milf enthusiast

No curtains, no shades. There's not even a half-effort of an old sheet hung up over the glass pane. And at night? When he can't sleep, and the moths circle the flickering porch lights, and you've got those blue or red or purple LED lights on…well.

Pope can see right into your apartment.

Can see you, watching TV on the couch or cooking boxed macaroni in nothing but a loose tank top and a pair of lace underwear.

He thinks you might be the only good thing about the apartment that Smurf forced him into only three days after he was released from prison.

It's been a long time since he's looked at a woman, you know. Longer since he's seen one as pretty as you.

He's not lacking self awareness or anything. Pope knows your open windows and ever changing LEDs aren't an invitation to stare, but…sometimes it feels like one.

You fall asleep on the couch most nights. Which is good for him, because Pope can't see into your bedroom.

Some things, he begins to realize, are a sort of chaotic routine.

You tend to fall asleep with your phone in your hand and scramble to find it each morning (it's always under the couch, beneath the hot pink throw pillow you kick off in your sleep).

You don't eat breakfast because you don't wake up early enough to (don't you know it's the most important meal of the day?). Most mornings, you wake up with just enough time to doll yourself up in the bathroom, prioritizing glittery eyeshadow and shimmering lip gloss rather than the sustenance of a bowl of cereal.

He doesn't know what you do for work, but it's something with an inconsistent schedule. You sleep until noon on your days off, which could be any day of the week, Pope learns.

Work doesn't stop you from going out, though. Saturday nights are reserved for those miniskirts and stiletto heels and all your giggling girlfriends who get ready on your living room floor with a hand mirror. You share perfume and makeup and clothes with them before you all climb into a shared uber.

A few times, Andrew finds himself tempted to follow you. He tells himself it's not like he'd be doing it for his own satisfaction. He'd just be doing it to keep an eye on you, that's all. You're a young girl (too young for someone his age). Don't you know there are predators out there?

But he never does. Because that would be weird, right? You don't even know him. But…he certainly starts to feel like he knows you.

You and your friends always stumble back to your apartment, sometimes falling up the concrete steps to the second floor. One of them will make pizza rolls or messy peanut butter sandwiches and you'll pass around cold bottles of water and spill electrolyte drink mixes on the kitchen counter.

You'll share your things with them even after the club, selfless girl. Passing out hair ties and makeup removing wipes and big t-shirts for them to sleep in. On one particular night, when most of them are passed out on the couch, legs and arms tangled together, Pope even watches you you share a kiss with one of them under pink LEDs.

That night, Andrew has to force his attention away. It feels way too close to the beginning of that porno Craig left open on the family computer years ago.

But this doesn't feel erotic. Watching your mouth move against someone else's doesn't elicit any warmth beneath the fabric of his jeans.

No, it makes Andrew...upset. Angry, even.

It makes him jealous.

He tries not to think about it again. Tries even harder (and fails, repeatedly) to give you some privacy on Saturday nights.

But Sundays…Sundays are sacred.

Both for you and for him.

So much so that he pulls out on a job when his brothers plan it for a Sunday. Tells them he has to check in with his parole officer that day. Lies to their faces, because he doesn't want to miss out on you.

Because every Sunday, without fail, Andrew gets to see you naked.

You start by cleaning your apartment. Wiping down the counters and vacuuming the carpet and dusting the top of the cabinets. Then you light the candle on the coffee table (pink champagne, he's pretty sure, after looking endlessly online to match up the glass container. Twenty six dollars. Four day shipping. Currently sitting unlit on his nightstand).

And when you're ready, you strip off all your clothes and discard them in the bathroom.

You put oil in your hair and nineties R&B on your bluetooth speaker. You paint your toes (usually white or black, occasionally an electric blue) and glue artificial nails with sparkling gems onto your fingers.

Sunday showers are the longest, Pope knows. Sometimes thirty minutes. And when you emerge from the bathroom, steam rolls out from the open door and you've got your hair wrapped up in a towel. You balance yourself with a foot on the edge of the couch and massage lotion into your skin first.

From top to bottom, moisturizing your entire body. And then you repeat the motion with an oil, and it's during this particular step that Andrew starts feeling a little lightheaded.

He'd bet you feel all smooth and soft and smell so fucking good. Maybe like vanilla or cherry or coconut. And, god. He wants to touch you. He wants to touch himself.

But he resists.

The first three times, anyway.

By the fourth Sunday, though…well. His cock gets so fucking hard in his jeans that it's leaking. Making a big fucking mess in his boxers. It hurts, you know?

And it's not like you'll know he's doing it. He's had a little over a month to perfect his setup—lights off, chair angled perfectly so if anyone glanced into his apartment they'd have to really look in order to see him.

So, he takes his cock in his hand and imagines it's your delicate fingers wrapped around him instead. Imagines it's his hands rubbing oil into your shoulders, over the swell of your breasts, pressing into your hips, squeezing at the supple flesh of your thighs.

He'd make sure to do it just how you like. And Pope wouldn't need to be told how to, either. Because he's spent so much time watching you now that he would just know.

He wonders if your head would fall back, wet hair clinging to your slick skin. He wonders if he pressed just right into that tender spot at the small of your back that you're always so gentle with if you'd moan or whine or whimper. Maybe even say his name.

Andrew cums at the thought alone, grunting low, lips parted, his release spilling over his hand and down the hard length of his cock.

The shame doesn't take hold of him for a while.

Not until later that night, when your hair is blow dried and you're dressed in a pretty silk pajama set. You've got some trashy reality show on the TV, and you're eating the pizza you had delivered right out of the box.

Andrew takes the moment to clean himself up. To change out of his clothes and into something more comfortable. He brushes his teeth and climbs in bed, but lays with his head propped up by an extra pillow so he can still see clearly out of his window.

He knows it's weird. He knows he shouldn't be staring at a naked girl who's probably half his age and doesn't know there's some fucking creep across the courtyard who watches her every fucking day. He knows he shouldn't be fucking his fist watching you put lotion on your skin. He knows he shouldn't be changing his plans with family or friends around your schedule, just so he can watch you a little longer.

He knows he should stop.

The problem, however, lies in the wanting.

Andrew's never had much. Not when it comes to women. But you…god. You're so beautiful, and so pure and so different from anything he's ever seen. You don't belong to anyone but yourself, and once he sees you, he finds it impossible to look away.

Things change late one Friday night.

Andrew gets sloppy. He gets comfortable, here in this routine he's created around you.

There's music coming from your apartment, some electronic pop ballad that's at a volume so loud he can hear it from across the courtyard (there will be complaints to the office manager tomorrow morning, he knows. But you don't have to worry. Pope will take care of it for you, baby. He'll make sure you can keep having your fun).

You're wearing just a lacy bra and a pair of linen sleep shorts. There's a seltzer in your hand, and you're singing and dancing like you've somehow summoned all the energy from the club right there in your apartment.

It's a beautiful sight, truly. You're so happy and carefree. The warmest ray of sunshine that he wants to find himself basking under.

Andrew gets comfortable, posture relaxing in the chair that now lives permanently in front of his window. He watches you dance around your apartment, the easy smile on your face reflected back on his own.

He thinks he could really take care of you. Keep you safe. Protect all that girlish whimsy that lives in your heart. He'd make you real happy, Andrew thinks. Would watch you dance with your friends at the club, leaning against the bar. He'd take you shopping and add more of those short dresses into your closet. He'd make you breakfast in the mornings before work and Christ—he'd buy you a set of fucking curtains.

Pope is so lost in the fantasy of it that he doesn't register in time that your dancing has slowed. And you've put your seltzer down on the coffee table.

And you're staring right back at him.

His heart kicks up, pounding against his chest. He knows he should move out of sight, shut his blinds, pass this off as a mistake, maybe even pretend he hadn't seen you.

But he doesn't do any of that.

He's frozen in time, terrified and exhilarated all at once by simply being perceived by you.

Pope just…stares.

It seems to be the only fucking thing he's capable of these days.

He expects you to flip him off or maybe come barreling out of the door and across the courtyard to confront him. Or maybe you'll scurry away into your room. Maybe you'll order a set of curtains online.

But you don't do any of that.

You just stare right back.

Andrew tilts his head curiously. It's an involuntary movement.

In the end, you're the first to look away. You pick up your seltzer, dump it down the drain in the kitchen, and then disappear into the bathroom to brush your teeth.

Your routine remains the exact same. You find your phone beneath the throw blanket on the couch and turn off the TV. You turn the kitchen light off and turn on the light above the stove instead. You grab a water bottle from the fridge, and then go to bed in your room.

It's not rushed, and you don't seem nervous or fearful that there's someone watching you.

And Andrew thinks to himself, see. This is why you need him. This is why you need someone looking out for you. Don't you know how dangerous he could be?

He would never hurt you, Andrew knows. But you don't know that.

He doesn't sleep that night. He doesn't sleep often as it is, but his mind is running too fast. Cataloguing all the potential scenarios in which you cut off all access he has to you, severing the comfort he finds in his new favorite, voyeuristic hobby.

And Andrew wouldn't—couldn't—blame you for it. He thinks that's what you should do.

You don't.

The following morning, your routine changes.

On the nights you fall asleep in your bed, you're usually dressed in a pair of jeans with gems decorating the pockets and a low-cut top by the time you emerge from your room.

But not this time.

No, this time you're still wearing the same clothes you'd fallen asleep in. A lacy bra and cotton shorts.

Andrew watches, freshly emerged from the quickest shower of his life, hair still wet, as you stand in front of the fridge to find the fizzy energy drink you'd brought home with you last night.

He watches you struggle for a moment to crack the seal open (Those pretty nails of yours. He could help you with that, you know). You take a slow sip, put the aluminum can down on the counter, and turn your head just enough to let Pope know you see him.

You know he's there, in the window. You know he's watching.

And then, painfully slow, you drag your shorts down your thighs. The fabric pools at your feet, and Pope loses all train of thought.

Because this is no accident. You want this. You want him to watch you.

Your bra is next. You reach around to unclasp it and soon after the lace joins the linen fabric on the linoleum floor.

Warmth blooms beneath his skin as he watches you press your hands to your abdomen, feeling your skin, running your hands up your chest and over the swell of your breasts.

You try and play it off like a stretch, lifting your arms above your head and arching your back.

Andrew knows it's not.

You get ready the rest of the morning like normal. And Andrew…God. He doesn't know what to think.

He knows he should stop this before it goes too far. He thinks it already has.

It's…it's weird, right?

Everything about it is wrong.

He doesn't want to stop, but he knows he should.

He tries, though. For what little it's worth.

Tries to busy himself building a fountain at Smurf's. Tries to find small jobs he can do himself to pass the time. He still thinks about you all hours of the day, though. Like a thorn stuck beneath his skin, aching when he moves just the wrong way.

He overhears Nicky explaining to Deran what an 'everything shower' is and thinks about your Sunday ritual. He walks into a hungover Craig making boxed macaroni in his boxers and thinks of you. Smurf lights a candle called pink cashmere and even though it's not pink champagne, it still makes him think of you.

The pretty little girl in the apartment across from his, who he finds himself certifiably, insanely, obsessed with.

One Thursday afternoon, Andrew returns home earlier than he'd planned. He tells himself he just wants to get a little glance.

Just one look. You know, to soothe the ache the thought of you brings. To see if maybe he imagined the weight of your stare.

What he finds, though, is somehow more concerning.

You're pacing your living room, cell phone pressed to your ear, still wearing jeans and your sneakers. There's tension in your shoulders and even though he can't hear the conversation you're having with the person on the other end of the phone, he can see that you're shouting.

It drags on for the better half of an hour. The pacing, the frustrated hand waving, the pinching of the bridge of your nose. Whatever it is, Andrew bets he could help with it.

He hates seeing you stressed. Thinks you should be living your fun, carefree life like normal. You shouldn't be burdened with…whatever it is that's got you so upset.

But it's not like he can go over and just ask.

So, he chooses a different path instead.

Gets the key to the office of the apartment complex from Smurf. Rummages through the paper files until he finds the lease contract linked to your apartment number.

Andrew thinks he should've done this weeks ago. He learns an awful lot about you this way. Like your name, which he begins to recite like a mantra in his head. He learns your birthday and, regretfully, your age.

But, most importantly, he discovers (and memorizes) your phone number.

And that same day, he returns to Smurf's with a torn piece of paper with the digits scribbled on it. He hands it to his nephew and says, "Need you to get a few phone call records. Can you do that for me?"

J furrows his brows in confusion. "Who's number?"

Pope shrugs. "No one," he lies. "Can you get the records or not?"

"Uh, yeah. Yeah, probably. Anything specific you're looking for?"

"I wanna know about a call that happened today. Around two or so. Lasted almost an hour. Just get me the number of whoever was on the other line."

J hesitates for a single moment, and then nods slowly. "Alright. I'll get back to you on it."

In the meantime, Andrew spirals.

The thought of you having a boyfriend never really crossed his mind until now. You don't really have men over. Just your girl friends.

But there are some Saturday nights you don't come home, stumbling in early Sunday morning instead with sunglasses on and your hair a mess. So, Pope thinks you very well could have a boyfriend and he never would've known it.

Pope tells himself if it is a boyfriend, he won't…he won't do anything. It's not his place to make decisions for you, right?

Still. You shouldn't let a man stress you out so much. Whoever it is, they're not worth it. You deserve better. You deserve more.

You deserve someone who knows you.

Less than two hours later, Pope gets a phone call from J, who explains that the person on the other end of that phone call wasn't a person at all.

It was your phone company.

Your stupid fucking service provider who just so happened to put an extra two hundred dollar fee on your bill this month, claiming data overages.

All that stress wasn't over a boyfriend. It was over money.

And money is something Andrew can provide.

He waits until you leave for work, locking up tight behind you. But that doesn't matter, not now. Andrew has a key to the office, which means he has access to the spare key to your apartment.

He is fully aware that he shouldn't be doing this, but ten minutes after you leave he unlocks the door and steps inside anyway.

Your apartment smells sweet. Like sugar and citrus. He wonders if you smell the same way, and the thought alone makes Andrew's mouth water.

He moves slowly into your space, fingers tracing over the TV stand, feeling the wood beneath his calloused fingertips. He straightens the crooked throw pillow on the couch and puts the lighter for your candle back into the tray on the coffee table.

Andrew knows he should just…leave the cash and go. He shouldn't be snooping around, invading your privacy.

But you left a knife point-side up in the strainer in the sink. And you could get hurt doing something like that.

And once he's already in the kitchen, turning the knife over so the sharp edge is down, well…what will it hurt if he opens a couple of drawers?

None of your silverware matches. Andrew finds this little fact sort of endearing. Messy and chaotic in the same way you are, but that's okay. Maybe he can fix that for you one day, too.

Your bathroom is cluttered. There's makeup products littering the porcelain sink and the cabinet mirror is left wide open. Andrew picks up a few different products to read the labels and finds lip liners and leave-in conditioners and powdered blush with pilled pigment on the counter.

He finds that lotion you're always using on Sundays and opens the lid. Andrew brings the container to his nose, inhales deeply, and feels suddenly too hot.

The scent of it is sweet, like you. There's notes of syrupy amber and warm florals and it has the muscles in his abdomen squeezing tight as he thinks about how potent the scent would be if he were between your legs, freshly oiled, calves resting on his shoulders as he licks and sucks at your clit.

His cock has been half hard since the moment he stepped foot in your apartment, but by the time he makes it to your bedroom?

Pope is aching.

Your clothes are strewn all over. There's t-shirts on the floor and jeans inside out near the hamper and a dress you'd worn two weekends ago lying on the edge of your unmade bed.

It smells like you in here, too. Even more so. There's less perfume, but Andrew swears he can smell the scent of your skin. Sweet and intoxicating, sending sparks of arousal straight to his groin.

Your bedside table has a lamp on it and three half-empty bottles of water. There's one drawer, and he pries it open and gives a slow exhale to see all the silk and lace inside.

Going through your underwear drawer is, quite literally, the very last thing someone like Andrew Cody should be doing.

He does it anyway.

Rummages around until he finds that little black pair you like to sleep in. He runs his fingers over the lace band, feeling the softness beneath the rough pad of his thumb. His cock is throbbing, even before he brings the fabric to his nose and inhales the scent of laundry detergent and faint mahogany from the nightstand and—there. The scent of you.

As close as he can get.

As close as he'll probably ever get.

He needs to leave. Andrew is painfully aware that this is crossing a line of a whole new degree. Levels above simply watching.

This is obsession. This is addiction. Sick and twisted and perverted.

Andrew does not leave.

He climbs into your bed instead. Kicks off his boots and discards his hoodie until he's in nothing but his jeans. He slips beneath your sheets—satin, and pink, and filled with the scent of your shampoo and your skin and—fuck.

His cock is leaking by the time he undoes his belt. Andrew reaches beneath your blankets and shoves his jeans down just enough to free himself.

And it's almost enough to blow his load right fucking there, when the underside of his heavy length brushes against the fabric of your sheets. It's almost too much, being in your room, in your bed, breathing in your scent.

But he resists. Grits his teeth and takes his cock in one hand and uses the other to wrap the soft fabric of your underwear around his aching length.

This time, there's nothing slow about the way he strokes himself to the thought of you. He's desperate for it. Release already clouds the edges of his mind and he needs the relief it'll provide.

His brain feels hazy and his vision blurs, just thinking about you, lying here, hand between your legs. He wonders how you touch yourself, if you just play with your clit or if you fuck yourself on your fingers.

The thought crosses his mind that you might be using more than just your hand, and Pope finds himself sitting up. He leans over the edge of your bed and sticks his hand back into your panty drawer, reaching to the very bottom, feeling around until the tips of his fingers brush over silicone.

His heart is beating fast.

It's a small thing. Pink, of course. With only a small, almost hidden power button.

Pope leans back in your pillows and turns the little vibrator on. It buzzes to life in his hand, and when he pushes the button again, the intensity ratchets even higher.

There's only three settings. He turns it to the highest one and imagines holding it against your swollen clit. He imagines you lying under him, thighs around his waist, hips bucking wildly, chasing the vibration that he gives and gives and then takes away.

He turns so he's lying face down in your sheets now, nose pressed into your pillow. Pope puts the vibrator between his cock and the soft expanse of his abdomen, and he feels the sensation everywhere.

He's still got your underwear wrapped around his cock, and he gives a tentative roll of his hips against the mattress.

The groan he lets out is guttural. With his eyes closed, he can imagine its not your panties he's fucking but you. The tight, wet cunt between your legs. He can imagine it's the curve of your throat he's got his nose buried in and not your pillow. He can imagine that sweet, intense vibration is reverberating through your pelvic bone, little toy pressed hard against your clit.

Pope tells himself he'd make it so fucking good for you. He'd bury his cock so deep you'd never forget the weight of it inside you. He'd whisper how beautiful you are in your ear and make you look him in the eyes while he watches you cum over and over and over.

His release is…embarrassingly fast.

A few rolls of his hips against your mattress and he's cumming into the lace fabric of your panties, the vibration of the toy milking him until he's so overstimulated it almost hurts.

Pope rolls over, turns the toy off, and buries it back in the bottom of your drawer. He gives himself a few more moments to gather himself. To catch his breath, to wipe himself clean (never mind the couple of drops that now stain your satin sheets. That could be from anything, right?).

He tucks himself back into his jeans, pulls on his boots and his hoodie, and tosses your underwear in the pile of clothes next to the laundry bin.

There's a pair of your jeans in the middle of the floor, away from the rest. One leg of the denim is inside out. Pope takes the cash from his wallet and tucks it into the pocket, leaving out just enough that he knows you'll notice it.

He leaves.

Locks the door behind him with the spare key.

Makes it halfway across the courtyard before he doubles back, lets himself back into your apartment and into the bathroom where he pockets one of the many different chapsticks on the sink.

It isn't until he's home, tucked safe back in his own apartment, that he realizes it's strawberries and cream flavored.

Andrew puts it on, swiping the transparent petroleum over his lips. He tells himself it's almost like kissing.

Later that day, Craig calls a family meeting. But you've just gotten home, and he knows you'll find the cash within a few minutes when you go to change out of your clothes.

So Andrew waits at the bottom of the stairs on his side of the courtyard. He can't see into your apartment from here, though. And he decides he'll only wait for thirty minutes.

He responds to text messages and opens his blank, photo-less Instagram (that he definitely didn't make only to look at your profile. The one filled with selfies under neon lights and bikini photos on the beach and mirror pictures in the dressing room at that one boutique in the mall).

Twenty nine minutes later, he hears an apartment door slam shut and looks up to see you.

You've got your bag over one shoulder and a grin on your face and the cash in your hand. Enough to cover the additional charges and a little extra, too.

You notice him at the bottom of the cement stairs and freeze, but you don't look…scared, like he expects. Maybe a little startled at first, but the tension bleeds from your face the moment you recognize him.

He should say something. Talk to you. Apologize, maybe, for staring at you.

But Andrew isn't sorry.

And he's never really been good at talking, anyway.

You tilt your head and give him the sweetest fucking smile he's ever seen. It's somehow innocent and knowing at the same time, and Andrew feels the corners of his mouth lifting in response.

Something passes silently between you. An understanding, maybe. You know he watches you, and he knows you know, but…you don't stop him. You just let it happen.

You smile at him from fifteen feet away.

And then you turn to leave, no doubt making your way to pay off that stupid bill that caused you so much unrest.

Pope watches you go, like always.

But this time, you glance back at him over your shoulder with…something lingering in your pretty eyes. Excitement, maybe. He can't be sure.

He needs to get closer.

During the family meeting, he isn't very present. His mind is so far away, stuck on you, that he just blindly agrees to whatever job they're doing next and trusts that it'll all work out.

When he returns to his apartment, there's a note stuck to his door.

A pink sticky note with nothing but a phone number and a heart with an arrow through it scribbled on the paper.

Your phone number, Pope knows.

He knows he shouldn't text you.

It's stupid and dangerous and god, you really shouldn't be giving your number to random men. He could be a creep. He could be a stalker or something.

His message just says,

Hello.

Your response is immediate, with no capitalization which seems quite…fitting for you. He finds it strangely endearing.

hey

are u the guy from apt 212 ???

Pope can feel that this is a bad idea already. But he's already here, and there's no going back now, is there? He doesn't want to hurt your feelings. He doesn't want to leave you on read and make you think he's not interested when the problem is the exact opposite.

Yes.

The typing bubble pops up, disappears, and appears again three different times before you send another message.

im gonna be home in like an hr

will u be watching ???

Always, he wants to say. Fucking always. He can't take his eyes off you, no matter how hard he tries. No matter how shameful it feels.

Andrew's hands shake as he types out a response.

Do you want me to be?

No hesitation this time. Your message comes through a second later.

uhmmm tbh yeah <3

He exhales a long breath. It doesn't feel real. Like he's imagining the entire thing. How could he not be? Why on earth would the sweetest, prettiest little thing want someone to watch her?

But the weight of his cell phone in his hand is real.

And the text message is real.

And this…this is real.

Then yes. I will be.

You don't reply, and Andrew's heart flutters in his chest as he takes his practiced position in the chair in front of his window and waits.

True to your word, you're skipping up the steps fifty three minutes after the last message is sent. You turn on those LEDs and and move about your apartment like normal, kicking off your sneakers and dropping your bag by the door. You change out of your clothes and put on a worn in t-shirt that's two sizes too big for you, but underneath…

Pope can see the sheer thigh highs you wear and the black, lace edge of them. He can see those strappy garters attached to them, but nothing else. The straps disappear beneath your shirt, leaving him wanting for more.

You're teasing him, Pope realizes.

He watches with bated breath as you lay on the couch, getting comfortable with the throw pillow against the arm.

And then, for the first time, Andrew watches you touch yourself.

You start slowly, hands roaming over your body, on top of the fabric, massaging gently at the inside of your thighs.

His cock's always hard watching you, truth be told. But this…

His skin feels hot. His lungs feel tight.

Your fingers curl around the edge of your t-shirt, and you pull it over your head to discard it on the floor.

Andrew hasn't seen you wear this set before, not even on those sacred Sundays.

It's pretty. Matching black lace. The bra is low cut and pushes your breasts up your chest, the soft flesh swelling over the top. The waistband of the matching panties is decorated in shining silver gems, laying so perfectly against your hips that he feels dizzy just looking at it.

The prettiest package, just begging to be unraveled by his big, mean hands.

You dressed up for him.

You dressed up for him.

Your hands start to move again, palming your breasts, pulling the lace down until they spill out of the top. Your nipples are so pretty that his mouth waters. He wants to kiss them, to feel the shape of them under his tongue. He wants to kneel over top of you and jerk himself off until they're covered in his sticky white release.

You squeeze your breasts until your nipples form pretty little peaks, and then your hands slide lower. Over your abdomen, and your hips, and then your thighs. You bring them slowly back up, only to slide them over the lace fabric of your panties, right down the center of your cunt.

Andrew thinks he could die.

He could fucking die, just looking at you.

Carefully, you unbuckle the chrome latch of your garter. The left side first, and then the right quickly follows. You leave the lace belt on, but hook your thumbs around the bedazzled lace of your panties and pull them down your thighs painfully slowly.

Your knees fall apart.

Pope swallows hard.

He can see everything from here. The seam of your thighs that he's dreamt about. The pretty shape of your pussy. The wetness that's gathered between your folds, slick and shiny with arousal. With want.

For him. It's for him.

His cock throbs so hard it hurts.

Pope doesn't touch himself. He can't. Can he? All you asked of him was that he watched.

That's what you wanted.

But wouldn't it be better if he was there? Wouldn't it be better if he could touch you, if he could taste you, if he could fuck you?

All you'd have to do is let him in.

Your fingers stroke gently over your clit in small circles, and he watches in awe as your lips part and your spine bends.

He can't hear your moans but god does he wish he could. Thinks about putting a little microphone in your lampshade the next time he sneaks into your apartment.

Your fingers drift lower, over your center, and slowly press inside.

Pope wants it to be him so fucking bad.

If not his cock inside you then his fingers. They're bigger. Longer. Thicker. They'd please you more. Reach places your fingers can't.

Maybe his tongue. He'd drink you right from the fucking source and cum in his jeans, probably. But he'd make sure to find that sweet, velvety spot inside you first and he'd spell his full fucking name over it with a pointed tongue.

Silly girl. Don't you know what he could do for you? Don't you know what he could do to you?

Pope squeezes the bulge in his jeans to try and alleviate the pain of his lust.

You fuck yourself with your fingers, stuffing in one and then two and then three, stretching yourself on them, slick dripping down the seam of your cunt. Your back arches when your free hand finds your clit, and he knows you're close.

He knows he shouldn't, but he searches frantically for his phone anyway and sends another text message.

I want to hear you.

You pause only long enough to grab your phone off the coffee table, read the text, and lay your phone on the arm of the couch behind you.

Pope's phone buzzes in his hand.

You're calling him.

He answers on the first ring, and the sounds that greet him are so erotic it steals the breath from his lungs.

You sound so pretty. So sweet and feminine, everything he's imagined yet somehow so, so much more. He's sure you can hear his heavy breaths on the other end of the phone, but Pope can't find it in himself to care. Can't think of much else besides the way you whimper and the sight of your fingers stuffed inside you.

"Oh, god—"

His inhale is shaky.

"I'm gonna cum," you choke out, words hazy with your moans. "I'm so close, I'm so fucking—hmm. Yes. What's your name?"

He almost doesn't hear you, so lost in the sight before him. Immersed in the euphoria of it. But then he says, voice a low, uncertain whisper, "Andrew."

Your spine bends and the fingers on your clit slow. "Oh my god. Fuck, Andrew—I'm cumming, I'm—yes, yes—god."

His cock twitches and when he tries to soothe it with another tight squeeze, he sends himself careening off the precipice of release instead. His head falls back and his once heavy breaths get stuck in his lungs. Pope rubs himself over his jeans, making a sticky, hot mess in his boxers, generating what little friction he can.

He watches you come down in real time. Not his dreams, not his imagination. He watches it happen. Watches that fucked-out, hazy look cross your face. Watches the tension in your muscles melt away, wishing he could kiss the junction of your throat.

Pope wishes he could worship you. Wishes he could clean you up and put on that trashy reality show you like and hold you against his chest, comforting you while your brain comes back to earth.

Instead, you lean up. Grab your phone and press it to your ear, staring right at him through his wide open window.

He doesn't know what he expects you to say, but it's certainly not, "Have you been inside my apartment, Andrew?"

For a second, he thinks about lying. Because there's no way you know, right? Not for sure. It's not like you have cameras or anything (he knows, because he checked).

But he doesn't want to lie. Not to you.

"I…might have been. Once, yes."

"Did you steal my chapstick?"

"You have ten of them."

He hears your laugh for the first time, and the sound is like sunlight in his chest. "You took the best flavor."

"I'm…I'm sorry. I'll return it."

"Keep it. I already got a new one," you say. "Cost me five hundred dollars, though."

So, you know it was him who left the cash, too.

Smart, pretty girl.

He doesn't say anything, too afraid he'll say something stupid or awkward the way he usually does. He doesn't want to ruin this moment. This absolutely perfect moment.

You smile at him, kiss your palm, and blow it towards your window. "Goodnight, Andrew."

He feels his face heat. "Goodnight."

Pope rides the high of it for days.

Can't shake the sight of you open and bare for him. Can't stop thinking about the sound of your moans or the way you'd said his name in the peak of euphoria. He fucks his first to the thought of it more times than he can count.

And Andrew's never been a really sexual person. Not unless it's with someone he loves.

But is that what this is? Love?

You've never met. Not really, not properly. How could it be something so intense? You don't know him. You don't know who he is or what he does. You don't know how he's hurt and maimed and killed.

Would you be afraid, finding out? Would you run to the police if you knew? Would you recoil away from him with terror in your eyes?

All things left unsaid. All things that may, very well, never be said.

Pope feels so uncertain with all of this that he finds himself resorting to fucking google, even. Search history littered with questions and Reddit threads that never provide any real clarity.

Define love.

Define obsession.

How to know if you're in love?

How to ask a girl out?

How to get over a girl.

Define voyeur.

Define fetish.

How big of an age gap is too big?

Apartments for sale on the east coast.

Pink champagne candle.

Strawberries and cream chapstick bulk pack.

You text him again a week after your exhibitionistic display.

do u wanna like go out sometime?? been thinking about u a lot

He's at Smurf's when he reads the message.

Pope doesn't even realize he's smiling until Deran slides a beer across the counter at him and asks, "What's got you all happy today?"

And Pope just shakes his head. Schools his features back into neutrality and says, "Nothing. Just won a bet."

He can tell his brother doesn't believe him, not even for a second. But thankfully, Deran doesn't push any further. He lets the subject go, but the question stays stuck in Andrew's head for hours.

It takes him a while to decide on a response. It's honest, and…mostly true.

We shouldn't. I'm a lot older than you.

Your response is a single, painful letter.

k

He doesn't respond to try his hand at damage control, even though he wants to. It's probably better this way, he thinks. Better that there's some distance between you. Better that you hate him and see him as the creepy neighbor he is.

But that Saturday night, when you return home, it's not with your friends.

Pope watches from his window as you guide a man up the stairs and into your apartment.

He's tall. Dark haired, with bright eyes and white teeth and a good smile. Closer to your age. Handsome like a man allowed into your space should be.

You're fumbling a little with your apartment key and Pope watches as the man stands behind you and slides his hands down the back of your thighs.

Thighs he should be touching. Thighs he's watched for months. Thighs that spread for him, long before this fucking loser ever laid his eyes on you.

He tells himself he won't interfere.

You're your own woman. You deserve to feel good, even if it's with…someone else.

And Pope knows he's just going to have to get the fuck over it.

He did it to himself, really.

He should look away.

But he watches instead.

Watches the two of you fall onto the couch. Watches another man kiss down the column of your throat and squeeze the supple curve of your ass over your sequined dress.

Your eyes find his from across the courtyard, and Pope's jaw clenches.

Putting on another show for him. Filthy, filthy girl.

And you're just going to give it to some random man? Someone who doesn't know you like Pope does? Someone who doesn't know how you like to be touched?

He needs to look away. Close his own fucking blinds for once.

But he feels frozen. Knowing this time, you're watching him. Looking for him. Goading for a reaction.

Pope watches the slow ascent of the man's hand. Promises himself he won't interfere. He'll just watch to make sure you're safe, that's all.

But the moment that greedy hand disappears beneath your dress, Andrew's moving. Throwing open his door and slamming it closed behind him. He crosses the courtyard and takes the steps two at a time.

His fist against your apartment door is incessant. He doesn't stop, even when he hears the uttered, male voice ask, "Who is that?"

When the door opens, it's you who stands in front of him, chin tilted up as you stare at him, pupils flared wide.

The man you'd brought home with you hovers over your shoulder.

Pope doesn't even look at him. He stares only at you as he says, a little snarl in his voice, "Tell him to leave."

"Dude, what the fuck? Who is this guy?"

Your lips curl at the corners. A devilish little smile. "Okay," you say, nodding, your voice soft and pliant. You turn your head to look at the man who stands behind you. "Sorry, but you've gotta go."

"You're joking," he responds flatly. "You said I could—!"

Andrew reaches past you and takes him by the collar, pulling him out of your apartment and slamming him up against the paneled siding. "I ever see you in this apartment again, I'll fucking kill you. You understand me?"

"Jesus fucking—yeah, okay. Alright. Sorry."

Pope isn't joking. Doesn't say it to scare him off but rather as a warning.

He lets him go and watches him scramble down the stairs. He doesn't turn back to face you until the little tool you used for attention gets in his car and drives away.

And when he does finally turn back to you…Christ. Your eyes are half lidded and full of lust. Pope's close enough this time that there's no mistaking it.

He should be a gentleman. Should take you out first. Bring you home and kiss you on your doorstep and leave you untouched.

He knows he should.

What he does instead is curl his hand around the back of your neck and pull you to him. He leans down, mouth hovering over yours, breathing in your panicky exhales. "This what you want?"

Your grin is immediate and undeniable. You nod and breathe out the word, "Please."

Andrew kisses you hard, crowding you back into your apartment. He kicks the door closed behind him and slides his tongue into your mouth, tasting you and groaning at the sweetness. There's mint and strawberry and you, his favorite flavor.

He feels drunk on it. On the taste of your tongue, the glide of your wet lips over his, the way your hands scramble and tug desperately at his belt.

"Fuck," he sighs, pulling back just enough to see you. "Open your mouth, baby. Wide. And stick out your tongue."

The way you immediately obey has his cock twitching. Good girl. So fucking good for him when he gives you exactly what you need.

Andrew licks the flat of your tongue once, delighting in the way you whimper in response, before bringing his hand to your mouth. He slides two fingers behind your teeth and orders, "Suck."

You do, lips closing tight around the digits, wet tongue swirling over his thick knuckles. He pushes them further down your throat, your eyes locked on his as he makes you choke on them.

"So fucking pretty," he tells you. "You always look so pretty."

Andrew pulls the straps of your mini dress over your shoulders, roughly tugging the fabric over your chest down to expose your breasts.

You're wearing the same lace bra you'd worn when you dressed up for him, he realizes. He can see the peaks of your nipples through the semi-sheer fabric, and leans down to lock his lips around the left one over the lace.

The fabric is rough beneath his tongue, a stark contrast to the softness of your skin. He sucks hard, spreading the wetness of his saliva over the lace. You push your dress further down your waist and over your hips.

Andrew slides his fingers out of your mouth, sticky and dripping with your spit. He brings them to his own lips instead and sucks them clean, watching your breath hitch and your eyes grow impossibly more hazy.

He lowers himself to his knees before you and his slick fingers work quickly at the straps of your heels, unbuckling them to free your pretty, white-painted toes.

Your hands find his shoulders for balance. "I like that you watch me," you tell him. "I think about it sometimes and it makes me so…god, Andrew. It gets me so wet."

He looks up at you from his knees, big brown eyes glassy and full of adoration. "Good," he says. "'Cause I'm gonna watch you a little closer tonight."

That pretty smile finds its way to your face again.

Andrew presses a sweet, chaste kiss to the apex of your thighs. Over your panties, right where he knows your clit lies beneath. He then stands to his feet, towering over you now without the added height of your heels, and presses you forward.

You take a careful step back, nearly losing your balance.

Andrew grins, taking another step, crowding you back towards your bedroom. He doesn't stop until the back of your knees hit the edge of your mattress.

You stumble backwards, falling into the plush sheets that he's all too familiar with. Lying on your back, propped up by your elbows, you stare up at him with wide eyes and he's reminded of a timid little animal caught in the trap of a predator.

Don't you know how dangerous he could be?

You don't look afraid. You actually look…eager.

Pope stands tall at the edge of your mattress. "Take off your clothes."

You do. Unclasping your bra first, tossing the fabric into the already existing mess on the floor. And then your panties follow, thumbs hooking around the fabric to drag it down your legs.

Andrew reaches around and fists the collar of his shirt, tugging it over his head. He feels warm all over, watching you greedily drink up the sight of him. He thinks he'd feel a little nervous, in any other setting. If it were anyone but you.

His sweet, filthy girl.

Andrew reaches into the half-open drawer of your nightstand, searching until he finds your vibrator again.

Your brows furrow as you watch him find it with practiced ease. "You went through my underwear drawer, too?"

"Did more than that," he admits.

You inhale like you're going to speak again, but the words melt to nothing when he tosses the small toy onto the bed beside you.

"Use it," Pope orders.

"What?"

He crawls onto the mattress between your legs, spreading them wide, laying your calves on either side of his hips. "Let me watch you."

There's a moment of hesitation, but you don't look nervous. Only…curious.

You pick up the vibrator and slide the pink silicone through your folds, spreading your arousal before you press the power button. You circle your clit with the tip of it a few times, teasing yourself.

When you turn the toy on, he can feel the vibration against his hands that grip your thighs. You let out a syrupy moan and turn the intensity higher, drawing tight circles around your pretty clit.

He watches you, eyes locked on the pink silicone between your legs. He watches your entrance flutter, tightening around nothing, begging to be filled. "Your pussy is so pretty," he mutters. "Do you know that?"

Your only response is a breathy whimper. You click the intensity up again, putting it on the highest setting, and Pope sighs when your legs begin to shake around him.

He wants to watch you make yourself cum. Wants another scene to fuck his fist to in the shower or in his bed or in his truck.

But he's here. Finally, finally here, in your bed, with you, and he can't help himself.

Pope grips your hips hard and pulls you closer, tilting your hips up into his lap. The vibrator falls from your hand at the sudden movement, but he's quick to return it to you. "Keep going."

You press the silicone back to your clit, and Andrew spreads you open with gentle thumbs. He gathers the spit in his mouth and lets it drip from his lips and onto the seam of your cunt.

And then he's sliding his middle finger inside of your entrance, curling it upwards, searching for that sweet spot that makes you writhe.

It doesn't take long. He's watched you. He knows just what you like and what angle to hit. And the second the tip of his finger presses hard against it, you fist your free hand in the sheets and curses fall from your sweet mouth.

Pope slides another thick finger inside, watching the way you squirm, feeling the walls of your cunt flutter around the swell of his knuckles.

"I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna—oh, fuck. Feels so good, feels so fucking—"

A long, throaty moan leaves your mouth, and he feels the warmth of your release pool in his palm. You're so slick that each wet thrust of his fingers echoes against the walls of your room.

He doesn't stop until you're twitching. Until you click the vibrator off and shove it away from you. And even then, he still gives a few, slow curls of his fingers inside of you. Not touching with intent, just…feeling. Memorizing.

Once you catch your breath, you lean up enough to find his eyes again. You say timidly, shyly, "I want…I want to feel you, Andrew. I want you inside me. Do you…do you want to fuck me?"

It's the most asinine question he's ever been asked in his fucking life. Does he want to fuck you?

He's thought of nothing else for months. Every night when he fights for sleep, it's the thought of you under him that puts him to bed.

It's such an impractical concern from his point of view that he laughs. Actually laughs, for the first time in years. "Oh, baby."

Pope takes your hands in his. He presses one to his chest, right over his heart, and the other against the hardness in his jeans.

"I have never wanted another woman as bad as I want you," he says truthfully. "But I…you…you deserve better than this. Better than me. You understand that, don't you?"

You shake your head. "You don't know me, Andrew. Not really. You don't know if—"

"No, no. I do. I know you're the kind of friend who would give the shirt off their back. The kind of girl who'd let her phone get cut off before asking for help. The kind of girl who gets up every morning and just…tries. Every day. And you fucking…you smile about it. You're good. You're so fucking good and I…"

He stops.

Remembers the last time he loved someone like this and how he'd made a stupid confession he should've taken to his grave and how it'd fucked him completely.

"You're what, Andrew?"

Pope swallows. "I'm...I'm a bad man. I've hurt people. I will…hurt people, I—" His voice cracks. He lowers his eyes, trying to turn away, unable to find the strength to face you.

But you take his jaw in your gentle hands and force him to look at you. Sweet, angel of a girl that you are. And then you say without a waver to be found in your voice, "I like who you are. Do you think I gave the man who watches me through my window my phone number because I want some guy I could match with on Tinder?"

He tries to slow the rapid pounding of his heart. He wonders if love is supposed to be like this. To feel like this. All consuming and terrifying and devastatingly hopeful above all.

You shake your head and tuck your legs beneath you, sitting up on your knees. He sits stone still as you lean forward and kiss his cheek, whispering against his ear, "I've been watching you, too, Andrew Cody."

Something shifts inside of him as you say it. Uttering his last name that he'd never given you, that isn't even on his lease because this is a fake apartment under a fake name to launder the money they steal.

Oh—sweet, smart girl. Smarter than he thought.

How silly of him to ever doubt you.

There's a newfound wildness in your eyes when they meet his again. An unveiling. Like he's seeing you for who you truly are for the first time.

And you're…god. So fucking beautiful.

And, yeah. Pope thinks he's been right this whole fucking time.

He's weird and wrong and sickly obsessed.

But you are, too.

Andrew takes you by the back of the neck and kisses you hard, desperate to taste you, to close what little physical space remains between your body and his. He pushes you back against the mattress and follows you down.

Your hands find his belt buckle before he does, and he stares down at you as your deft fingers pry the leather open and unbutton his jeans. He helps you push the denim down his legs until his cock springs free, heavy and leaking. Wanting for you, twitching as you take it carefully in your hand.

A groan reverberates at the back of his mouth. Your hands are so soft. Perfect and pliant. One day, he swears he'll show you how he likes to be touched. He'll let you sit in his lap and watch him stroke his cock for you.

But for now, he lets you touch him slowly. Experimental. Feeling the heavy weight of him in your palm. You spit on your fingertips and spread your saliva over his sensitive tip, flushed red and pulsing beneath your touch.

You lean back and guide him between your thighs, sliding the head of his cock through your syrupy folds and over your clit.

The moment you line him up at your entrance, Pope eases inside and you let out the sweetest fucking sigh he's ever heard in his entire life. Sweet and soft and so, so satisfied.

It's so beautiful. You're so beautiful. And you feel warm and heavenly and wet around him. He pulls out slowly, almost all the way, and then drives his cock back into your cunt.

You squeal and those sharp, acrylic nails dig into his spine. But your legs circle his hips, and so Pope does it again.

He fucks you hard. Claiming that spot at the back of your cunt, pressed right up against your cervix. He rolls his hips and presses his mouth to yours, swallowing up those desperate, carnal sounds he pulls out of our chest.

Sweet girl. Sweet fucking girl. He reaches between you and circles your clit. "My girl now," he says, words spoken against your lips. "You'll never need anyone else, baby. No one but me."

You nod, the velvety walls of your pussy squeezing around the hard length of his cock.

Andrew puts his whole weight on top of you, grinding himself between your thighs, giving you everything he has. Everything he is.

"I'm yours," you choke out. "I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm—"

It becomes a mantra. One that feeds his desire, in perfect sync with the rhythm of his thrusts. He watches your arousal begin to crest, nearing the summit, the muscles in your thighs twitching. "Look at me, baby," he says. "Tell me you love me when I make you cum."

You're so lost in it, head all spacey, that your eyes remain closed until he takes your jaw in a firm grip.

There are pretty tears in your eyes when you open them, but that smile on your face is present, too. He feels you pulse around him and your breath gets all shallow and then—

"I love you, Andrew, I fucking—oh my god please, please—I love you."

The words are music to his ears, tingling down his spine, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He thought the sound of his name in your mouth was beautiful but this…fuck. He could die.

Pope thinks he would. For you, he would.

He fucks you through it. Tastes your moans and says, "Yeah, that's it. Give it to me. Look so pretty when you cum for me."

He doesn't let his pace falter until your muscles loosen, until your nails stroke gently over his spin instead of leaving marks.

You pepper sweet kisses over his jaw, tongue sliding up the shell of his ear. "I want you to cum inside me," you tell him.

He's been fighting it the whole time, trying desperately not to blow his load before he'd at least gotten you there first.

But when you say that?

When you say, "Please, Andrew. Want you to give it to me. Want you to fill me up with your cum. Please. I need it."

He thinks about telling you that you don't have to beg. Not him, not for anything (especially this). But you just sound so pretty, begging for his cum, that he can't bring himself to do it.

So, he gives you what you want instead. Fucks his cum into you, groaning low in your ear, cock pulsing inside you. You feel so good wrapped around him it's euphoric. Otherworldly.

Your pussy grips tight, milking him dry, taking every last drop (he knows you're on birth control. Don't you know the women's clinic downtown keeps a spare key beneath the plant in front of their door?).

Andrew is careful when he slides out of you. And he wastes no time before kicking his jeans the rest of the way off and pulling you against his chest.

He pulls the blanket up around your shoulders and presses a kiss to your hairline. His voice wavers a little as he says, "Sorry if I…if I was a little rough."

You shake your head, pressing your nose to the divot between his pectorals. "It was perfect," you murmur against his skin.

Silence settles between you. Comfortable and easy, the sound of your breathing in perfect synchronization.

After some time you say, "I meant it, you know. Wouldn't have said it if I didn't. I really think I might be in love with you, Andrew. Is that…crazy?"

Yes, he wants to say.

But he feels it, too.

So instead he says, "You know, I don't…I don't have much experience with that sorta thing. Don't really know how to…to navigate it, I guess. But, uhm…yeah. Me, too."

He feels that smile of yours against his chest.

Andrew knows that this dynamic the two of you have created is weird.

He knows that.

But at least, now, he's not alone in it.

Throughout Andrew’s life, many people have come and gone through the doors of Smurf’s house. It would take another lifetime just to count them all. 

The parties started when he was young and never ended. The faces blurred together for Andrew now, not that he could really bring himself to care all that much in the first place. Just like Craig’s girlfriends or Smurf’s boyfriends, nobody was ever really a permanent fixture in Andrew’s life. Not if they weren’t family.

He knows that everyone thinks that he’s different. That he’s weird. He notices their looks when he lingers around the pool, in the kitchen, when he’s just sitting on the couch. His own brothers even, a lot of the time. Everyone eyes him like a ticking time bomb, just waiting for him to go off.

Andrew doesn’t really mind, though. Or, if he did, he'd become numb to the feeling a long time ago. In fact, he’s probably become numb to a lot of feelings. But Andrew doesn’t know any other way to be. He’s just Pope and he has been for a very long time.

This party in the Cody household wasn’t different from any other. Booze, drugs, and a big mess Andrew would definitely have to clean up later. The music is loud, bass turned up too high, and Craig is attempting to jump off the roof into the pool again. Amidst the cheers, Andrew thinks about the rest of his brothers and wonders for a moment where exactly it went so differently for him, or if he was just simply born that way.

His brothers seem okay with being in the spotlight. Even his nephew seemed to fare better than him, assimilating perfectly into every situation that arose, especially when people were involved. Andrew was never like that.

J must have gotten it from Julia.

Andrew was never a people person. He was always out of place, like the Cody that just didn’t quite belong, all jagged edges. The parties always send him into the corners of his mind that he didn’t really like venturing into.

The pounding of the bass is getting to him.

He pulls open the door to his bedroom hoping for a moment of silence, when he’s greeted with a pair of bare feet hanging off the edge of his bed. The figure doesn’t stir when he enters, so he creeps in further and shuts the door quietly. He turns his head, scanning now that he has a better view of who exactly is in his room.

You’re laid on his bed, eyes shut, hugging your phone to your chest like a stuffed animal. You’ve clearly come to escape the crowds of the party, same as him. Andrew can’t help as his eyes drag up your legs all the way up to where your short dress shows just a little too much of your thighs. He notices your heels as well, placed nice and neat beside the bed.

“Who are you?” It comes out a bit more gruff than Andrew anticipated and your eyes finally flutter open. It takes you a minute to notice him but when you do you’re shooting up to your feet, spine rigid. It’s cute, he thinks, the way you panic. You startle like a small puppy.

“Oh my god,” you squeak, clearly embarrassed. Your hands fall to adjust the hem of your short dress, much to Andrew’s disappointment. He gives you a once over; it’s half assessing what exactly you’re doing in his room and half just taking you and your skimpy outfit. “I’m so sorry. Is this your room?”

Andrew gives a small nod and you wring your hands nervously. You’re taking him in now, a Cody brother here in front of you, live and in the flesh.

“So which one are you?” you ask, head cocked. Now that you know this is his room, he notices you assessing him in a different light. People always do —it didn’t bother Andrew much anymore but with you he feels a twinge of shame in his stomach. “Deran? Or, um…”

Andrew knows that you’re searching for his name. His nickname. It had to be since there was a short list of people who called him by his real name. Pope Cody is known by everyone in Oceanside. Andrew Cody, on the other hand, is not.

“Andrew.” he supplies, voice softer than before. Now you’ve been added to that very exclusive list. You repeat his name back to him, voice a little warm, no doubt from one of the many drinks that the Cody’s provided. Then you introduce yourself and Andrew attempts to burn your name into his memory.

“Okay, Andrew. Are you hiding too?” Now that he hasn’t kicked you out, you take a seat on the edge of his bed. He notices the compression of where your body laid just a few minutes before on his neatly made and pressed sheets but doesn’t say anything. He likes the sound of your voice too much to interrupt you. “Or just making sure nobody is defiling your room.”

“I’m not hiding,” he replies, crossing his arm over his chest. The strap of your dress falls and Andrew tries not to get distracted. “This is my house. I’m free to go where I please.”

“Fair enough. I’m hiding,” you shrug. A beat of silence passes and you pat the spot next to you, inviting him to sit on his own bed. Andrew is curious enough to oblige, sitting on the other end of the bed, putting distance between you. He doesn’t miss how your shoulders drop slightly in disappointment. “My friend is here with Craig and they’ve conveniently disappeared... I don’t even want to know what they’re doing.”

“I have a few guesses.” Another one of Craig’s girlfriends. The giggle of a girl coming from Craig’s room that Andrew had heard when he was walking by suddenly made a lot more sense. 

He wills himself not to flinch when you scoot closer to him, closing the distance he deliberately put between the two of you. Andrew was interested, too interested, and that worried him.

Pope Cody wasn’t allowed to want.

“Is it okay if I stay here with you?” you ask, and Andrew’s heart flips. He clears his throat, hoping that you don’t see the blush that’s creeping it’s way up his neck. “I’m just not really sure how long it’s going to take and I would much rather be in here.”

With you, hangs unspoken in the air.

“Sure.” Andrew likes the way you smile when he answers, a small flash of teeth. You scoot even closer and tuck your bare feet under you. You’re so close now that your knee is nudging his thigh. He can smell your perfume from here and it’s heavenly compared to the sweat and chlorine laced air outside. “I don’t really want to be out there either.”

“So, Andrew,” His name sounds like honey when it’s falling from your lips and he wonders how often he can make you say it. The feeling that settles in his chest when you say it is too addicting for him to live without it now. “Not really a party person?”

“No. But my brothers are.” He gestures vaguely to the door, the music pounding on the other side of the wall and then his hands retreat back to his lap. He can feel your eyes on him, but not in the usual way he always tends to notice. You scan him with a kind of curiosity that he hasn’t felt in a long time.

“I’m not really a party person either,” you agree, glancing at the door he had just gestured towards. You look a little sad, even. It makes Andrew’s fingers twitch.“My friend said she needed some moral support coming to meet this guy. So I came, and then she ditched me like an hour ago.”

“Sounds like you’ve got a shitty friend.” Andrew says plainly and he’s caught off guard when you let out a laugh. 

“Yeah, I guess,” You shrug, shoulders still shaking with remnants of laughter. Andrew has turned his head fully now to look at you but he doesn’t really understand why you’re laughing. “But maybe it’s like fate, or something.”

“Fate?” Andrew echoes, even more confused than before. You lock eyes with him and he has to resist the urge to break it, enthralled enough by your gaze to ignore the awkward feeling settling in his chest.

“Yeah. Like maybe it’s fate that she left? Because then I wouldn’t have hidden in a cute guy’s room and got to talk to him.” He can tell that your mind is elsewhere, but his eyes are still on you. There’s a dreamy look painted on your face and he’s so distracted he almost misses the fact that you called him cute. Almost.

He opens his mouth to respond but your phone beats him to it, the shrill sound of your ringer filling the empty room. You look at him sheepishly and turn your head to answer as if that would give you the privacy you were looking for. It doesn’t work because as soon as you hit accept, he can hear what he assumes is your friend’s voice on the other side of the line. 

You get up and he watches you nod along to the conversation. You’re not doing a lot of talking, but your friend definitely is; he can tell by the murmur of her drunken chatter and the sound of the music pulsing on the other side of the line. You’re kind enough to let her continue on for a bit longer before you let her know that you’re coming, don’t move! 

Then you’ve turned back to Andrew, tapping your phone on your palm as you try to find the right words to say. You look genuinely apologetic —for what, Andrew doesn’t know. The silence stretches long, and Andrew is the first one to break it.

“You don’t have to stay,” he says plainly. You don’t really owe him anything, although the look on your face makes him feel otherwise. You take a step closer, poised like you want to take a seat next to him again. Andrew wants you to, but he won’t admit that part out loud.

“I know. I want to-” you start, but your phone starts buzzing like it’s possessed, cutting you off. A quick glance is all it gets; you’re quickly scanning the messages before returning your attention to him. Your phone doesn’t stop vibrating. “It’s hard to leave when you’re looking at me like a lost puppy.”

Andrew chooses to ignore that comment, instead turning to grab your shoes from the side of the bed next to him. He offers your heels to you, arms outstretched, closing the distance between you just like you had before. You give him a small smile as you take them from him, fingers brushing his just a beat too long. The way it sets his nerves alight is also something that he chooses to ignore.

“Thank you,” you say, slipping your strappy heels back on. Andrew looks everywhere but you as you bend down to tie them up, feeling the blush creeping up once again. Once you’re straightened up he gives you a small smile in return, watching as you pull your phone back out again. “Sorry for messing up your bed. I’ll make it up to you next time.”

You say it so definitively, like you somehow know there will be a next time. Before he can reply, you’re giving him a shy wave goodbye, sliding out the door. The music leaks in for a moment when you open it, blending in with the cheers of partygoers outside. When you close it he’s back to the silence of his room, alone. He had come in there looking for a moment to himself but now that you’re gone, he can’t help but want the opposite.

Andrew really hopes that there will be.

—

The next time Andrew met you, it was in Deran’s bar.

He could count on one hand the amount of times he actually sat at Deran’s bar for any other reason besides work. It was rare that he ever got to enjoy a beer, much less have a moment of free time. But between Deran’s insistence and Craig’s staggering frame, Andrew agreed to stay for one drink.

He’s on the dregs of his beer when he notices Craig straighten up in his seat and saunter over to the front door of the bar. Andrew’s head turns and suddenly he’s glad he came, perking up the same way his brother had just moments ago. A girl comes out to greet Craig, looking like his usual type, and he slings an arm over her shoulders, steering her towards the bar with a sly smile.

Then you walk in and Andrew almost falls off his stool in surprise. You’re dressed differently than when he first met you, softer and more casual. Both of you look like you’ve just come from the beach, donned in shorts and tanks, hair curled from the salt water in the air. It makes his heart skip a beat.

You walk in far more hesitantly than your friend, like you’re not too sure if you belong or where to put yourself. Andrew can empathize with the feeling. He watches as you scan the bar; maybe for your friend, or maybe for another place to hide. You lock eyes with him once you finally notice his presence at the bar and you begin to make your way over. Andrew isn’t sure if he should break eye contact but he can’t help it, eyes darting away before they make their way back to yours.

“Fancy meeting you here,” You take the seat next to him, flashing him a grin. Andrew mumbles something under his breath, but you’re not deterred. In fact, you scoot your stool closer to his. You’re laying it on real thick, but he has to admit that he kind of likes it. “You come here often?”

“You know Pope?” The moment is interrupted by Deran, who sets down a full glass of beer in front of you. He’s got a bemused look on his face, eyes darting between you and his brother. Andrew tries his best not to frown, especially at the use of his nickname when you only know him by Andrew. From the expression on your face, he can tell that he’s failing. Your eyes flicker with some kind of recognition, like you were suddenly recalling the name that you had forgotten the last time you met.

“Yeah, I do,” you nod, not even acknowledging the fact that his own brother had just called him by a completely different name. You gesture to his empty glass, the one that he had set aside to fully focus on you when you approached. “And I think I owe him a drink.”

“You do?” It slips out of both Deran and Andrew’s mouths, disbelief on both their faces. It comes out a bit rougher for Andrew, while Deran inquires like you just told him that unicorns were real. You handle both questions with grace.

“Well, I said I’d make it up to you next time,” You smile, pulling the glass that Deran set down closer to you. His brother leans in closer, clearly interested in what exactly was going on between the two of you. Andrew tries to shoot his brother a glare before you look back at him but he doesn’t have enough time. “So, are you going to have a drink with me, or what?”

“Yeah.” Andrew says, perhaps a bit too eagerly as Deran snickers under his breath. He slides him a beer as well, a knowing look painted all over his features. Andrew takes it with a scowl, but his expression softens when he looks back at you. You bring the beer to your lips with a smile and Andrew can’t help but smile back. 

Two and a half beers later, Andrew’s face is a lot warmer and you are a lot closer. You’re so close that he can feel your shoes scuffing the edge of his newly polished boots, but he can’t bring himself to care. He likes when you giggle at his jokes; the way that your eyes shine. Andrew can feel his brothers’ eyes on the two of you; he even catches his nephew looking his way a few times. 

But for the first time in a while, Andrew doesn’t really want to shrink away. He’s tuned out the background noise, even your friend’s obnoxious drunk laughter at Craig’s pretty mediocre jokes. Because, in reality, Andrew is not the type of guy that a lot of girls like. And Pope especially, is not. But here with you, he lets himself believe that maybe just this once, he’s allowed to have something just for him.

“I like your smile,” You break the silence the two of you were sharing once the conversation you were having earlier came to an end. Andrew hadn’t even realized that he was smiling. He had really just been using the silence to soak in your presence; you still smell the same as you did when you met the first time. Wearing the same perfume that you left on his sheets and pillows just a few weeks ago. He didn’t want to admit how many times he shoved his face into them, chasing your scent before it faded. “It’s cute. I like your teeth.”

There it was again. That word. Cute. It’s not a word anyone used to describe Andrew, probably not since childhood. Or possibly maybe never. He almost wants to swing his head around to see if the rest of his family had heard.

“You really think I’m cute?” He can’t help but ask. It might be the beers or the way you look at him or the fact that he can feel your body heat, but his brain is a bit fuzzy. You look over at him, eyes a bit glazed over from the alcohol. Now he can feel you examining him again, looking him up and down.

“I guess cute isn’t really the word for a guy like you.” His heart sinks at that, wondering what you really think about him now that you know Pope and not just Andrew. He knows the stories that circle around Oceanside about him and he’s not sure if he’s ready to hear the ones that you’ve heard.

“A guy like me?” Andrew echoes, trying his best not to sound so sad. His mood perks up when he feels the heat of your gaze taking him in, seemingly a bit unguarded, presumably from all the alcohol.

“Yeah. You’re all built and…” You look around, trying to place a word to describe him. Then you lay a hand on his arm and Andrew stiffens for a moment but he softens quickly, leaning into your touch. You look pleased that he allowed you to do that, smiling like you’re ready to take a bite of him right then and there. “I don’t know. Strong. Thick. Handsome.”

Andrew is sure that he’s red all the way up to the tips of his ears. He’s also pretty sure that he saw Craig choke on his drink at your comment a few stools down from you, but he decides that’s a later problem. 

“Thanks,” he says gruffly and it’s really the only word that he can get out of his mouth, embarrassingly. You shoot him a smile, and it’s all sweet and a little too enticing. Andrew wouldn’t be surprised if he was leaning into you, ass halfway off his stool.

“Sorry, I’m being a bit forward, aren’t I?” you say, swirling whatever was left of your beer. He tries to shrug nonchalantly but it doesn’t really work. “I just get flirty when I’m tipsy.”

“So you don’t think us meeting again is fate?” He’s teasing, half smile tugging on the edge of lips. You giggle and Andrew basks in the sound. He can’t remember the last time someone made him feel like this. The last time he wanted to be so close to someone.

“I never said that,” You’re hiding a cheeky grin behind your glass and Andrew desperately wishes that he could see it. “You do believe in fate then?” 

Andrew has to think about it for a moment. He’s not sure, really. Lots of fucked up shit has happened in his life and it would be cruel world if that was the fate that the universe had in store for him. Then again, he’s done some terrible things as well, so maybe it was what he deserved.

“I don’t know,” he answers truthfully. Andrew stares into his drink and reflects on all of the things he’s done, the crimes he committed. Julia. Cath. They swirl around in his mind, weighing on his conscience. Then he looks at you and they all seem to float away. “Maybe.”

“Well, let me know when you decide.” He thinks that you can probably sense his hesitancy or the spiral that it sends him down when he thinks about it too hard, so you pump the breaks. He almost can’t stand the way you’re looking at him, eyes wide open and curious. Andrew is unsure of which version of him that you’re seeing or what exactly is going through your head. He doesn’t have the courage to ask.

“Okay.” he says, a bit too distracted by the pieces of hair that have fallen in front of your face as you turned to take another sip, shielding his view. His hand flexes as he resists the urge to push them away.

Then, like you could read his mind, you tuck them behind your ear and shoot him another look. You open your mouth to say something, but you’re interrupted by Craig, who is steering your friend in your direction. Andrew’s hand flexes again as this time he suppresses the urge to hit Craig for cutting in.

“She just puked in the plant over there, and I’m pretty fucked up, so…” Craig isn’t subtle in what he’s asking and Andrew notices the worry flicker across your face as you take in your friend, who can barely stand up on her own without his brother gripping her shoulders. You mutter under your breath and he thinks he hears you basically cursing out Craig.

“Okay, just… take her outside. I’ll be out in two minutes.” you say, and Craig stumbles off, your friend in tow. Then you turn to Andrew, an apologetic look on your face that’s becoming all too familiar to him now.

“Is she going to be okay?” His gaze wanders to the door swinging shut behind the pair. You wring your hands nervously, standing up from the stool. Gathering your things a little frantically, you shrug. Andrew deflates a bit as he watches.

“Yeah, I think so. She’ll probably just puke into her purse on the way home or something,” Once you’ve gathered everything in your arms you give a deep sigh, turning your full attention towards him. He notes that you seem a little deflated too, but he’s not sure if it’s because you’re leaving him or because your friend and Craig seem to be deeply irresponsible individuals. “I’m sorry. Again.”

“It’s okay.” Your lips curl with a small smile, still tinged with a bit of anxiety. It’s cute when you lift your free hand up in a small wave, the same way you did last time, and then you’re gone. Your perfume is still lingering in the air when Andrew turns back around and it’s his turn to smile. It melts when he sees Deran standing behind the bar, a smug look on his face.

“You got it bad, man.”

—

After that, Andrew sees you a lot more often.

Your friend and Craig seemed to have made things very exclusive, because now she’s basically living at Smurf’s house. Which means that, since you’re her best friend, she invites you over quite frequently.

You two haven’t been able to have a moment alone since that night at the bar, much to Andrew’s disappointment. The brothers have been busy planning a job, which meant that he was in and out pretty often. His mind was elsewhere though, distracted by the way you brushed arms in the hallway on his way out or when your eye contact lingered longer than usual.

So, maybe that was why the job went a little awry.

They got what they needed to, but not without a fight. The boys trail into the backyard one after the other, everyone bruised and cut up. It always annoyed Andrew when his brothers were impulsive; he was the one that was always suffering the consequences.

He quickly notes that you’re laid out next to the pool in your swimsuit, your body shimmering with sweat under the sweltering sun. Andrew watches a bead of sweat drip from your neck to the valley between your breasts. Time slows as he watches, licking his lips. He barely has time to drag his gaze away before Deran is wheeling on Craig. 

“Why are you always pulling this crap?” Deran almost has a finger in his face, gesturing angrily. Craig just rolls his eyes in response, pushing past him and giving him a glare. Andrew can see the tension tight in their shoulders as they both seethe.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, dude.” Craig shoots back, making his way back to the house. Tension has been high between the two lately, just like always, trapped in a toxic cycle.

It seems to snap for Deran, especially after the job, and he jumps on Craig’s back, knocking him over. The commotion is loud, Craig hitting the ground with a loud thud. Deran throws the first punch and Craig’s skull cracks hard against the pavement. Craig is quick to recover though, probably due to his size, and it’s a full blown fist fight in seconds.

The two exchange blows for a minute before Andrew and J rush forward to pull the two of them apart. They don’t put up much of a fight and the two of them stalk off in different directions; Craig into the house and Deran out of the yard. J shakes his head and follows after Craig, hands shoved into his pockets.

A quick glance proves that the pool chair you were on just moments ago is left empty, your drink still sitting on the ground next to it. He assumes that you snuck out once his brother hit the floor, probably wise enough to know how the situation was going to unfold. He can see your figure in the window padding around the kitchen, blurred from the distance.

Andrew closes the sliding door behind him when he enters the kitchen and he finds you there, skimpy bikini and all. You’re rummaging through the fridge and he takes the opportunity to take in the view before you shut the door.  

You’re holding the carton of orange juice when you turn, finally taking in Andrew’s state. The cut on his eyebrow, the bruise beginning to bloom on his cheek and his torn up knuckles. You make your way towards him, your brow furrowed in concern.

“Are you okay?” He hides his hand instinctively when you ask, which you definitely notice. You rub the back of your neck with your free hand, a bit sheepish. “I heard, uh, your brothers fighting.”

“Oh.” Andrew frowns as embarrassment clouds his thoughts. Will this deter you from coming back? He really hopes not. He’s silent as his eyes follow you as you grab yourself a glass and begin pouring.

“Yeah, oh.” You shoot a glance in the direction of J and Craig’s rooms, eyebrows raised. “So, back to my question. Is everything okay?” 

Andrew contemplates his answer for a second, not sure how much detail to go into. You eye him in the same way that you always do and he is suddenly keenly aware that this is the first moment alone you’ve had together in ages. Pushing that thought aside, he settles on two words: “It’s complicated.”

“Right,” you scoff, making your way around the kitchen island. Andrew can’t help but watch you move, all bare shimmering skin and he shifts a little as all his blood flows downwards. He sucks in a sharp breath as you settle in beside him, resting your arm on the counter. Your sweat and tanning oil smears all over the stone island but he’s too focused on how close you are to be bothered by it. “That’s why you guys all look like shit. Did you guys get in a fight or did you guys do that to each other?”

“Like I said, it’s complicated,” he repeats and you set your glass down, a serious look on your face.

“Andrew, I know who you guys are,” you say and now he’s shifting uncomfortably instead, the sentence shattering any sort of lust filled haze he was just on the precipice of falling into. “I can keep a secret, don’t worry. I just… want you to be careful, okay? That’s all.”

“I’m always careful,” he replies and you huff in disbelief, but it also seems like you can’t help but smile. It’s a nice sight and it even makes him brave enough to take a step closer to you, finally being the first to lessen the gap between you two.

The proximity and the way you look up at him has the haze settling in once more. Andrew wants to reach out and toy with the strings of your bikini bottoms but he thinks better of it. His tongue darts out to wet his lips and he almost has to physically shake his head to rid himself of the thought.

“I’m sure you are,” You scan him up and down, examining his cuts and bruises. Though, Andrew swears that he can feel your gaze linger on his arms and his chest. It makes a shiver run down his spine. “But if this is you careful, I’d hate to see when it gets messy.”

“I don’t do messy,” he emphasises, his mind wandering back to the oily smudge you’ve left on the counter. You give a familiar giggle and your hand comes to rest on his arm, and he immediately forgets all about it again. This is the first time you’ve broken the touch barrier between the two of you on purpose and Andrew’s stomach flips at the thought. The heat of your hand is searing through his shirt and he’s glad you can’t feel the goosebumps that are rising under your palm.

“I know, Andrew. I’ve watched you clean,” you joke. Andrew loves hearing you say his name, his lips parting as you do so. He tries to pull his mind away from all the different things he would do to you to keep hearing it slip from your lips. 

“Where’s your friend?” he asks, desperate to change the topic to anything but him and his family’s line of work. You let out a sigh, making your way back to the fridge. The door swings open and you start rummaging through the freezer like you lived at the house. Really, at this point, you kind of do.

“I’m not sure,” you say, voice a bit muffled from behind the freezer door. “Her and Craig are probably doing lines off each other’s chests or something.” 

You pull out a bag of frozen vegetables, shutting the door behind you and approaching Andrew once more. You hold it out to him and he cocks his head in confusion. Rolling your eyes, you grab his bad hand and place the bag on top of his knuckles, still bloody. The cold dulls the stinging that Andrew had learned to ignore too early on in life.

“Why do you hang out with her?” He all but blurts out, but he can't help it. There was plenty of time for Andrew to watch you two interact when you were over, and you seemed more like a tired mother than a best friend. Plus, Andrew figured that if he could keep you distracted with conversation, you wouldn’t let go of his hand just yet.

“She’s been my best friend since, well, forever…” Pressing the bag into his knuckles further, your hand grips his gently and he can’t help but look at you while you fiddle with the frozen bag. “And if I don’t take care of her, who will?” 

“I know the feeling.” Andrew says sincerely. He can’t remember a time in his life when he wasn’t a protector, an enforcer, a guard dog. You look up at him now, eyes soft. He feels his gaze soften in return, lips parting.

“I can see that,” you hum like you’re contemplating his words. “Is there someone taking care of you?” The question catches him off guard and he almost jerks his hand back reflexively.

“I don't need anyone to take care of me.” It's a statement that doesn't fully ring true; he thinks about the people who have tried and what he’s lost. It's better off this way, perhaps. But he also thinks you probably wouldn't like that answer.

“Everyone needs someone, Andrew.” Coming from anyone else, he thinks he would refuse. But from you, he feels a bit more inclined to agree. You sound sincere, he feels. Or he just likes you too much to think about disagreeing.

Maybe he does need someone, but no one was ever up for the job. At least no one that knew him —all of him.

A door slams in the distance and you flinch at the loud noise. Not a moment later your friend is rushing past the pair of you, clad in a similar bikini to yours. She’s crying though, mascara streaking as she pushes her way into the backyard. Andrew watches as your head turns to follow her, eyebrows pinching in concern. She sits down on one of the lounge chairs outside, shoulders shaking as she cries silently. You look back at Andrew with a frown and just like always, he knows you have to go.

Maybe his fate is that the universe just wants to cockblock him forever?

“She and Craig probably got into another fight,” you sigh, chewing your lip. You take his uninjured hand and place it on top of the bag, looking up at him. Your face is stern as you speak, like he’s a dog that got caught chewing on the couch legs. “Keep it iced, okay? I’ll talk to you soon.”

You pat his hand gently, soft smile on your lips. You always say that. Soon. Like you know that you're going to cross paths again. That he’s a permanent fixture in your life.

He watches you walk away, eyes on your swaying hips in your cheeky swimsuit bottoms. He’s still staring when you sit down next to your friend, rubbing her back comfortingly. 

Andrew stands alone in the kitchen, half hard, frozen bag of vegetables still pressed to his torn knuckles. The worst part is, he’s not even sure what exactly had made him hard; the sight of your body in your tiny swimsuit and the feeling of your hand in his or watching you take care of your friend so tenderly.

Yeah, Deran was right. He is so fucked.

—

If Andrew thought that he couldn't get you off his mind before that afternoon, now you were all he thought about. 

When he was making lunch, when he was cleaning his guns, when he was fisting his cock in the shower, trying to keep quiet. All he could think about was you. Your perfume, your smile, your body. Your touch. He wanted to feel it all over his body, soft skin against the raised bumps of all his scars. 

So the fact that you weren’t around as often anymore made things more difficult for him. Your friend and Craig seemed to be on the rocks, which means she was around less and less. Which means that you were barely around.

You said you’d talk to him soon and then promptly stopped being invited around, and the thought of how exactly he would get to see you again had him pacing. He didn’t want to scare you off, so he had to pivot towards more conventional methods. Which meant waiting around until Craig had finally got bored enough to start texting your friend back again. 

Weeks passed and he rarely saw you, just in flashes; by the pool, walking through the front door, lounging on the couch. He barely had the chance to look in your direction lately, much less have any type of conversation with you. The distance made him hungry, desperate enough to try to flip the odds in his favour.

“What about a party?” He suggests to his family one afternoon, all of the Cody’s crowded in the living room. All three of them turn their heads, looking at him like he’s grown an extra limb. The room is silent as they all try to process the words that came out of his mouth. “What?”

“Pope wants to throw a party.” Deran states, like saying the words out loud may help him truly understand them. “Why?”

“Don’t worry about it,” He crosses his arms over his chest, aware that he’s become a bit too defensive just a beat too late. All pairs of eyes are still on him and he shifts on his feet uncomfortable. “Just do it.”

“You won’t hear me complaining, man.” Craig says on his way out, clapping a hand on Andrew’s shoulder before he goes. The remaining Cody’s watch him go, and then eyes are back on him. He doesn’t want to answer any other questions, so he turns on his heels before they can ask any and follows his brother out.

So that’s how he ended up here.

This party was the same as the rest. Andrew wasn’t around for most of it; he had some loose ends to tie up for his family and he always elected to be out of the house whenever there was something going on, especially now that he had the choice. When he returns, he sees the same damage as always; trash in the pool, people passed out on the lawn, empty solo cups and wet footprints littered across the hardwood floors.

And Andrew does what he always does. Starts cleaning up. He wasn't really sure what his plan was, if he's being honest. He knew you always liked to linger once the parties were done, to make sure your friend was okay. Andrew was hoping that you were a creature of habit with this idea. Seems like right now, it's just delegated him to the role of janitor with no reward.

He starts out by the pool; toeing the stragglers to wake up and get off his property, sifting the garbage out of the pool and throwing the random discarded bikini tops into the trash bag right after it. It’s already the late hours of the morning when he finishes up outside. The neighbourhood is silent besides the sound of the chlorine water softly lapping at the tiles of the pool. Then he makes his way inside and starts tossing out everything in the kitchen, trying not to think about exactly what was occurring when he was gone to make this sort of mess.

“Do you need some help?” A small voice asks and he whirls around on instinct. He turns to face you and he almost wants to drop the black trash bag he’s holding out of shock. Andrew gives you a once over and you look so similar to the first night that he met you that it makes his heart skip a beat in his chest. A short dress and barefoot, except this time your heels are nowhere to be seen. You seem a bit groggy, dark make up smudged around your eyes. He oscillates between dwelling on how beautiful you are and wanting to get on his knees to see exactly what you got on under your dress.

“It’s late.” Is what he says instead, continuing his job of cleaning up. There’s a thousand unsaid things with those two words and it seems like you somehow know him well enough to answer all of them.

“Craig said I could crash on the couch,” you say, beginning to collect some of the empty cans off the kitchen counter. Andrew tries to level a look at you, to let him do it, but you give him a look straight back and continue. “And I want to help you. Doesn't seem like anyone else is.”

He accepts that and you two clean in silence for a few moments, working alongside each other. His eyes can’t help but follow you as you flounce around the kitchen, picking things up and tossing them into the bag into his hand. And then you speak. “So, why am I the only one helping you?”

He furrows his brows, pausing for a second as your words catch him off guard. Andrew glances over at you once more and you’re looking at him expectantly. He can’t help but feel compelled to answer, although your big fluttery eyes may play a small part in that. Trying to ignore the blood rushing downwards, he answers. “What do you mean?”

“Um, I mean there’s like, at least two or three other people who live in this house,” He can basically hear your frown as you speak, unceremoniously throwing another piece of trash into the bag. “Why am I the only one helping you clean up? The mess of a party that they threw?”

Andrew has never really thought about it before. He supposes this has always been his role, cleaning up after his family. Solving their problems. Making the bad things go away. Doing the messy work.

“I don’t need any help,” he says simply, voice gruff. He tries to ignore the heat of your disappointed eyes on him as he turns around, but he can still hear your loud sigh. You notice that he’s trying to avoid your gaze, so you catch his forearm in your hand. His muscles twitch under your touch, warmth seeping through your skin. Andrew slowly drags his gaze up from your hand on his arm to your face and he can’t help but soften. “I got it.”

“I just meant that you’re always taking care of everyone else, Andrew,” you explain, hand still on his arm. Your voice is soft in the way that he likes; a tone that seems to be reserved just for him. “Cleaning up after everyone. Making sure they don’t kill each other. Craig’s told me that you’ve bailed him out plenty of times.”

Andrew frowns. He doesn’t like the idea of his brothers talking about him when he’s not around, especially to you. He scowls at the thought, tying off the full garbage bag and placing it aside. He tries to pull away to grab another bag and continue, but your grip tightens on his arm.

“I’m serious. Just leave it for them to deal with for once,” You pull him back towards you, but he feels conflicted. He doubts anyone would actually do it if he left it for them to do —he’s seen the state the house gets into when he’s gone. Andrew hesitates for a moment, but all thoughts fade from his mind when your hand slips from his forearm into his palm, fingers twining with his. All he can do is stare while his brain tries to catch up to what’s happening. “Come on.”

You pull him along and it doesn’t take much effort to have him following. Continuing to stare, he’s got half a mind to hope that his mouth isn’t hanging open. He realizes where you’ve taken him in Smurf’s just a beat too slow as he enters the room.

His room.

He turns to face you slowly and the expression on your face is unreadable as you shut the door behind you. It reminds me of the first time that he saw you all that time ago. The room is silent for a moment as you two take each other in. Andrew hopes that you can’t hear the shaky breath that he lets out from across the room.

“Sit,” you command, gesturing to the bed. Andrew doesn’t waste any time obeying, sitting on the edge of the bed, feet planted firmly on the floor. His hands rest on his thighs, clenching and unclenching anxiously. You approach him slowly, closing the distance until he’s face level with your torso. The position has him blushing —he’s sure his face must be red. He tilts his head up to look at you and you take one step closer. His legs part naturally to accommodate you, bracketing your figure.

“Will you let me take care of you, Andrew?” you ask, hand sliding into his hair. He struggles to not let out a groan, blood rushing straight to his dick. He’s so distracted by the feeling of your nails scratching along his scalp as he leans into your touch that he barely even registers the question.

“Okay.” It comes out quiet and breathy, but it feels loud in the silent room. He watches the ends of your lips curl up into a smile, his eyes fluttering. You take the hands that were settled on his thighs and place them on your hips. Taking the opportunity to appreciate your body, his hands run over your curves slowly as he sucks in a sharp breath. He doesn’t break eye contact with you as he does so, too enraptured to take his eyes off you. It makes him twitch in his jeans when you lean a little closer, breath fanning over his face.

A few moments pass as you let him feel your body; he’s practically drooling at the feeling. Once you’ve decided he’s had his fill you climb into his lap, straddling him. He’s sure you can feel how much he wants you, the heat of your clothed pussy on his jeans making him all the more hard.

You barely give him a second to breathe before you’re catching your lips in his, your mouth parting instantly. The kiss is slow and sensual and it has him letting out a broken whimper into your mouth. That seems to spur you on, fingers gripping the front of his shirt to kiss him even deeper. 

Andrew doesn’t even know how many times he imagined doing this with you. At this point he’s lost count, but this was beyond anything that his mind could ever put together. The smell of your perfume envelopes him and your body is so warm under your thin dress that it sets his nerves alight.

He can’t help just taking a bit more, big hands gripping your hips and grinding you against him. The small moan you let out as he does so has his hips bucking. Hands still roaming, he instinctively slips his tongue into the kiss. The fact that you continue to rock your hips against his once he lets go of your waist makes him dizzy. The kiss is wet and desperate and all Andrew wants is to get closer, greedy hands grabbing.

Then he feels your fingers drift to the hem of his shirt and he lifts his arms, allowing you to pull it off. The sensation of your nails dragging across his chest sends a shiver down his spine. His hands had settled on your thighs, gripping so tight that he’s sure he’s leaving marks. He feels bad, but then he decides that he’ll kiss them as an apology later, if you’ll let him.

You stop grinding and scoot backwards a little, moving further down his lap. He opens his mouth to ask why, but then your hands are at his belt buckle and the words die in his throat. You’re quick to undo his jeans, wasting no time in pulling him out and taking him into your hands. Your hands are much softer than his rough and calloused ones, warm against the hot flesh of his length. His head tips back as you begin to stroke him slowly, eyes to the ceiling as he lets out another shaky breath.

He had always imagined what your touch would feel like wrapped around him like this, letting himself imagine it was you touching him instead of himself when he was alone. The way you twist your wrist languidly, like you know exactly just how to get him going, has his mind going blank.

“Do you like that?” You mutter, tucking your face into his neck now that he’s made the space. The way you kiss slowly up the sensitive skin of his neck makes his mind fuzzy. He can’t seem to get the words out, so he gives a slow nod instead. “Good.”

The praise makes his hips stutter, fucking into your fist. You let out a small laugh, presumably at how desperate he is for you. A low moan escapes his mouth as you swipe your thumb over the head of his cock, swiping away the precome leaking from the tip. Your touch disappears for a moment and he tips his head back forwards to you, looking at you through hooded lids. He watches as you spit into your palm and resume your actions, his jaw dropping open ever so slightly. Andrew feels drunk, the slick shlick of you stroking him filling the room.

He thinks you can tell that he’s getting close. He knows that his hips won’t stop rising to meet your touch: a dead giveaway. It’s almost embarrassing how fast you get him there, cock leaking in desperation as he whines. Your hand slips away and he groans out loud at the loss of sensation. His mind is still fuzzy and he almost misses your fingers wrapping around his wrist, guiding his hand across your body and under your dress. Looking down at where your hands meet, his breathing almost stops when you dip his fingertips past the waistband of your lacy panties.

“Don’t you want to feel how wet I am for you, Andrew?” you breathe into his ear. The words affect him deeply and he lets out a strangled noise, but he can’t bring himself to be embarrassed with you on top of him like this.

“Yes,” he says, voice hoarse. He sounds absolutely wrecked as he swipes a finger along your wetness, sickly slow, brows furrowing as he watches your lips part at his touch. You’re dripping for him; he can feel the wet patch you’ve left on your panties against his knuckles as he slides a finger into you. It’s your turn to moan, and he swears at the sound, “Fuck.”

He pumps his finger in and out slowly, basking in the feeling of you sucking him right in. You surge forward and capture his lips in yours, kissing him breathlessly. You let out a whimper into his mouth as he slips another finger alongside the first. His breath catches in his throat as he feels you flutter around his digits, velvet walls pulling him in even deeper.

Andrew loves having you like this, your dress bunched around your hips, giving him a full view of your pussy covered in lace as you grind your clit into the palm of his hand. It’s all too much for him; he drops his head to your shoulder, breathing in the scent of your perfume. He thinks of all the times he’s touched himself to the scent of you; whether that be from the sheets from the first time he met you or the way that it lingered in his room after a conversation with you, long after you’ve gone.

His pace quickens and he can feel your legs shaking against his while your hips buck, practically riding his hand. You’re mewling now, coming apart on his fingers the same way you do in his dreams. He feels you clamp down around him and he can tell you’re going to cum seconds before you tell him. He can barely hear it, words lost in your soft whimpers. A rush of wetness is slick against his palm as you let out a moan so loud that Andrew remembers there are other people in the house.

Eyes never leaving yours, he pulls his fingers out from your panties and brings them to his mouth. The way you taste has his eyes almost rolling back into his head, licking up the cum that had dripped down his fingers. He wants to get his head between your legs real fucking bad and eat you until the sun comes back up or until you’re begging him to stop. His cock aches with the desperate need to fuck you, eyes trailing down to your chest as you pull off your dress and toss it aside. He decides to save it until later. Maybe round two?

He’s appreciated your body countless times as you tanned by the pool, but the view of you on top of him, being able to touch you the way he wants, has his blood running hot in his veins. He could die under you right now and he’d die a happy man.

You push him down onto the bed with a soft push and his back lands against his freshly pressed sheets. Lifting your hips, you pull his jeans and boxers down, leaving them to pool at his ankles where his feet are still planting firmly on the floor. He kicks them off and moves further up the bed, loving how you giggle as he jostles you.

Your tongue swipes across your lips and you settle yourself into position, the lace of your panties scratching intoxicatingly against his cock. Mesmerized, he watches as you hook your fingers into your panties and pull them aside, not even bothering to remove them before lowering himself down onto his length.

The two of you let out a needy noise as you sink down, taking him to the hilt. You look absolutely beautiful, the sight of you absolutely fucked out for him making his cock impossibly harder. His hands fly to your hips as you begin to grind again, much like you were earlier.

He lets out a sharp inhale through his nose, eyes hungry. You’ve spread your cum across the short hairs at the base of his dick, whining as you chase your high. You get tired of the grinding and lift your hips, bending forward and resting your forehead against his. His eyes are on yours as you slam your hips back down, eyes fluttering shut.

The pace you set is brutal, hips pistoning as you ride him. The force of it has the frame of his bed swaying, headboard making impact with the wall every time you drop your hips. That combined with the volume of both the noises you two make as you ride him is more than enough to hear through the wall or the door. 

“So good, baby. Feels so fucking good,” he coos, lost in the way you fuck him. The wet slap of skin on skin is absolutely sinful, echoing in the room and mingling with the heavy breaths you let out. He’s got one hand on your ass and the other on your breast, overwhelmed with the need to memorize every part of your body. “Been fucking dreaming about your pussy.”

“Oh my god, Andrew,” you whine, hips moving fast. He can feel you clenching around him, trapping him in your cunt like a vice. He can barely keep his eyes open, lids low from the pleasure. You’re squeezing him so fucking tight that he swears his vision is going white. You straighten up and place a hand on his broad chest, using it as leverage to hit a whole new angle.

Andrew feels himself brush against your walls and it has his jaw dropping open as his entire body shaking at the feeling. He’s close but you’re closer, nails digging into his flesh and your moans grow more high pitched, picking up the pace. You don’t stop moving your hips when you cum around him, barely able to keep yourself upright. The feeling of you tightening around him and the sight he catches of your cum glistening around the base of his dick has him moments away from falling over the edge.

“M’gonna cum,” he slurs, hands around your waist to hold you in place as he fucks up into you now. Still sensitive from your second orgasm you squeal, falling even farther forward into his chest. Soft grunts are punched from his chest every time his hips meet yours, taking what he needs from you.

“I want it so bad,” you babble mindlessly, voice dripping with pleasure. He’s never heard you like this before, but now he can’t imagine ever living without it. His thrusts are messy now, determined to hear you beg some more. “Please, I need it.”

“Yeah?” He barely even notices himself speak, too busy fucking into your pussy to think of anything else. He’s so close that his arms are shaking, thick muscles twitching in anticipation. He almost wants to cry, overwhelmed by the way he’s buried so deep inside you. “You want me to pump you full of my cum, baby?”

“Please,” you whine, voice cracking with need. The sound of it has Andrew’s hips faltering as he does exactly that, swearing sharply as he does so. His entire body jerks from the feeling, so wracked in pleasure that he can’t control it. You let out a moan alongside his as he fucks him cum back into you, nice and slow. Once the overstimulation gets to him his hips come to a stop, sweat beading on his forehead.

You fall limp on top of him, the deep rise and fall of your chest matching his. He wraps his two big arms around you instinctively, pulling you closer against him. Andrew basks in the quiet, punctuated by nothing other than your quiet breathing, closing his eyes.

“You okay?” Your voice is muffled against his chest, warm breath fanning over his skin. He’s got a hand running absentmindedly up and down the bare skin of your back, still sticky with sweat. “That wasn’t too much?”

“No,” he rumbles, voice soft. His fingers are still skimming as allows himself to take in the moment for just a beat longer. Then he’s got you under him, flat on your back. He loves the way you look up at him, legs still wrapped around his waist. He noses his way into your neck, noticing that his scent is intermingling with yours the more time you spend with him. His hands begin to roam once more and he can feel his blood rush downwards when you look at him with your big curious eyes. “Not enough.”

If Andrew had any say in it, you two were in for a long night.

—

In the morning, Andrew is the first to wake up. He always had trouble getting to sleep, sometimes staring at his ceiling for hours in the night, but the warmth you brought to his bed had pulled him under within minutes.

He turned his head to face you, eyes flicking over your face as the amber light of the sun painted your face. You were clad in one of his shirts, the plain black looking much better on you than it ever did on him. Andrew shifts slowly so as to not wake you and slides out of bed.

The walk to the kitchen is quiet, like it usually is in the morning considering the fact that the rest of his family regularly kept late hours, so he was surprised to find Craig, already seated at the bar, tucking into a bowl of cereal. He looks up and sees who it is, his face twisting into something much more smug as he takes another bite. 

Andrew is quick to pull a face back, not interested in hashing out his night with Craig, who clearly wants to hear all the details. Instead, he starts to clear the mess that his brother had left out while he assembled his breakfast. Craig waits a beat, like he expects him to change his mind, but Andrew stays silent.

“Pope, man-” he starts, but a door creaks shut in down the hall that distracts him, leaving the unfinished sentence in the air. Then you turn the corner, still only in his shirt, and Andrew realizes that it wasn’t the noise that caught Craig’s attention. Your hair is still mussed and you’re rubbing the sleep out of your eyes when you approach him. You wrap your arms around his wide torso and his arm settles at your waist. Natural as if you’ve done it a million times before. Andrew allows himself to smile at the feeling, not even caring that his brother is watching with a shit eating grin on his face.

You had served here for several years. Your position as a trusted lady-in-waiting required you to be a shadow: silent, invisible, but always present. You watched as other servants, like Yinghua or Guiyuan, admired their mistress's kindness and cheerfulness. They saw only the facade—a dazzling beauty with fire-red hair, whose silver-bell laugh could melt even the harshest heart. They saw a woman skillfully playing political games while remaining a model of mercy.

But you saw more. Your gaze, always attentive and observant, pierced through that flawless mask. You saw the faint shadows of exhaustion beneath her stunning emerald eyes after long banquets. You noticed how her delicate shoulders tensioned when she had to listen to the flattering but lying speeches of other concubines. You knew how much effort it cost her to be the "perfect Jade Consort" for a man she respected but did not love in the way poems described.

Today had been particularly difficult. The Emperor had hosted a lavish reception in the garden, and Gyokuyo had to sit for hours under the scorching sun in heavy ceremonial robes, demonstrating unshakable grace. When the procession finally returned to the Jade Pavilion, the sun had begun to sink toward the horizon, painting the tiled roofs in bloody-gold hues.

"You may all go," Gyokuyo’s voice sounded soft, but it carried that unquestionable authority no one dared to challenge. "Honnyan, see to it that we are not disturbed. I wish to rest. [Y/N], stay. Help me prepare for bed."

Honnyan, the head maid, bowed respectfully, casting a short, meaningful glance at you before leading the other girls away. The paper doors closed with a soft rustle, cutting you both off from the rest of the world. Silence fell over the spacious, richly decorated chambers, broken only by the quiet crackling of coals in the brazier and the steady ticking of the water clock.

You remained standing by the door, hands folded at your waist, your gaze respectfully lowered.

"Finally," came a heavy sigh, sounding nothing like the concubine's melodic laughter.

Gyokuyo stood in the center of the room. Her former stateliness had vanished. She let her shoulders drop, and her face reflected such a deep, unbearable weariness that your heart ached. In that moment, she was not the powerful consort of the Emperor, but simply a woman exhausted by a golden cage.

"My Lady, may I?" you asked quietly, taking a step forward.

"How many times have I asked you, [Y/N]," Gyokuyo turned her head toward you, and a faint but entirely sincere smile, free of any pretense, appeared on her lips. "When we are alone, do not call me that. To you, I am simply Gyokuyo."

Your heart skipped a beat, as it did every time she looked at you like that. In her gaze directed at you, there was always something special—warmth, trust, and a secret shared between the two of you.

"Very well... Gyokuyo."

You stepped close to her. She smelled of jasmine, expensive incense, and the faint scent of summer heat. Your hands, accustomed to this routine yet trembling with hidden trepidation every time, reached for her complex, heavy hairstyle.

First, you pulled out a massive gold hairpin adorned with precious stones. Gyokuyo closed her eyes slightly, letting out a soft sigh of relief. Then came the second, the third... You moved slowly, with extreme care not to cause her pain. Every touch of your fingers against her skin felt like a spark of electricity running through you both.

Finally, when the last pin was removed, her luxurious, thick cinnabar-colored hair cascaded down her back in a heavy wave, reaching almost to her waist. It flowed through your fingers like liquid fire. You always looked at it with fascination. In the Empire, this color was considered a rarity, a sign of her foreign blood, and many viewed it with suspicion—but to you, there was nothing more beautiful in the world.

"It’s so heavy," Gyokuyo murmured, tilting her head back. The back of her head brushed against your chest. It was an impermissibly intimate gesture for a servant and a mistress, but you had long since erased those boundaries within the walls of her private chambers.

You froze, not daring to breathe. Your hands rested on her shoulders, clad in thick silk.

"You held yourself wonderfully at the reception today," you said, trying to change the subject to hide the tremor in your voice. "No one noticed your exhaustion."

"Because that is my job, [Y/N]," she replied with a hint of bitterness. Gyokuyo covered your hand on her shoulder with her own elegant, slender hand. Her skin was cool. "To smile, to nod, to be a beautiful ornament in His Majesty’s garden. To be a perfect vessel for his heirs. Sometimes I feel I will forget what my true face looks like if I don't look in a mirror."

She slowly turned in your arms, coming face-to-face with you.

"But then I look at you. And I realize that I only truly live in these short hours when the doors are closed."

Twilight deepened in the room. You lit a few candles placed in the corners. Their soft, golden light danced on the paper walls, creating an atmosphere of absolute privacy and mystery.

"Let’s take this off," Gyokuyo looked at her multi-layered, gold-embroidered ceremonial kimono. "I feel as though I am wearing armor."

You nodded, shaking off the daze, and set to work. Untying the complex knots of the obi was a familiar task. Your hands moved deftly and quickly. With every layer of heavy silk removed, Gyokuyo seemed to become lighter and freer.

When the outer ceremonial garments fell to the wooden floor with a soft rustle, she was left in only a thin inner robe of white silk. The fabric was so delicate it was almost translucent, softly clinging to her feminine, perfect figure.

She walked to the dressing table and sat before a large bronze mirror. You took a bone comb in your hands and stood behind her.

This was your sacred ritual. You began to slowly, smoothly comb through her fiery hair. From the roots to the very tips. Over and over. It calmed her. You saw in the mirror's reflection how the lines on her forehead smoothed and her facial muscles relaxed.

But today, the air between you was different. A thick, almost tangible tension hung in it. Months of unspoken words, hidden glances, and accidental touches were all sparking in the silence of the room now.

You looked at her reflection. Gyokuyo also watched you through the tarnished bronze. Your eyes met, and neither of you looked away.

Your hand with the comb slowed, then stopped altogether. Your fingers buried themselves in her thick red locks, lightly massaging her scalp. You couldn't help yourself. Your other hand slid down her neck, touching the delicate skin where her pulse throbbed.

Gyokuyo gasped sharply. Her jade eyes darkened.

"[Y/N]..." her voice became husky, low, like the purr of a wild cat.

"I know I shouldn't," you whispered, leaning closer. Your breath brushed her ear, making her shiver. "I am just a servant. And you... you belong to the Emperor."

Gyokuyo turned sharply on the stool. Her movement was so sudden that the comb fell from your hands and rolled away with a dull thud. She seized your wrists. In her gaze, there was not a trace of the submissive consort everyone else knew. An iron fire burned within her—the same fire that matched the color of her hair.

"I do not belong to him," the words sounded like an oath. Gyokuyo pulled you so close that your knees touched. "My body may belong to the Inner Court. My status may belong to the Empire. But my heart... my soul, my true desires... they do not take orders."

She released your wrists and raised her hands, cupping your face. Her palms were burning. With her thumbs, she tenderly, almost reverently, stroked your cheekbones.

"They belong only to you, [Y/N]. From the very day you first closed the door behind us and didn't look away from my eyes. I go mad every time I see you in a crowd. I am jealous of Honnyan, of Yinghua, of anyone who dares to take your attention. I want to tear off all these silks and run away with you to a place where there is no Emperor, no eunuchs, no poisons."

Those words destroyed the final wall between you. All your fears, all the rules of the Inner Court—the penalty for breaking which was death—crumbled to dust in the face of her confession. You realized you could no longer play the role of the submissive servant.

You leaned forward, taking the initiative. Your arms wrapped around her slender waist, easily lifting her from the stool. Gyokuyo let out a quiet cry as you pressed her back against the cool wooden wall of the room, but the sound held no fear—only desperate anticipation.

Your lips met hers. The kiss was sudden, hungry, and incredibly hot. All the unspoken words poured into this touch. You kissed her as if you were dying of thirst and she was the only source of water in a desert. Gyokuyo responded instantly. Her hands tangled in your hair, pulling you even closer, leaving not a millimeter of space between your bodies.

Her lips tasted of sweet wine and tart jasmine tea. You deepened the kiss, your tongue sliding inside to meet hers in a passionate, frantic dance. She let out a soft moan directly into your mouth, and that sound became the catalyst that stripped away all restraint.

She was the Emperor’s consort. An untouchable sanctuary. But now, in your arms, she was just a woman aching with desire, hot and responsive.

You pulled away from her lips, breathing heavily. Your eyes were clouded with the haze of passion. You covered her chin and cheeks with short, burning kisses, moving down to the elegant line of her jaw and her long, aristocratic neck. Gyokuyo tilted her head back, giving you full access, her breathing becoming ragged and loud.

"Yes..." she whispered as your lips found a sensitive spot on her neck. You lightly bit the tender skin, making her arch in your arms. "Please, [Y/N]... don't stop."

Her hands slid beneath the fabric of your uniform, searing your skin. Her touches were feverish, impatient. She wanted to feel you as much as you wanted to feel her.

Meanwhile, your hands explored her body through the thin white silk of her inner robe. You stroked her thighs and waist, feeling her tremble under your fingers. The fabric became a barrier that had to be removed.

With a deft movement, you untied the thin ribbon holding her robe together. The white silk slid off her shoulders, falling to her feet like melting snow.

In the flickering candlelight, her naked body seemed carved from the most expensive, warm jade. She was flawless. You looked at her with reverence, unable to believe that this beauty had trusted herself to you.

Gyokuyo grew slightly embarrassed under your piercing, dark gaze. She tried to cover her chest with her hands, a deep, charming blush flooding her cheeks.

"Don't hide," you whispered, gently catching her wrists and moving her arms to her sides. "You are beautiful. Gods, Gyokuyo, you are the most beautiful woman in the world."

Her emerald eyes shone at your words. All uncertainty evaporated. She reached for the fastenings of your clothes, helping you discard them. Soon, you both stood in the dim light of the room, hidden by nothing from one another.

You swept her up into your arms. She was surprisingly light. Gyokuyo instinctively wrapped her legs around your waist, hiding her flushed face against your shoulder. You took a few steps and carefully lowered her onto the wide bed, spread with soft silk, intended for the Emperor.

But tonight, this bed belonged only to the two of you.

You hovered over her, bracing your hands on the mattress on either side of her head. Red hair spilled across the pillows like tongues of flame. Gyokuyo looked up at you, her chest heaving. In her eyes was absolute surrender mixed with fierce passion.

Your lips found hers again. But this time, the kiss was slow, lingering, full of tenderness and adoration. You wanted to stretch this moment, to savor every second. Your hands began their journey over her body. You stroked her collarbones and shoulders, slowly moving lower.

Your palm rested on her soft breast, your thumb brushing against the sensitive pink nipple that instantly hardened under your touch. Gyokuyo arched her back, letting out a soft, sweet moan.

"[Y/N]... ah..." her fingers dug into your shoulders, leaving light crescent marks on your skin.

You leaned lower, replacing your fingers with your lips. You kissed her breast wetly, lightly biting and suckling, playing with her. Her reactions were incredibly frank. She tossed on the silk sheets, her breath catching and turning into a series of short, stifled gasps. She was so responsive, so hungry for genuine affection stripped of political subtext or duty.

Meanwhile, your free hand slid over her flat stomach, moving lower still. You stroked the inside of her thighs, feeling her muscles quiver with tension. Gyokuyo instinctively spread her legs, letting you know what she wanted.

You looked into her eyes. A fire raged in them.

"May I?" you asked softly, with respect, not wishing to cross the line without her consent, even in such an intoxicating state.

"Yes... please, yes... make me yours," Gyokuyo exhaled, tears in her eyes from the overwhelming emotion.

Your fingers touched her most intimate moisture. She was hot and already ready for you. You began to stroke her slowly, gently, finding the exact rhythm that made her body tremble even more.

"Gods... [Y/N]..." she gasped, her head falling back.

You deepened your touch, your movements becoming more confident and insistent. You knew her body; you read her reactions like an open book. Every movement, every breath was a guide for you. You leaned down, kissing her lips, swallowing her moans, not letting them escape the room.

Passion washed over you both. The boundaries between your bodies blurred. There was only the scent of heated skin, the whisper of tender, breathless words, burning kisses, and the rhythm leading you both to the edge of the abyss.

Gyokuyo gripped your hair, her hips instinctively moving to meet your rhythm. The tension inside her grew, coiling like a tight spring.

"I’m about to... [Y/N], I..." her voice broke into a sharp whisper.

"Let yourself go. I have you, my love," you whispered, quickening the pace and continuing to kiss her neck.

With a loud, sweet cry that you barely managed to stifle with a kiss, Gyokuyo shuddered in your arms. Waves of an incredible, blinding orgasm washed over her. Her body tensed like a pulled string and then went limp against the silk sheets. She breathed heavily, a blissful, sleepy smile wandering across her face.

You slowly lay down beside her, pulling her heated body to yours. She tucked her nose into your neck, hugging you so tightly as if she were afraid you would vanish.

Several hours passed. The room had cooled, but under the thick silk quilt, it was unbearably warm and cozy. The candles had long since burned out. You lay on your back, and Gyokuyo slept on your chest. Her red hair was spread over you, covering you like a cloak. You stroked her bare back, listening to the steady beat of her heart.

She stirred, sleepily blinking her emerald eyes, and looked at you.

"Not sleeping?" she murmured, kissing your collarbone.

"I don't want to close my eyes. I'm afraid I'll wake up and this will be a dream," you confessed honestly.

Gyokuyo propped herself up on an elbow, looking down at you. Her gaze was serious but filled with incredible tenderness.

"It’s not a dream. This is the only reality that makes sense to me," she traced a finger over your face. "Tomorrow the sun will rise again. I will have to put on the mask of the Jade Consort once more. I will smile at the Emperor again and play political games with the other pavilions."

Her voice wavered slightly but then became firm.

"But every evening, when the doors of this pavilion close... I will shed all those layers of lies. And I will belong only to you. If you agree to share this secret with me. If you are ready to risk everything for these nights."

You wrapped your arms around her neck and pulled her down for a long, tender kiss.

"I will follow you anywhere, Gyokuyo. In the Inner Court or beyond it. I am your shadow, your shield, and your love. Forever."

Your head is thrown back against the soft pillow beneath your head, your legs slung over his shoulders. Additionally, a little pillow was placed beneath your hips, so if Jinshi felt like eating your cunt, he could take as much time as he liked. After a demanding day of bothersome things happening around the pavilion, he would extract every orgasm from you with his tongue and fingers. You are his favourite sweet after all.

"Jinshi," you whimper out as his nose bumps against your clit, tongue lapping at your soaked folds, along with lapping at the honey smeared over your folds.

"Mmmmm," he hums against your clit as he moves his mouth from your entrance, the vibrations causing you to gasp out in pleasure.

You don't know how long you have been here for, but you do know that Jinshi had drawn out three orgasms from you, an hour you thought, he had you here for an hour. As much as Jinshi loved to eat you out and indulge in your essence, he loved to edge you, so you'd be squirming under him.

Arching your back, your cunt only pressed further into Jinshi's face, you just wanted to have your release, you body was aching, aching so much. You could see stars every time he curls his fingers into your sweet spot, but he wasn't doing that right now, his fingers were just resting inside your tight heat.

"Jinshi," you whine subtly, you just wanted him to hurry up, but he was taking so long

Every stripe of his tongue on your clit made your body shudder, so much so that you felt as if you were doing to pass out. Although, you thought that if he would go any faster, you would in fact pass out, so you were in a bit of a predicament. Going slow, just made you exhausted and any faster you would pass out.

"You'll be alright," Jinshi reassures, of course he'd know that you'd be alright, he knows you more than you know yourself, especially how dirty you are being eaten out with honey dripping down you. Not that he was complaining, he would never say no to indulging in you and honey at the same time. 

"I don't... don't think I will," you moan.

"Yeah you will."

Gosh, he was so hard to talk back to. A whimper leaves your mouth when he places a kiss on your clit and your thighs clench around his head. You attempt to arch away from the overwhelming sensation but Jinshi grip keeps you in place.

"Jinshi," you moan out. "Feels so good, making me feel so good."

He loves praise and you love giving it to him. You could feel Jinshi smirk against your drenched folds. "Come on, you have to say more than that," he urges.

Once more, Jinshi's nose brushes up against your delicate clit, and your grip on his hair tightened. A satisfied sigh seeps through him into your folds as a mewl from your full lips. As he sucked your clit between his lips and flicked your sensitive bud with his tongue, Jinshi was eagerly moving his head in motion to get a full dive into your cunt, the remains of honey all gone from your dripping cunt.

His tongue climbs up from your wet hole to your clit while you let out a moan. Your thighs tighten around his head as a result of his advances, and as you grind down on his face, a moan echoes through your clit.

Your lips were filled with chants of his name, and he relished every moment of it. Jinshi's two fingers inside your cunt began to move once more, you eyes widened, your back further arched into his face, thighs clenching tighter around your head.

"Jinshi, f-feels s' good," you moan, tears welling in your lash line, he was making you feel so good.

His finger pressed up against that soft spot inside your walls. Jinshi was slow with his pace as he curled his fingers every time he entered your cunt, along with sucking and licking at your puffy, sensitive clit.

"See taking it so well," Jinshi moans against you, refusing to rut his hips into the futon, this was your pleasure, not his own.

A moan arouses from you and your hips grind themselves onto his face. He let you for once have some sort of control over the situation, and he decided that if you came quicker he'll let you do it more often. "That's it," he praised.

You cry his name through broken letters, and he moves more quickly and needily, and the one hold he had on your leg tightens. Your fingers encircled his locks to prevent him from moving and force him to breathe more deeply into your folds as your tummy coil tightened.

The grunts just served to tip you over the brink, and when he pressed his tongue firmly against your clit, you let out a low-pitched scream. Your stomach coil parted, drenching his face in liquid.

With your soaked pussy flowing out from your swollen folds, he carefully withdrew his fingers. You softly mewls in overstimulation and plants a kiss on your clit before going right back in, but faster and your thighs clamp shut.

"Jinshi!" you moan, chest heaving. "Too much, sensitive, wait!"

"Just one more," Jinshi moans, hips rutting into harder into the bed, he too wanted to cum, you looked so pretty here and tasted so divine, he just needed to.

You really couldn't do it anymore, well you wanted too but you could see the black dots and stars covering your vision. You believed you could endure. But you couldn't as you fell limp under the detective. Your thighs loosened significantly and the strong grip you had on Jinshi hair went slack, and your back fell flat to the covers.

Jinshi immediately notices and pauses, lifting his head from in between your thighs and seeing your peaceful face. "Huh?" he mutters, blinking in disbelief. "Really? "This isn't some trick, is it?"

He pocks your cheek and watches your head loll to the side and a murmur leaving your lips. "She passed out. That wasn't something I saw coming," Jinshi said in disbelief. "Hey, wake up," Jinshi adds.

You open you eyes, disoriented and groggy, you could feel Jinshi hovering over you and you squint your eyes slightly, as you were confused at what he was doing. His face was closer than usual his green eyes staring into yours, almost as if he was making sure you were okay. (it was obvious he wasn't about to give you a kiss so you were confused at what this man was doin).

"Finally," he sighed in relief. "I thought you were going to sleep through the whole thing."

You blinked, confused. "What happened?" you murmured, trying to sit up, but Jinshi gently pushed you back down.

"Hold on, don't move too fast," he said, his tone soft. He sat back slightly on the futon, watching you closely, he didn't want you to faint again. "You passed out."

"I... I did?" you say in shock

Jinshi nodded. "Yep. One minute you were all into it, and then you were asleep. Didn't see that one coming. You really know how to keep things interesting," he added.

You blushed, embarrassed and unsure of how to respond, but before you could say anything, Jinshi continued. "Don't worry, though. I checked everything, you're fine. Probably just overdid it a little."

"Next time, maybe try not to pass out on me, okay?" he teased, but as he reached out to brush a strand of hair from your face. "Though," he continued, his fingers slicked with honey, "when you've recovered, I fully intend to collect what was... interrupted."

Do not copy, steal, modify, use for ai, translate, etc. Relogs and like are appreciated.

******

"Satoru Gojo, Master Megumi’s butler," he’d announced in a deep tone, like honey sweeping across your skin. He’d extended a gloved hand for you to take, and it took you a moment before your hand joined his.

All you can remember were those eyes, less blue and more black, some glint within them that had sent a shiver down your spine as much as it made your tummy clench, your heart hammering in your chest, you watched his hand swallow your own. You had just stood there, staring up at him dumbfounded. 

There's something undeniably… Well, you can’t say demonic, can you? That was utter nonsense, yet there was an intriguing thing about him that simultaneously drew you in as it terrified you.

“Hello,” you had introduced yourself carefully, taking Satoru Gojo’s hand, letting him help you down. You had almost fallen, but he’d had you firm in his grasp, smirking down at you in this way that’s madness. “Oh, forgive my clumsiness!”

“Not to worry young miss,” his huge hand burns even over your corset and bodice, making you tremble, your hands on a chest so strong it makes you feel things you never have. “Do you fancy it here?”

“I just got here,” your brows knit together, and he chuckles then, tugging you imperceptibly closer against his hard body. “Um…”

“I meant in my arms,” he’s grinning wickedly, earning your gasp. “You have not left them yet.”

“I just, I…” You pull back and almost fall once more, but this time it’s Megumi who catches your arm, sighing like he’s tired already. “Oh! Cousin…”

“Dear cousin,” he mumbles, yawning and setting you right, his dark hair slicked back, he tugs his pretty baby blue tail coat a bit, letting you go and bowing at the waist. “It’s an honor to see you again. Blah blah blah.”

“Did you just say - ‘blah blah blah’ Megumi?” You ask now, and Satoru chuckles, bowing at the waist with a gloved hand to his chest.

“What the young master means is it’s lovely to have you at our home,” Satoru looks up under snowy lashes, melting you then. “Isn’t it, Megumi?”

“Sure, whatever,” he just turns and starts heading toward the doors of the black, old mansion, something eerie just emanating from it that makes you hesitate. One side of it has vines crawling all upon it, massive and alone in the countryside, nothing for miles truly. Megumi looks back at you over his shoulder. “Are you coming?”

“Oh! Yes,” you’re grabbing a bag, but Satoru takes it from you quickly, holding out an elbow. “Thank you, Mr. Gojo.”

“Satoru, please, no need to be so formal. You’re the young Master’s family, hmm? I’ll serve you too.”

“Serve me?” You’d said those words, holding onto a strong arm and walking next to the tall butler, whose gaze sweeps over you.

“Mmhmm, I’m at your service.”

****

Present

“Do you wish to wager anything, young miss?” Satoru the butler asks, with his wicked grin, leaning forward and resting his arms on the elegant table the two of you play on, a wooden piece between his gloved fingers.

“Wager anything huh,” you’re snapped back to the present, clearing your throat now, feeling far too bold. “Are you so sure you’ll win?”

“Oh, I’ll win,” you scoff a bit, but that’s how Satoru is – seemingly more arrogant than the Master of the manor himself. “How about I’ll make sure you get good rest tonight if I win, and if you win – you help me rest.”

“Rest?” Your brows draw together in confusion, moving your rook. “Why do you think I need rest, Sir?”

His laugh is soft and dangerous, his baby blues flickering across your face, taking in the beauty that he can’t wait to deflower. A sweet little sheltered lady, yet he sees it inside you, the need for more, for him in particular, it’s written all over your features, your dilated eyes and parted lips, the flush that colors your cheeks perfectly.

Do you blush everywhere?

He’ll know soon enough.

Satoru looks hungry you think to yourself, he’s far too close, his hand precariously near brushing against your thigh, you inhale his scent – clean and fresh, filling your nostrils so intoxicating. Just in the past few days he’s awakened something inside you that you didn’t realize, just last night even you’d been so enamored you’d been soaking wet in your bed.

“I take it you’re not sleeping, sweet girl,” he tuts his tongue a bit, brushing your cheek right under your eyes where dark circles reign. “You had quite a long trip, and have been through much. Perhaps you need a release, hmm?”

“A release…” You repeat, while he moves his rook, studying those always gloved hands and wondering what they looked like, felt like.

“Indeed, miss, a release.”

“And do you need one?” Your words catch him then, cock leaky and throbbing from fucking playing chess.

Satoru the butler was hungry.

His deal with Megumi was that he’d wait until he was ready to be devoured, as his soul was one of those rare tasty ones – and Satoru was a connoisseur of them, he would not just consume common souls. Of course, he also fed from sex, so at times he’d go to take just a little bit of energy from the beauties in the city, but none had a soul tasty as yours.

Bright, it’s bright and brilliant – too good for him, yet he’d love to corrupt it just a bit, to make sure you’re tasty and ripe enough, mix that bright white with some of his darkness. Satoru’s hair and eyes may be bright, but his heart was black, even black as it was your brightness screamed to it since he first laid eyes on you.

Master Megumi forbade him from touching you, he may not show his care, but he does in his own ways, in the ways a boy that’s been through hell can care. He was already a little fond of you after a few days of you trying to get to know him, though he didn’t show it, Satoru caught his little smile.

Satoru’s grown fond of Megumi over the years of being his butler, not so fond as to break their contract, it was Megumi’s choice after all, he’d summoned Satoru. Yet, at times he wavered as his annoying human side started to make him care for humans. Only a select few, however, were deemed tolerable.

You were above that.

Impeccable.

The thought of tasting your pretty little cunt right along with your pretty little soul tortures him, he’s just going to have to defy Master Megumi this once.

“I could indeed use a release, what do you wager, hmm?”

“So if I win you give me a release?” You ask softly, he grins, eyes crinkling the tiniest bit at the corners.

“Because that would be most enjoyable for me.”

“You’re odd. Oh!?”

Satoru’s laughing at that, just shaking his head, moving his piece to capture your bishop. “You really have no idea how odd I am.”

*****

That first night, Satoru had taken you up to your room, holding a lantern as you both ascended the dark halls of the manor. He’d walked you up with a gentle hand guiding the small of your back, he’d already given you a meal that was possibly the tastiest thing you’ve ever had, a quiet dinner with your cousin Megumi.

You’d follow him up the stairs and a glimpse of his well defined backside, accentuated by the tight fit of his black trousers under that split tail coat, and you swear he caught you looking. “Anything wrong, miss?”

“No!?” He’d just grinned, so handsome, you felt heat burning your cheeks, and you quickly averted your gaze, wondering at the strange stirrings within you.

They just got worse when he tucked you in.

He had made sure your accommodations were comfortable, bending over and reaching out to adjust the covers, to fluff your pillows underneath your head, his fingers brushing against your skin on accident. Just that alone had sent jolts of desire through your body.

You had watched him, utterly transfixed, as he leaned down, his hot breath ghosting over your ear.

"Do you need anything else, young miss?"

You almost said yes – ‘your mouth’. Almost dragged him in for a kiss. You, an innocent young lady!

“N-no, nothing sir.” He’d just smiled, brushing his fingers down your cheek, the pale moonlight filtering through the curtains and illuminating his lithe form.

“Then good night, sweet girl.”

You’d touched yourself for the first time that night.

Satoru could sense it, smiling against the door and leaning his head back, listening to the sounds of you, waiting for the moment he can get you all to himself and taste your soul, your very essence. He runs his tongue along his lips, palming his cock with one hand, the lantern in the other, ear against the old wooden door – just listening to you struggle to pleasure yourself.

He’d help you soon.

“Give it a little longer, young miss,” he murmurs to himself, but also to you, before leaning off the door, leaving you a frustrated mess.

*****

Present

“Blast it,” you curse softly, the memories of that touch creep in, clumsy fingers trying to touch your own soaking wetness, something you’ve never done.

“Losing? Don’t worry, it’s natural, I am an exceptional chess player.”

“What aren’t you good at, Satoru?”

“Hmm,” he taps his chin, before shrugging a shoulder. “I’m quite proficient at everything I’m afraid. Especially…”

You glare when he gets you in check.

“Playing with you is so fun,” he says teasingly, leaning so close you feel his hot breath against your neck. “Do you like me playing with you?”

“Perhaps,” you’re a little elusive with your answer, but once he wins, he stands then, hands on the table, taking your king piece, and using the cool wood of it to brush across your breasts, heaving up and down. “Sir…”

“I won, so it’s your chambers.”

You’re nervously following him moments later, wondering just what the bloody hell you have gotten yourself into, but at first it’s him getting you out of your corset, working the ties so fast he’s quicker than any handmaid ever could be. He’s working diligently to get you into your night gown that’s underneath, eyeing you in the mirror, kissing a bare shoulder.

“Go sit, hmm?” You do as he bids, and then Satoru is giving you a massage, in your settee, leaning back and exhaling, as it feels so good.

Too good.

“Ah, young miss,” Satoru chuckles, walking around to face you and kneeling, whispering between your thighs. Long fingers pressing against your skin, trailing underneath your dress ever so slowly - achingly slow in fact. “Is this how you need to relax, not a cup of tea?”

You’re flushing furiously, teeth sinking down into your lower lip, you can swear his eyes flicker such bright blue it’s like the hottest flames, fans of his breath drifting across your skin. He fingers the garters of your pretty white stockings, smiling lazily, like he has all the time in the world to work you, unhurried kisses working their way over the thin material.

“You’re a most insolent butler,” you whisper out, gasping when he shoves your night dress all the way up to your hips. “Impudent, one would say.”

“I’m simply one hell of a butler,” he murmurs, raising a brow and eyeing your bare cunt now, exhaling. “I’m the best, you know, at everything.”

“Arrogant too,” your voice is a soft cry, as he groans, the breath tickling you where you’re most intimate. “You think you’re the best at everything, really?”

“I know I am, sweet girl,” he chuckles again, a gloved finger brushing down your slit, soaking the material. “I win at anything.”

“I’ll get you in chess next time,” you murmur, he presses your thighs up now, until you’re damn near bent in half. “Ah!”

“Young master Megumi told me not to go near you,” his tongue flicks out, defying orders of his contract has never felt so fucking good. “Mnh, but I’d say a taste of you is worth it.”

“You’re… tasting me? You - oh!” Satoru’s filthy with it, groaning when your slick dribbles from your little hole.

“No one’s touched you, I can practically taste the innocence,” he chuckles now, grinning at you, swiping that wetness all around his pretty pink lips. His eyes are black then, terrifying yet pulling you closer. “I will relish in taking it, but do you really want me to? I won't let go of what’s mine ever.”

“You act as if it’s some sort of contract,” you whisper, his tongue flicks you once more, achingly slow up your slit, tapping your clit now. “I do not wish to be m-married, Sir…”

“That’s perfect,” he muses softly, spreading your lips and watching your eager hole just twitch. “You can be all mine then.”

You’re arching up for him, cunt slipping against his face, he hungrily sucks your clit into his hot, eager mouth, moaning and making it vibrate against the twitchy little pearl. You’re screaming out so lewdly he pulls back and chuckles, the black eyes against the white fringe of lashes terrifying in how fucking insane they are, the contrast of white and black.

“Do you wish your cousin to hear us?” He gently smacks your cunt with his now bare hand, and you see his black nails, a symbol on the back of his hand. “Keep down just a bit, hmm?”

“W-what’s this?” You murmur, brushing the glowing spot on the back of his hand, Satoru just chuckles again, leaning over you and kissing your lips, letting your own arousal slip into it.

Your first kiss is full of dripping arousal.

“Mnh!” You’re clinging to his strong biceps over his tail coat, pressing against the thick, expensive black material, and Satoru is running two long fingers up and down you, watching you twitch with a little delighted smirk.

“I hope you can take me,” he whispers, before slipping both in, groaning at how tight you are. “You shouldn’t make bets with a demon, sweetheart.”

“Demon,” you’re too lost now, cunt pulsing around those long fingers, gasping at the sharp pain of the insertion. “Too much, too much!”

“Tiny little cunt, tsk…” He pulls back his fingers now, and you gasp out in horror, even as you’re drooling from his three pumps, he pulls them back and they’re coated in crimson.

“I am not on my… w-what…”

“No, not your cycle,” he runs that blood between his fingers, eyeing you wickedly, as if he’s pleased. “That was your innocence, I suppose that will make my cock easier to take then.”

This demon butler Satoru just took your virginity with his stupidly long fingers!?

Your mouth opens, then closes, cheeks heating up. “That’s my…”

“Mmm, yes sweet girl,” he sucks the blood off his fingers, moaning now, cheeks hollowing, his eyes flutter shut while he just drinks the remnants of your innocence like it’s the sweetest treat. “Oh you’re so fucking delicious, it will be so difficult not to just devour all of you.”

“Devour me?” He’s pressing a kiss on your cunt, lapping up the sweetness of the virginity that was so stupidly easy to break, chuckling.

“You’re tiny, but so wet, you’ll take me I think,” he stands then, thumb brushing that blood off his chin, lapping more of it up, while he slips off his tail coat, neatly folding it up on the little side table. “Little Kitten… yes, I’ll call you kitten.”

“Kitten?” You whisper, eyes hungrily taking in him unbuttoning that white dress shirt, revealing his toned abdomen, cut with muscles flexing, his chest with his flat pink nipples so strong, shoulders broad and flexing.

“Yes, you’re like a sweet little kitten,” he determines, eyeing you with something akin to affection. Demons don’t feel love like humans really, but he does feel lust – and he’s never felt whatever this is. “I love kittens, you know.”

This man – demon!? – is having a casual conversation as he undoes his belt, and you eye the white trail of hair under his flat belly button, the veins pressing up against the thin skin, faint blue against the v cuts on his pelvis. Your cunt gushes, and he tilts his head, as if to take notice, exhaling.

“Undress, sweet kitten.”

It’s like a command, like he has you hypnotized, you do just that, standing shakily and undressing for him, he eyes your body and moans audibly, you’d hide but the way he studies you? There’s no need to, him stepping closer, brushing his hands along the swells of your breasts, making your nipples taut.

“Perfect little human,” he murmurs almost reverently, sighing and cupping your face. “I really want you to survive.”

You swallow again, a hand trailing down his hard chest, the sting of his long fingers still burning, yet your core is tightened, aching for more. “If I’ll survive you say, do you find my constitution so weak?”

“No, not at all,” he murmurs, cupping your face almost delicately, like he’s studying your features carefully. “I want you to make it.”

Satoru lifts you up by your hips, like you’re nothing, carrying you so quickly over to the bed, glittering with blacks and reds, kissing down your neck while his hands, still glinting with a bit of your crimson, brush down your skin. Satoru’s hungry as he works over you, sucking a nipple into his mouth and sinking sharp teeth right above one, marking you and moaning softly.

“Look at that,” he whispers, watching the bruise blossom on your skin, cock leaking pre thinking of being inside your perfect little cunt. “I fear you already belong to me now.”

You want to be irritated, want to say or do anything other than what you do, which is taking his hair in your hand and gripping it, arching your back and whining out for more. You’re lost in every kiss, like a fiery brand on your skin, his fingers slipping down your waist and sinking in, making you melt with every movement like his lips are designed to ruin you.

It’s dark in the room, despite the fire crackling in the hearth, which dances and reflects in his dark eyes with a swirling blue ring, fires dancing while he looks down at you, white teeth flashing a smile. Why is it so dark, swirling around you, the shadows cast along the walls, one of a predator and his prey.

Long fingers with black long nails coming for your throat, a tall body so lithe working over you until your shadow is taken, it’s just the butler on you, between your thighs, hot and heavy cock pressing against your slit, tip pressing along your slit. He leans up on his hands above you, silvery white hair falling over a brow, fingers gripping a thigh still clad in stockings.

“I quite like these,” he murmurs lazily, pressing just a bit inside your hole, you’re clinging to his shoulders, nails pressing in, whining out at the sensation. “You are so tiny, are you sure she can take me?”

“Y-yes,” he smirks, as if that’s just the answer he needed, leaning down with his lips against your ear.

“I don’t like to let my toys go, and I don’t like to share,” his tip enters now, the ridge popping in, you’re so sensitive from his mouth and so tight you feel every ridge in your slick walls. “You’re all mine now, you see? Mine to fuck, mine to breed – any time that I wish to.”

You should be terrified of him, but you just helplessly nod, underneath whatever Satoru Gojo is, you're lost in him, craving more and more. He moans against your neck, sinking deeper, the initial pain of his fingers takes the sting away so it’s just this delicious fucking stretch, making you gush down his length, slipping all the way down to the bed and dripping.

“Do you agree to be mine?” He asks now, your cunt is gripping him so good he has to pause, holding himself up and tilting your face towards him, squeezing your chin so hard it hurts. “Speak, kitten, when asked a question.”

“Y-yes, I agree.”

You’re stupid, right? So easily handing yourself away to this man, yet when he pulls back and slams back in, and you shatter, it’s an easy decision, whatever ecstasy this was – it’s addictive. How Satoru looks at you, moaning softly and starting to grip your thighs, pressing them up and dragging you even further down on a thick, lengthy cock.

“I won’t take it easy on you,” his words are soft, his eyes glowing blue once more around the round black pupils, exhaling and almost pulling his cock fully out. “Hang on to me, pretty kitten.”

Your nails dig in.

“And she has claws,” he loves it, your nails digging in so much they try to leave scratches that just instantly heal, and Satoru begins to move. He’s slamming his cock so deep it fills you full, tummy bulging with him he’s so big, gummy walls quivering around him as you get slippery from how wet you are. “That’s it, claw at me all you want.”

“Sir…”

“Satoru,” his lips dance across yours, before leaning up, hand wrapping your throat, licking his lower lip and groaning. “Ready?”

You nod once more, and Satoru begins to fuck into you, filthy slaps of skin in your slick cunt, so tiny around him yet she sucks him in greedy. 

“Don't even know what breeding is,” he murmurs, squeezing your neck tighter. “Yet here you are, milking me for all my seed, you can't help it, can you?”

You're too fucked out and sensitive, every smack of his heavy balls on your ass dripping with arousal is loud in the elegant, quiet chambers. It echoes off the walls, off the stone floor beneath those rugs, mixed with his soft groans and his whispers of your name like a devotion.

“Fuck you're gonna take me like this your first time?” He eyes your tummy, the way it moves with his cock, groaning at the sight. “Look how big I am, sweet kitten. Pathetic little cunt trying so hard.”

“Ngh!” You're close to shattering, his hot body working you, cock stretching you beyond your means. He's on his knees, abs flexing, eyes so bright they hurt to focus on, he sees more crimson leaking with your arousal slipping down his veiny cock. It mixes with his pre, milky and messy as he shoves it back so deep into you. 

He's lost at the sight of it dripping in rivulets down your skin, possessive nature ripping through him.

“Oh kitten, look at you,” He takes the mixture of blood and cum and sucks on it, eyes fluttering shut. “I'm destroying you, hah – and you love it. Don't you?”

“Mhm,” you’re depraved, debauched surely, when he starts folding you in half and fucking you so hard you cry out. You drool, letting him choke the air out of you while he fills you so deep until it's him, all him. “So much, so much!”

“Aw, you're close,” He's simply relishing every grip of tacky, gummy walls, every hit of his curved tip against your smooth cervix. “Go ahead, get your release, let me feel your cum all over my cock.”

“Ngh, S-satoru!” You cling to him desperately, feeling yourself closer and closer, and he does not relent.

No, he doesn’t stop the filthy strokes, folding your body in a mating press with your knees damn near brushing the mattress, huge cock splitting you in half. He doesn't let you breathe with those fingers squeezing your throat, doesn't let you rest or adjust, lost now, turning more demon than human as he fucks into you.

Your head tilts to the side in pleasure, while his tip rubs on that spot over and over, you’re gushing so much it’s slippery and messy, when your eyes fluttering in and out of focus hit the mirror. That’s when you really see him, his reflection over you. He’s just a huge, black shadow entity in that reflection.

He chuckles, looking over at it with you, only his brilliant blue eyes and the sheer shape of him alluding to this form, you’re stammering, looking back up at him now, he pauses for a moment.

“Scared, sweetheart?”

You swallow and look once more, but then cup his face, feeling perfect smooth skin under your touch. “No.”

“You are the most delicious soul I’ve ever come across,” he breathes in admiration, then he loses himself.

His cock is slamming into you so hard you feel like you're breaking, the slickness of your cunt only helping so much with his huge, thick cock pounding so deep. You’re trembling, thighs gripping his hips, as he folds them even further. He pins your hips down with bruising force, pace frantic, he’s indeed not taking it easy on you, yet you’re shattering underneath him.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, his eyes are locked on yours, lips parted and a flush across his face as he watches you unravel beneath him. “You’re close.”

“I think?” He’s grinning at how cute you are. “So much pressure…”

“Taking me so well, like you were made for this.”

“Mnh!” His hand tightens around your throat, cutting off your air just enough to make your vision blur at the edges, your head feels fuzzy, every stroke even harder, slamming your cervix and bruising it.

“Ah, can’t talk like this hmm?” He releases your throat, leaning low, letting you claw again at his arms, leaving bloody scratches that heal right under your nails. He leans down, his lips brushing against your ear. "Beg for it," he whispers, his breath hot against your skin. "Beg for my seed to fill you."

You're sobbing now, so overwhelmed from pleasure, pain, fear and… fuck you love being pounded into, tears streaming down your face as pleasure and pain mix into something that has you a trembling mess, unable to form a thought. “Can’t think.”

“Hah, that’s good,” he slows down for a moment, rolling his hips and pressing his hands on your thighs, making you hurt with how deep he slams, up on his knees and prone so he can pump deeper. “Only think about the pleasure.”

You swallow nervously, cunt pulsing, thighs shoved against your breasts. "P-please, I need it.”

“Need what, to cum?”

“For you to fill me up."

“Oh fuck,” it’s his turn to lose himself – him, Satoru Gojo, the demon butler – lost in the young lady letting him take her utterly and completely. “You’re being such a good little kitten," he purrs those fucking words, his free hand that was choking you sliding down to rub rough circles on your clit.

“Ah!” You jolt from the sensation, he uses one arm to press your thighs down, cock pumping slow, brutal thrusts.

“That’s it, fall apart just for me."

Your orgasm slams you with such pleasure it hurts, this all consuming shattering of not just your body, but your soul, the one he’s so hungry for, like he’s stealing some of it while your cunt clamps down. It’s spasming around his length – thickening – milking him for every bit of that seed as you scream his name, eyes rolling back, gasping for any breath.

“Hmm, you’re this slutty the first time? Perfect… All mine, all mine,” he whispers, his thrusts turning erratic and so quick you can’t function or think, before he buries himself and bottoms out in your small little cunt. “F-fuck, feel this, huh? Feel every bit I have to give you, to fill you with.”

You’re sobbing fully, tears spilling, tears that make him cum harder, spurting  hot, thick pulses of his sticky seed deep inside you, filling you until it spills over. He eases out, looking at the mess, pulling out with a filthy pop and exhaling, rubbing his tip up and down where cum pours in creamy rivulets, mixed with streaks of your blood and gossamer strands of your release.

“You bled so much,” he sounds thrilled by this, chuckling as he lays on top of you for a moment, letting your thighs gently fall to the sides, you’re trembling and slick with sweat. “Let me clean you, young miss.”

You couldn’t be more shocked by the man who slips down your body, keeping your thighs pressed high and pulling your now puffy, swollen lips apart, watching the mess spill. “Satoru… you… ah!”

He lowers his face between them, silky hair tickling your inner thighs, and his tongue is hot and thirsty as he laps at the mess he's made of you. Not just your cunt no, your blood, his seed that’s pouring in this mix of white and red that stirs pink. “Fuck, your flavor and mine? Exquisite, sweetheart.”

“S-senstive!” You’re tugging at him, but he’s lost. Satoru Gojo the butler is devouring the filthy mess of fluids like a starving man.

Or a demon.

He’s groaning at the taste, his eyes glowing brighter blue with each swipe, a color to his face that wasn’t there, like you’ve fed him. His lips are dripping blood and slick, while he tenderly looks at your swollen cunt, pressing a kiss and relishing in how you jerk in pain. "Mine, all mine."

He keeps at it, lapping you up, swallowing as much of your cum and his as he can, every speck of your innocence gone, and you can’t even move anymore. Everything starts to spin, your limbs get so heavy like they’re weighed down, eyelids threatening to close.

You barely register him leaving and coming back, already drifting in and out of a weak sleep, while he cleans you, slipping your stockings down ever so gently. You feel the warmth of a damp washcloth gliding over your skin, cleaning away the evidence of your surrender, of what he’s taken so hungrily.

From what you can comprehend while you’re wondering if this all was a dream, he’s being tender and easy, he eases a thin silky slip on you, planting a kiss on lips gone slack, torn between yawns and fading out of consciousness. “Satoru… are you really a demon?”

Your sleepy question has him smiling just a bit, as he tucks the blankets around you. "Just sleep, kitten," he whispers, brushing a kiss to your forehead now, his voice is addictive, soothing like the warmest tea. “Don’t ask such questions.”

“Are you… staying?” Your sweet little question makes even the most demonic heart feel with an annoying tenderness.

“I’ll stay, sweet girl, why wouldn’t I want to watch over what’s mine?” He says softly, brushing your hair back. “And what will stay mine for eternity.

Darkness pulls you under before you can hear him, before you can try to have any self preservation, and Satoru Gojo – the resident demon butler – can’t wait to fulfill your contract together.

“Pretty, foolish kitten.”

You’ll fit in so well at the manor.

Hehehe next up is incubus sylus! rbs and comments appreciated if you enjoy the beginning of kinktober!

Patreon (kinktober fics coming there too!) <3 Kofi/Commissions

So imagine your fear as you walk into the classroom, tote bag gripped so tight your knuckles are sheet white, the room suffocated by the smell of old books and varnished wood, and you're met with possibly the most handsome and ghostly man you've ever met.

You originally expected some ornery old man who was probably about to croak from one good cough.

But instead, you saw nothing but a slender figure, pale skin, black spiky hair, glasses tipped to the bridge of a Greek nose, and a man who was certainly dressed in theme for the class he taught.

You sat three rows back from the front, just enough to not look like a slacker but not enough to be in this man's constant direct line of sight.

"Good morning, everyone. I believe we might as well get started now. If you looked at your class planner, you would know that I am Professor Michaelis, and this is English Literature in the Victorian Language. If that does not sound like your class, you're welcome to quietly leave now."

Silence followed.

"Perfect. Now, I want everyone to get out a sheet of paper and a pen."

Your heart dropped to your ass. Fuck. Shit. Fuck! You only had a computer. Why the hell was this guy asking for paper and pen when he had a perfectly good online classroom portal right there? That's what all the other professors used!

You swallowed hard, ready to turn around and ask your neighbor for a pen and paper when you were met directly with the bottom half of your Professor.

You peered up wide-eyed. You hadn't even heard him walk across the ancient hardwood floor of the classroom, and yet here he was, just inches away from your desk.

"Is there a problem?" The professor called you by your last name, ember eyes sharp against your own. There was a hint of venom in his tone, laced through with disappointment.

Jesus Christ. All of the reviews from this classroom flashed before your eyes, and this guy obviously was not about to retire in less than a year. You couldn't wait him out, and you needed this course to graduate.

"I just uhm- Well... Sir, I don't have a pen and paper." You finally choked out, eyes stinging from shame.

The entire class's eyes weighed heavily on you, and yet all Professor Michaelis did was slide a piece of paper and place a pen down on your desk.

"Even with the evolution of technology, please come traditionally prepared with pen, paper, and occasionally highlighters for this class. Including your eventual assigned readings." He announced to the rest of the class, returning to his desk at the front of the room. "Now, I want everyone to give me a paragraph of what they know about the Victorian Era."

From then on, you ensured you came prepper with a binder of paper, pen, highlighter, your tote bag probably took on an extra ten pounds with how much material you lugged around campus so you would never get stuck in a situation like that ever again.

The Professor himself wasn't too bad. His personality was cut and dry, sure, and yes, his questions were hard for a 200-level course. He took an entire class period to dissect one paragraph of a reading, and he always had to assign an extra assignment here and there, but at least he was nice to look at.

So when your first assignment was graded, hand graded of course, you didn't even want to open your eyes when the paper was turned face down on your desk.

After three deep breaths, you flipped it over.

A perfect 100.

Immediately flipping it back over out of pure shock, you whipped your head around to see everyone else looking at their paper like their dog just died.

Surely you weren't that good.

You dared to glance at Professor Michaelis after class was dismissed, giving him a small but nervous smile when you met eyes.

He only nodded before looking back down at his other papers, leaving you to listen in to your classmates conversations as you left.

"A fucking 40! I filled up a whole page and he gave me a 40!"

"He docked 10 points from mine because I used the first-person point of view."

No, you certainly weren't that good.

And yet, from that day forward, every single assignment delivered back to you was a perfect 100.

You were beginning to become overconfident. It was to the point that you were trying to figure out your professor more so than the material he was teaching. He was incredibly mysterious outside of the classroom. Most professors would doddle on at the beginning of class about their weekend with their kids or how they went with their partners to some new restaurant, but Professor Michaelis made no mention of wife, husband, or kids. It was all strictly course material.

Staring at him became a regular activity. You tried to play it off as paying attention, but in reality, you were piecing him together. Asking questions to yourself that you had not even a hint of. So instead, you began to picture things you could imagine. Things you shouldn't be thinking about your professor, but damn, if he wasn't the hottest one on campus, it wouldn't be so hard. He had to at least be somewhat good in bed to be so well-versed in literature. A romantic for sure. God, maybe you should write a fanfiction.

Before you could blink, midterms were staring you in the face, and Professor Michaelis was separating paper packets to hand out to the class.

It felt simple to you at this point. In fact, you could argue that Professor Michaelis was your favorite class of the semester. Besides for his looks, of course.

You received the packet without even a blink, getting to work with your pen across the multiple choice section, short answer, and the essay at the very end.

You turned it in to him with a smile, and he gave his usual nod in return and dismissed you.

You practically skipped into class once the weekend was over, sitting down at your desk, and you decided to assign yourself a seat in the second row while eagerly awaiting to continue your streak of perfect grades in the class.

The professor routinely rose with his arm full of papers, passing each and every single one until it finally landed on you.

Paper faced down, per usual, but you were so confident in this grade you turned it over without even a beat.

0.

A big fat fucking 0.

No marks, no corrections, the entire midterm was left blank aside from the scarlet red zero at the very top right corner of the first page.

You felt sick to your stomach, jerking your head up only to meet the back of Professor Michaelis' hair. "I'm sure you're all aware of my office hours by now... But since you've all received your grades, we can continue on with our next unit of material." He spoke so casually, like he hadn't just entirely flipped your grade from a straight A to a borderline D.

You bet your ass you were showing up to those office hours.

His office hours occurred just an hour after his regular class, giving you just enough time to chug a redbull to build up some courage before returning to the oldest fucking building on campus to ask about your bogus fucking grade that you swore you have at least one fucking answer right on.

Surprisingly, no other students were crowding around Michaelis' office during his hours. Most of them must have already come to terms with the rigor of the course. Not you, though, you had been getting straight 100s. And you were about to find out why.

You knocked on the professor's door, met with a muffled "come in".

The paper between your fingers trembled the closer you got to your confrontation. Was this the part where you finally found out how truly scary he was? Would he finally live up to all of the class reviews?

You swallowed and met eyes with the raven-haired man once you closed the door, setting your midterm down on his prim and proper desk. The rest of the office was dimly lit by sodium lamps and surrounded by bookshelves packed to the brim with books older than the college itself.

"This is a first. How can I help you?" Professor Michaelis called you by your first name, bringing heat to your cheeks in a moment of hesitation. Ever since you joined the class, you have been referred to by your last name. The new, softer, first name had you taken aback.

You shook yourself out of it, pointing at your midterm. "It's about uh- my grade. My zero, to be more specific."

He peered over his glasses, down at your exam. "What about it?"

"Well, it has to be wrong."

"Has to be?"

"Yes. I know I had to have gotten at least one question right."

"You're certainly sure of yourself. Have you reviewed my marks and comments?" A smirk was evident on his lips. Oh my God, was he toying with you right now?

You took a breath, manually flipping through the pages for him. "There's just a zero."

"Ah, so you are still observant."

You blinked, dumbfounded by his comment. What did he mean by that? You still paid attention in class, but it was hard not to become complacent when you were almost guaranteed a one hundred every time.

"I gave you the zero, yes, because somewhere along the way you stopped listening to me. At first I thought it might be home troubles, or even boy problems, but no.. After research and inspection I realized you were simply complacent."

"Inspection?" You frowned, throwing your hands up. "Did you stalk me or something?"

"Stalking is far too harsh. I merely asked your other professors how you were doing in their courses, and you were doing well, so I knew it was a problem specific to my course. You were bright at first, extremely, but it seems I stumbled in aiding you in your vie for knowledge by making you over confident." He explained like he was explaining what he had for breakfast this morning, not that he specifically honed in on you the past few weeks.

"So why continue giving me one hundreds?"

"To get you here."

"Uh, in your office?"

"No, for a conversation, but in my office is convenient."

"So let me get this straight. You have played a longcon with one of your students, gave them a grade that teeters them onto failing, and scoped into their personal life just for a conversation? Forgive me if I sound disrespectful, Professor Michaelis, but it sounds downright unprofessional."

"Equally as unprofessional as the way you look at me in class."

Your jaw dropped, eyebrows furrowed as your brain crumbled at his words.

His long arm reached over the desk, his finger tipped out just enough to meet your chin. "Careful. You'll catch flies."

"I look at you in class because I'm paying attention."

Sebastian tutted your first name again, strung along by a breathless chuckle. "I said the way you looked at me. I'm not young nor naive enough to miss the lust in someone's eyes. You forget what class we're in." He stood up from his office chair, circling the desk to the forefront to stand in front of you with the midterm in hand. "Don't fret. I'm flattered."

Your breath hitched. "Flattered?" You stood up from your chair within his office, closer to him now. "Could you get any more unprofessional?"

"Quite." He answered, grabbing your wrist and pulling you flush with him, cocking his head with a cat's grin. "I would argue your own thoughts would go beyond the realm of what a student should be thinking about her professor as well... Because any student within reason would already be knocking on the dean's door by now about our little meeting. Yet you've stayed, and you've challenged me, and you're letting me speak to you this way."

His hand trailed up to your chin once more, sliding up and under your jawline. "I wonder what else you'd let me do."

You could hardly get a grip on what was unfolding right in front of you. Yes, you thought Professor Michaelis was hotter than anything. Yes, you admittedly had let your thoughts linger about him beyond things like your grades and the material of his course, and yes, you were definitely attracted to him. It all felt surreal, and sudden, and yet you didn't want him to stop.

"Why don't you find out."

That set fire to the gasoline surrounding the two of you. In a blink, Professor Michaelis had you spun around and pressed into the edge of his desk with his lips crashing into yours. It was a stun to have such a stoic and almost cold professor lose control, but it's also what made it all the more attractive.

He tasted faintly of coffee and a peppermint he possibly popped before you came to his office. He was expecting you.

You grabbed onto the front of his shirt with one hand, the other resting on his shoulder. His hand that was originally on your jaw made work of the back of your hair while the other busied itself along your waist.

When he pulled back, it was only enough to breathe, grip tightening on both your waist and hair. "Was I wrong to be so presumptuous?"

"Presumptuous enough to eat a peppermint beforehand."

He chuckled. "Luck favors the prepared."

"What if I hadn't shown up?"

"I knew you would." He replied, briefly kissing your lips once more, forming a trail down to your jawline. "You are smart and ambitious, which is why you initially earned the grades that you did, but when you started becoming comfortable, you also became complacent." He explained against your jugular, before biting just enough to earn a gasp from you. "I won't have such a bright girl be dimmed by my lack of vigorous material, so I gave you a new challenge to solve."

"An unethical challenge." You countered.

"And yet here you are, putty in my hands." He smirked, another bite before rising up. "Are you insinuating we should stop?"

"No!" You exclaimed, but paused to compose yourself. "Two things can be right at the same time."

"And those two things?" Sebastian whispered your last name at the end.

"That this is unethical." You replied, bringing him back within a breath of your lips. "And I want it."

Sebastian smirked, "I tend to be right." He took the hand on your waist to bend you over his desk, feeling up your thigh, scarily close to the hemline of your skirt. "You're trembling."

"I'm fine."

"That's not denial."

Your face turned hot, sighing. "Well, sorry that I feel flustered getting bent over my Professor's desk."

"There's that wit I missed." Sebastian purred, his breath suddenly felt against the heat of your panties.

"Professor Michaelis!" You yelped, gripping the desk. He steadied you by splaying a hand on the small of your back, multitasking you into an arch.

"You're allowed to use Sebastian in this setting, but Professor Michaelis also sounds just as divine." He replied like he wasn't inches away from your clothed cunt, mouthing at the fabric as a groan echoed from beneath you.

It was torture within itself, sighing out a quiet moan.

"Now let me rid you of it in a way I want." He muttered, pulling the flimsy fabric to the side before devouring all of your cunt in one swipe of the tongue.

Thank God for Sebastian's hand still holding you in place and the security of the desk, because if you had neither, your knees would have buckled you to the floor.

He didn't stop, licking you up and down from the tip of your clit all the way to where your slit ended, digging his tongue inside of you before moving up to take pleasure in sucking on your clit. It had been months since you had anything even close to this, and the vibrator was beginning to overstay its welcome in your dorm bed.

This was euphoria, and from none other than the most terrifying professor on campus.

Which is what brought you all the more closer to your climax at lightning speed.

"Oh my God, holy shit, I think- haa- I think I'm gonna cum." You whimpered, gently grinding back onto Sebastian's tongue.

That just wouldn't do for the professor. He instead stood from his crouched position, rubbing his hand over the globe of your ass before pulling at the waistband of your panties until they dropped down to your ankles. "Then I suppose it's about time we go over your exam."

You blinked, glaring back at him. "Right now?!"

"Well of course." He mused, grabbing your head and manually turning it down to the midterm in front of you. "Go ahead and read number one for me."

You wanted to argue, to throw a fuss that you had gotten this far and he was starving you of your well deserved climax for enduring all of the ridiculous tension and stress of your 0 for this long. But you couldn't bring yourself to, sucking on your bottom lip.

"Question One. Which of the following best describes the Victorian approach to class representation?"

A warmth was reintroduced to your heat, gently gliding up your cunt. The tip of Sebastian's cock prodded at you. "And you answered?"

Your eyes stung with tears, not scared but overwhelmed with anticipation and disbelief. The thought of someone catching you hadn't even flew by your mind in the fog of how entranced you were by your professor.

"I answered D."

The entirety of his cock speared inside of you, giving you hardly any time to adjust or comfortably stretch around his impossible length. His hand came around to encapsulate your mouth and muffle your agonized moan, eyes screwed shut.

"C is the much more sensible answer. It explores tensions and mobility within the class system, and only few pieces focuses intentionally on aristocratic life like you chose in answer B." He said it like he was completely unbothered by the fact he was entirely sheathed inside of you. He removed his hand once you were comfortable. "Continue onto question two."

You swallowed hard, nervous about what his next move might be. "How did the influence of science, such as Darwinism, appear in Victorian literature?"

Sebastian began to move in gentle thrusts, contrasting with his initial harsh entrance. His hands pulled your shirt out from your skirt, reaching up to fondle your boobs. "Much better. You answered that they began to pivot towards a style that created tension between faith and empirical understanding."

Regardless of his gentle thrusts, each movement he made was a stretch to your poor tight cunt. Your toes curled in your shoes and your head hung just below the view of your midterm. "I-I don't think we need to go over every single question."

A stinging sensation overcame your right ass cheek, spurring a sharp yelp. His gaze behind you simmered, rougher with his thrusts. "There's the aforementioned complacency. You want the grade, do you not?"

You whimpered, glancing at him over your shoulder. He looked at you as if you were one of the poor students who had answered an obvious question dead wrong.

"Yes sir."

"Good girl. Continue on. Question three."

And you dragged yourself throughout the entire midterm with Sebastian incrementally picking up and slowing down his speed, usually based on what he considered right or wrong. Some answers even earned you another stinging slap to the ass. Regardless, none of it was enough to bring you back to the edge.

After an extenuating discussion about your long-form final answer, your professor simply smiled. Not a catty one, nor a mischievous one, but a genuine smile. His back pressed flush to yourself, grabbing your hand in his to guide it over to a pen on the desk. "You've exerted yourself well," Sebastian said your name, hips grinding into your ass to pepper kisses to your cervix by the tip of his cock. "Let's see what I can do about a curve to your grade."

Guiding the pen in your hand, he place a neat 10 beside the initial 0 on your midterm.

A perfect 100, despite him arguing some of your answers as wrong.

"But-" He shushed you, and if you thought you were being fucked in the first place, you were sorely wrong. "Extra credit is also applied, of course."

The snarky bastard.

You had no time to engage in your usual battle of quips, as soon enough Sebastian had you shoving papers and pens off of his prim and proper desk with how hard he was shaking it by his hips meeting yours.

You could hardly hold yourself together, skirt hanging lopsided off your hips with your panties still clinging onto you by one ankle. Your shirt had come untucked by him slithering his hands up to cup your breasts. You were sure your hair was a nest as well.

But none of it seemed to matter, only your and Sebastian's pleasure was the focus now.

"I expect this effort to be steadfast after this, do you understand?" Sebastian asked between his thrusts, cock twitching angrily inside of you.

"Yes sir!" You mewled, feeling your climax finally begin to rekindle inside of you.

"Good girl."

That was it. Everything you had been teased with for the past hour came unraveled right there on your professor's desk. It must have been far past the time for any professor to be lingering in the halls, as he let your moans fly freely. The last thing on your mind was the possible consequences of getting caught.

During your fit of clenching and contracting around Sebastian's cock, you felt the familiar warmth of white ribbons spilling inside of you. It was unmistakable, your professor had just cum inside of you.

And through every single move, Professor Michaelis was calculated. He hardly shown any sign of losing control, or even of intense pleasure. All of it was a game to him, the pleasure was simply a plus. Watching you fall to pieces was the real prize.

And a grade hard earned.

Sebastian lifted you up from the desk to put you back together. Your panties were immediately soaked by the cocktail of your and his cum, but part of you knew that's what he wanted. He fixed your skirt, tucked your shirt back into it, and finally brought you into his arms, walking around his desk and taking a seat at his regular office chair with you sat comfortably on his lap.

"Were you left satisfied from these office hours?" Sebastian asked, his hands twirling the ends of your hair.

"Hm, I don't know, I might have to come back at another time to make sure." You managed to reply, still breathless and beyond exhausted.

He hummed, then chirped a sound of realization. "Yes that does remind me. I concocted extra material to keep you on course for academic greatness within my class."

You cocked a brow, resting your cheek in the dip of his shoulder. "And what might this extra material be?"

He chuckled. "Well, it's rather vigorous." He whispered into your early, adding on. "Join me after my office hours here, every Wednesday."

Pope cannot fucking believe the line out the door for the shop across the street. 

For your cutesy little piercing parlor and sticker tattoo shop's flash event. 

You're taking customers left and right, churning out piercings with perfect precision while your coworkers, the loveliest and most talented tattoo artists, pop small, fun designs on people's skin. 

Everyone leaves your shop with a smile on their face and soon enough, your books are full for months, a feat that is usually difficult for a new shop like yours. 

The power of social media and dedication to the craft!

The Codys are not happy about you stealing all of their business, even though none of them do the kind of style that your shop does. Smurf is especially irritated because she's not making as much money as she used to.

So, she decides she'll have her boys rob you.

Your place deals in cash only, after all. 

But the plan doesn't go well…and they're caught in the act by your hidden security crew, which they never accounted for since the security team enters from the adjacent building and is set up underneath your shop. 

They're lucky you didn't call the police. You told them that you would if they ever tried again but you decide to be cordial, since you're technically business neighbors. 

That pissed Pope off even more.

Because why are you so nice? 

Why can't you just be irritating and nasty so he has an excuse to hate you? 

Why do you look at him with such soft eyes and wave at him when you see him on the street? 

He can't fucking stand you…

Especially when you come into Deran's bar with flyers for one of your flash events. It's bird-themed, since your tattoo artists have been hyper-fixated on birds as of late.

You always allow your artists creative freedom, so you're happy to let them host whatever kinds of events they want to do at your shop. 

“Hey there, neighbor.” You go up to Deran at the bar, noticing that Pope is there drinking at the counter. 

He has a beer bottle to his lips as you approach and you catch yourself watching him swallow, his tattooed neck moving when he does. 

You snap your attention back to Deran, who is wiping a glass down, staring at you with furrowed brows. “What's up?” 

“Would you be okay if I put up some of these flyers in here? A lot of my clients are regulars of yours and I'd love for them to catch this event I'm hosting.” You show him the flyers. “Oh! I made sure to do it on a Wednesday, since your brother's shop is closed on that day, so I won't be stealing anyone away, I promise.”

You give Pope a gentle smile and he chugs the rest of his beer, glaring back at you in response. He hates how considerate you are. It annoys the fuck out of him how sweet you act. 

It has to be an act. There's no way you're this nice.

He opens his mouth to tell you no but then Deran goes, “sure. The bulletin board is over there.” 

That earns him a glare from Pope as you skip away to put up your flyer. “What the fuck, Deran?” 

“What? She didn't rat us out. The least we could do is let her advertise.” Deran wasn't there since he was working at the bar that night but he is grateful to you that his brothers aren't in jail for attempted robbery. 

Pope wants to grumble something but you come back before he can, saying to him and Deran, “by the way, if either of you ever want to get pierced, it's on the house! Same goes for any of your family.”

“Why?” Pope's jaw tenses when your eyes meet his, looking up at him in a way that makes him crave you on your knees in front of him. 

“Why not?” You beam another smile at him. “I love piercing people. I'd do it for free if I didn't have to pay rent. I figure it's a good way for us to build rapport.”

You give Pope a playful little nudge, which causes his entire body to tense. Because why are you so casual with him? He tried to rob you, in case you forgot. 

But you don't seem to care at all that he did. 

You just happily wave goodbye to him and his brother, “think about it and let me know!” 

He will not be thinking about it. Definitely not—

“Want to come with me when I get mine?” Deran asks Pope.

“Are you seriously going to let her fucking pierce you?” Pope scoffs. He can't believe his brother right now. “Baz can do it for you if you want one.” 

“I'm not letting Baz pierce me. He barely has the license.” Deran shakes his head at the very thought.

Smurf used to be the one who pierced at the shop but she retired from it a few months ago, which is why your shop has been getting so much attention. 

Your shop is one of the few piercing parlors in Oceanside and it's very highly rated. 

Baz learned how to pierce from Smurf but he only does it upon request. They don't advertise his piercings, since he is mostly a tattoo artist like Pope and Craig. 

“Come on, it'll be fun. We can all get pierced.” Deran suggests, since it's been a while since his brothers had any fun together. 

Pope openly rejects the idea but when Deran recruits Craig and Baz, he is stuck coming along too. You keep your shop open late for them, since Deran can only do it when the bar is closed. It's well into the night when they all arrive at your place  but you get everyone's piercing done rather quickly. 

Baz gets his ears pierced. Craig gets a lip ring. Deran gets a nose ring. 

Pope…is still undecided. 

“Pick something or let's go home, Pope.” Baz wants to get back to Lena and Catherine, since it's three in the morning. 

“Aw, don't rush him!” You wave Baz off. “I can drive him home if you all carpooled. Let Pope take his time deciding.” 

Pope should not agree to that. He should just go home. He definitely should not—

“I have to get back to the bar and clean up so can you decide?” Deran feels bad for pushing Pope but he does need to get some work done. 

“He lives right by the beach. She can take him home easy. It's like a straight shoot from here.” Craig wants Pope to get a piercing too but he's getting sleepy and doesn't want to wait for him. 

“I got him.” You shoo them all away. “I'll take your brother home, no problem. Give him some space to decide.” 

Pope doesn't even get to make the choice himself. His brothers just leave him there, trusting you. 

Why do they trust you so easily? It angers him that you're so lax. 

You should be more defensive. You're here late at night with him. Alone because you told your security to go home since you know Pope has a gun. 

If anything happened, you assume he would help. 

Would he help, though? 

Would he stop someone from hurting you? 

He would. Because he's the only one who is allowed to hurt you. 

That much he has decided. 

He still has to decide on this stupid piercing. 

Maybe he just won't get one. 

You're so patient with him, sitting there, humming to yourself, scrolling on your phone while you wait for him to decide. 

Pope can't help the way his eyes trail your body, noticing that you don't have any tattoos. Only piercings, which makes sense given your profession. 

But why not tattoos? 

Maybe you have one hidden somewhere on your soft skin. 

Maybe between your thighs or above your round ass. 

The words leave his lips before he can stop them, “why don't you have any tattoos?” 

You look up from your phone, shutting it off so you can give him your undivided attention. He hates how considerate you are. You always do this, always focus so deeply on whoever you're talking to. 

He wishes you only did that for him. 

“I just haven't thought of what to get yet.” You answer truthfully. “Though, this bird event seems pretty fun. I was thinking of maybe getting a dove. They're so pretty.” 

“A dove?” Pope finds himself imagining where it would go on your skin. 

It is rather perfect for you. You exude a sense of peace and calm. He doesn't like how relaxed you make him feel. You must make everyone feel this way. He hates that he isn't special in any way to you. 

“I think they're romantic.” You say to him, giving him one of those brilliant smiles of yours. “They mate for life.” 

Is that what you desire? A mate for life? 

Pope could be that for you. Though, he doesn't know why that thought crosses his mind. He despises you. You and your lovely smile that makes his heart race in his chest. 

“I could design something for you.” Pope says without thinking it through so he adds, “in exchange for you piercing my brothers and I.” 

“Aw, that's sweet of you, Pope.” You place your hand on his shoulder, squeezing it too casually for his liking. He doesn't shrug off your touch though. He lets your hand linger there as you tell him, “you don't need to. I'm happy to pierce you all for free. No trade needed.” 

“I don't like to owe people.” He states upfront. 

And he hates that you're so willing to ease him, “ah, then in that case, I'd love a Pope original! What a wonderful trade. You have a great style.” 

Your hand drifts down to the tattoo sleeve he has on his arm, all of his designs. He did them himself. No one has ever touched his skin like this before, without any fear laced in their touch. 

“Oh, I'm so sorry!” You pull your hand away from him when you notice his eyes on it. “I shouldn't have touched them without asking.”

“You can touch them.” He lifts his arm so you can keep your hand on his skin. Even though he shouldn't want you to. 

You trace your hand along the stylized text intermixed with the designs on his sleeve. “Who's Julia?” 

“My twin sister. I added her name when she died.” Pope is so direct with his words. 

There's no sadness in his tone. 

So he doesn't know why there's sadness in yours, “I'm sorry to hear that.”

“Why?” He doesn't understand you. 

Why would you be sad about some stranger's dead sister? 

“Because you're not that old, Pope. She died pretty young then.” You frown at that. “No one deserves to die when they still have their whole life ahead of them.”

Pope finds you so odd. You call him young when he has tattoos older than you. You don't understand how bright eyed you look, so innocent and unweathered by the harshness of the world. 

“She overdosed.” He tells you, in some poor attempt to dissuade you from caring so deeply. 

Because if you keep caring so much, how is he supposed to hate you? 

“I've lost friends from that. Addiction is a difficult monster to overcome.” You run your fingertips along her name on his arm again before moving your hand away. He wishes you hadn't. He's growing to like your subtle touches. 

“Do you have anything to drink?” The heavy conversation is making him parched. 

“You can't have alcohol before a piercing but I do have a stocked fridge.” You invite him to follow you to the kitchen. 

Pope can't stop himself from staring at you, his eyes drifting up and down the length of your body, picturing all the tattoos he could ink on your skin. He decides then that he's never going to let anyone else etch anything into your body except for him. 

You're his to design. 

You feel a bit strange, goosebumps prickling your arms. You have no idea why. Maybe the air conditioning is on too high right now. 

Or maybe it's because you're all alone with Pope…

You hadn't really thought about it like that. Like this is a dangerous situation, to be alone with a man whose family tried robbing your shop.

But you reason to yourself that he wouldn't want to risk going back to prison. 

So he won't do anything to you, right? 

Not that you should be thinking about his tattooed arm pinning you down, holding you steady as he—

“What are you going to drink?” Pope asks you, his head right next to yours, peering into the open fridge since you're blocking it with your body. 

“Oh!” You snap out of your head, stepping away, trying not to feel shy about your spinning thoughts and how close he was to you. “Probably just a water.” 

Pope grabs two water bottles from the fridge. He opens one for you and then hands it to you. You take a few sips before closing it up. He watches a bit of water drip off the side of your mouth. 

You feel his hand cup your jaw, startling you. He wipes the water from your lip. You blink up at him, your heart beating so fast in your chest all of a sudden. 

Why is he so close—

“Do you have a tongue piercing?” He asks.

You let out a light sigh of relief. That must be why he's staring so intensely at your lips. He must've spotted your piercing. 

“Yeah I do.” You open your mouth, sticking your tongue out to show him the piercings on either side of the tip of your tongue. They're so dainty that most don't notice them right away, since they're a translucent crystal. “Some people would call them snake eyes but the traditional snake eyes piercing is very unsafe.” 

“What makes them unsafe?” Pope doesn't see how it could be.

So you show him how yours is different. “I have two individual piercings. A traditional snake eyes piercing is a single piercing where a curved barbell goes across the tip of the tongue, which never heals well and can ruin your teeth. I always reject people who ask for that piercing. Mine are more of a modified venom piercing.” 

“It's like you're speaking another language.” His words make you giggle, a sound he hasn't heard before that has his heart skipping a beat. 

“Sorry, I can get a little too into it. I love piercings.” You tell him, always giddy when you get to talk about them. 

“Can I do those?” Pope likes the idea of them. Likes the idea of his tongue inside of you, teasing you with them. 

“Oh, sure! Let me just check your tongue. I have to make sure your anatomy is compatible with it or I'll have to refuse. I would never want you to risk your health for a cosmetic look.” Your words are rehearsed, like you've said them millions of times. But he likes the care you put into your tone. 

You guide Pope back to your piercing chair and have him open his mouth for you. You put on a pair of gloves then gently touch his tongue, checking to see if it would work for him. 

“Do you like how mine look? I can get you something similar or even the same ones if you want to match!” You say that with lots of enthusiasm.

As if you want to match with him. 

He wouldn't mind that. “We can match.”

“Aw, how fun!” You're super excited now. “You know, you'd look good with an eyebrow piercing too. We can match there as well.”

You point to the one on your eyebrow. He notices then that the set on your tongue pairs with it. 

“If you want.” He never thought of getting pierced at all before. But if you think he'd look good, he'd do it. He'd do anything for you if you keep looking at him with so much happiness in your features. 

“You're silly.” You give him a playful nudge. “It's your body, Pope. What do you want?” 

He wants you. That's what he wants. 

He wants you so badly that every touch you give him makes his cock twitch in his pants. 

“You can do it. Let's match.” He sits there patiently as your fingers map out where on his eyebrow the piercing would look best. 

“Next you'll have to let me do your ears.” You say with so much glee. “But we should save that for another night. I'll be here forever, getting carried away!”

Pope wouldn't mind spending the whole night with you but he won't say that out loud…

By the time you're done piercing him, it's nearly four in the morning. You're yawning like crazy as you disinfect your supplies.

“Let me help.” Pope takes some of the things off your hands, cleaning them for you. 

“You're sweet.” You tell him because he is. “You don't have to.”

“I'm not a client. You did this for me for free. It's the least I could do.” He doesn't mind cleaning. He likes doing it. 

“Then whenever I get my tattoo, I'll help you clean up too, so we're even.” 

“I'll draw something up for you soon.” He has a lot of ideas. It's been a long time since he was excited to design a tattoo. 

His pretty dove. 

“I can't wait to see!” You flash him a big grin.

You drive Pope home that night and before he leaves, you explain to him that he shouldn't do anything that might get his tongue piercings infected like swap saliva. 

“Just for maybe two months. Once it's all healed up, kiss as many people as you want.” You always say that to your clients, since it's a fun little tagline.

But Pope thinks you want to kiss him.

So, he takes care of his piercings methodically with sterile saline, not wanting to risk anything that would disappoint you. He stops drinking alcohol or eating anything that might aggravate the piercing. He comes by your shop after a few weeks to get the jewelry resized to fit on his tongue better. 

You compliment him on his aftercare. “You've done such a good job, Pope!”

Your praise repeats in his head whenever he's alone, whenever his hand is wrapped around his cock, whenever his mind trails to how nice it would be to hear you praise him while he's fucking you. 

He hates how hard he cums when he thinks of you. 

Because he knows you don't think about him like he thinks about you. 

At least, that's what he thought. 

But then he starts to notice something, when the two of you start hanging out more often once his tongue piercing has healed. 

It starts because Pope invites you out to drink when you tell him that he's good to do so and you accept. He wasn't expecting you to say yes. Nor was he expecting you to enjoy his company so much. 

There's a lot of things he is surprised you say yes to.

Like when you're talking to him about how you occasionally pierce people's cocks and he asks you if you'll do his. 

Because he wants an excuse for you to touch his cock.  

And you say yes, because you don't mind getting more experience. 

It's a rare piercing to do so you always jump at the opportunity as long as you feel safe with the person. You tend to only agree if the person is a regular who you've pierced many times before. 

Or Pope, who you've grown rather fond of the last few weeks. 

You have him over late at your shop, dismissing your security again since you feel safe with him there. 

Then, you prep him for the piercing. He wants a frenum piercing, a straight barbell placed just below the tip of his cock on the underside of his shift. 

You've seen many cocks before, since you've done this piercing a handful of times, but you try not to react to how big he is despite not being hard at all. 

You could fit a lot of piercings along his shaft. You've always wanted to do a Jacob's ladder, especially on a cock that would suit it. 

Not that you should be thinking of piercing his cock more, or how those all might feel rubbing up inside of you…

Pope catches the way you're staring at him for longer than you should in a professional setting. He had an inkling you might be attracted to him but this confirms it now. 

“What are you thinking about?” His words get you all flustered. 

So you don't catch yourself before you say, “you would look really good with more than one piercing.” 

“Then do as many as you want.” He tells you and loves the way your eyes snap up to him in surprise. 

“A-Are you sure?” You swallow nervously. “It might take a while to heal, you know…” 

“I don't mind. You'll make sure it heals well, right?” Pope would love having you stare at his cock often with that bashful expression on your face. 

“I…I mean of course I will. But I think the most we should do in one sitting is three.” You don't want to overdo it because you don't know how the swelling will go. You don't want Pope to be in pain for too long because you got overeager at the prospect of piercing his cock…

“Then three is good for me.” He gestures to himself. “Go ahead, little dove. Have fun.” 

You've noticed since you told him that you like doves, he calls you that. It makes your heart skip a beat every time you hear it.

Though your heart might be stopping in your chest because Pope looks really good once you've gotten the piercings placed on his cock. You want so badly to run your tongue along the length of his shaft, feeling the piercings on your tastebuds. But you can't, for obvious reasons.

He has to heal first… 

But ever since then, you can't stay away from Pope. 

You start asking him to hang out more often, all on your own, because you want to be around him all the time. 

For the last few months, you've invited him over to your place, which is a nice studio apartment by the beach, only a few blocks from his house. Pope spends time with you there, scribbling out ideas for tattoos while you rant to him about work.

He never knew you had that side to you. You usually are always so upbeat and full of sunshine. But you're showing him that even you can get worn down. 

“I had a girl come in. She was an influencer from LA. She wanted an industrial piercing.” You show Pope what that is, though you don't need to. 

Since he began spending more time with you, he has done extensive research on all sorts of piercings so he can understand what you're saying when you talk to him. Something you find incredibly endearing, which is why you find it so easy to talk to Pope.

“But her ear anatomy just did not suit it. It would've never healed and hurt a lot so I explained this to her but she started yelling at me.” You're completely still as you talk about this. Pope notices you do this when you're confronted by someone displaying any kind of malice towards you. You freeze up bad. 

It makes him want to kill that fucking influencer. 

“And now there's a video online of her “review” of my shop and it's just a bunch of lies…” You pull your knees up to your chest, hugging yourself for comfort. “I don't know what to do. My tattoo artists have made videos backing me up but they insist I make one too. I'm just not good at that kind of stuff, though.”

So, what he's hearing is that Pope needs to take care of this influencer for you. 

He can do that.

But first, he needs to comfort you somehow. 

So, he scoots over, putting his arm around you. You lean into him instinctually as he rubs your shoulder. 

“You don't have to do that. Everything will be okay.” He'll make sure of it. 

“I'm usually more optimistic but she has a lot of followers. And I'm just a small business. The internet can be such a cruel place.” You let out a sigh. “My work is cosmetic. People can flock somewhere new.”

“Like they did with my shop to yours.” Pope comments but then regrets bringing it up when you look up at him all sad.

“Did I really take that much business from you? I'm sorry, Pope.” You frown. “I shouldn't have opened up shop on the same block. It was just such a good rent price…” 

Pope knows that to be true. Smurf owns the block now, after the robbery gone wrong. She wanted insurance in case you did press charges that your business would go down the drain. Thankfully you stayed on her good side since then. 

“It's okay, you brought a lot of business to my brother's bar.” All the newcomers wanting to check out your place has made the block a prime area to be at in Oceanside. 

“Still, I don't want you to have a hard time because of me. Your designs are amazing.” You compliment him so sweetly that Pope can feel his heart wanting to jump out of his chest.

“If you could have a tattoo anywhere, where would you want it?” He asks, his hands sliding down the length of your arms. “Maybe here?” 

Your breath catches in your throat when Pope suddenly tugs you onto his lap, so his hands can rest at your sides more easily. 

“You would look good with a tattoo here.” He says, grabbing at your hips before sliding lower, his large hands engulfing your thighs. “Or right here.” 

“Pope…” You bite down on your lip when his hand slips between your legs, grasping your inner thigh. 

“I would love to tattoo you right here.” His voice lowers, his warm breath tickling your ear. His hand grips the soft flesh of your thigh hard enough that you're certain you'll see his handprint there later. “Would you like that?” 

You can't believe how breathless you sound when you answer, “yes.”

“I'll do it soon, once we decide on a design.” He says, his hand inching closer and closer to your pussy. “But right now, let me help distract you from how difficult work has been.”

“Wait, Pope—” You gasp when his fingers trail up the length of your slit through the flimsy shorts you wear at home. 

It's hot in Oceanside right now and your apartment doesn't have a good air conditioner. Pope was going to help get you one but he wanted to enjoy seeing you in such thin clothing for a little longer.

He nips at your earlobe, tugging a little at the piercings you have there, drawing a moan out from your lips that you can't stop. 

“You definitely don't have work on your mind anymore, right?” He chuckles at how you nod your head, so shy. “Good girl. Now let me help you relax.” 

You chew on your bottom lip when Pope starts rubbing small circles around your clit through the fabric. Surges of pleasure overwhelm your senses, along with small pockets of shame. Because why are you letting him touch you like this? 

You have never let anyone touch you this easily. You haven't even had sex before. Just some kissing and grinding, that's as far as you've gotten while drunk and a little horny.

But you weren't even horny before Pope started touching you. 

Now that he has, you're squirming on his lap at how wet you are. He can feel the heat radiating off of your pussy onto his hand. 

You're so close. Your clit is hardening under his fingertips, making it easy to play with. You're clinging onto him now, muffling your moans into his shoulder. 

Then, when the pleasure shoots through you, you shake all over and Pope has to hold you steady. You've never cum like that before. You're panting against him and he loves the sound of it.

It makes him greedy for more, so he slips his hand into your shorts passed your underwear, dipping a finger inside of you. 

“Pope!” You cry out when you suddenly feel his thick finger fill you up. “Wait, wait, slow down!”

He doesn't listen, curling his finger inside of you, pulling more of those cute whimpers from you. 

“I just came, this is too much.” You mumble out. “I'm going to cum again—”

“Go ahead, dove. Cum a lot.” He drags his finger along inside of you, finding a spot that makes you shiver. “Right here?” 

You nod, even though you shouldn't. Because why are you telling him how to touch you? You shouldn't—

But Pope curls his finger right where you need him to and you burst, your orgasm crashing through you forcefully. And when he adds another finger, you squirt uncontrollably, soaking through your shorts, feeling so embarrassed that you came that hard.

Pope doesn't seem to mind, though. “That must've felt amazing, little dove. Want me to do it again?” 

Now greed overwhelms you. Because you nod and let him finger you until you've drenched his lap, your mind fuzzy from all the orgasms. 

You don't even remember why you were feeling anxious earlier. Every thought in your head is occupied by Pope. 

Just the way he wanted it to be. 

You apologize profusely for cumming so hard and he just chuckles in response, the sound of it so wonderful. “I don't mind. I left some clothes here, didn't I?” 

Pope did, back when the two of you went to the beach. He's left a lot of stuff in your apartment since then. 

So, he doesn't mind if you make a mess. He wants you to. He wants you to be a mess because of him.

And you are, because he hasn't left you alone since then. 

Pope is always over at your apartment. He waits for you after work to take you home. He touches you because you let him. He sleeps beside you because you let him. 

You don't know why you let him. You know you should put a boundary up, since the two of you aren't dating so why are you letting him sleep next to you and make you cum? 

Because you want him so bad. 

But you've never dated anyone before so you don't know how you're supposed to ask. You figure if Pope wanted you, he would ask. He seems content with the relationship you two have right now, though. 

Which makes your heart ache a bit more than it should. 

“What's wrong?” One of your tattoo artists asks, seeing the gloomy look on your face. 

You can't tell them it's because Pope had to go away for a week on some “job” for his family. He has been more open with you about how his family actually makes money. His shop is mostly a front but also a way for him to relieve stress, since he enjoys tattooing people. 

So, you just tell them, “I'm just a little down in the dumps still from that review.”

“Fuck that bitch. I heard she hasn't even posted in a while. Probably got too much heat from lying her ass off.” 

You shouldn't feel strange to hear that but you're shocked that an influencer like her, who posts multiple times a day, hasn't posted anything in a while. Maybe she is just in hiding. 

Pope knows the truth. He killed her, a few days after he touched you for the first time. He wasn't going to let some influencer make you sad so he took care of it because he doesn't want you to ever worry about someone like her again. 

He wants you to have the peace of mind only he can provide. 

You scroll through her profile, seeing that her last few posts weren't even about your shop. They're about some other business and this one is even bigger than yours, so it would make sense for their fans to have maybe pushed her to hide. 

That's what you reason to yourself. 

“By the way, have you given it any thought?" 

“Hmm?” You look up from your phone, confused. “About what?” 

“The tattoo, silly.” They show you the cute little dove that they made for their flash sheet. “No one picked it during the event and I've been dying to ink this one.”

You've been debating it since you saw the design but you did tell Pope that you wanted him to give you a dove tattoo. He's shown you a few designs but you haven't chosen one yet. 

You like this one a lot though. It's simple and tiny. 

So, you nod. “Sure, why not!”

It'll help you get your mind off of things. Plus you love your tattoo artists so you know they're going to do a great job. 

The dove looks fantastic on your side, right below your armpit. It's easy to take care of and heals up nicely. 

You love it a lot.

Though, you haven't told Pope about it yet. 

Not that you need to…

You do need to do something about your feelings for him because once he's back from the job he was doing, you realize how much you missed him while he was away.

You had such a bad day today that you're a bit too excited when you hear him unlocking your front door. You ended up giving him a key so he would stop having to pick your lock every time. You didn't want your neighbors to call the cops on him.

You can't sit still when Pope comes in and immediately goes to sit next to you on the couch.

“Come here.” He pulls you onto his lap, cradling you in his arms.

Pope has missed you so much. 

He likes the way you lay your head in the crook of his neck, folding into him, letting him hold you. 

He can tell you've been crying so he asks, “what's wrong, dove?” 

“The cops came to my shop today.” You say outright. 

Pope tenses at that. “Why?” 

“Apparently they found that influencer's body. Looks like she was killed and then tossed off a cliff into the ocean. They came asking me questions but it happened on the night of the bird event at work so I have a ton of people who could back my alibi.” 

He did that on purpose, because he figured if they ever found that woman's body, they would question you since she technically harassed you. So, he had to be sure you had an airtight alibi. 

“That must've been scary.” He rubs your back. “Are you okay?” 

You nod, holding onto him tighter. “Just a little spooked. I can't believe she's dead.”

“Good riddance.” Pope doesn't hide how glad he is that he took care of her for you. 

You shake your head. “No one deserves to die like that, Pope.”

He shrugs. He doesn't know if he agrees. Some people need to be put down if they hurt the people he cares about. 

But he'll comfort you regardless. “I just hate that she was mean to you. You were so anxious.” 

“Still am.” You sigh, letting out everything that's happened while he was away.

Pope listens intently, missing the sound of your voice. You feel like you've babbled on for way too long, having missed talking to him. 

“I'm sorry, I must be so exhausting to listen to. You must be tired after your job.” You don't usually vent this much. 

It makes you feel bad that you do, since you don't want Pope to think you're taking advantage of him being so open to letting you yap. 

“I don't mind.” That's how he normally responds. “You listen when I have something to talk about.” 

“That was like one time.” You shake your head against him. “You rarely talk.” 

“I'm better at listening.” 

“You don't have to do this, you know.” You look up at him, your eyes catching on the eyebrow piercing you gave him that matches your own. 

“I don't have to do a lot of things.” Pope says, his hand resting on your thigh. He smiles at the way your breath hitches when his hand drifts upwards, his fingers grazing your clit through the thin sleep shorts you tend to wear at home.

“Pope…you really don't have to.” Your skin heats up when he applies more pressure with his fingertips, causing you to squirm a little on his lap. 

“You always feel better when I do, though.” He keeps rubbing small circles until you're no longer frozen, trembling from his touch instead. 

Then, he stops and waits until you inevitably tell him, with your warm breath on his neck, “please keep going.” 

“Are you sure you want me to?” Pope taunts you a bit. “I thought you wanted me to stop.” 

You feel so shy, overwhelmed by how much you like it when he touches you. You like being this close to him, getting to look at the ink that is etched into the skin of his neck. It's your favorite sight to see while you're cumming on his lap. 

“I don't want you to feel like you have to.” You don't want to be a burden. 

He admires how considerate you are. As if he wouldn't jump at the opportunity to fuck you if you let him. He settles for only touching you for now because he knows one day, you'll want him to do much more. 

Like when your eyes drift to his lips. 

You want to kiss him. You want to hear your tongue piercing collide with his. You want to know what it feels like to have his lips on yours. 

But you've never been with someone so intimately before. 

And you're unsure if that's what Pope wants. 

Which is why you're afraid to go any further than what the two of you have been doing. 

Even though Pope would love to be yours, as long as you're his. “I want to. Are you going to let me?”

“You never let me…” You can tell he's hard under you but every time you offer to touch him, he rejects you, even though you told him that his piercings have healed great. He still refuses, despite the many times you have checked to make sure he was all good to be touched. 

That's another reason why all of this makes you so nervous because it feels so one-sided…

“This isn't about me.” That's what he always says. Because it isn't about him. 

Pope would love for you to touch him, but he doesn't want to be touched because you're desperate to reciprocate. He wants you to touch him because you love him. 

So, he will wait until he has made you feel so good that you fall for him. 

“You're having a bad day.” He tells you, trying to quell your worries. “I want to help you feel better.” 

You lower your voice, whispering so close to his lips, “I don't think friends normally do this.”

Your nerves intensify because you finally said it out loud… 

Pope cups your face, feeling how hot your skin is to the touch. Then, he says, “do we have to be just friends?” 

His words make your heart beat so fast in your chest. Because you know what he's asking. 

So you need to be sure, “do you like me, Pope?” 

He nods. “More than I should.”

Because he has always fallen hard and has never been reciprocated. 

That's why your words startle him, “I like you too.” 

Though, your lips startle him more when they touch his so softly. 

It's the most gentle little peck. 

But you kiss him. 

And it makes him go absolutely crazy. 

Pope is on top of you in an instant, pinning you down to your couch, his hips settling between yours, letting you feel just how hard he is from your single display of affection. You're left breathless when he starts kissing you with so much desire. 

Then, when his tongue brushes against your bottom lip, wanting entry into your mouth, you can't stop the moan that comes out when you feel his piercings. 

Pope smiles in response. “You're so cute.” 

He flicks you with his tongue again, the beads of his piercings rolling over your now swollen and sensitive lip. You shiver all over from the contact, imagining his tongue trailing down your bare skin like that…

“Wait, Pope.” You grab onto his shoulders, pushing him away for just a moment. He doesn't like that. 

You just told him you liked him, didn't you? 

Why are you stopping him? 

“I've never…done this before…” You confess, your ears burning from embarrassment. “Like, been with someone. It's all so new to me.” 

“You've never had sex?” He pleads in his mind for you to say yes.

You nod and his cock throbs in his pants. Pope groans into your shoulder, wanting to fuck you right now to guarantee that he's your first. 

“I'm sorry.” You thought he made that sound because he was annoyed with you. 

He lifts his head, his eyes locked on yours, and then he says with the most intense glare you've ever seen from him, “don't apologize to me. Just let me fuck you, my little dove.” 

Your head is swimming. It feels like you're drowning, air unable to reach your lungs, words unable to leave your lips. 

You've never seen such want in someone's eyes before. 

You need to get him to slow it down a bit. 

You shouldn't jump in this fast… 

“Pope, I'm really nervous.” You hope you can get through to him. “I don't know if I can today. But I promise I want to.” 

The desire doesn't leave his eyes. Because he has never found you more delectable than he does in this moment. You look so out of your element. Like a fish on land, wriggling beneath him. 

He's going to show you how good it'll feel to be his. 

“Can I still make you cum?” He won't take no for an answer but he asks anyway. “I want to make my girlfriend cum.” 

“Your…” You're consumed by the heat flooding your cheeks. 

“I'm your boyfriend now.” He leans down, giving you a kiss on the lips that sends sparks through you. “Is that going to be a problem?” 

There's a slight pause before you shake your head. “I want you to be my boyfriend.” 

“Good little dove.” His eyes trail down the length of your body before going back up to meet your eyes. “You're so beautiful. Can I touch you now?” 

“Okay.” You tell him but then add, “but we can't have sex. I don't have any condoms.”

He wouldn't use one anyways so he's fine with you not having any. “I'm just going to touch you and kiss you.” 

Pope will see if he can stop himself from doing more than that. It all depends on your reaction when his hands slide under your shirt, lifting it up slowly. You're grinding up against his cock from all your squirming at his touch. He could just fuck you right here. 

He decides he will, when he lifts your shirt past your breasts and you have a tattoo of a dove on your side. He doesn't even care that you aren't wearing a bra or that your nipples are pierced.

His eyes are glued to the tattoo he had no clue you had. 

It's so small and dainty, just below your armpit so he never saw it since the tattoo was easily hidden under your clothes. 

It looks nothing like the designs Pope has been making for you. 

“What the fuck is this?” He raises his voice and he can feel you tense under his hands. 

“W-What?” You look down, seeing that Pope has his eyes on your tattoo. “Oh, one of my artists did it for me. It's a leftover design from the bird event. Do you not like it?” 

“I fucking hate it.” His words are bitter. “How could you let someone else tattoo you? Why didn't you ask me to do it?” 

“It was spontaneous.” You don't really know why you're explaining yourself. 

It's your body. You can do whatever you want to it. 

Except let someone else tattoo you, apparently. “I'm going to cover it up with my design.”

“What? No!” You pull his hands off of you, yanking your shirt back down. “I like it. I don't want to cover it up.” 

“You're my girlfriend and you let someone else do that to you when your boyfriend is a fucking tattoo artist!” He can't hide the anger he feels. 

You were supposed to be his to ink. His beautiful piece of art. 

But now you're trying to fight back, “you weren't my boyfriend then. And even if you're my boyfriend now, you don't get to make those decisions. I'm allowed to do what I want with my body.” 

“Is that so?” There's a shift in his eyes.

The desire is still there but…it's darkened. And you can't stop the goosebumps from forming on your skin in fear. 

You muster all your courage to nod. 

Which draws such a laugh out of Pope. A menacing laugh. A truly frightening one. 

“Then I'm going to do whatever I want with your body now too.” He says before he rips your shirt off of you. 

You freeze completely. The thought never crossed your mind that Pope could be that strong. He talked about working out, about boxing, but you never thought about the kind of strength he must be capable of. 

You know now the moment he tugs off his shirt and lets you see how muscular he is. And you can't move, fear dominating every one of your senses all of a sudden. 

He looks like he wants to hurt you. 

All because you got a tattoo from someone who isn't him…

“Your nipples are so hard.” Pope says as he stares at them, at how perky they are with the piercings that match the ones you have. That lovely translucent crystal. 

You can't stop him from leaning down and flicking his tongue over each of them. He repeats this motion over and over again until you're so sensitive that you're afraid you could cum from this. 

And you do cum, when his fingers grab onto them and tug, the sensation shooting an orgasm straight through you. 

“So you like it rough.” Pope smirks, rolling the beads of your piercings with his fingertips, making you arch your back in response. “I'll make sure to fuck you nice and rough then.” 

“No, Pope, please.” You're so frozen in fear that you can't push him away so you need him to listen. “I don't want to have sex. I told you I don't have any condoms.” 

“You just came from me tugging at your nipples. Don't pretend like you aren't desperate for my cock.” Pope's hands drag down the length of your body before settling at your hips, his fingers dipping into your waistband. “How about this, if you aren't wet, I won't fuck you, deal?”

You shake your head. “No, that's not fair!”

He laughs at your misery. “Not fair? Because you're so wet for me, aren't you?” 

You shriek when he tears apart your sleep shorts, tossing the fabric aside, leaving you in just your soaked underwear. His fingers graze up along your slit through the fabric, coating himself in your slick to show you just how wet you are for him. 

“Explain this.” He flaunts his tattooed fingers in your face before pressing them against your lips. “Open up. Taste yourself and tell me your body isn't ready for me.” 

You press your lips together in protest which ticks him off. So, Pope shoves his fingers into your mouth, playing with your tongue, tugging at your piercings. His other hand dips between your legs, pushing your underwear side so he can touch you directly. 

You moan with his fingers in your mouth when he starts rubbing your clit just the way he has been. “There you go. Lean into it, dove. Let it happen.” 

You shouldn't. You should get him off of you. You should make him stop. You should bite his fingers off and run. 

But your eyes roll back when he pinches your clit and says, “maybe you should pierce right here, so you're always ready to be touched.” 

You cum way harder than you should, imagining him teasing your clit with a piercing through it. He basks in how beautiful you look with your orgasm glazing over your eyes. You seem frightened by how good you feel. 

Pope likes the conflict he's brewing inside of you. The same conflict he struggled with since he met you. You must hate him for doing this but you love it too. 

That's why you don't scream when he pulls his fingers out of your mouth. You don't scream when those same fingers thrust into your pussy with ease.

Though, you wouldn't be able to even if you wanted to, because Pope has his other hand wrapped around your throat. Your eyes are locked on the tattoos along the length of his muscular arm, the sight having haunted your fantasies for a while now. Feeling his hand grip your throat, knowing what it must look like, you almost cum just from that visual. 

You're going to cum when he curls his fingers inside of you, letting you feel just how thick they are, splitting you apart. But he doesn't let you cum. He only teases you, avoiding all the spots he knows you love. 

You grab onto his arm for leverage, your body shaking from how quickly your orgasm is building but getting promptly denied from achieving. 

“Pope, please.” You're so close, you could burst.

“Do you want to cum?” He asks, his movements slowing, taunting you to the point of desperation.

“Yes.” You can't handle the edging. 

“Call me Andrew and I'll let you cum.” He demands and smiles when you listen immediately.

“Andrew, please!” You cry out when he finally thrusts his fingers into your faster, fucking you with them until you're squirting all over his hand uncontrollably. But then, he keeps going, not giving you a second to breathe, forcing you over the edge again and again. “Wait, wait, stop, I'm still cumming, I'm—”

Pope silences your pleas with his hand, tightening his hold around your neck. You're choking. You can't breathe. You start clawing at his arm, trying to get him to let go, but he won't budge.

And it makes you cum harder than ever before, your vision going blurry from the intensity of his fingers fucking you while no air can get to your lungs. 

Humiliation floods you when Pope says, “look at you, squirting from getting choked. I didn't realize my lovely dove was so filthy, cumming so hard from getting taken so roughly.” 

You're at his mercy because you can't get free. He has you pinned down by your throat. Which is why you can't escape his lips latching on your nipple, his tongue flicking your piercing with his own, all while his fingers are still pounding into you and his hand is still keeping you from the air you so desperately need. 

“I need…” You're trying so hard to say something but the orgasms consume you before you have the energy to speak more. 

Pope stills his movement, lifting off your chest to look at how dazed you are, asking, “what do you need?” 

He lets you breathe, his hand moving away from your neck. He loves the sight of you gulping air down like you might not get the chance to breathe again.

“I need a break, Andrew.” You tell him, the sound of his name leaving your lips so airy and cute.

That's enough to convince him, with a catch. “I'm going to take you to bed and spend some time with my head between your legs. You can take a nap if you want. I don't mind, dove.” 

He helps you lay down onto your bed before his face is buried between your legs, throwing them over his shoulders so he has direct access to your pussy. 

You need the rest, closing your eyes, trying to settle the intense beating of your heart in your chest. You didn't think sex could be like this, so overwhelming.

Nor did you think it could be so gentle, his tongue dipping in and out of you so methodically slow before dragging upwards, his piercings teasing your clit over and over again. 

The orgasm Pope pulls out of you from just going down on you is unlike anything you've ever felt before. It's a calming kind of bliss, like a cooldown from a tough workout. 

Suddenly, you feel spoiled by how focused he is on making you cum. You have no idea how long he spends between your legs. You could've fallen asleep but you wanted to stay awake to feel the pleasure that courses through you at the sight of him being so attentive. 

It almost makes you forget how rough he was with you just a few moments prior. 

The duality is confusing. You expect him to be harsher, to fuck you with his tongue like he did his fingers. But he isn't.

And you don't know why you wish he would… 

Maybe because your body is craving having something buried deep inside of you. Something hard and thick and way too big. 

Like his cock with those three piercings you gave him…

Pope stands up, unbuckling his belt and tugging off his pants before climbing back into bed. 

You're so out of it from all the orgasms that you don't even think to react when he lines his cock up at your entrance. You only react when you start feeling him push into you, prying you open. 

That's when your eyes snap to the sight between your legs and you shove at him, “wait, stop! You aren't wearing a—”

“Hush, little dove.” He forces more of his tip inside of you and you have to grab onto your sheets to brace yourself for the immense pressure of him stretching you wide open. “This is your punishment for letting someone else touch you.” 

His hand grazes over your tattoo, shaking his head. He's so disappointed that he couldn't make love to you for your first time. But the sight of your tattoo angers him so much. 

You're lucky he hasn't just jammed the entirety of his cock inside of you. 

But Pope is considerate enough not to want you to bleed like most do during their first time. 

He only wants to make you feel good, which is why when the tip of his cock is fully seated inside of you and you whimper at the feeling of his first piercing rubbing up against you, he makes sure to continue teasing you with it over and over. 

“Andrew, it feels—” You've never experienced anything like this.

You had no idea how a piercing could feel inside of you, let alone a cock. So having the tip of his cock split you open then drag those beads back and forth against that spot by your entrance he was pounding with his fingers earlier, you immediately see stars in your vision, the orgasm overtaking you unbelievably quickly. 

“You're squeezing me so tight. Did you just cum?” He coaxes another orgasm out of you with his repetitive motions, reveling in your shocked expression. “I should've known you'd really like the feeling of a piercing inside of you. How about another?”

He sinks his cock deeper into you and you feel the second set inside of you now. You're clenching so tightly around him that Pope believes he must be in heaven.

When you feel the final set of beads, you know he's halfway in. And it feels like you're already full to the brim. 

“Oh god, Andrew, you're so big…” You look between your legs, seeing that there's still more of his cock to go. 

“More room for you to add more piercings, since you like them so much.” He starts back up his rhythm, pulling almost all the way out of you before pushing all three sets of piercings back inside of you. You're cumming like crazy on his cock, the sensations causing you to convulse. 

That's when he slams the rest of his cock inside of you, when you're so lost in your orgasm that you cum again just from him hitting your womb. 

“Look at me, dove.” He commands, having you follow his hand. He rests it on your lower stomach, pressing down on the bulge in your belly, showing you exactly where he is inside of you. “Feel that? That's my cock.”

He pushes his thumb down right where you can feel the tip of his cock inside of you. He sees where it is and smiles.

Because Pope has a great idea. “I should tattoo some lines right here so I know exactly how deep you want me.”

You try to shake yourself from the orgasmic daze but it's impossible. The moment his cock moves inside of you and you feel his piercings drag back and forth, you're gone. You've given in completely to the pleasure. 

So you cum when he finally does, his release so hot that your belly feels warm to the touch. The motion of him pulling his cock out, tugging his piercings along with it, having you shaking beneath him from the stimulation. He grinds the underside of his cock against your sensitive clit, letting you feel his piercings rub against it over and over again until you're cumming all over his cock.

Then, Pope flips you over, grabbing you by the hips. You don't get how he's still so hard. But his need for you is just that strong. He has wanted this for so long that there's no way he was going to stop after one round. 

Plus, he has to show you how his piercings feel in a new spot. 

Pope sinks his cock into you from behind and you moan into your pillow, his piercings dragging across a completely different place inside of you. He strokes your insides, his hips rolling back and forth, finding the right pace to get you squirting all over his cock and screaming his name loud enough that your neighbors are definitely going to complain. 

You get even more vocal when his hands slide down to cup your breasts, tugging on your nipple piercings as he fucks you rougher and faster than before. Your words are nonsensical now, a mixture of his name, telling him to keep fucking you and to make you cum harder and how good you're feeling from his cock. 

Pope will have to record this next time. He wants something to watch whenever he gets stuck on a job away from you. He'll make you watch yourself cum on his cock while he fucks you. 

“We're going to fuck until your body remembers the shape of my cock, piercings and all.” He says right into your ear as he pushes your body down flat, fucking you prone. “You're my dove. All mine.”

Pope cums so deep inside of you that the orgasm it causes makes you black out. 

He's still fucking you when you wake up. He's still fucking you when you pass out again. 

The only time he stops fucking you is when he's covering up your tattoo with a design of his own, one that he drew up while he was away. 

A beautiful dove, to match his beautiful dove. 

You wake up, aching all over, your pussy overflowing with his cum. Then, you feel the second skin on your side and the large tattoo that is protected beneath the plastic. 

But that isn't the only piece you feel. 

On your lower belly, right below where your waistband would go, there's a few lines tattooed. And in what must be Pope's handwriting, it says: Property of Andrew Cody, please return if found. 

You glance up, your eyes drifting towards where Pope is set up on your couch. He's finishing up the matching dove on his side. He catches that you're awake, smiling.

“Did you sleep well, my little dove?” He wipes away the last bit of ink before he sets his tattoo gun down. “Ready for another round?” 

Your heart hammers in your chest. Both because of his words and…because you spot your name tattooed where his heart is on his chest. 

And you know then that you belong to him. 

Whether you like it or not. 

a/n: oh he's so batshit…but why do I want him so bad…why do I always write pope so crazy and possessive (bc he is crazy and possessive, oop!)

sorry to subject you all to my fantasies yet again, I've just been so obsessed with tattooed!pope…the devil strikes again!

"see, i got this sweet thing wrapped up nice here, who claimed i couldn't make them squirt like a fountain, and yet…" jack trails off to a concentrated, lip-bitten pause at the feeling of a familiar clench around his fingers. grunting, he pumps away until a pretty splash gushes from between your quaking thighs. "here you are. my fuckin' fountain."

jack keeps moving, squelching his hand from you just so swipe flat fingers across your clit to keep you flooding his sheets. even though his lips find your ear to rasp you through, jack can't really talk. too busy watching the way your skin shines and stomach flipping at how you're grabbing at him and begging for something only he's been able to give you.

"i know, baby… i know."

jack helps you loop your arm around his neck as another anchor, patting your belly while you try to breathe between shakes.

good. good, just breathe and forget it.

You spent high school waking up at four-thirty in the morning to practice before classes, then racing across town afterward to whatever job was currently paying you enough to keep competing. Waitressing at a sleazy diner in town. Cleaning locker rooms at a fitness center where rich women complained about Pilates while your knees throbbed beneath you. During summers, you coached little kids at the YMCA under brutal heat until your voice went raw from yelling instructions all day, only to stay afterward and practice serves alone until dark.

There were nights you fell asleep still smelling like tennis court asphalt and fryer grease. Nights you bled through your socks because your shoes were too worn down to support your feet anymore but you kept playing anyway because you didn’t know what else you were supposed to do. College scouts didn’t care if your body hurt. 

Nobody cared how badly you wanted it until you started winning enough to force them to pay attention. And God, you wanted it.

You wanted it with a desperation ugly enough to scare you sometimes.

You clawed your way into national rankings one ugly match at a time until colleges started calling. Not because you were polished or even marketable. But because you won. Relentlessly. Meanly sometimes. You turned yourself into the kind of player people dreaded drawing in brackets. You were willing to destroy anyone and anything that got in between you and your dreams. 

Then Stanford offered you a scholarship and suddenly you were here surrounded by girls who looked born for this life.

Girls like Samira Mohan.

She was a freshman, just like you. Her reputation preceded her, a full-ride scholarship with sponsorships already circling like sharks in the water. She could have gone pro almost immediately, but insisted on going to college. You thought this was to lessen the hype surrounding her, but instead, they treated her like the future of American tennis had descended graciously onto collegiate courts for fun.

On paper, you wanted so desperately to hate her. 

But from the moment you first caught a glimpse of her, you knew that was easier said than done. 

You expected someone with that much attention around her to be unbearable in an obvious way. Some polished media-trained nightmare with a smile that belonged on sponsorship campaigns and magazine covers. Instead, she barely seemed aware of herself at all. She was kind, genuinely kind in a way that was hard to be in competitive sports. 

And the worst part? She was the most beautiful woman you had ever laid your eyes on. 

She was a vision on the court, all elegant moves and precise shots. An absolute firecracker, who was currently screaming in Hindu under her breath at her partner. Her white tennis dress contrasting against her sweatlined skin, her curly hair in a messy braid down her back. She was golden, practically glistening against the court. The sight of her in person had the habit of taking your breath away, right before another ball was struck directly at your head. 

You just barely ducked, nearly falling flat on your ass. 

“What the fuck Trinity?” You barked, looking back at your partner who was already in position to serve another one directly at your head. 

“Stop staring, you pathetic gay.” She yelled back, making your face blanch. 

This was the other worst part, you may have, just maybe, had the tiniest of a schoolgirl crush on her. Your roommate and best friend Trinity would disagree with the tiny part, but that didn’t matter. 

“Half gay,” You grumbled, in a weak attempt at a comeback. 

“And fully pathetic, get in position! We only have the court for another hour.” 

”Fuck you.” You cried out, hitting the ball back at her with expert precision. 

“Yeah, she’s back.” She cheered playfully, the two of you continuing with your head-to-head match. It was endless practice and drills to start the year. Your head was not in the game, it was on the pretty girl a few feet away who hadn’t even glanced your way once. 

By the second week of preseason, the Stanford courts had already become something ugly and sacred. Blister tape littered the benches. Empty electrolyte packets rolled across the concrete in the wind. Everyone walked around with ice-wrapped shoulders and knee braces were the new chic accessories. Nobody spoke much between drills anymore. Competition had worn through the friendliness fast. Every girl here wanted the same thing. 

You especially.

Which was why Coach Al-Hashimi eventually made the mistake of putting you and Samira Mohan on opposite sides of the net.

Trinity physically recoiled when she saw the matchup sheet.

“Oh man, you're gonna stumble over your shoes if she stares at you too long?” She asked, walking alongside you as you grabbed your gear. 

“Come on,” You whistled, adjusting the tape on your wrist, “When have you known me to stumble on the court?” 

“That’s fair, but come on. Don’t make Stanford’s golden child cry, it’ll be bad publicity.” She laughed, plopping down on the bleachers. 

You scoffed, “Please, if she cries then she shouldn’t be in this sport.” 

Across the court, Samira laughed softly to herself as she’d overheard it. Which she probably had. Her racket rested against her shoulder while she tied her curls back into a cleaner ponytail, sunlight catching against the gold chain at her throat. 

You took a few steps forward, spinning your racket around loosely in your hand. 

Samira adjusted the brim of her visor and tucked a loose curl behind her ear with absent elegance, as she existed in an entirely different environment than the rest of you despite standing under the same brutal sun.

That was the thing people noticed first about her. Not even the beauty, though there was certainly enough of that to make half the men’s team act brain-damaged whenever she walked through the athletic center. It was the composure, it never slipped. 

You had spent the last few weeks trying very hard not to care about her. Which mostly translates to thinking about her constantly.

Not in the pathetic way Trinity kept accusing you of, though she certainly enjoyed making your life miserable over it. It was more that Samira unsettled you. Players like her were not supposed to exist naturally. Nobody should have been that technically gifted while remaining genuinely kind at the same time. Every talented player you had ever met carried sharp edges somewhere underneath the surface.

But Samira smiled at everybody. Remembered names. Helped freshmen pick up tennis balls after practice without being asked. She thanked trainers. She apologized when serves clipped the net during warmups. She played with ruthless precision while somehow never seeming cruel about it.

She was the complete opposite of you, all sharp edges and bite. You’d made a girl cry during a junior's tournament in Texas after targeting her backhand for two straight sets until she unraveled publicly. You argued with judges and snapped more rackets than you could afford. It only got worse when you met Trinity, judges called the two of you the angriest doubles teams in the history of tennis. 

At least they were talking about you. 

Samira glanced toward you while bouncing a ball lightly against the concrete, her expression relaxed. Not a hint of tension to be seen on her shoulders. “You ready?” 

You rolled your shoulder once before settling into position at the baseline. “Depends, you gonna uphold the title of Stanford’s golden child?” 

She just laughed softly under her breath at that, not embarrassed or thrown off in the slightest. “I’ll try not to disappoint you.”

You refused to let it show that her words made your shoulders tighten. The game began, slowly at first. A warm-up between two peers clearly on the same level of technicality. But that didn’t last long, neither of you seemed particularly interested in easing into anything gently, and within minutes the pace escalated into something far more competitive than a preseason practice match.

You started pushing first, mostly out of instinct. Harder pace off the forehand swing. Sharper angles designed to test her movement, to coax a response out of her.

Samira redirected pace with surgical precision, using your own power against you instead of fighting it head-on. Watching her move across the court felt strangely hypnotic because there was absolutely no wasted motion anywhere in her game. Every recovery step landed perfectly balanced. Every swing flowed seamlessly into the next movement. Even the sound of her ball striking strings felt cleaner somehow, less violent than yours despite carrying just as much danger behind it.

The first real rally of the match came, and the bystanders grew and grew. Bleachers were full watching the match unfold in all of its glory. 

The secret truth about tennis was that at a certain level, it stopped being a game built purely around mechanics and became something far more intimate than people realized. You learned another player’s habits through repetition. Their breathing patterns under pressure. The exact shape of their frustration. The milliseconds of hesitation before riskier shots. Great rallies felt less like combat and more like conversation conducted entirely through movement and anticipation.

And Samira spoke your language immediately. In a way that had your palms sweaty.

You slammed a forehand down the line hard enough to nearly strip paint from the baseline, the impact cracking sharply across the courts and drawing several startled reactions from nearby teammates. It was an objectively ridiculous shot, the kind designed specifically to end points outright. Samira somehow reached it anyway, sliding into a desperate recovery before redirecting the ball crosscourt with absurd control that landed inches inside the sideline.

“Oh, fuck off,” you snapped automatically before you could stop yourself.

Instead of looking offended, Samira burst into startled laughter, bright and genuine enough that it briefly threw off your concentration entirely.

“What?” you demanded, already resetting your stance.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re intense?,” she asked, still smiling as she moved back toward center court. 

“Just about everyone I’ve ever met.” You smiled viciously. 

The next rally lasted even longer. Twenty shots at least, maybe more, both of you pushing each other deeper into increasingly impossible angles until your lungs started burning beneath the heat and sweat dripped steadily down the side of your face. You could feel your pulse everywhere by that point, wrists and throat and chest all hammering violently beneath exertion. 

All it took was one shot, a millisecond too late of a reaction for the ball to go whizzing past you. A chorus of boos and cheers erupted from behind you, your heart nearly stuttering out of your chest. 

You bent slightly at the waist catching your breath, chest heaving hard while sweat rolled slowly down your spine beneath your shirt. Across the net Samira rested her hands against her knees for a moment before glancing back up at you, loose curls escaping and sticking damply against her golden skin beneath the sunlight.

When you caught her eyes, something dangerous split between your ribs. There was admiration sparkling there, a beaming smile that contrasted your furrowed brows and scowl. 

“Wow,” she said honestly between breaths. “You’re the first actual opponent I’ve had since I got here.”

From that moment, a friendship was born. 

At first, it was a practical matchup approved by your coaches. Nobody else on the team could push either of you properly anymore. Samira needed someone aggressive enough to force her out of her comfort zone, somebody willing to turn every practice set into controlled warfare. You needed somebody steady enough to withstand your worst moods, to turn you into a ‘civilized player’ they said.

It was five-thirty runs through campus while fog still hung low over Palo Alto and the world smelled faintly like wet grass. It was weight room sessions spent shoulder to shoulder beneath fluorescent lights, Trinity half-asleep beside you both while Samira quietly corrected your form with gentle hands against your spine. It was the endless hours on court until your bodies moved around each other instinctively, your games sharpening together like knives dragged repeatedly across the same stone. The first time you two played together officially, one commentator called you two ‘Fire and Ice’ after the two of you bulldozed through doubles nationals together. 

For the next two years, the two of you were inseparable. A match made in tennis heaven, that’s what ESPN called the two of you after Stanford won nationals your sophomore year, the article accompanied by grainy action shots of you snarling at the net beside Samira looking composed enough to belong in an entirely different photograph. Beauty and brutality. 

The analysts loved turning the two of you into mythology because it made good television, because people were fascinated by the impossible chemistry of watching someone as elegant as Samira Mohan somehow fitting together seamlessly with somebody as sharp-edged and openly vicious as you.

Behind the cameras and headlines, Samira knew you better than anybody alive.

She knew when your shoulder started bothering you again because your serve motion tightened slightly afterward. She knew the specific silence that meant you were angry versus the quieter one that meant you were hurt. She knew how to talk you down after losses without making you feel pitied, knew exactly when to push and when to leave you alone entirely.

Nobody had ever handled you gently before. Your whole life, people either tried to control your intensity or feared it outright. Coaches called you difficult. Opponents called you cruel. Even people who loved you sometimes treated your emotions like natural disasters to survive instead of something worthy of understanding.

Samira never asked you to become softer. She just learned how to hold the sharp edges without cutting herself open on them.

Falling in love with her was never part of the plan, but it came easier than winning a match. 

You never told anyone, besides Trinity who called it that day on the court during Freshman year. You planned to die with the secret. As far as you knew, Samira didn’t even like women so it never crossed your mind as being an option, until the end of your Junior year. 

The season had just ended badly. Samira lost a semifinal she should’ve won and spent the entire night furious and vibrating with restless energy. The two of you snuck your way onto the courts half-drunk from some terrible fraternity party neither of you even wanted to attend. The two of you were barely able to play an actual game, your vision too blurry your balance too off. Rackets and balls were neglected on the court, for some poor lackey to clean up tomorrow. 

In a fit of giggles, and sweaty from the night air you two found yourselves in the locker rooms. She was still ranting about missed shots while peeling off sweaty party clothes in the showers afterward because neither of you were thinking clearly. The next thing the two of you knew, you were both naked in front of each other. Steam fills every inch of the tiny stalls, making the distance between you two feel even smaller. 

 Her mascara was smudged beneath her eyes, and her cheeks flushed from the drinks. You remembered the exact moment she stopped talking. The way her teeth bit down on her bottom lip. The exact moment she looked at you differently. 

Her gaze traveled down your body when you stepped beneath the spray with your eyes closed, letting the hot water hit aching muscles. You could feel her looking before you opened your eyes again.

”I don’t even know why I’m so angry,” she’d laughed softly, water dripping down her shoulders. “It’s stupid.”

“Because you care too much.” You said, focusing on rinsing the rest of the shampoo out of your hair. 

“Maybe I’ve just been spending too much time with you.” She joked, but her laugh came out flat and unfocused. You could see the faraway look in her eyes, the way her fingers twitched at her sides. 

“You okay Mira?” You asked softly, taking a tentative step closer. 

She stared at you for a long second after that. Then the distance was closed, and her lips were on yours. It was startling and desperate.

You fell into her immediately, your hands finding her hips in the steamy room and pulling her body against yours. Her hands were cold against your jaw, while your mouths explored each other’s messily. You pressed her against the damp tile, kissing down her jaw and her neck while her hands tangled in your hair. 

Her skin was soft and wet as your hands traveled down, gripping the supple flesh of her chest. She responded to you almost immediately, her legs parting for you as your hand slipped in between. Between the water gliding down her body and the arousal pooling, it was easy for your fingers to slip through her folds. You remember her lips parting, as she begged you for more. You remember the feeling of her warm cunt spasming around you with each expert thrust of your fingers.

A lot of it was a blur looking back, but you remember with startling clarity your heart beating so hard you thought you might throw up from it. You’d never forget the sound of your name on her lips as she came, how her skin tasted, and then the horrible realization of what happened after the water ran cold. 

You couldn’t look her in the eyes afterward, not when your mouth tasted like her. Shame was deep in your stomach as you watched her towel dry her hair in the mirror, your eyes pleading for her to let you out of your misery. 

You stood there pleading silently for her to say something different. Instead, Samira laughed once under her breath, thin and uncertain.

“It was just a mistake.” The words hit like physical pain. 

“We’re a little drunk,” she added quickly. “That’s all.”

You weren’t sure who she was trying to convince. Maybe herself, but it didn’t work on you. 

All you could do was nod because losing her entirely felt more terrifying than swallowing the heartbreak whole. Your friendship survived on unspoken things already. One more secret buried between the two of you hardly seemed impossible at the time. Nothing really changed in your friendship after that, but Samira never really touched you casually again, not outside the court anyways. 

Everywhere else, she hesitated. Pulled herself back at the last second. Wrapped every dangerous feeling in sarcasm or competition before either of you could examine it too closely. But on the court, instinct took over. She reached for you constantly there.

Your wrist between points. The small of your back switching sides. Your hand crushed in hers after impossible rallies. Your bodies thrown into each other in celebration. 

It became easy to pretend none of it meant anything because technically it belonged to the game.

During the NCAA quarterfinals, the two of you came back from a nearly impossible deficit after Samira saved a match point with a return so vicious the crowd audibly gasped. The stadium erupted in an ear-bursting cheer. 

Before you even processed winning, Samira had already collided into you full force, laughing breathlessly while her arms wrapped around your shoulders hard enough to nearly knock you backward.

“Oh my god,” she shouted against your neck, adrenaline making her voice wild and bright. “Did you see that?”

You barely heard the crowd. Not with her legs tangled around your waist. Not with her heartbeat pounding against your chest. Not when she looked at you afterward glowing with triumph so beautiful it physically hurt to witness.

Somewhere between junior and senior year, the shape of your life stopped orbiting tennis and started orbiting Samira. It felt like trading one obsession for another. 

It didn’t happen all at once. It wasn’t a decision you made. It was slower than that, subtle reallocations of attention that felt reasonable in the moment. You missed a training session because she needed a ride to a sponsor event. You stayed after practice longer than you should have because she was frustrated and you knew just how to make her laugh. You started saying no to things that would have advanced your own ranking if they meant less time in her orbit. 

You didn’t even realize until rankings came out, and Coach Al Hashimi sat you down. Her perfectly styled eyebrows furrowed in frustration. 

”Don’t let love dim your potential, Y/n.” She had said, Samira’s picture looming behind her on the banner hanging against the fences. It felt like a punch to the gut, but still, you kept trailing behind her. 

-

”You know,” Samira started, staring down at the US Open pamphlet in her hand. Her other hand occupied by her blackberry and lip gloss, “I used to have a poster of him in my room.” 

JACK ABBOT FINAL US OPEN 

The words were in a bold white font, underneath a photo of the rugged man. He was handsome, there was no doubt about that. You’d never had the privilege of seeing him play, but everyone who knew anything about Tennis knew about Jack Abbot. He was a legend. A legend who suffered a horrible knee injury last year, a legend who had already defied odds by being the oldest professional player to win a US Open. He was determined to finish his career on a high note. 

“Really?” You laughed, sipping your overpriced drink. “That’s so embarrassing." 

She knocked her shoulder with yours at the tease, “Oh please, you had a Katy Perry poster on your wall until last year.” 

“Okay, it was a really good album-“ Your banter is cut off by the crowd erupting as Jack Abbot himself steps onto the court. 

Jack rolled his shoulder once before stepping up to the baseline, testing the stiffness in his knee with the smallest shift of weight. The stadium lights bleached everything silver-white around him, sweat already glinting along the sharp line of his jaw despite the match barely beginning.

His entire body snapped through the shot with that old predatory force people wrote articles about in the early years of his career, the kind that made tennis commentators sound religious trying to describe it. The ball cracked into the service box so fast it almost looked unreal, skidding low and hard enough that his opponent barely got a racket on it.

Beside you, Samira made a small involuntary sound.

You wanted to tease her, make fun of her for fawning over a retiree, but you found yourself just as mesmerized. It was like watching a future version of yourself down there. He was ruthless and aggressive in each swing and pump of his arms. The vein in his neck protruded with each yell, spit flying from his mouth. 

Every rally carried that same furious edge to it. Every point felt personal, when his opponent tried to pull him wide across the baseline, Jack chased the ball down with a grim sort of joy, shoes screeching across the hard court while the crowd gasped around him. His knee visibly buckled once during a slide, just for a heartbeat, and somehow he still turned the return into a winner down the line.

The stadium erupted and Samira grabbed your thigh so suddenly it made your breath catch.

Her fingers dug into the bare skin just above your knee without thought, gripping hard as the replay flashed across the giant screen overhead. Heat flooded through you instantly, not just from the contact, but from the fact she clearly hadn’t realized she’d done it. Her attention remained glued entirely to the court, body pitched forward in disbelief while her nails pressed crescents into your skin.

“Did you see that?” she demanded, half turning toward you now, eyes bright with adrenaline.

“Yes,” you laughed breathlessly, though it came out weaker than you intended because her hand was still there. “Jesus Christ.”

Every time he won a point, the two of you reacted before thinking. Leaning into each other, grabbing each other, knees knocking together in the cramped seats while adrenaline crackled so violently through your veins it almost stopped feeling separate from attraction.

You glanced down pointedly at her hand still gripping your thigh when her thumb began stroking small circles on the inside. 

Her eyes widened slightly before she snatched it back almost violently, as the skin contact itself had burned her. A flush climbed immediately into her cheeks, though whether from embarrassment or adrenaline, you couldn’t tell.

“Sorry,” she muttered quickly.

Before you could answer, Jack fired a forehand winner so vicious the entire stadium seemed to inhale at once.

You and Samira reacted at the same time.

 “Oh, fuck off,” you gasped. 

“No way,” she breathed.

Then both of you dissolved into disbelieving laughter together, shoulders knocking hard enough to nearly spill your drinks while the crowd around you stood roaring to their feet.

Down on the court, Jack finally allowed himself the smallest flicker of satisfaction. He stood at the baseline breathing hard, chest rising beneath sweat-dark fabric while the stadium screamed around him. His curls clung damp against his forehead, racket hanging loose at his side as he stared across the net with an expression that bordered on feral.

You hadn’t felt that alive watching tennis in weeks, now it was as if something had been ignited deep in your chest. A desire to blow this afterparty and head straight to the court. But, Samira’s hand was gripping your forearm tightly, dragging you into the Jack Abbot retiree celebration party.

Everyone wanted a piece of him. And Samira looked absolutely gone.

“He’s shorter than I thought,” she murmured for probably the fourth time that night, staring openly across the terrace where Jack stood with a drink in hand speaking to two ESPN commentators.

You took another sip of your cocktail. “You said that twenty minutes ago.”

“You should just go talk to him,” you said finally, the words sour in your mouth.

Her head whipped toward you immediately. “You think?”

“I think if you stare any harder, security's gonna intervene.”

“Oh shut up.” But she laughed, biting briefly at her bottom lip before glancing back toward him again, “Do I look okay?” 

You smile sadly at her, bringing your hand up to smooth down her stray hair that the wind blew out of place. “Beautiful.” You choked out, like the word didn’t hurt. 

She just watched you for a moment, wringing her hands together. 

“You gonna go now?” You laugh, chewing on the cocktail straw, aching to sneak off for a cigarette that Samira would smell and yell at you for later. 

“I’m working myself up,” She was practically bouncing on her heels, “You know I can’t believe he’s not married,” she said, almost absently, eyes following Jack as someone from Adidas laughed too loudly at something he’d barely said.

You smirked without looking at her. “He is.”

She glanced at you. “What?”

“To tennis that is.”

That made her laugh under her breath, but it didn’t last long. Her expression shifted as she watched him again. “Well,” she said finally, quieter, “that’s just sad. I hope you don't end up like that.” 

That made you look at her.

She was still watching the room, not you. Still following Jack with her eyes like he was the most interesting thing in it. A weird feeling in your gut simmered at this. Has she ever looked for you in a room like that? Or were you simply furniture? Her peer turned partner turned cheerleader. 

And suddenly you were aware of it again, the slow erosion of yourself over the last year. Practices that became about her timing. Matches that became about her schedule. Decisions that always curved back toward Samira Mohan’s trajectory like gravity.

“Maybe tennis is my only true love,” you said, your eyes still hopelessly on her.

Samira finally looked at you, but it felt like she was looking through you,  “You used to be mean on the court, you know? Like breaking rackets spitting in people's faces means. There used to be a fire there.”

You let out a quiet breath through your nose. “I’m still mean.”

She cocked her head, “Y/n, you haven’t played a solo in weeks. The papers are saying the fire in ‘Fire and Ice’ is dwindling. Your ranking is lower than it should be.”

You frowned, letting your shoulders fall. You saw the papers, it was impossible not to. Trinity had taped them to your door, alongside a note that said ‘get your shit together.’ There was no time for you to play, not while Samira had your calendar booked up. 

In the silence, Samira speaks up again. “Have you ever considered coaching? I think it’s time to focus on the next step of your career, and I think that would be the best thing for you.” 

”What?-“ Before you can answer, or even formulate a thought a hearty laugh breaks through the crowd. 

Across the venue, Jack laughed at something someone said, the sound low and unbothered even surrounded by people trying too hard to matter to him. Camera flashes from somewhere caught him mid-turn, that familiar rough-edged charm slipping into place without effort.

Samira’s attention snapped back to him like a reflex. You noticed the exact moment she stopped thinking about you. 

“I might go get some fresh air.” You said, suddenly finding it hard to breathe.

“Go on,” she said suddenly, nudging your arm lightly. “I think I worked up the courage.”

You nodded once and slipped away to the edge of the crowd.

The air outside the main cluster was cooler, quieter, carrying the distant sound of the city below like something alive and indifferent. You found a corner near the cliffside, the sounds of the river lulling your beating heart as you pulled a cigarette from your bag, and lit it with hands that only shook a little.

The first inhale grounded you in a way nothing else had all night. You exhaled toward the skyline, watching smoke disappear into neon. 

“So this is where the real party is.” A timber voice spoke up from behind you, making your shoulders tense. 

Looking back, maybe this was the first crack in the glass. When Samira spent all night trying to get him to look at her, and he saw you first. 

“Jack Abbot,” You breathed out, thumb still flicking the cigarette filter. 

“Y/n Y/l/n.” He said, with a smug smile on his lips. 

His name coming from your mouth made your stomach fall, brows furrowing at the man. He seemed to have noticed the confusion, taking a few steps closer to you. 

“What?” The jilted teasing in his tone made your knees weak, “You don’t think I’d keep up with the up-and-coming tennis stars from my alumni?” 

“Didn’t think my name would be on that list,” You scoffed, still wallowing in your own self-pity. 

“Highest ranking score. What was it, top junior results? Higher than Mohan’s early numbers,” he said, like he was reading something off memory. “And now you’re what? Holding her water bottle at courtside and running drills like a shadow?” The cigarette paused halfway to your lips.

“That’s not true-“

“Come on,” he cut in, not unkindly. “You know what I’m saying.”

Silence stretched. Behind you, laughter erupted from the party again. Music pulsed faintly through the wind. You knew what he was saying, it was the same thing everyone close to you had been drilling into your head the past few weeks. Jack didn’t look away from you, his gaze heavy and startling. 

“She’s my best friend,” you said finally, quieter. 

A hum from him. “But?” he prompted.

Your eyes drifted back to the party. Samira was on the dance floor now. Laughing loudly. Surrounded by attention without ever seeming to need it. She looked like she belonged in the center of everything. Like she always had. Beautiful in motion. Confident in a way that made people forget how sharp she actually was.

”She’s just really good.”

Jack followed your gaze. “Yeah,” he said softly. “She is.”

There was a beat of silence before he spoke, quieter, almost like he wasn’t speaking to you anymore:

“But you could be better.”

He scoffs, “How many games do you let her win in practice? I bet she doesn't even realize you’re pulling your hits anymore, huh?” 

“Don’t act as if you know me,” You snapped, “What you watch our film? See a game? Read our stats? Just because you’re famous doesn’t mean you know anything about us.”

There was that stupid infuriating smirk still on his face, like he was looking into a mirror, “Okay, okay.” he says, his hands up in surrender. “Apologies for offending the lady, but you can’t deny that you’re selling yourself short.” 

You rolled your eyes, going to flick the cigarette out before a hand captured your wrist. 

“You mind?” He asked gently, to which you took too long to shake your head. 

Jack’s fingers loosened only slightly around your wrist, rough warmth settling against your pulse as he guided your hand back toward him instead of away. 

His gaze never left yours as he leaned down, his mouth wrapping around the cigarette between your fingers.

Heat flooded through your entire body so fast it almost made you dizzy.

The scrape of stubble against the inside of your wrist. The slow inhale hollowing his cheeks slightly. The deliberate eye contact while smoke curled between both of you in the humid night air. 

It was obscene, and erotic. Jack pulled back after a second, exhaling smoke toward the river before finally releasing your wrist. His thumb brushed once against the inside, before dropping it as if it had never happened. 

“C’mon,” he said easily. “Let’s go meet your best friend.” 

Jack walked ahead of you through the crowd with effortless confidence, occasionally nodding at people who tried to stop him but never slowing down long enough to get trapped. You followed behind him in a daze, knees weak as a newborn fawn on ice.

It was as if the party bent to his will. Not because he was handsome, though he absolutely was. Not because he was famous or that this whole party was for him anyways. It was something stranger than that. Jack carried himself like a man completely at ease with being desired. Comfortable under attention, thriving even. The kind of confidence people spent their entire lives trying to fake.

”Samira Mohan,” Jack said as he approached the bar beside you, his voice smooth and warm with amusement. “This lovely lady was outside singing your praises.”

Your stomach twisted as Samira’s brows flew up her forehead. What kind of game was he playing?

“Was she?” 

”All of them,” he said easily. “Most of which I already knew were true.” Then he reached for her hand.

You’ve known him for all of ten minutes and you already knew flirting was simply another language he spoke fluently. His fingers curled around hers with surprising gentleness before he dipped his head just enough to brush a kiss against her knuckles.

A blush bloomed immediately across her cheeks and down the elegant line of her throat, visible even beneath the warm amber lighting of the tiki torches. Through all the years you’ve known her, never once have you seen her so flustered, yet here she was tripping over her words. 

“Your backhand tonight was insane,” she said quickly, words tumbling over each other now that she finally had his full attention. “That second set crosscourt return in the fifth game? Nobody hits that angle anymore because everybody’s obsessed with baseline power but your timing was-“

“Old school?” Jack offered.

“Surgical,” Samira corrected instantly. 

Then, they were off. She and Jack fell easily into a discussion about court surfaces and younger players and racket tension like they’d known each other for years.

You stood beside them sipping melting ice from your drink feeling more and more like a third wheel in your own life.

Your jealousy curdled slowly. Not even entirely toward Jack, mostly toward the sport itself.

Because tennis always won in the end. It always got the deepest parts of Samira before anybody else could. You’d spent years quietly accepting second place to it, even making it second place in your own life to carve out space for the love you had for her.

Then, Jack’s eyes met yours. Samira was still deep into conversation about his pacing, and his footwork, before he cut her off. 

“Fire and ice,” he mused, glancing between the two of you. His finger lifted from his whisky glass, twirling around.  “That’s what they used to call you, right?”

Samira laughed softly under her breath. “God, that was stupid.”

“It wasn’t stupid,” Jack said. “People loved watching you two.”

His gaze settled on you again. Heavy enough to make your skin feel hot beneath your dress. “I related to the fire part personally. Hell, you know they called me a tennis cowboy for years. Never following the rules.”

You looked away first, unable to keep his gaze. Not while Samira looked like a kicked puppy the moment his gaze was no longer on her. 

“Well,” Samira said brightly, trying to shake herself out of whatever strange current had settled between the three of you, “she’d make an incredible coach.”

Jack’s attention shifted lazily toward her. “Yeah?”

“She sees the game differently than anybody I know,” Samira said immediately. Proud. Certain. “She notices momentum before it shifts. Patterns before they happen. Half the reason my game improved at all was that she could always tell what I was doing wrong before my coaches could.”

”So, you giving up all of this,” he moved his hands around to gesture to the party raging on without him, “to be a coach?”

It occurred to you that Jack Abbot had seen in half an hour what you’ve spent the past few years blind to. Samira had decided your future for you, on her side of the court rather than the opposite. Just the person standing behind somebody else’s success rather than making your own. 

You shrugged lightly, trying for indifference. “Maybe.”

Jack’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly at that.

Samira laughed awkwardly beside you, immediately jumping back in before the silence could settle too deeply. “She’s being dramatic. She still plays recreationally and honestly if she wanted to start competing again she probably could, she just would be much better at-“

”Do you want to coach?” Jack interrupted her gently.

You looked at him, caught briefly off guard by the intensity of his attention again. Around you, the party blurred warm and loud, people brushing past in expensive fabrics and perfume, but suddenly it felt strangely isolated there at the bar with him watching you like your answer actually mattered.

“I don’t know,” you finally admitted. “Maybe I am better suited for coaching than competing.”

Jack stared at you for a second like you’d said something genuinely absurd.

“No.” The certainty in his voice made your stomach flip. “You’re the most competitive player I’ve ever seen.”

You blinked. “That’s definitely not true.”

“It is.” His gaze dragged over your face slowly before settling heavily on your eyes again. “Players like you don’t just wake up one day and stop wanting it. Where did that fire go?” 

Something hot curled low in your stomach.

Samira shifted beside you, suddenly very interested in finishing her drink.

”You just need that…” Jack tilted his head slightly, mouth curving into a knowing half-smile. “Fire back.” 

Samira downs her drink in one swallow, the air suddenly much hotter than it was before. 

“Doesn’t she?” Jack elbowed Samira lightly, brushing his body against the side of hers. 

She set the empty glass down harder than necessary before forcing a quick smile back onto her face. “Okay,” she laughed thinly, “now you’re just feeding her ego.”

”Aww,” Jack pouted playfully, looking down at her. “Are you jealous?” 

 The question landed with a sharp little crack between all three of you. Samira froze for half a second, then laughed too quickly. “Please. She’s had an ego since she was sixteen.”

“S’ a part of the game,” you muttered, trying desperately to diffuse the strange electric tension coiling tighter and tighter around the conversation.

But Jack only grinned wider, like this dynamic was the most interesting match he had ever seen. 

“You know,” he said conversationally, “most players would kill for somebody who believes in them the way Y/n believes in you.”

”Well,” Samira said suddenly, buoyed again by alcohol and adrenaline and the fact that Jack Abbot was still standing here talking to her like she mattered, “if you’re not sick of us yet, we could do a nightcap somewhere quieter?”

You nearly choked on your own spit. Samira looked equally surprised at herself for approximately half a second before stubbornness took over. Her chin lifted slightly. “What? We’re fun.”

Jack barked out a laugh. “Jesus,” he said, rubbing one hand over his jaw dramatically. “You girls even old enough to drink?”

Samira rolled her eyes instantly. “We’re twenty-three.”

“Mm.” His gaze slid toward you lazily. “What do two young tennis players want with this broken old man?” 

“To seduce you, obviously.” Samira teased, letting her perfectly manicured nails hover above his forearm. It didn’t feel like a joke the way his eyes glittered. He pulled his hotel keycard out of his pocket within seconds, guiding both of you away from the lights and noise. 

Her fingers curled around his bicep while she talked animatedly about some disastrous junior tournament in Florida, head tipping toward him every time he laughed. Jack listened with easy patience, occasionally teasing her just enough to keep her flushed and smiling.

Meanwhile, you walked half a step behind them feeling strangely untethered.

The jealousy inside you has become complicated now. Twisted together with attraction and longing and something lonelier. Because Samira looked so happy beside him. Glowing from his attention. And Jack, infuriatingly, seemed equally comfortable with her hanging off his arm while still somehow tracking your every movement at the same time. His gaze had a way of making you feel seen in a way you weren’t sure if you had been before. 

The US Open spared no cent when it came to his accommodations. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the entire glittering city. Low modern furniture. Expensive dark wood. A terrace stretching out beyond the glass with the skyline spilling endlessly behind it. Somewhere inside the suite jazz played softly through hidden speakers.

Jack loosened the collar of his shirt as he stepped inside, immediately more relaxed here than he’d been all night.

“One drink,” He mused, grabbing a bottle of champagne that had been sitting on ice, “Then it’s off to bed for you two.” 

The bottle was popped with a loud cheer, bubbles were poured into overpriced glasses. 

“Cheers, to the legend Jack Abbot himself.” Samira cheers, clanking all of your glasses together. 

Conversation stretched deep into the night after that, sprawling loose and intimate in the strange way conversations only become after midnight. Shoes abandoned by the couch. The city glittered outside the windows. Samira was twirling her now frizzy curls between her fingers while you were arguing with Jack about whether modern players lacked aggression.

”They’re too fucking soft nowadays.” 

“You think everybody’s soft,” she accused.

“Everybody is soft.” You argued back, your bare feet pressing against her thighs from where you two were lounging on the couch. 

“You cried during your Australian Open press conference in 2006.” She pointed, making you groan. Your empty glass being filled up again by Jack who sat perched on the velvet armchair, right across from you two. 

“It was an angry cry though, those judges didn’t know their heads from their mouths.” You gulped down another drink, the bubbles going straight to your head. 

“If you can’t handle the heat, stay out of the kitchen, that’s what I said after my opponent in 2008 said I was, ‘A disgrace to the sport of tennis itself’ for forcing his hand for five rallies.” Jack chimed in, his hands lazily on his knees while he leaned back. 

“What an old saying.” Samira snorted, her hand falling on your bare ankle absentmindedly. 

“Can I ask a question?” He asked suddenly, “It might be personal but..” 

You both just hummed, nodding for him to ask. 

“Are you two together?” 

Samira’s hand is gone from your ankle like it was never there at all, pulled back so fast it’s almost violent in its restraint. The absence of it is louder than the touch was. She shifts in her seat, reaches for her drink too quickly, and you can see it in the small, betraying details of her body that she’s recalibrating in real time, trying to put herself back into something legible.

“No,” she says immediately, too quickly.

You feel the gap she leaves beside you widen, even though she hasn’t physically moved away. It’s just suddenly obvious that whatever space she occupied a second ago was more intimate than she’s willing to admit in front of him.

You smile anyway, because that’s what you do. It’s what you’ve been doing for so long it comes out easy, practiced. “Just best friends,” you add lightly, tilting your glass slightly in your hand as if the question barely touched you. “The best of friends.”

There’s a faint curl at the edge of his mouth, not quite amusement but not far from it either. “Right,” he says slowly, like he’s accepting the answer without believing it.

Samira adjusts her hair behind her ear, her nervous tick. “Why?” she asks, but her tone is careful now, guarded in a way it wasn’t a minute ago.

Jack’s attention shifts to her briefly, then back to you, like he’s refusing to let either of you escape the frame of his observation. “Just curious,” he says, “It changes how people move around each other on the court. That’s all.”

He doesn’t let the silence last for long, “Tennis is probably the most erotic sport there is,” he says. “You spend hours watching someone’s body under pressure. You learn their timing. Their breathing. The exact moment they break rhythm.”

He tilts his glass slightly, watching the liquid shift. “There’s no distance in it. Not really. Not when you’re paying attention. It’s intimate.” 

The tension in the room is so thick it makes it hard to breathe, so you swing your legs to the side of the couch, sitting upright. 

“We’re out of champagne.” You smiled, shifting the topic almost as soon as it came. 

It took a while, but the conversation drifted after that into softer territory, though the tension never loosened. If anything, it deepened with the hour, settling low and heavy into the suite like another entity in the room.

Jack had migrated from the armchair to between you two on the couch at some point, abandoning the performative distance between all of you. The cushions dipped beneath his weight as he stretched one leg out carefully, wincing faintly at the stiffness in his knee before hiding it behind another sip of whiskey.

The city glowed silver through the windows behind him. The suite lighting turned everything honey-soft. Samira’s bare knees brushing his every few seconds unconsciously, and every time it happened Jack’s eyes flicked downward briefly before returning to your faces.

”So, you’re telling me after all these years nothing has happened between you two?” He asked, Samira practically shoved against his side while his arm was slung across the couch, directly behind your head. 

“This again?” Samira groans, shoving him gently. 

You shift on the couch, drawing your legs in slightly, suddenly hyperaware of how close all of you have ended up without anyone actively deciding it. “It was one time,” you say, more casually than you feel, like you’re tossing it into the air just to make it lighter than it is. “Sophomore year. We were drunk. It didn’t… it wasn’t anything.”

You have Jack’s full attention again, his eyes sparkling at getting confirmation of something he could have easily guessed. 

Samira’s head snaps toward you immediately. “Can you not,” she mutters, half-laughing, half-warning, but there’s no real heat in it. Only panic trying to disguise itself as annoyance.

”No, can we, please?” Jack pleads, looking like the cat that caught the canary. 

“We don’t talk about it,” You shrugged, ignoring her pointed glares. “Didn’t mean anything.” 

Jack dragged his thumb slowly along the rim of his whiskey glass. “So what’s the angle here?”

Samira blinked. “Angle?”

“Mhm.” He gestured lazily between the two of you. “Two gorgeous Stanford tennis players get a newly retired athlete alone in his hotel suite after midnight. They clearly have some unresolved sexual tension.”

”I think we just, admire you.” She whispered, his face gradually inching closer and closer to hers. 

Your eyes are glued on them, watching their bodies gravitate towards each other. 

His hand lifted absently, fingers brushing along the back of the pillows behind Samira’s shoulders. Not touching her exactly. Hovering close enough to make her breath hitch anyway.

“You two act like you’re in the middle of a match neither of you wants to win.” He said, “You two just bounce off of each other, when it would be so much easier to just let someone win.”

Samira laughed softly under her breath, though it sounded nervous now. “You think everything’s tennis.”

“Everything is tennis.”

He leans forward slowly giving Samira all the time in the world to pull away. 

“So what is it, Samira?” He asks, his breath hot against her lips, “Who wins?” 

She wastes no time in pulling him closer, their lips slotting together messily. Time moves slowly, watching as his large hand cradles her face in his hands. The sound of their tongues pressing against each others makes your legs squeeze together, the temperature in the room rising.

He suddenly pulls away from her, both of them immediately meeting your gaze. He says nothing, simply turns his head and presses his lips to yours with the same urgency. 

You can taste her lip gloss on his lips, and it makes your head spin. The rough stubble of his cheeks brushing against your palms makes you groan into the kiss. As soon as your mouth parts he takes that as an opportunity to glide his tongue into your mouth, caressing against yours. It’s hot and desperate, and it’s over way too fast. 

 When he pulls back your lips are swollen, and your heart is nearly beating out of your chest. The first thing you see when you open your eyes are Samira’s on yours. Her own lips red, her hands perched on Jack’s legs to pull her closer to you. 

Jack leans back slowly, looking down at the two of you like he was watching a ball bounce across the court. 

“Come on,” He whispered, nudging his head to the empty space across his lap. The only space separating the two of you. “I know you both want it.” 

Her pupils are blown, lust written all over her face as she looks at you. It’s unspoken as the two of you are pulled together. You don’t know who leans in first, you just know your lips are on hers.

You’ve kissed Samira Mohan before, but it didn’t matter because each time it felt like getting your first breath of fresh air in weeks. 

Her hands grab your face, while yours steady themselves on Jack’s legs. He’s just watching, both of his hands cradling your heads as you kissed each other like you were starved. It was years of tension, of longing all rolled into this one kiss and he was getting to spectate it. 

When you pulled away, her spit was still attached to your lip. Jack groaned softly at this, the tent in his pants evident as he shifted. 

“Should we take this to the bed ladies?” 

It’s a messy tangle of limbs, and clothes being shed as the three of you stumble over to the bed. Samira falls into it first, her dress still dangling off her ankles. Jack’s lips are still on your neck, his hands unzipping your own dress to let it fall in the pile of clothing. When he pulls away to unbutton his shirt you take the chance to grab Samira’s legs helping her pull the dress off of her slowly. 

She looks ethereal like this, laying back with her eyes wide. Her nipples erect, and poking out high just waiting for you to put your mouth on them again. You crawl over her, settling your legs on either side of her hips. 

“This okay?” You ask, your voice hoarse. Thick with anticipation. 

She nods so fast you’re surprised it doesn’t give her whiplash. 

You lean down, dragging your lips down from her neck to her chest. Pulling each of her nipples into your mouth, tongue flicking the small buds before you pulled off of them with a wet pop. You traced a line down her stomach with your tongue, stopping right above her underwear. 

You press a kiss over the warmth of the fabric.  “Can I taste you?” You practically begged.

She lifted her hips up, urging you to pull the fabric down. There’s no time wasted in you doing this. As soon as she’s bare in front of you, you almost feel like you’re dreaming. 

”Fucking gorgeous.” You whispered, running your fingers through the dark hair perched on her mound. With one swipe of your tongue against her glistening cunt, you were gone, pressing your face even further into her. 

“Holy fuck,” She cried out, her hips bucking against you.

Neither of you even noticed that Jack had crawled back on the bed, watching the two of you patiently while you were lost in your own world. Samira tilts her head back, a smirk on her lips. 

“Aren’t you gonna join us?” 

He whistles, “Well baby, I was just enjoying the show.” He leans up off the bed, walking behind where you were still on top of her. 

You lean your head up to speak, but you’re pushed back down by Jack’s hand wrapping itself in your hair. 

“I didn’t say you could stop,” He ordered, pressing his boxer-clad cock against the curve of your ass, “You keep making our girl feel good, and I’ll make you feel good.” 

Your underwear are discarded, with Jack’s fingers finding your clit with expert precision. His callused fingers slip inside of you with little resistance, as he works you open for him. It didn’t take long for your arousal to drip down his hands, between the taste of Samira on your tongue and her breathy moans you were aching for it. 

“Think you’re ready for me?” He asks, and you’re nodding into Samira’s cunt, your moans only causing vibrations to run through her. With her legs shaking around your head, Jack’s cock slips against your entrance. 

The stretch of him takes your breath away, your hands gripping Samira’s legs tighter as he slowly inched himself inside of you. He was huge, that was no surprise you’ve seen the pictures of him in his tight shorts, but now you could feel him in your stomach. 

“Fuckkkk.” He grunted out behind you, his hips meeting yours with a soft pop. “So tight f’me.” 

“Right there,” Samira cried, when your fingers slipped inside of her, your tongue still sloppily licking her cunt, “Fuck, Jack make her feel good.” 

“Yeah?” He asked, amused at watching the two girls so focused on each other’s pleasure. He bucked his hips up into you once, then once more until he slowly found his rhythm. 

The moans bouncing off of the walls were enough to make a porn star blush, between Jack’s grunts and Samira’s wailing moans you wouldn’t have been surprised if you got a noise complaint. 

She came into your mouth with a cry of your name, pushing your head away gently. She crawled over to you, pulling your lips onto hers to taste her own release. 

All while Jack was holding your hips with an iron grip, fucking into you so deep you could hardly feel your toes. 

“Oh, my god.” You cried into Samira’s mouth, “I’m gonna come.” 

Her eyes flickered up to Jack’s, while she still lazily kissed your open mouth, “Mhm, come on Jack’s cock baby.” 

“God, yes.”

Samira drank up your moans, swallowing them down as Jack slowed down his thrusts, watching your cunt cream around him. He slipped out of you with caution, making you cry out at the emptiness. 

Your arms were shaking when you pushed Samira back down on her side, watching Jack stalk behind her like prey. His cock is slick with your release and hanging heavy between his legs. 

“Your turn, baby.” Jack hummed, crawling behind her and lining himself up with her entrance. You lie next to her, letting her body rest on top of yours. 

”Holy-“ She cut herself off by biting down on your shoulder, muffling her screams. You watched Jack’s cock stutter as he pushed further and further inside of her. ”S’big.” 

“Both of you taking m’cock so fucking good,” Jack moaned, his hand heavy on her hip as he began to fuck into her from behind, “M’ so lucky.” 

Samira’s jaw was lax, Jack kissing into her mouth messily as you watched him fuck your juices into her. 

“He feels good doesn’t he?” You moan, reaching forward to start biting and sucking whatever flesh of hers you could grab while Jack fucked her brains out the same way he just did you. Your hands are pulling at her tits, circling her clit in a frantic motion.

She lets out a gargled moan as response, kissing you back lazily. 

“Yeahhh, he does.” You cooed, “That big cock splitting you apart, baby?”

”It’s so good, gonna make me cum, gonna make me cum, oh yes.” She sobbed, falling apart sandwiched between the two of you. 

“M’ right behind you.” Jack warned, his thrusts only getting faster as his balls tightened. You pressed your mouth against Samira’s and that’s all it took for him to still, cumming deep inside of her with a desperate shout. 

The silence that followed was soft, not harsh or uncomfortable. It was heavy breathing and the post-orgasm daze of realizing what had just happened. 

Samira broke the silence with an uncontrollable giggle, her head lolling against your bare chest. 

“You didn’t cum twice.” She pouts, suddenly staring at your body like her hunger had yet to be satisfied. 

“I’m not sure what to do.” She breathed out, suddenly nervous despite the events that had unfolded over the past hour. 

“I‘ll walk you through it,” Jack whispered, his head nuzzling into the crook of her neck. Guiding Samira’s hand between your still open legs. You were still sensitive when her fingertips found your clit, flinching at the sensation. She kept making sure you were okay between each stroke.

“Now you can slip your fingers inside…” Jack guided, to which Samira nodded. 

“Just one or…” 

“She can take two, can’t she?” 

“Yes,” You cried, feeling her second finger slide inside next to her other. Her fingers weren’t as big as Jack’s, but the softness in which she moved had you wanting to cry out in pleasure. 

With instruction, she learned how to thrust her fingers just right. Her thumb hits your clit with each roll of her hand. The sound was absurd as she pulled you closer and closer to your last orgasm of the night. 

“You hear that, just how wet you make her?” He whispered to her, making her eyes nearly roll to the back of her head. His softening cock was still deep inside of her, plugging her with his cum that threatened to leak out the sides. Meanwhile her fingers were making a mess of your cunt, the lewd wet sounds making both of them mewl into each other as they watched you writhe and come apart on her fingers. 

“See that?” he asked, watching your hips grind into her hand. “She’s gonna cum.” 

“Mira,” You cried out, trying to pull her as close as possible, your lips brushing as you came around her with a shout.

Her eyes stayed locked on you while you came, drinking in each twitch of your body. 

When she slipped her fingers out of you, she stared at the slick digits like Eve staring at the apple in the garden. 

“Taste her.” He whispered, but it sounded more like an order. 

She slid her fingers into her mouth, sucking around the digits moaning at the taste of your release against your fingers. 

“Fuck.” You breathed out, watching her cheeks hollow. 

“Fuck is right.” Jack said, in awe at the two of you. 

All of your bones were heavy with exhaustion, bodies still floating in bliss. You remember cleaning up, and Samira pulling you into her chest. The next thing you remember was waking up to the bright light peering through the curtains. 

The bright intrusion made you groan, trying to roll over only to be blocked by a hard block of muscle. That’s when the memories of last night rushed through you. It wasn’t a dream, it was real and the ache between your legs and the two warm bodies lying next to you were proof of that. 

New York was still dark beyond the massive hotel windows, the city painted in soft blue-gray light while rain tapped quietly against the glass high above Manhattan. The suite smelled faintly like champagne and expensive linen and something warmer underneath it all musk, sweat, and sleep.

For a long moment, you didn’t move too busy watching her. 

Samira slept on her side facing you, curls spilled messily across silk pillowcases, mouth slightly parted beneath the dim morning light. Without all her sharpness awake inside her, she looked younger somehow. Softer. Like the version of her all those years ago you first fell in love with.

You reached out carefully, brushing a loose curl back from her face with your fingertips. Her eyes fluttered open almost immediately.

For one disorienting second she just stared at you sleepily, lashes heavy and lips still swollen from sleep and kissing and all the champagne from the night before

“Hi,” she whispered, voice rough.

“Hi.”

Behind her, Jack groaned softly into the pillows before tightening his arm instinctively around Samira’s waist. His eyes blinked open slower than hers had, still foggy with sleep while he looked between both of you lazily.

”Oh, so it wasn’t a wet dream.” He mumbled, breaking a bit of the awkward tension. 

“Hey, how are you feeling?” Samira asks, grabbing your wrist from underneath the blanket, holding it gently in her hand. 

“I’m good,” You smiled, and maybe for the first time in a while you really meant it. 

“Good,” She beamed, “Then I have a question.” 

“Oh, god.” You started to sigh, then squealed when she wrapped her still bare legs around yours pulling herself on top of you to straddle your hips. The blanket sat low on her waist, her curves on display while her tits bounced in your face, 

“Will you coach for me?” She asks, her hair falling around her head like a halo. 

How could you say no? When she looked like that, and the taste of her was still faint on your mouth. Her bare skin pressed against yours felt like heaven, and in that moment you would have done anything for her. 

“Yes, god yeah.” You laughed at her immediate squeal, leaning up to press your lips to hers gently. 

Jack just laid there, his arms behind his back staring over at you two. “Ready to play some tennis, girls?”

Your relationship was never defined, everyone knew you and Samira came as a pair. It had been unspoken since your undergrad days, but now Jack Abbot was also there. 

Jack accepted Stanford’s offer not long after that night. Officially, it was temporary. Guest coaching. Mentorship. Media appearances as an alumni. The university parading around the fact that they had Jack Abbot wandering their courts now, older and limping slightly but still magnetic enough to draw attention. 

Unofficially, he was there for Samira. Everyone knew it. The rumor mill started almost immediately. 

It became one of those things nobody directly addressed but everyone understood instinctively. Samira Mohan arrived with you attached at her side like gravity itself demanded it, and somewhere along the way Jack had slipped seamlessly into the orbit too.

It was late-night practices under empty stadium lights. Jack fed impossible balls across the court while Samira laughed breathlessly after missing them by inches. You correcting her aggression while he corrected her footwork. The three of you collapsing onto benches afterward sweaty and exhausted, sharing water bottles and protein bars and tension so thick it practically sat beside you. It was stolen kisses and the nights the three of you never talked about during the day. 

It wasn’t what any of you had planned, but it was something sacred between the three of you. At least you thought it was. 

At first, it was small things. She’d look to him first after matches now, searching his face for approval before yours. During practices, she listened more sharply when he spoke, more immediate in her adjustments, more eager to impress him in ways she never tried with you anymore because your approval had become assumed.

He challenged her constantly, pushed her harder than anyone else ever had. He understood the uglier side of her ambition. Where you soothed her spirals, Jack sharpened them into fuel. Where you protected her confidence, he provoked it deliberately just to watch her fight her way back.

Jack would pull her aside afterward for “extra work,” and suddenly two hours had passed without either of them answering texts. You’d find them still on court long after dark, standing too close near the baseline while discussing strategy, Samira flushed with her hair a little out of place. Sometimes she’d forget you were supposed to be there at all. 

Suddenly you weren’t the only one who understood her game, and it made you green with envy. How were you on the outside of something that you all had started together? 

“Late for your own practice.” You said, your voice short and clipped. Nothing but the harsh sound of your racket slamming the ball into the wall echoes from the training room you booked weeks ago. You had spent the last hour and a half, stewing in your own anger. 

Her hair is a mess, eyeliner still smudged underneath her eyes. She looks the least put together you’ve ever seen her at practice, but she’s still vibrating with energy. 

“I’m sorry,” Her voice was dry, water bottle swinging in her hand, “It was a long night. Jack and I were watching some of his old games.” 

“Yeah, I’m sure.” You whistled, another ball cracking against the wall with so much force it made her flinch at the sound. 

“Okay,” She breathes out, crossing her arms over her chest. “Are you upset with me?”

“Why would I be upset Samira?” You laugh cruelly, “Is it the part where you decided my future for me, or the part where you know how I feel about you but you continue to exploit it?”

“I’m not exploiting you,” She gawked, “Where is this coming from?”

The bitterness that rose in your throat tasted humiliating. “You asked me to coach you,” you said. “You asked me to put my career on hold because you said nobody understood your game the way I do. You said you needed me.”

“I do need you-“

“But not the way I needed you to.” The words exploded out of your chest, making your hands shake. “Not the way you need, him.” 

Her eyes widened, nearly stumbling over her own feet as if the words you said made the ground shake beneath her feet. 

“You know what the worst part is?” you laughed bitterly. “I would’ve done it anyway. That’s what’s so pathetic.”

“Y/n-”

“No, seriously.” You turned toward her sharply. “You asked me right after that night in New York. That was fucked.”

Neither of you ever talked about it directly anymore. Not Jack’s hands on both of you. Not the unbearable intimacy of waking up tangled together afterward and pretending it hadn’t changed everything. It just lived underneath every conversation, every fleeting glance. You let it happen, again. 

“You asked me after we slept together because you knew I was too in love with you to say no,” you said quietly. “And I said yes so fast I didn’t even stop to think what it would cost me. Because I love you, Samira.” 

She looked like you had slapped her, “You think I planned that?” she asked, voice cracking now. “You think I manipulated you into all of this?”

”I think you always knew you’d never choose tennis over me, but I think you loved that I’d choose you over tennis. Fuck, I would have chosen you over everything.” Your voice cracked, tears welling in your lash line. 

Samira wiped angrily at her eyes before looking back at you. “That’s not true, Y/n. I need you on my team, so I’m confused. I’m confused and scared, but what I do know is that I need you. I need us, together.” 

“There’s no us Samira,” You scoff, feeling your knuckles ache from just how hard you were gripping your racket. “There never has been, not really.” 

“Y/n..” 

“No,” You threw your hands up, stopping her from walking closer, “I need some space, okay?”

She sniffles, but spins on her feet anyway leaving you alone. 

The moment the door closes behind her, you let out a blood-curdling yell. The racket slams on the ground with such force that you can feel the ache in your shoulder before you see the plastic splinter across the concrete. You lose track of how long you’re slamming it into the ground, but when you hear the door open the racket is nothing but the handle. 

Like a bad omen, Jack Abbot is walking into the room. 

“Oh fucking great,” You scoff, trying to blink away the angry tears from your eyes, “Just the fucking person I wanted to see.” 

“You done?” he asked quietly.

“Fuck you.”

He shut the door behind him anyway, walking into the now plastic mess scattered on the court. 

Your shoulder was throbbing now, the familiar burn shooting down your arm from overtraining and rage and three straight days of sleeping badly. You wiped angrily at your face before bending to grab your bag, already wanting him gone.

”Your shoulder’s swelling again,” he said.

“I don’t care.”

“Yeah,” he muttered, walking closer. “That’s kinda the problem.”

You should’ve told him to leave, should’ve beaten him over the head with your spare racket. Instead, you sat heavily on the bench while he crouched in front of you, pulling athletic tape and scissors from your bag with ease.

The room felt unbearably quiet now. Just the soft tear of tape and your heavy, labored breath. 

Jack’s fingers brushed carefully against your skin while he rolled your shoulder experimentally, making you flinch.

“Tight,” he murmured.

“No shit.”

His hands steadied your arm anyway, surprisingly gentle despite everything else about him. The touch should’ve annoyed you more than it did. Instead, it made something inside your chest ache.

“When’s the last time you did something for yourself?” He asks, setting down the scissors and tape with a clank. 

You let out a shaky breath, shrugging, “My whole fucking college life has just been her.” 

“Maybe,” He whispered, his hand grabbing your thigh gently. “You need to start being selfish again.” 

You looked down at his hand on your bare thigh, your stomach twisting in knots. It was this again, the weird tension between the three of you. The wanting each of them in different ways that made it all so complicated. 

“She loves you.” The words escaped before you could stop them.

Jack’s expression barely changed. But his hand tightened slightly against your leg.

“She loves you,” you repeated more quietly. “And you love her.”

He nods, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “I do.” 

Something bitter twisted through your chest. “She’ll always love tennis more,” You pinch the bridge of your nose harshly, trying to warn him against the heartbreak that’s settling deep within your ribs. 

“So will I, which is why I think it’ll work.” His confession leaves you stunned, your fingernails still digging harshly into your palms. 

A harsh cry escapes your throat, amusement laced with sadness at the absurdity that is your life. 

“She loves you, you know? But you’re competition. You always have been. It’s probably why she loved you in the first place,” He hums, like it’s a fact that was glaringly obvious. “She’s not like you, she’s not insults and penalties on the court. She’s keeping you close, she wants you in her corner because if you're not? You’re her biggest competition and she fucking knows it.”

”You’ve been stroking my ego since we met,” You mumbled, “Doesn’t make any sense. I’m always second to her. In every fucking aspect.” 

His thumb rubs a soft circle against your leg, goosebumps rising on your skin. 

 “What’s your angle?” You asked finally, looking up at the man. “New York, your hand on my leg, what the fuck is all of this?” 

“My angle?” He laughs, and it’s different from how you’ve heard him laugh before. It was deeper, more real. ”I just wanna watch some good fucking tennis.” 

You ripped your leg out of his grasp, grabbing your bag so harshly you couldn’t even think about the pain that was still radiating down your shoulder. 

“I’ll show you good fucking tennis.” 

“I know you will!” His voice echoed through the hallway. 

-

In hindsight, you shouldn’t have called your friends and drank half a bottle of vodka to dull the pain that was pressing against your ribcage. It just felt like the only logical thing to do. You were a month away from graduation, your future suddenly blurry around the edges after years of precision. Tennis had always been the one thing in your life that made sense. Work hard enough and you get results. Fight hard enough and eventually somebody would recognize it. You earned your spot here, and you let love ruin all of that. 

Samira had never played by those rules inside your heart and now Jack had walked into both of your lives like a lit match tossed into dry grass.

By the end of the night, Trinity had taken your phone away twice to stop you from texting them things you’d regret. You vaguely remembered crying in the bathroom while one of the girls from track held your hair back even though you hadn’t actually thrown up.

When you woke up your mouth tasted like vodka and regret. You groaned quietly and rolled over, fumbling blindly for your phone on the nightstand.

Three missed calls from Samira <3 

You stared at her name for a long moment before finally pressing call back.

It rang twice before voicemail picked up. The sound of her recorded greeting nearly shattered whatever fragile resolve you’d managed to piece together overnight.

Hey,” You breathed out, the sound of your own voice making you cringe, “I’m sorry about last night. I just, Samira, I really love you. Jack coming into our lives has just made everything so fucking complicated. I’ll support you every step of the way, you know that. If you love him, go for it. I’ll step aside. I’ll be okay, you know? But you’re right, we n-need each other. We’re a team. Just, listen, I'm sorry again. I’ll bring you your favorite coffee before practice, okay?” 

As soon as you hang up the phone, a loud banging against your door makes you jump. 

“Y/n!” You hear Trinity’s voice on the other side, banging even harder than before. 

“Jesus, who’s on fire?” You yelped, rushing to swing the door open. She doesn’t even greet you, simply pushes her way into your room shoving her phone in your face. 

“Did you fucking see?” She’s furious, her face is red and her chest is rising meaning she probably ran all the way here. 

“What-“

You finally read the words on the news article, your breath catching in your throat. 

“RETIRED TENNIS LEGEND JACK ABBOT TO COACH RISING STAR SAMIRA MOHAN THROUGH HER PROFESSIONAL DEBUT”

Below is a picture of a press conference, no doubt happening this morning. He’s standing next to her holding a contract, both of their smiles wide. You read it again, and again, snatching the phone from her hand in disbelief. You read it so many times that the words blur together and stop making sense in your brain. 

“Are you fucking serious?” Your voice doesn’t waver; instead, it's a loud bark. 

“It came out just a few minutes ago,” She whispered, “It seems like this has been in the works for a while.”

One argument, one disagreement and she throws away years of hard work, years of love between the two of you. 

The close relationships you had built with each of them mattered too much. You couldn’t throw everything away.

“We didn’t want you to feel weirded out, you know?” Katara finally broke the silence as she scooted closer, until her chest pressed against your arm.

“Oh, no, I would never—”

Your breath caught in your throat the moment her hand landed on your thigh.

“Is that okay?” Katara asked softly, fingers resting there carefully.

You could barely answer her.

You nodded quietly instead.

“I want to hear you talk,” she pushed gently, her hand slowly sliding higher up your thigh.

“It’s okay,” you breathed out shakily.

“You’re blushing like crazy,” Sokka snickered as he leaned back on his palms, eyes never leaving your form.

You threw him a glare, but the second your eyes locked with his, you couldn’t hold it for long.

Yeah.

For the first time, you actually felt intimidated by Sokka.

“Are you too hot right now?” Katara spoke again, making you look back at her. “You’re burning up,” she continued while your breathing turned more uneven with every second. “Should I help you?”

She offered it so casually, like she wasn’t making your entire body heat up with just a few touches.

You would’ve liked not to answer so fast. But you did.

She barely even managed to finish speaking before a nervous “yes” left your lips.

Toph and Sokka immediately giggled while Zuko and Aang sent you sympathetic looks, though neither of them looked much calmer themselves.

“Come here, then. Lay your back against my chest,” Katara instructed gently, though there was still firmness hidden beneath her soft tone.

You nodded quickly and shifted towards her, settling between her legs until your back rested against her chest comfortably.

“Tell me if it’s too much, alright?” she whispered near your ear.

Then you felt her hands slide downwards until they rested over your breasts beneath the dark green robe you were wearing.

Your breath hitched.

Katara hooked her fingers into the fabric and slowly dragged the material aside, exposing your bare breasts to the entire room. Cool air brushed against your skin immediately, making your nipples harden from the sudden loss of warmth.

Sokka whistled at the sight before Zuko nudged him hard in the side.

Aang stayed quiet, but his eyes were completely focused on your chest now.

“Nothing underneath?” Katara questioned with a knowing smile tugging at her lips.

“I— you all appeared out of nowhere— I didn’t have time—” you tried to explain quickly.

“She’s lying,” Toph interrupted with a grin.

Your face burned hotter as you looked down at your lap.

Katara raised a brow at you expectantly.

You took a deep breath as you closed your eyes, avoiding their eyes.

“I wore nothing on purpose,” you finally admitted on a quiet tone.

A moan instantly slipped from your lips when Katara’s hands squeezed your breasts, kneading the soft skin slowly.

“Oh,” she whispered against your ear. “Then maybe we’ll have to punish you for lying and for the other times you did things on purpose.”

Her fingers squeezed your nipples harder.

Then suddenly, you felt something freezing against your skin.

You jolted.

Looking down, you realized the tips of Katara’s fingers had turned icy cold, frost slowly forming against your heated skin. The sharp contrast made your entire body squirm in her lap.

She kept rubbing your nipples between her fingers, making shaky cries leave your throat from both the sting and pleasure of it.

“Mhm— ah!”

Your head fell back against her shoulder.

“Need some warmth?” she teased softly.

Before you could answer, you heard heavy footsteps approaching.

You lifted your head slightly and saw Zuko walking towards you before lowering himself onto his knees between your legs.

His large hands rested carefully against your knees first before slowly sliding upwards over your skin.

“That okay?” he asked quietly, eyes fixed on yours while waiting patiently for your answer.

You nodded automatically.

Katara immediately pressed colder fingers against your nipple in punishment for your non-verbal reply, making you jolt with a whimper.

“Yes! Yes, it’s okay— I’m sorry,” you gasped out quickly.

Zuko’s lips curled into a small teasing smirk before he slowly pushed aisde the material of your robes, completely revealing your legs along with your undergarments.

Then his palm slowly went between youe legs, pressing directly against your clothed core.

Your hips jerked forward instinctively at the warmth of his hand against your sensitive heat.

Katara’s lips brushed against your ear at the same time, making another shiver run through your body.

You had Katara’s cold hands on your breasts and Zuko’s warmth pressing down on you through the material, the contrast making your head spin.

You were so lost in the moment that you didn’t even notice Aang and Sokka stepping closer until they settled beside you on either side.

“Gonna help us out a little too, right?” Sokka asked with a grin.

“If you want to, of course,” Aang added with a soft voice, offering a nervous smile.

How could you even refuse them?

“I’d love—mhm— love to,” you say, a lot breathier than intended.

Sokka’s grin widened after hearing your reply. He then took your hand that rested on Katara’s leg, while Aang carefully lifted your other hand, fumbling slightly with his trousers.

Normally, you probably would’ve giggled at how awkward he looked for a second. But Zuko and Katara already had you dizzy from the overwhelming contrast of hot and cold sensations moving through your body.

You let both boys guide your hands where they wanted them, your eyes slightly widening when you saw them pulling out their half-hardened cocks.

Sokka was bigger than you expected, not overly thick but long enough to make your throat tighten. Aang was thicker, with more prominent veins running along his length, making you wonder how would it feel inside you.

Both of them were already leaking precum, feeling their wettnes the moment your fingers wrapped around them. Quiet hisses and groans filled the room as you started moving your hands slowly, thumbs spreading the slick fluid over their tips before stroking up and down carefully.

Sokka’s hand quickly caught your wrist, encouraging you to pump him faster, while Aang seemed to enjoy slower movements more.

So you tried your best to give both of them what they wanted.

But it was hard to stay focused.

Katara was still kneading your breasts like they belonged to her, earning soft whimpers from you every few seconds before icy jolts shot through your body whenever her cold fingertips brushed over your sensitive nipples too harshly.

At the same time, Zuko’s palm kept rubbing over your clothed core, thumb brushing your clit, pressing down and spreading his warmth all over, making your hips twitch forward helplessly.

When he finally stopped moving and pulled his hand away, you almost whimpered at the loss. But then your gaze dropped towards Toph, who was crawling towards you with a grin spread across her face.

“What—”

“Shh,” Katara cooed softly into your ear, her warm breath brushing your skin and making your heart race even faster. “It’s okay.”

Toph reached you and immediately pushed your legs apart wider while Zuko’s hand suddenly caught your chin, forcing your attention back onto him instead.

You blinked in confusion at first, only for your breath to catch when you realized he was freeing his cock too.

Slowly, carefully, he guided the tip against your parted lips.

“Just a little?” he asked, voice low as the tip brushed against your lower lip.

“Yes,” you breathed out quickly before Katara could punish you again for staying quiet.

That was all Zuko needed.

He pushed into your mouth too fast at first, making you gag immediately as tears burned at your eyes. He muttered a quick apology under his breath before pulling back slightly to let you breathe. Then he moved again, slower this time, more careful. Though you could still tell he wanted to go faster.

Your watery gaze dropped towards Toph, who was already pulling the rest of your clothes away completely. The second she exposed your cunt, her fingertips slid through your folds curiously before she chuckled softly at how wet you already were.

Your hips instinctively moved towards her touch, the sudden movement making you gag around Zuko again.

Toph only grinned wider at the sounds.

She lowered herself between your legs completely before hooking them over her shoulders.

Then her mouth was on you.

The first slow lick along your folds made your entire body shake. A second later, she sucked harshly at your clit, earning louder muffled cries from your throat around Zuko’s cock.

Katara kept whispering soft praises into your ear while stimulating your nipples relentlessly. They were probably swollen and red by now from how much attention she gave them, but the sting only turned you on more.

Your grip around Sokka and Aang loosened slightly as your focus completely shattered from all the sensations hitting you at once.

Zuko thrusting into your mouth.

Toph licking between your legs like she was starving.

Katara torturing your sensitive chest.

Sokka noticed immediately.

He firmly grabbed your wrist and guided your hand faster along his length, using your grip to help himself chase his release.

Aang stayed gentler instead.

He slowly rocked into your hand while one of his palms moved into your hair, carefully massaging your scalp and trying to comfort you despite how overwhelmed you already looked.

The room slowly filled with sounds.

Your muffled moans.

Sokka’s groans.

Aang’s shaky breaths.

Zuko’s rough grunts.

And the wet slurping noises coming from between your legs every time Toph sucked harder at your clit.

Meanwhile, Katara stayed steady behind you through all of it, paying attention to every reaction your body gave her. Every twitch. Every gasp.

Every tear gathering at your eyes whenever Zuko pushed too deep into your throat or Toph sucked your clit too harshly.

At one point, your eyes fluttered shut completely.

There were too many sensations at once. Too many hands touching you everywhere — your breasts, your waist, your stomach, your thighs.

“I’m close,” Zuko suddenly grunted.

Your eyes opened halfway.

Steam curled faintly from his skin and through his nose, while veins stood out sharply along his neck as his thrusts became rougher and sloppier.

Then, with a sharp breath, he finally pulled out and spilled over his own palm instead.

You inhaled deeply the second your mouth was free, finally able to breathe properly again—

—but the relief barely lasted two seconds.

Katara’s hand grabbed your chin firmly and turned your head towards her before she crashed her lips against yours.

The kiss instantly turned messy.

Teeth clashing. Lips biting.

Saliva slipping down your chin as she kissed you greedily, swallowing every shaky whimper that left your throat. At some point, her hand slid back down between your thighs, fingers pressing directly against your clit while Toph kept licking at your folds below.

Toph hummed against you, tightening her grip around your thighs.

You moaned louder, hips moving faster now until you were practically grinding your pussy against Toph’s face.

Your toes curled hard and a hot feeling started tightening inside your stomach, growing stronger with every touch, every movement, every hand on your body.

Then suddenly, another hand tilted your chin upwards.

Aang.

He lowered himself closer before pulling you into another kiss immediately after Katara let you go. You thought he would be a bit more composed, but with the way his tongue pushed into your mouth desperately… it was far from that.

Your hand still stroked him through the kiss, feeling him twitch harder and harder in your grip. He whimpered against your lips, both hands tangling into your hair as he pulled you closer.

The kiss quickly became sloppy and desperate. Then his whole body tensed suddenly.

You felt hot cum spill over your hand while his movements faltered completely. Small apologies left his lips between kisses, breathless and embarrassed.

You couldn’t help smiling faintly against his mouth.

But before the moment could last, another strong hand wrapped gently around your throat, pulling you away from Aang.

Then Sokka kissed you next.

He no longer needed help to finish as he did the work by himself since you were so lost in the moment.

Your jaw hurt and your lips were completely swollen because of the kissing. You were still trying to focus on reaching that feeling that felt so close.

You let out a moan as you let Sokka’s tongue leave your mouth, while your hips rose up to meet Toph faster. But before you can feel that sweet pressure finally snap, you heard Katara’s voice behindyou.

“Stop,” her voice came out strong and firm, making you shiver.

Toph’s movements slow down as she leans back, while Sokka’s mouth leaves yours.

“But—” you try to complain.

“Where would be the punishment if we let you get what you want?” she smiled at you, but her eyes gave you another message… one that stirred something in you. Something heavy and dark and… curious.

You’ve never thought you’d enjoy feeling so many hands on you, so many mouths, so many bodies… but you did, and you wanted to see how far this will go.

Katara patted your leg to get up, and you tried, but you almost fell due to your wobbly legs, yet Aang moved faster and caught you in his strong arms.

“Easy,” he whispered in your ear, making you look up at him, seeing how fond he was looking at you. He had that kind smile on his face.

Before you can even thank him, you heard Katara’s voice behind you, sending shivers down your spine.

Thinking many thoughts about this little clip and just how rabbot coded it is.

Maybe even, and walk with me here, boyfriends dads rabbot.

Maybe you’re staying with your boyfriend for a little while over summer break. Maybe some of those days said boyfriend still has tennis or perhaps soccer training meaning he's out for the majority of the morning/early afternoon.

And on those days, the only people still home just so happens to be his two hot, older dads.

You get along, always have since you first met the pair, but that doesn't quell the fuzzy feeling in your gut whenever they interact with you.

The pair find it endearing really, the way you'll slip sometimes, calling them Mr Abbot and Mr Robinavitch instead of Jack and Robby (or Micheal if you'd prefer it). You struggle to keep eye contact with them too, even more so when you trip your words up when responding to questions about yourself. Your degree, your hobbies, what you enjoy to eat, hell, they'll even how your relationship is going with their boy- they're just interested thats all!

But the thing that gets both Jack and Robby chubbing up in their pants like perverted old bastards the most?

How you've spent your time bouncing around the Robinavitch-Abbot household in what must be the skimpest of summer clothes. That bikini that barely covers your tits as you soak up the sun in their garden, or the denim shorts that hardly hides the line of your panties as you sit on the couch reading.

Theres guilt, of course there is, the pair of them perving over their sons girlfriend. But not nearly enough to make them stop thinking about you in ways they shouldn't be. Like how wet you get when worked up or how beautiful your body must be truly bare.

Robby always thinks your lips would look stretched around the girth of them, while Jack ponders the perfect whines you'd let free as you cum.

Its after a long day of sunbathing does everything finally come to a head though

Your skin glistens with a mix of sunscreen and sweat, heart thudding in your chest from the heat. You're boyfriends gone again, has been all day, leaving you, Jack and Robby at home soaking in the summer sun in the backyard.

At lunch you learnt Jack knows a thing or two about making cocktails, by almost dinner you're pretty confident he's got a mean pour.

The world floats by as you lounge on a chair, watching Robby stood by the grill cooking steaks with his own sweating beer. The glass on the table next to you half full, your.. Fourth? Maybe third? Fruity Margarita abandoned as you giggle about something that feels funnier than it is.

Thats the last thing you properly remember- the gruff laughter, the sundrunk haze, Jack and Robby drinking, grilling and hosting like regular older men.

When your eyes blink open again (did you shut them on purpose or did they flutter without you knowing?) the scene is vastly different.

Grey curls sit messily between your plush thighs, hazel eyes peering up lustblown and dark. It hits you then, the intense pleasure of a skilled mouth lapping and lavishing your pussy.

Its hot, wet, perfect and utterly wrong all in one, legs desperate to close around the older mans ears to little avail. Jacks big hands hold you open though, palms flat on your inner thighs, panties of your bathing suit crooked to the side and held steady by two thick fingers.

Your back arches from the lounger, a ragged, breathless gasp ripping from your heaving chest. "O-oh my god!"

The tongue flicks playfully against your clit, before plump lips suckle lewdly, a voice you recognize as Robbys chucking as he sits crouched beside you. "Mm, not quite sweetheart. You wanna that try again?"

The moan breaks with your voice, a hand flying down to those mused salt and pepper curls, tangling tight. "J-jack oh f-fuckk"

"Yeahhh, There you go" he grins wolfish, "s' he makin you feel good kid?"

The nod is jerky, the response even more so. Your hips bump up despite Jack's grip, brain unsure if to run or relish in the overwhelming feeling between your legs; at how fuckig wrong it is to let it continue. "M-mphm y-yeah"

Jack offers some reprive just a moment, unlatching his mouth for just a moment to gravel out "Got you squirmin like no ones done this before, s' our boy holdin out on you honey?"

The question only serves as a reminder these men are your boyfriends fathers, men decades older than you and him. Its wrong, sick, absolutely fucking vile to do to the man you love.. But fuck, his dads devouring you like your sloppy, slick pussy is the only thing left on earth to sustain him. Hes licking you with experience that only comes from enjoyment, suckling like every gasp and whine gives him air.

But in this moment, your hot. Hazy. Utterly drunk of bliss. So you mewl out the truth, jerking your hips to hump at Jack's face like the pleasures the only thing that will keep you alive. "M-mhm.. Says he.. He doesnt like it- fucking shit- that s' not enjoyable-"

"Doesn't like eatin this pretty pussy up, Christ, where'd we go wrong mi- mphmn" Jack murmers incredulous again your folds, stubble rubbing a heavenly kind of pain on your most intimate of areas, fumed point cut off by Robby reaching over a hand that pushes his partner back into your pussy so tight its a wonder he's able to breathe.

"Shhh jack, jus' keep goin. Shes gettin close huh honey?" Robby grins, hand sliding beneath the cups of your bikini top. Your nipples pert and tight as his calloused thumb offers a delightful friction. "Sides, we've gotta correct that bullshit ourselves hm, apologize to that sweet little pussy for everything she's been missin"

Your head is thrown back, hair mused against the chair, your body quivering as the bliss only draws tighter in your gut. Your eyes struggle to stay open between the now setting sun and the onslaught of pleasure. Those plush, still glistening thighs tremble against Jack's touch, one of his hands sliping down to press one, then two, thick digits inside.

You can feel the cool edge of his wedding band bump your hole with each slickened drive, every curl managing to rub at your g spot in a way that only pushes you closer to crumbling.

Then, as quick as Jack's mouth had appeared at your pussy, another sensation has your spine arching almost painfully. Robbys somehow pushed the cup of your top to the side, mouth hot on your skin, his own tongue flicking and teasing at your nipple. His peppered beard making you shake as it rubs your skin with every move he makes.

Its that combo that sends you over the edge with a wail of their names so perfect their chubbed up cocks throb and leak inside the confines of shorts now way too tight. It takes your breath away near violently, the orgasm hitting you so hard you're almost convinced you'll never come back down.

They both keep it up until tears slip down your cheeks, until you're pushing them off and your body is overwhelmingly sensitive. Blood thunders in your ears, hazing over the praise the pair murmer to you.

Jack rises with a groan, shuffling himself forward to meet your mouth in a messy, filthy kiss. You can taste yourself on his tongue, feel the dampness on his stubble, letting yourself drown in the dopamine a moment longer before you know you'll have to address everything that's just happened..

That is, until hot breath fans over your twitching clit the same but different, you're eyes wide as you dart between Robby who you didn't even realise had moved and Jack.

Robby grins wolfish again, shuffled between your shaking thighs, a large hand pressing on your still heaving belly. Your eyes must look like saucers, lips pouty and bitten raw, peering down with the most doe- like expression.

"Nawh whats that look for?" he coos, pitiful and mocking, inhaling the sweet, musky scent of you in a way that makes your insided lurch. "S'it too much t' take sweetheart? Two old men wantin to lick your sweet pussy?"

"mhm.." you mewl, hand reaching blindly for the loungers edge- for Jack and some semblance of safety. "R-robby please..cant.."

The chuckle is mean, a rumble you feel in the deepest parts of you, hips shifting preemptively to little avail. Robbys gaze drops, as does his wiry haired jaw, his sentiment cut between a broken moan and the envelopement of your puffy clit into the cavern of his mouth.

Jack must be getting home. Your apartments are the only ones on this floor, your doors directly across the hall from each other. As you go to lock your door you do your best to try not to think about where Jack has been and why he's getting home at 10 p.m. on a Thursday. You know from chatting last week that he got off this morning and is off the next few days.

Your entire body freezes when the realization hits you, preemptive jealousy and rejection flooding your system. What if he walks off the elevator with someone?

It's been over nine months of this… thing between you and Jack. You're neighbors, yes, but you're clearly so much more. And while it's clear that you're more than neighbors, it's unclear what you actually are, together and to each other.

The two of you flirt, sometimes subtly and with an intimate gentleness that almost makes your hearts ache, and sometimes intensely, both of you lit on fire by the other's words and body movements and facial expressions. There have been so many what you're both 99% sure were almost-kisses that you've lost count.

You have nicknames for each other. One day you'd called him Bugs, it had just slipped out without you even realizing. It took Jack about twenty seconds to put it together and figure out where it came from. You were going to apologize and assure him you'd never call him it again but he spoke first, responding to whatever you said and calling you Tweety.

Jack has invited you over and cooked you dinner and the two of you have eaten at his table sharing a bottle of wine or a six pack of whatever before you chill on his couch until you start to fall asleep, sometimes watching something on TV, but most of the time just facing each other and chatting. You've invited Jack over and the two of you have eaten takeout on your couch while showing each other your favorite movies and watching new ones together, trying to find movies that are so bad they're good and leave you both crying with laughter on your couch.

You’ve met his friends and the people who he’s closest with and who mean the most to him, some from the Pitt, some from his army unit, some from his SWAT unit. He’s met a couple of your more casual friends, knows that your closest and who mean the most to you don’t live in or particularly close to the city. 

Jack has hugged you so tightly and for so long on some of your worst days, until enough pieces of you have been put back together that you feel like you can function again, made you your favorite or ordered it in if you could stomach it, made you something light if you couldn't so that you had some food in your system. He always seems to know just what to do and just what you need. 

You've made Jack breakfast and eaten with him while he sat silently on your couch trying to process some of his worst shifts, ones that were hell or where there was more death than life or patients that particularly got to him, been with him however he needed on some of his worst days, never expect or ask him to talk or explain what's going on. You always seem to know just what to do and just what he needs. 

He knows all the gossip from your job. You know all of the Pitt gossip that Jack knows, which is pretty much all of it because people just tell him things without him asking or even hinting that he'd like to know. 

You tease each other in every sense. You've both been obviously jealous when there have been the occasional dates the other has gone on, have both acted out a little bit over said jealousy.

You text each other every day, some days more than others. It's not uncommon for you to go four or five days without seeing each other in person or hearing the other's voice, you're not spending every night at each other's house or constantly going over for dinners or just to hang or whatever. While there's less pressure to have a reason, much less a legitimate sounding one, to invite the other over, you both still frequently try to offer one, no matter how lame it ends up sounding.

You know each other's secrets, things neither of you have admitted to anyone else except maybe your therapists. You know each other's past, each other's present and each other's dreams for the future. You've become best friends in the most unique way despite how little time you actually spend together. You can't imagine life without each other.

Jack knows he's falling in love with you.

You know you're falling in love with Jack.

But Jack can't understand for a single second why you'd ever be interested in him, convinces himself that he’s making up all the evidence that you are.

And you can't understand for a single second why Jack would ever be interested in you, convince yourself you’re making up all the evidence that he is.

You're both scared. Neither of you want to lose the other.

So you just continue on in this perpetual state of limbo that's so far beyond better than nothing at the same time as it's absolutely fucking nowhere near enough.

You're fumbling with your key when you hear Jack step off the elevator. There's no footsteps behind or next to him. He's alone. A sense of relief you know you have no business having washes over you.

"Hey, Tweety." Jack watches you turn your key the opposite direction than he expects. His eyebrows raise slightly. "Heading out this late on a Thursday?" 

As he makes his way closer and stops walking he realizes you have a duffel bag with you, though it doesn't look like there's a ton in it. That observation has his eyebrows furrowing. He didn't realize you were going somewhere and wouldn't be around the next few days. He does his best to keep his voice light, curious but not intrusive. "Ah," he drawls, nodding at your duffel. "Escaping somewhere this weekend?"

He won't lie, he'll be disappointed if you are. He was kind of hoping to invite you over this weekend just to hang out at his place and make you dinner.

"Not quite," you laugh softly. "My, um, my hot water heater broke. I was planning on just dealing since they're either fixing it or replacing it tomorrow, but I don't know." You shrug at him. "I just need to wash the day off me." You let out a breath and smile at him. "A coworker sent me a pass to her gym so I'm going to go use the shower there. What about you? 10 p.m. on a Thursday." You force a smirk and raise your eyebrows. "Hot date?"

Jack snorts. "Hardly. A group of us from work went out to a bar to decompress."

You hold your smirk and tilt your head at him despite the way you want to cry and your heart sinks at the potential for what you say next to be true. "Could still be someone special there you haven't told me about who made you want to go."

He rolls his eyes at you playfully, but he can feel the butterflies in his stomach and fluttering of his heart caused by you seeming to care and maybe even being jealous at just the thought that there could be someone else. "I can assure you there's nobody special at work. You know there's absolutely nobody at work I'm remotely interested in and that I don't shit where I eat," he smirks back at you. "Why don't you just use my shower? Save yourself the time of getting to the gym and back."

"Oh, I, I," you titter, lick your lips and force yourself to pull it together. "I couldn't impose like that. It's getting late and it'll take up your time and, and… you know. It's very sweet of you to offer though, truly."

"You using my shower is so fucking far away from being an imposition. And it is getting late, yeah. Which is all the more reason for you to do the much safer thing and use my shower that's just across the hall." He cocks his head at you and raises his eyebrows. "You know if you go to the gym I'm going to stay up until you text me that you're home safe."

You let out a breathy laugh. He's right. You know he will. And you know there's something so protective with almost a possessive edge to it that makes your heart race and warmth bloom in your lower abdomen. "You don't have to do that, Bugs."

"I know," he nods once, "but I will anyway." Jack's voice drops to a murmur, his eyes dark and piercing yours as he holds your gaze. "I won’t be able to help it."

You're not sure how or when it happened exactly, but there's something in the air and the look in Jack's eyes that makes you think it might finally happen, that the two of you might finally kiss and give into this thing between you. When Jack's eyes leave yours and drop down to look at your lips you swear the tension in the hallway becomes so great that it's physically harder to breathe from the weight of it. Suddenly all you can really think about is Jack dragging you into his place and having his way with you until he's sated and ready to take a shower with you and scrub the day and his cum and sweat off you.

Jack's eyes drag back up to yours just in time for him to watch yours drop down and look at his lips. When you bring your eyes back to his the look you give him is so doe eyed and wanting and almost fucking demure Jack can feel the blood start to rush to his cock as he thinks about how you'd wear that look with your mouth full of his cock.

"I know… You’re silly like that aren't you?" you breathe, take a small step toward him.

"Yeah." The word is almost all air as Jack mirrors you and takes a small step toward you. "Only for you, though." And then the tension shatters. 

But not how either of you want it to. It's the loud thud of someone dropping something in the elevator on the floor below you that does it. Both you and Jack look away from each other, annoyed at the noise and regretting not having acted quicker on the moment you were clearly having. He clears his throat as you look at each other again. "I wasn't like that for the guy that lived there before you," he smirks. He takes the few steps to his door. "Come on."

You give him a small smile and shift on your feet. "You're sure?"

"100%." Jack winks at you and opens his door, holds his one arm up and out to invite you in.

You feel lightheaded at his wink. So lightheaded you have to bite your lip hard to ground yourself with the pain. You shake your head at him and laugh softly as you walk into his place. "Thank you."

"Of course," Jack hums as he steps in behind you and shuts and locks the door.

As he sets his keys down and gets his shoes off he realizes he's been saying my shower this whole time. But it can't really be his shower. He has to show you to his guest bathroom's shower. Right? It would be weird to take you to his shower in the en suite bathroom off his bedroom because then you'd have to walk through his bedroom and that feels weird and what if it was somehow pressuring? Or felt like he was trying to say something?

Obviously there's this thing between the two of you that you haven't defined or given into, this thing you both know is there and want but just haven't let happen because there's no way the other can truly feel the same. With the attraction, physical and sexual and emotional, between you a permanent undercurrent whenever the two of you are together now, the last thing Jack wants to do is make you feel like he's using that, or trying to, or being weird or creepy or like he's doing anything other than just trying to help you out. Because that's all he's doing, trying to help you out.

As you stand by Jack and get your shoes off and move them out of the way near a pair of Jack's while he does the same you're struck by how familiar and comfortable Jack's apartment has become. If you're honest with yourself you wish you never had to leave.

"I'm guessing you don't need anything other than towels?" he asks as you both walk further into his place. He loves seeing you in his space. If he's honest with himself he wishes you never had to leave.

"I don't even need towels. I packed some." You smile at him, a hint of a smirk to it. "I can use them, save you the laundry."

"Yeah, okay." He rolls his eyes at you playfully. "Or I can just give you proper towels so you don't have to use the thin pool towels I know you packed."

You scoff at him with mock offense and a wide smile. "I resent that."

"But noticeably didn't deny it." You can hear the smirk in his voice as he turns and starts walking down to his hall closet. "Where's the gym anyway?" Jack calls to you as he pulls out a couple towels of various sizes.

"Squirrel Hill South."

"Squirrel Hill South?!" Jack repeats with teasing incredulousness, huffing. He starts walking back toward you, holding your eye contact how he loves to do. "You were seriously going to trek to fucking Squirrel Hill South for a shower instead of just asking me?"

"Well, I don't know," you shrug, voice a little higher pitched with mock defensiveness. "I don't like to be a burden or impose and I didn't know if that was appropriate or would be awkward or weird or what!" you laugh. "I didn't want to put you in an awkward position."

"You could never be a burden or an imposition and it's not inappropriate or awkward or weird." Jack offers you the towels and you take them. He stays standing in front of you, raises his brows and gives you a small smile. "Would it feel that way if I asked you if I could use your shower?"

"Well, no. But, but that's-"

He shakes his head and interrupts you gently, sets his hands on your shoulders, fingers a little too far in toward your neck to be strictly platonic, his thumbs against your collarbones. There's an intimacy to it that makes you breathe a little harder. You have half a mind to drop the towels and your bag and grab his face, pull it down to yours as you step even closer to him. "No buts." He flicks his eyebrows up at you and nods in a silent yeah? "And no it's not different. Anytime you need, yeah? Anything. A shower, a bed, someone to listen, stitches, a distraction." He smirks deeply at you. "A cup of sugar or whatever it is they say."

You try to match his smirk but it's a little too soft and smiled. Jack's words warm you from your core. You want whatever this is between you so badly. Those are things you say to a close friend, sure, but they're things you say to your partner too. Your girlfriend or boyfriend. And the way Jack said it, his tone of voice and his facial expressions, there was something so boyfriend reassuring his girlfriend about it all that drives you insane and makes your heart flutter and makes you want and need him and makes you a little sad almost. Because he's not your boyfriend. 

"The same goes for you with me at my place, you know?" You click your tongue and bob your head to the side. "Minus the stitches, of course."

"I know," Jack chuckles. He gives your shoulders a little squeeze and then releases them and takes a step away from you.

"Good." You don't know why you do it or where the move comes from or where the confidence to comes from but you reach out and squeeze his upper arm. "Thank you, Jack."

The way you say his name there isn't special. It isn't whispered or breathy or giggled or moaned or anything special. It's normal. Like you always say it. And it rips through him in the best way, like hearing you say his name always does. It makes him want to kiss you and hold you and never let you go, makes him want to take you to bed and hear you moan it over and over again underneath him as he makes you feel better than you've ever been made to feel before, makes him want to cry with how much care you always say it with, how much warmth. It makes him want to get on his knees in front of you and ask you to be his, to go on a date with him, give him one chance.

As though all the times you've shared takeout on your couch or he's cooked you dinner and you've eaten at his place weren't, in reality, dates, even if you didn't label them as such.

"Did something happen today?" You furrow your brows and tilt your head at him, confused. "To make you need to wash the day off. You don't have to say, just I'm… here, like I said. To listen or distract or talk or whatever. Help how I can."

"Oh." You shake your head and shrug. "No, nothing happened. It was just a long day and sometimes showering helps me let it all go. I like my long, hot showers, you know," you laugh softly, your words a throw back to you telling Jack while you were both a little tipsy on his couch one night how much you love taking long, hot showers.

"Okay, good." Jack gives you one of those small, closed lip smiles that's all in his eyes and you melt.

"Thanks for checking." You give him a similar smile back and then start to walk toward the guest bathroom.

"Oh," Jack calls after you. "The fan in there doesn't work by the way, sorry. I've been meaning to get it fixed but never really had a reason so I just haven't."

"That's okay." You turn and look at him when you get to the door. "I like the extra steam."

"Perfect then. Take your time. They're good hot water heaters when they're not broken. Perfect for long, hot showers," Jack teases you with a smile.

You fake glare at him. "You better not have spoken them replacing mine with some shitty one into the universe."

Jack laughs and the sound makes you weak. You want to hear that sound always, every day, you want to be the one to pull it from him, the one to make him laugh and smile and be happy. "If they do, I promise I'll give you a key to my place so that you can come take your long, hot showers as frequently as your heart desires."

You swallow hard at the thought of Jack giving you a key to his place so that you could come shower. Your mind can't help but think about whether he'd ever join you eventually, whether that would be the start of something more, of you both just finally saying how you feel and exploring what's so obviously between you.

"Guess we'll have to see." You give him a lopsided smile and open the door.

"Guess so," he nods. "Enjoy."

"Thanks, Jack." You hold his gaze for a moment and then step inside the bathroom.

Jack knows he's going to think about the way you just said his name and the smile you gave him for the rest of his life.

Being in Jack's shower, even just his guest bathroom's shower, is a fucking trip.

You're pretty sure you spend the first five minutes just standing there thinking about it. Nothing actually specific. Just the fact of it, of where you are. It's almost like you're frozen in a way, mind present and thinking about how you're in Jack's fucking shower, but also so spaced out.

It's only once you unfreeze and come back to yourself that specific thoughts start to hit you as just below scalding water rains down on you. And all of those thoughts, of course, involve you in Jack's shower, but in Jack's shower, in the en suite off his bedroom. With Jack in the shower with you.

You know he has a nice built in bench in his shower, you guys talked about it once, how they let him build it in. You don't remember why or how it came up, but it doesn't matter.

You wonder if he'd let you kneel between his legs and suck him off. Your mouth feels so empty at the thought that you're pretty sure you pout to yourself a little. You think Jack might fight it a little at first, not want you to hurt or bruise your knees. But as you convinced him it's what you really want, what you need, you think he'd let you.

Maybe he'd let you take control and set the pace. Maybe sometimes he'd take control, hold your head with one hand, maybe both, and move you up and down just how he wants.

You're sure he's too seasoned of an emergency room doctor to be super into shower sex, has probably seen some gnarly injuries from it, but maybe your mouth on his cock would help convince him otherwise.

Maybe Jack would say your name lowly, voice even more gravelly than it usually is, dripping in need and lust and affection. Maybe he'd get you positioned perfectly standing between his legs and then tell you to turn around so that your back is facing him. Maybe he'd reach forward and run his fingers through you planning on rubbing your clit to get you nice and wet for him, huff a groaned laugh when he realizes you're already beyond ready for him. Maybe he'd guide you back further with his hand on your hips, get you in the right position and himself notched right at your entrance and then pull you down onto his cock before letting you fuck yourself on him.

Maybe… Maybe you need to get a fucking grip, you chastise yourself when you realize how deep into that day dream you are and how wet you know you must be with how prominent your heartbeat feels between your legs.

You force yourself to actually start showering. You know Jack said to take your time but you should still be considerate. It's late enough.

But as you shower the thoughts don't really stop. All you can think about when you finally turn the shower off and wrap one of Jack's towels around you are his hands all over your body and soft words of adoration and appreciation and maybe even love being whispered into your ear as he helps dry you off.

Once you disappear into the bathroom and he hears the shower start Jack realizes he's going to have to do everything possible to keep himself busy so that he doesn't just sit on his couch and think about showering with you. He makes himself act like it's just any other night, do what he would normally do and what he would've done if he'd gotten home tonight without seeing you. Or at least he makes himself try to act like it's just any other night.

Jack heads into his room and changes his shirt, grabs a pair of sweatpants and sits on the side of his bed and takes his prosthetic off, checks over his leg and cleans it and his prosthetic, pulls his sweats on and knots the one leg to keep it from getting caught under his crutches. From his room he goes to his kitchen to grab a drink and then crutches to his couch and sits in his usual seat, grabs the medical journal and opens it to the page he left off on and starts to read. Or at least he tries to read.

By the time you get out of the shower and walk out of his bathroom Jack's read a single paragraph about twenty times and has absorbed approximately none of it, his head far too full of thoughts of you. It's a miracle he hears you leave the bathroom and shut the door behind you and that you don't just walk out to him staring at a page of the journal completely spaced out and lost in his own little world. And hard.

Very obviously hard in his gray sweatpants. 

You smile at him almost a little bashfully as you get closer. "Thank you for that."

Jack sets the journal in his lap and returns your smile with an easy one of his own. "Anytime. Feel better?"

"Yeah," you nod, "I do. I really appreciate it. It was very nice not having to trek across the city."

"I'm sure it was," he chuckles.

There's a beat of comfortable silence between you. There's no awkwardness to it at all. Something about it is almost poignant and expectant. You and Jack find yourselves where you always seem to. Both of you desperately wanting the other to make a move to confirm this thing between you is real and reciprocal and wanted and needed, followed by neither of you making it, you unconvinced that Jack could feel for you how you do for him and Jack unconvinced that you could feel for him how he does for you.

"Well." You let out a long breath and then walk over to his front door, Jack sitting up a bit to keep a better view of you. "I'll let you get back to your night." You pause with your hand on the door handle and look over at Jack.

The words are on the tip of his tongue. You can stay if you want. 

Words that would be an unspoken ‘please want to stay.’

But he can't get them out. Not quick enough at least.

"Thank you again, Bugs." The smile you give him this time is absolutely unquestionably bashful and Jack wants to make you his, needs to. "I really appreciate it. And you. I really appreciate you. I hope you know that."

"I mean it. Anytime." Jack's smile is a little flustered and there's something so adorable about it that you bite your bottom lip which just makes him more flustered and his cock throb. "And I know. You make sure I know. I hope you know I really appreciate you too."

"I know," you nod, "you make sure I know." You shift your duffel and give Jack one last smile for the evening. "Goodnight, Bugs. Make sure you lock up." You wink at him, teasing him playfully about the way he always reminds you. You mean it though, you care about him just as much as Jack does about you.

Jack is floored the wink doesn't stop his heart or make him come untouched.

"Goodnight, Tweety." He gives you one last teasing smile for the night as you walk out, already knowing what he's going to call to you as you do. "Make sure you lock up too!"

Jack can hear your soft giggles as you pull his front door shut behind you. He's still for a moment, his brain trying to process everything that's happened tonight.

Jack has absolutely no idea what compels him to do it, but something in his subconscious does. He tells himself he's going to get the towels you used to throw them in the washer. He tosses the medical journal aside and gets up and crutches to the guest bathroom.

When he opens the door he's greeted with warm steam that smells like you, like your body wash mixed with your shampoo and conditioner. Jack immediately realizes his subconscious knew that's what would happen. He's frozen by it for a second before he quickly crutches into the bathroom and shuts the door so that no more steam can escape.

As he stands there, Jack's cock throbs even harder, the racing beat of his heart quickly the only thing he can hear. The thought crosses his mind as he breathes in deeply through his nose.

No. Absolutely not. No. He can't. It's wrong.

Before he fully realizes what he's doing Jack crutches over and puts the lid down on the toilet and sits, rests his crutches against the wall. It's not particularly comfortable but it doesn't matter. He's not going to be here long, he tells himself. Just another thirty seconds or so. He'll let himself sit in the steamy warmth that smells like you for just another thirty seconds or so.

Jack's hand brushes over his cock and his breath catches at the feeling. He didn't really mean to do that. He just didn't pay enough attention to where his hand was as he was bringing it up to run through his hair.

But it felt good. God, it felt so fucking good.

The way he brings his hand back down and starts to palm at his cock over his sweatpants is undeniably deliberate. This is wrong. He shouldn't. He can't.

Jack palms himself a little harder, bites his lip and groans. Does he seriously have this little self-control when it comes to you? So little that he can't just get up and go back to his couch or to bed and let his erection fade away?

Apparently he seriously has this little self-control when it comes to you because instead of getting up Jack shifts and pulls his sweatpants and boxer briefs down enough to free his cock and then nearly tears his shirt off. He lets out a heavy breath as he takes in another deep breath of your scent through his nose and rubs the bead of precum that leaks from his slit into his head.

This is so, so wrong. Getting off to the scent of you. This is so fucking dirty and probably a little creepy and, god what would you think of him if you knew what he was doing?

The thoughts fade quickly as he lets his eyes flutter closed and starts stroking himself properly as he continues breathing you in. You're all he's been thinking when getting himself off for a good while now, but this, this is different. The warmth of the air around him and the way it smells like you and the way the scent clings to him because of the steam makes it so different, makes it feel more real.

Maybe you'd like it, if you knew. Like that he was touching himself to the smell and thought of you. If the situations were reversed, though, he wouldn't mind. If he'd showered in your guest bathroom and you walked in once he left to warm steam that still smelled of him he wouldn't mind at all if you sat somewhere and touched yourself while you breathed him in and thought of him. He'd fucking want you to.

Jack doesn't know why, doesn't truly have a single fucking thing to draw the conclusion from, but he thinks you'd like it too. He thinks you'd find it hot.

If you knew he was doing this would you ask to watch? Ask him to show you what he likes? Would you slowly get closer to him so you could study every movement? Would you ask him what he was thinking about? Ask him to tell you all the things he thinks about when he touches himself? All the things he wants to do to you? Would you tell him all the things you want to do to him? Would you drag him to bed so you could both be more comfortable? Would you ask to take over? With your hand? With your mouth? Would you want to watch him come? Would you take your pants and underwear off and position yourself so he could come all over your cunt? Would you sink yourself down on him just as he started to come?

A million questions and possibilities run through Jack's mind, a million scenarios, ones he's imagined before and new ones. But his mind eventually settles.

"Jack?"

You and Jack are in his bed together, naked. You're tangled together on your sides, both of you breathless from making out. You press a couple of kisses to his jaw and scratch your nails at the v of his hips and whine slightly at the way you can feel his cock throb.

"Show me, please. Show me what you like," you whisper. "How you touch yourself. Please."

He swallows hard but nods. In addition to how fucking hot it is, there's something incredibly intimate about the ask, about the idea of touching himself with you watching. "Okay, Baby." Both of you shift and sit up against the headboard, Jack’s back propped up against it with some pillows comfortably and you pressed into his side, the position easier for you to bring your dominant hand across his body. Jack brings a hand that he has to focus way too hard on keeping steady to his cock.

"No, Jack," you interrupt before he can truly start, shaking your head at him. You hold your hand out to him. "Show me. Teach me. I want to be able to make you feel good."

"Fuck," Jack breathes, a heavy jolt of pleasure running up his spine. "I don't need to show you, Sweetheart. Just you touching me will make me feel good. Shit, just you watching makes it even better."

"But I want to know what makes you feel the best. I want to make you feel good, the best you've ever felt." You hit him with a pout that has him squeezing the base of his cock hard so he doesn't lose it just from that. "Please."

"Yeah, of course," Jack pants, reaches out and grabs your hand. "Anything you want, Baby. Anything and everything."

The groan Jack lets out as he imagines your hand wrapping around his cock at the guidance of his is ripped from deep in his chest. He knows that the feeling he's imagining would be nothing compared to the real thing, to how small your hand would feel in his and wrapped around him and how soft your skin would be against his cock.

Jack starts moving your hand up and down his cock slowly at first, picking up the pace with each pass until you're at a steady rhythm. He twists when he gets to his head and as Jack watches you watch your hand he can almost see you noting in your brain exactly where to start the twist to give him the most pleasure. He can't believe anybody, let alone you, would care for him enough to pay such close attention just so you can make him feel good.

"You're so big Jack," you moan softly as you work his cock. "I don't know how you're going to fit." Jack's hips buck at your words and your eyes meet as you look up at him. "You will fuck me tonight, right Jack? I need it. Need you."

"Yeah," Jack pants, "yeah, I'll fuck you tonight. I'll do whatever you want to you tonight."

"I want you to take whatever you want, want you to use me however you want." You look so truly desperate for it that Jack's hips buck just as desperately again. "I want you to do everything you've ever wanted to me, Jack."

He lets out a shuddery breath with a hint of a laugh to it. "That list is way the fuck too long for one night, Baby."

You giggle and bite your lip, twist your hand on your own just to surprise him and pull a loud groan of your name from his chest. It's like you can tell he's getting close despite this being the first time you guys have ever given in and done this, seen each other and kissed each other and touched each other like this. Jack can feel the way he's about to come, starts to draw in air to try to form the words to tell you, but instead his brows furrow in confusion when you slow your hand and then pull it away. He just barely swallows down most of a whine.

You hum soothingly, roll your head a little to kiss his skin wherever you can as his orgasm ebbs and then look up at him with an eager need in your eyes. "I want you to show me something else now."

"Oh yeah?" Jack has a feeling he knows what you mean, his heart somehow thundering harder at just the thought.

"Yeah." You move so that you're between his legs and facing him. And then you start to lower yourself and get comfortable laying between his legs on your stomach.

"Oh, Baby, you don't, you don't have to do this." He brings a hand down to your face where you rest it on his thigh and look up at him. "Your hand is more than enough."

"I know I don't have to, Jack." You smile at the precum he leaks when you say his name. You lift your head up and kiss his inner thigh up to his cock. "I want to, I promise" you murmur. "Show me how you like it, Baby, please."

You take his head in your mouth and swirl your tongue around it as you suck and moan. "Fuck!" Jack rasps, voice strained with pleasure. "Oh god, Baby, fuck. Fuck your mouth is so good, oh fuck."

As you slowly start to bob your head up and down one of your hands grabs one of his and brings it to your head as you look at him pleadingly. Jack knows it's a silent request for him to take control and show you how he likes it. He lets out a shuddery breath as he does what you asked.

Jack's hand speeds up, tightens around himself even more. He's close. He's so fucking close and it hasn't even been that long and he should be embarrassed but he's not. He's just fucking not. That's what you do to him. This is what you do to him. 

And you’re not even fucking here. 

He thinks he might be drunk off your scent. Jack never wants this to end, never wants the steam that smells like you and envelops him to dissipate. Not unless he can have the real thing. Not unless he can be fucking you with his nose pressed up against your neck or hauling you into the shower with him to make more steam that smells like you. Not unless you're his and he's yours.

"Jack." The way you say his name is almost moaned, your lips fluttering against his tip so you can take him back in your mouth as soon as you finish speaking. "Come for me."

Jack does with a breathy groan of your name, body almost trembling at how fucking good it feels as he watches his cum paint his chest and abdomen, a little hitting his collarbones and lower neck. His head drops back and he lets his eyes close as he keeps working himself through it, your name falling off his tongue over and over.

He works himself to a little painful overstimulation and then lets go of his cock as he pants and tries to come back down, aftershocks of pleasure ripping through his body as he basks in the post-orgasm haze and the smell of you. Jack can't remember the last time he came that hard. He's not sure if he ever has before. And all it took was the scent of you.

He's so astronomically fucked.

He's falling in love with you. With your beauty and smile and laugh and your personality and wit and how vibrant you are. With the light you bring into his life just by being his neighbor.

He craves you, wants you like he's never wanted someone before. He wants all of you, the good and the bad and the parts you haven't shown him yet and the parts of you that you haven't even discovered yet, in every possible way, sexual and otherwise. Jack wants you. All of you. All the time. 

You guys have your thing, but it's probably harmless flirting to you, not something that would ever go anywhere. He told himself you'd probably find this hot, but would you? Would you really? Or would you find it sad? A man his age touching himself.

Jack finally comes back around to where he always seems to land. Why would you ever want him?

He grabs some toilet paper and cleans his chest off. He stands up and opens the lid, tosses it in the toilet and flushes. It's as he pulls his shirt back on that his hearing apparently fucking comes back.

There's a knock on his door. "Bugs?" His unlocked door. He never locked it after you left, and he knows you, he knows you'll be concerned that he hasn't answered and you'll try it and he's in the fucking bathroom you were just in, that he has no reason to be in, that he never uses, always just goes to his, and you're too smart for your own fucking good and you'll put together why. You'll know.

So he needs to get out of here.

"Jack?" He hears the door start to open. "I'm coming in."

He just gets the lights off and makes it out of the bathroom and into the hallway a little bit, hopefully enough that it doesn't seem like he was coming out of there. "Hey, sorry," he calls to you as he crutches closer as you walk in. "I didn't hear at first…" He tries to think of some sort of excuse about why he didn't hear when he's always heard every other time, but he decides to let it go. You'll see right through him and the lie. 

"That's okay." You smile at him, cocking your head just slightly with a subtly suspicious smile. Jack looks different than you've ever seen him before. He looks… caught, almost. 

As you move closer to each other and you get a better look at him you realize he's flushed from the neck up, skin red and pink and a little blotchy, sweat making some of his curls stick to his forehead and his temple and neck a bit shiny. He looks hot. Literally and metaphorically.

You're so transfixed by him and thinking about what it would be like to have him on top of you while looking like he does right now that you don't even stop to think about why he looks like that right now, about what he could've been doing.

"You didn't lock your door." You raise your eyebrows at him and give him a teasing smile. "You need to."

Jack smirks at you. "Worried about me?"

"Yeah, actually," you laugh, the teasing sliding out of your smile and replaced by something so genuine Jack has to cover the way his breath hitches. "You'd be so mad if you discovered my door unlocked."

"Not mad," he shakes his head, "concerned and worried."

You shoot him an oh please look, but you know he's telling the truth. You know it would be that kind of anger that's really just a mask for intense and deep worry and concern. You lick your lips and take a breath. "I came back because I think I left my body wash."

Jack nods. "Ah, well we couldn’t possibly have that sitting in my guest bathroom until the next time you came over and grabbed it at your convenience. Absolutely required you getting out of bed and coming back over," he teases, crutching toward the bathroom with you.

"Nope," you pop the 'p.' "You might use it when you miss me," you smirk at him as you step by him to walk into the guest bathroom, your chests nearly brushing, something that isn't completely unusual, it's happened before and you guys hug. But there's something much more keyed up to the way your chests almost touch when combined with your words.

Your words that make Jack glitch for a moment. Do you know? Could you have figured out what he was doing before you came back in? No. There's no way you could've. You're just fucking around. He needs to fucking relax and be normal before he gives it away.

"Oh," Jack drawls with teasing amusement as you grab the bottle from the shower and then turn back to him and walk toward him, "is that your way of asking for a bottle of my body wash for when you miss me?"

The beat before you reply is just a few seconds too long for it to mean nothing, and fuck, Jack realizes, you might actually want that. But why? How? He has to be wrong. He's projecting.

You're undeniably a little flustered though, that much is obvious to Jack, but not flustered in a he made you uncomfortable way, more in a you've been caught kind of way. It makes his head spin.

Where the fuck everything that happens next comes from, where the confidence to do any of it comes from, you have no idea. It just seems to happen.

You stop in front of Jack, chests less than a centimeter from brushing. "You know one time you had me over you'd left a bottle of your body wash on the kitchen table for you to take into your bathroom the next time you went back there," you murmur, eye contact with him direct and unbelievably heady, a small ghost of a self-satisfied smile on your face. "So for all you know I already have a bottle in my shower just for that purpose."

Your smile pulls up a little wider on your face when Jack's breath catches in his throat and he swallows heavily. His brain tries to come up with something to say but just fucking can't because you just said that. You just said that and it’s how you said it and that smile and your murmured voice and the look in your eyes and fuck. 

You really just said that.

And Jack has no idea whether you do or don't but is now so beyond desperate to know.

"Thank you again, Bugs." You lean into him and up and press a soft kiss to his cheek, something you've never done before. "Have a good rest of your night."

You step back and smile at him before turning and walking to his front door, Jack almost frozen to his spot because you just said that and then kissed his cheek. Your lips had contact with his skin. Your lips.

You pause at his door again and turn back to him. "Make sure you really lock up this time, Bugs, yeah?" You flick your eyebrows up at him for a second in emphasis. "And have sweet dreams, Jack."

I want to be his neighbor he's falling in love with so badly. 😭 I hope it was okay and enjoyable enough that you'd like to see more of them! Let me know if you would! I love hearing your thoughts and comments and reactions, they often make my day and give me so much joy! ♥️ Thank you again for all of your support and for taking the time to read!! ♥️

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The Pitt had crossed the line from busy to catastrophic nearly an hour ago. 

Every hallway was filled; every curtained room held at least two patients; gurneys lined the walls while nurses moved between them with the speed of people already running on adrenaline along. Somewhere across the nurses’ station, a child was crying enough to turn hoarse. Monitors beeped incessantly in overlapping bursts that never fully stopped long enough to give the employees’ brains a small respite. 

The ambulance bay doors, always in a continuing sliding motion of open and close, opened fully again, giving way for yet another gurney guided by paramedics to roll across into the belly of the beast. 

“Incoming!” one of them shouted over the noise, but no one seemed to catch it at first. 

Dennis was halfway through suturing a scalp laceration in room number four when Trinity appeared beside him, her gloves already bloody. 

“Trauma two’s asking for another set of hands if you’d like to join in,” she announced over his shoulder. 

“I physically do not have another set of hands at this moment.” His lifted his hands ever so slightly to emphasize that they were already full. 

“Then please tell me you have a secret twin because—” 

A gurney barreled past them out in the hall before she could finish, forcing both residents to stop and watch it go by. Their eyes locked on the patient, who was in the middle of a violent convulsion. Their minds noted that the jerky motion wasn’t seizure-like at first glance. His muscles locked and released in abrupt jerks while one of the paramedics struggled to keep the oxygen mask in place even with restraints around his arms and middle abdomen. 

“Thirty-two-year-old male!” the paramedic called out while steering through the overcrowded corridor. “Altered mental state, sever fever, hypotensive en route. Seized twice in the ambulance!” 

That last bit got attention. 

Behind the gurney, Samira was quick to pull off one pair of gloved while snapping another on. “What’s his pressure?” 

“Eighty over fifty last check.” 

“Any history?”

“Girlfriend said flu symptoms for about a week. This morning he became confused and combative.” 

The man let out an involuntary sound between a laugh and a choke that tugged Samira’s lips downward into a frown. Her big, brown eyes scanned the room before landing on the two roommates. 

“Whitaker and Santos, you’re with me,” she barked before looking back to the nurses’ station. “Dana, do we have anything open?” 

The blonde charge nurse glanced up and her board. “Room three’s all I got. Both traumas are both still full. Perlah go with them, please.” 

The small crowd around the man moved as one into the smaller room. The door stayed wide open as Samira, Dennis, and Trinity carefully transferred the man into the bed. Perlah dragged a metal tray closer, causing it to rattle while Dennis cruised over the ultrasound machine. The three residents took the fastest moment to give the man an evaluation. 

On first glance, they noticed the man’s skin looked wrong. He was flushed bright red across the chest and face, sweat soaking through his shirt, but his fingertips had already started taking on a faint bluish tint. Tiny muscle spasms clenched wildly beneath the skin along his jaw.  

Leaning over the man, Dennis grabbed his pen light and quickly flashed it in the man’s eyes. “Pupils are anisocorias.” 

“What’s his temp?” Samira asked. 

“102.1” Trinity answered, clipping the oxygen monitor to his finger. 

Dennis swore quietly under his breath just as the patient jerked hard against the restraints again, eyes rolling wildly before suddenly locking onto Samira with a terrifying clarity. 

“Don’t let them—” he slurred before his entire body seized again, back arching against the strap around his middle. 

“Okay, seizure activity,” Samira called out. “Push 4 mg Ativan. Santos, hold him down. Whitaker make sure his airway stays clear.” 

The room became motion and noise. Samira and Trinnity held the man’s shoulders while Dennis’s hands carefully cupped the man’s cheeks, face close enough to notice if the patient was going to choke or not. Perlah pushed the Ativan through the IV, and the seizure finally broke after several endless seconds, leaving the patient limp and gasping. 

Dennis straightened slightly. “Okay. Differential.” 

“Must be Sepsis,” Trinity said. 

“Maybe.” 

“Maybe?” she echoed. 

“He doesn’t look septic.” 

“Absolutely he does.” 

Samira stared down at the patient’s face and body, unease slowly crawling through her chest. “Can’t be sepsis. There’s no obvious visible infection source. The girlfriend would have said something about possible infection.” 

Trinity cocked an eyebrow. “Could be meningitis?” 

Dennis shook his head. “No neck rigidity.” 

“Encephalitis, then.” 

“Wouldn’t explain the muscle spasms,” Samira replied. 

“Toxic exposure,” Dennis put out there, rubbing tiredly at his forehead. 

“No pinpoint pupils though,” Trinity shot back. 

“Not every toxin causes—” 

Suddenly, the patient started laughing. They froze as the sound crawled up the walls of the room wrongly: wet and strained and completely disconnected from anything happening around him. Their eyes widened as blood began trickling from one nostril, thin at first before steadily worsening. 

Trinity took an involuntary step back, hands raised. “Okay, that’s new. I officially hate this.” 

Samira grabbed a paper towel while her mind raced through possibilities do quickly, they blurred together uselessly. 

Fever. Neurological symptoms. Bleeding. Spasms. Blue fingertips. 

Nothing fit correctly. 

Sure, one or two of the symptoms might fit with a diagnosis, but that would leave the others out with no way to make sure they were giving the poor man the right medicine. She nearly went cross-eyed trying to figure things out when the monitor alarm suddenly shrieked. 

“Oxygen’s dropping,” Perlah snapped. 

“How much?” Samira asked, eyes glued to the monitor. 

“Eighty-two and falling.” 

“Lungs?” 

“Still clear,” Dennis announced after quickly whipping his stethoscope from around his neck and pressing the end to the man’s chest. 

Samira let out a frustrated groan. “That doesn’t make any sense.” 

The patient’s heart rate climbed higher on the monitor, jagged and unstable. Sweat beaded down the side of his face while another tremor passed through his arms. Everything had narrowed into the growing realization that none of them knew what they hell they were looking at. 

Dennis stepped back from the bedside first, his similar growing frustration overtaking focus. “You think this is a good time to find Dr. Robby or Dr. Abbot?” 

Trinity nodded. “Yep. Saw them by the nurses’ station, I think. Last I saw, they were dealing with the MVA paperwork disaster.” 

“Great. Fantastic. Love that for us.” 

Another violent tremor hit the patient while Samira stared down at him, mind still turning uselessly through possibilities. The symptoms contradicted each other too much. Every answer created three more questions to the point it felt like trying to hold water. 

She was already halfway out the door when she made up her mind. “I’ll get them.” 

Dennis’s head shot up. “I’ll come with—” 

“No, stay here,” she interrupted. “If he starts to crash again, come out and get us.” 

The hallway outside was even worse than before. Samira shoved past a transport team moving in the opposite direction while Trinity followed close behind, narrowly avoiding colliding with a nurse carrying a tray of medications. 

Their objective—the nurses’ station—looked like a war zone. 

Charts were stacked everywhere. The red phone rang endlessly. Dana and another nurse were arguing over bed placement while someone else loudly demanded results that still apparently hadn’t been uploaded. 

And in the middle of it all stood Robby and Jack. 

Jack leaned against the counter, biceps bulging in his scrub sleeves with exhaustion written clearly across his face despite the composure he always seemed to maintain. Robby was reading over a tablet with the kind of concentration that suggested he was trying to actively pretend the rest of the ER didn’t exist. 

Samira didn’t bother slowing down in her approach. “We need help.” 

Neither man looked surprised as their eyes lifted to meet hers. 

“What’s up?” Jack asked, hazel eyes boring into hers. 

A small smirk rested on his lips, and Samira willed herself to look away before she was caught staring. 

“Weird neuro case in room three,” she began. “High fever, seizures, hypotensive, possible hallucinations. He just started bleeding before I came to find one of you.” 

His expression tightened. “Bleeding from where?” 

“Nose. We can’t figure out what’s causing any of it.” 

“Labs?” Robby asked. 

“Pending.”

Trinity crossed her arms loosely. “None of the symptoms line up correctly.” 

Jack pushed away from the counter at that. “Usually that’s an indicator you’re missing something.” 

“Thank you. I feel so very inspired.” 

Robby was already moving toward the room, Jack at his side falling into tandem steps. “How unstable?” 

“Very,” Samira responded following behind them. 

“Fan-fucking-tastic.”

By the time they entered room three, the atmosphere had changed completely. The patient was conscious again, though barely. His breathing had become shallow and uneven with blood soaking the paper towel below it. One hand twitched intermittently against the bedrail like his nerves were firing independently from the rest of him. 

Dennis looked up the second they entered, relief flickering across her face too quickly for him to hide. “His symptoms are changing too fast for us to keep up with,” he admitted. 

Jack stepped to the bedside without hesitation, eyes moving clinically over the patient. Robby stayed near the foot of the bed while the three residents started talking over each other. 

“Possible encephalitis—” Trinity tried again before Dennis cut her off. 

“But the rigidity doesn’t fit, and his lungs are clear despite the stats—” 

Samira tried her best. “No infection source—” 

“Could be toxin related—” Dennis spouted like earlier. 

“His pupils changed again—” Trinity pointed out. 

That was the moment the patient started whispering again with words too slurred to understand at first before actual sounds began forming through his lips. “Hurts,” he mumbled weakly. “Hurts, hurts, hurts, hurts—” 

His heart rate spiked again, causing Jack to frown again. 

“How long between onset and neurological decline?” he asked. 

“Girlfriend said maybe twelve hours,” Samira replied. “But that’s way too fast.” 

Robby’s eyes narrowed slightly at the pattern. Dennis noticed the movement scarily too quickly.

“You thinking of something, Dr. Robby?” the blond asked quietly. 

Robby sighed silent before sighing heavily once like he already heated the conclusion he’d reached. His head bobbed as he spoke. “Not something.” 

Jack looked over at him knowingly, shoulders dropping at his friend’s unsaid implication. “You really want to do that to us today, brother?” 

“We’re already being punished apparently.” 

Trinity blinked between them. “Wait—what does that mean?” 

Robby reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. “I need to make a call.” 

_______________________

The emergency department had somehow become even more unbearable in the ten minutes since Robby made the call. 

The waiting room was overflowing with irritated families packed shoulder-to-shoulder beside exhausted nurses trying to maneuver equipment through spaces never designed to hold this many people. Trauma alerts echoed enough they’d begun blending together into meaningless static. Inside room three, whoever, the tension had condensed into impatient panic. 

The patient’s fever continued climbing despite the cooling measures already attempted. Sweat soaked through the sheets beneath him while intermittent tremors continued wracking his limbs hard enough to shake the rails of the bed. Blood still leaked slowly from his nose in uneven streaked that stained every towel pink. 

Dennis stood at the monitor station pretending to review vitals while actually watching the hallway entrance every few seconds. Trinity leaned against the counter beside him with her arms crossed tightly, curiosity slowly overtaking frustration. 

Samira remained nearest the bedside, though her concentration kept slipping toward Jack. 

He stood across from her near the foot of the bed with one hand braced against the rail while he reread test results that still weren’t giving them anything useful. Fatigue sat heavily across his face; the kind earned after coming in as a favor to Robby and dealing with the chaos in the halls for close to 6 hours. 

Unfortunately for Samira, he looked unfairly sexy in all that exhaustion. And even more unfortunately, he’d glance her way and flash that knowing smirk that he knew got her all hot and bothered. 

The thing between them had stopped being subtle weeks ago. Linger glances had turned into inside jokes, accidental touches that neither of them pulled away from quickly enough became the grounding go-to technique, conversations began stretching too long after the day shifts ended and night shift began. Nothing was official; nothing was ever discussed out loud. All it seemed to be was tension building slowly and steadily until even the other residents had started looking between them knowingly whenever their shifts overlapped. 

Which meant the second Robby had said I’m calling her, Samira immediately understood this shift was about to become significantly more complicated. 

Dennis finally broke the silence. “So, she’s actually insane, right?” 

Jack didn’t look up from the chart. “Professionally? Absolutely.” 

“No, I mean like . . . medically?” 

“That too.”

Trinity frowned. “How come a lot of us haven’t met her?” 

“Because her insaneness would infect my ER if she was down here all the time,” Robby muttered. 

Jack let out a quiet laugh at that, rubbing tiredly at the stubble along his jaw. 

Just as the patient slightly moved, their ears picked up on a faint sound growing louder down the packed hallway. 

Click. 

Click. 

Click. 

The cane struck tile at an unhurried pace, measured and steady despite the absolute catastrophe happening around it. The noise cut clearly through the chaos outside the room, distinct enough that everyone unconsciously went still listening for it as it drew closer. 

Dennis straightened. Trinity’s eyebrow rose. Jack closed his eyes briefly like a man preparing for impact. 

The sound grew louder. 

Click. 

Click. 

Click—

You appeared in the doorway, dark blazer jacket hung open over a rumpled graphic-tee, one side slipping slightly off your shoulder like you either hadn’t noticed or didn’t care. A paper coffee cup was gripped loosely in one hand while the other gripped the handle of your cane. The small group immediately noticed a visible limp in your gate, though it somehow projected irritation more than weakness, as though the injury itself was inconveniencing you. 

Your eyes swept across the room once— Patient. Monitors. Blood. Panicked residents. –before finally landing on Robby. 

“Well,” you said dryly, “this looked medically expensive.” 

Dennis blinked at you like he wasn’t entirely convinced you were real. 

You limped further into the room, cane clicking softly against the floor. Despite the obvious slump written into your posture like you couldn’t care less about the people around you, there was still something unnervingly alert about you, almost like your brain was moving several steps ahead of everyone else’s at all times and found the rest of the world vaguely disappointing for not keeping pace. 

Your attention shifted toward Jack, and your face visibly brightened at the sight of the older attending. Once he caught your gaze, he closed his eyes, sighing loudly, hand now rubbing along his temple. 

“Oh here we go,” he muttered. 

“Well, hello, Dr. Abbot.” 

He huffed your name before you’d even said anything else, not even meeting your wide eyes again. “No. Not today.” 

“What?” you asked innocently. “I’m being professional.” 

“You’ve been here six seconds—”  

“And already thinking deeply inappropriate thoughts about you,” you cut him off with an overly dramatic wink. “That has to be some kind of efficiency record.” 

Dennis choked on absolutely nothing, and Samira bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to stop herself from laughing. 

Jack finally looked at you fully, expression flat but unsurprised. “Patient’s actively dying.” 

“Mm.” Your gaze moved slowly over him anyway, entirely unbothered. “You know there’s something really attractive about a man covered in other people’s blood. Make me want to make several terrible life choices that involves you and a bed.”

“Please don’t.” 

“You say that like I haven’t already mentally undressed you twice since walking in. You’re underestimating me in your old age.” 

Robby pinched the bride of his nose so hard it looked painful. 

Jack, meanwhile, had gone completely still in the way people did when trying very hard not to react at all. Unlucky for him, the faint flush climbing up the sides of his neck to his cheeks betrayed him. 

You noticed right away, a slow grin spreading across your face. “Oh, now that’s interesting, Dr. Abbot. I thought you military men were immune to this sort of fire.”

“We are not doing this right now,” he hissed, though malice was absent in his tone. 

“Why not? Morale’s important during emergencies.” 

“You told me last month you wanted me face down in an on-call room.” 

“In my defense,” you replied reasonably, “you did look good holding retractors.” 

“Please focus.” 

“Uh, I am focused.” You pointed your cane toward him. “On you and your sexy ass.” 

Poor Dennis looked seconds away from passing out. 

Growing a bit bored of Jack’s deflections, you let your eyes roam until they stopped on the pretty dark-skinned lady. 

Now, your flirting with Jack had the reckless ease of habit, sharp-edged and deliberately provocative in a way that suggested the two of you had been doing this dance for a long while. But the second your gaze landed on Samira, a quiet type of curiosity bloomed in your chest. You studied her openly for a moment. 

“Well,” you murmured. “You’re new.” 

Samira crossed her arms automatically, though the movement looked more defensive than closed off. “Dr. Mohan.” 

“Mohan,” you repeated thoughtfully, drawing it out along your tongue. “Pretty name.” 

Jack side-eyed you with suspicion which you immediately ignored. 

“Are you always this pretty during chaotic shifts” you asked, “or is the universe specifically trying to ruin my concentration today?” 

Samira giggled—like, actually giggled—despite trying her best not to. “I think HR would probably have concerns about this conversation.” 

“HR sends me wellness emails weekly.” 

“They send those to everyone.” 

“No, mine are personalized.” 

Robby pointed sharply at you and then toward the patient. “Absolutely not. Diagnose first. Sexually harass my staff later.” 

You looked offended. “I can multitask. And technically, Robert, it’s not harassment if they’re into it.” 

Neither Jack nor Samira denied quickly enough, and that alone stirred the pot simmering in your stomach. Your grin deepened briefly before you finally, finally turned toward the bed. Like a switch, they watched as you shifted visibly. The teasing nature you exhumed vanished (not entirely, because you seemed fundamentally incapable of behaving like a normal person), but your focus narrowed with startling intensity. Your eyes tracked rapidly over the patient, catching details everyone else had either dismissed or stopped seeing after the first hour. 

“Symptoms,” you all but demanded, voice stern yet kind. 

Dennis started listing them. “High fever, seizures, possible hallucinations, hypotension, muscle rigidity, nosebleeds, oxygen saturation keeps dropping but lungs are clear—” 

“How long since onset?” 

“Twelve hours maybe?” 

“Travel history?”

You shouldn’t have been surprised by the blank stares, but you somehow managed. 

You looked up slowly. “You didn’t ask.” 

Not a question. A knowing and mildly disappointed statement. 

“We were a little busy trying to keep him alive,” Trinity defended. 

“You got mystery neurological symptoms, and no one asked if he recently locked an endangered frog overseas? What? Did you all collectively decide tropical diseases were canceled for the day?” 

Jack watched you carefully from across the bed now, already tracking the direction your thoughts were moving. 

You stepped closer to the patient, gaze narrowing at the twitching muscles in his legs. “Medication history?” 

“Nothing confirmed,” Samira answered. 

“Drug use?”

“Girlfriend denied it.” 

You snorted loudly. “Everybody lies.” 

The patient’s hand jerked against the bedrail in a rhythmic motion. Your eyes dropped toward his feet, then up to the monitor, and back down to the blood staining the towel under his nose. 

“Oh, for the love of everything that is good and holy,” you muttered. You pointed toward the patient with your cane. “Tell me someone checked for serotonin syndrome.” 

Dennis frowned deeply. “We considered it, but SS didn’t fully fit.” 

“Because he’s bleeding and hypoxic,” you replied. “What antidepressants is he on?” 

“We don’t know if he takes any.” 

“He does.” Your tone carried complete certainty now. “Look at the clonus.” 

Samira moved closer, eyes tracking the involuntary muscle contractions more carefully this time. Once pointed out, they became impossible to miss. Her eyes widened. 

“Oh,” she whispered. 

Jack shook his head. “The girlfriend said he’d had fly symptoms all week.” 

“Which probably weren’t flu symptoms.” You looked almost delighted now that the pieces had clicked together. “They were side effects.” 

Dennis still looked unconvinced. “Serotonin syndrome doesn’t usually progress this fast.” 

“Correct.” You lifted your cane toward him approvingly. “Good. Gold start for blondie over here.” Your expression sharpened again. “So, he mixed something with it; cold medicine maybe; dextromethorphan likely. Idiot probably took half a bottle trying to self-medicate while already maxed out on SSRIs.” 

Trinity stared at you. “That explains literally everything.” 

“No,” you corrected casually. “It explains most things. The bleeding means his body’s currently trying to deep fry his internal organs.” 

“Cyproheptadine,” Jack ordered immediately. “Cooling blankets, and someone call toxicology now.” 

Samira looked downright stunned. “You figured that out in under two minutes.” 

You shrugged lightly. “Three, technically. I spent at least one minute sexually objectifying your attending.” 

Jack let out a tired laugh, immediately regretting it when you looked absolutely delighted by the reaction. 

“Aha!” you pointed out. “I was worried you stopped liking me.” 

“I never said I liked you.” 

“You looked at my mouth for a full ten seconds while I was talking earlier. That’s gotta mean something!” 

Another choking sound erupted from Dennis in the background. Samira outright turned away to hide her smile after she glanced toward Jack for a moment too long, something you’d caught right away. Your eyes moved slowly between the two of them. 

“Oh,” you said softly. 

Jack pointed right at you, hazel eyes narrowed. “Don’t.” 

“You two would be unbelievably hot together.” 

Robby physically grabbed your coffee cup out of your hand before you could continue. “Okay. Great work. Now time to leave.” 

“I’m just making an observation, Robert.” 

“You’re making a hostile work environment.” 

Against your best wishes, you allowed him to steer you toward the door anyway, leaning heavily onto your cane as you walked. Your limp looked more pronounced now that the adrenaline had worn off slightly, through you still carried yourself with irritating confidence. As you walked through the threshold, your face turned so you could look up at Robby. 

“Oh, I get it now. You’re keeping all the hot people for yourself, Robert. Shame on you.” 

_______________________

By the end of the shift, the hallways had finally been emptied out, the waiting room had thinned, the rooms were being cleaned instead of actively flooding with incoming patients. Nurses moved slower now, drained enough that nobody bothered pretending otherwise anymore. The panic that had consumed the Pitt for most of the night had dulled to a low roar. 

Samira stood at the nurses’ station finishing charting she’d been too busy to touch for the last three house. Her eyes burned from staring at monitors all night, and there was dried blood near the cuff of her sleeve she still hadn’t noticed.

A few feet away, Jack leaned against the counter reviewing discharge paperwork with the same tired concentration he brought to everything. His forearms leaned against the counter with all his weight behind it. His hands displayed the faint marks left behind by snapped gloves and hurried handwashing throughout the night. 

Samira though he looked absolutely handsome despite the deep lines in his face that seemed more chiseled with exhaustion these past few days than they had been. The realization annoyed her almost as much as the fact that she was apparently not being subtle about her staring anymore. 

She closed the chart in front of her. “So,” she said carefully, loud enough for Jack to here that she was speaking to him. “What exactly is her deal?” 

Jack didn’t even glance up. “That narrows it down to absolutely nothing. Everything’s her deal.” 

Samira smiled softly. “The flirting, mostly.” 

Jack set his paperwork down slowly, studying her expression with a careful softness. “Did she make you uncomfortable?” 

The concern in her voice was genuine enough to make her soften. “No,” she answered honestly. “Actually . . . weirdly not.” 

Jack looked surprised. 

Samira leaned back against the counter, considering her next words meticulously. “I mean, objectively, HR should probably sedate her. But it was kind of . . . endearing?

Jack barked a tired laugh. “That’s definitely not the word most people use.” 

“She doesn’t seem mean about it.” 

“No,” he admitted after a moment. “She’s not.” 

There was something familiar layered in his answer, almost close to affection hidden under exasperation. 

“She does it with you a lot?” 

He gave her a deeply unimpressed look. “Constantly.” 

“And you survive it?” 

“Barely.” 

She smiled again, glancing briefly at the computer before looking back up at him. “Okay, but seriously. Dr. Robby called her like she was some kind of Pitt cryptid.”  

“Because she basically is.” He straightened away from the counter slightly, folding his arms in such a way Samira’s gaze lingered for a brief second. “She’s the hospital’s diagnostic specialist,” he explained. “Technically, she’s attached upstairs to the actual hospital, but administration mostly unleashes her on ER cases no one else can solve.” 

“Because she solved that in, what, two minutes?” 

“Closer to one if we’re being technical.” 

Samira blinked. 

Jack nodded toward the now-empty room three. “She’s a genius. Annoyingly, horrifyingly brilliant. Used to work emergency medicine before her accident.” 

Samira’s gaze dropped toward the memory of your cane clicking against the tile. “Her leg?” 

“Yeah.” His expression shifted into something a bit more serious. “She was in a car accident during her residency. Underwent multiple surgeries; nerve damage never healed correctly. She refused amputation, so they reconstructed her leg as best they could.” 

“And she still works like that?” 

“She works worse than that<’ he corrected dryly. “Earlier was actually her during a good day.” 

Samira frowned slightly. “That can’t be healthy.” 

“No,” Jack agreed. “It’s not.” 

His answer held no hesitation, and that told her more than he probably intended too. Under his irritation and sarcasm and eye-rolling every time Robby said your name during the rest of the shift, his eyes held a concern there too, and it was deep enough that Samira was able to pick up on a few things. 

“Oh,” she said slowly, eyes softening as she looked at him. 

He looked wary. “What?” 

“You two definitely have something going on there.” 

“What? No.”

“Jack.” 

“There’s nothing going on.” 

She tilted her head slightly, totally unconvinced. “You let he tell you she mentally undressed you in front of three residents and Robby.” 

“First of all, I don’t let her do anything. She does when she wants to.” 

“You blushed.” 

“I absolutely did not.” 

“You absolutely did. It was cute.” 

Jack opened his mouth to argue further before stopping himself halfway through, which only made Samira laugh quietly. The sound drew his eyes back toward her again, and his features softened. 

“You weren’t bothered by it?” he asked again, more quietly this time. 

Samira understood the actual question beneath that one. 

Would it bother you if there really was something there? 

She held his gaze for longer than necessary before shrugging lightly. “I mean if there were something going on . . .” A small smile pulled briefly at the corner of her mouth. “I don’t think I’d mind.” 

The silence afterward lasted exactly two seconds. 

“Well, that’s convenient.” 

Both of them turned like they’d been caught hand-deep in a cookie jar before dinner. 

You stood several feet away near the end of the counter, one hand resting atop your cane while the other held a patient chart apparently neither of them had noticed you returning. Your blazer hung loose over one shoulder again, hair slightly messier than before, exhaustion written clearly into the curve of your spine. 

But your grin looked positively evil. 

Jack stared at you with wide eyes. “How long have you been standing there?” 

You considered the question thoughtfully. “Long enough to become emotionally invested.” 

Samira looked away, mortified by the heat blooming under her cheeks. 

“Oh, she blushes,” you murmured approvingly. 

Jack said your name flatly. “Please leave.” 

“Can’t. Hospital needs me.” You limped closer to the desk enough to drop the chart onto the counter between them. “Turns out I’m the only thing preventing upstairs from becoming a very expensive funeral home.” 

“You are absolutely impossible.” 

“And yet,” you replied casually, eyes glancing slowly between him and Samira again, “you’re both still looking at me like that.” 

When neither of them answered, your grin widened. “This is very fun for me. I hope you two know that.” 

Jack rubbed a tired hand over his face. “You need supervision.” 

“No. What I need is eight hours of sleep, and someone to kiss me against a supply closet.” Your eyes drifted meaningfully toward the two of them. “Preferably simultaneously, if we’re up for brainstorming.” 

Samira made a strangled sound somewhere between a laugh and complete psychological collapse while Jack briefly stunned into silence at the sheer audacity of the statement. You, meanwhile, looked deeply pleased with yourself. 

You adjusted your grip on your cane and started hobbling backward toward the elevators. 

Click. 

Click. 

Click. 

Halfway there, you glanced back one final time. 

“Oh,” you added conversationally, “and Jack?” 

He looked up despite himself. 

“If you keep staring at my mouth every time I flirt with her, eventually I’m going to start charging you for the show.” 

Samira nearly chocked, and Jack went completely red. 

You, on the other hand, smirked once before turning smoothly on your cane, disappearing toward the elevators while the sound of your cackles echoed faintly down the hallway behind you.