Just loads of current obsessions

Despite the late hour, the waiting room had been packed and any glance your way felt like something intrusive and prodding. You had been fully ready to wait the whole night before you could be seen but after your vitals had been taken and triaged, the doctor had pushed you to the front of the line and into the next available room.

So here you sit, the paper beneath you crinkling every time you squirm and try to find a far more comfortable position before giving in entirely and leaning over to your side. You support yourself with your elbow and try to ignore the prodding pain in your backside.

"Good evening, I'm Dr. Abbot, what seems to be the problem?"

Your stomach drops; just your luck that the doctor assigned to help you fish out your newest toy is panty-dropping handsome. A silver fox through and through, he looks downright delectable with those large freckled arms that seem to be bursting through those black scrubs. If it had been any other day, you might've turned on the charm, flirt your way to a dinner date or more.

But it's 1:37 AM, you have a fuzzy, bunnytail plug stuck inside you and you're desperate to just get home without your asshole gaping.

"Um." You glance at the iPad in his hand, hoping that whoever saw you first recorded it in your chart so you wouldn't have to repeat yourself. But the handsome doctor is waiting patiently. "I have something… stuck inside me."

"Ah. I'll see what I can do. Roll over for me, sweetheart."

The night shift always brings on the weirdest cases that after all his years of working, nothing could phase him at this point. Seeing you, looking so uncomfortable and startled on the exam table, ranks so low on said weird cases that he misses the note Crus had left on your chart and went right in on the usual greeting.

"… what seems to be the problem—?"

Butt plug lodged in anus, patient reports mild pain and heavy discomfort.

Jack rereads the sentence a few times before he looks up at you. Pretty albeit shy, your cheeks flushed and your gaze seemingly land anywhere but him. When you listen and roll over onto your stomach, he swallows the instinctive 'good girl' that threatens to spill from his lips.

He tugs on a fresh pair of gloves, strengthening his spine and fortifying the usual mask of professionalism he wears. You're laid out on your stomach now, the blankets of the exam table tugged down to right below your ass. Before he could ask you to lift your hips, you do so on your own, knees spread apart.

Face down, ass up.

He swallows thickly as he gently nudges the seam of the hospital gown apart at your spine. What greets him has heat boiling in his gut: a fuzzy pink, bunny cottontail buttplug nestled right in between your asscheeks.

"Alright, I'm gonna touch you back here, see how deep it's in there before we try extraction," he murmurs. You whimper when he gives an experimental but gentle tug. "Is there any stinging sensation?"

"Nuh-uh," you mumble into the pillow.

Jack swallows again as the cottontail plug gives beneath his grip, his other hand pushing your left asscheek aside. "Let me know if I pull too hard, alright?"

You nod and he sees the way your moves against the pillow.

"Words, please."

Your thighs clench as you fight off the simmering heat that your frustratingly hot doctor starts with those two simple words. "Yes, I will." An honorific sits behind your teeth (daddy? sir? whichever, it seems to fit him regardless of what you use) but you swallow it down.

Meanwhile, Jack tries to ignore the tell-tale sheen between your thighs, keeps his gloved hands where they need to be. His mind races through horrific, bloody accidents of the week prior to keep his other head from wandering. "Good," he mutters.

Silence falls between you two as Jack gently adds medical-grade lubricant, apologizing at the cool temperature of it against your heated skin. After a few rotations of the plug, you clamp your teeth around the hospital gown to stifle any wayward moans.

"Mm—" You whimper anyways and Jack stills. "I'm okay—! Just, uh— is it almost out?"

Jack clears his throat; he's grateful you can't see him or the creeping blush up his neck. "Almost. I gotta take it slow to avoid any possible injuries."

The thought makes you lightheaded but you ground yourself back into reality before your mind can start jumping to worst case scenarios. "That makes sense."

He twists the plug and a flare of arousal blooms in your core, more pleasure than pain now. "So," he clears his throat again, an attempt at normalcy. "What do you do for work?" He mentally pats himself on the back at the inane question, hoping it'll be enough to distract you as he attempts at another tug.

You squeak anyways as your ring of muscles expand at the widest part of the plug. Jack adds more lubricant. "This," you manage to say.

Jack's dick gives a willfull throb but he forces it down with the degloving case from the night before. "O-Oh?"

"I… stream? I'm an adult streamer, oh fuck—!"

Your ass is gaping slightly as Jack inadvertently tugs the whole plug out with little warning, an involuntary reaction from your reveal. "Shit— sorry, sweetheart. Don't move—"

The silicone toy hits the metal tray beside you in a dull thud, the fluffy end of it peeking above the lip of the tray, while you feel his gloved digits gently probe around the ring. "Just making sure there aren't any abrasions, any cuts or irritation before we finish up here." He sees your head nod against the pillows so he continues on with his examination.

Your ass is firm beneath his touch. Pilates, maybe. Or strength training. His jaw clenches as he forces his mind to the present again, resumes the exam before carefully covering you up with the hospital gown again. "You're all good, sweetheart, you can turn onto your back now."

A part of him feels a sick sense of satisfaction at the way you squirm from the easy use of petnames. He's always been a natural flirt, that roguish charm that calms patients enough for him to diagnose, but it's a touch more fun when it works on someone as pretty as you.

"Thank you, Dr. Abbot."

But the gentle cadence of your voice cuts through him and shame trickles in like molasses. When did he turn out to be such a perv? Maybe the night shift is getting to him. He clears his throat, assuming his professional stance, but your smile turns wicked and there's something mischievous in your gaze that he can't quite place.

"Really, I can't thank you enough," you say as you carefully roll over to settle in an upright position. "But, um… is it possible if I can keep the toy?"

He lets out a little laugh and nods. With his hands still gloved, he retrieves a plastic bag from one of the cabinets and places the toy in before handing it to you. "'course you can. Just make sure you prep yourself better next time."

Jack nearly winces at the crass statement but you reward him with a bemused giggle. "Don't worry, I learned my lesson. It's a good thing I'm testing it out first before a stream. It'd be so embarrassing if I got it stuck inside me while I was live," you share and he tries not to look too eager as you share more about your unorthodox occupation.

"Do you… do that often?" The question falls flat and he makes up for it with an embarrassed chuckle, discarding his gloves in the nearby waste basket. "Jesus, tell me if I'm overstepping here."

You laugh again and Jack's positive he isn't as funny as you make him to be but he'd gladly make a fool of himself if he got to hear that sound again. "You're fine. Trust me, I've heard worse."

"What if I want to be the best you've heard?"

Your brow rises up in mild surprise. "Was that a line, Dr. Abbot?"

"Maybe."

"It's not very good."

"It's also 2 AM, sweetheart."

You cross your arms, tilt yout head to the side and it feels like he's being taken apart. "Do you make it a habit to flirt with your patients?"

"Just the pretty ones— oh, yikes. Yeah, that one was bad," he concedes with a light laugh. "I may be a flirt, but you're trouble. Now… think you can behave while I go grab your discharge papers?"

Your smile is saccharine sweet. "Of course."

He chuckles and shakes his head, nudging the door open with his hip before he exits. The rest of the evening goes by routinely: you sign off on a few papers before changing back into your clothes. Dr. Abbot is nowhere to be seen until you're walking towards the exit, your gait a tad bit crooked, and he's leaning against the counter by the nurses' station.

"Thanks again, doctor."

The wink you give him nearly stops his heart, your easy demeanor returning now that you aren't battling the embarrassment of having a butt plug stuck inside you. When the door shuts behind you and the chaos of the emergency department resumes around him, Crus Henderson cackles behind his chart.

"What?" Jack frowns.

The smile Henderson gives him is downright sinister. "You're not slick, old man."

"It's fine." Shen materializes beside him with an obnoxiously loud slurp of his perpetually full iced coffee. "Technically, she isn't your patient anymore. And Crus and I won't tell."

"There's nothing to tell—!"

The two share knowing grins before walking off. "Sure, Abbot. Sure. Wait 'til you're off to look her up though."

Jack splutters. "I'm not going to look her up—"

In the quiet of his bedroom, Jack looks you up.

The sun's already filtering through his window blinds and it feels like some social transgression to be searching up porn during the day. But he's showered and clean with his prosthetic off, tucked under his covers and leaned against his headboard. The cursor's blinking up at him, taunting him. He doesn't even know where to begin but he's got your full name, wonders if it's enough to even catch a trace of you on social media.

He types your name in anyway on instagram and his breath leaves him in a rush when your profile sits at the top of the search results. Your profile pic is innocent enough, smiling brightly, but upon further inspection, your shoulders and collarbone is exposed right where the photo is cut off; an implication that you've got nothing on below the edge of your profile. Once he manages to tear his gaze away, his eyes snag onto the amount of followers you have. Four million. An impressed whistle escapes him as he starts to scroll.

Your photos are still pretty tame, nothing more risque than a bikini shot of you at the beach. To anyone that isn't regularly watching adult streamers, you look like any other influencer of the modern age. Wholesome photos of you are attached as well, displaying your interests and hobbies that has Jack falling deeper and deeper into your orbit.

It's nearly noon when he realized he may have spent the previous hours just looking up your social media sites. One thing that did stick out like a sore thumb (aside from your jaw-dropping photos) had been the lack of use of your real name. He understands the reasoning, knows its for safety especially with the kind of career you're in, but the affectionate nickname you use for yourself and what your subscribers use has a lick of jealousy flaring in his chest.

Dollface. Doll. Dolly.

He scrolls back up before the little monster in his chest grows and a nondescript url catches his eye, the hyperlink sitting pretty beneath your bio. Before he could secondguess himself, he taps it and his phone brings him out of instagram and into his browser app where your website loads on his screen.

While Jack isn't some tech-savvy genius, he's confident enough to say that your page must've been done by a professional. Summer pastels greet him, a variation of your profile pic on instagram (more skin, more sultry—) sitting on the top left of the screen with 'DOLL'S CORNER' splashed on the top of the page and a drop down menu that he decides to explore later.

It's arranged like some sort of blog, your most recent status marked as eight hours ago where you're complaining about some ache. He bites back a smirk before he scrolls down your older posts. There's many videos, ranging from 'get ready with me!'s and 'shopping hauls' with pretty thumbnails, but the one that steals his attention are the ones that are grayed out — almost pixelated with a pink heart-lock graphic in the center.

[ UPGRADE YOUR TIER LEVEL TO ACCESS THIS VIDEO! ♡ ]

His thumb hovers over the lock-graphic before he gives in.

The screen loads and he's taken to a new page, marked by different tiers and different price points.

BESTIES — free! access includes: - get ready with me - weekly vlogs - shopping hauls SWEETHEARTS — weekly subscription. ($) - everything besties has to offer! - short-form lewd content - locked photos from the vault - audios LOVERS — monthly subscription. ($$$) - everything sweethearts and besties has to offer! - midnight live-streams - personalized short-form videos - personalized audios

Jack blinks twice. He continues to scroll before he catches a three-day free trial for all the paid tiers. He bypasses it and taps a single month purchase for access to the LOVERS' vault (after creating a profile and naming it simply with his initials). His dick stirs in his pajamas as the screen loads before it confirms his payment.

All the grayed-out videos are unlocked but rather than an aesthetic thumbnail with pretty collages like your free content, they're blurred out images of you within the video — enough to imply exactly what's going on in each one.

He scrolls on to see another video of you trying on outfits, specifically lingerie. Figuring this is as close as it'll get to dipping his toes in the metaphorical pond of your NSFW content for now, he hits play.

The video starts off with your pretty face adjusting the camera before you settle back on a white rug, surrounded by opened boxes. You greet the camera and it feels like a blow to the gut to see you in your element. If he thought you were pretty in the emergency room, under the garish lighting of the bright fluorescents, you're a goddamn bombshell with perfect makeup and flattering lighting.

As you address the camera, he begins to wonder how exactly you could be an adult streamer when you have content like this until you bring out the haul for the video. White ivory boxes detailed with cream ribbons, baby pink boxes wrapped nicely with ebony lace and tulle. He catches a name on one of the boxes: La Perla.

Jack shifts in his seat, bats away the creeping guilt of watching a young woman try on lingerie, but the charge was confirmed on his card already; it's too late for regret.

(He fears there isn't any regret in the first place.)

Fortunately for his heart (or unfortunately for his twitching cock), you had edited the videos to cut through the actual process of changing into them and rather just show off the full sets.

You didn't seem to have a preference for color, each piece ranging from a monochromatic black to butter yellow lace. Either way, you look gorgeous in all of them and Jack isn't ashamed to admit he's about to blow in his boxers, untouched, at just the sight of you in lingerie.

When the video ends, he replays it but makes it a point to keep his hands out of his pants for now. Instead, he drops a like and a simple comment:

@.swatdoc. — You're magnificent.

Confident in the anonymity of his profile, he puts his phone away to finally catch up on sleep.

Across the city, your phone buzzes with a new notification as you have breakfast on your island counter. Despite the waves of engagement you get on your content, you still keep the notifications on and the newest one brings forth a flutter in your stomach. Compliments are a nickel apiece when it comes to your career but the simplicity of this one and the lack of crudeness that follows steals your attention.

You take a bite of your food as you tap the notif, bringing on the new account profile. While most are kept blank, this man has a profile pic of his back facing a gorgeous sunset. Despite the fact his face is unseen, you recognize those salt and pepper curls.

In the following days, Jack begins to make it a habit to check on your daily statuses. You don't post daily on instagram but you post stories and he enjoys your little activities, likes how everyone seems to be so kind to you. It makes him wonder if your followers are aware of your evening activities, of your content tucked safely away behind a paywall.

Even in the comments section in both the SFW and NSFW side of your content, he realizes you've amassed a loyal following comprised of women that it nearly hides the lewd and desperate remarks from your male subscribers.

@deathreverse : that top is gorggggg!!! ♡

@pearlessance : your makeup is stunning, drop a routine next babes!!

@enam3l: absolutely obsessed w you!! ♡

@mariasont: that shade of pink suits you BEAUTIFULLY

In your last NSFW video, it's you in bed, a thin blanket draped loosely along your frame. There isn't an intro like your lingerie haul, just getting right into it as if the viewer catches you in the middle of the act: your hand sliding beneath the fabric, the camera shaking slightly as you rearrange your position to lay back against the mountain of pillows.

Jack's mimicking the position on his day off, his own back cushioned against his headboard as he watches in rapt attention. His readers are sliding off his nose but he adjusts them as he hits the volume increase button twice. He wants to hear you, addicted to the way you sound so sweet whimpering around your fingers.

Obsessed with the way your moans can sound so goddamn endearing.

He doesn't let the video play on, his hand still sitting obediently above the waist band of his sweatpants as he tries to catch his breath. He scrolls onward instead, stops at a tamer video of you shopping at a boutique.

@.swatdoc. — Gorgeous as always, bunny.

The cursor blinks as he secondguesses the petname. No one's called you anything other than 'doll' or 'dolly' or some iteration of baby or babe. Bunny's innocuous enough, Jack decides, and taps 'comment'. It'll be an inside joke for himself, for the evening you may as well tipped his world upside down when you'd come into the pitt for a stuck bunny buttplug. You get thousands of comments a day, the likelihood of you recognizing him is abysmally low.

The little pep talk he gives himself soothe the minor anxiety spike as he continues to scroll on, amusing himself with the way your bright personality seems to shine through even with the nasty videos that has his cock twitching to life.

He distracts himself with the comments section instead of exiting the video.

@.deathreverse — jesuuus christ, ur so fucking hot

@.deathreverse — let me rip that gorgeous top off you plsplspls

@.pearlessance — let me make your moans my ringtone and i'll never miss a call

The women commenting are far more entertaining to read through, the creativity of it all always taking him aback, despite the usual stab of jealousy. At this point, his parasocial streak of possessiveness is something he's learned to ignore, to let sit beneath a layer of faux indifference.

He's just a fan now among millions, he'll bask in the anonymity your popularity affords him.

You might be obsessed with your most latest subscriber. A Mr. Swatdoc with the silver curls.

Realistically, it may be the hot doctor that had seen you through the most mortifying ordeal of taking out a buttplug at two in the morning but the profile pic doesn't give you much and his profile is blank aside from his chosen screen name (swatdoc) and his age (48).

Regardless, your heart does a funny little twist whenever he appears in your notifications (only on your SFW posts, interestingly enough) whether it's a like or an extra tip but your stomach drops when his newest comment adds a new petname.

Bunny.

You sit up in bed when the notification comes through. Gorgeous as always, bunny. The fucking bunny, cotton-tail buttplug. The same one that Dr. Abbot had all but talked you through it as he gently removed it from your asshole. You glance up to see the damned toy sitting on your dresser right across from your bed, mocking you.

The bed dips beneath as you shift your weight, rolling around in bed as you reread that goddamn nickname over and over again. Bunny.

As your eyes bore into your screen, your phone buzzes.

[@.swatdoc liked your vlog!]

[@.swatdoc commented: Can't get enough of you, bunny.]

A sudden wave of confidence (or perhaps impulsiveness) washes through you and you tap his comment. And in quick succession, you like his comment and tap on his profile. Then his inbox. And finally:

doll : doctor abbot???

Jack drops his phone like it burned him. He sits up, nearly kicks off his blankets in his chaos as his heart falls right out of his ass. He didn't even know there was a messaging system on your website but there it is, that red notification bubble on the top right. He taps it and there's the chatbox.

He contemplates on lying, on playing dumb but he respects you far too much to lie to you. A heavy sigh escapes him as he resettles back into his bed and his cock sheepishly sits limp against his inner thigh.

swatdoc : How did you know it was me?

doll : i'd recognize those silver curls anywhere ♡

Huh. The little heart emoticon blinks up at him, maybe even glows. His cock gives a hopeful twitch.

swatdoc : Let me get this right. You aren't weirded out by me finding your website?

doll : you pulled my buttplug out of my ass, doctor. i think we're even.

swatdoc : Sounds fair.

doll : i do want to ask, strictly as a survey yknow, just to make sure i'm reaching subscriber satisfaction expectations. but is my nsfw stuff not hot enough?

swatdoc : I don't know how to answer that.

doll : you aren't liking any of my nsfw videos…….. am i not your type?

He can imagine it, that wry little grin when you tease the camera, makes him want to fuck it out of you—

swatdoc : Just trying to be respectful. Or as respectful as I can be given the circumstances, sweetheart.

doll : i think you're super respectful, i see the tips you've been leaving….. thank you btw ♡

swatdoc : You're welcome, bunny. doll liked your message!

The activity light near your name goes off and he figures you might've logged off. His thumb drags up the screen to exit the page, sets his phone down and attempt at sleeping. But in the midst of his dark bedroom, there's a stirring in his gut that he can't seem to shake. An itch he needs scratching.

Time fluctuates, slips through his fingers as he finds himself on a popular porn website, the light of his phone illuminating his hazel eyes. He scrolls and scrolls past countless videos, the thumbnails made to entice anyone in his position, and yet frustration starts to grow larger than the lust that's been simmering beneath his heated skin.

None of the actresses look like you.

The thought floors him and he pauses when he finds a woman with a similar body type as you, wears her hair the same way you do. Her moans are a bit too pitchy but he punches the volume down and when his hand slides beneath his sweatpants, he doesn't feel guilt. And when he cums, it's your name spilling from his lips.

"You seeing anyone?"

Jack doesn't look up from the iPad as Robby settles in beside him, ready to take over for day shift as night shift starts to filter out. "What are you talking about?"

"Y'know. Dating? Getting out there? 'cuz Peaches has someone—"

"Not interested, brother, but I thank you for your service." Jack smiles but it's forced, halfway towards a grimace, and places the iPad down with a little too much force. He stomps off to the locker room. Robby and Dana watch his retreating back before they share a look.

"What's his problem?" Dana mutters, her glasses sitting low on the slope of her nose.

Robby chuckles and shakes his head. "No idea."

The truth is— Jack does have a problem. That problem is you.

He thought he'd been good, kept his hands to himself when he gets to his usual routine of stalking your website, and lets his fantasies run wild when he switches over to another porn site to find an actress that looks like you.

But then you had kept texting him, messaging him on your website that the line he's drawn between staying respectful and admiring you from afar against his baseless desire of wanting to fuck you 'til you cry is starting to blur. Of course you have no idea of this line, no clue of the existence of the boundaries Jack's made for himself.

You have no idea that Jack wants more than a physical interaction with you and he has no idea how to ask you out without coming off like a complete pervert.

doll: dr abbot?? swatdoc: You know you can call me Jack, sweetheart. doll: take me out first then i'll feel comfortable enough to call you whatever you want.

Jack nearly shortcircuits at your reply and he fights the urge to hide his phone, shove it in his pocket to deal with later. It'd just look too suspicious and with Shen's eyes on him, he knows he'd blab straight to Lena who'd definitely gossip with Dana. While Dana's known to keep a secret, anything involving him and a potential partner is a surefire way for her to tell Robby.

swatdoc: You mean it, bunny? doll: spending time with you? of course ♡

Jack chuckles and swipes his palm across his stubbly mouth, absolutely incredulous at your gumption.

swatdoc: I meant a date. Not just one night. This old man isn't built for casual. doll: okay old man. take me out to dinner then ♡ it'd give me a chance to redo the first impression you have of me swatdoc: I think it was a perfect first impression, bunny. doll: you saw my ass, of course you thought so!!! swatdoc: I was actually enamored by your charming personality. Your ass was a bonus. doll: … flirt. you're smooth dr abbot. doll: so when's our date? swatdoc: My next day off is in a couple days. How's saturday night looking for you? doll: i'm free !!! gonna come pick me up? swatdoc: If you're comfortable with it, I'd love to. So, saturday at 7? doll: i trust you ♡ and yes, i'll see you then.

He gets a text from you the following day (you'd admitted filching his number from the profile he's made on your website) and after a brief facetime call to prove your identity, he receives your address with a playful tag of: don't be late, dr. abbot.

Saturday's only a couple days away and yet he's fidgeting. He's got a night shift to get his mind off things but even Lena can see he's distracted. While he managed to wave away his colleagues' concerns, he wonders if he's the only one this anxious or nervous for the date.

[ Doll updated her status! ] — 2 secs ago. — Butterflies. ♡

A wave of notifications flood your phone despite the simple status update but you couldn't care less— not when you've got every possible combination of a date outfit laid out on your bed and nothing looks good. You have time, of course, there's nothing stopping you from going out shopping but the extra options might just exacerbate your indecision.

A pitiful whine escapes you as the paralysis of all your options land you flat on your back atop your mattress, clothing wrinkles be damned.

Whether or not the both of you are ready, Saturday evening arrives quickly.

The only information Jack had given you about the date aside from taking you out for a nice, classic dinner was to 'look nice'. As charming and handsome as he is, you resent the fact that he's like every other man his age: allergic to details. Somehow you manage to put on something simple but flattering, a black cocktail dress with a hemline that skims above your knee and a sweetheart neckline that teases your cleavage along with a bold, red pair of stilettos. Pairing it with a matching clutch, you deem yourself ready after a final swipe of lip gloss across your pouty lips.

"Here we go…" you murmur to yourself. Just as you dab at your lower lip with the pad of your ring finger, your doorbell rings. Seven on the dot.

Your heels click against the floor as you open your door to be greeted with Jack in slacks and a navy blue button down… as well as a bouquet of your favorite flowers. You gasp first, greetings momentarily forgotten in favor of taking the offered bouquet for a sweet sniff. Jack's compliments die on his tongue when he truly sees you, nose buried in the petals.

"How'd you know these were my favorite?" You ask as you step back, head tipping to wordlessly invite him in as you seek out a vase.

"I watched your vlogs," he shrugs with a shameless little smile. "I picked up a few details."

Maybe he shouldn't be as stunned as he is now — he's seen you in various states of dressed and undressed at this point — but you've truly left him speechless when you had opened the door, wearing that little black dress that hugs your body perfectly.

He's grateful that you notice the flowers first, cooing and gasping at the curated arrangement rather than noticing his thunderstruck stupor. It gives him a moment to clear his throat, admire the way you smile at the bouquet.

"You look divine," he murmurs as he follows you inside, watches you putter around your open space kitchen to place the flowers in water. And maybe it's his ego that's got him this taken by you; knowing that perhaps only he alone gets to see this side of you, bashful and charming. When you blush at his compliment, he feels like the king of the world.

"You don't look so bad yourself," you tease with a playful wink, taking his offered hand as he leads you out the door.

Jack's a gentleman when he helps you into his car, glancing aside momentarily when your dress rides up upon seating. He's a gentleman when you make it to the fine-dining restaurant ("Heard the new executive chef just received two Michelin stars!" you share excitedly), opening doors for you and keeping a respecful hand at the small of your back. He pulls your chair out for you, too. Perhaps the bar is in hell but you're undoubtedly impressed and giddy, basking in his undivided attention as you wear your heart on your sleeve for the rest of the evening.

"… and they all looked at it like it was something alien. It was a fax machine—!" Jack laughs, regaling you with the infamous July 4 analog nightmare from hell at the pitt. Dessert is lain between you two, half-eaten and momentarily forgotten as the two of you had been lost in conversation. He'd been worried that he might gross you out or bore you with his job as an ER physician but you had asked and prodded for more gory details, nose scrunching adorably when he explained what a degloving was.

"Okay, fax machines are basically obsolete," you counter with a giggle, lips parting as he feeds you a bite of cake. He waits patiently for you to chew before you continue on. "No one uses them anymore!"

Jack shakes his head in mock disappointment before you return the favor and feed him a bite from your own fork. "Sweetheart, these are vital skills!" Something warm flutters in his chest when you reach up to absentmindedly wipe away a bit of frosting from the corner of his lips, your painted nail skimming across his skin with the movement.

"How about this, I'll call you on the off chance I'll ever need to use a fax machine," you say dryly. A chuckle escapes Jack, low and grumbly that it has your thighs clenching together beneath the table.

"Sure. Or call me whenever, I'll always answer."

The ease of his flirting never fails to make you flustered and Jack capitalizes on it whenever he gets the chance. Like clockwork, you giggle and glance aside, a pretty blush on your cheeks as you look anywhere but his eyes. It's a wonderful side of you that he's steadily growing obsessed with. Yes, your online persona in your SFW space is charming and enchanting while you're essentially a succubus — sex incarnate — when the sun drops low.

But this is you, unabashedly you, and Jack can't get enough of it. He wants more than what you probably expect from him, a warm body to occupy his bed (judging from the stories you've shared about past experiences), and he's ready to go above and beyond to prove to you that he's willing to do whatever it takes so that he could call all of you his.

"Hey, how are we doing? Dessert's good?" The head-of-house manager of the restaurant cuts in seamlessly; he seems to have a good sense of when to enter a conversation.

You smile brightly and Jack nods. "It's delicious, thank you. Every dish has been fantastic," you gush.

"Wonderful, that's what I like to hear," the manager crows before he straightens out his tie. "You two are a beautiful couple. Are we celebrating an anniversary?"

Now it's Jack's turn to get bashful. "Uh, no, a first date, actually."

The manager looks taken aback but he bounces back with a low chuckle, two hands on his chest in subtle apology. "If it helps, the chemistry you two have is undeniable. Truly. But anyways, I came by to ask if you two would like to join us in the garden party out back or maybe a nice little kitchen tour?"

Your eyes shimmer with excitement and Jack gives a yes, offering his hand for you to take. The manager smiles and claps once. "Perfect, let me take you to where the magic happens."

After meeting the famed head chefs and even sampling a few of the desserts at the pastry station, you're positively glowing as the two of you step out to where a small get together of other guests mingle by picnic tables. A few guys that may be the line cooks are handing out beer and soda, giving off a more relaxed vibe than the one inside. It's pleasant and when you feel a chill, Jack's draping his jacket along your shoulders without a word.

"Thanks," you hum, eyes fluttering as you take in his warm and musky cologne that seeps in from the collar. He chuckles and places a hand on the bottom of your spine.

"Of course," he murmurs then tips his head to wear the drinks are being passed around. "Did you want any—?"

"No, I think I'm stuffed. Did you…?"

Jack shakes his head and the nerves from before the date nearly come back in full force. You aren't naive, you know what kind of expectations your job gives people whenever you go on dates. While Jack's been a gentleman the entire evening, you can't deny the fact that him being a subscriber to your NSFW content does skew the way he must see you.

The drive back to your place is quiet and calm, your hand folded delicately in his as he drives. He walks you to your door but much to your surprise, he doesn't step past the threshold.

"I had an amazing time," he says first, his lined eyes crinkling as he gives you a warm smile. "I'd really like to see you again."

You nod, leaning against your doorway as you realize his hand has found yours again. Your joined fingers sway slightly. "Me too. I… I really liked tonight."

He smiles wider as if you've erased any doubts he's had. "Good. I'll, um. I'll let you get some rest. I'll call you when I get my next day off, alright?"

"Yeah, sounds good."

"Great." And with a smooth and unhurried motion, he leans in for a kiss to your cheek, chaste and sweet. "By the way, I want you to know I'm all in. I'm not trying to waste your time or make you think I'm here for the physical aspect. I like you, sweetheart. Truly."

And with a final pinch of your chin, he steps away and bids you good night before walking off. Later that night, you realize you haven't stopped smiling until you climb into bed, alone but completely content.

When morning comes, Jack sends you a good morning text before he cleans up around the house, settle in before his shift later that evening. He doesn't check his phone 'til noon and when he does, he sees a text back from you and a notification from your website.

[Doll just posted a video!] — 3 hours ago.

His stomach drops. While he truly has no issue with you continuing your camgirl career, something twists inside him at the thought of you getting off the night before without him. Is it that feeling of missing out or is it the fact that he hadn't been there to fulfill that need of yours?

Regardless, his heart is pounding when he taps the notification. The video loads and a breath of relief leaves him in a rush.

[New video!] Get un-ready with me! — Skincare Routine.

He chuckles and leans against the kitchen counter, turns his phone sideways to see you fill his screen in the same dress from the night before. You must be in your bathroom, he notes, as you relay your steps carefully to your audience.

"I know everyone will be asking but I just came back from a wonderful dinner. Food was absolutely divine, I'm already considering going back soon. But…" A bashful smile curls onto your lips and Jack's beaming. "The company was even better. Anyways— moving onto the foam cleanser…"

Your routine ends after you apply your serums and creams, signing off on the camera. The comments section pop up immediately.

@.mariasont — your skin looks so good but you look GLOWINGGG

@.pearlessance — were you on a date?? that dress is fantastic!!

Jack chuckles when he sees that you've dropped a like on that commenter about a date but nothing more. Fan the rumors without confirming anything, looks like you're a tease in more ways than one.

Unable to help himself, he scrolls down his contacts and taps yours. The phone rings once, twice, then—

"Jack?"

"Hey, sweetheart. Is this a bad time?"

You sound a tad bit out of breath but you reassure him nonetheless. "No, no, you're fine. What's up?"

"Well, I—" He interrupts himself with a shy laugh. "I don't know if it's too soon but I'd like to take you out again. My next day off is next week on Friday."

"Oh!" You sound positively pleased and Jack can picture you biting your lower lip to hide that smile he's obsessed with. "Yeah, I can make that happen. Are we doing dinner?"

"No, I was thinking of visiting the aquarium this time around."

"The aquarium…"

He bites back a grin, can picture the excitement simmering beneath the slight trepidation of your words. "That's right. Unless there's something else—"

"No, it's perfect!" You cut in with a little giggle. "Jack, did you watch all my vlogs?"

"Of course I did. And it truly can't be that much of a hardship to learn how much you love the place when you've got vlogs of you there nearly every month," he teases. "But if it's something you like to do on your own—"

"No, no, it's fine, Jack, I'd love to." He can hear the way your voice softens. "I can't wait."

"Alright, it's a date. I'll see you next Friday, sweetheart."

Friday doesn't come fast enough this time around. You've got an outfit bought and ready to go, a simple skirt with a blouse that you might've picked to match his eyes. Jack's on time yet again, two PM on the dot, and while he still keeps his hands to himself, he basks in the way your hand constantly seeks out the crook of his elbow.

You regale him with fish facts throughout each wing of the aquarium and he watches with besotted eyes when you basically glow at the sight of the jellyfish. Conversation ebbs and flows and he's pressing soft kisses into your hair like he can't quite help himself.

By the time you've both made it back to his car, he helps you in while placing the massive jellyfish plushy he bought you at the gift shop onto your lap. It's silly and absolutely wholesome.

It's made you undeniably horny for him.

You appreciate it though, you see how he's gone above and beyond to show you that he wants a relationship out of this. He doesn't expect you to be 'easier' because of your job as a camgirl nor does he think he's entitled to anything more than a kiss on the cheek because of what you show online.

And it's making you want him so bad that you feel like the pervert in this situation.

At your doorway, he's got a hand on your waist this time and your arms are draped loosely around his neck while still holding onto the jellyfish plush that's dangling behind his back.

"Today was lots of fun," you say first, nearly chest to chest with him. He nods, feeling the way you shiver when his thumb rubs circles against your hip bones. Above the fabric of your shirt.

"It was," he agrees as he basks in the sweet scent of your perfume. This close, you're practically intoxicating. "I enjoyed the little fish facts too, didn't know my date was a lovely encyclopedia—"

Your eyes roll playfully at the teasing jab, exaggerating your movements as you unwind your arms to step out of his embrace. "If you hate me, just say so—"

"Now hold on, I never said it was a bad thing," he chuckles and you let out a quiet squeal when his grip tightens, pulling you back into his arms. "Thought it was cute."

"Sure you do," you tease back and you realize he's pulled you even closer now. His voice is a rumble, low and gravelly as the distance between your lips is beginning to diminish.

"I do." He murmurs, his nose brushing against yours. "This okay?"

You nod, throat bobbing. "More than okay," you whisper.

His gaze drops from your eyes, back to your lips, before they close the distance. Your heart thunders in your chest as your arms tighten around his neck to pull him lower. He goes easily, smiling against your lips. He doesn't deepen it, though, just steals a handful of more feather-light kisses that elicits a string of giggles from you, your foot popping up and your back bending slightly backwards as he dips you and showers you in affection.

Eventually, he reluctantly pulls away but not without giving you one more kiss. "Have a good rest of your evening, sweetheart," he murmurs. "Make sure you lock the door behind you, yeah?"

You nod, sighing dramatically as you lean against the back of your door as he steps out to the hallway. "I will. Can I see you again soon, Jack?"

His poor little heart thunders wildly at your adorable expression, half-pleading and half-fond. "Of course, princess. Maybe we can do something like this again, maybe a museum or that fair?"

You perk up with a nod. "That sounds like fun."

"Good. I'll see you soon, darling."

You sigh dreamily and blow him a kiss before shutting the door. You lean against the paneling and groan into your hands.

In the silence of your apartment, you wail— "Why won't he fuck me?!"

The time between your last date to the aquarium to your next one at the museum, you and Jack continue to text. Whether it's you giving him advice for a dish he's making or asking his opinion on which top would look well for a brunch you're attending with your girlfriends, the conversations never slow nor do they ever bore.

And in between those texts, Jack is happily gorging himself on your content while only getting off on actresses that hold resemblance to you. It's twisted and he knows it's wrong but he pictures your face in the shower sometimes, thinks of the way your teeth sink in your plush lower lip as his hand tugs at his cock.

You, however, hold no qualms as you drive the dildo deep in your cunt on late evenings, whimpering for the camera you've got set up. You always make it a habit to just plead, whine and beg more than you might naturally would with a partner, but when Jack's on your mind, you have nothing to exaggerate; you just get way more vocal as you think of his strong hands on your waist. The way he had commanded that kiss without being overbearing.

That kiss alone had wrung out three orgasms from you without the camera on.

Maybe it should've been enough to tide you over but as you start your usual midnight livestream the evening before your next date with Jack, a new title spills past your lips in the throes of your first climax. It shouldn't be a surprise at how easily the name comes to you, especially with how natural it seemed for Jack to take care of you—

"'m cumming, daddy—!"

The pings on your laptop nearby that you use for monitoring the chats go wild, the bell ringing that signified the amount of tips that just flooded your inbox from the title alone. You slump over as you catch your breath from where you've been riding your suction dildo, whining softly to yourself as the toy slides out of you. Your inner thighs are quivering as you lift your gaze to the laptop screen.

"Thanks for stopping by," you croon to the camera before shutting off the stream.

Across the city, Jack palms at his bulge, mouth slightly agape as he tries not to cum in his sweatpants like a teenager. "Fuck."

"I didn't really take you to be a museum kind of guy."

"I'm not. Not really… My friend's fiancée recommended it to us, thought we might like the new exhibit," Jack shrugs as he keeps you near with a hand around your waist. The new exhibit had garnered a sizable crowd and the last thing he wants is to lose you. Especially since you seem preoccupied with the information pamplet, both hands holding it open to read while relying heavily on Jack's firm hand. He likes it, the thought of you trusting him so readily.

You hum in acknowledgment before peering above the page. "The map says the new Caravaggio exhibit is that way… I think." Jack chuckles and peers over your shoulder, both of his hands firmly on your waist. You hold the pamphlet up higher for him.

"You aren't wrong," he muses as he reads over the map. You swallow nervously, you can feel the heat of his body seep against your backless top, the way his voice gets all low and gravelly when he's talking just to you. "It's past the abstract wing. Can you fold that up for me, sweetheart? I wouldn't want you to trip over your feet if you can't see where you're going."

You nod instinctively. "Yes—" You swallow back that title that sits at the back of your throat whenever Jack gets so… passively dominant. "Yeah, of course."

He chuckles and lets his arm fall along your lower back, a hand at the dip of your waist as he leads you towards the exhibit. The entire time as you two parade around the wing, Jack keeps you close. It sparks a light in your core, your inner thighs clenching with need when he unwittingly turns on your desire to be taken care of. But he seems so unbothered by it, humming to himself as his thumb slips beneath your blouse to rub your skin while he reads the information beside the painting.

The two of you are admiring Caravaggio's Narcissus when something comes to mind. "Why'd you call me 'bunny'? In my comments?"

He glances down at you, taken aback by the sudden question. "I… thought it'd be nice to have a nickname of my own for you. It reminded me of our first meeting."

A fond smile curls upon your lips. "Why haven't you called me that since we started dating?"

Something fond crosses over Jack's face, leaves as quickly as it came. His hand squeezes your side. "I didn't think it was appropriate. Thought it might make you uncomfortable if I called you that in public."

"I liked it. Like it. I still do," you trip over your words with a flustered smile. "It's like our own little inside thing. Um—no pun intended."

Jack chuckles and that wide smile he gives you has you pushing against your toes to press your lips to his. He hums fondly, nips at your lower lip. "Alright, I'll keep that in mind, bunny."

You kiss him again.

For the next couple of months, you start to see Jack regularly. Dinner dates (whether it's at the first restaurant he's taken you to or he cooks for you at his place) or movie nights, or even him just coming over to unwind after a long shift. Your posting schedule doesn't shift, only rearranges itself to make room for Jack.

A month in, you'd sat him down and tentatively but firmly told him that you wouldn't be stopping just because of your dates. Jack had accepted it without question, took it as if it was what he expected in the first place.

So you continue your usual schedule. Vlogs and short-form content for your SFW socials and full streams for your NSFW audience. Suggestive photos to tide your subscribers over 'til the next full video.

Jack, on the other hand, looks positively giddy with himself. Sure, he's cumming in his fist nearly every night but he's determined to make sure you know that he wants more with you. Fuck. He sounds like a broken record but he's obsessed; the last thing he wants is his dick to ruin this for his heart.

But his good mood is translated into his night shifts, cracking jokes even with angry patients. It has Shen watching over in confused concern, always taking a double-take when he has the chance. Parker and Crus decide that it's just Jack going through a new wave, a new fixation that's probably tiding him over.

Or a girl— but that's Robby's problem to mull over, not theirs.

They get their chance when Jack's scheduled for a double (something he makes up to you with another extravagant VIP dinner the day before), dropping a hint to their chief that their night-shift attending's been weird all week.

The ambulance bay doors slide open in a 'whoosh' for Dr. Robinavitch, passing by Javadi who's talking to Trinity about making mutuals with some big-shot on her Tiktok and Dennis catching up with Perlah about his weekend, to get to Jack in the locker room.

"So. Shen's said you've been weird."

Jack chuckles lightly, throws his stethescope around his neck, and shuts his locker. "I'm seeing someone."

Robby startles. "Oh. That's— brother, that's great."

"What, didn't think I'd admit it so quickly?" Jack grins and pats his shoulder as he steps around his friend.

"No, not really." Robby follows him out, tugging on both ends of his stethoscope. "I'm happy for you. What's her name?"

"Nah, that's all you're getting out of me, Robinavitch."

The sun's setting as Jack turns the page on the novel he's been reading to you. You're sitting between his legs and your back against his warm chest, stretching out on the gingham blanket you've brought as the two of you find cover beneath the large tree.

Today's date had been completely spontaneous. When his schedule had been unwittingly cleared up, he had driven straight to you to take you out for a late lunch picnic at the small fair that's set up for the weekend. With the sandwiches finished off and you'd run off to buy cotton candy for the both of you to share, Jack had fished out a novel in his back seat to pass the time and enjoy the nice weather.

His hand is absentmindedly rubbing your exposed thigh, the skirt of your sundress riding up just enough for him to explore the smooth skin. His cheek is pressed against the top of your hair while you absentmindedly trace shapes atop his jean-clad thighs.

"Feelin' restless, bunny?"

"Hm?" Jack's question draws you out of your stupor, so content in his arms that it takes him a few attempts to get your attention. "No, just… really cozy."

"Yeah?" He presses a line of kisses down your jaw and neck, eliciting a soft squeal from you. Jack would've continued showering you in kisses but he grunts, reluctantly pulling away to rub at his aching prosthesis.

You frown. He's mentioned losing a limb before, knows that he wears a prosthetic leg, but you've never seen him this uncomfortable. "Jack, we could head home if it's hurting—"

"I'm fine—"

"Jack." He pauses and turns his attention to you, your brows furrowed and your lips in a line. "Come on, we can just take it easy at your place. You said you're more comfortable in your crutches, right?"

"Yeah." You can see when he finally gives in, his shoulders rounding out as he presses a kiss to your shoulder. "Yeah, alright. Let's go."

Once the both of you get to your feet, you hold out your hand. "Gimme the keys, I'll drive to give your leg a break."

"I don't think so."

"Jack."

"Bunny."

It takes a second but he concedes there too, pulling you in by the shoulders for a swift kiss to your lips. "You're lucky you're cute, sweetheart."

Jack's place is almost as familiar as yours now. He watches you saunter around his place, dropping his keys into the dish bowl on the table by the door, place your things on the loveseat before rummaging through his fridge for a beer.

When you reach him where he's seated on his couch, prosthesis set aside to hand him a beer, he gently tugs you onto his lap before popping the tab open for your can first. "Thanks," you hum, taking a sip while he opens his. His arm is strong around your waist and the easy strength he holds for you, the possessive touch he's got whenever you're near... it sparks a flicker of heat inside you and as you turn, straddling his lap to kiss along his jaw. His scruff is rough against your glossy lips but it only has you mewling.

"Bunny…" he groans as his large hand splays along the expanse of your back, supporting your weight while you tip back just enough for him to place his beer behind you on the coffee table. His eyes flutter shut, basking in your sweet kisses, as temptation guides his hand lower to cup your perky ass. It's your moan, drawn out and desperate, that pulls him out of the heat that's settling thick in his head. Reluctantly, his hands rise back up and an indignant whine spills from your throat—

"Jack, why won't you fuck me?"

He nearly chokes on his spit at your question and when he looks up, you look adorably put out, lower lip jutting out. Your gaze is glassy, lips kiss-swollen. His thumb comes up, presses against your mouth to drag down your lip slowly. "Bunny, why do you think I won't fuck you?"

"You— you've only ever kissed me. You've only liked my non-sexual content. You—"

"Baby," he shushes you gently, releases your lip to cradle your jaw. "It's not that I'm uninterested in you. Trust me— I am. I just didn't want you to think this was all some ploy to just get you in bed with me."

Another whine rises up within you. "But it's been months, Jack."

"Sweetheart, I wanted to make sure you know I was serious. It wasn't just for you, but for me, too. Had to make it known to you that I'm here for the long haul," he murmurs and when you nod in understanding, his lips find yours for a kiss that's got you clenching your thighs. Your back arches back when he leans further in, lips parting to let his tongue probe against yours.

"Gonna… mm— fuck me now?" You pant against his mouth, lashes kissing the tops of your cheeks when his lips drag down your neck to mark your collarbone with marks.

His chuckle is raspy against your skin. "I'm gonna make love to you, bunny. Come on—"

"Why not here?" You whimper, giving your hips a slow roll against his. You can feel his bulge, stiff through his jeans, against your panties.

"I'm not having you on my couch, darling. Not for our first time. We can defile the rest of my house later."

You giggle as you reluctantly get to your feet, knees nearly knocking together while Jack goes for his crutches. "Do you promise?"

"I promise," he chuckles, following you into his bedroom. His mouth goes dry, easy dominance deflating momentarily when he watches you crawl onto the center of his bed, your sundress hemline rucked up to reveal the pretty white lace panties you've got on beneath. His eyes follow the fabric, disappearing in between your ass cheeks, before they flit back up when you turn and lean against his headboard.

You're in your doll mindset now, your hands dancing across your body to give him a show. But while your videos are choreographed, almost clinical to a certain degree to entertain an audience, Jack sees the way your hand trembles just before you drag the neckline of your dress down, tempting him to just rip the fabric off you.

But he's a patient man, understands that this is just as much for you as it is for him. He can see the way your arousal heightens with each teasing touch. "Take it off for me, bunny, just for me."

He must've said the right thing because a broken moan spills from your lips, nodding as you cross your arms and drag the hem of your dress up to reveal a matching bralette to your panties. The bed dips beneath his weight when he joins you, settling down onto the mattress just as you toss a leg over to straddle his waist again.

"Ah, shit," he hisses when he glances down, sees the way the fabric of your panties are nearly translucent with your slick. His hand creeps down to rub your swollen clit through the damp fabric, tilting his head back up to watch your reaction. He doesn't shut his eyes when your open mouth drags along his cheek, a poor approximation of a kiss as you shut your eyes to savor the way his fingers deftly tug the panties aside to dip within your folds. A pathetic moan escapes you. "This all for me, bunny?"

"Mhm, yes—"

"She's drippin' just for me, fuck," he chuckles as his middle finger teases your entrance, enamored by the way your hips rock clumsily against your palm. "Mm, look at that."

It's filthy, the way Jack leans back against the headboard with his head ducked down to watch your cunt practically suck in his fingers, his other hand keeping your panties tugged aside for his viewing. "Please, I wanna feel you," you beg, voice hitching high in a way he's never heard before.

"You sound so sweet for me, bunny," he murmurs as he redraws his fingers from you, tasting you with a voracity that makes you even wetter. "You've been so good for me, pretty girl, don't worry… I'll give you what you want."

And while Jack sounds so benevolent, your lips finding his in a grateful kiss before you're scrambling off to lay on your back under his guidance while he undresses next, it's all a facade to conceal the way he's barely able to hold it together now that he's got you: heart, soul, and now body.

He settles on top of you, lips finding your shoulder for a brief moment of sweet affection despite the filth that's fallen from his lips from earlier, and makes a home between your thighs. You might've teased him for picking missionary as your first time, giggle at how insistent he is on keeping things old fashioned despite your unorthodox relationship, but then the tip of his cock prods against your entrance, mouth dropping slightly as your head falls back against the pillows— he's huge.

"Ngh— Jack…" you whimper as the stretch leans more towards pain than pleasure at first, eyes shut as you feel Jack's lips skim across the side of your neck. "S'too big…"

His chest rumbling, he chuckles in your ear, nips at your jugular. "Don't worry, bunny. I can make it fit."

Lust and adoration intertwine in your core as he pushes deeper, your walls adjusting for his girth while your nails dig into his freckled shoulders. After what feels like an eternity, Jack's fully sheathed in you, pressing kisses along your brow and temple.

"So fuckin' tight—" he grunts, attempting a shallow thrust that has you two moaning in unison. "You ready for me, bunny? Gonna start movin'."

You feel absolutely full, can feel Jack in your gut, but you nod, legs hooking around his waist. "Ready," you manage to say, releasing one shoulder to cradle his jaw for a searing kiss. He pulls out and thrusts in without hesitation, his lips parting for his tongue to taste yours. The two of you make out like teenagers, sloppy and uncoordinated, while his cock drives into you slowly, your body shifting higher up the bed until his hand comes up to cradle the top of your head before it hits the headboard.

He swallows your moans with a grunt of his own, tasting your desperation with each rock of his hips. But when his lungs start to burn for oxygen, he reluctantly pulls back only to be rewarded with your vocal cries for more. He's heard your noises before, almost four million people have, but he's never witnessed you like this, so gorgeously needy on his cock, your moans more like broken whimpers and hiccups interlaced with his name. So unbelievably vulnerable, laid out just for him.

It has him driving his cock even deeper into you, eager to hear the way your mouth sounds around his name whenever he hits that specific spot.

"No, no, no— don't get shy on me now, bunny," he coos, dropping a hand to cup your cheek to guide your eyes on him. "You sound so sweet for me, let me hear you…"

His words elicit another gasp of his name as one particular thrust has you seeing stars, the coil in your core tightening as his hand comes down to rub your clit in time with each rock of his hips. He can feel his own climax but he keeps it at bay, laser focused on your own pleasure.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck… Jack—!" You wail as the coil snaps, his cock buried to the hilt before he fucks you slow and deep to carry you through your climax. With you taken care of, he chases after his pleasure next, hips snapping against yours in a brutal pace that has your toes curling in sweet ecstasy.

His forehead drops to rest on yours, breaths mingling while his own moans pitch into a needier grunt, veering into whimpers while he talks you through it. "Feels so fuckin' good, bunny… s'like your pretty cunt was made just for me… oh fuck— she's just sucking me in," he pants.

The string of dirty talk kickstarts something inside you and you feel that familiar tightness in your core, hiccuping moans bubbling past your kiss-swollen lips as he drives his cock deeper. "Jack— 'm… hah— gonna cum—!"

"Yeah?" He huffs, a cocky half-grin in his lips as he drags his scruffy jaw along your cheek. "Gonna give me another, bunny? Come on… gimme one more," he coos while his pace starts to falter, losing its steady rhythm as he gets closer and closer to his own edge.

When you cum for the second time, he's quick to follow right after, your convulsing walls eliciting his own release right into your waiting cunt. A part of him panics — he didn't wear a condom nor did you say anything about being on any kind of contraceptive — but he feels your heels dig into his lower spine to keep him from moving. The concern still sits at the back of his mind but he lets himself get lost in the sensation of finishing inside you, his thrusts slowing to a halt before carefully laying on you.

"Holy shit," you breathe out, a blissful smile on your lips with your eyes fluttering shut. When Jack pulls out, you offer a slight wince but curl onto his chest as he rolls over onto his back. Your head nestles onto his pec, his arm winding around your bare shoulders. When you turn your head to kiss his freckled collarbone, he chuckles and squeezes you gently.

Jack hums wordlessly. Basking in the moment, he lets himself sink into the warmth of you beside him. There really isn't any need to talk for now and the both of you would've been content to let the moment settle in…

Had it not been for your growling stomach.

His laughter cuts through your embarrased whine, rolling over to hide your face into his chest completely. "Don't laugh—" you pout but he just jostles you gently, gets you to look up at him where he can kiss your nose.

"Stay here, I'll clean you up first," he promises and rolls out of bed. Grabbing his crutches, he heads over to his attached bathroom for a warm, dampened towelette. He cleans you between the thighs, gentle and careful as he drops a kiss to your knee. "About earlier—"

"I'm clean," you interject. "I don't have any partners and I'm on the pill."

He nods, relieved as he tosses the towelette into his laundry basket. "I'm clean, too. I haven't… not since my late wife."

Your smile is heartachingly tender. He's spoken about his late wife before, wears the ring on a chain close to his heart, and how he and his therapist have decided that he's in the right place to move on.

"We can both get tested if you want," you offer. "I don't want anyone else but you."

It's an invitation to a conversation he's been waiting on for a month now and he dives right in. The bed dips as he sits at the edge, a warm and calloused hand on your thigh. "I only want you, bunny. That's not ever gonna change." He cups your jaw, warm and possessive in a way that'll never fail to light a fire in your heart. "Can I be yours, sweetheart?"

You nod with a giggle bursting past your lips. "Yes—! Of course, yes," you swoon with your arms around his neck, his hand releasing your jaw in favor to hug you 'round the waist.

"Yeah?" His pretty crows' feet deepen when he smiles at you, chuckling when you nod again with an eager bob of your head as you gently scratch at his scruffy jaw. "Gonna go steady with me, bunny?"

A laugh escapes you, nose scrunching up at his dated language. "Always and forever, old man."

Although the months you've spent with Jack before the both of you made it official had you feeling like cloud nine, the next following weeks could only be properly labeled as the honeymoon phase now that you're officially his girlfriend. With Jack's night shift schedule and your unorthodox posting timelines, the two of you manage to make it work.

Speaking of work, you had been adamant that because he's your boyfriend, you had no plans on stopping the camgirl site and told him so the morning after. Jack had blinked and nodded as if it'd been something he had already expected. His only caveat was that you'd at least make your new relationship status public knowledge to your subscribers whether it's as simple as a status post on your website. You went above and beyond by posting a selfie with Jack's arm around your neck, his bicep smushing your cheeks while you grinned dopily at the camera.

While your followers had fawned over your new man, occasionally posting faceless boyfriend pics of Jack, you made sure to keep his identity secret as your highest priority whenever he'd make some sort of cameo in your SFW videos.

"Babe, you gotta stop jumping in the frame, I'll have to edit you out—!" You laugh in your most current video, holding out the camera high and up just enough to capture your hand crooked around Jack's arm as the two of you walk the aisles of the farmer's market.

He chuckles and dutifully stops ducking his head. "Just move the camera when I kiss your cheek, bunny. And even if my face shows, I thought you could just slap on an emoji or something on my face when your assistant edits them."

The camera captures the way you look up, a playfully deadpan expression on your features. "You wanna put more work on Francine?"

"You're right, I'll behave."

The clip ends there and the views skyrocket, nearly matching your most infamous videos on your NSFW side. It's gotten so popular that Victoria's talking about it during work hours, in awe of the fact that she's mutuals with you despite the fact that she's gone viral on Tiktok herself.

For once the pitt has a handle on chairs and triage, allowing Victoria to show Dennis her newest editing style, inspired by Doll's Corner. He perks up, recognizes the voice through the walls of the apartment he shares with Trinity.

"Oh, I think Santos is also subscribed to her," he grins.

Victoria frowns. "Subscribed…? Her website's free, Dennis."

Trinity walks past before circling back. "What's free?"

"Oh, um— Doll's corner." Victoria holds out her phone, displaying your instagram profile. "She has her own website but Dennis mentioned that you're subscribed to her…?"

"She avoids her SFW content, probably because it'd feed the parasocialism since Doll seems to be exactly her type," he grins, always eager to have something over his lovable but prickly roommate.

"She's not my type, she's just hot—"

"Hold on, what do you mean SFW content? Isn't all her stuff SFW…?" Victoria cuts in, eyes wide as she scrolls up and down the webpage. Trinity snatches the phone and taps the top right menu button of the page, scrolls towards the 'PRICING' tab before offering the phone back.

Dennis interrupts. "She doesn't really advertise her adult content, it's more of a… if-you-know-you-know situation. You're cool with that, right?"

Victoria swallows, goes through the 'free' content of your camgirl side while her mind races with the blurred and suggestive content, before nodding with a wide-eyed grin. "'Course I'm cool with it. Just— I didn't expect it. Yeah, I'm cool. Dennis, are you subscribed—?"

"No, no—" Dennis startles with a flustered laugh. "It's not really my thing, but I know Dr. Ellis had found her account too. She's popular."

The youngest MS4 merely nods and wanders off, looking very scandalized. Dennis and Trinity watch her go before shrugging, unaware that the true reason why Victoria's so shocked is that she had suspected Doll's newest boyfriend might be Dr. Jack Abbot.

Your SFW content views continue to skyrocket (especially the shortform video where you had Jack flex his bicep for the camera before placing a piece of dessert on top, eating right off his freckled arm before he's pulling you out of frame for a kiss).

There's already been a few questions asking if your boyfriend (lovingly dubbed as Mr. Doll by your subscribers) would ever participate in your content. You haven't gotten around to answering them, leaving them untouched as you post your usual photos and videos for your loyal subscribers.

The truth is, you aren't even sure how to bring up the topic to Jack nor would you know how to figure out the logistics of including your boyfriend without jeopardizing his identity. But the problem is solved a week later where you're in your bedroom, filming a toy haul with a new PR package from a sex toy company.

You're in the throes of your orgasm, nothing on but a bunny tail plug nestled in your ass while you ride a massive silicone pink dildo with some device that literally creampies you. You've got your back to the camera, the cute plug front and center, when your knees drop and you bottom out on the toy with a final moan.

You'd been so lost in your 'review' that you didn't realize Jack had come by early, leaning against the doorway with a dark little grin that you've come to associate with 'playtime'.

"Havin' fun, bunny?" he asks, the camera picking up on his voice sounding like velvet over gravel.

Your giggle is breathy and sweet. The camera captures the way your neck arches, looking over your shoulder to meet Jack's eyes who stays firmly out of the shot. "Mhm, I am."

"Did that thing… finish in you?" When you give him another resounding giggle and nod, he shakes his head with a fond chuckle. "I'll give you five minutes to catch your breath before it's my turn, sweetheart."

When you'd given the video to Francine, your assistant, to edit, she had sent over the last clip where Jack had come in and asked if you wanted it out. Deciding that it seems safe enough to keep since he's not even within the frame and that people have heard his voice before, you told Francine to keep it in.

Later that night, you receive an tsunami of positive comments, most of them fawning over the way Mr. Doll seems to adore you even while making content for the rest of your depraved audience.

@.pearlessance: holy shit HIS VOICE???

@.deathreverse: i bet he talks you through it omfg

@.mariasont: i just KNOW your man is fine

@.enam3l: give us one audio file of him cumming PLEASE

You're wrapped up in Jack's arms later that evening, your back settled against his chest as you read over the comments with him. He's got his strong arms around your middle, lazy kisses pressed to your bare shoulder as the cold edge of his readers bump along your jaw.

"You're stealing my fans, Jack."

"No, they like the way I make you flustered, bunny. There's a difference."

"Maybe," you hum as you swap apps to your instagram, scrolling mindlessly before you pause. "Jack?"

"Yeah, sweetheart?"

"Would you… want to be in my cam videos? Just as your voice," you clarify with a shy smile. The curve of his smile is pressed against your neck.

"I'd be honored," he croons. "Maybe you could play with yourself for the camera, let me talk you through your orgasms."

Your cheeks burn, thighs clenching as you rub them together. "Mhm."

"Use your words, bunny."

"I'd like that a lot, sir."

That had been a new revelation. You've called Jack 'daddy' jokingly outside of the bedroom before, just something to steal his attention whenever you're particularly needy (whether it's for something sexual or not). And while he liked it, judging by the fond and flustered grin on his lips, he had sat you down and told you what title actually does it for him.

Sir.

It never did anything for you, thought it might've been too simple or even too formal to ever be used in bed, but it fits Jack perfectly. An older man with his experience and status along with a natural inclination to dominance doesn't need something as desperate as 'daddy' to insert control in the bedroom.

"Good girl," he rasps and takes your chin to turn your head, planting a heated kiss onto your lips. "How about we pick a day for it, hm? Put it on your calendar."

When you nod again, he chuckles and nips at your lower lip. "Can we do it now?"

Despite your eagerness, you and Jack had decided on a Sunday evening the following week, opting for a pre-recorded video rather than a live show.

Like always, you've got your tripod set up at the foot of your bed with you front and center. You have mood lighting set up, nothing too garish and bright and classically 'porno' but rather something warm to get you comfortable. The only difference is Jack seated behind the camera, manspreading like it's his fucking job in those grey sweats you've moaned about a week ago.

"You ready, baby?" Jack's voice is caramel sweet but you know it'll dip lower when he hits the record button. When you give a nod, he reaches up to press the button.

The red light blinks at you but Jack clears his throat. "Eyes on me, bunny."

Your gaze is magnetized to your boyfriend's, feeling deliciously exposed with the way his eyes drink you in. Tonight, you've got on a lingerie set he had bought just for you: a babydoll pink bralette with a matching thong and garters. In the hollow of your neck is a delicate, cursive 'j' on a chain.

"You look gorgeous, sit up for me, sweetheart. Let the camera see your new outfit," he drawls lazily and your eyes drop down to his large hand, gripping his bulge through the sweats.

The camera captures the way you look behind it, your gaze unfocused and your cheeks flustered, but you never disobey sir's words as you sit up on your knees. Your hands dance along the lacy straps, brushing across the sheer panels that hold up your tits. Jack's attention is fixed on you, his teeth digging into his lower lip as he strokes himself through his sweatpants.

"That's it, bunny. Play with those pretty titties for the camera," Jack murmurs.

He continues to take the lead and it's almost alarming at how good he is, how easy it is for you to completely forget you're still filming. He eventually has you propped up against your mountain of pillows, knees bent and thighs spread out.

"Add another finger for me, bunny."

You've already got two in, your middle and your ring finger, while your other hand is groping at your exposed tit. "Sir, I can't—"

"Sure you can, pretty girl. You've taken my cock, haven't you?" Jack chuckles meanly, his hand tugging at his cock now. Your eyes are locked on his length and he capitalizes on it, rubbing his thumb across his tip.

"Yes, but—"

"Come on, bunny, one more. You can do it."

The camera captures the way you whimper, gasping around nothing when you add your index finger into your sopping cunt. Even the lighting catches the shine of your slick against your inner thighs; Jack's got you edging yourself and you're ready to beg.

The stretch burns in the best way, not in the same breadth as Jack's cock, but enough that it has you plunging your fingers so fast that it sounds lewd against the camera.

"Can I cum, sir, please—" You choke out, hand beginning to cramp from the speed and angle you have that Jack notices it immediately. If you've been a bit less preoccupied with your own impending orgasm, you would've noticed that your boyfriend had been staving off his own climax, gripping the base of his length until he's finally given you permission.

Behind the camera, he continues to talk you through it but his voice isn't as measured, it's strained and a tad bit pitchy — his tell-tale sign that he's about to cum soon.

"Cum for me, bunny, let me see you make a mess on yourself," he coaxes and once you take the final fall, he's quick to follow, white ropes of his release painting his thighs and the floor beneath. "So fuckin' hot, Jesus Christ—"

Your cramping hand drops from between your legs as you slump against the pillows completely, legs splayed out for the camera to watch the way your clit throbs from the overstimulation. Jack tucks himself back in and takes the camera, detaches it from the tripod mount to approach your bedside.

"Let's see the mess you made, gorgeous," he murmurs, his voice wrecked as he props a knee up to hover above your overstimulated frame. You giggle up at the camera, taking his free hand (the same one that had been wrapped around his cock moments ago) and gently lick the traces of his release clean off his fingers. He curses under his breath before he affectionately pinches your chin. It elicits a soft laugh from you and the look you give him beyond the camera does something to his chest, a word that tastes something sticky sweet (and maybe starts with the letter 'L'), that he suddenly wishes this part is just for him.

But he moves lower, the camera panning down to where your panties are tugged loosely aside where your puffy, slick cunt is on display. It's lewd and nasty, the way his free hand strokes through your folds before he's bringing up his fingers for a taste. The satisfactory moan he lets out sends a thrill up your spine.

His hand travels to the swell of your thigh, to your hip where he tugs your panties off. The camera jostles as he shoves the soiled, lacy fabric into the back pocket of his pants, before he pulls away.

"I think your fans earned enough of you. Say goodbye, bunny, it's my turn for a taste."

The last thing the camera sees is a wave of your hand before it's set aside roughly, filming your ceiling and capturing the way your giggle melts into a breathy moan before the video and audio cuts.

—

"So when are we meeting the lucky lady?"

The sun sits high as Jack lounges on the roof on a chair that he's brought up a few months back. Robby had brought his own chair a week later, pleased to see his best friend behind the railing this time. The two are relaxing, stealing a few moments of solitude before handoffs are completed.

"Not yet," Jack grunts as he takes a sip of the pressed juice you've packed for him. You've been given a massive PR package of some health brand and he'd been willing to take half of the crate off your hands. "Soon."

Robby gives him a sidelong glance. "Are you ashamed of her or somethin'?"

"No. No, definitely not. I just want to keep her to myself a bit longer before you and Peaches poach her off me." Jack chuckles. "Relax, brother. I'll bring her around soon."

"Alright, I'm holding you to that," Robby chortles before he gets to his feet, back cracking while he stretches. "Go home, Abbot."

Before, Jack would've kneedled, maybe dragged his feet a bit longer to keep from returning to an empty house. He's always craved company, even moreso at the passing of his late wife. But this time, he grabs his backpack and rucks it over his shoulder, offering a casual wave of his hand.

"Ain't gotta tell me twice. I got a pretty girl waiting for me at home."

—

Later that evening, Victoria Javadi's sitting outside on the benches with the rest of day shift, drinking a beer she hopes would taste better after every sip. After turning twenty one, she still didn't see the appeal of drinking beer but after her sneaking suspicion that her night shift attending might be dating the influencer she's admired for so long, she realizes she might need it.

Her thumb punches the 'low' volume button on the side of her phone as she pulls up your tiktok account. Your account has only grown since you've started including your mystery man; the tiktok trends that center around playful pranks or cute videos snipped from longer vlogs with your partner are the ones that hit a million views first.

She takes a deep breath and taps your most recent one, a clip that looks like it had been cut from your last get-ready-with-me vlog, judging by the outfit you have on. You greet the camera as usual, holding out two different purses before leaning this way and that to get all angles of your outfit. Your attention is stolen, however, when the voice of 'Mr. Doll' cuts in from behind the camera.

"You ready, sweetheart?"

You pout, your gaze looking beyond the camera. "I don't know which bag to bring."

"What do you need a bag for?"

"My lip gloss…" you reply sheepishly and a throaty chuckle from Mr. Doll follows, soft and fond.

"The second one, bunny. Come on, let's go."

The video loops and Victoria lets it play before her thumb rewinds the video back herself, listening to that voice before her gasp gets caught in her throat.

Mr. Doll is Jack Abbot.

—

In another apartment across the city, Trinity takes advantage of the empty home and hunkers down in bed. It's a guilty pleasure, she knows, but with the stress of residency along with Garcia's emotional unavailability, she figures a bit of her wage going to one of the most hottest camgirls couldn't be the worst vice in the world.

She scrolls through the paid content of yours with a soft sigh, sinking deeper into her mattress before opting for one of the newer POV content. It's a new series you've started, something that kicked up in popularity from a couple weeks ago when your partner had taken the camera to film you himself after he talked you through your orgasm.

Trinity hasn't had the chance to check it out herself, a bit hesitant considering the POV shots may ick her out if she actually sees a penis when she's been thinking of inserting herself as the viewer on top of you. But curiosity kicks in as she plays the most recent one, heat simmering low in her core as it starts out with you undressing as always, straddling your partner this time as he films you from below.

"I can feel you—" you gasp, your hands braced on the stomach beneath you as it pushes your tits together. Your hips roll, sinfully smooth while the strap of your sheer tanktop drops off one shoulder. It keeps falling, revealing a single breast, but you pay it no mind, too busy dry-humping the body beneath you.

"You're soaked for me, bunny… am I gonna feel you through my boxers?" The man grunts and something tugs at the back of Trinity's mind, a sick sense of deja vu or familiarity. She ignores it, eyes straining to try and focus only on you.

You giggle. "Maybe… can't help it, daddy gets me so wet—" You pause, eyes wide at your little slip.

"'Daddy'?" The familiar male voice repeats and the camera catches the man's hands travel up, sliding between the valley of your breasts to curl around your throat possessively. A ditzy grin spreads across your lips, eyes nearly rolling back as you lean your neck forwards into his palm.. "Is that my name now, bunny? Want me to be your daddy?"

The video plays on but Trinity couldn't focus, not when horror sets in alongside disgust and mortification when her brain finally places where she's heard that voice before. Once it clicks, she gags and pauses the video, tosses her phone across the room as full-body shudders wrack her whole frame.

When Dennis comes home late, it's to find Trinity on the couch, spacing out with a security blanket swaddling her prone frame. Panic sets in and he rushes forward, his fist rubbing her chest out of habit tp see if there's any response to pain—

"Ow, fuckin' quit it—!" Trinity snaps, smacking his hand away as she glares up at him.

He lets out a sigh of relief before crossing his arms. "What the hell happened to you? Was it Garcia—"

"No." A haunted look passes over his roommate's eyes. "Worse. I think I found Dr. Abbot's girlfriend."

—

With your six-month-iversary fast approaching, you and Jack are running out of excuses to keep putting off the inevitable 'meeting of the friends' ceremony. Your own friends are eager to meet the older man that's been starring in most of your content and Robby's starting to threaten break-ins and impromptu dinners if he doesn't get to meet the woman that's made his best friend so happy.

It isn't that you're scared Jack's friends and colleagues won't like you or that he's ashamed of you— it's just the fact that the two of you are becoming grossly codependent, refusing to let the other one out of each other's sight for too long. Inviting friends into your circle would only lessen the amount of time you two have for each other and the two of you would much rather prefer extending your honeymoon period first.

Unfortunately, the decision is taken out of yours and Jack's hands when you wake in the morning to an abnormal amount of bleeding. Your period's supposed to start soon but with the sudden heavy flow and the sharp pain in your abdominal, fear licks up your spine.

Something isn't right.

You carefully bring yourself out of Jack's bed, whimpering at the massive stain you've left, before hobbling over to your phone. What awful timing— your actual doctor boyfriend isn't in to check you out himself but rather he's stuck at the ER working a double.

With the amount of time you've spent with Jack, he's ingrained it into you to always listen to your body, to get help rather than attempting to self-diagnose or to undermine your pain level, so you call 9-1-1 with a shaky voice.

When the operator confirms that an ambulance is on the way, you remember to add one final thing: "Can you take me to PTMC, please?"

—

"Female, mid to late 20s, heavy vaginal bleeding and sharp abdominal pain. Reports of nausea and vomiting with a fever of 102 degrees," the EMT barks out, pushing your gurney through the ambulance bay as the cacophany of the emergency department greets you. When the ambulance had arrived at Jack's place, you'd been barely able to stand upright, chills racking your frame.

Your mind is fuzzy, the fluorescent lights above you spinning like soup while you're pushed into an available room. A couple of nurses trail after a doctor, a penlight flashing in your eyes as said doctor introduces herself.

"Hi, I'm Dr. King, are you taking any kind of birth control or—"

"My IUD," you whimper, eyes squeezing shut as you try to fight through the pain that seems to steadily increase with each passing moment. "Is it—I heard it can be displaced?"

Fast paced conversation erupts around you, swapping differentials and possible diagnoses before scissors are cutting through your pajamas to reveal your bloody panties. A hand presses against your upper abdomen, a gentle palpating movement that tears out a cry of pain from you.

"Order a CT," a doctor barks. "Can't do much until we see what's going on in there."

Dr. King nods and promises to take care of you after you've been pushed some painkillers to tide you over until it's your turn. As you get wheeled off, she notices a delicate cursive 'j' tattooed right above your hip bone.

—

After some time, you're dressed in a hospital gown, waiting for your CT results as the painkillers they've given you keep the pain at bay for the meantime. Your phone sits in your lap, screen on to your text thread with Jack. You know he's somewhere in the department, most likely saving lives, but your texts are unread and it's gnawing at the pit of your stomach.

"Hi," a voice calls out and it's a sweet looking young man, around your age as he rubs in the hand sanitizer. "I'm Dr. Whitaker. We have your CT results and it looks like a displaced IUD. Did anything happen recently or…?"

Your cheeks burn bright red. "Um. Rough sex, I guess?"

Dr. Whitaker's face colors red as well. "Oh—! Um, well, yeah. That'll do it. The CT scans revealed some slight perforation in your uterine lining so we'll go ahead and get that out for you, it'd be a minor procedure so you'll be up and walking in just a few hours."

"Great, thank you," you sigh in quiet relief but as you ponder something, Whitaker sticks around, like he knows you've got a request. "Um, is there a Dr. Abbot in?"

He nods. "Yeah, he's one of my attendings. Has he treated you before?"

"No, actually—"

"Bunny—?!" The curtains slide open and Jack rushes in, concern choking up his syllables when he sees you looking slightly gaunt and exhausted in a hospital gown. Dennis' eyes widen as he steps aside; he's never seen his attending look so disheveled and unkempt. "What happened?"

"Jack, I'm fine, it was my IUD," you explain, looking up while he checks over your vitals. "It… got displaced. I wonder whose fault is that." Your dry tone has Jack looking sheepish and Whitaker looking everywhere but the both of you. It's already taken all of his professionalism to keep from reacting when he recognized you as Trinity's past obsession. She still wouldn't say why she unsubscribed until he realizes the secret boyfriend is Dr. Abbot.

"Sorry, sweetheart," Jack murmurs into your hair as he kisses your forehead. "I'll make sure they'll bump you forward so you can get out of here faster."

You nod and your lower lip juts out, slipping into that sweet mindset that Jack can't get enough of; cotton candy delicate and adorably delectable. "Promise?"

"Yeah, I promise, bunny." His voice takes on that gravelly tone that you've become obsessed with and when you tip your head up, he closes the distance and kisses you briefly.

At that moment, the curtain slides open again. "Whoa— sorry for interrupting, folks." You pull away, fiery cheeks on display, to see another taller doctor enter. "Dr. Whitaker, can you go help Dr. Santos in Central 13? I'm Dr. Robinavitch, you can call me Dr. Robby. You must be the infamous 'Bunny'."

Jack groans and playfully hides his face into the top of your hair as the name registers as your boyfriend's best friend. You smile prettily and offer your hand to shake when Dr. Robby approaches, giving your name instead. The man seems nice but only Jack has the privilege of calling you 'bunny'. "It's nice to meet you, Dr. Robby."

"Just Robby," he insists before he flips through your chart. "Looks like you're up next for the laparascopy. Do I wanna know what happened?"

Your blush deepens. "No, not really. This is an awful first impression."

Robby chuckles, scratches the back of his head. "It's not so bad, all things considered. But now that I finally have both of you here, what do you say to dinner with my partner and I? She's been eager to meet you."

You give Jack a sidelong glance. "Who else did you tell about me?"

"Nearly everyone," Robby cuts in while Jack gives a shrug.

"I didn't give details. I just liked talking about you, sweetheart. That so bad?"

A pleased smile curves upon your lips. "Not at all. I love how obsessed you are with me," you tease. Your boyfriend's eyes roll before patting his friend's chest.

"Alright, come on. Let's get her rolled into the OR so I can take my girl home."

—

As promised, recovery goes by swiftly and a new IUD is put in place. Discharge is expedited when you're dating one of the attendings and soon, Jack's coming into your room with a fresh set of clothes from his locker.

"I liked those panties," you huff as you step into Jack's black sweatpants, leaning against the bed as he kneels down to roll the legs up for you.

When he stands to full height, he helps you into the faded 'ARMY' sweater. "I'll buy you more, bunny." He tugs you in by the waist to steal a few more kisses. "Just glad you're okay. You almost gave me a heart attack when I saw your name on the board."

"Sorry," you pout as Jack sweeps a thumb across your cheekbone. "I tried texting but I—"

"No, baby, you're fine." He hushes you with another soft kiss. "It's good you came in when you did. Come on, I'll take you home."

His arm is thrown around your shoulder as he guides you out through the ambulance bay. The both of you are lost in your own little world, exchanging soft laughter and playful kisses, that you don't see the haunted look in Santos' eyes as she scurries out of the way or Javadi watching in the way someone can't look away from a car crash.

When the ambulance doors shut, Dana leans over the counter to address Robby.

"That the girlfriend?"

"Sure is."

An amused grin curls onto the nurse's lips. "I think I remember her. I see where the nickname 'bunny' comes from."

"What's it mean?"

"I'm not saying a damn thing, Robinavitch."

You stumbled through the open gate barefoot, your pink heels dangling from two fingers. Your chest burned from running. Tears blurred your vision, hot and humiliating.

Your knees were scraped raw from slamming against the pavement after Nate shoved you down outside the bar. One side of your face still throbbed where he’d slapped you hard enough to split the inside of your lip maybe fifteen minutes earlier.

You hadn’t thought about where you were going. You’d just run.

And somehow your body dragged you here.

To the one place you’d been specifically told not to come.

Deran had mentioned the party offhandedly two days ago while fixing the walk-in freezer at the bar, half buried in tools and swearing at the wiring. Your shifts there had been sparse lately while finals swallowed your life whole, but somehow the routine of seeing him had become one of the few stable things you had left.

You weren’t even sure why your feet brought you to him.

Maybe because Nate hated him.

Maybe because Deran was one of the only people who ever looked at Nate like he saw exactly what lived underneath his skin.

Or maybe because somewhere along the way Deran Cody had turned into the closest thing you had to family. The older brother neither of you would ever admit out loud you needed. You knew things about him nobody else did. Dark things. Ugly things. And he knew yours too.

Which was exactly why he’d warned you more than once that Smurf’s house was not somewhere he wanted you.

You pushed through the side yard, adrenaline making you dizzy.

Nobody stopped you. Nobody really noticed you at first. You probably looked like every other fucked up girl stumbling through Oceanside at two in the morning. Mascara smeared under your eyes, dress strap hanging broken from one shoulder, blood drying on your knees.

The kind of girl people learned not to look at too hard.

Bodies crowded around the pool. Drunk girls danced in bikinis beside giant speakers while shirtless guys launched beer cans into the water. The whole place smelled like chlorine, weed, sweat, tequila, salt air.

Then Deran saw you.

His face changed instantly.

Not confusion. Not surprise.

Fear.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, already crossing the yard toward you. Fast. “What happened?”

Your throat tightened before the words could even come out. “I know you said not to come here, but-”

Deran grabbed your arm carefully, fingers surprisingly gentle as he turned your face toward the pool lights.

The second he saw the bruise blooming across your cheek, something in his expression went cold. “That fucking asshole hit you?”

You looked away automatically.

That was answer enough.

“Craig,” Deran barked sharply.

A guy with long hair sitting on top of a cooler looked over immediately. Beside him, another man with dark hair and calmer eyes straightened from his chair too.

“What happened?” the dark-haired one asked.

Deran didn’t take his eyes off you. “Her boyfriend hit her.”

Craig stood so fast the cooler tipped sideways behind him. “Are you fucking serious?”

“It wasn’t-”

“Don’t,” Deran snapped instantly. The sharpness of it made you flinch. His jaw clenched hard enough you could see the muscle ticking beneath the skin. “Don’t do that shit.”

You’d seen Deran angry before. At customers. At his family. At himself.

This was different. This looked dangerous.

“Where is he?” the dark-haired man asked calmly, already getting to his feet.

Baz, you remembered suddenly. That was his name.

You swallowed hard. “I don’t know. I ran.”

Deran looked like he wanted to tear somebody apart with his bare hands.

Then another voice cut through the tension behind him.

“Well,” she said smoothly. “Who’s this?”

You turned slowly, still clutching the broken strap of your dress against your chest.

Smurf Cody stood near the patio doors with a cigarette balanced elegantly between perfectly manicured fingers.

Beautiful in a way that didn’t feel warm. Sharp blonde hair untouched by the humidity. Gold jewelry glittering beneath the lights. She looked at you the way people looked at horses before buying them. Assessing. Calculating.

Like she could find every weak spot you had in under thirty seconds.

Deran exhaled through his nose. “Smurf.”

She ignored him completely.

Her eyes stayed fixed on you.

“You’re pretty,” she said casually. “Too pretty to be crying over a man.”

Heat crawled into your face immediately.

“This is Bambi,” Deran said tightly. “My best friend.”

“Friend,” Smurf repeated, amused.

And suddenly you understood an alarming amount about Deran’s issues.

Smurf stepped closer, gaze drifting over the ripped strap hanging off your shoulder, the bruise on your cheek, the blood on your knees.

“A boy do this to you?”

You nodded once.

Her expression barely changed.

“Hm.”

Something about the sound chilled you more than if she’d yelled.

Deran snatched his keys off a folding table. “We’re gonna go find him.”

Baz stood slower, calmer. “Deran.”

“I’m not gonna fucking kill him,” Deran snapped.

Craig gave a sharp laugh. “I might.”

Smurf waved her cigarette lazily through the air. “Just don’t bring cops back to my house.”

Then her eyes flicked back toward you.

“You can stay here tonight, sweetheart.”

“Oh, I couldn’t-”

“Yes, you could,” Smurf interrupted smoothly. “You look half dead.”

Deran turned toward you again, still vibrating with restrained anger.

“You good here?”

You nodded slowly, though you weren’t entirely sure that was true.

His jaw flexed as he looked around the party.

“Stay inside.”

Then the three of them disappeared through the side gate.

And just like that, they were gone.

You stood awkwardly near the pool while the party swallowed the moment whole. Nobody cared. Nobody even really looked twice. Music still blasted. Somebody cannonballed into the pool. A girl stumbled past you laughing with glitter smeared across her chest.

The world kept moving like nothing happened.

Smurf tilted her head toward the house. “Come inside.”

The kitchen felt strangely quiet compared to the chaos outside.

The bass still pulsed faintly through the walls, but softer now. Distant. Smurf moved around the massive kitchen like she owned every atom inside it. Which, honestly, she probably did.

“You hungry?” she asked.

“A little,” you admitted nervously.

She opened the fridge, pulling containers out without ever really stopping watching you.

The house was beautiful in an intimidating sort of way. Expensive without looking staged. Polished wood floors. Massive windows overlooking the black ocean. Family photos lining the walls.

Every room felt lived in.

Claimed.

Smurf moved through it like royalty.

Which, in a deeply fucked up way, she was.

“You and Deran sleeping together?” she asked casually.

You nearly inhaled your own spit. “Oh my God, no. No.”

Not that the idea itself was horrifying. Deran was objectively attractive and you had functioning eyes. But it was also probably one of the least likely scenarios imaginable considering Deran had spent the better half of your friendship pointing out hot men to you with alarming enthusiasm.

“Hm.” Smurf pulled leftover pasta from the fridge. “That’s disappointing. He needs prettier girlfriends.”

You laughed nervously.

“I’m serious.”

The smile fell from your face.

You genuinely couldn’t tell if she was joking.

Smurf handed you a plate before leaning against the counter, cigarette balanced between two fingers as she studied you openly.

“You’re too soft for my boys anyway.”

The statement landed strangely hard. It irritated you more than it should have. She didn’t know you. Not really. The first thing she’d ever seen from you was this version. Crying. Bruised. Shaking.

Weak.

“I’m just his friend,” you said quietly.

“Mm.” She lit another cigarette. “Girls always think they’re just friends with Cody men.”

She pointed at you lightly with the cigarette.

“Especially the pretty ones.”

You looked down at the plate in your hands.

“Does the boy do this often?”

You hesitated. “Sometimes. He was angry tonight.”

Smurf’s expression stayed unreadable.

Cold almost.

“You should learn now,” she said quietly. “Men don’t hit women they love.” She took a slow drag from the cigarette. “They hit women they own.”

The bluntness stunned you into silence.

Before you could answer, movement outside the kitchen windows caught your attention.

Someone sat near the fountain in the backyard, half hidden in the shadows.

You hadn’t noticed him before.

Large frame. Broad shoulders curled slightly forward, elbows resting on his knees. Dark curls falling over his forehead. Freckles dusted across skin that disappeared beneath the sleeves of a faded gray t-shirt. Around him the party carried on at full volume, people screaming over music, splashing into the pool, stumbling through clouds of smoke.

But he sat completely still.

Just watching.

His eyes moved slowly across the yard, detached from all of it like he existed outside the noise.

Then his gaze landed on you.

And stayed there.

Something twisted low in your stomach.

Not fear exactly.

Awareness.

Like some instinct deep in your body already knew who he was before anybody said it.

Smurf noticed immediately.

“Oh,” she murmured softly, almost amused. “There’s Pope.”

Pope.

The name alone tightened something in your spine.

Deran had warned you about him enough times.

If you ever meet Pope, avoid him.

Why?

Because he’s fucking weird.

You glanced back toward the window.

Pope was still staring directly at you.

Not smiling. Not moving. Just staring with an intensity that made your skin feel too tight.

“He just got out,” Smurf said casually, like she was discussing the weather. “Prison makes socializing difficult.”

You didn’t know how to respond to that.

“He’s harmless,” she added after a second.

The way she said it somehow made you feel the exact opposite.

“You should say hi.”

“No, I’m okay-”

“Pope!” Smurf called loudly through the open sliding door.

Your stomach dropped so fast it almost hurt. You shot her a horrified look while she smiled lazily around her cigarette. For a second you genuinely wondered if she was fucking with you. Testing you maybe. You still couldn’t tell when Smurf was being genuine and when she was setting somebody up for entertainment.

Outside, Pope lifted his head immediately.

“Come meet Deran’s friend,” Smurf called.

Your palms started sweating.

A minute later the sliding door opened.

Up close, he was even bigger than you expected.

Not polished like Baz. Not clean-cut like Deran.

Pope looked rough in a way that felt accidental instead of curated. Sharp eyes. Scarred hands. Thick shoulders that made the kitchen suddenly feel smaller. There was something restless underneath his skin even while he stood perfectly still.

And he looked at you like he was trying to figure something out.

“This is Bambi,” Smurf said smoothly.

Pope kept staring.

You shifted awkwardly under the weight of it, suddenly hyperaware of your ripped dress and smeared mascara.

“Hi,” you said quietly.

“Hi,” he echoed.

His voice caught you off guard.

Soft. Almost gentle.

Smurf looked between the two of you with obvious amusement sparkling in her eyes.

“Well,” she said, pushing off the counter. “Try not to scare her, baby.”

Then she disappeared down the hallway, leaving you alone with him.

Silence settled heavily into the kitchen.

You looked literally anywhere except directly at him.

“I like your dress,” Pope said suddenly.

You blinked. “Oh. Thanks.” You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear awkwardly.

“It’s ripped.”

Your eyes dropped to the broken strap hanging off your shoulder.

“I guess, yeah.”

Pope leaned back against the counter, arms folding loosely across his chest, but his eyes never left you.

You tried focusing on the food instead.

“You’re bleeding,” he said after another moment.

You looked down at your scraped knee. Blood had dried in messy streaks down your shin. “Oh.”

Without another word Pope opened the freezer and grabbed an ice pack.

When he handed it to you, your fingers brushed accidentally.

He pulled his hand back immediately.

Too fast. Like the contact surprised him.

And maybe you imagined it, but for half a second his entire expression changed when you looked at him directly. Something almost startled flickered across his face before he looked away.

You didn’t know it, but Pope spent most of his life disconnected from people. Numb to them. Detached. But there was something about you standing in his mother’s kitchen bruised and trembling with those wide, wet doe eyes fixed on him that hooked somewhere deep beneath his ribs before he could stop it.

Maybe it was how vulnerable you looked while still trying to pretend you were fine.

Maybe it was the softness in your voice.

Maybe it was the fact that you looked at him without immediately looking afraid.

He didn’t know.

He just knew he liked it.

“Thanks,” you said quietly.

He nodded once.

Now he was the one avoiding your eyes.

God.

Deran was right.

He was weird.

Not creepy exactly.

Just… off.

Like his brain worked differently from everybody else’s.

You glanced toward the backyard where music still pounded through the walls.

“You don’t like parties?”

“No.”

“Then why are you here?”

Pope’s eyes shifted toward the window again. “Don’t like all these people in my space.”

You made a small oh with your mouth before he continued.

“They always break stuff.”

That felt oddly reasonable coming from him.

“You ran here?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

You shrugged awkwardly. “I knew Deran was close.”

Pope considered that for an uncomfortably long amount of time.

“You trust him.”

“I do.”

Another silence stretched between you.

“He said Nate hurts you sometimes.”

Your head snapped up. “Deran told you that?”

The question slipped out sharper than you intended.

Why would Deran tell them about you? About your relationship? About the ugly parts of it?

Had he told all of them?

Or just Pope?

Pope frowned slightly, like he could tell your mood shifted but wasn’t fully sure why.

“He said he doesn’t like him.”

That sounded far more believable.

You relaxed a little, pressing the ice pack carefully against your cheek.

Pope watched the movement intently.

Not flirtatiously.

Not even curiously.

Just intensely.

Like he noticed every little thing your body did.

It made you hyperaware of yourself. Of the way you sat. The way your fingers trembled slightly. The way your dress slipped against your skin.

You cleared your throat quietly.

“So…” you started. “What exactly do you think your brothers are doing right now?”

Pope didn’t answer immediately. You could practically see him debating how honest to be.

“Probably beating the shit out of him.”

Your stomach twisted hard.

“You think?”

Pope looked genuinely confused by the question.

“Yes.”

And somehow the certainty in his voice scared you more than the answer itself.

Nate hit the pavement hard enough to split the skin across his cheekbone.

The crack echoed through the empty marina parking lot like a gunshot.

Before he could even suck in a breath, Craig grabbed him by the collar and hauled him upright again like he weighed nothing.

“You like to hit women?” Craig snarled.

His fist slammed into Nate’s ribs hard enough to fold him sideways with a broken wheeze.

Nate choked violently, gasping for air that wouldn’t come.

The marina stretched empty around them. Black water crashed against the docks below while Baz’s truck headlights cut harsh white beams across the pavement. Boats rocked slowly in the distance, chains clinking against metal poles in the wind.

Deran paced nearby like something feral trapped in human skin.

He couldn’t stop moving.

Every few seconds his eyes snapped back to Nate, rage crawling visibly beneath his skin like he was seconds away from tearing him apart with his bare hands.

“You touch her again,” Deran snapped, voice low and shaking, “I’ll fucking drown you myself.”

Nate spit blood onto the concrete.

“She’s a lying-”

Craig kicked him hard in the stomach before he could finish.

Nate crumpled with a strangled noise.

“Wrong answer,” Craig muttered.

Baz stayed leaned against the truck, cigarette glowing faintly between his fingers while he watched the scene unravel with the exhaustion of someone who already knew this was spiraling too far.

“Enough,” he said finally.

“Enough?” Deran barked. He turned so fast the movement itself looked violent. “He beat the shit out of her.”

Nate groaned weakly on the pavement, curling onto his side.

Deran looked down at him with something far worse than anger.

Hatred. Pure, ugly hatred.

The kind that sharpened every edge of his face until he barely looked human anymore.

“We should tie a fucking cinderblock to him and dump him in the ocean.”

Craig immediately pointed at him. “That’s what I said.”

Baz rubbed a hand down his face slowly. “And then what? We explain a dead body to Smurf?”

Deran ignored him completely. “He put his hands on her.”

His voice cracked slightly on the last word. Almost disbelieving. Like his brain still couldn’t process the image of you standing in Smurf’s backyard bruised and crying.

Nate coughed wetly, trying to push himself up onto one elbow.

Huge mistake. Deran crossed the distance so fast Baz barely had time to move.

He grabbed Nate by the front of his shirt and slammed him against the side of the truck hard enough to rock it violently on its suspension.

“You think you get to touch her like that?” Deran hissed.

Nate cried out as the back of his head cracked against metal.

Craig’s expression shifted instantly.

The amusement disappeared. “Hey,” he said carefully now. “Deran.”

But Deran either didn’t hear him or didn’t care.

“You think because she stays with your sorry ass that means you can keep doing it?” he snapped. “You think she belongs to you?”

Nate’s face had gone pale beneath the blood smeared across it. “I didn’t mean-”

Deran slammed him against the truck again.

“Bullshit.”

Baz straightened immediately, cigarette dropping to the pavement.

He pushed off the passenger door and started toward them fast.

“Deran.”

Warning this time. But Deran didn’t back off.

He sidestepped Baz entirely, grabbed Nate by the throat with one hand and yanked him upright again. His other hand caught the open passenger door.

“You feel like a big-”

Deran slammed the truck door into the side of Nate’s head. The sound cracked through the marina.

“-tough-”

Another slam. Nate screamed this time.

“-man?”

The final hit sent Nate collapsing onto the pavement in a limp heap, blood streaking down the side of the truck.

Silence hit for half a second except for the waves crashing below the docks. Even Craig froze.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he muttered under his breath.

Nate lay sprawled on the concrete unmoving for a second too long.

Baz moved immediately, shoving past Deran to crouch beside him.

“You trying to fucking kill him?” Baz snapped.

Deran stood there breathing hard, chest rising and falling violently. But he kept staring at Nate like he still wasn’t done.

Like every instinct in his body was screaming at him to finish it. Craig glanced toward Baz briefly. That look alone said enough. Even Craig was getting nervous now.

Nate finally groaned weakly, curling into himself as blood dripped from his nose onto the pavement.

“She always made me fucking crazy,” he slurred through swollen lips.

The second the words left his mouth, Deran snapped again. He lunged so violently Craig barely caught him in time, grabbing him around the waist before he could get to Nate.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Craig barked, struggling to hold him back now.

Deran fought against his grip anyway. Actually fought him.

“She was crying!” Deran shouted. “Did you see her fucking face?”

“Yes,” Craig snapped back. “I saw it.”

Deran shoved hard against him, chest heaving violently.

“I should kill him.” And the terrifying part was nobody thought he was bluffing anymore.

Baz stepped between them now, calmer than both of them but visibly tense for the first time all night. “We scare him,” Baz said firmly. “That’s it.”

Deran laughed once. “You think this shit scares him?”

Nate stayed curled on the pavement bleeding and shaking, but Deran still looked unsatisfied. Like nothing short of irreversible damage was going to quiet the rage clawing through him.

Three days later the bruise on your cheek had finally started turning yellow around the edges. It still hurt when you touched it.

You stood behind the bar beside Deran, wiping down glasses while music hummed low through the speakers overhead. The lunch rush had died an hour ago, leaving the place quieter than usual. Sunlight spilled through the open windows facing the street, warm salt air drifting inside with the sound of traffic and distant waves.

Craig sat at the far end of the bar half drunk already, arguing with Baz about whether or not a guy outside had stolen his parking spot.

“You can’t just threaten people with a wrench every time you get annoyed,” Baz said flatly.

Craig looked genuinely confused. “Why not?”

Deran snorted softly beside you while restocking bottles.

For the first time in days things almost felt normal. Almost. Nate was in a coma.

Nobody said it out loud, but everybody knew Deran had gone way too far at the marina.

You tried not to think about it.

Tried not to think about how part of you felt relieved.

The bell above the front door chimed. Then the entire room changed. You felt it before you even looked up.

Deran froze beside you instantly. A man stood in the doorway.

Older than Nate by maybe twenty years. Thick build. Weathered face. The kind of man who looked mean even standing still. His eyes swept across the bar once before landing directly on you.

Your stomach dropped so hard it made you dizzy.

Because Nate had his father’s eyes.

“Oh,” Craig muttered quietly. “Fuck.”

The man walked inside slowly. Every instinct in your body screamed. You backed up automatically.

Deran moved immediately, stepping in front of you slightly. “What do you want?” he asked coldly.

Nate’s father ignored him completely. His eyes stayed fixed on you. “So,” he said slowly. “This is where the little bitch that ruined my son’s life works.” Your breath caught.

The room suddenly felt too small.

Deran’s expression darkened instantly. “Watch your fucking mouth.”

The older man finally looked at him.

“You’re Deran Cody.” Not a question. “You put my son in the hospital.”

Deran didn’t answer. Didn’t deny it either.

The man laughed once under his breath, but there was nothing amused about it. “You know what Nate told me?” he asked, eyes flicking back toward you. “Said she cries real pretty.”

Your face went cold. You took another step backward unconsciously. And then you felt someone beside you. Solid. Quiet.

Pope.

You hadn’t even seen him come out from the back office. Your fingers wrapped around his arm before you could stop yourself “Andrew,” you said quietly. Nervously.

The name felt strange in your mouth after hearing everybody call him Pope for days.

But his real name fit him more somehow.

Pope looked down at your hand gripping his forearm. Normally he hated being touched. Most people knew better than to try. Craig once joked Pope reacted to physical affection like a feral dog. But he didn’t pull away from you. Didn’t tense. Instead he shifted slightly closer. Enough that your shoulder brushed against his chest.

And instantly, unbelievably, the panic inside you eased. You couldn’t explain it, Pope made you feel calm. Safe. Like if you stayed close enough to him nothing terrible could reach you. The feeling settled through your chest warm and strange and deeply confusing.

Nate’s father noticed immediately. His eyes narrowed. “That your new boyfriend?” he asked cruelly. “You spread your legs for the whole family now?”

Deran lunged forward instantly.

Baz caught him hard across the chest before he could reach him.

“Deran.”

“No,” Deran snapped violently.

But Pope moved first. He stepped fully in front of you now, blocking you from view entirely. The shift was subtle. Terrifyingly subtle. His face stayed calm, but something in his eyes changed.

“You should leave,” Pope said quietly.

Nate’s father laughed. “And what?” he sneered. “You gonna stop me?”

Pope tilted his head slightly. “Yes.”

Silence dropped heavily across the bar.

Nate’s father took another step toward you anyway.

You grabbed the back of Pope’s shirt tighter instinctively. The movement made Pope go completely still.

Then Nate’s father pointed directly at you.

“You think you’re safe now?” he snapped. “Girls like you always go back. You’ll crawl right back to him if he wakes up.”

Something cracked across Deran’s face.

“You need to get him out of here,” Baz said carefully.

But nobody moved. Nate’s father laughed again, uglier this time. “You Codys think you’re untouchable?” He looked around the bar. “Whole family’s fucking rotten.”

Then his eyes landed on you again. “And you.” Your body stiffened instantly. “You should’ve kept your mouth shut.” Pope stepped forward once.

Nate’s father finally seemed to realize something dangerous stood in front of him. Because for the first time since walking in, he hesitated. Then he scoffed and backed toward the door. “This ain’t over.”

The bell chimed again when he left. Silence swallowed the room immediately after.

You were still clutching Pope’s arm. Still half hidden behind him. Nobody pointed it out.

Deran stared at the door long after the man disappeared outside. That same frightening stillness settling over him again.

Baz saw it immediately. “No,” he said firmly.

Deran didn’t look at him.

Craig leaned back slowly against the counter. “He threatened her.”

“No,” Baz repeated harder.

But Deran was already somewhere else mentally. You could see it happen. That cold detached look settling into his face.

Pope glanced back toward you then. His eyes softened slightly when he saw how shaken you still were. “You should go upstairs,” he said quietly.

Deran owned the apartment above the bar. You’d slept there the last two nights because the idea of going home alone suddenly made your skin crawl. You nodded slowly. Your fingers slipped from Pope’s arm reluctantly. The loss of contact felt immediate. Strange, Pope noticed it too.

Something unreadable flickered across his face before he stepped back.

“I’ll lock up,” Deran said flatly.

Baz looked between both brothers and swore under his breath.

Later, long after you finally drifted asleep curled against the arm of Deran’s couch upstairs, the brothers left through the alley behind the bar. The city had gone quiet by then.

Streetlights reflected off damp pavement. The ocean air felt colder at night, heavier somehow, carrying the distant sound of waves crashing somewhere beyond the buildings.

Deran locked the back door without a word.

Pope stood beside the truck waiting calmly, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie. His face looked unreadable in the dark.

Deran slid behind the wheel while Pope watched the apartment windows upstairs for one last second. The living room light was off.

Satisfied, he climbed into the passenger seat. The truck rolled silently out of the alley.

They found Nate’s father exactly where they expected. At the same liquor-stained dive bar off the harbor road where guys like him spent every night slowly rotting themselves from the inside out.

Deran parked across the street beneath a dead streetlamp.

The windows of the bar glowed dim yellow against the dark while old motorcycles lined the curb outside. Inside, Nate’s father sat hunched over the counter already half drunk, laughing too loudly at something the bartender said. Pope watched him quietly through the windshield. “You think he hits women too?” he asked.

Deran’s jaw tightened. Neither of them asked how the other knew that he did. Some things were obvious.

An hour passed. Then another. Neither brother spoke much.

Every once in a while Deran drummed his fingers once against the steering wheel before stopping himself again. Too much energy sitting beneath his skin. Too much anger still trying to claw its way out.

But Pope stayed perfectly still.

Around two in the morning Nate’s father finally stumbled out of the bar alone.

The brothers followed. His truck drifted lazily between lanes as he drove through the sleeping streets of Oceanside toward the edge of town. Small houses gave way to emptier roads. Fewer streetlights. Fewer witnesses.

Finally he pulled into a narrow gravel driveway beside a run-down one story house near the marshes. No nearby neighbors. No barking dogs. Perfect.

The porch light flicked on as he staggered toward the front door fumbling with his keys.

Pope watched carefully from the passenger seat.

Deran killed the engine two houses down. The darkness swallowed the truck instantly.

Ten minutes later the kitchen light inside the house flicked on briefly before disappearing again. Then nothing.

Pope checked his watch. “Give him twenty.”

Deran nodded once. The wait almost killed him. He sat leaning forward slightly, jaw clenched hard enough to ache while rage simmered quietly beneath his skin. Every time he closed his eyes he still saw you standing in the bar clutching Pope’s arm with fear written all over your face.

Girls like you always go back.

The memory alone made his hands tighten.

Twenty-three minutes later Pope opened the passenger door. The brothers moved silently through the yard.

Pope picked the back lock in under thirty seconds.

The house smelled stale inside. Beer. Cigarettes. Old grease. A television played quietly somewhere in the living room.

Nate’s father had passed out half reclined on the couch with an empty bottle hanging loose from one hand. Pope closed the back door carefully behind them.

The man woke slightly at the sound. “Huh?”

Deran moved first. He crossed the room in three steps and drove his forearm across the man’s throat hard enough to pin him against the couch before he could fully react.

Confusion flashed across the older man’s face. Then recognition. Then fear.

“What the fu-”

Pope grabbed the bottle before it hit the floor. Quiet. Always quiet.

Nate’s father struggled violently beneath Deran’s grip now, but alcohol slowed him down. Age slowed him down more.

“Don’t tell me you didn’t see this coming.” Deran said quietly.

The man wheezed against his arm. Pope stepped closer calmly, expression empty. Pope looked at him the same way somebody looked at a broken appliance they needed to get rid of. “You scared her,” Pope added softly.

Nate’s father started fighting harder then. Panic setting in.

Deran slammed him backward against the couch again hard enough to daze him.

“Left her scared in my fucking bar,” Deran hissed.

The older man reached desperately for the side table. Phone. Weapon. Anything.

Pope caught his wrist instantly. Then twisted. A wet crack echoed through the room.

The scream barely had time to leave his mouth before Pope clamped a hand over it.

“You should’ve stayed away from her,” he said.

Afterward, they cleaned everything carefully. Pope wiped surfaces while Deran staged the kitchen. A shattered beer bottle near the counter. Water spilled across the tile.

The body positioned wrong enough to look accidental but believable.

A drunk man falls hard enough onto the corner of a counter and sometimes he doesn’t get back up. Sad. Common. Forgettable.

By the time they left, the house looked untouched.

The brothers washed their hands at a gas station fifteen minutes later. Deran scrubbed blood from beneath his fingernails in silence while Pope leaned against the sink watching the empty parking lot through the window.“You think she’s asleep?” Pope asked quietly.

Deran nodded once. Pope looked back down at the water running pink briefly before turning the faucet off. Then they drove to the hospital.

The city was beginning to pale blue with early morning by the time they parked in the visitor garage.

Nate’s room sat on the fourth floor.

Critical condition. Machines breathing for him. Deran stared through the small window in the door for a long moment before entering. Nate looked smaller like this.

Bruised face swollen beyond recognition.

A machine beeped steadily beside him in the darkened room.

Pope closed the door quietly behind them. Nate’s eyes fluttered weakly at the sound. For one horrifying second he almost looked aware. Then his gaze landed on Deran. Fear flooded his face instantly.

Good, Deran thought.

He should be scared.

“You should’ve left her alone,” Deran said softly.

Nate tried to speak. Nothing came out around the breathing tube.

Pope walked calmly to the door, peeking once through the narrow window toward the empty hallway before looking back at his brother. Deran stepped toward the bed.

And by the time the sun finally rose over Oceanside, Nate’s room had become just another tragedy inside a hospital full of them.

It had been a few weeks. A few strange, chaotic, strangely comfortable weeks where the Cody family somehow became woven into your life before you fully realized what was happening.

You’d officially met everyone now.

J had shown up at the bar one afternoon quiet and observant, watching everybody with the same careful expression Pope wore sometimes. Nicky was sweet in an exhausting sort of way and latched onto you immediately after discovering you owned actual skincare products. Lena adored you after exactly ten minutes because you sat on the floor with her and helped untangle one of her necklaces without getting annoyed.

And Smurf… Smurf had become dangerously fond of you. Not in a normal way either. It felt more like she’d picked you out. Like she was studying you the same way she studied her sons. Watching your reactions. Learning your weak spots. Encouraging certain behaviors while quietly steering you away from others.

You noticed it more lately.

“You apologize too much,” Smurf had told you three nights ago while helping you clean up after dinner.

You blinked. “What?”

“You say sorry before you even speak sometimes.” She handed you a wine glass. “Men smell weakness, sweetheart.”

You laughed awkwardly. “I think that’s a little dramatic.”

“No,” Smurf said calmly. “It isn’t.”

Then she’d taught you how to hold eye contact during confrontation like it was a lesson worth learning.

And weirdly enough Pope started hovering more whenever Smurf was around. At first you thought you imagined it. But then you noticed how he lingered nearby anytime Smurf cornered you into conversations. How his eyes tracked the two of you constantly. How he interrupted more. Redirected you away from her. Like he knew something you didn’t.

Which honestly happened a lot with the Codys.

You were beginning to realize there were entire conversations happening beneath the surface around you. Things you weren’t understanding.

Like the fact that none of them ever talked directly about what they actually did.

You heard rumors, obviously. Everybody in Oceanside heard rumors about the Codys. Crime. Robberies. Violence.

But then Deran would make you coffee exactly how you liked it without asking, or Baz would walk you to your car after work, or Craig would spend twenty minutes teaching Lena how to cannonball properly into the pool while Pope sat nearby staring at you like you hung the fucking moon.

They didn’t feel dangerous around you. Not really. Just damaged.

And Pope… Pope was becoming something else entirely. Possessive wasn’t even the right word anymore. It was quieter than that. More constant. Like gravity. He always knew where you were in a room. Always noticed immediately when another man looked too long at you. Always positioned himself close enough to touch you somehow without making it obvious.

His hand brushing the small of your back. His knee pressed against yours under tables. His fingers curling around your wrist absentmindedly while you talked.

And the eye contact.

Jesus Christ.

Pope looked at you like he physically could not stop.

Sometimes it genuinely made you nervous how intensely he listened whenever you spoke. Like every word mattered. Like every facial expression was something worth memorizing. But you liked it more than you should’ve. Way more.

Which was probably why you found yourself currently squeezed tightly beneath Deran’s arm at one of Smurf’s massive pool parties wearing a bikini that barely qualified as fabric. A bikini Smurf picked out herself.

You should’ve known that alone was dangerous.

“Oh my god,” you muttered earlier that afternoon holding the tiny black swimsuit up between two fingers. “This is insane.”

Smurf looked unimpressed from her closet doorway. “No, sweetheart. It’s expensive.”

“It’s basically underwear.”

“Exactly.”

You laughed nervously. “Nate would’ve had an aneurysm.”

Smurf’s eyes sharpened instantly. “Good.”

And somehow you ended up wearing it anyway.

Now music pounded through the backyard while bodies crowded around the pool beneath strings of warm patio lights. Somebody was doing shots off a surfboard table. Craig had already thrown two people into the water fully clothed.

Deran sat beside you on one of the lounge chairs, arm hooked around your shoulders mostly because he was still paranoid about men approaching you at parties now.

You leaned comfortably against him sipping from a drink while laughing at something Nicky screamed near the pool.

Then you felt it. That familiar feeling. Being watched. Your eyes lifted automatically across the crowded backyard. Pope sat near the outdoor kitchen talking to Baz.

Well. Baz was talking. Pope was staring directly at you. Even from across the yard you could feel the intensity of it.

His eyes moved slowly over you once before locking back onto your face. Heat crept into your chest immediately.

Deran noticed your distraction and followed your gaze. “Oh my fucking god,” he muttered.

“What?”

“He’s doing it again.”

You looked innocent. “Doing what?”

“Looking at you like a psychopath.”

You snorted into your drink. “He’s not that weird.”

Deran turned toward you slowly. “Yes,” he said flatly. “He is.”

“I think you exaggerate.”

“Yeah?” Deran barked out a laugh. “Because you don’t work with him.”

You frowned immediately. “What work?”

The second the question left your mouth, Deran’s expression shifted.

“Nothing,” he said.

“That sounds weird.”

“It’s not.”

“You literally just made it more suspicious.”

Deran rubbed his forehead already irritated.

“You ask too many questions.”

“And yet you avoid all of them.”

“Smartest thing I’ve ever done.”

You narrowed your eyes slightly.

Again. That weird feeling.

Like everybody around you knew something you didn’t. Before you could push further, Craig suddenly cannonballed into the pool hard enough to soak half the patio.

You yelped as cold water splashed across your legs. “CRAIG.”

He surfaced laughing wildly. “That was for saying i’m six foot something with shampoo-commercial hair and I only have exactly three surviving brain cells fighting for fourth place earlier.”

“Was I wrong? You do have shampoo-commercial hair.”

Craig pointed dramatically. “See?”

While everybody argued around the pool, your eyes drifted back toward Pope automatically. Still watching you. Except now his expression looked darker somehow.

You followed his line of sight downward and immediately realized why. Deran’s hand rested against your bare thigh.

Oh. You bit back a smile.

“Your brother looks homicidal,” you murmured.

Deran glanced over again. Then groaned loudly. “For fuck’s sake.”

“What?”

“He’s jealous.”

You nearly choked on your drink laughing “Pope? No.”

Deran stared at you like you were stupid “Bambi. He follows you around like a stray dog.”

“That is so mean. Don’t be mean to him.”

“It’s accurate.” He rolled his eyes.

Your smile widened despite yourself. Because maybe Deran wasn’t entirely wrong. Pope looked at you differently now. Not subtle either. Everybody noticed. Especially Smurf.

You caught her watching the interaction from near the grill with an amused little smile pulling at her mouth.

“You should go sit with him,” Deran muttered.

“What?”

“Before he burns holes through my skull.”

You laughed harder. “You’re being dramatic.”

Deran looked back toward Pope. Then immediately removed his arm from around your shoulders. “Nope. Absolutely not. Go.”

“Deran-”

“I’m serious. He’s freaking me out.”

You looked back across the yard again. Pope hadn’t looked away once. God. It should not have affected you this much. But it did.

Because unlike every other guy who looked at you, Pope never seemed distracted. Never checked his phone mid conversation. Never split his attention elsewhere.

When he looked at you, he looked only at you. Like the entire room disappeared.

You stood slowly from the lounge chair.

Almost immediately Pope straightened slightly where he sat.

Deran watched the reaction happen and muttered, “Jesus Christ,” under his breath.

You crossed the backyard toward him through the crowd.

Pope tracked every step.

By the time you reached the outdoor kitchen, Baz was already smirking into his beer.

“Well,” Baz drawled. “There’s the reason he hasn’t heard a word I said in ten minutes.”

Pope ignored him completely. His eyes flicked slowly over your bikini again before settling on your face. “You cold?” he asked immediately.

You blinked. “What?”

“You’re shivering.”

“Oh.” You laughed softly. “The pool water.”

Pope grabbed the towel beside him without hesitation and held it out. Your chest tightened a little. Always paying attention. Always noticing.

“Thanks, Andrew.”

The second you said his real name, something changed in his expression. Softened. It happened every single time. Pope loved when you called him Andrew. Loved it in that deep quiet way he loved most things concerning you.

Baz noticed too because of course he did “Oh my god,” Baz muttered. “You’re whipped.”

Pope didn’t even deny it.

You smiled trying to hide your embarrassment while taking the towel from him. Pope’s hand settled automatically against your thigh once you sat beside him.

Possessive. Casual. Like it belonged there.

And weirdly enough you let it stay there without thinking twice.

Across the yard, Deran watched the interaction happen before looking deeply exhausted. Smurf appeared beside him sipping wine. “Told you,” she said smugly.

Deran sighed. “This is gonna end in a body. Hopefully not hers.”

Smurf smiled wider. “Probably will be.”

The party got louder the later it got.

Music pounded through the backyard hard enough to shake the deck beneath your feet while bodies crowded shoulder to shoulder around the pool. The entire property glowed gold against the dark ocean behind it, strings of lights hanging from the balcony while drunk strangers danced barefoot across wet concrete.

Craig had somehow started an argument about sharks. “No, listen to me,” he insisted loudly, pointing with a beer bottle while half sprawled across a lounge chair. “If sharks can smell blood from like five miles away then obviously they can smell cocaine.”

“That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” Deran said flatly.

“It’s literally dissolved in your bloodstream.”

“That’s not how drugs work.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I absolutely know that.”

J sat nearby trying unsuccessfully not to laugh while Nicky filmed the entire thing on her phone solely for future blackmail purposes.

“You’re embarrassing yourself,” she informed Craig cheerfully.

Craig pointed at her dramatically. “History’s gonna vindicate me.”

Beside you, Pope stayed stretched back against the outdoor couch with one arm hooked lazily along the cushions behind you. Well. Not really behind you anymore.

At some point during the conversation you’d shifted closer without thinking until your shoulder rested fully against his chest, your legs tucked partly beneath his along the couch. And Pope loved it. You could tell.

Not because he said anything. Because every time you touched him he got quieter. More focused. Like his entire body locked onto the feeling immediately.

His hand rested against your thigh now, large fingers spread lazily over sun-warmed skin while everybody argued around you. Every so often his thumb brushed absentminded little circles there.

Every single time it happened, his eyes flicked down toward your face. Checking. Watching your reaction carefully like he still hadn’t fully processed the fact that you let him touch you this much.

You leaned your head back slightly to look up at him. “You’re awfully quiet tonight.”

Pope’s eyes dropped to yours instantly. The height difference forced you to tilt your chin up slightly from where you rested against him. “I’m listening.”

“To Craig talking about drug-sniffing sharks?”

“Yes.”

You laughed softly.

Pope’s eyes lingered on your mouth a second too long afterward.

Across from you, Baz noticed immediately and smirked into his drink. The man was obsessed with you. Not even subtly anymore.

Smurf sat nearby with a glass of wine watching the entire interaction unfold with careful amusement. Like she was observing a particularly entertaining science experiment in real time.

You were halfway through making fun of Craig’s shark theory when a girl suddenly approached the couch hesitantly.

You recognized her vaguely from high school. Not close friends. Just familiar enough to know her name if somebody said it out loud. She looked relieved when she spotted you.

“Oh my god,” she said softly. “There you are.”

You frowned slightly. “What?”

“I’ve been trying to find you.”

Beside you, Pope’s hand engulfed your thigh more firmly instantly. Protective. Alert. His eyes lifted toward the girl carefully now.

Confusion twisted through you. “Why?”

The girl glanced awkwardly around the group before looking back at you. “You didn’t hear?”

Something in her tone made your stomach tighten immediately. You laughed nervously shaking your head. “Hear what?”

“Nate’s dad died.”

Everything around you seemed to go strangely muffled. Like somebody dropped water over your ears. “What?” you whispered.

The girl nodded quickly. “Yeah. Cops are saying he got drunk and slipped in his kitchen or something. Everybody’s freaking out because he was like… such a good guy..”

A good guy. Yeah fucking right.

You felt Pope’s entire body go still behind you.

The girl kept talking nervously. “And Nate…” Your chest tightened instantly. “He died Wednesday morning at the hospital.”

The words hit like ice water. Your body instinctively pressed backward into Pope’s chest before you even realized you were moving. And immediately Pope’s arm wrapped fully around your waist. His fingers slid beneath the tie of your bikini bottoms absentmindedly, anchoring you against him.

The touch made heat crawl up your spine despite the panic suddenly flooding your chest. Around you, every Cody had gone silent.

Especially Smurf. All of them watching your face carefully now. Measuring your reaction. Because you knew what happened at the marina. You looked between them slowly, heartbeat suddenly roaring in your ears “How?” you asked quietly.

The girl shrugged uneasily. “They said his ventilator malfunctioned or something. Like some weird glitch.” You suddenly became hyperaware of Pope’s hand tightening slightly against your waist. The girl laughed awkwardly into the silence. “Crazy, right? Anyway, his mom’s doing a service for both of them next week.”

Nobody answered her. Because now the atmosphere felt wrong. Heavy. You swallowed hard.

Your brain started racing violently. Nate dead. His father dead. The ventilator made no sense. The kitchen accident made too much sense.

And suddenly every rumor you’d ever heard about the Codys stopped sounding like rumors at all.

You looked toward Deran slowly. His expression stayed unreadable. Too unreadable. Like none of this was actually news to him.

Baz somehow looked calmer than everybody else which honestly made him scarier. Craig wouldn’t meet your eyes anymore. Even J looked tense now.

But Pope was only watching you. Like your reaction mattered more than the deaths themselves.

The girl shifted awkwardly under the silence. “I just thought you should know.”

“Yeah,” you said faintly. “Thanks.”

She disappeared back into the crowd quickly after that. But the weirdness stayed.

The party still raged around you. Music blasted through the backyard. Somebody screamed after getting shoved into the pool fully clothed again. Bottles clinked. People laughed too loudly. But around the couch, tension settled heavy and suffocating.

You sat stiffly against Pope’s chest now, barely realizing how tightly you’d pressed yourself into him. His hand stayed firm against your waist, thumb moving slowly against your side like he was trying to soothe you. Or maybe soothe himself. You honestly couldn’t tell anymore.

“Nate died?” you said finally, voice sounding distant even to yourself.

The words felt unreal. Deran exchanged a quick glance with Baz. Craig stared down into his beer bottle. J watched everyone carefully from the edge of the chair, quiet like always.

Smurf leaned back calmly, wine balanced elegantly between her fingers while sharp interest glittered behind her eyes.

The whole thing suddenly felt deeply wrong.

You looked around slowly. “Why is everybody acting weird?”

“No one’s acting weird,” Deran answered way too fast.

Your eyes narrowed slightly. “Yeah, you are.”

Pope’s grip tightened almost imperceptibly when your voice rose.

You looked up at him instinctively. His eyes were already on your face. Always.

“You okay?” he asked quietly. And somehow that almost made it worse.

Because he sounded genuinely concerned while everybody else looked tense as hell.

You swallowed hard. “I don’t know.” The girl’s words replayed violently in your head.

You suddenly stood up. “I need to leave.”

Pope immediately straightened beside you. “Hey-“

“I just…” You rubbed your forehead shakily. “I need a second.” Your fingers grabbed the nearest sweatshirt off the couch blindly before pulling it over your bikini top. You barely noticed the sleeves swallowed your hands completely.

Pope did. His eyes locked instantly onto the oversized hoodie hanging off your body. His hoodie. Something sharp and possessive flashed across his face so quickly only Smurf caught it.

Interesting.

You pushed through the side gate quickly. The metal slammed behind you. The second you disappeared down the street, Craig exhaled loudly.

“Good job not acting suspicious as fuck, guys,” Baz said sarcastically.

“Shut up,” Deran muttered.

Smurf swirled the wine slowly in her glass. “She knows something.”

J frowned slightly. “About what?”

Smurf’s eyes stayed fixed thoughtfully on the closed gate. “That girl didn’t react like someone upset her ex-boyfriend died.” Her expression sharpened slightly. “She reacted like she’s scared.”

Baz leaned forward now. “You think Nate told her something?”

“I think,” Smurf said carefully, “our sweet little Bambi is smarter than you boys thought.”

Pope stood immediately. “She’s not gonna say anything.”

Smurf’s gaze flicked toward him knowingly. “You sound very sure. You willing to bet your freedom on it?”

“I am.” The certainty in his voice shut everybody up briefly.

Because Pope trusted you completely. And honestly? That made him the most dangerous person in the family right now.

Smurf looked between her sons slowly before nodding once toward the street “Follow her.”

Deran groaned immediately. “Come on. She ran out of here looking terrified. She just found out her ex died.”

“And?” Smurf snapped lightly. “You think that girl’s stupid? She’s putting things together.”

Baz stood first. “Let’s go.”

But Pope was already moving toward the driveway before anybody else.

Because he knew the look on your face when you got overwhelmed. And more importantly, He wasn’t about to let anybody else get to you first.

Your hands shook so badly on the steering wheel you nearly blew through a stop sign.

The tires screeched slightly when you corrected too hard. Everything felt wrong.

Your thoughts kept colliding into each other faster than you could process them. Nate yelling. Nate crying the first time he begged you not to “ruin his family.”

Nate’s father smiling at barbecues while flipping burgers like some suburban dad straight out of a Home Depot commercial. Pretending he wasn’t a lousy drunk behind closed doors.

The hidden files on the computer. Your best friend sobbing in that video. God. Your stomach twisted so violently you thought you might throw up. The apartment complex came into view too fast.

You parked crooked and barely remembered shutting the car off before climbing out. The apartment you once shared with Nate was dark when you stepped inside. And it still smelled like him. Stale beer. Laundry detergent. Old cigarettes soaked into fabric and walls. You hated it instantly.

It hit you all over again why you hadn’t come back since the night he hit you. Why staying with Deran had somehow felt safer than being alone here. Your chest tightened hard.

The silence inside the apartment felt wrong now. Haunted.

You moved quickly toward the entertainment center near the living room wall, panic making your movements jerky. Books hit the floor one after another while you ripped them off the shelves searching.

“Come on,” you whispered shakily under your breath. “Come on, please…”

Your fingers slipped against the wood paneling behind the shelf before finally catching the loose edge. Relief hit so hard it almost made your knees weak. You pulled the hidden disk case free from inside the wall.

“Oh my god,” you laughed breathlessly to yourself. Not happy. Just relieved.

Your grip tightened around the case as you turned and nearly screamed. A solid wall of muscle stood directly in front of you. You stumbled backward violently before realizing it was Pope. A startled sound escaped your throat. His hand shot out immediately, grabbing your forearm gently before you could trip over the books scattered across the floor.

Your eyes snapped upward.

All four brothers stood inside the apartment doorway. The sight of them there made your pulse spike instantly.

“What the fuck?”

Pope stepped closer first. “Hey,” he murmured softly, saying your name like he was trying not to scare you. Too late. You took another step backward anyway.

“How did you even know I was here? Nobody answered immediately.

And for the first time since meeting them, the Cody brothers looked exactly like the stories people whispered about. Craig leaned against the doorway with his arms crossed, expression unusually serious. Baz’s eyes moved carefully around the apartment, taking everything in automatically. Deran looked tense enough to snap.

But Pope only looked at you. Or more specifically At the disk case clutched tightly in your hands.

Your heartbeat sped up immediately. “You followed me here?” you asked carefully.

Baz spoke first. “What’s that?”

Your fingers tightened around the disk instinctively. “Nothing.”

You shoved it behind your back too quickly.

The second Deran stepped forward with that cold unreadable look on his face, you regretted it. “Bambi,” he said carefully. “Why’d you come here?”

You looked between all of them uneasily. The atmosphere had shifted. Not violent exactly. But serious. Focused. Like they were trying to solve a problem.

Pope took another slow step closer. “You scared us.”

A nervous laugh escaped you. “So your solution was following me to my apartment?”

“Yeah,” Craig muttered. “Because you looked like you were about to have a fucking breakdown.”

Your eyes lifted back toward Pope automatically.

His gaze dropped briefly toward the disk behind your back. Then back to your face.“What’s on it?” he asked softly. And somehow him asking gently broke you more than if he’d demanded it.

Your throat tightened. “It belonged to Nate’s dad.” You swallowed hard. “It’s why he said I should’ve kept my mouth shut.”

Every single one of them went still. The memory of that night at the bar flashed visibly across their faces. Deran’s expression darkened immediately.

You stared down at the disk case in your hands. “A few months ago Nate’s dad let me borrow his computer,” you said quietly. “I found videos on it.”

Baz’s face flattened instantly. “What kind of videos?”

You looked sick even trying to say it. “Girls.” Nobody spoke. “High school girls.”

Craig swore quietly under his breath.

“One of them was my best friend.” Your voice cracked instantly. “She was crying and he was hurting her.” Pope’s face changed. You sniffed shakily and kept talking too fast now, words tumbling over themselves. “She went missing our senior year. They found her body all the way out in Point Loma.”

Silence slammed into the apartment. Pope looked genuinely frightening now. Not toward you. Toward the thought of somebody making you cry like this.

Craig sat down hard on the couch suddenly, elbows braced on his knees while he dragged both hands down his face. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he muttered.

You rushed your words out quicker now through tears. “I wanted to go to the police but Nate kept begging me not to ruin his dad’s life and then we started fighting more and more and…” Your throat closed painfully. “The night he hit me was because I told him I was done protecting them.” Your breathing shook. “It had been seven years since she died and-” You stopped hard, trying to steady yourself. “Her parents invited Nate and me to breakfast every year after they found her body.” Your voice cracked again. “And I had to sit across from them pretending the person I was sharing my life with didn’t know his father murdered their daughter.”

Deran looked disgusted. Actually disgusted.

Pope stepped toward you immediately. His hand lifted carefully, fingers brushing against the side of your face almost hesitantly. “What…” he said softly, eyes searching yours. “What do you mean he knew?”

You swallowed hard. “Nate helped him.”

Even the air in the apartment felt different afterward. “That asshole helped his father?” Deran asked flatly. Not remorseful. Just colder somehow.

You nodded shakily. “He knew the whole time.” Tears slid down your cheeks faster now. “He wasn’t shocked when I told him what I found. He was angry I wouldn’t look the other way anymore.”

Baz rubbed a hand slowly over his mouth processing everything. Then finally he held his hand out toward the disk carefully. “Can I see it?”

You hesitated. And for one awful second, fear curled low in your stomach. Not because you thought they’d hurt you. Because suddenly you realized you didn’t actually know what these men were capable of. Now here they stood in a dead man’s apartment after silently following you across town.

You looked toward Pope carefully. He noticed the hesitation instantly. And it visibly hurt him. Something shifted in his expression almost imperceptibly. “Hey,” he said quietly.

Your eyes lifted toward him. “We’re not gonna hurt you.” The sincerity in his voice made your chest ache.

You nodded slowly before handing Baz the disk case.

Baz opened it carefully while Craig leaned over trying to see too. Deran cursed quietly under his breath almost immediately. Inside sat a plain burned CD labeled in black marker.

S. DAVIS — 3/18/2009.

“Her name was Sarah,” you whispered.

“Jesus Christ,” Craig muttered again.

You looked away immediately, humiliation mixing violently with grief in your chest. “I know I should’ve gone to the cops sooner.”

You completely misunderstood the look passing between them. You thought they were judging you. Wondering why you stayed quiet so long. You didn’t notice the other realization settling in instead.

That Nate and his father being dead suddenly looked a whole lot less suspicious if this ever surfaced.

“No,” Pope said immediately. Your eyes lifted toward him again. His expression softened instantly the second he saw your face. “You tried.”

The words hit harder than they should have. Because nobody else had ever said that to you. Not Nate. Not yourself. Pope stepped closer carefully now. Close enough that you could smell him mixed with the smoke and beer still clinging faintly to the oversized sweatshirt hanging off your body. His sweatshirt. You suddenly became aware you were still wearing it.

Pope noticed you realizing. His eyes dropped briefly toward the sleeves swallowing your hands. Something possessive flickered low across his face again. Then he looked back at you. “You were trying to protect people,” he said quietly. Your throat tightened painfully “Sarah deserves justice.”

Baz looked up from the disk then. “We can help with that.”

You blinked at him. “What?”

Deran nodded slowly now. “You take this to the cops, they’ll actually listen.”

“Especially now,” Craig muttered darkly. “Perfect dead suburban family man bullshit kinda falls apart once this gets out.”

You stared at all of them. “You’d help me?”

Baz feigned confusion by the question. “Why wouldn’t we?”

You almost laughed at that. Because ten minutes ago these men silently appeared in your apartment like something out of a nightmare and scared the hell out of you without even trying. And now they were calmly offering to help expose a predator.

Nothing about the Codys made sense.

Pope stepped even closer. Close enough that your pulse stumbled slightly. “You don’t gotta do this alone anymore,” he said softly. “I’ll take you to the cops myself.”

And the terrifying thing was you believed him immediately.

The police station took almost two hours.

Two exhausting, emotionally draining hours of sitting beneath fluorescent lights while detectives asked careful questions and copied files from the disk. You felt nauseous the entire time.

Pope never left your side once. Not once.

He sat beside you in stiff silence through every interview, large body angled slightly toward yours the whole time like some unconscious shield. Every time your voice shook answering a question, his eyes lifted immediately to your face.

One detective finally asked if he was your boyfriend.

Pope answered before you could. “Yes.” The word came out flat and immediate. You turned toward him in surprise. Pope didn’t even look at you. Just kept staring at the detective like daring him to question it.

The detective only nodded slowly and moved on. But your stomach had flipped violently anyway. Because Pope didn’t say things casually. Everything with him felt carved in stone.

By the time you finally walked back outside, the sky had gone dark. You stood near the parking lot rubbing your arms tiredly while Pope watched you carefully beside his truck.

“You okay?”

“No,” you admitted honestly.

Pope nodded once like he expected that answer. “You wanna stay alone tonight?”

The thought made your stomach twist immediately. Nate’s apartment suddenly felt unbearable now, and you knew Deran had Adrian over. You looked at him quietly. “Can I stay with you?”

Pope’s entire body went still. You noticed. Because you’d started learning him now. And Pope looked at you like you’d just handed him something precious.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah, okay.”

The drive to his apartment was quiet.

Pope drove one-handed, occasionally glancing toward you like he was checking to make sure you were still there. The apartment complex itself surprised you.

Small. Quiet. Nothing flashy.

Inside surprised you even more. Everything was spotless. Painfully spotless. You stepped inside slowly while Pope locked the door behind you. The apartment looked almost untouched. Counters completely clear. Shoes lined up perfectly near the wall. Blankets folded sharply across the couch. Not a single dish in the sink.

“You actually live like this?” you asked softly. Pope shrugged. “It’s cleaner than a hospital in here.”

“I don’t like mess.” You looked around again. The apartment felt exactly like him somehow. Every object carefully placed where it belonged. Even the air smelled clean.

Pope watched your eyes move around the room intently. Like he cared whether or not you approved.

You smiled faintly. “I like it.”

The tension visibly left his shoulders.

God. That should not have affected you as much as it did. You turned toward him fully then. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For helping me today.”

Pope frowned slightly like the answer was obvious. “You needed help.”

“I know but…” Your throat tightened unexpectedly. “Nobody’s ever really done something like that for me before.”

Pope stared at you so intensely your chest warmed. “You don’t gotta thank me for taking care of you.” There it was again. That dangerous kind of devotion sitting quietly beneath everything he said.

You swallowed hard. Pope’s eyes immediately dropped to your throat moving. Jesus Christ. The man stared like it physically hurt him not to touch you. “You can shower if you want,” he said suddenly. “I’ll find you clothes.” You nodded quickly mostly because you needed a second to breathe.

The bathroom was just as obsessively clean as the rest of the apartment. White towels folded perfectly. Everything organized. You caught yourself smiling slightly while turning on the shower. Of course Pope folded towels properly.

You stripped slowly, exhaustion finally crashing into your body as steam filled the room. The hot water felt almost painful against your skin at first. You closed your eyes beneath the spray immediately. For the first time all day, your brain quieted.

A soft knock sounded faintly through the bathroom. You barely heard it over the water. “Bambi?” Pope’s voice.

You called back weakly, “Yeah?”

“I got clothes for you.”

You hummed something unintelligible, eyes still closed beneath the water. A second later the bathroom door opened quietly. Pope stepped inside carefully holding a folded shirt and sweatpants. Then he froze. The glass shower door was partially translucent from the steam. Enough to see your silhouette beneath the water. Your head tilted back slightly. Wet hair slicked against your shoulders. Water tracing down your body slowly. Pope stopped breathing for a second.

You didn’t notice him immediately. Eyes still closed while water poured over your face. Pope should’ve left. Instead he stood there completely motionless staring through the steam like a man starving to death. His jaw flexed once hard enough to hurt.

Then you opened your eyes. And saw him.

For one suspended second neither of you moved. Pope looked almost caught.

Your heart started pounding instantly. But you weren’t scared. Not even a little. Because it was Andrew. Obsessive, strange, intense Andrew who looked at you like you were the only thing in the world worth seeing.

Slowly, you reached forward and pulled the shower door open wider. Steam curled out into the bathroom. Pope stared at you silently. Water dripped down your skin while his eyes moved over you openly now. No pretending otherwise.

Your voice came out soft. “You gonna just stand there?”

Pope swallowed hard. “You want me to come in there?”

You stepped closer instead of answering. Close enough now that steam dampened the front of his shirt. Then your fingers curled around the front of it gently and pulled. Pope came willingly. The second he stepped beneath the hot water, your mouths crashed together hard.

It wasn’t soft. Weeks of tension snapped all at once.

Pope kissed like he thought about it constantly. Hands immediately gripping your waist hard enough to bruise while yours tangled into his damp hair. A low sound left his throat when you kissed him back harder.

“You sure?” he murmured roughly against your mouth.

You answered by dragging his shirt upward impatiently. That nearly killed him. Pope pulled back just enough to yank the shirt over his head before grabbing your face again immediately. His hands were everywhere now. Like he couldn’t decide where he wanted to touch you most.

Your chest. Your waist. Your thighs. Always pulling you closer. Always needing more.

You kissed down his jaw while your fingers worked open his belt beneath the spray of water. Pope’s breathing turned uneven instantly. “Bambi,” he muttered warningly. But his hands tightened against you anyway.

You looked up at him through wet lashes. The eye contact alone almost destroyed him. Because Pope loved your eye contact. Loved seeing exactly what you felt while touching him.

You pushed his jeans down just enough to make him curse softly under his breath before his mouth found yours again harder this time. The steam thickened around both of you while water poured over his shoulders. Everything about him felt overwhelming up close. Big hands. Heavy breathing. The intensity. Even kissing you, Pope watched your face constantly like he needed every reaction. “You’re so pretty,” he whispered suddenly against your mouth.

The sincerity in it made heat rush through you instantly. Pure Andrew.

Your fingers slid across his chest slowly and Pope actually shivered beneath your touch. That realization alone nearly made you dizzy. Because this terrifying man, this obsessive, dangerous Cody, looked completely undone by you touching him back. His hands stayed locked around your waist beneath the spray of hot water while your mouths moved together desperately, steam thickening the air around both of you until breathing felt difficult. Not because of the heat. Because of him. Because every time you touched him, Pope reacted like it meant something.

Your fingers slid through his wet hair and his entire body tensed instantly. A rough sound left his throat before he kissed you harder, backing you slowly against the cool shower wall. “Andrew,” you breathed against his mouth. His forehead dropped briefly against yours while he stared at your face through wet lashes, breathing uneven.

“You keep doing that,” he murmured.

“What?”

“Calling me that.”

You smiled softly. “Well do you like it.”

“Yes.” Always honest. You laughed quietly and Pope’s eyes locked onto your mouth again instantly. Like he couldn’t help himself. The intensity of it made your stomach twist pleasantly. Water ran down his chest while your hands moved lower, tracing slowly across muscle and scar tissue. Pope shivered again beneath your touch and the realization almost drove you insane. This terrifying man who scared half of Oceanside looked completely undone just from you touching him gently. Pope suddenly grabbed your thighs without warning. You gasped softly as he lifted you effortlessly against him. His mouth found yours again immediately. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively while his hands held you securely like he never wanted to put you down again. Which honestly,

he probably didn’t.

Pope kissed down your jaw slowly before pressing his face briefly against your neck. Not even kissing for a second. Just breathing you in. The intimacy of it made your chest ache. Then suddenly he pulled back just enough to look at you again. Really look at you. Water dripped from his dark hair into his eyes but he barely blinked.“You wanna stop?” he asked quietly.

The question caught you off guard. Because despite all the intensity, all the possessiveness simmering beneath his skin Pope had been careful with you from the beginning.

You shook your head immediately. “No.”

Pope stared one second longer like he needed to make absolutely sure. Then he kissed you again and carried you straight out of the shower. You laughed breathlessly against his mouth as water dripped onto the bathroom floor.

“Andrew…”

He barely let you finish speaking before pushing open the bedroom door. The room matched the rest of the apartment perfectly. You didn’t even fully process it before Pope lowered you onto the mattress and climbed over you immediately. The second your back hit the sheets, something in him snapped. Like having you in his bed meant more than it should. His large hands slid beneath your thighs while he kissed you deeper, slower now, finally able to touch you without interruption.

You tugged him closer instantly. Pope practically groaned into your mouth. “You want me close,” he muttered against your lips almost like he was amazed by it.

“Yes.” His eyes flashed dark immediately. Pope loved hearing that. Loved anything that sounded like you choosing him. He kissed you again rougher this time while his hands moved over your body constantly. Your waist. Your hips. Your stomach. Like he couldn’t stop touching you long enough to think straight. Pope kept pulling back just enough to look at you. Watching your face every time you touched him. Every little sound you made. Every reaction. It was almost overwhelming how focused he was on you.

You reached up brushing damp hair back from his forehead gently. Pope froze for half a second. “What?” you whispered.

“You’re…” He swallowed hard. “You’re nice to me.”

The quiet sincerity behind the words hurt your chest unexpectedly. Like he genuinely wasn’t used to tenderness. You touched his face softer this time. “Andrew.”

His eyes shut briefly. You realized suddenly that Pope Cody would probably let you ruin him completely if you asked. The thought hit hard. Because underneath all the danger and obsession and intensity Pope was touch-starved in a way that felt almost painful. Every gentle touch visibly affected him. Every kiss. Every time your fingers dragged through his hair or across his shoulders. He reacted like he’d remember it forever.

Your hands slid down his chest slowly while he kissed along your throat, breathing rough and uneven against your skin.

“You smell good,” he murmured distractedly.

You laughed softly. “That’s a weird thing to say during a makeout.”

“I know.” Again with the honesty.

You smiled into another kiss while Pope’s hand tightened slightly against your waist. Like he physically needed to keep part of you underneath his hand at all times. His mouth moved slower now, deeper, tension simmering heavy between you both while the room stayed quiet except for uneven breathing and the occasional creak of the mattress beneath his weight. His mouth broke from yours only long enough to drag his lips down the line of your jaw, teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below your ear. The sound you made, breathless, broken, pulled a low hum of approval from his chest. Pope's hand slid from your waist to the small of your back, pressing you harder against him until there was nothing between you and the heat radiating off his body. “You have no idea,” he murmured against your neck, voice rougher than it had been moments ago, "how long I've been thinking about this."

You tilted your head back, giving him more space, and he took it without hesitation, tongue tracing down your throat, teeth sinking just enough to make you gasp. His other hand came up to cup your jaw, tilting your face so he could look at you. Those dark eyes, half-lidded and burning, swept over your expression like he was memorizing every detail. “I need you to understand something first.” His thumb traced over your lower lip, tugging it down just slightly. “If we do this-“ He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. “You belong to me. Not for tonight. Not for the weekend. You’re mine. You understand?”

The possessiveness in his voice sent a shiver straight through you, pooling heat low in your belly. You nodded, breath catching, and he shook his head slowly.

“Words, sweetheart. I need to hear you say it.”

“Yes,” you whispered, voice steadier than you expected. “I understand. I'm yours.”Something flickered in his gaze, satisfaction, hunger, and a tenderness that made your chest ache. His hand slid from your jaw to the back of your neck, pulling you into another kiss that wasn't gentle. It was claiming. His tongue swept into your mouth, and you moaned against him, fingers curling into muscle. He pulled back just enough to look at you again, breath mingling. “Such a good girl.” The words hit you like a live wire.

Pope’s hands cupped your breasts letting his knuckles drag across your skin as he went. His eyes dropped to your chest, and he let out a slow exhale. “Fuck,” he breathed. “You're so gorgeous.”

He didn't rush. His mouth followed the path his hands had taken, kissing down your collarbone, over the swell of your breasts, tongue circling your nipple and your back arched off the mattress. He sucked hard, then softer, then hard again, switching between the two until you were writhing beneath him, fingers tangled in his curly hair. His hand moved to your other breast, thumb rolling over the peak while his tongue worked the first.

“Please,” you gasped.

“Please what?” He lifted his head, dark eyes finding yours. His lips were wet, his jaw tight with restraint.

“Please-I need-“ You didn’t know what you needed.

“I know what you need.” His hand slid down your stomach, fingers circling your hip bone. “But I want to hear you say it.”

You swallowed, heat flooding your cheeks even as your hips bucked into his touch. “I need you inside me, Andy.”

The name, Andy, did something to him. His pupils dilated, his breath caught, and for a second he just stared at you like you'd given him something precious. “Say it again,”he commanded, voice rough.

“Andy.”

His mouth crashed into yours, hungry and desperate, and his hand finally, finally, slipped further fingers sliding through slick heat. He groaned into your mouth when he felt how wet you were. “That's for me,” he muttered against your lips. “All this, just for me.”

You nodded frantically, and he rewarded you by pressing two fingers inside you without warning. A cry tore from your throat, not pain, but pleasure sharp enough to make your vision blur. He curled them, found that spot immediately, and your hips jerked.

“Yeah,” he breathed, watching your face. “Right there. I know.” He worked you slowly at first, dragging his fingers in and out while his thumb pressed against your clit in tight circles. Your hands gripped the sheets, your moans growing louder, more broken, until you felt that familiar tension coiling in your gut.

“m’close,”you whimpered.

Pope shook his head, pulling his fingers out. “Not yet. I want to feel you come on my cock.” Your whine of protest died in your throat when he sat back on his knees, eyes fixed on you as he stroked his hard cock, and you watched, transfixed, as his head fell back and he let out such a deep groan. He was hard, thick, the tip already glistening. Your mouth went dry. Pope tightened his hand around his shaft, stroking once, twice, moving his head so. he never broke eye contact with you. “You want this?”

“Yes, fuck-yes, Andy.”

He leaned over you, bracing one hand beside your head while the other guided his cock to your entrance. He didn't push in, not yet. He just let the head rest against you, teasing, letting you feel the heat and the pressure. “Tell me you're mine.”

“I'm yours.” Your voice cracked, desperate. “I'm yours, Andy. Please-“

He pushed in. Slow. Impossibly slow. Every inch of him stretching you open, filling you until you couldn't breathe. Your eyes rolled back, a strangled moan escaping your lips. He paused when he was fully sheathed, letting you adjust, his forehead pressed to yours. “Fuck,” he whispered, voice shaking. “You feel-fuck.” He started moving. Long, deep strokes that hit exactly where you needed him. His pace was steady, controlled, each thrust a deliberate claim. Your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he groaned at the angle. “Yeah, just like that.”

One of his hands found yours, fingers interlacing, pinning it to the mattress beside your head. His other hand, you saw it twitch toward your throat, saw the want flash in his eyes, and you tilted your chin up in silent invitation. But he pulled his hand back, gripping your hip instead.

“I can't,” he said, voice strained. “I can't, God, I want to, but I can't stand the idea of hurting you.”

“It wouldn't hurt me,” you breathed. “I want it.”

“I know you do.” His thrusts grew harder, faster, chasing his own edge. “But I won't. I'll give you everything else, every fucking thing, but not that.”

You wanted to argue, but the way he was fucking you made any thoughts impossible. He angled his hips, and suddenly he was hitting a spot that sent electricity through your entire body. Your nails dug into his back, and he hissed in pleasure.

“That's it. Let me feel you.” The pressure built again, faster this time, and your mouth fell open in a cry. Pope watched your face, drinking in every expression, and when your eyes welled with tears, from the intensity, from the sheer overwhelming pleasure, his breath stuttered. “Fuck,” he groaned, his rhythm faltering. “Look at you. Crying on my cock.”

The tears spilled over, tracking down your temples into your hair. He lowered his head and licked one off your cheekbone, the gesture strangely tender in the midst of the brutality of his thrusts.

“You're so beautiful like this,” he murmured. “So perfect. I want you to come. I want to feel you squeeze me.” His hand slipped between your bodies, fingers finding your clit and rubbing in tight, fast circles. That was all it took. The orgasm crashed through you, violent and consuming, your body arching off the bed as a broken scream tore from your throat. Pope kept moving through it, fucking you through the aftershocks, groaning as your walls clenched around him. “That's it,” he panted. “Fuck, that's it.”

He didn't stop, couldn't stop. He flipped you onto your stomach in one smooth motion, pulling your hips up and entering you from behind. The new angle was deeper, harder, and you buried your face in the pillow to muffle your cries as he took you apart. His hand tangled in your hair, pulling your head back just enough so he could lean down and speak against your ear.

“You're taking me so well. You feel that? That's me inside you. No one else. Ever.”

Words failed you. All you could do was moan and push back against him. His pace grew erratic, his grip on your hip bruising. “I'm gonna come inside you. Fill you up. You want that?”

“Yes-yes, Andy, please-“

His hand slid around to your front, fingers pressing against your clit again, and you felt a second orgasm building, impossibly fast.

“Come with me,” he commanded. “Now.”

Your body obeyed. The second wave hit as he drove into you one last time, burying himself deep, his groan long and guttural as he spilled inside you. Hot pulses of release filling you, and you felt every one.

He collapsed forward, chest heaving against your back, his lips pressing lazy kisses to your shoulder. Neither of you moved for a long moment, just breathing, just existing in the aftermath.

Finally, he pulled out slowly, and you felt the warmth of his cum trickling down your thigh. He turned you over gently, gathering you into his arms, his hand stroking your hair with a tenderness that made your eyes well up again. “You okay?” he asked softly.

You nodded, voice gone. Pope stayed wrapped around you for a long moment afterward, both of you breathing hard in the dark quiet of his apartment. The room smelled faintly like steam and laundry detergent and him. His forehead rested against the back of your shoulder while one large hand spread slowly across your stomach, almost absentmindedly keeping you pulled tightly against his chest. Like he physically couldn’t let go yet.

Finally, he shifted carefully, easing you up the sheets. His movements slowed immediately the second he saw your face twist slightly from sensitivity. Instant concern. “You hurt?” he asked softly.

“No,” you whispered quickly. “No, I’m okay.”

Pope searched your expression another few seconds anyway. Making sure. Then he leaned down pressing a slow kiss against your forehead before reaching toward the nightstand for a towel. The tenderness of it nearly undid you. He cleaned you up carefully, almost shy despite everything that had happened minutes earlier. Every time you flinched slightly from sensitivity, his hand smoothed automatically over your thigh or stomach in silent apology.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked again.

You nodded, throat tight. Pope noticed immediately. “You’re crying.”

You touched beneath your eye in surprise.

God. You were.

“I don’t know why,” you admitted quietly.

Pope’s expression softened instantly. He climbed back beside you without hesitation and pulled you into his chest again, one arm wrapping tightly around your waist while the other hand moved slowly through your damp hair. The repetitive motion felt calming immediately. Safe. “Do you regret it?” he asked after a moment.

Your head lifted quickly. “No.” The answer came so fast it visibly affected him. Relief crossed his face so openly it hurt your chest “No,” you repeated softer this time. “Not even a little.”

Pope stared down at you in silence. Then his hand moved gently across your cheek. “You sure?”

You nodded. And maybe it was emotional exhaustion or the intimacy of being held like this, but suddenly your chest ached with it. Nobody had ever touched you like Pope did. Like your comfort mattered more than his own. Like he was constantly paying attention. You curled closer instinctively beneath the blankets. Pope immediately tightened his arm around you. His eyes dropped toward the top of your head where it rested against his chest. “You fit good there,” he murmured quietly.

You laughed softly against his skin. “That’s such an Andrew thing to say.” The second the name left your mouth, his fingers tightened slightly in your hair. He loved that name from you. Loved it in that deep quiet way he loved everything involving you “Y’know you’re the only one who calls me that,” he said.

“Is that okay?”

“Yes.”

You tilted your head up enough to look at him. Pope was already staring back down at you. Of course he was. You smiled sleepily. “You stare a lot after sex too, huh?”

“I stare at you all the time.”

You laughed quietly and his expression softened watching it happen.

For a while neither of you spoke. Pope kept tracing slow patterns against your back beneath the blankets while you listened to his heartbeat under your ear.

now you're both at smurf's place.

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

he's dead weight across your lap.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

then he turns his face.

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

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

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

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

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

and something clicks.

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

"oh."

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

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

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

you forget to care in that moment.

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

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

he groans and his whole body shudders against you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"oh my god—"

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

"andrew — please, ah— slow down—"

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

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

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

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

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

it has been a while.

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

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

just a little wouldn't be so bad.

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

"just a taste, popey."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"ah — ah — fuck, fuck, fuck—"

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

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

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

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

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

then he lifts his head.

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

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

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

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

"andrew, i just–"

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

you should say no.

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

so you ask him before he even says another word:

"is your bedroom free?"