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Two jobs would keep anyone busy. Juggling another job during your first year of residency? 

Forget about it.

All throughout medical school, you balanced clinicals and classes with your camgirl gig. Study sessions were interrupted by scheduled video calls. You’d set up your laptop on your dresser, aim it toward your bed, and shrug your hoodie off before dialing whichever gentleman requested your services that night. 

There were nearly two dozen clients who you met with regularly over the past three years.

Some showed their faces. Some just showed their lap. Some only spoke, urging you on verbally with no other input. Some wanted a show from you and nothing more. Some of them gave you too much information-- full names, jobs, routing numbers, and home addresses. 

None of which you ever used. You were strictly providing online services: Video chats only. Other forms of communication, like your business email, were very explicitly limited to scheduling inquiries only. Any client who refused those boundaries was nixed and replaced with someone from your waiting list.

Since graduating with your doctorate in May, you’ve phased clients out. There wouldn’t be enough time to balance all of them with the demands of your intern year.

So, you let your clients know that you’re no longer in service due to a career change. You offer one more call for each of them as a last hoorah (final paycheck) and go your separate ways. 

But there was one client that you can’t bring yourself to let go. 

SgtMD

He was your third client ever. You’d seen him at least three times a week for the last three years, and looked forward to each meeting with a pounding heart and heated cheeks. 

Each time SgtMD booked a call, he showed his torso. Always clad in a plain, black shirt with large biceps and broad shoulders, never anything else. There was a hint of silver stubble that trickled down his neck sometimes, usually on your first call of each week. A tuft of dark armpit hair you saw once when he stretched his arms above his head. 

And SgtMD likes to talk. 

He likes to tell you how beautiful you are. Likes to ask you to twirl around in the new lingerie he sent to you and then laugh darkly each time you obey. He likes telling you to “Take it slow, sweetheart. Just like that, yeah. Don’t worry about the extra time, I’ll pay for it.”

And you like him. 

Most clients don’t make you finish. They want you to shake your ass or flash your tits or tell them they’re “such a good boy”. Nobody wants to see you come apart like SgtMD. 

So, when you move to Pittsburgh to start your residency, you dropped them all... Except SgtMD. To him, you sent:

You: Hi, Sarge. I’m about to start a new job and my hours will be a little different. I want to see you as often as I can. I will email as soon as I have a fixed schedule so that we can plan to call. Remember you can always ask. Please don’t be shy. Your next few sessions are free since I’m changing things up on you. I hope I can see you soon. 

His returning email came within two minutes.

SgtMD: Hey, Sweetheart. I’ll pay. Are you free at 5? I know it’s last minute, but it’s my birthday. I want to see you.

You: Happy birthday, Sarge. 5 o’clock is perfect. Am I invited to the birthday party?

SgtMD: It’s a date, then. No party, I’m working tonight.

So, the afternoon before your first shift as a resident, you find yourself baking a cake for him. It’s silly. It’s inappropriate. It’s crossing every boundary that you’ve ever established as a sex worker. And, really, there’s no point in making it, because you’ll end up eating it alone when you get off your shift at 8 a.m., anyway. 

Yet still, here you are, logged onto the call at 5 p.m. on the dot with a lit candle. Your black scrubs are folded outside of the frame, ready for you to throw on once you’re off camera. 

Now, you’re wearing a pretty white lace set that SgtMD bought you for your birthday last year. You’re not sure he remembers, but something tells you he just might. He’s thoughtful, in the unconventional ways that a man can be thoughtful with a sex worker. 

He remembers your birthday every year. He sends you flowers each time he orders a new lingerie set for you. Every holiday there’s a bouquet waiting for you at the post office with a sweet, hand-written note. 

You keep them all posted to a corkboard in your bedroom next to other keepsakes like photos with your friends and concert tickets.

The screen dings, and you see his image pop up. His broad, thick shoulders taking up the whole frame. Black shirt tugging between his large pecs, and the typical trail of grey stubble down his Adam’s apple.

“Happy birthday.” You grin into the camera. 

“Thank you, sweetheart. Always so thoughtful, so good for me.” His voice is as rough and deep as always. It winds a knot in your stomach. “Blow that out for me.”

You purse your lips and blow a gentle puff of air onto the cake, the warm illumination leaving your face. 

“What does the candle say?” He asks. You catch a glimpse of the ends of his hair as he tilts his head. Auburn and grey. Fucking hot. 

“It’s just a 1.” The temperature is warmer under your embarrassment than it was with the open flame of the candle. “I thought it’d be a nice gift if I told you that you’re the only client I see now. The only one.”

He leans back slightly as if your words have physically stunned him. Running a big hand over his neck, he exhales slowly. 

“Wait, sweetheart. Are you just saying that? Or is it really just me?” You wish you could see his face. Usually, his lack of personal identifiers isn’t something that bothers you. It’s easy to understand why someone wouldn’t want to stare at themselves while they were on a call of this nature. 

But here, now, you wanted to see if there was a blush on his cheeks. You wanted to know if he looked excited or concerned. 

“It’s just you, Sarge.”

𓊔𓊔𓊔𓊔𓊔

Two hours and three orgasms later, you're walking through the doors of the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center for your first shift. It’s the most he’s ever gotten out of you, and you’d be lying if you said you weren’t ready to fall asleep after so much stimulation. 

But it’s only 7 p.m.. Night shifts have always been your preference. Even before getting a job in medicine, you preferred the overnight stocking gigs or the late night video chats. 

You like the dark. The night is gentle and unpredictable.

“Hi,” you greet the charge nurse at the hub with a small smile, tucking your bag into one of the cubbies under the desk. “It’s my first day. Do you have any idea where I can find Dr. Gloria Underwood?”

The blonde woman nods once, and you look over your shoulder to find her already walking toward you. You’d met Gloria once previously over the summer when you had a virtual interview for the resident position. It was a panel of her, one of the day-shift attendings, and a few of the hospital board members.

“Welcome!” She greets cheerfully, but there’s a franticness in her wide eyes. “My gosh, it’s a bit hectic around here today. Usually I’d be the one showing you the ropes, but I’ve got a meeting with corporate and-”

“No worries,” you excuse, waving your palm. “Things get busy, I understand.”

“I like you already.” Her gaze trails to the other side of the nurses’ station. There’s two men, both in black, both looking at the screen of a tablet. “These are your attending physicians, Dr. Jack Abbot and Dr. John Shen. I’ll introduce you and they’ll walk you through everything you need to know.”

One of them is older, a stubble across his jaw and neck that glints under these harsh lights. He’s handsome, with light grey curls and dark eyes. Freckles smatter over his entire body as far as you can see. Face, neck, arms, hands, all covered in evidence of long summer days.

Next to him is the younger doctor, with a head of full, dark hair that matches his deep brown eyes. He’s also sporting stubble, though his is darker and shorter, closer to a shadow than anything else. 

Before you can respond to Gloria, she’s already sweeping you over to the two men. As you get closer, you realize that Dr. Abbot isn’t wearing a black scrub top like Dr. Shen. Instead, he dons a plain black tee that reminds you all too much of SgtMD and the meeting you had before this. 

It’s bad that you miss him. You know it’s wrong. It’s inappropriate. It’s probably unhealthy on some level. 

But nobody has ever made you feel the way he does. Nobody has taken care of you so well. Nobody has ever shown you so much affection in their words and actions. And you’ve never wanted to return that care and affection before.

You shake your head as if it will manually remove the thought from your brain. 

“Jack, John, this is your new resident,” Gloria introduces you. 

“Only one this year?” Dr. Shen raises his thick eyebrows. “Are we broke?”

You snort, but quickly cover it up with a cough when Gloria’s sharp eyes dart to where you’re still standing at her side.

“Nobody wants to work nights,” she huffs. “Would the two of you please show her the ropes? I’m late for a budget meeting.”

Again, she’s halfway down the hallway before she gets a response. 

“Hi, it’s nice to meet you both,” you say with a soft smile. Your eyes catch on Dr. Abbot’s slack-jawed face.

Your heart drops, realizing you’ve already made a bad first impression on one of the only people that matters here. 

“I’m sorry about the inconvenience. I’m sure you’ve both already got enough to do without babysitting me through your shift.” A wince threatens to pinch your face in apology, but you try to remain confident.

“No need! Happy to help our residents.” Shen hands you the tablet they were both reading. “I’m going to do hand-off with Robby. Read over this chart and tell Abbot what your next steps would be.” 

“Is everything ok?” You ask Abbot quietly once Shen is out of hearing range. “I’m sure the having-me-shadow-you thing is annoying. I promise you won’t even know I’m there.”

His head snaps to you, heated eyes meeting yours. His short curls have dashes of auburn throughout them that you can see now up close. His eyes are dark, pupils blown as he stares at your face. 

“I’ll know you’re there.” There’s an edge to his voice that sends a shiver up your spine. 

“What?” Your brows meet in the middle of your forehead at that. “I’m so sorry, Dr. Abbot, I don’t understa-”

You’re cut off by another doctor slinging an arm around Abbot’s shoulders and pulling him in for a hug. 

“Happy birthday, brother.” He smacks his back hard. 

Your heart sinks to your stomach as you piece it together. The black tee shirt, the auburn hair, the broad shoulders, your reaction to his voice. The birthday.

Holy fucking shit.

Dr. Jack Abbot is SgtMD. 

Your new attending physician is the faceless man you’ve pined after for the last three years. He’s the man who sent you the earrings you’re currently wearing. Small, modest studs with a little emerald stone that he said was his favorite color.

Fuck, shit, fuck, fuck, fuck.

Quickly, you snatch the tablet close to your chest, as if the secret truth is announcing itself on the screen, and move a few feet away. You try to tune out the waves of anxiety wracking through your body at the realization that he’s here and he’s hot and he’s staring at you while having an entire conversation with the attending you recognize from your interview.

The chart. 

The thing you just spent the last 8 years of your life working for is here in front of you. You cannot let your personal life get in the way of accomplishing this.

The air you inhale is sterile. You breathe it out and let your eyes scan the chart.

13 y/o female ℅ SOB at rest. Sats 90. No hx of asthma. Sudden onset after tackle injury in lacrosse game Friday. PCP prescribed inhaler, no improvement. 

The possible diagnoses flit through your head, overriding the anxiety of your personal life catching fire between these walls. 

This is what you’re here for. To practice medicine. To be a doctor. 

“You look at the chart?” Shen comes next to you. He makes a slurping sound as he pulls coffee through his already-empty cup. The clock just struck 7:01 p.m.. One minute into the shift. How is his drink gone already?

“I did. My first thought was a fractured rib that punctured the lung, but I don’t see any symptoms other than shortness of breath. Surely she’d complain of pain if there were a rib injury. My next thought is a respiratory illness unrelated to the injury-- still, sats are really low for a young, active girl. Hard to find a bullseye here,” you relay your thought process to him. He takes the chart, nodding as he reads through it again. 

“I agree. So what should we order?” His dark eyes are much softer and sweeter than Abbot’s. You blink the thought of him away quickly, refocusing on the question. 

“CBC, BMP, ABG, ECG, and BNP.” Your answer comes quickly. “ And maybe a D-dimer depending on what medications she’s taking. I didn’t any listed in the chart.”

He smiles widely and nods, revealing the stereotypical adrenaline-junkie smile that all emergency doctors seem to possess. 

“Right on. Let’s go get her from intake.” He claps your shoulder and leads the way.

𓊔𓊔𓊔𓊔𓊔

Shen takes you under his wing for the first half of the shift. He walks you through how to read and work the board, introduces you to every staff member that walks by, and shares plenty of stories-- comedy and horror-- of his time spent at PTMC. 

When 1 a.m. rolls around and you’ve shadowed him through most types of cases, he cuts you loose. 

“I need a coffee, and you need a patient,” he sighs, looking up at the board. “What do you see?”

“I can do the debridement in Central 9,” you suggest, turning to face him. 

“Perfect. Go get ‘em, tiger.” Another clap on the shoulder and he’s leaving you. 

You review the patient chart on the tablet before you enter the room. No matter how many patients you treated as a student doctor, it’s still nervewracking to go into a room alone. After rereading the chart, taking a deep breath, and letting the yawn you’ve been holding in for six hours go, you’re finally ready.

“Hi, Mrs. Sanchez,” you greet your patient as you enter the room. You introduce yourself and wince at the sight of the wound on her leg. “Gosh, this looks like it hurts. What happened?”

“I was taking the stupid dog out to the bathroom. He needs to go out on a leash because we live on a big property.” Her face crumples into a cute frown. “He took off and pulled me through the gravel backyard. He hates me, I swear!”

You sigh, shaking your head.

“Doesn’t sound like he has your best interest at heart,” you agree, earning a small grin. You pull the stool to her bedside and snap on a pair of gloves. “What breed is your dog?” “My dog!?” She scoffs, wiping the smile off her face instantly. “No! My son’s. Little rat bastard that I never wanted in the first place.”

“The son or the dog?” You tease, opening the instruments on the sterile tray next to you. She chokes out a stream of laughter that lasts the entire time you’re unwrapping, earning a few giggles from you as she tries and fails to regain her composure. 

“Things are going well in here, I see.” A familiar voice says from the doorway. Abbot steps into the room, rubbing sanitizer into his hands before looking at the patient chart. “I’m Dr. Jack Abbot, I’m the attending physician here.”

“This is Mrs. Hilaria Sanchez,” you introduce your patient because she’s still laughing too hard to get a word out. You’re wearing a wide smile of your own as you glance back at her. “She was taking her son’s dog out when he took off and dragged her.”

“Yeah?” He says it almost unconsciously, and still, heat pools between your legs. He isn’t even looking at you, and you’re quick to turn back to your patient before he does. The last thing you need is for him to realize the effect he has on you. “Should I be concerned about a hospital-induced laughing spell, Mrs. Sanchez?”

She snorts, wiping tears from under her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt. 

“She’s just a very funny doctor!” She giggles again, and you can’t help the amused chuckle that tumbles from your own lips as you grab her a tissue from the counter. 

“I said one thing!” You retort through your own laughter. “Ok, ok. We have to stop laughing so I can get these pebbles out of your leg. Talk about something else, please, Dr. Abbot.”

You’re careful not to look at him when you address him out of fear that he won’t react to you the way you do to him.

That’s one thing that used to bother you about Jack SgtMD. Since he never showed his face online, you could never tell if he was enjoying what you were doing, really. He’d groan and tell you how good you looked. You’d catch his strong arms moving sometimes, stroking himself off camera at a slow, steady pace. 

Once, last year, he’d finished and came so hard that cum shot up into frame, dirtying his pressed black shirt. It was dirty and impulsive and he was so out of breath, you remember. You came immediately after him that day.

“How old is your son?” He prompts as he hands you the tweezers and sets the discard tray on the bedside next to her wounded calf. Again, you’re jolted back into the moment.

“He’s 25. That’s about your age, no?” She looks at you as she blots under her eyes with the tissue. 

“Just about,” you reply, dropping the first rock into the tray. “What does he do?”

“He’s a lawyer,” she responds proudly. “And he’s very handsome. And single.”

You and Abbot both snort at the same time. 

“Are you trying to set me up on a date with the same son you just called a ‘rat bastard’?” You raise your brows playfully at her before turning your attention back to the leg. 

“Oh, please! You know I meant the dog!” She chuckles, swatting at your arm and missing by a mile. “I’m telling you. You two would be good together. Two attractive, successful young people.”

“Unfortunately, she’s taken,” the man behind you answers before you can even open your mouth. 

You turn your head to face him, eyes wide as saucers as you process his words.

Did he actually just stake his claim like that?

Heat floods your face, neck, and ears as you reorient toward your patient’s leg. The sight of him there, in that same tight black shirt he was wearing earlier today when he had you beg him to stop making you cum, is too much. 

“That’s too bad. I’m sure my son is cuter!” She winks. 

You give your best chuckle despite the rising temperature, continuing the tedious task of plucking each piece of dirt and gravel from her six-by-three wound. 

For longer than he should, Abbot hovers over your shoulder, humming each time you do something well. 

It’s almost odd seeing his face. You’d never considered what SgtMD might look like. Based on the build of his torso and the grit of his voice, you knew he would be hot, and that was really enough to satisfy the knots he managed to unwind. 

You were used to knowing clients only by their screen names and what they chose to show. It wasn’t a big deal, it was the nature of the business.

But this morning, it did bother you, just for a fleeting moment. 

First, it bothered you not knowing what name to write on his cake. You weren’t going to write Happy Birthday, SgtMD on top of your pretty white buttercream frosting. Something about that name had been… defiled. 

SgtMD was the man who coaxes orgasms with only his instruction, never a finger laid on your body but still managing to light you up with desire. 

Happy Birthday, Jack would have been much more fitting. 

Jack is the man who pays you for every session, even the ones where you’re ten minutes late because you had to finish a timed quiz or hit every red light on your way home from the library. He’s the one who insists on buying you pretty lingerie. Sexy, of course, but beautiful. Handsewn pieces custom made to fit the measurements he asked you for. 

A little ache splits your heart as you face the new reality of your situation. 

He recognized you. He knew you. Not your name, maybe, but your face. From where he’s standing over you, he’s observing the hands that he’s seen knuckle-deep in your pussy. It’s not new for him, just for you. 

And as much as it embarrasses you to admit it, it upsets you a little bit. Makes you feel guilty for not being able to know his name from your residency offer letter and reject it. 

And seeing his reaction this morning, him having to process your presence alone while you apologized for something entirely unrelated-- it releases a strange guilt that climbs up your throat. 

“Dr. Abbot,” you say without thinking first, because you desperately need reassurance that you haven’t managed to go and fuck up your professional and personal life by being here. 

You want him to tell you that everything is alright, that he’s not disgusted by you, that this doesn’t ruin his fantasy of you, that he won’t march to HR as soon as the shift ends and tell them that he can’t work with you because you have an inappropriate relationship. 

You swallow hard, not knowing what to say now. 

“Do you think this area needs a stitch?” Is all that comes to mind.

His dark eyes feel all-consuming, and suddenly you’re grateful that he never showed them during your calls, because the pressure of having to make yourself finish while he gave you this stare would be far too intimidating. 

It isn’t unkind, it’s just-- intense. Everything he’s done today, actually, has been rather intense.

He bends down, and the smell of mint swarms your senses. His chest presses against your shoulder as he squints, searching for the made-up bleeder. 

“Where?” Fuck that voice is even better in person. The breath of it brushes your ear just barely, and you suck in a sharp breath. 

Instead of answering verbally, you point to a random spot on the wound with your tweezers. He looks from you, to the not-bleeding area of skin, back to you. 

“Stitches?” Mrs. Sanchez asks, looking up from where she’s been scrolling on her phone. 

“No, ma’am,” He reassures her quickly with a shake of his head. She nods, and he turns his gaze back to you. “I see why you thought to ask. Come find me after you’re done here and I can explain why it doesn’t need a stitch. I’ll be charting if you need me. Feel better soon, Mrs. Sanchez.”

He stands quickly, sheds his gloves into the waste bin, and leaves the room. 

“Do you think it’s ok to add non-famous people to a hall pass list?” Your patient asks as soon as the door shuts behind him. Slowly, you lift your gaze from her leg to her face, arching a brow in question. “That Dr. Abbot is… phew!” 

She fans herself with her fingers, eliciting a hearty laugh from you as you continue working and thinking about your attending because… phew is right. 

𓊔𓊔𓊔𓊔𓊔

Mrs. Sanchez is discharged shortly after you finish the grueling task of removing each piece of gravel from her open wound and wrap it under Donnie’s supervision. There’s a sharp ache across the entire length of your shoulders. 

“Shoulders?” Shen asks as you sit down to chart, noting your pained wince.

“I was hunched over that leg for two hours.” You blink hard. “I’m seeing little pieces of gravel everytime I close my eyes.”

He laughs, wiping condensation from his drink with a sterile towel. 

“Is she ready to be discharged?” He looks at the board. “We could use her room.”

“Actually, she’s been discharged. Just waiting for her son to get here and pick her up,” you say through a bite of the granola bar you keep in your scrub top. “He’s a lawyer.”

“Is she trying to set you up with her son?” He snorts, shaking his head as he looks toward the patient room where she’s rifling through her purse. “You’ll get used to it. Happens at least once a day. Everyone wants their kids to date a doctor for some reason.”

He leaves, taking his coffee with him into a patient room. 

Just as you’ve found a comfortable position and typed out the first sentence of your patient care summary, Lena raps her knuckles from the other side of the counter. When you look up, you make eye contact with the man next to her. 

He’s about your age, with dark, curly brown hair and a tanned complexion. Both features that match Mrs. Sanchez, who you turn to find excitedly waving at you both through the glass door of her exam room. 

Laughing, you stand up and extend your hand in greeting as you introduce yourself. 

“You’re Mrs. Sanchez’s son, I assume?” You ask as you round the counter. He nods, scratching the back of his neck. 

“I guess it’s safe to assume that all the matchmaking texts I was getting were being relayed to you, then?” He breathes out a nervous laugh. 

You chuckle in response, pulling your lips between your teeth before releasing them with another quick laugh. Before you can respond, you hear your name called from down the hallway. Abbot is walking over, and you note the slight unevenness of his footsteps. 

So many quirks, and you want to know them all. You want to know him. All of him.

“You discharging Mrs. Sanchez?” He asks, leaning in to glance at the tablet in your hand, not once looking at the man beside you. You nod, maintaining his heavy eye contact. “Great. Mind if I observe?”

You shake your head, then gesture between the two men. 

“This is Mrs. Sanchez’s son. He’s here to take her home. This is my attending physician, Dr. Jack Abbot,” you introduce the two of them to each other, taking note of the way Jack nods without a smile. On the way to her room, you stop to grab a wheelchair from the side wall of the hallway, but Jack takes it quickly, pushing it on his own. “Thank you, Dr. Abbot.”

He pulls the door to the room open, waiting for you to walk through. Shyly, you cast a smile in his direction and step inside. 

For such a gentleman, you’re surprised he isn’t being welcoming to Mr. Sanchez. Surely, he isn’t jealous. Right?

“Hey, mom.” Her son enters right after you, moving to her bedside to place a kiss to her hair. “I’m so sorry this happened.”

They spend a moment arguing over the son’s dog while you sort her discharge paperwork and Jack prepares the wheelchair. 

When you turn to face the bed again, Mrs. Sanchez points to you. 

“Mijo, this is the girl I was telling you about. See? Very pretty, very sweet, very very smart. She’s a doctor, you know?” She nudges his side. 

“This is your discharge paperwork, Mrs. Sanchez,” you say in an attempt to change the subject. “There’s instructions for how to rebandage the wound on this page. You’ll want to do it twice a day, when you wake up and when you go to sleep, ok?”

She nods, taking the packet of paperwork. 

“Your leg may be a little bit tender. A little pain is normal as the skin heals, but if it gets too uncomfortable to bear weight, or if you start noticing any foul smells or pus coming from the wound, it could be a sign of infection. Come back in as soon as possible if that happens, alright?”

She nods and hands the paperwork to her son as Jack helps to transfer her into the wheelchair. He does it easily, lifting her body off of the bed and into the cushioned seat. 

As he does, every muscle ripples down his arm. Somehow, every inch of him is huge. Fingertip to his bicep, where the tee blocks the rest of his arm from view, you watch his skin dimple as it flexes with his movements. 

“Does she need to be on any antibiotics or anything?” Her son asks, bringing your attention away from Jack’s arms and back to him. 

“Um, no. She’s all set to go.” You smile politely.

“I’ll walk them out,” Jack says, nodding to you. “Can you notify Lena that this room is ready to be cleaned, please?”

You nod, holding the door as he pushes Mrs. Sanchez through the threshold. She hooks a finger into your scrub pocket as she’s pushed out, winking coyly. Although you don’t understand, you smile and wave, wishing her a good rest of her night. 

“Central 9 is ready to be cleaned,” you tell Lena as you approach the nurse’s station again. She gives a thumbs up and picks up the phone, nodding to the board. Pediatric bone break in South 12, and she’s writing your name into the box next to it. 

You head there, smiling softly when you enter the room and introduce yourself. 

𓊔𓊔𓊔𓊔𓊔

You pick up cases for the rest of your shift, bouncing from room to room and having no time between check-ins to chart. 

“God, it’s nice having another resident,” Ellis tells you as she plops down across from you to chart.

You grin, fingers clacking away as you hurry to document everything as quickly as you can. It’s already 6:45 a.m., the day shift is trickling in, and you have eight charts to start and complete before you can leave. 

“Do you have a minute?” You swivel on your stool to see Jack standing at your desk. “I wanted to discuss the bleeder you asked about earlier with Mrs. Sanchez.”

Swallowing hard, you nod, standing to follow him. His limp is more pronounced now after a shift on his feet, and you wonder what he’s dealing with. 

The continued reminders that you don’t really know him at all are both aggravating and unnerving.

“How was your first shift?” He asks you, leading you to a window that overlooks the bridge. It’s far from the swing of things, nestled between a staircase and elevator. 

Only the two of you are here for the moment, but anyone could walk down the stairs or exit the elevators. 

He’s staring out, watching the occasional car drive by. 

“Um, it was good, thank you,” you reply nervously. “How was your birthday?”

He faces you then, a smirk tugging one corner of his lip up. 

“Best one so far,” he says simply. His eyes are so full of something, not emotion, but-- passion, maybe? You aren’t sure what to call it, but it’s incredibly difficult to maintain eye contact and even more difficult to look away. “I realize I made you uncomfortable this morning, and I’m sorry. I was just-- surprised to see you.”

“What?” You frown, stepping back in surprise. “Dr. Abbot, you didn-- no! Oh my gosh, no, not at all! I’m sorry for making you uncomfortable. I promise I had no idea that you work here. Really, I didn’t mean to ambush you or surprise you or ruin what we have.”

You snap your mouth shut so hard that you have to run your tongue along your teeth to make sure none of them chipped from the force. 

The corner of his mouth raises higher, but he says nothing. 

“Is this ok? Me working here, I mean.” 

You hate how desperate you sound. The feeling sits low in your stomach, bubbling with anxiety as his silence continues. 

“What kind of cake was it?” He stares back out the window. 

“What?” You ask stupidly for the second time before realization dons on you. “Oh. It’s vanilla. With a whipped buttercream. I had some leftover batter, so there’s cupcakes, too. Actually, there’s two in my lunchbox if you want one.”

“You made me a cake from scratch?” He chuckles darkly. “You brought it to work?”

A bead of sweat runs from your hairline down the nape of your neck, and you wipe it anxiously. Shrugging, you wince a little at how pathetic he’s making you sound. 

It’s not like you knew SgtMD would be here. 

“You’re a sweet girl,” he comments, and you feel heat pool between your thighs. 

Instinctively, you cross your legs and look down at your feet. 

“I should probably get back to charting.” You wipe your sweaty palms off on the knees of your scrubs and push yourself to stand. 

He follows, towering over you. Then, silently, he dips his hand into the front pocket of your scrub pants. 

It’s only for a moment, but the heat from his palm makes your breath catch in your throat. 

His hand emerges with a piece of paper between his pointer and middle fingers. 

“You don’t need this. You’re seeing someone, remember?” His head tilts to the side, as if testing you. Your eyes flit to the paper he’s holding, something you don’t recognize. 

“I-I-- what is that?” You pout your lips and return your gaze to his face, finding his eyes fixed on your mouth. Your pout gets more dramatic as he further confuses you. “Dr. Abbot?”

“Don’t call me that.” It’s stern. “Jack. I’m Jack.”

“Jack,” you repeat softly. It’s your first time saying it out loud. “It’s nice to meet you.”

He drags a hand down his face, laughing like you wear him out. The sight makes your heart skip a beat.

This look on his face. This is what you craved from him online, and here it is. 

It was worth the three-year wait, no doubt.

Jack tucks the paper into his pocket and his eyes dart to something over your shoulder. You turn, following his gaze to find a man entering the double doors. Jack places a hand just above the curve of your ass, urging you back into the main ED. 

“Robby!” He calls, dropping his hand, but motioning for you to follow with a tilt of his head. The man entering the ED turns, and you recognize him as the one who wished Jack a happy birthday this morning. The same man from your interview. “This is our new resident. I don’t think you two met this morning.”

He shakes his head, gaze moving between the two of you briefly before settling on your face. 

“We did not. I’m Michael Robinavitch, everyone calls me Robby.” He extends his hand for you to shake, and you do, hoping you don’t look as fucked-out as you feel. When you tell him your name, he surprises you by saying, “I remember. I sat in on one of your interviews. Hard to forget someone with such an impressive resume.”

You laugh, waving your hand in front of you to dismiss his praise. 

“Oh gosh, thanks Dr. Robby.” Nervously you glance at Jack, who is giving you an appraising look. “I’m really behind on charting, so I should probably get to that. It was great to meet you, I’m sure I’ll see you around.”

“Maybe we could grab dinner sometime,” he suggests, and Jack clears his throat. 

You were almost sure that he was merely suggesting a space to talk more about your resume. Almost. 

“I’d love for the three of us to get together!” You play stupid on purpose. “I just moved to Pittsburgh so I could definitely use the restaurant recommendations. I’ll be looking forward to it.”

You catch Jack’s sneaky grin from the corner of your eye as you turn on your heels to go back to your computer station. 

𓊔𓊔𓊔𓊔𓊔

An hour later, the sweet smell of buttercream enters your nostrils. You hear a crinckling and turn quickly to see Jack looming over you. 

“Holy shit,” you gasp, clutching your chest. “How long have you been here?”

He’s just standing there, holding your lunchbox and unwrapping your cupcake. 

You have no idea how he knew it was yours, but alas, here you are.

He sets the lunchbox onto the counter next to you and pulls a stool from another charting station. Sidling next to you, he leans too far into your space, disregarding all professional boundaries. 

“This is really good,” he praises. “You spelt ‘oophorectomy’ wrong.”

“Where?” You move closer to the screen, scanning your patient history portion of your last chart. His finger points at the correctly spelled term. “That’s how you spell it.”

He hums, chewing another bite. 

“So you’re good at everything, then? Baking and spelling and-”

“Don’t finish that sentence, Dr. Abbot,” you whisper harshly, eyes darting for any listening day-shift ears. 

“Told you not to call me that.” He clears his throat, tugging at the fabric that’s now pulling a little tighter around his groin. 

Ok, maybe this is the thing you desired most from SgtMD. This was a view you were not getting over video chat.

You busy yourself grabbing another cupcake out of your lunchbox. 

“Our shift ended an hour ago. Shouldn’t you be going home?” You press.

He was usually home by now. You knew, because he’d schedule calls with you four times a week at exactly 8:00 a.m.. 

“Nothing exciting to rush home for anymore.” He says it so offhandedly that you almost don’t realize he means your appointments. Then, leaving no room to the imagination, he adds, “Ive got you right here. We’re both getting paid now, huh?”

You choke on a laugh, shaking your head in disbelief. Your tongue darts out to lick the peak of buttercream from the top of the cupcake. He blows out a long exhale, and his breath smells sweet as if fans over you. 

“You almost done? We could grab breakfast,” he suggests, eyes tracking your tongue as you swipe it across the top of the cupcake again. 

“Mm, I kind of spent my ‘fun money’ on ingredients for the cake stuff,” you say, setting the cupcake back down and saving the chart. “I think I get my first check next week. Can we raincheck?”

“I’ll pay.” He sounds offended. “How much longer do you need?”

“I’m done, actually.” You rub your eyes and face him again. “And breakfast would be very nice, thank you, Jack.”

“It’s a date.” His words ring familiar from his message prior to yesterday’s call. “Go grab your stuff.”

As you obey, you can’t help but think about how much better it is taking orders from Dr. Jack Abbot than SgtMD.

𓊔𓊔𓊔𓊔𓊔

find smutty pt 2 here! & pt 3 here!

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Disclaimer: YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO REPOST MY WRITING ANYWHERE ELSE WITHOUT MY CONSENT. REBLOGS ARE ENCOURAGED THOUGH. YOU MAY NOT FEED MY WORK TO ANY AI DATABASES OF ANY KIND, USE MY WORKS TO TRAIN AI OR USE AI TO TRANSLATE MY WORK. FUCK AI.

Something gnaws at the back of Brendon’s skull, like a metaphorical breeze that he can’t quite seem to shake, irking him into a constant state of annoyance.

He’s getting irritable again, that much is clear from all the whispers and glances his interns, residents and nurses have been giving him all week. Hell, even Robinavitch has been more curt than usual, not lingering to engage with him outside of the strictly medical. It’s not like they were buddies to begin with, but the two extra words they give each other at consults are definitely missing.

Brendon knows what it is, that itching under his skin, that weight to his heartbeat, that cold deep within his bones.

He has tried to ignore it before and it had worked for the majority of his life. Contact sports, exercise, hell, even the rigorousness of med school had done wonders to dull the ache into a barely there whisper in the back of his mind. The need had just become a want, a little tingle that he could pretend didn’t exist.

But he can’t ignore it anymore, not since his last partner.

The breakup had been mutual, her moving away to another city and him letting her go because what kind of selfish monster would be he if he didn’t. But ever since then, the gust had turned into a storm, roaring and unashamed to freeze everything in its path.

Brendon threw his entire focus on work, on the medicine, on routine, structure but none of it has been enough to fix the heaviness of his heart.

He groans as he finally settles into the plush cushion of his office chair, the leather just the right amount of cool after being left alone in the air conditioned room all morning.

Six hour surgery, practically in and out, right when he clocked in and just a little after lunch. He should be proud, should be feeling the weight of hunger and exhaustion and accomplishment. But instead all he can feel is the weight of…emptiness.

He knows it’ll end in heartache once more, just pure dissatisfaction, but he can’t seem to stop himself as he pulls out his phone and opens that stupid private app that Robinavitch had so kindly recommended.

No new matches.

Great.

He’s not looking for much, nothing that he would consider unreasonable. Sure, he’s probably gone through every single profile on it in the few months since his separation, meeting a few of the ones who matched for initial compatibility assessment coffees, but none of them had stuck. They all felt like a chore, like he was adding more to their lives than they were to his. He felt awful about it for a while, tried to rationalize it, convince himself that it’s his role to provide for them so what he wants doesn’t matter as much. But that only made the times they’d made it into the bedroom that much more exhausting. It felt like a performance, detached and devoid of all emotional connection.

Needless to say, Brendon Park remains alone and the ache is slowly eating away at him.

His pager goes off as he stares into the distance, his brain giving him whiplash as he snaps back into the unfortunate reality of where he is, who he is and just all he isn’t. He groans, audibly, taking advantage of the empty room, the silence, the lack of prying eyes, and eventually pushes himself back on his already aching feet.

The walk down to the ED is quick and sharp, all business and forward momentum. People part like water as he swims through the hustle and bustle of the hospital, only slowing down in the elevator before resuming his swiftness the second the stainless steel doors open.

He catches the tired eyes of the head nurse above her glasses, giving her a subdued and respectful nod of his head as she intercepts him. His eyebrow twitches in confusion as she falls into step beside him, practically herding him into central eight.

"What've you got?"

Dana sighs, seemingly over whatever drama this patient has put her through.

"Just a really bad sprain from what I can tell but she insisted."

That makes Park stop cold. Her lip quirks into a soft smirk, somehow understanding something before he could even catch up to it, a hint of mischief breaking through her exhaustion.

"Oh yeah," she grins. "Asked for you by name too."

He pushes past her then, curiosity killing the big mean shark or however the saying goes.

And to say that he's surprised would be an understatement, his predatory gaze going from cold and calculating to one of shock, wiped swiftly by a softness that no one has ever seen from him.

"Sugar plum?"

"Nutcracker man!" your voice is like a shot of whiskey in a cold winter's night. 

"What are you doing here?" Here at the hospital, here in Pittsburg, here, right in front of him, close enough to reach out and—

"Steven insisted I come over and ask for you by name," you huff, ever the indignant child. "I told him it was just a sprain but he got mad at me."

His lips instantly quirk into a full smile, completely ignoring the nurse in the room and Santos's bulging eyes.

"Cut your brother some slack, some habits die hard."

You roll your eyes. "Easy for you to say, your sisters are lovely."

That gets a chuckle out of him, easy and hearty, and he can practically see Santos almost falling out of her chair in shock.

"They're just as bad as you and you know it."

You smile brightly at that, innocent eyes with a devilish smirk that almost stops his heart.

“I don’t actually, I’m an angel.”

His lips instantly quirk into a full smile. Yeah right.

You chuckle softly at his reaction as he moves from the front of the bed towards you. Strong, confident hands hover over your elevated leg, as if trying to hold himself back from the temptation that is finally laying his hands on you, of confirming that you are real and not just another figment of his imagination.

He gets over himself quickly as Santos finally clears her throat, presenting the case before the room drowns in the downpour of your familiarity. He swallows thickly, willing his hands to just do their damn job, urging muscle memory to carry him through.

As Santos drones on, he can feel the searing fire of your stare, the way your breathing hitches ever so slightly as he picks up the ice pack over your purpling ankle, the way goosebumps emerge as he picks up your leg and gently conducts the same mobility, tenderness and pain examination that the intern in triage must’ve.

“…and that’s why I don’t babysit for anyone. Kids are a safety hazard.”

You chuckle lightheartedly. “It’s my own fault, I shouldn’t have trusted a three year old to tidy up. I should’ve looked where I was going.”

“You’re looking after Tyler?” The words escape him before he can think twice about it.

“Yeah, I’m living with them actually,” you murmur, shifting as he sets your foot back down on the pillow. “While I…” you trail off, a little embarrassed as you look around the room at the three other pairs of eyes still glued to your interaction with Park like he’s grown an extra head.

He stiffens, his light hand over your calf tightening ever so slightly as he clears his throat. “Well you’re right, it’s just a sprain but I’d still like to be sure so I’m going to order x-rays and we’ll go from there.”

You nod, watching him intently as he icily glares around the room, snapping everyone back into action. When the fishes have scattered and it's only the two of you in the room, he pulls back his teeth and settles on the stool Santos was just occupying.

“It’s really good to see you again,” you tell him, shyly playing with your necklace.

He’s smitten by the habit, one he knows well.

“Me too,” he keeps his voice steady and even. “Whatever happened to…”

He doesn’t mean to pry, but he simply can’t help it. He needs to know, his heart practically doing somersaults in his chest.

You sigh, ripping your gaze from his haunting blue eyes and making yourself as little as you can before speaking. “Broke up.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah.”

“And your masters program?”

That gets you to look back at him, a tame yet excited smile curling your lips, causing a prideful shiver to course through Brendon’s body.

“Graduated with honors last year,” you beam.

“Atta girl, I’m proud of you,” he pats your thigh without thinking about it, the contact comfortable and familiar. He catches the way your breathing hitches, doesn’t mention it, sliding his touch to rest on the bed instead.

“What about you?” You recover quickly. “Whatever happened with that woman from Steven’s birthday party?”

Oh right, you'd met her. He visibly cringes and you instantly feel bad.

“I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be, it’s okay,” the panic in your voice makes him violently ill, quickly returning his touch to your thigh to soothe you. “Didn’t work out.”

“Oh…I’m sorry Brendon, she doesn’t know what she missed out on.”

Your compliment is genuine, he knows it, he feels it, and it instantly puts him at ease. He gives you a soft, sorrowful smile. 

“So what’s next?” He changes the subject, deflection always being easier to handle than truth.

You shrug. “Get x-rays done, prove to my brother that I’m fine and I shouldn’t have had to deal with medical bills, probably order takeout when I get discharged—”

Brendon chuckles, cutting off your rambling even if he doesn’t want to. “I meant with life, sugar plum.”

Your eyes widen in embarrassment, the panic that he’d seen in them earlier when he mentioned your ex returning tenfold.

It’s his turn to apologize, mouth instantly opening to try and fix it, when his pager goes off, cutting through the comfort you’d created for him instantly. Suddenly, the cold returns, the bright lights remind him of the headache, the loudness of the ED seep into his bones.

“Go,” you tell him. “Go be a hot, competent surgeon doctor man.”

He rolls his eyes, his eyes lingering on the sincerity of your voice. There had been a time when those words would’ve ended with your brother teasing the two of you relentlessly. But you never take it back. Even if the words don't mean anything more than the truth, Brendon could always count on you to remind him of the simple facts of life.

He is competent. He is a surgeon doctor man. He is hot. 

Wait—

Before he can wrap his head around the word, around the meaning behind it, he’s being pulled away, this time by a 911. He gives your thigh one last squeeze, not really aware he’s doing but the warmth of your skin lingers against his palm all the way back upstairs into OR 3 and it relaxes him.

Complications with one of Garcia’s surgeries keep him distracted for the next four hours, the comforting practice of being just another set of hands that has no thoughts or feelings or yearnings aside from the medicine in front of him doing wonders to clench his thirst.

It’s late when he finally settles back into his body. The ache, the hunger, the exhaustion hits him like a tidal wave. He knows it was coming but actually realizing just how much he’s neglected himself in the hustle of the day always leaves him feeling worse about himself.

He cleans up as much as he can, changing into civilian clothes before he returns to his office to gather his things and get the fuck out of the sterile building.

His phone glares at him from where it’s been left, neglected and alone, for the majority of the day. He doesn’t panic, though. There’s no one waiting for him on the other end of the annoying device anyway. He taps the screen, however, a stupid habit that he too has fallen victim to like the entire human population.

One text from his sister in their family group chat. One weather notification. Two missed calls and a few texts from your brother.

The short interaction rushes back to him instantly, his body blossoming with the promise of something warm once more. He picks up the small device, returning your brother’s call instantly.

“Hey brother,” Steven’s voice is cheerful, even if Brendon knows better.

“Hey, long time no call.”

Steven chuckles at that, the lingering guilt from both parties only partially alleviated.

“Yeah, who’s fault is that?”

“Definitely mine,” Brendon concedes with a chuckle. “To what do I owe all this attention then?”

“Just wanted to thank you for taking care of my sister today.”

Brendon can’t help the smile that spreads at the mention of you, at the reminder that you’re actually real to other people too.

“Of course, man, she’s family,” he lets the feelings settle deep in his chest, resting against his desk before continuing. “How’s she doing?”

“I was hoping you’d tell me, she’s still at the hospital.”

The feeling expands, twisting into one of rage and shame.

“It’s been hours.”

“I know…but she just told me they’re discharging her.”

Brendon sighs, silently damning the entire healthcare system.

“I’ll take care of her, don’t worry.”

“Thanks man,” Steven sighs in gratefulness. “Oh and bring a pizza over please.”

Brendon rolls his eyes at his friend’s lack of shame. “Of course. Still just cheese for Tyler?”

“You know it.”

With that, Brendon practically rushes back down to the ED, his hair fluffy from the sweat breaking apart his gel cast, the casual henley and dark wash denim combo making him unrecognizable to the staff as he walks through, giving Abbot a curt nod in acknowledgement before he enters the room you’d been in earlier.

Your eyes light up as you see him. “Hey stranger.”

“That’s doctor stranger to you.”

It makes you giggle and he’s certain his cheeks bloom pink at that.

“You taking me home?”

He nods once, walking over to the computer and scanning his ID so that he can take a final look at your chart. You gather your things slowly, watching how the man you’d seen a few hours ago has drastically transformed into the man you’ve known for the past seven years. 

You’d met Brendon at your high school graduation, your brother having come back home from college with his roommate for the summer. You’d spent the entire two months before you left for college yourself convinced that the two of them were together together, the way they brought out the best in each other endearing.

It was when you’d caught them both at the same house party your friends had dragged you to, his tongue practically down the girl that had been a bitch to you all throughout high school’s throat that you realized that you had been deadly wrong. Jealousy bubbled in your stomach, ugly and upsetting, so much so that you had given him the silent treatment for a whole day before he finally had enough of it.

Brendon Park wasn’t yours, not even platonically, and yet, he couldn’t help but become one of the closest people to you that summer. You told him, the truth somehow spilling out of you in a way that had never happened before. And he’d apologized. The fucker said sorry and promised to never do it again. Needless to say, you’d ignored your feelings until college flings and serious boyfriends buried them deep within you.

Seeing him now is…a lot. You’ve always cared for him, always respected his opinion, his council, his everything. He’s Brendon for fuck’s sake. Accomplished, loyal, respectful, chivalrous, perfect golden boy Brendon. Your bother’s best friend. And the secret subject of your unbridled desires.

“Anything interesting?” You ask, desperate to break yourself from your thoughts.

“No break, healthy fibula…” he drones on, clinical and sterile, his deep knowledge of bones endearing at this point. He turns to catch your teasing smile and his cheeks blush the most adorable red as he realizes he’s been info dumping on you. “Everything looks good.”

“Thank you Brendon.”

He turns back to the computer, logging on his final notes for your medical history in an attempt to stop looking like a damn fool in front of you. Your smiles mean nothing more than what they are—comfort and familiarity. You’re a ray of sunshine to everyone that happens to be standing in your direction. He’s not the exception, he’s simply a part of the rule.

His phone vibrates from the depth of his pocket. Probably another text from your brother asking him to hurry the fuck up, impatience a running trait in your family. He pulls out his phone, his eyes slowly drifting to the notification. A flurry of emotions run through him as the next few moments play out. 

At first, embarrassment when he notices it’s a notification from the app, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up as he hides it from view, who knows what you’d think about him if you only knew what it was.

Next, hope, dizzying and contagious as he reads the notification. One new profile found. The match strikes, an ember sparks. He’s almost giddy now, eager to get the evening over with so he can give the notification all of his attention.

And finally, he’s certain he’s going into cardiac arrest as he, because he’s a man and has the self-restraint of one, even if he prides himself on being everything but an eager motherfucker, taps on the notification and he’s instantly met with your beautiful face as the profile opens up.

Brendon can’t breathe anymore.

He manages a strangled excuse and darts into the private bathroom, his entire world both crumbling all around him with each exhale and being rebuilt into a utopia with every inhale. But it’s not enough, air is not enough anymore and he knows it. No, not when he knows.

There’s too much running through him that the only thing he can think of is how if he got this notification then you definitely did too. Panic and shame and every ugly emotion that reminds him just how wrong this is beats him up. Through trembling fingers he turns off the discoverability of his profile, praying to every god he’s ever learned about that you’ll never, ever get the full knowledge of just how deranged Brendon’s fears have convinced him he is.

Then comes the guilt. He should not know this about you. This is such a precious thing, vulnerable and honest, too honest, and he cannot help but feel like he’s betrayed your trust in some way. You’re Steven’s sister, curious and unapologetic, the girl who picked daisies and made flower crowns, the girl who spiked their ice tea with your dad’s whiskey, the girl who teased him relentlessly when he showed up with his first serious girlfriend to Christmas the first time your families met, the girl who baked him his favorite cake when he graduated from med school, the girl that tells him the truth and isn’t afraid to hurt him because you both have a mutual understanding that goes beyond acquaintances.

It’s because of this that the little ember nudges, whispering something much deadlier in his ear. Knowledge is power, so much so that the pull towards it becomes dizzying. What if you could be—

No.

Nope.

Absolutely not.

That is never going to happen.

No.

Nuh-uh.

He has half a mind to throw his phone in the trash and himself along with it. He can never allow himself to think of you that way, not again. He’s a heartbreaker, it’s what he’s always done. Overprotective, overbearing, possessive and cruel. He could never tie you down, could never ask you to fulfill those sick and twisted fantasies that he so desperately needs in order to feel whole.

No, he’ll damn himself to an eternity of solitude before he puts you in a position where you could actually be exactly what he’s looking for, because he knows that what he wants is not something that either of you can come back from, and he respects you too much to put you in a position where the relationship that you’re looking for can jeopardize the one you’ve got with your brother, with your family, with your friends and loved ones.

He will not do that to you. He will get his shit together, pretend he never saw what he saw, help you to his car, drive to Tony’s Pizzeria and get a half cheese, half pepperoni pizza, a huge homemade orange soda bottle for the four of you to share, spend an hour with your brother and nephew and then disappear from your life forever. It doesn’t matter that you’re here, it doesn't matter that you’re just as perfect as ever, treating him as if no time has passed, as if nothing has happened, as if his absence never happened.

He takes one last steadying breath, locking his phone, and stepping out onto the floor.

But then his eyes lock with yours and whatever plan he so masterfully concocted throws itself away in favor of this, that all encompassing feeling that blooms behind his heart and spreads all over his chest the second he comes into your spotlight.

It’s weirdly comfortable to be in Brendon’s car, the radio turned low yet steady, the confidence of his movements as he navigates night life traffic a little too sexy. The silence that lingers between the two of you isn’t uncomfortable, it’s simply…air.

You wince lightly as you settle further into the expensive leather, reveling in the comfort that is Brendon Park now being a big shot surgeon with doctor money. You chuckle at the thought, effectively breaking his constant stare forward, as if his only task right now is to drive as though he’s carrying precious cargo in his car.

He can’t help himself when he asks, “what’s so funny?”

You catch his softened gaze, a dopey smile still lingering. “You.”

The single word does something to him, constricting his heart until he forces himself to tear his eyes from yours as if they’ve hurt him.

“I knew you’d make it, you’ve always been determined,” you sigh. “I guess it’s just nice to see it for real now.”

He chuckles right back at you. “I could say the same thing to you.”

You scoff, self-deprecating. “Yeah right, I’m unemployed, living with my brother and his son because I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing with my life and person I thought I was going to spend it with broke up with me cause I was ‘too much work’.”

The car screeches to a halt in the middle of the road, causing you to jolt against the seatbelt across your chest.

“Absolutely not, sweetheart,” his voice cuts through the adrenaline pumping through your heart. “You will never speak about yourself in that way, do I make myself clear?”

It’s only after he says it that realization dawns on him like a bucket of ice water being poured over his body. He watches the way your body reacts to the authority in his voice, the way you shiver slightly, the way your expression drops into submission, pupils dilating, your legs rubbing together instinctively.

“I’m sorry Bren,” your voice is barely a whisper but he hears it nonetheless.

“It’s okay,” he settles back against his seat, hands gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white. “I’m sorry you’re going through so much, but that’s no excuse to talk down on yourself. You’d rip me a new one if I did the same thing, wouldn’t you?”

That pulls a smile back on your face. “Oh I’d do much, much worse.”

“See? So why would I allow the same?”

You nod, biting down on your lower lip ever so slightly as he starts the car again, both your hearts beating a million times a minute. You liked that, his rough voice, the way he instantly cut through all the noise in your head, reminding you that you’re more than all the self-destructive thoughts.

Your brain turns off so slowly you’re unable to spot it. You can hear him call your name, ask you a question, but all you register is that delicious baritone to his voice, how it reverberates against your ribs and makes you feel safe. As if understanding exactly what’s going on, he sighs deeply, wrapping his big, surgeon hand over your thigh. You barely register as he starts the car again, the comforting rumbling of the vehicle beneath you slowly lulling you to sleep as your body comes down from that adrenaline spike. You stare at him through hooded eyes, the warmth from his hand as the only anchor keeping you tethered in the ocean of your feelings.

A twisted thought turns in your heart, making you sick. Panic bubbles. You jolt into awareness, abrasive and shocking, and you’re certain he can feel the spike in your pulse from the death grip he’s got on your leg. You did not just drop in front of Brendon Park.

“You okay?” He asks, because of course he does, he’s always been attentive and kind and respectful.

You nod, far too quickly, but you pretend like nothing’s wrong, retreating so far into yourself until you can believe like it isn’t. You feel like a stranger in your own body as he parks the car, comes around to get your crutches and open your door, as the two of you go inside and greet every single person working tonight, as you busy yourself helping to marry the ketchups while your order gets made.

You can feel him watching you intensely, even if the kid working the register is still talking his ear off about last night’s hockey game. He replies half-heartedly, pays with his black amex which you only slightly tease him about, and let him carry everything back to the car while you settle back in the front seat.

You don’t say another word to him, not as he drives up your brother’s driveway, as he stands beside you while you unlock the door, as Steven brings him into a warm hug and Tyler runs up to uncle Brendon like a rocket ship.

No, you’re cold and distant, detached from everything going on around it and it breaks Brendon’s heart a little. He can’t stop chastising himself, over and over again, watching as you nibble at your food, as your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes, as you avoid eye contact with him profusely throughout his stay.

Eventually, it’s time for Tyler’s nighttime routine and since you’re currently incapacitated, doctor’s orders, Steven wrangles the three year old by himself, making Brendon promise to wait for him so they can drink a few beers and catch up after.

The second that Steven leaves the room, Brendon decides he’s had enough.

He finds you aggressively washing the dishes you used for dinner by hand, mind off somewhere far away from him, from this, from now.

“Sugar plum?” He sees your body tense instantly, a shiver running through it that makes him cringe internally. 

He takes a deep breath. You need him right now and he’s gotta be the bigger man and actually right his wrongs.

“Turn it off.”

You shiver again, legs rubbing together again, this time definitely intentional. You don’t dare face him, don’t dare breathe because if you do, you’re afraid it’ll choke out of you like a broken moan.

“Be a good girl and do as you’re told.”

That does you in. A clear command, fully open and honest, cutting through the noise in your head and letting you know you’re not crazy. Your shaky hand turns off the tab, the room falling back into an uneasy silence.

“I’m sorry if I startled you in the car,” he starts, voice even and apologetic. “It wasn’t my intention, I should’ve known better.”

Your brow scrunches in confusion but you don’t think much of it. Maybe you truly are that easy to read and your ex had been right, your disinterest in your “vanilla” relationship so evident in every action you took over the past three months that the only course of action was for him to cheat on you.

I can't give you what you need.

His words echo in your mind as a shaky sigh escapes your lips, your soapy hand coming up to slam over your mouth before he can hear the truth behind it, the rawness that he’s awakened. You’re not his responsibility, he should not have to deal with—

You don’t even know when it happens, all you do is feel his strong arms wrapping around you, turning your body so that you can hide your face against his chest as you can’t hold back the sobs anymore.

He shushes you gently, never crossing the platonic boundary your relationship has already established, and that only makes you that much more emotional. You don’t really remember how long you cry, all you know is that by the time the tears subside, there’s a wet patch right below his heart and his mouth flutters gentle praises in your ear, so close that his breathing makes you tickle.

You push him back slightly, getting your bearings straight enough to start feeling embarrassed that he just witnessed that.

“Hey, none of that,” he says, certain. “You’re okay, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

You avoid his piercing gaze as you wipe your face clean, one of the hands around your waist grabbing the hem of his shirt and wiping after your fingers.

You can’t help the giggle that escapes you then, the absurdity of the moment not lost on you as a singular thought persists—Brendon Park would make an amazing dom.

“Thank you Bren.”

“Don’t mention it, kiddo.”

“Ew, rude,” you scrunch your nose in mock offense, finally looking up at him.

He almost folds, your puffy eyes, slightly red nose, the way you hold onto him like you trust him, like he’s safe…any weaker man would’ve folded instantly. And fuck it if he doesn’t want to be weak.

“What? City girl suddenly too good for a silly nickname?”

You roll your eyes, trying to pull back from his embrace fully now but he doesn’t let you.

“Don’t roll your eyes at me—”

Your breathing hitches, something shifts, your pupils dilate slightly.

Brendon clears his throat, letting you go then, aggressively shoving his hands inside his jean pockets. You blink up at him, the cloud slowly dissipating as you come back into your body. 

It’s beautiful. So raw and vulnerable he doesn’t even think about his movements, he only does them, holding out his arms so that you can hold yourself up on them, something steady and grounding. And to his pure delight, you do, your grip not tentative or shy but fully trusting in him.

After a long, drawn out minute, the house returns with full force, Steven joking after a giggling Tyler down the hall, the hum of the fridge behind him, the clock ticking in the other room. You hum, shifting your weight around uncomfortably.

“You should go to bed,” he tells you, a gentle command that has you instantly nodding, as if only because he’s said it you’re now aware of just how tired you are.

You nod, brain so fuzzy you don’t think it’ll be able to handle words right about now.

Brendon can’t help but smile, a barely there smirk that desperately wants to turn into more but he fears if it does then you’ll know everything.

“Want you to take a shower, elevate your foot and text me if you need anything else, alright?”

“Yes sir.”

His heart lurches. He knows you’re only saying it teasingly but still, the ache almost topples him over, throws him off balance. You pull away slowly, taking your warmth with you, returning his soul to the ice age it has cultivated. He stares at you go, body turned to stone until he hears Steven coming back down the hall towards him.

He snaps out of it then, putting on his best Brendon Park, college friend mask on and indulging the single parent in a much needed hour of beers and ranting. By the time he’s sat back in his car, he can’t seem to push himself to leave. He sits there, staring out into the dark street before him, head buzzing with thoughts and feelings that threaten to consume him.

And somehow, through all the noise, his phone dings.

You: In bed now. Feet elevated. Thank you so much for today, you didn’t have to be so kind but I’m glad that you were.

You: And also…thank you for…that too.

You added a picture, your foot, wrapped like the nurses had taught you, propped up on a mountain of pillows. The ember expands in his heart, ignites that desperate yearning again, and he’s finally able to get himself to drive away, but not before replying—

Brendon: My pleasure, sweetheart.

Since the moment you joined the company, you never went out of your way to interact with him. You were cordial and professional when you had to be, but this job was just an obstacle between you and your freedom of going home.

You could tell it irked him when you swiftly moved on from your greeting with him to meet some of the other staff. His jaw clenched beneath his forced smile, hand tensing as you pulled away from the brief handshake.

After that first day, he made an effort to make his presence known. 

You didn't make it easy, though.

His friendly morning greetings -- which always included your name so you knew exactly who he was talking to -- were met with half-assed 'good morning everyone's, your eyes never leaving your PC monitor. His generous coffee runs seemed to conveniently clash with the days you decided to bring in your own tumblers of caffeine (Jimmy was grateful, though, since he got your coffee as a result). And all the times he would invite the team out for dinner, you'd always be too busy or tired to make it.

To you, this was just your typical introverted behavior.

You're used to an extroverted team manager trying to pull you out of your shell, but you've always made your intentions clear -- you're only at the company to work, not make friends. Like those past managers, you hoped Clark would eventually give up and move on from you.

It turns out that he was more committed to you than you originally thought.

---

A small tap on your desk pulls you away from your work. You already know who it is based on the subtle scent of his cologne. You look up, eyes meeting a very smiley Clark who clearly believes that what he has to say is more important than the task you were doing.

"Sorry to bother you." No, you're not. "I was just wondering if you had plans this weekend. The team is going to O'Malley's to celebrate Mike's promotion." Right, one of the interns is being brought on as a full-time employee. You knew Mike, sort of. Not enough to hold any conversation above the usual small talk.

Immediately, you search your brain for an excuse.

"Ah, I can't, I..." your eyes flick away from him as you quickly think up something convincing, "I'm going out of town to see my mom."

"Oh, that's alright." Clark nods understandingly, or at least tries to convince you that it doesn't bother him.

But then his demeanor shifts a bit as his cool blue eyes scan over the office surrounding the two of you.

Is he making sure that no one is paying attention to this conversation?

He slips his hands into his pockets, his voice lowering. "You always seem to be out of town these days." His tone is bordering on accusatory. His gaze lazily returns to you, waiting for a response. The only thing keeping his innocent persona intact is the wide-frame glasses that shield his intense stare.

You try to hide your uncomfortable shock with a small shrug, "yeah, I guess so."

"Maybe next time."

"Maybe."

---

After successfully dodging his invitation, you decide that you deserve to spend a lazy weekend at home -- which is exactly how you usually spend your weekends anyway. A warm, comfy sofa, a bottle of wine, and a show playing in the background while you scroll through your phone. Perfect Saturday plans.

Unfortunately, after repeating this routine for many Saturdays in a row, you're out of your usual wine and snacks. With how exhausted work leaves you at the end of the week, you decide to leave the warmth of your apartment after a quick rest.

You walk to a nearby corner store, one you're a regular at. Roaming the familiar aisles, you pick up an item here and there, building your late-night munchie list as you go. As you're choosing your wine for the night, you feel a presence at your side.

"Thought you were out of town." You turn to see a casually dressed Clark holding a six-pack of beers by his side. He looks even bigger in his plain T-shirt and jeans, the cotton fabric stretching over the broadness of his shoulders. 

You're suddenly conscious of the oversized hoodie and sweatpants you're wearing. None of your coworkers have seen what you normally wear outside of work, and that's on purpose. Being on the younger side, you want to be taken seriously at work, so you always wear professional clothing.

"Um, my mom cancelled on me." You place a random bottle of red in your basket, purposefully covering up the small pack of Minecraft gummies you (stupidly) decided to try.

Luckily, Clark doesn't seem too interested in your basket as his gaze stays steadily on your face. It seems the gentle persona he usually wears at the office fades away when he's no longer in work mode.

"Yeah?" He doesn't seem convinced, but lets it go.

"Yup." Your hands squeeze the handles of the shopping basket. "So what brings you to this side of town..."

"Same as you, I assume," he gestures to the wine you haphazardly picked out, "merlot fan?"

"Uh, yeah," you glance at the bottle, "it's, uh, a good one."

"If you like merlot, you should've picked out this one," he smoothly walks a few steps away and pulls out a more expensive bottle. He holds it out, and you feel like you have no other choice but to take it from him. "Let me know how it tastes."

"Sure." Your attempt to take the bottle is stopped when he refuses to let go.

"Better yet, why don't we try it together?" His dimpled smile is charming, but not enough to quell your suspicions. 

"Together? Like tonight?"

"No time like the present." You pull at the bottle with a bit more force, and he finally lets go.

"Maybe another time." You carefully place the pricey wine next to your cheaper choice. Your basket is now two times heavier.

"You sure?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" A hint of defensiveness rings through your tone. 

"You know, Perry has been worried about you." He clicks his tongue. "Since you haven't been to any of the team outings, he thinks you aren't getting along with the others."

This is news to you.

You've tried hard to stay under the radar -- friendly enough at the office that you wouldn't be suspected of staying home during company get-togethers.

"Really? But there haven't been any issues..."

"I heard he might move you to a different department if something doesn't change soon."

"Why would he--"

"You're a hard worker, but part of being in a department is teamwork," he explains, speaking to you as if he's some kind of mentor. The vague condescension grates on you.

"Fine." You relent. "I'll try the wine with you."

---

Despite your refusals, he ended up paying for the high-end wine, claiming it's his treat since he was the one who picked it out in the first place. You awkwardly paid for the rest of your items, watching as the clerk took his time putting everything into a plastic bag.

Clark's apartment is closer to the store than you realized. You're surprised that you haven't run into him sooner. The elevator takes you up to the top floor, where Clark leads you to the apartment at the end of the hall. You start to wonder just how much he gets paid for his monthly interviews with Superman.

"Make yourself at home." He puts his beers in the fridge and goes to a cabinet to grab some wine glasses.

"Um, okay." You nervously sit at the edge of his sofa, placing your plastic bag full of junk food on the carpet next to you.

"Here." You're handed a glass of the merlot before he takes a seat next to you. "Try it." He watches you take a tentative sip and only takes his own once you've swallowed.

The wine coats your tongue with a savory richness that speaks for its high price. 

Okay fine, you'll admit that this one is pretty good.

"So?" Clark asks with a smug smile. Instead of responding, you take another, larger sip. "See? I told you."

"It's alright." You shrug, setting the now half-empty glass on the coffee table in front of you. "So about what Perry said--"

"What, you want to talk about work?"

"I mean, that's the reason why we're here, isn't it?"

Clark nods noncommittally before placing his glass next to yours, "Am I not cool enough to just hang out with?"

"Hang-out? No…This has nothing to do with how cool you are, Kent."

"Do you think I haven't noticed how you've tried to avoid me?" Clark smiles as his deep blue eyes bore into yours. That friendly expression that he often wears at the office is so clearly a farce in this setting. 

"I haven't been avoiding you." You mumble as you start to redirect your gaze so you don't feel so pressured under his stare. He sighs and places his hand gently underneath your chin to make you look up at him. The warmth from his fingers spreads against your jaw and you're starting to think that the wine is heading straight for your brain.

"See?" His tone is that of an owner softly disciplining their favorite pet, "You can't even look at me for more than a few minutes."

You pull your face away from his hand.

 "Eye contact just makes me uncomfortable..." You pick up your glass again, if only to give your hands -- and your eyes -- something to do. The distance doesn't seem to bother him, but you can see a crack within his blase attitude as he hesitates to settle back to his original spot on the couch.

"You'll have to get over that if you want to be head reporter at the Planet."

Great, you've summoned the manager within him. 

You take a sip while Clark starts rattling off reporter tips. Somewhere between his advice on interviews and making sources feel comfortable, it hits you that he still doesn't know. After all this time -- after every conversation, every attempt he's made to get to know you -- he still thinks you want to be a reporter. One of those prying nerds who salivates at the chance to hear Superman's voice with their own ears. The kind of reporter always chasing the next juicy piece of gossip to slap on the front page.

You don't though. You want to be an editor. 

Less interviewing. Less charm. Less him. 

You've always hoped that one day you'd be holed up in an office of your own with the only interaction between you and Clark being a few emails now and then. 

The wine sends a pleasant tingle through your body, warmth spreading from your core, gliding over your limbs, and finally sparking at your fingertips. His voice drifts into the background, and at some point you realize you've stopped sitting so stiffly, your body relaxing into the couch beside him. 

The more you drink, the less attention you give to the conversation. You've found that you enjoy looking at his face more than listening to his attempts to assert his superiority for being a front-page journalist.

You feel the warmth of his thigh press against yours. With every refill, he's gotten closer to your side, but it wasn't noticeable until now. 

After finishing the last drop in your glass, you look over at him and find that he's already looking at you. 

His blue eyes are glazed as he studies your face. 

When did he stop talking?

"What?" Your voice is weaker than you want it to be, almost like you didn't mean to say it out loud.

"Your face looks hot," he says it so casually you almost miss it -- but when it registers, your heart skips a beat.

"Um…hot?"

"Do you get the alcohol flush?" His lips curve into a lazy smile.

Oh. Hot -- as in temperature.

You glance back down at your nearly empty glass, oddly disappointed by the clarification. 

"Yeah, sometimes."

He lets out an amused huff of laughter. "You thought I was talking about how pretty you are?" The bluntness of it lands like a punch to the gut.

How pretty you are… he thinks you're pretty?

"What? No," you reply quickly, your face suddenly warmer than the wine could ever make it. 

"You sure?" His fingers skim your jaw before resting there, warm against your skin. The touch is light enough that you could pull away, but somehow that makes it harder to. When you don't move, his thumb traces the faintest arc beneath your cheek. "I thought you'd be a little more observant with how quickly Perry brought you onto the team…" His voice is soft, but the words sting.

You roll your eyes at the condescending remark. 

Whatever little flutter his accidental compliment caused is promptly buried beneath irritation.

It's nothing new. Being a young woman in an office means hearing offhand remarks like that often enough. 

Though this is the first time you've had a man say it directly to your face.

His grip tightens. "Why do you always do that?"

"Do what?"

"You never stand up for yourself. You just let people spew bullshit and go on with your day."

So he's noticed how the other guys talk about you in the break room, their voices carrying whenever you happen to walk by. He's known about it this whole time and done nothing.

And now he's lecturing you about standing up for yourself?

What a manager…

You look away, suddenly tired of the conversation. 

"I don't know. What's it going to change anyway?"

"Look at me." The softness in his voice catches you off guard. "You never... look at me."

You meet those intense blue eyes, now fully revealed without the glasses. He must have taken them off at some point, and you hadn't even noticed.

Why hadn't you noticed?

He looks familiar, but something about him feels completely different -- the darkness in his eyes, the bite behind his words. None of it feels like the man you're thinking of. 

"Why should I?" You challenge him, pulling away from his touch as your hazy mind finally catches up to the position you're in. "It's just a job. You're just a coworker -- You're my supervisor. Can't you and everyone else just let me live peacefully?"

"It seems like more than just a job, sweetheart." His eyes drag slowly over your figure, taking in the sweats you'd thrown on for your late-night shopping trip.The scrutiny makes you feel exposed, even though you're fully covered. He pinches the extra fabric of your hoodie between his fingers. "I mean, look at you. You don't exactly look like someone with a busy social life."

"And you do, Kent?" you retort.

"That's it. Fight back." He grins, his pretty dimples at odds with the cruel twist of his smile. 

The sudden pause pulls you out of the stifling tension between you. Your eyes land on the empty wine bottle sitting on the coffee table, and you realize there's nothing keeping you here anymore.

You straighten in your seat, "I think I should get going."

Clark doesn't move.

"Got someone waiting for you at home?" he asks as though he already knows the answer. 

"It's late."

"It is."

"I think we've drunk too much tonight."

"I'm not drunk."

He's right. He looks perfectly sober, if a little worked up from the argument. 

Meanwhile, the wine has left your head hazy, making it harder to think clearly.

You try to push yourself up, but your body feels strangely heavy. Something has settled deep into your limbs, turning even the simple act of standing into an effort.

"I heard that you're a lightweight, but this is a bit much, isn't it?"

"I'm fine." 

"You can barely stand."

You glare at him, but the effort of pushing yourself upright only makes your head swim harder. Your knees wobble, and you instinctively reach for the back of the couch. Clark catches your arm before you can stumble, pulling you against his body as his hands settle around your waist to steady you.

"See?"

Something is wrong. 

"What…?" Your body isn't listening to you. Your limbs feel disconnected, like they belong to someone else. The room seems strangely distant, and for a moment you feel like you're watching yourself from somewhere outside your own body. "Kent." 

"It's Clark." A hand spreads over the back of your thigh, gently massaging your body through your clothes as he pulls you closer. Even through your clothes, you can feel the warmth of his body. Desire pulses through you in uneven waves, each one fading only long enough to warn you to pull away.

The scent of his cologne settles around you, masculine and distracting. You feel weak against him.

"What did you do?" You ask softly.

Your hand lands on his chest, but you can't muster enough energy to push him away. The muscles beneath his shirt tighten under your touch, and he leans closer, as if inviting you to feel more of him. 

"Looks like it's finally kicking in…"

—

Kissing him isn't supposed to feel good. 

It isn't supposed to make you melt against his body as he presses you down against the couch. It isn't supposed to make you tilt your head and chase his lips when he pulls away for air. And you definitely aren't supposed to pull him closer, guiding his hands underneath your hoodie as if you want him there.

But the heat coursing through you smothers every logical thought before it can take hold.

His large hands cup over your tits, squeezing them greedily as he captures your lips once more. You try desperately to hold back your moans, but your breath stutters when his thumbs flick over your sensitive nipples. 

You can feel his erection throbbing through his jeans. It presses against your stomach as he deepens the kiss. 

Clark pulls away, staring down at your flushed cheeks and glistening eyes with a satisfied look on his face. With every heated kiss, eager grope, and dulled moan, the fire within has burned hotter. Now, your body is begging for a release. 

"I thought you hated me." He brushes a few strands of hair away from your face. This would almost be romantic if Clark wasn't such a delusional freak. 

"I do." Your voice comes out weak and breathy.

"You keep saying that," he says quietly, "but you're still kissing back." 

"Because I'm hot, Clark."

"I know you are," he says smugly, "let me help you cool down." His hands slide to the hem of your hoodie, pushing it up just enough to expose your torso before one slips beneath the waistband of your sweatpants. "Didn't realize you get so wet for someone you hate." He teases, feeling the mess you've made of yourself. 

"Fuck you." You breathe out as his fingers slide through your folds. 

The words seem to piss him off because he isn't gentle when he pushes two fingers inside of you. Luckily, whatever pill he slipped into your drink already has you dripping down your thighs.

The stretch is immediate and has you gripping onto his arm to slow him down, but he ignores your pleading touch and starts pumping his fingers into your hole. The squelching sound has you burying your face against his shoulder, embarrassed of your body.

"Look at how easily you fall apart from me." He taunts. Your mouth gapes open as he reaches the soft spot within you, prodding at it incessantly until your thighs squeeze around his wrist. 

An unfamiliar ache builds between your legs, something intense. 

"Wait, s-something…" The angle of his fingers thrusting into you becomes too much. 

"Are you gonna cum around my fingers, baby?" His blue eyes drink you in and his hand speeds up, wanting to push your limits.

A broken moan is forced out of your throat as your climax hits. Ecstasy ripples over your body and your eyes roll back from the intensity. You feel your stomach tighten before you realize what's happening and you can feel yourself drench your panties.

Pretty stars dot your vision as you come back to yourself. 

Or are those tears?

"You made a mess of your sweatpants, honey." You feel him drag them down, but you don't have the energy to lift your hips to help him. He lets you recover a bit, using the pause to take off his shirt and unbutton his jeans.

You're breathing hard and you wish you could just go to sleep, but an itching arousal within you persists. 

He pulls himself out of his boxers, pumping himself lazily as his eyes wander over your half-covered body.

"You're so pretty, you know?" A hand pushes your hoodie up to reveal your chest, "Everything about you is pretty. Your handwriting, your voice, your eyes, your pussy..."

He leans over you, kissing down your chest before sucking a nipple into his mouth. Your body arches against his mouth, your fingers now finding their way into his curls.

He grasps at your other tit before moving down to languidly caress over your stomach and hips. This time he is taking it slow, working you up with his mouth and hands like a lover would do. 

But slow is the last thing you need right now. 

You pull at his hair, impatient. 

"What are you waiting for?" You groan, wrapping your legs around his waist to pull his lower body onto yours. 

A sharp pinch at your nipple makes you gasp. Did he just bite you?

"Be patient." He scolds, though he doesn't seem to mind the feeling of your wet cunt against the underside of his cock. He pushes himself between your folds, using your slick to easily move against you. His hips roll slowly as he takes your other nipple into his mouth, his tongue flicking over the bud teasingly. 

"Please, I-I need something."

"What do you need, baby?" he asks softly, as though he doesn''t already know the answer. His mouth has moved up to your throat, painting the delicate skin with suckled marks. 

You shake your head, refusing to verbalize it. 

"I can't help if you don't tell me what's wrong." You can feel his lips smile against your heated skin. 

"Clark -- Fuck." The blunt head of his cock teases at your entrance, and your desperate cunt flutters for more. "Please, just put it in." 

"Like this?"  He finally gives in, pushing into you gently so your body can open up for him. Blood rushes to your head as you feel him drag against your tender walls, forcing you to stretch out around him. 

"Oh." The size is nothing like you've experienced before. It fills you up so fully that you're unable to escape the overwhelming sensation of his cock finally bottoming out. 

"Feel good?" Clark keeps himself pressed inside of you, letting you struggle with the intensity of being filled so completely. 

"So big."

"I know, sweetheart. I can see myself right here…" He groans, pressing a hand over your lower stomach, "Too much for you, hm?" Clark pulls out, slowly, watching as each inch of him leaves your body. He doesn't waste time pushing back into you until your thighs start shaking around him. 

"Move -- Please, just move." 

Clark pulls out for a second to push your knees against your chest, positioning you into a mating press. When he reenters your body, his cock hits your sweet spot even easier with the new angle.

His hips snap against yours, forcing you to take all of him with every thrust. His pace speeds up as your moans start to flow out of you, the couch squeaking with every harsh move. 

"It's like you were made for me." Clark pants, pushing through your slickened walls. "Weren't you?" 

"I-I…" 

Your answer doesn't quite satisfy him.

"Weren't you?" He tries again, burying himself inside of you until the head of his cock nudges the deepest parts of you. It's so intense that you wish you could tap out, but all you can do is take it. You start losing yourself in a heady mix of intoxicating sensations.

"Yes." You rasp out, head tilted back as you reel against the pressure. This time, you seem to say the right thing. Clark starts fucking into you again, lower body smacking against yours as he feeds you his cock. 

Your cunt starts sucking him back in when he tries to pull out, frantically clinging onto anything as your body starts to lose itself to pleasure.

His cock stays so deep within you that he's basically grinding against your clit with each thrust. You can't help the whimper that escapes you when he prods against your g-spot, almost feeling him in your stomach.

"Clark!" You can feel the pulsing of his cock within you -- all because you said his name. That's all it takes to have you rushing towards another climax.

"Already?" He can feel you tremble around him as he pushes into you. 

"I c-can't–" The walls of your cunt start to tighten around him, throbbing insistently as he continues his vigorous thrusts.

You felt it coming, but you weren't expecting how overwhelming it would be. Heat vibrates through your body as your vision whitens, disorienting all your senses at once. You could barely feel the way your whole body tenses, muscles straining in exhaustion.

His hips stutter right against you and warmth shoots into you several times, completely painting your insides. He continues to move inside of you with small thrusts.  You're so full that it starts to drip out -- down the sides of his cock and onto the couch. 

"Fuck," You groan, "I'm not on the pill."

"Good." He nuzzles his face against your sweaty neck. The weight of his body rests on top of yours. You listen to his breaths start to slow. He doesn't seem to care about how sticky you are, or the fact that he still hasn't pulled out. 

You look over at your bag of forgotten snacks. 

You were supposed to be eating those.

Instead, you're covered in sweat, your pants somewhere on the floor, and Clark is still holding you like this is exactly where you're supposed to be.

You stare at the snacks.

you get to be pretty with pretty girls and enjoy their pole work as they go up. plus, your bachelors degree seemed to mean zip once you moved out to california and frankly, closed mouths don’t get fed.

you start making your rounds now, hiking the sides of your thong up. it has ties on the sides so you pretend to fumble with it, “accidentally” letting one side loose so you can ask the guys at the booth you’re walking up to, if they can help you. really selling it, you “stumble” into the table letting your plush hip bump into the table.

“oh! im so sorry boys!” you say in a clipped chirp

the table jiggles a bit upon collision, their glasses clinking with the ice inside. you fake steady yourself with your free hand so you can lean a bit over the table. tilting your tits forward, they threaten to spill out your balconette.

“could one of you help me with this?”

looking up through your lashes, your heart drops. the booth you’ve sorrowfully stopped at is currently resident to all of the cody’s. baz, craig and deran stopped by frequently together. all separately having had their time with you before. great tippers, but baz thinks he can charm you into letting him be handsy, craig just gets crazy high and lays back, with deran being the most tame. pope you’ve only ever seen once or twice. he’s easily the scariest out of all of them but somehow that makes him the hottest. all the girls knew about pope like he was an old wife’s tale. he’s only with the other boys once in a blue moon and if he was, you could look but he’d never touch you. those auburn curls and broad figure could ruin the whole building. but he always just seemed to stare around. never asking for a dance from anyone. all he does is frown. that intrigues you. especially when he’s the one closest as you’re batting your eyes waiting for assistance.

the boys are leering at you now, except for him, who’s just staring plainly still. this starts to make you feel a bit insecure and silly now. why’s he the only one that doesn’t look interested? a spike of hurt twinges considering there’s nothing you wouldn’t give to ride that frown off his fa-

“pope why don’t you be a gentleman and help this little lady out?” baz taunts as he claps pope on the back.

pope looks down at this and rolls his shoulder. his brothers exchanging looks like school boys. pope’s tilting to looking up at you now, his eyes glaze to your breasts soooo briefly before shifting forward. motioning you to get closer, he flicks his index and middle finger towards him.

“cmere”

you swear you leaked just at that. your face heats at this realization, hoping he couldn’t possibly notice as he takes the strings you’re holding from your hands. his calloused fingers graze yours as you let go. his hands burning traces onto your hip where he works your bottoms into a perfect bow. you try not to focus on how you can feel wisps of his breathing on your side. when he’s done, he pulls it taught, running his hand softly over the knot before dropping it.

you think you could teeter over with a single push now. remembering you’re at work, your eyes rise from the floor addressing the four- three sets of hungry ones before you. brushing hair from your face to pull yourself together, you sigh

“any of you boys looking for a dance tonight?”

being that it’s a full table, you know that at least one of them will say yes. a cash grab guaranteed being the only perk of entertaining this booth. you just hope that it’s deran before baz tries to-

“yeah let’s go” pope drawls

you swear you misheard until he’s raising hand up ready for you to take it. before you even think of letting him change his mind, you clasp it softly. pulling him behind you eagerly swaying your ass with help of the tips of your heels. you don’t even need to look back to know that his brothers are gawking at eachother. you can almost hear craig’s laughter as he jeers at baz— who would have surely jumped the gun had the eldest not beat him to it. this is interesting. something attention-seeking blooming inside of you. curious. pope has barely been around here, let alone gotten a dance. you’re going to have fun with this one.

you open the door to the last room down. velvet seating lines one side of the room, scattered with pillows. light dancing all around as it plays through a chandelier above. there’s a pole in the back, right in front of the mirror spanning the whole wall.

“you can take a seat now baby” testing with a pet name as you let go of his hand to adjust the lights.

you spin back to pope now, still in his controlled form, staring. but a bit relaxed now, hands on his stomach clasped. slightly leaning back against the cushions. you could lick your lips at the sight. if he was so gentle tying your bottoms, you wonder how rough he could be in other situations. you chide yourself mid thought. you don’t know why you’re thinking like this. you’re at work, you’re working and he’s just a customer. you’ll dance and he’ll pay and then he’ll leave. you mentally roll your eyes— how boring that’d be for you.

you saunter over and straddle his thick thighs. they’re so big they practically have you full spread over them. you bring one hand to brace yourself on his shoulder, the other winding its way behind his neck, playing with the curls there.

“you ever have a dance before baby?” you lilt, you’re testing again.

he quietly shakes his head no.

“mkay, so this is how it’s going to work-“

you look down to pull his hands from his stomach and place them on your hips. you suck in your breath slightly as you feel his warm hands on your bare skin again. you “adjust” yourself better onto him scooting closer.

once you look up from the contact, you notice that it seems like he’s steeling himself a bit. his eyes still softened but now he’s chewing on his lip. oh.

“hey, we don’t have to touch if you don’t want to?” you almost whisper, moving your head down so you can level your eyes with his.

“i think i just want to watch you first, sweetheart”

god his voice. the gravelly soft hush makes you throb a little. and he called you sweetheart at that… you think this cody is already better than the others.

you lift yourself off of him and turn to put on some music. this is also why you enjoy your job, you get free rein over the aux in a private room. you click on one of your favorites, excited to use it for this occasion.

cherry by lana del rey floods the speakers.

you look in the mirror to see him already tracking as you glide to the pole. you’re unordinarily nervous now, feeling the need to impress. to give him his money’s worth. to be good for him.

you drag your toes into your step as you reach the small platform. you inhale sharply for composure as you grab the pole with both hands. bending over deeply, ass facing him, with your legs spread behind you. you hope he can’t see how needy you are through your thong. only making things worse for yourself— but better for the show— you bow more and free one hand to fall by your ankle and slowly drag up your leg, your thigh and then between until you’re drawing your hand over your now soaked cunt. you’re feeding off of the way you can feel his burning gaze in your peripheral of the mirror.

you snap up with one hand sliding up the pole, making your way around it once before dropping legs spread, pussy facing him. keeping eye contact with him now, you’re not as nervous. now you need him to see all of you. you start to bounce on your knees when he begins to draw his hand to a forming bulge. fuck.

you want to up the ante, so you rise next to the pole poking your ass out fully into the mirror grasping the pole with your right hand. you kick into a jump with your left hand catching the metal, your feet still in the air swirling around. pope’s hand is grinding into himself now. god.

“you’re so beautiful” he sighs continuing the slow hard pushes on his cock.

you can’t take this anymore, you think you need him right now. you make to step off the platform when you hear three loud bangs on the door making you jump. pope doesn’t even flinch but a scowl returns to his face.

“pope! we have to dip- now” its craigs voice behind the door. if rage could’ve set your skin ablaze you’d be on fire right now. but it seems pope isn’t that happy either as he stands, gruffly smoothing the front of his jeans. you mosey over to him now, thinking about how this would happen the one night he’s here.

“well it looks like you have to go huh” you frown— mainly for yourself.

he scratches at the back of his neck as he reaches into his back pocket.

“it’s okay,” he then steps close enough to steal your breath “we’ll just have to make up for it next time hm?” tilting his head, he places eight, hundred dollar bills in your hand without breaking eye contact. your eyes flick quickly between your hand and his and his plain expression as he makes for the door. he’s turning away grabbing the door handle when you stop him.

“hey! wait this isn’t-“

You moved in with Pope a few months ago, you needed a roomate because rent was just getting too much on your own. He seemed sweet, if not a little awkward, in your initial interview. You know it's not smart to make decisions like 'who you live with' based on a cute, pudgy tummy and some crooked teeth but - selfishly you wouldn't mind looking at him every day. You're convinced that he's completely harmless. So, now you're roomies and good friends.

Pope doesn't talk much, he mostly listens. He listens to you complain after a long day at work, his eyes tracking you as you flitter around your shared kitchen. He listens to you talk about your hobbies when you drag him out to try on clothes. All your friends think he's just cute enough to not be creepy, so they're nice when you bring him on outings. But truthfully you have a little crush on your awkward roomate.

Pope only moved in with you because he didn't like the idea of someone else in your space. Other than himself of course. After your initial interview he'd become a little obsessed with you. You're so kind, your eyes gentle and your body utterly enticing. He went home that night and humped his mattress to the thought of you. He knew it was wrong, especially because he'd just met you but he just couldn't help himself. He hasn't really been able to since moving in. He's a stealthy man who rarely ever sleeps, so he spends his free time with you or watching you.

You have a bad habit of leaving doors open even when you probably shouldn't. You don't think much of it, getting changed, showering, sleeping, even touching yourself with the door cracked. In your mind Pope wouldn't hurt a fly, he's like the best roomate you've ever had. So, you don't even give it your time of day.

Pope on the other hand spends most of his days watching you. He peers through the cracks when you get dressed for bed, palming his hard on while you crawl into the sheets. Once he's sure you've fallen asleep he creeps farther in, finally taking his cock out now that he can see all of your face. He strokes himself even though he knows he shouldn't, he feels guilty as he touches your foot; his cock twitching. He feels guilty as he runs his hand up your calf and thigh, precum oozes from his tip because of how smooth you are. He reaches to your shoulder where the strap of your silk nightgown sits, tugging it down your arm until your plump breast spills out. He whimpers at the sight, even though he's done this many times before; he truly can never get enough of you. It makes him feel guilty, especially when he gropes your flesh, kneading gently until your nipple hardens against his palm.

You stir when he kneels next to your bed and gently licks your taught nipple with his burning hot tongue. Your shoulders shift as a large breath is forced out of your chest. Pope watches your face closely for signs that he's woken you but he can't stop stroking himself. So, he holds his breath to keep in any noises until you're fully settled. He licks your nipple again, unable to stop himself because he just loves the way you taste. He can't stop himself when he toys with the bottom of your dress to drag it up your thighs, exposing more of you to him. When his eyes land on an exposed, wild bush at your pubic bone he grunts a little too loud and comes in his hand instantly.

His teeth sink into his bottom lip, nearly drawing blood as he holds in his sounds and tries to aim his cum on himself. He's never seen this part of you before despite the number of nights he spends in your room. He has to physically restrain himself from burying his face between your legs, from inhaling your scent so he can memorize it, from threading his fingers through the spares hairs there.

You tempt him by just existing. He's getting weaker by the day.

Especially when you're cooking breakfast in a long shirt and no panties. You do it because you're comfortable around Pope, you don't think he'd even be looking. So, you bend down and move around with little care, too trusting in the length of your pajama T.

Pope sits at the island, feeling grateful for the marble between you. Despite what you may assume, he can see enough of you to make him feel feral. He nods politely as you speak but he's not listening like you think he is. No, his mind is running wild with perverted thoughts, thoughts that if you knew about you'd kick him out and file for a restraining order.

"You are coming, aren't you?" Your voice snaps him out of it, his eyes zoning in on your face as you slide a few slice of French toast onto his plate.

"Where?" He asks, making you giggle and squint at him.

"To Smurf's party tonight, silly. Everyone else is." You remind him, rounding the corner of the counter to slide into the stool next to him. You keep your legs crossed tight as you cut up your breakfast and pour some syrup and powered sugar over it.

"Did she invite you?" Pope asks, looking at you straight on with that scowl you're still trying to get used to.

"Umm, yeah. Is that okay? Thought I'd stay close to you though."

"Sure." Pope grumbles before turning to his food. You watch him for a quick moment as he picks at his plate, jaw ticking like it does. You take a slow bite, deciding you need more syrup as you chew.

"We don't have to, you know. Could have my friends over instead, you don't mind them, right?" You offer, noticing how uncomfortable he is. He cranes his neck back to you, glaring in the way you've come to know means he's thinking; not so much upset or angry.

"I'll think about it." He murmurs.

You smile and nod, taking another bite before reaching for your glass of juice. Somehow your elbow hits your plate on the way back and it flips into your lap, syrup smearing all over your bare thighs. You squeal a little, the juice slipping from your hand and soaking Pope's pants.

"Fuck, fuck! I'm so sorry, Andrew!" You apologize profusely, getting all the dishes back on the counter before ripping off a few paper towels and going to dap off his pants.

"It's fine." Pope grunts, hands gripping the edge of the stool as you pat down his thighs and crotch. His jaw is clenched as he tries extremely hard not to get hard.

"M'so sorry!" You continue, cursing yourself for your clumsiness, ignoring the syrup running down your legs. Your little hands are all over Pope and it drives him crazy, you have no idea the verge he's on, the urges he's fighting. He's trying to protect you from himself but you make it so hard.

He snatches your wrists and holds you still, you look up to his face apologetically. "It's fine, doll." He grunts out, stern in that way you sort of like. But it doesn't calm you, you feel so bad for being so clumsy.

"No, it's not, c'mon." You manage to get a hold of Pope's hands, tugging him out of his seat despite his small protests. He's a little uncomfortable because of his wet pants but he's not upset with you by any means. You on the other hand feel like you have to rectify the situation asap.

"What're you doing?" Pope asks when you pull him into the bathroom. You close the door behind him, reaching for his shirt to start tugging it over his head. "Doll...what're you doing?" Pope asks a little more seriously this time. You smile at the nickname he's given you, you've loved it ever since the first time he said it.

"Let's get cleaned up, we'll be too sticky to sit anywhere or do anything if not." You explain earnestly, pulling his shirt over his head and he lets you. He's stiff and rigid, not sure what to do with himself as the two of you get naked in your shared bathroom.

"You can go first, I'll wait." Pope offers, standing like a stone as you tug innocently at his sweatpants.

"It'll be quicker together. - Unless, you don't want to." You offer, realizing maybe you should double check with him first. He stands in only his boxers with your fingers tucked in the elastic. Pope clenches his fists so tight he breaks skin just to keep from getting hard in front of you.

"It-It's not weird?" Pope asks, staring at you with hesitance and lust. The only thing you pick up on is his hesitation, petting his biceps for friendly comfort, not knowing what you're doing to him.

"I don't think so, you're my friend. - I've showered with my friends before." You shrug casually. "I can trust you, can't I, Andy?" You ask sweetly, batting your eyelashes and twisting a few of his curls in your fingers.

"Of course." Pope nods, looking at you with a softer, gentler expression now.

Guilt knots in his gut because he knows he's lying. You can trust him to protect you from others, to watch you get to work safely, and that no one will ever bother you or your friends on your nights out, etc. But in this situation, with you and him, alone - he can't seem to help himself. Whether it's fucking the pair of panties you wore to the gym, watching you ride your favorite big, pink dildo when you forget to close your door, or tucking his cock between his legs to have something to fuck while you talk his ear off - Pope is not trust worthy.

"Good, get in with me then." You chirp at him, spinning around as you slide your t-shirt up your torso. Pope watches the movement of your spine and arms, blood rushing to his crotch. You turn the hot water on and step into the porcelain tub, letting it soak your hair and back first.

Pope hesitates, sliding his boxers down slow and walking to the curtain even slower. He stands there naked and unsure of himself as he grips the flowery curtain in his hand.

"Andy?" You call, sounding needy despite your friendly intentions.

"Y-Yeah?"

"You comin? Need help getting all this syrup off my legs." You whine a little, missing the proximity of him because you've just gotten used to it.

He doesn't waste anymore time, stepping into the tub with you. He awkwardly covers himself with his hands, trying to hide that fact that he's growing against his will. He's trying to be respectful but - he can't. The sprays of warm water bouncing off of you start to dampen his skin, which entices your eyes. You look down to his hands, giggling a little as you run your hands through your hair. You don't mean to stare but he's so muscular and taught you can't help it. So, it doesn't bother you much that his eyes wander too.

"You can use your body wash if you want." You offer, nodding to his bottle and then down to your sticky legs.

"I-I shouldn't." He stutters, gripping himself tighter in hopes of restricting blood flow.

"It's okay, Popey." You assure him, stepping closer to tug on his wrists. "It's natural, I understand. No need to be embarrassed." You continue on until he lets you pull his hands away.

When his hardening cock flops down against Pope's thigh your eyes get big for a moment and you gulp, it's the biggest cock you've ever seen. You snap your head away out of respect, looking back up to his worried, angular face.

"Here," You hand him the bottle before lifting your leg up, resting your foot on the ledge next to his knee. Pope gulps, biting down on his tongue as he squeezes some soap into his palm.

His gruff hands massage your thigh and calf where the sticky syrup dried to your skin. The warm water and musky soap work together to clean you up. Pope is red faced and aching, fighting against every urge in his body to stay calm, to not just take you the way he dreams so often about.

"Thank you, - feels kinda good." You sigh, closing your eyes a moment before switching legs. Pope works the mess off your other leg just the same, meticulously making sure you're squeaky clean. Once he's satisfied he reaches around you to rinse his hands off before stepping back with them in fists at his side. His cock stands at full attention now and you can't keep your eyes off of it now matter how hard you try.

"Wanna get in and clean off now?" You offer. Pope nods yes, looking down to his feet as you two shuffle past each other to switch sides of the tub. Slick parts of your bodies brush together, igniting a fire under his skin.

He rinses himself off as you start lathering up your hair. You pass back and forth one or two more times as you work through your normal shower routine. When you're in the water facing away from him for the last time, Pope gets overwhelmed, the desire pulsating through his veins clouding his judgment. Not to mention the painful ache in his cock.

You feel a large, gruff hand between your shoulder blades and it makes you shudder. Pope massages his hand higher until he's got a hold of the muscle between your neck and shoulder, so he can pull you closer to him. You can't see it but Pope already has his other hand wrapped around his cock, stroking lazily.

"A-Andrew? What're y-you doing?" You ask timidly, glancing over your shoulder where his big hand is giving you goose bumpers.

Pope uses his hold on you to drag you back to his chest, you can feel his knuckles brushing your bum every other moment. "It's okay, sweetheart. It's natural, - just like you said." He explains softly, grunting a little as he continues stroking himslf against your ass.

"Popey, - a-are you touch-touching yourself?" You stutter worse when you feel his fat tip between the dimples at the base of your spine.

"Yes." He whispers, his fist quickening when he sees your ass cheeks jiggle from the impact. "I got too hard while cleaning you, m'sorry - but I have to take care of it. You understand, don't you, sweetheart?" Pope babbles, his manipulation working as you start to take pity on him. You know sometimes men can't help when they get hard, and you did put him on the spot a little this morning. So, you feel like it's the least you can do to help him - right?

"I didn't know you thought about me like that." You whisper, pressing your palms to the wall in front of you as Pope gets closer and puts more weight on you. The feeling of his hand hitting your ass and his cock writhing against you make you quiver. You can't deny that Pope is an attractive man, he's so much man. But you were certain that you weren't Pope's type.

"Think that you're attractive? Doll, everyone thinks that about you." Pope grumbles, stroking himself faster. You feel his blunt tip swipe through you're ass cheeks and you whimper a little. Your spin naturally arches for him, instinct kicking in as his free hand holds a death grip on your side. "Yeah?" He hums.

"Andy..." You whimper, unsure of what's going on with your mind and body.

He continues stroking himself around the base, aiming the top part of his cock to slide farther down between your ass cheeks until his tip meets your dripping entrance.

"Oh my god." Pope sighs, his chest collapsing and curving around your back. He's teases your entrance a little more seriously and it makes you gasp, clawing at the wall in front of you for balance. "Sweetheart, please say this is all for me." Pope whines, nudging himself forward which makes you flinch. The pressure feels more serious now, he's so hard against you it makes you dizzy.

You're not sure what to do or say, you're not sure you recognize the Pope behind you. Maybe you've imagined him once or twice while bouncing on your pink dildo but you never imagined him so gruff and needy.

"Andy!" You squeal, your spine arching further as your hips jolt.

"It's okay, it's okay." He soothes, kissing your shoulder, gentle and coaxing. "We both need it, baby. Just feel how wet you are - how hard I am." Pope kisses your temple, his large hand engulfing one of your breasts to grope you. You make whiny noises from his movements, gasping for air and trying to think clearly.

"I-I'm not sure..." You hesitate, looking over your shoulder at him to see his needy face.

It morphs into an expression of pain and pleasure colliding as you feel him pushing into you. It's a sharp stretch at first but your pussy welcomes it.

"No no no, please don't say that - please, sweetheart. I know you need it." Pope whines, tears pricking the corners of his eyes as he nudges your noses together. "Promise I'll make you feel you, - just don't say no, baby." He continues pleading with you, all the while sinking in inch by inch at a steady pace.

Your pussy flutters around his girth, sucking him in despite the hesitance in your mind. You know this isn't something that friends are supposed to do and it makes you worry...

"Thought you were my friend, Andy..." You whimper, your breath hitching in a moan as you arch deeper for him. His fat cock feels good enough to make you loopy right off the bat.

"I am, sweetheart, I am!" Pope defends himself, thrusting in and out of you. One hand wraps around your middle while the other grabs at your hip. "You're just helping me out, yeah? We're friends helping each other out, - it's normal to do that." Pope encourages, nodding his head in your face as he speaks to convince you. "Yeah?" He asks with urgency, raising his brows at you.

"Y-yeah." You nod slowly, moaning louder than you expect as Pope finds a brutal pace inside you. Your hips shift back against him, making sure he hits that perfect spot inside you over and over. Pope growls at your answer, sinking his teeth into your shoulder as he starts pounding into you harder and harder. He's relentless, sloppily kissing your mouth and face as he gets a little carried away.

Pope loses himself in the misdt of it all, pressing your face into the wall as he forces your spine to arch more while slamming his fat cock in and out of your pussy. He's grunting and moaning, sounding delirious as he pounds into you.

Even in your confusion about the whole predicament you feel every last delicious thrust echo through you. Pope knows how to use his huge cock, knows how to make sure it doesn't hurt, how to reach new places. You were nearly as delirious as he was, cock drunk because you've never been stuffed so full before.

Pope starts grunting extra loud, his breath constricted as his thrusts turn devilish. You force your glossy eyes open to glance back at him, his gaze heavy and mouth open as he humps you.

"D-don't come in me." You stutter out, trying to wiggle away when you notice him losing control. Pope pins you in place, keeping you perfectly balanced between the wall and him.

"I-I have to sweetheart, that's a part of sex." Pope groans, leaning forward to try and kiss the pout from your lips. "I won't be able to otherwise." He whines, his pupils blown out as he gives you his best puppy dog eyes. And it works, you can't deny him when he's this deep inside you. When you stop protesting and start moaning again, Pope takes his chance and fucks himself into you until he's filling you with his cum. He's a loud, whiny, grateful mess as you feel his warmth fill your belly.

"Thank you s'much, doll - make me feel so good, what a good friend - such a tight girl, you spoil me - that's right suck me in, take all of it."

You're dizzy when he's done, barely able to hold your head up on your own. It's a good thing Pope keeps such a tight hold on you when he slowly pulls out because your knees buckle.

"Don't give out on me yet," He coos, spinning you around so you're leaning against the wall and he's propping you up by your hips. "Gotta do my part." He grins at you, pecking your mouth before sinking to his knees.

"W-what do you mean?" You huff, running your fingers through his hair as he massage your thighs.

"What kinda friend would I be if I didn't make you come, sweetheart?" Pope asks as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. You gulp when he lifts your leg over his shoulder, giving himself full access to you. "Would never do that to you." He whispers, his eyes locked in on your dripping cunt.

Pope takes a handful of your bush and tugs until your squealing and trying to stop him. Before you can get him to stop he's wrapping his mouth around your entire cunt, lapping up his come mixed with your arousal like it's his last meal. His eyes roll back in his head as he presses himself as hard as he can into your cunt. His nose nudges your clit and he inhales deeply, a feral moan escaping him.

"Andy! Oh god, just like that!" You cry out, bucking your hips and pulling at his hair for more, more, more! "Please, Pope, m'so close!" You continue blubbering, chasing your high like it's the only thing that matters.

Pope moans into your pussy just like he did when his cock was inside of you. The vibrations make you quiver, your palms flat behind you for better leverage. Pope pushes your thigh higher up his head to sink his tongue in. He's somehow even more feral; he's growling and scratching at your thighs, devouring you like a man starved.

You're screaming by the time you come, so overstimulated and worked up that it tears through you. It's every bit of violence as it is euphoric. You feel your body give out, knowing Pope is the only reason you haven't fallen over.

When your eyes open Pope is looking at you with his stern face, brushing hair from yours so he can kiss clear lips. He's gentle, like he's searching you for something.

"You can't let any of your friends do that to you but me, you understand?" Pope demands, looking so serious, like he could flip to anger in a second.

"Why not?" You pout playfully, still catching your breath as you cling to his big biceps.

"Because sweetheart, they won't know how to touch you like me." He assures you, rubbing your noses together as his big hands caress you carefully.

Deep down you know he's right.

You two sort of fall into a routine after that day; where anytime you're pent up or need a release - you just go to one another. Neither of you ever say no, always so eager and ready to help out your friend.

“uhm. ‘m proper leakin’ right now. ma head won’t stop–not my head head, but the one on m-my cock. keeps crying for ya.” another punched-out groan cuts off simon’s ramble. he curses a couple times under his breath before remembering the rest of his words. “i spit on it, too. helps like y’said. haven’t even come yet, ’n i’m already makin’ a mess.”

a hissing sound ends that one. next...

“my, uh, my top is off. already was ‘cause’a the heat, but left my briefs on. the-the white ones. cock was so–shit– hard, i nearly popped outta them. when you… mmm–when you come over later, can you do th-he sniffs-that thing where ya. like. lick over the fabric? ’n nose at me, that kinda stuff? look so pretty when you do that…”

on the next note, the strokes are faster. louder. accompanied by a touch of impatience.

“fuck me, love. wish y’could see me right now. c… god, cock’s feelin’ bigger than usual. thicker, too. can feel it fuckin’ pulsing. ’n my balls, jesus. they miss ya’real bad. i think they’re–maybe aching a bit? but it’s the kind that feels good, too. like, uh. like they’re jus’ full. sensitive. and it feels nice when i do this…” there’s break in the strokes and a shuffling noise, then a deep groan. “y-you can’t see but ‘m wrapping my fingers around them. like that ring we got, ’n the pressure feels nice. gonna make me cum ‘f i do it f’too long.”

by the time the next one starts, simon’s hand is wrapped right back around himself. his breathing is louder now, accented by badly-hidden whines, and you can hear the way he’s started to squirm against the sheets of the bed.

“i-i can’t wait t’fuck ya tonight. been getting better at holdin’ it. practicin’ my form–fuuuck. oh, fuck. s’close, baby, i can feel it… auh, i wish-i wish, uh, fuck. i can’t think. my fuckin’ legs, they won’t stop shaking.” god, you can hear it in his voice. the poor thing, with his voice croaking out an increasingly wobbly tone, cock sounding wetter and wetter with each tug of his hand. he’s probably sweating, too. he always is when he gets like this–horny and flushed and damp with sweat over how good he’s feeling… how much he feels for you. “ooouh, i wanna come… i wanna come… fuck, can i blow f’you, please?”

the next audio message is the longest one and nothing but simon falling apart. the volume fluctuates, his grip on the phone less reliable with his head in other places and his throat going raw with all the noise he’s making. groans and wails of everything from your name to swears that aren’t comprehensible (thanks to the unconscious thickening of his accent) tumble out of him in between arches that puff his chest in the air and the tight gropes of his twisty, pumping hand. it feels like it’s lasting forever, simon’s release. he goes on and on, having to sniff a few times when tears try to well in his eyes.

the last note takes him a good minute to send. he starts it with a thick sigh.

“uhm… uh, t-there’s so much cum, love. hand’s covered in it… everywhere else, too,” simon makes himself laugh with that one. he lets out a deep, tired chuckle before a quiet smack sounds. “tastes good. gonna… gonna send you a pic, yeah? little preview f’later. and ‘cause it really is a lot. think this is the most i’ve ever come without ya here…”

one last buzz from your phone. 

FROM SI 🤓♥️:

1 image

opening up the picture, your entire body warms with buzzy feeling.

against his cum-covered hand rests his softening cock, still appearing as thick and as heavy as ever despite the size of the load that’s oozed out all over him self. the photo is all spit and cum and slick, which forces you to have to swallow down the groan that tries to escape your throat.

christ. tonight cannot come soon enough.