we ride at dawn, oomf

And it hadn't been a peck or even just a few seconds where you immediately realized your mistake. No, you had pushed him up against a wall and kissed him with seemingly every ounce of desire you possessed. You left no room for misinterpretation.

Admittedly, while drunk, you'd been overly physically affectionate for what felt like hours. Running fingers over his, squeezing his arm as you passed, lingering, longing gazes.

There had always been a playfulness between you. You'd been working in the Pitt for nearly a decade and so there was a familiarity. You would ocassionally flirt and he would flirt back. But it had always been harmless. It had never crossed the line.

But as you were outside getting some air, he'd followed you out. Leaned down and whispered in your ear, "I'm tired of pretending that I don't want you."

And something inside you snapped. You were also sick of pretending you didn't want him, didn't think about him when you were alone. You pressed your hands firmly against his chest until his back hit the wall and kissed him fervently. For a moment or two, he seemed in shock, and then he was kissing you back, both of his hands reaching up to cradle your face.

It was the best kiss you'd had in years. You couldn't kiss him deeply enough to satisfy your want and when you licked into his mouth, tongue stroking against his, the sound and feel of him moaning into your mouth had you feeling completely feral.

Then, just as quickly, rational thought reappeared in your brain. It seemed to politely tap you on the shoulder and say, Hello Ms. Girl, remember when you said you were done with fuckboys? Why are you making out with the attending most well known for sleeping around?

And it felt like a bucket of ice cold water was dumped over your head, "Oh—Fuck me—" You pushed yourself off him, "I—I have to go."

Stunned, he watched you go for a second, then laughed and trailed after you, "Excuse me?"

You couldn't meet his eye, "I said, I have to go. I'll miss my bus."

"I'll take you home."

"I don't get in the car with people who've been drinking."

"Then I'll call us both an Uber."

Finally, you laughed, "I am not going home with you, Robby."

Then his hand was around your wrist and he tugged until you spun back to him. Not forcefully enough to hurt, but enough that you stumbled back into his chest. Enough that your breath comingled with his, his exhales forced directly into your open mouth. The taste of him, the smell of him nearly made your knees buckle. It had been a long time since you'd felt that somersault in your stomach at someone's closeness.

"Don't kiss me like that and pretend it means nothing." The yearning dripped off his words like morning dew, landed sweetly on your tongue.

You swallowed and then your eyes pulled up from his mouth to his brown eyes, begging you to drown in their pools of honey.

But you were not a fly. You would not be so easily ensnared. You straightened your spine and pulled away from him again, "Goodnight, Robby." You tossed over your shoulder before marching away from him.

"This isn't over!" He called after you, "If you think I'll forget about this, I won't! We'll circle back on Monday!"

You couldn't help the smirk that twisted your mouth upwards. Despite your reservations, the possibility of being pursued by Michael Robinavitch thrilled you.

He smirks and shakes his head playfully. “Oh come on, it’s my one night off! Let me have this. Besides, game’s not over yet.”

“Okay fiiine, but it’s gonna cost you!” You lean away from him toward the coffee table and start to ritualistically pack a bowl for your bong. Grant keeps watching the game; meanwhile, you get up and walk toward the cabinet where you keep your booze. You grab a bottle of whiskey and a shot glass and bring them to the coffee table. You pour out a single shot and set the glass next to the packed bong, then rest your beer bottle on the space beside them. 

“Babyy,” you coo at him to grab his attention. 

“Yeah?” Grant looks up at you with those hazel eyes that trigger a Pavlovian response between your legs. Like, it’s on sight. 

“If I’m gonna go through the torture of sitting through this game, you’re gonna have to do a strikeout with me!”

Grant looks confused for a sec. “Is that… baseball related?”

“I dunno, maybe once upon a time, but—” you lean over toward the coffee table, pop a potato chip into your mouth, and begin to demonstrate, pointing at each of the steps to the process. “Okay, so, first you rip the bong, then, while holding your breath, you chug the rest of your beer and take a shot. Then you blow it out. How’s that sound?”

“You trying to kill this old man?” Grant’s gives you a face that could only read as what the fuck. The lines on his face deepened. You wanted to lick them. 

“Oh come on, you’re not that old! Or else we’re switching to the acrobatic soap opera of greasy buff dudes in tighty-whities.”

“You just wanna get me intoxicated so you can get in my pants.”

“Please. You’d let me get in them sober.”

“True.” Grant leans over and plants a light kiss on your lips. “Mm, juicy.” 

“Wait no ew my phlebotomist called my vein juicy today it was so weird.”

Grant laughed because everything you say is funny to him. “Okay, show me how you do this.”

So you demo it for him and it’s super easy for you. You’re basically just flexing your lung capacity when you nonchalantly go through the motions of a fat bong hit, chugging the rest of your lagger, taking a swig of Oban single malt scotch, and blowing a thick cloud of sativa smoke that was the same color as Grant’s tight salt and pepper hair. At the same time, Abreu hits a two-RBI single and gets the Sox on the board.

“See, babe? Like it’s hard?” You teased in your best Elle Woods impression before letting out a cough. “Okay baby it’s your turn… maybe it’s a Schrodinger’s Cat situation and you doing a perfect strikeout will get us another run or two.”

Grant scoffs in a way that says this is ridiculous but he’s game because he will literally do anything for you. That man praises the ground you walk on.

At least this is GOOD whiskey, you think while pouring his shot. It smelled like the Highlands.

He executes his strikeout perfectly and that actually shocks you. You were kinda expecting him to cough right after the beer. Instead he looks so hot and smug, blowing his own cloud of smoke at you. 

“Did you know…” Grant says while you watch him dissolve into the high. “...when you smoke from a bong you’re using all four elements? That’s fucking awesome.”

Then he's looking into your eyes again and you share a bloodshot gaze, smiling goofily at each other. On TV, the Yankees struck out with the bases loaded. But suddenly that didn't matter. 

There was only one person he wanted to run the bases with.

2026 | thedivinegirlyp0p — do not feed this to any ai tool for any reason or else i will pray for ur sorrowful demise. replies and reblogs are my besties <3

You weren’t sure how long it took you to realize the smoke was real. You’d already experienced a few false flags today, like thinking you could hear someone addressing you or calling out your name, only to recall that those voices belonged to people who were long dead and gone. So that couldn’t be possible, right? Besides, you were wrapped in the softest sheets and you’ve now tried several times to count how many individual threads made up the luxurious quilt that had you wrapping yourself into a burrito and rolling back and forth across your king-sized bed. 

When the day started, you had everything planned out. It was your first free day in months, and you’d planned to celebrate the last successful job with a much-deserved bender. The paper tabs were properly dosed and tested for safety. Your room was decked out in everything you needed to stay hydrated, create, or meditate as needed. Terry, your best friend and emergency contact, was fast asleep in the basement with instructions in case anything went askew during your trip. A couple of blunts and a fifth of Henny waited for you at the end of it. 

But—right, smoke. Smoke?

You stepped onto the patio with an unlit cigarette and tapped its filter against the railing a few times, feeling the echo of the miniscule crumbs of crushed tobacco tumbling through as you packed it down. A flick of the flint wheel was a millisecond that stretched into a fireworks show. Eyes closed when the flame appeared. Eyes opened, and you’d smoked it down to the butt. How much time had passed?

Wait, wrong smoke. Wrong flame. This wasn’t what you came outside to do. You looked up and to the right, and there it was: a black column in the sky, coming from next door. Maybe the Codys were having a bonfire or something. But a bonfire wouldn’t smell so hostile, and why the hell hadn’t Craig invited you over if that was the case? … and how could they have a bonfire where the pool’s supposed to be? 

The asphalt melded against the soles of your shoes as you walked out of your house. You figured you’d see how the party was going, if there was a party, since you were in a partying mood anyway, and depending on how much time you had left, being at a party with other people shouldn’t be as scary as it could have been while you were coming up. You knew it was best not to look at your phone, or at any mirrors, or even clocks if you could help it, in case more relics of your past returned to haunt you and made all this an extra bad ride. 

Before stepping out of your back door, you grabbed a small go-bag anyway. 

You smelled the smoke before you saw the flames. You saw the flames before you felt the heat. There was so much heat—and no clear entrances besides the one in the backyard by the pool. Less than a mile away, an alarm blared through the fire station and ten members of the fire department packed into two trucks headed your way. On the other side of town, four local police units were called to a fire at the Cody compound. Feds were likely on their way as well. You didn’t know this for sure but that’s what this raving inferno was dancing about. 

Through the back entrance, your vision turned into a pinhole singularly focused on one subject. The sight was sobering. Definitely real. 

Pope Cody, Smurf’s eldest son, limped out of a room he may have set ablaze. You saw as he collapsed in slow motion until he was slumped and bloody and alone, lying next to the pool as the house around him, the Cody kingdom, burned like the Library of Alexandria, like Persepolis, or Ancient Rome under Nero. Tufts of smoke from inside the house blasted through glass windows, and you could trace its path as it entered Pope’s nostrils and spread through his lungs and bloodstream. You ran toward him, and while closing the distance felt like a marathon you got to him eventually. In the corner of your eye you thought you saw a body, but your brain ignored it, razor-focused on a single goal for once. There was blood, and you weren’t sure where it was coming from. Crimson dissipated from his body like clouds into the water. 

He was bleeding out, but he was breathing. But he was bleeding the fuck out. 

You splashed some pool water on your face to be sure this wasn’t some other trick your mind was playing on you. Ferrous notes in the amber droplets confirmed it.

You crouched next to him and pinched every layer of his shoulder and repeated his name multiple times. “Pope. Pope? Pope! Where is everyone? We need to get you out of here before the cops come.” 

“No, don’t—” Pope stirred, dark opal eyes and a defeated expression like he was personally dragging himself to death’s doorstep. He didn’t seem to be in a rush. “Leave me here. Leave me here to die.”

“Well you’re shit out of luck, Andrew Cody,” you said, fingers scanning his neck, searching for a pulse.  “...cos it looks like I have to save your life.” 

His pulse was thready at best.

“Get—” 

“Stop talking.” You heaved an exasperated sigh and wagered the additional “fuck” under your breath was too quiet for him to hear.

On closer inspection you saw where a bullet tore through the right side of his abdomen, so he was bleeding on two sides; that had its pros and cons. Working quickly, you propped him upright, unzipped your go-bag and packed some gauze into the exit wound. You unbuttoned your shirt and threw it over your head, then wrapped it across his side so you could have something for both sides of his body. Pope’s hand which had dipped into the blood-soaked pool was now holding the top of your shirt against the bullet wound. You tamped down on his hand to signal pressure. 

“Please, Pope. Hold this. Keep that right there—do as I say.”

His eyes started to gloss over, wordless, and holding him there felt like you were witnessing his physical heart as it struggled to stay in motion. 

Time slowed while your hand was on top of Pope’s, and you watched your flesh melt onto his. For a brief moment it was as if his breathing and yours were the same breath. As if you felt his pain, felt the warmth slowly escaping his body as his blood continued to spill, creating red trails along the tile on its way to the pool. You were no saint, and neither was Pope, but holding onto this man while watching the life drain out of him ignited something within you. There was no other option but to do everything you could to save his life.

“Stay with me, Pope!”

Then with your brain’s sudden upload of hawklike abilities you darted around what little of the compound wasn’t engulfed in flames or covered in shards of broken glass to find anything that could help you get this beautiful, dying man in motion, still breathing, and out of there.

When Pope Cody woke up hours later, the sirens that crescendoed while the emergency cavalries pulled up to the Cody compound had already died out. The crowd of curious spectators and press vans had since thinned. He was now in a room that was nearly silent, save for the synthetic crashing of waves that played on loop through a single speaker. 

At first he couldn’t see too clearly, mainly because of your offset angle while sleeping parallel to him, but it didn’t take long before Pope recognized you. He remembered you from a few of his brothers’ house parties, and he’d even spoken to you once or twice. If he recalled correctly, you were Craig’s friend, the one who liked to give him a bit of a show when his younger brother picked you up while celebrating another winning round of beer pong. You liked to wear that short pink dress that always rode up a little and never failed to catch Pope’s eye. He noticed you, and he always noticed you noticing him. You had that smile that was coy and mischievous and oddly inviting. You never once looked at him oddly, or like you were scared of him, even when everyone else at the party seemed to be. 

Then he remembered what he’d done, how he’d set it—the living room, the kitchen, his room, his brothers’ rooms—all on fire. After expending most of his energy on J and eventually letting him go, Pope was done. The guilt over what happened with Julia, over allowing his mother to use him the way she did all his life, washed over him like the surf against jagged rocks along the coast. He didn’t know where Craig and Deran had gone, probably dead or arrested, but Pope knew for sure he’d had enough. He held the gas can and doused everything in petroleum, ready to end it all, himself included. He remembered walking toward the pool, that photo of him and Julia in hand, before the darkness finally collected its dues. 

Pope didn’t expect to wake up.

In a way, he didn't want to. 

He started to make sense of the sterile white space surrounding him. It was neither Hell nor Heaven, but a mysterious room that smelled like lavender and antiseptic and looked like something between a clinic, an interrogation room, and the sunken living room of his family home. He tried to sit up and look out the window and maybe figure out where he was in relation to the compound. He tried to move his hands, only to learn he was not only handcuffed to what looked like a single sized hospital bed from the 20th century, a vein in his right arm was also connected to an IV drip and he had several bandages around his torso. He had no idea where he was, where anyone was, or what the person sleeping in the daybed across the room had to do with any of this. 

Where was he, why were you here, and what did you want from him?

When Pope Cody woke up, you were still asleep. 

So he did what he did best: he watched you. 

And he waited.

Pope’s eyes were still fixed on you by the time you finally woke up. The sight of him was jarring enough that the realization activated your instinct to sit upright, pointing your gun at his chest but remembering the state of his condition made you lower your guard just as quickly. He mirrored your tension and relaxed when you did. 

“Good morning,” you greeted him, rubbing your eyes. There was a general malaise about your body as you grounded yourself back onto reality, no doubt an aftereffect of your depleted serotonin from the day before. “Welcome back to the land of the living, Pope Cody. Congratudolences.”

“This isn’t a hospital,” Pope said, unblinking. It wasn't a question . “You law enforcement?”

“I’m just the girl next door.” You tilted your head at him with a coy smile. Behind the brick wall of his glare you could sense his confusion. “No, really, we’re right next door to your family’s compound. What’s left of it, anyway. And no, not law enforcement.”

Pope tugged at his handcuffs. “Then why do I feel like a prisoner?”

You forgot about those.

“Oh, yes—” you reached into your pocket to retrieve a pair of chrome keys and approached one side of the bed. “These were honestly just a precaution in case you decided to run off before I could catch you up on everything. Because I’m not sure you remember, but you were shot quite a few times.”

“I can see that,” he grunted, glancing at the bandages on his torso, and in doing so noticed he didn’t have any clothes on under the blanket. They’d been soaked in blood, and you had to cut them off his body before you treated him to avoid infection.

“Well, one of them went through and through too, so,” you continued. “You really do need to take the time to rest. Recovery might take a while, and I don’t think you’re the type to turn up at a real hospital if you can help it.”

He shook against the cuff on his left wrist to draw your focus. Your hands hovered over the lock on his wrist’s side of the cuffs and said, “Please don’t put me in a headlock when I unlock this. I’m only trying to help you. Promise?”

Pope’s brow curled in an attempt to cover the sting of his wounds. He couldn’t hurt you if he tried. “Yeah, promise.”

You turned the key and slowly unclasped the metal cuff off his wrist. Pope barely moved. You rested one hand over his bandaged arm.

“Take it easy with this one,” you instructed him, raising and lowering his wrist carefully before walking to the other side of the bed. 

“Did—did you pull me out of there all by yourself?” Pope clutched across his torso with his free arm. He wasn’t sure if you were working alone, with someone else, or for someone in particular. 

“Yes, I did.”

“How?”

“I got creative.” 

In reality, you were blasted off to space and could barely remember, either. You could really only recall discrete vignettes of the night before. Rolling Pope along the nearest set of wheels so he could get to your house. Making a premature phone call before the end of your trip to move him to the dining table and then to this bed. You weren’t sure how Pope would react if he knew what state you were in when you treated his bullet wounds.

“But why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did you do that?”

You paused before unlocking the handcuff on his right.

“It’s kind of a funny story, really,” you told him flatly. “Turns out I’m the kind of idiot who runs toward a burning building while tripping on research chemicals. I’m sure someone from the legendary Cody family will make it up to me. So… you’re welcome.”

He couldn’t tell if you were joking, and even you were only half sure. 

“Well, maybe I didn’t want you to pull me out of there. It’s over. It’s all gone.” Pope’s voice broke into a whimper, and you were surprised when his hand reached for your forearm. His grip tightened, though still weak, but it wasn’t out of anger. “I should be dead.”

Your expression shifted into a sneer. “So, fun update for you while you were sleeping. As of right now, you, Pope Cody, are presumed dead. They found a body that got incinerated after the grill exploded during the fire, and it sounds like they’re saying it was you.”

“How do you know that?” Pope’s voice was gruff, like his words had to evade stalactites in your throat before they came out.

“I have my sources,” you replied. Pope clutched across his chest again, winced again, his face squeezing into itself. A patch of blood had seeped through the gauze. “Shit, we should probably change those up. One sec.”

You sauntered to the other side of the room toward the wood and glass cabinet you used to store medical supplies. While its contents were alphabetically organized by function and name on any other day, your altered state the night before made sure you'd be dealing with the absolute opposite. Syringes sat next to blood bags, vials of ketamine next to antiseptic bottles set on top of sterile gauze, vials of morphine from Tijuana you'd have to deal with later. Tucked into the second row, middle-right shelf you eventually found the little black caboose where you stashed an array of pain pills that had miraculously stayed intact. You grabbed that along with some gloves, gauze—so much gauze—and some saline, tape, scissors, antiseptic wipes, and laid the supplies neatly on the table next to Pope’s bed. 

“Alright, Pope, I’m gonna need you to sit up for me a bit, if that’s okay.” 

Pope hesitated, but he eventually gathered some strength to sit up. You held him closely for support, knowing his wounds were still fresh, and a part of you wondered what you’d see after unpacking the wound. Dread bubbled in your stomach. Worst case scenario, your high ass had packed the bullet tract with unsterile gauze, or done a terrible job patching him up. You moved his pillow so it better supported his back. Once he was in a more secure position, you put on your gloves. 

“This isn’t gonna be fun,” you began. “But we’ll need to do this a few times while you heal up. I have supplies for about a week, but then I’ll have to send for some more.”

“You a doctor or something?” Pope asked, and you realized you still hadn’t introduced yourself or given him any reason to trust you. 

“Kind of. Not really,” you opened a drawer on the bedside table to retrieve a glass and mercury thermometer and gave it a few swipes with an antiseptic wipe. “But I knew enough to keep you alive, didn’t I? Open your mouth for me.”

“Is it… clean?” he asked, furrowing his brow at the mercury thermometer that was now in your hand. He was surprised to see that device past the year 2000, but using them meant having one less battery-operated tool for you to manage. 

You nodded. “It’s clean, just—you should be old enough to know not to bite on it too hard.”

Pope opened his mouth so you could stick the thermometer under his tongue. While waiting, you took a pulse oximeter from a drawer and slipped it onto his index finger to check for his pulse and O2 levels, which were surprisingly stable. His body temperature was normal as well. You gently removed the thermometer from his mouth but kept the pulse ox on his finger. 

You sighed and pressed your lips tightly. 

“I’m going to take your bandages off now, Pope,” you continued, reaching for a pair of sterile scissors. You worked softly but deliberately, taking your time to carefully remove the tape that affixed the gauze to his bare chest and abdomen, trying your best not to pull on any of his hairs while doing so. The bottom layer of gauze had attached itself to some dried blood and flesh, so you instructed him, “Can you breathe in for me real quick, please? Good, now give me a slow exhale.”

His breath broke as your slow pull on the gauze caught on some of his exposed flesh, collecting blood and tissue and plasma from the site. Pope winced, then grunted, as if to stifle a scream, and you watched the pulse ox register a spike in his heart rate. He managed a low “fuck” once his breathing normalized.

“Good, you’re doing so good for me right now, Pope,” you said. You lifted the last layer of blood-soaked dressing to reveal the entry wound, which was packed in with even more gauze that had to be removed. “Don’t worry, I’ve done this plenty of times.”

Pope was familiar with the process, having been on the receiving end of this treatment more times than he’d like to admit. That didn’t stop him from flinching as you used a pair of forceps to gently pull the packing gauze from the tract. He grunted at the sting of the thin, blood-soaked fabric against his exposed flesh and squeezed his eyes shut so he didn’t have to watch you snake it out of him. Pope’s hand grasped your forearm again. You usually didn’t allow clients to touch you like that, often giving them some other object to clamp onto, but you let him.

Once the gory part was over, you examined the open wound for any signs of infection, still unsure what exact measures you took to treat him last night but also rather impressed at yourself for doing what seemed to be a bang-up job so far.  The redness was to be expected, and you noticed some light yellow discharge near the opening that would need to be cleaned out before repacking. “You okay? Gonna need you to be real still for what I’m gonna have to do next, Pope—”

“Andrew,” he interrupted you. Craig once mentioned that only their mother ever got to call Pope by that name. But Smurf was dead. Smurf was gone. 

“Andrew,” you repeated. “I’m gonna be honest, I’m all out of lidocaine, so the next few minutes are gonna hurt like a motherfucker. But know that I’ve got you, and I really am sorry because this is really going to suck.”

Pope’s eyes fixed on your face, glaring intensely as you spoke. He paused and braced himself. His wounded biceps twitched and tightened, as did his forearms. “Ready.”

“Good.”

The rest of the process went like clockwork, and your head gradually cleared up while you continued to work on him with practiced movements. You irrigated the wound with a saline solution you made from boiled salted water and used an antiseptic wipe that nearly had Pope yelling on contact. He held onto whatever part of your free arm he could and tightened his grip whenever he wanted to scream, but you didn’t mind. Repacking the gauze was always the worst part, inevitably causing Pope to let out a single, tortured wail that violated his signature composure. Finally, you replaced the outer layer of gauze and tape, and all you had to do next was repeat the entire process on the exit wound.

You asked Pope about what happened, if he knew where his brothers were, why he set the house on fire. He was silent for a while, clenching and unclenching his jaw while you probed him, and you’d expected as much based on what little you'd heard about the oldest Cody brother. Slowly, around the time you were disinfecting his back wound, Pope started to ease up, his hand still on you, grip loosening. 

“The truth is,” he began. “I don't even know where they are.” 

“Deran or Craig?”

Pope shrugged, causing the packing gauze to touch the inside of his wound again. He flinched then shook his head. “No.”

“What about your nephew, J?” you asked. Pope’s eyes turned black, and that was enough for you to understand. “...got it.”

He sat wordlessly and completely still for the remainder of it. When you were finished, you slowly guided him back to a more comfortable position with one arm around his shoulders as you chanted, “Easy, Andrew, easy, okay, that’s very good.”

Pope Cody was a densely muscular tank of a man, but you were stronger than you looked and he noticed that. You had clear memories of being able to pick Craig up with relative ease a couple of years ago. Pope was also there that day, and you wondered if he remembered seeing you then. His shoulders were firm and heavy against you, but your arm was strong enough to support him without additional assistance this time. 

“You know you didn’t need to do this,” Pope said flatly while you cleaned up.

“What do you mean?” you asked in response.

“Keep me alive. Still don’t get why me.”

“Honestly, I’m not sure I have an answer for you. Karmic energy, maybe?” You pouted, shook your head, then shrugged at the man in front of you whom you compulsively brought under your care. You weren’t totally lying. “Look, Andrew, you might be a little bummed to not be dead right now, but the least you can do right now to thank me is stay here and rest up. Everyone thinks Pope Cody is dead, but if you show your pretty face outside that’ll all change in a heartbeat. Play your cards right, and you might have a chance to start over, get a whole new lease on life.” 

You paused, trying to read him, but to decipher what was behind Pope Cody’s stare was a Sisyphean task, and if he agreed to stay, you’d have time for that later. 

He stayed quiet so you continued, “I know you have a lot of questions right now, and I might have some of the answers, but can we talk over breakfast? I can bring it to you but get some rest.”

You waited for the slightest change in his face, maybe a twitch of his jaw or a curl in his lip. 

“Yeah. Yeah, okay,” he nodded.

“Good. I’ll be back in half an hour and you’ll have breakfast in bed. You are going to get better, Andrew, and once you’re ready, we can talk about how we’re gonna deal with that fucker J.”

2026 | thedivinegirlyp0p — do not feed this to any ai tool for any reason or else i will pray for ur sorrowful demise. replies and reblogs are my besties <3

author's end note: let me know if this is something you'd be interested in reading more of, and if you'd like to be tagged in any future chapters. or maybe you think i should stick to smut and stop trying new things! in any case, would loveeee to know what you think because i've never really written a h/c scene before.

First dates always make you a nervous wreck. The nerves of meeting someone new and being alone with them, wondering if your personalities will mesh, wondering if they're only after hooking up and not a genuine connection. It was all enough to just not bother with it most of the time. So when a mutual friend said she had someone to set you up with, it was initially a resounding, "no thank you." But the more she told you about him, the more you felt it was a safe bet for at least a nice evening out. An ER physician, night shift attending even... Single for quite a while, a widower, no kids. Charming, intelligent, funny, kind... you had certainly gone on dates with worse types. She told you he was quite a bit older than you, late 40s / early 50s. But that just intrigued you more. The men in your age group that remained in the dating pool left much to be desired. And the good ones were few and far in between, if they didn't just end up being your friends. A more comfortable, safer option, you supposed, than an inevitable romantic heartbreak to crush and reform your heart into a more hardened thing. But having been months, maybe even years since your last real *date,* you took her offer graciously and braced for some kind of disappointment. A snide comment, lack of personality, lack of interest in you other than the physical, something... You waited for the other shoe to drop. But it never did.

He was a pleasant mix of classic and modern. Classic in all the ways that mattered. Polite, kind, he opened doors for you, of course took care of the bill. Modern in the ways that he listened to you, and not just listening to respond with his own completely unrelated thoughts. Listening, asking questions, always meeting your eyes or scanning your body language, quickly joining in on little bits you'd pull mid-conversation to keep any awkwardness at bay or when you felt you were being too vulnerable with someone you just met. He'd fall right into step beside you conversationally. It felt easy. Finally, it felt easy with someone.

You realized this thought when you were walking out of the restaurant and onto a nearly deserted city sidewalk. A few late-night passerby, an occasional car rolling along. But even after the dinner ended, the conversation didn't. You walked in close step to each other, his hands respectfully in his pockets and yours gripping the handles of your purse.

He stopped you both under a street light as he finished telling a story about a recent dispute with the hospital admin he has to deal with. You laugh at his fierce commentary on the bureaucracy of healthcare, not what he says but the way he says it. Like it's coming from a place carved out deep within his soul, "it's true! We're down there in the trenches every night! From people in and outside of the hospital." He takes in a deep breath as if to swallow what he actually wanted to say and shakes his head, not wanting to scare you off too fast at his intensity for his work. But he noticed a slight change of your expression. The sight of his truck parked a few feet away on the street made you almost sad that this wonderful, refreshing series of moments had to come to an end. He notices your look and your eyes shifting from him to his truck, back to him. Thinking that you're looking for an escape route, he asks, "Everything okay?" A small smile creeping up on his cheeks. "Didn't scare you off with all that did I?" You snap back to attention and meet his eyes, now seeing a bloom of hesitancy in them. "no! God no." He nods his head affirmingly, "why the long face then? Something I said?" A small laugh huffs out of you. He had been the most perfect gentleman all night. "No, no not at all." You meet his eyes, now crinkled at the corners with a smirk he's barely trying to contain. "Quite the opposite actually. I've... I've had a really nice time with you tonight, Jack."

The smile meets his eyes now, the warm green of them almost sparkling in the streetlights in a way that makes your stomach feel full of fluttering opalescent butterfly wings. "I have too. It's been, a while... for me." He looks down at the concrete for a moment as if to gather his words, muster some courage, then back up at you. "Thank you, truly," his hand slips out of his pocket to reach for yours, taking your fingers to gently rest on his palm, respectfully testing the waters before your own hand meshes with his and his shoulders relax a little, "for a wonderful evening." You both give each other's hand a gentle squeeze, securing the contact and allowing it to linger for as long as you both will let it. There's no expectancy. No urgency. Just two souls who happened to cross paths, join hands, and begin a long, slow dance together.

You finally reply, "no, thank you. I haven't had a night like this in... god, I really can't remember when." You look down at your joined hands, noticing how his skin was freckled and toughened with his years, but still felt so warm and gentle against your own. You felt secure in his hold. Both in his grip, and in the feeling that this wasn't just a connection that was going to dissipate into the night air like so many others. Something that you finally want to take a chance on. You both seem to look up right at the same time, mouths open about to say something to the other. He sees it too and catches himself, "you first, please" "no you! Sorry, I- you go..." those crinkles appear again next to his eyes and a fondness starts to settle in your chest for the sight of them. Then suddenly you feel a lot smaller. A lot closer to him. Like your energies were just bumping against each other, fizzling and sparkling in the warm summer breeze that swept down the street, now about to cross over completely into each other's territory. Into the unknown world of the person standing before them. His other hand still in his pocket, restraining himself from the pull of your orbit. He runs a heavy thumb over the back of your soft hand takes the leap he had been wanting to make since he first laid eyes on you tonight, "can I... may I kiss you? Would that be okay?"

His genuine request for permission cracks something in you, something fragile that you've kept protected for too long. "Yes, more than okay, please..." Your free hand finds his other arm now, wanting to tug it out of his pocket and wrap it around your middle. He beats you to it though, bringing his other hand up to your face so gently, fingers resting on your neck just under your ear and thumb softly pressing in to the swell of your cheek. He takes a step closer, closing the distance between your bodies in the already intimate space you've carved out for yourselves. Tilting his head down, you can finally brush noses with him, then his lips fall upon yours, the warm weight of his hands grounding you to the earth as the fluttering inside you threatened to carry you away. His scent, while more than pleasant before, engulfs your senses. So masculine and deep and somehow comforting in a way that has you pulling him in closer. Your free hand comes up to lay on his chest, feeling the firm, solid muscle underneath his shirt. Holding each other now, the first tentative brushes of lips turn into firm, confident movements. Tongues beginning to lave and roll against each other, lips being sucked between teeth, a quiet rumbling frenzy starting to build between the two of you. You feel it and are the first to pull away, not at all wanting to break the contact, but needing confirmation that he felt it too. He did, and almost whimpered when you pulled away. Your sweet smell, the feel of you becoming soft and pliant in his arms, the way you touched him. He didn't realize he was starving for it. To be touched like this. To be wanted. To want.

And that is exactly how you ended up in front of your place, in the backseat of his truck, straddling his lap. You didn't want to get out, and he didn't want to see you leave. He even took the long way back to your neighborhood just to hear more of your stories. Continue to hold your hand and stroke the back of your knuckles as he drove. So when he pulled up and parked, and you kept making glances to the back seat between more sweet kisses over the center console, he finally gave in. Fell over whatever precipice he kept himself back from since the first kiss under the streetlight, and let you have him. Let you take what you wanted, what you needed, and tried to reciprocate his gratefulness to you in his own movements. A song hummed low through the speakers and your hips moved with its slow beat. Both still fully clothed, a few buttons of his shirt undone to expose his flushed, freckled chest to you, and your shirt ridden up just enough so he can grasp at the warm skin of your lower back. He was so warm, so solid beneath you. His heavy hands felt like they were everywhere. From your hips, sweeping up the curve of them and settling into the crook of your waist, until that was no longer enough and he needed one pressed to your back holding you to him while the other firmly gripped a handful of your ass. He kissed you deeply, feverishly, and you allowed him to lead the pace. You hadn't planned to go this far on the first date, but after your lips met for the first time and you both went into that floaty place that pleasure reigned, all pretenses were dropped. And the more he moaned into your mouth, sucked against the soft skin of your neck, the more his hands explored you, the more you became like putty in his hands. No amount of contact was enough.

But time marched on, and it was admittedly getting late. You had to work the next day, and as much as it pained you, you wanted time to yourself to process all of this. Commit it to memory even, how your world might have just changed with one good date. You sat yourself up straight, relishing in one last deep kiss and him in the feeling of your fingers in his hair. He held you there softly, letting you decide when it was done. When you broke away a giggle fell from your lips at how ridiculously perfect this all had been. He grinned and squeezed your ass gently in response, asking, "what's got you gigglin' sweetheart?" A giggle bubbles out of his own chest at the ease with which that rolled off his tongue. Sweetheart. How long had it been since he called someone that earnestly? Since he meant it? Since he had something this sweet in his life. You leaned back and shook your hair out, letting it fall back around your shoulders more messy than before thanks to his touches. You tried to gather your words as much as you could, "I just honestly did not anticipate... this." You motioned between the two of you, "I could never have anticipated liking you this much after one date." He really smiles now, both at your honesty and at the way it makes him feel. "Yeah, neither could I." He tucks your hair behind your ear on one side, holds your face so gently in his hand, and looks deep into your eyes. He means it. He wants this, and he's going to let himself have it. Whatever this is with you. You have half a thought to turn and look at the clock on the dashboard, it's now well past midnight and closing in on 1am. You sigh deeply and turn back to him, nearly pouting. He has you in the back of his truck, on his lap, pouting. You're doomed, you think.

"I suppose I should walk you up now, I've got you out too late as it is." He punctuates his sentence with a kiss. Not deep this time, but soft, tender, like he doesn't mean what he's saying in the slightest. "I'd like that very much." You both gather yourselves, adjusting clothes and fixing hair. When you move off of his lap, he immediately feels empty even though you're right next to him. He watches you get your things together, wanting to remember all the little details for when he thinks about tonight until he can see you again. Remembers your rings, the color of your nails, the way your eyes became heavy lidded, and how good it feels to have you next to him. When you're ready, he opens the door and slides out, offering a hand to help steady you as you did the same. You lead him up your front steps to your door as you search for your keys and when you're there, you turn to face him. "Thank you again, for everything tonight. I'd really like to see you again, Jack." You step toward him and reach out a hand to cup his jaw, feeling the maintained silver scruff there and wondering, briefly, how it would feel on your inner thighs. He holds your forearm gently as you both lean in for the goodnight kiss. The softness of this moment, of his touch, nearly overwhelms you. He breaks away first, brushing his nose against yours as if to say "it's okay, don't worry, we'll do this again soon." He doesn't step back, but he says on to your lips, "call me tomorrow, okay?" And you nod. It's almost all you can do. You push your key into the lock and turn it, turning back one more time to see that face that you don't think you can go without anymore. "Goodnight Jack."

In theory, it was a great idea. A home gym made perfect sense. It means Jack no longer has to waste time commuting to and from the gym. After working out he can wash off immediately in the comfort of his own shower equipped with all the amenities he needs. He loves it, and you're happy that he does.

In practice, it has proven to be a severe and continuous test of your will power—a distraction like none other you've had to endure before.

Truly, you brought this upon yourself when you suggested putting the gym in the same room as your office. It was a big enough space that often went under utilized otherwise. What you didn't take into account is the fact that you would have to deal with your incredibly attractive and handsome Jackie using said gym while you work.

Working from home is usually a blessing. With Jack's unordinary work schedule it allows for flexibility you normally wouldn't have. You can't be more grateful for all the extra time you get to spend with him. But you're also human, and there's only so much you can handle when it comes to your husband's hot and sweaty visage.

Your eyes flick up, peering across the room from over the top of your monitor. Jack is finishing his final set, and you seize the opportunity to eye him up for the umpteenth time. His silver curls have gone damp, flattened at the crown. A few strands are plastered at his temples and the springy curls at the nape of his neck cling to his skin. His shirt cleaves to his torso, the fabric darkened at the pits. You swallow hard. A thin sheen of sweat glistens across a his skin, providing a canvas for sunlight to sketch a golden outline around him. He looks heavenly, and he's all yours—or he could be if you hadn't let the deadlines pile up.

A frown tugs the corners of your lips downwards. Your gaze returns to the screen in front of you. It's a little embarrassing that you've let something like this affect your work so much. Just as your hands return to your keyboard, Jack ambles over. You perk up a little as he leans down to press a kiss to your forehead, murmuring something about lunch, but it's in one ear and out the other. You can feel the heat radiating off him. His scent floods your senses, and your thighs shift in your chair, pressing together. Fuck. Your body slopes nearer, chasing closeness where he's managed to barely slip away.

"Hon?" You blink and you're dragged back down to this plane of existence. "Everything okay? I asked if you wanted lunch."

"Yeah—yes, just trying to catch up on some deadlines," you nod towards the screen, but as you speak you can practically feel his suspicions growing. He gives you a once over, brows furrowing before smoothing over. A chuckle rumbles from his throat and that's how you know that he's clued into what exactly is afflicting you.

His gaze darkens, lids slanting heavier over his eyes as he regards you with a maddeningly smug look. What a predicament it is to be in—to have Jack Abbot aware that he's got you wrapped around his finger. Though something tells you the depths of your perversions haven't quite been fully realized. How every cell in your body is urging you to submerge yourself in him—in his scent—to burrow under his arm and live there for a little while, or an eternity if the constraints of reality would allow.

"Why don't I go shower then we can pick this back up after?"

"No!" The word bursts from you and you're helpless to stop it. It's followed up by a meek correction. "Don't please." You think over your next words with more care this time around, determined to stop making such a fool of yourself. It's just Jack, your loving husband… who also happens to love poking fun and teasing you endlessly over anything and everything, your brain inopportunely reminds you.

Your voice surfaces even quieter this time. "I like how you are… right now."

Constantly stealing his clothes and wearing his unwashed hoodies is one thing. That is a hurdle you've long since gotten over. Wanting to taste the sweat off his skin and bury yourself into every crevice of his body is something entirely different—definitely not something you're raring to admit to your menace of a husband.

"All gross and sweaty?" He asks with an arched eyebrow.

"S'not gross, you smell…" Divine, delicious, aphrodisiacal, like sinful temptation itself. You settle for something less assuming in an attempt to preserve your image that he seems keen on tarnishing with all his teasing. "Nice."

Jack towers over you for a moment longer—all corded in muscles still pumped from his workout. It makes his shirt look a size too small around his swollen biceps. Then he grabs you and pulls you up from your chair before swapping places with you.

The chair creaks as he settles. It leaves him looking up at you, but somehow you still feel small under the weight of his undivided attention. His thick thighs part until they tap against the arm rests. He's offering himself up to you. You accept eagerly, bringing yourself over one of his thighs. A hand slides along his arm, mapping out the veins that traverse all the way up the freckled length of it. Your fingers skate the edge of his sleeve, and two slip beneath the fabric, inching closer to the summit of their hike.

"Nice?" He tilts his head. The single syllable stops you in your tracks. Your lip quivers, and you chance a look at him. He's leaned back against the back of the chair, relaxed, hazel eyes assessing you. His hands are braced on the armrests, fingers twitching—itching to reach out and lay themselves on you but he doesn't move them. He's lying in wait, watching you dig yourself deeper and deeper until you have no choice but to outright admit what you want. Your every filthy desire.

And dug a hole you have. Fuck it.

"Yes, so nice…" you purr, tipping forward to bring your head to the crook of his neck. You fist at his t-shirt as you leave a smattering of kisses along his skin and over his clothed shoulder.

"Didn't know my wife was such a pervert," he mutters. You should feel mortified by the comment, but it sends a pleasant shiver down your spine. The tip of your nose brushes right over the crease of his armpit. His scent is most potent there but still obscured by cotton. "Yeah, you like daddy's scent? Is that it?"

That makes your eyes shutter closed and roll behind their lids. Your clit pulses between your legs like it's got a heartbeat of its own.

"Mhm…!" You can only manage a stifled sound before he's shuffling beneath you, the muscle of his thigh flexing where you're slotted over him. He loses his shirt quickly, peeling it from his sweaty chest and tossing it somewhere on the floor.

"You aren't very subtle, sweetheart." His arm lifts, and he cups the back of his head baring his armpit to you. You salivate at the sight, wide eyes slashing between his gaze and the current epicenter of your desire. At first, you're hesitant despite the encouragement.

"Go on, you're practically drooling," he says, "bet your cunt's drooling too."

It wouldn't take much to prove his words right. Only a couple of thick fingers tucking themselves into your pants, but there's no need. You're sure he can feel the damp heat of you over his leg. Reluctance falls apart at the seams, and you move closer, inch by inch. Except, you don't start where he expects.

As avid as you are, you begin elsewhere—at his stomach, where a slight pudge pours over the waistband of his shorts. Warm flesh dimples as you knead at it. His skin is tacky from a layer of cooling sweat. Your lips descend as your hands climb up, up, up, racking over his ribs then crawling around to cup his pecs. Languidly, you drag your lips down the wide column of his throat, feeling his Adam's apple bob.

"You smell so good..." you murmur. Along the way, you pepper kisses over his sternum, moving closer and closer to—a small, throaty sound ruptures his bout of silence, pulled from him when your lips close around his nipple, tongue flicking gently. Eventually, your patience begins to wear thin like flame whittles a candle wick.

And once it's all burnt up, you're moving fast, advancing on the place you've been pining after this whole time. Your face comes to rest against the shallow divot of his armpit. All it takes is one deep inhale and you're already lightheaded—drunk off his scent. There's a subtly sweet undertone. Musk and honey and sandalwood and him. Maybe you're so out of it that you are hallucinating it all. Either way, it is intoxicating, it is addicting, and it makes you fucking feral.

You nose at him. The thatch of hair there tickles your skin. It's as if this little hollow was carved into your mountain of a man for the express purpose of being the perfect cradle for your face. Sweat has gathered there in excess. Dewdrops beaded along warm skin. Your tongue rolls out and you run it flat over the curve of his underarm. Salt and tang bursts on your taste buds.

Underneath you, his knee jumps. It jolts you and rattles a muffled moan from your lips. Nipping lightly, you draw a muttered curse from him, low and raspy. In response, he grabs a handful of your ass and hauls you closer, dragging your clothed cunt over his leg. You slide back and he pulls you close again. It starts as a sluggish back and forth motion, like the ebb and flow of the tide coming in and out, but it escalates.

Sensation is dulled by the layers between you and your movements turn frantic—a desperate, stuttered rutting as you bring your clit up and down his meaty thigh, mewling open mouthed into his sweaty armpit each time the swollen bud catches on the fabric of his shorts.

"Shit—you close, baby?" He rasps above you, your frenzied movements giving you away. You nod against him and he helps as best he can, grappling at your waist and guiding your movements again. Up. You're closer. Down. Nearly there just—up again. You shudder.

It's pure ecstasy. Stars erupt behind your eyelids. Every nerve from the top of your head down to the tips of your toes igniting all at once. Your movements falter and your mouth falls open, face nesting further into the concave of his underarm. You drown yourself in his scent as your cunt clenches around nothing, throbbing helplessly as you come to a standstill over his thigh.

His large hand smoothes over your side, stopping to pinch at your hip. "You're fuckin' filthy," he huffs. It's completely hypocritical.

"You're one to talk," you say, reluctantly pulling your face away just to speak. You can bet good money he's hard as a rock right now. In fact—your hand slithers between you, and sure enough. A groan threatens to bubble up but he bites it back.

"Yeah? How long have you been fantasizing about this?" He grinds out while you continue to palm him through his shorts. The answer to that question is far more incriminating than you'd like it to be, but before you can even attempt to save face, he's interrogating you further. "This why you moved me in here, for your own personal show?"

"You are much, much more attractive when you aren't talking."

Jack laughs at that. He doesn't believe you for a second, but he takes the hint and doesn't press further on that front. Smart man. "You had your fill, dirty girl, or have I yet to earn your permission to go shower?"

"Hm… " you hum, pretending to think it over, "only if you extend an invite."

"That was the plan," he remarks, jutting his hips up and pressing his erection into your touch for emphasis.