He’s already there when you arrive, hands in his jacket pockets, and the second he sees you his whole face does something helpless and unguarded that he clearly doesn’t mean to let you see.

“Hey.” His voice comes out rougher than usual.

“Hey yourself.” You look up at the marquee.

FOOL’S RUSH IN — ONE NIGHT ONLY.

“Okay. Late 90’s rom-com. Bold choice, Abbot.”

“You know it?”

“I know of it. I was, what, one when it came out.” You watch his jaw tighten, anxious. “Relax. I’m messing with you.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“You’ve checked your watch 4 times since I walked up.”

“That’s a medical habit. Occupational hazard.” But he’s fighting a smile, and he holds the door for you, and inside the theater is nearly empty… a scattering of other people, mismatched velvet seats, the kind of hush that only exists in old buildings that have outlived their purpose and don’t care. Inside it smells like butter, candy, and old dusty carpet with something underneath that might just be decades of other people’s first dates.

You end up in the back row because Jack Abbot, apparently, is a back-row person, and you don’t dislike that about him. Or anything whatsoever.

“So why this one,” you ask, once you’re settled, his arm already finding its way along the back of your seat like he can’t help it. “Out of every movie in the world.”

He’s quiet for a second. Current trailers are still running, throwing blue light across his face.

“My sister loved it. When I was in my residency, when I never had time for anything, she’d make me watch it whenever I came home. Said I needed at least one thing in my life that wasn’t a medical journal or a chart.” He shrugs. “Haven’t watched it in years but I saw it announced on my way to work and thought maybe—” He stops.

“Thought maybe what?”

“Nothing. It’s stupid.”

“Jack.”

“I thought maybe I could watch again with another person I care about.” He says it fast, like ripping off a bandage, eyes on the screen instead of you. “That’s it. That’s the whole reason.”

You don’t say anything right away, because your chest has gone soft and full in a way you’re not used to, and you’re worried if you open your mouth it’ll come out as something bigger than you’re ready for. So instead you reach over and lace your fingers through his on the armrest, and you feel him exhale.

“I like it already,” you tell him. “And it hasn’t even begun.”

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The movie is exactly as ridiculous and charming as you’d expect. Las Vegas neon and impulsive marriage and two people who have no business being together making it work anyway.

The plot feels extremely relatable.

Almost at the end you find yourself humming along under your breath to It’s Now Or Never by Elvis Presley.

“You know this song?”

“Of course,” you whisper. “I have an unreasonable amount of music knowledge from decades I wasn’t alive for. It’s a whole thing.”

He shakes his head, staring at you like you’ve short-circuited something within him. “That’s my exact music taste. That’s disturbing.”

“Weird disturbing, or regular disturbing?”

“Don’t,” he says, but he’s grinning now, wide and unguarded, the kind of grin that makes the almost 20 years between you feel less like a gap and more like a coincidence of timing. “You’re supposed to be nice to me. I’m nervous.”

“You said you weren’t nervous.”

“I lied. Occupational hazard of that too, apparently.”

You laugh, and somebody in the row ahead shushes you both, and you spend the rest of the movie with your head on his shoulder and his thumb tracing slow, absent circles against your hand, and it is, without question, the best old romcom you’ve ever seen.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The credits roll. The lights come up slowly, like they’re giving everyone a second to remember where they are.

Neither of you moves. A couple minutes pass and then he turns to look at you.

“That line,” Jack says, staring straight ahead at the blank screen like it’s easier than looking at you. “Near the end. Where he tells her he loves her so much it hurts and he realizes he doesn’t want the version of his life where he doesn’t take the chance on her—”

“I remember.” You do… it had landed somewhere under your ribs a few minutes ago and hadn’t left.

“I know it’s too soon but I’ve been thinking about that line for three weeks.” He finally turns to look at you, and for once there’s nothing careful in his expression, none of the hallway-glance restraint, just him. “I don’t want to live the version where I don’t ask. So. I’m asking. Be my girlfriend, sweetheart.”

It’s not smooth. It’s not the speech he probably practiced in his head on the drive over. It’s better than that, because you can tell it’s real and the same man who checked his watch four times and texted you three panicked messages about a movie theater, laid bare in the worst lighting a single-screen cinema in the middle of Pittsburgh has to offer.

“Yeah,” you say, and your voice comes out steadier than you feel, which feels like its own small miracle. “Of course. Yes.”

He kisses you like he’s been waiting ages to do it properly, and somewhere behind you the ancient sound system is still playing the last few bars of the classical rendition of an old song neither of you can name.

And you think, for the first time, that you’d sit through every movie in the world if it meant more nights exactly like this one because you love him too. So much it hurts.

—

his eyes flick up to you, dark and unreadable. there's a flash of something. annoyance, maybe, or irritation that you're here interrupting his solitude. but beneath it, you catch the warmth. the love that's always there, even when he's like this.

"what are you doing here?" his voice is low, rough from shouting during the hunt.

"i wanted to check on you," you say, moving closer. "you've been in here for over an hour. i was worried—"

"worried." he repeats the word like it's foreign to him, like the concept of someone caring is something he can't quite grasp. his jaw tightens as he reaches for the cigar box on his desk, pulling out a thick cuban and the silver lighter beside it.

you watch as he brings the cigar to his lips, flicking the lighter with practiced ease. the flame casts shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his cheekbones, the blood still streaked across his temple. he takes a long drag, the end glowing orange in the dim light.

then he leans forward.

and blows the smoke directly into your face.

you cough, waving it away, your eyes watering slightly. "titus—"

"you're always worried," he says, his voice dripping with something between amusement and condescension. he leans back in his chair, studying you with those dark, calculating eyes. "always hovering. always needy."

your face flushes hot. "i'm not—"

"you are." he takes another drag, exhaling slowly this time, the smoke curling between you. "you came in here because you couldn't stay away. couldn't leave me alone for five fucking minutes." his eyes drag down your body, taking in the silk robe you're wearing, the way it clings to your curves. "like a dog in heat."

the words hit you like a slap. your breath catches, heat pooling low in your belly despite—or maybe because of—the degradation in his tone.

"i just wanted to make sure you were okay," you say, but your voice is weaker now, breathless.

he smirks, cruel and knowing. "sure you did."

there's a long pause. he's watching you, waiting for something. testing you. the air between you is thick with tension, with the unspoken understanding of what this is. what you are to each other.

"well," he says finally, his voice dropping to something darker, more dangerous. "if you're going to act like one..." he pauses, taking another slow drag of his cigar, "-you can rut like one too."

your stomach flips. your pulse races. you know that tone. you know what's coming.

"get on your knees."

it's not a request. it's a command. absolute. final.

you hesitate for only a second- just long enough for his eyes to narrow, for that dangerous edge to sharpen. then you're sinking down, your knees hitting the plush rug in front of his desk.

he watches you the entire time, his expression unreadable except for the slight curl of his lips. satisfaction. he sets the cigar in the ashtray, then leans back in his chair, spreading his legs wider.

and then he lifts one boot.

expensive leather, polished to a shine despite the blood and dirt from the hunt. he extends it toward you, the toe of his boot stopping just inches from where you're kneeling.

"go on," he says, his voice soft but commanding. "show me how desperate you are."

your face burns. your heart is pounding so hard you think he must be able to hear it. but you don't hesitate. you can't. not when he's looking at you like that.

like he owns you, like you're his to command.

you shift forward, straddling his boot, the hard leather pressing against you through the thin silk of your robe. the sensation makes you gasp, your hands bracing on his knee for balance.

"thaaat's it," he murmurs, his hand coming up to grip your chin, forcing you to look at him. his thumb brushes over your bottom lip, smearing slightly from the blood still on his hands. "look at you. so fucking desperate for it."

you start to move, slowly at first, grinding down against his boot. the friction is rough, almost too much, but it's exactly what you need. your breath comes in short gasps, your fingers digging into the fabric of his pants.

"faster," he orders, his voice rough. "show me how badly you need this."

you obey, your hips moving faster, chasing that building heat. it's humiliating and perfect all at once, the way he's watching you with those dark, possessive eyes. the way his hand stays firm on your chin, keeping you locked in his gaze.

"such a good girl," he murmurs, and there's genuine affection beneath the dominance now. "my good girl. always so eager to please me."

you whimper, your movements becoming more frantic, more desperate. you're close and he knows it. he can see it in the way your eyes glaze over, the way your breath hitches.

"that's it," he says softly, his thumb stroking your cheek now, almost tender. "take what you need, sweetheart. rut against my boot like the needy little thing you are."

you shatter, your orgasm crashing over you with a broken moan. your body trembles, your fingers clutching at him as you ride it out, grinding down against his boot until you're spent and shaking.

for a moment, there's only the sound of your breathing, heavy and uneven in the quiet study. then his hand slides from your chin to cup your face, his touch surprisingly gentle.

"come here," he says, his voice softer now.

you climb into his lap on shaky legs, and he wraps his arms around you, pulling you against his chest. the blood on his shirt smears against your robe, but neither of you care. his hand strokes through your hair, his lips pressing a kiss to your temple.

"you did so well," he murmurs against your skin. "always so good for me."

you curl into him, breathing in the scent of cigar smoke, copper and expensive cologne. it's all distinctly titus. scary and possessive - completely in control. but underneath it all, he's yours. and you're his.

always. 🖤

when you trail your fingers down your bare stomach, tease the waistband of your panties, he actually whines a little.

‘sorry, did you need something?’ you ask, pinching the fabric and letting it snap back against your skin.

you watch him swallow, a slow, painful-looking bob of his throat, before he says, ‘please, let me.’

you reach out and fix an absent curl on his head. ‘let you what, andrew? i can’t give you something unless i know what it is.’

andrew’s neck and shoulders are flushed warm and pink beneath his freckles, and the muscles in his ass clench for a second when he presses his hips into the mattress beneath him.

‘your pussy, please,’ he rasps, ‘let me eat your pussy.’

you hum, sliding your fingers over your cunt, feeling the warmth bleed through the fabric. there’s a little damp spot near your entrance. you rub it slowly with the pads of two fingers, then slip those same two fingers into andrew’s mouth.

‘only good boys get to eat my pussy,’ you say sweetly as he moans, sucking on your fingers. ‘have you been a good boy, andrew?’

he nods, hips jerking against the mattress.

you hum again, considering, and slip your fingers out of his mouth. you bring them back down and rub your cunt again, his spit mixing in with what’s already there, turning the fabric dark.

andrew is watching your fingers like a starved man, pupils blown so wide he couldn’t possibly miss a single detail.

‘i don’t know,’ you say, slipping your fingers into your panties, gasping a little when they glide over your wet clit, ‘my fingers feel really good. i might just rub myself until i come.’

‘no,’ andrew whines, eyebrows drawn together like he’s in acute distress, ‘no, please, i’ll make it so good for you, i will. i’ll make you come. please.’

you rub your clit in slow circles. ‘yeah? you gonna shove your tongue in my cunt, andrew?’

‘yes,’ he says emphatically, tracking your fingers like a predator with their prey.

you prop your foot on his shoulder, knee bending to spread yourself open. ‘you gonna lap at this wet pussy like a dog?’

‘yes,’ he says, and he’s almost panting like this, chest moving in time with his breath.

you slip your fingers out of your panties and slide them into his hair, tugging on his roots until his eyelashes flutter.

‘okay, puppy,’ you finally relent, ‘you can lick,’ and shove his face in your cunt.

andrew groans, inhaling the scent of your pussy like an aphrodisiac before going to town. tonguing and sucking through the fabric until it’s so wet it’s another color altogether. you help him along, rolling your hips up into his mouth and he seems to really like that, groans even louder and you can feel the vibration roll through you, rumbly against your clit.

he gets a hand beneath his chin to tug the gusset of your panties to the side, and licks deep between your folds, looking up at you when you make a noise, pulling off your clit with a soft, wet pop! then he does it again and again, flat dragging tongue that ends with a teasing suck at the top.

‘that taste good, puppy?’ you ask him.

andrew buries his face against you in response and wiggles his tongue all the way inside your hole.

‘mnn—fuck,’ you moan, cupping the back of andrew’s head as he starts to tongue-fuck your pussy, lick you from the inside.

you press your hips up, trying to get him impossibly deeper, and you might be suffocating him a little like this because his eyes roll back and he starts actively humping the bed.

‘oh, you like that?’ your voice a little high and reedy from your pleasure, ‘like when i use you like this?’

andrew moans deep into your cunt, only slipping out his tongue to suck on your clit. he’s sucks like he enjoys the feeling maybe more than you do, like there’s nothing in the world he’d rather be doing with his mouth.

you tug the curls at the crown of his head. ‘mm, a good boy who likes being useful, wants to give me a reason to keep him around.’

andrew’s hips are continuously rolling now, thighs spread wide to drag his dick against the mattress, desperate noises muffled against your pussy.

‘you gonna let me keep you, puppy?’

andrew lets out an unintelligible noise and sucks on your clit firm enough that your hips jerk. it makes you stutter out a surprised laugh, delighted, as he goes back to softly licking you.

‘i can get you a handsome collar,’ you tell him, breathless, ‘with my name on it, of course, so everyone knows who you belong to.’

andrew’s eyes find yours and they’re mostly pupil, irises barely a thin ring that wraps around their circumference. you take a moment to enjoy how pussy-drunk he looks like this, save it in your memory.

‘you want that? you want to be my dog?’

he takes a single second to pull off your clit and rasp, ‘yes,’ and then doubles down on his efforts until intense pleasure is shooting up from your cunt into your belly.

you buy him a collar the very next day, hook a finger beneath it to drag him in for a filthy kiss.

you were another number on the board. twenty-nine, to be exact. exhaustion was thick and heavy in doctor jack abbott’s bones, and the exhilaration of saving lives had simmered down to obligation. his diagnoses grew more robotic by the hour— eleven of twelve. he hoped you would be his last patient of the evening.

you were already prepped by the nurses— stripped down into a hospital gown and poked and prodded and scanned. the lithotomy stirrups forced your legs open, angled just above your head. the straps were tight and biting into the soft fat of your calves. this wasn’t typically how you greeted people— slick cunt first, beet-red face second.

you should be used to this; the sterile, antiseptic air that made your nostrils burn. the mundane monitors that added another block onto your building tower of anticipation with every rhythmic beep. the paper sheet crinkled underneath your weight every time you nervously shifted, and the stark white ceiling was starting to get old after twenty minutes of staring.

he’d waltzed into the room without the slightest glance in your direction, introduced himself in a monotone manner, and showed more interest in the chart than your naked bottom half. maybe this is why he was the best. maybe this is why everyone in your support group recommended him with an all-too-eager grin on their face. he was there to yield results, not to ask about your afternoon plans while he fished around in your insides.

“you’re not able to conceive?”

a question that never stopped nagging at you, but from the handsome doctor with salt-and-pepper hair and a clinical timbre to his voice, it felt condescending— like you were doing something wrong. like you hadn’t tried basal body temperature charting or went two years without a sip of wine. like you showed up here with your legs spread open for him for fun.

“afraid not.” your chest was practically heaving with each breath. you loathed this part—knowing that with every question you answered, you got closer to being split open and observed by a new stranger. it was a discomfort that seeped into your bones.

he was positioned over the computer, long and thick fingers hovering just above the keyboard. the stubble on his perfectly crafted jaw and the furrow of his brow was illuminated by the light of the screen. he’d started to wrinkle, but it complemented the ruggedness of his appearance. his astute gaze shifted from whatever notes he was studying on your chart, to your lily-livered gaze and finally to the glistening mound between your thighs.

“let’s take a look, yeah?” jack initiated, pulling on his second glove with a sudden snap. the wheels of his stool dragged across the floor, positioning himself between your legs. you were avoiding his eyes like a guilty dog— quick to toss your head back, face hot and heart thumping in your ears as you awaited the inevitable.

jack didn’t need the frigid gel to ease you open. in fact, you were practically soaking the sheet beneath you. “lubricant slows down sperm,” he mentioned rather clinically when he breached your entrance— joint by joint, until you felt his knuckle flat against your core. you were tortured by the squelch of his touch, gloves enhancing the wet sound of being stretched. his digits were hefty, rhythm just rough enough to make you squirm. “did’ya know that?”

you shook your head, eyes screwed shut now. the pout on your lips was almost too minuscule to see, but jack’s entire job was to observe. “no… of course you didn’t. lucky girl, young enough that you don’t need that stuff.”

your stomach twisted and tightened in unfamiliar ways— dread? arousal? you wondered why it mattered how it would take to your womb if this was just an exam, but the thought was replaced with mind-numbing pleasure when he scissored a second finger inside, curling the tips just enough to brush your cervix. you’d done this enough to know the procedure step-by-step. the speculum and scope were splayed out by a nurse at your bedside but they went unused. maybe he was… old-fashioned? maybe that’s why he was the best? you didn’t have the wherewithal to ask. the room was starting to spin, and the tips of your toes were tingling. you reckoned that the benzodiazepine that you’d taken in preparation for this appointment had started to kick in.

“mucus is healthy,” abbott observed aloud, thriving off of the humiliation that washed over you in intensifying waves. your doctor was diagnosing you as wet. the words hung in the air like a taunt, accompanied by the continued lewd sounds that further proved his analysis.

“are you ovulating?” his tone was too casual and clinical for a man knuckle deep in your pussy. you squeaked out a meek “yes”, and jack’s hum seemed pleased. he soothed his fingers along that achy spot inside of you, and you inhaled.

“no abnormalities,” jack murmured, more to himself when he got a glimpse at your face— lips parted, cheek pressed flush to the exam table like you either couldn’t wait for this to be over or you didn’t want him to stop. perhaps both. however, he was the doctor and he knew what was best. you were pliant enough to leave it at that.

“everything is fine on your end…” jack added, feigning confusion when his fingers started to pump at an agonizingly slow pace. “maybe your husband is shooting blanks. why don’t we see?”

your eyes were wet when they finally opened, bottom lip trembling in trepidation. you clenched at the indication, anticipation blooming in the depths of your gut. you couldn’t possibly believe that he meant what you both feared and hoped for until his spare hand made quick work of untying his scrubs. he kicked the stool out from under himself, standing to tug the black fabric down to his mid-thighs with his boxers. he had a sinister smile on his face when he spoke the words “don’t move”; like he knew something you didn’t. like you had overlooked the suspiciously high dosage of the benzodiazepine the nurse fed you earlier; you made for the perfect victim with your trusting nature. you didn’t have a choice now— your brain was blanketed by something fuzzy and warm, limbs twitching until they were practically immobile.

you hadn’t realized just how much you’d been enjoying the stretch of his fingers until it was gone. you were stunned into silence when he propped your hips up with slick, gloved hands. he nudged his tip against your weeping hole, and pushed. he invaded you inch by inch, penetrating just deep enough to align with your cervix.

as he began to thrust, latex-covered thumbs brushed over the peaks of your nipples that were perked up from the cool hospital air. they hadn’t gone unnoticed through the thin material of your gown. you mewled.

jack hunched over then, rutting into you like a dog in heat. “husband not fucking you good enough, huh? had to come get fucked by a real man, is that it?” his lips brushed the shell of your ear, scrub top pushing your poor excuse of clothing further up, bunching at your ribs until he shoved his freezing gloved hands under and squeezed. “didn’t even need the gel, pretty girl. that’s how badly you needed it… fuckin’ soaked.”

jack didn’t ignore the way your gaze glossed over, endeared by the few fat stray tears that slipped down your face. “this is what you’re made for, hm? gotta be made useful somehow, right?” it was hard to miss the way you clawed at the table beneath you, leaving crescent-shaped marks in the leather. he was right; you'd felt that your worth relied on what came next. you weren’t putting up a fight, and surely it wasn’t just the sedative. they were to render you almost helpless with poor coordination, not completely with paralysis.

“you’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” his tone was accusatory, filling you with unbearable humiliation until you felt the slap of his balls against your ass. “yeah? like gettin’ raped by your doctor? such a sick little patient, aren’t you?”

“should have you locked up in one of those padded cells so i can come and play with you whenever i want, baby.” the soft cries that you started to blubber only spurred him on, his hips meeting yours in a bruising smack. his lips were still inches from your ear, voice turning into more of a growl with each word. “check up on you as that stomach and those tits start to swell… up until you have that baby of mine.”

he tweaked your nipples again. your head was thick with desire, unable to think outside of how good it felt. how you couldn’t control the way your back arched into his greedy touch. submission wasn’t a choice you had the luxury of, and his words were laced with faux pity; “s’okay. i’m almost done.”

then, his hips stuttered, bullying the heft of his cock in until his groin was flush to yours. he let out a gutteral moan. his balls tightened when his spend spurted out and into your womb. it was hot and thick— fed to you and forced further into your uterus in a handful of weak thrusts, painting your insides and filling you with warmth. your toes curled, instinctively bending at the knees and fighting the buckle around your ankles. the drowsiness made it a pathetic attempt to pull him in— stop him from pulling out. instead, you planted your feet into the stirrups and let out a pathetic whine. your eyes were half-lidded. jack knew you were long gone.

“i’ll be back in a couple of hours to try this again, yeah? we’ll keep going until it sticks.”

“Sit up, sweetheart.” “Uncross your legs.” “Laptop higher.” “Relax your jaw.” 

He knows he’s a perpetual nuisance, aware he sounds like someone’s dad, can practically hear the eye-roll you swallow every time. 

He also knows it embarrasses you, especially at work, where your face goes warm when he corrects you within earshot of other people. And it isn’t that he sets out to make you squirm, though he’d be lying if he said he got nothing out of that quick little fluster he can pull from you with a word, a hand, a look. 

It’s just that once he notices you folded in on yourself for too long, something in him firms. His voice drops into that clipped, authoritative register, flipping a switch to brisk certainty and command, and by then it’s already too late to pretend you’re not going to listen. 

So when he catches you slouched at the station again, practically kissing the monitor, he doesn’t hesitate.

Steps in behind you. His palm fits against the ridge of your upper back, heat seeping straight through the thin cotton.

“Up.”

You mutter, “I hate you,” eyes never leaving the vitals grid, and Jack takes it as the green light it is.

His thumb glides from back to shoulder to nape. The opposite hand curves under your jaw’s hinge, guiding your head until your spine clicks back to neutral while the entire nurses’ station pretends their screens are riveting. 

Public proof that your posture, and maybe the rest of you, answers to Dr. Abbot’s touch far faster than to your own irritation. 

“There’s a whole skeleton under all that,” he observes dryly. “Try using it.”

You bat at his hand, a half-hearted slap. “Stop manhandling me at work.”

He ignores that, drops the chair one notch (ignoring your surprised squeak too), angles the monitor to proper eye level, then squares your shoulders with both palms. A measured squeeze follows, equal parts reassurance and warning.

“Better,” he decides. “And if I catch you bent over that phone again, I’m taking it.”

He likes the line of you best when he’s the one arranging it. 

You figure that out later, breathless and flushed, forehead buried in his sheets while he kneels behind you, two sure hands repositioning your ass in the air like he’s smoothing kinks from an instrument only he can tune.

“Uh-uh,” he grunts, and you’re too far gone to know what he means until his palm presses between your shoulder blades and eases you down, down, down, your hips staying high as your face sinks into the pillow. “Arch for me — c’mon, deeper bend, don’t cheat your lower back.” 

Your breath catches when he palms the dip he’s just created, fingers splaying and then he’s sliding his cock in your folds slow. It earns a pleased mewl from you, angle perfect because he’s engineered it that way. 

Every push has a tiny corrective tap — shoulders down, knees wider, perfect girl — until your pussy clenches and drips all over his rigid stomach and he finally lets you break form, hips snapping while his palm settles, triumphant, at the very spot that first straightened you hours ago.

MARIA NOTE hello this is my trying out little blurbs/drabbles bc this random thought rlly evoked something in me... don't know how to feel it ab. it feels naked without my fun graphics but alas! and the tiny text??? what do we think?? yes or no i'm in the middle right now so feel free to share opinions... it looked a little strange as regular but idk i'm lowkey having an existential crisis over this ok bye

pope ignored the question and started to make his exit by simply saying, "gotta go."

you're not the type of person to talk people into watching your shows or other musicals with you. you know musicals aren't everyone's cup of tea. so you didn't talk about it with pope, even if you so badly wanted to share your passion with him until— he asked you if he could see you perform.

you excitedly pulled out your phone to show him the footage of your shows. your focus was solely on him as he watched intently— he cringed at the other actors, sounded like fucking shrieking hyenas, he thought.

you started to become nervous as your part was getting closer, you wanted pope's approval. you wanted him to be proud of you.

pope's expression softened when you appeared. he has a tiny smile on his face as he listened to you sing. you felt your heart constrict at the sight.

"you look so beautiful, baby."

it was a quiet remark, very easy to miss but you heard him clear as day. you thought he maybe hadn't even realised that he said it, he still couldn't take his eyes off the phone screen.

you invited him to come see your show, his very first time seeing you live. you told him that he's welcome to bring his family too. you doubt his brothers would come along, but it was worth a shot.

you were surprised to read his text message he'd sent you that he's all driving them to the theatre.

you're usually confident, you're not one to get easily embarrassed to look foolish on stage. it's a quality anyone should have if they're getting into the business.

but now you're feeling embarrassed— you feel hot and sweat is starting to form on your back. because they'll watch you perform that song, and see you do that part.

♪ and you know, you know, you know it's 'cause you're beautiful you say you're numb inside, but i can't agree so the world's unfair, keep it locked out there in here it's beautiful let's make this beautiful

that works for me— ♪

the cody's watched as you started to make out with your co-star during the instrumental break.

craig was weirdly into the song, bobbing his head and snapping his fingers. meanwhile, poor deran sat right beside pope, looking uneasy.

then you and your co-star started to strip both of your clothes, becoming touchy with each other in the process.

craig wolf-whistled, deran wanted this whole thing to be over. he still hadn't taken the leap to spare a glance at pope.

♪ love this dead girl walkin' (woah, woah, hey, hey, yeah, yeah) love this dead girl walkin' (woah, woah, hey, hey, wait, wait) love this dead girl, yeah, yeah, yeah, ow yeah ♪

now, you're dry humping the actor. craig's wide smile started to fall. deran groaned and roughly rubbed his face with his hands, bracing for the worst. this is going to be the most awkward drive back home ever.

when the song ended, pope was the first one to stand up from his seat and clap loudly before anyone else in the audience did.

both craig and deran snapped their heads up to look incredulously at their brother. they were expecting him to be gripping the handles of the chair so hard it breaks and punch the first person he sees, but pope looked so proud of you, and very much in love.

'who is this evil pope and what have you done to our brother?'

deran slowly stood up to lean into pope's ear, "pope, you've seen the whole thing right? you haven't fallen asleep?" he had to raise his voice a little over the loud cheers from everyone around them.

still clapping, pope said, "yeah, wasn't she perfect? we rehearsed that back at home hundreds of times."

and the "rehearsals" consisted of long, steamy makeouts that led to him fucking you in your veronica costume.

turns out deran had nothing to worry about. ♡

you lean down to place a kiss to the head of him, then another. then another and another while giggling as you think about how cute his pink tip is. you hear him sigh impatiently and you blink up at him through bleary eyes. "s-sorry *hic* soryy jackie- 's jus sooo pretty."

he runs a hand through his silver curls before reaching down to try and haul you off your knees. his arms grip under your armpits like how a parent picks up a toddler. " 's alright baby you don't have to. lets just go to sleep alright?"

but you squirm out of his hold and firmly plant yourself on your knees. pouting all serious now. "no! i can do it *hic* promise!" after a second of scanning your face for doubt, jack nods and settles back into the couch when all he finds is determination.

you wrap your manicured hand around his pretty cock, a lopsided grin forms on your face when you hears jack's breath catch. you prop your elbow on one of his spread knees and rest your cheek against your fist as you stroke him way too slowly due to time meaning nothing to you in your buzzed state of mind.

you don't even realize you're eye lids drooping until jack thrusts up into your hand with a rough, "cmon baby." you jolt upright instantly, swallowing down a drunken yawn before forcing yourself to focus on the task at hand. sweetly saying "sorry jackie."

you bend forward to lick him, a long stripe from base to tip that has you smacking your lips with a "mmmm tastes good." jack huffs a laugh thats snuffed out by a groan when you take him in your mouth.

one languid suck of his length has you feeling dizzy. but not the usual kind of dizziness that blooms from pleasure, the intoxicated kind. when you bob back up the world spins, you mumble jacks name weakly before your hands shoot out to grab at his thick thighs.

he straightens instantly, cursing as he grips your biceps, hard cock still standing at attention inches from your face. "no more." he grunts with a grimace on his wrinkled face, looking like he's about to try and move you from your spot again.

but he's so hard! and you told him you wanted to do this. and you still do. you love making him feel good and getting drunk was not going to stop you from doing so. you start to whine and shimmy out of his hold. " 'm jus too dizzy. *hic* help me please?" your lower lip wobbles and tears brim at your waterline. jack gives you a doting smile and strokes your hair, not being able to say no to you. "course i can sweetheart."

thinking he's gonna fuck your face, you form an 'o' and go to take him back in your mouth. you squeak in surprise when jack grips your hair and gently tugs you back to look up at him. he chides "nuh uh baby. dont wan't you gettin' nauseous." before you can even argue he lays his thumb on your tongue and drags it outwards. "lemme do all the work. stick that tongue out. good girl- just like that."

you giggle at the praise, shifting on your knees so he has a better view of you all glossy eyed and pliant for him. jack takes himself in his vein covered hand and starts to leisurely stroke. watching him touch himself has your cheeks heating and thighs squirming. "jackiee" you whine, for nothing in particular.

but he just shakes his head as his movements speed up, grunting as he twists his wrist at the tip. "don't worry baby. just sit there and look pretty- fuck- y'so pretty sweetheart." after however long -you're so wasted you couldn't say- his jaw clenches and his thighs tense and you can tell he's getting close.

you see his aged face pinch as he squeezes the thick base with his hand while staring at you wide eyed for him. your hands start to feel real useless. so you reach out to grip his balls to help! he groans loudly as you start to massage them in your soft palm.

"fuck- just like that- doin so good-" his praises have you sober the tiniest bit, enough to lean forward and dribble some spit onto his glistening tip. jack throws his head back in a broken moan before gluing his blown out eyes back to yours. "gonna cum- tongue out f'me. now."

you obey him, instantly rewarded by the sound of jack cumming, groaning your name along with a string of lewd praises. "oooh fuck- fuck baby- so good. you're so good-" he tilts his hips forward as his hand jerks himself rapidly, his salty release spraying you from your extended tongue, to your smudged mascara covered cheeks, to the tip of your nose. he only collapses when you're entirely painted in his cum, slowly blinking down at you. his chuckle at your huge grin and sticky face is weak and satisfied.

you stick your tongue out to start to lick up his release but he stops you by successfully picking you up and dropping you on the couch. "leave it." he demands as he makes his way down your body to spread your legs with his large palms.