Zazy

You set your coffee down with a small thunk on the long classroom table somewhere in the middle of the lecture room. Your binders and notebooks joined next, placed down more carefully to not tip the cup over, because spilling your caffeinated beverage before 8 am would have been a tragedy in and of itself. Your backpack sat nicely in the seat to your right, and to your left you placed one textbook exactly in the middle. 

One for Jack, and one for Robby; just as you'd been doing since you met them during orientation of your first year. Because where one of them was, the other wasn't too far behind with you, their added third to their duo, falling somewhere in the middle. 

Even though Robby was already an MS4 whereas you and Jack were MS1s, he'd known the curly-haired redhead during childhood and scooped you up right along with him. Now halfway through your second year where Robby wasn't as around as either you or Jack would like, he promised to at least sit with you when he got called in to assist during the few lectures of the ACLS provider course. Today happened to be one of those golden moments where all three of you got to be together again. 

Normally, you liked to be the first one in the room to get a feel for the atmosphere and not be rushed to find a nice seat. Doing so had grouped you and Jack in Gross Anatomy and Histology last year, and you would have liked to keep the streak going, however, as you looked around the room, your eyes caught on a male student sitting front and center with his hands folded. 

You fought the urge to scoff. Who fucking picks front row? 

Taking a seat, your head ducked closer to your backpack, and your hands dug around to find at least one of your good pencils before Jack decided to use them all for himself. 

"Are you looking for something?" the guy's voice echoed from the front. 

You didn't even look up over the desk when you answered. "Just needing to find a pencil." 

He fell quiet for a few moments, and you were sure he was watching you struggle to reach the bottom of your backpack, hoping that he'd stay quiet or at least look away. When you failed to grasp anything pencil-shaped, you straightened back up and squeaked when you came face to face with the guy, jolting at the sheer suddenness of his presence. He was holding a regular number 2 pencil out near your face, sharp end almost between your eyes. If you'd been any closer, your nose would have tapped it. 

"You can have one of mine," he said, more insisting for someone you didn't even know. 

You eyed him carefully. He was taller than you, you noted, and that even if you were still sitting down, he'd probably tower over you the way he was doing as he waited for you to take the yellow pencil. Your lips pursed together. 

"I'll be fine," you answered. "My friends probably have extras." 

"But I'm offering you mine. It'd be rude not to take it." 

Your stomach flipped. This guy probably wasn't going to stab you with the pencil in broad daylight right before class was about to stop, but your mind went sailing right back to last night's news that yet another student had been murdered while studying in the top floor of the library, and a chill raced up your spine. 

"You just go ahead and keep it; I think I'll wait," you muttered, eyes tearing away from him to look at your coffee, the steam rising steadily through the hole in the lid. 

He scoffed loudly. "Well, if you're not going to take my pencil, can I at least get your name," he said as though you had to compensate him for "wasting" his time. 

"Why would I give you my name if I don't even know yours first." You paused before adding with a smirk. "We're not supposed to give out our names to strangers." 

From your peripheral as you turned to look toward the door, you saw him physically contemplate your words. 

"Stephen with a ph," he pushed out, and you swore little droplets of his spit hit the cover of your binder. 

You desperately wanted to drag a sleeve over it for good measure, but that would just open another can of worms. 

His name didn't ring any bells. He certainly wasn't a part of your friend group, and you knew he wasn't the type of guy that Jack would go out of his way to befriend either. 

"Now, tell me your name." 

Your fingernails curled into your palms, mind willing for either Jack or Robby to walk right through the doors in some divine intervention. You were more than capable of telling the guy off, but why would you when either one could do it for you. 

Women in STEM you always told them after you managed to get them to do something for you. 

When you failed to answer and give up your name, Stephen hunched forward and placed both hands on the desk. Sadly, his weight and abruptness made the entire thing shake, and before you could reach out, your coffee tipped over and spilled in the opposite direction, right onto his shoes and pants. Your lip automatically slipped between your teeth in an attempt to not laugh as he yelped and cursed loudly. Yet, when he turned back towards you with fire in his eyes and out stretched hand with the pencil curled between his fingers, your face dropped.

"You bitch," he growled while shoving the pointed end in your direction. "You ruined my shoes!" 

This time, you were the one to scoff. "You shouldn't have shaken the table like that, so really, you ruined your own shoes all by yourself." 

His face flushed red, and his eyes practically bulged out of the sockets; he looked as though he were less than a second away from exploding and going off on you when the door opened wide, reviewing the two you had just been manifesting. 

Your head whipped so hard in their direction that you winced at the twang in your neck, and your chest heaved in a sigh of relief. 

"No, dude, I'm telling you, this class absolutely sucks," Jack loudly announced, hands gripping his backpack straps as he waddled in. "Just be glad we get here early because by 8 all these seats are fill—" 

His words died in his mouth when he finally looked away from Robby and over to where you normally sat, and his expression dropped at the sight of Stephen still towering over you with the pencil in your face. He halted abruptly, causing Robby to follow his line of sight. You tried your best to smile and slightly wave when you met their hazel and deep brown eyes, but the damage had already been done. 

Jack scowled something fierce, and his knuckles turned white. He took no time in resuming his walk over. Robby stayed close behind, height feeling more dramatic than normal. 

"Heeeyyyy," you drew out before pushing up out of the seat. 

Neither said nothing in return, opting to take their normal spots at your sides. Jack's hand planted in the middle of your lower back while Robby slung an arm around your shoulders, large hand squeezing gently when it rested against your upper bicep. 

Jack's chin jerked out at Stephen. "Who're you?" 

Stephen straightened slightly and puffed out his chest like that was going to do anything. "Stephen Miller." 

"Stephen Miller," he echoed before turning to you, his eyes softening. "Do we have a problem here?" 

"I was just trying to be friendly man—" 

"He wasn't talking to you," Robby cut in. His eyes were darker than you'd ever seen them. 

In response you raised your head slightly. "No problem. Just having a conversation." 

"Didn't look like a very friendly one," Jack muttered. "You sure, sweetheart?" 

"Yeah." The corner of your mouth twitched slightly, but you knew both of them could see right through you. "I'm sure." 

Jack and Robby wanted to press more. Their chests had tightened the minute they saw this boy standing over you with what looked like intent to harm. For all they cared, they'd go straight to the dean and report him for violent tendencies, but the look in your eyes and normal want for no animosity kept them close. However, they did share a knowing glance over your head, something that you missed completely as you began to gather your stuff from their seats. 

The door burst open a beat later, and students began filling the classroom. Stephen finally sulked back to his chair but not without one more heated glare in your direction. 

"What the fuck was that about?" Jack muttered as he slung his backpack down to the ground. 

You rolled your eyes. "I guess my search for a pencil was louder than I thought, so he asked if I wanted one of his. When I said no and that I'd probably just steal one of yours, he got . . . angry? I don't know; it was weird. And then he knocked my coffee over," you retold, the last little bit coming across as more whiny than you would have liked, but you were a second year med student for fucks sake. 

Coffee kept you sane, and that asshole had taken your morning dose away from you. 

"Sorry we didn't get here sooner," Robby stated while getting his papers out, and you fully turned his way. 

This had been the first time in months that you got to see him. Between his countless hours as an R1 over at an ER a few towns over, about a two to three hour drive one way, and dealing with his own personal shit, he'd been gone long enough that a short beard covered his jaw and space between his nose and lips. You couldn't help yourself as you reached up and lightly scratched at it. 

"When did this get here?" you asked, desperately trying to change the conversation. 

His facial hair was soft beneath your fingers, and you felt the way he slightly leaned into your touch. 

"I already gave him shit about it; don't worry, sweetheart," Jack announced loudly. "He leaves us for—what?—three months and comes back with a face blanket?" 

Robby chuckled and leaned away to look at his friend over your shoulder. "Laugh it up, kid. You're just mad because all you can grow is that upper lip caterpillar." 

"Please, let's save the bickering until the clock hits at least ten o'clock," you laughed. 

Jack opened and closed his jaw while he made a talking motion with his hand, to which you lightly smacked hip upside the head before taking a seat. Almost instantly, Jack's left hand found the top of your knee. 

"But seriously," he muttered, leaning closer so his voice didn't carry much, "are you okay, though? That guy . . ." 

You placed your hand on top of his. "He's fine. I doubt he could do much damage with a pencil." 

"You never know," Robby huffed. "I'll be back soon; gotta check in with Professor Barlowe." He leaned down and pressed a very light kiss to your temple, something he'd started doing recently, and then clapped Jack on the shoulder as he passed. 

Your brows furrowed slightly when you noticed the way Jack let his eyes trail Robby, but you kept your thoughts to yourself. The two had always had a stronger bond than you would ever realize, and if they wanted to let you know if anything changed, you'd let them come to you first before asking invasive questions. 

So, instead, you settled on asking about the homework. "Were you able to get it all done? I was up forever." 

Jack pulled out a small stack of papers. "Yeah. I finished them this morning. Had a bit of a late night but managed to get a decent amount of sleep." He smiled widely, crooked teeth on full display. "How about you?" 

"Uh, I don't know if you listen much to the radios but there was another stabbing last night," you murmured. 

His eyebrows rose. "No shit?" 

"Yeah." You swallowed thickly. "Miles Pennington. He was found by the janitors in the library. No one knows who did it since all the cameras have been out since last semester, but he had five stab wounds and thirteen clean incisions." 

"How do you know all this?" he asked, shoulders hunching slightly. 

"My friend works the late night desk. She's the one who called the police and stuff. I'm surprised you didn't know any of this Mr. I have a police scanner and listen to it for fun." 

His head leaned back as he barked out a laugh before he looked back toward you, mischief gleaming in his eyes. "You're trouble; you know that?" 

You let your eyes quickly trail the freckles that dotted his outstretched neck. "Yeah, yeah. Anyway, it kept me up most of the night, because—" You looked around before leaning in closer. "They think all the recent killings are all connected." 

Jack choked on his spit. "What?" 

"Every single one of them had calls from an unknown number on their hand-held mobiles that ranged from five to ten minutes." 

Under the desk, Jack's fingers tightened and curled into a fist. Through the adrenaline high, they'd, once again, forgotten to grab the fucking mobile. 

He hoped he was able to keep a calm expression to hide the way his heart was beating wildly beneath his sternum. However, his breathing must have quickened, because he watched the way your brows furrowed with concern.

"Are you okay?" you asked, scooching forward in your chair to give him a once over. 

"Fine," he managed to get out. "Just . . . I think I forgot one of the questions." 

"Oh, that's okay," you said, hand already sliding your copy of homework over without a second thought. 

Jack's heart clenched at your kindness that he definitely didn't deserve. Not when he was the one to give Miles every single one of those incisions with a scalpel Robby swiped from work. The guy was so close to graduating and becoming a resident, but he just had to go and flirt with you last Christmas, blatantly asking if you had plans to "stay warm" during the break. He had almost killed him then, already envisioning the way the blade would sink deep into his gut, before Robby had given him a look, eyes screaming to be patient. 

He only had to wait until midterms, get him alone, and have Robby make the call and give him what they dubbed "The Test" over a call before he could pin him to the ground. It had been easy with very little struggle, even with his vision clouded with that white opened-mouth mask they'd found in a going-out-of-business Halloween store. Cash payment; no trail, no evidence. 

Jack was already starting to itch again, that vein deep need to spill blood instead of stopping it from flowing, to cause harm instead of protecting. 

You snapped in front of his face, and he blinked rapidly. 

"You're spacing out again," you said. "Do you need to take a break? I doubt we'll get in trouble if we sneak out to get more coffee." 

He shook his head. "No, I'm fine." His finger tapped on your homework. "Thanks for this . . . again." 

Your hand rose and covered your mouth as you giggled. "No problem. I cannot have you flunking this class, Jack Abbot. I don't think I'd survive without you." 

"Nah, you're smart enough," he said after lightly flicking your temple. "You'll probably match your first try with whatever hospital you choose." 

"You think so?" Shyly, you tucked a piece of fallen hair behind your ear. 

Jack met your eye with a ferocity you hadn't seen. "I know so." 

Heat flushed to your cheeks and spread down your neck into your top, and you quickly looked back down at your papers and binder. You took one glance toward the front, eyes locking onto Robby where he stood discussing something with your teacher. 

"Guess I just need to survive the next two years and hope I don't get a phone call myself," you whispered loud enough for Jack to hear over your scratching pencil and the beginnings of the lecture. 

It was almost like you'd been put under a trance every time the lesson began to not miss anything important. Because of this, you missed the way Jack locked eyes with Robby over the tops of the students' heads. His older friend barely glanced in the direction of Stephen, and the slight nod he got sent a pleasured chill racing over his skin. 

Jack couldn't wait to feel the slick of Stephen's blood and organs against his black leather gloves as he cut him up once clean slice at a time. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The phone's cord tangled around your finger as you giggled into the chunky receiver while Robby told you about one of the pranks his attending played on him because he fell asleep in an on-call room. 

"And then, they had the fucking audacity to page me, and I went running before I fell face first into the hub!" 

"And then what?" you laughed breathily, leaning back until your head hit your pillow. 

"Then so many casualties came in after, and I was stuck with the cast on and unable to help! I had to wait hours before they could get it off." 

"Did it teach you not to fall asleep?" you questioned with a smile that he couldn't even see, but Robby could definitely hear it in your voice. 

He smiled as well, lips practically kissing his phone. "For a bit, but then I managed to find an excellent napping place." 

"Did Benton tell you off for it?" 

"Nope." Robby looked down at the paper in his hand, fingers playing the frayed edge. "He actually woke me up with my acceptance papers." 

You sat up straight and gasped loudly. "Michael Strausser Speer Robinavitch! You got accepted into their emergency surgery program, and you didn't fucking tell me in person! You ass!" 

"It just slipped my mind." 

A scoff flew from your lips and echoed in his ear. 

"It just slipped my mind," you mocked, voice dipping into a lower tone that didn't quite match Robby's all the way. "Did you tell Jack?" 

"Yeah," he breathed. 

"And how'd that go?" 

Robby pursed his lips at the memory of Jack screaming at him before kissing him right on the lips. "As well as you could imagine." 

"He just . . . worries about you, I think," you tried to console with your lip between your teeth. "Worried about you several hours away, worried that he won't be able to catch up." 

"Did he tell you about his plans after med school?" 

You nodded on instinct before catching yourself. "Y-yeah, he did. He's brave for it." 

"Only Jack could want to be an Army field medic," Robby grumbled while running a hand across his jaw. "He's insane." 

A low hum rumbled through your chest in agreement. "He wants to help people, but I don't understand why he thinks he needs to do it under active fire." 

For some reason, tears pricked at your eyes, and you rapidly tried to blink them away. To keep them away, you did your best to sniff quietly, but the sound was louder through the phone than you thought. 

Robby frowned, and his brows pinched. "Hey, why're you crying?" 

You chomped down on the inside of your cheek before replying, "I don't want him to get hurt, and he's going to be so alone over there. It breaks my heart every time he wears that stupid Army crewneck he got at the recruitment office." 

He knew exactly which one you were talking about; he pulled the damn thing off Jack's freckled body earlier that morning right after he got back from slicing the kid in the library with blood still crusting at his shoes and at the stretches of skin the robe didn't cover. Robby had licked it all off before taking Jack's cock in his mouth. 

"Did I lose you over there, Robinavitch?" you asked when you could only hear heavy breathing. 

Robby raised his brows and smirked. "Oh, am I simply Robinavitch to you now?" 

"It's what you get for keeping important information from me!" 

"Okay, baby, okay," he mused, laying it heavy on the small pet name. “Have you decided what you’re wanting to do after school? We could always use you over at Sacred.” 

Nervously, you twirled the phone wire around a finger. “Actually . . . I’m thinking about looking into an endo fellowship.” 

Your words hit him right in the stomach. “What?” 

You huffed. “Yeah, I know I said I might go into emergency med, but Robby, I don’t think I can keep up with that life. Seeing all those traumas would fuck me in the head.” 

“So, Jack’s leaving me, and now you’re leaving me?” 

“Don’t put it like that. You’re a big boy; you’ll be fine.” Your eyes glanced around the room before widening when you caught the time. "Fuck, Rob, I gotta go. I'm supposed to meet my roommate for breakfast tomorrow before my 8 am." You paused before adding. "Thanks for talking to me. I've really missed you, ya know?" 

"I've missed you too," he confessed, "a lot." 

"It's not the same without you. I have Jack, but I think I can say we both feel incomplete when you're not here." 

"Feel the same out there," he whispered. "I'll let you go, but I'll give Jack a plan for lunch so we can all meet up, yeah?" 

"Sounds good, Robby. Sleep well," you said before ending the call. 

Your hands raised high above your head, and a soft moan slipped through your lips as you stretched. Needing to use the bathroom one more time, you softly slipped from the bed and padded toward the connected suite. You still had no clue how you managed to get a room with a bathroom, but you were never one to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

However, only a few feet away, your phone screeched a loud shrill into the air. Your cheeks puffed as you blew out air, mind thinking that Robby probably forgot to tell you something important. Your hand curled around the receiver and raised it to your ear. 

"Robby, I swear if you forgot about something again I'll—" 

"Hello?" a distorted voice cut you off, and your stomach dipped ever so slightly at the unfamiliar caller. 

"Um, hi?" 

"Would you like to play a game?" 

You frowned deeply. "No thank you. I think you have the wrong number. Goodbye." 

The phone clicked back into the stand, and you turned away once more, ready to get peeing over so you could get some sleep. Yet again, your phone rang, and you jumped at the noise. This time, you stomped back over and ripped it right out and up to your ear. 

"You shouldn't have done that," the voice tsked. "Because now, if you hang up again, I'll have to kill someone for you." 

Your blood ran ice cold. "How is this?" 

"Uh, uh, uh, I ask the questions here, sweets. And you still haven't answered my first one: would you like to play a game?" 

"Fuck you," you spat. "Is this Stephen from class, because I swear if this is just some elaborate prank, I'm going to report your sorry ass to the dean." 

"Oh, she has a mouth on her," he—because this had to be a man—laughed. "What fun you and I are going to have." 

"I'm not going to play whatever stupid game this is, Stephen." 

"Sorry to tell you, but this isn't Stephen," he growled, and the sound had you shaking slightly. 

Knuckles turning white, you gripped the phone tightly. "Then-then who is this?" 

"Can't tell you that or it'd ruin the surprise!" He sighed and clicked his tongue against his teeth. "Now, I will ask for the last time, do you want to play a game? Or should I start killing your friends? What are their names again? Jack and Michael?" 

"If you hurt them—" 

"You'll do what? You don't even know my name? But I know yours, Y/n." 

Your skin itched, and you whirled around, almost like you swore that you felt someone's eyes on your body. You stepped up to your window and cracked the blinds open with a finger. When no one seemed to be standing outside, you let the slat fall back down. 

"Will you play now?" 

A thick glob of saliva fought back against your attempt to swallow it down. "Fine. I'll play. What are the rules?" 

"If you can answer my questions, I won't kill poor Stephen here." 

In the background, you heard muffled screams and cries that matched the student who had held a pencil to your face. Tears slowly streamed down your face as it fully settled that the man on the other end wasn't playing around, that a life was in your, a mere med student's, hands. 

"Don't hurt him, please," you whimpered. 

"Such big emotions for a stranger. Oh, you're going to be such a good doctor one day." He cleared his throat. "Question one: a twenty-three-year old comes rolling in after being involved in a motorcycle accident. Her BPs seventy-eight over forty, heart rate’s one-forty. She has absent breath sounds on the left, and her trachea’s deviated to the right. What kills her first?” 

“How am I supposed to know that? I’m only a MS2, fucker.” 

“You’re smart enough to know it. All that time spent with that emergency resident, and you can’t remember anything?” 

“Just give me a second!” 

“I fear Stephen doesn’t have ‘a second,’” he taunted, and in the next moment, a pain-filled wail muffled through your phone, causing a sob to rip right from your throat. 

“Okay, okay, just—” You pinched your eyes shut as you tried to think through the question. “Tension pneumothorax,” you settled on before holding your breath. 

“And your treatment to keep him alive?” 

“A-a needle decompression followed by a ch-chest tube.” 

The distorted voice paused on the other line. “Correct. See, I knew you would get it. You’re so smart, Y/n.” 

You unsuccessfully tried to wipe the tears from your cheeks, but your eyes kept replenishing them. “Okay, I answered your fucking questions, now let the guy go.” 

“I’m sorry. Was I not specific? We still have three more to go before I think of letting Stephen here see another sunrise. Next question: A trauma patient arrives talking to you. Five minutes later, they’re confused, then unconscious. What do you suspect is happening?” 

A frustrated groan bubbled through your chest. “I need more information.” 

“If your patient is unconscious, you don’t get more information. Tick, tock, sweets, Stephen’s counting on you.” 

“It-it could be something like an epidural hematoma?” 

“And what would be the classic artery?” 

“The middle meningeal artery.” 

“I’m so proud of you for getting that correct.” 

Instead of feeling elated, you were so close to throwing up that you could taste the tang of bile on your tongue. “What’s the next one?” 

“Feeling confident, are we?” 

“Ask the fucking question.” 

“You’ve got penetrating trauma just left of the sternum. Blood pressure is dropping. Neck veins are distended, and the heart sounds are muffled. What’s the diagnosis, doc?” 

“Cardiac tamponade,” you answered instantly. It had been one of the homework questions from the ACLS provider course you had with Jack. 

“Treatment?” 

“Emergency thoracotomy if they’re crashing. Pericardiocentesis only if it’s the bridge.” 

“I guess you really can stay awake during your classes. Now, for the final question: your last trauma patient just received a massive transfusion after losing too much blood like poor Stephen will if you get this wrong. All seems to go well until the monitor suddenly shows a widening QRS, peaked T waves, and then ventricular tachycardia. What is killing the man on your table?” 

Your stomach dropped to your toes. This should have been the easiest one. You should know this. 

“It’s hypocalcemia,” you stated. 

The line went silent. 

“Did I get it? I got it, you mother fucker,” you growled. 

However, all you got was a click on his tongue. “Wrong.” 

All blood drained straight from your face. “Wha-what? No, I’m certain it’s hypocalcemia. It’s the textbook definition of it.” 

“The diagnosis you’re looking for is actually hyperkalemia. You would have needed to administer potassium instead. Well, the calcium would have been the protocol, but it wasn’t the answer I asked for.” 

“N-no,” you stuttered out with another sob wracking your body. “Please don’t hurt him. Let him go.” 

“I gave him a fighting chance like all good doctors do. But sometimes, in the real world, we can’t all save our patients. Say goodbye to Stephen. He’ll be missed in class.” 

Your throat constricted in a gag as wet slashing sounds echoed through your phone speaker. You should have turned it off, but you stayed frozen to the middle of your room, mind fuzzy and close to dissociation as Stephen’s wails rattled and echoed in your brain. He gave a particularly loud screech that followed almost a ripping sound, something you’d heard before from medical tapes used in surgical classes, the tell-tale noise of someone wrongly cutting through skin and tendons. 

In a few moments, he quieted before the line went fully quiet, save for the heavy, distorted breathing from the assailant. All you could manage to do was whimper and tremble. 

“Thanks for playing, sweets. Better luck next time.” 

The drawl of the dial tone echoed in your ear until the receiver slipped from your hand and landed in a loud thunk against your carpet. Your knees almost buckled as you tried to make your way back to your bed, bathroom break far forgotten. It didn’t even cross your mind as you sat shaking on the comforter, hands clenching the blanket. 

All you could hear were Stephen’s moans and cries, and if you could get past those, the man’s words rang freely. 

Say goodbye to Stephen. He’ll be missed in class.

The killer was in the ACLS provider course. One of your classmates just murdered Stephen and probably all the other guys too. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

“What’s so important that we had to meet before your first class, baby? Thought you had plans with your roommate,” Robby’s voice sounded behind you, and you flinched violently at the suddenness. “Woah, it’s just me.” 

Your red-rimmed wide eyes looked up at him from the empty space at the small coffee table in the on-campus cafe, and his cocky smirk dropped as he took in the paleness and horror that had been plastered on your face since that phone call late last night. Robby grabbed the top of the chair and dragged it out to sit. His knees bumped against yours while his hands gently rested on your cheeks, fingers tilting your chin in order for him to look you over, ever the doctor. 

“What’s wrong?” he questioned. You sleepily watched his eyes flicker down your face in an obvious fashion. “What happened?” 

You jerked out of his hold and looked back down to the table. “Let’s just wait for Jack.” 

Almost as if he were waiting for you to say his name, Jack plopped down into the seat opposite of Robby, the three of you making a triangle around the table. He too was wearing a smile that dropped just as quickly as Robby’s had moments earlier. At least he didn’t start going full doctor on you, but his concern was evident in his pinched expression. 

“What’s wrong?” Jack asked, eyes glancing over toward Robby. 

“That’s what I asked,” the brunette responded without looking away from your shaking form. 

“I-I wanted to tell you both before the n-news got out,” you stuttered between shaking breaths. 

Jack leaned forward and placed both his hands on the table. “What news? I think you’re scaring us a bit, sweetheart.” 

“Stephen wa-was murdered,” you squeaked, “last night, right after I finished talking to Robby.” Your pointer finger picked at your thumb, loose skin catching with every scrape. 

“Did your friend have to call in another one in the library?” Jack asked. 

You shook your head. “No. I did.” 

“You did?” Robby echoed, and his concern morphed into confusion. “Was he murdered in the girls’ dorms?” 

Another shake of your head. “No.” Tears welled in your lashline, and you squeezed your eyes tight as another wave of Stephen’s cries rang through your memory. 

Jack licked his lips and leaned back in the chair. “Well, didn’t you say the killer calls his victims? So, unless you’re a ghost, you should have been far away from whatever happened.” 

“You two don’t understand!” you screeched, not caring if a few people turned their heads toward you. “He called me. I had to listen to-to—” Bile burned up your throat as you slapped two hands over your mouth in case it decided to spew between your teeth. 

“Jeez,” Robby muttered as he dragged a hand down his jaw. “You had to listen to him getting . . . ya’ know.” 

“Murdered,” Jack filled in casually, like he wasn’t concerned at all about what you’d just confessed. Although, he did do a good job at looking a bit surprised. “But why would he call you?” 

“I don’t know,” you whimpered, arms coming to wrap around your middle as you hunched in on yourself. “One minute, I thought I was talking to Robby, and the next I thought it might be Stephen because of the pencil incident, but then I tried to hang up again, and . . .” you trailed off right as you remembered what the distorted voice had told you. 

“And what?” Jack pressed. 

 “He said if I hung up and didn’t play his game, he’d kill you two.” 

From the corner of his eye, Jack looked over at Robby for the briefest moment before scooting his chair closer to you to wrap you in a hug. Your pliant, shivering body went willingly right into his embrace, and he couldn’t help the smirk that stretched onto his face. 

Everything was going to plan better than they had expected. Sure, calling you hadn’t been their first line of action, but looking at you now, so scared, so terrified that they were in danger, made them feel like they should have called you first. Robby initially had been the one who wanted to call and hear your panicked little whimpers, but he’d been the last caller. At least Jack had the decency to record everything, and Robby didn’t remember the last time they had both cum so hard while fucking as they played your delicious sounding cries, its echos joining the perfect symphony of their moans. It was almost as good as having you there with them, but they had to get you willing. 

And right now, you seemed on the verge of being just that. They’d planted the seed of doubt in your mind that they weren’t untouchable, that they might be the next victims. 

Jack ran a hand up and down your back in soothing motions, and you pressed into his chest, eyes meeting Robby’s worried-looking brown hues across the table. 

“Did you already give your statement?” he asked. 

“Yeah; last night,” you sighed. “My roommate found me crying, and she was the one to call. Everything happened so quickly.” 

Jack pressed his cheek into the top of your head. “Did you recognize the voice?” 

“No. It was all distorted.” You tensed suddenly. “But he did say something weird.” 

Robby eyed Jack wearily. “Yeah?” 

You nodded. “He said that Stephen would be missed in class, but—I mean, wouldn’t that imply that the killer was in the same class as us?” 

Jack mouthed a quiet fuck and closed his eyes. He hadn’t meant to say that; he needed himself as far from the scene and victim as possible. Robby normally got away with it since he was supposed to be three hours away while Jack made sure his alibi of being in his dorm room stayed air-tight. 

“Did you tell that to the police?” 

The corner of your lip turned downward. “I-I think? I don’t know; I can’t remember.” Your words started to slur into a whine, and a single tear slipped down your cheek in frustration. 

“That’s okay, sweetheart,” Jack cooed, hand never stopping in soothing circles while he held you. “Tell you what. Why don’t you and I go down to the station after class if you’re feeling up to it.” 

Your stomach gurgled at the thought of having to retell what you went through for the sake of adding one more detail, and you swallowed thickly even if your mouth had gone dry. 

“I don’t think I want to go to class. Seeing the empty seat . . .” If you thought about it for long enough, you knew you’d start crying all over again. “Can we just stay here? Or go to the fountain outside?” You’d been looking at Robby, but you pulled back from Jack enough to look him in the face. However, when neither of them answered right away, your stomach sank. “Oh.” 

Robby cupped a hand at his neck, a familiar thing you’d seen him do for a year straight when he got stressed or nervous. 

“Jack and I promised that we’d help out with an advanced simulator today for the fourth year students after you two’s first lecture.” 

That was utter bullshit; they hadn’t been asked at all, but they needed to get away from you for a couple of hours to really let you sink into helplessness and paranoia. The longer you went without them with the thought that any moment they might be stabbed and sliced, the more you’d run into their willing arms no matter how they decided to break the news about their late-night activities. 

You pulled fully out of Jack’s embrace, and the freckled boy had to stop himself from bringing you right back in, hands already itching to grab onto your arms. But he pulled himself together; he would have all night with you once they got you right where they wanted. 

“Will I at least see you both before Robby has to go back tonight?” you asked, finger going back to pick at your thumb, face wincing when a spark of pain shot up your digit. You looked down in time to see blood well under the flap of skin. 

“Of course. I’ll be at Jack’s dorm after I finish up with the final night class,” Robby said and finally smiled. He leaned over and softly pinched your cheek. “I wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye to my favorite girl.” 

A rush of pleasure crept up to his chest at the sight of your heated cheeks, and somehow, evening couldn't come soon enough. After you stood and left, probably headed toward your dorm to try to get some sleep, Jack turned towards Robby with a flick of his head. 

“Tonight?” he asked, lips stretching into a wide smirk. 

Robby didn’t even look his way, eyes still planted on your figure. “Tonight.” 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Three raps of your knuckles against the wood door and a muffled Come in! from Jack had you pushing the creaky thing open and stepping right into his dorm. You eyed the small piles of clothes that you tried not to step on as you made your way toward his bed. Jack was leaned back against his headboard with a sleepy look on his face and pajamas on his body: a pair of much-too big sweats (that you guessed probably belonged to Robby) and that fucking Army crewneck. 

“Would it kill you to clean once in a while?” you asked while taking a seat right at the edge of the mattress. 

“There’s a system to it. Left side of the room is for clean clothes, and the right is for dirty,” he responded with a shit-eating smirk. 

You rolled your eyes and turned to face him as much as you could without lying stomach down on the bed. “You’re such a boy.” 

“At least my room’s not dripping in makeup,” he shot back, face scrunching in disgust. “It’s almost like I can smell it from here.” 

“No, that’s your hairspray.” You reached out to ruffle his curls, but his hand darted out and wrapped around your wrist before it could get any further. 

Jack pulled slightly, and you followed, knees digging into the comforter so he could bring you closer. “You know better than to touch the curls.” 

“Then don’t make fun of my makeup,” you muttered before ripping your hand out of his hold. Using your hands, you pushed yourself further up the bed and mirrored Jack with your shoulder against his and back against the headboard. “How’d that simulator thing go?” 

His lip curled. “As well as it could be. Fuck, I hope we’re not going to turn out to be like those stuck up know-it-all assholes. They think they know every damn answer.” 

You nudged him slightly. “As long as we study and actually know the answers, we can act as asshole-y as we want to.” 

He ran a hand through his hair and scoffed. “That’s the thing. We asked the question for the mock-up ER, and one of the guys in there—total douche—didn’t even know the protocol for hyperkalemia.” 

“It’s potassium instead of calcium,” you rattled off mindlessly before pausing. 

Jack turned slightly. “Yeah. How the fuck did you know that?” 

Your eyes locked onto your feet. “It-it was one the question I got wrong before Stephen—” Your mouth quivered. “Fuck, it’s all my fault.” 

“Don’t say that.” 

“But it’s true, Jack,” you muttered. “I killed him.” Panic began to lick at the edges of your mind, and your chest started heaving in pants. “I killed him. I killed him.” 

Jack pushed up off the headboard and hovered halfway over, hands raising like he didn’t know where he could touch you without sending you over the edge. “You gotta breathe, or you’re going to pass out on me.” 

His words were like he was talking underwater, and you couldn’t even process what he was telling you to do. This was not a part of their plan, but Jack had to make due with what he could before Robby got back from killing one more student, a guy who had looked at you way too long in your pharmacology class. Before he could really think things through, Jack cupped your face, leaned in, and kissed you deeply. 

The feeling of his lips broke you out of whatever hysteria threatened to take over, and you found yourself mimicking his movements as you kissed him back, lips moving against the other while your hands found purchase in his crewneck. Your eyes fluttered shut before snapping back open when Robby popped in your mind. You pulled back instantly and wiped your lips as though that would get rid of what just happened. 

Jack took in your debauched look, you clearly liking that he kissed you, but the worried look you had sent his heart racing the wrong way. 

Had they read you wrong the entire time? 

“Jack,” you breathed. “We can’t.” 

He cocked his head. “Why can’t we?” 

“Robby.” 

“What about him, sweetheart.” 

You looked at him earnestly. “Aren’t you two . . .” You left words unsaid in case you were the one to get this wrong. 

Jack almost looked bashful as he replied. “You’re always too damn smart. Catching onto things before we could even tell you.” He leaned back in though and pressed another kiss to the side of your mouth. “We are . . . together, but—” He dragged his eyes over your body with a heated look. “But we want you too.” 

His words had you blinking rapidly. “What?” you laughed out, but one look from him said that he wasn’t joking around. “Are-are you serious?” 

He clicked his tongue against his cheek. “Deadly.” 

You weren’t too sure who moved first, but you met his mouth once more halfway. You moaned loudly at the feeling of his lips and teeth mushing against yours. His hands rose and planted on your hips, fingers curling into the small pudge against bone and pulling you into him, hips dragging along the blankets until you were seated on his lap. Your knees dug into the mattress on both sides of his thick thighs as you held onto his face.

Jack shivered with glee at the feeling of your grinding weight on top of him, cock already stiff below Robby’s pair of sweatpants hugging his legs. He bucked up slightly into your dampening core, and your jaw dropped enough for him to slide his wet tongue right into your hot mouth. He languidly licked around your teeth before playing with the tip of your tongue. You couldn’t help but think that if he was this into your mouth, you wanted to imagine what it’d feel like against your clit. At the vivid picture popping into your imagination, you ground down harder against his bulge.

Jack being large wasn’t surprising; not with the amount of tight pants he liked to wear, but you never imagined yourself being able to feel it nestled against your clit through your thin pajamas. As you continued to rock back and forth, he let go in order to play with the hem of your shirt before lifting it over your head and tossing it to the ground. His eyes widened slightly when he realized you’d foregone the bra. 

“Fuck,” he muttered after pulling back to really look at them, hands rising to cup your breasts. 

With his pointer fingers and thumbs, he pinched your nipples into soft peaks, drawing a higher-pitched whine from behind your teeth. By now, your underwear were soaked with slick arousal. Without warning, he leaned in right as your back arched and took one bud into his mouth. His cheeks hollowed, and a loud sucking noise squeaked out of his lips. You jerked at the feeling and sank your hands into his hair. 

“Jack,” you breathily sighed. 

“That’s me, sweetheart,” he retorted after letting your nipple go with a wet pop just to do the same to your other one. 

You normally weren’t one to cum just from stimulation to your breasts, but the hazy feeling from grinding on Jack’s cock and his lips and tongue circling your nipples started to well in your stomach. Your jaw dropped again as a loud moan shuddered out of you after he bit down on the sensitive peak before running a soothing, wet stripe over it. He pulled back again to lightly blow on the heated flesh, and his cooled breath made goosebumps race up your skin. 

He dropped a hand to play with the waistline of shorts, and you lifted your hips to allow him to get your sleep shorts and underwear off in one go. They quickly joined your shirt at the floor, and his hand had just started to trail between your thighs when his bedside phone gave off a loud shrill into the air. Jack acted as though he didn’t hear it, lips still suckling away at your chest. 

“Aren’t you going to get that?” you panted between the grinds of your hips. 

“Just let it ring,” he responded, but the sound had already ripped your attention away from between your legs. 

With a smile, you reached over and picked up the phone, mind too full with pleasure to even think of the last time you picked up a phone without knowing who was on the other line. Really, you should have been more careful, but with Jack under your naked body, all caution was out the window. 

“Jack’s busy right now,” you giggled into the phone, “but I can give him a message—” 

“Hi, baby.” 

Your hips stilled, and your blood froze at the sound of the distorted voice. A dizzying feeling replaced the warmth of pleasure in your system, and you could barely get out a response that wasn’t a small, terrified noise. 

“Has Jack left you that speechless already?” he continued, voice sounding louder than it had last night over the phone. If you really thought about it, it felt as though he was right next to your ear. “Go on, baby. You were looking so pretty getting messy over him. I was really enjoying the show,” he growled, voice suddenly right over your shoulder instead of through the speaker. 

You dropped the phone and whipped around right off Jack’s lap, and panic seized your chest, because right by the door, a tall man draped in black fabric and a hollowed-eyed white mask stared back at you. You started to scramble as a small scream ripped up your throat, but Jack was quicker. He grabbed your hips and brought you back to this lap, this time facing the masked intruder. His arms wrapped around your middle and held you through your struggles and tears. 

“Jack, what the fuck!” you sobbed, hands wrenching and nails scratching at his arms. “Let me go! We’re going to die! Let me go, please!” 

Instead of doing what you demanded, Jack tucked his chin onto your shoulder as the man started stalking toward the bed. With each step, your struggles grew. By now, Jack’s arms were littered with bleeding stripes from your desperation to get away, but that only added to his pleasure, cock never failing to fade into softness against your back. Your chest heaved and tightened the closer the man got before he stopped at the foot of the bed. 

You watched with wide eyes as he raised a small box to where his lips would be under the mask before his empty gloved hand suddenly lifted the stretched-chin until the mask slipped from his face, and Robby’s dark brown eyes locked on yours. 

His lips curled into a devilish smirk. “Surprise, baby.” 

For a split second, you thought you’d pass out, suddenly overwhelmed with everything in a dizzy sensation. 

“What?” you sputtered. 

Jack hummed over your shoulder and ran a finger down your tear-streaked cheek. He pouted when you met his eye from the corner of yours. 

“Aw, sweets, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. Not enjoying our little surprise?” he taunted before a chuckle rumbled in his chest. “Awww, Mikey, look at her. The poor thing’s shaking.” 

Robby let the voice modulator fall to the floor with a dulled thunk that kept your heart racing against your ribcage. In a desperate attempt to keep a distance between you and Robby, you tried to fling yourself to the side, but Jack just tightened his arms around you more. 

“Not so fast,” he said. “Not when we haven’t gotten to the best part yet.” One arm let go so his hand could grip your chin to keep you facing Robby. “Go on and spread her legs for me.” 

Without hesitation, Robby kneeled at the edge of the mattress and crawled until he reached where your feet planted against the comforter. His brown eyes, the hues almost black with lust, watched you intently as he placed his gloved hands on your naked knees. Yet, when he tried to part them, you swung a foot and connected it right between his legs, drawing a grunt from deep in his lungs. 

He shuddered, his hand reaching down to palm himself over the long black robes he wore. His chest was rising and falling rapidly as he fought to get air back in his lungs. As his hand pressed down harder, he groaned, looking up at you through his eyelashes. The inky blackness of his pupils swallowed the brown of his irises entirely.

The motherfucker liked that. 

Jack’s hand slid down from your jaw and wrapped around the front of your throat, and his fingers squeezed lightly against the sides of your neck, sending a fuzzy wave to your brain, and your breath hitched, body stilling in his grasp. His lips softly grazed your ear as he whispered, “Be a good girl and stay still for us. You’ll like it, I promise.” 

He jerked his chin out towards Robby, and you could only watch him finally grip your knees. In one fluid motion, he wrenched your legs apart, revealing your glistening cunt to both of them. Robby hummed lowly in amusement. 

“You’re so wet for us, baby,” he mused and lowered his face until he was inches away from your core. 

An embarrassed heat flooded your face and neck when he inhaled sharply. If you bucked your hips to get him to move back, you’d just shove his nose right into your folds, and if you withdrew them, you’d grind right into Jack’s cock. You were stuck, and neither seemed to be concerned with how you felt. 

“Please let me go,” you pleaded with a whimper and squeezed-shut eyes. “I won’t tell anyone.” 

Jack tutted against your ear. “It’s not that we don’t believe you, sweets, but . . .” 

“We’ve already waited this long to have you like this,” Robby finished his sentence, finally pulling back from between your legs to look down at you as he ripped the gloves off. “We can’t let you go after we’ve worked so hard to get you right where we want.” 

“You fucking murdered people,” you spat, body beginning to shift unconsciously as a result of your fear . . . or something closer to simmering arousal that you didn’t even want to admit to. “And now you think I’m just going to sit here and enjoy this?” 

“Well, yeah,” Jack smacked his lips. “Cause even though you’re putting on a big show of being brave even if you’re terrified—” He reached down and ran a fingertip through your cunt from hole to clit before holding it up to the light to show just how wet it was. “Your body is still begging for us.” 

You shivered against him. “It’s not—I’m not begging.” 

Jack sighed loudly. “That’s okay; we know you will once we get started.” His hazel eyes met Robby’s gaze. “Go right ahead, Mikey.” 

“Robby, please don’t,” you whispered as he leaned back down, bare fingers coming to grip at the soft insides of your thighs. “Don’t do this. I—” 

You bit down on your lip to stifle the first moan that threatened to burst out as Robby’s tongue began to lick at your puffy folds, fingers curling into Jack’s freckled forearms and thighs jolting at the feeling. He held them down. His tongue moved inward and stiffened into a point to drag upward to your throbbing clit, the texture of his tastebuds adding to the buzzy stimulation. He toyed with you, going from circular motions to biting down gently with his front teeth. As he tilted his face to get a better angle, his beard rubbed against your inner thighs, and the scratchiness of it added to the burning pleasure from your core. 

If he continued, he’d leave a lasting reminder of beard burn for you to remember this night. 

Above, you refused to look down at him, lip staying between your teeth as he tried to break you. Jack was having none of it, and the hand around your throat pressed harder into your pulse points, cutting off your circulation to flood your brain with a hazy feeling that made the pleasure from Robby’s ministrations grow tenfold. 

It was only when he licked around your sopping entrance that a keel ripped from your throat, and the sound was like music to their ears. 

“Good job, sweetheart,” Jack muttered as he let go to allow oxygen to rush back in. “That’s what we want to hear. Keep going, Mikey. I wanna hear more.” 

“Just keep her steady,” Robby responded against you, and his words sent vibrations tingling through your cunt, drawing out another heady moan. He continued to go back and forth from your clit to your hole before the first finger breached the tight entrance. “Oh, fuck, she’s tight,” he groaned, cock throbbing as he imagined sinking deep into you.

“Yeah?” Jack breathed. “Saved yourself just for us, sweets?” 

“No,” you moaned out, hips slightly rocking to alleviate the stretch. “Nooooo shit!” 

Robby sucked your clit as he began to pump his finger in and out, your innermost muscles clenching in uncontrollable spasms around the digit. Slowly, he felt you begin to loosen and suck him back in. Your head tilted back against Jack’s shoulder when he curled his finger upward, expertly finding your soft spot. Your back arched, and your hips raised into Robby’s face, making his nose catch against your clit. 

A wave of pleasure washed over you. Your once tense muscles had relaxed as endorphins fought to replace your terror, leaving you close to putty and pliant between them. Your legs widened instinctively when Robby added a second finger. 

“Oh—fuck!” you wailed out when both fingertips rubbed along your walls, slick gushing out with each thrust. “Robby!” 

“There we go,” Jack gleefully said, voice filled with nothing but content as he felt your body drape against him, all fight draining the closer they got you to cumming. “I told you that you were going to like it.” 

Somehow, Robby managed to get his fingers to reach further, and stars dotted your vision by how deep you could feel him. You didn’t want to imagine how deeper he could get with his cock—wait. 

You were giving in. You couldn’t; this was wrong. They killed people. You needed to get away fast. 

“Robby!” you parroted and followed with a moan as your lower belly simmered with something that was about to snap. “Gonna cum! Wanna cum!” 

Finally, you looked downward and met his lidded gaze through his eyebrows, lower face hidden behind your soft mound as he continued to lick and suck and graze your bundle of nerves with his teeth. He was close to sending you right over the edge, but there was one thing they both wanted to hear. 

They wanted you to beg for it. 

Jack finally unwrapped his arms from your middle to start palming at your breasts again. “C’mon, sweets. Mikey’ll make you cum, but you need to ask nicely for it first. Just say the magic words and—” He pinched and pulled and twisted your nipples, and a cry ripped right out of you, “—he’ll give it to you.” 

Your eyes burned with unshed tears, and somewhere deep, the need to push back flickered before being doused with a rush of arousal. Robby added a third finger and quickened his thrusts, causing a squelching noise to fill the room. 

Finally, after feeling the heat about to boil over in your core, you whimpered out the smallest, “Please.” 

Robby groaned against you, and bit down hard on your clit while curling upwards with stiff fingers. You came instantly, walls clenching rhythmically while Robby kept his pace steady to draw out your high for as long as possible. He watched the way your thighs shook and the way your arched beautifully, stomach curved out high as Jack continued to pull and grab at your breasts.  

You all but collapsed back against Jack’s chest when Robby finally pulled away, your sticky arousal coating his lips and chin and also the  three fingers that he stuck in his mouth. He held eye contact with you as he swirled his tongue between the slots. Jack huffed behind you. 

“I want a taste,” he demanded, and Robby quickly leaned over you, robes draping across your heaving chest, and kissed Jack. 

The loud slurping noises coming from over your head made you groan when your hole clenched around nothing. 

“Tastes good,” Jack muttered before licking across Robby’s lips. “Tastes so fucking good, sweetheart,” he addressed you even if he was currently occupied. He bit down, and Robby whined as a metallic tang filled their shared saliva. 

You lied there, and for a moment, your mind caught up to the situation at hand. Robby and Jack were the murderer—murderers? One to make the call, and the other to kill the student. Through the initial shockwaves of your orgasm, your stomach dipped, and you pushed up slightly, hoping they were both too into the other to miss the way you tried to inch across the bed. Jack pulled away suddenly and reached across, hands planting on both sides of your hips. Air rushed from your lungs at the sheer amount of his strength as he flipped you in one fluid motion and put you on your stomach. 

“No, fuck you,” you whined against the covers. “I’ve never—” 

Jack’s hands maneuvered you like a personal doll: knees pushing into the mattress and hips high in the air. He used his knees to knock yours wider to fit behind. You tried to push up on two hands, but he sent you right back down with a strong enough push between your shoulder blades. He held you down and pulled down the waistline of his sweatpants just enough to pull his cock out, lips parting in a hiss at the cold air enveloping his heated flesh. He sighed when he got a hand around himself, and the tip spurted out a line of precum. He used his palm to spread it across his length before he notched it at your entrance. 

Your body tensed at just the feeling of the large head already barely fitting even if Robby had managed to get three fingers in you. 

“Wait,” you said and gripped the comforter. “No, no, please wait, please, Jack, I’m a virgin, wait—” 

As though your pleas fell on deaf ears, Jack slowly started to sink into you. He shuddered when your warmth sucked in the first inch like your cunt needed him even if you thought you didn’t. 

“Fuck, sweets,” he hissed. “Robby said you were tight, but fucking—can’t believe I get to be your first.” 

You gasped at the stretch and intrusion, and he kept feeding himself into you even after the first bit of resistance. You’d mold perfectly around him soon enough. Your inner thighs shook and tensed as he pushed in further, and sweat collected at your brow line as your body heated under the pressure. You shut your eyes tight, but that only made it difficult to concentrate on anything but the feeling of Jack’s massive cock bullying its way into you. 

Jack pulled back slightly, and the drag of the head along your walls had you gasping for air. 

“Too much for you?” Jack cooed as your whimpers hit his ears. “Shhhh, it’s okay, sweetheart, you can take it; I know you can.” He slowly pushed back in. “Take a deep breath for me, yeah? Big streeetch,” he drew out until the entirety of his length sat inside you. 

Your chest heaved as much as it could into the mattress, and your jaw dropped to take in lungfuls of air. You felt too full, like one wrong move and Jack would rip you in half. It only got worse when he started to thrust, and his tip started tapping against your cervix with no more room to push into. 

“J-Jack, f-fuck,” you stuttered, and tears once again streamed down your cheeks. “Please—fuck!” 

He rocked his hips against yours to the point that his balls slapped against your ass with every thrust. “You feel how deep I am inside you?” he grunted while his hands tightened around your hips. “Fucking taking all of me. Such a needy girl for my cock.”  

You bit down on the comforter, muffling your whines in an attempt to keep how much he was affecting you to yourself. 

“Oh, sweets, that won’t do,” Jack tutted and sank a hand into your roots, fingers curling around the strands and yanking your head upward with a yelp. Your hands scrambled to get under you to relieve some of the pressure, but Jack didn’t stop thrusting, and the motion had your breasts swinging in the air. “Mikey, give her mouth something to do.” 

You eyes widened because under Jack’s fucking, you somehow completely forgot about Robby. But now as he shrugged off the robe and unbuckled his pants to get his cock out, you started sobbing once more. 

“Please don’t do this. I loved you two,” you weakly confessed, mind warring against your needy body, but all that did was make Jack angle his hips on an upward thrust to hit that spot that made you wail. 

Robby fisted his cock while he raised your chin up, and his eyes softened for a split second. “You’ll just have to learn to love this version of us, baby, because we love you just like this.” 

His words hit you in the pit of your stomach, and suddenly his words broke something inside you.  

This was Jack and Robby, your two best friends who’d do anything for you. You couldn’t keep fighting against them if you tried.  

Your jaw chomped shut hard enough that your teeth clicked together, but both of them were one step ahead. Jack let go of your hair and snaked a hand between your thighs to start circling his fingertips against your clit as he continued to fuck into you at a slowed pace, really wanting to draw this all out. 

You couldn’t help the moan that flowed freely at the double stimulation attacking your cunt, and your jaw unhinged enough to let Robby slip the tip of his cock between your teeth. Instantly, the salty tang of his precum coated your mouth. He held the sides of your face and pushed in deeper. 

“Another deep breath, baby,” he groaned before he thrust into your mouth, giving you barely any warning to brace for his cock to fill your mouth. 

Your throat constricted in a gag, but a flick of Jack’s fingers around your bud paired with a harsh thrust pushed you forward until your nose right into Robby’s navel, his wiry happy trail filling your senses with his deep musky scent. Above you, Robby arched into the feeling and groaned into the air. You were now filled on both ends as you desperately tried to breathe in through your mouth. 

Robby’s cock nestled against your tongue and a few inches down your throat. He was definitely longer than Jack, but the redhead had a much thicker girth than the brunette. Jack planted both his hands on your shoulders and pulled you back until Robby almost slipped right out. You sputtered and coughed from the lack of air, and a string of saliva wiggled down from your mouth to the bed. 

In just a breath later, they resumed, and you moved upwards and backwards on them like a pig on a spit. You felt dizzy between the white-hot pleasure Jack gave your cunt and the fuzziness that took over when Robby slipped down your throat. Both men moaned and grunted when you seemed to clench down on them at the same time. 

“Fuck, you weren’t kidding when you said she was—shit—so fucking tight,” Jack moaned when your walls spasmed around him, nearly cumming from the feeling. “You any close, sweets? Wanna feel you cum on my cock.” His words went straight to your body, and your pussy tightened. “Oh, you like when I talk to you? Is that right?” 

You whined in response and nodded. . 

His fingers picked up against your throbbing clit to meet his thrusts, and your stomach flipped with the onslaught of never-ending ecstasy flowing through your lower half. He could tell you were close when you started leaking around him, inner thighs sticky and wet enough to transfer onto his when he pushed into you with wet plap, plap, plap, plaps. 

At your front, Robby continued lazily thrusting into your mouth with jerky motions, knowing that once Jack filled you, he’d have his turn to sink deep into your pussy. His head leaned back when he managed to make you gag, and your throat constricted and caught his tip. His large hand basically covered the back of your head. He kept you tucked against his navel even when you tried to jolt back to get more air. His soul thrummed at your panic, and he wondered if you could feel him get harder between your teeth. 

“Uh, uh, uh, uh,” sputtered around Robby with every draw and snap of Jack’s hips. 

“Just give in, sweetheart,” Jack whispered into your ear after slotting his stomach into the dip of your back. “Let us know that we’re making you feel so good.” Using two fingers, he pinched at your clit just as his hips began to stutter, a tell-tail sign that he was about to cum as well. “Fucking—shit—give it to me.” 

With a muffled cry, your body shook as your second orgasm ripped right through your body. Jack could barely fuck into you with how hard you were clamping down on him as your cunt wept and dribbled onto the bed. 

“Good—fucking—girl,” he punched out with three forceful thrusts. His hands planted back onto your hips, and his fingers curled white-knuckled into the skin so hard that you knew you’d have his fingerprints bruised into you by morning. His lower stomach pulsed when you began to whimper from overstimulation, and the sound had his cock throbbing. “Fuck, gonna fill you up, sweets. Gonna cum, gonna—fucking shit!” 

He thrusted hard once, twice, three times before he stilled, cock spurting release into your fluttering hole. He had squeezed his eyes shut, but he peaked through his eyelids to see Robby lean over with a hand between your legs. The air knocked right out of Jack’s lungs when your cunt clamped down on him again near the end, and he guessed that Robby had rubbed right against your clit. Jack’s chest heaved through his high. 

“Good job, sweetheart,” he muttered, giving little rocks of his hips to prolong his own pleasure, dick already softening just a bit. “You took me so well; so well.” 

His hands loosened from your shoulders, and without any strength left in your wobbly arms, you fell right back into the bed, body twitching in the aftershocks. A whimper climbed from deep in your chest when he finally pulled out. Your hole clenched and pushed out a thick glob of the mix of your rapidly cooling slick and his cum from your walls. 

You felt his finger drag along your folds to catch it just to push the mess right back in, drawing a mewl from your lips. Too tired and fucked out to care about what they did next, you let your hips lower until they rested against the bed. You heard some shuffling through the haze, and the next moment, your body flipped over. Each of your limbs tingled with warmth, and you let out the smallest giggle. 

You enjoyed that more than you’d ever admit to it. 

“What’s so funny, baby?” Robby asked as he took off the rest of his clothes just as Jack was taking off his crewneck but leaving his sweats still on. 

Your eyes fluttered shut. “Think it’s funny that you said you loved me, but you killed people,” you slurred. 

Jack and Robby shared a look before the taller took his place near your feet. 

“Stephen deserved it, baby,” Robby darkly muttered. “And all those boys who came before him.” 

Jack ran a soothing hand up and down your leg. “You’re our girl. We couldn’t let them live after how they acted towards you.” 

Like he did earlier, Robby parted your legs, leaning down for half a heartbeat to press a small kiss to your twitching clit before trailing open-mouthed kissed up your stomach until he reached your lips. As though all fight drained out of you with the last climax, you matched his advances and kissed him back, legs absentmindedly parting to let him hover over you. 

You were the one to break the kiss when he rutted his cock through your sopping, overly-sentivie folds. Your breath hitched high in your throat before breaking to give way to a shuddering moan. You tried to push him off, but his lips stayed glued to your neck. 

He reached down and positioned his cock head to your entrance, and he slipped in with no resistance, the added lubrication of Jack’s spend and your relaxed muscles adding to his eased thrusting. The back of your head pushed deep into the mattress, and you swore you could feel Robby all the way up into your throat. Through lidded eyes, you caught the sight of Jack already hard again in his hand, his hazel eyes watching intently as Robby started to fuck you. 

“Hnnngggg,” you moaned through your teeth. Robby’s tip hit your cervix with each forward movement. “Oh my—fucking—please, Robby!” 

“Only took two orgasms to get you begging, hm?” Jack asked, and he reached over to pet at your face while simultaneously fucking up into his hand. His fingers traced your lips before he plunged them into your mouth. His breath stuttered when you started softly sucking on his digits. 

“Whatever you’re doing up there,” Robby grunted, hips snapping into the heat of your walls, “she likes it. Her cunt’s clenching—shit—around me like a fucking vice, man.” 

Your high-pitched whine came out all muffled through Jack’s fingers. Without someone holding your hips down, you began to meet Robby’s thrusts in shallow grinds. Where Jack’s cock stretched you out to the point of bliss, you wanted Robby’s length to stay buried deep to constantly rub against your walls. He must have understood what you wanted, because he stopped with the full thrusts and ground against your hips. The thatch of hair at the base of his cock rubbed deliciously against your swollen clit, and you whined at the added stimulation. 

After having climaxed twice so fast, it didn’t take long before you started to writhe under Robby’s frame, close to cumming without needing much. 

“Gonna—” You gagged when Jack pushed his fingers in farther. “Gonna,” you warbled. 

“Gonna cum already for us, baby?” Robby grunted. “Well, when you do, I wanna hear you cry my name, okay? Want your pretty mouth to spit it out.” 

You nodded shakily and tried to respond, but Jack’s fingers were too deep for anything eligible to come out. After thrusting them a bit more and getting them slick with your saliva, Jack pulled them out of your mouth. You squealed loudly when his fingers rubbed between your clit and where Robby was rutting into you. 

“Ooohhhh,” you breathed. “Jack! Feels good!” 

“Yeah? Does it feel better when I do this?” Suddenly, the pressure inside your walls exploded as Jack nudged his pointer finger into your hole, digit brushing against Robby’s cock to make you feel fuller than you ever had. “I bet that feels really good for you, sweetheart. Got your hole all nice and filled to the brim.” 

He tried to angle his wrist as best he could to press upward, and your thighs tried to close around his hand, but Robby’s hips kept them spread wide open. Needing to alleviate the pressure, you dug your feet into Robby’s lower back and arched into his chest. In one more movement to grind against Jack’s hand and Robby’s cock, you came instantly in a soundless scream. 

Robby folded over as your walls suddenly clamped down on him without warning. Your chest shook in a deep sob as the pleasure almost became too much. But through the shivers and pinpricks of euphoria, you remembered what Robby had asked. 

“Michael!” you screamed, hips jolting uncontrollably against him. “Micahel! Michael!” 

Like some Pavlovian effect, Robby groaned loudly with stuttering hips, cock spurting with hot waves of cum deep inside and fusing his and Jack’s cum to your cunt. No matter who you else might fuck in life, they’d always know that their cum was in you first. 

“Such a good baby,” Robby spat, mind barely keeping up with the feeling of your warmth entrapping his cock. “So smart for remembering. Fucking love it when you say my name. Fucking love you.” 

Your eyes had squeezed shut yet again right before you felt splatters across your face and heard a plethora of curses and moans from Jack above you. Some of his cum painted across your eyes, and you could only lie there and take his spend to your face. 

For a moment, you ceased to exist on the bed, mind floating blissfully somewhere else as you stewed in the slowing waves of your probably final orgasm. It wasn’t until you felt a warm, wet towel against your face did you open your eyes again. You blinked rapidly to clear them of the gloss that had taken over, and Jack cooed softly as he wiped his drying cum from your cheeks. 

“There she is,” he whispered. “There’s our girl. You did so well for us, sweetheart. Can’t believe we got to finally do this with the girl we love.” 

There it was again: their declarations of love. 

You wondered if it was all a ploy, but with their soft touches and slow roll of your pliant body to settle between them as sleep licked at your body, something settled inside your chest. Sure, they’d killed people, but they’d been right about what they said. Stephen deserved it, deserved what they did to him along with all the other boys who’d made you uncomfortable before meeting their ultimate demise. 

They’d done it all for you . . . because they loved you. 

Your lip twitched into a soft smile as you relaxed into the blanket Jack tossed over the three of you. 

“I love you both, too.” 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Morning light was the first thing to cause your closed eyelids to glow as your body slowly woke up. Instead of gently being lolled from your sleep, you became instantly aware of where you were and more importantly who you were between. Sometime after falling asleep, you’d managed to tuck yourself under Robby’s chin while Jack clung to your back, their shared heat making the bed feel like a furnace. You shifted. One leg slipping from between Jack’s, and your hips tilting away from Robby’s. 

Yet, you’d barely moved a few inches when Jack was the second to wake up. He muttered something sleepily before tightening his arms around your middle. 

“Don’t go,” he slurred, voice still thick with sleep. 

“I need to pee,” you whispered back, but all you really wanted was to retreat to the bathroom to wrap your mind around what had happened last night: their confessions, them fucking you, you confessing your love for both of them. If you stayed any longer, the dream of last night might become reality, and you weren’t ready to face the possibility that you might become their next victim. 

Robby shuffled slightly at your front and nuzzled his cheek into the top of your head. “Pee here. Pretty sure Jack’s into that,” he sighed, almost like he was seconds away from falling back asleep, however, his eyes shot open when Jack whacked him in the face with a spare pillow. 

“I don’t have a piss kink,” the redhead groaned, not even opening his hazel eyes. “I just think it’s hot.” 

“Then it constitutes as a piss kink, kid.” 

Jack pushed up with one arm while rapidly blinking the sleep away. “Can we not kink shame your boyfriend, please? We get one morning with her between us, and you start spouting bullshit nonsense.” 

“Guys,” you whined. “Enough.” Your head tilted down until your forehead connected with Robby’s chest. “Let’s just get this all over with.” 

Jack paused with another pillow mid-way in the air, fingers letting go to let it drop down to the bed. He slightly curled around your shoulder and tried to meet your eye. “Get over with what?” 

Robby twirled a piece of your hair around a finger. “What’s going on in that head, baby?” 

“I already know what will happen next. You’re going to tell me that last night was a fluke, and I’m about to show up on the news as another dead body,” you spat. “So, please, make it painless and get on with it.” 

Over your head, Robby and Jack shared a look of concern before Jack plastered himself along your back. 

“No, sweetheart, no,” he cooed. “That’s like the exact opposite of what’s going to happen. We weren’t lying when we said we loved you.” 

You shook your head and closed your eyes. You didn’t believe them. How could you after all they’ve done? 

“Listen, baby,” Robby started as he pushed back to make you look at him, “Jack and I love you so much, and the thought of us never being able to have you pushed us over the edge. It’s like an itch we can’t scratch unless we get rid of the problems.” 

“And the problems were all those boys who either thought they had a chance or made you uncomfortable by thinking you wanted them back,” Jack growled, and the noise went right to your core. “We fucking love you so much, and it was agony to see them hurt you, so we hurt them in return—like, take them out entirely.” 

“No one messes with you unless they want to mess with us,” Robby stated. “But we’d never hurt you, baby. I think we’d both rather kill the other if we ever did.” 

They both waited in silence for you to answer, and for a moment, they thought that you were able to push away, grab your clothes, and run out the door with how heavy you were breathing. But then, they both noticed the way your thighs shifted together, and it dawned on them that you were into this—them killing men just for you. 

“You really mean that?” you finally asked, voice meek and scared for them to laugh and yell psych! 

“We’d let you kill us if we didn’t, sweetheart” Jack said, voice steady and strong. “Our hearts beat only for the other and you.” He placed a kiss on your bare shoulder before lightly biting into your skin. 

Robby inhaled sharply. “We’ll stop . . . if you want us to. No more games, no more murders—” 

“Unless you want us to,” Jack added. “Say the word, and you’ll have a heart on a platter if you wish.” 

A loud groan rumbled through your chest, and your hips jutted back against Jack’s front. “You two can’t say stuff like that.” 

“Why not?” Robby asked, and you could hear the smirk in his words. 

“Becasuse—” You squeaked when Jack suddenly palmed at your breasts under the covers. “Because it makes me feel . . .”

“Good?” Jack filled in, but you shook your head. 

“Loved. It makes me feel loved, and it’s fucking crazy to say that, because you’re willing to murder people if I ask for it.” 

Your thighs parted when you felt Robby try to prod between them, and a lazy sigh exhaled from your lips as he slowly started to circle your clit through your puffy folds that were still slick from last night’s activities. 

“We’re willing to do a lot more than murder,” he muttered, lips pressing into every inch of your face. “But we have you now, and unless anyone thinks they can get through us, we won’t need to put any more bodies in the ground.” 

“Promise?” you asked with a pant catching the end of the word. 

“Promise,” Jack grunted, hips bucking into your ass. 

“Promise,” Robby echoed. 

“Okay, okay,” you said. “I was also telling the truth when I said that I loved you both. Just wanting to make it clear that this goes both ways.” 

“Good,” Jack said as he placed two hands on both sides of your hips. “Now, flip on your front. I wanna feel your cunt cum on my cock again.” 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · 

Night was not the best place to be hanging around a parking lot in the middle of Pittsburgh. Unfortunately for Brendon Park, he found himself doing just that around an hour after his shift ended at 9 pm, eyes narrowed at his slashed tires on his brand new Porsche. Someone had done this, and all he needed to do was wait for the stupid tow truck and security officer to come help him out. He could have left it for the morning and gotten an uber, but Park was a proud man. 

And yet, what did they say about pride? It commeth before the downfall. 

He was so busy huffing and puffing while stalking back and forth along his car that he failed to hear the twin footsteps rapidly approaching behind him. He didn’t even know he wasn’t alone until a white-hot pain in his side froze him in his tracks. His torso twisted, but that just dug the scalpel in deeper. He stumbled to get away, but all he was met with was another parallel stab to his other side. 

Automatically, Park applied pressure over the blood already soaking through his scrub top. He looked down and hissed before looking for his assailant. He squinted into the dark, and his breath hitched when twin robed figures stepped out into the small bit of light coming from a close to burning out lamp. It was almost like the two were from a slasher movie in the 90s with their hollowed-eyed halloween masks and glittering robes that donned their bodies, keeping Park from knowing who had just stabbed him twice. 

“What the fuck?” he hissed as he backed up into his Porsche’s driver door, hand trying to grip the handle but failing because of his blood’s slickness. “I’ll give you money or whatever the fuck you want but stay right over there or I swear I’ll call the cops.” 

One of them tilted his head, and Park felt the dead eyes stare right through his soul. 

He watched as the other—the taller one—raised a box to where his mouth would be behind the mask. 

“You wanna know what we want, Brendon Park?” he asked, voice distorted through the modulator. 

“I’ll give it to you,” Park grunted, the pain blooming up his sides and into his chest. They must have hit one of his kidneys and possibly an organ with how fast the anguish was spreading, making it hard to breathe in and out. 

The taller looked down at the shorter, and their eyes met before they nodded. Park’s eyes widened when they both produced longer knives than the shorter ones they stabbed him with. The modulator rose again, and what he said next sent a chill right through Park’s stomach. 

“We want to see what your insides look like.” 

Without a beat, the two robed figures pounced on him, and in just a few minutes, Park slunked down to the concrete, leaving a painted bloodied smear across his car’s door. With satisfaction pumping through their veins, the two watched as he took his last wheezing breath before dying in a puddle consisting of almost all his blood. His body wouldn’t be found until the morning with stab wounds littering his body. His fault for parking away from everyone else in fear of his car getting scratched. 

Only when the two were sure they were the only breathing beings in the lot, they ripped off the masks, and Jack huffed loudly. 

“Murder was so much easier in med school when I wasn’t missing a fucking leg,” he grumbled while shifting his weight onto his real leg. He ran a hand through his sweat-soaked salt-and-pepper curls.

“Tell me about it,” Robby answered. “If he were any shorter, my knees would have given out if I had to bend down.” He kicked at Park’s leg and smirked when the body recoiled slightly. “But man did that feel good.” 

“I’m kinda glad he decided to go off on her. Last mistake he’d ever make, but nothing beats the rush of this.” 

The memory of Park berating you in the middle of their ER flashed through their minds. They'd seen the way you flinched under his words in a way they hadn't seen in decades. They'd wanted to kill him right then and their, but Robby and Jack weren't ones to break their promises, however, the next time all three of you had the day off, you told them what you wanted between moans as Robby sandwiched you between his and Jack's chest.

"I want him gone," you had whimpered out, forehead pressing into Jack's collar bone while Robby rocked you back and forth on his cock.

"Want who gone, sweets?" Jack questioned before grunting loudly when his tip notched against your clit.

"Park—shit—I want him gone."

You wanted them to kill Park, and they were never ones to disappoint.

Robby went to say something, but the shrill of his iPhone had him digging and floundering through the drapes of robes. When he managed to bunch the fabric, he reached into his pocket and took out his phone, answering it without a second glance. 

“Hello? Michael Robinavitch speaking.” 

“Do you want to play a game?” a voice answered from the speaker, and the two glanced at each other with devilish, knowing smiles. 

“Depends on what type of game it is, sweetheart,” Jack responded, crossing his arms against his chest. 

“I wanna know how much it’ll take to make you two scream.” Your small laugh followed, you not being able to take this as seriously as the two had back in school. 

Robby brought his phone up closer to his mouth. “I don’t know the exact answer, but I think you can start with being naked and face down on the bed by the time we get back.” 

“I think that can be arranged. Get home soon, or I might have to play the game myself.” 

You're a bit nervous to see Pope again. It's been over six months since you've last seen him, something you feel a little bad about but you're sure he appreciates the fact that you took the time to get yourself settled into a new place. 

You're finally feeling ready to put yourself back out there, at least for a good time. 

Especially when it seems like everyone else in your life is having their own fun. 

You don't want to miss out so you decide it would be nice to see someone you've always been comfortable with. 

Andrew “Pope” Cody, a friend you've had for a long time who has seen you through the worst versions of yourself and still somehow managed to stick around. 

You owe a lot to Pope for being the one you could call in the middle of the night to come pick you up to keep you company while you're bawling your eyes out. He never made you feel lesser for having these anxiety attacks. He always took very good care of you. 

Because he has always liked you, a lot. 

So when you text him asking him if he'd like to meet up and do something together, Pope replies instantly, asking what you'd want to do. You tell him that a cup of coffee would be nice and then the two of you could decide from there. 

Usually, how this goes, at least when you and Pope sleep together, is that the two of you either eat something first and then fuck or fuck and then eat something. 

It's routine, simple, easy. 

Nothing like how your day actually ends up going though…

Because the moment you see Pope, your eyes immediately trail the length of his body, staring at the way he has filled in his shirt, his muscles outlined by the soft fabric. 

You have never been more nervous in your life…

You weren't expecting him to be so fit but he did tell you that he took up boxing recently and that he helped move in his older brother, Jack, who plays a lot of tennis. The two of them have been playing together most days, which is why Pope is more muscular than he was the last time you saw him. 

He can tell you're nervous because you don't say anything when you get into his car. 

“Everything alright?” He turns to you for a second before he starts the drive to your favorite cafe.

“You look really good, Andrew.” You blurt out your thoughts, embarrassment making your stomach knot up. 

You open your mouth to try to pad what you just said but then Pope goes, “you look really good too.” 

That has your whole body lighting up because as a subtle flirtation, you decided to wear a shirt Pope let you steal a while back and thin shorts, since you wanted him to know exactly what this meet up was for. 

But now you're feeling more worked up than you were previously and it only gets worse when he parks at the cafe and has his muscular arm around your back as the two of you walk inside. The heat radiating off of him makes you a little dizzy, his hand imprinting its warmth into the side of your hip. 

Has he always been this…big compared to you? 

“What do you want?” He whispers into your ear while the two of you are in line and your heart nearly leaps out of your chest when you feel his hot breath on your skin. 

You mumble your order when the two of you get to the register and Pope whips out a wad of cash from his pocket, setting down enough for your coffee plus tip and then guides you over to where the two of you can wait for your coffee. 

His hand hasn't left your side and he likes that you're letting him keep it there. 

Usually you don't.

It's not that you don't like public displays of affection but you try to keep more of a distance between yourself and someone you're just sleeping with, to lessen any growing attachment. 

But…has Pope ever been “just” someone you're sleeping with?

You've always felt more for Pope than that but you never let yourself feel those feelings until right now. Maybe because you didn't think you deserved him. You still don't think you deserve him. 

And yet, when your eyes lock with his and he leans down to kiss you, why do you kiss him back without minding that the two of you are in the middle of a busy cafe…

Your heart flutters when he moves away from your lips and says, “I missed kissing you.” 

You missed it too. You missed him. 

Something you're unsure if you are going to let yourself feel right now.

When your coffee is ready, Pope asks you if you'd like to come over to his place and meet his older brother, Jack. You remember Pope telling you about his doctor brother moving back into town after years away. 

Jack wanted a change of scenery and the beautiful city of Oceanside has always been a place he was homesick for. Plus, the pay at this hospital is much better than the one back in Pittsburgh. He doesn't have to work the night shift anymore, though he still does. He has a better work-life balance here, which gives him room to pursue other interests.

Like you… 

Because Pope had told Jack all about you. About the kind of sex the two of you have. About how much he wants to be with you but he doesn't want to make you nervous and scare you away. About how you confided in him that you would like to one day try fucking two men at once, though you doubted the opportunity would ever arise. 

Until you get to Pope's place and meet his brother Jack, shaking his hand formally and introducing yourself.

Your heart suddenly pounds in your ears when his hand lingers in yours as he asks, “so what do the two of you plan on doing together today? Can I join?” 

Now, your stomach seriously is in knots and your anxiety starts to peak…

Because this is Pope's older brother. You know for a fact that Pope had to have told Jack about you so Jack definitely knows what he's implying with his words.

And you were not mentally prepared to fuck two men today… 

Which is why you don't answer him and instead ask Pope, "where's your bathroom again?” 

Pope shows you where it is and you lock yourself in there, trying to catch your breath. You have your body leaned up against the door, doing the breathing exercises your therapist taught you, while you eavesdrop on them talking out there. 

“You made her nervous.” Pope scolds Jack. 

“She didn't say no.” Jack says back. “Maybe she's nervous because she wants us both.” 

That is exactly why you're nervous…

It's not an understatement to say you're attracted to Pope. So, of course, you would be attracted to Jack, who is just an older version of Pope. 

Two attractive men…wanting to sleep with you…

You feel like you're going to start hyperventilating. Your anxiety is through the roof and it's getting hard to breathe because you don't want to mess this up but you feel like you already have by acting this way. 

Sometimes, you wish you weren't built like this. That you could just go with the flow and not think so deeply. 

But…you are thinking deeply and you can't help it. 

You're afraid that you'll end up liking this and then what? What will you do then? 

Is it okay to—

You flinch when there's a knock at the door and you hear Pope's voice ask, “are you alright in there?” 

You let out a sigh. 

You can't keep hiding. 

At least, not without explaining yourself a little. 

So, you open the door and look up at Pope and tell him, “I think I just need a moment to myself. Can I borrow your room?” 

Pope nods, leading you back there. Then, before he heads back out to the living room with Jack, he grabs a hold of your shoulders, rubbing them gently before being so sweet to you, “we don't have to do anything today so don't worry about it, okay? I'm just happy to see you.” 

His words have your heart wanting to burst because you were not expecting that at all. 

So, you apologize for behaving this way, “I'm sorry I'm acting all weird. I just…I'm so nervous all of a sudden.” 

“That's okay.” He keeps rubbing your shoulders so gently. “Just let me know if there's anything I can do to make you feel better.” 

Your eyes meet his and then, unconsciously, you drop down to stare at his lips before snapping your eyes back to his. He smiles at that before leaning in, giving you a light kiss that you melt into almost too quickly. 

It's exactly what you needed, so soft and full of care.

“I'll be right out there. Call me if you need anything, okay?” He nuzzles your nose lightly and you nod into it. 

Pope leaves and shuts the door behind him and you don't lock it. You just sit down on his bed then lay back, looking up at the ceiling you've stared up at many times before.

It's different this time, though. There are butterflies flapping around in your tummy. You've never…felt so much before. The nerves are there but there's something more to it.

He lingers on your lips and you miss his kiss already. 

Your heart is still racing in your chest so you need some kind of outlet for the anxious energy. Normally you take a walk, so that's what you'll do. 

You see them both hanging out on the couch when you head out of his room and the moment he hears your footsteps, Pope gets up and walks to you. “Feeling better?”

“I will. I just want to take a walk around for a little. Is that okay?” You don't need to ask permission but it helps you to hear that it doesn't bother him. 

“Why don't we walk to the tennis courts?” Jack suggests. “Pope and I were going to play anyways.”

“I thought you said you wanted to play pickleball.” Pope has been indulging Jack's latest obsession with pickleball. “Now you want to play tennis?” 

“We're definitely playing pickleball.” He says a bit too seriously and you hold in a little laugh because you find that strangely cute how passionate he is. “Maybe we can teach you.” 

You shake your head. “I don't want to learn something new right now. I'm a little overwhelmed as is…”

“Then you can just watch us play.” Jack gets up from the couch, presumably to start getting his gear ready. “Do whatever makes you comfortable, princess.” 

He smiles at the shocked expression on your face when he calls you the nickname you love to hear in bed. You're even more flustered now than you were before. 

So flustered that you barely register Pope cupping your face with his big hands, turning you to look at him. “Does that sound good with you?” 

You nod into his palms. “I think so. I've never seen you play before.” 

“He sucks.” Jack comes back after quickly changing and pats his brother on the shoulder, smirking. “But it'll be entertaining to watch I'm sure.” 

“I do not suck.” Pope glares at Jack, pointing at his prosthetic. “I just don't want to overwork you.” 

You glance down, seeing that Jack is wearing athletic shorts now so his prosthetic leg is visible. You immediately rip your eyes away from him when you can see the faint outline of his cock through the fabric. You shake the image from your mind, but the thought of whether or not he's the same size as Pope stays plastered in your head. 

“I'll get overworked regardless today.” Jack gives you a big smile after he says that and now you’re internally screaming…

Pope rolls his eyes at his brother's direct flirtation then looks back at you. “I'm going to get changed. Don't let him bother you.” 

He leaves then and, of course, Jack can't resist walking up to you. He wants to see the cute look on your face when he gets real close. 

You swallow down the nerves, staring at him as he examines every inch of you. He glances at your shirt and then says, “that's my brother's shirt, isn't it? I have one just like it. It's like you're wearing my clothes too.” 

The nonchalant grin Jack gives you has your heart pounding in your ears louder than ever. He smells different from Pope too. It's nice in its own way but it has you feeling dizzy from how close he is to you. 

“You really are as cute as Pope said.” Jack leans in and your breath gets caught in your throat the moment his lips touch yours and he whispers, “I can't wait to play with you later.” 

He pulls away before he can give you a real kiss. It was just a brush of the lips but now your skin is on fire…

Pope comes back to Jack acting completely unaware of why you look like you've just been jumpscared. “What's going on?” 

“We were just chatting. Right, princess?” Jack flashes that quietly mischievous grin of his at you. 

You nod, not sure what to say back. 

Pope proceeds to grab Jack and drag him into his room, shutting the door behind him. Then, in a low whisper, he tells Jack, “stop messing with her.” 

“I'm not.” Jack lies through his cocky smile. 

“I'm serious, Jack.” Pope doesn't want to scare you off. 

“She let me kiss her.” Jack tells him, which has Pope letting go of his shirt. 

“What?” Pope is surprised to hear that. 

“She wants this. She's just too nervous about it. You can be her comfort and I can be the one who gets her to break out of her shell a little.” He already has a plan formulating in his head for how to make you more comfortable. 

And it starts with making you laugh. 

On the way to the tennis courts, Jack tells you a story about a crazy night shift he had and you can't stop giggling to the point where your stomach is cramping up. You haven't laughed like that in so long. 

Jack is completely unserious and carefree, and it helps get you to relax because you haven't said a word about how his hand has been resting on the small of your back. You've been holding Pope's hand this whole time, squeezing it when you need a bit of comfort. 

It doesn't dawn on you how this might look if someone spotted the three of you until they both leave your side to start playing pickleball. That's when your nerves come back and you start pacing around to release the energy piling up inside of you. 

But then, Jack starts goofing off on the court, messing with Pope, and your laughing fit comes back at full force. 

Jack looks at Pope and then says, “come on, Pope. You have a princess to impress.” 

The glare Pope gives Jack makes you giggle even more. They really are brothers. 

And Pope is much better at pickleball than Jack was leading you to believe. 

The two of them play for what feels like forever, until they're both drenched in sweat. 

You're sweaty too but that's because of the California heat. 

“Let's head back.” Pope can tell you definitely need a cold glass of water. 

He puts his hand out to help you up, since you've been sitting on the sidelines watching them, then proceeds to keep your hand held in his as the three of you walk back. You try not to feel too happy about that. Holding his hand makes the butterflies in your stomach go crazy but not in a bad way. 

You like how nice his calloused palm feels in yours. 

You also like how Jack's hand feels resting on your back, even though the fact that they're both touching you right now has your heart racing. 

Then, Jack leans closer to you and asks, “do you want to shower first or with one of us?” 

And you feel like you might actually explode.

Pope bites back a laugh at how shocked you look at Jack's question because you're just too cute all flustered. It makes it hard for him to not tease you too. 

But, he pulls your hand up to his lips, kissing your knuckles before he says, “let her shower on her own. She's nervous enough already.” 

“Her choice.” Jack looks at you. “What do you want to do, princess?” 

You're stunned into silence because you have no idea what to say. So many things run through your head, like the sight of them both naked with hot water dripping off their skin…

You'd love to see that… 

But you refrain from the desire, opting to just answer, “I'll shower first.” 

“Suit yourself. We could've sat in my shower chair together.” Jack's words have you imagining that very scene.

You can't believe how forward he's being. That's not what you expected when Pope told you about his brother. But it seems like Jack is the type to live life in the moment and doesn't think very far ahead. 

That's why when you're freshly showered and dressed in one of Jack's shirts, since he insisted on it, he makes his move while Pope is in the shower. 

“Come here.” He gestures for you to sit on the couch with him. “Let's chat a little.”

You definitely don't think he wants to chat because the moment you're in front of him, he grabs you by the waist and sits you down on his lap, making you straddle him.

“Jack, I just showered…” You can feel his sweat on your body.

“You can shower again, with me.” He says with that sly smirk of his. 

“I don't think that's a good idea…” You grip onto his shoulders tighter, the nerves getting to you again.

“You know, you could get up anytime.” Jack tells you and you realize then that he doesn't have his hands on you at all. 

You've just been sitting pretty on his lap. And for some reason, you don't scramble to move. 

Maybe it's the look in his eyes, the one you've seen on Pope before. 

Lust. 

“Push me away, princess.” Jack leans in, whispering so close to your lips. “Before I kiss you while my brother is in the shower.” 

“Is Andrew okay with—” His lips are on yours before you can finish your question, kissing you with such heat that your mind goes fuzzy for a second.

Then, when you kiss Jack back, he smiles against your lips and says, “I think you know the answer.” 

Suddenly, his hands are all over your body and he's grinding up against you, pulling a moan from your lips you can't keep in. 

“Good girl.” He tells you before you can be embarrassed about it. “That's it, let go and just feel good.” 

It does feel good. You like the way Jack kisses you. It's hot and passionate, his hands holding you tight against him, his hips rolling up to meet yours, his hard cock rubbing up against you through your shorts and his own. 

He groans when you start grinding on him, your hands moving into his hair, brushing through his silver curls. “I could fuck you right now if you want me to.” 

You shake your head, your lips still on his when you answer, “I want Andrew too.” 

“Greedy girl.” Jack likes that you're honest. 

You're surprised you are. You have no idea what's gotten into you. But it's like the moment Jack kissed you, a switch flipped in your head and you're aching between your legs at the thought of two men having their way with you. 

Who are you to say no to that? 

So, despite the fear pooling in your belly, you close your eyes and just enjoy the feeling of Jack's lips on yours and his hands on your skin until Pope gets out of the shower and sees the two of you making out on the living room couch. 

“Started without me?” His voice pulls the two of you apart. 

You feel flush all over at his accusation but Jack just laughs and goes, “I loosened her up for you. Don't fuck her until I get back.”

Jack then proceeds to lift you up off of him like you weigh nothing and sets you down next to him. He gives you one last heated kiss before he heads to shower. 

And you don't know if the sweat on your skin is his or your own… 

“Was everything alright with Jack?” Pope joins you on the couch, taking your hand in his. “I can tell him to leave you alone.”

He's certain you don't want that from the way he watched you grind on his brother but he has to ask anyway. 

“Is it alright with you?” You want to make sure because you don't want to do this if Pope is uncomfortable with it. 

But it's his brother and he trusts Jack more than anyone in the world. “Yeah, if it makes you feel good, it's alright with me.” 

“Andrew, we don't have to do this.” You're nervous that he's forcing himself to be okay with this. “I'm sorry if I—”

“Look at me, princess.” His words have you snapping to listen instantly. “I want you to feel good. Did my brother make you feel good?”

Pope's hand slips out of yours and your breath hitches when his hand rests on your thigh. 

“I can check how good he made you feel.” His hand starts sliding between your legs. “Can I do that?” 

You bite down on your lip, then you nod.

“Lay back then.” He instructs and you lay down on the couch and watch as he pulls your shorts off, leaving you completely bare from the waist down. “I've missed looking at your pretty pussy, princess.” 

You choke back a whimper when his finger grazes your clit before drawing a line down your slit. His touch is so featherlike that your body can't handle it. 

You want more than just that light touch… 

“Use your words, princess.” Pope climbs on top of you because he wants to kiss you. “What do you want?” 

“Please touch me.” 

“Ask politely.” He demands in that stern tone of his that has you getting wetter between your legs. 

“Will you please touch me?” You tense up from how shy you get after saying that but the smile on Pope's face has you relaxing a bit. 

Just a bit, because you gasp when his finger slides into you for just a split second before he drags it up along the length of your pussy to swirl around your clit. 

“Who's a good little princess?” He asks, dipping just the tip of his finger into you again before pulling back out. 

“I am.” You'll be so good if he keeps touching you like this. 

“You really are. You're so wet for us.” Pope slips his whole finger inside of you right then and you arch your back in response, driving him deeper. “Are you aching for more?” 

“Yes.” You're practically pleading for him to stop stalling with that single word but much like his brother, Pope enjoys the worked up expression on your face. 

So he's patient and slow, feeling around for that spot you like so much, watching you squirm when he purposefully avoids it. 

It isn't until you're panting that he finally adds another finger and starts kissing you. 

His tongue feels so good on yours. His fingers feel so good inside of you. 

You're drowning in absolute bliss. 

“She looks like she wants to cum.” Jack's voice has you glancing over at him. He's rubbing his hair with a towel, drying those beautiful curls of his. 

You like that Pope's hair is still a little damp. You want to grab a hold of it.

And you do, when he pulls away from your lips so he can head down between your legs and flick your clit with his tongue until you're trembling. 

“Please.” You don't know how much more of this edging you can take. “I want to cum so badly.” 

“I never said you couldn't cum, princess.” Pope rolls his tongue over your clit, sending you reeling but not close enough to the edge to cum. 

“I'm so close.” You whimper out, not caring anymore how you might look or sound. “Please don't stop, please keep going.” 

“She's so cute when she begs.” Jack nudges you to let him slide in behind you on the couch, pulling your back against his chest. 

He slips his hands under your shirt, technically his shirt that you're wearing, and exposes your chest to the air, your nipples peaking in response. 

“Can I help make you cum, princess?” Jack asks as he slides his hands from your sides to cup your breasts. 

“Yes, please.” You don't know why you plead to him but it just slips out… 

And when his thumbs roll over your nipples at the same time Pope seals his lips around your clit, stars flood your vision and you cum so hard that your whole body shakes, your orgasm sending waves and waves of shock through your system. You're gasping for air, lightheaded from the feeling.

“Deep breaths, pretty girl.” Jack nips at your ear, his voice so soft and sweet. “You're okay. That must've felt so good, right?” 

You nod, the pleasure overwhelming you. It's been so long since you've cum and you definitely haven't cum that hard in a while.

“Should we make it happen again?” Pope starts slowly fucking you with his fingers again. “Do you want to cum again?”

“I don't know if…” You're unsure if you'll survive another hit of pleasure like that…

“We can take a break.” Pope goes to slide his fingers out of you but you snatch his wrist before he can, which draws a laugh from Jack. 

“Looks like she doesn't want you to stop, Pope.” Jack chuckles against the nape of your neck. “Tell him what you want. Do you want my brother to make you cum with his fingers?” 

You nod but Pope doesn't move until the words leave your lips. “Please make me cum again, Andrew.” 

“What a good girl, asking for what you want.” Jack rewards you by pinching your nipples, sending such a jolt through you as Pope finds a pace with his fingers that leaves you squirming in their hold. 

Then, when he curls them just right, you unravel completely, squirting with every thrust of his fingers until you feel like you might pass out. He pops his fingers out of you then before giving your pussy a light smack that has you cumming again so quickly. 

“Do that again.” Jack tells his brother. “I think she liked it.” 

Pope gauges your reaction as he slaps your wet pussy again, seeing the way your eyes roll back in response. “Does that feel good, princess?” 

“Too good.” You don't know if you should let him keep doing that. 

It might ruin you… 

“And here I thought you liked it when I was gentle.” Pope leans down, his tongue trailing along the length of your slit before dipping into you slowly. 

Every stroke of his tongue is so light, like you're something delicate he doesn't want to break. 

But you need more than just this and he knows it. 

You're aching for him to slide his cock inside of you… 

Jack tilts your head up, seeing the lust in your eyes, smiling. “That's the face of someone who's needy for cock. Do you want my brother's cock buried inside of you?” 

You nod then turn to look at Pope. “Please, Andrew.” 

“When did you get so polite? Is it because my brother is here? Usually you're more demanding.” Pope teases you with his words and you feel so flushed from it, heat rising through your skin. 

That heat remains when you watch him strip off his pants and you get a view of the cock you're always so desperate for. 

But he doesn't want to give it to you right away. 

So, he grabs your underwear and slips it back on, surprising you. Jack seems surprised as well, until he watches Pope rub your slick all over the fabric before gliding his cock against it. 

Everything clicks for him and he's menacing with his laugh now. “Oh, you're going to get edged to death, princess.” 

“Wait, what?!” You yelp when Jack pins your wrists behind your back with one hand while he holds your head steady with the other, forcing you to watch Pope rub his cock against your pussy through the wet fabric, dipping it in and out of it. 

“When did you get so horny? You're practically drooling all over my cock.” Pope slips just the tip inside of you but pulls out before you can enjoy it, drawing such a whimper of desperation from your lips, which he smiles at. “Do you want more, princess?” 

“Please fuck me, Andrew.” You want him so bad…

“Hmm…” He slides more of his cock inside of you before pulling back out and you whine in response. “Do you think I should fuck her, Jack? I'll let you pick.” 

You can feel Jack shake his head behind you. “I don't think so. She's too adorable all needy like this. I want to enjoy it a little longer.” 

“You heard the man.” Pope smirks at you before sliding his cock along the length of your pussy, teasing your clit over and over again with the tip of it. 

“Please.” You look up at Jack. “Please let Andrew fuck me.” 

That causes Jack to laugh hysterically. “Beg again, princess.” 

“Please, Jack. I want Andrew to fuck me. Let him fuck me.” You lean in closer to him, your lips nearly touching his when you tell him, “I'll let you fuck me too if you do.” 

“We're bartering now? I like this.” Jack grabs you by the chin, turning you to face him more. “What else can I get if I let you have my brother's cock?” 

“Whatever you want.” You're so clouded by your desire that you don't care what he asks of you. “Please just let him fuck me.” 

“What do you want, Pope? Tell her and she'll give it to you.” Jack prompts and Pope swallows nervously for the first time this entire session. 

Because the words that leave his lips have your heart pounding. “I want her to be ours.” 

“W-What do you mean?” You don't get what he's implying. 

Is he saying that they want you to be…

No, there's no way. 

Why would they both want you—

“I want to fuck you more than just today.” Pope says firmly. “I want to fuck you from now on. I want to do more than that…”

You turn to face him and you're not ready to feel his lips press against yours, kissing you with all the affection he can't put into words. And when Jack loosens his grip on your wrists, you move out of his hold to cup Pope's face, pulling him in closer, kissing him harder. 

“Do you really…” You're scared to say the words aloud. 

“I want to be your boyfriend.” Pope nibbles on your bottom lip after he says that, then trails a line of kisses down to your neck. “I want to be with you.” 

Jack scoops your attention away by turning you to face him again, saying, “can I be your boyfriend too?” 

“T-Too?” You're stunned to hear that. 

Jack nuzzles your nose, grinning. “A princess like you deserves two men to spoil you rotten.” 

“So, can I be your boyfriend?” Pope looks up at you, waiting for your answer.

“Can I?” Jack chimes in too. 

And you find the strength to push yourself to say, “yes.” 

To allow yourself to be given the affection you've always desired and more. 

“Our princess is so precious.” Jack kisses your cheek. “I think she deserves a kiss, doesn't she?” 

“I know just where to kiss our princess.” Pope lines his cock up with your entrance before thrusting the entire length of it inside of you in one go, the tip of his cock pressing up so deep inside of you, you might actually burst from that single motion. “Do you like it when I kiss you here?”

You nod but then Pope shakes his head at you. 

“Say “I like it when my boyfriend kisses my womb with his cock” or I won't move.” He stills inside of you, his cock throbbing, making you ache for more. 

“I-I like it when my boyfriend—” You can't get the rest of the words out because Pope starts grinding his cock deeper, causing your head to spin. “Oh god, Andrew, I'm going to cum if you keep—”

“Just cum on your boyfriend's cock, princess.” Jack coaxes you to let go completely. “Like you will on mine in a bit.” 

You moan so loudly that you have to clamp your hands over your mouth when Pope starts pounding into you, fucking you exactly how you always like it. Jack moves your hands away and slips his fingers into your mouth instead to silence you. 

“Suck them on like it's your boyfriend's cock.” He instructs and you listen instantly. “That's a good girl. You're going to suck my cock so well.” 

“Can I?” You say with his fingers in your mouth and he pulls them out immediately.

“Wait a second, Pope.” Jack has his brother slow his thrusts. “She wants me in her mouth. Flip her over.” 

Pope pulls out of you and you bite back a whine from the loss but then you're on your knees in a second. And without Jack having to say anything, you're already tugging off his pants for him while Pope realigns himself behind you. 

“Put my brother in your mouth and then I'll feed you my cock too.” Pope tells you as he rubs your back, the action so soothing like his words. “You can do it, princess. Let me see how good you can suck off your new boyfriend.” 

Jack watches you eagerly sink your mouth down onto his cock, taking him nearly to the base in one go. “Fuck, that's incredible. Look at you go, swallowing me up so easily.”

He grabs a fistful of your hair, groaning at you humming around his cock in response. 

“I'm going to fuck this pretty little mouth the moment my brother's back inside of you. Get ready, princess.” Jack's warning barely preps you for Pope ramming the entirety of his cock inside of you from behind. 

You're squirting immediately, your knees buckling, your lower belly getting pounded into oblivion by how deep his cock is thrusting inside of you. It doesn't help that you're dazed from Jack fucking your mouth just as deeply, stuffing himself as far down your throat as he can.

It all feels better than you could've imagined. 

You could get used to this… 

“Please tell me I can cum inside of you.” Pope is certain you're still on birth control but he wants to be sure. 

You nod around Jack's cock so he answers for you, “she wants you to cum, Pope.” 

So, he does, spilling so much of his cum inside of you that he's fucking it deeper with every additional thrust. You're drooling by the time Jack pulls your mouth off his cock and Pope pulls out of you. 

“Come ride your new boyfriend.” He pats his lap and you straddle him but he turns you around so your back is against him. “You've got to put on a show for your other boyfriend, princess.” 

You slip off your shirt then, allowing yourself to be completely bare when you sink yourself down on Jack's cock, moaning when he hilts. Him and his brother are similar in size and they both fill you up wonderfully. 

You start grinding down on Jack's cock, burying him further inside of you until you're desperately bouncing on it, wanting to cum already. 

Then you do cum, when Jack smacks your swollen clit. You cum way harder than you should've and he chuckles into your ear. 

“You really like that, don't you? You like it when your clit gets abused?” Jack rubs it gently before slapping it all of a sudden again, making you tighten up around his cock. “Keep milking my cock. You're doing so well. Isn't she, Pope? Aren't you proud of our princess?”

“So proud.” Pope's hand slides to your lower belly, pressing his fingers into your flesh, massaging right above your womb where Jack's cock is pushing up against. “Our princess is going to cum real nice right now for us. Right?” 

You nod and then when Jack's hands come up to play with your breasts and Pope slides his free hand to roll your clit between his fingers, you burst entirely, your orgasm rolling through you immediately. 

“She's too pretty when she's fucked out of her mind.” Jack says, giving your neck a kiss. “I'm glad I get to have a piece of this beauty.”

“She's all ours.” Pope tilts your chin towards him before he kisses you and you're grabbing onto him, kissing him back. 

Jack takes that moment to grab a hold of your hips and starts grinding his hips upwards, fucking you harder until you're moaning against his brother's lips. 

“Move, Pope.” Jack gestures for his brother to get up so he can pull you off of his lap and throw you down onto the couch, ramming his cock back inside of you the moment he's on top of you. He revels in the way your toes curl and your eyes roll back. “I'm going to cum so deep inside my girlfriend right now.”

“Please, Jack.” You want it, just like you wanted Pope's release. “Fill me up too.” 

He grabs a hold of your face before smashing his lips against yours, grunting with every harsh thrust of his hips until you feel that warmth fill your lower belly. 

A warmth you never want to be without from now on…

“Did that feel good?” Jack asks, kissing you lightly on the forehead. 

You nod, then turn to look at Pope. “Can we do it again?” 

Pope lets out a beautiful laugh and then says, “we can do it as much as you want.”

“Anything for our princess.” Jack gives you a warm hug, pulling you up to straddle his lap again, still seated inside of you, surprisingly hard still too… 

You bury your face against his shoulder, mumbling, “are you both sure you want me?” 

And in sync, they both say, “yes.” 

Jack likes the way you smile against him. He lifts your head up so he can lean in and kiss you with the same amount of affection that Pope has when he kisses you. 

“Let's take this one day at a time and see where it goes.” Jack tells you with so much kindness in his tone. 

“Is that alright with you?” Pope sits back down next to his brother, pulling you to look at him. 

You nod and that's when he leans in to kiss you too and you smile against his lips.

Then, you say as a little tease, “are you going to fuck me now or are you going to let your brother go first since he's still inside of me?” 

That makes Pope laugh harder than he has all night, a sound that is so beautiful to hear that it has you giggling too and Jack can't hold in his chuckle either. 

This seems like the start of a very fun relationship with two men who will make it their life's mission to have you laughing your days away, filled with more than just happiness. 

How wonderful does that sound? 

a/n: oh I am so mushy, I swear being in a happy relationship has me wanting to write such cutesy mush, I love it!!! also the title of this fic is based on the song blooming days by exo-cbx ❀

I think this would be fun to add onto in the future whenever I want to revisit a softer, more heartwarming relationship with jack and pope ~ 

Pope remembers when he met you for the first time, June 1st 2012. You were eighteen and bright-eyed, happy, smiling. Precious. Catherine needed time to herself, needed help with little Lena, two years old at the time and you were there. The babysitter. 

            He met you when he went over to talk to Baz about a job and found that Baz and Catherine were out and you were there, holding Lena on your hip. 

            “Hi,” you had said, your expression concerned, drawn together, suspicious, your body put between him and your charge, the door not entirely open. “Can I help you?”

            “I’m looking for my brother, Baz,” he had replied and your eyes had narrowed in that analytical way you have, the one he didn’t know then, but he grew to know. Grew to love. “Where can I find him?”

            “Mr. and Mrs. Blackwell have gone out. They won’t be back for a few hours. Should I take a message?” You were perfectly polite, but all he’d done was shaken his head, angry at the stone wall you’d put up, the impenetrableness of the force which you created. 

            “I’ll be back later,” is all he’d said, storming off, walk rigid like always. He’d been told by his brothers that he didn’t walk like a human and when he’d reached his car, he’d glanced back, noticing the door still open. You were watching him, making sure he left, protective of Lena. Of the girl you were tasked to look after. 

            That was the first time he met you, but it was not when he fell into deep, sickening love, a kind of love that others would call obsession, stalking. That time came later, after you’d been introduced to him by Catherine and Baz and he became Mr. Cody, someone okay to be around Lena. 

            You were always there, watching over Lena, your laugh always echoing, infectious. A college student, he’d been told. One studying science, but no one ever told him what science, only that you were quite good, quite skilled at what you did. What you were studying. He could sometimes see you doing complicated equations while Lena scribbled with crayons. 

            But he did not fall into his love (obsession) until October 27th 2012, a date seared into his memory. He’d been tasked with checking on Lena, a task from Smurf who didn’t like Catherine and he knew that you were watching her, most likely at the park. 

            He’d shown up, lurking in the trees, watching as you played with Lena in the sand, pushed her on the swings, looking for all the world like a young mother or older sister. There was just something about you that made him feel you truly cared for the girl. He watched and he felt something shift inside of him, like the compass in his chest that was always steered to Catherine now steered towards you. 

            You’d looked up at that moment, your body haloed by the sun, attention on him. You had noticed him and waved him over, calling out “Mr. Cody!” Lena had grown excited and he complied, standing there awkwardly, standing there unsure what to do, unsure what to say the way he always was. 

            He did not know intimacy. He did not know love. He knew what had paid for, had been purchased, bought, and expected of him. He did not know what it felt to have someone entirely his to be someone else’s entire. He knew what it was liked to be used, forced and hurt. 

            He knew heartbreak. 

            But you made him want more. You made him want love. Especially because as Lena fell asleep against you, the three of you sitting on a grassy knoll, watching the birds as you explained that Lena liked to do, you had been at peace. You had not been scared of him, ashamed. You had felt comfortable, safe. 

            And you read him like an open book. 

            “You’re in love with Cath,” you had whispered and he remembers that he looked at you with shock, surprise. You had smiled at him, the kind of smile that came from being used to people’s surprise. “You don’t hide it, Mr. Cody,” you continued, the smile turning sad. “I just wish more for both of you.”

            “What do you mean?” he had asked and you sighed, your hand stilling on Lena’s head from where you had been smoothing down her ever-growing dark hair. 

            “I mean that Cath deserves someone who loves her wholly and you deserve to love someone capable of loving you back, Mr. Cody.” He had wished that you would call him Andrew, called him by his name, but it seemed like you were incapable of that, a line drawn between professional and personal. Except for Cath, it seemed. 

            “You call her Cath,” he had said, unsure of how to ask, unsure of what to say and you had looked at him with softened eyes and a smile, one nostalgic. 

            “Because she asked me too,” you’d whispered. “She said that I’m more like Lena’s older sister than her babysitter and that I should call her Cath.” He had wanted to ask you what would happen if he asked you to call him Andrew, but he understood then that he was not Cath. That Cath was Cath and he was Mr. Cody, a line forever drawn. 

            But he didn’t want that line there. He just wanted you. You as his and he as yours. A part of him thought you wanted that too. 

            And then he fell headfirst into loving you, learning your music preferences, your favourite colours and foods and days. It didn’t matter, what you loved he knew about. He just wished that he made it onto that list. 

            When he was arrested in 2013, you were the person he thought of, cared about. Worried for. You visited him once at Folsom, a backpack on your shoulders, your body tense and rigid as you stepped into the visiting room, putting the phone to your ear as he did the same on the other side. 

            “I heard Mr. Blackwell and Deran talking about you being here,” you had said and he’d swallowed hard at your words, at this admission that he mattered enough to you for you to do that. “I thought I’d come by.”

            “Why?” he’d asked, watching as your face shifted, shuttered, eyes darting around, refusing to settle on him. 

            “Because I figured no one else was.” It was true, the truest truth he’d heard since…well, ever and it did not surprise him that it came from you. You seemed honest to a fault. “And Lena wanted me to tell you about her ballet recital.” You had pulled your phone out, putting the screen against the dividing wall so he could watch as his niece toddled around the stage in a glittery blue costume. “Made the costume myself,” you’d told him and he felt his heart pound and pound and pound harder and harder because you were so…perfect. 

            You came every so often for a visit, some update about Lena over the three years he was away, but you mainly wrote him letters, keeping him apprised of her daily life, but never you. It was still a line drawn between you and him and what you could be. 

            But in the walls of Folsom, he pretended that the wall did not exist, spoke of you to the inmates as his wife. His, his, his, his, his. He wanted you to be his. So badly. 

            When he got out, the first person he went to was you, your apartment number burned onto his mind and he stayed in the rental vehicle he’d gotten, watching you through your curtains, watching as you moved around. Alone. 

            Blissfully alone. 

            He knew then, that night, his first of freedom, that you would be his. 

            He just had to wait until the time was right. 

            “Are you crying?!” Lena cries, standing up from the couch, her little face twisted into an expression of shock and disgust, hands on her slim hips. 

            “No,” you lie, looking away, your hands pressing against your eyes, moving from in to out, wiping away your tears. 

            “You so are! Why? That movie’s just weird,” she says and you can hear her grab her glass from the coffee table, small feet making a surprising amount of noise as she stomps to the kitchen. 

            “The Notebook is not weird, you little gremlin!” you call out, your voice teasing despite the thickness still there. The movie reduces you to tears every time, the way that love wins and yet it doesn’t. The way they fight for their happy ending and yet lose it so quickly. 

            “He’s so obsessed with her!” Lena calls out and you roll your eyes, untangling your legs from one another and the fluffy blanket you’ve curled up under, planting your feet flat on the hardwood floor, pushing up to a stand, grabbing the popcorn bucket and your glass, walking through the living room, back towards the kitchen, the movie’s credits still rolling. 

            “And what?” you ask, stepping in, walking to the sink while Lena pulls a bottle of water from the fridge. “What’s wrong with him being obsessed with her like that? I think it’s romantic.”

            “He never moves on,” Lena says, her spare hand held up, index finger of her right hand, the one currently wrapped around the bottle ticking down the reasons, folding each finger. “He, like, falls apart and is all unkempt because she’s gone—”

            “He did survive war too, you know,” you interrupt, but she waves you away, silencing your protests with an enthusiastic wave of her hand. 

            “He builds the house for her,” she says. “And he fights to have her even when she’s marrying someone else!”

            “That doesn’t count!” you exclaim, turning from her to the sink, running some water in your glass, the one that held you cream soda. “She wasn’t in love with him. She loved Noah the whole time too.”

            “Yeah, but,” Lena continues, “she was moving on. And Noah ruined it! Besides! Lon’s way cuter!”

            “You take that back!” you cry, spinning around, eyes wide as they settle on the child who has completely and totally destroyed your faith in humanity. “Ryan Gosling is way hotter than James Marsden! That rain scene, man!” Lena’s laughing so hard that it’s more a cackle, her seven, nearly eight year old body, convulsing with her laughter while you roll your eyes, leaning back against the kitchen counter, hands splayed flat on the cool, smooth granite. 

            “I just,” she says, now that she’s calmed down, “think it’s creepy how in love with her Noah was. You know.”

            “I don’t know,” you muse. “I think it would be romantic to have someone…willing do to anything for you—like the house. I think…ah, man, I think I would want that.”

            “You’re weird,” she says, tone flat and thick black brows drawn together, her expression so stern and serious that it’s now your turn to laugh, the kind of laugh that starts deep in your stomach, rumbling through you. 

            “Yeah,” you tell her, amidst the laughter. “Don’t listen to me, kiddo. Now, go get ready for bed.” She runs past you, up to the stairs, her feet padding on the carpet noisily despite the fact that it’s carpet and she’s no more than 60 pounds soaking wet. 

            You can’t help but laugh again, the sound more of an exhalation than any real laugh, as you run some water in the sink, adding soap, knowing that Mr. Cody prefers his house clean, obsessively so. 

            A part of you wonders what would happen if you didn’t bother to clean, what he would say, but you know there’s no use going down that path, even if you sometimes wish that he would speak to you. Look at you. 

            But that line of thinking leads nowhere. 

            It’s best to just close it down. 

            Pope’s heart is in his throat, pulsing and pounding erratically, his lungs tightening and clenching, constricting and burning. He heard you, those words I think it would romantic to have someone willing to do anything for you…I think I would want that still echoing around him, surrounding him, choking him. 

            He’s been waiting for the right time, the right way and here it is. He just has to show you that he’ll do anything for you. 

            And he can do that.

            The club is loud, music pulsing in the air, almost in a way that you can see, the sound so loud, more noise than music. Your friends are laughing, yelling at each other just to be heard over the music, but you’re quiet, hand turning your glass in circles, a single shot of tequila downed. You’re not much of a drinker, never have been, preferring to stay present in your mind. Preferring to stay present. 

            “YOU OKAY?” Jonathan yells, his voice still just barely audible as you turn to him, shrugging. 

            “IT’S TOO LOUD,” you reply and he nods, looping his arm through yours, his touch gentle and kind, sweet in his way. Jonathan is sweet though and pretty, bright green eyes set in skin the colour of toffee, dark hair curling down his forehead and a smile even and pretty. Not crooked in the slightest. Not like…nope, you won’t go there, not even in your own mind. 

            “Better?” he asks, pushing out of the club, the autumn breeze cool and crisp, tinged with cigarette smoke and car exhaust, yet still better than the sweat and alcohol smell of the club that mingles with mildew and broken leather. 

            “Much,” you tell him, sighing and leaning against the brick wall of the club, your head falling back against it, a buzzing in your jacket pocket. “One sec,” you tell him, walking a ways away, pulling your phone out, noticing LENA in all caps on your screen. “Lena?! What’s wrong?”

            “Uncle Deran fell asleep before he could help with the bedtime routine!” she cries, her voice thick and pained and you sigh, your eyes closing for a minute. The bedtime routine became sacred after Cath left, an open sore, her disappearance still a question of what? Where? Who? When? Lena needs to see her door close, needs to know someone is there, the way Cath isn’t. 

            You wanted a single Saturday night to yourself, with friends. You wanted to have fun, to return to a world that wasn’t full of the Cody’s and the Blackwell’s, but rather the life you could have had if you had never accepted the babysitting gig that your friend, Elizabeth, skipped out on seven years ago. 

            You wanted to forget and be someone young. You wanted to act your age. But you just can’t get that. 

            “Hey, I have to call it a night, Jonathan,” you say, tucking your phone into your pocket after assuring Lena that you’ll be there, just wait for a bit, you’ll be there, always. 

            “What’s wrong?” he asks, hands tucked into his jean pockets, cheeks darkening from the cold. 

            “My…Lena needs my help,” you tell him, your lips twisting into an apologetic smile, but he shrugs, eyebrows rising. 

            “I could give you a lift and then, you know, when you’ve helped her…maybe you and I could grab something to eat or…something,” he says and you can feel something inside of you, some kind of feeling that you don’t entirely know rise as you nod and he smiles, a bright kind of smile. 

            “That sounds good,” you tell him, mind only half here, the other part on Lena and who was supposed to be watching her. 

            Why wasn’t Mr. Cody there?

            Where is he?

            Did Lena lose another person again?

            You fumble with the keys that Mr. Cody gave you, the ones needed for the days that you pick Lena up or for the occasional times that you have to take her somewhere and lock up and unlock it again to come back. 

            They’re slipping through your fingers, chiming and clinking against one another as you finally slot it into the door, unlocking first the deadbolt then the knob, twisting the handle and pushing the door open. You step into a quiet house, still except for the sound of snores coming from the couch. 

            Deran, the fucker. 

            “Deran!” you hiss, closing the door behind you with more force than necessary, delighting in the way he jumps on the couch, hissing shit in a startled voice, head swivelling until he sees you, standing, arms crossed, no doubt a seriously pissed off look on your face. 

            “What are you doing here?” he asks you, blinking, sleep still heavy in his eyes, in his voice. 

            “I’m here because Lena called me, fucking crying because you fell asleep before the bedtime routine could happen,” you hiss, watching as realization dawns on his face, his hand coming up, scrubbing down his face as he murmurs “shit” for a different reason now. “And where the fuck is Mr. Cody? He’s supposed to be here watching Lena.”

            “He left real fast. Said he had to check on some girl,” he answers, his voice becoming more alert as he sits up and you grit your teeth together, turning to dart up the stairs, taking them two at a time, conscious of the fact that Lena’s up there, she’s sad and scared and her routine has been thrown out of order. 

            “Lena!” you call out when you reach the second floor landing, pushing open her partly closed door to see her sitting on her bed, face stained with tears. “Lena,” you whisper, “let’s do the routine, okay?”

            “Okay,” she whispers, standing and walking over to you, her face brightening at your presence. “You look fancy,” she says, “were you out with a boy? And did he look like the love of your life Ryan Gosling.”

            “Oh ha-ha, little one,” you say and she giggles, heading across the hall to the bathroom to rewash her face and brush her teeth, but in truth…Jonathan kinda does look like Ryan Gosling. But even as you think that, you swallow hard because that’s not exactly what you want. You want someone older, you want someone rougher around the edges who never looks at you and is awkward and someone you should never want, but do. Someone with dark auburn curls and hazel eyes…you blink, refocusing on the here and now and the nice boy waiting for you who has never seen the inside of a prison. 

            “Okay,” Lena says, bounding into her room, her face clean and words trailing minty breath. “I’m ready.” She runs across the room, leaping onto her twin bed, disturbing her piles of stuffies, tucking herself in as you cross the room towards her, kneeling down and smoothing the hair back from her face. 

            “I miss, Mommy,” she whispers and you can feel something crack inside of you. Something you’ve kept inside, locked up tight. 

            “She was a good woman,” you whisper, feeling tears in the back of your throat as you press a kiss to Lena’s forehead, tucking her blanket in tight all around her and rising, swallowing hard. Lena really does look like Cath, does carry that bit of her. 

            “She liked you,” Lena says and those words threaten to bring you to your knees. 

            “I liked her too. She was my friend.” Lena nods, satisfied with your answer before snuggling deeper into her blanket, eyes still open, watching as you click off her lamp and walk to the door, pulling it closed while you mouth good night. You know as the door clicks shut, the light flipped off that now she’ll fall asleep. Because she saw you leave. 

            You didn’t disappear in the dead of night. 

            You draw in a deep breath, shaking your head against the onslaught of tears that threaten you, bounding down the stairs preparing to rip Deran a new one, except…the living room is empty. You glance around, seeing nothing of Deran, instead just Mr. Cody standing there in the entrance way, his hazel eyes on you. 

            “Where’s Deran?” you call out, watching as Mr. Cody walks towards you, his presence making your mouth go dry and you swallow hard, his walk like that of a predator. 

            “I sent him home,” he says, his voice husky, rough. Dark, in a way that you like but wish you didn’t. You shouldn’t like him; you can’t like him. You are nothing if not professional. 

            “Well,” you say, nodding once and moving to step past him to the door. “I best let you get on with your night. Lena’s all tucked in, Mr. Cody.” You begin to walk, but he catches your wrist, his fingers calloused and warm against your skin in a way that feels good, feels nice, but no, stop that. You can’t think that way. 

            “It’s late,” he says. 

            “I know,” you answer, keeping your gaze trained straight ahead. “But I have a ride waiting for me outside.”

            “The boy?” he asks, his voice darkening, deepening. Primal in a way, if a sound can really be primal, which, you think it can. 

            “Yeah, Jonathan…why?” you ask, feeling a small bit of fear like ice creeping up your spine, goosebumps spreading along your skin. 

            “I sent him home,” he says and you can feel his breath on the back of your neck and you know his body is far too close, but you also don’t want him to step away and god, you’ve always had that line of professionalism, but this man…since Cath disappeared, he’s been the best with Lena and you never expected to feel anything for him, but…you do. 

            “Why?” you whisper and then he’s tugging on your wrist, turning you around, pulling you against him, his broad chest against yours. 

            “Because it’s late,” he whispers, his words actually rumbling through his chest, echoing into your body. “Because you’re already home.” You swallow hard at his words, at the way he’s just said that this…his home…is yours too. 

            It’s not like you haven’t stayed here before on nights when you’ve been told that no one will be watching Lena and you’re needed for a few days, but calling it home…that’s different. That’s making it seem like he likes you, that he caresfor you. 

            “I’m not home,” you whisper, looking down at the ground where the toes of your shoes are against his. You forgot to take your shoes off in the rush to get to Lena and you never do, but he’s forgotten too. 

            “Eyes on me,” he says, two fingers under your chin, tipping your head up, your gaze landing on him because how could it not? Everyone else is afraid of him, but how can they be, when he’s kind and caring and sweet and he’s quiet. He doesn’t just speak what’s on his mind, he looks at a room and decides what to do from there and god, professionalism. Professionalism, you remind yourself even as his proximity is fraying the last of your control because his lips look reallysoft and kissable. 

            Oh god, it’s hot in here, isn’t it?

            His stare is unrelenting, tracing every part of you as if he expects to find some damage on you, but you’ve been safe all night. 

            “Why were you gone, Mr. Cody?” you whisper, noticing the way his jaw tightens at your words, the way his eyes darken and the grip on your wrist tightens. 

            “Andrew,” he spits out, “call me Andrew.”

            “Why were you gone, Andrew?” you ask and he drags his fingers from under your chin to trace your lips, the digits replaced by his thumb pressing down on your bottom lip, a pressure that has a fevered feeling growing beneath your skin. 

            “I was watching someone,” he whispers, his voice husky, watching every bit of your face for a reaction. For a response. 

            “Who?” you ask, the word just slightly muffled by his thumb digging into your lip. 

            “Who do you think?” he asks and Jesus Christ, has his voice always been this hot, this capable of getting a reaction out of you? And you really need to leave now, really need to get going, but with the way he’s looking at you, the closeness of your bodies, you press your thighs together, hoping he doesn’t notice. 

            But of course he does. 

            Because he’s Andrew fucking Cody. And he notices everything. And really, where does he get off on ruining your professionalism, on breaking that line you’ve built, a tentative wall? Where does he get his attitude? And what deity decided that making your boss look like that was fair?!

            You hate your life right now, but also not because as he presses his body against yours, the hard lines of his body fitting against the soft lines of yours, you realize that everything you’ve imagined is not even close to reality. 

            God did not make everyone equal because Andrew Cody might be the hottest man in the entire world and you are so fired if you don’t end this now. 

            “I have to go!” you blurt out, pulling back and sliding your wrist from his hold, running from him to the front door, but he’s faster than you, putting his body between you and the door. 

            “No,” he says. 

            “Why?” you ask him, swallowing hard feeling both serious lust and fear inside of you, the two warring together and yet working together at the same time too. 

            “Because you said you wanted this,” he whispers and you can feel confusion added to the choking mix of emotions, your throat tight, lungs burning and chest constricting, heart pounding, pounding, pounding almost as odd a beat as “Edge of Seventeen”’s drumbeat. 

            “Wanted what?” You don’t want the answer, you’re slightly afraid of it because you really don’t know what he’s talking about, only that he’s blocking an exit.

            “Someone willing to do anything for you.” His words ring in the room where just yesterday, in the kitchen, you mentioned that to Lena, how you thought Noah was romantic and Jesus! He was there the entire time. 

            “That’s…that’s out of context,” you tell him, blinking fast, trying to see him while also not see him at the same time. 

            “What context did I need?” he whispers, stepping towards you, steps slow and quiet as if he’s afraid that you’re a doe he’s about to startle before he can get off the killing blow and should that idea really turn you on as much as it does? “Because I would do for you anything that Noah did for Allie? You want a house like he fixed for her because I’ll do it, sweetheart. I’ll do anything for you.”

            “What?” you whisper, confusion winning out over fear because those aren’t the words of someone who only wants one thing. Those are the words of someone in love. Those are the words of someone who wants you for more than sex. 

            “Don’t you get it?” he asks and honestly, not really, because this is the most he’s ever spoken to you before. “I’m in love with you. Completely in love with you.”

            “You don’t talk…to me,” you whisper, turning from him, from the words he’s saying that sound pretty and honest but at the same time like lies and you walk, your shoes dragging against the hardwood floor, your steps slightly off-beat towards the kitchen, the tile floor. 

            “What was it that Noah said?” you hear Andrew whisper behind you. “‘So it’s not gonna be easy. It’s going to be really hard; we’re gonna have to work at this every day, but I want to do that because I want you. I want all of you, forever, every day. You and me…every day.’”

            “What did you memorize the movie?” you whisper-yell, spinning around, taking note of his relentless proximity to you. 

            “Maybe,” he whispers and the sheepish expression on his face has you laughing, but not a laugh built of humour, more of someone delirious and surprised and horny, yeah, horny too because he has no right to look that good. 

            You can feel your knees giving way, this night having been too much, too much and you slide down the counter, the handles of the cabinet digging into your spine as you sink down, your head landing in-between your knees. 

            “June first,” you hear him say, his body landing beside yours. “Twenty-twelve. The first day I met you.”

            “What?” you whisper, your head pressing against your left knee as you tilt your head, looking at him. 

            “Yeah,” he says, “I was looking for Baz, but you were there, Lena on your hip, watching me until I disappeared.”

            “No way you loved me then,” you whisper, your arms wrapped around your knees, body folded into a self-contained unit. 

            “No,” he agrees. “That came later. October 27th 2012. You invited me over when I was lurking and I fell in love with you because you were the first person not afraid of me and you talked to me. And I didn’t want to live without that. And then…you visited me in prison and wrote me letters…and…you love me too. I know you do.”

            “Mr. Cody,” you whisper, but he shakes his head, eyes darkening again. 

            “Andrew,” he hisses, “call me Andrew.”

            “You’re my boss,” you cry. “I can’t be with you. That breaks every moral and ethical code I have!”

            “But do you love me?” And for once, you fall silent, the answer in you truth, the answer resting on your tongue a lie and you don’t like to lie. 

            “I knew it,” he whispers and then his lips are on yours, his hands pulling you, shifting you, your body coming to rest on his lap, straddling him as he kisses you relentlessly. He kisses like he stares, deep and dark and predatory. It’s not a battle or a conquest, but a claiming, his teeth sinking into your bottom lip, his tongue controlling yours, sliding along it and leaving you breathless, his hands everywhere, hips moving up into yours, the bulge pressing into you, telling you just how much he wants you. 

            “Andrew,” you whisper, pulling back from his lips as best you can, his hand on the back of your head, holding you close to him. “We can’t do this. Lena’s home.”

            “I’m sick of people telling me what I can’t do,” he whispers, voice low and dangerous and so unfairly hot. “Aren’t you, sweetheart?”

            “Andrew…” He’s kissing you again and you don’t want to fight this. You don’t want to stop, you want this closeness, you’ve wanted this for so long, but you need assurances. You need to know that this isn’t going to ruin the babysitting job. “Pause,” you murmur against his lips and he listens, his head falling against yours, forehead pressing against you, eyes on you. 

            “What?” he asks, his voice not curt, but concerned. 

            “What does this mean for me? You’re my boss, Andrew,” you whisper and then he’s shifting again, rising, pulling you with him and shoving your hips into the counter, the granite digging into the small of your back, his body pressing into you, caging you in. 

            “Be Mrs. Cody,” he whispers, one hand tracing your face with a feather-light touch. “Be Lena’s aunt…just,” he pauses, his head falling against your shoulder, “be mine. Please.”

            “I don’t have a ring,” you whisper, “but alright.” And then he’s lifting his head and looking at you, deep and dark and now you understand that expression he’s been giving you for years: love. He does love you. 

            Then his lips are on yours again, tongue sliding along yours as he guides you up the stairs, his hands firm on your hips, guiding even as his lips trail from your mouth to your neck, to the sensitive spot just below your ear, teeth sinking down onto it, your gasp muffled as you bite your tongue, skin fevered. 

            He pushes you down the hall, to the very last door and inside, shutting the door with his foot, hand leaving you. You can hear the lock flip and then Andrew is walking you back to the bed, his hands drifting to the front of your hips, fingers pulling open the button of your cutoffs, undoing the zipper and they drop to the floor. You step out of them and you want him now, want this relentless ache and throb to end, but he’s someone who seems to savour, his mouth trailing over your neck, teeth sinking into the skin every few minutes, tongue lashing out to soothe the bite marks. 

            He pushes you back, your body landing on his bed and he’s rough, but at the same time gentle as he kneels on the ground, sliding your underwear from off your hips, down your legs, set aside. He pauses for a moment, folding your cutoffs and underwear, setting them aside, his room obsessively neat, something you appreciate. 

            “God,” he whispers when he turns back, lifting your legs onto his shoulders, “so pretty.”

            “Andrew,” you whisper and he looks up at you, eyes black with desire. “You’re too dressed up.” He stands, taking his shirt off and god you wish you’d said nothing because who made him look like that? He’s too attractive for his own good. It’s highly unfair. 

            He unzips his jeans, folding them and his shirt, setting them in a pile beside yours, boxers still on, just like your baggy shirt is still on. He kneels again, a coil in your stomach tight, yet not tight enough, your legs on his broad freckled shoulders. He presses a kiss against each side of your arousal slicked inner thighs before, pulling you closer to him, his tongue darting out to lick a stripe from your entrance to your clit, the fucker locking eyes with you the whole time. 

            He knows exactly what he’s doing and where the fuck did he learn to do this? Because the way he circles your clit with his tongue, doing figure eights, his one hand sliding along your thigh, long fingers slipping along them, into the space between. He teases two fingers between your folds, scissoring them apart before plunging both of them inside of you, sinking them up to the knuckle and scissoring you open before pulling them out, knuckles dragging along your walls. 

            “Jesus—Christ!” you cry as he continues to finger you, tongue never stopping its ceaseless rhythm on your clit, little figure 8s which stop every time that he pulls his fingers out, rather his tongue pressing against your clit, against the swelling pearl. “Andrew! Fuck!”

            You can feel his chuckle against your clit, your pussy and you want to hit him, but also not because that coil in your belly is winding tight, tight, tighter and it’s about to burst and his mouth and hands are really unfairly good at what they’re doing right now. You’d hate to mess up his—rhythm. 

            He has four fingers inside of you at this point, all his extremities pumping in and out of you at a faster and faster pace, knuckles dragging down your walls one by one, each finger leaving you at different times, his index finger the last to leave always, the slowest drag against your walls, stimulating every part of you that it touches. 

            It’s not long before he has you coming apart, your orgasm ripping through, that coil snapping as he pushes all four fingers in again, his tongue pressing against your clit. He holds his fingers still while your cunt trembles with aftershocks. 

            “I’ve got you, sweet girl,” he whispers against you, his breath causing you to hiss as he pulls the four fingers out of you, slipping them in his mouth, sucking them clean, eyes locked on yours as he steps out of his boxers, cock hard and the tip leaking, a bead of precum sitting on top, sliding down, a vein bulging. 

            “Andrew,” you whisper, “how’d you get so good?” He comes to sit beside you on the bed, pulling you up, holding you, his lips on yours for a moment and the kiss is sinful and oh so hot because you can taste yourself on his tongue. 

            “When they…” he looks down at his hands for a moment, “when they paid for women to sleep with me, I learned what they liked because I…I never liked anything.”

            “Andy,” you whisper and his head jerks to yours, “what do you like?”

            “You,” he whispers and then his lips are on yours again and your body is flat on the bed, his cock teasing between your folds, kissing against your entrance as his tongue slides along yours and he murmurs, you, you, you into your mouth. 

            He slides his cock from your entrance to your clit like he did his tongue, circling your clit with his tip once before sliding back down and pushing inside, sinking into the hilt with a single thrust. He moans at the feeling of you all around him, a kind of whimper that shouldn’t be as hot as it is, but it is. 

            “You’re okay,” you whisper when he pulls back from the kiss, his eyes closed. “Keep going, Andy. Use me.” And he does, pulling out and slamming himself back in over and over in a brutal rhythm that has your entire body moving with each thrust, his mouth hot on your neck. 

            “You’re so perfect, sweet girl,” he says, his words slightly unclear, but you know what he means, can hear it, the tip of his cock slamming against your cervix. “Gonna fuck a baby into you. Give Lena a cousin, maybe?” He’s hesitant in his words, but you nod and he looks up at you.

            “Go ahead, Andy,” you whisper and his pace picks up, relentless and punishing and delicious, his one hand on your waist, the other resting on your mons, thumb circling your clit, drawing you to orgasm at the same time he does. His release is thick and hot inside of you, cock pulsing and then he’s collapsing beside you, his body pulling yours tight against him and you’re not aware of much, except that he pulls the covers over the two of you and you fall asleep to his kiss against your neck. 

            “Good night, Mrs. Cody.”

            “I knew it!” Lena screams the next morning, taking in the sight of you and Andrew both in the kitchen, making breakfast, your body in his clothes, a ring on your finger that he went out and bought for you. “You’re gonna be my auntie!” And then her stick arms are around you and holding tight. 

            “Yeah, bug,” you whisper, your hand smoothing down her hair, the pancakes in the pan, “I am.”

            “And hopefully,” Andrew chimes in, “you’ll have a cousin soon.”

            “Andrew!” 

            Lena giggles when you hit him with the oven mitt and his response is to press a kiss against your cheek and you feel a contentment you’ve never felt before. 

            Because…wasn’t this what you wanted all along?

            You think it is. 

You didn't understand how you'd been able to score Jack Abbot.

Somehow, the universe decided that you'd be his match, the one he chose to go home to at the end of a bad shift, the one who'd been able to give him the most comfort during his darkest days. You knew what you'd be getting into: the PTSD, the depression, shifts where he felt more like your boss than your partner. But you believed you could get through it; Jack was older, and you liked to think you were mature enough to handle anything thrown your way.

For almost a year, your relationship bloomed in stolen glances across the Pitt, hidden moments in supply closets, and late-night baths spent at his house trying to bury yourself next to his heart. Jack was it for you, and you let yourself dream about a future, ring on your finger, possible children running around the house you shared. The two of you rarely fought, often choosing to apologize for anything under the sun before arguments grew too large for your feelings.

Never once did Jack make you feel inadequate, even if you had voiced early on that you truly didn't understand why he picked you. Compared to his gorgeous salt-and-pepper curls and freckled skin and large stature, you felt plain. Your hair was always pulled into a slick ponytail, makeup caused acne breakouts after 12-hour shifts, and what little time you had to yourself, you spent it at home, reading a book, instead of going out with friends and colleagues. People looked at you without so much as a second glance. Jack, on the other hand, made heads turn and nurses blush if they somehow caught his attention long enough for him to send a look their way. You couldn't remember the last time you went through a shift where a female (or sometimes male) patient failed to make a comment about the sexy, silver fox doctor.

You never made it more than it was: harmless flirting from people Jack would never think about again once they got discharged.

After, you and he had gone through the HR meetings, the contract signings, and the swearing that your relationship wouldn't get in the way of saving lives or have Jack start playing favorites. To further this, around the 9-month mark of being Jack's, they plucked you from the safety of the nightshift and dropped you right into Robby's hands. But this was how it was going to be from now on; there was no point in arguing as long as you got to keep Jack.

For three months, you persevered. Finding a groove with an already well-oiled shift proved to be harder than it looked. People talked. Nurses gossiped. Doctors speculated. You, through it all, kept your chin high. Their words didn't get to dictate your relationship. During handoffs, Jack still swept you into his arms and kissed you like a man coming back from war. He still told you that dinner was in the fridge once you got home and napped. He still continued to send updates during his shift, text messages from the separate night-shift group chat made after your departure chiming loudly while you ate. And most important of all, he still loved you.

However, nothing could have prepared you for the three times you felt the most unloved. I care, I care, I care, like perfume that you wear, I linger all the time, watchin', hidden in plain sight, ooh, I try, I try, I try, but it takes over my life, I see you everywhere, the sweetest torture one could bear "Hey, Dana," you called out while swimming through the chaos only brought on by a 4th of July shift.

At her name, Dana looked up over the thin frames of her glasses, pausing momentarily to look your way before going back to her board. "Please don't tell me that the 36 hot dog guy is back."

You shook your head, hands coming to rest on top of the vinyl counter. "Not that I'm aware of."

"Thank heavens. What can I do for ya, hun?"

Leaning in, you did a quick glance around the department. "I heard Jack was here early?"

Her eyebrows almost rose to her hairline. "Yeah; he came in with one of his SWAT buddies. GSW to the man's neck, but it looks like he's going to be okay." She reached over and grabbed a tablet. "Actually, can you find Jack for me? He wanted an update ASAP."

Your fingers drummed against the counter anxiously before you took the tablet from her. "I was just about to ask if you'd seen him."

Dana glanced over your shoulder and stuck out her chin in the same direction. "Saw him duck into Room 15. Might be taking a breather; Lord knows he needs one after that raid." She gave you a knowing look, eyes twinkling with mischief. "Maybe you're exactly what he needs."

A rush of heat flooded your face, eyes darting away from hers. "I'll see if I can find him."

You turned away before she could say anything more, hands desperately holding the tablet to your chest. Your shoes squeaked against the tile floor, steps bringing you closer to the room Jack was supposedly in. Once at the door, you raised a hand to draw the curtain away, but the sound of voices—plural—had you stopping. Saliva pooled between your teeth as you listened closely.

"—is the hospital going to pay for it?"

There was a pause before Jack clearly grumbled, "I'll pay for it."

You slowly moved to the side next to the wall where the curtain didn't completely cut the room off. Through the slot, your eyes widened at the sight of a Jack, shirt off, pale chest, wound-care swab twirling in his fingers with Samira sitting in one of the chairs. In the next beat, she stood and walked right past the curtain slot, completely oblivious that you were right behind it. She stopped near the wall and grabbed a pair of gloves before snapping them on.

His brows furrowed. "What are you doing?"

She smiled before rounding to stand behind him. "What you clearly can't."

Begrudgingly, he handed over the swab.

"Did you make a chart?" she asked while dipping the cotton end into a wound cream.

Jack crossed his arms, and his shoulders rolled and dipped. "No. This can stay off the books. Don't need the paperwork from the hospital or police department."

Samira paused. "Would you rather me go get Dr. [Name]? I'm sure she could do this much better than I could."

"No," Jack responded, shaking his head. "She'd just panic about this. There's no need to throw her off her game."

Your stomach flipped. He thought you'd panic? Sure, you'd be worried, but it wasn't like you hadn't seem him hurt before. Whatever wound he had on his back wouldn't be the worst thing he'd come home with after a SWAT shift.

"Isn't she your girlfriend?" She began dabbing at his back, the swab coming back bloodied.

"Yeah, but it's different with you. I don't have to worry about you taking your time or being indifferent about this." He winced at a deeper brush into the graze. "She's not like you, Dr. Mohan. She wears everything on her sleeve. Really, she could learn how to be more level headed like you, Dr. Mohan. I've seen the way you handle traumas. We wouldn't be so in the low if we had about 10 more of you."

He ended with a chuckle like what he just said didn't feel like a knives to your stomach.

Is that what he really thought about you? That you should be more like Samira and her ability to stay cool through anything thrown at her? With a blink, your eyes glossed over.

Jack turned his head, neck twisting to he could meet Samira's eyes. "You won't tell her about this, right? Our little secret?"

You didn't stay to hear what she said, choosing to turn around before you could watch any longer. It was incredible that you were able to stay for so long, submitting yourself to a new kind of torture. Walking back to the nurses station, your steps slowed as if molasses coated the floor, its stickiness clinging to your shoes.

At your oncoming presence, Dana looked over. "Did you find him, hun?"

You forced yourself to not look back at the closed curtain. "Yeah, but he's in the middle of something right now. I'll just catch up with him later."

The tablet gave a small thud as you placed it back into the holder, and you desperately tried to find another patient to busy yourself with, specifically one furthest from Room 15. However, before you could grab one, a hand wrapped around your elbow and tugged.

"Hey, I need you for the incoming trauma," Langdon said as he dragged you with him. "Twenty-year-old female, unconscious for an unknown matter of time."

You nodded silently, allowing him to keep walking you like a dog on a leash until he stopped in front of the ambulance bay sliding doors. Your lungs expanded in a deep, wavering breath.

Now was not the time to panic. You could do this. You could be like Samira. You could show Jack that you could handle a trauma.

During your internal pep talk, the doors slid open, giving way for the gurney and two paramedics.

"BP is 140-over-92 and climbing. No relevant medical history. She woke up once on the way over and vomited before passing out again."

You quickly followed Langdon into the first trauma room and helped transfer her over onto the bed. Immediately, numbers started being shouted while you started your initial exam.

When nothing seemed to blare any red flags, Langdon started impatient as the woman kept deteriorating. Through it all, you willed your hands to stay steady, your mind calm while you mentally went through what could be the matter. You took a step forward, body positioning near her head so you could look at her pupils one more time, and that's when you smelled it: the acrid, fruity smell puffing out of her mouth as she struggled to breath.

You jerked back quickly. "Dr. Langdon, is there a history of diabetes or hyperglycemia? Her breath smells like rotting fruit."

Langdon looked over at you before leaning toward her face. He hissed a curse before barking for a blood sugar test. Your eyes widened when the screen flashed a 450 mg/dL.

"She's experiencing diabetic ketoacidosis," you breathed.

"Let's get her on an insulin drip, now," Langdon hissed, face pinched until he looked over at you with a softer expression. "Great job catching that and staying calm." He chuckled slightly. "Never seen you like this but keep it up."

You knew his words were meant to be encouraging, but all they did was send bile up your throat. Without saying anything more, you tore off the gloves and shoved them deep into a biohazard bin. You wanted to cry, wanted to find the nearest restroom and tug at your hair.

But that's not what Samira would do your mind provided; the thought ugly and green. She'd shrug it all off and keep working like nothing was the matter.

Your teeth ground together, shoulders squaring in tandem. If everyone would rather have you calm, you'd be calm. You'd tuck your heart away rather than show it to the patients who needed someone that wore it on their sleeve. You picked up another tablet at the nurses station and got back to work.

The rest of the fourth went by in a tornado. Systems went down after a cyberattack; fireworks boomed off in the distance; you stayed busy. Each of your patients were in and out at a lightning speed, and by the start of the night shift, you were ready to go home and cry your heart out into a pillow.

You'd seen Samira every so often in between patients and a small lunch break. Like always, she smiled at you and waved and chatted when she could, but her actions made you want to wither up like a dead flower. You couldn't help but stare at her, thinking that you should be more like the woman in front of you, mind comparing your features to hers at a rapid speed you couldn't stop. She somehow looked like an angel in the middle of a place jokingly nicknamed one of the seven layers of hell, skin clear and hair somehow perfectly put in a bun. You tried your best to match her enthusiasm, but the poison had already been drank.

On the contrary, the only time you really saw Jack was at the start of handoffs. He had helped with one trauma before going to the on-call room for a needed nap, and you hadn't wanted to talk to him then, scared of how he'd act around you.

"There you are, sweetheart," you heard him say as you finished up converting with Lena about the man in Room 5. "I've been looking for you. Thought you might have left without saying goodbye."

You winced slightly. "No; I've just been busy."

Jack hummed and smiled warmly at you, but the expression was tainted by his words earlier. "I heard. Langdon's been nothing but praising you for earlier. I'm proud of you."

"Sure you are," you muttered too lowly for him to catch. Your lips thinly stretched into a smile that didn't meet your tired eyes. "Thank you, Jack," you settled on instead.

His hazel eyes scanned over your face, and his smile slightly dropped. "Are you okay, though? You look a little down."

"I'm fine," you shot out. "Today's just been long, and I'm ready to get home."

Jack nodded. "I left food in the fridge for you, so make sure you eat it after you sleep for a bit."

"Got it."

He looked at you expectantly before rolling his eyes. "Come here."

Like it had been etched into your DNA, you listened and fell into his open arms, face tucking into his chest. He squeezed you tightly before placing a kiss to your temple.

"Proud of you," he said. "You do such a good job. We need so many doctors like you, my perfect girl."

Perfect felt like a twist of the knife, because if you were so perfect, why had he told Samira that he wished you were more like her? I feel your compliments like bullets on skin. Dazzling starlet, Bardot reincarnate, well, aren't you the greatest thing to ever exist? As the weeks went on, Jack's words never left your soul, the damage irreparable in everything that you did.

Second guessing yourself had been a struggle you'd dealt with since an earlier age. Normally, Jack would be able to quiet all those thoughts; he had chosen you; he loved you. But now, as you second guessed everything you did, you also second guessed everything Jack said. You picked apart every encouragement, every compliment, every sweet promise he whispered in your ear.

What he said now couldn't be taken at face value, and you wondered if that feeling would ever go away. You'd asked him about the bullet graze a few days after the 4th, acting completely oblivious to what you knew. Like you thought, Jack assured you that he got it handled and for you to not worry about it, like that did anything to settle the rolling feelings in your stomach.

You tried your best to move on, knowing you'd only bring yourself down more if you dwelled too long about really how much Jack's words had affected you while he never said anything directly to your face. The idea that he wanted you to be like someone else made your heart clench tightly to the point you often wanted to call off work, hoping that you could just wallow in self pity for hours and hours.

But the Pitt did not care for you like that; it demanded twelve hour shifts and grueling doubles. So every day, you rolled out of bed before Jack got home and pulled up your big girl pants.

You worked through it. You'd learned how to stay calm, how to not panic under duress, and it killed you to admit that you'd become a better doctor because of it. You hardly ever hiccuped during a trauma, gaining compliments from the surgeons and Robby for your techniques that were close to flawless. For the smallest second, you would preen under their words before the ugly, repulsive reminder that they might not be real swallowed you down in a nasty gulp.

"Dr. [Name] follow me please," Robby called as he brushed past the nurses station where you were currently typing away at a chart, hands clutching a chart out in front of him to read. "Quickly."

You pushed up from the desk, chair rolling far behind you from the force of your legs. Not wanting to lose him, you rounded the counter and jumped into his long stride.

"Yes, Dr. Robby?" you asked.

As far as you knew, there weren't any incoming traumas and it was too late in the day for him to have questions about your patients that were currently waiting for a room.

Robby paused in front of an empty trauma room. "Jack just let me know that he found a man in need of medical attention and is bringing him in before handoffs, and I thought you could help him out." He handed you the tablet, already ready to go with updated information.

You took a quick glance over this. "Um, Dr. Robby, it looks like he'll need a pericardiocentesis."

"It's good that you know exactly what he'll need. What's the issue?"

Your eyes looked from the screen to his brown eyes. "I've never done one before."

He simply smiled at you and patted your shoulder. "That's why Jack's going to lead you through it. I would stay, but since he's coming in early, I'm going to head out."

You tried to quirk a smile. "Got a hot date waiting for you?"

A low chuckle shook his shoulders. "You got jokes. My bike needs some repairs, and today's the only day I can get it into the shop. But I know you'll be just fine. Your improvement in traumas will only grow if you step out of your comfort zone."

The automatic sliding doors slid open, and Jack plus a nurse wheeled a man through on a gurney. Jack's eyes lit up at the sight of you, but his brows pinched when he noticed Robby's bag slung over the taller man's shoulder.

"You leaving early, brother?" Jack questioned as he stepped past the two of you.

Robby's hand gently rested on your shoulder. "Yeah, but you two will have this handled."

You inhaled deeply, the weight of his hand and words pushing down on your chest.

Robby was counting on you. Don't fuck this up. Don't panic.

With the tablet tucked under your arm, you walked into the trauma room before pulling on a pair of gloves. Jack had already cut through the man's shirt.

"I need two 18-gage needles, one 9cm and one 15cm, a guidewire, dilator, and 8Fr pigtail catheter." He looked up toward Jesse. "Let's give him 10ml lignocaine 1%."

You quickly gather what he needed and placed him on the dressing that covered the side tray.

"Okay, Dr. [Name]," Jack said, lips twitching upwards at using your official name, "I need you to place an ECG electrode on the pericardiocentesis needle with a crocodile clip and insert. Once the tip touches the myocardium, the trace should show immediate ST elevation. Once that comes up, insert the wire to aspirate the fluid."

His words tumbled through your mind much too fast to the point that you wondered if he didn't know you'd never done this before. You pursed your lips as you tried to remember everything. In the grand scheme of things, your training provided everything that needed to be done.

Yet, there was a big difference between studying and actually doing the procedure.

You kept your breath steady as you readied the needle, clamping on a clip before turning the pointed end toward the man's chest. The first part went smoothly, and the needle went right through. However, instead of the consistent beeping that should have followed if the needle was in properly, an onslaught of alarms sounded through your ears.

You had missed something.

Jack whipped his head toward you and sneered. "You went too deep. I told you that the needle needed to touch the myocardium not go all the way through. Give it here."

He didn't even wait for you to transfer the needle over, hands already grabbing at it. His head bent down so he could see what was happening. With a practiced ease, he maneuvered the needle exactly where it should have been.

"Fuck," he whispered, "Robby wouldn't have done that. I don't know why he handed this off to you if he knew the patient would need a pericardiocentesis for tamponade."

You thickly swallowed pooling saliva to clear your throat. "Sorry."

"Just—" He closed his eyes and sucked in a breath. "I'll finish up here. You go home."

You jolted just a bit. Go home?

"Jack, I can still assist. You're going to need—"

"We have it covered. Catheter is in place, and you'd just be standing around. You're good."

Suddenly, a wave of anguish flowed through your body. It was happening again. Jack had just added fuel to the ever growing fire of jealousy and self-loathing. The feeling sized your chest, and you stepped back from the bed, shaky hands ripping off the nitrile gloves.

You couldn't help the stressed wheeze that pushed from your lungs.

Don't panic. Don't panic. He didn't mean it. He was just stressed. He didn't know that you'd never done that before.

Numbly, you walked back to the nurses station and sat back down in front of the computer, but your hands didn't raise to the keyboard. Your mind had already taken over, spewing rotten things about yourself that you could fix.

Be like Samira. Be like Robby. Jack won't keep wanting you if you aren't like them.

Your tongue ran across your dry lips in an attempt to wet them, but even your mouth had gone parched.

"Is charting really that bad?" you heard Dennis ask you as she sat down at a computer to your left. "You look like someone just told you they flushed your fish down the drain."

In a jerky motion, you turned towards him and did your best to compose yourself. "Oh no. I, uh, I didn't do well on a procedure with Dr. Abbot, and he asked me to leave."

Dennis at least had the decency to look sorry for you. "I bet you didn't do too bad. What was the procedure?"

"A pericardiocentesis," you said shyly.

He nodded slowly. " Shit, that's like one of the first things Robby let us do." He turned towards his own chart. "I could probably do them in my sleep by now."

Because he wasn't looking at you, Dennis missed the way your shoulders dropped and tears welled in your lash line. Jack's comment had been bad, but he just completely shattered any confidence you had left for the day.

"Right," you muttered. "Of course it'd be that easy if Robby taught you."

And you'd be right. On the night shift, patients like that rarely if not ever needed such a complex procedure. You could only think to one time that a woman came through almost needing one before they were able to use a different method to get her stable enough to be transferred to the OR.

With keys clacking loudly, you quickly finished up the chart before turning the whole thing off. You didn't even try to find Jack before you left, choosing to slip out before he even noticed you'd left without saying goodbye.

Once you were home, you stormed past the fridge and went straight to yours and Jack's shared room. Your scrubs hit the floor, and you didn't even bother to put on pajamas. The bed dipped under your weight as you pulled the duvet up over your body in a sad attempt at being comforted by its weight.

Sleep came quickly, only being interrupted by the door opening, a signal that Jack had gotten home. Blearily, you listened to him walk around the room before his edge of the bed sunk after he sat. The familiar hiss and pop of his prosthesis preceded him turning to lie down. You kept still as he scooted closer before wrapping an arm around your middle and molding your back to his chest.

"Sorry if I woke you up," he muttered sleepily. "Tried to find you before you left, but I guess I missed you. Wanted to say good job for that trauma. You helped so much."

You clamped your eyes shut, squeezing a fresh round of tears that dripped down your cheeks to puddle on your pillowcase.

After Samira, you had done your best to convince yourself it had been a slip of his tongue. But now after Robby, you weren't too sure that Jack would keep you around for much longer before finding someone better. Because there was no way you could ever amount to someone like Robby.

It was impossible. I care, I care, I care, like ribbons in your hair, my stomach's all in knots, you got the one thing that I want. Ooh, I try, I try, I try, try to rationalize people are people, but it's like you're made of angel dust. You were trying but failing to pretend Jack's words and comparisons hadn't left a giant, bleeding gap in your heart. Before everything happened, you never ever wondered if Jack loved you. Except now, you waited with bated breath for him to just drop the bucket and break up with you. You walked on eggshells around him.

Don't panic. Be put together. Keep your heart to yourself. Be calm like Samira. Don't fuck up. Know how to do your job. Be confident like Robby.

Those thought became your mantra and lifeline. No one seemed to think twice about your recent personality change. They loved the way they could count on you, the way you had an answer ready for everything. To the day and night shift, you were the epitome of composure. But behind closed doors, you were falling apart and into a pit you didn't think you'd be able to climb out of.

Jack didn't help with that either. You guessed he didn't even know what he had done to you, going on with his life like he hadn't given yours so many potholes that you couldn't continue on without falling behind. Everything you did was carefully thought out, every patient you talked to met a version of you that didn't reflect what you felt inside or outside.

You avoided mirrors the most, their reflections showing you exactly what you weren't. You weren't Samira with her lovely thick hair and clear skin. And you weren't Robby who carried years of trauma like it was apart of his body.

You were you, and you loathed it entirely.

You hated the glances you caught between Jack and Samira across the department. You hated the way they looked like they knew what the other was thinking before they spoke. You hated how you felt like on onlooker to a relationship that wasn't even happening.

You also hated the way Robby changed from a mentor to an idol. He had soon morphed into someone you wanted to so desperately be to the point you lost yourself in ambition.

And the worst part? You held nothing against them personally.

They didn't know what Jack had said. They didn't know that you were dying on the inside every time they raised you up during shifts. Bits of you crumbled away while they continued to glow.

Every morning you woke up, you wondered if the day would provide the straw that broke the camel's back with the way you felt like a stretched out rubber band waiting to fly.

A soft, savory aroma wafted through your kitchen. You absentmindedly stirred the spatula through the sauce, eyes glancing back and forth from the pan to the recipe. The instructions were written in beautiful, slanted cursive with curled letters that danced together. You'd found the card mixed in with a bunch of recipes Jack kept in his drawer. With a quick read told you that the owner of this one was his late wife, and the heart next to the title had you guessing if this was a favorite for the two of them.

Without thinking, you plucked it from the drawer and started working. After a week of back to back cases that ended in more loss than wins, a homemade meal was exactly what you and Jack needed after a day off. He was currently out getting his truck washed, and you wanted to be finished by the time he came home.

Quickly, the separate parts of the recipe—the chicken and veggies basting in the oven, the sauce on the stove top, and the wine chilling in the fridge—all came together right as Jack walked through the door.

"Hi, baby!" you called out as you pulled the pan from the oven. "Dinner's almost ready!"

You picked up on Jack's slightly clompy gate as he got farther into the house.

"Smells good," he said, walking over to stand behind you. "What did you make?"

Suddenly, you got nervous. What if it didn't taste correct? What if Jack didn't want you to make something so special between him and his wife. What if you ruined everything.

You didn't meet his eyes and poured the sauce over the top of the chicken. "Uh, a recipe from the drawer. It looked good, and we already had the ingredients."

He grabbed the card and held it up to his face, and you held your breath. When he didn't seem to get angry or sad, you counted it at a win.

"There's a bottle of white in the fridge if you want to get it out," you offered.

Jack stayed quiet. You didn't dare look even as the sound of a cork popping echoed in the room. While his immediate lack of response didn't cause concern to rise, your stomach still churned. To mirror him, you also didn't speak while you set the table.

He sat down, and so did you, your chairs facing the other like you'd done so many times in the past. Your heart pounded against your sternum as he took the first bite.

Loudly, he smacked his lips, setting his fork down at he chewed. The noise felt like nails on a chalkboard in the silence.

After a minute, he finally spoke. "Did you change anything in this?"

Your racing heart plummeted to your feet. "No. I kept it just like the card had it."

His brows furrowed. "Really? It tastes different than how I remembered it last."

You dug your nails into the fabric of the table running. "Does it not taste good?"

Jack looked up from his plate with wide, hazel eyes. "No, no, it's just different."

"But not good," you scoffed.

"I'm just trying to say that maybe you missed something. I know Alice's handwriting isn't the easiest to read."

"I know how to read cursive, Jack," you spat lowly. "I followed every single instruction on the card. It's the exact same recipe."

"It's not that big of a deal, sweetheart," he tried. "Maybe if you had a bit more practice like her, it might have come out the same. You're a good cook, don't get me wrong, but—"

Your hands slammed on the table in frustration, causing Jack's eyebrows to pinch as his words died in his mouth. He went to keep talking but stopped when he noticed the frustrated tears fall from your eyes.

"I'm done," you breathed, eyes darting around the room.

"Done?" Jack echoed. "What are you done with?"

"Everything," you hissed. "I'm done with this—" You gestured to the food with a wave of your hand. "I'm done with-with you. I'm done with it all."

You pushed up from the table and walked away, leaving Jack to scramble out of his chair and follow you.

"Sweetheart, what's going on?" he loudly asked, but you ignored him.

By the time he made it into the bedroom, you had already ripped out a suitcase from the closet and were pushing clothes into it without making them neat.

"Hey," Jack said gently. "Look, I'm sorry for saying that. I didn't think it'd upset you this much, but you don't have to leave."

You paused in a mid-throw of your shirts and spun to face him. A disbelieving laugh bubbled wetly through your throat. "That's the problem," you muttered, "you don't think."

He crossed his arms, biceps resting against his chest. A need to defend himself bloomed in his stomach. "What's that supposed to fucking mean."

You threw your arms up with an exasperated scoff. "Oh, so now you're concerned for what I'm saying. Maybe you should be concerned more with your words." You sucked in a deep breath. "Just go on and say it."

Jack took a step forward. "Say what?"

"That you'd rather me be someone else!" you screamed. "That-that I'm not enough by myself for you anymore." Pants heaved in your chest. "I'm sick and tired of standing here stuck listening to you compare me and wish that I'd be like or act like someone else."

Your words stole the breath from Jack's lungs as confusion and dread washed over him. "What?"

You closed your eyes and dropped your shoulders. "I heard you; I keep hearing you."

In another step forward, Jack was within two feet of you. He swallowed thickly, but you beat him to more words.

"On the fourth," you began to explain through tears, "I saw Samira patch you up, and I heard the way you told her that I could learn how to be more level headed like her."

A chill crept up Jack's spine. "Sweetheart—"

"Don't," you ordered. "Don't do that where you try to make it all better. I heard you loud and clear, Jack. And that's fine. I knew I could be more calm during traumas, so that's exactly what I did, but apparently—" You chocked out a laugh. "That wasn't enough for you."

He shook his head, hazel eyes swimming with guilt already.

"And I really thought that if I could be anything like Samira, your words wouldn't hurt as much. But then you had to go and tell me that you wished Robby had been there instead of me to do a pericardiocentesis." Your breath shuddered in the next exhale. "Did you even know that was the first time I'd ever been asked to do one? And instead of teaching at a teaching hospital, you threw me to the side saying Robby—the fucking chief attending—could have done the job. No fucking duh, Jack."

You threw a hand in the direction of the kitchen. "And now this? I thought that maybe I could be like Samira or study enough to be like Robby, but h-how am I supposed to compare to the woman who had your love first." You turned back toward the bed and haphazardly packed suitcase. "That's unfair to me. So, like I said, I'm done."

A pleading sound ripped from Jack's throat at the sound of your suitcase zipper closing.

"No, sweetheart, please. Let me fix this; tell me how to fix this," he begged.

"That's just it, Jack. I don't think this can be fixed. I've spent weeks with your words in my head wondering how I can be the perfect person for you. And I don't know if I can keep going on pretending."

Jack's body shook under a small sob as everything came crashing down. He absolutely had no clue what he had done to you, but thinking back, he understood that his careless words wracked irreparable damage to you and your personality.

"I'm sorry," he managed, voice breaking in a whisper.

"I know you are,' you responded, "and somehow that makes it hurt worse. Because while you were trying to compliment everyone else, you made me feel inadequate in every aspect of my life." Your fingers wrapped around the suitcase handle and tugged it off the bed. "I can't stay with someone who keeps hoping I'll be a conglomeration of all the best parts of others; that's not me. And I'll be honest, I don't even really know who me is anymore."

He inhaled sharply, eyes tearing from your face to look down at the floor. "So this is it? You're leaving?"

Another round of tears spilled down your cheeks as you choked on a sob of your own. "I don't want to, but I need to."

"But I love you," he croaked, eyes coming back up to meet yours.

"You love the best parts of me, Jack," you said, already moving to walk past him. "And that's never going to be enough to make me stay."

Your shoulder lightly brushed by his as you walked out of the room and all the way out the front door, leaving Jack behind in a house he realized he didn't want empty. You poison every little thing that I do, Lacy, oh, Lacy, I just loathe you lately, and I despise my jealous eyes and how hard they fell for you, yeah, I despise my rotten mind and how much it worships you Jack didn't truly realize what he'd done until almost six months after you left him crying in his bedroom.

Your absence in his life gave him a lot to think about, and the only conclusion he could come up with was that you were absolutely right. It didn't matter if he'd compared you to others unconsciously; he made you feel like that: worthless, in need of self change, inadequate; the list went on.

He'd seen the small changes too late.

The next shift he worked with you, Jack tracked every minuscule thing you did, and it felt like one big punch to the gut. He saw the way you constantly checked your hair, ponytail pulled tight enough to give you a headache, skin, and scrubs and the way you straightened your stethoscope so it rested perfectly across your collarbones.

His stomach dropped when he watched you pause before a trauma and gulp down air before heading inside like someone who needed to take control before it could get out of hand. Before him, you weren't like that. Yes, you could be nervous to mess up, but you didn't act like you had to be the smartest person in the room.

He did that to you. He made you feel the need to change. And it killed him. It killed him once he learned you transferred over to a specialty in orthopedics, and his mind made him think you did it just to get away from him.

He was slightly correct, but not entirely.

You needed a fresh start, somewhere where you knew no on had any high expectation of you. And somehow, orthopedics gave you just that. And you thrived in the environment, only coming down to the Pitt when they needed a transfer or second opinion. Sure, you had to accompany Park the Shark more than you'd liked to, but through your time there, the old you was coming back, the one who worked through her panic instead of shutting it down, the one who only got frazzled when she cared about patients and their needs.

It was never weakness you showed, and you had to learn that all over again.

Someone helped you see that along the way as well.

"What do got here?" Park asked while snapping on a pair of gloves, eyes predatory as he walked into Trauma Room 1.

Jack looked up with pinched brows when he realized that you didn't walk in behind the larger man. "Where's Dr. [Name]?"

Park didn't even acknowledge his question. "For fucks sake man, you didn't even pack this right."

"You should know how to put a detached leg together even if I missed the pressure of the wrapping by an inch," Jack shot back.

"Abbot, you should know that I can't fucking put your patient back together after you decided to play Barbies. It's not as easy as popping a joint back in place."

"Dr. [Name] could do it."

Except for the monitors, everyone went quiet. Jack tore his eyes away from Park and looked back down at his blood soaked gloves. Reality crashed down on him as he realized he just did to Park what he'd done to you. Even if he knew he probably didn't hurt Park's feelings at all, it sucked to know that he was still so quit to throw out words like that.

Park's shoulders rose in a shrug. "She could, but she isn't here right now. She switched shifts and won't be in until 7." He smirked. "Think she said she had plans with someone."

An ugly roar of jealousy clawed at Jack's insides, nails sinking deep in his gut.

You were with someone?

He went through the motions of his shift, mind still on the fact that you weren't on call because someone had taken your time and attention away from the hospital. His knuckles turned white around the tablet he held while going through handoffs. He didn't know if his body was still trained to look for you, forever waiting for your soft lips against his, but Jack couldn't help but keep his head on a swivel and ears open to catch the sound of your voice.

Like a laugh in his face from the universe, your laugh fluttered through the ER, and his head whipped hard enough that his neck hurt in order to find you. When he finally saw you walking in, his heart dropped to his feet, because there you were, smiling brighter than he'd seen in a long while, hand enclasped with a man's.

Jack swallowed thickly. He instantly hated the way his blood boiled at the sight. He looked back down at the tablet after your voice seemed to draw closer to where he was standing.

"Andy," you sighed wistfully, "you didn't have to walk me all the way in here. I know you're weary of the germs."

"I know," the man—Andy (you gave him a fucking nickname?)—muttered back, wide, hazel eyes looking down at you like you hung the moon. "But I wanted to."

You pouted playfully. "You're so sweet. Am I going to see you tomorrow morning, or are you working again?"

He hummed. "My morning's yours if you want it."

"You know I always do."

Jack watched the corner of the man's mouth twitch into an almost-there smile, and he had to look away when his head started leaning in toward yours.

The small smack of your lips on his made bile gurgle in Jack's stomach.

"Okay, you gotta go save lives."

You giggled again. "I just put people back together, and technically, Park's the one doing all the procedures. You know my hands start shaking."

From the corner of his eye, Jack watched him lift your hands to his lips and kiss the tops of your knuckles.

"Just breathe and know that you alone can do this. You were the one to get into the program, so they want you, shaky hands and all."

Jack's heart clenched to the point of a physical reaction to the pain. He should have been the one saying that to you, standing in your corner and building you up one compliment at a time.

But now, he had to stand on the sideline and watch a man (someone who scarily looked a bit like him) give you all the praise and love you deserved. And while Jack could do everything in his power to let people know how good of a doctor you were, it wouldn't ever be the same, forever stuck loathing the moment he lost you without knowing.

It didn’t take much to convince her. She’d been getting bored with you, anyway. You suppose you should just be happy that Deran got to you first, that you didn’t die with a needle in your arm like so many other girls before you who had “lost their touch.”

You never questioned why her rotation of women was so quick, why their employment was so short-lived. But you all knew. Smurf didn’t make mistakes; she didn’t leave behind messes, and she had no room in her life for other women. Especially not when it came to her sons. 

Her fragile hold over Deran is already tumultuous, though. She knows it's not you that poses a threat to that tether. It’s the fact that her emotionally fucking her sons’ heads when they were kids didn’t stick with him. His pendulum swings the other way. 

It always brings a little smile to your face in those rare moments you catch him and Adrian together. Just one instance where Smurf hadn’t gotten what she wanted. You’re sure that's why she never bothers coming by the bar. She doesn’t like the reminder of her failure. 

And you certainly appreciate having one aspect of your life free from that woman. 

Letting out a low sigh, you bend down and grab a rag to wipe down the bar. The little bell above the door chimes as someone walks in. “We’re closing,” you call out. Bootsteps still come closer, and you frown, glancing over your shoulder. “I said– oh.”

Pope pauses for a moment, surveying you. “Deran’s in the back,” you tell him, offering a strained smile. 

“Thanks,” he mutters, rounding the bar and making his way through the kitchen to the back office. You continue with your closing duties, gnawing your lip as you think. 

You’re not scared of Pope, not really. You know what he’s capable of, but it’s Smurf that calls the shots. It’s always her that you have to look out for. The old lady’s a lot smarter than people want to give her credit for. 

You never knew why she didn’t let you have Pope. You’re certain you would have enjoyed it. There’s something about that intense look in his eyes– emotions so shadowed over, his gaze is almost empty. 

But Smurf never offered you up, always kept you hidden away. She knows how easy it is for you to get attached; maybe that’s why. You always struggled separating the act and the paycheck. 

In the back of the bar, you can hear Deran and Pope’s voices growing louder. Your head shoots up as the kitchen door swings open, banging off the wall. Pope storms through, jaw clenched as he stalks past you, muttering something to himself. 

You tilt your head as you consider him. The broad line of his shoulders, the strength of his body you can make out even under his loose shirt. He lets out a short huff, storming out of the bar. Yeah, you could definitely see yourself getting attached to that one in all the wrong ways. 

Deran comes out of the kitchen, and you jump, ripping your eyes away from the door. “Don’t let any more of my family come through,” he barks out. 

“You guys fight?”

He shoots you a sharp look that has you biting back a smile. “What the fuck do you think?”

“You know I don’t like your family, anyway,” you defend, scrubbing at a stubborn stain on the counter. Deran goes quiet, and you roll your eyes, glancing back over at him. He’s giving you a knowing look that has you huffing. 

“I don’t like most of your family,” you amend. Throwing his hands up, he shakes his head, storming back to his office. You glance back at the door, almost wishing Pope would walk through again. He’s certainly more intriguing than the other Codys. 

Parties at Smurf’s place only have two directions they can go. High and low. High, of course, is when she brings out the good stuff, and everyone’s floating two feet above their bodies. Head lost somewhere in the clouds of smoke. Low is when some asshole, usually one of her sons, gets too drunk and starts a fight. 

It seems to be going high, this time, a good sign for you, considering you want nothing more than to relax tonight. Deran had been kind enough to get you a job at his bar. A handout, honestly, considering how much he already helps you out with. Turns out, the opening week of a new bar is hell on your back. 

You’re lounging back on one of Smurf’s pool chairs, lazily smoking a blunt Deran had handed you, as some girls flock around him. You’re certain they’re aware he doesn’t swing that way, but he's the tamer boy of the Codys. They probably just hope he might cut them a deal on whatever little baggies Smurf has him handing out. 

You don’t blame the girls. You’d rather take something from Deran than his brother Craig. You wouldn’t trust Craig as far as you can throw him. Especially not with that sleazy grin he always shoots you. 

A shadow falls over you, and the low tittering of the women goes quiet. You frown, lifting your sunglasses and glancing over at them. But the throng of women have scattered. Glancing up, you let out a little laugh, finding the reason standing over you. 

Pope has emerged from the house, arms crossed as he hovers at your side. You doubt he even realizes you’re beside him, or the effect he’s had on the partygoers. Honestly, you appreciate his presence for the quiet it provides. He’s got a good dampener effect on the rowdy parties that go on around here. 

“Having fun?” you try, not expecting much back from him. He glances down at you, brows raising. He probably just realized you’re there. 

“No,” he tells you bluntly, eyes narrowing on the blunt in your hand. You tap the tip of it, shaking some ash off by his feet. He lets out a little sigh that almost makes you feel bad for teasing him. 

“Really? You seem like the life of the party.” You shift higher up on the chair, back bowing slightly as you try to get comfortable. His gaze lingers on the top of your bikini before he looks away. His shoulders stiffen, arms tightening as he glares out at the rest of the party. 

“You’re too easy,” you mutter, flicking your glasses down and closing your eyes. 

The skin of his hand is rough, but his touch is barely there as he snatches the blunt from between your fingers. Your eyes shoot open as he gives you a sharp look. “Don’t fall asleep with this in your hand. You’ll burn the chair,” Pope quietly chides. 

You snort as he storms off, tossing the blunt into the trash as he goes. You wonder if he knows how often your stare lingers on him. How easy it is for you to seek him out in every room you walk into. You doubt it. And you really doubt he’d ever want used goods, as Craig so often calls you. 

You sink back into the chair, trying to get comfortable again. 

The universe seems to be flipping you one giant middle finger today. 

“Comfortable?” a rasping voice asks. 

You suck in a deep breath, mentally prepping yourself. “Yep,” you grit out, flicking your sunglasses up and offering a smile to Smurf. You’re certain it comes off more as a grimace than anything else. 

She offers something sickly sweet in return. It’s meant to come off as motherly or nurturing in some way. It does nothing more than set your nerves on edge. You don’t know why she tries any of her tricks with you. You know her intimately and have already seen past her many masks to the bitch below. 

She hums, laughing slightly to herself as she perches on the chair beside you. “Talking to Pope?”

“No,” you answer quickly. God forbid she think you’re trying to steal one of her precious boys out from under her. 

“Really?” She hums, sucking her teeth as she surveys the rest of the party. “Looked like you were the only girl who could stand being near him.”

You consider your response, wondering what constitutes her thinking you’re a threat. “He’s not so bad,” you finally settle on. 

Smurf says nothing for a while, and you begin to worry you’ve messed up. She knows that you're Deran’s friend. And, in no way, are you a threat to her already fragile claim over him. But Pope’s different than the others; she’s much more unpredictable when it comes to keeping her guard dog close. 

“Pope’s been having a hard time lately,” she finally tells you. “His mind isn’t where I need it to be.” 

Is it ever? You just nod, not voicing your skepticism aloud. 

“You know how it works with him. Usually, the girls I send in help soothe those fragile nerves.” Smurf lets out a low chuckle and shakes her head. 

You tense up, muscles locking as you suck in a fragile breath. Yeah, you know how it works with him. You know all about the girls she sends to him. But there’s no reason for her to be bringing any of this up to you. Not now. 

“Pope…” she lets out a low breath, shrugging. “Pope’s different, you know that.” Everyone knows that. “It doesn’t work for him when he knows the girls are being paid.”

You hum, lips pursed tight as you struggle to think of a way out of this. “Interesting,” you whisper. 

Smurf lets out a little laugh, shooting you a sharp smirk. “Interesting,” she mocks, her tone cruel in its intentions. “You know what I want, don’t you, kid?”

You suck your teeth, arms winding tight around your stomach. You feel too exposed now. Body on display just like she wants. “I don’t do that anymore,” you bite out, forcing some sort of strength into your voice. 

“Please,” Smurf barks out a laugh, sitting back up and leaning in toward you. You can’t find the strength to meet her eye. But her stare is branding into your skin. “I know women like you. You’ll do anything if the price is right. Besides… don’t forget what I know about you.”

For a moment, the world goes quiet. There’s no party, no throng of people getting high and drunk in front of you. It’s just you, small as you’ve ever been, and Smurf. With that god damn smirk on her face, always one step ahead of everyone else. 

“You said you were done with me,” you whisper, tears clawing at the edge of your voice. 

Smurf shakes her head. “No, I said I was done for now. And now, I need you again. I’ll even be nice and pay you, sweetheart. Four hundred a session, not hourly.”

Your eyes fall shut, nails digging into your arms as you realize you have no choice. You can keep fighting her, but all that’ll do is take away your pay. You’ll be forced to do what she wants, and you won’t even make anything off it. “What am I doing?”

“Just… entertainment.” She reaches forward, touch cold as she slides the falling strap of your top up. “And Pope doesn’t know about our little arrangement.”

It’s Smurf. You don’t have a choice. Not with the dirt she’s got on you. At the very least, it’s Pope, not someone like Craig or Baz she’s asking you to sell yourself out for. 

“Okay,” you whisper, eyes watering as you stare down at your lap. 

Smurf gets up and pats your head. “Good girl,” she mutters, laughing as she walks away. One day… She’ll be dead. Buried somewhere six feet deep, and you’ll be there. 

Dancing on her fucking grave. 

You let yourself in with the key Smurf had given you. Just like she used to, she sent you a time to show up. Normally, that was accompanied by a name and place. But you already knew who she wanted you to take care of. And since they’d sold his house, there was only one place for him to be. 

Heading into the kitchen, you drop your purse on one of the chairs. There’s a low murmur in the living room, something playing softly on the TV. Sucking in a sharp breath, you fix your shirt and adjust your hair. 

It’s not typical of you to be nervous before one of these appointments. But you haven’t done this in a long time. And you already know none of your old tricks are going to work here. Pope isn’t anything like the clients Smurf used to toss you to. 

They had been looking for something carnal. Something quick that they could wrench pleasure from and then toss aside. Pope’s already a hundred times different from them just for not wanting his girls to be paid to be with him. 

There’s another factor you’re worried about. At least, when Smurf pays the girls, Pope knows they’re coming. He knows what’s coming and how he’s expected to perform. He’s not been briefed for you, and you’re barely ready for him. You’re not sure you want to know what it would feel like to be rejected by him if this goes wrong. 

Rolling back your shoulders, you force yourself to move. Rounding the corner into the living room, you stop short. “Oh.” The plan was to feign surprise, pretend you had been looking for someone else. But you don’t really have to feign anything right now. Not with Pope sitting on the couch in nothing but his boxers, watching… a bird documentary?

Clearing your throat, you blink a few times, trying to recover from the sight of him being half-naked. He seems just as taken aback, clearly expecting to have the house to himself today. His brows furrow as he watches you, hand twitching on his lap. 

“Sorry. Is Deran here?”

“No,” his voice cracks slightly as he shifts against the cushions. You feel a little bad. You don’t think you’re making him nervous, but he certainly isn’t confident. “He’s at the bar,” he explains, jaw clenching. 

“Oh,” you wave your hand and step into the living room. “My mistake,” you dismiss airily, shrugging. “Mind if I wait for him here? He shouldn’t be long.” Pope doesn’t say much or invite you closer. But you move forward anyway, not like you have much choice here. He drags a pillow over his lap as you take a seat beside him.

You’re decent enough to give him a few inches of space between you both, though you doubt that helps much. 

You can’t confidently say that Pope is nervous. But he certainly seems affected right now. Your eyes narrow on the way his leg bounces slightly, the wrinkles at the hem of his boxers. Smurf left, the house is empty, and he’s been on edge lately. Maybe he’d been expecting one of Smurf’s girls. 

He was right, in a way. But he didn’t get to know that. 

Your skirt hitches as you tuck your legs under yourself. You shuffle for a moment, trying to get comfortable and “accidentally” slipping too close to Pope. He jerks away from your touch, not hastily, but carefully. You catch a sidelong look from him before he redirects his attention to the TV. 

It’s easy to tell, just from the tautness of his shoulders, that he’s not hearing a damn word Attenborough is saying. 

You settle back against the cushions and let out a little sigh, thighs flexing as you slip just a bit closer to him. It’s harder with Pope. You can’t get this started the way you would with old clients. They had been expecting you, and in turn, they’d been expecting a quick release. 

Smurf made it clear that Pope isn’t allowed to know a damn thing about this arrangement. You’re terrified of what she would do if you messed this up in the first session. 

You’ll have to ease him into this. 

Sadly, that means suffering through an hour of a documentary that has you biting your tongue to keep from passing out from boredom. You spend the time creeping ever closer to Pope. Letting your thigh accidentally brush against his and pulling back quickly. Watching the sharp intake of breath in his chest from the contact. 

Having your fingers graze the back of his hand as you stretch. You watch these little reactions flash across his face, making you wish you had a better understanding of his body language. You keep up this little game until he stops flinching from your touch and starts leaning into it instead. 

You move closer, thigh brushing his leg, arm nearly pressed to his. He doesn’t move, just sinks a little deeper into the sofa. Your arm stretches along the cushions as you let out a low sigh. 

“Pope?” you mutter, voice low as you lean in closer toward him. 

“What are you doing?” He tilts his head toward you, eyes narrowed, a little quirk to his lips as his gaze drops to your mouth. 

You’re slightly taken aback and resist the urge to pull away. “What do you mean?” you whisper, trying not to break the tentative bubble around you. He doesn’t answer, just watches you, eyes running along your form as you stretch closer. “I mean, I thought I was being kind of obvious.”

When he doesn’t say anything, you let out a breathy laugh. “I like you, Pope. But you know… I just can’t tell with you.”

He grabs the remote, turning off the documentary before tilting his body toward you. The pillow shifts slightly off his lap and you inch closer. “Can’t tell what?”

“Well…” the arm draped behind him shifts, and you let your fingers brush against the nape of his neck, teasing into his hair. “I’m usually much better at reading people. But I just don’t know with you. Do you like me, Pope?”

His voice is rough as he speaks, and you don’t miss the way his gaze drops to your lips. “Why do you care?”

You let out a little laugh, “I just said–”

His hand comes up, taking your wrist in his grasp. It’s not rough, but you can’t slip away. Your eyes widen slightly as you back up. “Did Smurf put you up to this?” His expression hardens; whatever reaction you might have been eliciting out of him is gone. 

“What?” Your lips part as you shake your head. You let your eyes go wide with surprise, faux hurt, leaving them open until a little bit of water builds at the edges of your lashes. “No, I just–” You cut yourself off, putting on a proper show as you try to move away from him. “I’m sorry, this was so stupid,” your voice cracks around the words. 

Maybe you’re laying it on a little thick. But Pope is sharp, sharper than you’re comfortable with. He couldn’t have caught onto you that quick… could he? 

Maybe you’ve lost your touch. 

“I’ll just leave.” You get on your knees, trying to pull away. His hand tightens imperceptibly around your wrist, and you lift your eyes, meeting his gaze once more. “Pope?” you whisper, leaning just a little closer to him. 

He lifts off the cushions slightly, and you almost smile. You’ve still got it.

Tilting your head, you let your lips brush against his. Just barely, at first, hesitant like you really are nervous. And maybe, you are, just a bit. He pulls back for a moment, eyes darting along your face, gauging your honesty. 

After a moment, he tilts his head, nose brushing yours as he presses his lips to yours. There’s more force behind the kiss than you’d like. His body is stiff beneath you as you slide your leg over his lap, straddling him. There’s too much teeth in the kiss; it’s aggressive in a way that reminds you of your old clients.

But there’s something else that’s off. It’s like he’s simply not used to this. To something that hasn’t been paid for and wasn’t premeditated. His hands hover over you, uncertain. 

You let your palms drag along his broad shoulders, cupping his neck as you pull back. He stares up at you, lips parted and expression vulnerable in a way that makes guilt itch in your throat. 

He’s used to fucking and being done with it. He doesn’t understand intimacy like a man his age should. That’s no fault of his own, not really. 

“Slow,” you whisper down at him, waiting until he nods to kiss him again. His hands drop to your hips, squeezing once before settling there. You do your best to guide him into something soft, slow in a way that lets him follow your lead. He’s a quick learner, pulling you closer to him as he finds his own footing. 

You get more comfortable, settling in his lap as you kiss him. Something begins to press up between your thighs, his boxers growing tight as you let your fingers tangle in his curls. His hips buck, and you let out a little gasp at the bold move. His tongue darts across the seam of your lips, and you tilt your head, letting him deepen the kiss. 

His arms shift, wrapping tighter around your back as he tugs you closer. Your knee slips along the cushions, bumping into the remote. You both jump apart as a loud infomercial suddenly comes alive on the TV. “Shit,” you mutter, laughing as your forehead falls against his. 

He lets out a rough sigh as your thumb lightly traces his bottom lip. Pulling back, he leans further into your touch, following you. He’s staring up at you, waiting for… something. 

“Maybe we should take this to the bedroom,” you suggest quietly. The magic words, apparently, as he gets up from the couch. His arms are thick, secure around you as he carries you over to his bedroom. 

You lean down, pressing soft kisses to his jaw, trailing down his neck as he walks. You’re easing him into the idea of you. But you’re also trying to placate yourself. It’s a poor attempt to calm the racing beast in your chest. 

Your heart has been pounding against your ribs for the past few minutes. You know, in his own way, he’s not really a client. Certainly not like any you’ve ever done business with before. But your last experience…

Well, it had been your last for a reason. 

It’s hard to forget the kind of pain you’ve gone through, shoved into similar situations like this before. Always at the hand of the same woman. But it doesn’t have to be like that again. Not with Pope. 

He kicks the door shut behind him, turning and pressing you up against it. Your nails bite into his shoulders as he presses his nose to the crook of your jaw. He rests there a moment before slowly making his way back to your lips, just waiting. His shallow breaths fan across your face as you move forward, just enough to finally connect with him. 

Rough hands flex around your thighs before he turns you around, walking you both back to the bed. Your legs slip from around his waist as he lays you down. Your hand trails up into his curls, tugging as his touch skates down your body. Pulling at the zipper of your skirt. You break apart, just long enough for you to peel your shirt off. 

His fingers drag up along your bare skin. Goosebumps break out at the soft touch as he pulls back enough to get a good look at you. You would laugh if it weren’t for that look in his eye, slightly panicked and overwhelmed. 

You’d made the choice to forgo a bra, knowing what you were getting up to today. His attention is unmoving on your breasts, and you let out a little huff. “I don’t bite,” you tease, taking his hands in yours and guiding them up to your chest. “Usually.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, barely even moves. His gaze drags back up to yours, and you give him a little nod. Slowly, he cups your breasts, cold hands making you shiver. It’s been a lot longer than you’d ever tell anyone since you’ve been intimate. 

But… you’re liking this with Pope. For once, you’re not at the mercy of someone else. If anything, it feels like you’re holding the power here. His pleasure is only given if you will it. It’s certainly a feeling you could get used to. 

Your hands drag up his arms, resisting the urge to squeeze those thick biceps, and you draw him back down into another kiss. He’s already learning, softer with his approach, less aggressive. His palms skate down your body until he’s squeezing your waist. You try to pull him closer, legs closing around his hips, and his hands fall to the sheets. 

They flex at your sides as his body tenses. Pulling back, he won’t meet your eye, and you frown at the way his jaw clenches. There’s something sharp in his gaze that has your breath stuttering. You’ve seen the look before. In exes who knew what you used to be. 

That niggling question of whether you were clean? If you were still seeing your ‘clients’? You can’t blame him for thinking it, especially knowing his inclination toward cleanliness. But the hurt never lessens. That slight edge of rejection never gets any smoother. 

“We don’t have to do anything,” you whisper, slowly releasing him. He says nothing, and you sit up on your elbows. “Pope,” you tell him, voice firm. “We don’t have to do this.”

“You want to,” he mutters, finally meeting your eye. Your lips purse as you fight back the ache in your chest. You know that look too. The sudden fear that if you don’t give this person what they want… they’ll leave too. 

You reach up, cupping his cheek, and he falls into the touch easily. “Come on,” you urge, moving up the bed and pulling the sheets back. 

He hesitates, hovering over you and still wondering if he should just do what you want. You pat the spot beside you, and he finally crawls under the sheets. You settle into the pillows, opening your arms to him. 

Pope watches you for a moment, eyes narrowed, before slowly sinking into your touch. Your hand settles in his curls as his head falls against your chest. It doesn’t take him much longer to melt completely against you, not as you play with his hair, nearly falling asleep yourself. 

It’s comforting, in an odd way. Being pressed into the sheets by someone’s weight– but, for the first time in a while, they’re not expecting anything else from you. It’s a man you actually want. Not one that’s paid to own you for a few hours. 

You lean back, drawing him closer as the sun sets through the window. 

Pope is long gone by the time the sun rises again. Letting out a low sigh, you get out of bed, pretending you don’t miss the warmth he’d provided. Your skin is more chilled than you care to admit as you get dressed. 

It’s not as if you’d expected him to stay. Smurf always has him out running errands for her or doing the odd jobs no one else will. For someone who wants her attack dog close, she sure hates having him in the house with her. 

As you slip out of his room, the rest of the house is quiet, save for some clinking coming from the kitchen. Walking in, you grab your purse off the counter. There’s an extra weight that hadn’t been there the night before. 

Smurf stands by the kitchen island, stirring her coffee with that smirk you’d love to carve off her face. “Fun night?”

Sucking your teeth, you straighten your skirt and nod. “It was nice,” you grit out. 

She shakes her head and nods at your purse. Looking inside, you see a thick wad of cash rolled up and tossed carelessly inside. “Good girl,” she mutters, brushing past you. She gives your ass a little pat as she heads toward the pool. 

You bite back something venomous, nails digging into the soft skin of your palms as you take in a fortifying breath. It’s not worth it. 

You storm toward the front door. The anger inside you begins to dull as you start heading back home. You feel dirty. It’s the first time you’ve left a job of hers without someone else's fluids drying between your thighs. Or new bruises on your body. 

Still, you feel cheaper than you have in a long time. 

You want to convince yourself that you needed to do this to survive. You can’t survive off the shitty tips you make at Deran’s bar. And she could ruin your life with the knowledge she holds over you. 

That doesn’t stop you from feeling like scum. 

You’ve gotten better at noticing him before he makes himself known. It’s his stare, you think. It’s so heavy, so intent, it’s almost impossible to miss the weight of it on your back. His gaze is still something predatory to you– not that you don’t enjoy it. But you know better than to think of it as something empty, or compare it to the blind hunger of a shark, like you used to. 

Lifting your head, you offer Pope a small smile as he stalks into the bar. There’s not really another word you can think of for that unique stride of his. 

He brushes brusquely past the customers who are leaving. It doesn’t take long for people to simply make room for him. It's incredibly impressive– and attractive– how he can take control of a room without ever saying anything. Maybe people are just scared of his general energy, but it works. 

He sits at the corner of the bar closest to you. “What can I get ya?” You toss your towel over your shoulder as you make your way toward him. 

Pope fishes out his wallet, tossing too much cash on the counter. “Just a beer,” he tells you, turning to survey the rest of the people here. 

He’s leaning against the bar, but his posture still remains stiff. His eyes never stop watching everyone around him, looking out for possible threats. It’s hard to tell if that’s a result of his time in prison or just a skill inherent to the Codys. 

His mannerisms make you think of a man who should hate eye contact. But talking to him is intense enough to make you short of breath, sometimes. He never takes his eyes off of you, as if he’s one slip up away from being stabbed in the back. You wonder who the last person he trusted was. His sister, probably. 

The longer you meet his eye, the more you see, the worse it gets. Those little flecks of emotion hidden among the hazel, it’s too much for a man who's meant to keep his cards close to his chest. You look away first, reaching for his cash and counting out his change. 

“Keep it,” he dismisses when you try to hand it back to him. 

Your eyes narrow, but you can’t afford to argue. Pocketing the cash, you nod, going to retrieve his beer. “Deran isn’t here,” you let him know, placing the bottle in front of him. 

He wipes at the condensation before fetching a napkin, slipping it under the bottle. “Did you want to leave a message for him?” you ask. 

Pope looks up from the beer and shakes his head. “No,” he tells you. “I didn’t come here to see Deran.”

A smile pulls at your lips despite yourself. “No?” you hum, pretending to wipe down the bar so he can’t catch that look in your eyes. The one that will give away too much, too soon. “Just came here for the shitty beer?”

“Exactly,” he mutters, taking a deep swig. Your eyes narrow as he plays along, a slight laugh huffing out of you. His idea of humor is so dry that it almost circles right back to not even being a joke anymore. 

Shaking your head, you move down the bar to top off some drinks. He lingers in that corner, nursing the beer. He owns that section of the bar, even as business picks up and more people shuffle in. They don’t take the stools on either side of him. 

There are these burdens, like shadows, ever present around him. It’s not something everyone can see, but they can feel the energy that radiates off him. That sort of ‘stay away’ warning that you’ve never been particularly good at following. 

It’s rare for you to get through a shift without at least one shitty pick-up line or a drunken slap on your ass. But, with Pope’s stare burning over your shoulder, you have a pretty good night. 

It’s interesting how quick he was to give in to your whims. How fast he now seeks out your company. You wonder: without Smurf’s prodding, would you have been able to lure him in like you had last night? Would he have given in to you the same way?

All this time you could have had him. But you’ve never been particularly good at taking what you want. 

Pope remains in his seat the rest of the night. It takes a herculean effort not to simply close the bar early, knowing what's waiting for you after your shift. His stare is heavy with intent. Still, you control yourself, letting the anticipation drag out for him too. 

“We’re closing,” you tell him, going around the bar and collecting the last of the beer bottles. Pope straighens up and slides from his stool. 

“I’ll wait,” he tells you simply. You linger by the kitchen door before shaking your head with a scoff. You carry the recycling to the back, and when you come back, he’s wiping down tables with the cleaning solution from behind the bar. You don’t object, getting your closing tasks done in half the time with him. 

“You know,” you start, as you count out the cash in the register. “If you wanted to spend time with me, you could have just asked.” He goes still where he’s standing. You offer him a wry grin. “I like being around you.”

He’s quiet for a moment before letting out a low huff. “Most people don’t.”

Your hands freeze as you shoot him a severe look. “Most people are idiots,” you tell him sharply. The corners of his lips twitch, and you sigh. Walking the envelope of cash to the back, you leave it in the safe under Deran’s desk. Out front, Pope waits for you by the door. 

Grabbing your purse from the bar, you catch up with him. He holds the door open for you as you step outside. “So,” you hum. “Your place or mine?”

Pope tenses up beside you as you lock up. “What?” he asks as you turn to face him. His eyes dart down to your lips and you grin. He’s not as subtle as he thinks. 

“Are we going to your place or mine?” you ask again, leaning against the door with your arms crossed. 

You almost expect him to back out or change his mind. He knows who you are, what you were. You haven’t forgotten that moment of hesitation from the other night. You’d be honestly surprised if he wanted anything to do with you. 

“Yours,” he tells you, voice so sure it takes you aback. 

“Alright,” you mutter, slipping past him with a surprised smile. 

Pope drives you to Deran’s place. You live in the apartment above his and Adrian’s home. A fact that you now realize you’ve never shared with Pope. But it’s not like you’ve ever had a reason to invite him over before. 

You lead him up the stairs, his hand in yours as you let him inside. He toes off his boots as you toss your purse on the entryway table. “Want a tour?” you ask, raising your brows. He nods, and you squeeze your hand around his, guiding him through the tiny apartment. 

It’s a decent enough place for somewhere that doesn’t charge rent. You’ve got your own little kitchenette and a depressingly small shower. It’s honestly not all that interesting. Lacking all of the personal touches that make a place home. You’ve learned to live small. 

You lead Pope past everything and take him straight to your bedroom. “Not much of a tour,” he tells you, rough voice teasing. 

You narrow your eyes at him. “Are you really complaining?” You step closer, pressing your chest to his as you wind your arms around his neck. He shakes his head and you push up, lips just brushing against his. “Are you sure you don’t want a better tour?”

He cuts off your teasing with a kiss. For a moment, it’s too harsh. But then he’s remembering what you’d shown him. He backs off, grip loosening around your waist, his touch softening. You take his hands in yours, dragging them down your body and directing him to the button of your pants. He makes quick work of it, helping you out of them.

You’re pushed up against the doorway, his rough palms squeezing your hips while you work on the buckles of his belt. The second you’ve got it undone, he’s kicking off his jeans, pulling away from you to rip off his jacket. Your hands drag down his torso, greedy as your fingers find the hem of his shirt. Lifting it, you eagerly palm the soft muscles of his stomach. 

Pope shudders beneath your touch, and you grin, leaning up to press a quick kiss to his lips. He searches for more, but you dart out of his reach, whipping off your shirt and flitting toward your bed. You beckon him forward with a small crook of your finger, and he follows obediently. 

You turn down your sheets, crawling onto your bed and waiting for him to do the same. He climbs over you, lips pressing against yours before drifting along your jaw, moving down your neck. He kneels before you, touch greedy as he palms your thighs. 

It feels like he’s teasing you as he moves lower between your legs. His eyes never leave yours. Your breath hitches at the intensity of his gaze. His fingers play with the band of your underwear before he slowly moves back up your body. 

You let out a soft breath, almost relieved he hadn’t traveled farther. You’re not sure how much of him you can handle at once. It’s been so long since you’ve let yourself be open with someone like this. And even now, you’re hiding things from him. 

You can only take so much at once. 

“Can we do what we did last night?” he whispers, tone hesitant. As if you would say no to that. 

You just nod, reaching up and letting your hand scratch through his curls. You sink back into the pillows, and he follows you. He seems more sure of himself as he sinks into your chest, arms winding around your torso as you both get settled. 

This seems to be becoming a tradition of sorts. You hold him until his breath settles and he falls asleep. Rolling over, you curl tighter around him, letting out a low, sated breath. 

The bed is cold when you wake up. There’s a dip where his body used to be, but he’s gone. Rolling over, you scrub a hand down your face, suddenly aware of how naked you are. Uncomfortable at the AC nipping at your bare skin, you tug the sheets up. 

Glancing over at your nightstand, you see a notification lighting up your phone. A part of you hopes it's Pope. But your heart sinks when you realize it’s a notification from Smurf. A wire transfer of $400 and a little ‘good girl’ memo, just so you don’t forget whose in charge. 

With a low huff, you sink back into your pillows, stomach twisting. How could Smurf possibly know what happened last night? Did Pope tell her? Had Smurf sent Pope to you?

You hadn’t gone home with him last night with a paycheck on your mind. You’d just wanted to be around him. 

Glancing back at your phone, you realize you finally have enough money to go grocery shopping for the first time in a while. 

No going back now. 

You have a tendency to follow Deran along wherever he leads you. Usually, you’re bored and looking for something interesting to occupy your time with. Most of the time, though, you have this feeling of obligation to him. For helping you more than he ever had to or even should have. 

Ultimately, that habit puts you right back at Smurf’s place. No matter how hard he tries–how hard any of them try–they always find their way back to her. There’s something magnetic about her that pulls the boys right into her orbit, even if they know they should have left years ago. 

Deran lounges by the pool while you get some water out of the fridge. You survey the area outside. The party is smaller this time. Likely thrown so Smurf could do business with someone, though you never have much clue what she gets up to. 

The sliding glass door opens, and you straighten up. The devil herself walks through, that familiar smirk on her face. “What’re you doing in here, baby?”

“Just getting something to drink,” you answer, moving out of her way as she gets some food she’d made out of the fridge. “I wanted to talk to you, actually.”

“Oh,” she hums, brows lifting as she motions you on. 

You lick your lips, swallowing roughly. It’s hard to string the right words together. To find that magical combination that will keep you looking like prey in her eyes, rather than another competitor. “You don’t–” Huffing, you start over, forcing yourself to meet her eyes.

“You don’t have to keep paying me.” 

She shakes her head, feigning cluelessness and your nails bite into the plastic of your water bottle. “For Pope. I don’t mind keeping him entertained for you, but I don’t want you to keep paying me.”

“Now,” she chuckles, leaning against the counter. “Why would I stop? It’s not like you’re dating him, sweetheart. You’re just doing me a favor.”

Because it's wrong. Because every goddamn person in his life is using him in some way. And you can’t let yourself be someone like that to him. 

“Right, well, I don’t need to be paid for it.”

Smurf smiles, tilting her head as she swaggers up to you. She drapes her arm around your waist, leading you outside. “C’mon, I want you to meet someone.” You want to dig your heels into the floor and stop her, but you don’t have a choice. 

She leads you over to a balding man in an ill-fitting Speedo. There are already three girls surrounding him, each in skimpy bikinis with eager smiles. But that doesn’t stop him from turning his lecherous gaze onto you when Smurf brings you over. 

“Honey, this is Robert. We’re working out some business right now. But I thought I’d introduce him to the girls.” She sets her chin on your shoulder, lips brushing your ear. “Do I need to introduce you to him, too?”

You jerk out of her grip, stomach turning as you take in the other man. “I’ll take the money,” you hiss out, meeting her eye with a sharp glare. 

“That’s what I thought,” she grins. “Go on, enjoy the party,” she urges you along, and you run off to find Deran. You can hear that man objecting behind you. His arms are already full of beautiful women, but he’s still a greedy pig. 

Your throat tightens with nausea as you throw yourself down on the pool chair beside Deran. Why would you have ever thought that would work?

If Smurf stopped paying you, that would be like admitting defeat. She’d be accepting that Pope actually has someone stable in his life. Someone who wants to be with him and around him. It would be admitting that she made a mistake. She had given you permission to enter his life and had given him access to the affection and care she weaponizes against him. 

It’d be like his leash was switching hands. And she couldn’t have you cutting him free; of course she couldn’t. 

You can’t believe you were stupid enough to think she’d conceded so easily. 

“Everything okay?” You jump, the sound of Deran’s voice catching you off guard. 

You force a smile onto your face, shoving down your discomfort. “Yeah, of course.” You motion toward Robert and redirect the conversation. “So, what’s she got planned this time?”

“Fuck if I know,” Deran scoffs. He takes a hit from the blunt in his hand. “She doesn’t tell me shit until she wants something,” he mutters, smoke billowing out of his mouth. 

You hum, but you’re barely paying attention now. Something else has begun to occupy your thoughts. Well, someone else. Glancing over your shoulder, you see him. 

Pope is lingering. That feels like an ill-fitting word for him. Lurking, brooding, stalking, those all fit him much better. Lingering seems so meek for him. Still, you can’t deny, that’s exactly what he’s doing. 

He’s standing just at the perimeter of your space. Not approaching, just quiet in the corner of your vision. As if you might wave him away if he gets too close or takes up too much space. 

It’s a silly worry, but you can see it clearly on his face as his gaze keeps darting back to you. He crosses his arms, pretending to be watching the rowdy partygoers. A smile pulls at your lips; you can’t judge him. You used to struggle keeping your eyes off of him, it’s easier now that you don’t have to pretend. 

Deran lets out a rough sigh, and you force your attention back to him. “What?” you chuckle at the aggrieved look on his face. 

He nods toward his brother. “What do you think? He’s weird but never this fucking weird.”

“Watch it,” you scold, shooting him a playful glare as you toss a sidelong glance at Pope. He’s only a few feet away; you’re sure he can hear his brother being a dick. It’s funny, though, how he acts like he hasn’t been waiting to talk to you since the moment you showed up. 

“Have you guys fucked yet?”

You jump, head whipping back toward your friend. “Jesus, Deran, you make me sound like some sort of whore.” He shoots you a look that makes you laugh. “A lady doesn’t kiss and tell.”

“Oh, are you a lady now?”

“Thin ice,” you warn, shaking your head at him. He holds up his hands, but that shit-eating grin doesn’t leave his face. 

It’s dark by the time Deran passes out on the pool chair. The party has grown louder, and more people have shown up after sunset. You groan as you stand, shooting Deran an amused look as you leave him. He lets out a particularly loud snore as you brush past. 

You glance around the pool for your shadow. He hasn’t gone far. Just retreated into a quieter corner, eyes never leaving you as you approach. “It’s getting pretty rowdy out here,” you whisper conspiratorially as you move to stand beside him. 

He nods, eyeing the party before his gaze inevitably drifts back to you. “Are you not cold in that thing?” He nods toward your bikini, and you scoff. 

You place your hands on his bicep and prop your chin on his shoulder. “Maybe. Do you wanna help warm me up?” 

He swallows thickly, jaw clenching as he watches you. For a moment, you think you’ve finally got him. Then he looks away, rolling out his shoulders so you’re forced to let go. The rejection stings as you back up. “Don’t you have business to attend?”

Your brows furrow as you frown. “What?”

Pope just nods over toward the man Smurf had threatened you with earlier. You let out a disbelieving sigh, a stiff smile on your face as you shake your head. “Seriously?” you demand. Pope says nothing. “I’m not fucking him if that’s what you’re getting at.”

Before he can say anything else, you continue. “And I don’t do your mother’s business anymore. But you can go ahead and say what you’re thinking, Pope. I’m just another whore, right?”

Shaking your head, you move away from him and back toward the house. Somewhere inside, you know that this is irrational. Smurf is paying you. Not just that, but Pope is now your business. He wouldn’t be, if you had one fucking iota of control over your own life. 

But you’re certainly not leading him on with this idea that you’re exclusive just to be fucking someone else behind his back. It hurts that he would think that lowly of you. That after the time you’ve spent together, you’re still nothing more than a prostitute looking for a quick buck. 

You hear footsteps rushing up behind you before someone’s taking your wrist in their hand. Whipping around, you see Pope. He says nothing, just starts pulling you through the party. People part for him; they always do. 

“What are you doing?” you hiss, not making much of an effort to break free. 

He leads you to his bedroom, letting the door close behind him. You can see it, as the sounds of the party fade, his shoulders lose that stressed hunch. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, staring down at the ground, unable to meet your eye. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

Crossing your arms, you shrug. “Whatever. I can’t exactly blame you for not wanting to be with me.”

His head lifts, and he frowns. “That’s not what I meant. I just–” he cuts himself off with a sharp breath. His shoulders roll back as he takes a step closer to you. “I want to be with you. But I don’t share.” 

It took him a second to find the right word before settling on share. You doubt there’s a word succinct enough to say he doesn’t like his women sleeping with other men for cash. “I can’t stand it when you’re around other men. I just–” his eyes are wide with this slightly panicked look, as if he’s afraid of saying the wrong thing. Of pissing you off and having you run, again. 

You surge forward, dragging him down into a kiss. You like this more than you should. That little bit of insecurity in his voice. The slight possessiveness as his hands squeeze around your waist. It’s nice to be wanted rather than scorned for situations far out of your control. 

Your back is pushed gently against his door, and his hands cup your cheeks. Your hands drop to his wrists, flexing around them as he pushes you higher up the door. His thigh slots between your legs as you throw your arms around his shoulders, desperate for some leverage. His leg flexes, and your hips grind down, a soft gasp escaping you as his grip flexes around your waist. 

This is different. More rushed than what you’ve done with him before. There’s intent behind this kiss, especially behind the way his palms drift. He cups your ass, lifting you until your legs are wrapping around his hips. He shuffles you higher up his body, dragging you away from the door. 

Your hands find their way into his hair, grip tightening around his curls, trying to anchor yourself in whatever way you can manage. He lets out a low groan that makes nerves spark beneath your skin. “Pope, what’s gotten into you?” 

You let out a low sigh as he bends, placing you carefully on the bed. He surveys you for a moment, jaw flexing as he debates answering. He doesn’t say anything, just tugs his shirt off, arms and stomach flexing as he does. You reach for the string of your bikini top, tugging it loose. 

You let it sit on your chest, beckoning him closer and guiding one of his hands to the thin fabric. His lips drag down your neck, calloused palm eagerly ripping away your top. He tosses it somewhere behind him, and you sink back onto the bed, letting him take the lead. 

He hasn’t seemed confident in initiating much with you; you don’t want to discourage him now. 

His rough palms travel down your body, lingering at the band of your bottoms. When his wide eyes meet yours, you give him a little nod. He pulls, slowly, until the flimsy fabric dangles  from one ankle, then he settles back over you. 

His fingers skate across your stomach, touch barely there, but just enough to leave goosebumps in his wake. His lips marks a slow, intentional path down your body. He lingers at your chest, careful as he slowly mouths at your breast. 

His eyes dart between yours, like he’s waiting for you to scold him, push him away. You thread your fingers through his hair, nodding. You’re afraid of saying anything, of spooking him out of the moment. 

He sucks once and you tug at his hair, letting out a low whimper as his free hand tweaks your other nipple. “Pope,” you gasp out, spine arching into his touch. 

It’s so faint, so hesitant, you can’t stand how much of a tease he is. His eyes close as his hand wanders, searching. He wants to know how much you want him. Wants to feel it. 

Slowly, he parts from you; you have to stop yourself from reaching for him. His mouth descends until  he’s lingering  between your thighs. You spread your legs wider, making room for his broad shoulders. 

Just like everything else he’s done tonight, he’s tentative at first. A shallow dip of his tongue has you holding back a groan of frustration. You’re not trying to rush him; you want this to be good for him. To feel real. 

But it’s hard. You’ve wanted him for so long, and he’s right there, kneeling between your thighs, and there’s nothing you can do but be at his mercy. 

You tighten your grip around his hair, inching your hips ever closer to his mouth. His large arms wrap around your legs, keeping your back pressed flush to the bed. The corded muscles of his shoulders flex as he finally leans forward. You’re struck by the sight of his thick body pinning you down, the sudden urge to sink your teeth into him overwhelming. 

Instead, you tilt your head back, resisting the need. Your heart thumps fast, anticipation pushing you closer toward the steep edge of desperation. 

Something is flickering inside you, smoldering. A small flame sparked alive by the heat of his breath, catching like wildfire when you finally feel his mouth on you. He doesn’t hold back, ravenous as his hands flex around your thighs. 

A rumbling groan tears from deep within his chest, low and desperate with every swipe of his tongue. The vibrations leave you keening; your hips twitch, but his heavy arms keep you in place. He pulls away, ignoring your wanton mewl.  His hand pinches at your thigh and you look up. The second your hazy eyes meet his, he’s dipping back down. 

You could swear there’s a smile on his lips as his tongue thrusts into you, mouth greedy as he devours you. 

You wonder what he’s like with the women Smurf hires. 

You shouldn’t be thinking about her, not right now. 

But… does he take what he wants? Shove into them and take them until he finds release? Or is he tender with them, too? Reaching hopelessly for some sort of connection, one they’ll give him right up until the cash is in hand. 

You don’t want to be that; you want this. Want him. Want that desperate edge in his eye as he eats you like all he’s ever felt is hunger. Your hand tightens in his hair, a broken moan crawls up your throat as something inside you burns. The heat pools low, spreading to your every limb. Your muscles jump and contract as you squirm beneath his iron grip. 

The jerk of your hips, the sounds that splinter then shatter the moment they touch your lips, the closeness you demand with your fingers threaded through his curls— it all seems to spur him on. He buries his face deeper, tongue relentless as he burrows inside you, and the only thought your mind can conjure is Pope Cody. 

“F-Fuck— Oh, God,” you let out a sharp gasp. Losing all manner of control, you begin to writhe, grinding down on him until the fire burns so hot, it becomes cold. Pleasure crests over your body in waves, leaving you shivering. Your legs twitch, thighs practically closing around his head as his fingers dig into you, ten crescent moons carved into your skin. He doesn’t stop until you tug weakly at his hair. 

He’s panting slightly as he finally lets you go. When he pulls back, loosening his grip, your slick shimmers on his chin, though he doesn’t seem to care. His eyes are dark and dazed, but no less intense, as he watches you struggle to catch your breath. 

Following your gentle pull, he crawls up your body, letting his lips mark a trail as he goes. His rough hands knead and soothe your spasming muscles. 

You drag him into a lazy kiss, palms smoothing down his back as you wrap your legs around his waist. His length sits heavy in his boxers, you can feel it pressing against your hip, the wetness that grows as he flinches away from the pressure. 

Carefully, you push at his shoulders until he’s sitting on the bed. You follow once he’s settled, sliding into his lap.“You don’t have to,” he murmurs, hands hovering over your hips. Like he’s waiting for permission to touch you, despite the scent of you still on his breath or the messy sheen that’s drying on his chin.  

“I want to,” you promise, cupping his cheek and luring him into another soft kiss. Slowly, but surely, his palms find solace on your hips, and he nods into the affection. You rise on shaky legs and help him work his boxers down. 

He notices the slight quiver in your hands and guides them to rest on his shoulders as he lines himself up. You let out a shuddering sigh, lowering yourself onto him. Your breath catches as he fills you completely. He groans when you take a moment to adjust and it’s dizzying. All you want is to hear more. You want to know every pretty sound he can make, so you push him back, your hands sliding down to his chest as you lift your hips. 

It’s tentative and barely anything, you’re still slightly weak from before, but you can feel the anticipation tightening his grip into something almost painful. His fingers flex, like he’s trying to remind himself of control. 

“There we go,” you whisper, more to yourself as you find a steady rhythm. You peer down at him, noticing the clench of his jaw, the white knuckles of his hand. He won’t look at you. His gaze is far-out and set on the languid roll of your hips.

You let your nose trail along his flushed cheek as you wander lower,  pressing an open-mouthed kiss to his jaw. Your lips brush his ear, teeth just barely grazing. “You can touch me, Pope,” you promise. You settle back on his thighs, taking his heavy hands and dragging them to your breasts. “I’m all yours,” you whisper, enjoying the way his jaw loosens, wide eyes finding your own. “Only yours,” you swear.

That severe look softens as you slowly begin to circle your hips again, setting a steady pace. You let go of his hands, falling forward onto his chest as you brace yourself. Pleasure begins mounting again, the feeling of him inside you overwhelming as you pulse around him. 

Your body trembles as you begin to lose your rhythm, walls still fluttering from the feeling of his tongue. You’re too sensitive for this. It’s been so long since you’ve genuinely been with someone without performing that you’ve almost forgotten the right moves. 

Hesitantly, his hips buck, and you choke on your breath, sliding until your lips are pressed against his once more. Your hands drag up his chest, stroking his cheek as he winds his arms around your back. You set the pace, decide the rhythm, but his hips move in time, taking only as much control as you allow him. 

“There you go, just like that,” you pant, breathless as your stomach tightens. The encouragement seems to spur him on, his thrusts speeding up slightly. 

You pull back, biting your lip as you stare down at him. “God, that f-feels good.” His eyes light up, glimmering in a way you haven’t seen before. There’s a low, rumbling sound you quickly realize is coming from him, but it soon fractures into something softer, needier. “You’re doing so good,” you whisper, observing him intently. 

Your jaw drops open when you hear his voice, weak and wanton, stretching thin around a single word, over and over: “Yeah, y-yeah, yeah.” You gasp as he ruts up into you, reaching deeper than before. His movements are rushed, his brows furrowed; you can practically see his control fraying like old twine.  

He hits that spot inside you that has your vision going blurry and your nails biting into his chest as you cling to him. Your moans grow pitchy, drowning out his soft noises. Your attempt at keeping pace falls apart as you curl into him, your eyes shut so tight you begin to see spots whizzing around in the darkness. 

Despite the way you tighten and convulse around him, he keeps moving. Your spine arches, frozen and bowed in his unyielding grip. A drop of sweat rolls down his temple as his hips buck wildly. He’s speaking, you notice, muttering so quietly, your hazy mind can’t latch onto a single word. The only thing you can hear is the tide of raw desperation that rushes through and hollows out his tone. Then, his muscles pull taut; he holds you as close as he physically can, whining brokenly when he can’t drag you any closer. 

Chest-to-chest, you feel the heat of his breath rush over your face as his hips jerk, losing all coordination. Warmth. All you feel is his warmth as his head burrows into the crook of your neck and his length flexes helplessly inside you. 

With his heart thumping rapidly against yours, your fingers carding through his damp curls, you realize you broke your own rule. You hadn’t even thought about using a condom, let alone asking him to pull out. You wanted him. All of him. And now you have it. So you let him soften inside you as he carefully moves you under the sheets. 

You relish the ache in your body, succumb to the exhaustion in your bones. You’re pulled from a dreamless sleep when you feel the wet warmth of a washcloth between your thighs.

After a few moments, the bed dips beside you. Your hand wanders blindly, brow furrowing as you pat at the empty space. You don’t say a word as you grab his wrist, dragging him into your arms, closing the gap between you. He huffs softly—maybe a laugh, maybe a begrudging complaint, you’re not sure. It’s merely a rasp of breath, but it hitches, like it’s caught on something in his throat the second your fingers start to soothe the angry red marks on his freckled skin. Like a vow of surrender, he presses a kiss beneath your jaw, and you sigh. “Thank you,” he mutters, speaking the words into your skin, and you can only hum, pulling him closer. 

Your laughter wakes him up, echoing from the kitchen and just barely reaching his room. It’s a light sound, without the baggage that he’s grown so familiar with. Frowning, he scrubs his hand down his face and sits up. 

Sun spills in through the windows, marking the spot you’d been lying in the night before. His hand runs across the sheets. It’s cold enough that he knows you’ve been gone for a while. It’s an uncomfortable feeling that settles in his chest at the realization. 

It’s probably a sensation you’ve grown familiar with, considering how often he leaves you alone in bed. He hates that every time you’ve woken up and seen the indentation where his body was, he’s left you with this. But staying would be admitting to an attachment that’s dangerous for both of you. 

He throws the sheets back, getting up and dressing quickly. He’s interested in whatever's got you laughing so hard this early in the morning. When he steps out of his room, he shouldn’t be surprised to find his brother sitting with you. 

You and Deran are seated at the kitchen island, cereal shared between you as you laugh at something Deran’s said. His brother has that bored look on his face, unaware of how rare the sight of you smiling like that is. 

Pope’s never elicited a reaction like that from you. The thought makes something sharp and ugly curl in his gut. He grimaces, shaking his head. It’s not like he’s ever said anything worth laughing at. 

Humor’s never been his talent. Most people don’t recognize his attempts; they just stare at him with that look in their eyes. Like they’ve been waiting for him to leave since he walked up. 

You’ve never looked at him like that. 

Pope storms up to the kitchen, and your laughter slowly fades. Something in his chest tightens at that. Your eyes widen at the look on his face, and he sucks in a sharp breath. He snatches up the milk and shakes it at Deran. “Why don’t you learn how to put things back?” he snaps, glaring at his brother. 

Deran shoots him an offended look. The moment’s broken by your laughter. It’s the light kind of sound that usually only his brother earns. Your eyes narrow, and you give Pope a funny look. 

“Did someone wake up on the wrong side of the bed?” you tease. Pope lets out a huff, shaking his head as he puts the milk away. 

“Yeah, with you on the right side,” Deran mutters. Pope glances over his shoulder, whatever he was going to say gone as he realizes you’re dressed in nothing but his shirt. 

You kick Deran under the counter and scoff. “Fuck off,” laughter still lingers in your voice. Pope can appreciate the sight of you like this. Happy, uninhibited. Usually, when you’re over at the house, you always look like you’re one good scare away from running out the door. The work of Smurf, he’s sure. 

He wants to think he contributed to your mood in some way. But he’s never been good at improving moods, just learned not to make them worse. He likes the thought of one day being the reason you have a smile on your face, but he knows it’ll probably never happen. There’s a reason he’s got a poor track record with dating. 

You jump up from your seat, dropping your bowl in the sink. When Pope moves to put it in the dishwasher, you intercept. You throw your arms around his shoulders with a small smile. “Morning, you grump,” you tease, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. 

His hands hover over your waist, nearly returning the hug, but you’re already moving away. It’s so simple with you, isn’t it? Holding and knowing how to be held. It’s not such a foreign idea to you as it is to Pope. 

He wants to be comfortable with it, with you. But it’s hard to get rid of that feeling, like he’s ready to strip off his skin anytime you touch him so softly. Rougher is easier; it’s familiar. This just doesn’t make sense to him. That you’re around him willingly, that Smurf isn’t just paying you off to keep his head on straight. 

Pope’s still not sure how much he trusts this whole arrangement with you. He knows what you said, about not working, about only being with him. But he’d seen how Smurf had taken you aside last night, that terrified look in your eyes when you’d run off. 

A part of him is worried about what he’ll find if he digs much deeper than the surface. 

Deran lets out a disgusted sigh at the affection and moves outside. He leaves his bowl at the counter for someone else to clean. Pope glares at his brother’s back as you jump onto the kitchen counter beside him. You steal his attention easily. 

Pope could certainly get used to this feeling of someone being so eager to be the center of his attention. 

“What do you want to do today?” you ask, a lazy smile on your face. He knows he's greedy when he wishes he could keep that smile just for himself. To have you in a way no one else does, not even Deran. 

A part of him resents his brother for getting to you first. For being your friend first and making that unofficial claim on your time and presence. 

“You wanted to go to the boardwalk,” he reminds you, even though the idea sets his teeth on edge. He’d hate to be out in the sun surrounded by rowdy tourists and louder locals. But he knows you’ve been wanting to go, and you’ve been doing too many things he’s wanted to do.

Besides, he wants to hear you laugh again. Or get a real, genuine smile out of you. Not that teasing look that's ever-present on your face. 

“Seriously?” you scoff, tilting your head. “Don’t you hate that kind of thing?”

Yes. Pope just shrugs, focusing on cleaning up the mess Deran left behind, hoping you don’t notice the stiff posture of his shoulders or tight look on his face. “How about,” you slip off the counter and sidle up behind him, hand resting lightly on his back. 

“We catch a movie? It’s too hot to be outside, anyway.”

The weather’s perfect for a day out on the boardwalk. But he knows you’re lying for his sake. He should make the sacrifice to make you happy. But it’s surprising how easily you’ll switch your plans to accommodate him. It’s hard to say no to that. 

“Yeah, alright,” he agrees. You smile, turning off the sink and taking his hand in yours. You offer Deran an absentminded wave as you lead Pope outside. He relishes the eye roll his brother sends you. 

Maybe you’d had plans with Deran today. It didn’t really matter, though, because you’d chosen Pope. He’s almost tempted to gloat, but you’re still dragging him along behind you. 

Pope helps you up into his truck. Your phone lights up, and you glance down at it, the smile on your face fading. It looks like a notification that someone’s sent you money, but you’re closing the door before he can get a good look at it. 

He gets inside and watches you carefully. You bite at the skin around your thumb, leg bouncing as you type something out on your phone. His mind shouldn’t immediately go to the thought that it's a client paying you. 

You’d told him last night there wasn’t anyone else. And he knows Deran does his best to keep you away from all that, now. 

His knuckles go white around the steering wheel as he backs out of the driveway. 

Pope has no claim to you; he knows that. Even after all the time you’ve spent together, you still aren’t technically anything. But that doesn’t chase away the barbed feeling of possessiveness in his chest. He told you he doesn’t share, and he meant that. 

He can’t stand the idea of someone else being with you the way he had been last night. It makes something hot burn up in his stomach. The corners of his vision go dark as he glances over at you. 

“Everything alright?” you ask, frowning at him. 

He just nods, sucking in a sharp breath as he turns back to the road. You haven’t given him a reason not to trust you. 

The bell above the door rings out, and you already know who it is without looking. Pope takes his usual seat at the bar, and you grab him a beer. Just like he has the past few weeks, he’ll wait out the last hour of your shift with you and drive you home. You’ll turn on a movie, and Deran will still complain he can hear what you’re getting up to with his brother tomorrow morning. 

You smile at the thought, leaning against the bar as Pope watches you. “No plans tonight?”

He shrugs, taking a swig of his beer. “Smurf wanted me home for dinner.” He purses his lips, glaring down at the bar. “I don’t want to deal with that tonight,” he mutters, meeting your eye again. 

“I feel so special,” you tease, forcing the smile to stay on your face. 

But your heart is racing, adrenaline spiking in your blood. You do actually feel special that he would choose you over Smurf. But it’s worrying. You’ve never been a threat to her before, not really. 

All bets are off when it comes to Pope. She’s so terrified of what he could do if he stopped idealizing her in his head. If you begin posing a threat to her position with him, she won’t hesitate to take you out. 

Trying to distract yourself, you go back to topping off drinks and wiping down spills. You head into the kitchen to fetch a customer’s food. By the time you come back, there’s someone else waiting by the bar. 

It’s a tall man in a pressed suit with the posture of someone who holds themself in high esteem. Cop, you figure. Spend enough time with the Codys or working the jobs you used to, and you get good at sniffing them out. This one’s probably a detective based on that expensive watch he’s wearing. 

He’s eyeing Pope warily, probably well aware of his place in the Cody family. You’re sure they’re a hot topic at the station. “What can I get you?” you ask, walking back behind the bar.

A fool’s hope that he’s here for a shitty beer. He’s not even sitting down. Probably afraid to get a stain on his pants from Deran’s secondhand stools. The detective offers a smarmy grin and says your name. You hum, nodding. 

“I was wondering if you’ve seen this man?” He digs around in the inside of his blazer and pulls out a picture, sliding it across the bar. You bite your lip, innately aware of the stare burning into the side of your head. It takes all your self-control not to look over at Pope. 

Your stomach drops so violently that you worry you might throw up as you stare down at the picture. You recognize that face. Green eyes framed by wrinkles from a life filled with laughter. Blonde hair that had been going gray the last time you’d seen him. Tears line your eyes as you stare down at the image. 

You suck in a sharp breath, blinking a few times before looking back up at the detective. “Can’t say I have,” you tell him, plastering on a smile. “Should I be looking out for him? Did he do something?” You play the “concerned citizen” role well, but not well enough. 

He’d caught you off guard, sent you stumbling from that reminder of the past. 

The detective sucks his teeth, smile tightening at the edges as he shakes his head. “That won’t be necessary. His name is Joseph Barker. He was murdered three years ago. The case has been closed, but some new evidence recently came to light that has us reopening it.”

“Oh,” you hum, eyes wide with naivety. “I’m sorry, sir, I’ve never seen him before.”

The detective pulls out his wallet, takes out a business card, and places it down. “I want you to keep that,” he tells you, nodding to the picture. “And call me if anything… jogs your memory.” His eyes cut toward Pope before he swiftly leaves the bar. 

You let out a low breath and lean against the counter, head falling between your shoulders. “What was that?” Pope asks, breaking through the quiet. 

You lick your lips, picking up the card and picture. “Nothing,” you mutter, throwing them both in the trash. You turn around to Pope with a tight smile on your face. Shrugging haplessly, you just tell him, “I have no idea who that is. Ever heard of him?”

Pope stares at you for a long while. Long enough to make your skin crawl with the paranoia that he sees right through your long list of lies. Finally, he shakes his head. “No. I haven’t.”

“Weird,” you mutter, voice cracking around the word. You have to turn away from him. Scrubbing a hand down your face, you suck in a deep breath, willing yourself to get it together. His stare feels like a judgment weighing heavily on you for the rest of your shift. 

Pope’s mind is usually filled with a dozen different thoughts. What Smurf wants from him, worrying about his brother’s fucking something up, reminders of past failures. Lately, the new addition to that has been you. He normally likes his thoughts of you. They break through the rest of the noise and give him a chance to breathe. 

But his mind is jumbled up around how you’ve been acting. You’re barely ever looking away from your phone. Teeth always tearing through the skin of your nail beds until they bleed, uncaring as you frantically message someone on the other side of the screen. 

You’re jumpy and less touchy with him than you typically are. He has a hard enough time initiating with you, but you’ve been making it even worse by flinching at anything and everything. 

He was worried before; it’s only gotten worse since that detective stopped by the bar. You’ve withdrawn into yourself completely. You’re always quiet, with this look in your eyes that tells him you’re somewhere else completely. 

His worry is a poor excuse for what he’s doing right now. But there’s no one around to judge him but himself, and he’s never had particularly strong morals when it comes to protecting those he cares about.

Pope’s been following you all day. Trailing behind you in his truck, watching you run your errands and flit about town. You’ve never noticed him, not once. Which is worrying enough. He’s not been particularly subtle. Almost hoping that you’ll catch him so he can just confront you. 

He’s parked across the street from the gas station you’re at. Arm propped on his window as he watches you run inside. A sleek black car pulls up and parks beside yours. Pope frowns, shifting in his seat to get a better look as the detective from before gets out of the car. 

Detective Benson— he found out the name after he’d fished the man’s business card from the trash. He did a bit of digging into him. He typically handles the more Wall Street cases. Helps businessmen cover up their illicit affairs and bad investments. It makes sense that he’s got this Joseph guy's case. But Pope can’t figure out the connection back to you. 

He sits up as you come out of the gas station, reading your receipt and unaware of your surroundings. Benson walks up to you, cutting you off before you can get in your car. Pope can’t hear anything that’s being said, but he can see the shock on your face. How quickly it morphs into fear as you look around for an escape. 

You were lying to him. 

He knew that at the bar. You’d looked like you were on the verge of tears after the detective left. And he’s not blind. Pope knows you’d recognized the picture Benson had given you. But you weren’t willing to open up to him. 

You look flustered as Benson starts talking to you, holding up your hands and shaking your head. You try to escape back to your car, but he stops you, stepping in front of you and grabbing your shoulders. 

Pope shifts in his seat. He doesn’t appreciate just how comfortable this cop is getting with you. His hand is on the door handle, almost tempted to head out and help you. But you already look calmer, head hanging down as you nod. Benson backs off, pulling out his card again and handing it to you. 

You take it without objecting, lifting your head to watch as the detective drives off. Pope can see you thinking, your foot tapping as you stare down at the card. He’s willing you to turn around and throw it away. To just forget about the cop. 

Instead, you pinch your nose, shaking your head as you put the card in your purse and climb back into your car. 

Pope’s seen enough. He sucks in a sharp breath, white-knuckling the steering wheel as he pulls out and away. The information he needs, he isn’t going to get from you. 

He drives back to Smurf’s place. And he knows that he should have just come to her to begin with. But he’s cagey about you. She knows he’s spending his nights somewhere else now. Somewhere away from her. 

He hasn’t told her about you. Going to her, asking about this Joseph guy, he knows it’s going to point right back to you. But you’re not talking to him, and he doesn’t know what else to do. 

Pope lets out a rough sigh, scrubbing his hand down his face as he parks. He’s trying to think of anywhere else he could go. Anyone else he could talk to so he can figure out what your connection to a dead man is. But he knows what you used to do for his mother, who you were. She knows. He’s sure of it. 

He slams his truck door closed, storming up the front steps. He can hear her in the kitchen, making dinner. He’d forgotten she’d called a family dinner tonight. The last goddamn place he wants to be is surrounded by his family while he’s dealing with this shit with you. 

“Hey, baby,” she calls, glancing over her shoulder with a sharp smile. “Where you been?”

Pope leans against the counter, jaw flexing as he shakes his head. “Nowhere,” he mutters. She narrows her eyes but doesn’t question him further. “Do you know a Joseph Barker?”

Smurf frowns, tilting her head as she thinks. “Yeah,” she smiles at him and nods. “Yeah, I do.” She says your name, and the way her smile sharpens has his chest tightening. “He was her favorite. Something happened between them. Haven’t heard from him in years.”

Smurf shrugs with a helpless smile, but he knows she hasn’t been helpless a goddamn day in her life. “Not my business to tell, baby. Now, help me set the table.”

He takes the plates she hands him instinctively, going to arrange the table just like she asked. Her words ring through his head. Your favorite. He hadn’t realized escorts had favorite clients, but he guesses it makes sense. 

Doesn’t matter that the man’s been dead three years; something ugly and sharp still burns hot through his chest. He slams the plates down harder than necessary, thinking about you having a favorite anything. 

You’ve done everything she asked. 

And you did your job too damn well. That’s why she’s punishing you. It has to be. She wanted you to entertain Pope, keep him occupied, and stop him from spiraling. You did just what she asked. 

You entertained him, cared for him, provided him with the sort of affection she saves up until he’s desperate for any form of contact. Until he’s practically broken. You’ve done your best to stop him from breaking, and that’s exactly why she’s doing this now. 

Smurf is bringing ghosts back, sending the cops on your trail so you remember just why you’re so afraid of her. It’s what she has on you that has kept you so compliant for years. 

You were only meant to entertain Pope. Not become something to him that has him skipping family dinners and ignoring Smurf’s calls. You’ve created this gap between her and him that has her trying to scare you into submission now. You’re so certain she’s the reason “new evidence came to light” on Joseph’s case.

But you have no idea what you’re supposed to do. There’s nowhere you can run, not now. You’ve never been particularly good at covering your trail. She’s the one who’d taken care of everything. Sworn that it was over and done with. 

You pace your living room, biting at your lip and trying not to break down. What the fuck are you going to do now?

Someone knocks on your front door, and you nearly scream. Clutching your racing chest, you turn toward it, debating not answering. Maybe it’s that detective again. Coming by with more questions. 

He’d got you at the gas station today. Tricked you into admitting that you knew Joseph. He got in your head with all that soft bullshit about wanting to help you—– you just had to be honest with him. You’re fragile, and you’re fucking stupid, slipping up like that. 

“It’s me,” Pope calls from the other side. You can’t tell if it's relief or panic that has your stomach swooping. 

“One sec,” you call, voice cracking. Grimacing, you rush up to the door, opening it up for him. “Hey, thought you had a family dinner tonight?” Your smile is tight at the edges, crumbling under the weight of your panic. 

You know your eyes are wide, expression bordering on desperate. You just don’t know if you’re desperate for him to stay or leave. In some strange way, he terrifies you. He sees so easily through all your lies and defenses. He knows something is wrong with you, but he hasn’t probed. And that’s what's scary. 

Because if he hasn’t felt like digging deeper, then what does he already know?

“Left early,” he tells you, stepping inside. Your forehead falls to the door, and you suck in a trembling breath as you try to get your shit together. 

With a quiet exhale, you turn around. His back is to you as he takes in the mess of your living room. A result of your earlier breakdown this morning. “Did you need something—”

“Whose Joseph Barker?” His voice is rough, eyes sharp as he turns to face you. Your nails bite into your palms as your mouth opens. But nothing comes out. You flounder, back pressed to the door as you shake your head helplessly. 

Pope huffs, crossing his arms as he glares at you. He’s not easing up in the slightest. “I talked to Smurf. I know he used to be one of your clients. You lied to me.”

“I—” your voice cracks, and you feel your chest heave as you drag in a breath. “I had to,” you mutter, pinching your eyes shut as you fight back tears. “Please, Pope, I don’t want to do this right now.”

“Too bad,” he snaps, voice making you jump. 

Why is he here?

Did she send him?

“You lied to me. I want to know why.” He stalks closer, and you dart away from the door, trying to put as much space between you as you can. Your eyes flit over his body, the way he pauses as he watches you run. His hands— loose at his sides. 

You would be able to tell, wouldn’t you? If he was going to hurt you. You want to think you would know. But it’s Pope… As much as you think you mean something to him, you will never be Smurf. 

“I couldn’t tell you the truth, Pope, okay? I still can’t.” You want him to leave. But you’re too afraid to say that. Your hand shakes at your side as you watch the way he blocks your door. He’s probably not even doing it on purpose, but it feels like the goddamn walls are closing in on you. 

He looks away from you, lips pursing as he sucks in a sharp breath. “Smurf told me he was one of your clients. That something happened—”

“God,” you scoff, cutting him off. “Are you really gonna trust a goddamn thing that woman says?”

His eyes flit back to you, and he shakes his head. “How am I supposed to know what to believe?” There is something so painfully broken open on his face. The sort of pain that’s only caused when someone you care about lies to you. And you’d done that. Repeatedly, you’ve lied to him about everything in your relationship. 

Your head drops as you rub your hand down your face. You can’t look into those hurt eyes of his for another second, or he’s going to break you open completely. “Okay,” you whisper, voice breaking around the word. 

He takes a step closer, but you can’t handle the proximity. Not while it feels like your ribs are seizing around your lungs. You shake your head, backing up and pacing away from him. “I knew him, okay? He was my client, you’re right.”

Pope watches as you pace, brows drawn in. Something guarded falls over his face. “She said he was your favorite.”

You pause, eyes lifting back to his. He can’t seriously be jealous of a dead man. “Yeah,” you scoff. “He was my favorite. That doesn’t mean a whole lot in my line of work. He didn’t hurt me, alright?” Not at first, anyway. “And I appreciated that.” Something flickers in his eyes, anger on your behalf that you’re not interested in. 

You look away from him, throat tightening as you try to find the right words to explain what happened. How it all went wrong. He takes a step closer, and your eyes dart warily to him. “Tell me,” his voice is softer now, a pleading edge to it. 

Sighing, you take a seat on your couch. He hovers beside you, waiting until you motion him over. He leaves some space between you, eyes intent on your face. “He was the first client Smurf ever assigned me to.” 

Licking your lips, you shake your head. “And the reason I needed Deran to get me out. It was… good, at first. I was still new, still fresh to the game. It was harder for me to remember that being with him was a paycheck. He made me laugh, and he never made me feel bad about who— about what I was.”

You finally look up; Pope hasn’t taken his eyes off you. His arm is draped over the couch behind you, his hand placed in his lap. But he’s tilted toward you, resisting the urge to touch you like you know he wants to. To try to ground you the way you do for him. 

“I killed him, Pope. What do you want me to say?”

You wait for it. The flicker in his eyes, the shock, maybe a little fear—though, you doubt he’s afraid of you. Something that registers just how despicable a creature you are. He tilts his head, “Is that it?”

You let out a sharp scoff, staring at him in disbelief. “Is that it?” You jump off the couch, whirling around on him. He remains seated, staring up at you with pensive eyes that make you so angry for some reason. “Pope, I thought I loved him, and then I fucking killed him. What do you mean, is that it?”

“Why?” He prods. 

“Why?” You let out take in a deep breath and forcing yourself to calm down. “Does that even matter?”

“Yeah,” he shoots you a sharp look, finally getting to his feet. “It matters. Tell me why.”

You can’t quite meet his eyes, staring down at your hands. It’s jarring, thinking about that night. You’ve done your very best to forget as much of it as you can. He finally reaches out, taking your hands in his own and stopping you from picking at any more of your skin. A little bit of blood blooms around the edges of your nail, and you grimace. 

“He wanted to play a game. I said I didn’t like it, but he insisted. And… He wouldn’t stop when I told him to. I got scared, really scared for the first time since I’d been with him. I forgot that he was paying for my time, that I really didn’t deserve a say. I grabbed whatever I could reach, a fucking pillow of all things, and I hit him.”

You clench your eyes shut as you think of it. “It caught him off guard, and he fell over. Knocked his head on the edge of the nightstand. I just watched as he spasmed on the floor, as blood started pooling under him. I didn’t know what to do, so I…”

You suck in a sharp breath, your confession a whisper. “I ran.”

What you don’t tell him is how you called Smurf, told her what happened. She’d told you to leave the key to the room under the motel’s mat. That she’d take care of it. You never knew what she did with the body. But you’d been so panicked, you didn’t question why she wanted to deal with it herself. Why didn’t she just tell you to deal with it? 

You still don’t know what it is she has over you. An admission of where you were that night? Pictures of you and him together? Or maybe, just your DNA on the body. Whatever it is, it’s had you on a tight leash, tethered to her for the past three years. And if Pope knows about that, you’re afraid of how deep he’ll dig into your relationship with him. Of what he’ll find out if he goes looking. 

“Do you think someone can be forgiven?” You ask, looking up at him. “For hurting someone they love?”

To your surprise, his eyes water slightly as he stares down at your hands. “Pope?” you question, dipping down to try and catch his eye. He blinks a few times and sniffles, looking away from you. “What happened?” you ask softly. 

He shakes his head. “Nothing,” he tells you. 

Your eyes narrow as you glare at him. “You think I don’t know that look? What happened?”

He sucks in a shaky breath and purses his lips, finally meeting your eye. “I don’t think I can be forgiven,” his voice cracks around the words, and you tug him closer, dragging him down into a hug. 

He presses his cheek to your shoulder, arms tight around you as his shoulders shudder. “I killed Cath,” he mutters, voice muffled against your skin. Your eyes fly wide, and you struggle not to tense up beneath his touch. 

“Smurf had told me she was talking to the cops, and I— I killed her. I hurt her,” his voice is breaking down, and you can feel your heart pounding against your chest. You hold him tighter against you, a shield so he can’t pull back and see the terror in your eyes. 

You’ve always been afraid of what he’s capable of under Smurf’s command. But in some—ridiculously stupid—way, you’d thought there were exceptions to how far he would go for her. You should have known better. 

Pope never stood a chance against that woman. She’s had her nails dug in since he was a baby, promoting the idea that there was no room in his life for any other woman but her. You thought love, real love, would stop that, but you were wrong. 

He cries as you hold him, and you grimace. Would he do the same to you if she told him to?

This was a reach for normalcy, you’re sure. 

Things between you and Pope have been off ever since you told him about Joseph and he told you about Cath. The pair of you are practically perfect for each other: always hurting the people you love. 

Things with him feel more intense now. Like you’ve shared these secrets, and there’s no going back. You’re both stuck with each other. You wouldn’t mind it if you just didn’t know about Cath. More specifically, if you didn’t know that he had been in love with Cath when he killed her.

You don’t judge him for it, not in the way you should. You’ve seen how Smurf gets into her sons’ heads; you see how she used to hurt Deran with her expectations of him. 

But he knew how to break away from her, at least marginally. Pope never got that chance. At each and every opportunity for a positive influence in his life, she cut it off. Even if that meant being the reason her own daughter was dead. 

To try and settle yourselves from the tension and the perception shattering reveals… he’s taken you out to dinner. It’s a nice restaurant; you’ll give him that. Nicer than where you typically go. The menu isn’t cheap laminated plastic, and your elbows don’t stick to the table. 

You’re surrounded by happy couples. They’ve either got rings on their fingers, or that content look in their eye that they’ve found the right person to spend their life with. The place is perfect on paper. 

But you aren’t. 

You’re unsettled, scared, and incapable of sitting with your back to the door because you’re so afraid of who could come up behind you. Smurf has gotten into your head with all the investigation bullshit she’s been throwing at you. As much as you want to enjoy this with Pope, you can’t. 

You’re too busy thinking about whether or not she’s fuming that he’s not at home right now. Is tonight the night she turns you in? Or tells him to hurt you?

Sucking in a sharp breath, you force yourself to focus on the menu. You can feel Pope’s stare burning into you, but you can’t find the energy to meet his eye. 

“Do you like it?” He suddenly asks, probably about the restaurant. 

You force a stiff smile on your face and nod. “It’s nice,” you mutter, unable to come up with anything better. His expression tightens, and he narrows his eyes at you. “Really, Pope,” you let out a stiff laugh. “You did good.”

That’s not enough to make him feel better, but he accepts it, at least. The waitress comes up, and you don’t even know what you order, just blindly saying whatever Pope did. The table is quiet as you eat. You’re one of the only couples in the place not whispering to each other or getting lost in each other’s eyes. 

He doesn’t prod, which you appreciate. After dinner, you take his hand and lead him down from the restaurant to the beach outside. You sit down on the sand, enjoying the way the moon’s light reflects off the waves. 

He settles beside you, arm pressed to yours, and watches the water wash across the sand. “Can I ask you something?” You rest your chin on your knees, turning toward him. 

“What?” He doesn’t take his eyes off the water. 

You think of something Deran had once told you, about Pope being a nickname. “What’s your name?”

Pope lets out a little laugh, turning toward you. “You don’t know?”

You click your tongue with a disappointed sigh. “I thought it was Pope for a while, honestly.” 

He leans in close, tone almost teasing. “Why’re you asking now?”

“Because I want to know you, not…” Not the man Smurf made you into. “Humor me?”

The slight smile he’d had slips from his face as he turns back toward the waves. “Andrew,” he admits, his voice soft with what sounds like vulnerability. Something guarded falls over his face, and you look away. 

“Andrew,” you whisper, testing it out. He turns toward you, and you can tell he likes how it sounds on your tongue. “So… Where the hell did Pope come from?”

That earns a laugh from him. You grin, turning to catch his eye as he looks over at you. His smile fades slightly as his lips twitch, shoulders hunching up. “When I was younger, I started going to church. I didn’t really know what to do with myself, and I figured if anyone could help, it would be God.”

He sniffles and looks away from you, gaze distant as he stares out at the ocean. “I got close to one of the priests at the church. Smurf and Baz found out. They made me use that connection to rob the place.” His voice cracks slightly as he continues, but his expression remains guarded. He doesn’t want you to think it still affects him. 

“He tried to stop us, and I beat him with a fucking bible,” he scoffs and shakes his head. “They’d always called me Pope. For being… different. It just stuck after that.” 

Bile burns in your throat as you watch him, but he won’t look at you, not now. After everything he’s told you, does he really think that’s what's going to scare you off? It just makes you hate Smurf more. 

You wish you could have known him when he was younger. That you could have helped him in any way. But he never really stood a chance. 

“I like Andrew better,” you whisper, leaning your head on his shoulder. He doesn’t say anything, just presses his head to yours, taking in a deep breath as his body goes lax under you. 

You can’t keep this up much longer. 

Pope wakes up to a message from you, asking to talk. His chest tightens as he takes in a short breath. He hasn’t had a lot of normal relationships, but even he knows that’s never a good sign. 

Pocketing his phone, he pinches his eyes shut, shaking off the feeling and heading into the kitchen. Smurf stands by the oven, flipping pancakes. “Breakfast is almost ready, baby,” his lip curls at the pet name. 

He’s not particularly interested in spending the morning with her. It’s been harder to stomach being around her after he learned about what you’d done to Joseph. There are these questions bursting at the seams of his lips. 

The type of questions that would only lead to trouble for you and him. 

Smurf turns from the stove and offers him a saccharine smile. She says your name, catching him off guard. He turns toward her with narrowed eyes, and that smile grows cruel. “Have you seen her around lately, baby?”

He clears his throat, shaking his head as he reaches out to straighten the plates she’d put out. “Why?”

Smurf lets out a little laugh and shrugs, plating some fruit and pancakes, passing it off to him like he’s a child incapable of getting himself his own food. There’s such a confusing divide between how she treats him and what she expects from him. Infantilizing him while demanding perfection. 

“I, uh, I got a business associate I’d like her to meet.” She offers a conspiratorial wink that makes his stomach sour. “He’d have some fun with her,” she mutters. She glances up through her lashes at him, just waiting for him to take the bait. 

Pope’s hands tighten around the edge of the counter as he glares down at his plate. “Is she still working for you?” he asks, voice strained. 

Smurf tilts her head with an obviously forced look of confusion. “Didn’t she tell you? I’m sorry, baby, I thought you knew.” 

Pope knows better, at this point, than to blindly believe her. Smurf does this with anyone he starts to get too close to. He’d like to believe he’s been subtle about you, good at keeping you behind closed doors. But she knows. She always knows. 

And she always finds a way to make him start to doubt. To make him start questioning what he thought was real. He doesn’t want that to happen with you. Not like it did with Cath. Not like…

Not like Julia. 

“I’m not hungry,” he tells her, voice strained with barely restrained anger as he storms out of the house. Her smirk bores into his back as he goes. 

You weren’t still working with her; you’d told him that. And after finding out what happened with Joseph, he doubts that you would ever willingly go back to that life. You don’t need to, either. You have him now; if you were struggling, he’d take care of it. Take care of you. 

He gets into his truck, knee bouncing as he stares out the windshield. After debating for a moment, he pulls out his phone. He swipes to the location app he’d installed, the same one he’d added to your phone when you’d been in the bathroom the other night. 

Your icon pops up… driving right toward some scummy motel off the highway. 

His chest seizes as he stares down at the address. Smurf’s words echo through his head. He knows she’s lying, that she’s just trying to get under his skin. But that doesn’t stop the images that start barraging his thoughts. 

Thinking of… someone else getting to touch you, to be with you. 

You choosing someone else… 

Something white-hot and furious floods him, has him peeling out of the driveway before he can really think about what he’s about to do. 

He follows the app’s directions toward you, not stopping until he’s parked at the far entrance of the motel. It doesn’t take him long to spot you. You’re still in your car, biting your nail as you stare down at your phone. 

Your eyes are frenzied in a way he’s never seen before on you. Everything about you seems off-kilter. This is a new low for you, he hasn’t ever seen you get to this point before. Not even when you were telling him about Joseph. You must be scared, then. You must know that this is wrong. 

And, still, he watches as you get out of the car, sucking in a deep breath before turning toward the stairs. Pope sits there. He should be getting out of the truck, dragging you back to your car, and demanding to know what you think you’re doing. 

But he doesn’t, because he’s willing you to turn back around. To change your mind and drive off. You don’t. 

He’s practically cucking himself as he watches you knock on one of the doors. A man opens it, close in age to you, and relatively good-looking. Not the type that should be in a scuzzy place like this. 

Pope opens up his glove compartment, pulls out the gun inside, and tucks it in the waistband of his jeans. He has no thoughts as he throws open the truck door, no plan for what he’s going to say to you to explain his presence. He’s not going to tell you he’s been tracking you. Clearly, you’re hiding things from him, too. 

Just as he gets out, the motel door closes. You move inside and stand in front of the open window. He waits a moment, but you take a seat at the table. The man sits across from you. Neither of you makes a move toward the bed. Instead, you seem to be talking amicably with him. 

Maybe this is another one of your “favorites.”

The thought leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. 

The man you’re with slips something across the table to you. You grimace, glancing around. You seem to just be noticing the open curtains. Jumping up, you’re quick to pull them closed. Pope can just barely make out your silhouette behind them. 

He glances down at his watch with a sigh. You get two minutes, and then he’s coming in. Pope leans against his truck, eyes trained on the scummy door. The waiting is agonizing. Two minutes shouldn’t feel this long to him. 

You might not be meeting a client right now, but it’s clear that you’re still hiding something from him. He thought that after he’d told you about Cath, that would be it. You would realize you don’t have to hide anything from him anymore. He’d given you information that could end him if you wanted to. 

Checking his watch, he starts toward the stairs just as the door opens. “Shit,” he hisses, ducking back behind his truck. You walk out of the room with a little wave to the other man. You don’t look disheveled; your clothes don’t look like they’ve been put back in a rush. He lets out a sigh, but relief doesn’t lessen the pressure of his chest as he takes in the large yellow envelope in your hand.

Your head lifts, brows furrowing as you look around the parking lot. Pope ducks and moves behind his truck. He waits before popping his head back out. You’re already getting back into your car. 

He keeps his gaze intent on you as he pulls out his phone, dialing your number. He sees through your window as you jump, glancing down at your phone with a grimace. After too long hesitating, you answer. 

“Hey,” you offer awkwardly. He almost wants to smile at the way you shake your head at yourself. 

“Where are you?” He asks, getting into his truck as you start your car. 

He hears the way you swallow, fingers bouncing against your steering wheel as you sigh. “Grocery store, why?”

Why is it so easy for you to lie to him?

His jaw tenses as he works to control the tone of his voice. “You said you wanted to talk,” he grits out. 

“Uh, yeah. Not on the phone, it’s kind of a lot.” Your head falls back onto your seat as you let out a heavy breath. “Are you free tonight?”

“Yeah,” he mutters. “I’ll see you later.” He hangs up before you can respond, tossing his phone into the other seat. You frown down at your phone for a second before pulling out of the parking lot. He starts his truck, intent on following you when someone messages him. 

His fingers drum against the steering wheel, staring after you, before he finally picks his phone back up. Smurf’s name is the last thing he wants to see. 

Come home. 

Now. 

Of course, she doesn’t tell him why. She calls, he comes. That’s just how it works. That’s just how it always works. 

Pope throws his phone back and turns in the opposite direction you went. Right back to Smurf, ever the obedient son. 

“I was in the middle of something,” he calls out as he storms into the house. He’s expecting Smurf as he heads into the kitchen. But J standing beside her is disconcerting. Especially that look he’s got on his normally stoic face. 

J meets Pope’s eyes, and he swears there’s an apology in them. The oddity of it tames some of the anger broiling inside him. 

“You’re going to want to hear this,” Smurf tells him, lacking that normal saccharine tone she lays on too thick. 

Pope freezes, eyes darting between the pair before slowly nodding. Smurf lets out a low sigh, though he truly doubts this is hurting her as much as she’s pretending. Slowly, she slides a piece of paper over to him. He’s annoyed by the drama of it all and glares over at J before flipping it. 

His nails dig into the counter as he looks down at a picture of you. You’re standing in front of the police station, hand on Detective Benson’s arm as he stares down at you. It certainly looks damning. 

“Are you following her?” He grits out, eyes flitting up to meet Smurf’s. 

Her expression hardens as she scoffs. She glances over to J, but he looks less than enthused about involving himself. “You’ve had bad taste in women before, but this is a new low, baby.” Pope shakes his head, passing the picture back to her. 

“You know why they’re looking into her. That doesn’t mean anything.” It feels petulant to argue about this with her. He always feels so childish butting up against her because she is so good at making everything he says small. 

“Michael, one of my old associates and one of her former clients, was arrested today. Someone sent in an anonymous tip about his more illicit business practices. His warehouse got raided. And I’m supposed to think it’s a coincidence your girlfriend just happens to be talking to cops, right now?”

“It wasn’t—”

“I’ve been keeping an eye on her,” J interrupts. “She’s been around the cops, man. A lot for someone who seems so scared of them.”

Pope leans against the counter, letting out a low groan as his shoulders hunch over. He shakes his head. “No. It’s not like that.” But he doesn’t even know if that’s true. He doesn’t know if he can trust you not to hurt him. Not to hurt his family. 

You’re desperate, and you’re feeling cornered. People have done worse for lower stakes than avoiding a murder charge. 

“Why wouldn’t you come to me?” He asks Smurf, eyes cutting over harshly to J. A warning to keep his mouth shut if he doesn’t want it shut for him. 

Smurf takes a step closer, and Pope backs up, watching her warily. She tilts her head with a sympathetic sigh. “Has she not told you, baby?”

He sucks his teeth, shaking his head. “Told me what?”

Smurf makes a disparaging noise that sets his teeth on edge. “I’ve been paying her to keep you company.” His chest tightens, and he jerks back, wishing J weren’t here right now. It’s bad enough Smurf is saying this to him; he doesn’t need a goddamn audience. 

He wants to object; he knows that's not true, and she just keeps going. “She’s not your girlfriend, baby. She’s just another whore who will do anything for the right price. And now, she’s someone we need to take care of. I’m worried about you, Pope. You knew she was talking to the cops, and you didn’t come to me?”

Pope has nothing to defend himself with. He doesn’t even want to. He just stands there, lungs tightening with pain as he tries to catch his breath. She was paying you to be with him. 

Was anything with you real?

“Are you still with us?” Smurf asks, tone biting. 

“What?” Pope croaks out, ignoring the way his eyes have begun to burn. 

“You knew that someone close to you— close to me was going to the cops. And you didn’t say anything. Are you going to let this girl, a nobody, hurt your family? You’re going to let her get away with this?” 

Smurf and J both stare at him with these expressions of betrayal. It’s muted in J. The kid holds everything so close to his chest; it’s the exact opposite of how Julia had been. And Smurf… she’ll say anything, do anything to make him hurt. Because for once, he’d been paying someone else more attention. Giving you more priority. 

But you’d just been another one of her girls. Playing the long game to keep him docile. 

“I’ll take care of it,” he whispers. 

Smurf glances over at J before leaning in close to Pope. “Just like Cath, baby,” she mutters, and something inside him snaps. 

He lets himself in with the copy he’d made of your key. It’s better if he doesn’t give you a chance to prepare. There’s a shuffling in your room, the sound of frantic footsteps as you rush from one side of the room to the next. 

Pope slowly makes his way through the apartment as he takes in the wreck you’ve made of it. Drawers opened and emptied. Random pieces of paper scattered throughout, sheets and blankets tossed around the living room. It looks like someone came through and raided everything. 

He walks into your room and watches you rip out all the clothes from your closet. You turn away from it and catch sight of him standing in front of your door. “Jesus!” You shout, jumping back, clothes falling to the floor. 

Letting out a laugh, your eyes widen and dart toward your bed. He follows your gaze, sees a suitcase open on the floor. That yellow envelope you’d gotten from the motel right on top. He looks back at you as you rush over and kick it to the side. 

“I thought you’d call first,” you deflect, giving him a flustered smile. It’s strained, shadowed by the panic in your eyes. When he doesn’t say anything, the smile falls. “Did I leave the door unlocked?”

Pope takes another step into the room, and you eye him warily, but you don’t back away as he expects. You move closer, face creased with concern. He doesn’t know if you’re worried for him or about him. He thought he knew you, thought he could read you. 

You loved proving him wrong, apparently. 

His hands flex at his sides, the gun in his waistband a heavy weight on his back. He doesn’t know why he brought it. Probably because Smurf was watching him, expecting it. Pope knows he could never look in your eyes and pull the trigger, even with how much you’ve lied to him. He’s too weak. 

Too pathetic. 

“Have you been talking to the cops?”

Your brows furrow, and you nod. Easy admittance makes him doubt you. Everything you’ve done up to this point makes him doubt you. “Yeah, I’ve been trying to get that detective off my ass.”

“Have you taken on other clients?” He demands, not letting you have a chance to tie your story together. 

“No,” you take a step forward, but the look on his face has you stopping short. “Andrew, why are you asking me that? You know you’re the only person I’m seeing.”

“Your only client,” he corrects, watching as your face falls, panic blanketing your features. “Smurf told me. Did you think I wouldn’t find out?” He demands, stalking toward you. To your credit, you don’t back down. 

Your eyes crinkle like you want to cry, but you don’t run away. “You’re lying to me. Again!” He snaps, voice rough as he sucks in a shaky breath. 

You bite your lip, swallowing thickly as you shake your head. “Please, I am begging you to listen to me. I love you, Andrew,” he jerks away from you as you reach for him. But you don’t stop, rushing forward and taking his face in your hands. He could fight you, but he lets you redirect his gaze back to yours. 

“I didn’t have a choice,” your voice cracks as you grimace. “Smurf, she would have made me take on more clients if I didn’t take the money. She—” you bite your lip, and your voice softens into something painful. “She knows about Joseph, okay? She took care of the body. She’s the one sending the cops after me.”

His hands come up to cover yours, and you smile, but then he’s pulling away from you. Eyes narrowing as pain seizes his chest. “You lied about that, too?”

“No, I— Fuck,” you groan, dragging your hands down your face. 

“How am I supposed to trust anything you say? I’ve followed you,” Pope admits. There’s no shame in him as you look at him in surprise. “I saw you at the motel today. Who were you meeting with if that wasn’t a client?”

“I can explain that,” you rush out, breathless as you turn toward your suitcase. You grab the yellow envelope, your hands fumbling as you pour the contents out on your bed. There’s a stack of cash, some cards, and two passports that scatter across your comforter. You pick up two of the cards and turn back to him. 

“Smurf isn’t just idly threatening me with this Joseph thing, alright? So I’ve been meeting up with old friends and contacts. Trying to put together enough to get out of here.” He looks at you with hurt in his eyes. 

You were running… 

He shouldn’t be surprised. 

“But,” you hold the cards out to him. “I’ve been waiting for you.” Glancing down, he sees they’re new IDs; one of them has his picture on it. “I thought we could go together,” you rush out, a manic smile on your face as you nod. 

“You weren’t going to leave me?”

You suck in a sharp breath and shake your head. “No, I swear. I know I haven’t given you a good reason to trust me, but I wouldn’t do that to you. Andrew, please, just look at me.”

He grits his teeth, finally meeting your eyes. A few tears run down your cheeks as you wait for him to say something. But he doesn’t know what he could say to you. He remembers when Smurf sent him after Cath. 

She’d told him that she’d been talking to the cops. That she was putting the family in danger. And he had done what she’d wanted. He’d killed Cath, the woman he was in love with. He can’t—

It makes him sick to think of pushing you down on the bed, to put a pillow over your face as he’d done to her. His hands twitch at his sides as you reach up, cupping his cheek. “I love you, Andrew. And you don’t have to believe me, okay? But I wouldn’t leave you, not without telling you first.”

There have been a lot of women in his life who have said they’d loved him. He used to believe Smurf when she said it, until it started to feel empty. Until it became something that hurt him. He’d believed Julia, and then he’d left her. Cath had never meant it. 

But you do. 

“I can’t,” he mutters, pushing away from you and shaking his head, dragging his hands through his hair. “No, I can’t.”

“Andrew, please.” He wishes you wouldn’t call him that. It’s too soft, too good for what he deserves. “What’s wrong?” Pope looks back over at you, that glint in your eye. You can’t be scared, can you? He wouldn’t hurt you. 

You reach out to him, and he falls into you easily, cheek pressed to your shoulder as he tries to get his breath under control. “I need to tell you something,” you whisper. 

“Don’t,” he mutters, turning, pressing his head into the nape of your neck. His arms squeeze tight around you, trying to keep himself grounded in your touch. Your arms drape low around his back, and he feels your fingers graze the handle of the gun in his waistband. 

He can feel the way your body tenses under him, breath stalling in your throat. The gun isn’t for you. Why did he bring it?

“I’m pregnant.” 

It’s his turn to go still. You hold your breath as he slowly pulls away, eyes watery as he glares at you. “Are you lying?” he chokes out, unable to take any more deceit from you. 

You shake your head, pulling away and running off to your bathroom. He’s left right where he’s standing, stunned and in disbelief. You can’t be. Can you?

It’s not as though either of you has ever been particularly picky about using protection. And he hadn’t ever bothered asking if you were taking anything. His stomach twists itself into knots as you walk back toward him. You hold something out, and suddenly he’s staring down at a positive pregnancy test. 

“Oh,” Pope lets out a rough breath, doubling over as he tries to get his head under control. There’s too much racing through it. Too many different commands urging for his attention. He drops to his knees, unable to meet your eye. 

“Andrew,” you whisper, taking a step closer and running your hand over his hair. His head falls onto your stomach, hands finding their way to your hips as he shakes his head. 

He can feel you trembling beneath his touch, breath shaking as you cup the back of his head. “Please,” you beg, “don’t do what Smurf wants you to.”

His head shoots up, but you’re not looking at him. Your face is pointed toward the ceiling like you’re trying not to cry. Getting to his feet, he cups your cheeks, forcing you to look at him. 

He knows what Smurf wants, what’s expected of him. You’re a threat. A threat to her. To the family, just for knowing what they do. He has failed so many people he loves, but he’s never failed her. 

Pope can’t do to you what he did to Cath…

To Julia. 

His head drops, forehead pressing to yours. You let your weight rest on him, taking in shaking breaths while his eyes drop to the new IDs on the bed. “I won’t,” he swears. 

You’re on a hotel bed, expression bored as you watch Andrew. He’s sitting at the table, knee bouncing slightly as he reads through a magazine he picked up at the grocery store. It’s clearly marketed toward women with its swooping, pink font. But the pregnant woman on the front, the 50 tips for an easier pregnancy! has completely stolen his attention. 

There’s a bottle of prenatal vitamins by his elbow, and the dingy hotel fridge has been stocked with food for the past few weeks. He’s settling into this lifestyle a lot faster than you are. You miss your apartment above Deran’s place. You miss your shower and your bed. 

But Andrew had told you it was too risky to stay there. So he’d taken your suitcase and brought you to a decent hotel with “luxury” accommodations. You’re financing the stay for now. Just while he works on compiling savings in an account not attached to Smurf’s name. 

Your phone was trashed. A burner shoved in your hand instead. You hadn’t even gotten a chance to say anything to Deran. Andrew thought it was too much of a risk. 

“Are you feeling sick?” he suddenly asks, looking up from the magazine, brows pinched. 

“Huh?” you mutter, turning away from the crappy soap you’d put on TV. 

He gets up from the table and moves to sit beside you on the bed. He’s closer than he typically would be, eyes roving your face like it’ll give him the answers he’s looking for. “Do you feel sick at all?”

You glance down at the page of the magazine he’s on, catch the words “morning sickness blues,” and grin. “I’m fine.” You promise, taking his hand in yours. He squeezes your palm, moving closer. “I don’t think I’m far enough along yet to be worrying about that.”

You actually don’t know how far along you are, period. Amongst the worry of running from the cops, escaping Andrew’s mother, and the general hell your life has turned into… 

You haven’t made the time for a gyno appointment. You’re sure that if Andrew weren’t so worried about Smurf discovering you, he would have already dragged you to one. 

Letting go of his hand, you get up to go to the bathroom. You can feel his eyes on you the entire five feet it takes you to get there. You’re quick to push the door closed, back pressed against it as you suck in a deep breath. 

He’s doing his best, you know that. Every day, he tells you that this is all temporary. He just needs time. Time to make a plan for you both. Time to get the proper amount of funds for your escape. 

Time, time, time

There doesn’t seem to be enough of it lately. Each day grows shorter, the walls shrink around you, and it’s harder to catch your breath. He’s settling well, his toothbrush beside yours on the sink, spare clothes folded in the dresser. 

He’s adapted to this like he could live in this hotel forever with you. Always keeps your shoes by the door, complains when you move them, and he trips on them. Keeps food stocked in the room and bought sheets that are actually comfortable to sleep in. As if this is just the home you’re going to share with him now. 

But you’re cracking around the edges. Every day that you don’t have a deadline for when you get to leave pushes you one step closer to the edge. He says it’s temporary, but it’s getting harder to believe him. 

Scrubbing your hands down your face, you move toward the sink, splashing cold water over your cheeks. He’s been fussier since he learned you're pregnant. He always looks like he thinks you’re going to keel over. As if being pregnant makes you this new, breakable thing. It’s slightly aggravating, but you understand where he’s coming from. 

Stepping out of the bathroom, you find he’s right where you left him. Posture stiff as he continues flipping through that ridiculous magazine. You walk over, snatching it quickly from his lap and dropping it on the nightstand. “You know all of this is bullshit, right?” you tease. 

He only narrows his eyes at you, arms crossed as he huffs. “You should try reading some of it.”

You crawl into bed beside him, scoffing. “Are you calling me a bad pregnant lady?”

“No,” he mutters, immediately making room for you beside him. Even how he holds you at night is different, now. You’re not just you to him anymore. Suddenly, you’re carrying his child, too, even if you’re not showing. 

You settle with your back to his chest, his arms wrapping securely around your front. He sleeps on the side closest to the door. Always still slightly awake, just in case. 

Your hand drifts down, taking a hold of his and letting out a soft sigh. He shifts, pressing himself closer. “How much longer do you think we’ll be here?” you whisper, afraid to break the peaceful quiet. 

“Until I can get some things together.”

He’d said that last week, but you don’t have the energy to deal with that right now. Instead, you roll over, wrapping your arms around him as you let out a tired sigh. His arms tighten around you, cheek pressed to your head as you let the droning sounds of the TV put you to sleep. 

“What’s that?”

Andrew looks up from the groceries he’d been unloading. He shakes his head, and you point to the box on the table. “Cereal,” he tells you bluntly. 

“Yeah, some weird whole grain shit,” you sigh as you pick up the box. It proudly promotes whole grains, fiber in every bite, and absolutely no added sugar. Eating the box would taste better. 

Andrew stalks over with a sigh, taking the box from your hands. “It’s healthy. You need to eat more fiber.”

You shoot him an affronted glare. “You’re a doctor, now?”

He straightens up from the groceries with an aggrieved sigh. “Diet is important.” The stern look he shoots you goes unappreciated. 

“I resent that,” you pick up the cereal and shake it at him,  “and I resent this.” He shakes his head, undeterred by your complaints, as he continues to display all the healthy options he picked up today. You’re really starting to miss sugar. 

You wonder what he would think if he knew you went down to the hotel lobby and loaded up on soda and junk while he was out. 

Moving toward the dresser, you’re digging around for a pair of socks when you notice something plastic rattling around. “What…” Moving aside some of Andrew’s pants, you see a pacifier and baby bottle hidden beneath his clothes. 

Unable to stop yourself from smiling, you pull them both out and turn toward him. “A little early for this, isn’t it?”

He straightens up, glancing over at you. His jaw tenses as he lets out a rough sigh. “They were on sale.” He tells you bluntly, striding over and taking them from you. You can’t help but snort as he carefully places them back in the drawer. 

“Anything else you’re hiding in there?”

He pauses, and you don’t really expect him to answer. But then he opens the top drawer and moves aside some shirts. Beneath are three parenting books. Each with stupider names than the last. “Wow,” you whistle. “You’re making me look bad.”

He’s quiet for a moment before frowning. “I don’t want to mess this up.”

Your chest tightens as you look him over, that slightly unsure tilt to his lips. “You won’t,” you tell him, squeezing his arm and offering a soft smile. He just nods; you’re not sure he actually believes you. Clearing your throat, you try to break up the tense moment. “Besides, you’re definitely taking this a lot more seriously than I am.”

The look he gives you is tired. You’re just pointing out what he’s already been nagging you about. “You’re pregnant.” As if you need reminding. 

With nothing to do in this tiny room, you walk over to the bed, throwing yourself on it and grabbing the remote. The magazine from the other night is still on the nightstand. You glance over at it, thinking about the baby bottle and whatever else he’s bought in the dresser. 

“You know, that said not to start buying anything until after the first trimester,” you tell him, nodding toward the magazine. “When the risk of a miscar—”

“I know what it said,” he interrupts, glancing over at you. “It was just… It was on sale,” he mutters, not meeting your eye. His shoulders hunch as he reorganizes the pantry area he’d created. 

Guilt sours in your stomach, and you shift uncomfortably on the bed. “Sorry, I wasn’t trying to…” the words won’t come. He looks too uncomfortable for you to keep prodding at what you’re sure is one of his biggest worries right now. That anything might happen to you or the baby.

Your hand rests over your stomach, lips curling as you glance down at your complete absence of a bump. “It doesn’t feel real,” you muse. “I guess that’s why I’m not taking it more seriously.”

Andrew pauses what he’s doing, glancing over his shoulder at you. “I just keep thinking about when we’re going to get out of here.” He looks down at that, and you sigh. “Soon,” you mutter, before he can feed you the same empty promise he has been. 

“Look,” he gets to his feet, but his phone starts ringing on the table. You can see his name from where you’re sitting. Deran lights up the screen, and your stomach sinks with guilt. You wonder if he’s worried about you or if he just thinks you’re another unfortunate soul who slipped through the cracks. Andrew glances between you and his phone before picking it up and walking out of the room. You can hear him answer just as the door closes. 

Grabbing the TV remote, you spend a few minutes channel surfing before settling on an old sitcom. By the time you’re done, he’s coming back. He lets out a short sigh, jaw flexing as he tosses his phone on the table. 

“What was that?” you ask, motioning him over. He follows obediently, settling beside you on the bed. His back is stiffer than normal, shoulders tense as he stares blankly ahead at the TV. “Andrew?” you murmur, reaching up to run your hand through his hair. 

Andrew sinks easily into the touch, finally looking over at you. “Deran says he and Craig have a job. One Smurf’s not involved in.” Your heart rate picks up, and you try not to let your excitement show too much. “Could be enough,” he mutters, looking down at his hands. He doesn’t seem convinced. 

“That’s good,” you remind him, keeping your voice soft. He just nods, not seeming like he’s truly present with you. With a sigh, you tug on his shoulder slightly. He moves easily, sinking further onto the bed as he lowers his head on your lap. His hand comes up to wrap around your thigh, more grounding than possessive in his intent. 

You let your hand smooth over his curls as you sink back into the pillows. “This is good,” you remind him, ignoring the worry that tightens your gut when he says nothing in return. He just settles closer to you, and you have to let yourself be content with what you have.  

Waking up alone has become foreign to you. Andrew doesn’t like leaving without you waking up first. Which, you’re sure bugs him on the days you’re particularly slow getting out of bed. Today, the spot beside you is cold; the shape of his body is still indented on the sheets. 

It takes you a moment to remember the job he’d told you about with his brothers. He didn’t have time to wait for you today. You throw back the sheets and let out a low groan, rubbing your back as pain shoots up your spine. 

God, you miss your bed. 

These hotel slabs were just making you stiffer every day. Glancing over at the table, you see he’s quite pointedly left out the fibrous cereal for you. Scoffing, you slip on your shoes and run down to the lobby. 

They have a little store full of grab-and-go snacks. With your warden out today, you grab all the junk you can carry and take it back up to the room. There’s really nothing you can do to pass the time besides turn on the TV and stuff your face with as much processed sugar as you can handle. 

You just have to make sure to hide the wrappers before he gets back. 

You make sure to keep an eye on the clock all day. There’s never a guarantee how long a job will take. That’s dependent on the materials they need, the plans they lay out, and whether or not the job requires patience rather than rushing in for a quick cash grab. 

Andrew hadn’t deigned to share any of the details with you, so you're left in the dark. 

You toss away the wrapper to a honey bun—that may have been expired—and feel your eyes begin to burn from staring at the same screen for so long. There's a sharp pain in your stomach, and you let out a groan, doubling over as you press down on the ache. 

Spitefully consuming a bunch of processed junk might have been really stupid. 

Grimacing, you get up and head to the bathroom. There’s another sharp pinch, and you let out a low gasp, grimacing as a cold pain shoots through your body. “Jesus,” you hiss out. 

Approaching the toilet, you pull your pants down and pause. It’s hard to tell; your underwear is a dark blue. But…

Yeah, just there is a little bit of blood. 

Your stomach swoops as you jerk your pants back up and rush toward the bed. You rip the magazine off the nightstand and flip through until you find the pregnancy section. 

It takes a few minutes of scanning, your foot tapping restlessly as you do, before you find what you’re looking for. “Spotting is completely normal in your first trimester!”

Letting out a low breath of relief, you almost laugh at yourself. You wish you could, but then you see that little asterisk next to the sentence, and your eyes drop to the bottom of the page. 

*You should always consult your doctor if spotting is accompanied by any sharp pain or abdominal discomfort. 

The magazine slips from your hands as you grab your phone off the bed. A million thoughts race through your head before everything just comes to a stop. All you can think about is that stupid superstition of not buying anything until the second trimester. Because what if… 

What if you lose it?

A cold panic spikes through your blood; it chills you down to your toes. And it’s not even for you; it’s hardly for this baby. Because this still doesn’t feel real to you. It’s not something you’ve gotten to know or love. But suddenly it's something you could lose. 

And it’s Andrew you’re thinking about. His face as you tell him you lost the baby. 

Shaking the thoughts away, you dial his number on the burner he gave you and wait. It rings for a minute before you hang up and try again. Your foot taps impatiently against the floor; another sharp pain digs its nails into your stomach and rips. 

Letting out a groan, you clutch your gut, kneeling on the floor while you dial him again. Halfway through, you finally remember that he’s not going to answer. Not while he’s on a job. 

That’s probably why he’d been acting so off last night. He can’t afford any distractions during a job. Meaning no phone and no you. You bet he was thinking of a situation just like this one. Where you need him, and he can’t get to you. 

“Fuck,” you hiss. You throw your phone on the bed and turn toward the hotel’s landline. You jam your fingers into the numberpad, calling the front desk. It doesn’t take long to connect, but you can barely get the words out through the pain you’re struggling to breathe through. 

You ask them to order you a cab and force yourself off the bed. It’s a herculean effort to get downstairs and in the lobby. From there, it’s kind of a blur. It’s not until you’re in the waiting room at the hospital that you realize you left your phone in the hotel. 

“Shit,” you hiss, head falling back against the wall. 

“How are we feeling today?” 

You look up from your hands and glare over at the doctor who walks in. It’s rude, the look on your face. But how the fuck does he think you’re feeling?

“Not great,” you snap, eyes narrowing. He offers a polite smile and sits down on his little chair. He picks up a clipboard one of the nurses had left behind and scans over it, muttering to himself. 

“Um,” you clear your throat, trying to catch his attention. “Am I… okay?” 

It’s hard to get yourself to say the word miscarriage out loud, as if you’re going to manifest it into being somehow. Pursing your lips, you wait for him to respond. He holds one finger up with an impatient huff, and you scoff. 

With a sigh, he places the clipboard down and offers you a placating smile. “Good news is, everything’s a-okay with the baby!” 

“Thank god,” you mutter, curling into yourself as you let out a shaky breath. There’s another sharp pinch of pain in your stomach, but you ignore it for now. You’re not sure you would have been able to look Andrew in the eye and tell him–

You don’t have to worry about that now. 

Rubbing your eyes, you shake your head and look over at the doctor. “What’s wrong with me, then?”

He rubs his chin and considers you. “Pregnancy is always stressful, but would you say there’s anything that’s been making things harder for you?” You don’t even get to answer before he barrels on. “Is the father in the picture?”

“Yes,” you tell him, more defensive than you should be. Maybe because Andrew seems to care more about this kid than you do. When you can get out of that damn hotel room, that’s when you’ll let yourself believe this is real. 

“And, yeah, I would say I’m more stressed than normal.” Having your former pimp and the cops after you really isn’t great for your blood pressure. 

He purses his lips, “Spotting is normal in the first trimester. And I think you might be suffering a bit of indigestion, hence the stomach pain. But I want to be careful. I’m going to have you stay here overnight so we can monitor you.”

Panic spikes through you. As much as you hate the hotel room, being out in the open after spending so many nights sequestered inside is worrying. There’s no reason for Smurf to ever show up here, but paranoia isn’t logical. 

“Is that absolutely necessary?”

“For the safety of you and your child, yes,” he tells you, that jovial tone leaving him as he gives you a stern stare. 

Letting out a rough sigh, you nod. “Alright. But is there a phone I could use? I need to call someone.”

He nods, getting up and holding the door for you. “There’s a payphone in the hall. I’ll have a nurse come and get you when a room opens up.”

You rush past him, heading toward the payphone. Rifling through your pockets, you manage to find enough change and push it into the slot. Picking up the phone, you bite your lip, trying to remember the number to Andrew’s burner. 

With a grimace, you type it in and pray you’re right. It rings for a while before you’re connected to his voicemail. “Hey, it’s me, um… I’m at the hospital, the baby–” the phone beeps before the line goes dead. 

“What the hell?” you mutter, trying to see if you have any more change. Fuck. You didn’t even get to tell him everything was fine. You let out a loud groan, leaning forward and letting your head thunk against the wall. 

He’s going to have a goddamn heart attack.  

Pope stands around a table with J and his brothers. There’s stacks and stacks of cash in front of them. More than J had even predicted. “Alright,” J has a smile on his face, relieved his plan actually worked out. It’s still odd to see the kid look anything but solemn. 

This newfound desire of his to start leading jobs, making plans, puts him on edge. There’s something off about it all. He’s been too busy with you to give that problem the attention it deserves. Something to be worried about later. 

“We’re taking a cut now,” J tells them, picking up a stack of cash and throwing it at Pope, then Deran and Craig. “I’m going to take the rest and…” he trails off, eyes cutting toward Craig. The one who could really screw this up for them all if he gets in the right mood. “I’ll take care of it,” he mutters. 

Pope counts through the cash quickly. A couple thousand, probably. It doesn’t feel like enough. Not if he wants to be able to find you both a place to stay, finance both of you completely starting new. And then he’ll need extra for the baby’s stuff in a few months. 

“I need more than this,” Pope tells J. 

Deran’s brows furrow as he shoots his brother a strange look. He says nothing, though. Instead, he nods, “I do too. I need to redo the kitchen at the bar.” He holds up the cash and shakes his head. “This isn’t going to cover it.”

J’s eyes narrow into slits, but he can’t object as his brothers start eagerly taking more money. When Pope’s satisfied with the amount, he nods at the kid. “Alright,” J snaps, stopping Craig from pocketing any more. “That’s enough.” he shoots Deran an aggrieved look. “Will that be enough?”

Deran cuts his eyes toward Pope before looking back at the kid. “Yeah, should be,” he tells him. J lets out a heavy sigh and starts bagging up the rest of the money. Pope takes his own cut and moves away from the table, pulling out his phone. He powers it back on as Deran moves toward him. 

“Hey,” Deran greets, eyeing him warily. Pope barely lifts his eyes to greet him. It’s only when Deran says your name that he catches Pope’s attention. He keeps his face carefully neutral. “I was wondering if you’ve seen her around? She just left the apartment a wreck a few weeks ago, and I haven’t seen her since.”

Pope’s about to answer that he cut you off once Smurf told him what you were doing for her. But his phone’s back on and the notifications he missed are popping up. His heart drops as he sees the missed calls from you. 

He walks away from Deran immediately, already heading toward his truck. Deran calls his name, but he isn’t listening. He tries dialing your number, but it just rings through until going to voicemail. Pick up, he thinks, gut twisting as he gets in his truck. 

He scrolls through the missed calls and sees an unknown number. Frowning, he clicks on the voicemail. “Hey, it’s me.”

His head falls against the steering wheel as he sucks in a deep breath. You sound fine, thank god. 

But then, you just have to keep talking. “Um… I’m at the hospital, the baby–”

Pope’s head whips up as the voicemail ends. His fingers are frantic as he replays the message. But there’s nothing more. Whatever you used to call him just cut out. His hands tighten around the steering wheel until he can hear the leather creak. 

He throws his phone in the seat and peels out of the driveway. It’s a blur as he drives to the hospital. There are so many thoughts swirling through his head, drowning out anything else, that he can barely breathe. 

He hadn’t wanted to go on the job today. He knew that he needed to. That this is more than enough for the two of you to get out of town and get somewhere safe. But he shouldn’t have left you alone. He knew that, and he still did it. 

He’s just incapable, isn’t he?

Incapable of becoming attached to anyone, of caring for anyone, without hurting them. 

He’d done everything right. He’d kept you safe and hidden. He found those prenatals at the store that the books all said were good for the baby. Smurf, for once, doesn’t know one of his secrets. And he still managed to fuck it up. 

Pope has to force himself to slow down as he pulls into the hospital parking lot. He doesn’t want to hear you finish your sentence when he sees you. Doesn’t want to know that superstition in the magazine is followed for a reason. 

At the very least, he can hold onto the fact that you sounded okay. You were still good. But he wouldn’t blame you if he was the last face you wanted to see right now. 

Striding into the hospital, he beelines straight for the front desk. The nurse behind the counter offers him a soft smile. “Can I help you?”

He gives her your name, “She called me from here earlier.” His nails bite into speckled linoleum as she types your name into the computer. “Is she okay?” he demands, unable to stop himself. 

Her eyes barely lift from her screen. “Give me a moment, sir.”

“I just need to know if she’s okay,” he repeats, trying to keep his voice steady. He’s been impatient before. When CPS first took Lena, he couldn’t cope. Had lost his shit at the office and had to rely on Smurf just to see her again. 

He can’t do that again. He can’t keep messing this up with you. 

The nurse offers a strained smile. “I understand, sir, but I don’t have that information right now. What’s your relationship to the patient?”

His mouth opens before he goes quiet. “Um,” he glares down at the floor. What are you? “She’s carrying my baby,” he settles on, nothing else fitting right next to the idea of you. 

The nurse nods, typing something before letting out a sigh. “Alright, looks like she should be okay for visitors. Just log in here, and you should be good to go back. It’ll be the third door on the left.”

Pope just scribbles on the paper she passes him, taking the visitor’s pass and racing off through the door to his left. He’s counting under his breath until he’s in front of the third door. It’s closed, and the blinds have been shut against any prying eyes. 

He sucks in a shaky breath, bracing himself for whatever he’s going to find on the other side. He’s never been lucky before. Baz always told him no one would ever want a baby with him. He had a point. Pope’s not… right. He’s not good for anyone, especially not for himself. Why would his luck suddenly change with you?

He has no other choice but to push the door open. 

Reruns of some old show are playing on the TV on the wall. And you—

You’re sitting on the bed with your legs folded, eagerly eating a pudding cup as you watch the show. Your head lifts as the door opens, a smile flitting across your face as you see him. It drops at whatever expression he’s wearing right now. 

“Hey,” you greet softly. “Stop lurking,” you tease, but it’s weak as your brows crease with worry. 

He takes one step inside, letting the door fall closed behind him. He can’t find the right words or the right questions. The magic words that will get you to tell him if everything’s okay. “Are you…” He trails off, coming to your side, hands flexing out toward you. He stops himself, checking over you, trying to find anything that’s visibly wrong. 

The possibilities of what could have happened to land you here are overwhelming in their intensity. Too many at once to possibly try and verbalize it. 

“I’m fine,” you tell him, reaching out and lacing your fingers through his. You tug his arm until he’s sitting on the bed beside you. You put the pudding on your nightstand and take his other hand, pressing it to your stomach. “Everything is fine.”

The relief is so staggering he feels ill. You let out a quiet laugh as his eyes fall shut; he feels like he can breathe for the first time since he left this morning. “C’mere,” you mutter, tugging him forward until his cheek is pressed to your shoulder and he’s squeezing his arms around you. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, and he shakes his head, fingers flexing in the thin fabric of your hospital gown. “That stupid payphone cut me off. I wasn’t trying to scare you.”

“I wasn’t–”

“Whoops! Don’t mean to interrupt.” Pope jerks back as the door to your room opens. You let out an annoyed huff, keeping your hand in his as he turns to see a doctor walking in. “The father, I presume?”

“What happened?” He demands, something about the doctor’s tone rubbing him the wrong way. 

“Well, I think a lot of the pain was caused by indigestion.” Pope frowns, glancing over at you, but you won’t meet his eye. “However, in your blood work I noticed a high level of cortisol and your blood pressure isn’t where I’d like it to be.”

Pope just stares at the man, waiting for him to continue. The doctor lets out an aggrieved sigh, but it's you he gives a sharp look. “You’re too stressed. Especially this early in the pregnancy.” Your hand tightens around Pope as you shift uncomfortably in the bed. “Some lifestyle changes will need to be made.” His eyes dart to Pope before he shakes his head. “I’ll leave you two to talk.”

The door closes behind him, and you take in a heavy breath. Pope can’t think of anything to say, eyes cast down at the blanket. It’s his fault that you’re so stressed, that you’re even here. He knows that. He promised to get you out of that hotel room weeks ago. But he’s been stalling, selfish as he enjoys this time with you just to himself. No outside interference, no one to take away your attention. 

He got you here. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. It’s not enough, but he doesn’t know what else he can say. 

He waits for it, for you to take his hand, to tell him it's okay. You’ve done it so many times before. You’re so indulgent, so forgiving; he doesn’t deserve to expect it. But, God, he wants you to just tell him it's not his fault. 

“I can’t live like this anymore,” you tell him, and he can’t find it in himself to turn around and face the truth. Not right now. “Andrew,” you call, “look at me.” 

His hands dig into the blanket as he looks up at you. There’s nothing soft on your face, now. You seem severe; the circles beneath your eyes are darker than ever. You’re worn down in a way he hasn’t seen before. 

“I can fix this,” he promises, and if you didn’t believe him, he wouldn’t blame you. He’s so good at fixing problems for his family. At being the one they call to clean up their messes. But he’s always been horrible at fixing his own. 

Your eyes flit down, and you nod. Silence permeates the air between you. He hates it, but he doesn’t know how to fill it.  

The door to your room opens, and you know who it is before he walks in. Andrew hasn’t really left your side tonight. Despite your many assurances that you really are okay and you’ll be able to leave tomorrow. 

Luck was on your side, though. He stepped out to use the bathroom, and you had enough time to call someone. He’ll probably be back before Deran has a chance to leave, but it’ll be too late by then. And the both of you need Deran’s help. 

“Good to know you’re alive,” Deran tells you, voice flat as his eyes narrow on you. 

You grimace, “I’m sorry, Deran, really.”

His eyes fall shut as he pinches at his nose. He stands at the end of your bed, refusing to come closer. Shrugging, he shoves his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. “It was Smurf, wasn’t it?”

Your eyes fall to your lap, and you nod. “Why didn’t you just come to me in the first place?” he asks, taking a step closer. 

“It wasn’t that simple,” you mutter, looking up at him. His brows are pinched in concern. Deran’s done a lot for you since you’ve known him. He’s certainly been more selfless than his family ever expected him to be. 

You know you’ve been shitty, hiding everything from him. But it already feels like you’re wrecking Andrew’s life. You didn’t feel like you could drag Deran down with you both. Not when he had worked so hard to help you clean your life up. But you don’t have any other choice now. 

“Alright,” he shakes his head with a scoff. “Then make it simple. You move out, I don’t hear from you for weeks, and suddenly you call me up to tell me you’re in the hospital. You gotta give me something, here.”

You let out a bitter laugh, “How’s this?” He shakes his head, waiting. You force the words out, “I’m pregnant.” 

Deran’s face falls; he takes a staggered step toward you as the door opens behind him. His head whips around as Andrew walks through. Andrew’s expression goes tight when he sees someone else standing next to you. 

“There’s the dad,” you offer weakly, trying for a joke and failing miserably.

Andrew closes the door behind him, eyes narrowed on his brother. “Why is he here?” He demands, looking at you. You can tell he’s holding his temper back. But it’s been on a short leash, already. You don’t want to risk making things worse. 

“He can help–”

“You knew where she was?” Deran demands, taking an angry step forward. Andrew doesn’t back down, expression twitching as he straightens up. “I asked you, man.”

Cody anger is volatile. It’s quick to spark and worse to quell. You can see it, swelling between them. Deran doesn’t take much to get going, he reaches out, shoving Andrew back. You grimace as Andrew grapples with him, trying to get him to stop before you’re all kicked out of the hospital. 

“Deran!” You snap, eyes darting toward the windows and praying no one looks inside. 

“You lied to me,” he shouts at Andrew, face growing red. 

“I couldn’t tell you,” Andrew barks back. 

Desperately glancing around the room for anything to stop them, your eyes land on the empty pudding cup. You snatch it up and throw it at the back of Deran’s head. He flinches at the impact, head whipping around to face you. 

“Enough! Jesus fuck, Deran, I’m in the hospital because I’m too stressed. This isn’t why I wanted you here!”

Andrew still has a hold on him. Deran glances between the pair of you, expression turning embarrassed. He shoves his brother’s arms off of him and reaches up, trying to smooth back the hair that's fallen in his eyes. 

“Then what the fuck do you want from me?” 

At the same time, Andrew asks, “Why is he here?”

They both shoot each other severe looks that have you grimacing. It would have worked out a hell of a lot better if Andrew had just stayed in the bathroom. You scrub your hands down your face and let out a rough exhale, shoulders hunching. 

“We’re staying in a hotel right now. But I can’t keep living like that,” Andrew says your name, but you stop him with a look. “Look where I’m at right now, Andrew. Can you honestly say that the way we’re living is healthy for me?”

You purse your lips. You know this is dirty; you’re using one of his deepest fears against him. And it’s awful; you’re a horrible person. But you’re human, and you physically cannot take another day living like a fugitive on the run. “Is it healthy for the baby?”

His hands go lax at his sides, eyes widening imperceptibly as he stares at you. Whatever argument he had ready is killed by your cutting words. You suck your teeth, shoving down the guilt burning in your throat. 

“So that’s what you want?” Deran asks, staring over at you with this strange look in his eyes. “Another place to stay?”

“I know that I shouldn’t ask you for anything–”

“No,” he cuts you off, shaking his head. “You shouldn’t.” You bite your lip, sucking in a sharp breath. He rolls his eyes, glaring up at the ceiling. “But…” he lets out a sardonic laugh as he turns toward you. “I actually have a place.”

“Smurf,” he continues, “gave us properties.” he motions between himself and Andrew. Your brows turn in as you turn to him. Because he’d never told you about any sort of property. 

He can’t meet your eye, hand balling into a fist as he glares at the floor. “I couldn’t use any of them for you. She would have looked,” he doesn’t seem very defensive. And you’re sure he believes that excuse. But you’re stupid if you think he wasn’t also attracted to the idea of being so close to you, of having you all to himself. 

“Yeah, well she won’t go looking through any of mine,” Deran tells him. He turns back to you, “There’s a house by the beach you can stay in.” You want to get up and thank him, to hug him for the first time in weeks. But his expression is reserved as he moves toward the door. “I gotta go. Call me tomorrow, and we’ll figure it out.”

The door slams behind him, blinds rattling from the force. He’s still angry, then. You suppose you can’t blame him. Not with the way you just disappeared. Sighing, you lean forward, head falling into your hands. 

Andrew comes up beside you. “I would have taken care of it.”

“Would you?” you scoff, glancing over at him. You don’t mean it maliciously, but it’s been weeks. And he’s apparently had ‘property’ this whole time. Andrew was working off his own schedule, and that just wasn’t good enough for you.  

The house is a slightly run-down bungalow by the beach. But it’s good. Anything is in comparison to that hotel room. It’s woefully empty of any furniture or anything to actually make a house a home. You can work on that, though. 

Slowly, over the course of a few monthss—long enough for your stomach to start to swell—you begin collecting everything for the place. The couch that Deran was going to get rid of makes its way to you. Your dining table is something you found at an estate sale, oddly enough. 

Bits and pieces make their way to you. Some old, some new. But it’s a start. A start to something that belongs solely to you and Andrew. Smurf had sold his house when he was arrested. It left him with nowhere to go but back to her. 

The bungalow is a few hours outside of Oceanside. Which makes it a commute for Andrew anytime she calls him back home to deal with family business. You know she must be growing suspicious by now. Especially because Deran stops by a lot. 

Where could both of her sons be disappearing to?

You don’t know what Andrew is telling her to keep her off his back, or if he’s even trying. You try not to think about it a lot. The pregnancy has begun to feel real to you. Your stomach is swelling with life; you’re outside of her control. Worries about her serve only to make you more stressed than you need to be. 

So, you linger in ignorant bliss. Andrew lets you, though you can see his worries about the future eating away at him. There’s only so much you can do for a man who refuses to cut the last tether to the most agonizing aspect of his life. 

His mother. 

“The appointment is at two, right?” 

Andrew nods; he’s busy putting together the bedframe you just bought while you go through the notes from your last visit with the gynecologist. He’d missed it, Smurf calling him home for some job. A bad time to miss it, too, considering the doctor said she was worried you were showing early signs of gestational hypertension. 

It’s not anything life-threatening, but you know he’d been bothered that he wasn’t there when you heard the news. He’s insisting on attending this one. You don’t mind the company, that’s for sure. When the doctor asks what prenatals you’re taking and what your diet looks like, a lot of that knowledge lies with Andrew. He’ll have a better time processing and planning around the information than you will. 

His phone rings, breaking up the quiet of the moment. You glance up from your computer with interest. His entire demeanor changes as he looks at the name. It doesn’t take much guessing to know who it is. 

The way his shoulders hunch up, his lips pursing as he lets out a heavy sigh. “Smurf?” you ask.

He just nods; he gets up, moving out toward the porch as he answers. You glance toward the window, trying to decide whether or not you want to listen in. You sigh before deciding against it. He’ll tell you about it if he needs to. 

You continue looking through the notes from your last visit, making sure you didn’t forget to tell Andrew anything. The door slams closed as he comes back in, making you jump. Your brows furrow as you look over at him. He’s glaring down at the floor, phone tucked back in his pocket. 

You hesitate on saying anything.  “That was fast,” you land on.

“She wants my help on a job,” he tells you. Letting out a rough sigh, his shoulders sink as he looks up. “Today.”

“Ah,” you click your tongue. She seems to have a psychic link to him. Always knowing the worst time to steal him away from you. Looking back at the computer, you bite back whatever venom you want to spew. Instead, you try to keep your voice calm as you ask, “Are you going?”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, and you don’t want to look over. You don’t want him to see the hurt on your face that you even have to ask that question. Guilt shouldn’t be what makes him stay. He should just want to. 

A soft touch lands on your shoulder and you sigh, sinking back into him. “I’m going with you,” he tells you, firm on the decision. 

“Thank you,” you mutter, reaching up to squeeze his hand as he goes back to putting the bed together. “Did she say what the job was?”

Andrew considers for a moment before shaking his head. “She said she’d be coming along on this one. Said it was important.”

Something gnawing stirs up in your stomach. You frown as you consider him. God, you can’t believe you’re about to ask this. “Are you sure you shouldn’t go?”

He pauses from where he was picking up his tools. You get a sidelong look as his voice quiets. “Do you not want me coming?”

Of course that’s how he took it; you feel like an idiot. “No, I’m sorry I didn’t mean it like that. I just…” You have a bad feeling about Smurf. But you have no evidence and no reason to voice aloud your doubt. “Of course I want you there, Andrew.”

He looks over you, eyes narrowing as he stares into your eyes, checking for any dishonesty. Slowly, he nods and resumes his task. You try to do the same, but your focus is anywhere but on your notes. 

You’d had Andrew’s hand in a death grip your entire appointment. You couldn’t tell him why or even explain to the doctor this sudden panic that’s come over you. She’s worried about it, telling you it’s important you lessen the stress in your life as much as possible to avoid any complications. 

If only it were that easy. But you hardly understood your worries before you were pregnant. It only got that much harder after. 

Luckily, everything looked fine with the baby. She couldn’t get a good look at it through the ultrasound, and she forgot her “readers” at home. So, instead, you have to wait a while longer while she runs a blood test to determine the gender of the baby. 

You don’t really care either way. But you think Andrew would make a good dad to a little girl. 

“You don’t want to do the whole gender reveal thing, do you?” You ask on the drive home. 

Andrew glances over at you and shrugs, hand flexing around the steering wheel. “I don’t know. Might not be so bad.”

Your eyes narrow. “Really? You want one of those stupid confetti things staining our backyard pink or blue?”

He lets out a scoff, smiling slightly as he looks over at you. “How ‘bout a cake?” he offers, and you think he might just be messing with you. 

“Considering the strict diet you’ve got me on, I’ll take a cake.” He huffs a little at the dig but doesn’t seem to mind too much when you grin over at him. You stretch, hand resting on the center console. He reaches down, taking it in his own as he pulls onto your street. 

You frown, sitting up when you see another car in your driveway. “Who’s that?” you wonder aloud. 

Andrew’s hand tightens around your own as he slows down. He comes to a stop in front of the house, letting out a low breath of relief when you both see it’s just Deran. But he doesn’t look good. He’s pacing on the porch, hands shoved in his pockets, and his face is strangely red. 

“Wait here,” Andrew mutters, getting out of the truck and stalking up the driveway. You let out an irritated huff, watching as he approaches his brother. Deran’s head whips up as he gets closer, and he stops his pacing completely. 

That unsettled feeling from before returns tenfold as you shift uncomfortably in your seat. You can’t hear what's being said, but you can see the way Deran’s face shifts from that usually untouchable look to something scarily vulnerable. Andrew runs up the steps to the porch, and Deran stops him, grabbing his shoulder and taking in a deep breath. 

You tilt yourself closer to the window, as if you might be able to hear something. Deran finally says whatever news it is he had to be in person to deliver. Your brows furrow as you watch it all play out on Andrew’s face. 

He tilts his head before shaking it, saying something. You can’t make out what he says, but you can hear his voice rise, see him shove Deran back as he continues to shake his head. His hands come up to his head, cupping it. 

You can’t take watching this anymore. Getting out of the truck, you make your way up the driveway just as Andrew sinks onto the porch steps. His head falls between his knees, shoulders beginning to shake. You run up to him, falling beside him. Deran stands behind you both, gaze vacant as he watches his brother. 

“What’s going on?” you snap at Deran, hands cupping Andrew’s cheeks. You try to get him to look at you, but he collapses into you instead. You let out a sharp gasp as his head falls in your lap, hands gripping desperately at your dress. You can feel him shaking, the sharp breaths he’s struggling to get in. 

“Deran!” You snap, hands desperately running over Andrew, trying anything to get him to calm down. 

Deran finally looks at you, but he doesn’t see you. “Smurf is dead.”

The fridge is open again. 

It’s happened over the past week. You’ll walk through the house, and there will be these little things that are wrong. The fridge is open because he forgot he was going to make dinner. The light to the hallway has been on all day because he never remembered to turn it off. There are dirty plates put away in the cabinets because he’d zoned out, unloaded a dirty dishwasher without even blinking. 

You walk over and close the fridge, letting your head fall against the cool metal with a shaky exhale. This is getting bad. You knew he wouldn’t be well immediately following his mother’s death. Who would?

But this is different than being lost in grief. He’s losing chunks of the day, leaving the house and not knowing where he’s going. You caught him standing in front of the nursery with a drill in his hand. He stood there for about ten minutes before you asked what he was doing. 

He didn’t remember. 

Moving away from the kitchen, you check your watch. He’s been gone for two hours already. You hadn’t wanted to let him leave the house on his own. He was meant to take you grocery shopping with him. But you had to run to the bathroom, and he just left. 

You move into your bedroom, intent on putting away some clothes. You’re trying to tidy the place up a bit before he gets back, so he doesn’t have to worry about it. 

Picking up a pile of clothes, you trudge into the closet. It’s stuffed full right now and barely organized. With an annoyed huff, you drop the clothes on the ground and reach for some shirts on an overstuffed bar. You tug at them a bit, grunting until the hangers finally come off. 

Something tumbles from the shelf above; it pops you perfectly in the toe before tumbling off into the shadows of the closet. “Ow,” you grumble, forgetting the clothes as you get on your knees. Your hands swipe across the closet floor, blindly groping until you feel your fingers brush against what fell. 

Pulling it out, you pause. This is…

This is one of the baby bottles he bought. “What the hell?” you mutter, looking up at the shelf it fell from. Getting to your feet, you rush off and drag the stepstool into the closet. Climbing up, you get a good look at the shelf. 

The parenting books, pacifiers, everything he bought too early has been shoved up here. Pulling it all out, you lay it out on the bed. Why the hell would he hide all this?

Sure, you noticed there was less baby stuff around the house. But you thought that was because he was putting it all away in the nursery. You haven’t been there in a while. The scattered parts of the crib he never built are too much of a tripping hazard. 

You never would have thought he was hiding it all away. 

Rubbing your head, you let out a low groan. You rack your brain, but you can’t find a reason he would do this. And with the state he’s in, you doubt Andrew even understands what he’s doing. 

The front door opens, and you run out of the bedroom. Andrew stands in the doorway, his head lifts, eyes still carrying that sad look they’ve had the past few days. “Andrew,” you whisper. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks, head lifting as he surveys you with narrowed eyes. But you’re not the problem here.

You purse your lips, struggling to maintain a kind smile. “Where are the groceries?”

His brows furrow as he shakes his head. “What?”

You let out a rough sigh, pinching your nose as you shake your head. “Never mind,” you tell him. Instead, you walk over to him, taking his hand in yours. He lets you lead him to the couch and sit him down. 

“What are you doing?” He asks, looking slightly dazed as he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. 

“Nothing, just, maybe rest for a little while, alright?” You want to help him; you do. But he’s mourning. And you can’t relate to that pain. Smurf made your life hell. The only good she ever did anyone was giving birth to Deran and Andrew. You wanted to fucking leap for joy when you heard she was dead. 

But Andrew’s steadily devolving into a state that you don’t know how to get him out of. You doubt he’ll be himself for a long time. But this is different. This is wrong. Pulling out your phone, you call the only person you can think of. 

Pope is sitting on one of the rocking chairs on the porch. You’d deposited him there, the burden that’s only serving to make your life more difficult. He wonders if you’re watching him through the window to make sure he’s not going to wander off. He feels like he’s falling apart. 

And maybe he is. Pope’s not sure anyone would call hearing their dead mother’s voice stable. But he does hear her. And he sees her everywhere too. A phantom that he just can’t let go of. 

He hears a car pull up the driveway and frowns, lifting his head. They park and throw the door open. Deran stands there a minute, just watching Pope, before slowly making his way up the porch steps. 

Deran lets out a low groan as he sits in the chair beside Pope. His chest heaves as he exhales and rubs his hands down his face. Pope watches him warily, wondering why he bothered coming. 

Deran looks over at him and laughs. It’s not genuine. It’s bitter and filled with the same sort of reluctant grief plaguing Pope. “You look like shit, man,” he tells him. 

Pope scoffs, but he can’t disagree. He’s hardly keeping his head on straight right now. “What do you want?” he asks, wishing for some quiet for once. Away from all the noise in his head. 

“What do you think?” Deran huffs. He motions inside. “She called me,” he says your name, and Pope grimaces. You must really think he’s just a mess. 

Deran goes quiet for a moment, picking at a thread on his jeans. “How have you been doing?” He asks, his tone losing its abrasive quality this time around. 

“How do you think?” Pope scoffs, looking over at him. And something inside him breaks, seeing his little brother who is holding it together so much better than he is. “I keep seeing her man,” his voice cracks around the confession, and he looks away. “I’m— I’m fucking hearing her in the back of my head. Reminding me—”

Pope shakes his head, dragging his hand down his face as he tries to take in a steady breath. “Reminding me of how much I fucked up. I wasn’t there,” he admits. “I wasn’t there, and she’s dead.”

Deran stays quiet, just watching Pope. There’s nothing he could say that would absolve him of this guilt. He doesn’t deserve it. Not when this is all he’s done his entire life. He was put on a leash for a reason. Because every time he ever tried to break out of that control, the only thing he’s ever done is hurt someone. 

Something about the quiet softens something in him. “I hid all the baby stuff,” he admits. 

Deran lets out a confused noise and looks up. “What?” he asks, shaking his head. “Why?

Pope shrugs, looking down at the chair and digging his nail into a scratch. He picks at it, watching the wood splinter. “I can’t mess this up,” he admits, voice rough as he blinks away the burning in his eyes. “I hear Smurf. I hear Baz. And they’re both just telling me how much I fucked up. And I can hear Baz telling me that no one would ever want a kid with me. Because he was right,” he lets out a bitter sound, taking in a shaky breath. 

“She doesn’t want a kid with me. She just got stuck with me.”

Deran takes in a sharp breath and shakes his head. He laughs, but it's hollow. “Baz was wrong about a lot of things,” he says. He reaches over and takes his shoulder. Pope grimaces, but he doesn’t move away, looking over at Deran. 

“But Baz was always wrong about you, man.” He squeezes Pope’s shoulder before letting go. “Smurf fucked us all up. But,” Deran whistles and shakes his head. “She really did a number on you. Still, if any of us could actually give a kid a chance of survivin’ all the shit we went through…”

Deran offers a strained smile, “It’d be you.”

Pope can’t honestly say he believes him. Believe this is anything other than an attempt to bring him back from the edge. But he wants to. He wants to so badly think that he’s capable of doing something good. 

Neither of them says anything else, sitting in the quiet with one another. 

A while later, Deran gets up. He doesn’t say much, just that he has to head home. Pope nods, watching as Deran walks down the porch. The door opens behind him, the swell of your stomach clear in his peripheral. You call out a goodbye to his brother, walking toward him. He reaches up, hands brushing against your stomach as his head falls against you. You reach up, nails dragging through his curls. 

You’re real. You’re here. Not a voice in his head reminding him that everything falls apart under his touch. 

You kneel, pressing your forehead to his. Your lips brush against the corner of his mouth before you pull away. He holds onto your hand until you’re walking back into the house, and his hand falls back by his side. Deran pulls out of the driveway; he stops at the end for a moment before driving off. 

Pope gets to his feet; he follows the only noise in the house until he’s standing in front of the nursery. You’re kneeling in front of the disassembled crib. Without looking up, you silently hold out the instruction booklet. He walks forward, taking it from you and kneeling at your side. 

Your eyes dart to him for a moment. “It’s a girl,” you tell him. 

His stomach swoops as he looks over at you. You offer a small smile. “The doctor called this morning. I thought you would want to know.”

You reach over and take his hand in your own, lacing your fingers together. He leans over, pressing his forehead to the side of your head. You turn, lips brushing against his as you pull him into your embrace. He sinks easily, the world going quiet around him as you hold him. His hand falls from your side to the swell of your stomach. 

For now, there’s only one voice. 

Baz was always wrong about you. 

"How did you get two?" Craig always teases J when both you and Nicky are around.

You always make the same fuckin' face of disgust. You've known J since you two were in kindergarten. You couldn't imagine him as anything more than a brother. He spent a lot of time at yours when his mother was strung out.

You hate spending time at the Codys', but J is your best friend, and you'll do anything for him. Because you worry about him.

One morning you arrive at the house, hoping to catch J early so you two can go surfing. But the place is unusually quiet, and you are greeted not by your friend or his grandmother (thankfully), but by Andrew Cody. They all call him Pope.

Pope has been watching you since you first arrived at the house. He watches how you flinch at the loud noises, how you recoil from his brother's touches. Unlike his nephew's girlfriend, you don't giggle with Smurf. You get in and get out. But he likes watching you. He likes that you sometimes go and sit in J's (his) room when things get too noisy. That you just want to be away from it all.

You're far too sweet to be around him or his family. But he'd like to corrupt you.

"He's not here," he says simply as way of greeting as he stands in the doorway.

"Well do you want the coffee I got for him?" you ask as you hold up the cups you're holding. "I don't know what typa coffee you like but I don't want it t' go t' waste."

Pope's eyes soften immediately, "Do you need money?"

In the last few years, J has started saying shit like that to you. And you don't like it. You're putting yourself through college. You're working in a shitty bar. You don't wanna be like your mother. She never went to college, married your dad right away outta high school. She relied on him for everything. And while you weren't dating and would never date J, you didn't want to rely on him.

"No. I got money. But I don't wanna waste it," you respond before sighing. "Look. If J comes back tell him there's supposed to be a good swell today and I'll be at the beach."

Pope takes the coffee from your hand, his rough fingers brushing over your soft skin, making you shiver involuntarily.

"I can come," he tells you.

You blink in confusion. Pope is a man of few words. You're aware of this from the times you have spent in his presence. Sometimes he'll sit with you and watch TV when J is busy.

"To the beach," he clarifies.

"You surf?" you respond, taking a sip of your iced latte.

He gives you a half smile. A rare sight.

"I'm also from California," he responds simply.

"Okay, well, get your stuff. I don't wanna miss it," you say with a shy smile.

You can't believe that you're willingly spending one-on-one time with one of J's uncles. But all things considered, Pope isn't the worst. Yeah, he's a bit strange. But there's something...calming about him. Maybe it was the time you fell asleep on the couch and woke up to him carrying you to bed. You slightly panicked, but he just placed you down and walked away.

"We'll take my truck," he tells you as he comes back dressed in his wetsuit. He hasn't put it on fully, so he's naked from the waist up. You inhale sharply at the sight of his bulging muscles under his sun-kissed skin. You're not expecting the sight. And you're not expecting your body to react that way. You're not expecting your cheeks to heat up or the heat growing in your stomach.

"Lemme grab my things," you say when you finally catch yourself.

You grab your board and your suit from your car. You're going to change at the beach like you always do. You've never been alone with Pope before. Not like this. He's quiet, stoic, as you make the short trip to the beach. He doesn't play music in his car. He just drives.

"Lemme get changed, and I'll meet you out there," you say to him with a smile.

He shakes his head, "I'll wait."

You bite your lip as you wiggle out of your jean shorts and the crochet shirt you're wearing over your floral bikini top. You don't notice how Pope's eyes wander over your body. He takes you in, hazel eyes examining every inch of you. The way your skin glows under the hot Californian sun. He lets out a soft breath at the way your breasts bounce as you jump to get your wetsuit up.

"Will you zip me up?" you ask him, turning around to offer him access to you.

You both know that you're capable of zipping up your wetsuit alone. But Pope won't argue and gently brushes your hair away from your back, he moves it over your shoulder and then zips you up. He moves closer than necessary so he can inhale your sweet scent.

"Want me to do you?" you ask him nodding to his wetsuit.

Pope gives you that half smile again before shrugging into his wetsuit and turning around to let you zip him up. You brush your fingers up the soft skin of his back and you watch as the muscles ripple under your touch. You shouldn't be doing this. But you zip him up nonetheless and spend the morning in the surf with him. With a man literally old enough to be your father.

Soon it becomes your routine. You and Pope meet on the beach every Friday morning and spend hours surfing and talking. Sometimes Pope will come into the bar during your shift. He nurses a whiskey and tips you far too well. If he comes into the bar, he'll wait for your shift to end to walk you to your car. He's scary. And you don't mind having your little guard dog.

Then, you find him at the entrance of the bar every night as your shift ends. Just so he can walk you to your car. It's just across the parking lot but you like it. Sometimes he'll sit in your car with you and hear you rant about your shift.

"This is gonna be our last Friday surf," you tell him as he carries both of your boards to his car.

He looks so hurt, like a kicked puppy.

"I go back to college next week," you tell him as you shake the salt water out of your hair. He watches as the water droplets slide down the valley of your breasts. "We can try Saturdays instead? Or Sundays? Unless you're busy?"

"Never too busy for you," he says quickly.

You don't expect to meet Pope Cody on your doorstep on your first day of your senior year of college. This time he's holding a coffee, although it's clearly one he made at home as it's in a mug. You can't help but smile at him.

"I thought you might want a ride to school," he says as he looks at you over his sunglasses.

"And how am I meant t' get home?" you respond as you take a sip of the coffee he made you. Just how you like it.

"You call me and I'll come get'cha," he responds.

So this is how the first semester goes. Pope Cody is your personal chauffeur, your bodyguard and your surf partner. He's become a closer friend to you than J. And J notices. Finally. It just took the better part of the year.

J has started to notice that you don't mind coming over for parties anymore. But when you're there, you're more often than not with Pope. Pope will bring you over a drink. Pope will watch you as you speak to whatever girls have been stupid enough to come over. Pope will sit by you when you're sick of standing. And Pope will go inside with you when you get chilly or bored with his brothers being obnoxious.

And J doesn't like it. When the fuck did you become best friends with the scariest of his uncles?

You and Pope are whispering together in the kitchen. He's got new wax for his board and offers to do yours too. You nod, telling him to come around later that evening.

"What are you two talkin' about?" J asks with a little huff on his face.

"Surfin'," you respond with a shrug before you walk out to the pool.

"You screwin' her or something?" J hisses at his uncle.

Pope just looks at his nephew down his nose and walks away following you out to the pool with a towel for when you come out of the water. He's not going to rise to that. And he doesn't want J to know he has been fantasising about you since that first day on the beach. He doesn't want J or you to know that he's been watching you sleep for months. You should get better locks on your apartment door. You look so pretty when you sleep.

You also talk in your sleep. One night as he sits in the corner of your room, you start to whimper. He presumes you're having a nightmare until he hears you whimper his name. Not Pope, the monkier his family gave him. No, you whimper Andrew.

Oh, Andrew, yes! Please!

He had no choice but to grab a pair of your panties. Used panties. He inhales your scent before shoving them in his pocket. He breathes them in as soon as he gets to his own bedroom and jerks off into his hand. Thinking of the way you moaned his name in your sleep.

And he needs to figure out a way to hear it from you for real.

Since J has been an asshole, you've gotten more touchy with Pope. Not when Smurf is around though. You're not that stupid. At first, he's worried that you're doing it to make J jealous. But you'll hug Pope as greeting when he arrives at your apartment. No audience, just you and him. You brush your hand up his arm when he's in the kitchen making a drink while his brothers make noise by the pool. But his favourite thing is when you sit on the same lounger as him by the pool. You're not bold enough to climb into his lap. But you'll sit by him, offer to put sun cream on him. You always ask him to do your back and shoulders.

Sometimes after you settle yourself between the V of his thighs...only sometimes when his brothers aren't around you'll lie back on him. Relaxing against the hard muscle of his stomach.

These moments get added to Pope's fantasies when he's alone with his thoughts at night. The way you shudder under his touch, how soft your skin is. He knows each of your bikinis and he has his favourites. He loves how you wear your bright floral ones when you surf with him. But you go for softer colours when you're poolside with his family. His favourite is a white one that becomes almost sheer when you're in the water. But he doesn't like when his brothers are around to ogle you in it.

"Seriously," J asks you one night as you sit in Deran's bar. "What is going on with you and Pope?"

You look down at your glass and shrug, "You're always doing bullshit. We started surfing together. That's it."

"I heard he brings you to college too. And work?" J pushes.

"What? You got people spying on me? Should I call you Smurf?" you snap.

You don't need this third-degree bullshit. Not from J, who dragged you into this family.

"I even heard he stays over at your apartment," J continues.

"Yea, a few times. He's my friend, J. I don't need you to monitor everyone. Would you be this wound up if it were Craig or Derran?" you ask him.

"It's weird! He's my fuckin' uncle. He was in prison! He's dangerous!" J continues. "And he's old."

You throw your hands up and slam your drink down in one swallow.

"I don't need this bullshit, Joshua. You didn't give your girlfriend this sorta cross examination. Even after she started fuckin' your uncle," you hiss before you storm out.

You don't expect to walk into the wall of thick muscle that is Andrew Cody outside the bar. How did he know you were here? How did he know that you needed him?

"Hey, sugar, you okay?" he asks, steadying you by gripping your waist with his huge, rough hands. You can feel the heat radiating through the flimsy little skirt you wore out.

Pope wonders if you wore this for his nephew. Or some other shithead.

"I just needa go home," you finally answer him.

"Get in the truck," he tells you, firmly.

You just nod your head, the tone he uses goes straight to your core. You press your thighs together and get into his truck. He watches as your skirt rides up and he sees the sweet little floral panties you're wearing. They remind him of the bikinis you love. But seeing this is so much more intimate. Especially because he knows that you didn't mean for him to see it.

Pope is in two minds about going into the bar and beating the shit out of whoever has upset you and going straight to you. But when he sees your face, so open and needy in the truck waiting for him, he crumbles. He goes straight to you.

He drives you home, in silence once again. You're used to it. And you relish it. You needed the quiet. When he parks up, you turn to look at Andrew Cody. Really look at him. His eyes drop after a second of meeting your big eyes.

"Come in, Andrew," you whisper.

He doesn't need to be told twice. He follows you up to your apartment. He's been in your apartment before. By invitation as well as by his own volition. But tonight things are different. Maybe it's because everyone already presumes you're sleeping together. Maybe it's because you're sad and frustrated. Or maybe it's the tension, the touching, the longing glances over the past few months. But you lunge yourself at him. You kiss him hard and messy and desperate. And he kisses you back, tentatively at first but then he gets more desperate. The kiss is all teeth and tongue, you even taste blood as you both devour each other's mouths.

You pull away, "Fuck, Andrew. We shouldn't do this."

You're already so entangled in the Cody family. If you do this. If you cross this line, you'll become one. You know that if you let Pope have you, you'll be ruined. No one else will stand a chance.

"Baby," he growls, pulling you back into a kiss. And you just give in.

You pull at his shirt, needing to see him, needing to feel him against you. His hands are already under your skirt, palming at the flesh of your ass. The two of you are as desperate as each other. You're stumbling around your apartment. Clothes being thrown everywhere...even though Pope wants to fold everything in the back of his mind. But you're pulling him into your bedroom. You fall back onto your bed with his mouth over your breasts. You have no idea when you lost your bra. When Andrew had undressed you to just your floral panties.

You squirm under him as he bites over the swell of your breasts. He's leaving marks that he'll see the next time you go surfing. And he can't lie; he's getting off on the thought alone. You gasp as you feel him rip the fabric of your panties from your body. He lifts them to his face and inhales your sweet scent. A scent he's become addicted to. He grips your thighs and drags you up so you're balancing on your shoulders. He dives into your pussy like a man starved. And he is. He hasn't been dreaming about this for months. At his first taste of you, he cries out in pure desperation. You taste like fucking heaven. He doesn't want to muddy the experience with his fingers. He wants to drink you up. And you let him as he palms at the flesh of your thighs keeping you locked close to him.

You start to squirm harder against him as your orgasm starts to build. You've been dreaming about this moment for so long. But this is so much better than you could have imagined. You cum with a strangled cry, saying his name like a mantra.

Andrew. Andrew. Andrew.

He almost cums in his pants just at the way you moan his name like that. It's even sweeter than how he imagined it.

Pope has had issues getting hard in the past but ever since he started surfing with you, he's been hard enough to pound nails almost constantly.

"Wanna see you," you whisper as he lays you back on your bed. Your voice is still shaky from your orgasm; your whole body feels like an exposed nerve. But you're not done with him. Not a chance. Not when you've finally got him.

Andrew shucks his boxers off and your eyes go wide. You have no idea how he's going to fit inside you. He's huge.

"You okay, sugar?" he breathes, stroking your cheeks.

"You're really big," you confess. Sure, you've seen the print of him against his wetsuits, but you guessed there was fabric and water in the mix. But no...he's just...huge.

Andrew ducks his head shyly, "What? Those other boys were lacking?"

You blush bright red.

"Um...there were no other boys," you finally confess.

Pope's eyes go wide. He looks like the cat who's got the cream. He's going to be your first. He's gonna be the only person who has ever had you.

He kisses you now desperately. He grips the base of his cock, guiding the blunt head of his weeping cock to your entrance. He teases your clit first with his tip. You let out the sweetest little moans for him. And he's not even inside you yet. You're already panting and squirming for him. You're intoxicating, and he's already addicted to you.

Finally, he pushes into you. He has to squeeze his eyes shut at how tight you are. Pope has never been a gentle man. But he's being gentle for you. He'll always be gentle for you. When he finally bottoms out in you, your nails dig into his shoulders. They leave little half moons between his freckles.

"You're so tight, sugar," he breathes, his lips kissing over the shell of your ear.

You just nod, not sure you can form words. You're just so full of him. And when he starts rocking his hips you swear you see heaven. You've never felt this good in your life. Your body is on fire. His hands grip your hips and then slowly begin to explore the rest of your body. He grips your breasts, rough, pulling and flicking your nipples without rhythm. He then slides his hands down your arms, gripping your wrists and dragging them over your head. You both groan as he stretches your body out for him.

His thrusts get faster, harder, rougher. Andrew tried to be gentle, but fuck he needs to carve a path through you. He needs to make you his. No one else has had you and no one else will after he's finished with you. You're his. And only his.

"'m close, Andrew," you whine out as the headboard slams against the wall.

He's pumping in and out of you like a man possessed. The sound of skin on skin fills the room. It's animalistic. It's raw. It's fucking messy. And you cum without another warning. You scream out like a banshee as your orgasm rips through you.

Your pussy grips his cock like a vice and he has to stutter to a stop. He can't move you're so fucking tight, your cunt convulsing around his cock. And fuck, it's the prettiest fucking sight. Andrew presses his forehead against yours as you pull an orgasm from him. He fills you with thick, hot ropes of cum. The release feels like heaven. You swear it spurs on a third orgasm...or it could just be aftershocks from your last one. But it feels so good.

You lay tangled in each other's arms for what feels like hours. His cum seeps out of you and down your legs, cooling against your skin.

Finally, Pope gets up and grabs a wet cloth to clean you up.

"We can't tell Smurf," you say, at the same time as he says, "Smurf can't know."

At least you're on the same page. You both know that Smurf doesn't like it when her boys are distracted. She'll allow it for a time. But not for long. Especially if she sees their loyalty wavering. You're not stupid, you know she did something to Cath.

"Stay," you breathe, running your fingers through Andrew's auburn curls. You love the grey that's appeared by his temple, the greys that pepper his stubble.

You can't help but kiss over his chin and jaw. You give him a little nip as you do. This elicits a rare chuckle from Andrew 'Pope' Cody.

Your relationship with Andrew doesn't change much...bar the sex. The sex is incredible. Mind-blowing. You spend days in bed with him. You've started to wonder if you're a sex addict. Andrew soothes you, telling you this is very normal. Especially at the start of a relationship.

"Who are you fuckin'?" Craig finally asks you when he sees the hickies scattered over your body when he spots you on the beach one morning.

You've been smart, not flaunting your body over at the Cody house now that Andrew won't stop leaving marks on your skin. You can wear one-pieces, sporty ones that cover most of your chest if J invites you over to swim. Andrew gives you a knowing smirk when he sees your more modest swimwear. Knows that he's the reason.

But now you're in your bikini on the beach, not expecting to see anyone who might ask questions.

"Can't a girl have a lil privacy?" you ask putting your hands on your waist.

"Well no, because ever since I've known you, you've been like a nun or something," he responds as he shakes the seawater out of his hair.

"Just cos I won't sleep with you?" you respond with a roll of your eyes. "Cody boys aren't my type. Sorry, sweetheart!"

You give him a smile over your shoulder as you head back to your apartment.

Cody boys, no. Cody men, on the other hand? Well!

You were smart around the Cody house. You didn't change the way you had gotten closer to Pope. You didn't change how you would share a sun lounger with him. But Pope still acted like your touch freaked him out. He didn't soften into it like he did when you were alone.

You were careful. You were smart.

When you were alone in the kitchen or his bedroom or even just passing each other in the hallway, you couldn't help but press kisses to his jaw, he couldn't help but grip the soft flesh of your ass. Sometimes when you knew the house was empty, you would drop to your knees and take his heavy cock in your mouth. You loved making him feel good, making him feel powerful. You loved tasting him as he unloaded into your mouth. He always came so quickly when you got your mouth on him.

You just couldn't get caught.

Even if Andrew's brothers knew they'd soon tell Smurf. And then she would use that shit against you.

So you think you're being smart. Until you weren't.

J has invited you to a party. But he's distracted, playing stupid games with his uncles in the pool. Smurf is watching like an emperor in the Colosseum watching gladiators fight. She presides over the parties and everyone loves it. You have to contain your eyerolls behind the designer sunglasses Pope got you. No one notices when you go inside. No one except Pope, who, as always, has been watching you like a hawk. He finishes his beer before following you inside. He can't make it obvious.

You're hunting in the fridge for a soda. His eyes zero in on the curve of your ass. He places his hand on your waist and you jump before you realise who it is.

"Andrew," you breathe softly, turning to look at him.

"No one's watching, sugar," he whispers as he leans down to kiss you.

You smirk against his lips, stepping onto the boots he always wears to kiss him deeper. His hands palm at your ass, slipping under your bikini bottoms to grip the full globe of your ass. His thumb brushes lightly over your puckered hole.

"Andrew," you scold, pushing him away gently.

You giggle as you drop down to your knees, hidden by the kitchen island, and pull his cock from his swim shorts, taking him in your hot mouth. Andrew has to stay still as you work over his dick without being caught.

One thing leads to another and you're in his bedroom trying to stay quiet as he ploughs into you. He's got you on your hands and knees, on the floor because the bed is too noisy. You learn this when you try to ride him but the mattress springs are screeching. So you let the carpet burn into your flesh as Andrew fucks you. He's already made you cum twice on his face. He clamps a hand over your mouth when you cum, muffling your desperate cries of pleasure. He has to bite down on your shoulder to stop his grunts when he fills you with his cum.

Pope knows that you should get dressed and go back out to the party. But he gathers you in his arms and brings you to his bed.

"Just for a minute," you tell him, knowing that he loves post-sex cuddles. He's never been held, not really. And you intend to fix that. You cuddle him whenever you can. You'll always have you arms wrapped around him when you're alone.

What you don't expect is to wake up to the sun filtering in. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!

"Andrew! Andrew!" you hiss, trying to wake him up. "Andrew fuckin' Cody!"

Smurf is always awake so fucking early. You have no intention of her finding the two of you. You pull your clothes back on. Swearing when you can't find your bikini top. You were only wearing a beach cover-up when Pope accosted you in the kitchen. So you can't just wander around like this. That's why you decide to grab one of Pope's black t-shirts. It doesn't hide the fact that you're not wearing a bra. But if you can get out of the house before you meet...

"Smurf!" you say as you walk outside. You thought you could sneak out the back. But of course, you can't.

"You stayed the night," she notes, her eyes dropping down to the fact you're clearly not wearing a bra and then to the carpet burn on your knees.

Interesting.

"Sorry I got a bit overwhelmed by the party and I musta passed out in J's room," you lie.

"In Pope's room," she points out. "And you're wearing Pope's shirt."

"Nothing gets by you, Smurf," you say with a smile. "I was wearing a cover-up and it just didn't seem appropriate in the light of day. Look, I should go. I have work."

Smurf immediately turns to the go to the bedroom but frowns when she finds the room empty. The bed has already been stripped. Oh what a smart girl.

"Pope?" she calls. She's aware that he didn't leave last night either.

Pope has put the bedsheets and some of his clothes in the wash. Everyone knows he's a clean freak. No one will bat an eye at him washing bedding that some girl slept in. Obviously without him.

"You didn't go home last night," she says when she finds him.

He just grunts, "I took a walk on the beach. Couldn't sleep. Came back this morning."

Smurf's eyes narrow. She doesn't like it when people lie to her. Especially not her eldest boy.

Pope makes sure for the next fortnight that he stays at Smurf's or his place. He still brings you to and from class, still surfs with you. Doesn't change that part of his routine. But he doesn't sleep over. He doesn't alert Smurf to you any more than he has to of how much you mean to him.

"This is my last semester of college," you tell him one afternoon as you lay on the couch. Your head is on his bare chest and he's playing with your hair.

"After that, there's nothing tying us to Oceanside. We could go anywhere," you remind him.

"What about-"

"Don't say her name," you whisper, kissing over his chest. "Your brothers can handle their own shit. They're grown men. You can start fresh."

"Where has good surfing?" he asks, then as he runs his fingers through your hair.

You smile and stretch up to kiss him.

"I think we can figure it out."

a/n: thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed! any and all feedback appreciated

taglist: @sweetashhh @orangecheescakeleftover @elenamoncadaibarra @joelmillrenthusiast @abbotaes

Two months ago, in the Chase household basement aka Vigilante’s secret hideout. 

“You guys promise this won't destroy my beanie babies collection? They're an investment!” Adrian demanded, pacing around the blood money and seized drugs, he had gotten his Vigilante gear ready to go and rescue his friend Chris from another dimension. 

So basically another regular Thursday. 

“Yeah sure whatever, it won't!” John rolled his eyes, and Adebayo barged past to put down the device into the closet of innocent teddy bears. 

“Okay but just be careful, that’s my beanie baby collection. I’m pretty sure that the market is about to bounce back and they’re going to be worth a shit load.”

“What’s with all the ostriches?” Harcourt asked, arching a brow. 

“Stretch? Duh. she’s the cutest of them all!” Adrian laughed and looked over to John for support but he gruffly shook his head, not at all in the mood to entertain him. 

A blast of energy blared through the closet and while in Earth-X, Adrian didn’t have much time to think about them, what with the Nazis and everything. 

Meeting his alternate self was wild, in this universe he still had a collection but they called them beanie bears, which was super weird and all kinds of wrong. But there was something even crazier, truly insane in Earth-X Adrian’s bedroom. 

“Is that real?” Adrian marveled over a framed photograph of him and you, in a special gilded frame. 

Surely it was photoshop or something, you were in a beautiful wedding dress with teal accents, and he was in a matching tux. 

In the background a cute tiered wedding cake was topped with teddy bear versions of you two. With little YT tags in the shape of a green clover instead of the TY red hearts.

“Well yeah, what you guys aren’t married in your universe?” Earth-X Adrian gave a goofy laugh, but stopped when he saw his other self wince, totally forlorn. 

“No…” Adrian said quietly, “we aren’t even dating.” What happened that didn’t in his own universe that brought you both together?

“Hm we figured it out after going to a beanie bear convention. One thing led to another in the hotel room…” He moved on when Adrian cocked his head at what that could mean, “then on my birthday she proposed. If it wasn’t for that convention and our shared love of collecting beanie bears I don’t think we’d ever have become a couple.”

Of course! That explained it, beanie babies were the key to true happiness, he knew it was a great investment and not some fad. But wait what had he just called them?

“Beanie bears?! Ugh yuck.” Adrian scrunched up his nose at that odd turn.

“What do you guys call them?” Earth-X Adrian asked with a casual shrug. 

“Beanie babies obviously.” Adrian scoffed. 

“But they aren’t babies, they’re bears. Literally bear-shaped.”  Earth-X Adrian pointed out, adjusting his gold-rimmed glasses. 

Adrian put a sympathetic hand on his shoulder, adjusting his own silver, “I guess this is what happens when history is rewritten through war and the wrong side winning, how sad.”

“I mean, there’s a lot worse going on around here if you haven’t noticed…” Earth-X Adrian was a little confused by his counterpart's more blase attitude. 

Still they made a great team and stormed the mansion to try and rescue Peacemaker, totally made the right call killing White Dragon and Adrian got back to his own universe. 

Upon returning home, once the door closed, device removed, it was blasted with a hit of energy, all of it, beanie babies included, the contents of the closet were reduced to ash. 

“You guys promised me.” Adrian snapped viciously, hands pouring through the likely toxic PVC beads. “They’re ruined!” Everything was ruined now, he’d never get married to you let alone be able to look you in the eyes again. 

“There's more important things going on!” Harcourt snapped back and sure enough there was, Chris got arrested. Then he tried to run off from the gang, but thanks to the power of friendship and a well placed taser shot, Chris saw reason and Checkmate was formed. 

To help make the world a better place. 

Current Day- Checkmate Offices, 25th of June. T-minus five days until Adrian’s 35th birthday. 

The world was not yet a better place. In fact currently it sucked major dick. 

Morosely, Adrian was listening to Bubbly by Colbie Caillat while aggressively slamming down on the mouse at his desk. Every single one of his eBay bids on beanie babies were being outbid by some asshole with the nomenclature xxgreenbowl_cutxx69. 

Unfortunately this guy knew how much these were worth as well and along with a user called h0t_ch33t0z_f@n, which weirdly enough Judomaster snickered whenever a bid went through. This second bidder never won anything, just inflating the prices. 

And finally the third bidder, who won this bout, Lombard_bombard84 had swiped the lil lobster out of Adrian’s clutches for 3,000 USD. 

“FUCK!” Adrian aggressively threw his keyboard aside. “STUPID PRICK I WANT, NO I NEED THAT PUNCHERS YOU FUCKING MOTHAFUCKER!” He tore open his desk drawer, ready to shoot up another monitor with his glock 17. 

“Dude, calm down! I don’t want to have to replace your set-up again.” John lectured him, begrudgingly getting out of his chair.

“Too bad! My computer has to die for not being fast enough! Now stand back EconoGOAT, I'm going to overglock my gpu!” Adrian took the safety off and aimed.

“What’s wrong buddy?” Chris wheeled over, trying to stop his homicidal friend from destroying the IT equipment. A quite common occurrence it turned out. 

“I'm trying to hunt down a misprint of Pinchers the Lobster!” Adrian grumbled, scouring through eBay again, this time on his phone. He had to get one in time for your visit, or you'd surely be crushed. 

It was your all-time favorite find, Adrian hated lying but he couldn't fess up that both your collections were destroyed by an interdimensional portal.

“Dude stop wasting your money away on that shit.” Chris scoffed in the chair beside him. “No wonder you still can’t afford to move out of your mom’s place.”

“Uh no, I don't move out because the Vigilante secret hideout is there, I don’t pay any rent, get dinner made for me every night and my laundry folded.” Adrian waggled a finger out in front of his face, fully in um actually mode. 

Spinning around in his chair, Adrian laughed loudly at the very concept of moving out. “Why the fuck would I want to move out and give my money to some scummy landlord? So I can huff mold? The feudal system of rent is stupid and just another horrible crime of capitalism." 

“God bless Mrs. C…” Adebayo sighed, she was a true saint to put up with him. 

But what they really didn't know was that Adrian didn't grow up with much as a child. 

The Chases never had a lot to go around outside of putting food on the table. Charles was a music instructor often failing to get enough work, while Loretta worked as an accounting firm receptionist. 

Loretta had an advanced degree in accounting and the qualifications to do much more but taking time off to raise Gut and then again for Adrian ten years later left her bottom of the office ladder’s rung.

Those ‘gaps’ in her resume were detrimental in the cold world of corporate America. 

After his father Charles walked out on them, his mother Loretta had to work two jobs and suddenly left Adrian, a rather attached and needy son, alone as a latchkey kid. 

His older brother Dorian, who preferred to be called Gut, ten years his senior, simply wasn't in the mood to put up with his strange younger brother. 

Adrian tried and failed numerous times to insert himself into Gut’s world of friends and popularity, especially when it came to his best friend, Christopher Smith. 

He idolized Chris, soon to be Peacemaker out of high school.

But these attempts never bore much fruit, being kicked out of the house easily by the older boys who wanted to get high in the basement without getting narced on. 

Leaving Adrian a latchkey kid, often without a key or anyone to latch onto. 

So like a lot of kids left to their own devices and a teenager of the mid 2000s Adrian frequented the local mall as a safe haven. 

But unlike other mall rats, he didn't go into Hot Topic or the other department stores. That would cost too much money and he wasn't really into fashion or had a scene per se. 

Also he was horrendously bullied any time he tried to fit into a clique, Adrian had all but given up hope on fitting a standard mold. 

Or for the longest time the concept of making friends.

No, he usually went into Goodwill and second hand stores, on the hunt for the biggest craze of the 1990s and early to mid 2000s. 

Beanie babies.

And that was how he met a single friend. 

You. 

Adrian could still picture the fateful encounter like it was yesterday. 

LeAnn Rimes' absolute banger 2000 hit Can’t Fight the Moonlight was playing on full blast on the dinky Evergreen Goodwill PA system.

Under a lover’s sky…gonnna be with you…and no one’s gonna be around…

In the toy section, Adrian’s hand went for the beanie baby as soon as he spotted the red TY heart tag. Lurching forward to snag  the prized PVC filled bear, there was already a hand clutching it.

He was about to get annoyed, ready to wrestle for it from any small child, especially when he realised it was his all time favorite, a Stretch the Ostrich. He only had five of them! 

If you think that you won’t fall…well just until, til the sun goes down…

But when he looked up at the culprit, Adrian was left stunned. 

You were a vision of beauty dressed in double denim.

Wearing a denim vest lined with bright pins over a zebra print t-shirt, hair decorated in little glittery blue butterfly clips, wrist covered in jelly bracelets and a chunky star one with a seal charm hanging off it. 

Teal and silver stars glimmered on your nails, piercing Adrian's heart like a cupid's arrow. 

Underneath the starlight, starlight…there's a magical feeling so right…it will steal your heart tonight…

You definitely didn’t go to his school, he would have remembered such a pretty smile filled with braces and beautiful eyes behind those square-framed bedazzled glasses. 

“Huh?” He asked eventually, you’d been saying something but he couldn’t hear much past the pounding of his heart. 

“Um, I said, sorry you can have Stretch. No biggie.” You repeated shyly, feeling rather frazzled with this boy’s hand touching yours for so long. “I collect them, I’ve got like six already…”

Similarly you were left at a loss.

He seemed really cool, dressed in a purple Spyro the dragon t-shirt, of course layered over with a black long sleeve shirt and a teal collared shirt underneath that. Frosted jeans held up with a white belt completed the ensemble. 

He definitely didn’t go to your school, you would’ve recalled seeing such a cute dimpled smile with those green eyes shaped by wire-framed glasses. 

And not to mention his gorgeous curly hair.

Adrian tried to think about how he could impress you? Maybe drop to the ground and do some pushups?

Or should he go the sensitive route and compare thee to a summer's day? How could he denote the way his heart strings were being pulled, you lovely skilled harpist. 

But instead Adrian yelled at the top of his lungs, voice cracking, “NO YOU HAVE IT!” and he threw the Stretch beanie baby at you before absconding from the store. 

Wallowing in regret, Adrian wanted to find a hole to die in but instead wandered around the mall, unable to process what had just happened. 

He had never felt that way about someone before, this wasn’t right. 

Adrian didn’t have emotions or feel things like everyone else did. Yet his heart throbbed. 

Later while Adrian was sitting alone as per usual at the food court, the strangest thing happened to him. Someone actually took the seat across from him voluntarily. 

Glancing around quickly, the other booths were still free. 

“Uh you must've made a mistake. I’m Adrian Chase.” He said, not looking up from his plastic tray of Panda Express. Awaiting the incoming cruel prank or snide giggling, he received neither. 

Instead you were smiling and had your hand out to shake his, introducing yourself. Adrian took it, dumbstruck by the gesture. 

“Hi Adrian, nice to meet you properly. I’m glad I caught up with you! I found a bunch more beanie babies after you left and check it out another Stretch!” 

When he gazed up at your kind voice, Adrian could hear the song run in his head again as you slid over a plastic bag with Stretch and the other duplicates you’d gotten. 

“Maybe we could join forces and collect beanie babies together? Then we'd be sure to get mega rich!” You suggested getting out your Lisa Frank notebook to write down the additions with a sparkly pink gel pen.

“That'd be rad…” He was rendered speechless, your 2004 Britney Spears Curious perfume of Louisiana magnolia, pear, tuberose, and vanilla captivating him.

“Do you like the arcade?” You asked, snapping your book closed. 

“Uh yeah I LOVE the arcade, Frogger is my ultimate favorite, I nearly have the high score!” Adrian couldn’t control his volume, much too excited, but neither could you, squealing back. 

“YAY, I LOVE Mortal Kombat!” Your eyes shone so beautifully, Adrian stared back into his frozen coke to try and distract himself. 

“Awesome! Who do you main as?” He asked, trying to seem more cool he stretched out at the booth and took a sip of his drink. 

“Mileena.” You grinned. “Let us dance!” 

Adrian nodded thoughtfully at your choice, taking another bite of his orange chicken. “Ahh a true woman of culture I see! I like playing as Sub-Zero.” 

“Want to verse each other after lunch?” You offered hopefully.

“Hell yes!” 

With that you both darted towards the arcade and a bout of friendly matches ensued. 

“There's a Mortal Kombat movie.” Adrian informed you after getting his ass handed to him by your Mileena and then Sonya Blade. 

“Really?” You hadn’t seen it yet, “Is it any good?” 

“Hm, it’s kinda terrible but in the best way. Wanna come over to my house and watch it with me sometime? My brother has it on DVD.” Adrian suggested, unable to make eye contact with you, he anticipated the rejection but was met with affirmation.

“That'd be so cool! Can I see your beanie baby collection while I'm there, next time you can come over to my house and watch something and see mine!”

You were both so giddy, wandering around the mall together until it got way too late and it was then to go home.

On the way back on the bus, Adrian was marveled when you chose his seat. 

“Did you want to be,” He couldn't get the words out.

“Friends?” You finished for him, watching him fidget uncomfortably.

“Yeah, it's okay if not…” Adrian turned to you with a pained wince.

“I'd love to be friends with you!” You beamed back and that sorted things.

You two were officially after-school friends. 

“Hi Adrian, guess what I found?” Waiting by the bus stop, you greeted him as always after school with a big wired grin. 

“What is it?” Adrian grinned one of his own back, headgear squeaking a little under his wild mess of curls.

You were just like him, parents divorced, wore glasses, braces, too loud for most other left out kids but also too nerdy for the popular kids. 

Except for the one remarkable thing that you were a pretty girl, there wasn't really much difference. 

Unfortunately you didn't go to his school, he went to Evergreen High and you went to Liberty Park High. So Adrian only ever got to see you briefly after school, but when he did get to hangout it was as if no time had ever passed. 

Unzipping your Powerpuff Girls backpack, “I got Pinchers the Lobster with the misprint! Presenting to you, Punchers the Labster.” You proudly showed off the treasure to him. 

“Wow, holy moly that's so rare! You're basically a frigging billionaire right now.” Adrian proclaimed, marvelling over the beanie baby and its funny tag. 

He got out his otter themed trapper keeper and out sprang his printed out price guides and collectors manual. 

“But you should probably get a label protector to avoid creases and put him into a special case so it doesn't get dirty and keep the guy pristine, I'll lend you some.” He offered, readjusting his glasses up his nose. 

“Thanks! Whose house should we go to inspect and compare collections today?” You wondered, packing the priceless beanie back into your bag for safe keeping. 

“My brother Gut is home, but he's hanging out with his cool friend Chris! So maybe he'll have to be nice to me with a guest over.” Also Adrian wanted to prove that you were real, tired of being called a liar by the duo.

“I got another Stretch the Ostrich!” Adrian thrust the beanie baby right into your face. “But this one is a teeny beanie baby variant from McDonalds! I made my mom take me there for dinner every night last week till I got her in a happy meal!” 

“So cute!” You beamed, holding the little bird in your hands. 

“She’s all yours! A good luck charm for your track meet!” He grinned, and you shyly smiled back. Then he read off the tag proudly, “many days she runs so fast, looking at the ground go past, with her legs so long and thin, she is sure to always win!”

“Are you sure? Thanks Adrian, it's nice of you to come and support me every time.” You enjoyed running, it got your mind off everything going on at home.

Unlike Adrian who was bullied for being short and not having a growth spurt yet as a boy, you were bullied for the opposite reason. Too short, too tall, if you didn't fit into the rigid high school parameters you were quickly made aware of it.

“Of course, you're so cool! Stretch is totally my favorite. She reminds me of you.” Adrian said those kinds of lines so casually, yet somehow they always took you by surprise. 

“Oh thanks Adrian, I actually got you a beanie baby too.”

“Woah no way? For real?” Adrian looked so excited. 

“Clubby, limited edition for members only of the Beanie Babies Official Club. I signed us up! Here’s your BBOC Platinum Membership Kit, your card and a giant poster with 136 Beanie Baby stickers.” You handed over the bear and precious exclusive memorabilia, explaining how you two can chat in the forums together online.

“That’s so cool, but we see each other all the time in real life though!” Adrian laughed, your chest tightening.

Soon it wouldn’t be the case but he didn’t know it yet. 

“Aww he’s got an official membership badge!” Adrian hugged the bear close to his chest, putting his own membership pin proudly on his chest. 

“Wanna watch Inuyasha? I DVR’d the latest episode off Adult Swim last night.” He suggested setting up the VHS player at his Delstar mini television set. 

“Oooh yes please!” It was so cool that Adrian got to have a television in his room, thrifted by Mrs. Chase. 

You meanwhile hardly had anything in your room currently, it was all being moved out into boxes. But you couldn’t tell him yet, the news was too difficult to convey that you’d be leaving Evergreen and the only friend you’d finally been able to make. 

So instead you sat back to watch Inuyasha on Adrian’s hotwheels flame beanbag and tried not to blush too much whenever his shoulder brushed up against yours. “I taped Sailor Moon so we can watch that next time

At your track meet later in the week, your father wasn’t there as per usual, instead at a swim meet for your step-siblings with his new wife. It seemed like he didn’t have any time for you anymore. But there was a small group there to cheer you on. 

Mrs. Chase with Adrian, and even his older brother Gut, friend Chris in tow. 

“Damn I really didn't think she was real.” Chris shrugged. 

“I bet she’s training in running so much to escape being around you all the time.” Gut teased him and Adrian immediately took the bait, face going bright red with anger. 

“NO SHE ISN'T!” He yelled. 

“Dorian! That’s unkind, apologise to your brother now.” Mrs. Chase snapped and Gut winced at being called Dorian but relented. 

“Yeah not very polite of you Prince Charming.” Chris added with a snide grin. 

“Do not fucking call me that dude!” Gut snapped, getting more riled up than Adrian at this point. 

“Language Dorian! Christopher, why did you give him that nickname dearie?” Mrs. Chase wondered and Dorian looked ready to murder him if he answered truthfully. 

“It’s because he’s handsome, I call Adrian thimble because he’s short.” Chris explained, always able to make himself look good in front of older women with his cheesy square-headed smile. 

“Aw that’s sweet.” Mrs. Chase pinched his cheeks a little before focusing back on the track race. 

At the finish line, everything hit you like a ton of bricks. You were moving away and wouldn’t get to see Adrian anymore. The one support person who always made sure to cheer you on. You truly could rely on him to cheer up your day. 

“Are you sad because you didn’t get first?” 

“You’re still amazing, second place is really good!” Adrian cheered, “Why are you crying? You can win the next track meet.” 

That wasn’t possible, you weren’t ever coming back here again. This was your last track meet, and the silver medal hung heavy around your neck. “Yeah next time…”

“Would you like to come over for dinner dearie? I spoke with your father and he said it was fine, if you’d want to sleep over, we have a spare sleeping bag.” Mrs. Chase said sympathetically, you guessed that your father had told her about the move. 

There wasn’t anywhere to run, you had to tell him the terrible news. “I need to tell you something really important.” 

Adrian's eyes widened, a hopeful glimmer swirling in the sea of green. Were you about to suggest that he should be your boyfriend? 

Or could you read his mind that he was thinking about asking you to the junior high dance? He was allowed to bring someone his own age to it from another school.

But that wasn't at all what you were about to tell him, with a deep exhale you ripped off the bandaid, “Adrian, it turns out that I have to move to boarding school soon.” 

“When?” Adrian felt his heart being crumpled into dust and you were holding the vacuum ready to hoover the remnants.  

“This summer break, there's no room for me anymore in the house now that my dad's remarried. His new family is moving in and I can't take all my stuff. He's going to throw a lot of it away.” 

Adrian couldn't believe it, you'd not only miss out on the dance but all the fun activities he had thought of for summer break. 

And his birthday party, it was going to be under the sea themed at the local aquarium. Finally he thought that he'd made a friend who would actually show up this time.

“But that’s so soon and what about your rad beanie baby collection?!” He whined.

You gazed so sadly at him and Adrian wished he could make it all better somehow. 

“Well I was hoping, could you look after it for me?” The suggestion was so quiet that he nearly missed it, your voice catching.

“Sure thing! I'll take the best care of them forever and ever so you can come see them when you can visit, I promise.” Adrian quickly reassured you, going through all the steps to preserve them expertly.

“Still I'm going to really miss you.” Adrian admitted, fiddling with his sleeves to try and distract himself from crying. 

“I know I seem really cool, but I don’t actually have many other friends.” Yet he never did tell you the names of his ‘other’ friends were at Evergreen High, only that they went to his school. You didn’t push him on it though. 

“I'll miss you too.” You said softly, trying desperately not to tear up. “I'll visit every break, whatever chance I get! I won't get much time to leave campus so you'll have to do the collecting for both of us and send me pictures in the mail.” 

“Sounds like you're going to prison.” He grumbled, but got out his polaroid and Ben 10 stationery set ready for letter writing, taking down the address. 

“It's a remote, strict Catholic all-girls boarding school, so not too far off the mark there.” You lamented. “In Fairfax.” 

Adrian’s face fell even further. “That’s so far away!” 

Yours fell in tandem, “I know, but I have something to try and help,” rummaging through your backpack, you got out a small gift.

“Here you go, something I made you.” You handed him the beaded BFF bracelet you'd been working on. 

When he stared at it silently you started to get anxious that he thought it was a lame gesture. “I can make another one if you don't like the colors, I kinda ran out of teal and used white and black…” 

“No, I love it, such a killer color combo! I'll wear it everyday!” Adrian promised, clutching the beaded bracelet like it was made from pure gold. 

“Me too, we can look down at them when we get lonely.” You slipped the matching one around your wrist in pink, white and black, holding it up for Adrian to see. 

Mrs Chase let you sleep over and called your father to discuss the transfer of beanie babies. Then suddenly the day arrived for you to be shipped off to Fairfax.

“What if this is the end though?” Adrian asked, eyes glued to his New Balance 2002R sneakers. 

“The end?” You asked, “of what?” 

“Of our friendship, like what if you make a ton of new, cooler friends at boarding school and forget all about me?” He blurted out his worst fear. 

“Remember when TY released the End bear in 1999?” You smiled at him.

“Yeah?” Adrian nodded. 

“And it wasn’t the end right? They made a hundred more bears! Even if we make other friends, you’ll still be my first best friend.” You grinned when his eyes widened in surprise at that. 

“Yeah they made the Beginning bear…” Adrian sniffled, the two of you chanting with a silly giggle to each other, “Beanie babies can never end.They'll always be our special friends. Start the fun because we're here.To bring you hope, love and cheer!”

Those were the last words exchanged, the bus was ready to leave and you had to go. 

Adrian never cried much about things like normal people did. 

But on that fateful afternoon upon bidding his only friend farewell, watching you sadly get on the bus, he sobbed into his mother's comforting shoulder, waving you goodbye.

However, he didn't have to wait long till your reunion.

“Happy birthday Adrian!” You surprised him the first year, standing at the Chase residence doorstep only a month later.

“Woah! But you only get one day outside of the holidays to leave boarding school right?” Adrian thought you’d miss out on his party for sure. 

“Yeah, and I couldn't think of anything I'd rather do this year! I mean come on, an aquarium birthday party for my best friend? I wouldn't miss it.” You handed him his present. “I also found this one for you. It's a Gen 7 release, Sunray the Manta Ray.”

“OH MY GOSH NO FREAKING WAY! I DIDN'T KNOW THERE'S A MANTA RAY BEANIE OUT AND IT’S TEAL?!” There wasn’t a chance in hell that Adrian could control his volume right now. 

He had to shout from the rooftops when he saw your present. 

In your hands was a beanie baby with a distinctive mottled blue plush design, fuzzy underbelly fins, blue and black button eyes, and a bright orange smiley “mouth.”

“All of my friends call me Sunray. I swim in the ocean everyday, sometimes I’ll jump into the sky…having fun, wishing I could fly!” You read out with a giggle at how absolutely chuffed Adrian was. 

He cuddled the fuzzy manta ray plush lovingly right up to his chin. “So awesome, Sunray might be in my top three! Who are you going to take?” 

“Hmm, good question.” It was a tough choice but you decided to take Seaweed the Otter around the aquarium. 

When he got home, Adrian placed the manta ray up on the top shelf for a place of honor. 

That was how you spent every summer break, using your day off to go see Adrian on his birthday in Evergreen.

In college, you went to Portsmouth for Forensics and in the final year of your degree, Adrian went to visit you this time for your birthday. 

Present in hand he wasn't really prepared for how many other friends you had now. The dorm room party was really loud and while Adrian tried to not let it get to him how left out of the conversations he felt, it became increasingly difficult when they asked what he did. 

“I don’t study, I’m working in hospitality at Fennel Fields back in Evergreen.” He answered, at first oblivious to the glib or snide reactions around him until eventually Adrian found himself on the outer. 

One rude guy, drunk off his face, made it very clear. “So you’re her friend she always goes on about huh? I don’t get why, and you're a dishwasher?” 

“Yeah, but I’m her best friend and a busboy actually.” Adrian replied irritated, not enjoying how everyone laughed at that. What was there to find funny? 

The dude bro jabbed a finger into Adrian’s chest, “I guess she is super nice as well as fine, makes sense she’d take pity on some loser like you.” 

Anger boiled, red hot, a sea of blood crossing Adrian’s vision for a moment, like the visor he’d begun to don when patrolling at night for scum to rid off the earth. 

But he couldn’t act on the violent impulse, not here at your birthday party, on some douchebag with his daddy’s trustfund

The nepo baby wasn’t worth it. But his cruel words frustratingly barbed in Adrian’s confidence, blooming the anxieties he’d felt recently. 

Were you still his friend, or did you just pity him now, knowing he had nobody else? Unlike you, he didn’t grow out of the awkward stage, people avoided him at work the same as in high school. 

Ritchie was around your and Adrian's age, in some of the same courses you were studying, but he was finishing a criminal law degree. "Have you thought about my question any further? C'mon don't keep a guy in suspense." He badgered you, last week he asked you out on a date. 

A total blindsiding that you didn’t see coming and with your birthday and Adrian visiting, you didn’t really feel like addressing it. 

"I just want to enjoy my birthday, I still need a little more time." You were getting exhausted by how he was going round in circles about the topic. There was no breathing room, the weighted answer you had to give tightening at your shoulders. 

That didn't seem to go over well, his expression hardened, eyes steely, smile rather like a shark, sharp, cold and without mirth. "Sure thing birthday girl, tomorrow then." At least he left to go get another drink and left you be. 

But you were not looking forward to telling him thanks but no thanks tomorrow. 

Where had Adrian gone to anyway?

You were too busy to notice something had gone wrong, trying to do the right thing hosting and mingled with everyone. It wasn’t until near the end of the party that you realised Adrian was sitting outside on the steps. 

He looked down about something, brow furrowed in deep concentration at the concrete slate. “Hey, there you went! I was looking for you.” You called out to him, holding all the recycling. Nobody had stuck around of course to help you tidy up after. 

“Really, you were? For me?” Adrian looked shocked, peering up at you, he jumped to his feet. “Let me help.” He took the heaviest bags from your hands.

“Thanks! And of course, I was hoping you hadn’t left or something. I want to catch up and hear about everything you’ve been up to.” You said.

“I’m not up to anything exciting. I just work as a lame bus boy.” Adrian muttered, throwing the bags over into the communal bins. 

You frowned at that, taking in how upset he looked, you knew the signs, hands fidgeting at his sleeves, slight tremble of his bottom lip. Someone had bullied him. 

“Who said that?” You asked.

“Nobody.” Adrian lied, and not budging on the matter. “Come on, let's go open your present!” He pulled you by the hand back inside.

“I love him, thank you!” sitting on the bed with him, placing his gift, a Smartest the Owl wearing a little graduation cap on your bookshelf with the others. 

“I hear saw-whet owls all the time at my job when I get into the alley for my smoke breaks. I don’t actually smoke of course, but that’s what they call it in hospitality.” Adrian explained, smiling when he noticed prominently you had placed the university beanie babies he’d gotten you, right in front of your fave fantasy books. 

As you continued your studies, he went up in beanie babies, first year was Smart the Owl, second Smarty the Owl and now third year was Smartest the Owl. 

You had one more semester to go in Forensics and for graduating he was going to give you an Honor Roll the Graduation Dog beanie baby. 

“Hey, Adrian I got asked something by a guy named Ritchie in one of my courses recently and I wanted your advice.” You said anxiously, it'd be preying on your mind. 

“Sure what did he ask?” Adrian shrugged, still reading the spines of your novels to see if there were any he’d read. 

When he spotted The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern, he couldn’t wait till it was his turn to change the topic and ask what you thought about the book. 

“Well he… asked me out on a date.” You said shyly. 

“Oh…” Adrian froze, clammed right up, his blood ran colder than the bud light can he'd cracked out of the fridge. 

“I've never dated anyone before or been asked out so I'm kinda at a loss for what to do.” You admitted, “he wanted my answer again at the party but I wanted to focus on celebrating my birthday.”

In fact Ritchie had been very pushy and his attitude completely shifted from the nice guy you knew from your forensic imaging and photography course to an impatient, bitter tone.  

“I think, well I think that uh y-you should do whatever makes you happy.” It deeply pained him to say the words, but truthfully Adrian preferred to see you happy with someone else than not happy at all.

“I don’t want to go out with him, but I’m a little nervous to tell him on my own in case he reacts badly to the rejection. Would you come along with me when I do?” 

“Of course I will! No need to worry, I won’t let anyone mess with you.” Adrian tried to hide how absolutely relieved and giddy he was that you didn’t want to go out with this other guy, but failed terribly. 

He was grinning ear to ear for the rest of the night, even in the dark when Adrian tucked himself in at your couch. 

“Hey, I can’t sleep. Can I join you out here for a little while?” You crept in, nightie and fluffy dressing gown on.

“Sure thing! Just like our old sleepovers.” Adrian shuffled over and patted down the fold-out mattress. 

You blushed, seeing him in his pajamas, an old Mass Effect N7 t-shirt that slightly rode up and plaid red checker shorts. 

He really had gone through a growth spurt since the last time you'd caught up and gotten into amazing shape. While you always thought he was handsome, others surely had to catch on too now right?

Adrian hadn't mentioned dating anyone, but you were still curious. Biting your bottom lip, trialing the question over a couple times you went for it.

“Have you, well, I mean are you, gosh I’m ruining this question it’s like talk much?” You laughed rather high pitched, making Adrian cock his head in confusion. 

“Are you dating anyone, or have you uh had you know…” You waved your hands around, the word finally tumbling out.

“Had what, sex?” He asked bluntly. 

Meekly nodding, you managed to get out, “y-yeah or kissed anyone.” 

You were about to apologise if it crossed a line or was too personal of a question but Adrian didn’t seem to mind.

“No, I haven't kissed or engaged in coitus with anyone before. Outside of my hand for practicing making out or jacking off.” He shrugged casually as if discussing the weather.

“I don't date people either, there’s not a lot of time for relationships with me being Vig-” Adrian paused, pupils dilating. 

Oh shit. 

He was so comfortable with you, no secrets ever crossed paths, until now. Adrian had become Vigilante this past year, in a prototype suit, taking out the thugs, drug dealers, dirty cops, and worst of all graffiti artists off the streets of Evergreen. 

“Vig?” You asked him to elaborate. 

“V-vegetarian.” Adrian tried to clarify, his voice cracking. 

“But you ate a hamburger at the party earlier?” You saw him shoving pork belly sliders down like chips throughout the night too. 

Adrian began to awkwardly cough, anxiety seizing his lungs, “Yeah I’m doing a really terrible job at it, that’s why it takes up so much time.” 

“Right, well I’ll try and help cater to it then. No bacon and eggs for breakfast tomorrow.” You knew that Adrian was a terrible liar, because he never kept anything hidden. 

But this seemed to be something that embarrassed him, given how red his face was so you didn’t try and pry anything further around the subject. 

“I mean, I’ve already broken my streak. Might as well keep bacon and eggs on the menu…” Adrian pushed his luck, jutting out his chin and princess eyes. 

You giggled at that and reassured him the menu would not change before heading to bed. It was ridiculously petty but knowing Adrian hadn't dated anyone either made you smile going to sleep.

After breakfast and watching cartoons together like old times, Kim Possible, it was time to go meet Ritchie as organised before class at the college cafe. 

Adrian joined you, his presence making you feel safe. 

Ritchie was already there waiting inside and when he saw Adrian behind you, his expression went venomous.

“Hey Ritchie, thanks for meeting me here. I've given it a lot of thought,” You began anxiously.

“I'll say.” Ritchie laughed, sipping his latte, before gesturing to Adrian. “What's he doing here?”

“You might've met Adrian at my party last night, look I don't think I can go out with you sorry–” You were cut off swiftly.

“So what, you're rejecting me, for what this guy? Is he your boyfriend or something?” Ritchie demanded.

“Oh it's more that I don't really have time to date and I'm focusing on studying, I mean Adrian is…” You said, unsure of how to describe your relationship, worried about Adrian being annoyed by that. 

But were the two of you really just friends?

“We’re friends.” Adrian finished for you, an uncharacteristically serious expression drawn on his face as he glared at Ritchie. 

That solidified it for you, a silly notion you got in your head. Obviously Adrian didn’t see you as more than a friend. You two hardly saw each other anymore. 

But Adrian’s glare wasn’t aimed at you. This was the same dude that gave him grief for having a job. By the looks of his fancy get-up and rolex watch, Adrian presumed this guy was rather used to getting whatever he wanted. 

“But my being her potential partner shouldn't influence your level of respect for her clear and polite answer of no.” He added sharply. 

Adrian noticed you were anxiously bobbing your leg up and down underneath the table. Something you only did when truly stressed.

“I knew that he couldn’t possibly be your boyfriend, he’s a total dork.” Ritchie chuckled darkly, “you're missing the fuck out but whatever. I can find chicks like you a dime a dozen.” 

“Why don't you, and leave her alone then?” Adrian challenged him. 

“Thanks for stepping in there Adrian.” You were glad to have him at your side.

“Sure, what else are friends for?” Adrian smiled, but the word friend twisted like a dull knife in your side.

“Right, yeah, still I really appreciate it.” You murmured, trying to not be upset. Enjoying the rest of Adrian’s visit by showing him around campus and Portsmouth, he was set to leave soon.

Later that week at a study session in the library with your friends, the thought never crossed your mind that Ritchie would still be hung up on you. In fact he avoided you like the plague since rejecting him. 

You never thought to guard your drink bottle so closely amongst classmates, going to the bathroom you left it at your desk. But it became apparent that you did need to worry, becoming legless on the way back to your dorm.

It was like being cast off a boat out at sea without a life raft, stumbling to get up the stairs, you tried to call for help but were met with the perpetrator. 

“Nobody fucking ever embarrasses me like that, rejecting me in front of everyone. Let alone a frumpy bitch like you.” His voice and hands set out to grab you, yet they never quite reached.

Ritchie was waiting, but so was somebody else in the wings that night, your guardian angel.

Vigilante.

His costume was a myriad of teal, black and white Kevlar, red visor blurring in your double vision. 

“Nobody fucking ever hurts her, let alone a spineless, gutless, waste of oxygen like you that would roofie someone for saying no.” The silver glint of steel flashed before settling at his jugular, not allowing for another breath.

Your would-be attacker choked on a cacophony of crimson, dripping, then splattering in a jettison on the pavement soon to be followed by the heavy crash of his body. 

Vigilante wiped the remaining slick blood off his honshu blade onto the back of his combat pants before sheathing it. Then he dashed to your side as you collapsed.

“H-he put something in my drink…” You sobbed, still feeling woozy, unable to process everything that just happened, falling into a panic. 

“I know, hey you're going to be okay, all right? I'll take care of you.” Vigilante promised, scooping you into his arms and carrying you up to your room.

For a short while you slept and Adrian took care of the body, tossing the asshole in the garbage like he deserved and getting dressed back into his civilian clothes. 

Calling the ambulance, he made sure you were taken care of and were going to be okay. Thankfully you hadn't downed the entire water bottle, with some rest you'd be fine, breathing normal and heartbeat stable. 

The paramedics were confident that you wouldn't pass out again, but instructed Adrian to stay with you overnight to ensure you were fine. If anything changed with your condition, he was to drive you straight to the hospital.

“Hey, I heard that some asshole drugged you and some masked crusader called Vigilante I think saved you! Thank goodness.” Adrian said, gripping your hands tenderly when you came to.

“Adrian, are you Vigilante?” You whispered, words slurring when you regained consciousness. 

“W-what, what makes you say that?!” Adrian panicked.

“You are, aren't you! As your BFF, I can tell.” You wagged a finger in front of his face, settling back on the pillows with a satisfied hum. 

There was no use in denying it, you knew him too well and if Adrian was totally honest not having to lie about his secret identity with you was a relief.

“Hey, your suit colors are the same as the bracelet I made you.” You realised in a soft murmur.

“Y-yeah it is,” Adrian soothingly combed a lock of hair out your face gently, sitting with you the entire night. 

“I still keep the bracelet on me all the time, it's on my keychain.” He showed you his Sebring car keys and sure enough there it was, battered over the years.

“Mines on my ankle.” You giggled, kicking up a leg to show him, before succumbing to the desperate need for sleep. 

Adrian gently tucked you back into the comforter, kissing your forehead goodnight. 

Ritchie never turned up for class again. In fact everyone assumed he dropped out. Nobody found any evidence of the real reason why, you made sure of it using all your forensics training to clean up the scene. 

But there was a slight rift forming between you and Adrian after you graduated, he wouldn’t admit to being Vigilante, no matter how obvious it was. You decided to drop it, and instead of joining law enforcement opted to go into business for yourself. 

Becoming a private forensic investigator for families and loved ones to hire. You dedicated your life to solving cold cases, going to the victims' towns and never lived in one place long, moving to the next job, trying to help people in need. 

Adrian similarly got busy with being Vigilante and the alien butterfly invasion, then inter-dimensional travel, now Checkmate. 

However, no matter what, you always ensured to take off your one vacation day outside the schedule of unending cases to visit Evergreen for Adrian on his birthday. 

Current day, 28th of June, Chase Residence. 

“Sweetie, your friend is on the phone checking in about a visit for your birthday!” Loretta called out to her son, who you could hear was in the middle of playing Hello Kitty Island Adventure. 

“Hey Adrian, what’s the plan for your birthday this year?" You hadn't heard from him and were getting a little worried.

“I'm sorry but you don't need to come over anymore.” Adrian said glumly. “The beanie babies are gone now. They got destroyed and I can't afford to pay you the millions they were definitely worth.”  

“That’s a shame and all but you don't need to pay me back, I could still come over?” You didn't care about the collection, you wanted to see Adrian. But maybe your worst fear had come true, he'd outgrown you.

“Why would you even want to?” Adrian's harsh tone made your heart sink further than an anchor dropped out at sea. 

“To celebrate your birthday?” You asked, throat catching past the nerves. Surely there was more to your relationship than just the beanie babies. 

“It happens every year. You don't have to make the trip out just for that.” Adrian replied flatly. There was no point, his alternate self spelt it out clearly. 

If it wasn’t for our shared love of collecting I don’t think we’d ever have become a couple.

“But it’s important, 35 is a big deal.” You tried again, biting back tears when he sighed. 

“Not really, the Checkmate crew are just taking me out for burgers and the arcade.” He frowned, still checking for beanie babies on second-hand realtors. 

“Oh, um okay, it's cool I get it. Nevermind then.” Giving up, you supposed that with Adrian making all of his new friends that he didn't really need you anymore.

But you didn't expect him to just come out and say it so blatantly. Adrian was never one to mince words though, completely open and honest to a fault. “Goodbye Adrian.” You hung up, tossing your phone away. 

“Good bye.” Adrian similarly shut down his laptop, eyes bleary from staring at the screen and flopped back onto the pillows with a deep sigh. 

The next morning, 29th of June, Checkmate breakroom. 

“Where's your friend?” Harcourt asked. “Is she on the flight over?” 

“Yeah don’t tell me, the girl you were totally besties with that went to another school suddenly moved to Canada?” Rip goaded him with a shit eating grin. 

“My beanie babies are destroyed so I told her that she didn't need to visit me anymore. It's just my birthday.” Adrian explained. 

“Dude.The fuck kind of reasoning is that?” John scoffed for the collective room of bewilderment. 

“What? I didn't want to disappoint her, she only came over to inspect and compare our collections. Now that I don't have any, she wouldn't have any reason to.” Adrian scoffed back, how was that not obvious?

“Adrian, what if she also enjoyed seeing you?” Adebayo ventured, only to be met with total disbelief. 

“Pfft, no way!” Adrian laughed loudly, “there's like no way right P?” 

“Huh?” Chris was confused. 

“Uh DUH girls don't like me! You said so yourself, I'm a total lady-boner killer without the Vigilante suit on and whenever I open my mouth to speak.” Adrian repeated Chris’ line word for word and didn’t notice the death glares his BFF received from everyone else in the room. 

Chris sighed, filled with regret for his former self, he put a hand on Adrian’s shoulder. “That was drunk me and for girls we tried to hook up with at the bar…and I was an ass for saying that and in a bad place.” He apologised. 

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore, you guys want to hear some new manta ray facts?” 

But Adrian was stubborn, certain that his alternate self was correct. No beanie baby collection, no sweet babe to take off into the sunset. You weren’t interested, plain and simple. That dogged self assuredness was often both of their downfalls. However when he got home, there was a surprise waiting for him. 

“Sweetie you have an early present that's arrived from your friend.” Loretta’s voice was a little clipped, expression in a frown. She had also been unsuccessful in convincing her son to reconsider rebuking your invitation.

There was a package delivered to the door, teal wrapping paper with a bright pink bow. Inside were two beanie babies, one instantly recognisable, Stretch and another a newer beanie baby in the shape of a flamingo. 

Fraya the Flamingo, bright fuchsia pink with teal legs and yellow beak, was released as part of the brand's 30th Anniversary collection. Opening the tag, he saw her birthday was also the 30th of June, the poem inside gave him pause. 

Come over here and sit awhile, my bright colors will make you smile. When you’re with me you’ll be glad, I’ll make sure you’re never sad!

The birthday card had two manta rays on the front of it with the inscription ‘I hear it’s time for a celeb-ray-tion!’

Happy birthday Adrian! I found this and thought of you, thanks for always making me smile. 

Here's the Stretch you gave me and Fraya to keep her company. Hope you can rebuild the collection, it's a shame it got destroyed. 

But I'll still keep those memories of us hanging out together and chatting about them dear to my heart. That's really what was worth the most to me. 

I'm glad you’ve made some new friends and wish the best for your company Checkmate. 

It's okay to drift off from childhood friends, these things happen. I just hope all your future endeavors reward you as you deserve. 

You're a lovely guy Adrian, don’t let anyone diminish your bright colors. 

From y/n 

“Don’t wait up Mom!” Adrian snapped at her before frantically racing to get back into his car. 

The plane tickets weren't cheap, you unfortunately couldn't get a refund on them or the hotel. So drinking alone at the Evergreen Pleasant Suites hotel bar felt perfectly in order. 

Tomorrow maybe you'd wander around the Evergreen mall for old times sake. Family wasn't an option, none of you really stayed in touch anymore.

Like always there wasn’t any room for you, easily replaced with new, shinier, more interesting and better people. 

The Checkmate crew all seemed really cool though, Adrian was happy with his new friends. That filled you with a joy that nearly drowned the sadness. 

Nearly, you still needed copious amounts of booze to dull the pain. 

Your phone sirened off with Aqua’s Lollipop (Candyman) “Hello? Who's this?” 

“Sorry I told you not to turn up tomorrow. I got your amazing present and read the card.” Adrian said breathlessly, sounding like he was running or in a wind tunnel. 

“Oh, it's okay you don't need to apologise. You've got a bunch of new friends now to spend the day with, it was silly of me to book my flights and room without checking.” You said quickly, wanting to end the call as soon as possible. 

Tears were already trickling down your chin, saltier than the rim of your third margarita. 

“No it wasn't! It's a tradition, an important one.” He argued, “and I want you there tomorrow. I only said that because our awesome collection got destroyed. And I was trying to replace them all before you found out. Then when I couldn't, I thought you wouldn't want to visit." 

“Also those stupid new friends of mine are why the collection is gone. I was really upset and didn't think about any of it properly.”  Adrian explained, you could hear the pelting of rain outside his car on the freeway.

“Think about any of what properly?” You asked, trying to not get too hopeful. 

“Us, how much you mean to me, hopefully how much I might mean to you. That kinda thing, I guess. Sorta.” Adrian was sweating bullets, what if in this timeline you didn’t feel the same way? 

“You mean a lot more to me than some stuffed animals Adrian.” It came out more snappy and needier than you wanted it to. 

“So, our relationship is built on more than just beanie babies?” He asked, having parked the Sebring in the Hotel parking lot. Adrian knew the one you frequented when you visited him. 

“Yeah it is…at least I think it is. I still remember when we first met. I felt like I finally met someone who understood me.” You wiped a stray tear away with a napkin. “A-and,” hiccuping you couldn’t finish your sentence. 

“And that song was playing,” Adrian nodded, continuing for you, hearing your sniffle. 

He wanted to hold you in his arms, too much time had passed not having you there. “Under a lover’s sky, gonna be with you…” Adrian hummed, hands tensing at the steering wheel.

You started to sing Can’t Fight the Moonlight softly along with him, “and no one’s gonna be around…” looking around, nobody outside of you and the bartender were there. 

“If you think that you won’t fall, well just wait until…” Adrian stormed past, not caring in the slightest that it was bucketing down rain outside. 

“Til the sun goes down. You can try to resist, try to hide from my kiss…” You felt silly, it wasn’t like he was going to turn up here or anything. 

This wasn’t some cheesy rom-com. It was nearly midnight, Adrian was probably about to go to bed. 

“But you know, don’t you know that you can't fight the moonlight!” Adrian shouted back, and his singing voice suddenly reverberated on the phone. “Noooooo youuuu can’t fight itttt!” 

Spinning around, he was actually here, pointing towards you at the bar. 

“There's no escaping love…” He was ridiculous, sauntering over with the biggest, dorkiest grin on his face. Dripping wet from the storm outside.

“Once the gentle breeze weaves its spell upon your heart.” You were just as ridiculous, returning it back with a dorky, teary smile of your own. 

For a moment you were both transported to that moment in Goodwill, touching hands, butterflies fluttering, their wings beating at your hearts. 

That unspoken kismet, familiarity, warmth, unfettered acceptance you’d both been desperately seeking.  

“No matter what you think, it won't be too long…'til you're in my arm–.” You cut him off with a passionate smooch to the lips, hands threading through his curly hair, he returned the favor by wrapping his around your waist. 

It was a race up the elevator and a fight for whose tongue could delve the furthest as you explored kissing, an ouroboros of touch-stavation finally being satiated. 

Getting a hotel towel you started drying him down, but Adrian tossed it aside, picking you up with ease to take you to the bed. The time read midnight on the hotel alarm clock in blaring red as you were pushed into the fluffy pillows.

 “Happy birthday Adrian.” You giggled when Adrian’s glasses adorably fogged up as you unhooked your bra as he gaped at the bounty spilling out before him. 

“Fuck, best damn birthday ever...” He sighed, nipping at your collarbone, hands greedily cupping your breasts as his desire brushed up against your hipbone. Then he paused, assessing your flushed face, “wait, blow on this?” Motioning downward. 

You didn’t expect the plastic breathalyzer tube but shrugged and did it anyway, trying to make the motion sexy. 

However, Adrian was in fretting mode ignoring your blowjob eyes, “Oh good you’re not over the limit.” He said relieved, tossing the test into the trash before unbuckling his belt. 

“So I can operate heavy machinery?” You snorted, shimmying out of your jeans. 

“Something like that.” The impish glimmer in his eye took your breath away, a cocky half-smile you hadn’t seen before crossed Adrian’s face. “Still better to wear protective gear, safety first!” He grinned goofily, crinkling a condom packet out of his wallet. 

You giggled at that, helping him roll it down his shaft with a firm, soft motion that made Adrian grit his teeth, eyes flitting open-closed for a moment as you pumped. “I want to be inside you, please?” He begged, so desperate and whiny, the lust-filled expression flooding right down your thighs. 

“I want that too,” You agreed, bringing his hand to your core to show you how much, Adrian marveled at the wet dampness for him, shuddering. 

Adrian wished that he could live inside you like this forever, pinning your wrists down into the feather weight mattress, fingers locking iron tight. His weight pressed over you, face settled into the curve of your neck, like it’s always meant to be there, leaving hickeys at the soft skin. 

You want him to be like this forever, grinding your hips back, mewling in pleasure with every mark he left, his teeth grazing your shoulder, dipping your own teeth to claim the alluring bob of his throat. 

Short and deep thrusts, no rhythm to the knocking of his hips, because he can’t focus fully enveloped in your warmth. Buried to the hilt, Adrian groans in utter satisfaction when you call out his name at the stretch of him, rolling his hips so slow, it’s mind numbing. 

Kissing your forehead delicately like he isn’t edging you within an inch of your life with every inch of his cock right now, Adrian takes his fingers and plunges two past your parted lips, in tandem with the slow rocking below. When you suck on them, he bites his bottom lip, a sharp hiss of lust still escaping. 

Green eyes locked with yours, examining every minute detail, analyzing how your breath hitched, hair splayed on the pillow, back and shoulders arched, hips rolled, thighs tensed, core tightened for him, all of it. Mapping your body with such intensity that you flushed bright hot under his gaze. 

Then he dipped to moan in the shell of your ear, “You’re so beautiful, fuck, I love you, always loved, you, fuck…it’s so much better than, fuck, when I’d jack off to you, you’re amazing, fuck more than I ever fucking dreamed!” With every curse he punctuated it alongside a relentless jackhammering that left you drooling, feeling completely drunk, wasted on his cock. 

“You’re so handsome, ohh fuck Adrian, I love you too, fuck, it’s so much, please, ohh god!”

He was cataloguing every sound, indexing it and noting when your pitch got higher, sultrier, whinier, each as good as the last and something Adrian desperately sought after, chasing your pleasured tone with the thrashing of his hips. 

The release is sweeter for how in sync it is for the both of you, groaning, writhing together, buckling under the peaking pressure of the other's thick heavy climax. 

Underneath the starlight, starlight…

We'll be lost in the rhythm, so right…

Feel it steal your heart tonight…

35 was a great year. 

The greatest in fact, Adrian decided, coming up for air after another amorous bout, this time his head between your thighs. “Ohh wow Adrian, holy fuck you’re really good at that…” You mewled, hair patched to your sweaty forehead, face flushed and chest heaving. Yet Adrian stared at you lovingly, as if you were the most beautiful renaissance painting ever created. 

Birthday blowjobs were overrated, birthday cunnilingus was where it was at. However, he certainly had to reconsider that stance when you deepthroated him later. 

Adrian’s phone chorused with Aqua’s Barbie Girl while you were in cow girl. You knew him too well, not nearly half surprised when he answered it non-chalantly. “Hello best friend? Oh I’m currently with my BFF, who is now my GFF and getting my world rocked.” 

“Dude what are you talking about?” Chris asked, of course Adrian had turned it on speaker phone. This was Adrian after all. 

“She’s riding me like a rodeo!” Adrian said proudly. 

“Giddy up!” You laughed, making the mattress squeak and Adrian go an even higher pitch. 

“Are they straight up fucking right now?!” John snapped. 

“Hell yeah girl!” Adebayo wooed. 

“We’re at Big Belly Burger for Adrian’s birthday lunch, they’re gonna hold our table for an hour.” Harcourt said sharply. 

“Be there soon.” You said. 

“Real fucking soon!” Adrian panted. 

“Ugh gross!” Judomaster cringed. “Not in front of my chilli fries.” 

Cleaning yourselves up and trying to not get too distracted in the shower, you joined the Checkmate crew for lunch and a day of arcade games. You completely owned him in Mortal Kombat, but Adrian held the record for Time Crisis II and DDR down pat. 

“Best birthday ever!” He kept saying, the biggest grin on his face. 

“I guess I’ll have to sort out what to do about moving…” You said shyly, unsure if that was too soon or not but Adrian nodded. 

“Oh we can give you a job for sure!” Adrian offered and everyone gave him a funny look. 

“Wait, what are your qualifications exactly?” Harcourt, ever pragmatic, went right into interview mode. “All we know is you collect beanie babies.”

“I work in forensics for myself, set up my own business, solved a lot of cold cases, and unusual cases, I can provide the dossiers and recommendations.” You explained and saw the table's eyes widen going through your line of work. 

“Wow you might be kinda over-qualified! I mean I used to be a busboy, Chris didn’t finish high school, Adebayo ran a dog shelter, Harcourt, John, Sasha and Langston all got like totally fired from governmenting and Judomaster can’t ride most rollercoasters.” Adrian exclaimed, happily slurping on his milkshake. 

“Governmenting?” John asked exasperated. 

“It’s true, she’s over-qualified and we under-pay. But looking at you, she’s one to make interesting choices, Super Nerd.” Langston chuckled. 

“You in?” Adebayo grinned, putting out her hand and you shook it an instant. 

Checkmate offices, July 1st 

All of your belongings were being shipped across to Evergreen, moving in with Adrian for the moment, his mother was more than happy to have you both. 

Heading into Checkmate for your first day, Adrian dropped you off but didn’t stick around for orientation, claiming he had to go pick something up from the post office was super important. After Harcourt and Adebayo took you on a tour of the place and your new lab fully kitted out for forensics work, you were shown by John where your new desk would be. 

To the left of Adrian’s desk, which seemed to thoroughly relieve Harcourt, who moved a desk down. Heading over, you were met with a beaming, practically glowing, slightly sweaty Adrian, who’d clearly ran up the fire stairs to try and beat you both there. 

On your desk was a little present that paired with his own. “Aww, the 13th generation 2005 I Love You beanie babies!” They were joined at the arms, one red with I, one white with I love you, the word forever embroidered across their joined feet inside a pink heart. 

Adrian read out the tag to you loudly, ignoring the childish fart or barf sounds Chris and Judomaster made. 

“My dear, my partner, my best friend

My love for you, it knows no end

Forever you and I will be

Together for eternity!”

You snuck up and smooched him on the cheek, making his glasses askew, ready to live, work and be together, best friends, partners and lovers forever and enternity. 

==========================

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Younger Michael Robinavitch who finds himself walking you all the way to the room instead of half-heartedly pointing like usual, making small talk and asking you about yourself in a way that has Dana’s eyebrows raising as you two pass. Pushes away his pride some hours later and asks for the phone number of a visitor in his ED. Smiles like he’s in his twenties again when you gape at him a bit before smiling and leave him gaping when you take the notepad out of the breast pocket of his scrubs, write your number down and tuck it back in with two pats to his chest, leaving him standing in the middle of the walkway.

Younger Michael Robinavitch who winds up settling down later in life, abandoning his seven week itch that jumpstarted in his late thirties. Pushes through the instinct to run from the feeling he gets when he spends time with you—the desire to truly commit. Proposes to you in a cabin he rented out for your two year anniversary, trying his best to hide his shaking hands. From fear or excitement, he doesn’t quite know.

Younger Jack Abbot who hears about you three months into you and Robby dating. Meets you for the first time and understands why Michael speaks of you in a way he’s never heard from him before and couldn’t be happier for his best friend. Three months from that day Jack accompanies Robby in a stuffy jewelry shop, one that offers champagne and has a lobby.

Younger Jack Abbot that’s the only witness at your courthouse wedding, and Robby’s best man at the quaint but memorable wedding you hold weeks later, watching his best friend cry more on one single day than he’s seen at all in the many years of their friendship. Gives a tear-jerking toast at the reception dedicated to not only Robby, but you. Says that he couldn’t see his best friend with anyone else and that you bring out a side of Robby he hasn’t seen in years. He speaks to your newly budding friendship as well, and ends it with heartfelt blessings to your marriage.

Michael Robinavitch, years later and now fifty-ish, living in a beautiful home filled with memories and loving touches from your relationship together. Shoes placed next to each other at the doorway, a collage of photos above the mantle of the fireplace that sold you on the house, and bits and pieces of you littered around the house.

Jack Abbot who finally decides to do some work on the house he once shared with his late wife, realizing his clinging onto familiarity was causing the decay of the things he cherished the most.

Michael Robinavitch’s wife who learns one evening while Jack is over for one of their frequent dinners that he was planning to stay in a hotel for a few months while getting the renovations done. Chides him for even coming up with the idea and insists he stay with them, as they’re all close friends.

Michael Robinavitch who, after getting what he never thought he’d deserve, finds himself unhappy in a way he’s struggling to understand. The restlessness is growing, reminding him of his youth and doesn’t go unnoticed by you, his wife who knows his every tell by heart. He tries to spend his time with you and Jack to quiet the noise, now having the two people dearest to him under one roof. This only works for so long, though. Ignoring his pain doesn’t make it go away.

Michael Robinavitch who starts to hurt the one closest to him. Pushes you away, gets snippy and picks more fights in a month than you’ve had in almost a decade of marriage and deflects and shuts down whenever you try to talk to him about it. Has you walking on eggshells in your own home and starting to dread your husband getting off from a shift that’s sure to have him even more on edge.

Jack Abbot who has subtly noticed the tension in his two friends, especially Robby, but doesn’t realize how bad it’s gotten until it’s one of the nights they happen to both be off from work at The Pitt and he hears Robby speak to you in a way that he’d never thought he could direct towards you, ever.

Jack Abbot who sees how you curl in on yourself that night, dejected in a way that’s very unlike you. Harshly and quite loudly checks Robby’s behavior later that night on the back patio, not wanting to cause any more problems for you by confronting him at dinner, worried that it’d backfire on you. Leaves Robby alone with his thoughts that night, hesitating near his bedroom door when he hears you crying across the hall but ultimately deciding it wasn’t his place.

Jack Abbot whose schedule aligns more with yours, especially now that Robby’s been picking up overtime to avoid coming home. Finds himself spending quite a bit of alone time with you. Helps out around the house with chores or dinner, insisting that he’s staying rent free and wants to contribute something. Weeks into his stay, you two start to bond and seek out each others company, chores aside. Watching shows together on the couch while drunk off of some cheap grocery store wine, chatting on the patio while soaking in the summer sunset, playful banter while playing board games or cards, even you convincing Jack to download TikTok (or TikTak, as he calls it) so you can send him funny videos. He can tell it relieves the stress and sadness Robby’s bringing on you and indulges, for your best interest, of course.

Jack Abbot who’s been your confidant throughout the very rough bump in your marriage, consoling you in ways that could almost be considered too friendly. He finds himself holding you as you cry into his chest some nights, patting your back and reassuring you when you try to place blame on yourself or express insecurities. Other nights, when your mind is more off of Robby, you still seek out the physical touch you’ve been deprived from, propping your feet in his lap when you’re on the couch and bumping shoulders with him as you orbit around his personal space. You clearly need him right now, and he wants to be there for you, his dear friend.

Jack Abbot whose feelings for you start to change and he doesn’t notice until he’s in too deep. Finds himself thinking about you in ways he did his late wife, the feeling of warm contentment in his chest when you lean over to steal a bite of his dinner while you watch some shitty movie from your youth, thinking that he could do this forever and be content. Jumps up from the couch that same evening with the weak excuse of a headache and curses himself as he falls into a fitful sleep.

Jack Abbot who feels disgustingly conflicted. He wants to pull away, to not let his feelings fester, but he also doesn’t want to take away the happiness he’s been seeing return to your face. Fights with himself for weeks until one day at work during handoff he sees Robby and Noelle Hastings unnecessarily cozied up to each other. The final straw is seeing the tan line on Michael’s ring finger, bright and glaring.

Jack Abbot who realizes his best friend has done something unforgivable, something he truly can’t come back from, and decides to pick up what Michael Robinavitch carelessly threw away.

Jack Abbot who feeds into your affection even more than before, causing you to frequently be left with your face hot and the question of if he was flirting or not. Accompanies you when you go out to do errands and insists on driving you, opening doors and pushing the cart in the grocery store. Starts to take you out of the house on friendly dates outings, his personal top pick is taking you to his favorite putting green, standing behind you to help guide your club, gravelly voice in your ear and the only barrier between you being thin fabric. Buys you the overpriced drinks from the cart-girls and consistently asks you if you’re hungry, tired or just ready to leave, making it known he’ll pack up mid-game the instant you say so. Doesn’t correct any of his golf buddies when they assume you’re his partner, just smiles and pulls you ever so slightly closer by the waist, boasting about your shot and subtly bragging like you’re really his wife as he chimes in when they bring up their spouses in casual conversation.

Jack Abbot who comes into your room one night, the tension finally boiling over after one too many glances at each other on a drive home from a day-trip to the lake, sun-kissed and gazes full of fondness that goes deeper than friendship. Slowly pushes open the door, the only light being the one in the hallway that you leave on for Robby. Doesn’t respond when you sleepily mumble “Michael?” after he slides into bed behind you, stubble grazing your ear and hands sliding up your waist under your flimsy tank top. Quietly murmurs with his distinct tone, “Tell me you don’t want this, and I’ll stop.” Pauses for a moment as he waits for a signal, softly groaning when he feels you lean into him.

Jack Abbot who touches you in the way you’ve been craving for months, only giving and never taking. His entire focus is on you, listening for your sweet gasps as his thick fingers circle your clit while he gently brushes his lips along your neck, whispering praises and encouragement in your ear as he gently works you open.

Jack Abbot who slides down after giving you an orgasm with just his fingers, kissing down your thighs as he settles in. Works you with his tongue in a way that has you feeling so bare but so loved beneath him, your hands tugging at his soft curls. Makes you cum as many times as you want, never teasing you and giving you exactly what you ask, taking your directions as guidance, not criticism.

Jack Abbot who comes back up, kisses you like he’s been waiting years to do so and gently shushes you as you start to ask about him. Tells you softly, “Not yet, sweetpea.” and tucks you back into bed with a, “Love you, honey. Goodnight.” Leaves the room with a leaking hard-on in his pajama pants but looking perfectly content.

Jack Abbot who some weeks later drives you to your new attorney, patiently waiting in his truck during your consult. Grins happily but also comforts you as you stare down at the divorce papers in hand, a bittersweet feeling overtaking you. Offers you his newly renovated house for you to stay in, not letting you know that he’s already put your name on the deed.

Jack Abbot who marries you a month after your papers are finalized, not even bothering to pretend to care about how it looks to the outside world. Takes you out of the country for your honeymoon and goes on the longest vacation of his career, finally making love to you like he promised every night, the devotion in his gaze unwavering even when you return home weeks later.

Rumours of gangs, the mafia and more swirled, all while quiet renovations were made to the lot. When it finally opened it’s doors in 1967, controversy was rife amongst the community. Sure, Los Angeles was all about the hippie counterculture, and sexual liberation, but none of the local Angelinos were thrilled about a porno production company opening up just a few streets over from their schools.

Gone were the tiled floors, and lines of identical desks - replaced instead with plush velvet furniture and shaggy carpets. They even created their own backlot, filled to the brim with whatever sets the common porn film may need. Fake schools, houses, offices - Smurf thought of it all.

Including her stars.

The girls were largely nameless at first - pretty things who needed to make some quick cash. Very rarely would someone hang around for more than one or two. Julia Cody tried it very briefly, before getting into a fight with her mother and storming off set, never to be seen again. The only reason they know that she’s still alive are from the postcards she occasionally sends Pope. Last he heard, she was living up in a commune in San Francisco.

The boys, however?

Almost entirely Cody.

Deran’s an easy sell. As Los Angeles becomes more comfortable with homosexuality, there’s considerable market for men. Helps that Deran enjoys the work, too. He’s never once complained.

Baz had been the first best-seller. His initial videos did so well that Oceanside starting hosting their own premieres for each picture they produce - it’s a decidedly seedy affair, full of people you wouldn’t want to run into past midnight on Hollywood Boulevard. Despite being the only non-Cody, Baz is on such an upward trajectory that he pulls everybody else up with him. Oceanside Videos goes from being a bunch of nobodies, to challenging the biggest and brightest of the European porn industry.

Craig is Smurf’s dark horse. Where the other boys have hard lines, and lists of things they categorically will not do on film, Craig hasn’t found a kink that didn’t call to him yet. His audience trends nicher, more hardcore, but he has his fans anyway.

And finally, Andrew himself.

Initially dismissed by Baz and his mother, nobody really thought he would have much draw. He’d never been great with girls growing up, and it’s easy to imagine that awkwardness carrying in front of the camera. It’s a slow start. He’s a little stiff at first, doesn’t know quite where to put his hands. Baz jokes that it must be his first time.

But by 1971, the fourth anniversary of Oceanside, Pope has eclipsed them all. Turns out, girls love the brooding thing he’s got going on. His broad shoulders, deep voice, and signature curls combine in the most lethal way, making him the biggest earner of the seventies so far.

Especially now that Baz has stepped back a little. It’s Pope’s world, and everybody else is just living in it.

Except he doesn’t seem to know how to live in it at all.

There’s the Laurel Canyon mansion - bought only to get some distance from his family. With the rest of them shacked up in Beverly Hills, the half-hour drive between him and them is a godsend. When he spends all day with Smurf, the last thing he needs is to be around their ragers that last until the next morning.

He knows she’d rather he lived nearby - ideally on the Cody compound itself, but she’s in no position to make demands. Not when he’s her biggest money-maker these days.

There’s also the Cherry Red 1969 Mustang. Admittedly, that was one thing he’d really wanted. Having spent his childhood admiring the cars that sped by Venice Beach, it was one of the few luxuries he allowed himself to fully enjoy. He couldn’t not enjoy it - not when he’s cruising along Mulholland Drive, blasting the new Doors record at full volume.

Where the others revel in their fame, and abuse it in whatever ways they can - Pope seems to shrink in on himself. He has no real interest in the hard drugs - after a brief stint on cocaine in the mid-sixties, he eventually swore off it entirely in favour of weed.

He’s not a virtuous man. Has never claimed to be.

He just hates feeling out of control.

That tends to surprise people. They hear the stories about Oceanside, about the parties and the arrests and the smashed hotel rooms, and they assume Pope must be the worst of them. The scary one usually is.

While Baz disappears into bedrooms with aspiring actresses and Craig seems determined to ingest anything handed to him, Pope spends most parties lurking at the edges. Nursing the same beer for hours. Watching everyone else unravel, while he plots his exit route.

It almost adds to the charm.

Nobody ever truly knows Andrew, outside of his family. That excites people, and draws them in further. Makes them buy his movies.

Today is no different than any other day in this industry. His pants are down around his ankles, his hair thoroughly mussed while they film the literal climax of the picture. Pope’s barely paying attention, hips snapping against some girl from Wyoming while she whines and whimpers under him. Or was it Missouri? Maybe Kansas, actually.

Either way, it’s somewhere he has absolutely zero interest in visiting.

Her lipstick is stained across his jaw and collarbone, but not his lips. Never his lips. One of Pope’s little quirks, as Smurf would call it, is that he doesn’t kiss on the lips.

He’ll eat a girl out until she cries, and coat his lips in her cum, but will flat-out refuse to go any closer than the neck with actresses. A few girls have tried, claiming either to be lost in the heat of the moment, or just not thinking at all, but he always dodges it. It’s also the surest way to be kicked off an Oceanside set, and have your contract suspended.

He doesn’t need kissing to make a film good. Great, even.

Most people find that difficult to understand. The assumption is that someone who lives their life surrounded by sex must always want more of it, when the reality is almost exactly the opposite.

Pope spends ten hours a day discussing chemistry, attraction, boundaries, consent, comfort levels, camera angles, and performance. Every expression is analysed. Every touch is planned. Every intimate moment is broken apart and rebuilt until it serves the scene.

By the end of the day, there is very little mystery left in it.

None of it translates to personal interest. Unfortunately, every few productions, someone decides that the chemistry they created together on camera must mean something off camera too.

It never does.

Pope’s not sure he’ll ever feel a need for sex outside work again. Often he feels he must be broken in some horribly fundamental way. Craig and Deran would screw anything that moves, and while Baz claims loyalty to Cath and Lena, Pope’s walked in on him with more than one barely-legal model.

Smurf’s always said he was wired a little differently.

He knows what that means.

Wrong. Freak. Weirdo.

When Julia was still here it was manageable. She knew, even if she didn’t quite understand.

But now she’s gone, and all he has left are Smurf and porn.

*****

Somewhere in Huntington Beach, you also feel like you’re wired differently. Growing up in Dallas in the fifties, you were surrounded by conservatism. Every woman in your family aspired to be no more than a housewife, and every man saw more of the local dive bar than he did of his own children.

Ever since you could talk, it hasn’t felt right for you. Dallas was all about keeping up appearances. Your mother spent her days fighting dust, starching shirts, and making sure the kids were seen and not heard. Your father and uncles were ghosts who smelled of stale tobacco and cheap whiskey. The only thing worse than their absence was their presence.

You spent your childhood hiding in the branches of the backyard pecan tree. From up there, the neat rows of suburban houses looked like a grid of tiny boxes. You would stare at the horizon where the flat Texas earth met the sky, wondering how far you would have to run to find some semblance of peace.

Eventually, the answer came to you, in the form of a biker blowing through town the summer of your seventeenth birthday.

Jim De Costa.

Allegedly. Now, you’re not sure that’s his real name. But at seventeen, he could have told you his name was Jimmy Dean, and you would’ve believed him wholeheartedly.

He was the most worldly person you’d ever met - somehow on top of every book, record and movie going, despite living out of motels and inns as he travelled aimlessly. He’d been to Paris, was friendly with an upcoming band called the Eagles who we swore were going to be the next biggest thing, and had seen JFK get assassinated the last time he was passing through Texas.

The beauty of hindsight is the fact that you realise it’s a load of horseshit within a year. Unfortunately for you, by that point you’re across the country, and entirely dependent on him.

The warning signs were there, of course. You just chose not to see them. There were the sudden late-night departures from motels when the manager asked too many questions. There were the gaps in his stories, and the way his mood could turn from warm to freezing if you asked the wrong question. But back then, you were too drunk on the open road to care. You packed your life into a single canvas bag and rode away from Texas without once looking back in the rear-view mirror.

For a while, it felt exactly like the life he'd promised.

You woke up in different states every few weeks. Oklahoma bled into Colorado, Colorado into Arizona.

It quickly became apparent that nobody cared if you were underage. Not if you paid cash, kept quiet, and stayed out of trouble.

Every morning brought a new horizon. Every night brought a new story from Jim. He knew a guy in Nashville who'd written songs for The Mamas and Papas. He'd smuggled liquor across the Canadian border. He'd once spent three days stranded in the desert with nothing but a hunting knife and a canteen.

Some of the stories seemed too random to be made up. Like his tales of some hippie guy up in San Francisco - a Charlie Manson who could hypnotise women, and convince them to do whatever he wanted.

But the details would change every time, and soon even the most mundane stories felt like lies.

Maybe there was a small part of you that recognised the contradictions from the beginning, but admitting they were lies would have meant admitting you'd thrown away everything for a stranger.

The first cracks started to show in Nevada. After eighteen months of floating aimlessly, money grew tighter, while Jim grew meaner.

At first, it was little things.

He started keeping hold of the cash. Said you were careless with money. Said you didn't understand how expensive life on the road could be. Whenever you asked how much you had left, he'd laugh and tell you not to worry your pretty little head about it.

The charming drifter who'd swept you off your feet began disappearing for days at a time, returning with bruised knuckles and pockets full of cash. If you asked where he'd been, his smile would flatten.

If you asked twice, he'd stop speaking altogether, and you learned quickly that silence was worse than shouting. Silence meant days of cold shoulders and locked motel bathroom doors. It meant him sleeping with his back turned to you. It meant wondering what you'd done wrong this time.

Eventually you'd apologise just to make it stop. Even when you had no idea what you were apologising for.

The first time he put his hands on you, it barely registered.

You were arguing in a motel outside Albuquerque. About what, you can't remember now. Most of your arguments blurred together eventually. You only remember reaching for your bag.

His grip had been rough and his voice low, as his fingers wrapped around your wrist, tugging sharply. You remember letting out a cry, dropping whatever you were reaching for.

The bruise had lasted for days.

He said you needed to listen to him more.

As though you had forced him into the assault. He apologised afterwards, naturally. Profusely. He bought you dinner, held your hand across the table, and told you he'd been scared of losing you.

You had believed him, and accepted his excuses, because the alternative was a far more terrifying pill to swallow. That maybe Jim wasn’t your knight in shining armour.

The shift happened so slowly that you didn’t notice the lines being redrawn. It started with a heavy shove during an argument at a party, causing you to stumble into a couple standing behind you. He had caught you by the elbow and laughed it off.

Soon, it turned to throwing things. He didn't aim at you, at least not at first. Instead, a heavy glass ashtray would shatter against the drywall right above your shoulder. A coffee mug would explode against the kitchen cabinets, spraying sharp ceramic shards across your bare feet. The message was clear. You understood exactly what those flying objects meant. He would always have power over you, and was totally unafraid to wield it.

Every incident came with an explanation. He was stressed about money. He was exhausted. He’d had a rough life before he met you, and his nerves were shot. You had just caught him at a bad moment.

The first time he hit you, you left.

He’d spent the entire day drinking, eventually talking you into hitting a few parties, even though you had cramps and could see the whole thing far enough. According to Jim, the bartender was flirting with you, and you were letting him.

On your end, you were just trying to order another round.

Conscious of the fact that everybody was staring at you both, you had dragged him outside, begging and pleading for him to stop with the yelling. That he was scaring you. That you were sorry. When you tried to pull away, he used his free hand to strike you across the face - a heavy, open-handed slap that split your lip against your teeth and sent a coppery taste flooding into your mouth.

You slid down the wall when he let go, your knees hitting the concrete while he stood over you, shouting words that felt like background noise compared to the loud throbbing in your jaw.

You made it a week on your own before he came crawling back. And like the weak, spineless girl you were, you took him back, and things stayed much the same for another two years, before you called it quits for the last time.

Now, you’re standing at a bus-stop in Huntington, with a single bag of belongings, and no idea what you’re going to do next. The reality of your situation is settling in, and you dig into your pocket and pull out your crumpled dollar bills, counting them twice just to be sure. It’s barely enough for a couple of dinners, much less rent or bus tickets.

But you have to get out of here.

If you stay, Jim will find you, and you’ll end up exactly where you started.

Letting out a shaky breath, you make your choice. Stepping away from the bus stop, you look at the shimmering black asphalt of the highway stretching north. To Los Angeles.

You think about your vague, half-baked dreams of Hollywood as a child. Maybe this is where you were meant to be all along. Your heart pounds against your ribs as you raise your right hand, sticking your thumb out toward the oncoming traffic.

*****

The neon sign outside buzzes with a low, wet hum that always gives you a headache by midnight. A far cry from the bright lights of Hollywood, The Velvet Troubadour had been the only place to offer you a job without asking too many questions.

Most places wanted to know about your education (none), work experience (none), and what had brought you to the city (a desire to disappear).

The Velvet Troubadour, not to be confused with the infinitely more successful club in West Hollywood, s a dim, sticky dive on the edge of the city that serves cheap rye to men with heavy eyes, while a rotation of bored girls dances on a small wooden stage under a pink spotlight.

The uniform is an absolute joke. In what can only be described as a cross between a bikini and a maid’s outfit, you’re expected to prance about in five inch heels with a smile plastered to your face for the whole shift. Every time you bend over to pick up an empty glass, you feel the weight of twenty stares anchoring onto your back. You hate the way the cheap fabric smells of stale sweat and cigarette smoke, no matter how many times you scrub it in the sink of your rented room. You hate the mandatory heels that make your arches ache before the dinner rush even starts. Most of all, you hate the way the manager, a sweaty man named Lou, looks you up and down every shift to make sure you haven't gained an ounce.

But the job pays in cash every night, and right now, cash is the only thing keeping you from the sidewalk.

You learn the specific art of laughing at a terrible joke just long enough to secure a dollar tip, while keeping your body just out of arm's reach. Whenever a hand strays too close to your hip, your muscles go rigid. A cold spike of panic shoots through you, giving you flashbacks to Jim. You sidestep the reach with a practiced, icy smile, your knuckles tight with tension until you make it back behind the bar.

Almost all your customers are men. Comes with the territory, given the kind of place you work at. Which is why you notice her as soon as you step out from the dressing rooms. She’s commanded the entire back corner - there are a few men in tow, but it’s clear she’s in charge.

Lou appears at your back, and you flinch. Old habits die hard. “Go take care of her, yeah? Start her with a round on the house.”

“Who is she?”

Her hair isn’t a natural blonde - it’s bleached and fried in a way that can only come from years of heat damage. Maybe decades, based on the leather-look of her skin. But you get the sense that the blonde might be so deeply ingrained in her sense of identity that she wouldn’t know what to do without it.

“Head of Oceanside Videos,” He replies, as if you should already be familiar with what that is. When your expression remains blank, he lets out annoyed huff. “They're the biggest porn production company in Southern California. Name's Smurf. Call her Ms. Cody.”

While you don't know much about porn, you do know about California - particularly the fact that the Valley is infamous for its adult film industry. For this lady to run the top production company in the area, she must know her stuff.

“Got it.” You begin the walk over, suddenly very conscious of the height of your shoes. Men love the stumble, the slight sway as you bend down to place their drinks on the table. Makes them feel powerful, when they can put their hands on your waist, murmuring a quiet, “hey there,” into your ear.

With the way Smurf appears to be sizing all the girls up, you feel a strange urge to please her blooming in your chest.

You flash her your best and brightest smile. “What can I get for you all tonight? First round is on the house tonight.”

Normally when you take orders, you scribble a couple of letters to keep you right, but something about Smurf keeps you from reaching for the notebook in your pocket. In years to come, you’ll wonder how your life would’ve turned out if you’d just written the orders down.

You repeat them like a mantra on your way to the bar, and are filled with relief when she nods at you approvingly as you bring them back. You’re about to ask if they need anything else when she beckons you over with a neon pink nail. On closer inspection, it looks almost like a claw. “You're a cute little thing, huh? How long have you been working here?”

It's said with a layer of condescension that would bother you, were you not entirely accustomed to it by now. From all kinds of patrons. “Just a few months.”

“Figured. I would've remembered you, that's for sure. Come here, sweetcheeks,” She murmurs, patting the empty spot beside her. “You like working here?”

You know what Lou would want you to say.

Oh, yeah. It's real groovy, having men sleaze all over me for minimum wage.

You know that's not going to fly with Smurf. Instead, you go for a half-truth. “It pays the bills.”

“Mhm,” She hums, like she’s not at all surprised. “Why’d you move here, honey? Movies? Music? Modelling?”

This makes you bristle a little. Why does the very nature of Los Angeles entitle people to knowing the personal lives and stories of complete strangers? Especially since one look at Smurf tells you she once had those ambitions too. Now, you figure she must live vicariously through those that she manages.

“Just needed a change,” You reply, tone inviting no further conversation.

“I see,” She replies. “Well - is this how you envisioned your life here?”

“Not exactly,” you say slowly, trying to choose your words carefully. It doesn’t seem to matter. Smurf hasn’t so much as glanced as anybody else since you sat down.

“It never is,” She says, tilting her head so the harsh light catches the heavy gold chains around her neck. Her eyes narrow as she looks you up and down, scanning you the way a pawn shop owner examines a piece of old silver. “You’ve got a look, honey. A real specific kind of look that makes people look twice.” She pauses, letting the noise of the crowded bar fill the silence between you. The clinking of glasses and the low roar of drunk laughter feel miles away.

“A look like that is worth real money,” she continues, her voice dropping into a smooth, confidential purr. “Way more than the pennies you drag off these tables. I run a boutique production company just outside the city. High-end adult features. Very artistic, very private.”

She waves a manicured hand dismissively, as if casting away the entire concept of regular work. Her long, acrylic nails click against the laminated tabletop. “I’m not talking about the cheap, dirty stuff you find in the back alleys,” she says, her tone dripping with a layer of pity that makes your stomach twist. She speaks down to you with the effortless grace of someone who believes they are tossing a lifeline to a drowning swimmer. The worst part is that you think you may be exactly the kind of girl she thinks you are. Totally desperate. “I’m talking about real production value. And I happen to be looking for a fresh face for a new project.”

Smurf reaches into her leather handbag, her rings clicking against the brass zipper. She pulls out a thick, glossy business card with embossed gold lettering and slides it across the wet wood of the table. It stops right against the edge of your tray.

“Think about it,” she murmurs, sliding back into the shadows of the booth. “A girl like you shouldn't waste her best years wiping up spilled beer.”

You look down at the gold lettering on the card, the edges already soaking up a ring of condensation from a stray beer glass. You don’t immediately reach for it, but you don’t push it away either. Instead, you look straight into her eyes, keeping your voice cool and steady.

“What’s the compensation like?” You ask. If you’re going to sell your soul to the devil, you’ve got to make sure it’s worth it.

A slow, genuine smile spreads across Smurf’s face, replacing her plastic smirk. She lets out a soft, approving hum and leans forward, resting her elbows on the table. “Straight to the point. I like it.” She taps a long, acrylic nail against the card. “I'll give you a hundred bucks cash just for showing up and doing a basic camera test at the headquarters tomorrow. If we both like how it looks, the real paychecks would allow you to live a very comfortable life.”

A hundred bucks would guarantee a roof over your head for the next two weeks. After spending months bouncing around the couches of acquaintances, you’ve finally run out of people to call, and have been subjected to the worst motels LA has to offer. You stand there and think it over, the heavy tray resting against your hip. You look around the dingy bar, listening to the sticky floors crunch under your shoes and watching Lou yell at a customer near the jukebox, and your decision becomes crystal clear.

This cannot be your life.

But you also aren't stupid. You know exactly what a camera test in Smurf's world means. It isn't just standing under bright lights and posing. It means having sex with a total stranger while a lens records everything. A cold wave of nausea hits your stomach, but the thought of sleeping on the street next week feels a whole lot worse. You swallow down the panic and force yourself to look casual. “I don’t have a car, so I don’t know how I’d get there.”

“Don’t sweat it, sweetcheeks,” Smurf says, her voice dropping so low that it’s barely audible. “I'll have a car pick you up right here in front of the club tomorrow morning. 2 PM sharp. Just make sure you're ready.”

You nod, already having the feeling that you might be making the biggest mistake of your life.

*****

You’re standing on the curb outside the Troubador by half-past one. After your shift, you’d barely slept a wink, too busy tossing and turning as you envisioned all the ways that today could go wrong.

You’ve only slept with two people in your whole life. How on earth is that supposed to translate to a career in porn?

The sex with Jim wasn’t even anything to brag about. He rarely made you finish, only taking the extra effort when he wasn’t hammered or in a foul mood.

Expecting a cab, or maybe a modest Volkswagen, your jaw is thoroughly dropped when a limousine pulls up to the curb. The driver’s head emerges from the front window to confirm your name, and soon a glass of champagne is being pushed into your hand as you get comfortable in the back.

The drive doesn’t take long, but you know you would’ve been walking for hours, had you tried to attempt it yourself. God, you miss having access to a car. The limousine pulls up to a stark, sun-bleached stretch of the valley, and the driver kills the engine. Through the tinted window, you get your first real look at Oceanside.

The building is an old, boxy office complex that has seen better days. It looks like it used to house insurance adjusters or dental accountants, but the new tenants have done their best to scrub away the corporate boredom. The exterior is slapped with a fresh coat of blinding, flamingo-pink paint that practically screams under the harsh California sun. A giant, modern logo reading Oceanside Videos is bolted over the front doors, the metallic letters gleaming in the heat.

You step out of the air-conditioned luxury of the car, and the thick afternoon heat hits you like a wall. Walking up the concrete path, you feel a nervous flutter in your stomach. You look down at your outfit, a sudden spike of uncertainty hitting your chest. Having zero idea how one is supposed to dress for such an occasion, you’d finally landed on a floral halter top and a pair of denim shorts, hoping the look comes across as casual and attractive. Standing here now, you start to worry that you look naïve, or worse, totally desperate.

You barely reach the top of the concrete steps before the heavy glass door swings open. Smurf is standing there waiting for you, looking completely in her element against the blinding pink backdrop. She wears a sharp, cream-coloured pantsuit that looks like it cost more than you would make in a year, and she smiles widely as soon as she sees you.

“Oh hun, look at you!” Her voice is a coo, one you imagine she might have used for any children she may have had when she was younger. She doesn’t really strike you as the motherly type, though.

The blast of cool air is an immediate relief, but the nervous flutter in your stomach only gets worse as you follow her. She leads you down a maze of long, winding corridors, where the walls are lined with framed, oversized movie posters from Oceanside’s biggest hits. The carpet under your sandals is thick and dark, muffling the sound of your footsteps as Smurf chatters away about lighting grids and distribution schedules.

She leads you through a pair of double doors into her main office, and the sheer scale of the room makes you stop in your tracks. This singular office is almost the same size as your entire childhood home. High vaulted ceilings, and a shelf packed to the brim with golden awards and trophies. But what catches your eye first is the equipment. Right in the middle of the room, a heavy Super 8 video camera is already set up on a tripod, its blank lens pointed directly toward a large, mustard yellow velvet couch.

Your eyes quickly dart to the corner of the room, where a man is leaning against the wall, shadows falling over his sharp features. He doesn’t look hugely tall, but his shoulders could fill an entire doorway, and you swallow slightly at the way his muscles bulge under his sleeve.

He doesn't smile, and his gaze is heavy as he watches you walk in.

“That’s Pope,” Smurf says, giving a careless wave of her hand as she breezes past him toward her desk. “He’s the man you’ll be filming with today. Don't be nervous, honey, he's my best-seller. He knows exactly what he's doing.”

Pope gives you a slow, single nod, his hazel eyes tracking you from across the room, but he doesn't say a word.

Smurf claps her hands together, drawing your attention straight back to her. “Alright, let’s leave Pope to his brooding. Sit down, honey. We need to talk business before we get you in front of the lens.”

Pope looks entirely unsurprised by this display, and you wonder how many girls have been paraded in and out of here before. Does he have to fuck each and every one of them, or does Smurf pick people out based on instinct?

“I-I have a few questions,” You manage, hating yourself for the waver in your voice.

“Anything, baby.”

“You make porn,” You feel like an idiot for stating the obvious, but the most rational part of your brain is still mildly terrified that you’re about to be chopped up and left on the street like the Black Dahlia. Smurf just nods, and waits for you to continue. “And this is basically an audition to work for you?”

“Correct.”

“And… what are you looking for?”

Smurf’s eyes twinkle a little at the question. “Well, that’s kind of hard to quantify. You’ve got a look I like already, which is a lot of the battle. Rest comes down to chemistry, malleability, and star quality. But you shouldn’t worry too much. My Pope will take real good care of you.”

The way she says malleability leaves a sour taste in your mouth, but you’d be lying if you claimed that sneaking glances at Pope weren’t making you feel a little hot and bothered. His bicep alone is bigger than Jim’s head.

“You mentioned compensation at The Troubadour.”

There’s no point in dancing around it any longer. You bite your lip, while Smurf pushes a contract towards you. “We work in yearly contracts, with a baseline number of films. We’d start you with one every six weeks, and if you sell well, you’ll be signed on for more. With a very generous bonus, of course. Basic salary is five-hundred up-front for each film, with a two-fifty bonus for breaking even, and another two-fifty for profits on top of that.”

You read through it quickly. There’s a lot of legal jargon, but it doesn’t look to be anything immediately insidious. At least, not on the surface.

“You've got such cute little doe eyes, kid. A real Bambi look about you,” Smurf comments, barely glancing up as she rolls a joint. Her movements slow to a stop as she considers her words, head tilting just slightly. “Actually, that could work.”

“Uh, what could work?” You ask, brow furrowed a little as you glance between her and Pope.

“Bambi. Got the innocent vibe that the public like, but it's not too out there. Easy to remember, snappy-”

You're still not quite following. Luckily, Smurf seems entirely caught up in her monologue.

“Pope and Bambi,” She muses. “Cute. Might be an easy sell to audiences. Now, are you ready to give this thing a go?”

Her expression is so expectant that you’re not sure you could say no, even if you were considering it. Luckily, your options in Los Angeles are fast running out, and you’d do anything to keep away from Jim. You nod slightly, and Smurf gestures to the couch.

Pope moves quietly, taking a stiff seat at the edge. You dread to think what a UV light would show here. If you were to shine it on the plush velvet, the shag carpet that seems to decorate every surface.

Ringing your hands nervously, you try to keep your attention on Pope.

The man Smurf wants you to fuck.

He’s handsome - that’s not the issue here. He’s tanned, like he spends most of his time in the sun, a mop of dark curls on his head. Your first thought is that they must get tugged on during sex. His arms are freckled, and you start to imagine one of his hands wrapped around your-

No. Stop.

He’s definitely out of your league.

You haven’t even said hello to him, much less anything else - and yet your future is currently reliant on you impressing Smurf enough to take you on.

You keep reminding yourself that it's better than the alternative. Wandering around Hollywood Boulevard until your next shift, or even worse. Back with Jim.

"Go on, honey," She instructs, sitting comfortably behind her desk after starting the camera rolling. "He doesn't bite. Unless you ask him to, of course. Just remember, no kissing on the lips - it's a personal boundary of his."

You nod, lip between your teeth as you reposition, lowering yourself onto his lap.

You shouldn't be nervous. Smurf told you herself that Pope is a pro. Her most popular actor. It's literally his job to have sex.

It takes every ounce of willpower to maintain eye contact, as you reach tentatively for his hands, currently stuck at his sides. You guide them to the hem of your shirt, and he complies immediately, eyes locked on you the entire time.

Now entirely bare, you're filled with more confidence when his gaze flicks down to your tits, his tongue wetting his lower lip before he meets your eyes again.

You don't even realise that your breathing has stuttered.

God, how are you meant to do this when you can't even relax for one other person?

"It's okay."

Pope's voice startles you a little, low and gravelly. It's the first time you've had anything more than grunts from him.

"Just do whatever you're comfortable with."

He seems genuine, a far kinder cadence than you were expecting, and for just a second you forget that he doesn't do lips. What a shame.

You think you'd like kissing him like that.

Instead, you tilt downwards, and start mouthing wet kisses along his jaw. It's like a switch his flipped in him - one hand cups the back of your head, while the other settles on your waist, grip firm.

You roll your hips once, as a test, then again when he lets out the softest little hiss.

You work your way down his neck, unbuttoning his shirt as you go, until you're able to push it from his shoulders. Pope uses the momentum to take over, sucking a bruise onto your collarbone.

There's a record playing in the background now. Some Gloria Gaynor single. To set the mood, you assume.

You certainly don't need music to get in the mood, not with the way Pope takes your nipple into his mouth, rolling the other between his fingers.

The moans tumbling from your lips are borderline pornographic.

Maybe you are cut out for this.

“Show her a good time, Popey,” Smurf calls, breaking the spell for just a second.

Almost like a sleeper agent, he complies immediately, lips trailing down your sternum and towards your navel. He nips at your skin before soothing at it with his tongue, all while reaching for the button on your shorts. You lift your hips up, and allow him to shimmy them off.

The no underwear is a happy accident. You don’t fully subscribe to the hippie lifestyle, but you also hadn’t packed much when you left Jim behind. After weeks of crashing, you’ve taken to leaving your few meagre belongings at the club. People only steal things occasionally, and it’s better than having to trek it around all day while you look for other jobs. Nobody’s rushing to hire a girl who’s carrying her entire life around in a backpack.

“You alright?” He asks, nose brushing your inner thigh as he glances up at you.

Words leaving you, all you manage is a nod. When he licks a stripe through your folds, you’re not sure you’re ever going to have words again. You realise that you’re in over your head when Pope moans against your pussy, the vibrations making your head spin. His hands are firm on your hips, keeping you pressed against the velvet of the couch and entirely at his mercy.

There’s a slight scruff on his chin - facial hair that’s been left for a day too long without a shave. The scratch against your clit has you seeing stars, and you find your hand reaching down to his hair, gripping tightly as a guide. The other hand finds purchase against the velvet, gripping feebly as you let out another whimper.

“S-Shit,” Your back arches off the couch, which only serves to deepen the angle Pope has. The sensations are burning hot - you’re pretty sure you can feel every single nerve in your body. It’s the fastest you’ve ever begin to even feel the onset of an orgasm.

Already, it’s swimming at the edge of your vision, blurring slightly with each dip of Pope’s tongue. Soon, it seems like it’s in reach. Just a little bit more, and….

“Stop.”

The voice is firm, reminding you of exactly who’s in charge here. You’d been so wrapped up in Pope you’d forgotten all about her.

“Ma, she didn't even come-”

The nickname gives you pause. Ma? Like mother?

Surely not.

Must be some kind of term of endearment.

“Anybody can look good while getting head - I want to see what she's like giving now.”

When he meets your gaze, your breath hitches entirely. He seems to hesitate before he moves, leaning back against the back of the couch. He’s hard in his bell bottoms already, blush dusted across his cheekbones. You reach for the buttons, doing your best to look suave and cool, but given the way your head is spinning, you’ll take not looking like an idiot.

There’s a lingering tension now. Unfulfilled chemistry buzzing between you and Pope. His cock is freed - thick, heavy, and shining in pre-cum already. You take him in your hand, pumping softly once or twice as you settle yourself between his legs, knees on plush carpet.

The first contact is your tongue tracing along the vein that runs under his shaft - Pope lets out a low hiss, chin tilting upwards as his eyes close. When you finally wrap your lips around his cock, you wonder how on earth you’re meant to fit this inside of you.

Not only is he longer than Jim - he’s considerably girthier.

Hollowing out your cheeks, you employ every tactic you’ve ever learned to make a man cum.

“How is she, Popey?”

Pope’s reply is barely more than a grunt. “Real good.”

“Star material?”

You bob your head a little, taking him deeper, and Pope shudders. “She’s got the best mouth in LA.”

Smurf hums approvingly. “High praise, Bambi. Pope’s fucked a lot of ladies in this town.” She checks her watch briefly, before sighing. “I’ve got that investor coming in half an hour. Skip to the main event.”

Slightly awed by how blasé they’re both able to be about all this, you hesitate for a second, until Pope’s hand circles around your wrist. “Still with me?”

For the first time, he offers you a small smile, and you feel yourself returning it immediately. “Yeah, I’m peachy.”

And you mean it. Really. This is unquestionably the oddest afternoon of your life, but there’s something about him that intrigues you. He seems gentle, a trait you wouldn’t have thought would be encouraged in pornstars.

He’s reaching for the rubber, and soon you’re sinking down onto him, doing your best to combat the immense pressure building in your belly with each stretch. Your forehead drops until it’s tucked in the crook his neck, while his hands settle on your waist.

“God, baby,” He moans, almost directly into your ear. “You’re so fucking tight - when was the last time somebody fucked you good and proper?”

Five minutes ago, you would have said about three months ago. Now, knowing how Pope feels, and what he tastes like, your answer is rapidly changing. “Never,” You mumble, as he starts to guide your movements.

The rhythm is relaxed, but the coil in your abdomen certainly isn’t. Your nails leave dark moons on his skin as you rock against him, head tumbling back as you whimper and whine. You catch Smurf’s eye as you do, feeling the slightest bit of shame wash over you.

What would your folks think, if they knew their little girl was out here having sex with strangers for money?

It doesn’t take long for Pope’s thrusts to turn erratic, his grip so tight you’re sure it’s going to leave a mark. One of his hands slips between you both, rubbing at your clit, and it’s enough to throw you over the edge.

A cry from you, a low groan from Pope, and it’s all over.

Chest heaving, a quiet falls in the room before Smurf’s voice cuts through the haze. “Well, I think we’ve just found our next dynamic duo.”

You leave the building with a twelve-month contract, and a packet of birth control pills. Pope stays relatively quiet as you finish up with Smurf, offering you a small wave as you make your way out through the corridors.

He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him.

Normally, as soon as he’s finished filming, he feels satiated until Smurf calls him in next. With you? He thinks he could’ve gone for another hour, and it still wouldn’t be enough.

“You like her.”

“What?” His head whips around, gaze zeroed in on Smurf as she smirks at him.

“S’okay, baby - it was bound to happen eventually. Might be nice for you to have a favourite for a bit. The fans’ll love it, too.”

Pope knows better than to argue with his mother. That never ends well for anybody, least of all him. “When are you gonna do her first film?”

“Couple of weeks,” She shrugs. “After we’re sure the birth control’s working.” She shoots him an amused look. “Don’t worry - m’not gonna throw her to Craig on her first ever picture. You can do it.”

Pope’s expression doesn’t shift, but the relief he feels is palpable. He loves his brother, but his track record with running his female co-stars off of sets is an embarrassment to the company. “I should get going,” He grunts. “You’ve got that meeting.”

“Right. Well, I’ll see you tomorrow then, baby.” As usual, despite his protests, a kiss is placed directly on his lips. He fights the childish urge to wipe at them, and nods goodbye.

While he’s assuming he’ll see you again, he isn’t expecting for you to still be sitting outside at the front door. You must have left half an hour ago - what are you doing? “You're still here?”

You jump a little at the sound of his voice, and Pope clocks it immediately as instinctual. He wonders who made you like that. “I uh, don't have a car. Was hoping to catch a lift from somebody passing by… but there doesn't seem to be much traffic round these parts.”

Smurf calls the tow trucks whenever somebody stops on this street for more than thirty minutes. People just avoid it now.

“Where are you headed? I'll drive you.”

“I actually have a shift - it's The Velvet Troubadour? Down by Venice - not the cool one in Beverly Hills. And not the cool part of Venice either.”

Pope nods. He's familiar, and not entirely surprised that that's where Smurf found you. She's always had a thing for lost and lonely girls - giving them the world and then watching them implode in on themselves when they inevitably can't handle it.

“S'a real shithole,” He comments, arms crossed over his sweater.

You snort. “Tell me about it. But I can't ask you to take me all the way there - maybe just drop me off on Hollywood, and I can try and-”

“It's no trouble. Hardly even out of my way.” A complete lie. Pope's plans for the rest of the day had been to head home and read some shitty Western by the pool. The drive to Venice is not even close to the road to Laurel Canyon, but he doesn't care.

The idea of you having to hitchhike with god knows who up here makes him feel a little ill.

When you smile at him, his conviction only grows. For all her faults, Smurf sure knows how to find the prettiest girls on the West Coast.

He can't think of any stars that look quite like you, but he could imagine you in one of those Golden Age of Hollywood pictures. Swathed in jewels, hair done to perfection, and eyes twinkling.

Instead, your claim to fame is going to be getting fucked in The Valley - both literally and figuratively, if Smurf has her way.

“Come on,” He urges, gesturing across the lot to the Mustang. His hand drops to your waist, at the sliver of skin between your top and shorts, and he tries not to think about what he was doing the last time it was there.

You slide into the passenger’s seat, and Pope hopes that Smurf isn’t watching from her office as he pulls out onto the main road.

Me and Bobby McGee starts blaring from the radio, and you let out a contented sigh, allowing your head to lean back against the leather of the seat.

Pope eyes you carefully as he pulls out onto the main road. “You a Joplin fan?”

“Isn't everybody?” You crack one eye open, watching the way his muscles flex with each turn of the wheel. “Fuckin’ shame what happened to her. Whole lotta potential just wasted like that.”

“Wasted potential’s kind of LA’s thing.”

Pope should know.

You turn your head, so that your cheek is pressed up against the seat as you look at him. “That’s a bleak outlook.”

“You disagree?”

“Just think it’s bad for the soul, to not believe that everything’s gonna work out eventually.”

Pope’s sure his soul is plenty bad by now, but he finds himself nodding in agreement. “I like that. Not sure how true it is, but I like it.”

You laugh, and it’s the prettiest sound he’s ever heard. He eyes you carefully as he navigates the heavy traffic. He keeps one hand loose on the steering wheel, his knuckles slightly white. The road ahead is a shimmering ribbon of heat, packed with cars, but his focus keeps drifting sideways. He watches the way the bright California light catches the edge of your profile. It shows the small, tired lines around your eyes and the soft curve of your mouth.

He keeps one hand resting heavy on the gear shift, close enough that his knuckles almost brush against your knee every time he moves into fourth. The drive down to Venice takes longer than it should, the silence inside the car growing thick and heavy as the salty sea air starts to whip through the open windows. Pope doesn't say much, and neither do you, but it’s comfortable, and he works to ignore the want bubbling in his chest.

When the car finally idles at the curb in front of The Velvet Troubadour, the place looks every bit the shithole he remembers. “Well - guess that’s you.”

The neon sign is cracked, and the afternoon sun only makes the dingy exterior look worse.

Pope shifts into park, his hands staying glued to the steering wheel as he stares straight ahead at the building. His jaw is tight. He hates the idea of leaving you here, even if he barely knows you.

“It’s a glamorous life,” You murmur dryly.

You reach for the handle, but before you slide out into the heat, you pause. Pope looks over at you, his dark eyes intense and unblinking. Lean forward, you press a quick, soft kiss right against his rough cheek.

He freezes completely. He doesn't move a muscle, his breath hitching in his chest as the small gesture catches him totally off guard. The skin where your lips touched burns hot against the cool air of the car.

"Thanks for the ride, Pope," you say with a small smile, already opening the passenger door.

He just nods once, his voice trapped in his throat as he watches you step out onto the pavement and head toward the entrance. He keeps his eyes locked on your back until the heavy door of the bar swings shut behind you, his hand rising slowly to touch the spot on his cheek you just kissed.

*****

Pope tells Smurf that he can't come round for dinner because he's got some errands to run - instead, his car practically drives itself to The Velvet Troubadour.

This is potentially the worst idea he's ever had, but his mind has been plagued with you for the past forty-eight hours. He hasn't been able to eat, or sleep, and he thinks he might be going crazy.

The stench of sweat and grime hits him as soon as he steps through the door, but he's already looking for you. You're leaning over the bar, laughing at something one of your co-workers, but a man steps in front of him before he can make his way across the club.

Pope vaguely recognises him as the owner.

"Mr. Cody! What an honour to have you here tonight - would you like a booth?"

He just nods, eyes still glued to you.

"Fabulous - I'll have Sabrina over to serve you immediately."

Pope shakes his head. "I want her."

Lou follows his gaze, before nodding slowly. In most cases, what a Cody wants, they get.

He lets Lou lead him to one of the shadowed booths tucked along the back wall, where the music is loud enough to drown out conversation and the lights are low enough that nobody can stare too hard. The owner disappears with a knowing smile, and Pope is left gripping the edge of the table, eyes fixed on the bar.

Fixed on you.

You still haven't noticed him.

He's not sure if that's a relief or an insult.

You throw your head back laughing at something, and the sound carries across the room despite the music. It settles somewhere under his ribs.

Jesus Christ.

He's lost his mind.

When Lou taps on your shoulder, turning you towards him, Pope worries for one awful moment that he's made a catastrophic mistake. But then you smile, and start to make your way towards him. You stop beside the booth, and for a second neither of you says anything.

"I wasn't expecting to see you here."

"Neither was I," Pope replies, feeling a warmth spread through him when you laugh.

"You scope out all your co-stars like this?"

It's a joke, but Pope replies seriously. "Just wanted to see you." It's the most sincere he's been towards another person in a long time. Maybe since Julia left.

"So you're saying I should feel special?"

God help him.

He's completely fucked.

"You are."

You don't have a quip ready for that one, and just glance away, embarrassed by the attention. "Can't believe you're putting yourself through the horrors of The Troubadour just to spend time with me. Can I get you something?"

Pope nods. "Whatever."

"Very specific."

"I trust your judgement."

You pour him a glass of the finest liquor the bar offers, which is firmly middle-of-the-range for any reputable establishment. When you return, his hand makes its way to your wrist. "Sit for a while."

You glance toward the bar, where Lou's already glaring, and point discreetly. "I should go."

Pope's expression changes instantly, and something flashes across his face. Disappointment.

Then he speaks. "Stay."

Your heart gives an embarrassing little jump. "You want me to stay?"

"Yeah." The answer comes immediately.

"Lou's gonna be mad."

Across the room, Lou is indeed watching. Arms folded and expression thunderous.

Pope doesn't even turn around.

"I'll handle him."

*****

The rest of the evening passes in a blur.

Every now and then you have to leave the booth to actually do your job, but he remains exactly where you left him every single time. Nursing the same drink. Watching the crowd with vague suspicion. Looking profoundly uncomfortable whenever another customer tries to start a conversation with him.

By midnight, your cheeks hurt from smiling.

By one o'clock, you're pretty sure every girl working tonight has noticed.

When Sabrina asks you how you know him, you're vague.

We met at a party.

When it hits three, Pope closes out his tab. "I woulda stayed until the end of your shift, but I have a meeting in Santa Monica in the morning." When he produces a wad of cash that's definitely too much for his bill, your eyes widen immediately.

"Pope." He presses the money into your hand, and you stare down at it. Then back up at him. "This is far too much."

"You took care of me all night."

You snort. "I brought you two drinks."

"You sat with me."

God, you think you might be a little bit in love with him. You tuck it into your skirt, and smile at him. "Thank you, Pope."

"Andrew."

"Huh?"

"My name," He says softly. "It's Andrew."

"Andrew. I like that," You smile. "Suits you."

He pauses for a second, as if considering his actions, before leaning forward to press the briefest kiss to your cheek. "I should go." His voice sounds rougher now.

You nod, because speaking appears beyond your capabilities.

"See you soon, kid."

As soon as he's gone, it's like blood in the water.

Lou abandons whatever he was doing behind the bar and starts making his way toward you with alarming speed. The staff are still cleaning around the room, stacking chairs and wiping tables, but more than one head turns in your direction. Everyone knows that look. Everyone knows Lou has spotted money.

"It was a tip."

"A tip?" Lou repeats. "A tip?"

"Yes."

"That man tipped you half a mortgage payment." You try to step around him, but Lou steps directly into your path. "Oh, that's definitely getting pooled."

The warmth that had been lingering in your chest all evening immediately evaporates, and you freeze. "No, it isn't."

"Yes, it is."

"He gave it to me."

"He gave it to an employee, while she was working, under my roof."

It's no use. You can argue until you're blue in the face, but all it takes is the threat of unemployment to have you handing it over. You're still not sure how reliable Oceanside is going to turn out to be, and you can't blow your life up over seven-hundred dollars.

Somehow Lou ends up with whatever he wants anyway. There's no point in fighting it.

Within minutes the money has vanished into the envelope where pooled tips are kept before being divided up. You watch the last bill disappear, and try not to cry.

Salvation comes in the form of a heavy leather jacket, left in Pope's booth. You figure he must have left by now, but you announce that you're checking the parking lot anyway, if only for some fresh air.

Much to your surprise, the Mustang is still sitting in the corner, with Pope's gaze held on the front door of The Troubadour.

"You forgot this," You call holding up the jacket. Embarrassment clouds his features, and he gets out to walk over to you. "Thought you had an early meeting?"

"This place has a, uh, pull," is his only response. "Thank you." Then his eyes narrow - almost imperceptibly. "Where's the money?"

Shit. You hadn't thought for a single second that he would notice in such a short interaction, and you wince slightly. "Lou took it. He pooled it."

Pope continues staring, eyes stormy.

"He said everybody has to share tips. I'm really sorry, Andrew - I tried to tell him, but you know what he's like-"

"S'not your fault-"

"I should've hidden it, or something-"

"Wait here."

You immediately shake your head, confusion flooding through you. "What? No."

"Wait here, and I'll be out in a few minutes."

You should probably stop him.

Instead you find yourself standing there watching him storm towards The Velvet Troubadour, jacket slung over one arm, broad shoulders disappearing toward the entrance of the club.

Time seems to slow while he's inside, and you find yourself pacing restlessly outside, with no indication of what's going on. When the door finally opens again, you straighten so quickly you almost pull a muscle.

Pope steps outside, looking completely calm, and then you notice what he's carrying.

Your bag. Your jacket. Your tips.

"What did you do?"

Pope shrugs, entirely unconvincingly.

"I talked to him."

"You talked to him," You repeat, incredulous.

"Yeah."

"Why do you have my stuff?" The silence that follows is not encouraging. "Pope."

Another pause.

Then finally...

"You don't work there anymore."

You think you might pass out. "What?"

"You don't work there anymore. He fired you. Or, I guess you quiet before he could."

You stare, unable to believe what you're hearing.

"I quit?" Pope nods, and you let out a short, disbelieving laugh. "You got me fired."

"He got you fired, because he's the world's shittiest boss."

"You went in there."

"Yeah."

"And now I don't have a job."

"He shouldn't have taken your money." He says it like it's the most natural thing in the world.

"That isn't how employment works, Pope." You press both hands over your face. "Oh my God."

A fresh wave of panic starts rising in your chest.

Rent.

Bills.

Food.

The money from Smurf will only go so far - certainly not far enough until she brings you in for your first picture.

"You've got a job. A better job than that. It'll be fine."

"No, I had a job. Oceanside isn't a job until I see proper cash."

"I'll get you an advance." He seems determined to solve every one of your problems, and you can't decide whether you love or hate it. "And you can stay with me, until you're back on your feet."

You stare at him, eyebrow arched. "How do I know you're not going to kill me in my sleep?"

At this, he snorts a little. "Scout's honour?"

Despite everything, you laugh. "God, I can't believe you."

"And I can't believe you stayed at that place for three whole months."

Standing there in the empty parking lot, clutching a bag of belongings against your chest, you find yourself thinking that Pope Cody might actually be completely insane.

The problem is that you're starting to find that incredibly difficult not to like that.