plugged in beside the couch. Ibuprofen would magically rest on your bedside table. The good pads—not the cheap emergency ones—would already be stocked beneath the bathroom sink.

You never had to ask.

He'd even stop at the bakery before work to grab those ridiculous raspberry pastries you always claimed cured cramps.

"They don't cure cramps," he'd grumble while handing you the little paper bag.

"They make me less homicidal."

"Same difference." Eventually, it became almost frightening.

"You've been craving salt all day."

"…How do you know that?"

"'Cause you've eaten half a jar of pickles."

"I always eat pickles."

"Not while glaring at 'em." He'd rub your lower back while you cooked. Wordlessly refill your water bottle. Cancel plans without making you feel guilty. He'd simply say—

"C'mere." And you'd melt into him because somehow… Somehow… He always knew exactly what you needed. You never questioned it. You just assumed Frank had developed some supernatural husband instinct.

He let you believe that.

Because admitting he'd become emotionally invested in a menstrual tracking app felt… deeply uncool.

There was only one problem.

Actually— One enormous, life-altering, impossible-to-ignore problem. The app didn't just track your period. It tracked everything.

Including— Ovulation.

The first time a little notification popped up saying:

High fertility window begins tomorrow.

Frank stared at his phone for a full minute.

"…Huh." He clicked it. Read the explanation. Read it again. Then Googled it. Then read three different medical articles because he didn't trust the first one. By the end of the night, he knew exactly what basal body temperature was. He knew what cervical mucus was. He knew sperm could survive up to five days. He knew the odds of conception during your fertile window. He knew entirely too much.

And suddenly… The app wasn't just reminding him to buy chocolate anymore. It was quietly counting down the days until the week he'd been dreaming about for years.

Because Frank wants a baby.

Ever since he said, "I do", and kissed you once declared husband and wife, he has not dropped the issue of family.

Not in an overbearing way. Never pressuring. Never demanding.

Just… Hopeful. Painfully, adorably hopeful. Every time he sees a father carrying a sleeping toddler over one shoulder, his expression softens. Every time he walks past the tiny clothes section in Target, he slows down just a little. Every time one of your friends announces they're pregnant, he spends the drive home talking about names.

And to be fair, you had tried for a baby. You've wanted to be a mother since you married Frank, finally having settled enough in your life to be able to see yourself taking that step.

But with no luck.

For months. Then a year. Then another.

At first, it had been exciting. You'd grin every time you bought another pregnancy test. Frank would wait outside the bathroom pretending not to pace. Every month he'd hear the wrapper crinkle.

The bathroom door open.

Your quiet, "…Not this month." He'd kiss your forehead.

"Next month." Always next month. Until eventually… Next month started hurting. The negative tests got shoved into the bottom of the bathroom trash instead of ceremoniously thrown away together. You stopped talking about names. Frank stopped lingering in the baby aisle at Target. Neither of you stopped wanting it.

You just… Stopped expecting it.

Still… Frank never deleted the app. He couldn't. It had become part of his routine.

Chocolate. Heating pad. Pads. Ibuprofen.

And… Those little green circles.

Hope, packaged into calendar notifications.

Months later— You're out with friends.

A rare Friday night. Karen insisted everyone needed to leave the house. Matt had somehow been convinced. Foggy was already halfway through his second beer.

The table is loud. Comfortable. Filled with the kind of laughter that only comes from people who've survived too much together. Frank has an arm slung lazily across the back of your chair. His thumb absentmindedly brushes your shoulder every few minutes.

You lean against him while Karen tells some ridiculous story involving Foggy, a parking ticket, and three pigeons. Frank's phone vibrates. He almost ignores it.

Almost.

Then he glances down.

Peak fertility predicted today.

Frank freezes. He clears his throat. Looks at you. Looks back at the phone. Looks at you again.

"…Honey." You blink.

"Hm?"

"…You wanna head home?" The entire table goes quiet. You frown.

"…We just got here."

"I know."

"You ordered appetizers."

"I know."

"They haven't even arrived."

"I know."

"So…"

"…We could eat at home." Foggy slowly lowers his beer.

"…Frank."

"What?"

"…Are you dying?"

"No." Karen narrows her eyes.

"Did something happen?"

"No." Matt tilts his head.

"You look nervous."

"I'm not nervous."

"You look… motivated." Frank coughs.

"I just thought…"He looks at you again. "…Maybe we could...Leave." You squint at him.

"…Right now?" He nods eagerly.

"Yes, fuck yes, let's leave. Right now."

"Frank-" Frank gets up, and throws a couple of bills on the table.

"For the appetizers. Sorry guys." He grabs your bag for you and softly tugs on your wrist, like an insistent child begging to leave. You get to your feet, throw your friends an apologetic look, and struggle to catch up with your husband as he drags you along behind him.

You barely make it through the restaurant doors before you start laughing. Not a polite little giggle either. A full, helpless laugh that makes you stop walking because Frank Castle—your very serious, very intimidating husband—is currently speed-walking through the parking lot like someone is chasing him.

"Frank." He doesn't slow down. "Frank."

"What?"

"You are aware you're dragging me behind you, right?" He finally looks back. And the expression on his face almost makes you laugh harder. Because he looks guilty. Which is absurd. This is the man who once walked into a room full of armed men without blinking. But apparently abandoning mozzarella sticks because his wife is in her fertile window?

That's where he draws the line.

"I'm not dragging you."

"You absolutely are."

"I'm walking."

"With my hand attached to yours."

"Yeah."

"At a pace normally reserved for escaping explosions." Frank opens the passenger door for you.

"You coming or not?" You cross your arms, pretending to consider it.

"Hmm. I don't know. I might go back inside. Foggy looked devastated." Frank stares at you.

"You're enjoying this."

"A little."

"A little?" You smile.

"A lot." He shakes his head, but there's a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Get in the car."

"Frank."

"Get in the fucking car, mama."

"And why would I do that ?" He sighs, leaning against the car door.

"So i can take you home and fuck you so good that stick shows two lines instead of one." He holds open the door. "Shall we ?"

You've never climbed into a car so fast.

Frank barely waits for the door to slam shut before he's wrenching the gearshift into reverse, tires spinning loose for a second before finding purchase. You fumble with your seatbelt—he doesn't even bother—and the two of you lurch out into the dark, the restaurant's golden light fading behind. He grips the wheel, knuckles white, but his left hand never stops roaming: it floats from your thigh, squeezing, up under your skirt, where you can feel the rasp of calloused skin, the insistent heat of him. The whole car hums with it, sticky and electric and absolutely ridiculous. He doesn't say a word. Just drives, jaw set, eyes ahead, hand under your skirt and fingers feathering the inside of your thigh, getting bolder each mile. It's barely ten minutes before his fingertips slip higher, and he finds you already soaked through, the whimper of surprise that escapes you making him smirk, just a little.

"Jesus, baby," he mutters, voice low. "Didn't even make it home." He doesn't sound disappointed. He doesn't sound like he plans to wait, either. Frank's breathing is already different in here. You hear it, that low steady rumble that means he's barely holding himself back. You watch his jaw work, a tic starting and stopping at the hinge. The ride home is supposed to take twenty minutes, but you have a hunch you're not making it that far. Frank makes it two blocks. He brakes at the red light, stares straight ahead, then turns to you so hard the seat creaks. There's a question in his face—like he's about to say something important, but the words get lost somewhere in the thick gravity between you. He just watches. For a moment. Then he leans over, catches your chin in his hand, and kisses you. It's not sweet. It's not movie-worthy, either. It's desperate, like he can already taste you in the back of his throat. You feel yourself burn for it. The light turns green and Frank pulls away just enough to breathe.

"Can't wait," he says, voice a gravel road of want. "Not even a little." He takes the next right, a hard, fast turn that flattens you against the door. The car lurches into the empty lot of an old bank, tires crunching ancient glass and gravel. Frank kills the engine but leaves the radio on, like some part of him still needs the normalcy of soft rock in the background while everything else in him is ready to tear something open. He unbuckles your seatbelt, his hands already shaking. Not from nerves. From restraint. You're not sure who moves first, but suddenly you're both crawling over the console, a tangle of knees and hands and the friction of denim on denim. He hooks your hips, lifts you into his lap so you're straddling him, the tight space of the driver's seat making everything closer, hungrier. Your back bumps the wheel, and the horn lets out a quick, embarrassed yelp, but neither of you laugh. Frank fists the hem of your shirt, pulls it up with one hand while the other curls around your thigh, squeezing hard enough you think you'll wear the imprint tomorrow. You shiver. He's not even inside you yet, but every part of you is already stretched wide, already tuned to the single desperate note of his need. He kisses you like he's trying to eat the entire past year of missed chances, tongue hot and insistent, beard scraping your cheek. You grind down onto him, feel the obscene bulge in his jeans, hard as a brick and twice as intimidating. Frank’s belt buckle never stood a chance. It’s the fastest you’ve seen him get out of any piece of clothing, and you both nearly topple the cup holders wrestling his jeans down around his thighs. He hisses through his teeth when your hand curls around him—Jesus, he’s hot and heavy, and you swear he twitches in your palm, rutting helplessly against your fist. He grabs your wrist, not to stop you, just to anchor himself, like he’ll fly apart if he doesn’t.

“You sure?” He says it into your neck, words muffled and already fraying at the edges. His cock is leaking onto your wrist, painting the inside of your arm, and you can barely breathe for how much you want him.

“Obviously,” you whisper, and reach down to hook the crotch of your underwear aside. He manhandles you until your tits are pressed to the steeringwheel, your ass on display for him. Frank barely gets the tip inside before you’re already gripping the steering wheel so hard your knuckles ache. He’s big, always has been, but this? Bent over the dashboard, skirt bunched stupidly around your hips and his cock splitting you open from behind, it feels like the first time all over again. You can hear yourself—those needy, helpless noises you never let anyone else hear—and Frank can too, because he lets out a ragged,

“Goddamn, sweetheart,” and presses in another inch, just to see how much you’ll take before you break. You’re shaking, forehead mashed to the cool plastic. The stretch burns, but in the way you crave, and you whine for him, teeth sunk into the sleeve of your own sweater. He’s so far inside already, you can feel the blunt pressure nudging up against your cervix. You clench down, greedy for more, and Frank huffs a fractured laugh.

“You’re gonna milk me dry, you know that?” He sounds ruined. The pride in his voice, though, that’s what makes you melt. He thrusts a little deeper, and your thighs tremble, slick already running in hot rivulets down to the backs of your knees.

“Frank—” you gasp, because the whole length of him is still only halfway in, and you don’t know how much more you can take. You want to be good for him, want to take all of it, even when it feels like you’re being split in half. He kisses the side of your neck, tongue tasting salt and perfume, grip circling your waist tight enough that tomorrow will be a gallery of fingerprints.

“You can do it, baby. C’mon, let me in. You know you want to.” You do, more than anything, so you rock back, trying to impale yourself. The move surprises him and suddenly you’re flush, his hips grinding into your ass, and the stretch is a white-hot line up your spine, dizzying. You sob out something desperate, and he covers your mouth with his own, swallowing every sound.

“You’re perfect,” he growls into your ear, voice gone gravelly. “So fucking perfect for me.” He fucks you just like that—slow at first, like he wants to memorize every inch of you, then faster, harder, until the whole car is rocking, windows fogged, your breath a latticework of moans and pleadings. You whimper, try to nod, but you’re caged between the steering wheel and his body, nowhere to go but forward. He’s not gentle. He’s never gentle when he gets like this, but there’s a tenderness in the way he kisses your neck, the way his thumb ghosts over your exposed spine, like he’s apologizing for every brutal inch he forces inside you.

“You like this?” he says, and it’s not really a question. It’s a warning, maybe, or an admission. You nod, frantic and helpless, forehead bumping the horn again. The noise startles both of you, and you stifle a giggle, which immediately turns into a moan as Frank sets a hard, punishing pace. The car rocks with you, his thighs bracketed tight around your own, hands gripping your hips in a way that promises bruises.

“Jesus,” he grits, “feel how deep I am? Fuck, baby, I’m not gonna last.” His breath is in your ear, hot and desperate, and you can feel how close he is, the way his whole body is shaking behind you.

“You’re gonna take all of me. Yeah? Let me fill you up, just like that.” You moan, head tipping backwards and onto his shoulder. The stretch is obscene. Frank isn’t even trying to hide how much he loves it, every sharp intake through his teeth, every muttered, “holy fuck, look at you,” another ripple of want up your spine. You think you might die in this car, impaled and slowly rearranged until there’s nothing left but the way you pulse and grip around him. You brace against the dash, fingers splayed, searching for leverage that doesn’t exist. Frank's hand is all the support you get—one palm locked around your hip, the other inching up under your shirt, squeezing and kneading until your skin burns. When you arch, desperate for anything, he slides his hand up your back, not gentle at all, shoving you down—closer, tighter—until your chest smears condensation across the steering wheel.

“You good?” He asks, and you can’t tell if he’s all the way in, or if you’re just delirious from the way the world narrows down to the throbbing pressure inside you.

“God, yes, Frank- ” you breathe, but you can’t finish, not when he snaps his hips just a little, driving the last inch home. Your eyes squeeze shut. You feel it everywhere.

“Attagirl,” he grunts, and the pride in his voice makes you want to sob. “Knew you could take it. Knew you’d be perfect.” He’s not moving yet, just holding you open, letting you feel every millimeter of him. You don’t realize you’re whining until he shushes you, soothing, thumb stroking circles into your hip. Every thrust is a new kind of fullness, a new angle that scrapes something raw and perfect inside you. You peek over your shoulder and catch him watching, his face all hungry and wrecked, and the way he’s staring at the place you’re joined makes your knees nearly buckle. The pleasure is so sharp it’s almost a threat.

“Jesus, look at you,” he rasps, “you’re fucking swallowing me, sweetheart.” Your head swims. You don’t even recognize the noises in your own throat, not until he leans over you, mouth at your ear.

“Bet you feel me up in your guts, huh?” You nod, frantic, and he rewards you with a savage snap of hips that makes your eyes roll. You can feel everything—every throb, every twitch, every molten inch. He keeps you bent, one hand wrapped around the front of your throat now. Frank’s hips stutter, and he groans, deep and guttural, like he’s gone feral. He slows, using his weight to pin you, the head of his cock grinding in circles against that impossible spot that always makes you see stars. The car’s tiny, and the air’s gone thick with sweat and your own wild, animal noises. You can smell both of you, messy and raw, and the thought of it—of how you’re rutting like teenagers in a borrowed car—nearly sends you right over. He grinds deeper, impossibly deeper, and you gasp, fingernails raking black trenches into the faux leather steering wheel.

“God, you’re so fucking tight,” he pants, voice hoarse from holding back. “You feel that? Feel how perfect you are for me?” He arches, locking his elbows into the seatback, and you swear the whole center console creaks. He’s not gentle about it, not even pretending to be, but every rough thrust lights you up. Your thighs start to shake, knees knocking the dash, and you can’t even pretend you’re not about to break apart for him. You sob,

“Frank, please, fuck, I’m—” and he cuts you off with a hand over your mouth, not to shush you, but so he can feel the desperate wet heat of your breathing against his palm. He ruts up into you, relentless, and you clench down, greedy for every inch.

“That’s my girl,” he growls. “God, you’re filthy. Letting me fuck you like this. You love it, don’t you? Love knowing you’re gonna be dripping with me for days.” You writhe, pressing back as far as you can, and he rewards you with a hard slap to your ass. The sound echoes, sharp and obscene, and you choke on your own moan. You go boneless at the echo of his palm, the humiliation of it licking up your spine—God, you want more, you want all of it, you want Frank to carve new fingerprints into your skin and leave them there, permanent tattoos the shape of love and hunger. The last time he was this rough, the entire right side of your body had a bruise shaped like his handprint for a week. You’d worn it like a secret under your work clothes, fingers sneaking down during boring meetings just to feel the edges of his claim. He’s rutting now, really rutting, cock punching up deeper than you thought possible, and it’s not even the pain that does you in, it’s the pride in his voice, the way he sounds like your pleasure is some sort of holy thing he’s worshiping. He grabs a fistful of your hair, yanks your head up, forces your eyes open so you’re staring at your own wrecked reflection in the rearview mirror. Your face is flushed, jaw slack, eyes tearing up from the intensity.Frank holds you there for one long, trembling second, gaze locked in the mirror, and the world shrinks to the fogged glass, the desperate clutch of his hands, the bright, stupid ache between your legs. Every inch of him inside, pushing you to the brink, and for a moment, all you can do is whimper. The steering wheel digs into your ribs, that silly, plastic horn badge pressed cold and insistent against your sternum, and still he doesn’t let up. Not even when your thighs quake, not when your breath snags sharp in your chest. Frank is relentless. He’s always relentless. But there’s something new in it tonight, some raw, scraping edge. He rocks his hips in tight, punishing little thrusts, and the car is full of it: the sharp slap of skin, your muffled, uneven sobs, and over all of it, Frank’s voice, rasped and wrecked and so, so proud.

“Fuck, you take me so good. Didn’t think you’d get all of it in, sweetheart, but you always prove me wrong.” His mouth is at your cheek now, teeth and beard scraping, and when he moves his hand from your throat to your mouth, you let him. You’re too gone to do anything else. He presses two fingers over your lips, thumb dragging slow over your chin, and every sloppy, gasping sound you make vibrates against his hand. He loves it. You can feel it in the way he pulses thick inside you, the way his breath comes harsher, almost pained.

“Gonna make you mine, baby,” he mutters. “Gonna keep you full. Not letting you up until I’m leaking out of you.” You whine for it, because that’s what he wants, and you want it too, embarrassing as it is. Want him split you open and keep you messy, want the soreness tomorrow, the impossible fullness now. He grinds in deeper, rolling his hips with a slow, evil drag, and the friction lights a fuse in your belly. The world starts to blur at the edges.

“You feel that?” he hisses. “You feel how fucking deep I am?” All you can do is nod, breathless and shaky, and he rewards you with another hard snap. It’s too much and exactly right, and the words tumble out before you can think:

“More, Frank, please—” He laughs, a low, wrecked sound, and pulls you upright, back flush to his chest. The pressure changes, angle sharper now, and when he bounces you on his cock, you see white for a second, vision flickering. His hands clamp down on your thighs, holding you in place while he just fucks up into you, deep enough you swear you can feel it in your throat.

“Look at you,” he says. “Look at how pretty you are. All open for me. Nobody else could ever fill you like this, huh?” You shake your head. You couldn’t speak even if you wanted to. The pride in his voice, the claim, the feral need to make you his—it does something to you. Something embarrassing, something you’ll think about for days after.

“That’s it,” he says, voice thick and shredded. “You see what you do to me? What you make me?” His hand slides up, thumb circling your clit, and you spasm, every muscle locking down. “Take it. All of it. Every goddamn inch.” You realize he’s talking you through it—not just to see if you’ll break, but because he wants you to be proud of it, too. Frank Castle’s big, everyone knows it, but the way he looks at you now—like you’re the only person who could ever handle him, the only one who could possibly fit—sets something molten and dangerous loose in your chest. He grunts,

“God, your pussy’s choking me. You’re perfect. You’re better than perfect.” You’re close. Dangerously, humiliatingly close. Frank feels it, too, because his hips start to stutter, rhythm going ragged. You throw your head back, searching for air, and he grabs your chin, turns your face to the mirror so you have to watch yourself come apart.

“Give it to me, baby,” he demands, and you do, with a strangled sob. The orgasm rips through you, white-out and all-consuming, and for a split second, you lose sense of everything but the hot, pulsing pressure inside you. Frank’s not far behind. He buries his face in your shoulder, bellowing something raw and wordless as he jerks you down the last half-inch, holding you flush to his lap while he empties himself inside. The heat is immediate, the fullness overwhelming, and you’re still milking him when he finally slumps back against the seat, arms banded around your waist.

He moans your name like a litany, like it’s the only thing anchoring him to this world.

He doesn’t pull out. Not even a little. He keeps you mashed down over the steering wheel, cock still pulsing inside you, like he thinks you’ll leak any of him out if he lets go. It’s possessive and sweet and a little desperate. You love it. You’d let him keep you here forever if he asked. Eventually, he moves, just enough to wrap both arms around your middle and pull you into his lap, cock still buried inside. You whimper at the friction and the obscene stretch, but he just shushes you again, rocking you gently while you both try to remember how to breathe. He nuzzles at your neck, beard scratchy but strangely soothing.

“You okay?” he whispers, voice smaller than you’ve ever heard it. You nod, still floating, and wrap your arms around his shoulders.

“Best shortcut ever,” you mumble. He huffs out a laugh, shaking under you, and you think maybe he’s more wrecked than you are. Neither of you moves to clean up. Your thighs are tacky, slick with both of you, and you can feel the way his spend leaks around the seal of your cunt, dangerously close to spilling onto the seat. Frank finally manages to get his hands to work, and he adjusts your hips so you’re sitting heavier on him, cock still locked inside.

“Gotta keep it in,” he says, not quite joking. “Don’t want it to spill out." Your heart stutters, and you whine at his words, head falling forward, pussy twitching. He kisses your shoulder, pulling you closer to him and shifting his hips upward so he fully seals himself in you.

You cry out, hips rutting down on him.

"Shh, baby. Gotta get ya home, hmm ?" He mutters, slowly shifting you so that your body rests on his shoulder while your hips stay firmly locked over his. Frank’s hand never leaves your thigh, and you don’t think he’s letting go, not even to shift gears. He stretches your skirt down just enough to hide the evidence, but you’re still speared open on his cock, leaking his spend with every twitch of your body. The drive home is reckless—Frank makes every light, takes every turn sharp enough that you gasp and clench around him, earning a broken rumble from his chest. He smells like sweat and sex and some faint note of aftershave, and you think, in the miserable, sticky press of his lap, that you could live here forever. He parks crooked in the garage, barely inside the lines, and throws the car into park. There’s a moment where neither of you moves, like you’re waiting for the world to reorient. You peek up at him, and he’s already watching you, pupils blown wide, pink smeared across his lips where you’d bitten him. The heat in his stare makes your knees want to fold, if they weren’t already trembling in his lap.

“Not done,” he says, like the thought is a surprise to him too. “Wanna keep you full, ‘kay?” You nod, because of course you do, and he threads your fingers together, steadying both of you. Slowly and steadily, he lifts you off of him. But he doesn’t let you all the way off—just enough to feel the suction, the heat, the way your walls want to cling and keep him. His head lolls back, and he groans, like he’s undecided if the ache is better than the release. You try to slide off his lap, but his grip tightens on your thigh, pinning you to him.

“Don’t,” he rasps. “Not yet.” He fumbles behind you, reaches for something in the backseat, and comes up with his leather jacket. He drapes it around your shoulders, tucks your hair out of the way, then wedges his hand between your legs, two thick fingers pressing up into you, plugging the mess he’s made. You gasp—he doesn’t even flinch. Just holds you there, filled and clamped tight, while he tucks himself away with his other hand. The car door thuds open, and you realize, with a sick thrill, that he’s going to make you walk all the way to the elevator like this.

“Frank—”

“Don’t spill,” he says, like you’re a can of beer and not a person, and then he’s out of the car and lifting you in his arms, bridal style, your legs wobbling around his hips. The world feels fuzzy, far away, like nothing exists except the careful press of his fingers, the obscene slickness running down your thighs. You bury your face in his neck, breathing in sweat and the sharp tang of ozone from the parking garage. He’s moving fast, and you’re half-convinced you’re dreaming. The elevator is mercifully empty. Frank keeps you pinned with one arm, the other still holding you plugged and tight, and you hear yourself panting in the dead fluorescent light. The doors close, and you catch a glimpse of your reflection: hair wild, lips swollen, skirt hiked up indecent. Frank meets your gaze in the polished steel, and his smirk is pure, unfiltered pride.

“What if someone sees?” you whisper, but the words are weak even to your own ears. He shrugs, the motion jostling you higher on his chest.

“Let ‘em. Want everyone to know you’re mine.” The doors open on your floor, and he carries you down the hall, bootsteps echoing in the linoleum hush. Your apartment door’s barely closed before he’s pushing you up against it, hips slotting between your thighs. His fingers never leave you, but now his mouth is on your neck, your jaw, kissing you like he’s starving. He sets you down, finally, on your back on the bed, and you immediately draw your legs up and hug them to your chest the second he slowly removes his fingers from your sopping cunt. Frank’s hands go gentle the instant you hit the bed. He doesn’t let you curl up, even when instinct tries to take over. Instead he slides in behind you, knees bracketing your hips, careful as he smooths shaking hair away from your cheek with the flat of his hand. You’re still leaking, embarrassment hot and thick in the cradle of your thighs. He doesn’t rush to clean you up, just runs his hand up and down your spine, humming low in his throat, a resonance you feel beneath your ribs. He stays pressed to you, shielding your body with his. The aftershocks rattle you, tiny, shivering spasms that make your calves knot and your hands grope for fabric. You find the collar of his shirt, twist it between slippery fingers. He lets you clutch, lets you breathe, lets you ride out the stupid, trembling come-down while he spoons himself around you. It’s disgusting and perfect and you don’t want to move ever again.

“Little shake you got,” Frank whispers, voice barely a rumble. “C’mere.” He bends his legs, folds you tighter against himself, tucks your head under his chin like you’re something breakable. You feel his heartbeat, slow and heavy, right next to your ear. You make a sound—something between a laugh and a sob—and he smiles into your hair. His thumb paints lazy circles into the small of your back. It’s not enough to calm you, but it helps. You realize you’re crying, just a little, and when he feels the tremors hitch up, his grip only gets steadier.

“Shh, baby, got you. I got you,” he says, and you believe him because you don’t have a choice. He’s everywhere, so big it seems impossible you ever existed in a world where he wasn’t. Your skirt’s still rucked around your waist, your panties somewhere on the floor, and your knees are pressed up so high your thighs tremble with the strain.

Frank kisses the top of your head, then your temple, then your eyelids, soft as a benediction.

“You did perfect,” he praises, voice gone sweet as honey. “Knew you could take it. Knew you could do it for me.” You want to say something, but the words get lost on your tongue.

All you manage is “Frank,” and he makes a pleased noise, like your voice is enough. He doesn’t move until your breathing evens out, and even then, he works slow.. Frank hushes you, runs his fingers up your thigh, and uses the pad of his thumb to push in the worst of the drip. You shudder at the sensation, at the certainty that you’re not just ruined, you’re marked.

“Stay here,” he orders, a command as gentle as a lullaby. He peels himself offthe bed, tugs the sheets up around your shoulders. The mattress dips as he disappears into the hall, the soft shush of his bare feet on the wood floor. Light flickers on in the bathroom, and you hear water running, maybe the rattle of pill bottles. Frank comes back with a damp washcloth, a glass of water, and a look on his face that makes your chest feel too full. He kneels next to the bed, one knee pressed to the floor, and just looks at you for a second. Like he’s making sure you’re all in one piece. He drags the rag down your thighs, slow and careful, gathering the worst of the mess, but he skips your pussy at first, like he’s saving it for last. He presses the cold glass into your palm, wraps your fingers around it, waits until you take a sip before he moves on. Your hands are shaking so bad you almost spill, but he’s there, steadying your wrist, thumb drawing circles over your pulse point.

“Easy,” he says, and you want to hit him for it, but also you want to curl up and live in that word, have him say it again every morning for the rest of time. He sets the glass down, brushes your hair off your forehead, and kisses the tip of your nose. Makes a face about it, too, because he’s a sap in private and he knows it. You want to laugh, but you’re still too raw, every part of you vivid and sore and alive. Then he gets to work cleaning you up, and it’s not delicate, but it’s honest. He wipes the slick from your thighs, his calluses dragging rough and perfect over your skin, and finally, finally brings the washcloth between your legs. He’s slow, like he’s memorizing the way you twitch at the touch, the way you try to clamp your knees together and can’t, not when he’s got them bracketed with his other arm. It feels more intimate than the fucking, somehow—this simple, necessary act, his head bowed over you, not saying anything. He pats you dry with the hem of his own shirt, like nothing in the world could be less urgent than making sure you’re comfortable. When he’s satisfied, he tosses the cloth onto the floor, climbs up behind you, and draws you into his chest. He wraps both arms around your waist, one big palm over your ribs, the other down between your thighs, holding you together, keeping you full like he promised. He doesn’t say anything for a long time, just listens to your breath even out, the shudder in your chest thinning into something calmer.

You drift, floating in the strange, humming space between sleep and wanting more.

-------

Ping !

Your phone buzzes on the desk, and you grit your teeth, trying to ignore it.

Ping!

Your phone buzzes again. You stare at it. Then at the ceiling. Then back at your computer screen.

Because you already know. You already know exactly who it is. And you already know exactly what he wants. That morning, you woke up still tangled in Frank and so deliciously sore you genuinely considered calling in sick.

Frank had made breakfast. Actual breakfast. Eggs, coffee, toast exactly the way you liked it. And then he had stood there in the kitchen, mug in hand, looking unfairly pleased with himself while he tried every possible argument to convince you to stay home.

"You could call."

"I can't call."

"You could."

"My boss would kill me."

"Your boss doesn't scare me."

"Frank."

"What?"

"You cannot intimidate my boss."

"I could."

"You won't." He had just looked at you. And that was the problem. Because Frank Castle had a way of making you believe he could probably intimidate anyone if he really tried.

Still, you had left. Because your boss was already annoyed enough that you had disappeared early yesterday. So now you were sitting at your desk, pretending to work, while your phone kept lighting up.

Ping! You finally grab it.

Frank: You busy?

You stare. You type.

You know I'm at work.

Three dots immediately appear.

Frank: That wasn't my question.

You bite back a smile. Of course it wasn't.

You: What do you need?

The reply comes almost instantly.

Frank: You.

You close your eyes.

"Unbelievable." Your phone buzzes again.

Frank: I'm outside.

You freeze. Slowly, you look toward the window. Sure enough. There he is. Frank Castle. Standing outside your office building with coffee in one hand and that expression on his face. The one that says he knows exactly what he's doing. The one that says he has absolutely no shame. You immediately text him.

You: Why are you here?

A moment later:

Frank: Brought you coffee.

You narrow your eyes.

You: You drove all the way here for coffee?

The typing bubble appears.

Stops. Appears again.

Frank: And to fuck my wife.

Your assistant pushes your office door open.

"Miss Castle ? Your husband's here to see you." Your heart skips a beat.

Frank is here. At your office.

You don’t even have a chance to compose yourself before you hear the heavy footfalls, the scrape of his boots on institutional carpet. You try to keep a straight face—try to look busy, important, like the kind of respectable professional who does not, in any universe, have her husband show up in the middle of a workday with fuck me written all over his face.

You stand. Smooth your skirt. Cough, just for effect.

Frank ducks through your doorway and the temperature in the room goes up about ten degrees. He looks too big for the office—shoulder to shoulder with the cheap beige walls, looming over your little particleboard desk like a bear in a dollhouse. He’s wearing the jacket you love, the one that smells like cedar and motor oil, and he’s holding a paper cup from the good place down the street. You try to scowl.

“Frank, what are you—”

“Coffee,” he says, and sets it on your desk like a peace offering. He walks over to you and grabs you by the waist, pulling you into him. He kisses your temple, and your whole body lights up like a firework. "Hi, baby." He hums. And there it is. That stupidly soft voice. The one nobody else gets. The one that makes it impossible to stay annoyed with him.

You try. You really do. You try to maintain the professional expression you had prepared. The one that says I am a serious person with a serious job and my husband cannot just walk in here whenever he feels like it.

But then Frank smiles. And you're done.

"Frank."

"What?"

"You cannot just show up at my office." He looks genuinely confused.

"Why not?"

"Because I work here."

"I know."

"You can't just appear."

"I brought coffee." You glance at the cup on your desk.

"That's your defense?"

"Good coffee is a strong defense. And also the fact that the app told me this morning that we had to get our baby making on."

"Ew, gross. Don't call it that." You huff, kissing his jaw. "Besides, Frankie, I have a meeting." Frank’s hands are already in your hair, mouth pressed hot and greedy to your neck, before you can get out another word. His palm fits almost too well to the back of your skull. You squirm, twisting just enough to see if the door actually latched behind him, and—of course—it didn’t. You hiss through your teeth and try to put a hand to his chest, but he just grins into your skin and gives a little snort, like he knew you were going to try and is delighted to wrestle you for it. Frank doesn’t fuck around. Not when he’s like this, not when his phone’s told him you’re at peak fertility. He lifts you up so you’re sitting on the edge of your desk, skirt bunched around your hips. The familiar weight of him pressed between your thighs has your head spinning, and you’re suddenly, sharply aware of every glass wall in this office. You tug at the lapels of his jacket, trying to pull him in close and hide as much of yourself as possible. He likes that. You can feel him grinning against your jaw.

“Should we close the door or give your coworkers a show ?” The question is a dare, and it’s not even a fair one. Frank’s voice is so close it grazes the shell of your ear, warm enough to make your whole scalp prickle. He’s already got a hand under your skirt, thumb pressed against the spot at the very top of your thigh that always makes your knees try to buckle—except there’s nowhere for your knees to go, so you’re just perched, trembling, on the edge of particleboard hell. You reach around him, fumble behind your own back until you hear the blessed click of privacy. Two seconds later and Frank has you splayed on the desk, hips canted up so the heels of your feet dangle uselessly in the air. The first time he touches you, it’s electric. You gasp, twisting your face into the crook of his neck, and he grins, palming you through your underwear.

“You’re shaking,” he whispers, and you want to say it’s because you’re afraid of being caught but that would be a lie so big it’d get you fired on the spot. You’re shaking because Frank, who brings you chocolate and painkillers and the expensive pads, now has his fingers pressed just right, just like he knows you need. Which, of course, he does. You bunch the front of his jacket in your fists and try to breathe through the pounding in your ears. You can see yourself in the blacked-out surface of the monitor, and it makes you want to hide, except you want to see him more. The way Frank looks at you—like there’s not another human being in the building, like you’re the only thing worth noticing in the world—makes your insides turn to syrup.

“Frank, I really do have a meeting—” you manage, but the sentence disintegrates when his fingers push the crotch of your underwear to the side. He slips one thick finger into you and you audibly choke, scrabbling for something to say that isn’t just a whine. The stretch is ridiculous, obscene, and you know he’s going to make a meal out of it, tease you over dinner tonight with some filthy comment about how you always need to be warmed up for him, how greedy you get when you’re ovulating. The thought makes your cheeks blossom with heat. Frank feels it, too. He thumbs your cheekbone, gentle, like he’s proud of you for blushing.

“You want me to stop?” he murmurs. You shake your head, shameless, and he rewards you with a second finger, scissoring them until you’re biting your own sleeve to muffle the noise.

“You gotta be quiet, baby,” he says, but there’s not a speck of real concern in it. He’d probably be thrilled if the entire boardroom heard you come. He crooks his fingers and you arch so hard you nearly knock the coffee cup off the desk. It teeters, and he grabs it in one fast motion, sets it safely out of range, then goes back to working you open. You can feel everything. The thrum of your pulse beneath your tongue. The ache at the edge of your thighs where his belt buckle digs into your skin. His thumb circles your clit with military precision, and your hips buck up into his palm, involuntary. You want to be annoyed at yourself for how easy it is, how you melt for him every damn time, but it’s impossible. You’re so full of him, there’s no room left for ego. He doesn’t linger. Frank’s never been a patient man, not when it comes to you. He unzips himself, pushes his jeans just low enough, and you can’t help but stare. You’ve seen it a thousand times, but every single time you wonder how the hell it’s going to fit. Frank is an animal. Or maybe he’s just a man who’s lost all sense of boundaries, decorum, or the difference between a desk and a bed. He fists his cock, stroking it once, twice, and you feel the head of it paint a hot stripe up the inside of your thigh. He’s so thick you can’t even close your knees. He’s so hard it looks like it should hurt, the tip swollen and angry, already smearing you with his mess. Your stomach flips, equal parts terror and pride, because you know you’ll never get all of it in, but you’re going to try. For Frank, you’d try twice. He lines himself up, the blunt head just teasing at your entrance.

“Breathe for me,” he says, and you do. Slow in, slow out, like you’re bracing for a shot at the doctor’s office. He pushes in, just the tip, and it’s spark and burn and stretch so good you arch off the desk, hand flying to clamp over your mouth. Frank doesn’t stop. He never does. He notches another inch and you whimper, legs shuddering, the edge of the desk digging into your spine. He’s so fucking big.

“That’s it,” he whispers, “you can take it. You always do, baby.” He’s not even halfway in and you’re already stuffed to the gills, belly tightening with each slow, deliberate thrust. He strokes your hair off your face with the same hand he uses to steady your hip, so gentle it almost makes you cry. The other hand’s got a death grip on your thigh, keeping you splayed. He nudges in deeper and you make a noise that would mortify you outside this office, but here, with Frank, it just makes him smile.

“Good girl,” he says, “so good for me.” The words go straight through your brainstem and set every nerve on fire. You want to be good. You want to let him all the way in, even if it splits you. He pulls back, drags the whole thick length out until just the head stays nestled inside, then slams home, inch after inch, and you feel the air leave your lungs— Frank’s hand comes up, covers your mouth again, like he knows you’re about to scream.

“You gotta keep it down,” he teases, “or do you want them all to hear how well you take it?” He’s thrusting now, slow but hard, every movement rocking you back on the desk. It’s a war between heat and pressure and the desperate need to feel him bottom out. He’s wrecking you in the best way, making you wet and messy and so, so full. You lock your ankles around him, heels digging into the backs of his thighs. He takes it as an invitation, grinds deeper, enough that you feel the base of him slap your clit, enough to make your whole body spasm. He leans over, mouth by your ear, breath warm and ragged.

“You know why I’m doing this, right?” he says, voice dark and low. “You know what I want.” You nod, frantic, because you do know. “Fuck, you’re tight,” he rasps. “You always get like this. Just for me.” He sinks his teeth into your shoulder, just enough to leave a mark. You gasp, the sound embarrassingly loud in the cramped office, and Frank’s jaw tightens.

“That’s my girl,” he whispers, right in your ear. “Let ‘em listen.” His cock is too big for this, for you, for the universe, but you want all of it, want to take it just to prove you can. He knows it too. You catch your own expression in the blacked-out monitor—wrecked, eyes blown wide, lips parted—and he does too, because he grabs a fistful of your hair and yanks your face to the screen, makes you watch yourself. The humiliation is electric.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “So pretty. So fucked out. You see how you swallow me, baby?” He’s not wrong. You can feel it, the obscene stretch, the way your body gives to him and then clamps down, greedy and trembling. Every thrust is another wet sound, another staccato shock up your spine. You bite his wrist, hard enough to leave a mark, and he just laughs, rutting in deeper, using your own body weight to pin you to the desk. He’s leaking everywhere, can feel it slick and hot inside you, and you know you’re going to drip for hours after. That might be the point. He wraps both arms around your waist, pulls you flush until you’re impaled, nothing left but the wet slap of hips and the rattle of your own breath against the walls. The desk squeaks. Your thighs ache. Frank’s breath is a furnace at your ear, his grip like iron around your hips. You barely register the jumbled mess of reports and keyboard jammed under your back; there’s only the grind of his cock, the way the whole world narrows to the impossible stretch inside you and the filthy things he’s muttering into your hair.

“Gonna fill you up,” he pants, rhythm stuttering. “Gonna put a baby in you, right here at your desk.” He nips your earlobe, and your legs jerk tight around his waist. Frank loves to say shit like that, always has, but today there’s a fever in it—a hungry, almost desperate edge. The app, you remember, the little blue dot on his phone. He is so fucking determined. Your skin prickles. You wish you could be cold, but you’re burning, every inch of you tingling with the need to come.

He ruts harder, the slap of hips against you turning wet and obscene. You want to say something sharp and clever but the only thing your mouth can do is whimper. Frank bites the inside of his cheek and hisses through his teeth, clearly fighting not to blow too soon. “You take it so good,” he grunts, “no one else, just you.” He grabs your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes, and fuck if his pupils aren’t dilated to hell. “Tell me you want it.” He’s not asking. You nod, gasping, and his smile is pure evil. He angles up, cock grinding against that impossible spot inside, and you clamp down so tight you see stars.

“Oh fuck- Frank-”

A knock at the door.

“Miss Castle ? Are you alright ?”

Fuck.

Your assistant.

You expect Frank to stop, but he doesn’t. He doubles down, thrusting into you harder. Your eyes roll back as another knock errupts from the door. Frank slowly pinche syour hip to get you to focus.

“Answer her.” He hums. You squeeze your eyes shut, clawing at the edge of the desk like you can anchor yourself to reality. “Yeah! I’m— I’m fine!” you manage, all in one high, strangled breath.

“Are you sure?” the voice at the door asks, muffled but insistent. Frank’s thrusts slow, grinding you full instead of pounding you, and he leans his cheek to yours until you can feel the tickle of his five o’clock shadow on your skin, the way he’s trying not to laugh. You hate him. You love him. You want to die.

“I’m fine, Carol,” you croak. “Just— just a minute, please.” Frank kisses your temple, all mock sympathy, and you glare at him. He mouths, You’re so cute, and then fucks you so deep your toes curl and your vision goes white for a second. You bite the heel of your own hand to keep from crying out. There is an eternal, echoing silence, in which the two of you listen for footsteps. Nothing. Then a whisper:

“You’re evil,” you hiss. Frank just grins, all teeth, and slides his hands around your hips, flipping you around. You land , chest pressed to your desk. He bends you over the desk, your chest pressed to the fake wood, your ass bared to the windowed world, skirt rumpled at your waist. You feel obscene, legs splayed and trembling, and you know if Carol comes back there’s nothing to hide behind. Frank doesn’t let you think about it long. He shoves back in, the stretch even sharper at this angle, and you slap a hand over your mouth, stifling the racket you want to make. Frank’s grip is bruising, fingers digging into your hipbones, pulling you onto him as he pistons in and out. You’re not even trying to be quiet anymore—every stroke makes the desk thump against the wall, and you can feel the mess of yourself leaking down your thighs, soaking the lace of your panties.

“God, you’re a fucking mess,” he grits out, voice rough. “You love this, don’t you? Getting ruined at work for me.” You nod, cheek smashed against an upside-down spreadsheet, drool smearing the page. You can’t say a word, not when all the blood in your body is in your clit, not with Frank inside you like this, fucking you open in the middle of your own office. He’s not going to last long, not with the way you’re squeezing him, but he’s determined to finish the job. He slips a hand under your stomach, finds your clit, and circles it in time with his thrusts. You come so hard you nearly black out, legs kicking off your own shoe and knocking the coffee onto the floor. You don’t care. You sob into the desk, biting your own wrist, and Frank just keeps going, pounding you through the aftershocks. The flat of the desk digs into your sternum. You gather fistfuls of printer paper and cling for dear life, hair wild across your face, mouth open for air you can’t seem to trap. Frank’s hands are on your hips, grip iron and unyielding, and he doesn’t bother with ceremony. He’s meaner from this angle—meaner in that he’s not pretending you have a prayer of composure. You arch, a soundless scream, and pray to any and all gods that your assistant has a meeting to run to. He picks up the pace, and the clatter of your body against the furniture becomes its own dialect. You’re so close it feels inevitable, like coming up on the crest of a rollercoaster—the world tilting bright and sick.Frank’s thrusts come fast, greedy, determined—it’s all pulse and friction, the room a blur of office supplies and fluorescent glare. Heat rakes up your spine. You’re aware, distantly, of the mess you’re making, the way slickness streams down your inner thighs, saturates the edge of the desk, the sticky-sweet smell already thick in the air. Frank grunts, low and guttural, not even trying to hide it. You want to say something smart, but the words slice in half on your tongue, replaced by animal noise.

He buries himself to the hilt, and for a second the world tunnels down to the dizzy throb in your gut, the impossible stretch, his hips shuddering against the backs of your thighs. The desk rattles. You wonder if anyone in the hall can hear, if Carol is still standing at the threshold with an expression like she’s never heard a woman’s voice before. You don’t care. You want him to keep going, to grind you under the weight of everything he wants to give.

Frank’s fingers slip, fumbling, then find your jaw and wrench your head back just so. He kisses your spine, open-mouthed and hot, all teeth and pride. His voice is a thunderclap against your skin.

“Right there, baby. That’s it. Perfect,” he pants, and then, softer, “You’re gonna take every drop for me, yeah?” Your pulse stutters. You try to answer, but your mouth is full of the taste of your own skin, the cotton sleeve you’re biting to keep the screams inside. He fucks you hard enough to force the air from your lungs, hips rutting so deep you see stars. The growl in his chest tells you he’s teetering, and you dig your nails into the cheap laminate for dear life.

He thrusts one last time, impossibly deep, and stays there, shuddering. You feel it, the heat flood inside, thick and primal and so, so full. You clamp down, greedy, desperate to catch every drop, and Frank hisses, the sound a curse and a prayer all at once.

"Fuck, mama , ” He stays, cock twitching, until you can feel the slow, sticky drip of him leaking out around the seal you make together. You’re ruined, soaked straight through, and you love it. Frank doesn’t let go. He bends over you, weight pinning you to the desk, lips brushing your hairline. He breathes you in, like it’s the only thing keeping him alive, and you shiver at the rawness of it.

“You did so fucking good,” he says, voice thick, and the words wrap you up, settle in the hollow of your chest. His hands are softer now, palm smoothing over your ass, massaging circles into your hips like he’s proud of himself for making you come apart. You relax into it, boneless, let him hold you together. He pulls out, cock dragging slow, and you whimper, the emptiness a different kind of ache. Frank lingers, gaze heavy on the obscene mess pooling between your thighs. He smooths a hand over the small of your back, an almost courtlier gesture, as if to apologize for the way he’s just wrecked you. His breathing slows. He thumbs the edge of your skirt, tugs it down just enough to cover the curve of your ass. He grins at the way you twitch when his fingers brush the sticky heat leaking down your legs. Then, like he’s always done this, Frank crouches. He pushes your skirt up again, grabs your ruined panties at your knees, and peels them off in one slow, deliberate motion. The cool air hits your skin, makes you gasp, and he looks up at you through thick lashes, cocky as hell. In one practiced gesture, he balls the sodden lace in his palm. Instead of pocketing them as humiliating evidence (as you expect, as he’s done before), he pushes two fingers through the gusset, then presses the wad right back between your legs. You yelp, twisting, but he cups your mound with his whole hand, holding the makeshift plug in place.

“Gotta keep it in, princess,” he huffs, voice smug with pride. He presses the panties up into you until you can feel the damp cotton wedge deep, an embarrassing, almost suffocating pressure. He lets go and stands, towering over you, hands braced on the desk’s edge. For a second he just looks at you, head cocked, like he’s memorizing the way you look bent and trembling and stuffed full. He bends over you, kisses your spine, then your neck, then the edge of your jaw. His lips are soft, reverent, so at odds with the brutality of a minute ago that it nearly undoes you. He nips your ear.

“You’re gonna strut into that meeting smelling like me,” he says, just barely a whisper, “and you’re gonna sit there and pretend you’re not dripping with my cum.” He bites your shoulder, gentle now, like a promise. You try to push off the desk, but your legs are barely attached.

“Woah, baby. I got ya.” Frank scoops you under the knees, half-lifting you to set you back on your feet. The friction jars the plug of panties deeper and you nearly fold, knees buckling, but his hands warm your waist, steadying you. He does a slow, tender sweep of your hair, tucks it behind your ears, then thumbs the streak of ink on your cheek where your face mashed the spreadsheet. You expect him to gloat. Instead he worries at your collar, straightening it with the same care he uses when buttoning you up for a funeral.

“You okay?” he asks, voice dropped soft and serious. You nod, still chewing your lip. He presses your chin with a knuckle, makes you meet his eyes, and you see the nerves there, tucked under the smirk. That’s the one real ache: the way he worries he might go too far, that you’ll hate him for it. So you kiss his jaw, deep and sure, and he smiles so hard it cracks his careful, mean mask. Frank finds your shoe, crouched like a knight, and slides it on your foot. He kisses your ankle, all courtly, then stands to his full height, shoves himself back into his jeans with a wince and a curse. The wet patch at your crotch is a fucking lighthouse beacon, but you arrange your skirt, try to look like a person who has never in her life been railed against office furniture. Frank is watching, pleased, openly staring at the twitch in your legs. He leans in, nuzzles your neck, and murmurs,

“So proud of you,” like he’s reading your mind, like he knows you need to hear it after all that. He kisses you, this time slow, lingering, and it’s honey after the burn.

“You’re gonna be late,” he says, and tugs the lapels of your blazer for effect. You melt a little. He gives your ass a sharp, proprietary slap. You choke on a laugh; he beams, teeth all wolf. “Go on, then, boss lady.” He says it with a crisp, mocking salute, and you want to punch him and kiss him for it, both at once. You stumble to the door on legs made of static, the whole lower half of you raw and hot and leaking in a way that’s going to haunt you through at least two agenda items and a quarterly report.

You open the door a crack—no Carol in sight, thank Christ—and risk a glance back. Frank’s already perched in your rolling chair, feet up on the desk, arms folded behind his head like a king who just conquered a country. He winks. You mouth,

“Asshole.” He points to his chest and shrugs, as if to say, Who, me? You drift down the hallway in a haze, pulse throbbing in every joint. The fabric of your skirt clings to the back of your thighs, still tacky with sweat. The panel conference room is already half full. You shuffle to your seat, smiling at the team, nodding too fast.

Your boss does not meet your eye.

By the time you get home that evening, you have already decided exactly what you are going to say.

You have a speech prepared.

A very serious speech.

A professional speech.

One that will remind Frank Castle that your workplace is, in fact, a workplace. Unfortunately, Frank ruins your preparation the second he opens the door. Because he is standing there in sweatpants, barefoot, looking far too pleased with himself.

"Don't." He blinks.

"Don't what?"

"That face."

"What face?"

"The face where you know exactly what you did." Frank tries to look innocent. It does not work.

"Coffee was appreciated."

"Frank."

"You were happy to see me."

"Frank."

"You smiled."

You point at him.

"You showed up at my office."

"Yeah."

"You walked into my office like you owned the place."

"I brought coffee."

"You keep saying that like it excuses everything."

"It was good coffee." You stare. He stares back. And then, annoyingly, you both start laughing. Because this is what happens with Frank. You can be angry. You can be determined. You can have an entire argument ready. And then he looks at you like you're the best thing he's ever seen, and suddenly you're fighting a losing battle.

"You are impossible."

"I know."

"You embarrassed me."

"I did not."

"You absolutely did." He steps closer, still smiling.

"You liked it." You open your mouth. Then close it. Because unfortunately… He has a point.

"You are so annoying."

"That's not a denial."

"Frank." He grins. And you hate that you love that grin. "You're lucky I love you." He rolls his eyes and walks over, grabbing all your things from you. He kisses your forehead.

"Go rest. Any woman that's gotten fucked as well as you have needs her beauty sleep." You slap his chest.

"Frank ! Not funny !"

------

The barbecue is exactly the kind of afternoon Frank pretends he doesn't need.

Which means, of course, he loves it.

Micro's backyard is loud in the best way. Kids running through the grass. Music playing low from the old speaker near the patio. The smell of grilled food hanging in the air.

For a man who spent years living like every day might be his last, moments like this still catch Frank off guard.

Normal. Safe. Family.

You sit beside him with a drink in your hand, laughing while Sarah tells you a story about something ridiculous the kids did earlier. Frank has one hand resting on your knee, absentmindedly tracing little circles with his thumb. He doesn't even realize he does it anymore. It's automatic. Like breathing.

Then— Ping.

Frank's hand stills.You notice immediately. Because you always notice. You glance over.

"Frank?" He looks down at his phone.

And there it is.

That familiar little notification. The one that makes your heart jump.

His eyes flick from the screen to you. Then back. You narrow yours.

"What?"

"Nothing." You immediately know that's a lie.

"Frank." He clears his throat.

"Can you give me a minute?" You stare at him.

"Why?" He doesn't answer quickly enough. Your eyes widen. "No." A tiny smile pulls at his mouth.

"What?"

"Frank Castle."

"I'm not doing anything."

"You have that look."

"What look?"

"The look you get right before you do something completely ridiculous." He looks around the yard.

Then at Micro. Then back at you.

And you already know.

"Absolutely not." Frank stands.

"Micro." Micro looks over.

"Yeah?"

"I need a favor." Micro immediately looks suspicious.

"That sentence has never ended well." Frank nods toward the kids.

"Need you to start something." Micro blinks.

"Start what?"

"Anything." You cover your face.

"Oh my God." Micro looks between the two of you. Then at Frank. Then back at you. And slowly, realization dawns.

"Oh. Gross." Frank just raises an eyebrow.

"Please." Micro sighs.

"I cannot believe I'm helping you with this."

"You love me."

"I tolerate you."

"Same thing." You laugh despite yourself. And before you can protest again, Frank is already taking your hand.

"Come on." You let him pull you toward the house, shaking your head.

"You are unbelievable."

"I know."

"You planned this."

"No."

"Frank."

"Maybe." You stop at the back door.

"You recruited Micro."

"I asked for assistance."

"That's the same thing." He smiles. He drags you up the stairs and into a room. The door shuts behind you with a thud. You barely get out a “Frank—” before he's got you pressed against it, the lock clicking into place above your shoulder. His mouth is at your ear, hot breath sending a stutter down your spine.

“You wanna be loud, or you wanna be fast?” His voice is low, that rumbling scrape that never fails to get you. You can't help the tiny huff that comes out of you, neither answer forming in your mouth before his hands are on your hips, hauling you up like you're nothing. You wrap your legs around him because you have no choice, his palms already sliding under your shirt, nails scraping over your stomach. Goosebumps, everywhere.

“Frank—” He cuts you off with a kiss, tongue forceful and impatient. He's moving you, stumbling a little, until your back hits what can only be a dresser and you hear shit clatter to the floor. You let him devour you. Let that big rough hand tangle in your hair, fingertips grazing your jaw, your pulse beating fast against his thumb. He gets your jeans off with record speed, almost rips the fly as you both stumble onto the bed. The laugh that leaves your mouth is just for you, a private thought about how goddamn insatiable he can be, even at his softest. He kneels—always dramatic, always a little bit of a showoff. He wants you spread out for him, thighs open as wide as you can make them, panties pushed to the side. Frank looks up at you, and the sight should make you feel self-conscious, but it doesn't. His stare is heavy, greedy. Like he's starving. He stands, yanks his own jeans down just far enough. His cock is hard, already dripping, as he lines up, still supporting all your weight with those ridiculous arms. He pushes in with a groan that’s almost a growl, splits you open slow even though you know he wants to fuck you into next Tuesday. You dig your nails into him, trying to muffle the noises you make in his shoulder. Someone could be walking by, or worse, Micro’s weird neighbor could peek in the window, but you can't care enough to make yourself stop. Frank is everywhere—the smell of him, the heat of his skin, the taste of his mouth when he kisses you again. He pushes in, deep, and you swear you can feel it in your goddamn lungs. His hands shake a little, holding you tight so you can't wiggle away, and you see in his face that he's desperate for just one thing: to finish inside you. To fill you until it takes. You whine at the stretch. For the past two days, all you and frank have been doing is fucking like bunnies. Your cunt is sore and overstimulated, and Frank pauses mid push. Frank’s forehead rests against yours as he breathes through it, his breath going ragged when your walls pulse around him. You’re wetter than you expect, the soreness edged with something sharp and sweet, and Frank stays inside you and just lets the moment hang.

“You gotta tell me if it’s too much,” he says. His words go all gravel and heat, but there’s a nervousness underneath it. He’s not as good at hiding it as he thinks. You try to laugh, but it comes out as a half-choked gasp.

“You gonna start being gentle now, Frank?” The corner of his mouth lifts, and he nudges in slow, deliberate.

“I could—if that’s what you want.” He shifts, and your brain whites out like a camera flare. You clench on him.

“I want—” You don’t know what you want. The world narrows to the thick grind of him, the heat blooming in your belly. “Don’t stop. Please.” Frank’s gaze slides over your face, fifty shades of feral and worshipful.

“Yeah, that’s my girl,” he croons. He lets you have it then, bracing your hips with one meaty hand and the other pinning both your wrists above your head, just to show you he can. He’s careful not to bang your head on the headboard , but he fucks you so deep you might cry. He ruts into you slower, watching the way you take all of him, that little line between your brows every time he hits the sweet spot.

“That’s it. Take it,” he says, palm stroking over your bare stomach, fingers splayed as if he could feel himself through your skin. “Bet you can feel me right here, huh?” He presses down, makes you feel it, and you clench around him, your walls fluttering with every thrust. He grins, almost tender, but he’s not slowing down. Outside, the sounds of the barbecue continue. Familiar voices, the crash of a soda can, a burst of laughter. It makes you squirm. Any one of them could come in. Frank’s eyes bore into you. He must know what you’re thinking, because he picks up the pace, driving in deep and hard enough to steal your breath, like he wants to finish before anyone comes looking for you both.

“Tell me,” he grits, voice splintering on the upstroke. “Tell me you want it.” He’s past rational—he wants to breed you, ruin you, make you full. He’s said it before, but lately it’s become a little bit of a fixation. He’s read enough of your internet search history to know you want it too.

“Want you to knock me up,” you gasp, arching your hips, trying to take every inch. “Want you to make it stick—fuck, Frank—” He groans, open and desperate, a sound you feel right in your bones.

“S’gonna take,” he hisses. “You’re gonna take all of it. All of me.” And you do—he pounds it into you, hips jerking with a force that’s as much relief as it is hunger.He fucks you like his whole heart is in it—like this is an act of worship, not just hunger, and every twist of his body is a yes, yes, yes. You can’t move, pinned under him, wrists captive and bruised and perfect. His cock slams in, so thick you feel split, and each thrust grinds your pelvis into the mattress. The world narrows—Micro’s blue-gingham guest sheets under your ass, Frank’s chest pressed so tight it’s almost crushing, sweat collecting in the lines of his neck. His mouth finds your pulse, sucks a mark over it, possessive. He mutters shit too:

“Gonna breed you, babe, gonna fill you so good, bet you’ll leak for hours—” His hips shiver, and you squeeze him, wanting that, craving the idea of it. It’s stupid how close you are, how little it takes. Just his voice and his cock and his need, and you’re right there, floating just above it, about to crash. Frank grunts and lets go of your wrists, throws both arms around your waist, manhandling you so your socked feet drape over his shoulders.

“Get it all,” he growls, and ruts in, cock so deep it’s a cry, “Take it, c’mon, that’s it—” Every time he bottoms out, Frank grinds his hips, angling to catch on the spot inside you and split you open until the ache is a promise more than a threat. He plants sloppy, reverent kisses along your jaw, like he can map all the ways you unmake him. His hands, always a little too big, cradle your hips and drag you flush so you can't even pretend to escape the drag of him; all that muscle and bone holds you with a possessiveness that’s more terrifying than comforting, except you’d never admit how much you crave it. You can’t help the way your thighs quiver, how your toes curl in the air. It should be embarrassing how easy he pulls sounds out of you—each whine, every desperate gasp—but Frank eats them up, lets the noise drive him harder. You get off on the way he looks at you, so wild and hungry, like he could swallow you whole and still not be satisfied. He gets even deeper somehow, the angle brutal as his hand slides up to splay over your belly again.

“Right there?” he mutters, and you nod, the words not even a possibility. He shifts, pinning your knee to your chest, your other leg cocked up on his hip, squeezing tight against his ribcage. The new angle is a curse, a blessing; each thrust has you seeing stars, the pressure enough to threaten tears. You arch into it, shameless, greedy. Frank groans, the sound guttural and ragged:

“Fuck, you’re perfect. Made for me.” The tension ratchets up between your legs, white heat flickering out of control. The mattress shakes, the headboard thunking faintly against the wall in time with his thrusts. You gasp for air.

“Don’t stop, don’t—”

“Not gonna,” Frank says, voice frayed at the edges. He leans in, teeth scraping your jaw, then your neck, marking you because he wants it to be obvious. Wants everyone to know you’re his. Your back arches and he presses your thighs tighter to his chest as he ruts into you faster. You hang there, stretched and wrung out, as Frank jackhammers into you—every muscle in his arms tensed, jaw set so hard the vein in his neck pulls tight. Sweat beads on his brow, slips down to drip onto your skin, and you’d lick it up if you could reach. You barely realize you’re crying out, a stuttering, choking sound, but Frank must like the way it sounds because his cock twitches inside you. Frank can’t hold back. He wants you bred—wants to make sure you’re so fucking full it seeps out for hours, maybe even days. He gives up every ounce of patience, starts pounding, hand clamped almost bruising on your hip so every thrust lands right on the mark. He buries his face in your shoulder, letting out the lowest, filthiest groan you’ve ever heard—like he’s fighting not to shout the house down. He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes so dark they might as well be black.

“Say it,” he grits, and you know exactly what he means.

“Want you to make me pregnant,” you gasp, barely holding yourself together, “need you to knock me up, Frank, please—” His whole body shudders. He slams in once, twice, three times, and then he’s coming, cock pulsing hot inside you in a way that feels fucking volcanic as your pussy spasms around him, your orgasm crashing over you. He stays deep, grinding like he’s trying to push every last drop inside, not letting up for a second.

“That’s it,” he whispers, deliriously proud, “stay there, mama. Just like that.” He’s almost chanting it, like if anyone can will it into existence, it’s him. He holds you like that for a minute, still buried, your legs still around his shoulders, neither of you willing to break the seal. Your whole body floats, light and boneless.

“Think that did it?” he asks after a while. You let out a laugh, throaty and weak.

“We’re at a barbecue, psycho.”

“World keeps spinning,” he says, with that rough affection, like there’s not another single thing that matters. You feel it, the small bubble of safe inside the big bad world, and the way he doesn’t ever let go of you, not completely. Frank moves slow when he pulls out, almost reverent. You cry out at the feeling, your thighs calmpung shut, and he kisses your calf.

“M’sorry, baby.” Frank stays close, protective, almost sheepish as he brushes the hair off your damp cheek. He looks down at the bed, then at you, and an embarrassed little half-smile quirks the edge of his mouth. Like he thinks he’s gone too far, but he’s never going to apologize for it. You catch your breath, reach up, pull him down for a slower, less frantic kiss. You can feel him softening between your thighs. Warm and heavy, a lazy afterglow. That’s when you spot the little black bag on the nightstand, and you groan.

“Did you seriously bring that here?” Frank shrugs.

“Can’t be leaking my stuff all over Micro’s guest sheets. Man’s got enough trouble in his life. And I want you to stay nice an' full.” You snort.

“You’re an asshole.” He grins, all teeth and wolfish pride, and reaches over to unzip the pouch. The plug—sleek and silicone, absurdly girthy—catches the lamplight. It’s both ridiculous and, weirdly, a little thoughtful. Because of course Frank would rather keep his mess inside you than on the bedsheets. He kneels between your legs, big hands gentle for the first time all afternoon. There’s a weird, domestic tenderness to the way he slides the plug in, his thumb circling the rim as if he’s petting a cat. You gasp, head back, muscles fluttering around the sudden fullness. Frank’s hands linger, testing, making sure you’re comfortable before tugging your panties back up and smoothing the hem over your hips.

“Perfect,” he mutters, kissing your thigh as if he’s signing his work. “Could eat you up like this.”

“Didn’t you just do that?”

“Never enough.” He offers you his hand. You almost laugh again, because outside the window you can hear the faint wail of a child, the drone of a lawnmower starting up, the world’s least subtle cue that people are waiting. Frank tosses you your t-shirt. You catch it one-handed and glare at him, only half joking.

“Even your aftercare is overkill.” He’s already zipping his jeans, looking satisfied.

“You love it.” You don’t say it, but when you slide your arm through his and let him pull you upright, the way he steadies your hips makes your heart sweet and soft. You both pad down the hallway like nothing happened. Frank keeps his hand at your back, thumb rubbing lazy circles, like he needs to hold on just a little longer. When you reach the end of the hall, Sarah and Micro are in the kitchen, fake arguing about what constitutes ‘overcooked’ for a hot dog. Micro spots the two of you and raises an eyebrow.

“You guys get lost up there?” Frank says,

“Bathroom,” at the exact same time you say,

“Nope.” Sarah’s eyes flick to you, linger, then she just gives you the world’s tiniest approving nod and turns back to the food. You try to act casual. But every shift of your hips, every tiny squeeze inside, you’re reminded there’s more of Frank than usual between your legs.

-------

It's about two months later that you wake up, sick to your stomach. Frank is sound asleep beside you, snoring away. You clutch you stomach, pressing your lips shut.

You won't throw up.

This will just go away.

Quietly, you grab your phone and climb out of bed and into the bathroom, locking the door behind you for extra measure.

You won't throw up. This will just go away. That is what you tell yourself. Because you've had mornings like this before.

Stress. A bad meal. A stomach bug. Anything. Anything except the one thing your brain refuses to say out loud. You grip the edge of the sink, waiting for the wave to pass.

It doesn't. A few minutes later, you're sitting on the bathroom floor, knees pulled to your chest, trying to breathe. Your phone is still in your hand.

And then— Ping.

You almost drop it. For a second, you just stare. Because you know that sound.

You know that app. The same app Frank has been quietly checking for years.

The same app that has brought chocolate, heating pads, and hopeful glances at calendars.

You open it without thinking.

And your entire world stops.

Your period is 8 weeks late.

You stare at the words. Once. Twice. Then again.

"No." The word comes out barely above a whisper.

Because no.

Because you've seen this before.

You've hoped before.

You've gotten excited before.

You've stood in bathrooms with shaking hands and a tiny piece of plastic that eventually told you it wasn't happening. You can't let yourself believe it, Not yet. Not until you know. Your hands shake as you pull open the cabinet. You don't even remember buying the test. Maybe you bought it months ago and forgot. Maybe some tiny, impossible part of you never stopped hoping.

You take it. And then you wait.

And waiting might be the hardest thing you've ever done. Because suddenly the whole house feels silent.

The entire world feels silent.

Then— Knock. Your heart jumps.

"Baby?" Frank. You quickly wipe at your face even though you don't know when you started crying. "You in there ?" And that's when your stomach lurches and you scramble to the toilet.

You barely make it.

The test sits forgotten on the counter as you drop to your knees, one hand gripping the edge of the bathtub, the other tangled in your hair.

And immediately—

"Baby?" Frank's voice changes. The sleepy warmth disappears. The concern is instant. "Are you throwing up in there ?"

"I'm okay, Frankie. Go back to sleep." You rasp, gagging on the words. There is a pause. A very Frank pause. The kind where you know he doesn't believe you.

"Open the door." You gag again, lurching for the toilet. The door handle rattles. "Shit, baby- Please."

The panic in his voice makes your heart ache. Because Frank doesn't scare easily. You have seen him walk into situations that would make most people turn around. You have seen him bleed and shrug it off. You have seen him stare down things that should have broken him. But hearing you sick behind a locked bathroom door? That scares him.

"I'm okay," you try again. It comes out weak. Unconvincing. And Frank knows.

"Baby." The way he says it makes your eyes sting. Not angry. Not frustrated. Just scared. You close your eyes, one hand still gripping the edge of the bathtub.

"I said I'm okay."

"The fuck you're not. Let me in before I break this goddamn door down."

You almost laugh.

Almost.

Because that is such a Frank thing to say.

The man who has survived gunfights, explosions, and more broken bones than either of you can count is seconds away from kicking your bathroom door off its hinges because he heard you get sick. Another wave of nausea hits. You barely manage to turn before you're sick again. On the other side of the door, Frank goes completely silent.

The silence lasts barely a heartbeat.

Then—

"Baby?" His voice cracks. Not with anger. With fear. "Talk to me." You rinse your mouth as best you can, tears burning behind your eyes.

"I'm okay."

"No, you're not."

"I'm just sick."

"I know you're sick." His palm hits the door softly. "I can hear you." Your chest tightens. "Please…" Another pause. Longer this time.

When he speaks again, his voice is quieter. Almost pleading.

"Honey… please open the door." You have heard Frank Castle beg exactly once in your life. It was years ago. And now you're hearing it again. Not because he's afraid for himself. Because he's terrified for you.

"I can't help if I'm standing out here." Your hand drifts to the lock. Then stops. Your eyes land on the counter.

The test. You forgot about the test.

Your heart begins to pound. With trembling fingers, you reach for it.

You almost don't look.

You almost set it face down and open the door first. But something makes you turn it over.

Two pink lines. You blink.

No. Your vision blurs with tears. You wipe at your eyes and look again. Still there. Two lines. For a second, your brain refuses to process it. After years of negatives... After months of trying not to hope… After convincing yourself every symptom meant nothing…

Two lines. A sob escapes you before you can stop it.

Outside, Frank hears it. His entire world stops.

"Baby?" The panic in his voice spikes instantly. "What happened?" You can't answer. Another sob tears out of your chest.

"Baby!" The doorknob rattles violently. "Mama , open the damn door!" You hear him trying the handle again. Harder this time. "Please." Another shake. "Please, sweetheart." His breathing is uneven now.

Fast. Panicked.

"If you're hurt—"

"I'm not." Your voice breaks. "I'm okay."

"No, you're crying."

"I know."

"Open the door." You press your forehead against the wood for a second, trying to steady your breathing. Your hands won't stop shaking. Neither will your tears.

You unlock the door. The second it opens, Frank is there.

Barefoot.

Shirtless.

Hair messy.

Still wearing the shirt he slept in. And completely terrified. His eyes immediately scan over you.

"What happened?" You can't answer. You're crying too hard. His face changes instantly.

"Oh God." He reaches for you carefully. "Are you hurt?" You shake your head.

"Are you sick?" You shake your head again. "Baby, talk to me." His hands cup your face. Gentle. Careful. Like you're something fragile. "What is it?"

You look at him. At the man who has waited with you. The man who has held you through every negative test. The man who always said next month even when he was scared it might never come. And with shaking hands, you hold up the test. For a second, Frank doesn't understand.

For a second, Frank doesn't understand.

His eyes flick to the little white stick in your trembling hand. Then back to your face. Then down again. His brow furrows.

"What…?" His voice is barely above a whisper. You can't make the words come out. You just hold it out a little farther. Frank takes it carefully. Like it's made of glass. Like one wrong movement might change whatever is written there.

He looks down. One line. Then— His breath catches. His eyes widen. He looks closer, blinking once, twice, as though his vision is playing tricks on him.

"…Baby?" Your lip quivers. He looks up at you so quickly it almost gives him whiplash. His expression is pure disbelief. "Is this…" You nod before he can finish. Tears stream freely down your face.

"I think…" Your voice cracks. "I think I'm pregnant." Frank just stares. The bathroom is completely silent. Neither of you breathes. He looks back at the test. Then at you. Then back again. His hands begin to shake.

"No…" The word isn't denial. It's awe. "No…" He laughs once—a tiny, broken sound that immediately turns into a sob. "Oh, sweetheart…" He covers his mouth with one hand, still clutching the test in the other. His eyes never leave it.

"We…" His voice gives out. He tries again. "We did it?" You nod, crying even harder.

"I think we did." Frank's eyes immediately snap back to you.

"No." He gently takes your face in both hands. "We're not saying 'I think.'" His forehead rests against yours.

"We're calling the doctor." You let out a watery laugh.

"Okay."

"We're getting blood work."

"Okay."

"We're making sure you're okay."

"Okay."

"We're—" His voice breaks completely. He closes his eyes. A tear slips down his cheek. "Oh, God…" You have seen Frank angry. You have seen him devastated. You have seen him fearless. You have never seen him like this. He laughs through his tears, almost unable to get the words out.

"We're having a baby." This time, there's no question. Just wonder. You nod.

"We're having a baby." He laughs and picks you up, spinning you around.

"I told ya. I fuckin' told ya, baby !" He laughs, kissing your face. "I knew all that baby-making was gonna pay off." You laugh.

"Please don't call it that."

taglist !

(and then we lay it back / talk the rest of the night / things that we can light / make me say, “oh! oh!”)

spencer reid’s clumsiness may have affected his compatibility with certain athleisure related activities, but despite the impression his wiry fawn-like knees gave, he was no klutz in the kitchen.

in fact, he ran an annoyingly strict program. meal plans and prep had easily become his forte–when they were applicable… he travelled often, he had visited the same fast food chain in practically every state. (who cares about nutritional value when you’re hunting the darkest minds in the country?)

but anyway, you’d think having a boyfriend that got so technical in anything culinary related would be a good thing–a useful thing, especially for someone who prided themselves on their home baking. 

of course the reality of that thought was utterly and devastatingly incorrect. such incorrectness was made undoubtedly clear when you had taken the initiative to permanently blacklist spencer from aiding you in your baking process. in short, he had been banned from your kitchen. 

he was free to do as he wished in his own, you weren’t that controlling, not really, and of course it was nice having lunches made for you, being dotted on after a long day, while spencer whipped up some interesting foreign steak recipe he’d been dying to try… those were all good things, great things even. it was kind of (stupidly) sexy watching him in the kitchen. 

yet the most un-sexy thing this man could possibly do, was bother you when you were in your element. which was exactly what his culinary expertise had achieved. 

because who the hell actually only adds one teaspoon of vanilla extract to their cookies? your boring brood of a boyfriend. that’s who. that same old excruciatingly analytical man, who took every direction to heart, who'd developed a certain disdain for your “measure it with your heart” mindset.

every unsolicited  “well the recipe says this” comment had compounded exponentially. and now he was forced into the role of the silent observer. who observed you. silently.

and despite his many complaints, spencer was very well adjusted into this role. he took your word very seriously, and he adapted quite easily. 

which was why he would absolutely not insist you adjust your folding technique because you weren’t engaging in enough air circulation… or protecting the pockets in the batter… or whatever he whispered under his breath when he watched your arms work in quick yet soft circular motions. because that would be ludicrous. insane. unfathomable. 

he was a good listener. which was exactly why he held his tongue as he watched. with that stupid dorky smile that made you roll your eyes and chuckle each time you spared a glance his way. 

as much as he hated being cast away on time out, it was nice just being able to look at you without it being weird. 

he was your boyfriend… so why would it be weird? 

he had a little bit of a staring problem. a bad habit, something he couldn’t kick no matter how hard he tried. those stupid coloured honey eyes just loved to find pretty things to look at. 

never staring in a gawking at women as they passed him by way. he’d outgrown that. it wasn’t something that drew any attention. it was just nice to have a subject to focus on when he concentrated, when his mind liked to think up little things that required his attention. 

you just so happened to be his favourite subject. but of course, staring at someone with a stupid dopey smile wasn’t usually invited with open arms

now, he got to gawk at you, and think about you, without you being asleep (again, why did he sound like such a creep?) and just gaze. lovingly. adoringly. whatever you wanted to call it. 

and when you caught him, you were sure your fingers would catch a thick glob of drool if you wiped at his chin. 

“take a picture, it’ll last longer” 

did you have eyes on the back of your head? spencer flushed a rosy pink, cheeks and ears dusted with his crime as he averted his gaze with his tail in between his legs. 

the picture comment was supposed to be teasing, snarky. he knew that, but he may actually take you up on it. you looked lovely like this. and he would love a few candids for his wallet, bedroom, desk, literally anywhere a memory of you could fit. 

he loved photos because when he looked at them for long enough, he could remember taking them, and it was like he got to experience the moment all over again. but, because he always had to be just a little bit infuriating, he decided to hold off on the sentimental. 

“well apparently this is all i’m allowed to do, so…” 

he could be such a baby sometimes. you could only shake your head and roll your eyes. he’d teased that they would end up stuck like that, if you kept it up. but it was impossible not to when spencer spent so much of his free time being a brat, just to see that annoyed look on your face. for all his mocking little concerns, he sure did enable you.

“so cranky… and here i was thinking you could handle just sitting there and looking pretty for me.” 

total knock out. 

he sputtered. he never reacted well to compliments, despite how many you’d offered him, despite how much dirtier they could get. even one backhanded in nature had him immobilized. he was too easy. 

but it was annoying how fast he recovered. 

his stupidly long fingers slithered around your waist, warm palms sliding under your loose tank to stretch across your exposed flesh. thank god you weren’t wearing an apron! 

“can you not keep your hands to yourself for like… five more minutes?”

he only held you tighter as his chin found its rightful place nuzzled in between your neck and your collarbone, nipping ever so slightly at the skin when you shied away on impulse. 

“not when it comes to you, no.”

irritatingly charming, maddeningly disarming… describing spencer reid was exceptionally simple. 

you ignored him because you already had far too much on your mental plate to pay him any mind. you were baking for his coworkers for christ sake. and you were throwing these together the day of. you were off your game and paying for it. secretly spiralling all the while maintaining your slightly pissed off girlfriend facade. just an average late afternoon for you.

when you started delicately placing evenly rolled balls of dough on the cooking sheet, spencer decided he had been too nice, and you deserved a little mischief only he could provide, he pushed your buttons in such a special way. 

you hadn’t gotten rid of him yet, so hey, something must’ve been working. 

“aren’t you gonna let those chill for a while, angel?” 

you huffed in annoyance with another failed attempt to get him off your back. literally. the man was like a koala. 

“how observant spencer. you see, these would’ve gotten the optimal twenty four hour chill time, had you not spent yesterday evening distracting me.” 

that was the truth laid bare. you wanted to prep your dough in advance, like you typically did. you would’ve, if a certain someone hadn’t been so touch starved and antsy after work. spencer only smiled at the harsh tone in your voice and kissed your cheek. 

“correct me if i’m wrong, but i was under the impression that  you enjoyed my distractions?”

exasperated sighs had developed into a special kind of love language just between the two of you. 

thankfully, spencer let his iron grip around your waist loosen just enough to allow you to slide the tray into the oven. a baker's dozen, because you always managed to scrape just enough dough off the edges of the bowl for spencer’s non-negotiable taste test. to make sure the cookies were edible, of course. 

spencer’s gasp when you plopped a little bit of that extra dough into your mouth was so animated you had to hold back a giggle. it seems as though all he had been successful at was making you extraordinarily irritated, and then making you laugh as if he was prime entertainment. a jester maybe? that was what being a boyfriend entailed… right? was he getting an award? 

“woah woah woah, i can’t have salmonella taking out my beautiful and exceptionally talented girlfriend!” 

you rolled your eyes once again, this time at the genuine concern within his own. salmonella? from that little nibble? really? 

exceptionally talented. he was teasing you, but he was serious, his words were obviously meant to be reassurance for tonight. a casual dinner with his team. of course you had to bring something (despite spencer's insistence that you didn’t.)

you hadn't been panicking about dinner at rossi’s, not exactly, you had just been a little nervous! and deservingly so. despite the few times you had met his team, both accidental and planned, it had always been on charted territory. known environments. 

rossi’s mansion was unknown. you had never even been to a mansion. was dinner at a mansion ever really casual, or was that just what they wanted you to think? spencer always looked put together in his own dorky way, but what if this was less of a cute skirt get together and more of a whatever they wore to dinner in a literal mansion get together? what if they were secretly planning on humiliating you with their shined shoes and pristine fbi badges? 

“what can i say? i like living on the edge.” 

your words did not match your inner turmoil in the slightest, yet you kept the banter between you and spencer alive. being anxious over this was stupid. everything would be fine. you were fine. 

thankfully, your body language didn’t fail your attempts to sweep your bubbling emotions under the rug. you smirked as you moved to rinse your hands in the sink, he was hot on your tail, and you could almost taste the rant he was about to break into along with the chocolate on your tongue. 

“i’m being serious, just because the general risk of contracting salmonella via raw eggs and flour is low, doesn’t mean it's zero.” 

his hands found the small of your back as he continued,

“in fact, many outbreaks have been linked to raw cake mix and have led to recalls… hey! stop laughing, i’m serious!”

you covered your mouth with your hand in a lazy attempt to contain your fit of giggles. he was so cute when he got like this. 

“okay spencer. i’m sorry, i promise to stay away from raw dough from now on.” 

he knew you weren’t taking him seriously, especially when your laughing picked up again when you saw the look of utter disdain on his face. he pouted like a sad little puppy. 

“thank you. symptoms typically become noticeable after six hours, keep me updated on how you’re feeling, but it may take up to a week so monitor yourself and point out any anomalies no matter how small… not all cases require medical attention or antibiotics but you can never be too careful.” 

someone who was in the field so often had absolutely no place being so fussy over your own safety. how many times had he ran after an unsub without his vest? or backup? you would bet the statistics of his negligence of his own safety greatly outweighed yours. you also bet he would have an answer, if you asked him. next time. 

you were at a loss. spencer was undyingly persistent when it came to bacteria, which was strange, considering he was currently leaning in to kiss you on your potentially salmonella infected lips. 

you swerved it just to mess with him. keep him in his place and on his toes. a kind and honest girlfriend you were. 

“are you sure you want to kiss my bacteria infested mouth? how many pathogens are exhanged from kissing again?” 

spencer smiled as he popped one of the few remaining chocolate chips into his mouth, conveniently left in the bottom of the bag. coincidence? maybe. but you were sure he was starting to catch on. 

“a single kiss can transmit upwards of eighty million bacteria, though, i think i like my chances.”

he stole a kiss this time, a quick peck far too fast for you to have dodged. and then another. and another. there was a smudge of chocolate on the corner of his mouth, you managed to dart your tongue out right on time, and lick it off of him. 

“you licked me!”

you smiled as you pressed another chocolate chip between his lips, finally allowing yourself to embrace his hovering form as you looked up at him. 

“blame your sweet tooth.” 

apencer brought his lips down to meet yours, slower this time, softer and more reverent than the last. you did him one better by wrapping your arms around his neck and starting an even rhythm, a dance of sorts as you pushed your tongue past his plush lips and allowed it to meld with his. 

sweet chocolate enveloped your taste buds as spencer used his body to cage yours against the counter, pressing both his body and his mouth flush against yours. deeper. spencer reid couldn’t dance to save his life, but admittedly, he was a decent kisser. 

he pulled away too soon, leaving you just as quickly as he had wrapped you in his warmth, replacing his mouth with a warm hand against your cheek and a thumb prodding against your protruding lower lip. 

your eyes flickered open. were you seriously pouting? stooping down to his level of manipulation tactics? maybe the raw dough had already gotten to you, altering your brain before you had time to process it. 

“okay angel, fess up. what’s on your mind?”

caught red handed. you could only live in a perfect fantasy for so long. 

“what do you mean?” 

you were far too smart to be playing dumb with a profiler as a boyfriend. it was worth a shot.

“you’ve felt on edge all day, is something bothering you?”

you averted your gaze, or at least attempted to, spencer was still cupping your cheek, and he had comically large hands and an annoyingly strong grip. 

“no.”

you made eye contact. ammauteur. those stupid perfect puppy eyes were like… his best asset! you wouldn’t be surprised if they were used as an interrogation tactic. you could picture it so clearly, alright pretty boy, go put on your best googoo eyed look and find out where the third body is buried!

“yes.” 

folded in less than three seconds. new record! woohoo!

“are you nervous about tonight? it’s just a get together with my team, they all love you so much already, you have nothing to be worried about. honest.” 

having a boyfriend who was able to understand exactly how you felt so easily was a blessing and a curse. you were mentally cursing him right now, you wondered if he could tell. 

“okay. yeah. i don’t know… it’s stupid, but i feel… unprepared almost?”

spencer gave your forehead a gentle peck, offering you soft words of comfort, spoken into your hairline, as if to send them directly into your brain. 

“it’s not stupid, and completely understandable. but trust me, everyone adores you–like you could sit there in complete silence for two hours and they’d all be amazed.” 

you wanted to believe him, and you did, to a certain degree–but that tiny little twinge in your stomach was incessant and impossible to ignore. and somehow spencer also knew that. like he somehow knew everything. apparently you were an open book today. 

“there is a way i can make you feel a little less stressed and more reassured, if that’s what you want?” 

you raised your eyebrows questioningly, was he about to teach you a mantra to recite, or was the place your mind immediately went not entirely perverted?

“please, doctor. enlighten me.” 

you only called him doctor when you wanted to tease him, and you were perhaps feeling just the slightest bit vulnerable in this given moment.

“orgasms have been known to reduce anxiety based on a number of factors, mainly through the mix of brain chemicals released–such as dopamine. climaxing helps reduce adrenaline, which is a large factor in anxiety induced feelings…”

stupid sexy nerd casually mentioning that making you cum might make you feel better. how did you get this lucky again? this was a loud reminder to glare at anyone who eyed him in public extra hard next time. and there would absolutely be a next time. struggles of having a ridiculously attractive boyfriend who dropped bombs like this on you on the regular. 

“i think it’s worth a shot, hmm, what do you think, smart girl?” 

how were you supposed to think when he was running his hands up and down your sides like that? gentle with purpose, like he was trying to make you squirm. 

“make it quick, pretty boy.” 

nonchalance wins again. at least he had drawn your mind away from made up dinner disasters and on to how gigantic his pupils were. like completely blown-wide huge. just from looking at you? thinking about you? 

you knew you were done for when he started making his way to the ground, sliding ever so gently to his knees below you. his favourite place to be. 

spencer’s hands drifted from the cotton fabric of your tank top, instead travelling downwards and gripping the backs of your thighs, forcing you to brace yourself on the cool surface of the counter behind you. 

you leaned into his touch, pathetically. as if you were some sort of touch starved animal that lacked any and all self respect and dignity. 

as long as you didn’t start humping the air before he got your shorts off. 

“you’re so perfect.”

his voice was muffled by the soft skin of your thigh as he placed wet, open mouthed kisses on the warm flesh within his grip. spencer reid was nothing if not thorough. quickies were not exactly one of his (many) specialties. 

but he ate you like a man starved. so the poor time management was absolutely worth it. 

“i’m–not exactly in the mood for teasing.” 

your breath hitched as he looked up at you. making direct eye contact as he kissed your mound through thick fabric. embarrassingly enough, you could probably get off from just that, but what he didn’t know couldn’t hurt him. 

he smirked softly as he nipped at your inner thigh, he would’ve kept his eyes on yours, had he not been so ridiculously into this. captivated. he was simple, it did not take much to keep him happy. 

that much was obvious when he gripped the waistband of your shorts. 

you lifted your hips forwards as spencer managed to pull the fabric down before gravity did its job, dragging the fat of your bare ass back down onto the counter. completely sterile and totally sanitary!

your hands found their way into spencer’s hair as he mouthed your core through the sheer material of your panties. sheer from none other than your arousal. his lips were too busy to tease you for it, thank the lord. 

“fuck spence–that’s really good.”

he moaned at the taste of you, he may seem distracted, but your praises were not falling on deaf ears. everytime he got to have you like this, don’tcumdon’tcumdon’tcum repeated like a mantra in the back of his brain. he’d trained his hips to remain static, as a failure would not have been the first time. 

your panties were pulled down your legs in a haze, movements blurred and strung together, his lips barely left you, curling right back around your sensitive bud like being away from you physically pained him. he could feel the very force of his life draining each second his tongue was separated from your clit. 

the tips of your fingers pawed at his scalp, stretching ever so slightly as you pulled him impossibly close. every noise that passed your lips only made him more eager, devouring you with such fervour, his jaw would be sore if he wasn’t so focused on your pleasure. 

“you’re so pretty like this f’me”

spencer met your loving gaze half-lidded, as if to say you’re prettier through his eyes. he’d hold up a mirror so you could see just how beautiful the expressions you offered him were. he analyzed every shift, every microscopic twitch like a blessing, a gift from gods he didn’t believe in. 

his face was soaked, buried between your legs, pink tongue darting out to flatten against your clit. you’d taken his free hand in yours, pulling him impossibly closer to your warmth, stabilizing your shaking form above his. 

he had to hold back a moan when you draped a leg over his shoulder. 

you tried really, really hard to hold back. but spencer had a way of making that exceedingly difficult. this was about relieving stress, wasn’t it? you supposed that included using him… you could already feel the weight lifting from your shoulders as you let your knee curl around his neck. your heel strained against his spine, as if every bone in your body was itching to draw him closer. 

he could explain every reaction in factual detail if his mouth wasn’t so full of you. why where his lips pressed elicited the gasp that it did, and how he knew that when he started circling your entrance with his tongue, you would clench around nothing and start riding his face harder. 

he was an excellent study, well versed in anatomy, yours to be exact. he’d once told you that the clitoris had an average of over ten thousand nerve fibres, and now, you could feel the round curve of his nose shocking each ending with every buck of your hips. science in the most primal sense. 

“that’s really–fucking good. mm. fuck. you're way too good at this--hateyousomuch–”

a weird way of expressing your affection, but he knew you well enough to decipher your words as code for i’m seeing stars. 

he’d keep his pace exactly like this, tongue moving in tandem with every harsh grind of your hips, tip perfectly grazing that delicate spongy spot every time you moved. 

“just like that spence. don’t–don’t stop.”

he wouldn’t dream of it. he’d gladly kneel between your thighs for forever. he was high on you, on the sweet obscene praises that slipped past your puffy lips, bitten raw from futile attempts at holding back your moans. it was like hypnosis. he swore he would do anything you told him to without a second thought, brainlessly follow you to any corner of the earth. 

you just had that affect on him.

a particularly loud whine hit you when his lips returned to graze your swollen clit, tracing figure eights with just the right amount of pressure. 

you could barely remember why you were so nervous in the first place. 

if your brain wasn’t so fuzzy, you’d be a little humiliated at how quickly you were hurling over the edge. 

“spence–fuckfuckfuck”

your hips started to give out as you fell apart, stuttering and writhing against him, hot tears pricking at the corners of your fluttering eyelashes. 

spencer persisted with his ministrations, too enamoured with your taste to yield. too addicted to pay any mind to the way your legs started to tremble as you gripped his honey brown locks at the base of his skull. he only moaned at the sting and continued on. whore. 

“it’s too much–i can’t–” 

you threw your head back as rough waves of overstimulation crashed into you, capsizing your core. 

and then a harsh smell hit your nostrils and snapped you out of your delicious trance. 

fuck. 

you pulled away from him so fast, spencer was sure he got whiplash, body going limp against the metal of your kitchen drawers. you were still smothered all over his lips and cheeks.

thick clouds of black fumes emerged from the oven as you pried it open, in turn, triggering the blaring siren of your smoke detector. you fumbled with your oven mitts, using one to fan the evidence of forgetting to set a timer out of the air, and the other to set the baking sheet onto your stove.

when the smoke cleared, you were left with thirteen crumbly balls of asphalt. not a single salvageable cookie in sight. your gaze met spencers, eyes wide, pantless, with absolutely nothing to show for it.

so much for curing your anxiety. 

this took a ridiculously long time to write and i hate it… but atleast its done… i guess. 😭😭

You set your coffee down with a small thunk on the long classroom table somewhere in the middle of the lecture room. Your binders and notebooks joined next, placed down more carefully to not tip the cup over, because spilling your caffeinated beverage before 8 am would have been a tragedy in and of itself. Your backpack sat nicely in the seat to your right, and to your left you placed one textbook exactly in the middle. 

One for Jack, and one for Robby; just as you'd been doing since you met them during orientation of your first year. Because where one of them was, the other wasn't too far behind with you, their added third to their duo, falling somewhere in the middle. 

Even though Robby was already an MS4 whereas you and Jack were MS1s, he'd known the curly-haired redhead during childhood and scooped you up right along with him. Now halfway through your second year where Robby wasn't as around as either you or Jack would like, he promised to at least sit with you when he got called in to assist during the few lectures of the ACLS provider course. Today happened to be one of those golden moments where all three of you got to be together again. 

Normally, you liked to be the first one in the room to get a feel for the atmosphere and not be rushed to find a nice seat. Doing so had grouped you and Jack in Gross Anatomy and Histology last year, and you would have liked to keep the streak going, however, as you looked around the room, your eyes caught on a male student sitting front and center with his hands folded. 

You fought the urge to scoff. Who fucking picks front row? 

Taking a seat, your head ducked closer to your backpack, and your hands dug around to find at least one of your good pencils before Jack decided to use them all for himself. 

"Are you looking for something?" the guy's voice echoed from the front. 

You didn't even look up over the desk when you answered. "Just needing to find a pencil." 

He fell quiet for a few moments, and you were sure he was watching you struggle to reach the bottom of your backpack, hoping that he'd stay quiet or at least look away. When you failed to grasp anything pencil-shaped, you straightened back up and squeaked when you came face to face with the guy, jolting at the sheer suddenness of his presence. He was holding a regular number 2 pencil out near your face, sharp end almost between your eyes. If you'd been any closer, your nose would have tapped it. 

"You can have one of mine," he said, more insisting for someone you didn't even know. 

You eyed him carefully. He was taller than you, you noted, and that even if you were still sitting down, he'd probably tower over you the way he was doing as he waited for you to take the yellow pencil. Your lips pursed together. 

"I'll be fine," you answered. "My friends probably have extras." 

"But I'm offering you mine. It'd be rude not to take it." 

Your stomach flipped. This guy probably wasn't going to stab you with the pencil in broad daylight right before class was about to stop, but your mind went sailing right back to last night's news that yet another student had been murdered while studying in the top floor of the library, and a chill raced up your spine. 

"You just go ahead and keep it; I think I'll wait," you muttered, eyes tearing away from him to look at your coffee, the steam rising steadily through the hole in the lid. 

He scoffed loudly. "Well, if you're not going to take my pencil, can I at least get your name," he said as though you had to compensate him for "wasting" his time. 

"Why would I give you my name if I don't even know yours first." You paused before adding with a smirk. "We're not supposed to give out our names to strangers." 

From your peripheral as you turned to look toward the door, you saw him physically contemplate your words. 

"Stephen with a ph," he pushed out, and you swore little droplets of his spit hit the cover of your binder. 

You desperately wanted to drag a sleeve over it for good measure, but that would just open another can of worms. 

His name didn't ring any bells. He certainly wasn't a part of your friend group, and you knew he wasn't the type of guy that Jack would go out of his way to befriend either. 

"Now, tell me your name." 

Your fingernails curled into your palms, mind willing for either Jack or Robby to walk right through the doors in some divine intervention. You were more than capable of telling the guy off, but why would you when either one could do it for you. 

Women in STEM you always told them after you managed to get them to do something for you. 

When you failed to answer and give up your name, Stephen hunched forward and placed both hands on the desk. Sadly, his weight and abruptness made the entire thing shake, and before you could reach out, your coffee tipped over and spilled in the opposite direction, right onto his shoes and pants. Your lip automatically slipped between your teeth in an attempt to not laugh as he yelped and cursed loudly. Yet, when he turned back towards you with fire in his eyes and out stretched hand with the pencil curled between his fingers, your face dropped.

"You bitch," he growled while shoving the pointed end in your direction. "You ruined my shoes!" 

This time, you were the one to scoff. "You shouldn't have shaken the table like that, so really, you ruined your own shoes all by yourself." 

His face flushed red, and his eyes practically bulged out of the sockets; he looked as though he were less than a second away from exploding and going off on you when the door opened wide, reviewing the two you had just been manifesting. 

Your head whipped so hard in their direction that you winced at the twang in your neck, and your chest heaved in a sigh of relief. 

"No, dude, I'm telling you, this class absolutely sucks," Jack loudly announced, hands gripping his backpack straps as he waddled in. "Just be glad we get here early because by 8 all these seats are fill—" 

His words died in his mouth when he finally looked away from Robby and over to where you normally sat, and his expression dropped at the sight of Stephen still towering over you with the pencil in your face. He halted abruptly, causing Robby to follow his line of sight. You tried your best to smile and slightly wave when you met their hazel and deep brown eyes, but the damage had already been done. 

Jack scowled something fierce, and his knuckles turned white. He took no time in resuming his walk over. Robby stayed close behind, height feeling more dramatic than normal. 

"Heeeyyyy," you drew out before pushing up out of the seat. 

Neither said nothing in return, opting to take their normal spots at your sides. Jack's hand planted in the middle of your lower back while Robby slung an arm around your shoulders, large hand squeezing gently when it rested against your upper bicep. 

Jack's chin jerked out at Stephen. "Who're you?" 

Stephen straightened slightly and puffed out his chest like that was going to do anything. "Stephen Miller." 

"Stephen Miller," he echoed before turning to you, his eyes softening. "Do we have a problem here?" 

"I was just trying to be friendly man—" 

"He wasn't talking to you," Robby cut in. His eyes were darker than you'd ever seen them. 

In response you raised your head slightly. "No problem. Just having a conversation." 

"Didn't look like a very friendly one," Jack muttered. "You sure, sweetheart?" 

"Yeah." The corner of your mouth twitched slightly, but you knew both of them could see right through you. "I'm sure." 

Jack and Robby wanted to press more. Their chests had tightened the minute they saw this boy standing over you with what looked like intent to harm. For all they cared, they'd go straight to the dean and report him for violent tendencies, but the look in your eyes and normal want for no animosity kept them close. However, they did share a knowing glance over your head, something that you missed completely as you began to gather your stuff from their seats. 

The door burst open a beat later, and students began filling the classroom. Stephen finally sulked back to his chair but not without one more heated glare in your direction. 

"What the fuck was that about?" Jack muttered as he slung his backpack down to the ground. 

You rolled your eyes. "I guess my search for a pencil was louder than I thought, so he asked if I wanted one of his. When I said no and that I'd probably just steal one of yours, he got . . . angry? I don't know; it was weird. And then he knocked my coffee over," you retold, the last little bit coming across as more whiny than you would have liked, but you were a second year med student for fucks sake. 

Coffee kept you sane, and that asshole had taken your morning dose away from you. 

"Sorry we didn't get here sooner," Robby stated while getting his papers out, and you fully turned his way. 

This had been the first time in months that you got to see him. Between his countless hours as an R1 over at an ER a few towns over, about a two to three hour drive one way, and dealing with his own personal shit, he'd been gone long enough that a short beard covered his jaw and space between his nose and lips. You couldn't help yourself as you reached up and lightly scratched at it. 

"When did this get here?" you asked, desperately trying to change the conversation. 

His facial hair was soft beneath your fingers, and you felt the way he slightly leaned into your touch. 

"I already gave him shit about it; don't worry, sweetheart," Jack announced loudly. "He leaves us for—what?—three months and comes back with a face blanket?" 

Robby chuckled and leaned away to look at his friend over your shoulder. "Laugh it up, kid. You're just mad because all you can grow is that upper lip caterpillar." 

"Please, let's save the bickering until the clock hits at least ten o'clock," you laughed. 

Jack opened and closed his jaw while he made a talking motion with his hand, to which you lightly smacked hip upside the head before taking a seat. Almost instantly, Jack's left hand found the top of your knee. 

"But seriously," he muttered, leaning closer so his voice didn't carry much, "are you okay, though? That guy . . ." 

You placed your hand on top of his. "He's fine. I doubt he could do much damage with a pencil." 

"You never know," Robby huffed. "I'll be back soon; gotta check in with Professor Barlowe." He leaned down and pressed a very light kiss to your temple, something he'd started doing recently, and then clapped Jack on the shoulder as he passed. 

Your brows furrowed slightly when you noticed the way Jack let his eyes trail Robby, but you kept your thoughts to yourself. The two had always had a stronger bond than you would ever realize, and if they wanted to let you know if anything changed, you'd let them come to you first before asking invasive questions. 

So, instead, you settled on asking about the homework. "Were you able to get it all done? I was up forever." 

Jack pulled out a small stack of papers. "Yeah. I finished them this morning. Had a bit of a late night but managed to get a decent amount of sleep." He smiled widely, crooked teeth on full display. "How about you?" 

"Uh, I don't know if you listen much to the radios but there was another stabbing last night," you murmured. 

His eyebrows rose. "No shit?" 

"Yeah." You swallowed thickly. "Miles Pennington. He was found by the janitors in the library. No one knows who did it since all the cameras have been out since last semester, but he had five stab wounds and thirteen clean incisions." 

"How do you know all this?" he asked, shoulders hunching slightly. 

"My friend works the late night desk. She's the one who called the police and stuff. I'm surprised you didn't know any of this Mr. I have a police scanner and listen to it for fun." 

His head leaned back as he barked out a laugh before he looked back toward you, mischief gleaming in his eyes. "You're trouble; you know that?" 

You let your eyes quickly trail the freckles that dotted his outstretched neck. "Yeah, yeah. Anyway, it kept me up most of the night, because—" You looked around before leaning in closer. "They think all the recent killings are all connected." 

Jack choked on his spit. "What?" 

"Every single one of them had calls from an unknown number on their hand-held mobiles that ranged from five to ten minutes." 

Under the desk, Jack's fingers tightened and curled into a fist. Through the adrenaline high, they'd, once again, forgotten to grab the fucking mobile. 

He hoped he was able to keep a calm expression to hide the way his heart was beating wildly beneath his sternum. However, his breathing must have quickened, because he watched the way your brows furrowed with concern.

"Are you okay?" you asked, scooching forward in your chair to give him a once over. 

"Fine," he managed to get out. "Just . . . I think I forgot one of the questions." 

"Oh, that's okay," you said, hand already sliding your copy of homework over without a second thought. 

Jack's heart clenched at your kindness that he definitely didn't deserve. Not when he was the one to give Miles every single one of those incisions with a scalpel Robby swiped from work. The guy was so close to graduating and becoming a resident, but he just had to go and flirt with you last Christmas, blatantly asking if you had plans to "stay warm" during the break. He had almost killed him then, already envisioning the way the blade would sink deep into his gut, before Robby had given him a look, eyes screaming to be patient. 

He only had to wait until midterms, get him alone, and have Robby make the call and give him what they dubbed "The Test" over a call before he could pin him to the ground. It had been easy with very little struggle, even with his vision clouded with that white opened-mouth mask they'd found in a going-out-of-business Halloween store. Cash payment; no trail, no evidence. 

Jack was already starting to itch again, that vein deep need to spill blood instead of stopping it from flowing, to cause harm instead of protecting. 

You snapped in front of his face, and he blinked rapidly. 

"You're spacing out again," you said. "Do you need to take a break? I doubt we'll get in trouble if we sneak out to get more coffee." 

He shook his head. "No, I'm fine." His finger tapped on your homework. "Thanks for this . . . again." 

Your hand rose and covered your mouth as you giggled. "No problem. I cannot have you flunking this class, Jack Abbot. I don't think I'd survive without you." 

"Nah, you're smart enough," he said after lightly flicking your temple. "You'll probably match your first try with whatever hospital you choose." 

"You think so?" Shyly, you tucked a piece of fallen hair behind your ear. 

Jack met your eye with a ferocity you hadn't seen. "I know so." 

Heat flushed to your cheeks and spread down your neck into your top, and you quickly looked back down at your papers and binder. You took one glance toward the front, eyes locking onto Robby where he stood discussing something with your teacher. 

"Guess I just need to survive the next two years and hope I don't get a phone call myself," you whispered loud enough for Jack to hear over your scratching pencil and the beginnings of the lecture. 

It was almost like you'd been put under a trance every time the lesson began to not miss anything important. Because of this, you missed the way Jack locked eyes with Robby over the tops of the students' heads. His older friend barely glanced in the direction of Stephen, and the slight nod he got sent a pleasured chill racing over his skin. 

Jack couldn't wait to feel the slick of Stephen's blood and organs against his black leather gloves as he cut him up once clean slice at a time. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The phone's cord tangled around your finger as you giggled into the chunky receiver while Robby told you about one of the pranks his attending played on him because he fell asleep in an on-call room. 

"And then, they had the fucking audacity to page me, and I went running before I fell face first into the hub!" 

"And then what?" you laughed breathily, leaning back until your head hit your pillow. 

"Then so many casualties came in after, and I was stuck with the cast on and unable to help! I had to wait hours before they could get it off." 

"Did it teach you not to fall asleep?" you questioned with a smile that he couldn't even see, but Robby could definitely hear it in your voice. 

He smiled as well, lips practically kissing his phone. "For a bit, but then I managed to find an excellent napping place." 

"Did Benton tell you off for it?" 

"Nope." Robby looked down at the paper in his hand, fingers playing the frayed edge. "He actually woke me up with my acceptance papers." 

You sat up straight and gasped loudly. "Michael Strausser Speer Robinavitch! You got accepted into their emergency surgery program, and you didn't fucking tell me in person! You ass!" 

"It just slipped my mind." 

A scoff flew from your lips and echoed in his ear. 

"It just slipped my mind," you mocked, voice dipping into a lower tone that didn't quite match Robby's all the way. "Did you tell Jack?" 

"Yeah," he breathed. 

"And how'd that go?" 

Robby pursed his lips at the memory of Jack screaming at him before kissing him right on the lips. "As well as you could imagine." 

"He just . . . worries about you, I think," you tried to console with your lip between your teeth. "Worried about you several hours away, worried that he won't be able to catch up." 

"Did he tell you about his plans after med school?" 

You nodded on instinct before catching yourself. "Y-yeah, he did. He's brave for it." 

"Only Jack could want to be an Army field medic," Robby grumbled while running a hand across his jaw. "He's insane." 

A low hum rumbled through your chest in agreement. "He wants to help people, but I don't understand why he thinks he needs to do it under active fire." 

For some reason, tears pricked at your eyes, and you rapidly tried to blink them away. To keep them away, you did your best to sniff quietly, but the sound was louder through the phone than you thought. 

Robby frowned, and his brows pinched. "Hey, why're you crying?" 

You chomped down on the inside of your cheek before replying, "I don't want him to get hurt, and he's going to be so alone over there. It breaks my heart every time he wears that stupid Army crewneck he got at the recruitment office." 

He knew exactly which one you were talking about; he pulled the damn thing off Jack's freckled body earlier that morning right after he got back from slicing the kid in the library with blood still crusting at his shoes and at the stretches of skin the robe didn't cover. Robby had licked it all off before taking Jack's cock in his mouth. 

"Did I lose you over there, Robinavitch?" you asked when you could only hear heavy breathing. 

Robby raised his brows and smirked. "Oh, am I simply Robinavitch to you now?" 

"It's what you get for keeping important information from me!" 

"Okay, baby, okay," he mused, laying it heavy on the small pet name. “Have you decided what you’re wanting to do after school? We could always use you over at Sacred.” 

Nervously, you twirled the phone wire around a finger. “Actually . . . I’m thinking about looking into an endo fellowship.” 

Your words hit him right in the stomach. “What?” 

You huffed. “Yeah, I know I said I might go into emergency med, but Robby, I don’t think I can keep up with that life. Seeing all those traumas would fuck me in the head.” 

“So, Jack’s leaving me, and now you’re leaving me?” 

“Don’t put it like that. You’re a big boy; you’ll be fine.” Your eyes glanced around the room before widening when you caught the time. "Fuck, Rob, I gotta go. I'm supposed to meet my roommate for breakfast tomorrow before my 8 am." You paused before adding. "Thanks for talking to me. I've really missed you, ya know?" 

"I've missed you too," he confessed, "a lot." 

"It's not the same without you. I have Jack, but I think I can say we both feel incomplete when you're not here." 

"Feel the same out there," he whispered. "I'll let you go, but I'll give Jack a plan for lunch so we can all meet up, yeah?" 

"Sounds good, Robby. Sleep well," you said before ending the call. 

Your hands raised high above your head, and a soft moan slipped through your lips as you stretched. Needing to use the bathroom one more time, you softly slipped from the bed and padded toward the connected suite. You still had no clue how you managed to get a room with a bathroom, but you were never one to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

However, only a few feet away, your phone screeched a loud shrill into the air. Your cheeks puffed as you blew out air, mind thinking that Robby probably forgot to tell you something important. Your hand curled around the receiver and raised it to your ear. 

"Robby, I swear if you forgot about something again I'll—" 

"Hello?" a distorted voice cut you off, and your stomach dipped ever so slightly at the unfamiliar caller. 

"Um, hi?" 

"Would you like to play a game?" 

You frowned deeply. "No thank you. I think you have the wrong number. Goodbye." 

The phone clicked back into the stand, and you turned away once more, ready to get peeing over so you could get some sleep. Yet again, your phone rang, and you jumped at the noise. This time, you stomped back over and ripped it right out and up to your ear. 

"You shouldn't have done that," the voice tsked. "Because now, if you hang up again, I'll have to kill someone for you." 

Your blood ran ice cold. "How is this?" 

"Uh, uh, uh, I ask the questions here, sweets. And you still haven't answered my first one: would you like to play a game?" 

"Fuck you," you spat. "Is this Stephen from class, because I swear if this is just some elaborate prank, I'm going to report your sorry ass to the dean." 

"Oh, she has a mouth on her," he—because this had to be a man—laughed. "What fun you and I are going to have." 

"I'm not going to play whatever stupid game this is, Stephen." 

"Sorry to tell you, but this isn't Stephen," he growled, and the sound had you shaking slightly. 

Knuckles turning white, you gripped the phone tightly. "Then-then who is this?" 

"Can't tell you that or it'd ruin the surprise!" He sighed and clicked his tongue against his teeth. "Now, I will ask for the last time, do you want to play a game? Or should I start killing your friends? What are their names again? Jack and Michael?" 

"If you hurt them—" 

"You'll do what? You don't even know my name? But I know yours, Y/n." 

Your skin itched, and you whirled around, almost like you swore that you felt someone's eyes on your body. You stepped up to your window and cracked the blinds open with a finger. When no one seemed to be standing outside, you let the slat fall back down. 

"Will you play now?" 

A thick glob of saliva fought back against your attempt to swallow it down. "Fine. I'll play. What are the rules?" 

"If you can answer my questions, I won't kill poor Stephen here." 

In the background, you heard muffled screams and cries that matched the student who had held a pencil to your face. Tears slowly streamed down your face as it fully settled that the man on the other end wasn't playing around, that a life was in your, a mere med student's, hands. 

"Don't hurt him, please," you whimpered. 

"Such big emotions for a stranger. Oh, you're going to be such a good doctor one day." He cleared his throat. "Question one: a twenty-three-year old comes rolling in after being involved in a motorcycle accident. Her BPs seventy-eight over forty, heart rate’s one-forty. She has absent breath sounds on the left, and her trachea’s deviated to the right. What kills her first?” 

“How am I supposed to know that? I’m only a MS2, fucker.” 

“You’re smart enough to know it. All that time spent with that emergency resident, and you can’t remember anything?” 

“Just give me a second!” 

“I fear Stephen doesn’t have ‘a second,’” he taunted, and in the next moment, a pain-filled wail muffled through your phone, causing a sob to rip right from your throat. 

“Okay, okay, just—” You pinched your eyes shut as you tried to think through the question. “Tension pneumothorax,” you settled on before holding your breath. 

“And your treatment to keep him alive?” 

“A-a needle decompression followed by a ch-chest tube.” 

The distorted voice paused on the other line. “Correct. See, I knew you would get it. You’re so smart, Y/n.” 

You unsuccessfully tried to wipe the tears from your cheeks, but your eyes kept replenishing them. “Okay, I answered your fucking questions, now let the guy go.” 

“I’m sorry. Was I not specific? We still have three more to go before I think of letting Stephen here see another sunrise. Next question: A trauma patient arrives talking to you. Five minutes later, they’re confused, then unconscious. What do you suspect is happening?” 

A frustrated groan bubbled through your chest. “I need more information.” 

“If your patient is unconscious, you don’t get more information. Tick, tock, sweets, Stephen’s counting on you.” 

“It-it could be something like an epidural hematoma?” 

“And what would be the classic artery?” 

“The middle meningeal artery.” 

“I’m so proud of you for getting that correct.” 

Instead of feeling elated, you were so close to throwing up that you could taste the tang of bile on your tongue. “What’s the next one?” 

“Feeling confident, are we?” 

“Ask the fucking question.” 

“You’ve got penetrating trauma just left of the sternum. Blood pressure is dropping. Neck veins are distended, and the heart sounds are muffled. What’s the diagnosis, doc?” 

“Cardiac tamponade,” you answered instantly. It had been one of the homework questions from the ACLS provider course you had with Jack. 

“Treatment?” 

“Emergency thoracotomy if they’re crashing. Pericardiocentesis only if it’s the bridge.” 

“I guess you really can stay awake during your classes. Now, for the final question: your last trauma patient just received a massive transfusion after losing too much blood like poor Stephen will if you get this wrong. All seems to go well until the monitor suddenly shows a widening QRS, peaked T waves, and then ventricular tachycardia. What is killing the man on your table?” 

Your stomach dropped to your toes. This should have been the easiest one. You should know this. 

“It’s hypocalcemia,” you stated. 

The line went silent. 

“Did I get it? I got it, you mother fucker,” you growled. 

However, all you got was a click on his tongue. “Wrong.” 

All blood drained straight from your face. “Wha-what? No, I’m certain it’s hypocalcemia. It’s the textbook definition of it.” 

“The diagnosis you’re looking for is actually hyperkalemia. You would have needed to administer potassium instead. Well, the calcium would have been the protocol, but it wasn’t the answer I asked for.” 

“N-no,” you stuttered out with another sob wracking your body. “Please don’t hurt him. Let him go.” 

“I gave him a fighting chance like all good doctors do. But sometimes, in the real world, we can’t all save our patients. Say goodbye to Stephen. He’ll be missed in class.” 

Your throat constricted in a gag as wet slashing sounds echoed through your phone speaker. You should have turned it off, but you stayed frozen to the middle of your room, mind fuzzy and close to dissociation as Stephen’s wails rattled and echoed in your brain. He gave a particularly loud screech that followed almost a ripping sound, something you’d heard before from medical tapes used in surgical classes, the tell-tale noise of someone wrongly cutting through skin and tendons. 

In a few moments, he quieted before the line went fully quiet, save for the heavy, distorted breathing from the assailant. All you could manage to do was whimper and tremble. 

“Thanks for playing, sweets. Better luck next time.” 

The drawl of the dial tone echoed in your ear until the receiver slipped from your hand and landed in a loud thunk against your carpet. Your knees almost buckled as you tried to make your way back to your bed, bathroom break far forgotten. It didn’t even cross your mind as you sat shaking on the comforter, hands clenching the blanket. 

All you could hear were Stephen’s moans and cries, and if you could get past those, the man’s words rang freely. 

Say goodbye to Stephen. He’ll be missed in class.

The killer was in the ACLS provider course. One of your classmates just murdered Stephen and probably all the other guys too. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

“What’s so important that we had to meet before your first class, baby? Thought you had plans with your roommate,” Robby’s voice sounded behind you, and you flinched violently at the suddenness. “Woah, it’s just me.” 

Your red-rimmed wide eyes looked up at him from the empty space at the small coffee table in the on-campus cafe, and his cocky smirk dropped as he took in the paleness and horror that had been plastered on your face since that phone call late last night. Robby grabbed the top of the chair and dragged it out to sit. His knees bumped against yours while his hands gently rested on your cheeks, fingers tilting your chin in order for him to look you over, ever the doctor. 

“What’s wrong?” he questioned. You sleepily watched his eyes flicker down your face in an obvious fashion. “What happened?” 

You jerked out of his hold and looked back down to the table. “Let’s just wait for Jack.” 

Almost as if he were waiting for you to say his name, Jack plopped down into the seat opposite of Robby, the three of you making a triangle around the table. He too was wearing a smile that dropped just as quickly as Robby’s had moments earlier. At least he didn’t start going full doctor on you, but his concern was evident in his pinched expression. 

“What’s wrong?” Jack asked, eyes glancing over toward Robby. 

“That’s what I asked,” the brunette responded without looking away from your shaking form. 

“I-I wanted to tell you both before the n-news got out,” you stuttered between shaking breaths. 

Jack leaned forward and placed both his hands on the table. “What news? I think you’re scaring us a bit, sweetheart.” 

“Stephen wa-was murdered,” you squeaked, “last night, right after I finished talking to Robby.” Your pointer finger picked at your thumb, loose skin catching with every scrape. 

“Did your friend have to call in another one in the library?” Jack asked. 

You shook your head. “No. I did.” 

“You did?” Robby echoed, and his concern morphed into confusion. “Was he murdered in the girls’ dorms?” 

Another shake of your head. “No.” Tears welled in your lashline, and you squeezed your eyes tight as another wave of Stephen’s cries rang through your memory. 

Jack licked his lips and leaned back in the chair. “Well, didn’t you say the killer calls his victims? So, unless you’re a ghost, you should have been far away from whatever happened.” 

“You two don’t understand!” you screeched, not caring if a few people turned their heads toward you. “He called me. I had to listen to-to—” Bile burned up your throat as you slapped two hands over your mouth in case it decided to spew between your teeth. 

“Jeez,” Robby muttered as he dragged a hand down his jaw. “You had to listen to him getting . . . ya’ know.” 

“Murdered,” Jack filled in casually, like he wasn’t concerned at all about what you’d just confessed. Although, he did do a good job at looking a bit surprised. “But why would he call you?” 

“I don’t know,” you whimpered, arms coming to wrap around your middle as you hunched in on yourself. “One minute, I thought I was talking to Robby, and the next I thought it might be Stephen because of the pencil incident, but then I tried to hang up again, and . . .” you trailed off right as you remembered what the distorted voice had told you. 

“And what?” Jack pressed. 

 “He said if I hung up and didn’t play his game, he’d kill you two.” 

From the corner of his eye, Jack looked over at Robby for the briefest moment before scooting his chair closer to you to wrap you in a hug. Your pliant, shivering body went willingly right into his embrace, and he couldn’t help the smirk that stretched onto his face. 

Everything was going to plan better than they had expected. Sure, calling you hadn’t been their first line of action, but looking at you now, so scared, so terrified that they were in danger, made them feel like they should have called you first. Robby initially had been the one who wanted to call and hear your panicked little whimpers, but he’d been the last caller. At least Jack had the decency to record everything, and Robby didn’t remember the last time they had both cum so hard while fucking as they played your delicious sounding cries, its echos joining the perfect symphony of their moans. It was almost as good as having you there with them, but they had to get you willing. 

And right now, you seemed on the verge of being just that. They’d planted the seed of doubt in your mind that they weren’t untouchable, that they might be the next victims. 

Jack ran a hand up and down your back in soothing motions, and you pressed into his chest, eyes meeting Robby’s worried-looking brown hues across the table. 

“Did you already give your statement?” he asked. 

“Yeah; last night,” you sighed. “My roommate found me crying, and she was the one to call. Everything happened so quickly.” 

Jack pressed his cheek into the top of your head. “Did you recognize the voice?” 

“No. It was all distorted.” You tensed suddenly. “But he did say something weird.” 

Robby eyed Jack wearily. “Yeah?” 

You nodded. “He said that Stephen would be missed in class, but—I mean, wouldn’t that imply that the killer was in the same class as us?” 

Jack mouthed a quiet fuck and closed his eyes. He hadn’t meant to say that; he needed himself as far from the scene and victim as possible. Robby normally got away with it since he was supposed to be three hours away while Jack made sure his alibi of being in his dorm room stayed air-tight. 

“Did you tell that to the police?” 

The corner of your lip turned downward. “I-I think? I don’t know; I can’t remember.” Your words started to slur into a whine, and a single tear slipped down your cheek in frustration. 

“That’s okay, sweetheart,” Jack cooed, hand never stopping in soothing circles while he held you. “Tell you what. Why don’t you and I go down to the station after class if you’re feeling up to it.” 

Your stomach gurgled at the thought of having to retell what you went through for the sake of adding one more detail, and you swallowed thickly even if your mouth had gone dry. 

“I don’t think I want to go to class. Seeing the empty seat . . .” If you thought about it for long enough, you knew you’d start crying all over again. “Can we just stay here? Or go to the fountain outside?” You’d been looking at Robby, but you pulled back from Jack enough to look him in the face. However, when neither of them answered right away, your stomach sank. “Oh.” 

Robby cupped a hand at his neck, a familiar thing you’d seen him do for a year straight when he got stressed or nervous. 

“Jack and I promised that we’d help out with an advanced simulator today for the fourth year students after you two’s first lecture.” 

That was utter bullshit; they hadn’t been asked at all, but they needed to get away from you for a couple of hours to really let you sink into helplessness and paranoia. The longer you went without them with the thought that any moment they might be stabbed and sliced, the more you’d run into their willing arms no matter how they decided to break the news about their late-night activities. 

You pulled fully out of Jack’s embrace, and the freckled boy had to stop himself from bringing you right back in, hands already itching to grab onto your arms. But he pulled himself together; he would have all night with you once they got you right where they wanted. 

“Will I at least see you both before Robby has to go back tonight?” you asked, finger going back to pick at your thumb, face wincing when a spark of pain shot up your digit. You looked down in time to see blood well under the flap of skin. 

“Of course. I’ll be at Jack’s dorm after I finish up with the final night class,” Robby said and finally smiled. He leaned over and softly pinched your cheek. “I wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye to my favorite girl.” 

A rush of pleasure crept up to his chest at the sight of your heated cheeks, and somehow, evening couldn't come soon enough. After you stood and left, probably headed toward your dorm to try to get some sleep, Jack turned towards Robby with a flick of his head. 

“Tonight?” he asked, lips stretching into a wide smirk. 

Robby didn’t even look his way, eyes still planted on your figure. “Tonight.” 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Three raps of your knuckles against the wood door and a muffled Come in! from Jack had you pushing the creaky thing open and stepping right into his dorm. You eyed the small piles of clothes that you tried not to step on as you made your way toward his bed. Jack was leaned back against his headboard with a sleepy look on his face and pajamas on his body: a pair of much-too big sweats (that you guessed probably belonged to Robby) and that fucking Army crewneck. 

“Would it kill you to clean once in a while?” you asked while taking a seat right at the edge of the mattress. 

“There’s a system to it. Left side of the room is for clean clothes, and the right is for dirty,” he responded with a shit-eating smirk. 

You rolled your eyes and turned to face him as much as you could without lying stomach down on the bed. “You’re such a boy.” 

“At least my room’s not dripping in makeup,” he shot back, face scrunching in disgust. “It’s almost like I can smell it from here.” 

“No, that’s your hairspray.” You reached out to ruffle his curls, but his hand darted out and wrapped around your wrist before it could get any further. 

Jack pulled slightly, and you followed, knees digging into the comforter so he could bring you closer. “You know better than to touch the curls.” 

“Then don’t make fun of my makeup,” you muttered before ripping your hand out of his hold. Using your hands, you pushed yourself further up the bed and mirrored Jack with your shoulder against his and back against the headboard. “How’d that simulator thing go?” 

His lip curled. “As well as it could be. Fuck, I hope we’re not going to turn out to be like those stuck up know-it-all assholes. They think they know every damn answer.” 

You nudged him slightly. “As long as we study and actually know the answers, we can act as asshole-y as we want to.” 

He ran a hand through his hair and scoffed. “That’s the thing. We asked the question for the mock-up ER, and one of the guys in there—total douche—didn’t even know the protocol for hyperkalemia.” 

“It’s potassium instead of calcium,” you rattled off mindlessly before pausing. 

Jack turned slightly. “Yeah. How the fuck did you know that?” 

Your eyes locked onto your feet. “It-it was one the question I got wrong before Stephen—” Your mouth quivered. “Fuck, it’s all my fault.” 

“Don’t say that.” 

“But it’s true, Jack,” you muttered. “I killed him.” Panic began to lick at the edges of your mind, and your chest started heaving in pants. “I killed him. I killed him.” 

Jack pushed up off the headboard and hovered halfway over, hands raising like he didn’t know where he could touch you without sending you over the edge. “You gotta breathe, or you’re going to pass out on me.” 

His words were like he was talking underwater, and you couldn’t even process what he was telling you to do. This was not a part of their plan, but Jack had to make due with what he could before Robby got back from killing one more student, a guy who had looked at you way too long in your pharmacology class. Before he could really think things through, Jack cupped your face, leaned in, and kissed you deeply. 

The feeling of his lips broke you out of whatever hysteria threatened to take over, and you found yourself mimicking his movements as you kissed him back, lips moving against the other while your hands found purchase in his crewneck. Your eyes fluttered shut before snapping back open when Robby popped in your mind. You pulled back instantly and wiped your lips as though that would get rid of what just happened. 

Jack took in your debauched look, you clearly liking that he kissed you, but the worried look you had sent his heart racing the wrong way. 

Had they read you wrong the entire time? 

“Jack,” you breathed. “We can’t.” 

He cocked his head. “Why can’t we?” 

“Robby.” 

“What about him, sweetheart.” 

You looked at him earnestly. “Aren’t you two . . .” You left words unsaid in case you were the one to get this wrong. 

Jack almost looked bashful as he replied. “You’re always too damn smart. Catching onto things before we could even tell you.” He leaned back in though and pressed another kiss to the side of your mouth. “We are . . . together, but—” He dragged his eyes over your body with a heated look. “But we want you too.” 

His words had you blinking rapidly. “What?” you laughed out, but one look from him said that he wasn’t joking around. “Are-are you serious?” 

He clicked his tongue against his cheek. “Deadly.” 

You weren’t too sure who moved first, but you met his mouth once more halfway. You moaned loudly at the feeling of his lips and teeth mushing against yours. His hands rose and planted on your hips, fingers curling into the small pudge against bone and pulling you into him, hips dragging along the blankets until you were seated on his lap. Your knees dug into the mattress on both sides of his thick thighs as you held onto his face.

Jack shivered with glee at the feeling of your grinding weight on top of him, cock already stiff below Robby’s pair of sweatpants hugging his legs. He bucked up slightly into your dampening core, and your jaw dropped enough for him to slide his wet tongue right into your hot mouth. He languidly licked around your teeth before playing with the tip of your tongue. You couldn’t help but think that if he was this into your mouth, you wanted to imagine what it’d feel like against your clit. At the vivid picture popping into your imagination, you ground down harder against his bulge.

Jack being large wasn’t surprising; not with the amount of tight pants he liked to wear, but you never imagined yourself being able to feel it nestled against your clit through your thin pajamas. As you continued to rock back and forth, he let go in order to play with the hem of your shirt before lifting it over your head and tossing it to the ground. His eyes widened slightly when he realized you’d foregone the bra. 

“Fuck,” he muttered after pulling back to really look at them, hands rising to cup your breasts. 

With his pointer fingers and thumbs, he pinched your nipples into soft peaks, drawing a higher-pitched whine from behind your teeth. By now, your underwear were soaked with slick arousal. Without warning, he leaned in right as your back arched and took one bud into his mouth. His cheeks hollowed, and a loud sucking noise squeaked out of his lips. You jerked at the feeling and sank your hands into his hair. 

“Jack,” you breathily sighed. 

“That’s me, sweetheart,” he retorted after letting your nipple go with a wet pop just to do the same to your other one. 

You normally weren’t one to cum just from stimulation to your breasts, but the hazy feeling from grinding on Jack’s cock and his lips and tongue circling your nipples started to well in your stomach. Your jaw dropped again as a loud moan shuddered out of you after he bit down on the sensitive peak before running a soothing, wet stripe over it. He pulled back again to lightly blow on the heated flesh, and his cooled breath made goosebumps race up your skin. 

He dropped a hand to play with the waistline of shorts, and you lifted your hips to allow him to get your sleep shorts and underwear off in one go. They quickly joined your shirt at the floor, and his hand had just started to trail between your thighs when his bedside phone gave off a loud shrill into the air. Jack acted as though he didn’t hear it, lips still suckling away at your chest. 

“Aren’t you going to get that?” you panted between the grinds of your hips. 

“Just let it ring,” he responded, but the sound had already ripped your attention away from between your legs. 

With a smile, you reached over and picked up the phone, mind too full with pleasure to even think of the last time you picked up a phone without knowing who was on the other line. Really, you should have been more careful, but with Jack under your naked body, all caution was out the window. 

“Jack’s busy right now,” you giggled into the phone, “but I can give him a message—” 

“Hi, baby.” 

Your hips stilled, and your blood froze at the sound of the distorted voice. A dizzying feeling replaced the warmth of pleasure in your system, and you could barely get out a response that wasn’t a small, terrified noise. 

“Has Jack left you that speechless already?” he continued, voice sounding louder than it had last night over the phone. If you really thought about it, it felt as though he was right next to your ear. “Go on, baby. You were looking so pretty getting messy over him. I was really enjoying the show,” he growled, voice suddenly right over your shoulder instead of through the speaker. 

You dropped the phone and whipped around right off Jack’s lap, and panic seized your chest, because right by the door, a tall man draped in black fabric and a hollowed-eyed white mask stared back at you. You started to scramble as a small scream ripped up your throat, but Jack was quicker. He grabbed your hips and brought you back to this lap, this time facing the masked intruder. His arms wrapped around your middle and held you through your struggles and tears. 

“Jack, what the fuck!” you sobbed, hands wrenching and nails scratching at his arms. “Let me go! We’re going to die! Let me go, please!” 

Instead of doing what you demanded, Jack tucked his chin onto your shoulder as the man started stalking toward the bed. With each step, your struggles grew. By now, Jack’s arms were littered with bleeding stripes from your desperation to get away, but that only added to his pleasure, cock never failing to fade into softness against your back. Your chest heaved and tightened the closer the man got before he stopped at the foot of the bed. 

You watched with wide eyes as he raised a small box to where his lips would be under the mask before his empty gloved hand suddenly lifted the stretched-chin until the mask slipped from his face, and Robby’s dark brown eyes locked on yours. 

His lips curled into a devilish smirk. “Surprise, baby.” 

For a split second, you thought you’d pass out, suddenly overwhelmed with everything in a dizzy sensation. 

“What?” you sputtered. 

Jack hummed over your shoulder and ran a finger down your tear-streaked cheek. He pouted when you met his eye from the corner of yours. 

“Aw, sweets, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. Not enjoying our little surprise?” he taunted before a chuckle rumbled in his chest. “Awww, Mikey, look at her. The poor thing’s shaking.” 

Robby let the voice modulator fall to the floor with a dulled thunk that kept your heart racing against your ribcage. In a desperate attempt to keep a distance between you and Robby, you tried to fling yourself to the side, but Jack just tightened his arms around you more. 

“Not so fast,” he said. “Not when we haven’t gotten to the best part yet.” One arm let go so his hand could grip your chin to keep you facing Robby. “Go on and spread her legs for me.” 

Without hesitation, Robby kneeled at the edge of the mattress and crawled until he reached where your feet planted against the comforter. His brown eyes, the hues almost black with lust, watched you intently as he placed his gloved hands on your naked knees. Yet, when he tried to part them, you swung a foot and connected it right between his legs, drawing a grunt from deep in his lungs. 

He shuddered, his hand reaching down to palm himself over the long black robes he wore. His chest was rising and falling rapidly as he fought to get air back in his lungs. As his hand pressed down harder, he groaned, looking up at you through his eyelashes. The inky blackness of his pupils swallowed the brown of his irises entirely.

The motherfucker liked that. 

Jack’s hand slid down from your jaw and wrapped around the front of your throat, and his fingers squeezed lightly against the sides of your neck, sending a fuzzy wave to your brain, and your breath hitched, body stilling in his grasp. His lips softly grazed your ear as he whispered, “Be a good girl and stay still for us. You’ll like it, I promise.” 

He jerked his chin out towards Robby, and you could only watch him finally grip your knees. In one fluid motion, he wrenched your legs apart, revealing your glistening cunt to both of them. Robby hummed lowly in amusement. 

“You’re so wet for us, baby,” he mused and lowered his face until he was inches away from your core. 

An embarrassed heat flooded your face and neck when he inhaled sharply. If you bucked your hips to get him to move back, you’d just shove his nose right into your folds, and if you withdrew them, you’d grind right into Jack’s cock. You were stuck, and neither seemed to be concerned with how you felt. 

“Please let me go,” you pleaded with a whimper and squeezed-shut eyes. “I won’t tell anyone.” 

Jack tutted against your ear. “It’s not that we don’t believe you, sweets, but . . .” 

“We’ve already waited this long to have you like this,” Robby finished his sentence, finally pulling back from between your legs to look down at you as he ripped the gloves off. “We can’t let you go after we’ve worked so hard to get you right where we want.” 

“You fucking murdered people,” you spat, body beginning to shift unconsciously as a result of your fear . . . or something closer to simmering arousal that you didn’t even want to admit to. “And now you think I’m just going to sit here and enjoy this?” 

“Well, yeah,” Jack smacked his lips. “Cause even though you’re putting on a big show of being brave even if you’re terrified—” He reached down and ran a fingertip through your cunt from hole to clit before holding it up to the light to show just how wet it was. “Your body is still begging for us.” 

You shivered against him. “It’s not—I’m not begging.” 

Jack sighed loudly. “That’s okay; we know you will once we get started.” His hazel eyes met Robby’s gaze. “Go right ahead, Mikey.” 

“Robby, please don’t,” you whispered as he leaned back down, bare fingers coming to grip at the soft insides of your thighs. “Don’t do this. I—” 

You bit down on your lip to stifle the first moan that threatened to burst out as Robby’s tongue began to lick at your puffy folds, fingers curling into Jack’s freckled forearms and thighs jolting at the feeling. He held them down. His tongue moved inward and stiffened into a point to drag upward to your throbbing clit, the texture of his tastebuds adding to the buzzy stimulation. He toyed with you, going from circular motions to biting down gently with his front teeth. As he tilted his face to get a better angle, his beard rubbed against your inner thighs, and the scratchiness of it added to the burning pleasure from your core. 

If he continued, he’d leave a lasting reminder of beard burn for you to remember this night. 

Above, you refused to look down at him, lip staying between your teeth as he tried to break you. Jack was having none of it, and the hand around your throat pressed harder into your pulse points, cutting off your circulation to flood your brain with a hazy feeling that made the pleasure from Robby’s ministrations grow tenfold. 

It was only when he licked around your sopping entrance that a keel ripped from your throat, and the sound was like music to their ears. 

“Good job, sweetheart,” Jack muttered as he let go to allow oxygen to rush back in. “That’s what we want to hear. Keep going, Mikey. I wanna hear more.” 

“Just keep her steady,” Robby responded against you, and his words sent vibrations tingling through your cunt, drawing out another heady moan. He continued to go back and forth from your clit to your hole before the first finger breached the tight entrance. “Oh, fuck, she’s tight,” he groaned, cock throbbing as he imagined sinking deep into you.

“Yeah?” Jack breathed. “Saved yourself just for us, sweets?” 

“No,” you moaned out, hips slightly rocking to alleviate the stretch. “Nooooo shit!” 

Robby sucked your clit as he began to pump his finger in and out, your innermost muscles clenching in uncontrollable spasms around the digit. Slowly, he felt you begin to loosen and suck him back in. Your head tilted back against Jack’s shoulder when he curled his finger upward, expertly finding your soft spot. Your back arched, and your hips raised into Robby’s face, making his nose catch against your clit. 

A wave of pleasure washed over you. Your once tense muscles had relaxed as endorphins fought to replace your terror, leaving you close to putty and pliant between them. Your legs widened instinctively when Robby added a second finger. 

“Oh—fuck!” you wailed out when both fingertips rubbed along your walls, slick gushing out with each thrust. “Robby!” 

“There we go,” Jack gleefully said, voice filled with nothing but content as he felt your body drape against him, all fight draining the closer they got you to cumming. “I told you that you were going to like it.” 

Somehow, Robby managed to get his fingers to reach further, and stars dotted your vision by how deep you could feel him. You didn’t want to imagine how deeper he could get with his cock—wait. 

You were giving in. You couldn’t; this was wrong. They killed people. You needed to get away fast. 

“Robby!” you parroted and followed with a moan as your lower belly simmered with something that was about to snap. “Gonna cum! Wanna cum!” 

Finally, you looked downward and met his lidded gaze through his eyebrows, lower face hidden behind your soft mound as he continued to lick and suck and graze your bundle of nerves with his teeth. He was close to sending you right over the edge, but there was one thing they both wanted to hear. 

They wanted you to beg for it. 

Jack finally unwrapped his arms from your middle to start palming at your breasts again. “C’mon, sweets. Mikey’ll make you cum, but you need to ask nicely for it first. Just say the magic words and—” He pinched and pulled and twisted your nipples, and a cry ripped right out of you, “—he’ll give it to you.” 

Your eyes burned with unshed tears, and somewhere deep, the need to push back flickered before being doused with a rush of arousal. Robby added a third finger and quickened his thrusts, causing a squelching noise to fill the room. 

Finally, after feeling the heat about to boil over in your core, you whimpered out the smallest, “Please.” 

Robby groaned against you, and bit down hard on your clit while curling upwards with stiff fingers. You came instantly, walls clenching rhythmically while Robby kept his pace steady to draw out your high for as long as possible. He watched the way your thighs shook and the way your arched beautifully, stomach curved out high as Jack continued to pull and grab at your breasts.  

You all but collapsed back against Jack’s chest when Robby finally pulled away, your sticky arousal coating his lips and chin and also the  three fingers that he stuck in his mouth. He held eye contact with you as he swirled his tongue between the slots. Jack huffed behind you. 

“I want a taste,” he demanded, and Robby quickly leaned over you, robes draping across your heaving chest, and kissed Jack. 

The loud slurping noises coming from over your head made you groan when your hole clenched around nothing. 

“Tastes good,” Jack muttered before licking across Robby’s lips. “Tastes so fucking good, sweetheart,” he addressed you even if he was currently occupied. He bit down, and Robby whined as a metallic tang filled their shared saliva. 

You lied there, and for a moment, your mind caught up to the situation at hand. Robby and Jack were the murderer—murderers? One to make the call, and the other to kill the student. Through the initial shockwaves of your orgasm, your stomach dipped, and you pushed up slightly, hoping they were both too into the other to miss the way you tried to inch across the bed. Jack pulled away suddenly and reached across, hands planting on both sides of your hips. Air rushed from your lungs at the sheer amount of his strength as he flipped you in one fluid motion and put you on your stomach. 

“No, fuck you,” you whined against the covers. “I’ve never—” 

Jack’s hands maneuvered you like a personal doll: knees pushing into the mattress and hips high in the air. He used his knees to knock yours wider to fit behind. You tried to push up on two hands, but he sent you right back down with a strong enough push between your shoulder blades. He held you down and pulled down the waistline of his sweatpants just enough to pull his cock out, lips parting in a hiss at the cold air enveloping his heated flesh. He sighed when he got a hand around himself, and the tip spurted out a line of precum. He used his palm to spread it across his length before he notched it at your entrance. 

Your body tensed at just the feeling of the large head already barely fitting even if Robby had managed to get three fingers in you. 

“Wait,” you said and gripped the comforter. “No, no, please wait, please, Jack, I’m a virgin, wait—” 

As though your pleas fell on deaf ears, Jack slowly started to sink into you. He shuddered when your warmth sucked in the first inch like your cunt needed him even if you thought you didn’t. 

“Fuck, sweets,” he hissed. “Robby said you were tight, but fucking—can’t believe I get to be your first.” 

You gasped at the stretch and intrusion, and he kept feeding himself into you even after the first bit of resistance. You’d mold perfectly around him soon enough. Your inner thighs shook and tensed as he pushed in further, and sweat collected at your brow line as your body heated under the pressure. You shut your eyes tight, but that only made it difficult to concentrate on anything but the feeling of Jack’s massive cock bullying its way into you. 

Jack pulled back slightly, and the drag of the head along your walls had you gasping for air. 

“Too much for you?” Jack cooed as your whimpers hit his ears. “Shhhh, it’s okay, sweetheart, you can take it; I know you can.” He slowly pushed back in. “Take a deep breath for me, yeah? Big streeetch,” he drew out until the entirety of his length sat inside you. 

Your chest heaved as much as it could into the mattress, and your jaw dropped to take in lungfuls of air. You felt too full, like one wrong move and Jack would rip you in half. It only got worse when he started to thrust, and his tip started tapping against your cervix with no more room to push into. 

“J-Jack, f-fuck,” you stuttered, and tears once again streamed down your cheeks. “Please—fuck!” 

He rocked his hips against yours to the point that his balls slapped against your ass with every thrust. “You feel how deep I am inside you?” he grunted while his hands tightened around your hips. “Fucking taking all of me. Such a needy girl for my cock.”  

You bit down on the comforter, muffling your whines in an attempt to keep how much he was affecting you to yourself. 

“Oh, sweets, that won’t do,” Jack tutted and sank a hand into your roots, fingers curling around the strands and yanking your head upward with a yelp. Your hands scrambled to get under you to relieve some of the pressure, but Jack didn’t stop thrusting, and the motion had your breasts swinging in the air. “Mikey, give her mouth something to do.” 

You eyes widened because under Jack’s fucking, you somehow completely forgot about Robby. But now as he shrugged off the robe and unbuckled his pants to get his cock out, you started sobbing once more. 

“Please don’t do this. I loved you two,” you weakly confessed, mind warring against your needy body, but all that did was make Jack angle his hips on an upward thrust to hit that spot that made you wail. 

Robby fisted his cock while he raised your chin up, and his eyes softened for a split second. “You’ll just have to learn to love this version of us, baby, because we love you just like this.” 

His words hit you in the pit of your stomach, and suddenly his words broke something inside you.  

This was Jack and Robby, your two best friends who’d do anything for you. You couldn’t keep fighting against them if you tried.  

Your jaw chomped shut hard enough that your teeth clicked together, but both of them were one step ahead. Jack let go of your hair and snaked a hand between your thighs to start circling his fingertips against your clit as he continued to fuck into you at a slowed pace, really wanting to draw this all out. 

You couldn’t help the moan that flowed freely at the double stimulation attacking your cunt, and your jaw unhinged enough to let Robby slip the tip of his cock between your teeth. Instantly, the salty tang of his precum coated your mouth. He held the sides of your face and pushed in deeper. 

“Another deep breath, baby,” he groaned before he thrust into your mouth, giving you barely any warning to brace for his cock to fill your mouth. 

Your throat constricted in a gag, but a flick of Jack’s fingers around your bud paired with a harsh thrust pushed you forward until your nose right into Robby’s navel, his wiry happy trail filling your senses with his deep musky scent. Above you, Robby arched into the feeling and groaned into the air. You were now filled on both ends as you desperately tried to breathe in through your mouth. 

Robby’s cock nestled against your tongue and a few inches down your throat. He was definitely longer than Jack, but the redhead had a much thicker girth than the brunette. Jack planted both his hands on your shoulders and pulled you back until Robby almost slipped right out. You sputtered and coughed from the lack of air, and a string of saliva wiggled down from your mouth to the bed. 

In just a breath later, they resumed, and you moved upwards and backwards on them like a pig on a spit. You felt dizzy between the white-hot pleasure Jack gave your cunt and the fuzziness that took over when Robby slipped down your throat. Both men moaned and grunted when you seemed to clench down on them at the same time. 

“Fuck, you weren’t kidding when you said she was—shit—so fucking tight,” Jack moaned when your walls spasmed around him, nearly cumming from the feeling. “You any close, sweets? Wanna feel you cum on my cock.” His words went straight to your body, and your pussy tightened. “Oh, you like when I talk to you? Is that right?” 

You whined in response and nodded. . 

His fingers picked up against your throbbing clit to meet his thrusts, and your stomach flipped with the onslaught of never-ending ecstasy flowing through your lower half. He could tell you were close when you started leaking around him, inner thighs sticky and wet enough to transfer onto his when he pushed into you with wet plap, plap, plap, plaps. 

At your front, Robby continued lazily thrusting into your mouth with jerky motions, knowing that once Jack filled you, he’d have his turn to sink deep into your pussy. His head leaned back when he managed to make you gag, and your throat constricted and caught his tip. His large hand basically covered the back of your head. He kept you tucked against his navel even when you tried to jolt back to get more air. His soul thrummed at your panic, and he wondered if you could feel him get harder between your teeth. 

“Uh, uh, uh, uh,” sputtered around Robby with every draw and snap of Jack’s hips. 

“Just give in, sweetheart,” Jack whispered into your ear after slotting his stomach into the dip of your back. “Let us know that we’re making you feel so good.” Using two fingers, he pinched at your clit just as his hips began to stutter, a tell-tail sign that he was about to cum as well. “Fucking—shit—give it to me.” 

With a muffled cry, your body shook as your second orgasm ripped right through your body. Jack could barely fuck into you with how hard you were clamping down on him as your cunt wept and dribbled onto the bed. 

“Good—fucking—girl,” he punched out with three forceful thrusts. His hands planted back onto your hips, and his fingers curled white-knuckled into the skin so hard that you knew you’d have his fingerprints bruised into you by morning. His lower stomach pulsed when you began to whimper from overstimulation, and the sound had his cock throbbing. “Fuck, gonna fill you up, sweets. Gonna cum, gonna—fucking shit!” 

He thrusted hard once, twice, three times before he stilled, cock spurting release into your fluttering hole. He had squeezed his eyes shut, but he peaked through his eyelids to see Robby lean over with a hand between your legs. The air knocked right out of Jack’s lungs when your cunt clamped down on him again near the end, and he guessed that Robby had rubbed right against your clit. Jack’s chest heaved through his high. 

“Good job, sweetheart,” he muttered, giving little rocks of his hips to prolong his own pleasure, dick already softening just a bit. “You took me so well; so well.” 

His hands loosened from your shoulders, and without any strength left in your wobbly arms, you fell right back into the bed, body twitching in the aftershocks. A whimper climbed from deep in your chest when he finally pulled out. Your hole clenched and pushed out a thick glob of the mix of your rapidly cooling slick and his cum from your walls. 

You felt his finger drag along your folds to catch it just to push the mess right back in, drawing a mewl from your lips. Too tired and fucked out to care about what they did next, you let your hips lower until they rested against the bed. You heard some shuffling through the haze, and the next moment, your body flipped over. Each of your limbs tingled with warmth, and you let out the smallest giggle. 

You enjoyed that more than you’d ever admit to it. 

“What’s so funny, baby?” Robby asked as he took off the rest of his clothes just as Jack was taking off his crewneck but leaving his sweats still on. 

Your eyes fluttered shut. “Think it’s funny that you said you loved me, but you killed people,” you slurred. 

Jack and Robby shared a look before the taller took his place near your feet. 

“Stephen deserved it, baby,” Robby darkly muttered. “And all those boys who came before him.” 

Jack ran a soothing hand up and down your leg. “You’re our girl. We couldn’t let them live after how they acted towards you.” 

Like he did earlier, Robby parted your legs, leaning down for half a heartbeat to press a small kiss to your twitching clit before trailing open-mouthed kissed up your stomach until he reached your lips. As though all fight drained out of you with the last climax, you matched his advances and kissed him back, legs absentmindedly parting to let him hover over you. 

You were the one to break the kiss when he rutted his cock through your sopping, overly-sentivie folds. Your breath hitched high in your throat before breaking to give way to a shuddering moan. You tried to push him off, but his lips stayed glued to your neck. 

He reached down and positioned his cock head to your entrance, and he slipped in with no resistance, the added lubrication of Jack’s spend and your relaxed muscles adding to his eased thrusting. The back of your head pushed deep into the mattress, and you swore you could feel Robby all the way up into your throat. Through lidded eyes, you caught the sight of Jack already hard again in his hand, his hazel eyes watching intently as Robby started to fuck you. 

“Hnnngggg,” you moaned through your teeth. Robby’s tip hit your cervix with each forward movement. “Oh my—fucking—please, Robby!” 

“Only took two orgasms to get you begging, hm?” Jack asked, and he reached over to pet at your face while simultaneously fucking up into his hand. His fingers traced your lips before he plunged them into your mouth. His breath stuttered when you started softly sucking on his digits. 

“Whatever you’re doing up there,” Robby grunted, hips snapping into the heat of your walls, “she likes it. Her cunt’s clenching—shit—around me like a fucking vice, man.” 

Your high-pitched whine came out all muffled through Jack’s fingers. Without someone holding your hips down, you began to meet Robby’s thrusts in shallow grinds. Where Jack’s cock stretched you out to the point of bliss, you wanted Robby’s length to stay buried deep to constantly rub against your walls. He must have understood what you wanted, because he stopped with the full thrusts and ground against your hips. The thatch of hair at the base of his cock rubbed deliciously against your swollen clit, and you whined at the added stimulation. 

After having climaxed twice so fast, it didn’t take long before you started to writhe under Robby’s frame, close to cumming without needing much. 

“Gonna—” You gagged when Jack pushed his fingers in farther. “Gonna,” you warbled. 

“Gonna cum already for us, baby?” Robby grunted. “Well, when you do, I wanna hear you cry my name, okay? Want your pretty mouth to spit it out.” 

You nodded shakily and tried to respond, but Jack’s fingers were too deep for anything eligible to come out. After thrusting them a bit more and getting them slick with your saliva, Jack pulled them out of your mouth. You squealed loudly when his fingers rubbed between your clit and where Robby was rutting into you. 

“Ooohhhh,” you breathed. “Jack! Feels good!” 

“Yeah? Does it feel better when I do this?” Suddenly, the pressure inside your walls exploded as Jack nudged his pointer finger into your hole, digit brushing against Robby’s cock to make you feel fuller than you ever had. “I bet that feels really good for you, sweetheart. Got your hole all nice and filled to the brim.” 

He tried to angle his wrist as best he could to press upward, and your thighs tried to close around his hand, but Robby’s hips kept them spread wide open. Needing to alleviate the pressure, you dug your feet into Robby’s lower back and arched into his chest. In one more movement to grind against Jack’s hand and Robby’s cock, you came instantly in a soundless scream. 

Robby folded over as your walls suddenly clamped down on him without warning. Your chest shook in a deep sob as the pleasure almost became too much. But through the shivers and pinpricks of euphoria, you remembered what Robby had asked. 

“Michael!” you screamed, hips jolting uncontrollably against him. “Micahel! Michael!” 

Like some Pavlovian effect, Robby groaned loudly with stuttering hips, cock spurting with hot waves of cum deep inside and fusing his and Jack’s cum to your cunt. No matter who you else might fuck in life, they’d always know that their cum was in you first. 

“Such a good baby,” Robby spat, mind barely keeping up with the feeling of your warmth entrapping his cock. “So smart for remembering. Fucking love it when you say my name. Fucking love you.” 

Your eyes had squeezed shut yet again right before you felt splatters across your face and heard a plethora of curses and moans from Jack above you. Some of his cum painted across your eyes, and you could only lie there and take his spend to your face. 

For a moment, you ceased to exist on the bed, mind floating blissfully somewhere else as you stewed in the slowing waves of your probably final orgasm. It wasn’t until you felt a warm, wet towel against your face did you open your eyes again. You blinked rapidly to clear them of the gloss that had taken over, and Jack cooed softly as he wiped his drying cum from your cheeks. 

“There she is,” he whispered. “There’s our girl. You did so well for us, sweetheart. Can’t believe we got to finally do this with the girl we love.” 

There it was again: their declarations of love. 

You wondered if it was all a ploy, but with their soft touches and slow roll of your pliant body to settle between them as sleep licked at your body, something settled inside your chest. Sure, they’d killed people, but they’d been right about what they said. Stephen deserved it, deserved what they did to him along with all the other boys who’d made you uncomfortable before meeting their ultimate demise. 

They’d done it all for you . . . because they loved you. 

Your lip twitched into a soft smile as you relaxed into the blanket Jack tossed over the three of you. 

“I love you both, too.” 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Morning light was the first thing to cause your closed eyelids to glow as your body slowly woke up. Instead of gently being lolled from your sleep, you became instantly aware of where you were and more importantly who you were between. Sometime after falling asleep, you’d managed to tuck yourself under Robby’s chin while Jack clung to your back, their shared heat making the bed feel like a furnace. You shifted. One leg slipping from between Jack’s, and your hips tilting away from Robby’s. 

Yet, you’d barely moved a few inches when Jack was the second to wake up. He muttered something sleepily before tightening his arms around your middle. 

“Don’t go,” he slurred, voice still thick with sleep. 

“I need to pee,” you whispered back, but all you really wanted was to retreat to the bathroom to wrap your mind around what had happened last night: their confessions, them fucking you, you confessing your love for both of them. If you stayed any longer, the dream of last night might become reality, and you weren’t ready to face the possibility that you might become their next victim. 

Robby shuffled slightly at your front and nuzzled his cheek into the top of your head. “Pee here. Pretty sure Jack’s into that,” he sighed, almost like he was seconds away from falling back asleep, however, his eyes shot open when Jack whacked him in the face with a spare pillow. 

“I don’t have a piss kink,” the redhead groaned, not even opening his hazel eyes. “I just think it’s hot.” 

“Then it constitutes as a piss kink, kid.” 

Jack pushed up with one arm while rapidly blinking the sleep away. “Can we not kink shame your boyfriend, please? We get one morning with her between us, and you start spouting bullshit nonsense.” 

“Guys,” you whined. “Enough.” Your head tilted down until your forehead connected with Robby’s chest. “Let’s just get this all over with.” 

Jack paused with another pillow mid-way in the air, fingers letting go to let it drop down to the bed. He slightly curled around your shoulder and tried to meet your eye. “Get over with what?” 

Robby twirled a piece of your hair around a finger. “What’s going on in that head, baby?” 

“I already know what will happen next. You’re going to tell me that last night was a fluke, and I’m about to show up on the news as another dead body,” you spat. “So, please, make it painless and get on with it.” 

Over your head, Robby and Jack shared a look of concern before Jack plastered himself along your back. 

“No, sweetheart, no,” he cooed. “That’s like the exact opposite of what’s going to happen. We weren’t lying when we said we loved you.” 

You shook your head and closed your eyes. You didn’t believe them. How could you after all they’ve done? 

“Listen, baby,” Robby started as he pushed back to make you look at him, “Jack and I love you so much, and the thought of us never being able to have you pushed us over the edge. It’s like an itch we can’t scratch unless we get rid of the problems.” 

“And the problems were all those boys who either thought they had a chance or made you uncomfortable by thinking you wanted them back,” Jack growled, and the noise went right to your core. “We fucking love you so much, and it was agony to see them hurt you, so we hurt them in return—like, take them out entirely.” 

“No one messes with you unless they want to mess with us,” Robby stated. “But we’d never hurt you, baby. I think we’d both rather kill the other if we ever did.” 

They both waited in silence for you to answer, and for a moment, they thought that you were able to push away, grab your clothes, and run out the door with how heavy you were breathing. But then, they both noticed the way your thighs shifted together, and it dawned on them that you were into this—them killing men just for you. 

“You really mean that?” you finally asked, voice meek and scared for them to laugh and yell psych! 

“We’d let you kill us if we didn’t, sweetheart” Jack said, voice steady and strong. “Our hearts beat only for the other and you.” He placed a kiss on your bare shoulder before lightly biting into your skin. 

Robby inhaled sharply. “We’ll stop . . . if you want us to. No more games, no more murders—” 

“Unless you want us to,” Jack added. “Say the word, and you’ll have a heart on a platter if you wish.” 

A loud groan rumbled through your chest, and your hips jutted back against Jack’s front. “You two can’t say stuff like that.” 

“Why not?” Robby asked, and you could hear the smirk in his words. 

“Becasuse—” You squeaked when Jack suddenly palmed at your breasts under the covers. “Because it makes me feel . . .”

“Good?” Jack filled in, but you shook your head. 

“Loved. It makes me feel loved, and it’s fucking crazy to say that, because you’re willing to murder people if I ask for it.” 

Your thighs parted when you felt Robby try to prod between them, and a lazy sigh exhaled from your lips as he slowly started to circle your clit through your puffy folds that were still slick from last night’s activities. 

“We’re willing to do a lot more than murder,” he muttered, lips pressing into every inch of your face. “But we have you now, and unless anyone thinks they can get through us, we won’t need to put any more bodies in the ground.” 

“Promise?” you asked with a pant catching the end of the word. 

“Promise,” Jack grunted, hips bucking into your ass. 

“Promise,” Robby echoed. 

“Okay, okay,” you said. “I was also telling the truth when I said that I loved you both. Just wanting to make it clear that this goes both ways.” 

“Good,” Jack said as he placed two hands on both sides of your hips. “Now, flip on your front. I wanna feel your cunt cum on my cock again.” 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · 

Night was not the best place to be hanging around a parking lot in the middle of Pittsburgh. Unfortunately for Brendon Park, he found himself doing just that around an hour after his shift ended at 9 pm, eyes narrowed at his slashed tires on his brand new Porsche. Someone had done this, and all he needed to do was wait for the stupid tow truck and security officer to come help him out. He could have left it for the morning and gotten an uber, but Park was a proud man. 

And yet, what did they say about pride? It commeth before the downfall. 

He was so busy huffing and puffing while stalking back and forth along his car that he failed to hear the twin footsteps rapidly approaching behind him. He didn’t even know he wasn’t alone until a white-hot pain in his side froze him in his tracks. His torso twisted, but that just dug the scalpel in deeper. He stumbled to get away, but all he was met with was another parallel stab to his other side. 

Automatically, Park applied pressure over the blood already soaking through his scrub top. He looked down and hissed before looking for his assailant. He squinted into the dark, and his breath hitched when twin robed figures stepped out into the small bit of light coming from a close to burning out lamp. It was almost like the two were from a slasher movie in the 90s with their hollowed-eyed halloween masks and glittering robes that donned their bodies, keeping Park from knowing who had just stabbed him twice. 

“What the fuck?” he hissed as he backed up into his Porsche’s driver door, hand trying to grip the handle but failing because of his blood’s slickness. “I’ll give you money or whatever the fuck you want but stay right over there or I swear I’ll call the cops.” 

One of them tilted his head, and Park felt the dead eyes stare right through his soul. 

He watched as the other—the taller one—raised a box to where his mouth would be behind the mask. 

“You wanna know what we want, Brendon Park?” he asked, voice distorted through the modulator. 

“I’ll give it to you,” Park grunted, the pain blooming up his sides and into his chest. They must have hit one of his kidneys and possibly an organ with how fast the anguish was spreading, making it hard to breathe in and out. 

The taller looked down at the shorter, and their eyes met before they nodded. Park’s eyes widened when they both produced longer knives than the shorter ones they stabbed him with. The modulator rose again, and what he said next sent a chill right through Park’s stomach. 

“We want to see what your insides look like.” 

Without a beat, the two robed figures pounced on him, and in just a few minutes, Park slunked down to the concrete, leaving a painted bloodied smear across his car’s door. With satisfaction pumping through their veins, the two watched as he took his last wheezing breath before dying in a puddle consisting of almost all his blood. His body wouldn’t be found until the morning with stab wounds littering his body. His fault for parking away from everyone else in fear of his car getting scratched. 

Only when the two were sure they were the only breathing beings in the lot, they ripped off the masks, and Jack huffed loudly. 

“Murder was so much easier in med school when I wasn’t missing a fucking leg,” he grumbled while shifting his weight onto his real leg. He ran a hand through his sweat-soaked salt-and-pepper curls.

“Tell me about it,” Robby answered. “If he were any shorter, my knees would have given out if I had to bend down.” He kicked at Park’s leg and smirked when the body recoiled slightly. “But man did that feel good.” 

“I’m kinda glad he decided to go off on her. Last mistake he’d ever make, but nothing beats the rush of this.” 

The memory of Park berating you in the middle of their ER flashed through their minds. They'd seen the way you flinched under his words in a way they hadn't seen in decades. They'd wanted to kill him right then and their, but Robby and Jack weren't ones to break their promises, however, the next time all three of you had the day off, you told them what you wanted between moans as Robby sandwiched you between his and Jack's chest.

"I want him gone," you had whimpered out, forehead pressing into Jack's collar bone while Robby rocked you back and forth on his cock.

"Want who gone, sweets?" Jack questioned before grunting loudly when his tip notched against your clit.

"Park—shit—I want him gone."

You wanted them to kill Park, and they were never ones to disappoint.

Robby went to say something, but the shrill of his iPhone had him digging and floundering through the drapes of robes. When he managed to bunch the fabric, he reached into his pocket and took out his phone, answering it without a second glance. 

“Hello? Michael Robinavitch speaking.” 

“Do you want to play a game?” a voice answered from the speaker, and the two glanced at each other with devilish, knowing smiles. 

“Depends on what type of game it is, sweetheart,” Jack responded, crossing his arms against his chest. 

“I wanna know how much it’ll take to make you two scream.” Your small laugh followed, you not being able to take this as seriously as the two had back in school. 

Robby brought his phone up closer to his mouth. “I don’t know the exact answer, but I think you can start with being naked and face down on the bed by the time we get back.” 

“I think that can be arranged. Get home soon, or I might have to play the game myself.” 

Spencer Reid is absolutely nothing like you’d thought he’d be.

From how the team talked about him, you’d been expecting a short, slight man. Someone quiet and meek and non-threatening.

And Dr. (Agent?) Reid was quiet. But not in the don’t-notice-me way, but in the I-know-what-I’m-doing-and-don’t-need-to-say-it way. He quietly commanded attention and respect. One look at the man told you he was not somebody to fuck with.

He was also really, really, really hot.

It was unfortunate and difficult, truly, because he’s your senior agent, someone who’s got more than a few years on you in both field experience and general age. He’s a genius- insanely good at what he does and there’s no refuting that.

But most of all, he’s kind and respectful and just genuinely a good person. And also good looking. Did you mention that yet?

He clicks seamlessly into place with the team in a way you’ve never managed to do in the time you’ve been with him. And after all, why would you? You’re just the rookie transfer with a bit higher than average IQ. Nothing to brag about. Nothing like Spencer.

You were a data analyst with the FBI before your boss told you: “The BAU is looking for a temporary genius. I put your name in the ring. Hotchner must’ve been impressed with something, cause he picked you. I know you’ve completed the training courses for their team, so pack your desk. You’ve got a new assignment.”

And just like that, every single one of your dreams came true. And then promptly burst into flames and burned to ashes when you realized what exactly your position on the team was: Temporary and replacing.

It makes sense, you guess. The team grew to rely on Reid’s quick wit and intellect. And beyond that, they’re an agent short. And you fit the bill well enough: swift and intelligent. Nothing more, nothing less. It became clear during the first few weeks that no one on the team had any intention of liking or particularly getting to know you beyond a professional capacity. And you get it, you really do. You don’t name the dog you’re gonna get rid of.

With the exception of Penelope. But you don’t think she has the ability to ignore someone without a clear reason.

So you did your job and you were good at it. Held the team at arm’s length even when they warmed up to you. Kept your head down, stuck to yourself. This way, it’s easier to stop yourself from leaning into JJ and Prentiss’s jokes, or to stamp down the glow in your chest from Hotch’s approval.

All of this hard work goes sailing straight out the window and spattering on the concrete below when Reid comes back. Because all it took was one case together- one. And then you’re hopelessly in love with the guy you replaced.

And it’s all kinds of terrible, because it’s Reid. He’s not only your coworker —soon to be ex, because now that he’s back you’ll be out of a job— but he’s also so incredibly out of your league it’s not even funny. But he keeps smiling at you and including you in conversations and saying hi to you and asking your opinion on things during cases as if you would have more to add than he does.

It’s very hard to keep him at arms length. And because Reid is Reid he drags everybody else over with him and then you’re bonding with a team you have a week left with, maybe two.

Spencer Reid has weaseled his way into your life one stupid smile at a time.

—

The case is going terribly.

What started as a run-of-the-mill serial killer case in some nowhere town turned into huge investigation because Spe— Reid figured out its relation to a cold case from a neighboring town decades prior. And then, to top everything off, just so happens to be near enough to your hometown that your mom saw you on the news when JJ was giving a statement.

And now she won’t stop calling.

Prior to this, you haven’t talked to your mom in about seven months. Now? She’s calling upwards of twelve times a day.

“Mom,” You say, tucked in one of the police stations back rooms, pinching the bridge of your nose, “I’m working, I can’t just come out to see you—“

“But you’ve never visited! And your finally in town, and—“

“I’m not in town, I’m a four hour drive away from town.”

A sigh crackles through the line, her voice tinny. “You know, your brother always made time to visit family, and your younger brothers—“

“Are younger than me and more successful, yes mom, I’ve heard it all before. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m trying to catch a serial killer.”

You snap the phone shut before she can protest, effectively ending the call. You sag against the wall, sighing deep and weary. Exhaustion clings to your bones. It’s not just your mom. This case, being physically close to your hometown, everything— it’s weighing you down. You spend more time in the hotel bed tossing and turning than sleeping.

Even Em— Prentiss had shot you look when you’d came in this morning- though jury’s still out about whether or not it was an are-you-okay look or a you-better-be-good-for-the-case look. You’re hoping it’s the former.

The room you’re in is empty- the precinct that called for the team went under renovation and remodeling last year, so some of the rooms have fallen into disuse, apparently. It’s dusty, and filled with boxes and papers and weirdly, one or two condom wrappers. You wish you were surprised.

Your phone has been put strongly on silent, and you’re not expecting anyone to find you for at least twenty minutes. Of course, you don’t need twenty minutes. You just need five.

You just need to collect yourself for a moment. A few minutes to breathe, to get your mom’s words and the unpleasant memories they bring out of your head; to will the shake out of your hands and the cold creeping in your lungs.

So when the door opens, you nearly jump out of your skin.

Spencer walks in, phone clasped in one hand and a worried expression on his face.

“We’re getting ready to give the profile.”

“Oh,” You peel yourself off the wall, discreetly wiping at your face. You hadn’t noticed the frustrated tears carving lines down your face, “Sorry, I’m coming.”

He frowns as you come closer, and panic begins to beat like a drum in your chest.

“Is Hotch upset? I just had to take a call, I thought it would—“

“Slow down,” He says, raising his hands. “Hotch isn’t upset. Is something wrong?”

“No,” You say quickly, too quickly, because his frown deepens.

“You’ve been taking a lot more calls recently and you’re always upset after they’re over. Is someone bothering you?”

You sigh, rubbing at your face. “My mom. We’re a four hour drive away from my hometown. She saw me on the news when JJ gave her statement.”

Something flashes in his eyes when you say your mother, but it’s gone before you can decipher it.

“You don’t want to see her.”

He says it flat-toned and blank. Like it’s a fact.

It is a fact.

“No,” You confess, “I’ve never been close with my parents. I haven’t spoken to her beyond a text in years, and I haven’t texted her in months. Then she sees me on the news and I’m back on her radar again.”

You chuckle, but there’s no humor in it. “Oh, the folly of the disappointing daughter.”

He tilts his head, questioning. “You’ve made something of yourself. You’re a special agent. That’s not nothing.”

“Yeah, well. It’s not Doctor or Lawyer or C.E.O or anything else my brothers or cousins have made of themselves, so,” You shrug. “Disappointing.”

“Well that’s stupid,” Spencer says, a small curl to his lips, “You keep all of those stupid people safe by catching serial killers.”

“You’re a doctor. Did you just call yourself stupid?”

He shrugs, mimicking your earlier action. “I’m not that kind of doctor.”

You look down to hide the smile on your face but he ducks down, catching it anyway.

“Hey,” He says, eyes catching yours, “If you want to talk, you know where to find me.”

You (hesitantly) look up to meet his gaze. “Thanks, Reid.”

His face does something weird. Contorts at the words, just for a second. Like he just bit into something sour.

And then it’s gone.

“Of course.”

—

For the rest of the case, everytime your phone rings, Spencer looks at you. You’re getting close to just throwing the damn thing off a roof, if it’ll convince him to stop looking at you like that. You don’t know what to do with it. The look he gives you tastes like worry, and you don’t know what to do about Spencer Reid worrying about you.

You never meet his gaze. You know he’s looking, but you never look back.

Finally, the case comes to an end. Actually, it goes out in a literal blaze of glory— the unsub lights his kill shed on fire.

All of it would have burned to ash if you hadn’t run into the structure and and snatched the murder weapon and the most damning pieces of evidence: the printed photographs the unsub took with the victims.

It’s a win because you saved the evidence.

It’s a loss because Hotch looks pissed while the paramedics check you over.

Well. You assume he looks pissed. You’re staring resolutely at your shoes.

Finally, the paramedic gives you the all clear —just some minor burns here and there, you got lucky— and you no longer have a human buffer and excuse to avoid talking.

The silence stretches out between you two. Eventually, you cave.

“Hotch, I’m sorry—“

He holds a hand up and you clamp your jaw shut.

“Did you not hear me give the order to stay back?”

“I just thought—“

“We are a team, agent. I need to be able to trust not only that you’re going to follow my orders but be able to work together with the team. Now, you’re not doing either of those things.”

You frown. “I do follow your orders.”

He sighs. “You didn’t today. And more importantly, you’re not acting like a member of this team. You don’t call for backup. You don’t ask for help. You do good profiling work, agent. But if you can’t work with this team then we might need to reconsider your position here.”

That… doesn’t make any sense.

Hotch catches the confusion on your face. “Something wrong, agent?”

“I just— I was under the impression that I would only be working with the team for a few more weeks…?”

Now it’s his turn to look confused. “You may have been hired at an inopportune time, and until the first year is over it is a probationary basis, but pending review, you are and always have been a permanent member of this unit.”

You blink. “Oh.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “You didn’t think you’d be staying for long.”

You shake your head, your world turned on its head.

He hums. “You should buy earplugs. Rossi snores.”

You drop your head into your hands.

“And agent?”

You look up.

“You did good work today. You have a team. Learn to use them.”

He walks away, leaving you to process this crisis-inducing information.

So. You’re not leaving the team. You’re a profiler. Forever. This is your job now.

So does that mean you weren’t replacing Spencer? So why were you hired? Anything you can do multiple people on the team can do better. Why would Hotch pick you?

You stare at the pavement, which gives you a perfect view to watch Spencer’s shoes walk into view and hear him settle next to you.

“You’re a little young to be having a mid-life crisis.”

It takes you an embarrassingly long time to respond, partly because you’re not sure what to say, but also, the length of his thigh is pressed against yours and it’s hard to think when he’s emanating warmth and you can’t stop yourself from thinking about how it would feel to touch, skin to skin.

“Well,” You croak, “I did just get some pretty big news.”

He leans back on his hands, raising an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Looking up at him was a mistake. Bathed in the glow of the ambulance and the light from the moon, you can see just how long his eyelashes are, and how his lips move when he says your name.

Oh shit.

“Sorry, what?”

His face twitches in a smile. “I asked if you were okay. You were staring.”

You flush from your neck to the tips of your ears. “Sorry. It’s been a long day. I’m fine. I was just thinking.”

“About?”

See, he always does this. Most people would end the conversation there and move on. And that’s fine. It’s normal. But Spencer asks. Like he’s interested.

You shrug. “I thought… I thought I was leaving the team in a few weeks. Turns out i’m staying.”

He starts swinging his legs on the edge of the ambulance, though where his almost brush the ground, yours swing several inches above it. “Why did you think you were leaving?”

You laugh softly. “My boss told me the position was temporary. And in my excitement of getting it I may or may not have… not read the paperwork?”

He clicks his tongue. “Oh, honey.”

The tips of your ears burn. “I was excited!”

“To get a job staring at gruesome crime photos?”

“To help people.”

“What? Data analysis not helping people enough?”

“Do I even have to answer that?”

He snorts, his body shaking against yours. “You’re a consulting analyst. That’s the big leagues.”

Now it’s your turn to huff. “Is there a big leagues for data analysis?”

He leans his head down to look at you. “Well, maybe miss smarty-pants over here made a league of her own.”

The shade of red you turn must be visible, dark and bad lighting aside. “You have an IQ of 187. Can you really call me a smarty-pants?”

He tilts his head, giving you an assessing look. You recognize it. He gives case files the same look.

A faint shudder runs down the length of your spine at that precise, clinical gaze.

It should concern you, unnerve you.

It doesn’t.

“No, I’m positive. You’re a smarty-pants.”

You look away, unable to hold the intensity of his gaze.

“Hey, no. Come on, you gotta own up to being a smarty-pants. Otherwise you ruin the effect.”

“Am I supposed to start wearing sweaters and Converse, then?”

“Well, that wouldn’t be owning the smarty-pants look.”

“Do we have to keep the smarty-pants thing going?”

“Took your mind off the burns, didn’t it?”

You blink, realizing that you haven’t noticed the dull sting of the minor burns littering your body for a few minutes now.

But that has less to do with Spencer speaking and more to do with the fact that he’s here. Touching you. If you focus really hard, you can feel the chords of muscle lining his arm.

“Uh,” You stutter, momentarily flabbergasted by the way he’s looking at you. Like it’s important to him— you not being in pain. “Yeah, yeah, I guess. Well. I feel them now.”

“Oh, shame. I guess we’ll just have to keep talking.”

You furrow your brows. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be? Shouldn’t you be helping finish wrapping up the case?”

He shrugs. “I’m right where I want to be.”

That’s a decidedly very loaded statement that are not going to unpack.

You’re not going to unpack to jolt of pure electricity you feel from it, either.

—

You may or may not have lied about just how sick you were, exactly.

“You know,” Rossi says after you hack a cough into your elbow for what has to be the fiftieth time in as many minutes, “That’s starting to sound less like the plague and more like desperation.”

You sniff harshly, taking a swig of cough syrup and praying this isn’t the king with codeine in it. You didn’t read the label very well. “What do you mean?”

Prentiss raises an eyebrow. “He’s saying that most people on their veritable death/bed opt to sleep comfortably in their own beds in their own homes rather than on a plane to hunt down a violent killer.”

You think if your apartment— it’s cozy, at least, but still a glaring reminder of the reason you told Hotch you were fine to come in- loneliness.

You have heated blankets and warm lighting and books and tea —boxes and boxes of tea— and all manner of things that make you happy. But no amount of things can replace, tangible human connection.

You knew the ache of spending the day in your apartment would sting worse than the cold. Fever, Whatever you have.

“I’m thinking of a word,” JJ says, mock tapping her chin thoughtfully, “Starts with work, ends with holic.”

“I am not a workaholic,” you wheeze. “I am fine.”

“Yes,” Prentiss says, raising her other eyebrow. Oh no. Not the double eyebrow raise. “Because this is exactly what the picture of health looks like.”

To avoid answering, you take another swig of cough medicine.

“Just do you know,” Spencer says, “You’re about one tiny sip of that away from overdosing. I’d cool it on the cough syrup.”

“But I’m still coughing.”

“Have you given it any time to work?”

“It’s been thirty-ish minutes since I took the first dose.”

He levels you with a look at your usage of dose. “Why don’t you wait a little longer before committing suicide via shallow breathing and seizures.”

You wave a hand. “It’s fine. I know how to take care of myself when I’m sick.”

“Is your version of taking care of yourself just continuously taking medicine until the symptoms become bearable?”

“You’re un-bearable.” You snort at your play on words, but grow quiet because when you look up, the entire team is looking at you. “What?”

“You never joke.” JJ says.

“And I think I’ve heard you laugh exactly two times, and I’m pretty sure one of them was a sneeze.” Rossi says, a look of vague disbelief on his face.

You squirm in place. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Uh, yeah it is. You’re definitely too sick to be on a case if you’re laughing.”

“Come on, it was barely a chuckle—“

Spencer looks around. “Yeah, what’s the big deal? I’ve heard her laugh before.”

JJ and Prentiss snap their heads to him in tandem. “What?”

Now he looks vaguely uncomfortable. “I just don’t get why it’s such a big deal.”

“That’s cause you showed up late to the party,” Em- Prentiss says, “You didn’t meet her when she first came. She was all genius consulting data analyst.”

“I wouldn’t call myself a genius—“

“Yeah,” JJ chimes in, “I only ever saw her smile to be polite.”

“Wait,” Prentiss says, brows pinched, “You heard her laugh and you didn’t tell us? You knew we were trying to see who would make her break first.”

“You guys were trying to make me laugh? Is that what was happening all that time? I almost called Hotch like, thirty times because I was concerned for you guy’s mental wellbeing. I thought you’d had a nervous breakdown.”

JJ snorts. “Nope. Just tried to see if the rumors were true about all data analysts being robots.”

You cough into your elbow. “You guys make it seem like I was some sort of frigid bitch.”

“Frigid, yes. Bitch, no.”

“Hey!” You retort, then wince as the volume of your own voice makes your head pound harder and makes your throat sting worse, “I wasn’t that bad. Also, I was nervous! I’m the youngest person here by like, a long shot. I wanted to be professional.”

“I for one enjoyed it,” Rossi cuts in, “It was all blunt business. Straight to the point. No beating around the bush or gossiping. A few people here could learn a thing or two.”

“See?” You gesture. “Rossi agrees with me.”

Just about everyone on the plane gives you the exact same look. Hotch especially, who’s stayed silent during the entire exchange, looks troubled.

Once you land (an ordeal that normally doesn’t bother you, but today, had you worshipping the porcelain altar) Hotch pulls you aside.

“Agent,” He says before you climb into the car that’ll take you to the police precinct, “I can’t have an agent not at peak performance on this case.”

You frown. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying you’re too sick to work this case—“

“No, no, I can work, I can do it—“

“—In the field. You’re working from the station until we wrap up. Understood?”

You sigh, knowing when you’re beat. “Understood.”

He gazes at you for a second. “You might want to call out of work entirely the next time you’re sick, you know. The less time you spend resting the longer it’ll take to get better. I expect to see you taking care of yourself at the precinct.”

You blink. “Are you… dad-ing me?”

He almost smiles. “Well, I am a father. It’s bound to come out sometimes.”

The joke soothes your concerns of him being upset with you (again.) You suppose it would’ve been warranted —Hotch never gets upset without a reason— but still. He’s the only one you occasionally struggle to read.

The good news is by the time you make it to the station, your medicine has kicked in.

The bad news is when you get to the station your medicine has kicked in.

“Spencer,” You say, spinning in a spinny chair and staring at his blurry face. “Did you know that elephants have prehensile—“

“Do not finish that sentence.” He says, glancing back at the team, all in various stages of concern, disgust, amusement, and annoyance. “Did you take non-drowsy cough medicine?”

“Yes! I didn’t want to be tired.”

He scrubs a tired hand down his face, then nudges a sealed water bottle across the table to you. “Drink that.”

You wrinkle your nose. “But my throat hurts.”

“Drink it anyway.”

You snatch the water bottle, grumbling the whole time as you crack the seal and gulp down the water, not realizing how thirsty you were until this very second.

You lean your forehead on the table head still pounding from the pressure in your sinuses. You feel a prickle in the back of your neck, signifying that the team is still staring at you.

With great effort, you lift your head, tilting your chin up and trying to summon all the self confidence you don’t actually have.

“I am making a fool of myself. Please disregard my actions until I am no longer ill. This won’t happen again.”

Words are hard. Speaking is hard. With a groan, you drop your head back on your arm.

“Ah, there she is.”

“Knew that laugh had to be a fluke.”

“Cold medicine must be working.”

There are other mutterings about stubborn geniuses and workaholics and data analysis and Spencer staying at the station and—

You snap your head up. “I’m fine. I don’t need a baby-sitter. Spencer would be most useful in the field. He’s one of the best shot’s on the team.”

“And when it comes to needing a marksman I won’t hesitate to get him,” Hotch says, “But for now, I need my two geniuses to put their heads together to solve this case.”

Feeling cowed, you avoid Spencer’s gaze as the team files out of the room you’ve all set up in, instead grabbing a file from the center of the table. You really are being stupid. You should’ve stayed home, now you’re a liability, not to mention a walking biohazard. Fuck, why couldn’t you just think before you—

“I can hear you spiraling from over here.”

You lift your gaze, eyeing Spencer who hasn’t even put down the case file he’s reading.

You look back down. “I wasn’t spiraling.”

“You’re really going to lie to a profiler?”

“We’re both profilers.”

“Yeah, well, you have an obvious tell when you’re worrying about something.”

“I do not!”

You hear the quiet shuffling of papers.

A sigh leaves your lips, and you press the heels of your hands to your eyes. “I’m really sorry, Spe— Reid. I didn’t mean to drag you here with me.”

If he notices your slip up, he doesn’t give any indication of it.

“Who said anything about dragging?”

“I know you’re a germaphobe, and I’m a walking biohazard, and now you’re stuck here going over case files and, and I’m a liability right now—“

“Slow down,” He says, interrupting your slew of word vomit. His voice has dropped an octave, gaining a richer note. You should stop thinking about his voice. “I’m fine. You’re fine. The team is more worried than upset. You’re not the first person to come to work sick. And you won’t be the last.”

“They keep staring at me.”

“Because your current state and manner of behavior are disrupting their pre-conceived notions and set opinions of your character.”

You scrunch your nose. “Don’t get all clinical on me,”

You hear a small huff of laughter across the table. “I’ve come to work far worse than hopped up on cold medicine, believe me. Don’t worry about it. Just focus on working the case.”

Slowly, the itching under your skin settles, and you manage to swallow the lump in your throat. Eventually, you peel your hands away from your face and do what he says.

Hours pass by in a blur of text and you and Spencer occasionally either bouncing ideas off each other or making small breakthroughs. Spencer handles the relay of information because you can’t really go more than three full sentences without hacking up a lung. Seriously, what is cough syrup good for?

Sometime past midday, you start flagging. The words start blending and smushing together and your head gets harder and harder to hold up. You’re jolting yourself back awake every five minutes, forcing your body to just bear through the illness for the sake of productivity. You got yourself into this mess, you deal with the consequences.

You’re just… so tired. Maybe you’ll close your eyes, just for a few minutes. To get energy. And then you can get back to the case.

Just for a few minutes.

—

“She out?”

“Like a light. Powered through for a lot longer than I expected. But dextromethorphan gets us all in the end.”

A low whistle. “Poor kid. The ‘proving yourself to the team’ phase is rough.”

A hum. “I think it’s more than that.”

A beat passes.

“You got her?”

“Yeah,” Something soft and good smelling, like pine and coffee and something almost rich settles over your shoulders, “Yeah, I got her.”

—

When you wake, your neck is sore but you’re not cold, which is strange considering you remember falling asleep in a table.

Oh god you fell asleep on the table.