Oh Yes, In The Pit Of Despair

Over the course of your career, you’d worked hard to rise up the ranks of assistants, taking on new roles at different companies until you’d made it to the top of the ladder. But you found yourself in the odd position of having nowhere else to go, and little to do. 

As Mr. Barnes’ senior EA, your job was to oversee the rest of the CEO’s assistants. At any given time, he had half a dozen, all of whom managed his schedule, fetched his dry-cleaning, and did everything else the busy werewolf didn’t have time to do.

However, after the brief transition period when you first stepped into your role and made some changes so that the fleet of assistants ran more efficiently, and everything was delegated to the others, there was little left for you to do.

All that was expected of you was to sit at your desk in the sparsely decorated antechamber outside Mr. Barnes’ office, with its towering, thick wooden doors that were often closed, leaving you entirely alone. Occasionally, you’d have to greet any visitors who’d arrive for an in-person meeting, but that was rare.

Most days, no one came to Mr. Barnes’ office, since the werewolf preferred virtual meetings and phone calls to in-person sit-downs. So you spent long, arduous days alone at your desk while your boss worked and the fleet of assistants scurried around doing his bidding, which was relayed through you.

It left you with a lot of free time—free time that you spent trying to keep busy, and trying not to daydream about your handsome werewolf boss. 

It had been against your better judgement that your foolish heart had caught feelings for Bucky Barnes, but it turned out you had a soft spot for werewolves with icy blue eyes, sharp canine teeth, and expensive suits. It didn’t help that he had a dry sense of humor and a brusque, no-nonsense way of conducting business that you respected.

Still, you maintained a professional demeanor at work, not allowing your feelings for your boss to show when you greeted him in the morning or spoke to him about his schedule. But if you were honest with yourself, your little crush on the werewolf was the reason you didn’t look for another job.

You’d fallen into a routine of monotony, broken up only by the brief, thrilling moments when you interacted with Bucky Barnes. You didn’t even realize you were looking for something to escape the vicious circle your life had become until it was right in front of your face.

It was on one particularly dreary afternoon when you took the first step down a path that would change everything. 

Cold rain lashed against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the antechamber outside Mr. Barnes’ office, obscuring the view of New York City’s Central Park that lay at the feet of the company’s high-rise in Manhattan. You felt like a princess trapped in a tower, held above and apart from the rest of the world, bitterly alone. 

To remind yourself that you weren’t the last person in the world, living among the gray clouds, you found yourself scrolling through your social media feed, eagerly watching the little windows into other peoples’ lives. 

It was then that you came across a video from a woman who made her living as a “spicy accountant.” Unlike some of the others you’d seen on the app, though, she made her money through something called Pleasure Portal. 

You watched in rapt attention as the woman in the video explained what it was—a network created by the company’s warlock CEO using proprietary portal technology that connected those with willing holes with clients willing to pay to use those holes, even if they were entire continents apart. 

According to the woman, all transactions were completely anonymous and conducted through the app, though there were options for leaving tips and favorable reviews. To ensure everyone’s safety, there was an application process that included health and background checks verified by the Pleasure Portal company. 

And the best part, at least to you, was that it was open to everyone—human and monsters alike.

That had been the most enticing selling point for you, because even if you didn’t need the money, Pleasure Portal offered a safe and anonymous way for you to explore what it would be like to be with a monster, something you’d only ever fantasized about before.

Although you’d developed a crush on him, Bucky Barnes wasn’t the first monster you’d daydreamed about. 

Over the years, you’d wondered endlessly about what it would feel like to be split open by a minotaur, to be put under a lust spell by a warlock, to be tied so intimately by a werewolf’s knot…

You’d been breathless with excitement as you applied to be part of the Pleasure Portal network right then, on that dreary afternoon. You kept oscillating between feeling like it was a dream, too good to be true, and giddy excitement as you filed your paperwork, and gave proof that you tested negative for STIs and were on birth control.

It took surprisingly little time to be approved, the app on your phone unlocking your profile while you were sent the portal device.

As soon as you got the notification that the package had been delivered, in the middle of the afternoon on a hot, summer day, you left your desk, giving Mr. Barnes a ridiculous excuse about needing to go home early to feed your neighbor’s cat. 

Once at you made it back to your apartment in Park Slope, you tore into the box with as much care as you could muster, your eyes widening and lips parting with wonder when you finally got your hands on the portal device.

It was as small as a matchbook and, according to the instructions, should be affixed to your skin above, below or beside the hole you wished to connect to the network. The magic in the device could then be activated only from your app, which required face ID, and it could be shut off using the app or by voicing the safe word you registered with the service.

The app was how you connected with potential Pleasure Patrons, filling out your profile with interests and limits, and setting yourself as available whenever you were open to clients. Anyone looking to use your services as a Pleasure Pocket could send a request, and you had the option to approve or deny based on their profile, which revealed their first name, age and species, and how much money they were offering. 

Although you were almost too excited to read through all the instructions on the portal device and fill out your profile, you forced yourself to pay attention and get through it as quickly and methodically as possible so you could finally get started.

It wasn’t long before you were attaching the device to your mound, just above your pussy, and setting yourself as available on the app. Your profile specified that you were particularly open to monsters—and you were delighted to discover they were all too eager to use your services.

From that night on, you became an active Pleasure Pocket on the Pleasure Portal network. 

At first, you consigned yourself to only using it when you were at home, letting monsters from all over the world rail you while you made dinner or took a shower or lay on your couch watching TV. But work was so boring, and you really didn’t have much to do, so what was the harm in wearing it to the office?

It was breathlessly thrilling to wear the Pleasure Portal device at your desk, alone in the antechamber outside Mr. Barnes’ office, feeling all manner of monster cock fill you while you were on the clock. It got to a point where even if you weren’t stuffed full of cock, you were daydreaming about it. Your idle thoughts constantly wandered back to your favorite Patrons.

The day everything truly changed, was a day like any other.

It was a beautiful sunny afternoon in New York City, the golden summer sun glinting off buildings and giving you a perfect view of Central Park with all its gorgeous green foliage. And it was another boring day at your desk, with nothing for you to do since the assistants were self-sufficient and Bucky was busy behind his closed office doors. 

At that point, you’d been part of the Pleasure Portal network for a few months, and your mind kept straying back to one of your recent clients, a minotaur that had used you the previous week. 

Your fingers toyed idly with the buttons of your silk blouse, which was tucked into a tight black pencil skirt. You bit your lip as you remembered the feeling of the minotaur’s impressive length filling you up for hours one morning, his stamina lasting for what seemed like an eon.

He’d used you for so long, and fucked you so relentlessly, you’d nearly passed out at your desk. It had been glorious.

Once he was done with you, the minotaur had left you a generous tip “for monopolizing your morning,” as well as a favorable review: “5/5 stars, tightest pussy I’ve had in a long time. Would fuck again.”

It was the last part of his review that still stuck with you a week later, and had you daydreaming that he would, in fact, fuck you again. You didn’t often accept repeat clients, but for the minotaur, you’d make an exception. He’d pleasured you well enough that you could see yourself enjoying another session with him.

Unbidden, your thoughts veered sharply away from your minotaur client. Instead, icy blue eyes, sharp canine teeth, and a broad chest clad in an expensive suit flashed through your mind. You tried desperately to halt your thoughts before they could venture further down that path, but your imagination couldn’t be stopped.

Your fantasy shifted, and before you could rein in your mind, you were thinking about being stretched open on a thick werewolf cock while you sat in your boss’s lap. The base of his length, where his knot would inflate, would nudge against your clit and remind you that once he came, you’d be unable to separate. 

Your bodies would be tied together in such an intimate way that couldn’t be ignored. You’d be connected in the most primal, physical way possible…

With a sigh, you blinked the tantalizing image from your mind and returned your focus to the gorgeous sight of the summer sun shining brightly down on New York City, glinting off the water of the lake in Central Park and shimmering off the windows of the other skyscrapers in midtown Manhattan. 

You willed your heart to slow and your breathing to even out in an effort to temper the heat that had begun building in your core. When your fantasy had shifted to Bucky, your slit had flooded with desire, and you could feel the sticky evidence in your panties when you crossed one leg over the other. 

Truthfully, you’d hoped that joining the Pleasure Portal network would distract you from your crush on your boss, but it seemed to have the opposite effect. Letting all manner of monsters use your hole was fun, but it was all anonymous, and it lacked the true connection you thought you could only find in real life. 

And, to be perfectly honest, you weren’t interested in finding a true connection with anyone other than Bucky. Even the minotaur from the previous week paled in comparison to your boss. Though he’d been a good lover and had tipped well, you didn’t want anything more from him than a few more orgasms. 

You were, unfortunately, still hung up on the older werewolf CEO with the icy blue eyes that sent shivers down your spine and the devastatingly handsome face. You wanted the monster who sat in his office just a few dozen feet away from your desk, but might as well have been a whole world away with the thick wooden doors and his inability to see you as anything more than his EA.

A soft chime from your phone pulled you from that train of thought and you picked up the device. A small smile stole across your face when you saw a Pleasure Portal notification: A new Patron was requesting a session!

Eager for something to distract you from your thoughts of Bucky Barnes, you quickly opened up the app and scanned the request.

James, 42, werewolf, was asking for an immediate session, and he was willing to pay an exorbitant amount of money—so much that even your eyes widened at the number of zeros. It was more than you made in an entire week as a senior EA, and all for a few hours of being this monster’s Pleasure Pocket. 

Still, you couldn’t lie and tell yourself the money was really what swayed you. It was this potential client’s profile, particularly the part where he noted he was a werewolf. 

After daydreaming about Bucky, you were feeling more than a little needy. And even though fucking this werewolf named James wouldn’t be the same as finally getting the attention you desired from your boss, you couldn’t deny yourself. You wanted a knot, and if you couldn’t have the one you really wanted, you’d take anything you could get.

So, without any more thought, you hit the button on the app that accepted James’s offer.

As soon as the Pleasure Portal app registered your acceptance, you felt the device hum to life on the mound of your pussy. Delightful tingles erupted in a circle around your hole, the magical current of the portal coming to life and teasing your skin.

You gave a little shiver of anticipation as you leaned back in your expensive, ergonomic desk chair. You closed your eyes, and waited for James to begin using his side of the open portal, arousal already gathering between your thighs as you thought about being used by the anonymous Patron.

Less than a minute later, you felt the pointed tip of the werewolf’s cock nudging carefully against your entrance. The first feel of him made your breath catch in your throat.

James felt big, even just the tip of him spreading your lower lips as he pushed against your entrance. He seemed to be taking it slow, testing out your readiness, being careful not to hurt you with one rough thrust.

When you realized how big he was and the care he was taking with you, your pussy flooded with arousal. It was enough to make your hole slick and ready for his massive cock.

It occurred to you that James might be the biggest monster you’d ever taken, and you were eager to find out if you were right about that. In your chest, your heart raced, but the rest of you remained still as you waited with a breathless excitement for James to feed you more of his cock.

Your prediction was confirmed a moment later when James pressed deeper, the narrow tip of his cock giving way to a thick girth that had you gasping for air and clutching the edge of your desk. Your nails dug into the unyielding wood as your pussy clamped down hard on the werewolf’s penetrating length. 

A soft chime came from your phone, and you picked it up to find James had sent a text through Pleasure Portal’s in-app messaging system. Some clients tried to use it for dirty talk, but more often than not, their attempts at seducing you with words had the opposite effect so you usually ignored them. 

However, James’s message was different. 

Fuck, you’re tight. Even for a human. 

The werewolf sounded grumpy, almost resentful of your pussy, like he could barely believe anyone, even a human, could be so tight. It was a far cry from the effusive flattery most other Patrons tried to woo you with, but the honesty of it charmed you. 

A smile tugged at the corner of your mouth, and your thumbs moved quickly as you typed out a response that you hoped would elicit more delightful grumpiness from the older werewolf. 

Fucked many humans, have you?

The self-satisfied grin on your face slipped when James pushed further into your hole, your mouth forming a perfect ‘o’ and your eyes going wide as your body stretched to accomodate his monster cock. 

He was so big and overwhelming, the velvet-wrapped steel of his girth rubbing deliciously against your inner walls while he pressed deeper, that you momentarily forgot about your phone and it fell with a dull thunk to your desk.

When he was still only partway inside your pussy, James paused, as if giving you time to adjust—and giving himself a moment to send an answer to your question. 

My fair share. How many werewolves have you had?

Picking up your phone to read the message, you huffed a dry laugh at James’s blunt question. It wasn’t really his business—though he must’ve seen on your profile that you had a few positive reviews from past werewolf Patrons—but you found you didn’t mind the intrusive question.

For some reason, you felt a connection to James that had always been lacking in your previous clients, werewolf and other monsters alike. You knew it was likely just because he reminded you of the boss you were crushing on and would never have, but you couldn’t help indulging yourself and gave James an honest response.

A few. None as big as you, though.

The werewolf must’ve shunted his hips forward, burying his cock impossibly deeper in your pussy. The sudden surge of pleasure made you forget yourself, and a desperate squeal slipped from your lips before you could clap a hand over your mouth to muffle the sound.

God, he was so big, the stretch of him burning pleasantly through your core. Your pussy throbbed around the thick girth of his shaft, which was buried so deep, you swore you could feel him in your belly. Pressing a palm to your lower stomach, you stared down at your lap in awe when you could feel the thick steel of him inside your body even while you sat alone in your desk chair. 

The magic of the Pleasure Portal was wild—and you loved it. 

You loved sitting at your desk, in your office above the clouds, stuffed full of werewolf cock where anyone could walk in—where even Bucky could walk in—and talk to you like nothing was out of the ordinary. He’d never know you were full of cock, unless your face gave you away.

That thought made your pussy drip around James’s thick cock, making the slide of his hard length easier as he slipped even deeper. Your moan at the feeling was muffled behind the palm of your hand and you bent over, letting your forehead fall against the cool wood of your desk while you basked in the sensation of being filled so deliciously. 

Even with your thighs trapped tight together by your pencil skirt, the new position opened your body up, and made it easier for James to hilt his monstrous cock in your tight hole. In seconds, he was buried to the base, filling you up more than you even thought possible.

It was all you could do to stifle your blissed-out moans and desperate whimpers in your hand, not wanting to draw your boss’s attention and end your exquisite torment as you writhed in pleasure on James’s cock.

I’m sure you say that to all the monsters on this app.

It took a moment for you to wade through the haze filling your head and grab your phone to read James’s message. 

When you did, you let out an unladylike snort. It was so perfectly grumpy that it made you want to be playful with the older werewolf, an urge you didn’t often care enough about your Patrons to muster.

Gotta earn those tips somehow 🤪

James must’ve let out a low growl at that response, because you could feel the vibration reverberate through his cock where it was buried inside you. 

A soft, pitiful mewl slipped from your lips, and you dropped your head back to your desk with a thunk, your eyes sliding closed as overwhelming pleasure washed through you. 

You’re trouble.

The chime of your phone had you lifting your head back up, your eyes popping open, and you couldn’t bite back the smile at the warm grumpiness of James’s response. 

Something about those two words had your heart doing flips in your chest and the long-dormant butterflies in your stomach taking flight. 

Your inner walls were stretched so perfectly around his hard length, you could practically feel the thrum of his blood pumping in his shaft, and he could feel every throb of your pussy. Your pussy fluttered around the werewolf’s thick cock, and you could feel him twitch in reply. 

It was as if your bodies were conversing in a language all their own.

It was so intimate, the physical connection between you and this anonymous werewolf named James, that you couldn’t stop your mind from wandering to your boss. You wondered if he would be as big, if he’d fill you up as good—if you’d be able to feel every vein and ridge in his cock. 

You wondered if Bucky would be able to make you smile and laugh the way James had. 

And as soon as you had that thought, you realized how unfair you were being to James. It wasn’t his fault you couldn’t get over this ridiculous crush on your boss, and you started to feel bad for thinking about another monster while he was inside you.

So you pushed all thoughts of Bucky aside and refocused on James, picking up your phone to type out another playful response, hoping to get another grumpy reply.

Trouble with a tight pussy, though, right? 😉

Yeah, sweetling, you’ve got a very tight pussy. Feels like you’re strangling my dick.

You huffed a laugh at the vaguely violent description of your pussy, enjoying the blunt way the grumpy werewolf spoke. And if your heart fluttered even more at the sweet nickname and naked praise in James’s message, you ignored the blossoming emotion in your chest. 

The only thing worse than harboring a crush on your unattainable boss was developing a crush on one of your anonymous Pleasure Patrons. That way lay only heartbreak, of that you were certain. So you tried to rein in the feelings developing in your heart.

When you tried to type out another playful message and remain detached, though, your fingers seemed to have a mind of their own, sending a text that was perhaps a little too honest. 

Thank you, sir ☺️ I want to please you.

James’s cock jumped inside you, drawing a low, obscene moan from your lips before you could bite it back, your eyes going hazy as pleasure throbbed through your body. 

Distractedly, you wondered which part of your message had elicited that response from James—whether it was you calling him ‘sir’ or your honest desire to please him. Or perhaps it was both.

Before you could muster up the courage to ask, his next message came through, and your mouth curved into a pleased smile when it answered your unspoken questions.

Keep calling me that and you’ll earn a very generous tip, sweetling. 

A pleased smile bloomed across your face as you read James’s message. You tried to tell yourself it was in response to the prospect of the tip he was offering, and not the sweet nickname, but you weren’t fooling yourself. 

You tried to think of a more playful, detached response, but before you could come up with anything, another message came in.

I have a call soon, I just need some quick stress relief beforehand, but I’ll double your tip every time you cum on my cock.

You breathed a sigh of relief before you could stop yourself, happy to have a break from your flirty exchange with the werewolf to talk about the logistics of your session. Still, you couldn’t stop your pussy from fluttering around James’s cock at his blunt, filthy words. 

He filled you so well, it was almost hard to think, and you blamed your needy distraction for the almost desperate tone of the response you sent him. 

Use me, sir, and I’ll do my best to take it 🫡 That’s what I’m here for.

James didn’t need any more encouragement than that. You could feel the way he groaned at your words, the low rumbling of pleasure reverberating through your sensitive inner walls, and making you gush with even more wetness, like your pussy was drooling for the werewolf cock stuffed deep in your hole to fuck you.

Then he was doing just that, using his side of the Pleasure Portal to fuck you hard and fast, pounding into your pussy like you were nothing more than a fleshlight made solely for his pleasure. It was brutal, ruthless, perfect, the way his cock filled your tight hole, the pointed tip bullying your cervix with every merciless thrust.

All you could do was take it, pleasure swarming through your body and overwhelming your mind, until you were little more than the werewolf’s toy, your body hunched at your desk, your face buried in the crook of your arm to muffle your sounds of enjoyment while you took everything he offered. 

Your inner walls were stretched thin around James’s cock, and though the drag of his thick girth felt devastatingly good, it wasn’t enough to make you cum. With trembling fingers, you slipped your hand beneath your pencil skirt, not caring how high up your thighs you pushed the material, just intent about reaching the juncture of your thighs.

It took only a brief brush of your fingers against your clothed clit to set you off. 

Your mouth fell open and you pressed your blunt teeth into your arm through the silk of your blouse, a high-pitched whine falling from your lips as the pleasure in your body exploded and you were carried away in the relentless rhythm of James’s cock pounding into your cunt.

Your panting breath was loud in your ears, but you could’ve sworn you heard a faint groan as your pussy milked the werewolf’s cock, your inner walls clamping down so hard on his thick length, you felt him twitch deep inside you. 

But you brushed off the sound as a figment of your imagination. It must’ve been your mind playing tricks on you, born of a desire to hear your partner when you were alone in your pleasure, with only your gasps and moans as company. You ached to press against James’s sturdy body, to hear his voice, to feel more than his cock…

Thankfully, a soft chime from your phone dragged you back from the sudden rush of loneliness that filled your heart and threatened to consume all your enjoyment like a black hole. 

Good girl. Cum on this fat werewolf cock like the perfect little slut you are, sweetling.

“Oh fuck,” you whispered to yourself, your eyes sliding closed as another shiver of pleasure skated down your spine at his words and his pumping cock. Already, tension was coiling tight in your core again, and you were rocketing toward another release.

You’d never gotten off to the dirty talk your Patrons had sent in the past, but James’s words did something to you no other monster had managed—they made your pussy gush and flutter. They made you moan, the sounds low and lewd as they bounced off the bare walls of the office antechamber. 

James’s message was the ideal mix of praise and degradation. It tapped into your desires so perfectly, you wondered distractedly if he was also a wizard or a mind-reader. 

And then you realized he hadn’t stopped his ruthless pounding even when he’d been texting you, which meant he was fucking his half of the portal with one hand while typing his filthy messages to you with the other.

It all unraveled something in you, and you scrabbled for your phone on the desk, your fingers clumsy and trembling as you typed out a response, desperate for James to know what he was doing to you. You wanted him to know how good he was making you feel. 

You feel so so good inside my tight cunt, sir. Your fat werewolf cock is splitting me open, breaking me apart. Feels sooo good. 

The act of typing out those words made the tension in your body wind tighter, and just as you hit send, you realized you were on the precipice of another release. Quickly, you sent another message without waiting for a response. 

I’m gonna cum again.

Your fingers, which you’d pulled from beneath your skirt so you could text with two hands, slipped back beneath the tight fabric. They squirmed between your plush thighs, which were already pushing the pencil skirt’s seams to they’re limits, and tugged your panties to the side to rub your clit. 

You were careening toward your second release in just a few seconds, your breaths coming in sharp, desperate pants, and your heart pounding in your chest. You could even hear the faint, obscene wet sound of James’s cock pounding into your gushing pussy. 

But all of it fell away when you heard the chime of another message.

Rub your pretty pearl, sweetling, and cum again on this thick werewolf cock. Show me what a good slut you can be for me, use that tight cunt to milk my fat cock. 

Obediently, your fingertips pressed harder to your clit and you rubbed it roughly, matching the rhythm of James’s fucking, until you were shoved over the edge again. Your entire body seized, every muscle in your body going taut, as the tension in your core wound tight and then, suddenly, snapped. 

Dropping your phone to your desk, you shoved half your fist in your mouth to muffle the high-pitched scream that clawed up your throat and wanted to burst free. 

You couldn’t tell how much noise you were making, but you hoped it wasn’t enough to get Bucky’s attention, because you were lost to the bliss James offered. You were a hopeless, pitiful puddle of pleasure in your ergonomic chair—and you never wanted it to end.

While you were in the throes of your release, you thought you heard another groan, deeper and filthier than the one earlier, a sound that matched the way James’s cock kicked deep in your cunt, like he was on the verge of losing himself in your body. 

But that thought drifted away in the current of pleasure that was carrying you along, dissolving as soon as it had appeared, leaving you to revel in your release. 

Distantly, you heard your phone go off, and you reached for it blindly, gasping for breath as you struggled to open your eyes and read the text.

That’s a good girl, cumming so perfectly for me. You have such a slutty hole, sweetling, cumming all over my werewolf cock and clutching at me like you’re begging for more. Do you want another one, my sweet girl?

A soft, sharp whine slipped from your lips and you had to bite down hard on your plush lower lip to stifle the sound. Even still, it ricocheted off the bare walls in the antechamber, and you hoped the thick wood of Bucky’s office doors muffled it. 

But you barely paid your boss any mind, fingers trembling with need and excitement as you typed out a response to James with one hand.

Yes, please, sir. Please make me cum again, I wanna cum all over your big werewolf cock. You fill me up so so good. I wanna bounce on your huge, perfect cock and take every inch of your fat knot, sir. Please!

James’s reply came back so quickly, even you were stunned with how fast it appeared. All he said was: 

Fuck. You can’t be real.

You had little time to marvel over those words, and the way they made your heart flutter dangerously in your chest, because in the next breath James was pounding into you even harder. 

He used your cunt as his own personal pleasure portal, fucking you like you were the stress relief he deserved, shoving his entire length deep inside your pussy. The narrow tip of his cock battered against your cervix, pushing into it a little more each time, giving every thrust a sharp edge of pain that made the pleasure even more exquisitely devastating.

It was all too good, too perfect, your mind splintering as the world around you fell away entirely. You were no longer the senior EA to werewolf CEO Bucky Barnes, you were a Pleasure Pocket made to be used by every manner of monster for their pleasure. 

No, not just any monster—you were made specifically for James, 42, werewolf. You were his personal sex toy, his pocket pussy, his fuck hole. And all you could do was take it—take his cock, take the brutal pounding he offered, and the bliss that came with it, and let him take his pleasure in your body.

You imagined James on the other end of the magical portal, holding the cylindrical fleshlight-like device in his big hands and yanking it down on his impossibly thick cock. You pictured him fucking the portal toy—and, by extension, your cunt—with everything he had, sweat beading on his face, the muscles in his broad body shifting beneath his fur and skin.

Before you could stop it, the image in your mind shifted, the generic figure of a werewolf morphing into something more familiar, something resembling the daydream you’d had earlier. 

In your mind’s eye, James became Bucky. 

You could so easily picture the way Bucky’s bright blue eyes would flash with hunger and darken with lust as he pounded into your tight cunt, the emotions churning like the sky during a summer thunderstorm. 

It was far too easy to imagine the way his sharp canine teeth would glint in the lights of the office as he bore down on your body, his expensive suit only undone enough to free his cock, the gush of your pussy making a mess of the front of his slacks as he split you open with every thrust.

His inhuman muscles would strain the seams of his suit, making them cling to the bulge of his biceps and the flexing of his thighs as he fucked you on his desk. You’d be entirely at his mercy, which was exactly where you wanted to be more than anywhere else in the world—even with James.

A pang in your chest dragged you out of your fantasy, and you remembered the werewolf who was actually fucking you. You felt a little bit bad for daydreaming about Bucky when you were with James, especially since the latter had quickly become your favorite Patron. But, you reasoned, what he didn’t know couldn’t hurt him.

So you sank deeper into your daydream about your boss, imagining it was Bucky fucking you instead of some random stranger on the other end of the Pleasure Portal. 

The combination of James’s perfect cock and your imagination’s perfect picture of Bucky was too much for your mind and body to take. The werewolf was fucking you too hard and too fast, and you were breathless from the pleasure, unable to stop yourself from speeding toward a devastating release. 

You held on for as long as you could, but James seemed intent on making you cum again before his call began. And the werewolf confirmed as much when your phone chimed with another message.

Do it. Cum on my cock, sweetling. Be a good girl and give it to me so I can fill you up with my knot and stuff your tight pussy full of cum. Then you can sit pretty on my fat werewolf cock like a perfect little knot slut while I take this call.

Those filthy words were all you needed to push you over the edge. 

A breathy, high-pitched cry escaped your lips before you could stop it, but you were too far gone to care. Pleasure overwhelmed you, blackness creeping into the edge of your consciousness as your body shivered and shook with the force of your release.

All the while, your pussy was clamped down on James’s thick cock as he kept fucking you, like your body was begging for his cum. His hard length vibrated with a groan you could’ve sworn you could hear. You swayed perilously in your chair, your eyes closed and your entire being focused on the cock bringing you so much pleasure.

The werewolf lasted only a few more moments, his thrusts turning wild and erratic as he rutted into your too-tight cunt. Then he was shoving his cock deep in your hole, his knot inflating and stretching the edge of your hole a second before his big cock twitched inside you, spilling his cum in your plugged pussy.

Your breath caught in your throat at the sudden stretch of James’s knot, and though there was a brief moment when you worried he might be too big for you to take, your body was loose and relaxed enough from your three orgasms that it adjusted. You were left with a feeling of being blissfully full.

It felt so good, in fact, that you leaned back in your chair with a sigh of contentment. Your fingers trapped between your thighs stroked your clit and your pussy pulsed with one more release. 

Pleasure shivered down your spine as you came again, and your inner walls fluttered weakly around James’s cock, sucking him deeper while his shaft throbbed and he filled you with cum.

Did you just cum for a fourth time, just on my knot?

You dragged your hand from beneath your skirt to grab your phone when it chimed. A sated smile curled the corners of your lips as you read James’s message, your pussy fluttering with happiness. 

The smile bloomed into a full-blown grin when you typed out your response, going for playful but ending up sending something entirely too honest. Again.

Yes, sir 🥴 I wouldn’t have thought of myself as a knot slut, but I think you’ve converted me. 

Haha

James’s dry response had a pleased sense of pride filling your chest. It was the first time he’d shown any kind of emotion outside of his dirty talk, and your heart squeezed, even as you told yourself nothing good could come of the little crush you were developing on your Pleasure Portal client. 

Before you could spiral about how you felt about James, though, another text from the werewolf came through your phone. 

Time for you to rest, sweetling. Be a good girl and keep my cock warm while I take this call. If you’re patient, I’ll use you again and double your tip.

You smiled at James’s message. Of course you could be patient and good, especially for him. You shifted in your seat, trying to get comfortable and accustomed to the feeling of fullness in your core.

It was a little strange, the feeling of James’s thick cock and full knot inside you, mainly because you were still alone at your desk, high above the New York City skyline, but it wasn’t unpleasant. In fact, you thought you might be able to get very used to sitting on a werewolf’s knot, and even enjoy it very much. 

But you would’ve rather been able to do so in the presence of the werewolf whose knot you were tied to.

A pang of loneliness pierced your heart, and you thought of the werewolf whose knot you really wanted to be tied to, but you quickly pushed it away. Instead of thinking about your boss, you focused on the throbbing pulse between your thighs where you were tied to the anonymous werewolf.

Thank you, sir. Knock ‘em dead 😘

As soon as you sent the message, you wanted to take it back. Blowing a kiss felt too…romantic, too intimate for a Pleasure Pocket and their Patron. But the little note had already popped up confirming James had seen it. He didn’t respond, though, and you had to assume his call had started.

You tried to distract yourself by checking on your own work. 

The fleet of assistants were all busy with their tasks, and according to Bucky’s schedule, he was in a meeting for the next couple hours. 

It was a relief to know your boss wouldn’t be interrupting your session with James, and you wondered distractedly if they might happen to be on the same call. But then you snorted and shook your head at the ridiculous thought. Not every werewolf knew each other, you chastised yourself, and it was small-minded to think otherwise.

It was just a coincidence that James was in a call at the same time that Bucky was in a virtual meeting. 

Satisfied that there wasn’t any work to be done, you got comfortable in your chair, and closed your eyes against the bright summer sun filtering in through the windows of the antechamber. You allowed your mind to drift and daydream to your heart’s content.

You wondered what James looked like—what color his eyes were; what shape his canine teeth were, if he left them sharp or had filed them to be blunter and more socially acceptable. You wondered if he was broad-shouldered, like Bucky, or lithe and slim like other werewolves you’d seen.

All the while, you tried to ignore the building restlessness in your body. 

You should’ve been plenty sated after James gave you four orgasms in such a short period of time, but the constant fullness of his cock in your cunt and his knot stretching the rim of your hole was enough to make you needy again.

Still, you remembered James’s last command, and you did your best to sit still, be patient and not bother him. It wasn’t that you cared much about the tip he’d offered, you just wanted to be good for him. 

After a while, James’s knot deflated enough that he could’ve pulled free and ended the sessions, but he kept his cock lodged inside you. His cum was slowly seeping out around his thick girth, soaking your panties and creating a sticky mess between your thighs. 

Unfortunately, that only turned you on more, your renewed desire mixing with the copious amount of James’s cum, and it wasn’t long before you couldn’t stop squirming in your seat. Unable to stop yourself, you slid a hand beneath your skirt, already bunched up around your thighs, and rubbed your clit teasingly.

The touch was enough to make your pussy pulse around James’s cock, and you felt his thick length kick in response. He’d softened a little since unloading his cum in your pussy, but you felt him start to harden again.

A second later, your phone chimed. 

Sweetling.

A shiver of desire slid down your spine at the warning in James’s tone, even through text. 

You knew the message was meant to stop you from distracting him during his call, but you couldn’t help yourself. You stroked your clit, delighting in the feeling of your pussy throbbing and his cock twitching deep in your tight hole, growing to fill you again. 

With one hand, you typed out a reply.

I tried to be good, sir, but I’m just a silly knot slut who needs you to fill me up with your fat werewolf cock again until you’re pumping my tight cunt full of your cum and tying me to your cock with your knot 🤪

James’s response came back a few seconds later.

I knew you’d be trouble.

You gave a soft snort at his words, and though it was difficult to discern someone’s tone over text, you got the impression James’s comment was said with warmth. 

Before you could analyze it any more, the werewolf’s cock began to move inside you. He fucked you in slow, shallow strokes that gave you only a fraction of the friction you needed to get close to cumming again. 

You expected him to pick up speed, but he went on like that for long, torturous minutes, until a pitiful whine was building in the back of your throat and you were scrabbling for your phone. 

In just a few minutes, James had reduced you to a desperate mess, your hips squirming restlessly in your chair, your body uselessly trying to fuck yourself on his cock.

Please, sir. Please fuck me, use my tight pussy to make your cock feel good. You’re tormenting me. I can’t get off like this. Please!

Writhing in your chair, you unbuttoned your blouse down to your bra, brazenly groping your tits and plucking at your nipples while you tried to give yourself the stimulation James seemed determined to withhold.

His next reply seemed to take forever. 

Maybe you should’ve thought about that before you decided to be a naughty knot slut instead of a good, patient girl like I asked.

A frustrated sound wrenched free from your lips and you abandoned your tits to drop your hand between your thighs. You rubbed your clit madly, intent on eking out a release despite James’s torture. 

James must’ve felt the way your pussy spasmed and fluttered around his cock as your pleasure ramped up, because another message came through.

If you cum, you won’t get any of the tip you’ve earned.

Your mouth twisted in a snarl and you rolled your eyes. Of course every man or monster using Pleasure Portal assumed you could be controlled with money. They all assumed that was the only thing you were after. 

You’d never been more grateful for Mr. Barnes’ generous salary than in that moment, because it meant you could care more about your release than James’s threat.

You kept rubbing your clit, rocking your hips on your seat until the ergonomic chair began to squeak. You were desperately clawing your way to the peak of your pleasure, and though you could already tell it wouldn’t be anywhere near the heights you’d reached earlier with James, it would at least take the edge off. 

But then the werewolf’s next message made your fingers go still. 

If you cum, I won’t use your pussy again. 

Your whole body shuddered in protest at the idea of not feeling James’s cock pounding into your cunt again, and a tiny growl slipped from your lips. 

It took a great deal of effort, but you pulled your hand from between your thighs and typed out a reply.

Fine.

You couldn’t help but tack on another message, anger, desire and frustration swirling through your body and making you feel far too comfortable with your client.

You’re a mean werewolf.

Faint vibrations reverberated through James’s cock and you thought he’d chuckled at your message, though you couldn’t be sure. Even more frustration surged, and for the first time since you started using the Pleasure Portal, you wished you were actually with your client. 

You wanted to see James’s reactions, you wanted to hear his voice and feel his strong body beneath yours while his cock filled you up…

That’s ‘You’re a mean werewolf, sir’ to you. 

James’s message brought your attention back to him and, despite yourself, you giggled at his ridiculous joke. Some of the frustration had drained from you as you eased back from the edge of your release, and you were ready to forgive him. 

But before you could, he sent another text.

Don’t worry, sweetling, my call’s almost over. Then I’ll use you the way you want. 

With a happy grin, you settled back into your chair and waited patiently, keeping the werewolf’s cock nice and warm in your dripping pussy. You kept your thoughts on easy things like your plans for the next weekend as you watched the sun slowly descend on New York City, the shadows growing long as they stretched across Central Park.

True to his word, James’s call ended not too long after his last message. You knew the moment it was over because he started fucking you hard and fast again, so suddenly you cried out, careless about whether your boss could overhear you. 

Thankfully, those thick wooden doors to Bucky’s office must’ve swallowed the sounds you made. You shoved your hand under your skirt, rubbing your clit, desperate to reach the crescendo he’d denied you during his call. 

Cum on my cock, sweetling. Gimme all your sweet cream while I fill you up with so much cum, your belly will be bloated, stuffed full with my seed and knot.

As soon as you read James’s message, you were lost to the pleasure of his words and his cock, and your fingers on your clit.

You muffled a piercing scream in the palm of your hand as you came, your mind flooding with pleasure and your pussy clamping down possessively on James’s cock while he rutted into you. You were so far gone in your bliss, you thought you heard a roar over the rush of blood in your ears, but you didn’t think it could be real.

Then all thoughts were pushed from your mind and you could only focus on your own clenching body, the warm waves of bliss surging through your limbs as James’s knot inflated and tied you together. His cock twitched as his cum spilled inside you, filling you beyond what you thought possible. 

You looked down at your belly, watching it swell slightly; your eyes widened, and your pussy gave an excited pulse. The sight was so obscene, you couldn’t help your response, but the werewolf on the other end of the portal didn’t seem to mind.

James’s cock kicked and reverberated like he’d groaned or chuckled, and you softened, relaxing into your seat as you enjoyed the aftershocks of your release. All the while, you lightly stroked your ever-so-slightly distended belly with a sense of pleased satisfaction. 

While you floated in your post-orgasm haze, your phone chimed with a sound like a cash register. Lazily, you picked it up, knowing it wasn’t a text, and read the screen.

Your jaw dropped and your whole body clenched in surprise at the amount of money James had tipped. His cock twitched as if in response in your cunt and you pressed your palm to your lower belly, as if to calm him, while you blinked a few times.

Still, the absurd number remained on your phone’s screen. 

You earned it, sweetling. 

The message popped up in the app and you clicked on it, navigating to your exchange with James. Your fingers were clumsy as you typed out a reply.

Thank you, sir. You’ve been so incredibly generous.

You chewed on your lip, thumbs hovering over the screen as you wondered if you should say more. 

You didn’t want James to think your session was all about the money, but was that a ridiculous thought? Maybe it was all about the money to him. He was using an anonymous sex portal app, after all. Not looking for someone to form a connection with.

But it still seemed like there was something more between you two, right? You felt more comfortable with him than you had any other client, like you knew him already somehow…

Before you could agonize over your exchange with James any more, a new message from the older werewolf came in. 

You were the best stress relief and cockwarmer, sweetling, and I enjoyed our afternoon together. I hope you’ll accept me as a Patron again.

James’s words settled the anxiety brewing in your chest and you let out a sigh of relief. You knew it didn’t mean he’d ever want more than you offered on Pleasure Portal, but at least he wanted to be with you again. It was as simple as that, you didn’t need to overcomplicate it.

He wanted to have another session with you—and you wanted that as well. So you told him as much. 

I had a good time, too. You’re welcome to use me any time you want, sir ☺️

The two of you chatted about unimportant things until James’s knot deflated, and he instructed you to drink plenty of water and have a nutritious snack. You promised him you would and bid him goodbye before ending the session.

Glancing at the time on your phone, you suddenly realized how late it had gotten and you pushed yourself up to your feet.

All the blood rushed to your head and you swayed for a moment, blinking spots from your eyes. Remembering James’s words, you gulped down some water from your reusable water bottle and grabbed a snack from your desk along with a spare set of clothes you kept on hand for messy Pleasure Portal sessions.

In the bathroom, you changed and cleaned yourself up, glad that Bucky was already in his office when you got to your desk that morning so he wouldn’t notice you were wearing something different if you ran into him.

Though that was a big if.

Your heart sank a little at the reminder of your unrequited crush on your boss, but hope filled you again when you thought of your newest Pleasure Patron. It might be another silly crush on an unattainable man, but at least James seemed interested in you.

By the time you made it back to the antechamber outside Bucky’s office, it was time for you to gather your things and head home. 

You were bent over your desk, your hips straining at the seams of the slightly smaller pencil skirt you’d thrown on, having forgotten it had shrunk a little in the wash, when a door opened behind you. You jumped and straightened up, nearly dropping your water bottle and spilling it all over your desk. 

“Oh! Mr. Barnes,” you said, spinning to find your boss towering in the doorway of his office, broad shoulders filling the space. “Heading home early?” you asked in a bright, professional tone, trying to hide the breathlessness from your voice. 

It wasn’t often that you saw your boss. He was always in meetings or coming or going from his office so that you only got cursory glances of the large werewolf. But he was paused for once, and you took a moment to look him over.

He had a mop of dark brown hair, worn just a little bit shaggy so no one could ever accuse him of trying to pass as anything but a werewolf. His blue eyes were bright and sharp in the late afternoon light, and you could see just a hint of his canine teeth as he offered a charming smile.

That expression on Bucky’s face nearly bowled you over. Your eyes skimmed quickly over his broad shoulders, trim waist and thick thighs before returning to the handsame face of the werewolf that haunted your daydreams. He looked every bit the important CEO, but there was also a looseness in his body you’d never seen before.

“I am,” Bucky said, his blunt words drawing you back to the moment. He held a hand out in a gesture for you to precede him to the elevators beyond the antechamber outside his office. “Let me walk you out.”

The offer was so surprising, all you could do was murmur, “Oh, thank you,” before scurrying in front of him. As you began to walk, you felt James’s cum begin to leak from your pussy and you moved faster.

Your belly wasn’t bloated anymore, and you’d cleaned yourself up as well as you could in the bathroom, but your Patron had filled you with so much cum, you expected you’d be leaking for the rest of the day, if not into the morning. 

You hoped desperately that your boss couldn’t smell it, because if he did, you wouldn’t have any explanation if he decided to question why you smelled like another werewolf’s cum when you were meant to be working at your desk outside his office.

When you came to a stop at the elevator bank, Bucky gently laid a hand on the small of your back and leaned around you to press the button. Thankfully, he didn’t show any signs of smelling James on you, and you exhaled a silent sigh of relief. 

The two of you made idle chatter while you waited for the elevator—you asked him how his afternoon meeting had gone and the edge of Bucky’s mouth fluttered like he was holding back a smirk while he told you it went very well. He said he’d gotten everything he wanted. 

Then he asked how your afternoon had gone, and you’d stumbled out a response about being very productive, all while more of James’s cum leaked from your cunt. 

As  you talked, you got the sense that Bucky was in a better mood than usual. He was certainly more talkative and open with you than was typical for the older werewolf CEO. He was polite, of course, but he mostly left you alone to do your job, only communicating via email.

But that particular afternoon, he seemed…happier. His icy blue eyes were warm, crinkling at the sides whenever he chuckled, and his smile was quicker, easier somehow. 

Impossibly, it made Bucky Barnes even more attractive to you. 

He was hot as the brusque and busy werewolf CEO, but this side of him, which was charming and warm, was even hotter. You could feel your heart unfurling in your chest, your feelings for your boss not only returning, but blossoming into something you didn’t know if you’d ever recover from.

When the elevator finally arrived, it was empty, and you gave yourself a subtle shake as you stepped in, reminding yourself that your boss was off-limits and likely didn’t see you as a potential partner. 

Bucky followed you, pressing the button for the lobby and turning to you as if to continue your conversation. But just then, the door whooshed closed and you were alone in a small, enclosed space with your boss—your werewolf boss. 

You were already looking at him, anticipating what he’d been about to say, so you were able to watch the change in his demeanor as it happened. 

Bucky’s nostrils flared, and his shoulders stiffened, his bright blue eyes darkening with something you could only describe as hunger. His gaze raked over your face, and his chest expanded as he took a deep breath, his thick muscles testing the limits of his suit. 

You watched as recognition dawned in his sharp, icy eyes, and if your mind wasn’t so sluggish after your afternoon of orgasms, you might’ve understood what was going on, what he was realizing. 

As it was, you still hadn’t caught up with the shift in Bucky. You stared at him in confusion as he stepped quickly to the side, his thick finger pressing the emergency stop button on the elevator. It shuddered to a halt between floors, leaving you alone with your boss.

Slowly, Bucky turned to you, his eyes flashing with lust and his teeth bared so that you could see the light glinting off his canine teeth. He prowled toward you slowly, like he was trying not to spook you. 

All you felt was intrigued, a thrill of excitement shooting through your body as you allowed Bucky to back you into the corner of the elevator until his chest was a hair’s breadth away from yours. Your chest was heaving in your blouse with excited, panting breaths, and your head was tilted back, watching Bucky’s face closely.

The purr that came from the werewolf CEO was so low and dark, you hardly recognized it as belonging to your boss, even as the sound went straight between your thighs. Your pussy thrummed eagerly in response, like it knew something you didn’t—like it recognized him in a way you didn’t understand yet. 

“Tell me, sweetling,” Bucky Barnes rasped, staring deep into your eyes as his big hand settled possessively on your hip. You swayed into him, watching his pink mouth framed by dark, gray-streaked stubble as he voiced the question that would change everything. “Why do you smell like my cum?”

thank you for reading!! comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

as a reminder of my blog's rules, please do not comment/reblog only to request a part 2! specific questions and comments about the fic, the characters, and the larger universe are entirely welcome!! i just ask that you please engage with my story rather than simply demanding more!!

“You got it, Doc” Jesse replied with a grin, giving you a quick thumbs-up and a wink that went unnoticed by the others.

You offered him a small smile and stepped out of the trauma room, unaware of Ogilvie’s eyes following you.

“Do you guys think she’s single?” Ogilvie asked. Every head in the room snapped toward him, but the med student didn't look away from you as you stood at the nurses' station talking to Dana.

“I... think that’s a pretty inappropriate question, considering she’s an attending... which means she’s *way* above your pay grade” Whitaker said cautiously. He shot a look at Jesse, silently asking if he should spill what he knew or keep his mouth shut.

Jesse subtly signaled him to stay quiet. Honestly, he wanted to see exactly where this conversation was going.

“Let me translate that in case your tiny brain didn't catch it: she’s your boss” Joy added, giving him a look of pure judgment.

“I’m going to ask her out” Ogilvie declared.

“You’re going to ask her out?” Joy repeated, incredulous. “Are you actually an idiot? Do you really think SHE is going to look twice at a med student like you?”

“She doesn't seem to be seeing anyone” he replied with a shrug, looking down as he continued suturing the wound.

“Just because she isn't flaunting it doesn't mean she’s single” Whitaker said, stealing a glance at Jesse, who was currently biting back a laugh while charting the patient's vitals. “Besides, Joy’s right… she’s basically your boss.”

“The only thing you’re going to achieve is humiliating yourself” Joy muttered, rolling her eyes.

“Jesse, you must know if Dr. Y/N is seeing someone, right?” Ogilvie asked, looking at the nurse as if expecting him to just hand over your personal business.

“Call me if you need anything” Jesse said, ignoring the question entirely before walking out of the room, shaking his head and chuckling to himself.

The rest of the shift went on as usual, except for the fact that Ogilvie seemed to be shadowing you everywhere, jumping on every case you handled.

Whitaker and Joy eventually gave up on trying to talk him out of his delusional plan. Joy was just waiting for the slow, glorious train wreck of his rejection, while Whitaker didn't even bother telling him that you were, in fact, taken by someone who worked right there in the hospital.

By the time the shift ended, you handed off your patient updates to Shen and Ellis. You headed out and leaned against the wall by the ER entrance, checking your phone while you waited.

“Dr. Y/N!” Ogilvie called out, jogging out of the hospital to catch up with you. “I’m glad you’re still here.”

“Do you need something, Ogilvie?” you asked, looking up from your screen.

“Yeah, I... well... the thing is... you’re such an incredible doctor, I really admire you, and I was wondering if…” He was cut off by a third voice.

“Ready to go?” Jesse asked, walking up with his bag over his shoulder and his jacket in hand.

“Yes, please... I’m starving and my feet are killing me” you complained, tucking your phone away. He took your bag from you, slinging it over his other shoulder, before draping his jacket over your shoulders.

“We can grab a pizza on the way, and I’ll give you a massage when we get home if you want” he said with a smile, zipping the jacket up for you before stealing a quick kiss.

“Y-you two...?” Ogilvie stammered, his jaw dropping as he took in the scene. “You’re together?”

“Happily married for four years now” Jesse said with a proud little smirk, looping an arm around your shoulders. “Why? Is there a problem?”

“What was it you needed, Ogilvie?” you asked, tucking your hands into the pockets of your husband’s jacket, completely oblivious to the drama.

“Oh... n-no, it was nothing. Excuse me” the student scrambled to say, face turning a deep shade of red as he practically ran away.

“What’s up with him?” you asked, confused, watching him bolt.

“He wanted to ask you on a date” Jesse said, grinning.

“A what?!” you exclaimed, horrified, spinning around to look at your husband. “And how do you know that?!”

SET AFTER:

Rockstar - Brendon Park meets his match against PTMC’s fiery new attending.

Pussy Wagon - A spilled drink leads you to see a different side of your nemesis Park The Shark.

The First Time (NSFW) - Fireworks aren’t the only explosive thing happening at Jesse’s Fourth of July party.

A Loaded Gun (NSFW) - Hate sex has never been so fucking hot…

This Is Not A Love Story - Brandon tries to set a rule after a ‘sticky’ situation.

The Game - Brendon finds himself breaking his own rules when it comes to you.

Tell. Me. To. Stop (NSFW) - Jealousy is not an emotion Brendon Park is accustomed to.

Pittfest -Brendon comforts you when you fall apart after the events of Pittfest.

Is He Prettier Than Me? - Brandon gets curious when he learns you have other plans.

The Drawer - Brendon realises your relationship may be shifting when he discovers he has a drawer at your place.

Scrunchies - Scrunchies… they’re the downfall of Brendon Park.

Love Games (NSFW) - Brendon and you love to play games, especially with each other.

An Exquisite Form of Torture (NSFW) - Brendon continues to turn up the heat as he holds you captive.

THAT Guy - Brendon is forced to face up to his feelings for you when he finds out your meeting up with an ex.

Seven Days - Seven days is far too long to go without you…

Save It - A thirty six hour shift leads to another admission about your relationship with Brendon.

Doctor Dick - Brendon’s day takes a turn when Whitaker gives him some critical information.

A Manipulative Fuck - You and Brendon discuss what happened with your ex.

The Call (NSFW) - Brendon decides to put a stop to David’s calls once and for all.

The One That Hates The Ravens - David’s attempt at revenge backfires spectacularly.

The Lovin Spoonful - You wake up to an unexpected surprise.

Delete, Block, Rinse, Repeat - A series of cryptic messages force Brendon to confront a secret he’s been keeping for almost a decade.

His Father’s Son - Brendon reflects on the past as he debates taking that first sip of whiskey.

The Cost of Dignity - Brendon’s greatest secret comes with a cost.

A Kiss For Luck - Brendon struggles to navigate working at the hospital after the release of THAT video.

The Craziest Fucking Thing - You take matters into your own hands after receiving bad news from Brendon.

Ride Or Die - You wake up to the sound of an angry blender after Brendon discovers what happened with Rowena.

Baby Shark - Once a year Brendon always ends up back at the aquarium.

Diamonds (NSFW) - A bet leads to naughty shenanigans in a five star restaurant.

The Call Out - Brendon’s focus on wedding planning is disrupted when he’s called out to the scene of a multi-car pile up.

Good Hands - Abbot reminds Brendon you’re in good hands as they proceed with the amputation.

Flayed - Brendon’s world crashes down as he learns the truth about the accident.

Ten Things I Love About You - Brendon discovers a pink envelope in the pocket of the jacket you were wearing at the time of the accident.

The Parent Trap - Brendon faces your parents, leading to a surprise revelation.

Sledgehammer - Brendon struggles to cope in the aftermath of everything that’s happened.

Et Tu Marianne? - Your mother throws Brendon under the bus after you wake up from surgery.

Roses - Brendon is forced to deal with a vindictive POS when a dozen red roses are delivered to your door.

The Fucking Patient - Abbot has some harsh words for Brendon regarding your care.

Chemistry - You and Brendon finally have a moment alone to talk.

A Serial Absconder - Your habit of disappearing leads to a healing journey Brendon doesn’t expect.

The Best the Ravens Have Ever Looked (NSFW) - Brendon has a real problem with your shorts.

Home - Brendon introduces you to your new home after the accident.

The Change Up - When you struggle to reacclimate at home Brendon realises you need a change up.

The Body Pillow - Brendon and you settle in for your first night at the new house.

Rae Days - You're forced to navigate your new limitations when Brendon returns to work full time.

It’s the end of Brendon’s shift and Abbot’s standing in front of the boards in the Emergency Room, head tilted up, hips squared, hands clasped behind his back in that classic military stance of his. Brendon isn’t sure if he realises he’s doing it or if it’s something that’s simply ingrained into his psyche from his time in the Army. He adjusts the satchel on his shoulder, clearing his throat as he steps up next to the other man, his tablet grasped tightly in his hand.

“You need a consult or something?” Abbot asks, his eyes never wavering from the lines of information in front of him.

Things have warmed up significantly between the two of them since Brendon apologised for being such an asshole over Abbot’s mentoring of you through the first few days of your amputation. Abbot had brushed it off with a dismissive flick of the wrist, reminding him it’s no walk in the park for anyone involved and adjusting… it’s hard for him too, that he needed to give himself a little grace.

“In a matter of speaking.” Brendon says, handing Abbot the tablet.

He looks down at the screen, his eyebrows raising into his hairline when he takes note of the store and images highlighted. “I guess Rae must be feeling better if I’m looking at pictures of sex pillows and bondage cushions.”

“She’s… curious about what life looks like for us now in that department and I want to help, I just don’t know what the best one is because there’s so many.” Brendon informs the other man in a hushed tone as Abbot’s finger drags down the cursor, allowing him to see more products.

“So, you thought you’d come to me because…”

“You’re the only sexually active amputee I know.” Brendon cringes as he says the words despite the truth of them. “And it’s more practical than starting up a reddit post. You have experience and as a doctor you know what’s safe and what’s a complete crock of shit.”

“Alright…” Abbot chews the inside of his cheek as he studies the webpage. “You don’t want the inflatable ones, you’ll pop it as soon as you get a good rhythm going, trust me it’s a whole thing.” He rolls his eyes at some distant memory and Brendon knows better than to ask for specifics. “You want something with a removable cover because you’ll get fluids on it no matter what your best intentions are...”

He trails off tilting the tablet to one side, his own head going the opposite direction. “I have no idea what the thing shaped like a football is, I mean how are you supposed to…” He rotates the screen again, pulling a face as he disregards it before tapping on something in particular.

“The Liberator Jaz gets good penetration, it’s more rounded and rocks with you. Better than a wedge that kind of locks into position so you end up shunting against it. It’s pretty good for missionary as it lifts her ass up, taking pressure off her lower back and the good leg. It’s pretty good if she’s on her stomach too, drives her ass up a little higher, and supports her so she doesn’t have to put weight on the knee. I’d say start with that.”

“I saw there’s a couple of ramps-” Brendon points out the foam slanted shapes but Abbot shakes his head, his lips puckering into a thoughtful pout.

“Don’t run before you can walk, just start with the pillow for now. It’s gonna take you both a minute to figure what works and once you have that under your belt Rae will be rocking a brand new leg and that’ll switch things up again. My advice is, enjoy the process, treat it like it’s the first time all over again.”

“That would entail taking the sex pillow over to Jesse’s house…” Brendon says, his palm scrubbing across the five o’clock shadow on his jaw.

“Borrow Robby’s.” Abbot smirks and Brendon’s head jerks towards him in surprise. “You think you’re the only one that’s making adjustments in bed? He’s an old man with a bad back and Jesse has the libido of a teenager.”

“That is oddly…reassuring.” Brendon remarks from a practical standpoint. “Is it the same model?”

“Tried and tested.” Abbot informs him as he adds to the pillow to Brendon’s shopping basket. “The one thing I do want to say is this that Rae… she’s going to tell you she’s fine about the way her body has changed, and she probably will be, but it takes a minute to come to terms with it especially when it comes to sex. Things you thought worked don’t and sometimes it can be demoralising because you realise things can’t go back to the way they were.”

Abbot’s speaking from experience right now, Brendon can tell from the way his mouth turns downward, his head dipping as he reveals this vulnerable part of himself. “A little of praise goes along way. So just reassure her that you still love her, that she still turns you on like no other woman on this earth.”

“That’s not really going to be a hardship. When I look at her… Let’s just say I’ve been taking a lot of cold showers since we moved in together.” Brendon admits. Abbot chuckles at his words, skimming through the menu at the top of the website until he finds the item he’s looking for. “Anything else?”

“Yeah, a sex swing.” Abbot says, adding one to Brendon’s basket. “Can’t go wrong with a sex swing.”

Like My Work? - Tip your friendly fan fic writer here!

Pittsburgh was not bad. That almost made it worse.

It was pretty in ways you had not expected. Green hills. Old brick. Rain-dark streets. Houses tucked into slopes like the whole city had been built by someone stubborn enough to make gravity negotiate.

There were good meals. Good walks. Good days, technically. But none of it was Vegas. None of it was home.

Vegas had been heat rising off pavement after midnight. Neon bleeding across sidewalks. Music spilling out of open doors. Tourists laughing too loud. Coworkers yelling over the bar noise. The constant pulse of people moving, spending, leaving, arriving.

Vegas never asked you to be still. Pittsburgh did.

And at first, stillness had felt like relief. Then it started to feel like punishment. You were in your thirties. You had worked too long, carried too much, rebuilt yourself too many times to suddenly become someone who filled her days with errands and walks and waiting for someone else’s work shift to end.

But that was what your life had become.

Groceries.

Laundry.

Reading.

Dinners.

Walks through neighborhoods that were beautiful and quiet and not yours.

You were grateful. That was the part that made you angry. Because Robby had given you safety. A bed. Financial breathing room. Insurance. A house where no one expected you to be anything but okay. And still, some ugly, restless part of you kept pressing against the walls.

Not because you wanted to leave him. Not exactly. Because you missed yourself. You missed your life. You missed working.

Not bartending specifically. Not the sticky floors or the men who thought tipping meant they had purchased your patience. Not the ache in your feet after a long shift or the smell of tequila clinging to your hair no matter how long you stood under the shower.

You missed having somewhere to be.

A reason to leave the house that was not an appointment or a grocery list. A schedule that belonged to you. A body tired from doing something other than waiting.

Some mornings, the thought of going back showed up before you had even finished your coffee.

Not as a plan. Not exactly. More like checking for an exit in a crowded room.

How much money did you have left? How long would the drive take? Could you get your old job back, or had someone already taken your shifts?

You never followed the thought all the way through. You always closed the app, folded another load of laundry, made another grocery list.

But the thought kept coming back anyway. 

You missed the noise.

Real noise. Human noise. The kind that filled the air before you had time to think too hard. Glasses hitting counters. Music too loud. Someone laughing from across the room. Someone yelling your name because they needed another bottle from the back. The low, constant movement of a place that did not care if you were lonely because it was too busy being alive.

Robby’s house was quiet. Not empty. Not anymore. But quiet in a way that made your thoughts louder. You knew the sounds of it too well now.

The dishwasher clicking into its dry cycle. The refrigerator humming. The heat kicking on. The distant rumble of Robby’s motorcycle when he came home late enough for the whole neighborhood to hear it before you did.

You knew which cabinet stuck. Which burner on the stove ran hotter than the others. How long the washing machine took to finish a cycle.

You knew all of it because there had been too much time to learn it.

At first, you told yourself it was useful. Robby worked long shifts. You were here. Cooking made sense. Cleaning made sense. Grocery shopping made sense. It was not like you were doing anything else. That thought started as a joke. Then it stopped being funny.

Some days, you woke up and made a list just to prove the day had shape.

Laundry.

Bank.

Walk.

Dinner.

Prenatal vitamin.

Call pharmacy.

You wrote things down even when you knew you would remember them, because crossing them off gave you a small, pathetic sense of accomplishment.

Other days, you did not make a list at all. Those were worse. Those were the days you stood in the kitchen with your hands braced against the counter, looking around for something that needed doing and feeling a little sick when you realized you had already done it.

The floors were clean.

The fridge was organized.

The dishes were put away.

The laundry was folded.

Dinner was planned.

There was nothing left to fix. Nothing left to manage. Nothing left to be useful for.

So you walked.

At first, walking helped.

You found different streets, different hills, different houses with porch swings and overgrown gardens and old stone steps slick from rain. You learned where the sidewalks cracked and where the trees arched low enough to brush your shoulder if you were not paying attention.

Then the walks started looping back on themselves.

Same streets.

Same houses.

Same quiet.

Same body moving through a place that still did not feel like yours.

And when you came home, Robby’s house waited exactly where you had left it.

Safe.

Warm.

Still.

You started getting quiet.

Not all at once. Not enough that anyone could point to a single moment and say, There. That was when it changed.

But Robby noticed anyway.

He noticed when you stopped leaving the television on in the afternoon. When your answers got shorter. When you started making dinner earlier and earlier, like getting it done sooner might make the evening arrive faster.

He noticed when you stopped telling him about the places you went.

At first, he tried asking.

“How was the museum?”

“Fine.”

“Coffee shop any good?”

“Fine.”

“Did you like the park?”

“It was fine.”

Fine became the word you used when you did not have the energy to explain that nothing was wrong enough to justify how wrong you felt.

Robby never called you on it.

That almost made it worse.

He would just nod once, careful and quiet, and let the answer sit there like he could tell it had teeth.

You wanted him to push. You wanted him to leave it alone. You wanted him to ask the exact right question that would crack you open without making you bleed.

You hated that no version of him could win.

You hated that too.

You hated how patient he was. How steady. How he gave you room without making you feel abandoned. How he came home exhausted and still checked the fridge to see if you had eaten. How he never asked you to explain feelings you had not figured out how to name.

You hated that he was doing everything right and you still felt like this.

Then the snippiness started.

Small things at first.

He asked if you had taken your prenatal vitamin, and you looked up from the sink with soap on your hands and said, “Yes, Michael. I managed to swallow one pill without supervision.”

The second it left your mouth, you wished you could take it back.

Robby only stood there for a beat, hand still on the refrigerator door. You watched the apology rise in your throat and die there.

Then he nodded once. “Okay.”

That was all.

No argument. No wounded look. No lecture about how he was only trying to help.

Just okay.

He grabbed a bottle of water, asked if dinner needed another twenty minutes, and moved around you like you had not just snapped at him hard enough to leave a mark.

Which somehow made the guilt sharper.

Another night, he came home and found you sitting at the kitchen table with a grocery receipt, circling prices you already knew were too high.

“You need me to pick anything up tomorrow?” he asked.

You did not look up. “No.”

“You sure?”

“I said no.”

The room went quiet.

Robby set his keys in the bowl by the door. Softer than usual.

“Okay.”

Something inside you twisted.

“Why do you keep asking me the same thing?” you snapped, finally looking at him. “I said no. I heard you the first time.”

His expression flickered before smoothing out.

“I was just checking.”

“I know what you were doing.”

For a second, he only looked at you.

Then his jaw shifted once.

“You know I’m just trying to help, right?”

The words were not sharp. Not exactly. But they were not as soft as okay either.

That made it worse.

You looked down at the receipt. “I know.”

“You don’t have to bite my head off for it.”

The silence that followed felt enormous.

Your eyes closed. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know,” he said.

But this time, it sounded tired. Not angry. Just tired enough to make your chest ache.

Because he did know. And he was still standing there.

You did not even know what you meant half the time.

Only that everything inside you felt rubbed raw. Like your life had narrowed down to a house that was not yours, a body that kept changing, and a man who was kind enough to make your anger feel unfair.

Some nights, the pressure had nowhere to go, so you cried in the bathroom with the faucet running and hated yourself for needing even that.

You stared at yourself in the mirror and tried to pinpoint the exact place where gratitude had curdled into resentment, where rest had become stagnation, where being cared for had started to feel indistinguishable from disappearing.

The worst part was waking up each morning and doing it all again.

Coffee.

Laundry.

Walk.

Dinner.

Fine.

Fine.

Fine.

The worst day was the junk drawer.

It should not have been the junk drawer. That was what made it worse.

Robby came home to the contents of it spread across the kitchen counter.

Batteries. Pens. Loose screws. Tape. Rubber bands. Receipts. Three chargers that belonged to nothing useful. A takeout menu from a restaurant that had closed two years ago. A handful of keys with no labels and no obvious purpose.

You had sorted all of it into separate piles.

The drawer itself sat open and empty while you wiped down the inside with a paper towel, jaw tight, sleeves pushed up, one hand braced against the counter like this was a task with stakes.

Robby stopped in the kitchen doorway. For a second, he did not say anything.

Then, carefully, “What happened?”

You did not look up. “Your junk drawer was disgusting.”

“It’s a junk drawer.”

“That isn’t an excuse.”

“It’s kind of the point.”

“No, the point is that things go in it. Not that they rot there until future civilizations find them.”

The room went quiet. You kept wiping. The drawer was already clean. You knew that. Robby probably knew it too. Still, he did not say anything right away. He just stood there with his bag still over one shoulder, watching the counter.

Watching you. Not judgmental. That would have been easier. Careful. That was worse.

He set his bag down near the door.

“Did something happen today?”

“No.”

Too fast.

His eyes moved to your face. You hated that he heard it. The silence stretched. 

You dropped the paper towel into the trash and reached for a stack of pens you had already tested twice.

“You don’t have to do that.”

His brows drew together slightly. “Do what?”

“Handle me.”

“I’m not handling you.”

“Yes, you are.”

Robby stayed still.

You snapped a rubber band around the working pens a little harder than necessary.

“You do that thing where you get all calm and careful like I’m going to break if you speak normally.”

His expression shifted, small enough that you almost missed it.

“I’m trying not to make it worse.”

“Well,” you said, looking up at him finally, “that’s worse.”

The words landed badly. You knew it immediately.

Robby looked down for half a second, then back at you. His face did not harden. That would have been easier too.

“I’m not mad about the drawer,” he said.

“I didn’t ask if you were.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you standing there like that?”

“Because I came home and found you sorting rubber bands like your life depended on it.”

You let out a breath through your nose. “It needed to be done.”

“Did it?”

“Yes.”

He was quiet for a second.

Then, gently, “Did it need to be done today?”

Something in you went still.

You looked down at the counter.

The batteries.

The pens.

The small bowl full of screws.

All of it suddenly looked ridiculous.

Your hands curled against the edge of the counter.

“I needed something to do.”

The words came out flat.

Robby did not answer right away. That was worse than anything he could have said.

You swallowed once and kept staring at the mess.

“I already did the laundry. I already went to the store. I already took a walk. Dinner’s already made. The house is clean. The dishes are done.”

Your voice stayed level.

Too level.

“There was nothing else.”

The silence after that felt different.

Not sharp.

Not heavy.

Just bare.

Robby stepped farther into the kitchen, but not too close.

“You don’t have to keep finding things to fix.”

Your mouth tightened. “If I don’t, then I just sit here.”

He absorbed that quietly.

You hated how small your voice sounded when you added, “I’m tired of sitting here.”

Robby’s face softened.

Something in you recoiled from it. Not because it was pity. Because it wasn’t. Because he understood enough to make it dangerous.

“I’m not ungrateful,” you said quickly.

“I know.”

“No, I mean it.” You looked up, defensive before he had even accused you of anything. “I know what you’ve done. I know I’m safe here. I know I have a doctor because of you. I know I have insurance and food and a place to sleep, and I know all of that matters.”

“I know.”

“But I hate this.”

The words came out before you could make them kinder.

You stopped breathing for a second.

Robby did too, maybe.

You waited for the flinch. The hurt. The quiet proof that you had finally said too much. It did not come. His eyes stayed on yours.

“The house?” he asked.

“No.”

Immediate.

At least that part was true.

Your fingers tightened against the counter.

“No,” you said, softer. “Not the house.”

You searched for the right words and found nothing clean enough to hold it.

“This.”

You looked around, but there was nothing specific enough to blame.

The counter.

The drawer.

The piles.

Your own body.

Your whole life.

“This,” you repeated. “Whatever this is.”

Robby did not move.

You looked down before he could see too much.

“I feel like I’m waiting all the time.”

The confession scraped on the way out.

“Waiting for appointments. Waiting for test results. Waiting for you to come home. Waiting for the baby to be here. Waiting to know what happens after that. Waiting to feel like any of this is actually mine.”

Robby’s mouth tightened, but he still said nothing.

You hated that you were grateful for it.

“I had a life,” you said.

Your voice nearly broke on the last word. You shook your head once, quick and angry at yourself.

“I had a job. I had people who knew me. I had streets I could walk without looking at my phone. I had places I belonged even when they were terrible places.”

You looked back at the counter. “At least they were mine.”

The kitchen went completely still.

The refrigerator hummed behind you. Late afternoon sunlight pressed faintly against the windows. Somewhere outside, a car passed too slowly down the street.

You picked up one of the loose keys and turned it over in your fingers even though it told you nothing.

“Maybe this was a mistake.”

Robby went very still. You heard it more than saw it. The change in the room. The absence of movement.

Your eyes closed.

“That’s not—”

You stopped. Because you did not know what it was.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, voice thin. “Maybe you should just sign the papers.”

Silence.

The key bit into your palm.

“Maybe I should go back.”

Robby’s jaw shifted once. “Is that what you want?”

You opened your mouth. Nothing came out. Because if the answer had been yes, maybe that would have been easier. If the answer had been no, maybe that would have been easier too.

Instead, you stared down at the piles on the counter and felt like every possible version of your life had become too large to look at directly.

“I don’t know.” The words were barely more than breath. “I don’t know what I want.”

Robby stayed quiet.

You hated that too. You hated that he did not rush in and tell you what to feel.

You hated that he did not make himself the villain so leaving would feel cleaner.

You hated that he stood there looking at you like he was trying to understand something that kept changing shape in your hands.

“I just know I can’t keep being this person,” you said.

Your voice cracked on person.

You looked around the kitchen.

At the drawer.

At the folded receipt.

At the house that had kept you safe and somehow made you feel smaller every day.

“I’m in your house. I’m using your insurance. Your money. Your space. And I’m snapping at you because you asked if I took a vitamin.” A short, humorless laugh left you. “I don’t even know what I’m doing here half the time except making both our lives harder.”

Robby’s jaw tightened. “You’re not making my life harder.”

“You don’t have to say that.”

“I’m not.”

“Michael.” Your fingers curled against the counter. “You didn’t ask for this. You didn’t ask for me. There was a reason you left Vegas.”

Robby went still.

“Because you didn’t want this life.”

His face changed then. Not anger. Not exactly. But something sharper than the patience he had been giving you all week.

“Don’t do that.”

You looked up. “What?”

“Decide what I want for me.”

Your throat tightened. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

“Yes,” he said, quiet but firm. “It is.”

The room held still around the words.

“You keep giving me an exit I didn’t ask for.”

You swallowed. “I’m trying to be realistic.”

“No,” he said.

Not loud. Not cruel. Just immediate enough to make you go still.

“You’re trying to make the decision easier.”

Something in your chest pulled tight.

“Because I don’t know how to make any decision anymore,” you snapped, and your voice broke before you could stop it. “I used to know what I was doing. I used to have answers. I used to have a life that made sense, even when it was messy, and now I can’t even tell if staying here is brave or stupid.”

Robby did not answer.

Your eyes stung.

“You don’t know what this feels like.”

That stopped him.

For the first time since he came home, Robby looked like the words had gotten through somewhere he had not expected.

A muscle shifted in his jaw.

“No,” he said quietly. “I don’t.”

The admission sat between you.

No argument.

No correction.

No pretending.

He took a slow breath.

“I don’t know what it feels like to leave everything behind. I don’t know what it feels like to be nineteen weeks pregnant and sitting in someone else’s kitchen feeling like your whole life got replaced by appointments and grocery lists.”

You looked away.

“But I know this isn’t just about Vegas,” he said.

Your eyes moved back to him.

He held your gaze.

“And I don’t think going back fixes the part that hurts.”

You wanted to argue. You wanted to tell him he was wrong. You wanted to pick up every neatly sorted pile on the counter and scatter it just to prove none of it could stay organized anyway.

Instead, your mouth trembled once.

“I don’t know who I am here.”

There it was. The whole ugly center of it.

Not Vegas.

Not Pittsburgh.

Not the house.

Not Micheal.

You.

Robby’s expression shifted.

The sharpness did not disappear exactly. It softened into something quieter. Something worried. Something that looked too much like understanding.

For a long moment, neither of you said anything.

Then his eyes shifted toward the small table near the door.

Toward his keys.

Toward the spare helmet sitting on the lower shelf beneath his.

When he looked back at you, something in his expression had changed.

Not fixed.

Not certain.

Just decided.

“Come with me,” he said.

You stared at him.

“What?”

“Come with me.”

Your eyes flicked toward the small table by the door. Toward his keys. Toward the spare helmet sitting beneath them. Then back to him.

“For a ride?”

“Yes.”

You let out a short breath.

“Michael.”

He waited.

“You’ve spent the last month pointing out every mildly unsafe thing I’ve done.”

The corner of his mouth almost moved before settling again.

“You climbed onto the counter to reach a mixing bowl.”

“There was a chair right there.”

“You ignored the chair.”

“I was efficient.”

“You tried to move the bookshelf by yourself.”

“It was crooked.”

“It was heavy.”

You looked at him for a long moment. “And now you’re suggesting a motorcycle.”

“Yes.”

There was no defensiveness in it. No attempt to argue. Just the answer.

Your gaze drifted toward the window. Late afternoon light. Dry roads. The quiet neighborhood beyond the glass.

“You know this sounds insane.”

“I know.” The admission came easily. “I don’t think sitting in this kitchen is helping either.”

Something tightened painfully in your chest.

You looked back at the counter. At the sorted batteries. The bundled pens.

The keys you had been turning over in your hand like one of them might unlock a version of your life you recognized.

“I don’t know if this is a good idea,” you admitted.

“I don’t either.”

Your head lifted.

Robby held your gaze. “But I know walking isn’t enough anymore.”

Silence settled between you. Not awkward. Not comfortable. Just honest.

His eyes moved briefly toward the helmets, then back to you.

“And I think you miss it.”

Your throat tightened.

You did not ask what he meant.

The bike.

The noise.

The movement.

The part of yourself that had surfaced for a few minutes at dinner when he’d mentioned the rattle.

Robby’s voice stayed quiet.

“You sounded more like yourself talking about motorcycles than you have talking about anything else lately.”

That hit harder than you expected. Because he was right. Because you had not realized he had noticed that too.

Your hand drifted unconsciously toward the curve of your stomach.

Fear.

Habit.

Uncertainty.

Robby noticed.

He always noticed.

“If anything feels wrong,” he said, “we turn around.”

You looked at him.

“No questions asked.”

Something in your throat tightened. Not because of the bike. Not because of the offer.

Because after everything you’d just thrown at him, your fear, your resentment, your uncertainty, he wasn’t trying to convince you to stay.

He wasn’t trying to convince you to go. He was just offering you a way to breathe.

“You really think this is going to help?” you asked.

“No,” he said honestly.

Then, after a beat, “But I think sitting here is hurting you.”

The truth of it settled heavily between you.

You looked around the kitchen one more time.

The junk drawer spread across the counter.

The clean house.

The safe house.

The house that had started to feel too small around your skin.

Then you looked back at him.

“…Okay.”

Robby did not smile. He did not look relieved. He just nodded once.

“Okay.”

And for the first time all afternoon, the word did not sound like surrender.

Robby reached for his keys. And for the first time all day, the house did not feel like it was closing in.

You had forgotten.

Not the mechanics of it. Not how to swing your leg over the bike or settle your feet onto the pegs. Not the way the helmet muffled the world into something smaller and clearer all at once.

You had forgotten what it felt like.

The engine vibrated beneath you as Robby pulled away from the curb, steady and smooth beneath your hands.

Fall had settled over Pittsburgh while you weren’t paying attention.

The air held that crisp edge that only came for a few weeks every year. Cool enough to slip beneath the cuffs of your sweatshirt. Warm enough in the afternoon sun that you did not shiver. The sharp scent of drying leaves mixed with exhaust and chimney smoke somewhere in the distance.

For the first few minutes, you were aware of everything. The way your hands wrapped around Robby’s middle. The solid line of his back beneath your palms. The steady rise and fall of him breathing under your arms. The careful way he accelerated. The fact that you were nineteen weeks pregnant on the back of a motorcycle.

You could practically hear the list of reasons this had been a bad idea. Then Robby settled into the road.

Not fast.

Not flashy.

Just steady.

His body shifted before every turn, subtle enough that you felt it before you understood it. A lean to the left. A correction. A pause at a stop sign long enough to make absolutely sure the cross street was clear. He rode the way he did most things when he cared too much to say so outright.

Carefully.

Completely.

Without asking you to notice.

So you stopped fighting the movement.

Your hands loosened against his jacket. Your body remembered the old rhythm. Follow the lean. Trust the balance. Breathe.

The city unfolded around you. 

And you remembered.

You remembered the wind. The way it slipped around your helmet and tugged at loose strands of hair. The vibration beneath your legs where they pressed against warm metal. The strange freedom of having nowhere to be except exactly where you already were.

You remembered riding behind your father while desert nights settled over Nevada, still warm long after the sun disappeared. You remembered the smell of hot asphalt cooling beneath streetlights. You remembered resting your helmet against his back and listening to him laugh with people your grandmother swore were perfectly respectable until they got together.

You remembered loving it.

Not the recklessness people assumed came with motorcycles. Not the danger. You had never cared much about that part. 

You loved the simplicity of it.

Road.

Balance.

Movement.

You couldn’t check your phone. Couldn’t make grocery lists. Couldn’t reorganize drawers. Couldn’t sit in the same quiet house trying to figure out who you had become.

There was only this.

The steady rhythm of the engine beneath you. The city moving around you. The warmth of another person in front of you.

Robby took the back roads exactly like he had promised.

Slow.

Careful.

He stopped completely at yellow lights most people would have pushed through. Checked mirrors with almost annoying consistency. Left more space between himself and every other car than strictly necessary.

You found yourself smiling inside your helmet. Of course he did. The ridiculous part was that it worked. Because every careful turn and measured acceleration loosened something in your chest. Because the steadiness did not feel like control. It felt like permission.

You did not have to brace for the next thing.

You did not have to explain why you had snapped.

You did not have to make your gratitude look prettier.

You only had to hold on.

Trees burned gold and orange above sidewalks you had walked a dozen times.

You rode past the bookstore in Squirrel Hill where you had spent an hour pretending to browse before leaving empty-handed. The coffee shop with the crooked chalkboard sign and pastries that had been worth the hype. The museum where you had wandered through exhibits reading the same paragraph three times without absorbing a word.

The bridge everyone insisted you had to see at least once. The park where you had walked until your feet hurt because you had not known what else to do with the day.

You had been to all of these places.

Taken pictures.

Ordered coffee.

Gone home.

But this felt different.

Not like visiting.

Not like trying.

Pittsburgh passed around you in flashes of old brick and turning leaves and sunlight caught on river water. And for the first time since arriving, you were not wondering whether you could learn to love it.

You were not comparing it to Vegas.

You were not measuring what it lacked.

You were just there.

Present enough to notice the cool air against your cheeks.

Present enough to feel Robby’s breathing beneath your hands.

Present enough to tighten your arms around him once, not because you were scared, but because your body had remembered how to move with someone else’s.

Present enough to realize the constant restless buzzing in your head had gone quiet.

Not fixed.

Not gone forever.

Just…

quiet.

At a stoplight, Robby glanced back at you.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice carrying through the helmets.

You looked at him. At the familiar slope of his shoulders. At the concern tucked into the question.

Then you looked past him at the city stretching out beneath a sky washed pale blue. Leaves skittered across the pavement. Somewhere nearby, someone was raking a yard.

You realized you had stopped thinking.

Completely.

You squeezed him once around the middle.

“Yeah,” you said.

And for the first time in weeks, you meant it.

Robby looked at you for one second longer. Not long enough to make it strange. Just long enough that you knew he heard the difference.

Then the light changed.

He faced forward again, and the bike moved smoothly beneath you.

You kept your arms around him.

Looser now.

Not because you were paying less attention, but because your body had remembered what to do. The balance. The lean. The small shifts with the road. The trust required to follow someone else’s movement without fighting it.

He kept riding.

Past streets you recognized now.

Places you had already been.

Places that had felt like assignments when you visited them alone.

Now they blurred past in pieces of color and sound, less like places you were supposed to appreciate and more like proof that the world was still moving around you.

You did not have to decide what any of it meant. You only had to hold on.

At some point, the route changed.

Not enough for you to notice right away. Pittsburgh still felt like a city made of turns you did not know and hills you had not learned by instinct yet.

But you did not ask immediately. The ride had loosened something in you. Or maybe it had quieted something. Enough that not knowing, for once, did not feel like danger.

Then fifteen minutes became twenty. Twenty became longer. The houses thinned slightly. The streets widened. The storefronts changed from coffee shops and restaurants into older brick buildings, repair shops, warehouses with garage doors rolled halfway open.

Your arms tightened slightly around his middle.

“Michael?”

He turned his head just enough for you to see the edge of his helmet.

“Yeah?”

“Where are we going?”

For a second, he did not answer.

Then, “One more stop.”

You rolled your eyes even though he couldn’t see it. Then you settled back against the seat. The wind tugged at your sweatshirt. The engine hummed beneath you.

Whatever came next, you were still moving.

For now, that was enough.

A few minutes later, the bike began to slow. Robby eased off the street and into a small lot beside a low brick building. He pulled into a spot near the open bay and cut the engine.

The sudden silence rushed in around you. For a second, neither of you moved. Then Robby climbed off first. He pulled his helmet off and dragged a hand through flattened hair before turning back toward you.

Without a word, he reached for the strap beneath your chin. The clasp gave beneath his fingers. Cool fall air brushed against your face as he lifted the helmet away, taking the muffled quiet of the ride with it.

He hooked it over one arm before holding his hand out to you. You took it. The motion happened easily. Thoughtlessly. His grip steadied as you swung one leg over the bike and slid carefully down onto solid ground.

He let go once both of your feet were beneath you. Then he stepped back, tucking both helmets against his side like none of it was worth mentioning.

You adjusted the sleeves of your sweatshirt and looked up.

Auto & Cycle.

That was it. No name. No explanation. Just two words painted in faded block letters above the open garage bay.

The smell reached you next.

Oil.

Rubber.

Hot metal.

You turned toward him. “Michael.”

“Yeah?”

“Where are we?”

He rubbed the back of his neck.

“Duke’s,” he said.

You looked past him at the low brick building, the open bay, and the dark oil stains baked into the concrete.

Then back at him.

“This is Duke’s?”

“Yeah,” Robby said. “This is Duke’s.”

Then a man appeared in the bay, wiping his hands on a rag. Older. Broad through the shoulders. Grease on his shirt. His face unreadable enough to make most people rethink small talk.

He looked at Robby first.

“Thought you’d be back later,” he said.

Robby shifted the helmets against his side. “Plans changed.”

Duke’s gaze landed on you then. There was no obvious surprise there. Just assessment. The kind that came from years of looking at people and deciding whether they knew what they were doing.

Robby glanced between the two of you and introduced you.

Duke gave a short nod. “Nice to meet you.”

“You too.”

Duke wiped his hands on the rag again, then nodded toward the open bay.

“Come on in.”

It was casual. Not warm exactly. Just an invitation.

You glanced at Robby.

He did not say anything. Did not nudge you forward or explain why you were there. He only stood beside you with both helmets tucked against his side, letting the choice belong to you.

So you stepped inside.

Duke’s shop was cleaner than your dad’s had been. Not clean. No working shop was ever really clean. But there was a system here. A rough one. Enough order under the mess to tell you Duke knew where things belonged even when they were not there.

Duke nodded toward Robby’s bike.

“Robby says you diagnosed his bike from the couch.”

You glanced over at Robby. He looked mildly uncomfortable.

“I didn’t diagnose anything,” you said. “He told me when it rattled.”

Duke’s eyes narrowed slightly, like that was exactly the point.

“Most people wouldn’t know what to do with that.”

You shrugged. “It’s just process of elimination.”

“Most people’s process of elimination starts and ends with ‘sounds expensive.’”

A corner of your mouth moved.

“They’re not wrong.”

“No,” Duke said. “They usually aren’t.”

He jerked his head toward the motorcycle sitting near one of the lifts.

“You want to take a look at this one?” he asked casually. “Could use a second opinion.”

You blinked.

“Me?”

“Unless there’s another motorcycle whisperer hiding in here.”

Your eyes shifted toward the bike.

It was older. Half-disassembled in a way that suggested someone had already thrown time and money at the obvious answers. The tank rested off to the side. Side covers leaned against the workbench. Parts had been arranged neatly enough to tell you Duke had a system, even if no one else could read it.

You found yourself stepping closer before you’d fully decided to. “What’s it doing?”

Duke leaned against the workbench. “Depends who you ask.”

You looked over at him.

“Owner says it started acting up out of nowhere.”

You made a face. “So the owner’s lying.”

“Almost definitely.”

That got the smallest huff of amusement out of him.

“The actual problem?” you asked.

“Rough idle on cold mornings. Hesitation under throttle. Intermittent misfires once it’s hot.”

You circled slowly around the bike. 

“Compression?”

“Good.”

“Fuel pressure?”

“Within spec.”

“Plugs?”

“Changed.”

“Coils?”

“Swapped.”

“No difference?”

“Nope.”

You hummed softly. “Annoying.”

“Exactly.”

Your gaze moved over the exposed engine. Not touching. Just looking.

“Any codes?”

Duke rattled them off.

You frowned. “Only when it’s hot?”

“Mostly.”

You glanced up at him. “‘Mostly’ is a dangerous word.”

“Yeah,” Duke said. “That’s where I keep getting stuck.”

You bent slightly to get a better angle.

“If compression’s good, fuel pressure’s good, and plugs and coils didn’t change anything…” You trailed off. “I’d start looking at things that change once everything heats up.”

“Like?”

“Vacuum leak. Sensor drift. Wiring issue that only shows itself once everything gets warm enough to expand or shift.”

Duke nodded slowly. “You troubleshoot for a living?”

You kept your eyes on the bike. “I just don’t like guessing.”

“Neither do I.”

For a second, the two of you stood there looking at the motorcycle.

Then Duke pushed away from the bench.

“Alright,” he said. “Show me where you’d start.”

You pointed toward the intake side of the engine. “Did you smoke test it hot?”

Duke paused. “No.”

“But you did cold.”

“Yeah.”

“I’d rule that out before chasing electrical ghosts.”

Duke looked at you for a beat. Then nodded. “Fair.”

The conversation settled after that.

Question.

Answer.

Theory.

Counterpoint.

Duke would ask what you’d check next. You’d answer. He’d throw out another possibility. You’d explain why you agreed or disagreed. Nothing formal. Nothing forced. Just two people working through a problem.

Somewhere behind you, Robby stayed quiet. When you glanced back once, he was leaning against the opposite workbench with both helmets tucked against his side.

Watching. The thoughtful line between his brows had disappeared. He looked relaxed. Like maybe this had been what he’d hoped for when he pulled into the lot without telling you where you were going.

You looked away before you could sit with that too long.

Duke tapped the side of the bike. “Let’s see if you’re right.”

And for the first time in weeks, you realized nearly an hour had passed without thinking about what came next.

By the time Duke stepped away from the bike, the sun had started slipping lower behind the buildings. None of you had noticed the hour slipping by.

The garage doors stayed open, letting cool fall air drift through the shop. Long shadows stretched across the concrete, cutting between toolboxes and crates and the half-disassembled bike still sitting near the lift.

At some point, Duke pulled beers from an old refrigerator near the back. One for himself. One for Robby. Then he looked at you, looked briefly toward your stomach, and handed you a bottle of water without comment.

You took it without making him say anything. That felt easier somehow.

A few minutes later, the three of you had settled near the open bay.

Duke sat on an overturned crate, beer balanced against one knee. Robby leaned back against the workbench with his ankles crossed, nursing his bottle slowly. You sat on another crate, one hand wrapped around your water, the other resting loosely against your thigh.

The shop had gone quiet in the way working places did after the day was mostly done. Not silent. Just lower.

The radio hummed somewhere behind you. Traffic passed outside. Metal ticked softly as the bike cooled near the lift.

Duke took a drink, then stared out through the open bay like the memory was somewhere past the street.

“Once rode through Arizona with no front brake.”

You blinked. “What?”

Robby looked over slowly. “You’ve never told me that.”

“Because you make that face.”

“I’m a doctor. This face is appropriate.”

Duke ignored him. “Line went bad outside Flagstaff. Responsible thing would’ve been to stop.”

You waited.

He took another drink. “I didn’t.”

“Why?”

“Because I was twenty-five and stupid.”

Robby tipped his beer toward him. “Half that sentence is still true.”

Duke gave him a flat look.

You tried not to smile.

“How far did you ride?”

“Too far.”

“That’s not a distance.”

“It is when you’re the one learning from it.”

Robby shook his head. “You’re impossible.”

“Back brake worked,” Duke said.

“Oh, well,” you said. “Perfectly safe.”

“See? She gets it.”

“I absolutely do not.”

Robby’s mouth twitched despite himself.

“What happened?” you asked.

Duke looked back toward the open bay.

“Came down a mountain road too hot. Had to choose between laying it down or becoming part of the guardrail.”

You went still for half a second. “And?”

“Didn’t become part of the guardrail.”

Robby closed his eyes. “Jesus Christ.”

Duke shrugged. “Bike was mostly fine.”

“You were not mostly fine,” Robby said.

“I could walk.”

You stared at him. “That is a very low standard.”

“Worked for me.”

You laughed then, sharp and surprised.

Duke’s mouth twitched like he’d been waiting for it.

“So the lesson was fix your brakes?” you asked.

Duke considered it. “No.”

“No?”

“The lesson was don’t let twenty-five-year-old men vote on important decisions.”

Robby lifted his beer slightly. “Hard to argue with that.”

Duke ignored him again. “They were idiots.”

“You rode with them,” you pointed out.

“I was also an idiot.”

There was no shame in his voice. Just fact. That made you laugh harder.

The conversation moved from there without effort.

Duke told you about a ride to Tennessee where six grown men had gotten lost because none of them wanted to admit they could not read a paper map. Another time, he and two friends ended up sleeping behind a laundromat because someone had confidently declared they could “absolutely make it another hundred miles.”

“Who was someone?” you asked.

Duke took a drink. “Me.”

Robby shook his head faintly.

You told them about Vegas.

Not the painful parts. Not the lonely parts. Just the ones that came easier in a garage with the sun going down.

The bartender stories. The tourist who cried because she thought she had lost her hotel, only to realize she was standing inside it. The man who tried to convince you Canadian money counted as a tip because it was “basically the same.” The bachelorette party that lost a bridesmaid for three hours and found her playing blackjack with three retired firefighters from Ohio.

Duke listened with his beer resting against one knee, expression still mostly flat, but not unreadable anymore. Every so often, his mouth pulled slightly at the corner, or his eyes narrowed in that dry, entertained way that made it clear he was enjoying your stories.

Robby mostly stayed quiet. Every now and then, he added something dry enough to make you glance over. But mostly he watched. Not the way he had been watching at home lately. Not worried. Not measuring whether you were tired or hungry or quietly falling apart.

Just watching you talk. Watching you laugh. Watching you lean into a conversation that had nothing to do with appointments or bills or what came next. 

And for once, you did not mind being seen.

You took another drink of water and listened while Duke described a night ride through West Virginia that had apparently involved a wrong turn, a thunderstorm, and a man named Spider who refused to ride behind anyone because he believed it was “spiritually humiliating.”

“What happened to Spider?” you asked.

Duke looked at his beer.

“Married a librarian. Moved to Arizona.”

“Good for Spider.”

“He sends Christmas cards now.”

Robby’s mouth twitched.

You laughed again, softer this time.

The sound felt strange in your chest. Not because it hurt. Because it didn’t. For weeks, your days had been so quiet that even your own thoughts had started sounding too loud. Now you were sitting in a garage on a crate, listening to an old ex-biker tell stories like regrets were just facts with better lighting.

It was the first time in a long time you had been out of the house without feeling like you were trying to prove you were fine. You were not trying to be fine here. You were just there. And somehow that was easier.

The sun dropped lower. The light at the edge of the bay turned amber, then thin.

Eventually, Duke looked toward you.

“You get bored at the house,” he said, “come by.”

You blinked. “What?”

He took another drink of beer. “I could use company from someone who knows what they’re doing.”

For a second, you did not answer. The offer was so casual you almost missed the weight of it.

Not a job.

Not charity.

Not a favor.

Just an open door.

Your eyes moved automatically to Robby. He was already looking at you. Quiet. Unsurprised. Like maybe he had hoped Duke would say it, but he had not asked him to.

“It’s up to you,” Robby said.

You searched his face. “You’d be okay with that?”

His answer came easily. “You don’t need me to be okay with it.”

You had not realized you were waiting for permission until he refused to give it.

Duke glanced between the two of you.

“You can also say no,” he said. “I’m not adopting you.”

You looked back at him.

The corner of your mouth moved.

“That’s a relief. I’m terrible with curfews.”

“Figured.”

Robby glanced down, hiding a smile behind his beer.

Duke pointed the bottle toward the half-disassembled bike. “But you might be useful.”

The words settled somewhere warmer than they should have.

Useful.

Not fragile.

Not waiting.

Not someone being carefully kept safe inside a house.

Useful.

You looked around the shop again.

The crates.

The tools.

The open bay.

The old stories still lingering in the air.

Then you nodded once.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “Maybe I will.”

Duke gave a short nod like that was all he needed. “Good.”

Robby looked down at his beer, but you caught the brief relief in his face before he hid it.

Outside, the last of the sun slipped behind the buildings.

And for the first time since you came to Pittsburgh, the thought of tomorrow did not feel quite so empty.

—

The ride back was quieter.

Not worse.

Just quieter.

The kind of quiet that came after a day had finally loosened its grip and left both of you careful with what remained.

You held onto Robby as he took the long way home, the city slipping past in darkening streets and porch lights and trees thinning into shadow. The air had cooled since earlier, sharper now against your cheeks, but the engine stayed warm beneath you.

This time, you did not count turns or wonder how far from home you were.

When the bike stopped at a light, you rested your forehead briefly between his shoulder blades. Robby did not look back. He only covered one of your hands with his for half a second before the light changed.

The touch was brief. Barely anything. Still, something in your chest ached.

Because earlier, you had stood in his kitchen and tried to hand him an exit. You had said papers. Vegas. Mistake. Words that still sat between your ribs like bruises.

And he was still here. Steady beneath your hands. Taking the long way home.

By the time Robby pulled into the driveway, the sky had gone deep blue at the edges.

He cut the engine.

The silence settled around you slowly.

No radio.

No tools.

No Duke telling stories like nearly dying in Arizona was a normal personality flaw.

Just the quiet street.

The house.

Michael.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then Robby got off first, same as before. He pulled his helmet off and tucked it under one arm before turning back to you. His fingers found the strap beneath your chin. The clasp gave.

Cool evening air touched your face as he lifted the helmet away. Neither of you said anything.

He set both helmets against his side, then held out his hand. You took it without thinking.

His grip was steady as you climbed off the bike. He let go once your feet were beneath you, but only after making sure they were.

Inside, the house felt different.

Not changed.

Just less narrow.

You stood near the entryway while Robby set both helmets down by the door.

The hallway light was off. The kitchen was dim except for the glow over the stove. Somewhere deeper in the house, the refrigerator hummed.

The junk drawer was still spread across the counter.

Pens.

Batteries.

Loose screws.

The mess you had left behind.

For the first time all day, looking at it did not make your chest tighten.

Robby followed your gaze. He did not say anything about it. He only set his keys in the bowl and leaned one shoulder lightly against the wall, giving you room to decide what happened next.

You looked at the helmets by the door.

Then at him.

“Thank you, Michael.”

Robby glanced over. “For what?”

You swallowed once. “For not letting me disappear in here.”

His expression changed.

Small.

Quiet.

Enough.

Then you added, because that felt too bare, “And for introducing me to Duke.”

Robby looked down for half a second. 

When he looked back up, his face was softer.

“You liked him.”

You shrugged one shoulder. “He’s fine.”

“High praise.”

“He’s tolerable.”

“That’s basically friendship.”

A faint smile tugged at your mouth. It faded, but not completely.

“I mean it,” you said, quieter now. “Thank you.”

Robby rubbed the back of his neck. “You don’t have to thank me for that.”

“I do.”

You tucked your hands beneath your arms. “I know you were trying to help.”

He looked at you for a second.

Then nodded once.

“I was.”

The honesty settled between you. Not awkward. Just there.

You glanced toward the helmets again. “I just don’t want to invade your personal life.”

His brow pulled together. “My personal life?”

“Duke. Your friends. Your places.” You looked back at him. “I know I’m already in your house. I don’t want to start showing up in all the corners of your life, too.”

Robby’s gaze dropped briefly. When it came back to you, there was something steadier in it.

“You’re not invading anything.”

“You say that.”

“I mean that.”

You pressed your lips together.

He pushed away from the wall, but he did not come too close.

“You’re allowed to have people here,” he said.

The words were quiet. Careful, but not fragile.

“You’re allowed to make friends. You’re allowed to have places that aren’t this house or the doctor’s office or whatever grocery store has the least offensive produce.”

A small breath left you.

His thumb worried once at the edge of his sleeve.

“You don’t have to ask permission to take up space.”

The words settled somewhere low in your chest. For a second, all you could hear was the refrigerator. The soft settling of the house around you.

Robby’s voice stayed quiet. “I don’t want you watching the front window and wondering if that’s it.”

You looked down at the floorboards. The sentence hurt. Not because it was cruel. Because it was too close to something you had not said out loud.

You swallowed once before looking up again.

He glanced toward the living room, then back.

“If something isn’t working,” he said carefully, “tell me before you decide to just live with it.”

“We’ll figure something out.”

Your throat tightened. “You make that sound easy.”

“I don’t think it is.”

That somehow made it easier to hear.

Robby held your gaze. “But I’d rather know.”

For a second, the house felt too quiet again. But not like before. Not like walls pressing in. More like a room waiting for you to choose where to stand.

“Okay,” you said softly.

Robby nodded. For a moment, neither of you moved. Then his mouth twitched faintly.

“And if you ever need actual girl company, I know a few residents who would be thrilled to have someone new to complain about me with.”

A surprised breath left you.

“Residents?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re offering me your residents?”

“I’m offering you potential allies.”

“Against you?”

“Realistically, yes.”

Your mouth curved despite yourself. “They don’t like you?”

“They like me fine.”

“Uh-huh.”

A faint smirk pulled at his mouth.

“I’ve been called an asshole once or twice.”

You looked at him. “You?”

“Allegedly.”

Your mouth curved. “That tracks.”

“See?” His shoulders loosened at the sight of your smile. “You’ll have plenty in common.”

This time, the smile stayed a little longer. Robby saw it. He didn’t comment. You were grateful for that.

You glanced toward the door, toward the helmets resting side by side.

Then back at him. “I did like getting out.”

“I know.”

You looked at him.

He blinked, like he had answered too quickly.

“I mean…” His hand fell away from where it had half-lifted. “I’m glad.”

A small silence settled. This one felt easier.

You nodded once. “Me too.”

Then you turned toward the hook by the door and hung your jacket there. Not over the back of a chair. Not folded beside your bag like you might need it again at any second.

On the hook.

Beside his.

For the first time in weeks, you did it without looking over your shoulder first.

Robby noticed.

He didn’t say anything. He only reached past you, took the helmets from the floor, and set them side by side on the shelf.

Yours beside his.

The house was still the house.

Quiet.

Safe.

Waiting.

But it did not feel like the edge of your life anymore.

It felt like somewhere you could leave.

And somewhere you could come back to.

SET AFTER:

Rockstar - Brendon Park meets his match against PTMC’s fiery new attending.

Pussy Wagon - A spilled drink leads you to see a different side of your nemesis Park The Shark.

The First Time (NSFW) - Fireworks aren’t the only explosive thing happening at Jesse’s Fourth of July party.

A Loaded Gun (NSFW) - Hate sex has never been so fucking hot…

This Is Not A Love Story - Brandon tries to set a rule after a ‘sticky’ situation.

The Game - Brendon finds himself breaking his own rules when it comes to you.

Tell. Me. To. Stop (NSFW) - Jealousy is not an emotion Brendon Park is accustomed to.

Pittfest -Brendon comforts you when you fall apart after the events of Pittfest.

Is He Prettier Than Me? - Brandon gets curious when he learns you have other plans.

The Drawer - Brendon realises your relationship may be shifting when he discovers he has a drawer at your place.

Scrunchies - Scrunchies… they’re the downfall of Brendon Park.

Love Games (NSFW) - Brendon and you love to play games, especially with each other.

An Exquisite Form of Torture (NSFW) - Brendon continues to turn up the heat as he holds you captive.

THAT Guy - Brendon is forced to face up to his feelings for you when he finds out your meeting up with an ex.

Seven Days - Seven days is far too long to go without you…

Save It - A thirty six hour shift leads to another admission about your relationship with Brendon.

Doctor Dick - Brendon’s day takes a turn when Whitaker gives him some critical information.

A Manipulative Fuck - You and Brendon discuss what happened with your ex.

The Call (NSFW) - Brendon decides to put a stop to David’s calls once and for all.

The One That Hates The Ravens - David’s attempt at revenge backfires spectacularly.

The Lovin Spoonful - You wake up to an unexpected surprise.

Delete, Block, Rinse, Repeat - A series of cryptic messages force Brendon to confront a secret he’s been keeping for almost a decade.

His Father’s Son - Brendon reflects on the past as he debates taking that first sip of whiskey.

The Cost of Dignity - Brendon’s greatest secret comes with a cost.

A Kiss For Luck - Brendon struggles to navigate working at the hospital after the release of THAT video.

The Craziest Fucking Thing - You take matters into your own hands after receiving bad news from Brendon.

Ride Or Die - You wake up to the sound of an angry blender after Brendon discovers what happened with Rowena.

Baby Shark - Once a year Brendon always ends up back at the aquarium.

Diamonds (NSFW) - A bet leads to naughty shenanigans in a five star restaurant.

The Call Out - Brendon’s focus on wedding planning is disrupted when he’s called out to the scene of a multi-car pile up.

Good Hands - Abbot reminds Brendon you’re in good hands as they proceed with the amputation.

Flayed - Brendon’s world crashes down as he learns the truth about the accident.

Ten Things I Love About You - Brendon discovers a pink envelope in the pocket of the jacket you were wearing at the time of the accident.

The Parent Trap - Brendon faces your parents, leading to a surprise revelation.

Sledgehammer - Brendon struggles to cope in the aftermath of everything that’s happened.

Et Tu Marianne? - Your mother throws Brendon under the bus after you wake up from surgery.

Roses - Brendon is forced to deal with a vindictive POS when a dozen red roses are delivered to your door.

The Fucking Patient - Abbot has some harsh words for Brendon regarding your care.

Chemistry - You and Brendon finally have a moment alone to talk.

A Serial Absconder - Your habit of disappearing leads to a healing journey Brendon doesn’t expect.

The Best the Ravens Have Ever Looked (NSFW) - Brendon has a real problem with your shorts.

Home - Brendon introduces you to your new home after the accident.

The Change Up - When you struggle to reacclimate at home Brendon realises you need a change up.

The Body Pillow - Brendon and you settle in for your first night at the new house.

Brendon’s been gone for approximately one hour when the boredom starts to set in. It takes you a minute to realise what’s happening because you aren’t used to being in the house alone just yet, you don’t have base line for what happens when he’s at work.

The first problem is the silence. It feels like an oppressive cloth hanging over you, draping across your shoulders weighing you down. You’re used to busy hospitals, neighbours chatting through the walls at your old apartment but the house… it’s quiet, especially with Brendon not in it.

You turn the TV on, clicking the volume down so there’s a low consistent thrum of voices keeping you company. It’s marginally better, and it helps you focus on the next issue… what to do.

Brendon took care of the dishes before he left and everywhere else is spotless so you’re currently sitting here twiddling your thumbs. You know this is how people stagnate, they lose their sense of purpose and their mental health takes a nose dive right into the toilet… so right now you need to find a new purpose, something within your capabilities.

Small daily goals is what your counsellor said to you.

You just have to figure out what they look like.

That’s when you remember the laundry hamper in the bedroom, it’s got a couple of days’ worth of clothes in and laundry can’t be that hard can it?

You are wrong, so fucking wrong that you have to laugh at yourself because you’ve realised you’ve forgotten some key components, like how to transport the actual clothing to the laundry room with your wheelchair. You can’t drag it and wheel, and there’s no way to carry it without damaging your stump so… it’s time to put those problem solving skills to the test.

The bathroom has a nice seagrass basket that holds hand towels, it would slot perfectly on your lap. You retrieve the item, unrolling the handtowels and folding them neatly on top of the body towels, messing up Brendon’s system.

He’ll get used to it, you console yourself as you roll back into the bedroom and park alongside the hamper with your breaks on, the basket set up in your lap. You reach into the hamper and begin to sort through the clothes, depositing them in your basket. It takes a couple of trips to and from the washing machine to fill it, but you feel pretty accomplished once the machine is on, and the water is swirling around. You leave the basket on top of the dryer for the next stage before returning to the kitchen to make yourself a cup of tea.

Although the laundry antics have worn out your body, your mind is still chaotically busy, looking for engagement so a nap is completely out of the question but… there have been some things you’ve been meaning to Google, things you aren’t ready for Brendon to find out about just yet.

You power up your laptop on the kitchen table and begin to type.

Best sexual positions for RBKA…

It’s a rabbit hole of information.

Medical studies, amputee charities, Reddit posts.

Most of them are dedicated to male amputees but the Reddit posts prove fruitful… and eye opening.

There’s a lot of information to digest so you pull up an excel spreadsheet to keep track of the positions, the pillow placements, sex aids. You’re impressed by how versatile it really is. A lot of things will have to wait until your stump has healed but there’s still enough to work with in the meantime. You’d worried that sex would become boring with your amputation, that you’d be limited to a certain set number of positions but that is not the case at all.

You snigger as you take in the full depth of the spreadsheet, it’s a full colour coded affair with tabs and tables separating positions, toys and adaptions. You’ve essentially made a database of things to try when you’re feeling ready for it and if that isn’t the most Type A bullshit you’ve ever heard of you don’t know what is.

By the time Brendon gets back from the hospital you’re folding dry laundry on the couch, watching one of your shows. The pile sits on the cushion beside you, the folded items resting in the seat of your wheelchair so it’s all within close proximity.

“You have been a busy girl.” He murmurs, his lips skimming over your forehead in greeting.

“Oh Brendon.” You smile, tilting your head up so that you can capture his mouth. “You have absolutely no idea.”

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