୭ ˚. ᵎᵎˎˊ˗

He's watching you. You can't help but notice that Bobby doesn't stare the way other men stare, heavy and obvious.

He watches. There's a difference. Staring is passive. Watching is a skill.

You can see it in the way his eyes move: cataloguing, framing, composing. Those eyes. Pale blue, sharp, amused in a way that suggests he's always in on a joke nobody else has heard yet. They land on your face and stay there with an intensity that makes you want to look away and also makes you want to never look away and you're not going to think about that right now. Even in a shitty diner booth with fluorescent lighting and a crack running through the formica, Bobby Franklin is looking at you like he's already thinking about angles.

"And you're—Terrence said you do everything yourself? Shoot, edit, all of it?" you croak out, forcing yourself to swallow a mouthful of coffee.

"I don't trust anyone else with the camera." He says it the way other people say they don't trust anyone else with their car keys. Flat. Non-negotiable. His fingers are wrapped around the coffee mug and you notice—you're noticing too much, you need to stop noticing—the veins on the back of his hands, the way the leather jacket sits on his shoulders like it grew there, the silver hoop catches light every time he tilts his head. "It's a one-man operation. Well." The twitch again. Almost a smile. "Usually two-man. One behind the lens, one in front."

You nod. Push the eggs. Your fork makes a sound against the plate that's louder than it should be because neither of you is talking and the diner is mostly empty. The jukebox in the corner is broken and has been broken since Reagan. Your knee is bouncing under the table. You press your palm flat on your thigh to stop it. It only partially works.

"How behind are you?" Bobby drawls.

Your head snaps up. "What?"

"On rent," he clarifies patiently. "Terrence said you were in trouble. How behind?"

He leans forward when he asks it and the chain shifts against his collarbone and you catch a breath of him leather and something underneath, warm, clean, just skin—and your stomach coils.

You're nervous. You're nervous and attracted and the two are braiding together into something that makes it hard to hold your fork steady.

This would be easier if he were sleazy. If he looked like what you'd imagined when Terrence first explained the arrangement. Some greasy guy with a moustache and a waterbed. Instead he looks like this. Sharp jaw and piercing, amused eyes and an earring, a chain and a full mouth that does that little twitch and you're in so much trouble.

You put the fork down. Two months. You're two months behind because the temp agency dried up and the waitressing gig fell through and you've been living on ramen and the leftovers your neighbour leaves outside her door in tupperware containers that you're pretty sure are meant for the stray cats but you're not proud enough to care anymore.

"Two months," you admit, staring down at the eggs. Not looking at him. Looking at him is becoming a problem.

Bobby whistles. Low. Through his teeth. "Well shit. Landlord breathing down your neck?"

You scoff, swallowing down the bitterness. "He's past breathing. He's at written notices."

Bobby leans back in the booth. The vinyl creaks beneath him. He's got one arm stretched along the back of the seat and the other hand wrapped around the coffee mug and the morning light from the window is hitting the side of his face and you think, abstractly, the way you'd think about a painting in a museum: he's beautiful. Sharp angles. Pale eyes. Cali tan and an ease in how he slouches in his seat.

"The money's good," he says suddenly, tongue poking his cheek as he drags his attention back towards you. "That's the first thing. I'm not gonna bullshit you. It's not Hollywood money, obviously, but for Santa Clara? For a couple hours of work?" He tilts his head. "It'd cover your rent. Easy. One shoot."

You stare, unblinking. Sceptical. "One shoot."

"One shoot."

You pick up the fork again. Put it down again. Your fingers won't stop moving.

"Look—" Bobby leans forward. Elbows on the table. The leather jacket he's wearing creaks with the movement, and he's closer now and the watching has intensified into something that feels less like a camera and more like a hand on your skin. "I'm not trying to pressure you into shit. Terrence vouched for you because I asked him if he knew anyone and he said he knew a girl who was real smart and broke and—"

He stops. Mid-sentence. The watching goes still. There's a shift in his expression. A loosening, a slip, the mask of professional detachment developing a crack.

"Shit," he says softly. Almost to himself. "You're pretty. Real pretty."

You bristle. The flinch is automatic. A full-body tightening that starts in your shoulders and works down, because you know this game, you've played this game, the compliment that's actually a crowbar, the flattery designed to pry you open. Men in diners don't tell you you're pretty because they mean it. They tell you you're pretty because they want something and that something is usually between your legs.

"Don't do that," you say sharply. Your voice is harder than you intended.

Bobby blinks. The crack in his expression widens and what's behind it isn't a game. It's surprise. Genuine, unperformative surprise, the kind that creases the corners of his eyes and makes him look younger than however old he is.

"Do what?"

"The—flattery thing. The buttering up. I don't need you to tell me I'm pretty to get me to agree, I already—" Your throat tightens, and you knot your fingers in your lap, setting your jaw. "I'm already here. I'm already desperate enough to be sitting in this diner talking about—so you don't need to—"

"Hey." His hand comes up. Not touching. Just a gesture. A pause button. "I wasn't buttering you up. I was just—" He runs a hand through his hair, clipping his sunglasses. He looks, for a half-second, almost flustered. "I was looking at you and it came out. That's it. That's the whole thing. You're pretty and my mouth moved before my brain did and I'm—" He picks up the coffee. Takes a long sip. Sets it down. "Sorry. Professional hazard. I notice faces."

You stare at each other in silence.

He wasn't mocking you.

The realisation lands with a warmth that starts in your chest and spreads to places you weren't expecting.

He wasn't mocking you. He was sitting across from you in a vinyl booth and the light caught your face and he thought you were pretty and he said so because his mouth was faster than his filter. And now he's drinking burnt coffee to cover the fact that he's embarrassed about it.

"Okay," you say quietly.

He pauses, cup halfway to his mouth. "Okay?"

"Okay, tell me the terms."

Bobby sets the coffee down. The professionalism clicks back into place but the tips of his ears are still pink and you file that away somewhere warm and private.

"I shoot everything at my place. My equipment, my setup. VHS. I've got two cameras, one static, one handheld. The handheld's the one that matters. That's the one I operate." He taps the table with his index finger. Rhythmic. A habit. "I edit everything myself. I distribute through a guy I know in the valley who handles the duplication and the mailing list. You never have to talk to him. You never have to talk to anyone. Your face, your name, none of it goes on the packaging unless you want it to."

"What name do you use?" you ask, curious despite yourself.

"For me? Bobby." He shrugs. "I'm not creative about it."

"And for—"

"Whatever you want. Pick something. Pick nothing. Some girls just go by a first name. Some make something up. One girl I worked with went by the name of her landlord's dog. Said it felt like revenge." The almost-smile again. "Point is: it's yours. The whole thing is yours. You say stop, I stop. You say no to something, it's no. I don't push. I don't coerce. I don't do anything you haven't agreed to beforehand and if you change your mind halfway through, the camera goes off and we're done. No questions. No attitude."

He says all of this in the same tone he'd use to explain how a camera works. Methodical. Clear. Like he's said it before and means it every time.

"How much?" you ask.

He tells you.

You put your fork down carefully because the number he just said would cover two months of rent and groceries and the electricity bill that's been sitting on your kitchen counter turning into a small paper monument to your failure.

"One shoot," you say again, making sure.

"One shoot," he echoes with a nod. "Couple hours. You walk out with cash."

Hope and desperation surge up your spine, working your tongue. "Cash?"

"I don't do checks. Checks leave paper trails and paper trails make people nervous." He drains the last of the coffee. Grimaces. Apparently even Bobby Franklin has limits and Moreno's coffee has found them. "You don't have to decide now. Think about it. Call me."

He pulls a napkin from the dispenser and writes a number on it in handwriting that's surprisingly neat for someone who looks like he's never filled out a form in his life. Slides it across the table.

You look at the napkin. Look at him. then back at the napkin.

You pick it up, folding it neatly.

"Tomorrow," you say. "I can come tomorrow."

Bobby's eyebrows rise. Just slightly. Then he nods slowly. "Tomorrow works."

He pays for your eggs. You don't argue. You should argue but the rent was due six days ago and the eggs were $2.15 and the pride you'd normally spend on "I can pay for my own breakfast" has been liquidated to cover more pressing debts.

At the door of the diner he holds it open for you. Not performatively. Just does it. And when you pass him your shoulder brushes his chest and he smells like that warm thing again, the underneath thing, and his pale eyes track your face one more time and he says "See you tomorrow" in a voice that's dropped half a register and the warmth in your chest migrates south and you walk to your car thinking fuck, fuck, fuck, what am I doing?

You're covering rent. That's what you're doing.

That's all you're doing.

His apartment is above a furniture store.

You stand on the sidewalk for four minutes before you go up. The building is nondescript. Beige stucco, iron railings, a set of stairs on the outside that lead to a door that needs painting. There's a cat on the landing that looks at you with the serene judgment of a creature that has never once had to worry about rent.

You envy the cat greatly.

You're wearing a sundress because you didn't know what to wear and the sundress felt like a compromise between "trying too hard" and "not trying enough." You changed three times.

The first outfit was too casual. The second was too much. The sundress is yellow and you hate that you care what colour it is.

You knock.

Bobby opens the door and the first thing you register is that he's not wearing the leather jacket.

T-shirt. White, thin, cropped in a way that shows the shape of him underneath and is making it difficult to maintain eye contact. Jeans slung low on his hips. Bare feet on the hardwood. His hair is damp from the shower and pushed back off his face and without the sunglasses holding it up you can see the full architecture of him.

The jaw, sharper in natural light than in the diner's dimness. The earring. The chain, sitting in the hollow of his throat, rising and falling with his breathing.

He looks good in his own apartment. Relaxed in a way he wasn't at Moreno's, the professional edge softened into something more lived-in.

He leans against the doorframe and says, "Hey. Come in" and the drawl is thicker in the morning.

You're going to be professional about this. You're not going to think about his forearms, which are now visible because the t-shirt sleeves are short and his arms are lean and tanned and there's a vein running from his wrist to his elbow that you're staring at. Stop staring at it.

The apartment is small and clean and full of light. Not the fluorescent light of the diner but real light, California morning light, pouring through windows that face east.

There are photographs on the walls, black and white, and you realise after a second that he took them. They're good. They're better than good. A bridge in fog. A woman's hands. A street at night, wet, reflecting. He has an eye. You knew that from the diner, from the way he watched, but seeing it on the walls makes it real.

Bobby Franklin has an eye and he uses it for this and also for what you're about to do and the cognitive dissonance of "artist" and "adult filmmaker" is something you're going to have to sit with.

"Coffee?" he asks, padding toward the kitchen. Bare feet on linoleum.

The t-shirt rides up slightly when he reaches for a mug on the top shelf and there's a strip of skin above his waistband and the muscle that cuts along his hip and you look away so fast you nearly give yourself whiplash.

"Please."

He pours you a cup. You stand in his kitchen and drink it and it's good. Your hands are shaking and the cup rattles against the saucer and you set it down before he notices except he's already noticed.

"Hey," he calls out, leaning against the counter. Arms crossed. The t-shirt pulling across his chest. His stare is piercing, amused, reading you the way they read you at the diner except now there's nowhere to hide behind a menu and a plate of eggs. "We don't have to do anything today. We can just talk. Get you comfortable. No pressure."

"I'm fine," you force out.

He gives you a sceptical once over. "You're shaking."

"I'm fine and I'm shaking. Both can be true."

His mouth the twitches, the almost-smile that you're beginning to understand is Bobby's version of a laugh. A contained one. Controlled. Like even his amusement is something he runs through a filter before letting it out. But his eyes crinkle at the corners and the amusement reaches them and it's warm, genuinely warm, and some of the tightness in your chest loosens.

You talk.

He asks you questions. Mercifully not invasive ones, not the peeling-back kind. Surface questions. Where you grew up. How you know Terrence. What music you like. And you find yourself answering, not because he's charming (he is) but because he's easy. Bobby Franklin is easy to talk to in a way that contradicts everything about his sharp jaw and pale stare and the fact that there are two video cameras set up in his bedroom that you can see through the half-open door.

He listens the way he watches: completely, with his whole attention, like whatever you're saying is the only thing happening in the world. And he's funny. Dry, quick, a deadpan that sneaks up on you.

You laugh at something he says about Terrence and his face creases in a way you haven't seen before. Surprise. Pleasure. Like your laugh was an unexpected pleasure.

He tucks it away fast, smooths the expression back to amused neutrality, but you saw it. You saw it and it made your stomach warm.

An hour passes. Your hands stop shaking. You've stopped noticing the cameras through the doorway. You've started noticing other things.

The way he gestures when he talks about photography, loose and animated, the only time his cool composure fully drops. The way he licks his bottom lip when he's thinking. The way the chain shifts against his throat when he laughs. The pale eyes that keep finding your face and staying there a beat longer than conversation requires.

You're attracted to him. This is no longer a thing you can file under "irrelevant." This is a thing that is happening in your body, in the kitchen, in the warm light, and it's making the prospect of what comes next feel less like a transaction and more like something you might actually want and that's more frightening than the cameras.

He shows you the bedroom eventually.

It's not what you expected. No red lighting, no satin sheets, no sleazy backdrop. Just a bed—queen, white sheets, a quilt that looks like it came from someone's grandmother—and two cameras. One on a tripod in the corner, aimed at the bed. The other on the dresser, smaller, a different angle. Both VHS. Both off.

"The one in the corner is the wide shot," Bobby explains, standing in the doorway behind you. Professional. Tour guide. "It runs the whole time. Catches everything. The one on the dresser is for close-ups. I adjust it as we go. The handheld—" He nods toward a third camera sitting on the nightstand. "That's the one I use. That's the one that makes the money."

You nod, staring at the bed. The white sheets. The grandmother's quilt. The two dark eyes of the cameras. Your pulse is loud in your own ears.

"I'm sorry," you blurt out, not looking at him, still staring at the bed. "I'm being weird about this. I've obviously never—I haven't done anything like this before and I don't know how to—"

He kisses you.

His hand is on your jaw first, angling your face toward him. Gentle but sure, the confidence of someone who knows the effect he has and is choosing to use it kindly. And then his other hand comes up. Both hands cupping your face now, his palms warm against your cheeks, his thumbs resting along the line of your cheekbones, and his mouth finds yours.

The first press is soft. Almost chaste. Just the warmth of his lips settling against yours, testing, asking. You inhale sharply through your nose, and he catches it. Absorbs it. Tilts your face up with those hands and kisses you deeper.

Bobby's mouth opens yours. Coaxing, slow.

His bottom lip drags against yours, the faintest graze of teeth, and then his tongue follows. Warm, unhurried, curling against yours in a way that makes your knees actually weaken.

You've kissed people before. This is not that. This is Bobby Franklin kissing you with both hands cradling your face like you're worth holding and his tongue moving against yours with a patience that suggests he could do this for hours. Just this. Just the wet slide of his mouth on yours and the taste of good coffee and the way your breath mingles when he tilts his head and changes the angle and finds something deeper.

His thumb strokes your cheekbone. Back and forth. This light, rhythmic brush while his tongue curls against yours, while his bottom lip catches between your teeth and he makes a sound—small, low, a vibration you feel more than hear—and your hands are on his chest. When did your hands get on his chest?

You can feel his heartbeat through the white t-shirt, fast, faster than his relaxed composure suggests, and the knowledge that Bobby Franklin's heart is hammering while he kisses you makes you dizzy.

He tilts his head the other way. Your noses brush. The tip of his against the side of yours, a small warm nudge, almost playful.

He kisses the corner of your mouth. Your bottom lip. Takes it between his and sucks, gently, and your fingers curl into the fabric of his t-shirt and pull and the sound you make is swallowed by the warmth of him.

He pulls back.

Not far. An inch. Maybe two. His hands still on your face. His thumbs still on your cheekbones. His forehead nearly touching yours and you can feel his breath on your lips and his eyes are right there. Those pale, watchful, bright eyes, scanning your face. Reading you. Making sure.

Your lips are tingling. Your whole body is tingling. You're standing in a stranger's bedroom being held by the face and kissed like you've never been kissed before.

"Was—" Your voice is thin. Wrecked. He kissed your voice right out of you. "Was the camera rolling?"

Bobby smirks.

Up close, from two inches away, with his hands still warm on your face. One corner of his mouth lifting in that lazy, crooked, insufferable way. His eyes half-lidded. And it goes trough you like wildfire, flooding your nervous system with liquid heat.

"No," he answers huskily, his thumb tracing your cheekbone one more time. "Just felt like doing that."

He holds your gaze. One beat. Two. Three. Letting the smirk settle. Letting you feel the weight of it—the fact that he kissed you off-camera, off-clock, for no professional reason.

The fact that his heart is still hammering under your fists and his pupils are blown wide and he kissed you because he wanted to. Because you were standing in his bedroom apologising for being nervous and he looked at you and his mouth moved before his brain did. Again.

"Still okay?" he asks, softer now. The smirk gentling into something warmer.

"Yeah." Breathier than you want it to be. Your hands still in his t-shirt. "Yeah, I'm okay."

"Good." His hand drops from your jaw. Trails down your arm. Fingertips only, light enough to raise goosebumps, tracing the inside of your wrist where the pulse jumps. "I'm going to undress you now. Slow. Before the cameras go on. Just us. That alright?"

You nod.

He starts with the straps of the sundress. Easing them off your shoulders one at a time. Not pulling, guiding. His knuckles graze your collarbone and you shiver, his eyes tracking the shiver down your body with an attention that makes you feel like the only light source in the room.

"You wore yellow," he notes conversationally. Like he's remarking on the weather while his fingertips trace the neckline of your dress. "Looks good on you. Warm. Shows off your skin."

The dress pools at your feet. You're standing in his bedroom in your underwear and the morning light is on you and Bobby is looking at you the way he looked at you in the diner when his mouth got ahead of his brain.

"Pretty," he murmurs. Like he can't help it. Like the word just falls out of him when he sees you. His thumb traces your hip bone above the elastic of your underwear. "Real pretty."

This time you don't bristle.

He reaches past you. Flicks on the tripod camera. A tiny red light. Then the dresser camera. Another red light. Two eyes, open, watching.

"Don't think about them," Bobby says, his mouth near your ear. His hands settle on your waist, warm palms on bare skin. "Don't think about the cameras. Don't perform. Just feel me. Can you do that?"

You jerk your head. "I can try."

"That's all I'm asking." His lips brush your ear. Down. Along your jaw. The corner of your mouth. His hands slide up your ribcage and his thumbs trace the underwire of your bra and you exhale, shaky, and he catches it. "There you go. Just like that. Stay with me, yeah? I got you."

He unclasps your bra with one hand. Practiced, efficient, but the way he peels it away is anything but. Reverent, almost, easing the fabric off like he's unwrapping something valuable. The air hits your skin and your nipples tighten. Bobby's gaze drops and his jaw flexes and for a moment, just a moment, the professionalism wavers. His throat moves on a thick swallow.

"Lie down," he instructs, a little rougher than before. "On the bed. On your back."

You lie down. The sheets are cool beneath you, the quilt soft. on your skin

The light from the window falls across the bed in a warm band and you're naked except for your underwear and Bobby is standing over you still fully dressed and the power imbalance should feel wrong but it doesn't because his eyes are eating you alive and his hands are clenched at his sides and you realise, with a jolt that goes straight through you: he's holding himself back.

This is Bobby exercising control. This is what it looks like when he wants to touch something badly and is making himself wait.

He picks up the handheld camera. Lifts it to his eye. And something shifts in him. Visibly. The control locks in, the professional takes over, and he's Bobby-behind-the-lens. Steady. Composed. Seeing everything.

"Touch yourself," he says. Director voice. "Just your skin. Nothing heavy. Just run your hands over yourself. Get comfortable."

You do. Your own hands on your own body, palms skating over your stomach, your ribs, the swell of your breasts, and it feels strange and exhibitionistic but then Bobby says "gorgeous, just like that, you're doing so good" and the praise lands in the pit of your stomach like a lit match. Your back arches. Barely. Just enough.

"Yeah," Bobby breathes from behind the camera. "That's it. That's perfect. Look at you."

He films you touching yourself for what feels like hours and is probably three minutes. Then he sets the handheld down on the nightstand. Red light still blinking, and he crawls onto the bed.

Not between your legs. Beside you. Lying on his side, propped on one elbow, his face level with yours. Close enough that you can see the flecks of darker blue in his irises and the faint scar on his chin and the way his throat moves when he swallows. Still dressed. T-shirt. Jeans. Bare feet.

"Keep going," he murmurs, watching your hands on your own body. "Don't stop on my account."

Your hands move. Over your stomach. Up. And Bobby's hand joins them. One warm palm laid flat against your sternum, between your breasts. Not groping.... just resting. Feeling your heartbeat through your ribs.

"Fast," he notes. His thumb strokes the valley between your breasts and you shiver. "Slow down. You're rushing."

You do as he asked, your hands sliding over your skin with less urgency and more intention. Bobby's hand follows, learning new terrain, the dip of your waist and the flare of your hip and the soft give of your stomach where you've always been self-conscious and he presses his palm there like he's making a point.

Like that spot, specifically, is worth his hand.

Then his mouth replaces his palm.

He starts at your throat. A kiss. Open-mouthed, warm, the press of his lips and the faintest edge of teeth. Then your collarbone. The notch at the base of your throat where your pulse is hammering. Down. The flat of his tongue dragging along your sternum, tasting the thin sheen of sweat that the California morning and your own nerves have produced.

His mouth is unhurried. Exploratory. He's not kissing you so much as he's mapping you with his lips, charting the terrain the way he'd scout a location before a shoot. Finding the light, finding the angles, finding what works on you.

His mouth finds your breast. Kisses the swell of it. The underside, where the skin is softest. And then his lips close around your nipple and he sucks—not hard, not gentle, somewhere in between, a warm wet pressure that sends a bolt of sensation from your breast directly to your cunt and your back arches off the mattress.

"Oh."

Bobby hums against you. A sound of satisfaction. His tongue circles your nipple, flattens, flicks.

His free hand slides up your ribs and cups your other breast, thumb rolling across the peak, and the dual sensation—mouth and hand, wet and dry—makes you reach for him. Your fingers find his hair. Sandy strands, still slightly damp from the shower, thick between your fingers. You grip. Pull.

Just... needing something to hold onto while his mouth does this to you.

The pull makes Bobby groan. The sound vibrates through your nipple and into your chest and your hips lift off the bed involuntarily, pressing into nothing.

He feels it and his mouth tightens. Pulls harder. His teeth graze the sensitive peak and your fingers clench in his hair and you tug, genuinely tug, trying to pull him up, pull him to your mouth, because you need to kiss him, you need—

He doesn't let go.

His mouth stays locked on your nipple, sucking with a focused intensity that borders on stubborn, and you're pulling his hair and he's groaning and he will not come up, will not release, and the wet heat of his mouth is making you clench around nothing.

Your thighs press together, your hips rocking against air, seeking fullness, friction, anything, and Bobby—Bobby, who is supposed to be a professional, who is supposedly in control of this situation—reaches down with his free hand and cups you between the legs.

Just cups you. His whole palm, warm, pressed against the soaked cotton of your underwear. Just holding the heat of you in his hand while his mouth works your nipple and your fingers twist in his hair and the sound that comes out of you is breathy and too high.

"Bobby—please, I need—"

He releases your nipple with a wet pop that you feel in your spine. Glances up at you, his lips swollen. His eyes heavy-lidded and dark and his hand still cupping you, pressing against the damp fabric, feeling the heat seep through.

"Need what, baby?" Low. Rough. His fingers flex against you, palm grinding just slightly against your pulsing core, one small movement of pressure through the cotton. "Tell me."

"Touch me," you plead, trying to press closer. "Actually touch me."

His fingers slide under the elastic. Find you bare. Find you soaked. And the sound he makes—a sharp exhale through his nose, almost a hiss—is the sound of a man who knew what he was going to find but is still wrecked by the reality of it.

"Jesus." Barely a whisper. His fingers parting your folds. Not penetrating yet, just circling your clit. Just petting. Long, feather-light strokes through the slick of you, up and down, spreading the wetness with an aching patience that makes your hips chase his hand. "So wet, baby. This all from—was this from my mouth? From me sucking on you?"

You nod. You can't speak. His fingers are petting you like he's got all the time in the world and no intention of giving you what you need. Long strokes. Root to tip. Parting you with two fingers and letting the middle one drag between, barely touching your clit, just enough to make your thighs shake.

"Pretty little pussy," he murmurs, and the words shouldn't work.

They're filthy and crude and you've heard variations in the tapes you've watched that made you cringe, but Bobby says them the way he said "you're pretty" in the diner. Like a fact. Something he can't help observing. Like your body laid out in morning light is a view he needs to narrate. His fingers keep petting. Lazy. Wet with you, making you drip onto his grandmother's quilt.

Then his mouth starts traveling south.

He kisses down your stomach. Your hip bone. The crease of your thigh. Hooks his fingers into your underwear, drags them down, tosses them off the bed without looking. Parts your thighs with both hands, spreading you open, and the sound he makes—not a groan this time, something lower, something guttural, a sound that vibrates in his chest—is not for the camera.

You know this because the camera is on the nightstand and he hasn't touched it and he's not angling for a shot. He's just peering down at you. Spread open in the morning light. And that sound is coming out of him because he can't stop it.

"Fuck," he whispers, his thumbs pressing into the crease of your thighs. "Okay. Okay."

He lowers his mouth to you.

Bobby eats you out the way he kissed you earlier. Unhurried, thorough. Long strokes of his tongue that start at your entrance and drag upward, tasting the length of you, and you feel his groan against your cunt when the flavour hits and your whole body shudders.

He circles your clit with a pressure that's devastating in its patience. He's not trying to make you come fast. He's tasting. Exploring. Learning what makes your hips jerk and what makes you gasp and what makes your fingers find his hair again.

You fist both hands in those sandy strands and pull and the sound he makes—rough, grateful, hungry—vibrates against your clit. Your hips buck and his hands tighten on your thighs. Holding them apart, his thumbs stroking the soft skin in counterpoint to the filthy things his tongue is doing.

He's found a rhythm now. Flat, wide strokes punctuated by the pointed tip of his tongue flicking your clit in a pattern that your hips start chasing, lifting off the bed, grinding against his mouth, and he lets you. Lets you ride his face with his hands gripping your thighs and his eyes closed and his entire world narrowed to the taste and the sound and the wet.

"Bobby—oh my god—"

"Mm." Against you. His mouth full of you. His tongue pressing flat, licking you open in a broad swipe that makes your vision swim. "Taste incredible. Could stay here all fuckin' day."

He could. You believe him. He looks like he means it. Settled between your thighs like he's found the only place in the world he wants to be.

You tug his hair again and his moan is muffled against your cunt and you feel it everywhere, the vibration traveling through your pelvis and up your spine, and you pull harder and his tongue presses harder and the feedback loop is building. Your hands in his hair and his mouth on you and the wet sounds and the moans and you're close, you're getting close—

He pulls back with a wet, slick sound.

You whimper. The loss of his mouth leaving you throbbing, aching, empty.

"Not yet." His chin is wet, his lips swollen. Bobby's eyes are glazed and dark, the professional gone, replaced by something feral that's been living underneath the cool-boy surface and is now looking at you like it's deciding whether to devour you. "Not yet, baby. Want to be inside you when you come. Wanna feel you, yeah?"

You moan in response, dizzy. And your moans are real. That's the thing that's changing the temperature of the room.

You're not playing them up, not pitching them for any microphone, not performing the breathy exaggerated sounds you've heard in the tapes you've watched out of curiosity and mild horror. You're just reacting. And it's affecting him. His breathing has changed. His hips are pressing into the mattress in a grind he can't seem to control and you realise he's hard.

He's been hard for a while. He's been eating you out with his cock straining against his jeans and he hasn't touched himself once.

Bobby sits back on his heels. Pulls the t-shirt over his head in one motion. His chest is flushed. Lean, not bulky, the body of someone who lifts camera equipment for a living and forgets to eat regularly. The belt buckle. The zipper. The happy trail of hair dipping dangerously beneath the belt buckle. He pushes the jeans down and kicks them off and he's—

your mouth goes dry.

Bobby Franklin naked is a problem. Bobby Franklin hard is a crisis.

He sees you looking. The smirk returns. That lazy, insufferable lift of one corner of his mouth. "See something you like?"

"Shut up."

You sit up. Grab his hips. Pull him toward you and the surprise on his face—genuine, unperformed, the mask cracking again—is worth everything.

He stumbles forward on the mattress, knees sinking into the sheets, and your hands are on his stomach, his ribs, dragging your nails lightly down his sides and he hisses. His cock twitches and you feel powerful in a way that has nothing to do with cameras or money.

"How do you want me to fuck you?" His voice is gravel. Wrecked. He's peering down at you with his hands cupping your face, thumbs on your cheekbones, and the professionalism is a memory. "Tell me."

"From behind." No hesitation. The words tumbling out before your brain can edit them. "I want—on my stomach, I want you behind me, I want—"

Bobby's eyes go wide. His whole face flushes harder. Cheeks, ears, the V of his throat. He drops his head against your shoulder and laughs. A real laugh. Rough and bitten-off and disbelieving.

"Shit, baby." Muffled against your skin. "Can't say stuff like that to me. Can't just—" He lifts his head. The flush is gorgeous on him, spreading down his neck. "Yeah. Fuck yeah. Turn over."

He flips you. Firm and purposeful. His hands on your hips guiding you onto your stomach, lifting your hips until your ass is raised and your face is in the pillow and you feel exposed in a way that's terrifying and thrilling.

"Look at you." His hands on your hips, sliding up. Over the curve of your ass. Both palms cupping you, squeezing, spreading, his thumbs tracing the cleft while he breathes hard through his nose. "Every angle. Every fuckin' angle. 'S not fair."

His hand draws back. Comes down on your ass. Not a slap, not quite, a firm pat that's more proprietary than punishing and the sound it makes in the quiet bedroom is obscene. Your hips jolt. He does it again. Lighter. Smoothing his palm over the spot after, kneading with a hum.

"Could cover you like this," he mutters, stroking the curve of your ass with both hands, spreading you again, looking at you from behind with an expression you can feel even though you can't see it. "Just—stay right here. Just like this. Prettiest goddamn thing I've ever shot and I haven't even started the camera yet."

He reaches for the handheld. Turns it on. Red light. Frames the shot—you on your stomach, your hips raised, the curve of your spine. His hand still on your ass. Claiming. Warm.

He sets the camera on the mattress, angled up. Reaches for himself. You hear it. The wet sound of him spitting into his palm, the slick stroke of his fist over his cock, and then he's behind you. The hot thick length of him pressed against you, nestled between your folds, and he groans and you groan, and he doesn't push in.

He rolls against you.

Long, grinding strokes, his cock sliding through the slick mess of you, dragging across your clit with every thrust. The head catching at your entrance and pulling away. Over and over. Using the length of himself to stroke you, to tease you, to coat himself in you until the sound of skin on wet skin fills the room and your fingers are clawing at the sheets.

"Feel that?" His chest pressed against your back. His mouth against your ear. "Feel how hard you got me? Been like this since the diner. Since you sat down in that booth and looked at me with those fuckin' eyes. Thought about this. Thought about what you'd feel like."

His hips roll. The head of his cock catches your entrance again, presses, almost, almost—

"Bobby, please—"

His cock throbs against your core. "Tell me."

"Fuck me. Please." You suck in a shaky breath. "I need you to—"

He spits again. You feel it, warm, landing where his cock meets your cunt. His hand stroking himself once, twice, spreading the slick. And then he notches himself at your entrance and pushes in.

One long stroke. All the way. Your body opening around him and his groan matching yours. Colliding, two raw sounds meeting in the air and becoming something bigger than either. He bottoms out and holds you in place, and you feel every inch of him, the stretch, the heat, the fullness, his forehead dropping against the nape of your neck and he breathes "oh fuck" against your hair and his whole body shakes.

"God—you feel—" He can't finish. His hips twitch, involuntary, the tiniest thrust that pulls a gasp from both of you. "Baby. Baby, you feel—"

He starts moving. And the control lasts about thirty seconds.

Thirty seconds of measured strokes. Finding the angle. Professional. Thinking about the shot, the camera on the mattress, the red light.

And then you push back against him with a greedy sound, meet his thrust with your hips, grinding onto him, taking him deeper, and you moan. Really moan, the sound that's been building since he put his mouth on your nipple and refused to let go, and something in Bobby snaps.

His hand grabs your hip. His other hand braces on the mattress beside your head. And he fucks you.

Not the controlled version. The real version. The Bobby Franklin that exists underneath the smirk and the camera and the professional detachment. Hips driving into you with a force that shoves you into the mattress, that punches the air from your lungs, that turns your vision white around the edges. Sweat beading on his chest and dripping onto your spine. His breathing ragged, broken, gasping against the back of your neck in hot bursts.

And you're both gasping, coiling, pushing into each other blindly. Your hand reaches back, finds his hip, his thigh, pulling him deeper, harder, your fingers digging into the muscle and he groans like you've wounded him.

His hand finds yours, laces your fingers together beside your head, pressing your joined hands into the sheets, and the intimacy of it cracks something deep in both of you.

"So good," he's babbling against your spine. His mouth open, dragging wet kisses between your shoulder blades. "So fuckin' good, squeezing me so tight—can you hear that? Hear how wet you are? Hear what you're doin' to me?"

You can hear it. The obscene wet sound of his cock driving into you, the slap of his hips against your ass, the creak of the bed frame that he's going to have to explain to the furniture store below.

"Bobby—" Your voice is gone. Shattered, croaking. "Bobby, I'm gonna—I can't—"

"Yeah you can." Growled against your ear. His teeth grazing your earlobe. Biting down. "Cum for me. Wanna feel it. Wanna feel you squeeze my cock so tight I can't fuckin' think—"

He lets go of your hand. His fingers fist in your hair. Gathering the hair, wrapping the strands around his fingers. And he lifts your head from the pillow, arching your neck back, turning your face toward the camera on the mattress that's still rolling, red light blinking, catching everything.

"Show them," he murmurs against the shell of your ear. "Let 'em see how pretty you look when you cum for me."

You fall apart.

The orgasm rips through you. An earthquake, seismic and structural that starts where he's buried inside you and radiates outward.

Your mouth opens on a moan that you don't recognise as your own voice, wanton, cracked, genuine. There's no performance, no production, it's pulled from somewhere primal and raw inside you. And Bobby feels it. Feels the clench and the shake and the sound and his rhythm breaks, shatters, his hips slamming into you without finesse, chasing his own end through the aftershocks of yours.

He comes with a loud, greedy moan, a gruff sound of laughter caught in his throat. This breathless, incredulous sound, muffled against the back of your damp neck, like he can't believe what just happened to him. His hips jerk again, pressed flush against your ass. His hand loosens in your hair, fingertips grazing your scalp.

His body shudders against yours in waves that slow and gentle and eventually still.

His lips find the shell of your ear. Warm. Spent. Still inside you.

"With a moan like that," he rasps, kissing the curve of your ear, "and a pussy that grips me that tight?" He laughs against your skin. Loose. Golden. The real laugh, the unfiltered one. "Shit, baby, you're gonna be famous."

You laugh too. Into the pillow. The sound surprising you. The lightness of it, the ease. The fact that you can laugh, right now, naked and sweating and thoroughly ruined in a stranger's bed with two cameras rolling.

You're laughing because he's funny and because the sex was extraordinary and because you came to this apartment expecting something transactional and clinical.

Instead you got Bobby Franklin's mouth telling you you're pretty like he couldn't help it and Bobby Franklin's hands holding yours while he fucked you and Bobby Franklin laughing against your neck like making you come was the best thing that happened to him all week.

He pulls out, slowly, carefully, making you shiver at the loss, and collapses next to you. Reaches over and clicks off the handheld. The red light dies. The static camera in the corner is still running and neither of you moves to turn it off.

Bobby lies on his back, chest rising and falling. Staring at the ceiling with the expression of a man whose professional boundaries have just been comprehensively violated by his own want.

"So," he says to the ceiling. "Same time next week?"

You turn your head on the pillow. He turns his. Pale eyes. Flushed face. Hair wrecked. That almost-smile.

"Same time next week," you agree, still breathless.

The static camera runs for another four minutes before Bobby remembers to turn it off.

In the footage—which he will watch later, alone, ostensibly for editing purposes—you can see two people lying side by side on white sheets, not touching, not talking, just breathing, and at the 2:47 mark the girl in the yellow sundress starts laughing again and the boy with the camera reaches over and takes her hand and doesn't let go until the tape runs out.

He doesn't use that part in the final cut.

🩷

You felt the rattan hood covering your face rip off. You blink in the very bright light. You'd use your hand to shield your eyes but it is tied very tightly behind your back.

You're in some sort of motel room, sat on a rickety wood chair. Your wrists are tied behind your back and attached to the middle wood paneling.

You tried moving, testing the give in the ropes, knowing there wouldn't be any. The motel room smelled like stale cigarette, vodka, and sex. There were some questionable stains beneath your feet.

You are stiffened in fear as the man, your captor, stands behind you, a large calloused hand pressed to your mouth.

'Scream and I'll slit your throat,' a warm snarl appeared suddenly beside your ear. You flinched at the proximity. 'Nod if you understand.'

You nodded. You'd done some morally and legally questionable things in your life, a lot of them risky and dangerous, but you've never been as scared as this.

You try to rearrange your face, some semblance of blank control. The man walks round you to sit on the edge of the bed. Brown shoes and tight black jeans cover large thighs, which bounce up and down. You weren't sure if it was nervous energy or if he was working himself up to something.

Your eyes travel upwards. A black shirt stretched over thick biceps beneath an open black jacket. A stubble-adorned, aquiline face was covered by Ray-Ban sunglasses, met with long auburn curls. You knew this guy....

'Pope Cody,' you growl, pulling harder at you restraints, knowing it was pointless.

'Know why you're here?' Pope's neck lifted back halfway through speaking. He was aiming for dominant assertion but his rough voice had a gravelly quality to it.

You stayed silent. You knew the Cody brothers had some relationship with your boyfriend, but he always kept the details brief and vague. You knew he'd been told to pay up but he went on the run instead, never showing up at the rendezvous. He had promised you would be safe, that they didn't know about you.

'That shithead boyfriend o' yours has something that belongs to us...- Pope pulled his sunglasses off to look at you with hazel eyes. In another life, if he wasn't a violent psychopath with dangerous proclivities, his eyes might have been devastating. '...and, sweetheart, you're going to tell us where he is.' And then he smiled.

🩷

'Really, I don't know where he is,' you shook your head. 'You can kill me but then you'll still not know where he is.'

Your eyes were subtly roving the motel room, trying to find anything, any way, that might help you escape.

Pope had leant in closer, a sharp meat knife dragging slowly up and down your clavicle. His face was a lot closer to yours now, and he had pulled some hair away from your face. You had stiffened under his touch.

'I don't wanna have to hurt you, sweetheart,' Pope's rough voice was low and slow, 'but I can't let you leave here without my answers. Whaddya say?'

You flicked your eyes across each of his and then up at the ceiling, it was too intense to be so close. 'I said I don't know anything!'

'Look at me,' Pope ordered. 'Look at me!'

'Well, you give me no choice,' Pope knicked the side of your neck, a slit made with surgical precision, located to bleed a lot and look scary without doing any real damage.

Pain bloomed up through your veins and, when it reached your head, you had to suck in your breath for a few seconds.

Pope's thighs began jiggling up and down again, looking from your neck to your white blouse. ''s gonna stain,' he mumbled.

'What?'

'Your pretty top... it's going to stain.' Whispering, but she made me do it, i had no choice, he leant forwards towards you. As Pope looked at the cut he'd made on your neck, he looked.. sad. Heat radiated from his body and you could smell expensive cologne. You held your breath as Pope leaned in to the wounded part of your neck. He hesitated and you could feel his warm breath on your sensitive skin. You bit your bottom lip and looked up at the ceiling, terrified of him. After his brief pause, Pope did a half-shake of his head and slowly placed his mouth over the wound. You made a stifled noise in shock and jumped on reflex.

Pope's hands reached out, ever so gently resting atop your knees, as if to steady you without having to commit to real reassurance. His soft lips made a vacuum and Pope began to suck out the pain. His breathing became heavier and more erratic as he placed the flat of his tongue over it, then giving long licks to capture any remnants of blood.

You tried to go somewhere else in your head. Pope was terrifying and he had just injured your neck; it was impossible to know what his instability would driven him to next. But... he needed to stop moving his mouth on you like that. Like a predator, Pope could smell the hot pulse point and he almost couldn't stop himself. He wanted to, he really did, but your neck was just so warm and wet, and you made these soft snuffly noises. Once his mouth was on you, it became less about cleaning you up and more about... kissing you? Pope was blatantly just giving your neck French kisses, using a little tongue, and let out the softest moan. You were unsuccessful in going some place else in your head because, your body betraying you, it felt so good.

'There,' Pope said thickly, finally leaning back, 'all better.' His husky voice and brief palm in his jeans indicated he had enjoyed that way more than intended. When you finally trusted yourself to look at his face, heat bloomed between your thighs. His hazel eyes were half-lidded, but slowly blinking back to life, and his mouth was covered in blood. Particularly his lower lip, and it streamed to a V down his chin.

Pope looked... hot. You tried to squash that thought down along with the memory of the kiss, and focus on making it out alive. What was your game plan? He was clearly a man on the edge.

'Fuck, you taste good.' Pope used a black sleeve to wipe his chin, thick haemoglobin making a bridge between his face and his arm. You had to avert your gaze to the ceiling.

'Why are you protecting him?' Pope murmured. 'He clearly doesn't deserve you. He left you. I bet he doesn't take care of you like I just did?'

Despite yourself, you agreed. You were still his partner and fiercely loyal, but, maybe he should have given you the heads up that the Codys would come calling.

🩷

'I'm not saying another word.' You shook your head and sat back in your chair, tired of playing games. Tired of sitting upright in the rickety wooden chair.

'Oh, I wouldn't do that if I were you,' Pope purred. 'I hated hurting you. I don't want to do that again.'

You said nothing.

'It's nothing personal, sweetheart. We don't have a problem with you. I don't have a problem with you,' his rough voice murmured. 'But I've gotta get answers, sweetie, and if I can't hurt you, I can be your friend.'

You frowned in confusion at the logic.

'I can be a really good friend... yeah, people talk to their friends, right? They tell them things.'

You were no longer sure if he was speaking to you or to himself. A cloud passed over his face. 'I can be a better friend than your boyfriend. That fucker is dead on sight, treating you like this.'

Pope was incredulous that he could leave such a pretty, innocent little thing behind. He would protect you from now on. He just needed a location... take him out of the picture. Hurt him, really hurt him. It was going to be slow and painful.

'I want you to feel like you can tell me things, sweetie.' Pope leant forwards again but this time you couldn't look away. His face was inches from yours and you could smell the iron of your blood on his lips. With a low whine, Pope leant in and pressed them against yours, softly at first, and then harder.

You mewed in fear and stayed perfectly still. Pope's hands were suddenly on either side of your face, in your hair, and a low moan escaped his lips onto yours. He leant back to look at you, pupils blown, his teeth running over his bottom lip. You tried to pretend the smell of him, the closeness, the warmth, hasn't made a heat between your legs.

Pope's eyes roved hungrily over your body, taking in the way your nipples had come to attention in the cold room.

'What about these? Does he looked after these?' Pope asked, forehead furrowed in concern as he reached out and held a tit in either hand. Pope ran his thumbs over your nipples and let out a high, stunted groan. ''m gonna make you feel good,' his liquid eyes met yours again, a half-smile curling up on his face. 'Now that we're friends... you just need to give me a place.'

You were incredulous. You didn't want him touching you but now you were starting to feel wet. You were even more aware of the rope binding your wrists to the chair.

Pope ran his thumb over your bottom lip and you could see he was beginning to harden under his jeans.

''m gonna make you feel so fucking good... all you gotta do is tell me.' Pope began kissing your wound again, and licked up the new blood which had dripped down to your collarbone. It felt amazing, the pain of the slice and the warm lips kissing down your sensitive throat. He let out a small grunt and held your head in his hands, slowly kissing down your sternum.

Despite yourself, your skin began goosepimpling.

'Tell me, sweetheart.' Pope's fingers slipped under your panties and swirled circles against your wet clit. You helplessly took it. You tried to bite back a moan but it slipped out of your mouth. Pope's eyes lit up and he moved his fingers in a come hither motion. The noises were obscene, the squelching noises as his fingers swirled round and round. 'All you gotta do is tell me.'

You were so humiliatingly close. Your arms were still stuck behind your back, you could feel your muscles start to tense and relax as Pope deftly worked you, coaxing the orgasm from your body.

You were helpless to stop it as it came crashing over you like a wave. You couldn't hide your groan, back arching against the chair, feeling your wetness slick on his fingers.

'Oh good girl... so pretty.' Pope's fingers continued to circle your sensitive clit as your high faded, making you shudder and squirm in your seat. When his eyes met yours they were dangerous, ablaze with unrestrained lust.

'Please... please stop,' you begged quietly, as the sensation became too much to bear on your sensitive clit. You pulled uselessly at your arms, and Pope regarded you, his head on one side, as he continued swirling and scissoring around your creamy cunt.

'Does that feel good, sweetie?' When you didn't answer and closed your eyes, he soothed. 'I know it does.... look at me. Look at me.'

You met his eyes. 'All you have to do is tell me where he is,' Pope's fingers teased your slit, down to where your pussy betrayed you and spasmed. He gently circled the entrance, drawing another clench out of you. 'Then I can let you go. Please.'

Pope gave you sad puppy dog eyes and you would almost believe it, except that he was torturing you with orgasms.

Pope knelt on the floor, spreading your legs open with his elbow. He slowly entered his middle finger with concentrated precision, making you cry out and throw your head back. It felt so good after just cumming, and you were already so close. Pope added another and curled them, dragging long, massaging strokes in and out of you.

You could see the fat outline of Pope's erection, stuffed in his tight jeans against his thigh. It made your pussy clench around Pope's fingers on reflex just imagining it. You could see it was thick, and huge, and you imagined it to be soft, but veiny, and would feel so good on the first push into you, the first POP! as the mushroomy head sunk through into you...

You groaned and, taking this as encouragement, Andrew used his fingers to massage in circles that spongy part of you, deep inside, that you couldn't reach alone. Your eyes were half rolling back into your head.

'There? Do you need it right there?'

Despite yourself you nodded in shame, bucking your hips to meet his fingers as they circled, punched, kissed.... a series of increasingly high pitched 'ahh... ahh...'s followed by a huge moan as you came. Wetness dripped down Pope's fingers, and he maintained eye contact whilst he sucked them, tongue licking between each one.

'Fuck.... you taste so good.' Pope's rough voice was thick with want.

You tried to catch your breath but Pope clearly wanted to taste more. He leant forwards, hands either side of your thighs. He gently scratched his nails up and down your skin and then stopped, indicating he was holding you open for a nice reason, just wait and see.

Pope lay the flat of his tongue onto your drooling cunt and licked upwards, making sure every drop of you was savoured from your pussy lips. The disgusting sound of Pope smacking his lips and the squelching of yourself made you start to tingle again.

Pope hummed and moved up to your throbbing clit. He began to give it little kitten licks over and over, spelling his name with his tongue. 'Tell me,' he murmured out of the side of his mouth. 'I'll undo your restraints. I'll throw you on the bed and fuck you so hard you won't ever remember his name again.'

Pleasure coursed through you and, as you looked down, Pope was looking up at you with puppy dog eyes as he licked at your cunt, soft auburn curls and scratchy stubble alike tickling your inner thighs. Want bloomed in your chest like a chemical reaction.

Thick fingers were added again, three this time, filling you up and twisting. Pope began kissing your cunt like he was making out with your mouth, his tongue licking out and moaning, moving his head from either side, his fingers stretching you out and speeding up. You tried clenching your thighs together but Andrew shook his head and swiped his nose side to side across your oversensitive clit and you cried out.

'I'm gonna-' you moaned.

'Let it happen,' Pope said gruffly, sucking on your clit to make a little vacuum.

'I'm cuh- cumminggggg...' you wailed, feeling yourself gush over Pope's fingers and splash on his face.

Your chest heaved as Pope worked you through the ends of your orgasm, hips rutting into his face in shame.

'Oh fuck, baby.' Pope looked up at you, his stubble glistening with your wetness. 'I'm so glad we're friends now.'

Your eyes were wild as you tried to catch your breath. This man was dangerous and terrifying, and you were taken, but fuck it felt so good.

'Just tell me where,' Pope murmured, sucking on his fingers. He sat back up, kissing your face but with more need now, licking your tongue with his until you could taste yourself. You didn't even register what he was saying anymore.

He stood to stand behind the chair, placing one thick, freckled bicep around your neck in a chokehold. The pressure placed on your windpipe made the world shift a little, covered it with a nice haze. You felt your wound open up and begin to bleed again. Pope's warm breath panted down your ear as he licked the top of it, his other hand running down your body to squeeze a breast and roll a nipple in his fingers. He groaned and his hand snaked back down between your legs.

'Noooo....' You moaned, pulling against him but his arm stayed easily locked in place. 'I'm too sensitive.'

'You can take it.' Pope growled. 'Tell me where. I'll stop and fuck you if you tell me where.'

'I can't,' you cried.

'Oh well,' you felt Pope shrug, his fingers returning again to your puffy clit. 'Oh fuck. You're so fucking wet.'

His fingers continued their assault, erratically slipping on your wetness and his saliva. You were so sensitive you felt yourself bucking against his hand. The pressure against your windpipe tightened, and the world narrowed until there was only Pope and his ministrations. Pope placed his tongue in your ear. 'Tell me where,' he growled.

'I can'tttttt,' you cried out. His arm tightened again and you were falling apart, your body shuddering as you slowly whispered 'no, no, no... nononono,' to yourself. You heard your wetness splashing over the chair and onto the floor.

You heard and felt the rope around your wrists coming loose against Pope's knife, and he threw you onto the bed.

Your limbs were wobbly from being tied on a hard chair and from cumming so many times. Pope stood over you, his eyes ablaze, unbuckling his belt and shifting his jeans and boxers down over thick thighs.

'I can't help myself,' Pope moaned. 'I can't wait havetofuckyou... I have to... I'm s-sorryyyy jus' need t'feel good...'

Want filled your chest, looking over his beautiful face. Pope's hard cock sprang against his stomach with a small slap. He dragged his angry cock up and down your quivering slit. He groaned and huffed to himself, pressing against your sensitive nub. You cried out, the tightening in your stomach threatening to overcome you again. 'Please,' you moaned, but you weren't sure what you were begging for.

Pope began circling his hard cock around your clit, and the pleasure heightened and heightened, until it washed over you, and you were a shuddering mess. Your hands were free now but all you wanted was to hold your thighs apart.

'Good girl,' Pope groaned, pre-cum leaking out of his cock. He lined up with your clenching hole and pressed his mushroomy head against it. You moaned, quivering, realising how huge his cock actually was in comparison to your small, tight hole. It was terrifying and such a turn-on.

Pope pressed his head slightly inside, spreading your opening. Your back arched and you mewled.

'Tell me' Pope was coming undone standing there, his eyes heavy-lidded and his face screwed up with restraint. 'Please.'

You couldn't wait any longer. 'Flats near the army base,' you gabbled.

Pope roared and slammed himself into you. You instantly tightened around him, he felt impossibly thick and it felt like he had punched you in the tummy.

'Oh don't do that,' he moaned. 'I'm not gonna last.'

He pulled his thick cock out slowly then slammed back in. You fell apart, coming all over his cock. Pope watched himself entering you and disappearing, the creamy ring at the base of his cock, spreading into the auburn curls of his pubic hair.

Pope was forcing down on you in a mating press, kissing you hungrily and messily, teeth crashing and lip biting. Strings of saliva connected your lips as Pope moaned, 'yeaaah', into your mouth, his hands in your hair.

'I'm gonna make you pregnant, baby,'Pope growled. Your eyes widened in shock and you started to shake your head. 'Oh, fuck- yeaah... you'll never say his- fuck- name again.. so good... mmmf feels so fucking good,' Pope began circling his hips so his cock hit every part of your warm, wet insides. 'Look so good with m'babies.. oh fuck, baby.' Pope bottomed out, moaning in relief, his eyes rolling back in his head, spilling himself inside you.

You’d thought you’d thrown them out.

By the time you finish flipping your apartment on its head, you are farther even from reaching any sort of understanding. Your search does not produce any more abused underwear, but a close of inspection of your scrap bag (which is to say, clothes that need mending or will be turned into kitchen rags) reveals neither of the other two pairs you’d finally gathered the courage to bin, but hadn’t yet thrown out. (Because you still had to decide whether the blouse with the underarm gash was salvageable, and it’s still there!)

Sitting on your couch, still holding onto the torn underwear, you remain perplexed. They’re not even sexy panties. You specifically make a point not to buy anything but the most practical of underwear, because they’ll end up in the trash sooner rather than later. They’re not anything that would invite temptation at the best of times, much less the depravity implied in the deterioration of this particular pair. Fear eludes you, because it cannot make light to the depths of your bafflement. This, this situation is not something that happens to people like you.

And from Grayson of all men?

Because it must be him who’s been stealing your underwear. The stains are cum, plain and simple, so it can’t be any of the girls. Grayson is the only man that stops by, the only one that spends any time in your apartment, in your bedroom. You’ve left him there alone multiple times. For you to shower. For him to take a nap. For you to catch a long call outside. Any of those times, he might’ve been—

It could’ve been the plumber.

You fold over yourself, chest pressed to your knees. “It could’ve been the plumber,” you repeat, unsurely.

Could it really?

.

“Dick,” you say, next time you have time to catch up with him. You’re having a late breakfast at the diner—more of a lunch than a brunch, but you’re eating pancakes, so. “What do I do if someone’s been stealing my underwear?”

Grayson chokes on his coffee. To be fair, it’s not something one brings up out of nowhere in polite conversation. Still, you shovel a mouthful of syrupy pancake in your mouth and watch him.

“Someone’s stealing your underwear?” He coughs. The tips of his ears are pink. You wonder if it’s genuine or if he can control that sort of thing.

“I think so,” you say, pushing a bit of hash brown aside before the syrup can touch it. That’d be gross. “I’ve had a few pairs of panties go missing. I’m sure I haven’t tossed them out, but last Sunday I did a deep clean and found nothing. I can’t think of anything else that could’ve happened to them.”

“I see,” he says, just a little stiffly, but nods. It could be awkwardness, though Grayson’s never struck you as the type of man that’d be queasy about female underwear. Not that, if he were the culprit, queasy would be a word to describe his relationship to your panties. “Has there been any signs of forced entry? Anything else gone missing?”

“Nope,” you respond, popping the p loudly. You’re being extra playful, extra nonchalant—a challenge. You should dial it down. “All my valuables and documents are where I left them, and my locks haven’t been tampered with. Short of Nightwing dropping by for a visit, I doubt anyone but me’s been riffling through my drawers.”

This seems to throw Grayson for a loop, but considering what he asks next, perhaps you just phrased it wrong. “You know Nightwing?”

You roll your eyes. “Of course not. I only meant that Nightwing’s about the only person who could come into my apartment without me noticing, what with being a vigilante and all that,” you say. And then, after considering it a bit longer, you amend, “well, him and the Batman. But I seriously doubt Batman’s had a hand in my underwear drawer.”

Grayson’s disgusted face rips an honest laugh out of you. He huffs and tries not to smile as you make fun of him, and suddenly, it’s like none of this has happened. There isn’t any torn and stained piece of fabric stuffed into a bag underneath your bed, and there is no suspicion weighing heavy on your shoulders. There is only Dick Grayson, your friend, and the times he’s silly when he doesn’t mean to be.

He still walks you through the process of reporting every crime that may be involved in that situation—trespassing, theft, sexual harassment, if not assault—and tries to placate the fears you don’t let on. “It may be another woman at the Laundromat,” he suggests, “who is only envious of your good taste in, um, undergarments.”

“Oh, please,” you mock. “If it was another girl, she would’ve grabbed one of my tops, or, like, a cardigan. No self-respecting woman would go for my ugly, Fruit-of-the-loom panties.”

Grayson rolls his eyes. “They’re not ugly.”

Ah.

“Because you’re so well acquainted with how they look?” You say dryly, trying to play it off, but you watch. And he sees you watching, because Grayson’s not stupid.  Far from it.

He could play flustered. He could even play unapologetic. What he does is pause delicately, and then—

“Well, at Donna’s Halloween party—”

“Ohhh, my god, shut up.” You launch forward, pressing your hands over his mouth and nearly taking the whole table with you. Grayson laughs against the skin of your palms, the sensation uncomfortable but inevitable. You’re burning in the face, and glaring daggers. “We agreed not to talk about that.”

Grayson shrugs arrogantly, and mumbles around your hands, “I wasn’t the one that pulled my skirt up in the middle of billiards because I felt hot.”

“It was hot,” you say, huffing, and retract your hands. There’s a little bit of spit in your palm, which you wipe with a semi-disgusted look. Worse yet, your hurried silencing-of-man has left you with a big glob of syrup smattered across your chest. Grabbing some napkins, you chance a dirty look at Grayson. “It’s all your fault.”

“What,” Grayson asks with a smirk, leaning his cheek on his propped up hand. “You flashing the crowd or soaking your shirt in maple syrup?”

“All of it.” You scowl at the dark stain seeping sticky and wet into the cotton of your t-shirt. Your tits are going to be unbearable in a minute. In the reflection of the glassware, you observe Grayson watching you swipe at your chest. You wonder what he would’ve done if you’d ordered the cinnamon rolls with the runny cream cheese frosting they’re so famous here for.

He’d mixed up the drinks for you at Donna’s party too.

“This is impossible,” you sigh, standing up. “I’m going to the bathroom to clean up. Don’t stick me with the bill.”

“Don't take too long, then,” he says, but if the teasing tone is any softer today than usual, you elect to ignore it.

.

Come Monday, you get an idea.

It’s a crazy, dangerous idea that you immediately dismiss out of hand. But it continues to nag at you all throughout the week, an itch you cannot scratch. Friday evening, you find yourself staring at your kitchen island, fingers tapping the weathered laminate. Considering.

He could kill you.

It is not unlikely, though Grayson doesn’t seem the type. But they never do, do they? That’s how they find the girls down in the dumpsters, features contorted into a furious mask of betrayal on what’s left of their faces. They never seem the type, and then they get you alone while you trust them, and you never see the light of day again.

An underwear thief might’ve been something you could’ve ignored—a vaguely uncomfortable reminder of the depravity of man and a light weight on your bank account—were it not for the pair of panties you’d found. You’re not stupid. You know what he did. He’d waited until you were out, or showering, or otherwise occupied. He had dug around your clothes bag, pressed the dirty fabric to his nose and inhaled. He’d taken his cock out of his pants, and fisted it harshly, blood booming, tugging at it quickly because you could come in any minute.

But it hadn’t been enough. His fingers had dug into the little tear—perhaps it hadn’t even been his fingers first, but his tongue—and still it hadn’t been enough. He’d torn it open so that the head of his dick would snag just so as he pretended to fuck you, and not the empty space between his hand and your panties. With every slide, his dick touching the same place that your pussy had leaked onto. That must’ve made him screw his eyes shut, his head loll back. Fucked up little indirect kiss that it was.

Then he’d come on the rag, sputtered thick, hot cum on the same fabric that’d tugged and wrapped around your pussy. It was almost good enough, almost the same.

Almost. Not just it yet.

That’s the thing about escalation—about provocation, which is what your plan would be. The statistics say most cases of this behavior, particularly when focused on a single victim (and you don’t know what to call the cum-stained panties shoved under your bed if not focused), tend to develop into more grievous offenses. Stalking. Cameras. Assault. Confronting him is risky, but leaving it up to chance is the same as leaving it up to him.

You simply do not want to leave it up to him. You do not want to be caught off guard. You want to see it coming.

Whatever it is he’ll do.

If it even is Grayson, you think. If it isn’t…

The banner on your laptop screen pops back up, grabbing your attention. LAST CHANCE! It reads, bright and yellow. BOOK YOUR TWO-DAY, ONE NIGHT TRIP TO THE LOVELY HILLS OF…

The clock ticks.

You book the trip.

.

YOU: hey

YOU: connie just bailed on me for our weekend getaway

YOU: wanna go hiking with me ? lol

GRAYSON: this weekend?

YOU: yeah

YOU: all paid. on connie bc shes dumb and a traitor

YOU: we’d be leaving sat 7am and returning sunday evening

GRAYSON: haha oh connie

GRAYSON: it’s an overnight trip then?

YOU: yep i rented a cabin but nw its two bedrooms

YOU: we only have to share a bathroom

YOU: is that okay?

GRAYSON: yeah. it’s cool

.

Grayson picks you up Saturday morning, seven o’clock on the dot. It is perhaps unwise to allow your only means of escape to be his own vehicle, but you figure they can trace it back to him if anything happens. Besides, it’s not like you own a car to drive around. You move exclusively on public transport and, like, Lyft.

He loads your gym bag (clothes + toiletries) and backpack (hiking equipment + first aid kit, because you’re nothing if not paranoid) onto the empty, kidnapping-tool-free trunk, and you set off on your way. You command the aux cord and blast an annoying kpop girl group playlist to bother him, and he sings merrily back at you because fuck you, he likes this kind of music.

The three hour ride is spent mostly singing and talking, with a brief interlude where the sun lulls you to sleep. Grayson turns down the music, puts on the calmest indie album on your library (you probably shouldn’t let him touch your phone, but it’s not like it’s the first time), and lets you nap. You half expect to wake up with his hand on your thigh or your neckline askew, but you’re just… mellow and a little cramped.

Dick is still driving, almost to the campground. He has rolled his sleeves up, gorgeously tanned skin wrapping tight muscle. You know he’s strong, even if you don’t quite understand how strong yet. His face is calm, free of worries. Not warm. Not particularly inviting. He’s just looking ahead, driving. A normal man driving a normal car.

Why me? you want to ask. Of all people in the world—because it is suddenly, sharply clear to you that Dick Grayson, so handsome, so charming, could have any person in the world he so desired—why you? There is nothing special about you, or your relationship with Dick. Prior to this, you had never even given the man a second thought. So why?

What had you done?

“You up now?” He asks, smiling.

“Yeah,” you say, voice hoarse. Slowly, deliberately pushing that last thought out of your mind, you unfold yourself, crack your neck and roll your shoulders. “Christ, that’s stiff.”

A little smirk wounds up on his lips. “That’s what she said.”

“Ugh.” You swat at his shoulder, and he laughs. Lord, he does not make it any easier to bear.

.

Hiking is fun. You do not get quartered in the woods, which is always a pro.

It takes you and Dick most of the day to make it up the mountain and back. The man is as respectful as he’s ever been, which is to say sometimes he makes crude jokes and chases you with bugs, but he doesn’t touch inappropriately or stare at your tits. It’s not like you suddenly expected him to do it, but… apparently a part of you did, and now you’re left feeling slightly queasy about the fact that the only reason you’d taken him hiking was so that he’d keep  thinking about how sweaty your underwear must be.

It’s not Grayson, you think on the way back down. Dick is carefully stepping over a branch ahead of you, instructing you on where to place your feet. You’re staring at the nape of his neck, where sweat beads to curl the ends of his black hair.

Dick Grayson is your friend. He’s not your stupid panty thief. He’s just your friend.

The revelation hits you with both relief and a dizzying rush of fear, because if it’s not Dick, then that means there’s a lunatic out there stealing your underwear and cumming on it and planting it on your apartment for you to find. And you don’t know him. You cannot even begin to plan for it. He may be there right now, confused because you’re not home. Or perhaps he knew. Perhaps he’s been watching you all this time, running circles around Grayson who’s got fuck all to do with this, and laughing at you while he—

Jesus. What the fuck are you gonna come back to?

Your foot catches on the edge of a rock and you slip backwards and down the trail. Your back hits the soil with a muffled thump, a cloud of dust rising around you and clogging your throat. The fall reboots your brain to factory settings, mind going utterly blank for a good moment. It’s like you cannot process both the epiphany and the stunning hit, and your brain is left skidding as it tries to make sense of what just happened. Pain wafts from somewhere in your body, but you cannot even begin to divine where. You barely even register it’s there.

Dick rushes back to you, eyes wide and face pale with worry. He carefully turns you on your side, slips your stiff arms out of the backpack’s straps. Dick knows what to do when someone’s in an accident, knows how to move you, where to check. He’s all business when he runs his hands over your thighs, down your back, over your scalp. Searching for injuries. He asks you if you’re fine, asks: where does it hurt? You cannot speak. You can only stare back at him, his beautiful face covered in dirt only interrupted by the trails of sweat at his temples. As if it’s finally decided what to focus on, your brain kicks back in.

You sob.

It’s not him, you think with an animal sort of desperation that borders on hysterics. It’s not him. What are you going to do?

Dick scoops you up into his arms, pressing his cheek to the top of your hair. Strong and warm, his arms form a cage where you are safe from any danger. There, you sob even harder.

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” he soothes, smoothing a hand down your back. When he speaks, his lips touch your hair. “You’re not injured. It’s only the fright, baby. Only that.”

He’s right on all accounts, but he cannot even begin to comprehend what he’s telling you. Your mind cycles on a single thought, frightened and unseeing.

Why couldn’t it be you?

.

The cool-down period after those dramatics might’ve been the most embarrassing hour of your life if you weren’t so fucking drained by the end of it. Dick’s an angel throughout it all: holding you until you stop crying, saying nothing as he helps you the rest of the way down with your hand clamped on his, making light, one-sided conversation on the drive back without commenting on what happened. Meanwhile, you stew in shame to avoid falling back into panic.

Did you want it to be Dick? That option would’ve been much preferable in any situation—the devil that you know, as they say—but it could all be your own delusion prompted by feelings you weren’t even aware you held. The evidence of the underwear is undeniable: you do have a creep to deal with. But why must that creep have been Dick? What made you so sure you’d gone so far as drag him out of the city to—to what? Confront him?

What did you want from him?

You stumble into the cabin in a daze, so utterly exhausted you just want to drop on the bed and sleep this all off until the morning. As it is, you barely make it onto the couch. You must’ve been dozing off or staring into space for about fifteen minutes before Dick’s crouching in front of you and coaxing you into the bathroom. Your gym bag sits untouched on top of the toilet lid, and there’s bubbly warm water filling the tub.

You blink in astonishment. “You drew me a bath?”

“Yeah,” he says, setting a towel on the holder, and squeezing your shoulder as he steps back. His hair is wet, and the bathroom already muggy, which means he’s already showered. “The warm water will help with your muscles. You’re really gonna feel that fall tomorrow, you know. I don’t think we’ll be able to do the second part of the trail.”

“Okay.” You sit on the toilet, trying not to cry under the weight of your deceit and your disappointment.  “I’m sorry.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” he reassures. “It was just a little slip. Happens to the best of us.”

“We could go swimming?” you offer pathetically. You don’t have a swimsuit, but there must be a store nearby.

Dick smiles kindly. “Sure, if you’re up to it. Listen, you have your bath. I’ll go out and get us something to eat, yeah? I think I saw a diner on the way here that might be good, and if not, I’ll bite the bullet and buy the overpriced sandwiches we saw on the front office.”

Your throat closes up. He’s leaving? When you don’t even know what your next step is yet? The conjured image of the stranger waiting in the shadows of your home lingers at the edge of your vision, waiting for Dick to disappear so he can attack. Dick nods and goes to leave, when you, acting on your mounting panic, shoot out a hand to grab his wrist.

He turns back, eyebrows raised. You look up at him, equally stunned. The tiny, logical part of you being choked to death by your animal instinct still manages to chortle a quiet What the fuck are you doing? You do not listen to the voice of reason.

“Don’t go,” you say, and even to your own ears you sound absurdly freaked out. “Stay.”

Dick’s gaze turns warm and full of terrible pity, and to your utmost mortification, you start tearing up again. He takes the hand gripping his wrist into his own, intertwining your fingers with his, and crouches in front of you. “Is this about the thief?”

You suck in a breath. How did he—

He chuckles. “I figured you wanted to get away from the city to forget about that. That’s why you invited me instead of the girls, right? So I could protect you?”

He’s wrong. He is so, so wrong. You invited him to taunt him, to confront him, because you thought the worst of him. You… are such an asshole. When this trip is over and you’re back at your empty, cold apartment, there is no chance in hell you’ll be able to call on him for help. And Dick would offer, but with what nerve could you dare ask for it? Worse yet, if the faceless man did attack you, would you not deserve it after all you’ve done?

…which does not mean you don’t want Dick to stay despite your wrongdoing. The trip isn’t done yet.

“What if,” you say, licking your lips nervously, “what if he followed us?”

Dick nods seriously, squeezes your hand. “I personally think that unlikely, given what you’ve told me about the situation. The situation is at a stage where he has not given you any proof that he means to interact with you directly, or even threaten your safety. Following you this far—particularly with me as your company—would be a move too out of place for what he’s shown of himself so far. Granted, it’s not entirely impossible, but…”

“Yeah.” You screw your eyes shut, miserable.  Not like you can mention the ruined panties now. “I know.”

Dick observes you for a moment, and then sighs. “Look, I gotta get us something to eat. You’ve worked out too much today not to get some food into you. Whatever’s open now won’t remain so for long. What if we do this? Give me your phone.”

The recently broken suspicion (misplaced, you remind yourself) has not yet cleaned up any of the lingering hesitation, but you were the one that insisted on buying food on-site instead of bringing any from home, for obvious reasons, so you can’t exactly start complaining now. Vaguely puzzled, you paw at your pockets until the black square slips out, and you wordlessly hand it over to Dick. He retrieves his own from his back pocket, and quickly taps on them both.

“There,” he says, giving you back your own.

DICK GRAYSON

00:00:13.

CALL ONGOING.

It’s on speaker. When Dick speaks again, it bounces off the walls of the bathroom, a shadow voice chasing after his. “I’ll have you on while you take your bath. You don’t need to speak, just put the phone on the shelf and do what you have to. If there’s anything amiss, I’ll come running. Is that okay with you?”

You nod, speechless. Dick’s grin is bright as the morning sun when he leaves. On his recommendation, you lock the bathroom door and try not to jolt when he tests it. You hover impatiently as he grabs his stuff and locks up the cabin, giving you green light to start bathing. You still wait until you hear the sound of the car pulling out the driveway, echoing weirdly on the phone.

Peeling your clothes off your body while Grayson listens in is… weird and guilt-inducing in more ways than one, but in his absence, you find yourself so exhausted you can barely rouse some leftover shame. There’s dirt collected on your every crevice, and you’re going to have to scrub hard at your scalp to get the caked mud out. You’d been on the fence about washing your hair here, but now there’s no way to avoid it.

Sighing, you go lay your pajamas out before getting into the tub… and then curse yourself, the thief and everyone involved in this nonsense all the way to hell and back.

Dick’s voice crackles in the open line. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” you say, pressing the heel of your palm to your eyes. Unbelievable. “Just forgot to bring something.”

“You can grab anything out of my bag,” he offers. “I brought a shirt you can sleep in.”

“Thanks, Dick.” You sigh again. Whatever. You need to get on that tub before you have a breakdown or else you’ll never get clean. “I’ll see what to do.”

“No worries.”

The water’s divine when you lower yourself in. Just the right amount of hot: scalding, bordering on unbearable. You about manage to stifle a groan as you sink all the way down, muscles loosening up the longer you’re under. And you stew. You stew a while. Dick’s not very noisy as he drives, and you kinda forget that he’s there listening until you hear his muffled voice ordering who-knows-what. You take advantage of the fact he’s busy to lather yourself and scrub.

Fuck me if he’s not right, you think, looking at the side of your thigh. There will be a bruise the size of Texas on there come morning. You knead on your tired muscles, careful to keep the groaning to a minimum with the man listening in. Just because he’s not a creep doesn’t mean you’re going to turn him into one. Besides, you’re not really the whimpering type, even when it comes to sex—

—a statement which is swiftly disproven when your hand catches on a previously undiscovered, incredibly tender area of your side and you lurch forward with a sharp and throaty hiss. It’s a wet and guttural thing, ripped out from the depths of your chest, and it echoes on the enclosed space of the bathroom. Pain blooms bright behind your eyelids and for a good minute, all you can feel is the pulsating flesh at your side and the shaky breath leaving your lungs.

You hope Dick doesn’t make anything out of the panting and splashing that fills the air in the aftermath, but your hopes are quickly dashed when his voice comes in cheerily asking: “All fine at home?”

“Yep,” you bite, blinking out stars. “Just… scrubbing.”

“Ah,” Dick says delicately. “Listen, I’ll turn up the music so you can have some privacy. Do what you need to relax, I’m almost there anyway. Happy scrubbing!”

“I’m not—” you start, blood rushing to your face, but your voice is swallowed by David Bowie’s better hits.

You sit in stunned, mortified silence and not a little bit of pain, conditioner dripping down your back. What is this sudden tragicomedy? How come nothing’s going your way today?

Well, it’s not like you deserve anything going your way. You’d just about ruined your friendship with Dick on the very tenuous grounds of believing he was a creep with a penchant for your underwear out of all the women in the Gotham Metropolitan Area when, in fact, he’s so uninterested in you he believes you’re jerking off right this very moment and his first thought is… turning the music up.

You slump down the tub in despair and groan. Not like Dick fucking minds.

Yeah. You deserve everything you get.

.

Dinner is a relaxed affair, and it doesn’t last terribly long on account of how famished you are. The bath left you feeling loose and lax, and your threadbare pajamas, unglamorous as they may be, are just warm enough that you feel extra cozy this spring evening. Dick’s got a low fire going on the fireplace, and he’s somehow managed to acquire Chinese food, of all things, in his hunt for nourishment.

“Pretty good, though, right?” he says around a mouthful of noodles when you point out the absurdity of it.

You snort. “For a restaurant in the middle of nowhere? I’d say pretty fucking good, yeah. If you told me you had it flown in from that place on seventh and Bourne, I would honestly believe you.”

“That’s why you gotta run with me, Danger.” Dick winks at you, gesturing at the paper plate tittering precariously on his lap. “Who else can live it up like this with you?”

He’d been setting up your plates at the kitchen island when you’d come out the bathroom, had one look at the high and stiff chairs and noped right out of there and onto the couch. Dick had followed you with a fond shake of the head, and settled next to you. The TV above the fireplace had some movie playing you swear you’ve heard him talk about, but you haven’t been paying much attention.

Raising an eyebrow at him, you sip at your glass of sweet tea. Bit sweeter than your taste, but he’d gone to the trouble of preparing it for you so you couldn’t exactly complain. “Are you calling me Danger now? Is that supposed to be my superhero nickname?”

Dick snorts, lips tugging up in amusement. “Sure. I had another one in mind,” he says, “but I thought you might be offended if I named you Mudbiter.”

“Haha, you are soooo funny,” you say sarcastically, reaching over to rap him on the head. He dodges out of the way before your knuckles can make contact, and catches your finger in his mouth. The bite is gentle, but wet. You quickly retract your hand in disgust to wipe down while he laughs merrily at you. “You’re a gross little boy, Richard.”

“How are you going to fight crime if you recoil at a little spit, Mudbiter?” He taunts, altogether too happy to consider the ridiculous idea. “They’ll splatter way worse things on you back home.”

His innocuous comment brings you right back to the cum-crusted panties underneath your bed, and your mood sours immediately. Put upon, you begin stacking the dishes on the coffee table.

You slap his hand away when he tries to go for a last bite. “Stop calling me Mudbiter.”

“Don’t wanna,” Dick says, stealing a piece of broccoli from your plate before you can take it away. “If you can walk straight tomorrow, maybe I’ll let you graduate into Airtreader.”

You scowl at him. “You know, Nightwing would never treat me like this.”

“Ha,” Dick huffs, amusement taking a darker tone. You think he means it when he says, gaze a little unfocused, “Nightwing would tear you to pieces if he ever had the chance.”

Belatedly, you remember Dick’s probably met the guy, what with the whole Wayne ward thing. Actually, he’s probably even worked with him. You remember Nightwing became a regular hero at Blüdhaven right around the time Grayson got settled at the station. That piques your interest, but something about the way Dick’s jaw ticks puts you off asking too many questions. There may be some bad blood there you can’t get to right now.

“I thought you said I was dangerous,” you say as you return to the couch, breaking into a yawn in the middle. Dick scoots over so you can lie down, and takes down the blanket on the back of the couch to lay across your lap and his. “You don’t think I could take him?”

“Nah,” he says. The way he looks at you is slightly mocking. He really must know him. And he’s never introduced you? The bastard. “You’re a danger, but you’re not particularly dangerous.”

“A danger to who?” You ask. The elegantly raised eyebrow is an insult to your person.

As punishment, you shove your cold feet on Grayson’s lap. He takes them with a roll of the eyes, pinches the skin at your ankle in retribution. He leaves a hand wrapped around it, the warm weight of it surprisingly comforting. In less than a minute’s time, you find yourself supremely comfortable, and just about ready to snooze.

“My sanity,” he responds dryly, a moment too late.

“Cannot be that bad,” you mumble. Your lids are feeling very heavy all of a sudden.

“Mm,” Dick hums, turning to the screen. “You’d be surprised.”

You flit in and out of sleep, half there and half away. The weight of Dick’s hand on your ankle is just about the only anchor that holds you to the mortal world. Every time you feel it lift or shift, you rouse back up to follow up the conversation you’d dropped twenty minutes ago. Dick entertains your babbling, but he’s watching the screen intently. It’s been a while since you’ve lost the ability to follow the storyline. You think the spymaster may be cheating on his wife. In your half-dreams, you are both spymaster and wife, and Dick takes turns as the villain and the homewrecker. At one point, you cannot tell whether the quiet murmuring’s coming from the screen or from the man at your side.

“Oh,” someone breathes. You lazily open your eyes to find Dick gazing down at you in a daze. “You’re not wearing any underwear.”

You flush, searing under your skin. From far away, you feel a little shame curl up inside you. You’d hoped he wouldn’t notice. The reason you’d cursed out God and all his disciples back in the bathroom was because you’d forgotten to pack a second pair of panties for the night. Your half-baked plan had been to string Dick along all day with the reminder of how sweaty and nasty your underwear must be, and then plant it on the shared bathroom during the night to see if he’d take the bait. You’d been so concerned about which pair of panties to put on that you’d forgotten to bring a second pair for when you had to change out of them.

It will be fine, you’d thought. Your pajama pants were threadbare, but not to the point you could tell right away you’d gone commando. Not unless you got real close, anyway.

Huh.

Much too late, you take stock of the position you’re in. Dick still has your ankle clasped in his hand, but your leg is folded at his waist, and half his body is on top of you. His other hand is currently resting at the curve of your hip, tracing over the thin fabric where the seam of your underwear would be, if you had any on.

“Oh,” you croak, looking into Dick’s dark and hungry eyes. Huh, you repeat numbly in your head.

He wants to eat you alive.

“It is you.”

But there’s nothing you can do about it. You’re fast asleep before the revelation even sinks in.

.

You awaken to a room filled with dim light and the obscene sounds of being eaten out.

Coming to is a slow and disorienting transition, a process to which the obscurity of the room both contributes to and eases somewhat. Whatever it was that Grayson drugged you with has made you sluggish and it takes your mind ages to fully capture what is happening. Your body not so much. It twitches and shakes, flushes and tightens. As you ease back into thinking, you can begin to decipher some of the input it sends you: your thighs quiver with exhaustion, your skin itches underneath all the moisture, and the wound on your side throbs like a bitch.

Then there’s the pleasure.

The pleasure is involuntary but readily felt. Once you manage to recognize it for what it is, it eclipses almost every other feeling. Except terror. That one sneaks up on you, steadily building as your eyes become accustomed to the darkness and you begin to make out details in your surroundings. You are in your room at the cabin—another transgression, but at least you haven’t been taken to a hidden dungeon in New Jersey. The surface underneath you is so soft you cannot be anywhere but the bed. The room is stuffy, thick with human heat and the smell of sex which means this has been going on a while.

Laboring under great duress, with the sloppy desperation of a frenzied mind caught in an unresponsive body, you manage to lift your neck. Three facts are readily made known to you. First, you’ve been stripped completely naked. Second, both your tits and most of your torso are splattered with fresh cum. And third… your legs are spread wide open, and house between them a flushed and sweaty Dick Grayson.

Your head lolls back as he crooks a finger and rubs against a spot that makes your breath rush out of your lungs as if you’ve been punched. Fuck. His fingers are inside you. Grayson’s tongue flattens against your throbbing clit with a little moan, low in his throat, and whatever half-formed thought was on your brain promptly shatters when he starts pumping his fingers in and out. He’s good at it, of course he is. He eats you out with an ease and skill that indicates extensive practice, and with such gusto that your puzzlement only increases. You feel yourself start to coil in anticipation, core melting into liquid gold, and panic. It’s too soon, even though you know it can’t be the first time you’ve come tonight. You’re not ready. You just woke up!

Harried, you attempt to draw his attention but your limbs are weak and numb. Your fingers twitch on the sheets and, god, are they rumpled. Stained. What has he been doing with you?

Your squirming only manages to drive Dick’s fingers deeper into you, and he uses his hand to steady your hip at such an angle that you cannot help the cry that escapes your throat. Well, shit. You were trying so hard to keep quiet. In a room that’d been hosting only the squelching of his fingers inside you and the labored breathing of your two bodies, your cry fills the air. Dick tenses between your legs, and your stomach churns in apprehension. He lifts his head.

Fuuuuck, you think desperately, locking eyes with the man.

He is gorgeous. The sweating has made a mess of his hair, sticking to his temples and curling all sides. It lends a beautiful sheen to his skin in the lamplight, which is complimented by how flushed he is. The tops of his cheeks are dusted in red. His lips are slightly swollen and dark pink, and the entire lower half of his face is shiny with what you have to assume is your own cum. Worst of all: his eyes, hazy and unfocused. In those first few seconds after your eyes meet, you see the picture of a man who’s spent hours between your legs and enjoyed every second.

Then his gaze zeroes in on your conscious presence, and it sharpens like a knife. When he speaks, his voice is hoarse and hot, right against your pussy. “You’re up.”

Don’t—, you think, but it’s out of your hands. You go hard and tense, and then the dam breaks. You come against Dick’s chin, spasming around his fingers with a loud cry. He blinks down, bewildered, and you shut your eyes in mild despair as the waves of pleasure break on you. Mind blank, you hold onto whatever’s near until it’s over.

But it isn’t over.

Dick dips his head down to suck on your clit eagerly, fingers moving again in renewed vigor. Your eye twitches, your legs tremble. It’s too much stimulation altogether too soon. Pleasure becomes indistinguishable from pain. You squirm against him desperately, and the hand gripping your hip harshly pins you down against the bed. Dick is strong, much stronger than you’d first thought. It’s not even five minutes later you’re openly sobbing, mumbling whatever pleas cross your brain to get Dick to stop.

“I know, my love, I know,” he soothes you, like he’s listening, like he even cares, but he dips his tongue inside you as he does and you know he doesn’t give a fuck about anything other than tasting you. “I just need one more, okay, baby? Just let me have one more, right on me. Come right on my tongue, pretty girl.”

He’s insane. He’s fucking insane. Can’t he see the way he’s driving you mad too? What’s worse, now that you’re awake, he’s suddenly chatty. Every time he mumbles against your cunt, you feel the vibrations of his voice travel into your flesh. It’s a litany of so good for me, baby, and fuck, cry more like that, and it works, goddammit. You like hearing him praise you. He ruts against the mattress every time he speaks and his voice acquires a broken little whine that’s got you clutching the sheets just to keep yourself from grinding on his face. The shame and disgust that color your pleasure are still not enough to sour you from the feeling.

“Dick,” you gasp when it’s close. Your hands make their way into his hair and pull. Hard. He moans into you like it’s you sucking him. “Dick—!”

It’s like hearing his name makes something snap inside him. His arm slides under your hips, lifting you and bringing you even closer somehow. Your knee hooks on his shoulder, talon finding purchase on the firm plains of his back. It must hurt, the way your nails dig into his scalp, but if it does, the pain only spurs him into action. At this point, the way he’s fucking you is too fast and sloppy to be good, but you’re both riding on the same desperation and you really are so very close. It’s a twist of his tongue and a suck on your lips that does it, popping the bubble and sending you crashing down with a rush.

You do wail his name. It’ll weigh heavy on your conscience in a minute.

Dick holds you steady as you come, lapping up everything that gushes out of you. It’d be horrendously embarrassing if it weren’t so fucking hot. This whole affair is beyond saving, morally speaking.

The cool down is worse this time, but when you start crying out no’s and pushing Dick’s face away, he actually goes. It may be because this time you’re pretty serious about gouging his eyes out and he can tell by your tone. You lay there, boneless and half-delirious, as he presses his forehead to the swell of your stomach and mutters apologies against your skin. His hands rub soothing circles on your outer thigh, your side, but you’re too out of it to relay to him how much it stings.

“You did so well, my love,” he murmurs, kissing his way up your abdomen. You wonder if he doesn’t find the dried cum gross. You would. “So good and sweet on my tongue.”

His mouth stops to suck another bruise between your breasts, and your legs twitch involuntarily. You feel a smile spread across his face, and he sucks along the underside of your left tit, which must be sweaty as all hell. Not, much like your cunt, sweet whatsoever. Nothing about this makes sense to you. What is he doing? How does he find this arousing? When his teeth graze your nipple, you cry out again.

“Wait,” you beg, “please.”

Dick doesn’t listen to you. A wet mouth closes over your nipple, so hot your eyes flutter closed. His tongue is no less skilled here, and he plays with you like a doll. The hand on your side palms his way up to pinch and fondle your other tit, thumb brushing over your nipple and then pressing his blunt nail in to make you tense and hiss. Every little sound you cannot swallow seems to be music to his ears, making him babble incoherencies.

You thrash a little, upset because you told him to wait, everything is so wet, and you feel so drained—and all he can talk about is how much he likes your tits? But Dick’s hovering above you now, your hips bracketed by his knees, and when you brush against his hard cock, he lets your breast slip out of his mouth with a ragged moan and grinds. The idea of taking him inside you right now, when every nerve on your body is screaming for respite, makes you go loose as a rag doll.

He takes some pity on you, which only means he keeps playing with your tits and doesn’t breach your entrance. The head of his cock rests heavily against your clit, threat and taunt both. He’ll do it tonight. You cannot imagine any way he will not take you while he has you. That’s been painfully clear since the moment you woke up. What would be the point of this otherwise?

(What is the point of this? When he could’ve asked, and you—)

“Ah,” you croak, tearing up. You turn your head to the pillow to smother a sob. This is so stupid.             

Shaking and too preoccupied with not making it all too obvious that you’re crying, you do not notice Dick has moved until his hand closes on your chin and turns your face towards him. He is so close you can see the sweat collecting under the line of his hair, the slight sheen of his dark eyes searching yours. It’s a heavy gaze, meaningful but undecipherable. You may have left all language behind the moment you crossed this threshold. He finds nothing inside you of what he seeks.

His hand shifts to cup your jaw, a steadying weight. A sigh escapes your lips, and you inch towards the warm touch despite the slight dampness. His other arm wraps around your waist and pulls you closer, flush against him. When his cock brushes against your leg, a leaking hardness trapped between you, his eyelids flutter closed and his fingers tighten their hold. But he doesn’t buck. The consideration is much belated and strange, but also sweet, you guess. You take the time to catch your breath.

Dick runs his fingers down your back, building a steady rhythm that has lulls you into the first moment of uncomplicated pleasure of the night. He stares at you all throughout it, though you keep your eyes affixed to the ceiling. Looking at him straight on makes a knot form on your throat. Sometimes, he skirts the edge of the tender patch on your side; each time, you tense up and sleep is chased away. You think you know why he does it. He wants you present, with him.

Maybe he shouldn’t have fucking drugged you in the first place.

Frustrated, you hide your face in the crook of his neck. You feel before you hear his breath hitching, the discrete rearranging of limbs. This must be some sort of torture for him. Does he get off on it? You don’t get why he’s holding back now. Why he didn’t hold back before all this. Why the drugging. Why the underwear. Why not ask. You wonder if he had been planning to kill you and your easily accessible pussy just distracted him.

You wonder what he will do after this. There has to be an after, even if only for him. Fear coats the back of your mouth in a thin bitter film. I want to see it coming, you tell yourself to calm down. A smidge of control over a situation that spills outside your means. I only want to know it’s happening when it does.

Grayson’s hand splays between your shoulder blades and holds there steady. His voice is rough and a little choked. “I’ll let you go,” he says, hot breath tickling your hair, “if you want.”

If you want?

“I can press charges,” you say, lifting up your head to look at him straight. It’s not a threat but a fact.  “I can tell everyone you know.”

“I know. You ought to,” he agrees readily, bright-eyed, and it’s like back at the dinner, when he was walking you through filing a report against every single one of his crimes. The same man who believes in justice and comeuppance—and accepts his share of the blame without any guilt behind it. Sick son of a bitch.

You push back against him, raising yourself on your elbow. Dick glances at your tits for a second, but trains his eyes back on your face when you snap your fingers at him.

“I could ruin your life,” you say, torn between anger and incredulity. “Do you not think I can?”

“I wish you would,” he replies, wrapping a hand around your wrist. His eyes search yours, begging. What for? He lifts your wrist to his mouth, presses a sweet kiss against the pulsing blood. “I wish you’d sink your hands into my life and tear it to pieces. I don’t care what you do. But touch it. Mark it. Make it yours, make me—”

“Are you listening to yourself?” You interrupt callously. A laugh bubbles up your throat, a nasty, hysterical thing that titters between a cackle and sob. “What is wrong with you?”

Dick closes his eyes at the sound, hiding his mouth behind your palm, eyebrows drawn together. Upset? Upset at what? As if he has any right to feel anything but shame. And perhaps it is shame what he’s feeling, confronted so obviously with the realities of his betrayal, but what does it matter to you. What do you care what he’s feeling.

“Don’t,” you say, rushing forward and gripping his chin in that same hand, tight enough your nail digs into the skin. The change in position takes him by surprise, allows you to shift atop of him and steady yourself on his chest. He still grips your wrist, but his wide-eyed gaze is fixed on you. Good. “You can’t hide now, Grayson. You can never hide anymore. Everything I say, you must listen to. Everything I ask, you must answer. You owe me that much. We were friends!” You shout, a wet cry from deep in your chest. Fuck his tender little gaze, the stuttering heart underneath your hand. “If you’d asked, I would’ve said yes. I would’ve come to you willingly, so why—why?”

This threatens to be too much for him. You can see it in his face. For the first time during the night, shame peeks through, clouded by lust and a little bit of sorrow. He must know what he’s lost by pulling this ridiculous move: your loyalty, your affection. What does he think he’s gained?

Still, though he struggles, he heeds your words, and answers around your fingers. “But it wouldn’t matter,” he says. Honest. Strangled. His eyes affix to the ceiling, can’t quite look at you straight. “No matter how many times we fucked, you’d always leave. Even if I managed to coax you into a relationship, you’d never be fully there. It matters this way, doesn’t it? It will never stop mattering.”

You blink back tears. “I could’ve loved you,” you say, voice trembling. “I could’ve learned.”

Dick gives you the saddest look you’ve ever seen from him. It’s a look that speaks volumes.  You remember, just barely, that night at Donna’s party, a night you’ve done your best to forget. Your lips tighten. You can’t say he isn’t right.

“We are friends,” he says. “I know you. Better than you think. I’ve watched you—and I’ve tried my ways to make a mark in your life.”

“By stealing my underwear?” It feels good, the way he flinches when you dig your nails into the plush skin of his cheeks. “By dragging me here, drugging me, fucking me while I’m asleep?”

“I never—ngh—ugh,” he squirms underneath you. He likes the pain. Unconsciously, you slide a bit downwards. “Only my fingers. My mouth.”

“Noble of you. Way to go, pervert,” you sneer, and you feel the way he twitches beneath you. Ah, you’ve slid a little too far. Dick’s eyelids flutter closed. He grips your hips, holds you down just enough so your cunt slides against his cock, not to penetrate. It’s a wet, pleasurable drag now that your nerves aren’t literally on fire. He’s been leaking precum for a while now. You allow Dick the grace of this act, if only for the pleasure of watching him get riled up and flushed again. There is no end to your wonder here: how a man so eternally composed and upright can succumb to such vileness only for the privilege of this feeling. From you.

What an idiot.

“Maybe,” Dick pants, lips pulling on an infuriating smirk, and you realize you’ve said it out loud, “but you’ll never forget me now, won’t you?”

Now you’re angry all over again. You pry his left hand from your hip with both of yours and drag it up your soiled body to your mouth. Dick watches you nuzzle against his palm, so big against your face, so warm and rough. Your lips close around the meat of his thumb, and suck, first delicately, then hard, at the tender skin, never taking your eyes off his. Dick’s cock throbs against your cunt, hips stuttering dangerously. When his pace quickens, growing sloppy, you bite down.

Hard.

“Ah, ah—” You catch Dick mid-moan. The sound draws out, long and broken, as he tenses underneath you, the one hand still holding onto your hip digging painfully at the tender spot on your leg. He sputters thick, hot ropes of cum right on his abdomen, which you watch shoot until it becomes small rivulets dribbling out. It’s… a lot. Dick makes a bit of a mess, it seems. You want—

It makes sense to you, that it is his hand and not yours. Not to Dick. He watches through half-lidded, exhausted eyes that widen as you bring your intertwined hands to smear the cum on his abs, using his fingers to spread it and then bringing it up to your mouth. You observe the thick, white liquid coating Dick’s fingers with an odd sort of wonderment—still hot from inside him. Soon to fill you up. Dick groans as you place his fingers inside your mouth, tongue swirling around first, and then sucking them clean. His dick manages a last, struggling jolt, and you release the hand with a pop and a satisfied, mocking smile.

Dick throws that arm over his face, muffling against it what you think is a string of curses. What would he do if you decided to lick the rest? As if reading your thoughts, Dick peeks from underneath his arm, not exactly despairing, but a very near yet happier thing. His eyes rake over your naked body, still sporting now-matching cum stains; tits out, thighs spread at either side of him, the head of his dick barely peeking out beneath your pussy. It’s an obscene little picture, and you play act the whore for him to stir all the quicker.

“You’ll be the death of me,” he mutters, fingers fluttering at the juncture of leg and hip, eager to touch. You let him. You allow it to happen.

I only want to see it coming, you think. Control. I only want to know it’s happening when it does.

That salt and pepper thing he has going on? Unfair. The way he shows up wearing those black shirts out of nowhere? Mega unfair. The way he holds eye contact while expecting you to focus on doing your job? Sick and twisted, actually. And don’t even get started on his hands. Or his voice. Or his bedside manner. Or his…everything.

It’s infuriating.

He’s the kind of gorgeous that has you staring at a particular spot on the floor for too long, in the loneliness of your apartment, when you remember the way he said ‘Good night, you did a good job today,’ during shift handover. Because the worst part, the absolute worst part, is that you barely get to see him. Your lives only overlap in scraps that mean nothing and everything to you. 

You’re a day nurse, he’s a night attending. That’s your 13th reason. 

No, actually, you know what it is? I know you do. We’re all thinking the same thing here. 

That uniform.

That stupid, cursed, virtue ruining SWAT uniform that makes you forget you’re a professional. A professional who has, on more than one occasion, had to physically remove herself from the nurse station and hide by the stairwell to look at the lava lamp video Dr. King so kindly shared with you, because Dr. Jack Abbot walked in wearing camo, and the devil on your shoulder told you to jump him and bite those biceps. 

So yes, without being dramatic or anything, he is ruining your life.

By being hot. By being kind. By being good at everything he does. By flashing you those little smiles when your shifts overlap, when he has no idea what they do to you…or maybe he does. Because he always requests your help when he comes in during the day, like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t send you straight into the land delusion for the rest of your shift. 

You tell yourself it’s because you’re a good nurse, despite it all. Princess says it’s because he likes you. 

But Princess is insane. Maybe as deluded as you are, to be honest. 

And having a silly work crush was fun at first, but it’s not fun anymore when all you do is wait for those tiny moments. When 7 p.m. has become your favorite and least favorite time of day. When you catch yourself smoothing down your scrub top before shift change, just in case. When you know the sound of his voice from three trauma bays over. When you start wondering whether switching to nights only for him would be that crazy after all.

All while Jack remains oblivious to the fact that he is the reason you’re stepping outside the ambulance bay at 6:30pm on a freezing Friday evening, completely exhausted, yet still hopeful enough to be the first one he says hello to on your last break. 

You sigh as you lean on the brick wall near the entrance, tucking your hands deeper into your jacket’s pockets looking at nothing in particular. The snow has been shoveled away from the ambulances path, but there’s still a few patches of ice glistening on the asphalt. 

“There you are,” a voice behind you makes you startle. You turn around slightly, finding Princess walking to you with a knowing smile. “You’re gonna freeze yourself out here.” 

“I’m just excited it’s Friday,” you say, but there’s no actual enthusiasm in your voice. “Can’t wait to get out of here.”

“Ohhh, you got big exciting plans for the weekend?” She wiggles her brows, nudging you with her elbow. “Someone to warm you up?” That makes you snort, shaking your head and nudging her back. 

“I wish. It’s just me and my couch…and my dog.”

“Alone?”

“Alone.”

“That bad,” she teases, but you know there’s no malice in it. “Tragic,” she sighs, before perking up just as quickly. “Me however…”

“Oh the firefighter?” You chuckle, watching a stupid little grin spread over her face. “You’re seeing him tonight?”

“Third date,” she sing songs. “You know what that means.”

“Hmm. Bunch of cardio.”  

“It keeps me healthy,” she shrugs, beaming. “If you don’t hear from me tomorrow, assume I died happy.”

You both start giggling, and you feel genuinely happy that at least your best friend is getting wrecked by a man in uniform. Not that you have imagined something like that. Actually, you’ve imagined a lot of things. Some more HR friendly than others. You let out a sigh without noticing, and Princess bumps your shoulder this time. 

“See, that little pathetic sigh is why you need to do something about your little situation,” she starts. 

“What little situation?” You don’t even turn to her, but you know she’s glaring at you. “What?” you say again.

“Oh I don’t know, maybe the one with the silver fox attending you’re into.”

“Princess!”

“What? Honey you’re already halfway through a shift switch petition.”

“So what? It has nothing to do with Dr. Abbot,” you snap, but realize your mistake as soon as the words leave your mouth. 

“I never said Dr. Abbot,” she drawls. 

You groan and look away as heat crawls up your face. At least it brings comfort against the unforgiving winter air.  

“It’s not like that. I just think the change of pace could be interesting,” you excuse yourself, very poorly. 

“Uh-huh. You just wanna stare at him more often,” she says, less teasing than you expected. “Have you ever thought he might like seeing you more often too?”

The sole idea of it makes you snort. “Yeah, sure.” 

“I am serious, girl. I really think he likes you,” she reassures. 

“No, he doesn’t,” you shake your head. 

“He always asks for you.”

“Because I’m good at my job.”

“I’m good too, but he smiles at you differently.”

“Princess,” you warn, because living in delulu land has done nothing for you these past months. “Stop.” 

“I’m just saying,” she shrugs with a little smile. “One day you’re gonna have to admit that man is ruining your life.”

Oh he is. And you know it very well. 

“Yeah yeah, call it whatever you want. Now let’s go back inside before we freeze to death and Dana kills us for dying,” you chuckle despite yourself, making her laugh in agreement. 

You turn toward the doors, a little disappointed to not have spotted the subject of your discussion yet, but you don’t have much time to mourn when your shoe skids on a thin layer of ice you didn't see, sending you flying back in a matter of seconds. Princess almost slipped too trying to catch you, but your head hit the pavement before she could. 

For a second you only see the blurry lights of the ambulance bay, and a few glistening icicles lined above you. And because life loves you, when your vision manages to focus more, you catch the horrifying moment when one of the icicles breaks from the roof and falls straight into the side of your stomach. The impact makes you groan, Princess gasps and covers her mouth with both hands. 

“Ouch…” you wince, trying to lift yourself up to see the damage but your head feels too heavy.

“Ohmygod, ohmygod,” she panics, kneeling next to you and slapping your hand away when you reach for it. “No, no. Don’t touch it! Hey–are you…are you okay?” 

You barely lift your head, only to stare blankly at her, not exactly sure why you’re on the floor. She expects you to curse, cry or scream at her. Anything. But all you do is giggle in response, completely out of it. She looks like she has two faces, and stars around her. 

Red flag. 

“Alright, alright, don’t move Cristina Yang. I’m getting you help, just wait for me babe,” she says, already getting up and running inside. 

“Nooo, don’t gooo,” you say softly, but it sounds more like you’re amused than an actual cry for help. “Help…” you whisper, chuckling at how funny you sound. 

You lie there, on your back in the ambulance bay, wondering if this is what rock bottom looks like. Attacked by an icicle after daydreaming of the hospital’s McSteamy, like you’re part of some medical drama. 

You giggle again. 

Yup. That can't be good. 

You hear loud footsteps approaching you, but they’re not coming from the direction Princess took. You yelp when a face hovers over you, upside down from your perspective, and that face is none other than the one you’ve had at least a thousand inappropriate fantasies about. 

“Well, what do we have here?” He drawls, tilting his head when he sees the icicle and the little patch of blood around it staining your grey scrubs. The amusement goes away in an instant. 

He drops to one knee beside you, lifting your head a little to check for any blood under, but your hair is only wet from the leftover snow on the asphalt, making him exhale in relief. His hands hover near the icicle without touching it. It’s only when he’s closer that you notice he’s not in scrubs, but in his god forsaken SWAT uniform, no vest. 

You can’t really find yourself to complain in your hazed state. 

“Oh no…” you gasp softly, in a failed attempt to hide your sudden giddiness. He already looks like he has little pink hearts floating around his head. 

“Hey, hey it’s okay,” he coos, oblivious. “Can you tell me what your name is?” 

“Of course I know my name, silly,” you snort, proudly reciting your full government name. He bites back a smile at the jab, nodding. 

“That’s good. Do you know what day?” 

“...Wednesday?” You narrow your eyes, he just shakes his head softly. 

“Already went through that one this week. Come here.”

He slides one arm under your shoulders, the other carefully under your knees, making sure he doesn’t bend your abdomen too much as he hauls you up with a groan. Your brain blocks the pain and decides this is the funniest thing in the world, giggling into his long sleeve camo shirt as he stands. Once he’s got you in his arms, with his face close enough to hurt more than the piece of ice inside you, he grins at you. 

“What about my name?” He asks playfully. You huff in offense. 

“Oh Dr. Abbot. You’re a hard one to forget,” you sigh dreamily, drawing circles on his chest. “With that face…and those eyes…and that uniform clinging to that bod–“

“Okay, honey. That’s a concussion speaking for you,” he cuts you off with a chuckle, telling himself the blush on his cheeks is due to the cold. “I’m gonna get you inside, alright? We’re gonna keep your new friend exactly where it is until it's safe to take it out.”

If your head wasn’t in wonderland right now, you would’ve probably coded over the fact that he just called you honey. 

“Mmm. Whatever you say, doc,” you hum, resting your head on his chest. He can’t fight the smile this time. 

“You day shift girls really know how to make an exit…” He mumbles fondly with a shake of his head, making his way back inside. The glass doors slide open, and Princess nearly collides with him, her sneakers coming to a stop in front of him. 

“Dr. Abbot! There you are,” she yelps. “We were just talking and she slipped, and then BAM, an icicle! So I went to get you, of course. Or any doctor–actually, no, preferably you. She definitely prefers you–”

“I got her, Princess,” Jack snickers without breaking stride, carrying you in his arms like it’s the most natural thing in the world. 

You barely lift your head to grin at her, and manage to point at the man carrying you while mouthing an ‘oh my god’ to Princess. She nods just as giddy, turning away so Jack doesn’t see her expression. 

The chilly air gets replaced by the warmth and noise of the ED, all heads turning in your direction when he strides in, suddenly turning into the most interesting thing happening on that floor. That’s on you for giving them the material anyways. Jack Abbot, in full camo, carrying a giggling, icicle stabbed day nurse? It’s free real estate!

“Oh shit, is that an icicle??” Dr. Santos calls from the charting station, propping herself up over the desk to get a better look. “Can I go in there, Dr. Abbot? Please tell me I can go in there.”

“You’re off the clock, Santos. Go home,” he says, ignoring the way she mutters something under her breath as she turns back to the computer. “Lena, what’s free?” 

“Trauma two,” Lena replies, eyes widening when she sees the thing sticking out of your stomach. She stands up from her swivel chair to trail after you into the room. “What the hell happened?" 

“Winter hates me…” you say with a little laugh, before falling back into Jack’s chest. “Or maybe it did me a favor…” you mutter under your breath, making Princess and Lena exchange a knowing look. 

Jack sets you down so, so gently on the bed that you fight the urge to kick your feet at the contrast of his rough hands adjusting your body delicately. Princess is already hooking you up to monitors you can’t really manage to read right now. 

“Winter assault indeed,” Jack chuckles, popping on a pair of gloves as he analyzes your injury from multiple angles.  “Penetrating trauma, left lateral abdomen. Looks superficial, but I want imaging before I yank this thing. Can you page Dr. Shen for me? This has his name written all over it.”

“Are you sure you want Shen here?” Lena raises an eyebrow, cutting your scrubs open with some scissors, as Jack briefly checks your pupils with a penlight. 

“Oh, he’ll be offended if I don’t call him for an icicle,” he says, pocketing the penlight. “Mild concussion, no need for a CT.”

“Alright,” Lena says, putting down the scissors and patting your leg in reassurance before she leaves. “How are you doing, kid?” 

“Booored,” you sing, trying to lift your body up but your head swims and your abdomen screams in pain before you can. “Ow ow–”

“Hey, hey. Easy,” Jack says, pushing you gently back onto the bed. “Stay still for me, alright?”

“Just get it out already!”

Jack catches your wrist just before you can grab the icicle. “Uh-uh, what did I say?” he scolds. “We’re not doing an extraction yet.” 

You groan in frustration, unaware of the way Princess and Jack exchange looks. 

“What do we have?” Dr. Shen asks from the entrance, iced coffee in one hand as he walks to his rightful place beside Abbot. He tilts his head at you and your stupid icicle, and whistles. “Wow. I don’t wanna see the other guy.” 

“Don’t worry, John. Dr. Abbot saved me,” you huff out a weak laugh. 

“Of course he did,” Shen glances between the two of you, amused. “Our noble SWAT doc.” 

Jack keeps his gaze on you with that maddening smirk, only breaking eye contact when Princess lets him know the XR tech is there. People start moving around you, and by this point you start to feel everything catching up to you because things don’t seem so funny anymore. You feel so tired all you want is to go to sleep. You try to fight it by blinking at the ceiling, trying to count the lights but failing very quickly. 

Jack is suddenly by your head, one hand braced on the bed near your shoulder, closely monitoring the process. 

“Hold your breath,” he whispers, way too close to your ear. “Just for a few seconds. You’ve seen a hundred patients do this, right?” 

“Have I?” You try to joke, but you sound more drowsy than amused to him. 

That makes him frown and straighten up to check your pupils again. “Maybe you do need that CT...”

You squint at the intrusive light, trying to push his hand away but the tech mumbles not to move. “Stop with that–I’m okay, just let me take a nap here…” you say, already closing your eyes. 

“No, no. Eyes open,” Jack orders, snapping his fingers in your face to keep you awake. “Stay with me, trouble.”

Your lashes feel heavy but you manage to drag your gaze up to his. It’s easier than trying to focus on anything else anyways. You feel the XR ray tech pulling away and leaving the room. 

“You’re gonna be fine,” Jack tells you, so serious that you’d debate if he’d just picked you up from a dumb  fall or if he'd saved you from a building engulfed in fire. “We’re gonna patch you up, and maybe get you a few days off. Milk this for all the sick time you can get. Okay?” 

You nod, managing a small tired smile. He’s leaning over you now, allowing you to admire his face from up close. His beautiful hazel eyes, his jaw dusted with stubble, the salt in his hair shining under the harsh lights. You can even see the little lines at the corners of his eyes.

That’s when the single neuron left in your brain produces a thought. And you should definitely not say the thought. 

You absolutely say the thought.

“Dr. Abbot, you’re so gorgeous,” you announce, loud and clear. 

The entire room freezes. Jack feels heat go up to his cheeks. Shen’s eyebrows go up as he sips loudly from his straw, and Princess, who was in the corner pretending to look busy with the vitals machine, bites her lip to stifle a laugh.

“I–“ Jack starts, then stops. Why’s he getting so flustered? “Once again, concussion talking,” he clears his throat, looking around him. 

“But I mean it,” you insist, fighting the urge to close your eyes out of pure spite. “Look at your face.”

Jack’s mouth twitches, trying very hard not to smile. Princess is just fighting the urge to pull her phone out and film the whole thing. 

“And your stupid SWAT uniform,” you continue, groaning dramatically. “Out of all days you had to wear it today. Ugh. You’re so–you’re so gorgeous it makes me so mad.” 

Jack decides this is the perfect moment to turn to the computer in the room, for “charting purposes” but completely forgets the part where he has to tap his ID on it and just stares at the hospital’s logo on the screen.  

“Right back at you, sweetheart,” he mumbles under his breath.

Shen and Princess exchange the most dramatic side eye in the history of side eyes and then both simultaneously pretend they heard nothing.

“Abdomen films are back,” a nurse entering the room says, offering an iPad to Jack. 

He takes the tablet, shoulders dropping as he scans the images. “Good news! Our icicle is more dramatic than dangerous. No organ involvement. Superficial muscle at most.”

“Boring,” Shen mumbles, chuckling when Princess glares at him. 

“We’ll do it here,” Jack decides, handing the iPad back. “Local and a quick pull. Shen, wanna do the honors?” 

“I’ll just watch,” Shen shrugs, placing his iced coffee on a table nearby in case he’s needed. “Wouldn't miss it for the world.”

“Okay, little pinch,” Princess warns you. You take a breath as the needle goes in, your hand flies up instinctively, but Jack catches it and redirects it to grip his forearm instead.

His muscles feel solid under your fingers, and this feels like information you should not have in this condition. You squeeze your eyes shut, because if he keeps looking at you like that–

“You’re doing great,” he reassures. His voice is so close, so warm and so low and SO UNFAIR.

You crack one eye open, and immediately regret it. It’s the light brown eyes with little green flecks for you. 

“God, that hurts,” you whisper. Not a single sane thought behind your eyes anymore. 

“The icicle?” he asks, ready to order more anesthesia. 

“No,” you say, a little breathless. “Your face.”

Princess makes a weird strangled noise next to you. Jack actually laughs this time. 

“That’s a new one,” Shen says.

“Alright,” Jack smiles at you. “Before you say anything else that’s gonna end up in the groupchat, let’s get this thing out.”

He positions himself above you, one hand pressing your hip to stabilize you, the other wrapping around the base of the icicle, careful not to push it in further. 

“Deep breath in. I’m gonna count to three, okay?” he says. You do as you’re told, trying to avoid his gaze. “One–keep looking at me. Two–“

And then, still keeping that steady eye contact, he pulls. The icicle slides out in one slick motion, leaving behind a sharp sting that makes you squeak.

“You took my icicle out before three!” you gasp, scandalized. “That’s not nice!”

“We’ll get you another one next Christmas,” Jack chuckles, tossing the thing into a tray as Shen presses gauze firmly to your side. 

“You did amazing,” Princess tells you earnestly, running her hand through your arm. “That was so cool. I mean–not cool that you got stabbed, cool that you–uh never mind. You’re very brave, babe.” 

“Best story at the nurse’s station,” you smile at her, throwing up a peace sign. 

“Easy there, Winter Soldier. Best story in the group chat, at best.” Shen says, managing a little snort from you.

“Oh the group chat will hear about this,” Princess adds.

Jack shakes his head, but there’s fondness in his features as he strips off his gloves. “Okay, here’s the plan. Observation overnight for the concussion, pain meds for the side, no lifting, no heavy shifts for a few days. And no more confessions, alright?” He smiles down at you, winking playfully. “You’re gonna be okay.”

You stare at him again, taking in his stupid perfect face, his stupid perfect hands, his stupid heroic camo long sleeve. 

No, you’re so not going to be okay. 

You open your eyes and immediately regret it. Your head pounds, there’s harsh white lights shining down on you, and the familiar ED noise coming from outside the room doesn’t help. 

What on earth happened? 

You try to push yourself up on your elbows, but the moment your head lifts from the pillow, your body says Not today. 

“Shit,” you groan, dropping back down with a wince, squeezing your eyes shut.

“Easy there.”

That voice alone is enough to almost make you forget about the headache and the strange sting in your abdomen. You open your eyes and squint at the doorway, where none other than Dr.Jack Abbot is standing, wearing a black shirt and scrubs pants. 

There he is. The bane of your existence and the object of all your desires.

He looks maddeningly calm for someone who exists just to personally ruin your peace. He pushes off the doorframe and walks in with a smug little grin. You stare at him, mind completely blank as he stops beside a little table and offers you a cup of water with a straw. 

“Here. Small sips,” he says, gently helping you sit up. And when he uses that voice? All you can do is mindlessly do what he says. 

“Thanks, Dr. Abbot,” you rasp, clearing your throat after drinking some water. “So…what happened?”  

Jack stares at you for a moment, debating if there’s a chance you’re messing with him, but you seem genuinely confused. It’s normal after a hit like that, so he just huffs a little laugh and explains. 

“You were outside the ambulance bay with Princess and slipped on ice. You hit your head, and then got stabbed in the side by an icicle.”

…???

“An…icicle?” You ask in complete disbelief, he nods amused. “Like in Grey’s??” 

“Ehh–you’re gonna have to ask that to Princess,” he chuckles. “I wish I was joking, but there’s nothing to worry about, it was superficial. Imaging was normal, Princess numbed you up and I pulled it out. You’re a little bruised and concussed, but otherwise intact. Robby’s gonna have to give you a few days off, though.” 

“Oh my God,” you sigh, leaning back into the pillow dragging your hands over your face. “Out of all the ways I could’ve gone down in hospital lore…”

“Tell me about it,” he mumbles, biting back a smile. 

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” he says, a little too quickly for your liking, then steps closer. “I just want to check you again before I let you keep hating yourself in peace.”

Before you can ask what that means, he moves to the side of the bed and leans over you, making your entire nervous system short circuit as he removes your hands from your face. 

“Wow–” you breathe, shrinking back into the pillow on instinct. Being this close should be illegal for this man. “What are you doing, Dr. Abbot?”

“Shhh,” he mutters, “just checking on you. You hit your head pretty hard.”

His hand comes up, careful fingers tilting your chin slightly. His thumb brushes near your cheekbone as he angles your face toward the penlight and scans your pupils. Your heart starts beating in places it absolutely should not be beating. 

Guess the butterflies are flying very low today. 

He finishes the exam, but he doesn’t move back. Instead, he shifts just enough to brace one hand on the wall above your head, still leaning over you, caging you into the mattress in a way that feels anything but accidental. This is not helping your concussion, if anything, it’s making it substantially worse.

Your breath hitches, and because your mouth clearly exists to betray you in his presence, you blurt out, “God, that hurts.”

“What hurts?” He asks, tilting his head.

The words are right there. Your face. Your stupid gorgeous face. 

“My head,” you say instead. Good girl…or not? Because something you can’t quite point out flashes in his eyes. 

“Mmm, well, for what it’s worth…” he says–did his eyes just flicker to your lips??? “I think you’re gorgeous too.”

5@$%)#&

Everything inside you stops. Your face goes hot so fast it feels like your head is about to combust. For one unhinged second you wonder if you’ve blacked out again and this is some kind of fever dream created by your useless brain. 

“Did…I said that out loud?” You ask weakly and cover your face again with your hands, creating a barrier between you and the predator above you. 

“You really don’t remember, do you?”

“Oh no…” You whine. This is it, this is how you leave this earth. 

“Oh no?” He laughs.

“Oh no,” you repeat miserably, peeking at him through your fingers. “What did I say, Dr. Abbot?”

“...Enough,” he says, maddeningly vague. He straightens at last, mercifully putting a little distance between you and your impending death by humiliation. “More than enough, actually.”

“Dr. Abbot,” you insist, more serious now. “What did I say?”

“Mmm, not a chance,” he crosses his arms over his chest. Okay now he's just being unfair.

“Please.”

“Uh-uh.”

“Jack.” That slips out before you can stop it.

His eyebrows rise in amusement, but he clears his throat before turning to check your chart on the computer, like the conversation that just derailed your life didn’t even happen. 

“You slept almost through the whole night shift, it looks like you’ll be discharged in a few hours. All the scans were clean but you’ll need someone to stay with you today, though. Hospital policy after a concussion.”

You let out a sigh, looking at your hands over your lap. He turns back to you, a worried look on his face. 

“What?”

“I uh–don’t have anyone to call,” you say, trying to sound casual and failing a little. “Princess is probably with the firefighter, so I guess it's just me and…my dog.”

He hums, tucking both hands into his pants pockets, and rocks back a little on his heels as if contemplating something. 

“Good thing I’ll be out in a few hours too, then,” he says, casual, too casual. 

“…What?” You let out a weak laugh, because your brain hasn’t fully grasped the meaning of those words. 

“I’m taking you home,” he shrugs, like it’s not a big deal. “Pets are great emotionally, less useful for neuro observation, so I’m making sure you don’t pass out unsupervised.”

“Dr. Abbot–”

“Jack,” he corrects, that cheeky smile appearing on his face again.

“Jack,” you try again, weaker now. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know…trust me, I want to.” He says it so…certain, with a softer voice that makes you melt onto the mattress. “Try to rest for a bit, drink your water and don’t try to escape. I’ll come get you when your paperwork’s done,” he points a finger at you, half turning to the door. “Just wait for me, gorgeous, okay?”

Jack waits for you to say something, but all you can do is nod slowly, because speech has abandoned you entirely. He gives you one more devastating smile, before stepping out, leaving you wishing you could turn over so you could scream into your pillow. You finally let out the breath you were holding, and very carefully reach for your phone on the little rolling table beside the bed.

There are at least a dozen messages from Princess with a few voice notes. You stare at the screen in horror, and from what you can briefly read without actually opening her chat, you really fucked up last night.

That explains the look on his face. That explains everything.

And still, *wiggles eyebrows*, he is taking you home. Apparently. So, because there is truly no helping you, you can’t help but smile. 

Girl whatever.

If Jack Abbot wants to ruin your life, he can go right ahead.

The idea made you shiver. Your older brother, pumping his cock up and down in the middle of his bed. You were sure he was big, so so big, and with veins that would feel so good inside your—

"Y/N..." You stopped your breathing and thinking when you heard him called you. No, he wasn't calling you. He was moaning your name.

His strong breaths continued for some seconds before you could hear again. "Fuuck, little bird..." Now you were a hundred percent sure he was thinking of you while fucking his hand, he always called you that when you were smaller. Little bird, birdie, even once pretty bird. He even wrote on a polaroid together from your 19th birthday "My little bird" with a little heart.

You suddenly saw yourself getting up from the bed. You stopped at the front of his closed door, listening clearly to his panting and to the wet sounds his hard cock did. You were there at least four minutes, in which he said your name three different times, and with your name between your lips, he came all over his hand.

You swallowed, and were reading to retreating to your bed and ignoring the wetness between your legs forever. But that stupid old manor with its stupid old wood that creaked in the worst moments. The whole corridor shook with the weight of you on the floor. Then all you could hear was Dick getting up quickly and shoving some sweatpants.

"Oh, it's you." He opened the door with an angry expression. He leaned against the frame of his door, one hand braced above him like he needed the support.

You froze, bare feet pressed into the carpet, caught between running back to your room and… staring. Because even though he’d shoved sweatpants on, you could see the outline straining against them, heavy and unapologetic.

His expression softened when he took in your wide eyes, the way your body was stiff with nerves. He let out a low chuckle that didn’t sound nearly as amused as it did dangerous. “What’s the matter, little bird?”

You swallowed. “I-I didn’t mean to—”

“To listen?” His smile curled, sharp at the edges. “Funny. You were out here long enough.”

Your face burned. You tried to backpedal, but Dick stepped forward, crowding you into the wall of the hallway. His body radiated heat, the scent of his cologne still clinging to him under the sweat. His hand braced beside your head.

“Dick—” Your voice caught on his name, because now he was close enough that you could see how dark his pupils were, how flushed his cheeks were from more than just patrol.

He tilted his head, studying you like he could read every thought running through your mind. “You heard me, didn’t you?” he asked softly, almost like he was coaxing a confession. His other hand lifted, fingertips grazing your chin, tilting your face up toward him. “You heard who I was thinking about.”

Your pulse was erratic, your breath shallow. You could barely nod, but you did.

His smile widened, slower this time, and his thumb traced the corner of your mouth. “That’s my girl,” he murmured. “My little bird.”

You shivered. The way he said it wasn’t sweet, not like before. It was claiming. Dirty. Like he was daring you to deny what you’d heard, what you’d felt pressing between your thighs in your own bed.

“I shouldn’t… if my dad finds out...” you whispered. The words didn’t even sound like they belonged to you.

“No,” he agreed easily, and leaned even closer until his lips brushed your ear. “You shouldn’t. But you’re not going back to bed, are you?”

His hand slid down from your chin, pausing at your throat, resting there just enough for you to feel the weight of it. His other hand ghosted down your arm, leaving sparks in its wake.

How he wasn't ashamed? Dying of embarrassment?

His thumb pressed lightly under your jaw as he lowered his head, his lips ghosting over yours without closing the distance.

“C'mon,” he murmured. “Say you wanted to hear me moan your name.”

You blinked up at him, pulse hammering under his hand. “I… I didn’t—”

“Liar.” His mouth curved, brushing against the corner of yours as he cut you off. “You stayed out there until I came. You are wet for me, aren’t you?”

The shame should’ve made you pull away, but it only made your thighs clench tighter. And he felt it, he laughed filthy with his chest pressing into yours as his other hand finally slid to your hip.

“Mm, thought so. My pretty bird’s curious.”

Before you could think of an answer, he kissed you. He dragged a sound from your throat you didn't recognize. He was so hot and nothing near soft or gentle. His tongue pushed past your lips like he’d been waiting years for this, and you gasped against him, your hands flying up to his chest.

He caught your wrists easily, pinning them against the wall above your head. “Don’t run now,” he whispered against your lips. “You wanted this.”

“I don’t know if—”

“You do.” His hips rolled forward just enough that you could feel the hard length of him straining against his sweatpants, grinding into your stomach. Your gasp broke into a whimper, and Dick’s grin turned wolfish. “See? Your body knows.”

He dragged his mouth down your jaw, teeth scraping lightly against your skin until he found that sensitive spot under your ear. He sucked there, hard, and you shivered helplessly in his hold.

“Gonna ruin you,” he murmured against your throat, his voice gravel low. “Gonna make you think about me every time you close your eyes.”

Your wrists ached under his grip, your chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths. “Dick…” you managed, pleading.

“Yes, little bird?” His hand slid from your hip to the curve of your ass, squeezing through your thin sleep shorts. “You want me to stop?”

You hesitated. That hesitation was all the answer he needed. His laugh rumbled against your skin, and he pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, his forehead pressed to yours.

“That’s what I thought.” He said, before dragging you inside his room, locking it immediately.

He practically pushed you to the bed, leaving hot kisses in your neck and jaw.

Then he guided one of your hands down, pressing it over the thick outline in his sweatpants. The heat of him throbbed against your palm, and your fingers twitched reflexively around the shape of him.

“Big, huh?” he teased softly, watching your face with hungry satisfaction. “You thought about it. I heard it in the way you whispered my name just now.”

You couldn’t even deny it. The idea of taking his fat cock ruining and filling any of your holes made your pussy throb. Your lips parted, your breath shallow as you gave the faintest nod.

“Good girl.” He kissed you again, slower this time, biting at your bottom lip as he ground himself into your hand. “Touch me. Learn what’s yours.”

Dick’s lips were hot and unrelenting, pressing and pulling at yours until your head spun. He touched your inner thigh with one hand and the other slode under your shirt, dragging calloused fingers up your stomach to your breast.

You gasped into his mouth when he pinched your nipple through the thin fabric of your bra. He swallowed the sound, groaning as though he’d been starving for it.

“Fuck, little bird, you sound so sweet,” he muttered, kissing down your throat, biting lightly as he went. “Bet you taste sweeter.”

Your legs trembled, and before you realized it, he’d already hooked one over his hip, pressing you to the bed. His erection pressed hard between your thighs, heat radiating through the sweatpants.

“Dick…” Your voice cracked, uncertain, needy.

He tilted his head, eyes dark and soft at the same time. “Scared?”

You shook your head, breathless. “No. Just—”

“Good. Don’t be.” His lips curved into a sharp, knowing smile. “You’re safe with me. Even when I’m ruining you.”

He released your wrists, only to catch your face in both hands and kiss you hard again. His tongue pushed deep, and while you melted into it, his hands worked fast tugging your shirt up and over your head, tossing it carelessly to the floor.

“Fuck,” he breathed when your bare skin hit the lamplight. “Prettier than I ever let myself imagine.”

Your cheeks burned, but his mouth was already on you again, dragging down to your collarbone, lower, until his tongue circled your nipple. The wet pull of his mouth made you shiver.

“So sensitive. Means I can make you come easy.”

He knelt before you, tugging your sleep shorts down in one fluid motion, leaving you bare except for your panties. His eyes darkened as he looked at the damp spot clinging to the thin cotton.

“Fuck me, little bird,” he groaned, pressing his nose against you, inhaling like he needed it. “You’ve been aching for this.”

Before you could protest, his tongue was there against the fabric, lapping up the wetness before sucking at you through it. Your back arched in the bed, hands flying to his hair with a broken gasp.

He laughed into you, muffled, then hooked a finger under the waistband and yanked your panties down. His tongue dove straight between your folds, slow and deliberate, like he was savoring every inch.

Your hips jerked, a shocked moan ripping out of you.

“That’s it,” he praised against your cunt, voice low and ragged. “Let me hear it. Let me know how good I make you feel.”

His tongue circled your clit, teasing, then flattened and licked hard. You cried out, thighs clamping around his head, but he only groaned like he loved the pressure. Two fingers slid inside you before you even realized, filling you up, curling just right.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groaned, pumping them slow, steady. “Gonna stretch you out on my cock. You’ll take me, won’t you, little bird?”

Your answer was a desperate whimper, your body clenching down around his fingers. He smirked, licking and sucking at your clit faster. “That’s a yes.”

The orgasm hit you like lightning, tearing through you while his mouth stayed locked on you, tongue relentless until you were shivering and whining, trying to push him away.

He rose then, mouth glistening, eyes wild. He caught your face again, kissed you deep so you could taste yourself on his tongue.

He stripped fast, sweatpants hitting the floor, and your breath caught when his cock sprang free. Thick, long, veined, already dripping. Bigger than you’d dared imagine.

Your thighs pressed together instinctively, but he was already crawling over you on the bed, hand wrapping around the base of his cock as he guided it against your entrance.

“Scared now?” he murmured, nudging the head against your soaked folds.

“A little,” you admitted, voice small. "It's so big."

He smirked, climbing over you and dragging the tip of his cock through your wetness. “Big enough to ruin you.”

You clutched at his shoulders, nerves and want colliding hard in your chest. “Dick, I don’t—”

“I’ve got you,” he promised, pressing a kiss to your temple, then your lips, then sliding the head of his cock against your entrance. “Relax for me, little bird. Let me in.”

The first push made you cry out, your walls stretching wide around him. He hissed, eyes screwed shut as he held himself back. “Fuck, so tight. Breathe, baby. That’s it. Take me.”

He rocked forward slowly, giving you inch after inch until he was buried to the hilt. Your nails dug into his back, your body struggling to adjust around him.

“You’re so full of me,” he groaned, kissing the corner of your mouth, seeing the little bulge at your belly. “Feel that? That’s how deep I am inside you. No one else is ever gonna fit like this.”

When your whimpers softened into moans, he started to move. Slow at first, dragging his cock out nearly all the way before sinking back into your soaked heat. The stretch turned to a burn, the burn to a desperate pleasure that made your hips lift to meet his.

“That’s it,” he praised, voice tight with restraint. “Ride it. Show me how bad you needed me.”

You whimpered his name, over and over, as his thrusts picked up. He pinned your wrists again above your head, fucking into you harder, faster, until the sound of your wetness filled the room.

“I’m, ughh, I'm so full of you,” you gasped, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming fullness.

“Good girl,” he growled, pounding harder now, his sweat dripping onto your chest. “My perfect little bird.”

Your orgasm ripped through you so suddenly it knocked the breath out of your lungs, your walls squeezing him so tight he swore loudly into your shoulder. He fucked you through it, relentless, until his rhythm stuttered.

“Gonna fill you,” he groaned, teeth sinking into your neck. “Take my cum, yeah baby? Fuck, take it all.”

And then he spilled inside you, cock twitching deep, his groans muffled against your skin as he emptied himself in hot, pulsing waves.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead dropped to yours, both of you panting, your body boneless beneath him.

“See?” he whispered, brushing your hair back with shaking fingers. “I told you I’d ruin you.”

And with his cum still dripping out of you, you knew your big step-brother was right.

Notes: This is my first time publishing a series. I honestly will make up things as I write. I usually write a 4am, so don't expect this to make a lot of sense.

Also English is not my first language, so I apologize for some mistakes!

Im not sure how many chapters there will be, but i am so excited about this and I dont want this to end haha

Enjoy! ;3

This is for all the 10 Brian fans that are still out there xx

Word Count: 5,7k

Warnings: blood, smut, explicit language, slow burn, female serial killer, masturbation, brian moser :D, stalking

---

CHAPTER ONE

The light above your head was buzzing, casting a dim light on you and the table. Your chest rising and falling from that post kill high.

What could be better that this? 

You inhale. The air immediately hits you. The smell of metal, blood and sweat. You wipe your gloved hands on the towel that’s already streaked with red, with blood. You toss the towel on the floor and turn around. You get the black back that’s sitting on another table, waiting. Waiting to be filled up with the body parts that you just cut up, separated. With such care and joy. 

Craftsmanship. That’s what you call this. Because in a way — it is. 

You open the bag up and carefully take the dead man’s left arm and slide it into the bag making a thud as it falls in. You seal the bag up, carefully pressing out the air before tying a neat knot. Precise and clean. Just as always. 

You put the bag down and reach for the label you’d prepared earlier — a small, crisp tag with your own neat handwriting that reveals what kind of body part is in this bag.  

Then you take a new bag, where you put another body part — the right arm. Repeating the same process all over again. This might seem like a lot of work, but honestly? This is relaxing to you. 

You reach for the legs next, severed at the knee. Another bag, another label. Before putting the right leg into the bag, you lift it up and admire it. It’s clean, a neat cut, no sharp edges, nothing sloppy. You smile at yourself and put the leg into the bag. 

The head you leave for last. Always. There’s something about it that feels final, like the punctuation at the end of a perfect sentence. You cradle it for a moment, studying the slack features, the frozen expression of shock that still clings to what’s left on the face. It’s almost funny, how they all look surprised in the end. 

You put the head down and reach for another bag. A different kind of bag, not the cheap plastic ones you’d used for the limbs, but a thicker, darker vinyl. Sturdier. Special. This one deserved a different treatment. You spread the bag open with a certain reverence, almost like laying out a burial shroud. With careful hands, you lower the head inside, arranging it so the face stares upward, as if still witnessing your work. You pause, letting the moment settle. You smile and then seal the bag shut, putting on the last label, that’s revealing that there’s a head inside.

After this, you always leave the body parts in different locations. It’s part of the ritual, part of the fun. A breadcrumb trail only you know how to follow. The left arm might end up half-buried on a quiet stretch of beach, the right leg stuffed behind a trash bin in a supermarket parking lot. Sometimes you leave a piece in the park — right where children might stumble over it.

And the best part about this — you’re with the police. You can watch it all unfold. You stand behind the crime scene tape with your badge clipped to your belt. You watch and nod, how your colleagues are speculating all this, voices shaky, theories pathetic. 

You take notes, look for footprints, blood patterns. They think you’re brilliant. They bring you photos, evidence. And you nod, tilt your head, say something smart like “precision like this suggests planning, maybe even experience.” And everyone scribbles it down like gospel. 

You take off your gloves and flex your fingers. You check the time, it’s already 3:47AM. You wipe down the table, spraying bleach in steady, practiced lines, making sure every drop of blood is scrubbed away. You can’t leave mistakes behind. Not in your work. Not in your life.

Once everything is back in order, you slip out of the room, flicking the light off behind you. The place sinks into darkness, silent except for the echo of your footsteps as you leave. By sunrise, you’ll be Detective Y/N again, coffee in hand, badge on your hip, greeting your colleagues with a tired smile. They’ll see a dedicated cop working herself half to death chasing this so-called monster. And you’ll play along. 

You get into your car, putting the last bag into your trunk. The night is thick and quiet. You pull away from the warehouse with your windows rolled down. The city is starting to wake up again. A flicker of life in the distance. Miami never really sleeps, true, but it’s calmer at night. And that is the best time for you to move. 

After you finish disposing bodies, you check the time again. 5:32AM. Enough to go home, shower, and change. You smooth a hand over your hair, catching a faint trace of bleach on your sleeve, then start the car. The dull thrum of the engine feels almost comforting.

You drive home, shower, scrub the scent of bleach and blood from your skin. Dress in a tailored navy blazer. Let your hair out. Apply just enough concealer under your eyes to hide the late night.

You look at yourself in the mirror and smile. It’s almost unsettling how normal you appear — polished, composed, the picture of a hardworking detective ready to chase monsters. Monsters just like you. You slip your badge into place, check the holster on your belt, and smooth down your blazer. By the time you walk out the door, there’s no trace of what you were hours ago. No blood, no fear, no evidence.

By the time you reach the station, the place is already in chaos. Phones ringing, uniforms pacing, voices tense. You catch Debra’s frantic silhouette at the edge of your vision, waving you down.

“Y/N!” she calls. “We gotta go — Tucci’s awake.”

The name cuts through your thoughts. You’d read the case file, of course. The Ice Truck Killer had left him alive, missing limbs but alive. Messy. Strange. Unlike what you would have done — you would have finished him.

You fell into step with Debra, keeping your voice steady. “What’s he saying?”

“He’s rattled, but talking,” Deb replied, keys jangling as she pulled you toward the car. “They’re getting him a prosthetic today, trying to keep him stable. Some guy from Miami Central Prosthetics is already there.”

You nodded, tucking that detail away. Prosthetics, you thought. Someone who puts people back together. It almost made you laugh.

“You sleep okay? You look fucking tired.” Debra asks as she opens the driver’s side of the door.

You laugh at her putting on your sunglasses. “You know me, Deb. Sleep is overrated.”

Deb snorts. “You and me both.” She drops into the driver’s seat, coffee sloshing dangerously in the paper cup. “Captain wants us in there before the shrink scrambles Tucci’s head even more. See if he remembers anything.”

You nod, sliding into the passenger side, steadying your badge as it bumps against your hip. The engine rumbles to life, vibrating through your bones, grounding you in a weird, welcome way. As Deb pulls away from the station, you stare out the window, letting the city blur past. Neon signs dying in the morning light, wet asphalt streaked with red brake lights.

“Hey,” Deb suddenly speaks up making you glance at her. “You think he saw the guy?”

“We better hope he did.”

Deb huffed, shaking her head. “Yeah, well, part of me hopes he didn’t. You see the look on his face? He’s wrecked.”

You gave a noncommittal shrug, eyes drifting back to the sunrise slicing between buildings. “If he saw him, maybe we’ll finally have something to go on.”

She sighed, pressing harder on the gas. “I just don’t want him to break down. He’s our best shot.”

You nodded faintly, but your mind was elsewhere — on the clean, deliberate amputations, the patience it took to leave someone alive. It was a message, you were sure of it. But what kind?

Your jaw tightened. If it had been you, there’d be no message left behind. No voice to talk, no victim to piece together. Only silence. 

The hospital finally came into view, its glass walls reflecting the pale Miami dawn. Deb pulled up to the curb and threw the car into park. You noticed Masuka’s car already there. 

“You good?” she asked, giving you a searching look.

“Yeah,” you replied easily, adjusting your blazer. “Let’s get this over with.”

The hospital air was cold, antiseptic. Familiar in its own way. You moved through the lobby, scanning every face, every uniform, looking for any sign of weakness. Debra led you to Tucci’s room, her boots squeaking on the polished floor. Inside, Tony Tucci looked like a broken doll, propped up on hospital white sheets, eyes wide and glassy. And next to him, crouched and steady, working to fit a prosthetic with the calm of someone who’d done it a hundred times before — was a man you didn’t know.

He looked up when you entered, polite, careful.

“Detectives?” he greeted, voice warm. “I’m Rudy Cooper, here from Miami Central.”

You stepped forward, holding out your hand. “Detective L/N. This is Detective Morgan.”

He shook your hand and then shook Debras hand.

“And I’m Masuka, ” Vince chimed in behind you, earning a small, amused glance from Rudy. “Forensics. Don’t mind me, I’m just here for the blood.”

“Pleasure,” Rudy chuckled politely

“We’re here to talk to Tony? Think he’s up to it?” Debra asks as she shakes his hand giving him a smile

“He’s a little shaken, but he’s strong,” Rudy replied, giving Debra an encouraging nod. “He should be able to answer a few questions.”

You watched the way Debra’s cheeks colored faintly when he looked at her. Noticed the small shift in her shoulders, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear. It was subtle, but you caught it instantly.

Interesting. You let a small smile flicker across your face, pretending not to notice, pretending to focus on Tucci. You watch Rudy now going back to Tucci, adjusting the prefab prosthetic. 

“We’ll start you off with a temporary prefab,” Rudy explained in that warm, careful tone, “and then make adjustments as we go.”

Tucci tried a smile. It trembled, but held. “Rudy here’s gonna put me back together again, good as new.”

“Half the battle is attitude,” Rudy agreed, then smiled at Tucci. “And you have a great one.”

Tucci laughed weakly. “Well, I’m alive. Didn’t see that happening, but here I am.”

Masuka leaned closer with a grin. “Yo, pretty boy, you’re stealing my thunder, and I got a hottie waiting on me, so I might have to fight you for this one.”

Tucci smirked, weak but good natured. “We’ll arm wrestle later.”

You folded your arms, eyes on Rudy. “He seems like he’s in good hands.”

Rudy offered a polite smile.

Debra chuckled. “Watch out for this guy,” she teased Rudy, tilting her head toward Masuka, “he’s a dog.”

“Guilty as charged,” Masuka shot back, giving a mock bow.

You sighed, shifting your notebook in one hand. “Alright, Tony,” you began evenly, slipping right back into detective mode, “can you tell us anything? Anything at all about the man who took you?”

Tucci swallowed hard, fingers twitching against the stiff hospital sheet. “I didn’t see much,” he admitted, voice small. “He came up on me from behind. Put a mask on me when he... made me put the things on ice.”

You narrowed your eyes but kept scribbling stuff in your notebook.

Debra leaned forward, gentle but focused. “Did you hear anything, Tony? An accent maybe?”

Tucci’s eyes darted around the room, scared. “He didn’t talk much. And when he did…  it was a whisper.”

Masuka piped up, trying to break the tension. “Any idea if he was white, Black, Latino? Anything?”

Tony hesitated. “White, I think. Average height. Not fat, not skinny. Just… average.”

You leaned in, voice calm. “When he started working on you, you were blindfolded?”

Tony nodded quickly, shivering. “Yeah. And there were rats, you know? Crawling up on the bed. I had to shake them off.”

Your pen stilled for half a second. Rats. A cruel detail. Purposeful.

Debra softened her tone. “You’re doing good, Tony. You’ve given us a lot.”

Tony laughed, a sad, shaky laugh. “Yeah? Feels like nothing.”

Debra offered a warm smile. “Hey, sometimes when I’m trying to remember something, I close my eyes. Maybe even a blindfold—”

But Tony flinched, shaking his head. “No. I’m tired. I just… I just want to rest.”

You nodded, stepping back. “That’s fair. We’ll check back later.”

Tucci sank into the pillows, relief and exhaustion washing over his battered face.

Rudy gave Tucci’s shoulder a reassuring pat, then stood up, catching Debra’s gaze with a quiet steadiness that made her cheeks flush all over again. You couldn’t help but clock it — the softness in her eyes, the way she leaned in his direction even unconsciously.

“Thanks for making this easier,” Rudy told her with a warm, polite smile, like he was born to play the hero.

“Yeah,” Debra said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, “you’re, uh, really good with him.”

He shrugged modestly, flashing that charming grin. “Just part of the job.”

Masuka clapped his hands together awkwardly, breaking the moment. “Well, I’m gonna go check out the, uh… evidence samples,” he announced, backing toward the door with a grin that was half nervous, half inappropriate. “Catch you guys later.”

You watched Masuka go, then turned your focus back on Tucci, who was already slipping into uneasy sleep, his bandaged stumps twitching slightly as if even his dreams wouldn’t let him forget

You walked out of the room, letting the door close quietly behind you, the faint click of the latch somehow too loud in the sterile hallway. The air outside felt cooler, easier to breathe without the mix of antiseptic and fear that clung to Tucci’s hospital bed. 

Deb was still in there, hovering close, drawn to Rudy like a moth to a porch light. You knew that look on her face. You’d seen it before, in other places, on other people. That soft, subtle tilt of her body. The eyes that wanted to trust. It made something in your chest tighten, but you smoothed it away with a breath.

You started down the corridor, passing nurses who nodded politely, the sharp scent of hospital cleaner biting at your nose. Halfway to the elevators, you paused, glancing back toward Tucci’s room. A small window in the door gave you a glimpse — Rudy leaning in toward Deb, that practiced, gentle charm on his face, and Deb laughing at something he said.

The elevator chimed, snapping you out of your thoughts. You stepped inside, pressing the button for the lobby, and watched the doors slide shut. As they did, your own reflection caught your eye in the mirrored panel — polished, professional, a hero to everyone who didn’t know better.

A hero. That word felt almost comedic, considering what your hands had done only hours ago. You tilted your head at your own reflection, studying the smooth skin, the calm, clear eyes. No one would ever suspect. You’d built the illusion too well.

The elevator hummed, descending floor by floor, and for a moment, you let your mind drift back to the warehouse — to the careful cuts, the steady rhythm of your breathing as you dismembered a man like a puzzle you’d solved a hundred times before. That was the place you felt honest, real. Here, you were only an echo of yourself, a role you played to perfection.

Once the door to elevator opened, you headed straight out of the hospital to the car. You waited outside for Deb. You leaned against the side of the car, letting the soft dawn air touch your skin.

Finally, you saw Deb emerge. She was talking to Rudy, her face soft, open, more vulnerable than you’d seen her in months. She laughed at something he said, then tucked her hair behind her ear, that same little tell. Your eyes narrowed just a touch, then you smoothed it away with a shallow breath.

She gave Rudy a wave before jogging over to you, keys jangling. “Sorry,” she said, catching her breath. “Had to get his contact info, in case Tucci needs more help.”

You raised an eyebrow. “His contact info, huh?”

Deb gave you a playful shove. “Shut up.”

As she fired up the engine, you let your eyes drift out the window again, the city’s morning glare making you squint.

“Where to?” she asked, glancing over.

You flipped open your notebook. “Back to the station. I want to look over Tucci’s statement again. There’s something about the blindfold, the rats — doesn’t feel right.”

Deb nodded, pulling away from the curb, leaving the hospital and Rudy Cooper behind.

         Later that night after work, you walked into your apartment. You kicked off your shoes, flexing your toes against the hardwood floor before massaging your aching feet for a moment. The silence wrapped around you like a familiar blanket.

You stepped into the kitchen, reaching for a glass from the cabinet, the movement almost automatic. The water from the tap ran cold, leaving condensation trailing down your knuckles as you filled the glass.

You took a slow sip, letting the chill settle in your chest. It was grounding, in a way — something human, something simple. You leaned against the counter, staring into the darkened room. The faint hum of your fridge was the only sound.

Outside, the city was moving on without you, streetlights blinking, engines rumbling, lives being lived. And you stood here, alone, a glass of water in your hand and blood still on your mind.

A run. That’s what you need right now. Maybe a run to the beach. 

You set the glass down with a faint clink on the countertop. You went to your room, grabbed your leggings and a t-shirt. You pulled your hair back into a quick tie, grabbed a pair of worn running shoes by the door and slipped them on. You tied the laces tight, almost relishing the bite of the fabric against your fingers. It felt like a ritual: armor, in its own small way. You stepped outside, locking the door behind you with a quiet click, and drew in a deep breath of the night air.

The street was calmer now, shadows stretching long beneath the flickering streetlights. You took off at an easy pace, letting your muscles warm, the steady rhythm of your footfalls syncing with your heartbeat.

Block after block, the city fell away, the chatter, the sirens, the lights, until you reached the beach, where the sand was cool and the ocean whispered against the shore. You stopped and took of your shoes, grabbing them in one hand and letting your feet sink into the damp sand, breathing deep. Out here, the world felt distant, as if the waves could wash away every sin you’d ever committed.

You looked around you and started to undress. You took of your shirt, then your leggings. For a while you just stood there like that. Letting the wind hug your body, giving you goosebumps. Then you took off your bra and your panties.

Then you stepped forward, toes sinking into the cold sand, your muscles tense as you approached the water. The surf lapped against your ankles first, a shock that made you shiver, then deeper, up to your knees, thighs, until you plunged forward and let it swallow you whole. The ocean wrapped around you, bracing, heavy. You kicked out, strong strokes carrying you past the break, letting the waves knock against your shoulders. Every nerve felt awake. You floated for a moment, letting the current pull at you, the salt stinging your lips.

You broke the surface again with a gasp, hair slicked back, water streaming down your face. The night sky stretched overhead, vast and uncaring, a canvas of stars blinking far away from your tiny world. You treaded water, feeling the steady pull of the current wanting to take you somewhere, anywhere.

Then you turned and started swimming back to the shore with decisive strokes. When your feet finally found the sand again, you stood up. Goosebumps rose instantly as the night breeze cut across you, but you didn’t rush. You took a moment to look back at the dark ocean, letting its rhythmic sounds calm the echo of violence still humming somewhere in the back of your mind. You stepped onto the beach, gathering your scattered clothes, tugging them on one piece at a time, still dripping. Each movement was methodical, deliberate.

“Detective?” a voice called making you freeze with your damp shirt hallway over your head.

You yanked it down quickly, heart pounding, scanning the empty stretch of beach until you spotted a man. You couldn’t quite figure out who it was at first. Then it hit you. It’s the prosthetics guy. Rudy or Rider Cooper. You couldn’t remember and you didn’t even try to.

“You’re the prosthetics guy from earlier,” you took a breath.

He smiled taking a step closer to you, hands tucked into the pockets of his pants. Sleeves rolled up. 

“Rudy Cooper, that’s me.” he clarified.

You let out a breath, your shoulders stiff. “What are you doing here?”

Rudy lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug, as if he’d just wandered onto your private moment by accident. “Couldn’t sleep,” he said smoothly. “I come here sometimes to clear my head.” His eyes flicked to the ocean, then back to you, lingering. “Didn’t expect to see you, though.”

You crossed your arms, the damp fabric of your shirt clinging to your forearms, cold now that the breeze was cutting through it. “Yeah, well. Long day,” you muttered.

He tilted his head, studying you with that same steady calm you’d seen in Tucci’s hospital room. “Rough case,” he said lightly, like an invitation.

You stared back, guarded, trying to read him. His smile didn’t falter.

“Yeah,” you finally answered. “Something like that.”

“You come here often?” he looked at you and then looked behind you at the beach

You hesitated, following his glance back to the dark, rolling surf. The beach at night was your secret place, a place no one was supposed to see.

“Sometimes,” you admitted, voice carefully neutral. “Helps clear my head.”

Rudy nodded thoughtfully, as if that made perfect sense to him. His eyes lingered on you just a beat too long, like he was picking apart the edges of your words.

“It’s a good spot,” he said, shifting his weight in the sand. “Quiet. Private.”

“Yeah,” you agreed slowly. “That’s the point.”

Rudy’s lips curved just a little, a knowing sort of smile that somehow made your pulse hitch. He didn’t look away from you, even as the breeze tugged at his rolled-up sleeves.

“I should get going.” You slowly leaned down to take your shoes that were lying in the sand.

“Let me walk with you,” he started giving you a soft smile. “It’s not safe for a woman to be alone in times like these.”

His words made you pause, your fingers curling around your shoes, sand sticking to your damp skin. You looked up at him, meeting that calm, pleasant face, so polite, so careful, but there was something beneath it that felt off, like a blade hidden in velvet.

“I can handle myself,” you said evenly, slipping one shoe on, then the other.

Rudy’s smile didn’t budge. “I don’t doubt that,” he replied smoothly, voice warm. “But still.”

He took a half-step closer, hands still in his pockets, studying you with that steady, unblinking gaze. “Humor me?”

A muscle twitched in your jaw, but you forced a shrug. If he wants to walk, let him walk, you reasoned. Better to keep him in sight than have him lingering behind you in the dark.

“Fine,” you sighed, brushing a strand of damp hair out of your face. “Let’s go.”

He nodded once, almost pleased, and fell into step beside you as you began walking up the beach.

For a while, you walked in silence, the distant roar of the ocean filling the gaps. Rudy watched the horizon, as if he were content just existing in your presence, but you could feel the subtle tension there, the sense that he was studying you, cataloguing you.

And you tried to study him too. The thought startled you, hot and electric, cutting through the cool night air. You pictured him on the table,  those calm, polite eyes gone wide with panic, his measured voice cracking as he pleaded. You wondered how easily his skin would come apart beneath your blade, how neatly you could separate the practiced steadiness from the raw, honest terror underneath.

The thought almost made you smile, but you didn’t.

“Beautiful night,” Rudy commented, breaking the moment.

You nodded stiffly, trying to steady your voice. “Yeah,” you managed, even as your thoughts still played at the edges of violence.

You both fell into the same silence again. The only sound coming from cars, sirens and your shoes crunching across the scattered shells and sand. The breeze whipped a strand of your hair into your mouth, and you brushed it away with a tense, deliberate motion.

“This is me,” you both stopped at a random building. You don’t live here, of course you don’t

Rudy paused beside you, studying the doorway with a polite, unreadable expression. “Nice place,” he remarked, like he believed you, or at least chose to pretend he did.

“Yeah,” you replied, smoothing the lie without missing a beat. “Thanks for walking me.”

His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, like he was trying to see past the calm, past the surface you wore so carefully. Then he smiled — soft, reassuring, practiced. “Anytime, Detective.”

You nodded, heart still thudding with a strange rush of adrenaline. “Goodnight, Rudy.”

“Goodnight,” he echoed, turning back toward the city with that same unhurried ease.

You waited until he was out of sight, until the darkness swallowed him completely, before you stepped away from the fake doorway and moved toward where you actually live. 

You moved quickly once he was gone, cutting across side streets and alleys until you reached your real building. The key scraped against the lock, your hands still faintly trembling from the encounter, though you’d never admit that.

Inside, the familiar smell of your home hit you. You took off your shoes and stay by the door, immediately took of your damp clothes leaving you in just your underwear. You headed straight to the bathroom. 

Hot water hammered against your skin in the shower, steam wrapping around you. You stood there for a long time, letting the water drum over your scalp, willing it to wash away the night, the memories, even the phantom touch of Rudy’s polite smile.

He is interesting, and you’re interested to find out what his insides look like. 

Would he beg?

Would he fight?

Or would he stay calm all the way to the end?

You shut the water off and stepped out, steam clinging to your skin. As you toweled off, you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror — clean, polished, composed. 

You went to your bedroom and turned on the dim light by your bed. You took your phone a saw a notification from an unknown number.

‘You looked beautiful in the ocean’

Your fingers hovered over the screen, then tightened around the phone until the casing creaked. A chill bled through your freshly showered skin, sinking into your bones. A thousand scenarios ran through your head, each one sharper than the last. Rudy? Some creep on the beach? Or worse — someone who knew you?

Slowly, carefully, you typed out a reply.

‘Who is this?’

The message sat there, blue bubble against black screen, taunting you. You watched the typing dots blink on and off, your breath caught in your chest.

Then the reply came.

‘Just a fan.’

You took a deep breath, feeling your pulse thrum in your throat. A fan? The word felt oily, wrong, sticking to your skin in a way that made you itch. Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, mind racing, trying to dissect every possibility. Was it a joke? A mistake? Or something much, much darker?

You swallowed, forcing your breathing to steady, then typed, slow and measured:

‘Do I know you?’

A pause. The typing dots reappeared, vanished, reappeared again.

Come on, you thought, tension ratcheting tighter in your shoulders.

Then, finally, the screen lit up with another message:

‘I think you’d like to.’

Your skin went cold, a shiver crawling down your spine. You exhaled, slow, steady and typed back a reply:

‘That’s not an answer, sweetheart.’

You stared hard at the screen, jaw tight, but a small smile playing on your lips. Excitement?

‘Patience. I’ll make it worth your while.’

Your pulse jumped, sharp and eager, even as something darker twisted in your gut.

‘And how do you plan to do that?’

A pause.

‘By showing you how perfectly I understand you. How perfectly we match.’

You typed, slow and deliberate:

‘You think you know me?’

The reply came quicker than you expected, like they’d been waiting for the question:

‘I do know you. I know what’s under the badge. I know what you crave when the city goes quiet. I know what you dream about when no one’s watching.’

Another message came:

‘I know you dreamt about slicing up that pretty boy walking you home today.’

         So maybe it’s not Rudy. But you can never be too sure. 

‘And you look beautiful wrapped in that towel right now.’

You froze for a second. The fuck? And you started typing:

‘Then maybe you should knock on my door instead of spying on me through my window.’

There was no reply at first. Just the hollow, ringing silence of your own breath as you turned, almost against your will, to glance at the window, the curtains half-drawn, the night pressing close.

‘Maybe I will. But where’s the fun in that?’

You swallowed hard. You should feel fear, but instead you feel excitement. Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, breathing shallow, pulse thrumming like a drumbeat inside your throat. 

You took a steadying breath, letting the tension coil through you, sharp and electric. The excitement burned through the thin veil of logic like acid. You should block the number, report it, lock the windows, but that part of you, the part that understood the thrill of the hunt, leaned closer instead.

Your thumbs moved carefully, deliberate:

‘Is this a game to you?’

A pause. The typing dots teased you, flickering in and out.

‘Only if you want it to be.’

Your chest tightened, heart pounding hard enough to make you feel dizzy. You drew the towel tighter around yourself, a shiver racing down your spine.

‘What do you want?’

There was no hesitation this time.

‘I want you to see me. The way I see you.’

Another chill slid under your skin.

‘Look out the window.’

Your throat clenched. Slowly, pulse roaring in your ears, you turned toward the half-drawn curtains, the night beyond suddenly a thousand times darker.

You stepped closer to the window, the towel clinging damply to your skin, heart hammering in your chest. One part of you screamed to stop, to pull the curtains shut and call it in, but another part, the part that thrived on danger, needed to know.

You inched the curtain aside, peering into the night. The street below was nearly empty, just a few parked cars and the dull glow of the streetlights. Nothing moved. Nothing obvious. But you could feel it — someone watching, patient, hidden, seeing you.

Your phone buzzed in your hand, and you nearly dropped it. A new message.

‘Perfect. Stay right there.’

Your breath hitched, a strange thrill pulsing through your veins, sharp and dangerous.

‘What do you mean?’ you typed, fingers trembling but steady enough.

A pause.

‘I want to watch you. Unwrap yourself.’

A flush burned through you, your mind a blur of warnings, wants, and something that felt like a dare.

‘And if I don’t?’

Another pause, longer this time, the typing dots appearing and disappearing.

‘Then I come in.’

Your pulse spiked so hard it hurt. You swallowed, eyes scanning the dark, searching for any sign of movement.

And then you slowly loosened the knot of your towel, the fabric falling apart, your body bared to the shadows, to whoever was out there.

Your phone buzzed again, so quiet it almost seemed apologetic.

‘Beautiful.’

A shiver crawled over your skin, half from the night air sneaking through the window, half from the message itself. Beautiful. The word sank into you like a needle, threading something dark and electric through your veins.

You swallowed hard, breathing slow, forcing the pounding of your heart to steady. You refused to flinch, refused to pull the towel back around yourself. Instead, you stepped closer to the glass, letting the night see you.

Your phone buzzed once more, breaking the hush.

‘Do you feel powerful, detective?’

A small, dangerous smile tugged at your mouth, even as your chest tightened with something more complicated, more primal. You raised the phone, thumbs steady, and typed:

‘Maybe. Do you?’

Seconds passed. Long enough to make you wonder if he was gone, if you’d called his bluff, but then:

‘We could be gods together.’

Your lips parted, breath catching on that word ‘gods’. Something twisted inside you, hungry and hot.

Your fingers trembled slightly as you wrote back:

‘Prove it.’

The reply came instantly, as if he’d been waiting:

‘Soon.’

You let the phone fall to your side, your other hand resting against the glass, eyes locked on the dark outside. The city was still moving beyond you — cars, sirens, lives being lived, but none of it mattered. Only this did.

You closed the blinds slowly, a smirk playing on your lips. You moved away from the window, still naked. You went to your closer for some pajama and got into the bed.

• namgyu is extremely touchy during sex. his hands are always roaming around your body, squeezing and pinching.

• when he’s nestled between your thighs, he definitely loves it when you pull his hair. it drives him crazy and he’ll only get messier with his movements.

• he definitely loves to overstimulate you. to hear you beg and whine and tell him you can’t take any more only makes him smirk.

in-ho who get off from watching you cry after majority of players voted to stay. keeping his hand on your back, slightly massaging, letting you cry on his chest, playing into his caring friend fantasy. he swallowed hard, feeling your plump breast and hearing your soft sobs. his other hand in your hair petting them gently, slightly pulling.

you look at him with quivering lips along with eyes filled with tears. asking, why are they doing this, clutching the fabric of his shirt in your hands. in-ho whispers promises about keeping you safe. and you do feel safe in his arms.

he wonders, if you would cry at first. surely. you're far less experienced than him. but he would make sure you enjoy it, maybe even more than he does.

he shush you, hoping you don't notice how hard he is now. in-ho knows you must have, you're basically laying on him, your head on his chest and your legs tangled together.