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You spot him by the food court, staring straight at the jewelry shop. You keep an eye on him until he sees you, and leaves. Later, you see him again, this time further away, but still looking at the comings and goings into the shop.

If that isn’t scoping out a target before a robbery, you don't know what is. And if you already didn't find it suspicious, you also know the man.

The third time you see him, he's leaning against a pillar and pretending to type on his phone. You walk up to him from behind, parking yourself next to him.

"Seeing something interesting?" you ask him pleasantly. He turns his head to you. Anyone would shrink under that hard, hazel stare, but you are wearing body armor and the words SECURITY, and they work as double protection: not just for your torso but also for your mind. You're never afraid when you're working.

"If you are planning something..."

"I don't know what you are talking about," he deadpans, but you're not deterred.

"...then let me know. I can be of help."

You slip a piece of paper in his hand and walk on.

Andrew "Pope" Cody stares at the back of your head until you have disappeared around a corner. Looking down at his hand, he sees a note with a phone number.

He calls you after three days and sets up a meeting for that same evening. And that's why you find yourself in a dive after work, ordering club soda as you look around the establishment. You spot him at a corner table, and bring your drink over.

The way he's sitting suggests that he doesn't really know how to, and had to look at a schematic to figure it out: spine impossibly straight, knees at a perfect 90 degree angle, hands on the table in front of him. Yet, he doesn't look uncomfortable.

He looks like a man who has perfect control of the situation. A man who can lash out at any second.

You take a seat on the other side of the table and let him scrutinize you. Without your security guard equipment, you feel exposed, but you really can't chicken out now. In for a penny, in for a pound.

He doesn't speak, so you clear your throat.

"You don't remember me, do you, Pope?"

He tilts his head slightly, and his eyes narrow.

"Can't say I blame you. Nobody looked at me twice in high school. But you once beat up my brother Rob." You sip your club soda. Pope still doesn't say anything, and you shrug.

"Forget about it."

It's not that you were that interested in him all those years ago. Whenever he was in the room, or walked the school hallways, there was a vibration in the air. People knew he meant trouble. Not in the way his brothers were troublesome: loud, obnoxious, challenging teachers. No, Pope was something else entirely. He could be quiet for an entire day before he exploded without warning and flew at someone, seemingly without reason. You were, quite frankly, scared shitless of him when you were a teenager.

But then came that afternoon when your brother Rob tripped you in the hall and made fun of you when you were scrambling to pick up your books. It wasn't unusual: Rob liked to give you a hard time to make himself feel better. Both of you had to endure living with an intermittently drinking mother and no present father, but Rob was constantly reminded by her of the fact that, unlike you, he'd never amount to anything. You had the brains, he wasn't even cut out for becoming good at sports. He took it out on you. Brainiac. Nerd. Miss Thinks She's Too Good For The Rest Of Us.

And that very same afternoon, when school was out, Pope reportedly walked straight up to Rob and beat the shit out of him. Then he walked away, leaving your brother to get home on his own - his friends had split - with a broken nose, cracked rib, a missing tooth, and several bruises. He said nothing about what had happened, but you heard about it in school the next day. Nobody knew why Pope had launched on him, but that's just what Pope did: he beat up people.

"We went to high school together?" Pope now frowns, a hint of curiosity in his voice.

"Same grade. But it doesn't matter. What's the plan?"

He gives you a downright derogatory look.

"Like I'm gonna tell you. I'm the one asking the questions here."

"Fire away."

"If there was a plan for something, anything at all, why do you want in on it?

"I need the money," you answer simply.

"We all need money."

"Not all went to high school with someone who knows how to get money," you dare to point out. Not a muscle moves on Pope's face.

"How do I know you're not setting me up?"

"Because I'm not stupid. I know who you are, Pope."

His nostrils flare and he lowers his gaze. You put your forearms on the table, and lean in.

"I get that you have to make sure I'm not fucking you over. But I'm dead serious: I'm not making enough money for what I need to do, and I've been looking for an opportunity like this. But I don't know what people to turn to. So when I saw you scoping out the jewelry store - "

He raises his gaze.

" - I figured that this was my shot."

You hope you look as firm as you're managing to sound.

"I'm serious. I can help with alarms, surveillance, schedules, all of that."

Pope stares at you with an intensity that almost makes you shrink back – almost. You stand your ground and wait for him to say something.

When he finally does, it's short:

"I'll get back to you."

He rises, and leaves. Your eyes follow him as he walks out, and when the door closes, you exhale and look down at your trembling hands.

The night is blue lights and sirens, and an intensely aching face. You sit at the back of an ambulance, an ice pack on your nose while cops question you.

No, you didn't notice anything out of the ordinary.

Yes, you checked all locks.

Yes, the surveillance cameras have worked fine during your shift.

No, you don't know why they stopped working.

No, you can't tell anything about the robbers. Four males, but they wore masks.

Yes, one of them decked you when you came around a corner during your rounds, and found yourself right in front of them all.

You obviously don't tell them that that wasn't part of the plan: you were never supposed to encounter Pope and his brothers. But they had a delay, and the second you almost ran into them, you hissed:

"Punch me in the face!"

You could tell from body type alone which one of them was Pope, and he hesitated for only a second before his knuckle shot out. It was a real blow, and it sent you right onto the floor, stars dancing before your eyes. You heard the sickening crunch of bones breaking and felt the subsequent hot flood of blood over your mouth. You grunted, fighting your way through the shock and pain, as you heard a "Pope, let's go!" before the sound of boots running away from you left you alone in the hallway.

The officers finally release you to the paramedics, who take you to the hospital for imaging. Waiting in the hallway of the ER, you slowly come down from your adrenaline high. You feel like shit. You want to cry, you want to sleep, you want painkillers, you want to crawl up into someone's arms and be hugged and taken care of. It doesn't matter if it's a mother's arms or a lover's, you just need someone to take the wheel. You sniffle, but your nose hurts too much, so you clear your throat and put on your big girl panties. No one is coming to save you, so you better just deal with it.

Your x-ray reveals an uncomplicated fracture, you finally get naproxen for pain management, and are discharged just as the cops show up again.

"Please, can we do this tomorrow?" you ask despondently. The two officers exchange glances and agree. They even drive you home, with strict instructions to show up at the police station the next morning. You promise to be there before lunch and even remember to set the alarm on your phone before you pass out from exhaustion and nerves.

You get time off from work to heal, and between managing your pain and filling out reports and worker's comp forms, you nervously wait for Pope to reach out. You flinch every time your phone makes a sound, and in the end, you don't even get a heads-up before he's waiting for you by your front door when you come home from the 7-Eleven. You almost drop your keys when you come up the stairs and see him, strong arms crossed, at your door.

Of course he's found out where you live. He'd be stupid not to. He's probably kept an eye on your comings and goings since the robbery.

When he lays eyes on your bruised face and taped nose, he uncrosses his arms. His body weight leans forward, like he's about to take a step towards you, but as you ascend the last two steps, he stays where he is.

"Hi," you say, dumbly. "Is everything okay?"

He takes a moment to answer but then gathers himself and nods.

"The job was clean."

You gesture with your head towards the door and unlock it. Best not to stand on the landing and talk about illegal shit.

Pope follows you in and stops in the entry while you take your grocery bag to the kitchen. You fully expect him to follow you, to take up space, but he surprises you by waiting for you to come back to the entry. When you do, you catch him sweeping your apartment with his gaze. Is that a twitch in the corner of his eye when he sees the pile of clothes on your couch?

You stop at a safe distance, and he turns those hazel eyes at you. The weight of his gaze feels physical on your face, and you have to fight the urge to put a paper bag over your head. You look like shit, you know you do.

"We have to wait a month or so to move the merchandise," he informs you in that slow, low voice that's more threatening than any yell.

"Okay."

"But I have your cut of the money."

He reaches inside his jacket, fishes out an envelope, and holds it out for you. You step closer and take it.

"Thanks."

You peek inside. It's a thick wad of bills, and exhilaration runs down your spine. You'd have to work for months to get this kind of money. And except for a broken nose this was free: no taxes, no work, no nothing.

"Will that heal up okay?"

You look up at Pope and do a double take. Is that remorse you see in his face?

"...yes. Yeah, I'll be fine."

He nods curtly. Without another word, he leaves.

You don't see or hear from Pope for another week, until one night when you're getting ready for bed. Yawning, you leave the bathroom and go into the kitchen to get a glass of water. Entering the softly lit living room, you stop still and gasp loudly, nearly dropping the glass, when you see someone sit in your armchair. Your heart almost stops from fear, and your fight-or-flight instinct basically just flatlines, and you're stuck in place, just staring.

Your second reaction is even more fear, when you see that it's Pope. The thought flashes through your head: He's here to kill me.

He's like a statue, absolutely still, that handsome face completely expressionless. It's a strange juxtaposition: the warm light reflecting in the silvery sprinkles across his chin and upper lip, his freckled complexion warm but his eyes so blank.

You draw in a quivering breath and realize that you have not breathed since you saw him. Adrenaline courses through your veins and you should probably try to throw the glass at him and run - the course to the door is free - but instead you bark out:

"Jesus fucking Christ, Pope, don't you know how to knock?"

Great survival instincts, idiot! Your legs feel weak when he slowly stands up, that dark predatory gaze fixed on you. And you are nothing but prey, a defenseless animal who can never outrun him, not fight back. You take one step back.

His head slightly bent, he turns around and beelines for the front door. Opens it, steps out. Closes the door behind him.

A second later: three discreet knocks.

Your mouth is open as you stare at the door. When the knocks are repeated, you put the glass down with a shaking hand and slowly make your way to the entry. Hand on the doorknob, you take a deep breath.

You open the door.

Pope stands outside, that same blank face, but there is something in his eyes now. You can't quite pinpoint it when he asks you if he can come in. You step to the side, and he walks past you, back to the armchair. You close the door and follow.

He doesn't apologize for his earlier entry, and you don't expect him to. Sitting down on the edge of your couch, you clear your throat.

"Did you move the stuff yet?"

He blinks, like the question surprises him. You cross your arms in front of your chest and hope you look more imposing than how you feel.

"How's your nose?" he eventually asks.

"Fine." It is better, the swelling is down, as is the soreness. Although your bruises have faded, they're still there. As long as you don't apply pressure, you're fine.

Pope is still staring at you, and you raise your chin a little.

"Going back to work next week.

He nods. "Good."

"Was there... anything else?" You don't know what to make of him. He's dangerous, you know that much, and his quietly threatening aura would make anyone uncomfortable. But there is something about him that makes you lower your guard. Mainly because you don't think that this is his MO: if he wanted to hurt you, you'd already be bleeding on the floor.

"Didn't mean to hit you that hard."

Surprised, you shrug half-heartedly, lowering your gaze.

"It was necessary."

"I wish it wasn't." His voice has softened around its rough edges. You look it up. There is a quiet despair in his eyes that feels almost physical. It makes you more uncomfortable than his distant coldness.

"What do you mean?"

"I do remember beating up your brother."

You raise your eyebrows.

"Because I do remember you. You weren't pretty - "

"Wow, thanks."

He purses his lips and you think you see a slight color change in his face. Did you just make Pope Cody blush?

"I mean... you didn't try to be anything you weren't. Even when your brother treated you like shit in front of everyone, you just... took it."

"Not much else for me to do, was there?" There's an edge to your voice: you don't like to remember those years.

"Did he stop after I beat him up?" Pope wants to know. And it dawns on you that yes, Rob did stop, he did ease off on you. Back then you figured that it was just because he grew tired of you never giving him the reaction he wanted.

But he stopped after that day when Pope flew on him after school, just out of the blue.

"He did," you acknowledge in a small voice. "Pope, was that why you..."

"Yes."

It is a terrible gift to receive, but you find yourself accepting it.

"Why?" You can't imagine it's because he was into you. Pope followed that Catherine girl around like a dog. You later heard that his brother got together with him. How messy.

"You... always looked so... sad."

You press your lips together as you try to break the silence that descends between the two of you. It's too thick, too heavy with meaning.

"He died in a car crash, you know. Drunk," you finally say, trying to sound light. "He still lived with mom, and when he died, I had to move back home and help support her. I had to drop out of college. I... want to go back. That's why I need money."

You have to lower your eyes when you speak the horrible words.

"I hated him so much for changing my life like that."

You don't expect any reaction from Pope so when you glance up, you're surprised to see sympathy. You swallow.

"Andrew?"

He almost flinches when hearing his given name, and now you lean across the coffee table and carefully place your hand on his knee. Confusing washes over his face, and you try to give him a warm smile, although you're not sure you succeed. Your heart is beating too fast and you feel like you have no control over your facial muscles. In fact, you're trembling all over.

"Thanks for checking on me."

He nods curtly and stands up without warning.

"I have to go."

You almost ask him to stay, when there's a knock on the door - or banging, more like. This time, you know exactly who it is.

"Shit," you sigh, and stand up. Pope watches you intently.

"What?"

"It's this asshole I used to have a thing with," you explain, embarrassed as you hurry to the door. You open it and find, as expected, Kyle on the stairs. He's a little taken back when he sees your bruised face, but snideness quickly replaces surprise on his face.

"The hell happened to you?"

"What are you doing here?" you counter. "I've asked you repeatedly to leave me alone."

"Ah, come on, you know you like it." Kyle takes a step closer and jams his foot in the door.

"Get lost," you try, but then you feel Pope's hand on your arm. Firmly but gently, he moves you to the side and opens the door fully. Kyle blinks but finds himself quickly.

"And who the fuck is this? Your new boyfriend?"

Kyle can't what it means to have Pope just standing there quietly, his face like stone. You realize that a part of you wants him to find out.

"Huh, man? She sucking your cock, too?"

"Go. Now." Pope's voice is so low that you barely hear it. Kyle laughs. The sound almost makes you feel sick.

"I don't mind sharing, but I'm going first."

It happens so fast: Pope grabs Kyle by the front of his shirt and backs him out on the landing outside your door. He slams him, back first, into the roof support post by the stairs. A flowerpot is knocked over, spilling dirt on the landing.

"I will not tell you again," Pope lets Kyle now, still not raising his voice but now you see the impending craziness on his face, the one you saw many times as a teenager. And you do nothing. Your heartbeat slows down and you feel calm as Kyle spits something at Pope's face. He still doesn't see the danger. He still doesn't know that Pope can kill him.

Pope's fist connects with Kyle's face. Your ex's head snaps to the side, but Pope pulls him in again.

"You come near her again, I'll kill you."

He throws Kyle down the stairs, and he tumbles helplessly down and hits the ground hard. Groaning, he rolls over onto his stomach and tries to get up. Your heart misses a beat when Pope descends the stairs, and you realize that this is getting dangerous.

Pope pulls Kyle up. Except for a nosebleed he's also bleeding from a cut on his forehead. You move almost automatically, hurrying down the stairs and stopping Pope by putting your hand on his shoulder just as his elbow draws back for another punch.

"He's not worth it," you say in a low voice, glancing around. You can see curtains moving in a window.

Pope glances at you and lowers his fist. He shoves Kyle brusquely.

"Get out of my sight."

Kyle spits blood but you see the fear in his eyes before he turns around and hobbles away. You pull a little at Pope's sleeve.

"Andrew. Come on."

His shoulders sink and he's suddenly breathing heavily. Slowly, he follows you back in, stopping in the entry when you fetch a bag of frozen peas from your freezer.

"Sit down," you call, and he moves into your apartment. You find him hovering by the armchair, head bent.

"Won't you please sit down?" you ask him gently. He exhales sharply.

"I should go."

"Please stay. Just a little while?"

You don't want him to leave in this state. He seems amped up but not like when he was getting ready to beat the shit out of Kyle. No, this time there's something else there. You realize that it's shame that's pulling his shoulders down and making him unable to look at you.

"Andrew," you whisper, placing your hand carefully on his chest. "Are you okay?"

Slowly, he raises his gaze, and now it's him that looks like a hunted animal.

Or perhaps haunted.

His teeth are clenched hard and you can see the jawline moving. With a soft touch, you make him sit down and pull up the pouffe so that you can sit in front of him. You take his right hand and turn the back up. There is a small cut on his knuckles, and you put the cold bag of peas on it. He looks at your face all the time, like he's waiting for something. You venture a small smile.

"This is the second time you've beat up someone for me."

"I'm sorry."

You gape at him. "Andrew... you, you don't have to be sorry."

He raises his left hand, lets his fingertips brush over the bruise under your eye. You don't blink.

"This is what I do," he tells you hoarsely.

You nod.

"I know."

You have never seen a man more riddled with guilt, shame, sadness. It breaks your heart and makes you drop the bag of peas. It falls onto Pope's lap and then to the floor when you pull him into your arms.

"I'm sorry," you whisper. "It's not fair."

A tremble goes through him and very slowly, like he doesn't really know how to do it right, one hand comes to your back. Then the other. He holds you very loosely, like he's afraid you'll break, or perhaps of what you will do if he demands anything of you.

You don't need two years of psychology studies at college, or the high school whispers of yesteryear to know that the Cody boys had a rough go of it at home and that Pope has problems. Not just the illegal shit, but real problems. And yet, despite all the violence and the crimes and the jail time... he seems so sensitive.

You know that the family is dangerous. You know that Pope is like a rabid dog when set loose.

And yet, you kiss him. It's probably the fact that he got rid of Kyle for you, but it's not just gratitude. It's not the money, his good-looking body or handsome face - even if those were incentives enough.

You just want to show him that he can have something good, even if it's just a morsel of it.

Your lips touch his cheek first, just where the raspy stubble ends and smooth skin takes over. Pope becomes very still, arms still loose around you. You let your lips find his, carefully as if not to scare him. Just a little kiss, then another. For the third, you let your lips stay on his, and your hand comes up to cradle his cheek.

He starts to respond, hesitant at first but when his arm tightens around you, bringing you in, you take it as a cue to show him just how hungry you are. You press your lips to his with more demand, separating them and licking at the seam of his mouth. When he opens for you, you let out a tiny hum as you slip your tongue inside his mouth. You don't know what you expect, beer and cigarettes perhaps, but he tastes like spearmint, fresh and nice.

Your other hand comes to the back of his neck to bring him in, and then your nose is pressed up against his, and you flinch, breaking the kiss.

"Ow!"

He looks almost panicked. You smile apologetically as you grimace.

"My nose."

He licks his lips and it's the sexiest thing you've ever seen.

"Maybe we shouldn't..."

"Do you want to?" you ask simply.

"Yes."

"Then we should. I just need to watch my nose."

Now he's the one to place a hand on the back of your neck to bring you back in. He kisses you, unbelievably gently, over and over; tiny little kisses on your lips, your cheeks, then following your jawline to your ear, then down your neck. He doesn't seem to be in any hurry, and it's driving you crazy. Heat pools between your legs and your heart is doing a mile a minute. You grab the hem of your t-shirt and pull it over your head, revealing your plain, comfortable bra that makes Pope's eyes go big and round. With slightly trembling fingers, you start to undo the buttons on his shirt, one by one, until his chest is bare and you can't help but run your hands over it. Pope catches your hands and stands, pulling you up with him, and then he kisses you again, now with more heat but still being mindful of your injury, the one he gave you. He touches you hesitantly, fingers skimming down your sides so lightly it tickles, and you press yourself against him, you can't get enough of his lips, of the feel of his skin against yours. The hair on his chest is lighter than you expected, or perhaps just sparse, but they seem darker the lower they go. You need to see more.

"Bedroom," you manage to say between the kisses, and Pope releases your mouth enough for you to take his hand and lead him to your small bedroom, where your unmade bed waits to accommodate both of you.

You stand before him, almost nervous, and pull down your shorts. The black holes of his eyes pull you in and swallow you whole when your panties follow, and then you reach behind your back and undo your bra. He's breathing hard, like he's been running, and you realize that you have to talk to him.

"Take off your shirt."

He obeys, hurrying but still doing it right: unbuttoning the last buttons, taking the shirt off and then even folding it once before putting it down on the chair by the bed. You smile, and he cocks an eyebrow.

"What?"

"You like things neat, huh?"

"Don't you?"

You realize that he's side-eyeing your unmade bed, and you feel like teasing him.

"We're going to mess it up anyway, aren't we?"

Pope presents something that could be a smile, but then he takes a step closer to you, and cups your cheek. His thumb runs over your bruise.

"You really want to?"

You realize that it's not just consent to have sex he's looking for; he's asking if you'd have sex with him. A man who could do you this harm; hell, who did do you this harm.

"I want to so badly," you confirm, and your hands drop to his belt when he kisses you again. You unbuckle his belt but then yelp when he suddenly lifts you and carry you two steps before setting you down on the bed. You scoot up and separate your legs as he unzips his pants, and then he stops and just stares at you when you touch yourself. He gulps audibly when you dip inside yourself and draw out your arousal, bringing your glistening fingers to your mouth.

For a second, he just stands there, but then he pulls down his pants and kicks them off. You smile when you see his sizeable cock, striving up from a bed of pubic hair. Fuck, that looks good.

"Come here," you ask him, and he obeys immediately, laying down over you, supporting himself on his forearms as he hovers above you and seeks your lips for another kiss.

Man really likes kissing, you think dimly and a giggle escapes you. Pope stops and stares at you, and you hurry to caress his cheeks. Calm him down like the nervous animal he is.

"I like this," you try to tell him, "it's good."

He lays down next to you and regards you with curiosity.

"Don't think anyone's ever laughed in bed with me before."

"About time then?" You take his hand and direct it down your stomach, in between your thighs. "I can make other sounds, too."

His eyes are fixed on yours when he circles your clit, a little inexpertly.

"Lighter," you ask him breathlessly, "not so hard, Andrew."

He adjusts accordingly, and your eyes close and bare your neck.

"Ohhh... oh, fuck, that's good."

Pope nips at your neck, licks down your jugular and kisses the hollow between your collarbones, all the while working your clit. Your hips move, one of your hands come up to your tits, the other finds his cock and caresses it. Pope moans and it's such a sexy sound that you open your eyes just to look at him.

"Like this?" you ask, and he nods, eyes half closed and mouth open. You keep your touch light, tease him, treat him, all the while he does the same to you.

"A little faster now," you moan, and he complies. God, he's eager to please!

"Kiss me," you ask, and he crashes his mouth to yours. Your nose stings but you don't care anymore, you need his kisses, his breath battling yours, his tongue -

"You go down?" you gasp. He hesitates for a moment before sliding down from the bed. Grabbing your legs, he pulls you towards the edge, positioning you so that he can kneel by the bed and have you right before him. It seems orderly, the way he lifts your legs and places them on his shoulders. Proper and deliberate. He doesn't take the time to look at you, kiss or touch you, but dives right in with long, slow licks from pussy to clit.

"Oh God, Andrew..." you hum, touching your breasts absent-mindedly as you look down at him. He works meticulously, doesn't look up, seems focused on his task. It's endearing, and holy shit, it's good. Your thighs move on his shoulders, and he secures one of them with his arm around it, fingers digging into the soft flesh. You touch his hair, that curly hair that you realize only now you've been dying to run your fingers through. You do just that, he now he looks up at you, wonder in his eyes, before he once again lowers his gaze and focuses on the task at hand.

"That's good," you encourage him, "a little faster now, please..."

His tongue turns narrow and firm as he flicks it at your clit. When your pelvis starts to move, he grunts and uses his arms to keep it still, like he doesn't like you squirming. He doesn't seem to mind you holding his head, and when your moans grow louder his breathing speeds up, his hold on you grows stronger.

The orgasm washes over you, you pull at the sheets and throw your head back as you shout out, legs shaking.

"Slow!" you mewl, "slow, slow, slow..."

Each slow, gentle lick makes sparks run down your spine, and you have to giggle again.

"Oh, man... Oh, Jesus Christ, Andrew..."

He stops, and you open your eyes and look at him. There's a shadow of a smile haunting the corners of his mouth, and he wipes his chin. Only then do you feel the beard burn on your sensitive skin.

"That was really hot," he says, and you grin.

"You're telling me."

Lazily, you slide your legs down from his shoulders, and roll over to the side to reach for the drawer of your bedside table. You take out a condom, lay back down and smile at Pope, who's still on his knees by the bed.

"You gonna stay there or come up here?"

He's by you in a flash, kissing you. The taste of you is strong on his tongue and you almost want to delay the penetration just so that you can suck him off, let him taste himself in the kisses that follow. But his cock is already staining your thigh, and you need him, it's almost physical how you need him.

You help him roll on the condom and lead him into you. He's kneeling between your legs but comes to hover above you as he pushes in, inch by inch, until he's bottoming out and his hot breaths thunder against your cheek.

"Fuck," is all he says, and you nibble at his ear before kissing it, your arms going around him.

"Yeah," you agree, and he turns his face and kisses you. Slowly, he pulls out, then pushes back in, this time with more insistence. Your breath stutters at the intrusion, pleasure soaks your brain, and Pope huffs out air as he does it again, settling into a slow but thorough pace. It's perfect, your legs go around his thighs, your hands run down to his ass and push him down, deeper, you need him deeper, he hits the right spot inside you and you cry out.

"Keep that up - and I'll - cum again!"

He grunts, and steals your breath with another kiss before dropping his face back to your neck. You feel the rasp of his facial hair, then the scrape of teeth when he sucks your skin between his lips. The pace never slows down, the angle never changes, he keeps hitting that spot and making you mewl. Your second orgasm lifts your back from the bed as your spine arches, and shortly after, Pope juts his hips against yours and shivers. The sound he produces is somewhere between a strangled cry and a sob, and you run your fingers through his hair, again and again. His panting breaths are hot against your skin and when he finally catches his breath, he rolls over onto his back. You lie still, staring at the roof, enjoying the lingering tingles in your body, and feeling that special kind of sadness that it's over.

You want to do it again. Not now exactly, but you want to taste this man again.

You roll onto your side and reach for his face, placing your palm on his cheek and turning him towards you. Kissing him softly, you smile and stroke his cheek.

"I gotta go pee. Gimme the rubber."

Lower lip caught between his teeth, he takes off the condom and hands it to you. You dispose of it in the bathroom before peeing, and washing your hands. When you return, Pope is sitting on the edge of the bed, his back against you. Only now do you notice how his strong back is stained with tan stars. You want to kiss each and every one.

"I should go," Pope says curtly. You try not to show how disappointed you are. Of course he has to.

"You don't want to sleep here tonight?"

The look he gives you is heavy with one single question: Why would you want me to do that?

You have no answer to give him.

"I don't sleep much," he admits.

"Then don't sleep," you try, hearing how stupid it sounds. "Just rest here with me?"

A quick, almost sad smile haunts his lips before he reaches for his underpants.

"I have shit to do.

He pulls on the underpants, then seeks your eyes. You try not to stare at his muscled body.

"I can... call you, maybe? Tomorrow?" he suggests carefully, and you nod, embarrassingly eager.

"I'd like that. Maybe we could grab a bite?"

He nods, and now there's another shy smile that even reaches his eyes. He looks younger, less damaged. You smile back, and he walks over to you.

"I'll call."

"Sure you will." You venture an eyeroll as you pat his chest, but he catches your hand and presses a kiss to your palm.

"I'll call," he tells you again, and now you just nod. He releases your hand and gets dressed. You find your T-shirt and panties as well and eventually follow him to the door when he leaves.

Hand on the doorknob, Pope turns to you one last time.

"You have my number. Let me know if that asshole comes back, okay?"

"Yeah, okay." You seem to sound nonchalant because Pope looks displeased. You hurry to assure him that you will call if Kyle shows up again.

"Okay. Good night."

Pope Cody was in prison for 1.114 days. In that time, he read 158.5 books; he finished the last one — The Book Thief, which he started reading on day 1.112 of his sentence — as a free man. He’s already finished with The Book Thief when he learns about audiobooks, after a well placed ad for Audible on a self-help Youtube video he listened to while on a stake out. 

It takes him another eight books after that to discover audioporn. He comes across the app by accident, and it takes him about seven minutes into the first audio he chose — puppyplay, though he didn’t know what that meant just yet — to realize he’s listening to a porn story. 

Pope sticks with it. The stories he listens to don’t do much for his dormant dick, but it’s nice. He likes listening to women whispering about how good of a boy he is, the dirty little things they want to do to him and the things they want him to do to them— A fantasy, something for him to get lost into during the nights he couldn’t fall asleep; a habit acquired in prison, the sort of ongoing vigilance that he couldn’t grow out of even though he now lives a somewhat safe life. 

And then he finds you. Your account is called Mommy Dearest, which is why he clicked on it at first, but the one audio that sticks with him has nothing to do with mommy kink: It’s a phone call, about fifteen minutes long, that starts with you rambling about your day and ends with you wailing through an orgasm with a loud vibrator between your legs. You edge yourself for a long portion of it, talking about how much you miss his cock and his fingers and his tongue; and then, close to the end of the call, you say you miss him. You talk about how you miss him and how prison isn’t going to keep him from you, and you giggle and say that, on another phone call, you’ll tell him every single perverted thing you’ll do to him when he’s out. 

Logically, Pope knows it’s not real. You’re not talking to him, it’s just a character that you recorded, edited and then posted on a porn app for pathetic men like him but it lands so heavy on his chest he doesn’t even notice he’s hard for the first time in over three years. 

You have a whole series on your ‘convict boyfriend’ — which you name Folsom Prison Blues after the Johnny Cash song and Lord help him if that doesn’t do something for him. — and the phone calls and letters and conjugal visits. You sigh and you moan and you describe in full detail what toy you’re using to get yourself off and, when Pope scrolls through the comment section, he gets so angry at all the men that get to listen to you too that he loses his erection. 

But he doesn’t stop listening. Pope feels some sort of odd loyalty to you and your breathy little sighs, his heart clenching whenever you whine about missing him, and he whispers into the air vows of finding you, of walking through the doors of your home and taking you in his arms and making sure you’re always full of his cock. He comes over and over again at the thought of you, bent over his couch and his kitchen counters and in his shower— He doesn’t really know what your body looks like, your profile photo is a headshot of you with a sultry smile and bright pink hair he’s fairly certain is a wig, but he thinks he can figure it out; it doesn’t really matter how big or small your tits are, because Pope dreams of falling asleep suckling on them anyway, your fingers tugging on his hair and your legs wrapped around his waist as you say you’ve waited for him, that you love him and that he’s the only man that gets to see you like that. 

Pope’s not certain at which point he stops thinking of Cath. It happens naturally, either gradually or all at once, and he only notices when he walks into Smurf’s home one evening and Cath is on the couch, her head on Baz’s shoulder, dozing off after what he presumes is a whole day out by the pool. It used to hurt him deeply to see her like that, cuddled up to a man that Pope knows isn’t good enough for her, but this time he… Feels nothing. Not pain, or annoyance, or jealousy. The only thing he can think about is how he wishes he could have that with you; an afternoon together, laying on the couch, watching a nature documentary— You’d interrupt it every five minutes or so to talk about something else, maybe your shift at your day job or the little shiny trinkets you buy with his money. He knows you’d ask about him, too. About his day and his feelings and whether or not he ate; you’d ask and you’d mean it, you’d want to hear everything he has to say unlike Smurf, who asks but never pays attention, never really listens when Pope speaks. 

He’s so lost in his daydreaming that, when he finally hears your laughter, he doesn’t think it’s real. Pope’s eyes fly beyond Baz and Cath cuddling on the couch to find you sitting criss-cross applesauce on the floor by the pool, a collection of Barbie dolls spread between you and Lena. You’re in short overalls and a brown and orange striped shirt, your natural hair — not pink, so Pope had been right about the wig — pinned away from your face. A gorgeous, heaven-sent angel that laughs exactly like the girl from the app. 

“Who’s that?” He asks, unable to stop himself. His fingers itch to trace the curve of your neck, to spread his fingers over your collarbone. 

“Lena’s new sitter.” Baz answers. Pope makes a noise in the back of his throat, trying very hard to pretend that it doesn’t matter but his brother sees right through it. He squints at Pope. “Don’t even fucking think about it.”

“I’m not Craig.” He says, but they both know you’re not Craig’s type— Too innocent-looking, verging on the side of boring and not the sort of girl that Craig would look twice at. But Pope would, and he does; he finds a seat in a position where he can watch you from afar while still pretending to pay attention to the TV. You play with Lena until the girl is ready to pass out from exhaustion, and then you bring her inside and settle her on the couch before you finally introduce yourself to him, a sweet smile on your lips as you extend your hand to him. 

If your laughter had been enough to remind him of the girl from the app, the way you say your name cements it to be true. It’s you, the pink-haired girl with the convict boyfriend and an extensive collection of sex toys. 

Pope doesn’t like shaking hands — too many germs, the contact always making his skin prickly — but he takes your hand in his anyway, squeezing it once before he lets go. He wants to keep holding it, feeling your soft skin his against his roughened one, to put your fingers in his mouth and suck on them until you’re begging for him; you don’t seem to notice the way he lingers, you just accept the cash from Baz with a small nod and wave your fingers at them as you leave. 

“I mean it, Pope. Don’t be a creep with the girl.” Baz growls at him later that night, after Cath has already tucked Lena in the backseat of the car and they’re about to go home. “She keeps Lena so busy I get to actually fuck my wife on the regular again. If you fuck this up for me I’ll kill you.”

Pope doesn’t like the way Baz talks about Cath, never has— Like she’s just something for him to get off to, like he needs to rub it in Pope’s face that he’s the one that gets to sleep by her side every night. This time he doesn’t really care, because all he can think about is you.

He doesn’t mean to follow you. He just wants to make sure you get home safe at first, because Baz and Cath make you leave the house later and later each time. And then, when he finds out you’ve been taking pottery lessons twice at week at eight pm, he follows you there because he also wants to make sure nothing will happen— He thinks it’s quite late for a lesson, but you’re always happy when you leave, your face a little flushed from the red wine he sees you drinking from the window. 

Pope learns your schedule quite quickly, and he knows he’ll need to have a conversation with you about that. Keeping such a tight routine is easy for someone to hurt you, even if Pope himself understands the appeal of consistency— It’s all he’s had in prison, after all, and it was quite a comforting change from the violent chaos that is living underneath Smurf’s iron fist. It’s easy for him to come up with excuses to hang around Baz’s house whenever you’re there, and even easier whenever you’re at Smurf’s. 

Although he follows you home almost every night, Pope has never gotten too close. He’s afraid you’ll see him so he stands back, sits in his car for a couple of hours until your lights go out but tonight is different. You have a date. He follows the two of you to the twenty-four hours diner the guy takes you to, and he watches through the window as you almost fall asleep at the table; he can’t hear the conversation but it’s clear that you’re bored, barely responding to the man even though Pope knows you talk a lot when you’re happy. You’re also not a girl to take to a diner of all places and Pope wants to beat the guy black and blue for putting so little effort into dating you, even if he’s glad his competitor is tanking the date— It means he can whisk you away, dazzle you by showing what being truly courted is like. 

You swerve the guy when he tries to kiss you at your front door. Pope is out of his car by then, hiding in the shadows across the street just to make sure the man will leave you alone; he does, even though he speeds off with screeching tires when you deny his kiss for the third time. Pope tells himself that he is only checking in on you, that you’re taking way too long to shut out the lights and maybe something is wrong, as he climbs through the fire escape to your floor— He knows exactly where your apartment is, has watched you open and close your blinds plenty of times before. 

He stares through your window carefully, making sure to stay out of sight, and his mouth goes dry when he sees you sprawled on your bed, fully naked. You have one hand between your thighs, your legs spread apart as far as they can go, but Pope can barely pay attention to it— He’s looking at the dildo you’re holding with the other hand; it’s thick, long, and bright pink. Bigger than Pope’s own cock, the sort of big that he doesn’t think it’ll fit inside of you. And you’re licking it. Long, deliberate strokes of your tongue before you spit on the head, watching as it drips down the silicone shaft; you don’t take it into your mouth, not really, but you lick and spit until the thing is dripping before you collect your own slick to rub on it— You’re using your own juices and spit to lubricate it, and Pope feels like he might come in his pants at the thought of you doing the same to him. 

You don’t take the toy all the way. You push it inside of you slowly, carefully, one hand rubbing furiously at your clit while the other pushes the pink silicone inside; you stop for a moment, chest heaving but the large smile on your face tells him everything he needs to know— You’re edging yourself, stopping to come down from your high before you go back to fucking yourself on the monster cock between your legs. 

Pope’s not even aware of the moment he pulls his cock from the confines of his jeans, spitting on his hand and tugging furiously, his eyes glued to the way you fuck yourself hard and fast— It’s a little clumsy, the angle not quite right, but you’re wailing, shivering and shaking as you shove the toy inside of you as far you can; Pope pictures himself climbing through your window, taking the toy from your hands and fucking you properly with it. He thinks you might let him fuck your ass while the dildo is still inside of you, filling you with flesh and silicone until you’re crying from how full you are, how ruined your pussy and your asshole are. 

He comes first, fisting his cock with one hand and stifling his moans with the other, his eyes still glued to you. You shift positions, desperation all over your face as you bring yourself to your knees, sitting on the dildo instead; you ride it hard, bouncing on the toy and in this position Pope can see the way the entire thing disappears inside of you, the fake balls grinding against your clit when you lean forward, your hips rutting with abandon. You come while meaning loud enough that Pope thinks the neighbors might complain, your tits jiggling hard as you push yourself up and down, riding the toy all the way through your orgasm until you topple sideways, exhausted. 

Pope stays until you fall asleep, the toy forgotten by your side, your naked body sprawled over the bed. And then he stays a little longer, watching you sleep, his denim and hands still stained with his cum.

Pope thinks you’re getting used to his hovering presence the evening he corners you in the kitchen. You’re always incredibly kind to him, talking a lot when it’s just the two of you even though he hardly ever engages in the conversation apart from giving you his undivided attention; he thinks you might like him, even, your smile always brightening up when it’s geared towards him. 

Lena is in bed by then, Cath and Baz gone on a date— Which means Pope has no excuse to stick around after they leave but you don’t seem to mind, swiping up the counter where Lena spilled half of her spaghetti, humming underneath your breath. He’s not sure how to bring it up, how to tell you that he’s been listening and dreaming about you long before you showed up so instead he simply pulls out his phone, opens your profile and slides his phone across the counter. 

You stare at it like it’s something rotten, your hands frozen on the marble counter. “Pope—”

“It’s you, isn’t it?” The question is just a formality, a need for you to admit that he isn’t crazy. 

“Please don’t tell Barry.” You beg so prettily, your eyes going wide when Pope rounds the counter. “I really need this job.” 

“I listened to the entire series.” He mumbles, his hand coming up to brush your cheekbone. Your skin is soft, glittering with sparkling make up and it looks so, so pretty beneath his blood-stained hands. You shiver at the contact, eyes fluttering close before you take a deep breath. “The Folsom Prison one.”

“D’you…” You lick your lips, and Pope needs to use every ounce of whatever little control he possesses to keep himself from kissing you. “Did you like it?”

“I spent three years at Folsom.” He tells you, ignoring your question— He thinks it’s obvious, with the way his fingers drip down to run over the column of your throat. “Would’ve been a lot easier if I knew I had such a pretty young thing waiting for me at home.”

He can see the moment the idea pops into your head; Pope likes to think he can read people pretty well, and he sees the way your eyes fly from his face down to his crotch, his half-hard cock straining through his jeans. He hasn’t gotten hard this easily since he was a teenager, but your smell alone is enough to drive him crazy, let alone the way you blink owlishly at him, your nimble fingers coming up to brush at his belt buckle. 

“Promise me you won’t tell Barry.” You lick your upper lip and Pope doesn’t think you even realize you’re doing it, his mouth going dry at the pink that pokes through your teeth. “I’ll give you what you want, but promise me he won’t find out.” 

Pope nods, not trusting himself to speak, and you sink to your knees. He’s terrified that he might lose his erection but his nerves turn into blazing desire when you wrap your hands around his cock, pumping him slowly and brushing your thumb against his slit— It feels so much better than his own hands that his knees nearly buckle, Pope gripping the counter as you look up at him, a soft smile on your lips. You take him slowly into your mouth, tongue circling around the head of his cock before tracing the vein on the underside, your eyes never leaving his face. Your mouth is warm and flooding when you finally take him into it, the flat of your tongue pressing against his shaft, one hand on his thigh for balance while the other grips the base of his cock; your rhythm is slow, teasing, and Pope digs his fingernails into the marble to stop himself from grabbing you by the hair— He likes you, perhaps too much, and he doesn’t want to scare you. Maybe you’d let him fuck your face one day, but this time he wants to do this your way. 

You take him as far as you can, your nose pressing against his pubic bone and Pope’s eyes roll to the back of his head when your throat tightens around the sensitive head of his cock, a whimper escaping his lips that he tries to stifle with gritted teeth. He’s going to come just from that, tears pooling at the corner of your eyes as you pick up the pace, the wet sounds of your slurping and gagging whenever you swallow too much of him bringing him that familiar tightening at his navel. 

Pope grips your hair at last, pulling you away with perhaps a little too much force. 

“Get up.” He says, half an order and half a plea. You stare at him through wet eyelashes, still gripping the base of his cock for a long moment before you comply— Pope is about ready to yank you up himself, but you stand on wobbly knees before he turns you around, pressing your front against the counter. 

The positions change, with now Pope kneeling behind you while you bend over the counter; you’re in a yellow dress, modest enough that you could run around after Lena all day without showing too much— Modest enough that it would never have anyone thinking you’re the kind of girl to fuck yourself with a silicone cock while saying the dirtiest, nastiest things on a microphone but Pope knows better. He feels like he’s the only person in the entire world that truly knows you, and his hands shake in anticipation when he shoves your dress up to your hips. You hold it in place, taking a deep breath and pushing your ass out even more. 

You’re drenched, the gusset of your cotton underwear a shade darker than the rest, your juices starting to run down your thighs. He cusses under his breath, pushing his nose against your core and taking a deep breath. You gasp, surprised, but you still push your ass against his face. Pope leans back just enough to watch as he pulls your underwear down, mouth salivating as the gusset sticks to your cunt, stringy slick connecting the cloth to your skin before he’s letting it slide down your legs. 

“All this just from sucking me off?” Pope doesn’t mean to tease, the words more wondrous than anything else. Your entire body shivers when his breath hits your pussy, making you whine. Pope takes pity on you, using his hands to spread you open before his tongue runs across your cunt. 

You taste even better than he thought you would. The two of you moan in unison, your hand flying backwards to grip his hair, pushing him against you until he’s struggling to breathe but he doesn’t care— Pope would let you use his tongue and his fingers and his cock however it pleases you, his cock throbbing at the fact that he’s the one bringing you pleasure. He suckles on your clit, nose bumping against your entrance and you keen before you bring a hand to your mouth, trying to keep quiet. He pulls back just a little, watching entranced as you clench around nothing. 

“Talk to me.” He asks. “Like you do in your stories.”

“I need your fingers.” You say, voice a little breathy, the pitch just a little higher. It’s the voice you use in the app, still yours, still recognizable, but still different. “Please, Popey, I need it. Been thinking about them for so long, how thick and capable they are—”

The nickname does something to him and Pope whimpers against your cunt, pushing two of his fingers inside of you at once. It’s a snug fit and he can only think about how your pussy is going to strangle his cock, how he’ll stretch you open and leave you leaking with his cum. He moves his fingers slowly but purposefully, crooking them until you’re almost yelling, a string of yesses and his name falling from your mouth like a prayer.

The noises you make as you come might be the prettiest Pope has ever heard, your already tight cunt clenching hard around his fingers, your slick dripping down his wrists as he suckles on your clit until it’s twitching, your hips spasming against him; you slump against the cold granite, whimpering softly when he pulls his fingers out of you but Pope’s not nearly close to being done— He hasn’t been this hard in years, the tip of his cock painfully red and leaking, and there’s nothing that can make him feel better than the moment he sheaths himself inside of you with one deep thrust. It’s a tight fit, perhaps a little too tight, your pulsing cunt tightening so hard around him that Pope thinks you might push him out.

“Fuck, you’re big.” You whine, more pain than pleasure— Maybe he should’ve prepped you a little better, and Pope makes a note to do so next time.

He starts rutting slowly against you, only pulling out a little bit before he pushes back in, his hands gripping your hips. Pope watches where he disappears inside of you, entranced by the stretch of your pussy around him, his cock coming out shiny with your wetness. 

“ ‘M so full” You moan, your voice back to the breathy one you use when putting on a show. “You’re everywhere. Biggest cock I’ve ever had.”

His hand tangles on your hair, pulling you back harshly so your back smacks against his chest and you moan. “Don’t fucking lie to me.” Pope growls against your ear, the hand not on your hair digging into the plush of your ass hard enough to bruise. “I saw that toy of yours. Such a naughty little slut, stretching yourself open with a big plastic cock, creaming all over it.” 

Your head whips back at him, eyes wide. “What do you mean you saw it?”

As much as he wants to hear your pretty voice singing for him, Pope doesn’t want to talk about it; he doesn’t think you can understand it just yet, how good he would be for you, how well he can treat you.

“Shut up.” He says, picking up the pace of his thrusts; you squirm a little, mouth open in a way that he knows means another question is coming so he slams his hand over your mouth, holding your jaw tightly closed as he pulls your head back against his shoulder. “Just— Shut up.”

He sets an almost brutal pace, his cock pushing in and out of your cunt with indecent squelching sounds and he can see the exact moment that the hand you wrap around his forearm stops trying to pull it away and holds tightly to him, your moans muffled behind his hand. 

“Are you going to be good to me?” Pope mumbles against your ear, lips twisting into a small smile when you immediately nod. He lets go of your mouth, then, pushing you back against the counter— He would love to see your face when you come for him, but the sight of the creamy ring you leave around his cock is too enticing to look away, your pretty little asshole clenching whenever he hits the right spot inside of you. 

You’re moaning now, hips pushing back against his, your mouth hanging open as you rest your head against the counter. Pope spits, the glob of saliva hitting just half an inch away from your hole and he rubs his thumb against it, pushing just the first knuckle inside of your ass; you’re even tighter there than your cunt and Pope moans, his cock pushing so hard and fast against you that you jostle, your head hitting the marble counter with a loud thud; there’s a small pool of drool next to your mouth, your lips still parted, your moans being punched out of you with every snap of his hips. 

“Cum for me.” He all but begs, his voice shaky. “Please, please, cum for me.”

Your body shakes as you come, your wetness splashing against his cock, dripping down his balls and onto his jeans and Pope can’t stop himself. He comes with a loud whimper, both his finger and his cock pushing deeper inside of you. Pope drapes himself over you, his forehead dripping sweat into the tiny pool of drool you left behind and you raise a hand, fingers raking through his hair as the two of you catch your breath. 

“Clean me up.” You say. “I can’t go home dripping your cum.” 

Pope nods, even though you can’t see his face, and he needs to wait until he stops shivering before he pulls out; he tucks himself and then looks around, trying to find the paper towels. 

“No.” You say, looking at him over your shoulder, still bent. “With your mouth, Pope.”

He’s on his needs before you can ask for it twice, lapping at your cunt, licking his own come from inside of you. Your clit twitches when he tongues at it, making sure every single part of you is clean— It takes longer than he thought it might, his cum leaking and leaking and leaking but he does as you tell him to until you’re shaking, his face smeared with a mixture of your wetness and his, fingers digging into your thighs to keep them spread when you try to close them, overstimulated— You come again like that, so lost in pleasure that you’re completely silent, squirting all over his lower face. 

And Pope, because he’s nothing if not great at following orders, swallow every single drop. He keeps licking and sucking until your entire body spasms and you pull him away by his hair. You yank hard enough to hurt, your fingernails digging into his scalp but all Pope feels is pleasure. 

“Now,” You say, smoothing down your dress and leaning back onto the counter. He can see you’re trying to hold some composure but you’re sweating, your lips bitten raw and hair plastered all over your forehead. He notices how badly you’re shaking when you try to push the hair away from your face and Pope interjects, pushing the hair out of your eyes for you. “Now you’re going to tell me exactly what and how you saw anything.”

And he does. The two of you sit down on the kitchen floor, facing each other, and Pope tells you word for word of the night he saw you masturbating on your bed, the way he perched himself outside of your window and touched himself to the image of you. You don’t say anything, silent even when he begs you to say something, sitting on the ground until Baz and Cath come home; you bid them goodnight with an innocent smile as if you hadn’t just squirted all over their kitchen and leave without sparing Pope another glance.

Three days later, Pope gets a notification that you’ve posted a new audio; it’s not an update on the Folsom Prison Blues series but an entirely new one:

Late Night Cravings. It’s the tale of a young nanny that fucks her stalker in the kitchen of her workplace and, in the comments, you promise to soon share another episode.

so when an rta rolls in, the gurney skidding slightly as it’s pushed through the double doors, you step forward before anyone else can claim it. adrenaline floods you, sharp and electric, and you catch dr. abbot rounding the nurses’ station out of the corner of your eye as the words leave you a fraction too fast, too loud—

“i’ve got this one.”

his gaze flicks to you. just once. then he nods his head; single, curt, and keeps walking.

the patient is agitated, pain spiking, eyes unfocused as nazely, a fellow intern, moves in to assist you quick, nurses trailing behind with practiced motions. lines, vitals, meds.

you can smell the alcohol on him from here.

"where's the x-ray?" you call out, positioning yourself at the side of the gurney. "pelvis ap."

the image is handed to you by a fourth year medical student within minutes. you study it, narrowing your eyes: legs asymmetrical, the femoral head sitting high and medial, nowhere near the acetabulum where it should be.

posterior hip dislocation. textbook. you clock it instantly.

you know this.

you've read about it, practiced the technique, watched it done twice. but knowing and doing are two different beasts, and the beast in front of you is thrashing on a stretcher with a blood alcohol level that could strip paint.

“we reducing here?” you ask, already steering the stretcher into an open bay.

“yeah, go ahead. gcs thirteen over fifteen." a nurse tailing behind you says.

you position yourself for the allis maneuver, slotting your foot into the patient's groin to act as a support. it’s all physics and brute force.

that's it. you got this.

dr. parker ellis lingers at the foot of the bed, arms folded, her expression carrying that particular brand of skepticism only senior attendings can manufacture. "you sure you can handle it? looks a bit tough. he's fighting it. you'll need decent traction."

"i can," you answer, quick and firm. no room for doubt.

she holds your gaze for a moment. then: "i'll leave you to it." she exits the room, shifting to higher-cost patients, and the door swings shut behind her with a soft click that feels louder than it should.

then you flinch as the patient lets out a broken, animal sound, thrashing despite the morphine barely taking the edge off. someone calls for more analgesia.

"ketamine ready." nazely signals. the room hums, tight and chaotic.

you grab the limb, feeling the heavy resistance. the trauma bay is loud, a cacophony of shouts and alarms,

and then you hear his voice.

“what happened?”

dr. jack abbot stands just off to the side, not interfering, just watching. arms loose, gaze sharp in that way that misses nothing.

he’s been there longer than you realized. he asks the question to the attending nurse.

she answers without looking up her clip board. “rta. driver, suspected etoh. no other casualties.”

dr. abbot nods, eyes never leaving yours. his presence is a nerving weight that you can feel burning on your skin like a brand.

he doesn't step in to take over. but he talks you through it. slow, careful, and completely professional.

"breathe through it," he says, his voice steady. "you know what you're doing."

"i could do it," another intern insists, he's hovering too close. "it's a big reduction—"

"she got this," dr. abbot dismisses him instantly, finality in his tone that brooks no argument.

you engage your core, pulling, leveraging your weight against the patient's resistance. the struggle is real, your arms shaking, sweat beading on your lip, but his voice keeps you grounded.

"steady," he coaches.

the clunk of the hip relocating echoes—satisfying and solid. you stumble back a step, breathless, your hands trembling from the exertion as you bite back a smile.

“nice,” nazely says, grinning as she moves to stabilize the leg.

dr. abbot moves forward, checking the vitals before turning back to you.

he looks tired, the lines around his eyes deepened by the harsh fluorescent lights, but there’s a flicker of something else there. something dark, proud and feral all at once.

he steps close, right into your space, close enough that you can smell him, sandalwood and sweat. then he whispers low:

"you did great, kid."

offthejob!dr.abbot

—part-time smooth talker, full-time sadist.

the transition from the sterile chaos of the pitt to the haze of his apartment is a blur of adrenaline curdling into something darker, needier.

the second the door clicks shut, dr. abbot slips off his sheep's skin and a wolf takes form. a desperate, clawing thing that pushes you up against his door, pinning you there with the full weight of him, his already growing hardness rutting against your leg.

he leans into you, exhausted, and buries his face into the curve of your neck. his nose trails the line of your jugular, slow and deliberate, inhaling. long. deep. almost as if your very scent is like crack to him.

"did so good today, baby." his lips part against your pulse point and you feel the wet heat of his tongue drag over it once. "think you deserve a reward, hmm?"

"jack—" your voice comes out wrecked, barely a whimper. "i—i've been thinking about this all—"

"shh, i know, baby. i know." his palm cups the side of your neck, thumb resting against your hammering pulse. "i have too. walked around that hospital all day with my cock half-hard watching you work."

he exhales, ragged, a warm breath skimming over the prickling skin of your throat. "knew you were gonna let me fuck you after."

then a pause.

"but gotta get my girl cleaned up first, don't i? get you all nice and ready for me."

you manage a shaky nod and his mouth finds yours—feverish, desperate, all teeth and tongue and the bitter ghost of stale hospital coffee. his fingers hook into the hem of your scrub top, yanking it upward with an impatience that makes your stomach clench, knuckles dragging rough over your ribs, skating under the soft swell of your breasts.

"gonna wash you up real good," he breathes into the wet heat of your kiss, swallowing down every little sound you make. "take my time with you. then i'm gonna fuck you exactly how you need it, slow and deep 'til you're crying on my cock."

a whimper slips out of you and he grins.

"how's that sound, sweetheart? that what you've been needing all day?"

"mhm." you admit shamelessly because it's true.

"yeah?" he kisses you again, softer this time, but no less hungry. "i could tell. noticed you squirming around the whole shift, looking at me with those big eyes during the briefing. thought you were gonna push me into the supply closet and eat me alive."

"considered it." you grin.

he laughs, low, dark, vibrating against your lips as he pulls you in for another kiss.

"next shift. promise."

he walks you back toward the bathroom, your mouths crashing together in a tangle of tongues and teeth refusing to break away. but your hands don't touch yet. they hover just over the fabric of each other's scrubs, you teasing the hem of his shirt and him, with the drawstring of your pants.

it’s a game of restraint, a buildup that makes the inevitable snap so much sweeter.

when you finally pull away from the kiss, stripping out of your scrubs feels like molting, like leaving that exhausted intern in a heap on the bathmat.

one layer. then another. until you're standing bare under the dim bathroom light, goosebumps rising across your arms, your thighs, between your legs where you're already slick.

he watches you strip with dark, heavy eyes—possessive, needy, starving.

his hand reaches forward, skimming over your arm all the way behind your back, then he unclasps your bra with one hand—he’s got that surgeon’s dexterity—and he watches in awe as your tits spill free.

he groans.

"god, look at you," he traces one calloused fingertip over the areola, flicking the peak of your nipple, just enough to make your breath catch and your spine arch. "so fucking beautiful. how'd i get so lucky?"

"must be your bedside manners," you breathe. " the clinical detachment really gets me going."

the laugh that punches out of him is startled, genuine—a warm sound that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes something greedy unfurl in your chest.

"play nice." he shakes his head, mouth crooking. "or else i might have to punish you."

you open your mouth to fire back but then his fingers find the hem of his scrub top and he pulls it over his head slowly, revealing the plane of his chest.

you go quiet.

it's broad and dusted with salt-and-pepper hair that thickens as it trails down his stomach. but it's the scars that catch your eye every time, even now. pale ridges of warped tissue mapping across his left side, angling over his ribs, disappearing beneath the waistband of his pants.

shrapnel, he'd told you once, quiet and matter-of-fact, the only time it ever came up. doesn't like talking about it. never has. and you've learned not to push.

the scrub top hits the floor. his hands go to tug at the strings of him scrub pants.

his thumbs hook into his waistband and he drags everything down, pants and briefs in one slow drag, and your mouth goes dry at the sight of him.

he's hard.

cock heavy and flushed, curving slightly upward against his belly, the shaft thick and veined with prominent lines that trace from root to tip. the head is pretty, too pretty—a flared crown of deep pink that glistens at the slit, already leaking with precum.

your eyes trace every inch of him, hungry, memorizing the weight of his balls hanging low and full, the way his cock jumps slightly under your gaze.

then your eyes drift lower. to the prosthetic.

the metal gleams dully against the tile—titanium, functional, built for utility rather than aesthetics. it ends in a molded socket that fits snugly over what remains of his left calf, the transition from flesh to machine seamless in its engineering if not its appearance.

he shifts his weight slightly, unconscious, the way he always does when he knows you're looking there. doesn't hide it. doesn't flaunt it either. just... is.

and you love him for it. all of him—the scarred tissue and the missing limb and the beautiful, terrible kindness he hides beneath that serrated exterior. you love that he trusts you enough to stand here bare in front of you, every flaw and fragment on display.

"eyes up here, sweetheart," he murmurs, and when your gaze lifts to his face he's smiling. soft at the edges, almost shy, a look he'd never let anyone else see. "now c'mere."

then he's steering you toward the shower, one warm palm pressing flat against the small of your back, and you let him have his way.

you always do.

this thing between you started a month into your rotation.

you remember it clearly.

the hallway outside OR 2, the hum of fluorescent lights, the way his eyes, warm brown and deceptively soft, lifted from the chart in his hands and landed on you. "you new?" he'd asked, all casual, like he wasn't the most feared attending in the building.

"yeah, just came in this month," you managed. "intern."

something flickered across his face. recognition, maybe. or interest. "great, then you'll assist me today," he said, already walking. not a question.

so you did, assisting him in OR 2, holding retractors while he worked with this terrifying gentleness. his hands moved like they were conducting something sacred, everything bending to his will the moment his skin made contact.

and you couldn't look away.

couldn't stop staring at the concentration carved into his face, the way his brow furrowed, the set of his jaw.

when he turned to you afterward with gloves still on, mask pulled down and said, soft as anything, "you did great, kid."

something cracked open in your chest that day. something shameful and hot and desperately hungry.

you didn't know you had a praise kink until that exact moment, until those four words short-circuited your brain and left you flushed and squirming.

you spent the next few weeks running yourself ragged trying to impress him. staying till the hand overs. volunteering for the shit shifts. absorbing knowledge like a sponge and hoping, praying, he'd notice.

and, oh, he noticed.

not because you were obnoxious about it but because you were good. capable in a way that surprised him, smart but not textbook smart. you had quick hands and quicker instincts, the kind of clinical intuition that couldn't be taught in a lecture room. he liked people like that. relied on them, even.

but then he noticed something else; the particular twitch at the corner of your mouth when he'd tell you good job. the flush that crept up your neck and spread across your cheeks, the way your eyes would dart away like you'd been caught doing something wrong. at first he thought it was amusing. a little cute, even.

he egged it on. lingered on the praise longer than necessary, dropped a "good girl" here and there just to watch you squirm.

but then, with time, it stopped being funny and a deep hunger grew in it's place.

he started wondering what other faces he could pull out of you. what you'd look like undone, wrecked, ruined.

a broken little thing trembling under his hands. and that thought, that specific thought, was when he knew he had a problem.

but he wouldn't actually act on it, of course. that would be misconduct. a line that he refused to cross.

and you were in your twenties, still wet behind the ears and dependent on his evaluations. if anyone found out, if it got flagged, it wouldn't just end careers. it would be a headline; 'attending surgeon preys on young intern'.

the kind of thing that followed you for life, no matter who initiated what. he knew that. you knew that.

so you both pretended the tension wasn't there, that the way his gaze lingered a beat too long didn't mean anything, that your pulse didn't spike every time he said your name.

until 2 am on the coldest night of november, when he caught you swaying by your car, keys dangling from fingers that wouldn't stop shaking. thirty-six hours awake and counting, and your vision had gone soft around the edges.

it had been a bad shift. worse than bad.

he'd yelled at you. dr. jack abbot. the first time he'd ever used that tone—that sharp, cutting thing that made nurses flinch and residents freeze.

you'd mishandled a patient's pain assessment, missed something you should've caught, and he'd had to step in and fix it before it spiraled. told you to leave the room. didn't look at you when you went.

and god, the shame of it.

standing in that hallway with your ears burning and your eyes stinging, feeling every inch the incompetent child he'd made you feel like. because you were incompetent. you knew that.

and the worst part was knowing he was right.

so when his voice came from behind you in that parking lot, soft and overly cautious, you almost didn't turn around.

"hey." he exhaled, running a hand over his jaw, breathing uneven. "i, uh. i wanted to apologize. for earlier. i've just been having a shitty day and i took it out on you. that wasn't fair."

"no, you were right." your voice came out flat, mechanical. "i was incompetent. i should've—"

you don't know why you started crying. maybe it was the exhaustion. maybe it was the cold. maybe it was the cumulative weight of thirty-six hours on your feet and a bad night and the fact that nothing you did ever felt like enough—especially not for him.

your shoulders shook and the tears came hot and humiliating and you couldn't stop them, couldn't swallow them down fast enough.

"hey, hey. don't cry." his hands suddenly came up, too warm. too gentle. cradling your face with a tenderness that made your chest ache. "i'm sorry. i'm sorry, kid. really—these things happen. you're learning. that's what this is."

you shook your head, but the words wouldn't come. just more tears, hot and stupid and beyond your control.

he exhaled, running a hand through his silver streaked hair, his gaze falling to your car keys then your car. "look, give me five minutes. i'll take you home."

"what?"

"not letting you drive like this."

"i'm fine—"

"no. you're not. you're shaking." his hand closed around your upper arm, steadying you. "and i'm taking you."

you let him drive because you didn't have the energy to fight, and because some desperate, traitorous part of you didn't want to.

when he pulled up to your apartment, the engine cut and the silence stretched. his hands stayed on the wheel.

he saw you. really saw you—the exhaustion carved into your bones, the tremor in your hands, the way you were holding yourself together with nothing but spite and caffeine.

he let out a low sigh. "you know, i don't usually make girls cry," he said finally. quiet. almost sheepish. "i want that on record."

a wet, broken laugh escaped you. "noted."

"i'm serious. i can be a real grade A asshole, but i'm not—" he stopped. jaw working. "earlier wasn't about you. it was a bad day, i swear...and i shouldn't have taken it out on you. you didn't deserve that."

"no, it's fine." you wiped at your face with your sleeve. "i'm just being silly."

"you're not being silly."

"i just..." you stared at your hands in your lap. the words came out before you could stop them, small and honest and pathetic. "i've been trying so hard not to let you down. that's all."

silence.

you could hear your own heartbeat. could feel his gaze on the side of your face like a physical thing, warm and heavy.

"me?" his voice was strange. careful.

"yeah." you didn't look up. couldn't. "i just- i look up to you, dr. abbot. i mean you're... you're a really good doctor. put together, controlled, careful. everything i aspire to be."

he let out a short breath through his nose. almost a scoff. "put together?" he repeated it like it was a joke only he understood. "kid. i'm the furthest thing from—"

he turned to you, eyes gleaming with genuine admiration. then he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"you shouldn't look up to me."

"why?"

another beat. longer this time. you watched his hands tighten on the steering wheel, white knuckled.

"because right now," he said slowly, like each word was being dragged out of him, "sitting in this car, even with you crying and looking at me like that—i'm thinking about doing something that someone put together wouldn't even dream of."

your breath caught. the air in the car shifted, thickened, charged with something that made your skin prickle.

"something...like what?"

he didn't answer right away.

his eyes dragged over your face slow, deliberate. the tear tracks drying on your cheeks. your lashes still clumped and wet. your lips, puffy and swollen from biting back sobs.

god, you were beautiful.

devastatingly, unfairly beautiful sitting in the passenger seat of his car all wrecked and raw and too innocent. and the worst part, the part that made him sick with himself, was that he wanted to make it worse.

wanted to be the reason those lips stayed swollen. wanted to have that glassy look in your eyes permanently. wanted to ruin you so thoroughly that nobody else could ever put you back together.

and he decided in that moment—

"something like this."

the next thing you knew his palm was cradling your jaw and his lips, warm and sure, were pressing against yours like you'd been dreaming they would for weeks.

it should've ended there. a mistake. a lapse in judgment.

instead it led to your apartment. your bed. his body covering yours in the dark while guilt tried and failed to surface through the haze of him—his weight, his control, the way he touched you like he had every right to.

the way he made you forget your own name with nothing but his hands and his mouth and the gravel-deep rumble of his voice whispering filthy things against your skin.

after that, three nights a week became five. five became whenever you could steal a moment—a locked door, a darkened call room, the supply closet on fourth floor that nobody checked.

it's an addiction now. quiet and dangerous and carried in the space between shifts, in the weight of his gaze across a crowded room, in the way your body orients toward him without permission.

you tell yourself you could stop whenever you wanted really. it's not that deep.

then his hand brushes yours—deliberate, knowing. and his pinky hooks around yours for one stolen second, and you realize that you absolutely can't.

now you're under the spray, water hot enough to scald, steam curling thick enough to suffocate. he starts slow; soapy hands sliding over your shoulders, down the slope of your spine, mapping every inch of you like he's committing it to memory.

his body wash smells like sandalwood and him, drowning out the antiseptic stink of the hospital until there's nothing left but him.

"hold still for me, sweetheart," he murmurs, lips tracing the knob of your spine. one kiss. two. his palms glide lower, cupping the weight of your breasts, and you sigh fondly as his thumbs drag over your nipples until they pearl tight. down over the curve of your waist. kneading the flesh of your ass with possessive pressure.

then his hand slips between your legs from behind, fingers sliding through your folds, and you gasp at how wet you already are. the slick sounds you make.

"christ," he hisses against your shoulder, feeling you coating his fingertips desperately. "look at that. soaking wet before i even touched you. you been thinking about this all day, baby? walking around the hospital dripping for me?"

he doesn't tease. doesn't circle or test.

his middle finger finds your entrance and sinks in to the knuckle in one slow, deliberate push, splitting you open around the thick digit. your walls clench instinctively, pulling him deeper, and he groans low against the shell of your ear like the feeling of you is almost too much.

"oh, jack—" you moan, pressing your head into his wet, solid chest, hands gripping his shoulders sinking crecent marks through the pale skin. he wraps his other arm, strong, secure, around your waist for support.

"i got you, baby." he mumurs as a second finger joins the first. he doesn't rush it—presses in alongside the first, stretching you open inch by inch until the burn gives way to something deeper, thicker. then he scissors them.

"oh fuck." you sigh, as he spreads them apart inside you, feeling the soft, gummy walls yield and cling to his thick fingers. you press your head deeper into his chest, bite at his skin and he groans low, pleased.

then he starts to pump. not gentle anymore—fucks them into you with a curling, grinding, devastating rhythm until he finds that spongy spot that blurs your vision. you can hear the obscene wet sound of his fingers working inside you over the rush of the shower as he grinds into it with every thrust of them.

your mouth falls open. your eyes roll back, lashes fluttering against wet cheeks, and a sound tears out of you that's barely human—wrecked and needy and embarrassing.

"yeaaah," he breathes as he watches you come apart for him with only his fingers. his free hand comes up and cups your jaw, tilting your face toward his. "open up for me just like that, baby."

his mouth crashes into yours, sloppy and wet, tongue sliding past your lips to lick into the roof of your mouth. he swallows every whimper, every broken noise, kissing you like he's eating you alive while his fingers fuck into you faster, harder, the heel of his palm grinding against your clit with each thrust.

it's too much. his tongue in your mouth and his fingers inside you as the water beats down on your back until you can't tell where one sensation ends and another begins.

your orgasm hits like a wave pulling under. your whole body seizes, soft thighs clamping together around his wrist, and you moan into his mouth as your walls ripple and clench around his fingers in sharp, fluttering pulses.

he doesn't stop there. he works you through it, fingers slowing but never stopping, drawing every last shudder out of you until your knees buckle and you're sagging back against his chest.

"good girl," he coos, warm breath against your temple, pressing a soft kiss there. then another, to your cheekbone, your hairline. "such a good girl. look at you. did so good for me."

then he pulls his fingers free slowly from your sopping pussy slow, agonizingly slow, and brings them to his lips.

his warm brown eyes now eclipsed into something dark look right at you as he slides his fingers, coated all over with your slick, into his mouth, sucking your taste off with a pleased groan that vibrates through his chest.

"mmm." he hums around his fingers. "too fucking sweet."

when he's done sucking them clean, eyes never leaving yours, he pulls his fingers free with a wet pop. satisfied.

then his hand comes down from behind onto your ass with a sharp, stinging tap smack makes you yelp and lurch forward.

he grabs a handful and squeezes.

"turn around, baby." his voice is wrecked. gravel and sin. "want you to bend over and show me that pretty ass."

you do as he says. you always do.

you turn real slow, feeling the heat of his eyes burn on your skin, then your palms flatten against the tile, bracing yourself against the wet tile wall. you arch your back just how he likes it– spine painfully low, ass fully raised, and your pussy exposed and still dripping wet. water streams between your shoulder blades and pooling in the dip of your spine. you feel obscene. displayed. like something being served up on a silver platter for him.

behind you, the air shifts. you hear him curse under his breath; a low, almost pained groan.

"christ. look at you." his big rough hand smooths over the curve of your ass, possessive and slow. his thumb hooks into your folds and spreads you open. just for him to look at. "such a pretty pussy." you can feel his gaze on you, hot and heavy, cataloging every slick, swollen inch. watching you pulse and twitch all needy for him.

then the blunt, fat head of his cock notches against your entrance.

he doesn't push in, though. not yet.

instead he grinds forward, dragging the thick length of himself through your slick folds, slow and filthy. the flared head bumps over your clit and you jerk, a whimper scraping out of your throat. he does it again. and again. smearing precum over your pussy, slicking himself up with you, the tip catching at your entrance and then slipping away to tease your rim until your fingers are clawing at wet tile and your thighs are shaking.

"you were so fucking good today," he praises, voice gone thick and dark. "watched you in trauma bay—calm under pressure, quick on your feet. such a good girl. always been a good girl. my smart, perfect girl."

"jack—please—"your walls flutter and clutch at him, greedy, trying to pull him deeper, and he laughs softly behind you.

"easy, baby. patience."

but you don't have the patience. you want all of him. inside you, above you, below you. all around you.

so you push your hips back and take another inch, then another, and the stretch is obscene, your body yielding to him inch by burning inch. it's too much and it's not even half of it.

"oh god—jack—"

"shh, i got you, baby. i did promise you a reward." his voice is strained, barely controlled. you can feel him trembling behind you, feel the effort it takes him to hold still when all he wants to do is ruin you. "now take it."

he pushes inside in one long, deliciously slow stroke, until he's buried all the way to the hilt and you can feel his heavy balls pressed flush against your clit. full. so full you can barely breathe.

"fuck—" your forehead drops against the tile, a sob catching in your throat.

he groans, twitching inside you at the feeling of you all wet and clenching around him as he splits you open, thick and heavy and settled still in there. filling you past the point of comfort into something that borders on too much.

"jack, it's—it's too—"

"breathe through it." his lips press against your ear, as he leans his heavy body over your back, recycling words from the trauma bay and twisting them into something obscene. "you can take it. you always take it so well for me."

his hands grip your hips. hard. nails digging into the flesh with bruising pressure that you know will bloom purple by morning, that you'll feel tomorrow every time you shift in your chair during rounds. reminding you of the sin you comitted the day before.

and then he starts to move.

slow at first. rolling his hips in long, deep thrusts that pull almost all the way out, along your gummy walls, before sinking back in to kiss your cervix. each one punches a broken sound out of you, your forehead dropping against the wet tile, mouth open, breath fogging the surface in short, desperate bursts. the water beats down on his back, runs down his chest, drips from his hair onto your spine as he finds his rhythm.

then he plants one hand flat against the wall beside your head for leverage. the new angle lets him drive deeper. harder.

it's intense. his cock curving deliciously against that spot that has you keening, your nails digging into the tile. he's grinding against your cervix, hitting deep, brutal strokes that hit something primal inside you, and you're whining. actually whining. pathetic, needy little sounds that you'd be mortified about if you had the capacity to think.

"take it." he does it again. and again. fucking into you with long, punishing strokes that shove you against the wall, the wet tile cooling against your heated skin. "yeah, just like that. that's my girl."

the words hit you like a drug. your walls clench tight around him and he groans, long and low and filthy with his head tipped back.

"fuck, you like that, don't you? you love when i call you that? my girl? my good girl."

"uh-huh—yeah—yesyesyes—" the words are barely coherent, slurred together around moans you can't control as your pussy clenches tighter around him.

"oh fuuuuck yeah, baby." his voice is ragged, destroyed. "pussy so tight for me. so fucking wet. taking me so good."

he pounds into you. harder. faster. the sound of your bodies meeting is obscene— raw skin slapping against raw skin, your pussy squelching around his cock with each thrust, a frothy ring of white building at the base of him where your bodies connect. precum and slick smeared between his pelvis and your ass, sticky and filthy and visible every time he pulls back.

and he's looking down at it. watching himself disappear into your filthy, needy, hole. watching that mess build and spread, and his mouth is actually watering. a strand of saliva drips from his bottom lip onto the curve of your ass and he doesn't care. too consumed by the sight of you split open on his cock, taking every inch of him like you were made for it.

"look at that," he breathes, half to himself. "look at the mess you're making on me, baby. so fucking filthy."

"jack—please—"

"please what? tell me what you need, sweetheart. use your words."

but words are beyond you. all you can manage are fragmented moans and the desperate rocking of your hips back against him, chasing more, harder, deeper.

his free hand leaves the wall. you feel the absence for half a second before his palm connects with your ass, the sound sharp and wet over the spray and you lurch forward. he soothes the sting over after with the palm of his hand, rubbing the heated skin, before smacking again, harder this time.

his hand grips the blused flesh and yanks you back onto his cock, impaling you to the hilt.

his mouth drops to your ear, breath hot and ragged against the wet shell of it. "you gonna tell me what you want now, baby?"

"please—please, jack—wanna cum, need to—"

"good girl," he grits out, the praise rumbling through his chest. he reaches around, his fingers finding your clit, working you through it with tight, fast circles. "i got you."

the slick sounds of your pussy are loud, echoing off the tiles, your legs trembling violently as the pleasure builds.

"jack-i'm gonna-about to-"

"i know, baby. i know." he's panting against your neck now, hips stuttering, losing his rhythm. his voice is wrecked, barely holding together. "want me to fill this pretty pussy up? breed you 'til it's dripping? put a baby in you, sweetheart—would you like that?"

"please—please, yes—"

your walls start to clench. fluttering around him in that telltale rhythm, right on the edge, toes curling against the wet tile, spine arching, mouth falling open—

and he pulls out. abruptly. completely.

the emptiness is violent. you gasp, clenching around nothing, and the orgasm that was building crumbles into something desperate and unsatisfied, leaving you hollow and shaking.

"jack?" your voice is raw. bewildered. "why did you—"

"get on your knees, baby." simple. quiet. a command wrapped in silk.

you don't protest. you don't question it. your body just moves on instinct—slides down the wet tile, knees hitting the floor, water pounding against your back as you look up at him through damp lashes.

he's bracing one hand against the wall, the other wrapped around the base of his cock, still slick with you. water streams over his scarred body, carving paths through the salt-and-pepper hair on his chest, trailing down the ridges of his stomach. his jaw is tight.

his face is flushed, red and feverish with the need to come. and his eyes, god his eyes, are wild. dark and hungry and fixed on you like you're the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

"open that pretty mouth up," he murmurs, tracing his thumb over your swollen lower lip, pulling it down gently. "and stick out your tongue."

you open your mouth, tongue out, flat and waiting, eyes wide and wet and completely fucked out, kneeling at his feet like something devout.

he looks down at you, and a slow, pleased smirk curves over his mouth. he let's out a low, appreciative whistle. "christ—look at that. so fucking pretty on your knees for me, baby."

his hand starts moving over himself. fast. frantic. pumping his shaft with rough, tight strokes, veins bulging beneath the wet skin, the flushed head leaking and angry. his hips jerk forward into his fist and his breathing goes ragged, jaw dropping, his mask crumbling into something raw and undone.

"fuck—fuck, 'm close—gonna—"

with a guttural groan that sounds more like a whimper, he pumps thick, hot ropes of cum all over your face. you watch him, the way his face contorts, looking so pretty and pained as he orgasms, and it makes something warm pool in your belly at the sight of him like this.

wrecked because of you.

"yeah. just like that. good girl. take it—take all of it."

you do.

you take all of him with a smile, feeling the heat of his cum mixing with the shower water, sliding down your face in warm, sticky trails.

his hand then comes down on top of your head. not pushing. just... resting there, fingers threading through your wet hair, patting it down affectionately while his other hand drags the sensitive, sticky head of his cock over your ruined face. smearing the mess across your lips. pushing just the tip inside your mouth for you to suck clean, and you do, tongue swirling over the slit, tasting salt and mix of you and him.

when he finally looks down at you, chest heaving, there's that same dark pride in his eyes as he says:

"you did great, kid."

author noteఌ︎: writing the first half of this lowkey gave me ptsd from my night calls at the hospital when i was in my surgery rotation ugg. never again (i don't even have a choice tho fml). anyway, jack abbot is dada :3

divider by @uzmacchiato <33

now you're both at smurf's place.

the noise of the pool party is a distant static hum buzzing through the sliding glass doors into the dim quiet of the living room. smurf's shrill laugh cutting through the splashing, the sizzle and pop of the grill, craig hollering at someone about something stupid, glass bottles clinking, music too loud. all of it muffled and far away from the little bubble you and your boyfriend, pope, created in the living room.

he's dead weight across your lap.

sprawled flat on his stomach on the big red lounge couch, long legs hanging off the end, one arm tucked under his chest and the other holding his phone above his face while his head is pillowed on your soft thighs. your skirt has ridden up, the soft cotton bunched at your hips, exposing miles of bare skin to the cool air. his cheek is pressed against the warm inside of one thigh, his auburn curls spilling across your lap.

he's scrolling through his phone. aggressively. irritated by a stream of texts — people his brothers ripped off, loose ends he has to tie up because god forbid craig or deran handle anything cleanly. you can see the tension in his jaw even from this angle, brows in a mean furrow, the hard set of his mouth, the way his shoulders are drawn up tight. he's been like this since he walked through the door forty minutes ago. coiled, wound, a spring waiting to snap.

"you're getting worry lines, andrew." you look down at him from the book in your hand and frown.

then you reach down and push at the deep crease between his brows with the pad of your thumb, smoothing it out.

"m'sorry it's just that have to fix this mess these idiots left and—" he doesn't finish his sentence as your fingers card slow through his auburn curls, scratching gently at his scalp, dragging your nails lightly over the warm skin of his nape where his hair is shortest. it pulls a low rumbling sound from deep in his chest, something that vibrates straight through your thighs and settles hot and low in your core. you feel him physically relax at the contact. the tight line of his shoulders drops a fraction. his jaw unclenches.

"we're here to relax. now relax and put the damn phone away."

"hmm. fine." he obeys you easily, always does, almost like he physically can never say the word 'no' to you. he abandons the phone, letting it drop face down onto the cushion with a thud. his arm flops down beside it, limp and defeated, and he exhales — long and slow, the last of the tension leaving his body in that single breath.

you're both quiet for the moment, not the awkward kind. but in a way that feels comfortable, calm. nothing pope is used to but longs for desperately.

his dark eyes flutter open. he watches you from below, chin tucked against your thigh, face tilted up. he looks at you the way he always looks at you, like you're something he doesn't deserve and knows it and is terrified of anyway.

he studies the deliberate, unbothered calm of you. the way you're reading a fucking paperback like his ticking time bomb of a family isn't less than twenty feet away, like the man currently using your thighs as a pillow hasn't got blood under his fingernails that will take hours to wash out, like the world isn't constantly on fire around both of you.

he wonders how he got this. how he got a girl who holds his violence in her lap and tames it with only her fingers in his hair. who accepts him as is, doesn't flinch when he comes home with bruised knuckles and dead eyes. who just wants him safe, whole, and in your arms before the end of the night. who makes him feel like maybe the rot inside him isn't terminal but something you can fix.

his calloused thumb rubs absent circles into your bare thigh — rough pad dragging over your soft skin, back and forth, back and forth.

then he turns his face.

you feel the hot wet exhale of his breath against your inner thigh — closer than before, higher— before his nose drags slow along the soft skin toward your center. your thighs clench. your thumb stills on the page. he inhales, deep and shameless, pressing his face into the crease of your thigh like he's trying to breathe you directly into his lungs and bypass his respiratory system entirely.

"you smell..." he trails off, the words muffled against your flesh, his lips moving against your skin. "different."

"really?" you hum, not looking up from your book. "just my usual body mist though. you know the one you like..."

"yeah, i can smell that." he says, voice low, he rolls his head deeper, nose pressing into the warm crease of your thighs. "but there's somethin' else underneath it. somethin'…" he trails off, searching for the word, and settles on: "sweet."

and then, god help you, his nose twitches. actually twitches, like a dog catching a scent on the wind, and you would laugh if you weren't so busy trying to keep your composure because his nose is dangerously close to your pussy. and you've been hypersensitive all day and–

and something clicks.

the dull ache in your lower belly this morning. the tenderness in your breasts when you pulled your shirt on. the way you've been running hot all day with an aching need for him. you were–

"oh."

"oh?" he breathes out, like he already knows. of course he does. "you ovulating? aren't you early?"

you want to scream. the man is ridiculous. how could he possibly have known you were ovulating before you did? his nose is pressed against the inside of your thigh and he's casually sniffing out your pheromones, tracking your menstrual cycle like he's got your flo app memorized.

"what the fuck, andrew. how did you even ah—" he buries his face into you again — deeper this time, closer, nose dragging right over the seam of your panties right above your pussy folds — and the question leaves your mind.

you forget to care in that moment.

don't care about the science or the logic or the frankly alarming acuity of his senses. because instinctively, traitorously, your thighs fall open for him. an invitation your body makes before your brain can catch up and stop it, before you can remember that his family is quite literally right outside.

he makes that sound again. that pleased, hungry hum that makes something molten pool down to your core, as he accept the invitation, and sinks his head deeper between your parted thighs until his hot breath is ghosting right over the thin cotton of your underwear.

he groans and his whole body shudders against you.

"yeah. fuck. 's right here." his voice is wrecked already, barely above a whisper, vibrating against your pussy through the fabric. "this is what i— this is what i've been smellin', this is—" he breaks off. can't finish. doesn't need to. he buries his face directly against the slit of your pussy and inhales over the cloth, long and filthy and shameless, over and over, running the hard bridge of his nose between your folds, bumping against your swollen clit through the cotton until you jolt and bite the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste copper.

"smell really fuckin' good, baby," he mumbles, nose pressed so flat against the damp fabric you can feel the shape of it. "all musky and soooo fucking sweet." each word is muffled, spoken directly into your pussy, his hips jerk against the couch cushion, involuntary, and you feel the hard length of him press against your leg through his jeans. "christ."

"andrew." you hiss, your grip tightening in his hair, tugging which makes things worse because he love love loves when you get rough with him. "your family is right outside."

but he doesn't move an inch. "they're outside." his voice is calm, too calm, like he doesn't have his face buried between your thighs, nose pressed right against your clothed pussy. "they won't bother comin' in."

you should protest, say or do something logical like push his head away and slap him silly. but he keeps inhaling you. shameless and deep, nose pressed flat against the cotton that's growing damper by the second, and god help you, your hand is already pushing his head in deeper, fingers curling tight in his auburn hair.

because maybe you're just as bad as he is, a huge perv, maybe worse.

he loves when you use him like this, when you get greedy and desperate and stop pretending you're too good for the filthy things he wants to do to you. when your fingers twist in his hair and you grind against his face and all that careful composure cracks open and he can see the messy, wanting thing underneath. that's the real you, he thinks. not the paperback-reading calm. this. the girl who'll let him eat her out on his mother's couch knowing anyone could slip in and catch them any moment from now.

and you're dripping already. soaking through the thin cotton just from him sniffing you like a dog, and the fabric is clinging to your folds now, outlining every detail, and you know he can see it, see what he's done to you with nothing but his mouth and his nose and those big dark eyes looking up at you from between your thighs.

so without warning, his broad tongue drags a flat wet stripe right up the damp spot on your panties. slow. deliberate. the full width of his tongue, warm and rough, pressing the cotton between your folds as it drags upward.

you throw your head back, a sharp gasp tearing from your throat, the book slipping from your fingers and hitting the floor with a crack you don't even hear. your spine arches off the couch cushion.

"oh my god—"

he does it again. and again. long, slow, filthy laps over the soaked fabric, tasting you through the cotton, groaning low in his chest with each pass like he's savoring it. the friction of the wet fabric against your swollen clit is maddening —too much, but nowhere near enough — and your thighs are trembling on either side of his head, your breath coming in short shallow gasps.

"andrew — please, ah— slow down—"

you hiss it through your teeth, your grip tightening in his hair, tugging warningly. your voice comes out shakier than you want it to, breathless, the please slipping out before you can stop it, and you hate that it sounds less like a command and more like a whimper.

he doesn't listen. he never does, not when he's like this. not when he's got his mouth on you and whatever part of his brain handles reason and restraint just shuts the fuck off. he repeats the motion, the long, wet, dragging and groaning low at the taste. his hot tongue pressing the cotton flat against your folds until it's clinging to you, practically transparent, doing nothing to hide how drenched you are. his saliva is mixing with your arousal, making the fabric heavier, wetter, and the obscene squelch of it is quiet but loud enough in the stillness of the room that it makes your stomach clench with panic and want all at once.

"it's gettin' sweeter," he rasps, and when he glances up at you — chin wet, lips glistening, eyes wild, pupils blown so wide there's barely any brown left — he looks unhinged. feral. and you whimper at the sight of it, a small broken sound from the back of your throat that you couldn't suppress if your life depended on it. "i need more. need to taste your pussy, baby. please, please, please."

he's begging. andrew cody – who doesn't beg for anything, who holds everything tight and close and quiet, who would rather swallow glass than let anyone see him want – is begging with his face pressed against your clothed pussy and his eyes locked on yours and that desperate, wrecked please falling out of his mouth like he can't help it.

he's breathing hard already, chest rising and falling visibly beneath his wrinkled button-down. his dark eyes are wide and dark and starving, locked onto the wet mess between your thighs. you bite your lip hard enough to hurt, knowing that look, knowing exactly what kind of trouble it means.

it has been a while.

pope and the boys have been on 'business' for a week. a total blackout period, no calls, no texts, nothing, smurf's rules. and you were so fucking pent up, running on nothing but your own fingers and a dying vibrator that kept losing charge halfway through and leaving you a whimpering frustrated mess in an empty bed at two in the morning, thinking about him, aching for him.

you glance toward the large windows. everyone is focused on the grill and the pool and the obnoxiously loud chaos of it all. the sheer curtains obscure everything beyond them into a hazy glow. no one could possibly catch them unless they were actually looking.

just a little wouldn't be so bad.

so you part your thighs wider for him. skirt bunching at your hips. the wet spot on your panties glaringly obvious in the dim light. and with a low, shy, sultry voice — one that doesn't sound like you at all, sounds like some version of you that only comes out when andrew 'pope' cody is between your legs — you tell him:

"just a taste, popey."

and he groans — low and broken, almost pained — at that, at the nickname, at the permission, at the way you say it like you're doing him a favor when really you're both already drowning. his big hands grip your knees, squeezing hard enough to bruise through the skin, thumbs pressing into the soft hollows on either side.

the corner of his mouth twitches into a smile. almost guilty. completely full of shit.

"that's it. that's my girl." his voice drops, rough and low, barely audible. "my sweet fuckin' girl."

he dives in immediately. no teasing. hooking your panties to the side with one rough finger. you feel the fabric pull taut against your outer thigh, the elastic biting into your skin — and pressing his open mouth right against your bare pussy.

the first thing he does is inhale. long and deep, nose pressed right against your slick, dripping folds, and the sound he makes isn't human, his whole body shuddering between your thighs. then his tongue darts out — just the tip, just a taste — and he pulls back for a half second, lips parted, like he's savoring it, like he's letting it sit on his tongue.

"fuck." it comes out broken. barely a word. more like a breath with weight behind it. "tastes even better than it smells. how's it...taste so good?"

and then he's licking. long strokes from your entrance to your clit, flat and wet and obscene, groaning with every pass like you're killing him softly with just the taste of you. every now and then he buries his face deep and inhales hard, nose bumping your clit, mouth open against your hole, panting, like your pussy is a drug and he's been in withdrawal for a week and this is his first hit back.

"oh— oh, fuck—" your hand flies to your mouth, pressing the back of your knuckles against your lips, and the moan that escapes anyway is thin and reedy and pathetic. your hips roll up against his face without your permission, chasing his tongue, and he makes a low pleased sound against your pussy that just makes it worse.

the sounds are wet, sloppy, filthy — his tongue working through the mess you've made, the slurping wet noise of your pussy against his face, and he's making it worse, so much worse, drooling all over you, mixing his spit with your slick until your inner thighs and his chin are dripping and the couch cushion beneath your ass is probably ruined.

he doesn't care. he'll clean up after his sweet girl like he always does.

his tongue runs flat over your folds again and again. up up up. circling your clit, then back down, dragging through the wetness pooling at your entrance — before he pushes it all inside.

"oh, popey, there." you sigh, falling back completely into the couch, eyes rolling back. the angle is awkward, his face mashed between your thighs on a narrow couch, but he's tongue-fucking into you as deep as he can reach, swirling against your gummy walls, mapping the inside of you with nothing but the wet muscle of his tongue. his thumb comes up to circle your clit — the calloused pad dragging over the swollen bundle of nerves with just enough pressure to make your vision blur.

"mmnh— ah— andrew, that's— oh my god—" you're whimpering now, openly, shamelessly, any pretense of composure dissolved the second his tongue pushed inside you. small, hiccuping little sounds that spill out between gasped breaths, your free hand fisting tight in his hair, pulling, guiding, your hips grinding up against his mouth in stuttery rolls you can't control.

he moans into you when you pull his hair. a high, breathy, pathetic sound — mmhh — vibrating against your walls, and you feel it in your spine, in your toes, in the tight coil of heat building in your lower belly. his hips are grinding against the couch cushion now, shamelessly humping the fabric while he eats you out, and knowing that he's so turned on that he can't keep still makes you clench around his tongue.

"taste so good, baby," he mumbles against your pussy, pulling back just enough to speak, his mouth still on you, lips brushing your folds with every word. "so fuckin' sweet. been thinkin' about this — ah — been thinkin' about this the whole trip. couldn't stop thinkin' about it." he dives back in, tongue pushing deeper, and the words are lost in the wet obscene sounds of his mouth working. then he pulls back again, gasping, chin dripping. "every night. in that shitty motel bed. thinkin' about your pussy. made myself fuckin' crazy."

"popey i—i—" your voice cracks on his name, high and thin, and you're so wet you can hear it, can hear the slick sounds every time his tongue moves, and you should be embarrassed but you're too far gone, too deep in the heat and the filth and the risk.

"i know, i know," he breathes, and his voice is so tender it almost breaks you more than the filthy things he's doing with his mouth. "i know, sweet girl. i got you. been so long for you too, huh? gonna make you feel so good."

he seals his mouth over your clit and sucks, tongue working in tight fast circles, and a moan tears out of you — loud, too loud — and you slap your hand back over your mouth, eyes going wide with panic toward the window. the party noise continues outside. nobody heard.

he pulls back just enough to spit a thick, warm glob landing right on your clit, and then dives back in to lick it up with a broad, flat stroke that makes your whole body seize. a high, thin whine escapes your throat, muffled by your palm, and your hips buck up off the couch.

"quiet, baby," he murmurs against your clit, and he has the audacity to sound amused, lips curving into a smile you can feel against your flesh. "gotta be quiet. don't want craig comin' in here, do you?" he sucks again, gentler this time, and you whimper behind your hand, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the effort of staying quiet. "though i dunno... maybe i don't care. maybe i want 'em to hear. want 'em to know you're mine."

"asshole—" you hiss behind your hand, but it comes out broken and breathless and more like please than an insult, and he laughs — actually laughs, low and warm, right against your pussy, and the vibration makes your thighs snap shut around his head.

he seals his mouth back over your pussy and sucks, hard, tongue working your clit in tight fast circles.

"oh fuck, popey—" the little nickname slips out of you, wrecked and desperate, barely recognizable, and something about it makes him growl against your pussy, a low rumbling sound that makes your thighs shake. "popey, i'm— i'm about to—"

"i know." he mumbles against your pussy between filthy wet slurps, his voice completely destroyed, barely recognizable, thick with you. "'can feel it. feel you gettin' tighter. squeezin' my tongue—" he's whining now, actually whining, these high desperate sounds that are almost pitiful, vibrating against your pussy. "please. need it. need you to cum for me. wanna taste it. wanna taste all of it. every drop. give it to me, please, please—"

the please is what does it. andrew cody saying please, andrew cody whining into your cunt like he's the one falling apart, andrew cody begging for it like he needs it more than air — it unravels you completely.

you cum with a muffled cry, teeth sinking into your own hand hard enough to draw blood. your thighs clamping shut around his head, suffocating him, your back arching off the couch, your pussy pulsing against his mouth in thick rolling waves.

"ah — ah — fuck, fuck, fuck—"

the words spill out in a whispered frantic chant behind your bloodied palm, your body shaking, your vision going white and then blurry and then nothing but static and heat.

but that doesn't stop him. doesn't even slow. fucks you through it with his tongue buried deep, pushing against that spongy spot inside you that makes your legs spasm and your stomach clench, swallowing every pulse of it, drinking your slick down with these greedy gulping sounds, and you can feel his throat working against your thigh, feel him swallowing you, and the obscene intimacy of it makes you cum harder, a second smaller wave crashing through you that pulls a broken sob from your chest.

"oh god — popey, 's too much — ah — too much—" you're whimpering through the aftershocks, small sounds. your hips twitching away from his mouth, your thighs are shaking.

he moans at that, low and pleased, like you telling him that is like music to his ears. and with that he finally, finally slows. his tongue gentles from frantic to lazy, drawing long slow passes through your folds, licking up the mess all nice and clean, unhurried like he has all the time in the world. like his jaw isn't probably aching. like there isn't a full blown pool party twenty feet away.

when he's done, he leans forward and kisses your inner thigh. soft, a strange tenderness after all that filth. and then bites down gently, teeth sinking into the soft flesh just hard enough to make you flinch, hard enough that you know there'll be a bruise there tomorrow, a pretty purple, shaped like his mouth.

then he lifts his head.

your slick shines on his chin, his jaw, his cheeks. his lips are swollen and glistening and utterly wrecked, bitten red. his breathing is ragged, chest heaving, his auburn curls disheveled and matted from where you've been pulling at them, strands sticking to his damp forehead.

he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand but it doesn't do anything. there's too much of you on him. his face is a mess but he doesn't seem remotely bothered by it. if anything, he looks satisfied. like a big puppy that finally got his doggie treat.

but there's something deeper, a primal want that still burns behind his eyes, the throb of his cock still evidently hard pressing into the side of your leg.

"need more." he murmurs watching the mess between your thighs, and his thumb drags through your soaked folds, possessive.

"andrew, i just–"

"know you got more for me, sweet girl. always got more for me." he cuts you off, his thumb circling over your clit carefully and your breath catches. your thighs tremble.

you should say no.

you should pull your skirt down and find your book and go back to 'relaxing'. but his thumb is still inside you, still moving, still there. his face is still wet with you, and he's looking at you with a hunger, like the only thing that can feed it is you.

so you ask him before he even says another word:

"is your bedroom free?"

You step out of the locker room and follow a couple of early birds to the stairs, stopping for a second before following the sign pointing down: GYM.

It's fitting, you think: the stairway to hell. You immediately try to shake that thought as you go down. Going to the gym is difficult enough as it is, and it won't get better by you thinking of the actual gym as hell.

You wouldn't mind the exercise so much if it weren't for the people, to be honest. The judgmental looks, the "helpful" tips. The giggles behind your back. That one guy who eyed you with such derision that you almost started crying on the treadmill.

But you persist and change gyms. And this is your first time to this one. You did your research beforehand, checked out reviews and googled for opinions on message boards, looked into Google's statistics on busiest hours, and decided to give it a try at seven in the morning, when they open.

When you come down to the basement of the building, you take a moment to orientate yourself in the space. It's stripped down, nothing fancy but clean and the equipment looks well-kept. There are several rooms, two of them with weights, one with leg machines, one with upper body equipment, a minimal amount of mirrors, fluorescent tubes in the ceiling, no plants, no fancy water stations, no chipper PT's. The clientele at this hour seems to consist mostly of middle-aged and senior men, most of them lifting weights, all of them quite normal-looking. No bare chests, no fancy clothes, dad bods all around. A woman in her early twenties is, quite aggressively, working the cable crossover machine, pulling the handles like she has a personal vendetta against the equipment. She doesn't even seem to notice your presence, which suits you fine.

You find a stationary bike, and start to warm up with some cycling. There's an audio system somewhere, and 105.9 The X is streaming out of the basic speakers, with just enough volume for you to recognize the song. Finishing your warm-up, you get off and wipe down the bike, and find the rowing machine. A man around your age nods at you with a polite but uninterested Good morning, and you nod back.

This could work. Maybe. Hopefully.

Some fifteen minutes into your workout routine, while doing leg curls, you have to take a break and lower the resistance. Annoyed at your lack of strength this morning, you go on but find it hard to focus on breathing right. Your head feels a little fuzzy and you blink a couple of times. Your water bottle was forgotten in your locker, but you spotted a drinking fountain by the stairs, so you decide to find it again. Getting off the machine, however, you notice that your legs are shaky, and when you look across the room, you realize that your vision is a little blurred and that you're nauseous. You were so nervous this morning about going to a new gym that you skipped breakfast because you stomach was in bits, and now you feel like shit.

You try to walk across the floor but it's suddenly moving, or something's wrong with it because it sure as hell isn't lying flat and still. You stop, shake your head, and when you look straight ahead you seem to be looking through a thin tube. The sound of the radio is muffled, as is the voice of the man who earlier nodded at you: he's now right in front of you, addressing you directly. You start to tell him that you're fine but your legs buckle, and you collapse on the floor.

"Hey, Doc!" you hear the man call out, and you blink furiously, trying to clear your head enough to sit up. Because this is embarrassing. You're never going here again, not ever –

"You okay? No, no, don't sit up, just stay put for now."

A warm hand lands lightly on your shoulder, keeping you down on the floor.

"Can you open your eyes, ma'am? Look at me?"

You can. Right above you is a man – not the same one as before – with inquisitive, sharp eyes, and grey in his hair and stubble.

"Hi there, good morning. How are you feeling?"

"Dumb," is the first word that escapes you, and he chuckles.

"We can deal with that later. Did you hit your head?"

You didn't, but as the nausea abates, your embarrassment increases. You turn your head and see that there are a few men staring at you, and you just want to leave.

"Hey, stay focused on me, okay? Did you hit your head?"

You look back at the man with the salt stains in his stubble.

"No, I didn't hit my head," you bark, but he isn't deterred.

"Good to hear."

"I'm fine," you tell him, because you do feel a little better, or at least not as shit as only a moment ago. "Can I get up now?"

"No, your blood pressure's a little low."

"How do you know?" you demand, and Stubbles looks at you with an attitude.

"I can see it on your fitness tracker. Did you have it calibrated?"

"What are you, a fucking doctor?" You can't keep sarcasm from your voice. Stubbles fucking smirks.

"I am, actually."

"Yeah, he is," someone chimes in, and you sigh. Of course.

"Okay. Well, Doctor, I'm good. Can I get up now?"

"Can I just ask you a couple of questions first? Pretty please?" He tilts his head and hitches his eyebrows up, trying to look innocent. It would be funny if you weren't so annoyed.

"If you don't, I might be inclined to call 911 and have the medics take you back to the ER where I work," he goes on. "And that would really fuck up my day because I just ended my shift, and I really don't want to go back there..."

"Okay, okay," you sigh. "But can we... please, can we at least go somewhere to the side? Do I have to be here, in the middle of the floor? I'm feeling better now, I can get up."

He hesitates for a second, then nods.

"Take it easy."

Very slowly, you sit up. Feeling clammy, you at least don't feel nauseous anymore, and although they're shaky, you think your legs will carry you.

Stubbles stands up as well and helps you on your feet. One hand on your elbow, the other on your back, he looks you over.

"Okay?"

You nod, and he escorts you out of the room to a short hallway with a bench and two bathrooms at the end.

"Please sit."

You do as he says, leaning your back against the tile wall, and close your eyes with a sigh. Your face feels flushed and you still feel shaky. Stubbles continues to one of the bathrooms, and returns with a paper cup of cold water.

"Drink." You obediently accept the cup, and drain it. "Is it okay if I take your pulse?"

"Go right ahead," you mumble. Might as well let him do his thing. The more cooperative you are, the sooner you can get out.

You feel his fingers on your neck, and crack open your eyes a little. He's looking at his wristwatch, and you note that he's quite handsome. A little rugged in a very becoming way. Probably your age, judging from the lines in his face, and in good shape. Good arms. You open your eyes fully when following the strong, freckled arms from his wristwatch to his biceps. Oh my.

"There we go," he nods, and looks up at you. "Your pulse was a tad slow, but it's picking up now." He stares so hard at you that you instinctively want to hide.

"And you have some color back in your cheeks. That's good. Are you pregnant?"

You give him an almost condescending look.

"It's getting a little too late for that."

"No visible growth rings on people," he points out wryly, and you shift uncomfortably, hoping the heat on your face isn't visible. He holds up one hand, apologetically.

"Just checking. Are you on any medication?"

You nod faintly.

"I take enalapril. For hypertension."

"Did you take it this morning?"

"Yes. But..."

Stubbles tilts his head patiently.

"I skipped breakfast. I never usually do but my stomach was in knots. Didn't drink anything, either. Thought I'd be okay but then I got weak and dizzy..."

"Tunnel vision?"

"Yes."

"Oh, okay, I see."

You give him a questioning look, but he stands up and holds out his hand for you.

"Could you get up, you think? Just for a sec?"

You stand up, slowly, a little dizzy still. Stubbles quickly moves the bench so that the short end is against the wall.

"Okay, I want you to lie down, and then I'll help you get your legs up against the wall."

You feel inelegant as you do as he says, trying to scoot down on the bench.

"Little more," he instructs you, "butt right up against the wall. There we go, okay, I'll help you with the legs."

He lifts your legs, handling them with practice but also uttermost care, and places them alongside the wall. When he seems happy with your position, he sits down on the floor next to you.

"Did you oversleep? Since you skipped breakfast?"

You bite your lower lip.

"Not really..."

"Any stress recently?"

You hesitate for a second before you decide to spill it.

"I was nervous about going to the gym. It's my first time here and I was anxious about it."

“Starting to exercise can be daunting – “

“No,” you interrupt him, “I didn’t start exercising, I’ve been doing it for years but it’s hard to find a gym where people don’t make fun of me because of my weight. I've been through five gyms in the last six months."

“I’m sorry – “

“And just so you know, Doctor,” you go on, “my sister who’s thin had to go on blood pressure meds long before I did, all my bloodwork always comes back clean, I am not insulin resistant although you doctors always seem to want me to be that, I just happen to be fat but that doesn’t mean that I’m unhealthy – “

“Hey.” He shows up in your line of vision, and you bite your lower lip. “It’s okay. I’m sorry for making assumptions. You’re absolutely right: being overweight doesn’t automatically make you unhealthy.”

You don’t know what to say. Poor guy was just trying to help, and you ripped him a new one.

Stubbles makes a sympathetic sound, and sits down again.

"You probably had what's called vasovagal syncope."

You sigh. "In English, please?"

"It's basically just a fainting spell. You weren't hydrated, you fasted, you were stressed, then you worked out. That triggered an overstimulation in your body, and the reaction is a temporary drop in blood pressure as well as the brain's oxygen supply. Your BP was already low because of your meds, and dropped even lower. It's a wonder that you didn't actually faint."

He pats your hand that's resting next to you. You let him.

"By raising your legs, we help the blood flow back to where it's supposed to be. You'll be fine in just a little while. But I wouldn't recommend you to g on with your workout just now."

"Don't worry, I'm never coming back here," you mumble, staring at the ceiling where white paint has been chipped off in places.

"And why is that?" He sounds genuinely perplexed, and you have to close your eyes and swallow down the tears of humiliation that threaten to let him know just how bothered you are.

"Hey..." His hand is on yours again, and now you shake it off.

"I don't really wanna be known as the old chick who's so fat she fainted the first time she showed up at the gym," you press, then swallow before something defiant in you forces you to turn your head and look at him. Stubbles stares at you, genuinely startled by your words, but then he chuckles.

"You think these guys never fainted in here?" He gestures towards the start of the hallway. "They get hurt in here all the time. Hell, I've lost count of how many times I've had to get an ambulance for these fuckin' dumbasses!"

Despite yourself, you laugh. It's like having a weight lifted from your chest, and you breathe a lot easier.

"She okay, man?" the guy who told you good morning earlier calls from the down the hall.

"Yeah, she's fine," Stubbles replies without taking his eyes off you. In the corner of your eye, you can see the man do a thumbs up before disappearing.

"Roddy there," Stubbles points after the guy and lowers his voice, "once swung a fucking kettlebell at his own nuts."

"What?" you sputter, and clamp both your hands over your mouth as you try to stifle your laughter. "That's terrible!"

"Yeah, it was pretty bad," Stubbles nods, grinning widely, "but that's what happens when you flunked basic physics and want to show off."

You giggle, then take a deep breath to steady yourself, and look at him.

"Thanks."

He smiles back, eyes crinkling charmingly. Your ears feel warm.

"You're very welcome. How are you feeling?"

"A lot better." You're not lying; you really feel more or less back to your normal self.

"Want to try to sit up?"

You nod and start to move your legs, but Stubbles stops you.

"Easy does it. One leg at a time. This way, so I can help you."

Slowly, you take down first one leg, then the other, and let Stubbles receive and put both your feet down on the floor.

"No hurry now, if you sit up too quickly you can get dizzy again."

You take your time to come up to a sitting position, and when you're stable on the bench, you nod at him, a little bashful.

"I'm good."

"Perfect. Just sit tight for a bit, I'll get you some more water."

He takes the paper cup and fetches you cold water, then disappears into the gym for a minute. When he returns, he hands you an energy bar.

"Eat this."

"You don't have to give me your snack."

"Trust me, I eat more of these than I want to. Have it. Eat it, now."

There's a finality to his tone that makes you accept the bar and open it immediately. Your stomach growls, and you bite into it. It's not that tasty but feels nutrient-rich, and you guess it's good for you if it works for a doctor. Stubbles sits down next to you, sighing and rubbing his hands over his face. For a second he looks tired, and you remember your earlier conversation, when you were on the floor.

"You said you came here straight from work?"

"Night shift, yeah."

"Aren't you tired?"

"Very much so," he admits, even if he doesn't sound like it. "But after some shifts I just... need this. What's your BP, by the way?"

You chew and swallow a piece of the dry bar as you show him your fitness tracker. He nods, clearly satisfied.

"That's very good."

"And then you end up having to be a doctor here, too."

"Oh, that's not a problem. I don't mind doctoring the pretty ones," he winks at you. The bar stops halfway to your mouth, and you stare at him in disbelief before huffing.

"Can doctors say shit like that to their patients?"

"Preferably not," he concedes with a rueful grimace, "but you're technically not my patient, are you?"

Your stomach jolts and you put down the half-eaten bar on the bench between the two of you.

"I... think I need to go home now." Not that you really know what you need. You just know that you need to not be here. He's messing with you, surely? You need to get away from this situation. Go home and have a cry, or something. Definitely a cup of tea. Or maybe you need to flirt back, but you can't think of any witty comeback. Because he's flirting with you, right?

"Sit for another minute or two," Stubbles suggests easily. "Did you drive here?"

"I did."

"I'd rather not have you drive home just yet."

"I'll shower first." You're very well aware of your sweaty T-shirt. He shakes his head.

"You'll bash your head in if you collapse in the shower."

You sigh, frustrated now. He nudges the bar towards you.

"Finish this, then I'll let you leave."

You grab the bar and demonstratively eat the rest of it.

"Happy now?" you ask when it's gone, and you crumple the wrapping paper in your hand.

"Overjoyed."

You stand up quicker than you probably should have, and for a second, you sway a little. Your head feels fine, though, and you turn to Stubbles. He's looking closely at you but seems happy enough with your condition. You give him a look, expecting him to stand up as well, and he gestures vaguely.

"I'm good. Just need a moment."

You frown. "Are you okay?"

"Perfect." He rubs his right knee, then sighs. "I'm an amputee."

You know what that is, of course, but it's like you don't understand. Stubbles sees your blank face and pulls up the right leg of his sweatpants. Above the shoe is not a wrist, but metal, and it finally clicks for you.

"Oh... shit, I'm sorry," you stammer. He shakes his head as he straightens out the sweatpant leg.

"Don't be. It was a long time ago. But after twelve hours on my feet, it gets uncomfortable."

He leans the back of his head against the wall and looks at you, and he suddenly looks very naked. There is no flirtation, no professional curiosity, not even self pity, just... a man looking at you. Sharing his damage in exchange for you sharing yours. Not to compare miseries but to connect.

"It can't be easy," you offer quietly. He shrugs matter-of-factly.

"I'm used to it."

"Maybe you're the one who needs to go home?" you suggest lightly. "Can I trust you to drive, Stubbles?"

You could bite your own tongue off the second the nickname leaves your mouth. He raises a brow at you, then his hand comes to his chin. You hear the rasp when he runs his fingers over it.

"Sorry," you say again, this time with a smile. "You are stubbly, though."

"I think it makes me look manly."

"It was just an observation, nothing else."

He shifts, like he’s about to get up. Instinctively, you offer him your hand. He hesitates for just a second before taking it, and you help pull him up.

He holds onto your hand even when he's standing right in front of you, his intense eyes locked in on yours. That prickly chin is slightly raised, and it gives him attitude, but he doesn't look cocky.

"The name's Jack."

You smile and give him your name. And it's suddenly not difficult to know what to say.

"Can I maybe buy you breakfast to say thank you, Jack?"

That smile. It's a little crooked, but genuine.

The ED is busy and you nod at a couple of doctors and nurses who hurry past you, but you don't stop to talk. You're not here to talk, after all, and certainly not to a nurse or a doctor.

At least not any doctor.

You walk quickly towards the triage exam rooms, finding one of them closed, with curtains drawn and lights off. Quietly stepping inside and closing the door, the hustle and bustle of the department is muffled considerably. You push the curtain to the side and see the gurney. And in it, Jack, asleep on his back. Right arm thrown over his face, left arm resting on his belly. His prosthetic is on the floor next to the gurney. He's already in scrubs, despite his shift not starting for a few hours. He had to come in early for a meeting upstairs, and after it, he came to find you but you were in a meeting of your own, so he texted you to let you know that he wasn't going home but instead taking a nap in the ED.

You take off your heels and walk barefoot to the gurney, where you neatly place your shoes down next to the prosthetic. Although he's been out of the military for years, Jack still prefers shoes in tidy rows.

You look at your sleeping man. He's wearing earplugs, but no sleep mask. You place your hand just above his chest, right over his heart, and feel it rise towards your palm.

"Jack," you whisper, despite knowing he can't hear you. Gently, you lower your hand to touch him, and feel his heart beat a couple of times before his breath stutters. His arm slides down beside him, and he blinks sleepily before he becomes aware that someone is in the room with him, and his eyebrows draw together.

God, that scowl. If you weren't dripping wet already, it would certainly make you so.

He finally recognizes you and takes the plugs out of his ears as his features soften.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, surprised but still a little groggy.

"Came to see my man," is the only explanation you offer, and start to work open the drawstring knot of his pants.

"Sweetheart, what - " He's cut off by you yanking down his pants and then you climb onto the gurney, pull up your skirt, and straddle him.

"Came to see him and fuck him."

He looks downright shocked and is still only staring at you, uncharacteristically silent and petrified. You grind against his boxer briefs and he can't help but lower his gaze to the apex of your thighs. He sees the wet fabric of your panties, and gulps visibly.

"We can't," he tells you huskily. "Baby, the initiative is fantastic, but we'll get into trouble, we can't do this..."

You undo the buttons on your shirt, revealing your bra, and that shuts him up. He shoots up into a sitting position, his arms go around you and he's kissing you like he were a starving man and you were the first meal he's seen in days.

He's so predictable, and so easy to please. You grind down on him and wrap your arms around his neck, taking his kisses and enjoying the feel of him growing hard against you. When you reach down to rub his stiffening length, he breaks the kiss with a low hiss, and aims for your neck instead, kissing and licking his way down to your shoulder. He paws your breasts out of the bra cups and dips his head down to suck a nipple in his mouth. Your back arches and you hold back a moan, instead humming low, before pushing him down onto his back. The indignity on his face almost makes you laugh but when you get up on your knees and grab his underwear, he catches on and helps you pull them down. His cock springs free, already fully hard and with a glistening head, and you close your hand around it and direct it between your legs. Jack's mouth falls open and he stares helplessly at you when you rub your panty-clad pussy against him, before you finally push the fabric to the side, and let him find you.

"That's it, baby," he breathes, and before you have slid down his entire length, he bucks up, driving himself right up into you, and you clamp your hand over your mouth to prevent the shout that threatened to escape you.

"You started it," Jack grins cockily as he sits up. You lean in to kiss him but he evades you, teasing you by letting you only touch his lips with yours before he turns his head and presses his lips instead to your neck. One of his hands comes down to the mattress behind him, the other to your waist. You start to move slowly, and it's almost more than you can take.

"Jack..." you moan in his ear. He hushes you, and the sound makes the hair at the back of your head stand.

"Now ride it, sweetheart. You came here to fuck your man, so do it. But you have to stay quiet."

"But it's so big, baby, it feels so fucking good..."

"I know, but we'll get into a world of trouble if someone hears us and comes in. You wouldn't want that, would you? Not before you cum, at least."

He has gathered himself, finally. It took him a little while, probably due to sleep deprivation, and the sheer surprise of you showing up, but now he sounds more like the Jack you know: confident and snarky. He keeps his hand lightly on your waist, but when you pick up the pace, he moves it up your back and unclasps your bra. You shrug it off of you, and he ducks down to kiss your breasts again, his stubble grating the sensitive skin in a way that makes your nipples almost painfully hard. You have found your angles now, the right spot to make your entire spine light up from pleasure, and you run your fingers through Jack's short steely curls before pulling his head up and kissing him. Your right hip feels grumpy; the joint doesn't like being rotated inwards like this, but you don't care, not when you're filled entirely by your man's cock and he's cutting off your kisses with bitten off words about how tight you are and how good you feel.

The high you're chasing rushes towards you and you whimper into his mouth, Jack, oh shit, Jack, baby, I'm so close and he growls, his strong hands come to your hips and help you, then one of his hands slip down to where the two of you are connected, and he presses down on your clit and you almost yell again and have to hide your face in his neck.

"That's it, I know it feels good, it's okay, sweetheart, fuck yourself on me and cum..."

Your teeth scrape his neck and then you kiss him again, both hands on his cheeks to keep him there, and he takes each kiss from you until your mouth is just open and gasping into his, your body shakes and he pushes his fingers against you, you still for a split second before pushing against his fingers, more, more, and then you cum on his cock, and he hugs you tightly as he rocks you on top of him, his hips jutting against your until he groans against your skin and you feel yourself fill up with hot cum.

He lies down, taking you with him, and you rest draped over his chest, hand over his heart again, feeling the quick beat that you know echoes in your own chest. Jack takes a deep breath and exhales with a low laugh.

"Whatever got into you, did you start ovulating again or what?"

You scoff.

"Can't a mature woman get spontaneously wet when she thinks of her man?"

He kisses your forehead.

"Of course she can, but this is extreme."

"What about you, old man?" you tease him. "Took you a while to get on board."

"Not every day a gorgeous woman visits us mere mortals down here and fucking straddles me."

"I fucking hope so. I'd want to know if she did."

You lift your head from his chest and catch his shit-eating grin.

"Don't get any ideas, Doctor," you warn him, but soothe it over immediately with a soft kiss. Shifting on top of him, you feel him slip out of you, followed by a warm ooze of cum.

"Dammit. Hold on."

You slide down from him and from the gurney, look around you, and find paper tissues. Wiping yourself, you hand a couple of clean ones to Jack, who does the same. Your bra is on the floor, as is your shirt, and you hurry to get dressed. Jack tucks himself in and pulls up his pants, then lies down with his arms behind his head, watching you.

"Do I look okay?" you ask when buttoning up your shirt.

"You look amazing. Very flushed," he teases you, and you swat at him. "Wish I looked half as dewy and fresh at four am."

"I could come back," you wink, and he reaches for your hand and pulls you in for another kiss. It's sweet and loving, and he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.

"I wish you would," he murmurs, "but we're not going to get away with this again. This was already a huge risk."

"A rap over the knuckles is all we'd get," you shrug, but Jack shakes his head.

"Sweetheart, you have a good career, and I'm not going to let you jeopardize that just for a risky fuck at work."

"Oh, please!" You shake your head, amused. "My job is pointless. I could stop coming to work altogether and this hospital would continue healing the sick because you and the other medical professionals would still be here."

"Your job is just as important - "

"We're fine," you interrupt with a smile. "Take the win, Dr Abbot."

You kiss him again before you have to go. He holds your hand and won't let go, even when you try to pull it away from his grip.

"The longer I stay here, the bigger the risk that someone finds us..." you remind him. "Try to get some sleep."

"I'll try to get home in time for breakfast with you, how's that?"

The rain whispers on the roof, and the sheets rustle next to his ear when Javi opens his eyes to the soft light of the bedside lamp. He blinks, and reaches for Eva just as she rises from the bed, leaving behind her an empty space on the mattress. Javi sighs, and rolls over onto his side, blinking at the woman getting dressed.

"Morning," he hums, watching her pull on panties before reaching for the bra on the floor, where he discarded it last night.

"Good morning," she smiles quickly at him as she reaches back to fasten the bra hooks.

"Come back to bed?" He has to try, even with the knowledge that she won't give in to his feeble attempts in the morning. Eva is a purebred rancher, always up at the crack of dawn to get started with the day's work. He stands a much better chance in the evenings, after dinner.

"I have a lot to do today," she tells him, but she does come back to give him a quick kiss, stale from morning breath. Javi doesn't mind.

"Get up, slow poke," she grins at him before finding her jeans and pulling them on. A t-shirt and plaid follow before she leaves the bedroom to go to the bathroom. Javi stretches but sinks back against the pillows, in no hurry to get up. Eva and Chucho, the early birds, need to use the bathroom before him anyway.

He listens to the house waking up; the pipes singing when the toilet is flushed, his father going to the kitchen to put coffee on, Eva coming out of the bathroom to switch with him. A pot is put on the stove; she's boiling eggs this morning. The radio is turned on for the early morning news.

The sounds are those of a normal home, and this house hasn't sounded like that in many years. Javi sighs at the quick snap of pain in his heart; he still remembers his mother, misses her, but is used to life without her. Everything changed when she died, the house became less of a home after she was gone. And as soon as he was able to, Javi left. His sister Lana left, and Chucho was alone on the ranch for years. Returning from Colombia to a life he never saw himself living had been a huge change for Javi, and it didn't help that he brought with him a dozen bad habits, such as living on nothing but cigarettes and coffee, and the occasional drink. He and Chucho had been courteous but Javi didn't know where he fit in on the ranch.

And then Eva happened. Eva, who didn't fall for his flirting, who worked harder than any two men combined, who insisted on staying in the cold and leaking guest house across the yard. Eva, whose strong and capable body and well-read poetry books stirred something unexpected in Javi. Eva, who unwaveringly stared him down with her chocolate-stained-with-gold eyes. Eva, who eventually cracked open the door to her heart for him, and then ran like a deer when he entered.

Eva, who came back, not only moving from the guest house to the main house, but also into Javi's bedroom. She asked before she did it, like there was ever any doubt that Javi wanted her with him all night. He restrained himself from any huge reactions, opting instead for a quiet "I'd love that" that she responded to with a short nod. He replaced the lumpy-mattressed bed of his teenage years with a super queen size bed that comfortably fits both of them, and that was that. Chucho offered no comments on the rearrangement; he had seen long before either one of them what was going on. He likes Eva, that much was known from the start, and his approval requires no words.

Yes, Eva brought back the home to this house. She may not cook or clean, Javi does most of that since he's not much of a cowboy, but she still changed things.

When the scent of strong coffee finds its way into Javi's room, he finally rises, gets dressed, and join the others in the kitchen. Chucho greets him from his place at the head of the dining-table, Eva doesn't frown at the kiss he steals before she goes into the back garden for some cress for their sandwiches. Javi finishes laying the table, pours Eva and himself coffee, and stops to look out the kitchen window. Rain is slowly drizzling down; October so far has been wet.

Eva returns with rain in her hair and the fresh scent of fall about her. Javi helps himself to cress on his bread, enjoying the slightly peppery taste of it. More and more vegetables have snuck into his diet since Eva came to Big River Ranch in the spring; besides being a vegetarian she also rejuvenated his mother's kitchen garden. Both Javi and Chucho have lost weight, and Javi has added several vegetarian dishes to his repertoire.

Breakfast is taken mostly in silence. What few words are spoken have to do with the day's chores: feeding of calves, checking the condition of the herd before winter, inventory of winter feed stocks. Taking a more administrative role on the ranch, Javi doesn't say much during Eva and Chucho's exchange regarding the physical labor, but he enjoys listening to them. Chucho hasn't had anyone to talk to about this things in a long time, and Javi is happy he has one now.

Breakfast is over, Chucho leaves the kitchen and Eva rinses her plate in the sink. Javi goes up to her, sneaks one arm around her waist and presses a kiss behind her ear, just a quick one before releasing her. He catches her smile as he goes to the coffee maker for a refill.

Life is good. And yet, when Chucho and Eva leave in the rain, and Javi goes to the office to start the paperwork of the day, he stops to stare out of the window again.

Fall is in the air, in the light drizzle that settles as a wet gossamer veil over the worn cotton of Eva's plaid. She barely notices it under the brim of her hat as she one-handedly steers Pablo through the herd of longhorns, her other hand resting relaxed on her thigh. She spots Pete and Cruz, the new hire, with a group of calves, and heads over there. Reaching them, she swings down from Pablo's back and joins the men in feeding calves. One of the little ones keeps taking her hat, gets shooed away but returns, time and again. Eventually they are joined by Dolly, a young heifer that was bitten by a snake in the summer, raced back to the ranch for an anti venom injection, and then kept under surveillance by Eva throughout the night. Since then, Dolly finds Eva every time she's out in the fields, and now she pushes the hat-chewing calf away.

"Be nice, Dolly," Eva admonishes the cow, "he's only little."

Dolly snorts and looks surly until Eva scritches her between the horns.

A truck is heard in the distance: Javi is arriving with lunch. Eva hasn't noticed until now that she's hungry, so she focuses on the calf, and when the milk bottle is empty, Javi has parked the truck close to the herd, and the cowhands are moving towards it.

"I brought you a dry shirt, it's in the passenger seat," Javi tells her in a low voice when she sits on the bed of the truck and unwraps her sandwich. She looks down on her plaid and realizes that it's soaked through.

"Thanks." She shoots him a quick smile before biting into the sandwich. Javi sits down next to her, taking care not get too close. Eva likes a bit of space when there are other people around.

"Did you call the vet to come look at the injured bull?"

"He'll come out later today."

"What about the Randalls? About the north field."

"I tried, but they were out."

Eva nods, chewing thoughtfully on her sandwich, sharp eyes looking him over. There's something going on. His mind is somewhere else.

"Everything okay?"

"Yeah, sure, fine." The answer comes immediately and Eva can see that Javi knows he's been had. He puts his sandwich down on his lap, and sighs.

"Someone I used to work with at the DEA is a senior agent in Houston," he says slowly. "He called me about an hour after you left this morning. They have a case that they want me to have a look at."

"You don't work for the DEA anymore?"

"No, I don't. It would be a consultation."

"In Houston?"

Javi nods, glancing at her. "I'd be gone for a day, two tops."

Eva hums. "It would probably be good for you. To get away from here."

She manages to find a smile. "This isn't for you, Javi, we both know that."

"I don't mind it."

"Do you want to consult on a case?"

"I wouldn't mind that, either."

She doesn't understand why she feels upset, but she takes care not to show it.

"If it's for just two days..."

Chucho begins to move, and Javi clears his throat.

"We can talk about it tonight," Eva cuts off before gulping down the last piece of the sandwich, and crinkling the wrapper between her palms. Handing it to Javi, she squeezes his hand shortly, then jumps down from the truck bed, and returns to work.

Eva takes her time with Pablo in the stable that night. She wipes him down, brushes him, feeds him, stays to talk to him and the other horses, long after the men have left. The rain has increased in strength now, hammering on the stable roof, and for the first time today she allows herself to feel everything. Every tired muscle, the sleepiness lurking behind her eyelids, the hunger that tears at her stomach. But she prolongs her time in the stable, with the animals that are easy to be with, to talk to, to read. You show them who you are, and they don't judge you, expect anything from you. They enjoy working but refuse to if you're not treating them well, and they don't care about your problems.

She passes her hand over Pablo's strong neck, enjoying the feel of the muscle underneath the warm, smooth hairs. He sighs softly, eyes half closed, and when Eva draws her hand back, he moves, placing his head on her shoulder.

"Ah, buen chico..." She smiles, wraps her arms around his neck, and murmurs to him in Spanish.

Hurried footsteps approach the stable across the yard, and Eva stifles a sigh. Shortly after, she hears boot heels on the concrete floor, and then Javi shows up.

"Eva?"

"I'm here." She gives Pablo one last pat before leaving the box.

"Dinner's ready," Javi announces. She nods briskly, closing the box and saying good-bye to Pablo, before walking out of the stable, Javi behind her.

"You okay?"

"Sure," she nods. "I just got caught up with the horses. They worked hard today."

"You work hard every day," Javi points out, quickening his steps now that they're outside in the rain. "Maybe I should give you the same treatment after dinner."

"Pat my neck, give me hay, and call me a good girl?" she laughs, and Javi grabs her by the arm, stopping her, and pulls her in.

"Why not?" he grins before kissing her, his free hand coming up to the side of her neck. His fingers tap her skin lightly, and he murmurs "Good girl" against her lips. Eva runs her hands up his back, finding his shoulder blades, and bringing him in closer to deepen the kiss for only a moment, before stepping back.

She likes Javi. She likes her life here. But it's a change, an enormous change to how her life has been for years. And sometimes, it gets too much, too big, too significant.

"Let's go inside," she says quietly, and Javi follows her without a word.

The dining table is laid and Chucho is serving up rice, steamed vegetables, and fried tofu. Eva's stomach feels practically hollow from hunger by now, and Javi has worked on his vegetarian cooking skills so she cleans her plate, and has another helping.

"That good, huh?" Javi grins at her from across the table, clearly pleased with himself.

"It's delicious," she confirms, reaching for the hot sauce bottle. "You're getting really good at this."

"As opposed to how bad I was when you first came?"

She smiles as she points at him with her fork.

"You asked me what I eat when everybody else has steaks, remember?"

"Vaguely."

"Coffee?" Chucho asks, getting up to make some.

"Not for me, early night I think," Eva replies. The food is making her drowsy, and she can't wait to have a shower before getting comfortable with a book.

Once everybody has eaten, Eva helps Javi clean up.

"What are your thoughts on Houston?" Javi sounds innocent enough but Eva knows there are several questions embedded in that single query.

"If you feel like it's something you want to do, you should absolutely do it," she says, putting the rubber stopper in the sink and turning on the hot water before squirting dish soap on the dirty dishes.

"I want to," he admits, leaning back on the worktop next to the sink. Eva glances at him, sees his indecisiveness.

"But?"

He sighs, scratches his neck, pinches his nose.

"I guess... I'm afraid of falling into old habits."

"It's easy to do," she nods. Javi hums and takes one step closer, his hip touching hers.

"I like who I am when I'm with you," he admits quietly. Eva looks up from the dishes, smiling carefully.

"You'd still be with me even if you went to Houston for two days, Javi."

He returns her smile but crosses his arms over his chest. A visible shiver runs through him. Eva returns her attention to the dishes in the sink.

"You should go. See how it feels. And then come back. You're needed here, too."

He grunts, still unable to voice his concerns or confront her with her own aversion that she herself doesn't seem to notice.

"If you're good at it, if you can save lives, you should do it," Eva finishes the conversation, and starts to lay up washed plates for him to rinse.

Javi lies awake in the dark of the bedroom, listening to Eva's slow breathing, letting his muscles relax slowly, his mind settle. Bubbles of pleasure are still traveling through his veins, like champagne poured intravenously. He's haunted by her weight over his hips, the memory of her cunt hugging his cock makes the bubbles rush. Sighing, he turns his head to look at the outline of her next to him.

He chased for an entire summer, and now she's here.

So why does he feel like something's missing? What is this restlessness in his mind, the one that makes him lose focus while working in the office and that he can't shake out on the ranch? Eva seems to brush everything off when she's out with the cows. When she rides Pablo through the fields, Javi can see that she is truly happy.

He doesn't have that.

And yet... there is a tickle of excitement in him at the thought of flying out to Houston in the morning, of opening a case file, thinking strategically, putting two and two together. Going deep into the minds of very bad people.

He thought he was done with the DEA, and maybe he was, but he wasn't done with the job.

He needs to test the waters, see what happens.

Looking at Eva again, he's conflicted. He doesn't want to be that person again; he wants to be a person who deserves to be with her.

Your skin was slick with sweat despite the chill, and your eyes—those sweet eyes that usually held so much warmth, so much life—were glassy, trying to focus but failing to land on anything. 

Then, a light flickered inside. The lock scraped, and the door swung open to reveal Jack Abbott, still half-dressed in a worn pullover over his undershirt, his grey hair mussed from sleep that had clearly been interrupted. 

"What the hell happened?" He asked, eyes going worried. 

Joel didn't answer. 

He just moved, carrying you past Jack and down the narrow hallway that led to the small clinic room Jack kept in his home. 

The space was clean but lived-in: a metal examination chair in the center, shelves lined with bottles and worn medical texts, a couch, a single lamp casting a warm, yellow glow over the worn wooden floor. 

Jack Abbott arrived in Jackson a little over two years after Joel did. 

He had been traveling with a small group before, acting as their medic, but the constant moving wore him down. 

Jackson was the first place in years that felt safe enough to stop, so he stayed when Maria asked him if he wanted to, while the others moved on. 

Within a few months, he turned one of the unused small houses near the edge of town into two spaces: a tiny clinic in the front and a small living area for himself in the back.

People started calling it Abbott's clinic.

Joel met him after a patrol accident left him with a deep cut. 

Jack stitched him up with quiet, steady confidence, and Joel respected him immediately. 

He didn't ask too many questions, no bullshit, no small talk. Over time, Joel kept ending up at Jack's door, Jack kept patching him, and a quiet, practical friendship formed between them.

So when Joel set you down on his examination chair he knew you were in good hands. 

His hands stayed on you, steady, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt. 

Jack followed close behind, already pulling out a pair of latex gloves from a box on the counter. 

The snap of rubber against his wrists was sharp in the quiet room. He moved to your other side, his eyes scanning you with the practiced efficiency of someone who had seen too many emergencies in too many late hours. 

"Joel." He said it firmly, not a question. Then softer, more insistent. "Joel. Talk to me. What happened?"

Joel dragged a hand down his face, the stubble rough against his palm. 

"We—" He stopped. Swallowed. And then started again, his voice lower. "We weren't supposed to be there."

Jack's eyebrows shot up. "Where?"

"The old storage yard. Past the perimeter."

The silence stretched for one beat, two, three and Joel could see the thoughts racing behind those dark eyes—the implications, the danger, the sheer stupidity of it. 

Jack let out a slow breath, his jaw tightening. "You two were past the forbidden perimeter?"

Joel nodded once, feeling guilty, miserable.

"She saw…" He let out a frustrated huff, shaking his head. "Hell, I don't know. Rabbits or somethin'. Wanted a closer look."

His voice cracked on the last words—with frustration, with...with anger at himself, at the moment of weakness that had led him to agree, to let you wander just a little too far, just a little too deep into the overgrown brush beyond the safe zone. 

You had smiled at him. God—that sweet, hopeful smile that made it impossible to say no. And now you were here, burning up and it was all his fault.

"She breathed in this cloud of…dust. Pollen. Somethin'."

Jack only stared at him, open mouth, gaze caught somewhere between disbelief and the cold calm of a man processing information. 

He opened his mouth, then closed it. Then, very quietly, he said: "Joel."

"It ain't important right now," Joel snapped, the words cutting through the air like a blade. But the edge softened almost immediately as his eyes flicked back to you, and his voice dropped to something quieter, more fragile. "Just—just fix her, alright?"

Jack held his gaze for a long moment. Then he nodded, once, and turned his full attention to you. 

He leaned in, his movements careful, deliberate, as he reached for a small penlight from besides him. "Alright, sweetheart. Let's take a look at you."

He leaned closer, bringing the penlight up to your eyes. But your head lolled slightly, and you squirmed on the chair, a low, restless sound escaping your throat. Jack paused, his hand hovering near your jaw.

"Easy now. I need you to hold still for just a second, okay?" He tilted his head, meeting your gaze from behind the flashlight. "C'mon. Look at me."

Your eyes—glassy, unfocused, pupils blown wide—drifted toward him. 

Jack clicked on the penlight, shining it first into your left eye, then your right, watching the way your pupils reacted—or failed to react. His brow furrowed. He hummed low in his throat, a sound that made Joel's stomach clench.

He clicked off the penlight, put it back into his place, and straightened up. He met Joel's gaze, his expression thoughtful.

"Pupils are dilated and sluggish. Could be a neuroactive toxin," he said, his voice carrying the weight of professional assessment. "Some kind of alkaloid, maybe. That targets the central nervous system." He paused, then added, almost to himself, "But her skin is flushed, and her pulse is tachycardic. Heart rate's way up. Could be pyrexia, but…" He trailed off, then turned back to you, his voice gentle again. "How did this flower look? Can you tell me anything about it?"

Your lips parted. "Trans…translucent. Purple."

Jack's eyes sharpened suddenly. 

He turned away, crossing to the cluttered desk in the corner where a worn leather notebook sat among scattered papers. He opened it and the silence stretched while he flipped through it. 

"Damn it," Jack muttered under his breath.

Joel stiffened. "What?"

Jack didn't look up. He kept turning pages, his finger tracing lines of cramped handwriting. "I've seen mentions of this before. Not many though, just scattered reports from patrol medics out west. And a couple of passing mentions in some old pre-outbreak botany notes I found in the library archive." He stopped on a page, reading it intently. Then he let out a slow breath and turned to face Joel.

"Reports of what?" Joel pressed, his voice tight.

Jack hesitated. It was a hesitation that Joel had never seen on him before.

He set the notebook down and crossed his arms, his gaze flickering between you and Joel.

"A mutated flower. Causes fever, disorientation, elevated pulse…and some....sexual changes." 

Joels head snapped up. "It ain't the time for jokes, Abbott." 

But Jack didn't flinch. "I'm not joking. That's what the reports called it. I told you—it causes fever, disorientation, elevated pulse." He paused, letting the words settle. "The body's been flooded with a compound that mimics extreme sexual arousal. It's not toxic on its own, but if left untreated, the fever and heart strain can cause complications."

Joel stared at him and when he turned back to you, he saw the way your fingers curled and uncurled against the metal and the way a soft, breathy sound escaped your lips as you shifted restlessly on the chair.

"Complications," Joel repeated, his voice hollow. "What kind of complications?"

Jack moved closer, his expression softening as he looked at you. He reached out, pressing the back of his hand gently against your forehead, feeling the fever that radiated off you in waves.

"If we don't address the underlying arousal-based symptoms, the body will keep ramping up. Heart rate spikes. Temperature climbs. Eventually, the system burns out." He pulled his hand away, his voice dropping lower. "The only effective treatment recorded in those reports is…direct physical release. Sexual stimulation to completion, multiple times, until the compound is flushed from the system."

He held up a hand as Joel opened his mouth, ready to protest. "Look, I know how it sounds. But I've seen enough strange things in this world to know that nature doesn't care about what sounds reasonable."

Joel turned away, his hand dragging through his hair, frustration in his face.

"So what are you tellin' me? That I gotta—" He couldn't even finish the sentence.

"I'm telling you that she needs care, Joel. And that care is going to involve intimacy. Whether that's with you, or with me helping her through it medically, or both—that's up to you. But she can't wait much longer." Jack's voice was calm, steady, the voice of a man doing his job. The room fell silent again. The only sounds were your labored breathing and the faint ticking of a clock somewhere deeper in the house.

Joel then turned back, his eyes meeting yours. He saw the fear in them—and something else, something raw and needy that he didn't know how to name.

And suddenly—

"Please," you whined, the word thick and broken. "Please…need…need something."

Your body was a furnace, burning from the inside out. Every nerve ending felt raw, exposed, screaming for relief. The fabric of your shirt clung to your skin, damp with sweat, and it felt like a cage. Your hands moved before your mind could catch up—grabbing at the hem, tugging, pulling.

Joel's eyes widened. "Hey, hey—hold on—"

But you couldn't hold on anymore.

You were beyond reason, beyond shame. You squirmed against the chair, your movements jerky and frantic, yanking your shirt over your head and tossing it aside.

Joel caught your wrists gently, trying to slow you down, but you twisted out of his grip, your fingers fumbling with the button of your jeans, the zipper, pushing them down your hips with a desperate, whimpering sound that tore at Joel's chest.

"Honey—" Joel started, his voice cracking.

But Jack held up a hand, his expression calm but intent. "Let her. The compound is driving her body to seek release. Fighting it will only make it worse, Joel."

Joel's hands fell to his sides. He watched, helpless, as you rid yourself of the last of your clothing, tossing jeans and panties to the floor until you were bare on the examination chair, your skin flushed and slick with sweat, your chest heaving with every ragged breath.

Your legs fell open without thought, your hips rolling against the cold metal, searching for friction that wasn't there.

"Need…please…I need something…" Your voice was a broken loop, tears starting to stream down your cheeks.

Joel's throat tightened. He looked at Jack.

When Jack met his gaze, there was no judgment in those dark eyes—only the weight of a man who understood the gravity of the situation. Jack's hand paused over your body, as he turned to Joel, his expression asking a silent question.

May I?

Joel stared at him for a long, breathless moment. Then he nodded, his voice low and rough. "Do what ya gotta do. I trust you."

Jack's shoulders relaxed a fraction and he moved to the foot of the chair, positioning himself between your spread legs. 

"I ain't no gynaecologist," Jack said, his voice carrying a hint of dry humour. "But I need to see if it's really the flower we're talking about. The reports mentioned specific physical changes."

Joel clenched his jaw, stepping closer and placing his hands on your shoulders, holding you steady as you squirmed beneath him. You looked up at him, your eyes glassy and wet, and you whimpered.

"Please…let him…"

Joel let out a shaky breath. He looked at Jack and gave a short, sharp nod.

Jack leaned in. His gloved fingers found your thighs, then he gently parted your labia with precision. 

He murmured to himself, cataloging observations as he worked. "Labia swollen. Significant engorgement. Vulvar tissue appears hyperemic, engorged with blood flow consistent with severe vasocongestion." 

You gasped as his thumb accidentally brushed against the hood of your clit, a jolt of electricity shooting through your core. Your hips bucked involuntarily, a desperate, wordless sound escaping your lips.

"Easy," Jack murmured, more to himself than to you. 

He shifted his grip, using his thumb and forefinger to part the inner folds, exposing your entrance. It was gaping, red, and glistening with a clear, almost viscous fluid that had already pooled on the chair beneath you.

Joel's hands tightened on your shoulders, his knuckles almost white. 

He trusted Jack—hell, he was the only man in this godforsaken place he trusted you with. But he still couldn't help the way he felt. A little too protective. Maybe even jealous.

"Her insides feel swollen," Jack said. He pressed two fingers—index and middle—against your opening, testing the resistance. The muscles fluttered and clenched, straining against the intrusion before it even begun. "Loss of tone in the pelvic floor muscles. Usually, there's some natural tension, but here…it's like her body is actively pulling things in."

And then he pressed inside.

The latex-covered fingertips breached you with a wet, slick sound that echoed in the small room.

You cried out—not in pain, but in need that tore through every nerve ending. Your back arched off the chair, your head thrown back, Joel's name falling from your lips in a desperate, ragged moan.

"Oh, fuck—!"

Jack didn't move. He held his fingers still, buried to the second knuckle, his eyes fixed on your face, watching your reaction with clinical detachment even as his body betrayed a slight tension.

"She's extremely sensitive. The internal tissues are swollen and hot—probably a few degrees above normal body temperature. The flower is causing nerve hypersensitivity."

Your hips bucked again, grinding against Jack's hand, seeking more. Every bit of shame leaving your body.

But the pressure of his fingers inside you was maddening—not enough, never enough. You whimpered, a high, thin sound that turned into a gasping sob as Jack slowly began to withdraw his fingers, dragging them along your inner walls.

And then, suddenly, an orgasm hit you without warning. 

It crashed through you like a wave, sudden and violent, pulling a strangled scream from your throat. Your entire body clenched, your inner muscles spasmed around Jack's retreating fingers, and a gush of fluid flooded out of you, soaking his gloved hand and dripping onto the chair in thick, sticky ropes.

Jack pulled his hand back, his fingers coated in the warm, translucent fluid. He held them up, examining the consistency with narrowed eyes.

Joel could only stare, his mouth hanging open. 

His gaze flicked from your flushed, trembling body to Jack's dripping fingers, and then back to your face, where tears and sweat had mingled in a mask of desperate relief and craving.

"Did she just…?" Joel's voice was hoarse, cautious. 

Jack nodded slowly, wiping his fingers on a clean cloth. "Ejaculate. Yeah. That's…that's exactly what that was. The flower causes her body to reach climax extremely quickly—and just as quickly, the need returns. It's like the release doesn't satisfy anything; it only opens the door for more."

You were already squirming again, your hips rolling against the empty air, your breath coming in sharp, frantic pants. "Please…more…need more…"

Jack set the cloth aside and picked up the blood pressure cuff, wrapping it around your upper arm. 

He pumped it up, watching the gauge as the numbers climbed. 

"This is an unusual procedure," he said, his voice flat. "Her body will need release. Repeatedly. And even then, the effects might last for hours—until the compound works its way out of her system."

Joel ran a hand through his hair, pulling at the grey strands in frustration. "Jesus Christ. Is there any medicine? Anything you can give her to stop this? To slow it down?"

Jack shook his head, the blood pressure cuff hissing as he released the pressure. "No. This is all about managing symptoms. The fever, the blood pressure, the dehydration. The only thing that treats the root cause is—" He paused, glancing at Joel. "—well, you know..."

He pulled off his gloves with a snap, tossing them into a bin. Then he grabbed a fresh pair, pulling them on with practiced efficiency. 

"I could now let you two go," Jack said, turning to face Joel fully. "Let you handle this on your own. Just fuck like goddamn rabbits for the next few hours. But her blood pressure is 160 over 110. That's stroke territory if we're not careful. And her fever is also still climbing."

You whimpered on the chair, your hand reaching out blindly. "Please…Joel…I need…"

Joel caught your hand, pressing it to his chest. "S'okey, honey. I'm right here. Don't be scared." He leaned down, pressing another kiss to your damp forehead, his voice softening to a trembling murmur. "I got you. I ain't goin' nowhere."

He turned to Jack, his eyes hard and resolute. "I'll do it. You keep her fever and blood pressure in line. I trust you."

Jack nodded. 

He pulled the chair behind your head, positioning himself so he could put cool towels on your forehead and monitor the equipment. 

"I'll keep the cold packs on her neck and forehead, monitor her vitals. You handle the rest."

Joel let out a long, shaky breath. He shrugged off his jacket, tossing it onto the nearby counter. He moved between your legs, his boots scraping against the worn linoleum.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered, looking down at the mess you've had made. 

Your pussy was a complete wreck; swollen, red, glistening with a mix of your own fluids and the lingering evidence of your climax. Your clit stood out, big and glossy, twice its usual size. Your hole gaped, soft and open, the muscles twitching with unfulfilled need. 

Joel had never seen you like that. Not even when he fucked you countless times the night before. 

Jack's voice came from behind your head, quiet and steady. "I know. That's the flower."

Joel looked at your face—your tear-streaked cheeks, your parted lips, your eyes glassy and fixed on him with desperate, animal hunger. He placed his rough, calloused hands on your inner thighs, spreading you wider.

"You'll be fine, babygirl," he whispered, more to himself than to you. "I'll take care of you."

Joel's jaw tightened, his gaze flicked anywhere but towards Jack as he unzipped himself and wrapped a calloused hand around his own cock. 

He stroked himself slowly at first, trying to will himself hard despite the awkward weight of another man's eyes in the room. Embarrassment flushed his neck, but the sight of you—needy, swollen, and waiting—pushed him forwards. 

He needed to do this for you, his sweet girl, no matter how strange it felt with his old friend watching.

Joel lined himself up, the thick head of his cock nudging against your entrance before he pushed inside in one steady thrust.

A high-pitched moan tore from your throat, your hips bucking up to meet him as your walls fluttered and sucked him deeper.

"Continue," Jack said quietly, nodding once, his voice calm and measured.

Joel grunted, hips snapping forward. 

The wet, splashing sounds of your soaked pussy filled the small clinic room with every thrust, obscene and loud. 

He punched into you harder, the head of his cock dragging against that sweet, sensitive spot inside while your cunt milked him greedily, rhythmic pulses drawing him in.

"You need to talk to her the way you guys always do it, Joel," Jack instructed, still monitoring your pulse. "Keep her grounded."

Joel's eyebrows furrowed, but he nodded, voice rough. "D-does that feel good, honey?" He drove deeper, breath hitching. "Prettiest cunt all fuckin' swollen. Look at you, takin' me so good."

You whined, the praise sending fresh heat through you. 

Jack suppressed a smirk, trying to focus instead on the steady thrum beneath his fingers. "Pulse is elevated but stable," he murmured. "Pupils are still dilated."

And without warning, another orgasm crashed over you. 

This time, your thighs fell further apart as a raw cry teared from your throat, back arching off of the examination chair. Your cunt clamped down, once, twice, then opened. A hot, gushing stream bursted hard, pushing Joel's cock out and making a splashing sound in the quiet room. 

"Joel—"

Joel's breath hitched as your cries echoed off of the walls, his eyes widening when the hot flood gushed against his groin.

"Fuck," he muttered, almost to himself. His eyes landed on Jack's calm ones, and a wave of embarrassment hit him. He was standing there like this was nothing, like the whole scene wasn't awkward as hell, and Joel just couldn't decide if that made it better or worse.

Jack nodded, his eyes landing on your clenching tummy. "Normal reaction."

Joel cursed again, gripping his slick cock and thrusting back inside your still-quivering pussy. 

"Wanted to see those bunnies, huh?" he rasped, tsking with his tongue as he set a punishing rhythm. "Now look at what happened to you." 

Each thrust made your squelching cunt echo wetly around him.

Jack's gaze sharpened as he noticed drool slipping from the corner of your mouth. "Hm. Another autonomic response; excessive salivation," he noted, and glanced at Joel mid-thrust. "Mind if I help keep her calm?"

Joel nodded without breaking his rhythm. He didn't care anymore. He just wanted you to feel better.

"Easy now. Breathe for me." Jack slid two latex-gloved fingers past your lips. "I'm just gonna help you." 

And you immediately sucked them in, tongue swirling, a broken whimper escaping around them. "Please, doctor…"

Jack's breath got caught in his throat, his own cock twitching to life, growing visibly against his pants even though he was trying to he professional. 

"S'okay, sweetheart." he soothed, fingers gentle but firm in your mouth.

You sucked on them with desperate, whining pulls, saliva coating the gloves. 

Joel shook his head, voice strained. "God damn flowers."

"I know," Jack replied, eyes flicking down to where Joel's cock disappeared into your soaked cunt. "Reports were way worse. It's like heat for humans—constant need until the cycle breaks."

Joel kept thrusting, the filthy wet sounds growing louder, his thumb finding your sensitive clit, giving only gentle, light rubs. You moaned around Jack's fingers, whimpered, your body arching from the stool as another orgasm ripped through you.

He buried himself deep, grunting as he came too, hot pulses of cum flooding your cunt while your walls clenched around him.

Jack's free hand stroked your hair. "You're doing so well," he whispered. "That's it. Let it all out."

Joel slowly pulled out, watching thick ropes of his release trickle down from your swollen pussy. He tucked himself back in, thinking that would be enough. 

But the needy ache in your core hadn't faded. Your hips still rocked, eyes glassy, silently begging for more. Your cunt started clenching again, desperate to be stuffed. 

Jack pulled his fingers out of your mouth, taking his gloves off. 

"She's…she's still not done," he said, his voice softer now, laced with an uncertainty that wasn't there before. 

He swallowed. "The flower's effects are cumulative. She's had three orgasms so far, but the pollen load was significant." 

Jack's fingers trailed down your cheek, your jaw, until they rested on your collarbone. "Your heart rate's still high." He glanced at Joel. "Can you hold her steady? I need to examine her cervix again."

Joel nodded, his hand moving to cradle your head. He leaned over you, his face inches from yours, his breath was warm against your cheek, pressing a kiss on your nose. "You hear that, baby? Doctor Abbott's gonna take a look. Just breathe, okay?"

Jack pulled on a fresh pair of gloves, the snap of latex loud in the quiet. 

He positioned himself between your legs again, his fingers gentle as he parted your slick folds. 

Your cunt was still a swollen, pink mess—puffy and raw, dripping with Joel's cum and your own release. 

Jack's brows furrowed deeper, his tongue wetting his lips. "No tearing. But she's inflamed. The tissue is still pretty engorged." He pressed two fingers just inside your entrance, and you gasped, your hips bucking. "Still sensitive. Very sensitive."

Joel watched, his eyes dark, the grip on your hand tightening. "What do we need to do?"

Jack withdrew his fingers slowly. "I think…I think she needs stimulation again. But maybe a different angle. She's been stimulated vaginally. The flower's compounds are absorbed through the mucous membranes, so oral stimulation might also help" He looked at Joel, and for the first time, a faint blush colored his cheeks. "I could…only if that's okay with you, I could use my mouth. On her. It's the gentlest way. Fingers or a toy might be too rough with the swelling."

Joel's eyebrows rised. He didn't say anything for a long moment, just stared at Jack with a mixture of surprise and unsureness. But he trusted him. "You're the doctor." 

Jack's answer was a shaky breath. 

He knelt down, his prosthetic clicking softly as he positioned himself between your spread thighs. He looked up at Joel, eyes wide, his voice was barely above a whisper. "I won't do something that you don't want."

"You won't," Joel said, and there's a quiet certainty in his voice. "You're good at what you do. And you care. That's all that matters."

Jack leaned in, his lips brushing the inside of your thigh first, a soft, hesitant kiss. He started murmuring to you, his words muffled against your skin. "It's okay, sweetheart. Just relax. Let me help you." 

He trailed his mouth up, leaving a wet path, until he reached your pussy. 

He hesitated at first, his breath hot against your swollen folds, and then his tongue darted out, flicking tentatively over your clit.

You cried out, a sharp, high sound, your hips jerking. 

Joel shushed you, his hand stroking your hair. "Easy, easy, honey. Let him work."

Jack's tongue moved in slow, careful circles, his eyes closed, his whole being focused on the task. He was so gentle—so so gentle it almost hurt. He let his tongue flatten, just barely, dragging the softest, wettest line from the bottom of your slit all the way up to the hood of your swollen clit.

When he reached the nub, he didn't flick or circle. 

Instead, he parted his lips just enough to take the tiny bud between them, not sucking, not even really holding—just resting it there, letting his breath ghost over it. He knew you were sensitive so he gave it a single, featherlight pulse of his tongue, like a heartbeat, before releasing it just as gently.

He pulled back for a moment, looking at Joel. "She's still very wet. The pollen keeps secreting fluids. That's good—it means her body is actively metabolizing." 

He pressed another kiss onto your inner thigh, his hand coming up to cup your mound, his thumb rubbing soft circles. "You're doing so well. Just a little more, okay? I'll make it good."

Joel watched, his breath coming heavier. He was hard again, his cock pressing against his jeans. 

He didn't touch himself, though. He just held you, his eyes locked on Jack's mouth as it worked over you, his own throat tight with something that feels like gratitude and jealousy all tangled together.

"I got her, Joel," Jack said between gentle strokes of his tongue, his voice strained. "She's responding. Clenching. She's—" He broke off as you moaned, your body beginning to tremble again. "She's close. Another one."

Joel leaned down, his lips brushing your ear. "Let go, baby. Let Jack take care of you. You can do it."

Your orgasm build, slow and deep, and when it finally broke; it's was a rolling, shuddering wave that pulled a desperate sob from your chest. 

He didn't stop, his tongue gentling through the aftershocks, drawing out every last tremor until you're limp, your body sagging into the chair.

"Good, yeah, that's real good," Jack pulled back, wiping his chin with his hand while looking at the fluids you released. "She did well." 

You breathed out, already feeling your cunt spasm again, in need of another release. 

Jack checked your fever and your blood pressure again, letting out a soft breath, turning to face Joel. His voice was low and gentle, unhurried. "It's still not stabilizing the way I'd like. Her heart rate's come down which is good. But her blood pressure's still sitting high, and her temperature's not dropping."

Joel's grip on your hand tightened. "God dammit. What else can we do?" He asked. "You said oral would help." 

Jack nodded slowly. "It did help. It brought her some relief. But the pollen is trapped in her pelvic tissue now. To fully clear it, she needs a stronger parasympathetic response. I think at this point, oral alone won't reach that deep."

He paused, thinking. 

"There's another option," he said, looking at Joel first, then down at you. "It's a bit more...involved. But I think it would work. I've read it in the reports."

Joel's brows furrowed. "Just tell me."

"Dual stimulation. It could trigger a more complete autonomic response. Simultaneous penetration of the vaginal and anal canals would increase overall parasympathetic activation, potentially clearing the pollen from deeper tissue through intensified contractions and fluid release."

He held up a hand, reassuring. "I know it sounds like a lot. But i've read enough of them in the reports."

Joel looked at you, then back at Jack. His voice was rough but not angry. "You mean, hell—both of us? At the same time?"

"If you're comfortable with that," Jack said, his tone still gentle, almost apologetic. "I wouldn't suggest it if I thought there was another way. But she's still suffering, Joel. I can see it in her eyes. And I don't want her fever to spike again."

Joel stared at the floor for a long moment, then looked at you. Your skin was still flushed, your eyes glassy with need, begging him to do something. You squeezed his hand weakly, a small sound escaping your throat. 

He let out a breath. "Fine. If it'll help her. But I swear to god above, Abbott, if she stays like this. Then—"

"Joel… I hear you," Jack murmured, hands half‑raised in a calming gesture. "I'm not…I'm not thrilled about this either. But I won't let anything happen to her. I promise you that."

He then knelt between your legs again, his hands resting lightly on your thighs. "I need to check if she's ready," he said. "The pollen causes natural relaxation, but I want to be sure there's no discomfort."

He pressed a thumb gently against your perineum, then traced it along the rim of your anus. 

The touch was featherlight, exploratory but uour body responded without a thought: a shiver, a soft gasp. 

Jack looked up at Joel, his expression calm.

"She's already relaxed. No prep needed." He nodded. 

Jack shifted his gaze to you. His hand remained where it was, a grounding pressure against your most intimate space. He spoke slowly, his voice a soothing murmur.

"Sweetheart, I'm going to tell you exactly what we're thinking, and you can take your time. There's no rush."

He paused, waiting for your eyes to meet his.

"Joel will be with you the way he always is—inside you, slow and gentle. And I'll be behind you, entering you here," he said, his thumb pressing just slightly inward, "in your bottom. We'll move together, very slowly, matching each other's pace. It'll feel full—intense—but it won't hurt if you're relaxed, and you are. The pollen will release, your fever will come down, and your heart will settle."

He watched your face, his eyes patient and warm.

Joel leaned down, brushing his lips against your nose. "It's your call, babygirl. I'm right here."

Your breathing hitched. The heat inside you coiled tighter, desperate. You looked up at Joel, then at Jack—his dark eyes patient, his hand steady on your body. 

You nodded, needy. 

"Yes," you whispered. "Please. I need something." 

Jack's lips curved into a faint, reassuring smile. "That's good. That's real good." He withdrew his hand slowly and looked at Joel. 

Joel's jaw tightened. He lifted your hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, slow and deliberate. Then he looked over his shoulder at Jack, and to the couch in the room. "This couch work for you? She'll be more comfortable there—pillows, somethin' to brace against."

Jack nodded, already moving. "I'll get it set up."

-

Jack cleared the sofa with efficient movements: tossing aside a pillow, spreading a clean blanket over the cushions, positioning two more pillows against the armrest. 

His hands moved with practiced precision, but there was a slight tremor in his fingers as he smoothed the fabric. 

He was trying to stay professional. It was cute, in a way; this man who had stitched up Joel's wounds and patched up Jackson's sick, now preparing a makeshift bed for something more intimate.

And you wouldn't lie if it didn't excite you. 

While Jack worked, Joel stayed with you. He cupped your face in both hands, his thumbs tracing the line of your cheekbones. 

"Hey," he murmured, tilting your chin up so you had to meet his eyes. "Look at me."

You did. His eyes so soft. Tender. The same eyes that had watched over you during patrol, that had softened when you begged him to take you to the forbidden parameter just to see those stupid, wild rabbits and play with them. 

"It's gonna be alright," he said. "You trust me?"

"Always," you breathed.

"Trust Jack?"

You glanced towards the sofa, where Jack was adjusting the last pillow. He caught your gaze and offered a small, reassuring smile—the same smile he gave before setting a broken bone, before delivering difficult news. 

Professional. Always kind and gentle. 

"Yes," you said. "I trust him."

Joel leaned in and kissed you then. Slow, thorought, a kiss that promised you stability. His lips moved against yours with a gentle pressure, his tongue brushing the seam of your mouth, tasting you. One hand slid into your hair, cradling the back of your head, while the other found the small of your back, pulling you just slightly closer.

When he broke the kiss, you were breathless. He rested his forehead against yours.

"Good girl," he whispered. "You're doing so good. Now let's get you comfortable."

Without warning, Joel slid one arm under your knees and the other behind your back, lifting you off of the exam chair as if you weighed nothing. 

You gasped, your arms instinctively winding around his neck.

Jack had positioned himself on the far end of the sofa, sitting sideways, his legs spread, a condom wrapper discarded on the side table. 

He was already hard—you could see the outline of his cock straining against his jeans, and when he shifted, the fabric pulled tight. 

"Come here," Jack said, his voice a low murmur. He patted the cushion besides him. "There we go."

Joel lowered you gently onto the sofa, your knees sinking into the plush cushion. You were facing him, your hands braced on his broad shoulders, while he sat down too. 

And behind you, you could feel the heat of Jack's body.

"Alright," Joel said, his hands sliding from your shoulders down your arms, leaving a trail of goosebumps. "He's gonna take care of you from behind. And I'll be right here." He tapped your chin, making you look at him. "Right in front of you. You need to stop, you tap my arm twice. You need a breath, you say my name. You hear?"

"Yes," you whispered.

"Good girl."

He touched you gently, his hands guiding your hips, your knees, until your back was closer to Jack and you were still facing Joel. He then  positioned you on your knees, the cushion soft beneath you, your thighs spread just enough to accommodate what was coming.

Jack's breath caught. 

His eyes roamed over you; the curve of your ass, your pretty waist, and your back. 

"You're in control," Jack said, and his voice was strained but still carrying that professional cadence, the doctor's calm. "I'm gonna put on a condom, then you can take it at your own pace." 

You heard the crinkle of a condom wrapper. Then the slick sound of him rolling it on. You looked over your shoulder, watching him position himself—knees spread, cock standing up from his body, the condom sheathing him in a thin layer of latex. 

His cock was thick, smaller than Joels, standing full and erect from a nest of dark and grey curls. His head was already a dark plum shade, slick with pre-cum bubbling on top, indicating that he was already hard all the while he examined you earlier.  

"Whenever you're ready, sweetheart." Jack said, and there was a raw edge to his voice now, the professional slip giving way to something hungrier. "Lower yourself onto me."

You reached behind you, fingers brushing his thigh. He flinched—a tiny jolt, involuntary. You saw his cock twitch, the head bobbing slightly.

"Please," you whispered. 

Jack's jaw tightened. His nostrils flared. He forced himself to nod, keeping his hands on his own knees. "It's okey. I'm right here." 

You braced one hand on the back of the sofa, the other reaching down to guide him. Your fingers found the head of his cock, slick with latex. 

You positioned it against your entrance—the tight ring of muscle that had just been stretched—and pushed back.

"There she goes." Joel murmured. 

The pressure was intense. 

A fullness that bordered on overwhelming. 

You felt every ridge, every inch as you sank onto him, your body yielding slowly, grudgingly. Jack's breath hissed through his teeth, a sharp, bitten-off sound. His knuckles were white where he gripped his own thighs, the tendons in his forearms standing out with the effort of staying still.

Joel breathed out, holding onto your waist as he guided you gently down. 

"Good," Jack managed, his voice strangled. "That's…that's perfect. You're doing so well." 

He was fully sheathed inside you then—your ass stretched around his cock, the sensation so deep it seemed to reach into your belly. You felt full, split open, but not in pain. Just…finally filled the way you needed it. 

In front of you, Joel watched your face with an intensity that made your stomach flip. His hand left your waist and stroked your thigh, a slow, grounding rhythm, his thumb tracing the crease where your leg met your hip. "You're my good girl." He whispered. 

His own cock was hard, straining against his jeans, but he made no move to touch himself. 

All his focus was on you.

"You got her?" Joel asked Jack, his voice low and gravelly.

"Yeah," Jack said, and his hands finally moved, settling on your hips. Not to guide you, not to push—just to steady. His palms were warm through the thin gown. "She's fully seated. Go ahead, Joel."

Joel's eyes never left yours. His cock thick and flushed, already slick with precum and your release from earlier. 

He shifted closer, his knees bracketing yours on the cushion, his cock pressing against your wet, waiting entrance. He didn't push in immediately. Instead, he leaned forward, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then your temple, then your lips—soft, lingering.

"I've got you," he murmured against your mouth. "Breathe for me. Deep and slow. I can feel you clenching already—you're so ready, baby." 

"Yes," you breathed.

He pushed in.

The sensation was indescribable—Joel's cock filling your cunt from the front, Jack's cock stretching your ass from behind. 

They were separated by only a thin wall of flesh, and you could feel every movement of each man through the other. Joel's thickness pressed against Jack's length, a constant, intimate pressure that made you gasp.

Joel groaned low in his chest, his forehead dropping to yours. "Fuck," he breathed. "There we go, honey. There we go. You feel so perfect around me." 

Behind you, Jack's grip tightened on your hips. "Jesus christ."

"I know," Joel said. "I know."

Joel stopped there, buried full, and let out a low breath against your neck. Then he looked down.

Your cunt was stretched wide around his shaft, the lips pulled apart, pink and slick with your own wetness. Below that, Jack's cock stuffed deep in your ass, making the whole patch of skin between your legs look swollen, used, full. 

He watched the way his own cock disappeared into you, how the flesh clung to him like it didn't want to let go. 

He then pressed a palm flat against your belly, rubbed slow circles just above where he's buried to calm you down.

They stayed still for a long moment—both of them buried inside you, your body stretched and full and trembling. Joel's breath was warm against your cheek. Jack's chest pressed against your back, his heart hammering against your shoulder blades.

"We're gonna move when you're ready. Slow and deep. Get your body to get used to it." Jack said behind you, gripping your waist. 

Joel huffed as a nod, giving your cheek a kiss before his hand touched your mound, spreading you to watch himself. 

Then they began to move. Small, shallow thrusts. 

At first, it's barely more than a pulse—a subtle shift of both cocks deep inside you, rocking in place. Your pussy flutters around the first, a gentle squeeze that welcomes the tiny motion. Your ass clenches around the second, holding him tight as he budges fractionally in and out.

You gasped, burying your head into his neck. 

"Shh, it's okey." he murmured, his voice rough with emotion. "You can take it, babygirl." 

His lips found your cheek, soft and lingering. He pulled you back just enough to meet your eyes—half-lidded, glassy, still lost in the haze of pleasure. His thumb traced over your cheekbone, wiping a smear of drool from the corner of your mouth.

"So damn beautiful, aren't you?"

Behind you, Jack's breathing was heavy, controlled. He was pumping inside you, careful not to be fast, his hands resting on your hips with a gentleness that belied the tension in his shoulders. 

Over your shoulder, his gaze met Joel's.

A silent conversation passed between them. A nod. 

A confirmation. We're good. She's good. Keep going.

"She is doing good," Jack murmured. 

Joel nodded, his hand sliding down your side, fingers tracing the dip of your waist, the swell of your hip. "Best girl," he said, low and warm. "Yeah, baby?"

A sound tore out of you then. 

Loud, ragged, utterly needy. It rose from somewhere deep in your chest—a whine that had no shape, no words, just pure, aching want. 

Jack smiled. "Is she drooling again?"

Joel pulled back just enough to look at your face. Your lips were parted, slack, a glistening string of saliva stretching from your lower lip to your chin. 

Your eyes were all hazy, unfocused, your breath coming in shuddering gasps.

"Mmhmm," Joel hummed. "Look at you, baby. All drooling to your chin. Messy thing." 

Jack couldn't help but chuckle, his cock twitching inside you. His hand came up from behind then. His finger in latex, pressed against your lips without hesitation. The touch was light though, asking permission, even now.

Your mouth opened, and you took him in.

You closed your mouth around him and sucked, hard, hollowing your cheeks, pulling him deeper. A deep, shuddering satisfaction rolled through your chest. 

Your eyes fluttered closed. This was what you needed. Something to suck on. Something to anchor you. 

Jack's hissed out. "There you go. That helps, huh?" 

Joel's hand slid down your belly, past the slick, glistening mess of your thighs, until his thumb found your clit. It was swollen, angry red, twice its normal size and pushing out from its hood like a small, desperate pearl. The barest brush of his calloused thumb made your whole body jolt, a shockwave of sensation that ripped through you.

"Easy, Joel." Jack murmurs, his voice a low. "Her clitoris is sensitive right now. If you apply too much direct pressure, she might get overwhelmed. Try lighter, circular motions, just around the hood. Let her build."

Joel nodded, his eyes analysing your face as he touched the little nub gently. Slow, deliberate circles, barely any pressure.

Your back bowed, arching into Jack's chest, your mouth clamping down on his finger, sucking for dear life. 

The orgasm that ripped through you was sudden, violent but perfect. It started in your clit, that single point of pressure and radiated outwards in hot, electric waves. Your cunt clenched around Joel's cock, your ass tightening around Jack's. 

A broken cry escaped around the latex in your mouth.

"That's it," Jack groaned, pushing his finger deeper into your mouth, feeling your throat convulse around the tip. "Just like that, sweetheart. You got it."

Joel's smile was soft, his eyes wet with something profound. He kept his thumb moving in slow, steady circles, drawing out every last tremor of your climax. 

"You're doing so good for us, baby. Flushin' all that pollen out, huh?"

You nodded as best you could, gasping, drool pooling around Jack's knuckles. 

They held still then, pausing their thrusts and letting your body catch up, letting the aftershocks of your releasre ripple through you.

Jack's free hand moved to your wrist. 

His thumb pressed into the delicate skin, feeling the rapid thrum of your pulse. He counted silently. Then he moved his hand to the side of your neck, feeling the beat there, strong and wild. He pressed his palm to your forehead, then your cheek.

"Fever's going down," he said, the doctor's cadence threading back through the ragged lust in his voice. "Pulse is still a touch elevated. One more good one should flush the last of it out of her system completely."

He pulled his wet finger from your mouth with a 

slick pop. A string of saliva connected his glove to your lower lip, stretching thin, then breaking. 

Your mouth stayed open, seeking, needy so Joel planted open mouthed kisses on the corner of your lips. 

"S'so much, Joel," you whined, the words slurred and breathless. Your voice cracked. "S'too much. Can't—can't take—"

"I know, babygirl." Joel leaned in and pressed a long, lingering kiss to your forehead. His lips stayed there, warm and steady. "I know. But you can. You're almost there. One more. Just one more for us."

"Gonna be a good girl for me?" He asked. "For Doctor Abbott, too?" 

Joel glanced over at Jack, catching the faint flush rising in his cheeks. Jack swallowed dropping his gaze, and that tiny, embarrassed gesture pulled a low chuckle out of Joel.

You whined, nodding your head quickly. Your head lulled back, dropping to Jack's neck and looking up at him. 

"Are you?" he murmured, looking at you, the words slipping out before he could stop them—quiet, direct, and meant only for you.

Joel’s brows lifted, a slow grin tugging at his mouth. 

Your eyes went wide at his question. You nodded before you even realized you were doing it, breath catching as you stayed pressed against him.

Then, before you could turn around, Joel started thrusting upwards again. Slow, deep, deliberate. 

Each stroke was a long drag against your walls, a languid exploration of the slick, hot grip of your cunt. 

Jack started matching him, finding the counterpoint rhythm—sliding deeper as Joel pulled back, filling the space Joel left. His eyes were still on you, steady, nodding against the thrusts and counting them. 

The fullness was overwhelming, the stretch a perfect pressure that occupied every empty inch inside you.

A whine broke from your mouth. Your head stayed on Jacks shoulder, while your eyes landed on Joels face again.

He grunted, speeding his hips, calloused hands on your thighs moving you to the rhythm he built. 

"Someone's close," Jack said, his voice low.

"She is," Joel agreed breathless, hair falling damp to his forehead. "My sweet girl."

You moaned—sweet, broken, the sound rising from your chest like a prayer. Your head fell still Jack's shoulder, your eyes fluttering closed. Sweat glistened on your skin, beaded on your collarbone, trickled between your breasts.

Jack's hands slid up your damp stomach then.

They were slow, exploratory, tracing the lines of your ribs, the soft swell of your belly. 

His palms cupped your breasts, lifting them slightly, feeling their weight. His thumbs found your nipples—hard pebbles against the cool latex of his gloves. He rolled them gently, watching your face for reaction.

"These are also very sensitive," he observed. The clinical observation was a thin veneer over the raw truth—he just wanted his hands on you. And he started to become bold enough to do so. 

His thumbs circled and circled, pressed and pressed while pinched ever so lightly.

You whimpered, your hips bucking upward, grinding against Joel's thrusts.

"They are," Jack repeated, more to himself. "Good. That's good."

Joel watched your face, his pace quickening. A fine sheen of sweat covered his forehead, and a vein stood out on his neck. 

"Look at me, darlin'. C'mon. Let me see those eyes." 

You forced your lids open. Joel's gaze was locked on yours—dark, tender, burning.

"There you go," He growled. "Look at my babygirl...enjoying herself on two cocks, yea?"

Your cheeks flushed red at his words, closing your eyes again. 

The slick, wet sounds of your bodies filled the room. Jack's fingers stayed on your nipples, rolling, tugging, pinching in rhythm with the thrusts.

"Hey, look at me." Jack said behind you, firm. 

You did, looking into his eyes lazily. 

"You're close. I need you to focus on us, is that clear?" He asked, eyes searching for any discomfort in your face. 

Your eyes went wide at the sudden firmness in his voice. You nodded quickly, breath catching as you tried to steady your focus on him like he asked.

Joel let out a low, hum. “Yeah,” he said, a slow grin pulling at his mouth. “Listen to him.”

The pressure was building again—impossible, overwhelming. You were close, just like Jack said. Your thighs trembled. Your belly tightened. A hot coil wound in your core, drawing tighter with every stroke.

"C'mon," Joel urged, his voice dropping to a growl. "Give it to me, sweetheart. Let go. I'll catch you."

Jack's hips slapped against your ass, faster now, deeper. "Cum for us, sweetheart." he whispered against your ear. "Release it all. One more time."

And you did.

A hot gush came out of you—not a trickle, not a spasm, but a flood. It poured from your cunt, soaking Joel's cock, your thighs, his lap, the blanket beneath you. 

A broken cry tore from your throat, raw and desperate, as you squirted hard, the release feeling like the fever finally leaving your body. 

Your vision went white.

"Fuck," Jack groaned. He pulled out in one slick motion, the condom still snug on his cock. He ripped it off, stroking himself twice, three times, and spilled into the latex with a raw, shuddering groan that seemed to come from deep in his chest. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

Joel's arms were around you instantly. 

He dragged you flush against his sweaty chest, your weight settling on top of him as he fell back against the couch cushions. 

He was still inside you, buried deep, and he didn't stop. He thrusted up into you—four powerful, driving strokes, each one hitting that perfect, swollen spot.

"One more, sweetheart. C'mon. One more for me." He whispered into your ear. 

You squirted again—a weaker gush, a final release that flooded his belly and pooled beneath you. You cried out, burying your face into his neck. 

Joel let out a guttural grunt, his hips stuttering as he came, hot and thick, pumping into you with a desperate, possessive rhythm. His fingers dug into your hips, holding you in place.

Your body went limp, boneless, slack against Joel's chest. Your face burrowed into the hollow of his throat, into the damp, salty warmth of his skin. 

His heartbeat thudded against your cheek, strong and steady.

The world finally went soft, and your body relaxed. 

Jack on the other hand, moved with quiet efficiency besides you. His hands were gentle as he pressed two fingers to the hollow of your throat, counting the steady thrum of your pulse. 

He lifted one of your eyelids gently, checking your pupil response. A small flashlight flickered in his hand—when had he grabbed it? You had no idea. He pressed his palm to your forehead, your cheek, the side of your neck.

"She's asleep," he confirmed, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Completely out. Pulse is seventy-two. Pupils reactive. Skin temperature normal. Pollen's probably fully out. She's going to be just fine."

Joel's arm tightened around you, a possessive, protective reflex. 

He pressed a long kiss to the crown of your head, breathing you in. His hand came up to stroke your hair, smoothing the damp strands away from your face.

"God damn," he said to the ceiling, his voice a worn-out rasp. "That was wild."

He turned his head. Jack was on his feet, pulling his jeans up his hips, fastening his belt. Reaching for his flannel shirt. His movements were precise, unhurried, but there was a tremor in his hands that betrayed the cost of control.

"Thank you," Joel said. "No more bunnies for this Honeygirl." 

Jack paused mid-motion, chuckling, his hand on the collar of his shirt. He looked at Joel, then at your sleeping form, tucked into the curve of Joel's throat. Your lips were parted, your breath even and deep. 

He gave a single nod.

All that needed to be said, understood perfectly between them.

He finished buttoning his shirt and padded quietly into the kitchen. The faucet ran. A glass clinked. He was already preparing water for when you woke up, already thinking ahead.

Joel held you closer, his hand stroking your back in slow, soothing circles. 

He pressed another kiss to your hair, then let his eyes close, just for a moment, listening to the steady rhythm of your breathing, the proof that you were safe.

The way i googled the weirdest things guys...i've literally learned so much about the body LMFAO. if anybody sees my history they would think i've gone crazy. Also this is definitely not an excuse to write medical kink no no🫣

I hope this met some expectations, i'm still very very new to writing Jack abbott so please bear with me!!!

A girl your age doesn't know any better. Naive little thing. All you see is the handsome man that stands in front of you, who foots the bill when he takes you out to a nice restaurant or on a shopping spree. You see the way he stares down a guy who looks in your general direction a little too long and the way he walks just a step in front of you in a public setting, clearing a path of safety.

What young girl wouldn't want a man like that?

But what they don't see is the way you don't even flinch when you're riding shotgun in his truck and Andrew sets his pistol in your lap. They don't see the blade he'd bought for you—sharp and small, wedged right between your breasts every time you leave the house without him.

They don't see the way your skin prickles when he teaches you the proper way to shoot a gun, standing in front of the bathroom mirror, pointing the barrel at your reflection.

His hands are at your hips, thumbs resting at the elastic band of your pretty, red panties. Andrew's voice is low and slow in your ear. "Mm. Tuck your elbow in. Squeeze the handle a little harder. Yeah, there you go. Now put your finger on the trigger, baby. Just like that. And when you're ready, you just gotta pull it."

You breathe in slowly, and your finger presses down on the exhale.

The gun clicks.

"Yeah, that's it," he says, sliding his hands lower, beneath the crimson fabric. What he finds is unsurprising to him, of course. Arousal pooling between your thighs, your clit slick and swollen and desperate to be touched. He circles it slowly, tentatively, lovingly. "Again, sweetheart."

Andrew doesn't speak much on the rumors that go around about the two of you. He's sure even his brothers believe some of them.

It's to be expected, really, with that mousy demeanor of yours.

You put your hair up a different way one day and when Craig compliments you on it you get all shy, hiding behind Andrew's shoulder with your cheeks flaming.

He thinks it's real cute. The way you act all timid in front of them, murmuring a thank you with that soft voice of yours, unable to meet Craig's eyes all because he complimented you.

But only an hour later, Pope's undoing the clips in your hair while you look up at him from down on your knees, saying—begging, "Hit me."

And Pope does. Smacks you hard, one good time with his palm against your cheek. The sound is like lightning through the open air. He doesn't do it because he wants to, he does it because of that misty look in your eye, because of the way you moan at the impact.

Because of the way you look up at him through your lashes and smile real wide, giggles falling off your kiss-swollen lips, like there's no place you'd rather be.

He gives you just what you need, fucking your mouth until you're crying for it, burying himself at the back of your throat.

Each little gasp for air you make pushes him closer and closer to release, but what really does him in is the way your hand finds his thigh, tracing a little heart-shape into the denim of his jeans while you choke on his length.

Andrew finishes at the back of your mouth without warning, filling you until his release spills from the corners of your plush lips.

His cock still aches when he pulls himself out of you. Your pretty makeup that you spent all that time doing this morning runs down your cheeks now, and sticky webs of saliva and cum connect his cock to your tongue.

"You look so pretty, swallowing me down like that. My beautiful girl. Say it."

Your eyes are bloodshot and watery but filled with love as you look up at him. "I'm your beautiful girl," you say, smiling wide, sticking out your tongue to show him the mess he's made of you before swallowing hard.

"Yeah you are," he murmurs. "My sweetheart."

You've even got Smurf fooled.

They're having a family meeting one afternoon, planning out the details on how to rob a marijuana dispensary that pays its employees exclusively in cash.

While you're moving around easily in the kitchen, Smurf watches you from the living room with a drink in her hand.

Craig and Deran are bickering, trying to figure out a way to distract the night shift security guards that stand watch at the front entrance.

And then Smurf suddenly says, pointing with the rim of her crystal glass, "Her."

Pope shakes his head. "No. Not happening."

"Think about it," Smurf says. "You go in right as the last employee walks out. She walks up, begging to be let in, and says she'll pay extra. Girl like her? They won't expect anything. Just a pretty sweetheart looking to end her day with a little indica."

His brothers are quiet, looking between you and Pope, toeing the line of choice.

In the end, Andrew lets you choose. Makes it clear that if working a job with them makes you feel uncomfortable in any way, they'll figure something else out. He lays out the risks and the reward and reminds you to be honest about your feelings.

But you agree almost immediately and no amount of talking on Andrew's part sways you. It's over the moment you take his big hand, press his palm to your cheek and say, "I love you, Andrew. Even this part of you. Especially this part."

It melts his heart and fills him with this almost uncomfortable level of tenderness. He would kill for you, die for you—all to keep you here by his side.

The job goes perfectly. Andrew and his brothers are able to slip through the ceiling vents unseen, all because you're batting your eyelashes and making your shy little jokes to the guards out front.

They leave the warehouse with duffel bags full of cash and get away clean and undetected.

You're waiting three blocks away in Pope's truck, sitting casually behind the wheel, coating your lips in that pretty lipgloss while looking in the rearview mirror. But your phone is clutched tight in your hand waiting on a text of confirmation.

Pope makes Deran drop him off so he can set his eyes on you sooner rather than later.

And the moment you see him, your eyes light up in this way he knows all too well. Pope nods, adrenaline high as he lifts the clear plastic mask over his face just enough to set it on the top of his head. "We're good," he says.

The hesitant look on your face turns into a grin, soft giggles flitting off your tongue. You slide back across the cab to make room for Pope behind the wheel. You look past him, to Craig and Deran in the car with no plates full of stolen cash. "We'll see you at home," you tell them.

And maybe they don't understand at first, but Pope does. Of course he does—he can feel the way that wanting, lustful energy buzzes beneath your skin.

He puts the truck in drive and pulls out of the lot, but he doesn't make it two blocks before you're wrapping those sharp, painted nails around his bicep.

Pope just smiles as you kiss his shoulder repeatedly, nuzzling the cords of muscle through the fabric of his black hoodie. It seems like such an innocent, sweet touch. But he knows the truth—knows it's not only sweetness in your heart, it's hunger.

"Hang on, baby," he says, hand resting on the inside of your thigh, squeezing tightly. "Lemme pull over."

He finds a secluded alleyway that offers just enough darkness to remain undetected. And the minute he puts his truck in park, you're climbing into his lap.

Pope welcomes the taste of your hungry tongue. Lets you slide it into his mouth, over his teeth, licking and sucking like your life depends on it. He's already half hard in his jeans, but the second you tilt your hips, grinding yourself down against his bulge, he's done for.

"You look—god, you look so good," you whimper, hands around his neck. You don't squeeze, but rather just rest them there, thumbs feeling the quickening beat of his pulse through his jugular.

"Did such a great job today," Andrew says, fingers flexing hard around your hips. "My perfect girl. Such a sweetheart."

You whimper at the namesake, a term he'd coined just for you, his shy, gentle girl. "Andrew, please."

He knows what you're asking for. And who is he, after all, to deny a girl like you? Someone good and soft and so very desperate.

He reaches beneath you, between your legs to find the buckle of his belt. In one swift movement, he undoes it with a clink, and pushes his jeans and boxers down.

"Wait."

Andrew freezes.

At first he fears he might've done something wrong. Assumed wrong or maybe gone too far or pushed too hard. Like usual. Like usual.

His mind starts to spiral, because who could ever hurt you if not a monster? Sweet girl. Sweet heart.

He's a monster. He's a fucking—

And then you smile, and those invasive thoughts disappear as quickly as they'd manifested.

You bat your eyelashes at him with this innocent look on your face, and tug the plastic mask on the top of his head down.

Pope understands then. Of course he does—because you're his filthy, sweet girl. His.

Your clit pulses and he can feel it against his cock, even through the cotton barrier of your underwear.

Andrew tilts his head, watching you through slightly plastic-obstructed vision. He waits for you to move first.

And you do so by leaning forward and laying a wet, open-mouthed kiss against the mask, right over his lips.

It's the most erotic thing Pope has ever experienced.

Because he knows you want him—the awkward, quiet Andrew.

But right now, you're asking for a different version of him. A much more violent version of him; you want Pope.

The part that thieves and breaks and kills. The very worst of him. And not only do you want it, you're twitching for it. Breath coming out like a sigh, hands clutched tight, pussy aching for him.

And the realization—God. He could die. He could fucking die from how much he loves you.

He takes you right then and there. Pulls your underwear to the side beneath your skirt and sinks his cock into you in one hard, claiming thrust.

Pope holds your wrists together tightly behind your back and makes it hurt, because he knows good and well that's what you want. All the while your tongue laves against the plastic of his mask, breath fogging up the surface, a sick, perverted indulgence that drives him insane.

He circles your clit with his free hand, reveling in the way it throbs beneath his rough hands.

It doesn't take long. It never does. He feels the slick velvet of your center squeeze his cock like a vice. Pope doesn't let up, rubbing your clit until you lean back with your eyes squeezed tightly closed, chasing the release you've needed since the moment he'd asked you to help them on this job.

"Look at me," he demands. It's not a request but an order.

You do, mouth open to make room for the cute moans that echo in the cab of his truck. "I'm gonna—god, please please I'm gonna fucking cum—fuck—"

He doesn't say anything. Just tilts his head and watches you.

It hits a second later, and it's beautiful. The way you fall apart in his lap, thighs shaking, fingers flexing beneath his hold, fighting desperately to keep your brain tethered to the earth.

Andrew fucks you through it. Circles your clit until you're squeezing your thighs together, running from the sensitivity.

He finishes inside you a moment later, cock twitching as his orgasm settles low in his belly. And when he's finished, spasming with the aftershocks, you lift the plastic mask from his face and discard it on the floor of the passenger seat.

You smile and kiss him softly and say, "Let's go home. I'm hungry now."

Andrew knows the two of you will take one step into that house and they'll all know what you've gotten caught up doing. They'll see the mess of his curls and the flush on his face. They'll see your swollen lips and the spit drying at the corners and they'll think, 'Jesus, Pope. You can't get off that poor girl for even ten minutes?'

And he won't say anything, of course. He'll just let them go on believing the rumors, believing that he's the one who's insatiable for the shy girl who's gotten caught up in his gravitational pull.