the girl on the moon

Spencer had been insufferable all day.

The resident genius had been micromanaging everything down to the last detail. Case files, briefing notes, even his own coffee order for crying out loud.

And you weren’t off the hook either. You were Spencer’s girlfriend, but the way he was criticizing your reports, he must’ve mistaken you for an intern.

It wasn’t that he meant to be cruel. His brain just ran faster than everyone else’s. At least, that’s what you continued to remind yourself. Today, he just… hadn’t bothered filtering himself.

Afterall, there was a chance it had something to do with the current case the BAU had been assigned.

It was never not difficult when a child was the victim. Was, as in, there is no great countdown to saving this young life. There is no possibility, no chance, the unit was already showing too late. Well, too late, perhaps, to save this life, but just in time before another can be lost.

Something about the case Spencer was taking extremely personally. Particularly when the leading suspect at this point in time was a classmate who’d allegedly bullied the victim relentlessly at school. When they brought the kid in, fearful and wringing his hands, you were assigned to his interrogation first, hoping a warm face and gentler approach would lower his stress levels enough to tell anything useful. But Spencer immediately steamrolled this.

He barreled towards the door to the dimly lit interrogation room. As you floundered, saying you had thought he’d been assigned to case notes, he’d said “Case notes? What am I, a secretary?” before blowing past you.

You still trailed him into the room, sitting beside him at the table, jaw tense and eye twitching as he doesn’t let you salvage this interrogation for even a moment.

The boy stammers, “I-I didn’t lie! I was with my friend—”

Spencer cuts him off, his voice clipped and cold. “Your friend says you left at 8PM. You told us you were together all night. I think you can do better than that.”

The kid is shaking, eyes darting between Spencer’s intense stare and you, like pleading with you for help, and that’s when you once again attempt to intervene.

You speak up softly, “Hey,” you say, reaching out and resting a hand on the table. “It’s okay if you made a mistake. We just need the truth.”

You shoot Spencer a look. He sends one back at you.

But the kid seems to respond better to your gentler tone. “I-I messed up,” he admits, voice breaking. “I left early ‘cause I got scared…”

“Scared of what?” Spencer asks instantly. “You didn’t seem scared when your little friend told you about the murder plot, did you?”

The kid pales. “I…! No, I didn’t know anything about a murder!” he squeaks.

Your eyes narrow. You hadn’t wanted Spencer to mention that detail yet. The interrogation was spiraling out of control fast.

Spencer leans in even closer, looming. “Then explain to me why,” he says slowly, “your friend had specifically told you not to talk about what happened that night?”

The kid’s throat bobs. “L-listen, Mister… Agent… guy—”

“Doctor.”

“D-Doctor,” he stammers, “I swear I didn’t do anything! My friend— he told me not to say anything because… because he did something bad!”

Your lips tense. A confession squeezed out by fear was faulty. You knew that. This kid would say anything to make Spencer stop looking at him like that. And you were beginning to get irked by this good-cop bad-cop nonsense you were forced to be a part of.

You stand, your chair screeching against the floor. “Doctor, there’s a detail we’re forgetting that I think we’d do well to review,” you say, voice even. You look down at the boy with the warmest expression you can manage. “You’re not in trouble now, alright, sweetie? Just sit tight for us.”

The kid exhales shakily, grateful for your kindness. Meanwhile, Spencer glares at you like you’re betraying him.

The second the door shuts behind you both, he rounds on you. “Sweetie? I mean, really? What was that?” he says incredulously. “He’s lying, you saw it! He knows something, and you’ve deliberately undermined our chances of getting a confession!”

“You were scaring him, Spencer,” you say firmly. “That’s not how you get a reliable statement.”

“I was building momentum,” he says, voice clipped and precise in the way that pisses you off. Like he’s reciting a textbook. A textbook that said exactly how you were wrong and he was right. “Standard interrogation protocol involves controlled pressure to elicit truthful statements. Which, apparently,” his tone drips with sarcasm, “you decided to derail by coddling him.”

Offended, your expression shifts, frustration bubbling. “I was assigned to this interrogation for a reason, Spencer.”

“Actually, if you can’t handle not being nice to a potential accessory to murder, I think you were assigned wrong, Agent.”

You gape at him. You can hardly believe your ears.

“We need results,” he continues, “and your methods aren’t qualified for this interrogation. So why don’t you just let me handle this?” He tries to push past you, but you catch him by the collar.

“What the hell is wrong with you today?”

“Y/N, you’re wasting time! This is a—”

“Would you lose the goddamn attitude?”

“Let go of me. What the hell? I don’t need you manhandling me—”

“Why are you being such a fucking brat?”

Spencer turns slightly red with indignation. He yanks his collar free. “I’m not being a brat! What, you think just because we’re dating, everything’s your business now?”

“You clearly seem determined to make it everyone’s business today.”

“No offense, Y/N, but I’m not the one holding up the interrogation, which we only have approximately,” he sarcastically pretends to hum in thought, as if he didn’t already have the answer in less time than someone could comprehend, “3 minutes and 48 seconds to finish and get a confession out of this guy.”

You want to explode. You sputter for a moment. “If you had just dropped the fucking attitude, we would’ve already gotten the confession!”

Spencer scoffs, “Oh, sure, because clearly your method of patting him on the head and calling him ‘sweetie’ was gonna make this guy confess to conspiracy.”

“‘That guy’ is a kid, Spencer!”

“And believe it or not, age doesn’t equate to innocence, and you don’t have a clue what kids like him are capable of.”

At that, both of your tunnel visions finally widen, and you at last take in your positions.

You’re standing almost chest to puffed up chest, jaws tight and breathing rapid. Spencer’s hands are clenched into fists, your eyes are blazing with fury, and both of you are glaring at each other like you’ve never seen the other before. Both furious, embarrassed that this escalated so far, but neither willing to release the clawed grip you had on your prides.

From an outsider’s perspective, it’s hard to believe you’re two people who love each other.

There was love still within the both of you, of course, a petty argument like this not enough to untangle each other from your souls. It was simply muffled by frustration and exhaustion from working together for far too long.

You stare at each other, unblinking, some kind of unspoken staring contest between you before the interrogation room door creaks open, towards which both of you whip your heads.

Morgan stands there, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised to the sky. “You two done?”

A small amount of tension is released between the two of you. But Spencer, always one to get the last word, mutters, “Yeah, I think she is.”

You whirl your head back around, fury reignited, and you could’ve exploded then and there if not for Morgan, who swiftly breaks the two of you apart.

“Alright,” he says firmly, “Both of you, cool off.”

Gladly. You’re quick to storm out of the room.

Spencer doesn’t follow. He stands there stiffly, jaw still locked, watching you stomp off down the hall with sharp footsteps.

Morgan frowns at him deeply, clearly unimpressed. “Jesus, kid, can you just focus? We got a case here.”

The car ride home is agony.

Tense silence from the both of you. No music, the only sound the hum of the engine and the only thing in the air the lingering irritation from the brief, snippy argument about who was driving. (It was you, since apparently asking Spencer meant you just “couldn’t do that either.”)

Spencer stares straight ahead, expression frustratingly unreadable, cold and distant. You look much the same, gripping the wheel and stubbornly refusing to look at him even once.

When you get home is when Spencer’s big mouth starts moving like a motor.

“Wow, gotta say, smoothest case by far. Real productive. You know, it’s funny, if half of you guys had just listened to me in the first place, this case would’ve been a lot more efficient. Did you notice that?”

You ignore him, kicking off your shoes as he trails behind you, continuing his snobby little speech.

“And I mean, really, what was the point of that interrogation? It wasn’t like you had some brilliant new angle.” He tosses his lanyard onto the counter a little harder than necessary. “No, no, please, just ignore my input next time. It’s not like you’re talking to a guy with an IQ of 187 and an eidetic memory. I can’t remember the last time I knew what I was talking about, you know?”

Spencer mindlessly follows you through the apartment, the only thought in his mind proving himself right and making sure you heard it. You pass through the bedroom doorway with him hot on your heels.

“And honestly, if you’d just trusted me, if anyone had just trusted my analyses from the start— which consistently turn out to be correct, if anybody’s keeping score— we wouldn’t have wasted half a day chasing dead leads.”

You silently peel off your shirt as he blabs, the rest of your work clothes following until you’re left in your underwear.

Spencer stands in front of the mirror, not looking your way, undressing with sharp, quick motions.

“Not to mention you decided to take over like you knew better,” he continues. “Which you didn’t, by the way. You don’t have my training in geographic profiling.”

Spencer seemingly begins to grow frustrated by your lack of responses. He stops undressing halfway, stepping over to you where you’re perched on the bed.

“Oh, so you’re just gonna ignore me now? Really? What, are you gonna ignore me all night?”

“I’m sorry, did you want a reaction?” You sneer.

“Yes, actually,” comes his automatic response. “A warranted reaction from my girlfriend. Like, I don’t know, ‘You’re right, Spencer,’ or ‘Maybe I messed up,’ not whatever it is you think you’re doing here.”

You stand from the bed. “You want a warranted reaction?”

“Yes!” Spencer stays planted. “I want you to acknowledge that I was right about the case. That my method would’ve worked if you hadn’t interfered—”

With a vice grip, you grab his arm before he manages to finish his quippy little response. With a harsh motion, you yank him closer, close enough your noses are nearly touching.

Spencer’s words die. For a fraction of a second, he forgets the argument. His lips part slightly, eyes darting between yours and your mouth again, instinctively leaning in just the tiniest bit before catching himself.

Then, quick as it happened, you shove him again, pulling him down by the arm until he stumbles onto the bed, body bent awkwardly over the mattress and face buried in the blanket. Your fist winds into his hair, pressing his face deeper and smothering his shocked protests.

He tries to push up, but your grip is strong and sudden. “Wha— Y/N!” His cry is muffled by fabric.

His eyes widen when he feels your other hand begin to work off his belt, and he starts to twist and writhe on the bed with a growing sense of desperation.

“Hey! You— wait!” He stammers, heart beginning to slam against his ribs.

You yank his slacks down until they hit the ground. Spencer is filled with humiliation by the position for all of two seconds before it’s replaced by something much more pertinent. Pain, as it rips through his body at the first crack of your hand down on his ass.

A sharp, undignified noise escapes him as pain blooms across his backside. His entire body tenses up. You spanked him. And the shock of it makes him freeze for a second, wide eyed and jaw slack. “O-Ow!” He cries.

You hold him by the waist firmly, pressing his back, forcing him into a slight arch. Your hand comes down again, a red outline of your palm already beginning to form. Spencer cries out girlishly.

Spencer’s legs kick instinctively. Another sharp smack lands as your response.

“Y/N, wha—! S-stop!” His voice cracks embarrassingly high.

You don’t stop. The sound of skin slapping skin resounds through the bedroom.

Spencer’s eyes water. He didn’t realize his ass could hurt like this. “Hey! Hey!” he gasps between hits. This wasn't fair punishment for an argument, not in his mind, but oh, god, it was working on him in ways you probably intended.

He twists his arm and tries to reach behind him— to grab your hand, shield his ass, he doesn’t know. Something, anything. But your fist quickly clamps around his wrist, and you effortlessly pin his arm in place against his back. He whines and moans into the blanket in protest, cut off by his own gasp as you spank him again.

The pain radiates in hot waves across his backside, and between the embarrassment and the sting, he starts to cry, silent tears soaking into the blanket beneath him.

“F-fuck…! Mommy, please!” He whines out pathetically.

You aren’t letting up. Each strike lands with precision, reddening his skin more and more. Spencer jumps with each contact, yelping and shrieking and whining. You can hear him sniffling against the blanket, muffled pleas for mercy and gasps of confusion.

His voice is high and broken. “P-please! I’m sorry! I-I won’t argue again, I swear! Mommy!” he bawls into the blanket between hit after hit.

He’s never been this humiliated in his life. And yet somehow, impossibly, there was something else too. Something confusingly warm blooming low in his stomach that makes him cry out even harder.

“Thought you wanted a reaction, Spence,” you hiss.

Spencer sniffles hard, tears dripping freely down his cheeks. “Y-yeah, but not— not this!” he wails.

He had wanted the reaction he was hoping for: of you admitting defeat and the two of you going to bed with the knowledge that he was right all along. No part of that included being manhandled and punished like a naughty kid.

“I get it! I-I’m sorry!”

“Yeah, you get it now? Why didn’t you get it when you were running your mouth, huh?”

Spencer hiccups through his tears. “I—I was right though…!” he defends himself weakly, but it feels pathetic the moment it leaves his mouth. He wasn’t winning anything here beside a sore backside and wet cheeks.

Your palm slaps his skin again, coming down with a force as you give a frustrated, exasperated sigh. “Nope. Try again.”

“Okay! Okay, I—I shouldn’t have argued!” he blurts out, voice wobbly. He sniffles hard, trying to remember how to breathe through the tears. “I’m sorry for being a brat! I didn’t mean to! I… I just wanted you to listen! Mommy, please.”

“Why? Because you’re so smart?” You baby-talk him mockingly. “‘Cause you're such a smart boy? Oh, if only everybody listened to Spencer."

Your taunting in that tone makes his stomach twist weirdly again. “W— well…!” He considers it for a moment. “…Yeah?”

Down comes your hand again. “Wrong answer,” you spit.

Spencer yelps. “No! I mean— yes! No!” He’s flailing now, desperate to say the right thing. Whatever would make you stop your assault on his rear end. “I shouldn’t have been a smartass!” he blurts out between sniffles. “I was wrong and rude and— and I’m sorry! Please, please, Mommy, c-can I… have a break?” He writhes against the bed, his pitiful expression buried in the mattress.

He moans like a bitch when your hand cracks down on that same spot. “Look at yourself, smart guy. Can’t even understand you. Weeping like a baby. Where’s that big tough Agent, huh? Where’s Doctor Reid?” You jostle him slightly because you can, manhandling him. “I only see a whiny little boy, getting spanked for his attitude.”

Despite being a sniveling, squirming, tear-streaked mess, he still protests, indignant. “I-I’m not being… w-whiny!”

“I’m not whiny!” You immediately mock him in a theatrically high pitch, “I’m not being whiny, Mommy!”

He just drops his head into the blanket again in defeat.

He takes a shuddering breath, trying to compose himself through his tears and lifts his face slightly from the blanket. “I'm sorry, Mommy,” he says louder, voice cracking. “I-I’m sorry. I was being a brat! Alright? I’m sorry. You— you were right about the interrogation, a-and I shouldn’t have talked to you like that. I know that now. Please, please. I-I don't need to be spanked anymore, okay? God, my ass really, really hurts…”

You’re quiet as you consider the desperate, pleading apology that tumbled from his lips. You rub his reddened, stinging backside in slow soothing circles, humming as you admire the scattered outlines of your handprints across his cheeks, clustering in blotches of red. “...You always cry like a girl? Or is it just for me?” You still mock, much to his disappointment.

Spencer sniffles again, his shoulders still rising and falling unevenly from crying. "There’s, um… you know, there’s no such thing as ‘crying like a girl’... actually. That’s sexist rhetoric,” He mumbles into the blanket.

“Mm. You’re just saying that ‘cause I’m right and you’re embarrassed.”

His face burned hotter than his sore backside. “Ma- maybe,” he admits quietly. “...lt's true, though.”

“What? That you’re a girl?” You snicker.

Spencer huffs, annoyed, but too exhausted and emotionally drained to retort back properly. “No,” he mutters. “That… that crying isn’t gendered.” His voice is endearingly nasally, his nose stuffed from weeping. He sniffles again uselessly. “...Are you, um… done spanking me?”

You ignore him. “Sounded pretty girly to me.” You idly fondled his ass as you talk. “Been pretty bitchy like one, too."

He squirms, feeling so small beneath your hands that grope him like a girl. “W-well,” he mutters, voice still thick. “I guess I was being a brat. A-and now I’m not.” He peeks over his shoulder at you, eyes red and puffy. “Doesn’t... make me a girl. Can… can we be done now? Please?”

Scheming, you flash him a wicked grin. “You certainly look like a girl from this angle.” You tangle your fingers where his long brown locks were thickest, “All this isn't helping.”

“It's not— it's not that long,” he denies weakly, squirming. “C-can I please get up now? My ass is really sore—”

“You need a tampon, Spence?” You snicker, “Where are your panties?”

“Y/N!” He whines, mortified. “I-I don’t wear… p-panties! I’m a guy!” He tries to kick his legs out in protest but winces when the movement pulls at his sore skin.

"Oh, well, that’s no good!" You pat his ass. Mild, in comparison to how you had been hitting him this whole time, but the dull sting still sends a jolt through his body. “Only naughty girls walk around without panties. Are you naughty?”

Spencer whimpers. “I-I’m not a girl, Y/N? What are you doing?”

“Here, we’ll fix your little panty problem.” You take a step back, holding the nightstand for balance as you slide your white underwear down your legs and hike them up Spencer’s. The way he slightly lifts his hips to assist you doesn't go unnoticed.

You snap the elastic against his skin, giggling at the way it makes him squeak. “Aw, Spence..” You coo at the way his hard cock spills out the side of the underwear, “You don’t fit.”

Spencer is mortified. The underwear— your underwear— is a horribly foreign feeling to his body. Too small, clinging to his ass, not quite fitting his lower half like it would fit to the slope of a woman’s. And not exactly made with enough fabric to hold… his boy parts. Understandably.

He tries to cover himself with one hand while still lying on his stomach, but it’s useless. “Ha-ha. Yeah, very funny,” he coughs to hide his arousal. “Very funny, Y/N. Can I please get up now?”

He starts to shift in place, trying to pull himself up, but your palms make contact with his back and give him a shove back into the bed. The heavy handling sends more heat to the pool in his stomach as he swallows hard “But baby, you look so cute! Don’t tell me you don’t like it?”

He shouldn’t be this turned on. He shouldn’t be turned on at all, arguably. But his body is betraying him completely. His cock is hard and throbbing where it escapes the fabric.

He’s at a loss for words, unsure of how to respond. “…I-I don’t know, okay? I don’t know. Why are you being so… weird?”

“No? You want something prettier?”

“…Prettier?” he repeats dumbly.

“Of course, silly me.” You rip off the panties in a way that makes him feel oddly scandalized.

You leave him for a moment, walking away to your closet. He hears the padding of your footsteps. Hesitantly, he once again pulls himself up on his elbows, hoping to crawl out of the humiliating position of still being bent over the bed, but you swiftly return behind him before he gets very far. You effortlessly push him back down without a thought.

“These work better?” You dangle a frilly, girly pair of pink panties in front of his face.

Spencer makes a terrified little noise. The underwear looked like it belonged to a doll, not him. “I...I can’t wear that,” he squeaks.

You pull him back by the hips, and he takes it submissively. You sweep the panties under one leg, then the other. The frilly fabric climbs higher, over his thighs, over the curve of his ass.

Spencer feels humiliated in a way he’s never felt before. The lace tickles weirdly against his skin. Not to mention tight. He can’t seem to move without the underwear squeezing awkwardly, putting unfortunate pressure on his cock.

“Y/N…” he whines miserably.

“Oh, sit up, let me see you,” You coo.

Mortified by the idea, Spencer’s hands wriggle under his abdomen to cover his aching cock. He swallows, squeezing his legs together. “No, no, I- uh... think l'll stay right here.”

“C’mooon, I wanna see my pretty girlfriend.”

Spencer nearly chokes. He sputters, “Girlfriend?! I-I’m not—”

But you’re already pulling him by the arms. With a firm tug, you maneuver Spencer around and up to perch on the edge of the bed.

You’re met with the beautiful sight of your boyfriend’s wide-eyed and horrified expression, sweetly flushed down to his neck in embarrassment, hands still trying and failing to hide his arousal.

The pink lace clings awkwardly around his hips, a stark outline of his hard cock trapped within the girly fabric, the two contrasting each other nicely. He looks ridiculous. He feels humiliated. He guesses that was the goal.

“Aw, sweetie…” you faux-pout, tone condescending, “you all wet for me under there?”

“Wet? I-I’m not—!” he stammers, scrunching his nose at the feminizing term. “No! That’s— that’s not what this is!” He instinctively squeezes his thighs together tighter, as if that would hide the obvious evidence of his erection. “Why are you doing this?” He asks, miserable.

“Been puffing out your chest all day,” You sigh, “been so big and mean. Just imagine if your co-workers saw Doctor Reid like this…”

His blood runs cold with horror. “No! Nonono,” he whimpers. “Please don’t tell anyone.”

“These suit you, y’know?” You pull the panties back, running your finger along the inside of the lace. “I think I like you better in these,” you mock.

Spencer shivers at your words. He hates this.

…Okay, maybe not entirely hates it. But he hates how much it’s affecting him.

“I-I look ridiculous,” he mumbles, avoiding eye contact. “You can’t seriously think I—”

“You sure you’re a boy under there?”

“W-what? Wha— what kind of question is that?”

“I mean, look at yourself…” your hands run over his body. “You don’t look much like a boy.”

He knows what you’re implying. No part of him is particularly manly. But still, “I-I’m a guy,” he insists weakly, voice suddenly a little smaller.

“You’re a guy?” You repeat, nodding along condescendingly.

His cock stirs. “Mhm.” He squirms.

“So it doesn’t make you wet when I call you my good girl? My pretty little girlfriend?”

“I’m not wet…” He denies the feminine term sheepishly. “Just, um… slightly moistened.”

You grin with triumph. “Right. Lay back for me, pretty girl.”

Spencer hesitates, but he slowly, obediently lies back on the bed. “…Okay.” The frilly panties ride up in an unfortunate matter. His hands rest awkwardly at his sides. He’s nervous. Excited? Maybe a little of both. Reoccurring feelings when it comes to sex with you.

You crawl atop him, a position he’s well familiar with now. You run a finger along the seam of the underwear, inadvertently tracing his dick, “Should I play with your pussy?”

“Y/N,” he breathes, voice shaky. “I-I don’t have a… you know.”

“A what? Speak.”

Spencer’s throat bobs, his face burning. “I don’t have a… pussy,” he whispers the naughty word shyly. His hips shift slightly under you.

“Yeah, you do, and it’s dripping for me, silly girl.” You glide your nails over the skin of his abdomen, tracing circles around where he wants you. His skin prickles with goosebumps, and his cock throbs painfully.

“P-please…” he whimpers, shamefully begging.

“Please what, baby? Open your mouth, since you’ve been so good at that today.”

Spencer’s lips part, instinctively obeying your command. “Please… please touch me? You can tease me more, I-I won’t complain.”

You plant your hands on either side of his head and slowly lower your face to his until your lips hover above his own, until you can feel his rapid, nervous breaths. “Tell me you’re my good girl.”

Spencer’s heart is hammering so loud he swears you can hear it. His lips tremble. He doesn’t want to say it, but he wants your kiss. “…I-I’m your good girl,” he whispers.

You seal your lips against his with a barely concealed victorious smile. Spencer’s eyes immediately shut, and he melts into it like he’d been waiting all day, his mouth moving against yours. You tilt your head at an angle, kissing him deeper while Spencer’s fingers twitch like he wants to grab onto you.

At some point, his hands finally give in, fingers curling around your waist, pulling you closer. He kisses back desperately, as if desperate to win your approval back. Look how good he kisses you. Look how good he’s being for you. Don’t you wanna give him what he wants?

You pull back all too soon, and he whines pitifully.

“You want me to play with you? Want me to play with your pretty pussy?”

He nods rapidly, eyes wide and pleading.

“Yes,” he breathes, voice cracking. “Please… I want you to.”

With a smirk, you graze your palm over the bulge in the panties. “Who knew all I had to do was put you in my panties and suddenly you remember how to behave?”

Spencer moans in his mouth. Your hand on him feels amazing. He bites his lip, hips bucking up into your touch slightly. “I-I always behave,” he lies weakly. “Just… didn’t wanna listen before, you know?”

You caress him over the fabric with slow, gentle circles. “You were nasty before.”

“Mhm… yeah,” he admits, voice airy. “But I’m— I’m good now. Really good.” He’s putty under your hands, completely pliant and eager for whatever you’ll give him next.

“You wanna say you’re sorry to me?”

Spencer doesn’t hesitate. “Sorry, Y/N,” he murmurs instantly, soft and sincere. “I’m sorry for being a brat today. Really sorry.” His eyes are big and pleading as he looks up at you, waiting to be rewarded with more of your touch. “I’ll be your good girl, I’ll be whatever you want me to be.”

You don’t slide your hand under the lace. You grip his cock over the panties, closing the fabric around his dick and stroking the length of him up and down. The material adds a new kind of friction, every stroke sends waves of pleasure through him.

Spencer gasps, arching into your touch. “Oh, fuck,” he breathes out shakily.

“Stupid boy,” You degrade as you touch him, your tone airy and condescending. “Stupid boy in cute little panties. Go on, make noise for me,” you circle your fingers around the outline of his tip, “Moan like a girl and tell me how you’re not one.”

Spencer whimpers, high and girlish noises slipping out as if at your command. “Mmm— ah!” His hips jerk into your hand. “I-I’m not a girl! I-I swear…” But his voice is so soft and sweet, so high and needy it’s hard to convince anyone. His cock throbs under your fingers at the demeaning insults.

You watch him unravel with delight, pressing your thumb harder against his tip through the fabric, rubbing firmer circles. His jaw gapes.

“Liar,” you scoff. “Could’ve fooled me.” Your other hand slides up to graze his nipple.

He can’t think straight anymore. Spencer’s breath comes in short, uneven gasps. “Y/N—please,” he begs again, writhing under you. His body is alight with sensation. His hands fist the sheets beneath him.

You alternate between stroking him harshly over the panties and rubbing your fingers over his head, grinding the fabric into his tip, and it makes him so dizzy the way you stop and start so unpredictably. He cries at the overwhelming pleasure, squeezing his eyes shut and rolling his hips up and back, as though trying to encourage you and escape you all at once.

You can only laugh at the sight. “You trying to buck me off or something, baby?”

“N-no,” he gasps. “I-I don’t know what I’m doing—”

You shift closer, crawling further atop him until your knees press into his thighs, pinning them into the mattress and trapping him with your weight. He watches. He feels so small under you, pinned and helpless. His chest rises fast, his lips parted, waiting for whatever you’ll do next. There’s nowhere to go now but wherever you lead him.

You run your tongue along the inside of your teeth, eyes raking over him pervertedly, admiring the view. He tightens his lips nervously, feeling scrutinized.

He jolts fearfully when you roughly grasp his wrists and pin them above his head. You're hovering above him now, a shiver running through him as he fidgets in this new position. “You got any more complaints about my methods, Doctor?”

His arms stretched above him, he shakes his head rapidly, eyes wide. “N-no.”

“No? None?” You cross his wrists, squeezing them in one palm as the other glides down to rub his weeping cock again. He inhales sharply. The front of the panties are damp, the pink color darkened slightly. “You sure? You don’t wanna tell me how right you are? How you’re so much smarter? Go on, tell me all about it.”

You’re taunting him, goading him into making him babble like a fool while You touch him, knowing his mind was blank and no thought was coherent.

“I-I…” He stammers uselessly, struggling to form a sentence.

“C’mon, where’s that big brain of yours, sweet girl? Don’t tell me you lied to me. Don’t tell me you don’t know better.”

Your hand works him between your thighs, the front of the panties soaked with a devastating amount of pre-cum for how vehemently he denied his arousal.

The friction maddening through the thin fabric. He writhes just to feel the way your knees push deeper into his thighs, the way your grip tightens around his wrists.

“I-I don’t— I can’t think,” he admits weakly. “Just… touch me more.”

“Oh, I don’t like girls with no manners.”

He doesn’t even know what you mean by that, but the disapproval in your tone scares him. “P-please! Please! I-I meant please, I meant please— pleasepleaseplease keep touching me, please.”

He writhes under your hands, wrists fighting to free themselves, desperate to hold you for stability. You smother any attempt to shake off your grip with a smug smile.

You quiet for a moment, assessing him, watching him struggle like the muscles in his arms were just for show. Not like he had much, anyway. But this was just pathetic. You snort. “You’re faking it,” You accuse.

“I’m not faking it!” His voice pitches higher. “Y-you’re… strong!” His wrists twist harder against your grip. It does nothing.

You laugh, practically cackling at him, then return your attention back to his neglected cock, stroking and rubbing and grinding over the tent in the panties.

His hips jerk into every stroke, chasing the friction like an addict. The stimulation is relentless. Your hand never stops, always moving, teasing him with just the right pressure.

Spencer’s breath comes in short gasps. His legs twitch where they’re pinned under your knees. His entire body is tensing, coiling tighter and tighter with every stroke. He’s getting close. So close he can’t even form words anymore, just breathy, whimpering noises escaping him as his orgasm builds.

“You gonna wet those panties soon, Reid?” You coo from somewhere in the fog.

Spencer’s eyes squeeze shut, and he nods frantically. “Y-yeah… yeah,” he gasps. “Gonna cum— oh, god.”

“Don’t tell me you’re gonna mess these pretty things up…” You rub the pads of your fingers over the lace while your palm works his cock.

“I-I can’t— ah! Can’t stop it,” he babbles, hips stuttering up into your hand.

“Oh, poor baby. Can’t even help yourself. Gonna cum from a little touching?”

The touching was only half of it, all of Your pretty and mocking words that served to emasculate him only made his cock twitch harder.

“Mm-hm!” he whimpers pathetically. “And— and I like, um, f-fuck! Being your good girl.”

“Yeah…” You coo, “That’s what you were made for. None of this smartie-pants nonsense. Uh-uh. You just be my good girl.” Your wrist flicks, you caress circles against his dick with quickened speed. Spencer’s body is curving up into your touch. “Be my good girl from now on. Make a mess in your panties for me. ‘Kay? That’s it. There it is.”

Spencer can hardly get a word in before his orgasm hits him like a wave. His back arches off the bed, his legs stiffening under your weight as he cums hard into the ruined panties. “Mmmmf—!” He bites his lip to muffle himself, eyes squeezing shut. His body quakes through the orgasm, wave after wave of pleasure crashing over him. The panties are soaked from his heavy release.

He finally goes limp after an impressive amount of time, body spent. He pants softly in a blissed out daze. You still stroke him lazily until his dick gives one last twitch, then you softly rub your thumb over his tip almost affectionately.

Spencer gives a weak grateful whimper at the gentle aftercare, though he winces slightly at the oversensitivity. He blinks up at you, air coming out in little puffs, cheeks rosy and hair tussled from tossing around.

You release his wrists, sliding your hand down to his cheek, cupping his face for a moment. Just a moment. Before Spencer can even lean into your comfort, the tender touch is ripped away as you lift your hand and whip it back down against his cheek. His head snaps to the left. “Don’t ever get smart with me again,” you say coldly.

He swallows once, wide eyes blinking in stunned silence, before he gives his response in a meek and rapid nod of his head. “Y-yeah. Yes. Never again.”

You were never shocked by the knock on your door, no matter how late or how randomly placed in the middle of a boring week.

The sun would be set, dishes washed and put away in their respective places, and your feet still lingering near the doorway as you waited for the inevitable sound of knuckles against wood.

It had been a few days since the last time you heard it so you knew it was becoming overdue, skin slightly prickling as you waited and waited in your front hallway far too patiently. You felt a bit foolish for standing there for so long, in a slight trance whenever you thought about who was coming.

Thirty minutes of you hovering passed before you were sighing and retreating to your room.

Your feet froze in place when the noise echoed from behind you, making your chest tighten and a surge of adrenaline hit you so hard you felt a bit dizzy when you hurriedly spun back around and made your way to the entry again.

Sammy looked melancholy when you pulled the door open, hand raised in a fist like he was about to knock again. His shoulders deflated when he saw you and you figured it must be in relief considering the way he was surging forward and pulling you in.

You sighed when he tucked his forehead down against your shoulder, instinctively wrapping your arms around him. You rubbed up and down his back softly, your other forearm securely pressed to his side reassuringly as you both swayed from the force of the embrace.

It took awhile for him to let you go, you had to coax him back just enough for you to be able to walk.

He followed you fully into the living room with a distant look on his face, sitting down on the cushion and getting a panicked expression when you made a move to walk away.

“Relax.” You say as softly as you can, pressing your hands against his shoulders to keep him sitting. “Just going to get some water for you.”

He didn’t look too pleased by it but he let out a breath and settled back against the cushions long enough for you to go to the fridge and fill him up a glass.

It was pointless considering he ignored it once you came back, barely getting his fingers around it before he was setting it down on the coffee table in favor of wrapping his hands around your middle and bringing you down to sit in his lap sideways.

You sighed but leaned against his chest and let him tuck against your neck again, breathing you in deeply and holding you so tight you felt a little dizzy.

“Bad day?” You kept your voice quiet but it was enough for him to hear you and pick up his head, eyes full of hurt that was reflecting off the dim lighting in the room.

“Couldn’t have been worse.” He answered honestly and you gave him an empathetic look, running your hand over his jaw and feeling the way he rest against it and shuts his eyes. “I needed to see you.”

“Did you even go home?” Your eyebrows furrow and he looks at you again, the guilt on his face making the answer obvious. “Sammy we talked about that. She goes crazy if you don’t at least stop by.”

You never would shy away from talking about Tammi because there was no point. She was the main thing you thought about when you were with him, his wedding ring currently pressing against your waist and the knowledge of his wife hanging over your head like a weight.

You admittedly had very little empathy for the woman.

You’d gone to high school with both of them but you’d known Sammy a few years before. You were always drawn to him, even before you could even really understand what that meant.

You just wanted to be around him, a young and sweet boy with an adult like patience that you didn’t get to see at home. He was always extra kind to you when you came to school tired or bruised, sharing his lunches and then pressing soft kisses to the side of your mouth once you got a bit older.

He’d been stricken with Tammi the moment he had seen her as you entered high school, fixated on her loud voice and extreme personality.

There was no other option than to watch him fall in love with her and then watch him lose that lightness he always carried trying to keep her happy.

What started as soft complaints on the phone after a shift turned into meeting up on his breaks to have lunch and absorb all his worries silently. Then he started to come over late into the night, something Tammi had forbid a few years ago.

She had tried to pretend to be civil with you when you were teenagers although grimacing at your kindness whenever you greeted her or made an attempt to bond. It was clear she didn’t like that Sammy had a girl best friend and she drew the line firmly once you were all adults.

There was no longer a need to try and seem friendly because Sammy was wrapped around her finger both metaphorically and legally in the form of the metal band she rarely wore.

He had called you a few years back to tell you that he couldn’t be around you anymore unless it was a group setting, absolutely no alcohol could ever be involved and he was definitely not allowed at your house.

It had sent you in a bit of a spiral, wondering if Tammi was just being as insane as she always was or if she had somehow seen deep down into the hidden part of you that had loved Sammy since you were practically children. And if Tammi knew, did that mean he did too?

“I dealt with her all day on the phone.” He was complaining softly and bringing your attention back to the present, still sneaking around and crossing boundaries just enough to make your head spin.

You never talked about it but his big hands would run over your waist, pulling you far too close to be friendly and taking deep breaths of your hair and skin like he was addicted to it.

Sometimes you caught him looking at your lips when you spoke, eyes a little distracted and then embarrassed when you’d clear your throat to try and get his attention.

You tried not to think about how Tammi would react to you being in his lap right now, holding his jaw and leaning down to kiss his cheek softly in comfort as he complained about her for the hundredth time.

“What’s she upset about now?” You know you’re playing into it, feeding the flame that never seems to burn hot enough to actually make him recoil.

He’ll talk about it endlessly and you can tell he really wants to leave her but he always goes back home at the end of the night with his tail between his legs.

“I mentioned your birthday.” He sighed and then gave you a look when he saw the automatic frown. You’d had plans with him for your birthday, beyond excited when he invited you out to dinner but you figured you should have known it was too good to be true. “She didn’t want to come but then she found out she wasn’t even invited and she lost her mind.”

“I don’t want to go at all if she has to be there.” You say immediately and you feel a little guilty for being so selfish with his time but you decide you deserve it considering the way she acts around you.

Admittedly you also just want him all to yourself and you know he won’t give you the same amount of attention if she’s around because it’ll without a doubt piss her off.

“I know sweetheart.” He breathes out and you hate the tone of his voice, the premature disappointment like he knows there’s no solution to the problem already.

And the petnames always break you, another old habit he had abandoned years ago that seems to be making an appearance more and more often lately.

“It’s fine.” You run a hand through his hair and he blinks tiredly up at you. You don’t want to add to his ever growing stress even if your throat feels tight at the let down. “I’ll see if Alex can come instead.”

You felt Sammy tense underneath you and his hands tighten around your middle. You stopped rubbing his hair in favor of sighing and resting harder against his chest, knowing exactly what was on his mind.

Sammy had always been the same way, patient and gentle to a fault. The only thing that really seemed to set him off was sharing you with other people.

He could tolerate your girl friends, he’d easily encourage you to go out and have fun and listen to your recaps the next morning while he drove to work. Guys, however, were a completely different battle.

You remember one of your first ever fights, only starting after you told him and your other friends that you finally had your first boyfriend. It had taken you until your junior year of high school to be over Sammy enough to move on, accepting by then that him and Tammi were more solid than you realized initially.

He’d been quiet the rest of the day and then pulled you to the side before you could walk home, lightly pressing you back against a tree and slightly interrogating you about the boy you were seeing.

It felt like a fresh memory, the butterflies in your stomach when you saw how serious he was and how wanted you felt as he told you that you deserved better. Sammy was jealous, there was no point in denying it and you knew you weren’t being delusional just because you had feelings for him.

He spent the next fifteen years getting the same expression whenever you talked about a guy or brought one to group cookouts, his glare fixated on a hand around your waist or the way you’d softly kiss the guy in thanks when he brought you a drink.

You knew Sammy found the same comfort in you that you got from him but that was the first real time you considered that Sammy might feel something more for you too.

Alex had started at your office a few years ago and just like always, Sammy had gotten that serious expression as soon as you started mentioning him casually. One of your mutuals friends had joked over drinks a month or two ago that you should make a move and Sammy immediately excused himself to stomp his way up to the bar.

Now his big hands were softly kneading into your side like you were a stress ball, staring past you to instead burn holes into your coffee table.

“Don’t do that.” You attempt to scold him but it comes out overly fond, a soft teasing whisper that makes him slightly scoff in amusement.

“I’ll figure it out.” He says a bit sternly and you give him a long disbelieving look. “I mean it. Don’t go out with him.”

“That’s not fair Sammy.” You try to be more serious so he can really understand but you can almost see the way your words fall on deaf ears.

He’s turning his head so he can press soft kisses on your skin, one laid against your cheek and then moving further until his lips are against the side of your mouth. It’s torture for you but you’re a willing participant, letting your eyes close and your body relax so he has no reason to stop.

And he doesn’t, peppering you in affection like he’s trying to erase the memory of Alex himself.

You feel his hands rubbing from your sides to your back, sliding under the hem of your tank top to rest on your shoulder blades like it’s a completely normal way for two friends to be touching.

You’d never deny Sammy anything but especially when it involved him fawning over you like this. You almost wanted to push it further, talk more about Alex and really exaggerate the nature of your relationship just to see how much it took for Sammy to decide he needed to lay a real claim on you.

He wasn’t yours so by default you couldn’t be his, that ring pressing against your hot skin an endless reminder of your situation.

“I know and I’m sorry.” His voice was soft and quiet like he truly meant it and part of you thought that he might.

You didn’t think his selfishness came with any malicious intent but it was still there, still pulling him towards your door after a fight with his wife and making him touch you in that confusing intimate way.

You didn’t go out to dinner with Alex for your birthday, you couldn’t stomach the thought even if Sammy hadn’t been so upset by it.

Instead you ended up sitting across from Tammi, trying to ignore her glare as you did your best to make small talk. You’d invited a few other friends so it felt less like third wheeling but you still had to make a point to not look at Sammy for too long.

She had a perfect view of your face from this angle and you knew exactly what she would see. The way your eyes softened when they met his and the obvious longing in your gaze when it was directed at her husband.

Sammy was staring holes in the side of your face anyways, maybe thinking he was being more subtle about it than he actually was. His ankle was crossing yours under the table every few minutes and you had to routinely send him a small glare to get him to stop.

You took the opportunity for a smoke break as dinner transitioned to drinks, placing your order and making your way outside before anybody could object. You figured you were leaving them to awkward small talk, your other friends barely knowing Sammy and unable to tolerate his wife, but you needed to breathe.

It wasn’t really possible considering the door was pushing open almost as soon as it shut behind you.

You sighed softly when you saw Sammy coming out into the small dark alley but you didn’t object when his hands were sliding over your sides, back and forth for a few seconds before resting on your lower back and pulling you closer.

“You’re not having a good time.” He said softly, not a question but a statement.

“How could I?” Your eyebrows furrow in frustration as your palms wrap around his biceps. “Your wife is glaring at me everytime I speak at my own birthday dinner and you’re trying to play footsie under the table.”

He frowns and you feel bad for how harsh you’re being, especially when he’s brushing your hair behind your ear and softly kissing your jaw a few times. He knows exactly how to unravel you, lower those walls and keep you melting against him.

“I’m sorry.” His voice is slightly muffled against your skin so he picks his head up and his nose brushes yours. “I just wanted to see you and she wouldn’t let me go without her.”

“It’s fine, she’s actually not being that terrible.” You sigh and it’s the truth. Tammi hadn’t said much of anything which was almost scarier than her making snappy or inappropriate comments. You felt like she was observing you closely, noting your every micro expression. “You’ve got to stop looking at me like that though.”

You didn’t need to clarify because you both knew what you were talking about, the same look he was giving now as his head tilted slowly in amusement.

More than longing, something deeper and heavier. You would have thought you imagined it a few years ago but you knew better now and you were more than aware of the fact Sammy wanted you in some capacity.

“Can’t help it. You look so beautiful tonight.” His voice had dropped and he leaned back down to kiss your skin again, this time a lot closer to your mouth than before.

You sighed and leaned further against him, trying to ignore the heated sensation in your stomach when he lightly guided you backwards so you were against the wall. His hands stayed on your lower back for the most part but he occasionally moved them to rub against your waist and hips, leaving you a little dizzy as he kissed down your neck.

“Sammy.” Your voice was breathy and he hummed against your skin in question. “This is so unfair.”

Normally that was enough to pull him out of it, sober him to the fact that you were getting hurt by his actions. He either didn’t register your complaint or maybe didn’t care, thinking he could make it up to you if he kept going.

You couldn’t deny him this, not when his big hand was rubbing up your back and his mouth was moving softly across your neck towards yours.

You were holding onto him tightly and trying to keep the breathy noises to a minimum, getting harder when he was shuffling even closer and fully pressing you against the brick behind you.

It was brief when his mouth finally pressed against yours, only a fleeting second before he was moving past it to kiss the other side of your face.

He tensed suddenly like he had only just now realized what he was doing so you prepared for the coldness that would hit you when he backed away. Instead, there was suddenly a lot more warmth as he pecked your lips again softly.

He pulled back for a few seconds, chest slightly heaving as he looked down at you in question. You thought he was an idiot for that because you’d never dream of objecting to this, even if it was so risky and stupid to be doing something so damning right outside the building his wife was inside.

“Unfair.” He mumbled, repeating your words as he kissed you lightly again. “Unfair is you wearing this outfit when I can’t touch you.”

His hands tightened against the fabric like he was emphasizing and this time you were less surprised when he kissed you. It lasted a little longer than a brief peck, just enough time for you to move your mouth against his before he was pulling back again.

“You can touch me.” You insisted softly, wondering if you told him what he wanted to hear he’d maybe keep kissing you. “You can always touch me.”

It worked, enough for him to really press against you and let you kiss him back. You’d gone nearly two decades without kissing eachother despite the tension floating over your heads and it was obvious in how filthy it got so quickly.

You were both eager and desperate, gripping anywhere you could reach and refusing to come up for air as you kissed him deeper and deeper.

You made no objections to his tongue smoothing into your mouth, tangling it with your own and savoring the sound he made at the taste of you. You’d never crossed this line despite the little things you did potentially being worse, the intimacy of the way you moved around each other almost comparable to the heat you felt now.

Sammy was insatiable now that you’ve broken the illusion that you were able to be just friends, tugging you closer and closer and licking into your mouth like he was starving.

It took a long few minutes for either of you to pull back and even then, he was still surging forward to kiss you softly like he was afraid to let it end. You understood the fear, stomach twisting at the thought of him gaining some clarity and regretting what you did.

Sammy was a good man despite how it may seem in his desperation and he wasn’t the type to cheat on his wife, no matter how cruel and detached she was.

“We fucked up.” You breathed it out in anticipation, assuming if you got to it before he could then the upcoming rejection would land better on your already damaged heart.

“What?” His eyebrows furrowing surprised you, fully expecting him to agree with you and let you chalk it up as a stupid mistake you could forget. Instead he was shifting closer again so you weren’t able to look away from him even if you wanted to. “No we didn’t. It was my fuck up all those years ago when I married Tammi.”

You had to get some space from him then or you wouldn’t be able to breathe, softly pushing at his chest and being beyond thankful that he easily moved backwards and let you shift away from the brick wall.

“That is so shitty of you to say.” You wanted it to come out more frustrated so he would really let it process but you just sounded tired.

He looked like he wanted to object, maybe apologizing judging by the way his face softened with guilt. Luckily the door was opening then, one of your closest friends stepping out into the alley and giving you a scolding look when she saw the way his fingertips were grazing your waist and the swollenness of your lips.

“You should come in.” She said it softly but you knew she’d be scolding you once you left the restaurant, subject to your Sammy fueled rants for years now. “I’ve got your drink ordered.”

You gave her a thankful smile that didn’t reach your eyes and she turned her stare towards Sammy, hardening as she scanned over his guilty stance, a hand rubbing over his mouth.

“And your wife is looking for you.”

You both tensed up at the obvious call out and you followed quickly behind her when she went back inside so you didn’t have to deal with his reaction to that targeted comment.

It was instinct to avoid Sammy after that even though it tore your heart out of your chest. You figured you might as well get it over with because he clearly had no plans to leave Tammi any time soon and you weren’t going to magically get over him after you spent the majority of your life following him around like a helpless fawn.

His calls went unanswered on your own phone and some others, your friends reaching out to let you know he’d been getting ahold of them too so he could ask where you’ve been.

You ignored the knocks on your door, putting a pillow over your ears and trying to keep your crying quiet enough that he wouldn’t be able to hear you.

There was the obvious defect in your plan, the fact that Sammy knew you better than anybody possibly could.

He stayed away for a few days and you thought it had worked, he’d finally given up and manage to read your silent message that you couldn’t do this with him anymore.

Instead he was sitting on your porch when you got home from work two weeks later.

You were coming home late, you’d stopped at your nearest library and then the liquor store to give you two distractions to get through the night with, so you figured he must have been sitting for a while.

You let out a sigh at the end of your walkway and he was shooting up off the cement, eyes full of that annoyingly sweet hope and hesitation as he stepped aside to let you pass him by.

He was standing behind you as you unlocked the door and you spent the time it took to get your key in the doorknob trying to build up the courage to tell him to go fuck himself, but all you could manage was to lightly hold the door open for him behind you.

You could hear it shutting and locking as you set your bag down in the kitchen, the obvious sound of the glass bottle clicking against the counter making him raise an eyebrow.

“You’re avoiding me.” He spoke softly as you kicked off your shoes, lingering near your doorway and watching your every move as you followed your usual routine after getting home and made yourself comfortable like he wasn’t even there.

“Wow amazing conclusion. Congratulations detective Bryant, you figured it out.” You felt slightly bad for how cold your voice was, so out of character for you that you knew it must be throwing him off.

He proved that when he was moving closer and lightly touching your hips to get you to stop wandering around, your breath hitching as you looked up at him and the pure desperation on his face.

“Please don’t do that, let’s talk about this. I get enough of the passive aggressive shit from-“ He cut himself off with a deep sigh, lips pursing so he didn’t say it even though you typically didn’t avoid the topic.

“From your wife.” You finished it for him, eyes cold as you glared at him. “You can say it Sammy.”

“I just don’t understand. It’s never been an issue before.”

You pushed him away from you at that but he was persistent, following you as you walked closer to the couch and grabbing you again. You felt his fingers digging slightly into your hips as he tugged you backwards against him, your back hitting the softness of his stomach as he crowded your space.

His chin hooked over your shoulder, large fingers splayed across your belly button to keep you in place against him.

You naturally settled backwards, sucking in a deep breath as his familiar scent instinctively calmed your nerves. You were suddenly very aware of how hard the two weeks without him were, the longest you’d gone in a long time being apart from each other.

“You’re an idiot if you think it wasn’t an issue for me.” You’re whispering now, afraid if you speak too long he’s going to be able to pick up on the undeniably heartbreak in your voice.

“Let me fix this.” You can feel him moving his mouth closer and you mentally brace for the impact, still feeling unprepared for how good it feels to have him softly kissing up your neck as he starts to rub your stomach and waistband. “I hate when you’re mad at me. It’s eating me up.”

You let him continue for a few seconds before you’re spinning around, seeing the disappointment and light panic on his face before he realizes you just want to face him, his entire body relaxes as he holds your lower back.

Your hands go to his cheeks, pressing on the soft skin and feeling the light stubble he’d built up in your absence.

“There really isn’t a way you can fix it Sammy.” You say honestly and his face falls, lips parting like he wants to object. “Other than the obvious.”

There’s no need for him to say it, you can tell by the look in his eyes when you add that on that he can’t give you the answer that you want. It feels so far out of the realm of possibility that you don’t even feel disappointment, much less resistance when he’s ignoring your suggestion completely in favor of leaning in to kiss you.

It’s different than the kiss you shared at your birthday dinner, lacking the heat and desperation as you soaked up the small amount of time you had before you got caught.

Now it’s slow and deep, much more like the first kiss you’d always imagined with him.

His hands are so gentle as he rubs up your sides, keeping you tight against him as your mouths move together like you’ve done this a thousand times. You can’t help but mentally compare this kiss to the way you’ve seen him be with Tammi, feeling a bit smug at how obvious the difference is.

There’s no awkwardness between you, no stiff and routine hard press of lips like you’re checking it off a to do list.

He’s clearly wanting, craving almost as he pulls you impossibly closer and tilts his head to make sure the kiss doesn’t stop or lose its rhythm.

You’ve missed him so much and you’re such a fool in love that you don’t even think about stopping him and asking him for real answers.

Instead you’re softly licking into his mouth like the needy teenage version of you that used to fantasy about this, soaking up the soft hum he lets out at the feeling before he’s matching the action. You’re playing with the hairs on the back of his neck as your tongues tangle together and you go with him easily as he backs you up towards the couch.

It takes landing in his lap for you to sober back up, pulling back from the kiss just enough to catch your breath.

His eyebrows pull together when he sees the hesitation on your face so you hide in his neck so he can’t keep looking at you, wanting to spare his feelings even though you can quite literally feel your heart suffocating in your chest.

He’s warm underneath you and smells so overly familiar that you could cry, staying with your chin resting on his shoulder and closing your eyes for a brief moment so you can pretend you’re in a different timeline with him.

Maybe you’re still fifteen and laying in his bed together, holding hands on rides home from the beach when your moms aren’t looking. Or you’re twenty four and it’s the first time him and Tammi break up, his sullen frame taking up space on your couch until you quietly pad out there and insist he come to bed with you instead.

You think about being in your fifties, a reality where he never met Tammi and instead spent the rest of his life with you. It felt like the world you were supposed to be living in, just you and him like it always used to be until the love eventually built up into something real, something that came with growing grey hairs together and building a family.

He seems to know what you’re thinking, possibly going down the same list of all the missed chances. His hand runs through your hair on repeat like he’s trying to soothe you and you don’t understand why until you realize that you’re crying.

You try to go back to avoiding Sammy after that but it’s impossible.

You can’t bring yourself to stay away from him and each late night conversation ends up the same now that you’ve crossed that line, your mouth pressed against his and his hands all over you.

He’s nearly insatiable even though you can tell that he still feels terribly guilty over the entire thing. It’s like he’s just as powerless as you are, unable to keep your distance for each other despite how awful you’re both being.

Currently he’s with you in your kitchen, two months after your birthday and two months of sneaking away to get to have him for a brief moment. He’s completely lost in the taste of you, mouths moving together slowly with his hands under your shirt and tracing patterns on your spine.

His fingers feel calloused but you remember when they were smooth and youthful, remember loving him before the lines on his face appeared or the light ash colored strands of hair you occasionally saw when he was under the sun.

You were growing old with Sammy despite it not being in the way you wanted.

You’re kissing him back because of course you are, holding tight to his biceps and letting yourself get swept up in the way he feels pressed against you. It’s deep and almost filthy if it wasn’t for how romantic it all seems, the lights in the kitchen dim and some slow jazzy song playing from your radio in the living room.

“You have to know by now.” He’s whispering as he kisses down your neck and you sigh at the feeling, closing your eyes and tilting your head to the side to give him full access. “Tell me you know how I feel about you.”

“Sammy.” You’re meant to sound like you’re warning him, not wanting to hear him talk about feelings in these circumstances, but it comes across breathy and wanting.

Clearly he thinks so too because he lets out a low groan, letting his hands leave your shirt until he’s got them pressed against your back pockets. He tugs you closer and you gasp softly at the sudden feeling of him touching you like that, immediately soothed by the way he’s still kissing your skin carefully.

He’s not leaving any marks even though you’re not the one who needs to worry about that.

“You’ve got to go.” You say back and he lets out a frustrated breath even though he clearly knows you’re right judging by the way he stops kissing your neck in favor of resting his forehead against your shoulder.

You’ve been half distracted by his phone vibrating on the counter behind you for the last thirty minutes, no question in your mind about who is relentlessly trying to reach him.

“Did you not go home today after work?” You ask him softly, touching his jaw until he’s picking his head back up to look at you. “You know you have to stop doing that.”

“I can’t take it.” He says back and your shoulders deflate with light frustration. “It’s endless arguing with her.”

“You know I get what she’s like but I’d be pretty pissed too if my husband wasn’t coming home on top of your already long hours.” You’re trying your best to talk some sense into him but it’s easy to he distracted when he’s back to touching you.

He’s rubbing up and down your back, dipping under your shirt again and smiling softly when you shudder at the feeling of his skin on yours. You smack at his forearm when you catch sight of the near smirk and he does his best to school it although the efforts don’t do much.

“It would be different if it was you.” He says quietly and you tense up before he can elaborate, already knowing exactly what he’s trying to say. “If you were my wife.”

“But I’m not your wife.” You snap as soon as the word leaves his mouth and he lets out a frustrated breath.

He’s kissing you again like he thinks that will make you forget the truth of your situation and it nearly does, kissing him back eagerly because you’re never sure when it’s going to be the last time you get to.

You’re interrupted by the phone buzzing again and you pull back to lean against his chest, hiding your face in his neck and trying to ignore how good it feels when he rubs your sides in comfort.

“Go home Sammy.” You whisper and you look up in time to see his face fall, eyebrows furrowing in hurt when you lightly push against his chest to get him to back away from you.

You use the small space between your bodies to leave the kitchen, his footsteps following you into the living room. You let him pull you back, hands on your hips and then your stomach when your backs against his chest.

He kisses the back of your neck and then the side of your head, soft and parting before he’s letting out a deep breath and backing away from you.

You lean against the front window as you watch his headlights pull out of your driveway, blinking a few times before he turns to fully leave your street and head back to his house, back to reality.

The thought plagues you when you get into bed by yourself, daydreaming of the version of your life where he wouldn’t have to leave each night. You let yourself think about having your own ring on your finger, his things on the empty bed side table and his hands on you as you fall asleep.

You know it’s not healthy and, quite frankly, you know it makes you a terrible person.

Your friends tell just as much when you finally break down and tell them everything, crying about the night he kissed you and confessing that you’d spent almost every night with him pressed against you and making promises he can’t keep.

“He’s an asshole.” Cathy is stern with her tone, stirring her coffee in pointless circles and fixing her glare on you and your upset face. “I can’t believe you’re putting up with him still.”

“I think it’s sweet.” Victoria is quicker to be sympathetic although pouting in your direction. “He clearly loves you and just doesn’t know what to do about it.”

The topic of love makes your stomach turn a little and you try not to think about it after you leave your brunch, ignoring his calls for a few hours even though you’re well aware it will end with him knocking on your door.

There’s no surprise when it happens but you try to hold your ground with him, turning your head to the side when he tries to greet you with a kiss. His lips press against your cheek instead and then downturn into a frown.

“Are you mad at me?” He asks softly as you walk to your bedroom, sitting down on the foot of the bed and blinking at him when he stops in your doorway.

“No Sammy.” You breathe out even though you’re not sure that’s true, not really able to put a label on how you feel about him right now. The love that sits heavy on your chest muddies everything else around it. “I’m just tired.”

He’s coming closer and then going down to his knees in front of you, hands on your thighs as he stares up at you almost pleadingly. It’s such a vulnerable position that it makes you a little sick and you grab at his arm to try and tug him back to his feet.

He takes your hand and holds it instead so you can’t pull at him, kissing your knuckles briefly.

“I want to fix this.” He whispers and you feel teary almost immediately. “I can’t lose you because I’m being selfish. I’ll do whatever you want me to do but I can’t leave.”

“I don’t want you to leave.” You say back, voice small and defeated. You wish the statement wasn’t as true as it feels, the thought of not having him at all being so much worse than the twisted relationship you’re stuck in. “But I want that all the time, I want you to just be here. I want to have a home with you Sammy.”

“I love you.” He says it quietly and he’s said it before, in passing or casually when he hangs up the phone, but it lands a lot different now.

Realistically, you’re not at all surprised by the confession. You know Sammy, regardless if you can have him the way you want or not, you know him better than anybody and you knew he wouldn’t be doing something like this if it wasn’t because of something genuine like the same love you have for him.

The kind of love that makes you awful and selfish, devoted in a twisted way and blind to the consequences if it means you can have a few more hours together.

He’s standing up finally but only to gently push you backwards until you’re laying on the bed, climbing over you so he can kiss you softly as you melt against the comforter.

“I love you so much. It should have been you.” He’s murmuring the confessions between kisses that are getting deeper and deeper with each minute that passes. “I’m so sorry that it wasn’t you.”

“I love you Sammy.” You say back and it shocks you how easily it rolls off the tongue, the weight of it feeling a little lighter in your chest now that it’s out there.

He’s kissing you more feverishly after you say it, tongue pressing against yours as you make a soft pleased sound.

He’s holding himself up above you but you wish he wouldn’t, wish he would just press the full extent of his weight down on you until all you could feel was the softness of his stomach and his chest rising and falling. You want to feel his heartbeat racing like yours is and what it’s like to be completely his for a moment.

Sammy’s kisses are feverish and he finally does press against you, pulling your leg to the side so he can slot between them and lower himself down right where you need him.

You’re softly breathing, a bit shy when he starts to take off your clothes and then fully flushed when he’s kissing your chest and whispering how beautiful you are. You’d spent a lot of years imagining what being touched by Sammy would feel like but you hadn’t even came close to the euphoria, the undeniable thought that you were finally complete after being so empty.

He made love to you the first time, it was slow and gentle and nearly bringing you to tears when he told you how beautiful you were and how much he’d wanted this.

You felt good with him, like something had settled in your chest after rattling around for a long time. Everytime he said that he loved you seemed like it was the first, sending a warm rush through your blood that made you shiver.

It was more desperate in the weeks after, kisses turning rough and almost angry when he’d come over smelling like Tammi’s perfume or leave early because she wouldn’t stop calling him.

You felt like it became an outlet between you but you didn’t necessarily mind, a large part of you having fantasized about this version of him too. You liked when he got rougher with you, hands moving you around to his liking and fucking you harder whenever you purposefully brought up his wife to try and get under his skin.

Sammy and you didn’t fight with each other, you would get into tense conversations because you were both hurt, but you’d never fight. This was the closest thing you had to it, bruises on your hips and his back so scratched up he had to avoid taking off his shirt the next week when he went to the beach with Tammi.

He was good to you, always double checking after if it was something you enjoyed. He made you swear over and over again that you actually liked it and weren’t just doing it because he did, only stopping when you got embarrassed and had to bluntly admit that you were really into it.

You were into him, obsessively and all things about him. Tammi had gotten on him to eat more healthy and it nearly made you sick, the thought of him changing in any way outside of his own wants making you dizzy.

And you didn’t feel insecure about how much he loved you back because despite the obvious issue, you knew that he truly did.

His hands were never off you, rubbing your thigh while you watched a movie or kneading your stomach while he kissed the back of your neck at the kitchen counter. He liked to run you warm baths, sitting in the room with you while you soaked just so he could hear about your day at work.

You sometimes wondered how much of this he was doing for Tammi. A part of you accepted that it was probably just as much as he did for you because that was just the type of man he was, but you selfishly let yourself enjoy being spoiled by his affection.

You didn’t go a day without flowers even if he wasn’t able to come and see you, he sent coffee to your work before you even got there, and he’d travel across town on his lunch break just to come and eat with you.

There wasn’t a night that you didn’t cry in bed and wish things were different. You’d stopped talking to your friends about because you were getting paranoid about the possible judgement in their eyes, unable to explain what it felt like to love somebody so much that you’d disregard your character for them.

But you did love Sammy that much.

So much so, that when he was coming over on Christmas Eve with an arm-full of gifts for you, you didn’t hesitate to pull him inside and kiss him until he lost the chill in his cheeks.

He disregarded the boxes in the entryway, lifting you up and bringing you to your bedroom before you could even greet him properly.

“Stay the night.” You breathed against his mouth and he tensed up a little ontop of you, brushing your hair out of your face so he could get a perfect view of your eyes and expression. “Wake up with me on Christmas morning. I’ll make us breakfast and we can open our presents by the tree together.”

You both knew what you were describing, a clear cookie cutter image of a husband and wife in your heads as you spoke.

He was hesitating, looking like he was unable to deny you despite how difficult the circumstances were. You weren’t just asking him to stay with you for the holiday, you were giving him a clear choice between the two of you.

Tammi wouldn’t be able to forgive him not coming home on the night before Christmas and you’d never forgive him for leaving. You were sure of that now, even though you felt so happy just to look at his conflicted face that you weren’t sure where you’d put all that love if he did leave.

You were happy to even be an option to choose from and that understanding almost made you crawl out from under him just to get some space.

Maybe he saw the pain in your eyes at the idea or maybe he came to the conclusion all in his own, but either way, he was leaning in and pressing a soft kiss to your lips before letting one linger on your temple.

Jack liked to believe he could pride himself on his willpower. That whatever he set himself towards, he could do. Including the simple act of getting off to his own fantasies instead of relying on strangers on the internet to feed it to him with fake smiles and even faker moans. It wasn't like he was against the idea of porn—his track record of stolen Playboys and single college nights would prove that hypocrisy quick—it was just something about the internet aspect of it that made him feel…perverted.

Maybe it was the knowledge that he could be watching anyone post their body or their sex with the intention of other strangers getting off to it. Maybe it was the realization that most people who did the posting were half his age. It was there for a reason; it shouldn't have mattered, but he still felt like he needed to make excuses to justify why he turned to it.

Luckily, that pestering voice in the back of his mind always had an excuse to justify what he was doing. When he relented long enough to grab his phone, it was "to check the work email". When his thumb gravitated towards the internet safari, it was "to look up the Pirates' score" (when he knew full well baseball season was practically over). But the excuses started to fade when his free hand drifted over the front of his pants and palmed the bulge that was only growing larger with each second he tried to ignore it. Damn blood flow and its resolute persistence.

So, without any self-pitying justification to soften the blow, Jack Abbot succumbs to a weakness he'd never admit he has and pulls up the first website that pops up when he keywords amateur.

That was the one thing he wouldn't budge on when all the other willpower faltered. When cold showers and "imagination" couldn't solve the problem and he reluctantly turned to the wide scope of the internet, the one necessity was the lack of production value. He didn't want stage lights and camera crews and actors with more plastic than flesh. He didn't want a movie with advertisement. He wanted something as real as filmed sex could offer. Something he could envision actually happening that was actually desired by the performer.

And Jack couldn't decide if that made him more or less of a pervert. On one hand, it was a surefire way to feel like the world's biggest voyeur. On the other, he figured being so picky made him less of a target for the internet's average depiction of a pervert.

So picky, in fact, that he'd scrolled to the fifth page of this website and still struggled to find something that caught his attention. This was exactly why he didn't watch porn; the hand still lazily palming the outline of his dick was probably the only reason any blood kept flowing there. But he'd gotten past the hardest part of justifying it to his own brain—he just needed to pick something to jerk off to and deal with the post-nut clarity and regret when he got to the other side of it.

It was the sixth page that held the video he finally settled on. Nothing extravagant—as that was one of the qualifiers—with barely any views. Based on the thumbnail and title, it was a solo video. Just a woman, sat on her bed, getting herself off. Simple and easy and exactly what he wanted to see.

As soon as the video starts, he's met with less-than-ideal lighting that makes the camera fuzzy. Not enough to turn him off of it, just enough to give that homemade feel he preferred for this type of thing. The woman in question could be seen just fine; the angle cut off at the neck and highlighted everything from her chest and downward. She's sporting a thin little slip, body softened by the camera's grain, her skin highlighted by the soft glow of what Jack assumes is late afternoon sun filtering through beige curtains. The quality doesn't obscure the curves of her body or the soft pink of her cunt. Hell, he swears he can see her drip when she rubs circles against her perky little clit.

The video itself isn't unlike others he's seen. His dick seems to understand that as well as his brain, thickening behind his briefs to the sight on his phone. The fight's bled out of him by now; no need to justify himself when he fishes his cock out and strokes himself lazily. Especially not when the woman on-screen is spreading her own slick on her fingers and mewling sweet little sounds that make him twitch against his hand.

And that's exactly what he's focusing on by the time he spits into his palm to slick up his strokes. The little sounds that escape her—soft moans, choked breaths, and split-second whines—land straight in his gut. He can almost tell she's trying to stay quiet. Like if that camera inched up just a bit, he'd see her with a lip caught between her teeth. But she lets a little moan escape as those nimble fingers sink inside her cunt and Jack can't help but respond in vain with his own guttural sound. He tries to match the pace of her hand with his own, pumping his cock in time with her fingers disappearing into her slick hole, in some sort of pathetic mockery of actual sex. It's wet and sloppy and every kind of desperate. And it satisfied that itch just as quickly as he feared it would.

As the video comes to its (literal) climax, he can't help but imagine how her brow might furrow when she cums, how swollen her lips might look from biting back moans. Trying to picture a face as cute as the body on screen. That was another weakness he'd never admit to—always too curious about things he had no business wondering. He'd gotten off to a stranger's body and, before he'd even wiped his stomach clean of his own spend, he was wondering if she was always this quiet. Somewhere in the back of his mind was the question of why she was so quiet. Where was she? And why did she record in the middle of the day? Before the video cut off and turned the screen black, he wondered if the band poster on the wall behind her naked body was her favorite.

Jesus, he was getting old. Embarrassingly sentimental over a stranger in a porn video.

He tosses his phone onto the mattress beside him with a dejected sigh. The voice in his head that had initially come up with excuses to justify it had swiftly turned sour with guilt. There were enough things in life that lingered with regret (and this surely wouldn't be the last), but on the list of offenses, it sat pretty low. It was just a lapse in judgement he'd surely forget by tomorrow when he's wrist-deep in someone's chest.

But Jack most certainly did not forget about that video.

To be fair, it never popped into his mind while he was working. The never-ending onslaught of the hurt, sick, and broken didn't allow much time for his mind to wander where it didn't belong. This was when he had the right to be proud of his willpower. When, after three back-to-back traumas in the middle of the night, he was still focused on directing a team and getting the job done.

The weakness only came when loneliness settled too heavily on his shoulders. When he came back to an empty home after nearly 13 hours managing lives and had to pretend like taking care of himself was something easy. He liked to tell himself that being alone didn't bother him. Or that the quiet got easier to exist in. But the argument quickly died when he pulled up that same video only two days after the first time. The same video, borne from the same lapse in judgement—only this time it carried more guilt. Because it was bad enough to turn to the internet and take whatever it offered, it was another thing entirely to seek out something specific because he had an affinity for a goddamn stranger.

It wasn't every day, thank God. Some days, after working himself to the bone in hopes of clearing his mind, the only urge Jack came home with was the desperate need to sleep. That was how he operated; no opportunities for weakness to seep into his synapses and make another bad decision if he was overworked and dead on his feet, right? But the curiosity eventually became worse than the loneliness. And it was that same curiosity that led him back to that explicit sight to seek out that same woman, scroll through her profile, and see what else she'd shared with the world.

And that might've been the worst possible thing he could've done. Because seeing that small collection of videos only gave him more to latch onto. Gave him a reason to be disappointed when he saw every single video was dated eight years ago. Gave him a choice in favorites that he'd prefer over the others. (Right now, it was a short video of her grinding against a pillow—he could see the slick left behind on the fabric when she circled her hips like that.)

No matter how many times he fought his own brain, it always ended with that same woman on his screen and a hand choking his dick while he fantasized about being the one to draw that pleasure out of her. It was unlike him to get so attached—Christ, he hated even using that word—but something in him was addicted. She was just so…sweet. Her body, of course, but it was also the mannerisms that snuck their way into her videos and those cute little sounds she made when she felt good. She felt so real.

Jack Abbot was definitely a pervert.

"Jesus, this is the longest shift of my life."

You groaned into your hands as they ran over your face. Barely halfway through your scheduled twelve hours, your feet already ache, you're starving, and it seems like the universe has cursed you with some of the most insufferable patients. People freaking out over gas pain, MVA injuries that could've been avoided had anyone decided to wear a seatbelt or call a designated driver. Nothing that made you feel like the "savior" this job sometimes afforded you.

"So, not up for a double, then?" Shen circles you at the nurse's station, slotting one of the staff tablets into its charging slot. "Bummer," he sighs, "I thought you loved it here."

You laugh, bracing your hands against the countertop. "Don't start." Your head aches when you look up at the patient board and see the assortment waiting for you. The list of complaints sits like a taunt to your exhaustion. "I'm this close to walking out and leaving you fools."

"Oh, quit that." Lena doesn't even have to look up the papers in her hand for you to know she's talking to you. Forever observant, the nurses were. "Don't give Abbot more reason to be grumpy." That's when she looks up at you, peering over the rim of her glasses. If you didn't already agree, her glare would've convinced you to.

"Yeah," you roll your eyes and they land on Shen, "he doesn't need that."

You don't miss the little smile on Shen's face when he rounds the curve of the counter. "C'mon, you won't leave." He carries himself to one of the computers, scanning his badge with an accepting beep. "What've you got going on that's better than this?"

"Okay, ouch."

"No, I mean—"

"I do have a life, John."

"I…bet you do." He concedes with a shrug of his shoulders. "You just…" he takes a breath, searching for the right word, and you're already bracing for something too blunt. "Y'know, you work a lot."

You roll your eyes even as the back of your mind acknowledges his words to be true. "Which is why I need the break. You guys are driving me crazy."

"Big happy family." Shen gestures to the space around him as if to highlight the constant rush of people.

That almost earns another eye roll. You snatch a tablet off of the rack and tap through the screen prompts, checking for test results that should've been back ten minutes ago. "If you have to know, I'm meeting up with an old friend. Met her back in med school—"

"She teach you not to kill people?"

"Ha ha. I haven't seen her in a while since she moved out of town for her residency." Bingo, test results back. "Unlike you freaks, she's actually nice."

Shen responds with a laugh that comes out as a snort. "Don't leave us for too long. One taste of freedom and you really will ditch this place, I'm sure." Lena echoes the sentiment with a short 'don't tempt her' as she scurries past.

"Are we working or are we talking?" Abbot's voice seems to barrel over the emergency department's constant, hectic buzz. He braces two large hands against the countertop's edge, occupying the space between you and Shen. He looks between the two of you with that arch of his eyebrow that never seemed to soften.

Shen relents first, taking your silence as an opportunity. "She's leaving us, man," he gestures towards you with an accusatory glance.

Jack's eyes land on you, brow furrowed. "Leaving us?"

"No—Don't say it like that." You'd smack Shen if you could reach him. Especially after seeing him smile as he types away at a chart he surely had no interest in.

Jack straightens, sliding his hands off of the counter. He looked at you with that same assessing stare he gave everything he couldn't quite figure out. "You better not be. You're not allowed to leave."

You sigh, silently damning yourself for opening your mouth. "I took tomorrow off. You won't even miss me."

Before you even registered he'd moved in your direction, Jack stops just behind you. Stood with his hands behind his back—the same way he always did—he peers over your shoulder to look at the scans on the screen in your hands. A low sound rumbles from his throat. "I'll miss the extra hands." You look back over your shoulder to find his eyes on you instead of the screen. "At least go do your job before you leave us, yeah?" He holds that look, something indecipherable and intense, as he steps away.

You have to take a breath to level yourself. Jack could be such a difficult book to read sometimes; it was hard to tell what went on in that head when he wasn't working through an active trauma. You could tell he'd lived too long of a life to put up with nonsense and waste time on whatever he deemed unnecessary, small talk included. Slipping in and out of conversation to occupy himself with the responsibility of his job as an attending wasn't uncommon. Still, you liked to believe that unique brand of sarcasm was how he chose to show affection.

The smile Shen flashes in your direction, complete with a raised brow that seemed more intrigued than accusatory, only confirms that belief. "Wow. He might actually miss you while you're gone."

"Shut it." You sigh, sore feet carrying your body back to one of the patients waiting for your care. You just hope Jack doesn't realize you're cherry-picking the easier cases for the sake of your sanity. If he knew you were cherry-picking, he might've kept you charting well into day shift. At least then you could argue he wanted to keep you around.

Clocking in on Sunday reminded you exactly why you never took days off for social events. The rhythm of the night shift had been interrupted and you were left to live in the consequences. It was a fun day, but the change in sleep definitely had you dragging your feet. Shen made it a point to tease you with a pointed 'this is why you can't leave us!' And as hard as you rolled your eyes, the chaos did comfort you in some strange way. Still, the chaos would've been a little easier had you not been exhausted.

Ellis, never one to mince words, was the one to urge you towards the coffee in the break room when she saw the hunch in your shoulders. "You need to wake the hell up," she'd told you, "go get some of that coffee and figure it out."

So, figure it out you did. Even though the break room coffee had run cold and thick, sitting bitter in the pot, it was better than trying to brute force another eight hours. You yawn as you pour the lukewarm brew into a mug found in the depths of the break room cabinet. It was a wonder there were still clean dishes left to choose from.

Footsteps sound out at the doorway. You peer up with tired eyes to see Shen beelining for the fridge. He nods toward you, a sweet little "hey" dropping from his lips. The fridge creaks open under his hand. "Haven't had a chance to ask about your day of freedom," you hear from behind the door as he reaches inside.

"It was good," you nod, "I'm…exhausted now, though. Didn't get much chance to catch up on sleep."

Shen hums a sound of acknowledgement. He straightens up, now holding a half-empty cup of fast-food cold brew. "Hope your friend was worth it."

Your nose wrinkles at the bitter taste that hits your tongue when you take another sip of your own coffee. Man, something sugary and sweet and overly caffeinated sounded heavenly right now. "Yes, she was worth it. I missed her. She lives over in Philly, so we never really get to meet up anymore."

"Philly?" He whistles with a shake of his head. "Man, all for you?"

"No, for her family. I just met up with her for lunch." Another sip of bitter, thick coffee has you setting the mug on the countertop before continuing, "You don't think my company's worth the four-hour drive?" You look up at him with a cocked brow, but when his lips press into a thin line, you raise a hand to cut off whatever snarky response he could come up with. "Don't answer that." Shen holds his hands up in mock surrender—the same way he always did when his sarcasm was stopped before it could manifest. "We took some pictures while she was here…"

You pat the pockets of your scrubs, searching for your phone in the fabric, and pull it out with another yawn. Half a cup of lukewarm coffee didn't seem to do much in terms of waking you up, it seemed. You inch closer to Shen as you thumb through your phone and pull up the few photos from the day before. One of you and your friend smiling at the table of a cafe, another taken outside, a few silly photos that Shen doesn't find as hilarious as you do. But he humors you with a quiet aww that almost sounds like the reaction to a cute animal rather than a photo of his coworker.

"Well, look at you wearing something other than scrubs!"

You nudge him with your elbow, "Yeah, I told you I have a life."

Another set of footsteps crosses the threshold of the break room door, but it's the sharp whistle that follows that catches the attention of both you and Shen. It's Abbot, hovering like always, eyebrows raised at the sight of you two hunched of your phone. "Scatter, kids," he urges, thumbing back towards the bustling hall, "C'mon, no gossiping."

"M'not gossiping! I'm bragging about my day off." You turn your phone around, screen facing outwards to show off one of the photos from yesterday.

Jack doesn't seem to pay it much attention as he moves to pour his own cup of coffee. "Yeah?" He humors you long enough to look at the screen for a moment. He nods, as if granting his approval. "How was that?"

"Uh, great." The emphasis you put on the word is dramatic enough to prove your point. "I met her back in med school, but she moved to Philly for her residency. Haven't seen her in a while. But we were both happy to just…be out of the hospital for a day." Turning your phone in your hand, you scroll up through your entire collection of photos in search of a particular photo from years ago. "I'm sure I have a picture of us from back then. That was…God, eight years ago?"

"Eight years?" That seems to pique Jack's attention. You think he's poking fun, but the look on his face is one of disbelief. "You were in med school only eight years ago? Christ, way to make me feel old."

"Feel old?" Shen pipes up. You shoot him a look that he reciprocates before hiding his smile behind a sip of his cold brew.

"Oh, here we go. Wow, I look like a baby…"

An old photo from nearly eight years ago pulls up full-screen on your phone. It's of you with the same friend, both eight years younger, in the apartment you resided in during med school. You didn't look much different aside from a fuller face devoid of the stress lines your job had come to give you. But showing the photo off made the image feel like it was from a lifetime ago. Shen makes a cheeky comment about the unique style you sported back then. It's when you show Jack that something seems to land awkwardly.

You don't notice it, but the photo lands like a punch to the gut. Not only was it a shock to his system to see a young, twenty-something you fresh into med school, but he knew that room. He knew those sheets, the band poster hung over the bed, the curtains framing the window at the foot of the mattress. He'd seen it countless times on his own phone screen until the layout was burned into the recesses of his brain. Jack takes a deep breath to will away the sudden thrum of his heart.

"That's…" He clears his throat when the word comes out broken, "that's your apartment?"

"Yeah. Well, was. Don't judge it!" You laugh, turning the photo back towards yourself. "I know it looks shitty, but I was broke in med school. Cut me some slack."

Shen mutters something about it being 'not that bad' as Jack practically chugs the rest of his coffee. He sets the mug down in the sink harsher than any of you expect and straightens with a huff; the sharp clink of ceramic catches your attention, but the hard set of his jaw keeps it.

"Get off your phone," he grumbles without turning to look at you. He carries himself hurriedly, like he's trying to get out of the room as fast as he physically can. "Get back to work. People need you out there."

Your eyes follow the broad set of his back as Jack slips out of the break room. His absence leaves his tone to settle over you and Shen—who shares a look of disbelief your way—and something unwelcome shifts in the air. You slip your phone back into your pocket, embarrassment and uncertainty tightening in your chest. It was his job to keep you in line and on task; a simple reminder shouldn't have weighed on you the way it did.

"Yeah, told you he wouldn't miss me."

It was childish, sure. Unprofessional, definitely. But you cared too much about what he thought. You liked to tell yourself it was strictly about the job and that staying in the good graces of your attending would make life easier. And that was true, to an extent. But you didn't often let yourself acknowledge the curiosity in the back of your mind that constantly questioned what went on in his head. It would only serve as a distraction to concern yourself with whatever he stressed over. The easiest thing to do was just catch him when the night offered a break and he wasn't pulled in ten different directions. He was fine when he wanted to talk. The hard part was just finding the right moment.

And, unfortunately, that moment never seems to come. The night had its lulls, which were nothing more than minute-long breaks that allowed you to catch up on a paragraph of charting at a time. And, to your surprise, Abbot wasn't hovering or breaking heavy tension with dry humor that only he ever found funny. Well, he was…just not with you.

What you thought was just another sour mood slowly turned into the realization that your attending was treating you differently. Rather, he wasn't acknowledging you at all. He didn't turn the other direction to avoid you—he just looked past like you weren't even there. He didn't check in with a little tap on your arm and a thumbs-up that silently asked, 'Are you still with us'. It took a few hours to realize, but once it hit you, it settled heavy on your shoulders.

It really came to a head when you had to present a case. You slunk up beside him when he'd finished a conversation with one of the nurses, deliberately trying to catch him before he could busy himself with another task. The entire time you relayed the patient's status—test results, symptoms, possible diagnoses and why they didn't fit criteria—you looked up at Jack and waited for him to meet your gaze. But it never came. Instead, he signed off on another scan, handed the tablet back to you, and scurried off like the interaction had wasted his time.

You didn't consider yourself a favorite, but it was really unlike him to be so short with you. And when he brushed you off so easily over something work-related, the last thing you wanted to do was confront his attitude. You settled for the next best thing: interrogating your coworkers.

Ellis was the first one you landed eyes on. She was clearly on a mission, carrying herself from one room to the next, but you still sidled yourself up next to her. "Hey, uhm..." You matched her pace, hugging the tablet in your hands close to your body. "Have you noticed anything…off with Abbot?"

She tears her eyes away from the destination in front of her to look over at you. "Off?" She echoes in a plea for more information.

"Yeah, just…" you trail off, trying to find the right words, "I don't know. I'm getting a weird vibe."

"He seems fine to me."

"Really? You haven't noticed him being all…avoidant or whatever?"

"I mean," Ellis shrugs, trying to find the answer you're looking for, "I guess he's been in his head a bit more. Nothin' crazy, you know how he is."

You nod, all-too-aware of what she means. But you aren't satisfied with that answer. With what essentially served as confirmation that the sudden change in demeanor was only directed towards you, now came the urge to understand why. And while you didn't expect Parker—or any of your colleagues for that matter—to have the explanation you needed, it didn't stop you from questioning.

"Nothing happened while I was gone, did it?" You stop in your tracks, hoping she'll humor you long enough to give an actual response. "No…veterans came in yesterday? Was he with SWAT this morning?"

Ellis does stop, but she huffs a sigh as she turns in your direction. "Not that I know of. Look, if you think somethin's up, just ask him. We got shit to do, yeah?"

"Right." You concede reluctantly. "Yeah, of course."

Ellis cocks her head towards the North rooms as she takes her leave, a silent urge to distract yourself with productivity. She was right—your job was more important than gossiping about your attending. Patients didn't care whether or not you felt ignored. You take a breath and steel yourself for the remaining hours of chaos.

An ache in your hands reminds you of the tablet you're still hugging against your chest. You weren't even aware you were white-knuckling the device. You shake your head as if it'll clear the stress and suffocating stream of questions and carry yourself over to the nurse's station on tired feet. The board overhead never fell below a certain threshold of patients; the rotation of color made your head spin. As you slot the tablet into its charging dock, Lena rounds the corner. The first amusement you've felt in hours comes when she scolds a small group of NA's over their tendency to talk instead of work.

A voice in the back of your head tells you to get back to your charting. Instead, you lean against the countertop and hope Lena's the only one listening to you when you call out.

"Hey, Lena, how's my favorite charge nurse?"

The look she gives you is exactly what you expect. Skeptical. "Favorite?"

"Yeah, of course," you shrug. "Don't tell Dana. Hey, listen, have you noticed anything different with Abbot today?"

Lena doesn't answer you immediately. While you fill the silence with every possible response that would send you into a panic, she just grabs a clipboard and looks at you from over the rim of her glasses. She has the courtesy to step closer, keeping her voice as low as the bustle around the two of you would allow. "Now, why are you asking me that?"

Hearing it from her mouth gives you pause. She was great at making the trivial things feel as silly as they were. "I dunno, I just…" Your eyes scan the halls and, though you don't say it, you both know you're looking for him. "He's acting a little bit off, I think."

"Yeah. 'Cause he is 'a little bit off'. Aren't we all."

"Right." Concession was starting to come easy. "Just…keep an eye on him, please? You're always watching, you'll notice better than anyone."

That manages to earn a laugh from her. "Flattery will get you nowhere, sweetheart."

You flash a smile and drag yourself back into the fray. Her sentiment is already settled in the back of your mind. Yeah, you think, clearly not.

Seven A.M. couldn't have come any slower.

The night was one of the longest drags you'd ever lived through. Least of all because of the actual work you were expected to do; everything clinical moved like clockwork. Patients, paperwork, even charting was enough of a distraction to make time tick a little faster. The real problem was Abbot and whatever had him convinced that avoiding you was the best course of action. Time moved slower when every minute was a reminder that he wasn't acknowledging you.

If it were anyone else, you'd chalk it up to a bad day and try again tomorrow. But Jack didn't do this—the unprofessional silent treatment that bled into every aspect of the job. He was an adult. He was the one rallying teamwork and perseverance and how not to let baggage seep into the job. If there was a problem, he talked it out.

Until now, apparently.

When handoff finally came and the day shift slowly flooded in, you didn't find the relief you typically did with their presence. Yes, you could finally get off your feet, maybe catch up on the sleep you'd missed, and eat a real meal for the first time in hours. But it didn't feel right going home with uncertainty hanging over your head.

Lucky for no one but yourself, Jack's role as an attending kept him busier than others. Meaning you had time to do rounds and catch the day shift up to speed with the patients without worrying about him slipping away. It doesn't stop you from keeping an eye on him whenever you're able, though. He could ignore you in favor of work, but once the two of you were clocked out, there was no choice but to listen to you. At least, that's what you told yourself as you cornered him in the stairwell.

He barely gets through the heavy doors, bag slung on his shoulder, when you call out to him. The same quiet little "hey" you always greeted him with. It isn't lost on you the way he pauses before turning to face you.

"Hey." He tosses back. You think this is the first time he's looked at you in eight hours. It quickly diverts when he fidgets with the watch on his wrist instead. "How'd tonight treat you?"

You recognize it for what it is: a formality. He's not genuinely asking because he wants to know. If he were, he'd take care to close the nearly two feet of space between you.

"Fine. It was fine." Jesus, this was awkward. It would've been easier to just go home and sleep the shift off. But that wouldn't have given you answers. You sigh, clasping your hands together only to part them seconds later when you gesture to yourself. "Did I…do something?"

That makes Jack pause. His eyes dart up, looking at you, then past your form to the heavy doors leading back to the ED, then back at you. "Not that I'm aware of…Did you do something?"

"I…I don't know." Your shrug is one of exasperation. "It feels like you've been deliberately avoiding me all night. I felt like you didn't even want me to present cases or ask for your input." Your throat feels tight halfway through the explanation, your chest heavy with all the frustration and confusion that's built throughout the night. You take a break to steady yourself and shove your hands in your pockets. "You're my attending," you know he didn't need the reminder, "if I can't come to you, there's clearly a problem."

Jack doesn't offer a response, but at least he looks at you while the muscles in his jaw tick under white stubble. He didn't like it when people felt the need to state the obvious and tell him what he already knew. But reality and how it settled on your shoulders was far more important than his feelings about it. When you think he's going to leave you with nothing, he shifts his bag on his shoulder and shakes his head.

"There's no problem."

It's your turn to be silent and stare.

Your lips press thin in a tight line as you try to swallow some of your frustration. No problem? Right, because he'd been ignoring you just for the hell of it. Because the same man who always asked how you were doing and questioned how you spent your days suddenly decided your existence had no relevance. You take a deep breath and straighten your spine. If anything, it's to ground yourself and remember that cursing him out and risking your job wasn't worth it.

"Look," you start with a huff, voice as level as you can possibly manage, "if I did something to upset you, I'd like to know so I can fix it. If I did something wrong professionally, you need to tell me so I can better it."

Jack was always a particular case study—one you liked to think you were starting to understand—but the way he looks at you now is indecipherable. Part of you is just happy to have his eyes on you, but it doesn't feel as reassuring as you thought it would. Just when the silence stretches a moment too long, his eyes tear away from you and dart around the stairwell as if surveying the area around you.

"I'm not having this conversation here," he mutters, crossing those thick arms over his chest. It's meant to be a finality, but there's no way you're letting the conversation end unfinished.

"Uhm, yes we are? If this is something interfering with work, then the conversation can happen here."

"I promise this is not a conversation you wanna have in the hospital. You'll be better off if you wait." You scoff at that, annoyed, and he doesn't miss it. He's already starting to turn away, ready to leave it at that, before he adds, "You should have my number. Text me when you're home. We'll talk about it then."

You step after him when he moves away. What started as confusion had fully bled into frustration. "So, just to be clear, there is a problem. And you're not telling me how to fix it."

Jack huffs your name in an annoyed breath that's sharp enough to make you pause. "You didn't do anything. There's no problem." When he looks back at you from over his shoulder, you swear a shiver runs down your spine. "I promise." He shifts his bag on his shoulder one final time—something you're starting to assume is a nervous tick—and you watch the muscles in his back play under his scrubs. He starts down the corridor before tossing back, "We'll talk when you're home."

That was the finality. Not that he gave you much choice in the matter, but you make it a point to stay rooted in the stairwell. You aren't sure how long you stand there, replaying the conversation in your head. It felt less like a conversation and more like the prelude to something that made your chest feel tight the longer you thought about it. Whatever it was, it was bad enough that he couldn't even look at your face. Great. Now you were dreading the return home.

The walk to the lockers feels like a display of shame, even though you're the only one who knows what just happened. It's hard to tell if your sluggish movements are from exhaustion or the subconscious desire to get home as slow as possible. But the inevitable was exactly that, and curiosity still reluctantly pulled at the back of your mind. If he really was willing to talk, you wanted to hear it. Even a harsh truth would be better than being lost in the dark.

You didn't know what to do with yourself when you got home. The smartest thing to do would be to whip up something proper to eat and change out of your scrubs. A text conversation shouldn't have taken much attention, let alone a ton of effort.

What actually ended up happening was you, thumbing away at your phone as soon as you got through the door, desperately searching for Jack's contact information to send a haphazard 'I'm home now' text. And as soon as it sent, you paced through your kitchen just waiting for him to see it and respond. The minutes feel torturously long. Part of you starts to fear he'll ghost you and refuse to have the conversation. But he promised there was no problem. It felt childish to latch onto something as feeble as that, but it was all you had. Even more embarrassing was how much it ate away at you to be so blatantly ignored by him. The longer you thought about it, the more pathetic you thought yourself for craving his approval.

Maybe the only thing more pathetic was how you perked up hearing the chime of your phone. Three long minutes after your initial message came Jack's response. And he got right to the point.

Abbot: Is there anywhere someone might be able to recognize you from?

The question left you even more confused. One, what the hell did this have to do with work? Two, why would anyone recognize you? As the questions flooded your mind, you wanted to reply with an annoyed wall of question marks. Instead, you settle for more clarification:

You: i'm sorry?

Abbot: Answer the question.

You scoff at your phone, wondering how the hell you were meant to answer.

You: i mean i don't think any of my patients would recognize me

Abbot: Not what I meant.

Okay, dick. You weren't surprised to find him as blunt over the phone as he was in person. A beat passes before he sends another message.

Abbot: Have you ever posted anything online that people might recognize you from?

Somehow, this was clearing up nothing and only leaving you with more questions.

You: what?? you mean on like instagram or smth?? You: i doubt my 20 followers would recognize me

Twenty followers that were mostly friends and family that already knew you. But you kept the sarcasm minimal in hopes it'd make his point approach quicker.

When it takes another minute for him to respond, you decide to finally retreat to your bedroom and rid yourself of the scrubs you'd been stewing in for hours. Getting off your feet and into a warm bed and fresh clothes was the closest thing to Heaven right now. You hear your phone chime as you settle in and close out the Pittsburgh dawn with thick curtains. When you slip into bed to check the messages, there's two waiting for you.

The first is just your name, plain and simple. It makes you think of the way he spoke it in the stairwell—stern and final—and something about that makes your throat run dry. The next message makes your heart skip a beat:

Abbot: Okay, I'm not asking you this as your boss. We're off the clock.

Then, possibly the last message you ever could've expected from him:

Abbot: Have you ever shared anything pornographic?

If you weren't already in bed, you swear you could've fallen over. Your heart sinks so low it reaches the floor. Maybe, just maybe, you actually already died and this was Hell.

There was no way this was real.

And the worst about it? You couldn't even laugh it off or feign disgust. You couldn't send back an angry 'what the fuck are you talking about?' and why he'd ask such a thing. Well, you could've, but it would've felt pretty disingenuous. The absurdly formal way he posed the question aside, the only thing you wanted to ask was how the hell he found out. It was years ago, a stupid endeavor to make a little pocket money during med school. You'd barely even made content before deciding the effort wasn't worth the pay. You hadn't done it in so long—hadn't even thought about it in years.

With shaky thumbs and an erratic heartbeat, you managed to type back:

You: what the fuck jack

You could lie. You could say no and make him feel terrible for bringing it up. But there's no way he would ever bring it up if he didn't have a reason to.

You: ok yes but it was years ago. i told you i was broke in med school

Jack still hasn't responded. You felt sick wondering what he was doing with that confirmation. Maybe he was already typing up an email to HR. Maybe he was wondering how to bring up to the team that you'd no longer be working with them. Fuck. Panic sits in your gut and crawls up your throat until it's nearly impossible to breathe.

You: wajt how the fuck did you find out??? did soneone tell you????

Every possible scenario ranging from bad to awful to worse ran through your mind. What if someone told him and now he had to bring it up to someone higher. What if the whole emergency department knew, or someone in particular knew and was slowly sharing it. Oh, God, what if you walked in there tomorrow and everyone started asking you about those stupid videos and—

Abbot: No, no one told me.

Thank God. At least you could push away that particular worry for now. But it didn't answer the first question you posited.

You: so you just found it?? on accident??

Abbot: I didn't know it was you until today. Abbot: I recognized the apartment when you showed me that picture of you in school.

Ah. So that's what was going on.

In hindsight, that made the entire night way less stressful than it felt in the moment. It almost made you laugh to think about; your attending had been avoiding you because he realized you made the porn he watched. Yeah, you weren't too sure you could've looked him in the eye after that, either.

But as the realization sinks into your brain, the reality of it hits you. To recognize the walls of your apartment, he had to have watched a video. More likely, several videos. The guy who ran your department had seen a 20-something-year-old you spread your legs on a shitty phone camera. He'd seen you touch yourself and put on a show for approval of strangers on the internet. Christ, you couldn't even remember half of what those videos contained—who knew what he'd witnessed you do in the desperation for a paycheck.

And for some perverted, selfish reason, it didn't repulse you in the slightest. It should've. You should've been typing out an apology and promising that content was from the past. You should've asked that he never watch it again because of the breach of privacy. Instead, you sat in your bed and wondered if he had a favorite. You wondered if he got off to any of it, and if the knowledge that it was you made it better or worse for him.

The chime of your phone snaps you back to reality. It's then you realize you've left Jack on read for nearly eight minutes.

Abbot: I'm sorry. I should've acted more professional at work. This isn't coming into work with me tomorrow. Abbot: It's cleared up and done. Thank you for being honest.

Honest? He all but admitted he'd watched a porno of you, and he was thanking you for the honesty of clarifying it was you? The guy you reported to had seen you naked and trembling and desperate and then had the audacity to say he'd forget all about it by tomorrow?

Yeah, right.

You: did you at least enjoy the videos?

There's a stretch of silence with no response. You regret the words for a moment, wondering if the overstep was breaching further than a tease. Then he sends another message containing nothing more than your name. It's exactly the same as last time, but you can feel the difference in tone. Shakier. Warning you. Or maybe it was all in your head.

Abbot: I said this is done.

You: i thought we were being honest :/

Yeah, you were being annoying. But Jack left you unnecessarily stressed out for most of your shift. Surely he could put up with a little bit of pestering. He had a sense of humor about everything. But you watched the text bubble pop up and disappear five different times before he finally sent a response.

Abbot: I don't think that's appropriate.

You: jack. do you really think i'm gonna judge you for watching porn when i used to make it??

You don't get a response to that message. In the minutes that follow, as you're waiting for something to pop up, you wish you could jump through your phone screen and figure out what he was doing. Was he ignoring you on purpose? Did you finally annoy him enough? A far-too hopeful voice in the back of your mind hoped he was going through the list and figuring out which video was his favorite. Aside from being unrealistic, you cringe at the thought of him going back to old videos instead of reaching out for something new. The thought creeps in—not entirely unwelcome—wondering if he'd ask for that. Debating whether you'd fulfill it while knowing damn well you probably would.

Five long minutes pass and you huff a sigh. You knew he was right; this wasn't appropriate. And Jack was a man who lived so strictly to his regiment and rules.

You: sorry You: just curious

You set your phone down with a finality you aren't too keen on accepting. That wasn't exactly the message you'd hoped to leave off on.

The darkness of the room creeps in without the light of your phone to light up your face. You slip under your sheets and try your hardest to prepare for a longer stretch of sleep than you had the previous day. Exhaustion hit you hard and sudden, pulling at your aching muscles, but your brain couldn't stay quiet. All it did was replay the night, every little conversation, what you could've done differently. Conjuring up scenarios where you confronted Jack earlier and saved yourself the stress, or what would've happened if you never showed him that photo of you and your friend. It was a whirlwind of what-ifs, more than enough to give you a headache.

The buzz of your phone, when it comes, is far too loud. And you, despite your exhaustion, are far too eager to see what it's from. The light of the screen nearly blinds you, but as you squint to look at the notification, your heart skips a beat.

It's Jack, with a simple message that responds to a specific one of your own. Replying to your earlier question about enjoying your videos, all he says in response:

Abbot: Yes.

Heat blooms throughout your body embarrassingly quick. Yes, he liked your videos. One, several, it didn't matter. Jack had seen you naked and whining, and he liked it.

You: wait which video

Abbot: Several.

Oh. So he really liked it. Must've been a hit in his browser history.

You: oh wow. okay You: glad i could be of service then ;)

You plan to leave it at that and quit while you're ahead. Coaxing the confession out of him was precarious enough. Even though you were dying to know every detail and figure out exactly what he'd seen and what he liked best, you were content with just knowing he liked something about it. Teasing him was fun, but anything more would've been an HR disaster. It'd be interesting to see how Jack would explain that one.

But just as you're about to set your phone down, another message comes through:

Abbot: Yeah, you're really helpful.

Curiosity killed the cat and all that.

You: ? You: with what?

You knew, in the back of your mind. Or, at least, you really fucking hoped. Every second drags out far too long for your eager nerves, itching to know how he'll respond. Thankfully, it's along the lines of something you were hoping for.

Abbot: Can I show you?

Always so formal.

You: yes please

Your heart was already thumping out of your chest. Working yourself up over whatever he was sending next, heat pumps thick in your veins and lands in your gut. You nearly chewed your lip raw lying in wait. You knew you were being impatient, but when the next message pops up on your screen, you decide every second was worth the wait.

It's an image (exactly what you wanted to see) taken awkwardly in the dark of a bedroom. In it is Jack's hand, which you recognize by the fine lines and freckles on his skin, wrapped loosely around the base of his cock. You assume the only light comes from the camera's flash when he'd taken the picture, but it highlights the pearls of precum welling at the red and ruddy skin of the fat tip. You realize he's still in his scrubs when your eyes trail down to see the waistband pushed down just underneath his heavy balls and the top bunched up to expose the soft pudge of his lower stomach.

It's no expert nude, but it's got a charm that undeniably fits him. And made you so absurdly wet in what you feel confident claiming is record time. You're throbbing at the sight of his cock on your screen. You were glad to see he also thought it fair that he show off in return after he'd seen you bare and desperate multiple times.

Your thighs press together to quell the incessant pulse between your legs as you hurriedly type out a response.

You: are you watching one right now??

Abbot: yeag Abbot: *Yeah.

You: oh youre unbelievable

You laugh behind your phone screen. You aren't scolding him, just shocked at his audacity. Rolling over to reach your bedside, you flick on the closest light. It wasn't much, but it was enough to make the camera's job a little easier and make the final product a little more flattering.

You rid yourself of a majority of your clothes and kick the sheets off of your body. When you're stripped down to nothing more than a pair of unassuming panties, you lift your phone above your reclined figure, angle it just right, and snap a photo. The golden light from your lamp makes your skin look warm. Of course, the angle cuts off everything above the neck—old habits.

You send the photo with a message attached:

You: why are you watching an old video when you literally have access to me right now??

His response comes back in seconds:

Abbot: Jesus Christ Abbot: Yeah good point Abbot: Take the rest off. Let me see how wet you are

The command alone is enough to make you throb. You could snap a photo of the outside of your panties, focusing in on the fabric where it clings to your wet skin as slick seeps through the cotton. But you're both, decidedly, too worked up for any more teasing. So you slip the fabric off, kicking it somewhere on your bed, and bring your phone down between your parted legs.

Trying to find a flattering angle reminds you exactly how difficult it was to film the same thing years ago. It takes an awkward grip on your phone, but the camera catches the sheen of your cunt where your slick sits. Your puffy clit, all swollen with arousal, peeks out when you run your fingers through your slit.

You send two photos this time—one with your fingers teasing the bud of your clit, the other with you spread open and dripping. You send both out, typing out a message one-handed.

You: been wet since you said you liked my porno You: wish you could feel it

Abbot: Yeah?

The gap of time between messages tells you he's probably typing one-handed as well.

Abbot: You like knowing I was getting off to you? Abbot: Love watching that pretty pussy cum baby. Wish I could feel it too

You throb against your own hand, cunt fluttering at the filthy words on screen. You could almost picture that rumble in his voice he'd get when he was annoyed. Your fingers swirl against your clit, still slicked up, and picture how Jack's hands would feel instead. You scroll up through the messages, seeking out the picture he'd sent earlier. His fingers are thicker than yours, so confident and sure when they work, you know they'd stretch your cunt perfectly. He'd have to if he wanted to fit that fat cock inside—

Abbot: Can you do something for me?

The message pops up, bringing you back to the present conversation. You're already shivering trying to figure out what else he could want. Far too eager—bordering on desperate—you fumble through more messages.

You: yes You: what do u want

Abbot: Do you have a pillow you can use?

You: u want me to ride it

Abbot: Fuck yes

You smile to yourself at his zealous reply. You knew that was something you'd recorded once upon a time—multiple times, if you recalled correctly. Must've been one of his favorites of yours to request an updated version.

You drag yourself up until you're sitting in the center of your mattress. Once you settle on a pillow to sacrifice, you fold it over and wedge it between your legs. The first brush against your clit makes you shiver, hips jerking into the friction. Already you can feel your arousal seeping into the pillowcase, slicking your movements when you give an experimental roll of your hips. Holding the pillow between your thighs, you fish around for your phone to prepare a picture. You take one, angling it below the neck, but that's not enough.

Finding something to prop your phone against was a nightmare, but once the camera sits steady with your body in frame, you tap the big, red 'record' button. It's an oddly nostalgic feeling; worrying about what's in frame, trying to get the best angle, wondering if the lighting will ruin it. But Jack's waiting, and your cunt's throbbing with the need to get off.

You rock your hips into the pillow with a slow grind that sends zaps up your spine. It's not enough to get off, but it's enough to keep you worked up. Your hands fist in the pillow, grabbing it from different angles, holding it in place while you grind. Your thighs hide most of the action from this angle, but you have a feeling it's the motion of your body that he cares about most. The way your hips swirl and your ass ripples with the motion, the way your chest moves and your tits bounce when you rock down, the way your thighs tense when the fabric drags just right against your clit.

Along the line of curses and swears, you pant Jack's name in that same pathetic whine. Who knew if he'd watch it with the sound on or if the camera could even pick it up from this distance. But you wanted him to know you were thinking about him. All of this was for him, no one else.

Another minute ticks by and you capture the hurried, desperate movement of your hips against your pillow. You know you aren't getting off from this alone, but it's left you hot and dripping. You cut the video and end the recording, not bothering to check the quality before sending it his way. Quality clearly wasn't an issue he was too picky about.

In the minutes that follow—waiting for him to respond—you keep rocking into the soft plush of the pillow. Your head spins trying to imagine the look on his face. You wanted to see what he did when he heard his name drop from your lips. Maybe you'd get another photo—or a video of your own.

Instead, your phone began to buzz incessantly, rhythmically. Jack was calling you. The screen changed, his name in bold letters up top with the taunting 'Accept' and 'Decline' buttons below. You stared at it for a moment, unsure how to respond once the barrier of text was removed and you got to hear his voice in real time. Your thumb moves before your brain.

You bring your phone to your ear, panting heavier than you realize. You mutter a shaky "Hello?" that sounds more timid than you feel.

Jack's voice comes through on the other end, preceded by a heavy breath you feel in your bones. "Are you still on that pillow?"

"Mm-hmm," you whine, nodding along as if he can see you

"Good." His voice is raspy, thick with a kind of desperation you didn't know he was capable of. "Good, I want you to cum like that."

"Yeah? Fuck—you gonna make me cum, Jack?" You swirl your hips and drag your clit along the soft swell of the pillow. The wetness you've left behind makes the glide easy, slicking your sensitive flesh.

"Fuck," he groans, breath catching in his throat. "Yeah, been waiting...been waiting to make that pretty pussy feel good." You swear you hear the wet schlick of his hand moving in the background. If you closed your eyes, you could almost picture one of those broad hands pumping the length of his cock. "You got awfully wet for me, huh?"

Another mm-hmm sounds out from your throat. Your fingers tighten around the length of your phone, the other in the fabric of the pillow. "M'so fucking wet…bet you'd fuck me so good."

"Fuck, yeah, I would. Ah, shit—I'd give you whatever you want, sweetheart."

Sweetheart. The name settles somewhere deep in your gut, stirring alongside the heat pulling at your core. "Yeah, you know what this pussy likes, don't you?"

All Jack offers in response is another low, rumbling groan. The wet schlick, schlick, schlick of his hand sounds out rhythmically in the background of his audio. Somewhere in the mess of sounds is your name, breathless and heavy, on his lips. Your thighs clench tight against the pillow as you rut, chasing the friction of the soaked fabric.

"Bet you'd look so good full of me. God…" He huffs. You can tell his jaw's set tight, cursing spilling out from behind grit teeth. "Can't wait to feel you around me…" You moan at his words, too afraid to speak lest you interrupt his filthy train of thought. "You'd take it, wouldn't you? You'd take it so fucking good, huh?"

Your hips stutter in their rhythm, twitching in an effort to chase the mounting pressure building in your core. "Fuuuck, Jack…" You whine, barely able to catch your breath.

"You gonna cum for me?"

"Mm-hmm…"

"Say it, baby, tell me you're gonna cum for me."

"M'gonna cum for you, Jack."

You're rutting like an animal, grinding against your pillow with energy you didn't know you had. The desperation gnawed at you, frenzied and greedy, pushing you towards a high you needed more than anything else. Between the soft, wet plush between your thighs and the hot, needy sounds he made in your ear, you were barreling towards the edge alarmingly quickly.

Jack curses, the sound heavy and strained, "Cum for me, baby. Let me hear you." He urges you with a desperation that rivals your own.

Pleasure shoots white-hot down your spine, seizing every muscle in your body. Your thighs clamp tight around the pillow, keeping it close and in place for the frantic rock of your hips. You nearly double over as you shake and whimper. The last thing on your mind is your phone, but when Jack's breath grows heavier, your awareness focuses in on the noises coming from your speaker. The groan that tears from him is unlike anything you've heard from him before. You know he's coming down from the same high when he's left panting into the phone wherever it sits on his end.

You aren't sure how long the two of you stay like that. Eventually your spine straightens, a small whimper escaping your throat when your sensitive flesh grazes the pillow. With the adrenaline and ecstasy wearing off, an ache begins to creep into the small of your back.

Jack's the first to break the silence. "You alright?" He asks, still winded himself.

"Mm. Yeah. You?"

"I am now. You were…a pretty great help."

You laugh a soft sound, feeling a flush creep up to your cheeks. It felt ridiculous to blush over a compliment when you'd both cum from the sound of each other's voices. He sounded so…pleased. With you or himself, you weren't completely sure.

"Told you, I'm glad to be of service." Now he laughs, the sound heavy with exhaustion. "Can I ask…how many of those videos you watched?"

"Uh…four?"

"Really? Only four? Thought it'd be more than that."

"Yeah, well…" He interrupts himself with a groan that makes you wonder if he's aching the same way you are. "Didn't have the time. I'm a busy man."

"And here I thought you were my biggest fan."

"Oh, no doubt about that." He sighs, and a beat of silence passes between the two of you. "Sorry about…how I acted today."

You move off of the pillow, wincing at the ache in your hips, as you move to gather your discarded clothes. "Oh, Jack, it's fine."

"No, I…It was unprofessional. I'm sorry." You slip your clothes on while he speaks, just letting him speak the apology. He needed it more than you did. "I'll…make it up to you. How about that?"

"More than this?"

"Oh, absolutely."

You find yourself easing in the lulls of silence, not too pressured to fill it with mindless chatter. As you turn the lights down and crawl back into your sheets, you aren't pressured to keep up with mindless chatter. What else was there to say, really? The rhythmic sound of his breathing, the airy feel of the lingering high, made you sink into your mattress.

You both needed sleep. Desperately.

"Okay, old man, I'm…I need sleep."

"Old man?"

"You should sleep, too."

"Hold on, 'old man'?"

"Jack."

"Fine." Another groan sounds out from his end. "After I clean up."

"Actually, could you…" You trail off before the request can form, heat creeping back up to your cheeks. You can picture his face, that cocked brow he always sported, waiting for you to use your words. "Could you take a picture before you clean up?"

"A picture? Of what, the mess you caused?"

Your mess. If you were less tired, that might've reignited something inside you. "Yeah. Just…I wanna see."

"You wanna see…" Jack echoes your words with a sarcastic tinge, but you can hear the smile in his voice. "Alright, fine. But you better sleep right after."

"I will. Promise."

"Good." Another beat passes where both of you take a deep, settling breath. "I'll see you tonight?"

Tonight. Right. You had to face him tonight for your next shift. That was a level of embarrassment and awkwardness you weren't ready to acknowledge quite yet. "Yeah," you concede, "see you then."

The call ends with a beep sounding out from your speaker. The lingering high has nearly worn off, only coaxed along this far by the sound of his voice. You hoped the ache in your back and the meat of your thighs would right themselves by the time you woke up. It was hard to know what, exactly, you were meant to feel. Truth be told, you were too tired to process anything outside of your exhaustion. Maybe you'd regret it when you realized it wasn't a dream. Maybe you'd still be riding a high. You quickly decided it was a problem for a future you who was more rested and level-headed.

One last chime rings out from your phone. Yet again, the screen blinds you in the darkness when you bring the device close. But seeing Jack's name with the notification of an attachment made your heart skip a beat. He'd followed through—always a man of his word. A similar photo taken from the same angle, his ruddy cock dribbling white onto his skin. The mess of liquid is larger than you'd anticipated, pooled over the soft pudge of his stomach and dripping down to the wiry, pale hair that trailed downward.

Yeah, even exhausted, that was enough to make something stir.

You: thank you <3 You: wish i was there to clean u up

Abbot: You said you'd go to sleep.

You: yes, sir

Abbot: Don't start with that or we won't get any sleep.

He was right, but would it really be that big of a shame? You'd worked doubles on less sleep before. The more you thought about it, though, the less you wanted to face the possibility of explaining yourself to Shen. And as selfish as you were, you knew Jack needed the rest more than anyone else could've. For the sake of his job, of course. But as you drifted off and let your mind wander to every possibility of what your next shift could hold, you quickly realized you needed him well-rested.

"Bust," Jack says lowly. Of course, his last throw is the one time Robby hits the bullseye. "I win."

"That you do." Robby takes his beer back from Jack. Their fingers brush over the condensation.

Behind them, their friends flurry around the dart board to set up a new game. "Start without me," Jack says. "I'm taking a smoke break."

"Do you mind sharing?" Robby asks before he can stop himself.

Jack finishes the last of his beer; a bit of it dribbles out the side of his mouth and strings a tempting trail down his neck. "Not at all."

The thin yellow light of the alleyway creates a halo around Jack's curls. Robby rocks back and forth on his feet, pretending to be interested in the crumbling bricks, as Jack digs a pack out of his pocket.

"Only one left."

"Ah." Disappointment crashes on Robby hard. "That's alright, man. Thanks anyway."

Jack places the cigarette between his lips. "We can share."

Robby laughs, but it fades as Jack lights it without breaking eye contact. "Share... a cigarette?"

Jack's sun-kissed skin is emphasized as his cheeks hollow around the drag, he nods and releases the smoke slowly. "If you want."

"Uh," Robby is hypnotized by the way Jack wets his lips. "Sure." He holds a hand out, but it's ignored. Jack flips the cigarette between his fingers and places it an inch away from Robby's mouth.

He stares at Jack for a moment, taking in the challenge behind his eyes, then delicately wraps his lips around the end, tentatively brushing calloused skin as he sucks in a breath. Jack pulls the cigarette away and steps forward; the toes of his shoes knock against Robby's.

Robby exhales. The blood in his ears matches the dull thud of the bar's music through the walls.

"There's an idea," Jack says lowly. He takes another step, crowding Robby against the rough brick. "We could actually share."

"What do you mean?"

"Open your mouth." Robby obeys embarrassingly quickly. The sharp bite of the smoke overwhelms him as Jack releases his drag into his mouth. His thoughts float away with it. "Your turn."

Jack pokes his tongue ever so slightly over his bottom teeth; his mouth looks hot and inviting. Robby blows his hit inside it.

The cigarette twitches slightly in Jack's hand. "You know, buddy of mine did a study abroad in London. He said over there they call these fags."

Ash falls to the concrete. "Why's that?"

"I don't fucking know." Jack smirks, "I prefer the fags we have here."

Robby's dick twitches. "Do you know any?"

The smirk grows. Jack nods. "Do you?" He takes a long drag; his Adam's apple bobs deliciously with it.

"Intimately," Robby answers.

Jack leans closer, holding the smoke in only centimeters away from Robby's mouth. He up with enchanting eyes, giving one last out Robby has no intention of taking.

Robby presses his lips to Jack's and takes in the smoke. Bitterness has never been so appetizing.

The next kiss is a real one. No excuses, just hungrily licking into each other's mouths with the small buzz lingering in the back of their minds. Realistically, the kiss tastes terrible, but Robby would rather die than give up the stale aftertaste of nicotine right now.

Jack rolls his hips against Robby's. Their belt buckles clack together in the quiet of the night, not that either of them can hear it. Anything that isn't Jack panting into his mouth gets washed away in Robby's mind.

Even through two sets of jeans, Jack's dick feels heavy. Robby wonders how thick it is, if he wouldn't be able to stop the drool leaking from the corners of his mouth as he buried his nose in Jack's pubic hair. He moans softly into Jack's mouth.

Jack traces Robby's teeth with his tongue one final time, then moves downward, leaving a hot, wet trail in his wake. The cigarette is still perched between two of his fingers, his wrist resting on Robby's shoulder. Robby tilts his head and takes another quick drag. He's never had a buzz like this from nicotine before.

A firm hand cups Robby's bulge and massages it. Smoke slides from Robby's lips as he lets out a weak noise, which only encourages Jack's movements. He's beginning to fiddle with the zipper when the loud, metallic screech of the door interrupts them.

Jack rips himself away, and Robby busies himself with finishing off the cigarette.

"Yo, Jack," the person says. "Can I have one?"

Jack digs the box out of his pocket and tosses it. Robby squints at him knowingly, but Jack doesn't have the sense to be ashamed. He stares Robby down and licks across the bottom of his teeth.

"Hey, man, I'm gonna head out," Jack says, never taking his eyes off Robby.

"Oh, already?"

"Yeah, I got some stuff I need to take care of at home."

"Me too," Robby says. He flicks the cigarette to the ground.

Tags: mentions of weight insecurity, sappy, husband!Sammy Bryant, unprotected piv, oral sex (m! recieving), grinding on his stomach and dick, encouraging, affirming sex?, reader is lwk skinny like Tammy (it's briefly mentioned)

˖ ࣪⭑

Sammy has been in the bathroom too long. You know this for a fact. After a long day at work he takes a quick shower and cuddles up in the bed with you—sometimes he even skips the shower. So, 20 minutes is concerning. What the hell is he doing in there?

"Sammy, you alright in there?" You call from the bedroom. You sit at your vanity doing your night routine in your dainty nightgown.

"Yep, coming out soon!" He replies, voice muffled by the door.

He doesn't come out.

You take the initiative to open the door yourself and investigate to see him setting up some elaborate...weight scale? With a WeightWatchers pamphlet sat on the bathroom counter beside him. He froze when you walked in.

Your brows furrow "What the hell is that?"

"A scale" he states plainly, playing dumb.

"No not that— the weight watchers? Why'd you join that? To pay for an extra subscription?"

"I thought it would be good for me..." he begins to explain, putting down the screw driver and scale plate, "to loose some weight"

"Why? Your doctor said you're fine" you fold your arms.

"Yeah, I know but—"

You cut him off, "but what?"

"But...y'know, look at me, baby. I'm fat. I'm almost 200 pounds"

He pinches the rolls on his stomach, the little pudge poking through the white buttons of his dress shirt. He eyes longingly at the weight watchers pamphlet, picking it up and flipping it to the front and back, looking at the men who had become fit and strong who were just like him once.

"You're not fat, Sammy. You're a little chubby, not morbidly obese." You straddle his lap as he sits on the closed lid of the toilet seat, "besides that just means that i'm taking care of my man"

His hands instinctively wrap around your waist to pull you closer, "you're just saying that to make me feel better. Plus, you're little. Been skinny all your life...you don't know what it's like to be 'Chubby'. To be the one fat guy all the time at the station"

You cock your head to side "Are they bullying you?"

"Well— no. But I notice it. I mean, you didn't sign up to be with fat cop. Paul Blart?" He chuckles, " they're supposed to be fit and capable, not this"

He pats his stomach again. You roll your eyes and huff out a laugh.

"First of all, you don't look like the damn mall cop" you poke his chest, "Second, I didn't sign up to be with a cop. I married you because I wanted to be with you. What's the real reason you want this?"

You hold the WeightWatcher sheet in your hand. He pouts, looking at your body and back to the floor. You hold his chin, bringing his eyes back to yours.

He sighs, "i don't know...it's embarrassing"

"It's okay, baby. You can tell me" you coo.

"I just feel ugly, I guess" he mumbles, running his chubby fingers through his hair.

"Aw, Sammy baby, you're not ugly. You're perfect"

He rests his forehead against your chest and sniffs, "you believe that, huh?"

"You want me prove it to you so you can too?" You card your nails through his cropped brown locks and press a kiss to the crown of his head, "come on"

You get off his lap and take his hand to lead him back into your shared bedroom. His knees hit the bed and he sits down, his arms propped behind him. You unbutton his dress shirt and pull his t-shirt over his head to reveal the speckled hair on his chest and the roll of his tummy. His belt clicks as it hits the floor. Red blush sprawls from his chest to his ears.

"We're tired...we probably shouldn't—we should just go to sleep" he stutters as he watches you get down on your knees.

"Has being tired ever stopped us before?" You giggle.

He shakes his head quickly when your rub your hand over his thick thighs up to the bulge in his boxers. It strained against the fabric, throbbing when your fingers wrapped around the girthy base.

You kiss the inside of his thighs and nuzzle your face into soft part of his lower tummy, your nose running down the happy trail. Sammy's breath hitches when you pull down his boxers. His cock springs free and slaps his stomach, the slit leaking pre down the vein on the underside.

He groans when you take him down to to the base. You give enthusiastic head: slurping, gagging, drool dripping down your chin. His fingers grab your hair in a rough grip, almost painful, when your throat constricted around the head of his cock, swallowing him down. You didn't care about his little muffin top or how his thighs jiggled when he got close.

"F-fuck, stop. I'm gonna cum," he whined, his grip tightening with each bob of your head.

You double your efforts, dragging your tongue up and down his length and stroking what you couldn't fit in your mouth. You grope his thighs as he shoots his hot load down his throat. You swallow it greedily, letting the salty fluid slide down your throat. He grunts out a string of expletives as you continue suck him dry. He pries your mouth from his overstimulated dick.

"Jesus, are you trying to kill me, sweetheart?" He tries catch his breath.

You stand and slip off your panties, "if that's what it takes to get you to believe me. Lie back"

He lies back against the headboard, his cock chubbing back up against his thigh. You straddle him again, hands braced against his thick chest, grinding your pussy against his length.

"You think I'd be fucking you like this if I thought you were ugly, baby?"

His answer is caught in a groan as you slipped him inside your dripping wet pussy. You roll your hips in circles as you grab at his arms and tummy. You lick a stripe from his chest to his neck and kiss along his jaw.

"I love you. I love all of you" you breathe in his ear.

He nods stupidly, too preoccupied with the feeling of your walls tightening around his girthy cock. He grips your hips to guide you up and down. One hand caresses your tits under the silk nightgown, running his hand against your flatter abdomen. He was enamored by you. His thumb finds you clit and rubs circles around it.

He pants as you speed up, eyes squeezed shut, "yeahhh, baby-mmm- i l-love you too"

His hips thrust up into you, his pace becoming a little sloppy. He moans your name as releases his load inside of you. You follow suit quickly after, making a creamy mess on his cock. You grind your clit against his stomach when his hands move to grope your hips and heavy chest. He bites back a whimper when you pull out, watching his spend drip out your fluttering pussy back on his stomach

You plop down beside him. Lying on your side with your night dress riding up your thighs. You run a finger down his chest and through the mess made on his tummy, and bring it to your mouth. Sammy watches breathlessly, and you take the opportunity to pull him to a lazy kiss.

"You believe me now, baby?" You my murmur against his lips.

"Uh huh," he nuzzles his face in your neck, sniffing the mingling scent of your perfume and sweat.

"Tomorrow are you gonna throw away that WeightWatchers shit?"

Sammy groans,"You're the only woman that wants her husband to be fat"

"Chubby, hot, handsome, sexy." you correct, "and are you?"

"If throwing it away gets me more nights like this, then yeah."

"Good. Cus' I want alll of this" you run your hand across the front plane of his body. You grab his chin and pull him into another soft kiss. "You're perfect"

He throws a heavy arm around you and pulls you closer. He pulls his head away from the crook of your neck to look over your face. A tiny smile graces his lips.

Cardinal’s leash remained firmly gripped in your hand as you followed the guard past the front entrance. His paws pittered-pattered against the tile flooring, echoing in the long hall along with your footsteps. Every so often, his side would brush against your calf before he righted himself only to bump you once again after a few moments. His presence kept you calm; prison—even if you weren’t the one in handcuffs and a jumpsuit—made everyone nervous, and you were no exception. 

If this were any other place, Cardinal would heel frozen at your feet, nose bumping into the flesh of your leg to signal that something deep inside you was unsettled. He wasn’t a certified therapy dog, not after he’d growled too much and refused to give up his toys during training, but the deeply instilled instinct to protect and comfort remained wired into his brain. He’d been a gift from your parents. 

You need something to look after you while you’re off getting your master’s your father had stated before you finally left the coup of your hometown. Since you don’t have a boyfriend, we’ll get you the next best thing. 

And the next best thing happened to be a two-year-old doberman, fresh from failing training, who, upon meeting you, never once left your side. With his baby blue collar and harness, the matching set starkly contrasting his inky coat, he served as your sole protector through the move to Sacramento almost a year ago and apparently now while you walked deeper into the Folsom State Prison’s belly to be a part of their “Canines for Comfort” rehabilitation-slash-rehab program, which had been instated around the time you started year one of school. 

You had signed up and sent in an application on a whim, something to help fill the odd space in your Saturdays a few hours after sleeping in where you weren’t hungry enough for lunch but didn’t want to just sit around twiddling your thumbs. Their approval had come swiftly, and before you knew it, you’d made the hour drive to arrive for your first session. Up ahead, the guard stopped at a plain, gray door that didn’t have a window. 

“With me,” you muttered, and Cardinal sat almost on top of your feet. 

“Session starts in five minutes. There are seats in there; choose one and stay in it during the duration of the thirty minutes,” he gruffed. 

A low groan rumbled down by your feet at his bluntness, and you were quick to hiss a small sht towards your companion. It didn’t take much to get Cardinal to quiet, but even you could tell that the longer you stood there, the more he was getting unnerved. 

Thankfully, the guard tapped a keycard on the lock and the automatic click boomed loudly. He pushed down on the handle before swinging the door wide open to reveal the few people and dogs already in there. You, obviously, were the last one. 

“Up,” you said as you took the first step toward the threshold. 

Cardinal trotted in tandem with your stride and paid no attention to the others in the room, deep eyes locked on your face even if you were looking around. In one corner of the large, almost classroom-like room, an older woman sat with a dopey golden retriever panting at her feet. In the one adjacent, a middle-aged man stood, back pressed to the wall, hand wrapped around a lead that connected to a very sleepy beagle. You thanked the air. If someone got him howling, there’d be no stop. And across the empty corner—the one that you were supposed to “choose” even if it was the only nonoccupied one left—a college-aged girl nervously looked around, fingers fiddling with the hair of her collie that was half sitting in her lap. 

You took the chair. “Feet.” 

With a small pushed out groan, Cardinal plopped down on his stomach, legs out in front of him, head held high. Your left hand splayed across his head while your right kept a hold of his leash. The session was going to be co-ed and only available to prisoners who kept a good rep with impeccable behavior, but that still didn’t do much to calm the lapping wave of anxiety in your stomach. 

Eyeing the guard who stayed by the door, you noted the way he kept his hands next to his weapon. Only the sound of the secondary door on the other side opening got you to look the other way. As the first few prisoners trickled in, wrists held close together with metallic chains, you sat up a bit straighter. A few of them glanced your way, but as you thought, most of them seemed to gravitate toward the . . . friendly looking dogs, especially the golden retriever who looked like he’d never met a stranger. 

Cardinal huffed, sides filling with air before deflating, and his head lowered until it fit between the slots of his feet. You bent at the waist to give his head another small pat and rub. So focused on him, though, you missed the one person approaching you slowly until his feet stopped mere inches away from Cardinal’s. You stayed bent, but your neck craned until your eyes met peered hazel ones that flickered downward and then back to your face. 

You sat up straight, the plastic chair creaking under the sudden change in position, and squared your shoulders. “Hi.” 

The man drenched in God-awful orange didn’t reply. His lips curled in a thin line, and his hands clenched and unclenched near his navel. You watched as he shifted his weight, body tense like he wanted to speak and move but held back. You quickly looked around. If you had another chair, you’d offer it to him, but the only ones seemed to be occupied by the dog owners. 

“Um, there’s not an extra chair, but . . .” you trailed, lip catching between your teeth. “I can always stand up and let you sit or—” 

Still without answering, he started to lower to the ground instead until he was fully seated, legs crossed in front of him. His head tilted slightly to the side, and his eyes didn’t look away from Cardinal, yet, he made no motion to reach out and pet him. 

You leaned back down and placed a hand on your dog’s head. “He’s friendly,” you said, hand dragging down his fur. “Might growl at first, but I swear he won’t bite your hand.” You paused before adding, “Unless you have food. Then he might not be able to tell the difference between that and your fingers.” 

A deep feeling in your chest wanted him to crack a smile or actually acknowledge he was being talked to, but when his lips stayed flat, eyes unwavering. He didn’t even flinch when it appeared Cardinal got too impatient to be pet and lifted off the ground to get a closer smell. You smiled as his nose twitched while he carefully inched forward. 

Then, finally, the man reached out before keeping his hand held in the air, letting Cardinal come to him instead of forcing a connection. A small, warning growl accompanied a curled lip to show off his canines, but the man didn’t cower. Almost like he needed your approval as well before fully giving into the outreached hand, Cardinal turned his head back towards you, and you slightly laughed. 

“You big doaf,” you teased. “Go on.” 

That’s all you had to say for Cardinal to dive right into the man’s lap, tongue hanging out of his mouth as his full body wriggled around. The man gave him the most gentle pets you’d ever seen someone do. It made you wonder if he was scared of himself with the way he held back. He stayed firmly upright despite Cardinal jumping around, putting his paws on the man’s chest, and even going around him as far as the leash would allow to nose at his spine before plopping back down into the lap made by criss-crossed-applesauced legs. 

You stayed quiet and watched the two mess around. Because your companion wasn’t the most trusting of men, it’d been a while since you’d seen Cardinal get to rough house around with someone that could take it. You weren’t weak at all, but with the amount of energy stored in that lithe black and brown body, most times you ended up curled in a ball on the floor as he continued relentless play attacks at your sides and back.  

After a few minutes, Cardinal settled fully as he draped himself across the man’s legs, chest rapidly rising and falling in low pants. Big hands continued running down his short coat in long strokes. 

“What’s his name?” 

The sound of his voice caught you off guard, the addition to the small three-way circle so sudden it sent your head reeling before you blinked the stunned feeling away. You tried not to note that he had a nice voice. But it was impossible and slotted in the back of your mind. 

“Cardinal,” you managed to sputter out. 

Definitely not attractive. 

“Cardinal,” he parroted, and the most magic thing followed: the corners of his lips curled barely by a hair. “Nice name.” 

“I’m glad you think so. I originally wanted to go with Bishop, but I knew a guy with that name in high school, and he was a grade-A asshole,” you babbled. “And I think Cardinal fits him much better.” Your fingers fiddled with the leash. “My name’s (Y/n) . . . if you were wondering.” 

He—still the unnamed prisoner—lifted his eyes to meet yours. 

“And you probably weren’t wondering,” you backtracked with a sigh, cheeks heating just a bit under his gaze. 

“(Y/n).” He nodded once. “Nice name.” 

The heat flooded down your neck, and you shyly murmured a thank you. His hazel eyes returned to the puddle of dog between his legs. 

“Can you tell me more about him?” he asked. 

“Oh, sure,” you responded, shifting in your seat as though this were an interview. “He just turned three last week, but I swear he still thinks he’s a puppy. His favorite toy is a stuffed white puppy; he literally cannot sleep without it. Um, we do bite work every Monday night, and then advanced protection on Thursdays. And—” 

“All right, that’s it for today,” a low voice near the exit door cut you off, and it was as if a switch had been turned off in the man. 

The barely-there breath of a smile dropped instantly, and his back went rigid, hands stopping along near Cardinal’s ribs before ripping away back to his lap. Confused at the lack of pets, Cardinal stood back up and nose nudged near his jaw, but the man was already pushing up from the floor. 

You also stood up once he got to full height. “Well, it was nice meeting you . . .” 

He glanced over to where the prisoners were already lining up before quietly offering, “Andrew.” 

You repeated him just as quiet. A small secret shared. Two names for one; something to hold onto until the next time. 

“Thank you for sitting with us,” you said. “He really likes you.” 

As though to reinforce your statement, Cardinal all but put his snout into the space between Andrew’s shackled hands, squeezing a soft whine into the air. 

“Cody!” the guard barked. “In line.” 

Andrew tensed before slowly turning around without a second glance back to you, and just like that, it was only you, the other three dog owners, and the one guard who led you in left in the room. The moment the door locked shut with the prisoners on the other side, the three hounded in on you, questions pouring from their mouths. 

“How on earth did you do that?” the older lady asked above the others. 

Your brows pinched tightly. “Do what?” 

Her eyes flickered towards the door. “I’ve been here for five sessions, and not once has that man interacted with a dog much less the person as well. He never spoke and stood to the side like a creep.” 

A warning grumble reverberated from Cardinal just as you scoffed. 

“Maybe he just didn’t find anyone quiet enough to feel comfortable to approach,” you said, quick to defend the man who hadn’t even said twenty words to you in a span of the thirty minute session. “Go time,” you said before stepping away from the group with Cardinal right on your heels, falling back into a perfectly matched rhythm. 

Before even going into the session, you had wondered if this was going to be your first and final attendance, but when the sun shown brightly and warmed your skin and Cardinal pulled lightly on his leash, acting like he wanted to go back inside and sniff Andrew out, you decided that next week, you’d get back into your car and make the hour commute again. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

With more anticipation than the last time, your knee bounced rapidly as you waited for the prisoners to trickle through into the room. You kept your eyes glued, and if someone had pointed it out, you would have realized that you and Cardinal had the same look: something yearning and waiting and excitement all jumbled and stuffed into your bodies. People did say that owners somehow picked dogs that looked like them without even realizing. 

You hadn’t even made Cardinal sit nicely at your feet again, and his little nubbed tail swished back and forth with a fast viciousness only saved for his favorite people, the list usually being just you. But now, you guessed Andrew’s name was right under yours. 

At the sound of the door being unlocked, you subconsciously leaned forward. The first few prisoners stepped out, and your breathing stopped as you mentally calculated how many were coming in. To keep everyone from being overwhelmed, only a handful of prisoners were allowed in, and you prayed that Andrew would be the next to step through the threshold. 

The corners of your lips curled upward when you finally spotted him in the mix, hair still cropped, hands still shackled, but unlike last week, he seemed more interested in what was going on. It only took him a moment to turn his face towards your small corner, and Cardinal let out a small happy yelp when he started to walk over. You allowed his leash to go slack enough to let him meet Andrew halfway, backside moving back and forth since his tail seemed to not be able to keep up. 

Andrew tried not to trip on the dog, keeping his eyes downward and his steps careful until he reached the spot where he sat the last time. His knees creaked just a bit as he lowered down to the ground and kept his feet out straight. Immediately, Cardinal hopped into his lap, rolling stomach up, the universal ask for belly rubs. 

With both hands, he started scratching along his soft under-belly coat. 

“Hi again,” you said gently. 

“Hi,” he greeted back even if he didn’t look up at you. “He seems happy.” 

“Oh, you have no idea. I could barely get him to sit in the car on the way over here. I think he missed you the entire week,” you said. 

His brows furrowed. “I’ve only met him once.” 

You shrugged before leaning down to drop the leash fully knowing Cardinal wasn’t going to dart at all. “That’s all it takes for a dog to decide if you’re their new favorite person or their arch nemesis for the rest of time.” 

“Oh.” He frowned, deeply thinking of what he’d done to be on the receiving end of such excitement from an animal. “That’s it?” 

“That’s it.” Your growing smile stretched until your teeth showed. “Plus, he loves scratches and love pats, and you seem to be doing a pretty good job.” 

Andrew noticed that his hands had moved on from scratching to gently patting along Cardinal’s ribs in rhythmic motions. His mind raced to what the two of you had been talking about the last time before the session had ended. Normally, he wouldn’t be so invested in a person and dog, but there was something about the way you looked so soft yet fierce while your canine looked fierce while Cardinal didn’t hesitate to jump into his lap. 

“You said he did bite work?” 

“What?” you asked. 

His chin tilted downward, and he looked up at you through his eyebrows. “Last time. You said he did bite work.” 

“Oh yeah,” you breathed before giggling to yourself. “He has a lot of energy that can’t all be burned out from just going to a dog park or going for a run. So the moment I moved here, I looked into places that had training courses for him to go through. Plus it’s helpful.” 

“Helpful?” he echoed. 

“Yeah, ya know . . . if I ever get attacked or some guy comes after me.” You leaned down and settled a hand near Andrew’s on Cardinal's back. “He protects me.” 

“Has that ever happened before?” Andrew suddenly asked, almost personally confused as to why he did. 

The sessions weren’t supposed to be chat hours. He knew the prison offered this to get him to be more docile. If he didn’t attack the dogs, maybe he’d learn not to attack or hit others. This plus the meds they’d been giving him, he wasn’t sure how trusting he could be, and asking questions about your wellbeing was the complete opposite of being on the offense. 

Your eyes glanced down before you leaned back into the seat. “Once after I first moved. I don’t live on campus—I’m here to finish my masters—and after class, this one guy followed me home. I don’t know exactly why; I’d never seen him before, but he tried to corner me near my door. I had just gotten it open when he tried to grab me, and Cardinal came rushing out the door.” 

The more you talked, the more rage built in Andrew’s chest, simmering just below his skin. And instead of questioning why he felt this way, he gave into the feeling and clenched his hands. However, Cardinal, the everknowing soul, felt the change in him right away, and Andrew wasn’t ready for him to stand and press his cold nose into the side of his neck, huffing loudly near his ear. 

You laughed quietly after seeing how still Andrew had become, confusion on what to do next. Your fingers quickly found the dropped leash on the ground, but before you could give Cardinal a small tug, Andrew shook his head. 

“He’s okay,” he murmured. 

A wave of sadness crashed over you as you watched him try to wrap his arms around Cardinal but failed since the cuffs kept his wrists together. 

Maybe one day once he’s out, he can give Cardinal a full hug quickly flashed through your mind, to which you quickly shook your head to get rid of it. Once Andrew was out, he would disappear from your and Cardinal's life entirely. 

One glance toward the clock on the wall told you that only ten minutes remained for the session, and your heart clenched. The thirty minutes weren’t enough. 

“What are you in school for?” Andrew asked after a quiet moment, arms finally wrapped awkwardly around Cardinal’s neck, basically using him as an arm wrest. 

“Behavior sciences. I like knowing how people tick,” you replied. “Everyone acts differently, but I believe that at our base, we all have a need and want to be liked. It’s human nature to want to please. Kinda like dogs.” 

“Is that why you signed up for this?” he spat the last word. 

“A little. I think I wanted to find a way to help people since school doesn’t give me time to do extra volunteer hours during the week,” you provided. “I mean, one of our assignments was to find an outlet that could help, and I found Folsom’s application online.” 

“Oh.” 

“But,” you swiftly kept going, “we only had to go once for the grade.” 

Andrew looked back up at you. “Then why are you here?” 

“Well, Cardinal seemed to really like this one guy we met last week,” you teased, and he finally gave you more than a hint of a smile, lips pulling outward until lines appeared. 

“Just him?” 

You pretended to think, eyes looking upward to the ceiling. “Hmmmm, maybe not just Cardinal. I think I liked talking to the guy too.” 

A rosyness bloomed across Andrew’s face. 

You liked talking to him? Probably the first time someone ever said that, and his first instinct was a desperate want to hear you say it again. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

For the next two years, you always faithfully showed up to the sessions. During that time, you’d gotten to know some about Andrew’s life outside of the concrete walls. You learned that he was a twin, he had two younger brothers and an older adopted brother, whose wife he used to love, and that his father had died before he was born. 

He enjoyed skateboarding whenever he could get away from his mom. If he had a slow evening, he liked to listen to nature documentaries on the TV. He told you about his arrest, though barely giving you full details but enough that you decided he wasn’t in prison for the right reasons. Every time he spoke, you listened with intent, wanting to soak up any knowledge about the man you’d come to look forward to seeing every Saturday afternoon. 

In return, you told him about your own life. Unlike him, you were an only child, parents still living and married together. You were twenty-five; fifteen years his junior. Your favorite color was green despite Cardinal’s leash and halter being blue—he’d picked it out himself you told him through a fit of giggles. You confessed that after college, you really didn’t have a plan for your life, and that you preferred to go with the flow to see where you ended up. 

And somewhere along the way, untold to either, you both felt a certain care for the other. 

Andrew had felt drawn to you the moment you had told him that you liked that he was quieter and softer than the others, that he didn’t try to talk over you and remembered the smallest things you’d said. And every time you gave him a compliment like the time you mentioned hazel eyes were your favorite hues and that you enjoyed looking at them, his heart yearned for you a little bit more to the point he started being first in line for the sessions to get the smallest handful of seconds longer in your presence. 

You, on the other hand, started feeling something for him when he quietly defended Cardinal. One of the newer volunteers who started coming around five weeks after you started had loudly proclaimed that a Doberman wasn’t fit to be a therapy dog. You’d wanted to shut his comment down, protest that Cardinal had been approved just as his yappy, little rat Chihuahua had when Andrew slowly stood, faced the man, and berated him in front of everyone. You’d been scared that he’d get reprimanded, but the guards never did a thing.  

Through these small moments and honest conversations, Saturdays became both of your favorite days of the week. 

Well . . . that was until a random Saturday almost two years after you’d first signed up. 

The entire drive over, you were excited to tell Andrew that you’d passed your exams, meaning that graduation would be right around the corner for you. The second bit of exciting news was that you’d been offered a three-year contract for a job in Sacramento. You’d get to stay close, see him more often if he let you. School wouldn’t be in the way. 

Cardinal could sense your excitement in the air, and he matched your energy the entire way into Folsom. He bounded around your feet, not even listening to your small commands and corrections. Once inside, you were the first to take a seat, Cardinal finally sitting next to the chair like normal. 

The door unlocked, and the first few prisoners walked through, and your heart began to race. However, after the fifth and sixth prisoner, with Andrew not in sight, your stomach backflipped before sinking when the door closed. 

Andrew hadn’t made it through. There must have been a mistake. 

You pushed off the metal chair—the plastic one had broken during one of the sessions where Cardinal managed to push you off and down to his and Andrew’s level—and approached one of the guards. 

“Excuse me,” you meekly said, tensing under the man’s steeled gaze. “I’m wondering if Andrew Cody couldn’t make it today. Is he doing okay?”

“Sorry to tell you, but he was released a couple days ago.” 

You swallowed thickly. “What? He said he had another three to go—” 

“Got out on good behavior. Guess the Canine-Comfort thing did its job. Never seen such a violent man turn into someone normal.” 

A sneer pinched your face, and you had to fight the urge to tell him off that Andrew was always normal. A little lost in life, but he wasn’t an animal, wasn’t violent . . . at least towards you. But you found it hard to believe after being around him and his kindness for two full years, seeing nothing but the gentleness he gave you. 

You turned and looked around the room before looking back at the guard. “Am I able to leave early?” 

Quietly and quickly, he opened the door for you to slip through, and as you walked through the empty hall, Cardinal whined loudly. 

“I know, bud, I know,” you whispered. “I’m going to miss him too.”  

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Never once had you slipped Andrew’s mind, not even as a year passed since the last time he’d seen you and Cardinal. He hadn’t even known that the session before he got released was going to be the final time, and if he had, he probably would have done something reckless like tell you to find him once he got out. 

But the way he had to leave without even getting to say goodbye tore at his chest whenever you crossed his mind or when he saw a doberman walking on the street. If he imagined hard enough, he could morph whoever to have your soft hair and your sweet smile that Andrew believed to only be reserved for him. Distance made the heart grow fonder, but the longer he was away from you, the more his fondness turned into obsession. He looked for you in every aspect, and before he knew it, he was typing your name into his computer. 

To his chagrin, only your past references would ever be brought up in the search engine. He did see that you had graduated a few months after his release, but that meant that you were probably long gone by then. Andrew cursed himself. He hadn’t even told you where he lived. 

From then on, he learned to curb his wants and desires for you, only giving in under the cover of night. He’d imagine your voice next to his ear, your weight over his bare chest, fingers dragging down his pecs and abs as your hips rocked against his. His hand would dip below his shorts into his boxers, cock already hard and straining by the time he wrapped his hand around the length. His soft, warm shaft would already be wet and slick with precum. With tantalizing strokes and bucking pelvis, it wouldn’t take him long to cum in his pants by the mere thought of how you’d taste on his tongue.  

What really got him spurting though was when, instead of hearing moans and whimpers from your lips, he’d envision you giving him soft commands as you did to Cardinal. A down here, a speak there, a bite down as he filled you completely. And above all, he’d whimper hearing you give him a good boy if he managed to please and do what you’d asked. 

In the haze of orgasm before clarity would command his senses once again, he’d reach for his phone and google harnesses and leashes for people, only to swipe the tab away the next morning with burning cheeks. 

Though, those moments started to spread far and few between as his mother began to commandeer his life once again. But after he found out she’d been drugging his food, he left. Put the whole life behind him. 

He stayed close to Oceanside in case his brothers needed something, but the life of Pope Cody, criminal under his mother’s thumb, was over. With any hope of finding you again keeping his heart beating, he changed. Got a job—one that gave him money the legal way. Started skateboarding again. You’d be proud of him, at least, he believed you’d be proud of him. 

It wasn’t until one Saturday morning that his reason for life walked right on by without even stopping. 

He nearly fell off his skateboard, because there you were, tan and glowing under the sun. You looked a bit older, not as soft as he once knew you, but the world worked in funny ways like that. It dangled what you wanted the most after they’d been changed. And as he watched you walk away, Cardinal at your side, he wanted to say something—scream something, but he stayed silent. For as much as he begged to see you again, here was no telling if you'd actually wanted the same. 

So, Andrew stayed quiet, but that didn’t mean he stayed still. After you’d walked on a few feet, he fell into your invisible footprints along the sand-specked sidewalk. You were none the wiser, earbuds letting music flow too loudly to hear the outside world. He would have to have a discussion with you about that. There was only so much Cardinal could do if you were attacked unsuspectingly. Not knowing your surroundings terrified him to his core. 

He followed you for around thirty minutes, enjoying the walk along the way but also enjoying being around you after so long. His eyes trailed your back and the way your shoulder blades and muscles shifted beneath the tank top draped over your torso. The hazel hues lingered at the bottom hem that lifted with each step, revealing more of your ass that was perfectly sculpted by the tight green leggings. 

You only stopped when you reached a small white house and used a key to waltz in, and Andrew’s stomach clenched. You’d been living here. You’d only been less than an hour away this entire time. He could have had you sooner. 

But now? Now he knew where you lived. Someplace he could come to when you weren’t there. A home that you could possibly invite him in at some point. However, he wasn’t about to waste anymore time away from you. 

The next time he was out skating, he didn’t stay long, choosing to follow the memorized path back to your house. It wasn’t his fault you left a second key under a false rock, and it wasn’t his fault that you were out and about. He noted that you desperately needed a security system once he realized there was a lack of cameras. 

His footsteps were soft as he walked through the hallway and into the living room. The air smelled like a mix of your perfume—vanilla and salt air—and clean dog shampoo. Even if every aspect of your home held evidence that Cardinal lived there too in toys and the bed near the couch, he was grateful you kept it clear of dog hair. 

He moved on toward your bedroom and stopped in the threshold as though the space he was about to enter was too holy for him and his dirty soul. His eyes scanned each inch from your curtain choice to your bedspread: green gingham with white pillows. However, a sprawled piece of navy fabric caught his attention, and he gave into the urge to walk over. It wasn’t until he picked it up that he realized what it was. 

His large fingers fiddled with the lacy part of your underwear, thumb running along the hem before stopping at the gusset. There was no dampness, no leftover scent from what he could tell; the pair was clean, and that wouldn't do at all. He carefully laid it back down, spreading it as though he never picked it up in the first place and turned direction. 

Your closet was his next victim. His lower half peeked out around the door as he dug through the hamper of your dirty clothes. Your scent was thicker here. Not as sweet, but even more so addicting as it wafted upwards to his face. A small moan crawled up his throat, the sound echoing in your empty bedroom. 

However, as he continued digging around, he didn’t hear the soft sound of your door clicking shut or your footsteps as you walked in his direction. 

For one split second, you were terrified to see half of a man sticking out of your closet. Cardinal was currently at his handlers for one-on-one time; your one protector was gone the moment you needed him most. And yet, when the man pulled back, revealing the face of the man you’d been dreaming about for a year, your soul settled enough to let you watch what he did next. 

In his hands, yesterday's thong dangled between his thick fingers before he slowly brought it up to his nose. Your eyes stayed trained on his chest as it inflated deeply and a groan rumbled right out of it. Something inside you warmed at the scene even if you should have been calling the police. 

You shoved your hands into your pockets when he took another deep breath in and decided it was time to make your presence known. 

“You know,” you said, making Andrew’s eyes widen and hands drop to his sides. “If you missed me this much, you could have approached me normally. Unless this is your way of showing exactly what you’ve been wanting to do since we parted ways?” 

Your thong fell to the floor in a heap, and a redness crept up his neck and settled in his cheeks. He felt frozen, glued to the floor, unable to move even an inch under your hungry gaze. Your head tilted slightly when he made no move, made no attempt to apologize or explain what he was doing. 

“Andrew, come here,” you stated, slightly joking. 

However, your words seemed to light something in his mind, and he quickly walked over to you in large strides until mere inches were left between your chest and his. He wasn’t much taller than you exactly, but he had a few good bit above you where you had to look up. His shoulders, though, felt larger, and you bet you’d fit right into his chest with enough of him left to curl around you. 

Just the thought sent a shiver down your spine. 

Slowly, you lifted a hand and rested it against his cheek. Instantly, he leaned into your palm. 

“I’m sorry,” he finally breathed. 

But an apology wasn’t what you were looking for. 

“I asked you a question, Andrew,” you restated. “Have you been thinking about me?” His jaw dropped before clamping back shut. The hand at his cheek traveled upwards and tangled into his grown-out curls. “C’mon; speak. Tell me what you’re thinking.” 

He swallowed loudly, Adam’s apple bobbing in his neck. “I’ve . . . I’ve wanted you.” 

You cocked an eyebrow. “For how long?” 

“Since Folsom. Since you said you liked hearing me speak.” 

A small part of you shattered. “That long?” 

He nodded, hair pulling slightly in your grasp. “That long. But then I left. Couldn’t find you after that.” 

“Well, now you’ve found me. What are you going to do about it, Andrew?” 

At his sides, his hands clenched like they did the first time you met him, and somehow, it clicked to you that this was his tell, his silent plea for someone to help him do what he wanted. You’d done it before; when you first offered your chair for him to sit down only for him to take the ground instead. But here he was, looking at you with expecting eyes as he waited oh so patiently for your next direction. 

Your fingers curled deeper into his roots, and the pressure drew a sigh from deep in his lungs. 

“Poor Andrew,” you cooed. “Can’t do anything unless I tell you to.” 

“Please,” he whined. 

“Okay, okay.” Your eyes met his, the hazel almost completely covered by his blown out pupils. “Down.” 

As soon as the command hit his brain, neurons firing for him to obey, obey, obey, he fell to the floor, knees crashing down in one fluid motion. His face pressed into your navel, and his hands finally planted themselves on your hips. You took two steps back until your spine molded against the wall, and Andrew shuffled forward to follow. 

“Take off my pants and underwear,” you breathed. 

His fingers gripped both hems and pulled downward until the fabric puddled at your feet. It took every ounce of self control that Andrew had left to not shove his face between your thighs and breathe you in. 

Slowly, you lifted your right leg, using the wall as support, and rested it over his shoulder. Your cunt was now in full display, less than an inch from his nose. He slightly leaned forward, but you held his head in place by his hair. 

“Did I tell you to go ahead?” you questioned with lidded eyes. 

He shook his head, looking more guilty than he had when you’d caught him with your underwear under his nose after he’d broken into your home. 

“Good boys do as they’re told, Andrew.” 

“‘M sorry,” he whimpered. 

“Do you want to be a good boy?” 

“Yes,” he answered almost before you’d even finished the question. “Yes. I wanna be . . .” His words died in his mouth, and your brows pinched. 

“Go on, baby. Tell me what you wanna be.” 

He huffed, a sound that reminded you of when Cardinal didn’t want to do as told. 

“. . . wanna be your good boy.” 

An elated expression morphed your face with raised eyebrows and a small smile. 

“Then show me what your tongue can do and lick.” 

Like a tightly coiled spring, he launched forward, face diving into your cunt all at once. His chin rubbed along your already dampened folds as his tongue began to lap mindlessly at the sensitive space between your clit and your entrance. While that felt good, you needed him higher. 

“Slow,” you managed to get out while your fingers used his curls to direct him. When the flat of his tongue ran along your clit, white, zinging pleasure shot up your spine. “There. Right—fuck—there, Andrew.” 

Under your hand, Andrew learned quickly, eagerly doing just as you told him. He kept his hands in place while he traded tonguing your throbbing bundle of nerves and licking at your fluttering hole, your taste seeping into his mouth. He hoped that it would stick, that when he fantasized about you next, he’d be able to swallow the lingering taste. 

“Fingers,” you panted once ecstasy settled warmly in your navel and your thighs began to tighten around his head. You’d played with yourself enough to know exactly what you needed, and since meeting Andrew, his thick fingers had been a craving during your lapses of self pleasure. “Use your fingers.” 

Andrew’s right hand slowly dragged downward across your hip and slightly under where his lips stayed connected to your clit as he sucked it between his teeth. Using his pointer finger, he prodded at your hole, fingertip barely breaching you before sliding right in. 

A strangled moan ripped from deep in your throat at the feeling. One of his fingers felt like two of yours, the stretch delicious and borderline painful in sweet tantalizing pressure. 

“Andrew!” you whined, head tilting back, throat bared to the ceiling. Your hips canted upwards into his face and finger, desperately searching for something more. “Move.” 

He dragged his fingertip along your walls, memorizing every soft ridge until his soaked digit cooled slightly before thrusting it back in. Your cunt clenched tightly around it. 

“Hmmmm—fuck!” you keened when he managed to reach a particularly deep part of you that had only been accessible with a toy. “Oh, shit, fucking—Andrew!” 

The sound of you calling his name had his cock straining even more against his pants. He’d never admit it, but his cock had already started swelling the moment he inhaled your heady scent from your thong. But now, hearing your whimpers and half-croaked moans that tangled his name, he needed to get some pressure off, or he was going to cum untouched. 

You’d been so distracted with his finger and tongue that you failed to notice the first jerk of his hips against your shin. But when he did it a second time and then a third, you couldn’t ignore it any longer. 

“Are you—fuck—are you humping my leg?” you asked. 

Andrew stilled against you, and you swallowed a moan. You could feel how hard he was against your skin, how large his cock was, even with being restrained by two layers of fabric. 

“I’m sor—“ He choked on a moan when your leg rose slightly and pressed into his bulge. He hunched slightly at the waist, face pulling back from your cunt, cheek resting against your thigh with eyes pinched tightly. 

It’d been so long since someone touched him, and your approval of letting him use your body for his own pleasure made the fire in his stomach build and roar. 

“Go on,” you muttered before pushing back his sweat-soaked curls from his forehead. “Hump my leg like a fucking mutt, but don’t you dare cum, Andrew.”  

He nodded mindlessly, and his hips began to rock once again in slow, dragged out motions. You left him to his pleasure for a few moments before tugging his face back into your core. 

“Get back to licking like you know how to do,” you commanded even if you were just as pathetically holding onto strings as he was. “Add another finger and make me cum all over your face.” 

You kept your leg as steady as you could manage while Andrew started licking and nibbling at your folds and stiff clit with renewed fervor. His pointer was soon joined with his middle, the delicious stretch even tighter than before. And when his hips jerked, a groan vibrated through your folds, almost sending you right over the edge. 

“An-Andrew,” you gasped, overwhelmed with his fingers and tongue working in tandem to make you cum. “C-curl—fucking, I’m—curl your fingers upwards—oh!” Your elongated moan turned into whine when his fingertips managed to brush directly at your g-spot, and stars dotted your vision. “That’s—Andreeewww—feels so—I’m gonna cum!” 

Andrew kept humping your shin in methodical thrusts, careful to heed your words and hold back the urge to cum. From below, he lifted his eyes, gaze running up your stomach to your pinched face. He wanted to see what you looked like when you came undone, to see if he obeyed correctly. His lips puckered, and he sucked your clit between them, the tip of his tongue kitten liking the bud as he curled his fingers again. His fingers massaged that small, spongy spot, and the next moment, your thighs clamped down on his ears. 

“Cumming—fuck!” you moaned, torso bending over Andrew’s head, hips jerking absentmindedly to seek out as much pleasure as possible. 

Your walls rhythmically clenched around his two fingers, and your arousal dripped down to his knuckles. A shudder wracked through your entire being when the bliss started morphing into overstimulation. 

“Okay, okay,” you whimpered. “Enough.” 

Andrew licked from your fluttering hole up to your clit once last time before pulling back to sit on his calves.  Already half-lidded, your eyes fluttered closed, and your head felt back with a soft thunk as you tried to catch your breath, mind reeling and fuzzy. Down by your knees, a slurping sound echoed in the room, and your eyes ripped open in time to see Andrew hollow his cheeks around his fingers. 

Once your chest fell into a softer rhythm, you looked down at him. “Andrew.” He paused, fingers halfway in his mouth, and looked up. “Up.” 

He pushed off the ground without a second thought and stood to his full height, but his eyes were no longer on you. The blown-out pupils were fixated on a spot just over your shoulder, and when he noticed you’d caught on, he quickly shifted them back to your face. However, your curiosity wouldn’t let you forget, and you looked toward the wall near your face, eyes widened when you realized what he’d been looking at with a yearning look: one of Cardinal’s choke chains that you used specifically for obedience training, its gold links beaming and glinting under your gaze. 

You turned back to face him. “Pants and shirt off.” 

At lightning speed, he shucked both clothing articles off before neatly folding and setting them on the edge of your bed. A certain soft type of fondness that made you want to keep him forever filled your chest. You raked over his body with a hungry look, letting your eyes linger on the outline of his abs and happy trail that dipped into the waistline of his boxers before lowering down to his thick thighs. 

“Good,” you praised, and his chest puffed out ever so slightly. “Now . . . sit on the bed.” 

He turned without thinking and walked until his knees hit the edge before slowly lowering until his ass rested on top of your duvet. As he did so, you had also turned around, but in the opposite direction to grab the choke chain from the hook. Its weight settled heavily in your palm, the loop swinging as it dangled. 

When you looked up from it toward Andrew, he was already eyeing the chain as well with interest as well as apprehension. 

You held the special collar in the air. “Do you want me to use this on you, Andrew?” 

He swallowed thickly, and his head bobbed. 

You gave him a sharp sht. “Speak.” 

“Yes,” he sighed breathily. “Please.” 

Instead of answering, you rewarded him by walking over to stand between his spread legs, your thighs brushing and resting between his. Slowly, you fed the chain through the one hoop, allowing the hooped part to loosen and spread. The small links shinked against their metal counterparts, and the sound sent a shiver down Andrew’s spine. 

As you would do with Cardinal, you lowered the open-feed loop until it swallowed his head before drooping around his neck. You let it rest against his skin, let him get used to the cool metal as it drew in his radiating body heat. 

“There,” you whispered. “You look so good in a collar, Andy.” 

His brows pinched tightly, and he locked his confused eyes onto yours. “Andy?” 

You nodded. “Every good boy needs a nickname.” Your left pointer finger hooked through the end ring and pulled lightly, making Andrew follow the lead until his face stopped right next to yours. “Do you want to fuck me?” 

“Yes,” he was quick to answer this time. “Yes, please. For a long time.” 

You leaned in and placed a chaste kiss against his lips before muttering, “Crawl up the bed and sit against the headboard.” 

The end ring slipped from your finger and landed in the divot between his pecs. Without turning away from you, Andrew used his arms to pull himself farther up the bed, biceps bulging under his weight until he got into the position you wanted him to be in. Seeing that he settled himself, you pulled your shirt off before your bra followed suit. 

Almost instantly, your nipples pebbled in the cool air, and you swore a drop of drool escaped the side of Andrew’s lips. Your knees sunk first into the mattress, and then your hands. You slowly crawled over the bed, never looking away from him even as you partly straddled his thighs. He huffed out a soft whine when your nails scraped against his stomach and caught on his boxers. 

“Let’s get these off. Lift up,” you said. 

Andrew’s hips rose off the bed, giving you enough room to pull the black fabric down. The hem dragged down inch by inch in a teasing manner until his cock was fully revealed. You paused to watch it bob upward against his lower navel, and the heavy girth of it tilted the head to the side as it swayed. Your walls clenched around nothing; your cunt ached for it to fill you to the brim. 

Your tongue ran along your bottom lip as you all but ripped his boxers off the rest of the way, flinging them behind you to join your own pile of clothes. For a split second, you wondered if he wanted you to fold them like he had with his shirt and pants, but with the way he was looking at you . . . you could tell he didn’t mind them being wrinkled on the floor. 

Hesitantly, you reached out and trailed your finger down the vein on the underside of his length, his cock jolting and spurting a bead of precum when you reached the thick base. His hands, lying next to his thighs, once again began to rhythmically clench into fists. 

You shuffled forward more into his lap, one hand gripping his cock while the other took a hold of the dangling end of the choke chain. Your movements paused so you could slide his ruddy tip through your soaked folds, drawing moans from both of you. 

A small upward tilt of his hips had you pulling back and hand tightening the chain around his neck in a warning. 

“Nuh-uh-uh,” you tutted. “Stay.” 

When he stilled under you, you slowly positioned back over his cock until the head notched at your opening once the length was thoroughly soaked with your sticky arousal. But even just the first breach felt like you were being split open, and the breath from your lungs ripped up your throat. Andrew’s head tilted back, and his eyes fell shut as his face pinched. 

In a tormenting pace, you inched yourself down onto his cock, walls clenching and relaxing at the thick intrusion. Your fingers never left the chain as you pushed your hand into Andrew’s chest for stability. And never once did he move under you. 

“You f-feel so big, Andy,” you whimpered when he was around halfway in. “Biggest cock I’ve ever ha-had.” 

A groan rumbled through his chest, and his eyes finally opened back up so he could watch your face twitch with pleasure. Your back arched during the last few inches, and a high pitched whine crawled up your throat once he was fully sheathed, his tip digging into spots you didn’t know could be reached. You swore he was up in your throat, and one glance down to the swell in your abdomen almost made you cum right then and there. 

Without moving much, you blindly reached down, fingers finding purchase in his wrist to raise his hand to span across your stretched skin.   

“You feel that, Andy?” you questioned. “That’s you. So, so, so deep inside me. Reaching all those places I can’t even get to.” Your chin dipped so you could look at him and into his glossy eyes. 

In languid rocks, you began to lift off his cock in shallow motions, his length barely pulling out before you dropped back down, cunt fully engulfing him. Your knees deeply dug into the mattress on either side of his hips, and your breasts slightly bounced as you started to quicken your up and down grinds. When your pelvises met, the coarse hairs that hid the base of his cock added needed stimulation to your clit with a tantalizing texture. 

After finding a good rhythm that danced between harsh downward sitting and slow dragging to feel his cock run across every ridge of your walls, you moaned, “Andrew. You can move. Fuck me, baby; fuck me like a good boy.” 

Large, calloused hands planted themselves on your hips, and Andrew began to meet your thrusts halfway, his grip helping aid you to slide along his length. On a particularly punchy roll, your body jolted, and your hand yanked on the chain to tighten the loop around Andrew's neck. The gold links dug into the sides of his pretty, freckled skin, and put pressure on his pulse points. 

You watched as his eyes grew hazy, mouth dropping to draw in labored breaths. After a few seconds, you loosened the chain, and some resemblance of cognitivity returned to his hazel hues. 

“You like that?” you asked, pulling your hips up only to drop them back down to pull a whimper from Andrew. “You like being choked? You look so hot under me, Andy. Letting me use you for my own pleasure.” 

“Use me,” he parroted. “Use me, please. I want to be goodhnnggg—” 

“Use you?” You yanked the chain again, cutting off his words to bring that fuzzy pleasure back to the front of his brain. “Oh, I will, but I need you to stay for me. Can you do that?” 

This time you held the chain taut for longer and started rolling your hips again. You kept the chain at a safe tightness, making sure not to pull it and completely cut off his air. But the longer you held it tightly, and the more Andrew’s eyes fluttered, you noticed how glossy they were becoming until the first tear slid down the side of his face. 

Your cunt constricted around his cock at the sight, and you dropped the chain out of a strange mix of surprise and concern as you quivered above him.

“Hey,” you softly said, hand coming up to cup his cheek. “Are you okay? Are you hurting anywhere?” 

The last thing you wanted was to accidentally hurt Andrew, and while the sight of him crying did unspeakable things to your insides, you needed to make sure he was alright before continuing. 

“Good,” he croaked once he realized that you’d stopped, eyes hooded and mouth agape as he stared up at you. “So good. Not hurt.” 

His left hand rose and covered yours and gently guided your fingers back to the loop that rested hotly between his pecs. He finagled the ring back into your hand and gave a soft tug against it.

 “Again—again, please,” he begged pathetically, timber filled with desperation. “Don’t stop.” 

“Oh, Andy,” you cooed as your hips started to rock again. “So, so good for me.” 

You slightly curled the dangling chain around your pinky before holding the rest tightly against your palm and tugged. A strangled moan fell from Andrew’s parted lips, and the sheer sound had you involuntarily clenching around his cock. Another tear slipped out of the corner of his eye, and his chest stuttered under gasping breaths. He looked so beautiful like this: crying underneath the pleasure only you could give him. When his tears started falling more freely along with the whimpers from his mouth, your hips worked harder and faster, rising and falling to stuff yourself to the brim. 

Using his chest to balance, you dipped your head to get in closer until the small puffs of his hot breath fanned against your nose. You placed a small kiss to the corner of his parted lips before your tongue darted out to lap at the streaming tears. The small tang of salt was addicting, and it only made you want to see him sob. 

“Fuck!” Andrew cried out, hips bucking upwards as you gave your hardest pull yet, the chain constricting around his throat tightly, and you hoped there’d be a pretty bruise-shaped necklace to show for it. 

You clicked your tongue against your teeth, abruptly stopping all movement. Your unoccupied hand reached out and closed around his jaw, lifting and shaking his head to coax his eyes back open and make them focus on you. 

“What did I say?” you asked, tone deep, face inches from his. 

Andrew’s mouth flopped open, and he floundered for an answer even if all words seemed to escape him. The only expression he could muster was a dumb little thing, brows furrowed, corners of his lips tugged downward in a pout. 

You feigned disappointment and shook your head. Your hand left his jaw in order to take a new hold of the choke chain and loop. “Ya’ know, Andy, good dogs follow orders.” 

“No, no—” His hands scrambled, darting between the chain, your hands, and your hips like he didn’t know where to touch or even if he could touch. “Please, please. ‘M good—swear I’m good; ‘m your good boy.” 

“Then what did I say?” You ground down into his hip as hard as you could, and you relished in the way he groaned and shivered. “What did I tell you to do?” 

“Then what did I say?” You squeezed your walls around him as hard as you possibly could, relishing in the way he groaned and shivered. “What did I tell you to do?”

“Stay!” His chest heaved. “You told me to stay!” 

“Good boy,” you murmured, other hand coming up to gently brush his fallen curls from his forehead. He went crosseyed to track your movements. “My good boy.”

“Y-your good boy,” he stuttered.

Two fingers from your right hand hooked into the ring, and two fingers from your left slid between his lips, fingertips settling in the middle of his tongue. You tugged, and his lips closed around your digits, suckling softly as you found the perfect rhythm to drive the head of his cock into the soft, sensitive spots inside you. 

Each draw back made a wet, squelching sound, your inner thighs and his base already soaked with your essence. Your walls clenched and held around his cock, desperate to keep him in and hold him inside. 

“Doing—fuck—doing so well f’r me, Andy,” you slurred. The pleasure pit in your stomach was quickly tightening, and you knew you were so close to cumming, but there was just something missing. 

Andrew hadn’t moved since you told him the second time to stay still, but that’s not what you wanted at all anymore. In one fluid motion, you tilted to the side and used the momentum to flip you both. At the feeling of turning over, Andrew’s eyes popped wide open. His cock hadn't even slipped out, length still buried inside you. Your hips continued softly rocking against him, but the new position had somehow made him reach deeper. 

“C’mon, Andy,” you moaned when he shifted forward to put his hands on both sides of your face to tower over you. “Fuck me like you mean it.” You gave the chain a yank to emphasize your wants, and Andrew was quick to comply. 

His hips drew back before kicking forward, and your legs twitched at the force. Every thrust had your spine digging and pushing up the bed and your mouth opening for wanton moans to fill his ears. At his shoulder, your nails dug into his skin and worked with the tight chain to keep him against you. 

Andrew’s hazel eyes shifted along your face, gazing at how he was going to bring you over the edge from his cock alone. When your moans began to change into high-pitched songs that broke halfway through choked gasps, he sat up slightly and placed his hands under your legs to push them up until the tops of your thighs brushed against your breasts. 

“Oh—oh! Fucking—Andrew!” you mewled, head tipping back to push into the pillow. “So fucking deep—fucking me so well! Gonna make me cum!” 

With a fire lit in his stomach, his hips pistoned against you with wet plaps, stilling momentarily to grind and let his tip rut into your soft spot. By now, your walls gripped him so tightly it was almost impossible to draw back all the way. 

“Gonna-gonna—Andyyyyyyy!” Your body tensed beneath him as your orgasm ripped through you, sending shockwaves up and down your limbs. 

Andrew kept his pace slow, wanting to draw out as much pleasure as he could for you, but his hips started to stutter intermittently, waiting for you to tell him to either pull out and stay inside, not expecting to get to finish. However, when your legs locked together at his lower back to push him as deep as possible, he grunted loudly. 

“You can cum inside, Andrew,” you panted, still experiencing the softer licks of pleasure that made you feel floaty. For one last measure, you pulled the chain taut once again. “Be good and cum.” 

Andrew stilled in your grasp, only needing your words and chain for his cock to start spurting cum along your walls. A low whimper whistled through his partly opened lips, and his eyes closed once again to focus on the way the chain dug into his neck, cutting off what he needed for the haze to grow at the edges of his mind. He rutted against you in half, unfinished thrusts, a mix of his spend and your creamy arousal coating the length of his cock. 

When he had nothing left to give, his arms slightly gave out, and his weight settled on top of you. You hummed lowly at the feeling and finally dropped the chain in order to run your hands through his curls. Every so often, you’d lift your chin to place small kisses along his cheek and jaw, whispering soft praises into his skin. 

The two of you lied there for several moments, basking in the afterglow and breathing in the scent of sex and something so entirely each other, neither of you wanting to let go at all. It wasn’t until Andrew leaned back and his cock slid out of you did you sit up slightly to look at him directly. 

“Thank you,” you softly said, one of your fingers still twirling a stray auburn curl. 

Andrew tilted his head slightly. “For what?” 

“For this, silly boy,” you laugh, the sound airy with disbelief. “You found me again.” 

He looked rather bashful after you said that before his lips formed into a frown. “Should’ve found you earlier.” 

“Maybe . . .” you trailed, “but we’re here now, and I’m not letting you disappear from my life again, Andrew Cody.” 

Finally, he fully smiled at you, crooked teeth on display. “Okay.” 

“Good,” you said, head bobbing in a nod. “Because you wouldn’t have to just deal with me. I will put Cardinal on your ass before you could even think of leaving without saying something.”